They say Udaipur is the most beautiful city in the world
Udaipur was so charming, despite the demise of its famous lakes thanks to two years of poor monsoon, we cancelled the Mt Abu portion of our trip altogether to stay an extra day.
We watched the sunset over the verdant Aravali Mountains from the mountain top Monsoon Palace. We explored the former Raja’s once opulent rooms in the City Palace. We tried to unravel the why of a field of over a hundred centopaths. We saw professional Rajasthani dancers dance with flaming pots balanced on their heads. We adopted a francophone Italian philosophy student/tourist. And then - god help us - we decided to go trekking.
At 8:30 AM sharp, a rickshaw appeared at our hostel with two men sharing the drivers’ seat. Mark, Haley and I boarded and the rickshaw proceeded to another hostel to pick up two Irish teachers/backpackers. So, total there were seven people in the rickshaw which soon left the city and began to ascend a steep slope. As the first raindrops of a monsoon storm began to fall, we began to despair. Little did we know that we were on the verge of one of the most surreal experiences of our lives.
First, a beautiful stone house, clinging to the cliffside, appeared unexpectedly. We entered to an offer of coffee from the owner, a loud British expat, who proceeded to detail the overly hasty development of Udaipur’s hotel industry and the city’s failure to protect the lakes, a critique that - along with the heavy British accent - felt more than a little imperialist. Later, as I attempted stilted Hindi with his adopted Nepalese family, he outlined a case in favor of 9/11 conspiracy theories tying the US government to the attacks. The Irish teachers nodded along. Nonetheless, his windows opened on a startlingly gorgeous vistas of Rajasthan’s Aravali Mountains.
When the rain let up a little, we figured now or never and set out with our guide, an Indian from a rural village. We marched along a relatively flat road, soaked, and wondered when the actual trekking bit would begin. It didn’t, though we did pass cow carcasses; raw, white bones lying in cakes of mud; a gaggle of sari-clad women building a stone road who yelled at us that we were crazy to walk in the rain and offered us the opportunity to sit and rest with them; an old woman herding emaciated water buffalo; and a probably drunk, speeding driver who stopped so the young male occupants of his car could shake our hands. Our guide strongly disapproved of the latter.
At last, we got to the “temple,” a small mud cave. In the dim light, we only made out a sea shell and the shape of a fish. The temple might have existed forever. Our guide woke the Sadu, a thin holy man in a saffron lungi with a Sadu ID card and dilated pupils, and his helper, Ganesh. The two offered us tea in the Sadhu’s shelter, a square of ground shielded by a thatch roof built into the side of mountain. We gratefully accepted, and the Sadu started a fire. Smoke billowed outward as he threw sugar onto the flames, while Ganesh crushed leaves and seeds. Unsure of what to expect, we tentatively sipped our tea, only to discover it was the best tea we had ever tasted.
As we finished our cups, the Sadu waved us toward a short cut back before lighting a joint. Our day, which in every way shattered our expectations, was perfect.
