Airing My Dirty Laundry

Jaipur, India
April 18th, 2010

The state of Rajasthan is the stuff of fantasy. Besides the Taj Mahal, it's what comes to mind when most non-Indians think of India. It is the home of the Mughal Empire, the land of camels and palaces and jewels and color and legend. The men wear all white punjabi suits, don thick mustaches, and wrap 6 feet long turbans in reds and pinks around their heads. The women wear saris of unimaginable colors and special prints, some tribeswomen sport tattoos, large gold nose rings, ankle shackles and other such ornaments. After the mess of Haridwar and a day in Delhi, I was extremely excited to get to Jaipur, the gateway to Rajasthan.

Jaipur is about 4 hours from Delhi and is part of the “Golden Triangle” (Delhi, Agra, Jaipur). Most tourists who only have a short time to visit India tour that circuit. Jaipur is also called the Pink City, because one of its Maharajas painted all the buildings in the old city pink several hundred years ago. (Actually, the color is more terracotta, but who's keeping score?) We booked train tickets in A/C chair class, since we didn't need a sleeper car for such a short ride. New Jersey Transit, take note: we arrived in Jaipur in style. The 6am train was early, but we wanted to get there with as much time to explore as possible. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, service began. First, we were brought pots of tea (that's a hot thermos of water, 2 tea bags, a cup, biscuits, milk, sugar for EACH passenger). Then the morning newspaper, your choice of the Hindi or English version. Following that, a full breakfast was presented. After breakfast, more pots of tea. For all the things India gets wrong, there are some things they just get right. Train travel is one of them.

Our hotel was an old haveli (kind of like a mini palace for a royal family), and we were greeted by giant gold doors surrounded by an entire facade of the building inlaid with colored stones (my guess is glass, but still). The room was marble and stained glass and solid wood bed frames adorned with tiles. The shower was the best I've had since Hong Kong. We had a terrace. There was a pool. The rooftop restaurant provided us with private dancers. We were living like queens, probably in the former residence of one, all for the equivalent of about $40 usd. I was in heaven.

Jaipur immediately struck me as a different India than where I'd been. It somehow seemed cleaner than other cities, and was definitely more regal. It was also a bit more expensive, probably due to the massive amounts of tourists who flood the city. Our driver, Ali, who we happened upon, would be with us for the next three days. He was also part time tour guide, showing us the best place for sunset (Monkey Palace), the best tea vendor (he was unhappy with us for buying from the stall we did), and the best place to buy textiles and jewelry (i.e. the places that gave him commission). He was full of useful information like what palace to hire a tour guide and which one included an unadvertised audio tour with the price of admission. When our wait listed train to Udaipur did not come through with bunks, Ali saved the day with overnight bus tickets. He was great.

Our haveli, while generally inexpensive, wanted to charge us Ritz Carlton prices to do laundry. No way was I paying the same price as my room to wash clothes in India, where it should only cost a couple of bucks. Stacy and I both really needed the service though, so we consulted Ali. “No problem,” he said with a head waggle, and we smuggled our bundles of dirty laundry past the hotel desk and into his rickshaw. Naturally, he knew a spot.

Everywhere else I've been on this trip, I've been charged by the kilo to do laundry. I've had clothes washed in 5 countries and never had an experience quite like this. It was straight out of a movie. We pulled up at the laundry joint, (the open front of somebody's home) and were greeted by what I perceived to be an entire family. Woman, man, naked kids, 12 year old boy, grandma in the back, etc. But this being India, of course the next door neighbors, ice cream cart guy from across the street and random dudes hanging at the cell phone joint a few houses down were thrown in for good measure. They all crowded around. Ali did the negotiating, and I was not quite sure what was going on until my bag was emptied and its entire contents inventoried and inspected, piece by piece, onto the sidewalk. They charge by garment, not weight. Had I known, I'd have written it all down ahead of time. Instead, my driver and an entire block of strangers knows that I have orange underwear. Want to keep that stuff a secret? Don't do laundry in India. Not including the Kumbh Mela, it was the worst invasion of personal space I've experienced thus far. Pick up was just the same, as they overcharged us and had to go through each piece of our clean laundry all over again, but in the dark, it was not half as bad. I know that stuff is par for the course here, everyone being all up in everyone else's business, but I still feel weird that my driver knows the lace content of my bras.