The Road to Jaipur 21.12.2017

Journeying between cities was an exhaustive process. The needle on the speedometer constantly flips through the half round 50 60 70, back down 50 60 70 an hour, as we negotiate ebbing and flowing traffic, squeezing between cars, screeching to slow behind John Deeres, or halting in the slow lane as my driver licks his lips at a Punjabi fest offering free chai and an oil-drowned roti.

When the road opens, the Indian landscape, its fields of rice and plantations of corn, orchards of trees, baths of water, clusters of cattle, cradles of kids and lazing old timers brush-stroke past as I stare sponge-like out the window of the Suzuki. The green hues of the wet soaked land and the crayola crayon coloured garb of the Indian woman punch a vibrancy through my blackened pupil. All scuttle past me hinting at a snapshot in the day of a life of one person of a billion.

Time in India follows no defined increment. On this cheese wedge of a continent, one hour takes two hours, ‘nearly there’ takes 3 hours and ‘close’ is the duration of a Led Zeppelin album.
We regularly pull over for a quick chai taking 45 minutes. But the warm, milky, sugary, cinamony, gingery beverage tastes so good as it cloaks your teeth in sweet and your gullet in white, that time dissolves effervescently. The chai is so good, it’s probably bad for you, Tim.

After a couple of hours drive, the landscape seems to pass much more slowly, I hear the indicator click clickity clicking. Where once our tracks were incognito, now onto dirt roads where our tracks are a story teller our car swoops. The tyres crunch the dirt leaving a dragon-puff of dust in our wake as we detour for the wonder-like Chand Baori, an ancient step-well.

Blase about the Baori, i flop out the back door dragging my knuckles gorilla-like along the red earth.  Rising a step, I pierce the stone cold entrance.  A glassless portal frames a view of a colonnade across the way. The sight hooks my eyes pulling me in its direction. Being only a visual connection my symmetrical stroll comes to a halt and I’m forced into a perpendicular bend where i’m led to the stepwell’s entrance door. Down steps I find myself in a vast square open space, surrounded by the stone colonnade. Gazing across the open courtyard it’s the gaping, yawning opening of the pit before me that now consumes my attention. Gingerly stepping towards the pit’s edge, i bend my yogic body from the hips, dropping my head, my brain draining to the bottom of my skull, squishing my marshmallow eyeballs against their sockets. The earth plunges rapidly downwards in concentric squares towards the bowels of the earth, leaving a telescopic wake of perfect geometry. Settled still at the bottom of this is the luminous green standing water, the informant to water collection of days gone by. The staircases lining the terraces snakering and laddering their ways down, their ways up and their ways side to the watery pit are the aesthetic , the beautiful architecture of this upside down inside out creation.
Now it’s a set for Blockbuster Bats.
For an architect accustomed to gazing upwards at edifices, this upside down ziggurat flipped the inside of the box outside spawning special.

Leaving behind the stepped geometry of the well behind, heading back towards the car, i see my driver chatting a tall lanky, ankle-length pants-and-moccasin-wearing bloke, greasier than John Travolta. My driver introduces me to the guy and says he wants to show me his weaved wares. I’m thinking ‘this can’t actually be happening to me’. Happy at my recent architectural experience, I go with the flow. I follow the gent.
He introduces his wife who is sat bent over a weaving machine and his three daughters labouring over ropes of jute. I can’t help but wonder if they’re all props in this guy’s production. Having a discussion with myself, I agree that I won’t be making any purchases.
As he starts unshelving Lego-coloured rug after rug, i question my other self and one of me decides he likes what he’s seeing. I enquire at the amount and the bidding begins. Its aggressive, and the blood is bubbling.
With no agreement between seller and buyer, the stubborn bull in me drags the other me by the nose ring to exit. Small moments go by. Puffing and panting, the sounds of a desperate seller come arunning.
A triple word score with all seven letters plus the use of the ‘x’ see me in the pound seats.
I bag a rug and 3 tote bags. One of me’s is The greatest Buyer in the World.
Bleeting our way out, we follow the signs to Jaipur.