Sunday 19th October 2008

There’s something to be said for only really knowing a city by walking through it at dawn. There, you’ll find the people who doing the jobs that make the city function, and the ones that clear up everybody else’s mess; the ones who know the city itself, rather than its visitors. This morning in Jaipur, women pick their way through piles of grey detritus, as flocks of black birds swoop in spirals overhead. A man urinates against the wall. One women groans under the weight of a sack she pulls underneath an LG electronics sales billboard that reads, “Life is Good”. Gone are the vibrant saris of the street scene the day before, and in place of the red evening light, the sky is grey.

But soon, the streets in the centre of town will be bustling with tourists and the colours they expect, and the hiked prices they don’t. It’s easy, after a while in India, to get ground down by the constant swindling of anyone with a white face, not least when you are living here. The tourist has the privilege of oblivion, and moreover the ability to brush off the affectionately-termed ‘white tax’ with the reasoning that it’s not much and they-need-it-more-than-me. But after a while, the paranoia sets in that somehow these clever fawning salespeople must really think you are stupid. And they may well be right.

There are the rickshaw drivers who charge at least twice as much (we have accepted this as the ‘white transport tax’); the shop owners who repeat the same phrases (‘just looking madam’, ‘good price, this is fair,’ ‘which country?’); the street men who work on commission to befriend you and take you to ‘their uncle’s shop’; the price list at tourist venues that brazenly display two prices (one for tourists, and one for Indians). You slowly get to realise that every white face is a) rich and b) gullible.

This evening, after a five hour drive, the straw broke the camel’s back (if it was a Jaipur camel, it would have already been pulling a considerable load). It was 10pm and we hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Famished, we fall out of the car and into a scene of mayhem: a huge faux-castle, straining at the leash with carnival rides, women in saris whirling to tabla beats, stalls with sweets and food, people painting with henna, people reading palms, people giving head massages. Everything was so contrived, it was like the Eastern Zone in a theme park. There had been a sign on the gate, “Do not encourage tips,” and we soon discovered why. As soon as we stepped into the compound, a small weasly man scurried out of the shadows and ripped our food coupon from us, scurrying off to get our food, despite protestations that we could do it ourselves. He appeared again two minutes later, with two trays of five or six brown paper bowls, each containing a different coloured sludge, four slices of cardboard naan which were made slightly less dry by the shiny butter they were dripping in, and some dubious rice dotted with suspicious looking black things. We hoped they weren’t squirming. After persuading him in broken Hindi that we had paid for five meals and not three (he shook his head vigorously) we were forced to grab our ticket back off him and go ourselves. He remained, looming in the shadows, scowling,watching us eat. When the others went to explore the cultural shows, he and a few friends came to circle around, asking me ‘which country?’ and I, weary, sleep-deprived, and having been jiggled up and down on a dirt road for a total of eight hours that day, made a swatting gesture with my hand and let me believe he was Australian. He made a hocking sound, and offered me a spoon, which he first wiped with a grubby thumb.

“Let’s get out of this place,” said Karsten whose 30th birthday celebration this was supposed to be. And all of us agreed. Though we’re not entirely sure whether he meant the fake castle, or a wider geographical area. We got back in the car with our driver, who mentioned that he would slap on an extra fee for our excursion that day.

And so this morning, the women on the street pick among the rubbish and search for something that they can keep or sell. We sit in our air conditioned car, looking up from our books to stare. This is the other option for the street sellers, and I wonder how important honesty is in the grand scheme of things, whether merchants all over the world have their own way of decieving to stretch their money-making potential. It’s just that here, it happens at the shake of a salesman’s hand, rather than in a corporate boardroom.

When you see the glint in the eye of the man who offers you ‘good price’, and a small child clutching a bunch of balloons skips down the road after you, you might finally come to a realisation: at the end of the day, much like the rusty rides at the Rajasthani theme park, it’s all a game. Besides, you’re welcome to join in.