I was sad to leave Udaipur. I'd had a great time on my own while Andy was recuperating from his second bout with malaria, amebic dysentery or whatever it was that the village quack had diagnosed his malady as. I was so settled in that the local tourist touts no longer sold their services to me but smiled and waved instead. Here I learned the fate of our long-lost riding partner Matt whom we encountered on our flight to Delhi. He'd been struck with a verifiable case of amebic dysentery. Somehow he'd managed to get himself on a bus and ridden back to Delhi without pooping himself or barfing on the bus (a miracle).
After that he wasn't so lucky. A friend checked him into the hospital in Delhi where he regarded hospital hygiene (better stated, lack thereof) with inexplicable horror. Finally he was shipped back to Australia where he spent further time in the hospital. That put an end to his intended year in India. While hanging in Udaipur I took a few day rides. One memorable one was up to the "monsoon palace" some 850 meters above the town, perched on the highest peak for miles. At night the palace looked so close and low. In reality it was a hearty pump even without my bags.
Halfway up to the crest I came across two college students on holiday. They'd decided to ride up as well, only with a serious handicap. They were on rented one-speed Atlas bikes. Having given up riding a kilometer before I met them they were taking a rest under a bush from pushing their weighty two wheelers. I stopped to chat with them before heading up to the top and regaling at the stupendous view of the lake below. I didn't bring a camera, a fact that Andy could later torture our shutterbug friend James with. On the way down I whistled by my cycling friends who had continued pushing their bikes wondering if their way down might be even more challenging than the way up.
Couldn't imagine their Atlas brakes being very effective on the steep incline; my own brakes could barely keep me in control. When Andy finally regained his health I found it hard to leave Haveli Kankawa. I could see how Charlotte could have gotten stuck here. On the morning of our departure we almost ended up staying longer. This time it was my turn to get the malady du jour. My stomach was touched by something; but not so severely to keep me from riding. I'd miss our stay, the characters at the Haveli, but, most of all, the sunset over the lake with the bats dipping into the water for a drink before their nightly hunt for food.
The strangely peaceful nature of Udaipur evaporated almost immediately. I was nearly overcome by the traffic and smog on the way out of town. This was the India that I'd come to hate. Odd to find it again after being so taken with Udaipur's beauty and serenity the last days. Every few kilometers a truck would weave its way into our path and force us off the road. Otherwise the road was smooth and we took advantage of a major net descent this day. Finally, the last kilometers we were off the main road. Now rolling through farmland our only competition for our spot on the road was an occasional oxcart.
Late in the afternoon we arrived in Dungarpur. A dense misty cloud of smoke hung over the lakeside town from which we could see the palace on the other shore. A rutted and deserted road led us to the green marble palace of Dungarpur. Our reception was cold. At first I thought we'd have to leave. It seemed strange because our host in Udaipur had called ahead with a reservation and guaranteed that we'd have a fabulous stay. Our plump odd-faced Peter Lorre-esque host showed us the grounds and assured us we were welcome. After a shower we had tea on the shore of the lake in front of a floating temple.
The only worshipers were flocks of brightly colored birds which we admired with our newfound friends Shelly and Noshir and two aloof French women. Shelly and Noshir would prove to be two of the more intriguing Indians we'd meet and the French women would be a leitmotif for several of the days to follow. Later, amidst the surreal surroundings of the reception hall we shared before dinner drinks with Shelly and Noshir. After we'd exchanged pleasantries they began to tell us more about themselves. From Bombay and of the ultra exotic Parsi faith they'd married recently and were on a little getaway from the rigors of city life.
In the dimly lit hall filled with ferocious looking tiger and lion trophies Noshir told us that they were fire worshippers. The watchwords of their religion sounded funny echoing off the walls of a room literally covered with the heads of sad looking brown-eyed deer: Good thoughts, good words and good deeds. Our French friends may have had too much to drink. They bickered ceaselessly during the meal while we tried to ignore them. We bonded further with the Parsis under the watchful gaze of our waiters and more hunting trophies in the dining room. Proudly Peter Lorre told us that there were more dead animals on the walls of this palace than any other in Asia.
We retired shortly after dinner, agreeing to meet Shelly and Noshir again in Bombay. Before going to sleep I hit our horror-movie-star host with an odd request. I wanted to see the courtyard of the palace lit only by the glow of the full moon. He was flustered at first, but soon scurried off to find the lights. The marble lit by the moon cast an eerie green glow. The scene looked fantastic from the roof where the moonbeams also reflected off the lake, silhouetting the floating temple. I was again in the "love" phase of my love-and-hate relationship with India.