Over four million folks, their cars, busses, autorickshaws, horse carts and other assorted modes of transportation inhabit Ahmedabad and I wasn't looking forward to navigating out of that mess on bicycle. As it turned out I was pleasantly surprised. The route out of Gujarat's biggest city was straightforward and simple. Aside from leaving with the customary lung-full-o-dust we collected no other misfortunes on the way to the well paved, broad shouldered and light trafficked highway. Within a few kilometers a big tractor toting a trailer passed us. Normally I'd curse a noisy tractor traveling at roughly our speed just in front of us.
Not this time: he was blocking the wind, setting an aggressive pace for us and, most importantly, forcing the traffic that approached from in front and behind to give us lots-o-room as they passed. For over twenty kilometers, setting our fastest pace in Asia so far, we clipped along behind the tractor without having to leave the road once to avoid an accident. After some time we turned off the main highway and headed towards what was billed as a swank palace hotel and restaurant. On arrival we found a modest farmhouse in the center of a dirt-poor village. Within the farm compound a skinny waif who was apparently managing the hotel greeted us rather unenthusiastically.
He led us to a quiet and large dining room. There were huge cartoon-ish paintings of some mini-*nawab*, likely the forefather of the owner of the hotel. A lone Indian female traveling to see Lothal joined us at lunch. In elegant western garb she ate alone after dismissing her chauffeur. We engaged her in conversation and found that she was a high tech marketing consultant for IBM and Compaq. She'd taken off early from work and planned to spend the afternoon seeing Lothal. After lunch we asked the anti-social waif to show us a room. It was modest, like the house, but came with an exorbitant price tag.
He wanted nearly one hundred dollars for it and dinner. Finding this obscene we opted to go be tourists at the ancient city of Lothal and try our luck with the manager who'd return later that night. Unfortunately Utelia/Lothal is very remote and there would be no other lodging opportunities. The road to Lothal from Utelia was one of the worst in India. Nearly impassible by bicycle, it left many cars stranded amongst the mortar-shell-hole sized potholes. Despite the obstacle-ridden road the archeological site was abuzz with visitors. Lothal was the part of the ancient Harappan civilization (centered in Pakistan's Indus valley) and was an important trading outpost.
Though we were some 30 kilometers inland this had once been a port. The archeologists had discovered a massive harbor that had been used to construct and maintain boats. In the ruins of the small city they discovered housewares, jewelry, games, and religious icons that were all on display in the simple museum. Unlike in most countries a surprising number of peasant-fieldworkers visit tourist destinations in India. On this day several tractor loads of brightly dressed and heavily bangled Gujaratis crawled around the ruins along with three busloads of rather hyper kids. After we viewed the museum we were mobbed by the schoolchildren, who insisted that we sign their hands and pose for photographs until our faces were too tired to smile.
After we rid ourselves of the kids we went to photograph the peasants. They were very interested in our glasses, shoes, tattoos, jewelry and what was in our bags. One tried to exchange his ornate silver belt for Andy's treasured necklace from a *sadhu* in Matura. Though the necklace was of little actual value, made of simple orange glass beads, he couldn't part with it because of the spiritual value of the item. We'd procrastinated long enough. It was time to go back to the hotel and try to negotiate some sort of a deal for lodgings. Now the owner/manager/prince was back and ready to talk turkey.
He was more than aware of his bargaining power and our lack thereof, a situation he exploited to his advantage. We got precious few rupees knocked off the original quote. With the sun sinking towards the horizon, we were obliged to stay there or try to find a bus on to the next town. While discussing price with the odious micro-raja he invited us to tea (which he presented a bill for a few moments later). After agreeing to stay we retired to our room and scrubbed off the road dirt in preparation for dinner. Moments later, while I was showering, the parsimonious prince sent his scrawny henchman to the room to collect money from us.
It was the only the second time in India we'd been treated with such mistrust. I told him to come back later. He waited outside the room knocking every five minutes until I paid. After dressing I went outside into the courtyard to further interview our less-than-polite host. He told me of his countless riches, properties, horses, cars and other possessions, his desire to live in the United States and, most importantly, why he was so obsessed with getting our money up front. He explained that some French people had stayed for a week and skipped out under cover of dawn catching the first bus without paying their hotel bill.
Frankly I found it hard to believe that this actually happened and expressed that it'd be hard for us to skip very far on bicycle. The biggest surprise of the day was who was in the dining room with us that night. Nadine and Lilliane, the frogs from Dungarpur (and the Calico Museum and Hotel Cama in Ahmedabad), were seated as we entered. We were happy to see familiar faces and hoped that they'd be less drunk than the last time we saw them at dinner. Here in bone-dry Gujarat, they proved to be perfectly charming and fun dinner companions. My favorite part of the meal was when the nasty micro-raja joined us in the room.
The frogs had exactly the same impression of him as we had. " Au secours!" (help!), Lilliane whispered quietly when the cheap old fartbag entered. Andy and I held back a cackle and greeted him reservedly. Horrified when he sat down next to us and began chatting with us. While he driveled we watched the buffet begin to be populated by the raja's underlings. He lamented that he hated the French and all other foreigners who couldn't speak English while we eyed the food hungrily. It was a scandalously small offering for what he was charging and we shamed him into bringing out more by eating everything in the hotplates.
After stuffing ourselves we all retreated hastily from the dining room, avoiding any further contact with the agouti-king.