Spice Market Udaipur

Yesterday got a bit rough for me, requiring that I make frequent visits to “the facilities.” I’m thinking I’ve been a little too cavalier about how many spicy meals, beginning with breakfast, I could consume without my body reacting.   So this morning I awoke wondering if I would need to stay in our room while Sam ventured off on his own as he did last night.  I’m glad I ventured out instead.  We went on a boat ride on Lake Pichola and then to the spice market.  

The route from the City Palace to the spice market took us through a quieter part of Udaipur.  The streets were lined with shops that were no larger than the average American size storage unit and not much fancier.  I saw two young girls in unusually plain cotton saris herding donkeys down a side street and thought about how little some things seem to have changed in the past two thousand years.   When we arrived at the spice market, I thought the same thing, except we were riding in a tuk-tuk and not on a camel.  Tuk-tuks are little black and yellow vehicles that populate the roads in India.  They remind me of the tilt-a-whirl cars I used to ride at the fair except a ride in a tuk-tuk  can be even more thrilling. 

 For two days I had anticipated going to the spice market.  Haresch, our hotel owner had told me it was well worth visiting, and since I love Indian spices, it was my intention to go there and maybe even buy some spices to take back home.   I changed my mind the moment we arrived and told  Sam I only wanted to ride through in the safe little membrane of our tuk-tuk.  Safe for us, that is.  I squeezed Sam’s hand as our as our driver, like all drivers in India, it seems, drove fearlessly (recklessly?) through the crowds of people,  squeaking through narrow passageways teeming with people and vendors.  I gasped when he actually brushed the side of an older woman.  She, however, seemed to take it in stride.

Tuk-tuk

The reason I changed my mind about walking through the spice market is that it would have been overwhelming and I would have felt like an intruder.  Every inch of space was spoken for by Indian shoppers or vendors.  Tables were loaded with all colors and kinds of fresh fruits and vegetables, huge bowls were filled with spices, ground teas and coffees.  As we wound our way along, my nostrils were confounded by the scents of coriander, cinnamon and cow dung.  This was Udaipur as it had always been, before the western invasion.  Many of these people looked ancient to me, with teeth missing and deeply wrinkled faces.  I simply felt that I didn’t belong there.  I was probably wrong, though because nearly every Indian person I have come in contact with has been warm and welcoming.