Travel

The rippling sound of giggles, screams and laughter had more power than the waterfall’s babble.

About 10 women stood in a circle, holding hands. They were waist deep in the greenish water, bouncing up for one second before submerging themselves all at once. Their sari fabrics billowed and ebbed with the currents, swirling in a cacophony of color.

These ladies were modest enough to wear their clothes into the water, but practical enough to leave their panties behind on the dry rocks.

After about 20 minutes of bouncing and delicate paddling, the whole scene devolved into splashing and dunking. Their laughter was practically electric, impregnating the air with lightness and joy.

India does a lot of things well. Unfortunately, coffee is not one of them.

Ever since I arrived in this country, I have tried — and failed — to find a decent cup of joe. I’m not talking fancy steamed soy milk sugar-free almond lattes here. I simply want coffee grounds that have been introduced to hot water.

Every time I sit down at a restaurant or find a coffee stand, I ask if they serve filtered coffee, REAL coffee. And every time I’m given the traditional Indian head waggle.

Inevitably, I am given a cup of weak, instant Nescafe, and that’s just not gonna cut it for this caffeine fiend.

At my hostel in Mysore, I decided to give it one last go. “Coffee? Tea?” asked the bellhop. “No charge.”

“Sure, I’ll try some coffee,” I said.

The bellhop proceeded to bring me a tall glass of the palest, saddest brew I’ve ever seen. It looked like coffee that had given up on life, coffee that needed an intervention, suicidal coffee.

The bellhop thrust out his open palm. “Twenty rupees.”

“You said no charge,” I reminded.

“Ah, no charge for the coffee,” he said. “Twenty rupees for me to bring it to you.”

I grudgingly forked over a bill.

That beige coffee-ish liquid wasn’t working for me, so I decided to pull out all the stops. I asked the bellhop for a cup of hot water.

See, I have a weapon — a top-secret stash of Starbucks Via. Yes, it’s instant, but it’s the lesser of all instant evils. I have been carrying these packets around the world for nine months now, carefully rationing as I go and saving them for dire circumstances.

In Mysore, I was ready. All I needed was a cup of hot water.

“No hot water,” said the bellhop. “Is not possible.”

“Why not possible?”

“No hot water.”

“But you have water to make coffee, right?” I said.

“Yes.”

“But no water if I want hot water.”

“Exactly.”

“Where can I get hot water?”

The bellhop flipped his hand noncommittally. He shrugged, “Out there. Outside.”

So I asked the manager where I could find a cup of hot water. The manager exchanged words with the bellhop and chastised him in rapid Hindi.

The bellhop grimaced at me. “Fine. Two minutes,” he promised.

Thirty minutes later, a tall glass with hot water arrived in my room.

Thanking the man, I tipped him 10 rupees.

I tore open the Starbucks packet and poured it in at once. The powder swirled, danced and swelled as my spoon made a current through the hot water. Soon the clear liquid was a satisfying, rich brown. The aroma of roasted beans and warmth filled my nose. I was just about to lift the glass to my lips when …

The bellhop rapped at my door.

“Do not drink that, madam” he said.

“Why not?”

“I have done something bad,” he said, hanging his head in shame. “The water is not safe for the drinking.”

I handed him the cup and he pivoted on one foot. Then my Starbucks — and questionable water — disappeared down a mildew-encrusted hallway.

One packet down.

It all began at the palace. It was my first night in Mysore, and I wanted to see what time the gates opened for tours the following day.

A kid, maybe 15 or 16 years old, approached me with a wide smile and a boisterous, “Hallo!”

I’m used to this. Usually the kids want to practice English, or they are curious about other countries.

His name was Mustafah, and he was one of the most charming boys I’d ever met. His wiry frame was topped with a mop of shiny black hair, and he had a smile as long and rambling as the Ganges.

He told me there was a market in Old Mysore, which only takes place once a week. There I could find people making incense, making saris, turning flowers into essential oils and rolling beedi Indian cigarettes. He gave me directions and told me how to find the place.

Then Mustafah said he was headed the same direction. We could split a rickshaw, he suggested.

I agreed, so he hailed someone down.

Several kilometers outside of town, we finally arrived. Mustafah entered the market with me, but the place seemed vacant and isolated. Only a few customers trundled between rickety stalls, selling hardware, rice and dried beans.

It didn’t have the sweeping excitement of the boisterous city streets, where fresh fruit, sunny jasmine blossoms and elaborate sandalwood carvings overwhelmed the senses.

I asked Mustafah if this was really the market — and if so, where we were the people making incense, essential oils and beedies?

“Oh, that’s down the street,” he said.

We ended up even traveling even further from town. Up a slight staircase and inside a shadowy room, we found a group of men sitting on the floor, making beedies.

Mustafah said the incense factory was another kilometer away, so we hopped into the rickshaw again.

I began to feel incredibly uneasy. The market wasn’t what I had expected at all. I was being swept from one place to another, traveling farther from my hotel all the time. Also, I was getting the distinct feeling that the rickshaw driver and Mustafah were in on this together, because they were a little too friendly, a little too conversational, and the driver knew all the stops without Mustafah ever saying a word.

I asked them to take me back to my hotel.

Instead, they offered me a milkshake.

I declined and said I don’t like dairy.

Again, they offered me a milkshake, but this time they were a little more forceful.

I declined. This time I was a little more forceful.

“You like coffee?” said the driver.

“Yes, I like coffee.”

“I bring you to coffee shop,” he said. “Mysore is very famous for our coffee shops. We’re like Amsterdam!”

I said I wasn’t interested. “Please, just take me to my hotel.”

“No, no. You will like the coffee shop very much. We have many types of hash, many things for you to enjoy,” he said. “You will be so high and so happy.”

Finally I said if they didn’t take me to the hotel, I would find another rickshaw driver who would.

Reluctantly, he drove me back.

The hotel manager was sitting outside when the rickshaw pulled up. As I walked inside, he shook his head.

“Verrrry bad men,” he said. “Let me guess, they found you at the palace?”

It turns out that this is a common scam, and it happens frequently to solo female travelers in Mysore.

The rickshaw drivers/unauthorized tour guides pick up women, coerce them to go outside of town, then give them drinks laced with drugs.

In my case, it was a milkshake.

When the woman is thoroughly stoned out of her mind, the guys use the opportunity to beat her, take her things and leave her stranded.

I got out of there unscathed, but other women aren’t so lucky. The manager said an American woman was found passed out and naked near the beedi factory just last month.

I told the hotel manager I appreciated him telling me these stories, but it would have been more helpful to hear them earlier in the day. I made him promise that the next time a woman checks in alone, he’ll give her a warning.

I also felt incredibly stupid. I’ve been traveling for a long time now, and I thought I knew all the scams. They say there’s a sucker born every minute — and sometimes that sucker is me.

There is a thin line between total magnificence and utter tackiness, and the Mysore Palace walks it.

The palace is the former residence of the Maharaja, built in 1897, following a fire that destroyed the old wooden palace. In this incarnation, the ground floor alone takes up nearly 3.5 acres, containing marble floors, carved pillars, ornate domes, mirrors and gilded colonnades.

Most everything is the color of cupcake frosting, with stacks of lemony layers topped by gumdrop red domes. At night, all of the buildings sparkle with zillions of white fairy lights.

Photography is forbidden inside the building, so I took notes to walk you through it instead.

Our tour begins in a doll pavilion, displaying toys that were given to the Maharaja as gifts. Ninety percent of the dolls are completely creepy and will haunt my dreams for all time.

Next is the peacock-themed marriage pavilion, where all royal weddings took place. Cast iron pillars are shaped to curl like feathers, soaring toward the high ceiling. Above, a dome explodes in rainbow-colored stained glass, framed by golden carvings of delicate flowers. Elephant paintings parade around the room, and some pieces are framed by massive (and real) elephant tusks.

A marble staircase leads to a grand hall, where teakwood doors are shaped like teardrops. The room is one arch after another, enough to make me lose count after 15. This is where the Maharaja would present himself to his people. Three layers of balconies contained royal family members and visiting dignitaries, while the common folk gathered on the ground.

The top half of the walls are covered in lavish oil paintings by famed Indian artists. The bottom of the walls are elaborated tiled in green, pink, yellow and Tiffany blue. Strewn across the ceiling are nature scenes with lions, antelope, tigers and elephants dancing in between depictions of Vishnu incarnations. The arches are practically overturned Lucky Charms boxes, boasting pink hearts, yellow stars, green clovers and blue diamonds — plus mauve flowers, golden sunbursts and silver moons.

If it sounds like a mess, it kind of is — but it’s also decadent and ridiculous enough to work. Think Marie Antoinette served up with a dose of masala chai.

Marvelously tacky and proud of it.