travel

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.

The vehicle creaked to a halt and the bus driver shouted something indiscernible.

I scrambled for my glasses, which I had tossed somewhere in the small sleeper bed. You’d think it would be easy to find things in a space the size of a tiny cafeteria table, but somehow all my things were in disarray after 12 hours on the road.

I swept my hand across the window and slid open the curtains, curious to see if we were at a real bathroom stop or if we’d have to squat on the road again.

And then I saw this.

This was no mere bathroom break. I had finally arrived in Hampi!

Once the capital of the Vijayanagar Hindu empire, some say this kingdom was greater than Rome. Back in the 14th century, the markets were stocked with diamonds and gems, traders carried loads of silks and spices, and the palaces were covered in gold.

Nowadays, Hampi is a little more modest. The temples are crumbling, the bazaar is sleepy, the palaces are overgrown with weeds.

Still, Hampi is one of the most remarkable places I’ve ever seen. The landscape is strewn with soft-edged boulders, the farmlands are shockingly green, the desolate temples are stocked with quiet magic.

I’ve seen so many of those TV programs where they show how things are made: Machines that squish cream into Twinkies, machines that roll paper around crayons, machines that put the precise number of M&Ms into every package.

So I tend to assume that everything is done by machine — and I’m always shocked when I discover honest-to-god handmade items.

Like incense. Did you know there’s a little girl sitting on a mat in a hallway, rolling incense right this very second? She rolls up to 4,000 sticks per day.

Click here for a quick video.

Once she’s done, the incense is dried on a rooftop, then another woman dips the sticks into various pots of oil and colored powder. From that point, it is packaged and put up for sale.

I also stopped by a beedi factory, which is where men make Indian cigarettes. Leaves from the tendu tree are chopped into rectangles, filled with tobacco flake, rolled and tied with a thin piece of pink string.

Each worker makes approximately three beedies in the time it takes for me to blink.

Thousands of cigarettes per day are rolled by these guys and exported all over Asia and the world.

And it all begins right here, in a dirty room with a rusty fan, crowded with men who sit on the floor all day long and take home a handful of rupees.

Thankfully, there is no machine for what they do.