But there I was in February 1978, hot and sticky, sitting at the place of respect in the
living room of the 3-room home of the director of the regional
folkloric museum in Rajasthan. In 1978,
not too many tourists traveled to visit this museum, but I was impelled by the
opportunity to see some of the region's famous family puppetry troops
perform. I'd learned through hearsay
that the performances were a nightly event, held on the roof of the hotel
created from an old palace on an island in the middle of the lake in Udaipur.
The front desk clerk was happy to hear about my interest in puppetry, and
arranged for a boat to take me to the town the next day.
The museum was not large, but well maintained and pride in the local folk
arts emanated from every display. The
museum director had been delighted to talk about his puppet collection. So many of the finger puppets and marionettes
are based on the Indian epic stories and myths. We happily spent all afternoon
talking and laughing about the foibles of the puppet-characters and the men and
gods they represented. As I left, he
presented me with an intricate oilcloth painting that one of the artisans had
done of Ganeesh, and also invited me to supper with his family at his
house.
When I arrived, the front room of his mud-and-wattle home was full; a few of his important neighbors had been
invited in the interim, I guess to meet the blonde American lady. The meal was
fabulous, but there wasn't much opportunity to talk with the women of the house
as they stayed in the kitchen when they weren't bringing out the food or taking
away the empty platters. Politics,
business, art, trends in America, the situation in India -- the dinnertime
discussion was vigorous.
Conversation was still going, so I felt around the interior of my pocketbook for the small aluminum sachets containing wipes I always carried for cleaning my hands where there was no water, ripped open the sachet
that held the wipe, and discreetly patted it on my face. A few minutes later I couldn't stand the
heat and the stickiness anymore and dipped once again into my pocketbook, this time for a
Kleenex to sop up the sweat. Tea was served, and a short while later I asked to use the toilet.
There, in the small enclosure that was dimly lit by a solitary 20 watt
bulb, I reached for my comb to tidy up.
The mirror reflected back an incredible sight -- a blonde American lady
with white lint all over her face! Which
all goes to teach an important travel lesson:
pack your clear shoepolish sachets in a different place than your
handywipes.
