9:00 am - Wake up to the phone ringing. Roll over and pick it up. "Good morning sir, your cab is here." New day, same sentence. Kind of comforting really.
9:10 am - Groggily stumble out the door. Leave the key at the front desk so that people can come in and rearrange everything in your room while you're gone.
9:11 am - In the car. Try to buckle the seat belt. Remember that they don't exist in the backseats of Indian cars, and think about how nice it is that people are so concerned about the comfort of their passengers.
9:12 am - 12 minutes after getting up, you're stuck in traffic as the driver tries to make a turn into the sector across from you. Nevermind the fact that if he went straight he could make the same turn onto a major roadway and get you there without the jam. Either way, there are horns honking, men shouting, and you just want to go to bed.
9:15 am - Out of the jam. Sit and watch as your driver pulls into oncoming traffic and speeds up to pass the bicycle rickshaw in front of him. Try to buckle your seatbelt again. Remember that they don't exist in the backseats of Indian cars, and think about how you're going to DIE.
9:16 am - The driver winds up behind another rickshaw, and this time thankfully can't pull over into the pathway of the oncoming bus. He honks about 30 times. The rickshaw driver, despite having enough space beside him to move, doesn't get out of the way.
9:17 am - Driver finally makes a daring escape, dodging between the rickshaw and a cow my mere inches to pass the rickshaw.
9:18 am - A bus pulls out from an intersection right into your path. The driver swerves to escape, and it misses you by about a foot.
9:19 am - Tailgating a red car...and by tailgating I mean about a yard of space.
9:20 am - Red car stops, driver is forced to slam on breaks and barely misses hitting red car.
9:21 am - Red car moves again. Continue tailgating as before. Note to self: perhaps driver is attempting to seem nonchalant about his death wishes so that passengers feel like it's no big deal.
9:22 am - Come to another intersection. There is congestion here EVERY SINGLE DAY, and EVERY SINGLE DAY there is another way to go that isn't congested. And yet which intersection do we wind up at? You guessed it.
9:27 am - Out of congested intersection, after cutting off two motorcyclists and a very angry rickshaw driver.
9:28 am - Left turn on major roadway at high speeds into oncoming bicycles and pedestrians. Feel more secure because if you do hit them, you yourself won't die.
9:29 am - Make a hard right turn, with a bus and three cars coming straight towards you. Luckily they slam on their brakes when they are about a foot away from broadsiding the car.
9:30 am - dodge three cows on opposite sides of the roadway and pull in to your destination. Sign a form saying you made it to the end, thank the driver, and get out. And in a show of convenience only India can offer, you don't even have to unbuckle your seatbelt before exiting.
That was this morning, but note that something similar happens every morning.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
In Which Nic Attempts To Find Beef
Hopefully by this point you are well aware of the vegetarian fiasco; if not, let me summarize it here. I love meat. Chicken, pork, mutton, fish – I love all kinds. But there is a special place in my heart for that most wondrous, most tasteful, most delicious of all meats: beef.
Unfortunately, I now find myself in a country where such meat does not exist. Well, it does, technically – cows are everywhere here, even oftentimes lying peacefully in the middle of major roadways, but not only is it considered a grievous sin to kill a cow, it would also be quite unhealthy, as these cows feed on garbage and whatever weeds may pop up on roads or between parts of the sidewalk. Most of them barely seem able to survive, and you find many a cow that is nothing but meat and bones – mostly bones. It’s a sad situation – an animal with no natural predators, forced to live a life of scrounging, and barely eking out its own survival.
However, I should note at this point that the cows do run free, that there is a large amount of poverty and hunger in Delhi, and that I have not seen nor heard of a single Delhi cow being killed. It’s a testament to the dedication and resolve of India that such a noble religious practice is upheld even under great duress. However, as I have discussed with people many times here, the cow owes its entire existence to two polar beliefs – those of the Hindu people, who believe in treating cows with the highest respect, deference, and freedom possible, and the belief that cows may be bred for milk and for slaughter. Were it not for the latter, cows would probably only exist in India. Add in a loss of the former, and they might not exist at all.
Anyway, the moral of the story here is not actually the moral of the story, but rather, that I like beef. And so it was that on the day Megan got out of the hospital, I got a call at around 5:30 pm telling me she was on her way out, and was just waiting for the driver, who would probably be a while. Now, unbeknowndest to me, when a girl says that she is waiting for a ride home and may not be there for another hour and a half, what she means is that she is already home and wants you to spend the next two hours doing whatever you might want to do. So due to a slight miscommunication, I had the next two hours to myself, to do whatever it was that I might want.
What I wanted to do was the following: one week before I had been in a mall not far from the office. The mall was 4 stories and a basement, and a full lap around the bottom story might be a circuit of about half a mile or more. Now in this gargantuan mall there were many things – a movie theater, some hairdressers, a shop devoted entirely to ties…but on the top floor, almost glistening in its American grandeur, was a TGI Fridays.
On that fateful day one week before, I asked to look at a menu. What I had seen there was wonderful – chicken wings so juicy they would make your eyes pop. Strips of bacon on practically anything. And near the back, 6 burgers, including the oh-so-famous Jack Daniels Burger. There was beef, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it for a whole 7 days.
So of course, when I have an opportunity to eat by myself, the last thing I want to do is put it to waste (and Megan is a vegetarian and doesn’t want to eat any American food while we’re here anyway, so no use convincing her to come along). Anyway, within 15 minutes I was dropped off at the doorstep of Great India Place. Two security checks, a bag check, and about 5 minutes of traveling later, I arrive at TGI Fridays, eager to sate my weeklong obsession.
I walk in and don’t even look at the menu. “A Jack Daniels Burger and a coke, no ice,” I say (and for all those of you who are looking at me like I’m a wimp, I should point out my previous post about ice here being DANGEROUS). And I sit there, thinking that this restaurant is entirely too American and that I don’t want to be here at all except for that delicious, mouthwatering taste that is soon going to appear before me.
It comes, and before you can say PETA, I take a nice big bite out of it…
…and almost spit it back out.
Yes, that’s right – in my eagerness for a hamburger I had made a grave, grave mistake. Not looking in detail at the menu, and not realizing that TGI Fridays can only be so American, I had ordered a hamburger and received…
…a lambburger.
Disgusted with my stupidity and with my burger, I quickly scarfed down what I could (with a heavy dose of Coke) and left the premises, never to return. Oops.
Unfortunately, I now find myself in a country where such meat does not exist. Well, it does, technically – cows are everywhere here, even oftentimes lying peacefully in the middle of major roadways, but not only is it considered a grievous sin to kill a cow, it would also be quite unhealthy, as these cows feed on garbage and whatever weeds may pop up on roads or between parts of the sidewalk. Most of them barely seem able to survive, and you find many a cow that is nothing but meat and bones – mostly bones. It’s a sad situation – an animal with no natural predators, forced to live a life of scrounging, and barely eking out its own survival.
However, I should note at this point that the cows do run free, that there is a large amount of poverty and hunger in Delhi, and that I have not seen nor heard of a single Delhi cow being killed. It’s a testament to the dedication and resolve of India that such a noble religious practice is upheld even under great duress. However, as I have discussed with people many times here, the cow owes its entire existence to two polar beliefs – those of the Hindu people, who believe in treating cows with the highest respect, deference, and freedom possible, and the belief that cows may be bred for milk and for slaughter. Were it not for the latter, cows would probably only exist in India. Add in a loss of the former, and they might not exist at all.
Anyway, the moral of the story here is not actually the moral of the story, but rather, that I like beef. And so it was that on the day Megan got out of the hospital, I got a call at around 5:30 pm telling me she was on her way out, and was just waiting for the driver, who would probably be a while. Now, unbeknowndest to me, when a girl says that she is waiting for a ride home and may not be there for another hour and a half, what she means is that she is already home and wants you to spend the next two hours doing whatever you might want to do. So due to a slight miscommunication, I had the next two hours to myself, to do whatever it was that I might want.
What I wanted to do was the following: one week before I had been in a mall not far from the office. The mall was 4 stories and a basement, and a full lap around the bottom story might be a circuit of about half a mile or more. Now in this gargantuan mall there were many things – a movie theater, some hairdressers, a shop devoted entirely to ties…but on the top floor, almost glistening in its American grandeur, was a TGI Fridays.
On that fateful day one week before, I asked to look at a menu. What I had seen there was wonderful – chicken wings so juicy they would make your eyes pop. Strips of bacon on practically anything. And near the back, 6 burgers, including the oh-so-famous Jack Daniels Burger. There was beef, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it for a whole 7 days.
So of course, when I have an opportunity to eat by myself, the last thing I want to do is put it to waste (and Megan is a vegetarian and doesn’t want to eat any American food while we’re here anyway, so no use convincing her to come along). Anyway, within 15 minutes I was dropped off at the doorstep of Great India Place. Two security checks, a bag check, and about 5 minutes of traveling later, I arrive at TGI Fridays, eager to sate my weeklong obsession.
I walk in and don’t even look at the menu. “A Jack Daniels Burger and a coke, no ice,” I say (and for all those of you who are looking at me like I’m a wimp, I should point out my previous post about ice here being DANGEROUS). And I sit there, thinking that this restaurant is entirely too American and that I don’t want to be here at all except for that delicious, mouthwatering taste that is soon going to appear before me.
It comes, and before you can say PETA, I take a nice big bite out of it…
…and almost spit it back out.
Yes, that’s right – in my eagerness for a hamburger I had made a grave, grave mistake. Not looking in detail at the menu, and not realizing that TGI Fridays can only be so American, I had ordered a hamburger and received…
…a lambburger.
Disgusted with my stupidity and with my burger, I quickly scarfed down what I could (with a heavy dose of Coke) and left the premises, never to return. Oops.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Megan's Trip to Apollo Hospital
So for my next adventure, I figured I’d pick up where I left off before Agra – with Megan being sick. Pretty please, don’t get sick in India. Although the odds are not in your favor if you do come.
Anyway, Megan got sick on a Friday night, and I heard about it Saturday morning. Now, on this particular Saturday Megan and I were supposed to be working. As such, I went to work, and Megan stayed home.
Come about 3 pm Megan calls me up on my still working phone (this is before the government got ridiculous and cut my service off because…well…I don’t even necessarily know why) to tell me that she’s running a fever and has called for the driver, but that he hasn’t shown up yet. I immediately go downstairs and find somebody in HR who can help. They figure it out, and before I know it, Megan has been taken to what I hear is the nicest hospital in NOIDA.
The name of the hospital is Apollo, and the care is…well…better than Megan says she got in China. Which makes me wonder about Chinese hospitals. They stick an IV in her…quite painfully, from the way she’s grimacing every time they change it, and pump her full of so many drugs I can’t even count them. The one solace (for me) is that the night nurse is absolutely gorgeous. I guess the one solace for Megan is that this whole thing has to end at some point.
Now, being at a hospital in a country halfway across the world, getting filled up with more medicine than you’ve ever seen before in your life and worse, not even knowing what that medicine is or why it’s there…it can be a scary experience. So for the next two nights I wound up staying on a nice leather couch (paid for by the IV drips and by the fact that a 5 minute consultation with the doctor runs something like 15 USD). I wasn't the only one being helpful - the guys from the office all came by, and everyone was really supportive. I just wound up relocating - which was no skin off my back. It was pleasant, until people came in to check on her. The following describes a REAL conversation, from start to finish (maybe not word for word, but I’m not making this up or exaggerating AT ALL).
6:30 am
(door creaks open. Random Indian Male walks in).
Random Indian Male: Hello.
(Megan remains asleep. Nic opens his eyes and closes them again, hoping that the man was making a general greeting and will go away soon).
RIM (looks at Nic, who appears fast asleep): Good morning sir.
(Nic continues to keep his eyes closed and his breathing regulated.)
RIM: GOOD MORNING SIR
(Megan awakes)
Nic (opens his eyes): Huh? Oh…hello.
(RIM walks over to Megan’s table, places some food on it, turns around and leaves).
End scene
Yes, that was 6:30 in the morning. And no, he doesn’t know that the only thing between him and the basement 4 flights of stairs below him was that I was too tired to get up.
Anyway, after gouging Megan for all she was worth for 2 nights (her fever had disappeared after 1), the doctor, in the infinite wisdom of his 600 rupee 5 minute consultations, decided that she should stick around for a third night. Which makes sense from his perspective, since the bed is right there and he could keep pumping saline bags into her as long as he wanted. But it wasn’t quite as great from Megan’s perspective. So, hero that she is, while I’m at work on Monday she has a long conversation with the doctor where she convinces him that she’s not paying for another night and that he should discharge her, and then actually has to sneak out of the room to sign the bill so she could leave. Yes, I said sneak out – she got them to take the IV off her under the premise of going to the bathroom, then hustled out of the room, paid the bill, and got someone else to get the IV line out of her. Finally, after all this is over, she calls me, leading to the adventure that is the subject of my next post.
Anyway, Megan got sick on a Friday night, and I heard about it Saturday morning. Now, on this particular Saturday Megan and I were supposed to be working. As such, I went to work, and Megan stayed home.
Come about 3 pm Megan calls me up on my still working phone (this is before the government got ridiculous and cut my service off because…well…I don’t even necessarily know why) to tell me that she’s running a fever and has called for the driver, but that he hasn’t shown up yet. I immediately go downstairs and find somebody in HR who can help. They figure it out, and before I know it, Megan has been taken to what I hear is the nicest hospital in NOIDA.
The name of the hospital is Apollo, and the care is…well…better than Megan says she got in China. Which makes me wonder about Chinese hospitals. They stick an IV in her…quite painfully, from the way she’s grimacing every time they change it, and pump her full of so many drugs I can’t even count them. The one solace (for me) is that the night nurse is absolutely gorgeous. I guess the one solace for Megan is that this whole thing has to end at some point.
Now, being at a hospital in a country halfway across the world, getting filled up with more medicine than you’ve ever seen before in your life and worse, not even knowing what that medicine is or why it’s there…it can be a scary experience. So for the next two nights I wound up staying on a nice leather couch (paid for by the IV drips and by the fact that a 5 minute consultation with the doctor runs something like 15 USD). I wasn't the only one being helpful - the guys from the office all came by, and everyone was really supportive. I just wound up relocating - which was no skin off my back. It was pleasant, until people came in to check on her. The following describes a REAL conversation, from start to finish (maybe not word for word, but I’m not making this up or exaggerating AT ALL).
6:30 am
(door creaks open. Random Indian Male walks in).
Random Indian Male: Hello.
(Megan remains asleep. Nic opens his eyes and closes them again, hoping that the man was making a general greeting and will go away soon).
RIM (looks at Nic, who appears fast asleep): Good morning sir.
(Nic continues to keep his eyes closed and his breathing regulated.)
RIM: GOOD MORNING SIR
(Megan awakes)
Nic (opens his eyes): Huh? Oh…hello.
(RIM walks over to Megan’s table, places some food on it, turns around and leaves).
End scene
Yes, that was 6:30 in the morning. And no, he doesn’t know that the only thing between him and the basement 4 flights of stairs below him was that I was too tired to get up.
Anyway, after gouging Megan for all she was worth for 2 nights (her fever had disappeared after 1), the doctor, in the infinite wisdom of his 600 rupee 5 minute consultations, decided that she should stick around for a third night. Which makes sense from his perspective, since the bed is right there and he could keep pumping saline bags into her as long as he wanted. But it wasn’t quite as great from Megan’s perspective. So, hero that she is, while I’m at work on Monday she has a long conversation with the doctor where she convinces him that she’s not paying for another night and that he should discharge her, and then actually has to sneak out of the room to sign the bill so she could leave. Yes, I said sneak out – she got them to take the IV off her under the premise of going to the bathroom, then hustled out of the room, paid the bill, and got someone else to get the IV line out of her. Finally, after all this is over, she calls me, leading to the adventure that is the subject of my next post.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Still Here
Hey everybody,
So I would imagine that many people by now have heard about the blasts in Bangalore and Ahmedabad. I wanted to assure you all that those are nowhere near Delhi, and thus quite far from me as well. However, I should also note that the group that has claimed responsibility has hit both Uttar Pradesh (the state in which I currently live) and Jaipur, which may take the place of my hill station visit if work keeps me from traveling too far away, in the last 8 months or so...so I have plenty of reason to be a little cautious.
And cautious I am being. I have been staying away from very crowded public places, other than a movie today at a very sparsely populated mall, and have temporarily postponed my trip to find beef, mostly because my guides wanted to be cautious but also because being an American in a Muslim neighborhood may be a little more dangerous than normal over the next week or two.
In other news, I have started a photo album other than my facebook album (though there is a large overlap). It is available here: http://s354.photobucket.com/albums/r408/nicrbyrd/India/. Go check it out.
I'm working on new posts, and promise to have at least one up by the time everybody back home wakes up Monday morning. Until then, adieu.
By the way, bonus points to the first person from back home who can comment to tell me why Christmas and Halloween are the same holiday to a mathematician.
Nic
So I would imagine that many people by now have heard about the blasts in Bangalore and Ahmedabad. I wanted to assure you all that those are nowhere near Delhi, and thus quite far from me as well. However, I should also note that the group that has claimed responsibility has hit both Uttar Pradesh (the state in which I currently live) and Jaipur, which may take the place of my hill station visit if work keeps me from traveling too far away, in the last 8 months or so...so I have plenty of reason to be a little cautious.
And cautious I am being. I have been staying away from very crowded public places, other than a movie today at a very sparsely populated mall, and have temporarily postponed my trip to find beef, mostly because my guides wanted to be cautious but also because being an American in a Muslim neighborhood may be a little more dangerous than normal over the next week or two.
In other news, I have started a photo album other than my facebook album (though there is a large overlap). It is available here: http://s354.photobucket.com/albums/r408/nicrbyrd/India/. Go check it out.
I'm working on new posts, and promise to have at least one up by the time everybody back home wakes up Monday morning. Until then, adieu.
By the way, bonus points to the first person from back home who can comment to tell me why Christmas and Halloween are the same holiday to a mathematician.
Nic
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Sorry for the Silence
First I want to apologize for the silence of the past two or three weeks. The issue with keeping a blog is that when you’re having enough adventures, you don’t get time to blog them. Rest assured that I have been busy and have plenty of stories to share: and now that Megan is gone I may have time to share them.
I figured at this point though, it might be best to write up a list of everything interesting and exciting that has happened in the last few weeks. This is both a means for you to hold me to the fire about my adventures, and a means for me to keep track of exactly what has happened that needs writing. I should note now that some of these may come under one blog post. They are:
1.) Megan in the hospital
2.) Nic’s (unsuccessful) search for beef
3.) Indian lunch, Indian Weddings
4.) Nic and Megan get lost in the Defense Colony ghetto
5.) Lodhi Gardens and the Lotus Temple, babies and the strange white man
6.) Cooking, fullness, and green chiles
7.) A goodbye to Megan
8.) Nic’s first solo adventure and how it went much smoother than any other adventure before it.
And hopefully soon to come:
1.) Nic’s (successful) search for beef
2.) Nic in Hyderabad
3.) Nic in a Hill Station
4.) (only if there is a windfall of money – and you are welcome to donate!) Nic in Goa
And while I’m at it a quick update on work. The project I had originally looked into is not a good idea. It is time consuming and the product may very well be quite slow. I realized this a week or two into the research, and have since talked with my coworkers and decided to move on to other things. So since then I have been doing many small tasks that are all part of one big task. I have a lot of freedom to dabble, and apart from chomping at the bit to move to a programming language other than Java, this has been so far a great experience and I have learned a ton (and hopefully am becoming somewhat productive as well).
I figured at this point though, it might be best to write up a list of everything interesting and exciting that has happened in the last few weeks. This is both a means for you to hold me to the fire about my adventures, and a means for me to keep track of exactly what has happened that needs writing. I should note now that some of these may come under one blog post. They are:
1.) Megan in the hospital
2.) Nic’s (unsuccessful) search for beef
3.) Indian lunch, Indian Weddings
4.) Nic and Megan get lost in the Defense Colony ghetto
5.) Lodhi Gardens and the Lotus Temple, babies and the strange white man
6.) Cooking, fullness, and green chiles
7.) A goodbye to Megan
8.) Nic’s first solo adventure and how it went much smoother than any other adventure before it.
And hopefully soon to come:
1.) Nic’s (successful) search for beef
2.) Nic in Hyderabad
3.) Nic in a Hill Station
4.) (only if there is a windfall of money – and you are welcome to donate!) Nic in Goa
And while I’m at it a quick update on work. The project I had originally looked into is not a good idea. It is time consuming and the product may very well be quite slow. I realized this a week or two into the research, and have since talked with my coworkers and decided to move on to other things. So since then I have been doing many small tasks that are all part of one big task. I have a lot of freedom to dabble, and apart from chomping at the bit to move to a programming language other than Java, this has been so far a great experience and I have learned a ton (and hopefully am becoming somewhat productive as well).
Part IV: Lost in India (Take 1)
Note: this is part 4 of a 4 part series. It begins with Introduction to Agra.
The way to the temple involved more head ducking, which I was unbelievably unhappy about. By this point Megan had covered her head with a scarf and was unrecognizeable – I, on the other hand, no longer aching for sleep as I was in the morning, lay down to carsickness and an aching head, wanting desperately to do anything except rest my head on my bookbag and pretend to be sleeping. This part of the ride was short, but painful, and thankfully we were not detained.
We stopped at a McDonalds and I got a Maharaja Burger (think of it as a combination spicy-chicken sandwich and Big Mac), and we traveled on to Khan Temple (I think that’s how it’s spelled/pronounced). The temple is in a random town (I don’t know the name) halfway between Agra and home, and is, shall we say, in a crowded section of town. By this point, I know that cell phones and cameras are not supposed to be used in the temples, and so I take them out and place them in my bag, which stays in the backseat of the car.
We were dropped off in the dark in the middle of a traffic jam. When I say that, know that I mean we were dropped off in the middle of traffic. While our lane was not moving very much, immediately upon exit we were assaulted by hordes of fast moving traffic. Now there was actually slightly more to it than that. In these temples, not only are you supposed to be barefoot, but they discourage taking your shoes with you, so we left them in the car.
After dodging through the traffic, we made our way through the metal detectors and walked into the temple. The whole thing smelled of roses. Bright colors, yellows and blues and pinks, adorned the walls. While the back was lined with shops, the front had some beautiful idols. A crowd of people gathered around the idols, some falling flat to the ground and moving their arms up and down, their bodies in a straight line. In the center, near the area where the idols stood looking happy and excited and golden, a group of men sat cross-legged on the floor singing praises to the gods. The center of the temple was open air, and a tree grew up through the center. While the hubbub of people was difficult to deny, the tree, the air, the smell of flowers and the singing made it all a purely serene experience.
I waded untouched through the crowd, stopping here and there to look at this painting, that idol. When we were all done, we went outside, where I immediately went into one of the marble buildings on the side. Turns out it was a shrine to a guru, some wise man who is now worshipped. As yet I cannot figure out what the purpose of that worship is or the rationale behind it (even after talking to Megan, who seems intensely knowledgeable on the subject), and I would imagine that it may be something which is inevitably outside my grasp.
We try to get in touch with our driver using a cell phone one person had brought with him, but cell phone service seems not to work in this area, and so we are left with no recourse but to find the car ourselves. And thus I wind up halfway across the world, on a street somewhere in India, so lost I know not which town I am in, with no cell phone, and in bare feet, wandering around with no knowledge of where I might find my transportation home. Worse, as we wander through the streets, we get company…and not the good kind. A young girl, skinny as a stick, in dirty, torn clothes comes up to us and holds out her hand. She whispers so softly that I can’t hear her, and I realize that if I could I wouldn’t be able to figure out what she was saying anyway, as it’s in Hindi. But I don’t need to – she’s asking for money.
A note about beggars: they’re here. All of them. Every streetcorner, every stoplight – if you look around, you’re bound to find a couple. And they are persistent. Every guide you might get regarding travel in India, and every native you meet, will tell you never to give to one, unless you want to attract the mob. Many of them also seem organized, as though there were a beggar’s union and they were pooling their profits.
Anyway, the point of the story is to not give to beggars. So as a reminder, not hours after being coddled by this amazing tour guide at one of the world’s most beautiful places, I find myself on a dark, dirty street corner, lost, in bare feet, and with a child beggar nipping my heels with her hand held out.
Okay, that’s where the ridiculousness ends. Eventually, a friend got the beggar to go away, we managed to get just enough reception to get our driver to come look for us, and we hung out at the street corner until he arrived. Unfortunately, he forgot to bring the car with him, so we hiked a short ways back to his car. And of course, as luck would have it, he winds up being parked next to a 25 foot tall golden statue of a Hindi god. Go figure.
We got into the car and drove home, with only one minor minor issue – THE ENTIRE ROAD WAS COVERED IN 18-WHEELERS. Apparently, they let them come into the city at night so they don’t crowd it in the daytime – a good policy, until you’re the small car stuck in between them. It was a 360-degree view of the sides of trailers. And of course, if you know anything about Delhi driving, you know that there was every chance that one of them would run over us.
When we finally got to the guesthouse, it was a little after 11. Man was I tired. But also excited – in one day, I had seen one of the most beautiful places in the world, and the land where people take bull dung and dry it out to cook food over. I was in a popular tourist attraction and a place where nobody appeared to have seen a white man before. I had seen peacocks, camels, and monkeys, that were native to India, and plants and trees from all over the world. I had a bad tour guide, a good tour guide, and toured without a guide. I had a morning where all I wanted to do was sleep, and then when I finally got a decent chance to put my head down, all I wanted to do was put it back up again. And best of all, I had gone from the beauty of farms and plains into the small town of Agra, and then into the truck-infested Delhi suburbs. All in all a pretty good day.
The way to the temple involved more head ducking, which I was unbelievably unhappy about. By this point Megan had covered her head with a scarf and was unrecognizeable – I, on the other hand, no longer aching for sleep as I was in the morning, lay down to carsickness and an aching head, wanting desperately to do anything except rest my head on my bookbag and pretend to be sleeping. This part of the ride was short, but painful, and thankfully we were not detained.
We stopped at a McDonalds and I got a Maharaja Burger (think of it as a combination spicy-chicken sandwich and Big Mac), and we traveled on to Khan Temple (I think that’s how it’s spelled/pronounced). The temple is in a random town (I don’t know the name) halfway between Agra and home, and is, shall we say, in a crowded section of town. By this point, I know that cell phones and cameras are not supposed to be used in the temples, and so I take them out and place them in my bag, which stays in the backseat of the car.
We were dropped off in the dark in the middle of a traffic jam. When I say that, know that I mean we were dropped off in the middle of traffic. While our lane was not moving very much, immediately upon exit we were assaulted by hordes of fast moving traffic. Now there was actually slightly more to it than that. In these temples, not only are you supposed to be barefoot, but they discourage taking your shoes with you, so we left them in the car.
After dodging through the traffic, we made our way through the metal detectors and walked into the temple. The whole thing smelled of roses. Bright colors, yellows and blues and pinks, adorned the walls. While the back was lined with shops, the front had some beautiful idols. A crowd of people gathered around the idols, some falling flat to the ground and moving their arms up and down, their bodies in a straight line. In the center, near the area where the idols stood looking happy and excited and golden, a group of men sat cross-legged on the floor singing praises to the gods. The center of the temple was open air, and a tree grew up through the center. While the hubbub of people was difficult to deny, the tree, the air, the smell of flowers and the singing made it all a purely serene experience.
I waded untouched through the crowd, stopping here and there to look at this painting, that idol. When we were all done, we went outside, where I immediately went into one of the marble buildings on the side. Turns out it was a shrine to a guru, some wise man who is now worshipped. As yet I cannot figure out what the purpose of that worship is or the rationale behind it (even after talking to Megan, who seems intensely knowledgeable on the subject), and I would imagine that it may be something which is inevitably outside my grasp.
We try to get in touch with our driver using a cell phone one person had brought with him, but cell phone service seems not to work in this area, and so we are left with no recourse but to find the car ourselves. And thus I wind up halfway across the world, on a street somewhere in India, so lost I know not which town I am in, with no cell phone, and in bare feet, wandering around with no knowledge of where I might find my transportation home. Worse, as we wander through the streets, we get company…and not the good kind. A young girl, skinny as a stick, in dirty, torn clothes comes up to us and holds out her hand. She whispers so softly that I can’t hear her, and I realize that if I could I wouldn’t be able to figure out what she was saying anyway, as it’s in Hindi. But I don’t need to – she’s asking for money.
A note about beggars: they’re here. All of them. Every streetcorner, every stoplight – if you look around, you’re bound to find a couple. And they are persistent. Every guide you might get regarding travel in India, and every native you meet, will tell you never to give to one, unless you want to attract the mob. Many of them also seem organized, as though there were a beggar’s union and they were pooling their profits.
Anyway, the point of the story is to not give to beggars. So as a reminder, not hours after being coddled by this amazing tour guide at one of the world’s most beautiful places, I find myself on a dark, dirty street corner, lost, in bare feet, and with a child beggar nipping my heels with her hand held out.
Okay, that’s where the ridiculousness ends. Eventually, a friend got the beggar to go away, we managed to get just enough reception to get our driver to come look for us, and we hung out at the street corner until he arrived. Unfortunately, he forgot to bring the car with him, so we hiked a short ways back to his car. And of course, as luck would have it, he winds up being parked next to a 25 foot tall golden statue of a Hindi god. Go figure.
We got into the car and drove home, with only one minor minor issue – THE ENTIRE ROAD WAS COVERED IN 18-WHEELERS. Apparently, they let them come into the city at night so they don’t crowd it in the daytime – a good policy, until you’re the small car stuck in between them. It was a 360-degree view of the sides of trailers. And of course, if you know anything about Delhi driving, you know that there was every chance that one of them would run over us.
When we finally got to the guesthouse, it was a little after 11. Man was I tired. But also excited – in one day, I had seen one of the most beautiful places in the world, and the land where people take bull dung and dry it out to cook food over. I was in a popular tourist attraction and a place where nobody appeared to have seen a white man before. I had seen peacocks, camels, and monkeys, that were native to India, and plants and trees from all over the world. I had a bad tour guide, a good tour guide, and toured without a guide. I had a morning where all I wanted to do was sleep, and then when I finally got a decent chance to put my head down, all I wanted to do was put it back up again. And best of all, I had gone from the beauty of farms and plains into the small town of Agra, and then into the truck-infested Delhi suburbs. All in all a pretty good day.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Part III: The Tomb of Shah Jahan
Note: this is part 3 of a 4 part blog that begins with Introduction to Agra
We got into the car and began to drive towards the Taj, but it was not long before Sravanthi turned and started yelling “Nic, Megan, put your heads down.” Obediently, we complied.
Silence ensued in the car, and according to Sravanthi, the officers looked directly at the driver and walked towards the middle of the road as if to stop us. However, upon seeing that there were only four people in the car, all of whom were unmistakably Indian, they recognized it as a time-suck and walked back to whence they came.
A few minutes later we stopped the car to go get lunch, and I feebly poked my head out. We tried to find a guide, this time one who spoke good English, but Megan and I talked everyone out of it. Why did we need a guide to the Taj? Isn’t its beauty enough?
We caught a rickshaw ride and made it to the Taj in the middle of the afternoon. Dodging tour guides left and right, trying desperately not to get one, we made our way to the ticket window.
Tourism, as I said before, is either a religion or a sport or some other form of obsession in India, and they do it well. At the ticket booth, an Indian may pay 100 rupees ($2.50) or less for a visit to a national treasure. An American or other foreigner might pay 10 times as much.
Amit and Sravanthi decided to go to the window to get the tickets, and Megan got in the female line to get searched, which left me with Venkat staring at the impossibly long and incredibly slow guys line. Amit apparently saw it to, because as he was waiting in line, he ran into an older man who offered to be his guide. Amit at first said no, but when he heard the guy could get us through the line quickly, he got interested. Deciding that it was more important to not spend an hour in line, he accepted for 100 rupees, which is relatively cheap for a guide at such a nice place.
And what a guide he was. Not only did he get us through the line, as he said he would, but he spent every moment he could fighting voraciously to keep us from wasting our time. This man was practically pushing people out of the way so that we could take photos, he gave us all foot-covers so we didn’t have to take off our shoes in the tomb, and he took pictures for us in a place where pictures are strictly prohibited (apparently only unless you’re a VIP Guide). And his English was great.
I will grant you that I’m biased. The man, like the tour guide at the last place, was basically fawning over me. At one point he turned and pointed at me and said “You sir.” After I gave him my attention (at which point everyone else had long since tuned in), he points to the card around his neck and says “I am VIP Guide. YOU are my VIP.” And turns and walks to the next talking spot. At every photo we took, I would give him my camera, he would take a picture of the group, and then would ask me to stay to get a picture just by myself. We convinced him to take one of each of us a couple times, but every single time he wanted one of me.
The man was legitimately incredible as a tour guide, however. Very knowledgeable, but humble, he was there when we needed him but would always walk far enough ahead that we had all the space we could ask for. He recognized my nervousness about my camera and constantly gave it back to me after he had taken pictures. He sat with us for 15 minutes when we found a nice breeze and decided to take a break. He was…beyond belief. And I have his business card, so if you’re ever in the area, ask me and I’ll give you his contact information. Assuming he hasn’t changed it.
The Taj itself was perhaps even more incredible. Originally built to be the tomb of Mumtaz, Shah Jahan’s wife, it is an architectural masterpiece that I doubt I will ever see rivaled. Merely walking through the gate onto the grounds is an experience: everything is lined up, and the gate acts sort of as a lens, giving at first a view of only the main building, then two towers on the sides, then four, all in perfect symmetry. As you walk out onto the grounds, you notice more and more exotic flora than I have ever seen in one place before, and all designed to be permanent – evergreens, tall trees from Siberia, short ones from the Middle East, plants from all over the world that were put here as the Taj Mahal was built and have stayed until today.
The Taj Mahal took 22 years to build, and the architects planned on it taking exactly that long. The gate you walk in has 22 domes on it, in two sets of 11. One set is back and below the other, so for the full majesty of all 22 standing together in perfect symmetry you must look from the floor of the Taj itself, rather than merely being on the grounds. To get there, after passing through half of the garden, you reach a platform with a few seats on it. These seats have apparently been host to such greats as Shah Jahan and Bill Clinton, at least according to the tour guide. As you look towards the Taj, you see that perfect reflection in the pool of water that is so memorable from pictures of the place.
We walked past the pool, reached the building itself and put on some shoe covers. There are 22 steps to get to the entrance, one for each year. The entire building is made of marble, with chipped gems lining the walls in unbelievably intricate patterns (and the amount of gemstones embedded in the Taj must be worth more than the rest of India. The first four books of the Koran are printed around entrances – the first two on the gate to the courtyard that lay a couple hundred yards behind us, the third and fourth on the entrance to the tomb itself. As is the case with other monuments, the writing was made bigger the higher up it was so that everything looked the same size from the floor.
A guest house and a mosque are on the right and the left sides of the Taj, making the similarity truly complete. One step inside the tomb shows a hole in the ground that leads to where Mumtaz is really buried. Walking past that, the next room is a replica of what is below, with the most ornate marble carvings you have ever seen in your life. Mumtaz sits directly in the center, the midline of her body marking the line down which the symmetry rests on. Lying next to her, the only thing to break the perfect symmetry of this entire, perfect place, lies the tomb of Shah Jahan himself, placed there unknowingly by his daughter after his death. There is something vaguely eerie and thoroughly mystical about the entire area, and even now, three days later, just thinking about it sends a small chill of excitement down my back. We left the Taj, paid the tour guide with a (deservedly) outstanding tip, and returned back to the car, for our journey to Khan temple, and then home.
We got into the car and began to drive towards the Taj, but it was not long before Sravanthi turned and started yelling “Nic, Megan, put your heads down.” Obediently, we complied.
Silence ensued in the car, and according to Sravanthi, the officers looked directly at the driver and walked towards the middle of the road as if to stop us. However, upon seeing that there were only four people in the car, all of whom were unmistakably Indian, they recognized it as a time-suck and walked back to whence they came.
A few minutes later we stopped the car to go get lunch, and I feebly poked my head out. We tried to find a guide, this time one who spoke good English, but Megan and I talked everyone out of it. Why did we need a guide to the Taj? Isn’t its beauty enough?
We caught a rickshaw ride and made it to the Taj in the middle of the afternoon. Dodging tour guides left and right, trying desperately not to get one, we made our way to the ticket window.
Tourism, as I said before, is either a religion or a sport or some other form of obsession in India, and they do it well. At the ticket booth, an Indian may pay 100 rupees ($2.50) or less for a visit to a national treasure. An American or other foreigner might pay 10 times as much.
Amit and Sravanthi decided to go to the window to get the tickets, and Megan got in the female line to get searched, which left me with Venkat staring at the impossibly long and incredibly slow guys line. Amit apparently saw it to, because as he was waiting in line, he ran into an older man who offered to be his guide. Amit at first said no, but when he heard the guy could get us through the line quickly, he got interested. Deciding that it was more important to not spend an hour in line, he accepted for 100 rupees, which is relatively cheap for a guide at such a nice place.
And what a guide he was. Not only did he get us through the line, as he said he would, but he spent every moment he could fighting voraciously to keep us from wasting our time. This man was practically pushing people out of the way so that we could take photos, he gave us all foot-covers so we didn’t have to take off our shoes in the tomb, and he took pictures for us in a place where pictures are strictly prohibited (apparently only unless you’re a VIP Guide). And his English was great.
I will grant you that I’m biased. The man, like the tour guide at the last place, was basically fawning over me. At one point he turned and pointed at me and said “You sir.” After I gave him my attention (at which point everyone else had long since tuned in), he points to the card around his neck and says “I am VIP Guide. YOU are my VIP.” And turns and walks to the next talking spot. At every photo we took, I would give him my camera, he would take a picture of the group, and then would ask me to stay to get a picture just by myself. We convinced him to take one of each of us a couple times, but every single time he wanted one of me.
The man was legitimately incredible as a tour guide, however. Very knowledgeable, but humble, he was there when we needed him but would always walk far enough ahead that we had all the space we could ask for. He recognized my nervousness about my camera and constantly gave it back to me after he had taken pictures. He sat with us for 15 minutes when we found a nice breeze and decided to take a break. He was…beyond belief. And I have his business card, so if you’re ever in the area, ask me and I’ll give you his contact information. Assuming he hasn’t changed it.
The Taj itself was perhaps even more incredible. Originally built to be the tomb of Mumtaz, Shah Jahan’s wife, it is an architectural masterpiece that I doubt I will ever see rivaled. Merely walking through the gate onto the grounds is an experience: everything is lined up, and the gate acts sort of as a lens, giving at first a view of only the main building, then two towers on the sides, then four, all in perfect symmetry. As you walk out onto the grounds, you notice more and more exotic flora than I have ever seen in one place before, and all designed to be permanent – evergreens, tall trees from Siberia, short ones from the Middle East, plants from all over the world that were put here as the Taj Mahal was built and have stayed until today.
The Taj Mahal took 22 years to build, and the architects planned on it taking exactly that long. The gate you walk in has 22 domes on it, in two sets of 11. One set is back and below the other, so for the full majesty of all 22 standing together in perfect symmetry you must look from the floor of the Taj itself, rather than merely being on the grounds. To get there, after passing through half of the garden, you reach a platform with a few seats on it. These seats have apparently been host to such greats as Shah Jahan and Bill Clinton, at least according to the tour guide. As you look towards the Taj, you see that perfect reflection in the pool of water that is so memorable from pictures of the place.
We walked past the pool, reached the building itself and put on some shoe covers. There are 22 steps to get to the entrance, one for each year. The entire building is made of marble, with chipped gems lining the walls in unbelievably intricate patterns (and the amount of gemstones embedded in the Taj must be worth more than the rest of India. The first four books of the Koran are printed around entrances – the first two on the gate to the courtyard that lay a couple hundred yards behind us, the third and fourth on the entrance to the tomb itself. As is the case with other monuments, the writing was made bigger the higher up it was so that everything looked the same size from the floor.
A guest house and a mosque are on the right and the left sides of the Taj, making the similarity truly complete. One step inside the tomb shows a hole in the ground that leads to where Mumtaz is really buried. Walking past that, the next room is a replica of what is below, with the most ornate marble carvings you have ever seen in your life. Mumtaz sits directly in the center, the midline of her body marking the line down which the symmetry rests on. Lying next to her, the only thing to break the perfect symmetry of this entire, perfect place, lies the tomb of Shah Jahan himself, placed there unknowingly by his daughter after his death. There is something vaguely eerie and thoroughly mystical about the entire area, and even now, three days later, just thinking about it sends a small chill of excitement down my back. We left the Taj, paid the tour guide with a (deservedly) outstanding tip, and returned back to the car, for our journey to Khan temple, and then home.
Part II: Fatehpur Sikri
Note: this is part 2 of a 4 part post that begins with Introduction to Agra
Less than half an hour later, we reached Fatehpur Sikri. I still don’t know exactly what it is, other than it had something to do with Akbar, one of the Mughal rulers. I believe, though I’m not certain, that it was the location of the capital during Akbar’s time, but I also know that the belief could very easily be wrong.
How could I go to Fatehpur Sikri and leave without knowing exactly what it is, you ask? Weren’t there signs? Didn’t you hire a tour guide? There were, and we did.
Let me explain something quickly – tourism is practically a sport in Agra, and if it were, tour guides would be the competitors. As we originally made our way into the city, we CONTINUALLY dodged numerous Indian men that ran out in front of the car, almost as though they were daring us to hit them. Finally, on one narrow stretch of the road, one of the men managed to get in a position where there was nothing else to do but hit him. Or stop. So of course, we did the reasonable thing and put on the brakes.
He came over to the window and asked in Hindi if we needed a tour guide. We said we were fine. He began to argue, and showed his certificate as a licensed guide. Thankfully, we would have none of it.
Finally he left, and we managed to dodge the rest of the guides until we got to Fatehpur Sikri. Were that it were enough just to reach the parking lot. However, our next step was to catch a rickshaw to the historic site itself. We go to the road and all of a sudden I am surrounded by people. “You need guide,” one says in broken English, and between him and the others who are speaking in Hindi, I have no option but to stick my hands tightly in my pockets and try not to lose my friends.
In the shuffle of the crowding tour guides, I feel a pull on my arm. “Get in, quick,” Sravanthi says, and the rickshaw starts to move.
I duck in with a lack of flair and am confronted with an appalling sight. Rickshaws are meant to seat at most three people and a driver – three in the back, one in the front. We had successfully maintained the three in the back rule, thankfully, but in the front, I saw Amit and Venkash, two of my Indian friends, on my left, and on my right, a horde of tour guides clawing to get in.
The auto takes off, leaving a short young man in a lavender shirt. My friends talk to him in Hindi for a minute, and arrange a price for him to be our guide. Note that, as yet, he has not spoken a word of English.
The reason becomes apparent soon after we exit the rickshaw. Now to be perfectly fair to the man, he does know the language. He seems to know the language quite well, in fact. But his North Indian accent is thicker than the gravy in a pot of Cream Chicken, and I can understand maybe one out of every 100 words.
This was an unfortunate fact – more unfortunate was the fact that I was too stubborn to admit that I didn’t understand him. So I nodded, tried to act interested, and refrained from reading ANYTHING that might make it look as though I needed visual aids.
We reached the gates of Fatehpur (apparently a Mosque – which makes sense because the Mughals were Muslim) and took off our shoes. Our tour guide said…something…and we walked inside. The one thing I had gotten out of the tour so far was that the gate on our left was the tallest gate in Asia. No idea what that means, why it’s important, or its significance in Muslim culture. What I did see, however, were ancient, two hundred year old graves dotting the floor of the mosque, with names written in ancient and flowery Urdu.
Our tour guide immediately leads us to the only back alley in the entire mosque. I catch him saying random words… “Marble,” “cloth,” and “charity” are among them, and so I automatically assume he means to tell me that the men hiding in this back alley hawking bandannas are actually trying to give me something to place inside the marble structure out front. Now, why a charity would have to hide in a back alley, selling cloth to tourists and giving the proceeds to someone other than the well dressed men selling them, is beyond me, but what really confused me was when one of these charitable men answered a cell phone, asked who it was, then handed it to my guide, who engaged in a quite jovial conversation for a minute or two before hanging up. Anyway, my group of friends must have been the only ones who found it suspicious, because according to the tour guide (who repeated the phrase until he was sure I understood) “EVERYBODY does it.”
Well it must have been everybody minus five, because we went into the marble temple (which one friend told me was in fact Hindu) without being at all charitable. After dodging some more requests for donations, we made our way out from the statuesque marble and began to further explore the mosque.
We went to the front of the mosque and our tour guide said something unintelligible about a row of arches we had just walked through. I peered knowingly down the stretch and oohed as though it all made sense. When I looked around, Megan had a baby in her arms.
Apparently, the child’s parents either thought her a goddess or wanted to one day convince their child it was white. I’m banking on the latter. Either way, they approached her, said “just one photo,” and all of a sudden, there she was with a baby in her arms while the family snapped pictures. I took one too, just for kicks. Apparently Megan contemplated just walking off with the baby like it was a gift. Mothers, please think twice before giving your baby to anybody from California.
On the far side from our entrance there were multiple artisans selling wares, which was where our tour guide took us next. I was hoping he had decided he wanted a trinket for himself, but he in fact had a far more devious plan in mind. As the others pulled away to take pictures or look at trinkets, our tour guide approached me, and spoke about twice as clearly as he had at any point so far.
“Sir, I [garbled English]. I am student. My girlfriend and I [garbled English] and it would be great if you could pay me in American dollars.”
Touched as I was by the story, I had no American dollars with me. I told him so and moved away hurriedly, hoping to lose him in the crowd. I walked through Volan gate, and everything paused for a second.
Volan gate is beautiful. You walk through it, and you are all of a sudden standing on top of the world. It’s like a redstone terrace overlooking the entire Indian countryide. Beautiful isn’t a description one could use to describe walking out that gate, nor could pictures do it justice. I could almost imagine myself, in a mosque somewhere deep in the Himalayas, looking out over the whole world.
Then the vendors descended. They were EVERYWHERE. Snow globes, handmade rattles, handiwork and crafts of all sorts. There were VEGETABLE vendors, for goodness sake. At VOLAN GATE.
I went out and looked quickly, shot a picture, and ran with my tail between my legs to get away from the mob. Back inside Fatehpur, I waited until we collected everybody, and then decided that the next step was to leave without seeing Sikri.
As we leave, someone brings up the camel rides that are available to go back down to the parking lot. Earlier that day I had brought up my ambition to ride a camel while I was here, and so we very quickly decided to make the camel ride our course of action.
The ride itself, disappointingly, was in the back behind the camel. But our guide, who at the very least gets points resilience, asked if I wanted to ride. Is that actually a question?!
Next thing I know, I’m up on the camel as it trots slowly down the road. A stream of people walk past, most looking up and either staring or laughing hysterically. I don’t care. I’m riding a camel. From the cart where the others were riding, I hear my tour guide shout, nearly as loud as he could, “HANDSOME AMERICAN MAN ON TOP OF THE CAMEL,” as though announcing my presence to the entire world. He was to do it two more times before I dismounted.
The camel itself was incredible. Its legs, sinewy and strong, spoke of its raw power. There was no saddle, but rather a harness, which turned out to be even easier to ride in. The ride was not bumpy, nor was it the slightest bit uncomfortable. In a sense, it wasn’t a true camel ride, but just to say “I did it,” this was enough. Next up is the elephant, which I’m hoping will be even more rewarding.
When we got to the parking lot, I knew exactly what would come next, and I hope you do as well. As everyone disembarked, our tour guide sidled up beside me and softly whispered “You can tip me. Whatever you like.” After the tour we had just gotten, I totally ignored him, and as I brushed past him to walk away his entreaties became slowly louder and louder, until finally I moved past any distance that could allow for remorse and he became silent.
Less than half an hour later, we reached Fatehpur Sikri. I still don’t know exactly what it is, other than it had something to do with Akbar, one of the Mughal rulers. I believe, though I’m not certain, that it was the location of the capital during Akbar’s time, but I also know that the belief could very easily be wrong.
How could I go to Fatehpur Sikri and leave without knowing exactly what it is, you ask? Weren’t there signs? Didn’t you hire a tour guide? There were, and we did.
Let me explain something quickly – tourism is practically a sport in Agra, and if it were, tour guides would be the competitors. As we originally made our way into the city, we CONTINUALLY dodged numerous Indian men that ran out in front of the car, almost as though they were daring us to hit them. Finally, on one narrow stretch of the road, one of the men managed to get in a position where there was nothing else to do but hit him. Or stop. So of course, we did the reasonable thing and put on the brakes.
He came over to the window and asked in Hindi if we needed a tour guide. We said we were fine. He began to argue, and showed his certificate as a licensed guide. Thankfully, we would have none of it.
Finally he left, and we managed to dodge the rest of the guides until we got to Fatehpur Sikri. Were that it were enough just to reach the parking lot. However, our next step was to catch a rickshaw to the historic site itself. We go to the road and all of a sudden I am surrounded by people. “You need guide,” one says in broken English, and between him and the others who are speaking in Hindi, I have no option but to stick my hands tightly in my pockets and try not to lose my friends.
In the shuffle of the crowding tour guides, I feel a pull on my arm. “Get in, quick,” Sravanthi says, and the rickshaw starts to move.
I duck in with a lack of flair and am confronted with an appalling sight. Rickshaws are meant to seat at most three people and a driver – three in the back, one in the front. We had successfully maintained the three in the back rule, thankfully, but in the front, I saw Amit and Venkash, two of my Indian friends, on my left, and on my right, a horde of tour guides clawing to get in.
The auto takes off, leaving a short young man in a lavender shirt. My friends talk to him in Hindi for a minute, and arrange a price for him to be our guide. Note that, as yet, he has not spoken a word of English.
The reason becomes apparent soon after we exit the rickshaw. Now to be perfectly fair to the man, he does know the language. He seems to know the language quite well, in fact. But his North Indian accent is thicker than the gravy in a pot of Cream Chicken, and I can understand maybe one out of every 100 words.
This was an unfortunate fact – more unfortunate was the fact that I was too stubborn to admit that I didn’t understand him. So I nodded, tried to act interested, and refrained from reading ANYTHING that might make it look as though I needed visual aids.
We reached the gates of Fatehpur (apparently a Mosque – which makes sense because the Mughals were Muslim) and took off our shoes. Our tour guide said…something…and we walked inside. The one thing I had gotten out of the tour so far was that the gate on our left was the tallest gate in Asia. No idea what that means, why it’s important, or its significance in Muslim culture. What I did see, however, were ancient, two hundred year old graves dotting the floor of the mosque, with names written in ancient and flowery Urdu.
Our tour guide immediately leads us to the only back alley in the entire mosque. I catch him saying random words… “Marble,” “cloth,” and “charity” are among them, and so I automatically assume he means to tell me that the men hiding in this back alley hawking bandannas are actually trying to give me something to place inside the marble structure out front. Now, why a charity would have to hide in a back alley, selling cloth to tourists and giving the proceeds to someone other than the well dressed men selling them, is beyond me, but what really confused me was when one of these charitable men answered a cell phone, asked who it was, then handed it to my guide, who engaged in a quite jovial conversation for a minute or two before hanging up. Anyway, my group of friends must have been the only ones who found it suspicious, because according to the tour guide (who repeated the phrase until he was sure I understood) “EVERYBODY does it.”
Well it must have been everybody minus five, because we went into the marble temple (which one friend told me was in fact Hindu) without being at all charitable. After dodging some more requests for donations, we made our way out from the statuesque marble and began to further explore the mosque.
We went to the front of the mosque and our tour guide said something unintelligible about a row of arches we had just walked through. I peered knowingly down the stretch and oohed as though it all made sense. When I looked around, Megan had a baby in her arms.
Apparently, the child’s parents either thought her a goddess or wanted to one day convince their child it was white. I’m banking on the latter. Either way, they approached her, said “just one photo,” and all of a sudden, there she was with a baby in her arms while the family snapped pictures. I took one too, just for kicks. Apparently Megan contemplated just walking off with the baby like it was a gift. Mothers, please think twice before giving your baby to anybody from California.
On the far side from our entrance there were multiple artisans selling wares, which was where our tour guide took us next. I was hoping he had decided he wanted a trinket for himself, but he in fact had a far more devious plan in mind. As the others pulled away to take pictures or look at trinkets, our tour guide approached me, and spoke about twice as clearly as he had at any point so far.
“Sir, I [garbled English]. I am student. My girlfriend and I [garbled English] and it would be great if you could pay me in American dollars.”
Touched as I was by the story, I had no American dollars with me. I told him so and moved away hurriedly, hoping to lose him in the crowd. I walked through Volan gate, and everything paused for a second.
Volan gate is beautiful. You walk through it, and you are all of a sudden standing on top of the world. It’s like a redstone terrace overlooking the entire Indian countryide. Beautiful isn’t a description one could use to describe walking out that gate, nor could pictures do it justice. I could almost imagine myself, in a mosque somewhere deep in the Himalayas, looking out over the whole world.
Then the vendors descended. They were EVERYWHERE. Snow globes, handmade rattles, handiwork and crafts of all sorts. There were VEGETABLE vendors, for goodness sake. At VOLAN GATE.
I went out and looked quickly, shot a picture, and ran with my tail between my legs to get away from the mob. Back inside Fatehpur, I waited until we collected everybody, and then decided that the next step was to leave without seeing Sikri.
As we leave, someone brings up the camel rides that are available to go back down to the parking lot. Earlier that day I had brought up my ambition to ride a camel while I was here, and so we very quickly decided to make the camel ride our course of action.
The ride itself, disappointingly, was in the back behind the camel. But our guide, who at the very least gets points resilience, asked if I wanted to ride. Is that actually a question?!
Next thing I know, I’m up on the camel as it trots slowly down the road. A stream of people walk past, most looking up and either staring or laughing hysterically. I don’t care. I’m riding a camel. From the cart where the others were riding, I hear my tour guide shout, nearly as loud as he could, “HANDSOME AMERICAN MAN ON TOP OF THE CAMEL,” as though announcing my presence to the entire world. He was to do it two more times before I dismounted.
The camel itself was incredible. Its legs, sinewy and strong, spoke of its raw power. There was no saddle, but rather a harness, which turned out to be even easier to ride in. The ride was not bumpy, nor was it the slightest bit uncomfortable. In a sense, it wasn’t a true camel ride, but just to say “I did it,” this was enough. Next up is the elephant, which I’m hoping will be even more rewarding.
When we got to the parking lot, I knew exactly what would come next, and I hope you do as well. As everyone disembarked, our tour guide sidled up beside me and softly whispered “You can tip me. Whatever you like.” After the tour we had just gotten, I totally ignored him, and as I brushed past him to walk away his entreaties became slowly louder and louder, until finally I moved past any distance that could allow for remorse and he became silent.
Introduction To Agra
Yesterday could not in any way be described adequately in a single blog post. The symmetry, the adventure, the absolute freshness and beauty of it all not only renders anything I might be able to say meaningless in my mind, but also means that I cannot hope to even touch on half of what I have seen in the last 24 hours. To be brief, yesterday was the day I went to the Taj Mahal. Except that doesn’t describe it. Yesterday was the day I went to Agra. No, I guess the best way to put it is this: yesterday was the day I saw rural India. Except Agra is most certainly not rural. So how about this: yesterday was the day I saw the most beautiful collection of sights I have ever seen.
I will be splitting this post, then, into four sub-posts: rural India; Fatehpur, the Taj Mahal, and the return home, including Khan Temple and possibly a cohesion meant to bring to light the elemental forces blowing like the wind throughout the entire day. I will not aim to be brief – while any expression of yesterday would be inaccurate, a brief summary would fail to do justice not only to the events of the day, but to the awesome power it held and its serene, Hindu-esque balance, and I cannot allow such an injustice to stand.
It all began at around 6:00 in the morning on a silent Noida street (actually, it began at around 5:30 when the cab got a flat and the driver had to get it replaced before picking us up, and making us coincidentally about half an hour late, but I’m starting the story at 6). The reason this street was silent was that it was a Saturday, and that it was 6:00. While the silence normally would have been somewhat eerie, I was unable to process it in my own half-awake state. What I do remember, though, is the driver talking in loud, harsh Hindi tones to my friend Sravanthi. She responded in turn, keeping me awake by a bare half decibel. It was torturous, and I finally realized that sleep, unfortunately, was just was not going to happen.
The situation was that the car we had hired for the day was not a licensed cab. Or the situation was that Megan and I are foreigners, depending on how you look at it all. Rationally, in my mind, the situation was that India is internationally known for its amazing tourist attractions.
The situation in fact centered around a rule that required all tourists use vehicles that had a tourist permit. The permit included all registered cabs. Our car, obviously, was not a registered cab, nor did it have a tourist permit, but that was perfectly fine because the police didn’t actually check at tourist sights. You had to be very unlucky to get caught. At least, you were unlucky unless you were in the tourist capital of India with two white people in your car – then it was just a simple process of deduction and an equally simple ignorance of the need for proof, and all of a sudden your stupidity left you facing the long arm of the law.
After debating for a while, the driver stopped the car and we sat, making phone calls to try to get a car with a permit, updating various people about the situation, and generally trying to find a solution to the conundrum however we could. Five minutes later, having found nothing, the driver inched out into the road again, leaving the issue threateningly unresolved. We continued on to get the last member of our party, then headed towards Agra.
The driver claimed he knew a shortcut that would take us straight to Fatehpur Sikri, our first destination. It had the advantage of keeping us outside of Agra, and therefore outside of the range of the cops, for longer, and so we agreed. I put my head against the window and tried once again to regain the precious hours of sleep I had lost for this trip. Once again, however, my efforts were cruelly thwarted, this time both by our Indian companions discussing breakfast options and the quality of the roads on this shortcut. I was too tired to eat, and did not like the thought of food getting in the way of sleep. However, as before, I bent knee to the powers that be and decided to stay up just a little while longer.
The next thing I know, we are out of the city, which brought a temporary cease-fire to my struggle with the one major issue I had with Delhi – the crowds. I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, a day in which there would be no loud clanging, no noisy chattering, no healthy women trying to beg for food in nice dresses (uh-huh…I know what you’re thinking, and yes…normal here). I got up and began to take stock of my surroundings.
The North Indian countryside is beautiful. It is green, stretching as far as the eyes can see (which is not far, given the Delhi smog). On occasion, one might see a farmer working the field (with his bare hands) or a woman carrying a jug of water on her head. Every mile or so, we pass a small farm town, full of pink and blue house-like structures and with children and cattle running amuck. Men walk to and fro with large stems of some vegetable across their back, and on occasion a pony, bull, or camel pulls a cart full of crop into town.
After a while, the car lulls to silence, and I turn and put my head down, trying once more to fall back to sleep. As soon as my head hits the wall, however, I hear Sravanthi yell “Roko! Hey guys, look, a peacock!”
I grudgingly get up once again from the nap that was never to be and faced a small field. A dirt mound sprung up in the center, seemingly out of nowhere, and on top of that stood the bird. Full in all his glory, the peacock’s beautiful turquoise neck and light midsection gave way to a closed tail. His head was held high, as he stood at the center of the dirt mound, seemingly watching the whole field from that one little roost. He kept his head high long enough for me to take a picture, then walked down the mound and back up again, as if to show that yes, we may have caught his beautiful form on camera, but it was merely a glimpse of what he truly was.
We got back in the car and continued on our way. The road became steadily rockier as the countryside became somehow, indescribably more rural. The spacing between farm towns did not change, but the people became fewer and farther between. As we moved through a town, we passed a child, stark naked, standing right next to the street, adults all around him, and nobody minding. All of a sudden, though, the car began to slow down and lose a little control. Flat tire, take two.
We pulled over to the left side of the road, right next to a pair of bull-cows. As the driver got out of the car, a man on our right exited his home (there are no doors on the houses on these farms – only a roof over their heads, so he merely stepped down from the structure into the dirt to leave his abode. He was wearing a towel around his waist, and nothing else. As I watched, he moved to the water spout outside, filled a bucket, and began to shower, staring awkwardly at the car full of outsiders the whole time.
I turned away, unable to bear this invasion of privacy, just in time to see one of the bull-cows defecate directly in front of me. I pointed this out, and the Indians in the car began to give us a detailed description of how the bullsh*! would be picked up and made into dried cakes, to burn as fuel.
As we sat there, the smell of manure began to slowly seep into the car. A crowd of children had gathered around us now, eager to see the outsiders – especially the white man (for some reason, they took a quick look at Megan and seemed to pass her by. I claim she looks more Indian than I do – perhaps I’m right).
Five minutes later, with about 10 children staring at me, stupefied, the driver manages to put on a new tire. Luckily for us, it was a full one, rather than a spare, and so rather than driving to the nearest auto shop and sitting in rural India for the rest of the day, we continued on one of the best journeys of my life.
I will be splitting this post, then, into four sub-posts: rural India; Fatehpur, the Taj Mahal, and the return home, including Khan Temple and possibly a cohesion meant to bring to light the elemental forces blowing like the wind throughout the entire day. I will not aim to be brief – while any expression of yesterday would be inaccurate, a brief summary would fail to do justice not only to the events of the day, but to the awesome power it held and its serene, Hindu-esque balance, and I cannot allow such an injustice to stand.
It all began at around 6:00 in the morning on a silent Noida street (actually, it began at around 5:30 when the cab got a flat and the driver had to get it replaced before picking us up, and making us coincidentally about half an hour late, but I’m starting the story at 6). The reason this street was silent was that it was a Saturday, and that it was 6:00. While the silence normally would have been somewhat eerie, I was unable to process it in my own half-awake state. What I do remember, though, is the driver talking in loud, harsh Hindi tones to my friend Sravanthi. She responded in turn, keeping me awake by a bare half decibel. It was torturous, and I finally realized that sleep, unfortunately, was just was not going to happen.
The situation was that the car we had hired for the day was not a licensed cab. Or the situation was that Megan and I are foreigners, depending on how you look at it all. Rationally, in my mind, the situation was that India is internationally known for its amazing tourist attractions.
The situation in fact centered around a rule that required all tourists use vehicles that had a tourist permit. The permit included all registered cabs. Our car, obviously, was not a registered cab, nor did it have a tourist permit, but that was perfectly fine because the police didn’t actually check at tourist sights. You had to be very unlucky to get caught. At least, you were unlucky unless you were in the tourist capital of India with two white people in your car – then it was just a simple process of deduction and an equally simple ignorance of the need for proof, and all of a sudden your stupidity left you facing the long arm of the law.
After debating for a while, the driver stopped the car and we sat, making phone calls to try to get a car with a permit, updating various people about the situation, and generally trying to find a solution to the conundrum however we could. Five minutes later, having found nothing, the driver inched out into the road again, leaving the issue threateningly unresolved. We continued on to get the last member of our party, then headed towards Agra.
The driver claimed he knew a shortcut that would take us straight to Fatehpur Sikri, our first destination. It had the advantage of keeping us outside of Agra, and therefore outside of the range of the cops, for longer, and so we agreed. I put my head against the window and tried once again to regain the precious hours of sleep I had lost for this trip. Once again, however, my efforts were cruelly thwarted, this time both by our Indian companions discussing breakfast options and the quality of the roads on this shortcut. I was too tired to eat, and did not like the thought of food getting in the way of sleep. However, as before, I bent knee to the powers that be and decided to stay up just a little while longer.
The next thing I know, we are out of the city, which brought a temporary cease-fire to my struggle with the one major issue I had with Delhi – the crowds. I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, a day in which there would be no loud clanging, no noisy chattering, no healthy women trying to beg for food in nice dresses (uh-huh…I know what you’re thinking, and yes…normal here). I got up and began to take stock of my surroundings.
The North Indian countryside is beautiful. It is green, stretching as far as the eyes can see (which is not far, given the Delhi smog). On occasion, one might see a farmer working the field (with his bare hands) or a woman carrying a jug of water on her head. Every mile or so, we pass a small farm town, full of pink and blue house-like structures and with children and cattle running amuck. Men walk to and fro with large stems of some vegetable across their back, and on occasion a pony, bull, or camel pulls a cart full of crop into town.
After a while, the car lulls to silence, and I turn and put my head down, trying once more to fall back to sleep. As soon as my head hits the wall, however, I hear Sravanthi yell “Roko! Hey guys, look, a peacock!”
I grudgingly get up once again from the nap that was never to be and faced a small field. A dirt mound sprung up in the center, seemingly out of nowhere, and on top of that stood the bird. Full in all his glory, the peacock’s beautiful turquoise neck and light midsection gave way to a closed tail. His head was held high, as he stood at the center of the dirt mound, seemingly watching the whole field from that one little roost. He kept his head high long enough for me to take a picture, then walked down the mound and back up again, as if to show that yes, we may have caught his beautiful form on camera, but it was merely a glimpse of what he truly was.
We got back in the car and continued on our way. The road became steadily rockier as the countryside became somehow, indescribably more rural. The spacing between farm towns did not change, but the people became fewer and farther between. As we moved through a town, we passed a child, stark naked, standing right next to the street, adults all around him, and nobody minding. All of a sudden, though, the car began to slow down and lose a little control. Flat tire, take two.
We pulled over to the left side of the road, right next to a pair of bull-cows. As the driver got out of the car, a man on our right exited his home (there are no doors on the houses on these farms – only a roof over their heads, so he merely stepped down from the structure into the dirt to leave his abode. He was wearing a towel around his waist, and nothing else. As I watched, he moved to the water spout outside, filled a bucket, and began to shower, staring awkwardly at the car full of outsiders the whole time.
I turned away, unable to bear this invasion of privacy, just in time to see one of the bull-cows defecate directly in front of me. I pointed this out, and the Indians in the car began to give us a detailed description of how the bullsh*! would be picked up and made into dried cakes, to burn as fuel.
As we sat there, the smell of manure began to slowly seep into the car. A crowd of children had gathered around us now, eager to see the outsiders – especially the white man (for some reason, they took a quick look at Megan and seemed to pass her by. I claim she looks more Indian than I do – perhaps I’m right).
Five minutes later, with about 10 children staring at me, stupefied, the driver manages to put on a new tire. Luckily for us, it was a full one, rather than a spare, and so rather than driving to the nearest auto shop and sitting in rural India for the rest of the day, we continued on one of the best journeys of my life.
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