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Published: January 23rd 2010
Outside the Taj Mahal
Hugh and Arlene - can you believe that once she used to be able to pick him up??Slammed by a myriad of conflicting experiences, thoughts, emotions encountered on this trail of the Taj Mahal, Khajuraho of the Karma Sutra Temples and one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world - Varanasi. Delighted by people and irritated by people. Loving the pure interest and naivety of rural men watching us with enchantment and intense interest as we stop for a cup of chai and irritated by portentous and pretentious “spiritual” meanderings of men who are keen to serve a helping of enlightenment designed for the western mind.
Oh yes we are
Back in the fray! Tim and I met up with Hugh and Arlene in Delhi. Without pause to think the next day we started the long drive to Agra. Not without its irritating delay. The car that arrived to pick us up could barely squeeze in 3 people never mind 4 adults plus their backpacks. Tim insisted on going back to the offices to sort the issue out. Hugh sat in the front his view of Delhi obscured by his backpack on his knees. Tim sat between Arlene and me - all of us not quite able to see beyond our knees.
“No,
Classic Photo
Of a classical building no” says the travel agency smoothly “This is not the car for going to Agra. This is the car that was to bring you here. The car for Agra is on the way.”
Somehow the fact that our driver had his suitcase packed and the first words he said to Tim were “I have come to take you to Agra” belied their statements. But Tim and I smiled and waggled our heads. Oh yes - we have, albeit unwittingly, picked up the Indian head waggle. We waited over an hour for the much larger Toyota to arrive and set off.
Many hours later and after a fair drive and sleeping soundly in rooms that Tim had tussled with the hotel to give us as being the ones we had paid for rather than the inferior ones they tried to palm off onto us, we drove to the Taj Mahal.
As I walked through the first set of gates and saw the top of the Taj Mahal ghostly in the morning mist rising above the red wall in front of it I experience butterflies in my chest. I was excited and breathless unable to believe that I was
Not Quite Diana
Tim and Hugh on the Diana bench........hmmmm actually going to see this building. Moving through the main entrance and into the grounds this silent mausoleum stood, graced in this earth.
I did not see the other tourists. I did not see the touts. I gazed at the gentleness of this building and enjoyed it. It is a tomb so respect is required. This is easy to forget and I can see that most do forget it. Least forgivable in this act are the Indians themselves - using this building as a platform for selling cheap tack and as an opportunity for crime. Tourists are indeed hassled and pushed and I do not see one person buying although I do see westerners trying to be friendly and nice in their refusals. I am not like that these days. I either ignore them or the cold firm no you use with a recalcitrant child works well.
Do not encourage by using artificial rapport, I want to say to the tourists, there is nothing real that is happening in the relationship between you and they - you, the anxious to ingratiate foreigner and he, the tout out to get from you what he will. How I miss those
moments of real conversation that I have stumbled upon in Rajasthan - this is nothing like Rajasthan. Nothing. This is pure rapacious tourist trail. Here you have to be clear eyed and sharp to spot the gold.
We have a guide and he is a sweet boy. But even with him it is a while before I can gain any real sense of having a conversation with him.
“What are your thoughts about Gandhi?” I ask him as he mentions Indian Independence.
“I think he was a good man,” Mathew replies.
I have heard different views from a couple of people in India so I wait and say nothing.
Mathew lowers his voice “There are people who are angry with the division of India and of Pakistan, but what choice did Gandhi have? If he wanted independence for us he had to work and he had to work with the prime minister. He did the best anyone could have done.”
In previous conversation I had found out that Mathew was from Kerala and a Christian. He was not involved in the Moslem-Hindu conflict, but even so I could see in his demeanour that he
was sensitive to its past, present and future impact on his nation.
How I wish I could dig deeper to understand, but so new and so raw to this place I am still at the “A B C” of observing never mind understanding or analysing.
Our driver is called Subash. He tells us he is came to this earth in the Punjab. He tells us he is a non turban wearing Punjabi. It does take a while before he opens up a little to us. Taking it in turns to sit in front next to him it was several days before I sat in front and fearfully regarded the potholed road ahead and the rheumy tinge of his his eyes. Somehow I seemed to draw him out of his silence completely and he repeated his philosophy of life several times to me.
Gesturing emphatically with both hands off the steering wheel as we drove along positively the worst road I think I have encountered in my life never mind in India, Subash explained his philosophy of life to me.
“I am thinking that there are all gods and the gods are there, but it is the
Driving Along
my turn to sit in fron and be terrified politicians and man who make religion. This is what the older people teach me and I think it is right. So when I go to a Muslim temple I put my hands together like this.” He put his hands together and bowed his head as we hit a pothole 3 inches deep filled with the recently fallen rain.
“And when I am going to a Christian temple I do like so.” He repeated the gesture as the road narrowed to the width of a single oncoming vehicle.
“And to any Hindu temple like so.” Again the gesture as now a highloy decorated truck bore down on us. “This is what I do and so all gods are one god. And I am rewarded.”
Perhaps he had a point. The axel of the car did not bend, we stayed on the road while the oncoming vehicle ground to a skidding halt and toppled slightly and at the last minute the truck veered cleanly off to one side and missed us.
At one point Subash said “If a man is good then the king god will return to this earth and give him his section. If a
Field of Mustard
Miles upon miles of beautiful yellow mustard flowers man is bad then the king god will not be pleased and will return to give him advice to be good or he will not get his section.” This is what I think he said to me hard to tell amidst the terror of his graceless driving.
And again “I listen to the older people and they teach me. A man is is my brother and my friend. An old man is my father and my uncle. A woman is my sister. An older woman is my mother and my auntie. This is how you must be with people. Then you will get goodness and praise from the god. I like to be good because it makes me feel good. I like to think that all other people are good. I know that there are bad people but first I will think of them as good.”
Subash and I chatted while the others alternately listened or talked between themselves with topics ranging from contemporary South African Art to loos and sewerage. What can I say about that?
During the long journey we stopped at a rural Indian "tea room" for some chai. As we piled out of
Orcha
An old fort and a temple are all in Orcha - really liked it. Oh yeah and the ubiquitous market the car we were all surrounded by men absolutely fascinated that firstly we were western and secondly we had stopped. We stood in the damp and cold while fresh chai was made amidst the hubbub of excitement. They stared at our hair and our eyes - so pale compared to theirs. These illiterate rural folk took out their rather snappy cell phones and took photos and video's of us. A little boy with a cricket bat appeared on the edges of the group. I pointed and said "Cricket." I was virtually applauded for my intelligence and Subash had to translate their excited chatter about a cricket match they were having with a nearby village the next day. They grinned at us and watched with keen interest as we downed the chai and thanked thim all for the delicious brew.
We arrived in now freezing cold weather at Khurajao also known as the Kama Sutra Temples. Only 10% of the carvings are erotic but none of those are in anyway offensive - they are a celebration of earthly enjoyment. Most of the figures are of women with very womanly figures - no size zero fixations here! The temples were built
Temple at Khajuraho
There are many temples in Khajuraho between 950 and 1150AD but with time hidden by the forests - this a deliberate act on the part of the indigenous Hindu’s who sought to ensure that the Moghul Muslims did not destroy them! Thank goodness they succeeded.
We were indeed fortunate as most visitors to the temples were Hindu pilgrims rather than western tourists so we had the joy of the temples in combination with watching the devotees worshipping as they had done for centuries. And the colours! What a joy! Not just the sari’s but the turbans and the cloaks of the men.
In amongst this do not think that I am so artisitic and pure minded that I did not seek out and look at the erotic carvings! One had me staring at it for a fair while as I tried to sort out the entanglement of limbs but in the end I think I worked it out and can quite appreciate the need for years of practiced yoga to tackle that particular pose combination.
While staring at another which involved 3 women and a man standing on his head I turned and caught the eye of a demure Indian woman dressed in
a sari with her head covered. We exchanged a look of understanding and amusement - a very rare moment indeed.
Most of my interaction here in India has been with men. Women are not much part of everyday society and they do not seem comfortable with western women. We have too much independence - we walk with our heads up and look people in the eye. So for me this was a true woman to woman moment - especially when we both glanced at her husband staring completely spellbound by the carving, waggled our heads and smirked.
Subash is quite possibly the worst driver and most opinionated person I have met. I suspect that his driving skills are a combination of not being able to drive and not being able to see. His strong opinions are based on not wanting to do anything we want to do.
Standoff on New Year's Eve at Khajuraho where he didn't want to drive us to a restaurant about 5km's away for dinner.
"You eat at hotel."
"It is better to eat at hotel"
"The hotel is the place for you to be eating."
We held tight
Carving on Temple
Carning of Brahme to our responses to each of those statements -
"We want to go the restaurant."
"The restaurant is where we want to go"
"We are going to the restaurant. This is our choosing."
We won in the end but as with everything with Subash it was always a battle. We were pleased to say goodbye when he dropped us off in the hell hole of Jhansi where many hours later we were to catch our train to Varanasi and spiritual enlightment.
I need to state up front that spiritual enlightenment did not happen.
The train journey to Varanasi was longer but better than our previous journey by train. As ever preoccupied by the state of the loos I am not sure if my standards have dropped or if the loos were indeed cleaner on that train. I manage to use one and inform Arlene as I come out that “we have used worse!”
Which is true - there is one that I absolutely had no choice but in desperation had to use on the way to Khajuraho. You need to bear in mind that I am back to wearing trousers. To avoid anything
getting on them I always roll up the bottom of my trousers as high as I can as the floors around the eastern loos can be pretty filthy. As I entered the loo, bladder screaming in agony the thick roll of stench punched into my nostrils with malicious vigour.
Time to hold my breath... I got part way through rolling up the bottom of my trousers and hauling down my trousers on one held breath and had to dash out of the outside loo room - Arlene was standing guard outside - to take another deep breath in order to complete the process. I am a women of talent - I can hold up my trousers so no filth attaches to the bottom, hover over a hole in the ground, wee, pull up trousers and leap out of an outside loo all on one breath. Pat on the back to me, what what.
The point is that the loo on the train was nowhere near as bad as that one. Nor the one where I made Tim come with me as we had to leave the door wide open or I would not have seen to be able
to dodge the faeces on the floor. But if you have to go - you HAVE TO GO! Subash refused to let me hide behind bushes or trees inspite of my reassurances that I was more than happy to do so - no the boys could do that, but Arlene and I had to use “proper toilets that are for ladies to pee”.
The holy River Ganges flowed flat and grey lapping the steps below. We gathered at the main Gatz having taken a bicycle rickshaw there. No chance of getting anywhere near by car. The place is heaving and swarming with all manner of mankind. Charlatans, beggars, con artists, mourners, corpses, stall owners, shoppers, gawpers, enlightened tourists, disenlightened tourists, thieves, boatmen, untouchables, wood cutters, "government" guides to name but a few.
Bodies were carried to the river covered in brilliant orange cloths and surrounded by flowers where they were dipped briefly before being taken back to land covered with logs and burned. Piles of pyres smoked and flamed.
The ceremonies did not move me. I felt ill as I watched people burning in pyres while dogs scratched about the smoulderings foraging for a snack and a
man with his face painted in ash pulled out bones and pushed the holy cows out of his way. This is a place where a man will approach you to tell you of the elderly and dying and ask for money and you know that the story of his mercies to the elderly is not true but his desire for your cash is real. Here people will put jumpers on goats to keep them warm on a cold winters day and chop the hands off children to improve their begging value.
Varanasi is raw and ugly. The litter is piled high - in some places the cows chewing the plastic bags are standing knee high is rubbish. One cow stares blankly at me her horns curved and growing into her cheeks. This is a place of horror for me - Varanasi is India ugly. This is where their holy river flows so filled with pollution that I refuse to go on the boat ride already paid for by my travel agent. I am told people - tourists - will spend a whole day there on the gats. I manage an hour and then insist on going back to the
New Years Day
in the hell hole of Jhansi place we are staying. This is not the place for me. I have no sense of holiness.
In the end Varanasi was not for me and I longed to leave. Darjeeling was our final destination. There Tim and I would celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary and Hugh his 21st birthday.
India is suddenly hit by a very cold front and smog and fog swirl the northern half of the nation. We arrive at the station ready to catch the train at 18.10 with an hour to spare. We cannot find the reservation sheet that will show the carriage number we are to have. This is essential to ensuring we are in the right area and can grab our berths. Hugh and Arlene stand with the backpacks while Tim and I try to find someone who can tell us what is happening. We find the station managers office and walk in - typical foreigners! No respect! The train is 4 hours late. This is annoying but not impossible to deal with. To our delight we find somewhere reasonable to sit and settle down for the 4 hours.
A little while later I turn to Tim and say
“Did you notice that the beggar we walked passed on the way in was dead?”
Tim nodded.
“Hmm,” I said “I think he has been dead for a little while now?”
“About 2 days,” says Tim.
So this is a place where a man will die in the main entrance of the city railway station and he will be left for 2 days and still remain unnoticed. I wonder when someone will do something in this holy city. I doubt his corpse will be dipped in the holy Ganges River and burned as the beloved dead we had witnessed the previous day at the Gatz had been washed and buried within flaming wood.
At the railway station I watch a fat happy rat wander through the restaurant where we are sitting. I am happy we have not eaten there as the waiter lazily waves it out of the door. We are playing scrabble to help pass the time - the train is now 5 hours late. As we play we glance up to see ourselves avidly watched by Indians intrigued by our game. I have become so used to being stared at that I am not put out at all. When you get stared at like this you have to realised that you are real to them as figures on a television.
We find out that the train is now 6.5 hours delayed. I know that this is just of the start - it will more than likely be 12 hours late. Hugh has an upset stomach, Tim has a sore throat. It is time to call it a day.
Darjeeling belongs to another time, another visit. Leaving the boys Arlene and I find as STD phone - like a public phone where you pay after you have used it. I call the hotel we have just left and book 2 rooms. We leave the station as we see that our train is now 6.5 hours delayed and the fog settles itself frimly about us. A taxi driver approaches and we give him the business card of our hotel. Yes he can take us there he knows where it is. We climb into his Ambassador and return to our hotel - tired, filthy and cold.
So this is where Tim and I spend our 25th wedding anniversary - not in the clean cool mountain air of the tea plantations but in squalid Varanasi trying to find a way out - as are other tourists - but Tim and I shrug. 25 years in not a matter of one day - it is more than half our lives spent together getting to know each other - who could want anything else but to have the chance of 6 months travelling getting to know and grow together anew - this whole trip is indeed our 25th wedding anniversary celebration.
The next morning we discover that the pandemonium at the railway station is the result of activists blowing up the lines. Trains are not running. We manage to get a flight back to Delhi - just in time as more and more airports are cenceling flights because of the inclement weather.
It is time to leave India now. It has been a fantastic adventure and I have loved it. India takes you and shakes you about. One minute you despair and wonder what the hell you are doing there and then the next a beautiful building or an astounding act of kindness thrills you beyond measure. We sit in our plane bound for Singapore, Tim and I, half sorrowful to be going and half terrified the smog will return and we will be stuck there for longer. Luckily this does not happen and we soar away leaving this wonderful land behind us.
India - undisturbed by our presence.continues unmoved either by our visit or our departure. We are the ones changed and moved.
I long to return.
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rosemary
non-member comment
happy anniversary and birthday!!
Oh wow!! we so love reading about all your adventures, I do think you could write a book about your adventures, you have a quirky sense of humour and the old boy (tim of course) has a very dry sense of humour, I particularly liked the 2 beauties on Diana's seat, I will try and print that one for mom. we are surviving in suburbia and Daniella has slotted into school with no problems, Benj had to have a Biopsy and we have discovered that he and I are severely Gluten intolerant (ugh no more pizza and hamburgers!!). Have a fabulous 25th anniversary and Happy Birthday Hugh. love the Abrahams clan