around maharashtra in 80 hours

India has turned me into a manic depressive. Sometimes I can't stand this country, with it's touts and crowds and crooks, and sometimes I just can't get over how wonderful it is, with everyone so curious and garrulous and smiley and a culture that's so so different. Happily, very happily, the past few days have been just fantastic.

Getting from Khajuraho to Mumbai in three days isn't really that hard, I guess, but if you don't want to fly and you try to hit up some sights on the way, it requires planning. So here's what I drew up:

6.11 - bus from Khajuraho to Satna (5 hours)
6.11/12 - overnight train from Satna to Jalgaon (12 hours)
6.12 - bus from Jalgaon to Ajanta Caves (2 hours), see Ajanta Caves, bus to Aurangabad (3 hours)
6.13 - from Aurangabad, see Daulatabad Fortress, continue to Ellora Caves, return to Aurangabad
6.13/14 - overnight train from Aurangabad to Mumbai (9 hours)
6.14 - arrive in Mumbai bright and early

Since my flight to Dubai is very early on the 16th, the plan allows a flex day point five, which in India is very required. The overnight train from Satna to Jalgaon was a bit of disaster and I lost a day there, but otherwise the plan went swimmingly, and I've just arrived in Mumbai, and it's the morning of the 15th. Awesome.

Let's start with the Ajanta Caves, which are a series of Buddhist cave/temples cut out of a huge horseshoe-shaped rock cliff. The earliest of the caves are from 200 BC (woah!), and the later group date from 600 AD (woah). Like the Taj, and like Daulatabad and Ellora later, the Ajanta Caves are a popular weekend trip for domestic tourists. I've decided that Indian tourists come to places like the Taj and Ajanta half to see the site, but half to see real live Westerners. So being one of very, very few Westerners at Ajanta, everyone wants to say hi. I'm like a celebrity. People want to introduce themselves, take a photo with me. It's great fun.

Anyway, the first cave was very cool. Flash photography was forbidden, and the caves are awfully dark, so I don't know how well this'll come out:


Huge columns, a flat square courtyard in the middle, and lots of cells off the main courtyard, like oversized telephone booths, that the monks would pray in. And the center cell, directly across from the cave opening, houses a big ol' Buddha statue. How they hollowed out mountains to make cave temples 1400 years ago, I don't know. It's impressive.

Now the second cave made me chuckle. Why? It's exactly like the first. Like, deja vu, where you have to check and make sure you didn't somehow just enter the same cave again. And the third? Identical! 100% perspiration, 0% inspiration, I guess. Usually the cliff was too steep to do anything with the outside of the cave temples, but this one had a cool carved entrance:


The older group of caves, from 200 BC, were a little different from the newer group, but they were also all pretty much copies of each other. So Ajanta didn't demand as much time as I had alloted. On to Aurangabad.

Arriving in Aurangabad, it's a polluted, unattractive, cementy town, and my hopes for a pleasant stay were not high. But the guy at the 4th guesthouse I looked at was so welcoming and affable, and immediately invited me for chai. I'll stay here, thank you! Can you imagine a backpacker hostel worker inviting you in for tea? And he doesn't even know your name yet! This happens in India, often. Just charming. Morning bus to Daulatabad.

Back in the 14th century, Muhammad bin Tughluq was sitting on his throne in Delhi, and decided, "That's it, enough Delhi, let's move this capital to Daulatabad." Then, in what I can only assume will be dismissed in a few years as a mistranslation, Mr. Tughluq supposedly posted signs or something that said "Dear Citizens of Delhi: Pack up your stuff, we're going to Daulatabad. Probably wanna keep your pack light, 'cause it's a long, hot 700 miles." I'm skeptical, but according to the signs and guidebooks, he forcibly marched the entire population of Delhi 700 miles.

Seriously, is that possible? I mean, what if Mayor Daley said "Dear Chicagoans, pack your stuff, we're going to East St. Louis. And we're walking." Um, you're out of your mind, Mayor Crazypants. How does one person have the power to do something like that? Don't the people simply refuse?

Anyway, the fortress was awesome.


I do not understand how anyone took a medieval fortress by anything but siege. There's a huge cliff up to the main tower, surrounded by an enormous moat, and the only way to cross the moat is by this narrow up-and-down steep-staired bridge. And there are half a dozen thick wooden doors that you'd have to break through, and cannons and stuff pointing right where you'd be stuck. It just looks totally, totally impenetrable. And there were monkeys. Probably descendants of the vicious attack monkeys that guarded the outer walls.

When I was climbing the fortress summit (it's built on a hill), one family I passed, after the usual "where from?" and stuff, invited me to join their picnic lunch. Just so welcoming, and so interesting, and so, so Indian. And the tomato chutney was phenomenal.

On the way back through the fortress with the picnic family, we have to walk through lots of pitch-black hallways, and you can hear bats. With a flash photo, you wouldn't know this hall was can't-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face dark, but when I showed the photo to the daughter, she flipped when she saw how many bats were over our heads.


Onto the Ellora Caves. Now, unfortunately for me, most of the Ellora Caves were the exact same friggin' thing as Ajanta!! I guess they're both Buddhist rock-cut temples from around the 7th century, but c'mon people! But, and this is a HUGE but, Cave #16 was way, WAAAAY different. Better known as the Kailasa Temple, it is wild!



(I tried to put up a video of it, but that did something bad and now some of the photos I wanted to put up won't go either. Whoops.)

Ooooh, and outside Kailasa, there were some very cheeky monkeys. This one's clearly planning something cheeky.


Okay, okay, sorry, this post is getting long (I already wrote this long mailing a package bit, but I moved it to the end). Took an overnight train to Mumbai, got here this morning, and walked around to find a guesthouse.

Just 'cause I was in a silly mood, I couldn't resist walking into Mumbai's fanciest and oldest hotel: The Taj...


Gross clothes I've slept in for the past 2 nights, just coming off an overnight train, backpack with rat-chewed holes (learned in Malaysia not to keep snacks in the outer pockets) and a dangling frisbee, and they're still all opening doors and "good afternoon, sir" and very sophisto. Unfortunately, even their most modest room, at $525 a night, was a wee bit out of my price range. I thanked the kind receptionist and he very politely hoped I would return.

Ahhh, this looks more like my kinda foyer:


That's where I'm staying tonight. It's actually not as bad as you'd think from the stairwell. And yeah, what you barely see at the base of the stairs is a homeless guy I had to step over.

Okay, sorry to add even more to this post, but I wrote this earlier in response to an email from Mom, and it gives you maybe a little flavor or the logistics of long-term travel? Or what I'm actually doing most of the day (when I'm not at a sight, or eating, or on a bus, or writing too-long blog entries, or finding a guesthouse...). But anyway, here it is:

SENDING A PACKAGE HOME FROM INDIA: the 13th trial

1st trip to the post office
The one coat I didn't give away, a couple tchotchkes I bought, and a book (I annotate, so I keep my books) are nicely packed in an addressed box; all I need is a stamp and we're off! Right? Wrong! Nothing's that easy here! Check this rule out: Every package mailed in India must be sealed in linen. Yup, that's a rule. The post office suggests I find a tailor. Terrific.

The tailor is accustomed to wrapping packages, and for 80 rupees ($2), does a fine job:


2nd trip to the post office
Word is there's a post office is near the bus stand, so I arrive at 1pm -- plenty of time before my 2pm bus. Proudly throw my package, in purdy white linen, on the counter. The seated, plaster-expressioned guy looks up at me and points to the clock: lunchtime. Ooookay, when's lunchtime over? 2:30, 2:45, he says noncomittally. My bus leaves at 2pm, so maybe if I buy your lunch, you could send this during lunchtime? He's totally uninterested. So the package is coming with me on the bus to Satna.

3rd trip to the post office
5 hours later, I'm at the Satna train station, and I have 5 hours before my 11:30pm overnight train to Jalgaon. Surely the post office is closed by now, but what's this, there's a special open-late post office in the train station?! That couldn't be more perfect! Turns out it's a "speed post" only kinda office, and that service isn't offered for parcels over 1kg. So my 2kg box, in no-longer-so-white linen, is coming with me to Jalgaon.

4th trip to the post office
The train is SUPPOSED to arrive at Jalgaon at 11am. Then again, it was SUPPOSED to be at Satna, where I was getting on, at 11:30pm. It showed to Satna at 3am, so we're already 3.5 hours late. (And, and, there are no computer screen thingies to show that your train's delayed, so from 11:30pm to 3am, I had to sit at the station and nervously watch every train that came in, and ask if it was number 2946, while every begger in all of India tugged on my sleeves and pushed at my legs. That's a looooong way to spend 3.5 hours.) By the time we arrive at Jalgaon, we're 6 hours late, so 11am becomes 5pm. Post office is closed.

5th trip to the post office
I'm getting angry at this stupid package. But by now it's become an issue of pride: I'm sending this damn thing. AND, I already lost a day on account of the train. So at 8:30am, I'm already showered and checked out of my pad and at the post office, stupid package in stupid hand. At the post office, there are people there, in the mail room area, but nobody's behind the counter. Someone who speaks English helpfully tells me that the counter won't open 'til 10am. Then, he says the most amazing thing...

Now, a small aside. The seat I got on the train was in the 3AC section, which is the cheapest section to have A/C. This ended up being a godsend NOT because of the A/C, but because if you're in a section that requires reservations, 3 seats means 3 people! Genius! Anyhow, in the 3AC section, one guy and I chatted quite a bit. He was really nice, got me chai (of course), and he thinks most Indians have more money than they realize, but they spread it over too many kids. See, he has one child, so he can afford 2 tickets in the 3AC section. It's less than 7 unreserved-section tickets! I liked him. At one point, I tell him that, in America, a train running 5 hours late would be just unacceptable. He very correctly points out that in America, where people are rich, their time is valuable. In India, money is limiting, and time is in excess. Nobody bats an eye at 5 hours; they don't feel something was "lost."

So, back to the post office. It's 8:30am, and the counter opens at 10am. You know what this guy tells me? It's the most amazing thing! He, get this, he points to a bench, and he says "please, sit."


Please sit?! PLEASE SIT?! You could've knocked me over with a feather! PLEASE SIT?!?! For an hour and half?! That would NEVER happen in the States. Oh, you won't be able to do whatever for an hour and a half? Just sit and wait! FOR AN HOUR AND A HALF!! He really expects me to just sit here with my thumb up my butt for NINETY MINUTES!

You know, I did, of course. I had to send my package, see.

The family that invited me to lunch with them at Daulatabad Fortress, we were chatting. They wanted to know all about my thoughts on India, and how it's different from the States. I told them that story, and they were bemused. Really? In the States, you have to be doing something all the time? Here, it's totally acceptable to do absolutely nothing. To just sit there.

I remember being in Joshua's car, and he was listening to Dinesh D'Souza's What's So Great About America, and the Indian-born author was describing his shock at coming to America: These stressballs are proactive even in how they'll spend their leisure time! Making appointments at tennis courts, setting alarms to squeeze in early swims! I guess it's just the way we roll.

These posts are getting pretty rambly. Sorry about that.

Tomorrow morning I fly to Dubai. Woah.

a day in the life - khajuraho boy!

This update is gonna be two parts. First, just a day in the life of India, and then we'll get into Khajuraho.

(A note: having just finished this post, the "Day in the Life" section is really, really long. And rambly, and probably not that interesting if you're not me. So, unless you're really invested, maybe just check out the videos in the first section, and then jump to Khajuraho.)


A DAY IN THE LIFE

I've just been staring at this page blankly for a bit, wondering how on Earth I can start to describe a typical day of a Westerner traveling alone in India. To start, maybe a few numbers.

India has four times the population of the States, and one third the land mass. So, carry the one, we're talking about 10 times the population density. Now, imagine if every person in the US suddenly became 10 people. There's no longer such thing as a quiet little town. There's no such thing as an empty restaurant, or a car with just one person in it. There's no such thing as personal space. There are people everywhere. Everywhere.

Now wait a minute, wait a minute. Okay, for some little podunk town, I understand the visualization. But for a city, for the Mag Mile in Chicago, you just couldn't fit all those people! But ahhh, that's the magic of India! They DO fit all those people. It's madness! That's part of the culture shock that I wrote about when I first touched down in Delhi. Everyone's bumping your elbows. You're constantly being pushed and brushed and stepped on, and rickshaws and mopeds are actually hitting people. Not hard, but I mean actually hitting people. Your instinct, as a Westerner, is to think, when someone steps on your foot or bumps your shoulder hard, it's horribly rude. But it's not rude, it's just physically necessity. (And anyway, I'm in their culture: who am I to say what's rude in India?!) Anyway, yes, there are just that many people in India. It's that crowded.

Take a CTA bus, the Roosevelt #12 (in my head). Everybody turns into 10 people. Impossible, right? Well, yes! See the photo in my last entry? People, dozens and dozens of people, just spill out and climb on the back and roof. People are hanging out the door.

Internet here in Khajuraho is surprisingly fast (maybe 1/5 the speed in the States?), and at 75 cents an hour, and with it being stupid hot outside, I'm trying to [gasp] upload a video. If all goes well, a 5-second clip of the 5-hour "local" bus I took from Jhansi to Khajuraho will be right here:



Did that work? YES! Ooooh, we might have to put up a couple more videos! But later, later. Let's continue with a day in India.

As a Westerner in India, Indians are fascinated by you. You're bombarded with questions. As soon as someone starts talking to you, a crowd gathers (I'd say a small crowd, but who are we kidding, this is India; there's no such thing as a small crowd.) I'm asked so many questions that, just to keep myself occupied, I lie a lot. How's this, a choose-your-own adventure: Q&A in India! These are not made up.

Q1 - "Your qualification?"

A1.1 - "I don't understand." The person will repeat the question, verbatim, and obviously you're new to India. This most common question means "What's your occupation?"
A1.2 - "Scientist." You get mad respect for this one. In India, this means you're very well-educated (and therefore from a rich family), and smart, and paid well.
A1.3 - "Doctor." Nothing will get you more respect. Nothing. And I've said a lot of stuff. They're just too floored to even talk to you, and extra bewildered that you're on a local bus, or the unreserved section of the train, or just in India in the first place.
A1.4 - "Astronaut." They've never met an astronaut before, and might tell their families they met an astronaut. Guess he wasn't accepted to medical school...
A1.5 - "Governor of Illinois." More curious than impressed. Ask if you know George Bush, and then move on to Q2.
A1.6 - "Mahout." Directly to Q2.
A1.7 - "Je suis desole, je ne parle pas Anglais." Genius! Sometimes backfires ("ah, tu est francais?"), but usually, this is pure gold. You will, of course, still be stared at, but a moment of relative peace!

Q2 - "Where from?"

A2.1 - "America." Ooooh, they didn't see that coming. I'm from a superpower! They're impressed. USA? USA? George Bush! Obama, Clinton! (I swear, foreigners know more about our politics than most of us.) America is a very good answer. The crowd always leans in on that one.
A2.2 - "England." They knew it! I speak English, I'm from England, duh! They don't have much to say about England. They've met English before.
A2.3 - "South Africa." Big mistake, 'cause I don't know a damn thing about cricket, and they wonder if I've met all these players I've never heard of. They think they're about to talk to a Westerner about cricket -- how cool! -- and if you say you don't watch it, they're crestfallen.
A2.4 - "Goa." Ooooh, ace in the hole! Goa is a state in India with a lot of expats (and as a nice reversal, Rose Dias is our resident Chicago-area Goan!), and the Indians aren't as interested if you're from Goa. They're more interested in superpowers. That's why America is the best answer.

Q3 - "You are pay? Month?" (asking your salary)

A3.1 - "I am not answering." Bewilderment. Why would you withhold information? You crazy Westerners are so different.
A3.2 - "$2500 per month." Get this: they're surprised at how little it is. In India, most people think Westerners are like wildest-dreams rich (though, to them, we are kinda wildest-dreams rich...). So that leads to A3.3...
A3.3 - "Guess!" They have no idea and are usually unwilling to guess. The few that have ventured give huge ranges that always too high. Four lakhs per month, rupees? A lakh is 100,000 (for some reason in India, instead of thousand -> million -> billion, they do thousand -> lakh -> crore, which is 1000 -> 1,00,000 -> 1,00,00,000 and yes, that's how they do commas in big numbers), and a it's about 40 rupees to the dollar. So that's $10,000 a month; $120,000 a year. Not a terrible guess, but that's a heckuva salary! They think a cheap dinner in the States runs $100 a head.

Q4 - "You have wife?"

A4.1 - "No." They are so smitten with themselves! They knew it! Those crazy Westerners, wildest-dreams rich but they don't have wives! Hahahaha! Oh man, OH MAN! That is funny!
A4.2 - Actually, I always say no to that one. I love their reactions. Their jaws clench as they try to keep it civil, but they just wanna scream "YES! I KNEW IT! HA HAHAHA!" Oh man, they love that.

Indians find it bizarre that I do not live with my parents, that I travel at all. They're floored that I live(d) in place that has two bedrooms, a living room slash kitchen, a bathroom, and a hallway... with just one other person?! One man on the train boasted that sure, he lived with his 10-person family in a one-room house, but you should see the room! Very big! They guess my rent at maybe one lakh per month.

At monuments, families ask me to be in their photos. Some folks just ask me to take their pictures, on my camera. I don't know why. This man asked me today.


Just this morning I went to the ATM (Joshua, you're the best! It works!), and was followed by two men all the way there and back. Unfortunately, unless I'm on a bus or train with someone, the rule is that anyone who approaches you wants your money. This rule is correct approximately 100% of the time. Many Indians seem to think Westerners are walking volcanoes of money, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation. They ask questions -- anything to get your attention -- and they'll push the sale later. I just ignore them completely. They followed me the whole way, waited outside while I did my bank stuff, and walked with me back.

I also biked to the southern temples here, and two kids on a bike (yes, most bikes have 2 or 3 people on them) followed me the whole way. Should've ignored 'em, or pulled the French card, but I try to be human and, albeit curtly, answer some of their questions. When I get to the temples, they dismount and want to follow me around. Tour guides, see, that way I'll feel obliged to tip. I tell them I want to be alone. The security guard then also tries to be my tour guide, and even the French game doesn't shake him. He uses a good line to bring up the idea of tipping: "If you're happy with no tip, I'm happy with no tip." That makes us both happy then, don't it? The boys, who waited for me at the entrance the entire time, say they have coin collections. Do I have any dollars? How about some rupees? But we haven't eaten in four days!

Maybe here's a good place to break the bad news. The endless harassment of touts and beggars here cannot be exaggerated. I'm used to it by now, but if I'm outside, I cannot walk a block, not one block, without being accosted. It's tremendously draining, and I spend my time always feeling like a bit of a jerk. There's this nagging that maybe, just maybe, this person is honestly curious, or friendly. But they always end up demanding you visit their shop, or asking for money. When I went to say goodbye to the white-haired chapati man in Delhi? Et tu, Brahmin? It's really a tragedy of the commons. It's a breakdown of trust.

Now, I'm actually quite happy I came to India. That sounds a bit rationalistic, and maybe it is, but I'm not on an "vacation," spending lavishly and expecting opulence. No no, this is travel. Exploration, adventure. I left the States to see new things, experience new cultures. And while it's the most exhausting travel I've ever done, if India is anything, it's different! The history (so tortuous!), the culture (how diverse!), the food (a vegetarian's paradise!), the dress (nose rings, bangles, a bouquet of saris!); so much beauty here, such an experience! And that's why I came. But the touts and beggars and constant, constant harassment -- I just can't relax. But, BUT, and this is the real test: I will remember India when I'm 60. It's a heckuva trip.

The one place that actually isn't so bad is a guesthouse. The folks who work at guesthouses know that their patrons are not as rich or ignorant as most folks here believe. Well, for India, I am rich -- very! -- but I'm not a walking ATM, and I think giving to beggars only promotes begging. Anyway, the guesthouses I've been staying at here are usually in the $4-$8 a night range. The rooms themselves are always pretty spartan, so when choosing a place, it's the bathroom that counts. Huge range. Some are shared, down-the-hall style with squat toilets and bucket showers. Tonight, in Khajuraho's off season, I'm paying $5 a night for my very own attached bathroom.


This is one of the nicer bathrooms I've seen. The weird squat-or-sit, your choice toilet has plumbing, which is awesome, and the bucket shower you see is NOT the only shower. Like many bathrooms here, they've installed a nozzle shower which is just an unceremonious hole in the wall that sprays into the bathroom. This one sprays a LOT of water, everywhere, like a busted fire hydrant. Actually, it's really fun. After a day out my clothes are soaked or crusty with sweat, so I head into the bathroom with my clothes still on, shut the door, and turn the nozzle. FOOOOSH!!!! It damn near knocks you over! Suddenly you're in a submarine that's been hit, and it's really fun! RED ALERT! RED ALERT!!! WE'VE BEEN HIT! LOCK THE HOLDS, STARBOARD SIDE!!! Lots of fun in that bathroom.

So... uh, what else?

You know why this post is so ridiculously long? Partly just as a respite from the carnival of India. It's quiet here at the computer, nobody's interrogating me. No "Hello Mister!" "Where you from!" "You want shop?" "Postcards?" Being outside is unbelievable. It just doesn't stop. Oh, oh! Here, a video of Agra:



(NOOO!! I messed up! I wanted to shorten the video so it could upload, but I messed up and cut it waaaay too short! What a botch!)

Oy, someone who works at the hotel just pulled a chair up next to me. "Where you from?" I feel like a jerk, but I'm not talking. "Computer work good?" This is really happening right now. If I respond, he might just want to chat (I'm not outside, so there's a fighting chance), or he might ask me to come to his shop or travel agency. But please, just leave me alone.

Oooh, I can't believe a video worked! And in a somewhat manageable time! Here, some more!

The Brahmin in Delhi making chapatis with his son.



This hotel guy is just sitting a little behind me to my left, looking over my shoulder, as I type. I don't know if he reads English, but he's making me uncomfortable regardless. Yes, you, hotel guy!

Another video. This is really out of left field, but it's short and sweet. Feeding Mali the elephant in Thailand (tongue, trunk, whatever):



What the heck, another! Tak Bat, in Luang Prabang:



Okay, as if that weren't enough for one post, now...


KHAJURAHO!

I'll keep it short, partly 'cause this has been a long post, and partly 'cause there's not too much to say anyway.

Khajuraho is much, much quieter than Agra. And the number of touts and swindlers is down to small-town Indian levels, which is still outrageous, but it's manageable. But people don't come to Khajuraho for the small-town feel; they come for the temples.

These temples are all very old, from 900 to 1100 AD, but frankly, I didn't get too much into the history. I know, shame on me, but remember, I didn't think I was coming to Khajuraho until the Gujjar strike, so my unpreparedness has an explanation! Anyway, there's a lovely sign near the entrance to the first temple, and please read the paragraph starting "The temple has a lofty basement..."


...and miscellaneous scenes?!?!


The pamphlets and guide books calmly ask you to "refrain from letting the graphic nature of the friezes distract from the" blah blah blah, and the signs here only occasionally admit "erotic" content. Um, "erotic" is the curve of a woman's breast, the small of her back. I'm not sure what this is, but erotic?


Even one of the figures is shocked! (Or maybe, just maybe, she was all into it in her younger, wilder days. But now she's a thousand years old, chiseled in stone with these savages giving in to their baser instincts, and she's just so ashamed.)

Sometimes you have to admire the ingenuity of the artists (and the flexibility of the figures!):


The one in the top center? That's just plain clever! Zooming in:


Now most of the carvings are pretty mundane (or honestly erotic, in a sensual way), and they're only occasionally punctuated with seriously R-rated stuff:


And, while it's hard to notice anything but the sex, I do like nice stairs:


Isn't that a great ladder! A thousand years old, and don't you just want, need to climb it? It doesn't even go anywhere now -- just a fenced-off window -- but I'll be damned if I didn't climb it anyway!

Next up, train to the Ajanta Caves, and then continue to Mumbai. Mumbai to Dubai for a brief li'l visit, and then, on to EGYPT! (Oh boy oh boy oh boy!) But hey, one day at a time.

You know today is the 56th day of my trip? Two more days and we've made it halfway!

agra

Scenic bus photo, from somewhere near Jammu:


What the photo doesn't show is that the ride was 27 hours, and then a transfer in Delhi to another bus, which was another 5 hours. Now this shorter jaunt was a regular, "local" bus. Local buses are crazy. India, everywhere in India, is just swarming with Indians. For about 2 minutes the bus is awesome and fun and a big carnival, but then you realize it's 5 hours.


Due to some sort of bewildered respect afforded you as a Westerner on a local bus, the Indians make sure you get a seat. It's not comfortable by any stretch, but still, thank you very much! So 33 hours after leaving Srinagar, I'm in Agra.

Alright, I'm gonna try to keep this mostly positive, but let's be honest: Agra sucks.

Now I might be being unfair, since there was this tragedy of errors that had nothing to do with Agra, per se. My ATM card inexplicably stopped working (and after hours of trying to reach my bank, they think the card might be physically damaged, which could be trouble), and my plans to go Agra -> Udaipur -> Mumbai have been thwarted by angry Gujjars, which could also be a hassle, since my flight is out of Mumbai on the 16th. And this kinda hell day fell right on my birthday! That puts my 25th right up there with my 7th, when I ended up in the hospital with a broken clavicle.

Oh, and, aaand, the wee chocolate birthday cake I brought all the way from Srinagar? They mixed things up and turns out it was a raisin cake! I hate raisins! Bummer city.

But really, I think Agra kinda sucks in its own right. I'm used to touts by now, but Agra is ridiculous. It's almost worth the great little video I made by simply turning my camera on and walking out of my hotel. Why is that a great video? Every two steps I'm assaulted by another tout. It's as unbelievable as it is predictable. Every single time.

Alright, alright, let's get to something positive before this becomes all Ranty Von Sourpants. (Agra stinks.) First, the Agra Fort.

It's a World Heritage Sight, very important, blah blah blah. Might've been neater if you weren't constantly accosted by "certified tour guides" who won't leave you alone. The price goes from 475 rupees down to 100 rupees before they finally, finally give up and the next tour guide predator comes beelining. The fort's really big.


There's a great bathtub used by whoever used it. It's like a teacup for a titan, carved from a single piece of stone.


There were some pretty, very stripy chipmunks around the fort.


And there was this killer little tiny dark staircase that nobody noticed. But I noticed!


I like tiny steep scary stone stairs.


And the staircase led you to a little platform with a nice view.


Everyone who passed underneath would look up at me bemused: how did he get there? And then some security came and yelled at me to get down. Don't I know I can't climb the fort?
But I just went up the staircase!
You're not allowed up that stairwell!
Well I didn't know that, there's no sign (jerk!).
You should know!
But it's the most inviting staircase I've seen all week!
That one guard was most unfriendly.

Enough Agra Fort.

Yeesh, even that didn't sound very fun, did it? I guess I just can't enjoy Agra. Everyone here, everyone here*, is out to screw you. You know that trick where the tablecloth is pulled from under the dining set, and foooop, it's like it was never there! I think that happened to the moral fiber of Agra. An example:

* - I'm just reading over this (typos, that kinda thing), and I feel kinda bad about this statement. Look, there are nearly two million people in Agra, and I'm sure the VAST majority of them are kind and just and wonderful. I'm just very bitter at the amount I've been jerked around by crooks and swindlers here. A small minority, certainly, but what a minority! Back to the promised examples:

How much is water? 15 rupees, the guy says. The water bottle says 10 right on the damn label. No, 10. 15. I walk away. A vendor at the next stall overheard. Okay, sir, friend, 12 rupees! Fine. I hand him a 20. He gives me 5 change. Where's the other 3? No, he says, 15 rupees. YOU SAID 12! He walks away.

The autorickshaw driver took me to two hotels before the one I requested, against my vocal wishes. Then he didn't have change for my bill, even though I asked him beforehand, until I threatened to leave without paying.

I could give you two dozen other examples. I hate this place.

Alright, let's see the Taj Mahal, and then let's get the hell outta Dodge.

Oh, oh, before I forget, one of the rickshaw cyclists (a rickshaw is bike-powered, while an autorickshaw is motorized) was this old grey-haired guy, and when we came to a low-grade but looooong uphill, he just got out and pushed. I told him to get in the rickshaw, and I peddled him for the next 5 minutes or so. Everyone passing just loved it.

Anyway, back to the Taj.

During the day, the tour groups come in droves, so word is the best Taj viewing is as early as possible to beat the crowds. And honestly, from noon to 4pm I try not to be outside anyway. You know how hot it is here? 2 days, and don't forget I'm having lassis and juices and water with every meal! These are each 1L.


So BEEEEP, BEEEEP, the alarm goes off at 5:20am. Taj opens at 6. Admission for Indians is 20 rupees. For tourists, 750. That's official (and common: Agra Fort was 20/300). The ticket guy shortchanges me 250 rupees (a HUGE amount here), and just flat denies it. There's absolutely nothing I can do. So even hating Agra as much as I've ever hated Agra -- and I hope there's a special place in hell for this city -- even so, I gotta admit, the Taj is positively heart-stopping.


It's really tremendous. There's just no way you can feel the Taj through photos (I won't even bother with any more photos), but being there? My god, it is beautiful. It is just moving. Nobody's there yet, the sun's waking up, and the Taj... the Taj just stands there, motionless. I wasn't even that excited about it, but when you're there, you feel like you've been waiting your whole life to see it. You feel like people felt that way 300 years ago, and in 300 years, the Taj will be there, motionless and beautiful, as people look up and are silenced. It is positively humbling.

The Indians take their Taj seriously. No vehicles are allowed within 500m of the premise (don't want pollution tarnishing the marble), you have to take off your shoes (again, the marble), and the security is insane.


That might not look crazy at first, but check his left hip! Yes, an AK-47 with a full clip of 32 bullets on his right side, and God forbid that's not enough, he has FOUR MORE MAGAZINES in his pouch. I just cannot imagine a situation where this guard is dropping his clip, action-movie-style, and cha-chinking in a second. Or fourth. Who's after the Taj, Rambo? I've seen this movie before; you're a terrible shot.

(By the way, this guard, like many folks, approached Lindsay -- the girl in the photo -- and I to chat, not the other way 'round. A lot of Indian families wanted to have their photos taken with us. In a few weeks, there'll be dozens of families in India with their photos on the wall: them, the Taj, Lindsay, and me.)

By 9am the Taj was super crowded.


If you anger some vengeful god or for any other reason find yourself in Agra, see the Taj at 6am, be humbled and inspired and totally silenced with serenity and awe, and then remove yourself from this wretched city.

So I really, really, really want to leave this den of touts and thieves, but stupid Gujjars and their stupid strike. Imagine being in Vancouver, and you hear on the news that there's a huge strike that's entirely shut down transportation in Washington State. So you check a map. Hmmm, your flight's in San Francisco, and Washington State is... oh dear. Oh man, that's exactly where you need to go! So you try a workaround and rationalize that Yellowstone is super uber cool, but the fact is it's way out of the way. That's basically what I'm doing, but instead of Yellowstone, Khajuraho. Should be great (anything but Agra...), but it's a train to another bus, and I'm going AWAY from Mumbai. But seriously, I would pay all the money I can't access in my account to get out of Agra. And thanks to my family (but especially my brother's selfless work on the phone with his bank!), I'll be able to get a few bones and blow this joint. Tomorrow morning, which is not soon enough, but tomorrow morning I'll be on my way to Khajuraho.

You know how memory works? In a year I'll remember how the Taj so unexpectedly and thoroughly moved me, and I'll kinda remember to not recommend Agra. That's how memory works: wonderfully!

I should note, for the sake of fairness, that while a brief internet search suggests most people share my view of Agra, two of my well-traveled friends suggested it -- one very strongly. (And I don't begrudge them a bit! Not one nanosmidgen!) Maybe they came in winter, and the temperature was nice and they met a fantastic family with whom they had a great time. Or maybe they came before the touts in this city got all rabid, and there wasn't such sprawl and noise, and you weren't constantly being jerked and screwed around by a million crooks and swindlers. Or maybe they're just confused and are right now going "Taj Mahal? In Agr... oh no, no! I didn't mean Agra! I meant LEH!" I think it's probably the latter. But I'm just saying, as with all travel, your mileage may and will vary.

And honestly, as weird as it sounds, the Taj was almost worth it. I found it as surprisingly wonderful as Agra is surprisingly obnoxious. And those are huge, HUGE surprises.

hello from kashmir!

Now I'm gonna get one of those ALL CAPS LOCK notes from Mom...

Srinagar is swarming with military. They're stationed every ten yards along both sides of every street. It's like the clock struck midnight and the lampposts turned into soldiers.


What kind of place is this?! I think some history is in order. Obviously, history is important for all travel; I just think it's especially important for Kashmir. (Heck, as Joshua and Jeanne are sure to point out, history is required for appreciating anything. I mean, history is the story of everything that ever happened, right?) The point is, I'd like to present...

A brief and questionably accurate history of Kashmir.

(This is gonna be kinda long, since I think it's interesting and I didn't know any of it before. So, if you like, skip to "ENOUGH HISTORY")

Let's start in the 17th century, when European capitalists were making a king's ransom on subcontinental trade. I say "subcontinental" and not "Indian" because if I say "Indian," it implies some kind of monolithic entity. FAR from it! Modern-day India was, and still is, a wildly varied mosaic of cultures. Imagine if some empire conquered all of Europe and, a little while later, made it one country. Different languages, histories, foods, politics, religions, all sorts of variety. That's India.

Anyway, back to European capitalism. During the 18th century, Britain's East India Company was rolling in dough, and somehow bought their way to overwhelming political clout. By the mid-1800's, modern-day India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Myanmar were all one big British colony. Here's a 1909 map:


Fast forward to the early 20th century (see, brief history), when folks like Mohandas "Mahatma" Gandhi were pushing for subcontinental independence. Long story short, a little after WWII, the UK acquiesced to growing civil unrest and announced it would grant independence. So, do you make one state? Two? Three? How do you Balkanize the subcontinent?

The decision was made to partition the subcontinent along the main religious rift: Muslims on the left, Hindus on the right. Pakistan, India.

(Small aside: Actually, there was also a Muslim chunk in the east, so Pakistan had two sections: West Pakistan and East Pakistan. The smaller, East Pakistan, like many non-contiguous states, felt ignored and pushed for sovereignty. After a war in 1971, East Pakistan became the independent state of Bangladesh, and West Pakistan dropped the "West." Also, judging by the map above, Burma-now-Myanmar must somehow play into this, but you gotta ask someone else.)

Enter Kashmir. Kashmir was one of the "princely states" that was allowed to choose, at the end of the British Raj, whether it wanted to join Pakistan or India. With a 94% Muslim majority, Pakistan was the obvious choice, but the Hindu Maharaja went with India (sorta). Big mistake.

British Raj officially ended on April 14/15, 1947. Within two months, Pakistan and India were at war over Kashmir. Ever since, India and Pakistan have gone through waves of fighting over the disputed valley, and it's become an issue of intense national pride.

Kashmiri tourism was doing spectacularly from '72 to the late '80s; rich Indian tourists would come to escape the plains' summer heat, and the English bourgeoisie would visit to relive the British Raj in decadence. But in 1989, something ignited the Kashmir conflict (again), and the '90s were real horrorshow. Lots of ultraviolence. In 1998, India flashed feathers by detonating nuclears in the desert of Rajastan, near the Paki border, and Pakistan responded in kind. By 2000, Clinton said Kashmir was the most dangerous place in the world.

Due to the region's current calm, tourists are slowly, very slowly, trickling back in. The military presence here in Srinagar is palpable -- some abandoned hotels are obviously makeshift army bases -- and when I tried to send a package home, I simply wasn't allowed. Despite all this, Indians swear Kashmir is safer than it's ever been, and as proof, Srinagar has a solid number of domestic tourists right now.

In the three days I've been wandering around Srinagar and surroundings, I've seen two other Westerners.

ENOUGH HISTORY

Alright, the road from Leh to Srinagar was pretty.


I'd have taken more photos, but I'm kinda done with taking photos from buses. Delhi to Manali was 18 hours, Manali to Leh was 20, Leh to Srinagar was 16, and my next ride back to Delhi will be a whopping 24. That's a lot of bus.

(Internet in Kashmir was too slow for photos, so I'm finishing this in Agra, where I've just arrived. The ride to Delhi was 27 hours, and of course, the air conditioning didn't work. Delhi to Agra was another 5, and again, no A/C. While I do have plenty of good things to say about India, it is most certainly a land of scams and false adjectives. New, Clean, Air-Conditioned, Next-Day? All lies.)

Maybe because I was in a bus lull, I let my guard down and made the super rookie mistake of telling one of my fellow passengers I wasn't sure where I was staying in Srinagar. Oy. See, this is a public bus -- there are no tourist buses around here -- so everyone has a houseboat or knows someone who has a houseboat. (In Srinagar, you don't stay in guesthouses, you stay in houseboats.) The entire rest of the ride, every time we'd have a bathroom stop, someone new jostled for the spot next to me. Oh, your brother has a nice boat? That's terrific.

When the bus was nearing Srinagar, it slowed, slowed!, and someone running alongside jumped on. He has a houseboat. Someone called ahead and let him know I was coming. Kashmir! Back off!

You know how if someone's too eager for a date, you wonder what's wrong and it's kinda irrationally unattractive? Srinagar is desperate for tourists.

Due to Kashmir's... uh, wanting reputation for safety, Western tourists are few and far between. You know when you look at someone, and they immediately look away, but it's obvious they were looking at you? Constant. Some don't even bother looking away. One guy asked to take my picture. I let him.

I'm the only not-Sunni-Muslim on any given bus. (Sunni is like Saudi Arabia and Pakistan and part of Iraq. Shia is Iran style.) I won't lie about my nationality or religion, but I'm still a little nervous when someone asks me. Turns out they really like America here. About Jews, they don't say much.

So being a Martian is neat.

Anyway, a million no-thank-you's later, I wound up on the New Zeenith (sic), a "deluxe" class houseboat on Lake Nageen.


Dad would LOVE it. It's so, so interesting. Imagine taking a fancy British B&B, but letting it sit derelict for 20 years. That's what all these houseboats are. The insides are phantoms of days gone by, when British sophistos would summer here:


But now, all the sconces are leaning off the walls, the carpets all faded and stained, and the paint struggling to keep its hold on the desiccated wood. It's just fascinating. One entire side of the boat's leaning slightly aft.

I have the entire boat to myself. Mohammad and his son Javeed are happy to have me. The official government-set rate for a deluxe-class houseboat is 3000 rupees a night. I'm paying 1000. Now that's a splurge for me, but I'm currently well under-budget, and that price ($25 a night) includes breakfast, afternoon tea, and dinner.


Javeed sits there all dinner and makes sure "Everything is alright, Sir?" It's wonderfully awkward. "Would you like some more tea, Sir?" Thank you.

Dad would just love this. He'd love it more than anyone. (Except the scams and lies would bug him even more than me.)

You know, I kept thinking how much Dad would love the houseboat (if they redid the bathrooms...), so I wrote him a card and went off to find a post office. And I'm so happy I did! Lemme tell you: you've never sent a post 'til you've sent one from Kashmir!


See those guards? And the one manning the gun turret on the armored van? And the barbed wire wall behind them? That's the post office. What a trip. By the time I get in, I was stripped of my backpack, camera, jacket -- everything but my clothes and my two lonely postcards (also sent one to Shedd) -- and I got a thorough patting-down. Then I had to walk through one of those stupid snake-y line thingies, even though nobody's there, but instead of red velvet rope, it's more barbed wire. But the posts were sent. So maybe they'll get to Chicago, or maybe they'll be detonated somewhere near the Paki border :)

After the post office, let's wander around Srinagar. Now, part of the reason I came here is that Srinagar is the jewel of the Kashmir valley, and all this turmoil over a little valley, so much opulence here in the past; what jewel here is worth such investment and strife?


Um... I have no idea. Srinagar is an altogether unattractive place. Maybe it's the competitively-priced medical supplies?

Okay, okay, I kinda lied. As you might have deduced from the houseboat thing, the draw of Srinagar is water. Obviously, I'm an aquaphile, and I could spend hours rowing around Nageen Lake in this shikara. And I do.


(I know, blatant vanity shot. But damnit, I think that photo came out well! My left arm's apparently five feet long.)

What a surface!


Though you know how Srinagar is teeming with touts and folks desperate for tourists? Every now and then, even as you paddle, a vendor in a boat will race up to yours and, despite your protests, dock you like a damn pirate. I have to say, it's just so forward and obnoxious, it's fascinating. This man is showing me his paper mache boxes.


But even that doesn't dissuade me from taking the shikara out every day. I mean, have you ever wanted to just walk into a Monet and paddle around in a gondola? I did.


Adding to the romance of paddling around a quiet, reflective lake, this whole place is permeated with a sense of dying opulence, just fraught with ghosts of magnificence past. It's really fascinating.


The graveyard sense is juxtaposed, maybe accentuated, with all the waterbirds and jumping fish give hope and a sense of spring. Here's one of the long-necked long-beaked type.


I wish I could get a photo of the smaller birds -- blues and whites and blacks, and such fluttering wings! -- but I can't get close enough for a decent shot.

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union
And justifies that ill-opinion
That makes thee startle at me...

(10 points for naming the poet!)

Also, splurged to rent a fancy shikara all day and be rowed around the old city.


Total disappointment, really: supposed to see 3 gardens and such, but instead saw one garden and then stopped, against my very vocal wishes, at commission-paying souvenir shops. Unfortunately, this is common here in India (only Leh seemed... honest), and there's no recourse to get your money back. BUT, the old city was like half-Venice, half-What Dreams May Come.



Those derelict boats and fancy buildings in disrepair? So interesting. Like much of India so far, neither fun nor comfortable, but damn interesting.

Though the lake sure was pretty.


So, so pretty.



And on a totally unrelated note: tomorrow's my BIRFDAY!