February 26 and 27: Delhi and Agra

I’ve learned that in India one should expect the unexpected. Around every corner, at every turn, there is some new surprise, an elephant in the street, a cow cooling herself in the middle of the median strip on the road, a herd of camels, maybe only the perpetual incredible traffic jam, horns all tooting, little tri-wheel cabs – they go only three directions: left, right, and over – scooters, people on foot or on bicycle, incredible confusion. How Indians make order out of this chaos must be a function of their genes, or accommodation from early childhood. It’s an assault on the senses and I return to our hotel after every outing completely tired out and slightly dizzy. A gin and tonic helps. But only one.
I’m writing this on Saturday, February 27, or at least I think I am. My watch has not yet adjusted to the difference in time and every time I set it – one day forward, or one day back – it seems to manage to be wrong. But I think it’s Saturday, late in the afternoon, and I’m in the business center in a little hotel in Agra. The last time I wrote was two days ago, at four in the morning and I didn’t have much sense of comprehension or order. So forgive me for that. I’ll try to do better today.
Yesterday, in Delhi, we visited the tomb of Humayan, the first Mogul emperor of India and the grandfather of Shah Jehan, builder of the Taj Mahal. Humayan was very interested in astrology and (so the legend goes) after a night of watching the stars (and smoking opium), he fell on the way downstairs. His widow built for him this magnificent tomb, made from red sandstone, as are so many of the monuments here. The memorial is laid out in a large garden and built in perfect symmetry. Somehow I got turned around and tried to leave the memorial from what I thought was the right direction. But the gate was closed. I assumed it was closed for lunch and tried to open it but it wouldn’t open. There was a little path around the gate and I took that, wandering through the area where the gardeners kept their excess stock. The men there were unaccustomed to seeing a tourist and mumbled something to me that I, of course, couldn’t understand. I came to a street and turned the way I thought the opening of the gate should be but after walking some distance realized I was in the wrong place. It was getting time for the bus to leave and although I knew it wouldn’t leave without me, I began to worry about being the object of some disgust at holding everyone up. And, more important, I didn’t know which direction the bus was. I had taken many pictures so I decided, like Hansel and Gretel in the forest, I would just look at my pictures on my camera and backtrack to the right gate. I finally found my way out, just as those on the bus were beginning to worry about me. As I said, expect the unexpected. Enough of an adventure for one day.
After that, the bus took us to the Qutab (I probably didn’t spell that correctly), a lone minaret that is the tallest free-standing tower in the world. The minaret was built by several Mogul emperors, each one adding a layer to the last. It’s primarily in red sandstone – Indian sandstone is harder than sandstone found elsewhere in the world – and the last two storeys are in white marble, which had become fashionable by the time the tower reached its ultimate height. It’s really quite beautiful, the surface all bumpy with vertical half tubes reaching up to the sky. It’s so tall that even with my wide angle lens, I couldn’t get far enough away from it to get it all in one frame.
After a rest, we went to an outdoor restaurant (where we ate indoors, for some reason). The food was all Indian and quite good. It was served family style at a long table and I tried everything, gingerly tasting so as not to get something too hot. I’m not just sure what I was eating but it was all delicious, particularly the vegetables, mixed together into a kind of lumpy paste. The bread was also very good, as bread here seems to be no matter its form. Even though I’ve been trying all the food, I’m still addicted to breakfast, with its more traditional Western fare: eggs (usually an omelet with a choice of fillings), bacon or sausage, many kinds of bread, fresh fruit, juice and yogurt, always yogurt. My stomach is a little unpredictable but when in India…well, you know. I insist on not giving in; expect the unexpected.
When we returned to the hotel, we had a message from friends of the Rosens who live in Delhi. David returned her call and as a result of our scheduling and their kind hospitality, we have a date to have dinner with them next Saturday, when we return to Delhi from Udaipur.
On our way to Agra yesterday, we learned that Monday is the festival day called Holi, a time to celebrate friendship and the bounty of the harvest. For some reason, children (especially teenagers) either color their faces or hair with colored powder or throw colored powder on each other. We say many kids with red faces and some with purple or blue steaks in their hair. They love to buy water pistols, fill them with the powder and then shoot each other. Fortunately we were in the bus for the powder can stain the skin for as long as six months.
I hadn’t realized – mostly because I never thought about it – that India, although 80% Hindu also has such a large Muslim population, the second largest (after Malaysia) in the world. So although many migrated to what is now Pakistan in 1947, there are still many here and the Muslim tradition sits side by side with the Hindu one. I should correct something I said yesterday: the Muslim suffix for a town is “abad,” as in Islamabad; the Hindu suffix is “pur,” as in Jaipur. This helps to determine which cities were founded by which culture. I also didn’t realize that India was ruled by Moguls (Muslims descended from the Monguls of central Asia) from about 1500 to 1857, when they were dislodged by the British.
On the way to Agra, we stopped at a lovely hotel with a beautiful garden where we had lunch outside. The gardens were so fragrant that we could actually smell the roses – not a bad thing, and memorialized in cliché. Anil, our guide, recommended that we try a refreshing drink called a lime soda, which is exactly as it sounds: lime and soda. Although it grows on you, the first taste is very much like Alka Seltzer. But under the circumstances, that’s not a bad thing either.
Our hotel here in Agra cannot be classified as first class. Although comfortable, the rooms are small and in no way grand. This morning, when I first turned on the water in the bathroom, it came out decidedly brown. Expect the unexpected. I let it run until it turned clear. Then, in the shower, I couldn’t figure out how to direct the water from the tub to the shower function. I pushed and pulled on all the fixtures and nothing seemed to work. Just when I had decided I’d have to just splash myself, I found the solution. Turn the volume control to the right instead of to the left.
Today was the BIG DAY to see the Taj Mahal. There’s a whole romantic story involved – I’m sure you all know the basic outlines; a king’s love for his dead queen. (After giving birth to 14 children in something like 17 years, no wonder she was worn out!) We saw all this history in a very Bollywood-type production last night in a local theater. I wouldn’t call the event great theater but it was certainly colorful, many dancers, many costumes, laser lights, dry ice, flash…all with ear phone doing an instant translation into eight languages. I had a hard time finding English. Try listening to a love story in German!
Security at the Taj Mahal (Anil calls it Tahj Mehell) is incredible. Expect the unexpected. Due to air pollution, we had to transfer from out bus to horse carriages, and then by foot the last quarter mile. And although we had gotten there by 6:30 AM, there was a long line – women on the left and men on the right – to pass through security, where they threw away my chewing gum (because it was an edible) and frisked me thoroughly, letting me pass even though my titanium knee set off their alarm. Inside the gates, one turns to the right and there, just as (this time) expected, is this picture postcard view of the Taj Mahal, off in the distance, like a dream. It’s very hard to describe the sensation of actually seeing it, shining white and pristine in the early morning sun. I can only say that of all the times I’ve seen pictures of it, I was not fully prepared for the real experience. It certainly lives up to its reputation. After lots of orientation information I won’t bore you with, we were allowed to wander around and, of course, I took many, many pictures. As the hour allowed for that wore on, the place became mobbed with tourists, of every color and description, some colorful enough to make for great photographs, and so dense that when I went up an enclosed staircase to the platform on which the actual building stands, I could not have fallen over; I was actually “encased” in humanity. It’s pretty grand. No wonder it took 20,000 workers 22 years to construct.
After the Taj, we went to the Agra fort, another place designated as a World Heritage Site. Begun in 1565 by the second Mogul emperor (Shah Jehan’s grandfather), it was protected by two moats, one filled with water from the nearby river and filled with crocodiles, and the other, inner one, filled with ferocious wild animals. If invaders got beyond, and tried to storm the actual ramparts, there are slots for archers and channels for hot oil. Again, the gates are at close right turns from the approaches and uphill so that charging elephants couldn’t get up enough steam to do much damage. Inside, the fort is huge and only a small portion of it is available for sightseeing. (The rest is occupied, now as then, by the military.) Late in Shah Jahan’s reign, his health began to fail and there was a conflict between his three sons for succession. He wanted his oldest son to succeed him but Son Number Three defeated the other two, killed them and imprisoned his father inside the fort. Although Shah Jehan lived very royally, with beautiful apartments – and many concubines – he lived in a kind of house arrest. The royal apartments are down the river from the Taj Mahal and from the balconies of his apartment, the Shah could see the memorial he had created for his late wife. He lived this way for the last nine years of his life, amid the splendor of apartments decorated with inlaid marble (a specialty here, and a secret trade passed down from father to son) – many of the inlays were made from the dust of precious stones – beautiful rugs and great silk hangings. I couldn’t help but think that it might not have been such a bad thing; you lived in luxury, could get outside in the air, see the beautiful scenery and have a concubine (from among many) any time you wanted her.
We were told not to look at any vendors who so aggressively get in your face on your way to any memorial. “No,” to them means “yes,” or at least, “maybe.” So one just barges on, ignoring all the chaos. It seems rude. But it works. And we were also told that Andrew would tip the drivers of the carriages; just tell them Cha Cha (uncle in Hindi) would take care of them. Monkeys all over the fort, scruffy and ugly gray animals with red butts, searching for a handout. But not to touch them; they carry rabies. Last night at dinner, a group from another room in the restaurant apparently wondered who we were, these 20 or so men having dinner together. One, a German tourist, stopped at where I was sitting as asked me who we were. Before I could actually tell him, which in retrospect I might have done, he asked if we were some kind of charity. I told him we were. He asked what we took care of. I told him we took care of each other.
Dinner tonight is at the Sheraton Hotel where there is a restaurant that is supposed to be the best Indian restaurant in the world. In addition to expecting the unexpected, this is also a world of superlatives. So why not? We’ll see. Stay tuned.

Catching Up

Dennis and David and Bob and I were having a nightcap in the bar before going to bed when a woman at an adjacent table asked me the date of the American Civil War. “Was it before, or after the forty-niners?” she said. I was surprised but, of course, answered her question. As it turned out, that was the wrong thing to do. It led to a conversation that resulted in her and her husband joining us at our table where she completely took over. I guess she was bored with her husband and needed a new audience. She pontificated on many subjects, some of them interesting, but most of them not and she allowed no one to interrupt her train of thought. I finally had to excuse myself and go to bed. So ended Tuesday.
Yes; I’m way behind. Although my watch says it’s still Thursday, the 25th, I know it’s actually Friday. My poor watch has not yet caught up. The last time this happened, it took weeks for it to adjust, no matter how many times I set it. So, let me try to catch you up as well.
Wednesday, February 24: Last night at dinner, three of us asked the waiter for separate checks. When the bills came, he had split all the items each of us had had into three, so the totals were the same. Rather than just sign the bills as they were, we tried to correct the amounts, figuring out which of us had had what thing. It was fruitless. So we just signed the bills as they were, reminding ourselves that even though we all speak English, something does get lost in the translation and that not all minds think alike.
Back on the bus, we made our way to Orchha, to see the palace and fort of a Hindu prince. The building was very Indian in feeling, with those covered guard towers that look like little temples peeking up on the ramparts. The palace was built in Hindu/Islamic fashion because the Mogul emperors of the time were Muslims and the prince, who was subservient to the power in Delhi wanted to show his loyalty. After all that, the prince only entertained Shah Jehan, the builder of the Taj Mahal, one night in this incredible building. The entrance to the palace/fort was at right angles to the bridge/entry so that elephants couldn’t get up enough momentum to storm the doors, which were studded with iron spikes. We climbed all over the building – up and down and back and forth, not unlike the many monkeys who lived there and were doing the same thing.
Then it was on to Jhanci a city in central India named for a queen who supported the Sepoy uprising against the British in 1857. (I always wondered how Jancy, the Rosen’s bartender got her name; now I know.) Here, we waited at the station for the train, the Shatbdi Express, back to Delhi. The station was very crowded, with every kind of humanity, women sitting in the dirt in bright colored saris, beggars crawling along with their hands out and many, many people waiting on the platform. We were advised to look at no one and to keep our bags close. The train finally came and although billed as deluxe – perhaps by Indian standards it was – the four hours to Delhi were very uncomfortable. The seats were close together and I never could quite get into a comfortable position, crammed up against the window with Dennis on the aisle beside me. Men in colorful costume served dinner, a course at a time, on little trays. Called Meals on Wheels, the food was much like airline food. The dessert was a little round container called a Soan Cake that contained (I kept the label) sugar, what flour, hydrogenated edible vegetable oil, husked gram, almonds and pistachios. It looked and tasted like sweetened shredded wheat. Anil told us that the Indian train system is the largest single civil employer in the world. It also carries an enormous number of people. While waiting for our train, several others came into the station and they were all so crowded that people were hanging out of the windows.
When we finally got back to our original Taj hotel in Delhi, at about midnight, there was a mix-up about the rooms. Mine was fine but Dennis’s and David’s had only a double bed, which the hotel intended to supplement with a roll-away. Dennis protested and there was a big todo about finding him another room. This was finally accomplished and they got to bed about two o’clock in the morning.
Some miscellanea: dogs and cows and bulls and monkeys are everywhere. Cows have the right of way on any road or street. No one wants to hurt a cow. The traffic is intense, everyone trying to take advantage of the least opening to get ahead. I wonder that there are not more accidents but like fish in a school, everyone seems to be aware of others around them and slip in and out at what we in America would consider impossible openings. There is a road tax here, collected by each state. We were stopped once so the authorities could be sure our driver had the proper documents. Anil told us a little bribe could/would be paid if the driver didn’t have them. A bicycle, the most common mode of transportation, costs about $40.00, a scooter about $800.00. Mr. Tata, an Indian industrialist, plans to make the world’s least expensive car, to sell for about $2000.00. I wonder where they will put them.
Thursday, February 25: in Delhi. Today is the start of the main tour so we were joined by three couples and one single. The couples are Tom and John from Lexington, Kentucky; Bill and John from Denver; and Don and Jim from Minneapolis. The single is a wispy little man (perfect for Caesar) who insists we call him William, not Will, or Bill. I’d guess that Tom and John are in their late 40’s; the others all seem to be in their 60’s. We’re not a young group!
Anil gave us lots of information on the bus about India but the fact I found the most startling was that even though the birth rate in India is going down, the population is still advancing alarmingly. There are 28 children born every minute. I find that truly astounding. Bob, who has been to China, suggests that in the race for development between China and India, China will win. The totalitarian state has taught the population discipline that no democracy can match. He says, for instance, that there is no paper on the streets in Beijing, whereas there is paper everywhere here. I’m sure there’s more to it than that, but he does make a point.
I knew that New Delhi was built by the British adjacent to “Old” Delhi but I hadn’t known that old Delhi was on top of seven previous ones. So in the old city, there are relics of many previous cities. (The Muslim suffix for “city” is “-bad” as in Islamabad or Hyderabad; the Hindu suffix is “-bur” as in Khybur.) In the old city Delhi, there are 90,000 people in every square mile. Delhi was ruled by the Muslims from the 16th C. until 1857. Shah Jahan, the fifth Mogul ruler, wore clothes so covered with jewels that he had to be accompanied by two men, who helped him walk.
We visited the Gandhi crematory site, a large park on a mound with a walk all around a central depression that marks the spot, with an eternal flame. It was very quiet and peaceful there, unlike the bustling city. Then it was on to Humayun’s tomb, a huge Muslim memorial in a large park. We were given time to wander around and because of the exact symmetry of the place, I tried to go out of the wrong gate and got lost. There were a few panicky moments before I found the tour again.
This computer keyboard is sticking, making thinking about what I’m writing almost impossible. I’ll continue later. Stay tuned.

Tuesday, February 23: Khajuraho

Khajuraho is just a little town of about 8,000 in the central highlands of northern India but it was once ruled by an important and powerful Hindu king who fought many battles during his reign at about 1000 AD. Each time he won – and he won many times – he built a new temple. Eventually there were over 70 of them. When his kingdom was conquered by the Muslims in the 16th Century, they destroyed many of the temples but twenty or so of them survived. Our reason for being here – indeed the only reason to come to this place – is to see the temples, so noted for their magnificent carvings and so well preserved that they have been designated by UNESCO as a World Heritage Site.
Unlike any temples I’ve seen in other parts of the world, these are difficult to describe. Like all monuments, they aspire to the higher air so these, true to form, go upward, growing smaller as they go, tier on tier, like a wedding cake. And like a wedding cake, their surfaces are completely covered. On the lower levels, there are many, many carvings of the people of the time (or at least idealized people of the time), running in friezes around the periphery but as the tiers go higher, the decoration turns to geometric features, sometimes round, sometimes triangular, but all piercing the hard stone in a color between orange and brown, which stands out dramatically against the blue sky. It is from one of these temples that the statues from the Kama (Sex) Sutra (Education) come and many of the depictions are quite graphic, running the gamut through all kinds of sexual expression and in any form you might imagine. Although the site is famous for these carvings, they’re only a very small part of a much more elaborate and beautiful creation.
The temples are in a kind of park, with walkways and green grass and many beautiful flowers, now mostly asters and dahlias but there is also bouganvillia, a brilliant pink against the vibrant brown of the structures. Each temple is maintained by a woman dressed in a brilliant sari who sweeps the steps and the platforms on which the temples stand. Although they are the perfect foil for photographs, they really don’t want to be photographed so one has to catch them at the perfect moment, when they’re not looking and still in some position that gives great contrast to the colors of the buildings.
The carvings themselves are very deep and stand out dramatically in the sun. It is hard to believe that they have survived for over 1000 years, with so much of their detail intact. You can still see individual stands of hair, bracelets on arms, fingers and toes. Anil, our guide, says this is due not only to the hardness of the sandstone (which must have made them very difficult and laborious to create) but also to the fact that there is never any frost here so no expansion and contraction of the material. Also, as I said yesterday, the site was lost for many, many years and the buildings were covered with algae, which helped to preserve them and has now been removed.
Getting to the monuments was an adventure. I had to thread my way through very aggressive youngsters who want to sell books, postcards and other souvenirs. And aggressive doesn’t really describe their posture for they walk beside you – even guiding you by their proximity in a direction they want you to go – talking to you and pushing their wares in your face. We’d been told by our guide to avoid eye contact and not say anything to them for anything we might say would indicate interest. But ignoring them was very difficult. At the end of the tour, when we were all back on the bus, they crowded up the entryway and tried to get up the steps. Our guide acted as a go-between, showing us their wares and taking money when one of us wanted something.
They reminded me of hawkers at Ankgor who attacked Dennis and me when we arrived at the site by taxi before dawn. We got out of the car and were assaulted by them, like mosquitoes swarming around us. The whole thing is pitiful really, when the value of the clothes we wear and the cameras we sport would support their families for a year.
The temples also reminded me of Ankgor, although these are better preserved and so much more beautiful. They were built at about the same time, and the same time as the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris and some of the monuments in the Inca and Aztec civilizations. We joked at lunch about this phenomenon, one person at our table (Dennis) suggesting that aliens must have come to earth at about this time and given the people blueprints and an energy source that helped them create such beautiful things.
The weather has been mild, about 75 during the day and much cooler at night, with bright sun and usually a little breeze. We couldn’t ask for better. We’ve all had a little touch of stomach upset, some more than others. In my case, I started by emptying everything and then the pendulum swung in the other direction, not yet returning to normal. Oh well; that’s the price one pays for travel. And this trip reminds me of my age. I no longer have the energy (even with a relatively new knee) to scramble from one place to another, up and down, trying to find the perfect angle for my photograph. Of course, I’m so intent on getting the “great” photo – I took over 200 this morning - that I don’t realize I’m getting tired until we get back to the hotel and I suffer from the aches and pains. This may have to be my last major trip of this kind.
We’ve all become quite good friends and so far, there is no one noted for being difficult. We consist of Bob from LA, the gregarious attorney for difficult torts with parted hair and the perfect meerschaum moustache; Mark, the anesthesiologist born in Lithuania but now from New York; Caesar, the wispy Asian American I haven’t yet spent much time with; Vince, who sold his company and now lives in Nevis, tall and thin, with vestiges of his native Tennessee in his accent; Ron and Chad, from DC, who remind me of Squirt and Spray, always perfectly dressed – I gather one of them is in medicine and the other works for the government but what medicine and which government remains a mystery I have not yet tackled; Dennis and David and me; and our leader, Andrew, whose wholesome and boyish demeanor make me want to call him “Sonny.” And there’s our local guide, Anil, an Indian from Delhi, who seems to be able to answer any question we ask and is highly qualified for this job, with a careful, almost stylized delivery in his English and a hand he holds out in a very awkward pose to emphasize his points. He has beautiful, rich, black hair just beginning to grow gray at the temples, and Jill Sander glasses but without rims. And then there’s Purum, whose function is unclear – perhaps he’s there to assist Anil with the logistics of our trip – all bashful and shy, with doe eyes I catch looking at me (and others) often.
Tomorrow it’s back to Delhi by bus and train, with stops along the way at what are billed as picturesque villages. We won’t arrive back at our hotel until close to midnight so it will be a very long day. Then comes the deluge: Agra, Jaipur, Udaipur. I’m having a good time; India is an incredible experience. Stay tuned.

Monday, More

I’m quite ashamed of myself for the last entry. It was four o’clock in the morning and I had gotten up early for the specific purpose of adding to my blog. But I had a lot of trouble getting the computer to work properly and the time grew near to leave for our first excursion of the day. I didn’t have the time to do justice to the information. So, I’ll add some here, from the lobby of the Taj hotel in Khujaraho, where I’ll be for the next two days. Forgive me if I repeat myself; I don’t have a copy of my earlier entry
Veranasi, as I’m sure I said, is a holy city to the Hindus for it is considered the source of life, or better put, where life itself began. Therefore, it’s a pilgrimage site and if one is a “good” Hindu, one must come here at least once in one’s life (like a Muslim’s Haj to Mecca). The city also has a population of several million and the pressure is intense, as we found when taking our bicycle rickshaws to the River Ganges late in the afternoon, to witness the cycles of life and death. Or, better put, death and life. It’s been said that India is an assault on the senses and that is certainly true. We took our bus to the beginning of the old city where the streets are so narrow that we then had to transfer to the rickshaws, two to each. Here in India, there are no demarcated lanes for traffic; everyone just barrels down the road, or street, in a game of chicken and only averts disaster at the last minute by one of the contestants giving up. It may be that this moves the traffic somewhat faster in such an overpopulated country (of over one billion population) but it makes for an excitement that borders on terror. Boarding the rickshaws, we joined a stream of humanity rushing to the ghat –steps leading down to the river – or perhaps it would be more accurate to say crawling. I’ve never been in traffic so dense, and intense. Rickshaws, motorized taxis, a few cars, bicycles, and motor scooters – even people walking – squashed together in the narrow streets, everyone pushing, both literally and figuratively, to get to their destination. And all the scooters honking, the bicycles ringing their bells, the motorized cars honking…the noise and confusion was intense. Fortunately, Bob and I, riding in our rickshaw, were somewhat above all this but very close to it as well. Our guide was right in saying the ride would give us a sense of the real India.
When we finally got to the ghat, the main one in Veranasi, we had to walk down many steps to the river where we boarded a longboat – like an oversized row boat – and sat around the outside edge while the rowers took us out into the river for a better view of the coastline. The colors, and sounds, and smells were all intense and the crush of humanity almost clausterphobic. The shore is lined with huge buildings, originally palaces built by maharajahs but now in some decay, some of them turned into guest houses. But they make a most impressive sight. Between them are the ghats from the streets above down to the river, the steps crawling with humanity. And many of them trying to sell us something. Children bore large four foot round baskets filled with three inch round “boats” made of flowers, with a candle in the middle. We each got one. And the idea is to row out into the water, make a wish for good fortune, light the candle and then “donate” the whole affair to Mother River by letting it float away. The water was dotted with floating candles, increasing in number as the darkness set in, making quite a spectacle of lights. There were hundreds of boats, and thousands of people. So even on the river, one felt assaulted.
We rowed down the river to the ghat that forms the crematory. Out of respect for the dead, we refrained from taking pictures of the seven or eight bonfires dotting the steps, with family members crowding around each. When someone dies, he is wrapped in a shroud and then further wrapped in a gold lame type cloth, ringed with strands of marigolds. When the pyre is ready, the head mourner, a member of the family, dips the body in the river and then the body is placed on the pyre and the head mourner lights the whole thing. The wood is soaked with purified butter (ghee) so that the logs will light more easily. The fire burns for three or four hours, tended by a professional firewalla, until the body is largely consumed. The ashes are given to the family which usually “donates” them and any parts of the bones that remain to the river. Ashes to ashes, as they say, the body returning to the mother river from which Hindus believe life sprang.
After a respectful time with the crematory ghat, we returned to the main ghat for the ceremony of life, chanting and the lighting of lights, some dancing. By now, it was completely dark and the boats gathered in front of the ghat made quite a sight. I took many pictures, some of them sprinkled with white specks that were the many mosquitoes that gather there in the evening. No, I didn’t get bitten but I was so laden with spray – and earlier sunscreen and even early salve for my rosacia – that I felt like a layered onion. The hundreds of boats, with hundreds of tourists and the people gathered on the steps, all watching the ceremony was strangely spiritual. And then, of course, we had to get back to our buses, on the rickshaws, through that same cacophony of humanity all over again.
This morning, we returned to the ghat before sunrise to watch another spiritual ceremony, this time individual in nature, where pilgrims come to bathe in the waters of the Ganges. It is said that one should do this as the sun rises in the east – the direction the ghats face – and that it purifies the soul. We took another boat out into the water to watch this phenomenon. Those bathing seemed unfazed by our presence as they stripped to some small loin cloth, stepped into the water, lifted handfuls of it over their heads or simply submerged. There were hundreds of people doing this, all up and down the waterfront. We also saw women (and men) washing clothes by dipping them into the water, beating them violently against the rocks, wringing them out and then tossing them up on a blanket or basket to dry in the sun. As the sun rose, the whole scene took on a golden glow that was quite spectacular. Then back to those rickshaws again, and back to the hotel for breakfast before catching our plane for Khujaraho.
Here, we’re in another Raj hotel (and as I’ve said, even though they may be the leading hotels in the world, I’ve seen better Hiltons) with a huge marble lobby that could hold the biggest benefit Baltimore has ever seen. We’re here in a town of less than 10,000 people to see temples built by a Hindu kingdom long ago defeated by the Muslims who destroyed many of them. Here, in central India, the site was long forgotten and the walls gradually grew alga and the temples returned to the jungle. An archeologist found the site, scrapped off the alga and discovered these beautiful carvings. I’m sure that’s the only thing here to support the tourists. Many of the carvings are scenes from the Karma Sutra and show sexual activities. And while this makes the site an attraction, we’ve been told that the real beauty of the carvings lies elsewhere. We’ll go to visit the site tomorrow morning and we’ll see.
I’ve had the afternoon off for a much needed nap and I feel much better. (And my brain seems to be working more effectively.) Tonight we will go to see a demonstration of native dancing before returning to the hotel for dinner. As Pauline Kael said about the movie “Ghandi,” it’s very long, and dusty. The duff of brown is enlivened by the incredible colors of saris and scarves and signs and sweaters and bags, all making for wonderful photographs.
I should be able to report again tomorrow afternoon, when we have another break. Stay tuned.

Sunday, February 21: Bus, Plane, Bus, Rickshaw Bus

Sunday, February 21

Sitting in the lobby of the Taj Delhi, waiting for the day to begin: soft carpeting on the floor, domes in the ceiling filled with embroidered fabric in bright colors, lighted with soft cove lighting, a curved, windowed area overlooking the pool, a white marble fountain in the center of the room, an area for tea, many seats in matching colors, desks for several concierges, plashing water, soft music, with a huge ball of white lilies at the entrance that even Barbara Taylor and Jake Boone might envy. Oops; it’s time to leave for Veranasi.
Since the bombing in Mumbai, airport and hotel security have been even more severe than in the US. We had to show our passports just to enter the airport. With our boarding passes, we got tags to hang on our hand luggage that had to be stamped after passing through security before we would be allowed to board the plane. I set off the alarm with my titanium knee as usual and had to be frisked. Oddly with all of this, we didn’t have to take off our shoes. Then be fore we could board, we had to show our passports again and the tags on our hand luggage were inspected both to be sure we had been thoroughly checked before boarding the plane.
The flight was only a little over an hour but we were served breakfast – I didn’t eat any since the night before I’d had some trouble with my colon and was thoroughly empty, and not wanting to eat anything – and I sat between Mark, an anesthesiologist from New York, born in Lithuania so with a slight accent. He’s a member of our troupe. On the other side was Purim, an assistant to out Indian tour guide, Anil, who speaks English very slowly, without the lilt we’re so used to when seeking help from AOL, so we could actually understand what he was saying.
The others in our group are Ron and Chad, from the DC area (Ron’s father was in banking and his mother lives in Blakehurst off Joppa Road); Caesar, of course; Bob, a gregarious attorney from LA; Dennis and David and me; and Andrew, our tour guide and representative from the tour company.
Veranasi is a sacred city for India’s small Buddhist population. It’s one of the oldest living cities in the world and a good Buddhist, like a good Muslim making a Haj to Mecca, must come here at least once in his life. The city is on the Ganges and a place where people go for dipping in the waters to purify themselves and where they go when they die for cremation. After checking in at our hotel, we went to visit the excavations of a temple compound where it is thought that Lord Buddha gave his first sermon. At the site, there’s a huge stupa, which, unlike those I’ve seen in Thailand, all covered with gold leaf, is entirely of exposed raw brick. An enormous structure, it was examined by archaeologists many years ago and found to be entirely of brick, without nothing inside. It seems impossible.
Late in the afternoon, we took a bus through the city – population several million – the most cacophonous ride ever! Indians pay no attention to lanes of traffic but travel, instead, down the middle of the road, their horns blaring and avoiding head on collisions at the very last minute. The bus was surrounded by bicycles, and motor scooters and cars and people walking. It was hard to believe all this could continue without someone being hurt but like birds seem to move in flocks and all turn at the same time, there seems to be a kind of mass consciousness that prevents accidents. As we neared the old city, we transferred to rickshaws – two to each one – and were pedaled through the city to the steps leading down to the river. The noise and the confusion was unbelievable! It was like a traffic jam, all moving at the same time. There is no way to describe it accurately. Our guide wanted us to experience the real India, and this was certainly it.
At the rive, we transferred to a boat and rowed down to the steps where cremations take place. There were about six fires, all going at the same time and we learned a lot about the rituals of death. At dark, we rowed back to another section of the steps where we watched the ritual ceremony of life. Death and life, all in one evening. Then the rickshaw ride back to the bus. We were asked to give the driver a total of a one dollar tip, which seemed totally inadequate for taking us to, and getting us back from the ceremony, pedaling hard through the unbelievable traffic for more than a half hour in each direction.
Oh, and I left out the part where we went to a weaving factory, where we saw men sitting at primitive looms, weaving in silk, an industry for which this city is known. Of course, the major part of the visit was to their salesroom where we were tempted with incredibly beautiful fabrics: shawls, scarves, bed covers, etc. Some of us even bought some of these wonderful items.
Later, back at the hotel, there was no room in the coffee shop for us because all the empty tables had been reserved by some group. The head waiter shifted us to the more fancy, Indian restaurant where he said we could have the coffee shop menu. This only confused the waiters and the process of getting something to eat was a real farce. When it finally arrived, Dennis’s wrap still had some paper attached to it and when I complained to the waiter, he gave some explanation we really couldn’t understand, seeming to imply that biting into paper was perfectly natural. This is not a five star hotel!
I’m rushing to complete this before we leave at 5:45 AM – yes, I’ve already been up for an hour – for the morning purification ceremony at the river. So forgive me for errors in spelling and punctuation and the sloppy composition. India is certainly an assault on all the senses, just as expected. And Beverly was right: take Pepto Bismol. I’m better this morning, after eating very little yesterday. I hope it stays that way. I could go on about Buddhism but I think I’ll save that for cocktail party conversation. Stay tuned.

Saturday, February 20, "Let's Take a Walk"

Surprisingly, I slept well. Maybe the melatonin is working. We were joined at breakfast by Andrew, our guide, who will be with us throughout the tour. Somewhere between 40 and 50, he’s short and humpy without appearing obviously worked out, a gay man (with a partner in Tucson) who, despite its wrinkles has one of those perpetually young faces, short hair slightly askew and a smiling demeanor that would make him ideal for an ad for new brake lining or cleaning supplies, with a name like “Butch” or “Jake.” But appearances are deceiving. He speaks French, Spanish, Portuguese and Italian and is in the process of learning Chinese and Arabic. He has a fourteen-year-old son who lives in New York with is mother, conceived in some mysterious process Andrew didn’t seem to want to clarify. When he’s not leading tours, which he does often, he manages 22 rental properties in Tucson. He insures quiet confidence and I feel perfectly comfortable in his hands.
We also met Bob, from LA, a large man somewhere in his 50’s, bulky through the midsection (who isn’t?) with graying hair parted in the middle and a bulky moustache and goatee surrounding a mouth that should be holding a meerschaum pipe. His eyes twinkle enough to promise some fun. Caesar also joined us, this time without his sun hat, which made him more slight than last night, like a frail, oriental flower that needs care in handling.
After a huge breakfast (from the perpetual hotel buffet), Dennis suggested a walk around a part of New Delhi that the hotel recommended for a jogging route. It took us down tree-lined streets with lots of traffic and around many round-abouts until we arrived at the India Gate, a huge monument to the Indians who died in India’s wars. A top-heavy Arc de Triomph, it was surrounded by carefully manicured gardens, fenced in and carefully protected by Army guards. In the background was another monument that once housed a statue of the King George V that has since been moved to another location. Of course David and I took many photographs.
Dennis insisted that we continue our walk as he had planned, which took us further and further away from out hotel. My feet began to hurt until we came to a festival of Indian crafts, a little like ArtScape, with many booths with incredibly colored wares. The opportunity for photographs helped give me new energy. I bought a few trinkets and we captured a lot of color with our cameras.
By the time we got back to our hotel, I’m sure we had walked at least five miles. I was hot and tired and my feet hurt. No matter Nancy Sinatra, my Crocs are not made for that kind of walking! After lunch, I went right to bed and have only awakened now, about 4 PM, to post this to my blog.
Tomorrow we fly to Varanasi, the oldest city in India (and certainly one of the oldest in the world). I have to go now and rearrange my luggage so I only have one carry-on for the trip. We’ll be back here in four days. Stay tuned.

Thursday to Friday: And Away We Go

Taking Amtrak to Newark to catch our plane to Delhi made me realize just how much we’ve become a service economy. I had forgotten from my days in New York, when I took the train regularly, how symbolic this corridor is of our waning industrial past, empty buildings with broken windows, graffiti and rust, slum trees growing randomly about, abandonment and neglect. I was glad when we reached the new Newark Airport stop, all shining glass and aluminum. Traveling Elite status, thanks to many frequent flyer miles, got us through the security line quickly and we met Dennis in the Continental lounge right on schedule. There was a little mix-up about my seat – I had booked one right behind Dennis and David but was placed elsewhere – but the concierge on the plane was helpful and soon moved me to the place had wanted to be. We had the usual airline meal – thinking I would get right into India, I tried the lamb chops Indian style, which we very, very hot. I prevailed but it wasn’t easy. I watched a movie from among the hundreds available and slept, fitfully. The map on the progress screen showed our route across northern Europe, somewhere near Moscow, over all the Stans to Kabul and Islamabad and then into Delhi. Fourteen hours and 7400 long miles. We were met by a young Indian man who said his name was “Lovie” (or maybe Dovie) – I couldn’t help but think of Dot Rosenberg – who welcomed us each with a lei of marigolds. We also met one other of us on the tour, a man from Orange County who had been traveling for almost two days. Probably Japanese-American, and somewhere over 50, he seemed pleasant enough, if a little stiff – it can’t be easy to meet three revelers traveling together – and had an odd first name: Caesar Lee. Is that something like Sugar Lee? Also at the airport, I got a shot of a car that was apparently waiting for an incoming couple fresh from their honeymoon. Orange, it was covered with a doily of white lace (made, I’m sure from plastic) with lots of flowers. The car looked somewhat embarrassed to be so decked out. But I’m sure the couple found it charming. Our hotel, one of the leading hotels of the world, had elaborate security. We had to go through a metal detector to enter and all our luggage was scanned. My knee set off the alarm, as usual, but I was ushered in without further inspection. So much for security. A drink in the bar, loud with disco music – the room could have been anywhere in the world, where young people gather on a Friday to admire or envy each other’s get-ups and cruise – revealed that here Ketel One is more expensive than Grey Goose, at about $10 bucks a shot. The rooms are pleasant, if not “leading,” and my melatonin worked. I slept soundly. Now it’s time for breakfast and meeting the other guys on the tour. Stay tuned.

It Snow Fun

I’m sure there was a time when I looked forward to snow, anticipating its chilly white blanket with childish glee at the coming excitement of sledding down Nuttle’s Hill or the ravine on Second Street, building a snowman with Mom’s buttons for his eyes and a carrot nose snitched from the hydrator in the Frigidaire, a snowball fight on the lot across the street or some hot chocolate afterward, when I was tired and my hands and feet were cold and wet. But now snow just seems like a pain. Oh, I will grant that it’s pretty to watch, especially from some snug aerie with a fire in the fireplace when the days stretch out ahead without a need to actually go outside. But now snow usually just means ultimately shoveling out my car and risking a drive to some place essential, like going to the grocery or the drug store, and the prospect of skidding or getting stuck or worse yet, some accident caused by another driver’s incompetence or my own impatience.
As everyone must know by now, this winter has been especially difficult here in Baltimore, with two blizzards within one week, 26 inches of snow the first time and about 18 the second. None of us – and certainly not the City – was prepared for this onslaught. It’s meant shoveling the car out twice, threading cautiously down streets made one way by the huge piles of snow shoveled out by others and praying that you’ll find a place to park once you’ve reached your destination. At first, everyone was courteous, giving way or backing up into intersections but after a week, drivers are reverting to their old patterns, honking and cutting you off, rushing to get to where they’re going without any thought to anyone else or preventing you from avoiding a new pothole deep as a volcano. Snow this old (now also a grimy gray and still stubbornly voluminous) brings out the worst in people. I guess in the face of global warming, Mother Nature was just exercising her power to sustain a cold and dreary winter. Or maybe it was her warning that our profligate neglect of our environment can result in extreme and unusual circumstances. Either way, my love affair with snow is definitely over.
So I’m very happy to be leaving all of this behind tomorrow for a long-anticipated, two-and-a-half- week trip to a springtime India. I’m going with a couple friends as part of a small group on what is billed as a luxurious tour, looking forward to experiencing a culture that I’ve heard is an unbelievable shock to all the senses, and the opportunity to capture with my camera its cacophony and color. My bag is packed, my tickets and passport and visa are all in hand, and the batteries for my camera are charged and ready to go. I’ll try to keep this blog going, too, so if you’d like to experience at least some flavor of this adventure with me – as imperfectly as I may present it - stay tuned.