India: I Love it and I Hate it

That’s what my roommate Ann said, a few days into our trip. I don’t think it’s possible to go to India and not come away a different person. My Western viewpoint may have colored some of the behaviors as more mean-spirited than they actually were, and for that, I'm sorry.

The way we live in America is so incredibly privileged: imagine all the asphalt roads and concrete sidewalks of your town, the landscaping outside your house completely non-existent: everywhere, dirt, or mud, broken concrete and bricks. This is the every day world of most Indians. 

extra fancy,
Raj Mandir Movie Palace
photo: Pamela Munger

There’s no trash pickup. The gutter or rail track is your very public bathroom. Fancy public bathrooms are porcelain-covered holes in the floor, with garden hose and no toilet paper (that’s why Allah gave us a left hand); many along the way were nothing more than holes in the floor open to the gutter outside, draining into the ground and into the drinking water.

Fifty Rupees is a lot of money to most people; that’s $1. Because of the near-constant barrage of people wanting your money, it seems that India welcomes you with open palms. The idea of India as a great destination for budget travelers is both true, and an illusion. You will pay for absolutely everything, and everyone expects a tip. If India could figure out a way to bottle air, it would be sold for 100 rupees a liter, like the water. And you would probably have to crush the bottles after use as you do the water bottles to keep them from being refilled and resold at the village tap. On the other hand (the right one?), even with all the things you must pay for, you can easily get by here on less than $70 a day, including a decent hotel and meals. You can call it greedy, or enterprising; desperate or sensible.

Bathing, Delhi

I don’t know whether people tried to trick me because I was an unescorted Western woman, or whether it was the norm. I was overcharged in three different restaurants. In the Channa market, I paid 500Rp for two bracelets costing 250Rp, and instead of giving me change, the guy threw two less-fancy bracelets in the bag, told me what a deal I got, and turned his back on me. In retrospect, it WAS a deal (and I ended up wishing I had bought more), but I felt cheated, because I knew I was paying several times more than an Indian would pay, and I was forced to buy something I didn’t ask for. The same with the hotel: as I was leaving a tip, the doorman told me I owed for a bottle of water from the room. News to me—Ann paid for a bottle of water from the room before she left. When either of us tried to enlist a rickshaw driver, he would give us a price that was far too high or agree to a price than insist we owed him three times as much when we got out. All the public buildings we visited had higher prices for non-Indians. 

Wall fresco at Red Fort, Delhi

The crush was mainly in Delhi and Agra, and of course it wasn’t all bad: there were random acts of kindness, like the young girl who paid two rupees so I could use the bathroom in the Lodhi gardens, or the free food at the Sikh temple. But so often people looked at us Westerners with disgust. There’s a real disconnect between need and pride. Their persistence and refusal to acknowledge “no-means-no” caused a rapid and desperate decent into rudeness when I couldn’t get “no” across. They think we’re spoiled and mean; we think they want our money and hate us for it. I do know that everything is based on family connections. And as foreigners, we’re here today and gone tomorrow. My first taxi driver told me sincerely that Indians are very nice people. 

ladies of the Temple, Karauli
Photo; Joseph Trinidad

Perhaps it’s true and, coming from the West, we misinterpret a lot of behavior.

I can tell you that in Jaipur, “no” actually DID mean “no”, and in the village of Karauli, defensive behavior wasn’t even necessary: people were genuinely welcoming and warm. Perhaps the big cities breed more desperation, more grasping, and more anger. I'm reading a book that I started before my trip--however, it now makes so much more sense to me: "Beyond the Beautiful Forevers" (Katerine Boo) is about the lives of a group of slum dwellers in Mumbai. As of 2008 when the book was written, the educational and business reforms that are bearing fruit now were not even a decade old. However, the deal-making and pay-offs that many of us would consider to be corrupt were--and are--in full swing. If anything, it made me recognize the same behaviors in America--it's simply more hidden. 

India is not a country that’s easy to understand. It seems barely out of the feudal age, yet the fantastically carved stone palaces of the wealthy speak of brilliant achievements in the arts and sciences, and everywhere colorful saris light up the drab and muddy land. Women are the flowers of India, but remain second class citizens at best, in spite of the romantic Bollywood stories. I love it and I hate it.

To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.

Day Ten- Back to Delhi

Back on the train, we pulled into Delhi and returned to our hotel for the night. I had the day to burn, so hired a cab with Ann and Pamela for a lunch at Lodhi Garden, and south of town to return the dress at Dili Hat. I was not anticipating an easy time of it, but our driver, Sochi, said he would come in with me and tell them his boss said to give me my money back. I have no idea who his boss is, but they took care of the problem in minutes, with no argument at all. Even Harry Potter looked a little worried. Impressive.

Painted mica window at Agra Fort

In ones and twos, we dribbled off into the day, bound for different destinations: Axel to Kerala, Pamela to Goa, Ann to Dharamsala to hear the Dali Lama, and the rest of us home. I felt like I had been gone for weeks.

To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.

Day Nine: The Big Pile of Ice Cream

We pulled into Agra late that day, and stayed at a back-up hotel (the usual wasn’t available for some reason), the Hotel Kumar Grand Casa. The lobby was nice. The rooms were dirty and generally horrible. The Muslim call to prayer was piped in from just outside the window (we were expecting a very early wake-up call wailing through the mosque’s loudspeakers). Good hot showers almost made up for it. We went to dinner at a new restaurant, Maya, that promised air-conditioning. It kept its promise—all seating was outside, where we were treated to Agra’s massive evening pollution. Never trust a place where you can chew the air. However, I had Kashmiri Pullao for the first time, a rice dish with both sweet and savory elements. I still dream about it.

I didn’t wake up with the Muslims for first prayer, a good thing. We had breakfast upstairs and headed out to Agra Fort--a pleasant surprise (horde of hucksters, check). This is where Shah Jahan spent his days as a ruler, and also his last days, imprisoned by his own son after the death of Mumtaz and the building of the Taj Mahal. On clear days (I’m sure they happen once in a while), the view of the Taj from the towers is breathtaking (not a pollution pun). This day, we could see the outline in the distance, across the Yamuna River. The Fort was a wonderland of intricate stone carving and inset stonework, with pleasant gardens and a peaceful feel.

And then: the prize we had all come for. We left the fort and went over to the Taj itself. (Major horde of hucksters: check). It’s hard to imagine a building that looks beautiful from any angle, any time of day, but this one does. The shining white marble that cloaks the façade of the sandstone building gives it the appearance of a perfectly symmetrical mound of vanilla ice cream against a soft blue sky. Inside, Mumtaz’ marble sarcophagus lies in state in the center; Akbar’s is a few feet to the east, on a raised platform as befits his elevated position in life. It is as beautiful as advertised.

Here at the Taj, and in many other places in India, we would sometimes catch people taking pictures of us, and didn’t know if it was supposed to be insulting or flattering. Pamela was a local favorite for photographs. People would come up to her a lot and ask to have their picture taken with her; we could never figure out why. Dark curly hair, tall, pretty and with pale skin? At one point, a young family thrust a baby into her arms for a photo-op. It was a little disconcerting.

Day Eight: A Million Wishes

Carved stone wall detail, Fatehpur Sikri

A highlight of Fatehpur Sikri is the mausoleum dedicated to the Sufi saint Salim Chishti. Mughal emperor Shah Jahan (Akbar's grandson) was childless by all three of his wives; during one of his many war campaigns, he visited Salim Chisti in his desert hermitage. Chishti was reputed to bless Akbar’s union with Mumtaz Mahal, and three sons were born in rapid succession. The marriage produced a total of 14 children. As Mumtaz lay dying after childbirth number 14, Akbar hurried to her side. She made him promise to never marry again, and to build a tomb for her that would stand for all time. Muslim rulers in Rajasthan married a number of wives (marriages were politically motivated) though Akbar recognized only three queens before the death of Mumtaz. The “harem” of oriental fantasies consisted of several levels of recognition, though most women in the seraglio were serving women the wives brought with them as part of the bride price, rather than concubines of the Maharajah. Akbar made good on both promises (yes, it’s the Taj Mahal).

At the shrine of Salim Chishti, millions of colored strings symbolizing wishes of all types are tied into the stone latticework windows surrounding the tomb. I didn’t make a wish, but I ran my hands over the soft filaments of so many others…so much longing. I made a small donation and the imam who was bopping people on the head with a broom-like object bopped me twice. That’s the thanks I get.

To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.

Day Eight: The Head-Popping Elephant of Fatehpur Sikri

About an hour by bus east of Karauli, Fatehpur Sikri is the deserted former capital of the area that was later moved to Agra. Apparently difficult to defend (lack of access to water is also cited), the palatial fort was left to it’s own devices in the 16^th century. The beautifully maintained lawns and quiet buildings of intricately carved stone are a respite from the more populated area of Agra. My favorite part of Fatehpur Sikri is the sort of thing little kids go for: the head-popping elephant story. In the middle of one of the palace courtyards where public audiences were held, there is a large stone, about the size of a one-drawer file cabinet. 

This was where unfortunates who had offended the Mughal emperor Akbar would lay their heads; Akbar’s pachyderm pal would then graciously put massive foot to stone, with any heads inserted between becoming just another red stain. No worse than the guillotine, I suppose. Outside the fort, a tower marks the grave of this beloved elephant, and hundreds of ivory tusks jut from the walls—each one marks a successful step-down by the world’s most famous exotic animal act. 

Day Seven: Dancing for Krishna

On the way to the Temple

Before the ceremony began, Chine urged me to go into the middle of the circle of Hindu women and gave me a set of tiny bells to ring along with the drum. They tried to teach me the chants, which were constantly changing. Then the fire ceremony began and everyone got up. As we began to move, two of the elder women held my face gently in their hands; I don’t know what they said to me but the love in their eyes was so profound I felt blessed. The priest performed fire ceremony to worship Krishna by passing the lighted censor around the central statue seven times, then the statue on the left side of the altar. 

After, the drum and chanting of the women began again. The rhythm was irresistible, and I danced a little in place—Chime pushed me toward the circle, and they cleared a path for me; I was stuck—refusal was not an option. I danced in the Hindu temple in the middle of a group of 100 women dressed in the most beautiful saris. It was extraordinary, and, completely ignorant of what to do (and with the fervent hope I wouldn’t embarrass myself or anyone in my group), I started to dance. The drums and tiny bells were hypnotic. That mysterious power that comes over one in perfect flow had a hold of me, and I turned in circles, dancing and moving to the sound of the chants and drums. After a few minutes, I “namasted” everyone and escaped back to the group. Pamela called in “an integrating moment” when two widely separated cultures met and were entranced with one another.

After we left the Temple, I walked in a state of spaced-out bliss; oblivious, I ran into a motorcycle while stopping to photograph a sparkly bangle shop. The driver and I apologized to each other. What a mess that would have been for our karma, especially since he had the white stripe tika on his forehead, indicating a priest caste. Sparkly bangle shops are my nemesis: continuing along the dark, rough and muddy shit-filled street, I fell while being distracted by another sparkly bangle shop--everyone local laughed their asses off, by the way. I would have expected to be humiliated, but in fact, the moment passed quickly—so much for ignoring embarrassing moments. Skinned knees, but what a memory! 

Napping quarters at Karauali Palace

Day Seven: Miles of Mustard

A very blissed-out Hanuman in our room at Karauli Palace

Bumping along the highway and its assorted dirt-road turnoffs, I couldn’t help but notice the trees, which were bereft of leaves and most branches. At first I thought, “Well, it’s winter.” Then I realized the tree branches had been cut as high up as a man (or woman, most likely) could reach—for fuel. We passed numerous bright green and yellow mustard fields, huts made of rushes, and cleverly stacked piles of “poop chapattis”:  bullock dung patted into neat pancakes of burnable fuel. The air smelled like wood smoke rather than what one would assume.

We arrived at the village, and our stay for the night, Karauli Palace, the estate of the former landowners (who still live on the property). It was, hands-down, absolutely fantastic. The grounds were immaculate, and included stables, cowsheds, orchards and a lovely and productive garden. Our room was decorated in red and white with beautiful red-mirrored spreads plus a long satin pillow in bright red, and a heavy carved-wood door that locked with a funny old padlock. Outside the heavy door: a wide lounging bed with a futon-like mattress and more satin pillows to nap on. The room was lovely except for the odd position of the toilet and the bucket shower not five feet from each other; when you took a bucket bath (shower would have been worse) the marble floor became as slick as a Bollywood hero. Since broken legs would have cramped all our styles, wet towels on the floor were the perfect antidotes. After lunch in the sunny courtyard, we repaired to our rooms or to the outside lounging beds for a rest; I went to the little shop on site and had my hand hennaed. Interesting process, and very relaxing…

Later that day, the group walked into the village of Karauli to the Hindu temple to witness the fire ceremony—the ritual worship of Lord Krishna. Night was falling, and we were the main attraction all the way through the village. I literally shook hands with dozens of little kids who would shyly come up and say, “Hello”. Everyone stared, but in India, this was commonplace.

There was a puppy in the street when a tractor came along. It ran over his tail (not harming him apparently) and the rest of us stood in horror as the double wheels of the tractor were about to crush him; a quick-thinking boy bravely reached under the oncoming machine and threw him aside. The puppy squealed in protest, and the boy walked away as though nothing had happened.

We reached the temple just before the fire ceremony.

Me and "the hand"-- I'm looking pretty blissed-out myself.
photo by Joe Trinidad

To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.

Day Six: A Jeweled Movie Palace and a Palace of Jewels

In the afternoon, we had the opportunity to attend a showing at the Raj Mandir Movie Palace—and what a palace it was! The place was packed, the interior well described as a pink cupcake. The bathrooms were typically Indian, with upscale “squalaters” (that’s a combination of squatting, water, and squalor—these were actually quite nice, and I was getting used to the butt-to-heels-plus-garden-hose-spritz). Unfortunately, it was a fairly serious movie without English subtitles, so we left early to accompany Mo. Ali and his handpicked squad of tuktuk drivers to the “Monkey Temple” (a hilltop temple dedicated to the sun).

Feral pigs, bullocks and dozens of monkey families populated the road up to the temple. A 10Rp bag of peanuts would feed dozens of monkeys; most were remarkably well behaved, taking the peanut from our hands politely. Some monkey mothers were very protective of their babies, who exhibited real fear—not every visitor had good intentions. The walk up the steep road was rewarded with a panoramic view of Jaipur—a much bigger city than could be assessed from the back of a tuktuk. We watched as the sun cast red-orange shadows on the sandstone buildings.

As the sun set, Mo. Ali picked us up at the bottom of the hill. People had brought extra produce and leftover food to leave on the road for the animals, and it was a mad scramble of pigs, monkeys and goats, chasing rolling fruit around like opposing soccer teams. I said, “Happy happy” and a man who was dumping a load of green fruits smiled, repeated the phrase over and over, laughing as the animals chased down the fruit.

Our guide to the Monkey Temple

On the way back, Mo. Ali and the tuktuk squad brought us to a jewelry salon. Jaipur is famous for its precious and semiprecious stones, and many of the pieces shown were marvels to the eyes. As a non-buyer--totally worn out by this time--I wasn’t the most popular person in the room. The earrings I looked at were $250, way beyond anything I’d want or need, but if beauty is its own reward, these were worth it.

One last thrilling ride (“Is this a street?”) and we were back at the hotel, ready for dinner, a night’s sleep and a morning bus ride to a village named Karauli. Delhi’s and Jaipur’s pollution was manifesting in many of us as sore throats and runny noses; riding around in a tuktuk invited that sort of thing, and the value of scarves held over the face cannot be underrated. Got into the habit of putting a little salt in a napkin to gargle and nose-flush (sorry, TMI!), so made out pretty well.

Our Heritage Hotel Guys

Before we left the Heritage Hotel, I gave out several of the uber-sweet macaroons I bought in Delhi. They asked for more, so I dumped most of the package into a bowl for the staff to share. Karauli was several hours away, so we loaded ourselves into the bus and off we went. We were stymied a few hours out by massive road construction in a village, and sat for an hour in Indian-style gridlock: our bus driver, dozens of tuktuk drivers, camel carts, bullock carts, public buses and trucks were trying to nudge each other out for the one space that led out of town.

At a railroad crossing: a good time for a call and a camel

Day Six: The Stars, A Snake, A Palace

In the morning, we went to Pantar Mantar; the astronomical observatory built by a genius, Jai Singh II in the early 1700s. Designed for the observation of astronomical positions with the naked eye, the site—which looks like a modern sculpture garden--embodies several architectural and instrumental innovations. I can’t express how amazing these structures are, carefully built to observe the time, seasons, movement of planets and stars—all still accurate today. Pantar Mantar was used not only for scientific observation, but also for prediction of astrological events. Many contemporary Indian marriages and other major life transitions are planned according to astrological birth signs, and millions closely follow astrology every day in India.Outside on the sidewalk, there was an actual snake charmer with a basket full of cobras. For 10Rp, you could take his picture—I realize it was totally touristy, but I had to do it.

City Palace courtyard

Nearby, the City Palace gave us another opportunity to delve into India’s rich past. One small museum displayed textiles: jackets, dresses, and saris heavy with gold- and silver-thread embroidery and block-printed fabrics. Another, the weapons gallery, showed a very different side of India; for most of its history, vast tracks of land in India were worked by serfs and peasants under the rule of incredibly wealthy rajas and maharajas (sound familiar?). 

They were nearly always at war with one another. The artfully displayed weapons in the gallery, everything from carved jade-handled daggers to worked-iron chest protectors to massive scimitars weighing 20 or more pounds (it could slice a horse and man in half with one blow) are testimonials. To witness why so much wealth was worth fighting for one need only look up; the ceilings in the gallery are painted to resemble ornate Persian rugs, or inset with hundreds of tiny mirrors to reflect evening lamplight.

Day Five: Beauty and Buyer Beware

The Amber Fort (Amer Palace) rests quietly near an artificial lake, reached by a sandstone-paved road rising 300 feet from the entry pavilion, the Ganesh Gate (battalion of hucksters: check). A few elephants, painted with colorful designs, were available for tourist rides up the hill. Elephants in the flesh are elegant beasts, bodies fortified with incredible strength and eyes gleaming with intelligence.

Several of us marveled at the fact that this wasn’t a world heritage site; it was absolutely stunning with its mirrored walls and manicured gardens, courtyards and stone screens, protected by a long great wall and another fort above the palace. This was, without a doubt, the high point of beautifully executed stonework I had hoped to see in India. That, and the guide hired to tell about the history and lives of the family that owned this palace (there were photographs in the bookstore of the beautiful last maharani accompanied by Jackie Onassis) made for an enchanting afternoon.

Below, in the lake, students celebrated the second day of a festival dedicated to the Hindu goddess of knowledge, Saraswati --they floated the flower-decorated figure of the goddess into the artificial lake in spite of the chilly temperatures.

Surprise! Mo. Ali speaks good Japanese (and a decent smattering of other languages). Ambitious and smart, this fellow is all charm and only a tiny bit larcenous. By now, we’ve all figured out that each person we deal with has connections: when they bring buyers in, they get a cut of everything sold. In Ali’s case, his choices were mostly good, so we didn’t mind. The drawback is, you may miss something your really wanted to see—in this case, only Virginia and her mom actually made it to the bazaar where the prices were considerably lower than any of the shops we were led to.

Mo. Ali asked us about our interests and insisted on taking us to "his" place. We entered an iron-walled yard through a tiny door and came into the tie-die place, muddy with giant 5-foot round wood fired vats of dye, and dozens of red, blue, green and yellow dresses hanging in bunches. The yard was littered with cast-off bags and other garbage, and we tried not to notice the single boiling finishing vat was the color of urine. The owner explained the process they used, and took us inside for a demonstration of hand-stamped fabric, something Jaipur is known for. Upstairs, mound upon mound of goods were laid out before us, which is the oriental technique; it overwhelms the senses until you numbly hand over your credit card. I did. I strongly suspect not all the items were made there, as claimed. And when I washed my beautiful hand-stamped, organically dyed dress for the first time, it must have missed India, because most of the colors ran off. Caveat Emptor is India’s new motto.

To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.

Day Five: The Best—and Worst--Way to Get Around

After an early wake-up call, we made our way to the New Delhi Station. It had rained, so the platforms were puddled, which didn’t deter a few waiting travelers from napping on the cold cement, covered with a blanket. A train is absolutely the best way to travel in India—Chime bought us AC Chair Car class tickets for our five-hour journey to Jaipur. A bottle of water, newspaper and dinner (Meals on Wheels!) was included. Chair class (180Rs) is the least expensive of the four100km train ride classes (1^st class was 550Rs). Train fares are by distance, with several classes for each distance. WikiTravel has a good rundown.

The Irrepressible Mohammad Ali

With what appears to be almost as many animals as people, Jaipur is a huge city of tiny shops chock-a-block against one another resembling open garage doors or storage units. Lots of camels were harnessed as beasts of burden, and pigs and dogs are everywhere, feasting on garbage that is swept into piles for them. Odd to think of it as effective recycling, but it works—how else would all the “free” animals wandering about survive? Thanks to the rain, the broken streets were pools of water, mud, animal scat, garbage, and the usual chaos. We arranged for tuktuks at the train station (as opposed to bicycle rickshaws, tuktuks are highly personalized three-wheeled motorcycles covered with colorful vinyl). The motor sounds like a lawn mower, and is started much like one too. Our tuktuk driver Mohammad Ali took Matthew, Pamela and me on Mr. Toads wild ride to the hotel, talking non-stop, with an unusual disregard for the boundaries of road, sidewalk, pedestrians, bullocks, and oncoming traffic. It was fun; after several days in India, I was getting used to gasping in terror then being flooded with relief.

Courtyard of the Heritage Hotel

After settling in at the Heritage Hotel (definitely a step up after the functional-but-basic Suncourt) and a quick lunch, we careered toward the Amber Fort, about seven miles out of town, and one of the most worthwhile architectural monuments in the golden triangle.

Day Four: Eat for Free!

Chime introduced us to the Metro—the crowding made Tokyo train cars look like empty warehouses—thank goodness for the first “ladies only” car, as we were back-to-bosom all the way. We all managed to rendezvous at the famous Chowri Bazar, a warren of shops and nameless alleys selling everything from street food to underwear. Nothing compares to this major visual overload. Chime does not like to shop: We literally ran down the street known locally as the wedding market; incredible beads, laces, and trims beyond gorgeous for those who made their own saris. I probably could have lingered there for a couple of days. Overhead, the electrical wiring was in itself a thing of wonderment. One power line was usually spliced into 20 others—in America, every power pole would have yellow hazard tape around it.

After our shopping-free sprint, we went to Jama Masjid, the most famous mosque in India, built by Shah Jahan in 1650. Four gates surround the courtyard of this huge and peaceful place, which can hold up to twenty-five thousand worshippers. Women in pants (most of us) and men in shorts were given either full body dresses or sarongs to wear, though we were allowed to refuse if we chose; women were asked to cover their heads and men were given caps.

A few blocks down the street, we paused in the waiting room of the Sikh Temple before washing our hands and feet in the fountains on the entry steps. Inside, we sat a few moments while the Sikh holy book (Guru Granth Sahib) was read (a continuous process that takes several days for each reading); the book is considered to be instruction on both the spiritual and material life of all Sikhs. Author Pearl Buck wrote these words in the introduction to a 1960 English translation of the Guru Granth Sahib: “I have studied the scriptures of the great religions, but I do not find elsewhere the same power of appeal to the heart and mind as I find here in these volumes. They are compact in spite of their length, and are a revelation of the vast reach of the human heart, varying from the most noble concept of God, to the recognition and indeed the insistence upon the practical needs of the human body. …They speak to a person of any religion or of none. They speak for the human heart and the searching mind.”

We were led to the communal kitchen where we joined other volunteers in food preparation, then ate lunch on the floor of a gymnasium-sized room, seated on 50-foot-long sisal mats. The lunch consisted of daal and chapattis served on tin plates; the temple feeds hundreds of people for free all day, every day.

Audience Hall of the vast Red Fort

Chime left us on our own after that, and we milled about like lost ducklings for a few minutes until several of us decided to go to the nearby Red Fort. 

For a World Heritage Site, the fort was ill maintained, a disappointment. Bamboo framework held up some of the structures and the gardens were untended. As Claudette, one of my troop pointed out, Europe was in the dark ages when the Red Fort was built; India lead the world in architecture, mathematics and astronomy. Now we see two men with sledgehammers busting up an ancient monument to stick an iron rod in it so they can build a bamboo scaffold to hold it up. Rumor has it that there are so many palms (and I don’t mean trees) being greased in political circles in Delhi and India that everything is sliding to ruin. The Red Fort was a sad example.

Josef and I decided to skip the group visit to yet another tomb and head for real coffee. We took the Metro to Connaught Place, the “British” part of town, found a Starbucks-like cafe, and enjoyed the first real caffeine hit of the trip. Espresso! Brownies! Yes! I fear I am one of those tourists I’ve make fun of, minus the socks and sandals. Wait…I did wear socks with sandals on the plane….

To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.

Day Three, Night: Dazzling

There was a Hindu wedding procession—a barat--on the street that night—probably one of many taking place in the month of February, an astrologically favorable month for marriages in Delhi (I learned lots more about the significant role astrology plays in Hindu life at the Pantar Mantar Observatory in Jaipur). Most Hindu wedding ceremonies take place late at night and last from three to seven days. A tent was put up blocking both lanes of the street a few doors down from the hotel (this is typical for families of brides that do not have a courtyard or large private space). The groom—who carried a baby--was slowly pulled along in a carriage by a white horse—he, the child, the horse and the carriage were all decorated in glittery white trappings. As the procession slowly moved forward, he exchanged the baby for a blanket of rupees. A rag-tag band of musicians played (quite possibly itinerant bandwallahs that make a living moving from wedding to wedding during the season) and a dozen young men danced wildly as a small group of beautiful young women in glittery saris walked along with the carriage. A battery truck preceded the carriage, powering two or three hand-held towers of lights about the size of small Christmas trees. The lights were carried by men and were connected to a long power cord. Unfortunately, the power on the truck failed so there might have been a noisy discussion about this when it came time to pay up (the bride’s family pays for the wedding). The music went on until 1AM and started up again at dawn. The groom was on his way to meet his bride, and the ceremony would take place over the next few days accompanied by joyous, noisy celebration. I would have loved to crash THAT party…

Day Three: I Get to Pretend I Know What I’m Doing

Dome of the Lotus Temple

The next day, I met Greg who was also going on the Intrepid tour; we rented a taxi for four hours from India Travel Organizers and went to Delhi hat (spelled Dili Hat on the map), a government facility of artists and craftwork from around the state. The cabbie, after being thoroughly instructed in Hindi (a truly lyrical language) by Raja Burza, took us everywhere we wanted to go. Dili hat was a disappointment--same hard sell cloaked in charm; but hey, I bought two things (charm works, on me at least). The salesman, a slick and handsome English speaker, called himself Harry Potter; his job was to get tourists in the door. Neither of the items chosen fit, and Harry promised their tailor would fit the garments. Greg and I waited 30 minutes (while enduring a spiel from an artist who claimed his work would not be found anywhere else—it was everywhere, actually) and they handed us two bags. I foolishly didn’t try the garments on until I got back to the hotel and discovered only one had been fixed. What to do? Perhaps I could deal with the ill-fitting garment the last day of the tour when I returned to Delhi, a prospect that didn’t fill me with joy. My lesson two, the art of argumentation, was still in a nascent state.

The Lotus Temple

Our excursion also included the Lotus Temple, a gorgeous Sikh structure south of town—the building reminiscent of Sydney Harbor’s opera house. Of course, the lot outside was filled with hawkers plucking at our sleeves. Saying “no” 20 times a minute (sometimes to the same person) is tiring at best. At worst, it’s enough to make you shriek--but no one would hear over the constant noise from the streets. Oddly, the noise and press of people didn’t faze me—I’m an ex-New Yorker after all. However, the omnipresent pollution eventually took its toll on all of us.

The gang at the Sun (Monkey) Temple,  Jaipur

That night, the Intrepid group met for the first time and I acquired a roommate: Ann, a former pipeline worker from Alaska. We also met our guide, Chime (pronounced “Chimmy”) Dolkar, a tough and tiny Nepalese woman with a brusque manner. We all went out to dinner: Greg (Australia); Claudette (Canada); Pamela (London by way of Texas); a family, Mom Sue and grown-up daughter Virginia and son Matthew (all originally from Australia, though Virginia lives in Qatar at the moment); Josef (Australia by way of the Philippines); and Axel (Frankfurt, Germany). An interesting and varied group who were to become good friends over the next few days; we women supported each other through a tough introduction to a completely different culture, and the men became our companions and protectors. It didn’t take long for us girls to figure out we were a lot less hassled if we had a male companion, especially if we walked behind him. I’m not kidding.

To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.