Category: India 2013

Sunday, January 19th – Jaipur to Agra

When I check out of the Mandawa Haveli Hotel, I ask if all of the bathrooms are as palatial as ours and I am politely informed that John and I were upgraded to a suite. Although the towels were not as plush as at the Trident Hotels, the vintage, two room suite gave us a sense of place and the sunken, scalloped shaped bathtub with ionic columns was fit for a Maharaja.  I settle our bill which is a reasonable 4500 Rupees for two dinners, internet and laundry.

Agra Traffic

Where is the bicycle?

Our driver arrives promptly at 8:30 A.M. for our 5 hour drive to Agra. Our departure is delayed 20 minutes as I search the street for an ATM to replenish our rupees.  Last night, I tried to coax two different ATM’s to spit out the requested money but either they were out of cash or didn’t like my card because I left empty handed. The first one that I try this morning is out of cash but happily the one across the street has a full belly and gives me 10,000 rupees; the equivalent of approximately $200.

The drive to Agra is along a new highway and there is a regard for traffic laws and free of livestock hazards. We stop once briefly for lime sodas and an overpriced plate of finger chips (French fries,) at a tourist hotel and restaurant along the highway. At 2:00 P.M. we reach the outskirts of Agra, maneuvering through congested streets with the usual mixture of livestock, humanity, cars, trucks, motorcycle and tut-tuts. There is a cacophony of horns and sputtering vehicles mixed with our driver’s mutterings and cell phone calls.

Bicycle Courrier

Bicycle Courrier

We arrive at the gated confines of another Trident hotel, a garden oasis in the heart of Agra and are welcomed with the expected fruity drinks. After the recording of our passports and the exchange of vouchers we are escorted to our room overlooking the pool and identical in its arrangement to our room at the Udaipur Trident hotel.  With an hour before our tour to Agra, John and I pass the time in the hotels lounge, playing rummy and sharing a plate of samosas.

Entrance gate to the Taj Mahal

Our guide, “Sunny” arrives exactly at 3:30 and we are off to visit the Taj Mahal. He is young, self confident to a fault and wears trendy jeans and oversized sunglasses. For the first 10 minutes, John and I are minimally charmed by his cool façade and practiced lines but by the time we arrive at the Taj Mahal, his mannerisms are already tiresome. There is no doubt that he is well informed but his affected pauses between recitations of facts, as if waiting for an applause, make me wish for a fast forward button. The monumental, red sandstone wall and entry gate, is impressive in itself, keeping the majestic elegance of the Taj Mahal a secret until one passes through. Sunny repeatedly talks metaphorically, of the bride, lifting her veil for her lover and waits for our approving nods and awed inhalations after each recitation of fact.

The Taj Mahal

John making friends

When we step through the gate I am genuinely delighted and impressed by the pristine beauty and symmetry of the “most beautiful building in the world.”  The late afternoon light is golden and the sky a flawless blue but John’s and my inhalations of awe do not satisfy Sunny and he continually prods us for superlatives. The fountains are dry which lessens the visual impact to some degree, but I have a good imagination and the long iconic reflecting pool is painted a aqua blue to maintain the illusion of water. There are throngs of tourists and it is impossible to take a photo without other tourists in view but we do the best we can and stroll in the direction of the palace.

Taj Mahal tourists

Putting on protective slippers

View of the Gate from the Taj Mahal

A long line snakes around one side of the Taj Mahal and Sunny announces (drum rolls please,) that we have preferred tickets and do not have to wait in line. With a flourish, he passes us the required gauzy white shoe slippers so that the shoes of millions will not mar the marble floors and we are soon funneled into a circumambulation of the tombs within the small and dimly lit interior of the memorial palace. Photos are not allowed inside but we may take photos of the exterior and Sunny focuses obsessively on the multi color marble inlay and bas relieve carving along the exterior walls.  Admittedly, all is exquisite and the Taj Mahal is a spectacular architectural wonder, entitled to its World Wonder classification, but our guide is dulling its magic.

Detail of the Marble Carvings – Taj Mahal

Facade of the Taj Mahal

I soon surmise that this hype is to wet our appetites for a tour of a marble inlay workshop/factory following our visit here.   I tell Sunny that we do not want to go to this “workshop,” that I have been to similar workshops in Italy and in Egypt and understand the process and am simply not interested in visiting another.  John is in agreement but perhaps we should have conceded since John has never visited one of these marble inlay workshops. Sunny is disappointed but suggests plan B, a visit to Kohinoor Jewellers, an embroidery and jewelry gallery and museum.  Emphasizing the museum factor, he tells us of elaborate works of gold and gemstones and a world class tapestry gallery. Not ready to return to our hotel, we agree to this alternate plan and soon pull into the securely gated parking area in front of a large dark grey two story building.

Taj Mahal at dusk

We are escorted up a few stairs and enter a formal foyer where we are greeted by a slight and impeccably dressed man of near 70.  Along the walls of the hallway leading away from the foyer are a number of 4’ x 6’ stunning embroidered bird tapestries, illuminated and enclosed behind glass. Peacocks and parrots and intricate floral bouquets shimmer vibrantly and we study the detailed and three dimensional silk embroidery pieces with respect and awe. Our polished and gracious host explains the process and tells us that each of the works was created by hand and the master artist, Padmashri Shams, passed away in 1999.  When he asks if we would like to visit the gallery of masterpieces, John and I enthusiastically agree and we enter a vast darkened theater.  The double doors close behind us and as our eyes adjust to the dim light within, I can make out, a half dozen or more, immense frames along the walls. There are no seats within this theatre and our host carries a remote control. With the push of a button, soft music surrounds us and with another point and click the shade on one of the frames begins to rise. Peacocks even more stunning than the ones in the hallways come to life behind the glass. As a well rehearsed performer, with perfected voice control and command of his audience, our host talks about the artist, explains the process and wets our appetite for the 6 more tabloids to come.  John is mesmerized and I envy his ability to simply enjoy this moment.  I too am amazed by the work but even more so by the presentation and I have no doubt that after an hour of this man’s attention, and the expenses involved to orchestrate this performance art, that we will be funneled into a gift shop and heavily pressured to buy. There are 7 tabloids and our host unveils each one in due time and each unveiling is more impressive than the last.  The 4th art piece is a floor to ceiling embroidered tapestry of Jesus with a golden lamb carried upon his shoulders and a flock of three dimensional and glowing lambs at his feet. For a moment, I wonder if this presentation is motivated in the sharing of the Gospel but our host focuses on the technique and non secular reasons for the artist’s choice of subject and there is no mention of theology.  In due time, the remote control activates exhibit #5, our favorite. This tapestry is in the center of the room that is presented as a table top display. It is approximately 7 feet square and is an intricately embroidered chess board in play, with a surrounding 8” border of every conceivable animal and bird in minute detail. We continue around the room to the final piece, a lush bouquet of flowers that the artist created as a gift to his wife on their anniversary.  We are within the theatre for nearly an hour and blessedly, Sunny remains quiet and allows our gallery guide to do his magic.  Our host asks us what our favorite of the pieces is and John and I unanimously vote for the chessboard with the animal border.

http://www.kohinoorjewellers.com

During the presentation, our guide tactfully inquires about us, knows that I am an artist and a jeweler and that John is a student and from our “frumpy tourist,” dress, presumably surmises that fashion is not high on my chart.  Before entering the theatre, down the hallway, I saw a gallery of embroidered purses and shawls and I loathe the thought of being funneled through there.  When we leave the theatre, our host asks us if we would like to visit the jewelry gallery upstairs and we accept his invitation and glide up a long escalator to the second floor. The vast upstairs gallery glitters with jewelry cases and he leads us to a bank of cases displaying silver earrings and bracelets set with semi precious gems. Both John’s and my eyes dart around the showroom searching for more interesting jewelry. It takes him only a few seconds to realize our disinterest in the low end commercial jewelry before he escorts us across the room to admire the high end designer pieces. He reaches below the counter and pulls out a very large worn moss green and gold velvet box.  Within is a stunning ruby neckpiece fit for a princess and he urges me to try it on but I decline, feeling shabbily dressed in a two day dirty shirt, crumpled jeans and a less than stylish Patagonian jacket.  John loves exquisite stones and well designed jewelry and points out pieces and refers to gemstones that most 20 year old men would be clueless about.  John asks me a random question about a stone and breathes the phrase “Tucson Gem and Mineral Show” into his question.  Our host’s eyes appraise us with new light and he asks of we would like to meet his niece the designer of some of the jewelry that we are admiring.  A stylishly dressed woman in her mid 30’s appears momentarily and greets us both warmly and warily.  Although we exchange polite greetings, I don’t know what this introduction is gaining either of us.  She knows I am a jeweler and is likely feeling protective of her companies designs and although I carry my fold out business card, I resist passing it to her, not wanting to leave even a few of my jewelry design images behind in a jewelry manufacturing studio.  We talk briefly about our experiences at the Tucson Gem and Mineral show and she mentions her brother has just graduated from the GIA (Gemological Institute of America) in Carlsbad. She lifts her cell phone and a moment later an impeccably suited man in his early 20’s appears beside her. We exchange more polite handshakes and John tells them that he has toured the GIA campus in Carlsbad and that he is considering going there after he finishes at S.F.S.U.  As a precaution, when I travel abroad, I wear little or no jewelry and they ask me where my shop is located and I explain that my jewelry sales are mostly online and at weekend fairs and festivals. She asks the address of my web site and writes it down and I am again tempted to reach into my purse and hand them a card to validate myself, but do not. We thank them for their time, compliment them on their elegant designs and make our exit as gracefully as possible. We have been within this gallery complex for close to 1 ½ hours and have not seen a single other customer, but when we step onto the down escalator, I see our original host gliding up and a trail of some 25 tourists following behind. I smile inwardly, hoping that he has more success with them than he has had with us.

Before dropping us at our hotel, Sunny passes us an evaluation form to fill out. Each of our guides has requested that we fill out these reviews, explaining that they are required by the company and each time, I feel that I cannot be truthful because our answers are not confidential. I find it interesting when I ask him the name of the Jewelry and Embroidery gallery that we just visited and he cautions me not to mention that we visited there, lest he get into trouble. I check excellent in each of the boxes and hand the review sheet back to Sunny.

We are resigned to dinner at the hotel and remembering the affordable mojitos that we enjoyed at the Trident Hotel in Udaiper, we sit in the lounge and order two without referring to the menu. The drinks that arrive are disappointedly small and accompanied by a dish of potato chips and nuts but the bill is disappointedly large. The lesson learned tonight is that although the Trident Hotels may look the same, their bar and restaurant prices are not. After carefully examining the a la carte menu we opt for the buffet dinner which although pricy, is excellent and opulent and we consume large amounts of salad and raw vegetables, a luxury that we have been missing.

January 20th. Agra to Jhansi Junction to Khahuraho

This is our earliest morning so far and I wake to John’s phone at 5:45 A.M. We have 8:15 A.M. train tickets to Jhansi, at which point we will be met by a driver to travel 4-5 hours further to Khahuraho. The Incentive Destinations tour company continues to choreograph our trip beautifully, seeing to every detail with a representative to help us each step of the way. It’s only a 10 minute drive to the train station where we are assisted with boarding the correct, and on time train to Jhansi. It is chaotic boarding the train; Indian travelers, a German tour group, John and I, are all trying to stow luggage and find assigned seats. We have boarded at the front of the car and our seats are in the back so we must work our way to the rear of the car. It seems that everyone who boarded from the back has assigned seats at the front so we jostle, squeeze and scoot our luggage along the floor as space opens up. The train departs before we find our seats but when we do, John hoists our bags onto the overhead rack and we slide into our pre-assigned places.

Train to Jhansi Junction

We have an unobstructed window view but the glass is scratched and filmy with grime. A well to do Indian family sits opposite us; three women dressed in brightly colored saris with gold borders and wearing filigree gold rings on many of their fingers. The father or perhaps the grandfather sits in the row behind and the two children scuttle back and forth between the rows. There is little of interest out the filmy window, allowing me time to type. Time passes quickly and we arrive in Jhansi at 10:45 A.M.

As expected, when we disembark onto the crowded and chaotic platform, a young man stands holding a small white sign with my name printed on it. We follow him obediently from the platform to a waiting white mini-van and within minutes we are driving the two lane road to Khahuraho.

Colorful Good’s Truck

Sunday Bathing

Holy Cow!

After leaving the chaos of the city our drive is mostly through pristine farm land. We pass by small rural villages, the buildings made of brick, many with roofs topped with tidy rows of mud shingles. Patties of cow dung are neatly piled in the sun to dry, as fuel for the fire. The hard packed dirt lanes between the houses are swept clean and free of trash.

Rooftop Children

Immaculate Village

Clothes out to dry

Our new driver is not only road competent but shyly contributes appropriate commentary and is insightful, stopping at places of picturesque interest so that I can take photos. At one such stop a handful of children appear instantly at my open car window and I ask our driver if we may give the children pencils? John pulls out a mixed handful of pens and pencils and our driver takes them from us to distribute evenly among the children. Within seconds the number of children have doubled and then tripled and John grabs another handful of pencils from his pack but even so, many of the children leave empty handed and disappointed. Cows lounge chewing their cuds, scrawny dogs sleep in the sunshine and families wash themselves atop the cement platforms of village wells. Mothers and teens pump water, fill buckets and lather naked children for their Sunday (?) baths.

Village Children

Village Children

Village Boy

We drive over a bridge spanning a wide and very blue river that supplies the drinking water for the region. The countryside is beautiful with fields of bright yellow mustard, chick peas and sugar cane. Clusters of date palms dot the landscape and we learn that Kaju is the word for date. The countryside is lush with banyan, teak and neem trees. Our driver tells us that chewing the leaves of the neem tree prevents malaria and that the twigs are used to clean the teeth. We pass many brick factories, their presence marked by scarred landscape and tall chimneys where the bricks are fired and piles and piles of bricks.

Brick Factory

We arrive at the Hotel Chandela just before 4:00 P.M. Our Incentive Destination contact is there to meet us and after the check-in formalities, asks if we would like to attend a sound and light or dance performance tonight?  I glance over at John and he looks pained at the very thought. We decline and our contact suggests a massage instead?  John and I are both road weary and a massage sounds wonderful and I inquire about the price. He tells us that massage prices range between 1500 – 3000 rupees.($30-$60) By American standards the price is quite reasonable and we are tempted so I take his card and tell him that we may call him. We also tell him that we are excited to be in Khahuraho and intend to go into town on our own this afternoon. Our Incentive Destination contact tells us that he cannot prevent “that” but suggests instead that we relax at the pool and rest. I am learning that there is not only a great cultural divide, but also a language and body language misinterpretation. I do not want to be coddled and kept in a gilded cage and some of our guides try to do so. Our contact leaves and John and I are shown to our room where we find the hotels “spa menu.” A 60 minute, full body oil massage is just 1000 rupees ($20.)

John and I regroup quickly and head out to explore the town. As we exit past the front desk, I schedule two massages for 6:30 P.M.

Khajuraho Temple Complex

Khajuraho Minarets

Motorcycle Friends

We are prey to the many tut-tut and trike drivers parked outside the gates of our hotel. 4 or 5 immediately descend on us and to be fair, we choose the first one, who peddles an open air trike.  John accepts the “peddlers” initial suggested price of 150 rupees for the ride to the temples, waiting for us, and for the return ride to our hotel. (This equates to just over $3.) Two young men on a red motorcycle ride slowly along side of us and strike up a conversation. The younger man is 24 and I surmise the other man is near 30. The older man’s English is good and he tells us that he is studying to become a guide, but I suspect he is studying to become a hustler. Nevertheless, I like them both and imagine that it will be nearly impossible to ditch them.  They become our shadow for the remainder of the afternoon, offering to show us the old village where they live and ultimately directing us to the left side of the gated Khahuraho temple complex where we are able to see over the walls and take photos of the temples in the golden afternoon sunlight. Our “shadows” hang back as John and I skirt the outside perimeter of the temples. John hoists me up onto a wall so that I can take an unobstructed photo but a guard inside soon takes notice and waves a disapproving hand my direction and I jump down.

Steps to Hindu Temple adjacent to Khajuraho Complex

Khajuraho Spires from Hindu Temple

Immediately to the left of the gated Khajuraho complex is an active 900 A.D. Hindu temple. The active temples have flags flying and after a group of devotees descend, John removes his shoes and mounts the rough-hewn polished stone steps. I follow and we enter the cave cool confines of the temple. A temple priest motions to us and asks our names, the names of John’s sister, my children, grandchildren and husband.  He presses flowers into the palms of our hands and motions for us to lean into a pillar. With our foreheads pressed against the immense “Shiva’s pillar,” the priest begins to chant out our list of names; praying for “good job” and “good marriage” and “good children.” The interior of the temple is tiny, cave cool and dark and a second priest sits cross legged just inside the entrance. As we circumambulate to leave he motions towards the donation tray and I deposit 100 rupees. He anoints each of our foreheads with a smudge of red and we exit into bright afternoon sunlight. We are followed by our “chanting-priest” who is not satisfied by our temple offering and asks for 200 rupees for himself. I tell him that is too much and he asks hopefully for 100 rupees which I hand over to him so that we may leave and that the prayers may be manifested.

Hindu Temple Devotees

Hindu Temple Priest

The two young men welcome us back into their clutches, leading us the short distance back to the town via the ghats of a small man-made lake, just the other side of the Hindu temple. A few lethargic men sit on the stone steps overlooking the lake and garbage stagnates along the edges of the water.

We ascend to street level and find the expected tourist shops and street vendors in the small town square. After having experienced the chaos of the markets in much larger cities, the relaxed ambiance of this town is a welcome change. We enjoy a few minutes perusing carts piled with brass trinkets and jewelry but we have promised to visit the shop where the younger man works. We follow him across the square to a store packed full of pashmina scarves and T-shirts. We manage to make a graceful and hasty exit but the second man reminds of our promise to visit his village and we must be back at the hotel at 6:15 for our scheduled massages. Our trike peddler is waiting and John and I climb aboard and he rides us back via the narrow streets of an adjoining village. I regret that we have the massage scheduled because this tiny village feels magical in the fading light and I would like to take my time. I take a few jiggley photos as we jostle along the uneven lanes stopping abruptly at the door to a bronze curio shop.

The shop is small and the shelves are packed with bronze figurines and hardware. A long and dusty glass cabinets is a jumble of more bronze treasures.  As a jeweler and sculptor, I feel confident that I can tell a good piece from a tourist piece but I am overwhelmed and confused and pressed for time. I know that we will not be able to come back tomorrow and the owner of the shop pulls piece after piece out of the case, placing them on-top of the glass for my examination.  I pull a few things aside; a small crude peacock figurine that might have been an ornamental tip to a pipe, several bronze pieces of hardware and a larger elephant figurine. I ask how much?  Naturally, the price is too much and John, my throw caution to the wind son, tells me several time to “think about it Mom.”  I do not heed his advice and make a counter offer of about half of the original price but I do not have the full $150 on me. Not surprisingly, after much choreographed resistance, my second offer is accepted and we hurriedly leave with our shadows following us and plans to stop at an ATM on the way to back to our hotel.

John stands back with the two men as I enter the ATM.  The machine regurgitates money and I pay the older man the balance due and our trike peddler returns us to the gated confines of our hotel.

Our massage will be 15 minutes later than scheduled which gives us both time to shower and prepare. We cross the courtyard adjoining the pool and enter the respective, male and female massage rooms. Although I have enjoyed a number of massages in my lifetime, most have been in foreign lands and I don’t imagine that I will every feel completely at ease, undressed and kneaded by unfamiliar hands. There is no soft music or incense wafting in the air but my masseuse, a gracious woman about my age wearing a simple sari, instructs me to undress and lie down and she competently removes much of the past two weeks of travel stress. John tells me that his masseuse was a man and that he was given a pair of paper undergarments to wear during his massage.

It is 8:30 P.M. when John and I arrive at the hotel’s restaurant for dinner. There are no tables available so we play two games of pool in the lounge while waiting for a table to vacate.  We are the only ones in the lounge area and the bored bartender is amused by our inexperienced game and offers up suggested plays to both of us. Today has been especially wonderful and I count my blessings that I am able to share this adventure so easily with John.

Monday, January 21- Erotic Khajuraho to Sacred Varanasi

Funeral ghat

Unfortunately, our guide continues his irritating commentary, even when John begins to light the votives and places them one by one in the river. John lights three to honor his friends who have died and we light the remaining two for mom and for Mizuho. Our emotions swell and I begin to cry and know that when we are back at the dock, we will buy more to set afloat to honor the memory of other departed friends and family. Our votives drift with the current, joining others and glinting bright against the midnight black of the river.

Lighting a prayer votive

Setting a prayer votive afloat

Holy man

Holy man

Varanasi Ghat Celebration

The alarm sounds at 5:30 A.M.  We dress quickly and head downstairs to wolf down the buffet breakfast before meeting our guide and driver at 6:30 A.M.  The streets are already bustling with traffic and in 20 minutes we arrive at the end of the trafficked street above the main ghat. Most of the shops are still shuttered but a chai stall ladles up hot milky tea and a few food carts are operational.

Morning Chai Cafe

The women with babes in arms are out early to catch the tourist rupees and many approach me imploringly. In the grey light of the morning, I observe that the babies, although dirty, look healthy and fat and I give my pocketed 10 rupee notes to the amputees and an old women scavenging along the street. We descend the long flight of stairs to the river ghats and watch morning rituals, both mundane and holy, in the grey light of dawn. It is apparent that many men spent the night sleeping here and we watch them sitting in intimate groups, huddled over small fires and holding cups of presumably hot tea. Pilgrims in saffron robes wait to board large wooden boats and we board our smaller vessel. This morning’s boat ride on the Ganges is included in our tour and we look forward to seeing the sun rise and watching the morning rituals along the river.

Boys preparing their boats for the tourists

Men gathered in the early morning on the ghats

A boy of about 12 rows our boat and our guide tells us that he paddles tourists each morning to earn extra money before going to school. We glide silently down river, keeping close to the bank where both men and women stand waist deep and wash themselves in the river.

Dawn on the Ganges River

Boat boy rowing

The men wear a diverse array of undergarments and are mostly shirtless but the women wade in fully dressed wearing their sarees. Some people stand with their hands folded in prayer or meditation and others energetically wash laundry. Mornings on the Ganges can be foggy and we are fortunate to be here on a clear morning.

Men bathing in the Ganges River

Women bathing in the Ganges River

Morning activity along the Ganges Ghats

Other boats with tourists and pilgrims are on the river and we see them silhouetted dark against the rosy glow of dawn. John dips his hand in the water and reports that it is surprisingly warm, but neither of us would relish a morning bath in the tepid and murky river. Our boat-boy paddles us downriver for 30 minutes and 30 minutes in return to the moorings at the central ghat. The boat owner looms dockside and our guide pays him an undisclosed amount and John tips the young boy 100 rupees for his hard rowing.

Morning activity along the Gange River ghats

Morning Prayer

Morning meditations

Our guide leads us along the shadowed narrow lanes of the old city in the direction of the Golden, Vishwanath Temple.

School Children

Narrow lane in the old city

We stop first at a tiny masala chai shop and our guide tells us that we need to leave all of our belongings here before passing through a high security check point and proceeding to the temple. As we sit on a narrow bench along the wall of the small tea shop a man from down the alley appears carrying a tray of steaming tea cups. We have not yet had our morning coffee and we gratefully sip the hot sweet and milky tea from the tiny cups and wish for more. John accepts the offer of a refill but I stubbornly decline, not wanting to feel further indebted when a sales pitch for the masala chai begins. I am uncomfortable leaving our valuables with the merchant but pass them over and follow our guide down an alley filled with soldiers. Perhaps it is just the presence of the armed soldiers but I can palpably feel tension when we pass through a metal detector spanning the width of the narrow lane. We snake our way towards the temple entrance but only Hindus are allowed entry and John and I take turns standing on a ledge to look above the cloistered temple walls to view the golden dome and spires weighing 800kg. They glint magically in the morning sunlight and and I wish that we could enter the temple grounds.

Narrow lanes in the old city

Unknown temple in alley way

When we return to the masala chai shop to reclaim our valuables, my suspicions are realized and we are treated to a full sales pitch for their special blend of chai along with a pitch for strands of beads that will lower our cholesterol, blood pressure and the cash in our wallets. Miraculously, and to our guide and the merchant’s disappointment, we do not succumb to the many, price inflated temptations.

It has already been a full day and it is not even 10:00 A.M. We drive back to our hotel, have the chance to shower and prepare for our afternoon visit to Sarnath, where Buddha delivered his first sermon in the Deer Park. The drive is less than 45 minutes and we begin by visiting the Mulagandha Kuti Vihar Temple, built in 1931 by the Mahabodhi Society.

Mulagandha Kuti Vihar Temple

Mulagandha Kuti Vihar Temple Bell

For me, this realatively modern temple is a highlight, painted with richly colored frescos by the Japanese artist, Kosetsu Nosu, depicting Buddhist art and literature. I am not well versed in the history of Buddhism but I am mesmerized by the fluid and graphic murals covering the walls. The illustrative, 19th century murals bring the stories alive and I come to understand much of the lore and can relate the means of presentation to the illustrated bible stories that I was taught as a child.

Fresco by Japanese artist, Kosetsu Nosu

Fresco by Japanese artist, Kosetsu Nosu

Buddhist Temple bookshop

An immense and stunning golden Buddha radiates compassion from the altar and a monk in saffron and orange robes sits reading, behind the offering box.  John is fascinated by it all and asks many questions of the monks selling literature at the back of the temple.

Mulagandha Kuti Vihar Temple Buddha

The ruins of the 9th and 10th century, Chowkandi and Dhamek Stupas are in close proximity to the Mulagandha Kuti Vihar Temple and after a brief historical overview, our guide sets us free to explore the significant site. John and I walk the maze of interlocking pathways and circumnavigate the immense stone Stupa but the red brick and stone ruins are overly restored and we do not feel any sense of history or place here.

Sarnath Deer Park

Stupa detail with gold foil offerings

Sarnath Stupa

The site is gated but we encounter a few woman and children who have slipped into the confines hoping to sell their wilted carrots in exchange for rupees. A boy of 6 or 7 approaches us and John gives him candy and hotel shampoo and soap packets from our 5 star hotels. His mother or grandmother appears momentarily and John gives her our remaining soaps and shampoos.  A 6 or 7 week old puppy staggers wearily at the base of a low wall and I search in my purse for any sort of nutrient and come up empty. We know the puppy will not survive the day.

John with boy selling carrots

A gift of hotel soap and shampoo

By mid afternoon our tour of Sarnath is complete and our guide and driver wish to be done with us and to return us to our hotel. Once again, I disrupt their plan and ask to be dropped off elsewhere.  John and I are salivating over the prospect of an evening on our own and with free reign, we set out to explore the souks and markets in Varanasi.

Weighing cooking oil

Brick layers

Boys hauling goods

It is magical to be set free and we feel seasoned enough to explore alone. Our trip is coming to an end and both John and I have a shopping agenda as we walk along the shopping streets and souks with determination.  We find ourselves in a Muslim shopping souk and peruse tiny shops filled with brass deities, spices and teas and jewelry.

A side street

Muslim women shopping

So as not to get lost, we set our internal G.P.S. on the main street and wander without hesitation or time constraints along fascinating alleyways. We bargain and buy 2 dozen bindis; (an Indian forehead decoration.)  John barters for brass Hindu deities and strands of beads that may or may not lower his cholesterol and blood pressure. We laugh when we encounter cows along the narrow lanes and I search for Indian Kurtas, a thigh length tunic and a possible souvenir for myself and for gifts. John and I have patience with each other’s quests and we trace and retrace our paths examining the splendid goods in the various shops.

Mannequins

Cows in the souk

Sarees for sale

Eventually we tire of shopping and wind our way out of the maze of shops, onto the main street and back to the Dolphin Café.  It is very late and the ghats below the Dolphin Café are deserted except for a few beggars and holy men. I feel anxious as we walk the deserted steps towards the café, but also exhilarated (and out of breath) as we climb the many flights up to the rooftop café. Tonight’s dinner is better than last nights and we are again alone at this roof top café, overlooking the blackness of the Ganges River and the ghats below.

After our late night dinner we have little choice but to walk back via the lonely ghats. We walk briskly and watchfully and arrive safely on the main street, now thinning out with traffic. There are still plenty of late night tut-tuts on the main street and we quickly choose one and climb aboard. As our driver maneuvers his vehicle into the chaotic late night traffic, I imagine that he feels triumphant to have scored a tourist fare, 20 minutes away. John and I huddle together in the back for warmth, still laughing and joyful from another adventurous day. Moments later our driver rear ends the car in front and the impacted driver jumps out and a serious argument unfolds. John and I stand by hesitantly as the argument escalates but soon realize that we have no part in this incident and another tut-tut driver swoops us into the confines of his vehicle and we are swept back to the safety of our tourist hotel.

Thursday, January 24th,

The India part of our adventure is over and we expect today to be no more than a day of travel and transition.

Our 7:00 A.M. wake up allows us time to pack leisurely before our final pick up for our flight between Varanasi and New Deli. As expected, the Incentive Destination liaison is waiting when we exit our hotels elevator. We are transported seamlessly to the airport but our departing flight is delayed two hours due to heavy fog. We have nothing significant planned for today and I am grateful that we had a clear day yesterday for our morning boat ride on the Ganges.

Our flight to New Deli eventually departs and when we exit the domestic terminal in Deli, a familiar Incentive Destination face holds a Marty Bobroski sign (always minus the e of my last name.) We offload our minimal luggage into the waiting car and an hour later, are deposited at the Inari hotel on the outskirts of the International airport.

Incentive Destination Tours has booked this hotel so that we can relax and sleep until our 2:00 A.M. wake up call for our flight to the U.A.E. The Inari hotel is in a no-man’s land, between the international airport and edged in by a 4 lane freeway. John and I are not good at relaxing and we are hungry and feel trapped in this plush and corporate hotel. The dining room prices equate to a Maharajas ransom and there are no taxi’s or tut tuts waiting outside the hotel. We ask the concierge how we might get into the city and he coldly tells us that is a very long ways away, suggesting instead, a nearby mall, 8 kilometers away. We have not seen a mainstream mall during our trip and this sounds like a good way to pass the afternoon. He tells us that the hotel shuttle will take us there for 1200 rupees each way. ($50 U.S. dollars for 16 kilometers of freeway travel seems excessive and I inquire about a taxi?) He writes down the taxis phone number but is disinclined to call one for us, so we exit indignantly, march down the palatial steps, cross the expansive circular drive way and pass through the hotels security gate. Joyful to be free of the confines of the hotel, we walk another 300 meters towards the main street in search of a tut tut or taxi.

Our flair of independence is blocked by the rushing freeway and we stand defeated in the dirt behind dented guard rails, quickly realizing that there will be no tut tut passing by. A few taxis wiz past but unless the driver spots us well in advance of the road leading to our hotel, it will be impossible for it to pull over and pick us up. There is a small triangle of dirt between the freeway and the off ramp and we stand in our presumably safe triangle and ponder our plight. Just when we are about to return defeated to our hotel, a sedan veers off of the freeway and pulls along side of us.  A woman in her late 20’s rolls down the window and asks if we need help? We tell her that we are trying to flag down a taxi to take us to the Mall. Her English is perfect and she tells us that it is doubtful that a taxi will stop here and suggests that we return to the hotel and phone for one. I lamely mutter that I do not have a cell phone and she immediately pulls out her cell phone and makes a call to a taxi service on our behalf. Several minutes later she hangs up, shakes her head and tells us that it will be over an hour before a taxi can be sent. She then makes us an unexpected proposition: She is returning from work, lives nearby and must go home first to relieve the nanny of her toddler.  She suggests that it would be a fun outing to go together to the mall and that we ride home with her to pick up her 3 year old daughter, after which she will drive us all to the mall.

I glance over at John; he looks quizzically at me and we slide impulsively into the back seat of her small sedan.  She is 28 years old with a 3 year old daughter and lives 5 minutes away.  We chat nervously as she drives, each sizing the other up. Minutes later, she pulls off of the freeway, drives a mile along a frontage road and we arrive at the gated entrance to her house? She tells us that we must wait outside while she drives inside a secure compound to pick up her daughter. We accept her “terms” and once again, John and I are standing in the dirt along side of a road. John, more observant than myself, is exchanging cautions glances with an armed guard looming sentry above the gate. I am oblivious, hot and unbearably thirsty and plop down on wooden rail just outside the gate. The tower guard is not pleased by our presence and asks us what we are doing there? (Apparently he did not notice our new friend offload us prior to entering his supposedly secure compound?) I rattle off a nervous explanation which is less than satisfactory to him and he calls down to us, telling us that we cannot wait here. I try again to explain, at the same time shuffling crab like 20 feet down from the entrance. Another armed guard appears from behind the gate, also unsettled and confused by our presence, but happily, the second guard determines that we are not a threat and asks if we would like some water to drink while we wait?  I gratefully accept the offer expecting a bottle or glass to be brought to us outside but instead the gate slides open and we are escorted inside the secure compound.  We tentatively enter a several room guard house, sink into stained and saggy couches and are handed two glasses of water. The guards have now switched from guarding to hosting and when we greedily drain our glasses of water, another guard brings us glasses of warm sweet tea, pumped from a thermos. Our eyes dart around the room taking in the framed photos on the walls; pictures of armed special force maneuvers, fighter jets and smiling soldiers with their arms thrown over their buddy’s shoulderss. I am no longer nervous and could sit drinking tea comfortably in this cool room with these handsome young soldiers for some time, excepting that our new female friend will be returning with her daughter soon and wondering where we have gone?

The door to the guard house opens, sunlight sneaks in, and a soldier barks that our friend is waiting outside. John and I rise quickly, offer our thanks, and slide again into the back seat of our new friends car.  I have forgotten her name but will  refer to her as Majaha and her daughter as Sanja. Her 3 year old daughter sits in the front passenger seat, buckled in but without a car seat. John and I sit in back. On our drive to the mall we learn that Majaha is married to a special forces officer and the family lives in the secure army housing compound.  Majaha is a teacher/phycologist and was commuting home when she spotted us along side the freeway. The 3 year old Sanja is full of questions, obviously precocious.

The 8 kilometer drive to the mall is fraught with obstacles.  Until today, we have not experienced an Indian freeway, but it is commute time in Deli and this multi-lane freeway is moving slowly.  We wait in the traffic jam of cars at a freeway toll gate before snaking slowly towards the mall. (I now understand why the hotel charged 1200 rupees for their shuttle.)  Pay parking is the only option and Majaha graciously pays the attendant the 30 rupee fee. We are scanned through a security arch and my purse and John’s back pack are put through an x-ray machine before we are allowed entry into the mall.

Majaha, Sanja and John

Hours ago, John and I wanted lunch and we are now starving. I offer to treat everyone to a meal and Majaha leads us up a central escalator along the upper level to a small cafe. The decor and menu are very Americanized with cushioned bench seats and low tables.  Majaha and Sanja confirm that they are vegetarians and I order a large Greek pizza to share. Everyone has juice smoothies and John orders a additional hamburger and fries.  We chat amicably and cater to the antics of an imaginative and hyperactive 3 year old.

After our late lunch we wander the upper level of the mall and 3 year old Sanja tugs us into a gaming arcade.  In addition to the usual arcade games there is a mechanical bull and I buy a 300 rupee game token card that we can share. We laugh as John is thrown three times from the bull and I am delighted to watch John and Majaha enjoying competitive games of air hockey and bowling. I am not much for games and am content to keep an eye on Sanja, who is happy to sit at the controls of driving and shooting games, simply watching the bright lights flash. I observe a cultural difference in mothering. It may be that I am the presumed babysitter, but when Sanja wanders off, Majaha seems unconcerned of her daughters whereabouts. Is it that we are in a secure mall or that Indian children are presumed safe from abductions? This may be a healthy outlook because Alisha and I panic instantly if either Molly or Sterling disappear from our site for more than a few seconds. After an hour, I can tell that even John is bored by the games but Snaja begs and whines to stay longer and gets her way. Eventually, Majaha carries her daughter, kicking and screaming from the arcade and I reflect on my daughters competent way of communicating boundaries with her children with minimal tears and tantrums.

Majaha receives a call on her cell phone and her demeanor changes. I imagine it to be her husband; perhaps questioning her whereabouts and wondering why in the hell she picked up two strange American tourists? It is dark when we exit the mall and return home in rush hour freeway traffic. Majaha advises us that she will not be able to take us to our hotel but that she will pull onto the shoulder of the freeway to let us out and that we should climb over the guard rail and walk back to our hotel. Horns honk, brakes squeal and John and I slip from the back seat of her car and quickly climb over the dented guard rail to presumed safety, practically sprinting up the dark drive way towards the lights of our hotel.

We have a 2:00 A.M. wake up call and our plans are to go to bed immediately but when we enter the hotel we see a wedding celebration underway on the garden lawn. The restaurant offers an unobstructed view of the party below and we allow ourselves to be ushered to a window table in the dining room, order a large beer to share, and recount the unusual events of our day.

I am not in Kansas any more and this is the great joy of traveling; the unexpected turn of the road when two cultures interconnect.