Fatehpur Sikri

On a day trip from Agra I dragged August out to see the ruins of Fatehpur Sikri, a ghost town built by the great Mughal emperor Akbar. I was especially excited having seen the 4-hour Bollywood period-epic, Jodhaa Akbar, at a theater in Delhi. Admittedly it was a bit hard to figure out the details of his life without subtitles, but I filled in that Akbar conquered most of Northern India in the 17th century, and generally promoted religious tolerance. He built Fatehpur Sikri as a utopian city for philosophers of different religions. Unfortunately he chose a location in the desert with no reliable water source, and the city was soon abandoned.

We decided to skip the expensive restored palaces, in favor of wandering the neglected ruins of the city that spread out over the valley behind. We had them entirely to ourselves, with the exception of some boys playing cricket and some men staying cool in a tower near the caravan serai.

When we went back to town to catch the last bus home, we found out it had been canceled. A mob of touts tried to hustle the ten or so stranded foreigners into taking a taxi, but August and I escaped the crowd, sticking like glue to some young Indian men August had been sitting next to on the bus out. While everyone else piled into the taxi, we went with our new friends to catch a train leaving in an hour for a 5th of the price.

As it turned out, we spent the next three and a half hours sitting in the station, attracting clouds of mosquitoes and staring men. The young men who had come to our aid told me they were also visitors to the area, training in Agra to become hoteliers (explaining their remarkable English). As we sat talking together on a ledge in the station, a crowd gathered around us, listening attentively in a semi-circle as though we were gurus dispensing wisdom. I think they were actually just fascinated by the sounds of the foreign language, but it was quite the illusion from my perspective.

When the train finally came we got to have our first experience with traveling on the Indian railways. It was a second class coach, which meant there were no reserved seats. Indians on the whole have much less of a sense of personal space than we do in the US, and are generally much less standoffish. What this means for train travel is that the carriages are packed beyond anything we would tolerate back home. Technically there are demarcated seats, but in second class carriage the boundaries are entirely ignored. What sense would it make for one person to lounge about in a whole seat and make another passenger stand or even miss the train, when they could both fit? On average, they can fit about 16 people into seating intended for 6, in addition to people standing back to front in the aisles. No one is truly comfortable, but at least the comfort is fairly distributed and everyone gets where they need to go.

Admittedly, the higher price of the touted taxi did sound a lot more reasonable when we finally collapsed in the hotel around midnight, without having had dinner. But what kind of a story would we have to tell then?

Gwalior

After a short jaunt up to Mathura, birthplace of Krishna and modern home of the Hare Krishna "movement" ("cult" seemed a little more accurate when we got lost and wandered into their commune), we caught a bus down to Gwalior. Gwalior is known primarily for its hilltop fort, which overlooks the bustling modern city.

Inside the fort were an assortment of palaces and temples. This palace, you will notice, is decorated with some very unique tiling.




We were pretty overheated when we came down, and stopped to have a cold drink. Coca Cola has never been so appealing as it is here. I think I have had more Coke in India than the last five years in the US. The glass bottles (which you have to return immediately for return to the factory!) make all the difference cold against your lips, and it doesn't hurt that the pop is made with sugar instead of corn syrup.

So, after the Coca Cola ad ended, we went to see a more recent palace, part of which is still inhabited by the ruling family. The luxuries of which extended beyond pink hand-blown chandeliers to a dining room served by a miniature train!

As we were walking across town, a group of young boys insisted I take their picture. Who was I to refuse?

Agra

You've waited for pictures, and now you can see that when it rains it pours. About a month ago now, August and I woke up at 5:00 am and went to see the Taj Mahal at sunrise. I might usually aim at being inconspicuous as a traveler, but it is a little known fact that after people hand over the $20 (!) to visit India's icon, they have no choice but to turn into picture-snapping maniacs. So we decided to go all out, and make the most of this opportunity for shameless glamour shots. I even dressed up for the occasion in the beautiful silk outfit from Pratishtha's mother. Hope our fans appreciate the effort.









Oh, and the Taj was pretty, too, built of glowing white marble inlaid with semi-precious gem stones (as demonstrated in one of August's characteristic angle-shots). But what picture of the Taj could be original, except one personalized with our smiling faces?

Constantly Changing Plans

(More troubles with computers, so no new pictures yet.)

The Chinese government certainly seems to be taking an interesting tactic on handling tourism during the Olympics. Besides the block on permits to visit Tibet, they have canceled all international trains from Beijing to Russia or Mongolia from June to September. I guess they want everybody to be in town for the Games?

Our new solution is to get to the Mongolian border on a national train, walk across, and catch a Mongolian train to Ulan Bator. After a week or two seeing the wonders of a beautiful country free from tourism (who's been to Mongolia?), we can catch the Mongolian branch of the Trans-Siberian express near the end of July.

As for Tibet, we are getting closer to giving up and finalizing our flight reservations from Kathmandu to Beijing. We still have to decide where to spend the extra time, though. In India, we have decided to add Darjeeling, and possibly Calcutta. Maybe a week long Himalayan trek in Nepal? And it would be nice for August to see a little more of China before he flies out.

But for now, we are enjoying a slightly more leisurely pace here in Varanasi. In fact, I think we are going to go and have a very very rare cup of coffee at a fancy cafe this very moment.

The Step Well

I never could have expected how much time, effort, and stress this picture would cost. August read in the Lonely Planet guide about a day-trip we could take to see a unique ancient well in Abhaneri a tiny village an hour and a half out of Jaipur by bus. That sounded like the perfect opportunity to get out into the countryside, and meet more people who would be friendly instead of greedy. So the day after the Monkey Temple we woke up early and headed to the bus station, ready for adventure. And adventure is what we got.

To get to Abhaneri, the guide said to take a bus to Sikandra and then catch an expensive jeep, or catch a bus to Gular and walk 5 kilometers. So, preferring to walk, we wandered around the bus station asking for a bus to Gular, and some nice men pointed us to one. The driver confirmed when we asked if the bus went to Gular, and we were off. Two hours and a Rps. 150 ticket each later, we started to get pretty worried. Some more questions revealed it was the bus to Delhi. Where else would tourists want to go? So we got off and caught a packed 2-hour bus back to Jaipur. I was forcibly offered a third of a seat next to a reluctant family, and August had to stand.

So, we weren't to be stopped by a 5 hour, $10 detour. We continued asking. I've now figured out that there are two towns called Sikandra, one of which has the great Mughal Emperor Akbar's tomb. And that there wasn't a bus to Gular. There is a bus from Sikandra to Gular, that you can take instead of the jeep. Once we got to Sikandra, the tiny bus onwards to Gular was very friendly. A beautiful woman offered me a small fruit, sort of like a miniature pear, and they seemed very amused at the ten or twenty words of Hindi I've picked up so far.


As we were walking on from Gular, some wood workers called us over and suggested we take a picture of them working. I obliged, though the man in the picture seemed a little embarrassed. Further along the road, a nice man pulled up on a motorcycle, and was very insistent that we should take him up on the offer of a ride. We zipped along through the lush farmland, watching the women look up at us from harvesting wheat by hand. Children ran out of the houses to wave and yell hello, and it felt like our adventure was turning out all right after all. When we got to Abhaneri a few minutes later, I thanked the man profusely for his generosity, and was about to offer him something for the gas when he held out his hand and said something I couldn't understand. I gave him a confused look, and he said, very distinctly, "fifty rupees." Now, Rps. 50 comes to about $1.25, but you have to keep in mind that a proper auto-rickshaw from the town would have cost about Rps. 25. He continued to insist, and a 13-year-old came over and started heckling us in English, suggesting he should demand even more. We gave him the money, not wanting to make the village angry, and went to see the step well, followed by the young heckler.

The well was amazing. It descended the full depth of a normal well, but in a steep cascade of stone steps, so that people could bath as well as draw water. The elaborate hand carving seemed completely out of context in the thatched huts of the modern village.

The sun was starting to sink towards the horizon as we turned back towards Gular, wary of any passing motorcyclist. No one offered us another ride, but my faith in the kindness of strangers had been shaken. It happened again later when we visited a mosque in Fatehpur Sikri, and a man started to lead us around like one of the many aggressive tour guides that descend whenever we approach a site. When we explained we had no interest in a guide, he took great offense and explained that he worked for the mosque. I apologized and explained how easy it was to make that mistake. He then followed us out and around the courtyard, insisting we visit a certain shop. Ah me.

Walking towards Gular, the children we had seen earlier came running out again, spouting what at first sounded like gibberish. Then it turned into a resounding chorus of "Pens!" "Chocolate!" "Five rupees!" and more strangely "Shampoo!" Apparently that is what tourists mean to them. Each group would eventually relent, when they reached the end of the invisible leash tying them to their houses.

After a long stretch of undisturbed walking, we saw some children come out on a crossroads a way ahead of us. Then more. And more! There must have been 20 children standing there, waiting for us with more shouted demands. We kept walking, but more and more came running out until they formed a mob all around us. I couldn't help but think of the monkeys the night before, and the feeling they would carry us off.

Eventually the mob mentality did turn ugly, and they started shoving, then throwing dirt and rocks. We kept stoically walking forward, not wanting to do anything to turn their parents against us as well. At last an old man walking th opposite way scolded them, and they gave up. We made it to Gular covered in dirt, just before dark.

The two buses back were packed like sardines, and almost completely devoid of light. Five men started asking a lot of questions, and kept laughing and talking about us in Hindi. When they asked where we were staying, my instinct of niceness overrode the what might have been better sense, and I told them. They left us alone then, and August saw a most disturbing turn of events: First one eyed me up. Then he gave some money to thuggish looking one, who started eying August up. Then they made some phone calls.

When we got off the bus, there was an auto-rickshaw waiting, and it was a choice of getting in, or standing around with the guys from the bus. We took the ride for a high price, but couldn't help worrying he was in on some plan arranged by phone. We got out as soon as we saw a landmark we recognized, though it seemed later that all he was scheming was to try and get us to go to his friend's hotel. However, our paranoia didn't cease until we were back in the hotel room, with the door firmly locked. We never got a knock on the door in the middle of the night, but I did jump a little extra high when we opened the bathroom door and a rat scurried behind the toilet.

I hope this story doesn't worry any of you that I'm not safe here in India. We were never in any real danger, never stepping out of well-populated areas. It was more a feeling of disappointment. That was a day that shook our faith in our ability to trust in strangers, but I think the effect will be short-lived. Just a few days later a nice young man gave us a ride across town when he saw that the auto drivers wanted to cheat us. It was a sort of antidote to the experience from before.