S/V Tavarua

Train rides in India are good only for insomniacs. We booked 2 Tier Sleeper A/C bunks and both ended up with bookings in the upper bunks. The layout ends up being a ‘compartment’ of six bunks, two along the narrow aisle walkway with curtains to keep you from staring at someone’s passing bum (been there, done that), and two sets of two bunks facing each other. We ended up in the double set on the cramped upper (windowless) bunks on this train with a middle-aged Indian couple on the lower bunks in control of the noisiest fans on the planet. Our fellow bunkers were quite a pair. Finely dressed and good looking, is the one thing we can say about them that is kind. And then our thoughts turn sour. The sound effects from the pair was amazing. We had loud chatting, gut-wrenching burping followed by high-pitched singing and an unending stream of turberculosis sounding coughs that lasted the entire evening and night. Hopefully, they were on their way to the hospital in Mumbai for those coughs or maybe some singing lessons. And if that wasn’t enough to keep us awake, the next compartment down had a family full of young children that kept the youngest baby in fits for a solid eight hours from teasing and that with youthful energy rampaged the train car peering at everyone through the curtains for long durations letting the florescent lights pour down on everyone. “Chai-e-Chai-e!” sounded so quiet out of the tea seller against the din.

Derrell kept saying during the trip, “Wasn’t this supposed to be the Orient-Express? Like we should have a butler and be refreshed when we arrive?”

Nope.

Bleary-eyed and feeling like we were up in the middle of the night, we headed out into the humid morning air of Mumbai and dealt with a new taxi system, (a system saturated with con-men). The system, which eventually with much discussion and a few turns away from the negotiation with complete disgust on our part, finally worked out in our favor as the guidebook said it would: run the meter, multiply it by the official card rate increase the man has in his pocket (13 times the meter), and add a few Rupees for baggage. This was a hard won negotiation by us, as evidenced by the discussion by the taxi driver with his fellow drivers (about a group of 20) that had been “helping” the driver negotiate with us. A lot of shrugging and head nodding and ‘it was worth a try’ laughs punctuated that three minute face saving, see you later exchange. And I must admit, this is a moment that you can only appreciate in hindsight, after you catch up on your beauty sleep and forget the assault of sweat dripping down your neck and pungent urine and oil smell of the street. Hmm.

Our first impression of Mumbai was amazement at how green the place was. We found palm trees and banana trees, humid air, and center dividers on the roads full of flower gardens that were sponsored by large businesses in the area. That is about where the pure beauty ended, though. The buildings were mix of crumbling, dillapitated Raj-era architecture, shanty-town tin-sided creations, the ubiquitous garage-door Indian-style store fronts and a handful of pseudo-shiny high rises. The effect was odd. I had a desire to run a scrub brush over the town and give the place a good sweeping. It might actually shape up to be a city under the gray layers.

Once again the blurb from the guidebook gave some context to what we were seeing. The population in Mumbai is around 12 million, half of that is actually real city and the other half is one of the largest slums in the world. They estimated that 10,000 people a day were pouring into the city looking for work. On the other hand, 50% of the country’s export revenues flow through the city ports. So, there are (possibly literally) ‘boat-loads’ of money flowing through the city. Bollywood movies are also made here. Can you mix up more of a contrast that that?

Our big hope for the city was dashed that afternoon. The movie theater, the Regal Cinema, had a ‘Sorry, We decided to Close.’ sign on the outside of it. The owners were opposing an Entertainment Tax and closed March 13th or thereabouts. This, along with the raiding of the dance clubs, a few nights earlier that arrested over 500 twenty-year olds in the city… and the tone of the city was subdued. Nothing like a bit of corruption in the Tax Boards to really cheer up a city and cause work for the local journalists.

So, with nothing much to do but wander the harbour causeway, we did just that. Thinking along the way, that since we only had three more meals in India and a brutally timed flight out of the country, we would eat safe. Well, it was a hope. Recommended restaurants or not, India has the most appalling hygiene on the planet. The unexpected treat of my afternoon was picking up something from the restaurant that gave me a second roll of the dice with something very akin to a stomach flu. So the remainder of that afternoon and all of the next day in Mumbai was spent sending Derrell out for water and then rolling around in agony cursing the Indian sub-continent cooks with every gut spasming curse I could come up with (which was not very creative given how low I was feeling).

With a good dose of some awful bacteria making havoc inside me, we arose at 1:30 AM for the one hour drive to the airport. The city looked much different at night. The streets were free of cars. A very good thing, since headlights are again optional and all traffic lights are apparently there to be completely ignored. Actually, we considered the rule might be: Speed faster through blinking red lights, and even faster through solid red lights. Beyond the empty streets, a few restaurants were winding down, owners and cooks lingering out in front chatting in white aprons. Stray dogs were awake and wandering energetically everywhere; that was a refreshing sight, since we had not seen a dog move during the heat of the day throughout the entire country. We figured a new ‘Prone’ dog breed existed. And then our vista changed… we turned a corner in the road… and people were sleeping on the sidewalks and on the bridges, everywhere. Hundreds of people lying out on the sidewalks, zonked. There were many men sleeping in their spotless Taxi cabs, which did not look quite as comfortable as the street but did look like a cleaner bed. But the poverty of the area and homelessness… Oh, Mumbai…

The Mumbai airport was much more airport-like than Delhi’s. It actually had a small shopping arcade, seats for waiting (not enough, of course) and a tiny British Airways lounge (one cramped room) that looked out of place but had free sodas and actual copies of the Economist. Not that we got more than a five minute break in the lounge.

It took 55 minutes in the amazingly mosquito-infested airport to get through the immigration line. We wondered how it could take so long to get exit Visa stamps, but we discovered how when it was our turn. Derrell was asked no less than seven times where our port of entry was. Each time his response was ‘Delhi’, a very slow and pronounced response by the seventh time. Well, that was not a correct answer it turned out. I finally interjected ‘New Delhi’ and the vacant faced man bluntly nodded then informed us we had too many stamps for him to find our entrance stamp. We found them for him and then he took another five to ten minutes to inspect them, write in a ledger, type in a computer and finally stamp us out. I wanted to wrap a stomach cramp around his neck by the time he vacantly shooed us on our way. Guess you have a job for life, if you want it, in the Immigration and Customs department. The other flights headed through immigration where headed to Nairobi, Abu Dhabi, Kuwait and Bahrain, so we had plenty of shady characters that kept ending up in the immigration chief officer’s office looking a bit worried. All of them made it through eventually, but they seemed to have awoken the Indian bureaucracy’s god of slowness and they somehow managed to have a special gift of slowness bestowed upon themselves. We deemed ourselves fortunate.

Our last few minutes (half-hour) of waiting to board the plane was spent in an overlit flourescent lobby at 4 AM stuffed to double capacity with a TV blaring an Islamic prayer while showing folks circling the Ka’ba, the great black square in Mecca. For a mostly Hindu population headed out on a flight to Bangkok and Hong Kong (think Buddhism), it was a bit surreal.

Actually, India itself is surreal. Nowhere else has seemed quite so far away from home. And good to visit. And horrible to visit. And interesting. And appalling. And heart-wrenching. (And needless to say, stomach-wrenching.)

The country has made us discuss politics (and cricket) more than usual. The poverty is brutal. The overpopulation makes it hard to vision a path (let alone an easy path) to creating basic infrastructures to support a mere billion people. The society is kind. The arts are colorful. A sense of optimism exists in everyone. And yet for us, it is the most disheartening place we have encountered. It just comes down to the numbers. How do you add sewage systems, fresh water, health care, steady electricity, paved roads and compulsary education to multiple cities of a million people with a poverty line at over 30% of the inhabitants? China, next door, sounded so outrageous with its harsh family planning law of one child, and the environmental atrocities of building such huge dams. It now seems to us, it might be the most compassionate thing that the China government could do for its people.

Nothing is so black and white in political design when it comes down to a billion heartbeats, eh?

We caught a movie over at the Raj Mandir theater in Hindi. The movie, Khakee (Khaki) was a long three hour movie about a police chief and staff, something about a corrupt police officer, a girl love affair (complete with Bollywood dance numbers), and a mistaken identity that resolves the plot, thrown together with lots of crash, chase, cheesy gore and good explosion scenes, and a RayBan wearing cool guys rumbling through a traditional cow market creating a stampede with their firearms. It was a Titanic of a movie, everything you could put in a movie was in it.

The theater itself holds about 1,500 people and it was about half full. (The India vs. Pakistan ‘test’ 5-day Cricket match is underway.) That did not dampen the clapping, hooting, laughing, clapping and cellphones during the movie though. The theater is a cousin from a long-gone era of theaters in America. The architecture was fantastic. Green lighting making it look like the interior could have been from a 1940’s alien movie set, long drape curtains, plush reclining seats, air-conditioning and a great sound system. A full experience regardless of what was playing on screen.

Our weirdest moment of the day (and there are ever so many to chose from), was when two teenage girls ran across the lobby and demanded our autographs on a 100 Rupee bill. We figure it was Derrell’s long hair, earrings and sunglasses perched on top of his head. It was a rather silly moment, but maybe we can count it up as one of our minutes of lifetime fame?

Derrell is currently posting some back entries starting with March 13 (Agra), so we should be finally caught up with India.

This afternoon it is back over to McDonald’s (which has a surprisingly good espresso machine) for a safe lunch. (We may recover from our second round of food poisoning yet.) Then another fine 20+ hour train ride down to Bombay.

Hmm… we are wondering if we can catch Lord of the Rings in Bombay. We heard from two different sets of travelers that it was playing, and it may possibly be one of the loudest audience participation movies that one could attend in India, and who could ignore air-conditioning when it is offered? Ah, the thought of air-conditioning….

Well, we are finally connected again. We tried a few times in the last towns, but between power outages in the afternoon and evenings and 33K modem connections… we gave up. We’ve got a few entries from the past few days that I typed up on Derrell’s laptop, so hopefully we’ll get those back entries posted.

As for Jaipur, India has gone hot. It is getting up to 95 degrees in the shade. Add two people with digestive systems that are not up to snuff, allergies for one of us and a persistent cold for the other and I think we’ve progressed to the whining stage of the trip. That is, when we aren’t guzzling water.

India is starting to look the same to us, but definitely not normal. How can you call a country where your animal count includes camels pulling carts, decorated horses pulling carts and oxen pulling carts through an intersection that has countdown crosswalk timers? Oh, and a few cows on the median strips along with a pot-bellied pig or two rummaging through the garbage just to spice up the smells and view, while a guy in pristine white wearing a turban walks by talking on a cell phone?

There are a few differences in Jaipur from the other towns. It has an industrial center, so the poverty does not look as severe. Hey, it even has paved streets, some global joints (Pizza Hut, McDonald’s) and a knock-off Starbucks chain, called Barista. This along with a bigger variety of sitdown restaurants means that there is actually a middle class here. We have stepped back into the modern portion of the country. Well, at least when you squint and ignore the farm animals.

Shopping is a big deal here. We’ve seen groups of women bargaining in the brightest colored fabric stores on the planet. The rows of cloth are vibrant saffrons, yellows, reds and pinks. Many bolts are translucent with sparkles and embroidery. Everyone’s shoes are off and piled outside the store. The white mattresses that cover the shop floors have layers of fabric that is currently being displayed to the women who are carefully discussing and inspecting it. The men working the store are pointing, explaining and pulling more folded cloth from walls stacked with colors that would make sun look pale. We were curious just how long it took to make a sale. Everyone looked like they were camped out for the day and making a good tea party out of the event.

We wandered the bazaar streets of the Pink City, watching where we stepped, and passed all sorts of one room stores. Kitchen goods, VCD players, cassette music shops with a handful of CDs for sale, tire shops, automotive scooter and motorcycle repair row, food stalls, sweet shops, marigold flowers for shrines in piles on sheets, western wear piles, cabinet handles displayed, bracelet and bangle specialty kiosks, handmade mirror stands, basket weavers, furniture makers and a few chickens in cages. An amazing amount of stuff, an amazing amount of smells, an amazing amount of soot from the rickshaws going by in the streets, and as always, an amazingly large quantity of cows to walk around.

We visited the City Palace in the center of the Pink City (the Brits painted the entire city pink inside the city walls in honor of some dude in the 1800’s and the colorwash has stayed in vogue ever since). We inspected two silver urns, reputed to be the largest pieces of silver in the world - forged in 1890 to carry the water of Ganges to England. They looked very urn-like, a bit shiny, enough so that we could see our blurry reflections, and about our height. A fine addition to any oversized outdoor palace grounds, I’d reckon. Some dude wouldn’t bathe or drink anything but. I guess that was before the river went septic. The grounds also had a number of carriages and royal conveyances that dripped with style and luxury. Those guys were living the good life.

Considering yesterday’s train ride to get here, we pondered travel in the 1800’s. For instance, being hauled along behind some oxen in one of these carriages we were looking at, over bumpy roads, of course, really sounds like some humorous quirk buried in the caste system for those too rich to walk. On the other hand, travel in the 2000’s hasn’t really improved matters all that much. We had a train ride that was a 26-hour lurching ordeal with starts, stops and people slamming the door on the way to the loo all night long. So, as for yesteryear and still today, we cannot deduce why anyone voluntarily travels long distances in this country on anything but foot.

We changed hotels from the Radisson to the Hotel Temple on Ganges over by the Assi Ghat. Varanasi is on the Ganges and the ghats (steep steps to the river with a temple above them) number around 100. This is the holiest Hindu city on earth (”the city of Shiva”) and thousans of pilgrims come to bathe in the river each day.

It’s said that if you die in Varanasi, you’re guaranteed ‘moksha’, or liberation from the cycle of death and rebirth, and everyone here seems to know it. Public cremations also occur at designated burning ghats, although we did not actually see any burning occurring when we wandered by, but then again we didn’t look all that hard either. Barges sit nearby with piles of fresh wood, and your family is charged afterwards by however much wood it took to send you on your way. Some who can’t afford to burn just shovel the bodies into the Ganges where they can sometimes be seem floating downstream.

It turns out we spent our entire morning changing hotels. The traffic through the center of town was so gridlocked that it took us an hour and a half to cover the 4 KM. Our auto-rickshaw wallah got 90 rupees for the ordeal (about $2 US) and felt he got a good deal out of it, which he probably did. It should have been closer to 50 or 60 rupees. The difference in economies still baffles us here. Modern encroaches on the traditional and the resulting prices always ensure some surprise. It’s always more for us of course, as has been explained to us many times with a smile, “What’s another 10 rupees to you? America is a very rich country…” So there you have it.

Our afternoon was spent pleasantly walking through the museum at Benares Hindu University. The paintings and stone sculpture on display were from finds all over India, some of them line the hallway in piles. A few were from Khajuraho, so we got another good inspection of the carvings and were still impressed with the detail. A few college students were scattered about on the floor doing pencil sketches of the statues for art classes. So we inspected them, as well, and the detail was just as good. The museum also contained some old pictures and sketches of Varanasi and it did not look like it changed much from the waterfront view.

Our evening had us wandering along the banks of the Ganges towards one of the most popular ghats, the Dasashwamedh. Bells were ringing, drumming and banging was pounding through the air. Altars of marigolds, oil lamps in tree tiers were being danced before a rapt audience of pilgrims, candles were being lit and sent out into the river, stalls in red lighting were selling red and gold altar cloths, beggars were plying their trade of gaining you good karma and food and chai was being sold. The smell of incense was in the air, and every few feet we were whispered to if we wanted to buy some hash. Christmas lights were strung up along the streets, fruit and flower stands were everwhere. Children were crowding shrines where adults were tossing out treats. It was festive beyond compare. We strolled our way along the street with the pilgrims and took in the sights, sounds and smells of the place. For once, India was smelling good (only two cows had wandered by us). Everywhere we looked people were laughing and smiling. Now, this was a pilgrimage that we could appreciate. Sparkly shrines, good food, good music, fire and dancers, a chance to go swimming, and morning mediation to the sounds of flutes. What more could you ask for?

Well, the only thing we could ask for is that they clean up the food hygiene. This time Derrell managed to find some food that had him doubled over the next day. We figure it must have been the milk custard he had for dessert, since everything else we had shared. Then again, we could not really be sure. Sewage still runs out into the gutters. Flies are everywhere. Cow pies are everywhere. Men are urinating everywhere. Food in many of the stalls is uncovered. Folks must have one hell of an immune system built up from living here. Especially if they bathe or swim in the river, the fecal count in the river, according to the guidebook is 1.5 million/1 mL. The safety level for swimming is 500/1 mL. It goes on to note, the water is so septic that no dissolved oxygen exists in the river. Some progress is being made in cleaning it up by upgrading and adding some sewage systems, but we considered that bathing might get us liberated from the death and rebirth cycle a bit sooner than we would like. We wondered how the election promises were currently going.

Our travel day to Varanasi was one of the most uncomfortable days we have ever had. The train was to leave at 12:00 and arrive in Varanasi at 2:45 PM. We arrived at the train station at 11:00, since one of our seats was wait-listed. Getting our seat assignment we settled in for a quick thali lunch and watched one of the only arguments we have witnessed in India over a gent eating his sack lunch in the train station “restaurant”. We did not mind the argument, since it occupied everyone’s attention and we were able to hang out for an extra half hour while the issue was settled. Then the hell started…

We found one of the few seats available in the station. Most people were sprawled out on the filthy ground covered with orange peels and litter. Swarms of flies, thousands of them were on the ground everywhere we looked. Not too many landed on us at any given moment unless someone walked by and stirred them up. The heat was excruciating with no breeze passing through. Beggars were regularly interrupting us for a rupee every 15 minutes or so. And so we waited. And waited. And waited.

Our train was 8 hours late.

It was 10:30 PM by the time we arrived in Varanasi. M80 firecrackers were being set off in the parking lot in baskets when we arrived. We were immediately informed that India had won the cricket game. A good reason for everyone to go deaf, if you ask me. The scene at the train station was amazing. All trains were running late and Varanasi is a huge pilgrim destination. Everywhere we looked was a sea of people sleeping on the ground.

Surrounded by about six touts, we made it out towards the ‘pre-paid’ taxi stand which of course was closed. Along the way we passed about 20 families cooking over open fires on the dirt median between the taxis and auto-rickshaws. There were people everywhere, at least what we could see between the con men pushing us along towards their taxis. Our early in the day goal had changed from going to a guesthouse in the old town (which is not reputed to be completely safe at night) to getting our butts over to a Radisson we found while hatching a backup plan on the train. We skirted the touts by veering in front of some police officers and got a bored looking auto-rickshaw driver to negotiate with us before they physically surrounded us again. It took me to forcibly push a guy repeatedly out of our vehicle before we could leave. That slimy, persistent bastard was up to no good; he either wanted to redirect us to a different hotel or get a commission for delivering us to our hotel. We were having absolutely no part of his crap. We left him cussing us out in the parking lot, and us muttering about the nightmare of the day in general.

The hotel was wonderful. The shower worked. There were no mosquitos. The room was quiet. Oh, thank you, Krishna and Shiva.

The food gods must have taken pity on us finally. We had a great food day in Allahabad. We were the only foreign tourists in the town which made wandering the streets easy and hassle free (except for the ubiquitous street urchins that kept tapping us for rupees). We headed over to a popular restaurant, El Chico. This place had absolutely nothing to do with Mexican food, but it had wonderful Indian and Chinese food in a subtly decorated atmosphere and it was full of business power lunchees punctuated by families out for good food. Derrell was ecstatic to note that a full three tables were playing with their mobile phones, just like the “real” world! From there we braved the street stalls in the afternoon and found two sticky sweet treats, a masala coke (Coca-Cola with spices, salt and lime added to it), and a mitha paan (betelnut wrapped around coconut, dates, saffron, doused in lime paste). With finding the best restaurant on our journey since we left Delhi, we headed back for dinner and it did not disappoint us even on the second visit.

Our afternoon was spent lazily at the Nehru museum, the Anand Bhavan. This was a glassed in house showing the furniture and bookshelves of the famous family in a building in which Jawaharlal and his daughter Indira both lived and worked. The walls were covered in books discussing country development, political reform, and government design. You could almost hear the reverberations of discussions surrounding Indian independence from Britain. Pictures of Nehru and Gandhi were everywhere.

Holy Cow! On our travel day from Orccha to Khajuraho, we had met a couple from Israel and ended up sharing a taxi for a three hour trip because the bus was running late. This was a good choice. We had a comfortable ride and good conversation (and, yes, Arnold was asked about). On our way out, from Khajuraho to Satna, the distance was the same, but no taxis were in sight. So, we opted for our only choice, the bus.

The bus turned out to be a beater school bus with no shocks repainted white in the distant past but now showing more of a grimy soot color on the interior. At the start of the trip, there were only 11 passengers and by the end of the ride passengers were overflowing and a few standing. The distance traveled: 110 KM. The duration: 4.5 hours. The number of stops: only 3. The road condition: unpaved giving way to potholes surrounded by pavement. The iPod with noise canceling headphones was the only reprieve we had. We considered we might have lost our hearing completely due to the racket the bus was making over the 4-wheel drive road conditions, if it wasn’t for the headphones. Shouting we could barely hear each other.

At one point, the road traversed through the Panna National Park, a sanctuary for 30 Bengal tigers. We could see why the tigers are colored the way they are: golden brown leaves on the ground with leafless trees dressed in dark shades of bark. We also contemplated that the tiger’s biggest threat is lack of habitat. Given the surrounding 1 billion people growing by 20 million new additions a year in the country with 75% of the population still rural, we then considered that the tigers are horribly outnumbered. 30 creatures versus 1 billion. Hmm.

We arrived in Satna with faces a dull grey from soot and road dust, and our clothes looking like we rolled around on the ground in them. Our hotel actually had hot water and a back up generator, and we were able to kill the seven mosquitos in the room, so we were in heaven. Our dining experiences at the hotel restaurant were another matter. With complete communication breakdown, we interacted with the waiters during dinner and breakfast. It went something like this: I’d like the vegetarian rice. There is no milk, cream or yogurt in that, right? Yes, ma’am, there is none. Order arrives: Covered in cheese and cheese mixed in the rice. I look at Derrell. Well, you did not actually ask about cheese on the Biriyani rice, now did you? Sigh. Breakfast: I’d like an espresso. A half coffee-half tea, sir? No, this on the menu, an espresso. Do you have it? Yes, sir, we do. A moment later. Would you like coffee or tea? Uh, no, an espresso. Ah, okay, sir. Many entrances and exits from the kitchen with lots of discussion. Order arrives: Two cappachinos. Order is sent back. Could we get coffee? Yes, sir. A moment later. Would you like a pot of coffee, sir? Yes, that would be good. Order arrives: A pot of half coffee-half tea. Double sigh.

We did not realize how good we had it in Orchha, a small town with no push to buy souvenirs, use a guide, rent a bicycle, get on a rickshaw or buy postcards. But in hindsight…

We counted how many times we were approached (some following us for many meters) between our guesthouse and the restaurant a single block away while we made certain to talk to each other and not look at anyone or anything but each other and to walk fast. The count? 31 times. Ugh.

So why do tourists put up with the hassle and onslaught? For the some of the best preserved temples in India. The temples are in a remote area and thus the Muslim invaders did discover them and fulfill the cutting the heads off of carved ‘idols’ part of their convert the locals to our religion program. A good number of temples were taken apart and redistributed throughout the world in the 1800’s and made it into many museums, and as such, San Francisco’s Asian Art museum has a number of the stone carvings from the temple. Of the temples that were left intact, they bring a sense of awe when you view them. The inside and outside surfaces are full of carvings, showing gods, goddesses, warriors, musicians, and the ever so famous Kamasutra sex scenes showing all sorts of possibilities. We noted that in 950 AD twins were out for men with a harem, triplets were in. Not all the carvings were of sex, but there were enough that the little old lady tourist groups were giggling and blushing as their guide was pointing out the details with a sun-powered light pen (a small mirror reflecting the sun to show them where to look). The handful of tourists were amusing as the scenes that they were eyeing.

The second day, we dealt with the harassment from young kids wanting to be guides while we bicycled out to the eastern and Jain temples. It took a toll, though. We were not mentally prepared for the onslaught while on bicycle. As we peddled by the school, every child we passed (in school uniforms, carrying lunch, books, wearing good shoes), asked us for a pen and a chocolate. (What on earth are the tourists doing here? Being miniature Mardi Gras parades?) As we made a turn through the old town (full of overt poverty), a well dressed kid offered to show us the caste system at work. We were horrified. Approaching the temples, all tourists in sight (a full six of us) were being trailed by kids that should have been in school that were instead trying to con us into going shopping or being a guide. It was rather difficult to admire the temple with someone standing next to you jabbering and tapping your arm. I was thinking that joining the buffalo in the mud and having a few Egrets perched on my back might have been more preferable.

We survived the town, though. And actually thought it was a worthwhile stop. The art and temples were stunning.

Not eating at all works on travel days, but the heat wave that struck India certainly does not help. Nothing like 100 degree weather with nausea, stomach cramps and your bones aching like you have the flu. Bah.

Despite the whimpering and whining, Derrell got us to Orccha on a train that took only two hours longer than the expected 1.5 hour trip. After arriving at the train station, we had a bumpy, dusty, adrenaline raising 40 minute ride at dusk in an auto-rickshaw on a pothole laden road and realized that headlights are an optional feature in the evening on moving vehicles and then had an equally astounding second revelation that buffalo standing in the middle of the road at night absorb light like a cluster of black holes in space. We were glad the auto-rickshaw was new and the brakes worked.

Orccha is a small town of 8,500 people and surrounded by temple and palace ruins. The ruins have just been sitting for the past 200 years with no one bothering with taking off with the sandstone or rebuilding on top of them. We wandered the set of ruins on the island in the middle of the river and got some good views of the countryside. We paused in the shade to consider that winter is at a close with summer temperatures running rampant. Throughout the countryside, many of the trees are without leaves or are holding a winter bare branches look and a few are displaying a last holdout of yellow fall leaves. This became so noticeable as we looked over the land from the top of the palaces. The trees near the river were lush green and full of monkeys and birds, and the distance just a soft gray backdrop. There were Hindu temples with pennants flying dotting the landscape, many more than we had expected, about one every kilometer or so. And despite my state of health and Derrell turning into a human sweating machine, we had to admit it was a good view.

We headed out onto the full blown tourist track and took a train over to Agra. We had not reserved a seat on the 1.5 hour train ride, so we ended up in General. Anyone who wants to get on the train can get a ticket, regardless of the train car capacities. With some good humor, we wedged ourselves onboard and ended up a full three feet later at the open door at the other side with a good view of the countryside rushing by us. That was our place for the next 2.5 hours with many people squishing by us to use the loo or to sell chai. We had a good chat with the gentlemen sitting in the aisle, and not surprisingly, upon hearing that we were from California, he asked us about Ahnold. We hung our heads in shame, then turned the tables on him and asked him about the Indian elections coming up this next month. He uttered the same sentiment that everyone seems to have here. The politicians promise the moon (water treatment plants, electricity without outages, sewage systems installed, hospitals), then the election passes and they live like rich men and absolutely nothing happens.

We’ve been reading the Times of India newspaper when we can, but the Hindustani Times seems more prevalent. Like South Africa, the papers are very country focused and world news is relegated to a half page (at best). The stories covered are the elections (BJP wanting to tear down mosques, Congress party wanting religious factions to be represented, etc..), the cricket game (”ODI - One Day Invitational”) between India and Pakistan, U.S. elections as relating to political stances on outsourcing (the basis for new wealth and development of a middle class in Bangalore and Hyderabad), fashion and Bollywood. No comment on AIDS or population control. At least Africa was tackling those two issues with a vengeance. We did see a few statistics on one of the news channels on population, though. The latest census has shown a 20% increase in population since 1991, and they expect the population to reach 1.5 billion people by 2050 or sooner. And Derrell just shuddered at this mornings newscast: 40% of Indians are carrying tuberculosis, a full 30% of the world’s TB population. SimCity is a bit of a wreck. The politicians will have plenty of work to do.

When we finished our evening with political discussions over the newspapers and great sighs evoked from the realization that it is impossible to get basic city infrastructure rolled out easily for a billion people. We headed out for dinner down a dirt road and found a good restaurant serving masala dosas, a rice flour pancake fried with dried cilantro and spicy red pepper that you eat with a spicy potato filling. That served along with a fresh lemon soda (club soda with 1/2 inch of fresh lemon juice in a glass) was fantastic. And the power only went out for one minute or so during dinner.

Our second day in Agra took us to the Agra Fort and the Taj Mahal. The fort had a spectacular view across the dusty river basin to the Taj. The fort had some of the same delicate jewel and stone flower inlays as the Red Fort in Delhi. You could envision just how luxurious of a lifestyle was underway with the marble floors, baths, views and stonework. Extrapolating a bit, the carpet, pillows, fabrics and lamps must have rounded out the atmosphere of the time. The place was first a military base, turned into a palace and finally a beautiful prison for the Shah Jahan where he could gaze out at the mausoleum he built for his wife. As for the Taj Mahal, we were in awe that such a structure was built. As romantic as it might be to build such a building for your ‘favorite’ wife after she dies giving birth to your 14th child, that was quite a few resources (20,000 builders over 22 years) to employ for a gravestone. The ‘romance’ continues to turn fanatical when you read that he had the thumbs cut off many of the architects and builders hands so they could not recreate a building of such perfection ever again. On the other hand, ignoring the lunatic funding the creation, the architects and builders did create a masterpiece. The gardens were flowing along the pathways with hundreds of tourists, with colorful saris making the scene look festive and summery. The ghosts of the creators should be proud. The mausoleum is in perfect condition, glistening white under the Indian blue skies. We were surprised to see that we had been there as long as we had which allowed us to catch the sun change the color of the white marble as it set. We were just a tad disappointed the fountains which line the gardens were empty that day. One waterway was being refilled in the late afternoon and the reflections from surface were stunning.

One moment of note, while we were in the gardens was watching a red-head be asked to hold a baby girl by a group of girls. She was a bit taken aback but I did get a picture of the full group together after she figured out that it was her very white skin and red hair that was the such a draw. We were amused until we were then targeted by another family. This time Derrell and I both had a one year old on our laps and the family crowded around for a picture with us. It went fairly well until the child on Derrell’s lap looked up at him and saw his beard and burst out in a full wail of terror that echoed across the marble platform and lasted for a half hour with many giggles from the group and embarrassment on our parts until grandma finally calmed the tears. Before this we also encountered a group pointing towards us saying, “There’s one! Look! He has long hair and earrings!” This happened a number of times, usually from men holding hands, which as often as we are seeing it, looked just as peculiar to us.

At the end of this long day, and after seeing a few more carts with decorated camels. I realized that it was a major mistake to have had fresh mango juice that morning. It was the beginning of what I now know would be four days of digestive disaster. Ah, India… now where is that clean water supply the last government promised?