Wanderlust

The train. According to the movies, this is one of the most fabled, mystical experiences a person can have in India. When you bear in mind the delays, the unending obstacles—dogs, sleeping people, crowds—and the fact that all signs are written in Hindi, perhaps “classic” is a better word. We easily caught our train at 6:10 this morning. Save for a screaming, pooping, miserable little girl, we had an effortless ride. Endless desert plains replaced Delhi’s throbbing urban sprawl as the train ambled its way into Rajasthan.

This vast, arid region of Northeast India is named after the Rajput, a 1,000-year-old set of warrior clans known for their glitzy traditions and reckless bravado. Nobody’s waging war with ivory-hilted swords anymore, but Rajasthan remains steeped in history, with sandstone forts, camel trains, and the yawning, ruins-filled Thar desert beckoning tourists with promises of Indiana Jones-like adventures. Unlike smog-clogged Delhi, Rajasthan promises wide-open spaces, room to breathe. This is something we’re much looking forward to.

Delhi is a giant human anthill. It must have taken at least two hours to get out of Delhi’s traffic-infested urban sprawl and onto the highway to the Taj. The road to Agra is flat and nondescript, a superhighway with fields on either side and a pollution-white sky. Agra kind of resembles its name: guttural, industrial, dirty, with hints of agriculture. It’s so polluted here that visibility is less than half a mile.

We spent a freezing cold night at a budget hotel and headed for the Taj early the next morning. The Taj was built by Mughal Emporer Shah Jahan in the mid-1600s as a tomb for his second wife, Mumtaz. Jahan was said to be so grief-stricken after her death--she perished while birthing their 14th child--that his hair went gray overnight. Around 20,000 people constructed the Taj, giving rise to the city of Agra. The Taj is constructed on a platform, so that the sky is its only backdrop. It’s touted as an edifice of purity and beauty; a wonder of the world, one of life’s must-sees.
Understandably, it’s also a tourist megahub. You pass through a line of aggressive peddlers to buy a ticket, check all your bags and food in a locker, and stand in line for a scan inside a metal detector. After you’re cleared, you join a throng of international tourists to the tomb itself. Indians mingle with Europeans, Japanese tour groups, Americans, and one-offs from all over the globe. It’s overrun, but you hope it’s worth it.

It is. Even with a hundred heads in view, even with the dense pollution, the gleaming white edifice of the Taj stops your heart for a split second. It’s an exact match to the Taj you picture in your imagination. On first glance, time itself stops until you blink and remember where you are. From a distance, it’s all gleaming purity; as you venture closer, you glimpse elaborate designs that appear inlaid with unmatched tenderness. The monument looms in its aching perfection, an immaculate testament to a fallen love and, later, a Mughal kingdom turned to ash. You want to walk up to it, but feel hesitant to touch it, because its architecture is fine enough to be just out of reach. It’s a building that you can enter, but can never truly access. The place has captured a soul and held it tenderly, like a child holds a butterfly. It’s even more exquisite with the contrast blocky, dry, blaring Agra surrounding it.

We took pictures for a while, then took a secret detour to the Taj’s mystical backside. The Taj is perfectly symmetrical from all four sides. Most people only see it from within the confines of its four official walls. However, if you walk north past the storage lockers on the east side of the grounds, past stone cutters and herds of goats, you access the wide and stagnant river that delineates the Taj’s rear perimeter. We hired a boat to take us across the river, then found a small boy with a camel to capture the Taj from a new angle. Seth worked his magic while the kid, who couldn’t have been older than nine, hustled us like the best of them. He grinned, posed, and flashed his pearly whites like a Bollywood stud. When it came time to pay, he gave us the professional lowdown on his profit distribution (care and maintenance of camel, food for self, board for camel, money for friend), and ended up making out pretty well.

After that, we loaded up on chai, pancakes, and porridge--the quintessential Indian tourist breakfast--and headed back to Delhi. Just a couple more days in Delhi before we leave for the great deserts of Rajasthan.

After the 20+-hour hike from The Coldest City on Earth (err, Denver) to Delhi, I'm happy to say that I'm hanging out with Seth and Sandy at the wonderfully named Hotel Cottage Yes Please. It is not warm in Delhi. In fact, our room, which resembles a garishly styled mausoleum, turns into a bit of a fridge at night. Down jackets during the day. This is the first time I've been in a 3rd-world city that is less than 90 degrees.

Delhi is vast. It smells acrid, sounds like car horns, motors, rapid-fire Hindi conversations, and barking dogs, and feels like a messy connect-the-dots picture. Here, a shanty town; there, a sprawling ambassador's mansion; power lines hanging like spider webs atop alleys littered with cow pies, music, food, foreigners, locals, tinsel, Hanuman...everything is everywhere here. Picture 22 million people and enough urban sprawl to make Los Angeles shudder.

We're not so much touristing here--though there are fantastic old colonial buildings and museums to be seen--as we are taking care of business, like buying alarm clocks and getting Sandy's flight sorted out. We're hiring a car and driver to make the 3 1/2-hour trip to Agra tomorrow. Today will be all about massages, haircuts, and food...

Sorry friends, this post is back dated. Clearly it has taken me quite a while to put this blog post together. **FYI - Blog posts will be more frequent as soon as my travel writer extraordinaire (Andrea) is on the scene**

There are far too many "must see" temples and villages to experience for one mere mortal. Anticipating its immensity, I intentionally reserved large blocks of the calendar to India. Yet I still have the undeniable feeling that I'm merely surveying the tip of a vast iceberg. BUT, I'm not finished yet!

I experienced my first sleeper car on the overnight train from Goa back down to Bangalore. I shared my compartment with two young Indian couples. They were nice, but when they learned I was American, their courteous small talk turned into a relentless barrage of prying questions. It seemed impossible to quench their thirst for knowledge. To them, any question was fair game. From the itemized purchase prices of my camera equipment, to the intimate details of my romantic life. I didn't divulge all my secrets, but it was admittedly amusing to see their eyes bulge out of their skulls while learning about anything American. The Q&A inquisition went on into the night, until alas I had to raise my white flag of surrender and retreat to the overhead bunk.

I ended up spending Christmas day traveling - by train and by bus. It hardly seemed like Christmas at all in Hindu land. The scant evidence of the holiday amounted to a 5-foot inflatable St. Nick in the hotel lobby, and something resembling a Christmas tree at the Catholic church across the street. But thankfully, by the miracle of Skype, I was able to call and talk to some loved ones back home. That in itself was the best gift I could have gotten.

So I have criss-crossed back through Bangalore and over to the southeast state of Tamil Nadu. I have been drawn to the small, unpretentious, yet spiritually potent town of Tiruvanamalai (Tiru for short). It's known as something of a hidden gem in small circles of travelers and pilgrims. I found Tiru to be especially beguiling. So much so, that I decidedly extended my stay (ahh the beauty of planning itineraries on the fly). Chanting of sacred scriptures rise up and fill the air above the local ashram. Mysterious sadhus clad in orange garb rove the area seeking alms. The town is also home to one of the largest temples in India. All is overshadowed by the venerated Mt. Arunachula, where it's an auspicious act to circumambulate the base and visit all 9 of the temples along the way. Scrambling up the blessed mountain requires that you remove your shoes (a compulsory sign of respect), and if you comply you can visit a cave where a great swami (Ramana Maharshi) lived and meditated for 19 years. I must admit however, that one of my favorite rituals was visiting the Manna Cafe each day for breakfast and dinner... the best food I've had so far in all of India!

Beyond Tiru, I bussed over to the coast of the Bay of Bengal. The Lonely Planet, aka travel bible, spoke very highly of an artists' enclave by the name of Mamallapuram. Although it's on the coast, it's not a beach destination. It's more renown for it's rock carvings. It seemed nearly each and every native had a hammer and was chipping away at a small piece of soapstone or a monumental piece of granite. They were extremely skilled in the art, which no doubt was handed down to each subsequent generation within their families. Also, a fortunate stroke of serendipity landed me in Mamallapuram during a traditional Indian dance festival. I scored a front row seat where I gaped at the mesmerizing display of dance moves and goddess-like costumes (see short video clip below).

From there I hired a car to get to the Madras airport and said goodbye to South India. The plan was to rendezvous in Delhi with my new traveling companion... Andrea: my luminous albeit jet-lagged girlfriend.

**Note - as I write this, an enormous camel with jingle bells and colorful regalia just cruised by (quite swiftly I might add) the door of my internet cafe. Wow, this is definitely not Colorado.**

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After some deliberation, I decided to head for the beaches of Goa for a few days of sun and surf. I took a bucking bronco bus ride through six hours of winding mountain roads littered with potholes. Bruised and battered, I eventually arrived in the coastal city of Mangalore (not be be confused with Bangalore) and caught a train up the west coast on the Arabian Sea. I was stunned when I finally rolled into the quaint beach town of Agonda at the southern tip Goa. The beach was so pristine and yet so unpopulated. It was a sweeeeeet reward for the past day and half of traveling. I checked into a basic beach side hut and spent the next two days exploring the beach and the village area.

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