India...The Untold Story

*This post has been edited at last, so hopefully all those silly mistakes have been corrected. Additionally, several small paragraphs have been added throughout to fill in some missing portions and small memories. Enjoy!

Heather’s Journal Entry:

October 20, 2005
The Taj Mahal

We woke up today at three o’clock in the morning, looking out the window at a sleeping Chennai, literally. In the early morning hours several bodies littered the concrete pier, curled up in small heaps like a nautilus. Before heading up to the Union we called home. “Hello,” I said, “it’s me and I am today and you are yesterday, or you are today and I am tomorrow.” Soon everyone at home will be changing their clocks for daylight savings and so without even crossing another time zone we will be ten and a half hours ahead, assuming we do not adjust the clock again before Myanmar. At least it is not us losing another hour, but perhaps just by doing this once you have some minute perspective on what it would be like everyday for us and how it really messes with your schedule. It felt so nice to hear dad’s voice. He has missed our last two calls home so it has been almost a month. Cherylie Girlie had to be included, though she mostly listened.

Congregating in the Union, three trips of about sixty individuals each flocked to the coffee, tea and danishes. I myself crammed in three cinnamon swirl rolls, not knowing when or where we would find ourselves for lunch. Soon we were descending into the bowels of the Explorer, swiping our ID card, and out into the darkness and wetness of the morning hours. It is very hot, though it is the monsoon season. We boarded a tour bus for the airport, a trip of about forty minutes. Driving through the streets of the city, I was impressed with the amount of traffic and pedestrians even in the early morn. The discordant cry of the rickshaws horns squawked like geese in rising and falling chords.

Finally we arrived at the airport, which I have to say was surprisingly modern. The airport was clogged with men. It was amazing to see the unequal ratio of men to women moving into the security checkpoint to load our bags onto the conveyor to be x-rayed. We were herded into a small corner, quite far from our baggage. There were seven security stations, six for men, and one for women that was concealed behind a small screen partition. If a metal detector were not enough we had to step up into a platform for another woman to pat down you legs, across your chest and back, and down your arms. Many of the guys in our group wondered what exactly occurred behind the curtain, and all I can say after seeing their security procedure for men, is that the women were completely frisked. You will have to use you imagination here. When the security officer seemed puzzled by my necklace my heart skipped a beat, but everything was fine, and I assumed it would be because Hindus only practice cremation as a form of burial.

We took Indian Airlines to Delhi, a three and a half hour flight. The plane was much nicer than the one in Venezuela, rivaling the American planes in cleanliness. At one point during the flight white clouds of mist rose from the windows and ceiling baggage compartments. You can only imagine the look of terror on many faces, but it was just the ventilation and air conditioning system. Landing in Delhi we collected our batteries and boarded a tour bus to a hotel for lunch.

Back on our tour bus after exiting the airport, a crowd of men with signs lining the entrance, we made our way to lunch at one of the finer Indian hotels. It was Indian cuisine and mostly very spicy. Upon entering the hotel we were honored with necklaces of the most beautiful blossoms of orange flowers. I made my lunch into a rice and Nan meal instead.

Next we headed to the train station for a four-hour journey to Agra. We boarded the train for our second-class seats with no air-conditioning. It was filthy and I cannot even believe that we have to do this again tomorrow. The seats are filthy, more so than you could ever imagine. There are vendors that wander down the central aisle with various textiles, food, and water, the latter with brown debris floating throughout. The stench of trash, sweat, and human waste is almost too much to stomach. Every once in awhile another train passes in the opposite direction. You can anticipate it by listening for a huge sigh just as it approaches, then a gush of air as it passes your open window before the air is sucked out again.

The vendors are very bothersome and they will not leave you alone. I have found that the best way to go fairly unnoticed is to write and keep my eyes glued to the page. As we whisk by small towns, clearly destitute, I am shocked at the abundance of saris. It would seem that no matter how poor the people are the women retain the beautiful wrappings of a sari. I bet it must feel like a princess with all that drapery of silk. Aside from the saris, cows are everywhere and indeed looking more nourished than their human counterparts.

We had the unfortunate luck of being placed with two snobs on the train. If I have to hear how hot or how gross it is one more time I might go crazy. “Can anyone breathe?” she wines with her designer sunglasses, silver dangly earrings and bracelet upon bracelet. “Oh my gosh, I can’t breathe,” she adds. I definitely think that I had enough when they had the audacity to ask if an upgrade to first class were possible. She takes a picture of three young girls selling socks and scarves and they do not leave us alone, tapping us on the knees and saying, “madam.” They crowd our compartment and the snobs continue taking pictures, but they do not give anything in return. As I am writing this as it happens I am very uncomfortable. Why is it that they feel they can do whatever they want, putting their feet up on out seat to stretch out and kicking my knee for the nth time with her gold slipper shoe.

Once we arrived in Agra she sat on the blue vinyl seat shaking her foot, tapping her pink manicured nails on her knee and smacking her gum. She simply takes, sucking the life from those around her, but does not give.

We walked a short distance from the train to our tour bus, glad to be heading toward the promise of air conditioning and away from the congestion and stale air of the train. But we had no idea what awaited us on that five-minute walk. First a man with elephantitis, two enormous ballooned feet, barely able to walk. Then a boy with the entire lower half of his face stretched, the skin looking like melted rubber and lastly, a small boy, his bones so twisted that his limbs wrapped around his body in the most awkward and unnatural angles.

After boarding the bus we made our way to the Taj Mahal. We had to walk about fifteen minutes to the gate, small children pressing in on all sides to sell their wares. Reaching the entrance we were separated into male and female again, a small screen concealing the women’s security check as they repeated a similar process that we experienced at the airport.

Once inside I was amazed by two wonders. One, the hundreds of people walking around and the other, the giant marble complex standing before me. The Disneyland atmosphere of such a wonderful national treasure shocked me. You could barely take one step without walking into someone. It was so frustrating. But more importantly, the Taj was breathtaking. How do you even begin to describe the familiar white marble architecture sweeping from pillar to turret, dome to platform, and pillar to turret? Sleek, smooth, white and beautifully carved with intricate detail – a lotus flower of mammoth proportions. We did not have much time so we rushed to the base of the palace, putting blue booties over our tennis shoes and climbing up the steep steps to the raised platform overlooking the river and the entrance into the mouth of the impressive marble edifice. The line was long, but it moved quickly, finally approaching the entrance hall.

Inside it was pitch black; Indians and tourists pushing and shoving, I pressed heavily into a wall, and Megan’s hand smashed on a doorframe. We could not see the floor and the tiny inclines placed at the doorways. Walking on a river of whiteness in a void of darkness I say to Megan, “I cannot see a thing, can you?” “Just touch it then,” she says. I said something stupid in response like, “Are you sure that is permitted?” which she so causally reminded me that it was the blackest of black inside, and so we both put our hands on the surprisingly cold wall. We walked around the circumference of a circular room running our fingers along the interior of the Taj as our eyes were glued to the delicate craftsmanship of the central nave with its lace-like lattices. A single light shone on the marble tomb. We spiraled around the jewel encrusted interior rooms sliding in our blue suede shoes to feel rather than see the ups and downs of the polished floor.

Suddenly an opening and we are exiting the lower floor to the vista of the Taj Mahal overlooking the river. The sun was setting as we walked along the ceremonial ground back to the front of the Taj, removing our booties to take some final photos in the fading light. Soon, after the glowing orange orb dipped behind the lotus and the sky changed from pink to purple, to darkness, we were forced to surrender our cameras to our sides and simply take in the moment. I am so thankful for those few minutes taking in the majesty of the Taj Mahal. If not I may have missed it in the crows of sightseers and frenzy of photography.

Leaving the Taj in the dark Megan and I stuck close to the pack, arm in arm we walked swiftly past the vendors to the bus. Arriving at the hotel we checked in before doing a little shopping. My mouth dropped open as we entered the lobby and the windows of the first shop were crammed with beaded shoes. Of course, being in Agra with another train ride to Delhi and flight to Chennai, room was limited, so we chose one for everyone except our favorite person in the entire world who got a couple of pairs, and no it is not dad.

Our room was large with a marble floor and dark wood paneling. It was relatively comfortable; though still not my idea of a classy hotel. But sleep deprivation won out over misery and after showering we went to bed.

October 21, 2005
The Sights of Agra

We woke up at five o’clock to shower and curl our hair after sleeping back-to-back or shoulder-to-shoulder. We were so cold from the powerful air conditioning and we just felt much safer huddled together. A six o’clock someone knocked on our door who we assume to have been the wakeup call, but a strange noise like a squealing monkey was enough to deter us from opening the door and unbolting the lock.

Soon we were heading to the Agra Fort, also known as the Red Fort, after a breakfast of toast. Meals seem to be limited to rice, Nan, or toast, mostly because everything else is so spicy or I am thinking more about the aftereffects than satisfying my taste buds. But nana was right; rice is always available in great abundance. As soon as we approached the fort I knew that I was in for a treat. Imagine Windsor Castle made from red sandstone and perhaps you will have some small inkling of what this place was like. We wandered around the small corridors in between a forest of red sandstone columns and scalloped arches. We each decided self-consciously to get away from the flock of students pushing for the prime photo spots. They walk down the central walkway in clumps as we skirt the garden to the right, walking through an entryway into an open corridor leading to an enclosed space. One wall is lined with low windows overlooking the river and the Taj Mahal on the opposite bank.

We round room breaks into several directions, a set of hidden stairs leading up to an open tower. We climb and explore far from the gaze of the group and the flash of their cameras, admiring the architecture and the intricacy of the sight. Soon it is time to return to the group and the bus, but we discover a secret passage to the roof and take some time to look out over the complex, a dark room on the right and another cell-like area.

After thirty minutes we return to the group, I upset about our short time to enjoy the beauty of the fort. Our next stop takes us to a mini Taj Mahal lie complex. On our way to the site we pass inches within the tires of an upturned local bus, the passengers still inside. Yet the busy streets, grazing cows on heaps of trash, and honking rickshaws pay it no heed, and neither do we.

The mini Taj Mahal displays the marble complexity once again and we remove our shoes away from the main entrance and sneak up into a niche-like cubby to take pictures. But once again our time runs out and we return to the bus and the hotel for lunch. Once again rice is on the menu, and I charge my camera in the room to get ensure it lasts the day. We make a quick shopping stop, which in reality becomes quite long as the group picks our expensive cashmere and silk rugs, which incidentally would look fantastic in a tearoom. The smallest carpet is five hundred dollars, slightly bigger than a piece of notebook paper and the snob asks, “Do you think I could use these as car mats?” It is absolutely amazing that some students see nothing, and nothing fazes them. They will never truly see the world.

After lunch we travel to Dayal Bagh, a mosque that is currently under construction. After thirty years of intense work, the complex is still not complete, one worker installing a gem inlay that takes six months per panel. Even this insight makes me wonder how the Taj Mahal was created. Exiting the complex I am surrounded by beggars and I freeze. I cannot take it anymore. I don’t want them bothering me, touching me, or looking at me with those eyes. We are mere inches from the bus and Megan pushes me in the back to break free of my poverty stricken fetters. I am completely overwhelmed.

Our last stop is at Fatehpur Sikri, a deserted sandstone palace. I fall in love with the place upon first glimpse and once we are set loose on the grounds Megan and I explore to our hearts delight. The first building has the most beautiful central arch and lace work filigree. Across the open courtyard a five story towering pagoda imposes its shadow over the small pool linked by four causeways to the surrounding spaces. I wish we could climb to the top of the pagoda, but instead we step like tightrope walkers on the cracked causeway to the center of the pool, taking pictures of our progress.

In a more secluded portion of the palace I discover a set of crumbling stairs up and then down into a valley of crumbling ruins, blackened with age. Here we take many pictures, but do not linger. At last we arrive at a heavily ornamented temple, it red sandstone shadowed in the setting sun, each etch and detail outlined in the spotlight of the glowing orb. Pictures will never do this place justice. I love this place and I am sad to go. The sunsets and we make our way back to the Mansingh Palace, our hotel, for a dinner of pizza before taking the night train back to Delhi.

When we arrive at the train station it is pitch dark and I force myself not to look at the small fires and people lying around the station. We wait for an hour to catch the train on platform two, pretzel boys weaving their twisted bodies through our group. Megan grabs my arm when they approach and puts my rolling luggage in front of me to shield me from their grasp. The boy with elephantitis is still there. Once we board the train we speed off toward Delhi in our first class accommodations, though this is simply misleading because it is practically the same as second class with the exception of air-conditioning and the absence of vendors. Somehow many of the students acquired alcohol before boarding the train and they sing and dance and drink during our trip back. By the time we arrive they are quite obviously drunk.

We arrive at the hotel around eleven o’clock in the evening where the students grab any room card they want and run off to their rooms before the arrival of the trip leader on the second bus. When she arrives there is chaos and I feel bad that she has to locate all of the students to find out what room they are in. The two leaders have worked very hard and to keep the group together and the other students do not make it easy for them.

Shortly after we are crawling into bed, definitely a little more upscale than the previous night, and are asleep minutes after our heads hit the pillow.

October 22, 2005
Delhi

When we wakeup this morning we eat breakfast and repack our bags for our flight to Chennai. We have a very simple tour of Delhi by bus, which is quite upsetting considering that we do not even get off the coach except at the Gandhi Museum where we see his last footprints before he was assassinated.

We do a little shopping before leaving the hotel, purchasing some First Flush Darjeeling, which we promise to share with everyone since it is the first leaves of the season and a promised specialty.

The airport procedure follows, our tickets stating the mandatory frisking, before we board the flight on Jet Airways. I think that one of the biggest surprises was the quality of the airlines. The seats and food trays are impeccably clean, the food decent, served with real silverware and linen napkins, and the cutest little bottles of water, soothing music, and very friendly staff. It was probably one of the most comfortable planes I have ever been on.

After boarding the ship, we have two priorities. First food, which we get at the pool bistro; a meal of hotdogs and soda, and second, bed. It has been a very interesting trip and one that I will certainly never forget. Our tour guide said something that I think sums up this experience, the art historical heritage, the beauty, and the stark contrast with the poverty, the beggars, and the filth. “India is a spicy dish. Sometimes you get the spicy, sometimes the sweet. It just depends on when and where you are.” I am sure that in the days to come I will reflect on this more and add to my original thoughts, but for now I must put India aside and think of Burma (Myanmar).

October 24, 2005
At Sea

I spent yesterday unpacking and cleaning laundry in the sink. It has been a tiring experience, but very rewarding. We decided not to get off the ship yesterday, but did watch our departure in the last hours of light as we pulled away from Chennai around dinnertime.

We had one day of class, and pre-port tonight in preparation for tomorrow. Also, one more hour ahead, so we are officially ten and a half hours ahead of home. Soon we will make a call in the evening and it will be the exact time in the morning.

Here is a run down of our schedule for Myanmar:

Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Local Markets Field Program

Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Full Day City Orientation

Thursday, October 27, 2005
Sunset at Shwedagon Pagoda

Friday, October 28, 2005
We would like to try to join the Bago Field Program

Saturday, October 29, 2005
Free

Sunday, October 30, 2005
Free

Monday, October 31, 2005
Depart Myanmar (Not exactly sure what time because it depends on the tide, though we will have class on this day)
Halloween Festivities

Well, that’s it! We just purchased more Internet time, and I am absolutely exhausted. GOODNIGHT!

Megan’s Journal Entry:

October 20, 2005
Delhi Day

The dining hall staff arranged to have some pastries in the Union at four o’clock as the couple hundred students, torn from sleep, staggered in carrying bags as small as a school backpack and as large as monster hiking gear and rolling luggage. Three small sticky buns later Che26 stilted down four flights to disembark into the rainy-monsoon-season morning in Chennai. An hour of sleep on yet another mosquito infested bus to the airport where tickets were distributed and security check lines already extremely long and congested with Indian men dressed for business. Barely five women stood in the four lines, not to mention we were extremely shocked when all the women on our trips were escorted to a curtained station, the several guys of the group continued unimpeded through the metal detectors while female women ran handheld devices up and down our bodies, their hands doing much of the searching themselves. We stood behind curtains, not able to see our bags a couple rows down going through the metal detectors. As she scanned me, my urn sent the detector into a mild fit. Not to worry, all Indian women wear tons of jewelry so one little brass urn was modest compared to the scores of gold that coerce the device to resound with high pitched beeps. Joining my small pack and carry-on, my separation anxiety diminishing as I checked them to be sure my documents had not been fleeced in my absence.

Once through, I, yes me, pointed out we were gate five and the sign as the trip leaders had vanished. Thanks to my smarts, as I take a bow, we joined the others with ten minutes till boarding flight IC 440 with Indian Airlines at six forty. Three hours later and much needed sleep we arrived in New Delhi followed by lunch at a local hotel. It is just as congested and dirty as Madras but has some of the same small gems – the colorful cloth of women’s saris and garlands of flowers beginning to wilt in the intensity of heat. The food was spicy, spicy, spicy, but where there’s Indian cuisine you can also count on steamed rice.

We had an extremely tight schedule planned, so jam packed that missing the train would mean no visit to the Taj Mahal. Zilch! This have-to-see monument would be closed Friday, our only other day in Agra. Of course, about fifteen girls decided changing cash was more important than having the bus deliver seventy students to the train station. Typical! Nevertheless, we made it in time to board this transportation that will convey us to the Mogul city of Agra.

On a side note, what beautiful names India has from the state of Tamil Nadu where the MV Explorer is docked in Madras Harbor to Utar Pradesh and Agra. The Taj Mahal, Fatehpur Sikri and Dayal Bagh. What mystical and magical names can be found here.

Back to the train, S5 in second-class sleeper with no air conditioning, it would be difficult, in fact near impossible, to compare to anything at home. The train is so filthy it is mostly likely disease ridden. Eight of us squeezed into a space for four with a smell so unbelievable. It is worse than Seal Island itself. Dirty vendors patrol the isles trying to sell toilet paper and unlabeled water as cloudy as if it were not water at all, bits of residue floating like its some polluted pond. Others carry food and silver jugs with small spouts filled with coffee. Thank goodness for Cottonelle Fresh, but I wasn’t about to go on this train.

The two girls across from me have obviously not been clued into the realities of poverty-stricken life in the favelas of Venezuela, the shacks of Brazil, the townships of South Africa; ready to upgrade their upgradeless tickets to air-conditioned first class. The cool air and closed windows would provide a much more enjoyable perfume, but you might as well become reflective of the environment we have been placed with one word for later, shower!! Apparently they need to be, as stated, in the equivalent of the Ritz and shopping is the buzzword in every other sentence. I don’t know whether to be envious of their persistence in remaining unchanged to the world, or sympathetic to their behavior, as nothing has been intense, horrific, or gruesome enough to offer life-changing mannerisms.

The smell continues, and I must apologize for my apparent infatuation with the odor of manure, filth, manure, dirt, manure, rot, manure, muck, manure, sewage, and did I mention manure? Nothing compares and if you find yourself at home wanting to participate in every way possible with my adventure take a good long whiff of your garbage can before trash day and you won’t even scratch the surface of the iceberg. It is so prevalent and just seems to linger, filling the air with its immobile particles of putrid scent creating an entirely new atmosphere. You will have placed yourself in one of the nicer regions we have traversed on this four-hour journey.

Just now as I write a woman sticks her reddened hand through the window to beg. At first I envision the redness to be from slaughter, chicken or cows blood, but then I realize it is the spices used to cook that have died her skin. How filthy this experience is, I cannot describe. Even a girl on our trip across from me spreads her feet out beside me to lounge and I wander where those soles have been, knowing the same as mine and I do not want them to touch me.

I can’t help but wonder whether to take photos or not. And by the time anyone else reads this the experience will be long over. The train and the landscape it progresses are not images I wish to capture, but should I to remember how they affect me? Do I take several, the bare minimum, to convey to those at home what I have seen? Can the lens of a camera even capture the reality or will it be merely a façade that transmits neither the scope nor brevity of this environment? I do not know. Still I struggle with this concept. To bring home images of pristine beaches, catamaran rides in the vista of rolling blue fields of water, the architecture and beauty of such places as the Pantheon, mosques, temples and ancient churches, even the Taj Mahal. What do all these beautiful landscapes I have captured say about me as a person? Perhaps I search for the beauty in everything, even a small flower or sweet girl in a township. Or possibly I have closed myself off to feeling, to being impacted by such sights of gruesomeness. Am I just like those two girls? I would hope not.

I realize that now, what others have said about India may have been correct – that this is the country that affects students the most. Maybe they put us in second class intentionally to generate these reflections among as many willing students as possible. If not, it was still an incredibly rewarding experience, though at the time disappointing to feel so uncomfortable. Journaling during the adventure on the train truly made the experience bearable and more valuable.

Quite a few girls have purchased saris and silk fabrics. I think that they are beautiful but something I would never wear. Some have purchased them for Halloween or the Ambassador’s Ball, which seems to be an imaginative idea but a one-time venture. What about traditional Vietnamese clothes or something oriental? These sound like more practical purchases for me and I will most assuredly explore the shops in Vietnam for the perfect oriental-style dress. Time allowing, something tailored would be perfect.

After an hour on the train we seem to have left the city behind us, only agricultural fields and villages. The smell somewhat lessened returns as we near more overcrowded centers around the train station. The train ride continued in much the same fashion. One of the girls said you couldn’t pay her to sleep on the mats; an hour later she is in quiet slumber on the blue filthy plastic, her personality seeming significantly hollow.

When the two girls started taking photos of three children begging, I was highly irritated as they laughed at the three and provoked continued entreating as the small children would be persuaded to tap more on their knees with each laugh. The two Semester at Sea students taking the photos were doing just that, take and not give. These girls in filthy threadbare cloth were receiving nothing for posing for these photos.

Agra at last…To the Taj Mahal. Leaving the train station beggars surrounded us on our march to the bus. Deformed children, boys shaped like pretzels with no feet, one leg, some bent in impossible positions, dragged themselves across the ground to keep pace while others, men with engorged feet larger than a football, twice that size, toes enormous and sprouting off in all directions stood near the coaches. Such ghastly images I will never forget. Their filthy clothes and bodies, their misshapenness that they believe to be essential to their life. Punishment for past lives they believe they must resort to begging and try to make up for their past deeds.

We arrived at the Taj Mahal and walked to the main gate where thousands upon thousands of people, mostly Indian, Chinese, and Semester at Sea groups, pushed and shoved along with the street sellers to get through security. But what a magnificent site!! With only twenty minutes it was difficult to let the experience, the realness soak through completely, but the rays of the waning sunlight forced us to immerse ourselves in the experience at it was soon too dark for photos. Inside the Taj Mahal it was so dark, cave-like, that you couldn’t see, photography not permitted. With my blue shoe covers on I stumbled through the unlit interior, guards policing the people trying to take photos and blowing their whistles each time a flash announced its victim. With more people than Disney World we were practically propelled into the stomach of this sacred center the intricacy and craftsmanship of scrolls, lattices, and flowers just remarkable. As if the size were not beautiful enough every surface has some texture, color or ornate detail. I said to Heather, “We’re in the Taj Mahal. Just touch the marble.” Her reply, “Can we?” “We’re walking on it, so we might as well.” Sorry to any non-trekkies but it was like watching Data and Jean Luc Picard in First Contact caressing the hull of the first warp vessel.

It was growing dark quickly as we stood staring at the contours of the amazing palace vanishing into the night. Of course we had to walk back to the bus in the dark and repeat no a million times to vendors shoving items in our face. On top of this, avoiding cattle poop in the dark is quite another adventure.

I can’t believe I’ve seen the Taj Mahal, the experience so unreal, even the feeling of standing in its presence seems to be fading slightly in my memory. It seems so bittersweet. Why is that? The scope and size I never thought would be so grand even having seen pictures in the past. I do not have postcards from India, but it seems a shame to have nothing but perhaps one of the two hotels will have some available. If not, it would be fine as everything here is so hectic.

The grounds on the Taj Mahal are extensive, other structures reddish in color, stand to its left and right. After leaving this amazing landmark of India we were delivered to Mansingh Palace, and no this was by no means a stop on the itinerary, but rather, our hotel. In the hotel lobby the décor was fairly nice, the marbled-looking floor and dark wood, pleasant dining and small shops. The elevator was less than par with tattered and faded carpet. The hall was as nice as the lobby, brass plates with black lettering of the rooms. Number 123, ‘cause it’s easy as ABC, Heather and I unlocked the door and a decent room and bath were on hand. Two full beds, a sitting section, and green marbled benches, the only complaint would be the bumpy white walls and discolored grout of the depressing bathroom. Dinner was much the same as lunch in the hotel, pleasingly not as spicy on the palate.

After dinner it was time to check out the shops, largely owing to the fact that shop number one’s display windows were completely laden with beaded shoes. Upon entering we discovered it was much like Ollivander’s Wands, as every shelf was stacked and arranged in every shape, size, color and fabric. We opted for a ******* style with *****. Shhh!! The men in the store helped us fit the paper feet to the soles and soon we left with two bags full. As I sing, “We’re coming home with shoes! We’re coming home with shoes! Cha Cha,” goodie bags will start becoming quite plump. I can just hear the cheers already. We have also purchased a ton of tea in India, so many I cannot possibly name them all, Assam, Darjeeling, and Nelgiri among others. Some have unusual names I have never heard. We also took the opportunity to purchase first flush, which in the states easily runs as high as one hundred dollars. Here it was thirty and Heather and I will have to become masters at preparing tea as most found here are full leaves. This should be quite a treat and learning experience, much different than boiled water and tea bags.

We showered with flip-flops and snuggled into our beds clean and exhausted. With each other the anxiety and sadness of being away from the comfort of the ship is dramatically decreased.

October 21, 2005
Destination, Unknown

With a pretty detailed itinerary, the words on the page meaning absolutely nothing to me, I awoke for an early breakfast at seven o’clock. Whatever I do today, good or bad, I will have to remind myself that the Taj Mahal was the primary reason for the trip. After another shower, because you can never enjoy too many before heading out into the dirt of the city, we had to hold the plug of the hairdryer in the socket for each other as it was slightly too small and would slip out slowly. Wearing blue jeans, pink ribbed tank top and a black tunic we went to breakfast, reminiscent of an American buffet.

After breakfast we left for Agra fort not knowing what to expect. Amazing. Breathless. Riveting. These are my words for the day, though I try not to foreshadow too much. Imagine a Mayan ruin like Tulum or some European architectural wonder in Rome, even the grounds of Windsor Castle and Hampton Palace. This is the scope of Agra Fort. Gardens like a labyrinth with strange fluffy fan like petals, and lots of entrances to inner complexes, we almost became lost in the maze; one view near the river revealing the Taj Mahal in the distance. The morning was surprisingly cool; the air lingering with rain was hazy. Twenty minutes to discover, capture, consume and enjoy this site we felt rushed but invigorated at being enmeshed in the aspect we love most about traveling, the architectural and art history in Non Western countries.

As we went to the join the group to depart on our whirlwind tour, a row of monkeys appeared on an upper railing. An incredibly small monkey paused on the banister, its head no bigger than a tennis ball. I laughed at the notion that they were the present residents of these abandoned temples and palaces.

I never imagined India with so many sites in the Mogul repertoire of intricate marble and sandstone design. I love the color of these places, something I am positive we will witness again in Cambodia. We left for Dayal Bagh, a marble temple being built. With thirty years of construction complete, the temple promises to be impressive, however with many more years to go before completion. Through congested streets so narrow they could only be considered side streets with vendors marketing their goods – fruits stacked so neatly into small towers, clothes piled ten or more high – and cattle roaming around carts and stalls, through rickshaws, bikes, motorcycles, cars and buses. I marvel at the apparent skill of the drivers who most likely avoided hundreds of accidents each day. The rules of the road do not seem to apply, horns a constant symphony in dissonant chords. The minute you exit the mouth of the tour bus you go from one stomach to an even larger one where the city consumes you entirely.

At Dayal Bagh large slabs of marble lay in plentiful piles. Men and younger boys working with tools to chisel out some of the most ornate and delicate patterns I’ve ever seen. It was amazing to watch a man shave down semi-precious stones for an inlay, a design that will take six months to a year to complete. I suggest returning in another thirty years to see the progression, maybe its completion. The construction process is absolutely amazing, it’s like building the pyramids and I wonder how they will hoist the marble dome to the height of the temple. One palm tree stands in front of the stairwell, the palm mimicked perfectly in the marble above an arched doorway. It is unbelievable that these designs are carved into marble.

We leave the construction site for the Mini Taj Mahal, the production of a new highway system slowing our tour bus as we inch along the exterior road to the site. We pass a local bus flipped on its side, the wheel meeting the level of my window. I see no one inside which is a good sign.

At the Mini Taj Mahal, we walk the gardens, marvel at the intricate marble and hear the chanting of men in prayer. It is another wonderful stop where the colorful inlays on the marble surface glint in the light of the day and augment the beauty of this structure.

From this landmark we depart for Fatehpur Sikri, a true marvel. There is not enough time to explore this complex in an hour. Some of the girls, of course the two from the train, exclaim how these three days are a waste and how everything we have seen today is exactly the same. I can’t believe these statements as I am absolutely thrilled at the chance to observe these abandoned sandstone temples. Fatehpur Sikri is amazing. It stretches on and on, not one detail overlooked. Heather and I find many secret spots; even a stairwell that looks like it is supported by nothing from underneath that proves a wonderful photo spot. The sun sets while we are here and the colors of the warm sun melting into the sandstone balconies create an infusion of red, orange, russet and coffee shadows on the light ground.

A small girl with her family, clean and beautiful, comes up to Heather and I and introduces herself. She asks our names and we reply. Her eyes glitter when she tells us she thinks we are really beautiful. It is the children like her that are true gems.

We go to a department store for a demonstration on satin rugs. The infamous girl from the train buys two small ones for four hundred dollars each many students overhear her announce they are for car mats. Even now I have to pick my jaw up from the ground.

After dinner at the hotel we leave for the train station. For dessert we try Gulab Jamun, a doughy ball cooked and completely covered in a syrupy honey. It seems to be a mix of glazed donuts and pancakes and wonderful served warm. Waiting a half an hour on the platform with pretzel boys and beggars is very uncomfortable. I feel like a hawk watching them, making sure one does not sneak up on us, squeeze their way in through the maze of feet and touch our pants. I pull Heather away from some that get too close placing the carry-on between us. I know how unnerving this is for her because I feel it too. I picture myself pushing the carry-on into their fragile frames if they near too close. Thankfully they seem to realize when I pull Heather away from their reach that I will not tolerate their begging. They stare and return to other students who take pictures of their deformed bodies and engorged feet. First class seating is not much better, filthy seats with air conditioning. I won’t complain though.

We reach the hotel, Hotel Ashok to a warm reception, a welcome sign and a beautiful hotel that I know will have the most comfortable rooms thus far on our voyage. Several students who had managed to drink rum on the train make quite a scene and I linger in the lobby with Heather until all the students have left. Taking in the atmosphere in a sitting area and saying hello to the staff that greets us. We do not want to be associated with these animals that have made an embarrassing performance. They grab keys randomly off the counter, not paying attention to names on the envelopes and ignoring the polite inquiries of the staff. We shower and sleep well in the cushy bedding.

October 23, 2005
New Delhi

A tour of Delhi on the last day proves to be interesting. There are many of the same small streets with dirt and beggars nearby. One group surrounds Heather and I right outside the bus. I push Heather through the circle to create an opening and follow closely behind her before they can regroup. Many other students swerve around them as well to quickly board the bus.

After the Parliament Buildings and India Gate we head to the Gandhi Museum. A small garden with a memorial stone announces the very spot he was killed - the path of his last walk marked by concrete footprints. We remove our shoes to walk up to this pavilion. It is amazing to consider that the place we stand is the very spot he walked to greet his death. His struggles to help the people of India are remarkable and inside the museum we enjoy looking at the video clips of this magnificent figure in history.

We leave for lunch in the hotel and to check out of our rooms, 1441, to go to the airport. Being frisked again, more than I have even been touched in my life was awkward. The guys all ask us what goes on behind the curtain, as they have no such complaints at the security check point. On Jet Airways, the cleanest flight I have ever flown, food is served with linen napkins and silver utensils. I realize as I poke at the chicken in a spicy green sauce that I have missed meat from my meals. After the flight is over and we have returned to the ship we go up to the pool bar for dinner. The dining hall is closed and so we order a hot dog before showering and bed.

October 23, 2005 – October 24, 2005

We spent the day on the ship unpacking and downloading photos. We washed blue jeans and six tops that were dry by the end of the day. We washed more laundry the next day that adorns the bathroom as we prepare for Yangon. The clocks go forward another hour tonight and we feel barely able to digest India before Myanmar.