Lise's Notes: Week Two

AGRA:  We got up at 5 am to see the Taj Mahal at dawn. But after taking the pollution-free bus from the satellite lot, standing in line for "High value tickets holders ladies" (the other line was "Indian Ladies"), metal detector, pat-down & bag search, the dawn had come and gone and we were still behind a wall. 

(photo: high value tickets ladies)

If you are doing your own research and not relying on a professional guide to tell you, you find out that all those lovely photos of the Taj at dawn were taken from places other than inside that wall. Lonely Planet has a list of cafes, where for the price of a cup of chai, you can watch the sun rise over the Taj unmolested (pg. 356, 30th anniversary edition).

After breakfast, we were headed out again, when I suddenly felt like lying down was the only option. Peggy forged on, but I forget where to. I missed big chunks of the next couple days. Violent intestinal activity.

(photos of Baag)

One place I did go was the Keoladeo National Park (pronounced: Kev-la-de, for unknown reasons) bird sanctuary. The most spectacular birds were the iridescent Kingfishers, and the painted storks in pinks, yellows and greys. 

(find Internet images)

This wetlands was a by-product of a 1760 defense project built by Maharajah Surajmal. It became an important breeding ground and migratory stopover, especially for the now endangered Siberian Crane. In 1895, after a duck-hunting junket to Scotland,  Maharajah Ram Singh expanded the park to replicate the experience at home.

For the last 4 years, there's been a drought. The whole place dried up and the birds stopped coming. This year, a pipeline project designed to bring water to parched villages was nearly complete. The holding tanks weren't ready, but the water was, so the birds lucked out. No report on how the villagers are doing.

JAIPUR:  Pink! Elephant ride up to the fort with hawkers shouting at us all the way. Riding sidesaddle, white-knuckled again as we pitched back and forth into the arms of the banned photographers on the ramparts: Madam! Take you picture! Smile here! 

Some roadblock ahead, and our driver poked the elephant blocking us in the butt with his sharp metal stick. The elephant retaliated with a swift poop flung in the driver's direction with a vigorous swish of his tail. The driver then turned on us, demanding money before the "no tipping" sign came into view. Altogether a bumpy ride. 

After the fort, we went down the hill to a textile museum devoted to traditional block printed fabrics. The process was nearly lost under competition from cheap British cotton mills, but revived again in recent years. My favorite museum so far, as much for the exhibits & the hands-on areas as for the shifting colors in the terra-cotta/orange/pink/violet walls. Shadow shapes from the jali work windows and the ineffective jute pigeon net at the top.

Balloon: up at 5 am again for a view of Jaipur from above. People appeared on rooftop terraces, not quite awake, holding babies or brushing their teeth. Patterns of cow dung cakes drying on rooftops. The manufacturer below, terrified of the balloon, raced around it's paddock. 

The winds pushed us away from the city over the fort and the mountains out toward sparse rural villages. 

We landed in a fallow field, and every child in sight came running. As the balloon slumped to the ground, they jumped on the puffy parts, till the air was expelled. The men arrived next, while the women and babies hovered in the shade, then disappeared.

I took photos of the children with my iPhone, since the viewing screen is bigger than my camera's and I knew they'd want to see themselves. One little girl is in every single picture.

The elders were just as eager, vamping for their pix. One of them,  egged on by the others, puffed up a huge smoke screen till he was barely visible in his white turban and kurta. See photo below,

Meanwhile the chase car was lost. Peggy, who'd been sizing up the sociological structure of the village while being friendly and curious, got the cell phone away from our pilot and into the hands of the head man, who knew where we actually were. We were found, and off we went.

Train to Jodhpur: the porter hoisted my hefty bag to his head, and hightailed it upstairs, over walkways, down platforms and amazingly, to the exact spot where our car on the train would arrive. See photo below. Porters here bring a whole new meaning to "red cap service"

Inside: barely padded rigid vinyl-covered benches convert as we grow sleepy into pallets stacked 3 high, facing an identical set. Across the aisle, only 2 high, already opened and spanning the windows. Optional curtains to shut us out. Just like the train in "Some Like it Hot," but much, much dirtier. (1959, Directed by Billy Wilder, with Marilyn Monroe, Tony Curtis, and Jack Lemmon).

The bottom bunk across the way, housed a 3 yr. old terrorist, armed with a noisy plastic uzi and his oblivious young mom. He did not pause for even a moment in his ceaseless efforts at total annihilation. The ride was over six hours long.

Peggy & I got the smudgy window seats opposite each other, and, theoretically, the bottom bunks. On Peggy's side, a nice retired English couple: Hilary & Ralph. On my side, an Indian couple, Professor CJ and his unnamed wife, in a lovely green sari. He is a professor of commerce, on his way to take an exam on promoting Indian tourism. She was along for the ride. 

He had a mannerism that seems peculiarly Indian: tipping his head rapidly from side to side, like a bobble-head, while speaking. It seems to soften what they're saying, as if it's all equivocal.

Peggy braved the toilet, and pronounced it horrific. But I was prepared like a jilted astronaut hellbent for Florida! So I opted out and headed for the top bunk in the rafters. A climb designed for a spider-limbed contortionist. I can't imagine how you'd do it in a sari.