I am home.
At least, the closest approximation I have to a home. Part of me still longs for a bit of stability; a house of my own, a family, a place I feel like I belong. I'll take care of that part of myself later, though, because there's still a lot to do and see before I set my roots down somewhere.
Anyway, physically I'm feeling every so slightly better when I get off the plane. I woke up a few minutes before we landed and felt bad when the stewardess came by to take away the entire tray of food I couldn't bring myself to touch. I had really thought I was feeling well enough to eat it until it was in front of me and I caught the smell of the food. I lost my hunger immediately, and I willed myself back to sleep as a defense against throwing up again. I'm sure I seriously confused my neighbor, but I really didn't care that much as my chief concern was keeping the contents of my stomach in the right place.
Emotionally, though, I'm a mess. Walking through the airport SUCKS. Not because of my stomach, but rather because of the music. Christmas carols: Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, the Charlie Brown song, ooohhhh....all the songs that remind me the holidays back home. Of course I start to think about my family and what they'll be doing on Christmas Eve. The emotional rush of my trip is still with me and I just want someone here to take care of me while I'm sick and alone for the holidays. I'm not ashamed to admit that I miss my mom and my dog and snow and wrapping up in a blanket by the Christmas tree and big family dinners...
Oh dear god. I'm crying again. Perfect. It only makes it worse that I can't even call home because I've managed to lose my Singaporean sim card. Oh screw it. I'm too weak to fight, so I struggle under my ridiculously heavy bags and hobble down the terminal towards the train station, blubbering and snotty. Every now and then I have to stop, though, as a wave of nausea washes from my stomach to my head and back down again. I'm sure I must look like a 'suspicious person or article' that Singaporeans are constantly reminded to be wary of, but I don't care. Just get me HOME!.
Ultimately, I give up on the train and decide to shell out for a taxi. I head out into a full-on monsoon and throw my gear and myself into the first cab that I can. It's official: this is the most comfortable cab that has ever existed. I sink back into the seat and turn my mind off. It helps that the driver is playing Chinese music and that the sheets of rain pouring down the window are obscuring everything outside. It's a veil of sheer exhaustion that I'm more than happy to hide behind.
It's hard to snap out of it, though, and when my cab driver misses the normal turn to get to my condo I fumble a minute before telling him just to drop me off at the MRT station that's a short walk from my condo. Normally, it would take me five minutes to get home; what I've failed to remember, though, is that I left my gate pass, which lets me in the gate nearest my building, in my room so I wouldn't lose it on my trip. This means I have to walk under the train tracks an extra five minutes to get to the main gate of the compound then turn in and walk a little further along to my building. Any other day of the year this would have been only a tiny inconvenience, even in the rain. This is not any other day of the year.
I'm sick, my bags weigh a ton, I'm highly emotional, it's a monsoon...basically, this turns into one of the longest walks of my life. I stop four times to rest and cry before I arrive outside my condo sweating through two layers of clothes. I am a hot mess...but I am home. Fortunately, though, no one else is, so I drop my pack next to the couch, fall onto--and practically through--it, and sleep for five hours. When I wake up mid-afternoon I'm still the only one here, so I just lay back down on the couch and go to sleep.
This cycle repeats (I guess my roommates are out for the holiday) a couple times throughout the day, and despite the fact that I eventually move to my room to sleep, continues basically uninterrupted for the next few days. I would continue to feel sick for about 3-4 days and I'd guess I only ate a few hundred calories per day, which only added to the fairly significant amount of weight I lost on my holiday. I came back quite lean and with a nice set of core muscles, at least compared to what I had when I left, but I'm sure a few weeks of ridiculously unhealthy Singaporean food will take care of that.
In any case, it's several days before I can really think about what I put myself through this past month. I'm incredibly proud of myself for making it through alone and with all of my belongings still in my possession. Thanks to the objectivity of time, I can tell you that I absolutely had an incredible time. It wasn't relaxing in any possible definition of the word, but it was challenging, eye-opening, reassuring, difficult, exhausting, thrilling, colorful, dangerous, exciting, and a million other good things. I learned a lot about what I'm comfortable with, what I'm capable of, what role I want religion to play in my life, what bad habits I have left to deal with (like judging people, pushing myself too hard and too fast, spending money to money to make myself feel better, etc.), what good traits I'm developing (self-reliance, patience, flexibility, an eye for details), how to take care of myself, how to meet new people and put myself in new situations...
For as quickly as it went by, I think I'll look back on this trip as one of the defining moments of my life. It won't be the last trip I take like this (I intend to take longer ones to several countries), but it was the first and the lessons I learned about myself are invaluable. When it comes down to it, yes, I would have preferred to have traveled with someone. But on the other hand, when it comes down to it, yes, I can take care of myself and find enjoyment while traveling alone. I'll probably be solo next time, too, but it doesn't bother me anymore. I'm ready for the next trip, the next challenge, the next country, the next chapter.
I'm ready for whatever's going to come next.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Saying goodbye at 'the teardrop on the cheek of humanity'
Photo Album: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=176477&id=770825648&l=ed17f6f085
I didn't sleep at all last night. Actually, I think I might have dozed off for half an hour or so, but I just couldn't bear the idea of losing any time in the last 24 hours I would be spending in this country for who knows how long. So I watched a couple of Bollywood movies that were surprisingly interesting. The first, 'Jab We Met', was a cute romantic comedy; I'm not sure what the title of the movie after it was, but it was one of those epic song and dance numbers that took the main characters around the world and through endless romantic turmoil and joy. Classic. Perfect for trying to stay awake at 4 in the morning.
Six is when I force myself to get up and get ready for my trip to the spot that I intentionally saved for last: the Taj Mahal. Originally, this was going to be one of the first stops on my trip, but in a small stroke of genius I reversed my entire itinerary and made it my last day. I definitely appreciate that now, and am glad to be spending my final day in India at its most beautiful landmark. I'm out the door by 6:15, heading out into the dark and cold, along with several other yawning foreigners all intent on seeing the Taj at sunrise. I fall into step with a pair of German girls and start up a conversation with them as we walk. We wait in the fairly short line together and watch an increasingly humorous exchange between a man selling mini, plastic Taj Mahal keychains to a pair of women who have obviously lived in this country most of their lives:
Tout: "Here, you see? Proper work and good quality. I give you the best deal: 5 for 50 rupees."
Women: "No, no. We do not wish to buy."
"Wait, no please, wait. Six! Six for 50 rupees. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6."
"No. We do not want them."
"Please, good ladies, please see how good these are. Now, I will do extra nice deal: seven for 50 rupees! Seven, madams, seven! See? 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7."
"No. Please go. We do not wish to buy."
"Now, now, please. I give you most definite best deal, nice ladies. EIGHT! Eight nice pieces, very like real Taj. Eight for you, good ladies, eight! 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8."
"No! Go sell to another!"
It's obvious this would have gone on if it weren't for the fact that the gate is finally opening and the line pushes forward towards the metal detectors and security checkpoint ahead. I've heard that they're quite odd about what they allow you in with and what is enough to have you sent back to the ticket counter to check your belongings: definitely no books, including journals and notebooks, no pens, no camera tripods, and, in the case of Emma (girl I met in Varanasi), no scarf. That's right, she couldn't wear her scarf in despite the cold weather. Riiiiight. Well, here goes nothing. They look in my bag, see my souvenir tickets, spare camera lens, hand sanitizer and mouth wash, passport, money belt, and Lonely Planet guidebook, then I'm patted down and waved on. And that's it--I'm in without any problems, scarf and all. This is probably the only time this whole trip that I've expected something to be ten times harder than it actually turned out to be.
You walk into a large, open courtyard with the gigantic inner gate to the Taj on your left and other gates leading back into town straight ahead and on the right. Even the inner gate is ornately decorated, with dozens of small domes, marble inlay and decorative, cursive script (Hindi?). I purposely slow down my pace so that I can round the corner to the inner gate with the maximum amount of drama. The actual door in the wall is quite small, so when you approach it you see only a hint of the Taj; walk through the door and it emerges slowly and majestically. Oh, my gosh, my stomach is filled with a thousand butterflies as I get my first look! The four minarets marking the corners of the main structure rise like enormous rooks on a chess board, strategically positioned to protect their late-queen. I've heard they're tilted ever-so-slightly away from the hall, so that if an earthquake comes through they will fall away from the structure. Sounds like a good idea to me.
The sun hasn't actually risen, yet, but honestly that's totally fine by me. There's a thick layer of mist around the whole neighborhood and the soft, greyish-blue light is romantic and practically camouflages the Taj. I'm immediately struck by the size; yes, I knew it was large, but to see it in person blows my expectations out of the water. What doesn't surprise me is how immaculately clean the grounds are. There isn't a single piece of trash anywhere, and not only are the fountains full of water but they're perfectly clear. Considering how much they make off of foreign visitors (I paid Rs750 to get in, about $20, a small fortune compared to the Rs300 the next most expensive site charged me), I'm sure they can afford to hire a groundskeeper for Rs100 per hour.
As I walk up closer, the sun just starts to break over the horizon, adding a pinkish hue to the building. It's breathtaking and beyond description; my skin is tingling and I'm silently thanking god for the gift of wisdom and creativity that led to the construction of this structure. It's incredible. As you walk up to the main structure, you either have to remove your shoes or cover them with little cloth booties. I cover mine, mainly to avoid contact with the freezing cold marble, and circumambulate (pradakshina, in Sanskrit) the Taj. I move clockwise, always keeping it on my right, just like the temples in Khajuraho. While this isn't technically a holy site, it feels like it to me because it's the greatest representation of man's incredible imagination and mastery of nature I've ever seen. It's inspiring to see what beauty we are capable of creating. Oh, god, Ayn Rand would be so proud of me right now.
I'm out of the fort in an hour and a half, partially because I'm pushing myself to go faster than normal, but also because it's on the small side compared to the other forts I've been to. I'm pleasantly surprised I have time to have a rickshaw take me over to some nearby shops before I head home. Thinking the shops and my hotel are fairly close together I strike a deal with a cycle rickshaw driver. He does indeed get me to the shops quickly, but they're full of cheap crap geared more towards the native Agrans so I tell him to take me to the hotel. During the ride I make my final phone calls from India to tell people I'm on my way home soon and talking to mom gets me just a little choked up. It's true that I'm ready to go home, but there's part of me that could easily stay and travel around southern India for a month now that I feel like I understand this country a bit more. I've always been lucky that even though I do miss home, it's not the crippling kind of homesickness that keeps me from enjoying long periods off on my own.
Soon, however, the first problem of the day crops up. It is taking absolutely forever for this guy to get back to my hotel. I ask him how long it will take. His reply: 30 minutes. It's 9:50 and I need to leave my hotel at 10 to get to the train station. Obviously, this isn't going to work. I go into panic mode and start leaning out the side of the rickshaw trying to flag down an auto touk touk. The driver is obviously not happy about this and says that he can't stop in a busy road (which is currently nearly empty) to let me out blah blah blah. Meanwhile, I've stopped a touk touk and am basically jumping from one to the other. I give the cycle guy half his fare, but he leans into the touk touk and demands the rest of it. I told him he didn't take me the whole way and he was slow. He calls me something mean in Hindi (according to the driver) and I tell him what he can do to himself in a phrase that would make a sailor proud. Hey, the asshole had it coming; I'm leaving out some details, but if you had been riding with me you'd agree.
So now my nice fast touk touk gets me back to the hotel right at ten. I ask him to wait and to take me to the train station after I get my pack and check-out and, good man that he is, he weaves and drifts and ignores basic laws of the road so that we get to the station right on time. I go to check on my train and find....it's delayed. By an hour and a half. But hey, no big deal, that still gives me a few hours in Delhi to go to Jama Masjid and maybe stop at a store nearby to buy a few last souvenirs. It's 10:20 now. If we leave at 11:50 it'll be fine. I probably won't have time for lunch with Marc (disappointing), but I'll still see what I want to see. I'm approached by a few Germans also going to Delhi to ask whether I'm on their train. They've bought the open tickets that I'm traveling with again, so I explain to them how they work and we all agree to just try to find an empty cabin in 2nd class the four of us can take over and pay the difference. One of them, Simon, is leaving from the airport this afternoon as well, and was only here in Agra on a day trip, so we decide to share a touk touk to the train station. Nice! Now we just have to wait.
11:50--No train. Okay, I can work with this, I'll just have to pay extra for touk touks instead of walking in Delhi. No sweat.
12:30--No train. Well, this isn't ideal. I'm going to have to cut out the shopping for souvenirs, but I can still see Jama Masjid, the one thing I most wanted to see in Delhi. It's fine.
1--TRAIN!! Oops, just kidding. No train. Someone else on the platform says that this train is going to Delhi, but that it's slower because it's not an express. This one will take six hours, compared to the one we're booked on, which takes 3-4. The train we want will be coming right after this one. I'm officially nervous.
1:30--TRAIN!! I have no idea if this actually the right one, but who the hell cares. Worst case scenario we'll be arriving at exactly the time I need to be clear across town to check-in at the airport. Oh dear god. We all rush on and urge the train onwards with our desperation. We do manage to find a cabin, though, and all collapse onto a seat letting our adrenaline levels drop back down to normal.
A little while into the trip one of the girl shares some oranges she's bought at the market in Agra. Remembering how good my last one was, I say thanks and enjoy a little treat on the train. I'm clamping down the disappointment I feel at not being able to see some of the incredible sites I read about months ago while planning this trip. Half an hour later, though, I start to feel a little weird. I think it's just motion sickness, but it's getting a bit stronger, so I apologize and tell the others I'm going to try to take a nap to fight it. I wake up a few times, feeling pretty normal for about five minutes each time before getting that sick feeling again, but I just go back to sleep with my head on my pack because it seems to help. Until the end of the train ride, that is. As soon as I'm awake for good I'm ready to lose my lunch. I can't open my mouth for fear that it will jump-start my upchuck reflex. I am sick. I am definitely not okay. Oh god, please not now. Noooooo!!!
I tell the others that I'm not well (which they have obviously picked up from the look on my face), but there's not a lot of time for sympathy, it's 5 and I'm supposed to be at the airport right now, checking in for my 6:45 flight. Simon and I grab the first touk touk we can and ask them to take us just a little ways away into Paharganj to pick up Simon's bags. It's a freaking traffic nightmare. Of course. We end up jumping out of the touk touk and throwing bills at the driver so we can walk to his hotel. He carries my bag, like a gentleman, but also so we can move faster (I can barely support the weight because I feel so sick). A few minutes later he comes out and we try to find another touk touk to take us to the airport. Success! We find one (it's 5:15) and he comes and picks us up. We make it extremely clear to him that we are in a gigantic hurry. If I'm not there in an hour they won't let me board. 'How long will it take to get to Indira Gandhi domestic terminal?' 'One hour.' Oh. Dear. God. 'GO!!!'
In the touk touk I am crying and sending up aimless prayers that I make it to my flight. I CANNOT STAY ANOTHER DAY IN THIS COUNTRY. GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE. All the thoughts about how I could totally stay for another month have vanished, leaving me weak and emotional and desperate. I just want to get home so I can be sick in my own bed. Just get me home. Please. Please. Just get me home. Just let me catch my flight. Please. I can't talk, I can't even look up, or I will throw up out the side of the car. Simon says things and asks me questions but all I can do is just nod or shake my head. He's completely out of money from paying the bill at his hotel, so this ride's on me, plus I'm going to have to give him some for the remainder of the ride to his own part of the airport (he's flying international, I'm flying domestic to Mumbai so I'm getting off earlier). I've got to give him a lot of thanks, though, because he did indeed get me from the train station to the airport, carrying my bag half the way and basically yelling at people to 'hurry the hell up we've got planes to catch!' Imagine meeting someone 6 hours earlier, watching them get sicker and sicker, wondering if they're going to throw up on you, then having to make sure they get to the airport on time while you're desperately trying to get to your own flight. Thank you, Simon, wherever you are!
I rush into the airport, barely able to stand under my pack and fighting nausea. Check-in is easy, though, and I move as quickly as I can down to security where I'm quickly passed through. Oh, thank you thank you thank you thank you! I'm going to make this flight!! I am going home!! I reach the terminal, give them my ticket, take the short bus ride out to the middle of the tarmac where the plane is, and find my seat. But I don't sit down; I drop my bag (in the freaking middle seat, of course) and head to the bathroom in the tail of the plane. Sixty seconds later I'm heaving and regurgitating a thick orange liquid. It was the god damn orange. I don't get it! It looked fine and I peeled it myself. Was there something on my hands that mixed with the juice? Screw it, who cares at this point. Wow, do I feel massively better after throwing up a couple times. I stumble back to my seat and fall asleep before the safety video is over. I wake up at the announcement for touch-down and realize I'm not going to make it to the airport. I head back to the same bathroom and clear the last of the noxious orange from my system until I'm just doing dry heaves. WOW it really helps to just give in and throw up.
I've got enough energy left in me to get off the plane and get into the terminal. Of course I have to take a shuttle to the international part of the airport then go through customs then go through security again then take a second small shuttle to the plane on the tarmac...good lord just get me to my seat so I can go back to sleep! Eventually, though, after several breaks to rest while walking down the hallway of the airport, I do get on the plane and in my seat. It's on the aisle, thank goodness, but as it turns out I don't need it anymore. I still feel a little bit nauseous, but it's obvious that if I just go to sleep I'll be fine. And go to sleep I do. I miss the skymap and dinner, my two favorite things about the flight out here, but don't even realize it as I lose consciousness in a deep, dreamless sleep.
I didn't sleep at all last night. Actually, I think I might have dozed off for half an hour or so, but I just couldn't bear the idea of losing any time in the last 24 hours I would be spending in this country for who knows how long. So I watched a couple of Bollywood movies that were surprisingly interesting. The first, 'Jab We Met', was a cute romantic comedy; I'm not sure what the title of the movie after it was, but it was one of those epic song and dance numbers that took the main characters around the world and through endless romantic turmoil and joy. Classic. Perfect for trying to stay awake at 4 in the morning.
Six is when I force myself to get up and get ready for my trip to the spot that I intentionally saved for last: the Taj Mahal. Originally, this was going to be one of the first stops on my trip, but in a small stroke of genius I reversed my entire itinerary and made it my last day. I definitely appreciate that now, and am glad to be spending my final day in India at its most beautiful landmark. I'm out the door by 6:15, heading out into the dark and cold, along with several other yawning foreigners all intent on seeing the Taj at sunrise. I fall into step with a pair of German girls and start up a conversation with them as we walk. We wait in the fairly short line together and watch an increasingly humorous exchange between a man selling mini, plastic Taj Mahal keychains to a pair of women who have obviously lived in this country most of their lives:
Tout: "Here, you see? Proper work and good quality. I give you the best deal: 5 for 50 rupees."
Women: "No, no. We do not wish to buy."
"Wait, no please, wait. Six! Six for 50 rupees. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6."
"No. We do not want them."
"Please, good ladies, please see how good these are. Now, I will do extra nice deal: seven for 50 rupees! Seven, madams, seven! See? 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7."
"No. Please go. We do not wish to buy."
"Now, now, please. I give you most definite best deal, nice ladies. EIGHT! Eight nice pieces, very like real Taj. Eight for you, good ladies, eight! 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8."
"No! Go sell to another!"
It's obvious this would have gone on if it weren't for the fact that the gate is finally opening and the line pushes forward towards the metal detectors and security checkpoint ahead. I've heard that they're quite odd about what they allow you in with and what is enough to have you sent back to the ticket counter to check your belongings: definitely no books, including journals and notebooks, no pens, no camera tripods, and, in the case of Emma (girl I met in Varanasi), no scarf. That's right, she couldn't wear her scarf in despite the cold weather. Riiiiight. Well, here goes nothing. They look in my bag, see my souvenir tickets, spare camera lens, hand sanitizer and mouth wash, passport, money belt, and Lonely Planet guidebook, then I'm patted down and waved on. And that's it--I'm in without any problems, scarf and all. This is probably the only time this whole trip that I've expected something to be ten times harder than it actually turned out to be.
You walk into a large, open courtyard with the gigantic inner gate to the Taj on your left and other gates leading back into town straight ahead and on the right. Even the inner gate is ornately decorated, with dozens of small domes, marble inlay and decorative, cursive script (Hindi?). I purposely slow down my pace so that I can round the corner to the inner gate with the maximum amount of drama. The actual door in the wall is quite small, so when you approach it you see only a hint of the Taj; walk through the door and it emerges slowly and majestically. Oh, my gosh, my stomach is filled with a thousand butterflies as I get my first look! The four minarets marking the corners of the main structure rise like enormous rooks on a chess board, strategically positioned to protect their late-queen. I've heard they're tilted ever-so-slightly away from the hall, so that if an earthquake comes through they will fall away from the structure. Sounds like a good idea to me.
The Yamuna River flows behind the Taj, but you can barely see it thanks to the thick, wet layer of mist that will take hours to dissipate. Then, as I round the final corner to return to the front, I'm nearly blinded by the sun reflecting off of the perfectly smooth white marble. It's like watching the sun rise over a calm ocean, with the imperfections in the marble creating small, soft waves. Finally, I'm ready to go inside. We're ushered into the inner sanctum where Shah Jahan's beloved is laid to rest, but no photography is allowed (which turns out to be fine because there's a marble lattice barrier between you and the marker anyway). This is when I begin to notice the intricate inlay of precious stones. It's mainly a floral motif, with blossoms of pink, orange and yellow branching off of green stems. It's not quite as interesting as the work at the Golden Temple in Amritsar, but it does lend a more solemn air which is probably more fitting for a tomb, anyway.
Up close I'm impressed by the sheer amount of geometry and the impressive tessellations that make up the decorations under the arches and eaves. Part of the reason I enjoy studying history is because I have an incredible amount of respect for what civilizations were able to do/discover/create thousands of years ago with such relatively-primitive technology. Unfortunately, I'm not going to have as long to simply sit and admire the Taj as I might like. My train leaves at 10:30, so I have to be at the station before 10:15. I can still see Agra Fort and make it, but I'm going to have to hurry. It's a short cycle-rickshaw ride to get there (and mostly downhill, so the fare is cheap) and it's going to be even cheaper to get in because I've got the free ticket that one of the guys I met along the river gave me last night.
Works like a charm. Suddenly, I'm Rs250 richer than I planned to be. Score. I feel even better after I've toured the fort, though, because to be honest it doesn't seem like it would be worth paying that much to get in here. It is quite large and there are several places to explore, but it's nothing like the forts in Jodhpur and Jaisalmer. Also, I'm sure it has a great view of the Taj Mahal only a few kilometers away, but with the morning fog and the everyday pollution, I can only barely make-out the outline of it. But anyway. The outside of the fort is extremely impressive, though, with the remains of what must have been an absolutely filthy moat and walls covered in carvings. There are other marble flourishes and decorations that match those on the big Taj and baby Taj, and to be honest it's nice to see some cohesion among the sites here. Shah Jahan must have been a busy man indeed (note: he didn't create the baby Taj).
Soon, however, the first problem of the day crops up. It is taking absolutely forever for this guy to get back to my hotel. I ask him how long it will take. His reply: 30 minutes. It's 9:50 and I need to leave my hotel at 10 to get to the train station. Obviously, this isn't going to work. I go into panic mode and start leaning out the side of the rickshaw trying to flag down an auto touk touk. The driver is obviously not happy about this and says that he can't stop in a busy road (which is currently nearly empty) to let me out blah blah blah. Meanwhile, I've stopped a touk touk and am basically jumping from one to the other. I give the cycle guy half his fare, but he leans into the touk touk and demands the rest of it. I told him he didn't take me the whole way and he was slow. He calls me something mean in Hindi (according to the driver) and I tell him what he can do to himself in a phrase that would make a sailor proud. Hey, the asshole had it coming; I'm leaving out some details, but if you had been riding with me you'd agree.
So now my nice fast touk touk gets me back to the hotel right at ten. I ask him to wait and to take me to the train station after I get my pack and check-out and, good man that he is, he weaves and drifts and ignores basic laws of the road so that we get to the station right on time. I go to check on my train and find....it's delayed. By an hour and a half. But hey, no big deal, that still gives me a few hours in Delhi to go to Jama Masjid and maybe stop at a store nearby to buy a few last souvenirs. It's 10:20 now. If we leave at 11:50 it'll be fine. I probably won't have time for lunch with Marc (disappointing), but I'll still see what I want to see. I'm approached by a few Germans also going to Delhi to ask whether I'm on their train. They've bought the open tickets that I'm traveling with again, so I explain to them how they work and we all agree to just try to find an empty cabin in 2nd class the four of us can take over and pay the difference. One of them, Simon, is leaving from the airport this afternoon as well, and was only here in Agra on a day trip, so we decide to share a touk touk to the train station. Nice! Now we just have to wait.
11:50--No train. Okay, I can work with this, I'll just have to pay extra for touk touks instead of walking in Delhi. No sweat.
12:30--No train. Well, this isn't ideal. I'm going to have to cut out the shopping for souvenirs, but I can still see Jama Masjid, the one thing I most wanted to see in Delhi. It's fine.
1--TRAIN!! Oops, just kidding. No train. Someone else on the platform says that this train is going to Delhi, but that it's slower because it's not an express. This one will take six hours, compared to the one we're booked on, which takes 3-4. The train we want will be coming right after this one. I'm officially nervous.
1:30--TRAIN!! I have no idea if this actually the right one, but who the hell cares. Worst case scenario we'll be arriving at exactly the time I need to be clear across town to check-in at the airport. Oh dear god. We all rush on and urge the train onwards with our desperation. We do manage to find a cabin, though, and all collapse onto a seat letting our adrenaline levels drop back down to normal.
A little while into the trip one of the girl shares some oranges she's bought at the market in Agra. Remembering how good my last one was, I say thanks and enjoy a little treat on the train. I'm clamping down the disappointment I feel at not being able to see some of the incredible sites I read about months ago while planning this trip. Half an hour later, though, I start to feel a little weird. I think it's just motion sickness, but it's getting a bit stronger, so I apologize and tell the others I'm going to try to take a nap to fight it. I wake up a few times, feeling pretty normal for about five minutes each time before getting that sick feeling again, but I just go back to sleep with my head on my pack because it seems to help. Until the end of the train ride, that is. As soon as I'm awake for good I'm ready to lose my lunch. I can't open my mouth for fear that it will jump-start my upchuck reflex. I am sick. I am definitely not okay. Oh god, please not now. Noooooo!!!
I tell the others that I'm not well (which they have obviously picked up from the look on my face), but there's not a lot of time for sympathy, it's 5 and I'm supposed to be at the airport right now, checking in for my 6:45 flight. Simon and I grab the first touk touk we can and ask them to take us just a little ways away into Paharganj to pick up Simon's bags. It's a freaking traffic nightmare. Of course. We end up jumping out of the touk touk and throwing bills at the driver so we can walk to his hotel. He carries my bag, like a gentleman, but also so we can move faster (I can barely support the weight because I feel so sick). A few minutes later he comes out and we try to find another touk touk to take us to the airport. Success! We find one (it's 5:15) and he comes and picks us up. We make it extremely clear to him that we are in a gigantic hurry. If I'm not there in an hour they won't let me board. 'How long will it take to get to Indira Gandhi domestic terminal?' 'One hour.' Oh. Dear. God. 'GO!!!'
In the touk touk I am crying and sending up aimless prayers that I make it to my flight. I CANNOT STAY ANOTHER DAY IN THIS COUNTRY. GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE. All the thoughts about how I could totally stay for another month have vanished, leaving me weak and emotional and desperate. I just want to get home so I can be sick in my own bed. Just get me home. Please. Please. Just get me home. Just let me catch my flight. Please. I can't talk, I can't even look up, or I will throw up out the side of the car. Simon says things and asks me questions but all I can do is just nod or shake my head. He's completely out of money from paying the bill at his hotel, so this ride's on me, plus I'm going to have to give him some for the remainder of the ride to his own part of the airport (he's flying international, I'm flying domestic to Mumbai so I'm getting off earlier). I've got to give him a lot of thanks, though, because he did indeed get me from the train station to the airport, carrying my bag half the way and basically yelling at people to 'hurry the hell up we've got planes to catch!' Imagine meeting someone 6 hours earlier, watching them get sicker and sicker, wondering if they're going to throw up on you, then having to make sure they get to the airport on time while you're desperately trying to get to your own flight. Thank you, Simon, wherever you are!
I rush into the airport, barely able to stand under my pack and fighting nausea. Check-in is easy, though, and I move as quickly as I can down to security where I'm quickly passed through. Oh, thank you thank you thank you thank you! I'm going to make this flight!! I am going home!! I reach the terminal, give them my ticket, take the short bus ride out to the middle of the tarmac where the plane is, and find my seat. But I don't sit down; I drop my bag (in the freaking middle seat, of course) and head to the bathroom in the tail of the plane. Sixty seconds later I'm heaving and regurgitating a thick orange liquid. It was the god damn orange. I don't get it! It looked fine and I peeled it myself. Was there something on my hands that mixed with the juice? Screw it, who cares at this point. Wow, do I feel massively better after throwing up a couple times. I stumble back to my seat and fall asleep before the safety video is over. I wake up at the announcement for touch-down and realize I'm not going to make it to the airport. I head back to the same bathroom and clear the last of the noxious orange from my system until I'm just doing dry heaves. WOW it really helps to just give in and throw up.
I've got enough energy left in me to get off the plane and get into the terminal. Of course I have to take a shuttle to the international part of the airport then go through customs then go through security again then take a second small shuttle to the plane on the tarmac...good lord just get me to my seat so I can go back to sleep! Eventually, though, after several breaks to rest while walking down the hallway of the airport, I do get on the plane and in my seat. It's on the aisle, thank goodness, but as it turns out I don't need it anymore. I still feel a little bit nauseous, but it's obvious that if I just go to sleep I'll be fine. And go to sleep I do. I miss the skymap and dinner, my two favorite things about the flight out here, but don't even realize it as I lose consciousness in a deep, dreamless sleep.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
My last full day in India
Photo Album: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=176477&id=770825648&l=ed17f6f085
Again, I owe the family I’m sharing a berth with. Somehow I managed to sleep through the 3 alarms on my watch, and even though it wasn’t his stop, Rashan was awake and woke me because he knew I needed to get off the train. I have absolutely no idea what would have happened if that incredible family hadn’t been there to look up my PNR number, talk to the conductor for me, give me a berth and get me off the train. Who knows where I would have ended up or what I would have had to pay.
Remarkably, the train has finished the 12-hour trip almost exactly on time. This really is no small feat—only one other train out of the 15 I’ve ridden has accomplished the same thing. The good news is that my 5am arrival means I have plenty of time to buy a ticket and board the 6am train to Agra rather than have to search for a bus that might not be leaving until 8 or 9 and take almost six hours. My ticket is an “open ticket”, which means that I’m not assigned a specific seat until I get on the train and see what’s empty. They tell me just to get on whichever coach I want to ride on and plunk down in an empty seat. Works for me, especially for Rs72.
Another American girl, Kara, sees me waiting to board the train and asks me for help finding carriage D1. I’ve never heard of D1 before and tell her that I have an open ticket myself, so we decide to just board the train’s chair coach and hope for the best. In an interesting coincidence, Kara announces she’s a sixth-grade teacher in an international school in Dubai. She even thought at one point about teaching in Singapore. Obviously, we have plenty to talk about over the five-hour trip to Agra.
Kara shares an awesome idea with me when we’re about an hour from Agra: in order to see as much as possible as quickly as possible, let’s hire a driver to take us around in a pre-paid taxi which, at the end of the day, will leave her at the train station and me at my hotel. Normally, this idea wouldn’t be something I’m interested in because these services tend to be a bit of a rip-off. However, the train is already running about an hour late and speed is becoming more important to me than having a few hundred more rupiya in my pocket. After I book a train ticket to Delhi for tomorrow, we exit the station and see what kind of cost we’re talking here.
The first guy that approaches us shows us his official taxi license and a list of prices. At first he says it will be Rs1250 all-inclusive for 6 hours, but he says of all the things we want to see we’ll only have time to go to Fatehpur Sikri, a mosque and palace 40km outside of town, and the Taj Mahal. When we try to bargain with him, since seeing two things then going to the train station hardly seems worth that much, he says he could lower it to Rs1000 but we’d have to pay about Rs150 in tolls and parking fees. Saving Rs100 doesn’t seem like much of a compromise, and unfortunately for him the late train has made me extremely frustrated and short-tempered. I’m getting angry because I don’t want to waste time arguing over what seems to be a ridiculous price and Kara and I eventually decide that even if we could get a price we liked, it would probably be pretty uncomfortable to ride with them in the car.
So we go to the actual taxi stand booth, rather than talk with a driver directly. I promise Kara that I’m going to be better about keeping my temper and let her do most of the talking. I feel like I can’t hold my tongue, though, because I’m so anxious to get on the road! When we tell dispatcher which three places we want to go to, he says it will be Rs950 and we’ll have to pay the tolls and fees, but that they will only be about Rs100. Well, it’s not what we were hoping for, but it’s still only about Rs500 for each of us and it’ll be the most practical way to get around. When you’re paying for speed and efficiency, I guess you should expect to pay a premium.
But we have a car and a driver, who promises us he is “very fast, getting you to all the sights in big hurry! You are like my guests. I will no be happy if my guests not see all to see in Agra.” We toss my bag in the back and start driving. I have to say, the Taj Mahal may not be the most impressive thing in Agra. That honor may go to the traffic; it’s infuriating, maddening and exasperating, but also striking for its sprawling size! In all of India I haven’t seen so many cars squished into such narrow lanes and taking so damn long to get where they want to go. It takes just over an hour to go only 40km and the roads for the most part are sprinkled with potholes that we have to slow down for or swerve to avoid. I think we’ve also managed to hire the only timid, law-abiding, cautious driver in all of India. Today of all days….
But finally, a little after one, we get to Fatehpur Sikri, the former capital of the Mughal empire in the 1500s. You have to pay to enter the palaces, of which there are three; the emperor Akbar had three wives from the three main religions (Hindu, Muslim, Christian) of his territory and each got their own palace to enjoy with their servants and children. They’re built of red sandstone and marble and a good deal of the interior paintings and exterior carvings remain intact. There are also several beautifully landscaped gardens with a flower I’ve never seen before (it almost looks like it’s made of folded velvet). The site is huge and it takes at least an hour just to see the three palaces and their courtyards. Unfortunately, we didn’t make it to the areas beyond them.
Kara’s also ready to fight the traffic again and head back into town. Back in the car, we’re pushing our driver (whose name I never actually catch) pretty hard and, to his credit, he starts driving a bit more aggressively. But traffic is still so utterly ridiculous! I can’t believe that there isn’t more of a demand for some kind of system of traffic management. Lights are few and far between and when the road narrows under a bridge there are twelve cars fanned out across the road trying to weave into each other and get through. It probably takes fifteen minutes to get the quarter mile past the bridge and I know there’s nothing I can do about it, but that just makes it worse. Argh!!!!
But we do get through and arrive at our second stop, Itimad-ud-daulah, a.k.a. the Baby Taj, around 4:25. Kara is slightly worried she’s not going to make it to the big Taj before they stop selling tickets at 5, so she just takes a few quick pics and gets back in the car. I tell her to just leave me at Baby Taj so I can look at it longer and come back to pick me up in a little over an hour. My plan is to see Big Taj at sunrise, anyway, so I’m content to stay on the opposite side of the Yamuna River for a little while. Baby Taj is definitely miniature compared to the real thing, but the inlay work and painting is no less impressive and it turns out it’s the first Mughal structure built entirely out of marble AND it was built by a woman! Not bad for the early 1600s.
There’s a large garden nearby with a road that leads down to the riverbank opposite the big Taj and that’s where I want to be at sunset, so just before 5 I head down that way. Turning the corner and seeing “the tear drop on the cheek of eternity” is absolutely thrilling. There’s no other way to describe the Taj; you look at it and immediately start breathing harder and get goosebumps. I knew it was a large structure, but to see it with my own eyes it seems positively massive. The setting sun gives the white marble a subtle pink glow and it’s peaceful and quiet on the riverbank. There’s a small group of other tourists who have already arrived with the same idea as me and the crowd grows steadily, but silently. It’s actually quite nice to sit with everyone because you can sense the wonder and respect that all of us are feeling as we simply sit and look across the Yamuna.
Unfortunately, I have to drag myself away to meet Kara and our driver back at the Baby Taj so I can get a ride to my hotel. As it turns out, though, the driver’s already taken her to her train and he’s just here to collect me. He really is a nice man and he buys me a cup of chai in a tiny porcelain cup (more like a shot of espresso than anything else) from a street vendor that makes it over a coal fire in the ‘old fashion’ that he claims gives it its delicious flavor. My driver drops me as close to my hotel as he can and arranges for a cycle rickshaw to carry me the rest of the way. I’m headed to Shanti Lodge, a hotel with one of the best views of the Taj in Agra from the rooftop restaurant. It’s too dark to see anything now, but tomorrow I intend to take full advantage of it.
Before I can get into the hotel, though, I'm distracted by a large group of young men and boys playing large bass drums and cymbals in the street. It looks like some absurd marching band that lost its conductor but is trying to rehearse anyway; everyone looks around hoping someone will say when to start, and about 30 seconds after each time they begin they lose the beat and descend into chaotic booms and clangs. They play the drums a way I've never seen before: one boy holds it while another stands behind him and hits it with two long, thin sticks. There's obviously a competition for who will get to play next and the younger boys can't compete and so content themselves with the small hand cymbals. I can't blame them for fighting for a turn, though, and honestly I'm incredibly tempted to ask if I can try. The rhythm is fairly simple and it would be a lot of fun for me to step in and probably surprise them with being able to play as well as them. I'm tired, though, and I want to get online before bed, so I pass on the opportunity.
After getting checked in I take care of a few things, such as checking my email and re-packing as much of my bag as I can so I’m ready to wake up and immediately head out to the Taj and the fort then go to the train station as soon as I’m done sight-seeing. I have one last pot of chai delivered to my room and get sucked into a Bollywood movie that manages to be pretty hilarious, even in Hindi. I could definitely stay in India a while longer and would be excited to travel the southern part of the country, but I’m also ready to see my friends and celebrate Christmas. Singapore isn’t home, but I’m ready to return all the same.
Again, I owe the family I’m sharing a berth with. Somehow I managed to sleep through the 3 alarms on my watch, and even though it wasn’t his stop, Rashan was awake and woke me because he knew I needed to get off the train. I have absolutely no idea what would have happened if that incredible family hadn’t been there to look up my PNR number, talk to the conductor for me, give me a berth and get me off the train. Who knows where I would have ended up or what I would have had to pay.
Remarkably, the train has finished the 12-hour trip almost exactly on time. This really is no small feat—only one other train out of the 15 I’ve ridden has accomplished the same thing. The good news is that my 5am arrival means I have plenty of time to buy a ticket and board the 6am train to Agra rather than have to search for a bus that might not be leaving until 8 or 9 and take almost six hours. My ticket is an “open ticket”, which means that I’m not assigned a specific seat until I get on the train and see what’s empty. They tell me just to get on whichever coach I want to ride on and plunk down in an empty seat. Works for me, especially for Rs72.
Another American girl, Kara, sees me waiting to board the train and asks me for help finding carriage D1. I’ve never heard of D1 before and tell her that I have an open ticket myself, so we decide to just board the train’s chair coach and hope for the best. In an interesting coincidence, Kara announces she’s a sixth-grade teacher in an international school in Dubai. She even thought at one point about teaching in Singapore. Obviously, we have plenty to talk about over the five-hour trip to Agra.
Kara shares an awesome idea with me when we’re about an hour from Agra: in order to see as much as possible as quickly as possible, let’s hire a driver to take us around in a pre-paid taxi which, at the end of the day, will leave her at the train station and me at my hotel. Normally, this idea wouldn’t be something I’m interested in because these services tend to be a bit of a rip-off. However, the train is already running about an hour late and speed is becoming more important to me than having a few hundred more rupiya in my pocket. After I book a train ticket to Delhi for tomorrow, we exit the station and see what kind of cost we’re talking here.
The first guy that approaches us shows us his official taxi license and a list of prices. At first he says it will be Rs1250 all-inclusive for 6 hours, but he says of all the things we want to see we’ll only have time to go to Fatehpur Sikri, a mosque and palace 40km outside of town, and the Taj Mahal. When we try to bargain with him, since seeing two things then going to the train station hardly seems worth that much, he says he could lower it to Rs1000 but we’d have to pay about Rs150 in tolls and parking fees. Saving Rs100 doesn’t seem like much of a compromise, and unfortunately for him the late train has made me extremely frustrated and short-tempered. I’m getting angry because I don’t want to waste time arguing over what seems to be a ridiculous price and Kara and I eventually decide that even if we could get a price we liked, it would probably be pretty uncomfortable to ride with them in the car.
So we go to the actual taxi stand booth, rather than talk with a driver directly. I promise Kara that I’m going to be better about keeping my temper and let her do most of the talking. I feel like I can’t hold my tongue, though, because I’m so anxious to get on the road! When we tell dispatcher which three places we want to go to, he says it will be Rs950 and we’ll have to pay the tolls and fees, but that they will only be about Rs100. Well, it’s not what we were hoping for, but it’s still only about Rs500 for each of us and it’ll be the most practical way to get around. When you’re paying for speed and efficiency, I guess you should expect to pay a premium.
But we have a car and a driver, who promises us he is “very fast, getting you to all the sights in big hurry! You are like my guests. I will no be happy if my guests not see all to see in Agra.” We toss my bag in the back and start driving. I have to say, the Taj Mahal may not be the most impressive thing in Agra. That honor may go to the traffic; it’s infuriating, maddening and exasperating, but also striking for its sprawling size! In all of India I haven’t seen so many cars squished into such narrow lanes and taking so damn long to get where they want to go. It takes just over an hour to go only 40km and the roads for the most part are sprinkled with potholes that we have to slow down for or swerve to avoid. I think we’ve also managed to hire the only timid, law-abiding, cautious driver in all of India. Today of all days….
The mosque, Jama Masjid, is no less impressive, although it’s swarming with touts. There are guides offering their services, women selling trinkets, men selling postcards, children asking for rupees and pens and taxi drivers trying to take us back into town. If you can shake them, which is no easy task, you’re free to appreciate the magnitude of the mosque. There are a couple dozen tombs in the courtyard, as well as a white marble inner sanctum and three large gates that worshipers would enter. I cross the courtyard to get closer to one of the gates and notice about ten giant black mounds attached to the ceiling. At first I think they’re extremely large bird nests, which I’ve seen under the awnings of other temples, but then I hear this odd noise and notice that the mounds seem to be moving. No. No, there’s no way. Those can’t be….bee hives! But yes, indeed, those are gigantic, scary, honey- and weapon-making factories. I HATE bees and I’m out of here. To me, honey is like a hot dog: I love to eat it but I have no desire to be around when it's being made.
But we do get through and arrive at our second stop, Itimad-ud-daulah, a.k.a. the Baby Taj, around 4:25. Kara is slightly worried she’s not going to make it to the big Taj before they stop selling tickets at 5, so she just takes a few quick pics and gets back in the car. I tell her to just leave me at Baby Taj so I can look at it longer and come back to pick me up in a little over an hour. My plan is to see Big Taj at sunrise, anyway, so I’m content to stay on the opposite side of the Yamuna River for a little while. Baby Taj is definitely miniature compared to the real thing, but the inlay work and painting is no less impressive and it turns out it’s the first Mughal structure built entirely out of marble AND it was built by a woman! Not bad for the early 1600s.
Before I can get into the hotel, though, I'm distracted by a large group of young men and boys playing large bass drums and cymbals in the street. It looks like some absurd marching band that lost its conductor but is trying to rehearse anyway; everyone looks around hoping someone will say when to start, and about 30 seconds after each time they begin they lose the beat and descend into chaotic booms and clangs. They play the drums a way I've never seen before: one boy holds it while another stands behind him and hits it with two long, thin sticks. There's obviously a competition for who will get to play next and the younger boys can't compete and so content themselves with the small hand cymbals. I can't blame them for fighting for a turn, though, and honestly I'm incredibly tempted to ask if I can try. The rhythm is fairly simple and it would be a lot of fun for me to step in and probably surprise them with being able to play as well as them. I'm tired, though, and I want to get online before bed, so I pass on the opportunity.
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