Before leaving New Delhi for our weekend excursion, I had this vision: Our train pulls out of the station, thick air pollution swirling in its wake. We slowly chug-a-chug-chug into the countryside, where the brown haze gradually dissipates and the blue sky bursts into the scene. Green crops sway in the crisp, cool breeze while farmers wave in slow motion.
(Cue the sound of a needle scratching a record.)
Reality check.
Our train DID pull out of the station with thick air pollution swirling in its wake, and that air stuck with us all the way to Amritsar. No blue sky, no green grass, no friendly farmers. Everything was gray and brown and dirty. In Amritsar, we tuktuk’ed to our hotel – HK Clarks Inn, which veiled itself in that all-too-familiar western style designed to fool unsuspecting guests into thinking western-style customer service was on order.
As a traveler, I am often guilty of letting little disappointments condense in a cloud over my head. It’s been a long time since I visited a place like the Golden Temple, which blew that cloud away with a tranquil ethereal breeze.
Checking our shoes at the gate, we walked barefoot for a considerable distance on path covered with a damp woven mat. Before entering the temple, we had to walk through a little pool of water to wash our feet. Although I have serious issues regarding bare moist feet in public places, my OCD went out the window when the temple came into view.
The Golden Temple – Harmandir Sahib – rises up from the Sarovar, a lake considered holy by Sikh pilgrims, who immerse themselves and their children for its auspicious and healing powers. Home to the religion’s holy text, Sri Guru Granth Sahib, the temple is the spiritual center for Sikhs but welcoming to everyone. The chaos, pollution, traffic and frustrations outside the complex evaporated, overcome by smiles and spirituality.
Our group strolled clockwise with the other visitors along the white marble parikrama path, pausing frequently to absorb the serenity and appreciate the importance of this place. A mother sat fully dressed, splashing water over her naked toddler and gleefully pointing him in our direction. People knelt at shrines located along the parikrama in honor of Sikh gurus, saints and soldiers. Families sat huddled together, mumbling from prayer books and staring out at the gleaming temple. Men crouched lakeside, scooping water over their torsos and laughing. For some, it seemed a culmination of their life’s dream.
Nancy cropped her photo in the name of decency.
Photo by Katrina.
Another by Katrina.
Photo by Cristi.
“Please, miss, one snap!” A gentle touch on the arm, a shy gesture pleading for a photo. We must have paused 20 times to pose with other temple-goers. All across India, people are whipping out their mobile phones to share pics of themselves with the foreigners and … oh yeah … the Golden Temple. Within the temple complex, everyone was deeply respectful, though; we never felt overwhelmed by the attention.
This man didn’t speak English, but he gestured at my camera and then at himself. I took the photo and showed it to him. He nodded, smiled and walked away. Beautiful.
Everyone was required to remove their shoes and cover their heads – even men! Tony bought this handkerchief from a vendor outside the temple.
Our posse: Katrina, Nancy, me, Tony, Cristi and Jan
In line to enter the temple building itself, I was amazed at the peace. Nobody pushed or shouted. Everyone waited expectantly, many carrying packets of sweet halvah to present as an offering. Musical scriptures, recited inside the temple from the sacred book, poured out of speakers to create a spiritual soundtrack.
Katrina entering the temple; this shot is from her camera.
That night, Jan, Cristi and I revisited the temple. We were surprised to see hundreds of people clearly set up to spend the night. Some leaned against the walls; others sprawled out in the open space, covered with blankets too thin to compensate for the cold marble. We nearly stepped on one sleeping pilgrim who picked an unfortunate spot near the donation window. Although I prefer a warm bed, I understood the appeal of dozing in the glow of the beautifully illuminated temple.
Before heading back to the hotel, we popped in to the “langar,” where thousands of people each day gather for a free sanctified vegetarian meal cooked and served by volunteers. This New York Times article has a wonderful description of the temple and its community kitchen.
The guy on the left was passing out plates. I really wanted to eat here, but we ran out of time.
On April 13, 1919, thousands of people gathered in the Jallianwala Bagh, a garden down the street from the Golden Temple in Amritsar, for a religious celebration amidst a buzz of political restlessness. In the weeks preceding this day, tensions had escalated between British imperial authorities and activists for Indian independence. A series of protests and riots rocked Punjab, and rumors circulated that a revolt was planned for later that spring. To quell the uprisings, British governor of Punjab, Sir Michael O’Dwyer, declared martial law, which included a ban on public gatherings. When word of the crowd in Jallianwala Bagh reached Brigadier-General Reginald Dyer, he marched British and Gurkha troops into the garden and ordered them to open fire. His armored cars with mounted machine guns were too wide for the enclosure gate or he would have used those, too, he later admitted. Official figures put the death count at 379 with almost 1,200 injured, but other sources say close to 1,000 people were killed. More than 100 died by leaping into a well to escape gunfire.
The garden now stands as a memorial to the massacre, so we stopped by to check it out. Entering the garden, we could envision people 92 years ago chatting under the trees and lounging by the stone wall, never suspecting the imminent ambush. Just as we were feeling appropriately somber, just as Jan was reading the story of the massacre from a guide book, we experienced a completely different kind of attack.
“On April 13, thousands of people gathered at Jallianwala Bagh in 1919. An hour after the meeting had started at 4:30,” Jan read, slowly raising her head from the book, “they were attacked by a wild mob of women in saris!” I looked around at the encroaching photo-seeking fans. We laughed but honestly couldn’t escape. Lucky for me, Jan created a diversion with her sing-song voice: “Well, hellllooooo. Oh, don’t you just look so beautiful! Well, I don’t know what you’re saying, but you’re absolutely adorable.” And so on. I slipped away and stared in shock at the group engulfing her. We had warned her not to make eye contact! We had tried to teach her the art of kind rejection, but there she was, trapped. I wish I could say that I parted the crowd and staged a daring rescue, but I am ashamed to admit I bolted for safety without a backward glance. Well, I looked back long enough to snap this picture.
I didn’t get far, however. Another group of smiling Indian tourists accosted me, rattling off Hindi louder and louder to help me understand. Finally, an English speaker asked where I was from, and I heard, “No British, American!” For once, being an American was an asset. It was far worse to be British in this emotional place. The group moved in closer. One lady embraced me, stroking my face and resting her head on my shoulder. She and her entire extended family insisted on cuddling and posing for phone photos, which took ages and left me a bit traumatized.
Finally, I was released to walk about the garden. But freedom was short-lived. Every time, I lifted my eyes from the ground, somebody was desperately bobbing around trying to catch my glance. Unlike the gentle snapshot requests at the Golden Temple, the memorial paparazzi were brutal. Although amusing, the attention really did keep us from fully experiencing the memorial and its displays. Next time, we’ll have to wear disguises.
Notice the girl taking a picture of me taking a picture of the memorial. ALL of my photos at the memorial have that common feature.
Can’t you hear their moms? “Go stand by the tall white man!”
These school kids were dying to bust out of that line and chat with us, but a nun with a stern face kept them in check.
After being mauled at the massacre memorial, we needed time to decompress. How do Brad and Angelina handle it? Exiting the Jallianwala Bagh, we hired a few bicycle rickshaw drivers to take us to lunch. I was looking forward to dining at a restaurant recommended by the brother of my colleague, Shafali. He visits Amritsar frequently and raves about this place. The rickshaw drivers merged into the busy traffic, and off we went.
After darting through alleys, zipping around corners, and pedaling up and down a highway overpass (well, technically, we got off and walked for that part), the rickshaws pulled up to our destination. Closed.
“We can take you to Crystal Restaurant,” said our driver.
“Sure,” said Tony. “Why not?”
“Why not? Why NOT? Well, maybe because he is a RICKSHAW DRIVER,” I said to Tony as we hit the road again. “Are we really taking restaurant recommendations from a rickshaw driver?”
“I bet he’s taking us to his favorite place,” said Tony, who obviously hadn’t thought it through.
“Yeah, I bet the Crystal Restaurant is a popular hangout for the rickshaw crowd,” I muttered. Still, it was an adventure. For the second time, we hiked up the hill to the highway overpass and reboarded the rickshaw for another wild ride.
The Crystal Restaurant turned out to be a typical packaged-tour eatery with a thick menu catering to the culinary preferences of various nationalities. Katrina snapped this shot.
After lunch, we asked our drivers to take us back up and over the highway to the Durgiana Mandir, a Hindu temple that was lovely but a bit anti-climactic compared to the Golden Temple.
You can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell! (Nancy’s photo)
Returning to our rickshaws, we decided to head back to the hotel. That involved another trek up and over the highway, but at the end of our journey, we all agreed this impromptu tour was a highlight of our Amritsar visit.
Katrina was terrified, but Nancy kept her calm.
Jan and Cristi.
Tony and me (from Jan).
A beggar lady outside Crystal Restaurant.
Walking up the hill to the overpass for the jillionth time.
The rickshaw drivers pushed their vehicles up to the top.
As you may recall from our first Indian rickshaw ride, it is not easy to get good photos! Here are a few I like.
I came to Amritsar with only one restaurant recommendation: Kesar Da Dhaba. It came from the brother of my colleague, Shafali. When I searched for it online, I discovered it was tripadvisor‘s number one restaurant in town! I didn’t get a good look at the place when the rickshaw brought us here for lunch (only to find it was closed), but I knew not to get my expectations too high.
Our taxi parked a short distance away, and the driver got out to help us find the restaurant. We meandered through some alleys and eventually found it. At around 6:30 p.m., we were the only ones there. In most countries, that would be a red flag, but Indians eat dinner well after our bedtime.
The decor could be described as “prison minimalist” with a Coke poster to liven up the joint. We sat in concrete booths with gray marble tables and cluelessly perused the menu. The waiter appeared and cheerfully addressed us in Hindi. We ordered water, which he seemed to understand.
Then we experienced a classic ESL moment: Oftentimes, teachers present English learners with a choice, “Do you want to use crayons or colored pencils?” and the kids respond, “Yes.” You can’t help but giggle. Unless you’re the one saying “yes.” So the waiter said, “Blah blah blah” with one hand extended, followed by “blah blah blah” with his other hand extended. And we said, “Yes!” Then he shook his head (oh boy, been there, done that) and repeated the “blah blah blahs” with the hand gestures, to which we repeated, “Yes!” Finally, he laughed, wandered away and returned with two bottles of water – one cold and one at room temperature. Oh, right!
The confusion continued. We had no idea what to order. So I pointed to the menu, made a thumbs-up gesture (please don’t let that be offensive in India), rubbed my tummy and smacked my lips, pointed at the waiter and then shrugged my shoulders, which is obviously the international message: “What’s good here?” Somehow it all worked out. Our meal – parantha thali (which kind of translates to “delicious flat bread with a few small servings of other things on a round tray”) – featured bowls of dal (fried lentils), channa masala (spicy/sweet chickpeas), raita (thick yogurt with cucumber) and the most delicious butter nan bread I’ve ever tasted.
We asked for more bread, and a young boy delivered it, picking up each newly fried piece and crunching it in his bare hands.
Dessert was an almond custard called firni. Pretty and scrumptious!
Cristi and I were members of the Clean Plate Club!
There’s very little on this planet that I won’t eat, and I don’t have a lot of hang-ups when it comes to hygiene or western standards at restaurants. That said, I am SO glad we visited the kitchen AFTER dinner. It was open to the street, and the cooks sat cross-legged on the counter.
Katrina took this one.
Here are a couple shots from our walk back to the taxi.
As a high-schooler in Germany, I felt pretty special to dance the night away (in my red lace gloves) at prom in the Heidelberg Castle and walk down the aisle in my purple cap and gown for graduation at the historic Worms Cathedral. Hard to beat that, I thought.
Well, not really.
Tony and I just got home from a staff retreat at a 15th-century fortress in Rajasthan, India. Quoting from “30 Rock,” Tony called it “the retreat to move forward,” but there were no cheesy team-building games or activities with awkward compulsory sharing. Just a lot of chillin’ and “Princess Bride” jokes (Have fun storming the castle!).
More than 50 teachers (plus a few non-teacher spouses and kids) traveled to the Neemrana Fort-Palace, which sits on a plateau at 1,640 feet, about three hours’ drive from New Delhi. The 2-billion-year-old Aravalli Mountains serve as a backdrop.
Built as a fortified palace starting in 1464 AD, Neemrana served as home to descendants of northern India’s last independent Hindu king, Prithviraj Chauhan III. Chauhan was defeated in battle and executed by Mohammad Ghori in 1192 AD, ushering in an era of Muslim rule. When India attained independence in 1947, royal privileges were ultimately abolished, leaving Maharaja Rajendra Singh strapped for cash and unable to maintain the crumbling fort. Thirty years later, entrepreneurs with a vision purchased the ransacked, dilapidated ruins and renovated the fort into an upscale heritage hotel.
I loved climbing up and down the zig-zagging wedding cake stairs of this ancient funhouse to discover interesting nooks at every level. However, just getting from our room to the restaurant involved a serious quad workout and a copious amount of sweat, so you can imagine our disappointment when we saw the algae coating on the surface of the pool. Some teachers and their kids crossed their fingers and dove in (after consulting with the hotel and checking Ph levels), but I’ve already done a round of antibiotics in India and didn’t feel the need to contract anything new at this juncture.
The green pool was disheartening for several reasons. Tony had fantasized about escaping Delhi’s oppressive heat with a refreshing dip, and I was looking forward to socializing poolside with our new colleagues. The crowd did gather around the steamy pool area, but I shunned the bonding opportunity in favor of the cool spa.
Our room – the Gujarat Mahal – was whitewashed and decorated with interesting art and period furniture. Small arched windows inside bigger arched niches overlooked the grassy valley, and the marble bathroom was reminiscent of a Turkish hamam.
Our room
The restaurant
Shots from around the fort. (The one of Tony and Mr. Singh is for you, Mom!)
After a sweatfest exploration of the multi-tiered fort and stumbling upon gardens, pools, sculptures, carvings and dreamy views of the valley, we took to the sky with Flying Fox, a zip tour operator.
Here’s the course map.
So much fun! Wild peacocks created our soundtrack, and the views of the fort were splendid!
On our first day at Neemrana, Tony went for a hike while I enjoyed a foot massage at the spa. He was soon joined by a jewelry vendor, who journeyed with him to the nearby stepwell, known locally as the “baoli.”
The next morning, we rose early so Tony could show me his impressive find. I expected to see a very deep yawn-inspiring water source, not unlike those I encountered as the ag reporter for a small Kansas newspaper years ago. Turns out, this baoli is older than America and way way way cooler than any Kansas farmer’s well.
I spent a lot of time trying to find accurate historical information online, but I mostly encountered the musings of other travelers, and the “facts” often contradicted each other. This blurb is from the website of Mosaic Architecture and Restoration, which posted in 2005 that it was restoring the stepwell. I cleaned it up a bit and added some English parentheticals.
Built in the 1760s it is a 9-storey underground structure of majestic scale. It was built by the Rajas of Neemrana for famine relief. Traditionally baolis in Rajasthan have acted as sarai (rest stops) for the travelers. The baoli has been neglected for decades. Now under the Rural Tourism project of the Union Government, this structure is being converted into a Crafts Haat (bazaar). The project involves restoring many roofs, re-doing the brackets, flooring, plastering and ensuring security through metal gates and katheras (stone parapets). The steps – about 200 in number – will also be re-laid.
We were there on a Sunday, so if there is, in fact, a restoration project or a craft bazaar, the workers and/or vendors must have taken the day off.
This is a WELL. Can you imagine? It’s like an upside-down apartment building.
This area would have been where the Spice Road travelers tied up their animals, found some shade, traded goods, and caught a few z’s.
I reached over the railing to try to get a shot all the way down, but I was too chicken to make a serious effort.
The steps going down into the well were worn and treacherous.
Tony waited at the top while I traipsed down a few storeys.
A view from inside.
The baoli echoed with the droning coo of pigeons and squawks of Alexandrine parakeets. Here, Tony spooks some of them.
Our hike to and from the baoli was an adventure in itself. Located just one kilometer from the fort, as the crow flies, the baoli wasn’t as easy to find as you would think. When Tony visited it with the jeweler, they walked from the fort to the main road and on to the well. But we decided to take the scenic route on a dirt road that wound through farmland and the nearby village.
As we left the fort, these donkeys joined us.
We followed the donkeys on a trail, nodding at brightly clad ladies coming down from the mountain with firewood piled on their heads and backs, passing a murky pond where a wild boar and her piglets scurried about, making way for men in traditional white kurtas leading hump-backed cows, gawking at the women and young girls collecting water and balancing the massive urns on their heads, and trying not to stare into the courtyards of small homes, where families were waking up and going through their morning rituals.
Although we received some curious stares (and we think at least one rude comment from a group of bored young men), the villagers mostly smiled and called out “hello” or returned our “namaste.” One man came out from his courtyard and shook our hands. “Welcome to my India,” he said and then struggled in frustration for his next phrase. “Nice to meet you,” I said, and his face brightened with recognition. “Yes! Nice to meet you,” he parroted.
We passed one muddy courtyard, where small children were using buckets to wash several enormous water buffalo. When they saw us, they jumped up and down, waving and shouting, “Hello!” Other youngsters passed us in the alleys with big grins and cheerful greetings. Nobody asked us for money or otherwise hassled us. The village’s welcome wagon seemed genuine and heartfelt.
For my first three-day weekend in India, I joined eight other teachers for a roadtrip to see the Taj Mahal. In an uncharacteristic move, I relinquished all power and let a new friend, Sandra, organize the whole thing. I hopped in the van Saturday morning without knowing (a) exactly where we were going, (b) what kind of hotel she booked, (c) whether we would have a guide, and (d) what was on the itinerary. How liberating!
Tony took too long to commit to the trip, so Sandra filled all the seats in the van. He was fine with that. In my absence, he bought a TV and a toaster, so it worked out well for everyone.
See my previous post, Getting to Agra, for details on the chaotic colorful cacophany we experienced on the journey.
After seven hours of watching India roll by the van windows like some unscripted Bollywood movie, we pulled in to a parking lot and met Tanveer, who would be our tourguide in Agra. He explained that we were going to visit Akbar’s Tomb first. This was a pleasant surprise as I hadn’t realized we’d be seeing anything other than the Taj Mahal.
I will describe our sightseeing as though I knew what I was seeing at the time, but really I returned to New Delhi and researched everything before starting this blog post. Just play along.
So who the heck is Akbar, and why were we visiting his tomb?
The Mughal Empire controlled much of the South Asia from 1526 to 1858, and Jalāl ud-Dīn Muhammad Akbar (eventually known as – or self-dubbed – Akbar the Great) became the third Mughal emperor in 1556 at the age of 13. During his 49-year reign, he modeled religious tolerance and a passion for art, literature and culture. He was also a follower of Salim Chishti, a holy man who lived in the region of Sikri. Remember that fact; it will be important later.
At the time, it was customary to design and construct your tomb while you were still around to see it. Akbar planned it and picked the site but died of dysentery before it was finished, so his son Jahangir oversaw its completion. The red sandstone contrasts dramatically with the white marble and black slate, and the Persian calligraphy is gorgeous. Tanveer pointed out a flaw: White marble slabs with inlaid black calligraphy reach up on both sides of the main gate’s arch, but then peter out. The calligrapher didn’t space his work properly to the fill the whole canvas. Plus, thanks to the laws of physics, the inscriptions up high look teeny compared to the elegantly huge writing at eye level. Tanveer said the calligrapher, Amanat Khan, learned his lesson. (That’s another little bit of foreshadowing.)
In this slideshow, you see a tomb, but that’s only a cenotaph – a word I just learned that means an empty tomb used to honor the deceased. Akbar is actually buried on a lower floor inaccessible to tourists. You’ll also see a blurry shot of a precious little girl. Stupid shaky hands! We saw a jillion beautiful people on this trip, and I wanted to take pictures of all of them. This family happily complied and then posed with me for some pics of their own.
Leaving Akbar’s Tomb, wild green parakeets swooped overhead and landing in the trees. Tanveer announced our next stop: Agra Fort.
Now we’re going to be bouncing around through time as I detail our Agra trip, so bear with me. Fortunately, all the main characters are related, so it shouldn’t get too complicated.
The imposing red sandstone walls of Agra Fort popped against the bluest sky I’ve seen in ages. The fort’s 1.5 miles of enclosure walls surround the imperial city of the Mughal rulers, starting with our buddy Akbar in 1565.
Only 10 percent of the fortress was open for visitors, thanks god. That 10 percent was exhausting! In one tower with a beautiful white marble balcony, Tanveer told us this was where Akbar’s grandson Shah Jahan lived out the last eight years of his life in exile after his son Aurangzeb staged a violent overthrow. Shah Jahan spent many hours each day staring out over the Yamuna River at his beloved wife’s mausoleum, the Taj Mahal. Stay tuned for details on that world wonder!
Tanveer rattled off one fascinating anecdote after another as he rushed us through the various buildings, courtyards and gardens. He was appropriately bossy and exasperated when we didn’t pay attention, so I felt nervous straying away to take photos. Hence, these shots aren’t very creative. That’s Tanveer by the fort map, and that’s the Taj Mahal in the background shot of me. Very cool.
Turns out Agra Fort was one of three UNESCO World Heritage sites we would visit this weekend. For more details on Agra Fort, check out the UNESCO website.
The brilliant blue sky had turned gray and angry by the time we finished seeing the fort, and we returned to our hotel in a downpour. We stayed at the Raj Mahal, which bills itself as “world-class luxury.” Not so much. But it was perfectly clean, comfortable and quiet. After a long day of sight-seeing in the hot sun, all I wanted in the whole world was a cold beer. Alas, Agra is a predominantly Muslim city, and most people were observing Ramadan, so we were lucky to get snacks and water in the hotel restaurant.
Our gang rose early to visit the Taj Mahal at sunrise. Tanveer said only the “lovers” – people who want to take their time and treasure the experience – visit the Taj this early. It seems he was right; the crowd didn’t start to swell until we were on our way out. Perfect.
So back to the Mughals. Remember poor Shah Jahan who was exiled at Agra Fort? Before his son got all crazy on him, he was the fifth Mughal emperor from 1627 to 1658. Obsessed with art, architecture and opulence, he was a prolific builder and supported some of the era’s most renowned craftsmen.
The relationship of Shah Jahan and his young queen Mumtaz Mahal is legendary. Although he had two other wives, historians agree Mumtaz Mahal was his one true passion. When she died giving birth to their 14th child, Shah Jahan vowed not to take any more wives and to build the most beautiful mausoleum in the world.
Tanveer brilliantly built suspense, walking us slowly up to the massive red sandstone gate that opened to the Taj Mahal garden while sharing the history and facts about the site. When the gleaming white marble building came into view, it honestly made me gasp. Built on a hill above the Yamuna River, it appears to float in the sky, a fitting tribute in a dreamy love story.
We strolled along the garden paths, pausing frequently to admire the Taj from different angles. Tanveer pointed out the mosque on the left-hand side and a matching building on the right-hand side built in a quest for perfect symmetry. The extra building couldn’t be used as a mosque (because it pointed away from Mecca), so it became a rest house where Taj Mahal visitors would hang out after praying at the mosque and paying their respects at the mausoleum. Considering the rest house was merely a symmetrical prop, its design and intricate carvings were quite impressive. (See the photos of the red sandstone building in the Taj Mahal slideshow.)
The Taj Mahal itself was both smaller and more awe-inspiring that I expected. I knew it had been built by an emperor for his beloved queen, but I guess I missed the fact about it being a mausoleum. I was expecting a meandering palace attached to her burial site. In fact, you could walk around the whole thing in just a few minutes.
But you wouldn’t want to; you have to take is slowly to absorb all the incredible detail that 22,000 workers spent 22 years crafting. Delicate carvings, white marble inlaid with semi-precious stones, minarets that lean slightly away from the mausoleum in case of an earthquake, the 33-foot-high brass finial at the top of the dome, magically designed arches that appear and then disappear a few steps later, towering columns of inlaid Persian calligraphy, the effect of the rising sun on the marble’s hue, the tiny windows of mica, and the view over the river to the Agra Fort, where Shah Jahan mourned his dead wife.
Remember the poorly planned calligraphy at Akbar’s tomb? By the time Shah Jahan hired that same calligrapher to decorate the Taj Mahal, the artist had worked out some fairly advanced math. According to a website on Taj Mahal calligraphy,
The calligrapher’s signature bears witness to his status and renown at the court, since many of his peers remained anonymous. He was so talented that he used an optical trick to inlay the verses at the Taj. The letters seem to be of equal size but they are not. As they move upwards to the peak of the arches, they gradually get bigger. It is a fact that things that are far away look smaller, hence by varying the size of the letters, the inscriptions look perfectly proportioned, no matter where you view it from. Such is the perfection of the Taj!
Photography was prohibited inside, unfortunately. Just like Akbar’s Tomb, there were cenotaphs to represent the caskets of Shah Jahal and Mumtaz Mahal surrounded by a lacy screen carved from marble; the real tombs were downstairs. Shah Jahal’s cenotaph is the only asymmetrical element in the whole complex. He hadn’t planned on being buried here, but his own mausoleum was never built.
UNESCO World Heritage Site number two? Check.
We returned to the hotel for breakfast and then checked out, loaded our bags into the van and headed to Sikri for our last sight-seeing stop in Agra.
Remember when I mentioned that ol’ Akbar the Great was a follower of the Salim Chishti? Akbar visited the Sufi saint when his wife had failed to conceive. Salim Chishti blessed the emperor, and soon the first of three sons was born. Akbar was smitten, so he did what anyone would do: build a whole new city and move the capital of his empire there just to be near his favorite holy man.
The UNESCO World Heritage site says, “it offers a unique example of architectural ensembles of very high quality constructed between 1571 and 1585.” Sikri was the capital of the Mughal Empire for only about 10 years, and then it was all but abandoned until archaeologists “re-discovered” it in 1892.
I love roaming around places like this, trying to imagine life as a 16th-century royal. It wasn’t easy for those ladies – stone beds, no air-con, competing wives and murderous sons, etc. Imagine being one of the slave girls who served as a living pawn in the life-sized chess-like courtyard game!
In this slideshow, you see the countryside as we approach Sikri. That was quite a change from the roadside scenery in Agra. The rest of the shots are inside the ancient city. One pic shows some remaining frescoes, although most of the city is unpainted with fine stone carving miraculously intact. The shot with Tanveer was an attempt to capture the purple comb in his back pocket, but also to show the stone pattern for the courtyard game played with live girls.
UNESCO World Heritage site number three? Check!
Here are some random shots of Agra from the bus window: a modern Indian family on a scooter, water buffaloes cooling off in a city pond, and people going about their business.
We were so lucky to have beautiful weather at all our stops, especially considering it’s monsoon season. Shortly after leaving Sikri for our ride back to Delhi, the deluge began again.
We got home lickety-split – only five hours, compared with the seven hours we spent getting to Agra. Next time, I’ll take the express train. Although my body feels like it got run over by an overloaded tuktuk, I feel incredibly fortunate to live here with so many opportunities to explore historical and contemporary India. I am now an Indian-culture addict. Where will I get my next fix?
We’re back in Vientiane, but I realized I had written a couple posts and never actually posted them! So here are some parting shots of Hoi An…
Walking around Hoi An the other day, we saw this poor guy, who had to jump off his banana bike and pull it up a hill.
Carol and I strolled through town, popping in to art galleries and other cultural sites.
Orchids and scorch marks from the incense that burns as an offering at every home and shop.
This is a detail from the “Old House of Quan Thang,” built by a Chinese sea captain in the 18th century.
Cool roof.
The riverfront road.
This lady took us for a short boat ride on the Thu Bon River.
A Hoi An snack vendor.
We all went out for a fancy dinner at Mango Rooms, where Nikki and I sucked down a carafe of delicious mango sangria. Everyone knows friends don’t let friends shop drunk, but it sure was funny.
Nikki starts a hot new fashion craze – lantern earrings.
Carol plays the traditional “Folk Game of Breaking Pot.”
It was dark, so the video’s not great.
We had planned to eat at Casa Verde, which Carol and I had spotted earlier in the week on the river road. But we could never find it again despite walking up and down that road at least 38 times! After Nikki and Carol returned to Laos, Tony and I found it. And ate there. And loved it!
We saw these birdcages a lot because they hang on a balcony directly across from the Cargo Club restaurant, where we sat nearly every day. Amazing coffee, sandwiches and desserts!
Another pretty balcony.
What is it about bikes and mottled walls? Can’t get enough.
The Japanese bridge, originally built in 1593.
Tony got a pair of prescription reading glasses made by this pre-pubescent “optometrist.” They turned out surprisingly well!
