Day Twenty Eight: January 17, 2012.

Pokhara is insanely stunning.
Situated by a sizable lake, Lake Phewa, surrounded by some of the tallest mountains in the world, the Himalayas, and generously lavished with sunlight during the winter months, Pokhara is a near paradise for us, especially after some very rough times in India.

It was a book I read at the tender age of seven, my first explosure to travel literature, that I was presented to Nepal, to the lake – Lake Phewa in Pokhara, and decided I had to come and see it.

Lake Phewa

It’s taken more than two dozen years for a childhood dream to materialize.

About two years ago, I was dining with some friends in a restaurant in Soho named Nepalese eating (apparently) Nepalese cuisine. I developed a fondness of Nepalese people from that dining experience. The waiters and waitresses reminded me of the Laotians, all oozing much friendliness and gentleness and deep-seeded joy. I asked one of the waitresses that evening, “If I am to visit Nepal, where do you recommend?” To which she, without a hesitation, wrote down on my napkin, “Pokhara.”

I kept the napkin with me till I prepared my trip — making sure I wouldn’t skip Pokhara.

Pokhara certainly lives up to its recommendation.

Trust me, it’s a place for everyone.

Money wise, it’s a fraction of the cost of India.

Food wise, it has a mind-boggling selection of world cuisines of great quality and very affordable prices.

Vibe wise, it is so chilled, so relaxing, so soul-soothing.

People wise, they are  extremely helpful and friendly and have a sheer appreciation of life.

Adventure wise, extreme sports like paragliding, white-water rafting, mountaineering are available, just to name a few; gentle sports like rowing a boat in the lake and easy treks appeal to the less vigorous.

Spiritual wise, nothing brings you closer to your soul and God quicker and deeper than being exposed to sublime nature.

Scenic view wise, there are couple mountains over 8000m in Pokhara (8 out of the ten tallest mountains in the world can be viewed in Nepal), ice-capped, under blue sky, sunny grassy shore, calm and lovely lake. What more do you need?

I think this picture captures what Pokhara is to me. Sublime nature; sunshine; trusting soul; deep joy; great hopes.

Our whole bodies, emotions and minds were massaged tender when we were in Pokhara. After a night of rest, we left the guesthouse and found a place for coffee and cakes. “Real coffee,” J said, “so much nicer than Nescafe.” The cakes were moist and tasty. We sat at the side-walk, watching happy and relaxing people passing by, tourists and local alike. Winter is the low season in Pokhara. With the sun shining bright and few tourists coming, we found it delightful to visit Pokhara in winter. We could not help being influenced and softened.

As we sat, I could see the man sitting in front of me soften a bit. His eyes turned teary. Life has often presented to us different challenges, sufferings and sadly quite often wounds. J has his own dosage of them. I have my own. So has everyone. We are fully functioning people and both live a good life. But we cannot escape those moments when we peek into our souls and discover some reminiscence of pain and wounds.

“You know, life has its own season. You have had your “Indian” season. A time of challenges. Because of how people harass and hassle you, deal with you with dishonesty and selfish motives, you have developed your own defense,” I said to J, “so you hesitate to trust people again. It’s normal. We need that to protect us. We need to safeguard ourselves if we are in India. We cannot help it.”
I have known J for very soon five years. We have shared a lot together and know each other’s stories. The person in front of me is perhaps one of the happiest and most lively persons I have ever met. Yet I also know his dark side. I also know how fearful he can be when it comes to opening his hearts to trust people. He needs to protect himself because experiences had cost him much in the past.

I continued, “Sweetheart, there’s a time for Pokhara. It would be pathetic to bring Indian experiences to Pokhara. To worry about people cheating on you. To lock yourself in the room instead of coming out to enjoy. It’s a time for healing. Trust that there are people who are genuinely nice and loving. There’s a time for Pokhara. A time to heal. A time to let yourself be. A time to love. A time to truly live.”

Many of us choose, consciously or subconsciously, India. India has its charms. It opens us to many scenes, strengthens our minds, and helps us learn how to endure. Our characters are built as a result of enduring challenges and sufferings. Just like what a trip to India in the most touristic season in the most touristic places can to you.

Yet, some of us cling on to India, cling on to sufferings and pains. We don’t know how to depart them.

There’s a choice. There is a time for Pokhara. A time in which you can accept the gentleness, goodness and friendliness of life, you can be taken aback by how sublime the view of life, a time you can leisurely rest by the lake instead of battling in the mayhem of a shitty town, a time you can confidently say to yourself: I am okay. I am not bad. I can trust people. I can love. I can live. I can be me. It’s all okay.

We sat for a long time at the cafe, letting people stroll by, letting tears fall, letting hearts soften, letting wounds and pains find their exit, letting our own inner voice beckon us to choose love instead of fears, letting the inner child that has been bruised by wounds and chosen to hide in the dark for years come out and embrace the sun.

How can I describe Pokhara? You know many different destinations in the world offer you different experiences. Some satisfy your desire to see grandeur like the Taj Mahal. Some give you a vacation, like Bali. Some pamper your shopping spree, like Japan. Some open your eyes to cultures, like Europe.

A few, magically, open your souls.

Everyone has a different meeting place — where you meet with your soul.

For me, it’s Pokhara.

After some emotionally charging moments, we got perky and excited and started to look for a place to eat steaks. We have not had beef for so long and J was craving for meat.

We tried out at the place called Once Upon a Time. It’s a great ambience but terrible steaks. There are better places for steaks in Pokhara (will tell you later).

Despite a piece of dissatisfying steaks, we trust it’s a great time to celebrate life. Both J and I feel life is truly waving its happy hands at us. It’s really time to begin to live well.

Not to survive, but to live very well.

Beams of light bringing hopes to life.

The little jeep we took to get to the bus station for buses to Pokhara. I think the name Hell Boy is quite appropriate!

Nepal people are friendly, genuine and pretty. Most of them have an Eurasian face, a mixture of Caucasian and Mongolian look features.

Nepal has well-developed touristic establishments – a country truly welcoming to tourists.

Nepal offers a vast variety of cuisines, especially in tourist hubs like Pokhara and Kathmandu. You can savor wonderful food at a fraction of what you normally pay in other cities around the world.

The local buses of Nepal, however, are not so hot.

We took a local bus from Lumbini to a small town near by to catch another long distance bus to Pokhara. The local bus was quite a phenomenon. It was so overpacked that I felt a few butts were leaning on my laps. A few bodies were pushing against me.  But all these were not offensive. It’s just an overcrowded bus and everyone seemed to be very chilled about it. J and I tried to take it nonchalantly.

After India, we feel we can deal with almost everything.

The highlight came with the bus from the small town to Pokhara. Once we arrived the bus station, a young man speaking good English, solicited us, “Tourist bus to Pokhara?”

He said it cost 450 Nepalese rupees for the ride to Pokhara. “What kinda bus is that?” we inquired. To which he replied, “Tourist deluxe bus.” “Do you have a picture?” “No, I don’t.” We hesitated, but two other tourists whom we met earlier bought the tickets right away.

I went to the store next door, trying to negotiate another deal. The kind Nepalese man said, “Go to the bus station. We don’t have tourist buses to Pokhara.”

J was quite reluctant to take a local bus and preferred to get into a tourist bus. But many experiences have taught us that “tourist deluxe bus” may not be anything more deluxe than a local bus.

“Well, we still have time. The tourist bus doesn’t depart till one. Let’s see what is schedule for the local bus,” J agreed to check things out. Normally it’s him who likes to check while I want to just get whatever is available. This time was the other way round.

We arrived the local bus station and shortly found out the local bus cost 350 rupees and it’s about to leave in a few minutes.

“What do you want Dora?”

“I think the local bus is okay.”

“But for an extra 100 rupees, I don’t mind trying a better bus,” J said.
Sometimes it’s hard for me to share and go for what I want. Traveling and relationship requires lots of patience and compromises.

“I do prefer going now. Plus, God knows what kinda tourist bus that is.”

J let me have my way. A lot of time I cannot give the most logical reason, but in this trip, he’s often let me have my way even he did not understand my rational behind.

We got on a bus, and it started to move. Five minutes later, it was at where we met the English-speaking young man who tried to sell us the “tourist” bus tickets. He put the two tourists we met earlier, who had bought tickets from him for an extra 100 rupees, on a local bus.

“Jeez, that’s bad,” I said, “Claiming it’s a tourist bus and all he does is putting you to a local bus.”

“Great that you have that instincts. I don’t mind paying more to try another bus. But if I found out he’s just putting me on a local bus while claiming it’s a tourist deluxe bus, I would be pissed.”

We settled in the local bus to Pokhara. The so-called 6-hour bus ride turned out to be almost 10 hours.

The Siddhartha highway to Pokhara was nothing like a highway. It’s a snake-like bumpy stony roads for the most parts. Some areas can hardly let two cars through and I prayed that we would arrive Pokhara safe.

The scenery was better than any bus rides what had taken before, but not superb as we might have expected.

During the final stretch of the bus ride, we had a little fall out, because of a disagreement we had in a future travel plan.

The tension was brewing. We had to somehow find a way to work together. It suck when two people shared such proximity and pressing needs for every moment to make a railway of decision–taxi, buses, dinners, accommodations, sights–while holding grudges within.

We arrived Pokhara at around 10pm and shared a cab with the two other tourists to his hotel. Throughout the way, there was a layer of animosity hovering over J and I.

Normally we could come up with consensus pretty fast. This time, because of the hostility we held against each other, every good suggestion and thoughtful idea did not get accepted and listened calmly. Everything sounded like a distrust. A threat.

Pokhara at night was cold. We were hungry. J wanted a place with heating. I didn’t do any research on rooms with heating. As Nepal used hydroelectric power, the water level in winter time is low and there’s constant power cuts (called load shedding). It’s very common to have daily 14 to 16-hour power cuts. Because of that, I thought—it’s not quite sensible to pay extra bucks for a room with a heater which we could not use because the majority of the day would have no electricity to generate the heat. Plus, places do have heating cost over 50 US dollars a night, way higher than our budget.

I have picked a guest house called The Lotus Inn. It has a decent room, hot water, wifi (J has to work). Just no heating. It also has a good view to the mountains – imaginne waking up to see the Himalayas!

Plus, during winter season, we managed to bargain a good price. $6 a night. Each one of us only pays 3 US dollars.

J agreed that it’s a good budget option. But it had taken us quite a bit of effort to be okay with this choice. I felt offended that he moaned about not having heating while knowing he would not pay 10 times more for heating. He felt offended I took his desires to look over a few more places as a way to torment me.

Finally we dropped our bags and looked for food. It’s near mid-night.

Most restaurants were closed. J loved dumplings and we had been talking about during the bus ride to have “momos”, a Tibetan form of dumplings widely served in Nepal.

There was only one place left, J recalled, “There’s a candle lit there and I saw some people eating. Let’s go there.”
By that time we were both much calmer. We arrived the little store and there’s another tourist eating and drinking inside.

We exchanged greetings a bit.

“Where are you from?” the tourist asked, upon seeing us sitting down.
”Hong Kong,” I replied.

“Really? I thought you sounded American,” the man said.

“Well, that’s what happened after touring with an American over a month.”

We ordered momos and a local wine called “local roxy”, recommended by Bob, the tourist from UK. He has been trekking over 50 days in Annapurna and seemed to really enjoy. He told us some near-death experience in one of his trekking trips. J was an eloquent and flamboyant talker. The whole atmosphere was perky and warm with some “local roxy” in stomach. Everyone loosened up a bit.

J and I planned to come to Pokhara as a way to relax. A time to recover from India. Also a prayerful and meditative time to have some serious discussions of our future. So it’s good that somehow our former tension got loosened with the great conversations with Bob and drinks.

We munched on momos and burger. The food in Nepal is wonderful. India did not offer as many variety as Nepal. Indian food is tasty, but man after eating pretty much the same stuff for a month we were ready for a change.

After a while, Bob offered J a few puffs of his weed, given by some local villagers as he hiked around Annapurna. I have never taken marijuana. Heard a bit of descriptions from J what smoking pot is like or feels like. I didn’t have much interest to try. But I have no problems for people who like to smoke.

When we got back to Lotus Inn, after a feast of momos, a few strong drinks, and J’s intake of weed, things mellowed out.

I saw this guy, somewhat softened by the smoke, and knew: he’s ready to be healed. The many burdens I see him carry over the years are ready to be dropped.

It’s not a coincidence that we ran into Bob. J needed a softening process of his heart, so hardened and calloused over the years of sufferings.

Not that pot is necessary, but it surely set a prologue of a special time in Pokhara.

And some deep healing would start here in Pokhara.

For him and for me. And for us.

Prayer flags flying in Lumbini

We woke up from a night of tiresome sleep at Hotel Paradise in Sonauli (should be better named as Hotel Purgatory). We got ourselves ready to take another short bus ride to Lumbini, also known to be the birth place of Buddha, or Gautama Siddhartha.

As we were waiting for the bus, we sat outside the hotel and ordered couple things to eat. The friendliness and difference in Nepalese people were obvious. People didn’t charge you astronomically more than what the locals were paying; they managed to keep smiling; they didn’t have the need to “befriend” you in order to sell you anything they could think of.

What a redemption!

“Just a few miles from India, people are so different,” we marveled at such discovery.

After breakfast, the hotel owner who was responsible to arrange our transportation to Lumbini put us onto a rickshaw and said, “The driver would take you to a bus, and you don’t have to pay, it will take you to Lumbini.”

We made sure neither the rickshaw driver nor bus driver would ask us to pay extra later because our package ticket should take us all the way to Lumbini. Having been fooled (if not cheated) a few times in India, we were utterly suspicious about things and people.

“No problem. No need to pay,” he waved us goodbye.

Nepalese people are much more chilled. They are truly friendlier and happier people, comparing to Indians we met in the past month. “ This rickshaw driver is the stronger we have ever had,” I said while looking at his calves, “Perhaps people live a better live here in Nepal.”

Many times in India, when we were stranded and needed to use a rickshaw, we were often felt quite guilty of hiring one. The drivers were very eager to do business and make money but they were so unbelievably skinny. Looking at someone with twig-like legs to paddle you wasn’t that at all pleasant. Plus, J and I are not petite people.

The rickshaw in chilly morning was refreshing. We both felt perkily exhausted to be in Nepal and looked forward to a more relaxing time. The rickshaw driver dropped us off as he was asked and waved us to the bus without trying to extract money from out pockets.

Nepal seemed a place to redeem our souls.

The local bus looked like a shamble. But it somehow gave us a sense of peace. Nepal might not be as “rich” as India, economically, but man, the people are far “richer” – they are far more content, friendly, gentle, giving and honest.

We were also very content with the guesthouse in Lumbini. Everything in Nepal is about one-third the price of  India, yet of way better quality.

The hotelier exerted no pressure to sell us shit. Instead, he answered the questions of us patiently and honestly. More, there were women working and serving in the hotel and to me it was a true relief. India is a society in which women are very much segregated from men and hidden from public arena. Most business establishments, from offices to hotels, from restaurants to transportation bureaus, were dominated by men. For a woman myself, I found it rather oppressive to be in a culture showing a great degree of gender inequality. As it is rare for man and woman to express affection in public, I could not often relaxed being with my travel companion. Holding hands and walking together (except for married couples) is extremely uncommon in India yet men holding hands and cuddling affectionately is widely accepted. Therefore I have been feeling quite stressed out being in India with a male traveler.

But Nepal has a whole different cultures. Gender is less an issue. Women work as well and men in shops and restaurants. Both males and females relate to each other more like the way I am used to relate to the opposite sex.

Biased as I am, I find it much more comfortable to be in Nepal.

“It’s great that walking down the street where no one is hassling you,” J said.

After a short break, we began our tour in the complex of Lumbini where Gautama Siddhartha, the founder of Buddhism, is believed to be born and where many different styles of world Buddhist monasteries are found.

I am no Buddhist, but the place itself is a lovely place to tour. In the hotel we were staying also stayed many archeologists — which are working day in and out to preserve the birth site of Buddha and historic sites of Buddhism. When we walked into the site believed to be the very “cradle” of Buddha, there was a team of archeologists talking and digging. It’s great to know that a site like this isn’t just a fabricated myth. It’s indeed a site with historic credits.

The peace and calmness of Lumbini was really much-needed for our souls. We were really pampered by the normality of things. Apart from being a historic Buddhist site, Lumbini has also attracted Buddhist community from all over the world to flocked there to build different monasteries with their own native styles. J and I have traveled extensively in SE Asia and so we could easily spot a monastery and tell whether it’s Vietnamese, Burmese, Japanese, Thai or Korean.

As I was walking around a big Bunyan tree, where some monks were sitting underneath to meditate, a Chinese-looking monk initiated a talk to me. He’s from Shenzhen and has been living in the monastery in Lumbini for about a year.

At this bunyan tree, I was invited to dine in the Chinese Temple by a monk

You know, it’s great to meet people who look more “Chinese.” Indians have more of a Caucasian bone structure. If you bleach the skin color of an Indian, he or she will look just like a German or French. They have a lot of resemblance in their features with Europeans. Nepalese has a closer bone structure with that of Chinese. So it’s also a bit more comforting to me to see people of “same” sort, albeit there are differences.

The Chinese monk invited J and I to go to the Chinese temple later at 6pm for dinner. We loved to partake and try. We love to get things for free. We love also unique cultural experiences.

After hopping around a number of different monasteries, we headed to the up north of the compound to see the World Peace Pagoda. Half way there, I said to J, “It’s closer to dinner time. I don’t want to be late and I am tired. How about you go. I want to head back.”

Chinese monastery in Lumbini

Nepalese monastery

Korean monastery

J gave me his day bag, so he could run to the pagoda while I could leisurely walk back.

Before we parted, we thought of hiring a rickshaw to get us to places quicker. With the new plan, J would run quick to the pagoda to see and I would walk leisurely back. So we didn’t want the rickshaw.

As I walked alone, a rickshaw driver, whom I tried to ask for prices earlier, waved at me, “Rickshaw? Chinese temple?”

I shook and said, “No thank you. I just walk. It’s ok.”

The driver slowed down for me and said, “Come. No money. Come.”

“No money?” I asked.

“No money,” he replied. He’s going to the same direction as I go, so it’s likely that he just wanted to give me a ride. But the month in India had made me so cautious of people. Every time when an Indian man showed you kindness, there’s a scheme behind and I grew accustomed to ignore people’s offers for the past month.

As I was wondering whether I should hop on his rickshaw, I heard myself saying inside, “Dora, don’t let India destroy your faith in the goodness and kindness in people. You cannot keep touring around without trying to relax. You need to give yourself a chance to redeem your faith. Whether the driver is genuine or not, he’s to rip you off later or not, you cannot trade yourself faith away. You need to use this as a chance to redeem it.”

Throughout the short ride, I was trying to relax. Deep inside, I felt, “Shit, Dora, you were never so untrusting. See what India has done to you.”

As we were getting closer to the cross-section where the driver should turn, I said to him, “Just drop me off here.” I felt if it’s on his way, it’s ok for him to give me a ride. If he has to turn to a different direction for me, he will later want something from me.

The driver kindly looked at me and opened his hand, showing a gesture of “relax” “relax” “it’s ok.” Then he steered the rickshaw to the direction of the temple.

Before reaching the temple, he dropped me off. Then he turned and left. I said “Thank you” very loudly and repeated a couple of times.

I wanted to cry.

The “thank you” was not for the ride only – the “thank you” was the chance that he’s given me to reclaim the faith I have on people. In all my previous travels, I have also brought a simple open heart to people I met. In India, I found my heart so hardened.

It’s my defense mechanism.

As I was sitting outside the Chinese temple, waiting for J to come back, I thought to myself, “Dora, it’s a time of healing.”

Healing – for my own life. India can be used as a metaphor. In life, many a times, we have experiences pains and sufferings – a really mean and unforgiving action from one’s mother-in-law; a hurtful action of one’s spouse; an unfaithful act of a lover; a betrayal from a friend; a dishonest and unfair treatment from a company; a sense of negligence from one’s own parents – all these can easily harden our hearts. A calloused heart is the way for us to move and meander in a life that often causes us some degrees of pain. Over time, we learn to not communicate with the in-law knowing what a bitch she must be; we learn to not open our heart to our spouse lest s/he would hurt us again; we learn to not trust the faithfulness of a lover; we learn not to take our friend into our heart; we learn to give less in our work place; we learn to keep a distance from the negligent parents. We try to do all things to protect ourselves. It’s understandable and perhaps even necessary. It’s like touring in India – in order to survive and not constantly be rid off or hurt, you have to create certain barriers. Smile less for every smile may invite people to come and get something from you. Not to trust what people say. Not to want to befriend them.

In life, there also comes a time in which we have to say, “Enough India.” One cannot live forever in a situation that one does not feel loved and nourished. There’s a season of India – to learn about life, to grow strong, to learn more the valuable lessons that sufferings offer. But when we are moving towards the threshold and can see the possibility of Nepal, one should also boldly say, “Let’s choose not to suffer.”

Nepal for me is the birth place of that. The many brutality I have caused myself and life, I need to say, “Goodbye India. Thanks for all the difficulties you have taught me. But it’s time for me to learn how to trust life, trust the goodness of people and trust love again.”

A few times, J asked me what I wanted to see in Nepal, I could not really explain to him. For me Nepal is a place of home even I have never been to Nepal. For years, I have built up different forms of defense mechanism of life, accumulating fears instead of faith and trotting in the life path with hand-ups and suspicions.

Strange enough, I have a strong sense that in Nepal, I will start to reclaim a carefree spirit and faith in life, in God and in myself.

Five minutes before six, J appeared at the Chinese Temple. I was amazed because it’s nearly a 2km walk to the pagoda. It’s totally unlikely that he could be back on time.

“I got a free ride on a bike from someone,” he said.

It seemed the gentleness, kindness, openness and healing was not only taking place alone in me. On the other side of the compound, J was also brought to a free ride, and brought to a path of healing.

I loved the dinner at the Chinese temple. Perhaps it’s because I have not had a bowl of soup noodles for so long. J had repeatedly heard how much I wanted to find one but there’s no where in India I could have one. Finally, by God’s perfect timing, I had my soup noodles. Free (grin).

A lot of the monasteries provide free food and some accommodation for seekers. Opposite the Chinese temple is the Korean temple. Earlier, while waiting for J, I was also invited to go to the Korean temple.

“Now, let’s go and eat at he Korean temple,” J suggested.

J has no problem to try different things and feels very comfortable doing so.

So two free dinners that night.

After dinner, we walked in the dark under the starry sky back to our guest house.

“I think Buddhism is better than Sikhism,” I said to J.

J chuckled and understood, and replied, “I agree. The Buddhists make better dinner.”

Noodles at the Chinese Temple

Dinner at the Korean monastery

We woke up early. “Happy Birthday!” I said to J.

“What’s your wish?”

“I wish to have more ease in myself. To have more ease in being and in life.”

I would have taken him to a nice hotel, a nice birthday dinner and even bought him a nice birthday cake. But Varanasi offeres none of the above.

Intead I promise we’d do the celebration later.

Our bus from Varanasi to Lumbini, Nepal, was scheduled to leave at 8:30am. Yes. We are off to Nepal. YEAH!

Nepal is a country I have wished to visit since I was a little girl. The first ever “traveling” book I have ever read was a Chinese book called 呼倫池的微波. I cannot remember the details of the book, but I vividly remembered at the age of 7, I vowed to myself, “One day I would go to Nepal.”

It’s taken nearly 28 years to make such wish to come true.

When J asked me what I would like to do in Nepal, my mouth went wide open. J loves to have many different experiences and enjoys seeing stuff. By nature, I travel without a clear direction or have little need to “see”. I am often content just to squander time and life street and people pass by me. “Just give me two weeks in Nepal.”

Because of that, we had come to a conflict. He wanted to see a few more things in India, and my request of “Two weeks” in Nepal did not seem to make much sense to him cause I didn’t know know how to spend the two weeks and there seems less to see in Nepal.

“Just give me two weeks. In my head, all I want is to linger a week in Pokhara. I have not had a chance to rest. I just want to sit by the lake and watch the mountains and have some time to pray. Don’t ask me what I want to see. I want to use the time in a more prayerful and comtemplative way. I need to spend time with God.”

“Sweetheart. Just tell me. I think it’s a perfect way to spend time.”

To be honest, after Varanasi, I felt I had truly had enough of Inida. J thought the same.

The bus from Varanasi to the border between India and Nepal was a private bus. Lonely Planet had warned travelers not to buy bus tickets that claim to take you from India to Nepal. But we risked that. We did not want to go to the bus station to find out local buses information in Varanasi and so went the easy way, using an agent.

“Breakfast includes two eggs and a chai and two toasts,” the agent said.

When we arrived, all we got was a tiny winy cup of chai and some crackers.

“Where’s the eggs and toasts?” we asked.

The men working at the bus company said, “Kite festival. No eggs.”

“Oh, you mean all the chickens are busy flying kites. No time to lay eggs. So there’s no egg?”

They laughed, we laughed. But the truth is Indians can feel comfortable to promise one thing and give another. As usual, they won’t give what they said they would, even though they have got your money.

Two eggs isn’t a big deal. Two toasts isn’t a big deal. But when you are constantly traveling in a country in which people are down right dishonest – it’s a big deal. India has made it hard to relax. You cannot genuinely engage with people because experiences have taught you to not trust people. You cannot smile at people because once you do they will come to sell something to you. India has made us quiet and untrusting.

Once put on the bus, an old Indian man, who previously helped secure our lugguage on the top of the bus came to say, “50 rupees.”

50 rupees isn’t a lot of money. But no one has told us we have to pay for that.

The couple behind us dutifully gave the man the money. The Korean couple in front of us dutifully gave him the money. Then the man stood next to me, insisting me to pay. “Madam. 50 rupees.”

(Lonely Planet is right. Lots of complaints from tourists have made about such bus ride).

Finally, I pulled up my courage and honesty and said, “Sir, you have not told us there’s a cost to put the luggage in the car. If you have told us and I have agreed to pay, I would have been more than happy to pay. But you didn’t tell me. If you have told me it cost 50 rupees for you to touch my luggage (all he did was to move my luggage for 3 feet to give a young man to secure on the top of the bus), I would have chosen to do it by myself. I would be more than happy to climb up there to handle my luggage. It’s extremely unfair to me now as you have given me no information and choice. I don’t mind going up to get my lugguage now and have it sit by my side. I don’t need your service.”

Once I had spoken that, the Indian man said, “Okay, okay, madam. Okay. No problem.”

The Korean boy in front of us said, “You are so right. What you said was right.”

Dude, why didn’t you say something and just gave him the money earlier?

You can call it cultural practice. You can call it the force of capitalism. You can claim it a way to survive. But I honestly believe the way of extracting money from people in an dishonest way really does not serve India well. I might have cultural bias. J and I have traveled many different countries and seen many different people choose to live differently, but we are both discouraged in this trip in India. How can such a lovely nation endure suchan offensive way to deal with people.

We are somehow glad to move up north, hoping, hoping, hoping Nepal would be different.

Originally we planned to change bus at the border town called Sonauli to continue to make it to Lumbini in Nepal. But the bus ride turned out to be 10 hours long instead of 6 (well, again, how can you trust what people say). So we were put into a guest house in Sonauli. Border crossing between India and Nepal was hassle free; only problem was that it’s quite dark. The customs officers were all holding a flash light, ready to give you some light in the dark little open office. From the extremely elegant immigration at Delhi airport, to this little shed in the border town of Sonauli, I witnessed the extremes of India.

Right after having our passports stamped, and before we got to the Nepal customs, a lot of “helpful” Indians approached us, “Exchange money??”

J and I had asked the day before that it’s possible to use Indian rupees in Nepal. The only thing one has to do is to change the big notes into smaller notes. 100 Indian rupee notes can be used in Nepal.

The Indian “sales” said firmly, “You cannot use Indian money in Nepal!”

Whenever there’s a crowd of Indians suggesting you to do something, it’s wise NOT to do it.

“So one cannot use Indian rupees in Nepal?” we asked, more for the sake of challenging than inquiring.

“Yes, you must change it here,” the people insisted.

“Well, we can change the money when we are in Nepal,” we said.

“No. Not possible. In Nepal, there’s no place to change Indian rupees,” they said.

“Well, I like to keep my Indian rupees as sovernirs and don’t want to change any,” I lied.

“But you need to spend money tonight, and you need money,” they continued.

“No thank you. We have paid for the bus tickets, and hotel is all covered,” I said.

J looked at me, and asked, “What do you think?”

“Go,” I replied.

As we walked towards the immigration of Nepal (which is also a little house), J said, “I wonder what kind of commission rate those guys are having.” I nodded and said, “A month in India has taught us, in India, what motives people to be so “helpful” is money.”

The Nepal custom office is simple but the Nepalese people working there are very friendly. We had a sense of “Welcome to Nepal.” After the month of mayhem in India, we needed something way mellower to recover.

Soon, we found the guesthouse the bus company had arranged for us. A shit hole more or less. But we were too tired to mind anything. Immediately we also found, there were many places to exchange money there in Nepal and it’s perfectly fine to use Indian rupees in Nepal.

I looked back the month in India and felt I needed redemption. Somehow I needed to rebuild my faith on people and to learn to trust the goodness of people again. In India, the touts have indeed made me suspicious of many things if not everything.

Bye bye Inida.

last morning boat ride in the Ganges

Day Twenty Four: January 13, 2012

We watched dead bodies burn in the burning ghat.

Is it nice to watch?
Nope.

Is it enjoyable to watch?
Nope.

I asked J, “Why do you want to watch bodies being burnt?”

“It’s anatomically fascinating to see. It’s culturally interesting. It’s thought provoking.”

For Hindus who come to Varanasi, you may understand that as a religious quest, a pilgrimage for them to find the salvation of souls they seek. How about tourists?

There are hundreds  and thousands of tourists flocking from around the world to come to Varanasi to watch cremation. What do they seek? Just a check point from Lonely Planet?

Many tourists we met on our trip all express a quest for spirituality. I don’t have that motivation indeed for this trip. When I repeatedly asked myself why would people come to Varanasi to watch dead bodies being burnt, I could not help thinking, “That’s what compels us. When we are not allowed, we are more inclined to do it. Watching dead bodies is such a taboo, let alone watching them being burnt. That’s why people want to see them.”

We are fascinated by what we don’t know.

By bodies we don’t see in public. By what will happen after death.  By a desire to understand what “salvation” means (to oneself and others).

One of the bodies we saw had green slim oozing out of his skull on the funeral pyre. Another skinny Indian corpse had no wrapping (typically, the fancier and more elaborating the wrapping clothes are,  the wealthier the family of the dead person is). He’s so skinny, simply covered by red powder instead of any funeral clothing and was put on a bamboo rack. He could well be something who came to die in Varanasi in hospice without having a family completing the rituals for him. Another body who had been burnt for quite awhile had only a skull left.

All kinds of parade of deaths.

Amidst the funeral pyres, there are doms – untouchable people in the caste system – who are to carry out the rituals. They carry the dead bodies first to the Ganges and wash them in the water, prepare the wood for cremation, put the body on the wood, lay more wood on top and light the fire. It’s said a typical body takes about 3 hours to burn and requires about 250 to 300 KG of wood. During the process, onlookers and tourists are allowed to watch but not for too long. If you stay for too long, someone would come and say, “Not too long. Family don’t like.”

Or more likely, someone would come and say, “Go to give donations.” There are a few hospice homes in Varanasi where dying people would stay till death. Their hope is to have their bodies washed in the Ganges and burnt by the river so as to guarantee their eternal life and salvation.

It’s not an easy or enchanting thing to watch a body being burnt. Not only it can be a gross process by itself, but also it’s a thought-provoking process. When life and death are displayed so near, so hand in hand, one’s mind cannot help spinning a lot.

Sometimes we saw find cows and dogs roam right next to the funeral pyres, looking for something to munch on. Once a dog was biting a big burnt bone, probably the thigh bone of a lately burnt human body.

“Are you okay?” he asked, as we walked away from the burning ghat.

“Okay, just lots of thoughts,” I replied.

“Wanna share?”

“I think of the whole question of salvation. You know every religion has its way to offer people a licence to eternal life. It’s quite often that even though some dying people in a hospital or hospice who might have never had anything to do with Christianity would be converted to Christianity towards the end of their life when being offered a suggestion by a chaplain on how to get to heaven, believing that is the way to eternal life. One clings on to the salvation from Christ for a transition to eternal life for no one knows for sure where one heads to after death. Same to these people. They all want an answer and certainty after death. For them, the way to eternal life is to be washed and burned in the Ganges. I think watching the ritual makes me think much about how desperate we all want to know what’s after death, especially when one is so close to the exist of life.”

We walked from the burning ghat all the way to Assi Ghat, the last ghat of the Ganges in Varanasi looking life and death parade in front of us. Assi Ghat has a lot of beggars. It’s mind-bloggling to see and think about life.

near Assi Ghat

What is death?

Where do we go after death?
Who holds the key to salvation?

I looked at J and said, “You know, I wonder what Christians would do, when in heaven, facing God, and God said, “Sorry, you have all got it wrong, the key to salvation is to dip your body to the polluted Ganges, not Christ.”

J laughed, and replied, “Yup, there’s an episode in South Park. That people go to heavens and God said only the Mormons are saved. They hold the truth of life.”

Who is right? Who holds eternal truth?

Varanasi

Varanasi isn’t for the faint-hearted.

After three days in Varanasi, I started to wonder perhaps my heart was way “fainter” than I thought.

Dead bodies are cremated round the clock by the river band of the Ganges. Families and tourists can observe the burning rituals live practically anytime of the day.

The Ganges carries perhaps some of the most polluted sewage; yet it is considered to be the holiest river for Hindus. It’s believed that one’s sins could by washed clean if one dips oneself in Mother Ganga (the day Hindus call the Ganges). I am no Hindu and don’t have the authority to determine how salvation of one’s soul is achieved (only God has, I trust). But regardless of how “true and meaningful” the practice is, it takes incredible “faith” to even touch the Ganges. It’s just so darn dirty.

Sometimes, dead bodies could be seen floating in the river. Some people, like young children, sadhus and women died in miscarriage, are not allowed to be cremated and therefore would be thrown into the river with some weight to drop to the bottom. However, some don’t sink so well and floating corpses may be seen.

Touts are relentless here. A brisk walk along the ghats (little piers or outlets of the river) of Varanasi takes about an hour. In that hour, you will be guaranteed to be asked at least a hundred times, “Boat? Boat? Boat?”, if not more. Everyone is busy selling you shit. You need lots of patience “enjoy” a walk.

The narrow alleys of Varanasi, to be honest, have their little charm. Meandering through them can be fun as well as, at times, frustrating and filthy. The alleys are loaded with rubbish (like most places in India), cow shit (like most places in India) and unclear signs (like most places in India). As power cuts are frequent, one can easily be plunged into pitch darkness. Once while trying to locate our guest house, we ran into a funeral process – with a dead body raised on bamboo racks, passing us shoulder to shoulder.

Varanasi is also the place where many tourists claim to have diarrhea and intestinal problems. It’s not a surprise considering the hygiene of the place and the quality of the Ganges, in which we believe where the cooking water may be from.

Varanasi is messy. It’s dirty. It’s touristy. It’s busy. It’s also holy (for Hindus). It’s a place that accentuates India. It’s a place of extremes – death and living walk side by side (literally); darkness (power cuts) and colors (funeral clothes) contrast each other; love (attracting many visitors and pilgrims) and hatred (it’s really not a nice place to visit) scream out loud in disharmony.

That’s why Varanasi isn’t for the faint-hearted.

J had scheduled some online work to do in Varanasi, so our primary goal was to find a place with wifi connection. To our surprises, there weren’t many options. Most of the guesthouses don’t provide wifi in their rooms. Other so-called hotels which have wifi cost a lot more and are mostly fully booked. India isn’t a cheap place to travel comparing to places like Thailand and Laos.

If you’re ever in Varanasi and is a budget-traveler, I highly recommend Ganpati Gueshouse. In the three days we spent in Varanasi, we were lucky to have one day of stay there.

When we first went there to ask for a room, they had only one day available for all three days we planned to stay. J loves to shop around, look for many places, and compare before making any decision. I go by instinct instead. If I have a good feel about a place, I will just make the call right away, without exploring “all” options. I believe from the time we have explored all the options, some of the most desirable options would be gone. I am more of an opportune decision maker and more likely to do short-term investments; whereas J is a long-term investor and good with planning for the long haul.

But I persuaded him to commit one day there, “You have to secure at least tomorrow you can work here. You screw if you cannot find a place with wifi to work.”

Traveling with someone with different characters and ways of doing things can be challenging. But this time J and I have been working better as a team. Although he did not like the idea of committing to a place just for one day and moving from guest house to another, he agreed.

It turned out to be a good decision. Other available places in the town were quite undesirable. We ended up spending other two nights in a place called Shanti Guesthouse, which we renamed as “Shitty” Guesthouse. It has very basic amenities and is located in the labyrinth of alley ways.

Everytime when we got to Shanti, we had to ask “Shanti Guesthouse?” a dozen times from couple dozen people. It was just impossible to locate it in the confusing alleys. People were kind enough to show us the direction, without persuading us to get into their boat rides or shops or buy anything. It’s a little annoying when they do. In the last evening we spent in Shanti, we customarily asked many people again.

“Shanti?”

“Left,” a man said, while his hand was pointing to the right.

We followed where he pointed.

“Shanti?”

“Straight, turn right,” another man said, while his hand was waving to the left.

We went left.

It’s safer to follow their hands than what they said.

In pitch darkness, we kept asking and inched our ways to Shanti, trying to avoid stepping on cow shit.

After asking and walking for some 20 minutes, I saw an ill-looking doggie. I could not help asking, “Shanti? Shanti Guesthouse?”

The dog looked at me a short while, dumbfounded, and turned away.

J laughed out loud while imitating the dog’s gesture, bobbing his head, to show, “Left.”

Consider traveling India is eating a not so tasteful dish. You have to eat it to survive even it tastes indeed quite awful. You want to add spices, or ketchup  or to use something to cover the original taste in order to eat through the course.

Taste is a very personal thing. I am sure there are people who don’t mind being harassed and hassled.

I do mind. So I add my own spice.

Our spice is often a sense of humor and a spirit of going through everything as a team together. It turns annoyance to a source of delight.

Let me give you another example. We had been incessantly annoyed by boat men by a gazillion times, “Boat? Take boat?” When I  replied, “No thanks, they would press on, “Beautiful. Sunset. Good time.” They just wouldn’t take a “no” for a “no”. When I told them, “Took it already,” they would suggest, “Beautiful. Take it again.”

Sometimes all you want to say to them was “LEAVE US ALONE.”

But God bless Indians. They are the most relentless sales people I have met.

To make a situation like this enjoyable, J and I played our all-time favorite game, A to Z.

“A to Z, things to say to the boat men to avoid taking boat rides,” J suggested.

“A, Already taken it,” I replied and started first.
”B, Boring,” J continued.

“C, Cannot swim.”

“D, Dangerous.”

“E, Eat lunch soon.”

“F, Friend is sick.”

“G, Girl friend no like.”

“H, Homesick.”

“I, Ice-cream time.”

“J, Just went.”

“Kite festival.” (On our last day in Varanasi, there was a kite festival)

“Little time.”

“Menstruating.”

“No money.”

… we went on and on, laughed and laughed.

So, when you pick your bag to India, do consider bringing your own spice. India offers a lot of variety and spices in their dishes, but man you need your own – humor, tolerance, silliness — to make things palatable, if not just edible.

Varanasi, rid of its hassles, can be very charming.

Another night train.

The night train to Khajuraho was pleasant enough. Having dealt vigorously and miserably with buses and some trains a dozen times, we finally mustered some skills in making reasonably good choices and securing tickets.

Khajuraho is about 5 to 6 hours from Agra by train, a place with many temples famous for their mind-boggling sexual depiction on stone carvings. Some of the carvings include 11-people group sex and intercourse between men and animals. Different theories have been created to try to explain why sex is so explicitly carved in a temple, but none seems quite necessary or satisfactory to me. I was happy enough to just enjoy the intricate stone carvings.

11-some

More

Man with animal

Many temple complexes could be found widely in SE Asia. I have visited Ankarwat in Cambodia and Bagan in Burma (although they don’t have sexual depictions, the temple structures do bear much resemblance), but none has the intricacy and elaboration of Khajuraho. Don’t just come for “Kama Sutra”. It’s more than enough art to appreciate than just “sex.” However, you do want to keep your little kids from those stone carvings.

I really like the place. The main and most-visited compound, is the western wing. As we only planned for a day trip, we focused on the western side. Hopping from one temple to another, seeing one sexual scene to another, being blown out in our mind by how artisans could possibly pile up so many years of beautiful carvings in one temple, we were enchanted. I was pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed and appreciated Khajuraho. If you are touring Agra and Varanasi, do take a day to visit this delightful temple compound.

Most of the cities and towns we have visited in India were heavily polluted and did not offer much green. So it’s extremely refreshing to see green trees and breathe fresh air in Khajuraho. All the temples are found amidst meticulously mowed green lawns and manicured trees. The vegetation was so well maintained that I felt like walking in a botanical garden in North America.

The temples are placed in a beautiful green setting.

When nature and architecture and spirituality all mixed together well, it's quite a delight to savor.

I will spend less than trying to tell you how sophisticated and awesome the carvings are. Instead, I will show you pictures:

A boar with thousands of maidens carved on the body.

Such intricate carving!

Stone carvings everywhere!

Ganesh

Stone carvings piling up so high. Marvelous artwork.

Before the day started, we had breakfast on a tree house. I recommend it as it offers a view to the temples and a sense of leisure — a rare found in Northern India tourist destinations. The tree-house breakfast set the day right for us.

Breakfast at a tree house restaurant by the temple compound on the western wing.

After the whole day of walk, we met other tourists in a restaurant. One is from New Zealand and the other from Australia. The joy of traveling also resides in meeting different travelers. As Khajuraho was more chilled than other towns and cities, our calloused hearts were somewhat more softened and open.

We only planned for a day there. But in my opinions, the town itself has a soft and gentle spirit and one may find it soul-soothing to linger a little longer. We didn’t have such leisure; instead, at night, we hopped on another train inching towards Varanasi.

A side-story. When we were in Khajuraho train station, half an hour before the train departed for Varanasi, I could not locate my train tickets. I tried to find them but to no avail. Because of previous experiences and struggles in getting tickets, I was feeling terrible at losing the tickets. J, on the other hand, was very calm. He patiently waited for me to look over the things, without a hint of blame or anger, as I was the ticket-holders. He also looked through his things.

In India, when reserving a ticket, you give your full names and sometimes passport numbers. We went to the train office and asked for help. On the list of customers reserved for sleeper trains were both names of J and I. It was listed in full names.

“I can’t find my tickets, but our names are listed here. It’s completely the same as the names on our passport,” I asked anxiously, showing the conductor and other officers our passport to prove.  Only 10 minutes was left before the train was to depart.

“Sorry, you need your tickets,” one officer said.

“But why? Our names are there. We can prove by our passport numbers and names,” we reasoned with them.

“Not possible. You need tickets,” more officers joined in the crowd and said. No one seemed to show slightest pity on our desperation.

The tickets were not cheap in Indian standard.

“But you know it’s us, with our full names on the passport. Why can’t you let us in?” J asked.

“Well, if you lose your tickets, someone may pick up the tickets and go tomorrow to our train station for refunds,” the officer said.

“But it’s us who have brought the tickets. Anyone coming for refunds, you would check their names. If their names aren’t the same as the ones on the tickets, would you still give refunds?” J asked.

“No tickets, cannot get on train,” he insisted, “You have to pay full amount if you want to get on the train.”

Apparently, the Indian railway prefers to help scammers to make profits and cheat other than customers who have actually paid.

I appreciated the fact that J did not get mad at all for my losing those tickets.

I continued to search.

Just 2 minutes before the train left, I found them in the pocket of my down jacket.

We just made it to the train.

When the conductor came to check tickets, he did not take our tickets at all. He didn’t even look.

“So apparently, what the officer said earlier on was just bull-shit. If someone could take the tickets to refund tomorrow, they would collect the tickets from us now. Since they don’t bother to get our tickets, so going to refund with tickets is just bull shit,” I said to J.

“True. It’s frustrating that they wouldn’t help at all and thank God we could get on the train,” J said.

“Apparently, what I think they wanted to do was to have us paid again, so they could profit from us,” I said, “It’s nothing to do with rules and refunds of India railway system, but it has everything to do with the chance to profit from two desperate tourists. “

We were happy enough to have our sleeper seats. So far, we haven’t yet missed a train or a flight.

Wrapped by a green surrounding, Agra Fort looks more impressive than the Red Fort.

Built by same Mughal emperors around similar eras, Agra Fort resembles very much the Red Fort in Delhi. We have visited so many palaces and forts in Rajasthan and Delhi that by the time we visited Agra Fort, my reaction was, “Is this the last fort?”

Getting “scene-burn” is quite common for travelers: getting burnout of a particular architectural style, or artistic expression, or monumental edifice after seeing it over and over again in one single trip.

Couple years ago, when we were touring in Bagan, Burma, we got temple-burn. In our trip to China, we saw many Buddha sculptures in grottos and temples that we got also Buddha-burn. In Northern India, we had fort-and-city-palace-burn.

Had Agra Fort been the first fort we saw in India, I would have given it more energy. However, having seen a dozen forts, I just got a bit burn-out by forts and all I wanted was to rest and see people pass by instead of observing every detail and every corner.

Agra Fort by itself is wonderful. With a greener surrounding and a very wide moat, Agra Fort evokes more charm than the Red Fort. However, when the Taj Mahal is just around the corner, it seems not quite sensible to spend much time on seeing the Fort. Comparing to the Taj, Agra Fort is a small thing to visit. Though a beautiful fort, it’s not going to hurt too much if you have to miss it because you get so much more by visiting the Taj.

Meanwhile, Agra Fort did not sustain my awe for long because I had seen too many forts and palaces in one go of this trip. Had I visited Agra Fort first, I would have given it more attention and appreciation that it should deserve.

To be fair, Agra Fort itself is quite stunning.

Beautiful Japanese tourists all dolled up in Indian sari, posing everywhere in Agra Fort. They look like air hostesses from JAL the way they smile.

By the moat of Agra Fort, we saw this little grave. How beautiful and peaceful it is!

We visited a night bazaar near the fort. The things being sold were ample, and the madness of India prevailed. One needs extreme strength to shop in an Indian bazaar. The need to bargain in every single place and to make sure you don’t get run over by cars or cows will deplete your energy very quickly. But it’s an experience.

Shopping in a night bazaar can be energy-consuming. You need to bargain, shove through the sea of people, make sure you don't get run over by rickshaws, cars or cows.

On the way back, J personified the voice of the Holy Rat again, since I have been asking how come the Rat no longer talks to us.

I laughed till my tears came. This man. This holy rat. This traveling buddy. Who the hell am I being with?

On the way to Agra Fort, we met this cow, who ventured into Shiva Cyber Cafe. J put on a cow accent and went, "Internet? Skype? How much?"

You have probably heard the love tale behind the Taj gazillion times, and can google the story and history of the Taj Mahal anywhere and anytime.

So I won’t do so and let’s dive into the Taj right away.

Impressive. Stunning. Awe-inspiring. Striking. Breath-taking. Astonishing. I don’t have much vocabulary to describe it. Any word that attempts to tell you what the Taj evokes is an understatement. You simply have to go there to see it for real.

I am no expert on architecture or art. But the whole experience of visiting the Taj was exceptionally pleasing. Everyone loves the Taj. Yes. Everyone. I have been to many places, but the Taj seems to be one of the rare few that makes everyone extremely excited – locals and foreign alike.

When the Taj is at the backdrop, everyone feels so free to do the most unimaginable poses without a hint of embarrassment. Let me put it this way. Normally, you won’t wear a ballroom gown or a tuxedo roaming in Central, right? But once you are on a mission of shooting wedding photos, you may, like many people, find the liberty to wear the most outrageous outfit in the most public arena and pose in the most unthinkable way without hesitation. You are in a bliss and feel being in the process of getting married is a license to do many unusual things. No one minds the silly things you do with you groom/bride-to-be either.

The same kind of sentiment can be found throughout the visit in Taj. From the locals to the foreign tourists, you will find them all in a happy mood – taking photos of course. Not only taking photos, but posing in the most interesting ways to take photos.

Local visitors posing in front of the Taj

Three British guys and one lady were apparently in such a trance. The three guys were muscular men in their 20s, or early 30s, but the poses they put in front of the Taj was interesting enough to take my eyesight from the Taj every now and then. Many kids enjoyed putting their little fingers miles before the Taj in order to capture a photo that makes look like they are holding the Taj. Couples of course will never let go of the chance to hold each other tight, almost like sealing their love pledge in a place of love tragedy. Group of friends jumped, laid, tiptoed, tried to do boxing and kung-fung postures, while smiling broadly – all wonderful shit – in front of the Taj. Everyone was engaged in a wonderful party.

That’s the charm of the Taj.

A building sensational enough to make you mesmerize. A monument captivating enough to make you stare for a day and feel you can stare at it for months. A tomb that carries a story that makes its presence more important that many other fortresses or palaces. A dreamland that turns the shitty surrounding into a blissful dream. A magnet that attracts all walks of life from four corners of the world. A magic place that is built upon a sad story but manages to make (from what I have experienced) everyone glad.

The Taj can be compared to a person full of wisdom, charm, and sufferings. Someone who has transformed sufferings into the elixir of life, a nectar that nourishes all lives who come by.

We arrived at noon-ish, planning to spend couple hours before hitting Agra Fort. Once there, we decided to linger. “It’s hard to leave this place. Once here, you wonder why you want to see anything else,” J said.

If I am a vibrant traveler, J is an hyper-active traveler. He’s seen the world more than I do. For him, few monuments, if not none, are like the Taj.

We snapped a photo here and there. Walked around the Taj inside out. The Taj is beautiful no matter where you stare at it. “It’ll be great to stay in the Oberoi and look at it one day,” I said.

India is not an easy place to travel. It’s definitely not for the faint-hearted unless you really have a lot of money to save you from the hassles and harassment. But both J and I agree that if we are to come back, the Taj is a place we would like to revisit.

The day we went was quite cold and hazy. I bet if the weather is sunny and air clean, the Taj would evoke another veil and reveal another facade of its charm. But even without it, we were very satisfied with it.

No doubt, it’s a romantic place to be.

We stayed until it’s closing.

A classic / uninteresting pose in front of the Taj

Apart from staring at the Taj, snapping many shots, sharing a good time, we came up with “crazy” ideas. If one day you see J and I travel and find me chuckling, rolling with my tummy on the floor, laughing at the top of my lungs, you can be sure that we are in the process of executing one of our “wicked” schemes.

J is a performer. Singing, speaking and acting is almost his natural instincts. Every time we travel, he would act in many ways, mimicking many things we see. Just to name a few, in Shaoling Temple, China, he was “Kung-fu Jesse” – throwing his daybag here and there, creating different kicking poses. In Beijing, he’s “Beijing Opera Jesse” – singing in Mandarin with the highest possible notes. In India, he’s been “Rickshaw driver Jesse, Chai Jesse,” – mimicking the way Indians speak English, asking me “Rickshaw? Rickshaw? Which country? Hello….? Hello…?

I am no performer. But I have a highly creative and active brain, often throwing him ideas what he can be. In front of the Taj Mahal, while we were coming up with “wicked” schemes, I suggested, “Why don’t you do pee-shot, scandalizing the whole country.” Immediately Jesse laughed and agreed.

If you have traveled to India, you would know how common it’s for people, especially men to pee on side streets. It does not matter where. Just give them a wall and they can comfortably urinate in public.

Of course such a common practice won’t be seen in Taj Mahal. After all, it’s a world-class monument. But two “wicked” people like J and I could not help scandalizing the beautiful Taj.

Once I threw the idea out, J started to looking for an appropriate place to act.

Yes. “TO ACT.” It’s just acting. He would not pee on the wall of the Taj of course. No one does. No one should.

I was the photographer.

“Here, here, next to this man,” I said.

So J walked towards that man who was sitting on the beautiful marble of the Taj, and J the stood with legs apart, put his camera in front of the zipper of his pants (pretending that he’s about to take photos but actually look like he’s peeing), and looked sideways (according the J, when men are peeing, they like to look around to check no one is staring). I, on the other hand, stood about couple meters in front of the back of J, taking his “pee shots.”

Every time, right after I snapped, I could not help laughing out loud, drawing all kinds of attention. Onlookers would be dumbfounded. They didn’t understand what J was doing (he didn’t unzip of course); neither did they figure out why this Chinese girl was rolling on the floor holding her tummy.

If J is a natural actor, I must be the most impossible and hopeless actress. I could never tell a lie with a straight face. Never manage to hold my tears. Never able to curb my laughter. My emotions and expression are as honest as honesty can ever be.

Many a times, after his great acting, J came to “whack” me and say, “You really cannot just act a little bit.” I could not. It was just too ridiculous. J had no problem to run a whole show, making people wonder at lengths.

I, however, gave away too many hints. Sometimes the onlookers started to sense something fishy was going on. So we could not continue our “perfect” pee shots. “Let’s look for another target.”

We moved around the Taj, looking for perfect targets. We agree the best shots came with men staring at J. We did that for a good 45 minutes, squandering precious sightseeing time of the Taj, doing ridiculous and silly shots.

But it’s those memories that would stay in our mind for a life time.

Some people may find us offensive in scandalizing India in this way, but hey, you know, without some sense of humor, it’s really impossible to endure long in India as an outsider. No one likes to smell the piss and see people pee on side streets. One just has to learn to take it for granted and find some charms in it.

Not posting the "pee-shot" here; instead, posting a shot that's called "After-pee" shot, a shot that is meant to show, after scandalizing the Taj, J is being punished to sweep the floor .

After the Taj, we had no time to see the Agra Fort. Instead, we decided to do the most outrageous tourist taboo – eating at McDonald’s.

J ordered Chicken Maharaja Mac and I had deep-fried paneer wrap. His was like minced chicken mush, similar to the texture and taste of canned tuna fish, which he does not really like. The paneer wrap was relatively nice. Paneer is a cheese widely eaten in India. The brownie chocolate sundae was lovely.

Most unbelievable things become so natural and normal in India. Here's is a guard with a long gun, sitting next to a little girl, dangling her feet and munching on a burger, in McDonald's in Agra.

At McDonald’s, while I was waiting for J as he was using the wash room, I picked up the Indian Times, probably one of the most widely read English newspaper in India. The pages which got my attention was called “Matrimonials.”

In our society, we have dating columns, where people who seek partners or solicit a date could advertise themselves. India does pretty much the same thing, but they don’t solicit a date. Rather, they advertise for a wife or a husband.

And they are very clear about what they want in the marriage.

India, even now, is by and large a country in which young people’s marriages are arranged by parents. The abolished caste-system, classifying people into different levels, is still quite vibrant, even though it’s outlawed. People seek oftentimes partners of the same caste. Parents have great authority to decide who you’re to marry. It’s fairly common for the couple to marry someone without meeting him/her in person before the wedding at all. All they have seen is usually a photo.

Advertising for a spouse

Reading the matrimonials gave me a great idea how that system worked.

From my observation, this is what’s hot in the market (it’s usually guys looking for wives):

Around 25-27.

With an MBA degree.

With overseas citizenship.

Handsome.

Guys often emphasize those qualities in the matrimonials. They often look for wives who are:

The train from Amritsar to Agra helped me reclaim some human dignity–the train had sealed windows so we didn’t have to freeze to death; it moved steadily so we didn’t get stranded in the middle of nowhere; it actually managed to accomplish its mission (taking us to Agra ON TIME!!!); the train offered blankets and bedding (what luxury comparing to shitty buses).

Things I often take for granted, like being warm or knowing what’s going on, can truly be deluxe entity in India.

We arrived Agra with a sense of lightness. All the hard work came to something (read previous blogs to learn about the battle in train ticket purchase and confirmation) so our hearts were lighter. Our drenched clothes were all nicely dried up after a night of train ride which helped drop a ton from our body (J even thanked the rain water for washing the dirt off his sneakers). I was glad to be out of the Sihk land however lovely Punjab could be. My experience was close to being awful.

Agra, with Taj Mahal being the world heritage monument and the gem for travelers, provides some great degrees of comfort and relief to me.

The area we stayed was near the south gate of the Taj Mahal, a ghetto called Taj Ganj. During the construction of the Taj Mahal, Taj Ganj was where most Taj builders lived and now it is where most budget guest houses cluster. Exhausted from the trauma and drama of Amritsar, we didn’t leave our bed until dinner time on our first day in Agra, trying fuel up our bodies by slumbering. After a much-needed rest, we strolled in the alleys in the evening. The ghetto has little to boast about in terms of its conditions. But it’s nice to see the locals living life vibrantly in the midst of backpackers. We have a sense what life was like to them. We chose a very local place to dine, similar to what we would call “Tai Pei Dong” in Hong Kong or a cheap diner in the US.

“I think it’s the most delicious meal we have had so far,” J commented. Most tourists, like us, follow the suggestions of Lonely Planet, if not Trotters or Rough Guide, some predominant guidebooks, for food and accommodation recommendations. The result is that we often live in the areas and eat at establishments catering for backpackers. One needs to be a bit adventurous to go totally local when it comes to food. Some local places are just not so appetizing and without an English menu and a staff member speaking English, it’s quite tricky to order food or to know what you have ordered. For this restaurant, such problem was easily solved for most food items were on full display (good for easy selection but bad for dust and germ accumulation). All I had to do was to point, point and point.

We ordered masala chicken, deep fried fish, and some chapattis.

After dinner, on our way back to the hotel, I wanted to get some crackers. We stopped at a local grocery store, picked some crackers and paid. Meanwhile, J was looking at a bar of chocolate. That tiny weeny bar cost 5 rupees (i.e.  10 cents in US)

“Gift?” J asked the owner, half joking and teasing. In India, it’s not uncommon for us to run into street children, women, sadhus, or anyone who come asking for something. God knows how many gazillion times we have been asked to give them gifts. Pencils. Rupees. Cakes. Dollars. Chocolate. Just to name a few. J and I often choose the strategy of “ignoring” them lest we could become nectar for a mob of honey bees (or cow poo for a fleet of flies). It sounds heartless. But in India, when you try to open your heart, you may find it being rip off,  if not rip open, sooner than you can afford to.

J was trying to tease the shop keeper because no tourists would ask Indians for gifts. It’s supposed to be the other way around.

“No no,” the owner said, “Five rupees.”

J, a performer himself, could not help acting more. He pulled a pitiful face (if you have watched the movie Shrek and remember the puss in the boots, you can then imagine the look of J, eyes moist and face softened like marshmallow). “Gift please,” he pleaded imitating the people whom we countered endless times on the streets who could be darn right relentless and wouldn’t let us go easily.

The owner’s frowns started to gather. Something was working. J continued to insert pressure by singing.“I sing and you give me chocolate as gift.”

I was no actor, but managed to join his pleading. We begged and begged. Finally, we cracked open the flood gate of the owner. He didn’t know how to shoo away the two foreigner begging for a 5-rupee bar of chocolate and succumbed to defeat. “Okay okay,” he said with a hint of unease in his face. We got the chocolate while bowing and kowtowing and laughing at the same time. “Thank you thank you.”

We laughed our heads off all the way back to the hotel. Only lunatics like us – being foreign tourists – would “beg” for a 5-rupee bar of chocolate. We arrived our room and could not help shouting, “I think we have made a record. Two tourists begging a local India for a free bar of chocolate.”

We munched on the chocolate in no time. The chocolate tasted nothing like chocolate at all and was as awful as other “chocolate” we had bought before. But we ate with great delight and a sense of triumph.

A sense of humor is a must-bring item for traveling in the Subcontinent.

With chocolate eaten, teeth brushed, we fell asleep dreaming about the Taj Mahal.

Soon, the dream would come true.

J eating the bar of chocolate he "begged" for.