Round the World Journal
by Matt Donath
Nov 2. We were overcharged on some of the rail tickets we purchased in Siliguri. At first I'm tempted to forget about it, but we learn that Varanasi's main train station has a tourist queue. Wish we'd known about that earlier! Even though the minor correction takes some time here, we could never have done this at the regular queue.
Back in the Thailand chapter I mentioned splurging on tickets for two domestic flights in India. Our flight plan is Varanasi-Khajuraho-Agra. En route to Khajuraho, we become fast friends with a pleasant trio of well-traveled short timers. Johan is a steward for a Swedish Charter Company. Laurie and Gapy (short for Gaspar) own a jewelry shop in Florida.
Accommodation options in Khajuraho are many, varied, and mostly uninspiring. The Surya has a large garden and the Rakshan has clean, newer rooms. The best budget option is the Yogi Lodge (another one!), the Vikram across the street, and the Marco Polo next door. Unfortunately, a well on this street contains a generator pump that creates an annoying noise -- sounds like a model airplane buzzing around your room. I find it impossible to sleep without earplugs. A better option might be the Yogi's ashram, located a few kilometers north of the Western Group of temples. Yogi Sharma teaches yoga here in the morning, free of charge.
We meet our new friends for dinner at the Mediterranean restaurant (reasonable pasta, slow service). Sitting on the rooftop under a bright full moon, we eat and swap travel tales. Laurie relates a frightening story about taking a bus out of Chiang Mai down to Bangkok. The people at the guesthouse where she'd stayed for several months arranged the bus for her. She boards a roomy, luxury coach with clean pillows, blankets and video. After she's comfortably situated, a steward brings out food and a Coke in a plastic cup.
Next thing she remembers is waking up groggy in Bangkok. She checks into a guesthouse and sleeps for 10 hours. She goes to buy some tickets and discovers her money is gone. Now she realizes she was drugged. Everyone on the bus was a single traveler who was also drugged and robbed. To add insult to injury, she also came down with dengue fever.
We pass on some stories that George, an African-American actor who has lived in India for 4 years, told us earlier in the afternoon. A precisely-speaking American woman approaches him with, "Excuse me . . .you know BANK . . . where is BANK?" He replies with, "Lady, why you talking to me like that?" He was mistaken for a "Sudan man" by an Indian, who said that he couldn't be American because he is black; Eddie Murphy by immigration officials (his passport didn't match because he was traveling "incognito"); and an Indian by many Indians whenever he pretends to be one.
I tell Gapy that the last province we were in, Uttar Pradesh, has about the same population as his native Brazil. He mentally pictures all of the people in his big country inside that one little province and shakes his head. Then I say that India will be the most populous country in the world in our lifetimes and he shakes his head again. We agree that India's growing population creates seemingly insurmountable problems.
Nov 3. After meeting our three new friends for breakfast at the Raja "Swiss" Cafe (not rec.), we visit the Western Group of temples. Our friends hire a guide. He is pleasant enough but he spouts a lot of Hindu-centric nonsense. Only officially licensed guides are allowed inside. We hear snippets from a dozen or so but they are all bad. Most of them can only recite drivel that probably originated from their guide test. They all seem to have a habit of making things up whenever they stray don't have an answer.
A group of Indians see a snake that was killed by a groundskeeper. They ask their guide what kind of snake it is. "It is a type of cobra," declares their guide with absolute authority. A man in the group examines the snake and insists it is not a cobra and is not even poisonous. I'm certain the second man was right but he couldn't get the guide to admit he was wrong. Sybil asks the guide why the snake was killed when it could help reduce the large rodent population around the temple grounds. "So it will have a better life afterwards," explains the guide.
Johan asks his guide why the female statues have such bulbous, jumbo-sized breasts. His guide replies that all the ancient peoples did yoga and this altered their appearance! Sybil, recently absorbed in an academic text on the subject, tells him that only a tiny percentage, those of a certain class, practiced yoga. No, insists the guide, all the ancient peoples did yoga. I refrain from asking how yoga could create such an unnaturally disproportionate physique. I suspect that if yoga could really inflate mammary glands to such a large extent it would be more popular today.
This same guide points out the memorial building for the 1857 Rebellion, explaining the symbolic domes for the Buddhist, Muslim and Hindu religion. Sybil observes that the Hindu dome towers over the other two. "Of course," says the guide. "Hindus are the most populous." He goes on to explain that Hinduism is the default religion. "Anyone who is not Christian, Muslim or Buddhist is Hindu," he explains. I ask how that can be when you must be born into Hinduism. The guide says you can convert to it. Johan asks if there is a conversion ceremony. "No," says the guide, "you can just become a Hindu." I ask him that if I converted to Hinduism, would I be allowed inside the Golden Temple in Varanasi and all the other holy Hindu temples that are forbidden to non-believers? "Yes, of course," says the guide. Somehow, I'm a bit dubious.
OK, enough of the silly guide-talk because the temples themselves are absolutely, jaw-droppingly spectacular! Built in the 10th century by the Chandellas, a Rajput clan (using the meaning of "son of a king" rather than the popular meaning of a Rajastani prince), the temples are infamous for their graphic depiction of sexual scenes, including homosexuality, lesbianism, bestiality, and acrobatic orgies. The fact that the Chandellas carved just as many sculptures devoted to hunting scenes, musicians and dancers, and domestic life tends to be ignored by some goggling tourists.
However, the intricately carved sculptures transcend their subject. Sitting on the lawn outside the temples, I'm awed by their architectural majesty. Kneeling down to examine a tiny carving, I'm amazed by their attention to detail. Clearly, these are among the best temples in the world. The grounds are tout-free, beautifully landscaped, and relatively clean. Outside of a few packs of tour groups, there are no crowds. As a further bonus, the admission fee is refreshingly low and the same for locals and foreigners--a rarity in Asia.
Just after ordering at lunch, Johan runs over to a nearby bank to change 20 US $20 bills. He must write the serial number of each bill onto a form! Then a clerk copies each of these 10 digit numbers into five (!) different books. Johan's lunch gets very cold before he returns.
We all rent bicycles and head out to the Jain temples. Biking around Khajuraho is a rare pleasure because of its small size and out of the way location leaves the streets not nearly as treacherous as most Indian roads. The worst we have to contend with is oncoming herds of cattle and women carrying huge baskets of cut grass. The stark beauty of the surrounding area exhilarates me.
The Jain temples tend to depict men meditating in the lotus position or standing around naked. One group of the Jains are called "sky-clad" because of their practice of not wearing clothing. Some of the temples were once Hindu but later converted to Jain temples.
We end up at one of the temples in the Southern Group. A strange mist floats in a wide ribbon a few meters above the ground. The sun sinks lower and we relish the peace of this lonely temple.
Johan opts for a dance performance while the rest of us dine under a bright full moon. We are very thankful for this perfect day.
Nov 4. Our new friends have departed, leaving Sybil and me to continue to our explorations alone. We bike to all of the temples in the Eastern and Southern Groups. Each holds some new interest, but none are as spectacular as the Western Group of temples. Touts and beggars infest the Eastern and Southern Groups. Sadly, children do most of the begging. Some young girls interrupt their play to beg, but they are too young to put much heart into it and quickly return to their game. One tricky boy locks up the wheels of our bikes and then demands a rupee to release them!
Next we bike to Yogi Sharma's ashram, where we enjoy his gardens and do some bird watching at the marsh across the street. Biking south, we check out the infrequently visited Yogini temple. Stray dogs use the shrines here as a kennel.
Drinking fresh lemon sodas at the Paradise Restaurant (rec), we're entranced by the sunset over the lake. A man we will later meet hundreds of kilometers away takes pictures of this same scene. This is one of those moments where I think about how lucky I am to be in such a fabulously exotic spot.
Nov 5. We're completely ignoring an old postcard vendor when his attention is diverted by a tour bus full of mostly elderly Europeans unloading near the temple grounds entrance. One portly tourist lags behind his group as he's having trouble maneuvering a gigantic video camera off the bus. Like a lion spotting a wilderbeast who starts to stray from the herd, the postcard vendor sprints after him. Concern turns to panic on the corpulent tourist's face. He starts to run, comically lugging his oversized camera with the old postcard vendor in hot pursuit yelling: "Postcard! Postcard!" Sybil and I nearly fall over in laughter.
We spend the morning revisiting the Western Group of temples. These are well worth a return trip. We notice many details missed during our first viewing and come away with a greater appreciation for their artistry.
In the midst of a serene moment, walking across the lawn towards an idyllic shaded bench, a bee (and there are many wasps and bees around these temples) somehow flies between my sandal and the instep of my foot. I receive a painful sting on my sole. Limping back to our guesthouse, Yogi Sharma recommends kerosene for the sting. One of his overly enthusiastic employees drenches the bottom of my foot in the foul smelling stuff. Now I'm flammable and redolent, but able to shuffle through the small but interesting Archeological Museum.
We pedicab over to the airport, where we learn that our flight has been rescheduled for later that afternoon. Indian Airlines has a nasty habit of rescheduling flights at the last minute. Rather than return to town, we hang out at the tiny airport. Our plane is further delayed, so I have far too much time to catch up on my journal.