All of our photos from the remainder of our time in India are on iCloud: https://www.icloud.com/iphoto/projects/fr-fr/#8;CAEQARoQuWj_bg94JNNh9wuTyGGCSw;8257AFEE-242D-4A8F-819B-FC36F7313AEA
Aurangabad is not a destination city, it's a centralized jumping place for scattered sights ripped straight out of Indiana Jones stories. Oddly, the films never mention how Indie had to stay in cockroach infested hotel rooms like ours with mysterious infestations of drowning grasshoppers in the bathroom. We had a hybrid sit/stand toilet which thrilled me because, who would want to sit on it? And there was a kitchen outside behind the restaurant next door that I spied on through the slots in the window. I saw men chop veggies and make rotis in the tandoor while an old woman sat on the ground mixing the dough. This voyuerism was the best part of our nasty hotel.
By this stretch of our trip we established a theory of Indian cuisine: the cheaper, the better. It may be "safer" to go upscale. There is less chance of grumbly tummies or time spent standing among those grasshoppers if you eat pricier, but you will sacrifice flavor for sure. We settled on the vegetarian "hotels" as a solid balance of risk and deliciousness. These are places that rarely have anything to do with sleeping guests, but everything to do with crispy dosas and creamy lassis. Eatcheap, save your money for a clean bed.
Our first field trip from A-bad was to Ajanta, a UNESCO World Heritage Site of ancient Buddhist caves. These caves were built as long as 2,500 years ago. They were used as monasteries and colleges for young monks for centuries. This was the era when Buddhism was the supreme religion across India. When the scale began to tip back toward Hinduism, these caves were gradually forgotten and swallowed up into the protection of the jungle. After 1,000 years they were "rediscovered" by a tiger-hunting party which sparked 25 years of excavation and restoration to display them as they are today.
There are 30 caves cut out of a cliffside high above a river. They vary in structured purpose: some were meant as housing, others as meditation cells, schools, or huge gathering halls. The walls are still covered in intricate carvings and the remains of masterful paintings. They are in ruins, but certainly not to the degree one would expect after millennia. The craftsmanship and genius that went into constructing the adornment of the caves is testiment to the collective cultural importance of Buddhism at the time.
We wandered the caves picturing the monks moving about, living their holy lives in the rock spaces. During the monsoons the caves were home to the wandering monks who would stay in one place for three months for their intensive rains retreat. This is a tradition that stretches from the Buddha himself and the original sangha and continues today. I feel especially connected to this tradition and to the lineage of teaching because my own silent three month retreat was modeled after this practice.
Still whistling Indie's theme song, we skipped over the next day to another World Heritage Site, the Ellora Caves...
These caves were cut out of the Charanandri Hills. There are almost 40 caves in total divided into groups of Buddhist, Hindu and Jain sections. The Buddhist are the oldest, constructed in the fifth to the seventh centuries; next made were the Hindu caves, carved out between the sixth and ninth, followed by the Jain created in the ninth and tenth centuries. This proximity is frequently said to exemplify the religious tolerance of many centuries in India. The religions may have competed with each other for most beautiful and grand design, but they maintained peace and harmony. It is clear walking among the caves that despite holding differing tenets, all three religions influenced each other in style, orientation and practices.
As it would become throughout India, Hinduism became the grandest presence in Ellora, especially in cave 16, known as the Kailasanatha. When we walked in we felt like we were entering a mountain, and we were. This temple to Shiva stands several stories tall but is cut out of one piece of rock. It took 100 years to complete and it involved the removal of 200,000 tons of rock. There is no need to remember that this took place before modern bull dozers and cranes, this temple is incredible to behold in any context.
En route to our next destination we swung through a handicraft emporium. We did not buy anything this time (to the dismay of our taxi driver who stood to earn a cut) but we did get a chance to see the looms that help create the silk shawls and saris that line the shelves of so many shops in India. When a twinkle-eyed Kashmiri is quick to point out that something is hand made, this is what he is talking about. It was neat to see.
As if our adventures among ancient rock caves was not enough, we skipped ahead to medieval times to visit the absolute epitome of fantasy castles. The Lonely Planet describes the Daultabad Fort as "Tolkienesque." Alex was giddy with anticipation leading up to this visit and he wasn't disappointed.
Dultabad, "abode of wealth," is a 14th century fort city. The hill fortress itself is known as Devagiri or Deogiri, which translates to "hill of the gods." The flag-waving peak at the top of a tall narrow hill stands about 200 meters above the old city below. The wide base of the hill was cut away to create a 50 meter vertical glacis, only a small strategic move to make this stronghold impenetrable. There are three separate stone walls that encircle the fort with machicolations at regular intervals to allow boulders to be dropped, arrows to be slung or guns to be fired at approaching enemies.
There are two moats, one wet and one dry. I could have sworn I read the water was once home to crocodiles, but I think my imagination might be riffing off the fantastic reality of this place. There is a single bridge that allows access from the base city to the gradual incline to the summit. This bridge that crosses the water moat far below can fit no more than two people abreast. Once across it an intruder has two choices: a single door entering the base of the structure or a path of about 700 steps to the top, exposed to fire from those sheltered wall walks above.
Did you chose the single door? You may quickly regret it. It is pitch black inside. A set of impossibly steep stairs quickly begin that are uneven in both height and width. If you do not fall to your death there, you will need to navigate through a maze of passages with several potentially guarded dead ends. You see light ahead! If you are foolish enough to follow it you will soon trip and fall, sliding out a steep tunnel that empties into the moat far below.
This genius hill fortress did not meet its doom by invaders. In 1327 the leader of the Tughlaq dynasty forcibly relocated the entire population of Delhi to Dultabad. He felt the well-defended city would make the ideal capital. It remained so for two years until the population was again forced to head back to Delhi, abandoning Devagiri in all its majesty. They had run out of water. Oops.
Daultabad, despite its awesomeness, does not seem to be on the Western tourist track. We were the only whities there that day and so we absorbed all the stares, giggles. We were approached for photos well over a dozen times. I started asking 100 rupees for a photo and this helped steer away some of the attention. We were hot and sweaty climbing a mountain for chrissakes!
Before we left A-bad, I decided to get my backpack fixed. We had Alex's shoes sewn up in Leh for eight dollars. There were multiple holes in the heels and he was nearly walking through the soles. The man whose shop was spread out on the ground on the sidewalk did a stellar job. I thought they looked better than new when I picked them up (I had to leave Alex at the hotel since he had no other shoes...) I thought I would try for the same success with my beloved 17 year old backpack. This baby has dutifully accompanied me through high school, college, grad school, across the USA three times and to 15 different countries. She's had her zippers replaced, but some other boo-boos have been in dire need of a fix for a while. The squirrel chew holes from the Grand Canyon, for example. (Those buggers stole my peanuts!) I learned in Arungabad that not all street repair men are created equal. He carelessly sewed my zipper over, and used inner tube rubber to patch some holes on the arm straps that left everything they touched dusty black. I still thank him though. He did no damage that can't be fixed and he forced me to take matters into my own hands. I'll share progress as it comes.
Before our visit, I'd heard more than once that Mumbai is India's New York City. I had this comparison in mind when we were there and I could feel it. There is the rush of traffic. The 'cool' and the 'chic'. The horn blowing (but all of India's got that.) They both have diversity and beautiful vibrancy. I actually felt like Bombay is more down to earth than NYC. If I weren't so darn white and a target for staring eyes and misplaced attention, Bombay is the only place in India I could picture myself living. Maybe NYC and Mumbai are nothing alike except for one thing: neither come close to epitomizing the larger country they are a part of, they merely stand alone as a two truly special cities.
There is a lot of gothic-style architecture in central Bombay. It wears the soot from the street with elegance. It gives the city an old and dignified feel.
Of course we checked out the Taj Mahal Palace hotel and the India Gate by boat, a touristic duty.
We took the lower class cars of the train all over the place. They were regular railway trains throughout the city, not a distinct metro system. All the windows were always open and there were fans that circulate air when the power wasn't cut. The handlebars danced in a way that delighted me as the train swayed on the track. The cars were packed most of the time. Rush hour brought this to a new extreme when people literally pushed and shoved each other to get on board. The doors never closed and I don't think anyone was watching for safety, so when the train started to move everybody had to be on it, or not. I was surprised at the security systems. We walked through metal detectors in the major hubs. But even in CST, Asia's busiest train station, this was a simple pass. There was no large guards-with-guns presence, or frisking like in Delhi. In the smaller stations there weren't even metal detectors. This made travel quicker and there was no feeling of fear or paranoia in the air. There weren't ticket checkers, either, not even mechanical ones. We never once had to prove we'd paid or see anyone else prove it, either. The closest thing was the announcement on the speakers that "traveling without a ticket is a social evil." Heavy-handed morality like that does go a longer way in India than in the US and France, I suppose.
Bringing our Indiana Jones sense of adventure from Eastern Maharashtra to Churchgate Station in Mumbai, we had a foolishly hilarious and fortunate bad experience. When we arrived at the station and found our train, we saw that it was pulling out of the station ever so slowly. Without a second thought we grabbed a bar and swung into the car. We strode on victoriously. We immediately realized it was a women's-only section and Alex shouldn't be there. Feeling overly confident at that tiny show of train jumping, Alex said "it's ok! I'll go to the next car!" and he proceeded to jump off the car. I had to follow him. Even as I watched in slow motion as he hit the ground and spilled all six feet and four inches of himself onto the platform, I still felt full of ungrounded confidence that I'd be just fine. In the next instant my sunglasses went flying on their 3km/hour momentum and I was lying on the ground just ahead of alex. We were damn lucky: no one else was hit in the path of our stupidity and the worst thing hurt was my pride. Alex had been able that morning to put on a fresh clean shirt for the first time in three days only to have it covered in the foot prints of a million commuters an hour later (hence the state of his shirt in the photo above.) We spent an hour riding the train, quietly taking stock of our emerging black and blueness, and at lunch we laughed at ourselves until we cried. We later watched the men on the trains who jump with it's still moving. The trick is to start running as quick as you can as soon as you hit the ground. A basic lesson in physics we learned the hard way. Never again will we underestimate the daring of a hollywood jump from a moving locomotive!
We took a train, a rickshaw and a ferry one morning way up into the suburbs to visit the Global Vipassana Pagoda. In the Buddhist world a structure can only be called a pagoda if it holds relics of Siddhārtha Gautama, the Buddha himself, or one of his disciples. In the GVP relics of the Buddha are kept above the first dome. The GVP is the world's largest unsupported dome. The meditation hall inside the hollow dome is 280 feet in diameter and can fit 8,000 meditators. It was built as a replica of the Shwedagon Pagoda in Rangoon, Burma. (Which is the most holy place I have ever been.) According the the GVP website, the replication is meant "to show the gratitude of India to Myanmar for preserving the non-sectarian Vipassana Meditation, in its pristine purity, when it was lost in the country of its birth, India." The entire complex is dedicated to world peace and is meant to stand for 1,000 years.
Only experienced vipassana practitioners are allowed to enter the hall itself; everone else has a glassw all to look through. We answered enough questions to convince the security of our authenticity and were granted entry. Without stepping inside we never would have felt the true experience of this place. Alex described the dome as an inverted speaker. Standing at one side you can hear whispers from people standing outside the door on the other side, almost 300 feet away. There are pigeons that live in vents in the ceiling. When they coo or fly across the diameter, their sound reverberates in echos with holy eeriness. It is completely tripy. This is a place for sound meditation if I ever knew one. Either that or driving yourself insane with the impossible wish for silence. There is a video with the sound in the icloud journal.
We made it to Bombay's famed beach, Chowpatty. The main section of beach meant for tourists is groomed regularly to be clean of debris, but just on either side of this section is the familiar trash-coated coastline. The water itself is supposedly toxic, so we didn't get close.
I had to try Bhel Puri while we were there, as it is Mumbai's most famous chaat and is said to be best at Chowpatty. I got a big ol' scoop of it for 40 cents from a stand on the sand. We sat on the mats laid on the ground for me to dig in and enjoy. And enjoy it I did! Damn. Poor Alex wasn't willing to try it. He said that if I got sick, I could count on him to take care of me, which was very sweet. After watching the Bhel Puri made, I was nervous too, to be honest, but I had to take my chances. The man who made it used a pot of standing water to rinse his hands between different dishes (no soap). Then with bare hands he scooped up all the ingredients and plopped them on a metal plate for me. To his credit, he refused to handle any money. Bhel Puri is a mostly raw mix of puffed rice, chopped red onions and other veggies, and a sweet and spicy tamarind sauce. It was so, so yum I ate every last crumb, to hell with the consequences. I either got lucky or my system had throughly toughened up after two months in Asia because I didn't so much as let out a suspicious burp after that fine snack.
I am writing this from yet another continent. We have said our goodbyes to mother India. I already miss the food desperately. I may never eat so well again. I am trying to replicate the chai, but it too will never be the same. I have to shake my mode of haggling now (just when I was getting somewhere!) and try not to stare at the skin tight clothes of the women I see around me here. We are enjoying the quiet, brushing our teeth with tap water and not being the center of attention anywhere we go.
Kisses until next time. XOXO
