On our final day on campus, the Manipal University College of Nursing faculty invited us to share what we had learned from our month in India. This was the result.
Thanks to everyone who read this blog and showed an interest in our time abroad. Till the next adventure!
With one week left in India, we embarked on our last (and most ambitious) sightseeing trip: a weekend in New Delhi and Agra, the site of the Taj Mahal. Originally, a Delhi/Agra weekend had not been in our plans for the month due to the sheer distance from where we were staying in the south - point to point, the distance between Manipal and New Delhi is equivalent to traveling from Orlando to Boston and back in the space of 3 days. Realizing that this would be the first and last time that most of us would be in India, however, we figured it was worth the potential aggravation in order to see the country's most famous landmark.
Our travel route was not particularly straightforward; from Manipal we hired a van to drive us the 2 hours to Mangalore, where we caught a flight to Bangalore, and then a final flight to New Delhi. From there, our plan was to spend a night in a hotel and wake up early the next morning to drive 3 hours to Agra. The Agra drive got off to a troubling start when we awoke to find Delhi blanketed in a thick haze of white fog, causing the driver to pick us up about 20 minutes late with profuse apologies. We clambered into the van and were immediately horrified to realize that despite the total lack of visibility, the driver was hurtling down the highway at a speed that was, if anything, faster than the usual breakneck velocity we'd grown uneasily accustomed to in India.
"We're not in a... hurry," Cody ventured about a half hour into the ride, as the van careened wildly around a car that hadn't been visible until we'd almost rammed into its rear bumper.
"I must go fast," the driver said apologetically. "Because I was late this morning."
"No no," we countered with alarm. "It's fine. We don't mind. We like going slow." In the rear view mirror, our driver's eyes shifted dubiously. From my seat in the third row I took a moment to savor the quiet thankfulness I felt at someone else shouldering the responsibility of interacting with the driver, who had also blithely informed us that although he liked his job, he hated driving Chinese people.
"Oh," Cody had answered, a study in politesse.
The fog persisted as the sun rose, making it impossible to see even a few feet in front of the van. We worried that we wouldn't even be able to see the Taj through such heavy cover, if we even managed to survive the drive. "Look behind you," Andrea said at one point, turning from her seat in the middle row of the van to point at something visible out our back window. I followed her gaze to a Greyhound-type bus barreling down the road directly behind us, bearing the word "PANICKER'S" in large type above its windshield. I scrambled to take a picture but wasn't quite fast enough; PANICKER'S bus disappeared, like a memory, into the mist.
One of the services we were offered when we booked the driver was a complementary guided tour of the Taj Mahal, but we hadn't decided whether our previous experiences with tour guides had been worthwhile enough to accept this offer. We debated back and forth for a few minutes and finally settled on a compromise; we'd meet the guide at the Taj and begin the tour, but go our own way if we didn't feel that it was a value-add upon arrival. The driver, who hadn't realized that our conversation had shifted to sundry other topics over the course of about an hour, interjected to ask if we'd made a decision. "We'll do the guided tour," Cody confirmed.
"I feel sorry for your boyfriends," the driver opined, alluding to the excessive amount of time he assumed it had taken us to make up our minds.
"Hey, remember when our driver was a casual racist and a misogynist?" Laura said to me in a low tone.
"Sure do," I said. "Suuure do."
The fog lifted just as we approached Agra, affording us a view of its dilapidated urban outskirts. Elissa had warned us prior to our departure that Agra was an extremely poor, ill-maintained city, despite housing the number one tourist destination in India. From the windows of the van we could see women washing laundry in wide rivers strewn with trash, as monkeys skittered from rooftop to rooftop and kicked up clouds of dry dust from the closely-packed crumbling brick buildings. The driver deposited us on a busy street that wasn't immediately obvious as any sort of entry point for a famous monument, and our tour guide materialized out of nowhere to chaperone the rest of the walk to the Taj.
"I guess I thought there'd be like, a parking lot," someone mused. "Like, this is how you get to the Taj Mahal? You just get dropped on the side of some random thoroughfare and have to weave and bob through traffic?"
"I think it's safer to have no expectations whatsoever," I said, as a rickshaw rounded the corner and missed running over my feet by mere inches.
"Follow me!" the guide said with a wide smile, leading us through a gate and past a caravan of camels ferrying tourists to the ticket counters.
Several of us in the group felt like morons for not fully realizing until we visited that the Taj Mahal is a Muslim structure. This gate, bordered by calligraphy taken from the Quran, serves as a grand entryway for the mausoleum and its grounds.
The Taj Mahal, completed in 1643, was built by the Moghul emperor Shah Jahan to house the tomb of his favorite wife.
There's a bench at the Taj Mahal, colloquially referred to as Lady Di's Chair, which was made famous when Princess Diana and Prince Charles visited India in 1992. Diana went alone to the Taj, and after the royal couple divorced her solo shot in front of the world's most famous monument to romantic grief seemed like something of a premonition.
Princess Diana, 1992
Today, tourists swarm the bench in order to recreate the iconic pose or stage their own. "Professional" photographers jostle for business, arranging visitors in various stances and snapping shot after shot in quick succession before hustling the previous group away so the next can sit.
Also popular: forced perspective shots that make the subject appear to be grasping, touching, or leaning up against the building in the distance.
At right, our tour guide (in grey) takes a picture that makes Shira's pose look as though she is touching the top of the Taj. From my vantage point, I decided to make her look as though she was touching the top of Andrea's head.
Two of the four towers had scaffolding around them at the time of our visit; our guide told us that this was for cleaning work that had to be done periodically to keep the stone white.
"How do they do the cleaning for the main part of the building?" someone asked.
"Only the towers need this," the guide said. "For the main building, rainwater is enough to clean the marble."
"But... aren't the towers also made of marble? Isn't it the same stone?"
"Yes," the guide confirmed.
"...I'm confused."
The towers were also built on a slight slant away from the mausoleum. This way, if they ever fall, they won't crash inward and destroy the monument.
The finial on the top of the central dome acts as a lightning rod so that the building won't be damaged if struck during a storm.
View from the Taj Mahal back towards the entry gate
A few minutes away from the Taj Mahal lies the Red Fort of Agra. Near the end of his life, Shah Jahan was deposed by his son and imprisoned in the Red Fort. He is rumored to have died in a white marble tower that overlooked the grand monument he'd built years before.
Rachel in front of the entrance to the Red Fort
At one time, the Red Fort's moat was full of crocodiles
Our tour guide telling us the history of the Red Fort, which has existed on this site in various incarnations since 1066 AD
Not a bad bedroom view
From what I understood, this well-type feature funneled hot and cold water through the walls of the fort to regulate its temperature, a la Winterfell from Game of Thrones:
This courtyard is bordered by a number of individual rooms which, the guide informed us, housed the emperor's thousands of concubines
Shira strikes a (yoa) pose
Random Indian men demand pictures with us at every Indian attraction we visit, and the Red Fort was no exception.
"May I put my arms around you?" this dude asked, and Andrea sighed inaudibly.
We were grateful to get back into the van after our long day of travel. As we wove through the streets of Agra, I thought about the contradictions the city holds - crumbling infrastructure surrounding pristine monuments; a larger-than-life Muslim mausoleum in a city of 85% Hindus; jetsetting tourists brushing past impoverished locals. In so many ways, Agra is a microcosm of its much larger environs, the simultaneous struggles and successes of a developing country trying to figure out what it deserves from outsiders and what it owes to itself. The entrance price for the Taj Mahal is 20 rupees (about 30 cents) for Indians. For foreigners, it's $11.
We had initially balked at the price inflation, but once you're there, entering and exiting through the gates where dozens of scruffy children dart out into your path to hawk snow globes and postcards and other trinkets, where overworked camels froth at the mouth as they pull visitors to their destination, where amputees sit on the ground and gaze up at you dolefully, one hand stretched out for spare change -- well, that's when $11 feels less like indignance and more like shame. For those of us with the means to book flights and hotels and private drivers, the Taj Mahal is an exotic and breathtaking day trip. For those attempting to eke out their living on the derelict streets just outside its gates, proximity to one of the "New7Wonders of the World" must seem much less magical.
Agra is a particularly stark example, but places like it exist all over the world - a reminder that our lives, our luck at having more, depends on many others having much less. It's not a comfortable feeling. But then, it's not supposed to be.
I'm a little behind on these posts because we've been traveling, but FEAR NOT: I'm back. Update on this weekend's trip to Delhi and Agra will be forthcoming shortly. For now, please enjoy this belated post on last weekend's jaunt to Mysore.
The city of Mysore lies about 7 hours southeast of Manipal and is home to the famous Mysore Palace, the second largest Indian tourist attraction after the Taj Mahal. To get there, we again enlisted the help of the van driver who had taken us to see the Jain temples, whose driving credits include a) affordability, and b) the fact that he has never killed us in the past. As we boarded the van I inquired about an odd talisman that I noticed hanging from the front undercarriage of the vehicle:
The driver had a hard time conveying his answer in English, but as I understood it the ornament was a bouquet of dried chilies and other items intended to christen the new van and keep its passengers safe from harm. "I'm glad we have that," I said, in what I hoped was an appreciative tone and not a a betrayal of the fact that what I'd actually be glad to have is seat belts and general road safety.
I'd done a cursory Google search of Mysore prior to the trip, so I entered our weekend away armed with a few basic facts: the Mysore Palace had been the seat of Indian royalty from 1399 to 1950, although many of those years represented periods of indirect or puppet leadership under other empires (the British Empire held India as one of its colonies throughout the 19th century and the first half of the 20th century, for example, but permitted the royal family at Mysore to continue inhabiting their palaces and acting as allies of the crown until India gained independence from Britain in 1947). The palace has been destroyed and reconstructed numerous times since the 14th century, so the version that stands today is mostly a Victorian-era renovation. Photos were prohibited inside the palace, so most of our shots from the day were of the exterior.
Old and new sections of Mysore Palace
Like most other palaces and temples in India, visitors are required to remove their shoes and leave them at these storage areas before entering
Palace courtyard
I wasn't aware that everyone except me had packed a kurta for palace day and I am still salty about it
The interior of the palace is massive. The grand halls that are open to visitors are enormous in scale and still only constitute a fraction of the actual square footage of the whole building, most of which is closed to the public.
The courtyard jaguars made another appearance in the plaza
Walking away from the palace, towards the gate
Shira asked me to take pictures of her doing yoga poses inside the arch of the gate, but the sun was completely obscuring my view of the screen and I had no idea whether or not I was lining up any shots correctly. Apologies to anyone whose sense of symmetry is as offended by this slight miscalculation as mine is.
The arched pose was more successful.
Our abbreviated tour of the palace took about an hour, after which it was time for a moment I'd been anticipating ever since I'd learned I was coming to India: an elephant ride!
In line for elephant tickets!
Traditionally, elephants have been exotic modes of conveyance for royals and other well-to-do Indian personages, who rode on their backs in howdahs (the fancy, often jewel-encrusted open-sided carriages).
Also known to ride in howdahs: street rats committing identity fraud
Today, though, plebians like myself can pay the low low price of 100 rupees (about $1.50) to take a spin around the palace grounds on these ponderous pachyderms. Laura and Shira were the only other members of the group brave enough (foolish enough? easily amused enough?) to join in the fun.
In addition to the fact that nothing truly equivalent to an elephant ride exists in the United States, the casual disregard for safety that we have come to associate with many Indian experiences was in full effect in Mysore. The lighting in the picture below is not ideal, but this is the barely-enclosed paddock where the ride begins; the elephant walks through a gate to the right of this picture, and the line of people waiting INSIDE THE ENCLOSURE at ground level have to step aside to make sure they aren't underfoot as the elephant returns to the platform to deposit its current passengers and pick up the next batch.
Waiting to board!
And we're off!
Our "driver" didn't speak much English, but was able to answer a few basic questions - we learned that our elephant was a female and that her name was Priti. "You're a good girl, Priti!" we said encouragingly, as she shuffled out of the paddock and onto a walkway.
"How old is Priti?" Shira asked.
"22," said our driver.
"And how long has she been doing this?"
"100 years," he replied.
"That's some curious math," said Laura.
Laura was definitely not so terrified that she had to spend the first part of the ride clutching my arm
#byefelicia
We also got a chance to go somewhat behind-the-scenes and visit the elephants up close, in the shaded pavilion where the handlers keep the ones who are off duty:
Shira tried to inquire about the whitish coloration that many of the elephants had on their trunks and ears. The handler said it was mostly a natural variation and that some elephants have more or less than others. Google tells me that elephants do also tend to lose pigmentation in these areas as they age.
The handler also offered to let us ride the elephant bare-backed, but Shira was the only one who took him up on the offer.
Elephants are traditional symbols of good luck in India - almost everywhere we visited had elephant statues and motifs prominently displayed. The Mysore elephants were trained to "bless" visitors and ensure good fortune by gently touching their trunks to the head and face of anyone who stood before them. They also accepted cash tips with their trunks and passed them along to the handlers.
Allow me to savor the one and only time I can unironically use this hashtag: #BLESSED
(Side note: It would be remiss of me not to mention as part of this post that elephant-related tourism in Asia is a subject of considerable controversy among animal rights proponents. Elephant riding is a major attraction, especially for Western visitors, and a lot of companies offer tours in which elephants carry passengers on long-distance treks without affording them adequate rest or veterinary care. Many activists seek to raise awareness of the inhumane treatment of the elephants who are pressed into service for the tourism industry, with some advocating for an end to rides altogether. We didn't witness any troubling treatment of the animals at the Mysore Palace, which was reassuring, but I also don't think any of us are naive enough to believe that a group of tourists visiting for one brief afternoon could get a true picture of what a service animal's life is like. If you want to know more about the way elephants are often mistreated in tourism, here is an article you may find helpful.)
Earlier in the day, as we were leaving the hotel to go to the palace, we had acquired a local tour guide. He introduced himself as Pasha and settled into the passenger seat of our van. "My friend," the driver said, motioning to him with a smile. Elissa had warned us that this was a common phenomenon in India; you might hire someone for one service, like driving, only to find yourself in the company of one or more of their business partners later in the adventure, who also expect to be paid for their unsolicited assistance. "They come out of the woodwork, these 'friends,'" Elissa had said. "It's fine though. You often do need a guide in these busy cities. You just tip them at the end of the day."
Pasha on the streets of Mysore
Pasha and the driver conferred for a moment and then we were off, headed to an unknown destination. "I've stopped asking where we're going next," someone said. "I figure we'll find out when we're there."
We passed shops where you can buy ladders made from bamboo -
And little side streets -
And a lot of cows painted yellow, which we were told had been done for a festival -
Until finally we arrived in front of this place, whose sign indicated that it was a purveyor of "instance sticks."
"Come," said Pasha, ushering us down a dark, narrow hallway and into a small antechamber, where a man and a wizened old woman seemed to be expecting us.
The stranger greeted our group and welcomed us to the shop. Two women seated on the floor, rolling the perfumed dust onto thin wooden sticks one after another, were relatives (mother and sister? I forget). We were informed that they could roll 1,000 sticks per day.
The women invited us to crouch down and try the technique out for ourselves. "This one's for the front page of the IHP website," Laura told Elissa as she snapped a shot.
Next, we were herded into a back room with an L-shaped couch surrounding a small table filled with glass vials enclosing different-colored liquids.
"What are these? Magic potions?" someone muttered. "Where... are we?" Elissa wondered aloud, cementing our suspicion that this had never been a planned stop on the Mysore tour. "Give me your wrists," the owner of the shop commanded.
The vials contained perfumed oils made from aromatic plants like lavender, jasmine, sandalwood, and cinnamon. The shop owner dabbed samples of each oil on different points of our hands and arms, inviting us to smell the floral notes. An informational sheet promised that each oil had a different purpose - some would relieve nausea, others would increase libido, and some would promote mindfulness during yoga and meditation.
Outside, the day's batch of sandalwood incense lay drying in the sun.
Someone capitalized on this nearby bright turquoise house as an opportunity to take adorable photos of Katie.
Most of the group was not interested in making a purchase, but I bought a selection of incense and Andrea walked away with a vial of jasmine oil. We said our goodbyes to Pasha and clambered back in the van to head out of town, back home towards Manipal.
But not before making a pit stop at this: the Golden Temple in Bylakuppe, more formally known as the Namdroling Monastery. The monastery is a teaching center for monks and nuns (called lamas), and is also the site of a seminary and hospital.
I told Andrea to look excited.
Inside the main temple are three statues representing Guru Padmasambhava, Lord Buddha, and Buddha Amitayus. A plaque inside the temple informed us that the statues are made of gold-plated copper but are hollow on the inside, filled with scriptures, "relics of great beings" (?), clay items and small statues. According to tradition, beholding and venerating the three statues with prayer and offerings will promote faith, peace, wisdom, love, kindness, and compassion while simultaneously erasing negative thoughts and actions.
Our final stop of the weekend was also a temple - this time the Sri Chamundeshwari Temple, which sits at the top of a hill. To get there, visitors climb up several flights of stairs before finding themselves in a village where private homes, shops, and livestock mingle freely. Here, some cows stroll leisurely down the street.
The temple:
As we got closer we noticed, with delight, that monkeys were climbing all over the sides of the building!
More yellow-tinged cows at the marketplace surrounding the temple:
The monkey on this roof appeared to have stolen a bag of chips from someone and was eating them while he surveyed the chaotic scene below:
And Andrea witnessed this monkey steal a bottle right out of someone's hand. Apparently even the monkeys in India are worried about drinking unfiltered water.
And then we continued the ride back to Manipal and collapsed from exhaustion. THE END.
