Incredible India: The Taj Mahal
Waiting at an airport can be heaven for some, but hell for most. I don’t mind the delay. Those happen. What we don’t count on is that we will be there a full seven hours before we manage to finally make a one hour flight. In that time, we could make it to Delhi and back three times. Again, though, this is an international flight, and the weather is the weather. Better security first than being splattered on the side of the Annapurna Range.
Eventually, we get to Delhi, although we discover that we flew in circles for an hour before we even landed. Very odd. That map display that pinpoints your exact location via GPS and accurately gives you distance and altitude? Our distance goes from 20 km to 52 to 10 to 61. At least they could have done this over the Himalayas if they wanted to treat us to a tour. We also know that the rest of the day is done and that we will be exhausted when we get to our room. This does not bode well for the next day. We get to the hotel, but we know we will have to make adjustments for the next day if we are to see the Taj. The plan is executed, although not without the plan in return exacting some executions of its own. It’s an exciting adventure in the same way pulling teeth with a rubber band would be.
But first, we need to get out of the airport. On the bright side, the driver from the Shagri-la is there. That’s why you pay five star prices. It is nice to see wide paved streets again. In the dark, the driver tells us we are passing Embassy Row. It becomes obvious what a big city Delhi is. The driver in impeccable English casually says that Delhi has fourteen point five million people. Yikes. A bidding superpower needs a super metropolis, I suppose.
After ten minutes we inch past an accident site. A bike rickshaw took a spill. The cyclist is probably seven years old. So much for your super power status, India. Apply again next century, preferably minus the child labor. Those big and wide streets like ribbons around a large gift box are a facade that will mask the imperfections we will eventually encounter. I tip the driver with Nepali rupees (tough luck, that’s all we have for now). The concierge, a gorgeous young Indian woman (five stars, right?), accompanies us to our room. Before she leaves she gives Axl a gift (a Mickey Mouse puzzle) and asks to have her picture taken with him. Sure, she’s only trying to be polite, right? Little do we know. We scramble to get some food and put the boys to bed before deciding what to do the next day.
We decide to forego the train ride in the morning, which means we will lose around 1000 rupees, or twenty dollars. Not ideal, but we can manage. Getting the boys up in the morning (let alone ourselves) is going to be hell, one way or the other. The boys are troopers and cause little problem except for a well-timed meltdown here and there. Good for them. They better get used to it, because that‘s going to be their life for the foreseeable future.
We hire a driver to take us to the Taj. Getting out of Delhi itself is quite an effort, that’s how big it is. The smog is everywhere, par for the course for a third world metropolis. There is a truckstop where we break after two hours, but I take one look at the circus outside and decide to stay in the car. There are old Brahmins everywhere with little rhesus monkeys on leashes. I know better than to roll down the window. Those little monkeys can make off like bandits if you give them just a sliver of space. A transvestite wanders around the car and propositions to me via the driver. This is getting just a little weird, I am thinking.
We stop at a McDonald’s close to Agra. We miss a golden photo opportunity when we see a man donning a turban seating himself next to Ronald McDonald on a park bench. Too bad. Leave it to McDonald’s to turn a profit here with the complete absence of beef products (cows top the caste system, as mentioned in an earlier blog) and pork products (too many Muslims here). Meanwhile, a family has spotted Baby Bash and the photo shoot is on. Liebi watches in horror as Bash is passed around between wives, aunts, and cousins. That seals the deal for her for the remainder of the trip. Nobody is going to hold Bash again.
The Taj itself is relatively uneventful. We are solicited by a number of tour guides and junk souvenir vendors. We are warned that the line takes three hours (we actually get through in less than three minutes) and bravely continue to push the stroller through the throng of people. Admission to the Taj is fairly expensive (about 15$) each, but we are mesmerized by its silhouette in the late afternoon once we see it in its full beauty. Even the postcards don’t do it justice.
Then come the mobs: one by one, men and women alike demand to have their picture taken with the boys. They treat the kids as if they were the legitimate tenants of this place, and I stare in amazement as hundreds of people line up and ignore the Taj for a while. I always knew that Asians can make a big fuss out of children (the Japanese for some reason always seem to adore Axl), but this is positively hero worshipping. This was Angelina Jolie and Brat Pitt braving the paparazzi, no lie. Everybody must have their picture with the kids, literally everybody.
All good things must eventually come to an end, and we take the long road back to Delhi. On our way back, we get stuck in several jams, thanks to unfinished roads. The 200 or so km take about six hours in the end and the boys are good troopers. I buy some Carlsbergs and Foster’s from a hole in the wall, so that helps liven things up a bit. On our way back it’s stop and go, stop and go, all through a thick shroud of smog. We see a thief take a twelve foot plunge from a lorry to secure his loot, a crate of grapes. Any thief who doesn’t mind getting hurt like that will almost always be successful. The driver drops us off at the Shangri-la and that’s it for day two. Next comes the hard part: getting home.
Eventually, we get to Delhi, although we discover that we flew in circles for an hour before we even landed. Very odd. That map display that pinpoints your exact location via GPS and accurately gives you distance and altitude? Our distance goes from 20 km to 52 to 10 to 61. At least they could have done this over the Himalayas if they wanted to treat us to a tour. We also know that the rest of the day is done and that we will be exhausted when we get to our room. This does not bode well for the next day. We get to the hotel, but we know we will have to make adjustments for the next day if we are to see the Taj. The plan is executed, although not without the plan in return exacting some executions of its own. It’s an exciting adventure in the same way pulling teeth with a rubber band would be.
But first, we need to get out of the airport. On the bright side, the driver from the Shagri-la is there. That’s why you pay five star prices. It is nice to see wide paved streets again. In the dark, the driver tells us we are passing Embassy Row. It becomes obvious what a big city Delhi is. The driver in impeccable English casually says that Delhi has fourteen point five million people. Yikes. A bidding superpower needs a super metropolis, I suppose.
After ten minutes we inch past an accident site. A bike rickshaw took a spill. The cyclist is probably seven years old. So much for your super power status, India. Apply again next century, preferably minus the child labor. Those big and wide streets like ribbons around a large gift box are a facade that will mask the imperfections we will eventually encounter. I tip the driver with Nepali rupees (tough luck, that’s all we have for now). The concierge, a gorgeous young Indian woman (five stars, right?), accompanies us to our room. Before she leaves she gives Axl a gift (a Mickey Mouse puzzle) and asks to have her picture taken with him. Sure, she’s only trying to be polite, right? Little do we know. We scramble to get some food and put the boys to bed before deciding what to do the next day.
We decide to forego the train ride in the morning, which means we will lose around 1000 rupees, or twenty dollars. Not ideal, but we can manage. Getting the boys up in the morning (let alone ourselves) is going to be hell, one way or the other. The boys are troopers and cause little problem except for a well-timed meltdown here and there. Good for them. They better get used to it, because that‘s going to be their life for the foreseeable future.
We hire a driver to take us to the Taj. Getting out of Delhi itself is quite an effort, that’s how big it is. The smog is everywhere, par for the course for a third world metropolis. There is a truckstop where we break after two hours, but I take one look at the circus outside and decide to stay in the car. There are old Brahmins everywhere with little rhesus monkeys on leashes. I know better than to roll down the window. Those little monkeys can make off like bandits if you give them just a sliver of space. A transvestite wanders around the car and propositions to me via the driver. This is getting just a little weird, I am thinking.
We stop at a McDonald’s close to Agra. We miss a golden photo opportunity when we see a man donning a turban seating himself next to Ronald McDonald on a park bench. Too bad. Leave it to McDonald’s to turn a profit here with the complete absence of beef products (cows top the caste system, as mentioned in an earlier blog) and pork products (too many Muslims here). Meanwhile, a family has spotted Baby Bash and the photo shoot is on. Liebi watches in horror as Bash is passed around between wives, aunts, and cousins. That seals the deal for her for the remainder of the trip. Nobody is going to hold Bash again.
The Taj itself is relatively uneventful. We are solicited by a number of tour guides and junk souvenir vendors. We are warned that the line takes three hours (we actually get through in less than three minutes) and bravely continue to push the stroller through the throng of people. Admission to the Taj is fairly expensive (about 15$) each, but we are mesmerized by its silhouette in the late afternoon once we see it in its full beauty. Even the postcards don’t do it justice.
Then come the mobs: one by one, men and women alike demand to have their picture taken with the boys. They treat the kids as if they were the legitimate tenants of this place, and I stare in amazement as hundreds of people line up and ignore the Taj for a while. I always knew that Asians can make a big fuss out of children (the Japanese for some reason always seem to adore Axl), but this is positively hero worshipping. This was Angelina Jolie and Brat Pitt braving the paparazzi, no lie. Everybody must have their picture with the kids, literally everybody.
All good things must eventually come to an end, and we take the long road back to Delhi. On our way back, we get stuck in several jams, thanks to unfinished roads. The 200 or so km take about six hours in the end and the boys are good troopers. I buy some Carlsbergs and Foster’s from a hole in the wall, so that helps liven things up a bit. On our way back it’s stop and go, stop and go, all through a thick shroud of smog. We see a thief take a twelve foot plunge from a lorry to secure his loot, a crate of grapes. Any thief who doesn’t mind getting hurt like that will almost always be successful. The driver drops us off at the Shangri-la and that’s it for day two. Next comes the hard part: getting home.
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