To pick up where I left off

...dressed myself and headed for the door. The men again smiled and said goodbye. Oh, it was so nice to have friendly faces around. The room boy stopped me before I got down the stairs and asked if I had any laundry. I'm glad he asked because, having brought very few articles of clothing to begin with and slogging through the heat and the filth, I went through the clean clothes quickly. I hustled back to the room and gave him my laundry which he carefully counted. He smiled and chattered with me while I dug out the soiled items. I liked that a lot.

He asked me if I remembered how to turn on the hot water? I said, "No, not really."

He took me to the hall and flipped a switch next to a red light. "On," he said before flipping it again, "off."

Damn! I thought back the cold showers I'd taken in the other hotels where I never thought to flip a switch because I didn't know to think to look for a switch. Who knew? That switch would have come in really handy in Goa when I had the horrible chills but wanted to wash the stink off before I crawled in bed. I'd crawl into bed afterward shivering uncontrolably, my teeth chattering like all the hubbub on the street below.

Before he left, he instructed me to turn on the switch 5-10 minutes before taking a shower to give the water time to heat. How I longed for a western shower that didn't spray the entire bathroom, toilet, toilet paper, the whole floor... It didn't amount to much of a deal except for making it very difficult to get your feet dry before you put on your shoes and required tactical thinking on how to make a quick potty run before leaving the room without getting mud from your shoes on the floor, or your socks or feet wet before shoving them into your shoes for a long day of walking.

I digress, I made it down the stairs this time, bought a bottle of mineral water with a dubious brand name from the street vendor with a small, very small refrigerator who stood in the small space along the front window of the cyber cafe. The seal seemed tight, so I left it up to the gods as to whether I'd bought one of the rip off mineral waters that come straight from the tap, or some mom and pop outfit that does good work without the branded names.

It didn't take long to forget the water issue as I stepped out in the street. The only thing I can liken it to is a bizarre carnival atmosphere. I loved it. It didn't matter that I had to dodge cars, other pedestrians, all manner of semi domesticated beasts, autorickshaws, ox carts, camel trains, mystery piles of refuse that squished beneath your feet in a disturbing matter when you failed to avoid them... I browsed the merchandise in the stoors and of the street vendors as I walked past. The items sold here consistently appeared to be of better quality and appealing design.

Several vendors came up to me to request that I visit their stores. I said "no" politely and they magically went away. Wow! How could that be? All manner of tourists walked the streets, in fact in greater numbers than any other place I'd been so far, and the vendors were respectful. I loved this place even more.

I couldn't help noticing the Kashmiri traders with their stunning amber eyes and bright smiles. Some of them had bodies and bone structures to match, what a deadly combination. Yum.

I walked on past a Y intersection wondering how long this street and this market really was. New vendors, more merchandise, dodging an elephant here, a sleeping dog there, an autorickshaw slamming on his brakes honking his horn with a defeated stare so as not to hit you.

Despite the warm day, the night brought with it a chill and a fog. For the first time in India I wore a light jacket. The locals however had bundled up for a blizzard with heavy coats, thick pants, gloves, knit caps or turbans on their heads with scarves wrapped around their faces. I remember back to my childhood wearing that amount of clothing in blizzards with windchills of 100 degrees below zero.

On the other hand in Goa I had to wear thin t-shirts and shorts so as not to roast alive and I still panted and suffered while the locals wore thick jeans and heavy shirts with an undershirt underneath. I guess heat is relative. I tend to run hot period, so a hot place is extra hot to me. Cold weather never seems as cold to me as to people around me.

At last I came to a large road with two lane traffic on either side and a median strip. On the other side of the road stood the railway station. I'd wondered where that was since I might be heading north to Shimla soon. I turned right as my map had indicated. I'd already been walking about 20 minutes. The busy market lane had been well lit and bustling with chaos. Here the broad sidewalk held only ambient light and shadows. I walked slowly as my eyes adjusted and kept an eye on the few people that passed by. No more westerners here. Only a motley crew of street dwellers, men stopping their autorickshaws or taxis to piss on the wall, and the occassional heavily coated pedestrian bustling through the shadows.

I bustled too not sure now if I headed in the right direction. The scale measure on the map had made it look like a very fast doable walk. I plodded on. I noted to my right that this wall had the little cubical wall urinals that I'd first noted in Jaipur. My nose warned me first. I wondered how anyone could stand the smell and why they all stood full when so few people walked the street. Then I saw the men looking over at each other and I knew. Gross, I don't care how horny I'd get, the stench would kill any kind of desire in me.

Again my trusty sense of smell warned me I might be getting closer to a busy street. Big waves of warm deisle exhaust fumes wafted my way and the din of traffic got heavier as I approached what I hoped to be the outer ring of Cannaught referred to as Cannought Circus. A name no doubt earned by the chaos I encountered with the traffic. I stood on the corner waiting for a break in the incessant traffic finally another guy arrived and another and we cautiously waded out into the sea of traffic. The waves spread around us as we inched forward to the median strip. A big step up and momentarily no large vehicle threatened to flatten us. We waited again and at the right moment walked forward into the traffic again with the same result. Crossing the street is a skill you must relearn if you hope to walk at all in India. Much like the ability to detach yourself from your body when you're in an automobile and not scream at each near death experience.

I wandered through the side streets using my instincts to take me back to the McDonalds. I arrived only a few minutes late much to my surprise, but Sumit was nowhere to be seen. I rested my back on one of the big pillars out front and bent one knee up to rest the bottom of my shoe on the same pillar happy to just people watch for a moment.

The night crowd gave off a slightly more sleasy air than the day crowd had. Very few chic people sauntered by. The band that had been there the night before cackled out a few tunes. In my humble opinion ;), they should have spent a few more months in the garage practicing before going public with the out of tune instruments and the tone deaf vocals. But that's just my humble opinion.

I hadn't stood there for more than a couple of minutes when street vendors started eyeballing my like a pack of coyotes coordinating attack tactics before going in for the kill. I sensed them coming in on me so I switched to the other side of the pillar. It didn't help. One guy shoved an annoying set of drums in my face another a fistful of wallets.

I said, "No, thank you. I'm not interested." and turned away. They shifted to be right in front of my again. I waved my hand in the universal, no I don't want this gesture, and they burst out talking over each other as a new crop descended from behind them. "Really, I'm not interested. Now go away," I said in a stronger more agressive tone a hint of a glare in my eyes.

Garbled, "good quality...for your girlfriend...my friend..." The cacaphony of voices even managed to drown out the huge speakers of the band that blared out only 25 feet away. A small crowd gathered to watch me and some of the people watching the band turned around to see what the commotion was about.

I stomped my feet at them sure my face flushed red and shouted. "NO! NO! NO! I don't want any of this crap. Fuck off and get out of my face!" I stomped again to let them know I was serious.

The backed off with a dejected look somewhat stunned and then walked off together mumbling. The onlookers sauntered away faces stoic. Now I felt really uncomfortable and somewhat traumatized. Angry thoughts about India invaded my head. "How the hell do they expect to build any kind of reasonable tourist industry when tourists are hounded incessantly by reckless, obnoxious touts? No wonder you see so few foreign faces around and no sort of expat community has taken root. The government in their greed has shown the touts that its okay to harrass and overcharge tourists with their lousy overpriced hotels, the fact that they charge tourists many many times what they charge the locals for attractions. Of every place I've visited in the world, this place has the most potential to become a tourist mecca, but the greed and short sightedness of the government and many of its people create an inhospitable environment indeed."

I looked at my watch. It read 7:35 and still no sign of Sumit. I contemplated grabbing an autorickshaw and heading back to the hotel no longer in the mood to go out.

I stepped away from my pillar of security and scanned both direction for the most likely point to catch an autorickshaw. As I looked to my right Sumits smiling face caught my attention in the distance. For a brief moment I felt trapped, but I shrugged it off and pasted on a smile to meet Sumit. He led me back to his car as he searched his brain for a restaurant I might like.

We pulled out and Sumit expertly handled the traffic situation while chatting with me and answering his phone several times. We headed south again, past the Gate of India which, despite my earlier annoyances, really looked spectacular at night. It stands about 100 feet tall with carved stone ornimentation around the great arched gate in the middle. The gate itself has to stand at least 80 feet tall. The back lighting and underlighting really did a great job of showcasing the local landmark.

I recognized the road we'd taken the night before as we negotiated the heavy traffic south. Sumit cursed the density of traffic even though we still moved at about 40 miles per hour. I thought to myself he should enjoy a little gridlock in Los Angeles sometime for perspective on traffic.

Sumit told me about his day dealing with his uncles in the transfer of his share of the family business to a purchaser who had no relation to the family. I asked him if this guy knew what he was getting into buying a minority share in a family business. Sumit guardedly said yes. I'm sure he'd had to play that part down to get the share sold. Sumit described the many troubles he'd had trying to work with his uncles who refused to modernize any of the systems or adopt more profitable business practices. Sumit had become so frustrated the only outlet he could find was escape. I don't blame him. I'd would have done the same thing in his shoes.

Sumit changed the subject to Amway and the big conference he'd attended that day and how enthusiastic everyone was and the examples of great wealth people had accumulated as distributors of the products. My associations with that company not being so glowing led me to ask if he'd done enough research on the company and that perhaps he should consider his many other options before he chose a path. My words went in one ear and out the other. He boasted about how many of his friends wanted to buy distributorships as well. It somewhat shocked me that Amway was making such a late entry into such a huge lucrative market. Perhaps as something new and something American Sumit really could become rich.

I saw a big mall approaching on the left and of course Sumit turned in. I inwardly groaned. It amazed me that such big malls had been built with so little though to parking. It took about half an hour to park and the lot was chaos. In the end we'd had to squeeze into a space so small that I had to get out first and Sumit had to suck in his breath and scrape his way out of the small gap of his door.

The mall looked like any other glass and steel suburban strip mall, well perhaps a little better than most being centered around a horseshoe shaped courtyard in the middle. We entered through the oddly inconspicuous doors where we walked through metal detectors and got frisked. The crowd inside appeared to be the same well healed, well groomed, chic bunch I'd seen at Cannought Place during the day. I suddenly felt out of place in my grubby 'I'm a poor backpacker" clothes I travel in to avoid the touts. I compared my well worn filthy sneakers the the crisply clean shoes of the people around me and got a bit self conscious.

I'd sucked down the whole liter of water I'd bought at the hotel and felt the urge to give some back to nature. Sumit guided me toward the men's room. Several men walked out as we walked in so I didn't have to wait in line for a urinal. With no partitions most of the guys lined up at the urinals checked out each other's endowments. Some proudly exposed all to show off their endowments. I concentrated on the tile work in front of me, not a job comparable to the exterior facade of the mall, but good enough. I finished, washed my hands, dried them on my pants since no towels or dryers had been installed and walked out to wait for Sumit.

As I stood waiting I watched a Muslim family also standing in the hallway. The father must have been around 32, an elegant well proportioned man in the supertight jeans popular with the younger crowd. His beard was well groomed his turban bright and crisp. His wife and the other women with them had on beautiful women's suits. I call them Sari suits for lack of a better way to discern them from a Western womans suit. The upper tunic made of soft flowing fabrics in bright colors with immaculate bead work, the pants a complimentary color also with striking bead work and shod with tasteful strappy high healed sandals. Even the kids seemed elegant.

The four or five year old son pleaded to go to the bathroom and finally the father, getting off of a cell call, pointed him toward the restroom to go. The kid begged him to go along, but he said no and urged him onward. I wanted to say, go with the kid. I didn't quite trust some of the adults I'd seen in the bathroom, but perhaps my instincts don't count in Indian culture.

Soon sumit came out smiling as usual his henna dyed reddish hair making him stand out amongst the other Indians.

We walked through the mall toward the restaurants and I took in some of the prices of merchandise along the way. Items of clothing retailed for about 1 1/2 what they would cost in the states. Perhaps closer to mall prices than anywhere I shop, but still costly. It also struck me that most of the clothes were very safe run of the mill, middle of the road, conformist articals. I like those unique on of a kind pieces that really make a statement. Nope, the mall wouldn't do for me.

Sumit raved and raved about the amazing restaurant we would be going to. When we arrived at the door on the second floor a moderate size crowd greeted us. We made it to the door only to be told that we'd have to wait 30-40 minutes. My eating time and indeed my bed time had come and gone. I did not relish waiting that long just for a table, but we waited along the rail. I watched a white guy, the only white guy I'd seen at this mall, wander around window shopping. I'd seen him in Pahar Ganj. I wondered how and why he'd found himself at this mall.

The restaurant door opened and several slightly sloppy drunk guys came out arm around each other. A trail of cigarette smoke followed them out. Gag, blah, stink, gross... I also saw a bar inside along the back wall.

"Sumit, are there any other restaurants in this mall. The wait here is too long, I'm still a little sick, and that smoke is just nasty."

Sumit looked disappointed for a quick second but led me up to the third floor where several really beautiful restaurants greeted us along with an apparently hastily opened Korean restaurant. Although I longed for some good kimchi, I didn't feel quite comfortable if the kitchen staff was new being the gineau pig for their perhaps not so well trained hygiene habbits. Apparently word had gotten out to the Korean tourists about the restaurant though because half the seats were occupied and all of them by Koreans.

We chose the extremely tasteful Chinese restaurant next door. Before we could order the dimsum truck came around and I succomed to the steamed buns with meat insided. I could have gorged myself on a huge tray of those and been happy, but they ran out forcing me back to the menu. I marveled at the great training of the servers, always at hand to assist and to subtley suggest an upsell from the menu. This didn't bother me at all since it never crossed the boundary to in your face.

The meal was delicious. Finally a restaurant I really liked despite being located in a mall. I must say that the mall restaurants had none of the cheesy American greasy chain restaurant feel. Instead they appeared to be among the best restaurants I'd seen yet outside of Mumbai.

I managed to convince Sumit to take me home after he chewed out his friend soundly on the phone for not joining us like he's apparently promised to do. All I could think of was sleep. Sumit conquered his fear and drove down the lanes of Pahar Gange. Very few people remained on the streets aside from a few street vendors packing up their carts to go home. A few people staggared home from the bars and made their way into them. Progress wasn't too slow.

Sumit insisted on parking the car and coming into the hotel. We greeted the guys at the front desk and introduced them to Sumit. Then I showed him my room. I don't know if this was an attempt at seduction by him or just curiousity, but despite Sumit's many hints, I couldn't find any spark of attraction in myself for him. After he approved of the hygiene of my room and marveled at the $7 a night price, I convinced him I'd see him the next day, that I needed sleep. I said he'd call me in the afternoon after he'd slept.

I walked him to the car careful not to step on the people sleeping on the street all huddled together.

I heated water, took a quick shower, and crawled into bed after swallowing a really tasty sleeping pill. I could hear the guys at the front desk chattering and talking, but hoped the sleeping pill would work its magic. It didn't. I tossed, I turned, I put the pillow over my head. I pulled the thick blanket over the pillow, but nothing worked. At about two in the morning I stumbled out of my room in a pair of hastily pulled on shorts and said, "Please..." waving my hands aimlessly in the air, "please shut up. I'm trying to sleep and I can't please please shut up."

They looked at me like I was the creature from the black lagoon and assured me the noise would stop.

It didn't.

Half an hour later I stalked back out. I don't recall if I remembered the shorts this time or not. "Shut up! Just..." my hands waving spasmatically in the air, "shut up. This is making me crazy. Please talk somewhere else... PLEASE!"

My room boy walked me back to my room concerned and promised me things would be quiet. They were. I finally sunk into sleep.

An hour later a sharp pain my my stomach awakened me and I rushed for the bathroom. The diahrea nearly stripped the porcelain off the toilet. I cramped and cramped and cramp until amid rampant caughing the cramps subsided. I cleaned up and crawled back in bed. The next eight hours were punctuated like clockwork with dashes to the bathroom.

I didn't roll out of bed until almost noon. I showered again and went to the front desk to request another more quiet room. The desk guy I'd initially met with the friendly smile who'd not been there the night before surprised me by speaking first.

"I heard what happened last night. We have a room opening up on the third floor in back later today that we can move you to."

"Thank you so much! That is really helpful. In case nobody noticed, I get a little bitchy when I'm tired."

He smiled at me with a peculiar look of awe, not unfriendly, but perplexed.

I went back to my room and called Sumit. He promised to come in half an hour, we'd go out and see the sites.

I descended the stairs to wait for Sumit and my new room to open up and launched into my e-mail and updated my blog from Jaipur and Agra. Half way through Sonja came down and asked if I'd eaten yet. I said no. We decided to go to the clean looking cafe up the street, Sam's. I told her that Sumit was on his way and I'd really like her to meet him. Perhaps he could join us for lunch. She agreed and sat down to check her e-mail

About 45 minutes later she said she'd check in on John who still felt sickly since Sumit hadn't showed up yet. I continued to blog. 20 minutes later she came down again and said she couldn't wait anymore, that she'd head up to the restaurant. I promised we'd meet her there not entirely sure we would with Sumit's habit of running late.

A

Despite rumors to the contrary, the waves did not sweep me away and deposit me on a beach in Sumatra where the crabs nibbled my remains. Now that I think about it, that was in poor taste. The news of the Tsunami came as quite a shock. I'd made it to Hyderabad where I kicked up my heals with my friend Deven. Many people felt the earthquake in Hyderabad. We did not. I'm sure at that point we were bouncing around in an autorickshaw. The news only reached us this morning in the morning paper.

I arrived in Mumbai this afternoon for my trip home. Its hard to pull myself away from CNN and all the devastation. My thoughts are with all the Indian American tourists I've met, many of whom had headed south to enjoy the holidays at the beach resorts. I hope they're all okay.

Back to the story.

After showing Sonja and John my room - with them totally validating my opinion of the place - I caught an autorickshaw with them to the Pahar Ganj area of Delhi where they had found a budget place. Of course we didn't just get in the first autorickshaw that came along, it took about five fuck offs from John before we found a relatively honest guy to get us to their hotel. After the torment I'd been through the previous days, Johns in your face disdain for the rip off artists really gave me a great catharsis. They kept apologizing to me about the behavior and I kept telling them I didn't mind at all.

The auto rickshaw pulled into the shopping district of Pahar Ganj and I immediately fell in love with the area. The streets couldn't have been more than a 15 feet wide and in that amount of space pedestrians, horses, cattle, vendors, camel caravans, the occasional elephant, auto rickshaws, bicycles, motorbikes, cars and trucks all competed for space with traffic in both directions. The area around my hotel boasted a parking lot, walled off apartment buildings and a traffic circle, nothing interesting at all.

The driver dropped us off in front of the Hotel Star View, a four story building lacking any semblance of architectural character, but made up for that fact by the excitment underneath and all around it. The ground floor hosted a web cafe at 20 rupees per hours, the cheapest I'd seen, a water vendor, and a couple of other crafts shops. We climbed the steep marble stairs to the first floor and the reception desk. The friendly man there greeted us with a smile. My heart sank. I had a mean bastard at my front desk at $55 and they had a nice guy with a smile at theirs with fun stuff at their fingertips for $7 a night.

Sonja and I chatted while John checked out the room. He came back with a thumbs up. They checked in and we decended the marble stairs in the back to their room. Cheery art hung on the walls and despite its diminuitiveness, it gave off a warm cozy feeling and appeared to be very clean, certainly more clean than my hotel.

They settled in and we headed out on through the pandemonium on our way to Cannaught Place, an upscale area of town with good shopping and restaurants. However, to get there we traversed the blocks and blocks of shops and chaos before we arrived at a main road with easier walking. I marveled at how non-aggressive the shop owners were. A couple of the shop owners invited us in, but a simple "no thank you" sufficed to ward them off. The windows held goods I'd not yet seen in India and we passed scores of foreign tourists, most of them appeared to be from Europe, Asia and Africa, but I saw a few that exhibited American mannerisms.

Our goal in Connaught Place - McDonalds. Yes, its true, they insisted I eat a McDonalds in India, that its a true cultural experience. I figured they hadn't been wrong so far so what's to lose. As we reached Connaught Circus, the big circular road that runs the perimeter of the Circle, the neighborhood changed drastically. We passed several airline offices, a few decent looking restaurants, shops and stores with professionally staged window displays and several swanky looking well dressed Indians. I breathed a sigh of releif sucking in the heavily polluted air and happily doing so just to be around people who looked to have enough substance that I'd be left alone. In fact, I was left alone.

The McDonalds sat between two nice stores across the street from some huge construction project part of which is the new subway/metro system that Delhi is putting. A band had set up a stage for some sort of promotion and tuned their instruments while a crowd of spectators slowed their activity to check them out. We entered the McDonalds, it felt a little classier than the average American McDonalds and proceeded to the register. The place was packed with well dressed people seeing and being seen. Rock videos played on several flat screen tv's above us. The videos had been chosen by patrons of the restaurant. We stood in line at the register in a sea of eager diners slowly working our way to the front. John looked like a pig in shit. He beamed from ear to ear and seemed to feel a whole lot better in anticipation of a nice vegetarian burger and some fries. The menu only marginally reflected an American McDonalds. Its very rare to find beef in India outside of 5 star hotel restaurants so a number of Indian adapted chicken items shared the board with a host of vegetarian delicacies.

I chose a meal deal with a chicken sandwich entre and a sprite. They told me to sit down and they would deliver the meal to the table. Wow, service at McDonalds! I got back to the dining area only to find it absolutely cram packed. Three boys stood about scanning for patrons about to finish their meals so they could score seats for the newly arrived guests. We missed out on the first couple of tables. Apparently you have to be as agressive as most folks here are in any sort of line, butting in front and pushing people out of the way. However, we got the third and sat down. John dug into his food happily chewing away on his fries and McAloo burger.

My food arrived soon after and I too dug in. The fries are identical to the ones at home, but the burger entered into uncharted territory. I can't say I relished the meal as much as John, but it wasn't bad and they Canadians were right yet again, it was a cultural phenomenon. Apparently McDonalds has been popping up rapidly in big cities only for the past couple of years to a frantically positive reception. Another big difference is that McDonalds in India delivers. How about that?

After dinner we parted ways and headed to our respective hotels. John pointed me toward mine and they headed off to theirs. I stopped first at and STD, the abbreviation for a local phone booth. I still chuckle about that. I called Sumit and informed him that I'd arrived. We made plans to meet at the hotel at 7:30. My watch said six and my guide book had made the hotel look very close to the circle, so I estimated I'd be back in 20 minutes and have plenty of time to wash up and wind down before Sumit arrived.

I headed in the direction my instincts told my hotel lay. However the landmarks that at a distance stood out so clearly, blurred considerably at close distance and in the darkness. I resorted to asking directions. I asked a well dressed man if the street I stood at was Janpath Road. He said, "Oh no, Janpath road is two blocks that way," pointing back in the direction from which I'd come. I figured I'd just gotten turned around by the circle and happily circled back two blocks to the street he'd indicated. It certainly didn't look like Janpath road, in fact, it didn't appear to be much of a street at all. Janpath had been a busy thoroughfare. I stopped at the prepaid taxi booth and asked the man inside for directions. He pointed down the same street and motioned to the right.

I naively headed that way wondering why Delhi, a city of some 12 million, had not yet discovered the joys of street signs. For good measure I asked another person for directions who indicated I had yet to go one more block back from the way I'd originally come. I trudged on, found a busy street and followed it. About half an hour later a guy approached me from the shadows of a gate to an apartment building. I braced myself for some sort of hustle. He told me he just wanted to chat and walked along with me smiling asking where I was from, where I'd been, why I was in India... His final question was "Where are you going and why are you on this street? There is nothing here to see."

I told him I was walking toward my hotel, the Hotel Janpath. He laughed and told me it was back in the direction my instincts had directed me too. In fact, John had pointed me in that direction as well. I complained that I'd asked directions and had been told that this street was Janpath Road. He laughed and said Delhians are notorious for giving wrong directions finding it humorous to send people astray. I appreciated his kindness in telling me so, but this new reality did nothing to bring up my mood. He gave me directions that felt intuitively correct to me, wished me luck and went back home with a smile.

I arrived at the hotel 45 minutes later drenched in sweat and covered in mosquito bites. I had 15 minutes to shower before Sumit arrived. I raced around showering and dressing and pulled my shoes on right at 7:30. Then I waited...and waited...and waited...and waited some more. At 8PM I went downstairs thinking he might be waiting in the lobby. I sat there for 15 minutes and headed back to the room getting annoyed at his tardiness and lack of courtesy in not calling from his cell. Five minutes later just after I'd kicked off my shoes and decided to entertain myself with my novel Sumit showed up.

He claimed traffic was bad. I didn't believe him, but didn't argue with him either. I questioned him on his selection of a hotel pointing out the various inadequacies. He agreed the place was a sty and blamed his friend that had recommended the place. I decided to move to John and Sonja's hotel the next day.

We headed to Sumits small beat up red suziki and hit the road to South Delhi. Sumit explained that a great new restaurant had just opened up that he just had to take me to. He told me it was in a brand new mall. I winced at the thought of a mall, but again figured it would be an adventure since I'd not seen an Indian mall yet. After what seemed like an eternity we pulled into the parking area near the mall and walked the rest of the way. The parking area lacked paving, easy access, lighting, grading and sat populated by street dogs and cows chewing their cuds. I wondered how good the mall could be. However when we entered the courtyard of the outside mall, I had to admit I was impressed. The stores twinkled and music played, well dressed people walked around in groups lauging. I wore a light shirt and shorts while most people had bundled up in scarves, heavy sweaters and jackets. I overheard several people complaining about the cold. It still seemed hot to me.

We finally arrived at the retaurant Sumit had gushed so highly about - TGIFridays. Oh God! I told myself I hadn't endured a very long and arduous few days to end up at some mediocre chain restaurant that haunted every dubious strip mall near an American mall. I looked at Sumit and said, "You're kidding me."

He told me it was a new Indian restaurant and very good. I informed him of its middle of the road suburban American chain status and asked if there might not be somewhere else to eat. He said the mall had a good Indian restaurant around the corner.

We went there. The Indian place had great lighting, great table settings, cloth knapkins, a busy second story with a bar and a clientele that included relatively few actual Indians. Americans of Indian decent dominated the place. I caught snippets of several conversations, mostly complaining about how little overall had changed in India and the hurdles yet to be overcome. In fact the men at the table next to me really impressed me and my overactive ears with their insightful comments. Sumit had gone to the restroom, so no one interfered with my concentration.

When Sumit returned we chose our meals and waited for the waiter to take our order. I asked Sumit if the people in the restaurant were returned Indians or part of a larger expat community. He informed me that Delhi doesn't have any sort of expat community other than the people who work in Consulates and Embassies. This really shocked me. What kind of major city doesn't have an ex-pat community? I'd never been to a city of size that didn't have one anywhere in the world. He insisted that his assertion was correct.

Despite the swanky setting, the waiter took his sweet time arriving at the table. I'd already grown accustomed to overstaffing in restaurants, but this one appeared to be understaffed. After a long wait we ordered and a long wait later, the food arrived. It was good, not exceptional, but good. Sumit insisted on paying. I argued, he became terse so I let him.

We entered the fresh air outside. I had been actually sweating to the point of dripping in the restaurant. It felt quite nice to be in the stale polluted but cool air. I coughed up a storm and Sumit led me to a little stand where I bought several Hall's mentholyptus drops. They seemed to help for a few moments each.

When we got back to the car I told Sumit I was tired and would like to go home. He insisted on taking me to yet another mall and showing me his favorite clubs. I told him I don't do clubs and don't like being around people who drink or smoke. He couldn't believe I didn't like to drink and club. He pestered me with dozens of questions mostly on the central theme of "why?"

Just as I had reached the end of my patience with the line of questioning we pulled into an even worse parking lot full of holes and mud with even more dogs and several men walking in off the street to pee between the cars. Sumit led me to a coffee house, I believe it was "Coffee Day" a chain in big cities across India. He had coffee, I had a brownie. I could barely hold my head up, so I convinced Sumit to take me home. We arrived at my hotel parking lot about midnight. Sumit parked in a secluded part of the parking lot and and a few akward moments passed where he tried to make the moment romantic and I tried to diplomatically remove myself from the situation. Sumit told me how he'd never kissed a white guy and how attracted he was to me. The only way I can explain it is that it just felt wrong.

I wiggled out of the car and made plans to meet Sumit the next afternoon. I told him I'd call him from the new hotel when I checked in.

I found it hard to sleep in the hotel. The bleakness of it made me feel like I'd been trapped in an insane institution and it creeped me out. I drifted in and out of sleep and awoke the next morning feeling like I'd not rested at all.

I promtly showered, packed my bags, and headed to the lobby. However, when I got there, I realized I'd not taken any pictures of the asylum, so I drug my bags back up and snapped a couple of telling photos. I went down to check out. Seven men stood behind the desk, but only one of them worked and he barely. The others pointed to him as the man who needed to check me out. 5 minutes passed, ten minutes, fifteen minutes and I asked the guys again if someone else could help me. They seemed offended that I'd interrupted their gossip session. Without any kind of response they pointed again to the guy taking his sweet time and went back to gossiping. Their attitude couldn't have infuriated me more.

I waited a few more minutes and when the only guy working took a break to gossip with the wastrels I blew a fuse. I went up to the counter nostrils flaring and said, "I hate to interrupt, but I need to get out of this lousy dump and I need to get out now. I see none of you is working so someone get off their duff and take care of checking me out. The seven lazy guys only looked at me dully. The only man working plodded back to work.

I waited with my arms crossed fuming. When at long last I got to the counter I let the guy have it. I listed all my complaints in a loud voice to make sure all of the guests heard them and continued "And if there is any kind of fraudulent activity on my credit card, I will immediately point my finger at this establishment and I'll be quite liberal about writing to the press with my experiences here. Do you understand me?"

"Oh yes, sir. There will be no problems sir."

"Pardon me if I don't believe you because there have already been countless problems none of which appear to have any liklihood of being solved."

He handed me the receipt for my room that I was to sign. I listed all my complaints on the form before signing it. It made me feel better to know that I'd documented my misery formally.

I refused to let the slimy looking porter help me with my bags sure that he only did so in hopes of getting a hefty tip from the foreigner. I stuck firmly to my policy of voting with my money and carried my own bags. On the street I did a John and shooed away three rickshaw drivers before I found one that would take me at the metered rate to my new hotel. At least the was one battle I didn't have to have.

I arrived at the Hotel Star View, climbed the stairs and the friendly man greeted me with a smile. Again I felt reassured. He sent me to a room to check it out and I found it quite satisfactory. Five minutes later I found myself alone in the room browsing the English stations for news and 20 minutes later I fell asleep. I slept a good three or four hours before waking. Awakening refreshed I called Sumit and told him where I was. He exclaimed that I'd moved into a very bad neighborhood with gangs and rapes and crawling with prostitutes.

I said, "Good, no wonder I feel at home here."

He out of fear of the neighborhood asked if I could meet him that night at McDonalds around 7 PM. I said, "yes", wondering why he needed to meet so late when he'd pestered me with e-mails about how he couldn't wait for me to arrive and how he would show me all the sights in the city and how we'd go up to the hill stations for a few days. I finally gave up on speculating and

Once fimly rooted in the relative safety of my hotel room surrounded by Germans, Dutch, Australian and British Tourists, I locked myself in my room and considered my options. I could leave immediately and hope to catch the evening express train to Delhi, but I'd get in relatively late and finding a hotel could be a problem. I opted instead to eat dinner and breakfast at the hotel and make a break for the city on the slow train the next morning.

I did just that and caught an autorickshaw up the road to take me to the train station. He made the mistake of asking me what I though of Agra. When will people learn that they shouldn't ask questions unless they're prepared for the answer. He didn't even try to rip me off at the station in his haste to be away from my litany of complaints about the place.

Luckily the train I needed had just pulled in when I arrived and although I had to run, I managed to get to the platform before the train took off. I looked at the regular cars packed with wall to wall people and instead headed for a sleeper car hoping I could get away with upgrading on board. The ticket seller told me there were no seats available. I sat with two friendly enough looking Indian guys nervously putting my luggage on the birth above reminding myself not to forget my painting which wouldh't fit in my luggage.

Just before the train started to move a couple of white folk got on, a man and a woman. They sat directly across from me. I decided to strike up conversation by asking how they liked Agra. They hesitated a moment to long as they struggled to be diplomatic. I laughed and said I hated it too. I felt such a profound bonding with them just for validating my newfound contempt for the place. John, the man, seemed to have been particularly traumatized from the constant scamming and relentless pestering. Sonja kept a much more level head which I also appreciated. It appealed to my sense of fairness.

They had also had similar experiences in Rajastan as I had. We all liked the forts, but the hospitality and comfort of travel without harrassment of the most unpleasant nature could not be found.

I soon discovered that they came from Canada, Sonja from Vancouver - although her father lives in Redlands, Californina. John comes from Newfoundland, but he studied in Michigan. They both live in Korea and are teaching ESL (English as a Second Language) while they pursue their dreams of traveling the world. Despite being much younger than me, John 33, and Sonja 25, they've been far more places than I. John seems to be getting ready to sink some roots somewhere, but Sonja still has the travel lust. I told them I thought they couldn't possibly be doing anything more important with their lives right now, the enrichment it brings and the level of sophistication has no competition.

Soon one of the men in the birth with us started piping hin too. He had a severe case of Michael Jackson disease ( or at least purported disease) where the pigmentation starts to disappear, but he seemed quite charming and affable. I asked where he was from not believing that this kind of friendliness could possibly have come from Nothern Indian. I was right, he's from Bangalore and in the shoe business. Apparently that business runs the same as it has for several generations. Most shoes are made by individual family cobblers that get a pattern and produce as many of the same shoe as they can to order. The shoes are then batched with other shoes from other shoe makers and taken to a central market where they are sold to the big markets like Delhi and Mumbai. Our new friend had been in Agra on business and headed to Delhi to make sure things were going smoothly on that end. Apparently Bangalore is the shoe making capital of India.

He gave us little snippets of information on the areas we passed poiting out the mud brick kilns lining the roads where labourers strip the clay by hand with the same result as strip mining. The clay is then put in forms and fired in huge kilns with chimneys reaching about 50 feet in the air.

Every few minutes a boy would come buy and sweep up the dirt on the floor, really just moving the dirt around actually since there seemed to be no place to put the dirt once it was gathered. After he got dust all over our shoes he tap on our legs for a tip. Painful as it is, the beggar issue in India is just too big to feed it any more by giving money to them. I said no a few times and looked away continueing to chat with my companions. I wondered out loud why all the beggars came to me immediately and left the Canadians alone. We decikded it was the fact that John hadn't shaved in days and traveled with severe bedhead. Sonja had her India best clothes on and even bought street food out of the window of the train at one stop. Oddly she never gets sick. Even the guy from Bangalore said he'd never eat street food like that.

John then mentioned that he wasn't feeling good. Obviously I wasn't feeling well either since I coughed every few seconds. We discussed symptoms, major fevers and sweats and chills in the beginning, weekness in the legs especialy and sometimes in the arms, a tenderness to the skin that felt like a severe case of wind burn, stomach problems and being completely run down. I told John I actually had felt better for the past couple of days. He said he'd had a six day period where it seemed that the ailment has passed him by, but then it came back with a vengeance. I said I hoped my wouldn't follow the same course. However, knowing my propensity to catch anything going around and to get it worse than anyone around me, I resigned myself that I'd better be prepared.

John had put himself on a course of Cipro to try to kill whatever kind of bug it was, but he still felt really week and apparently had been spending a whole lot of time in the hotel rooms.

Soon we reached our stop where a change in trains was required. We dragged our heavy bags up the steps on the platform and down again on the platform that headed to Connought Circle. We sat down for a few minutes chatting before our friend from Banglore came down to tell us the next train would be in 45 minutes. We thanked him. Its so nice to meet sweet people when traveling. I try to return the favor with travelers in Los Angeles.

John, Sonja and I consulted and decided to catch a cab into the city. John did the negotiating, getting the first guy to come down from 250 rupees to 100 rupees. John had his heart set on 80 rupees, the price an Indian might pay. We went through about 20 driveres who all stood in solidarity to rip off the tourists. John got good at telling them to fuck off. I got a great vicarious thrill every time he did it. I'd held back to many times when I had wanted to do the same thing. One guy actually shook hands and agreed to 80 ruppees, but then when we got in the taxi he said 100 rupees. We unloaded our bags, and paraded on. Finally a guy appeared out of nowhere and agreed to 90 rupees.

We decided to go to my hotel first, the Hotel Janpath just off Connought Circle. It seemed decent enough from the outside although it had been painted a very drab grey color. I went to registration. The man there did not greet me and when I finally got him to look up, he scowled at me. This did not bode well, but I didn't want to go on another hotel hunt at that moment. He gave me a key. I asked where the room was located and he said in the front. I asked if I could get a room in the back where it would be quieter. He snatched the key he'd given me and threw another ket at me. I started to get alarmed.

He asked if I would pay by credit card. I said yes and handed him my mastercard. He took it and went behind a wall. This is a big no no in India. This is how impressions are made and fraudulent claims made. He brought back a blank slip and told me to sign it. I told him there was no way in hell I'd sign a bland credit card split. I started to raise my voice. He said I'd have to, it was company policy. I told him that was bullcrap. I went on to tell him how suspicious his activity behind the wall had been and how I now wouldn't trust him. He then wrote 8000 ruppees in the left column for a 2500 rupee room.

I said heatedly that I needed to see the manager. He said the manager was busy. I told him to make him unbusy. Two minutes later the manager showed up and I pleaded my case with the hidden use of the credit card machine, the blank signing of the slip, the 8000 rupee charge. He backed down and told me I wouldn't have to sign. I brought Sonja and John up to see the room. My heart sunk as I got closer and closer. The landscaping was all dead, the place looked like a depressing insane assylum. People burned trash in the courtyard below making the air thick with toxic fumes. My room looked like it had been vandalized The door had been broken into more than once and didn't really latch very firmly as a result. The furniture stood at odd angles due to sections of broken wood. The blankets had stains all over them and the paint was soiled. The only nice part of the room was the bathroom. I found out later that the tv only got a few local stations and nothing in English. I paid $55 for this hotel which should have gotten me a palace. Instead it got me a dump.

Sumit had recommended this hotel as really cool. I would have a word with him about that.

The smog choked my lungs. It seemed hard to believe that anyplace could be worse than Jaipur, but already Agra gave it a run for its money. The stench of deisle feul mixed with manure assaulted my stuffed nose. Although my cough had been much better during the drive from Jaipur, it now flared up violently. I had thought my nose too stuffed to smell, but unfortunately I found that not to be true.

I had to close my window to protect myself from the brunt of the odor. This disappointed me, because I didn't want to miss the sounds of the street, horns honking (constantly in the rush), people talking, music blaring, calls to prayer from the temples. dogs barking, brakes screeching all mixed to a fine din.

Once we left the traffic behind, things broke up quickly. In fact, it almost seemed like we'd driving out of the city traffic became so sparce and the streets so dark. It remained very difficult to see the pedestrians and animals on the street. For all the money tourism brings to the city, none of it seemed to make it back into the infrastructure.

Sureg looked around nervously muttering to himself. I'm quite certain he had no idea where my hotel lie. In fact, I'm not sure he knew where the Taj Mahal was located. Finally he pulled over and asked a policeman for directions who steered him to an autorickshaw driver. He had to pump the guy for information beyond the wave of a hand in the general direction of the Taj, but he got decent directions in the end.

My reservations were with a small budget hotel, the Hotel Sheela, inside the no traffic zone. I had hoped it would be quieter there. However, once on the street to my hotel, it became quite apparent that confusion ruled the night rather than common sense. We saw the Sheela Hotel in the distance and pulled up in front of it. My insides warmed because it appeared clean. However, when I went inside I discovered that the Hotel Sheela and the Sheela Hotel sat on the same street. They told me I'd have to walk from this hotel to the other and suggested that I stay for dinner to relax before the long walk.

I thanked them and went back to the taxi. Sureg seemed mightily unhappy that he'd have to continue to search for the hotel. I too struggled to keep it together. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, seemed to have been revisited upon nightset by my fever and still felt the remains of trauma from the malicious chaos in Jaiper and Fatapur.

We drive a couple of blocks further along the road before we reached a set of gates guarded by a policeman. He insisted we could drive no further, that I'd have to walk. I actually looked forward to walking. Sureg made a feeble offer to assist me, but I gave him a tip and shooed him away. It felt good to be on my own. However, despite the almost pitch black bicycle rickshaw touts hounded me every step of the way to the hotel, a good 15 minute walk. Again, I got the refusal to take no for an answer. I snapped at a couple of them, "I said NO!! Do you understand NO?! When I say no, I mean no the first time! Now go away." I think perhaps they thought me unfriendly. I can't imagine why. Its always seemed clear to me that when someone crosses your boundaries rudely that you have a green light to turn the tables and be rude right back once you've used all fair and reasonable tactics. I figure that once you've said no politely over five times, fair and reasonable just isn't going to work. So, I loaded the canon and let fire. I can't say it didn't feel good to fire, but it also left me feeling disquieted. The last think I'd wanted for my vacation was the need to snap at somebody.

I found the gate to my hotel in the dark and happily registered in the back of my mind that an internet cafe sat directly across the street. I passed a few cattle that chewed their cuds at the entrance to the hotel, dodged a couple of would be touts and found the office soon enough, just beside a large garden. After a very long day of travel, I didn't completely register everything he said. The room rate came through clear, 400 rupees or about $8.50 a night. I could deal with that. The room seemed clean enougg to me although a bit cold, so I took it and paid the first night up front.

I dropped my bags on the bed in the slightly small room, noted the tacky wallpaper, a plastic embossed glue on with brown stipes undoubtedly to hide the dirt I now discovered. I decided to take a shower and then head out to eat. I undressed and negotiated the shower. A whole host of nobs greated me and another shower head with green growing on it. I ignored that, at least the bed seemed soft. I turned the likely knob and heard the water rush through the pipes. A fine mist blew out one of the many holes of the shower head. Apparently all the others were clogged. I sighed heavily not wanting to get dressed and head to the front desk to fight yet another battle. I'd already had to ask for a top sheet, a towel, and soap. After staring at the other knobs for a bit, it seemed like the general faucet jutted out of the wall in a rather high place, just between waist and chest high. I turned a couple of other knobs and water with good pressure shot out. I took a squat shower, but it did the trick.

I dressed in clean clothes and walked back to the other Sheela hotel for dinner. A bicycle rickshaw boy folloed me from my hotel, first offering a ride and then chatting with me. I figured as long as he consumed my time, at least nobody else would be approaching. He talked about growing up in Agra, being too poor to buy his own rickshaw, he rented this one instead. He offered to take me around for the entire next day for 450 rupees. That seemed like a lot to me. He tried to badger me into setting an appointment with him for the next day. I said I'd think about it. He pestered me all the way to the other hotel before disappearing back into the darkness. In fact, the night was so dark I knew I wouldn't recognize him the next day.

I entered the "nice" hotel and asked where the restaurant was located. The reception guy pointed up. I walked down the hall until I found some stairs and started to climb. All the walls were flat and all the floors were marble. A better conductor for echos couldn't be produced. Every tiny sound in the hotel reverberated back and forth. I counted myself lucky that I'd happened into the dirty hotel instead. I can live with a little grunge, but a lot of noise would make me crazy.

I found the restaurant on the top floor, a glamourous establishment with cast plastic chairs and tables, dirty walls, and high key flourescent lighting. I almost turned around and left, but the hotel manager had followed me up and ushered me to a table. Only six tables were situated in the room, all were empty except for one table where a mother and father and their two children of about eight and ten sat. I sat down, a little breathless from the walk and the four story climb of the stairs. The manager offered to show me their view of the Taj Mahal. I said I'd check it out later, that I'd rather make my order. I chose a chicken tikka masala. It sounded inocuouse enough. I also asked for a bottle of mineral water. The man left and I started to cough in great noisy echoing fits. The kids at the next table started to giggle. A man down the hall started to imitate my cough, the kids burst into full out laughter. I'd have found it funny if I'd been able to draw a full breath.

Eventually the food arrived. Apparently the kitchen stood on the basement level of the hotel and the restaurant on the roof of the hotel. Very young waiters ran up and down doing nonsense tasks such as filling one salt shaker and heading back down. Another one tried to sweep up a dropped piece of hard flat bread that had shattered on the floor. I looked at him wondering if he really intended to sweep it up around the feet of the Indian family without picking up the large pieces first. Indeed he did. The Indian man snapped at him and he got down and picked the big chunks up with his hands. The rest of the pieces he moved around a bit stirring up a whole lot of dust that settled onto the food of the other table. I grew uneasy. All I needed was to get sick yet again.

The Indian family left, the kids imitating my cough as they descended the stairs and giggled. My food arrived shortly thereafter. Considering where I was at and the cost of the meal, less than a $1.50, it wasn't too bad. The chicken had more bone than meat, but my appetite had already fled me so it didn't matter. I finished and waited for the check. After a very long wait one of the waiters came back up. I asked him for the check.

I walked out onto the rooftop from the small enclosed room and tried to see the Taj Mahal. I saw some sort of well lit commercial building that appeared to be government offices, but it wasn't the Taj. I climbed the few steps remaining to a viewing deck above. I couldn't make out anything resembling the Taj from their either.

I gave up and went back to the restaurant to await the arrival of my check. Fifteen minutes later when nobody had yet arrived I went to the front desk and asked after it. The manager yelled down the hall. I'm sure it could be heard on the fourth floor. The check arrived a couple of minutes later. I paid and split. The manager stressed that I should come back for breakfast. Not a chance.

I stayed to the shadows on the way back to the hotel and managed to avoid the touts until just before the hotel where the street lights revealed me. They descended on my from all sides. I put my hand up in a stop motion, my head down to not make contact and ignored them as I walked briskly up the driveway to the hotel. I buried myself in my room, read a few pages of my novel and woke up 9 hours later.

A shower later and I emerged from the hotel. A long line of bicycle rickshaws sat out front. A boy said he'd take me anywhere for 10 rupees. I didn't even have enough money to get into the Taj Mahal, so I accepted his offer. He took me to a good exchange place, not tricks here, and I asked him for a referral to a breakfast joint. He scored again. He found a nice off the beaten path place that seemed reasonable and relatively clean. The staff didn't have any idea what to do with an actual client, but eventually they took my order. I asked the rickshaw boy in. He said no. I insisted authoritatively and he came. I had not much to look at on the ride over than his very scrawny butt, so I decided to try to fatten him up a little. He ordered a lhassi.

Back at the hotel I tipped him well and went in to grab my camera. I heard him telling the other boys how much I'd paid him. I regretted my generousity immediately because I knew I'd just painted a target on my forehead. Camera in hand and armed to go back out on the street I tensed my back in perperation for the barrage. It came and came harder than I could have imagined. At least 20 guys yelled and tugged at me. The foreigners on the other side of the street were being subjected to the same treatment. All I could think was get me out of here until one guy asked me if I needed film. I didn't need film, but I'd filled up the last of my memory wands in my digital. I certainly wasn't going to look at the Taj and not be able to take pictures.

I'm not sure what I bought, if it really is a Sony chip, but I know I paid too much for it. I paid $100 for a 256 megapixel stick. I kicked myself as I left and noted that the hawker had rescued the plastic holder of the wand presumably to put another cheap wand in and sell again. I felt a fool and a ripped off fool.

I managed to fend off hawkers to make it to the East gate of the Taj less than a city block away. I read the sign. Indians 50 rupees, Foreigners 750 rupees. Say what!!? Not only were tourists subjected to mobs of rude relentless touts, but now we had to pay way more than the locals to see the same thing. I resentfully paid and entered only to be assaulted again, this time with wannabe guides. They quoted a lot of prices. I told them to get lost. I made it inside the front gate before the new onslaught came, I fended them off as well. The Taj is indeed pretty gleaming and white, however not really knock you over beautiful. I proceeded along the mall attaching myself to groups of Indian tourists to avoid the guides and made it to the base of the Taj where I had to leave my shoes. Having only brought a few pairs of socks I regretted having to ruin a pair, but did it anyway. Apparently they didn't want anyone tracking something into the Taj that might stain the white marble floors.

It became apparent very quickly that nobody was able to avoid the guides here. I gave up and let a guy assume control. He showed me with a small torch how the stones and marble in the interior walls were translucent and absorbed the light. He explained how the Maharaja who built the hall had planned to build a black hall across the river to house his own body after death. However after his son killed his brother and ascended to the throne, the Majaraja or king had been put in prison, work on the second mahal had ceased. Now two marble inlaid coffins sat in the hall he'd build for his wife, his and hers.

The Taj had been built with two domes essentially providing air conditioning on the inside. The white marble reflected the heat, in fact reflected so much light outside that I had to squint, and what heat managed to soak in was stopped by the second lower dome. Outside the temperature soared into the high eighties with humidity, but the inside couldn't have been more than the low seventies despited the hordes of people that crammed inside.

I followed my old guide around the exterior for a few minutes as he showed me how the polished semiprecious stones reflected light like mirrors when the light struck them right and as he told me how the moonlight penetrated these stones to illuminate the inside on bright nights. He pointed to the four minerettes on each corner of the monument pointing out how each of them leaned out slightly so in case of an earthquake, they would not fall onto the main building and crush it. He pointed out the mosque on one side which still functions and the palace on the other side. He explained that the gardens, although not the original design but that of the British, had been laid out in great detail to come together with the whole architectural magic of the place.

Finally he stuck out his hand. I gave him 50 rupees. He thanked me and walked away. I didn't expect this. I expected a battle. For once I'd gotten my money's worth I felt.

I walked back along the entry mall, stopped at the request of a few Indian tourists to pose in pictures with them, held a really cute baby for a Taj photo and then asked a teenage techy looking boy to take mine. Off to the West of the great gardens stood a museum. I made my way over to discover that I'd need to pay again to enter. Immediately inside a man attached himself to me. I'm not sure what he said although I suspect he thought he was speaking English. Instead I read the lengthy English descriptions, often in run on sentences that were hard to interpret. Basically I gathered the remnants inside were what could be gathered of the history of the Taj. An original blueprint had survived as did a lot of remnants from British rule including a document offering to sell the Taj for the value of the marble in its walls. Two great pillars that had had the stones gouged out of them up to twelve feet high stood as reminders of the pilfering the building had endured. In fact, a great deal of restoration work had needed to be done to acheive what I'd seen.

I noted that the art of the era breathed of life and movement in opposition to the many recent copies done by contemperary artists of the same school, such as the ugly man in Jaipur. I tipped the useless guide and wandered away. I found a really foul men's room and relieved myself. I'd had to stand much closer to the urinal than I would have liked because men kept leaning over to look at my business. Ewwwww.

I snapped a few more pictures wanting to get my moneys worth and left feeling cheated. I fended off dozens of touts between the gate and the hotel. I arrived breathless and tense from the onslaught. I wanted to be having a good time, but I wasn't.

I discovered that the patio of my hotel was a restaurant and ordered some reasonably decent food. After lunch I decided to head out to the red fort more out of a sense of obligation than a desire to see it. I hired a rickshaw driver and held on for dear life as he wove in and out of the crowds often being yelled at for bumping into someone or running over someones foot. I looked back at them and shrugged like 'what can I do.' However, sitting in the bicycle rickshaw did not exempt me from touts. They came up and pestered me even when we sat blocked in traffic. I envied the white tourists that ran in packs taking turns fending off the touts. I'm sure the burden is less intense that way. For the first time on the trip I felt very alone.

The driver pulled up to the fort and immediately a guide grabbed my arm and started his sales piitch. I immediately didn't like him and said, "No thank you." About ten no's later I stomped my foot at him and said, "No, do you understand no? NO, NO, NO, NO!!!! Now go away!" He went away. I pointed at the other touts and yelled, since they were all looking at me by now, "And you stay away too."

It had happened, I'd been driven over the edge. I walked through the fort unimpressed. A column here, a view there, an arch over yonder, some remains through a window. I had seen enough. I found another bathroom on the way out. I stunk even worse than the other one, but at least I had it to myself. I peed and walked out. An old scrubber man pointed to the faucet. I washed my hands and started to leave. The dirty washer guy tugged on my shirt, "pay, pay..." He pointed to money in his hand.

I retorted while jerking my shirt out of his hand, "I'm not paying for that hole. You've got to be kidding. He followed me for a couple of hundred yards before leaving me along. I'm sure it was his way of working a fleece on the tourists. I'd had enough. I found my driver and returned to the hotel exhausted, exasperated and whipped. I read my book the rest of the evening and tried to plot and escape for the next day.

After driving down a peaceful well paved one lane road through the fields dotted with colorfully dressed women grooming the crops, we came to the village. Despite the muddy dirt roads and moderate delapidation of the buildings, the place had a very homey feel. I got out of the car and people looked up all around, smiled and said hello. What a shock after the trauma of Jaipur. I said hello and smiled back.

The well stood back a few feet from the road. You entered through an old stone wall and gate framed by pillars of granite. A couple of elderly people sat inside. They sat on their haunches and gave me a three tooth smile, the rest of the teeth missing. I assumed they were the maintenence people.

I started to poke around. When I came around the corner of the building that blocked the view a huge pit appeared with countless steps going down to the green murky water below. On each wall of the well that stretched about 150 feet on each side, split steps went down. This is almost impossible to describe without a picture, that will have to come when I get home because none of these web cafes have allow picture plug in and download. So, each wall contained thousands of sets of steps going down. The whole well had eleven stories and narrowed on each level until it measured about 30' x 30' at the bottom. At its prime there had been a palace, a temple complex and a large village. Now, although still in remarkably good condition for its age, the place seems almost forgotten. Judging by the behavior of the villagers, its only rarely that a tourist comes by.

I snapped severa pictures and walked around the place with the curator who appeared out of nowhere. I listed to him speak English but didn't understand much of what he said. However, he seemed a genuinely nice chap. I tipped him and we returned to the big white car. School had just let out and soon we were mobbed by kids. Some of them put their hands out for money, but most of them just smiled, waved, and said hi.

A steady line of kids lined each side of the road and each one expected a smile and a wave. I was glad to oblige. Deprived of much friendliness and barraged by monsters in Jaipur, the kids provided a welcome opportunity to know that not everyone in Rajastan had nails sharpened to a point the dig deeply into your wallet.

Soon we got back on the main road to Agra. It got dull and loud again. Sureg had to stop at one point to pay a road tax at the border of Rajastan. Several men stood around with bears that had nose rings and muzzles to make them dance for the tourists. I told the guys what I thought about their abuse of the poor animals and rolled up the windows. It was painful to see the poor bears poked, prodded and dragged around by their snouts. I couldn't have been more happy when Sureg had payed the tax and we had left the abused bears behind.

At some point I'd told Sureg that I needed to exchange money. In fact I needed to exchange badly since I only had about $10 or 1000 rupees left. He told me he knew of a good place in Fatapur which was his home town. A couple of hours later we pulled into the exchange place which doubled as an internet cafe. I stepped in and looked around for the exchange rates. Nothing had been posted on the walls as is standard around the world. I Western girl sat at a computer contentedly typing away. Finally a doughy man of about 30 came out and asked if he could help me. I asked him for the cash exchange rate from US dollars. He said, "How much are you going to exchange?" I said that would depend on the exchage rate at each level. Again I asked him for the exchange rate. He said, "Give me the money you're going to exchange."

I asked if he was trying to negotiate with me on exchange rates a little indignantly. The girl looked up from her computer and smiled. The doughy man again said how much are you going to exchange. I stood up and said, "Nothing, I don't trust you and I don't do busines with people I don't trust." The girl looked up from her computer, smiled at me again and gave me a discreet thumbs up.

I stomped out of the building and told Sureg in the car that the man was a crook and a very dishonest man. I'm suspecting that Sureg had some sort of deal worked out with him to get a commisson on exchanges that Sureg brought by. That suspicion really irked me and left me feeling a little desolate and violated. We got to the bird sanctuary about 20 minutes later where bicycle rickshaw "guides" accosted me telling me I had to use their services and it was only 300 ruppes or $6. I said "no." They kept on. I said "no" again a little louder this time. They continued. I stomped my foot at them and said, "I said NO, now go away!" They went away. I finally found a technique that worked with the touts. Moments later I'd paid the entrance fee and rented a rickety old bike for 25 rupees and set out. Just as I left a big bus full of tourists pulled in and the wolves fell onto them to feast. They all fell for it.

I rode fast and furious to get away from the tourists. The bike was too high for me so I found it a little difficult to peddle, but I found mygroove with it and peddled on. The first animals I saw were a group of foxes lounging along a side road I accidentally turned onto. I stopped the bike momentarily and they just looked at me. The stood so close to me, watching me, that I could have reached out to pet them. I had such a nice bonding moment with them that I forgot to take a picture. They were pretty little creatures with redish grey coats and kind eyes.

I turned around and went back to the main road only to find that the tourist had gained groud on me. All I could see on either side of me were a whole lot of cattle. It seems the bird sanctuary doubles as a cattle ranch. Oh joy, I paid a lot of money to see cows.

I peddled furiously on despite the complaints of my muscles which weren't used to being used that way. I reached a gate where a man demanded to see my ticket. I showed him and peddled on. Soon both sides of the road had pumps spewing great amounts of water into swamps. Apparently 260 species of birds either stop at this refuge or use it as a stopping point on their journeys. Besides a few common cranes, the first big birds I saw were giant Siberian Herons. Only a few hundred remain on earth. Many are shot by hunters in Pakistan and Afganistan on their way south. This also led to the almost complete demise of the whooping crane. Only one pair has been seen in recent years despite the many that had come in years prior.

I stopped at one spot along the swamp and saw crocodiles or alligators or whatever the local species is, Siberian herons, blue herons, a big kind of deer whose front legs seem longer than its back legs and a big flock for emerald green parrots. I stayed there for a while soaking up the moment before the pack of tourists started to crowd in. I rode hard stopping every few minutes to examine the wildlife.

After a lot of peddling I came to a spur road heading off the the right. The asphalt had buclked and heaved leaving lots of potholes. I appeared to be completely free of tourists. I heaved a sigh of relief, wiped the sweat off my brow and headed left.

Every gap in the dense trees that bordered the road reveales some new mammal(I can't remember the spelling of that word today). A herd of deer grazed under some kind of fruit tree where monkeys ravaged the limbs. The deer happily ate up the masses of fruit the monkeys either dropped or dislodged. At the next stop a small herd of the big deer with the long front legs drank along the edge of the treeline at a small pond. They seemed only slightly leery of me. I suppose they've grown used to being watched from the road.

Bright blue king fishers scanned the water from tree branches while flocks of parrots clacked noisily from tree to tree. Even the air smelled pure and fresh mixed with mud smells from the water and the sweet odor of dried grasslands. No cattle grazed this land leaving at least some fodder for the natural wildlife.

I checked my watch and realized I only had a few minutes to get back to the gate and meet my driver. I turned around and peddled hard. Just as I started to cover good ground I heard a snap and the peddles suddenly seemed disconnected. I looked behind me and saw something on the road 20 or 30 feet back. My heart started pounding. Of course this would happen a couple of miles from the gate. I'd have to walk the crummy bike back in the heat and bugs.

I dismounted and hit the kick stand to set up the bike and walked back to the thing that looked like a chain. It was only a crack in the asphalt that played with the dimming light. I scanned the road behind me for the chain, finding nothing, I walked to the bike puzzled. I examined the bike closely and found that the chain had slipped of the gears but still clung to the bike. I fiddled with it for about ten minutes and managed to put it back on.

Now I really had to peddle furiously to get back to the gate. I made it there only a few minutes late drenched in sweat with greasy hands. Sureg pulled up just as I returned the bike. I motioned to him that I needed a minute and wandered off in search of a sink to wash up. Behind the main buildings I found a public shower room. I wandered in and found a delapidated sink in the back. I worked reasonably well. I scrubbed my hands as best I could without soap and splashed my face a few times before turning off the water and wiping my hands on my none to clean shirt.

The light now dimmed quickly and I was eager to get the Fatapur Sikkri, the forgotten city. It had once been a huge city with large palaces back in the 14th or 15th century, but a long drought hit and no manner of water project seemed capable of bringing water into the city. The residents abandoned and rebuilt closer to a good water source leaving the city vacant for centuries. Lonely Planet gave a rave review of the area and part of the reason I hired the car was to be able to see it on the way to Agra.

When I got in the car Sureg seemed to feel badly about the incident with the money changer and insisted I honor him by coming to his house to meet his family. I really would rather have seen the abandoned city, but I felt that Sureg would be somewhat insulted if I didn't come to his home. I agreed to go. He lived not far off the main road on a deeply rutted dirt lane. The house appeared to be rather new although it lacked any kind of architectural embelishment. As Sureg parked the car the whole neighborhood gathered to see who would get out of the big white car. They are used to the cars carrying important people. Its too bad all they got was me :).

I got out of the car and said hello back to each child that said hello to me. At least fifty kids were milling about giggling, poking each other and smiling. Sureg finally came around the car and ushered me inside the walled compound of the house. I found a fairly large four car tandem parking area before the main door. A couple of kids stopped playing and looked up at me dumbfounded.

Sureg led me into the house and introduced me to his uncle, his aunt, another adult who's relation I didn't register but ignored the kids running around. I introduced myself to them to their horror and delight. Even though the kids seemed shy hiding behind the adults and peering at me cautiously from behind the doors to other rooms, I knew I had won them over. I suspect they are used to being ignored by strange adults.

A teenage girl brought me some water I couldn't drink. I pointed to the water bottle in my hand and smiled at her shrugging my shoulders. The adult men and I all sat down on their two chairs and the large bed that dominated the living room. Conversation did not come freely, I guess largely due to the fact that none of them spoke Enlish very well and I sure don't speak Hindi.

After a few uncomfortable minutes a puppy chased a little girl through the house. He followed her to the kitchen which apparently he wasn't allowed. I cried out, "Its a puppy!" Happy to see a healthy looking dog and extremely happy to have something to focus my attention on. I called the puppy over and he bounced to me and asked to be picked up. I placed him in my lap and cooed, petted, and scratched him much to his delight. The Indian men chatted amongst themselves. I think they too were relieved to have the pressure of entertaining me off their plate.

Eventually the puppy wanted down and the men again turned their attention to me. We struggled to make basic conversation. It seemed an eternity had passed at the house. I tried to sneak a peek at my watch. The sun was just about to set. Sureg caught the look at the watch and suggested we go. The final light set just as we pulled out of the driveway much to my dismay.

If I thought the near misses on the road during the day were frightening, night time ushered in a whole new level of terror. No street lights illuminated the road and most of the cars, trucks, pedestrians, and bicyclists had no light or reflection at all. They would suddenly appear in front of the car forcing Sureg to break hard. That didn't stop him from speeding along just the same.

Two white knuckled hours later we hit Agra. If the other cities were congested, they were nothing compared to Agra. We hit a two or three mile stretch where the car barely moved. Nobody could move including the pedestrians, cows, camel carts, bicycle rickshaws and other cars. We inched along for about an hour and a half before the traffic started to break up.

Back at the hotel, I really wanted to avoid Anel, the massage guy. After a long hot day of sight seeing and feeling slightly emotionally renewed, I had no desire to negotiate an evening of food and beverages I couldn't eat and pestering for immigration support I didn't feel strongly about.

Rather than going into the hotel, I headed to the web cafe out front. Despite being quite dirty, the owner struck me as being a nice person. He did that after hearing me cough and sputter and sneeze every few seconds by offering me an ayurvedic cold remedy. I said know taking it for another attempt at an upsale, but he just said okay and sat back down. When I left, I revisited the issue and bought the stuff. It tastes pretty good, but it hasn't done anything for my cough or my cold.

While I typed away on the dingy old computer sitting in a rolling chair that had lost three of its five wheels, my back twisted like a corkscrew and the keyboard with sticky keys almost at shoulder height, a couple of American girls walked in. I figured out that they were Stanford girls by the t-shirt one of them wore. I figured out their age (about 20) by their manic energy and their strong efforts to prove to one another how competent and in charge they were. I remember that only too well from my college days in Japan when so many people were posing. Once I got to know them, most of them turned out to be way more confused than I was.

These girls were arguing diplomatically over the one remaining computer. One of them, a think attractive blond, suggested that she might get a massage while she waited for the computer. She reasoned that at 400 rupees even if weren't too good, it couldn't be all bad. I piped in then and told her of my experience. Straight up honest I advised that the massage could only be called fair to midlin in technique and the face and scalp massage should be avoided at all costs, but it might be relaxing after a long day of travel.

She went and got the massage which took me off the hook for dinner. Its ince when clear opportunity presents itself and everyone's needs are met at once. I finished up my writing and headed to the hotel restaurant for dinner. I ordered some boneless chicken skewer item that turned out to be really amazing. I did't order water because I found I could get the same stuff just outside the front gate for a third the price.

I talked to the hotel manager about arranging a car to take me from Jaipur to Agra the next day stopping at the old well (8th century), the bird sanctuary, and the forgotten city. The cost approximately $60 but I would see the country in between and be able to stop at the more interesting landmarks. I slept quite soundly on it and woke up convinced I'd need to hire the car.

I paid my bill and met my driver. He stood about 6'2" with bright alert cheerful eyes and a friendly smile. I guessed his age at about 25. I soon discovered his English didn't quite rise to international standards, but he seemed affable enough.

He pulled out one of the big white cars that looked like a relic of the late 50's, the same kind of car I'd seen the president of Yugoslavia being carted around in the day before. I felt quite special.

I got in and surveyed the car. The inside appeared to be a much cheaper version of the Yugo. It had the old seats in the front that stretched the width of the car. The positioning of the seat disallowed comfort or any kind of back support. However, I sat happily watching the city disappear behind me. My driver's foot liked to sink down hard on the gas and his eye liked to drag him into oncoming traffic. He almost took out a camel caravan, or actually better stated, he almost took us out by running into a camel caravan. Every time we'd pass another truck, another ox cart or bicycle or motor bike or string of aimless cattle blocked our way. Almost an hour later we left behind the filthy auxiliary stores that lined the road just ouside the city and got to some good agricultural land.

The amount of mustard grown surprised me. I always thought of it as a weed growing up, but field after field after field of it stretched into the horizon, broken only by a few dots of green trees along the fenceline, a number brick walls plotting out boundaries, and a few acres of rice or fallow land here and there.

Plenty of goats, sheep, pigs and cattle grazed along the side of the road. A number of people chopped branches of the acacia trees that lined the roadway off as fodder for their livestock. I gathered this was not something the athorities smiled upon by their furtive glances at traffic either way along the road.

At one point the body of a mangled deer lay along the highway. I scanned the area as far as my eyes could see for signs of suitable habitat for the dear but found none. It had looked pretty healty, so it must have been helping itself to the various crops and slept along the walls.

Women in colorful saris dotted most fields pulling this weed or splashing water on that, their back bent at the waist. Most of the men along the route busied themselves in groups to do a simple task requiring only the energy of one. Otherwise they sat alongside the road lounging away chatting lazily amongst themselves.

It seemed like women bore the brunt of the heavy labors. Even in the big cities at construction sites women would be lined up along the bamboo scaffolding handing up heavy loads of bricks or concrete along with the men. Life is miserable for the lower castes, but it has to be particularly hard for women.

About 4 hours along I discovered that my driver had no idea where the old well was located. He'd never been there. We stopped about six times for directions, people just kept pointing us further along the road. Just before we reached the turn off to the wells we came across dozens, maybe hundreds of stone carving shops line the roads. Men kneeling on their haunches of bending at the waist stood over big blocks of marble banging out intricate designs. The finished work really impressed with its delicacy and minute detail of the designs carved out of large individual blocks of stone.

At the junction of the turn to the well, the driver, Sureg, stopped to get the final directions from a police officer. While a spoke to the man, another distinctive looking gentleman wearing a huge turban laced carefully into a regional design, a chiseled face with a stong aquiline nose, and a grey handlebar moustache that had been twisted carefully at ends to form matching bookends on his upper lip came up to my window and started speaking to me. I suspected him of being yet another brazen tout. I eyed him suspiciously while Sureg turned his attention to the man for a moment. Sureg said "This village man, good man."

My attitude was, 'yeah, whatever,' not grasping what he tried to tell me. He pulled forward a few feet and parked the car, parked the car in the middle of the road setting off a cacaphony of horn blasts. I managed to question him enough times in enough ways to understand that the man just wanted a lift to the village we headed to. With no objection to that, Sureg waved at the guy from the window and the man trotted up to the car and sat regally in the back seat with a pleasing smile.

Sureg translated to me that the man was very happy I would be visiting his village and the people would be very happy to see me there. I got the impression that most people didn't bother to take in this well.

Off the main road things got really gorgeous really fast. Lush trees seemed to sprout up all over the place, the incessant honking from the road completely faded away and people smiled and waved at us from along the road. Children ran alongside the car yelling "hello, hello."

I felt like the pressure cooker I'd been in for a week had been temporarily turned off...

So, I left the snarling and snapping dogs behind and walked the half mile in the blistering heat to the state museum. A woman stood out front throwing food to the thousands of pidgeons. I paid the entry fee and went in to the exhibits. They had replicas of clothing from the different eras...dull, people wear almost the same things today. The next exhibit, handicrafts, just annoyed me since I'd seen this all in the market, and finally there were some mildly interesting paintings. Done, if I had these two museums to do over again, I'd save my energy.

I exited, skirted the sea of pidgeons, crossed the street to the motorickshaw stand and told them I wanted to go to the Janeja Art Gallery. The guy said 50 rupees for the cost. 50 rupees should have gotten me to the next city. I said I'd pay 20 rupees, even this is more than the trip was worth. He said no, I walked away. Damn crooks. Can you tell I'm not fond of the poeple of Jaipur?

I walked through the streets to the art gallery dodging traffic, homeless people camped on the sidewalks, and the usual culprits. 15 minutes later I arrived drenched in sweat and cranky. However, the guy that greeted me had the first friendly smile I'd seen all day. I lost track of time. The gallery had a lot of really good art and supposedly is run by artists for artists. A lot of the work came from named artists that have pieces hanging in museums. I lost track of time going through the stacks of paintings. In the end I narrowed it down to two pieces, a traditional piece that showed a lot of movement and energy, and a modern oil on canvas of a banyan tree in the night with a lot of women and cattle standing around it.

I ended up spending $135 for the traditional piece. This is a monumental sum for me to part with, but I'm very happy with my purchase and its the only thing that redeemed my day.

By now it was dark and a bit chilly, so I walked bruskly back to the hotel, took a long hot shower, ate dinner and buried myself in my book.

The next morning I decided it was time to treat myself and spend money if I needed to in order to bring my vacation more in line with my desires.

After a nice breakfast I inquired about a massage. It turns out that the massage therapist was in and available. I booked him. He supposedly had been trained in Ayurvedic massage, Acupressure and Swedish. I figured for $8 I couldn't go wrong.

The man showed up, a short pudgy pot bellied man, with unkempt dishevveled hair, a moustache, and big almost startled looking eyes.

An akward moment arose when it came time for the massage to begin. I wasn't sure of the proper ettiquete for a massage in India. I stripped down to my underwear and felt strangely odd when he stared at my crotch. I walked around him to the bed where he'd laid out a sheet and two towels, dropped my underwear and hopped on.

He didn't seem uncomfortable at all. I guess it was the right guess. He started by squirting ice cold oil directly onto my back and legs. He rubbed it in roughly. Then he moved to my feet. I'm wasn't entirely sure he knew what he was doing. It didn't feel like there the movements came from any sort of intention. I decided not to pay too close of attention. What did I expect for $8?

He moved up to my calves, same story and then my thighs which he needed hard and long, but not along the muslcle groups instead on the side. I finally had to ask him to lighten up because he was hurting me. I still have a bruise. He asked about my wife. I told him I didn't have one. He asked my age. I said 41. He asked what happened to my wife. I said, "What wife."

He seemed to be shocked that I'd never been married. Now I know I'm not the first gay man to pass through that hotel and get a massage from this guy. I say a couple of gay folk staying there when I first arrived. He kept pestering me until I told him I would never be marrying a woman, I'd marry a man. He finally dropped the subject.

I then told him I'd been a massage therapist. It took a couple of minutes before he understood what I was saying. I expected he'd want to share technique, instead he wanted to talk about money, like how much money I made. When I told him he told me he wanted to come to America and do massage. I didn't encourage that thought, with his attitude he'd never make it in the US. His only alternative would be to work at some sort of spa and I doubt his tenure would be very long their either without skill or training.

The massage continued, more a body rub than an actual massage and he started telling me about his family and how he wanted to take me home with him that night for dinner and to meet his wife. Oh god, I wanted to do nothing of the sort. The food and drink alone scared me let alone the time involved the day before leaving for Agra. I said I might if I got back from my touring in time. He took that as a yes. I tried to tell him that was a maybe, but he hung onto a yes.

He reached an end of the massage and asked if I'd like a scalp and facial massage. Curious, I said yes. I soon regretted that when he started squirting oil into my hair. After that indignity, he squirted oil onto my face and went straight to my eybballs to start rubbing, a big big no-no in massage. I couldn't breath let alone talk, all my strenght went into keeping my eyes shot. When he finally left my face alone he rubbed my scalp roughly with his palm for a few minutes and pronounced himself done. I got up and put on my underwear and some shorts, worried that the oil would stain. I'm wearing those shorts today after laundering and there are nice reminder oil stains on them.

I dug out the 400 rupees, his inital massage fee, and asked him how much for the scalp massage. He said 300. I gave him the 700 and decided there was no way I'd be attending his house for dinner that night. His choice of price made it quite clear that I represented only a means to an end meaning entre into America. I'm happy to help well qualified honest well educated people who are at the top of their game, but an unskilled, uncooth, frumpy massage dude from Jaipur just didn't make the cut for me.

Once I locked the door behind him I hopped in the shower only to discover, drenched in oil, that entire supply of hot water had been spent. I soaped and showered 4 times in the ice cold water and didn't feel any cleaner. My hair stayed greasy looking. I gave up and dressed eager to be on my way to sight see.

I hired a car to take me around the sites near the city for $21. I met the driver in the parking lot. He was a nice elderly man with deeply carved wrinkles and kind eyes. I liked him immediately. It turns out that he's not from Jaipur, no wonder I liked him. As we were exchanging the usual introductory information, I asked him how old he was. It turns out he's 41. He looks at least 20 years older than me. No wonder people were telling me I looked 25.

We weaved through the town and just on the other side after we'd emerged from the insanity he pointed out a palace floating on the water. A maharaja still owns this hundreds of years old palace built of stone into the depths of a lake so it appeared to float on the water. He says the Maharaja still comes to town and uses the palace at times. I think it would make a better hotel.

Another 300 yards and the city disappeared behind us. Rocky hills sprung up in front of and around us as we climbed a steep one lane paved road. I almost felt like I was at Joshua Tree National Monument in California, the scenery was so familiar. However soon remnants of a stone wall appeared climbing some hillsides and on some turns we could see the palace in the lake down below. The views were stunning.

About 8 kilometers in at the peak of the hill we came to an old fort. We parked inside and the driver pointed out the best places to look. The first stop was supposedly the world's largest cannon. It was big. The views impressed me more. I took a few pictures. We proceeded to the next stop which included the palace. The views improved upon the others as I meandered through the maze of rooms, courtyards, zenenas (women's quarters) and viewing pagodas. The walls around the edges had openings every few feet for the insertion of guns to guard the fort. Each opening had three slots wider on the inside than the outside to allow the gunmen greater maneuverability while decreasing the likelihood that anyone could shoot through the openings. Guard towers sat at each corner, of which there were many.

Each exterior wall dropped at least 80 feet to the slopes below and the rear view looked down on the city of Amber (pronounced Amer) and its palaces, temples and forts. Absolutely truly amazing. This became the first place in Jaipur outside of my hotel where I'd actually enjoyed myself. I couldn't wait to get in the car and go down to Amber.

The driver dropped me off on the side of the road since vehicles aren't allowed to drive up to the Amer fort. Jeep drivers and elephants have the excluse right to haul you up. The number of police and security officers guarding the fort shocked me. They far outnumbered and tourists that milled around. I decided the hill wasn't big enough for me to actually pay someone to take me, so I walked up. A few meters onto the stone road and a caravan of cars rumbledng down the road pinning me to the wall. The road which made a canyon between the upslope retaining wall and the downslope wall smelled of elephant urine. The motorcade brought great drafts of the smell with them forcing them into my nostrils. I caught a glimpse of a white lady with that blond orange county shoulder length hairdoo, but not enough of a glimpse to figure out who it was.

I huffed and puffed it up the hill wishing I was high above the elephant pee stones on the back of an elephant, but it was too late. I'd already chosen my course. I veered of the road at some point and climbed some stairs avoiding the pigs and dogs that rummaged through the trash that apparently just gets thrown over the walls of the fort.

I entered the courtyard at the top of the hill surrounded by great fort walls similar to the fort above. I first checked out the museum which stood full of ancient sculptures of beautiful quality, then paid my way in and climbed into the palace. I managed to shirk off the few would be guides and showed myself around. The place was huge! Again a maze this time of several stories. I spent about two hours getting myself lost and finding new wonders in the place before I left. I stopped at the main government shop before I exited the complex and there discovered that the president of Yugoslavia and his wife had been the occasion of the great motorcade. Hmmm, I now know where I rank in that heirarchy ;)

I wanted to spend some time in the village outside the walls before I left but the sun already threatened to sink and I still had the monkey palace to visit. My driver rushed us through the canyon roads back to the city and then into the Muslim district. It appeared to be even more poor than the rest of the city if that's possible. My children did their business buck naked on the sides of the busy roads as we cruised through, nobody looked particularly clean until we neared a temple and then a few nice houses appeared with some more affluent looking people. The predominant memory is of squallor, dirty clothes, soot blacked walls, trash piled everywhere, and stink.

Soon we pulled out another side of town and through a great gate. Suddenly all the gracious architecture stood abandoned. My driver explained that a few times a year a Maharaja would visit the monkey palace and the local people would climb these buildings to throw flower petals down on the procession of cars. These buildings, although delapidated still stood for the most part a procession of arches and stalls on two levels stretching for about a mile.

After the buildings ended nothing but desert hills, a small village full of cows, and a few trees stood between me and the monkeys. By now it was dusk and the major heat of the day had passed, besides the entrance stood in a canyon with no direct sunlight. I paid 5 rupees for a bag of peanuts to feed the monkeys. The second I entered the compound they started coming up to me begging for a treat. I threw small handfuls to each of them faster and faster as the crowds of monkeys grew. It reached a cresendo where I couldn't keep up and the monkeys started pawing at my lets. These monkeys had fleas, maybe mange, ugly red butts and stumpy tails. I happily fed them but didn't by any means want them climbing on me. Then they started to snarl and bare their wicked teeth. I glommed on to a group of Indians going buy and stayed with them for safety until I entered the gate.

The gateman told me I could not feed the monkeys inside the temple. Happier news couldn't have hit me. I climbed among the ruins to a great edifice built over a waterfall which poured into a stagnant pond. I tried to get a picture but monkeys kept pawing at me. A young guy yelled to me from the other side of the courtyard where I tried to get a picture. I gladly went up to him. He asked me to take his picture. I did. We then tried to chat a little, but the monkeys came from everywhere and he got as scared as I did. We ran down the stairs to a guard who chased them away with a big stick. The other guy ran for it when he saw a break in the monkeys. I took the guards advice and hid the peanuts under my shirt tucking it twice through my belt so the peanuts wouldn't accidentally fall out.

Cautiously I climbed a few more levels of stairs only to be greated with more of the same, monkeys everywhere and almost no people, certainly no people with sticks. I decided it was time to head back. I managed to get back to the top of the waterfall where I witnessed a few dozen rats crawl out of a sewer and start milling around with the monkeys. I kept moving. I stopped at one point to try to get a picture of a baby monkey. The group I'd been with moved on without me. I soon found that agian monkeys came at me from all sides climbing down the rocky slopes, coming up the steps, down the steps up the wall on the other side of me, big ones, small ones and some really big ones.

The big males beady eyes focused on me menacingly. At least one hundred monkeys surrounded me with more coming. The big males started to snarl at each other, loud bone chilling snarls. I put my hand to my neck instinctively covering my jugular. These beasts meant business. Becoming monkey food had not been in my travel plans. I wished I hadn't worn shorts that day.

I turned around slowly looking for a place to retreat, but no clean ground presented itself. Suddenly I heard a stick knocking the ground behind me. A guard had seen the monkeys massing and came to rescue with with his stick. He made a path and I ran through it. Seconds after I got out safely the war of the monkeys began with great screeches and howels, the huge males duking it out. Somehow monkey wars had not been considered in my travel plans. The scarey part was that the peanuts weren't even exposed. I suspect I just looked a nice fat delicious specimen despite that fact that I've dropped about 12 pounds since I've been here.

After that, no more monkeys. It seems all of them had gone to join or bear witness to the devouring or my flesh and/or the great battle that ensued after I left.

I fed my remaining peanuts to some nice friendly cows by the front gate.

My second day in Jaipur I finally crawled out of bed around 2 PM, bored out of my mind and sick of watching Indian music videos, dubbed American movies from the Seventies and really really bad syndicated shows from the eighties that went down so fast I don't ever remember them. I popped a few Ibuprofen and headed from the front gate.

The city assaulted me with stink, deisel fumes, camel poo, burning garbage, dog poo, people poo, cow poo, ox poo, and horse poo. Jaipur is a poo fest, you just have to watch your step both literally and figuratively as I soon found out.

I walked the three blocks to the pink city and dodged traffic to get inside. I was expecting a glamorous oasis of restored old building and quaint shops, instead I found general mele. People cows and dogs crowded the sidewalk jockeying for space. Being bigger than most folks, I could have bullied my way though, but decided to be a good ambassador for America. A lot of good it did, peoples shoved past me, bumped me aside, cut in front of me... I pretended to ignore the vendors trying to drag me into their claustrophobic little stalls. I had a weak moment and was pulled into a sari shop. Six men surrounded me and started pulling Saris down from the shelves, opening up their packaging and tossing them in front of me. I tried to touch one, but before I couild determine the fabric, it was buried under three others. I wonder if they think the mania is going to cow people into buying. Actually, they'd probably be right with most people, but I'm not one of those. It just turns me off and makes me clamp down tight on my wallet.

I ran the gauntlet of salespeople and made my way out despite several hands trying to drag me back in. I ignored their shouts as I continued along the street. About a half block away, an ugly man with watery eyes, brown broken teeth and sagging skin interrupted me in fairly good English and asked if he could ask me a question. My suspicions should have been launched right there. Oh, so naive. His question had to do with why so many foreigners were rude to people when they just want to talk. I asked him if he really wanted to know. He said, yes.

If he knew me he would have known never to ask my opinion unless you want it point blank. I said that perhaps it had something to do with the fact that a couple of hundred people paw at you every day if you're foreign each with their own tack on fleecing you of some money in one way or another. Eveyone has their own threshhold of when enough is enough.

He thanked me and offered to tell me a little about Indian culture. I said, "okay." His pearl of wisdom which I found bestowed upon me is that you should never refuse a beverage when its offered to you by a Rajastani. He went on that its the worst insult possible for an Indian.

Now my suspicion meter did go off. The bells were aringin'. I invited him into the knowledge that know savvy traveler would accept a local drink from a stranger both for health reasons, as I'd so recently and keenly been made aware, and for personal safety reasons. You never know who's going to slip you a micky.

Now came the invitation to visit his store. I knew it was coming. He said it was an art shop with all original works and here came the zinger, "Its free to look."

I said no in several polite ways and then just walked away and said maybe later. Several blocks away I realized that the market only got more ugly and dirty as time and distance wore on. I turned heel and headed back. Near the big gate to to the old city that I'd entered on the way in, the ugly man suddenly appeared out of the crowd. I blame delirium for following him to the store past a whole lot of unsavory looking people.

His shop turned out to house a whole lot of the same crap that everyplace else sells only of inferior quality. Trying to be polite, I looked around. Ugly man went out and brought back the man that was supposed to be the artist. He pulled out some things that he kept under lock and key. Curious, I looked. Most of the silk paintings were just plain filthy as well of being of mediocre quality and most of the paper paintings were just bad. Notice I said most, three of the paper paintings were actually good. I selected six paintings and asked for a price.

The prices he read out were 5 times what I'd paid for the same crap in Goa. The paintings had been imported from Rajastan to Goa so you can tack on a bit to their prices. I tried to conceal my shock, not too hard, but a little. The artist guy's body was very slight. He couldnt' have stood more than 5'3" nor weighed more than 100 lbs. He wore a really heavy dirty jacket despite the wretched heat. Despite those things his eyes burned intensely and he wasn't completely devoid of good features.

I sensed him tensing up when I started adding numbers for a counter bid on the paintings. I doubled what I'd paid in Goa as a test and gave it back to him. He tried to tell me that at his prices he only made about 50 rupees or a little over a dollar each, not much. He continued with stories about what a simple man he is and how he only needs a little to continue his work.

I nodded.

His eyes started to burn. He looked like a cobra coiled and ready to strike, then the verbal vomit hit the fan. "You Americans are all alike. You think all we Indians are the same that you can offer us very little money and walk away with our goods for next to nothing. You think I'm just a dumb Indian, well I'm traveled. I've been to Europe..." He rifled through his closet for pictures.

I just stared at him. Finally I said, "I believe you've been to Europe, I don't need proof."

"No, no I need to show you otherwise you'll never believe me. You Americans believe what you're going to believe."

I couldn't tell if they guy was trying to bully me into buying by pretending to be insulted or if he really was on a very strange tirade. I don't know where the traveled thing comes into it. I could have cared less if he'd been to Europe or not. The rule of thumb in any business in India is that you negotiate. Mostly you negotiate hard especially when you've priced the item before and know approximately where the breaking point falls.

He threw the pictures back into the closet, is voice went up a couple of decibles and he continued starting to stand up. "I've traveled, I've been to Europe..."

I thought we'd established that.

"You think I'm a dog. Well I'll give you $100 and fuck your wife."

If only he'd gotten some sophistication in Europe, he'd have realized that comment wouldn't sink a barb with me. I chuckled to myself even though I grew more concerned about his rage with him looking over me shaking his fists. I'd been sitting on a mattress on the floor without my shoes which I'd left outside.

I started to stand up and said, "I think I should be going now."

I'm not sure what he said after that other than the fact that the word "fuck" kept coming up. "...wife, mother...American..."

I backed out of the store and started to put on my shoes. The whole neighborhood had gathered to watch the spectacle. I managed to take a glance at the ugly man and said, "and you wondered why foreignors are rude?" and gestured toward his friend.

The crazy man lunged out the door at me as I backed away shoes half on. I walked away as calmly as possible managing to push my way through the crowd. Two blocks up I could still hear him screaming.

Welcome to Jaipur!

My first experience outside the hotel was now established and it weren't pretty.

Perhaps I should have gone back with a valium. Nah, best left alone. I went back to the hotel, washed up and headed to dinner. I met a nice Indian guy from Denmark over dinner who I shared my story with. I asked him if he knew of any anti-American vibe in Rajastan since its so close to Pakistan. He said no, but that he'd lived out of the country for 15 years.

Later I asked the hotel receptionist. An Indian tour guide from France happened to be there at the same time and they all said in unison that they'd never seen any anti-American vibe in the area, nothing on TV or anywhere else. That really didn't convince me much since most of the TV comes from Delhi and Mumbai which are too sophisticated to pull such stunts. However one of the men working in the hotel did say that he tells people not to go to that part of the old city because its a bad neighborhood. I asked what made it bad and he said its a Muslim area.

Okay then, I'm still not sure what to believe. I've noticed tension between Hindus and Muslims everywhere except Goa. There are still a lot of resentments over the partition of Pakistan from India and the masacres of Hindus in the period thereafter in which time most of the Hindus fled leaving behind everything they owned, lucky to get away with their lives.

Pacified enough, I put the issue mostly to rest and went out at noon the next day determined to have a good experience to turn the visit around.

I started out on my way to the modern art museum with a nice plan thereafter. A day of art and culture, wasn't that what I'd set out to do?

I started by walking through the old city, the most direct route to the art Museum. Nope, no change in opinion there, pollution choked and dirty is all I can say. I found the massive park which houses the art museum and the archeoligical museum and tracked the wall to find a gate in. For the first time I noticed little alcoves in the wall where men went to pee. I could smell it clear across the four lane city street. Apparently the other wall where I walked had been reserved for a slightly more weighty bit of business. I tip toed through it.

Finally I found a gate to the park. Men were peeing everywhere. Apparently the highest and best use of the park is as a convenient toilet. In marked contrast to the overcrowded streets, the park stood almost empty. A few homeless people slept here and there as did the occasional street dog. By this time sweat poured down my back and trickled into my eyes. I wished I'd brought a tank top although I knew all that meant was sunburn and more discomfort. I found the building that housed the art gallery and dug around until I found it buried in an upstairs room with not a sign to point it out. At first I only saw about 6 paintings. I asked a guy if there were more and he pointed up. I followed the stairs in the direction he pointed and opend the rusty door at its top.

I entered a very large dusty room with no lighting and a lot of dusty art on the walls. Nobody questioned me and nobody greeted me. I made myself at home. Most of the art really stank, but a few good pieces did present themselves, but so did a whole lot of rat poop. I decided not to hang around too long. I'm not fond of rats.

On the way out the front door of the building a pack of barking dogs greeted me. They all milled around the big gate that led to the building. The only way out was through the middle of them. I'd already learned not to look any of the dogs in the eyes. I'd had a few lounge me for doing that. These are dogs used to being ignored despite that fact that thousands of people daily brush past them.

All the dogs had their tails up sniffing the air their barks greeted by barks from other more distant dogs and a whole lot of dogs making their way over to check out the action. In this group trotted a big heavily muscled male. He barked visciously at me and lunged. Now all the dogs had a focus for their barking. I slid my back pack down my shoulder ready to use it as a weapon if I had too. I noticed a man on a bike coming in toward me. I walked cautiously toward him hoping the dogs would eat him instead of me. It worked, they were all over him biting as his heels. I made quick getaway and breathed a sigh of releif.

Okay, its late and I've just arrived in Agra and went straight to writing after a very long hungry day of travel. I need to find some grub. I'm just outside the East gate of the Taj Mahal. Tomorrow, I storm the place.

This web cafe is across the street from my cheapie hotel, $8 a night and walking distance to the Taj in a non drive, low pollution discrict. How cool is that? Hopefully I can knock off a few more hours of storytelling before I head on to Delhi.

My second day in Jaipur I finally crawled out of bed around 2 PM, bored out of my mind and sick of watching Indian music videos, dubbed American movies from the Seventies and really really bad syndicated shows from the eighties that went down so fast I don't ever remember them. I popped a few Ibuprofen and headed from the front gate.

The city assaulted me with stink, deisel fumes, camel poo, burning garbage, dog poo, people poo, cow poo, ox poo, and horse poo. Jaipur is a poo fest, you just have to watch your step both literally and figuratively as I soon found out.

I walked the three blocks to the pink city and dodged traffic to get inside. I was expecting a glamorous oasis of restored old building and quaint shops, instead I found general mele. People cows and dogs crowded the sidewalk jockeying for space. Being bigger than most folks, I could have bullied my way though, but decided to be a good ambassador for America. A lot of good it did, peoples shoved past me, bumped me aside, cut in front of me... I pretended to ignore the vendors trying to drag me into their claustrophobic little stalls. I had a weak moment and was pulled into a sari shop. Six men surrounded me and started pulling Saris down from the shelves, opening up their packaging and tossing them in front of me. I tried to touch one, but before I couild determine the fabric, it was buried under three others. I wonder if they think the mania is going to cow people into buying. Actually, they'd probably be right with most people, but I'm not one of those. It just turns me off and makes me clamp down tight on my wallet.

I ran the gauntlet of salespeople and made my way out despite several hands trying to drag me back in. I ignored their shouts as I continued along the street. About a half block away, an ugly man with watery eyes, brown broken teeth and sagging skin interrupted me in fairly good English and asked if he could ask me a question. My suspicions should have been launched right there. Oh, so naive. His question had to do with why so many foreigners were rude to people when they just want to talk. I asked him if he really wanted to know. He said, yes.

If he knew me he would have known never to ask my opinion unless you want it point blank. I said that perhaps it had something to do with the fact that a couple of hundred people paw at you every day if you're foreign each with their own tack on fleecing you of some money in one way or another. Eveyone has their own threshhold of when enough is enough.

He thanked me and offered to tell me a little about Indian culture. I said, "okay." His pearl of wisdom which I found bestowed upon me is that you should never refuse a beverage when its offered to you by a Rajastani. He went on that its the worst insult possible for an Indian.

Now my suspicion meter did go off. The bells were aringin'. I invited him into the knowledge that know savvy traveler would accept a local drink from a stranger both for health reasons, as I'd so recently and keenly been made aware, and for personal safety reasons. You never know who's going to slip you a micky.

Now came the invitation to visit his store. I knew it was coming. He said it was an art shop with all original works and here came the zinger, "Its free to look."

I said no in several polite ways and then just walked away and said maybe later. Several blocks away I realized that the market only got more ugly and dirty as time and distance wore on. I turned heel and headed back. Near the big gate to to the old city that I'd entered on the way in, the ugly man suddenly appeared out of the crowd. I blame delirium for following him to the store past a whole lot of unsavory looking people.

His shop turned out to house a whole lot of the same crap that everyplace else sells only of inferior quality. Trying to be polite, I looked around. Ugly man went out and brought back the man that was supposed to be the artist. He pulled out some things that he kept under lock and key. Curious, I looked. Most of the silk paintings were just plain filthy as well of being of mediocre quality and most of the paper paintings were just bad. Notice I said most, three of the paper paintings were actually good. I selected six paintings and asked for a price.

The prices he read out were 5 times what I'd paid for the same crap in Goa. The paintings had been imported from Rajastan to Goa so you can tack on a bit to their prices. I tried to conceal my shock, not too hard, but a little. The artist guy's body was very slight. He couldnt' have stood more than 5'3" nor weighed more than 100 lbs. He wore a really heavy dirty jacket despite the wretched heat. Despite those things his eyes burned intensely and he wasn't completely devoid of good features.

I sensed him tensing up when I started adding numbers for a counter bid on the paintings. I doubled what I'd paid in Goa as a test and gave it back to him. He tried to tell me that at his prices he only made about 50 rupees or a little over a dollar each, not much. He continued with stories about what a simple man he is and how he only needs a little to continue his work.

I nodded.

His eyes started to burn. He looked like a cobra coiled and ready to strike, then the verbal vomit hit the fan. "You Americans are all alike. You think all we Indians are the same that you can offer us very little money and walk away with our goods for next to nothing. You think I'm just a dumb Indian, well I'm traveled. I've been to Europe..." He rifled through his closet for pictures.

I just stared at him. Finally I said, "I believe you've been to Europe, I don't need proof."

"No, no I need to show you otherwise you'll never believe me. You Americans believe what you're going to believe."

I couldn't tell if they guy was trying to bully me into buying by pretending to be insulted or if he really was on a very strange tirade. I don't know where the traveled thing comes into it. I could have cared less if he'd been to Europe or not. The rule of thumb in any business in India is that you negotiate. Mostly you negotiate hard especially when you've priced the item before and know approximately where the breaking point falls.

He threw the pictures back into the closet, is voice went up a couple of decibles and he continued starting to stand up. "I've traveled, I've been to Europe..."

I thought we'd established that.

"You think I'm a dog. Well I'll give you $100 and fuck your wife."

If only he'd gotten some sophistication in Europe, he'd have realized that comment wouldn't sink a barb with me. I chuckled to myself even though I grew more concerned about his rage with him looking over me shaking his fists. I'd been sitting on a mattress on the floor without my shoes which I'd left outside.

I started to stand up and said, "I think I should be going now."

I'm not sure what he said after that other than the fact that the word "fuck" kept coming up. "...wife, mother...American..."

I backed out of the store and started to put on my shoes. The whole neighborhood had gathered to watch the spectacle. I managed to take a glance at the ugly man and said, "and you wondered why foreignors are rude?" and gestured toward his friend.

The crazy man lunged out the door at me as I backed away shoes half on. I walked away as calmly as possible managing to push my way through the crowd. Two blocks up I could still hear him screaming.

Welcome to Jaipur!

My first experience outside the hotel was now established and it weren't pretty.

Perhaps I should have gone back with a valium. Nah, best left alone. I went back to the hotel, washed up and headed to dinner. I met a nice Indian guy from Denmark over dinner who I shared my story with. I asked him if he knew of any anti-American vibe in Rajastan since its so close to Pakistan. He said no, but that he'd lived out of the country for 15 years.

Later I asked the hotel receptionist. An Indian tour guide from France happened to be there at the same time and they all said in unison that they'd never seen any anti-American vibe in the area, nothing on TV or anywhere else. That really didn't convince me much since most of the TV comes from Delhi and Mumbai which are too sophisticated to pull such stunts. However one of the men working in the hotel did say that he tells people not to go to that part of the old city because its a bad neighborhood. I asked what made it bad and he said its a Muslim area.

Okay then, I'm still not sure what to believe. I've noticed tension between Hindus and Muslims everywhere except Goa. There are still a lot of resentments over the partition of Pakistan from India and the masacres of Hindus in the period thereafter in which time most of the Hindus fled leaving behind everything they owned, lucky to get away with their lives.

Pacified enough, I put the issue mostly to rest and went out at noon the next day determined to have a good experience to turn the visit around.

I started out on my way to the modern art museum with a nice plan thereafter. A day of art and culture, wasn't that what I'd set out to do?

I started by walking through the old city, the most direct route to the art Museum. Nope, no change in opinion there, pollution choked and dirty is all I can say. I found the massive park which houses the art museum and the archeoligical museum and tracked the wall to find a gate in. For the first time I noticed little alcoves in the wall where men went to pee. I could smell it clear across the four lane city street. Apparently the other wall where I walked had been reserved for a slightly more weighty bit of business. I tip toed through it.

Finally I found a gate to the park. Men were peeing everywhere. Apparently the highest and best use of the park is as a convenient toilet. In marked contrast to the overcrowded streets, the park stood almost empty. A few homeless people slept here and there as did the occasional street dog. By this time sweat poured down my back and trickled into my eyes. I wished I'd brought a tank top although I knew all that meant was sunburn and more discomfort. I found the building that housed the art gallery and dug around until I found it buried in an upstairs room with not a sign to point it out. At first I only saw about 6 paintings. I asked a guy if there were more and he pointed up. I followed the stairs in the direction he pointed and opend the rusty door at its top.

I entered a very large dusty room with no lighting and a lot of dusty art on the walls. Nobody questioned me and nobody greeted me. I made myself at home. Most of the art really stank, but a few good pieces did present themselves, but so did a whole lot of rat poop. I decided not to hang around too long. I'm not fond of rats.

On the way out the front door of the building a pack of barking dogs greeted me. They all milled around the big gate that led to the building. The only way out was through the middle of them. I'd already learned not to look any of the dogs in the eyes. I'd had a few lounge me for doing that. These are dogs used to being ignored despite that fact that thousands of people daily brush past them.

All the dogs had their tails up sniffing the air their barks greeted by barks from other more distant dogs and a whole lot of dogs making their way over to check out the action. In this group trotted a big heavily muscled male. He barked visciously at me and lunged. Now all the dogs had a focus for their barking. I slid my back pack down my shoulder ready to use it as a weapon if I had too. I noticed a man on a bike coming in toward me. I walked cautiously toward him hoping the dogs would eat him instead of me. It worked, they were all over him biting as his heels. I made quick getaway and breathed a sigh of releif.

Okay, its late and I've just arrived in Agra and went straight to writing after a very long hungry day of travel. I need to find some grub. I'm just outside the East gate of the Taj Mahal. Tomorrow, I storm the place.

This web cafe is across the street from my cheapie hotel, $8 a night and walking distance to the Taj in a non drive, low pollution discrict. How cool is that? Hopefully I can knock off a few more hours of storytelling before I head on to Delhi.

I finally feel better today so I'm going to try to do a nice synopsis of what's transpired over the past week.

The day I got sick I spent with a realtor in Panaji. Or shall I say, the realtor's assistant who couldn't talk price, couldn't talk neighborhood, didn't know anything about the properties and took me around in the back of an autorickshaw - a motorcycle with a cab and two rear wheels. The first place they showed me was down toward Anjuna, one of the beach communities where I'd gone to the big market.

We drove down a one lane road to a dirt road that the autorickshaw couldn't navigate and then walked. There had been a beautiful old house there but it had long since caved in. I tried to get a better look at it, but when I got about 25 feet into the weeds who stood as tall as I did, a group of pigs startled and ran off right in front of me. I had visions of being pig food in Goa. These were native wild pigs that look something akin to razorbacks with their scrawny bodies and long withers growing off their backs.

The old house was a total teardown, the new house one ugly mo fo, and the lot next door housed a slum. No prospect of me buying that piece of garbage. I'd explained my goal to the Realtor that I would be restoring a very old building to just beyond its orginal magnificence to open a boutique hotel. I started to get a queasy feeling that she didn't understand what I wanted.

The next property stood four stories tall and had all the character of a cardboard box: bad floor plan, gross stores, a lot of traffic and absolutely no charm.

Next a huge lot with a totally stripped and vandalized old house that has been vacant for some years except for the occassional use as a toilet. If I wanted to do development, this would have been the lot, good location, good surrounding properties, close to the beach and shopping, but it was not for me.

Next we say a really pretty old house on a huge manicured lot, surrounded by restaurants, craft stores, a couple of minutes from the beach and great potential for a pool and expansion. The only problem was we couldn't get in.

Next a huge character property, perfect floor plan, big lot but in need of everything. I'd have needed at least $200,000 just for repairs.

And that was it. The assistant, I think her name was Savita, dropped me back at the Hotel Neptune Deluxe and for the life of me I can't remember what I did. I do recall being picked up later in the afternoon to see two more properties in town. The first was a gorgeous modern building built lovingly by an old Portuquese couple in the old Portuguese style. I knew I'd love this lady the moment I peaked in the window. Every ornament and piece of furniture in her house I could easily see in my house. Both she and her husband had been professors at the arts college down the street and often threw strings concerts in the house. Immediately inside the door the ceiling swept upwards to amazing arches. The living room stood on two levels the lower (about 5 feet below the upper) and the upper under the towering ceilings.

I loved the house, 6 bedrooms, 5 baths, big, in a great location and perfect for a bed and breakfast. The price $232,000. Not too terribly bad.

The last and final property took my breath away. It stood on the slopes of Altinha, the best neighborhood in the old part of the city, with views to the river and ocean over the old neighborhoods of Sao Tome and Fountanias. A massive old structure loaded with character and completely stripped and vandalized. At the same moment I was in love and overwhelmed by the amount of work it would take to restore it. On the other end would be THE premier boutique hotel for the entire region. I found out later for this shell of a house they wanted over $500,000. Yikes!

I went home and wrote.

As I left the web cafe from the previous post, my head blazed, my joints ached, and the street seemed to ebb and flow in front of me. I spent the next 8 hours alternating between raging fevers and arctic chills. If I'd been more aware, I'd have gotten myself to the doctor, but alas I was too sick. I ate a whole lot of Ibuprofen and mystery cold remedy that night and by morning felt I could keep up with Mohin and company. He called me from downstairs around noon. I got up and showered while he went and got a shave across the street. The man is stunning with or without a growth. He looked quite spiffy though all cleaned up.

He asked what I wanted to do. I said I wanted to see the Goa State Museum. He told me there was no such thing, the he'd grown up there and knew the city. I however have met many of those types that have never left their hometowns. They never seem to know what's going on, for the you need somebody who's imported. They come in with a fresh eye.

I managed to guide Mohin to the museum and it was spectacular. The exibits were wonderful, it was well laid out, and best of all it was free. With thousands and thousands of tourists in town for the season, the kite festival and the film festival, you'd think that a few of them would have shown up at the Museum. Nope, not a one, we had the whole place to ourselves. Some of the older exhibits were of pottery and stone carvings from thousands of years ago. Slowly room by room, they traced the history of Goa to the time of the Portuguese, the Inquisition (the christian recruiting scheme of that era included torture for those caught practicing other religions - apparently that works, Goa is mostly christian today), and then Independence.

We went to eat after that and Mohin wanted to go to the beach, but I didn't have any energy left. The second I hit the hotel room I collapsed into another night of fevers and sweats. I had managed to book my air ticket to Rajastan though for the next day.

Before I left though, Mohin and his friend Raju wanted to show me another house that Raju had found for me. The further we got from civilization, the more nervous I became. The house stood 15 miles from the ocean in a cute little traditional village with no restaurant, no shopping, no nothing to do, had no parking, had a small lot and only had two bedrooms. On top of the two and a half hours it took us to get there and the total inadequacy of the house they couldn't find the key. In hindsite that's kind of funny.

At the time however, I only had an hour and a half to get to the airport and I needed to buy more cold meds. We made it but, it cost me a lot of money in rentals.

I sat miserably in my window seat all the way to Mumbai coughing every few seconds a dry hacking cough that accomplished nothing other than to make the people in the seats around me lean away. Two hours laying over in Mumbai and the plane left for Rajastan. It felt like one of the longest days in my life. I went to bed that night and only venured out for two hours the next day.

The good news, my hotel is fabulous. Its an old palace built in the late 1800's by the Thakurs. I'm not sure what a Thakur is, but they build damn good palace. The street out front is completely chaotic and filthy, covered in camel, dog, pig, cow, and human dung and every imagineable kind of litter. In the misdst of all the ugly chaos stands this big gate that looks somewhat clean, but it gives no idea as to whats inside. Beyond a parkade and through another gate immense lawns spread out leading up to an bejeweled wonder of a hotel. Minarettes, stained glass windows in traditional Rajistani style, inlaid stone floors, pool, an immense dining hall, antiques, great art... I'm not exagerating when I say its probably among the best hotels I've ever stayed in, and I've stayed in the best...and its only about $25 a night.

My room is palatial with colored stone moziac floors, 20 foot ceilings coved to a pointed peak in the center and stenciled to amazing detail. The water is hot, they provide, soap, shampoo, towels...everything you want, the service is good and it was just what the doctor ordered for a very sick boy.

Day one I ventured up to the pink city, the old section of town that is completely walled in and which surrounds a grand palace. The image painted by the guide book is way too generous with the place. Again, litter, refuse, excrement, people everywhere.

Tomorrow I'll tell about the rot toothed, watery old guy that took me to monster in wait...