In search of tigers at Rathambhore National Park

From Fatehpur Sikri, it's a handful of hours across dusty, flat and largely rural Rajasthan to reach Rathambhore National Park, in which we hope to see tigers.  Our hotel is lovely, green and quiet, at the moment packed with elderly New Zealanders, and we get ready for a couple of days of morning and late afternoon outings in the nearby park to try our luck at seeing a tiger.  The park is about 1400 square km (540 sq miles), and about 20% of that is accessible to the public.  They estimate about 70 tigers in the entire park, so we aren't banking on our chances of seeing any.  Seems like trying to win the lottery.  The only other animals are several species of deer, lots of birds and monkeys, some wild boar, and a handful of crocodiles and snakes.  Hmmm. 

But, we're incredibly lucky.  Incredibly.  Our first morning out we see a tiger quite close up, almost a little closer than we feel comfortable with.  Then two trips with nothing at all, and on our final afternoon, we spot a tiger roaming along the river banks just below us.  Gorgeous!

See the pictures of scenery & animals at Rathambhore here:
https://photos.app.goo.gl/uycCgz7H5aSjDFL57

On the road to Fatehpur Sikri fort

We leave Agra by car, with a driver who has been arranged for us, and he seems the epitome of calm on these chaotic and eternally congested roads.  It's a while before we're really out of the city, and this is now our first real glimpse of the countryside as we've flown from place to place up until now.

It's just short of an hour to Fatehpur Sikri, legendary city home to the first Moghul emperor of northern India, Akbar.  (For a fanciful treat, check out Salman Rushdie's The Enchantress of Florence, which details some of Akbar's life --[thanks to Ashim for that tip:)]  It's another massive fort, only some of which still stands.  The driver parks and tells us we must walk up the road or take a tuk tuk to get there.  He doesn't specify which direction, but all the yelling hawkers and tuk tuk drivers make that fairly clear.  Except, as we subsequently discover, we've masterfully ended up at the wrong entrance, and have to go through the massive mosque that anchors one side of the archaelogical site--one that is still used, "very sacred", "must cover", "cannot be alone", and a litany of other issues to be handled, even though we're assured by the pack of touts that we can reach the fort this way.  It's just that we have to put up with their endless prattle first.  Sigh.  It does take some doing, but we finally make it up the endless stairs and into the courtyard that leads, on one side to the massive mosque.  Shoes in hand, we discover the gorgeous screens of the white marble burial building of a famous Sufi saint, which sits near the center of the courtyard.  All stone carved screens of dazzlingly diverse patterns and beauty, they're a good stop, and a momentary break in the frenzied rattling of our various wannabe guides, and later it turns out, purveyors of goods/souvenirs clearly not allowed to be sold on these holy premises!  It's a circus that finally comes to an end when we discover the way into the fort and the actual ticket office.  No mean accomplishment as we're consistently misled!  No matter.  The site is really quite lovely, infrequently visited, despite its proximity to Agra, and there are some simply stunning architectural features, most notable of which is the ornately carved column that sustains the so-called Jewel House (Diwan-I-Khass). 

Pictures of the fort: https://photos.app.goo.gl/nM9AYB87kVmPvSXQ8

Agra: home of the Taj Mahal

We are getting to the point where a lot of Indian towns/cities are looking the same, and that's certainly true as we drive into Agra from the airport.  Our driver is a manic honker and traffic weaver, and tells us he "usual drive comfortable" never drives like this, but he's in a hurry for another client.  He repeats this driver mantra over and over, working the usual hard sell to have us contract him to drive us around town during our stay.  He insists that Andres take note of his phone number, then drops us at the hotel, and predictably, we'll not see him again.

In the afternoon we get our bearings, thanks to our ever more faithful friend, Google Maps, figure out where the ticket booth is for the Taj and get a look at our surroundings.  After an unremarkable dinner, we head to bed.  We have to leave the hotel by about 5:20am in order to get the sunrise/early morning light said to be special when visiting the Taj.

We walk there in the dark, through fairly quiet streets,  past shuttered shops,  and secure our tickets fairly quickly despite a decent line--although we are in the line for foreigners, which tends to move a tad more quickly.  But despite tips that it is relatively quiet in the morning, there are hordes at the actual entrance.  We get in line at the East Gate to the complex, split into two lines(female and male), and go through the security and in winding lines.  Not too bad, but there is a lot of pushing and shoving and shouting, none of which I understand at all.  We're in!

The building is breathtaking and truly spectacular, and the grounds are beautifully kept and close to immaculately clean.  We spend about three and a half hours walking around, then finally into the mausoleum amidst loud whistling from the guards who are doing their level best to rush everyone through.  A short stop at the tiny museum to see the exquisite miniature portraits of Shah Jahan and his favorite wife, Mumtaz Mahal--for whom the Taj is the world's most lavish tomb and then we slowly ramble out, as non-stop hordes of humanity continue in an interminable queue.  The next day we also make a night visit to the Taj, as we are here during the full moon--during which it is possible--although difficult--to secure tickets to see the Taj under the moonlight. It's a little underwhelming as there is still too much back light from the city and sadly, very poor air quality.

During our remaining day, we take a tuk-tuk to visit the gorgeous "Baby Taj", which is a precursor to the Taj Mahal, and was actually built to inter the remains of Mumtaz Mahal's grandfather.  From there it's on to the massive Agra Fort, originally built by the first Mughal emperor of the region, Akbar.

See picture of the three visits below:
Taj Mahal:  https://photos.app.goo.gl/3HQ8YLwJFzoauyg87

Baby Taj & Agra Fort:  https://photos.app.goo.gl/T5coSYeT8rC1mPyG9

Exploring Varanasi

We arrive in the early evening at Varanasi's new looking airport, which lies about 25 km outside town.  Our taxi driver weaves through the dense traffic on roads that seem finished, but evidently aren't, as traffic suddenly all shifts to one side of the barricades over and over.  It's one of the final days of another Hindu festival.  The name immediately departs my mind.  Provisional tent-like shelters dot the many roads we travel into the central city and they are brimming with flashing lights and pumping out crazy-loud music as gaudy colors bleed together between the women's wear and the deities we can glimpse as we speed by.  People are all over the roads, along with rickshaws, bicycles, motorbikes, cars, buses, and not to be forgotten--cows, buffalo and dogs.  It's pandemonium even for India.  As we close in on Assi Ghat, the area we're staying, the driver parks and we have to walk the rest of the way.  People are out in force, although it's now close to 9 pm.  Others have bedded down along the steps that lead down to the famous river.  It's been a long day, so we're off to bed.

In the morning we sleep in a bit as we've been getting up early for days.  A laid back breakfast and a look around the lovely old palace that is now a small hotel, before we head out along the ghats.  It appears to be possible to walk along the water and mud flat banks at this time of year, so while being bombarded with offers to "go boat" and see a litany of stuff I don't really listen for, we move off.  The Ganges is one of India's lifelines, not just as a source of water, but as the main artery of its much of its culture and religion.  All along this bank are the remnants of old palaces, once homes to maharajahs from around what is now India.  Today, the majority are well past their days of glory, many house untold numbers of people, harbor homeless people in their shady overhangs or have simply succumbed to the passage of time and the unforgiving power of nature.  There are priests muttering and reading from texts, young kids jumping off the sides of moored boats,  and wannabe guides, many of them very persistently vying for some slice of our attention.  The day's heat is steadily increasing, and after walking through a small cremation ghat where we are predictably offered "better view" and advised "not be frighten", while we look over at the scores of men either working on the funeral pyres, or seeming to relax on the steps while they wait for things to be ready for the cremation, we finally head up the steep steps and back into the alleyways of the city, leaving the mud, water, offerings and river dwellers behind with the glaring sands of the opposite bank blinding us in the distance.  More ghat walking for another day, perhaps.
https://photos.app.goo.gl/tA3Tmhkz3m7xNRnF7

From here it's on into the serpentine alleys above the ghats.  No map could adequately guide you here--only a reasonable sense of direction--which I am fortunately blessed with.  From tea stands to paneer makers, cows and their cow patties, temples, candle decorated corners, to mangy dogs, sari shops, egg and vegetable stands, all fit snugly together in an engimatic puzzle snugly in and around decaying buildings--some that exude an atmosphere of times past--others merely the smell of  blackened cooking oil, pungent curries or overripe moldy humidity.  The lanes are narrow enough that no cars can drive here at all, but they're still just wide enough for the regular passage of impatient tooting motorbike riders, bicycles, dogs, goats, and the occasional rickshaw., and the ubiquitous cow.  Laundry drapes across doorways and hangs in dark corridors.  There are impromptu stands and spots for everything from a glass of tea to fried doughnuts and miniscule kiosks that sell individual packets of everything from chutney to shampoo.; others specialize in bright marigold garlands.  Syrupy sweets and junk food rule, as does the necessity to watch where you step.  Cows aren't particular about their toilets.  We finally end up back close to where we started by the river, find our bearings and head home.

In the afternoon we head off in a slightly different direction, following along the road near us, and there watch a new cast of characters interspersed with manic traffic.  We come upon a small vegan restaurant that I'd read about, and head in for a bit of sustenance, then happen upon a lovely little art gallery where we browse at length, as there are shelves and shelves of statuary, carvings and paintings.  We decide to contact a walking tour place we've read about to see if we can get beyond the superficial and baffling and learn a bit more about the city.
https://photos.app.goo.gl/UiETBUHUFrHe96q96

Our evening is spent at the Ghat watching the aarti ceremony, performed by et of five young men in highly ritualized moves that principally involve different sorts of fire-bearing vessels, while crackled chanting is piped in over a sound system.  The men face the Ganges--the deity in this case--while the substantial crowd watches, but with far from undivided attention.  There is constant motion, some begging, children meandering through the crowd trying to sell the small bowls of flower offerings for the river, and there is a copious mobile phone photography, both selfie and otherwise--.  Despite the appearance of total disorganization, there is a definite undercurrent of seriousness.  Once complete, people approach the platforms where the aarti was performed, wave their hands lightly over the remaining fire and touch their heads and faces with the heat.  Others head down to the river with offerings.  The crowd disperses, and other than a few hangers-on, those who "live" on the ghats, settle in for the night ready for a whole new aarti prior to the sunrise.

We're again up before dawn to witness the morning aarti, which to our untrained eyes looks very similar.  It's performed in a slightly different part of the ghat, one that looks to have been recently rebuilt to hold more people.  Prior to this a large group of predominantly women are chanting under a large covered platform around a fire, but they end up stopping, and many leave prior to the morning aarti proper, which is again lots of turning and chanting with different vessels holding fire, finalizing right about the time the sun floats up over the smoky horizon, a fiery red ball.  This is followed by offerings at the river-side, lots of people(Indian tourists, presumably) heading out for boat rides on the Ganges,  quite a lot of bathers and dunkers at the river's edge, and then large rolls of dusty carpet are unrolled in preparation for the public yoga session.  A crew clears up all the paraphernalia involved in the aarti, while the yoga begins.  It is led by a teacher who sits up on a platform and talks incessantly, and leads the pretty extensive crowd--most of whom are holdovers from the aarti viewing--in about an hour of breathing exercises.  It's all in Hindi(my assumption), and there is a lot of counting involved, which we only know because every so often he begins counting in English.  Each morning we see the same ancient little old bespectacled man, skin and bone, with his walking staff, who stops to anoint himself with the remaining aarti fire and then settles in for yoga.  It's about 7:30, and the day is in full swing.
https://photos.app.goo.gl/PUesrUkmriweqqu46

After breakfast with a couple of older English ladies and a youngish American woman who teaches Buddhist history at a nearby university to Amer students abroad, we meet up with our walking guide, Laotse.  He whisks us off,  we stopping first at a couple of temples and a local outdoor wrestling gym before we head into a Muslim neighborhood, where he say most of the weavers remaining in Varanasi work.  We visit silk weavers and a cotton weaver. He explains that the majority of these artisans --99% are men, women only embroider and bejewel--come from long lines of traditional weavers, many of whom hailed from central Asia, untold generations ago.  They work on large looms that hold up to 6000 threads of silk warp, often working from patterns that are punched out on long accordion-like cardboard slats.  This generation is still weaving, but the likelihood of their sons continuing the craft are in precipitous decline.  More than 75% of the weavers that were here 50 years ago have abandoned it.  It is unclear where all the spinning and dying of fiber is done, and by whom,--but we're told that about half the silk still comes from China, while the rest is cultivated in northern India, and that Varanasi was an important stop on the Silk Route.

Continuing on in a different neighborhood, we find an area where traditional wooden toys are carved--mostly tops, yo-yo's and the like.  The wood is piled everywhere, cut by some into the rough dowels from which several tops will be carved.  The carving is all done on electric machines, but with an ease and steadiness of hand that is noteworthy.  After being carved, each piece is colored with a stick of what looks like a crayon, but is in fact a coloring agent made by other neighborhood artisans.  They melt a lacquer-like substance together with a bright colored powder, stretch and mix it over fire and eventually shape the mass into long rods, which are later broken into pieces that serve as the "crayons" we see the toy-makers use.  Again, this is a tiny glimpse into another dying trade.  Machines and factories are systematically eliminating these trades.  We visit one last toy maker, another multi-generational set-up where they carve and paint wood, and where they also make some of those impossible stone carvings, where an elephant is carved within an elephant within yet a third one, all from a single block of stone.  With a final stop at an old temple nearby, we head back and arrange for another walk the following day.

This walk lands us in the oldest part of Varanasi, near the heavily guarded Golden Temple, which anchors the old city.  We take a rickshaw through the chokingly full streets and then head into the very oldest part of the city through bazaars, shops, food stands cum restaurants, where we spend a lot of time visiting "off the beaten track" Hindu temples of various sorts.  Most of these are hidden behind closed doors, but Laotse seems to know everyone.  He simply knocks or gives a shout and amidst shuffling feet and creaking doors, we're welcomed in.  North Indian temples are generally not terribly colorful, and many old sites in the city were Hindu, demolished and built over with mosques and then during the British colonial period, many were rebuilt as Hindu temples once again.  The litany of which god presides over which temple, how one can tell by colors which is the primary deity, and the like is mind-bogglingly complicated, but still fascinating.  Each deity has his or her own corresponding "transport", animal, and domain.  Some have endless incarnations.  Remembering any of Laotse's well-intentioned information is challenging! 

He also takes us through the main cremation grounds of Varanasi, where about 150 bodies are burnt daily.   I feel like I've taken a step into the pits of hell--it's almost impossible to breathe here with the smoke--it's astoundingly hot everywhere, and wood for cremations is pile several stories high everywhere that you look.  A special "caste" work here, and he maintains that the fires from which pyres are lit today have been lit for thousands of years.  As he's speaking a man hurries by with a large bone held between two sticks.  Lao explains that this was a man's breastbone, which generally doesn't fully burn--just as a woman's pelvic bone typically does not--and that in keeping with tradition, this will now be returned to the Ganges.  The body comes from five elements: fire, earth, water, air and sky, and in death is put in the fire, becomes ash, which is how it returns to earth, the bones are taken back to the river(water), and the smoke becomes air, and eventually sky--thus the same notion that we have of ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  He explains about all the Indians who make the trek to die in Varanasi itself, how this is different from dying outside the city, and
talks at length about the connections between Varanasi and the cycle of reincarnation and possibility of liberation from the cycle--moksha.  Heads spinning we continue on to visit a beautiful Nepalese temple all built in wood, and other hidden wonders, some of which perch high above the northern ghats. Returning via the long lines and almost frightening police presence to get into the Golden Temple, we catch a glimpse of the top of the temple, and finally head back to our own haunts.  Laotse is truly saddened by the fact that the old city that presently surrounds the Golden Temple is now being torn down, this being the government's effort to make room for the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims who flock to visit.  Not only will be residents be displaced, but much of the atmosphere and history will be torn down with it.  In a few years it will be nothing but a distant memory.

Our final morning we watch a final aarti ceremony.  It difficult not to be taken with the city--despite its extreme assault on the senses.  It's a place that clearly reaches deep inside some--the handful of resident foreigners we've had the privilege to chat with are swept up in its charms, while very much aware of its shortcomings.  It must take a long time to really get any handle on the dizzying experience that is daily life in Varanasi, and we feel fortunate to have experienced a stint here, but now we're off to India's most famous monument, the Taj Mahal in Agra.

Check out some picture from our walks.
 https://photos.app.goo.gl/cYhPveoiVbdonG1s5

A few days in Darjeeling

We're up shortly after dawn, unused to the distinct chill in the air after Delhi's searing temperatures.  There is no heat in the hotel, and the humidity is high--in fact we're peeking through swathes of clouds.  We dress and are out the door by 5:20, ready to warm up by moving and eager to begin checking out this new town.  The guard at the gate points us towards what we discover is "the Mall", actually about the only stretch of Darjeeling that is basically vehicle free.  The locals have a definitely more Chinese cast to their faces, and while we can't tell, they seem to also be speaking a different language.  Scores of all ages are out running, walking, and vigorously exercising with militaristic zeal.  We end up at the main square, the Chowrastra, where a great stage is decked out with Hindu deities, lights and other items, along with a giant screen.  It's quiet now; shops are tightly shut, but the town is simmering with energy.  In the distance we catch a mirage-like glimmer of the distant Himalayas.  Kanchenjunga, the third highest peak in the world, rises a mere 100 miles away, and on a clear day is easily spotted from this walkway.

https://photos.app.goo.gl/B6sv1JLvg9sNvJ3L9

Darjeeling oozes into every crack, spilling from its central spine along the hills and mountains.  While there is lots of green all around, the scars of rampant building are everywhere.  Roads and tracks zigzag up and down the steep hills in labyrinthine fashion.  Traffic, even in these tiny streets is cacophonous and impatient.  We forego the "mandatory" haul to Tiger Hill where locals swear that the view of the sunrise over the Himalayas is legendary and not to be missed, especially since it seems evident that most mornings the mist and clouds rise quickly once the sun is up, and that the view from the Mall--when, in fact, there is one--is probably about as good as it gets.  That magical sunrise moment --yes, it's a mere moment--is hardly justification for rising at 3:30 in the morning!  To each his own.

We walk the Mall each dawn, and have one clear day when the mountains truly appear out of the mist.  They are stupefyingly beautiful and impossibly high.  Generally the clouds begin rising out of the deep valleys as soon as the sun rises, and within a short time whatever may have been visible of the monumental vistas disappears with a quiet exhale of air.  The morning we did see the view we could barely keep our eyes elsewhere--mesmerized and intoxicated with the scene.

https://photos.app.goo.gl/Fywkidfwb8sfP6c19

Our wandering often ended up at the central square, sober in the morning, and by afternoon crowded with vendors, families, musicians, horse owners selling rides to children, untold number of stray dogs complete with the backdrop of some celebration or performance at the main amphitheatre.  Tea sellers are everywhere, and there is an organization that is distributing a free meal of rice and dal every afternoon.

We find our way to the zoo, visit its dusty snow leopards, and its lone Himalayan wolf along with a selection of birds and depressed looking monkeys.  By all accounts, though, they are doing great things to keep these species around for the future. The grounds also house the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute, brought to life by Tenzing Norgay Sherpa--who together with Edmund Hillary was the first to reach Everest's summit in 1953.  There is a nicely organized display of the history of local climbs with artifacts used in the ascents along with photos.  Tenzing Norgay's ashes are entombed on the premises per his express wishes.  At the entrance to the zoo, locals and Indian tourists--there are hardly any foreign tourists to be seen in Darjeeling--there is a small shop where you can dress up in local costumes, much to the delight of many, who seem to make this their principal diversion while at visiting  the zoo. 

We also visit one of the old tea estates in town--Happy Valley--now rimmed by the town, and no longer an estate of any sort.  There is a rudimentary factory and a short tour explaining how the tea is processed, followed by a quick tasting session and a stop in the shop.  Sadly the tea shop that used to offer a place to sit and sip is long gone. 

Miraculously, we also find our way to the botanic gardens, although truth be told, even Google Maps couldn't really find it.  We weave downhill through a packed market/bazaar and head into the valley, where we find someone who says to just keep going, and amazingly there it is.  A small oasis, originally owned by the owner's of Lloyd's of London, the garden is a little run-down, but a definite respite from the hordes and the noise.  It sports a couple of nice greenhouses, mostly with orchids and annuals, and two gorgeous wisteria "trees" which have been led to meet each other over a trellised roof.  These were planted in the mid 1800's when Lloyd first acquired the property. 

We look around Observatory Hill, which lies above the Mall we walk each morning, and which is the site of the original temples in Darjeeling, along with one of its more traditional colonial era hotels.  In a different area of this higgledy piggledy town, we visit the lovingly arranged Tibetan Culture Museum, showing some of the history and customs of the people, following some of the highlights of the Dalai Lama's life, and culminating in a stunning sand mandala.

Despite maddeningly narrow jam-packed streets, we enjoy watching the flow of life all around us: the markets, the daily rituals of gathering water--there seems to be a serious issue with access to running water--the early morning rituals of partaking in some tea or a small meal at the roadside, the opening of shops, the caretakers of the horses readying them for their daily tours, the endless sweeping of dirt and dust from one corner of town to another, school-children snacking, the relentless calls of shopkeepers, and the unexpected view of a couple of hotel cleaners poking at a snake in the hotel's open lobby, gingerly gathering it up on their stick and depositing it across the street.

We make a ritual of stopping in at Glenary's each afternoon--a bakery/cafe with a view on one of the main shopping streets in town, and settle in at Lunar for a tasty Indian meal each evening.  The Oxford bookshop on the Chowrastra is a surprisingly complete shop with extensive selections of books about the area, meditation, religious topics of all sorts, as well as a substantial number of novels by current Indian or Anglo-Indian writers.  It seems funnily out of place.

Our final morning we head up to check out a placed called the Shrubbery, which is another finely groomed oasis which must provide some gorgeous views on a nice day--but while we enjoy the peaceful park, the clouds hide the mountains.  Darjeeling is not quite the colonial gem I was imagining, but still not without its own ragged charm.

For pictures of some of our day explorations:
https://photos.app.goo.gl/D9qVtjUGhMueuqQy8

From Darjeeling we head back the several hours through a different area of tea plantations, arriving back at Bagdogra Airport to head on to Varanasi, holy city on the Ganges.

To Darjeeling

Our flight from Delhi to Bagdogra airport in Siliguri--in the neck of West Bengal--, is smooth and pleasant.  The airport is small and dusty, and we quickly connect with the man who'll drive us the 3+ hours up to Darjeeling.  We drive through a few moments of promising tea plantations before encountering the pandemonium that makes the 100 km drive take so long.  Here motorbikes, bicycles and rickshaws weave through and around the people and animals lying and standing listlessly in and by the road.  All this competes with hordes of communal taxis(a sort of jeep) that zip blindly down the road, incessantly honking, braking, accelerating loudly, while pedestrians float obliviously down the roadsides, glued to their cell-phones, randomly calling "hello, hello".  The driver proudly points out the local air force base, and chit chats a bit with us as we slowly escape the huge traffic snarls in Siliguri and begin ascending the narrow roadway into the Himalayan foothills.  It's a caravan of vehicles rising out of the steamy plains, passing one another in the most improbable spots, but as we enter more rural spots we see the beautiful tapestry of fresh tea bushes sprouting over rolling hillsides.  Interspersed, however, is the haphazard and decaying, mostly unfinished construction of shops and hovels and towers that further narrow the pocked road as we reach Kurseong, where the road begins to accompany the narrow-gauge railway that goes up to Darjeeling.  In its day, it must have been quite a lovely train ride, but today the train seems to take a lot of space away from the road, its tracks constantly cross the road, and run directly in front of shops and homes most of the tortuous way up the mountain. 

Temperatures fall along with daylight as we reach Darjeeling.  My notion of an idyllic ex-colonial backwater surrounded by tea plantations and the distant Himalayas is almost instantly extinguished.  The noise and confusion in the ever narrower roadways--mostly two way, and always filled well beyond imaginable capacity--is unbelievable, particularly after what I've read about the area.  We find our way to the hotel, head out into the damp chill and unsuccessfully procure some dinner, ending up with an inadequate sort of buttery rice and a bit of tea.  From there to bed until we meet the day again.

https://photos.app.goo.gl/wMWrHUX9GK7MaSTa9

Exploring Delhi

Haphazard sleep due to remnants of jetlag, despite our handful of days in Holland.  -We're off to visit the heavily touted Red Fort--old Mughal palace grounds and fort in Old Delhi, using the metro--which is fabulously useful in this ultra-dense sprawl of 20+million people and incessantly honking vehicles of all sizes and shapes.  We exit into the thick of the old city, an indescribable seething mass of humanity, which eventually carries us down the main artery of Chandni Chowk and across a chaotic intersection to the fort.  It is massive, and there is considerable work being done all over the extensive compound, so many of the buildings are off-limits.  Some highlights are Diwan-i-am, the emperor's hall for giving audiences, with its monumental sandstone columns and marble throne with a backdrop of inlaid stonework, and the emperor's private apartment, with its beautiful stone screenwork.  There are surprisingly few tourists, especially after the hordes we waded through to get to the fort.  After leaving, we drop in at the great mosque Jama Masjid, whose outside walls are literally draped with all manner of bazaars.  We were fascinated to watch the actual building of a bike-rickshaw, the endless repairs points for flat tires, amidst garish carriages with Hindu gods, being repainted in the middle of the street.  Food and snack stands galore as we moved closer in to the main drag of Chandni Chowk, where we continued to explore alleys where jewelers work with meticulous precision as the waves of humanity undulate by.  This is also wedding sari central, with mesmerizing colors spilling out of  impossibly cramped spaces, piles of removed shoes at the entrances.  The traffic is intense and would inspire headaches in even a saint, the noise and the heat mingling boisterously with the smells of hot oil, cows and the hordes of street dogs who seem oblivious to the pulsating chaos around them.  Occasionally we are fortunate enough to stake out a spot to just watch life happening around us.  We have some (a lot, actually!) difficulty in finding the metro station back and walk in circles as each person indicates a different(?) way to get there.  In the end, it's sheer luck that we decide to head in an unlikely and self-chosen direction, and someone laughs when we again ask and they simply point across the park.

The following day we make a short side-trip to see the Ba'hai Lotus temple which is closeish to our hotel, although we do have to endure the ten minutes of prayer and chanting inside, despite just having been told that we needn't stay if we don't have the time.  From this temple it's back on the metro to a stop close to Hamuyan's tomb.  We take an auto-rickshaw which zooms noisily through the traffic and arrives at a real gem.  This is thought to be a precursor to the Taj Mahal, built in the mid 16th century at the behest of the emperor Humayun's Persian wife, Haji Begum, thus showing off some lovely combinations of Persian and Mughal architecture.  The main tomb is imposingly, with steep staircases that lead to a huge platform at the center of which lies Humayun's actual tomb.  It is said that his favorite barber was also given the honor of being buried in this complex, as his proximity to the emperor's neck with a razor apparently made him a man worthy of great trust.   Humayun's wife is also buried on these grounds.

Later in the day we trekked across town to catch a glimpse of a new, immense Hindu temple Akshardham, but ran out of time to go in, as the distances and lines were terrifically long.  Presumably there will be lots of opportunities to check out equally imposing sights in the upcoming weeks.  In the evening we headed out once again to walk the Rajpath down through the garishly lit government buildings all the way down to India Gate, which was lit up with the colors of the Indian flag.  There is a festival atmosphere, with strings of ice cream vendor carts, sweets and snacks, small cars and bikes to ride around on, complete with blinding flashing and pulsing lights.  There are lots and lots of people out enjoying a stroll and some diversion in the more amenable evening temperatures, we even make our way to a restaurant in the more ritzy and green embassy area, although not without the help of Google maps!  We know we've foregone countless other places to visit in Delhi, but we're focusing on putting together a doable itinerary, with the help of a local travel agency, and trust that whatever we've missed will be favorably supplanted with experiences in the rest of the country.  Next, Darjeeling--of tea fame!

Check out the links for pictures of Delhi.    https://photos.app.goo.gl/3No9kyzTnkAbRV1
https://photos.app.goo.gl/MybayJdbZFNpw8TK7

Onwards to Delhi

An easy flight from Amsterdam landed us in the quietest darkness of Delhi's very early morning hours.  We were picked up and whisked out of the huge halls and corridors of the airport and into the smoky denizens of the sprawling, sleeping city.  Despite the early hour, and initial difficulty finding our accommodations, which turned out to be buried in the impossibly labyrinthine neighborhood of Saket's D block, we finally went to bed about 3:30 a.m., and checked off successfully navigating our first leg of being in India.

After a little orientation from our B&B owner during breakfast, complete with useful handouts, we headed out for our important undertaking of securing a new SIM card for our phone.  Evidently true entertainment for the locals' slowly unfolding sleepy bodies, we persisted in looking and asking for the mobile phone shop, without the slightest success, wandering and retracing our steps countless times.  Eventually we headed to a shopping area further down the chaotic road,  and enjoyed short-lived success.  Waiting in the phone office amidst legions, we finally were called up to the counter only to be summarily dismissed as we had no passport photo for the paperwork.  No worries, the clerk assured us, there was a photo place across the road, and he wouldn't have us wait when we returned.  Long story shortish, the photo place was closed due to an indeterminate "holiday", and no-one could point us to another.  Once again retracing our steps we returned to the first shopping area, asking about for a photo place, and miraculously were pointed to an existent and open shop, where we were given the luxury of being "first" presumably due to our obvious foreignness.  Then back to the phone store, weaving in and out of incessantly honking vehicles, motorbikes, vendors of every ilk, uniformed school kids, and untold numbers of seriously mangy dogs.  Another wait, reams of paperwork, and finally the SIM card.  However, --small disclaimer--it could not be put in the phone for a good 4 hours--no comprehensible explanation was offered, and we were told that it would be activated within 24 hours, which we miraculously managed to reduce to same day, promising to return--yes, again!--for the final round of whatever to get the phone to work.

Subsequently made our way to the Saket metro station, purchasing a three day pass to make our way around the city.  Each time one boards the train men and women are separated, all bags are scanned, and bodies are electronically wanded.  We confidently headed the wrong way first, but soon discovered our mistake, and then turned to find our way out onto Connaught Circle, where we were instantly pounced on by hordes of touts offering us all kinds of "special" information, trying to get us to the "tourist office", special shops, on any kind of tour--"of course I don't want any money" being the precursor to any and all interactions.  Hard-core ignoring being the only remedy, we were then quickly threatened and/or warned about the reams of thieves in the direction we were heading, and how dangerous the neighborhood was especially(!) for foreigners.  Difficult to keep the mandatory straight face.  Wandered away from the circle for a little, and were surprised that this central point appeared to have become so run-down.  Wandered through the park in the center of the square, although we'd been very adamantly told it was "closed", zigzagged through the spokes that radiate from the inner Connaught circle, and then back to the hotel and to a small nearby restaurant, after the necessary stop back at the phone place to activate the phone.  Success at last, and finally off to bed as we got ready for some more thorough exploring the next morning.