Riding in the front of the bus, shrine on the dashboard of a bus I rode from Delhi to Agra, India, 2006, photo © 2006-2009 by ybonesy. All rights reserved.
In 2006 I took a trip to Bangalore, India for work with several colleagues. Two of us decided we couldn’t travel all that way without an excursion up north to see the Taj Mahal, so we decided to fly into Delhi and do a side trip to Agra before our work schedule began.
The morning we left for the Taj Mahal, we got to the train station in Delhi late and in our haste to find the right spot to buy our tickets, we allowed a little man to take us by the elbow to what we thought was the train ticket window. Instead he led us to a bus ticket office where they convinced us that the train to Agra was sold out. The only option, they insisted, was to go by bus, which they said was also almost sold out.
Fortunately, they had two tickets left. Four chaps from Hanover, Germany, were also in the office buying tickets on the same bus; we figured that if they were doing it, it must be the right thing to do.
The little man guided the “Hanover boys,” as we called them, and us down an alley and up a side road to a busy street where the bus was to pick us up. I bought dried fruit from a vendor while we waited in this unconventional loading spot.
The bus arrived, pulled over, and up the steps we climbed to the main cabin. We spied the passengers already seated. Men with turbans and women with braids turned our way with blank stares. Not a single empty seat on the bus. That’s when the little man directed us to go left, through a little door—similar to the door of a cockpit on a plane—into the cab where he and the bus driver sat.
And that’s where we rode, all the way to Agra. Almost all the way to Agra. Once we got close to the bus station, the driver pulled over again and this time the little man kicked the Hanover boys and us off the bus. By then we knew we’d been sold rogue tickets, and the driver did not want any officials at the bus station to see a bunch of naive tourists who’d paid too much money (under the table, I’m sure) crammed into the cab.
I wrote about this experience—or, rather, one piece of the experience— in my Writing Practice on Writing Topic – Feet & Toes. If you look closely at the top photo, you can see the shrine that I wrote about and the Hindu goddess covered by marigolds. I offended the bus driver, and presumably the goddess, when I crossed my legs and showed the bottom of my feet to the shrine.
You can also see the reflection of my journal in the windshield glass. The cover of my journal depicts traditional Japanese woodblock art. And in a baggie next to the shrine is the dried fruit I bought for the road.
Two Views, view of the Taj Mahal from the entrance and the entrance from the Taj Mahal, photos © 2006-2009 by Robin. All rights reserved.
Our first full day in Agra, I got up at three in the morning, dressed in the dark, and met my work colleague in the lobby of our modest hotel. A rickshaw carried us through the cool twilight to the temple. We stood in the short line, which got longer as we got closer to the hour of 6 am. We paid our dues and spent the entire day wandering those sacred grounds.
I recently had a flashback of a place I went during my travels, but I couldn’t remember where it was. I saw myself and another person walking among ruins of red brick. I saw workmen rebuilding walls, and what looked like Sanscript writing in stone. It was only after I looked at these photos that I recalled that the place had been an area outside of the Taj Mahal.
My work colleague and I eventually did get to ride the train—something we wanted to do—from Agra back to Delhi. In hindsight I would have preferred riding in the cab of a luxury bus. The train was cramped and the rocking motion made many people sick. The bus ride afforded us a rare up-high view of India, whereas in the train my view was of slum kids begging for money and the woman across from me in the tiny cabin becoming increasingly pale as the train lurched from stop to stop.
I haven’t written much on red Ravine about my trip to India. Once, before the blog was even a blog, I wrote a poem called Cracker Jack that held imagery from the train ride, but mostly my writing goes to the present or the distant past. Rarely events from just a few years ago make such a central appearance.
Maybe it’s come on as I look to an upcoming trip to Vietnam. I’ve become comfortable in my lush Rio Grande Valley haven. It’s odd to think that soon I will in another part of the world, living a parallel life where flowers grow, vendors sell fruit, and enterprising fellows supplement their incomes by giving unsuspecting tourists new adventures that soon become crystallized memories.
View of the second-class cabin, train ride
from Agra to Delhi, 2006, photo © 2006-
2009 by Robin. All rights reserved.
The poem Cracker Jack is full of visuals. India seems like a place that would terrify me. I read a riveting book years ago (I tried to find the name but couldn’t) about an American who ended up running from a drug arrest in the States. He made it to India to hide, ultimately living in the slums and prisons, eventually to come home and face his demons. It still can chill me thinking about it. People there are made of tougher stuff than this old girl.
The part about being crammed on the bus inside another compartment and then being tossed off is disturbing yb. I felt the impact it left on you. I’d love to see more of the world but it can be frightening to be in a place so far from anyone with common language. I’m not comfortable with that even though I do so love the cultural differences.
I had never seen the back of the temple, I’m glad you included that shot.
When you travel internationally, do you feel confidence, dread, anticipation? Do you go into some sort of travel-zone that allows you to function wherever you are, not long for the Rio Grande Valley?
You seem to travel a lot, and I am curious how one copes with it over the long haul, over years.
Sinclair, the first thing about being able to cope with travel over the long haul is that I love the international experience. I left NM in my mid 20s by myself to live in a country I’d never been, because that was a dream I wanted to fulfill. And since then I’ve wanted to see the world.
BUT, having said that, it is hard to gear up for any trip abroad. The things that are hardest are being away from my family, being away from my RGV oasis, having personal projects (painting, writing, gardening) interrupted, and the actual transit to the place (plane and airports). So I cope with the plane/airport stuff by going into that road warrior zone. And I cope with the being away by balancing it with the knowledge that I’m going to love what I see and who I meet and what I learn and experience. And both my girls now have email, plus I talk to my family by phone twice a day, to say goodnight and good morning.
I’ve had a few bad experiences. The bus trip was more of an adventure than a bad experience. I had a bad experience in Agra, which QM knows about because I wrote about it in a Writing Practice that she saw. And once I ate something bad in Singapore and had terrible chills (didn’t break my 36 year streak of not puking, however!) etc., and I was robbed in China (my room) and Spain (by someone I thought was a friend).
But the bottom line is, I travel because I want to. And to Heather’s comment, I used to want to go to the wildest places. I remember when I gave Jim the choice of any Latin American country that we could go to, and he picked Costa Rica. I thought, that’s a safe choice. I was up for anything, and the less traveled, the better. And there are still some places I’d love to go to that are remote. But India was devastating in terms of the poverty. And it was a sensory overload. I’m glad I went. I’d go again, but it was tough at times.
Egads, I just wrote a book. 8)
ybonesy, you really get a sense of this experience through your writing. I do remember the Writing Practices about this trip to India. I think you’re quite brave to travel the way you do. I’m kind of in Heather’s camp. I’ve travelled all of the U.S., mostly by car, many times alone, but don’t have the same desire to travel the world in that way.
I wonder why some have that draw to global travel and some prefer to play it safer. I’m kind of in Jim’s camp, too. There are a few places I want to go overseas before I die. But they are pretty “safe” as you say. I have a friend who just went on sabbatical to Colombia for almost a year by herself. She does know a few friends there though which I think really helps. She’s getting better at the language as of the last time we heard from her.
I’m glad you included the image of the other side of the Taj Mahal, too. I hadn’t seen it either. The train ride you described sounds like some of the scenes in the movie Slumdog. There was some media coverage of the kids in the movie after it won all those awards, and how they went back to live in the poorer parts of India. I don’t know if they were true or not. It’s hard to know what we can believe these days. But it gave me pause.
Yeah, I’ve seen coverage, too, of the kids who went back to the slums. Sad. And I will always wonder when I see a blind or maimed beggar. Did someone do that to them?
I’m not sure why some people love world travel and others don’t. I remember growing up, the woman who lived behind us had a home filled with carved elephants and strange beaded pouffes (sp?) and so many amazing things from other countries. She traveled all over Africa and East Asia and Latin America, in the late 1960s and early 1970s, when travel had to be much scarier. And I remember being taken with her world, just staring at everything with wide eyes. Even then I knew I wanted to see the world, to get to know the world.
My dad loved to travel, was up for anything, never had a hard time on the road. Mom was a homebody (would fly to Vegas to gamble, but that was about it), and when she and Dad came to Spain to visit me, Mom was pretty shaken up the whole time. She got sick a few times and didn’t much enjoy her time. Dad was in heaven. About 12 years after I returned, I organized a trip to go back, and it was my dad, two of my sisters, my sister-in-law, and me. That was 10+ years ago (I was pregnant with Em, like 12 weeks) and we all had a blast. I organized the trip around unique places to stay—a former olive grove and olive oil producing plantation, a monastery, a former brothel, really quaint hotel and inns. Mom didn’t want to go back, not at all! And not only was it a tame place to go compared to many, but it was a pampered trip.
Jim and I watched Slumdog Millionaire with a friend last night. I’d seen it at the theater; this was their first time viewing it. I forgot how vibrant it was, but also how much it assaulted all the senses. It made me realize that I’m glad I’m not heading to India but rather, am soon on my way to the much calmer, more peaceful Vietnam.