Goodbye India, Hello Malaysia

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After one last walk around the Lingkhor in Dharamsala, spinning the heavy mani wheels and watching the sunset cast a peachy glow over the peaks of the Himalayas, I caught the Volvo night bus back to Delhi. Mention the word “Volvo “, and locals smile in awe, as if this were the one luxury bus in all of India. Actually, the Volvo was like any other country’s normal long-haul passenger bus. But this is India, where normal long-hail passenger buses consist of metal tubes stapled onto rubber hoops, with an amplified horn and engine powered by beetlenut spit. Like the blasting onboard Bollywood flick (think Rambo, the Musical), the bus was bumpy, endless, loud, and made no sense whatsoever. I arrived in Delhi exhausted, knowing Modern Gonzo’s most interesting leg was coming to an end. But there was still one more thing I hadn’t done, and fortunately, it did not involve hours on a toilet.

“You can’t come to India and not see the Taj Mahal!” said someone, seconded by someone else. The 17th century mausoleum is India’s most famous landmark, built in the name of love and nowadays, exploited in the name of profit. Getting there would involve several hours at the train station organizing a ticket (dodging scams), several hours on a hot train (dodging deformed beggars), several hours negotiating local transport (dodging paan spit) and arriving at the Taj to find a line-up stretching a mile back, and a special “tourist ” price. Despite knowing the challenges ahead, I decided to do it anyway, because anything would be better than hanging out in my prison cell in Paharganj. The Israeli holiday season was almost up so there were thousands in Delhi, awaiting return flights to the land of milk and honey. Subsequently, accommodation was scarce, and the only place I could find at 7am was a ground floor prison cell with boarded up windows and bathroom muck so thick you could build a mountain (Close Encounters of the Third Grime?) The Hello Kitty bedspread was a nice, if disturbing touch. I dumped my bags, forsook sleep, and headed off to the train station. Immediately I was accosted on the street and led to an office across the street where some enterprising fellow sat at a desk beneath an “OFFICIAL GOVERNMENT BOOKING OFICE ” sign. Maybe it was the typo that gave this scam away. It took three hours to buy my authentic return ticket to Agra, the city that surrounds the Taj. I had to get a number, speak to guy number one, who referred me to guy number two, who told me I had to go to the office downstairs number 203, who told me I had to go to the office upstairs number 301, massage gently, rinse and repeat. I had two hours to kill before the train left, so at least it kept me busy. The key to traveling in India is never being in a hurry to get anywhere. You’re only going to drive yourself crazy, and there’s no point complaining, because everyone around you is crazy already.

On the platform, I asked some elderly European tourists if they were going to Agra. They avoided eye contact and brusqued past me, the bastards. When I finally saw what I looked like in the mirror, after one month in India and one hell of a night bus, I understood why. My eyes were red and shifty, like the front of the Trans Am in Knight Rider; my legs were covered in bites, and I smelt like a cheese pakora. On the train, I naturally blended right in, chatting away with some Israeli guys and a platoon of friendly Indian army boys. The train took forever to arrive in Agra, where tourists were led like sheep to the marble slaughterhouse. Everything is at a premium, here at India’s most trafficked tourist site. By the time we had negotiated a taxi, stopped off to get some over-priced food and arrived at the gate, my expectations were sky-high. How could the Taj Mahal possibly be worth all this? About one thousand Indian tourists were lining up, but for 50 Rupees we were shown to the South Gate where there were just a handful of people. Feeling a distinct pain in the rectum after forking over 750 Rupees (the guards lit a cigarette after taking my money), I got searched and made it through. Amir from Israel had an MP3 Player, and had to take it back to the guards for storage, as MP3 players and calculators are forbidden in the Taj complex. I love India. Almost there, just one more doorway and…

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