Hitchhiking

Thursday, January 24th,

The India part of our adventure is over and we expect today to be no more than a day of travel and transition.

Our 7:00 A.M. wake up allows us time to pack leisurely before our final pick up for our flight between Varanasi and New Deli. As expected, the Incentive Destination liaison is waiting when we exit our hotels elevator. We are transported seamlessly to the airport but our departing flight is delayed two hours due to heavy fog. We have nothing significant planned for today and I am grateful that we had a clear day yesterday for our morning boat ride on the Ganges.

Our flight to New Deli eventually departs and when we exit the domestic terminal in Deli, a familiar Incentive Destination face holds a Marty Bobroski sign (always minus the e of my last name.) We offload our minimal luggage into the waiting car and an hour later, are deposited at the Inari hotel on the outskirts of the International airport.

Incentive Destination Tours has booked this hotel so that we can relax and sleep until our 2:00 A.M. wake up call for our flight to the U.A.E. The Inari hotel is in a no-man’s land, between the international airport and edged in by a 4 lane freeway. John and I are not good at relaxing and we are hungry and feel trapped in this plush and corporate hotel. The dining room prices equate to a Maharajas ransom and there are no taxi’s or tut tuts waiting outside the hotel. We ask the concierge how we might get into the city and he coldly tells us that is a very long ways away, suggesting instead, a nearby mall, 8 kilometers away. We have not seen a mainstream mall during our trip and this sounds like a good way to pass the afternoon. He tells us that the hotel shuttle will take us there for 1200 rupees each way. ($50 U.S. dollars for 16 kilometers of freeway travel seems excessive and I inquire about a taxi?) He writes down the taxis phone number but is disinclined to call one for us, so we exit indignantly, march down the palatial steps, cross the expansive circular drive way and pass through the hotels security gate. Joyful to be free of the confines of the hotel, we walk another 300 meters towards the main street in search of a tut tut or taxi.

Our flair of independence is blocked by the rushing freeway and we stand defeated in the dirt behind dented guard rails, quickly realizing that there will be no tut tut passing by. A few taxis wiz past but unless the driver spots us well in advance of the road leading to our hotel, it will be impossible for it to pull over and pick us up. There is a small triangle of dirt between the freeway and the off ramp and we stand in our presumably safe triangle and ponder our plight. Just when we are about to return defeated to our hotel, a sedan veers off of the freeway and pulls along side of us.  A woman in her late 20’s rolls down the window and asks if we need help? We tell her that we are trying to flag down a taxi to take us to the Mall. Her English is perfect and she tells us that it is doubtful that a taxi will stop here and suggests that we return to the hotel and phone for one. I lamely mutter that I do not have a cell phone and she immediately pulls out her cell phone and makes a call to a taxi service on our behalf. Several minutes later she hangs up, shakes her head and tells us that it will be over an hour before a taxi can be sent. She then makes us an unexpected proposition: She is returning from work, lives nearby and must go home first to relieve the nanny of her toddler.  She suggests that it would be a fun outing to go together to the mall and that we ride home with her to pick up her 3 year old daughter, after which she will drive us all to the mall.

I glance over at John; he looks quizzically at me and we slide impulsively into the back seat of her small sedan.  She is 28 years old with a 3 year old daughter and lives 5 minutes away.  We chat nervously as she drives, each sizing the other up. Minutes later, she pulls off of the freeway, drives a mile along a frontage road and we arrive at the gated entrance to her house? She tells us that we must wait outside while she drives inside a secure compound to pick up her daughter. We accept her "terms" and once again, John and I are standing in the dirt along side of a road. John, more observant than myself, is exchanging cautions glances with an armed guard looming sentry above the gate. I am oblivious, hot and unbearably thirsty and plop down on wooden rail just outside the gate. The tower guard is not pleased by our presence and asks us what we are doing there? (Apparently he did not notice our new friend offload us prior to entering his supposedly secure compound?) I rattle off a nervous explanation which is less than satisfactory to him and he calls down to us, telling us that we cannot wait here. I try again to explain, at the same time shuffling crab like 20 feet down from the entrance. Another armed guard appears from behind the gate, also unsettled and confused by our presence, but happily, the second guard determines that we are not a threat and asks if we would like some water to drink while we wait?  I gratefully accept the offer expecting a bottle or glass to be brought to us outside but instead the gate slides open and we are escorted inside the secure compound.  We tentatively enter a several room guard house, sink into stained and saggy couches and are handed two glasses of water. The guards have now switched from guarding to hosting and when we greedily drain our glasses of water, another guard brings us glasses of warm sweet tea, pumped from a thermos. Our eyes dart around the room taking in the framed photos on the walls; pictures of armed special force maneuvers, fighter jets and smiling soldiers with their arms thrown over their buddy's shoulderss. I am no longer nervous and could sit drinking tea comfortably in this cool room with these handsome young soldiers for some time, excepting that our new female friend will be returning with her daughter soon and wondering where we have gone?

The door to the guard house opens, sunlight sneaks in, and a soldier barks that our friend is waiting outside. John and I rise quickly, offer our thanks, and slide again into the back seat of our new friends car.  I have forgotten her name but will  refer to her as Majaha and her daughter as Sanja. Her 3 year old daughter sits in the front passenger seat, buckled in but without a car seat. John and I sit in back. On our drive to the mall we learn that Majaha is married to a special forces officer and the family lives in the secure army housing compound.  Majaha is a teacher/phycologist and was commuting home when she spotted us along side the freeway. The 3 year old Sanja is full of questions, obviously precocious.

The 8 kilometer drive to the mall is fraught with obstacles.  Until today, we have not experienced an Indian freeway, but it is commute time in Deli and this multi-lane freeway is moving slowly.  We wait in the traffic jam of cars at a freeway toll gate before snaking slowly towards the mall. (I now understand why the hotel charged 1200 rupees for their shuttle.)  Pay parking is the only option and Majaha graciously pays the attendant the 30 rupee fee. We are scanned through a security arch and my purse and John's back pack are put through an x-ray machine before we are allowed entry into the mall.

Majaha, Sanja and John

Hours ago, John and I wanted lunch and we are now starving. I offer to treat everyone to a meal and Majaha leads us up a central escalator along the upper level to a small cafe. The decor and menu are very Americanized with cushioned bench seats and low tables.  Majaha and Sanja confirm that they are vegetarians and I order a large Greek pizza to share. Everyone has juice smoothies and John orders a additional hamburger and fries.  We chat amicably and cater to the antics of an imaginative and hyperactive 3 year old.

After our late lunch we wander the upper level of the mall and 3 year old Sanja tugs us into a gaming arcade.  In addition to the usual arcade games there is a mechanical bull and I buy a 300 rupee game token card that we can share. We laugh as John is thrown three times from the bull and I am delighted to watch John and Majaha enjoying competitive games of air hockey and bowling. I am not much for games and am content to keep an eye on Sanja, who is happy to sit at the controls of driving and shooting games, simply watching the bright lights flash. I observe a cultural difference in mothering. It may be that I am the presumed babysitter, but when Sanja wanders off, Majaha seems unconcerned of her daughters whereabouts. Is it that we are in a secure mall or that Indian children are presumed safe from abductions? This may be a healthy outlook because Alisha and I panic instantly if either Molly or Sterling disappear from our site for more than a few seconds. After an hour, I can tell that even John is bored by the games but Snaja begs and whines to stay longer and gets her way. Eventually, Majaha carries her daughter, kicking and screaming from the arcade and I reflect on my daughters competent way of communicating boundaries with her children with minimal tears and tantrums.

Majaha receives a call on her cell phone and her demeanor changes. I imagine it to be her husband; perhaps questioning her whereabouts and wondering why in the hell she picked up two strange American tourists? It is dark when we exit the mall and return home in rush hour freeway traffic. Majaha advises us that she will not be able to take us to our hotel but that she will pull onto the shoulder of the freeway to let us out and that we should climb over the guard rail and walk back to our hotel. Horns honk, brakes squeal and John and I slip from the back seat of her car and quickly climb over the dented guard rail to presumed safety, practically sprinting up the dark drive way towards the lights of our hotel.

We have a 2:00 A.M. wake up call and our plans are to go to bed immediately but when we enter the hotel we see a wedding celebration underway on the garden lawn. The restaurant offers an unobstructed view of the party below and we allow ourselves to be ushered to a window table in the dining room, order a large beer to share, and recount the unusual events of our day.

I am not in Kansas any more and this is the great joy of traveling; the unexpected turn of the road when two cultures interconnect.

Sacred Varanasi to Mindful Sarnath

The alarm sounds at 5:30 A.M.  We dress quickly and head downstairs to wolf down the buffet breakfast before meeting our guide and driver at 6:30 A.M.  The streets are already bustling with traffic and in 20 minutes we arrive at the end of the trafficked street above the main ghat. Most of the shops are still shuttered but a chai stall ladles up hot milky tea and a few food carts are operational.

Morning Chai Cafe

The women with babes in arms are out early to catch the tourist rupees and many approach me imploringly. In the grey light of the morning, I observe that the babies, although dirty, look healthy and fat and I give my pocketed 10 rupee notes to the amputees and an old women scavenging along the street. We descend the long flight of stairs to the river ghats and watch morning rituals, both mundane and holy, in the grey light of dawn. It is apparent that many men spent the night sleeping here and we watch them sitting in intimate groups, huddled over small fires and holding cups of presumably hot tea. Pilgrims in saffron robes wait to board large wooden boats and we board our smaller vessel. This morning’s boat ride on the Ganges is included in our tour and we look forward to seeing the sun rise and watching the morning rituals along the river.

Boys preparing their boats for the tourists

Men gathered in the early morning on the ghats

A boy of about 12 rows our boat and our guide tells us that he paddles tourists each morning to earn extra money before going to school. We glide silently down river, keeping close to the bank where both men and women stand waist deep and wash themselves in the river.

Dawn on the Ganges River

Boat boy rowing

The men wear a diverse array of undergarments and are mostly shirtless but the women wade in fully dressed wearing their sarees. Some people stand with their hands folded in prayer or meditation and others energetically wash laundry. Mornings on the Ganges can be foggy and we are fortunate to be here on a clear morning.

Men bathing in the Ganges River

Women bathing in the Ganges River

Morning activity along the Ganges Ghats

Other boats with tourists and pilgrims are on the river and we see them silhouetted dark against the rosy glow of dawn. John dips his hand in the water and reports that it is surprisingly warm, but neither of us would relish a morning bath in the tepid and murky river. Our boat-boy paddles us downriver for 30 minutes and 30 minutes in return to the moorings at the central ghat. The boat owner looms dockside and our guide pays him an undisclosed amount and John tips the young boy 100 rupees for his hard rowing.

Morning activity along the Gange River ghats

Morning Prayer

Morning meditations

Our guide leads us along the shadowed narrow lanes of the old city in the direction of the Golden, Vishwanath Temple.

School Children

Narrow lane in the old city

We stop first at a tiny masala chai shop and our guide tells us that we need to leave all of our belongings here before passing through a high security check point and proceeding to the temple. As we sit on a narrow bench along the wall of the small tea shop a man from down the alley appears carrying a tray of steaming tea cups. We have not yet had our morning coffee and we gratefully sip the hot sweet and milky tea from the tiny cups and wish for more. John accepts the offer of a refill but I stubbornly decline, not wanting to feel further indebted when a sales pitch for the masala chai begins. I am uncomfortable leaving our valuables with the merchant but pass them over and follow our guide down an alley filled with soldiers. Perhaps it is just the presence of the armed soldiers but I can palpably feel tension when we pass through a metal detector spanning the width of the narrow lane. We snake our way towards the temple entrance but only Hindus are allowed entry and John and I take turns standing on a ledge to look above the cloistered temple walls to view the golden dome and spires weighing 800kg. They glint magically in the morning sunlight and and I wish that we could enter the temple grounds.

Narrow lanes in the old city

Unknown temple in alley way

When we return to the masala chai shop to reclaim our valuables, my suspicions are realized and we are treated to a full sales pitch for their special blend of chai along with a pitch for strands of beads that will lower our cholesterol, blood pressure and the cash in our wallets. Miraculously, and to our guide and the merchant’s disappointment, we do not succumb to the many, price inflated temptations.

It has already been a full day and it is not even 10:00 A.M. We drive back to our hotel, have the chance to shower and prepare for our afternoon visit to Sarnath, where Buddha delivered his first sermon in the Deer Park. The drive is less than 45 minutes and we begin by visiting the Mulagandha Kuti Vihar Temple, built in 1931 by the Mahabodhi Society.

Mulagandha Kuti Vihar Temple

Mulagandha Kuti Vihar Temple Bell

For me, this realatively modern temple is a highlight, painted with richly colored frescos by the Japanese artist, Kosetsu Nosu, depicting Buddhist art and literature. I am not well versed in the history of Buddhism but I am mesmerized by the fluid and graphic murals covering the walls. The illustrative, 19th century murals bring the stories alive and I come to understand much of the lore and can relate the means of presentation to the illustrated bible stories that I was taught as a child.

Fresco by Japanese artist, Kosetsu Nosu

Fresco by Japanese artist, Kosetsu Nosu

Buddhist Temple bookshop

An immense and stunning golden Buddha radiates compassion from the altar and a monk in saffron and orange robes sits reading, behind the offering box.  John is fascinated by it all and asks many questions of the monks selling literature at the back of the temple.

Mulagandha Kuti Vihar Temple Buddha

The ruins of the 9th and 10th century, Chowkandi and Dhamek Stupas are in close proximity to the Mulagandha Kuti Vihar Temple and after a brief historical overview, our guide sets us free to explore the significant site. John and I walk the maze of interlocking pathways and circumnavigate the immense stone Stupa but the red brick and stone ruins are overly restored and we do not feel any sense of history or place here.

Sarnath Deer Park

Stupa detail with gold foil offerings

Sarnath Stupa

The site is gated but we encounter a few woman and children who have slipped into the confines hoping to sell their wilted carrots in exchange for rupees. A boy of 6 or 7 approaches us and John gives him candy and hotel shampoo and soap packets from our 5 star hotels. His mother or grandmother appears momentarily and John gives her our remaining soaps and shampoos.  A 6 or 7 week old puppy staggers wearily at the base of a low wall and I search in my purse for any sort of nutrient and come up empty. We know the puppy will not survive the day.

John with boy selling carrots

A gift of hotel soap and shampoo

By mid afternoon our tour of Sarnath is complete and our guide and driver wish to be done with us and to return us to our hotel. Once again, I disrupt their plan and ask to be dropped off elsewhere.  John and I are salivating over the prospect of an evening on our own and with free reign, we set out to explore the souks and markets in Varanasi.

Weighing cooking oil

Brick layers

Boys hauling goods

It is magical to be set free and we feel seasoned enough to explore alone. Our trip is coming to an end and both John and I have a shopping agenda as we walk along the shopping streets and souks with determination.  We find ourselves in a Muslim shopping souk and peruse tiny shops filled with brass deities, spices and teas and jewelry.

A side street 

Muslim women shopping

So as not to get lost, we set our internal G.P.S. on the main street and wander without hesitation or time constraints along fascinating alleyways. We bargain and buy 2 dozen bindis; (an Indian forehead decoration.)  John barters for brass Hindu deities and strands of beads that may or may not lower his cholesterol and blood pressure. We laugh when we encounter cows along the narrow lanes and I search for Indian Kurtas, a thigh length tunic and a possible souvenir for myself and for gifts. John and I have patience with each other’s quests and we trace and retrace our paths examining the splendid goods in the various shops.

Mannequins

Cows in the souk

Sarees for sale

Eventually we tire of shopping and wind our way out of the maze of shops, onto the main street and back to the Dolphin Café.  It is very late and the ghats below the Dolphin Café are deserted except for a few beggars and holy men. I feel anxious as we walk the deserted steps towards the café, but also exhilarated (and out of breath) as we climb the many flights up to the rooftop café. Tonight’s dinner is better than last nights and we are again alone at this roof top café, overlooking the blackness of the Ganges River and the ghats below.

After our late night dinner we have little choice but to walk back via the lonely ghats. We walk briskly and watchfully and arrive safely on the main street, now thinning out with traffic. There are still plenty of late night tut-tuts on the main street and we quickly choose one and climb aboard. As our driver maneuvers his vehicle into the chaotic late night traffic, I imagine that he feels triumphant to have scored a tourist fare, 20 minutes away. John and I huddle together in the back for warmth, still laughing and joyful from another adventurous day. Moments later our driver rear ends the car in front and the impacted driver jumps out and a serious argument unfolds. John and I stand by hesitantly as the argument escalates but soon realize that we have no part in this incident and another tut-tut driver swoops us into the confines of his vehicle and we are swept back to the safety of our tourist hotel.

Erotic Khajuraho to Sacred Varanasi

Monday, January 21- Erotic Khajuraho to Sacred Varanasi

Lakshmana Temple

Just when I think that the best part of our trip is behind us, temples worthy of an Indiana Jones adventure await, but instead of the Temples of Doom, we explore the “Temples of Erotica.”  We have all day in Khajuraho to visit the many temple sites and are picked up at 8:30 A.M. by our familiar driver and a new guide. Unfortunately, I do not remember the guides name but both John and I like him immediately. He is middle age, rounded, soft spoken and seemingly wise. He wears an ecru tunic and sarouel pants and imparts the appropriate historical facts to us, at the same time, allowing us the freedom to make our own assessments about the artistic and erotic aspects of the temples.

Equine Erotica

Erotic Embrace

Vishnu's Boar Shrine stands impressively just inside the entrance to this World Heritage Site.

Carved detail on leg of Vishnu's Boar

View of Vishnu's Boar's Legs

Detail on leg of Vishnu's Boar

Detail on leg of Vishnu's Boar

There are many temples dating between 900 A.D. to 1050 A.D. in the Khajuraho temple complex and our tour begins at the Lakshmana, the temple adjacent to the Matangesvara Hindu temple that John and I visited yesterday afternoon. This temple is the largest and most impressive with soaring sikharas (temple rooftops) an ornate silhouette of elaborately carved conicals. 

Chitragupta Temple

Devi_Jagadamba_Temple

Detailed, bas relief friezes embellish the exteriors of all and our guide discusses the more famous, which in many cases are the most erotic. Voluptous women and virle men take pleasure in each other, contorting in various Kama Sutra positions along the exterior walls. Men are intimate with their horses and rows of elephants and monkeys cavort playfully. Many of the carvings are in remarkably pristine condition and the thousands of carvings, depicting the daily activities of the people, help us to visualize their lives. A beautiful woman holds a mirror and looks back over her shoulder, servant girls attend to chores and lovers repeatedly embrace in ecstasy. 

Elephants watching

Orgey

Kama Sutra

Camel and Horse Parade

Musicians

Musicians

Our guide supplies historical information  as we examine the carvings on the first temple but excuses himself and waits on a bench in the shade while John and I move on to temple number 2 and 3. John is thrilled by it all and I watch with delight as he stands on tip toe to take photos of the friezes. He circles the buildings slowly, carefully examining and photographing the friezes that are within his reach and sight. 

John taking photos

John taking photos

I watch John stand on tip toes and lie prone below carved ceilings to take shots looking up and he impishly asks if I think they would mind if he climbed up the wall? (The three dimensional friezes provide tempting grips for any climber to scale to the top of the temple.) 

Looking Up

Looking Up

Interior temple carvings

Our guide periodically checks in with us but we are thoroughly engrossed and contented to move methodically from one site to another. Eventually our guide suggests that we leave, telling us that the temple structures in the distance are very similar and not as well preserved as the ones we have already visited, but John is determined to see each structure and we have been told that we have all day. We explore the interior of the temples, the carvings inside are polished from years of touch and we circumambulate the interiors reverently.

Interior temple carvings

Interior temple carvings

Interior temple shrine

At 12:30, we descend the steps of the final temple site and see our guide anxiously looking for us. There has been a change in our flight schedule to Varanasi and we must leave immediately.  We are disappointed since we are looking forward to having some shopping time in the village square and possibly returning to bronze shop in the old village.  Instead we are hurried through the square past the street vendors, to our waiting car and whisked to the nearby airport.

Varanasi traffic

Khajuraho street vendor

Regretfully, our plane is delayed an hour but we land in Varanasi late afternoon, are met by a new guide and driver and delivered seamlessly to the Taj Gateway Hotel Ganges. This blog is not intended to be a review of our various guides, but the personality and knowledge of each guide makes a huge difference in the experience.  Our Varanasi guide is disappointing in that he cannot bear a moment of silence and prattles on about inconsequential trivia.  He repeatedly tells us that if we wish him to be quiet to tell him so but this is not as easy as it might sound.  In an effort to calm him, we are unnaturally quiet and nonresponsive to his jokes and running commentary but this seems to inspire him to talk more in an effort to fill the silences.

Varanasi flower seller

Varanasi beggars and holy men

The Varanasi Ghats are tonight’s destination and our driver drops us some distance from the river Ganges where he can park and wait for our return.  We walk with our guide through the teeming streets in the direction of the river. The divided city street is wide, wild and crazy with the usual mixture of traffic; cars, motorcycles, tut-tuts, trikes, cows and pedestrians. Shops brimming with colorful goods line either side of the street and the no man’s land between shops and traffic is an obstacle course of pedestrians, children, beggars and carts. The light is fading making the illuminated shops all the more enticing and we wish to explore but know that we are on a schedule and that the Ganges is our destination. Shop vendors beacon us into their stalls and mothers with outstretched palms thrust babies towards us. I maneuver through the chaos, periodically offering coins to the mothers, the disabled, the holy men but the demands are endless.   

Varanasi beggars and holy men

We come to the top of a wide and long stairway, one of the Ganges many ghats. A jumble of wooden boats are moored at the water’s edge below and a vertically descending row of a dozen holy men sit cross legged with bowls in front of them. These bearded men, faces etched by time, wisdom and hardship wear soiled tunics of saffron, yellow and white and for a coin or two, allow me to take their photographs. 

Varanasi Ghat

Varanasi Ghat

I am not clear on tonight’s plan and our guide suggests that we hire a boat to row us down river to a funeral ghat where we will be able to see the cremation fires at night. The area above the “log jam” of waiting boats is being prepared for tonight’s prayer festivities and I am torn between wanting to sit above the river and look down, or be in a boat, on the river looking up. Our guide tells us that the price for the boat is not included in our tour but that it costs only 700 rupees ($10) and that we can pay him and he will arrange it. It is not the money that is of concern but I have read in the Lonely Planet guide book that one can hire a boat for 100-200 rupees and I want to be sure that the boatman, not our guide, gets the 700 rupees.  

Our boatman

Funeral ghats at dusk

It is near dark when the three of us climb aboard the small wooden boat. Other boats are filling with tourists and young boys with baskets of floating candle votives, walk nimbly between the boats selling their prayer votives. 

Boy selling floating flower votives

Funeral ghat

John suggests we buy a dozen but regretfully, I have not quite grasped the spirit of the river and buy only 5. We paddle silently down river towards the cremation ghat only slightly aware of the many other boats gliding along side of us, silhouetted reflections in the dark water.  We stop 100 meters from shore and watch as shrouded bodies adorned with orange flowers are submerged in the river, anointed by the holy water and placed onto waiting funeral pyres. 5 or 6 fires alternately blaze and smolder attended by priest, family and friends. This is a sacred setting and we are awed by the beauty and the holiness. 

Funeral ghat

Unfortunately, our guide continues his irritating commentary, even when John begins to light the votives and places them one by one in the river. John lights three to honor his friends who have died and we light the remaining two for mom and for Mizuho. Our emotions swell and I begin to cry and know that when we are back at the dock, we will buy more to set afloat to honor the memory of other departed friends and family. Our votives drift with the current, joining others and glinting bright against the midnight black of the river.

Lighting a prayer votive

Setting a prayer votive afloat

Our boat paddler, rows us back to the main ghat where a prayer ceremony is about to begin. We remain seated in our boat and watch the ceremony unfold. Other barefoot boys are peddling baskets of the flower votives and I purchase 12.  There are 4 or 5 ceremonial stages along the edge of the ghat and priests begin to gesture and chant. Festive stage lights blaze, music swells and the chanting reverberates in the night. 

Holy celebration

Holy celebration

Holy celebration

Since my tears, our guide has remained blessedly quiet but he now mindfully suggests that this would be a good time to set the other prayer votives adrift.  A breeze comes up and John struggles to light them and we prayerfully set one after another into the river in rememberance of cherished departed friends and family. 

Pilgrims

Devotees

Devotees

The chanting continues for nearly an hour but when the ceremonies end, we disembark our small boat and walk up the many stairs of the ghat amidst the throngs of humanity, on the Ganges River.    

Holy man

Holy man

Varanasi Ghat Celebration

Our evening tour is at an end and our guide expects to return us to the safety of our hotel but John and I wish to have dinner in the area, at the Dolphin Café, overlooking the river and recommended in the Lonely Planet guide book. Our guide is unsettled by our request and asks how we plan to get back to our hotel? He walks with us to the Dolphin Café and guest house and explains to the concierge that we will need a tut-tut after our dinner there. He warns us to be careful and writes both the name of our hotel and his cell number on a piece of paper and departs. 

Holy cow, shopping the bazaar

Evening bazaar

Evening cafe

John and I hurry back to the bustle of the main shopping street and walk down several narrow souks, ogling the colorful embroidered dresses, pashima scarves, spices and brass figurines. John admires the embroidered mens tunics and pants and we step up into a small shop and with the speed of a magician, the merchant quickly has John dressed in a creamy ensemble. After we have paid the modest amount for the outfit, the merchant suggests a "hat" and leaves us alone and in charge of his shop, returning 10 minutes later with an assortment of colorful  turbans fit for a Maharaja. John chooses one and we laugh over the logistics of transporting it back home in an un-crumpled state; perhaps John will need to wear it? 

Maharaja John

Merchant with John

It must be nearly 9:00 P.M. when hunger gets the better of us and we return to the ghat, now dark and nearly deserted and climb the many flights of stairs up to the rooftop Dolphin Café. We pass a few parties, descending after finishing their dinner and one couple assures us that it it’s worth the climb. We sit outside, the only diners at this late hour, overlooking the river and the main ghat, that just two hours ago was brilliantly illuminated and crowded with humanity.  We share a beer and wait for our tandori chicken, rice and sweet cheese stuffed potatoes to arrive.  All is delicious and the end to a near perfect day.

The concierge phones for a tut-tut driver who appears shortly in the downstairs Dolphin Guest House lobby and we follow our driver along a dark and narrow alley to the main street where his tut-tut waits. He ties down the canvas sides to the tut-tut, cocooning us against the cold wind and John and I huddle together in the back seat in an effort to keep warm. 20 minutes later he drops us outside the gates of our hotel; 5 star hotel security being rigid throughout India. John and I nod to the night guardsmen and pass into the grounds of the hotel to find a wedding party in full swing on the expansive back lawn and patio. Hundreds of wedding guests jam the hotels circular driveway and a 6 piece band blasts trumpets in anticipation of the groom’s arrival. Two dozen dancers twirl and sway wearing meter high, lighted and rotating headdresses, adding to the festivities and illuminating the procession. We observe with amusement, that each lighted head piece is connected by a long cable to a battery powered cart that rolls along in unison with the tethered dancers.  We are not invited guests and John and I stay a respectful distance back, straining to catch a glimpse of the bride or groom, above the heads of the gathered crowd. 

Lighted wedding celebration parade

We enter the hotel, surmising that we will be able to see more of the wedding festivities through the windows of our hotel’s restaurant. Other hotel guests have the same idea and we sit at one of the few remaining window tables adjacent to the back garden patio. We order yet another beer and sit for nearly an hour watching the marriage celebration of an apparently important and wealthy couple. The guest attire is impeccable and formal. A mixed group of elegantly dressed teens sit together at a patio table and the girls eye John through the glass. Just as in America, the young people sip their drinks, awkwardly adjust their uncomfortable clothing and fiddle with their cell phones.  We do not see the bride but eventually an older groom arrives on horseback with a boy of about 5 seated in front of him. We have seen other wedding processions on the streets and all the grooms ride double with a young boy in front. From what I have learned, this is a symbol of luck and the couples desire to bear children. We are told that the festivities will continue for several more hours but John and I have had our fill of this “ball” and before the clock strikes 12:00 P.M. and we turn into pumpkins, we head upstairs to our room to sleep.