Wanderlust

Merangarh glowers down at the Blue City from its 400-foot perch…

People just don’t build fortresses like they used to. These days, our forts are digital, comprised of firewalls and DMZs, encryptions and layers of invisible security. Impressive, sure, but also invisible. Back in 1459, less than 40 years before Columbus misnavigated his way to the New World, an Indian king named Rao Jodha lay the groundwork for what would eventually become the imposing, red-stoned architectural marvel that defines the city of Jodhpur. He was the 15th king of Marwar, the mythical Land of Death, located in western Rajhastan. His empire lay nestled in a barren, dusty plain on the vital trade route between Delhi and Mujarat. It was a dry, fly-ridden town where merchants led camels through narrow alleyways, priests performed puja (blessings) nightly, and the scent of chanting and incense filled the air.

A fine kingdom, indeed, but terribly prone to attacks by the neighboring tribes at its old location. Jodha needed to protect his empire, so he turned his eyes to the heavens, where a 400-foot cliff loomed over the nascent town of Jodhpur. It was a logical place to build one of India’s most impenetrable and renowned fortresses. He rode up the hill with a few of his best men to lay out plans for the fort. An old scraggly hermit named Cheeria Nathji, the lord of the birds, was the only inhabitant there. When Jodha forced him off his roost, the hermit cursed the fortress with a chronic drought, a prophecy that remains true in Jodhpur to this day. Jodha tried to appease the hermit by building him a house and temple and, when that didn’t work, burying a man alive in the fort’s foundations.

Thus it was that the great fort of Mehrangarh was founded. Complete with elephant defense spikes, ornate cannons, a pleasure room, an armory, and quarters for queens, mothers, and concubines, Mehrangarh stands as one of India’s proudest and best-preserved fortresses. The cramped, endless city of Jodhpur murmurs below the fort’s towering hulk, a maze of blocky blue houses and flooding sewers that hasn’t changed much since Jodha’s time.

The fort saw his successors to the early 20th century, when it finally lost its primary purpose as a protective citadel. Men with bejeweled shields valiantly fought enemy troops by horse, foot, and elephant. The latter could fling man and horse casually aside with its powerful trunk, with which it also often wielded weapons. Society was equally dramatic: Queens flung themselves on funeral pyres, musicians and dancers kept the royals entertained in special pleasure rooms, and Jodhpur bustled with traveling merchants and spice traders.

We took an audio tour of Jodhpur’s imposing giant today, exploring the intricacies of the flashy and expansive Rathore empire. The kings seemed to be just as devoted to the glitzier elements of warfare as they were to their effectiveness as warriors. Portraits show them as bejeweled, glaring lords surrounded by rose-scented wives. Their swords had lion-headed hilts and blades cast with jasmine vines. Even the cannons were gilded. So much prettier than the spare northern European ruins I saw as a kid. I wonder what would happen if you put the Rathores head-to-head with, say, the Huns. One group would be perfumed, plaited, and shiny; the other coarse, smelly, and rough. It would be like a fistfight between Elton John and Jack Black. I mean, who would win? Impossible to tell, but highly entertaining in the process.

We finished off the day with dinner at the fort’s restaurant. Phenomenal view, but the overpriced food left much to be desired. Think lamb with shards of gristle, chewy chapati, and badly cooked rice. You know that when the rice is off, something’s wrong. Still, it was a nice, touristy day, and perfect introduction to the great forts of Rajasthan, Land of Kings.

If you’re traveling and get a head cold, you have two options: stay in bed, bored and sick, or tour around like it’s nothing and try to ignore the ever-growing wad of soppy Kleenex in your pants pocket. After three days of hanging out in bed and ordering room service, we felt decent—and brave—enough to start checking out the town in more detail. We rented a motorcycle—err, ok, it was a 30 CC moped with barely enough torque to beat a hungry goat in a dead heat. Correction: We asked for a motorcycle, but the one our hotel owners had was so fast, powerful, and immaculate that we decided it would be better to get something tame. Turns out this steed was just half a step above a bicycle.

So we took it off-roading. There was a rutted dirt road outside of town rumored to contain authentic Indian villages, with authentic-looking villagers, camels, and a smattering of mysterious Shiva temples. Village kids would stick out their hands to high-five us as we whizzed by at a high-pitched 9 miles per hour. Some of their little palms hurt pretty good. I’m sure they felt the same.

We explored a Shiva temple nestled inside of a rocky canyon about four miles into the dirt road. A narrow path led past small, boxy stucco buildings with a scummy set of pools running through the middle. Beautiful fig and bodhi trees grew artfully out of the mountain flank to one side; the inside of the temple, with its silent, dark shrine, contained a powerful, soothing sense of utter peace. Another India contrast: beautiful trees, peaceful temple, pond scum, trash. We passed a herd of billy goats on the way back, swerved around camels pulling loaded camel carts, their necklaces jingling in the sun. We also got stuck in the sand and had a near-miss with a tractor as a result. The moped, which had barely started as we headed out, died in town. The hotel people tried to charge Seth extra for a new spark plug. Sigh.

Another important Pushkar highlight involved flying kites off of Pushkar’s uneven rooftops. Flying kites is hard on every level: getting them up in the air, keeping them from nosediving into a tree, and reeling them back in one piece. Remember how the kids in Kite Runner would fly kites until it was too dark to see? Pushkar was like that, the sky flitting with geometric squares made of tissue paper, kids and adults alike delighting in their nightly ritual.

We also visited a lovely nonprofit called Fior de Loto. They run a school for girls, taking in poor girls from surrounding villages and giving them education, housing, and a chance at a good career. Finally, we discovered the perfect culinary complement to Pushkar’s peaceful and colorful valence. The Rainbow Café serves delectable recipes from around the world with a 360-degree rooftop view of Pushkar. He even serves eggs, which aren’t allowed in the rest of town for religious reasons. We spend many a satisfied hour cultivating our love handles at this sweet locale.

Delhi is a giant human anthill. It must have taken at least two hours to get out of Delhi’s traffic-infested urban sprawl and onto the highway to the Taj. The road to Agra is flat and nondescript, a superhighway with fields on either side and a pollution-white sky. Agra kind of resembles its name: guttural, industrial, dirty, with hints of agriculture. It’s so polluted here that visibility is less than half a mile.

We spent a freezing cold night at a budget hotel and headed for the Taj early the next morning. The Taj was built by Mughal Emporer Shah Jahan in the mid-1600s as a tomb for his second wife, Mumtaz. Jahan was said to be so grief-stricken after her death–she perished while birthing their 14th child–that his hair went gray overnight. Around 20,000 people constructed the Taj, giving rise to the city of Agra. The Taj is constructed on a platform, so that the sky is its only backdrop. It’s touted as an edifice of purity and beauty; a wonder of the world, one of life’s must-sees.
Understandably, it’s also a tourist megahub. You pass through a line of aggressive peddlers to buy a ticket, check all your bags and food in a locker, and stand in line for a scan inside a metal detector. After you’re cleared, you join a throng of international tourists to the tomb itself. Indians mingle with Europeans, Japanese tour groups, Americans, and one-offs from all over the globe. It’s overrun, but you hope it’s worth it.

It is. Even with a hundred heads in view, even with the dense pollution, the gleaming white edifice of the Taj stops your heart for a split second. It’s an exact match to the Taj you picture in your imagination. On  glance, time itself stops until you blink and remember where you are. From a distance, it’s all gleaming purity; as you venture closer, you glimpse elaborate designs that appear inlaid with unmatched tenderness. The monument looms in its aching perfection, an immaculate testament to a fallen love and, later, a Mughal kingdom turned to ash. You want to walk up to it, but feel hesitant to touch it, because its architecture is fine enough to be just out of reach. It’s a building that you can enter, but can never truly access. The place has captured a soul and held it tenderly, like a child holds a butterfly. It’s even more exquisite with the contrast blocky, dry, blaring Agra surrounding it.

We took pictures for a while, then took a secret detour to the Taj’s mystical backside. The Taj is perfectly symmetrical from all four sides. Most people only see it from within the confines of its four official walls. However, if you walk north past the storage lockers on the east side of the grounds, past stone cutters and herds of goats, you access the wide and stagnant river that delineates the Taj’s rear perimeter. We hired a boat to take us across the river, then found a small boy with a camel to capture the Taj from a new angle. Seth worked his magic while the kid, who couldn’t have been older than nine, hustled us like the best of them. He grinned, posed, and flashed his pearly whites like a Bollywood stud. When it came time to pay, he gave us the professional lowdown on his profit distribution (care and maintenance of camel, food for self, board for camel, money for friend), and ended up making out pretty well.

After that, we loaded up on chai, pancakes, and porridge–the quintessential Indian tourist breakfast–and headed back to Delhi. Just a couple more days in Delhi before we leave for the great deserts of Rajasthan.

After the 20+-hour hike from The Coldest City on Earth (err, Denver) to Delhi, I’m happy to say that I’m hanging out with Seth and Sandy at the wonderfully named Hotel Cottage Yes Please. It is not warm in Delhi. In fact, our room, which resembles a garishly styled mausoleum, turns into a bit of a fridge at night. Down jackets during the day. This is the first time I’ve been in a 3rd-world city that is less than 90 degrees.

Delhi is vast. It smells acrid, sounds like car horns, motors, rapid-fire Hindi conversations, and barking dogs, and feels like a messy connect-the-dots picture. Here, a shanty town; there, a sprawling ambassador’s mansion; power lines hanging like spider webs atop alleys littered with cow pies, music, food, foreigners, locals, tinsel, Hanuman…everything is everywhere here. Picture 22 million people and enough urban sprawl to make Los Angeles shudder.

We’re not so much touristing here–though there are fantastic old colonial buildings and museums to be seen–as we are taking care of business, like buying alarm clocks and getting Sandy’s flight sorted out. We’re hiring a car and driver to make the 3 1/2-hour trip to Agra tomorrow. Today will be all about massages, haircuts, and food…