The Epic Begins

This is Anil. The stars aligned for him, as he was to become our day and night companion, our beer bearer and our Hindi mentor in a very short time. Also, he would be our faithful driver.

We started on the wrong foot and, right after regally exiting the Diamond Tours office, contract in our hands and pride in our hearts, he reluctantly took us on our first Delhi sightseeing tour, which started with the Lotus Temple, the ultimate Bahrain sacred retreat, which oddly resembles the Sidney Opera House.

It is there that my ‘The Indian Way’ teachings prevailed and, after staring at the never-ending queue of impatient Indians elbowing and pushing each other for their turn to visit the mighty, sacred Bahá'í House of Worship perched in the middle of a green garden full of chains and ‘No Entry’ signposts, I shrewdly took a place right in front of the line dragging Mona right beside me, under the approving (yes, that’s right!) eyes of the policemen, who tamed the crowds with one meter long bamboo sticks. In a minute, we were in, among packs of eager Indians and virtually no Westerners, except for some of the faithful followers of  Abdu'l-Bahá.

A silent grand tour of the Lotus Temple and a pamphlet with the obligatory minimum of information was enough, so we exited and hoped that Anil would find us, as both of us completely forgot all of his features. He easily identified us and took us to Humayun’s Tomb, kind of a sneak peek for the Taj Mahal. In the end, they sort of shooed us from the Little Taj, as it was closing time and we would soon start to not distinguish anything anymore, because of the almost punctual Indian nightfall. After the India Gate and an attempt of Anil’s to take us to a very expensive restaurant, we got down at a dhaba (small restaurant) close to our hotel, where we quickly became the main attraction, in spite of the ongoing celebration – to this day known as The Railway Station Holiday. We went back to the hotel, hoping that Anil would come the next day, as agreed, at 6 AM.

We were a little surprised that he did, and even on time, which meant that, by 10 AM, after pleasantly napping in the car, we got off at the 'Quality Restaurant' in Agra, preparing ourselves for a full day of sightseeing.

I will spare you the details of the Taj Mahal, as it’s either tedious or tiresome, both for you and for me. It’s full of Indians, some holy yet working cows and really cute, friendly squirrels.

And it’s in the sun. As is the Agra Fort, which came next on our list and basically sucked all the visiting energy out of us. Consequently, we collapsed comfortably in the car, we drove to Fatehpur Sikri, where a mosque and yet another fort waited our ogling. But we rapidly reached our boiling point and could only have enough power to see the mosque. The last traces of sparkle were forcefully pulled out of us by the ever-present Indian sellers and dwellers that roamed around and inside the mosque (as it’s entry-free) so we laid our arms down for the day and headed for the car.

Although he tried his best, Anil did not stand a chance in front of our merciless cajoling to drive us to Rathambore National Park and stay there overnight. He insisted we should spend the night back in Agra but we were incessantly hoping to get up early in our Rathambore hotel and do the tiger safari in the park first thing in the morning. So, while he insisted, we pressed him harder and, with the eagerness of a dog surrendering the bone of his dreams, he started driving. And, when we told him that we’d like to have yet another royal treat in the car and drink our first Indian beer together, he fervently bought the beers (we paid, of course) and, before we drove off, he rummaged through the trunk of the car and produced a couple of glasses so that our indulging could border decadence.

In hindsight, Anil did have a good reason for wanting to stay: my ever-present leitmotiv: the road! It started out pretty well; it was good, marked and well maintained (by Indian standards). Right up to the point where it stopped being all of the above. In fact, the road quickly became a type of heavily bombed no man’s land, with more holes than a strainer and as much asphalt as water in the strainer. Also, weighing heavily on the downside side of the situation were the lack of light, ergo jet-black night, the ever-appearing animals, because of which Anil kept shoving his foot into the brakes like there was no tomorrow, and Mona’s general state of being sick and car sick at the same time. My smoking stops did not do any good either. Whenever one of the above quit intervening, Anil would accelerate violently, only to be stopped in his tornado-like enthusiasm by another one of the above… He had us lock all the doors and never wanted to stop because he feared for our safety, just like he repeatedly stressed. He also feared for the good condition of his car’s interior (which he cleaned daily), so he yielded and stopped as soon as he suspected that one of us will mess up his car (by spilling beer or bodily fluids).

After four or five hours of dunes, dirt and dust, shaken, stirred and, literally, on the rocks, we eventually got to the desired destination. But surprises expect us at every corner like thieves waiting for their victims: just a day before our triumphant arrival, a tiger from the reservation attacked and – less surprisingly – killed a lone park ranger, apparently tearing him to pieces; well, at least two pieces, one consisting of his head and the other, the only one they supposedly found, of the (rest of his) body. The following news would be bad for us: because of this unfortunate event, the park authorities had restricted the access of visitors in the park, letting in just those people that had made online bookings months before. There was, however, a slight chance that they could squeeze us in the morning canter (a 20-people open-top vehicle, somewhat like a truck) and, if so, they would wake us up at 5.30 AM.

We slept like a pair of hibernating bears until 10 AM or so. Which obviously meant that no safari hot seats had been made available for us. We’d try the afternoon shift, at around 2 or 3 PM, although the morning one is usually said to be the better one for spotting wildlife. But we were on a tight schedule and wanted to leave for Jaipur as soon as the safari was over (in spite of Anil’s protests and frets: ‘driving by night not saafe’). So, just as two lovely, white Westerners would, we intently smiled at whoever was at the hotel’s reception desk, hoping that this would help matters. We waited around; the good, peaceful type of waiting, in the hotel’s green garden, in the sun, or at the weird-looking reception, at the internet. 

Those were pleasant, relaxing hours, a good time to reevaluate our plan: I previously listed the Indian attractions we were going to visit, but our schedule initially looked slightly different. We really were supposed to spend the first night in Agra but we figured it would only mean lost time, so we quickly made for the national park. This, in turn, meant that, somewhere down the road, we would have an extra night. And, in spite of Anil’s reserves (who was afraid of more bad roads), we chose the hill station (another English term put to good use) Mount Abu. I won’t lie: we did not, in fact, take that decision right then and there; we circled around it for days, up until the last moment. But we did use our available time to at least bring it up. Well, that and internet and sunbathing.

By 2 o’clock we were at a loss. Either check-out (which we did anyway) and, with or without the safari, head for Jaipur, or check-in again and stay another night (there was a swimming pool!) and try doing the safari in the morning. Things cleared themselves up without our interfering: finally, they secretly told us we could go (‘But not tell anyone! You are the only ones here who can go!’). And go we did. Not in the canter, mind you, but in a six passenger jeep, which couldn’t have been more comfortable.

Our driver and, mostly, guide, because the other person doubling as guide actually admitted he doesn’t know English, took us, more rocking than rolling, to the mountain, known as ‘The National Park’ which enchanted us with sheer wilderness (and the occasional Indian working at the road through the park), pretty birds, some deer and the very rarely seen sloth bear.

Alas, the park gave away nothing whatsoever about any tiger and the only English our official guide had in him was ‘Morning two tiger!’ Still, the sights were amazing and we were proud to be the very few fortunate ones to see the rare creature known as the sloth bear (by the way our guide and driver spoke, it was supposed to be the ‘salt bear’ but eventually, we figured it out).