Friday 11^th January

When we were on the Gold Coast on our way home last year Pete and I were enthralled by the displays of tattooed flesh.  I thought it would be a good idea, as a business venture to set up either:

(a)      A brand new tattoo parlour because there was, every now and then, a glimpse of UN-tattooed skin to be seen

or

(b)      A tattoo removal parlour for those with deep dark regrets

Kerri Sackville, who writes a very funny blog, has recently been to Surfers Paradise with her family.  She had apparently made the same observations:

Surfers Paradise is Tattoo Central. I mean, really.  If you don't have a giant tattoo of an Eternal-Life symbol embodied in an 'arty' theme all over your shoulder, then you have a tattoo of a massive angel / butterfly / cross / something-that-looks-exactly-like-the-one-your-mate-has all over your back, and if you don't have them, then you have your kids' / lover's / mother's / Brotherhood's names in humungous giant font all over your arms.  It's like a uniform.  My husband amused himself in the lines for the theme park rides by playing 'I can't take a breath until I see a tattoo' and he never once died.  THAT's how many there were.

India #66

We had arranged to meet Vish and Mary’s lovely daughter Hana somewhere in India, and how lucky we were that we were at Larry and Lorraine’s.  Her first few days in India were spent in luxury and comfort.  She arrived very hot, in jeans, and very tired, straight from Dublin, where she had been working.  She had had a wonderful holiday, especially in Cinque Terra, which was the absolute highlight. She took dozens of photos, and then got her pocket picked in a beer hall in Munich.  This was a savage blow; they took her wallet, in which was her memory stick with 500 photos, all carefully and artistically selected.  She also lost her Australian passport, her visacard, and her money.  She was very cross and upset, but was fortunate in that she did have another passport, a British one, which enabled her to get back to Dublin and then on to India.  After all of her adventures, fun, misfortunes, excitement, she was extremely happy to be reunited with her mother and father.

The next day we caught a train to Agra.  This was Lorraine’s first Indian train trip, and very uncomfortable it was; maybe not a good introduction.  It took from 7am to 10.30 on very unforgiving seats.  Jassi had been very worried about us; would we survive the trip, how would we get to the Taj Mahal etc.  Obviously we didn’t really impress him with our competence as travellers, did we?  He organised a car to pick us up at the railway station.  This was a large airconditioned Tarago-like car, driven by an elderly gentlemen called Gupta, who will forever be remember by all of us for his ability to drive extremely s-l-o-w-l-y.  In fact at times he actually came to a standstill, pulled over slightly to the side of the road, just gazing out calmly at the verge.  We asked him to take us somewhere for breakfast, and were immediately driven to a tourist coach restaurant where the prices were appropriately high and the ambiance not very Indian at all.  It was not his fault that this wasn’t really what we wanted; he obviously drove people of our ilk every day, and most tourists do want clean toilets, reliable food, tablecloths.  He was not to know how much we had enjoyed truly Indian eating places, like our favourite Lovely Hotel in Jabalpur.

We all found Gupta quite annoying.  He drove along sedately, literally deaf to our requests and needs.  But – and this is a big but – he was absolutely wonderful with Mary, who was not at all well, and who couldn’t come to the Fort in the afternoon.  He drove the car off to a nice shady spot under some trees, turned on the aircon, and made sure she was comfortable on reclining seats.  We couldn’t have asked for better care.

Well you already know that the Taj Mahal is arguably the most beautiful building in the world.  None of us would dispute this; it is just exquisite.  Our experience was very pleasant; we were lucky.  Sometimes there are huge queues just to get in, but we walked up to the ticket counter, shook the kittywallah (me) upside-down down for a whole lot of rupees, and were in and gazing in no time at all.

We somehow acquired a guide, although we really didn’t want one.  But there he was, this affable, nice-looking man, in his forties, shepherding us smoothly around the walkways to the Taj, telling us all the most interesting anecdotes and snippets of history, finding shady spots for us to stand.  He was wearing a blue chambray shirt, with a logo on the pocket – Tourism Council of India, No. 43.  All very official.  We asked about this; there were no other such guides in view.  “No no,” he said smoothly, “I am a Monument Guide, you don’t need to pay me, I am included in your ticket, paid for by the Council.  There are 250 of us.  BUT if you should WANT to give me a small tip, just whatever you think is fair…” And ofcourse we did pay him; he was worth every rupee, actually, and we all dutifully bought things at the shop into which he steered us at the end of the tour, so that he could get a bit of a % from the owner.  (And yes ofcourse it was yet another ingenious scam; we never saw another Monument Guide, or any other numbers before or after No. 43 anywhere in India.)

I wore a long Indian skirt I bought on the beach in Goa for my trip to the Taj Mahal, thinking it was suitably modest.  It is a nice skirt, sort of tobacco coloured, light velvet, with many embroidered mirrors.  I remember idly stroking it when I was sitting listening to No. 43 at one stage, and thinking, hmmm, the mirrors all seem to have fallen off… It wasn’t until the very end that I actually LOOKED at this wretched skirt and found I had been wearing it inside out…all day!

It is very much more expensive for tourists to visit the Taj than it is for locals.  This is fair enough.  It does belong to them and we do all earn so much more than they do.  Included in our tickets were little treats – a bottle of water each, and overshoes, made of paper.  Locals have to walk barefoot – ouch ouch on the hot marble – whereas we all had overshoes to put on over our sandals.  Very daggy, but it means the marble doesn’t get marked and worn out, and it is so very beautiful it is worth any personal dagginess.  The Taj just gleams and shines; apparently it appears to be different colours at different times of day but for us, around noon, it was dazzlingly white. 

Vish is a purist about many things.  For example, he never wears sunglasses, prefers to see the world as it really is.  Every now and then he would try my sunglasses, and would make very disapproving sounds – but this is not what it REALLY looks like, the colours are all different!  But poor Vish…he suffered terribly at the Taj because it is so very blindingly white he couldn’t see anything at all and Mary had to lead him around, squinting sadly at the beauty around him.  Fortunately he was OK inside, where it is equally beautiful, with intricately inlaid walls, and delicately carved marble.  I have no idea how Shah Jehan got his team of builders to get this enormous and complex edifice built in just 22 years.  His slaves must have worked day and night.  And how could they all be so skilful, at marquetry, at carving??