Sleeping Around (37 page)

By halfway through dinner Vikram was on his way to earning an upgrade from ‘Negative' to ‘Neutral'. He was actually quite pleasant company when he wasn't trying to sell me ‘unique marble works'. Also, Dasaprakash restaurant where he'd taken me to was nice—and nice and cheap. We ate
thali
(Hindi for plate), which was a large round steel tray with multiple compartments filled with rice, dal,
sambhar
, curried vegetables, chapatti, yoghurt, chutney and pappadums. Vikram still couldn't enjoy watching me drink, though. The restaurant didn't serve alcohol.

As our waiter kept topping up the ‘bottom-less' refills, Vikram talked about his family and life in India. Vikram was one of five children and his family had been in the marble business ‘since they built the Taj'. Vikram was considered quite a rebel for moving out of home at 28. His older brother, who was 35, was still living at home. ‘You usually don't move out until you're married,' he said. ‘But I wanted to be free.'

As I was digging into my third or fourth helping, Vikram said, ‘Did you know that Agra was very famous for food poisoning?'

‘Um, no,' I mumbled through a mouthful of dal.

‘Tourists were given poisoned food in some restaurants and then taken to a private clinic for treatment. Then their insurance company would get a bill for thousands of dollars.'

Vikram noticed me looking somewhat horrified as I stared at the remaining food on my plate and thought about how much I'd already eaten. ‘It has not happened for quite a while,' he said—not totally reassuringly.

I thought I'd better just check. ‘Was this restaurant involved in the poisoning scam?'

‘No!'

Good.

‘Well, I don't think so.'

Thankfully, I didn't collapse on the walk back to Vikram's, although I wouldn't have minded just a little bit of poisoning to knock me out when I tried to go to bed. The couch was way too small and the room was way too hot. Vikram may have elevated his reference back up to ‘Neutral', but his couch rating took a beating:

Couch rating: 5/10
Con: A very short couch
Pro: A very short stay on the very short couch

The Professor turned up promptly at five o'clock and immediately tried to drum up some more business. ‘After the Taj Mahal we go to the Red Fort.'

‘No, I go back to Delhi.'

‘Ah yes, then we go to Akbar's Tomb. It will be very much nice for you.'

The streets were dark and deserted as we made our way towards the Taj Mahal. My plan was to be the first through the gates. John had told me that if I bolted through the walled courtyard inside to the Taj gate, I would have the entire Taj Mahal to myself. Well, for a few minutes at least.

I had to walk the last few hundred metres to the entrance and I was delighted to see that it was too early for the rows and rows of tourist shops (and rows and rows of accompanying hawkers) to be touting their ‘unique' marble works.

When I paid the ‘foreign nationals' 20-dollar entrance fee I was given a ‘free' bottle of water. I doubted if the ‘Indian nationals' got a free bottle of water, though. That would have cost more than their 50-cent entrance fee. I also purchased a small guidebook. I wanted to know a bit of the history and couldn't face the thought of a guide following me around all morning.

Here's the history for you in a nutshell: Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal in the seventeenth century as the mausoleum for his favourite wife, Mumtaz Mahal, who died soon after giving birth to their fourteenth child. Work started in 1641, and the structure took 20 000 labourers 22 years to complete. Legend has it that Shah Jahan cut off the hands of the architect (Persian-born Ustad Ahmad Lahori) and his labourers to ensure that they would never build another.

When I got inside I ran like the wind. A red sandstone gateway blocked off all sight of the Taj until the very last moment. Then it was like a cymbal crash as I caught my first real-life glimpse of its striking beauty. It's almost as if you expect to be disappointed when coming face-to-face with such a famous landmark, because of the gap between the two-dimensional iconic image—which is like a supermodel, always shot from her best angle—and the three-dimensional warts and all reality. But nothing can really prepare you for the exquisiteness of the Taj Mahal.

My timing was perfect. The first rays of morning sun were just hitting the white marble, turning it from blue to orange to yellow. And best of all, I had the entire dream-like setting to myself for all of nine-and-a-half-minutes. That also gave me the chance to take away something that not many visitors to the Taj can capture: a photo of the Taj Mahal without a single person in the shot.

Up close, it was just as breathtaking. The interior marble surfaces were glowing with flowers made of inlaid precious stones. I often went back to the same spot over and over again as the colour of the marble changed with the rising sun. I thought I'd only need an hour or so there, but by the time I dragged myself away it was more than three hours later.

On the way out I could barely move through the hordes of tourists.

The Professor was waiting for me. Well, actually, I walked right up to him and waved my hand in front of his face so he knew it was me.

‘We just have to stop somewhere,' the Professor said as he turned off the road to the train station and up a long driveway.

‘This is my friend's marble shop,' he boasted. ‘It is very much good for you to buy something.'

I told the Professor that it would be very much good for me if we went straight to the station.

It looked like I might have to spend another night with Vikram. There were no tickets for the train to Delhi. Well, no First Class tickets at least. ‘You must pre-book at least three hours before,' the ticket master grunted at me. There were only Second and Third Class (with the goats and chickens) tickets available.

It's handy being a foreigner in India. I purchased a Third Class ticket (for around a tenth of the price of First Class) then simply sat in First Class. There were plenty of empty bunks and everyone just assumed that I was in First Class because I was a foreigner. Everyone, that is, except the conductor. I tried feigning a deep sleep, but he kept poking me until I ‘awoke'. Although he was quite surprised to see a Third Class ticket, he ordered me out of First Class. I hid in the First Class toilets until he'd gone—which I figured at least gave me some experience of being in Third Class since that was just how I imagined Third Class would smell.

It was raining when I stepped out of Delhi train station. No, raining is probably the wrong word. It was more like a Biblical deluge. Although the auto-rickshaw was ‘covered', I was drenched within fifteen seconds of us driving off down the road. The girls were working, so Penelope had recommended a ‘Moghul and Afghani cuisine' restaurant that was ‘sort of on the way back' to the apartment. I was impressed that the auto-rickshaw driver even knew where it was, but then I wasn't that surprised when I saw the sign at the entrance gate to the restaurant: ‘Two times National Tourism Awards winner for Best Restaurant in India.' Park Balluchi Restaurant was in the grounds of leafy Deer Park and as I trudged along the winding path through the rain, peacocks, rabbits and deer scampered about in the gardens next to me.

A squad of turbaned waiters in waistcoats and long shirts greeted me at the door and showed me to my very salubrious table. Before I sat down I checked to make sure I'd brought my credit cards. The meal was a little expensive by Indian standards, but well worth every single rupee. For entrée I had
khumbh bharwan
, which was large fresh mushrooms stuffed with fresh coriander, cheese and spinach then grilled in a tandoor, and a huge serve of
peshwari naan
, bread cooked with poppy seeds and coriander leaves.

I was full by the time my main course came out it in a blaze of glory. And I mean literally in a blaze. The delectably tasty Afghani-style
murgh-potli
was a tandoori chicken breast stuffed with minced mutton and served flambéed on a sword. After my meal I had a couple of Kingfisher beers while I waited for the torrential rain to subside, but— incredibly—it seemed to get worse.

By the time I'd jumped in an auto-rickshaw, the streets had been transformed into gushing rivers. Then, shortly after we hit the main road, the city suddenly disappeared under a blanket of darkness. A massive power cut turned navigating the already jeopardous streets into a frightening game of blindfolded sink or swim.

Eventually my driver gave up. He'd already changed route a few times to avoid massive puddles, but when he came to a lake in the middle of an intersection he abandoned me on the side of the road. Thankfully, I was at least in the right neighbourhood. And I was also thankful that John had fired so many unguided missiles into the street in front of the apartment. It was only by spotting his burnt-out rockets on the ground that I knew where the apartment block was.

I rang the bell for a while before I realised that, duh, without power it didn't work. So I did what any rational person would do . . . I screamed my head off. Just when I was contemplating scaling the wall, Mr Sleepy the guard appeared. And the reason the girls couldn't hear me was that they were having a ‘power-cut party' in the top-floor apartment.

All the apartment block tenants (as in all twelve of them, including Vindaloo) were sitting around by candlelight downing large bottles of beer.

‘That guard sure is dozy,' I said as I sat down next to Penelope.

‘That's because he has two jobs and works twenty-four hours a day,' Penelope said. ‘He finishes his twelve-hour shift here, then goes straight to another twelve-hour guard job in another apartment block. The only time he gets to sleep is on the job.'

What was even more amazing was that he had a wife and young family. The amazing part being that he could get the time to make a family, let alone see them.

As I glanced around the room I noticed Sarah's leg. All up the side of her calf was a huge, nasty, deep-red graze. ‘What happened to you?' I exclaimed.

‘John tried to kill me.'

John looked over with a sheepish grin.

The previous night they'd gone out for a drink and on the way home John decided that he wanted to drive the auto-rickshaw. That was perhaps a little irregular, but although John was drunk, they are easy to drive. Until you start pretending you're in the Motorcycle Grand Prix. John overturned the rickshaw and Sarah was dragged along the road.

Sarah shrugged. ‘What can we do? John's a lunatic.'

‘We're going to another party, if you'd like to come,' Penelope said as everyone was getting up ready to leave.

I was just happy to go to bed. Dead bodies and all.

PHILIPPINES

19

‘I can guarantee at least one free sumptuous banquet feast at a popular Manila restaurant on my expense to every couch surfer who happens to drop by.'

Jude Defensor, 27, Manila, Philippines