Its big, and its built on love.

A few friends and I rose before the masses to experience the tourist emblem of India at first light. Massive red-pink gateways at N, E, S, W guard the jewel inside. And then there it was, framed by the entrance archway, the Taj Mahal, described as the most extravagant monument ever built for love, stood in an ambient veil of morning mist. The waterways and imaculate garden lead the eye to the dark entrance to the pure white Mausoleum, built by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan for his second wife who died in childbirth in 1631.

The eastern side was lit in a pale yellow hue, framed by the famous marble minarets. Just spending some time sitting here, the historical power of the Taj melded with my personal appreciation of its beauty and unparalled craftsmanship. It took 22 years and 20,000 people, including some of the finest architects to build. As the story goes, the master architect suffered the murder of his daughter at the hands of the emperor so that he would know the emperors suffering and could translate this into the Taj Mahal. When the Taj was finally complete, he and other master craftsmen had their hands amputated to ensure the perfection of the Taj could never be repeated.
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I slept rough on the night bus into Pushkar. The reclining seat was jammed upright, the road was ragged and the driver was liberal with the horn. The strange dream continued when we stopped at 1:00am for some tucker - deep fried bread posing as Samosa. Worse, for once the bus was ahead of schedule and dropped us in Ajmer, the next town at about 3:30am. Asa, Teresa and I haggled hard with the band of waiting rickshaws. A driver caved in to our price on to Pushkar, and just as we pulled away a bus passed through. Like who would’ve expected a bus running at this time? The rickshaw games began near the town - his guesthouse not ours, and a ‘passenger tax’, like haha. The kind of shit you can do without when you’re not quite with it.

Pushkar grew on me once I overlooked the bazaar of tourist shops on the main rd. The lake sits like a basin on the plains surrounded by hills. Pilgrims bathe and Sadhus wander around the holy lake with its whitewashed architecture and litter free ghats. One place where Hindus have put cleanliness next to godliness. It also attracts a collection of colourful charletans who entice you to take a flower for a Puja (blessing) with the intention to ask a ridiculous amount of money for such a simple practice. Snake charmers poked their cobras awake rather than coaxing them up. But soon the subtle charms of the Pushkar became visible.
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Gangia! Himm Himmm HIMMMMM! Chch chch chchchchc. Gangia Comeon! ChiHAHHH, HIMMMMM. Pwwwii Pwwwwif Pwii Pwii Pwwi Pwii Pwii Pwuwa. My beast kicks into a canter but Im trying to clip Gangia into a trot. The bumpy canter is banging my manliness around too much. I think I know where George Lucas got his idea for the Tauntaun. Pwwwii Pwwwwif Pwii Pwii Pwwi Pwii Pwii Pwuwa, Gangia snorts. A little whack with my short reigns gets my message across more clearly. His afterburners kick in when he senses Gareth’s camel coming up behind. Gangia likes to play lead. Whooohoo lalalalalalalaaa!! We make some stupid war cry sounds that probably make no sense in the desert, but we dont care. We push into the heavier sands of the dunes - yeah, now we’re riding camels!

Bow legged, we dismounted. The Thar Desert’s landscape isn’t of Sahara’s golden sand variety, but harder and flatter, sometimes sandy, sometimes rocky. Definately dry. Barren. But not uniform either. Not dull. Colour is injected by the flowering clumpy cactus. Not the type of cartoon cactus on Roadrunner though. Still, true to our romantic ideas of the desert we set up camp in some dunes. We sent the boys to collect wood for a fire. We climbed the dunes to watch the big sun sink accross rolling dune hills. Back at camp the camel men had unsaddled the camels and cooked up a curry, chapati and chai - a staple fo the next 3 days. We ate, and then the rum came out…
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The Rickshaw man’s dirty fingernail jabbed indifferently at the general direction, down an alley imposed on by tall restaurants all claiming to have ‘The best lake view’. But the sight was as deflating as fruit in your Christmas stocking. I stood blankly for a moment on the ghats (stairs) looking not at my reflection but at cows grazing on the Pichola lakebed. Maybe it’ll be different in the morning.

It was a little. I met a Kiwi girl and her Iranian partner (trying to pass himself off as a Kiwi). Leigh, Arash and I, with an Aussie, Damien, resolved to make the most of Udaipur, supposedly Rajastans most romantic city. Its kinda funny how an empty body of water makes such a difference to the ambience of a town - at least in comparison to the postcards those kids are trying to sell me. The Lake Palace now sits in the middle of the grassy paddock with only a sad puddle of water on one side waiting its turn to evaporate. A few Flamingos strut down here. At sunset camels and elephants parade wealthy guests across to a restaurant, the job the boat used to do. That’s not me by the way. So Arash and I slipped in the side and were soon requested to leave. Cool with us, we just wanted to walk down the path entrance past the Mahouts and their Pachyderms.
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Through the middle of India I dragged myself, pollution and dust in my clothes and in my throat. In the last week I’ve passed through 4 big cities, all with populations bigger than New Zealand, all offering little except the promise of a connection onwards. For the first time in 6 months I wondered if I was exhausted from traveling, or if it was just fatigue from trudging alone through these energy sapping cities.

Off the plane in Chennai, I shot to the Central Station keen to avoid another night there, and had the fortune to book the last sleeper berth to Bangalore. Bangalore has a reputation as a progressive Indian city, where couples hold hands, an IT industry booms, and where designer labels can be bought along the more affluent MG road area. Yet I found little to inspire. Bangalore’s minor attractions, the Fort and Tippu Sultan’s palace, were very average, though the Botanical gardens were an impressive retreat from the usual madness.
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