Author: David Uncle

Down in the Thar Desert town of Jaipur, you can do things you can’t do in West Bengal.

Ride camels and elephants, for instance. Buy barley seed and climb, climb, climb up steep hills to attack the forts on top. (Not recommended – by the time you reach the fort, you’re so winded a nine-year old defender with a cricket bat could send you rolling back to the bottom.)

Another thing you can do is go on a safari and shoot leopards. Of course that is the first thing my barley-hunting farmer friend signed up for. 

If you’re an animal rights activists and are balling up your fists and wishing to punch our heads, you can keep your shirt on. (Curious idiom. Comes from the time when angry men who wished to punch heads on a Sunday would first remove their shirts. Not being as affluent as angry men are today, a man only had the one good shirt and didn’t want his wife punching his head for getting it bloody.) 

Sorry for the side-track, did I say shoot leopards with rifles? What I meant to say, in quote marks, was “shoot” them with cameras. (What now? You want to punch my head for deliberate homonym misuse? Well, it’s a free country I guess. Punch away.) 

Yikes. This entire post is becoming parenthetical, I’d better get on the stick. (Another curious idiom. Lucky for you, I don’t know what it’s from.) 

Leopards are mostly nocturnal, so you need to venture out when it’s dark enough for him to still be awake but light enough for you to see a leopard. 

Even in the winter, the Thar Desert is hot. So one thing we didn’t think to pack is warm clothes. And one thing they don’t tell you – a thing everyone knew but us – is at 5am, the Thar Desert is not hot, it is cold. In the low forties. Like your refrigerator. My friend wore a thin, cotton shirt. I was in short-sleeves. The safari jeeps sit you in back above the windshield.

Then your driver listens to his walkie-talkie, hears where a leopard has been spotted and tears off as fast as he can. The effect is like being in Chicago on a blustery winter’s morning locked out of the house in your underpants. 

We didn’t see a leopard on our first charge. 

Or our second charge.

But our third wild, windy ride, was the charm. And here he is!

So assuming the world is ever released from covid house arrest and is looking for a teeth-chatteringly good time, my advice to you, world, is to take a Thar Desert Leopard Safari like a real* man – in winter, in short sleeves and shorts.  

*stupid

Okay, enough of that.  Here’s a picture of the Most Beautiful Building in the World. 

As you’ll recall (and I’m sure you all do) I’d written in an earlier post that when the Taj Mahal was declared the Most Beautiful Building in the World, it must have bummed out the previous title holder. “More on that another time.” sez I.  Well, it’s another time.

As everyone knows who just looked it up, The Taj Mahal was built by grieving Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan for his favorite wife, Mumtaz Mahal. Humayun’s Tomb was built by the grieving Mughal Empress Bega Begum for her favorite husband, Emperor Humayun. Both were built to be the Most Beautiful Building in the World. Surprisingly, both succeeded.

But the Taj was built in 1649. Humayun’s Tomb was built 100 years earlier. So for a century, Humayun’s Tomb was the only Most Beautiful Building in the World. Now it’s called, “The Red Taj.” (Still the largest red sandstone structure ever built.) 

Emperor Shah “Copycat” Jahan probably took Mumtaz Mahal there on their honeymoon. We can picture them, sitting in a cafe, watching the sunset turn the minarets fiery red.

M MAHAL: “Could there be anything more beautiful than this tomb?”  Then, “Poopsie, what’s that you’re scribbling on your cocktail napkin? Something for me?”  

S JAHAN: (QUICKLY COVERING IT UP) “Nothing Mumtaz, my little pumpkin flower.”

After visiting the tomb, I dropped some friends off at their apartment and there on the wall was a momma monkey and baby chimp. Of course, I couldn’t just take their picture – oh no. I had to be in it. That expression is me realizing my grip on my pricey, stylishly slim smartphone is slipping.

Some random moments:

You’ve probably all seen a Morris Minor. Well, back in the 1930’s, there was something called a Morris Major. I walked by one every day at an auto restoration shop owned by a fellow named Revin and his father. 

It took them weeks to restore it and when it was finished, they surprised me by giving me a ride. The Morris was twice the size of anything on the road with a three-tone horn that caused all the two-cylinder traffic to spring out of our way.

During the months I was in Delhi, I stayed with a happy little family and became good friends with Dilip the dad – a video producer. It seemed like Bollywood was knocking out one exciting blockbuster a week that summer. We always wanted to see one together but could never find the time. 

Sometimes we’d go out for ice cream on his motorcycle. We’d weave between cars and trucks whose side mirrors were almost touching (and yes, that’s his three-year-old daughter sitting on the gas tank). 

Wanting to bring home something nice for the ladies in America, I was taken to a little import/export shop by my friend Indi and introduced to his Kashmiri friend, Sajan. While we sipped tea and chatted, Sajan’s staff laid out rows of pashmina scarves for my perusal. An unhurried, civilized way to shop.

Among his many talents, Indi is an artist with highly refined taste – which is a big help when you’re choosing from an infinite variety of scarves. By way of conversation, Sajan casually mentioned that Israel’s long-awaited Messiah had returned.

“Really? Where?” 

“Just down the street.” 

My eyebrows went up. Noting my interest, he called an assistant to show me the way. I grabbed my camera.

When we arrived, the guard downstairs let us know that the Messiah was not receiving visitors, at least not Gentile ones. Through my interpreter/guide, I asked what the Messiah was doing and he said, if I understood correctly, that he was just messing around upstairs. 

We stood around awkwardly for a minute then went back to Sajan’s.

I’m only bringing up the current unmentionable, unnamable scourge on mankind because I saw this picture on the internet.

The “before” shot was taken on a particularly nasty day in October of 2019. The “after” shot was taken on Earth Day last week. Not sure it’s worth dynamiting the economy of the entire world to see it but you have to admit, it’s pretty nice.

The first year I was in India, I lived for awhile in Delhi. I’m surprised it’s taken me 22 posts to remember that.  Delhi is a Great, Big City. It has over twice the population of New York and Los Angeles combined. Hmm. Better factcheck that. 

https://worldpopulationreview.com/world-cities/

Yep. That is correct. Being about a thousand years older than LA and NYC combined, you’d think there’d be all kinds of catchy songs written about it. I can’t think of any. Can you? No? Alright then, how’s this?

“New Delhi! New Delhi! That toddlin’ town! That toddlin’ town!”

No wait. That’s too much like another song. How about this:

(BIG BUILD UP: BUM! BUM! BUM! BUM! – BUM! BUM! BUM! BUM!) “OLD! New Delhi where the wind comes sweepin’ down the plains! And the wavin’ wheat, it shore smells sweet…

(What?)

…when the wind comes right behind…”

WHAT? Why are you waving your arms like that? You’re throwing me off. Plagiarism? Okay genius, you think it’s so easy? Let’s hear you try it.

I’m waiting…m-hmm…m-humm…             

THAT STINKS!

Forget the song. Here’s one of the first pictures I took heading in from the airport. Freeway median art. I asked the driver if the balls had any special significance. He said they don’t. I disagreed. I think they do. Given the city’s long history, the balls could be commemorating the fallen heroes who made Alexander the Great give up on his quest to conquer India. Or perhaps they represent the many shiny balls on bending poles one encounters throughout one’s life.

Yow! Look at my word count! Once again, you let me blab on too long. Now I have to rush.

Here’s the little hotel I stayed at. Bloomrooms on Link Road.

Bloomrooms are a quick, ten-minute walk to the Jangpura metro station. (While an Uber is almost always the cheapest and easiest way to get somewhere, you have to wait for them to arrive and if the traffic’s heavy, they might cancel on you.)

Here’s the metro. Spanking new and zippy.

The metro will take you about anywhere you want to go. A 1000 rupee smartpass ($15) lets you skip the long lines and buys you about 50 rides under 5 kilometers. (And everything’s under 5 kilometers from the Jangpura metro).

Or you can go door-to-door in one of the many handy taxis called “autos”. They charge whatever they think they can get. Especially from tourists. They may grumble but secretly they’re happy to get 100 rupees (75c).

Or this bicycle guy will take you for almost nothing (25c). But you feel kind of guilty all the way. 

Rest and relax now. Next week, we’ll explore a bit. 

Grumpy Red Panda, Your Host

About six hours after zipping across the most oven-fresh bit of road in India (see previous post), we reached our destination – Mangan. There we found a restaurant with a stunning view, something so common to the Sikkimese that no one even bothers to look or even sit by the window. We did though, and enjoyed both the scenery and the North Bengal equivalent of cocoa and toast – chai and momos.

There’s a short stretch of road in San Francisco that’s famous for being the steepest in the United States. In Mangan, all the roads are that steep. Steeper even – and I am not exaggerating one bit. (Well, maybe one bit. But certainly not more than three bits.) 

Here, for instance is a stairway that takes you from one street up to the next.

Going down is kind of hairy since the passage is unlit, there are no handrails and the tiles are usually wet from Mangan’s being up in the clouds. Going up is easy. You can climb those stairs on all fours using your hands and feet like a monkey (making ook-ook sounds warning descending traffic to look out, here comes the monkey).

My friend had to walk high into the hills in bone-chilling rain to a small village to get his business done so I volunteered to take on the thankless job of shopping and guarding the coffee shops.  

There are plenty of saloons in Mangan. For some reason “saloons” are what Indians call barbershops (so if you’re a-hankerin’ to wet your whistle, pilgrim, you’ll just haveta keep on a-hankerin’). 

Speaking of John Wayne, Mangan people see very few western people but they see quite a few western movies. When I’d mosey into their establishment and say, “Howdy!” they’d nod and jabber enthusiasticlly. Very quickly, though, they’d lose interest when it became clear I couldn’t speak a word of their language – and couldn’t even keep talking like John Wayne. 

The minor official my friend had to see told him he’d have to come back with his paperwork in better order – something minor officials the world over love to say to someone who’s come hundreds miles to get a rubber stamp on something. So we headed back down. This time by way of Gangtok, the capital of Sikkim. 

Our driver must have felt guilty about charging 200 rupees ($2.50) for a 120 kilometer trip. So to provide a more value-added experience, he entertained us by passing every vehicle we met, regardless of its size or speed, honking his horn all the way.

As you can see, the roads, though narrow, were better than those coming up and the scenery even more spectacular. The locals traveling with us were oblivious.  At every rushing waterfall and barely missed cliff edge, my friend and I would elbow each other, “Looky here!” or alternately, “Looky there!”

But the more our jaws dropped, the more the other passengers’ jaws did likewise – snoring. 

One-Eighth of an Inch from Tibet (judging from my Google Maps)

Most Americans have never heard of the state of Sikkim. That’s okay. Most Indians have never heard of the state of Wisconsin. Heck, they’ve never even heard of the state of Indiana and we named it after them – at least what we thought was them at the time.

A friend of mine had some business up in Mangan so I offered to tag along. A lot of my expeditions begin with “…so I offered to tag along.” It’s not like I don’t have other things to do. You bet I do! Seeing how fast I can open and close my mouth (personal best – 53 times in 10 seconds), practicing bending spoons using nothing but the power of my squinting face (nearly had it a couple times), trying to make my fingers do that “live long and prosper” thing,… I may be retired but I am good and busy. 

Sikkim was a kingdom till their king married an American and the people demanded to become part of India. Those, by the way, are two totally unrelated events. Nothing to do with each other. Just happened at about the same time, that’s all. Don’t jump to conclusions like it sounds like I’m doing. I’m sure she was a lovely woman. (Whew! Got out of that potentially nasty international incident rather neatly don’t you think?)

The distance from Siliguri, West Bengal to Mangan, Sikkim is about 90 miles – roughly the same distance as Chicago to Milwaukee. But where you can drive to Milwaukee in a little over an hour, driving to Mangan took us a bit longer. About 13 hours longer. 

One reason it felt so long is it’s uphill almost all the way. Another reason is 13 hours is a long time – especially in an 8-passenger jeep carrying 13 people.

Yet another reason is, after bumping along for three hours, our driver stopped and turned off the car. This is a frequent mountain road courtesy that allows cars coming downhill to do so for a few minutes. We waited half-an-hour. Then, without a word, our driver got out and started walking back down the hill. No one in the car talked – we just waited. (Indians can be very patient and surprisingly incurious about disruptions to their plans.) Figuring there must be an accident, I told my friend I was going to walk up ahead and see what the matter was. Cars were stopped behind us as far as I could see. Fortunately, it was a five minute walk to the front of the line where I perceived the cause of the holdup: The road was gone.

About 100 feet of it had been taken out by a landslide. On our side of the abyss, a diesel shovel operated by soldiers was banging away at the hillside causing new rockslides. After watching it do that for an hour, it began digging into the side of the hill. In another hour, it had created a kind of cave. Then it banged the roof off. More rockslides.

Then from the other side, with a blast of black smoke, a bulldozer came chugging across. Back and forth it went until it had bulldozed something that kind of looked like a road. Total elapsed time – three hours.

Trusting in appearances (to a degree that would make any auto insurance company blow coffee out its nose) traffic resumed. 

Like me, gentle reader, you probably have plenty of time these days to knit and read blogs and such but I wouldn’t want to presume upon your good nature. So let us pick up this thrilling narrative same time next week. Meanwhile, live long and..enh!…mmmph!…(doggone it).

A big American breakfast is bacon and eggs, hash browns, toast and coffee. A big Indian breakfast is chapati, (warm flatbread) chutney, (a spiced paste with fruit and/or vegetable chunks) idli, (a spongy rice patty – that’s not it under the flatbread but pretend) and tea or coffee with milk and sugar (more on that later). 

If anything, the Indian breakfast is bigger than the American one. It needs to be. Why? Because there’s no bacon. Why? Because most Indians are Hindus and all sattvik-practicing Hindus are vegetarian. They say a sattvik diet helps purify the mind and body. The rest of us (including most regular Hindus) are happy to sacrifice a little mental and bodily purity for a few bites of bacon.

Nearly all other Indians are Muslim and don’t eat pork so they’re no help. Most hotels serve bacon because tourists like it.  But if you like it crisp, like I do, you may have to send it back to the kitchen a couple of times.

A big American breakfast will run you $15 or $20. A big Indian breakfast is around three to five bucks. (A buck or two more if you want that bacon.)

You can get the best breakfast tea in the world in India. You can get very good coffee as well but you can’t get it just anywhere because most Indians are indifferent to Starbucks and seem perfectly content with Nescafe. 

It’s amusing for Indians to watch a coffee snob like me suffer the slings and arrows of instant coffee. Even after resigning myself to order it, I have to be very clear on what I’m asking for.

Me: “Black coffee please. No milk. No sugar.”

Waiter: “Coffee. No milk. Just Sugar.”

Me: “No. No sugar.”

Waiter: “Just milk?”

Me: “No. Just coffee. NO milk. NO sugar.”

Waiter (TO MANAGER): “This man wants coffee. No milk. No sugar.”

Manager: (LOOKS AT ME SUSPICIOUSLY. LOOKS AROUND TO SEE IF THIS IS “CANDID CAMERA” FINALLY SHRUGS.) “Okay. Do as he asks.”

The above conversation is a verbatim encounter. The waiter wasn’t dull. He just never had anyone want coffee without milk or sugar. It was as if I’d asked him to ignore my cup and just pour the coffee straight onto the table. 

They watched me taste it. I had to express lip-smacking, eye-winking satisfaction before they finally believed that I did indeed want what I ordered. And to my surprise, they remembered. Weeks later, I was greeted like a celebrity.

“Oy! Coffee Black! No milk! No sugar!”

I was at the Delhi Airport McDonald’s one time staring at a menu board and trying to decide between a Chicken McMuffin or something called an “Egg and Mutton” sandwich. Suddenly, I had an inspiration.

“May I help you, sir?”

“Yes. But first I want to help you.”

(SHE BLINKS.) “Yes, sir? May I help you?”

“I would like to give you a million-dollar breakfast sandwich idea. One that will make all American tourists want to come to your McDonald’s.”

(SHE LOOKS ON THE BOARD TO SEE WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT.)

“No, it’s not up there yet. But it should be. You should call your Egg and Mutton sandwich The Egg McMutton!“

(SHE BLINKS.) “You want Egg and Mutton sandwich?” 

“No. I want you to call that sandwich ‘The Egg McMutton’!  Americans will love it! And I give you this million-dollar idea, free of charge! Just take it and run with it!”

(I WINK AND NOD AND SMILE WINNINGLY TO DRIVE THE IDEA HOME.)

“You want Egg and Mutton sandwich. You want fries?”

My presentation deflates. Customers behind me lose their brief enthusiasm for the idea and grow restless. I order a chicken sandwich and move out of the way.

Time was when only official envoys, military personnel, missionaries, rich folks and James Bond could travel to exotic locales like Kathmandu. Now anyone can do it – or could before that Pestilence-Which-Shall-Remain-Nameless put a stick in the spokes of the whole planet. (This too shall pass, this too shall pass, this too shall pass,…)

Kathmandu, like most cities in India, is comprised of a budillion little shops located in every lane, pathway, corridor, nook, cranny, ginnel, snicket and twitten (found those last three in a British thesaurus). 

Hotel Bravo sits just above the jolly Thamel district.  (That’s our little roof cabin in the middle.)

Every Thamel shopkeeper is a commodities contortionist, able to cram any amount of goods into an impossibly small square footage.

But there’s a happy symbiotic relationship between merchant and tourist. You’re walking along and as soon as you turn the corner you find a hawker has attached himself to you. Walking backward, he shows you a handmade wooden monkey puppet which he can make do a little dance and for which he wants 2500 nepalese rupees only! (About $19.99.) Since TV has taught Americans that we can afford an infinite number of $19.99 purchases, you halt a moment (mistake) and imagine yourself spending an hour learning how to make the monkey dance as skillfully as the merchant – who has, of course, spent years honing his technique. So you make him an offer the Savvy Tourist Way.

Savvy Tourist: “No thanks.”

Hawker: “2000 only!”

S.T.: “No. Really.”

Hawker: “What do you pay?”

S.T.: “Nothing. I don’t want it.”

Hawker: “You tell how much. Any.”

S.T.: “600 rupees only!”

Mechant: “BOFF! (Nepalese for “Caramba!”) My children cannot eat! 1800 only!” After a couple more indignant exchanges we settle on the ridiculous price of 800 rupees.

Both scalper and scalpee walk away shaking their head but both are in fact delighted with their end of the bargain. You, of course, never do learn to operate the thing. But your granddaughter might (not).

After a truly restoring cup of Americano at the Himalayan Java Coffee Shop, you head to famous Durbar Square. (It’s kind of fun to write in travel brochure talk. Try it.) Durbar Square has long been a mecca for vacationers and is a must-see for sightseers both young and old. Don’t forget to keep that phone charged! (Okay, no more brochure talk. My brain is beginning to fall out of my ear.)

The temples here are very old. But they look very, very old. Mostly because the brick eventually disintegrates. In 2015, that process was helped along by a massive earthquake. When I saw this picture, I realized the downside of brick: While no wolf can huff and puff your house down, with a little side to side movement, the venerated shrine  on the left becomes the pile of old bricks on the right.

On our way back to the hotel for dinner, what to our wondering eyes did appear?

A friend who lives in Northfield, Minnesota always invited us to Jesse James Days celebrations. My wife even won a T-Shirt contest at one once. 

The food is nothing to write back to Northfield about. But in all fairness, the food in Northfield is nothing to write Kathmandu about.

India likes its tourists. Especially American ones. One of the few demands the Indian government puts on its guests is that they renew their visas every 180 days. If you have a ten-year tourist visa, you do this simply by leaving the country for a time.

As it turns out, this is a good thing. Left to my own devices, I might venture to a nearby country out of curiosity every couple years but with the visa rule, I am officially invited to add a colorful new passport stamp every six months. 

My first visa run was to Nepal in 2016, and that’ll be our only subject this week so you can just forget about your coronavirus. You won’t see a single solitary mention of it in this entire two-minute read. If that’s too long to wait, I’m sure there are 32 million other blogs that will be happy to accomodate your morbid…(What? I did not mention it. Where? Oh, there. Right. Well, you won’t see it twice.) Okay, where was I? You and your morbid something something…great. Now I forget what I was going to say. Let’s just skip ahead.

Kathmandu is only 200 miles from Siliguri as the crow flies, but unless you can find a really big crow, you have to go 700 miles west to Delhi, then backtrack 500 miles east to Kathmandu. 

Your plane threads the needle between a number of steep, forested hills coming in.

The minute you’re through customs, half a dozen taxi drivers leap to your side shouting out sightseeing tours, shopping tours, Mt. Everest tours,… You politely “no thanks” them all away. “Hwain dhanyavad. Hwain dhanyavad. Hwain…” Wait a minute. Did you say Mt. Everest? THE Mt. Everest?  Okay, you got me! Here I am putting my foot into your tourist trap. Now what?

“Kee?” (“Whut?”)

“I said O…K…” 

“OK?!” He nearly faints. I didn’t even ask the price. (Which is stupid by the way. Don’t do that.) Turns out it was about $150 for a one-hour flight but that included finding me a working ATM for cash, stopping at his office to buy the ticket, taking me to my hotel and providing a crack-o-dawn taxi to and from the airport for the tour.

Here’s the Hotel Bravo.

Stay on the tippity top floor. Nice, clean little bungalows for just $30 a night. (At least they were in 2016. You might try staying there then.)

The flight leaves at 6 am(!) the airport is 45 minutes away and they want you there half an hour early. So you get up at four and you wake up high in the sunny sky in this little turbo prop.

Right away, you notice that the Himalaya mountains are long, knife-sharp peaks instead of the roundy ones you’re used to back in the USA. 

As part of the package, a delightful stewardess sits with you and tells you what you’re looking at. 

Eye-rollingly, you have to fly from Kathmandu practically all the way back to your house in Siliguri to see Mt. Everest.  And although Mt. Everest is 29,000 feet tall, it doesn’t stand out quite as dramatically as little 14,000-foot Mt. Rainer in Washington but hey, it’s MOUNT EVEREST so kwitcherbellyachin’.

(Big plus: the pilots let you come up front and look out the big cockpit window.) 

All in all, it was the most fun for 150 dollars I’ve had on this side of the planet. Oh, whups, I’ve gone over a bit overtime. Next week, we’ll poke around Kathmandu proper.

There. I said it.

We haven’t had a world war in a very long time. And we’ve never had a war where it was the entire world versus an alien invader. (A real one, I mean.)

Well, we’re making up for that now. 

And for the duration of The War, Indian citizens over 65 years-old are directed to stay indoors and to wash our hands anytime we touch something we haven’t just sanitized. 

Although I am a tourist, not a citizen, I am complying with that order. I’m guessing the decrepitudes of age, not nationalities, are the driving factor here. 

India is less than half the size of the continental United States in square miles with four times the population – 1.3 billion.

As of today, 271 people have been diagnosed with the disease, three of whom have died. Now, if that seems like small potatoes to you big potato plague spots out there – it is. And the Indian government would like to keep it that way.  Hence the directive.

I wish all my friends and family were here to ride this thing out.  But for the time being, India is not allowing any foreign visitors. (Even if you drop my name.)

So as long as I’m housebound here in West Bengal, I thought I’d show you around my house. 

Here’s my living room, bath and kitchen.

Here are my two bedrooms.  The one on the right is where I sleep and write.

See my little writing desk?

I get up around 5:30 in the morning. Meditate a bit. Read a bit. Exercises for five minutes. Make a cup of coffee. Put on some music. Check emails. Reply (if it’s you). Read awhile more. Then have a nice lunch.

I don’t usually check the news but during the present emergency, I check it compulsively – at least half a dozen times a day. 

The afternoon varies. I write notes for my blog. Text pals near and far. Climb to the roof to read, write, plan the next trip, admire the view and whatnot.

Then I climb down. Make lists. Order stuff from Amazon. Read some more. Have dinner and straighten up the mess I’ve made with all that reading during the day. 

Sometimes I go back up on the roof to have a cigar and watch the sunset. Or watch the neighbors drag out a card table and play rummy in the courtyard. Then, I go down for a last cup of coffee and a last e-news check.

Around 10, I crawl into the sack and doze off with some improving book or novel (dislike that word these days – reminds me of something unpleasant. Like a virus or something). Around midnight, I wake up with a start, turn off the lights and turn in.

While in my happy confinement, I find myself more thankful than ever for the great good fortune of family, friends, laptops, cellphones, Google, Kindle, gmail, Amazon, social media, social security, indoor plumbing, coffee, cocoa and toast. 

Especially cocoa and toast.

Now then, where were we?

Let’s see,…schoolchild…exciting details…ah, here it is: “romantic backstory”.

Seventeenth century Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan had seven wives but his favorite was Mumtaz Mahal “The Jewel of the Palace” as you can see for yourself.

After she had their 14th child(!) she died. Shah Jahan was sad. Possibly sadder than anyone ever was. He would never forget her – and he was determined that neither would anyone else. He vowed that he would build Mumtaz Mahal the finest tomb anyone ever saw.

For 22 years, 22,000 workers, craftsmen and artisans worked, crafted and whatever the verb for artisan is. The result wasn’t just the finest tomb in India, it was The Most Beautiful Building in the World. And the world has not denied it. This probably bummed out the previous “Most Beautiful Building in the World” title holder. Which also happened to be in India. (More on that another time.)

Unafraid of repeating myself, I strongly recommend you hire a guide at tourist traps. Aziz charged us about $20 for which we received $8 in fun facts and at least $50 worth of zipping us to the front of many long, hot, long, long lines. Then Aziz escorted us into the Taj Mahal itself. There, in hushed tones, he reverently informed us that photography is not allowed. So I offer you this drawing by an actual eye-witness.

Once outside, Aziz told us that during World War II, they draped the entire dome to camouflage it from landmark-hungry Japanese bombers. In fact, the unsightly drapery hooks are still there – just in case. 

Also outside is a digital display showing how clean the air is now that the government has forbidden any air-polluting, landmark-corroding industry anywhere near Agra. (Did I mention the Taj Mahal is in Agra? Another fun fact for you! Whee! But enough fun, back to the romantic backstory.) 

The Shah was so pleased with the job his workers had done that when they held out their right hands for their pay, he chopped them all off so they could never build any more “Most Beautiful Buildings in the World.” At least that’s what one knowledgeable driver leaning against his rickshaw told me. Another one said he chopped off their heads too, just to make sure. I suggested that maybe he shot their remains into a brick wall just to make double sure and they both agreed that’s exactly what happened. 

Our guide then took us to a fine marble craft shop. There, the owner related a somewhat more plausible story.

He said the workers were rewarded handsomely for life but were forbidden to continue their trade. Not a bad deal, but being artisans, they had to find some outlet for their talent. And guess what? (Here my jaw grew slack and a hayseed slowly emerged from my mouth.) 

“Whut?” sez I. 

“In this very shop,” sez he, “resides the great-great-great-great-great grandson of the original Master Craftsman of the Taj Mahal!”

“Where?! Where?!” sez I. 

“Here before you! I AM HE!” So astounded were we at this sudden blurt of confidentiality that my friend Daniel and I couldn’t help but purchase many American dollars worth of genuine, handcrafted doo-hickies.

We left happy and amazed at our remarkably good tourist luck. I guess word got out that we were a couple of live ones. Next thing I knew, I had a python around my neck.