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Varanasi to Agra
Smooth sailing out of Varanasi, except for a small run-in with a concrete pillar, an autorikshaw and a near death experience for a stray child running into our path, and some off-road riding across a building site, we wove our way over a paved street which eventually opened up onto a solid, tarmac, 4-lane freeway, beautiful! After a few kilometres we pulled aside for tea to celebrate a riding experience where the majority of the traffic was following the rule of thumb 'drive on the left'. The freedom of feeling part of the landscape, air whooshing past your face, and the constant deep thump, thump, thumping of the Enfield is the only way to travel India in our opinion, but its amazing also that almost every foreigner you cross paths with or befriend, always says the same. Only tip however, carry some Baksheesh (Black money) with you always, as it helps when dealing with the local Fuzz so we are told!!! We sat and sipped tea admiring the glittering purple flame embossed tank, gleaming chrome fenders and exhaust of our classic machine - it was hard to mask the broad grins on our gritty faces :-)
Making fair progress, the terrain varied in intensity with potholes and convoluted dirt peppered with rubble or miscellaneous objects. Sometimes sharp diversions were necessary to skip past the suddenly breaking trucks or absent minded cut-ups. The countryside outside of Varanasi was laid out before us; a vast flatness ran all the way to the horizon which disappeared into a pale blue-grey haze. Fields of the deepest emerald green sprawled out, farm block yellow canola or oil seed rape stretched over the landscape. We passed through towns where the number of street hazards increased where hoards of half burned, half rotten rubbish carpeted the areas of the shop fronts and tea stalls, and the never ending game of dodgems began again. We had to snake up a steep hill plagued by heavy crawling trucks which made us fee as though we were heading into Kashmir high hills on the horizon and barren, rubble strewn cliffs to the inside. We stopped to have a break at a broad curved section of the road, and ate bananas as we enjoyed the views of the fields below.
It was getting late when we hit Allahabad and swinging left at a congested intersection we rode onto a huge stainless steel suspension bridge. We pulled over to admire the view over the river and the intriguing fort wrapped around a corner of land on the distant side of the bank. You could feel the bridge flexing gently as the traffic rumbled over. Before we knew it there was a crowd of around 40 people standing around us. Staring, smiling, and watching with a blatancy that would be interpreted as rude or intimidating in most Western societies. As is human nature, once people see a crowd they also stop and look to see what is happening. Chris had grown used to this treatment - his bike being an imposing sight on its own drew attention as if an alien ship had landed. After some conversing and handshaking, we managed to mount once again and rode the length of the bridge to make a sweeping u-turn to head back to look at the fort, taking a long driveway through cricket grounds, and looking curiously at the purpose built tent constructions that we could only assume were for refugees. OD Fort is currently used by the military, and only parts are open to visitors. However we were happy to pull up on the bikes and admire the rusty orange walls and broad turrets from the outside, down by the water. Many colourful row boats were docked up off a small boardwalk, and soon the crowds had gathered again around the bikes. This was a tourist area, but mainly for Indians, so comfortably we got very little hassle for money or goods, bar a couple of kids trying the cobra-in-a-basket trick. We learned that just into the distance where the boats were too-ing and fro-ing with Indian families, and anchoring in a long line was an important pilgrimage spot for Hindus to cleanse their sins at the Sangam, where the 'two-rivers meet' - the River Ganges and the Yumuna. Allahabad had a peaceful, easy feeling. We rode on again in an attempt to reach the other side of the bank to make some nice photographs of the adjacent Fort as the sun was going down. Feeling more confident of our bearings we re-traced our tracks past the paddocks which were strewn with debris, looking like there had been a music festival the previous day as crowds of young guys played cricket matches on the scorched grass. Crossing the large suspension bridge again was amazingly beautiful with the sun setting in full view over the murky reflective river below. Winding through residential streets we turned left down some bumpy village street, swerving past cows, dogs and trolleys, and navigated our way proudly down a ramp to the riverside. Again it was very peaceful, and just a handful of men sat under a canopy, doing very little, as appears to be the prime Indian past time, whether during or out of work hours.
With darkness creeping in we headed back and into the depths of Allahabad city, we stopped frequently to ask directions for the Punjab Gurdwara (Temple) where we hoped we could rest for the night. Unaware at the time there were more than one Gurdwara in the centre, we rode around and finally were escorted by three young guys on a scooter who led us to the entrance of one of the larger ones. Christian and Lana went inside to speak to the Baba, or elder of the temple. After being led into a side room and invited to sit, we made what sense we could from a conversation with no common language. One of the Babas would take us to the 'other' Gurdwara, where we would be able to stay. He pushed out his scooter and hopped on as we followed his bright yellow Turban into the night. Weaving through some dark, impossibly narrow alleyways with deep gutters carrying water and sewerage away we suddenly became inextricably lost and disoriented until finally emerging onto a normal street and into some light. Dodging a buffalo cart and a constant flow of fast oncoming traffic in this already congested street, we were led through a gateway off to the right of the main road, leading us into a hidden courtyard area and our final destination to rest our exhausted heads. We were greeted with such warmth and smiles, and shown a room. A short, thin man with dark skin and huge wild wide eyes (imagine a miniature Chris Rock in The Fifth Element), clad in the traditional bright yellow/orange lungis, turban and robes of a holy man, greeted us with a crazed high-pitched speech we were only able to smile and nod to! Two local girls were called in to speak with us (as the holy man and older lady residing in the gurdwara spoke no English) and we were bought coffee and biscuits and invited to request whatever we wanted to eat. We were escorted by all of the inhabitants up to the roof top terrace, where the girls explained about the annual Magh Mela festival held in January/February where people from all over India make the pilgrimage in their thousands, sometimes millions to the Sangam, the holy place where the two rivers (and in mythological terms if you include the Saraswati River), three rivers meet. By this point we realised that all the tents we saw constructed were for the pilgrims for the coming New Year and not refugees.
The next morning arrived after a sleep-interrupted night with an evil clan of blood thirsty mosquitoes sharing the bedroom and following hot bucket showers, we were fed as many hot parathas (potato, chilli and veg pancake-meets-hash brown concoctions splashed with natural yogurt) as we could eat. We loaded the bikes and with a small gathering including Chris Rock squeaking away alongside our host and chef, we gave many thankyous and rode out into the street following a simple left and right turn and as if by fate onto the right highway to Khajuraho.
Starting out, riding through the misty morning was bitterly cold but also unusually peaceful as the majority of the Indian population, cows, dogs, pigs and goats included were only just stirring which reduced the normal traffic chaos dramatically. It was going to be a long day, and we soon realised large sections of the highway were under construction as the going was fairly rough along some stretches. We found ourselves occasionally clunking into potholes and sliding along gravel to avoid collisions without many alternatives until we reached the edge of Datia City, and after a quick u-turn to return to the bypass we traveled along smoothly through the vivid green rural landscape. In the distance we could see a fantastic silhouette of architecture on top of a hill. Unsure as to whether it was a fort or palace, but unable to resist the intrigue, we took a country lane off to the right which appeared to lead in that general direction. This was the beauty and freedom the motorbikes held over a bus or train which would provide no opportunity to stop and investigate! We suddenly pulled up to a lake where the reflection of the palace in the water was directly in front of us. Stopping for photographs we were grateful of the opportunity to stretch our legs, the ever-curious crowds were lazily beginning to gather around us. We took off again through the town over the newly paved street carrying us across a bridge. We then wound our way through some old parts of the city wall, through a vegetable market and up steep narrow stone streets to the palace at the top. We parked in front of a small, plain temple, housing an image of a Hindu god, with a solitary holy man keeping guard. Children bounded around and looked over the bikes with intrigue. Adam and Chris went up to the glowing sandstone palace first. There was no charge, and although it was a heritage site, it was not being subjected to any form of restoration, other than some of the corridors having been cordoned off with iron grills. The architecture bore elaborate carvings and the remnants of the original painting was visible in parts, particularly on the underside of the vaulted ceilings and domed archways. Over 600 years old, this would have been the most stunning building when it was new as it was extremely impressive old. We walked up and through ten different levels housing rooms for guests, dining, King's private chamber, dance hall etc all leading out to small balconies over looking the city of Datia, and then followed tiny, dark stairwells up into a maze of open courtyards and corridors, with hidden recesses and even more levels going up.
Thrilled with our discovery we got back on the road which trailed through more beautiful scenery which resembled flat English countryside; fields of green, and soft undulating hills approaching in the distance. We arrived into Khajuraho just before sunset. We were hassled by hotel touts on the outskirts, as we drove past the impressive number of 5-star resorts at the beginning of town, and continued along the wide avenue. A large lake was set before us bordering the main strip of the mini-Pokhara style town; with its mix of handicraft shops and stalls, guest houses and restaurants. The token German Bakery was also on the main road, much to Chris' delight :) We ended up at a new hotel on the corner of a recreation ground where a cricket tournament, complete with stage and loudspeakers, was finishing up for the day. The hotelier promptly removed the television set, saying he would do his best to get a smaller one so Adam could watch the India-Sri Lanka cricket game. We had to hound constantly for an extra bed to be brought in and made several complaints about the lack of hot water we had been promised and so craved. Running the tap for about 1 hour we realised the water was as warm as it would be and bypassed showers. We walked into the small town for dinner at a local place, enjoying the sunset over the lake on our way and enjoyed an early night. We rose early to see the famous Karma Sutra sandstone temples which are dated from between 200 and 600 AD. We spent a good couple of hours walking in and around the fantastic ancient city, which was flooded with detailed carvings of the Hindu Gods the temples were dedicated to, figurines in erotic poses baring impossibly large rounded breasts, as other depicted parades with warriors and elephants.
After a pretty dodgy breakfast at a local cafe who attempted to cook south Indian dishes amongst the masses of flies, we decided to get moving onto Jhansi via Chachupur where we hoped we would be able to secure tickets to the cricket game in Delhi on the 27th. It was a shorter day, but made longer by our detour into chachapur city centre, weaving through the small crowded streets in search of a Union Bank. Finally, after several trips back and forth asking directions we dismounted to discover the bank was in a courtyard, not visible from the road and is also not selling tickets although the Internet had stated they were. Rubbish. Heading back onto the main road and a chaotic roundabout, we somehow managed to lose Christian. An hour or so later of driving back into the country and through some smaller towns with their characteristic workshops and chai stalls we passed him asking some police or military officers if they had seen us go past. How he managed to overtake us through the town without us noticing we never managed to ascertain.
We hit Jhansi unfortunately as dark was approaching again. Navigating our way through the town, twisting down several back roads of tailor shops and after several stops to ask directions we found the large white gleaming Punjab Gurdwara. A big marble courtyard was the centrepiece of this temple and rooms were situated all around on a balcony. We took tea and spoke with the Baba, who we established had been in the army for 27 years and was now retired and occupying his time in service to the Sikh Church. Lana covered her head and removed her shoes and went inside the temple when the melodic rambling flow of prayers started through a terrible sound system, set far louder than necessary, squawking feedback from the amp. She soon learned that the proper way to enter was to touch the floor and then your heart at the doorway, then perform the same inside in front of the baba who is positioned behind something of an alter (which also strangely resembles either a tomb or a bed beneath a four poster frame) draped in bright orange and yellow silks and fresh flowers. On approaching the stage before the baba one kneels and touches their head to the floor three times. On exiting you back away facing forwards as far as is practical to the door.
After being informed from the clerical assistant who signed us in that no meals would be provided, we ventured out into the busy night of Jhansi. A grim and industrial looking city by day, we located a market area along one of the highways, where a small temple boomed out ceremonial Indian music with heavy rhythmic drums. Hungry by this point we picked up a bag of genuine Bombay mix from a stall and wandered through the other food stalls as we sampled sweets, finally settling for a small restaurant on the other side of the road where we tried to communicate to the proprietor and numerous cooks/people loitering around trying to be helpful, that we would eat whatever they have going.
Red strips of fairy lights hanging out the front and down from the balconies all the way around the courtyard at the Gurdwara were switched on when we returned during the evening giving it a party feeling. The lights glowed through the window of our basic room where we slept on mattresses on the floor. In the early hours of the morning somebody let off a rocket and we were shaken awake in momentary panic at what sounded like a bomb in the centre of the courtyard. Shortly after, despite the dwindling darkness of the far-too-early morning, we heard somebody performing a Hindi '1, 2, testing, testing 1, 2’ through that same terrible amplifier screeching into the night. Then the drumming, cymbals and singing started. It sounded as though several small children had been dragged from their beds for their vocal inclusion in the parade of the wooden trolley with the loudspeaker into the streets, to wake up the remainder of the town. After about half an hour of warm-up in the entrance to the Gurdwara, we were glad to hear the booming racket getting quieter.
Loading our bikes we were happy to be getting back to the road and the long day to Agra began. Riding out we formed a better impression of Jhansi, as we swung around by an old fort posted on a hill in the centre, amongst the flat roofed, paint peeling residential mayhem. When we reached Gwalior, we knew we would be pushed for time to reach Agra before dark, despite it only being another 100 km or so. Gwalior was impressive, in that the fort we had stopped by to see was massive and ran the length of a hillside. We drove around a huge portion of it before finding the road-way in. 1 rupee is all it cost to take our bikes up the sweeping bitumen road, which curved through open greenery and tall trees. We stopped at a sandy car park on a large corner as 20 foot Buddha carvings, etched into the concave forms of the golden sandstone cliff faces, and caught our attention in the afternoon sun. We continued along the roadway, now within the wall which had gleamed a matt rusty brown from below. We passed more carved images of Buddha in the high cliffs, and continuing through an archway, and up a steep driveway lined with trees labeled with blue plaques in Hindi we reached the top where the main palace was. Disappointed that we were short on time and with the expensive entrance fee for the elaborately blue and sand coloured tiled palace, we pulled up and took photographs over the wall looking down on Gwalior. We learnt that there is a school and almost a village as well as a Gurdwara within the fort complex and made a mental note to stay for a couple of days and have a proper look around at some point in the future.
Riding in the brilliant sunshine of a warm winter’s day, we reached the highway after snaking back around the way we had come through streets which resembled a village more than a huge city and bolted on to Agra along the smooth surfaced freeway.
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