Hampi

We arrived in Hampi shattered after our sleepless night. The train station was full of tourists, touts, beggars and stray dogs and none of us had the energy to deal with it. Somehow a local kid had spotted a packet of biscuits in G's bag and kept loitering around us, saying repeatedly "biscuit?". G, V and I dragged our luggage over to two waiting tuk tuks. V climbed aboard one and G and I the other. G relinquished his packet of biscuits to the random kid and we headed off for our hotel.

V organised our accommodation for the Hampi trip and had decided to splurge on the best hotel in the area, KSTDC Hotel Ayura Bhuvaneshwari. This is a government run hotel and boasts the only legal bar in the area. V had booked G and me the presidential suite ($30US per night) after checking (of course) that it had, indeed, hosted dignitaries in the past and would do so in the future (the following week the Prime Minister would stay there, we were told). While the hotel is, apparently, the best in the area, that says more about its competition than the hotel itself. Our room was enormous and very comfortable, with TV and air conditioning. However, the system for locking the door left a bit to be desired involving, as it did, a fist-sized hole in the door, a chair propping up the door and a padlock. Probably secure, but not quite as aesthetically pleasing as the traditional lock and key method of locking a door.

Tired, hungry and grumpy, I think all three of us had our doubts about Hampi. However, as soon as we got out and started to explore, our doubts were erased.

Hampi was the site of a capital which began being built in 1336. In 1565 it was razed to the ground by a confederacy of Deccan sultanates. It now remains a city of ruins. The landscape itself, even aside from the ruins, is fascinating. Ancient volcanic activity has created a dramatic landscape of boulders and mountains. The ruins are set in this landscape. We would wander up and down hills, through seemingly uninhabitable terrain and stumble upon temples, built into the sheer sides of these mountains.

On the second day we hired bikes to explore the area. Sadly, G managed to injure himself early in the day which put a premature end to our biking. He injured his ankle not riding a bike, or climbing amongst the boulders, but not watching his feet when walking down some stairs. V and I kept exploring amongst the boulders, however, leaving G to befriend local policemen, children and various other people who would invariably sit down and chat to him. The three of us also went on a roundboat trip, to get a different perspective of the ruins.

Hampi was the one place we went to in India where foreign tourists outnumbered domestic tourists and even locals. This meant that V got to experience the joy of being constantly started at, something G and I were now used to. He was also continually mistaken for a hired tour guide. He resorted to wearing his cap emblazoned with his work logo and his shorts with Harvard written on them, but it didn't help. He was still subjected to people trying to convince him to get "his foreigners" to purchase some bit of tat being sold (with V being promised a cut of commission, of course). In the end I think he derived a bit of fun from the situation, and would occasionally throw seemingly racist insults towards us (all in good humour of course), shocking and surprising the locals, who thought of course that he was insulting his clients. Meanwhile, we probably didn't help the situation by loudly referring to him as our "guide" whenever we were in earshot of locals.

The other thing we discovered about foreigners outnumbering domestic tourists and locals is it seems to mean the foreigners think they can behave in a way I'm sure they never would in their own countries. We saw countless men walking around, shirtless, and women wearing little more than knickers. Their general behaviour was frequently as inappropriate as their clothing.

Aside from the badly behaved tourists (which, to be honest, was actually quite amusing), and some questionable meals at questionable restaurants, Hampi was terrific.

After two nights and days exploring, it was back to the train station, to catch an sleeper train to Bangalore. V's father had booked our return train tickets and had succeeded in obtaining two first class tickets and one second AC class ticket. V gallantly took the second AC class ticket, leaving G and I with the first class. Compared to our previous sleeper train trip, it was sheer luxury. G and I had a compartment all to ourselves. The toilets were no better but there were no snorers in earshot and I slept like a log.

Chennai - Hampi

The next morning, V took us on a quick tour of Chennai, his home town. The Lonely Planet had not given us high hopes for Chennai. This is what it has to say about V's home town:

"No matter how determined you are, you'd be pretty hard pressed to find much to
gush about when it comes to Chennai. The streets are clogged with traffic, the
weather oppressively hot, the air heavy with smog, and sites of any interest are
uncooperatively thin on the ground."

I think the Lonely Planet, once again, is wrong. I love Chennai. It's a really pretty city, built around water and with a beach. The Courthouse is beautiful (although poorly maintained) and the city generally has a great feel to it. It is far more relaxed than Delhi and feels a bit more affluent. There were far fewer beggars and impoverished looking people. That meant I could be a tourist without suffering the constant flashes of white middle-class guilt I felt in Delhi.

After our brief tour it was off to the train station. V, G and I were catching a train to Bangalore and then a sleeper train to Hampi.

The first leg of the journey we were in Second AC class. This was the best class available for that train. However, it was not comparable even to business class in English trains (which, as you know, has not impressed me). For example, as V put it in an email to us before we arrived, you can not take a crap on the train. This isn't due to lack of facilities. There are facilities in the form of both a European-style and squat toilet, which have a hole in the middle through which you can see the train below. Rather, the inability to take a crap in a train is more (as V delicately explained in his email) due to issues of comfort and hygiene. There were also a concerning number of cockroaches on the train. At least in V I found someone who is as terrified of the little beasts as I am, and much of the train journey was spent with V and me squealing and recoiling in horror as G squashed the cockroaches coming dangerously close to our chairs.

At least there is a ready supply of food on the trains. There was always someone walking up and down the isles shouting out "bread omelet" or "soup, tomato soup". G discovered a previously unknown skill in imitating the monotonous shouting of the food sellers, which provided an endless source of amusement for him and V for the rest of the trip (another example of the ability of men to repeat the same joke endlessly and still find it funny). G and I were rather tempted to sample the wares on offer, particularly given we had packed only rather soggy looking subway rolls for our dinner. But every time V caught us looking at the food going by he would simply shake his head and say "no, that will DEFINITELY kill you." So we avoided the certainty of an immediate death and stuck to our subway subs.

I can't even remember how long the first leg of the train journey was. I think it was somewhere between 4 - 7 hours, but it went pretty quickly thanks to having good company to keep me entertained.

After that train journey it was another train, this time a sleeper train. Again we were second AC class.

A second AC sleeper train carriage consists of small compartments containing four beds (two bunk beds). Each compartment is separated from the one next to it by a thin dividing wall. The compartments are open to the train corridor, with only a curtain for privacy.

G and I were in one compartment and V was down the corridor. My bed (on the upper bunk) was surprisingly comfortable. However, neither G nor I slept a wink. This was because we were surrounded by snorers. And not just snorers of the ordinary kind; this was high-volume snoring. Both the men in our compartment were snoring, as were the men in the opposite compartment and the two compartments on either side of us. It got to the point where, sleep deprived and delirious, I started imaging tunes comprised of the beats of the snoring. V fared a little better. Aside from some noisy German tourists, his part of the carriage was relatively quiet.

Finally, after our long and sleepless night, we arrived in Hampi.

Chennai

Our next stop was Chennai. Being in the South, Chennai is, thankfully, a lot warmer than the North at this time of year. A Jet Airways flight took us there in remarkable comfort and we were greeted at the airport by our good friend V. We hadn't seen V since our wedding, a year before, and so were very excited. V also managed to impress G to no end by organising an Ambassador car to take us all from the airport to his family's beach house.

In Australia, "family beach house" usually means some rundown shack near the beach, full of the furniture and crap the kids have made which no one has any use for but can't bear to throw away. It inevitably looks like some forlorn relic from the 80s, and is full of kitchenware comprising broken mugs with things like "world's best dad" written on them. V's family beach house was a world away from all of this. It's right on the beach, with amazing views, and was as beautiful inside as out. Admittedly, it was ever so slightly less beautiful after G managed to break one of the french doors leading out to the terrace, but hopefully V's parents haven't identified G as the culprit for the broken door... yet.

The next morning we had breakfast at one of the Taj resorts just outside of the city before heading to Mamallapuram. This is a UNESCO world heritage site full of incredible temples and rock carvings. It feels like an archeological site and, indeed, the five rathas, which are monoliths carved from single pieces of rock in the 7th century, were only discovered about 200 years ago by the British. Before that, they lay hidden under the sand.

V hired the services of an official guide from the archaeological survey of India to show us around. While our guide was both interesting and extremely knowledgeable, unfortunately it turned out his English wasn't the best. He seemed to know a few descriptions in English very well, and whenever he was at a loss tended to repeat these, like a broken record. After being subjected to being told something was "mono-lithic, mono meaning one, lithic meaning rock" for the umpteenth time in the same monotonous tone, V discovered it worked best if the guide imparted his knowledge to V in Tamil and V then passed on the information to us in English.

The guide and his repeated monotonous phrases proved a source of endless entertainment for the rest of the trip, however, as every now and then for no reason either G or V would suddenly say in a monotone "mono meaning one. Lithic meaning rock" and the two of them would burst out laughing. On a slight digression, I think the desire, and ability, to quote something ad nauseam and still find it amusing is a peculiarly male habit. It seems to be only men who, however many decades after they saw the film, are still able to quote lines from Ferris Bueller's day off and find them hilarious.

After the Five Rathas we saw the Shore Temple, which is nearby. This too dates from the 7th century. It has long been believed to be one of a series of buildings that existed along the (now submerged) coastline. Interestingly, the 2004 tsunami revealed the outlines of what seem to have been other temples in the series, lending support to that long-held view.

Then it was on to Arjuna's Penance, an incredible relief carving, and Ganesh Ratha, formerly a Shiva temple.

Near this is a huge boulder which, misleadingly, looks rather precariously balanced, and is known as Krishna's Butter Ball.
There are several other interesting temples, including a cave temple, around the area too.

After spending a few hours exploring the area, V took us off to a cultural centre and performed his own tour-guide duties as he led us around and explained the exhibits to us in far greater detail than provided by the standard tourist information at the site.

Finally, it was off to dinner with V's parents. V's parents took us to a terrific South Indian restaurant and treated us to a fabulous meal and a bottle of what was, V's father told us, one of the better Indian wines. I am pleased to say that it bore no resemblance to the ribena-flavoured vinegar I sampled in the north.

After spending time with V, his wonderful parents and exploring the sunny South, G and I were once again loving India.

Fighting for fresh air in Delhi

Humayun's tomb (above)

The Red Fort

I wanted to love Delhi. I really did. I have friends who I love who are from Delhi ergo I thought I would love Delhi. Unfortunately, I didn't.

I did enjoy spending time in Delhi with F and with some other friends who happened to be there. But the city itself I found disappointing. Perhaps part of the disappointment was due to the fact I'd done my research before heading to Delhi. I'd read William Dalrymple's book, City of Djinns. I'd learned about the incredible history of the city. I was excited about seeing what remained of this history and walking through Old Delhi and the Red Fort. When I got to Delhi, however, I found that the history was hard to see and appreciate through the throngs of people, smog and dirt. Chandi Chowk, once one of the grandest markets in Delhi, is now full of beggars, rickshaw drivers and shops selling a baffling assortment of screws, cogs and odd bits and bobs. By the time we had managed to navigate the stretch of this, to the Red Fort at the other end, by the time we had stepped over the pools of urine and dogs, I was exhausted. I collapsed on the lawn at the Red Fort and found myself admiring it from this stationary position, simply too exhausted to explore the history surrounding me.

I found it exhausting dealing with the taxi drivers who would try and force us to go to their friends' shops, or at the end of a journey try and insist on a greater fee than previously agreed. Aspects of Delhi were also very confronting. G and I found ourselves frequently approached by beggars, many of whom were children, wearing very little even in the winter cold. The most upsetting incident was one night when we were traveling back to our guesthouse by a tuk tuk. It was a freezing night; both of us were wrapped up in jackets and scarves and still finding the night cold. As we sat at the lights, a small girl of about 8 years old approached us, begging. The only clothing she wore was a frayed, dirty pair of shorts.

While I didn't enjoy navigating the city, I did enjoy the seeing its sights. So perhaps if I went to Delhi again, knowing what to expect and so better prepared for it, I would have a better time. I did, for example, really enjoy exploring Humayun's tomb, built in the mid-16th century. The site contains not only the second Mughal emperor Humayun's tomb, but in addition contains other tombs, including that of Humayun's favourite barber. It is comforting to know that even in the 16th century a good haircut was highly valued.

At the end of our three days in Delhi, I was very sad to say goodbye to F and the other friends we were leaving there. I confess, however, that I wasn't too disappointed to be leaving the city.

The inevitable toilet story

The morning we were to drive back to Delhi I woke with a case of travellers' diarrhoea. I didn't discover this, unfortunately, until after I'd consumed everything in sight at the hotel's buffet breakfast. I was not looking forward to the five-hour drive to Delhi.

Thankfully, modern medicine really is marvellous and after a couple of Imodium I was ready for the drive. However, I was so worried about this particular problem that I forgot about the need to limit my intake of liquids that morning (so as to avoid needing to use a bathroom on the drive). The inevitable happened, and about half an hour into the drive, I found myself tapping Mr S on the shoulder and asking in a pathetically desperate voice, "bathroom?".

Bathrooms along the highway from Jaipur to Delhi are hard to come by. The only bathroom anywhere close to where we were was, Mr S told me, one at a nearby tea house. Mr S pulled the car into the driveway of this tea house. I think the name "house" in that description may be is overstating it. The tea house was a building that had three walls instead of four: two at the sides and one at the front. There was no back wall, meaning the odd chicken or goat could (and did) come in freely and wander around inside.

I went into the tea house, with G close behind me for moral support, waving a 10IR note and pleading with the toothless old man behind the counter "toilet"? He pointed me to somewhere at the side of the tea house. "No water, no light" he said. Sure enough, I wandered into a tiny pitch-black cubical, inside of which was a fetid, drop squat toilet. There was no working light in the cubical and there were also no windows. I stood at the door to the cubical for a few moments, trying to decide just how I was to use this toilet in the absence of light. Leaving the door to the cubical open when using it would mean I had just enough light to make out the fetid toilet. However, on the downside, it would also mean the proprietor of the store, the goats and chickens and anyone else who might stop by would see me going to the toilet. On the other hand, if I shut the door, no one would see me but I would also not be able to see anything and so would run the risk of putting my foot inside the fetid toilet. Neither seemed a very dignified option. Nonetheless, nature was calling (or rather screaming) and demanding I make a decision. I decided to shut the door, and held G's mobile phone in my mouth, using it as a torch to make out the shadowy outline of the squat toilet. I thereby managed to avoid stepping into the toilet which is just as well given the old man was not lying about there being no running water in the place.

Toilet disaster avoided, we wandered back to the car, with me peering into Mr S's face, in the hope of being able to determine whether dropping me off at this toilet was a joke he played on all foreigners or whether, indeed, this was the only toilet around. Mr S's poker face was too good for me to tell.

We continued on our way to Delhi.

F had very kindly organised or us to stay in a room at a guest house in an upmarket residential area of Delhi. In Delhi it seems most of the middle class live in these enormous, sprawling gated housing blocks. The blocks are alphabetically named and each house within them is given a number. There is no rhyme or reason to the naming or numbering of these blocks. For example, we found ourselves staying in S block. Across the road was E block. The numbering also did not follow the usual order. And, to make matters worse, there seemed to be no street names. This meant that this first journey to find the guesthouse with Mr S (and, indeed, every subsequent journey with taxi drivers) took some time. It seems that in the absence of a coherent lettering and numbering system, and given the lack of street names, the usual way to find a place is to stop as many people in the street as possible and ask for directions. All this was done in Hindi, of course, but even without a knowledge of the language, G and I could see that every person stopped would agree they knew where our guesthouse was but would then point in a different direction from the last person. F later explained to us that this is because many people want to seem helpful, and don't want to say "no", even if they don't know an answer. The result was that seemingly for hours Mr S, G and I drove around in circles trying to find the guesthouse. Eventually, Mr S parked the car on a street that we thought must be close and we all got out, looking at the house numbers and trying to work out where we were. Thankfully, at that precise moment, a small chubby child came bounding along. He would have been no more than 11 years old, and was literally bouncing up and down, with the energy that only small children seem to have. He must have been used to confused looking foreigners in the neighbourhood, because the second he saw us, he simply asked if we were looking at the guesthouse and pointed us in the right direction.

We said goodbye to Mr S and dragged our luggage into the guesthouse, ready for the Delhi leg of our trip.

Elephants, rickshaws and the road to Jaipur

After Agra, Mr S, G and I headed off by car to Jaipur. On the way to Jaipur we stopped at Fatehpur Sikri. This is a fortified ancient city, about 40km out of Agra. It was the capital of the Mughal empire between 1571 to 1585 and while no one now lives inside the city, the mosque in there is still used. Briefly, the story behind the city is that Emperor Akbar consulted a Sufi saint, Shaikh Salim Chishti, in the area who told him that he would have a son. When one was born in 1569, Emperor Akbar decided to build the city in the place of the saint. As often seems to be the case with ancient Indian cities, the city did not last for long. It was abandoned shortly after Emperor Akbar's death for reasons that are unclear.

Like many of the sites in India, this is a "shoes off" attraction. After paying the obligatory 10IR to a kid outside the site in order that he not steal our shoes, we went inside. It was beautiful. Unfortunately, Mr S managed to talk us into using the services of his "friend", a guide, to see the site. This meant that we were raced through it at a breakneck speed, presumably in order that our guide could quickly head off to meet his next tourists and earn his next 100IR.

Inside the city is the white marble tomb of Shaikh Salim Chishti (pictured above). Surrounding the tomb are touts, trying to convince tourists to purchase coloured bits of cloth, string and flowers. "If you put these inside the tomb, whatever you wish will come true. Guarantee! There is a 100% success rate!", boasted one.

After our brief tour of Fatehpur Sikri it was off on the 6-hour drive to Jaipur. The road to Jaipur was crowded, and cars competed for space on the road with elephants carrying goods, rickshaws, donkeys and bullocks. The driving style in and around Jaipur led G and I to wonder, quite seriously, whether there is such a thing as a driving license in India, or whether anyone is allowed to drive a vehicle. This was particularly so when a child of seemingly no more than 8 years old pulled up next to our car driving a motorcycle. Generally, there also don't seem to be any road rules, or at least any road rules that are obeyed, as cars drive on the wrong side of the road, the wrong way, and overtake on both the left and right hand sides of the road. The only rule that seems to be followed is that a driver must toot their horn at all times; whether they are overtaking a car/animal/vehicle or even, simply, if they see a car/animal/vehicle. In case a driver forgets this basic rule, most vehicles have painted prominently on them "use horn".

Thankfully, when we finally arrived at our hotel, the Hotel Meghinwas, we discovered a clean and (compared to the hotel Sheela) luxurious room, with heating, hot water and fresh towels. We slept like logs, waking early the next day ready for a full day of site-seeing.

After Agra, Jaipur seemed a luxurious city. We found restaurants which had bathrooms containing both water and soap (a rarity in Agra). We were also served meals which could be eaten without first scraping mould, bugs or dirt from them. Our standards at this point weren't high, and Jaipur certainly met them.

Jaipur is the capital of the state of Rajasthan and currently has a population of around 4 million. It is a heaving, thriving metropolis. It's known as the pink city by many tourists, as in 1853, when the Prince of Wales came to visit, the whole city was painted pink to welcome him. Large swathes of it remain coloured pink. Within the old city, the site most tourists stop to see (on the recommendation of all the guidebooks) is Hawa Mahal. This is described by the Lonely Planet as Jaipur's most distinctive landmark, as a remarkable five-story delicately honeycombed pink sandstone structure constructed in 1799 by Maharaja Sawaj Pratap Singh to enable ladies of the royal household to watch the life and processions of the city.

It is pretty but, to be honest, I couldn't really see what all the fuss is about. Judging by the expressions on the faces of other tourists about, I wasn't the only one who wasn't particularly impressed. Although perhaps all, like me, had just come from seeing the Taj and were therefore difficult to impress.

I was more impressed by Jantar Mantar, a consevatory begun in 1728 by Jai Singh. It houses an impressive collection of enormous sundials and devices to determine time, the sun's longitude and horosopes.

Then it was off to see the Amer Fort, just outside of the city.

This used to be the capital of Jaipur. Construction was begun in 1592. Even more impressive (in my view) than the Fort itself is the city wall surrounding it.

This is an ancient wall which has been built over and around steep mountains. G and I spent some time pondering it, and trying to work out how on earth it had been built. We asked Mr S whether it was possible to walk around the wall and he looked at us as if we had gone mad and told us that "no, it's only safe for goats!".

On the way back to town Mr S took us by the water palace. I still don't know what this is, or what it's historical significance is, but it was pretty.

That night, back in our hotel, we confronted the truth that we are not intrepid travellers. We are western, conservative middle class tourists. Not being able to face another bowl of dahl, ghee or naan bread, we therefore headed off for an Italian meal at the town's finest Italian restaurant. The only concession we made to being travellers and experiencing the local culture that night was to try some Indian wine. We regretted that move the moment the glasses of ribena-tasting wine arrived.

The next morning Mr S arrived nice and early to drive us back to Delhi.

India - Agra

Here begins a series of blogs summarising our recent trip to India. I confess that this, the first blog, is being written after a sleepless night (jet lag) and while I wait for the sun to rise. Perhaps not the best time for finding inspiration to write, but it's certainly a good way of killing the hours until it's a respectable time to be up and about. So you will have to forgive the inevitable poor quality of this entry. A second disclaimer: I am not a historian. Any references to historical matters are likely taken from those less-than-ideal secondary sources the Lonely Planet, tourist brochures, travel books and chatting to people. Now, to begin.

As mentioned in the last post, we started our Indian adventure by flying in to Delhi with the plan to drive out to Agra that same day. Thankfully we had a local, F, to show us around. Well, I say F is a local, but in fact she grew up outside of India (but with an Indian family) and her family is from the south, rather than north, of India. For the last 3 years she has also lived in the UK and is only in Delhi at the moment on a holiday. F did, however, go to university in Delhi, and is ethnically Indian and able to speak a bit of Hindi, so I think she qualifies as a "local".

F had helpfully organised a driver and car for the North leg of our Indian tour. The plan was that F would come with us to Agra, then return to Delhi by train while G and I went on to Jaipur. G and I would then come back to Delhi and meet up again with F.

After making use of F's Delhi flat and shower, we all headed off on the 3 - 4 hour car ride to Agra. F, being the Hindi speaker, had the less-than-pleasant job of conversing with our driver during that long drive. Our driver was Mr S, a Punjabi fellow who does this route frequently with tourists. As Mr S kept telling F, Mr S's friends have all the best restaurants and own all the best shops, and so really we should stop at his friends' shops and restaurants en route. Initially F responded to this suggestion with a bit of head wobbling and "accha"ing (a handy word which means: okay; "oh really?"; "I see"; "listen up"; and "oh well!"). As Mr S grew more insistent, however, so did F, and F began head shaking and "nahi"ing (which means no - a word G and I used a lot on our North India trip). Eventually Mr S worked out that he was unlikely to earn commission by dragging us on shopping/dining trips to his friends' establishments and so we had to put up with a very surly and grumpy Mr S for the rest of our drive.

I have always known that India is a large country with an incredibly large population, but I didn't really appreciate the sheer enormity of that population until the drive to Agra. At no point, when looking out the car window, could I not see people working with the earth, carrying large bundles of wood on their heads or just sitting having tea. Even when we appeared to be in the middle of nowhere, there was an endless number of people in sight. The road itself was full of people, people overflowing from the back of trucks, hanging out of buses, on the backs of horses or donkeys and entire families squeezed on to small scooters. It took some time of navigating that traffic before we finally arrived in Agra.

Agra was formerly the capital, and its glory days were in the mid-16th and 17th centuries during the reigns of Akbar, Jehangir and Shah Jahan. After the mid 17th century, a new city was built in Delhi and subsequently the capital was moved there. During it's heyday, the Agra fort was built as was the Taj Mahal. It's therefore a must-see on any North India trip.

The Lonely Planet guide says of Agra:

"the magical allure of the Taj Mahal draws tourists like moths to a wondrous flame. And despite the hype, it's every bit as good as you've heard. But the Taj is not a standalone attraction. The legacy of the Mughal empire has left a magnificent fort and mausoleums... Many tourists choose to visit Agra on a whistle-stop day trip from Delhi. This is a shame. There is much more of interest here that can be seen in that time. In fact, you can enjoy several days' sightseeing..."

The Lonely Planet guide lies. The fort and Taj Mahal are amazing (more about that below). But Agra itself is a dump. The touts, tuk tuk drivers, "guides" and tourist scams can, at times, be completely overwhelming. The restaurants are geared up for tourists and are, in the main, grubby and dire. The streets are full of men urinating and women crapping by the side of the road. Perhaps I could have coped with all of this a little better if our accommodation had been a little more salubrious. Sadly, our accommodation ,at the Hotel Sheela, was less than ideal.

We had been attracted to the Hotel Sheela by the Lonely Planet's description (it was the Lonely Planet's "top pick" of budget accommodation) and by positive reviews on tripadvisor. Unfortunately, it seems the standards must have dropped since those reviews were published. The three of us found ourselves ushered into a room with a door that didn't lock properly from the inside. There was no heating (despite the freezing cold nights) and the very few blankets we had were dirty and smelly. I also found myself picking bugs out of my bed before being able to sleep in it. To top it off, the hot water didn't work. Ever. There also appeared to be an Indian wedding or party nearby, and the loud music didn't stop over the two nights we stayed at the Hotel Sheela. It being peak tourist season, we had to resign ourselves to staying at that hotel, given most other places were booked out. I took a few photos of our less-than-ideal room, but they don't really capture its grubbiness.

Thankfully, the amazing sights of Agra were enough to make up for the dismal accommodation and dump of a city. The Taj Mahal really is every bit as spectacular as guidebooks would have you believe.

The Taj was built by Shah Jahan as a memorial for his second wife, Mumtaz Mahal, who died giving birth to their second child in 1631. Shah Jahan was left heartbroken, and wanted to build a monument to his favourite wife that surpassed all others in terms of its beauty. It is quite a romantic story, until you learn that Shah Jahan, in the interests of ensuring the Taj was never replicated or surpassed, apparently killed, maimed or blinded all those who worked on the Taj once it was safely completed. The story becomes even less romantic when you learn about the rumours that Shah Jahan subsequently had an incestuous relationship with his daughter, Jahanara Begum Sahib, from his marriage to Mumtaz Mahal. Nonetheless, the Taj is a stunningly beautiful building.

Similarly, the Agra Fort is incredible and well worth a visit.

Non-Indian residents have to pay an inflated fee to visit these monuments (about 20x the price), but at least in return we get a very fine pair of shoe covers to wear during the visit.

Surprisingly, G and I were two of only a very small number of Western tourists out of an incredibly large number of tourists in Agra. Most of the tourists were domestic tourists, and for some, G and I seemed to be as great an attraction as the Taj, as we found ourselves being paparazzied and, even less pleasantly, I found myself being poked and prodded by strange men. F taught me a few choice Hindi words which I used with great pleasure on these occasions.

After two nights and a day-and-a-half of sightseeing, we said goodbye to F and (far less sadly) to the Hotel Sheela and headed off along with Mr S to Jaipur.