All the way to Agra, and did not even go to the Taj Mahal

15 - 19 August

Agra is the home of the Taj Mahal – one of the seven wonders of the world.  My initial plan, in a city with such a massive tourist attraction, was obviously to avoid it altogether.    

Originally, I was going to spend time in the mountains and greenery of Kashmir, trekking and seeing the seldom-visited region far up north, which apparently boasts a seriously good-looking stretch of botanical gardens.  However, Narendra Modi had a different plan for me, and while in Leh (in the same province as Kashmir) he decided to annex these territories into India.  I am not going into regional politics here (mostly because I don’t understand them very well), but in a short, it meant that tourists were banned from entering into Kashmir, and I all of a sudden had two/three weeks spare before going into Nepal. #firstworldproblems

With time to spare, I figured I could make it to Varanasi for a few days, which is a common, ‘relatively’ straight shot into Kathmandu (I must stress, relatively, i.e. 2 days travel, over 3 different buses).

Varanasi made logical sense, as it was the closest decent-sized city to Nepal.  Also, the feedback I had received from fellow travelers was that Varanasi really was a place to see.  So, it seemed to be the smart choice, and I am nothing if not someone who makes smart choices (I’ll ignore those sniggers and eye rolls - bastards).

The problem though is that I was currently in Leh, the farthest north state in India, and a direct trip to Varanasi would take about 4 days.  I needed a place(s) to break up my trip.  At the time, I could also travel the first few days of the trip with the Spanish guys I had done the motorcycle trip with – as they were going to Delhi to fly home.  By travelling through Delhi, I was an earshot from Agra, and with not knowing when I would be back in this area of the world again, I figured I may as well go and see what all the fuss was about, before heading through to Varanasi.

Those sharp-eyed sparrows may realise that last post (pre-world cup tribute) was about Leh, and this is about Agra, what about Delhi?  

Ok, in short: our first night we met up with some other travelers and had a seriously good farewell (I am told), so much that one of the them missed his flight the next morning.  I was in Delhi for Independence Day, but missed the official ceremony because I had a bag with me, and was not allowed to have a bag with me, because of the political tension caused by Mr Modi up in Kashmir, bags were verboden.  So I went to see some old buildings.  There, that’s Delhi.

Parliament building lit up for
Independence day,
Delhi

Spice vendor, Delhi market

Garlic or onions anyone?
Delhi market

India Gate lit up for
Independence day, Delhi 

Independence day celebrations, Delhi

Flags for sale on Independence day, Delhi

Qutab minar, Delhi

Now, if you don’t mind, back to Agra.  You would think that if a place receives millions of visitors, and is one of the biggest attractions going around, the city would take a little care to spruce the place up a little.  Maybe sweep a street or two?  Pick up some poop (animal  / people / indistinguishable)?  Fix some broken pavements/buildings/everything?  No, don’t be silly.  Not in India.    

Culprits of why the streets
are so dirty,
the streets of Agra

A bit of sweeping wouldn't
do much harm,
the streets of Agra

Agra as a city is really just as dirty as Delhi, but perhaps only less congested.  In and around the tourist sites there is garbage everywhere, and these are surrounded by a very unimpressive, underdeveloped city that bears no features that would lend anyone to otherwise conclude it housed such a tourist jewel.  It is no wonder people use Agra as no more as a passing point to see the Taj Mahal, one or two other attractions, and leave back to Delhi or onto a more desirable location - often the same day.

I had time, so decided to give the city a chance, and spent a few days there.  With time on my side, I was able to see the other less-visited sites of the city, which in fact are quite nice and with less tourists visiting these attractions, one is able to enjoy their beauty in its calmness.  I was intending to leave the Taj as the climax, on the last day of the trip.

The Agra fort is a massive, red-stoned fort that is well preserved and interesting to walk through.  It also gave me my first glimpse of the Taj.  Next on the list was something nicknamed the Baby Taj, which is strikingly similar in design to its namesake, although, as far as I know, bears no relation.  The best part about this was how little tourists were here, so I was able to spend a lot of time sitting under its arches, enjoying the site.  Oh, it was also raining ferociously that day, which may have contributed to the lower visitor numbers.

The entrance of Agra fort

Locals catching a view of the Taj Mahal
through one of Agra Fort's windows

The grounds of the Agra Fort

First Taj sighting, from
Agra Fort

One of the palace balconies, looking out into Agra, Agra fort

The baby Taj,
Agra

The highlight of the city for me was the Mughal gardens.  The Mughals ruled this part of India and had established large, symmetrical gardens on the banks of the river that runs through Agra.  Only two have been preserved, and the most famous is Mehtab Bagh, which is directly across the bank from the Taj.  As a fan of a good garden, I was already happy to just be inside and appreciate how such a large space could be landscaped so symmetrically.  Mughal garden design also follows a specific pattern of small plants being built closer to the centre, and as it moves out, the plants become larger and larger, finishing with the largest trees on the outer borders.  Another added benefit, which the less-garden-inclined among us come for, is the largely unobstructed view of the north side of the Taj Mahal across the Yamuna river.  Again, with so little tourists here, people could get great views of the site, without actually going in...

The Taj from Mehtab Bagh. 
Note the complete lack of tourists

Happily posing for another photo.
Ahhgg.  Fame

With all the rain that fell during the days I was there, I actually lost a full day to the weather.  Now I had the choice of spending my last day at the Taj, or visiting a different village.  It was an easy decision, as I had seen the Taj from a number of different angles, and was not going to pay a highly inflated entrance fee to be surrounded by people,  To be quite frank, I did not find the Taj to be too amazing (Oooh, scandal).  I mean, it is big.  However, once you have seen a marble temple or two, they all begin to look the same, and after four months in India, I had seen my fair share.

So, it was off to a smaller town, about 40km outside of Agra, that a local friend of mine had recommended.  And I felt so vindicated at my decision when I arrived at the massive gates of Buland Darwaza, the mosque compound of Fatehpur Sikri.  I was even taken around by a volunteer/guide, at no charge (but obviously a donation was implied).  Next to the compound was a large, preserved palace.  The palace has an amazing, classically Indian, story.  It took 12 years to build the palace, but they had to abandon it after living in it for 4 years, because there is no water close by! Foresight and logic - two traits I was sorely missing in my travels.

Also, the emperor had a tower built to commemorate his favourite elephant executioner – the elephant who he used to carry out death sentences by trampling on them.  Just seemed like a really nice, forward-thinking bunch of guys.  Far more interesting that a person who built a palace because he loved his wife.

Entrance to Buland  Darwaza, Fatehpur Sikri

Kings palace, Fatehpur Sikri 

Astonishingly, my first temple to a king's favourite executioner elephant,
Fatehpur Sikri

...

A lesson in commitment: an ode from a bok fan

How do you describe something that has more commitment than than Cheslin Kolbe flying through the air to catch an up and under?  Is it possible to be more dedicated than Damian de Allende crashing into the opposition defence again and again (and again and again and again)?

No, you fools.  Obviously you cannot.  Cheslin Kolbe is a winged magician and de Allende is a wrecking ball (and the dynamism of one too).  

One can however try, as we all do when we sit down on a Saturday afternoon to watch the next game, honour these living gods of protein shake and luminescent physio tape by supporting them with all of one's heart.  Be that by making sure you have the proper bok kit - the one made of proper fabric, not that stretchy nonsense; smashing beers and flesh during any game regardless of if it's a 12am kickoff in Beunos Aires, or a 9am start on a Sunday; or booking a boardroom for a pretend meeting during the world cup, so you can make sure you watch the game off the HD projector (we are not savages).

Supporting the glorious bokke though becomes innumerably more difficult when travelling to places where rugby is (unknowingly) not celebrated like a religion by shirtless men with guts touching their knees.  Moreover, to make things more difficult, not only did I find myself in lands of maul and lineout ignorance, but often in places where simply finding a TV was a challenge in itself.

It was with a heavy heart and a deep sadness that I had therefore resigned myself in all likelihood to missing the Springboks challenge for glory in the world cup.  It was an unintended consequence of taking a year to unselfishly give of myself, volunteer, just make the world a better place, and a choice I would have to live with for the rest of my life.

My spirits though were lifted when I walked past a bar in Pokara, Nepal, and the chalked signboard said that they were playing all the rugby games live (they also had a good special on fresh fish, but that is neither here, nor there).  What?  Really?  Rugby, and in Nepal?  Could I really be so lucky?  I went up to inquire with the owner of the establishment, and lo and behold it was true.  

First 3 pool games in Pokhara: SA vs New Zealand; SA vs Namibia; SA vs Italy

I had missed the New Zealand opening game (because of trekking in the mountains - forgive me), but I was a few days out of the SA vs Namibia game, and was definitely not missing this one.  I got to the pub early for the Japan vs Ireland game, and that doozie set up what was a routine smashing of our neighbours, and the first W for the world cup.

SA vs Namibia
Hows's that tache?
Pokhara, Nepal

Watching rugby in Pokhara was easy, so watching SA turn over Italy was a piece of cake.  By this time I had found a few places playing the game, so I was spoiled for choice, so watched the game while daring to eat a pizza.  Both me, as well as the boks, made it through unscathed.

4th pool game in Kathmandu 

Einstein was so correct when he remarked that "The only thing more dangerous than ignorance is arrogance" (though he probably changed that quote after some of his later inventions), and I was given a kick off my high horse down to reality when I missed the Canada game.  I had foolishly thought I would be able to watch the game - being in the capital of Nepal.  In truth, I didn't try that hard, because it was after all only Canada, but still, not good enough Ryan, and I swore I would not make the same mistake again.

QF in Goa: Japan vs SA 

We were in the quarters, and Japan had the support of a passionate country behind them - which had already helped them claim unexpected victories over Ireland and Scotland.  You never want to play the home team of a world cup, let alone when in the last world cup they had smacked you.  

Learning from my past mistakes, I made sure that my hostel was screening the game, and watched the boys grind Japan down with Mapimpi smashing his Japanese opposite winger on his way to a double.    

SF in Hampi: SA vs Wales

A week later I found myself in Hampi.  Hampi has many things going for it: beautiful landscapes, a relaxing atmosphere that moves as gently as the cool breeze that flows through the rice paddies, thousands of ruins, monuments, and temples (although inexplicably none to Siya "our son" Kolisi, or the Beast); but for a land that clearly digs worshiping things, surprisingly it had no place to worship the bokke?  

As a largely 'dry' city, meaning that alcohol is generally frowned upon, and hard to come by, together with an inexplicable total unawareness of rugby, I feared that I would be doomed to watching highlights of the game on Youtube, or reading the post match analysis of the game.  

I was however inspired by an Englishman (of all people), who had said that the rugby could be streamed via a VPN or some technie, nerd, IT IT, something.  If I could find a place with decent wifi - the city where he watched was an hour's bus away - I could watch the game.  

I was staying in Sanapur, a small village across the river from Hampi, and about an hour's drive to the closest main city which had hotels (and therefore decent, stable wifi).  So, while contemplating how to get to the city for the game the next day, I saw that our backpackers had a TV.  Inspired, but doubtful, I asked Rambo (Yes, I know), the owner of the hostel if he could play the game, and he assured me that it was possible.  I was staying in the middle of a tiny village, but luckily enough he had a TV, and satellite to boot.  India, you beaut.  

Hold your horses everyone.  India giveth, and India takes away.  As things turned out, the satellite in the backpackers did not work.  Rambo though, true to his name, was not easily defeated, and offered for me to watch in his home.     

That's how you make a plan to catch the boks
Sanapur, India

So I do not know where you watched the game, but I did from a village called Sanapur, in the middle of India, on the floor of the house of the owner of the local backpackers.

Final in Kerala: SA vs England

After a hard fought victory, and the glory of Pollard's right boot (how glorious you may ask - 

http://www.thebounce.co.za/articles/sports/handre-pollard-insures-his-right-foot-for-r2-million/4173), we had made it to the finals.  I had made it to the southern state of Kerala, specifically Kochi - its capital.

Unfortunately, and like previous capitals in this story, Kochi had lots of hotels, but none showing rugby.  My hostel this time had no television, but it did have decent wifi, so I decided to try streaming by using a VPN to trick the internet into thinking I was not in India, but a more rugby-loving nation where those channels would let me watch the glorious springboks take on the poopy-headed English (sorry, but I am that passionate).

You may be able to trick a fool, maybe even trick a camel, but you cannot fool the internet (well at least I cannot).  With time running out, I began to despair.  Though, like Rassie says, rugby is about the full squad, I needed the help of a buddy - no a hero - and only the greatest of friends would video call you and point their phone at their TV at home for 80 minutes (plus trophy ceremony and speeches).

So, I managed to watch South Africa give England as absolute hiding.   Yes, it was through a phone screen, watching another screen, but no less sweet.  Winning the world cup is one thing, but any South African sports fan will tell you that beating the English (media), who were so confident after beating New Zealand, is sooooo much more sweet.

It takes a village to help Ryan watch
the world cup.
Kochi, India

The biggest shout out to an absolute
legend.  Thanks bae :)

So what is the moral of the story?  I am not sure.  Probably, that the boks are amazing.  Follow your dreams.  Never give up.  And always make sure you dress your best, you never know who you will meet.

Covering that glorious mop with a hat is
probably the biggest mistake he made in the world cup

Motorcycle diaries: a motorcycle trip through the Nubra valley and Pangong Lake

06 - 08 August

Having never ridden a motorbike, and sworn to never ride one of those organ donation machines, here I was, getting onto a bike with 3 Spanish boys, none older than 23, who I had met 6 days ago. #classicindia

These really just are the things that happen on a trip to India.  You do not plan them.  You do not know how you got there.  But you end up having a proper amazing time.

I had met these Spanish boys on my trek through Markha valley (last post was a doozie no?).  For some background: these were 3 guys, in their early twenties, who had come to India with no plan.  They had been convinced by a tour agent that they must see Leh, and go trekking, and therefore all three went to the nearest trekking store, and got kitted out with the same outfits.  The salesperson at the store definitely earned their yearly bonus off these guys, as they were convinced to buy (which they definitely did not need) sub-zero jackets.  I think it was their decision that they had to be matching.  They also had new, matching hiking shoes to boot (boot - lol).  Added that they had matching mohawk haircuts (because they were convinced to cut their hair in Varanasi, because it is good karma – oh to be young) and took a screenshot of our map at the start of the trek, because they had none.  Otherwise, they were really funny guys to be around, always positive and energetic, and generally just looking to have a good time.

These look like a trustworthy bunch of guys?,
Leh

When we had completed our hike, I started looking for other things to do / see in Leh, and was planning to see how the public bus could take me to the Nubra valley,  because going through a tour agent was just too expensive.  On telling my new friends of my plan, they invited me to join, as they were going to the same place, and had just rented two bikes, and had space on the back of one.

I asked if they had their bike licenses, which they quickly confirmed to me that they most certainly did not.  They though 'reassured me' that they had “grown up” on bikes, riding around Spain.  My risk averse nature kicked in, and I said I needed to test drive with them the day before, just to see how competent they were.  However, India intervened, and we just never got around to do it.

I therefore got onto the bike – my first motorbike - without any prior testing of the driver’s skill on the morning we left for the trip, and hoped for the best – which, in truth, had put me in good stead so far.  I comforted myself that if I felt unsafe, I could just get off, and hitch back to town.

Any fears though quickly dissipated, as these guys really knew what they were doing.  They confidently, and safely, were able to navigate the mountain paths and snow-covered trail leading to – historically erroneously claimed to be - the highest motorable passes in the world (now, it’s just referred to as one of the highest 😊).

The crew up at (one of) the highest motorable passes in the world,
Khardung La pass, Leh

Trepidations forgotten, I quickly began falling in love with our selected move of travel, and saw why people choose to go exploring (specifically this area) on a bike.  One moment you are in the snow, standing on top of (one of) the highest motorable passes in the world, and as soon as you go over the pass, you are greeted by green, lush, sunny valleys and lakes.  Like much of natural India, photos really cannot do justice to what your eyes are experiencing (or at least my attempts at capturing it).

I mean seriously?
Who wouldn't ride on a death machine for this?
Leh

Yay for good life choices
(I think the bikes were stopped at this moment),
Leh

Our first destination after the pass was Sumur.  It is famous for having sand dunes inexplicably present in the middle of the valley.  We had some good fun messing about in these and ended our day driving though to a small village, called Panamik, to stay overnight.  Here we were welcomed with a hearty, home-cooked meal, which served us well after a long day of motorbiking, and the company of an Austrian mountaineer who was climbing peaks around the area.

Sumur, Nubra valley

Sumur, Nubra valley

Nearly the end of day 1, with the beast -
the Royal Enfield Himalaya,
Sumur, Nubra valley

Panamik is also famous for a hot spring, which our new Austrian friend warned us was not too overwhelming.  We popped past nevertheless on the morning of the second day, and quickly left, after realising it was what can be best described as a bathroom floor with a warm water puddle as a foot bath.  Guess we gotta start be more trusting of the Austrians (too soon?).

Some Spanish boys, a saffer, and an Austrian
starting day 2 with a serious brekkies
Panamik, Nubra valley 

Undeterred, we headed to our primary destination.  Pangong lake was touted to us as a must-see, and overall just a beautiful place.  Our trip was going smoothly, and uneventfully, until after leaving lunch, the driver of my bike stopped.  He said the bike did not feel right.  After pulling over, we could instantly see why – the front tyre was punctured.  I jumped on the other bike to lighten the load of the injured bike and we both rode back to where we had just left lunch.

The restaurant owner was very helpful in guiding us (who between the four of us had a sum total of zero  mechanical experience) to remove the front wheel, and letting us know that two of us had to go to the nearest town to get the tyre fixed / replaced.  We quickly made a plan and each team member had their tasks.  Two of the Spanish boys would go on the working bike to get the tyre repaired, while me and the other buy would pass the time at the restaurant, eating and playing cards.  Not sure who received the short straw on that one :)

I say we were guided.
We mostly looked on,
near Kalsar

Hours passed, and while sitting at the restaurant, we started to calculate if we would be able to make it to Pangong lake still today - as we had intended spending the night there.  Just as we were losing hope, our fellow travellers returned with a repaired wheel.  Apparently the tyre man (not sure of the official title) repaired the tyre for 50 rupees (R10).  Sure it will be fine.  It would be close, we thought, but we felt we could still make it to Pangong lake.  We just had to stick the tyre back on and get going.

Classic case of easier said that done.   For those of you with as little motorbike mechanical experience as me, you should know that while removing a tyre is relatively simple, putting it back is not.  For some reason, the brake pads just would not move for us to slip the tyre back.  We tried.  The restauranteers tried.  Some random patrons of the restaurant tried.  There were theories, and poking, and prodding, even some brute force, but they would not budge.

with the sun was setting, and our thoughts turning to where to spend the night, and as we began starting to consider returning back to Leh, one of the Spanish guys suggested a Hail Mary.  We had tried every screw and bit except one, because this was where the front brake’s hydraulic fluid was stored.  The theory went that if this was released, maybe this was the pressure holding the pads together.  Tired, and out of options, we gave our approval, and it actually worked.

With new excitement, we quickly put the wheel back on, and amazingly all the parts were accounted for, and started riding.  However, one thing you cannot beat is the sun, and light was fading fast.  We had intended to leave lunch at 1pm, and had now left at 6pm.  Pangong was out of the question, and we really just were looking for the next village.

We had figured that driving in the dark was not too bad, as there would not be too much traffic (there was no other vehicles on the road) and we would just be careful.  What we had not counted on however, and probably the reason for there being no one else on the road, was that the river levels rise considerably in the afternoon, as the hot day turns the snow on the mountain into water.  Small streams that are skipped over in the morning, become considerably faster and fuller flowing in the later afternoon.  Our bikes would not ride through them easily, so as we got stuck in each one, we had to push these through freezing cold, recently melted snow rivers. 

Pushing our bikes, knee deep in ice water,
trying to make it to the nearest village.
Somewhere in Leh :)

There was no turning back, because the river we had just crossed was bad enough, and the nearest town hours behind us.  Finally, we ended up at a village about 60km from Pangong lake, called Shyok at 9pm.  Cold, wet, and tired, we just needed a place to stay, but found the locals very unhelpful, and trying to take advantage of our vulnerable situation by offering inflated prices and trying to get us to stay at their guesthouses.  We decided to take on finding a place to stay on our own, and to set off to some lights in the distance.  We were however quickly flagged down by (what we think was) a policeman / border officer / checkpoint person, saying we should go back, because we were driving towards the China border.

Cold and tired, but still in high spirits.
Shyok, Turtuk

Colder, and more tired, we just accepted the first offer that came our way, and spent the night at a guesthouse that turned out not to be too bad.

The next morning we headed to Pangong lake, on a largely (relatively) uneventful trip: except that we waited for 3 hours while the one guy suddenly realised he left is cellphone at the guesthouse in Shyok and went back to get it.

By now we got used to some cards,
while waiting.
Tangste

On arriving to Pangong, we were so pleased to see that all the trials and troubles were worth it.  It is a massive 134km deep blue lake, and surrounded by the Himalayan mountains.  About a third belongs to India, and the rest to China (read Tibet) #getting political.  We spent some time marvelling around, taking some pictures, and having lunch, but we could not stick around too long, as we had over 100km still to cover to get back to Leh that evening.

The crew, with our destination in the background,
Pangong lake

Lunch at Pangong lake

Pangong Lake

To my surprise, we made it back: all in one peace, with one bike having a self-repaired wheel and no front brakes,over snow, through sun, rain, mountain passes, and terrible roads inbetween.  There were some hairy moments over the three days, but overall an incredible experience, with some great, new friends, seeing a largely untouched part of the world, and falling in love with my new favourite mode of transport.  Don’t think I’ll do it again though – motorbikes are dangerous (so he says until the next random adventure pops up).

Riding back to Leh across snow

Arriving back in Leh