THE ULTIMATE CAVES…AND HOW WE GOT THERE

One thing for sure about my travels in India: I’ve seen the countryside down and dirty and up close. You worry about the danger to pedestrians and passengers as you’re skimming along over narrow, bumpy roads in an auto rickshaw (tuk tuk) or a battered old bus, but you soon realize that you’re not going very fast. One hundred kilometers in three hours is not exactly flying! And you can see a lot of landscape along the way.

One such bus got Gullvi and me from Jalgaon to Fardapur, a stone’s throw from the famous Ajanta Caves. There we found a reasonably priced guesthouse, The Holiday Resort, run by the government, and we proceeded to bone up on the caves by buying AJANTA, A brief History and Guide, by Walter M. Spink, Ph.D (1954) Harvard, and professor emeritus of the History of Art at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor…and the world’s expert on caves in the Ajanta Valley.

But where to begin? There are over 1200 caves in India, 1000 of which are in the Maharashtra region, because the hard volcanic basalt rock from which the monasteries, temples, and intricate carvings are made is in abundance in the region. And we learned that it had all been created by using a simple hammer and chisel! Can you imagine carving into a mountain with such elemental tools?

Ajanta was described as a human-made excavation cut into the horseshow-shaped scarp of a steep cliff overlooking the Wagora River. It represents two distinct movements in Buddhism, the first six caves dating from approximately the 1^st century B.C.E. and the others from the 5^th century C.E. They all reflect the Indian genius for sculpture, and are covered with elaborate decorative details.

The twenty-nine Buddhist caves near Ajanta form a devotional complex, which ranks as one of the world’s most startling achievements, created at the very apogee of India’s Golden Age. And all of this was discovered only 200 years ago by an English soldier out tiger hunting. The caves he found, initially, were from 100 BC to 150 AD, when Buddhism flourished throughout western India, before its three-century eclipse. But that was just the beginning, according to Dr. Spink. It was not until about 462 that a remarkable Buddhist renaissance began at Ajanta under the aegis of the Vakataka emperor Harisena, the greatest ruler of the mid-fifth century. By the end of his brief reign (c. 460-477) his domains in central India stretched from sea to sea.

Nearly all the Vakataka caves were started in a single burst of activity, using the skills of artisans sent down from the great cities, and drawing sustenance from the nearby trade route which Harisena’s forceful rule made safe for the monks, merchants, and workers who traveled upon it. Having received a pious patronage from rival dynasties that resulted in intense development, Ajanta’s splendid murals, telling old Buddhist tales in modern dress, provide a remarkable “illustrated history” of the period.

These words are a summary of some of the material to be found on Dr. Spink’s website (www.walterspinik.com) along with his controversial theory that all of the later caves were completed within only fifteen years, an amazing feat, which he likens to a Renaissance (462 to 477 C.E.). There are also several videos, which will give you an idea of the vastness of the temples and the artistry of the painting and statuary uncovered in the caves (videos for www.walterspink.com).

After having devoured the guidebook, you can imagine our surprise and glee at having a charming man walk up to our table in the dining room and ask if he could join us. He said he was here for several months to continue his research and writings about the caves. Name? Walter Spink. How lucky can you get? Gullvi and I spent a good part of the next two evenings questioning him about the way in which the caves were created, and talking with him about his research.  Here was a man who still, in retirement, worked with teams of students from around the world at his site seminars, was writing another book, and had a sense of humor about the idiosyncrasies of the academic establishment.  A man with a twinkle in his eye and a razor sharp mind. What a joy for us!

Walter M. Spink

Walter suggested that we take a taxi through the old town of Ajanta early the next morning, which would take us through the gate of the ancient wall and on to the Viewpoint, a high ledge from which we could see the entire horseshoe-shaped layout of the caves.  We could then walk down a steep series of steps to a gazebo and there, spread out in front of us would be the entire panorama. We took his advice.

The caves from the Viewpoint

We spent a glorious, albeit very hot day, walking in and out of the most amazing structures I’ve ever seen. This is a must for all travelers to India! Get there at all costs. It’s one thing to see glorious temples built of stone, and it’s another to see temples carved OUT of a stone cliff. In this case, seeing is believing.

I took over a thousand photos of these structures, inside and out. Each pillar had its own special design, and was meticulously situated according to elaborate architectural plans; each frieze was different; and each ceiling individually painted or carved. Here is a tiny sample of what I saw. I have not attempted to name each photo.

Vaulted ceiling

Detail of ceiling in entranceway

Inside one of the many temples

Chaitya Hall

Detail of frieze on pillar

One of the most enjoyable parts of our visits to the caves was the communication with the school children. Droves of young people, squired by their teachers, filed in and out of the temples, and whenever they’d see us Westerners, they’d shout,” Hello, welcome to India. My name is ____. What is yours?” Then a dialogue would ensue and, soon, photos taken, in groups and individually. They loved to pose with us! And ask us what we thought of their country. Did we like it? And what did we like about it? And would we come back? There was a real desire to hear good things about their history, for they knew too well the unattractive things, like the garbage and pollution. So we interacted, talked with the teachers, and ended up shouting goodbyes interminably. We were always treated with great respect…called Madam, Amala (mother honorific), or even Grandma. And everyone wanted to shake our hands. It was delightful.

They sang to me as I taped them

Goodbye, Meg...Goodbye, Gullvi!

Indians are encouraged to visit their national treasures, which is why the admission is only a few rupees for them as compared to the large amount for foreigners. Gullvi and I never minded this, for we realized how much it takes to care for these sites, and we also realized how important it is for the people of the country to know and be proud of their rich heritage. We even became friendly with some of the hucksters who were pushing guidebooks and trinkets. At one point I told my pursuer for the tenth time that I did NOT want to buy anything. Finally he said, “That’s all right, Madam. My job is to ask and your job is to say no. So, today, we’ve both done our job.” How about that?

My friend, the book salesman...also a reporter for the local police department

It was Walter who urged us to continue on to the Ellora Caves after two days in Ajanta, and then to return, pick up our packs, and have some tea before heading back to Jalgaon and our train to Katni. What a great idea!

Our bus ride to Ellora was much more eventful, if roaming around, looking for some kind of transport qualifies. I have to admit that I was taken back to former days when I found excitement in this kind of bare-bones travel…standing by the side of the road waiting for a bus, bargaining for bananas and oranges from a vendor, putting up with stares and giggles from the locals. We really were a curiosity…two older ladies traveling like natives, with no pretences.

We reached the small town of Phulambri, where the road to Ellora turned off, and were admonished to “go that way” to find a bus or taxi. We finally located a makeshift taxi (more like a panel truck), climbed aboard, and waited until 24 people had been stuffed in (I think they overreached their quota, actually). This is the ride I told you about earlier, with the old woman crammed into the front seat under the fat man, along with four other people.  Since Gullvi and I had paid four times as much as the Indians, we weren’t about to double up any more, and stood our ground.

You cannot imagine that ride! The left door would not close entirely and the poor old woman was grasping the dashboard to stay inside. Every time we’d stop, the man in charge would try to get us to move closer together so he could add another passenger, but we refused. Only when we halted five kilometers from the caves did we get bamboozled.  We were transferred to an even more beat-up cab, driven by a crazy young man, who seemed to be trying to terrify us, as western women, by playing chicken with every oncoming vehicle. This was done by swerving across both lanes of a narrow road, passing on hills, looking back and laughing, and picking up or disgorging numerous teenagers along the way. His door didn’t close, either, and at one point he folded his legs under him to show us that he really didn’t need brakes. I was so busy praying to the God of Rapid Transit, that I simply stopped paying attention to him, looked to the left, watched the sun set, and thanked Shiva, Buddha, and Jesus when I arrived at the Kailas Hotel, our destination.

Early the next morning we ran the gauntlet through hordes of eager shop keepers to the gates of Ellora. For two days we roamed the hills, alive with monkeys, and marveled at the magnificent caves, especially #16, Kailasa, which is considered the zenith of the rock-cut technique of architecture. Pictures cannot begin to show the majesty of the carvings, the human figures in bas-relief, the huge stone elephants adorning the courtyard, the balconies with their columns and secret rooms, and the monolithic Kailasa temple, named after the mountain abode of Siva, which rises out of the center courtyard. You can view and study many of these temples on line and in the World Heritage Series books. Fascinating reading.

One of the elephants guarding Kailasa

Looking down on Kailasa

An example of the intricate carvings throughout the caves

Entrance to a chamber

A section of courtyard

Every column is different

As many of you probably know, I’m now back in New Jersey enjoying cool (spelled freezing) weather and taking an interminable time to un-jet lag. Seems to get worse every time my internal clock has to deal with a 10 or 11-hour time change. I’m once again enjoying the clean streets and the sidewalks of the legendary “Excited States,” but I do miss the chaos and the unpredictability of Asia, and I know I’ll return. I still plan to share the end of my sojourn in India, so don’t be confused about the dates. Look at it as an intelligence test. I’ll get back to the present in the future. How’s that? The time we spent in Ajanta and Ellora was February 3-7

SO YOU WANT TO GO ONE HUNDRED KILOMETERS IN A TUK TUK? BE MY GUEST!

India is a little like the picturesque New England town once visited by a fancy city slicker, who stopped to ask directions of a salty old character, who was sitting on a stone wall chewing tobacco. After many questions the old guy finally said to the irrate tourist, ” Y’know, you just can’t get there from here!” Well, that’s exactly how Gullvi and I felt when we got in the middle of nowhere in somewhere India and realized that we had to work ourselves out of a labyrinth of small villages and towns to get to the treasures we longed to see, like the caves and the animal reserves.

I skip ahead, since several of you have asked me to explain more thoroughly the modes of transportation available to the adventurous traveler who doesn’t want to go by tour bus or taxi or plane. This morning, before Gullvi left for Bangkok, Koh Lanta, an island off the coast of Thailand, and Cambodia, we decided to count the number of local buses, trains, and tuk tuks (auto rickshaws) we had taken in the last two weeks, and the hours spent standing by the side of the road, breathing exhaust gas and waiting for a bus that had two empty seats. We realized that the Indian people have been very welcoming to us to the extent that they would stop and shake my hand as I stood on a high train overpass waiting to descend with my heavy duffel bag and say, “Welcome to India…can I help you?” That is, welcoming except for the buses. There it was a free-for-all and nobody would give way. We finally decided that we were considered poor or bad mannered or pretentious for traveling in such a lowly fashion, and simply kept to ourselves in our misery.

Like so many foreigners who arrive in Delhi, the tuk tuk has a special fascination. Bicycle rickshaws are simply too dangerous in fast traffic, and it weighs on our conscience when, as two tall foreigners, we have to watch a spindley-legged man huff and puff up the smallest incline. Then there’s also the price. A cab costs twice what a tuk tuk does and a bus, of course, costs pennies (or should I say rupees). So last week, after we came off our second class sleeper train from Jalgaon to Katni and were served an excellent breakfast of eggs, toast, and coffee for 58 rupees, at a hole in the wall (all done by charades, since very few people speak English in this part of India), we started searching around for the best way to get to the Wild Haven Resort in Tala.

The tuk tuk drivers at the r.r. station wanted 2,000 rupees, so we opted to go to the bus station, where the cost of the bus was only 100. Gullvi, who was still suffering with what I politely call the Indian whim whams, looked so disconsolate sitting in her seat that I thought I’d surprise her and try to bargain with a tuk tuk driver for a better price. And if there were an emergency along the way, we could always stop by the side of the road. So out I went to a gaggle of vehicles and was pounced upon, immediately, by a crowd of drivers all shouting bids. A tall swarthy young man said 1200, as did another next to him. I started walking away and they followed. Since I had already handed my duffel to a fellow, who locked it in the baggage compartment of the bus, the driver assumed I was a sure passenger. Why he cared I will never know, but he did. I rushed in with the news of my success, but Gullvi, who had said, “It’s your decision, Meg,” seemed less than pleased when she saw the rickshaw and the young men vying for our business.

A brawl erupted with shouting recriminations, most of which I could not understand. Suddenly, a man, connected to the bus company, started pointing at me and yelling, “You want to go in that rickshaw? Look. It’s disgusting. It’s dirty and it’s unsafe. You will die.” He continued. “You can go for 100 rupee to Umaria and another 50 to Tala, and, instead, you will pay this man much money. And what will you pay? You don’t even know. So instead of three hours it will be four…or five.” I wanted to say it’s none of your business, but I was taken aback by such vehemance, and my faith in the rickshaw was somewhat shaken. One hundred kilometers IS a long way!

The driver of the bus, who spoke no English, was waving as well and indicating that I couldn’t have my bag, since the man who put it there had the key and was gone for who knows how long. Then another advocate for the tuk tuk got into it and told me that the price was great and there was absolutely no danger…but he, too, was almost too vehement. This was becoming a war and the sides were drawn.

“Gullvi, Gullvi, what shall we do?” Gullvi looked pale as she turned from one to the other. “It’s your decision, Meg,” was all the help I got. How could such a minor thing balloon into such a fracas?

My pride would not let me submit to the unpleasant bus people, so I retrieved my bag and hopped into the “disgusting” rickshaw. As we were about to leave the parking lot, another man came up to the driver and gave him a phone number, which he wrote on his arm with a pen. Something about “in case of emergency.” Then there was the mention of the police, and Gullvi blanched. What had I gotten us in to? Was this driver, who had lowered his price to 1,000 by now (about $21.00), wanted by the police? Was he a drug addict? And who was the young man who jumped into the seat beside him. I shouted, “You will take nobody but us!” Good grief…I was sounding as bad as they were.

Out we bumped, nearly hitting the roof on the first pothole. We didn’t talk until we were well out of town and pulled into a gas station. At that time I noticed that the younger man had stopped to buy something. Just as we started out, the driver opened a packet and was about to pour the contents into his mouth. I screamed and hit his arm, shouting that he was not to use anything while he was driving us. He apologized and threw the packet out. Now I was sure we were being kidnapped by drug lords. I knew that the packet had some kind of snuff and nicotine powder in it and simply made you a little high. But I would have none of it.

We headed into the countryside and noted that this was definitely not a bus route. Actually, it was a lovely country road with very few vehicles and lots of rolling hills and farms. I relaxed. Gullvi relaxed. We shared cookies all around and arrived inside the Bandhavgarh Tiger Reserve only one-half hour behind the bus. The last eight kilometers were constant potholes and the road was inside the reserve, where at any time we could come upon a tiger. A bit unnerving, but very beautiful. I spent my time eyeing the underbrush nervously.

Would I do it again? Well, let me think on that. We tipped the driver well and thanked him profusely. How wrong we were to be so scared. Is there something about two Geminis and drama? It was probably the most delightful pastoral journey of our time together. Lesson learned.

I almost forgot to tell you. In my three months in India I’ve taken nine trains, one sleeper bus, five local buses, one all-night regular bus, and too many tuk tuks to remember…and I feel that I really KNOW this part of the Indian countryside. And what I know–the lovely patchwork of green fields, the community festivals, the spiraling smoke of small brick factories, the numerous ox carts full of laughing children and weatherbeaten farmers, and the countless variety of brick and wooden houses with their tile or thatched roofs, shacks, tents, and villas–I like. India is forever fascinating. A dull moment does not exist.

Lest you think that I am complaining about our seemingly haphazard transport, on the contrary. The planning part was a pain at times, but if you have an organized friend like Gullvi Eriksson, who can find her way home without dropping bread crumbs, you have it made! Sometimes I think that I just sat back and enjoyed the ride.

As we prepared to leave Bandhavgarh (yes, the tigers will come soon), Gullvi announced that we were going back to Katni by taxi…and no argument, please. So you see, even the hardiest of travelers needs a little luxury once in awhile.
We had finally succumbed, and we laughed gleefully all the way, like two little girls caught with their hand in the cookie jar. We deserved it and we loved it!

IF YOU DON’T WANT TO SLEEP, TRY A SLEEPER BUS!

In the Meg Peterson tradition of traveling uncomfortably, the sleeper bus is right up there with the open-air local buses, third class trains, and small “taxis” the size of pick up trucks, who start only when packed with twenty-four people, six of whom are in the front seat, including a driver and a little old lady (not I!) squashed under a fat man smoking a cigarette. But back to the sleeper bus. I promised a recap and what a disappointment this was. Forget that it was three hours late or that it didn’t have a toilet, or that the two beds side-by-side were designed for two anorexics. The final blow (no pun intended) was an air conditioning system with no knobs for regulation and a hole like a wind tunnel that blew frigid air all night on its occupants. Two depleted aging valentines staggered out in Hampi, glad for the heat, and willing to stay anywhere so long as there was no air conditioning and no mosquitos. A sympathetic tuk tuk (auto rickshaw) driver saw our plight and found us a charming guest house close to the Tungabhadra River in the old town proper. It’s a truism that you get what you pay for, but in India you get a helluva lot, as I’ve mentioned before. We split an $18.00 room and had our first hot shower in weeks. Thus began two full days of the most amazing exploration of old ruins in my recent memory.

In its prime, Hampi was enormously wealthy, with a market full of jewels, and palaces plated with gold, having held the monopoly on trade in spices and cotton. You could see the remains of these remarkable and extensive markets that stretched for miles and were situated adjacent to the various temples and monuments. The town was also well- fortified and defended by a large army. Despite this, it was largely plundered and destroyed in 1565 at Talikota at the hands of the Deccan sultans. Today the stark and barren twenty-six square mile area on the right bank of the river has the ruins of a great empire strewn across it. The Indian government wants its people to enjoy and realize the wealth of its past, so Indians gain entrance to these sites for a few rupees, while tourists pay a husky price. This is understandable, and the locals throng to the ruins, feeling a pride in their heritage that they are just beginning to regain after years of occupying the position of a third world country. The change in attitude h beenvery noticeable to me in the intervening twenty-five years since my first exploration of India.

Most of the sites we visited were early 16th century, during the reign of Krishna Deva Raja (1509-29), with the citadel standing on the bank of the river. The ingenious style adapted by the skilled craftsmen of the day perfectly blended architectural masterpieces with the barren and rocky landscape. Gullvi and I spent two days touring the ruins and two evenings standing on high hills watching the sun set through ruins that resembled the Parthenon, juxtaposed to rocks placed by nature in stunning artistic configurations. Add to this, frolicking monkeys and the calls of wild creatures, and you have an unforgetable experience.

Temples abound on the riverside–a royal enclosure and numerous feats of engineering…baths, tanks, aqueducts, sliusses, and canals, which could function even today. We saw the remains of the bazars in which gold was traded–row upon row of granite columns, some with the stone roofs still in tact and others open to the sky. Our tuk tuk driver/guide took us to twelve major sites spread throughout the land, among them the Queen’s Bath and immense elephant stables, where every column was loaded with stone carvings and bas reliefs of scenes of life in the palace. This is a place in India not to be missed! The setting is tranquil, the small town of only 35,000  people (which, during the Hindu/Moghul period boasted 650,000 inhabitants) is charming, and the excellent roof top restaurants lend a feeling of festivity amidst the surrounding panorama of temples and ruins.

I got my come-uppance the last day when, in a feeling of celebration, I asked a storekeeper if he had any beer. “There is no alcohol in Hampi, Madam,” he said. “This is a holy town.”

I returned, chastened, to spend a quiet evening under my protective mosquito netting.

As you may have noticed, I am way behind, mostly due to the strenuousness of these past three weeks and the lack of internet cafes in the small towns we visited. I will keep you in suspense about our days at the Ajanta and Ellora caves and our search for tigers at the Banhavgarh tiger reserve. And when I get home, I will share pictures of some of the wonderful individuals we met. Keep tuned. I haven’t finished with India, yet!