Agra

Ross and I are finally back from our weeklong whirlwind tour of Agra, Jaisalmer, and Jaipur. I'll start with Agra.

The trip to Agra was mostly uneventful until our first encounters with India's silent killer - monkeys. I was excited to discover a monkey trainer next to our traffic-besotted vehicle. Mom told me not to take a picture, as the man would then demand payment and it'd be a bad scene. As I ignored it, the monkey's chattering and posing became more and more belligerent. "Go ahead, don't take a picture," it seemed to say, "you foreign devils will still pay in the end."

Although we avoided monkey business, more vendors mobbed the car. Ross was visibly shaken.

We arrived in Agra two hours before the Taj closed to visitors. A horseback carriage ride gave us our first view of drastic urban poverty -- we'd been mostly insulated in progressive Delhi. A man inflicted himself on us, demanding that we hire him as our tourguide. He proved invaluable.

The eastern gate of the Taj Mahal introduced us to another stable of Indian tourism -- countless would-be peddlers, mostly photographers and post card sellers.

Luckily, our guide shielded us from most of them. When we thanked him, he merely replied "Is my job, sirs."

The Taj itself is, well, 'indescribable' might be trite, but it's much safer to leave it at that than attempt to describe it.

Entering the Taj gave us another first -- the necessity of shoe removal. Most monuments or holy sites require it. I've resolved to rethink my shoe stance regarding the Ranch.

Ross didn't have to take off his shoes. You see, foreigners are charged extra to visit Indian monuments, a phenomenon I dimly recalled but one that didn't arouse my ire until it was (unfairly, imho) applied to Ross alone. My family had been doing its best to make Ross feel wlecome, and the fucking Indian government was doing the opposite. Along with Ross' 'foreigner' ticket and my attempts to hide my shame and rage at my ex-country's backwardsness came some plastic shoe covers for Ross.

As I know better than anyone, Ross is the stoic type, and if he felt any embarassment, it wasn't outwardly evident.

My mother is not the stoic type. Inside the Mahal, a large sign clearly prohibited photography, but violations were rampant. My mother screamed "CAN'T. YOU. READ?" at an ugly red-haired Indian who should have known better, interrupting and beflustering our guide.

"People like them are ruining out country," was all she said by means of explanation.

As we returned to our hotel, we were unable to avoid accostment by urchins. We rolled up our windows on the advice of our guide, but they were hard to ignore.

Our first-world guilt was forgotten when Dad announced a beer expedition. We came back with an armful of Indian brands -- Kingfisher, Royal Challenge, and (unfortunately) Hayward 5000. We made the mistake of trying the Hayward 5000 first. Its power level was decidedly under 5000.

The Royal Challenge was less challenging. While all of this imbibing was going on, Ross indulged in a new favorite pastime - forcing me to watch Indian 'talent' competitions. The one he'd picked this time was particularly vile. Children were performing Bollywood routines.

"No offense, Dad," I said, "but your culture has been huffing paint for like, the last twenty years." He endured this provocation without comment until a singularly obnoxious routine began, which consistented of two small children singing "I love you" in all of the Indian languages. Dad told us that my mom had once had three-year-old Pranks perform this with the neighbor's daughter at a talent show.

Ross and I were stunned.

"Oh yes," he said, happily, "we have it on tape."