Ellora Caves in India

A few more notes on driving in India. Some roads have lane markings and other painted indicators to help guide motorists as to the right place to be while motating. Except on a few super highways, these lane markers are useful only to the line painters who can bring their parents out to a stretch of highway and say “Look Ma, I painted that.” There are no other uses for lane markers because absolutely no one on the road pays any attention to them whatsoever.

I earlier claimed that all Indians drive on the left side of the road, but that’s not even close to true. Many Indians drive on which ever side of the road seems appropriate to them. I assume that one of the Indian motoring laws reads something like this: “On a divided highway, don’t EVER drive on the wrong side of the median….unless you have a pretty good reason to do so. If you do have to drive against the sense of traffic, please only do so on the shoulder, or, failing that, in the farthest lane from the median…BUT, if you think of a pretty good reason why you should blast along completely against traffic in the fast lane (the one right next to the median), well, hey be our guest.”

Back to two-wheelers. Very few drivers/riders wear helmets, although you do see a few and I get the sense that it is a trend that is increasing slowly. In the US, almost all motorcycles and scooters carry a single individual, the pilot. In India, you see at least as many two wheelers with 2 people astride as you do with just one. Furthermore, you see quite a few that have three on board. This can be two parents and a young child, but even more often you see 3 very slim young men packed like sardines on the bench seat. Whereas in our country it’s common for one of the guys on a road trip to call out “I’ve got shot gun!” here I imagine the reservation statement is more like “I call tail gunner” in order to avoid being the sandwich filling.

But in India the two wheelers do not limit themselves to a mere three on a bike. We’ve seen four, two adults and two small children, often enough to know it’s not an anomaly, and believe it or not, we’ve seen five on a bike (2 adults, three small children) more than once.

When motoring, progress is slow in India. On Friday Ashraf drove us to Aurangabad, about 240 km away from Pune. The trip took more than 4 hours, so we averaged less than 40 mph even though there were long portions on 4-lane, divided highways between villages.

We arrived at Aurangabad well after dark, and we had to call the hotel for directions a few times, but finally we arrived at the Meadows on the western edge of town. Our key guide book, the Rough Guide to India, had given the Meadows a top recommendation. It’s a once elegant place that is slowly going to seed, but it maintains enough grace to overcome the high level of deferred maintenance that has built up. Situated on 13 acres, the multitude of cabins and cottages, supplemented with a beautiful outdoor pool, are a very pleasant retreat from the bustle of the city itself. The winding paths are confusing, however. For the nest two days, whenever we tried to get to the restaurant, the office or our unit, we would invariably find ourselves wandering about, whereupon the bell-wallah who had originally delivered our bags to the room, would appear and ask “office?”, or “restaurant?” or “room?” and when we nodded at the right desired destination he would point in the exact opposite direction to the one we were traversing.

When deciding on this trip, we had asked Ashraf if we should book a room for him and he gave us this infuriating “you Sahib, me driver-wallah” non-answer. Dana told us not to worry about him, that drivers know how to take care of themselves. But after checking in to the hotel that night, I went back to ask Ashraf if he had a place to stay, and he said “yes” in such a way that I knew he meant “no”. All of a sudden I became his dad. I asked again if he had a place to stay, and this time he admitted he did not. He had a somewhat forlorn look on his face and I even sensed a little bit of fear perhaps. So I said, “Look, they have rooms here, I’ll just book you one.” The rooms were going for about 4200 Rupees ($85). He definitively shook his head to that, saying that rooms at that hotel were too expensive. The parking lot guard agreed with him, which I think was his way of saying “we don’t really allow drivers to stay here.”

So I got a little tougher and demanded that Ashraf tell me what he planned to do. He said he would find a place. I asked if it would cost money. He said yes. I said, OK, just bring me the bill in the morning and I will pay you back for your room. He said OK. But I sensed that wasn’t quite the end of it. So I asked if he had any money and he shook his head and said ”No”. Now I know that wasn’t literally true, but I was willing to believe that he did not have enough on him to book a room. When I asked how much he needed for a room, he said 1000 Rupees. Which I gladly gave him. Whether or not his night really cost 1000 Rupees I don’t know. How much of it he skimmed I don’t know either. What I deduced, though, was that in the future we needed to be very clear about the arrangements before commissioning a driver for an overnight trip.

It was after 9:00 pm when we arrived, but we were hungry so we bashed our way (with help from the bell-wallah) to the restaurant where we were told with only a certain amount of patience, that just because an item was on the menu that didn’t mean they actually served it there. Having become more adventurous with Indian food, we ordered a few local specialties, which the waiter said he would try to make not so spicy. We’re getting used to the spicy heat of Indian food – it’s usually more a front or middle of the mouth heat rather than the throat grabbing blaze of Mexican food.

In the morning we headed for Daulatabad, a hill station with the remains of a nearly impenetrable fort on top. This fort was built by the original Muslim invaders in the 13th century, but, impenetrable or not, it changed hands many times, going to a number of Hindu sects, back to the Muslims and back to two different indigenous Indian groups. Our stop to climb the hill to the top of Daulatabd began a very interesting day, full of unforgettable experiences.

As soon as Ashraf had the car sequestered in the parking lot, we were surrounded by street hawkers, a happenstance that would take place pretty much all day long. These guys were selling guide books to the fort, picture albums, postcards, carved elephants, beads and all manner of other trinkets. We did our best to fend them off, but it’s pretty overwhelming when you have a small, unwelcome entourage trailing your every move, always badgering you about buying something. Once we got inside the fort, which had an entry fee, the vendors had to give leave of us, but they continued their entreaties until we were blessedly out of sight. Of course, once inside, the trinket vendors were replaced by the “official” guides, each with a little plastic card that said “GUIDE” on it. The badgering from them was only a little less intense. They assured us they knew all the secret places and warned us about dangerous tunnels and steps, but we forged on without their services.

Rounding a corner I looked up at one of the towers anchoring a segment of the fort’s walls and I was surprise to see a monkey leaping from ledge to ledge. A few more steps took us to a large colony of the same varmints, all sitting idly on the wall, studying the crowd of tourists gathered around almost as intently as the tourists were staring at them. They were Rhesus monkeys whose delicate hands and fingers and perpetual looks of sadness on their faces gave powerful visual evidence to the claim that humans are closely related to these beautiful animals. They were not actively begging for food, and for once the gathered tourists were behaving by refraining from offering up human foodstuffs.

The monkeys were one highlight of the fort. The hour or so we spent inside the fort, climbing the various stairs and ramparts to the top, was pleasant enough, but it bore out the wisdom of some words Peggy had spoken to me shortly after we arrived in India. “You’re Brad and I’m Angelina” were those prophetic words. After our foray to the Daulatabad Fort, I began to appreciate what she meant. Everywhere we went, we were stared at. At one point, it looked like we were right in the way of a camera shot that an Indian tourist was prepared to take. I pulled Peggy out of the picture frame, only to notice that the photographer swung her camera around to keep Peggy IN the frame. Aha! She was actually taking a picture of Peggy, not some incredibly interesting architectural feature of the fort. Eventually Peggy would be featured in dozens of shots taken by Indian tourists (almost all of the visitors to the fort that day were Indian).

Many Indian women and girls stopped Peggy and asked if they could have their picture taken with her. Once the photos started, more and more women and girls would gather round to have their pictures taken with the big white woman as well. Occasionally a local would ask to have his or her picture taken with me, but Peggy w as clearly the person they most wanted to feature in their “look what I did on my vacation” slide shows.

I finally realized that to many people in India, Peggy is the next coolest thing to seeing Angelina Jolie. I cut a pretty wide gawkers’ swath as well, but I started referring to myself as Tom Skerritt rather than Brad Pitt. (If you vaguely recognize the name but nevertheless wonder who the heck Tom Skerritt is, I think you get my point).

I had to practically tear Peggy away from the throngs of school girls who were mobbing her for pictures, but we finally made our way out of the fort, back past the gauntlet of ever more aggressive hawkers and into the car so we could continue our journey to the Ellora Caves.

The next several kilometers were on a winding, hilly road, as we had to cross a small mountain to get to Ellora. Coming around a corner we happened on a large group of men walking very slowly up the hill on the far left side of the road. They were all looking down and I noticed another man, prone on the road surface, rolling slowly up the hill. One roll at a time, he would use his outstretched arms to roll from his stomach to his back and onto his stomach again. The look of anguish on his face was startling. I pretty much figured out what was going on right away, but I asked Ashraf to explain and he confirmed that this man was either doing penance, asking for something from his god or giving thanks to that same holy being for some miracle already received. I was impressed by the man’s willingness to put his body through a very harsh experience, no matter what reason lay behind his decision.

At Ellora the legions of hawkers was much worse than the crew we’d just left. Not only were they much more numerous, they were also more aggressive. And they had a new technique. If you said “no” enough times, they would finally say “Maybe Later?” at which point you were so thankful that they appeared ready to leave you alone that you invariably would say “Yes, maybe later.” I should have foreseen the trap they were laying for me.

Our first stop was the definitely third world toilets, which the hawkers let us visit in relative peace. But as soon as we began our hike to the first of the 30 plus caves in the complex, the pushers were back. Distinct memories of an unfortunate experience with a slightly lame boy in Morocco a number of years ago flooded my brain.

In that instance, the young man followed us all day long, yelling “5 mirrors, 10 dirhams!” at me every 5 seconds or so. Nothing could get him away from us, “No”, had no effect, “No, thank you” even less and even using “La”, the Arabic word for “No” did not impress him. But at one point I tried a variation of the “N-O No!” form, by saying “N-O La!”. At this point you could see a form of hurt and anger cross over his face and that actually got to me. His visage cleared shortly and he went back to his “5 mirrors, 10 dirhams” pitch almost immediately.

But I felt like I had personally insulted him, so later in the day, after he had continued to follow and proposition us, I finally stopped him and said, “Look, you’ve worked really hard on us. I don’t want the mirrors, but I want you to have 10 dirhams for your efforts.” He took the money, put it in his pocket, looked me straight in the eye and said “5 mirrors, 10 dirhams!”. He was trained to sell and by Mohammed he was going to continue his day’s work no matter what.

With that thought running through my head, I turned to the most aggressive of the Ellora dealers, who was following us very closely, and said “Do not follow us” in a pretty stern manner. That seemed to have the desired effect – not only did he back off, but his entire coterie got the hint as well. We ran more vendor gauntlets throughout the day but I felt we had averted a grim and dispiriting rerun of the Morocco experience.

The caves at Ellora are a wonder and well worth a trip if you ever get near Mumbai. They have been carved/chipped out of a long stretch of cliff face that fronts a massive stand of solid rock. When you see a room carved out of solid rock it’s not too impressive. When you see a room with integrated pillars you’re a little more impressed. Then comes a two story cave with internal pillars, many of them decorated with carved flower leaves and even some human figures. This is more impressive. Then come three story caves with interior rooms and temples, including one temple with a vaulted ceiling that was very mindful of a medieval cathedral. Even more elaborate caves had likenesses of Buddha and various Hindu gods either carved into the back wall or sitting as free standing statues. Remember everything that you find inside the cave was part of the massive rock edifice. Everything was created one small layer at a time from the original click face.

The closest similarities we have are the faces at Mt. Rushmore. Those were also blasted and carved from a cliff face. But if the Mt. Rushmore team had started by carving a very elaborate set of rooms, followed by free standing statues of the four presidents, that would be closer to what you see at Ellora. These works all date from the 7th through the 9th centuries. They were created without any explosives or power tools, and they represent the various religious movements that slowly ebbed and flowed over that particular region of India.

As remarkable as the most detailed caves were, they had nothing on cave 16. Cave 16 is not a cave at all, but a free standing Hindu temple dedicated to Lord Shiva and adorned with all manner of elephants, lions, gods, people and religious symbols. The entire structure was carved one small layer at a time out of the rock, but this time from the top of the cliff to the base of the temple. The temple complex is huge – 250 ft by 150 ft, and it is mind-boggling to imagine how they could create such an intricate complex out of solid rock. Who had the spatial relationship skills to design such a thing is beyond my ability to comprehend.

My rechargeable camera battery had been showing signs of pooping out before we got to the Kailasanatha Temple (cave 16), and it made good on its threat soon enough. I went back to the car to get Peggy’s iPod, because it represented the only piece of backup photo equipment readily available. I had to fight off the hordes of pitchmen, but I did get to see another batch of Rhesus monkeys, this time well plumped up, evidence of the tourists’ insatiable desire to amuse themselves by feeding the wildlife.

After viewing and photographing the temple from every aspect imaginable, we were ready for a rest, but I wanted to see if I could get a few shots from above, so while Peggy cooled her heels (which is not technically possible in a land as hot as India), I found a small, obviously lightly used path which took me up and behind the temple where it was much easier to visualize how this thing had been painstakingly hewn from the top of the rock slab.

We stopped at the lunch counter for some very average Indian food, then regained the car whereupon Ashraf headed back down the mountains toward Aurangabad. After a few kilometers of driving, we came upon a site that I doubt I will ever forget. The same man whom we had seen painfully and painstakingly rolling uphill on the rough asphalt was still at it. There now was evidence of blood coming through his clothing at various places and the look of mere agony we had originally seen on his face was now replaced with a look of anguish and despair that was chilling. His entourage was still with him, but you could see by the looks on their faces that the strain of his determination in the face of obvious distress was clearly weighing on them as well.

I was so shocked to see this scene that I did not bother to ask Ashraf to note the mileage, but by the time we got to the spot where we had first seen the pilgrim I guessed he had made about 4 kms in 4+ hours. I had no idea how much farther his sense of mission would take him, but I was overwhelmed by the efforts he had made and was bound yet to make. Paris-Brest-Paris is nothing compared to rolling uphill for hours on end, but it did give me a chance to spend a wistful moment to try to contemplate why humans try to endure things that any smart or sane person knows full well should not be endured.

Here are links to more photos than anyone could look at in a lifetime:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/26545681@N07/sets/72157622539091049/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/26545681@N07/sets/72157622658796578/