Entering the Buddhist Trail at Sarnath

We eventually did make it to Sarnath, but it involved riding the last hour-plus in the dark, on extremely busy, rough roads through Varanasi (I only got sideswiped by a motorbike once in this stretch, and that was because NOBODY LOOKS BEFORE THEY PULL OUT INTO TRAFFIC IN THIS COUNTRY, and I beeped and moved over as far as I could without getting hit head-on. It was only just a love tap this time) and out the other side, through smoke and dust (they make a lot of bricks in the area, and all the chimneys were a-smokin'). 

When we finally arrived at our destination, it was blissfully quiet, with little traffic, and no horns. We found, quite accidentally, the guesthouse where we hoped to stay, and they had a room available. We checked in and asked the proprietor about dinner. He gave us a couple of recommendations, so we hoofed it down the street to have a rather disappointing meal. But the walk was pleasant. It felt good to be off the bikes and able to walk in a straight line unhindered by any traffic but the occasional cow. After dinner, we walked to the very dark center of town (since everything shuts down by 9:00 pm) and managed to score some cookies and soda water. Having polished off our bedtime snack, we pulled the wool blankets up to our noses and fell sound asleep.

Sarnath is an interesting town. It's more or less a suburb of the city of Varanasi, which is a tourist destination for those who want to see the burning funeral pyres on the Ganges River. In Hindu culture, it is the most sacred of all the rivers in India and is the place to be cremated if your family can make it happen. We decided to bypass Varanasi because, although it would be interesting to witness these rites, we couldn't bear the thought of dealing with another big, dirty, crowded, Indian city. So instead, we went to Sarnath, which it on the Buddhist pilgrimage trail. It is the place where Buddha met the first of his disciples and gave his first sermon. The morning after we arrived was socked in with fog, so after a hot, steamy shower to loosen the sore muscles from yesterday (no injury but a small bruise on my right forearm where my jacket armor must have hit), we had a leisurely breakfast of coffee and buttered toast with homemade mango marmalade on the guesthouse verandah. The guesthouse is built on a huge courtyard filled with beautiful flowers, vegetable patches, and fruit trees. Overhanging the door to our room was a starfruit tree, covered in ripe fruit. The owner asked if we would like to try one, to which I wholeheartedly said please! He had one of his workmen climb up on the roof to find a nice one for us which we enjoyed immensely. When you buy them in the States, they seem to be good only as decoration on a fruit tray, but here, they are just huge and so juicy and sweet!

Chaukhandi Stupa

Once we realized the sky wasn't going to get any clearer, we headed out to see the sights. Our first stop was the Chaukhandi Stupa, where Buddha met his first disciples. The stupa is now largely just a humongous pile of bricks upon which a Mughal tower was constructed in the 16^th century. Re and I walked the path around the mist covered stupa, and while there wasn't much to see, we both found the site very peaceful. We sat and talked for a while before continuing on. Next we walked to the Archaeological Museum and discovered that it is closed on Fridays, and we were there on a Friday. So we instead stopped for a yummy thali lunch at a little shack of a restaurant with canvas walls that was doing a hopping business. Once we were finished eating, we continued to the Damekh Stupa, which is where Buddha gave his first sermon.  

Damekh Stupa and monastery remains

The grounds surrounding the stupa contain the remains of a huge old monastery and the Ashoka Pillar. The stupa was an impressive sight at nearly a hundred feet high and was striking in its simplicity compared to Hindu monuments. The only colorful thing here were the thousands of Tibetan prayer flags and the gold leaf that pilgrims rub on auspicious spots. Next we stopped at the Mulgandha Kuti Vihar, which is a modern Buddhist Temple notable mostly for its bodhi tree. This tree is said to be an offspring from the original tree under which Buddha attained enlightenment. 

High goat fashion in "plether."  PETA would approve

The atmosphere is so much more calm and peaceful here than at any of the Hindu sights we've visited. The pilgrims and the tourists are respectfully quiet (for the most part) and the touts stay outside the grounds (again, for the most part). It's quite a nice change to be able to stroll and think and talk without being hounded to buy something. Once we'd visited the sights, we stopped and bought some fruit on the way back to the guesthouse, which we ate in the now sunny courtyard. Later on, we wandered back to the same spot where we had lunch and enjoyed an equally good dinner.

The best year of my life

2012 is shaping up to be the very best year of my life. "Why," you ask, "isn't it a bit early to make that judgment?" My reply is a resounding, "No. It is most definitely not too early to tell."  Because, in the first week of this year, I survived getting hit by a big, yellow bus. Twice. And both I and my bike remain relatively unscathed by either incident. “Just what the hell are you doing to provoke them?” you might ask. “Riding in India,” I'd reply. 

The first occurred on our way to Khajuraho. We were creeping through a particularly rough and potholed section of road at no more that 5 mph, and I was trying to pass a tractor in the few seconds when there was no oncoming traffic. I began my pass, and the next thing I knew, I felt myself being pushed from behind.  Thankfully, I managed to keep the rubber on the road (since I was going so slowly, I would guess). I looked back over my shoulder and saw yellow. I apparently wasn't moving fast enough for the tour bus that was behind me, and the driver attempted to punt me out of his way so he could go round both the tractor and myself. I gave the bus (since I couldn't see the driver's face) the stink-eye and then turned face forward and continued on my way. Colin and I stopped to refuel shortly thereafter, and I told him rather proudly that a bus had hit me, but that I and the bike stayed upright and were fine, just annoyed. I think it must have only caught the spare tire strapped on the right rear side, because there were no marks anywhere. 

 

My second run-in happened three days later (our next day of riding), leaving Khajuraho for Sarnath. The day started out just fine. The weather was cool, the air so full of condensation that everything appeared to glow gold, and we were on the road early. The first section of the ride was through beautiful farmland and a nature preserve, so the scenery was nice, but the pavement left a lot to be desired. 

Once we were through the nature preserve, the road surface improved dramatically, so we made good time for the next couple of hours until we got to the outskirts of the city of Satna (I have nothing to recommend it). The traffic load increased as we headed into the city. I was riding behind Colin in the usual pack of other motorbikes at the left edge of the road, when a bus with a most impatient driver approached from behind, blasting his horn, and attempted to pass the pack of traffic that included us. It apparently made it around some of the vehicles, but I, once again, felt myself lurching forward. This time, I was going faster, probably between 15 and 20 mph and was unable to keep it upright. I don't honestly remember the few seconds (or however long it was) before I hit the ground. The next thing I do recall was feeling the impact. I landed, tangled under the bike (it landed on its left side) and my head snapped forward and I hit the crown of my helmet on the pavement. I did a quick extremity check to make sure everything worked before I looked up to again see YELLOW. Another goddamned fucking bus in a hurry. And this one was slowly driving past me. He wasn't even going to stop. Nice, really nice. Colin heard the distinct sound of plastic bodywork scraping behind him, stopped, and yelled to ask what happened (since for once, he didn't witness my mishap). I yelled back, “that bus hit me!” He asked if I was okay, and I said yes.

Colin then got off his bike and ran alongside the bus, yelling and pounding on the plexiglass window to make the driver stop. Colin apparently grabbed hold of the door handle and tried to get on the bus. But the driver wouldn't stop and only picked up speed, so Colin let go after giving the window another hard punch and ran back to me. In the ensuing matter of seconds, a large crowd formed and picked my bike off of me and then helped me up. Colin was very soon back at my side asking if I was alright and where on my body I landed. I told him I hit my head and my right arm/shoulder (again), and showed him that everything was working fine, I was just a bit sore. About this time, a very kind man emerged from the crowd and motioned for me to sit on the ground and remove my helmet. Not really knowing what else to do at that particular moment and needing some guidance since I was really shaken, I did what he wanted. He then gently squeezed and massaged my head while Colin looked over my bike. 

After a few minutes, I'd calmed down enough to stand up and get moving. But one young gentleman in the crowd kept asking what happened. I told him that the bus hit me from behind, and all he could do was chastise me for riding on the road (apparently I should have taken to the shopfronts instead?) and for not learning to speak Hindi before coming to India, since the other men in the group were unable to understand English. Since I really didn't need his “encouragement,” we got back in our saddles, after I again assured Colin that I was fine, and rode away. 

A couple miles down the road, I started gasping and sobbing when it actually occurred to me what had happened and just how badly it could have turned out. My crash in Namibia was my own fault through inexperience. When I hit the wall in front of the hotel in Thanjavur, it was also my own fault due to inexperience and my short fuse. But this time, I did everything I possibly could to ride safely- I checked my mirrors, did head checks, I used my horn to signal, I stayed with traffic, I rode at the edge of the pavement to give all the bigger vehicles room to pass, and still, I got rear-ended by a bus. I am extremely thankful that we have such good quality protective gear, because without it, the situation could have ended in a whole lot more tears than the few I shed in my helmet. Colin noticed that I was lagging behind and pulled over to see what was wrong. I told him what I had been thinking and how shaken I was by the morning's events. He said that from Varanasi, we could put the bikes and ourselves on a train to either Delhi or Calcutta and fly home. He would totally understand and not be disappointed in me if that's what I wanted to do and said to think about the option. I only had to think for about ten seconds before I said no. I did not want to let this beat me. If we went home, I would always wonder what amazing things we missed by cutting the trip short. Plus dammit, I want to go to Nepal! Colin assured me that there was time for me to think about it and decide, it didn't need to be right that minute, and we continued on down the road. Oh, and the best part of all? As the bus pulled away from me, I saw that it was... a schoolbus. Nice, supremely nice. 

We stopped a couple miles down the road at an Indian Coffee House for coffee and to take a few minutes to decompress.  As I got off my bike, I asked Colin to take a picture of me post-bus wreck.  I took the camera out of my jacket pocket and handed it to him.  He turned it on and said, "Oh no."  It was at that moment we discovered the only casualty in the accident- the camera.  The LCD screen on the back has fracture lines and no longer displays.  We shall see if the camera works at all and if the screen can be replaced when we are someplace with access to better electronics (or anything other than those made by Bajaj or Tata).  What a bummer!  In the meantime, we'll have to live with photos on my iPod.

It's Pronounced Kazhyoorao, Not Kuzyou'reaho or, Mommy, What are They Doing?!?

Wow. 

We spent two full days in Khajuraho. Khajuuraho is a small town which is known for its World Heritage listed temples dating back to the 10^th century. They represent some of the finest carving in all of India and are famous for the subject matter depicted in many of the scenes on the temple walls. Sex. Purported to be scenes from the Kama Sutra, in and amongst the usual dancing apsaras and devas, are people gettin' busy, in all sorts of permutations and combinations. The temples are divided into an eastern and a western complex, with the western complex being the more elaborate of the two.

On our first day, we made our way through the old village of Khajuraho, trying our best to dodge the touts, guides, and “schoolteachers” (who aren't really teachers, they just get a cut of whatever donation you make to the school when they take you to meet and be charmed by the darling pupils), and visited the Vimana and Javari Temples in the eastern complex. The style of these temples was different from what we've seen elsewhere in India. The towering roofs were intricately carved with repeating geometric designs, and the lower portions of the temples were covered in scenes of gods and goddesses, battles, and floral medallions. They were beautiful but missing the promised subject matter. We then went to the Jain temples in the complex. Jainism is a religion of asceticism and nonviolence dating to the same era as Buddhism, and both originated in response to the caste system of Hinduism. The Jain temples were much more restrained in their decoration than their Hindu neighbors (and also lacked the prurient images- the ascetic Jains probably didn't find as much pleasure in doin' the nasty as their Hindu neighbors, ), but still were finely carved. This was enough culture for one day, so we headed back to the hotel with the intention of washing some of the filth off the bikes.

 

Filthy piggy needs a bath!

While I started moving the bikes around, Re went to the room to run a bucket of hot water and get a rag. The manager of the hotel saw me moving the bikes and asked if I wanted them washed. Oh really? I asked how much that might cost. He replied, “fifty rupees per bike.” Hmmm, so for 2 USD, neither of us has to get muddy, wet, or cold. Sold! While the most junior hotel employee got to work on the bikes, Re and I sat in the sun, and she worked on some blog posts and pointed at spots he missed. All too soon, the sun started to set and we headed back inside, leaving our mostly mud-free bikes to air dry. We asked at the hotel for a restaurant recommendation, and they pointed us to a small restaurant further away from town. When we arrived at the restaurant, we were pleased to see almost all the tables filled with locals. We had a delicious and inexpensive thali dinner and some excellent chai. After a quick stop at the liquor store, we went back to the room to do laundry and have nightcap.

One of Vishnu's many incarnations

The next morning we got up and stopped out for breakfast on our way to the temples. After breakfast we made our way to the western group of temples, which are the crowning jewels of the temples. Here we toured the Varaha Temple, dedicated to the boar incarnation of Vishnu. It is a highly polished sandstone statue of a boar covered in relief carvings of people (or gods?).

 

We also saw the Lakshmana Temple, where we discovered that even a thousand years ago, good things come in threes (and sometimes, fours), and a good time was being had by all parties involved (except for one carved female who was covering her eyes in the background of one scene. She was shy, you know). In addition to the erotic carvings, the temple is also covered with battalions of soldiers. Apparently the Chandelas were lovers and fighters. We next visited the Kandariya-Mahadev Temple, which at ninety feet long, is the largest in town. The temple is covered with 872 statues, most of which are nearly three feet tall. Several of these statues depict what you and three of your good friends can do if one of you is standing on your head. After a quick stop at the Mahadeva Temple, we viewed the Devi Jagadamba and the Chitragupta Temples, which were similarly decorated.

The humorous highlight of the day came as we admired a carving of a woman and two of her male friends, when an Indian woman walked up, pointed at the image we were viewing, and said what sounded like, “horse.” Re and I kind of skeptically looked at each other and then smiled and nodded as she repeated it again. After she walked off, Re and I giggled and tried to figure out whether she said, “horse” or “whores.” Our final stops were at the Vishvanath Temple and adjacent Nandi shrine. The Vishvanath Temple was another amazing work of stone carving, again completely covered in intricate sculptures. After once again walking around in amazement, Re decided to seek Nandi's further help by repeating her ball polishing method of worship (they're just too hard to resist- all shiny and roundish and jutting out right at hand level. Plus I need all the luck I can get here). Completely templed out, we went to lunch. After a very late lunch of vegetable momos and tempura, we walked back to the guesthouse to finish up the most recent round of ride reports and blog posts. Since we loved our dinner last night, we decided to repeat it tonight.

Finally, We Made it to Khajuraho

A chilly, foggy morning

So the two day ride to Khajuraho became a three day ordeal due to both the road conditions and the fact that the GPS maps seem to be missing some points, which added about a hundred and fifty miles to the overall distance between Hyderabad and Khajuraho.

Day three started in an unpleasant rush since the alarm didn't go off. Colin did set it and I confirmed it. Fortunately I woke up for some unknown reason and thought it seemed awfully light outside for it to be so early, so I checked the clock and saw it was 6:30 am. The alarm was set for 5:30. Crap! That is never a good way to start the day. But we managed to get on the road by 7:30, which was only a half hour later than we wanted. The road leaving Jabalpur was extra horrible for the first several miles with potholes at least a foot deep covering the surface. As we got out into the countryside, the road improved somewhat with was a strip of smooth pavement right down the middle for us to use. 

After riding through some beautiful farmland, we found ourselves at the foot of a hilly area, where the road once again, became smooth, and 5 mph was doable. The downside was that it had begun to mist and get foggy. The temperature today wasn't warm to begin with, and the mist and fog made it downright chilly. After several miles, we made it to the top of the hill, where the road turned to shit again. Due to the precipitation, the up to 1 foot deep fissures that ran across the road were now also muddy. From then on it took us several hours of slipping and sliding in the mud and dodging and weaving as many of the bomb holes as we could. The damp was soaking through our gloves, and cold air was sneaking past our jackets. Eventually, both Re and I began to shiver. While I stopped to fill up my jerrycan with petrol, Re unpacked one of the Ortliebs to find our fleece pullovers. With our fleeces on, we felt better, but it was still a damn cold ride.

The crowd assembles

The roads got even worse, again with huge foot-deep craters now filled with water and mud covered roads. At one point I tried to stop and take a picture (because you really can't believe it unless you see it) but I couldn't find a safe place to stop. The holes were too deep and wide to safely balance and keep the feet somewhat dry, so I kept going. Just a short while later, Colin pulled over because his steering had gone wonky. He had a flat front tire. We rode up a small hill into somebody's dry-ish yard and got busy. As soon as we stopped and got off the bikes, the crowd assembled. First it was the usual group of men supervising our work, but then a group of little girls appeared. Then some more. We eventually had about twenty-five people of all ages watching us work. I think it's funny that probably at least a million tires go flat and are changed on the roadsides of India every day, and never is there a crowd. We are most definitely a novelty, but especially in small villages like this one where we stopped. 

Members of the supervisory committee

The line of little girls stood in the front of the group, staring at us and whispering. Colin looked at the girls, then at me, and whispered, “I sure hear a lot of whispering,” and looked back at the girls to see them now giggling. They just stared at us and whispered to each other (they didn't need to-it's not like we would have understood what they were saying even at a regular speaking volume). Once we had the wheel off and the tube out, we found the problem- the valve stem had torn away from the tube, and this was the new tube we had just installed in Ooty. We replaced it with one of our good, used tubes and reinstalled the wheel. After we finished, we answered people's questions about the bikes and our gear as best we could through pantomiming. People are fascinated by our helmets and our tire pump. If people wear helmets, and the vast majority do not, they are small and seem to be more cosmetic than protective. Most of them don't even have face shields, so when they see our built-in, flip down sun visors, they get almost giddy. And when they see our tire pump, which is maybe a foot long, made of lightweight polished aluminum, and can quickly and easily inflate a tire in no time, they want to buy it. The tire pumps in use here are bulky and inefficient and require a lot of jumping up and down to make them work, so I can understand why. As we geared up to go, the little girls lined up and walked up to me. One by one, they smiled, shook my hand, and wished me a happy New Year.

We got back on the road and finally made it to Khajuraho as the sun set. We found a hotel at the edge of the “temple zone,” offloaded the bikes, and went out to find some dinner. Since it was our first meal of the day, we were both looking forward to something really, really good. We went to the “Our Pick” from the Lonely Planet and were sorely disappointed with our meals. Oh well. On the walk back to the hotel, we stopped and picked up some cookies for dessert, headed back to the room and crashed for the night.

Happy New Year

We got up and left Nagpur the next morning (New Year's Day) in the rain. The streets were deserted, and we rejoined the four-lane highway on the outskirts of the city after a few turns through the city. The lovely pavement lasted for about 50 miles. Then the road narrowed to between a lane and a half and two lanes, and the pavement also started to disappear, slowly, in small chunks, then in bigger ones, as we rode up and around the twisty route through teak forests.

Between the wet ground, moist, warm-ish air, and the dry leaves, it felt and smelled like a typical autumn day, and but for the lack of pavement, it would have been an enjoyable ride. Unfortunately as we climbed, the road continued to fall apart, and the truck traffic became especially heavy, even for India. At one point, as we followed a cargo truck through a section of twists, the truck hit a series of deep potholes in one of the many curves that lifted it up on two wheels. It was then that I noticed the UN Class 1 symbol painted on the back next to the word “explosives.” We passed the truck at the very next opportunity. 

As we approached the top of whatever hill we were on, we came up on a tailback of trucks stopped on the road. We did as all good Indian riders do and rode past them all. After passing between forty and fifty stationary lorries, we came to the source of the problem. Fanned out across the road and deep, muddy shoulders, were three northbound lorries trying to fit through a single-lane wide checkpoint. They were facing three southbound trucks arrayed in the same manner, also trying to get through the single-lane wide checkpoint. Three guards with four foot long batons were trying to unfuck the situation. The problem was, apparently, no one could back up because they were blocked by the trucks behind them. After assessing this circlejerk for a few seconds, we took to the muddy shoulder and squeezed our way past.  

Once we made it over the top of the mud-slick hill through the scrum of trucks, we stopped at a roadside restaurant to try to recover from the insanity we'd just ridden through and to steel ourselves for the thought of more of the same conditions for the rest of the ride. After a couple cups of coffee, toast and eggs, we got back on the road. And it actually improved. Dramatically. 

 

The rest of the way to Jabalpur, the road alternated between four-lane, buttery goodness, and two lane road that appeared to have been cluster bombed. All the riding in the rain and mud had left our bikes very muddy. At one refueling stop, I wished Re a Happy New Year and asked her how we were going to celebrate. After discussing various options, Re suggested we to something really dirty. Always one for a good time, I asked what she had in mind, and she said, “wash the bikes.” Awww. We made it to Jabalpur by around 3:30 pm and were happy to have survived the last five miles into the city. The roads here are chaotic, and Re and I thought that several times people were actively trying to kill us. Even though Jabalpur's streets were not identified in my GPS this time either, we were less lost and found our hotel rather quickly.

Riding to Nagpur on New Year's Eve

The plan we decided on was to ride to Khajuraho next, which, according to our GPS, is about 600 miles from Hyderabad and would be doable in two hard days of riding.  We were on our way out of Hyderabad, under gray skies, by 7:30am, after fueling out tummies one last time at the breakfast buffet (mmm idli, upma, their accoutrements, and fruit), in an attempt to beat the morning rush hour traffic.  We made it out of the city and onto the highway (smooth four-lanes) and cruised easily for the first 120 miles or so.  Then the road narrowed and fell apart where it traversed small villages and towns, opening up and smoothing out on the other side. 

The halfway point to Khajuraho was the city of Nagpur, which we hoped to make by late afternoon.  With about 70 miles to go, as we sat at a railroad crossing waiting for a train to appear, the raindrops began to fall.  Yay.  The remaining miles were wet, and by the time we made it to Nagpur, it was well after 5:00 pm and still drizzling.  Once we were in the city, we needed to locate the railway station in order to find the supposedly nearby, Central Avenue, where the hotels we had listed in our book were.  As we neared the railway station, I saw an overhead sign for Central Ave pointing in the direction of the station.  But we drove around and around, never actually finding the road we needed.  It was getting darker, everything was wet, and we were tired.  I finally got out the phone and called one of the hotels listed, hoping to be able to get directions.  With the help of the hotel and some passersby, we made it to the area.  We pulled up in front of the hotel Re had called, only to find that they had no motorbike parking there, but we could park at the “Hotel Grand,” located a couple blocks away.  We rode to the Hotel Grand and found nothing grand about it.  It was down a dark and dingy street in an area where, if there were motorcycle chop shops in Nagpur, this is where they would be.  We declined to park at the Hotel Grand and rode back around to Central Ave to look for better prospects.  A local tout spotted us perusing the Lonely Planet and directed us to a nearby hotel where they allowed us to park our bikes in their front hallway.  The evening was cool enough that we didn't need AC, but we decided to get it anyway to help dry our still damp gear overnight.  Bikes secured, we went around the corner for a very excellent thali dinner and then to the local wine shop for a bottle of celebratory whiskey with which to toast the new year.  After today's long ride and facing another one tomorrow, we decided around 9:30 pm that it was midnight somewhere, toasted the new year, and went to bed.

The ride today was really not a pleasant one.  Even though we covered about 350 miles (the most in a day in India) and the road conditions were great for long stretches, today we saw numerous roadkills.  I suppose it was because the road was smooth that people could drive faster and pay less attention to whatever happened to be wandering across the road ahead, but there were dead cows, water buffaloes, goats, dogs, and small, unidentifiable critters along the roadside.  One cow was especially fresh, and a hungry, stray dog tore at the carcass as we passed.  Ick on many levels. 

Boating and Hydera-bad

Boarding for our (not) three hour tour

Our motorbikes got to go for their first boat ride leaving Hampi!   There is a river, and there is a bridge under construction (it looked like it had been a work in progress for quite sometime), so the only way to cross it is by ferry.  There are two types of boats crossing from Hampi to Anegunda: coracles (woven, round, reed or bamboo boats) and small, narrow, wooden, motor boats.  We took the motorboat.  Colin negotiated a price with the ferryman, who then directed us to turn the bikes around in order to back them onto the boat.  Colin went first and made it on board with no problem.  I was a bit nervous about backing down the steep, slippery grade to the boat, but the ferryman and his assistant guided the rear end of the bike while I manned the handlebars, also making it onto the boat without mishap.  We each sat on our bikes for the crossing, nose to tail, and slowly rode the distance across the river, where we landed with a small bump and rode across the narrow (it seemed like two feet, but was only a few inches Colin says) gap between the boat and the shore and then up the steep hill on that side.  But we made it (there really was no question that Colin would, the only doubt was regarding me) without incident!

Our destination was Hyderabad, and we made it there by about 5:30 pm, right in the midst of rush hour.  Hyderabad is a city of 6 million people, and they all were apparently on the roads at that same time, honking their horns, vying for the right to creep forward to their destination at once.  By the time we got to the hotel, we were fried.  We checked in and got our  bags upstairs, and then went out to find some dinner.  We both just wanted something in the way of comfort food, preferably in the meat category after eating only vegetarian meals for the past several days.   All I have wanted for quite some time now is a hamburger.  Not a veg burger, not a potato burger, but a big, juicy, beef burger.  As we walked down the street looking for someplace to eat, Colin spotted a kid carrying a McDonalds cup!  We walked a couple blocks farther, and there around the next bend were the golden arches.  Unfortunately, McDeath here doesn't serve beef, so my burger craving could only be semi-satisfied with a two all-unnatural pink chicken patties, special even pinker sauce, lettuce, cheese, purple onion slices, no pickles, on a sesame seed bun Chicken Maharaja Mac.  But the fries were authentic.  And it actually did taste pretty good, just not like home.  It's funny, the only time we ever eat at McDonalds at home is if we're on the road and want something fast.  Here though, when we see one, we seem to be drawn inside by the desire for something familiar (even though it's not). 

Veiled Rebecca by Benzoni

The next morning we got up and rode the harried several miles to the Salar Jung Museum, which was the huge, 35,000 piece collection from all over the world that belonged to Salar Jung, a member of royal family of the area.  We arrived just after 10:00am, which was opening time, along with what seemed like two-thirds of the population of Hyderabad.  The lines wound through the driveway, and half the people in line were schoolteachers purchasing tickets for 75 or more students.  Once we had our tickets and checked our bag (absolutely no cameras allowed, they said) we walked around to the front of the building and into two more queues (one for ladies, one for men) of hundreds of people waiting to pass through security and enter the museum.  The security guard motioned for us to jump in front of the hordes of kids in line, and we followed the arrows to the galleries, which were already packed to the rafters with people, pushing and shoving to move on to the next display.  Hoping that things would clear out at least a little once the schoolkids got going, we found the cafeteria and sat over coffee for twenty minutes.  When we made our way back to the galleries, they were just as full as before.  We joined the procession of people moving past the displays, trying to stop to read the signs and/or appreciate the pieces.  Many things weren't my cup of tea, but we both really enjoyed a lot of the Chinese pieces in the collection.  The carving, be it jade, wood, or ivory, was beautifully done and with such expression, and the silk tapestries looked like paintings.  Seeing the Chinese arts and crafts made us both want to go there too some day.  Probably the most amazing piece in the museum was in the “Rebecca Gallery.”  The entire gallery was full of marble statuary that looked like it belonged in a garden next to a fountain in an Italian restaurant.  But the showpiece was a sculpture called, “The Veiled Rebecca,” by GB Benzoni. It was a life-size, carved, marble sculpture of a woman.  That's it.  But she was wearing a gauze veil draped over her face and her clothes.  I normally don't go for this kind of stuff, but the skill with which it was done was beyond anything I have ever seen.  The texture of the surface, the translucency of the stone, it looked like she was really swathed in a sheer piece of gauze.  Amazing.  I don't have the patience to carve a bar of soap.   

After many hours fighting the crowds in the museum, we'd had enough and battled our way back to the hotel.  Our GPS, at one point, sent us the wrong way down a one-way street (this happens with some frequency).  Unlike at home, where we would pull off the road and turn around ASAP and find another route, we proceeded against traffic (as is the norm).  The only thing that seemed to trouble the oncoming vehicles and pedestrians about this scenario was the fact that our headlights were on.  For some reason, people in India are very concerned that our headlights are on during the day.  Every time we ride, oncoming motorbike riders, car drivers, pedestrians all either signal to us that they're on or yell, “headlight, headlight!” at us.  When we pull out of a parking lot, onlookers yell the same thing.  Colin tries to tell them they are always on, we can't turn them off, that it's the law in the USA, but I have just taken to nodding and saying, “thank you” (it's easier than explaining). 

We spent the next couple of days in Hyderabad.  Initially, we'd planned to visit some of the other sights the city has to offer, such as the palace, the fort, and some of the old tombs, but after our fun at the museum, neither of us felt like dealing with the crowds or the ride to get to them.  Instead, we caught up on blog posts and ride reports, figured out the rest of our time in India, and started planning for Nepal.  We did find another place for dinner and actually ate there two nights in a row.  Kabab Corner lured us in with their case of spinning rotisseries of chickens.  The first night, we split a whole bird, two naans, and a dish of biryani rice.  It was all so good, we returned the next night for mutton kebabs, some different kind of bread (I can't remember what it was called, but it was huge, very thin, and kind of stretchy) and chicken biryani.  Everything was delicious, and we gorged ourselves silly.