KHAJURAHO

India – February 1985

To me India has always been a country full of mysteries, contrasts, colours and smells that are very interesting and enticing. The first and up to now only chance I have had to visit this country was during the Chinese New Year of 1985. At the time I was living in Beijing and we had a full month of holiday, so I decided to make a big tour of India and of course among an other interesting places was Khajuraho, where most monuments and temples are of Hindu and Jain origin and cover a huge surface. Here eroticism goes hand in hand with open sexuality in the real and figurative senses. Most temples are dedicated to Shiva, Vishnu and the like.

However, this story only considers Khajuraho as a starting point, since once there you hear stories of other places, a bit further away better kept, with very interesting sculptures, incredible base reliefs, etc. etc and it is difficult not to fall into the temptation of “since I am already here, better see as much as possible” and thus I accepted the offer of a guide for the following day, to go to a group of temples about 20 kilometres from Khajuraho. The meeting point was in the centre of town, he would hire the taxi to drive us there. I am still not sure if it was my innocence, stupidity or simple greed to see more and better, but the following day with all my cameras and a bottle of water I was waiting for my guide and the driver. Both were dutifully waiting for me. I am used not to mix business with pleasure and that in a car the client sits in the back and the guide in the front, with the driver. So I sat in the back but to my surprise, so did the guide. He explained that it was because this way he would not have to be turning his head every time there was an explanation or information to provide. It made sense so I made no further comment and off we went.

A few kilometres outside of Khajuraho, the taxi started “coughing”, as if in need of some tuning – however my knowledge of mechanics is extremely limited. Coughing we made it to a small village here both the driver and the guide went to talk to the locals to see if anyone knew about cars and could lend a hand. They were speaking in their own lingo, of course, that was total gibberish for me and that made me a bit nervous. In cases like this one understands the need of an interpreter that can make or crash a trip or even a life, although in this case so far the need was for a trip.

My guide had started to become friendly, a bit too friendly but since I ignored the ways of the place, I could not complain and he had not really overdone it, but with a tone and manners I did not like. At any rate, in the village of course there was not mechanic or anyone who knew about cars. Cell phones were non existent at the time, already fixed lines were not all that common so the only alternative was to hope and pray for another vehicle to come by and give us a hand. In the meantime my guide continued to tell me the history of the area, which as in Khajuraho, was full of erotic and sexual elements, and his explanations were getting more and more detailed and I was getting more and more nervous, feeling that “I am here all alone and not a soul to protect me”.

After what felt like a very long time finally another taxi arrived coming from the place of the presumed great temples. The tourists was a family of Germans, mom, dad and a kid of around 10 that looked tired of the trip but fortunately their driver, with the courtesy of the road, stopped to see what happened. The three Indians checked the engine but with a very serious face that allowed even me to understand, said the only solution was to have a tow truck come from Khajuraho. The waiting time would be long, and I was there alone with the guide, driver and the locals.

I decided then and there that the solution would have to come from me so I approached the car with the German family, talked directly to the mother and explained my dilemma, I was bound to do their same trip, but my car had broke and that afternoon I had to take a plane to Delhi, so I could not wait there until a mechanic arrived. I did not mention that I was becoming panicky, but guessed it showed. I beg them for help and with my best smile, asked them to let me travel with them. After a short while they agreed. The mother a bit reluctantly but they agreed, so I returned to my car, picked up my stuff and was getting into the German taxi when my guide complained that I could not leave him with a broken car, all alone in the wilderness. My answer was “Yes, I can and I am doing exactly that!” The guide of course was very upset not only for being left alone, but also without payment, no trip no pay. The trip with the German family was basically a silent one but when we arrived in Khajuraho I was happy and all is well that ends well.

The memory of this trip has remained with me throughout the time and only the thought of what could have happened makes me jittery. What would have happened if the taxi had not “coughed”? Maybe nothing but instead of telling you the story of a coughing taxi I would have written about wonderful sculptures and base reliefs. I will never know, but I have seldom been happier to return to my hotel safe and sound. The guide probably was very angry as he did not get paid, maybe thought not very nice thoughts about my mother (typical insult on mothers) but he certainly did that in Hindi or other local language and since my mother only spoke Spanish and English, both very well, the insult was not felt nor understood.

Regarding Khajuraho itself, a fantastic place, almost a compulsory visit with all its temples, sculptures and bass relieve that have been described in many books, probably in many films and videos so that if you want to see more of them, just read about it and enjoy.