) :ke youspe~lrin ese like1no~~::::~ ..;Z~r,U:!v. .? ;:u~g' '~'ngto lock yourself in bathro 'm agam.IOUcrymg. 0.. h k d "You angry,

Sh '1 d but th ',sensmg my mood, s .' as e ,e srru e ,;;!. ,S i"', '

Mrs. u-san. '~ I uess I just can't"It isn't a matter of anry-I mean ger. gf "co e with this-this idea 0 y,ours.,. "

~"CO e?" she frowned. "I do ot 'now this word, .cope.Pili' t can't b m to manage the idea of study-'"It means-w~ , J.us" ' ' "

ing Chinese at this pomt. " \. 1wi d "l'" naae I know about manage."Ah," Her expression re " e.. "lVll c ~ •

Never mind. I manage. Yo' wnte.No, Miss Siripan. I wafn't angry. Not h,~n, not now. W.hereve~

I have a student who iloes not tell lies, anyou are, ope you g' ""i bh / who Mein Gott, wi1l~remem er you aswho as an ear, a ,

fondly as I do. "~\

•,;' er teachesSoutheast Asian Cultures and Uteratures and,~us;~~loPua~nat the University of California, Berkeley. She is the author

:/Th:IL;oness in Bloom: Modern Thai Ficti~n about Women, andthe translatorof the Thai novel Letters fromThailand.

) )

PAMELA MICHAEL

The Khan Men of AgraThe author takes a chance in an Indian train station.

ONE GOOD THING ABOUT MONSOONS: THEY SURE KEEP THE DUST

down, I thought to myself, peering out the milky window of theTaj Express. I surveyed the approaching station from my uncertainperch between two lurching cars, ready to grab my bag and dis-embark purposefully. Despite the early hour, the platform slowlyscrolling past me was packed with people.

Of the dozen or so bony hands struggling to wrench my suit-case from my grip as I stepped off the train at Agra, perhaps twowere porters, four or five were rickshaw drivers, three or fourwere taxi drivers, and maybe a couple were thieves. The suddenrush of mostly barefoot men in states of undress ranging from ragsto britches brought me face to face with the difficulty of "read-ing" a person's demeanor or intentions in an unfamiliar culture.What to do?

I already knew from my few days in New Delhi that I wouldhave to choose one of these men-not because I didn't want tocarry my own bag, but because I would be hounded mercilesslyuntil I paid someone to do it for me. It's a defensive necessity, andan effective hedge for women traveling alone who must rely ontheir own wits and the unreliable kindness of strangers-the taxi-

11

12 Travelers'Tales * The Gift of Tr )

wallah as protector and guide. In Delhi, though, the competitivetourist market is based more on ingenuity and charm than intimi-dation. Many of the drivers had developed very engaging come-ons, my favorite being the rickshaw driver who purred, "Andwhich part of the world is suffering in your absence, Madam?"

My reluctance to hire anyone apparently was being interpretedas a bargaining ploy. Several men had begun to yell at each otherand gesture toward me, ired by the low rates to which theircompetitors were sinking for the privilege of snagging a green-horn tourist fresh off the train. Not wanting to see the end resultof such a bidding war, I handed over my bag to the oldest, mostdecrepit-looking of the bunch, deciding I might be able to outrun(or overtake) him if! had to and also because he had an engaging

(if toothless) smile.Triumphant, he hoisted my bag on top of his turban and beck-

oned me to follow as he set out across the tracks. For the first fewminutes the old man had to fend off a persistent few rival driverswho thought they could convince me to change my mind by cast-ing aspersions on the character, safety record, and vehicle of theman I had chosen, whose name he told me, was Khan, Kallu Khan.

Half way through the station, in a particularly crowded spot,K.alluhanded my bag to another (much younger and, 1 theorized,

more fleet-footed) man."Hey,wait a minute!" 1 protested."My cousin Iki," Kallu assured me."So, what's he doing with my bag?" 1 asked."Helper:' 1 was told.1 went into red-alert and quickened my pace to keep up with

lki and my luggage. As we reached the street it began to rain again,part of the deluge/blue sky monsoon cycle to which 1had becomeaccustomed. Over my objections, lki put my bag in the trunk oftheir car, a battered Hindustan Ambassador that was unmarked ex-cept by mud, no reassuring "Agra Taxi Company" emblazoned on

the door."Thief might steal suitcase in back seat, Madam;' Kallu ex-

plained. I acquiesced-the dry shelter of the "taxi" looked inviting

The Khan Men ofAgra ) 13

and I wa~ worn ~own by the ceaseless demands on my ability tocommumcate, decipher, make decisions, find. respond, protect, etc.,tha~ travel entails, even in a four-star situation, which the Agra trainstation was decidedly not.

Once underway, my relief at having escaped the crowd and rainwas somewhat dampened by my realization that I was on a ratherd~serted road with two men who were probably making the samekind of un- and mis-informed assumptions about me that I

kin b was~a g a out them: I peered out the rain-streaked window to myright t~ get my bearings and to take in some of the sites I had cometo India to see. I was also tentatively toying with escape options. AllI .could see was a blur of red, towering overhead and as far into thedistance as 1 could make out. The Red Fort, of course. I had donemy homework, so I knew the walls were 70 feet high, surroundedby a moat. On my left was a long stretch of sparse forest, separatedfrom the roadway by a crumbling, low iron fence.. Suddenly, lki pulled the car over on the left and stopped along-

Sidea broken place in the fence. Kallu got out of the passenger sideand .opened my door saying, "Now I show you something notourist ever see, Madam."

"That's all right," I said, "let's just get to the hotel. Tomorrowis better," I demurred.

."Please Madam:' he insisted and, sensing my concern about mySUitcase,he added, "Don't worry, Iki stay here with your bag."

I.was already chastising myself for being so naive and trying todecide how much real danger I was in when I looked-reallyl~oked-into Kallu's eyes for the first 6t'----time. They were kind; kind and blood- =-- --shot, but kind. In an instant I made thesort of decision that every traveler ..J,~~I!Ij~.has to make from time to time: youdecide to take a risk, trust astranger, enter a cave, explore atrail, act on intuition, and experi-ence something new. It is this giv-ing oneself over to a strange culture

Ambassador sedan

) 14 Travelers' Tales * The Gift oj '1._

or environment that often reaps the most reward, that makes travelso worthwhile and exhilarating.

As if to affirm my decision, the rain stopped. "OK, Mr. Khan,you show me," I said. We walked down a muddy path through astand of stilted trees, leaving Iki behind, smoking a bidi. Mycourage faltered a couple of times when I caught a glimpse of aspectral, loin-clothed man through the leaves, but I said nothingand slogged on, hoping for the best.

It came quickly and totally unexpectedly: an enormous mauveriver, its banks aflutter with river-washed tattered clothes hangingfrom poles and vines-work in progress of dhobi-wallahs, the laun-dry men. Directly across the river, luminescent in a moisture-ladenhaze, was the Taj Mahal, seen from an angle that, to be sure, fewtourists ever see and shared with affection by a man who clearlyderived great pride from its grandeur. The monument's splendorwas all the more striking, its manifest extravagance even more flam-boyant in contrast to the faded homespun garments flapping rhyth-mically in the humid monsoon breeze. We could only stand thereand beam at each other on the shores of the mighty Yamuna, theKhan man and I. I like to think it was a sweet kind of victory forus both.

Pamela Michael'is a freelance writer, radio producer, and education consultant,She is the editor cifThe Gift of Rivers, co-editor rif A Mother's World, AWoman's Passion for Travel, and Wild Writing Women: Stories ofWorld Travel, as well as the author cifThe Whole World isWatching.Currently, she is the director cifThe River of Words Project, which she co-

founded with former US. Poet Laureate Robert Hass. She lives in Clayton,California.

) )'""Jl

//'

//;-

;/

No Distance in the fi~~art\ /

\ Some knowledge comes frot1Jl~

place beyond the mind(

/iI

THOM ELK] E R

\\\-, ,

THE LlTTL~ BOY WASTR~T~G AROUND BETWEEN THE BREAK-

fast tables In the hotel hls,:arm\' wide behind hi lik ' I" ' l '''''. im 1 e aup ane

wings. HIS eyes were dar!c and ro~, his hair tousled black hisfeatures unmistakably Catalan I watched him and tl t d' h' ,.." re ec e t atI might easi~y have ,ljeen home, wa~lting my own child flyab,out the kItchen." Instead ~ was in B}r"elona, thousands ofmiles from the sn;tall town In California *;"here my wife wasprobably sleeping: \

We had mov:~d away from the city a few ~eeks earlier torecover from .rwin blows: first a miscarriage, t~n cance:. Itappeared n~~ tha~ we would never have children of\~ur own. Ialso sensed:a g~OWIng gulf between us, which no amount'oflovingwords or}?hyslcal tenderness seemed to bridge, It was hav to beaway frop} her but also, I had to admit, a relief. "

In Spanish, I asked the boy where he was flying. \,"C~taluiia," he answered, and looked down at the floor as'i£.

from a great height. "Can't you see it?"

An el~erly woman at the next table played along, telling theboy that l~ was too far down for her to see with her old eyes. Thisbrought him up short. He stopped flying and stared at her, as if see-

15