Agra

Once the Capital of the Mughal Empire, Agra has one of the richest histories of any ancient city.  The wealth and fortune that flowed through the city is unimaginable, especially when you look at it today.

Many people have seen plenty of stock photos of the Taj Mahal, Agra’s and India’s for that matter, main attraction.  Literally 20ft from any of the Taj gates are scammers and beggars, all living in the slums that dominate the once great city.  The sight of white skin seems to draw huge crowds of Indians; selling cheap toys, maps, foods, beverages, or tour services, all several times above the market price.  What amazes me is that these people must return to their posts by the tourist hot spots day after day, because what they do works.  At some point, some white people purchase their crap and at the price they ask for.  A word to the wise, if you ever purchase an item off the street in India for over 100 rupees, you got ripped off; and if you took the asking price or didn’t haggle to the point where they chased after you because you refused to pay above a certain amount, you got ripped off. 

I don’t mean to sound like I think this is an Indian thing.   The cause is people with too much money flaunting themselves in a country where most people have too little money.  Please note that “flaunting” in the third world, consists of having white skin and wearing an outfit that cost more than 20 dollars.

Anyways in Agra my sister and I, remember she’s visiting, saw the beautiful sites of the ancient Empire.  I personally liked Agra Fort better than the Taj Mahal, but maybe that was because our “complimentary” tour guide at the Taj was annoying and abrasive when I dismissed him of his services five minutes in. 

The hotel we stayed at was ok.  The view of the Taj was great, but the bed had some tiny ants, the shower seemed too risky, and I’m pretty sure the mutton I had on my last day gave me some sort of food poisoning.  Besides that the place was great, good breakfast with a view of the Taj , a colony of monkeys that hopped the roofs around us, and slow service, as per the Indian standard.

Getting around during the days was very easy due to the help of our semi tour guide, rickshaw driver.  The driver had picked us up from the train station on our arrival, provided by the hotel free of charge.  He offered to shuttle us around the next day to the best sites, so I took him up on it.  He was very nice and very helpful, insisting we acknowledge no one who tried to sell us anything.  He even brought us to a nice place for lunch where we had a great roasted chicken.  If I must say there is one thing I will miss of India it will be the combo of quality and price of its roasted, or tandoori as it’s called here, chicken.

The next day we saw the Taj in the morning, it was big, pretty, and now checked off the bucket list.  Originally we were going to catch a train back to Delhi, as we had taken to Agra, but we decided that did not leave us with enough time, so we hired a car for about 50 bucks to drive us back.  This was one of the most memorable drives I have ever had, and I’m sure that I will be able to laugh more about it in years to come. 

From the start our driver clarified that his English was not much, he spoke only Hindi, splendid news to hear indeed, now only if he had told us he couldn’t even read Hindi.  Our trip started boring enough.  There are no long highways in India so we took a route-66 type road with lights and traffic at random points and tractors with huge bags in tow that took up the entire road.  This was not at all surprising having been here for a few months.  A surprise did come though when we were stopped at a light.  Being stopped there wasn’t the surprise as several other cars were as well…if only the truck behind us had gotten the memo.  We were hit from behind by a truck and, while in Hindi, I assume the blame game immediately started; luckily there were traffic cops at the intersection, a rare spot of luck, and the issue was to be sorted out formally, as formal as it gets that is.

I apologize for the break in text, but I feel obligated to apologize to my parents, as this is the first they are hearing of this accident.  Both Liz and I are perfectly ok, and were at the time as well.  It wasn’t a hard ram, more of an, “OMG my brakes suck,” bang, which caused us to jus forward and exclaim, “are you f***ing kidding me?”

Anyways, the deliberation of blame went back and forth I’m sure for quite some time.  Our driver had pulled to the side of the road several meters up, and, of course, if there are white people around there are beggars ready to harass them.  Within thirty seconds of being left alone in the car a few children came up to the window, tapping, and begging for change.  Now I know this is a sad image, and it is very much worse to see.  Being here, even for just a few months, has desensitized me as to the plight of the individual among millions.  I cannot tell you how many times I have been begged for change and it’s not that I don’t care, it’s that I think handouts can make things worse.  Give a man a fish, he will ask for more the next day.  For a good 20 minutes my sister and I were sitting in the car alone stuck in the awkwardness of having nowhere to go, yet wanting to get away from the relentless prodding for money. 

Finally our driver came back, with a huge smile on his face I might add, apologizing.  I don’t know what Indian businesses think is virtuous about having a wide mouth smile 24/7 for white customers; personally, I think it gets annoying, and sometimes creeps me out.

When we finally reached the Delhi area I soon realized something, our driver had shit clue of where he was going.  He pulled next to several people asking for the Indira Gandhi airport, always turning to me to reaffirm that was actually where we were going; by the fifth yes, I think it is a safe assumption, but that’s just me.  Finally we found a guy heading in the same area, and we followed him for several kilometers.  When finally close he pulled aside at his stop and walked to our car to give us directions.  Apparently there are two separate buildings for the Indira Gandhi Airport; one for Domestic, one for International.  The helpful man asked me which we were, I said domestic, and after he repeated the same several times, to my repeated confirmations, he asked where I was going, to which I said Bangalore, prompting another confirmation, until finally he told us to got to Terminal 1, which required us to take a right and then a left.

Oh how simple directions can seem when one can read a sign.  Our driver on the other hand, could not.  After turning right, when we came up to the first left, there was a sign with Hindi and English writing.  The writing said some street name, with an arrow pointing left, and separately IGA T-1 D (IGA for Indira Gandhi airport, T for terminal, D for domestic) with a big arrow pointing straight.  As our driver slowed at this fork, I told him straight, pointing out the number one and the corresponding straight arrow, but to no avail.  Our driver took the left, until 20 ft. down the ramp he realized he was wrong.  So, in true India fashion, he rolled down his window to confirm the correct direction, and then reversed back on to the busy overpass, so he could continue on it straight.  A faint, revival and heart murmur later, we were back on track.

From this point I took the drivers seat, using the “cab driver” as a vessel by which I would speed up and turn the wheel.  At every sign and intersection I told him which way to go, all of which he second guessed, but finally after some constant repeating, with gradually increasing volume, we arrived at our gate.  We got our bags form the trunk, which couldn’t close easily due to the damage, I paid the driver and quickly turned our heels to put him, his car and the troubles associated behind us.

We had plenty of time in the airport, which allowed us to eat, read, and eat some more.  It was rather funny to see that the restaurant we ate in at the Delhi Airport, Fresc Co, had 6 locations in Europe, mostly Italy, and two in India.  I was curious what prompted its India expansion, but more curious in getting the chocolate croissant from the bakery next door.  Best chocolate croissant ever by the way, no offense to a little bakery in Seattle.  (For those who get that one, you get a scratch and sniff sticker)

This concluded our trip to Agra.  The two days since our return have been relaxed.  We walked, we shopped, we read in cafes, we sampled desserts, and just this evening I said goodbye to my sister.  Her stay renewed my sanity, and my writing, as it would appear.  I will miss her very much, and I look forward to spending some time with her on her turf in LA this summer.

Today’s lesson, don’t take anything for granted.

You’re welcome,

x