Waltzing through Agra

As I stepped off the train into Agra I realized I had entered another world. We were immediately swarmed by droves of auto-rickshaw drivers, taxi drivers, bicycle rickshaw drivers, “guides”, and beggers. The city was engulfed in a thick haze of dust, or pollution and I could feel it trying to push through my lungs into my blood stream. My eyes began to water. It smelled like burning newspaper and car exhaust.

I am travelling with two at the moment, Jacob and Matt. Jacob and I went to USC together and were both itching to get out for a spell. Our calendars were in synch and the trip fell together perfectly. Matt is his younger brother, a Junior at UC Irvine who will be returning for the Spring semester in a few days. We are soaking in as much as we can.

We pushed through the throngs to a taxi arranger that led us to his man who would in turn lead us to his man who ran a hotel that we could get a “very good rate” at. Driving anywhere in India is putting your life on the line. You cannot look away from the road. There are no seatbelts, no lanes, no turn signals and amazingly enough, no accidents (yet). It’s a white knuckle experience from origin to destination bracing for impact at every dart around a cow-pulled cart. Everyone just honks when they pass and hope for the best. Our driver informed us that you need three things to drive in India: a good horn, good brakes, and good luck.

We arrive safely at our hotel and begin the haggling. All prices in India are negotiable. We throw numbers back and forth, go look at the room, are disappointed in its size, walk away, are urged to consider a new, lower price, and finally settle on the Hotel Excelency. No heating, no insulation, no English toilet, just 3 beds and a hole in the ground.

Relieved of our packs we set out for Agra Fort on foot, much to the dismay of every rickshaw driver that passes us. But our tourist map is woefully inadequate and we walk a couple miles down the wrong road. We must admit defeat and board a bicycle rickshaw, a three-wheeled cart built for two that Jacob, Matt and I teeter atop. Back in the traffic again, but much more exposed this time as the 40 year old man strains to pull our fat asses up the hill to one of Agra’s many tourist meccas.

We barely see the fort’s facade before we meet another breed of barterers, those with goods to push. Wooden chess sets, stone elephants with smaller stone elephants in their stomachs, postcards, whips, chains, 500 rupees, 3 for 1000 rupees, 300 rupees, 100 rupees, how much, how much?

There are monkeys that roam the bridge up to the fort and a few lepers and more Koreans with cameras than you can shake a stick at. The fort itself is a melange of various buildings and additions from the numerous occupants. At one end is a beautiful white marble structure which housed someone’s harum. There was a bath foutain which would have been filled with scented oils and rose petals and a dozen big rooms with windows open to the valley beyond the city. At the other end was a large courtyard of well manicured grass beneath a viewing balcony where the king would watch elephants fight to the death. Somewhere in between was a tiny mosque tucked between two buildings for private spiritual introspection.

As we come full circle in the fort and arrive back at the bridge there is a gaggle of Americans storming the gates. One wears a UT Longhorns shirt while another more portly man chose his Slayer: Reign of Blood Tour shirt that morning. Surely these are the assholes snatching up Taj Mahal snowglobes out front. They will cherish them along with their cell phone camera images for hours to come.

Lunchtime. There is a little place across the street that beckons us in. Matt and Jacob have been in India for about a week now and their stomachs have acclimated to the curry, but this will be my first big test, a genuine Indian food stand with very minimal sanitation. I fear that I might become more intimate with the hole in the floor at Excellency than I would like to. With the first bite, my stomach is ablaze but I finish as much as I can. There is much exploring to be had and I’ll need the sustinance.

We will go next to the Baby Taj by way of some market streets. Thus begins the “getting lost in Agra” portion of our trip. The streets are packed and loud. No one passes up on the opportunity to honk as they pass anything. In order to rise above the clamour, everyone has adopted a unique sounding horn: goat sounds, rapid fire, a little melody. It is maddening.

There are only a few types of shops that repeat at uneven intervals. Shoes (mostly nike ripoffs or italian leather knockoffs), clothes (sweaters, tees, saris, etc.), fabrics of all colors or with embroidered patterns around the edges, stone carvings (little buddhas or tombstones) or cell phones. If you are in need of any of these items, you will not go home wanting for them. It is amazing that any trade can happen at all, though, with the chaos all around. Out on the shoulder of the road are the food carts with peppers, spices, rice and tubers. Everyone stops what they are doing as we pass. 3 Americans sans guide, sans tour bus just romping past. But it is much to busy to try to reel us in for a sale. The road is crammed with rickshaws of every flavor, motorbikes, scooters, camels, cows, dogs, carts, cars and busses all weaving and passing and honking both directions down a street no more than 15 feet across.

We are looking all around us and again have no idea where we are. A somewhat promising side street calls to us and we go for it. Failure. Dead end. We reach the great garbage chasm. The street gives way to a wide pit of waste. We pick our way back avoiding the sinkholes and feces as the shop keepers laugh amongst themselves. Everyone was watching. We are the day’s entertainment.

Finally we hit water and set about regaining our orientation. There is a rail bridge with a little footpath that we decide to cross at. Again we are very much out of place. Along the banks of the river are scores of women doing the wash and hanging the brilliant colors up to dry. There is a herd of cattle grazing and two men attempting with little luck to corral them into order. About 1/3 of the way over, the Taj Mahal emerges through the haze, birds circling in front. It watched us the rest of the way across.

Our otherness becomes more apparent on the eastern back where the ’sights’ are fewer. Kids called out to us, women smiled, men looked concerned and confused. We again tried to cut across a side street and met a dead end, but this time there were about a dozen kids that surrounded us demanding that we take their picture and then demanding to see the results. As their yells grew louder, more kids tore around the corners and out of the doors to see. It was a spectacle for all involved.

Eventually we found ourselves at the entrance to the Taj Mahal and waited to get through the line. Rounding the corner she came into full view and we spent the next several hours circling and admiring. I drifted off to a bench alone and watched the sunset cast light off the rounded marble. I thought about home.

After nightfall, Jacob and I set out to find a computer. We got out onto the road when all the power shut off. A rolling blackout. The headlights of the cars sent rays of light through the smoke of vagrant fires and the haze which settled back in after sunset. We walked carefully so as not to upset a sleeping dog or hit a bicyclist zipping along invisibly. It is an intense experience here already, only 24 hours into India.