The Indian Gazetteer

So after all the fuss, noise, cost, sweat, and general unpleasantness, is it worth it just for a visit to Mumtaz’s famous tomb? Or can you enjoy the Taj Mahal just as well in pictures?

I’ve thought a lot about this in the days since I stopped hacking up lungfulls of Agra dust. The temptation is strong to give an unqualified yes, to say it was absolutely worth the crucible I just endured. Certainly, my first reaction upon seeing the Taj was pure wonder. My second react was, “holy shit, that’s a lot of people,” followed by, “why is it so hazy?,” and finally, “I’m breathing that.” The thing is, once you’re inside the crowds are very orderly. There’s no pushing and shoving, no impatience. It’s almost like, for once in India, everyone is exactly where they need to be and doesn’t feel like they have to bowl you over.

They give you cute little shoe covers when you buy your ticket, or you can check your shoes once you’re inside. I opted for the latter. This is another thing of wonder about the Taj. You can feel it. You can touch it, walk on it, interact with it. It’s almost like a living thing. I explored the tomb itself first, taking in every angle on the central plinth. I went inside to see the darkened splendor of the tomb itself. It felt strangely small and intimate when the outside is so grand and overpowering. I then went first to the mosque which lies west of the Taj, and then it’s twin to the east. At that time of the morning, the view from the east was amazing. The Taj was glowing radiant orange. I stood in as many different places throughout the grounds as I could and from each one I saw a completely new, completely different, completely perfect view.

That’s the thing that pictures will never show; how the Taj Mahal changes and warms and opens and softens and reinvents itself with each tilt of your head or trick of the light. You can’t see that right away, when you’re getting over the shock of the crowds. You have to wait, spend time, be patient. But if you’re able to do that, there’s no question anymore.

Was it worth it? Absolutely.

The worst thing about Agra isn’t the pollution or the traffic or the filth or the dust. The worst thing about Agra is that they know they’ve got you.

Everyone in Agra knows you’ve probably waited your whole life to see the Taj Mahal; that you’ve planned your trip carefully to see it; and that, therefore, you’re stuck with them for at least a little while.

Everything is at premium prices in Agra. Not premium quality, by the way, just premium prices. A lousy dosa that would’ve cost me 50 rupees in Pune set me back a cool 100. Taxis are outrageous. I even had one rickshaw driver try to charge me 500 rupees for the ride from the Taj to my hotel. Now I’ll admit I made the guy work up a sweat pedaling, but 500 rupees? That’s more than the train from Delhi cost.

It’s a game in Agra. It’s called Screw the Tourist. More specifically, Screw the Westerner Who You Think Doesn’t Know Any Better. When I called the rickshaw driver out on his outrageous price, he immediately halved it. So I walked off. And he halved it again. It’s not that I don’t love a little bargaining now and again, but in Agra it sucks the life out of you and you still wind up over paying.

And that’s the worst thing about Agra.

Guidebooks will tell you that the best time to visit the Taj Mahal is in November, after Diwali; that the least crowded gate is the East gate; and that major tour groups will start showing up only after 9:00 am. Therefore, the guidebooks will say, your best bet for worry-free Taj viewing is to wake up early, go to the ticket booth when it opens at 6:00 and watch the sunrise at one of mankind’s most perfect creations.

I say, good luck with that.

The fact of the matter is, trying to quantify the crowds at the Taj is a bit like trying to quantify the amount of rain in a hurricane. Sure, there’s technically more coming down in a Category 5, but a Category 1 will still get you good and wet. You’re not going to find a magically solitary moment at the Taj — unless, of course, you happen to be the king and queen of Belgium, and then they’ll close the whole place for you the day before I try to go so that the crowds will be doubled when I get there. Thanks, Belgium.

There are other obstacles. First, the ticketing booths open at 6:00 am. The GATES open whenever the guards feel like opening them. Apparently, the west gate opened a good 20 minutes earlier than the east gate; the south gate didn’t open until much later in the morning. For the record, there is no north gate. There are supposed to be two lines at each entrance — one for “gents” and one for “ladies” — but there’s only one ticket taker and he’s partial to his bretheren. By the time the ladies’ line had inched up to the metal detectors, the sun had broken the horizon and the hearts of many a German tourist just behind me.

So much for choreographing the perfect trip to the Taj.

If, as Rabindranath Tagore once said, the Taj Mahal is a teardrop on the cheek of eternity, then Agra is the itchy, red, swollen eye socket from which it rolled. It’s somewhat of a commonplace for travelers to slag off Agra; they will tell you it is hot, dusty, polluted, filthy, smelly, and filled with aggressive taxi drivers and rickshaw-wallahs hellbent on swindling you. I knew all of this going in. What I did not know is that these travelers are low-balling the absolute shittiness of the place. I spent less than 20 hours in Agra, 3 of them at the Taj and 6 of them sleeping. That adds up to almost 11 hours of conscious misery. There were one or two bright spots which I will describe in future posts, but my adivce to anyone planning a trip to India’s wonder of the world is exactly what I told myself: get in, see the Taj, get the fuck out of Agra.

I lost a pair of friends today. Not in the physical sense; not yet, anyway. When I boarded the train from Agra, I discovered that something in my first class car smelled strongly of urine. To be more accurate, it smelled of urine and garbage and urban decay. And it seemed to pervade the entire cabin. The source of this odor was, naturally, my shoes.

We have reached a point, dear reader, where my faithful Birkenstocks have officially taken one for the team. They will not be making the return trip with me. They have served me well for many years and will now find rest in this sacred land. If I were heading that direction, I’d fling them in the Ganges, but I’m not. Besides, I’m not entirely sure I can find replacement togs to fit my jumbo flippers. I’m planning to send them out in a blaze of glory, however: it’s Camel Fair time in Pushkar.

It’s 3+ hours to Agra from Delhi on the train, and that means I drank too much chai and had to use the bathroom. I am pleased to report that the facilities on Indian trains are remarkably pleasant. This is due to a number of factors. First, they’re all squat-style — no icky commode to avoid accidentally sitting on. Second, they auto-flush. Or, to be more accurate, there’s a constant stream of water flowing through them. This cuts down on your manual flushing time. Finally, although there’s a tactful bend in plumbing chute, you’re basically whizzing on the tracks. Which means plenty of fresh air. No off-putting smells!

All in all, a refreshing-enough experience to rank in my top 5 of public bathrooms.

The easiest way for a non-Indian to buy train tickets is to go to the International Tourist Office in the New Delhi train station. You can research all of your options using India Rail’s excellent website, but unfortunately it doesn’t seem to like overseas debit cards. Anyway, going to the tourist office gave me another chance to uncork my rapidly-developing Indian coping skills.

The first obstacle you face comes in the form of men at the train station who try to convince you the tourist office no longer exists, even though you are standing under a gigantic sign that says, “Tourist Office Open, [today's date], This Way!”. These gentlemen are trying to direct you to an office nearby that will take more of your money and pay them a commission. To avoid them, I deployed the patented Indian selective deafness.

Next up, waiting in line. Or, as my new, bad-assed Indian identity would put it, standing in front of everyone else.

The final obstacle was something I hadn’t counted on. When I finally got to the desk, the agent asked which class of seat I wanted. I told him first. What? It’s air conditioned. And frankly, I’m a bit posh. Anyway, his follow-up question was, which first class? See, there are several. There’s 1A, 2A, 3A, Super-delux, Delux-delux, Non-delux, Uber-delux, Under-delux… OK, I made a lot of those up, but the point is it was confusing. So I did what any Indian would do and stared blankly at the agent until he decided for me. “3A will do for madam,” he declared, in response to which I bobbled my head and paid my fare.

I will hae a tremendous amount to say about Delhi’s Metro system over at the Beachwood Reporter, but I did want to share one quick tidbit. Among the announcements made during travel, there is a plea to passengers to kindly refrain from, and this is just about a direct quote, “pushing or poking other passengers while boarding or disembarking the train.” It’s heartwarming, and also, completely ineffective.

For me, one of the most fascinating things about being in India is that I am very obviously a minority. Although I’ve tried at times to cover my head and face, the fact that I’m roughly a foot taller than most Indian women is a dead giveaway that I ain’t from around these parts. There are generally two types of response to my obvious outsider status. The most common of the two is a sort of affectionate indulgence. People assume that, because I’m fairly young and white, I’m completely stupid. They are not necessarily wrong. They tend to roll their eyes gently when I ask silly questions, smile a little when I get a question right. The old guy at my internet hole in Pune has been known to pat me on the head. That sort of thing.

Then you have the good people at the Khadi Bhavan in Delhi’s Connought Place. Their strategy is complete non-engagement. They are Myanmar. I don’t exist in the Khadi Bhavan, and no amount of protestation or pleading or good-natured joking can change that fact. It’s unsettling. It’s possible this is due to shyness or lack of English skills, but I got the distinct impression it had more to do with the genuine sense that I — the only non-Indian in the shop — did not belong there.

It’s an experience that is deeply humbling, like so many in India. I’m not going to put it on my top ten list, but I’m thankful for it.

Tash emailed this morning (morning for me) and just called to let me know she wouldn’t be able to post and asked that I post her email.  So here it is:

Safe in Deli.

It’s kind of a pit.  The area — called Paharganj — is noisy and packed to the gills with Australian cricket fans in town for the test match.  It’s a little seedy (not because of the Aussies who are perfectly nice), but my hotel?  It rises like a tulip from the clutter.  Lovely place.

Still, Delhi is immediately and measurably different than Pune/Mumbai.  People are more cagey here and if a man talks to you or spends more than 15 seconds looking in your general direction you can basically assume he thinks you’re for sale.   You have to present proof of ID at the internet cafes throughout India and I don’t like to hand over my passport so I’ve been using my driver’s license.  The guys running the cafe thought it was the funniest thing ever… imagine, a woman driving!!!

Anyway, I’m also literally across the street from the railway station so booking my way to Agra should be fairly painless.  I’m still planning to hang out here early part of the day and head to Agra in the afternoon with the aim of seeing the Taj at sunrise on Tuesday. I shared a shuttle this morning from Pune to mumbai with a guy from Delhi who also happened to go to school in Jaipur.   He had some great recommendations, including a town called Pushkar that I had originally planned to visit over Diwali. he said it’s an easy day trip from Jaipur, so depending how I feel on Wednesday I may get up early and visit there for the morning. Most people say  Jaipur’s good for one day of sight seeing, so it may make a nice little break.

Also, according to a very friendly guy at the airport in Mumbai, Chicago is the most dangerous place on Earth.  Don’t ask me where they get this stuff, but apparently someone is killed in Chicago every minute.  unlike Mumbai, where they just drop dead.

Tash is having fun and did manage to her ticket to Agra.