We reconvened at the DTTDC on Monday, trudging our bags down the main bazaar, ignoring the continued offers for rickshaw rides and beautiful shawls. It's not a far walk, and you can never be sure if you'll end up exactly where you want to go when you get into a rickshaw or taxi, so most of the time I think it's best to just get there under your own power.
Mukur greeted us when we arrived, and introduced us to our driver, Mr. Bhandari. Mr. Bhandari is a very pleasant guy in his mid-forties, with short-cropped black hair and a thin, lithe frame. As Mukur had promised, Mr. Bhandari's command of English was limited, so for the next twelve days our conversations would prove to be interesting. But he has a nice sense of humour, an amazing skill at driving, and looked after us very well.
We packed our stuff into the rear of the car - as I've previously described, a jeep-like Toyota Qualis emblazoned with Tourist colours - and had the first of a few misgivings by the fact that there were no seatbelts in the backseat where we would be riding. Mukur had a moment's hesitation and we both must have wondered independently if this was going to be enough to blow the deal, but he calmly explained that legally only the driver was required to wear seatbelts - completely missing our imagined fears of flying through the windshield in a head-on collision. India does have an appallingly high rate of traffic accidents, and the most Mukur could do to assuage this fear was to assure us that it would be all right, that Mr. Bhandari was an excellent driver. This seemed to be enough to work, it seemed - we got in. Mukur said jokingly to Bhandari, "you make sure to get those fixed when you come back, okay?"
We left Delhi, charging through the streets on our way to the main highway towards Agra.
Driving in India
If you haven't gotten a clear enough picture from my dispatches about driving in India, it's utter chaos compared to anything you've ever seen in the West or in Europe. There are rules: they were handed down from the British when they paved the first roads. The only thing that all the drivers generally agree on is that you drive on the left-hand side of the road, a rule that's only really enforced when there's a median in the middle of the road. And only then, most of the time. After that, anything goes. The common feeling among most Indian drivers is that traffic lights actually cause more traffic problems than they solve. The best way to approach driving on Indian roads is to imagine you're driving in a road rally, and everything on the road is an obstacle. Couple this with a healthy paranoia that if you stop or even slow down, someone may try to get into or on top of your car, as well as a legion of drivers behind you honking for you to get going, and you are forced to make sometimes daring choices.
Also factor into the driving equation the varying degrees of road quality. Most of the major highways are actually pretty good, with two lanes on either side of a painted median. But as you get further away from the more built-up settlements, the roads aren't as maintained, and you find yourself sometimes driving on a single road, cracked and crumbling on the sides, such that when two vehicles come towards each other you play a repeating game of chicken to see who will have to put two of their wheels onto the shoulder in order to let the other one pass.
Fortunately, it seems that Bhandari has seen it all, and the only time he made any noise of discomfort was when we approached speed breakers (paved humps on the road that will cripple a car's suspension if you don't inch over them at a slow speed) too quickly. Most of the time he'd see them coming and slow the car down comfortably, but sometimes the sign has disappeared, leaving only a second to notice something odd about the road, and then Amy and I would be hurled a foot into the air as the Qualis made a mighty lurch. Never so hard as to bruise, but enough to make us all giggle. It appeared the Qualis was built to take it.
Some more road hazards: the roads were built overtop of routes used by people to get from one village to another, without making a separate path for non-automobile traffic, so everything ends up on the roads: here's a partial list.
- Cars
- Cargo trucks
- Motorcycles, carrying 3-4 people
- Auto-rickshaws, overloaded with people and putting along at 5km/h
- Camels pulling house-sized loads of hay
- Bicycles (carrying 1-3 people)
- Cycle rickshaws, carrying people or cargo
- Cows, donkeys, yaks, dogs, peacocks
- People, walking from place to place
In short, there's a lot to avoid on the roads, and the best way is to usually plow on through and make the car you're driving as dangerous as possible, forcing people to notice you and get the heck out of the way: if you don't, they won't move. So there's an unwritten rule that might is right, and if you don't bully your way around, you'll never get anywhere. And Bhandari exercised this rule every chance he could, overtaking around curves, blaring his horn at every person or vehicle, rarely slowing down. There were more than a few hair-raising moments. But in the end, it was probably the most efficient way and we were in the most capable hands.
To Agra
We realized we'd left Delhi ill-prepared for long-term road tripping: no water and no road food. So we asked Bhandari if we could stop somewhere to pick up both. Here's the other advantage of having a driver: if I asked to buy oranges, I'd pay the happily-inflated tourist price, whereas Bhandari can negotiate a better price. It's still probably not what he'd pay, but it's definitely better than what I'd negotiate. So we stopped at a roadside stand - parked at the side of the busy roadway, facing oncoming traffic - and hopped out to pick up some oranges, bananas and water. It's really interesting to see the completely different interactions that Indian men have with each other, compared to the interaction they have with non-Indians; Bhandari selected some oranges, set some aside as unworthy, and asked me how many I wanted. To me, courtesy, but when it came to negotiating with the seller, a kind of direct disinterest. No formalities. Our transaction completed, I asked Bhandari how to say "thank you" in Hindi, a question which brought complete confusion and I had to repeat my question a few times as he thought perhaps I wasn't happy with how much I paid. When he finally got it, he seemed to be amused that I'd actually want to thank the seller. Turns out there really isn't much call for the word "please" in Hindi, and you reserve "thank you" for over-and-above service, or when someone of a higher caste does you a good turn.
Ah, the caste system. More on that later.
The first thing we noticed driving to Agra were trees. Trees! We hadn't seen any in Delhi (later, we found out they do exist, just not in the highly built-up area of Paharganj, where we were staying), so seeing them on the side of the road (sometimes through our clenched fingers) was a refreshing change of scenery.
The bulk of our trip was spent getting to know Mr. Bhandari: married, two kids (boy and girl), his daughter married with two kids of her own. It sometimes was a difficulty asking a complicated question, often getting an answer to a question you hadn't asked. When it got too difficult, it was just sometimes easier to continue along rather than try to ask the question again in a different way.
We pulled into Agra after sunset. Task number one for Bhandari was to get us to our hotel: even though we had a map, with directions and everything, his method was to stop every once and a while (or, just slow down) and holler out to someone if they knew where such-and-such a hotel was. Again, the difference between how an Indian man might ask for directions from another, versus how the same transaction might be conducted in Britain. An example:
| One British person asking another for directions to the hotel |
| Mr. Anglethorp, driving and looking for his hotel, spies Mr. Bustle-Thiston taking a promenade along the boulevard. Anglethorp carefully checks his mirrors, and when the way is clear, parks the car a short ways beyond where Mr. Bustle-Thiston is walking. He stops the car, gets out with his map, puts on his cap and walks over to meet Mr. Bustle-Thiston. A: Good day to you sir, fine day for a walk, isn't it? B: Good day to you, sir, indeed, very pleasant, though perhaps a trifle windy for my taste. A: Indeed it is. I'm just down from Northwich town, me and the missus, and we seem to have taken a wrong turn. I was wondering if I could trouble you for a spot of help in finding our way? B: No trouble at all, old boy, no trouble at all. Let's see that map of yours. A: Heading back over to the car, spreading the map out. We thought we were headed the right way a few miles back, but I can't find Hotel Kneedlethist anywhere. B: Hotel Kneedlethist? Ah, that's on the other side of town. You probably came in from the Exeter bypass, yes? A: Indeed we did... B: Well, there you go. The signs have been removed temporarily, and you probably missed Foxborough street, back (pointing at the map) here. If my recollection serves me correctly I believe the Kneedlethist is right on this corner. A: Jolly good, that's a great help. B: It's my pleasure, mister...? A: Goodness me, I forgot my manners. Morton Anglethorp is my name. And you sir? B: John Bustle-Thiston, how do you do. Anglethorp; do you have a cousin named David? A: Why yes I do! Talk continues for a good ten minutes. A: Well thanks again John, it was a pleasure. We'd be best pushing off. B: The pleasure was all mine old chap, look me up the next time you're in town. Anglethorp gets back in the car, turns it back on, checks his mirrors and when the way is clear (and then some), reverses back into the lane, and with a wave to Mr. Bustle-Thiston, heads back on his way. |
| One Indian person asking another for directions to the hotel |
| Mr. Singh, driving and looking for his hotel, spies Mr. Khanna walking alongside the road. To the honking protest of other drivers, Singh edges his car through traffic until he is driving closely to Khanna, rolling down his window and slowing the car down slightly. (translated from Hindi) S: Hotel Rajasthan, you know it? K: What? S: (stopping the car) Hotel Rajasthan, do you know where it is? K: (putting his elbow on Singh's window) What's the name of the hotel? S: Hotel Rajasthan. K: (thinking) No, I don't think so, but my friend over there has a nice hotel... (cut off, as Singh has already driven away) S: (spying another walker on the other side of the road, Mr. Raju; as he's driving, he leans over and rolls down the passenger-side window, weaving the car slightly: horns of disapproval as he slows to do so) Hotel Rajasthan, do you know it? R: What? S: (slowing the car and edging over: horns from behind; a motorbike weaves between them, sensing a gap that may disappear) Hotel Rajasthan, you know it? R: Down that street, take your first left... S: (already driving off) Okay. |
The British version may be an exaggeration: the Indian version happened on more than one occasion with Mr. Bhandari. We even offered our map, suggestions... nope, getting the local knowledge is much more Bhandari's style.
We did find our hotel, Hotel Sheela, within the pollution-free zone that surrounds the Taj Mahal. Some explanation: the Taj, and many monuments within India, are facing slow destruction with the increase in industrial and car-related smog. Accordingly, the government has taken certain measures to combat the problem, the most aggressive of which seems to be the imposition of a 500-metre perimeter around the Taj through which automobiles are not permitted to drive. It's laxly enforced however, insofar as after the guards go home at night, cars drive through as much as they like, and any time of the day you'll see scooters and motorbikes happily ride through. All this meant for us was that Mr. Bhandari had to drop us off a few hundred metres from our hotel, and waited with our luggage while we made sure our reservation had been honoured. At least two cycle-rickshaws accompanied us practically the entire walk to the hotel, lowering their prices as they went.
There's not much to tell about the hotel, other than we'd had better, but you can't beat the proximity to the Taj: two hundred metres to the gate. And given that every guidebook suggests getting there for the sunrise, it made it just that little bit easier.
Getting into the Taj is as much of a hassle as airport security, but more fun on the inside. The admission is 750 rupees for non-Indians (about twenty dollars Canadian) but with that you do get shoe covers instead of having to remove your shoes, and a free bottle of water (with a Taj Mahal logo on it). There are two guards and a metal detector, there to ensure you only bring in what you're allowed: water, a camera, and a passport. In reality you can get other things in if you're creative, but we decided to play ball. The one thing they are very sticky about is food: none allowed. I'm sure this is in part to encourage a flow of people in and out of the Taj, as it probably gets quite congested and if you stayed all day it would be havoc. In the end, people's stomachs have to be satisfied and remarkable view or not, they'll leave in search of food. People's bladders are easily accommodated: the Taj offers some of the most lush public washrooms I've ever seen (for a small fee, of course).
But the thing that truly made us push on was neither of the above: it was the smog. Pollution zone or not, the smell got to be truly awful. I don't think this is car exhaust we're talking about, it smelled - and tasted, after a while - sulphuric, and as if to underline the point, a digital display has been mounted in one of the less popular corners of the Taj to indicate exactly what the current levels of Sulphur Dioxide and Nitrogen Dioxide currently are. And, as an afterthought, that they are actually within some measure of public safety.
That's all the negative stuff. The Taj is as remarkable as anyone who's been there may have remarked. In its essence, it's a mausoleum, housing the last remains of a former Shah and his wife: when she died before him, he spent a massive fortune on the construction of the Taj, but never saw its completion; his son took the throne and put the old man in jail for his folly, complete with a window where he could see the Taj continue to be built. I gather he died before it was completed.
The work is incredible, and with every different view, the thought comes back: how much time, money and effort must have gone into the making of this thing? And then the next thought: would something like this ever be built today? Would the level of quality, the attention to detail ever be as precise? Every bit of flowery inlay, every sculpted curl, done by hand. Screens for six-foot windows, made out of a single piece of stone, perforated in a repeating hexagon pattern, carved by hand. And that's just the outside: the interior of the mausoleum is even more detailed, but the constant crush of people makes it hard to appreciate for long stretches of time.
And getting there at sunrise was worth it: less people, and the marble of the main Taj buildings goes from an ivory white to a rosy pink as it's hit by the beams of the rising sun. After a while though the smell starts to get to you, the buses start arriving and disgorging groups of fifty, and it just becomes less comfortable. Satisfied, we made our way out. As we left, a gardener nodded back to my nod, and motioned me over. I guess he saw my camera as he took me to one spot after another and bade me take a picture of the Taj. This happened five times (I soon realized these were well-used picture-taking spots, owing to the ground being worn through the grass) and then he offered that I could pay him something for his efforts. When I gave him a five-rupee coin (the biggest tip I had on me) he responded with "paper money, paper money", but ultimately gave up when I walked away. Between the guides offering to interpret the various points of the Taj, the people "helping" you to find the best pictures of the Taj, and guys offering you extra film and batteries for your camera, the Taj is a big source of revenue for the people who live in Agra.
The rest of our time in Agra was spent visiting two other monuments, the Red Fort and the Itmad-ud-Daulah, otherwise known as the "Baby Taj". After a while it felt like we were on a bit of a schedule, so it was hard to fully appreciate the Fort, much of which is actually off-limits to non-military personnel. But the Itmad-ud-Daulah was refreshingly peaceful, another mausoleum, and seemed to be the hot spot for young couples looking for a place to be alone together. It was also the place we first saw some monkeys. Monkey! Or probably more accurately, lemurs.
We came to trust Mr. Bhandari's idea for how long it would take for us to visit a particular monument, as much as on the inside, we rebelled at the idea of being "standard" tourists: ie., visit a monument, take pictures of the monument, take a tour of the monument, leave the monument (and possibly, check it off a list of "monuments to see in India"). In the end, it was easier just to agree that it would probably take a certain amount of time, and just show up when we were done, on our schedule. It wasn't like he was going to drive off without us.
On our way to a restaurant for something to eat, Mr. Bhandari suggested that the place we had selected from our guidebook wasn't going to be good. It was south Indian food, he advised, too spicy for us and we'd be feeling it for days. To this day I'm not sure whether he was steering us to a particular place because he'd be getting a commission from the restaurant for dropping off two paying customers, or because he thought we'd really have trouble with the south Indian place. In the end, we just went for the place he suggested, but only because of my new wallet.
Here's the story of my new wallet.
My old wallet had been getting pretty ratty even before we left Canada, but replacing it was the last thing on my mind. So when we stopped to get some cash from a machine, and kid of about twelve years of age hollered at me to visit his store, it occurred to me for once that his leather goods shop might actually have something I could be interested in buying. So I went in, looked at the wallets, and found one I actually quite liked. After some fun bartering ("look guys, I really like you, but two hundred is as much as I want to pay...") I got it for what I consider to be a decent price. On the way to the restaurant I started moving over cards and money from one wallet to the other, only to find that my credit cards don't fit in the new wallet: the pockets are too small. So it was back to the store to replace it. Bhandari went with me. I didn't get four words into my greeting when Bhandari said something in Hindi, which I'm sure translates to "hey, his cards don't fit into the pockets of this thing." Again, no greeting, just straight to business. So we looked around, tested a few wallets, and found one that worked. Off to the restaurant, but we didn't get fifty metres before I realized I'd left my driver's licence in the wallet I'd just replaced. So it was back to the store again (Bhandari offered to come with me again, but this time I said, no, really, I'll be fine) and luckily found my card in the newly abandoned wallet.
After all that wallet business, I was happy enough not to be picky about restaurants, and it turned out to be a pretty nice place, even after the power cut out, twice.
Next day: on to Bharatpur
We started off the next day relatively early, heading west and a little south to enter the state of Rajasthan: Agra is actually in the state of Uttar Pradesh. Before we left, however, we stopped in at Fatepur Sikri, a town whose claim to fame is the preserved ruins of small hamlet of buildings that constituted the royal court at one point. It turns out that the Emperor was having trouble in the having-kids-with-one-of-his-wives department, and visited a holy man in the area: a few words and a blessing later, and out pop some heirs. In thanks, the Emperor decided to move his whole court to the area surrounding the holy man. Life is pretty good until they realize there's not really enough fresh water to go around and so they pack it in and head back to Agra. But they left behind these really nifty ruins.
Our guidebook makes Fatepur Sikri sound like a really neat place to visit: and it would be, if not for all the hawkers and tour guides. When you're telling the same nine-year-old over and over that no, you do not want an ornamental lacquered gift box thank you very much, the place very much starts to lose its charm. We did take a guided tour with the very insightful Mr. Name (really, that was what he said his name was, it's not just a blank I was going to fill in later), which consisted of taking us to interesting parts of the site and explaining a few details, and then bringing us by various handicraft sellers in case we were interested in perhaps buying things. No pressure.
So it was only when we thanked Mr. Name for his insightful tour and started wandering around on our own that I actually started to feel some of the exotic charm of the place: for example, meandering past the servants quarters, imaging how they would have lived in a stone cubicle with enough space for a small hamper to sleep in, and a curtain for privacy. Even looking at the walls and wondering what would have been original and what could have been added later was interesting. But most good things don't last: eventually we were approached by a guy in his late teens who wanted to chat, and impress on us how he was a student (he showed us his student card as if to prove to us that he wasn't just talking to us to offer his services as a guide - unfortunately, only the touts actually do this) and would we like to walk around with him. We decided it was time to be on our way, and he wondered if he could have a one-euro coin for his collection. Pretty good scam, if you consider how far a euro goes in India (about fifty rupees: ten bottles of Pepsi, a decent lunch, or a litre of petrol).
We hit the road and entered Rajasthan, the occasion marked only by stopping to pay a road toll, and then a state road tax. After a few hours of lighter-than-average traffic, we arrived in Bharatpur, a small, one-road town that seems to have only one draw for tourists: the Keoladeo Bird Sanctuary. At least, this is what drew us.
We stayed at the Jungle Lodge, a guest house a scant kilometre from the sanctuary, perfect for an early-morning stroll to the gate. The Lodge was beautifully renovated, excellent value for the money, and run by the cheerful Indu and Ashok. Ashok is a former tour guide who still runs the odd tour through Rajasthan and beyond, but running the guest house is his primary occupation. However, the weather has not been kind to Rajasthan, and Bharatpur in particular, such that the region suffers from ongoing drought conditions. The fallout from this is that the wetlands of the sanctuary are dramatically low, and the majority of the birds have not been returning. This is disastrous for the livelihood of the sanctuary, dependent on dedicated birdwatchers, and in turn a real hardship for the guesthouses and restaurants which cater to the tourists.
But Ashok has a plan: a year ago he bought a piece of land some 50 kilometres away, near the hydroelectric dam. He's going where the birds are, and has already set up a small lodge there. Next year he plans to build a restaurant and few more rooms, and if Keoladeo doesn't recover, he'll pick up sticks and make it work over there. With all this talk of Keoladeo suffering, I wish I had the presence of mind to change our plans, but we had essentially committed to visiting Keoladeo, at least in our hearts: it was still early days in the trip, and I didn't really get that we could change things pretty much any way we wanted, at any time. We stuck to the plan.
Keoladeo was fun for a few small things: we got to ride some really dodgy Indian bicycles on varying qualities of road, we saw a few interesting birds, and lots of cows. But in the end for me it was a bit demoralizing, especially to see the lengths to which the park's stewards have had to go to keep things going as best they can. Noisy, smoky gas-powered water pumps have been installed to bring water up from the water table into the wetlands, but even so, the park looks pathetically dry. Certainly the lack of the swarms of flamingos promised by the guidebook is the real evidence that, save a change in environmental conditions, Keoladeo's days may really be numbered. As Ashok put it, the birders won't come if the birds don't, and that will be the real stake in the heart of Bharatpur.
But Bharatpur had something else to offer me: I got my hair cut at a small roadside stand next door to our hotel. My hair had been getting pretty shaggy and it was well past time to get it trimmed. I asked Ashok how much I should pay, and he responded very informatively: "A local would pay twenty or thirty rupees, and he'll ask you for a hundred, but you shouldn't pay more than fifty." In the end, that's exactly how much I paid after a short bargaining session conducted by a middleman who could speak more English than the fourteen-year-old barber. It was a pretty rough haircut, but only in the sense that when he needed to have access to a different part of my head, he didn't fool around: there was no asking. He just pushed my head where it needed to go. He was clearly quite practised with the scissors, and I emerged unscathed with as much hair as I wanted to have (I showed him my passport photo to use as a guide for what I wanted), and as an added bonus, he styled it in a very seventies-era Indian comb-over that took me a few hours to undo.
