Indian Railways moves 11million people and 2.2million tons of cargo every day. Despite the huge capacity, trains are often booked out for weeks, as was the case when we needed to go to Agra.
"I am sorry Madam (Indian Accent), they are all full,"
"I am sorry Madam (Indian Accent), they are all full,"
"all nine of them!?"
That was after being sent between different windows and up the road trying to find the tourist window.
In the end we caught a taxi to Agra, with our lovely driver, Narinda to navigate the dusty, potholed streets and cow scattered highways. Outside Agra is the abandoned Mogul city of Fatepur Sikiri, cooking out in the desert. The hot breeze brought little relief. In search of a good photo I tried walking barefoot upon the sun exposed stone (for we were in a mosque), I almost burnt the soles of my feet off. It was hot. Mum made the mistake (against my advice) of giving a small boy our spent ticket ends. BIG mistake. For the rest of our time at the site we were followed by a second boy chanting the mantra,
"Only one ticket?"
How we were to materialise this spent ticket end was beyond me, we had already given them ours. I guess it was our little introduction to the madness of the Agra touts.
Agra itself is not a nice town, overdeveloped with decaying buildings and crawling with touts and rickshaw wallas. The Taj stands in the midst of it all in striking contrast. Clean and white and shining in all its architectural glory. We visited at sunrise i the soft, cool morning light.It is a beautiful building like no other, a temple to the self centered desire of one man to immortalize his wife's (well one of his wives) memory.
That night we were to catch a train out to Varanasi. As our driver had to go home to Delhi that meant spending several hours in crowded Agra station. Brodie and I took a stroll through the surrounding streets, a bewildering and numbing sensory experience. Motorbikes, tuk tuks, cows flying at you, the smell of spice, shit, rotting garbage, urine (most overpowering) and other unidentifiable odors. The deafening sound of horns, beeping just because they can. Street stalls and crowds, filth and life.
Later that night in the station there was a storm. Thunder and rave above the din of the traffic. Then the power went out. Waiting in the darkness as the crowds continued to pour in and out of trains, unfazed by the darkness. It was lucky we had my torch. The power was eventually restored and our train arrived, late of course-but on time Indian style.
That was after being sent between different windows and up the road trying to find the tourist window.
In the end we caught a taxi to Agra, with our lovely driver, Narinda to navigate the dusty, potholed streets and cow scattered highways. Outside Agra is the abandoned Mogul city of Fatepur Sikiri, cooking out in the desert. The hot breeze brought little relief. In search of a good photo I tried walking barefoot upon the sun exposed stone (for we were in a mosque), I almost burnt the soles of my feet off. It was hot. Mum made the mistake (against my advice) of giving a small boy our spent ticket ends. BIG mistake. For the rest of our time at the site we were followed by a second boy chanting the mantra,
"Only one ticket?"
How we were to materialise this spent ticket end was beyond me, we had already given them ours. I guess it was our little introduction to the madness of the Agra touts.
Agra itself is not a nice town, overdeveloped with decaying buildings and crawling with touts and rickshaw wallas. The Taj stands in the midst of it all in striking contrast. Clean and white and shining in all its architectural glory. We visited at sunrise i the soft, cool morning light.It is a beautiful building like no other, a temple to the self centered desire of one man to immortalize his wife's (well one of his wives) memory.
That night we were to catch a train out to Varanasi. As our driver had to go home to Delhi that meant spending several hours in crowded Agra station. Brodie and I took a stroll through the surrounding streets, a bewildering and numbing sensory experience. Motorbikes, tuk tuks, cows flying at you, the smell of spice, shit, rotting garbage, urine (most overpowering) and other unidentifiable odors. The deafening sound of horns, beeping just because they can. Street stalls and crowds, filth and life.
Later that night in the station there was a storm. Thunder and rave above the din of the traffic. Then the power went out. Waiting in the darkness as the crowds continued to pour in and out of trains, unfazed by the darkness. It was lucky we had my torch. The power was eventually restored and our train arrived, late of course-but on time Indian style.
Here are three mistakes I quickly adapted to whilst in India:
ReplyDeleteMistake number 1 - give a tout an inch
Mistake number 2 - rely on the advice of one person (especially officious looking ones like guards, station masters, drivers)
Mistake number 3 - underestimate the crowds
The train stations are one of the most amazing experiences about India. So many people going places. The touts are one of the worst, unfortunately. There were places I couldn't even look at them because if you did, you'd never shake them off. It felt so rude but was necessary.
ReplyDelete