To my eye, reminding,
Which lies that I’ve been hiding,
Which echoes belong…”
-Wilco, “Kamera”
Locations: Agra, Fatehpur Sikri (Uttar Pradesh)
Photos:
Agra: http://princeton.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2050739&l=412f9&id=1101094
Fatehpur Sikri: http://princeton.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2050740&l=e79dc&id=1101094
Temperature: 97
Morale: 7
Spinning: Wilco – Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, Band of Horses – Everything All the Time, We Are Scientists – With Love and Squalor
Reading: Lonely Planet, Freakonomics by Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner
Talking: To my new friend Sam, who gets paid to travel and take photographs. I envy him.
What's next (I think): Delhi; Mumbai (Karnataka)
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I awoke in Hotel Kamal with my eyes sealed shut and stumbled to the bathroom sink in search of water. I turned the handle and… nothing. Not good. My eyes were sealed shut and I hadn’t any water with which to wash my face and get them open. I felt my way out of my room and into the courtyard, hoping to run into someone who could help me, but nothing was stirring—it was, after all, 5:30 in the morning. The Taj Mahal opens early, ok?
I went back into my room and, seeing no other option, pried my eyelids apart. This did not feel very good at all, and even when I was done I had pieces of gunk stuck to the sides of my eyes and my eyelashes. Finally able to see where I was going, I walked to the hotel’s reception counter and banged on the table. A man came to the desk and asked, “Can I help you?” “Yes,” I said, “the running water isn’t working. Does it need to be turned on?” “Ah, yes,” he said. We’ll turn it on now. It should be working in 30 minutes.”
Thirty minutes? The Taj Mahal opened in fifteen, and I’d be damned if I was going to miss being one of the first ones in. So I scrapped the idea of washing my face (not to mention taking a shower) and made for the West Gate of the Taj Mahal.
As planned, I was one of the first people to arrive that morning. I bought my ticket, and noticed that admission was Rs 20 for Indians and Rs 750 for foreigners. That bothered me, at first, but then I remembered that income per capita in the US is 60 times what it is in India, so by that measure my ticket should have been Rs 1200. I guess I can’t really complain.
The Taj did not disappoint. Watching the sun rise over the white marble mausoleum is not something I’ll soon forget. But I’ll stop here with the description and let you check out the photos.
While walking around the Taj grounds I met a Brit named Sam who was traveling and taking photos for a company that hosted an online bank of images. He had just spent a year in Thailand, taking photos, and now he was set for a few months in India. I expressed extreme jealousy of his job, and he admitted that it was a pretty sweet deal.
I left the Taj and walked back toward my hotel, eager to wash my face and eat breakfast, but I ran into Sam and a German girl named Heda who were heading to Agra Fort. Never one to refuse travel companions, I jumped in the rickshaw with them and we headed a few kilometers up the Yamuna River to Agra Fort.
Before entering the fort we stopped by Agra Train Station to buy our onward tickets: me for that night, and Sam and Heda for the following morning. At this point Heda realized she was out of cash, and asked Sam if she could borrow some. He agreed, and we bought tickets and walked toward Agra Fort.
But Heda was apparently very uncomfortable without cash in her pocket, and she convinced us to go in search of an ATM before entering the fort. We asked for directions multiple times and kept getting pointed in the same direction, but before long we had walked 3km and had seen no sign of a cash machine. Finally we reached a bank, and Heda went inside to get cash… but the ATM was out of order. Fitting.
We walked back to Agra Fort, but just as we got there Heda decided she didn’t feel like going in after all. What? So why did you just make us walk 6km with you? Sam growled at his choice of roommates. Fortunately for him, they would be parting ways in the morning. Unfortunately for her, she had three more weeks of solo travel ahead of her, and I predicted India eating her alive within a few days on her own.
Agra Fort was beautiful. I’d heard it was the same as the Red Fort in Delhi, but I liked this one much better and was glad I came. While in the fort, Sam gave me some pointers on adjusting the white balance, shutter speed, and exposure on my camera. I’ve been practicing ever since, and I think my photography has improved.
Sam and I left the fort and headed back to Taj Ganj (the part of town right next to the Taj Mahal, where our guesthouses were) for lunch. We had some great Indian food at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the Taj Mahal, and Sam gave me suggestions for places to go in Southeast Asia, and especially in Thailand. It wasn’t until today that it fully hit me that the Southeast Asia portion of my trip was coming up soon. I’d be in Singapore 48 hours from now.
After lunch we attempted to find a cab to take us to Fatehpur Sikri, which is a ruined city 40km from Agra where the Mughal Empire was once headquartered. But we couldn’t find a taxi, so we bargained with a rickshaw driver to take us there. Sure, it would be a slow journey, but we weren’t in any hurry.
Fatehpur Sikri was built in the 1500s, during the reign of Emperor Akbar. Now referred to as “Akbar’s folly,” the city was abandoned after only fourteen years of use because of a chronic water shortage problem. The capital was moved first to Agra, and then later to Delhi (by Shah Jahan).
Though it seems a pity that Akbar built such a grand city in an area with no water, Sam and I greatly enjoyed hiking around the ghost city and trying to determine what purpose the various buildings serve. The one thing we did not enjoy was the hassle—it was worse here than anywhere I’d been since Pushkar. It got so bad that at one point I was trying to take pictures but I couldn’t because touts would grab my arms every time I put the camera to my eye.
We caught our rickshaw home, exchanged email addresses, and parted ways. I went to the train station to catch my Shatabdi Express to Delhi (oh how I’ve missed you, Shatabdi Express), but when I arrived the power in the entire station was out. It remained out for nearly twenty minutes, until just before my train arrived. Stepping onto the train was like entering another world—suddenly it became unfeasible that I had just been in a station that couldn’t keep the lights on. The air-conditioned cars of the train breathed comfort, and within minutes I was being served a full dinner. The contrast between the luxurious and the basic (and, in turn, between the haves and the have-nots) really is stark in India. Although luxury is often cheap, it is never free. In India, no one is given anything for free.
I arrived in Delhi for the third time this trip and breathed a sigh of relief—this place was starting to feel like home. And as I walked down the crowded, filthy streets of Paharganj, I realized that I was going to miss this place. It sounds ridiculous, but I had finally gotten used to the obnoxious blur that is India. I was almost sorry to be leaving it all.
I checked into Ajay’s Guesthouse (my third guesthouse in as many visits) and spent the rest of the night in an internet café, backing up photos and preparing for the next leg of my journey.
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