Category Archives: Agra

When we emerge this morning, stragglers from last night’s festivities are still on the streets looking very sore footed and exhausted as they hobble home.  We haven’t been able to discover the name of the festival but apparently it takes place over four Sundays in July and involves men (women don’t take part), mainly young men it seems, walking in bare feet for around 15 hours as they visit the temples of the city.  It’s no wonder that this morning they are treading lightly! 

We sort a few bits and pieces, pack our stuff and go for lunch.  Our train leaves < ?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /?>
Agra at 17.40 and we arrive by rickshaw in plenty of time.  Surprisingly there are no porters in sight and we have to carry our luggage.  The station is heaving with people and there don’t seem to be any platform numbers.  It requires some guesswork and a few enquiries to work out where we should be and which train is going to Jaipur;  there are no destination indicators, the train number isn’t on the train and the name of the train – the only other identification – has been abbreviated on the side of the train.  On the next platform the second class carriages are full to capacity and people are hanging out of the doors as it pulls away and people are running alongside in an effort to either push others into the carriages or an attempt to do the seemingly impossible and get aboard.

The journey through the outskirts of Agra reveals people living in some appallingly squalid conditions along the railway line – amongst rubbish and building material.  People routinely walk along the tracks and children play on the edge of the tracks. 

All the stations are in darkness apart from dim lighting around the exit and there seems to be a shortage of station signs which makes it very difficult to know when to get off the train.  But we needn’t have worried, almost everyone gets off the train at Jaipur even though its going on to Udaipur.  As soon as we are out of station we are surrounded by gabbling rickshaw drivers wanting to know where we are going.  It’s impossible to shake them off even when we try to make ourselves heard above the din.  Fortunately we are rescued by our pick up and whisked off to Hotel Karni Niwas which turns out to be situated in an unpaved and potholed side street.  The room’s not bad though;  large with two small balconies, marble floors and clean . 

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India takes some getting used to and that is a gross understatement.   Invariably four experiences assault you when you step outside the confines of your hotel:  a wave of intense heat magnified by the fact that you have just stepped out of air conditioned comfort;  a barrage of noise;  rickshaw drivers touting for business;  and children either begging or trying to sell some cheap tat.  There is no avoiding them and today is no different.   Occasionally the sense is assailed by an unpleasant stench as well.  This is India!  It’s the dirtiest place we have visited by far – rubbish and litter everywhere and no-one seems the least concerned about it.  In fact, people seem to live on top of accumulated rubbish.  And God knows how awful it must be when the monsoon arrives.  We’ve come to the conclusion that Indians are so used to the state of their cities that they no longer notice the squalor.   < ?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /?>

Hero, the rickshaw wallah who has adopted us, is waiting outside, even though we arranged to for him to meet us much later in the morning .    No doubt he doesn’t want anyone else stepping into his shoes and snaffling his two lucrative Europeans!   First, though, we are off to the internet cafe a few doors away in an unpaved alley.   It’s in a very cramped and dingy kiosk which manages to squeeze in three terminals and a couple of plastic chairs.   Our next job is to get some cash, but after visiting several ATMs we draw the conclusion that none are working today.   It’s the eve of a festival and Hero thinks that may accounts be the reason.  It is certainly accounts for the huge banks of 6ft-plus loudspeakers and rows of loudhailers  at intervals along the roads which belt out Indian music at a decibel level high enough to make the chest vibrate and the ears ring.  

Hero has arranged for a car to take us to Fatehpur Sikri this afternoon and we set off at about midday.  A couple of hours earlier than planned, but you soon discover that you never quite get what you ask for in India.    A good toll road links Agra and Fatehpur Sikri, but  today there is some kind of hold up so we take a detour along unmade rutted roads through a small village were the accommodation ranges from rough built brick one room houses to mud huts and the occasional smarter gated bungalow.  The latter seems rather incongruous amongst the surrounding poverty.  Cows, pigs and goats roam freely and children run around either naked or bare bottomed.  A naked child stands outside the gates of one of the more presentable homes relieving himself on the driveway.  It’s a busy, lively community, the women are dressed in colourful, floaty saris and people wave and call out to us as we bump by. 

Fatehpur Sikri was for a brief period, the capital city of the Moghul Empir during the reign of Akbar.  Built on the site where the sufi , Shaik Salim Chisti, predicted that Akbar would produce an heir, the fortified city was abandoned after only 14 years due to shortage of water.  It is a remarkably well-preserved  complex and we are taken round it by an official guide.  We usually rely on the not-so-trusty Lonely Planet to keep us informed because, although a guide may provide more reliable and comprehensive information , they tend to rush round and we prefer to go out our own pace.  But on this occasion we have taken the advice of LP and taken an official guide thereby hoping to avoid being constantly hassled by unofficial guides, hawkers and beggars.   On balance not the best choice because we  get a fast-forwarded tour with a lot of repetitive information.  Ah well, you live and you learn.

The site is in two parts – the government-run palace buildings and the trust-run Jama Masjid mosque.  The latter is still very much in use and is full of noise and colour whereas the palace grounds are quiet and sedate.   The palace is a jumble of interlinking courtyards, gardens, pavilions and residences some built of red sandstone by Akbar and others of marble, the later additions of Shah Jahan.  There are some wonderful examples of intricate carving much of which looks as sharp now as when it was originally carved and combines Christian, Muslim, Jain and Hindu traditions.  The unusual Diwani-i-Khas appears to be a conventional two-storey building from the outside, but the surprising interior is dominated by a central ornately carved from a single piece of stone which broadens into a central plinth linked to the four corners of a surrounding gallery by narrow stone bridges where Akbar held private audiences. 

The mosque is humming with people who have come to pay their respects at the tomb the sufi, Shiekh Salim Chisti and probably quite a few who have come just for a day out .  The tomb dominates the small mausoleum which is decorated with oil murals and has a canopy covered with mother-of-pearl.  Our guide introduces us to a holy man who wants us to give a charitable donation of 2000 rupees so hat we can lay a silk sari and flowers over the tomb – apparently a traditional form of respect, which we suspect is primarily designed to part tourists from their money.  The price falls dramatically to 200 rupees when we walk away!  The mosque faces a huge courtyard with a colonnaded arcade on three sides and what is reputed to be the largest gateway in Asia.  There is an also an underground tunnel leading from the behind  the sufi’s tomb which is said to link Fatehpur Sikri with Agra some 45 km away.

When we arrive back at the hotel the festival is starting to liven up and unfortunately there are a bank of speakers in the street right outside our bedroom window.  The noise is deafening and the hotel predict that it will continue until midnight or later.  So we escape to a quiet restaurant for some respite.  On our return the road is closed and the streets are full of exuberant and excitable young men chanting and dancing.  We walk along with the crowd for a while and people want to shake hands and have their photograph taken.  It’s exhilarating and slightly unnerving at the same time.  When the partying stopped we have no idea because somehow we managed to get to sleep despite the deafening din.

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