Our adventures in Delhi continued during the next three days, as we visited many of the city’s incredible archaeological and architectural sites, such as the Humayun’s Tomb, Lodi Gardens, Lotus Temple, and Qutb Minar. By then we could almost even pass as loscals (besides, you know, the looks): bargaining with tuk-tuk drivers for cheap fares, moving around in the Metro, ignoring unwanted vendors, and even walking around in a 35-degree-celsius temperature in long sleeves and long pants like it was no big deal. We had also made a habit of trying the Butter Chicken and the Naan at every Indian restaurant we went to, and I was growing very fond of finishing my meal with Gulab Jamun for dessert.
It was also during those days that we came upon a fascinating discovery: the “Women’s –only” carriage in the Metro. I cannot put into words the relief we felt when we first saw the hot pink sign with white flowers and the bathroom-sign-like silhouette of a woman, clearly pointing out that the last carriage of the train was reserved for the female share of the population. Now, I do not intend to delve into the cultural and social issues regarding the treatment of women in India; all I can say is that, although quite aware that a women’s only carriage does not fix the underlying problem, it sure feels more comfortable and safe to travel this way (not to mention it saves you a lot of stares.)
Our weekend adventures included travelling to Agra to see the Taj Mahal and then driving to Jaipur, where we were looking forward to taking an elephant ride up to the Amer Fort. On Friday we took the train from Delhi to Agra (by “we” I now mean my friend and her parents, who were actually the ones who took care of booking the train tickets, hotels, and tour guides… I was just lucky enough to tag along as a cultural addition to the family for the weekend…). The second we walked into the Delhi train station I realized that this whole weekend trip was going to be quite an “interesting” experience. In fact, it almost felt like a bucket of cold water for us to acknowledge what this trip would really be about: having an open mind and being able to go with the flow.
The first step in this process would be for all of us to let go of any European/western ideal of what a train station was supposed to look (and smell) like. We made our way to the platform amid all the people sleeping on the (not so clean) floor, and all the station workers moving packages around. We searched in vain for any actual benches to sit on, and just pretty much remained standing in the middle of the platform, still trying to absorb the reality in front of us: people moving everywhere, people sleeping on the floor, people eating on the floor, people running around the platform, people carrying wheelbarrows loaded with packages, and on the background, a voice switching between Hindi and English, informing passengers to which platform they should move to to take their respective trains.
My friend’s dad managed to figure out which was one was the “first class” carriage that we were supposed to board on our train. At this point, none of us could have been more sceptical of the journey ahead. Just stepping into the carriage was enough to activate our fight-or-flight reflexes, and start looking around our designated carriage very carefully for any possible sign of danger. The “first class” consisted of a cabin with four beds, a small table and two ceiling fans. Since a 3-hour train ride did not require any of us to actually sleep, we turned the two lower beds into two rows of seats and sat there… still speechless and sort of thinking: “What did we get ourselves into?” Soon enough a train worker knocked on our cabin door and offered us a meal, which we politely rejected (although still being quite hungry), and, with a delay of only 25 minutes (I guess the train was supposed to leave at 1:05 pm Indian time), we were finally of to Agra!
Apparently our status as foreigners was even more obvious in Agra. Just as soon as we stepped out of the station entry we were swamped with offers of taxis, rickshaw bikes, tuk-tuks and tour guides. We managed to reject all of these and headed instead to the seemingly more reliable “Tourist Service Point”, where we got a fixed rate for a comfortable car ride to the hotel.
“Welcome to Agra” -our car driver greeted us very happily.
“Thanks” –we replied in unison, but apparently not loud enough for the driver to hear, as he now shouted:
“WELCOME TO AGRA!!”
“So where are you from?” –and so the small talk begins…
“Italy” –my friend’s dad says.
“Oh! I can speak some Italian: “Buongiorno”, “Buona sera”…”
“Yes. And: “Pizza”, “Spaggetti”…” –My friend’s dad replied, not very amused (at this point we were all pretty exhausted and hungry).
“And where are you from?” –The driver asks, looking at me through his rear-view mirror
“Me? Dominican Republic” (I honestly didn’t expect him to know where it was…)
“Ah, I KNEW you didn’t look Italian” (Turns out this would be but the first of the many comments about my apparent non-italianness during that weekend…)
To no surprise, our driver started advertising his tour-guide services immediately after that conversation. He offered to take us to the Taj Mahal, Agra Fort, around the city and back to the hotel in that same vehicle for 1,500 rupees.
“What’s the best time to see the Taj Mahal?” –We inquired, still pondering our decision.
“6:30 AM” –He quickly replied without giving it a second thought.
I know what you’re thinking now. Seeing the Taj Mahal at 6:30 implies waking up probably around 5:45 AM…. ON A HOLIDAY! But we knew the Taj Mahal would only get more crowded and the day would only get hotter the later we went, so we all sort of went “Why not? Let’s do it”. And just like that, we agreed to meet our driver-soon-to-be-tour-guide offer and agreed to meet at the hotel lobby at 6:30 AM the next day.
Entry to the Taj Mahal was 12 US dollars, which is not bad at all to see one of the wonders of the modern world. PLUS, it includes a bottle of mineral water and some pretty badass shoe covers. I was surprised that the site was so crowded despite the early hours in the morning. That said, the Taj Mahal itself is as impressive as you would expect it to be, and it served as the perfect background for a classic roll of very touristy photos…
I took the “Taj Mahal on the horizon” photo, the “Taj Mahal close-up” one, the “Me-standing-awkwardly-in-front-of-the-Taj-Mahal” one, the “Me-sitting-on-a-bench-in-front-of-the-Taj-Mahal” one, the “Taj-Mahal selfie” one, and of course, the “Optical-illusion-looks-like-I’m-grabbing-the-top-of-the-Taj-Mahal-onion” one. For this last one, our tour guide kindly volunteered to take the photo, saying how I should “leave it up to him” because he was a professional by now in taking this type of photo. It was indeed a successful optical illusion photo, and I complemented him on it, to which he replied with a smirk:
“See? I told you I was a professional”
As soon as we left the Taj Mahal some kids started following us trying to sell us this pack of supposedly “handmade” pens. They started at 600 rupees, then 500, then 300… Later came the kids trying to sell us snow globes of the Taj Mahal: 400 rupees, then only 250! After five minutes of harassing, the kids realized that we were not in the mood for shopping, and so they headed back to their main headquarters to search for more fresh tourist meat.
We saw a couple of more sights in Agra, after which our tour guide strongly insisted that we go see how they make carpets and jewellery in the town. So we ended up going to three different little stores that each tried to tourist-trap us and rip us off on their own way. To their disappointment, I was the only one that bought anything and it was only a fridge magnet for my collection.
The plan for the rest of the day was to drive to Jaipur and stop at Fatehpur Sikri and Chand Baoli, two interesting sights that supposedly “we couldn’t miss”.
Fatehpur Sikri took tourist harassing to a whole new level. As soon as we entered the parking lot to take a bus to the city Fort we were surrounded by vendors trying to sell us hats, keychains, pens, wooden elephants… We dismissed all of them and tried to keep walking, but a few persistent ones kept following up:
“Hello! Italian?” –A vendor asked my friend’s dad. He must have overheard them speaking in Italian.
“Yes” –He replied, again not very amused at the whole street-vendors-chasing-us-around thing.
Right away the vendor started speaking perfect Italian to my friend’s parents, marketing his services as a tour guide, and asking us to please go see his shop.
“She’s not Italian. Guess where she’s from…” –My friend told the vendor, pointing at me, sort of to shift attention from his dad.
“Ah! I was gonna say you don’t look Italian! You almost even look Indian! You’re local ” (If he only knew that my Dominican ID actually classifies me as “indian”. Ok, parenthesis here: Dominican ID’s until this year used to include a line with the person’s skin colour, assigning a “B” for blanco, or white, a “N” for negro, or black, and an “I” for indio, or “indian”, which is pretty much everything in between. I know that this was probably not very subtle and would have been the subject of huge controversy in any first-world country, especially considering the fact that “indian” is not really a skin colour and the correct word would actually be “mulatto”. Anyways, I guess the DR authorities realized how silly, inaccurate, and useless this whole including-the-person’s-skin-colour-in-their-ID was, so they deleted that for the new biometric data ID’s issued this year).
Anyways, back to India. I told the guy I was from the Dominican Republic. To no surprise, he looked confused.
“…in the Caribbean” –I tried helping him out. Even if he had never heard of the DR before, “the Caribbean” had to ring a bell.
“Ah yes! So you speak Spanish?”
“Yes, speak to her in Spanish!” –My friend continued to tease him, and to my surprise again, he also spoke perfect Spanish. He was now asking ME to go see his shop, saying how he could give me souvenirs at a good price, and how, even if we did not buy anything “Mirar es gratis”
We finally managed to make our way to the bus stop, and before hopping in the bus the vendor continued, now back in English:
“Just promise me you’ll go to see my store! Even if you don’t buy anything! Store number 21!”
“Ok, ok, we’ll go” –My friend’s dad told him as we walked away.
“REMEMBER! STORE NUMBER 21!”
I can swear those were the most intense two minutes of trying to get rid of a street vendor. We hopped on the bus to see two other clearly tourist couples, both looking as exhausted and as lost as we did. The bus took us to the Fort, which is one of the main attractions at Fatehpur Sikri. We spent like half an hour walking inside the fort, and the first thing we see coming out is a group of four children approaching us…
“Oh no” –I thought: “Here comes round two”
Turns out these children were a bit subtler. I was obviously expecting them to start trying to sell us touristy stuff right away, but they actually started walking alongside us and talking to us. It was the same nationality routine all over again:
“So where are you from?” This kid asks.
“Italy.” –My friend replies.
“Aaah… io parlo italiano!” –The kid replied, and then started counting in Italian: “uno, due, tre, quattro…” very excited to show us his prowess. I still can’t get over the fact that even the kids picked up these languages spoken by tourists just to be more effective as vendors. I mean, I guess it makes sense when you think of the fact that this was probably mainly a tourist small town. Anyways, the kid then turned to me:
“And where are you from?” –This time I was not even gonna bother with the DR, so I told him:
“The Caribbean.” –The kid sort of went silent for a bit, so I asked him:
“Do you know where that is?”
“No.” -So I just went as general as I could go:
“It’s in America” (Of course, when I say “America” I usually mean the entire continent, otherwise I just say “United States”)
“Ah!” –He responded, happily: “OBAMA!”
“uhm… yeah… sort of” (Close enough anyways I guess) And THEN he went for it:
“Buy me these pens, 200 rupees, handmade by my family” –He was of course selling us the same pack of pens that other children were trying to sell us two cities behind… And to think that for a minute I ALMOST thought he just wanted to be our friend and know where we were from.
As we walked back to the bus some 5 other children came trying to sell us THE SAME pens. After we declined they then kept asking us to give them the tickets we used to enter the Fort (I’m still not sure why they were so eager to collect these tickets, I think it’s because when you present it on one of the sights you get a discount on the next ticket you buy. I still don’t know how that would work out for them though…). We searched for our old tickets and gave it to them so that they would all stop insisting, spending also our last bit of energy in dealing with any more street vendors. Turns out we still had yet another round of vendors speaking English, Italian, and Spanish, after we took the bus to the parking lot. Needless to say, I had never been felt as relieved hopping into a car as I did right after. Agra: check. Fatehpur Sikri: check. Next stop: Jaipur.