Agra-vation

(sorry but it had to be done)

I heard bad things about Agra. There are so many idiot tourists ripe for the picking that it is nigh-impossible for a foreigner to accomplish anything without being hassled or scammed in search of a buck. I had seen Agra already. It was putrid, a Dickensian wasteland where smoke, acid, and shit stain the human heart of the city. And I'm here to write about a fucking postcard.

I jumped off the bus at a clogged intersection where I saw vacant rickshaws, my attempt to depart a la indien comically thwarted by the size of my pack pinning me in the door. Men approached me offering their rickshaw services. I followed a pair, got in with the driver, and was ready to go. What happened next defied all reason. As we made a U-turn around the road divider the other man in the pair leaped into the moving rickshaw and began to scream in Hindi. My life became a scrapped Indiana Jones movie as I was in the back of a moving auto-rickshaw while two men wrestled and punched each other a the wheel, massive buses blaring their horns as we wobbled to and fro between lanes. We struck a cycle-rickshaw, briefly adding a third aggrieved rickshaw-wallah to the fray. With great determination the driver brought us to a stop precisely where we began. The argument continued, drawing in the entire rickshaw-wallah community who formed an inpromptu court around the scene. I gathered that the two were not a pair (though this I had suspected when the punching began) and that the argument centered on who had "claimed" me first, presumably to pop my fresh tourist cherry and get commissions on crap I would naively be pressured into buying at whatever marble shops of fabric stores they would lug me to on the way to the wrong hotel. As the debate went on, seemingly in circles, I felt very passive, acting like a little baby waiting for the grownups to decide what to do with me. Up to this point my unintrusive silence had me a boss acting a bitch.

This could not stand.

"MOTHERFUCKERS" I bellowed over the din of the mob, "SHUT THE FUCK UP." The F-bomb, when used judiciously, is remarkably effective in India. A tourist taking command, showing some balls? Unheard of! The stunned silence began to fade as the wallahs discussed the outburst, prompting the assailant to resume his diatribe. "I DON'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOUR PROBLEMS" I screamed at him, at the crowd, at every sob-story and bullshit-peddler across the entire Ganges Plain. And truly, I did not give a fuck. I had places to be. I was not going to sit around while they summoned the Wazir of Rickshawistan or whoever to dispense justice. "NOW TAKE ME TO THE GODDAMN TAJ GANJ." With that, it was decided. Acting as one, the mob hurled the assailant from the vehicle and scolded him fiercely. As we drove away I saw him being smacked upside the head like a little child. I turned to my driver and calmly said "Taj Ganj, direct, no bullshit, 40 rupees". It was the last and only problem I had in Agra.

Once you penetrate the newer parts of Agra (the Excrement District, the Sulfur Dioxide Quarter), the center is actually reasonably nice. It may have helped that I was staying a mere 50 meters from the South Gate of the Taj complex and didn't really have to go anywhere passing through the unpleasantness. In the Taj Ganj district someone hassles you every five feet to buy cigarettes or postcards or come into their marble shop or whatever but they are remarkably easy to repel. There are so many fools about - fat old tourists with stupid hats and knee-socks seemingly stretched up most of their spinal column, as well as legions of rich, carefree Japanese - that even the hint that you are willing to be a difficult asshole makes you not worth the trouble.

I ran into someone with something useful to offer, a cheap ride across the river Yamuna to see the sun set upriver and cast a glow on the rear side of the Taj Mahal. It was quite peaceful. The other side of the river was a mostly rural area, with some small vilages and old pleasure gardens. Though the vantage point was superb, only about 20 tourists were to be seen nearby, ambling silently about while an adorable little scamp used his superb English and hilariously apropos (I am told) Japanese phrases to make a living setting up humorous photo-ops. On the way out a man implored "please sir, touch my soft hairy camel." "Only if you buy me dinner first", I responded. The quip fell flat. My attempts at being a wiseass in India are almost always failures.

First thing this morning I woke up and did not don my usual battle armor, the carefully planned array of money stashes, writing gear, and daytime neccesities that I meticulously conceal on my person. I was going to the Taj Mahal. If there was ever a time when it did not hurt to be a dumbass-looking tourist this was it. I sent my various Indian garments and carefully selected T-shirts in obscure languages to the laundry. Rocking a bright cotton t-shirt with MEXICO emblazoned on the front, shades perched on my head, and a camera pouch slung over my shoulder, I marched out towards the gate.