It seems the suits in travel-writing headquarters have noticed I haven't done any work for them in some time. Though they seem no less eager to part company than I am, they did draw attention to the fact that my article on Agra had the word DRAFT right on the title, and many of the subheadings read "incomplete". As I am contractually obligated to give a full reporting of Agra, I was forced to return to that vile city, take my revenge upon it, and in the meantime assert my independence once again from the malignant imperial forces of tyranny. It's like "Return of the Jedi" meets the War of 1812 up in this bitch.
So anyways, I dutifully returned to Agra and Fatehpur Sikri and once again slogged about taking photos and writing notes for paragraphs about Mughal tombs. (Sample note: "lame. add more jokes"). Thus, my friends, you are now blessed with Ghostface Buddha's very own pictures of the above-named cities, and guess what, the Taj Mahal looks pretty much as it always has, save for a layer of smog so foul that when you stand by the riverside you can't even see far enough to discern that you are in the midst of a million-plus population city.
It is still mercilessly hot, and so there are actually almost no tourists in Agra at all, and all the vulture-like merchants of the tourist zones are too busy hiding from the heat in darkened stores to bother trying to screw you. It's like the film "I Am Legend", where you walk almost unmolested on famously obnoxious streets, but can safely assume that anyone who approaches you ought to be machine-gunned in the face. Also, as I've hinted at before, my life is about 30% modeled on the film career of Will Smith. Unlike Agra, Fatehpur Sikri has no seasonal mellow. After 24,000km on the road and a second visit to the place, I now confidently report that the modern village of Fatehpur Sikri is home, on average, to the most annoying human beings in all of India, and the upper-extreme outliers are truly a contemptible marvel. Ghostface Buddha may have had to slap a fool.
Anyways, I gotta go for now. According to my sources, I am dangerously close to missing the closing hour of "the only not-very-bad food eatings restorent in Sanchi", and I like my eatings restorents to be not very bad.
Showing posts with label Agra. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Agra. Show all posts
Apr 25, 2010
Oct 9, 2009
Innermost Reflections: A Meditation On The Taj Mahal
I perform profoundly unnecessary tasks. I just spent the night until 3 AM writing garbage that sounds like this:
Ugh...work. Writing meaningless and subjective judgments about well-known monuments? Why is life sooooo haaaarrrrdddd.
My budding career as a writer is a tour de force in gross generalizations, misused vocabulary, cursory historical research, and superfluous literary flourishes designed to push me over 1000 words for that crucial bump in the paycheck. I'm like a middle-schooler who's just discovered double-spacing. I may as well slit my wrists.
So that being said, I ain't got shit to say about the Taj Mahal. I'm 300 words short on my real article and nobody in the bazaar sells a thesaurus. Fuck my life. Time to review hotels that offer a bathtub and a toaster.
I get paid to travel India, but this entails composing sophomore-caliber art history essays about the world's most famous building. Just put a gun in my mouth and shoot me.
I spend an afternoon touring marble palaces atop the Agra Fort, but I have to write an article about that too. Fetch a ladder. You'll find me swinging from the castle walls.
I have to type information from a street pamphlet about Aurangzeb's battlements without the aid of copy-paste. Dredge the river, I'll be in there somewhere.
Here. Here is some useful info about the Taj Mahal: http://www.google.com/search?=Taj_Mahal
Now read that while I find the train tracks.
The Taj Mahal is a wondrous edifice, surreptitiously effervescent in its timeless versimilitude
Ugh...work. Writing meaningless and subjective judgments about well-known monuments? Why is life sooooo haaaarrrrdddd.
My budding career as a writer is a tour de force in gross generalizations, misused vocabulary, cursory historical research, and superfluous literary flourishes designed to push me over 1000 words for that crucial bump in the paycheck. I'm like a middle-schooler who's just discovered double-spacing. I may as well slit my wrists.
So that being said, I ain't got shit to say about the Taj Mahal. I'm 300 words short on my real article and nobody in the bazaar sells a thesaurus. Fuck my life. Time to review hotels that offer a bathtub and a toaster.
I get paid to travel India, but this entails composing sophomore-caliber art history essays about the world's most famous building. Just put a gun in my mouth and shoot me.
I spend an afternoon touring marble palaces atop the Agra Fort, but I have to write an article about that too. Fetch a ladder. You'll find me swinging from the castle walls.
I have to type information from a street pamphlet about Aurangzeb's battlements without the aid of copy-paste. Dredge the river, I'll be in there somewhere.
Here. Here is some useful info about the Taj Mahal: http://www.google.com/search?=Taj_Mahal
Now read that while I find the train tracks.
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.
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.
Oct 8, 2009
Ali Baba and the 40 Mexican Novelists
Children under the age of 12 are in unanimous agreement across India: my name is Ali Baba. This information is usually conveying to me with a wide grin and stroking of the beard they might have in a decade or so. They are the only one's who don't buy my story. I've been sowing disinformation...telling everyone I am a Mexican novelist, and occasionally when my bullshit reserves are getting depleted I admit I am a Mexican travel writer. The kids see right through this act. Clearly I am Ali Baba.
Swastikas and camels are both common in India, but I was still incredibly surprised to see swastikas painted on a camel. Perhaps it is the black paint on a living animal that gives the design an alarming tatoo-like quality, as if this was an angry, prejudiced camel. It seemed as though the swastikas should be accompanied by other tatoos reading DROMEDARY POWER, or BACTRIANS RAUS.
I would also like to point out that the 50 rupee bill is the purple one. Cool people know what's up.
Finally, it occurs to me that there is no excuse to plaster a city with ads for "Anus' English Academy". Come on Anu, you run an English academy, you should know better.
Yesterday was my first extended bus ride, a local route through the countryside to the abandoned city of Fatehpur Sikri via Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. There are many technical high schools around Agra, meaning the buses quickly become overloaded with teenage boys who, like their counterparts the world over, are the most obnoxious things imaginable. I haven't spoken to a single Westerner since I got to India but this bus treated me to my first encounter with the Japanese. They were clearly in utter misery on this loud, hot bus in the chaos of India. One retreated behind a scarf over her face, anxiously tapping away at some device with an electric stylus while her friend simply cowered, foldering her big floppy hat over her ears. She whispered quietly, perhaps begging her higher power to deliver her back home to a land with orderly lines and digital toilets.
The city of Agra is utterly revolting. It is half slum, half industrial hellscape, and it is a modern Venice of open sewers. Distant glimpses of the Taj Mahal and the liklihood of being able to stretch this city out into multiple articles and get mad bank from the bosses are the only things giving me reason not to dread my impending return.
With only one street, you'd think that the village of Fatehpur would offer some peace and quiet. Ha. One street is plenty of room for traffic jams and general insanity in India. Here motorcyclists and auto-rickshaws must merely content themselves with mostly directing their compulsive honking at camels and horsecarts. It's an odd little town. Traveling as a Mexican usually throws the nags off their routines, but here when I say I'm from Mexico people start shouting "Acapulco! Acapulco!" Turns out this town has a tradition of cliff-jumpers who earn their living by diving from the walls of the mosque into a shallow pool. The Acapulco divers are admired so greatly that many of the villagers have learned Spanish. I've picked up a little Hindi, and I had a very entertaining trilingual conversation with a 12-year old.
The monumental old city of Fatehpur Sikri above the village is truly astounding. Its massive scale is befitting its status as an old Mughal imperial capital, and the stonework is the finest I have seen anywhere in the world. I can't go into too much detail about the architecture because I blew my literary efforts on my work article and I'm really not supposed to be releasing that content publicly. Anyways,in short it is a whimsical but incredibly potent mishmash of Hindu, Muslim, Jain, and Buddhist structural elements into a compelling architectural vocabulary. Fatehpur Sikri is awesome. More people should go there.
I've accumulated a small traveling library. I brought some guidebooks for India and Nepal with me. After a successful trip to the bazaar I now am the proud owner of the following titles:
I'm about to get on a bus to Agra, the lion's den of Indian tourism. The village imam prayed for my safe travels, but I don't need God's help. Agra bitches is gonna find Ghostface Buddha is more than they can handle. GAUTAM CLAN AIN'T NOTHING TO FUCK WITH.
Swastikas and camels are both common in India, but I was still incredibly surprised to see swastikas painted on a camel. Perhaps it is the black paint on a living animal that gives the design an alarming tatoo-like quality, as if this was an angry, prejudiced camel. It seemed as though the swastikas should be accompanied by other tatoos reading DROMEDARY POWER, or BACTRIANS RAUS.
I would also like to point out that the 50 rupee bill is the purple one. Cool people know what's up.
Finally, it occurs to me that there is no excuse to plaster a city with ads for "Anus' English Academy". Come on Anu, you run an English academy, you should know better.
Yesterday was my first extended bus ride, a local route through the countryside to the abandoned city of Fatehpur Sikri via Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. There are many technical high schools around Agra, meaning the buses quickly become overloaded with teenage boys who, like their counterparts the world over, are the most obnoxious things imaginable. I haven't spoken to a single Westerner since I got to India but this bus treated me to my first encounter with the Japanese. They were clearly in utter misery on this loud, hot bus in the chaos of India. One retreated behind a scarf over her face, anxiously tapping away at some device with an electric stylus while her friend simply cowered, foldering her big floppy hat over her ears. She whispered quietly, perhaps begging her higher power to deliver her back home to a land with orderly lines and digital toilets.
The city of Agra is utterly revolting. It is half slum, half industrial hellscape, and it is a modern Venice of open sewers. Distant glimpses of the Taj Mahal and the liklihood of being able to stretch this city out into multiple articles and get mad bank from the bosses are the only things giving me reason not to dread my impending return.
With only one street, you'd think that the village of Fatehpur would offer some peace and quiet. Ha. One street is plenty of room for traffic jams and general insanity in India. Here motorcyclists and auto-rickshaws must merely content themselves with mostly directing their compulsive honking at camels and horsecarts. It's an odd little town. Traveling as a Mexican usually throws the nags off their routines, but here when I say I'm from Mexico people start shouting "Acapulco! Acapulco!" Turns out this town has a tradition of cliff-jumpers who earn their living by diving from the walls of the mosque into a shallow pool. The Acapulco divers are admired so greatly that many of the villagers have learned Spanish. I've picked up a little Hindi, and I had a very entertaining trilingual conversation with a 12-year old.
The monumental old city of Fatehpur Sikri above the village is truly astounding. Its massive scale is befitting its status as an old Mughal imperial capital, and the stonework is the finest I have seen anywhere in the world. I can't go into too much detail about the architecture because I blew my literary efforts on my work article and I'm really not supposed to be releasing that content publicly. Anyways,in short it is a whimsical but incredibly potent mishmash of Hindu, Muslim, Jain, and Buddhist structural elements into a compelling architectural vocabulary. Fatehpur Sikri is awesome. More people should go there.
I've accumulated a small traveling library. I brought some guidebooks for India and Nepal with me. After a successful trip to the bazaar I now am the proud owner of the following titles:
1) Cambridge Self Hindi Teacher: A Step By Step, Practical Simple, And Scientific Approach For Mastering Hindi, Equally Useful To Foreigners, Tourists, Businessmen And Students
2) Outwitting Squirrels: 101 Cunning Strategems To Reduce Dramatically The Egregious Misappropriation Of Seeds From Your Birdfeeder By Squirrels
I'm about to get on a bus to Agra, the lion's den of Indian tourism. The village imam prayed for my safe travels, but I don't need God's help. Agra bitches is gonna find Ghostface Buddha is more than they can handle. GAUTAM CLAN AIN'T NOTHING TO FUCK WITH.
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