india - agra and no tigers

Now I couldn’t really expect everything to go all right for the full six months. And these 5 days in India went all wrong! Anyway this would be a boring narrative if it was too smooth. My new driver, Soran, is not a patch on Nandu. His driving is appalling. Whenever he talks, which is most of the time, he loses concentration and slows right down to under 30km, wandering all over the road as vehicles hoot and squeeze past on both sides. I resign myself to 1000km of watching the traffic ahead recede as lorries, tuk tuks, bikes swerve past, dangerously close, to fill up the gap. Indian drivers abhor a vacuum. I point out that he’s the slowest on the road, and hogging the outside lane. The outside lane, he explains, is for small vehicles. Lorries are not meant to go there, but they do. Why? Because they have no respect for the law. Traffic law in India very good, but no-one follow it. Why? Because Indian police little bit corrupt. Though he chatters away, most of what Soran says is difficult to follow, and where I do understand, boring. And almost everything he says follows the why-because format.

Somehow we eventually reach Agra. The Taj Mahal in the late afternoon sunlight is everything it’s cracked up to be. It’s even biger than I expected it to be, flanked by a mosque and its mirror image – ‘the Answer’ – which are big buildings in their own right. They make a perfect composition when seen from the gateway, and with the reflecting pool stretching in front. I’m struck by how many pictures I’ve taken in India, and also in Nepal and Bhutan, of the framing views of entrances. The entry sequence, the framing and revelation of an inspired view, is something they understand well here

The only pain is that all the staff are on the make, and trying to charge you for holding your camera or pointing out the best (obvious) views. It really disturbs what would otherwise be a serene experience. The interior, which is cool, dim and austere, in delicately carved white marble, is likewise rather wrecked by overcrowding and noisy guides bawling out spurious information and testing the echo. But the Taj Mahal rises serenely above all this and holds its own.

There is a very loud wedding in the hotel that night. ‘Tis the season to be married and everywhere you see uniformed brass bands on the move, guys on white horses galloping to the next gig, and the Bollywood style sets for the engagement parties. And every night there is blaring music and fireworks.

Agra Fort next morning is impressive – far more so than Delhi Fort, with a huge perimeter wall and a multiplicity of palaces – this was the centre of power at the height of the Moghul empire. Though partly wrecked by the British, and badly neglected since, much still remains that is very fine, particularly from the time of Shah Jehan.

Near to Agra, now a poor and dusty place, lies the abandoned city of Fatehpur Sikri, built on an imperial whim and then abandoned within 11 years when the water ran out. I had somehow expected something remote, shimmering in the desert as we approached, like a mirage, but this is India. A whole town dedicated to tourism has sprung up at its gates, and the hassle is as intense as at the Taj Mahal. Endless offers to guide (the guides are never guides. O no, Sir, I am a student/archaeologist and I just want to show you… if you like to give me something it’s up to you…) They try to charge me for minding shoes at the mosque. Then there’s the guy who whips off his shirt and screams ‘Acapulco’ at me from the side of a nasty green algae covered water tank, offering to dive into the typhoid laden water. Anything for a good tip. The city, if you can get away from this circus for a few minutes, is amazing, with the finest sandstone carving and exquisitely proportioned courtyards and palaces.

Then we are off to the national park where I apparently have a 90% chance of seeing tigers in the wild. We finally reach the hotel just outside the park after nightfall, only to find it has been closed by court order. ‘May be open tomorrow Sir. Why? Because judge will announce tomorrow,’ Soran informs me. As the best time to see tigers is apparently at dawn this is no use.

The room in the hotel has fixed open ventilation grilles which means (a) it’s freezing cold and (b) noisy as hell because, guess what, the hotel is hosting a wedding party and is also right next to a level crossing on the main line to Delhi so there are hoots and rattles and bells all night. Add to this a case of severe diarrhoea and I’m not feeling too hot. I decide to cut my losses and head back to Delhi a day early.

This seems like a good decision until we stop at Jaipur for lunch. Soran drops me at a nice garden restaurant but then disappears for two hours. ‘Why? Because I have to go to doctor and take tuk tuk but traffic very bad so little bit late Sir.’ He is in a suspiciously good mood and his driving style goes from one extreme to the other: suddenly he’s overtaking on blind bends, accelerating through the gap between passing lorries, and hooting with the best of them. ‘I drive little bit fast Sir,’ he grins. ‘Why? Because very late back to Delhi Sir,’ as he screeches off the road into the dirt to get past a tractor, sending dogs and chickens and small children scurrying.


I survive the trip and here I am back in Karol Bagh. The flirty bell boy seems pleased to see me a day early. Somehow all the bell boys in Karol Bagh are flirty… no doubt it’s good for the tips!