Agra, Uttar Pradesh

Mandy: 4th – 7th February 2015

As I sit on the train from Delhi to Agra typing these notes for the blog I just want to share with you the fact that there is a feint sweet unpleasant smell in our cabin area……..similar to diarrhoea.

We had spent an hour on the platform where I definitely didn’t talk to anyone or make eye contact especially when I left Glen on platform 2 with the backpacks and walked over the bridge back to the station to use the toilet. I won’t describe the toilet as I may loose some readers before I even get started, however what I will say is that some people had not managed to get inside of the toilet block in time!

I was relieved that only one man said hello as I walked down the steps and I was pleased that I remembered not to look up. However, despite there being plenty of empty seats along the platform, when I returned to Glen he had a friend sat with him! An elderly Indian gentleman (who I desperately wanted to take a photo of) dressed all in ‘white’ with a scarf wrapped around his head to keep warm was sat very close to Glen. He was reading a paper or so I thought but Glen whispered that he is actually just looking at us over the paper and sitting far closer than necessary and he had invited another young India guy to join him even though there was an empty seat behind us. He had a wonderfully weathered face and like I said it would have made for an amazing photo but as Glen seemed to think he was watching us and shuffling closer I thought it best not to start asking him if I could take his photo. We were the only foreigners on the platform and we were already drawing attention to ourselves for that reason alone.

Our train arrived and we found our seat on what they called the Mail Train (I know I thought that was strange too) bound for Agra. When we got on I was pleasantly surprised that we were not sat on a sack of letters but in fact we had two bunks. We knew there was a possibility of two other passengers sharing the day ‘sleeper’ cabin that Glen had booked and so were not surprised to find a man sat in there. However we were surprised when he looked at me and said I have seen you before. I thought oh no here we go. But then he said “you were in the Shelton Hotel” How the hec would this Indian man know that! He then explained how he too had stayed there. Anyway we spent a lovely hour chatting to ‘Paul’ about how he grew up in Kolar Gold Field, India which we had never heard of. He told us of the terrible conditions he and his family had worked in down the gold mines. Whilst working in the mines Paul had managed to educate himself and get a good job away from the mines and he was now travelling on business. We only talked for an hour because the rest of the journey he climbed into his bunk above us and slept (and snored) so Glen and I got some time to ourselves too, which was good. We spent our time looking out of the window discussing how poor India looked along the way and the terrible squalor in which people lived. It was even worse than in Burma.

After a few hours I needed to go to the toilet and as expected (by the piles of poo on the railway tracks in the station) you go into a hole straight out on to the tracks. Now I may be exaggerating when I say a small child could easily slip through the hole if they were using the toilet, but believe me there was a good chance that if my feet slipped, as I balanced on the slippery metal foot ridges, my foot could have slipped into the hole and become stuck! It is very disconcerting peeing on a squat toilet at the best of times but when you can see a track flashing past as you look down it is not good! As I proof read this I am wishing I took a photo, I must remember on the next train journey.

When I have not fancied eating the street food so far or when we were in the dirty hotel that first night in Delhi I have thought about Karl Pilkington with his bag of pickled onion monster munch sat in a grotty room on the programme ‘Idiot abroad’ and I understood how he felt.

As we looked out of the window we saw the odd cow on the tracks, which we expected, and people walking along the tracks like it was their local pavement, which I guess it was. What we didn’t expect to see were the many Monkeys on the various station platforms. Amongst the Monkeys and usual men in dark clothes there were the interesting colourful men in orange robes with white hair and long sticks or flags. We haven’t found out who they are yet, whether they are religious men or just old Indian men.

There was so much poverty all along the journey. The little houses people have clearly built themselves from bricks (if they are lucky) and some have used just bricks without any mortar between the bricks. Then within a slum area there was the odd posh-ish house which looked out of place. Maybe it’s to do with the caste system whereby even if you are a little better off you still have to live in the same area with your caste. We need to find out. Annoyingly the train windows were dirty and I couldn’t get any good photos. Some women were coming out of little huts made from mud and they were beautifully dressed in colourful saris.

We arrived in Agra to find that it too was dirty and again was full of men who serve in the shops, hotels and restaurants. Only men drive the auto-rickshaws and peddle the rickshaws etc. They also stand around in dark clothes and there were not many women at all. It makes for a drab uncomfortable feeling. However our hotel was lovely; once we walked through the building site which was the walkway to it. It was like being in Egypt (smile)

There were five-striped palm squirrels everywhere and green parakeets flying around. Delhi had hundreds of Eagles or Kites circling overhead too.

We came to Agra to visit the Taj Mahal of course and it was even better than we hoped it would be. It was a beautiful sunny day and we had a wonderful morning there; feeling the love. (smile)

This is the inauspicious entrance to the the main South Gate of the Taj Mahal

Our first sight as we walked through – breathtaking

It was an amazing sight. So much better than we imagined. The building looked magnificent.

Dhobi (English: washerman) is a caste group primarily belonging to India and Pakistan and are said to specialized in washing clothes. The word Dhobi is derived from the Hindi word dhona, which means to wash. They are found throughout North India. A dhobi is likely to be of many different origins, with those whose ancestors took the occupation of washing clothes evolving over time into a distinct caste bound by rules of endogamy.

http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dhobi

Of course we have all heard of Punkawallas, The servant who keeps the punkah or fan going on hot nights, if only because of the programme ‘It ain’t half hot mum’ but I never knew they were all sorts of Wallahs. Our trips have been so educational. Let’s hope I remember everything we have learnt unlike during my school days!

Villagers carrying fire wood on their heads as they herded their goats along the river.

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