Where is Lyds?
7th Mar 2007 - 8th Mar 2007Drive to Agra, first day in Gwalior and first weep Six of us hired a couple of cars to take us from APK to Agra, a distance of 220km. We set off at 10:30, I had a train to catch in Agra at 17:00. I didn`t make it. Walking down the steps of APK for the last time was a strangely emotional moment, and not simply because my rucksack was now weighing over 20kg (shopping). Days sometimes seem to drag when you`re living through them with not a lot of activity, but when I looked back over the 3 weeks all together the time seemed to have flown past. I am immensely glad I made the decision to spend my first 3 weeks there rather than winging it alone. I was leaving equipped with useful knowledge such as how much tomatoes should cost, how to pay for an autorickshaw, how to ask for tea, how to negotiate Indian bathrooms while wearing scarves and tunics and wotnot, how to eat rice and curry with my right hand, how buses work, how telephones work, not to mention a few snippets of Hindi. I climbed into the front of the little red minivan and, well trained by my father (who would refuse to leave the drive unless we were all strapped in), reached for my seatbelt. I was discouraged from proceeding by the driver, through the effective babel-proof means of flapping hands and shaking head. Safe in the knowledge that our speed would not exceed 50km the whole journey, I settled back to enjoy the scenery. The driver had thoughtfully brought a selection of Indian pop music as the backdrop. Each cassette seemed to have about 3 songs on it, and none of the recordings was complete: in addition, the eject button on the stereo was kaput so rather than have the driver take the keys out of the ignition every 15 minutes to jab wildly in the direction of the residual metal tab while almost keeping his whole attention on the road, I adopted the role of Main Tape Changer along the way. Unfortunately I was unable to control the music that was played - none of the cassettes had labels and despite the Gift I was unable to confidently distinguish tune from tune. Perhaps the Gift is in hibernation. Perhaps it didn`t get through Customs. The road was atrocious. I mean that in the original sense of the word. Some stretches were nothing more than pitholes joined together by large lumps of rock. I was in the car with an American couple, Ernest and Patty - Ernest`s head hit the roof of the car a number of times and I believe people pay good money for the kind of spine manipulation we were getting. I noted that the driver had not attended the AA Advanced Drivers’ course, as he tended to accelerate into a swerve, not out of it, and I am sure that opening the car door to spit out your betel nut residue isn`t in the handbook either. It does I suppose reduce the risk of getting betel nut (red goo) stains all down the side of your car. If you lean out of the window you would be more likely to get it streaking along the driver and passenger door - not what the car-proud chauffeur wants. Also bad news if your passenger happens to have his window open. (For the passenger). The first time we were pulled over by the police was in the middle of a little town about 45 minutes into the journey. The driver had got out of the car for a few minutes and next thing I knew he was having a shouting match with a policeman next to the driver`s door. I absorbed myself into my book. Despite my fierce concentration I was aware of a small crowd of people (boys and men) gathering at my window, some with their heads craned to see what I was reading. I read on. Finally the driver got back into the car and officiously beckoned me to put on my seatbelt. I obeyed. I didn`t say a word. The second time we were pulled over, we were on the outskirts of Agra. I had already become a little suspicious that our driver didn`t seem to be reading any of the roadsigns, as he kept pulling over in the small towns to ask for Agra (and, curiously, also for the Taj Mahal which I thought a tad too much detail while we were still more than 20km away). I actually think perhaps he couldn’t read, which would be in line with what we have been told about the illiteracy rate in rural India. We clattered onto a roundabout, made a poor change of lanes which cut up about 3 other vehicles, and were waved to a halt by a traffic policeman. Simpleton that I am, I thought the driver had simply attracted attention for his poor roundabout discipline, and imagined we would be on our way within seconds after a word of warning. I was wrong. There was shouting, I caught the word `papers`, and the driver got out of the car and disappeared. I turned to the couple in the back of the car and commented that I thought we might have a problem. I’m sharp, me. After 10 minutes the driver returned (we were stuck on the roundabout all that time - getting out didn`t seem a wise option, esp. with a 20kg rucksack - traffic dodging demands agility) and stood at my window speaking to me in rapid Hindi. No glimpse of a smile on his face. I said `I don`t speak Hindi` and `I don`t understand` (in Hindi, thus arguably giving the lie to at least the former) for about 2 minutes, and then he disappeared again. After 2 minutes he came back and moved the van over to the side of the road. And disappeared again. Clearly we were not going anywhere in the immediate future. To cut a long story short (too late?), I called APK to ask Babaji to talk to the driver, which he did, but the driver hung up immediately afterwards so I still have no idea what was said. The driver produced his licence, but that didn`t seem to solve the problem. Finally, about 30 minutes after we were first pulled over, he same around to my side of the car, opened the door, and counted out some money standing very close to me. He left - was back within about 2 minutes - and away we went. I suspect that the policeman saw 3 Westerners in the car and pulled us over for some extra pocket money. I could be wrong. We then started driving around looking for our hotel. We stopped about every 500m to ask someone at the side of the road, and I pretty quickly picked up the word for `straight on`. The whole exercise was complicated not a little by the lack of map and the fact that motor vehicles are not permitted within a certain distance of the centre. Before long I had Ernest`s Lonely Planet in one hand and was using the other to make useful and big hand gestures at the driver (left, right, straight ahead). Luckily he completely ignored me, as did all the men who we stopped to ask, and we ended up heading out to the suburbs. About turn. After about an hour we pulled into the side of the road, and soon a cluster of rickshaws was around us. We had no idea what was going on. Our driver had long since given up trying to communicate with us, so it was left to the rickshaw drivers to alternately try to explain why we had stopped (if you can count `you stay here for 5 minutes` as an explanation) and to offer us varying rates for completing our journey with them. We were keen to stick with the driver, but in the mean time we received a text from the others in the second car, saying that they`d abandoned their driver in favour of a rickshaw. We did the same and got into a battery operated golf-cart thingy whose driver offered us 100Rs (about 1.20). We then proceeded to drive the 50m to our hotel - did you get that? FIFTY METRES. Even I could have walked that. Gaaaahhhhh! We gradually patched together our individual impressions into a plausible explanation of what had happened. It comes down to 3 things. 1. Motor vehicles are not permitted inside a police barrier that runs around the main `sight` area. We had got within about 100m of that barrier when our driver stopped. 2. The driver was waiting for his pal in the second car to turn up, that was why we were waiting where we were. Unfortunately the second guy didn`t have a mobile. The cars had been separated when the second one had been pulled over a little further into the city than the roundabout incident. I don`t know whether the drivers ever met up. 3. The rickshaw driver saw us coming and deserved his 100Rs for the absolutely straight face he kept when naming his price, knowing our hotel was 50m away, and for the filthy look and shouting when we tried to give him 50Rs. Happily by this time my train was long gone, and I was pretty shattered and fancied a post mortem of the journey and some tea / food. I agreed with a couple of the others that I`d sleep in their room and the hotel guy said he`d bring in a third bed. So it was that, for the first time in my life, I turned up somewhere not knowing where I was going to stay. OK it wasn`t exactly touch and go whether I`d have a roof over my head or not, but little steps, little steps. `Softly softly catchee monkey`. Etc. I departed Agra for Gwalior alone and early the next day and after accidentally getting a cycle rickshaw instead of an autorickshaw (don`t ask - I feel bad enough for making a poor guy on a bike carry me and my lump of a bag 30 minutes across Agra with hills and speed bumps without explaining how I managed to get in the wrong type of vehicle) arrived at the train station with about 10 minutes to spare before my train was due to depart. Most unlike me, but I am proud to say I was only slightly panicking. General class ticket bought, I hoisted myself into the 3rd class chair carriage and settled in with fingers crossed, only to be booted out after about 5 minutes when the person who had reserved the seat turned up. I gamely set off to the general class carriage, but after opening the door and seeing a mass of bodies with no room for little me let alone my bag, I turned quickly around and headed off in search of the ticket conductor and an upgrade. As I had done on the way to APK, I asked if I could pay extra to travel in 2nd class chair - which means a nice big seat, air con, and a guy with a tea urn - the answer was yes, I noted the seat number, and wedged me and my bag in (I thought about, and rejected, the possibility that I could bench press 20kg of rucksack into the luggage rack). Arriving in Gwalior I had my first experience of being mobbed. Autorickshaw drivers descended, all apparently very keen to take me to my hotel (before even knowing which hotel I was staying at! Amazing). I kept walking in the direction (I guessed) of the road, having read in my trusty LP that the drivers around the station tend to operate some sort of commission scam which can leave either the hotelier or the hotellee (me) worse off. Something to do with the driver scoring commission for bringing customers to the hotel. The commission is then added to the hotel bill. I didn`t make it to the road. Someone offered me 5Rs so off I went. Sure enough, the hotel was about 2 minutes away. I paid the driver, but he suddenly went very sullen and looked at the 5Rs note as if it had just crawled out from under a rock. I understood then that he was waiting for some commission or a tip or something. I didn`t take the bait. My bag was lugged up by a slight young man who had the good grace not to demand what the h*ll I had in there, and there I was, in my room in Gwalior, only my second night by myself in 3 weeks. I scattered a few belongings around to make myself feel comfortable, and headed out to see Jai Vilas Palace (the palace of the Maharajah of the region). Asking directions at the front desk, I was advised to get a rickshaw. I protested. It was 1km away. The hotel guy sighed and gave me directions (in Hindi with accompanying hand gestures) and feeling slightly less cocky but quite confident in my own ability to find things, inherited from Granny Howe, I set off. Shortly after setting off, I hailed a rickshaw. The palace did not disappoint. It is an immense white stretch of a building set around a large courtyard. The drive leading to it is edged with bougainvilliea (I will spell that word right by the time I leave this country, I will I will I will) and trees, and in the sunlight the effect is stunning. I imagined that someone plump with very soft skin and a beautifully waxed moustache owned this place. I approached with slow steps, trying to take it all in. Inside, the palace seemed dowdy and dated. This was presumably due to the fact that the apartments open to the public are on show only, and not lived in. It was rather sad to walk through room after room which smelt dusty, stale, and empty: I couldn`t evoke a very effective picture of what it might have been like when used, because everything felt wrapped up and muffled. However there were a couple of things that I wanted to see - one was an indoor swimming pool (complete with beautifully screened changing rooms, 3 diving boards and a mirror-tiled coffee bar) and the other was a solid silver train set which was used to carry (for example) the port, brandy and cigars around one of the three hundred foot long dining table after dinner. I had learned about this in the last book I read, in the context of the absurdly luxurious lifestyles and trappings that some of the Maharajahs enjoyed before they were stripped of their royal status after Partition. Apparently the train was liable to accelerate to a pace that would see the contents of its carriages pelting the guests with food and drink at every sharp bend in the track. After Jai Vilas Palace I walked through a park, in search of somewhere shady to sit. However I didn`t feel entirely comfortable in the park that I found - I was the only woman I could see, and was approached several times by men asking if I wanted a guide. So I carried on walking and soon found myself heading along a fairly busy road (think A40) which ran parallel to but far below the wall of the fort. (Apart from the train set and palace, the main reason I was in Gwalior (pop c.800K) was to see its immense and old fort, which saw most activity from the 15 - 18th century, although it also contains much older buildings from 9th century). I had been walking for about 15 minutes, the stares feeling more and more invasive with every passing minute, and every `hello`, `what is your name`, `where are you from` sounded mocking - the voices were all male too, which didn`t help my sense of security. I was beginning to feel very stupid and isolated because I didn`t know where I was heading and so for all I knew was walking resolutely-with-sunglasses towards an industrial estate. I thought I might be heading towards the fort but was put off by the total lack of other westerners and the fact that the locals were staring at me as though I was wearing my pyjamas or less. I pressed on, and was getting deep into my low-mantra of `what am I doing here, why on earth did I come to this town, I don`t know where I am, no-one knows I`m here, I am an idiot, I`m going to go back to my hotel and go back to Agra and join a group tour until Essie arrives`, when I heard some footsteps behind me and a tug on my clothes. I turned around to find a little girl of about 5 years old looking up at me with big brown eyes, holding out an orange flower. I took it, said thank you, and she ran off. And I welled up. I quickly put on my sunglasses again and carried on walking. That simple gesture had just spun my world on its head. I felt as though everyone I love had somehow just given me a hug and pushed me on my way. I`m still getting a lump in my throat writing about it a week later. From that point my afternoon was one of the best I have had. I quickly realised that I was in Old Gwalior, which was on my map, and that I was indeed heading towards the fort. Old Gwalior was like Chandausi, the town I knew near APK, and the familiarity of the booths and smells was like a comfortable sofa. I bought almonds, coconut and sultanas (my staple snack when I don`t know when I`m next going to find a `safe` restaurant); I said `namaste` to everyone who greeted me; I signed autographs for a group of young boys who ran after me with pen and paper (quite embarrassing!); and I bought toe rings (a symbol of marriage as potent here as the wedding ring is at home). Bear with me, I have not joined a bizarre sect or taking up smoking hemp. Please read on. From the moment I bought and donned the toe rings, I have noted a marked and welcome difference in the way I am approached by men. The number of idle and slightly mocking `hello, what is your name`s has dwindled dramatically. I am greeted by more women. I am hassled less in the markets. Youths don`t come up and try to start inane conversations - at the risk of protesting too much and sounding like a prude, this is a total pain when you`re a girl by yourself: personally it makes me feel put-upon, vulnerable and idiotic, and I suspect that the guys are regarding me as a cheap and easy target for something or other. I don`t see adventure in these encounters, I see risk. Perhaps my derring-do arteries are stale with age: perhaps I was born without them. Rant over). To top it all off I bumped into 2 French guys who confirmed that they and I were the only tourists in Gwalior, hence the apparently novelty to its residents of my presence in the place. I continued my walk for another hour or so, then turned around. I intended to walk back, but having taken a wrong turn and being hailed by a crowd of friendly but clearly amused women, went to find an autorickshaw. Explaining where I wanted to go was a struggle. Finally, with my LP map and phrasebook out, a crowd of about 15 around my autorickshaw, and much gesturing and pointing, I conveyed that I just wanted to be taken down to the end of the main road, and off we went. I didn`t let the fact that the driver was expecting 30Rs and I had thought I`d negotiated (in the loosest sense of the word) 3Rs bother me: at the end of the road I descended from the autorickshaw and staggered into the cool interior of the Kwality Restaurant where I sat unremarked by the clientele and attentively served by the waiter for an hour over vegetable kofta and rice. A heady day, but one that recalled something G told me before I left (and has reminded me every time we have spoken since): the extreme moods that I`m feeling here are a first for me, and can be tipped by something as small as successfully buying 2 bananas. (I don`t even mind if they`re a bit black these days although I draw the line at mushy) or getting the sideways nod of the head that means ‘OK’ (or sometimes ‘OK, you win). The final triumph of the day was discovering that the TV in my room worked and the film for the evening was ‘Under the Tuscan Sun’, which was set in Italy, and as you can imagine sent me off to sleep in a confusion of Italian-Indian themed musing.
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