I decided to extend my stay in Jaipur by one night, and use it as a jumping off point for my trip to Agra, the home of the Taj Mahal. Best decision, yet.
The Taj is by no means close to Jaipur. It is in a different state and takes four to five hours by car through paved (toll roads) and unpaved roads, but it is doable as a (long) day trip. After bonding with Balkishan the day before, he arranged for one of his friends to drive me there and back, and have a tour guide waiting for me at the Taj. This way I wouldn't have to pay the hotel tour desk fees or taxes, and would save a lot of money. It also benefits the drivers, because they receive a larger cut of the actual payment, instead of it going to the (American owned) hotel chain.
Knowing already that all financial transactions go through Rahul, Balkishan called him directly to discuss the cost. After some very fast talking Hindi, the phone was passed to me and Rahul said "pay him 8,000 rupees ($120), no more." The price seemed a bit high to me, but if Rahul approved, I was okay. It is important to note that gas here is expensive, about $4/gallon, and that there are certain taxes that are levied when driving between different states, in addition to the toll roads. All of this was included in the fare.
The night before my trip Balkishan sent me a Whatsapp (text message) with the driver's info, including his name, phone number, and license plate number. The driver, Shree Ram, would give me a missed call to my cell phone (I only have my US number, and actually letting the call go through would be extremely expensive for them) at 0715 and then I would meet him outside the hotel at 0730.
At 0700 I settled into the free breakfast buffet -- Mom, aren't you proud how early I was ready??? They had fresh squeezed orange juice, an omelette station, and many hot, made to order Western and Indian dishes.
By 0720 I was just finishing up my glass of chai when I got a missed call from Shree Ram, and it was time for our adventure to begin. Shree Ram works as an independent driver. He picks up clients through referrals and travel agents. He doesn't own his car, a brand new Toyota SUV (a little bigger than a RAV4, but smaller than a Highlander), but it stays with him at all times and he's in charge of both its upkeep and maintenance. The car was immaculate. Excellent AC, water bottles waiting for me in the cup holders, and a usb/audio jack. "You can plug your phone in if you would like to play music for the ride," he showed me, holding up his collection of adapters and cables.
"Do you have any local music? I think I would prefer to listen to that."
"Really?" he asked, grinning ear to ear, "yes I can play you some local Rajistani music."
Music flowing, we drove through the city of Jaipur and then onto the open highway, farms lining both sides of the road. Along the way Shree Ram would point out various crops and tell me "cotton, sugar cane, wheat," pointing to each individual farm. "Do you know that?" he asked, pointing to a cordoned off plot of land with a few inches of standing water.
"Rice?" I asked him.
"Very good. How you know rice?"
"My mom grows it on her FarmVille game."
"Your mom has farm?"
Oh, never mind.
The further we got from Jaipur, the more rural and impoverished the towns became, with many homes constructed in mud brick or a crude construction of corrugated metal, sticks, and fabric. A frequent site along the side of the highway seemed to be what I can only explain as a series of public showers. Sometimes surrounded by walls on three sides, other times completely out in the open, men were half naked, pouring water from buckets over their head. As the water pooled beneath them it attracted all sorts of attention from thirsty animals -- wild boar, water buffalo, and of course, this is India, some cows.
We also stopped at a rest stop to get a bite to eat and use the bathroom. The rest stop was definitely angled at tourists, with separate entrances for drivers and their guests. In all honesty it felt a little Plessy v. Ferguson for my taste, with signs on the tourist section saying "no drivers."
Inside they had snacks, bottled water, and sodas, everything packaged and nothing fresh. A little peckish, I looked over the bags of chips and boxes of Walker's shortbread cookies. The red plaid box was significantly faded and had a thick layer of dust across the top, making me question how old these were and whether they were a remnant of British imperial rule. I ended up settling on a box of Oreos, a bottle of water, and a can of Limca, an Indian lemon soda drink that tastes very similar to the San Pellegrino brand of lemon soda. I brought them to the register and asked them, "how much?"
"Sit, sit, relax, I will bring it to you. Would you like me to open the soda?" he asked, setting down a glass and straw.
"No thank you, I will take this to go." This was a half truth. Yes, I was probably going to take much of it to go, but I also prefer to drink from the bottle (for hygienic reasons), and because I did not yet know the price of all the items, I didn't want them opened just yet.
The waiter brought me a printed receipt in a bill fold and I went over it, item by item. The bottle of water (1 liter) was 55 Rupees ($.80) and the Limca, 250 Rupees ($3.80) for a teeny tiny can. "250???" I asked him, "don't you mean 25?" I asked, pointing to the label on the can that clearly marked 25 Rupees.
"No, that is government price, we charge more."
"Okay, well I'll take the bottle of water and pass on the Limca."
"You no take? But I printed you the bill!"
"No, too expensive"
The groans and sighs were audible, if not amplified. "I already printed you the bill..."
And then we waited, staring at each other, me shaking my head no, and thinking that this might just be the first staring contest I've had since third grade. Finally, he crossed off the Limca and deducted the tax. I paid for the water and Oreos in exact change and took my goods to go, waiting outside until my driver had finished his chai and chapati from his designated/segregated stop.
Finally, we reached the city of Agra:
Agra makes Jaipur look like Pleasantville. It is significantly more populated and as we drove through a one lane bazaar with two-way human, animal, and vehicle traffic, I recounted Balkishan's three tips on driving to Shree Ram. "Oh yes, very true," he told me, "but here in Agra there is one more rule."
"Oh yeah?"
"Rule number four: there are no rules."
Oh, how right he was. In Agra the roads are more narrow and people don't drive on the left or the right, they drive on both. Navigating the traffic with one hand, Shree Ram called my guide to let him know our location. We met Sanjeet in the parking lot of the Taj Mahal ticket office, and before letting me out of the car he jumped in, closed the door, and said, "Real quick, before you get out, do not talk to anyone, do not make eye contact with anyone. If I ask you any questions it's because I'm required to, and just say 'no' very loudly." I nodded my understanding. Already our car was surrounded by people waiving books, postcards, and statues of the Taj Mahal.
On exit, "this guy is selling a book on the Taj Mahal. Do you want?"
"No!"
"There is a free golf cart to the Taj Mahal or you can take a horse carriage."
"No!"
"Very good."
It costs 750 rupees ($11) to enter the Taj Mahal for tourists and 5 rupees ($.15) for locals. Included in the tourist ticket is a bottle of Aquafina water, a pair of shoe covers, and a jump to the front of the queue. I asked Sanjeet why they don't make tourists stand in the same line as everyone else, a slow moving line that snakes around the complex a few times before allowing you entrance into the garden. "They used to have everyone line up together, but so many of the Indians have never seen a white person before that they would stare and touch them."
"Huh." I still wasn't getting the whole Plessy v. Ferguson situation over here. But I do condone the charging of tourists a higher entrance fee. Because really, if you can afford a plane ticket to India (even a cheap standby one) you can afford $11 for the Taj Mahal. Oh, and it's worth every penny.
More like the pyramids of Giza than the Mona Lisa, the Taj Mahal lives up to every expectation. I mean, look:
But this photo is more postcard worthy than what it feels like to be there. Especially when it's the weekend after Diwali and there are 100,000 visitors there along side you.
Here's a more accurate depiction:
Walking through the garden, Sanjeet told me the history of the building and debunked a few of the myths revolving around its story. No, there was never a plan for a black Taj Mahal. Once we got to the the entrance of the Taj, it was time to don our shoe covers (to protect the marble) and once again jump the queue to see the interior. Inside are replicas of the King and Queen's coffins (the real ones are in a room below that is closed off to tourists because it lacks any sort of proper ventilation. There was a lot of pushing and shoving, and guards yelling "no pictures," as people snapped away with their camera phones. After about a minute of feeling like a sardine I noped right out of there and pushed my way to freedom.
Sanjeet, seeing the expression on my face said "let's go." Back in the car, Sanjeet told me more about the history of the Taj and how the artisans who were hired to do the fancy marble and inlaid work were brought in from Arabia. "Their descendants still work as artisans doing the repairs on the Taj Mahal. Would you like to see some of their crafts? They sell marble inlaid tables."
"Oh sure, why not."
At the artisan workshop they give a little demo on all of the work they do, explaining that they use no new technology and only what their ancestors taught them. "It is very difficult to cut the marble," the salesperson told me, handing me a slab of marble and an engraving pick, "you try."
Challenge accepted. I went a little gang busters on the thing, knocking out a large chunk of marble from the center of the octagon. "Okay, that's enough," he said, taking it back. Apparently this was not a sample piece and he did not expect me to actually be able to cut into it. Next he showed me the marble tables that they sell, inlaid octagonal pieces set into a cheap set of wooden table legs. Obviously you are paying for the marble, not the table. "We ship world wide," he told me, handing me a binder full of receipts from happy customers in the US. "Which table will go best in your home?"
"What's the most expensive one?"
"Ah yes," he said smiling, "this one over here." It was a large floral design measuring approximately 4' in diameter. "Took 3 years by master craftsmen."
"How much?" Hammering on his calculator he turned the display to face me. $27,000. "More than my car!"
"This will last much longer than your car."
Next up was the Red Fort, a very similar complex to the Amber Fort in Jaipur, except red, and unfortunately not as well preserved.
It was from here that the King was imprisoned by his own son, only able to see his Taj Mahal from across the river.
I thanked Sanjeet for being a wonderful guide, and once again Shree Ram and I were back on the road for our five hour journey back. Somewhere into hour two or three I zonked out in the back seat, only to wake up to see that we were off-roading it through an orchard, apples banging on all the windows.
"The toll line too long! This much faster! I jumped the queue! This is India! No rules!"
An apple fell into his open window and onto the floor of the car. We both lost it, laughing hysterically.
I made it back to my hotel by 2100, and without a scratch on me. Shree Ram was wonderful.
The next day, I flew back to Chandigarh via Delhi to once again stay with Ruby and Rahul. Balkishan drove me to the airport, and asked me if my stay in Jaipur was everything that I wanted. It was.
As a side note, this was the view out the window in Delhi, which was recently ranked the most polluted city in the world. At first I thought we were still in the clouds, the smog was so thick:
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