India, day 3... when Vicki learns to go with the flow
After a wonderful visit to Agra Fort we make an awkward stop at a nearby carpet factory. We see stunning rugs made by hand, from the design to the dyes to the weaving—and then realize we are expected to buy something. No one does. But the carpets keep coming: what about this one? Or this one? One after another they are unfurled on the floor, walked across, admired... but not bought.
A woman in my tour group says the locals view us as "walking ATMs." I can't blame them. Our comparative wealth is sometimes painfully obvious. But I still don't want or need a rug.
I've never had so much attention. I'm a naturally self-conscious person, and I hate standing out. One of the first lessons I learned in India: I can't avoid standing out.
A woman in my tour group says the locals view us as "walking ATMs." I can't blame them. Our comparative wealth is sometimes painfully obvious. But I still don't want or need a rug.
"What country?"
We visit the Taj Mahal in the late afternoon. Outside its walls we are hounded by men selling postcards and magnets ("real marble, like the Taj!"); inside, I'm pursued by people wanting to take my photo. Many ask “what country?” Canada, I reply, and they smile and nod, as if to say: I'm putting that on my bucket list.I've never had so much attention. I'm a naturally self-conscious person, and I hate standing out. One of the first lessons I learned in India: I can't avoid standing out.
The lesson I learn in Agra: I can either resist it, or go with the flow. I decide to go with the flow, replacing my plain t-shirts and jeans with eye-catching kurtas, and responding to every request for a selfie with: Yes—as long as I can take one too.
In pursuit of serenity
The Taj itself is beautiful, as expected. I do not go inside: the line snakes all the way around the perimeter, and I'm told that inside it's hot, crowded and claustrophobic. There is a special (shorter) line for foreigners with "high value" tickets, but I decide to pass. I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed by all the people; I just want to enjoy my visit in peace.
I had expected the Taj to be smooth, flat marble, but it's intricately carved. The symmetry of the monument and gardens is stunning: left and right are perfect mirror images of each other.
I'm quietly taking photos and a man gestures to me: stand at this spot. I obey, not wanting to be rude. He then gestures: come over here, and points again. I follow him, and take a photo at the appointed spot. He gestures again, and I resist. I didn't ask for help, and I'm beginning to realize he's not just being friendly. This help has a price tag. I shake my head no, and he holds out his hand for payment. When I shake my head no again, he starts shouting angrily. So much for peace and quiet.
I escape and find a quiet spot off to the side. I get a few more photo requests, but I'm finding it harder to smile. A man approaches with a group of children and asks me to pose for a photo with them, and I nod reluctantly. Then more family members arrive, and I'm asked to pose again, and again. Finally, I've had enough. I'm smiled out, and happy to leave.
Agra street food, and child hawkers
We head into Agra to find street food for dinner. I love food, Indians love food, I love Indian food. It's a match made in heaven. The streets are lined with food vendors, and crowds of hungry locals. The smell of curry and spices and fried goodness fills the air. We feast on chaat, dosas, panipuri and kulfi. Everything is delicious; I could eat like this every day.
At the same time, I have a nagging feeling that things aren't right. I toss my plate in the garbage and find a dog in there, desperately looking for food. Little girls cruise the market, expertly hawking trinkets to uncomfortable tourists, their parents nowhere in sight.
I go to bed with mixed feelings. The begging and extreme poverty in Agra disturbed me. The attention overwhelmed me. The beauty of the people and place astounded me. The interactions mostly delighted and sometimes unsettled me. The need to say "no" again and again—to magnets, postcards, carpets, trinkets and other requests—saddened me. I feel physically and emotionally taxed.