Hungry Like the Wolf: Travels Through the Land of Scams and Curry

I finally found a place with strong internet: New Jersey. I may be back in the US, but my circadian rhythms are still moving on India time. This justifies outdated posts, right?

10.3.2014

The Taj Mahal: Andi vs. The Rickshaw Drivers

Agra is a pit. There. I said it. It is a hideous, rickshaw filled pit. Perhaps this is Shah Jahan’s curse. Perhaps, after Jahan’s ingrate son locked him up Agra Fort, thereby denying him the opportunity to visit his completed monument to mournful love, Shah Jahan cursed this city – with great beauty comes great scamming.

Come for the Taj, stay for the scams

Let’s start with the bathroom scam. I really don’t enjoy haggling, and I find it especially difficult to manage when nature calls. This is why, back in 2012, I ended up paying $1 to a group of kids standing in front of the awful bathroom at Angkor Wat. This is also why today, when a saree-d old woman yelled at me before I entered the bathroom at Agra Fort, and gestured to a counter for payment, I didn’t question it. It was a little weird that the man at the counter just asked for a donation, but whatever. After giving him my money I turned toward the bathroom and realized that the evil old woman had been standing/blocking the sign that said “FREE SERVICE FOR FOREIGNERS”. I gasped. I sputtered. I contemplated asking for my money back (sure, I had only given the equivalent of 20 cents, but it’s the principle of the thing, dammit.) Instead, I started snapping pictures of the infuriating duo and the sign, over and over again, while laughing bitterly (or perhaps maniacally.) And when I came out the bathroom, my money was waiting for me.

See that sign? Now picture an old, saree-clad woman
completely blocking it

Next up, the rickshaw scam. Okay, I really brought this on myself. The signs were all there. I went to a pre-paid rickshaw stand, naively thinking that this would allow me to avoid the sketchier drivers. Nope. It just saves the trouble of haggling. The drivers are still awful, horrible people. I paid for a ride to the Taj Mahal, and immediately upon entering the rickshaw Ali, the driver, started trying to convince me to hire him for the day. What can I say? I had been up since 4am, I was tired, and the prospect of not having to haggle for the rest of the day was so tempting. Ali even showed me a book of handwritten testimonials, which I am now convinced were written by nefarious drivers who all attended the Number One Indian School of Scamming and graduated with honors. So I agreed.

As I write this I am beating my head against the table, awed by own stupidity.

The rest of the day was literally rickshaw scam 101. I wanted to go to the South entrance, having read that the East entrance is really only there as a way to trick tourists into taking unnecessary horse-drawn carriage rides. Of course, Ali wanted to take me to the East entrance. But I stood my ground, and he drove me to the South entrance, as requested. Before I got out he gave me strict instructions not to talk to anybody, make any friends, or eat anything in the area because the restaurant owners had all poisoned their food in order to make tourists sick and then get commissions from the local doctors. I kid you not.

Ali was waiting for me when I exited the Taj Mahal, eager to shuttle me to lunch (he had also been joined by a “friend” from the rickshaw stand who wanted to ride with us. I said absolutely not, but really, that should have been the flashing red sign that said “RUN AWAY FROM ALI.” Why the hell would a rickshaw driver need a ride?!) Like the fool I am, I let Ali take me to a restaurant that he assured me was not part of the illicit poisoning scam. For those of you not familiar with the devious ways of rickshaw drivers, one of their prime sources of income comes from restaurant and shop owners who give the drivers commission when tourists are delivered to their doorsteps, and, ideally, pressured into buying something. I knew this. I knew this! And yet I went to the restaurant, and had the only bad meal during my entire time in India. It was so god-awful I couldn't eat it. And it was also way overpriced.

After lunch the negotiations began in earnest between Ali and me. I wanted to go Agra Fort and then finish the day by watching the sunset at this scenic point that overlooks the Taj Mahal. Ali felt this plan was wrong, all wrong. Because the traffic was bad. Really, really bad. He showed me the road leading up to the sunset view on the map and said, “This road, always backed up, two to three hours. Not possible.” “But Ali,” I countered, “this is labeled as the Taj Mahal sunset view on the map. So how do people get there if the traffic is backed up for three hours? There must be a way, or it wouldn’t be on the map as the place to go to watch the frickin’ sunset. Right?” Ali was non-plussed, and said, “Well, some people do and some people don’t.” “Great. Then we’ll be the people who do.”

But before the fort I needed to go to an ATM. At this point there occurred an event so startling, so astonishing, that I fear the earth may have shifted off its axis ever so slightly: Ali offered me a loan. Yes, dear readers, my rickshaw driver offered to loan me money so that I wouldn’t have to go to an ATM. Rickshaw drivers are insanely reluctant to even give change, let alone loans. Something didn’t smell right. And I’m not referring to either my or Ali’s body odor (Agra’s hot as hell, okay? And I sweat a lot! Don’t judge me!) So I insisted that Ali take me to an ATM. Which he did. And which was out of order. Again he offered the loan, and got very offended when I wouldn’t take it. He even tried to convince me that there was a bank strike, and therefore all ATM’s would be out of order as well. But nope, I wouldn’t budge. It was an ATM or nothing. Ali relented, and the next ATM was fully functional because of course there was no bank strike, and so, cash in hand I went to Agra Fort.

The final showdown commenced after I left the fort. I asked Ali to take me to one of the bazaars. But he said that instead he would take me to see “special Mughal handicrafts”, which actually means he would take me to see “special place where Ali gets commission”, so I said no thank you, please take me to the bazaar.

“But I can’t drive to that one. And don’t you want to see the special Mughal handicrafts?”

“No, Ali, I don’t. How about this one?” (I pointed to the guidebook)

“I can’t drive to that one either. Why don’t you want to go to see the special Mughal handicrafts?”

“Well then let’s go to this one” (I point to yet another shop in the guidebook)

“Why aren’t you listening to me? Why are you reading that book? I live here! You should trust me! And these are special Mughal handicrafts!”

“Look Ali, I only have one day in Agra, and these are the places I want to go to. If you can’t drive there then I’ll walk.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll take you to the bazaar. But first we go to see the special Mughal handicrafts.”

There was a long pause in the rickshaw.

“Ali. I do not want to see the special Mughal handicrafts. And I am not going to go there.”

That set Ali off. He was soooooooooo upset that I didn't trust him, wouldn't listen to him, wouldn't accept his loan, made him drive me to that ATM which was really bad for his rickshaw (?!), was following a guidebook instead of his recommendations, and then he kind of kicked me out of his vehicle. After demanding that I pay him for half the day, of course. And I’m ashamed to admit that I did pay him, because I wanted out of that situation so very badly. And only later did I remember that I had already paid at the taxi stand by the train station. Foolish, foolish Andi.

And that was pretty much the end of my day in Agra. I couldn't stand the thought of haggling with more rickshaw drivers, and besides, most of them refused to drive me anywhere unless I agreed to hire them for the day. So I went back to the train station and spent the rest of the afternoon reading, writing, and narrowly avoiding food poisoning. It was not my finest hour. But after a mere three days in India I had hit the wall, and I needed a break.

Strangely enough, during my sojourn at the Agra train station India was slightly redeemed. I had a lovely conversation with a guy who was traveling with his sisters and mother. We discussed some salient differences between our two countries: he had the mistaken notion that all Americans live like Will Smith; I assumed that all rickshaw drivers were evil, soulless bastards. He gave me some great insights about my experiences thus far. For instance, I did not know that touts are just as aggressive with Indians as they are with tourists. I also did not know that Indians generally hire the tout who follows them the longest, which explains why those drivers won’t fuck off even after I scream at them. (I exaggerate. I yelled at a few of them today and they promptly apologized and left me alone. But they’re still evil, soulless bastards, the lot of them.)

My conversational companion acknowledged that India can be very difficult, but said that I could make the decision to enjoy it. I could choose to embrace the chaos and frustration and see the hypnotic beauty behind it (I may be taking some liberties here. He probably never used the phrase “hypnotic beauty”.) And what else can I do, really? I have 25 days left in this country, and I don’t want to spend my time hating it. So I guess I needed that conversation. I guess I needed to talk to someone other than a tout. This is a huge, diverse country, and it cannot possibly be filled solely with people out to milk the tourists for every penny they’re worth. And also, at the end of the day, Ali really only scammed me out of $10, which, while still important to me, was probably a lot more important to him.

Okay, fine. Let’s talk about the Taj.

Be grateful that I am only subjecting you to a few
of my gajillion Taj pictures

It’s beautiful. Amazing. Splendid. Everything that it is claimed to be. And yet also surprisingly…gentle. Something about the delicacy of the glittering marble carvings, and the contrast between the precision of the design and the seductive curves of the lattice work and gem-inlaid floral patterns. You must love it. It can’t be helped. I heard a young Indian boy exclaiming that it was like a dream, and that he never thought he would really see it. And yes, it was worth getting up at 4am. In fact, by the time I left at 11am the place was swarming with people, so an early visit was definitely a better idea. I almost wish I had seen it at sunrise, but that would have entailed staying overnight in Agra, and that is a hell I don’t ever want to experience.

In other news, I’m slowly fleshing out the profile of my imaginary husband. Today, for example, he succumbed to food poisoning and therefore could not leave the hotel, but since this is our last day in India he selflessly insisted that I go ahead and see the Taj Mahal. He’s a real gem, that husband of mine. By the way, the floor is open if anyone would care to provide further background on my fictional hubby. Any ideas on a name? Or profession? Right now I’m going with future lawyer who, when not waylayed by food-poisoning at the hotel, is at home in the US studying for the bar exam. But I’m open to other ideas. Have at it! Let’s get creative.