A day at the Taj Mahal

This is the story of Thursday 17 March 2005, the day I came face-to-face with some of the realities of India...and the world's most beautiful building.

Being an actuary in Surrey rarely gives rise to much adventure. So when I found myself on a day off after the audit of our Delhi office with an opportunity to visit the Taj Mahal it proved too tempting not to give it a go! With a taxi booked by the office administrator - for midday - I felt all I had to do was get a good night's sleep and prepare myself for the ride to Agra (three and a half hours, they tell me).

I was a little puzzled, therefore, just before bedtime to receive a note from the hotel confirming my car for 7am. This did not seem like the kind of day off I had in mind. A deal was struck, and the driver rescheduled for 9.30.

So the big day arrived. The first I knew of it was being rudely awakened at *8*.30 by the taxi driver. He is instructed to wait. When we finally set off, the journey is actually quite pleasurable. Lots of urban and rural India to see, and all from the luxury vantage point of my overpowered-air-conditioned, underpowered-engined, seatbelt-deficient, chauffeur-driven vehicle.

Indian roadsigns are infrequent, so it was hard to be sure how close to Agra we were. "Helpful hint" signs were, however, frequent - dispensing such gems as 'Lane driving is sane driving', 'Drive carefully - someone is waiting for you at home' and 'Please don't drive in the wrong direction.'

About halfway there the driver enquired whether I would like to stop for a drink of water. I gracefully declined. So he stopped anyway and had a drink himself.

After a little over four hours on the road I finally get my first glimpse of the Taj. It's huge! Very majestic. Definitely worth the journey. I eagerly await the chance to explore it.

Stepping out of a taxi at the Taj Mahal is a little like stepping out of your car at a car-boot sale. Except that instead of dozens of people swarming round you to buy your junk, dozens of people swarm round to try and sell you more junk. And rickshaw rides. And horse rides. And their tour guiding skills, for anything from 30 to 100 Rupees (never ever for the so-called 'official rate' of 275.)

After paying my entry fee (an odd choice of Rs 750 or Rs 500 plus five US dollars) it’s time for the security check. My mobile phone is thoroughly unacceptable and must be checked into the cloakroom. A fair cop: one would not want the ancient monument of grief interjected by the Nokia tune. Less amenably, my biscuits are also consigned to the locker.

Not only is the Taj bigger than I’d realised, but it also is surrounded by some very pleasant gardens. I whiled away an hour or two sleeping on the steps on the monument, reading on garden benches and being photographed by “gardeners” who are very keen to take tourists’ cameras (and money) for photography and do not seem to do much gardening.

Soon the 34°C heat began to bite and it was time for a drink. I exited the Taj complex and found both bottled water and a few souvenirs amid the hectic surrounding streets. I did not believe the vendor that he was a descendant of the Taj Mahal builders, nor that his ornaments contained semi-precious stones, however he did have small, stone elephants for sale of the type my family had requested.

Unfortunately my bartering skill was not up to its best, with only a third knocked off. Would I like an extra ornament for my girlfriend for a small extra charge? No?? Then I can have it for free. Perhaps this is his way of making up for my lame haggle. The salesman also commented that my radiant yellow shirt looked “very Indian”. I took that as no small compliment - I had specially selected this shirt to blend in, as it is too bright to be taken seriously in the UK (and given to me only as an unwanted gift someone gave my brother). Fascinated by the concept of such an Indian item originating from the UK, he enquired about the cost. I could only reply I didn’t know - it was my brother’s. This brought a beaming response - “I have brothers” he replied “and we share things too!”. To me, this is Indian attitude at its very best. :)

Upon trying to re-enter the Taj I had to undergo the security check again. This time my playing cards met with unease. I was allowed to take them in only if I promised not to play with them. OK. Also disputed were my bag of pretzels, allowed in only if I promised not to eat them. Again, OK. The guard then opened the bag and helped himself! Not really, OK, but what can you do…?

Before too long sunset approached, and with almost two-dozen photos of the Taj and its surroundings in the can it’s time to go. The tone of the return journey is set when the taxi driver gets lost in the outskirts of Agra and has to ask for directions from a man on a motorcycle. I use the distraction as a chance to sneak into the seat-belted front seat.

About 20 miles into the 120-mile trip the driver pulls over to a particularly dark portion of the roadside, gets out and begins to kick the tyres. This can’t be good. I get out to investigate - quelle surprise: a puncture. With my offfer of help refused I can only sit by and watch as he replaces the tyre, using matches as a light. Working on a car, using matches. In retrospect there’s something not quite health-and-safety about that. Well, it worked, and we were off again.

The danger, however, was not over. In India, like in the UK, while road works are carried out on the dual carriageway traffic is diverted to the other carriageway. Unlike the UK, however, no sign had been erected to direct traffic back onto the left-hand side once the road works finished. Only when we became aware that some traffic was on the other side of the central reservation did we realise we, and a few others, were in fact now driving the wrong way. A hasty retreat was beat back onto the correct side at the earliest opportunity. Now suddenly the “helpful hint” sign from earlier made sense.

About halfway back the driver enquired whether I would like to stop for a cup of tea. Learning from earlier I eagerly accepted. So we stopped for tea. I finally felt I was beginning to get the hang of India.

Running low on cash, I asked the driver to stop when we saw a bank with an ATM. About 70 miles later we saw one. The last few of those miles I was just beginning to wonder. When my Visa card popped up the message “Welcome Scott Latham. Please choose one: English / Hindi” I empathised with astronauts emerging from the dark side of the moon and re-establishing contact with Houston.

Thanks to the puncture there was no time for dinner, so it was pack case, check out and straight to the airport. My last taste of India, Delhi airport continued to be Indian to the last. As the tenth person checked, stamped, weighed or examined something I could not help noticing that the flip-flap departure board - as well as the usual “Wait in lounge” and “Now boarding” signs - also had as possibilities the alarming “Aircraft crash” and baffling “Yesterday”.

And that’s it. A movie, a meal, a snooze and welcome to London Heathrow, where the outside temperature is around 20 degrees less than India and the local time is just enough hours different to bamboozle your body for the best part of a week. It was certainly an adventure. Wasn’t that what I wanted?


Scott Latham

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