The train stop in New Delhi at 6:30AM is dark, crowded and dirty. I can’t help but wonder if we are crazy to attempt a train ride in a country where neither of us speak the language and women don’t travel alone.

“Time for backpacks in front,” I say. “I don’t want to lose even the fake wallets.”

As we squeeze in through the bustling crowds everyone stares. I mean everyone.

“I don’t think this is how most tourist travel to Agra,” says my loyal traveling companion Leslie. That’s an understatement. We haven’t seen a single other foreigner all morning.

At the entrance we go through a “security check point”. Warm bodies bundled in coats press up against us on all sides pushing us towards some metal detectors and past a guard with a baton. Leslie’s face tightens and her hand goes to a bulge in her pocket.

The pocket knife. She forgot to leave it at home.

I sigh, waiting for what the inevitable. We walked right through. The metal detector doesn’t even blink. I don’t know if I should be relieved or worried.

We think we find the right platform but aren’t sure so we ask two well-dressed individuals if they speak English. They do and we find our proper train and cart.

Now we just have thirty minutes of shivering in the misty dark with hundreds of faces staring at us.
“Let’s stand next to a family,” Leslie suggests. Smart girl. I knew I brought her on this trip for a reason. That and the fact she beasted Rio by herself. In the dark. At midnight.

I always love the story she tells of her mishap with the public transportation in Rio. “My feet were bleeding from climbing the hundreds of stairs and this man was following me but I couldn’t tell if it was the good type of following or bad because everyone follows you in Rio.”

As we wait, trains come and go with people throwing their trash out the window. Human poop and trash litters the tracks with dogs and bottle collectors picking their way through the mess. Even the dogs are bony and thin here.

I find myself staring at the few people who have suitcases and thinking how they should be careful because they look wealthy and are obvious targets. Then I remember what we look like—giant white beacons of ignorance walking around with backpacks in front.

No one checks our tickets as we get on the train and miraculously find our seats. Everything’s been a breeze. After the nightmare I call leaving the airport I can’t believe it was that easy. I half expect someone to come by and inspect tickets then tell us we’re on the wrong train or tell us our tickets are invalid then throw us off in the middle of the no-where India. But the ticket inspection goes smoothly as well. In fact the inspector doesn’t even care about proof of ID and bobbles our passports away.

The car we are in is wider than I expected. Benches with numbers that indicate they can fit three people per row are on either side of the isle. Each row faces inward so that no matter where you’re sitting you always face three people across from you.

As the train leaves the station I notice the smell. It’s dirty and dusty with a slight waft of what I’m afraid might be pee. At one point it distinctly smells of flatulence or soup. The fact that I can no longer distinguish between the two has me worried.

Around me are the sounds of people talking and the rhythmic swaying and clicking of the train as it glides over the tracks. Somewhere nearby is a man who sounds so much like he’s burping up his intestines I fear for his life.

Men with large dented metal basins walk down the aisles yelling: “Chai!” or “Coffee” in a musical pattern. Despite how cold I am and how much I would love some chai I stick to the 3 Ps: packed, peeled or piping hot. I’ve had too many friends return from India very sick after deviating from that rule when it comes to food and drink. The family in front of us gets some though and I watch as the man pours instant coffee out of a little container and into small paper cups. Holding the metal basin in between his legs he turns a faucet and the steamy white liquid pours into the cup.

A crack in the window allows frigid air in. The family across from us sticks a towel in the crack and share a head scarf as a blanket. A group of women to my left all share a thick fuzzy blanket. My iPhone definitely lied to me when I was back in America packing.

After two hours, the family of four leaves and three older men replace them. One with lots of luggage he shoves under our seats and with a constant hum on his lips. The other, an older man with a big black coat and blue beanie, stares out the window with his hands propped against his tan weathered face. The last one is some type of religious leader. He wears a white garb and has a red line down his forehead with two white lines on either side. He also has glasses and reads a newspaper. Everyone around him stretches their scarf-drown necks to read his newspaper as well.

Outside we pass fields and colorful shanties. Children laugh and yell during cricket matches played in the dust. Cows and pigs roam through mounds of trash and men crowd around open fires. I discovered the train tracks are the public restroom. I think I’ve seen more nudity in 3 hours of riding the train than an entire day in Florence.

Finally we arrive in Agra and find a taxi to our hostel. After bargaining on the price we get in and our driver opens the front door to allow another man in.

I feel my throat constricting. My heart beats faster.

This is exactly what my Indian friends all warned me about. “Never, never let anyone else in the taxi,” I can still hear my friend Sap saying. “They will claim it’s a relative or friend but don’t let them in.”

“No,” I manage to croak out. “Just us.”

“It ok. My father.”

“No.” I repeat more firmly this time. “You take only us.”

“It no problem,” he says turning the engine on.

I try to get out but my door is locked. With shaky hands I grab Leslie. “Get out of your door.”

Leslie tries her door and finds it’s unlocked.

As she starts to get out the driver relents. “Ok, ok.” He motions to the man to get out and then we are on our way.

Only a short while later we stop at a check point where two guards with machine guns sit. “Hotel there,” our driver says pointing.

I start to protest but Leslie interrupts.

“This is as close as he can get. It’s a government law that vehicles can’t go within 1 mile of the Taj Mahal. They’re trying to cut down on pollution.” Yet another reason I brought her on the trip.

I’m glad we have backpacks and not suitcases in that moment. The mile walk to our hostel is littered with street vendors blocking our path and pot holes. It’s a short walk though and soon we’re at our new hostel where soft beds and extra blankets await us. After the last place we stayed at, I’ve found a new appreciation for these simple necessities.

We nap from 11AM to 3:30PM. At 3:30 Leslie groans and turns to me. “The Taj closes at 5.”

“Yeah.”

She checks her phone. “It’s 3:30.”

“Yeah.”

A pause. “This is our only day to see it. Should we get up?”

I Sigh. “I suppose.”

Granted Leslie has a nasty virus and needs all the sleep she can get after yesterday’s sleepless night. Me… I have no excuse except all this travel was wearing me out. That, and I love sleep.

It isn’t until 4:30 that we make it into the Taj, because like everything else in India it’s a scavenger hunt of being pointed to various different lines and lots of backtracking. The most frustrating part being when they searched my bag and started pulling things out I couldn’t take in: cliff bars, a deck of cards, my notebook—heaven forbid if I were to play a game of spades or journal while at the Taj Mahal!

Finally, we’re in.

We follow the crowds and are led past marble floors and luscious botanical gardens and fountains with people crowded on all sides taking photos. Then, the moment we’ve been waiting for, the Taj. I’m nervous I’ll have to take off my shoes and have them stolen like in the movie Slum Dog Millionaire but we’re handed shoe coverings instead. Some people still remove their shoes.

The Taj Mahal is every bit as big, white and magnificent as in all the photos. What I wasn’t expecting was the over powering smell of feet. That, and the number of people who want to take pictures with us. By the end of our time there I’m beginning to wonder if we’re the main attraction. At sunset we head back to the hostel to our heavenly beds with extra blankets and soft beds.

I would go back to Agra.

Maybe for the Taj Mahal, but definitely for those bed.

 

Photo credit: Taj Mahal Reflection by AbeBingham/CC

 

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