Day two in Agra...

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I spend the morning on a tour from a tuk-tuk driver. He said his name was Bobbie, but I highly doubt that. We went to Agra Fort where I’m sure had I paid an insane amount of money for a guide I would have been rewarded with endless details about it’s existence. But I actually wanted the abbreviated tour—it was 10am and I was boiling in the heat. Over a hundred and humid…*shudder. The fort was a military structure—built by the Mughals, important fun fact, Mughals are not Indians! I don’t exactly know what a Mughal is, but Bobbie stressed this to me several times so it must be important to them. Maybe equivalent to the Jam is not Jelly debate. Anyways, it was made by the grandfather to the man who ordered the construction of the Taj, Shah Jahan. Later on Jahan jazzed up the dated interior by adding his favorite building material, white marble (what the Taj is made out of) and converted it to a palace. Then years later, turn of events, Shah Jahan’s son takes over and imprisons him within the fort where he can has to gaze at the Taj that entombs his beloved (third) wife for the last several years of his life. Depressing. My self-guided tour starts out badly, there is somewhat of a faux entrance and a lot of confusion of where to buy a ticket—and with military armed guards everywhere I certainly don’t want them to think I’m sneaking in! I later find out this faux entrance was made to confuse attackers…well done Mughals. Well done. Most of the fort is actually blocked off—the good parts. Apparently there is a very elaborate underground system—one place where the original builder kept his harem—500 women! Meow. From there Bobbie takes me to the Itimad-ud-Daulah, affectionately known as the ‘Baby Taj.’ Here lies the grandfather to the woman who the Taj was built for. He was important to Shah Jahan for a reason lost to me. If only I had paid for another “official guide.” It was very beautiful, but I only stayed for about 20 minutes because the heat is unbearable. Next, Bobbie takes me to the post office as I requested which was an interesting experience—you wouldn’t think so, but I guess I lucked on this one. Bobbie points me to an entrance, I walk in and it is a very confusing mass of people—not patrons but workers. There are about 50 workers sorting mail on one end and a few official desks on the other end and people walking around with bags of what I presume to be mail. I slowly walk in with my envelope held firmly in front of me as if to say, “I come in peace” but no one pays much attention. Finally I approach a desk and the man looks up and I point to the corner and say, “stamp?” and he just points me to another door—not the one I came in…So I proceed through that door which leads me through a corridor of offices and finally lets me out into a room where I see all the counters to buy stamps/mail things, only…I am behind the counters?! Again I proceed slowly with my envelope presented in front of me and a man just says, “go to her, she stamp you.” What?! So, this is okay? Imagine walking in the backdoor of your post office, through the mail sorting room, past offices, and then up behind a postal worker and having about 50 people in lines watch you do this…doesn’t seem right does it? So I approach this woman and she doesn't seem surprised at all. I show her what I need and she tells me to take a seat…at the empty desk next to her? Looks like my line is open for business! At this point 2 men approach ‘my counter’ and are pointing at things they want, like a stapler or envelopes. Awkward! I try to politely ignore but then I’m treated as the bad guy! Finally the woman gives me my stamps and I’m out of there! Done working for the Indian postal service. Lastly, Bobbie takes me to a garden to view the backside of the Taj. I snap two pictures and ask to go home—which of course he objects to. He wants to then take me to “the best jewelry maker in Agra—beautiful silver!” I decline because the heat has taken it’s toll and I need a nap (after all, I’ve been up since 3am). He argues with me (if he takes me somewhere and I buy something, he will get a commission) and I sternly say, “Bobbie. I want to go home.” He jabbers at me for most of the way home—which of course I can’t hear because it’s drowned out by all the vehicles careening by us—tuk tuks have open sides so they are quite noisy. I finally get back to my room and collapse on the bed. It’s about 1:30 and my train leaves that evening at 8:30 back to Delhi where I will take a Taxi to the airport to meet some Polish traveling companions who are also going to the yoga school in Dharamsala. I feel drained from the day’s activities and just want to sleep but food needs to be acquired and my backpack won’t pack itself! A vicious cycle for backpackers, the backpack packing—it never goes in the way it came out. But happy to be done with Agra and on my way to greener pastures.

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