Astraeus Flight, 31 October 2005, London Gatwick to Agra, via Ankara
I had been impressed with a previous flight taken with Astraeuas and told then so in a letter. ‘Tell us when you’re next travelling with us and expect something special”, their reply had said. Nothing special at Gatwick check-in. Nothing wrong; just nothing special.
The plane was a little older than the average and the interior was showing its age. The cabin crew were a friendly and helpful bunch, even providing a bucket of water in the starboard toilet as the toilet wouldn’t flush properly. Those travelling at the front of the plane had their own toilet. Perhaps a working toilet was the reason they had paid hundreds of pounds extra to travel ‘star class’. I suppose with the early and frequent service of drinks they received, they would be needing the toilet more often. It seemed an expensive way to spend a penny.
Our service in the middle of the plane was fine, but we did think the plane seemed to be tilted very slightly to port. Not so much that you’d think it was making a turn but just enough not to be able to ignore once you’d noticed. Could it be something to do with the starboard toilet? Of course not!
The reason was revealed when we reached Ankara for our refuelling stop. There was a ‘little problem’, revealed the Captain. “Nothing serious”, he crooned, “only a ‘sticky flap’ that would be sorted out on the ground. We would, however, have to disembark and, indeed, buses were waiting for us on the tarmac, so off we got. We supposed we’d be taken somewhere, and so we were, but not to a terminal building or anywhere interesting. We parked a couple of hundred yards from the plane and stood there, waiting. Forty-five minutes wasn’t that long, really, unless you’d been travelling ‘star class’ and over-indulging in the drinks or queuing for a bucket at the starboard toilet. Some of the women were getting rather anxious. How much longer could they hold out? There was much relief expressed when the bus engine sparked into life and we were back at the aircraft steps. The air was freezing and the bus was unheated so those with challenged bladders headed for the toilets, up front or even mid-starboard (flushing or not). Horror! The toilets were locked. They could not be used while the aircraft was on the ground. You know how it is: you can hold on for so long but the nearer the prospect of relief, the more immediate the need. All we could do was be seated and hope for a prompt take-off. No chance! The wings had iced-up whilst on the ground and we’d have to wait for the de-icing machine to do its work. This began soon enough (though not soon enough for some sturdy matrons who, throwing decorum to the wind, announced if they couldn’t use the toilets whilst on the ground, they’d be prepared to use the starboard bucket instead. (They didn’t, thank goodness).
More torture was to come. The Turkish de-icer broke down with the job half-done. By the time a replacement could and the task completed, we’d been on the ground, without toilet facilities for two hours. You can imagine the rush when the seat-belt sign was turned off once we’d left Ankara. Everyone toilet was fully occupied for a good twenty minutes, and no-one bothered to have the starboard bucket refilled. I doubt the star class drinks trolley was too much in demand for the rest of the flight.
Tuesday 1 November 2005
Arrival at Agra was 9.30am local time, having lost two hours on the journey. Not too bad for most of us, but for the man who’d checked-in ahead of me who was making a day-trip to the Taj Mahal (yes, really!), this was a huge chunk lost from his birthday present. To be fair, he was allowed to disembark first. He seemed resigned more than annoyed.
Agra is clearly a working military airfield – witness the number of air force transporters parked up – and not fully geared up for international flights. By all appearances, our arrival, late or at all, seemed to have caught the immigration service by surprise. With most passengers looking for the toilets (clearly not wanting a repeat of the previous fiasco), I was among the small bunch ready for the official announcement to come forward to the barrier. We were dealt with courteously and efficiently. As we were the only flight in, the baggage came commendably quickly and once through customs I was greeted by the waiting Voyages Jules Verne (VJV) representatives. Pleasant though it was to be enjoying the Indian morning sun out in the open after being imprisoned so long, there was a long wait while the rest of the plane’s entourage dragged themselves from the arrivals hall to the waiting coaches. VJV are very clever with their arrangements. Some five or six different tours were served by our flight: ours was to the Taj Mahal, Agra, Jaipur and the Ranthambore National Park. Others were off to Nepal or touring by train. All carefully co-ordinated and well-practised.
Once all had mustered, we turned out to be twelve in number, a good size for a group: Marsden and Mary, Maggie, Andrew and Fi, Stephen and Jan, Ian and Judith. Arthur and Edith, myself, and two more who will join our party later in the day, Chris and Betty, who have booked our trip as an extension to a previous VJV tour. [Note: these may or may not be the real names of these people!] Our guide, Vavik, looks well-nourished; we have a driver, Suresh, and a ‘boy’, Dinesh. The coach is very Indian and the drive into Agra proper full of colour. Our arrival coincides with the start if Diwali and people throng the steets buying, selling, celebrating. Street-side stalls overflow with yellow and orange marigolds, strung together as garlands. Bikes, cars, motorised and non-motorised rickshaws are everywhere, not to mention the buses, cows, donkeys and pigs. Here, they drive on the right (some of the time) but that seems somehow ‘wrong’ abroad. No-one got run over while I was looking, though goodness knows how.
We transferred to a battery-powered bus and were taken to have tea and other refreshments at a hotel in its garden overlooking the Taj Mahal itself. It was a captivating sight. The tea was just as it should have been (such a contrast with European wish-wash), the cheese sandwiches (no crusts) were good and the cold chips remarkable. The wispy haze around the Taj hung like a gossamer veil and the limpid River Yamuna guarding its rear added to its beauty.
Tea over, we transferred to the Mansingh Palace Hotel in Agra (Room 217 for me). It was good accommodation with a proper writing desk and small sofa. The air conditioning was fierce but I eventually discovered the secret of its controls and turned it off. A quick beer in the bar (Kingfisher 640ml, 150R) set me up for the Red Fort at Agra.
The only fault with the Taj Mahal is that is overshadows everything else around. Certainly, there are wonderful views of it from the Red Fort. But the Red Fort is a treasure in itself. Wonderfully proportioned, with generous squares and two-storey bungalow-style buildings, it has a delightful harmony. It’s not a long visit but atmospheric and a good introduction to the style and dignity of the local culture and architecture long before the Raj.
It was also our first introduction to Indian teenage hawkers. Whatever the etymological root of the word, they certainly swoop like hawks and home in on their prey with unerring accuracy. From nowhere, all manner of low-grade souvenirs appear: sandstone boxes, bangles, beads, postcards. There’s nothing threatening in their manner, just a relentless persistence. The wrong technique, I discovered, was to fob them off with a casual, ‘Later’, as will only encourage them all the more when next they see you. Yes, remember you they will, be it ten minutes or ten hours later. They believe they are on to a promise and object loudly if you let them down. So, if you don’t want to buy anything, don’t show the slightest interest, even out of politeness. Ignore them if you can, say ‘No!’ firmly in whatever language you think they might understand if you have to. And don’t get separated from the rest of your group. Once isolated you’ll be surrounded and feel pressured into buying something, anything, just to get away. And once you’ve bought from one lad, all the others think you’ll buy from them, too. I succumbed and paid all of 50 Rupees (60p) for 20 postcards after much hassle and had to seek refuge in the coach. The postcards were perfectly good and hardly expensive (though could be bought at 2R each at the roadside booths which is where, I guess, the lads had get them – but hawkers have to make a living, too).
Also having to make a living were the marble merchants whose factory and showroom we were taken to next. The items available were of superb quality, without question. They were also outrageously expensive and not at all the sort of item you’d ever expect to buy on an Indian trip. Yes, you could negotiate a good price; yes, they’d pack everything up safely; yes, insurance was included. Realistically, though, no. Marble purchases just weren’t on our radar, and why would they have been? It was a total mismatch of expectation and not a single purchase was made.
Expectation met disappointment at dinner in the hotel this evening, too. The Maitre-D couldn’t find us a table for seven until nearly 9.30pm and when we were taken to it, it was still littered with the remains of the previous diners’ meal. We had to clear the table ourselves and use what clean cutlery we could salvage. The buffet food was by now barely warm, the service non-existent and the atmosphere nil. The beer was OK but even at 600R (£7.20) the meal was a rip-off. Bed by 10pm to listen to the bangs and whizzes of the Diwali fireworks.
Wednesday 2 November 2005
Up early for a decent breakfast (what a relief!) at the help-yourself buffet with an Anglo-Indian slant. We’re in the coach and out again before too long as we are dropped off for our sunrise visit to the Taj Mahal. Security is very tight as the monument is reckoned to be a major terrorist target. Parking is a way off, so we walk through a tumbledown area to the security checkpoint. A quick but thorough search over, we head up the drive on foot, listening to Vivik’s encouraging patter. What we’re about to see, he tells us, is truly one of the wonders of the world, an experience of a lifetime. I feel a little queasy when I hear this sort of thing as tour guides are not renowned for underselling their prospective wares. We turn a corner and there, framed by an arch, is the Taj itself. Sublime. It’s as though there were nothing else in the world. It sits there, solid but ethereal. The light of dawn is soft and warm, caressing the Taj with a rose tint. Even the attentions of the resident photographers can’t beak the spell. “Photo? Photo?” they chant. “Why not, I think”. We could have a group shot for the equivalent of £10 each. It’s quite a lot but we could probably haggle the price down by at least a half. Sadly, no-one else is interested, which I can’t quite understand. I opt for three solo shots for £7. It’s my Lady Di moment as I try not to pose too much. When I come to pay an hour or so later, I choose the three prints I want and get the other two thrown in free anyway. So far as I am aware, no-one else in the party has patronised the photographers. I’m glad I did.
My 'Lady Di' Moment
I was less sure about the ‘photo-guide’ who persuaded me to follow him round the site setting up pictures of the Taj from all angles. I gave him 1,000R (just over £12) at the end. I did get some decent shots and probably more and better (and certainly more quickly) than had I been left to my own devices but I did feel awkward, particularly when it came to handing the money over. “I am a poor man”, he pleaded. My advice? Be ready. Decide ahead if you’re going to use private guides of any kind at these sites. If you do, be prepared for the embarrassment of the reckoning at the end. And be sure of this: whatever you offer will be considered too little. Just hand it over, express your thanks and walk away. Sometimes the guides will pick you up before you’ve noticed. At first, you assume them to be fellow tourists who have engaged you in friendly conversation. Only slowly does it dawn that you’ve been ensnared and it’s too late to escape. That happened to me inside the central building of the Taj itself. He was very informative and not that expensive (£5, or so) but I felt a fool suckered into the experience.
Dawn is a wonderful time to visit the Taj Mahal. First, it’s not too busy and second, you get the experience of seeing the shrine change colour with the rising sun. If you’re visiting in the summer, you can also get a couple of hours in (and you’ll need at least that long as there are other buildings on the site too, as well as the gardens) before the temperature gets too high for comfort.