Here are my notes from our first visit to India in 2011.  I understand there's a new highway now from Delhi to Agra, but think I'll just retain the memory of our ride:

 

I was prepared to have my senses overwhelmed in India, but not vanquished. The sights, sounds, smells and rawness of India hit me right in the face the instant we left the airport terminal. We followed our driver out of the building and walked into a wall of noise. Out on the street, there was a constant honking of horns, ringing bells and shrill whistles as vehicles jockeyed for the right of way. It never stopped from the moment we arrived until we left the country.

 

We arrived in Delhi at about midnight and I felt that we had mistakenly shown up in Beirut as we skidded to a stop at the dirt entrance to our downtown hotel – an unmarked doorway leading to an upper floor lobby. Too tired to achieve full awareness of our surroundings, we went to bed.

 

People here seem not grasp the word “no”. I think they just listen to us talk for entertainment. There is rarely an action taken that is remotely related to a request or comment. We told our driver not to bother picking us up at the hotel in the morning, instead we would just walk over to his office and finalize our travel plans. But the next day as we were leaving the lobby around noon, the desk clerk told us our car was waiting – and sure enough there was our guy with a big smile, overblown bow and doors opened for us as we approached the car. He had been there since ten o'clock.

 

Delhi gave us our first taste of the unending rush and mush of life in India. There are people everywhere. It seems as if every inch of turf is covered by some sort of a human, animal or machine. The walkers move fast, wiggling between racing cars, bikes, cycles, trucks and buses. The sound of honking horns is such a constant blast that it seems to be just one big noise. I kept looking for some method to the madness, some system or pattern that would make it easier to take – maybe even anticipate our driver's moves. But there is no system. It is mayhem on wheels.

 

The next morning we left at seven for the drive to Agra. It was a hundred times more intense than driving in Delhi. Now the chaos moved at high speed and unencumbered by city streets. Once outside Delhi, we were joined by cows meandering down and across the road. There were dogs lying at various angles near (but not on) the rock and dust shoulders. We dodged monkeys, passed camels and stopped for an elephant or two.

 

When the road to Agra passed through a town, we would generally encounter a traffic circle or main intersection. The traffic circles were free-for-alls. Our driver's tactic was to lay on the horn and blast through. Pedestrians nonchalantly backed away from our wheels and little three-wheel taxis swerved out of our way.

 

It seems a good half of the vehicles on the road are “auto-rickshaws”. These are three-wheelers, bigger than a motorcycle, but smaller than a car. Maybe like an oversized golf cart and steered with a tiller or handlebar.  Behind the driver is a canvas cab covering a small seat with room for two, perhaps three adults. As a rule, there would typically be ten or fifteen people mashed into one of these things. I couldn't sort out how they were jammed in. It looked like a pile of people in the center with some stragglers hanging out the sides. Occasionally, there would be three or four young men hanging on to the roof as these machines wobbled down the road. Being overloaded, underpowered and poorly braked, their maneuverability – an essential aspect of the sport – was extremely poor. Anytime one would attempt to stop suddenly or swerve, the load would teeter dangerously from side to side or back to front. And when we would approach one from the broadside, our horn blasting ominously, you could see a black puff of exhaust as the driver begged the one cylinder engine to chug toward safety. At the same moment we threatened the auto-taxi, it would be aiming for some lesser, more vulnerable target – perhaps a bicycle or pedestrian – who in turn, made its own evasive move.

 

Intersections, especially the few manned by useless traffic cops (there only to collect bribes), were like the start of a marathon foot race. If the road had two “lanes”, cars were five abreast. A three lane road made it possible for seven or eight cars to crowd toward the front before the motorcycles, bicycles and beggars filled in the spaces. Whenever stopped, beggars rapped on the windows for our attention. We were continually reminded by our driver not to give anything to a beggar as doing so would cause our car to be overtaken by them. We'd be stuck in place indefinitely. It was hard to ignore these people – but we did as we were told.

 

It took four hours to run the gauntlet to Agra. We were dropped off to meet a guide and then walked a few blocks to the entrance. Now we were pedestrians - the lowest member of the road's food chain. Certainly below the sacred cows, dogs and monkeys. Maybe above the rats.

 

The Taj Mahal was indeed a splendid sight and magnificent building, apparently the most recognized structure in the world. You won't catch me trying to describe it in a travel blog. That it was built to honor just one woman leaves no doubt as to who really is the more powerful of the sexes.

 

We toured the building and grounds, then went over to Agra Fort nearby and saw how the potentates and maharajas lived. The fellow who lived in this palace had over three hundred concubines, all dormed right on the grounds and apparently on rotation.

 

I wanted to get back to the tranquility of our hotel but dreaded the drive. Nightfall lessened the traffic not one bit, and now we had to dodge everything in the dark. Most of the giant buses had no tail lights and some didn't bother with headlights. The menagerie of animals was no less and all the beasts were unlit except for their eyes reflecting our headlights. At night the big trucks came out, dwarfing our car as we poked in and out of their wake. Even though we were on a “divided” highway, every now and then a car or cycle would come zooming toward us – bouncing up the shoulder on the wrong side of the road. This maneuver, according to our driver, was safer than driving up the correct side of the road for a break in the median and risking a U-turn to get back in the desired direction. Why? Because the wrong way short cut – even though breathtaking – minimized the time one had to be on the road. I was not comforted.

 

And so it went. Nonstop. Constant. Four hours there and six hours back. Our driver said it only takes three things to drive in India, “a good horn, good brakes and good luck.” He was not kidding.

 

There was never a moment of relaxation or smooth sailing. The few times we might emerge from a pack of people, animals and vehicles, our driver would race at top speed and plow into the back of the next one – then force his way to the front of another starting line. When we got back to the hotel, my system was completely drained of adrenalin. If a bear had jumped in the car, my only reaction would be to move over and give up my seat.

 

Seeing and touring the Taj Mahal was worth the drive. But if I had to go back, I'd choose to be parachuted onto the grounds and risk the rifle fire rather than making that drive again.

 

When we got back to the relative serenity of our hotel and started our dinner, there came to be seated next to us a large group of nationals with a contingency of wild children. They ran freely among the tables, yelling and screaming – even hitting balloons in the air.

 

I really, really wanted to tell them to “go out and play in the traffic.” Susan stopped me.