One week in northern India and I've had more pre 5am starts than is remotely acceptable in order to take a myriad of transport forms - from the relatively comfortable to the completely agonising, the mildly serene to the hair-raisingly hectic!
Leaving the familiar surroundings of Agonda in a taxi pre-booked by the yoga school, I began to feel nervous about the infamous taxi scams at Delhi airport. Having taken many random taxis solo through South America my logical brain thought I need not worry about one more in India (having already taken plenty in Mumbai and Goa), but the warnings on travel sites and from my Indian teachers had given me cause for concern. Thankfully, having followed the instructions of my hostel I managed to get there with minimal panic that the taxi driver might be trying to kidnap me - he even asked for the hostel's number to ask for directions and showed me as he entered into his phone.
Once settled in Delhi I had my first experience on an Indian train - a metro train much like any other - much cleaner and more spacious than the standard London tube carriage. However, travelling around Old Delhi was far less spacious as we me and my fellow backpacker squeezed into a bartered-down rickshaw (man-powered tricycle with unnervingly high and inadequately proportioned seat for two perched on the back). We rode down the back alleys of the jewellery, sari and spice markets - literally brushing past vegetable stalls, sweet carts and pedestrians alike. Major grid lock ensued mid-way down the main thorough-fare of Chandni Chowk as vehicles attempted to ram into us from both sides - we considered getting off and walking after 10minutes of stand still carnage but there was no space to squeeze between and we didn't fancy hopping over tuk-tuk roofs to reach our destination - a Sikh temple.
My first proper introduction to life on the tracks came the next morning as I left Delhi with my newly acquainted tour group. After clambering through the maze of sleeping bodies in the ticket hall and avoiding huge luggage carts and waiting families sat on the platform we were greeted with another spacious if slightly old and chilly (due to much needed air-con) carriage as we boarded the train. As we enjoyed being served hot tea in our own personal thermos, lemon juice, and a variety of egg dishes we gazed out of the window to admire the changing scenery as one does on a train in any country. The initial views were, however, not of desert landscapes or farmland but of men's private parts as they squatted down - feet balanced on the rails - to have a 'good old clear out', enough to put us off our breakfast as we trundled by. As we gathered speed past these men's homes built alarmingly close to the tracks we caught glimpses of other less disturbing morning ablutions taking place - clearly women and children lived here too but had found more private ways to excrete their waste digestive products.
In the next few days we explored the desert landscapes of Rajasthan dotted with white temples and rich palaces - hiking on foot sacred hills to catch sunrise, riding into the sand dunes by camel for desert dancing and a traditional Indian feast before tut-tuting at the less socially acceptable tourists riding elephants up the ramparts of the Amber Fort. Why is it ok to ride camels but not elephants? Neither look particularly happy about it and having ridden both before I have to discern that elephants are the more comfortable and come with a far less alarming dismount - and both make you feel like an Arabian prince. If you want to travel in truly majestic style though get yourself a hot air balloon! Not only did I enjoy the incredible birds eye view of farmland, villages, roads and rivers that occasionally came a bit too close for comfort but the early morning serenity from the rather full wicker basket was mesmerising. The once-in-a-lifetime experience however came not from the ride itself but from the landing just outside a peacock farming village. As we touched down, almost tipping the basket over, we were greeted by a crowd of over-excited villagers who came to marvel at the aliens in their unidentified flying object. Some were intrigued by the mechanics - trying to clamber into the basket to inspect the gas canisters, some were frightened of the occasional blasts of gas flame - as I was, whilst the majority of the young men were more interested in taking selfies with the ship's passengers. We waited in our basket for our pick-up team, surrounded by hundreds of people, having the ubiquitous 'what's your name, where do you come from' conversations with the few villagers that spoke English. Their fascinated faces, enthusiastic greetings and slightly alarming stampede to catch up with us as we re-manouvered to a flatter disembarkation point will remain with me forever.
As is so often the case, it's the people we meet that make a travelling experience so memorable and even the mundane journeys from A to B can become extraordinary moments. Raving in the back of our mini van on a bumpy late night ride back from the desert with the coolest Bollywood DJ/taxi driver was one such moment. Similarly, learning about Ahmed and his 'happy wife, happy life', being introduced to his brother Amer who would surely win Jaipur's Got Talent as he serenaded us with his incredible voice, all whilst zooming around the city in each of their tuk tuks gave us a magical insight into the lives of regular Indian people.
There wasn't much time to get to know our rickshaw drivers in Varanasi but we certainly got to know our fellow passengers fairly well as we squeezed our hips together on the tiny seats and clung onto each other for dear life for a 45min rollercoaster ride with no safety belt or helmet to save us from the likely catapulting into the racing traffic that brushed our ankles as we abruptly swerved to miss the middle lane reclining cows. Even if we'd felt comfortable enough to do so the cacophony of car horns, cat calls and ceremonial drumming would have drowned out any attempts at conversation. Dad's saying 'an inch is as good as mile' would be scoffed at here, in India a millimetre and a blast of your horn will do.
The relative calm and comfort of train travel was always welcome relief to the roads, with one exception - the overnight train from Agra. Having taken more overnight buses than I can count, night flights and even a night boat on my travels I wasn't particularly nervous for another night journey. The steady rock of a train carriage actually often helps me get to sleep. Despite the luxury of a fully horizontal bunk, however, there were still hurdles to overcome - firstly getting onto my 3rd tier bunk with minimal headroom and an inadequately minuscule ladder, secondly using the squat toilet (the only one not overflowing with urine and floating faeces) whilst being buffeted by the train's quickening pace and thirdly cleaning my teeth whilst sandwiched between my bunk and the roof (having decided against putting anything near my mouth in the bathroom for obvious reasons). The relatively small width and length of my bunk only caused me mild discomfort as I slept with my valuables beside me but my German traveller had some difficulties underneath me whilst the Indian ladies across the vertical drop from my 2 foot wide bunk performed the miraculous and topped and tailed on theirs. But as they leant over for their much sought-after 'selfie with a white girl' and to introduce themselves I was glad we hadn't had our own private carriage. Journeys with strangers who become friends are what makes getting from A to B a true travelling experience.
No comments:
Post a Comment