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"Chai chai...chai chai chai" shouts the 9th passing vendor holding a kettle or bucket to the train windows. How any of them can make ends meet competing with the other 17 (or so) sellers is beyond me, but they keep at it, in case a passenger missed the 'chai' call the 95th time, and may actually now want some. Chai is one of India's main drinks, tea with lashings of sugar and synonymous with India's trains. England could learn a thing or two from their cousins abroad when it comes to these long, moving things - they're quick, extensive and plentiful, every station is connected to the National Booking System by computer, and if you don't mind the occasional crowds or stink from the abysmal toilets, they're a great way of travelling.
First you must book a ticket - if you can reserve a sleeper in advance, good for you, otherwise (such as now, during holiday season) you queue for an unlimited supply of passenger seats. But there are two mystery words in that sentence however: 1)Queue = a scramble to see who can get their arm through the ticket window first; he who dares, wins, which can be highly
amusing with my big bag on my back, and 2)Seat = any patch of floor or bag space possible to rest a fifth of a bum on, which can include the entrance/exit with legs dangling outside of a train moving at over 100km/hr.
Going from Bhopal to Kota was one such trip - taking over 8 hours and no sleepers available, I nabbed a space near the exit of one of the sleeper carraiges, until, what i expected would but hoped wouldn't happen, a conductor moved me to the passenger section. Trying to convert to the "what's good for them is good for me" mentality, I made my way over and find it to be busy but pleasant. I get chatting to some locals, one of whom made me promise if I ever visited India again, I would call him (the 3rd Indian to do so in a week, and could make for a strange second trip), and miraculously found a patch a floor for a fifth of my bum. As the night trundled on, this patch grew to room to even lie down on, head looking out the door of the moonlit plains rushing past, surrounded by locals
Mafia Dancers
during afternoon preparations.all in their own little patches of space that look like works of modern art at the Tate, sleeping away.
The strong breeze, calls of 'chai' and excellent station fast food (some of which I spilled down me making it look like my body wasn't too fond of train travel) happily kept me awake, and I arrived in Kota at the awkward time of 4:30am. Figuring what's the use of paying for a room I'd sleep in for 3 hours, I plonked my bag down at the end of one of the open-air platforms, secured my belongings, and along with dozens of Indians, slept without a roof above me, while being dinner for mosquitos.....oblivious to the coming antics of the moro.
It started innocently enough - I explored the narrow bustling streets of Kota, and made my way during the midday sun to a patch of shaded grass in a park by the river. A few wanted their photo taken with me or to shake my hand, but most just stared and left me to my Hindustan Times Sudoku puzzle. That was, until one man came along admiring my lepper-style approach to left-handed writing. As usual, I was
closed and a little wary at first, but conversation with Bharat slowly improved, of cricket, Caroline, salaries and my watch, as his brother, wife and friend arrived. Before I knew it, I've had a picnic lunch bought for me, and been invited to an after-wedding party of the recently married couple. I'm honoured, truly, and a little shocked at how quickly I said "yes", that I probably came across as someone who had an otherwise dull existance. What better way I thought, to break from the 'norm' of travelling.
An hour later, I was off in a car to the afternoon preparations. I was offered the shot-gun front seat, but this act of kindness was probably overshadowed by their want for the western guy to brace any impact first. So I put my seatbelt on, the only one to do so. How foolish of me to think I could get away with this act of safety in India! The sixth member of our party decided to ditch the rickshaw and sit by me somehow, in the front, seatbelt off.
Again, it started simply enough, with Bharat and I sitting watching the preparations while he teaches me how to
write Hindu, broken by the odd introduction to someone. Then I made a tragic mistake - I started moving in my chair to some live drum music upstairs. Whoops! That was it, they insisted, I had to dance. I resisted, but was pretty much dragged to the small crowds. Oh how I wish everyone would be dancing and no one would notice me, but the likelihood of that happening is the same as Rolf Harris becoming the next Pope. So I danced. I got pushed into the centre of the circle, and with all eyes plus video camera on me, I danced like a madman possessed having just swallowed a bag of skittles.
Surprisingly, it went down well; money was passed round acknowledging so and people started dancing with me, until I nearly collapsed from exhaustion - it still being over 40oC. I danced. I ate free food (on red carpets using my fingers and a leafy plate) where everyone laughed because my eyes were watering from the chilli. I became everyone's new best friend, and was sent on my way with a promise of returning for the evening's party.
The party was crazyness on a grand scale,
and also a great, rare glimpse at Indian culture. About 300 people attended: men wearing whatever and women in their finest and brightest saris. I wore my smartest Hoi An tailored clothes which thankfully gave a good impression and can sense every one of the 300 faces is either smiling at, laughing or talking about me. The words 'nervous' and 'uneasy' don't quite do my feelings justice at this moment.
As time went on, I relaxed a little, and lost track of the number of people I was introduced to - from the cool, Indian boys of 20, to the fat, powerful-looking Mafia-style men and their 90-something grandfathers. Conversations never lasted long for lack of England and Hindi, but this didn't matter as a minute later I would be shaking someone else's hand. "Hello. Nice to meet you, and would you mind meeting my brother Brahmin, and my 2nd cousin Vishnu would like to dance with you?" What can one say to such requests from someone resembling a drug lord?
At one point, Bharat and I go outside for icecream and fireworks watching, in time to see a surreal wedding procession take place of 2 couples also getting
married at the party. Lights, music, people waving framed paintings of Hindu gods in the air, and the grooms riding on horseback through the crowds, in and back out of the wedding hall. I admit, I couldn't make head nor tails of it, but it was fascinating to watch nevertheless.
I got fed, and of course, I was forced to dance some more, which very embarrassingly attracted nearly the entire party. Where's Rolf Harris when you need him? Thankfully, but strangely, they were impressed with my dancing and said so, which with joyous enthusiasm from me (no sarcasm, surely?), just meant I had to dance more, with money shoved into my mouth and men rubbing up against me (in an Indian dancing way, rather than a gay, nightclub way, I'd like to add). I got my photo taken with the newly-weds in their silver thrones (who looked surprisingly sombre), met more 'brothers' from the Mafia, and danced til I had no more energy left. Eventually, it all got a bit too much and I decided to leave, humming the songs on my rickshaw drive back to my hotel. Well, it beats a quiet meal and an early night. Having
hardly slept in 42 hours, I pass out on my bed.
Everything after that will now seem a bit mundane. Basically, I spent 2 days chilling out in a pleasant town called Bundi. Blue and white-washed buildings, with more temples than rickshaws, backed by a wondrous brick palace and hill-top fort straight out of Arabian Nights, and perfect for that game of hide n' seek, or paintpalling, as long as you don't hit the 17th Century gold-leafed paintings dotted everywhere!
On the first night I watch the sun setting (while attacking fearless monkeys with a stick) from the fort, overlooking exactly how I imagined and hoped a Rajasthani town would look. On the second night, from the '84-pillared Cenotaph' (you know me, I checked and they weren't lying with the number), lit up for that perfect photo.
Friendliness continues to amaze me, with everyone saying hello and a market vendor even refusing my money for some apples, though I insisted. Just as it somehow appears to be an honour for many people to meet me, it really is a true honour and privalege in return, to be in this awesome country, which I'm enjoying immensely!
Having
taken an 8hour busy bus trip, I'm now in Rajasthan's most romantic city, Udaipur, where I've decided to treat myself and have grabbed the best room at one of the best budget hotels in the city - a room (not just the hotel) which is even described in Lonely Planet, for the off-season price of $7.5. Yes, you would be right in thinking I'm a little happy about this. Well, it's the first time I've treated myself to a decent room all trip. A balcony with superb high-up views of the lake and palace, a bed in an alcove surrounded by windows of the same tear-jerking views, lots of space, and, oh yes, a bath! How I've missed such a thing!
As for Udaipur?...that's for next time. Two blogs in quick succession, I hope you don't mind. Thanks for reading as always. xx
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J-P
non-member comment
Oh wow...
...best bit so far I'd say... ...just stay on the right side of the big guys an' you'll be fine :D