The long way home

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A 12-hour bus ride.

A 20-hour train ride.

A 9-hour plane ride.

A second 9-hour plane ride.

It all added up to one very long trip home.

By the time I got here (yes, I am home, finally!), I had spent four full days traveling, using all methods of public transportation known to man: taxi, bus, cycle rickshaw, hired Jeep, train, auto rickshaw, another train, another taxi, plane, shuttle bus, another plane. But most of my time seemed to be spent not actually traveling, but sitting around waiting for these buses, trains and planes.

The delays began almost right away, just one hour out of Kathmandu. I never got the full story, but I'm guessing an accident closed the road. For three hours. Thankfully, I had found a Johanna Lindsey book -- one I hadn't already read -- in Kathmandu, a rare find indeed. That book saved my life! For while restless passengers on the string of buses lining the road got out and wandered aimlessly back and forth, I was curled up in my seat, reading a trashy romance book. The delay wasn't so bad, I thought.

But it did cause me to change my plans, which had originally called for going over the border into India that day, and spending the night in Gorakhpur, the city I where I would be catching my train to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal, the next day. But once we got to the Indian border, the end of the line for the buses, it was dark, so I opted to stay in a pit of a hotel there. I did my best to enjoy the real bed, the last I would see until I arrived home.

In the morning, I effortlessly walked across the border, and set about finding a Jeep to take me into Gorakhpur. I shunned the buses. Though they're cheaper, they can't negotiate the small roads of the city, and double the time it takes to make the two-hour trip, or so everyone had told me. I had no idea what it would cost, but Claire had just e-mailed me to say that she and Sim paid 1,500 rupees for a taxi, so when I heard the Jeep driver quoting me "one thousand, one hundred," I thought that was probably the going rate. It seemed high to me, especially since I was crammed in with 10 other people, but, though I was starting to worry about my cash situation, I did have enough to cover it. And a taxi would have cost me even more.

Yet once we arrived, the driver gave me a puzzled look when I handed over the dough. He was so confused, I immediately grabbed back my money and went through the tedious process of trying to get him to explain the problem without either one of us able to understand a word of what the other one was saying. Turns out, it wasn't a problem at all: the price was just 200 rupees, not 1,100! Not sure how I got 1,100 rupees out of it (I SWEAR that's what the guy said to me), but I was happy with my unexpected windfall. It didn't matter that the "windfall" was due to my being really, really stupid.

The ride got me to the train station in plenty of time to catch the train. With the help of signs that are in English as well as Hindi, I easily got myself over to the right platform, and found a spot to sit amongst several women and familes, figuring that would shield me somewhat from the leering men I had been warned I would encounter as a Western woman traveling alone through India. I was happy; things were moving along quite smoothly, I thought.

That is, I was happy until I looked up at the electronic bulletin board and saw that my train was running three hours late. Johanna Lindsey to the rescue, yet again...

A couple of hours later, the sign changed. This time, the train was four and a half hours late. Argh! While I waited, the sun set, and mosquitoes came out to play. Malarial mosquitoes. And I had opted to skip the malaria medication, since I was going to be in malaria country for such a short time, and not out and about at night, when the infected mosquitoes are active.

With some help from 100 percent DEET, I managed to get by without a single bite. The train finally rolled in -- five hours late -- and I found my seat in sleeper class.

Now, I had been warned about sleeper class. These are the cars which Indians cram themselves into, regardless of whether they have tickets or not. When you see pictures of Indians hanging out the doors of trains, desperately clinging to the sides hoping they don't fall off on the way, you're seeing pictures of sleeper class cars. I mentioned traveling sleeper class to Claire and Sim, to which they replied: "No you're NOT!"

While waiting for the train, I had seen some pretty packed sleeper class cars. It didn't look like a fun way to spend the night, and it made me a little nervous. But, as I finally realized with some relief, all the really crowded trains were going in the opposite direction. Every train I saw going in my direction was half empty.

I ended up sharing the bay (of 8 seats) with only one other woman. I made myself comfortable on my top bunk, locked by bags to the railing, and somehow managed to fall asleep.

The train was supposed to arrive in Agra around 5 a.m. I thought I had been brilliant planning it that way -- I'd get to the Taj Mahal right at sunrise, to see the building in the most beautiful light, without the throngs of crowds.

Well, the lateness of the train changed all that. Rather than arriving at 5 a.m., it arrived at 11:30. Ah, well. I made my way to the Taj anyway, fending off two very aggressive men trying to sell me their services as guides for prices almost as high as the $20 USD entrance fee to the Taj.

Thankfully, the waiting line to go through security only took five minutes, including a trip back to the lockers to check my backpack because they said it was too big. I think it was more that it didn't look like a purse. When I came back with just my camera bag, they didn't even bother to look inside! So the whole thing was a sham.

It was completely worth it, though. The Taj was majestic. Breathtaking. Just an awesome sight to behold. Those who have been there before already know this, and those who haven't been there have already heard all about it, so there's little need to elaborate on my visit there.

A few hours later, I was once again waiting for a train, this time to take me the few hours from Agra to Delhi, where I would be catching my flight home late that night. I had it in the bag, this trip alone across India.

Ya, had it in the bag right up until the moment I got on the wrong train.

Now, I don't know why I couldn't have just stayed on the train. I had a ticket, showing I had paid my way to Delhi, and first class, at that! There was more than enough room on the train. And it, like the train I was supposed to be on, was going to New Delhi, my stop.

But the conductor insisted I get off at the next station and then catch the "correct" train, which was about an hour behind us. The right train does stop at that station, he assured me. I asked him repeatedly, worried about being stranded in a foreign country three hours from the airport just hours before I'm supposed to be on a flight home. Yes, the train stops at that station, the man repeatedly told me.

Guess what? The train DOES NOT stop at that station.

In a panic, I went to the head something-or-other's office at the station and explained the situation. He told me to just get on any train going in that direction. They all go to New Delhi, he said. And that is what the Indian people do -- they need to go somewhere, no need to buy a ticket, just jump on the train going in that general direction. So that's what I did.

Only this time, I ended up in sleeper class, with nowhere to sit. I found one promising spot, and asked the kid standing nearby if it was empty. He told me no, but then motioned for me to follow him. He led me to the end of the train, where several members of his family were packed into a bay. One of them was playing the drums. Another was shaking a tamborine. And they were all singing.

Two of the women pushed aside and offered me a spot to sit. I spent the next three hours there, among this family, who explained that they were all on holiday for the festival, and heading to Delhi "to pray." In broken English, they grilled me with questions, clearly puzzled by some of my answers. They couldn't grasp the idea that I had a daughter, but no husband. I don't think they had ever heard of such a thing.

When they weren't questioning me, they were talking about me, staring, pointing, laughing, but all in a good way. "They talking, they like you," one of the younger ones told me.

It certainly made me feel a lot better about having gotten on the wrong train.

In the end, I made it to the airport at just the right time to go through the three-hour process of checking in and going through security. Before I knew it, I was in the air, and on the way home.

I did have one layover in Milan, Italy, where they make you go through security all over again. In the x-ray maching, one of the straps on my backpack got stuck. It took three security guards to pry it loose.

"My backpack likes Italy," I joked with them. "I think it wants to stay here."

Leaving Milan, on the last leg of the journey, the final flight home, had me flying right over the Alps. They were so beautiful, and Milan, at least from the air, also looked so beautiful, with its farmlands and red roofs. The Alps. Milan. Italy. Hmmmm....

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Photos

Traffic jam
The line of buses waiting -- for three hours -- for the road out of Kathmandu to reopen.

Waiting for the train
And waiting...and waiting...and waiting...

At the Taj Mahal
Me at the Taj.

The Taj Mahal
Flowers in front of the Taj.

Making friends
My new friends on the train to Delhi.

The Alps
Flying over the Alps, on the way out of Milan.