After
two overnight plane journeys on Virgin Atlantic from Newark via a 13-hour
layover in London, we arrived at Delhi's Indira Ghandi International Airport
last Sunday morning. We grabbed a cappuccino at Cafe Coffee Day (India's
Starbucks) at the airport and took the swanky, new express train to the
New Delhi Railway Station. The moment we stepped out of the metro building, a
wall of heat hit us and the madness was all too apparent. Approximately half of
the population of India also had the same idea as we: to catch the
overnight train straight out of the city. The railway station resembled a
massively overpopulated refugee camp.
First
port of all way the Tourist Ticket Office, which Marina said was located on the
second floor of the New Delhi Train station. As we approached the stairs
leading to the second floor, a large India man stepped over a couple of people
sleeping (I assume they were alive and therefore sleeping), pushed aside of
couple of beggars, and blocked our path. "Foreigner Ticket Office closed!
Two months ago now closed. For train ticket there is new office now. Here, I
take you. Not far away." A seasoned Indian traveler, Marina was having
none of this bloke's nonsense and wasn't falling for the oldest trick in the
book even though we were fresh off the plane. While searching for the
legitimate ticket office, we met a really cool Colombian couple trying to buy
tickets to Varanasi, that we ended up hanging out with the rest of the day in
Delhi until our departure that evening to Udaipur - the "White City."
Traveling
in India by train is one of the quintessential backpacking experiences. We
boarded the overnight train to Udaipur in Sleeper Class (fourth best class and
without A/C). Vendors walked by selling meals and chai at every stop and we
gazed out of the open windows at the real India. Despite the designated
seating, the Indian passengers typically spend half of their journey attempting
to change seats. It seemed like everybody on board bought the wrong ticket and
it was a mad scramble to change seats. They would try any tactic to
acquire or keep the best seat possible.
In
our carriage, was an old lady who was actively trying to convince a middle-aged
woman (who had a lower bunk ticket) to switch with her, as she said she
couldn't climb up to the top bunk. No such luck. The middle-aged lady pointed
to her neck brace and the old grandma was forced to move elsewhere. Once the
game of Musical Chairs was over and the old lady was clear out of sight in
another carriage, the middle-aged lady whipped off her neck brace and put it
away safely in her handbag, no doubt for future use on her return journey.
The
only other foreigner in our carriage turned out to be a wannabe hippie called
Henry who spoke with a plum in his mouth from that well-known bohemian enclave
of London: Richmond-Upon-Thames. Initially, we were pleased to make
conversation with another Westerner, but soon our eyes were glazing over as we
exchanged worried looks that we may have another 12 hours of Mr. Charisma
Bypass. Fortunately, Henry did us a favour when he knocked back a valium tablet
at 8pm, and 12 hours later, we had to shake him awake to get off the train at
Udaipur the following morning.
Udaipur made our wedding
day in New York last year feel positively chilly. Even in the early hour of the
morning, we were drenched in sweat carrying our backpacks around searching for
accommodation. We stumbled across a decent guesthouse with a room that had huge
windows overlooking the lake and famous hotel and small islands. As we settled
into our new abode, I asked our host whose name was Raj but liked to call
himself Raj from Rajasthan in case I couldn't remember a 3-letter word, for an
extra chair for the room. Soon, Raj's assistant delivered a tray of tea to us.
I stood there confused for a moment and then realised that he heard
"chai" when I said "chair." I gratefully accepted
the chai and dispatched him off for the chair. Ten minutes later, he returned
with another large pot of chai, at which point I gave up and sat down
cross-legged on the floor drinking both pots of chai.
Over the next couple of
days, we took in the main sites of Udaipur including the City Palace,
spice market, boat ride on Lake Pichola and a visit to Jagmandir
Island, as well as the Jagdish Temple. We caught the early morning 'deluxe' non
A/C sleeper bus to Jodhpur, the "Blue City," but needless
to say the bus didn't match up to its description in any way shape or form. The
five-hour bus journey to Jodhpur dragged out to over seven hours on what I can
only imagine was the hottest day since weather records began. We only had the
energy to sweat in the unbelievable heat on the bus. There was no relief
sticking your head out of the open widow, as it resembled sticking your head
into an over on full blast. Some locals said it was 45C; others said 50C with
high humidity.
Arriving in Jodhpur,
exhausted from over-sweating, we broke our own rules and decided to splurge for
a room with aircon. However, in each room with promised A/C, it seemed the A/C
turned out to be broken. Guesthouse owners tried their best to convince us that
the air conditioners worked, despite their only expelling hot air. "'I'm not
lying to you, it works," we were consistently told by a series of owners.
I've come to realise that when a local tells me he is not lying, he is in fact
telling me a big pack of whoppers. We eventually had to settle for a room with
a postcard view of the fort and the blue-colored skyline but with just a
'water cooler' (basically a glorified fan) that only served to push
stifling hot air around the room.
The following day, it
was a blessed relief when the temperature dipped down to 42C, which
enabled us to do some sightseeing in Jodhpur. We hiked a tuk-tuk for several
hours to take us to the Jaswant Thada memorial, Umaid Bhawan Palace, and the
very impressive Mehrangarh fort. Driving through the narrow lanes of
the old city was like the opening sequence of a James Bond film. Our
driver weaved and swerved through a never-ending sea of cars, cyclists,
pedestrians, stay dogs, and cows, skillfully evading them by millimetres rather
than centimetres. We finished the day with yet another slap up curry at a roof-top
restaurant.
Meal time is always the
best time of the day. The first obstacle is finding two or three dishes on
the menu that the restaurant is actually able to serve. I have come
to realise that the menu is more a historical list of meals served at
the restaurant over the years, rather than what is currently on
offer. When ordering, it is sooner rather than later that the
waiter gives you an apologetic shake of the head stating "no chana
masala." This became a bit of an in joke between us and I struggled
to keep a straight face as my third, fourth and fifth choice meals were not
available. Perhaps I should not have had such a wide grin on my face, as
the first bout of Delhi Belly was soon upon me!
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