Trains and plains

So, the trek begins. Arrived at Delhi station in time to watch my train arrive. Somewhat longer than at home. It’s 24 carriages long. Now I know why the carriage numbers are indicated on the platform. You do not want to have to haul you baggage from one platform end to the other looking for your seat/bed number. It stops and I am 20 feet from my berth. Fighting my way through the throng of arriving and departing travellers I clamber on board. My berth is the first one in and the loo is close by. Great, smoking is banned but my guide says I have the option to smoke in the loo. Given I’m going to be on the train for 23 odd hours the attendants will think I am suffering Delhi Belly the number of times I’m likely to visit the loo.

First things first, I push my case under the seat and secure it to a chain loop welded to the seat. My guide says ‘no chain, case go missing’. My spare underpants are in the case so chain it is. I settle in and wait. An Indian couple arrive and take the other seat. They also use a chain so it must be dodgy. We depart on time. Within minutes the attendants arrive with tea and biccies or ‘tiffin’ for those still yearning for the days of the Raj. I think I’m going to like Indian railways. 10 minutes later I decide to investigate the loo. Basic but serviceable and it has a fan for removing whatever (I’m not going to spell it out, use your imagination). Tea debris is collected and another attendant brings the bedding. Two sheets, a blanket and a pillow. After living for a week without air-conditioning the carriage feels a bit parky but I can live with that as this may be my last A.C. experience until December. I visit the loo again and on returning to my berth the outside world has gone black and night has fallen. I’d forgotten night falls fast in hot countries.

Two hours into the journey more food is delivered. This, I discover, is to happen roughly every two hours from now on, except during the official/unofficial sleeping hours from 10:30 until 6:00. At 8 the Indian couple settle down for the night, the woman disappearing totally under her sheets whilst her husband takes up what to me is a most uncomfortable position. In his berth I mean not with his wife (keep your evil thoughts to yourself, this is a clean blog). I know I’m not going to sleep easily so I amuse myself by watching the darkness flash by, punctuated by the occasional light(s) from villages we pass. At 11:30 I finally declare enough and settle down myself. However, being warned to never let my backpack stuffed with my laptop and other goodies out of my sight I shuffle it about near my head and attempt the impossible, sleep. Glory be, it’s 5:30 now and although felling a bit battered it’s daylight and at last I can observer the Indian countryside. No chance, more refreshments arrive. I struggle out of the bedding and hit my head on the bunk overhead as I stand up to stretch.

The countryside is to prove somewhat disappointing. For the next 1800 kilometres and 10 station stops it is a never ending vista of flat, green plains interspersed with isolated bumpy hills suddenly rising from the plain. Mainly rice fields, water buffaloes, goat herds and shanty homes. Oh, yes, and people working in the fields. Which reminds me, approaching one of the 10 stops I notice a female goat herder with her flock, she picking flowers or something, the goats feeding between the rails. This in and on the rail way itself! Somehow I don’t think British Railways would allow that if only because they would be constantly retrieving roasted goat from the third rail. But, there is no third rail here as it’s either diesel or in our case overhead power lines so that’s alright then. I have a question, how do you train goats to keep off the line being used or do they have a goat language timetable.

The train is referred to as an Express. Obviously the word has a different meaning here as the thing moves slowly most of the time although when it does speed up it shakes and rattles so much that perhaps it’s the driver attempting to shake the rattles loose and so allow him to proceed apace.

We reach our destination Bhubaneswar after 25 hours(no, I can’t pronounce it either so don’t feel bad about it) not quite two hours late. I wonder whether my pick up will have lost the will to live and I will have to find my own way to the hotel. I disembark and fight my way through the crowds to what I think is the pickup point. On the way I assailed on all sides by ‘taxi mister?’ and ‘I take your bag for you?’. I’d been warned to not let my bag be carried as once they have possession it costs money to get it (them) back. Being a mean SOB I prefer to suffer a heart attack and lug them myself. No pickup. What a surprise. There is a very persistent taxi driver trying to convince me he knows my hotel and that he is very cheap (not as cheap as me though) and will not go away. I locate my mobile trying to keep an eye on my luggage at the same time. I call the hotel; they tell me that the pickup is there with a large notice, looking for me. I repeat ‘at platform one?’. The taxi driver overhears and enlightens me to the fact that I am not at platform one. He points the way. Trying, and failing not to look stupid, I walk to platform one. Up a thousand stairs, down a thousand stairs, through the population of India plus China to platform one. I have 2 heart attacks on the way. Perhaps I can afford 20p for a porter after all. But I’m a hardy soul and venture on. Now I have another problem, I can’t see an exit sign! I find the ‘tourist information desk’. ‘Exit?’ I ask. He shrugs. ‘Exit’ I repeat. He shrugs again. A scruffy looking clerk at the back of the office looks up and points in a vague way to the left. I depart deciding that the problem with the world is that not everyone speaks English. I move left and bingo, people seem to be walking to a rather large doorway. YES, I shout silently to myself, found it. Just outside the door is a large sign, my name writ large. Fame at large. Or is it announcing the name of the most useless traveller in the world. I don’t care, comfort looms, I hope.

Silently he gathers me up (burk, he’s thinking) and off we go to the hotel. What can I say? The office has done me proud. A 4 or 5 STAR hotel, running hot water for a shower (the first I have ever encountered in Asia) and, good food. The first chapter of my trek is over.

Sea state and go to jail

At a small gathering of volunteers to celebrate the occupation of a volunteers new flat we were discussing what keeps us interested when away from our respective countries. Various ideas came up but the saddest item was a devotion to listening to the BBC UK shipping forecast by one of our group. Sorry C, I told you I would a get a line for my blog about that! How the knowledge of knowing the sea state, visibility in Dover, Fitzroy etc. can be of interest to someone living in India is beyond me but it does confirm how daft you have to be to do what we do.

Today I needed to change my traveller’s cheques into local currency. No problem, down to our local bank. Ha, no chance, it being small it was beyond their ability. But they did refer me to a larger branch, a 20p tuk tuk ride away. Very efficient I thought and very helpful so off I go. Here it becomes somewhat bizarre. When doesn't it? Clearing something indescribable from my sandals at the main entrance, I say Hello to the guard and walk into the bank. Find the foreign transactions center and explain my purpose. Officials go into a huddle. Phone calls are made; I begin to panic, especially when the guard approaches me and instructs me to sit down. Being an absolute coward I meekly comply. After all he is the man with the gun and I'm only armed with a passport. A few minutes pass by with officials still in a huddle. For all I know they were probably discussing the match last night but not being privy to their words I can only assume the worst. Expelled from India as an undesirable at best, gaoled as a currency crook at worst. More pleasurable minutes pass whilst I ponder my likely fate. A rough looking character, not complying with banking dress codes, points to me and beckons me forward with a curt ‘follow me’. The guard nods. OK, I know when I’m beaten and start to pray.

We leave the bank and make our way down the street. The shops are getting seedier the further we walk. We enter a tatty looking building and ascend 4 flights of stairs passing characters as seedy as the building and getting worse as we rise. By now I know my fate. They are taking the easy route and intend to throw me of the roof and put it down to a drunken foreigner thinking he can fly.

Last floor opens out to a very scruffy office serving as a money changing operation. They offer me a very good rate which I instantly accept even if later turns out to be monopoly money.

PS: Turned out to be genuine NON MONOPOLY CASH. Isn’t life grand?

Singing Marmite and tuk tuk's

Delhi. We don't stay in 5 star hotels, thus, we see a different Delhi than the tourist. My room overlooks a very upmarket slum made of brick with another smaller building that serves as a privy come washroom. The man of the house, if I dare refer to it as that, is an ironworker who starts battering, whatever, after the sun has gone down. Now whether this is actual work or his response to the hooting traffic I've no idea but mixed with the local ambulances/come hearses testing their many toned emergency sirens every hour on the hour at least it makes a change from the noise of Ende and motorcycles. The lady of the house runs a small flower stall barely leaving the traffic room to pass. Her strategy is obvious, slow the traffic down, thrust your wares through the window and unless you buy something you won't be getting to that important meeting any time soon.

Ambulance/hearse? That is actually written on both sides of the each of the vehicles that park up, also opposite my room. Bets will be taken as to which job they do most of. The smart money, given the traffic, is my secret. If you want to make money here produce and sell some very loud hooters. European truck horns are baby cries compared to the motorcycle horns here. Even the dogs cower away. Combined with the noise of my puka fan whizzing round but loosing the hopeless battle with the humidity and you have all the ingredients for a non tourist experience in Delhi.

Last night one of the volunteers was invited by her ex-landlady to a private concert she was giving. So, to show support and gratitude 5 of us went with her. Now the singer, whose name was both unpronounceable and unspellable by a stupid European was, by all accounts a world famous Indian Singer who had sang in the USA, Canada and for some reason beyond my limited mental capacity to grasp, Norway. We set off, led by a Romanian volunteer who knew her way to the concert hall as she had been there on a previous occasion. Readers will know my fame for being unable to find my way about. Glory be, I have met my match. For 45 minutes we wandered about looking for what turned out to be a very large and very impressive concert hall. A five minute walk from my luxurious abode took 45 minutes. I take comfort knowing I am not alone.

We took our seats, not at all sure what to expect. The hall was packed. After a 20 minute introduction by the accompanying band the star came on and the show began. I have no problem with Arabian or Indonesian Music. I leave to your imagination my feelings of Indian Music but suffice to say after 40 minutes I was ready to eat a giant sized jar of Marmite, without toast, in one sitting. The audience was very appreciative of her work so I can only assume I must have been the only one in step (sorry, out of step).

We left and found our way to an extremely good eatery where we consumed the requisite curry. For the tourists out there, the dinner for 5 cost £6.50, or to those not fortunate to be British, 6 Euro.

To end my story (about time too, I hear you say) I am now an expert on tuk tuk's. For the ignorant out there they are those funny little 3 wheeled thingies that I think Brighton tried to introduce as a tourist attraction during the holiday season. Their official name is auto rickshaw, of which there are thousands here. Boring bit over, I hired one to take me back from our HQ to my abode. You must remember Delhi is a city of close on if not exceeding, a population of 20 million souls. It would be unreasonable to expect any but a local driver to know where I wanted go, given that HQ is in the suburbs, my abode in the center. But I had a cunning plan. A few minutes away from my room is the tomb of one of the local hero’s here, known by everyone (I was told) by people more knowledgeable than I. Not a difficult thing to achieve. To continue, I instructed the drive to take me to the tomb. Agreeing a price we set off. The journey normally takes around 30 minutes. 30 minutes later we arrive at the Indian International Center. Not where I want to be. I repeat where I want to go. He shrugs, turns round and minutes later we arrive at the tomb. Am I a tuk tuk expert or what? Do not answer that question for fear I will ramble on with even more inane writing.

Got there

Delhi is stamped in my passport! Not without incident I might add. Between home and London we made an unscheduled stop as a passenger was suddenly taken ill. Phoning ahead the guard arranged for an ambulance to meet the train at the next station where the ambulance crew were waiting and after a few moments took the poor sod off on a stretcher. America eat your heart out, all at no cost to the passenger and I did not hear anyone ask if there was a credit card to pay for all the service.

On the train from London to Heathrow a young girl (mid 20’s I guess) sat on a jump seat and ate sweets from a box as if they were either her first or last meal. Feeding frenzy or what. Finally, on the flight over I had the good fortune to sit next to a student who smelt as if he’s not washed for some indeterminate days or maybe weeks and one row back from a family with the most miserable baby ever. She cried from embarking to disembarking . I was barking by the time the plane landed so that was OK.

Delhi airport impressed me with its efficiency. Quick, no hassle and out through arrivals. Pity I didn’t meet its high standards as I walked straight passed my welcoming party without spotting them. No problem, I stood close to the nearest ashtray and lit up. I decided I would book into the nearest 5 star hotel once my nicotine level had been restored but before I could say “Hilton Hotel, James” the VSO party had found me. Deep joy on their part, deep sadness on my part as I now find myself booked into a sleepery (sometimes known as The something Institute) more in keeping with VSO budget constraints. However it caters for people from cradle to grave. I know that because outside there is a row of vehicles that look like ambulances but have Ambulance/Hearse written on their sides. Now, whether that means that they are dual purpose or whether they don’t have much faith in the health system I’ve no idea but I like the multi functional all purpose approach. A lesson for our NHS perhaps in cost cutting (or in politico speech, meeting efficiency targets).

My fear now is that my laptop will blow up before I can fire this off. The voltage here varies from nothing to 240V and all stops in between. But, looking on the bright side I have an A.C in my room. The windows don’t close, the A.C unit sounds worse than the proverbial bag of bolts and I keep having to clear the mossies out of the air filter as they block the feeble air flow every 5 minutes but hey, I’ m here in Delhi and the fun will start eventually. Or not.
 

Cogito ergo sum

There has been press recently about plagiarism by both students and academics. Being neither I feel no guilt at using Descartes as the heading for this latest piece of rubbish. I definitely know who I am, so, at long last, does the Indian Embassy. After 6 weeks (average wait 2-3 days) my visa to work in India has arrived. Subject to it not being revoked when they discover I know very little about anything at all I fly to Delhi on the 20th. The bright eyed out there will have spotted that horrible 4 letter word 'work'. For those unable to read I have highlighted the word in red. If you are colour blind, tough, there is only so much I am prepared to do.

Whatever, I am applying to the Guinness Book of records for the worlds most determined person with a masochistic wish to suffer. Who else would wait 6 weeks to get approval to w**k in a place recently known to have experienced a 7 day (days, not hours) power blackout. Unless you live in Dartford/Gravesend where the vandals know where the off switch is. The adventure begins!

Negative feedback

Update on non-event. World record about to be broken. After almost 5 weeks no sign of visa. More as it doesn’t happen .