After three weeks in the Himalayas, flying into Varanasi was a bit of a shock to the system for Steve and I. We went from a part of the world where yaks and people take the place of cars and technology straight into rush hour in an Indian city of over a million people. If you’ve not been to India, rush hour – or any other hour, for that matter – is exactly as chaotic as you would imagine it to be.
Fortunately, our hotel proved to be a haven of calm overlooking the river Ganges. After navigating Varanasi’s back alleys because our taxi from the airport was far too big to fit, we found some much needed respite watching the sunset over the mighty river, the far bank shrouded in haze (or smog…).
The “thing to do” in Varanasi is to take a rowboat tour at sunrise, and indeed boatmen throng the banks of the river looking for customers. Our first bit of haggling in India went fairly smoothly – one advantage of the competitive availability of tours – and the boat proved another world apart from the bustle of the Ghats, the riverside districts of the city.
The river is the focal point of activity in the city – everything happens here. People wash themselves and their clothes, drink, poo, swim, play, and cremate their loved ones – and all these things happen within a few metres of each other. Unsurprisingly, the river is horribly polluted, although our rowing guide was very keen to convince us that it was perfectly clean. To demonstrate, he took a few big gulps of river water and encouraged us to do the same; we politely declined.
Unfortunately, Steve was not as restrained during the rest of our time in Varanasi. His downfall was a glass of orange juice, lovingly prepared by a street vendor – with water straight from the Ganges.
A few days later, as we prepared to board our overnight train to Agra, where we would visit the Taj Mahal, his stomach uttered its first grumbling complaints. He shouldered his bag happily enough, though, when the announcement board showed a platform number for our train. Our bunks were five carriages apart, as we had managed to snag the last couple of tickets for the sold-out train. I was not surprised, therefore, to find a man complacently sitting in my space. He was adamant that it was his bunk, though, and after some manic gesticulating it transpired that this was not, in fact, our train; it had simply stopped at the platform where ours should have stopped.
I hopped off and ran along the train to tell Steve to get off – I found him sitting hunched over with his head in his hands. My panicky yelling got his attention, but so did the fact that the train had just started moving. There was nothing left to do – with the train picking up speed every second, an increasingly sick Steve would have to jump off and hope for the best.
And jump he did – at the last second. Missing a vendor’s cart carrying a precipitous stack of pears by mere inches, he made it without falling – although he did not look happy. The next train had better be the right one…
Fortunately, the next train was indeed the right one, and Steve was lovingly looked after by an Indian grandmother. Noticing how miserable he looked, she gave him one of her own blankets for the night and even tucked him in.
As the sun rose in the morning, we were rewarded with this view from the a roof terrace after a bumpy taxi ride from the station. I sipped a cool lassi, although Steve was in no condition to be consuming anything by this point. Unsurprisingly, I had to visit the Taj by myself that morning…
Have you had similar train snafus, in India or elsewhere? I’d love to hear about them!