Planes, Trains, and Automobiles
Our fateless driver dropped us off at Agra's train station in the afternoon and handed us an envelope with our tickets inside. Eleven o'clock! Deo said that the road at night was dangerous, and it would be better for him to return to Delhi as soon as possible. Obviously he had enough of our company, because surely the road that we just drove through would not a problem. Now he did have a problem, because we showed no remorse when we stiffed his tip. Free from our impossible navigator, our relief didn't last for more than a few minutes. I know what hell must be like: screaming steel breaks, no internet or phone, tall flights of garbaged staircases, and a million squacking pigeons on electric lines shitting on ticketholders below. I felt like scratching my eyes out; there was no way that I was going to survive for eight hours in this hellhole. Luckily, we dodged the raining bird poo and set up camp in the dank waiting room, lit by a single-fluorescent bulb that buzzed in the corner. Somehow hell wasn't as bad as I thought. We talked to other travelers and shared the misery. I sketched in my notebook and taught Annika how to play Gin Rummy, while Remy banged on his new drum and Sina wrote in her journal. Sven bought some bananas and cookies for all of us, and the time passed quickly.
The rusted train screeched into the station at 12:30. We were anxious to crawl into our promised sleeper car and get some well-deserved rest. We had false impressions of this supposed sleeper car. I imagined old fashioned trains, where passengers had their own private cabin, and read the newspaper in the dining car. Fitzgerald had never been on this train. In just one sleeper car, fifty people were crammed onto three tiered cots, with supplied blankets and pillows that reeked on mildew. I locked my backpack shut, threw it up onto my cot, and doubled locked the bag to the bed. Tired and cold, I pinched the blanket with two fingers and fearfully pulled it over me. Miraculously, I fell right to sleep and could probably have slept for another 24 hours if the stewarts weren't yelling, "Chaaaiii! Caaaaafffeeee!" in the wee morning. But, it was a pleasure to have tea in bed. I just tossed three rupees down from my bed, and I leisurely sipped masala chai, proud to have survived the trip to Varanasi.
Varanasi is the holiest city for Hindus, and travelers say that you either love it or you hate it. I don't think I was there long enough to make a judgement, but the city is definitely unlike any other place I have seen in India. It's still dirty and crowded, and people are still inviting you to their shops or to their restaurants: "Madame! Madame!" Without a doubt, there is something peaceful and kind underneath the money-hungry vendors. Set along the west bank of the Ganges River, Hindus believe that the mother river will purify their souls; and when they die, their ashes are thrown into its current. They all bathe in the Ganga every morning and cremation ceremonies are performed without end. Ancient temples are now nustled between new cramped homes and shops; there's even a holy tree that branches through a stucco-walled home. The five of us woke up at five one morning, just to see the sun rise behind the holy river. Cremation ceremonies were still taking place as river dolphins leaped over orange rays that cascaded across the of water. Just magical.
The dreaded farewell: the five of us became so close during the last 18 days. I couldn't believe that our tour passed so quickly. Sina and Remy developed a little romance, Sven and I bonded over music, and I would miss long talks with Annika. The Swedish boys would be going onto Goa, the beach party town of India, while the girls headed off to mountainous Rishekesh for yoga and meditation. Myself, I had a bus ticket to Katmandu, with plans to fly to Bangkok and then Vietnam to meet up with an old friend. We all piled onto one bed and cuddled until it was time to catch my bus. We gave each other final hugs, and then more final hugs, and then more, until I really left. Another great chapter of my trip, but definitely an opportunity for new adventures.
I boarded the Katmandu bus with 20 other backpackers. I quickly made friends with a theatrical, curly-haired Vicente from Spain, and a gaggle of Tibet Buddhist monks from Sri Lanka. After eight years of study, they headed home to be reunited with their families in Katmandu. It only took a few hours for Vicente and I to starting singing showtunes and Shakira; we entertained the entire bus. Twelve hours later we arrived at the border, completed the immigration/visa paperwork, and settled in a youth hostel for the night. The next morning was the same: back on the bus for another twelve hours; but this time, Vicente and I sang louder and expanded our reportoire to Disney and Christina Aquilera. Halfway through the busride, police checks created massive traffic along the single-laned mountain highway. Taking advantage of the opportunity to stretch our legs, the monks, Vicente, and I walked along the road and admired the changing scenery. We even climbed ontop of the bus' roof, until the party-pooping police made us come down! Finally, we arrived in Thamel, Katmandu for dinner.
A pseudo-couple, Vicente and I decided to look for a suitable hotel together. Hungry for dinner and for dancing, we stumbled into a "Dance Hall," but we disappointed that we were not allowded to dance. Laughably innocent, fully-clothed girls simply swayed on the disco-lit runway. There was one number when a guy appeared on stage, dramatizing a fight with one of the dancers with choreography. We drank over-priced whiskey and laughed uncontrollably at the dancers' serious attempts to seduce the male patrons. Vicente and I became so close in just a matter of 24 hours; I guess that's the backpacker's life. People come in and out of your life so quickly, making huge impressions. Then, poof! I'll probably never see him again.
Goodbye India.
Goodbye Bagpiper whiskey and Limca.
Goodbye cold showers.
Goodbye Bollywood.
Goodbye 10 cent lunches.
Goodbye Deo.
Goodbye road signs that say: Control your nerve, or you will crash into a curve.
Goodbye masala chai.
Hello Bangkok International Airport.
The rusted train screeched into the station at 12:30. We were anxious to crawl into our promised sleeper car and get some well-deserved rest. We had false impressions of this supposed sleeper car. I imagined old fashioned trains, where passengers had their own private cabin, and read the newspaper in the dining car. Fitzgerald had never been on this train. In just one sleeper car, fifty people were crammed onto three tiered cots, with supplied blankets and pillows that reeked on mildew. I locked my backpack shut, threw it up onto my cot, and doubled locked the bag to the bed. Tired and cold, I pinched the blanket with two fingers and fearfully pulled it over me. Miraculously, I fell right to sleep and could probably have slept for another 24 hours if the stewarts weren't yelling, "Chaaaiii! Caaaaafffeeee!" in the wee morning. But, it was a pleasure to have tea in bed. I just tossed three rupees down from my bed, and I leisurely sipped masala chai, proud to have survived the trip to Varanasi.
Varanasi is the holiest city for Hindus, and travelers say that you either love it or you hate it. I don't think I was there long enough to make a judgement, but the city is definitely unlike any other place I have seen in India. It's still dirty and crowded, and people are still inviting you to their shops or to their restaurants: "Madame! Madame!" Without a doubt, there is something peaceful and kind underneath the money-hungry vendors. Set along the west bank of the Ganges River, Hindus believe that the mother river will purify their souls; and when they die, their ashes are thrown into its current. They all bathe in the Ganga every morning and cremation ceremonies are performed without end. Ancient temples are now nustled between new cramped homes and shops; there's even a holy tree that branches through a stucco-walled home. The five of us woke up at five one morning, just to see the sun rise behind the holy river. Cremation ceremonies were still taking place as river dolphins leaped over orange rays that cascaded across the of water. Just magical.
The dreaded farewell: the five of us became so close during the last 18 days. I couldn't believe that our tour passed so quickly. Sina and Remy developed a little romance, Sven and I bonded over music, and I would miss long talks with Annika. The Swedish boys would be going onto Goa, the beach party town of India, while the girls headed off to mountainous Rishekesh for yoga and meditation. Myself, I had a bus ticket to Katmandu, with plans to fly to Bangkok and then Vietnam to meet up with an old friend. We all piled onto one bed and cuddled until it was time to catch my bus. We gave each other final hugs, and then more final hugs, and then more, until I really left. Another great chapter of my trip, but definitely an opportunity for new adventures.
I boarded the Katmandu bus with 20 other backpackers. I quickly made friends with a theatrical, curly-haired Vicente from Spain, and a gaggle of Tibet Buddhist monks from Sri Lanka. After eight years of study, they headed home to be reunited with their families in Katmandu. It only took a few hours for Vicente and I to starting singing showtunes and Shakira; we entertained the entire bus. Twelve hours later we arrived at the border, completed the immigration/visa paperwork, and settled in a youth hostel for the night. The next morning was the same: back on the bus for another twelve hours; but this time, Vicente and I sang louder and expanded our reportoire to Disney and Christina Aquilera. Halfway through the busride, police checks created massive traffic along the single-laned mountain highway. Taking advantage of the opportunity to stretch our legs, the monks, Vicente, and I walked along the road and admired the changing scenery. We even climbed ontop of the bus' roof, until the party-pooping police made us come down! Finally, we arrived in Thamel, Katmandu for dinner.
A pseudo-couple, Vicente and I decided to look for a suitable hotel together. Hungry for dinner and for dancing, we stumbled into a "Dance Hall," but we disappointed that we were not allowded to dance. Laughably innocent, fully-clothed girls simply swayed on the disco-lit runway. There was one number when a guy appeared on stage, dramatizing a fight with one of the dancers with choreography. We drank over-priced whiskey and laughed uncontrollably at the dancers' serious attempts to seduce the male patrons. Vicente and I became so close in just a matter of 24 hours; I guess that's the backpacker's life. People come in and out of your life so quickly, making huge impressions. Then, poof! I'll probably never see him again.
Goodbye India.
Goodbye Bagpiper whiskey and Limca.
Goodbye cold showers.
Goodbye Bollywood.
Goodbye 10 cent lunches.
Goodbye Deo.
Goodbye road signs that say: Control your nerve, or you will crash into a curve.
Goodbye masala chai.
Hello Bangkok International Airport.
posted by Jfefferman @ 10:55 AM
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