Have had very little access to wifi since leaving Udaipur the evening of October 28. Since there are so many entries, I'm posting them in chronologlical order.
OCTOBER 29, 2010
INDORE TO MANDU TO MAHESHWAR
On boarding the train to Indore, I was not in too happy a frame of mind. A couple of incidences before my departure from Udaipur left me somewhat disillusioned and disenchanted, which marred my lovely time there. These I blame myself for, as I am too trusting.
Nonetheless, I was quite excited about continuing my journey in India, especially as I was travelling by train, my most favorite mode of transport. It was an overnight train. Unfortunately, I was not able to sleep even though I was tired and my lower side berth was private and comfortable. In 2nd class a/c one is given clean sheets and pillowcases, a pillow and sometimes a hand towel. And the loos are tolerable.
As dawn broke I sat up and watched the passing landscape, vast expanses of dry grasslands punctuated by evergreen trees. As it got lighter, I noticed scores of people walking from their homes carrying small pails or bottles of water towards the fields that bordered the railway tracks. As the train moved slowly along and I saw people hunkered down in the tall grasses, I realized it was morning ablution time!
Many would greet their squatting neighbor as they passed them by. Most amusing to me was watching a bunch of young boys, all about the same age, with a much younger girl trailing behind them, squat down together. One was obviously a ringleader as he was directing where the others should squat. The little girl, a sister maybe, was hesitating where to go. He turned to her and pointed to some location a little further away.
Interestingly, I saw only maybe two or three women at most as the train moved down the track, which made me wonder if they attended to matters personal earlier when it was still dark. Or went much later after the men returned.
It is no wonder men and women are so physically easy with each other. Is not performing one’s morning ablutions the most private of daily routines? Although many men were in their own little spot, as the train advanced, I noticed a couple of men chatting with their neighbor only slightly masked by the long grass a couple of meters away. There’s not much one can hide from another under these circumstances.
I’m always amazed how men in particular flop all over each other while sitting or standing in busses or as they drink their chai, or lie about on patches of grass. Arms and legs are casually thrown over one another. Some lie spooned together with an arm loosely wrapped around their friend’s waist. Even on motorbikes, it is not uncommon to see the pillion rider with his arms around the driver’s waist or neck, or leaning his head against his companion’s back to catch a quick nap. So often I see men holding hands from young to quite elderly.
Women are equally affectionate with each other though they are not seen in the chai and food stalls and certainly don’t lie around on the ground. But in the temples where I come across them more than any other place besides the streets and markets, they hold hands and walk with their arms around each other. And when standing in a little group, they will lean on each other too, especially young women.
No doubt this easy physical affection comes from living on top of one another in tiny, cramped spaces where there is little room for privacy or even a quiet moment alone.
The lasting image I will always have of this train journey is the vision of men crouching down all over the fields in those early morning hours. For some unknown reason it reminded me of Monet’s (I think) painting of women gathering hay. I wish I’d been able to take a photo.
I arrived in Indore at 6:45 a.m. and I made what I consider a critical error that affected my state of being and my travel experiences for the remainder of the day and the days that followed. Most travelers say India brings out the worst in one and the best. I agree. Sometimes in unequal measure! This journey certainly brought out the former.
I impulsively decided to continue travelling to Mandu rather than spend the day in Indore and stay overnight as originally planned. This rash decision meant I got on a bus without having had breakfast, on top of not having had dinner the night before, nor a restful night! All circumstances not conducive to thinking clearly or making good decisions!
I had been led to believe that the bus to Mandu was direct and that it took three hours. Not true. On asking for a bus to Mandu I was told I had to change busses in Dhar. By the time I got to Mandu, I had spent nearly five bone shaking hours on the road.
For the first part of the journey, I had to keep my suitcase with me. Now imagine a battered bus, jam-packed with passengers sitting and standing. To stop my suitcase from toppling over onto those in the aisle and me from falling off my seat, I wrapped my arm around the upright handle used to pull it along.
Needless to say, by journey’s end, my upper arm was tender and a tad bruised.
Amazingly, the bus to Mandu was waiting at the makeshift bus area when we arrived, which made the changeover surprisingly painless. My suitcase was thrown into a compartment at the back of the bus along with sacks of grain, cement and heaven alone knows what all.
I was motioned to sit on a bench that ran the length of the side window from the front of the bus to the door. (Opposite to that of the bus driver’s side window.) In front of that bench was another square seat with no side arms, over the gearbox where, in principle, the bus driver’s assistant is meant to sit.
But these gents never sit. What they do is hang out by the door, which usually has a window. As the bus approaches a town or a group of trees or shacks, the assistant leans out the window and yells out the bus’ destination. (If there is no window, he opens the door, hangs onto it and leans out as he yells.) This also alerts the driver that the bus has to stop and the passengers on the bus where they are as the busses are so crowded that those standing can’t always see out the window.
This chant is done in the cadence of a livestock auctioneer’s. It is impossible to distinguish one word from another but obviously to the habituated, all is understood. I gathered in the midst of this chant, passengers are admonished to hasten because all of a sudden people scramble at a faster rate to the door, both to exit and enter.
On exiting, one has put push one’s way through people in the aisle and climb over whatever else is beside their feet and through people getting on the bus as no courtesy is given to those getting on the bus. Entering, one has to elbow one’s way in, all this while trying to lug a suitcase and small backpack. No one gives an inch and no one offers to help. It’s a case of bullying ones way through. Not fun at all.
What amazes me on every bus I’ve travelled thus far, is how the assistant remembers where every passenger is getting off. What is more impressive is that even when there are no bus stops, he knows at which tree the bus needs to stop even when there are no other visible markers of any kind, not a hut, shack or food stall.
The assistant also serves as the bus’s mechanic and co-pilot. When overtaking on a very narrow road with only centimeters to spare between the bus and the vehicle it’s passing, the assistant leans out the bus door’s window and coaxes the driver till the bus is safely past. In congested traffic, the assistant will hop out the bus, stand in front of the driver and hand signal him past another vehicle traveling in the opposite direction with only a hair breadth’s to spare between the two. He also is responsible for shooing stubborn cows out of the way and warning herdsmen and their goats the bus is approaching.
The first fifteen minutes of the second lag of the journey, another young gent and I had the window bench to ourselves. But as we went along, more people squeezed in between us so that very quickly we were five jammed on a seat for three, six actually, counting the child on the lap of one of the women. That wouldn’t have been so bad if nobody was sitting on the square seat in front of us.
Five people sat on it. One man faced forward with his legs squished between the seat and the front end of the bus, two other guys sat facing us on the side, two more people sat on the back end that faced the aisle. The legs of one of them were squeezed in between the seat and a container of kerosene! Its opening was stuffed with newspaper! Fire anyone?
Indians as a rule are thin. I am too. I was sitting kneecap to knee cap with the guys in front of me and hip bone to hip bone with the guys on the side, with no cushioning fat to soften the grind between us.
The road to Mandu was no better than the one to Dhar. We bounced and bumped our bones together for the next two-and-a- half hours. These two roads have to be the worst I’ve encountered in the five weeks I’ve been in India.
The busses must have a quota to fill. Or otherwise the driver and assistant must get paid according to the number of passengers they carry as no passenger is refused. Somehow or other, one more person is always squeezed in. Even when carrying their life’s possession in a large bundle on their heads, or metal rods, wooden beams, or a basket filled with vegetables. All that goes on the floor and everyone adjusts their feet accordingly.
The system works quite well actually because of the frequent stops. Invariably one or more passengers exit at a time and those remaining on the bus have a fleeting moment to inch their way on to a seat or claim a bit more standing room even if for a few minutes before the next lot of passengers board the bus. But if there are no exiting passengers, no one can even sneeze! And once hangs on for dear life in whatever way one can.
MANDU
(No photos here but you can see what I missed!)
Needless to say, by the time I reached Mandu, my bones were not only sore; I was also famished, desperate for a cup of tea and in need of a loo. There are no official bus stops in the small towns and this one-horse town was no exception. I was let off in front of a bunch of shacks that were shops. The friendly driver’s assistant had got off the bus with me but was nowhere to be seen. There was no one to help me get my bag out the luggage compartment.
The bus was about to drive off just as I was opening the compartment and I had to run alongside the bus and bang on the side until it stopped. My suitcase was buried under sacks of grain and a bag of cement that were too heavy for me to haul off of it. The engine roared again and the bus started moving forward.
I yelled and ran alongside it once more banging on the side. Luckily for me, the passengers and the people in the street signaled the driver to stop. The replacement conductor finally got out and angrily asked what the problem was. I indicated that my suitcase was unreachable. He very grudgingly helped pull the cement and grain sacks off my suitcase and together we hauled it out. With great difficulty.
Having recovered from that little nerve-wracking moment, I looked around to get my bearings. Nary a rickshaw in sight, nor a taxi. I tried to enquire at the shop in front of which I had been dropped as to what was available and was met with stony-faced incomprehension.
Being tired, hungry, in need of a loo and not being able to speak the language does not make for a happy situation. All of a sudden a taxi materialized out of nowhere. Read a beat-up private car with a driver. I can only assume someone had made a phone call. I had been stared at since dismounting the bus. His English was barely understandable but at least he spoke enough for him to be able to ask where I wanted to go.
I told him the name of the hotel that I had read about in my guidebook, which I don’t consider so trusty anymore. When I had called some of the listed places earlier, a voice recording informed me that either the number no longer existed or that it was a wrong number. I was not overly concerned at the time however, as finding accommodation at the last minute, up until now, had not been problematic.
When we got to the Malwa Resort, which in theory is also supposed to be an official tourist office for Madhya Pradesh province, there was not only no room at the inn, but no one at the desk of the so-called tourist office. I asked the man who had told me there were no rooms available–since there was no reception desk, it was hard to tell if he was the owner, manager or “receptionist”–if he could suggest another place. He suggested Malwa Retreat but warned me it was expensive. On the way there, I asked Pappi, the taxi driver to check out some other budget options listed in my guidebook.
The kindest thing I can say about the other places is that they were derelict dumps. I simply could not bring myself to stay in any one of them. For the first time, I wished I had a tent. The outdoors would’ve been preferable. This left me in a bit of a state. I was near to tears because I was so hungry and so exhausted. Added to which it was at least 42 degrees Celsius.
I was left no option but to try Malwa Retreat. So off Pappi and I tootled. Again, no room at the inn. I have since found out that it was school holidays in West Bengal and thus the middle range hotels were full of Bengalis. One of the more friendly gents behind the desk realized my despair and offered to call Malwa Retreat’s counterpart in Maheshwar to see if a room was available. There was. Price was no longer an issue.
So here I was in Mandu with its apparently beautiful ancient Islamic fort and all I could think about was a place to lay my head down and to put food in my stomach.
I was told that to get to Maheshwar, I had to return to Dhar from where I had just come, and catch a bus to Maheshwar from there. The thought of having to return on that dreadful road made me cringe. Pappi was angling to take me to Maheshwar for an exorbitant fee.
Pappi was also angling to take me on a drive-by-tour of Mandu Fort, which he told me would take two-and-a-half hours, and then on to Maheshwar. His eyes were positive gleaming at how much he could glean from me. I decided I needed to eat before making any decisions. Since I remembered seeing a restaurant at Malwa Resort, I asked him to take me back there.
Fortunately, the food was freshly prepared and tasty. I felt marginally better but was feeling totally wiped out. I nixed Pappi’s suggestion that he drive me around the fort, as it was four in the afternoon. All I wanted was a hot shower and a bed.
I was not a happy camper. I was angry with myself for my morning rashness as it led me to forfeit the pleasure of discovering Mandu Fort because of sheer exhaustion. (I’ve heard from other travelers that it really is magical!) But there was no way I was going to return to Mandu after Maheshwar and from there back to Indore on those horrendous road to continue on with my travels afterwards.
Even though I was upset with myself for having skipped visiting Mandu Fort, which had been the main focus of this journey to Madhya Pradesh, I did notice the landscape was quite lush and covered with fields of cotton plants. The road was gentler too on the body. But that could’ve been because the car had decent shock absorbers in spite of it its advancing age.
MAHESHWAR
By the time we reached Maheshwar I was a physical wreck and looked that way too. Again I was shown a dingy room that was cavernous and suitable for a family of five. I have yet to figure out why I’m quite often shown less desirable rooms and always have to tussle to see better ones. To make matters worse, I am frequently told there are no other rooms available which, time and again, has been a barefaced lie because as soon as I start walking out the door, all of a sudden another room has become available!
In this case, I could not walk out. I was irked. I told the young man that the room was unacceptable and I wanted to see another room. He started saying something and I interrupted him and told him not to bother telling me there wasn’t another room, as I would not believe him. He was a little taken aback and reluctantly went back to the reception desk and got another key.
Surprise! Surprise! I hit the jackpot! The room was in an independent unit that overlooked the lovely interior gardens and grounds. It was airy, spacious and had a verandah! The bathroom was large and had a proper shower with hot water! And all was CLEAN! My body sighed with relief.
When I went back to register, I asked the hotel manager the distance and directions to the Temple. It was a two-kilometer walk. I had told him I had been travelling since 8 p.m. the night before. He suggested I walk rather than take a taxi, as the exercise most probably would do me good!
He was right. My limbs were happy to be moving continuously.
The walk to the town was not a particularly pleasant one as the road was muddy and its sides, as usual, were strewn with garbage. I had to jump over refuse and mucky potholes to avoid getting my sandals caked. But once I got into town, it was interesting to witness street life in the late afternoon.
And viewing the temple on the bank of the Narmada River made the walk worthwhile. There was an ambience of stillness to the temple and the river as there were few tourists. It appeared melancholically beautiful in its fading glory, made even more so in the light of eventide.
Unfortunately, my photos do not do it justice as I’d forgotten my camera and had to use my iPhone so could not compensate for the waning light. My mood lifted somewhat as I walked back down the streets and people smiled and greeted me as I passed them by.
However, as I was turning out of the last street of the village onto the dirt road back to the hotel, some kids ambushed me and insisted I take their photo. By the time I’d taken my last photo at the Ghats, my iPhone battery was kaput. I could not explain to them that it was not possible. So I just said “no camera,” “no camera.” They became quite aggressive and would not let me pass through them.
Just as I was about to lose it, a group of young men came from the opposite direction and yelled at the children, who still would not budge. Two of the young men then came up to them and spoke severely to them. They instantly dispersed. I thanked them profusely. They sweetly apologized for the children’s behavior and waved me on my way, but not of course without first having asked where I was from. I happily answered any questions they asked.
Never did a hot shower feel so good and a decent mattress feel like such heaven.
In spite of a decent night’s sleep, the next morning I still felt incredibly fatigued and could not shake my low spirits, so much so, that I did not have the wherewithal to travel to yet another remote area that required a long taxi ride. I decided to forego the magnificent temple island in Omkareshwar and return to Indore to catch a train to Mysore.
The manager of the hotel had told me the road from Maheshwar to Indore was far superior to the one from Indore to Mandu and that the busses were better too. Only marginally so. And again, the bus that was only supposed to take two hours took three-and-a-half. At least I had an entire seat to myself.
OCTOBER 30, 2010
INDORE
On arrival in Indore, I immediately went to the train station to make a reservation to Mysore, which required my traveling via Bangalore. (From there I was going to Hampi where I had been told there were some wonderful temples.)
Not a reservation to be had. Not even a Taktal seat, a last minute reservation program instituted by Indian Railways. Not for the next day or for the following five days. It seemed most of India’s citizens, from rich to poor, were travelling across their vast motherland to celebrate Diwali, the equivalent to Christmas in terms of importance, with their families.
The idea of spending five days in Indore, a very dreary city, was more than I could bear. Fortunately, I had made a reservation at a hotel ahead of time. I took an auto-rickshaw to the President hotel where I was shown a perfectly nice room, which I immediately took.
The receptionist at the hotel was the most affable I had encountered in all my travels. On entering the hotel, I had seen a notice board advertising a travel desk. I asked the gent for directions. He suggested I go to the travel desk before eating as it closed at 6 p.m. and on Sundays. It was already 4:30 p.m.
Thank goodness I listened to him. It took the agent until a little after 6 to find a flight to Bangalore via Mumbai early enough in the morning that allowed me enough time to get to the train station there to take a train to Mysore at 3 p.m. I was a happy camper at last. I paid for both the plane and train tickets, and finally went to put some food in my stomach.
OCTOBER 31
MUMBAI AIRPORT
I got up at the crack of dawn to get the 8:30 a.m. flight to Mumbai. No problem there. But on my connecting flight to Bangalore, I was bumped because the system had broken down and duplicate seats had been issued. Mine was one of them. They plane was overbooked.
Since I and another gent were the only two single people on the Bangalore flight, we were asked to take a later plane. Losing my scheduled flight meant I would not make my train to Mysore and that I would have to spend the night in Bangalore rather than in Mysore, which I did not want to do. I was not thrilled as I had had to pay an extra $100 to catch the earlier flight in order to make the train to Mysore.
My brain ticked over rather rapidly between the walk on the runway to the airline’s ticket desk inside the airport. In the USA, one is normally offered a free flight or some other kind of compensation. None was forthcoming.
On the flight to Mumbai, I had decided to try to change my train ticket from Mysore to Pondicherry. I had read an article in the airline’s magazine about the former French colony that made it an attractive destination. I had flirted with the idea of going to Pondi while in Udaipur but decided to go to Hampi instead after my trip to Mandu. On chatting with my fellow passenger, she said that Pondi was charming and that I should go there. She also told me there was a daily express train that left from Bangalore to Chennai at 4 p.m. and from there I could catch a bus to Pondi.
I asked the gent if it was possible to change my flight from Bangalore to Chennai as a concession to being bumped. He said he’d ask the supervisor. After some consultation with higher ups on the phone, I was told that the flight change had been approved.
All the early flights to Chennai were fully booked but they were able to confirm a reservation for me on the 8:30 p.m. flight. I’ve been waitlisted on all the earlier flights but I don't have high hopes. At least the airport’s toilets are clean though food choices are very limited. Fast Indian and Western Food and a counterpart to Dunkin’ Donuts. I ate a sandwich and had a cup of tea.
CHENNAI
I cannot believe the hellhole I’m staying in. I reserved a room at RR because four out of the five numbers I called at other hotels in my price range were all wrong numbers. There was no reply at the fifth one even though I’d tried it several times. Two other hotels were full. RR was the last one I called. Thankfully, so I thought, rooms were available and the hotel had an airport pickup service.
By the time I reached the hotel it was close to 11:15 p.m. I was shown to my room. It was beyond grungy. I was really tired having spent nearly 10 hours in Mumbai airport. I told myself to get over it and accept it but when I entered the bathroom, I simply couldn’t.
I went down to the reception area where the owner was manning the desk. I asked him for a better room. I was told there were no other rooms available. I told him I would rather be taken to the station retiring room than stay in the hotel and asked for a taxi. I was then shown another room that was just as bad. I told the owner that in no uncertain terms it was also unacceptable. Why this hotel that calls itself a "boutique hotel" is even listed in any guidebook is beyond me.
I was finally shown the honeymoon suite! The only noticeable improvement was the toilet was clean. The tub was streaked with scum but it at least had a shower in it. Fortunately I had flip-flops.
The carpet was full of holes and stains as were the sheets and towels. I was too exhausted to care. I took the room and asked what time the bus was to Pondicherry. I was told 8 a.m.
I collapsed into bed and slept fitfully and thanked heavens for my silk sleeping sack and microfiber towel.
NOVEMBER 1, 2010
CHENNAI TO PONDICHERRY
When I arrived in the lobby to pay my bill, there was a vociferous argument going on between the hotel owner and some people who had stayed overnight. I gathered from the interchange that alternated between English and Hindi that the hotel owner had had incorrectly charged them for their airport pick-up as that was apparently part of their hotel package deal arranged through their travel agent. He did not concede. (I had been overcharged for the ride to the hotel as well as the room but under the circumstances last night, I did not argue.)
I had ordered a taxi to the station for 7:15 a.m. the night before. I was told to take a seat and wait. I really did not want to hear anymore of the argument, as it was getting louder and angrier by the second. I took my suitcase outside and waited. And waited. I finally went back inside and told the owner I would miss the bus if a taxi did not come soon.
Needless to say I was mildly annoyed when I realized the reason I had been kept waiting was that the taxi driver was one of those party to the argument. I’d seen the ubiquitous Ambassador, a white 40’s style car that serve as private taxis everywhere in India, in the parking lot but had assumed I was waiting for a metered taxi. When the driver finally deigned to come out to transport me to the station, he was extremely surly. At least he got me to the bus station quickly. Not a good way to start the day.
Luckily there were food stalls at the bus station, which in fact had platforms! No signage of course. Not that would’ve helped as it would’ve been in Hindi. Fortunately though, the driver’s yell out their destination. The driver kindly let me grab a chapatti and a cup of chai before boarding the bus.
It was unbelievably grubby, worse than any other bus I’d been on. Just before sitting on one of the seats, I noticed that someone had puked out the window and dried remnants were stuck beneath it. All the seats looked as if food had been eaten and/or spilled on them. I did not even want to think what else was ingrained in those cloth seats. I took a deep breath found one that was barely bearable and seated myself.
At least the bus was not crowded and I could leave my suitcase in the space between the front seat and the protective bar in front of it. (I had asked the hotel if luxury busses were available and was told no. I found out later in Pondicherry that was not true.)
Five-and-a-half hours later we arrived in Pondicherry. I was told it would take three. I now think that the standard duration given for any bus journey in India is three hours. I should’ve known it would be longer.
I took an auto-rickshaw to the Executive Inn where I had reserved a room. Same story. I was shown the most expensive room in the main building even though I’d asked for a room in the annex. I told him I was not interested in an executive suite, which the rooms in the main building are. The receptionist insisted I see the first room nonetheless. Why I placated him does make me wonder about myself. It smelled so musty I almost gagged. It also had an ensuite office!
I returned to the desk and asked again to see one of the rooms in the annex. “That room won’t suit you,” said the receptionist. I said that I would prefer to be the judge of that. He said it’s too far for you to walk!” It was a half a meter away. I finally said not to worry, I’ll go to another hotel. I was shown the room in the annex, which actually would’ve suited me fine. But I was so incensed at the receptionist’s attitude that I decided not to stay there.
I got my suitcase and walked out with tears brimming my eyes. As soon as the bellman outside saw how frazzled I was, he immediately came up to me and said, “Wait, I’ll get you a rickshaw.” He instantly ran around the corner down, and down the street and shortly thereafter returned in a rickshaw. I was so grateful I gave him a generous tip for his spontaneous kindness and of course nearly broke down because of it.
I had seen another hotel on the way from the bus station that had got a decent write-up in the guide. I was shown to a room that was perfectly fine. Much to my surprise! Since someone else was filling in the hotel’s log book and I was extremely hungry, I asked the receptionist if I could eat before registering.
Registering in India is a tedious task. One has to fill in a huge logbook that requires all your vital stats, in addition to yet another form, requiring exactly the same info. My tummy was growling and I was about to growl too. No problem he said.
Off I went to the hotel’s restaurant where the food was disappointing to put it mildly. When I came back, the bellman took me to my room. It was not the room I had seen. It reeked of cigarette smoke and was dark and dingy. “This is not the room you showed me before,” I said to the bellman. “No madam, this is the same room,” was his reply. I was astonished! Clearly it was not the same room as the other room had not smelled of smoke nor was it dingy. He then said I could not have the other room because it had not been cleaned. I did not bother to respond.
I returned to the reception desk, where there were now three gents, and asked why I had not been given the room I was shown. Some excuse was given that I did not even listen to I was so incensed. I told them it was incomprehensible to me why I should be given a different room to the one I had agreed to take. The bellman was given a key and I was taken to the original room! One thing that I have learned while travelling in SE Asia and India is to never raise my voice. I just speak very quietly and brusquely when I’m angry. Which has been often these last few days when dealing with hotel staff.
I unpacked, did my washing and went to bed. I was miserable.
NOVEMBER 2, 2010
PONDICHERRY
Am sitting in the Baker Street Café where I’ve just had a delicious almond croissant. My taste buds are dancing. Indian food has begun to turn my tummy horribly. I am now on a mission to only eat Western food to try and get it back in shape. The Indian owners lived and trained in France. The bakery has become so successful that they no longer do the baking and cooking but have hired two French chefs, one for the pastries and the other for the savories and soups and yummy baguette sandwiches.
Both Indians and Europeans patronize it equally. And currently, daily, by the European preproduction crew here to set up for the filming of Ang Lee’s “Life of Pi.” For them, it apparently has been a godsend, according to the team’s lead set guy.
It’s a godsend for me too.
The last four days have been the worst four days I’ve had in India since leaving Delhi. I am seriously questioning why I am even continuing to travel in a country that is so difficult to travel in and hard on its budget travelers. (I’ve now doubled my accommodation budget and will curtail the length of my stay in India.) This little European respite is a welcome relief while I consider my options.
