This will be my first significant solo trip for nearly 40 years!



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Day of rest

Sunday 9 January


Told Dil firmly that I would be driving NOWHERE today.I resorted to my usual let - I'm obliged to write to my husband, who has been gracious enough to let me travel here, and tell him all the wonderful things I have seen... Sounds dutiful doesn't it, Chris?

Yesterday I met a Swiss couple at lunch; today I met a Frenchman from Toulouse at breakfast. I enjoy these transient meetings and exchanges.

Decided to explore Connaught Place and really try to master its street system. It would help if there were proper street signs;there are tiny notices high up, hidden amongs all the banners and posters, and if I stop to peer at them, somebody immediately offers me a rickshaw ride or starts the routine: Hello, where are you from? How long have you been in Delhi? Where are you going next? Rajasthan? That's good. How are you going? By train? That's not a good idea. Let me take you to the tourist information office and they will help you. ... ... and so it goes on, though one get's wise and I now firmly say I have every step of the trip paid for and every hotel pre-booked.

It's Sunday and, what bliss, Connaught is amazingly- well relatively - quiet. I have a chance to pause and admire the VERY faded elegance of the Colonial art deco architecture. I come across a game of cricket, played improbably in the parking space in front of the colonnades of Inner Circle. Great, I think, excellent photo opportunity, with serious game in progress, rapt spectators, and the splendid backcloth. I reach for my camera, and at the same moment, the batsman hits with great force, there is much applause, and curses, it is the end of the game.

Then I fail to avoid the "Hello" routine and am adopted temporarily by Jahn, who would dearly love to spend the day talking to me. Instead, I persuade him to show me the way to what must be the only internet cafe open on Sunday, up a steep dark back stair, to a room of the most antiquated computers I have seen for some time. Never mind, the keyboard and mouse are astonishingly in a serviceable state.

I spend a happy hour writing a long letter to Chris and then-zap - I forget the first law of computing, save regularly. All is lost (I am using webmail), as the internet connection is broken. It's sooo hard to write a letter the second time round.

Lunch breaks have two purposes: this is my main intake of food, but also the restaurant must look like having a decent loo! This was a late break, so I don't mess around, I enter the Zen Restaurant - recognise the name from Lonely Planet. It has an elegant decor, smooth looking waiters, and prices above my normal daily budget. But what the hell, needs must. The food (Chinese, which seems popular with middle class India) was OK,the musak less so(Abba) and the loo was excellent.

I had invited myself to tea at the Master Paying Guest Accomodation, about 4 km away from CP. I had had an email exchange with them when trying unsuccessfully to book a room there for the final leg of my trip, and the husband urged me to at least come round for a chat.

I had a splendid Sikh rickshaw driver, who was pleased I think to find that I was only a year younger than him, and showed me his Californian ID card - he spent four years there, and hence spoke reasonable English. He was most disappointed that I turned down the suggestion that we stopped at the Sikh Temple on the way. He was clearly incredibly proud of it and the work done to feed the poor- they apparently provide several thousand meals a day. I promised I would go an see it before I left India.

Auto rickshaw rides are definitely one of the exciting highlights of being in India, sometimes best experienced with eyes shut. My Sikh was one of the calmest drivers on the road, and yet suddenly I find myself an inch from the next vehicle and on collision course. Somehow it all gets sorted out. Luckily there is a bar to hang onto as there are no doors.

New Rajendra Nagar turned out to be a poorly lit but very middle class quartier - plenty of dentists surgeries being the indicator. There is something distinctly India about the architecture, but it was too dark to take photos.

Unfortunately I cant remember their name, but it was the wife who met me in the guest sitting room. She was a small, lively woman (in her 30s?) with delicate intelligent features. What a joy to be talking to a woman, and with no barriers of language or education.

We talked about the problems of travelling in India, Indian family attitudes to the freedom of unmarried daughters, bringing up daughters (she has three children, the oldest a daughter of ten) and her work. She has had a variety of jobs: she was a computer analyst, and then she worked as a change management consultant. And now she teaches Reiki. I'll no doubt hear more about this because I am delighted she has just had a cancellation and I will be staying there for three days in February. I look forward to meeting her husband too. He is a trained accountant and financial analyst but is currently indulging his passion for radio, and is a radio presenter, one of programmes being a weekly chat show on economic issues.

Back at the hotel, I took my supper (tea and two toast) on the terrace, sitting alongside six burly, butch obviously gay men. Gradually they turned to talk to me and we got on like a house on fire. They are an eclectic mix of nationalities and occupations, but share one passion (well one other, that is...) in common - travel. Small world: two live in Brighton, one in Waterloo Street, the other in Lower Market Place, and they both know the Bedford Arms!


Ready to leave Delhi

Monday 10 January


But first, I couldnt resist spending the morning visiting Humayan's Tomb. It was wonderful - a red sandstone precursor to the Taj Mahal, against a backcloth of formal gardens, and in the background, white sikh temples shimmering in the Delhi pollution haze!

Late lunch in the United Coffee House, another Connaught Place restaurant popular with the Indian middle classes and a few travellers. My choice of hotels is determined as much by the prospect of a good loo as the menu! Turned out to be tasty, with again a Chinese influence. I had vegetables and rice followed by some kulfi (see, I wasnt going to leave Delhi without having some of my favourite pud). it would be more economic for two as I am always served so muh that I leave half!

Had an entertaining afternoon in a cyber cafe where the guy in charge very patiently but unsuccessfully tried to get my various bits of kit to connect. Sadly most of india seems to still be on windows 98 and the box for my photos needs Windows XP or macintosh osX.

At 5 I realised I had left it too late to have the necessary rubber stamp on my IndRail pass - panic! I asked the hotel owner for advice and ended up in his greasy friend's travel agency. had to swallo my pride, as he succeeded in persuading some friend to do the necessary authorisation without seeing my ticket and stamping it.

I passed the time by having supper at another restaurant (unusual, as so far I have been having one meal a day) and then off to Delhi Sorai, which was a bit scary. This is not the main station and the staff didnt seem to know about indRail passes. I then had to spend a couple of hours in the 'waiting hall'(I only spotted the 'upper class hall' as I was leaving. It was actually ok once I had got used to all men walking past stopping to have a good stare at me.

A derelict train pulled in at platform 1 - from which I was to leave in an hours time. As mechanics seemed to be banging at the joins between the carriages, I got worried that it had broken down and might block the wy for my train. Then I realised it WAS my train.

Walked past packed windowless coaches to my one - 2nd class AC. a ticket collector punctiliously made sure I had a compartment to myself, as this carriage was fairly empty, and told me to lock my door! the guard for our compartment supplied me with sheets and blankets of dubious cleanliness, and I settled down for the seven-hour trip to Sitkar junction. ACtualy it was 40 minutes late, so br s notthe only culprit! But it was a smooth, gentle ride, as Indian trains seem to trundle along at a slow pace. I was often not sure whether it was moving or stationary!



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