ANYONE FOR MARMITE (INDIA)
18 January 2005
Goa, India
I’d heard a lot about India. "You’ll either love it or you’ll hate it", said everyone in the know. So, it’s the Marmite of the world then, I thought to myself.
The irony is that I love the black, yeasty condiment. My first few days in India on the other hand were such that, had I not had to be in Goa to meet my friend, I would have been back over the border to Nepal before you could say, "Two slices of marmite on toast and a cup of tea". I hated it!
The journey from Nepal to Goa was to comprise a bus to the border town of Sunauli from where I would cross the border and take a second bus to Gorakphur - the first main city in India. From there I would catch a train to Agra in order to visit the most romantic monument in the world, the Taj Mahal, before travelling by train to Goa in time for Christmas.
A couple of days before I left Nepal I took, what I thought, was a very prudent step and organised my travel in advance. The travel agent gave me my bus ticket to Sunauli and told me that on arrival there I should go to a second travel agent to pick up the additional bus and train tickets. I paid my money and all seemed fine. Being prudent, however, turned out not to be the most prudent thing to be.
I left Pokhara early on the morning of Saturday 18th December and reached Sunauli seven hours later. A rickshaw driver took me to travel agent number two where I picked up my ongoing tickets and changed my Nepalese rupees into Indian rupees. The rickshaw driver then took me to the border post where I was officially signed out of Nepal and then officially signed in to India a few metres further on. Travel agent number two had told me to go to Baba’s Cafe where someone would show me which bus to get on. Baba’s Cafe was a pretty grim affair so I refrained from eating and just had a cup of tea. About half an hour later a man entered and sauntered over to where I was sitting. "Are you going to Agra," he asked me. I told him I was and the following conversation took place:
Him: You have to pay me money. You didn’t pay for your tickets at my office.
Me: What do you mean, I paid for everything in Pokhara. I’m not paying any more money. Anyway, no-one in your office asked me for any money.
Him: You have to pay me.
Me: Look, I am NOT paying you anything. Call this number and sort it out with them, I’ve already paid.
Him: I am not calling. It’s too expensive. Give me the money.
Me (slightly irritated by this point): NO. NO. NO!
Him (now getting agitated): Fine. Don’t give me the money but I will cancel your train ticket.
Me (having hissy fit): You can’t cancel my ticket, I’ve paid for it!
Him: I can do whatever I want.
By this point I was apoplectic with rage but it was abundantly clear he wasn’t going to back down and although I was fairly convinced he was conning me, I wasn’t absolutely sure and if he did cancel the ticket I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get another. I threw the money down on the table in front of him which he didn’t seem to appreciate but there was no way I was going to give in easily. After he left I discovered he’d charged me more than the cost of the train ticket itself so when I boarded the bus to Gorakphur I was in a murderous mood and stayed that way for about an hour until my mobile phone connected with the Indian network. After five weeks of it not working in Nepal I was most delighted to be up and running again and fired off a couple of texts.
The three hour journey to Gorakphur began late in the afternoon and by the time I arrived it was 7pm and pitch black. I had elected to stay at the Retiring Rooms at Gorakphur station until the next day - Sunday - when I would catch my train to Agra. The station was packed and filthy. Hundreds of people were sprawled in waiting rooms and on the platform, sitting or sleeping anywhere there was a space. Cows roamed around eating whatever they could find, cardboard, plastic bags and other detritus; children wandered aimlessly, tugging my arm for money. Men stood on the edges of the platforms doing their business onto the track. Women spread out blankets on the dirty floor for their families to sit or sleep on. Of course I'd known that India was full of desperately poor people but I was shocked by just how much poverty was around me.
I found the booking office and got myself a room above platform one. It was basic, just a bed with a mosquito net draped over it and a travel rug as a sheet. The bathroom was filthy and I saw more than one mouse scuttling across the floor. I kept my fingers crossed that the rats which were running around outside would not be dextrous enough to get into the room during the night. After a quick plate of rice and vegetarian curry (the extent of the menu) in the cafeteria, I went straight to bed praying that I would not wake up until 1pm the next day ready to catch my train at 2pm. My hopes of a long, deep sleep were dashed however by the noise from train announcements and the people milling around the station; sleep eluded me (even with earplugs) until the early hours of the morning. The next day I had rice and veg curry for brunch, grabbed my rucksack and waited for the train which was apparently running an hour late. In fact all the trains were running late, and some by considerably more than an hour, because of very heavy fog across the whole of northern India. At 3pm they said it would arrive at 5pm so I went back to the cafeteria to wait where I met a Croation couple I’d seen a few weeks earlier at the Indian embassy in Nepal. They were trying to get to Goa via Delhi but apparently all the trains were full which was slightly worrying for me. They also told me that they had paid a pittance for their bus tickets from Nepal compared to the excessive amount I’d been charged. Argh!
At 5pm I was told my train would arrive at 7pm. At 7pm after another plate of rice and veg curry they said it would be here at 10pm. By 1.00 am on the Monday morning I was exhausted from waiting around for ten hours and decided to call it quits and get another room. I’d realised that even if the train came shortly after that, by the time it got to Agra I’d be well behind schedule for getting to Goa and after what I’d heard, the chances of that were slim. There was nothing for it but to get a train straight to Bombay and head to Goa from there. I slept from 2am until 8am and then got up to buy my new ticket, standing in the shortest line I could find. Lots of Indians were trying to push in but after my time in China, where I had had to forget the polite British queueing behaviour, I was hardened to it and just pushed in more myself. Twenty minutes later I was at the front with my elbows out, like a granny at a Harrods sale, to prevent anyone else from muscling in. I asked for a ticket to Bombay and got my cash ready. The girl behind the counter told me that the 2pm train was full and the next available seat was on the 4pm train. "Okay, I’ll take that, " I said. But, she couldn’t sell me the ticket. She was only the information counter not the ticket counter. I had to then join another long queue to actually buy the ticket. Off I went to the queue marked ‘Foreigners, Women, Govt Officials and Media. Again I had to fend off those trying to jump in, mainly men who clearly didn’t care that they were in the wrong queue. About 45 minutes later my turn came. "One ticket to Bombay please on the 4pm train."
"You have to fill in a request form for the ticket," I was told. "Where do I get one of those?" I asked, at which point she indicated to the queue I had been in earlier which was now even longer than before. In India, it seems, nothing is easy. I couldn’t face waiting another hour so I just pushed in (well, when in Rome.....) and asked for a form and a pen, scribbled the information down and went back to the Foreigners, Women, Govt Officials and Media queue which of course had increased in length. Eventually I was in possession of a ticket and celebrated with another plate of rice and veg curry in the cafeteria. At 3.30pm I was on the platform awaiting my train and my heart sank at the announcement of its late arrival - due at 7pm. Back to the cafe I went with my book in hand. At 6.30 pm they announced the train would arrive at 9pm. At 9pm they said 10pm. By this point I was beginning to think this was my Groundhog Day and that there was no escape. I was stuck forever at Gorakphur station, desperate to leave - destination anywhere! Suddenly I spotted a blond head. A foreigner! I grabbed him by the arm and recognised an Australian from a previous bus trip. "What are you still doing here?" he said. "We left you two days ago." I expained my plight and he and his girlfriend joined me until my train was due. An hour later at 11pm the train eventually showed up - 52 hours after I'd arrived at the station - and mass hysteria broke out in the station. I was shoved in all directions and at one point almost fell over because of the amount of people pushing past. Then I realised that my mobile was gone. I’d been pick-pocketed and I hadn’t felt a thing. Panic set in. I was jostled along the platform in a sea of bodies, half trying to get off the train and the other half trying to board. I lost my footing in a large cow pat and nearly ended up on my backside but eventually I found my carriage. The doors were locked so I had to push against the throng, further up the platform, until I found a door that was open. The train was in darkness - not a single light - and I suddenly felt claustrophobic and frightened. An old man was walking through the carriages so I asked him to take me to my seat but he took me too far down the train and I had to turn back, fighting against a hoard of people surging in the opposite direction. Eventually, a bit distressed, I found my carriage and seat and was relieved to meet a Belgian man called Yves. At least I wouldn’t be alone on this godforsaken journey.
The train was the most basic type of Indian train. No first class or second class aircon on this baby. Half of it was wooden seats and the other half was basic sleeper accommodation. No bedding, just three bunks on each side, the middle one (of course the one I had been allocated) which had to be folded down in the daytime so that 3 people could sit on the bottom bunk. Three people in India though, means six people. Every space was taken including the floor and all eyes were on Yves and myself.
I was still reeling from the theft of my mobile and tried to calm myself by having a cigarette at the end of the carriage. An Indian man asked me if I would give him a cigarette. "Yes, and by the way do you have a mobile because I need to make an emergency call". He let me borrow his phone and I called my friend Lisa in London, giving her instructions to contact Vodafone and cancel my line so that no-one could run up a massive bill. Job done, I retired to my bunk under the watchful eyes of what felt like hundreds of Indians, feeling very alone, very fed up and very self-conscious. I had no idea how long the train would take to get to Bombay but I was guessing at least 24 hours if not longer. In fact I spent 36 hours on the train and the only thing that got me through it was having Yves in the bunk below. We watched each other’s luggage when we needed the loo or a cigarette but mainly we slept, or tried to for the noise was interminable. The windows were always left slightly open because there was no air conditioning so after the first night my hands were covered in mosquito bites. Beggars boarded the train at stations, wandering the aisles for cash. Everyone was watching me, the only Western female on the train - they didn’t stop staring for the whole journey. At every station more and more people boarded and the train was packed with two sleeping to a bunk. At one point I noticed that a very elderly lady was sleeping on a few sheets of newspaper on the floor below me her possessions in a paper back tucked beside her.
A day and a half later we pulled into Bombay. An Indian man who got on at the penultimate station gave us the directions to the airport. I couldn’t stand waiting around for who knows how to get a train to Goa - I wanted the beach like yesterday! Yes, I know my trip is supposed to be overland all the way but by then I was losing the will to live and I couldn’t face another 12 hour train journey in those sorts of conditions. Thirty minutes later we arrived at the airport only to discover that all flights to Goa were full until early January. Deflated we sat on the pavement and drank a coffee, pondering on what to do next.
Before long a fat Indian approached us and enquired what we were doing. We explained our plight and he took us to a travel agent and miraculously managed to get us two seats on the last plane that day. Of course he wanted a hefty sum for helping us out but US$15 each was a bit steep. We gave him $8 between us.
At 5pm we took off, an hour and a half later than scheduled but to be honest I was past caring at this point because I knew I was almost there. I was fantasising about gin and tonics and satellite tv and that is precisely what I got - if only for one night - when I arrived in Panjim, the capital of Goa. I blew £30 on a room, way, way over my budget, at the first decent hotel I found but the long, hot shower, the room service and the movie channel were worth every penny after the 5 days I’d endured to get there.
The next day, while buying a new mobile phone, I met a bloke from Barnsley - Dave - who gave me the low down on Goa and advised me of a quiet, non-touristy, little beach about 45kms further up the coast. I was looking for somewhere to stay for a week until Claire arrived and when I saw Asvem I realised it was just what I wanted. I rented a room beside the beach and spent the evening admiring the beautiful sunset. Chillout time.
Two days later was Christmas day and I was invited to Dave’s friends’ house - a lovely Goan family who were Catholic and therefore celebrated Christmas. We had the most delicious chicken biryani for our lunch - quite different from the usual turkey and trimmings (I must admit I did miss my mum’s roast potatoes and bread sauce though!). Boxing day brought the dreadful earthquake and tsunami. I didn’t know anything about it until the afternoon when Claire texted me saying, "Just heard about the tidal wave, are you okay?". I had thought it was a bit weird that the tide had come in very high twice within about half an hour earlier that day. One of the old fisherman of the village sat rubbing his chin in a perplexed manner and said he’d never seen anything like that in his life. That night at about 10pm I was sitting in the beach restaurant with Richard and Sarah, a couple from Bucks who are holidaying here for a few weeks, and Dave, when suddenly the sea was lapping at our ankles. A few moments later it was knee-deep and we had to move all the furniture out of the restaurant before some of it started floating away. It was the time of the day for high tide and it was very high indeed. Goa was very lucky to escape the devastation of the wave, it is further up the west coast of India and so not in the path of the tsunami, but the tidal surges did take down a few beach huts further along the beach and the sea was pretty rough for a few days afterwards.
A week later Claire arrived from London and I made my way to meet her at the apartment she’d booked which was set right on the Mandovi river with palm trees and a small beach below. It was fantastic to see her after six months and even more fantastic that she had brought a bottle of gin from duty free. Needless to say we got stuck in and spent a couple of hours catching up before heading off for dinner with our neighbours Patty and Sean.
Patty was a character. Early forties but trying desperately not to be, she had regaled us of her life history within the first hour and a half. Motormouth would be an understatement (yes, I know I can talk but she was an Olympic champion and didn’t even come up for air!). Claire and I were relegated to just nodding every now and then and when she asked us a question she wouldn’t wait for our answer before launching off onto the next topic of conversation. We had to laugh when she told us that she’d brought 10 different bikinis (each with matching sarong) and three pairs of tongs, each for a different width of curl, not to mention half of Boots make up and skincare department. After a couple of days we began to start avoiding her though because we couldn’t cope with her non-stop nattering about herself.
Claire and I spent a relaxing two weeks soaking up the sun, having evening drinks on the balcony playing cards and trying out lots of delicious Goan food, with the odd bit of sightseeing here and there. We travelled a couple of hours to some waterfalls where there was a huge pool of water which we jumped into before realising it was freezing. The next day we opted for a leisurely boat trip amongst the mangroves and a bit of crocodile spotting. We saw about three or four huge beasts snoozing in the shade of the trees and a baby one in the water.
Hogmanay saw us put in a respectable performance going to bed at around 5am after a night of dancing and drinking at a club right on the beach. There was millions of stars and almost as many fireworks as the clock struck midnight - up and down the beach for miles rockets were exploding into beautiful displays. New year’s day was a very low key affair, sleeping and venturing to the hotel next door for food but then that is what new year’s day is all about! I took Claire to Asvem, where I had been staying before, for a couple of days and we stayed in a bamboo beach hut. Sadly we didn’t get much sleep that night because the bed was too short for Claire and we both kept getting stuck in the mosquito net. The next night we stayed in a small room on a little hill above the beach but that didn’t give us much of a better night as there was no blanket and it turned a bit chilly. I resorted to using my not very large towel while Claire ended up with all her clothes on and her beach towel over her.
After Claire left I returned to Asvem to my little room beside the beach and resumed the regular routine of breakfasting, lunching and dining with Richard and Sarah, and Guy, a friend of theirs who spends the winter months in Goa each year. Between eating and drinking we spend the day relaxing in the sun and reading - it really is a most agreeable lifestyle and I am intending to keep it that way for another two or three weeks until I head to South Africa for Lisa’s wedding.
I did feel a little guilty intially, that I was chilling at the beach rather than traipsing around seeing India but after six months of being constantly on the road and with four or five months scheduled for exploring Africa, I figured I deserved a bit of relaxation for a few weeks. India's purpose is to help me find inner calm and to that end I have taken up yoga and early morning walks along the beach. Before I fly to Cape Town I am hoping to go to a retreat and complete a ten day meditation course. 10 days of no talking, no smoking, no drinking, no eye contact with anyone and no communication with the outside worl - just meditation. It will either help me find inner calm or it will help me go insane but my brother says I have to do it as he's sure it will provide lots of entertainment for my next diary. You'll just have to wait a few weeks to find out!
