Northward Bound

The time had come to bid farewell to the South. I had spent two months discovering many wonders, but encountering few if any other travelers, and to my surprise and consternation, no Israelis. As much as I hate to admit it, I actually missed them. Traveling in India makes them better people, albeit from a rather low starting point.

Knowing full well that every rupee scrimped in travel costs in this country is a tear shed, I resolved to spare no expense on my cross-country journey. I hired a private taxi from Pondicherry all the way to Chennai airport. And for Rs 1600, I didn't think to insist on air conditioning.

All of India that week was engulfed in a dreadful pre-monsoon heat wave, with average temperatures in the 40 degree Celcius range. In the event, the drive was very pleasant. There's nothing I love more than driving along country roads, taking in the lush scenery, honking for cows and goats, and listening to Tamil movie music on the stereo. We had all the windows down, and I was even treated to a phone call from my dearest friend Liora in Sydney, Australia.

Everything was nearly perfect, until we got to Chennai, easily my least favorite metro in this country. Wouldn't you know it, we got stuck in traffic. Searing heat, dieself fumes, ensuing headache, and a trip that was meant to be under two hours stretched to beyond three. Suddenly, we turned a corner, and we were in the airport complex, just like that.

Unsurprisingly, Jet Airways offered the best flight at the best time; truly my favorite airline in India. Arriving a neat two and half hours later in the sweltering Delhi heat, I made a point of spending (this time wisely) Rs 800 for an air conditioned taxi to the Main Bazaar, the tourist haunt across from the central train station.

After checking in to a most uninspiring hotel, though having my first air conditioned room since Bombay two months previously, I marched over to the train station, intent on buying the most expensive ticket I could to Haridwar, air conditioned and first class. I went to the inquiries wicket. There was a policeman wielding a lathi to make sure that everyone stood in line properly. Strangely, I found this comforting. It took about ten minutes to get to the front of the queue, only to find out that I had to go to the reservations center, some 500 meters away.

Off I went diligently. I was greeted by a sign informing me that I had to get a form, and of course fill it out in order to get the ticket of my choice. This I found strange. In every other country I've been to, and it is reasonable to say that I've done my fair share of globetrotting, my experience of purchasing train tickets has always been to simply get to the wicket, state destination, class and date, pay the fee and get my ticket. Not so in Delhi. I'd like to tell some Indian in a position of power that the stifling and illogical bureaucracy to which this country is so addicted is a huge obstacle to its development. It is both frustrating to its victims, and self defeating for its perpetrators.
There were many line ups. I didn't know which was the right one for me. I went to the far end and found a woman busy doing data entry on a system from at least 25 years back (now the form-filling made a bit more sense). "Excuse me," I began, "but could you tell me if there's a special line up for international travelers?" as the Lonely Planet had indicated. She didn't even look up. I tried again. I decided that the best approach would be to continue my entreaties in a polite but firm manner. Just the same, in the heat, after a long day, I decided to run a query in my mind's database of curses, just in case.

SQL
get * from insults to female bureaucrats where
"sow, bitchslap, hellfire, bile marinade" figure

Before the results of the query came back (my CPU was apparently overloaded), she looked up, condescendingly of course, and told me that any line would be fine. So I picked one pretty much at random, and waited, yet again, for the better part of 45 minutes. Finally it was my turn. I indicated that I needed to go to Haridwar the following morning, first class AC. The clerk knew no English, which also seemed an impediment to his processing the form. After some time, I got a ticket, paid a ridiculous Rs 825 for a 250 km journey, checked the details, and went to do my evening rounds (haircut and dinner).

On the morrow, I was up at 5:30 for my 6:55 train. Lugging my 20 kg backpack, but full of piss and vinegar, I eventually found the train, car and seat as was printed on my ticket. There was a child in the seat next to mine. He looked quite perplexed. An adult close by asked to see my ticket. I was in the right seat. Another man put on reading glasses and inspected it closely. After a few moments, he showed me that it was for June 30th (this was the 12th). I found the conductor, who accompanied me outside, where I had a controled explosion.

There was no way in God's country that I was not going to travel on that train in that car. Fortunately for me, Indian Railways conductors are notoriously corrupt. For Rs 2000, I could ride. While this was now becoming a shockingly expensive trip, I was heartened to find out that I could have my original ticket refunded upon arrival at Haridwar. I made a mental note to make only one attempt and just absorb the loss if the refund business proved too trying.

I sat down. The train slid out of the station more or less on time, and after a spell, the steward, who had BO wafting from him, brought out tea, served in passable bone china. Later there was mango juice in crystal glasses. This was first class. I could always tell when the steward was approaching with additional edibles, as I could smell him at something of a distance. Not a great association for food, but I was happy to be on my way.

Some five hours later (making for an average speed of 50 km/h) we arrived at Haridwar. I stood in two line ups to attempt to get my refund. At the end of the second one, I decided to insist. I was pointed to the manager's office. I went in and stated my case. He took me around back where I was sure to make a nuisance of myself, and after only about ten minutes, I had Rs 750 in my hand. I was so pleased that I decided that I wouldn't make a stink about the cancellation fee.

Having spent several times the monthly minimum wage to get this far, when offered an autorickshaw for the last leg to Rishikesh, 25 km away, at only Rs 50, it sounded too good to be true. That was because I thought I'd be traveling alone. Alas, the rikshaws in these parts are for six passengers. In the event, they crammed 13 of us, plus driver and conductor hanging out the side. I was smooshed, but in good spirits and was taken by my first glimpse of the Ganges river.

It is possible to love and hate a country simultaneously, not unlike a spouse at the end of a collapsing relationship, when the life support has finally been unplugged. I hate India whenever I have to go anywhere. But I invariably love it upon arrival. Rishikesh was engaging, and many wonders awaited me.