It was time to leave Agra and the friends I made there.
I took the overnight train to Varanasi. It was not what I expected. There is no railway staff to facilitate boarding and without the help of some wise and cheerful locals, I would still be looking for my seat.
The tracks are in questionable (read “frightening”) condition. During the night there were stretches so bumpy that I was almost tossed from my bunk. In the spirit of “going with the flow”, I held on and pretended that I had a vibrating bed, like a cheap Vegas motel. I got a pretty good massage and even a little bit of sleep.
There was no food or drink available – I went fourteen hours without anything passing my lips.
The Lonely Planet guide raves about Indian railways but I don’t share that view. My train accommodations may seem deluxe to locals, who must define “deluxe” as anything away from the noise and filth of the streets. Water, food and air-conditioning are obviously beyond “deluxe”.
I’ve been battling dehydration and stomach disease since I left home and was hitting a wall as we arrived mid-morning in Varanasi. It has taken forever, but it finally dawned on me: I’m in the Third World! I now know it in my bones.
My hotel failed to send a driver to pick me up at the station as promised. This left me at the mercy of the aggressive horde of drivers, “guides” and other desperate “helpers”. Tired, thirsty, sick and over-heated, I had no one to trust and simply nodded to the first honest face that stepped forward through the glaring humidity.
This caused a riot among the other drivers and we hurried away from the pushing and yelling with my luggage across the parking lot to where my guy’s taxi had been sitting in the sun for hours (or days). The engine would not start. Welcome to the “holy city”.
Who told me to come in September?
