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Location: Agra to Jaipur, North India
A word of warning if you decide to travel by train in India,
because:
Even if a station agent points to the train to confirm the
train is going to Jaipur, even if the train is leaving
from the platform the sign says is going to Jaipur, even if
two conductors (wearing identical Ganesh nametags) tell you
the train is going to Jaipur, even if two passengers nod their
head and confirm the train is going to Jaipur, even if the
only empty seat in the coach matches the one on your ticket
to Jaipur, even if the train is leaving at the exact time
as that is printed on the ticket to Jaipur...DON’T EVEN
THINK ABOUT GETTING ON THE TRAIN!
The morning started with a 5am trudge to find a rickshaw
to catch that 6am train to Jaipur, when I found a driver willing
to go, I told him to go to Agra Fort train station, he answered,
‘Yes sir,' and drove off lurching and jumping over potholes,
swerving around cows, and pedaestrians. Twenty minutes later,
he pulls up at Agra Cantonement station, and the day’s
first misunderstanding unfolded.
‘Your mistake sir,' the driver said, his head rolling
in that half nod half shake that meant everything and absolutely
nothing in India.
‘Look, just go to Agra Fort, I have 10 minutes to catch
my train'.
The head roll again, we lurched off, through herds of cows,
swarming pedestrians and cycle rickshaws ringing their bells.
Pulling up at Agra Fort station, I had exactly four minutes
to catch my train. By the time I had even reached the cars,
sitting on the platform marked in the lobby as the one going
to Jaipur, I had asked four people about the train, including
the two different conductors wearing identical Ganesh nametags.
‘Yes sir,' they said, pointing at the train and smiling.
Reassured, I boarded the car, found my seat empty and sat
down, confirming the destination again with two men sitting
opposite me.
‘Jaipur?'
‘Yes sir.'
The train pulled away almost immediately but ominously, was
heading east, over the bridge, instead of west, where I saw
the Taj Mahal for the second time that morning.
About an hour later, after watching peacocks forage for food
in the dawn light, the conductor came through, and when he
saw my ticket, he started to laugh.
‘You, sir, are on the wrong train.'
‘Where are we going?' I asked, looking out the window,
with the ominous wrong way trundle over the bridge finally
sinking in.
‘Calcutta.'
I smiled ruefully at the two good Samaritans that had confirmed
the train was going to Jaipur. They were now fast asleep.
‘That', the conductor now shouted, pointing at a train
hurtling past, 'is your train to Jaipur.'
It turned out the train was coming FROM Jaipur, and was indeed
heading for, Calcutta, 32 hours away.
Luckily, it wasn’t a super express, and at the next
station, I was unceremoniously dumped off and told to catch
the next train back to Agra. The station, Tundla, not on any
map, nor in any guidebook, and it seemed quite simply that
I had fallen off the map.
When I found the ticket window, it was locked shut (‘A
tea-break will occur at 6.45 to precisely 7.00 each morning',
read the sign over the window.) and encircled in signs written
only in Hindi. It was 7.30 and there was no sign of any movement.
‘Will there be a train to Agra soon?' I asked the only
official standing around.
‘Yes sir', he answered, with the head roll/shake. When
I asked him what time, he then smiled and his English trailed
off.
A predatory crowd of taxi drivers had now gathered, unused
to the sight of a sweating foreigner chucked off the train.
It wasn’t even 8am and it seemed the entertainment had
arrived.
‘How much to Agra? I asked desperately, hoping to at
least have the chance to catch the train I saw fly past, in
case it was delayed in Agra.
'500 rupees,'
'I’ll give you 300.'
The head shake roll again, and we were off, and after throwing
my bag in the back seat of the Ambassador car, the ubiquitous
white taxi driven all over India, we lurched off, now flying
past villages and towns that had each been hijacked by advertisers
that had painted every available wall with lurid advertisements.
It alternated between three: a village plastered with ads
for women’s bras, the next for men’s underwear,
and the last, a village taken over for ads for Kama Sutra
condoms.
45 minutes later we pulled over the bridge in Agra, and I
saw the Taj for the 3rd time that day. Back at the Agra Fort
station, trying to make sense of the next departures, a new
trishaw driver approached me and said it was better to catch
the bus to Jaipur.
“Air conditioned, luxury bus, leave every hour. Get to
Jaipur by 5pm.'
Realizing this would put me into Jaipur at the same time
as my first train would have, I happily obliged, and we ploughed
through the touts outside, the ambling cows, and the crowds,
hopped into his rickshaw, to drive to the bus station. Once
there, it turned out the aircon buses were only leaving overnight,
and the only ones left were rust buckets with half flat tires.
‘Go back to Agra Fort,' I said for the third time that
morning, and all I got was the head shake roll again. So off
we went back to the Agra Fort train station, where I unloaded
my bag and ploughed back through the crowds, the cows, the
touts, and the shouting taxi drivers and found a place in
the line for today’s tickets. I finally did get a ticket
for Jaipur, a half an hour later, leaving in just two hours
time. So I found a bench, and stayed there until the train
did pull in, and luckily, left on time, from the right platform,
and without two identically named conductors named Ganesh
to mislead me.
During my wait, three shoe shine kids felt sorry for me,
and after I pantomimed in hand gestures the back and forth
I had been through since 5am that morning, to make me feel
better, they broke out into a dance routine they had seen
in Namaan, the latest Bollywood blockbuster taking
the country by storm (an army man who is haunted by his evil
twin brother, the movie was actually filmed in Switzerland
to resemble the Himalayas) Also hanging around were two of
the Agra train station crazies (‘Hello, model man' one
called me), a husband and wife team selling newspapers with
their two year old daughter, and a couple of chai vendors
who gave me free cups of tea with sympathy. We laughed at
the stilted Hindi phrases in my guidebook, and they showed
me how to bow correctly to the pictures of gods plastered
on the magazine cart, and was taught a few swear words, which
I had regretfully learned too late, as they would have definitely
come in handy a few hours earlier.
When I finally boarded my train, my makeshift entourage waved
goodbye and as we pulled away, I saw the Taj Mahal for the
4th, and final time that day. |
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