I follow NPR on Facebook, and a story about a 51 yea old Danish woman who was gang raped in New Delhi popped up on my feed this afternoon. The incident took place very close to wear I was staying in Delhi (indeed, the photo used in the story was quite familiar) and, sadly, it wasn’t difficult for me to picture that happening to a woman traveling alone.
Amid the disturbing thoughts of that area of Delhi, I realized that I hadn’t written more or posted more of my India pictures for my small and faithful group of American followers to see. And, given the gray and misty weather here, thoughts of brighter (if sometimes hazy) skies in India from last month sound quite nice. So, onward with some thoughts from my travels.
There is a lot of demand for train tickets – especially tickets for compartments with under six people – in India, and there were no direct trains from Agra to Allahabad, my next destination, available. However, I was able to purchase a ticket from Tundla, which is 30 miles from Agra, to Allahabad, though the train didn’t leave until 11:30pm. This left me with a lot of time to kill on the day of my departure, and with the challenge of getting to a train station 30 miles outside of town at night.
The man who had driven me to the Taj Mahal and Agra Fort told me that he could arrange for a cab to take me to Tundla. I agreed and settled on a price that seemed reasonable for Amsterdam standards, but was probably double what a local would have paid.
I felt a lingering nervousness about that cab ride the entire day. My mind occasionally drifted toward thoughts of how I really had no idea where I was going and who the cab driver scheduled to pick me up was. I didn’t have a cell phone, and no one really knew where I was going or when I’d arrive there. I was traveling at night. The thoughts fluttered across my consciousness throughout the day, and I tried to beat them down with reassurances that the locals would have very little to gain and much to lose through harming me, and...well, that was about it.
I met the driver at his cab on the dusty, loud main road immediately outside of my hotel room at 8:00pm. There was another man in the front passenger seat. The driver told me that this was his brother, who would actually be driving me to Tundla. This subtly raised my hackles, but I went with the flow and got in the front seat as the original driver got out of the car and his brother got behind the wheel.
I talked with the driver about his wife, his kids, Indian cooking, and taxi driving during the drive to Tundla. The doubts in my mind dissipated while talking with the man - he registered as genuine, and interested only in getting me to my destination. And he did after only 45 minutes, which put me at the Tundla rail station around 9:00pm - two and a half hours before my train was scheduled to depart.
When I got out of the cab, young men swarmed around me offering their assistance as porters at the train station. I turned them all down as politely as I could, though I felt some ambivalence in doing so. The little bit of income would have helped someone out quite a bit, but I didn't feel up for the extra hassle of having to negotiate and guard against a scam, and, really, I didn't require any help in carrying my laptop and travelers backpack.
The Tundla rail station did not match my image of a train station, which generally has been formed by experiences in Western European and Japan. The building that housed the ticket counter was filled with people (really, there was no space on chairs or on the ground to sit) who were waiting for the long delayed trains. The single board with train times noted that many departures had been delayed up to eight hours. Everyone from children to elderly women did the best they could with the situation, huddling on the concrete floor under blankets, trying to rest. I was the only non-Indian there, and I drew eyes from whomever I passed.
Since the inside of the building was packed, I waited outside. I placed my backpack on the ground next to a wall, and I sat on it, leaning against the wall behind me. I had packed an English language Indian newspaper from the hotel, and I read it for the second, third, and forth time as the time passed. The air outside was hazy and smelled like burning cooking oil. Several of the men outside spit something dark and thick on the ground - something similar to chewing tobacco. Rats ran through the shadows across the sidewalk, and insects scurried along the pavement.
The time went by surprisingly fast and, mercifully, my train was not delayed. The situation had been interesting - I imagine I would have described it differently had it lasted another six hours.
And, after the two hour wait, and my only interactions being more offers from "porters," I was approached by two boys as I waited for the train on the platform. They were both around 16, and they ran toward me from a crowded train that was stopping at the platform for two or three minutes before continuing. One of them asked me, cautiously, "My friend wants to know how he can learn English better." I smiled, genuinely, at them and thought for a minute before saying "Go to YouTube.com and search for English lessons." They didn't look all that satisfied with the answer, but they thanked me and sprinted back to their train, which was already in motion for departure.
And then, the next six hours were in a cramped sleeping compartment (though, really, there was no sleeping involved for me) before I arrived in Allahabad, bright and early at 5:30am.
