This journey really began when I left Osman at Haridwar Junction on the evening of the 24th of January. He, making his way north on the express to Amritsar then heading for the Wagar (Pakistan-India) border and me catching a later (almost midnight) train, overnight to Delhi.
I traveled first class, mainly because it was the only class left when I booked. First class has it’s ups and downs. I shared a lockable, clean and nicely outfitted cabin with a 37 year old Indian man and a 61 year old Californian (turned Indian) woman. The conversation was intelligent and pleasant, I got a great nights sleep, much good advice and perhaps most importantly, they both knew exactly when I should exit the train. This is a small matter that means so much here, as the stations are poorly sign-posted, the trains are never running to schedule and the porter, when speaking in English, is barely understandable with his thick accent.
So what’s the down side to First Class? I now know what I am missing in second and other lower classes and it’s hard to go back!!!
Once in Delhi I made tracks to the railway station cloakroom. The plan was to stash my large pack there for the day and come back for it before my next train early this evening. At the cloakroom I had the good fortune to meet Rhys. An Englishman with the same plans. His next train leaving 2 hours after mine and going in the same direction, his day as roughly laid out as mine.
Rhys and I spent the day walking around Parahganj, winding through the maze of markets, fighting off rickshaw drivers and resting in the only park that seemed to be open on a Monday. Yes, even the parks, with simple grass for sitting on, are closed one day a week.
At approximately 4:30pm I decided I should head to the station for my 5:40pm train. It had taken us about 10 minutes by rickshaw this morning to get here, so I’d allow double that to get back and still should have time to collect my things from the cloakroom and find my platform… right? Wrong! So wrong!
No rickshaw wanted any part of us. A surreal feeling after spending the day (indeed last 2 weeks) fending them off with a stick. Apparently the traffic was bad and it would take 45 mins to get there. Uh-oh. I ran for the Metro, my last hope. The line to be scanned (as India seemed to be on Amber alert too) was about 150 people long!!!! Another entrance revealed 2 lines. Men and women. The women’s line with just a handful of people in it. The only way to get to the station on time was to leave Rhys and run through. Luckily he had the time to deal with this crisis and we agreed to meet in Jaisalmer in 2 days.
Also luckily, I found a ticket agent who explained the system to me and directed me to the appropriate train, platform and my destination station. Ten rupees and ten minutes later, feeling more like a canned tuna, I was exiting toward the railway station. Phew!
Next stop… cloakroom. It was packed with people! If the Metro had taught me anything, it was pushing and shoving is acceptable behavior. So I did. And pretty soon I was not 30th in line, but I was 2nd! Guilt be gone, I had a train to catch and what if it was actually on time today?!
When the Delhi-Jaisalmer Express did arrive, only 1 hour late, I was ready. Myself and my new English friend Tanya, separated into our respective carriages for the 20+ hour journey. It was getting dark already and I was pretty tired. If only I could find the conductor and confirm my seat number…
One look at his chart confirmed I was actually in the wrong carriage. Second class, air conditioned yes, but apparently this train split in two just down the track and the carriage I was in would be heading to who-knows-where, while the back part of the train, including the other second class carriage, would go to Jaisalmer. Oooops! But how the heck is anyone supposed to know these things? His advice (to me and the other 2 people who had made the same mistake) was to jump out at the next stop and walk 6 carriages down and get in again. Easier said than done.
The train stopped and we jumped out onto the platform. People everywhere, running in all different directions, pitch black and within 30 seconds the “all aboard” whistle was being blown. WTF! I still had at least 4 carriages to run! The race was on… we did our best then dived into the nearest carriage just as the train began to move again. How do these people live like this? After walking through several more carriages I found another conductor, received directions to my berth and collapsed with relief and exhaustion. I had to ask myself if I was really meant to be going to Jaisalmer?… It did seem the universe was conspiring against me.
Lucky again with the company I was to keep, I had landed next to a 24 year old Indian man who lived in Jaisalmer, was a camel safari guide for 14 years and now ran a small guest house. His English was fantastic. (I took his word for it that he also spoke a good deal of French and Korean.) Amin was born in the Thar Desert to a poorer family, he had never attended school and is basically illiterate - but due to his constant tourist contact, has a worldly way about him. We became friends…then I fell asleep.
Seventeen pleasant, but noisy hours later, the train pulled into Jaisalmer Station and I had arrived.
