What was your favourite moment?
Dom: I think my favourite moment was on the toy train. I woke from a daze and there was a boy asleep on my shoulder, I looked out of the window and all you could see was mist, trees and hills. I'd been waiting to visit those hills for a long time and they more than lived up to their reputation.
Ewan: There were many amazing moments in India. It's a country with the ability to conjure up emotions on every corner. The strongest of these I felt when visiting the Taj Mahal. It's hard to describe the effect on me it had. A moment of pure tranquility despite the tourists. Good photographic opportunities as well.
Tom: Definitely the toy train, the least touristy thing we did. Sunrise over the hills and stopping at the random stations was amazing.
George: Sitting in Jäger Fort in Jaipur was where I first felt properly relaxed. It was the first bit of quiet we'd had for about two weeks and it made such a difference. And there were monkeys. Monkeys are always good.
What was your overall impression of the country?
Dom: It's clearly a developing country that needs a lot of work. I'd probably only go back to Rajasthan, it was a bit cleaner than Mumbai and Agra and felt more like traditional India. The divide in wealth can be a bit annoying, there are people living in mansions next to people on the street, but I suppose that's what it's like in developing countries.
Ewan: My main impression of India is it's diversity. There were no two places alike. Variety is everywhere. From the slums of Mumbai, to the dramatic heights of Shimla and the camels stomping ground in Rajasthan. All interlaced with old British infrastructure. A vast realm filled with millions of people.
Tom: A country in dire need of a bath, especially the further south you go. I like the history, some of the forts in Jaipur were great, but Agra and Delhi left a lot to be desired.
George: India is such a large country and there's so much variation in it. No two places we went were the same and I feel if we'd kept going we'd have found even more differences. Doing India in two weeks is a bit like trying to do Europe in two weeks. Just not possible.
What was the food like?
Dom: A major disappointment for me. Renowned for it's curries and spices, but none of us really found a spectacular dish anywhere. Maybe we didn't go to the right places, but with everything so dirty it can be hard to know where the right places are.
Ewan: Despite the diversity of the country the food remained more or less the same throughout. I always try to taste a bit of everything (even lamb brain curry), but even so the repetitiveness of the food was starting to grow tiresome even for me.
Tom: I thought the food was good, the tandori mixed grill was one of the best I've ever had and the lamb brain curry was a completely new taste sensation.
George: Too much spice for me. I like Indian food from time to time, but I found it hard to deal with spicy food for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
What was your opinion of the people?
Dom: A male dominated society and very money orientated. No one does anything for nothing. People can be very sweet but then they ask for a tip, and in our UK culture those two things don't go hand in hand. It can be quite annoying.
Ewan: Very friendly people but only for a price. I never really felt like I connected properly with the community in general. It's all so money orientated.
Tom: It depends on where you are. The people of Jaipur were very nice barring a few nutters. The people in Mumbai were great during the festival, but at other times they hassle you constantly. And there are always people after your money.
George: You do feel rather conspicuous walking around the big Indian cities. It's like you have a big neon sign over your head reading 'ATM'. Everybody presses you for money, and any means are acceptable. The culture just accepts that it's OK and normal to overcharge and cheat if you can get away with it. I didn't like that too much.
Do you have a tourist tip?
Dom: Never stay in hostels in India, stick to the hotels. There's no need to book in advance though, there are always decent rooms to be found everywhere.
Ewan: Try some samosas for breakfast.
Tom: They need to make 100% bacteria killing hand gel. I used my 99% all the time but you can never be totally sure you're clean.
George: Don't worry too much about the money grabbing side of life. If you go through your trip willing to spend a bit more, willing to not fight over every little coin, and willing to not feel cheated when you pay more than someone else, then you will have a much more relaxing and enjoyable trip. By all means join in and have a bit of fun bartering with the locals, but do it for fun, don't expect to get a really cheap price.
What was the scariest moment?
Dom: when we got back to Andheri station on day one and I had to get back to the hostel on a tuk tuk with a non-uniformed driver. When he started taking the backstreets and weaving in and out of the crazy traffic, at night, with people stopping us on the road to reach into the tuk tuk and beg, that was not our most comfortable journey.
Ewan: Our 9 hour drive to new Delhi from Shimla was suicidal. The roads are complete chaos.
Tom: Speeding up towards an oncoming bus on the wrong side of the road with nowhere else to go. Scary as Hell.
George: Driving in general, but specifically the drive from Shimla to Delhi. Our driver Kaka went a little mad on the mountain roads and more than once I thought we were going over the edge, or alternatively, straight into an oncoming truck. And then over the edge.
Would you go back?
Dom: Not for a long time but yes to Rajasthan.
Ewan: So much has been left uncovered on our expedition. Rajasthan was a thrilling highlight and Shimla was stunning. Both would get a return visit. However, I still found parts of India difficult to adjust to. I can't see myself visiting again in the near future.
Tom: To Jaipur and Shimla yes, but nowhere else.
George: India as a country wouldn't pull me back, but there are some cities I wouldn't mind seeing. Boating down the river Ganges to Varanasi appeals, but if I did come back I think I would concentrate my visit in just that one area. Somewhere different, not the same places again.
Wednesday 5 October 2011
The Toy Train To The Top
Ewan:
We stepped onto the platform at Kalka with the morning glow backlighting the hills in the distance. It was very early. We had our 2nd class cabin tickets (the cheapest ones), and we stumbled down the platform looking for our carriage.
This was the 'Toy Train' to Shimla, a town up in the Indian Himalayan hills to the north. We'd specifically singled out this journey as being a big highlight of our trip and were eager to get going. The carriages were slightly smaller than the usual Indian ones but to be fair, far outgrew their 'Toy' label. About ten of these carriages were pulled by a single Diesel Locomotive, which had dirty black smoke stains down it's flank. If you missed the first train at 05:30, you could catch the second at 06:00. We were on the latter.
The whistle blew and with a jolt, off we went.
Our carriage was filled with people; a large majority of which were Indian holiday makers. Opposite me sat two young Indian ladies with a daughter each on their laps. The two girls stared out the window wide-eyed as the countryside swept past.
As with most trains in India, there weren't really any doors as such, or if there were, they wouldn't be closed. This meant that Tom and myself were free to hang onto the siderail as we leaned out to get the best view. Occasionally we'd have to duck our heads back in as a tunnel loomed into view (of which there are 102 tunnels on this journey), but as the train travels uphill, it was slow enough to be safe.
We watched as the sun rose. The shiny silver tracks of the railway sliced through the forest and up the mountains. Behind us you could see the rails glistening in the sun, meandering like a snake's tail down below.
It was hugely picturesque. Everyone crammed against the windows to take it in. All except for one Indian boy, who had fallen asleep on Dom's shoulder...
* * *
George:
"Damnit. Tree." I flicked through the last ten pictures I'd taken to reveal a nice collection of tree and tunnel shots, but not a single picture of the spectacular hillscape behind. Taking a decent picture out the door of a moving, climbing, rattling and rocking train that is constantly twisting up an overgrown hillside, is not the easiest thing to achieve. Ewan, Tom, two Ukrainian girls, an Indian man and myself were all taking turns at the door to try and capture the landscape, but with limited success. Ewan took to filming the roof of the train because at least that way no trees could get in the way.
It was a rare opportunity then when the train slowed up and finally came to rest at one of only four stops on our five our jaunt into the hills. A train station, if you can call it that, in the middle of nowhere selling drinks, pancakes and samosas. Everyone disembarked straight onto the track, because there were no platforms, and ran around to grab food and take snaps devoid of foreground plant life before the train moved off again. Luckily each stop lasted about 15 minutes so there was plenty of time, but even so you had to be careful. None of us were caught out, but the train could start moving at any moment, and with very little warning. One of the Ukrainian girls literally had to be hauled onto the train as it left the end of one platform, legs dangling over the track, hillside dropping away fast, food scattered all over the floor and only held on board by about 14 men who had suddenly decided it was their job to help out. Nothing like a woman falling off a mountain to bring out the Macho side of an entire carriage.
"Oh Crap." I heard Tom say, and I couldn't help but smile as I saw him deleting pictures of trees.
* * *
Ewan:
Five hours of spectacular countryside later we all were left wondering rather where the time had gone. We pulled in at Shimla Station deeply satisfied and ready to see more. We dropped our bags off at the hotel, which had spectacular views from it's restaurant, and walked towards the town center.
It is astonishing how European Shimla is! It was mainly built by the Brits in the mid 1800's but it has a more Austrian/Swiss feel to it. They did a good job of it too; there was not a single piece of flat ground to be seen for miles. Buildings everywhere had been constructed on some sort of slope or improbable mountain edge. Walking around it was quite surreal. A European hillside town with local Indians strutting along the streets. It had a pleasant feel to it. Near and around the centre, everybody walked. No cars, no traffic, no horns. What's more, nobody seemed to mind. Everyone was quite content to walk to their destination. Some tourists were even on horseback!
Sticking to the European theme, a church stood across from the town square. We went in to see what it was like, and found that a few people were in there to pray. It seemed like any other church you would visit, except playing on a PA was some strange 'background' music. It certainly wasn't your normal church soundtrack. We left.
* * *
George:
As darkness descended quickly in the mountains, Ewan and I finally acknowledged that the steps we were on, were not the steps back down to the hotel. The town of Shimla sat behind us, a night light on the hillside, and ahead the path started to wind and disappear into the valley, swallowed instantly by the night. After our indie-pop church experience Tom and Dom had stayed in the town to get pizza while we'd started straight back. But given the length of time it had taken us so far just to get lost, the others might well get back to the hotel before us, which would be unfortunate as I had the only key to the room. Ewan and I turned around and started tramping back up the way we'd just come, slightly faster than before.
There are no tuk tuks in Shimla. No taxis or rikshaws. For the past 40 minutes Ewan and I had been walking down largely deserted roads and narrow alleyways which criss crossed their way accross the hills in a most confusing fashion. At intervalls along the roads narrow stone steps brached off down the cliff face, dodging between tall stone houses and diminutive wooden sheds before quickly vanishing from view. One of these staircases had been the one we'd walked up from the hotel earlier, but as the sun was setting behind the ridge in the distance all the staircases began to look the same. There were very few signs or billboards promoting hotel names, and almost no-one to ask. All we had to go on was our memory of roughly where on the hill our hotel should be.
As we walked it was interesting to see the night life of a mountain town swing into action. In the town center there were bars and clubs such as you might find in a small seaside town in the UK. A tacky rollerblading rink with the whiff of a Great Yarmouth pleasure beach. But on the outskirts things were a lot quieter, and a beautiful mix of cultures. Softly lit European architecture supplying the backdrop with fairy lit fruit stalls and brightly coloured fabric vendors providing the local colour. Maybe it was just nice to have a taste of home, but the European influence, the lower temperature, the lack of crowds and the cleaner air really gave shimla a relaxing feel. Ewan and I were completely lost in an unknown town with night falling around us, but neither of us felt at all ill at ease. In fact I was probably the most relaxed I'd been anywhere in India.
Another half hours worth of completely random but very pleasant sauntering, and a complete fluke of a choice of road led Ewan and I straight into the open arms of our hotel foyer. Tom and Dom had yet to return, clearly having got lost somewhere else in the maze of carbon copy roads and staircases, the hotel equivalent of Where's Wally.
As Ewan and I settled down for the night under torch light, (what we were beginning to suspect was a rolling power cut had knocked out the whole block for the third time that night), both of us felt that we could easily have spent more time in Shimla, though one could have a similar holiday in a dozen places in Europe. Our very fleeting visit had been concentrated on the train journey more than the town at its end, and the next morning we would have to set off early to make our way back to Delhi and then on to Kathmandu. But despite the days of travel, and the short time in the town, Shimla was definitely worth a visit. An entirely different India again, a reminder of our own countries part in its history, and a beautiful image with which to leave a vast and incredibly variable country.
Tuesday 4 October 2011
Blow Horn
If the taxi trip from Agra to Delhi yielded anything interesting, anything at all apart from mile after mile of village dotted arid scrub land, then I'm afraid it rather passed me by. The road and the miles slipped on by with only the occasional body numbing jolt to break the monotony. All four of us took to playing Risk on Ewan's I-phone to pass the time. Dom, never having played the game before, found himself to be disturbingly good at it and so the six hour drive passed relatively quickly and uneventfully as we all tried to figure out how to stop him winning for a fourth game in a row.
In the background, and slowly as if creeping up on us, Delhi announced itself with gradually increasing traffic and a selection of wide open, decently maintained tree lined streets that stretched themselves into the distance. If Mumbai, Jaipur and Agra had shown us three different India's so far then Delhi must be the fourth point of that same compass. A city with nothing to contain it, the commodity that Delhi does best in is space. Everywhere you look there are wide streets, squares, parks, shopping malls and clear skys.
Out taxi deftly navigated us through the traffic to our overnight stop in Delhi, the Prince Polonia hotel. It appeared electrical fire free, so we accepted it as an improvement on Agra, dropped our stuff, asked the hotel to book us a train to Kalka for the following day and set out to see a little of the city.
Delhi had never really been a major stopping point on out trip, more of a rest stop as we plough on north into the Himalayan foothills. While it's the capital of India it actually offers surprisingly little in the way of new experiences or cultural insight. In fact in many ways it's exactly like any of the major European cities with nothing but the traffic and the heat to set it apart. All the shops sported western brands, levis, reebok, nike, and so did the people shopping in them. Even, for once, the prices were similar to those you might find in the UK.
For dinner we had the choice of italian, Spanish, Chinese, and about ten other nationalities of food and we, only semi accidentally, ended up in a Mexican restaurant where the waiters wore cowboy hats and boots and Totenham were playing Stoke on the plasma screen tv. Delhi didn't really feel like India at all. Absent was the hassle. Absent were the beggars and absent were the crushing crowds of people. Absent were the piles of rubbish and absent were the funny smells. Absent were the street markets and the shanty houses. Absent were the potholes and absent were the cattle herders in the street. In their place was Delhi. A modern city. And that about sums it up. Our train was booked for the following evening and none of us had any regrets that we had no more time to spend looking around. Would we come back to Delhi? Yes, but we'd bring something to do with us.
***
It turns out that to bring out the true Indian culture in Delhi requires a morning, a brief wander, and a visit to tourist information. A grubby looking building hidden away on a side street one might be forgiven for thinking the official government tourist information centre was just another white goods store on a random street in Delhi. But a little sign in the window and above the door announced it's true identity and we all pressed ourselves inside in the hope of planning out our next few days.
All in all I rank the experience of sitting in that tourist information office as one of the most thouroughly confusing and socially unbalancing experiences in my life to date. Two men appeared almost instantly by our sides. Two such different men as it would be hard to imagine. One tall and thin, a smiling face under a big black beard wearing a casual t-shirt and jeans who approached us with open arms and greeted us in a ridiculously high but husky voice, like someone who's just about to lose the power of speech, or someone who's just got it back. The second man was short and rotund, clean shaven with very little hair at all to be seen and a gruff business like manner which all but saw us pushed us into his office without even the chance of a backwards glance.
"Hello," said the first, "my name is Touramassaratal...." and at that point we all looked at him incredulously as he reeled off a further 16 syllables before stopping. There was only a moments silence before, cool as you like, Dom went right ahead with, "sorry could you repeat that?" and recieved a second soundbyte that confirmed to all of us that we stood no chance of ever even repeating this name let alone remembering it. Unfortunately, etiquette dictates that after you've asked for, and recieved, three repetitions of a name in a row, you have to stop asking and just give it a shot with whatever you can remember. The look on Doms face rather revealled that he knew that very well, and after pushing for a fourth repetition the rest of us sat back to see if he would a) give a valiant but plainly hopeless attempt at pronouncing the name, b) ask for what would be an incredibly awkward fifth repetition, or c) nod politely, say "nice to meet you" and try to move on quickly.
"Touratala..." oh dear. Gales of laughter so husky it could pull a sled. Infectious as well and we all found ourselves joining in. The man sounded extactly like mutley.
"Touramasat... Toramattalan... Touritasal... he waved at Dom to stop from behind a wide grin.
Leaning in conspiratorially he said quietly, "it means, the man who is the person who makes everybody smile." The rest of us laughed as Dom tried to make out that he of course knew very well that that wasn't his REAL name and the conversation moved on with all of us looking at each other smiling awkwardly.
And then the other, rounder gentleman told us that our hotel had charged us double for our train tickets, that we should cancel them as soon as possible, and the smiles disappeared.
I wont go into the details of what was a very long and in depth conversation about just how our hotel had swindled us. The rotund man rattled on at a hell of a pace, tapping away at a computer older than the building it was in and showing us screen after screen of numbers and train timetables. There were numbers we could call and companies we could chase up and so on, and on, and on. We all listened as closely as we could, slowly growing more and more incensed as it became obvious that our hotel had played us for the tourist fools we were. It's true that when in India you always find yourself playing a game of 'who to trust most', but a government tourist information official backed up by the official Indian railways website is hard to argue with. Especially when your train ticket has, clearly marked on it, that it's gone through a package tour operator you've never heard of for a cost of 300 rupees apiece.
Now £4 each is not a massive amount of money to be cheated out of I grant you, but it was more the principle than the cost that made us cancel the ticket, and by this point we were starting to think that the train might not be the best option anyway. At this point our keyboard bashing friend was outlining another, much more expensive, better, but more expensive, more reliable, but at the end of the day slightly more expensive option. An option which, funnily enough, we now needed because we'd gone right ahead and cancelled that train ticket.
"Do. you. like. fishing?" inquired a pair of massive bushy eyebrows from the doorway. All of us turn and wonder if we are going to have to pronounce the names of fish now.
"I can get any fish I want." said the eyebrows suggestively. "you want me to teach you?" His nudge nudge wink wink manner made it painfully obvious that we were now involved in the kind of extended fish metaphor that none of us could possibly have anticipated.
"Er..."
"Each fish is different, you have to use a different line on each one, but for every fish there is a line that will work. You know?"
We all clearly responded in the affirmative.
"Aaah you see you know! This way you can catch lots of fish. Just using the right line!" said the eyebrows, dancing disturbingly.
"What do you fish for?" said Tom in an attempt to break free from a bad metaphor.
"Trout." said the eyebrows.
"Ah. Well. Ok then." A pause. "We don't like trout really do we guys?" We all shook our heads. "We more prefer...err...well...." Tom was struggling, "Cod?"
"Women," interjected Ewan.
"Yes. Women." we all agreed. This conversation was, if such a thing were possible, getting stranger.
"I have caught many a trout you know?" he extended the word know for far too long and then started laughing while making playful winks at us. "I used a different line for each one, tailor made for the time you know?."
"You should just use a net," I said. "It'd be more efficient if you want to catch lots of trout." Pretty much I was taking the fish metaphor and running with it. But eyebrows didn't seem impressed.
"No!" he cried in mock despair throwing an arm around my shoulders and turning to the others with a pleading look. "A net!? No! You guys have to teach him you know?"
At this point Tom, Dom and Ewan were struggling to hide laughter as they watched me gently and surreptitiously try and duck out from under the arm. But all of them nodded their agreement.
"You see!!!!" sad eyebrows turning on me. "You don't use a net! Promise me you won't!"
"Oh.. OK...." I stammer before Dom helpfully interrupted with, "He already has a girlfriend." Eyebrows looked at me incredulously.
"You have a picture? Of course you do. Show me show me." I obediently got out a picture and showed it to him. He glanced at it for a second.
"She's not my type," he handed the picture back abruptly, leaving me once again grappling with a conversation that didn't seem to follow any of the normal rules.
"Well she is mine? I assume I'm allowed to think that?" but eyebrows was no longer listening.
"You want to see a proper girl? Here." he flipped open his wallet to show a girl who, with all the best intentions, looked quite a lot like a trout.
In a quite touching display of solidarity all of us at the same time declared that she was "not our type". But eyebrows didn't seem to register anything, he just took the picture back and walked towards the door with that huge grin still fixed to his face.
"You wouldn't get that with a net!" He shouted over his shoulder as he left.
We turned back to the man at the computer who was wearing a beautiful expression which said "please just do as I tell you and pay me money before he comes in again." So that's exactly what we did.
***
Once again we found ourselves in a taxi driving north. Once again risk was keeping us entertained. And our new driver was called Kaka, which thanks to a rather famous Brazilian footballer, we all found, for once, easy to remember.
The road north out of Delhi is a massive eight lane highway spoilt only by the roadworks spread right along it's length. Periods of easy running on flat Tarmac are sporadically broken as four lanes cram down to one dirt track and everyone swerves right off the road to avoid the massive rises of earth and machinery. These regular lane squashings seem to provide the Indian drivers with a much needed opportunity to exercise their horn skills, and everyone merges together onto the track without even slowing down.
The horn in India is a completely different beast to the horn in the uk. In India a short blast on the horn hides a whole language of different meanings depending on the situation. It can cover everything from "get out of my way" to "hello please don't crush me", from "I'm just about to undertake you at speed" to "watch out! Your cow is in the wrong lane." It's used at a standstill and at 90 miles an hour. It's used when the car ahead is clearly unable to move due to traffic. And it's used when there are no cars ahead, just to make sure it stays that way.
All the big lorries that crowd the near lane have "blow horn" painted onto the rear doors. The idea stems from the fact that nobody here ever checks their mirrors before pulling out of their lane. The blind spot on indian cars is everything not through the front windscreen. If you don't blow your horn when overtaking a truck it's liable to pull out for no reason and crush you, and the truck driver will argue that if you didn't want to be crushed, you should have made a noise.
Kaka, thankfully, had absolutely no trouble using his horn and so for the long drive up to Chandigarh where we were staying the night, crushing was avoided at the expense of our ear drums.
Settling down for another single night stay at yet another hotel it was odd to reflect that earlier that day the plan had been to get a train from Delhi. Somehow that seemed a long time ago. But in the end everything had worked out well enough so far. We even had pre-booked toy train tickets for the next day. The 5 and a half hour train had ended up costing us less than a pound each.
At that cost we would happily have paid double. But we thought it best not to pry too deeply into our expenditure this time around. Just in case.
George
In the background, and slowly as if creeping up on us, Delhi announced itself with gradually increasing traffic and a selection of wide open, decently maintained tree lined streets that stretched themselves into the distance. If Mumbai, Jaipur and Agra had shown us three different India's so far then Delhi must be the fourth point of that same compass. A city with nothing to contain it, the commodity that Delhi does best in is space. Everywhere you look there are wide streets, squares, parks, shopping malls and clear skys.
Out taxi deftly navigated us through the traffic to our overnight stop in Delhi, the Prince Polonia hotel. It appeared electrical fire free, so we accepted it as an improvement on Agra, dropped our stuff, asked the hotel to book us a train to Kalka for the following day and set out to see a little of the city.
Delhi had never really been a major stopping point on out trip, more of a rest stop as we plough on north into the Himalayan foothills. While it's the capital of India it actually offers surprisingly little in the way of new experiences or cultural insight. In fact in many ways it's exactly like any of the major European cities with nothing but the traffic and the heat to set it apart. All the shops sported western brands, levis, reebok, nike, and so did the people shopping in them. Even, for once, the prices were similar to those you might find in the UK.
For dinner we had the choice of italian, Spanish, Chinese, and about ten other nationalities of food and we, only semi accidentally, ended up in a Mexican restaurant where the waiters wore cowboy hats and boots and Totenham were playing Stoke on the plasma screen tv. Delhi didn't really feel like India at all. Absent was the hassle. Absent were the beggars and absent were the crushing crowds of people. Absent were the piles of rubbish and absent were the funny smells. Absent were the street markets and the shanty houses. Absent were the potholes and absent were the cattle herders in the street. In their place was Delhi. A modern city. And that about sums it up. Our train was booked for the following evening and none of us had any regrets that we had no more time to spend looking around. Would we come back to Delhi? Yes, but we'd bring something to do with us.
***
It turns out that to bring out the true Indian culture in Delhi requires a morning, a brief wander, and a visit to tourist information. A grubby looking building hidden away on a side street one might be forgiven for thinking the official government tourist information centre was just another white goods store on a random street in Delhi. But a little sign in the window and above the door announced it's true identity and we all pressed ourselves inside in the hope of planning out our next few days.
All in all I rank the experience of sitting in that tourist information office as one of the most thouroughly confusing and socially unbalancing experiences in my life to date. Two men appeared almost instantly by our sides. Two such different men as it would be hard to imagine. One tall and thin, a smiling face under a big black beard wearing a casual t-shirt and jeans who approached us with open arms and greeted us in a ridiculously high but husky voice, like someone who's just about to lose the power of speech, or someone who's just got it back. The second man was short and rotund, clean shaven with very little hair at all to be seen and a gruff business like manner which all but saw us pushed us into his office without even the chance of a backwards glance.
"Hello," said the first, "my name is Touramassaratal...." and at that point we all looked at him incredulously as he reeled off a further 16 syllables before stopping. There was only a moments silence before, cool as you like, Dom went right ahead with, "sorry could you repeat that?" and recieved a second soundbyte that confirmed to all of us that we stood no chance of ever even repeating this name let alone remembering it. Unfortunately, etiquette dictates that after you've asked for, and recieved, three repetitions of a name in a row, you have to stop asking and just give it a shot with whatever you can remember. The look on Doms face rather revealled that he knew that very well, and after pushing for a fourth repetition the rest of us sat back to see if he would a) give a valiant but plainly hopeless attempt at pronouncing the name, b) ask for what would be an incredibly awkward fifth repetition, or c) nod politely, say "nice to meet you" and try to move on quickly.
"Touratala..." oh dear. Gales of laughter so husky it could pull a sled. Infectious as well and we all found ourselves joining in. The man sounded extactly like mutley.
"Touramasat... Toramattalan... Touritasal... he waved at Dom to stop from behind a wide grin.
Leaning in conspiratorially he said quietly, "it means, the man who is the person who makes everybody smile." The rest of us laughed as Dom tried to make out that he of course knew very well that that wasn't his REAL name and the conversation moved on with all of us looking at each other smiling awkwardly.
And then the other, rounder gentleman told us that our hotel had charged us double for our train tickets, that we should cancel them as soon as possible, and the smiles disappeared.
I wont go into the details of what was a very long and in depth conversation about just how our hotel had swindled us. The rotund man rattled on at a hell of a pace, tapping away at a computer older than the building it was in and showing us screen after screen of numbers and train timetables. There were numbers we could call and companies we could chase up and so on, and on, and on. We all listened as closely as we could, slowly growing more and more incensed as it became obvious that our hotel had played us for the tourist fools we were. It's true that when in India you always find yourself playing a game of 'who to trust most', but a government tourist information official backed up by the official Indian railways website is hard to argue with. Especially when your train ticket has, clearly marked on it, that it's gone through a package tour operator you've never heard of for a cost of 300 rupees apiece.
Now £4 each is not a massive amount of money to be cheated out of I grant you, but it was more the principle than the cost that made us cancel the ticket, and by this point we were starting to think that the train might not be the best option anyway. At this point our keyboard bashing friend was outlining another, much more expensive, better, but more expensive, more reliable, but at the end of the day slightly more expensive option. An option which, funnily enough, we now needed because we'd gone right ahead and cancelled that train ticket.
"Do. you. like. fishing?" inquired a pair of massive bushy eyebrows from the doorway. All of us turn and wonder if we are going to have to pronounce the names of fish now.
"I can get any fish I want." said the eyebrows suggestively. "you want me to teach you?" His nudge nudge wink wink manner made it painfully obvious that we were now involved in the kind of extended fish metaphor that none of us could possibly have anticipated.
"Er..."
"Each fish is different, you have to use a different line on each one, but for every fish there is a line that will work. You know?"
We all clearly responded in the affirmative.
"Aaah you see you know! This way you can catch lots of fish. Just using the right line!" said the eyebrows, dancing disturbingly.
"What do you fish for?" said Tom in an attempt to break free from a bad metaphor.
"Trout." said the eyebrows.
"Ah. Well. Ok then." A pause. "We don't like trout really do we guys?" We all shook our heads. "We more prefer...err...well...." Tom was struggling, "Cod?"
"Women," interjected Ewan.
"Yes. Women." we all agreed. This conversation was, if such a thing were possible, getting stranger.
"I have caught many a trout you know?" he extended the word know for far too long and then started laughing while making playful winks at us. "I used a different line for each one, tailor made for the time you know?."
"You should just use a net," I said. "It'd be more efficient if you want to catch lots of trout." Pretty much I was taking the fish metaphor and running with it. But eyebrows didn't seem impressed.
"No!" he cried in mock despair throwing an arm around my shoulders and turning to the others with a pleading look. "A net!? No! You guys have to teach him you know?"
At this point Tom, Dom and Ewan were struggling to hide laughter as they watched me gently and surreptitiously try and duck out from under the arm. But all of them nodded their agreement.
"You see!!!!" sad eyebrows turning on me. "You don't use a net! Promise me you won't!"
"Oh.. OK...." I stammer before Dom helpfully interrupted with, "He already has a girlfriend." Eyebrows looked at me incredulously.
"You have a picture? Of course you do. Show me show me." I obediently got out a picture and showed it to him. He glanced at it for a second.
"She's not my type," he handed the picture back abruptly, leaving me once again grappling with a conversation that didn't seem to follow any of the normal rules.
"Well she is mine? I assume I'm allowed to think that?" but eyebrows was no longer listening.
"You want to see a proper girl? Here." he flipped open his wallet to show a girl who, with all the best intentions, looked quite a lot like a trout.
In a quite touching display of solidarity all of us at the same time declared that she was "not our type". But eyebrows didn't seem to register anything, he just took the picture back and walked towards the door with that huge grin still fixed to his face.
"You wouldn't get that with a net!" He shouted over his shoulder as he left.
We turned back to the man at the computer who was wearing a beautiful expression which said "please just do as I tell you and pay me money before he comes in again." So that's exactly what we did.
***
Once again we found ourselves in a taxi driving north. Once again risk was keeping us entertained. And our new driver was called Kaka, which thanks to a rather famous Brazilian footballer, we all found, for once, easy to remember.
The road north out of Delhi is a massive eight lane highway spoilt only by the roadworks spread right along it's length. Periods of easy running on flat Tarmac are sporadically broken as four lanes cram down to one dirt track and everyone swerves right off the road to avoid the massive rises of earth and machinery. These regular lane squashings seem to provide the Indian drivers with a much needed opportunity to exercise their horn skills, and everyone merges together onto the track without even slowing down.
The horn in India is a completely different beast to the horn in the uk. In India a short blast on the horn hides a whole language of different meanings depending on the situation. It can cover everything from "get out of my way" to "hello please don't crush me", from "I'm just about to undertake you at speed" to "watch out! Your cow is in the wrong lane." It's used at a standstill and at 90 miles an hour. It's used when the car ahead is clearly unable to move due to traffic. And it's used when there are no cars ahead, just to make sure it stays that way.
All the big lorries that crowd the near lane have "blow horn" painted onto the rear doors. The idea stems from the fact that nobody here ever checks their mirrors before pulling out of their lane. The blind spot on indian cars is everything not through the front windscreen. If you don't blow your horn when overtaking a truck it's liable to pull out for no reason and crush you, and the truck driver will argue that if you didn't want to be crushed, you should have made a noise.
Kaka, thankfully, had absolutely no trouble using his horn and so for the long drive up to Chandigarh where we were staying the night, crushing was avoided at the expense of our ear drums.
Settling down for another single night stay at yet another hotel it was odd to reflect that earlier that day the plan had been to get a train from Delhi. Somehow that seemed a long time ago. But in the end everything had worked out well enough so far. We even had pre-booked toy train tickets for the next day. The 5 and a half hour train had ended up costing us less than a pound each.
At that cost we would happily have paid double. But we thought it best not to pry too deeply into our expenditure this time around. Just in case.
George
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