That Traveling Groove

For the last 7 days our world has consisted of 700 meters of sandy beach, sun from dawn till dusk, swaying palm trees, rhythmic surf that lulls us to sleep, fresh pineapple, banana, mango, and watermelon salad, no concept of time, and of course, a cold beer in my right hand and a book in my left. Is this India? Goa, the smallest state, is a universe apart from the rest. The daily stress of simply going from point A to B in the rest of India is exhausting. It’s no wonder that foreigners find themselves “stuck” here in a state of perpetual lethargy for weeks and even months on end. We have met one Torontonian who arrived in February and has decided to stay “for a while.”

But, it definitely wasn’t smooth sailing getting here. Arriving at the Udaipur train station, we said our fond farewells to Ashok, our hired gun, driver and security blanket for the last 15 days. With our backpacks strapped to our backs and our heads making the required 360 degree rotation per minute, we waved goodbye to him from the curb with an “Oh shit, he’s left us” feeling – we were on our own once more. We dove into that train station with wide eyes, trying not only to see out of the back of our heads, but also to find signs in English that would point us to the right platform. We dumped our backpacks onto platform 3 to wait for the train, sighing, “phew, we made it.” Unbeknownst to us, this relief was four days premature. We didn’t realize the trains themselves had their own initiation planned.

The train came and we pushed our way into our compartment with stares from Indians sitting in the shadows of our every move. We stowed our packs under our seat and faced the other four occupants that would share our living space for the 12-hour journey from Udaipur to Ahmedabad – we were on our way to Goa. As the train lurched from side to side through the evening, we talked of the differences of our two countries, laughed and ate homemade curries, nan and rice, donated by our 12-hour family and our compartment’s neighbours. We were traveling in as much style as our 2nd class sleeper could provide. At 5am, after having the train rock us to sleep through the night, we arrived in Ahmedabad to wait on platform 2 until 7:05am, when we would catch the ten-hour connecting train to Bombay.

“Fuck” was what escaped our mouths as we found ourselves barely in 3rd class seats. If hell had wheels this is what it would look like. We were a very long way down from 1st class and a very short way from 4th class. In fourth, which is free, people simply show up and the ones with the biggest fists usually end up with a comfy ride. In third you have a paid “reserved” seat, but once you are there locals swap, trade, bargain and steal the best seats to suit their needs. Needless to say we had to pull out our tickets a couple of times in the face of an angry local to show proof that we indeed had seats 28 and 29. Heat had also made a reservation, but this time he came with a bunch of his buddies, raising the temperature in our car to a delightful 50-something Celsius. To our surprise, reserved seating doesn’t mean a hell of a lot. No. People without tickets simply sit on the floor, in aisles, out the door, out the window, or stand. In addition every car has its own constantly flowing market with vendors shouting in baseball park voices “Chai, Chai”, or “Cold drinks, Cold drinks” as they squeezed through the wall of people. As we were the only locals, we attracted a lot of attention. But once the stiffness evaporated we once again had curry dishes pushed in our faces by women in saris, babies clinging to their heels. I looked over to Nat with a smile on my face, and with a straight face, she said so eloquently, “I’ll divorce you if we do this again.” Only nine hours and fifty-one minutes left.

Finally arriving and feeling that we had just graduated and that we were now well-groomed for the trials and tribulations of Indian train travel, we hit the platform in Bombay with renewed enthusiasm and a weird rash on the tops of my feet. Only 5 hours to kill before another sixteen-hour trip to Goa. However, the first order of business was to get our drenched, grimy shirts off our backs and escape India, just for a little while. After a 45 minute taxi ride that should have taken 10, getting swindled by the taxi driver, then approached by 3 gentlemen who wanted to separate us from our packs, we rushed across the street to our chosen hotel. With a long shower, a dose of “Everybody loves Raymond” on the hotel TV, and a strong bloody-mary cursing through our veins, we left feeling somewhat clean and de-stressed for our train to Goa at 10:55pm.

Feeling stressed again, we discovered that the bloody-marys we had were just not strong enough. We desperately needed cold, clean bottled water if we were to survive this train journey to Goa. “Do you speak English?” is what Nat asked the water vendor on the Bombay train platform as I kept an eye on our packs. “No”, the water man said, with a smile on his face. In a flash of desperation, Nat promptly took her empty water bottle and with two taps, “Tap, tap” on the man’s forehead, she said “We need cold water!” Looking slightly stunned by this bold Canadian woman, he leaned into his fridge and pulled out a semi-cold bottle of water. With Nat smiling and the ever-present blanket of heat we hunted for our “reserved” bunks.

“Phew, we made it,” as we sit on the deck of our hut and look out at the rolling waves of Palolem beach. The mentality of this “island” paradise consists of: “Are you open for breakfast?” “No, man, the chef is taking a shower” and “Can I have a grilled cheese sandwich?” No, man, no bread.” It’s been amazing. Tomorrow we will be off to Varanasi to sit on the steps of the Ganges and watch the locals “purify” themselves in the most polluted river on the planet. Then off for another 14 hour train ride to Dehra Dun on May 29th for yoga, mediation and Himalayan trekking. We’ve hit the traveling groove.

This entry was posted on Friday, May 23rd, 2003 at 4:58 pm and is filed under He Said. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a comment, or trackback from your own site. Add to del.icio.us.