The Toy Train: Kalka to Shimla
Getting to Kalka, where my heart was set upon taking the narrow gauge train up through the Himalayas, was not a simple feat. The narrow gauge train from Kalka to Shimla travels 96 kilometers over 5 1/2 hours, crossing 102 tunnels and 864 bridges. It’s a pretty small train and though the line runs several times a day, tickets can all sell out within hours of going on sale, exactly 30 days before the travel date. As my credit card companies were flagging my transactions for fraud whilst I was booking India transportation and lodging from Ireland, I had to ask my son, who was on holiday, to snag the ticket at same bizarre hour in his schedule. He did, so now I just had my end to fulfill in getting there. Thankfully, I am paranoid enough to arrive at my train and bus departure points obscenely early if possible, as I don’t trust that I will find where I am to be or that they won’t depart early. Both of these scenarios has come to pass. At the train station in Udaipur, I settled myself within meters of the police table, which was helpful as they were able to rid a parasite from me, who was not taking no for an answer.
“Come. Come with me,” these guys say, always forcefully. Bullies. Are you kidding me?
The train boarded an hour in advance, which I was to find was the norm, at least for the origin point. Other ones I have been warned, stop for two minutes only. I’m not always clear where the origin point is as it’s not indicated on my ticket or as far as I can tell, when I am booking. At any rate, I made the train and snagged a lower bunk which one of the two policemen sharing my booth, the OCD one, took it upon himself to make up my bed, tidily tucking in my sheets. If I understood them correctly and that’s a big IF, they were on their way north to testify against some criminal. They suggested a few places I really had to visit in Kerala, but I really didn’t understand them. A large man who snored deeply arrived later to take the upper bunk above me. He disappeared sometime during the night and a young woman replaced him. I’m not sure how I missed the specifics as my rest was fitful. Afraid I might get hungry and not realizing where the station was I had ordered a food delivery from, I was dead asleep when a huge, oily meal arrived for me. The aroma was too strong mixing with all of the others swirling about me and I had a tough time quelling rising nausea over the ensuing hours.
The policeman across from me on the lower bunk talked on the phone for a very long time. At first it sounded like it was with his family. I heard a little girl. And then later, maybe after the little girl went to bed or maybe it was another woman altogether I don’t know, but he spent a couple hours sex talking as did she (I could hear her, just not understand the words) in low sexy whispers with long pauses. The emphasis on sexuality here is kind of refreshing. I feel like there is too much guilt and repression in the US.
Come noon, six hours late, we pulled into Hazrat Nizamussin, a train station in south Delhi, a miserable place by all accounts. The usual cast of scammers awaited. It was hot and smoggy and though the post office was theoretically nearby, the tuk tuk drivers swore it wasn’t. Of course I didn’t believe them, though they may have been correct. Instead, I trudged down the dusty insanely busy boulevards with my heavy backpack and my heavy armored vest (not truly, but it felt that way with the weight of my iPad and other assorted valuables stuffed in hidden zippered pockets) until I just couldn’t anymore and then took an Uber to the other train station, NDLS to catch my evening train. It was not a simple matter to find my Uber driver scheduled to take me there, but thankfully he was more persistent than had my experience been thus far in India. It was hot in the station and I was dirty, so I paid to get into the waiting room. They were happy to take my money and not have change to return, and when I got in there, there were no seats. The bathroom was of course horrendous and nearly impossible to navigate with my backpack and daypack. Hardly any bathroom has hooks on its doors and the floors are always inexplicably soaked and filthy. There were too many people piled on. Top of each other in the waiting room for the AC to make much difference. When I bought water, that woman too, insisted she had no change to give me. It’s not that it’s that much money; it’s not. But it’s the niggling and the frothing grins that can get to you.
Oddly, I don’t recall this train ride at all, but I do know that when we pulled into Kalka late, maybe around midnight, it was a welcome bone that the Grand Lotus was just an easy five minute walk away. I followed a family down an empty well-lit avenue. It was good knowing that getting back to the station to catch the toy train would be in my hands with no variables, except the one that presented itself at the last moment: the hotel employee came running out to the street to tell me that I hadn’t paid. I had no idea, as some of the hotels accept it through booking.com and some hold out, as they want cash. Literally. Many of the hotels have credit card readers, but like this one, they only register cards issued by India banks. And I had to search through my pockets to find where I’d hidden my cash from myself. With Booking.com, I have to provide my card at the outset and only occasionally check when the hotels debit my account. Just not my forte. If the lodgings were pricier, it’d be on my radar, but as it is, checking my credit card transactions for irregularities on a fairly regularly basis suffices for me. Of course this delay was a bit maddening, but I did make it to the station as the train was boarding and hopped right on.
The train itself was far from luxurious, which, before I truly began to understand the parameters here, I had expected. It felt uncanny to me, that similar to my ride through the Alps on the scenic Glacier Express, where a noisy Chinese family dominated the car, a noisy Indian family overtook this one. My sister once told me that every experience happens three times. The ride was pretty, with dramatic views. Nonetheless, the fog was smog, so the air was not clear and crisp as I had hoped, and I don’t think I was filled with as much wonder as my traveling companions.
The last two photos were of the Shimla station. Shimla turned out to be a pretty mountain town and my lodging was delightful. A thunderstorm came in over the Himalayas. The thunder was tremendously loud. There were monkeys and tropical flowers in the courtyard of the lovely Edgeworth Hotel, and it was cold. Although I struggled to smash it into my backpack, I was glad that I’d bought a handwoven shawl at the station in Kalka. The food I had specially made for just me was surprisingly good and when I found out that the neighbor was Prime Minister Modi, I asked the chef if Modi sometimes came over to eat. He clearly was proud of this fact, but a bashful fellow, and his affirmative nod was endearing. If I’d have known how much I liked it there, I’d have booked another night or two. Also, I’d wished to include Manali on this trip, but the Indian airline inexplicably canceled my flight, and my transportation options were too limited to make obligations down the road line up.
And on to Dharamshala.
Each driver has an attendant on the bus to call out at the station and ensure everyone boards. The deep throated yelling is an exciting symphony ricocheting against the spare bus station walls. Too, they make sure people disembark when they should. They keep an eye on the traffic patterns so the bus driver can be alerted of near fatal accidents and they let out a shrill whistle if someone is standing along the road with the hope to board. They whistle again when it’s safe for the driver to resume. It wasn’t until the very end of my ten hour harrowing ride that I realized our attendant didn’t have a whistle, but was blowing through his teeth. It was pretty impressive.
I am not exaggerating when I describe the ride as harrowing. I doubt there’s a roller coaster on the planet capable of invoking the terror this ride did. It was just an ordinary local bus, like a beat up old school bus. No A/C, torn seats. It stopped a million times over the ten hours, usually by slamming on the brakes. I had a rail to hold on to. Some didn’t just because things were broken. It was filthy. I wore a face mask that started out white, but was brown by the end of the day. I had to hold on every minute or risk sliding completely off my seat. The driver frequently raced head on into oncoming traffic around hairpin curves above steep cliffs with no rails. He may have hit a motorcyclist at one point. It was in a town. A crowd gathered and there was low murmuring as everyone went to the left side to look out the windows. All I saw was a motorcycle seat on the road. They are big into destiny and karma here, and simply shrug things off, so I can’t be sure. The bus driver started the bus up after a few minutes and by five minutes back into the ride, he’d regained his mojo and was driving as crazy as ever.
We made it safely to Dharamshala. I guess it was the gods’ will. The taxi driver who slowly navigated the thick traffic to McLeod Ganj told me it was destiny that I chose him to take me there, so it must have been in the cards. I give deep thanks.