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3rd class train travel

India’s great strength in moving into the 21st century is her skill at computers. Computers are a big business here and the country is quite advanced in software development. A lot of young Indians are highly computer literate. Nowhere can this be seen more evidently than in Bangalore, India’s Silicone Valley. It’s the most modern, progressive city in the country, full of bustle and youthful drive. Many believe that IT and e-commerce are the way ahead for India and they are probably right. The majority, however, are less enthused. Farmers, tailors, builders, blue-collar workers, and the poor are feeling left out. They can’t see how all this money spent on technology is going to benefit them. So many people in India live in poverty, they get little or no education and their chances of success are limited to say the least. They feel they been forgotten, left behind and they have a point. Arriving in Bangalore later than anticipated, (as usual), we booked into a hotel on the city’s outskirts, and waited until the next day to venture into the center. Like all Indian cities, it’s overcrowded, noisy, and polluted. But there is a difference. People were business-like, moving with a sense of purpose. There was no aimless hanging around, no staring at Westerners, no shy nervous giggling. The people here had education, money and jobs - and you could feel it. Walking down the main street, MG (Mahatma Gandhi) Road, it was hard to decide if there were more fast food outlets or Internet cafes.

After indulging in as much pizza as we could eat, a visit to Baskin Robbins was a must and then the only thing to do was wash it all down with a few beers. We came across a little place called the Underground. It looked modern; it looked like a bar should. Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” rang out onto the street. It was too much to resist. Inside, we ordered a large jug of beer and struck up conversation with an Irish woman and her English boyfriend. We told them of our travels and listened to theirs. The guy had mentioned not returning home and, from the way he was talking we suspected that he was on the run from something. “The Wall” was now blaring from the jukebox, and the place was filling up; young men and women enjoyed a few drinks in each others company, the barriers of tradition broken. At closing time, all of us were a bit worse for wear, we swore blindly to our new-found friends that we’d meet up the following evening. We never saw them again.

We stayed in Bangalore for a while soaking up the atmosphere. Driving back to the guesthouse one evening, we found our way was blocked. Hundreds of people had taken to the roads and were following a procession of drummers and musicians dressed in traditional clothing and wearing bells on their wrists. One man in the center held up a huge pole covered by tiny bells, which was strapped to his hips for support. It shook in time to the music. Bangalore is a city of contrasts; though eager to embrace modern ways of life, it still knows how to celebrate old traditions. Our week in Bangalore had been great, it had left us feeling relaxed and fully nourished. But it was time to move on; we packed the bike and started on our 400km drive to the ancient town of Hampi. It seemed as though Bangalore had relaxed us a bit too much. We were only 20kms along the road when we pulled in for a drink. ”Is it just me or did that last 20kms seem like 50?” Garry said stretching his back. ”No, it’s not just you; I’m totally wrecked as well.” Garry pulled out the map, and we both looked at our proposed route. ”If that’s all we’ve covered, there’s no way we’ll make it to Hampi today,” Garry said pointing to the map. ”Well what do you suggest?” ”There don’t seem to be many places along the way where we could stop; we could always go back to Bangalore and try and put the bike on a overnight train.” ”Can you do that?” ”There’s only one way to find out,” he shrugged. “And if we can’t there’s always more pizza.” That settled it. We finished our Cokes and headed for the train station.

This was quite overwhelming. Thousands of people were crushed against the many ticket booths. There were no queues; it was first come first served, and we had no idea where to start. ”You watch the bags, Rach, and I’ll try to find an information desk.” I watched as Garry disappeared into the crowds. Almost at once I felt very uncomfortable. When Garry was around, the stares we received seemed friendly and curious. I don’t know if it was just my imagination, but the stares coming in my direction now seemed more threatening. I felt like I was being leered at in a sleazy sort of way. Groups of guys hung around me muttering and giggling. It was a bit unsettling, and I was relieved when Garry eventually returned. I thought of Maeve traveling alone. “She’s brave,” I thought. I couldn’t do it. I hoped she was alright. ”There’s a train leaving at 8pm, our only problem now is getting to the front of one of those queues,” Garry said staring at the frenzied mobs around the ticket desks. ”What about the bike?” I asked. ”There’s an office at the end of the station, but we have to get tickets before we can book the bike on. I’ll go and get the tickets,” he said. I didn’t fancy sitting for an hour or so getting leered at. ”I’ll come with you, where do want to start!” We joined the throngs of people and after an hour or so, we somehow managed to get to a ticket window. ”How much for two second class tickets to Hampi?” I asked the man.” No second class here,” he said abruptly. “Next.” ”Wait, wait,” I cried. “Where can we get second class tickets?” ”No second class here,” he said shooing us to one side. “Next!” Before we knew it, we were at the back of the queue.

”You rude obnoxious little man!” I yelled, furious. As we stood pondering our next move, a guard approached. ”Excuse me, where can we buy second class tickets?” I looked at him pleadingly. ”No problem, come with me.” He led us to a quiet window at the far end of the station. ”There you are, Madam,” he gave a bow the head, his hands in the prayer position. ”Thanks,” I said, bowing back. We approached the window, feeling hopeful. ”Can we buy two second class tickets to Hampi please?” ”Do you have reservation?” he asked. ”No, we don’t.” I just knew what he was going to say next: “Sorry, Madam, second class is full, you must go to other window for ticket.” After letting out muffled screams, we lugged our bags back to the mobbed windows. Three hours later, we had our ticket and our bike was packed ready to go. We still had a couple of hours to kill before the train left, so it was off to the pizza shop. ”Four large pepperoni, to go.” It’s best to be prepared in India. You just never know when your next good meal will come. The guy at the ticket desk told us we could possibly upgrade our tickets at the time of boarding. So when the time came we ran from carriage to carriage asking anyone in uniform if we could get into the sleeper carriage. We had no luck and no amount of baksheesh or bribery was going swing it our way. Our only option was to travel third class. With only a few minutes to spare, we jumped on just as the whistle was blowing.

Train travel in India is an experience. The platforms were teeming with people, pushing their way onto the train; a lot of them carrying their worldly goods with them. To get to their designated platform, very few people used the overhead walkways. Instead, they preferred to jump down, run across the tracks, and climb back up on the other side; all while carrying large suitcases or bags. On the train, it was difficult to find any spare seats. The only carriage that had any space at all had hard wooden benches. People were getting ready to bed down on the luggage racks; others preferred the floor. One woman with her young child and baby had crawled in under the seats and bedded her family down. There was just enough space for two more bodies. ”We’re getting no sleep tonight, that’s for sure,” said Garry. I nodded in agreement as I tried to squeeze myself and my rucksack into the very limited space I had. There were no windows in the carriage; only bars across the spaces where windows should have been. The authorities obviously think these people don’t deserve windows. It was more like a cattle truck than a train. Bidi smoke filled the carriage that I could cope with, but the stench of urine coming from the toilets was almost unbearable. Somehow, I had managed to fall into an unsettled slumber but not for long.

”Chai chai, chai chai!” A shrill, piecing voice penetrated through the carriage, waking me with a fright. A man was passing plastic cups of tea in through the bars of the carriage. This occurred at every station we stopped at, and I finally gave up even trying to sleep. Nobody else seemed to mind this rude awakening every half hour or so. ”What you doing in India?” a young man in our carriage was curious to know. We struck up a conversation with him and his cousin. They were both eager to find out more about these two Westerners, and there was no doubt on earth what we were doing in a third-class carriage. Indians always seem to want to know two specific things about couples: “Are you married and do you have children?” ”What?” we replied with eyebrows raised. “No married? No children? You are thirty-one years old! You must have children.” ”Not yet, but maybe soon,” I replied. At that, Garry turned to me with a slight look of concern on his face. When I was first diagnosed with HIV, the prospect of children seemed totally out of the question. However, more and more children were being born to HIV-positive mothers without contracting the disease. Garry and I had discussed the possibility of seeking medical help if and when we wanted to start a family. I wasn’t, at that point, considering the idea of children, but it was comforting to know that the possibility existed.

It was starting to get bright and the young woman and her kids under our seat began to stir. They had somehow managed to sleep for hours, as had many in the carriage. How they put up with so much discomfort is beyond me, but they do and they don’t complain. It was time for breakfast, time for pizza. ”Would you like some?” I asked the young woman. She smiled shyly and gently took the pizza. ”And you would you like some?” The guy across from us was looking longingly at the pizza. He took a piece and began to scrutinise it. When he’d convinced himself it was food, he ate it eagerly. ”It’s good!” he said. I’m sure he had never seen a pizza before. ”And you, and you?” ”Hey, hold on a minute, Rach,” said Garry. “Give me a slice before you feed the train.” ”Don’t worry, you’ll get yours,” I assured him. The four pizzas didn’t last long, the majority going to the woman with the children. They were thrilled to wake up to such a treat. ”We’ve arrived,” said Garry, shaking me. Miraculously, I had managed to catch another hour or so of shut-eye. Stiff and uncomfortable, I looked thankfully out through the bars. We waited till the throngs of people had got off, said goodbye to the young woman, and went to collect our bike. Hampi was 10 km away, so after finding a little guesthouse, and waging war on the legions of mosquitoes in the room, we were finally ready to get our heads down. ”Thank God that’s over!” I said falling back onto the bed. Never again!

Hampi is set amidst the most bizarre and beautiful surroundings. Strewn all round the village are ancient ruins of what was once home to one of the mightiest empires in India’s history, Vijayanagar. Dating back to the 14th century, ruins of temples, royal enclosures and elephant stables are scattered amongst a magical landscape of huge rocks and boulders, little rivers, and canals. Many of the ruins are just that; ruins. Others, however, have aged well and give a good idea of what life in this area would have been like. You can almost feel the presence of elephants and their handlers as you walk across the huge forecourt, towards their cavernous stables. Thousands of detailed carvings, depicting animals and gods adorn the temple walls. The size of the Queen’s bath in the royal enclosure showed the decadent style in which the royals lived. Nothing was too big or too grand, and no expense was spared on detail. This was a skilled and civilised society that took great pride in its beautiful buildings.

There’s no finer example of this than the world heritage Vittal temple. A huge chariot carved from solid stone stands in the temple forecourt. The temple itself is a masterpiece of art and design. The intricate carvings chiseled into the stone walls would have taken many skilled men many years to complete. The dark chambers within the temple, which would once have been home to the holiest of men, were now home to colonies of bats. They would flap and screech a foot or so above our heads as we entered. The place was ancient; I could almost feel the presence of ghosts from the past as we wandered around. The whole area around Hampi has an ancient feel to it; it was as if time has stood still for years. It’s an intriguing and remarkable place.

On our way down to the river that runs behind the village, we were approached by a little boy, maybe ten or eleven years old. He was very excited, jumping all over us. ”Hallo, hallo! What your name? Where you come from? You going on boat ride on the river? I can get one for you!” He was very persistent. ”Okay, okay. Get us a boat.” He called to one of the boat owners. These “boats” were little more than round tubs made from woven bamboo sticks, they didn’t look too waterproof and even less stable. The little guy was irresistibly cheeky, and spoke very good English. He introduced himself as Rajiv and hopped on. He was an energetic little guy wearing dirty clothes with big brown eyes that had a cheeky glint in them. A lovely big smile, lit up his face and I could picture him in about ten years time, trying to sell his goods or hotel rooms or whatever to tourists. He would be the most convincing and charming salesman of them all. The four of us paddled slowly up the river, Rajiv chatting incessantly.

”Nandi, Shiva’s bull” Rajiv pointed to a carved bull in the hillside. “Very old temple, many carvings inside.” He leaned over the boat, splashing the water. ”How is your English so good?” Garry asked him. “Do you learn it at school?” ”No, I don’t go to school. I have to look after my mother. She’s not well. I learn English from tourist. I talk with tourist every day.” Back on dry land, we paid the boatman, and gave little Rajiv ten rupees. What he did next, neither of us would have predicted or expected. He took the ten rupees and gave it straight to an elderly beggar at the river’s edge. ”This man very poor,” he explained. Obviously, he wasn’t going to take money so we decided to give him some food. At a small restaurant near the river, we asked what he liked. ”Banana porridge,” he said cheekily. While he was wolfing down his porridge, we noticed an ugly gash on his arm. It had gone septic and needed treatment. We always carry plasters and anti-septic cream on our travels. He was reluctant to let us treat it, pulling his arm away. ”No, it’s going to hurt, I know.” ”Don’t be silly it’s only cream. It won’t hurt I promise.” He wasn’t too sure, but after the plaster was on, he was happy again. ”Thank you, I’ll have more porridge now… and a coke,” he demanded. He was so irresistibly darling I couldn’t say no, not that I wanted to. The waiter of the restaurant later told us he was a street kid that had been neglected by his parents. We bumped into him every day we were in Hampi. We gave him plasters and cream for his arm and treated him to the odd bowl of banana porridge.

We ate that evening in one of the many rooftop restaurants. Down on the dusty main street, cows, pigs and goats foraged for food. Many of the small houses had started their fires and families were getting ready to eat, the smoke hanging low in the air. Mothers were calling their kids, tugging them away from their street games. There was a timeless feel to the place and the atmosphere was one of relaxation. The lovely slow pace of life was a real treat. Needing a few bits and pieces for the Enfield, Garry drove into Hospet the next day, to the nearest garage. He was sitting, waiting for the work to be done, when he was approached by a young man who asked if he could get a lift to Hampi when Garry was returning. Thinking nothing of it, Garry agreed. Once the bike was ready, they set off. Strapped to the back of the bike was a small bag, containing, among other things our expensive camera. Back in Hampi, the man got off. ”You can give me twenty rupees?” he chanced. ”I’ve just given you a lift!” It was only when Garry had parked up that he noticed the bag on the back was open and the camera was gone. Somehow the thief had managed to get his nimble fingers into the bag and hide the camera before getting off the bike. Cursing, Garry went into the guesthouse, where he told the owner what had happened. The two of them drove through the village asking people if they had seen anyone with a big camera. A group of rickshaw drivers were sitting at the side of the road. ”Yes, we seen man just now, running up that hill over there,” one of them said. The hotel owner went running up and to Garry’s amazement returned a few minutes later with the culprit. When the rickshaw drivers learned what had happened, they all gathered and started punching and kicking him.

One screamed, “Bastard!” as he slapped the thief across the face. ”Why you do this?” said another as he kicked him. They were all very keen to let Garry know that this man was not from Hampi. ”Hampi people don’t steal, Sir. This man only come to rob tourist.” ”We don’t want people like this in our town. Hampi people very good. He must go to the police station,” the hotel owner said. Garry came back to the hotel to let me know what had happened. We went along to the police station, where the camera thief had been taken. It was now that Garry regretted not just letting him go. If he had known the brutality of the policemen here, he’d never have brought him. The hotel owner relayed the story to police, who erupted in rage; they took turns whacking the man, their bamboo canes crashing down on his body with brutal force. When one got tired or broke his stick, another was waiting to lay in. ”Jesus Christ! There’s no need for that!” said Garry, horrified. “Would you like to hit him, or press charges?” the policeman asked both of us. ”Neither, just let him go.” ”I think he’s learned his lesson,” I said.

He was still in there when we left. I hate to think what they did to the poor guy when we were gone. Their measures were very extreme. I wouldn’t fancy getting on the wrong side of the law here. Hampi is such a beautiful place, and the locals want to keep tourists coming. They get very angry with people who rob them. For us, this was a harsh insight into the Indian justice system. Somewhat reluctantly, we forced ourselves away from this enchanting little village. Rajiv was there to see us off, running along behind the bike, until he could no longer keep up. We were following the cloud of smoke to Mumbai. Setting off from Hampi is the last thing I remember until I woke up in hospital two days later. I have a vague recollection of feeling very hot and thirsty along the way. There was little or no shelter on this road and the sun beat down on us mercilessly. By the time we reached the town of Hubli, about 120km away, I was running a temperature. Deciding we’d have to stay here, we parked outside a hotel. Just as I was about to go in and ask if there were any rooms, I had an epileptic attack. I have had epilepsy since I was eleven, and was used to having minor seizures, which would pass after a few minutes. But I was not coming out of this one. Instead it got worse, and developed into a full grand-mal seizure.

While I was still sitting on the back of the bike, Garry wheeled it off the road and into a nearby garage. Throngs of people had started to gather which wasn’t helping. Garry carefully got me off the bike and lay me on the ground. ”Could you just ask them to stand back or preferably go away?” Garry pleaded with the garage owner, who was very helpful. Much as he tried, the crowd refused to move. Garry was driven to chasing a couple of them up the road, but couldn’t go far, as he didn’t want to leave me. They just returned and continued their pointing and giggling. At this stage, I was in an awful state. Garry had see me having small seizures many times, but nothing like this; this was serious. ”I need to get her to a hospital,” he said to the garage owner. ”I will get taxi. You can leave the bike here,” he replied. Within minutes we were in a rickshaw. ”Hospital, quick,” Garry urged. The driver thought the emergency was great fun. ”We are ambulance,” he grinned. “Nee-naw, nee-naw.”

At the hospital, a wheelchair was brought out. ”No, she needs a stretcher,” said Garry.”Wheelchair is okay”, said the porter “She cannot sit, she needs a stretcher,” Garry insisted. He eventually got the stretcher and I was rushed to the emergency room. ”She has epilepsy,” Garry said. “Can you help her?” ”Yes Sir, but first you must fill forms and pay money,” the doctor said. ”Can’t it wait?” Garry asked. “No you must do now.” ”Okay, okay. Give me the forms!” Garry said urgently. Forms filled and money paid, one of the doctors scribbled out a prescription and handed it to Garry. ”Take this to the pharmacy, and they will give you the required drugs.” he said calmly. “Where’s the pharmacy?” Garry asked. ”Sita . Straight,” the man pointed to nowhere. ”What do you mean, straight? Straight where?” Garry yelled. Finally, he found the pharmacy, at the end of the street, but no thanks to the doctor.” Please, this is urgent, can you get me these drugs,” ”Yes, Sir. Just wait, Sir,” the man behind the counter was busy chatting to a friend. ”I need them now!” He must have sensed the urgency in Garry’s voice, and moved more quickly to get him the drugs. It had been about twenty minutes since we had arrived, and I was still in a bad way.

Garry ran back to the hospital and gave the drugs to the doctor. There was an amount of blood and Garry noticed that none of medical staff were wearing protective gloves. ”Wait”, Garry said. “I should tell you, she has HIV. You should wear gloves” All eyes in the room turned to him. ”What? You are together with a woman with HIV?” They stared at him in disbelief. ”And you knew this when you met her?” ”Look, will you please just treat her,” Garry implored. Still obviously shocked, they put on surgical gloves and went about administering my drugs. The vials of medicine were smashed open and roughly injected into my hands. The broken glass was left on the floor, and used needles just left lying about. Slowly the seizures subsided, and I drifted into sleep. Garry quickly went back to the garage to collect the bike and our bags. Then, he settled in for a lengthy bedside vigil. He pondered the severity of the situation and considered letting my mother know. If my condition had deteriorated any further, there could be hell to pay for not informing her. He watched me sleep. At least I was calm and resting. Given the distance from Dublin, the impossibility of moving me, and the sheer hell the woman would go through worrying about me, he opted to wait for some improvement in the situation.

There were no sheets so Garry used the saris I’d bought in Goa to cover me. On one occasion he reached for a clean sari and a large rat scurried from it’s cozy hiding place in my backpack. ”You’ve a rat in the hospital,” Garry told a doctor. ”Yes Sir,” he smiled “Many rats.” During the hours that followed, Garry was regularly pestered buy nurses and porters for rupees. ”Rupees for chai, Sir?” ”Rupees for food, Sir?” Their job seemed to end as soon as my drugs were administered. Garry sat for hours on end swatting the hoards of mosquitoes to stop them from eating me. The toilets were so filthy he found it hard to stop throwing up while using them. I’d been unconscious for hours when Garry approached a doctor. ”Please, I’m very worried. Will she be okay?” ”Why you worry, you think we’re no good” he said frowning. ”I didn’t say you were no good. I’d just like to know if she’s going to be okay.” ”You think we’re no good!” he yelled, looking at a nurse for support. “Why you no take her somewhere else so?” he scowled walking off. Garry only wished there was somewhere else, but both he and the doctor knew this was the only option.

I remained in a trance-like state for a further two days; not totally unconscious, but not at all aware of what was going on around me. Garry would talk to me all the time. ”It’s okay, Rachel, I’m here. You’re going to be okay. Can you hear me Rachel? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me,” he say time and time again. It was only on the third day that I actually started to acknowledge Garry. ”Great to see you again,” he said choking back his tears. ”Where am I?” I asked, looking around me, very puzzled. ”Just take it easy, you’re in the hospital but you’re getting better.” A neurologist came to see me and told me to increase my dose of tablets and drink lots of water. There was nothing more the hospital could do, we checked out and went to the smartest hotel Garry could find. When the whole story was relayed back to me I was almost glad to have been unconscious, it was a hellish experience for both of us, I was just glad it was all over. We stayed in Hubli for two days and considered our options. I was still very weak and disoriented and the chaos of Bombay would be intolerable. We were only about l00 kilometers inland from Goa. Lovely, familiar Goa, with its peaceful beaches was exactly what we needed. We found a clean comfortable guesthouse and spent our days relaxing on the beach.

During the day, I would sleep under the shade of the palm trees, and we’d eat in the small restaurants that dotted the beachfront. ”What are we doing here in Goa?” I’d ask. “Were chilling out, you’ve been in the hospital, remember?” ”Ah, that’s right. I asked you that before didn’t I?” My short-term memory was gone. I knew we had left Edinburgh and come to India, but what had happened in the past few weeks was a mystery to me. I had no idea why we had taken so many notes about our trip and couldn’t recall that we had ever considered writing a book about our travels. We had taken to eating dinner in a particular restaurant which made good solid food and wonderful salads. It was also impeccably hygienic. John, the restaurateur, sometimes joined us. He was a tall man in his late forties, distinguished and authoritative but very well mannered and polite. He came from Naji Babad in the north, a place we were hoping to visit at some stage. His restaurant in Goa only operated on a seasonal basis and he would be back home in the wet season. Perhaps we would meet up and tour around-he too was an Enfield freak and loved our bike. At any rate, we made plans to do so. His company during that time of respite was calming and reassuring.

The peace and stability of Goa worked wonders. During the second week, I was feeling stronger. I became strangely giddy and laughed a lot. Perhaps it was a reaction to the illness. It soon passed, as did my detachment and disorientation. We took small trips to the market and into Old Goa. Nothing too strenuous, but pleasant all the same. Gradually, we began to get restless and we knew it was time to move on. It was good to be back in full health and the open road awaited us.