Delhi to Kathmandu Overland

samokferguson
Apr 3, 2015
13 min read

“Old Delhi Railway Station please?” Phrased as a question, nervously.

“How much?”

The auto rickshaw driver’s calculating eyes looked me up and down, measuring silently.

“300?” This was going to be easier than I thought.

150 rupees, a detour to the petrol station and a conversation about cricket later I was standing amidst the chaos of old Delhi. I fought my way through the hordes and stepped through the metal detector. As usual the alarms sensed the various metals I was carrying and barked a warning. As usual I was waved through without a glance.

I found the platform easily; number 11. And walked the length of it a few times, searching for a sign that I was in the right place. The battered and cracked LED screens could have been telling me anything. Vague shapes mixed with odd letters and numbers looked back at me from the smashed green-lit glass.

In the end, feeling a bit like Harry Potter on his first day, I decided that if my ticket said platform 11, and that I was indeed on platform 11, then I should just sit on my rucksack and wait it out. Leaning my head against a pillar, I sat and watched the curious scenes of a busy Indian railway station bustle around me. An island of determined calmness, I drew not a few stares.

While I waited, a number of trains pulled up, and I witnessed first-hand the scramble for the unreserved seats in the Sleeper Carriages – the cheapest sections of the trains. Hordes of people scrambling over each other to get through the narrow doorways on the still moving trains, clinging onto the barred windows while waiting to gain a foothold – many sat determinedly on the roofs, luggage and all, steadfastly ignoring the few officials cries that they needed to get down.

Eventually, a kindly man in a florid orange shirt caught my eye and gestured at my ticket.

“I think this is your train”, he pointed at the train that had huffed and puffed into the station about 10 minutes ago. I’d examined it closely, but decided it couldn’t be mine for some reason that I now forget.

Jumping up, I thanked him with a hand shake and a smile, and set off down the platform towards what I hoped was my carriage.

As the train moved off, I pulled myself onto the carriage having finally located my name on the torn scrap of paper stuck to the side of the blue door frame.

As mentioned, I’d had to settle for 3AC class (Third Class), and though I was reassured at the booking office that I’d have a bed, it was with trepidation that I peered through the gloom. I found my seat amidst two sisters, a set of grandparents and their 3 year old grandchild, and a lone male Indian traveller. Into this group, I’d definitely include the young Indian male, perched on the top of a side berth, who seemed to regard our group with a wry grin for the entire journey, as if he was privy to a private joke at all of our expenses.

Luckily, the grandparents and one of the sisters were incredibly friendly and helpful. The sister spoke English, which was amazing because the food and water sellers were shouting their wares in Indian – presumably not expecting foreigners to be this far back on the train.

It was actually very comfortable, if a long journey. I got a load of reading done and made friends with the sister who spoke English. Winning the grandparents over was easy – by bribing the 3 year old with Cadburys chocolate.

I was sat by the window, which was great for the first few hours as I could watch the Indian countryside roll by until it got dark. Holi was dancing away in the evening dust, and the scenes of paint throwing and merriment were brilliant.

I chatted to the Indian girl next to me. Very thin, almost childlike, she was in her mid-twenties and worked as a fitness instructor. She’d attended university in Delhi, and was returning home to Lucknow for Holi with what I presume was her sister. I found myself extremely grateful for the conversation, and shared my travel plans with her, passing an enjoyable few hours while the dusty, flat countryside rolled by.

Once it was dark, I helped the sisters to erect our beds, and tried to get some sleep, which it turns out is pretty difficult on a moving train. I was also concerned that I’d miss Gorakphur, because it was hard to spot the statin names and there was no kind of announcement. Luckily, the kindness of the Indians in my compartment saved me, as they were happy to help. When I awoke, my friend had departed, as friends made while traveling tend to do.

It’s hard to think of anything nice to say about Gorakphur train station. It’s a drab, noisy, dirty transit point. The choking dust and heat sat heavily on everything. I fought my way to the front of the station, mainly by following the pushing crowds, and headed for the lines of white jeeps. The jeeps run a service between Gorakphur and Sannauli – the border town and gateway to Nepal.

I agreed with a driver that I’d pay 500 Rupees for the journey, but we’d have to wait for another five people to arrive. I sat myself down on my rucksack, and, fishing my book from its depths, I settled down to wait. Eventually I became aware of some kind of commotion. A tall, scrawny bespectacled man was gesturing vehemently at the vehicle, and a furious conversation was going on. Eventually he turned to me.

“Hey buddy, I need to get to the border ASAP. You pay your 500 and I’ll pay the difference.”

I was surprised at the thick Eastern US accent, but recovered before he could change his mind. Thanking him, I threw my kit into the jeep. The “difference” was 2500 rupees. In no time we sped off into the streets of Gorakphur, windows mostly closed at the request of the driver, who was nervous about the Holi festival and its inevitable missiles of paint.

I forget the American’s name, being useless at such things. What I do remember is that he was living in an apartment near Srinigar that his parents owned. His parents had moved to Washington and he had been born and raised there. The impression I got was one of easy wealth, certainly in Indian terms.

My new friend needed to get to the border, cross to Nepal, complete the required visa procedures, and then re-enter immediately to prolong his stay in India.

We settled in for the ride. My first impressions of Gorakphur were not changed as we drove through the town. I will say this though, the festival of Holi was amazing to see. People dancing, singing, and generally having a ball. I lost count of the times the jeep got covered in paint, usually thrown by shrieking children, much to the driver’s annoyance.

The roads went from bad to worse, so that a relatively short journey ended up taking more than two hours as we crawled to avoid damaging the jeep in the potholes; mammoth footprints across the dusty surface. At one point, the younger of the two drivers failed to slow down for a particularly big chasm in the middle of the road. A loud bang, and a string of curses followed from what I presume was the owner, and he demanded that we pull over. After checking the vehicle carefully for damage, the unfortunate youth was demoted to passenger status, and we went on. It struck me that even though the driver laughed all the way and played very loud music, clearly enjoying the festivities around him as he sped dangerously through the countryside, that the jeep was his livelihood. To damage or destroy it would be an unthinkable disaster.

The drivers were in a celebratory mood, laughing at the scenes of festivity around them, and cranking the local radio stations up to full volume. Conversation was difficult, and the non-existent suspension took a pounding at high speed on the pitiful roads. Having said that, it was pretty enjoyable; the celebrations and laughter amidst the dust and poverty scrolling past our windows – a glimpse of rural India that I hadn’t imagined.

Things went smoothly at the border. We hopped out of the jeep, bruised and nervous, got a stamp from a bored looking Indian official, and marched the twenty yards into Nepal. Several bad jokes about dancing over border lines followed, and I sensed my friend was as nervous as I. He confessed that in previous border runs he’d been asked for bribes etc – though I only have his word on that.

For myself, the crossing was very straightforward. I signed where asked to sign, handed over my $30, and shook my friend’s hand. He seemed to be having a slightly harder time of things, so I bid him good luck and farewell. It’s strange, the people you meet while travelling are in your life for a few hours, or maybe a day or two, and then after a painless goodbye, you probably never see them again. In a way, they’re quite honest relationships, and you learn a lot about each other in a short period of time, sharing stories and experiences before the inevitable departure.

The next such friend was waiting on the Nepalese side of the border. After exchanging some pound notes to Nepalese Rupees at a money changer, and arguing about the state of some £20 notes that he refused to accept compared to the filthy Rupees I was handed, I headed to the line of buses.

There I met Raul, a Nepalese Masters student around my age. He was looking for people to share a taxi with him to the local airport, to fly from there to the capital and thus avoid the tortuous journey by road. After the jeep ride, I hastily agreed, and we soon found ourselves at the tiny airport, guarded by blue shirted policemen. Alas, our plans were foiled by the Turkish Airlines crash at Kathmandu, which we hadn’t heard about until now.

Raul discussed matters with the policemen, who were refusing to let anybody into the airport. Though accommodating, I got the impression that they knew that we were never going to get on a flight, but were too polite to tell us that outright. Throughout my time in Nepal, this urge not to disappoint came through time and time again.

We settled down to wait, but after two hours it became clear that we were out of luck. We decided to share a taxi, splitting it 50/50. Though slightly more expensive than a bus from the border, we reasoned it would be quicker and more comfortable.

Raul was from a middle class Kathmandu family. He was studying business at the city’s university, while his brother was an engineer working in the USA. His father was a doctor, while his mother was a house-wife. He was returning from Mumbai after two weeks of holidaying with friends who lived there. I learnt all of this during the ten hour (!) journey from the border to Kathmandu.

The first few hours were fairly mundane, as we drove through the flat, featureless Terai. This section of Nepal, bordering India, is the complete opposite of the Himalayan region, and fairly indistinguishable from the Indian side of the border in fact – though it did seem cleaner. We passed through a military/police checkpoint every hour or so. The regularity of this surprised me, as had the police influence at the airport. I asked Raul about this, but he dismissed it as normal. In turn he asked about the reception that Indian/Nepalese people received when moving to the UK to work – which when I thought about it was a difficult question to answer.

I caught up on some sleep, and woke when we stopped for some refreshments. I grabbed some noodles and a cup of black tea, and we were back on our way. Soon the mountains reared up before us, and I began to get excited. After a long climb, the landscape had changed dramatically. Raul laughed at my reaction, and promised better once I got to Kathmandu and up into the high Himalayas. We settled in alongside a glorious river, shimmering green with glacier melt, forging a curving, unstoppable path in-between sheer cliff faces upon which the road perched precariously. The roads were as bad as on the Indian side of the border, and we crawled along the route, onwards ever upwards, climbing it seemed into the clouds.

After another few hours, we ground to a halt. There was a traffic jam ahead. By this point, night time had fallen, obscuring the ever increasing beauty of the surrounding high-country. We got out of the car, and Raul discussed with other drivers what the problem might be. An ambulance eventually drove past, and it was declared that someone had been run over up ahead. Raul shook his head sadly.

“It’s difficult for the drivers, with the locals walking along the roads at night time. They were probably drunk what with Holi too…”

I’d seen for myself the speed at which the drivers drove on the single carriageway that was the only route to Kathmandu. Like in India, the other side of the road was used constantly, not merely as an overtaking lane. We darted back onto the correct side only if a car was coming in the opposite direction, though because of the circuitous route, we often didn’t see these cars until very late. I’d also seen the amount of people on the roads, walking between roadside towns, celebrating the holiday and indeed probably drunk. I got back into the car, suddenly depressed, and tried to grab some sleep. After an hour or two, we got moving again, though at an even slower pace. During the halt, a large number of lorries had piled up, and it took a long time to clear these.

By this point I was completely exhausted, having been on the move for almost two whole days. I slept fitfully until we reached the outskirts of Kathmandu, where the driver wanted to get some food. Discovering he was planning on driving straight back, I readily agreed to the halt – he would certainly need all the energy he could get.

We were halted again on entering Kathmandu, this time for the army to smell the driver’s breath – this happened three times once we had entered the city – Raul confirmed that drink driving was a big problem here.

I eventually reached my hostel, with much needed assistance from Raul and the driver, in central Thamel. It was about 1am, and I barely remember checking in. I collapsed onto my bed for the next few days, and passed out. I had arrived.

I woke up slowly. I was 10am, and I was in the Mudhaben guest house, Thamel, Kathmandu. I’d managed nine hours of uninterrupted sleep and was still in the clothes that I’d been wearing for the last three days.

Groggily I changed, and stumbled downstairs in the search of breakfast. The staff kindly gave me some, considering it was about half an hour after breakfast had finished. Poached eggs on toast, cold potatoes, mango juice and a milk coffee have never tasted so good.

On my way back upstairs, slightly refreshed, I chatted to the owner. From the guidebooks, I knew I should start with Durbar Square which was somewhere nearby. He happily gave me a map and some directions. Thus armed, and after a quick shower, I headed out into the streets of Kathmandu.

Having arrived in the dead of night, I was unsure of what to expect. The dusty, unpaved streets were lined with stalls, jutting out from sullen store entrances. The store owners smiled happily at everyone, sometimes calling out their wares, but mainly just calling out a Namaste. Mopeds and battered taxis cluttered the roads, while cycle-rickshaws plied their trade with a call and a grin.

I wandered happily down to Kathmandu’s Durbar Square, the old “Royal Square”, and past residence of the royal family. Really a series of interconnecting squares, each filled with Manang style temples built in a step-square pyramid fashion, adorned with fluttering red flags, I was astounded by the simple beauty of it all. Clearly a popular meeting place, the steps of the temples were full of people, tourists and locals; watching the world go by in the mid-morning heat. I found a space for myself, fished out my travel guide and tried to orientate myself. One annoying aspect of Durbar Square became apparent almost immediately. I was approached by a number of tour guides and touts, each offering a tour of the square and so on. While I was planning on doing this anyway, it was annoying to have to fend people off while trying to look around myself first. Eventually I succumbed, and submitted to a $4 tour which lasted two hours. I was pretty informative, and the tour guide was friendly. As I suspected, he was a tout for a local gallery, and tried on a few occasions to steer me in its direction. I flatly refused, and to be fair he did continue the tour in good spirits. He was very interested in my trekking plans, and we passed the few hours in friendly conversation. Afterwards, he suggested a restaurant that I should eat at, and offered to take me there. Again, I suspect he would have been given a fee for this from the restaurant, and politely declined – though I did tip him generously for his company.

I found lunch for myself in central Thamel – a place called “bon-appetite”, which although not very Nepali-sounding, does and excellent dhal bhat. Dahl bhat is a set Nepalese meal of soup, rice and curried potatoes, usually with vegetables or meat. The best thing about it is that you can get refills of anything on the tray, except for the meat/vegetables. The atmosphere at Bon Appetite was good; I sat on the rooftop café section as it overlooks a busy intersection in central Thamel. Though noisy, the lively streets are never dull, and I whiled away an hour or two there with some Everest beers.

I realised at this point that Kathmandu’s Living Goddess was making an appearance that afternoon – something I was assured by my tour guide that only happened a few times a year. I’d been unsure about whether I wanted to see this, but at the last minute I decided that I might never get to see something like that again, and rushed back to Durbar Square.

The Living Goddess is a child, between the ages of five and 13 who is chosen based on a strict selection criteria. She must have the right eye colour, be the right height etc etc. There is also a test of fear, and a test which involves her selecting the clothes worn by her predecessor – similarly to the past selection of Tibet’s Dalai Lama. On selection, the girl and her entire family are moved in to the Living Goddess’s palace in Durbar Square, where they live until her first period (or significant loss of blood). Then a new Goddess is chosen. It’s said to be very unlucky to marry a former Goddess, and I wander how easy it is for her and her family to readjust to a mortal life.

I squeezed through the palace door just as they were closing it, and found myself in an inner courtyard full of tourists. The only Nepalese people I could see were tour guides. I even spotted my friendly guide, who smiled and waved. The courtyard was surrounded by an intricately carved wooden inner balcony dotted with glass-less windows. From these, suspicious faces peered down. I presume these were the Goddess’s family. They shouted instructions – “No Pictures!!” – and stubbornly waited until everyone had lowered their cameras.

Then she appeared. I would put her age at no more than nine. She stood awkwardly, beautiful in her official dress and make up, and stared at the crowd gathered in her honour. All around me, people began to call out welcomes. An American tourist placed his hands together and murmured Namaste to my left. I glanced at him and caught his eye. He seemed embarrassed, and quickly stopped. I found the whole thing very false to be honest. In hindsight, I doubt whether her appearance is as infrequent as is made out. She is also paraded through the streets during her time of appearance, which could explain the lack of locals. After a minute or two she departed, and the collection boxes followed the crowds from the palace. I returned to my perch in Thamel, and pondered what I had just seen over a few more bottles of Everest.