And then I lost my temper...

I think I have been remarkably patient this trip.. to date. Except that time when the water was cut off in Udaipur just as I was rinsing suds from my golden locks (and I went downstairs covered in foam muttering murderously about the poor quality of Indian hotels). But that didn't really count because for the most part my bitter comments were made under my breath, or at least to an empty corridor. Since then I haven't had a altercation where I lost my temper.

Until today that is.

Yesterday I was very tired. So when I arrived at 11pm at Mahoba to catch my midnight train I was flagging fast. Mahoba is in the north of Madhya Pradesh. I don't think it gets many tourists; for within about 10 minutes of my arrival I was surrounded by a crowd of about 5 deep men and boys. Judging by their attire, it was more predominantly Muslim rather than Hindu. For the most part (and this happens all the time) people collect and just stare unwaveringly at you. Then someone will ask the usual questions and there is a routine conversation.

Last night, it was was Maneesh who approached me. He is a pharmaceutical student in Uttar Pradesh and was on his way Allahbad, waiting for the same train as I. Except, unlike me who had a reserved ticket, he had a cheapo one and so had to fight for a seat. I had not really appreciated that a reserved sleeper was a positive luxury (previously referring to it has cattle class) as one actually gets a berth.

Something I find about India (or maybe it is because I am travelling alone) is that people cannot be more helpful and accommodating when you need assistance. Maneesh was an absolute love. On discovering that the seal on my new bottle of water was broken, he scampered off within seconds to buy me a new one (and would not let me pay him back).

Goodness. There is an absolute ruckus outside: a funeral procession (I am staying at Harishchandra Ghat, a ghat known for its crematory pyres). Men are dancing (there are no women with them): a drum and tamborine are beating time, and the crowd is slowly trickling down towards the Ganges. The body is on a wooden stretcher, covered in a marvellously vibrant cloth of pinks and golds, enveloped by orange marigolds. And string ties the whole package together. Ready to be posted and delivered.

But back to my story. Clearly the police were a little concerned by the ever increasing number of men jostling to have a stare at me, as intermittantly they would wander over with their sticks and beat people away. Each time the men would slowly seep back. I don't think they are used to lone female travellers. After this happened a number of times, the train eventually arrived. I clambered on, escorted by a posse of men to make sure I found my seat (although no one offered to carry my ruck sack, unfortunately). Usually I lock my bag under the seats, but this time... no... they didn't think it would be safe and recommended I had it on the top berth with me (ie -- once my bag was on the bunk -- there wasn't much room for me). All in all this meant for a fairly poor night's sleep.

At 6.30am I was rudely awakened by a guard who told me to get off the train. But "I am going to Varanasi", I explained. He shrugged and pointed to another train. This made no sense whatsoever. Maneesh had told me that this train went all the way to Varanasi; I knew from the timetable that the train was due to go to Varanasi; so what was he going on about? I asked someone else who reassured me that I was on the right train. But, seeking a second opinion, I asked a third person who shook their head and said, "Not Varanasi". I was thoroughly confused. It was not a good start to the morning. On asking another person (who was wearing glasses and so for some reason I assumed spoke English: how random is my thinking when I am not properly awake?) who told me, yes, it was the Varanasi train and not to worry.

On arrival, I was supposed to be met by someone from my hotel. Who wasn't there. I queued to use the phone and called the number I had been given. And was told to phone a second number. Whereupon a voice told me to call a third number. On the third call, after having been being told to call someone else, I suggested to the lost-echo on the other end of the receiver that maybe it was easier if I found another hotel. "No, no, someone is coming. Just wait." After an hour and a half I was seriously grumpy: it couldn't be difficult to find a hotel in Varanasi, could it?

I stomped to the prepaid taxi rank to take an auto rickshaw. I gave the first name in the guidebook. There was a smile as they reassured me I could be delivered to any destination, but, "No, no. Not that one as you have to walk too far as we cannot get the auto down the narrow road". Okay. How about another one. "No, no. Not that one too dangerous because of flooding." I began to get frustrated. Then came the hard sell:

- "Hotel Yogi. I will take you to Hotel Yogi."
- "I don't want to go to Hotel Yogi. I have a reservation at Hotel Son Mony." [Pathetically I had resorted to the hotel whose driver had not turned up.]
- "No. Too dangerous."

So, even a prepaid rickshaw was refusing to take me to any hotel. This was ridiculous. I tried another auto. Exactly the same problem. It would only go to the hotel where he knew he could get commission. In despair, I wandered back to the tourist information office, praying that maybe the representative from the hotel had turned up. So you can imagine my relief when I rather portly chap, with a t-shirt emblazoned with Hotel Son Mony, bearing a placard with my name, came over and grasped my hand.

But he had no auto. No one wanted to take him either. For twenty minutes he scoured the streets asking for someone to take us to the hotel. It was at this point my patience seriously began to waiver. My bag was heavy, and I was extremely frustrated by the situation. Eventually we found a cycle rickshaw (which is not the speediest means of transp0rt by any stretch of the imagination and I knew would involve another 30 minutes journey). And this is when I lost my temper.

It was only when I pictured the absurdity of the situation: me -- looking sour and sulky --, my rucksack and this largish man -- trying hard to appease me, squeezed on the back of the cycle rickshaw while the poor driver pedalled with all his might to get us going.

How silly we must have looked.

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