Post office and sleeper adventures

Sweethearts

I have had such an exciting time since I last wrote that I can barely contain myself...

After I finished my last blog I decided that I had to lose some of my accumulated gear and send it back to England. I debated how this ought to be done. I considered DHL, but at 3000 rupees per kilo (over 30 pounds per kilo) it was a little extravagent. The post office appeared a much better option.

In the UK, I suppose what I would do would be to appropriate a banker's box from a generous employer and pack my stuff up. Here in India, I wasn't sure what the deal was and I had no idea where to find a box (or three).

But seriously, how difficult can it be to send stuff home? People do it the whole time, right?

Possibly. But obviously not from Delhi post office.

The post office is situated on a large roundabout in New Delhi with nothing near it for miles. I lurched into the building, laden like a pack horse: wearing my rucksack, a daypack, and carrying three carrier bags and a second rucksack. It was with some disdain that the woman at the help desk eyed me up and down and flagged for me to sit down. I did so. And then patiently waited 45 minutes. At this point (bearing in mind I had a train to catch) I aproached the desk again and asked about the container packaging advertised in a poster on a wall. Promptly I was told they didn't have any boxes. Oh. Where could I get one, I asked. The man helpfully explained that I should go to Paharganj (about 4 km away) where I would find someone to sort it. But the post office could not help me. I smiled gratefully and wobbled off under my heavy load and outside I tried and tried to hail an auto rickshaw on my roundabout in the middle of no where in urban Delhi.

An autorickshaw pulled over and a very well heeled chap and his attractive lady companion hopped out. As is so often the case in India, people stop to enquire about your business. In this instance the couple -- on hearing that I was on my way to Paharganj to send things back to England -- looked at me in absolute horror. They could not believe that the post office was sending me on such a wild goose chase. On hearing my plight, the chap frog-marched me back into the building (giving the attractive young lady my bags to carry) and had it out with the chap at the post office counter.

Miraculously, within seconds, a packer had arrived. Quickly followed by some cardboard boxes. Soon everythings was neatly tidied away; the man then fitted white muslin around the box and sewed it all together. Unfortunately, my new-found friends were 20 minutes late for a business meeting and had to dash off. But by the time the package was ready, most of the post office had been involved in the debacle in one shape of form, so when I bid the room farewell, everyone turned and waved.

I now have 11kg winging its way to England.

It was then a quick stop in Sundar Nagar market to try out the teas at Mittal's teashop (I now have some extremely expensive Darjeeling in my backpack) before arriving at New Delhi train station.

The trip down to Amritsar was not ideal. I was quite pooped by the time I hopped on the train. As mentioned in my last blog, I was in cattle class. My berth was number 2. This meant I was at the end of the carriage, next to the doors (which were kept wide open for the duration of the trip). So in some ways at least you could say that there was a bit of fresh air. But it also meant I was next to the lavatories, from which crept an overpowering stink of excrement. In Delhi, a man with a power hose had washed down the loos, the water seeping down the carriage, which improved the smell slightly, but did not strike me as overtly hygienic. But by about 3am, the smell had intensified and was making me gag.

The other thing which was slightly odd was the fact that everyone stared at me the entire trip. Or they wanted to talk to me, which was downright exhausting. One chap, an executive in Parliament, got jolly excited having a chat. It culminated in the following missive: "I have to get down at next station, my heart is not wanting to leave you but in end good by. You are too sweet to express before God." Which was very touching; but I was slightly relieved when he went.

I also got to eat the train food, which is an improvement on English railway cuisine. Mind you, it is damned difficult to eat chapati with the right hand alone, especially when all you can think about is where your hand has been that day (the train loos for instance). But I ate the food and pegged something else down to experience.

Anyway, I have to shoot off. I have visited a lot of Amritsar - but more of that another day.

Much love.

A