Slowly I am making my way north: I am currently in a place called Shimla, in the Himalyan foothills. It used to be the summer capital of the Raj. And until 1939, the government of India migrated from Delhi and Calcutta to Shimla each summer, to enjoy its cooler climes. It is very pretty, being perched on a ridge overlooking valleys up which coloured chalets climb.
Indeed, it is exactly (well nearly) like a pretty little Swiss ski resort. Its principal thoroughfares are connected by footpaths which steeply twist around the slopes. And its main street is pedestrian only, lined with a variety shops: washing machine outlets, typewriter repair places and icecream parlours. It is very clean, no wandering cows; and is absolutely charming. Each day, middle class Indian families, holidaying away from the heat, stroll up and down the main promenade. This means it is extraordinarily busy and buzzing with gossip and life. But it feels very much that I am on hols. Last night, in true colonial style, I went to the local fancy hotel "Cecil" -- a rather attractive place, wood lined (both floor and wall panels) from door to door -- where I sipped a couple of well enjoyed gins and tonics.
But the trip here was -- as ever -- a bit of an issue. I collected the 05:25 from Nizmuddin in Delhi and arrived in Kalka mid morning. I was due to catch the train from Shimla. This is a rather special train, a "toy train" which winds its ascent into the hills. The railway passes through 103 tunnels as it snakes up its scenic route to Shimla. Of course, on our arrival in Kalka, we discovered there was no train. The monsoon had washed away the track (as well as several stations, we subsequently discovered).
Oh well. Let's take the bus... We were assured they arrived every 15 minutes. Yeah right.
It turned out no one had seen one all morning and thus the queue patiently stretched down the road. It was certain that if a bus arrived it would be a mad rush and struggle to get on, and there would be fears about luggage (could you get that on too?) and finally the knowledge that you would have to stand for five hours, rammed in. No air. What a joyous expectation. Following a quick discussion with an Italian couple and an American, we decided to get a taxi. After asking around, we found one which we could share with two Indian families (it was nice to know that the foreigners were screwed for the same extortionate amount as the Indians over the taxi).
And so 12 of us squeezed into the nine seater minibus. I felt particularly sorry for the three family members squeezed into the two-seats next to the driver: their daughter wasn't what I would describe as slight...
Off we teared around the roads, many of which were still having landslides being cleared away. By the time our driver had insisted on overtaking on blind corners too many times -- despite our sharp intakes of breath and cursing -- each passenger in the minibus (in particular the family of four from Delhi seated in front of me) where leaning forward in fearful anticipation, gripping the seat-tops in front, their knuckles whitening. It was this experience, and the sheer number of accidents that take place here, that has led me to decide to take day buses in the mountains in future.
On arrival, we discovered that Shimla hadn't been accessible for several days (and this was the first time people had been able to get in): there had been no food, water or contact with the town for a while. But I am here now, and it is lovely.
Today is the sixtieth anniversary of India's independence. I decided not to be on the road today, but to try and take part in the celebrations tonight. I shall keep you posted.
Much love
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3 comments:
Brilliant writing as ever!
I shall be returning to the UK to start work at the begining of October - YIPPEE!!
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Would be uber lovely to see you. Let me know where you are moving to.
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