Where the heck do I start. On Feb. 4 we left Varanasi with a huge bag of food the bahoos made for us. As we left the house, both bahoos bent to touch my feet. I pulled them up and gave each a huge bear hug. We left from the Mughal Serai station, which is where we arrived. The coolie carries all our luggage on his head and is pleased when I indicate that he is very strong. As we wait for the train, I notice an old woman (yes, that again) who is paler skinned than I. She is dressed in rags and is violently scratching her torso. This poor woman was not born white. She is the victim of some ravaging disease. My one day cold is gone, so my immune ego is mollified. Because we arrived and left the station during the day, we have seen no rats. At night the tracks are literally wall to wall rats. This is actually an example of a symbiotic relationship at work. The rats dispose of all the offal from the train toilets, thus keeping down infection. I notice a young man missing half of one arm. I was so pleased to see him walk by with the swagger of youth. His arm may be missing, but his young ego seems intact.
I have always loved trains. One of my happiest memories is taking the train from Wilmington, DE to Philadelphia with my dear Aunt Nettie. We would always eat lunch at the Horn and Hardart Restaurant where I could put my dimes into the slot under the tiny window holding my choice. This seemed like magic to little me. Trains also always remind me of my parents. They received quite of bit of money on their wedding day and had planned to spend it seeing America by train. They were to spend their first night in North Carolina, but got off instead in Newark, DE, about a half hour away from Wilmington. They immediately went to a hotel. It appears they had had enough of virginity. They ended up traveling across America for four months. When they finally arrived back at the Wilmington station, my father had to hock his watch for cab fair home.
Once we were settled on the train, JP and I start to talk to the three men who are sitting with us. One turns out to have been a member of Parliament for 20 years. JP said this is like being a senator in the US. The three men were very impressed. I was just annoyed by his yelling into his phone every two minutes. The other two guys were inspectors for the train system. One of them was very interested in my opinions on all sort of things. I answered him as best I could: No, US is not trying to take over the world; No, the Communist party is not strong in the US; No, the great majority of Americans did not want the Iraq or Afghanistan wars and yes, there were rallies; No, American husbands are not all lazy, they work hard to support their families, although it is certainly harder for Indian husbands to support their families. As we travel Southeast the scene begins to change. We were now passing through rural India. Thatched roof villages, people bathing in rivers, little streams, or hyacinth covered ponds. Picturesque, but I can't help thinking of all the snakes that must be swimming around with the people. Little shrines everywhere. The vegetable fields here are divided into small plots, many no bigger than my garden. Each is surrounded by a low dirt wall, obviously for irrigation. There are no huge machines here, just many small hands. Every once in a while we would see a man holding a plow driven by bullocks. JP and I still disagree about the so called "green revolution". He says it was good for India. I say tell that to the thousands of farmers who killed themselves because they lost their farms when they could not buy the chemicals and hybridized seeds. I just had to laugh at the plight of a young woman who was trying her best to untangle her six goats. They were all on ropes and in a big knot. Every time she would untangle one, another would hop over. The problem was that the three male goats would not stop trying to mount the three female ones. She was getting ticked so started tossing the little goats like cats. Finally she got the mess to a point where she could none too gently drag them home. After about an hour our three companions reached their stops and we had the compartment all to ourselves. We were disappointed when the pantry car only had teabags instead of chai. Then we quickly remembered our last train trip where there was no pantry car, and suddenly the bag tea tasted just fine. Our gratitude was repaid at the next stop when a tea walla came onto the train with real chai served in the wonderful 3 oz. clay cups. We ordered the pantry car dinner, which was very good. Unfortunately, half of it contained potatoes which I will not touch. The Ayurvedic meds have made my potato allergy much worse. After taking it for three weeks, I decided to experiment and ate about two tablespoons of potatoes in a soup Anita bahoo had made. Instead of one or two potato bumps that I normally would have gotten, I got NINE. I feel like a Dalmatian. JP said he could hardly see them. Blindness or kindness I know not. On this particular train I have a choice of an Indian or Western toilet. I choose the Indian. Trying to pee into a little hole on a moving train is an experience not to be missed.
The next morning we arrive in Puri, which is on the Bay of Bengal. We stayed again in the Hotel Puri, but everything else was totally different. There are hotels everywhere now and the shopping district is beautiful. The shops are very clean and well stocked. What made us especially happy was the realization that this is now a resort town for middle class Indians that can afford a vacation. This middle class did not exist before. You were either rich or poor. How great to see the emergence of a middle class. There were many people on the beach. Men and kids in shorts, women in saris. No beach bunnies here. Camels for hire walk up and down the beach.The beach is very clean but, as we walk along the pavement overlooking the beach, the smell makes us cross the street. There are open manhole covers lining the top of the beach. It terrifies me for there are tons of little kids on the beach. Indian mothers, however, are ever vigilant. India's big problem is not garbage, it is human waste. The food here is much hotter than in the north, and my stomach is rebelling. For dinner we stopped at a fish and chips place and I had two pieces of delicious fish. I have given up fish ever since I learned, through one of my many podcasts, that 90% of the fish in the oceans are gone. I justify it here knowing that Indians do not over consume anything, including fish. As we walk along we see small displays of fish just caught, their eyes bright and plump. There are also 8 inch prawns and huge crabs. People here in the south eat with their hands, their WHOLE hands, not just their fingers. Northern Indians find this disgusting. I think it probably brings more enjoyment to the food as more senses are involved. They eat with great gusto, then hold their right hand with their left, like it does not belong to them, until they can wash it. All restaurants have sinks available. The next day we took a 12 hour bus tour of Orissa (the state we are in) which I will tell you about tomorrow.
Peace,
Nadine
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