22nd January
After two days of exploring the magnificent medieval temples of Khajuraho, it was time for a rest. We spent the morning in the peaceful garden of Hotel Surya, gently warmed by the sun's winter rays. We made the most of the unusually functional wifi to catch up on the blog and plan ahead for our next month in India.
Since our experimentation with Agrasen the previous night had not been a success, we retreated to the reliably tasty fare of Raja's Cafe. We lingered there for a while, enjoying the view over the sunbathing temples. Educated by the misery of spending 24 hours on the train from Puri to Umaria with only biscuits and crisps to stave off hunger, we asked if they could do take-away. So it was that we headed to Khajuraho that evening with three foil-wrapped treasures among our luggage.
We had only been able to find 3 AC Tier tickets for the 11-hour journey from Khajuraho to Delhi's Nizamuddin station. In the main section of each compartment this would have been a significant disadvantage, as the same area holds six berths rather than four. Thankfully, however, we had the two "side" berths, which lie on top of each other parallel with the aisle, where the difference between second and third class is minimal. The journey was relatively comfortable, and the two-hour wait at one of the stations actually helped us, delaying our arrival at Delhi from 5.30 am to a much more civilised 7.30 am.
The only excitement came at around 10.30 pm, just after we had settled down to sleep. We were slowly pulling away from a station when I was jolted from somnolescence by two loud thuds against the window just by my head. Clem asked from above what was happening; nothing, I said, thinking it was perhaps just someone knocking on the window as we left the platform. I was thus rather shocked to find, pulling back the curtain in the morning, that the window was completely shattered. The fragmented glass rippled out from the two large impact craters. Thankfully the interior layer of the double glazing had held firm; these trains were evidently built to withstand fiercer assaults. It was not only my window that had been stoned; the window next to ours bore similar scars.
After two days of exploring the magnificent medieval temples of Khajuraho, it was time for a rest. We spent the morning in the peaceful garden of Hotel Surya, gently warmed by the sun's winter rays. We made the most of the unusually functional wifi to catch up on the blog and plan ahead for our next month in India.
Since our experimentation with Agrasen the previous night had not been a success, we retreated to the reliably tasty fare of Raja's Cafe. We lingered there for a while, enjoying the view over the sunbathing temples. Educated by the misery of spending 24 hours on the train from Puri to Umaria with only biscuits and crisps to stave off hunger, we asked if they could do take-away. So it was that we headed to Khajuraho that evening with three foil-wrapped treasures among our luggage.
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| Sunset from Khajuraho train station |
The only excitement came at around 10.30 pm, just after we had settled down to sleep. We were slowly pulling away from a station when I was jolted from somnolescence by two loud thuds against the window just by my head. Clem asked from above what was happening; nothing, I said, thinking it was perhaps just someone knocking on the window as we left the platform. I was thus rather shocked to find, pulling back the curtain in the morning, that the window was completely shattered. The fragmented glass rippled out from the two large impact craters. Thankfully the interior layer of the double glazing had held firm; these trains were evidently built to withstand fiercer assaults. It was not only my window that had been stoned; the window next to ours bore similar scars.
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| Under attack |
23rd January
At 7.30 am we were deposited at Nizamuddin station in southern Delhi. That left us with a mere ten hours to make our way north through the city to catch our train from New Delhi station to Chandigarh, the capital of Punjab. Pushing our way past the touts who were blockading the exit from the station, we decided to take a prepaid taxi; it might be overpriced, but at least everyone pays the same premium. At New Delhi station we flirted with leaving our rucksacks in the station "cloakroom", but we eventually decided to retain our burden for the ten-minute walk to Connaught Place.
There we found the comfortingly familiar surroundings of a Costa coffee shop, where we recovered from the journey with an expensive but excellent burst of caffeine and chocolate. Leaving Clem in charge of the baggage, I left to consult a tourist office over the road that insisted it was a government agency. I walked out when he proved this to be a lie, giving me the hard sell that the only way to travel around Punjab and Himachal Pradesh was by hiring a private car, for a mere 30,000 rupees.
After lunch at a surprisingly - and unjustifiably - expensive place called The Embassy, we found another coffee shop that claimed to have wifi. It turned out that all they could offer was a 15 minute "free trial", but this was at least sufficient for the few tasks that we needed to complete that afternoon. We were there for almost two hours, during which time Clem cautiously watched several shady characters enter the cafe, look around, leave, and then repeat fifteen minutes later, clearly "casing the joint". Two of them eventually sat down behind me, looking over my shoulder at Clem. I had to tell one of them, first politely but much less politely the second time, to "stop staring at my wife" (which is the magic word to elicit a modicum of respect).
Keeping an eye our for the crooks who had been scouting the cafe, we walked back up to the station to catch the 5.15 Shatabdi Express to Chandigarh. The train took around three hours, and the AC Chair carriage was comparable in comfort to an intercity train in Europe. We were even offered complementary snacks.
At Chandigarh station we wandered through the darkness looking for a taxi that would agree to use the meter, the only way of getting a fair deal. Instead a dozen different fares, all exorbitant, were yelled at us by an entourage of autorickshaw drivers and "fixed price" taxi drivers, who insisted that meters either never existed or no longer worked. Finally we spotted a bus stop, and as we made our way there a rickshaw driver offered use reasonable price. We piled on our luggage and off we went, Clem keeping here eyes peeled make sure that we were not being taken in entirely the wrong direction. Repeating several times that we had pre-booked our hotel ensured that we arrived in the right place, in front of Hotel Satyadeep.
The hotel had received mixed reviews, including as "the best of a bad bunch" in an overpriced town. We were pleasantly surprised, however, as the room and bathroom were spacious and clean and the hot water worked fine. Even the sheets were a relatively pure shade of white, a rarity in India's less expensive hostels.
For dinner we set out to look for a South Indian place that Clem had picked out from the guide. Our route, however, took us through a deserted bus depot that did not feel particularly safe, so we turned back. On our way we passed an Italian restaurant located beneath a luxury hotel. Putting aside our strong preference for local food, we greatly enjoyed munching on surprisingly decent pasta and pizza in comfortable surroundings.
At 7.30 am we were deposited at Nizamuddin station in southern Delhi. That left us with a mere ten hours to make our way north through the city to catch our train from New Delhi station to Chandigarh, the capital of Punjab. Pushing our way past the touts who were blockading the exit from the station, we decided to take a prepaid taxi; it might be overpriced, but at least everyone pays the same premium. At New Delhi station we flirted with leaving our rucksacks in the station "cloakroom", but we eventually decided to retain our burden for the ten-minute walk to Connaught Place.
There we found the comfortingly familiar surroundings of a Costa coffee shop, where we recovered from the journey with an expensive but excellent burst of caffeine and chocolate. Leaving Clem in charge of the baggage, I left to consult a tourist office over the road that insisted it was a government agency. I walked out when he proved this to be a lie, giving me the hard sell that the only way to travel around Punjab and Himachal Pradesh was by hiring a private car, for a mere 30,000 rupees.
After lunch at a surprisingly - and unjustifiably - expensive place called The Embassy, we found another coffee shop that claimed to have wifi. It turned out that all they could offer was a 15 minute "free trial", but this was at least sufficient for the few tasks that we needed to complete that afternoon. We were there for almost two hours, during which time Clem cautiously watched several shady characters enter the cafe, look around, leave, and then repeat fifteen minutes later, clearly "casing the joint". Two of them eventually sat down behind me, looking over my shoulder at Clem. I had to tell one of them, first politely but much less politely the second time, to "stop staring at my wife" (which is the magic word to elicit a modicum of respect).
Keeping an eye our for the crooks who had been scouting the cafe, we walked back up to the station to catch the 5.15 Shatabdi Express to Chandigarh. The train took around three hours, and the AC Chair carriage was comparable in comfort to an intercity train in Europe. We were even offered complementary snacks.
At Chandigarh station we wandered through the darkness looking for a taxi that would agree to use the meter, the only way of getting a fair deal. Instead a dozen different fares, all exorbitant, were yelled at us by an entourage of autorickshaw drivers and "fixed price" taxi drivers, who insisted that meters either never existed or no longer worked. Finally we spotted a bus stop, and as we made our way there a rickshaw driver offered use reasonable price. We piled on our luggage and off we went, Clem keeping here eyes peeled make sure that we were not being taken in entirely the wrong direction. Repeating several times that we had pre-booked our hotel ensured that we arrived in the right place, in front of Hotel Satyadeep.
The hotel had received mixed reviews, including as "the best of a bad bunch" in an overpriced town. We were pleasantly surprised, however, as the room and bathroom were spacious and clean and the hot water worked fine. Even the sheets were a relatively pure shade of white, a rarity in India's less expensive hostels.
For dinner we set out to look for a South Indian place that Clem had picked out from the guide. Our route, however, took us through a deserted bus depot that did not feel particularly safe, so we turned back. On our way we passed an Italian restaurant located beneath a luxury hotel. Putting aside our strong preference for local food, we greatly enjoyed munching on surprisingly decent pasta and pizza in comfortable surroundings.
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