Back to the ranch to pack our bags and hide the evidence of our alcoholic excess ( two empty beer cans). D invests 25 rupees in the Internet cafe in order to position the photos within the last few blog posts. The alleged "stainless steel" bowl that we bought at Kakrigumma is already exhibiting signs of corrosion and is jettisoned. We go out in search of another one but the ironmonger/kitchenware shop isn't open yet so we go for a cup of tea at the Open Hand Coffee House. Half an hour later the shop is open and we purchase a replacement bowl of more substantial construction. The shop is a shoes off establishment and while we were in making our purchase the shop lad swept all of the rubbish out of the shop into R's shoes which she had left on the step. She was not amused.
Back to the PoG to collect our bags and check out. The first auto driver gets laughed at when he names his price and the second one wants to charge double the fare we paid to get here. As we start to walk away he drops his price and we jump in. We do a tour of the back streets and get caught up behind a rather large funeral parade. This body appears to be in some kind of coffin decorated with tinsel and balloons. R announces that is how she would like to be seen off. We make our first spot of a Duster 4x4, the Indian built car that we have ordered for delivery lwhen we get home. Two things stand out. In India the car carries Renault badges rather than Dacia and in India it is available in a very smart metallic red which is not an option in the UK. At the station the driver requests more money than the agreed fare. In return he receives a pithy lecture on business ethics. We thought that Chennai auto wallas were chisellers but at least they don't pretend to be anything else.
The entrance hall to the station is packed but we make our way to the Enquiry desk and receive directions to the Clock Room where we deposit our luggage. On the way out of the station we fight off the hordes of auto drivers and walk along the main road in roughly the right direction. We have resolved to give our business to the cycle rickshaw boys who seem to be nicer people and more in need of our money. Suddenly there are no cycles just autos but none of them speak enough English to understand Gateway Hotel. We find ourselves in the middle of a feeding frenzy of auto men who are jostling each other and arguing. A passing student asks if he can help and we go with the guy who first stopped for us.
The Gateway is aTaj Hotel, somewhat out of our league, but we have decided to treat ourselves. Our arrival coincides with the ingress of some VIP party so we get the doors held open and the yellow dots on the forehead. Shurely shome mishtake. The Prinsep Bar, recommended by Lonely Planet, is not open so we settle for the All Day Grill. The service is par excellence, our waiter speaks excellent English and even laughs at a couple of D's jokes. The menu is wide ranging and whilst the prices are eye watering by Indian standards they equate to having a pub lunch at home. One of the snack options is Jhaal Muri, the forbidden snack from the trains. We order it as an appetizer and while it isn't served in a newspaper cone it is very enjoyable. R follows up with Uttapam, a South Indian dish that is one of her favourites while D tucks into an Indian version of a club sandwich. It is a sublime experience that would be an outrageous extravagance at home.
We take an afternoon stroll in the hotel gardens and watch the kites and the babblers for a while before walking up to the Surya Hotel, another LP recommendation, to take a peak and have our Friday refreshment. We are offered seats in the garden but the sun is still quite fierce so we opt for indoors in a sort of garden room full of potted plants and sofas. The waiters are fully occupied with a large party outside so D goes to the bar. The bar tender is a good humoured Nepali who wanted to practice his English. After our beer we took an auto back to the station and were dropped at Platform 9, handy for our train but as far away from our luggage as we could be.
By the time we had picked up our bags on Platform 1 and crossed all the way back over the footbridge our train was pulling into the platform. We have splashed out on 1AC again and soon spot our coach which is an unusual split of 1AC and 3AC. A chap appears to paste up the charts by the coach doors and we have got the coupe again although the doors have yet to be unlocked. When they are the coach attendant welcomes us on board by name. You don't even get that on the Rajdhani. The coupe in an HB coach is considerably bigger than the ones in HA with a much bigger window. It's a shame that nearly all of this trip will be in darkness.
D goes to get provisions and a photo of the loco and when he returns the corridor outside our compartment is jammed with people. There is Mr and Mrs Bigshot, their entourage and a couple of porters as well as the coach attendant and his sidekick. Da Man appears to be unhappy that he has not been allocated the coupe and there are raised voices. The only word that D understands as he squeezes past the melee is charts. Meanwhile a crowd has gathered on the platform to stare through the compartment window at R reading her Kindle.
Strange place Varanasi.
Another part of the hippy legacy must be the dearth of shoe shiners. Presumably tofu sandals don't polish up too well.
Train number 11108 Bundelkhand Express leaves bang on time at 17.45. The coach attendant delivers our bedding, wants to make our beds up before it is even dark and asks for a tip. D explains that if all goes well a tip will be forthcoming at the end of the journey, not five minutes into it. The TTE comes along to check our tickets. He is very keen for us to understand the need to lock ourselves into our compartment and keep our luggage secure.This may have something to do with the circuitous route this train takes through backwoods Uttar Pradesh or perhaps he is just a cautious soul.
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