We sleep well and take a leisurely breakfast, D discovering that omelette cooked to order is an option if you get up early enough. Leaving R to pack D goes out in search of an Internet cafe so that the blog photos can be put in their appropriate places. No luck. Nowhere is open at 9.30 a.m. We luxuriate in our AC room until it is time to head for the station. Checkout is a painless process and we would stay here again. The only point that they dropped was for the dreadful muzak they played in the lifts and corridors.
Today is much less humid than yesterday, with a pleasant breeze and we enjoy the short walk to the station. On the way we see our sign of the day - a billboard for XXXX exhorting the populace to leave a missed call. Uhhh?
D is sent to find bananas at one of the stalls on the station approach road. He returns with a small bunch of medium size ones which cost Rs 20. Why do bananas at home taste like turnips? R braves the news-stand (Wheeler's , established 1877) and secures an Indian Good Housekeeping. Last time she bought one of these it was full of tips on how to get your maid to cook better food. This one has a supplement full of pudding recipes, all of which have tinned condensed milk as an ingredient.
D is sent to find bananas at one of the stalls on the station approach road. He returns with a small bunch of medium size ones which cost Rs 20. Why do bananas at home taste like turnips? R braves the news-stand (Wheeler's , established 1877) and secures an Indian Good Housekeeping. Last time she bought one of these it was full of tips on how to get your maid to cook better food. This one has a supplement full of pudding recipes, all of which have tinned condensed milk as an ingredient.
The station doesn't smell quite so bad today but there is a lack of platform information. Eventually it is announced as Platform 1 so we don't have to cross the bridge. The coach position lights are only revealed at the last minute and we have a brisk trot to get to our coach. Our plan was to try out the side berth seats in 3AC but, despite several attempts to book them the system refused to play. In the end we gave up and got boring old 2AC. At last our luck ran out and our side berths had a badly cracked and fogged up window. Luckily the coach was half empty and D was able to occupy the next side bay. R remained in situ perusing GH.
This train, number 12815, has a bit of an odd route. It starts in Puri, on the coast, and after Bhubaneswar heads north east towards Kolkata but then swerving away to the north, then north west passing through Varanasi and ending up in Delhi. We are going to get off at Bishnupur, a temple town in West Bengal that is about seven hours from BBS. We leave on time and make good speed with only the occasional unexplained halt.
We travelled much of this route last year and again last week when we went to Vizag, but both of those trips were overnight so we saw nothing. The countryside is a total contrast to the other end of Odisha, as it is billiard table flat with just two or three solitary hills to break things up. Most of it is very rural and looks poor with people hand working the fields. We cross a few dried out river beds, at least one of which needs 15 standard bridge spans for each track to cross on its own bridge. Must be an amazing sight in the monsoon.
As it gets dark we cross back into West Bengal and the mist starts to close in. Our train's loco is electric and its slightly tinny hooter is going almost constantly. Spotting station names in the dark is quite a difficult call. It would not do to get off the train miles from where we need to be. We ask the TTE for a steer on arrival time and he tells us 45 minutes. A few minutes before this estimate we gather our belongings and make our way to the end of the coach. About 20 minutes later we pull into Bishnupur station, eighty minutes late.
It is pouring with rain and the auto drivers point blank refuse to take us to the Tourist Lodge. A cycle rickshaw driver hails us but he has to be kidding. Us two plus luggage - no way. We eventually find some shelter on a veranda outside some sort of shebeen full of people singing. A local points D in the direction of a taxi rank and we find a chap who takes us. Not cheap but better than drowning. We are just about soaked to the skin.
From here on in our fate is in the hands of the West Bengal Tourist Development Corporation of not so blessed memory. R was unimpressed with their Jungle Safari Lodge at Jaldapara on our first trip. We have learned a bit since then.
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