Trip with sister: Journey to Shimla
The government bus stand in Amritsar appeared to be a high-tech brand new bus terminal (shame upon ISBT in Delhi) with undeservedly few people using its services at that hour. There we found out that the earliest direct bus to Shimla departs tomorrow morning, which was too late considering our busy program. Yet, we were also told that 24-hour bus service runs from Chandighar to Shimla, so we could first make it to Chandighar and then change to our final destination. Seriously doubting the trustworthiness of the statements regarding 24-hour bus from Chandighar, we still opted to take the word of the two respectable Sikhs at the ticket counter. We were through with Amritsar for sure and wanted to leave immediately.
Initially, all-men bus with four women including us two did not look like a safe place to be. No place looked safe to us after all. With the big backpack placed under out seats and chained, long kurta to cover the money belt, both cameras deep in the backpack we were prepared to face whatever the bus ride would bring. However, for one time sake the government bus brought us to Chandighar almost in time and with no hassle.
At Chandighar we were dropped at a dark and desert platform of the bus terminal where transit travelers were sleeping on the floor, few available benches and ticket counters mysteriously comfortably and not falling from the latter. Luckily, I was well familiar with Chandighar bus terminal, so the scenes spotted by far did not imply the lost hope, but rather meant we had to search for the right platform that we soon identified in the dark. That one appeared full of busses to Manali, Dharamsala… and a deluxe coach to Shimla was waiting to bring us to the place in 5 hours for 130 Rs each only. Still, not quite believing in this happy coincidence, amazingly reasonable pricing of deluxe and the absence of need of dubious overnight at Chandighar, we loaded ourselves in an almost empty bus.
We were sinking in the softness of the high seats, enjoying abundance of space and luxuriously closed windows with a small fan installed above each of them. Later there came just one circumstance that saddened the luxurious settings (there had to be one, undoubtedly): the cheerful Hindi music that our driver was playing all night long. I definitely preferred him awake and in a good mood, so I was imagining those were sounds of a lullaby.
I slept rather comfortably that was no surprise after trips by regular government busses and staying at Lajpat. About six o'clock in the morning I woke up after sister's "It is already Shimla", a suddenly started rush in the bus and cries outside. Even in the bus you could sense early dawn enveloped in the cold and fog outside. I was sleeping with the contact lenses on and as usually in such cases it took me a while to open my eyes and make sure both do see. What happened next was the most appropriate thing providing the rush around. While I was ribbing my eyes and blinking I got both contacts out. Coordinated actions of my sister and me were immediately undertaken to handle the emergency: we quickly found the container somewhere in the backpack and I socked both lenses in the solution that was already there. So, for some time I had to orientate myself around while being half-blind.
With the morning uncertainty descriptive for interstate bus trips – wondering if you find all your stuff as you left it - we checked all the items we had: two backpacks, two cameras inside, two bottles of water, a plastic bag with hopelessly smashed bananas and my sunglasses pinned to the back of the front seat and now carefully picked up by my sister. Yet, one of her flip-flops appeared missing. Not surprising at all considering the winding road that we were driving through and that had shaken the content of the bus many times. The rush heated up by the driver and the porters falsely anticipating two white money sacks to get out of the bus was accompanying and seriously reinforcing the search. The missing khaki flip-flop was eventually discovered by a cooperative gentlemen sitting in front of us.
Strangely wrapped in all the available scarves, stalls and jumpers we got off the bus directly into the grey, cool and foggy morning. We found ourselves nearby wooden benches where freshly printed The Tribune was re-packed in smaller piles and distributed further. And this is where we got caught in the circle of porters and taxi drivers. In my awkward gown, half-blind, I had to perform a small ritual in front of the crowd: I came a bit forward on this improvised stage, put my palms together in front of my chest, bowed twice and said "Thank you". The three fourths of the crowd vanished, yet its remaining part represented by a man in his early fifties and his twenty-year old companion turned to be thank-you-proof. The older one who was wearing a thick shawl, rolled and crossed over his shoulder and fixed on his waist on the other side was really persistent; the hotel they mentioned was on the list in my Footprints, so we surrendered. The walk started. It was only later we got to know for sure that many roads in Shimla are sealed for vehicles and strictly pedestrian, but for that time we had to take the word of our guide that climbing the endless steps was the only way to get to the hotel. The fog, old-fashion distribution of The Tribune, old houses decayed due to humidity, outdated architectural shapes – everything was pointing out at the fact we had traveled by the time machine and were delivered in the 20s of the 20 th century. The British past became evident once we saw the Mall, church, library and more. Yet, monkeys around hungrily sucking pieces of waste in abundance available around and rare already awake men in long kurtas, pants and sleeveless woolen jacket were clearly refuting the very thought of being in somewhere Europe.
Wandering around narrow passages and tiny lanes brought us up to Woodland, supposingly the hotel of our choice. Climbing some steps to get to the reception seemed impossible to ask for after all the climbing we had done on our way yet absolutely necessary if we wanted to get a room.
The reception appeared to be a dark spacious room with a reception desk, sofa and a big table – all the furniture was made of solid dark brown wood. Our guide shook out of slumber sleeping on the sofa receptionist, a man in a worn-out vest and dark shirts, both revealing enough of his hairy chest and legs. In the morning discontent, he picked up some keys and invited us to follow him upstairs.
The first room he showed us was good but obviously expensive. Whereas I had discussed the range of Rs 150 with the porter, the room came up to Rs 350. Getting used to be introduced to the expensive options before proceeding to the viable ones, I confidently said that Rs 200 is the upper limit of what I could pay. The receptionist was scolding the porter and the latter was smooth-talking him. Room for Rs 200 was obviously possible. "Ok, 220, 20 is a tax", hastily exclaimed our half-dressed hotelier trying to sound as offended as he could. "But I'll give you another room". The other room looked a bit worse, but still decent, so we had a deal. I went downstairs to check in and pay. Soon after I got back we heard a knock on the door. Our smiling porter was humbly asking about the poster' box. "For tea, mam". "Thank you, baisab, thank you". My response was reciprocated in an unexpectedly peaceful manner, "Ok mam, ok". His friend downstairs had already fairly tipped him.
Initially, all-men bus with four women including us two did not look like a safe place to be. No place looked safe to us after all. With the big backpack placed under out seats and chained, long kurta to cover the money belt, both cameras deep in the backpack we were prepared to face whatever the bus ride would bring. However, for one time sake the government bus brought us to Chandighar almost in time and with no hassle.
At Chandighar we were dropped at a dark and desert platform of the bus terminal where transit travelers were sleeping on the floor, few available benches and ticket counters mysteriously comfortably and not falling from the latter. Luckily, I was well familiar with Chandighar bus terminal, so the scenes spotted by far did not imply the lost hope, but rather meant we had to search for the right platform that we soon identified in the dark. That one appeared full of busses to Manali, Dharamsala… and a deluxe coach to Shimla was waiting to bring us to the place in 5 hours for 130 Rs each only. Still, not quite believing in this happy coincidence, amazingly reasonable pricing of deluxe and the absence of need of dubious overnight at Chandighar, we loaded ourselves in an almost empty bus.
We were sinking in the softness of the high seats, enjoying abundance of space and luxuriously closed windows with a small fan installed above each of them. Later there came just one circumstance that saddened the luxurious settings (there had to be one, undoubtedly): the cheerful Hindi music that our driver was playing all night long. I definitely preferred him awake and in a good mood, so I was imagining those were sounds of a lullaby.
I slept rather comfortably that was no surprise after trips by regular government busses and staying at Lajpat. About six o'clock in the morning I woke up after sister's "It is already Shimla", a suddenly started rush in the bus and cries outside. Even in the bus you could sense early dawn enveloped in the cold and fog outside. I was sleeping with the contact lenses on and as usually in such cases it took me a while to open my eyes and make sure both do see. What happened next was the most appropriate thing providing the rush around. While I was ribbing my eyes and blinking I got both contacts out. Coordinated actions of my sister and me were immediately undertaken to handle the emergency: we quickly found the container somewhere in the backpack and I socked both lenses in the solution that was already there. So, for some time I had to orientate myself around while being half-blind.
With the morning uncertainty descriptive for interstate bus trips – wondering if you find all your stuff as you left it - we checked all the items we had: two backpacks, two cameras inside, two bottles of water, a plastic bag with hopelessly smashed bananas and my sunglasses pinned to the back of the front seat and now carefully picked up by my sister. Yet, one of her flip-flops appeared missing. Not surprising at all considering the winding road that we were driving through and that had shaken the content of the bus many times. The rush heated up by the driver and the porters falsely anticipating two white money sacks to get out of the bus was accompanying and seriously reinforcing the search. The missing khaki flip-flop was eventually discovered by a cooperative gentlemen sitting in front of us.
Strangely wrapped in all the available scarves, stalls and jumpers we got off the bus directly into the grey, cool and foggy morning. We found ourselves nearby wooden benches where freshly printed The Tribune was re-packed in smaller piles and distributed further. And this is where we got caught in the circle of porters and taxi drivers. In my awkward gown, half-blind, I had to perform a small ritual in front of the crowd: I came a bit forward on this improvised stage, put my palms together in front of my chest, bowed twice and said "Thank you". The three fourths of the crowd vanished, yet its remaining part represented by a man in his early fifties and his twenty-year old companion turned to be thank-you-proof. The older one who was wearing a thick shawl, rolled and crossed over his shoulder and fixed on his waist on the other side was really persistent; the hotel they mentioned was on the list in my Footprints, so we surrendered. The walk started. It was only later we got to know for sure that many roads in Shimla are sealed for vehicles and strictly pedestrian, but for that time we had to take the word of our guide that climbing the endless steps was the only way to get to the hotel. The fog, old-fashion distribution of The Tribune, old houses decayed due to humidity, outdated architectural shapes – everything was pointing out at the fact we had traveled by the time machine and were delivered in the 20s of the 20 th century. The British past became evident once we saw the Mall, church, library and more. Yet, monkeys around hungrily sucking pieces of waste in abundance available around and rare already awake men in long kurtas, pants and sleeveless woolen jacket were clearly refuting the very thought of being in somewhere Europe.
Wandering around narrow passages and tiny lanes brought us up to Woodland, supposingly the hotel of our choice. Climbing some steps to get to the reception seemed impossible to ask for after all the climbing we had done on our way yet absolutely necessary if we wanted to get a room.
The reception appeared to be a dark spacious room with a reception desk, sofa and a big table – all the furniture was made of solid dark brown wood. Our guide shook out of slumber sleeping on the sofa receptionist, a man in a worn-out vest and dark shirts, both revealing enough of his hairy chest and legs. In the morning discontent, he picked up some keys and invited us to follow him upstairs.
The first room he showed us was good but obviously expensive. Whereas I had discussed the range of Rs 150 with the porter, the room came up to Rs 350. Getting used to be introduced to the expensive options before proceeding to the viable ones, I confidently said that Rs 200 is the upper limit of what I could pay. The receptionist was scolding the porter and the latter was smooth-talking him. Room for Rs 200 was obviously possible. "Ok, 220, 20 is a tax", hastily exclaimed our half-dressed hotelier trying to sound as offended as he could. "But I'll give you another room". The other room looked a bit worse, but still decent, so we had a deal. I went downstairs to check in and pay. Soon after I got back we heard a knock on the door. Our smiling porter was humbly asking about the poster' box. "For tea, mam". "Thank you, baisab, thank you". My response was reciprocated in an unexpectedly peaceful manner, "Ok mam, ok". His friend downstairs had already fairly tipped him.
posted by Olga Tikhonova | 5:10 am
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home