This was quite overwhelming. Thousands of people were crushed against the many ticket booths. There were no queues; it was first come first served, and we had no idea where to start. ”You watch the bags, Rach, and I’ll try to find an information desk.” I watched as Garry disappeared into the crowds. Almost at once I felt very uncomfortable. When Garry was around, the stares we received seemed friendly and curious. I don’t know if it was just my imagination, but the stares coming in my direction now seemed more threatening. I felt like I was being leered at in a sleazy sort of way. Groups of guys hung around me muttering and giggling. It was a bit unsettling, and I was relieved when Garry eventually returned. I thought of Maeve traveling alone. “She’s brave,” I thought. I couldn’t do it. I hoped she was alright. ”There’s a train leaving at 8pm, our only problem now is getting to the front of one of those queues,” Garry said staring at the frenzied mobs around the ticket desks. ”What about the bike?” I asked. ”There’s an office at the end of the station, but we have to get tickets before we can book the bike on. I’ll go and get the tickets,” he said. I didn’t fancy sitting for an hour or so getting leered at. ”I’ll come with you, where do want to start!” We joined the throngs of people and after an hour or so, we somehow managed to get to a ticket window. ”How much for two second class tickets to Hampi?” I asked the man.” No second class here,” he said abruptly. “Next.” ”Wait, wait,” I cried. “Where can we get second class tickets?” ”No second class here,” he said shooing us to one side. “Next!” Before we knew it, we were at the back of the queue.
”You rude obnoxious little man!” I yelled, furious. As we stood pondering our next move, a guard approached. ”Excuse me, where can we buy second class tickets?” I looked at him pleadingly. ”No problem, come with me.” He led us to a quiet window at the far end of the station. ”There you are, Madam,” he gave a bow the head, his hands in the prayer position. ”Thanks,” I said, bowing back. We approached the window, feeling hopeful. ”Can we buy two second class tickets to Hampi please?” ”Do you have reservation?” he asked. ”No, we don’t.” I just knew what he was going to say next: “Sorry, Madam, second class is full, you must go to other window for ticket.” After letting out muffled screams, we lugged our bags back to the mobbed windows. Three hours later, we had our ticket and our bike was packed ready to go. We still had a couple of hours to kill before the train left, so it was off to the pizza shop. ”Four large pepperoni, to go.” It’s best to be prepared in India. You just never know when your next good meal will come. The guy at the ticket desk told us we could possibly upgrade our tickets at the time of boarding. So when the time came we ran from carriage to carriage asking anyone in uniform if we could get into the sleeper carriage. We had no luck and no amount of baksheesh or bribery was going swing it our way. Our only option was to travel third class. With only a few minutes to spare, we jumped on just as the whistle was blowing.
Train travel in India is an experience. The platforms were teeming with people, pushing their way onto the train; a lot of them carrying their worldly goods with them. To get to their designated platform, very few people used the overhead walkways. Instead, they preferred to jump down, run across the tracks, and climb back up on the other side; all while carrying large suitcases or bags. On the train, it was difficult to find any spare seats. The only carriage that had any space at all had hard wooden benches. People were getting ready to bed down on the luggage racks; others preferred the floor. One woman with her young child and baby had crawled in under the seats and bedded her family down. There was just enough space for two more bodies. ”We’re getting no sleep tonight, that’s for sure,” said Garry. I nodded in agreement as I tried to squeeze myself and my rucksack into the very limited space I had. There were no windows in the carriage; only bars across the spaces where windows should have been. The authorities obviously think these people don’t deserve windows. It was more like a cattle truck than a train. Bidi smoke filled the carriage that I could cope with, but the stench of urine coming from the toilets was almost unbearable. Somehow, I had managed to fall into an unsettled slumber but not for long.
”Chai chai, chai chai!” A shrill, piecing voice penetrated through the carriage, waking me with a fright. A man was passing plastic cups of tea in through the bars of the carriage. This occurred at every station we stopped at, and I finally gave up even trying to sleep. Nobody else seemed to mind this rude awakening every half hour or so. ”What you doing in India?” a young man in our carriage was curious to know. We struck up a conversation with him and his cousin. They were both eager to find out more about these two Westerners, and there was no doubt on earth what we were doing in a third-class carriage. Indians always seem to want to know two specific things about couples: “Are you married and do you have children?” ”What?” we replied with eyebrows raised. “No married? No children? You are thirty-one years old! You must have children.” ”Not yet, but maybe soon,” I replied. At that, Garry turned to me with a slight look of concern on his face. When I was first diagnosed with HIV, the prospect of children seemed totally out of the question. However, more and more children were being born to HIV-positive mothers without contracting the disease. Garry and I had discussed the possibility of seeking medical help if and when we wanted to start a family. I wasn’t, at that point, considering the idea of children, but it was comforting to know that the possibility existed.
It was starting to get bright and the young woman and her kids under our seat began to stir. They had somehow managed to sleep for hours, as had many in the carriage. How they put up with so much discomfort is beyond me, but they do and they don’t complain. It was time for breakfast, time for pizza. ”Would you like some?” I asked the young woman. She smiled shyly and gently took the pizza. ”And you would you like some?” The guy across from us was looking longingly at the pizza. He took a piece and began to scrutinise it. When he’d convinced himself it was food, he ate it eagerly. ”It’s good!” he said. I’m sure he had never seen a pizza before. ”And you, and you?” ”Hey, hold on a minute, Rach,” said Garry. “Give me a slice before you feed the train.” ”Don’t worry, you’ll get yours,” I assured him. The four pizzas didn’t last long, the majority going to the woman with the children. They were thrilled to wake up to such a treat. ”We’ve arrived,” said Garry, shaking me. Miraculously, I had managed to catch another hour or so of shut-eye. Stiff and uncomfortable, I looked thankfully out through the bars. We waited till the throngs of people had got off, said goodbye to the young woman, and went to collect our bike. Hampi was 10 km away, so after finding a little guesthouse, and waging war on the legions of mosquitoes in the room, we were finally ready to get our heads down. ”Thank God that’s over!” I said falling back onto the bed. Never again!
Hampi is set amidst the most bizarre and beautiful surroundings. Strewn all round the village are ancient ruins of what was once home to one of the mightiest empires in India’s history, Vijayanagar. Dating back to the 14th century, ruins of temples, royal enclosures and elephant stables are scattered amongst a magical landscape of huge rocks and boulders, little rivers, and canals. Many of the ruins are just that; ruins. Others, however, have aged well and give a good idea of what life in this area would have been like. You can almost feel the presence of elephants and their handlers as you walk across the huge forecourt, towards their cavernous stables. Thousands of detailed carvings, depicting animals and gods adorn the temple walls. The size of the Queen’s bath in the royal enclosure showed the decadent style in which the royals lived. Nothing was too big or too grand, and no expense was spared on detail. This was a skilled and civilised society that took great pride in its beautiful buildings.
There’s no finer example of this than the world heritage Vittal temple. A huge chariot carved from solid stone stands in the temple forecourt. The temple itself is a masterpiece of art and design. The intricate carvings chiseled into the stone walls would have taken many skilled men many years to complete. The dark chambers within the temple, which would once have been home to the holiest of men, were now home to colonies of bats. They would flap and screech a foot or so above our heads as we entered. The place was ancient; I could almost feel the presence of ghosts from the past as we wandered around. The whole area around Hampi has an ancient feel to it; it was as if time has stood