It's a 7.00am start on the road to nowhere today. How many of you have heard of Sri Ganganagar?
I thought not. Me neither. The roads in India are not like anywhere else I've been. 300 kilometres can take you 10hrs. We've had it easy so far. Even in Eastern Turkey and Iran, where the surface was not always brilliant, they had dual carriageways and motorways which allowed us to average 100kms per hour. Not in India. Well, not in the Punjab anyway. But at least it is tarmac. Most of the way. The countryside is lush and green and the road is lined with overhanging trees on both sides. If there were vineyards instead of rice fields either side you could imagine you were on some back road in France. Well, if you ignored the constant thunder of heavy duty trucks bedecked with garlands, trinkets and charms, sporting their warning triangle in or above the windscreen like a medal of honour, tooting their horns to clear the way in front. And, if you ignored the colourful buses laden with people, inside and on top, swerving to overtake at breakneck speed, with no regard to oncoming traffic, one hand firmly on the horn, the other waving gaily as they pass. And, if you ignored the motorbikes carrying entire families. Dad in the driving seat, child on the handlebars or petrol tank, Mum precariously balanced side saddle, on the back, in a sari, with a child or infant in each arm. And if you ignored the cattle pulling a cart laden high with bricks with several men perched on top. And, if you ignored the villages you pass through with shanty type shops and the men sat on stools round the coffee stall. And, if you ignored the goats, cattle and dogs wandering loose over the highway. And if you ignored the potholes so deep you have to swerve to avoid them or disappear into them. Well, actually, nothing like France at all. Except for the potholes.
As our journey has progressed eastwards, we have become more and more obsessed with toilet talk and bowel movements. Every meal time offers the opportunity for more discussion. In Europe, we discussed the cleanliness of the toilets. Then, the availability of toilet roll. Then, as we moved further east, the first question was 'Is it a proper toilet' or 'sit up and beg'? Some managed to hold off using the 'sit up and beg' for several countries. I decided to get acquainted with the technique early on. Definitely, the biggest risk is splash-back if your aim is not good. At least in Europe, we could wear shorts. Time enough to practise getting it right. In Iran, the problem was that the only toilets were next to mosques and they were often locked. For anyone suffering last night's dinner, this could be a real problem as they are far and few between. Here in Punjab, there is great variability in the quality but several people have contracted Delhi belly in various forms. These forms have become the main topic of conversation. I, for one, am only grateful to have escaped thus far, and will not put you off your dinner with the messy (very messy) details of others.
Our trip to nowhere finally reaches conclusion at 4pm when we pull into a 'resort' hotel far from the village. Our hearts sink. We will have to eat in the hotel, whatever the food. Then we spot the pool. Weyhey. In less than 5 mins I am checked into my lovely room and have claimed my spot with a pink towel. By the time our German Ozbusser gets there, we have claimed victory for England. With an audience of locals round the pool and on the roof, we mess around in the pool before having a fantastic dinner in the garden. We have the whole place to ourselves. Puppet show and local band courtesy of the hotel. This is heaven. Can we stay? Still, there is a niggle at the back of my mind about having swallowed some of the pool water.
I thought not. Me neither. The roads in India are not like anywhere else I've been. 300 kilometres can take you 10hrs. We've had it easy so far. Even in Eastern Turkey and Iran, where the surface was not always brilliant, they had dual carriageways and motorways which allowed us to average 100kms per hour. Not in India. Well, not in the Punjab anyway. But at least it is tarmac. Most of the way. The countryside is lush and green and the road is lined with overhanging trees on both sides. If there were vineyards instead of rice fields either side you could imagine you were on some back road in France. Well, if you ignored the constant thunder of heavy duty trucks bedecked with garlands, trinkets and charms, sporting their warning triangle in or above the windscreen like a medal of honour, tooting their horns to clear the way in front. And, if you ignored the colourful buses laden with people, inside and on top, swerving to overtake at breakneck speed, with no regard to oncoming traffic, one hand firmly on the horn, the other waving gaily as they pass. And, if you ignored the motorbikes carrying entire families. Dad in the driving seat, child on the handlebars or petrol tank, Mum precariously balanced side saddle, on the back, in a sari, with a child or infant in each arm. And if you ignored the cattle pulling a cart laden high with bricks with several men perched on top. And, if you ignored the villages you pass through with shanty type shops and the men sat on stools round the coffee stall. And, if you ignored the goats, cattle and dogs wandering loose over the highway. And if you ignored the potholes so deep you have to swerve to avoid them or disappear into them. Well, actually, nothing like France at all. Except for the potholes.
As our journey has progressed eastwards, we have become more and more obsessed with toilet talk and bowel movements. Every meal time offers the opportunity for more discussion. In Europe, we discussed the cleanliness of the toilets. Then, the availability of toilet roll. Then, as we moved further east, the first question was 'Is it a proper toilet' or 'sit up and beg'? Some managed to hold off using the 'sit up and beg' for several countries. I decided to get acquainted with the technique early on. Definitely, the biggest risk is splash-back if your aim is not good. At least in Europe, we could wear shorts. Time enough to practise getting it right. In Iran, the problem was that the only toilets were next to mosques and they were often locked. For anyone suffering last night's dinner, this could be a real problem as they are far and few between. Here in Punjab, there is great variability in the quality but several people have contracted Delhi belly in various forms. These forms have become the main topic of conversation. I, for one, am only grateful to have escaped thus far, and will not put you off your dinner with the messy (very messy) details of others.
Our trip to nowhere finally reaches conclusion at 4pm when we pull into a 'resort' hotel far from the village. Our hearts sink. We will have to eat in the hotel, whatever the food. Then we spot the pool. Weyhey. In less than 5 mins I am checked into my lovely room and have claimed my spot with a pink towel. By the time our German Ozbusser gets there, we have claimed victory for England. With an audience of locals round the pool and on the roof, we mess around in the pool before having a fantastic dinner in the garden. We have the whole place to ourselves. Puppet show and local band courtesy of the hotel. This is heaven. Can we stay? Still, there is a niggle at the back of my mind about having swallowed some of the pool water.
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