OMG! We're in Platzkart

From Saturday November 6

Our tour of Chandni Chowk completed, we boarded our bus to drop by the Ghandi assassination site to see if we could get in and tour the museum. As we suspected, this site was closed because of the upcoming visit by President Obama, leading one to speculate whether the disruption caused by an American presidential visit is worth the hassle. I remember how they used to close I-90, the main thoroughfare between downtown Chicago and O'Hare. Talk about a mess.


And so we headed off to a late lunch at Restaurant Chor Bizaare, billed as Delhi's finest Kashmiri restaurant. This was a treat for me and Carol - an ethnic food we had not experienced before. It was much like regular Indian food, mostly coming from the tandoor. The dishes included Kashmiri Roganjosh, Haak (like braised spinach), chicken from the tandoor, Kambargah (deep fried lamb joint), and Rajma (kidney beans), all served around a bed of rice. The Kashmiri roganjosh was not as saucy as the Indian style and there was an emphasis on meat not evident in the other Indian meals we had since our arrival. In fact, I realized this was the first meat we have eaten since we left Florida. All in all, this was one of our great meal experiences, and will be a classic as we remember the adventure of our first Kashmiri meal. We left stuffed to the gills.

Today was our last day in Delhi; we were to take an overnight train to Varanasi this evening. We returned to the Hotel Good Times to hang out with the remaining Diwali Fosters until it was time to go to the train station. We arrived at the Delhi train station after dark. We exited the bus to an overpowering stench of urine - the bus had stopped next to a round building lined with men peeing against the wall. What was this, an outdoor latrine? To make matters worse, the effluent from this wall was flowing all over the side walk we were supposed to wheel our bags over. (Great argument for bags without wheels.) I saw this ahead of time and moved into the street but half our group walked through the sidewalk sewer before noticing the source of the dampness or the stench. Eww.

It was a great trek from the latrine bus stop to the train, over the mountain of steep nearly vertical stairs and into the valley of the train platform. Our train was ready to board and we made our way through the narrow aisle to our assigned places. We stowed our bags under the seats and made ourselves comfortable. The group was scattered throughout two adjacent cars. We sat on the not very comfortable bunks and I perused the seat assignments Reid had given us on the bus. I looked at the seating arrangement, saw the open  compartments, noted with growing dismay that the bunks were not two, but three tiers and realized with horror that we had upper bunks. My God we are in platzkart.

Carol Posing in My Upper Bunk

Platzkart is Ukraine's third class overnight train service. Carol and I had managed 27 months of extensive overnight train travel in Peace Corps without ever traveling platzkart. And here we were, on a dream vacation about to sleep on a three-level bunk. A black cloud settled over my head and to this day I am ashamed that I could not shake it. Reid came by to see how we were doing and I snapped at him for not getting us a better class of service. Carol harangued me to grow up. But all evening I just stared at the top bunk, wondering how I would ever get up there. When finally clawed my way up I lay there for what seemed like half the night wondering how I was going to get down. Finally, when the bladder could hold no more, I managed to find the path down and the cloud began to dissipate. I guess I would make it to the morning after all.

Lilly and her mother

 I woke up not really chipper but people could live with me again. I met Lilly and her family, who shared the compartment with us, Larry and Mary Kay. Lilly was a charming little girl I originally thought was a boy, even though she was dressed totally in pink, because of her very short hair. I remember thinking that I liked this cultural difference, where boys could wear pink if they wanted. It seemed to fit the love of colors so endemic in the Indian culture. I learned that Lilly was indeed a girl and that her hair was short because in Indian culture, the birth hair must be removed at some point. A kid's head is shaved at age 1, 3 or 5, parents' choice. Lilly was three when she lost her hair.

Lilly with her father

I also had a nice conversation with a young woman who had the lower bunk to my upper. She is a university student studying physics in Varanasi, returning from Delhi where she spent Diwali with her family. Lilly's father is a computer engineer who was able to converse with Larry in detail about tele-communications. As we exited the train into the Varanasi platform, virtually every member of our group were sharing similar engagements with their Indian seat mates. Despite my discomfort at the start of the journey, this chance to meet and get to know middle class Indians in their own environment is a highlight of our trip.

We disembarked in Varanasi, only 90 minutes behind schedule. The Varanasi train station was nearly as busy as Delhi's. I only just descended from our car when I confronted this amazing caravan of red-clothed porters transporting, Indian-style, some lucky travelers' bags. Although tempted, our group decided to wheel our own bags through the teeming crowd.