India by train - a luscious green paradise, what a treat for the senses.

A luscious green paradise – the experience of riding the train through India. I had been waiting for this moment for a long time, that highly anticipated train journey had finally arrived. Just 45 km from South Goa to Gokarna, but nonetheless it was here. 

Whereas previous dusky bus journeys had removed the zest out of this green canopy, today’s afternoon sun, illuminated it brilliantly. The treetops had that effervescent shimmer, like a wet sandy shore glimmers under the hazy sunshine, here the trees were glowing too. A bronzed jungle scene whirling across before my very eyes. What a feeling. Happiness, gratitude, joy. It was all there. The jungle stood motionless, and it was my hair that whipped frantically across my face. It gave me the feeling that I too was part of the jungle. I was that. I was a tree in the wind, branches swishing violently; each strand of hair, human branches, rooted in my scalp. Any moment revealed a surprise. First we plunged into darkness, a tunnel of some description, pitch blackness, darker than nightshade, eyes fought to form shapes that would not reveal themselves, it was only the interior of our shuttle that showed itself. This was when the ceiling presented its thirty ceiling fans, in just the one carriage. The necessity alone for this high number made the sweat begin to trickle down the nape. Luckily we were blessed with the winter, and the 33 degree heat it still brought!  Soon enough we re-emerged into the sea of blanket of green, and the mind could establish that we had just ploughed through a whole mountain. The joys of Indian rail.  

The next pearl revealed itself in a glittering pool of water, sparkling like a diamond, reflecting the gorgeous sun, India was really flirting with it’s train travellers. The beautiful peacock, symbolic of this country, came to mind, and the parallel between India and her mascot became evident, this country really did dazzle when it had the chance. It was interesting looking out from the barred windows, rather than looking in. The latter, revealing the many, many faces of the Indian travellers, crammed in, always brought a sense of melancholy. All those eyes peering out, evoked some kind of sadness, but now I see I was wrong; here was a sense of pride, plus a feeling of safety, of security. We, on the inside, are the riders. We get to look out at the world and stare, no need to move, no place to go, caged animals we were not, we were the regal passengers of the Raj railways, quite a changing perspective. 

The platforms with their white picket fences and small pigmy trees dotted with tiny white five leafed flowers, were like floral starfish adorning a sea of green. Beyond larger trees of golden yellowy green, not unlike a tortoise, mottled with the sun. It was a mixing palette of colour, an utter delight. What appeared to be the ocean appeared, a vast sheet of rippled glass, again like diamonds, as far as the eye could see, the treasure was bountiful. Boggy swarms with stumpy mangroves popping out, the image of the screaming mangrove babies of Harry Potter sprung to mind. Bulbous barky pot bellies, popping out from the boggy waters, and shrivelled little clumps of hair, funny little creatures.

Walls of earth appeared – hills - but hints of being manmade evident; patches of dry grass, thinned to reveal piles of stones, housed in chicken wire, rolled out with a hay coloured coat of grass, anything goes in God’s house. And back in the jungle again, thick scrub rolled out before the train; greens, ambers, brick-reds and pale pinks, so many colours when the eye really paid attention. Writing was a beautiful gift. It made you pay attention, analyse with a magnifying glass. 

The sun shone violently off a corrugated tin roof; next it kissed the coconut trees, whilst simultaneously bathing the forest floor in its golden glows, capable of so many different caresses all at once. The air smelt earthy, almost no smell at all, warmth, homeliness, calmness, all of these things, somehow masked in this non-smell. The warm breeze soothed legs gently and blew cool kisses up the insides of my arms, I felt held by nature here, the full personification of  Mother Nature, come to life. A twisted tree trunk made itself f known to me, and with it the smell, of burnt coal on the wind. Next I notice the sharp juxtaposition of a hundred shiny mopeds, parked row after row under a small concrete slope, the final leg of the journey, for commuters going home. I’d never noticed this contrast before, between nature and machine, as right now, journeying with Mother Nature, from state to state. Ride with me as you read. I will cease my writing so as to give my full attention to my host and guide, Mother Nature xxxxx

India by bus - The Open Road to Mumbai...on a sleeper bus!

My sleeper bus bounces along haphazardly, through a beige world of rocks and hills. A variety of shades of green are present, distinctly lacking vibrancy, in the hazy afternoon sun. Fronds of olive-green ferns, co-ordinate themselves with the army-green battalion of leafy trees; sky-scraping palms tower above, their umbrella of flora jutting out in all directions, the Side Show Bob of this rural terrain.  Hardy, spiked, branches poke up in tightknit clusters, appearing like candelabras on the table that is the sandy mounds, which line the Bombay-bound road. In the distance, dusky, grey hills, form a carpet that spreads as far as the eye can see. The tawny brown earth glows with a rusty-copper tone, illuminated slightly by the descending sun.  Rocks, boulders and stones litter the roadside, adding a river of slate-grey to the brown and green backdrop.  Now and then small, redbrick buildings pop up, corrugated tin roofs, pinned down by large, jagged rocks, the only apparent security in covering these shed-sized shanti shacks. The only sign of life comes from motionless washing lines, dotted with bright bits of fabric, pegged out by a mother’s hands.  Quickly another, rather more ominous, signal of human life registers - tons of disused, plastic bottles and mountainous bags of waste. An accumulation of local folks’ day-to-day existence forms scattered piles, left for a waste disposal solution that is yet to, or may never, arrive.

The deep hum of the double-decker sleeper bus, bellows up from the tarmac below, occasionally overpowered by the roar of a bright yellow tractor, appearing to float backwards as it passes the open window.  The smell of the Earth fills the cool, breezy air; a smell of dirt and dust, and nature. With attention, a cacophony of differing horns cans be detected, varying in pitch and tone, all screeching out their presence, alerting each other of their advancement, weaving together in an uncalculated yet synchronised flow. 

Travel around India is easy, with private buses being an affordable and swiftly organised approach to getting around.  Sleeper buses double up as accommodation; waking up and stepping off into a new location, provides a stimulating jolt of happy anticipation, quite difficult to be beaten.  Bunks are amply sized, couched by a soft(ish) mattress, curtains and sliding glass doors. Privacy is A* and usb-port charging outlets provide in-house power for all devices to whittle away the time as you please.  Periodically buses take pit-stops, pulling up with a shudder at what could be likened to a roadside service station in the West.  Wallahshop on touting water and tea, or rush along pass the windows outside, bearing deep fried snacks or namkeenof some description.

I’m yet to experience the train, leaving it too late with my booking for this journey to secure a seat, but as a solo female traveller, there is no complaint I could possibly make about this transportation system and would recommend it highly to any wander-lusting considerate.  I have also come to conclude that non-AC is my personal preference, the offensive jets of cold air, undesired during these colder months. Plus, this also allows for a sliding window, to the outside world, it’s opening enhancing the journey through this sensory rich land. 

I am heading south from Udaipur to Mumbai, where I will idle the day away, before hopping on another overnight vessel, delivering me in Goa.  From there we’ll see what is to come…

Udaipur - the Venice of the East - a vision of white!

‘Udaipur! Udaipur!’My 5am wake-up call, the bus driver wrapping on the sliding window that serves as the entrance and exit to my coffin, I mean, compartment, on the sleeper bus from Jodhpur. 

I slowly rouse from my slumber; the darkness of the early morning is no help here. Slipping down from my upper bunk and along the narrow aisle lined by empty beds, windows open, crumpled blankets the only sign of life existing here for the seven hours prior. Small food carts, seemingly pitched as close to bus doors as possible, welcome weary travellers with pots of steaming chai and huge round woks, brimming with towering, piles of bright yellow speckled with green – poha – flattened turmeric rice sprinkled in coriander, peanuts and various namkeen, a personal breakfast favourite. I am served up a portion, a perfect handful atop two pieces of criss-crossed newspaper. The opportunity to take a seat on the small plastic stools, eat a little something, drink a thimble-sized black coffee and contemplate my next move is taken readily.  Surprisingly, despite numerous rickshawdrivers awaiting their next move, not one hassles me with their services. A good sign. Phone in hand, google maps open, I seek a trusty stead to cart me off to my chosen hostel and before I know it, I am tucked up under a blanket on a roof top bed, left to catch a few extra zeds until a more godly hour arises.  

I awake to the red hues of a huge Japanese sun shining fuzzily through the open archway windows which line the walls.  If Jodhpur was the blue city, then Udaipur should be named a City of White. As I look out across the landscape, a scene of water and white buildings, I remember that this town does indeed have its own nickname – the Venice of the East, a suiting moniker for this relaxed, romantic place. This city of lakes glimmers beautifully under the morning sun. Cream and off-white buildings, covered in delicately carved balconies, arched windows, rooftop domes and the odd piece of stained glass, reflect the Mughal and Rajput style.  It’s a stark contrast to what I have seen of Rajasthan thus far. A true gem in this land of treasures.


It is apparent from the room rates here that guesthouse owners know too well what a desirable destination Udaipur presents itself as, especially after many a travellers’ journey through the cities of Jaipur and Jodhpur before ending up here. It feels a little bit like one of the seaside resorts which line the south of the British Isles, big white hotels, overlooking the water, a quiet, relaxed atmosphere and costing a pretty penny to stay.  In India a pretty penny is still only a fraction of what it is back home but nonetheless, when compared to the rest of the trip, Udaipur is expensive. Tomorrow marks the three-month anniversary since my departure from the UK and throughout my adventure I have yet to pay more than 300 rupees per room, roughly £3 a night.  In Udaipur I am offered a room for 3000 rupees, this mark up speaks for itself.  I settle for a 500 rupee dorm room, the rooftops in these places serve as the perfect chill-spots that little time is spent in the room, simply a place to shower and sleep, a dorm is more than doable, and fifteen quid for three nights certainly isn’t bad at all.

My time in Venice of the East was packed with tours and exploring and various escapades, and it seems, as I edit this blog post, I neglected to find the time to write any further. Let’s just say – visit Udaipur, it’s beautiful!