This can’t be where I catch the express train from. There must be a different platform, a special one, like in Harry Potter or something—
‘ Baaaaaaaaahhhh! ’
Loud bleating behind me makes me almost jump out of my skin and I twirl around to see two scraggy, nervy goats being herded down the platform.
Despite being a small station, it’s busy and crowded with a jumble of people. Several backpackers are flopped around, waiting with their rucksacks, a group of women, dressed in brightly coloured saris, like birds of paradise, are perched on metal seats, chattering loudly; a porter balancing plastic-wrapped suitcases on his head overtakes an old man pushing a wheelbarrow filled with cages of loud, squawking chickens, whilst a group of teenage schoolboys are staring curiously at me, their gazes unblinking . . .
Self-consciously I look away – hang on, and is that a cow just hanging out over there in the middle of everything? Undisturbed, it’s chewing grass and swishing its tail and . . . oh no, don’t tell me it’s going to do what I think it’s going to do . . .
Oh yuck. Yes it is.
As a big, steaming pile of crap lands on the platform, I stare at it. I don’t remember seeing that in all those glossy brochures about enchanting train journeys across India. I watch as the wheelbarrow man marches straight past the cow without batting an eyelid. He seems completely oblivious. As is everyone, I realise, looking around me and noticing that – apart from a few other tourists staring like me – everyone else is just carrying on as normal.
Because this is India, not King’s Cross, I remind myself firmly. Come on Ruby, pull yourself together. Stop being so pathetic. OK, so it’s a bit scary travelling on your own in a strange country that you’re not used to, but it’s all going to be fine. You just need to find the right platform, that’s all.
‘ Argh !’ I let out a shriek as a cockroach or something runs over my foot. Oh my god, did anyone see the size of that thing? It was massive! As big as a rat! As I turn to see it scurrying away, my blood suddenly runs cold. It was a rat!
OK, I’m pathetic! I don’t care! I’m pathetic!
Snatching up my suitcase, I head back inside to try and find Tourist Information. I know this is India, and I know it’s this amazing, incredible country, but I don’t think I’m cut out for this. I’m not some brave, adventurous, independent traveller.
I’m the girl who’s terrified of insects (including daddy-longlegs, which even my three-year-old goddaughter isn’t scared of), who gets nervous in crowds and seasick on boats and for whom travelling consists of the Eurostar to Paris and package holidays to Europe. I mean, it’s hardly Bear Grylls is it?
I’m distracted by the sound of brakes screeching and hissing, and I look up as a train pulls in alongside the platform. At least I assume it’s a train, but you can barely see the actual thing itself for people hanging off the sides, piled onto the roof and clinging to the bars on the windows.
And I thought the Central Line at rush hour was bad. This makes a packed commuter carriage look positively roomy, I realise, glimpsing the people crammed inside the sweltering carriages.
Spotting an information office, I quickly weave my way towards it through the surge of passengers waiting to board, and find the door ajar. Peering inside its shadowy depths, I spot a uniformed official smoking a cigarette and sitting behind a desk, studying some ginormous ledger. A small plastic white fan is whirring futilely on the filing cabinet next to him.
‘Ahem, excuse me,’ I say politely, tripping inside. Those damn sandals.
He looks up and observes me with interest. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Actually yes,’ I reply, putting on what I call my ‘best’ voice. It’s the posh one I use on my voicemail and sounds absolutely nothing like me. In fact friends have been known to hang up, thinking they’ve got the wrong
‘ Baaaaaaaaahhhh! ’
Loud bleating behind me makes me almost jump out of my skin and I twirl around to see two scraggy, nervy goats being herded down the platform.
Despite being a small station, it’s busy and crowded with a jumble of people. Several backpackers are flopped around, waiting with their rucksacks, a group of women, dressed in brightly coloured saris, like birds of paradise, are perched on metal seats, chattering loudly; a porter balancing plastic-wrapped suitcases on his head overtakes an old man pushing a wheelbarrow filled with cages of loud, squawking chickens, whilst a group of teenage schoolboys are staring curiously at me, their gazes unblinking . . .
Self-consciously I look away – hang on, and is that a cow just hanging out over there in the middle of everything? Undisturbed, it’s chewing grass and swishing its tail and . . . oh no, don’t tell me it’s going to do what I think it’s going to do . . .
Oh yuck. Yes it is.
As a big, steaming pile of crap lands on the platform, I stare at it. I don’t remember seeing that in all those glossy brochures about enchanting train journeys across India. I watch as the wheelbarrow man marches straight past the cow without batting an eyelid. He seems completely oblivious. As is everyone, I realise, looking around me and noticing that – apart from a few other tourists staring like me – everyone else is just carrying on as normal.
Because this is India, not King’s Cross, I remind myself firmly. Come on Ruby, pull yourself together. Stop being so pathetic. OK, so it’s a bit scary travelling on your own in a strange country that you’re not used to, but it’s all going to be fine. You just need to find the right platform, that’s all.
‘ Argh !’ I let out a shriek as a cockroach or something runs over my foot. Oh my god, did anyone see the size of that thing? It was massive! As big as a rat! As I turn to see it scurrying away, my blood suddenly runs cold. It was a rat!
OK, I’m pathetic! I don’t care! I’m pathetic!
Snatching up my suitcase, I head back inside to try and find Tourist Information. I know this is India, and I know it’s this amazing, incredible country, but I don’t think I’m cut out for this. I’m not some brave, adventurous, independent traveller.
I’m the girl who’s terrified of insects (including daddy-longlegs, which even my three-year-old goddaughter isn’t scared of), who gets nervous in crowds and seasick on boats and for whom travelling consists of the Eurostar to Paris and package holidays to Europe. I mean, it’s hardly Bear Grylls is it?
I’m distracted by the sound of brakes screeching and hissing, and I look up as a train pulls in alongside the platform. At least I assume it’s a train, but you can barely see the actual thing itself for people hanging off the sides, piled onto the roof and clinging to the bars on the windows.
And I thought the Central Line at rush hour was bad. This makes a packed commuter carriage look positively roomy, I realise, glimpsing the people crammed inside the sweltering carriages.
Spotting an information office, I quickly weave my way towards it through the surge of passengers waiting to board, and find the door ajar. Peering inside its shadowy depths, I spot a uniformed official smoking a cigarette and sitting behind a desk, studying some ginormous ledger. A small plastic white fan is whirring futilely on the filing cabinet next to him.
‘Ahem, excuse me,’ I say politely, tripping inside. Those damn sandals.
He looks up and observes me with interest. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Actually yes,’ I reply, putting on what I call my ‘best’ voice. It’s the posh one I use on my voicemail and sounds absolutely nothing like me. In fact friends have been known to hang up, thinking they’ve got the wrong
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