The only time we backtracked on our eastward journey (o pardon us Apollo!) was the next leg, when we flew back to Vienna (whence we would in five days be taking a plane to India) to meet Alan’s sole surviving cousin Richard, who with his lovely wife Ingrid occupied a retirement home in Pottenstein—a few K from the airport. And what a comfortable home it was, nestled at the foot of the Vienna woods and close by the famous town of Baden-bei-Wien. During our four days there we visited both those towns and also the woods, spent a night at the Viennese opera watching a fabulous production of “Cosi Fan Tutte” (with superb ringside seats and champers in the intermission), and an entire grey day tracing all the marvellous reconstructions that had been erected around the inner circle of the city, thanks to far-sighted city fathers and enlightened citizenry. Vienna quickly became a match for Prague among our favourite European cities, and it was hard to say good-bye to our hospitable relatives, who with their children, Natalie and Mark, had made our last night in Pottenstein one we’ll always remember. And perhaps repeat.We very much enjoyed our stroll through the inner circle of the city, with its many historic and beautiful buildings and statues.
Downtown Vienna
Goodnight, Vienna
On arrival in India--oh what a contrast was there!--we were met by a guide who whisked us at once, via the fort in Old Delhi, to see the marvels of the legacy of the Raj. It was a festal day in New Delhi, but we were not able to take pictures of the parades in the streets—elephants, camels, and brightly dressed students—because the driver was not allowed to stop at any point. On arriving at our “3 star” hotel I was so nauseated by what I saw in the dining room that I requested a change, which was quickly accomplished-- though the improvement was only slight. Below is a picture of what we saw as we approached our second hotel.
How can I temper my tongue at this point? Every one of the next five days seemed to me a trial by ordeal. Dirt, disease, squalor, begging children, maltreatred aimals, open sewers in every street, kitchens which offered indifferent food and glimpses of foul equipment—the litany is long. We had a charming and competent young driver/guide, Sashi, who did his best to lift my spirits every hour or so of our subsequent interminable journeying by calling us (in Hindi) his esteemed grandparents, but he and the tour guides who showed us Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur respectively had enough English only to warn us against hawkers and deliver long speeches about the place we were visiting at the time.
Our first guide, "John the Baptist", called himself by the name he had chosen because his father was a Baptist missionary in the days of the Raj. Here he was trying to persuade us into the jewellery store; all the guides tried to increase their commissions by such persuasions. Alas, we were unwilling to accede to his blandishments, charming though he was.
Our second day began badly in that our driver explained we had been summoned to the downtown office of our Tour Director (wasn’t he supposed to come to us, as indicated by email arrangements?) where we were required to pay tour costs before being taken any farther. An hour after reaching this filthy place, and waiting unattended in an empty room, I blew my top and hammered at the downstairs door of an assistant from whom I demanded instant contact with said tour director, a “Mr. Vinod”. After a flurry of phone calls we were taken to a heavily guarded bank where we were expected to transfer funds from credit card to cash to Vinod’s account. This extraordinarily complicated procedure took ninety minutes and required the attention of a number of bank clerks, each with a separate key to a separate office (“one more flight of stairs, please”), and a bevy of policemen at the ready, flourishing guns. Discs were for some reason licked, bank notes were unfolded, licked, and refolded, scrutinized by machine as well as eyes, and kissed before deposit .When this charade was finally finished and our $350 transferred as rupees to Vinod’s metaphorical pocket, his agent, having pocketed a 10% commission nowhere mentioned in the documents, graciously permitted us to continue on our way to Rishikesh, in the foothills of the Himalayas. So we set off a mere three hours later than we had anticipated to drive the 160K to Rishikesh. This might take three hours, wouldn’t you think, as we did? Not on your life. With a 45-minute lunch break half way there, the journey took a full seven and a half hours, so that we arrived in Rishikesh at nightfall. If you are wondering why it took so long, I hasten to explain that road runs between a continuum of crowded villages, with camels, elephants, and water buffalos all doing their share of hauling loads ahead of you, or uncomfortably close beside you, and with trucks and other motorized vehicles (not a rear view mirror in sight) maintaining steady 20 to 30 K an hour. All over the backs of these trucks were admonitions such as “HORN PLEASE” and “LIGHTS DIPPING” or “USE DIPPER AT NIGHT”. No evidence of their own lights that we could see. Families of monkeys pranced alongside, but they and the many cones built of pressed cow-dung lining the ditches (why?) were not enough to keep one diverted hour after hour. Nor were the goats, donkeys, cows, dogs, pigs, and cow-dung-shaping children.
A welcome refreshment break on the road to Rishikesh
the view from our hotel bedroom in Rishikesh
Fortunately, the hotel in Rishikesh, which is a resort area favoured by yoga enthusiasts, was cleaner and altogether more welcoming than its equivalents in Delhi. By morning we were refreshed and ready to admire the view of serrated hilltops; we could even find the streets attractive because of the children scurrying well-dressed to school—a feature noticeably missing further south.
The monkeys fraternized happily with the Brahmin bulls. One could feel similarly frisky, and enjoy the vista in Hadiwar of the Lord Shiva enormously presiding over the Ganges.
However, once on the way along the crowded highway again, the time stretched interminably forward. And we had only another indifferent hotel in Delhi to look forward to. A pleasant surprise once there, however, came in the presence of a pair of fellow Canadians at dinner; they would be returning home to Vancouver on the morrow and so we happily swapped impressions and addresses. While we were doing this, our Mr. Vinod appeared at our table, anxious to make excuses and amends for the previous day’s disappointments. He offered us gifts and assurances of continuing service; he hoped we would speak well of him to other travellers. Poor Mr. Vinod.
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