Thursday, November 02, 2023

India Day 3 - Train to Moradabad, Taxi to Rishikesh

 

Delhi Dust, Train Chaos & Finding First Class

New Delhi, India

We left our emergency hotel, strictly bed and no breakast, slightly disoriented, under-caffeinated, and already behind a schedule that didn't really exist. First stop was McDonald’s near Kashmere Gate Metro Station—the one inside the bus terminal complex. It was early, not yet 9 a.m., and already the place buzzed with commuters grabbing quick breakfasts before plunging into the capital’s daily chaos.

As we sat near the automatic doors, a young boy hovered outside, watching closely. He waited until a table cleared and he darted in—snatching up a leftover tomato sauce sachet, which he tore open and sucked dry like it was nectar. The image stuck with me. You always read about poverty in India, but when it’s a kid scraping ketchup off a wrapper beside your breakfast tray, it hits hard. This was real.


The Great Delhi Gauntlet

We stepped out into the smog—Tim, ever the practical one, pulled on a face mask. I laughed it off, pretending the smoke didn't bother me. (Spoiler: it did. I coughed like an old smoker.)

Our goal: New Delhi Railway Station. We entered the Kashmere Gate metro interchange, Delhi’s largest and most hectic, connecting the Yellow, Red, and Violet Lines. After a few minutes of deciphering signs and jostling with commuters, we turned around and decided to get a TukTuk to the massive railway hub, which took about 20 minutes and was far less hassle, but also death defying and VERY noisy. Sounding your car horn is compulsory in India (or Delhi at least).


How Not to Buy a Train Ticket

If you've ever tried to buy a ticket at New Delhi Railway Station, you’ll understand the word “chaos” doesn’t quite cut it. With absolutely no clue where to go, we were quickly approached by a tout who confidently took over. “You want ticket? Come, come.”

Suspicious but lost, we followed him. He ushered us toward a counter, where—miraculously—we were sold tickets heading east to Moradabad for just a few quid, plus his 50p “guide fee.” Fair enough. Tim decided we’d head that way, then switch lines north to reach Nainital via Kathgodam.


Platform Madness & a Bit of Luck



We made our way to the platform and stopped dead. It was unlike anything I’d seen: families camping on blankets, kids asleep under benches, vendors weaving through crowds shouting “chai! samosa!” and thousands of people jostling for space. The train arrived and stretched on for what felt like a mile—an enormous beast, heaving into the station.

The train is going east toward Moradabad, we joined the flood of bodies pushing into the carriages, unsure of where to sit (being politely British while everyone scrambled). It was sweaty, hectic, disorienting. People kept moving us on, indicating we were in the wrong seats. The ticket inspector found us and guided us forward through the crush of bodies to our assigned sleeper car—a four-bed compartment that felt like a tiny oasis. In First Class A/C, no less and tucked away far up the platform, it was a clean-ish, cool carriage. We sank into padded seats and accepted biriyani and chai from a uniformed attendant—just £1.50 for the works. The contrast was unreal. From street kids and station hawkers to air-con and stainless-steel trays, all within the space of an hour.

As the train finally pulled out of Delhi (late), we sat back and watched the chaos fade into countryside. It was our first real breath of India—intense, colourful, messy, and moving.

That’s where we met Deep Deep—a kind, composed Indian woman dressed in traditional attire, travelling alone to visit her sick father near Sealdah, the eastern terminus in Kolkata. Her English was excellent. What followed was 3½ hours of genuine conversation: Wales, India, culture clashes, scams, safety tips, what not to eat, and definitely what not to trust.

She offered some strong advice: “Don’t waste your time going to Nainital—it’s dirty and not worth the effort. You should go to Rishikesh instead.” We’d barely made a plan for the next step, but that was all we needed to hear. Plans changed instantly.


🏙️ Moradabad: From Tracks to Trash

As we stepped off the train in Moradabad, we entered what felt like another world—and not in a good way. Straight into the slums. Filthy, chaotic, and suffocating. Eyes were on us—hard, unfriendly stares. It felt like we were the first foreigners to set foot there (or at least the first who didn’t immediately board another train).

The main street—[likely Station Road or Budh Bazaar area]—was a jumble of shops, grime, and confusion. We considered staying the night, but absolutely nothing looked safe or clean, and the sun was sinking fast.


🚓 An Accent and an Exit Plan

Back at the station, we stared blankly at the giant wall of train schedules, none of which made sense. That’s when a policeman approached us. He spoke English, but asked me to speak in an Indian accent because he couldn’t understand my Welsh one.

Slightly bizarre. A bit racist? Maybe. But I played along—put on the accent and explained we wanted to get to Rishikesh. He laughed, then got serious. “No more trains tonight. Taxi’s your only option.”


🚖 Meet Michael Messi – Taxi Driver & Chaos Pilot

That’s how we met Michael Messi, who greeted us with a confident handshake and an unmissable smirk. £45 was the deal—four hours north to Rishikesh.

The drive? Terrifying. India’s roads don’t care about your rules or your fear. We were overtaking on blind corners, dodging cows, weaving through oncoming traffic. Every minute felt like it could be our last. And yet... somehow, we survived.

At one point, Michael pulled over for chai at a roadside family-run café. Inside, locals were glued to the TV, watching India vs Sri Lanka in the 2023 Cricket World Cup. He noticed us craning our necks to see the score and, in a gesture of unexpected kindness, handed me his phone so I could stream the match for the rest of the drive. Class.


🌙 Rishikesh at Last

We handbrake turned and doughnutted into Rishikesh at 9:30 pm, knackered but relieved. “Where’s your hotel?” Michael asked. We didn’t have one. He chuckled at our relaxed (read: totally unprepared) travel style and pulled up outside a line of guesthouses on ISBT Road. It was near the bus station and near the dried up Chandrabhaga River.

We found rooms quickly at the first place, Hotel Suruchi. Mine cost £8, with a huge ceiling fan to ward off mosquitoes. Tim’s room had a hole in the floor for a toilet. Welcome to backpacker India.




A Peaceful Night, at Last

The contrast with Delhi and Moradabad was stunning. The streets were almost silent. A single cow wandered lazily past us. We searched for food and eventually found a lively café full of locals. The food was excellent—simple, fresh, cheap.

A group of lads kept staring at us, these two Welsh boys. They were curious and warm, they asked about our trip and told us more about the area. We learned that Rishikesh is a meat- and alcohol-free city, thanks to its spiritual significance. It’s also the Yoga Capital of the World, they proudly told us.

We’d stumbled into something special. Exhausted, full, and finally breathing easy, we walked back to our rooms—ready to explore Rishikesh in daylight.

Wednesday, November 01, 2023

India Day 2 - Sleeper Bus Charade and Streets of Chaos

Location: Delhi


If Tuesday was a jet-lagged fever dream, Wednesday was the hangover.

We definitely overdid it last night—too many clandestine beers, too much laughing, and not nearly enough water (DON'T DRINK THE WATER!). This morning arrived with a pounding head and an unsettling awareness that we'd have to function like grown adults in a city that feels like a cross between a carnival and a pressure cooker.

Thankfully, Nirmal came to the rescue with a solid breakfast—spicy pancakes (savoury dosa-style with green chillies and herbs) and cooked fresh tomatoes, washed down with thick, milky coffee. Exactly the kind of comfort food you need when your stomach’s confused and your soul feels slightly bruised.

Spontaneity Strikes Again
With zero fixed plans and a desire to escape the Delhi madness, Lalid walked us through some nearby lanes and helped us book a sleeper bus north to Haldwani. We paid 1,877 INR total for two tickets—about £18—which felt like a bargain for an overnight ride.
Haldwani is a small city in the Indian state of Uttarakhand, about 280 km (175 miles) northeast of Delhi. It sits at the base of the Kumaon hills and is known as the "Gateway to Kumaon"—a sort of launchpad for heading into the Himalayas.


Through Visham’s translation, Nirmal explained that he’s originally from Nainital, a beautiful hill town about 40 km (25 miles) from Haldwani, nestled in the Himalayan foothills and set around a picturesque lake. It sounded idyllic—and cold. We are definitely not dressed for anything resembling winter, so we’re improvising as we go. Again.

I picked up a body warmer from a street market—just £4—and although it’s probably not windproof or waterproof or any kind of proof, it felt like a small gesture in the preparedness department. I squeezed it into my crammed rucksack. Functional fashion at its finest. Oh yeah, earlier I saw some old Sikhs, playing Shabad Kirtan, a hymn thing that is a central part of Sikh worship and involves the singing of holy hymns from the Guru Granth Sahib (the Sikh holy scripture) - it was immersive and hypnotic and extremely infectious to witness as they sauntered past.

What Even Is Kashmere Gate #5?
The bus was scheduled to depart from Kashmere Gate ISBT (Inter-State Bus Terminal), Platform #5, which—despite sounding official—is more like a sprawling, chaotic tangle of entrances, exits, platforms, and complete confusion.
We had no idea what the “Gates” actually were when we booked the bus. Turns out, the terminal is massive and split across multiple “bus stops” and “platforms” that aren't clearly marked, and aren’t always organized in any obvious order. It’s also a magnet for touts and misinformation, so finding the right bus felt like trying to solve a riddle in a different language while standing in the middle of a car horn orchestra.

Before that adventure, we spent the day walking through several different parts of Delhi, trying to take in as much as we could.


Majnu-ka-Tilla: A Slice of Tibet

We entered what we later discovered is called Majnu-ka-Tilla—Delhi’s Tibetan Enclave—by stumbling through tight, dark alleyways. It’s densely packed, a mix of incense, momo steamers, monks, and posters of the Dalai Lama. Despite the cramped conditions and visible poverty, there was a strange tranquility to it—young people sipping chai, monks laughing with vendors, signs in Tibetan and English above small restaurants. It felt like a different world inside an already different world. We had a chai tea at a cafe, a young boy was washing up as a rat scurried around his bare feet. He wasn't bothered by this as he was transfixed with Tim and myself, already battle scarred and looking rugged as we sipped the warm brew. The price was about 30p, I gave the cafe owner 100 rupees (about 90p) and gestured he kept the change. He seemed almost insulted that I wanted to tip him, so I insisted the kid got the money.


Saddar Bazaar were on the same label as my band, Sons Of Selina

Industrial Markets & Night-Time Wanderings
Later in the evening, we unintentionally walked through Jama Masjid in Old Delhi, a Muslim-majority area, where men were seated in lines along the pavement, waiting for food donations—possibly Iftar-style communal meals, even though it's not Ramadan. A solemn, powerful sight. Shocking to see Halal cows heads on display (not so sacred in this part of town!)
We found somewhere to change money (India is a closed currency, so you can't do it at home), and while Tim was negotiating his exchange I gave a kid outside a 100 rupee note; he was selling shoes at a shop next door and his face lit up like it was Christmas. 

Our aimless wandering led us into an industrial/hardware district—called Sadar Bazaar, where shop after shop sold cement, pipes, industrial fans, timber, plumbing parts—all lining regular streets. It was staggering in scale and utterly disorienting. No zoning, no separation—just industry and humanity piled on top of each other in an organic sprawl.


And Then… No Bus.
After soaking up an overwhelming day, we returned to the smog of Kashmere Gate around 9:30pm, ready (we thought) for our sleeper bus to Haldwani. Only… it never came. Or it did, but we were either in the wrong place, the wrong line, or both.
Instructions were vague at best, often contradictory. One person pointed one way, another waved us somewhere else. The language barrier, lack of signage, and general overload finally defeated us. 10pm became 10:30. Then 11. At some point, we admitted defeat.

With no bus, no clue, and no plan, we grabbed a last-minute hotel nearby for £13 a room. It wasn’t much, but it was a bed and a door that locked. We’ll regroup in the morning and try again.


Reflections:
Delhi is not a city that holds your hand. It throws you in, chews you up, and expects you to keep moving. We’re improvising, adapting, and learning the hard way—but there’s a strange kind of thrill in it all. Nothing is certain. Nothing is smooth. But every single experience feels raw and real.