GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRH...

January the 10th

It all starts with a short trip by train, 3 hours of daylight and delight. Finally the space opens, the nature takes the place of the enormous cities. Open spaces, we can finally breathe. Annd it is first day since we left when the sun shines without any fog covering it. How simple and easy life can be.

First sight of green

Because a happy moment never comes alone, our neighbors in the train – a father and his son – helps Cécile who struggles with the unclosable windows of this wagon. They try to help a first time, thinking we are simply unskilled with windows. Then they realize it is not so easy, the whole thing is broken. And for 15 minutes, when we think they are just talking together, they plan the rescue paper system. And out of the blue, they blocked the window with a single folded page of newspaper. And the window remains closed.

Besides them, two elderly women talk eagerly together. It is a relief to hear the sound of female voices and to see two ladies who are strong and present, not under any man around. In a country where we hardly see women and all the more so free women, it takes away a weight. Surrounded by men, we always feel somewhat out of place and partially unsecure. It isn’t a conscious feeling, but the sight of women takes it away. The atmosphere gets warmer, pleasant, trustful.

As we reach Allahabad, we are on little clouds, believing that our troubles are behind us. We feel that we can relax. So we do… but maybe it isn’t the wisest thing to do. As usual, we turn down the rickshaws, but these ones are tough ones and do not give up unless we walk 1 km away from their starting point, constantly saying that we know where we go. It is also the first time that rickshaws are openly aggressive in the way they address us.

A view on Allahabad, one of the countless rickshaws

Unfortunately for us, we have taken the wrong exit at the train station and are walking exactly opposite to our hostel. We mark a pause to check in the map where we are, and after 20 seconds in a corner, we turn round and see a crowd of Indian faces staring at us. Allahabad is not used to having white people in its streets. All these men sincerely want to help us, nothing more, they were curious to know what we are doing, and to make it easier for us to reach our goal. Our feelings get mixed. Overall it is extremely pleasant to feel that there is no back thoughts, that they are just surprised as kids would be. On the other hand, it is very disturbing to be so seen, to be unable to melt in the crowd. We are the centre of the attention, whether we walk, eat, smile, talk… Every gesture we do is under watch, every doubt is seen and immediately ten people gather to interrupt. It is impossible to make a pause. We have to be in motion in order to have some space around us.

So people put us in a cycle rickshaw who drives us through the (huge) city centre, direction our hostel. In the description written in the lonely planet, it is described as a abandoned and gloomy colonial bungalow, but as we reach it, we see a palace, with brand new gates guarded by security men, white walls, gardeners… far from what we are used to. The rickshow is forced to drive us until the stairs of the reception. We feel like diplomats in dirty clothes and backpacks. It is stunningly absurd moment. The receptionist shows us the menu of rooms, from deluxe to royal en suite. It is far out of our budget and we leave, by foot, alone, the castle of Allahabad. We realize then, that the lonely planet we have found in Varanasi dates from the year 2007, and things  have changed since it was published.  

 

Our idealistic approach of the city takes its first hit. But we still like it. We decide to take a break and eat before going to another hostel. We bump into a street restaurant and the owner brings us immediately to the new eating room he had built, something completely fake, with vibrant (pink and green) colors that completely miss the point. It feels very American. Before we can say pretty much anything, the man has chosen our orders. The food is not any special, but he keeps adding elements, and not even the ones we ask for. Perrine desperetaly want an egg, that  miraculously transformed into a paneer (cow cheese in sauce) in the back kitchen. The man is talking to us, too nice and cheesy. We ask for the bill and he brings it with a dirty smile. 310 ruppies, the equivalent of 10 times the amount of money a poor earns per day. We realize the man has served us only the most expensive dishes of his menu, without ever mentioning anything, (that’s why the egg never made it on the table), he brought us “gifts” (2 raitas) that were of course added to the bill. The thing being that prices are never settled in India and often counted according to the face of the client, it is almost almost impossible to discuss afterwards. And for once, feeling safe and willing to trust for a moment the honesty of people, we didn’t ask beforehand the price of things. If we convert it in euro it is nothing, and of course paying a bit more is ok for us. But this time it feels like being stabbed in the back. And digestion is much harder if you feel that the food was a way to use and not to give. Food doesn’t only feed a body; it is partly accepting the outside inside one’s body. Bad feelings towards the hands who cooked is a sure miss for the stomach processes.

Allahabad, a slight aggressiveness in the air

Allahabad doesn’t look so good any more. And it only goes worst and worst from then. We end up after a long search in a hotel next to the train station, exactly where our journey in Allahabad started. This is the gloomiest hotel we ever stepped in. The room has no window and reminds a cell. The wardens sleep full time on the ground, the chairs or on an old couch. The bathroom is a nightmare (we cannot even take a shower. The smell born from there is enough to make us feel dirtier that before we enter). But when there is no alternative to choose from, the mind can adapt to anything. And our prison becomes a cinema and restful space in the middle of this aggressive city. And when the lights are off, dirt is much less visible.

We go out twice, trying to reach a cinema and to buy some fruits, but the violence that swells from the city brings us back into our dear hotel. We watch Slumdog millionaire and see the real India, an India we cannot see. It helps us a lot understanding the surface we catch: all these begging children, the states in the  slums, the traffics, the fake tourist guides… We get a glimpse of what is behind all these things we are facing every single day.