Sandstorm In A Teacup

The morning you’re about to set off on a four-day journey into the Rajasthan desert is not a great time to get the Delhi Belly. However, the tickets had been bought, and we were heading to Delhi station to catch the early morning Shataaabdi Express to Jaipur.

Now, I like train stations. I list Milan Central, Paddington and Antwerp among my favourites (get me!) and Delhi station comes, erm, nowhere near that list. There’s a certain romance to a train station – or at least there ought to be. You tend to imagine it filled with steam as the engines pull out, with people waving handkerchieves at loved ones, running alongside the train. Or something like that. Delhi station at 6am was hardly a romantic setting.

The rats, however, love it. To be fair, it was much cleaner than I had expected, and the Shataabdi Express that would take us from Delhi to Jaipur in just over 3 hours puts much of the British rail network to shame.

The reservation system may appear archaic, with lists being pinned to a notice board before departure, but it works. And this seems to go for much of India. While Britain’s attempts to modernise have resulted in complete and utter failure, India has barely even bothered. As a result, the trains run (almost) on time and the Delhi-Jaipur train is actually quite pleasant to travel on. For a start, you get food – and lots of it. And newspapers. And tea. And more tea. And a free water bottle.

Toilet no. 1: A Jaipur Shopping Mall

It was about ten in the morning when we arrived in Jaipur and the mercury was rising by the second. Shanaz called a friend of her sister who lived in Jaipur, who I at first assumed to be called Ratshit. I didn’t want to say anything. I think his name was Rakshet, and he was an overwhelmingly nice bloke – and a huge help, as he provided us with a taxi driver for the day.

Our first request was to find a “clean” toilet, as I was about to keel over from the heat and the need to, erm, “go”. We were taken to a Café that didn’t actually have a toilet, but pointed us in the direction of the shopping centre, and off I went. Now, for our American readers who flinch at the mere mention of a lavatory, I do apologise. This is going to be rather graphic, so perhaps you can copy it all into Word and do a Find/Replace on toilet (change to washroom), pooh (change to doody or something), and any other offensive terms. Sorry.

Toilet number 1 came without toilet paper, although thankfully it wasn’t a squatting toilet. However, the floor was covered in water and other substances, and I did come prepared. Still, it wouldn’t do, and I was dreaming of gold-plated toilets with trained monkeys handing you a hot towel when you’re done. Maybe with a plasma screen showing Everton’s greatest victories in the toilet itself. Glorious.

Toilet no.2: The Taj Hotel, Jaipur

God Bless Our Driver. He found a former Maharaja Palace that was converted into a five-star hotel, replete with courtyards, fountains, manicured gardens, and the best toilet I have seen in many, many years. Marble walls, gold finishings, and a trained servant to hand me a hot towel when I was finished – I could have stayed for hours. We even stayed for drinks, relaxing in wicker chairs in front of the gardens, protected from the blazing sun. It was the best toilet, the best coffee, and the best service ever. It almost made me think that Jaipur was really rather good.