Mumbai - Somewhere deep in the night, we pulled into a wayside station. Our valet said we could alight for a few minutes and stretch our legs. The valets were the mediators between our train and the realm beyond. Both worlds seemed equally unreal. We stepped from the air-conditioned carriage into sultry, fetid air.
There were beggars in rags, some asleep on the concrete, families with bundles, the smell of faeces and burning plastic. Hordes of people crammed the platform, even at this hour. The train hooted. We climbed back on the Odyssey and thrust deeper into the night. This train journey was giving us both sides of India… in bucket loads.
Fellow South African travel journalist Don Pinnock and I had been invited to experience the Deccan Odyssey, reputedly a maharajah palace on wheels. The eight-day itinerary would take us on a journey through Maharashtra State from Mumbai to Goa and back via a loop across the Deccan Plateau to visit the famed Ellora and Ajunta caves.
We arrived in Mumbai during Holi, the national spring festival, and the riot of colour that greeted us as we stepped from our hotel on the first morning set the tone for the coming week.
Later, a bus delivered our motley group of travellers to the back end of Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus where we threaded through an apocalyptic scene. This was Mumbai’s railway hub. Commuters by the thousand poured on and off the trains. It was a sea of living humanity on the move, like a vast migration.
We reached an oasis of calm where women in saris welcomed us with garlands, anointed us with oils and painted red dots on our foreheads while musicians let out a wailing din to drown the sound of shunting engines.
A great indigo python slid into the station, turning every head on the platform. The music rose to a crescendo of cymbal clashes and trilling tablas. The Odyssey drew to a halt and sighed. We all sighed. She was a thing of beauty. Doors flew open. Men in gold turbans and blue tunics emerged, rolled out red carpets and ushered us through flower-garlanded doors into the air-conditioned interior.
“Welcome aboard,” said our valet, Pramod Pandey. “This is a train for royalty.”
He led us to our cabin, a large affair with crisp white sheets, dark-wood panelling and en-suite bathroom. Pramod explained that he would be on hand at any hour of the day or night. Our every wish was his command. Maharajah luxury indeed, and a damn fine thing too.
Don and I took a walk through the train to get our bearings. There was a bar and lounge, a games and entertainment carriage, a spa, computer room and finally a gym.
There was loud clanking, a shudder. Our world began to move. We slid slowly astern as commuter trains hurtled past, passengers clinging like limpets around open doors. The odyssey had begun.
Next morning we emerged onto the platform at Kudal and were ushered on to a tour bus. It wound down the escarpment through rice paddies and coconut groves to a fishing harbour. On the horizon sat the 17th century Sindhudurg sea fort, perched on a tiny island. This was once a naval base of the Maratha Empire and its fort had never been conquered.
A short ferry ride brought us to a makeshift jetty which ended in a portcullis. Above towered brown walls fashioned from huge square blocks whose foundations were set in molten lead. Slits for muskets, bigger apertures for cannons. Unlike the geometric shape of most European forts, this one’s wall organically followed the island’s 3km perimeter, leaving invaders no foothold to land.
The next stop was Goa: Rome of the East. For centuries, this was Portugal’s most valued overseas possession. It was Good Friday and Catholic Goa was all pomp and religious ceremony. We made for the magnificent church complex that comprised the Basilica of Bom Jesus and Se Cathedral.
Begun in 1594, the former is a stocky, three-tiered affair of red stone set in a field of palms. The baroque interiors were all gold leaf with bloody crucifixes and carved cherubs that looked more Indian than Portuguese. The burial altar of St Francis Xavier dominated one corner of the nave. More cherubs, more gold.
The Se Cathedral is a tall gabled structure, 80m long and painted white in the Portuguese manner with pediments and pinnacles for decoration. The huge, barrel-vaulted ceiling was all muscle and power – however, the iconography in the alcoves were a blend of Portuguese and Moghul, Baroque ornamentation mating deliciously with Hindu ostentation.
East now, into rural India, piped music filling the carriages. The insistent tapping of the tabla as we hurtle through luminous rice paddies and jackfruit groves. The blue flash of kingfisher wings, knee-deep water buffalos and spice plantations to the horizon.
Next stop, Ellora. Dating from the 5th century, this World Heritage Site comprises 34 rock-cut temples that represent the Buddhist, Hindu and Jain faiths in a chain of halls, monasteries and temples.
First came the 8th century Kailasanatha, the most impressive temple at Ellora and the only single-piece structure to have been chiselled from the top down. It’s one of the largest monolithic structures on earth.
We climbed up, over and through this astonishing building carved from a single piece of stone. The central structure was seemingly held aloft by dozens of life-size stone elephants. Wide galleries carved into the mountainside surrounded the temple from where you could gaze down on its busy magnificence.
The day grew scorching and the cave complex baked in the sun. Even the cows were eating watermelons too cool off.
One Jain cave was crammed with women wanting to be photographed beside a handsome naked god whose penis had been lopped off, perhaps by an ancient souvenir hunter. Back on the bus, we were whisked off to see Aurangabad’s replica Taj Mahal. The Bibi-ka-Maqbara mausoleum is not so much a fake as an inferior copy of the Taj, commissioned by the emperor’s son in 1679 as a tribute to his mother.
The next day was Ajanta. For many, this was the highlight of the trip. Dating from the 2nd century BC, this once forgotten cave complex was discovered accidentally by a party of British officers on a hunting trip. It comprises 30 Buddhist caves carved into the walls of a horseshoe valley. Ajunta is famed for its exquisite frescos which adorn the interiors. Most depict the lives of the Buddha and cover the walls, columns and ceilings like an exotic version of a Renaissance chapel.
Large statues of the Buddha fill some of the spaces, either seated, or reclining along the length of a wall. Outside was all heat, blinding light and dust; inside it was cool and dark and breathing the holiness of two millennia. It was a remarkable spot.
Late afternoon, we detrained at our last stop, Nashik, a holy city situated on the banks of the Godavari River lined with ghats (steps flanking holy water) and temples. Our goal was the Panchwati Ghats where the pious were flocking for evening worship. A smaller version of the Ganges at Varanasi, this is a haunting place of water, light and prayer.
Some worshippers were bathing, ritually cleansing their bodies, others floated small fire boats into the stream. Chanting echoed across the water and off the surrounding buildings. The sun set and all around us were candles and the murmur of prayers. Everything was suffused in a golden afterglow, enhanced by ochre buildings and the women’s red and orange saris. The air smelled of rotting fruit, cow dung and curry powder. It was dirty, mosquito-ridden and beautiful.
Back on the train and back to the old-world charm of our smiling, turbaned minders. Fragrant drinks, wet towels. “This way sir, let me take your bag, some nibbles, may I open the door for you?”
Faces were pressed to the window, trying to see in. Samoosas were served. The glass eyes were hungry. Then again, so were we. Well, peckish at least.
“Where’s Marx? Where’s Engels?” muttered Don.
“I dunno, maybe in the dining car,” I offered, taking a swig of G&T.
He gave me a withering look.
We sailed into the night: glittering, regal, imperious. An iron caravan of clattering decadence. Perhaps there’d be retribution somewhere, somehow. For now, the Odyssey was a wet Indian dream. And I was dreaming it. So was Don, whether he liked it or not. - Saturday Star
If You Go...
Our trip was arranged by Luxury Trains of the World, an agency that promotes and sells the Deccan Odyssey in India, the Rocky Mountaineer in Canada and the Blue Train in South Africa.
Rates for a deluxe cabin on the Deccan Odyssey start from $575 (R5 750) per person per night sharing. This includes all meals and activities (but excludes alcohol). Call 021 813 6588, e-mail [email protected], web www.luxurytrainsoftheworld.com.