It feels like a week ago but it was just this morning, I found the thorn stuck in my tyre. After fixing that, no problems for 30km to Jalandhar. Saw The Sarai of Nurmahal, very nice. The gate opens onto a large open quadrangle, beautiful, peaceful. The gate is very intricate. Some Arabic calligraphy appears in the gate. Checking with the experts at work, it is in Urdu.
I sat there admiring while eating the 3 samosas I'd picked up at the sweets shop. Lucky I have 0 language skills or I would also have gotten some of those.
I wiggled through the old town centre. It is exactly as per an old French village, tiny, lined with shops.
The next one, Jandiala Manjki is similar, and even more medieval with homes straddling the path at the first floor some overhanging the road.
In Jalandhar, the army guys with machine guns wave me in at their road checkpoint. They make me nervous, but as per everyone who sees a random foreigner cycling past, they just want to chat. I just want to make it to the train on time. Then they want me to meet the supervisor. Ayaiyai. A selfie crosses my mind, but often selfies seem a bad idea.
At the station there are metal detectors at the entrance to the ticket area. My bike has a full steel frame. I don't really want to leave it outside. Turns out that the detectors are off. I can get in, just, by turning the handlebars. The cop inside gives info, takes me outside and points me to the parcel office.
There is one lady, repeat, just one, handling everything, while 5 or 10 men label and move all kinds of heavy sacks. I requirea zerox of my passport. One guy pulls 20 rupees out, not sure who the kind man is in my panic, one takes my passport and is off, while I watch the lady handle the swirl of men and packages, organised chaos. A form, 32 rupees fee (53c), a meal across the street, and I'm on the platform. 22479 is on the displays, and car C1. I ask a guy, who speaks excellent English by chance, if it goes to Amritsar, he says no! My train is 22429. Glad I asked!! Nothing could have been a bigger problem than going the wrong way without the bike.
Navdeep advised me to take the CC class. There are 2 sets of 3 seats with a corridor in the middle. Many stand. Some have two rows of seats piled high with roly bags. 2 women occupy the row of seat 64. The roly bag people are guiding me to another seat. After 2 sets of blessings in Punjabi, I am sat next to an old man who has his legs well spread over into my side.
No worries. At Beas, 2/3 of the train gets off not seat 64. I get, another, window seat, and research where to stay.
To my despair, the bike took a full hour to clear parcels admin at the other end, perfectly intact, to my intense joy. One guys says there is a labour charge. I asked the helpful guy, who tells the bogus guy to knock it off. I am keen to get out.
Traffic as always is a surprise.
I head for a highly rated home stay where the guy looks at me and my filthy bike and simply says no.
Seems he's done me a great favour as my hotel is right in the action, with a string of great places to eat and explore. After a bucket wash, can't get the shower to work, I'm sitting in front of the best Lassi I've ever had, quickly followed by a kulcha (spiced bread stuffed with potato), Dahl, salsa, and curd. Heaven.
I got a milk shake from the "Belgian Waffle", purely to have change (rare, like gold. Still have not got UPI pay.) Wandering upstairs, I meet a Sikh man who welcomes all faiths, born in the USA (parents are still there running a coffee shop), is an attorney, and owns the fancy coffee place here.
I have paid for 3 nights at Luxe Stayz Heritage Street. It seems really excellent, so I could stay one more.
I have to say, all the traffic is very respectful here. I can tell the difference between a honk here to say beware I'm passing, and the Australian honk to say beware I don't know to use my steering wheel and brakes properly.
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