My first impression of Madgaon Railway Station is that it resembles what I imagine Clapham Junction would be like for a foreigner except that, amongst other minor differences, Clapham Junction has signs which correspond to stations and platforms numbered in ascending order.
Overwhelmed by the chaos, we go in search of the Ticket office figuring that we'll find help there but the large red letters painted across the doorway suggest otherwise:
'NO ENQUIRIES PLEASE'
Fortunately, we've already purchased our tickets and know where we're heading but just have absolutely no idea which train will get us there. What's more, we've been told not to rely on the scheduled departure times of trains to identify them as they're more of a 'guideline' than a definitive timetable - trains can arrive an hour late, an hour early, or when things are really fucked up, on time.
Eventually we find assistance (at the Lost Property desk of all places) and haul our backpacks up the steep stairway to the main bridge. From above, we get our first real look at the extent of this madness. In the distance, the sun is rising casting light onto the railway tracks and the dozens of Indians scattered along it. Some are washing in water spouting from broken pipes, others taking shelter from the intensifying heat, tucking themselves away in the shadows of the sunken bunkers.
Above ground, the scenes are scarcely better. Beggars shuffle towards us with open palms and pleading eyes, mirroring the patterns of the countless stray dogs meandering between waiting passengers on the platform.
After what feels like an eternity, our train finally appears and small, tanned bodies fling themselves from the open doors before it's steadied to a stop. We jump on wherever we can, endeavouring to simply walk through the coaches to find our seats once we're safely on board. Simple, of course, does not come into it.
Squeezing through the narrow corridors with our huge backpacks and the large crowds of people crammed into the suffocatingly small cubbyholes on either side is a fair mission. It occurs to me then that on this occasion, we probably deserve the endless stares from onlookers which we've become so accustomed to. This time, they're likely no more struck by our pale skin as they are our complete incompetence in boarding a train. We've clearly missed something and we're causing a mess.
After fighting our way through four coaches and at least four hundred people, we reach a barricade which divides the different classes. At the next station, we disembark and try all over again. It's a panicked seven seconds sprinting down the platform but we do thankfully make it and we're rewarded with the air-conditioned and slightly less crowded carriage of second class. Finally we can sit back and enjoy the scenery flying past us like an old school VHS fast-forwarded from start to finish. I can quickly understand why many locals choose to sit in the open doorways for the duration of their journey, disregarding their seats which offer no more comfort and far less of a view.
The heat of Hospet hits us the moment we step off the train, enclosing itself around us and absorbing the breath from our lungs. We welcome the little breeze the Tuk Tuk provides as we direct our driver to our homestay in Hampi. He takes us far as the river where we say our thanks and transfer onto a rickety longboat which jolts to a stop just seconds after departing the sandbank the other side. The river is not wide but with no bridge in place, it's the only way to cross with our backpacks and belongings. It costs us all of ten rupee, ten pence.
Handing the scrumpled pink note to the driver, we step ashore. The thirty other travellers who'd shared the ten man boat with us all quickly disappear up the hill ahead. Our directions instruct us to turn right. But right? Really? At first glance we see nothing but shrubbery but on closer inspection notice a hint of a path in the form of trodden grass leading straight through the middle of it all. I guess that must be it.
We trudge along in the unbearable heat and just as I begin to think we've taken a wrong turn, the butterflies overhead suddenly scatter and the voice of a young man booms from above. He speeds towards us and relieves us of our heavy backpacks which he pulls onto his shoulder with the utmost ease.
With a smile, he leads us to the entrance of the homestay which overlooks the river and the most stunning view of the temples on the other side. It's breathtaking, and with little breath left from the long walk anyway, we collapse onto the cushions which constitute the reception area.
The young man asks us if we've eaten and I suddenly realise we haven't; not since nine o'clock last night and it's now almost five in the afternoon. He disappears in a hurry and a different man returns. His dark eyes find mine.
'Welcome...'
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