By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
The guide book described the train ride as an ‘awe inspiring adventure’ with a ‘splendorous 1.5 hour journey through the plunging valleys and rivers of the Himalayas’, but arriving at Delhi train station close to midnight left me wondering if the awe inspiring element was instead inspired by the chaiwallas and their incredible ability to deftly leap between carriages. I was venturing into the unknown and my stomach was a quiver with butterflies. I had decided on a whim to make the much discussed journey from the capital city of Delhi to the mystic city of Mcleod Ganj. Situated far in the north of India in Dharamsala, this small town had suddenly found itself at the epicentre of the Tibetans In Exile crisis after the 14th Dalai Lama was granted refuge by the Indian Government from the Chinese Communist Party. Furiously stoic in their culture and determination and grit to retain their identity, the Tibetans and the Himachal Pradeshians live in a city that fused two of the world’s most colourful cultural identities, and I was determined to see it for myself. It was the height of winter and in my ignorance of just how cold India could get was clear. I nestled on the cold station bench and tucked my hands deep into my pockets in an attempt to keep from shivering. A station guard slowly walked past rubbing his hands together, giving me the slightest head wiggle which I took to mean ‘it’s cold’. The station had an electric buzz of activity, which was amplified with the occasional sizzling sound as a careless mosquito zoomed into one of the many insect zappers situation on every lamppost. A loud announcement that sounded like static cut through the station making me jump. I looked around feverishly, trying to catch someone's eye to see if it was time for departure and saw a station attendant beckoningly me madly. I bundled up and climbed onto the famed Himachal Express bound for Amb Andaura. A breezy ten-hour journey through the mountains and valleys of the West Himalayas awaited me. The Indian train system is a source of pride for the country, and it’s impossible not to see why. Spanning the entire landscape, conquering arid deserts and snaking through winding valleys, the train system is a micro-universe in itself. As a solo-female passenger, I was a little cautious of my ticketed bunk. The small berth consisted of six beds; three on each side at floor, mid-height, and roof level. My bunk was nestled in the middle and to my dismay I found my berth companions sitting merrily on the lower bunk playing cards. Fearing I wouldn’t get the chance to sleep, I sheepishly slid my backpack off and settled next to them as the activity outside the glass-less window began to climax with last minute passengers and luggage. Throughout my journey, I had found the wonderful citizens of India to be hyper-accommodating and hospitable, and my card-playing berth friends were no except. As the train began its journey into the dark hills, we played cards, swapped thepla - an Indian Gujurati flatbread, and they educated me on the growing Himachal Pradeshian hip-hop scene emerging in a town known as Daulatpur that had a population of under 4,000. In the early hours of the morning, we slid to bed and I lay in my middle bunk as the train gently rocked us to sleep on the way to the heart of the mountains; the butterflies of anticipation gently urging me onwards.