(Written January 2)
We’ve taken a couple of pretty epic train rides here in India, that are experiences probably worthy of a post. Our first was in southern India, from Chennai to Alleppey, where we would enjoy lounging around on a houseboat in the backwaters of the state of Kerala. Our second train ride was from Patna, where we stayed with Saumya’s grandparents for a week, to Delhi.
When we got out of the cab at the train station at Chennai, my Developing World Safety Alarms kicked up to about Defcon 2. The jostling crush of people (Brain: PICKPOCKETS!), the groups of men lazily leaning against the wall, eyeing the people passing by (Brain: LOOKING FOR TARGETS - TARGETS!), the child beggars (Brain: DISTRACTIONS FOR TO MORE EASILY ROB YOU WITH, MY DEAR!). From inside the protective walls of our cab, I nerdily recalled Alec Guinness’s classic dry delivery of Obi Wan Kenobi: “Mos Eisley Space Port – you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.” I shoved all my money and my passport and credit cards into my under-the-clothes money belt (Saumya calls it my “Mormon underwear”). I probably would have put my laptop and iphone in there too if they would have fit. I carried my bag in front of me and tried to open up my peripheral vision to 270 degrees. Which, it turns out, did not help me read the departure board written in Tamil.
We found our car and our berth. The car’s long main corridor had a series of two berths along the long side and more communal areas (“coupes”) with four berths, setup with a lower and upper berth. We had an unconfirmed reservation that got bumped to a waitlist, so our three berths (for Saumya & Dave and I) got downgraded to two. A college-age Indian woman and her mother joined us sitting on the two lower berths waiting for the TT (Ticket Taker). A silent, heavily mustachioed Indian man in cheap polyester brown pants and a tan button-up shirt sat across from me and tried to hide his curiosity (alternatively, boredom).
The TT came by and looked at our tickets. He may be my favorite stranger on the trip so far. A thin man, he was dressed in a blue blazer, white pants (white!), a red tie and white dress shirt whose cuffs extended well beyond his coat. He had thin hair, carefully parted and greased down, and a pair of spectacles that through some miracle or magic balanced ever so carefully from the end of his nose. He had the air of an experienced (but unpretentious) butler whose radical economy of speech and motion had been pared down to the absolute functional minimum. Like some very stoic and quiet Saint Peter, in his arms he carried an enormous ledger that held a thick stack of sheets printed on dot-matrix paper (dot matrix!). He looked at our tickets, flipped through the tome, found us and carefully noted our attendance. A bureaucrat to the n-th degree, he took his job tremendously seriously. Saumya politely asked if we could extend our ticket from Kochi to Alleppey (some part of the downgrade process also changed our final destination, so we would only go most of the way. Fascinating.) He said “I will return.” Regally he rose from our bunk and glided silently through the curtains. We giggled and giggled about how cool this guy was. Having completed his circuit down the train, he returned the way he came. As he passed by, Saumya said “Sir?” He turned, peeking his head in between the curtains, and said “Madam, I will return.” He did, too, this miraculous piece of work of a man, this wondrously efficient cog of the bureaucracy! He came back with the Eternal Ledger and consulted a long table of destinations, times and prices. He flipped to the back of his book and made a series of handwritten calculations, amid his other calculations for different customers. “Madam, the additional fare to Alleppey will be two hundred and fifty six rupees per head.” Saumya: “Per head?” TT: “Yes, ma’am, per head.” After a pause he clarified, “Per person.”
He also was on the case so we could get another berth, so Dave and Saumya could have separate bunks. Around midnight I got woken up and found the TT with Saumya in the hallways, trying to get a separate berth along the side, apart from Saumya and Dave, for me. He explained that the pair of pushy, nosy British women who interacted with us while boarding kindly requested that we surrender our berth to them (they were waitlisted and did not have a seat and were not supposed to even have boarded the train). I’ve never seen someone so politely say in between the lines that “Ma’am, please tell me ‘no.’” This TT was a Jedi, a ninja. “It is not required, madam,” he tells Saumya. “It is their request. But you have your berth.” This guy was a master. We kept our berth. His subtly was so nuanced Saumya didn’t even catch it until I mentioned it later.
Our car was class “Second AC,” which is one down from first class. In Third AC you had six people in the coupe with you, with the berths stacked three deep. But you still had AC. In the standard sleeper you had six people and no AC. In the final car I think it was mostly fend for yourself (ie, stand, sit, lie down as you can).
The bathroom was another experience entirely. I had gotten used to “hole in the ground” latrines in Panama. I have never experienced a “hole in the floor” bathroom on a moving train. That was literally all there was. You could look down and see the tracks racing by under you. (I was later told that people who live by railroads generally relieve themselves on the railroad tracks, probably because the trains are already indiscriminately discharging their waste there). Beside the hole there were two small elevated platforms for your feet, a water sprayer and a cup (this is the standard Indian-style (vs. Western Style) toilet in India). There was a sink and mirror with soap. I am not sure of the mechanics of how Indian-style toilets work (with just water how do you dry off? Do you walk around with wet undies?). And I can’t imagine the physics of trying to do this on a swaying, starting and stopping train. As Nick, Dave’s brother, later would wax philosophical, “I was trying to figure out how the physics of that transaction would be possible.”
I couldn’t resist – it’s an innate Peace Corps Volunteer response: “Take me to your toilet!” What you can’t see are the railroad ties whipping by through the hole…
Once I got my shoulder-width wide upper berth to myself, separated from the incessant fluorescent hallway lighting by a thin blue curtain, I managed to get a decent amount of sleep. I would sleep in approximately two-hour increments, roll over and doze back off again. The berth was beyond time. I had no idea what time it was because I left my iPhone in my bag and there was no window. I would occasionally peak my head out the curtains and look to see if other people were waking up. If not, back to sleep.
Saumya came by around 6 AM (becoming quickly our standard wake-up time). I was sitting up and writing in my journal, fresh as a daisy (short lived! such a short-lived daisy!). We all got back together in our shared coupe and watched the tropical landscape go by as the sun came up. Vendors went up and down the train cars hawking their breakfast food. We had some terrible idly and sambar (the soupy sambar came tepid in a plastic bag) and a couple of fried vadas (deep fried, dense chickpea-based savory donuts) that had been fried hours ago. A man walked down the car carrying a silver coffee urn saying “koppee, koppee, koppee.” We got a Doctors’ Office Pee Cup sized-cup of super-sugary, super-milky coffee made, I think, with Nescafe instant. He walked by at least seven times. Saumya’s second cup, on his eighth circuit, was attributed to his perseverance.
The Land Beyond Time: Second AC berth - More comfortable than you’d expect!
Our second train trip, post-Patna, with Dave and Saumya’s combined families, was quite different because we were rolling in First Class. The “kids” quickly seceded from the parents to found an independent a “Kids Coupe” (Dave, Nick, Saumya and I). A magical transformation had occurred between Second AC and First Class. The thin curtain that separated us from the main hallway had been transformed into a thin wall with a sliding door (with lock!) and curtain. There was about an extra eight inches on each side of the berths, which made a big difference. Over the speakers we were feted with horrendous music of such poor sound quality that it sounded like a bleating/dying/birthing goat (the volume was quickly dropped to zero). Our fresh sheets were delivered in a brown paper bag to ensure their freshness (because they’re in a bag – come on!). We were served chai immediately after boarding, on a small collapsible table (this is new). We had a full dinner (six options?!?) that included a butterscotch ice cream cup as dessert. The food was a big step-up from the airplane food that I had expected: spicy, flavorful and filling. And on a whole different level from fend-for-yourself/maybe-there’s-a-dude-selling-cold-sambar mentality of Second AC. After the dinner an attendant cleaned the floor with a rag and a spraybottle. A different attendant came in to make our beds. What luxury!
Traveling in First AC is just like the sugar they give you – Superfine!
Hot and Sour Soup on First AC comes with crackers: Or, Bake and Cake (we didn’t have to do either)
Having boarded the overnight train on the evening of December 31, we rang in 2012 with our First Class snores on a train in India bound for Delhi.
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