Riding the rails

 

Udaipur

 

Swags wakes up after four Kingfisher Strong’s (that’s 16 standard drinks) and no memory of the night before; Ben’s been out of New Zealand for about seven days now, still finding his feet; I’ve been awake since 4am.

 

We pack our things together and head downstairs. The hotel staff are asleep on mattresses. We sheepishly wake them up to check out, and to open the locked door (we’re locked inside the hotel). There is a car waiting outside to take us to the train station.

 

We drive through the cold, dark streets of Jaipur. The familiar streets we’re used to disappear. We’re in the shadows of the highway underpass. Clusters of people are huddled around small fires; bigger fires flare at the end of the road, sending fumes of trash into the morning air. People awake from boxes and piles of blankets. We can’t see in front of us, or behind us.
 

Suddenly, we’re at the train station. We have an hour to wait before we depart.
 

The train station, and perhaps every train station around here, especially at night, is immediately unsettling, and fills you with a sense of unease. It’s mostly dark; and cold, and you’re usually in a daze from the lack of sleep and grumbling stomach. The long concrete platforms emit chilly air and an incandescent glow; there’s nothing but bitter steel and rocks beyond the platform edge.

 

And that’s not all. The most unsettling thing is the amount of people – and not just people waiting for trains, but people practically living there. They beg mostly, for the amount of people coming and going, and the 24-hour light, but at night time – they sleep. They sleep alone and sometimes sitting up with a stare that swears a curse; other times they sleep in packs, a tangle pile of blankets on the cold, hard concrete, a mass of bodies underneath. No one seems to care – not the beggars, not the commuters – it’s all just life.   
 

 

 

On occasion, too, as we are prone to do, we find ourselves surrounded by packs of young Indian guys, normally students or something like that. They are very personal, and friendly, and what’s more – they all close-talkers! I’ll be standing on the spot, half a head taller than all of them, and literally, literally, seven or eight around me, standing with their face very close to mine. You’ll be having intensive conversation with three at one time, and a fourth chiming in from the background. They ask for you Facebook address; they shake your hand three times, and they ask for constant photos. They always ask you about cricket. None of it's a problem, they’re usually friendly enough, but boy, it’s intense.

 

 

The train is long – very long – about twenty carriages or more. We walk up and down the train a couple of times, trying to figure out what seat we are in. Eventually, and in a small panic for the dwindling minutes until departure, we get on the train. We’ve still no idea where our seat is. We’re not getting off; we’ll barge our way through the narrow little laneway till we find our seat. Thankfully, the train starts moving… and we’re on it!

 

We reach what’s called AC2 – or at least we think that’s what it is. An Egyptian couple tell us there is one person extra in the allocated seats. I’ve really no idea, and somehow we find out we’re in the wrong carriage, so we haul ourselves down to the next carriage, avoiding looks of all sorts.
 

Where we sleep is actually pretty comfortable. Long beds, decent amounts of space, warm blankets, pillows, and a window view to boot. They’re quiet fun, really. Being with your mates, finding your bunk, sorting your life out (via iPods, books, journals etc) and feeling the train slowly begin to move – you feel like a kid again.
 

Now, the trains themselves, they’re not exactly a cesspit of rules, which is nice, so later in the morning, we find a gap between the carriages, open the door, and sit in the open door for half an hour, wind blowing in our faces, watching the world go by. The countryside is vast. It’s also very picturesque, the ground straw yellow and the many trees a healthy green and brown.

We need the air too; Swags chundered twice on the train; turns out he has a virus.

 

 

 

Other times out the window you will see nothing but darkness. If you are unlucky enough to be awake in the peak of the evening, you’ll hear nothing but quiet snores, and the grinding of the rails below.

 

The toilet is really funny too. It’s an elegantly crafted, finely grooved metal framework leading to the ultra-hygienic sanitation system. In other words it’s a hole between the train and the speeding tracks below. No man has ever gone No.2 in here; it’s a squatter with two stainless steel feet holes, and annoyingly, a rusted steel fan right next to your head, not helpful for the lurching and chugging of the train.  

 

 

We make it, finally, to the next station, after about seven hours, and let the assault begin anew. One morning we arrived in the station around 6am. I’d taken a sleeping bill, and was still half asleep. Within five seconds, eight people absolutely swarmed me, all arguing intensely why they should be the one to take you to town. It’s alarming, all of them yelling in your face,  tugging at your arm, almost fighting each other to get to you. I just stood there, expressionless, for what seemed like an age. Eventually you take a lucky dip and pick one. He’ll tell you all sorts of shit so he can you to ‘his’ hotel (in other words, from which he gets commission), but we’ve learned by now, be stern, and always tell them you are meeting your brother at [X] Guesthouse. Perfect. 
 

 

The trains: an interesting experience, a nice one (save for the shitter), and in some ways, a welcome respite from intensity of the cities. And what's more, by the time we've been through the station, found our seat, it sure does feel a long way from our hangovers of the night before.