Repost: India 2009 Vol. XIII

Travel Journals XIII: Half the Fun???

Travel is of course a wonderful and enriching experience, but the actual act of getting from point "A" to point "B" can be an entire adventure unto itself. So far i have conveyed myself from place to place by commuter plane, rented bicycles, scooters, taxis and auto rickshaws (odd black and yellow enclosed motorized tricycles) which are usually driven by poker faced villains who quote outrageously high prices at you in the often well founded hopes that "white guy" means "sucker". I've fought for seats on the perpetually overcrowded and occasionally punctual bus system where barkers stand at the door of the bus chanting the destination of the vehicle, more than happy to help you get on the correct bus even if it isn't theirs. I've been passenger in a wide array of boats from a tiny coracle in Hampi to a retired wooden fishing vessel-turned water taxi. this was outfitted with a senile outboard motor, a crooked keel, and a crew whose main incentive to keep afloat was the fact that they didn't know how to swim. I have even gotten a lift from a truck driver out of Mollem who spoke just enough English to offer me a ride, assure me he was going my way and that i could "ride freely" (true to his word he flatly refused my offers of gas money with a smile). The only form of transport i haven't used so far has been elephant, and that's only because i was a few minutes late for the tour!

Perhaps the most quintessentially Indian form of travel and certainly the most colorful is the Indian rail system. the first hurdle to overcome is to buy a ticket, find out when your train leaves and from which platform. this is complicated because the ticket agent has been selling tickets all day and is bored of doing so. he doesn't want to answer your questions, he wants you to quietly and politely go away. if you press the point you'll be treated to a well practiced look of offended innocence, told severely that there is no reason to lose your patience and be given precisely the information you ask for. they would prefer it if you stayed 'shanti' but shouting gets results!
After you have found the correct platform with only a dozen porters, sweets salesmen, shoeshines, and random pedestrians to guide you, the train pulls up and you must double check that it is in fact the right one. there are announcements broadcast in both Hindi and English to aid you with this, but as the cheerful female voice that broadcasts them is equally incomprehensible in both languages, these are best not relied on. the signs on the side of the train are slightly more dependable, and occasionally in English, but the single best indicator is the station clock. The Indian Rail service prides itself on its punctuality, so much so that the trains often arrive within twenty minutes of when they're scheduled!
Much has been said about the romance of travel by rail, and the people who say so are almost never in India at the time. boarding the train and finding a seat is closer to professional level twister. if you're extremely lucky, the rest of the ride isn't. the second you situate yourself, (usually your fellow passengers are eager to help you find a seat and negotiate your luggage into storage) you are greeted by a wall of openly curious stares. the best thing to do at this point is to simply smile. your smile will be instantly returned followed by initially tentative queries about your nationality, name, destination, occupation marital state and so forth. after this round of grilling you are now every one's friend. your hand will be pumped vigorously by college students, elderly couples will offer you fruit, sweets, and to buy you a cup from the Chai-walla who passes every ten minutes chanting his wares. (Chaichaichaichaichaichai....) Your baggage will be consistently monitored by businessmen in suits and if it shifts an inch they will lecture you at length on the importance of keeping it safe because there are thieves everywhere and you can't trust anyone. teenagers and newlyweds will ask to be photographed with you. as your stop draws nearer you'll be informed with up to the minute reminders from all sides and once again assisted with your luggage out onto the platform and waved to cheerfully as the train pulls onward with passengers leaping onto it as the car accelerates down the track.
this is only a typical train ride that i have described. on the long haul between Hampi and Margao all three of the following incidents occurred:
There were no more seats to be had so myself, a bunch of teenagers, working men and an Australian nurse were all crammed as tight as possible by the doors of the train. true to usual form, the doors were wide open to allow for some fresh air to creep in between sweating bodies. being easily the tallest person there, i could see thew landscape rolling by over peoples heads. a few stops later we were joined by a theatrically drunk middle aged man. His theatricality was apparently no accident. i was informed by the teen aged boys who had taken a break from poking at one another to egg their new comrade on, that he did in fact work in a theater. even if i wasn't told this i would have guessed by the way he proceeded to recite soliloquies and lecture the rest of the passengers. every so often he would force out an enormous laugh. suddenly he spotted me and indicated that i should laugh as well. i obliged with my best super villain cackle. this effectively had the rest of the car in stitches. The drunk then informed me through a randomly chosen translator that Indian men laughed differently from westerners and he would show me how to laugh properly. for about an hour afterwards we traded dramatic guffaws and belly laughs back and forth, often hampered by actual repressed giggling from myself. the rest of the passengers were near hysterics by the end when my new tutor clapped me on the shoulders and wrung my hands affectionately, with tears of mirth in his eyes.

Sometime later, rumor came down the car that a seat had opened up. my new entourage was determined that i should have it. in spite of my protests i found myself being shepherded down the aisle shoved apologising into other passengers until i was successfully wedged into the seat. Across from me was a well spoken man in a polo shirt who began the traditional line of inquiry. after he asked about my religious convictions, he informed me that he was a missionary and he dreamed of going to America to convert westerners, as we had come to India and converted him and his family. he exaggerated the layover between trains and invited me to his house for dinner and possibly to stay the night if i should happen to miss the next train. i knew there was no way i should allow myself to fall into this man's clutches. shortly thereafter as i sat pretending to be asleep. i contemplated the horrors that have been unleashed upon the world in the name of good.
at about two in the morning we stopped to reattach our car to another engine in a dismal station. after some serious deliberation i decided that the omelet stand was safe to eat at after all. i had just paid for my sandwich when the train began to pull away. the vendor instructed me not to panic, the train was just pulling around to the other side and would be back in five minutes. i stood where he had indicated trying not to think about the idea of all my worldly possessions rolling away down the tracks. several minutes passed. i began to look around for another source of information. it would be wrong to say i was actually panicking at this point but i was becoming rather concerned. suddenly a group of Muslim men in traditional costume came running up to me beckoning frantically and pointing at the other platform. it wasn't until one of them made strumming motions and pointed at the train again until i recognised them as being from the same compartment as myself (i decided that this wasn't really the moment to explain the workings of a fiddle). we took off running and hopped on board with seconds to spare. each of us helping each other on board and laughing the entire time. every time caught one of their eyes from then on,they would start chuckling again and playfully wagging their fingers at me until i had to laugh at my own foolishness too. I am pleased to report that whenever anyone mentions Muslims these men so willing to help a sleep addled foreigner in their spotless robes with laughing faces over tidily groomed beards are now my first mental association!