THE CHEAP AND NASTY CHOICE
Germs and grime mark an Indian train ride
ITHOUGHT I’d prepared for everything: malaria prophylaxis, polio jab, earplugs, Imodium. But nothing could have prepared me for the 24 hours I spent on an Indian train.
assumed that I would have become more hardened after two weeks in India. Beggars, lepers, touts … I’d seen it all. The stench, the flies, and accidentally stepping a flip-flopped foot into a fresh pile of cow shit — nothing phased me anymore.
That was until I decided to catch a train from Ajmer to Mumbai.
My travel companion and I decided that, since India has one of the most extensive railway networks in the world, it would be ludicrous not to utilise it. We also discovered that travelling by rail was exponentially cheaper than by air. After a brief stay in Pushkar, Rajasthan, we decided to move south to Mumbai. A sariclad, tabla-playing Australian in Pushkar had suggested that we catch the overnight train from Ajmer to Mumbai, as Ajmer was a 30-minute bus ride from Pushkar. She also suggested that we opt for the non-air-conditioned sleeper class. “Nonaircon is foiyn. Oi’ve travelled this way many toiymes. There’s heeeps of breeze from the open windows.”
I could handle it. I’d conquered squat toilets and honed my bargaining skills. A train ride? No problem.
The first thing I noticed on the train was that everything seemed to be covered in 50 years’ post-colonial grime. With six people to a berth, we shared ours with two young Indian men and an elderly couple. The lady didn’t look well at all, and when I enquired about her health, her husband solemnly said, “Chicken fever.” I chose not to dwell on that.
The open-window idea was good in theory, but not in practice. Yes, you did get a breeze, but it was accompanied with plumes of coal smoke. Twenty minutes into the journey, there was a thick layer of black gunk under my nails. And I was beating huge, stripy-legged mosquitoes off me every five minutes.
So far, India had shown me sacred cows licking profane rubbish bags, holy men trying to elicit “donations”, and people openly smoking smack on the pavement — but nothing could beat the train’s toilet.
As I squatted over a hole directly onto the track, the railway sleepers became a blur whizzing between my legs. At the start of the journey, it smelled foul; by the end, it was a lot worse. Our berth happened to be right next to the toilet. The hand-washing basin was used for a multitude of sins, including phlegm spitting, cleaning dishes and dental hygiene. In the berth opposite us, a man coughed incessantly, a chest-rattling death hack, each bout of which would end with the most god-awful retching.
Whenever the train stopped at a station, beggars would enter the carriages and passengers would toss rupees in their direction. A legless Sikh dragged himself along the floor, and parked himself next to me. We had a broken English chat and I asked him why Sikhs could never remove their turbans. He then proceeded to remove his headgear, which was probably either a huge misunderstanding or a very bad thing.
A number of begrudging hours and unusually large mosquito bites later, the train finally pulled into the Mumbai station. To say I was elated would be an understatement. After checking into my guesthouse, I stripped and headed for the bathroom. A stolen glance in a misty mirror revealed a Welsh coal miner staring right back. Mumbai/Bombay: I didn’t care where I was — I could’ve just arrived in Pyongyang for all I cared. The most important thing was that I was off that train and under a showerhead.