So when John told me that riding the train in India was a fascinating experience, I pictured myself gazing out the window at mountains and fields. Having broken English conversations with women in colorful saris and their animated children staring curiously at us from their seats across the aisle.
I always thought I had a pretty good stomach for spicy foods, so when I started to feel nauseous, I assumed it would quickly pass and I would be well on my way to eating street food in Delhi. But after a series of unpleasant waves of sickness, I was feeling a bit more "thoughtful" about trying new Indian dishes. Especially those prepared in dirty street food carts with lots of flies and grease hanging ominously in the air.
Adding a 22 hour train ride to this "state of being" was probably not the best plan, but it seemed easier than trying to postpone the reservation considering the four hour visit to the foreign traveler line in Victoria Station.
I established some ground rules for the journey. If I get sicker, we need to stop along the way and resume the trip at a later date. I get the window seat and I get the bottom bunk. Seemed reasonable, and John was completely on board with the plan.
The day begins with a two hour journey to the train station from Ganeshpuri. Don't forget that I'm nauseous already, and we are weaving in and out of traffic, precariously close to giant fume spewing trucks and two cycle rickshaws buzzing along like lawn mowers. I keep telling myself that it will get better when we arrive in Bandra, at the train station. The "it will get better" philosophy is dangerous because there is always some unknown that still has to happen. So one can convince oneself to press on regardless of the current horrible circumstances.
We finally get on the train and make it to our seats without much difficulty. Our friends had warned that traveling on the sleeper class is pretty harsh, even for Indian standards and they usually travel AC third class at least. With AC third class, you are provided with a pillow and a blanket to sleep with. With sleeper, you're on your own with the whole bedding thing. The seats are big benches that fold down. The upper two become beds and the lowest one is a seat for three, until it's time to go to sleep. Then it becomes a bed too.
John and I are lucky because we got the bottom bunk. That is until an old lady and her large daughter smile at us and ask if we would mind if they took the bottom bunks. Of course we couldn't say no to an old lady and her daughter. So, it's off to the top bunk for Marcia. But that's okay because I'm eager to escape into sleep earlier than most of the others in our car.
At first the car isn't too full, but after about three stops, there are many more people than there are seats available. People are squished together four or five on a bench. A few others are standing. But that's okay, cause I've got my own bunk and I can climb up there and go to sleep anytime I want to.
Now let's just talk about smell a little bit more. One of John's pitches for the sleeper car over the AC third class is that the windows are left open and you can breathe the fresh air. Now let's talk about "fresh air". I think of fresh air as air that is absent of the smell of diesel fuel, human waste, burning garbage, rotting garbage, and (when you don't feel too well) several scents from the Indian kitchen. So, fresh air, on the top bunk of a sleeper car is pretty rare. After sitting for a friendly forty minutes, I decide to venture up to my bunk and try to sleep away the waves of nausea coming over me pretty regularly. Unfortunately, our friends on the bottom bunk decide to start snacking on something that does not smell like "fresh air".
It's okay. It's really okay because I have jasmine oil that I bought in Ganeshpuri. But then I start to wonder about the sweet intensity of jasmine oil and I decide it is not a scent I want to ruin for the rest of my life because I associate it with the time when I felt sick on a sleeper car in India. So I settle for wrapping my face in a scarf and breathing in the filtered scent of cotton, curry and diesel fuel.
Now, about me and sickness. I don't really do it very well. I usually convince myself of the worst possible scenario and run with it. So now I'm imagining that I have dysentary or malaria and this is the place I'm going to die-- on the top bunk of a sleeper car in India. I certainly will have enough time to do this considering that there are still 20 hours of train ride left in this trip.
Finally I doze off. When I wake up, the train is dark and there is the quiet sound of train tracks and breathing. Ahhh. This isn't so bad. But then a wave of nausea comes over me and I realize I will have to face the train toilet.
Now, about train toilets in India. They are nothing like any that I've ever experienced. The better choice is the Indian version rather than the western version. At least with the Indian version, you don't have the possibility of sitting on a filthy toilet seat, since there isn't a toilet seat. Yep, you just squat over a hole that goes right down to the tracks. I had been warned relentlessly about the "train toilet". Even John, the pollyannist of Indian travel, actually expressed some concern about the train toilet. I actually avoided drinking any water just to see if I could completely avoid having such a rich experience.
So, the idea of having the runs on a train toilet... well, yep, it scared the shit out of me. But, the moment came and I knew I had to face the dark throne. So I started to get up and when I look down from my upper bunk I see that the whole train is filled with sleeping men. They are not just sleeping in the bunks, they are sleeping in the aisles, they are sleeping in the places between where the seats face each other, they are sleeping in the entry way between the cars, they are lying on each other sleeping, they are squatted in corners sleeping. They are everywhere. There is not a single place for me to put a foot down on firm ground without stirring some strange man. I reach down and tap John until he is awake. I show him my problem and he seems authentically concerned. Of course, there is nothing he can do to help, so I hate him. After all, he was the one that thought it would be fun to ride in the sleeper car and have an authentic Indian experience.
Fortunately, or perhaps "psychosomatically" for the sake of self preservation, the urge passes and I decide to return to the world of sleep for what I hope will last about 16 hours. But before I do, I reach down, tap John awake one more time just to let him know that I will never forgive him for this.
I only wake up a few more times to enjoy the rhythmic sounds of multiple men snoring and farting in imperfect synchronicity.
But in all fairness, I did get to see a couple of cool mountains.
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