KEY POINTS:
It is a slightly disturbing start to my journey on the Himsagar Express. I climb a little nervously into the carriage only to find my seat occupied by eight southern Indian men wearing identical black outfits, with wild beards, unkempt hair, no shoes and red powder smudges on their foreheads.
Here I am, a short white girl, about to tell eight wild-looking men that they happen to be sitting on my bed. Humbly I look at them, point to my seat and make apologetic murmurs about needing somewhere to sit for the next 70 hours. They all look at me with the interested stare I have become familiar with since arriving at the station, as the only Westerner in sight, then they burst into wide grins.
The wild men amiably shuffle along so I can store my backpack under the seat and I am given the place by the window.
The Himsagar Express has the distinction of covering the longest distance of any continuous journey in all of India. It starts in Tamil Nadu, at the southern most point of the Indian subcontinent, and finishes in the state of Jammu and Kashmir, the northernmost state. This is the end of the Indian train line. If you want to travel further north, you must risk your life on the bus.
Our sleeper carriage holds 72 people with the bunks arranged in three tiers, making for a rather communal living experience. One snorer, and 71 people don't sleep. I have the top bunk. During the day the middle bunk folds down and you can sit on the lowest of the slightly padded, vinyl covered beds.
After introductions, we sit comfortably in each other's company, often in silence, filling the hours staring out the window or taking turns standing at the exit door at the end of the carriage.
Southern India unfolds before our eyes: women squat in rice paddies, washing saris; children bicycle along trails racing parallel to the train line, waving and calling out as my white face flashes past.
Daytime gives way to nightfall. Bunks are overflowing with bodies and baggage. The floor is a thick layer of people. They sleep under and between the bunks, and crowd the ends of the carriages; concertina-ed up, people lie on flattened cardboard boxes, or on the floor.
The night is sticky and the air thick. Occasionally we stop at stations, small pieces of light in countryside shrouded in a blanket of darkness. As we pause I can hear muffled sounds of life carrying on. People move on and off the train and hawkers ply the platform despite the unearthly hour. In spite of the activity I manage to sleep.
Train days start early. The chatter begins before 5am and by the time 7am rolls around the carriage is well and truly alive. Chai and coffee men walk their beat, up and down the aisle, selling small paper cups of sweet milky beverages for only 25 cents.
Sellers jump aboard at stations, and then alight further down the line. You can buy anything from giant Mickey Mouse soft toys to CDs, cigarettes, Hindi books, and what looks like a frisbee with a picture of Jesus on it. But the food is the best entertainment. In fact the train is like a rolling buffet. I am offered popcorn from a huge canvas sack, fried bananas, chicken patties, cakes ... and so on.
Beggars also try their luck, jumping from train to train. Small boys take the shirts from their backs, wipe the entire floor of the carriage clean, and then ask for a few rupees in return. It can be difficult to look at the beggars, some with the most horrific of deformities, but it is even more difficult to say no.
A little girl somersaults her way down the aisle of the carriage. She can't be more than seven or eight, and she wears ragged clothes covering her unwashed limbs. She is cheeky as anything and has an award-winning smile. Again and again she flips her way backwards and forwards. I give her 10 rupees. She smiles and calls out to me in English "No, 50 rupees! 100 rupees! 1000 rupees!" My fellow passengers chuckle with me and she gives me a grin before moving on to charm the next carriage.
Rubbish disposal is simple on Indian Rail. Out the window it goes. The train's catering staff nonchalantly kick empty food boxes out the door, while my travelling companions sip their chai then calmly throw the cup out the window. I, however, can never quite bring myself to do this. Instead I accumulate a pile of plastic water bottles, newspapers, and banana skins in the corner of my bunk.
My eight wild-haired friends are bolder now and they sit with me on the top bunks for stilted conversations. From different backgrounds and educations, they have come together to complete a pilgrimage to Hindu temples in the south of India. None of them have shaven or cut their hair for two months. Now they are on their way home to their families and razors.
We photograph ourselves together and scribble our email addresses on scraps of newspapers to exchange.
But as night falls the train pulls into their final destination and they depart, eager to renew their lives. I hang out of the door and wave goodbye as we pull away. I still have 42 hours to go.
Gradually the temperature begins to slide from tropical to temperate. Those used to the southern heat dig about in their many bags for jumpers and woolly hats.
A Sikh man joins us in our corner. He is tall and beautiful, with a bright orange turban binding his head. Quiet at first, he slowly opens up, helped by being crammed on a train with 71 inquisitive people. He talks about Sikhism and the principles behind it. He speaks Hindi, replaying important pieces in English for my benefit.
From my top bunk I watch as he unties his turban, re-arranges his incredibly long and glossy hair, then winds the orange fabric perfectly around his head again.
I wake at 3am wrapped tightly in my pitiful blankets with my breath lingering in front of my face. I guess it's about five degrees. We have now passed through Delhi and are heading towards the wintry, far reaches of India.
A Punjabi group I first met at the station in Tamil Nadu are almost home. As the train slows to a stop they get more and more frantic and shouts of "chalo!" (go!) echo down the carriage. They push and shove frantically. Baggage is thrown and I fear a stampede.
Organisation in general seems to be rather unorthodox in India, and this is the perfect example. Baggage blocks the exit, but old women are pushed over the top, and people force themselves against the flow to retrieve children and belongings. In a frantic storm of chaos our Punjabi group get themselves and all their items off the train without death or obvious injury. The train now idles gently and a good 10 minutes pass before we start off again on our journey.
I feel the absence of my travelling companions. The carriage is silent of songs, laughter, and upbeat noise. I miss the cheeky atmosphere they brought to train life. We are down to five lone stragglers. One is Thomas, an Indian missionary. He sits across from me, struggling, like so many in this pious country, with my lack of faith.
I spend my last morning drinking steaming cups of chai and taking in the ever-changing scenery. Three days ago we were travelling through banana plantations, now we are in a parched land blanketed in a chilly fog. Crops have given way to scrappy fields of grass or bare ground.
The people here have a different look, closer to Pakistani or Afghan than what I would think of as Indian. Taller, with lighter skin, some have striking blue eyes. People are wrapped from head to foot in shawls, blankets and beanies to combat the bitter cold. Faces are drawn with lines of hardship.
As we near the Pakistani border, men board the train with rifles slung over their shoulders. They walk up and down the aisle, casting a vague gaze my way, but never offer any comment. The track runs parallel to the highway where military vehicles can be seen ferrying cannons to combat zones.
I grow anxious as my stop nears. This train has become my home, my safe haven. Now I must again start a new journey.
I gather my things and load them on my back. With a few steps I am off the train. Looking back I see Thomas waving at me. I smile, wave back and then turn away. Before I can even get my bearings, a rickshaw driver appears in front of me.
Things are never as hard as you imagine them to be, I think, as he pedals me closer to my next destination.
HIMSAGAR EXPRESS
House of Travel has a 22-day package available for $6445 per person twin share. The deal includes return flights and taxes from Auckland via Singapore to Delhi, and departing from Cochin via Singapore back to Auckland with Singapore Airlines, domestic flight Delhi to Jammu, Himsagar Express train travel from Jammu Tawi to Kanyakumari based on an air-conditioned sleeper, 17 nights in four-star accommodation, daily breakfast and dinner, private transportation, sightseeing and entrance fees. For sale until July 31, and travel from June 1 to September 30, 2008. Contact House of Travel for more information on 0800 838 747 or www.houseoftravel.co.nz.
