There is No Train Today, Maybe, Kangra, India (Aug 2008)

I am trying one last time to snap a photo of the monkeys playing on the roof, to no avail; they are uncooperative in the extreme, coming within five feet of me and staring until I fumble for the camera and then merrily scampering over the roofline. I have a lot of pictures of the roof, or a monkey tail vanishing over the edge, but no monkey pictures and I am leaving McLeod Ganj in an hour so I suppose the monkeys will just remain undocumented, lost to posterity. I’ve been in this town for less than 24 hours and have been waiting to leave for half of that, the monsoon rains are the most intense I’ve seen and the Dalai Lama is out on tour, the rock star of religion, and there is not much to see or do here other than fail to take pictures of monkeys.

The up side of leaving earlier than planned is that I will have time to ride the Kangra Valley toy train. The famous one is in Darjeeling, but that is on the other side of the Himalayas and not on my itinerary. The Kangra train is the little known, poor cousin version, but it is nearby and Darjeeling is not. Information on the train is scant, as its not a tourism highlight, but I have assiduously scoured the Rail System website and determined that if I can get there by 10am I can catch one that will get to Pathankot in time to connect to the main rail system and head on to Amritsar by the end of the day. Getting to Kangra by 10am on public transportation was going to be a hell of a trip, it’s not that far from McLeod Ganj but it is not really the distance that determines the difficulty, it was going to be a 5am bus down to Dharamsala and then waiting for another bus to Kangra and then a rickshaw out to the train station, I wussed out and went the non-shoestring route and booked a cab to take me directly to the train. I am losing shoestring backpacker points, but I will also probably get there on time and not get stuck in Kangra.

I pack up the last few items in my room and lock the door behind me, I am going to the café to wait for my cab to arrive. While I am sipping coffee on the veranda, overlooking the mist obscuring the mountains and keeping an eye out for a glimpse of monkey tail, a monk joins me. This is not uncommon in McLeod Ganj, seat of the Tibetan government in exile, and as we talk he tells me he is actually from Delhi. I comment that I haven’t gone there yet, but will be there in a week or two, and in the liltingly accented English that is common here he says, “Oh but Delhi is terrible, terrible! It is full of murder and rape and death, all the time people being murdered and robbed. Terrible, terrible, not even safe for tourists, nowhere is safe, there is rape and killing and murder…” This is not comforting.

The man at reception waves at me, my taxi has arrived. I bid farewell to the monk who is convinced that within a week my body will be found in a dumpster somewhere in Delhi and duck outside in the rain, not worth popping my umbrella for the two seconds it will take me to climb in, I haven’t bothered snugging the rain cover over my pack either. We careen down twisty rutted paths in the pouring rain and I am grateful that I have eschewed the bus, I have had enough of lumbering vehicles wheezing around curves on glorified goat paths, I am looking forward to trains, trains, trains. A monkey! But he is gone too fast or I am, and I have a picture of a blurry roadside.

We don’t talk very much, my driver and I, and I prefer it that way. We get to Kangra and wend our way through town and out of it, over a bridge and then he pulls over. There’s no train station here. He explains that there is no road to the train station, I will need to follow a cobbled footpath through this little hamlet, then over a bridge, and up the hill. I am not sure I trust him, my guidebook said nothing about this, and why the hell have a rail station that is inaccessible? This is India, I have given up expecting things to make sense, so I shoulder my pack and pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head. Not worth popping my umbrella, not in this crowded alley, and it can’t be that far anyway.

I am the only farang in sight. I orient one more time from the taxi, confirming that I am headed up the correct alley, and feel a little abandoned as I watch my driver turn around and drive off. He was supposed to make sure this went smoothly, that was the point. I walk up the path, it’s steep and the rude steps are slick with streams of water running off from the monsoon rains. I’m a little hungry and there are a couple of street meat stalls, but there is supposedly food available on the train and I will trust that a little more than this. I’m wearing sandals, and they slip off my feet once or twice, I almost want to kick them off and go barefoot.

A few minutes and I have emerged by a riverbank, the same one we crossed earlier. Sure enough there is a bridge, for foot traffic only. I walk out from under the close eaves of the shacks that have been shielding me from the rain onto the bridge, and stop to take a couple of pictures. There are life size statues of Shiva or maybe Vishnu, on the riverbank, or I suppose human size since they don’t exist in life really. I have been mostly up in the high mountains, where there is some Hinduism but mostly Buddhism, so this is a change and I am still having trouble really getting the idea that the people here make sacrifices to these statues by the river, and worship here.

Over the bridge and another twisty pathway leading up into the thickly wooded forest and there had better be a train here after all but the path must go somewhere and I am going wherever this path is going. I pass a group of Indian businessmen cowering from the rain, they are headed the same direction in their damp, ill-fitting suits, yes the train must be this way.

It is 9:15am when I turn the corner and arrive at the station, dank and dirty as it is. There are some people waiting here already, this is a good sign. The ticket window is closed, there is a sign explaining that it will be open 15 minutes prior to the train’s scheduled arrival so I sit down to wait, trying to be unobtrusive.

I am failing spectacularly at being unobtrusive. The women are staring at me with eyes shielded by saris, and the children are not even trying to shield their curious eyes. A man eating something fried out of a paper envelope walks up to me and offers to share, I shake my head and smile and try to pull myself in, I am waiting on the station agent and scribbling in my travel journal, notes about the monkeys and the annoying Belgian who was stalking me in McLeod. A younger man, actually quite handsome, walks over to me and says, “There is no train today, you must not wait here,” but I don’t trust him. He says, “Where do you want to go, I will help you, come with me,” but he is too smooth, his English is too good and there are people here waiting for a train and I will wait with them. He writes his phone number on a scrap of paper and presses it into my hand, says “Call me if you need help,” and leaves. I didn’t think he would actually leave, if this is a bluff it’s not too shabby but I will wait, the station agent hasn’t arrived yet and these people must be waiting for something.

One of the little girls has been slowly sidling closer to me, sneaking up on the tall pale stranger. She tugs on one of the straps of my back and smiles at me, says hello in Hindi, “Namaste,” and I smile and say hello back. Then she asks me if she can have my pen. This is pretty common here, for some reason the kids always ask for pens, and I say no, it’s the only one I have. She pouts. If I thought kids were cute I might think this were cute, but even then I wouldn’t give her my pen and I don’t think kids are cute anyway. I am trying not to growl, though, I am foreign enough without violating the social precept that anyone with a womb must love children, so I smile as I wave her off.

She does not wave off. Oh, a few feet but then she sidles back and starts tugging on the straps again. Her mother is watching her, and by the time I am seriously considering nudging this child with my foot in a way that is probably going to be more like a kick mom calls her back over, giving me a complicit smile over the child’s head. Oh, aren’t they so cute. Not really, but the brat is gone so I can smile about that and I do.

At last, the station agent has arrived, a figure of authority. The other group of Indian businessmen has left as well, they too approached me to say that there were no trains today and offered to take me where I needed to go, but I didn’t trust them either, and these families are still waiting so I will wait with them. I hover as the middle-aged man in a smart suit opens up the office, but he doesn’t open the ticket window. I stand outside the door that says “No Entrance” and peer through the screen, knocking at last. Can I buy a ticket for the train to Pathankot?

“No, there is no train today, the tracks are washed out.” But I saw a train go in the other direction! “Yes that is a different train on a different track.” Now I know that can’t be right, there’s barely one track out here much less two, there’s not even a road to this station for Chrissake. Was there a train yesterday? “Yes, there were trains yesterday, but not today,” and he gestures at the rain pouring down all around us. What about tomorrow, will there be a train tomorrow? “Yes, there will be a train tomorrow,” really? For sure? “Yes, they will fix the tracks today,” well does that mean there might be trains later today?

Right about then a train pulls up, heading in the direction I want to go. I start to scramble for it, the families are all packing up their things and squeezing aboard, but my oily, unctuous station manager smiles beatifically and says, “That is not your train.” I almost get on board anyway, it is at least going in the right direction but I hesitate, I am kind of stranded here in Kangra but at least it is listed in my guidebook and I have some resources here, if this train in fact does not proceed on the only track out here to my destination I may well end up stranded somewhere in between.

I watch the train pull out of the station, mouth slightly open in disbelief. Obviously the track is not completely washed out, and I ask him again if there will be a train later today, even if there is not one at 10am. “Yes, it is possible,” Really? I am questioning him closely, because if there is going to be a train I can wait here, it will mean a later train at Pathankot and getting Amritsar later at night but I will still get there and I will have gotten my toy train ride so it is worth considering, the other options are pretty grim, he reverses, “No there will be no trains today. …Maybe.”

I want to strangle him. At this point I know I can’t believe anything he says, he is now just casting about for the right platitude to make this tall blonde farang with the light eyes stop glaring at him. He wants to tell me what I want to hear, whether or not it is true. I sit down again to wait for a little while. Another family comes into the station, and there is a reprise of the Small Child Being Fucking Annoying act, and then another train! I get up, look around for the station manager, that oily smile again as the families climb on board, if he is not actually waggling a forefinger at me he is thinking about it so hard that he might as well be, “That is not your train.” Will my train come later? “Yes, it will come later.” Really?! “…Maybe.”

I retreat to my bench, light a cigarette, and flop open my guidebook again to study options. He approaches me, “You would not see anything today anyway, bad weather,” he’s trying to mollify me. I ask again if the train will come later, he firmly says, “No.” Are you sure? No words, just that smile again. Ok. This isn’t working. I can wait here for a train that probably won’t come. I can retreat to Kangra, spend the night there and then try again tomorrow, or I can backtrack all the way to McLeod Ganj and take the direct bus from there to Amritsar the following morning and chalk up the past two days to a waste of travel time. But I want trains, trains, trains, I am so sick of buses I want a train.

My guide says that there are local buses from Kangra to Pathankot. If I leave now, I can probably get there in time for the train to Amritsar, but it going to mean admitting defeat here. The Indian trains have defeated many a lesser mortal, and they seem to have conquered me as well, so after two hours sitting in the dank station I sigh and stand up, buckling my pack back around my waist, and head out into the rain towards Kangra proper. Back down the trail, across the river and I’m not bothering to take pictures now, through the cobbled path and down the wet stairs and back out to where the taxi dropped me off hours ago. I have a new problem, I don’t know where the main town is. I know I need to get there to reach the central bus station, but should I go back the way the taxi came down from McLeod, or further on down the main road? There are bus stops on both sides of the road, I just need to figure out which one I need.

I approach a group of women standing on the near side of the road, I am trying to talk to women rather than men because I have been so thoroughly warned about devious rapacious men in this country. Unfortunately, the women are far less likely to be educated, they don’t speak English at all, just shyly shake their heads and avert their eyes. In frustration I turn to a man standing alone, ask him if he speaks English. “A little,” he says cautiously. Where is the bus to Kangra? “Yes, yes.” Kangra. The town, where is it? “Yes, yes.” Kangra! Which way? I point one way and then the other, hoping he will give an affirmative to one and not the other, but again “Yes, yes.” These people do not know how to say no. The bus? To Kangra?

We have been doing this little “who’s on first” routine for a few minutes when a crowded bus pulls up on the other side of the street. I point at the bus and say, “Kangra??” and he says, “Yes, yes.” I wish he’d said no to at least one thing so I could feel confident that he differentiates between yes and no. I cross the street and squeeze onto the bus. I ask the driver, “Kangra?” and he nods. Off we go, shuddering and shaking and we are crossing the bridge again and turning into a town, we reach what seems to be a central stop and the bus driver gestures to me, this is where I want to get off. How can he know that? But I guess where else would I be going but out of this place. I step off the bus onto the corner and look around. I ask someone where the bus station is, they tell me I will need a rickshaw. How far? Too far, you must take a rickshaw. Really, if it’s less than a mile I’d rather walk, if I get lost on my own two feet at least I know how I got there but nobody will give me directions they just say “rickshaw” and “yes, yes.”

There is a rickshaw waiting on the corner, I run over and say “Bus station” and he nods, I squeeze in with a couple of others. Off we go, wheezing and rattling up the road, and a few minutes later I get out at the bus station, it was less than a mile away. This place is actually pretty big, a columned hall with many windows and a couple of snack bars. I grab a couple of bags of potato chips and some crackers and wander around until I find the inquiry window. Where is the bus to Pathankot? He tells me it is in berth 37, and it leaves in 20 minutes. I can buy my ticket on the bus. I walk outside and look up, there are numbers on all of the columns, I just need to find 37.

I circle the building twice, the numbers stop at 35.

I go back in to the inquiry window--where is 37? He points. I shake my head. He points again. I shake my head again, and if this dude starts saying “yes, yes” I probably am going to try to kill him. He rolls his eyes and steps outside the booth, walks me over to the door and points to the next building. Ah. There’s a 37 painted on a small stand there with a bus in front of it, empty. I walk across and find the driver standing beside the bus, I ask him, “Pathankot?” He nods and I climb on board. I’m the first one on the bus and I sit up front, squeezing my bag above me into the luggage rack I am glad I got here early, otherwise there might not be room. I lean into the window and open my book, waiting for our departure as the bus fills up.

Ten minutes later everyone starts to move, I look up in confusion. We are all getting off the bus, it seems, a man stops to tap my shoulder and point at another bus, it seems that is the bus to Pathankot after all not this one. I pull down my bag and scurry over, but now I am the last one on the bus instead of the first and end up teetering precariously on the edge of a seat in the middle with my bag finally crammed in overhead. Shortly after we rumble off.

I have no idea where we are, this road, whatever it is, isn’t marked on my map. I am trying to stay alert, wary about all the strange Indian men around me, ready to fend off lewd advances on a crowded bus if necessary. We stop frequently, people get on and off and the Punjabi conductor, or whatever the appropriate term is, squeezes up and down the aisle and over bags to collect fares at irregular intervals. There are no lewd advances, but man I wish I could feel confident that everyone had showered within the last week but it certainly doesn’t smell like it. I zone out, a little, not even reading just hunching into myself on this sweaty, humid bus.

A beautiful young girl boards the bus in a fuschia sari. She’s with her mother, and they crowd onto the edge of whatever seat they can find. She’s gorgeous, and fully decorated with henna in her hair and a bindi on her forehead and intricate patterns dyed onto her hands and feet. She is also apparently carsick. Every ten minutes or so she rushes to the door of the bus and vomits on the side of the road. The bus doesn’t stop moving. I am alert now, because this gal is actually pretty close to me and of the many ways that this day could probably get worse, being covered in vomit is one of them and I am preparing to fling myself out of the way if called upon to do so.

That doesn’t happen. What happens instead is that the bus stops. There’s a incomprehensible negotiation between the bus driver and the conductor, and suddenly everyone is getting off the bus again, but this is clearly not Pathankot. I follow, what else am I going to do? As we disembark the problem becomes clear. The road has washed out here, the bus can’t get over the bridge its too unstable. There’s a bus on the other side in the same predicament, so we are applying a typical Indian solution: we are switching buses. My busload of people trudges over the bridge, the opposing busload of people pass over to our bus, and all aboard… again.

This time there’s no room overhead for my bag, so I have it crammed onto my lap. We are degenerating slowly here, taxi to train to bus to bus to bus and I am not sure where the bottom is but I’m pretty sure I’ll find out by the end of the day. At least the vomiting girl is further away from me now. We continue on, and on, some interminable time of rain-streaked windows, and then we stop. I look up, peer out the window, this doesn’t look promising, but everyone is getting off the bus. Again.

We all get off, and half of the crowd disperses, we are in some kind of town but I have no idea where. I turn around a couple of times, I am about to ask my eternal question, “Pathankot?” and wait for the inevitable “yes, yes,” when a skinny middle-aged man takes pity on me in my evident confusion, touches my arm gently and points me to yet another bus. How does he know where I’m going? Where else would I be going, I am not waiting for Godot per se but it is pretty similar.

Another bus and we are coming out of the mountains now, the rain is clearing up so it is less humid but still hot, hot, hot. We turn onto a smooth, paved highway. There are road signs here, they say “Pathankot 22 km.” I am counting down kilometers, and we are still on the outskirts of the city and I’m not sure that this bus goes all the way to the train station, we stop and everybody is getting off again, this must be Pathankot, I turn a quizzical look to my helper from earlier in the day and he nods, this is Pathankot.

Now I have to find the train.