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Jack Tame: All alone on an Indian train
Commonwealth Games reporter Jack Tame is left to his own devices in India, and doesn't get much sleep.
"It'll be great. We'll finish up work and then go on holiday," he said.
"Stop bugging me... we'll sort it out, just don't book anything yet," he said.
"Oh actually, I can't go any more. But you'll be fine, just travel around by yourself. What could possibly go wrong?" he said.
Cheers Peter.
I am now a man alone. After two weeks working in India's capital I have farewelled my colleagues and the comforts of corporate responsibility. I have farewelled a plush hotel. I have farewelled the security men who guarded us and the doctor who cared. I have farewelled our driver and our car. I have farewelled continental breakfasts and hot espresso coffee.
I am a man alone, and I'm en-route to Mars.
In carriage ten of the Jaisalmer Express is a motley crew.
An Indian family bickers. A chai-waller (Tea seller) lugs his canteen and moans his repetitive call. A fat man in a canary-yellow shirt sweats. I sit at the window, my eyes are fixed in focus, watching the slums of Delhi roll by. Young boys throw stones at our carriages. At the edge of the tracks, small fires flicker and smoulder with burning rubbish.
This train is not comfortable. Nor is its journey short. I am travelling 1000km, from Delhi into the midst of the Thar Desert, 80km from India's border with Pakistan. The destination is Jaisalmer, a desert town of 50,000 people. The excursion will take 18 hours.
Through pleading with strangers for help, and sheer luck, I have successfully negotiated India's seven classes of train travel to book an air conditioned sleeper bed. Compared with the lowest classes, it's luxury. Compared with regular western comforts, it's liveable. Just.
The fat man is still sweating. Just below his belly button, at his widest circumference, his shirt buttons strain to contain his girth.
There is a gap, maybe three centimetres wide, where flesh peeks through. A ceiling fan rattles above us, the man angles its cool air towards his face with his newspaper.
He leans to his bag for a bottle of lemonade. As his fist smothers the cap, the liquid fizzes violently. Instinctively, he shuts the lid, and slowly releases the pressure, calmly siphoning the gas until his lemonade is drinkable. Not a drop has spilt. Bet he's done that before.
He and I talk. We exchange backgrounds and pleasantries. He is friendly and welcoming, and recommends places for me to explore.
Jaisalmer's fort is magnificent, and an overnight camel trek into the Thar is unique and exciting, he informs me.
Four hours into our journey, seats are folded into beds. My quarters are minimal and particularly difficult to negotiate daintily. I am six foot two in a four foot bed.
I cannot sit up without turning my head at a right angle, my ear resting on my shoulder. Anyone who slinks between the beds is confronted with my overhanging feet.
The train shudders and jerks, but its rhythm is comforting. The drum of the ceiling fan sends me to slumber.
I wake. I haven't been sleeping long... but have been startled by a magnificent noise. It's the man... the fat man with the canary yellow shirt.
He is snoring in the most exceptionally offensive manner. His breath is hard and fast, and every inhalation reaches deep into his sinuses, resonating at an incredible level.
It is truly quite astounding. The man's snore is overwhelming the rumble of a 15 carriage train.
I try to ignore it. Impossible. I scramble in the dark for my ear plugs, and push them deep into the canals of my ears. Incredible. He's still there.
Two hours pass and the snore is unfaltering. I've tried my iPod but its distraction was only temporary. This is a desperate scenario. I search through the pockets of my bag for my emergency sleeping pills.
They are two years old and at least eight months past their use-by date. The packet says take one - I peel the foil from two. They crumble in their plastic shells... like a desperate junkie I lick the bitter powder. Low point successfully reached.
I am dopey, but still awake. The rest of the sleeper carriage is silent, though full. There are perhaps 40 people sleeping in the metres around me. In the carriages behind us hundreds more are asleep.
The train rolls through the empty expansive black of the Thar Desert.
Eighteen hours on an Indian train was never going to be a night at the Ritz.
My sleeper class is the second most comfortable class possible. For all I know, judging by the stereotype, there may be people riding on the roof. I'd climb up and visit them, but they're probably asleep as well.
On the Jaisalmer Express, just one person lies awake.
Tonight, he is a man alone.
Read Jack's stories from Delhi
