The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack
by Lynn Kilcline

CHAPTER THREE -ALL ABOARD!

We climbed aboard the train, struggling to pass through the narrow doorway and corridor with our backpacks, and stumbled forward into our accommodation for the next 12 hours.

I suppose that the ambience of the interior décor wasn't helped by the general murk of the railway station and the illumination in the carriage, which resembled gaslight.
On the other hand, 100-watt light bulbs would have revealed the true squalor we had landed in, as opposed to just imagining what lurked in the gloom.

The carriage was divided by a thin walkway to the left of centre.
On the left of the carriage were two seats facing each other with a bunk bed overhead and the two seats facing folded together to form a lower bunk.
There were curtains to the side of each seat which could be pulled across for privacy when the bunks were made up.
To the right of the walk way were two double padded benches facing each other with bunk beds above. There were curtains at the walkway end of this seating arrangement, so this sleeping area for four could also be partitioned off.
If you were a travelling couple and you were in one of these double bunk sectors, there would be no privacy if you were joined by a further twosome. The four of you would be lumped in together. Changing into your P.J's could be difficult.

Our reservation was for the one up one down side of the carriage, which was just as well. I was already slipping into a state of shock without sleeping with two unknowns.
I sat on the edge of my seat and looked around me. Everything, sills, drop leaf tables, windows, all had a ridge of something resembling thick dirt and grease caked to them. An image of the worst transport café in the world came to mind.

Other westerners were now boarding and they all looked pretty much as we did, horror stricken. We all sat bravely not saying anything to each other just giving polite nods of acknowledgement.
Later we found out that we were all first timers and all of us had expected something quite different when booking First Class.

The train moved out and I could wait no longer. I needed the loo. I made my way from our compartment and into the section that had the lavatories. Next to the exit door from the train was a dirty little washbasin and splattered mirror and around the corner and along the corridor were the lavatories. Inside the cubicle was the lavatory which was, as I had expected, the squat down variety. But the stench, the magnitude of which greeted me, was not expected. In order to imagine such a smell you would have to believe something on this earth was capable of making it.
I managed somehow to squat down, reach out with one hand and hold on to a water pipe in front of me, hold my nose with the other hand, grip the toilet roll I had brought in with me under my armpit, and pee without hitting my feet. Attempts to wash my hands [or feet: my aim was not good] proved fruitless as no water came out of the tap.

Rushing back to my seat with a pained expression I dived into my backpack in search of the giant size tub of antiseptic wet wipes I had packed. The smell of the antiseptic wipes brought back fresh memories of the toilet pans at the airport and I think I probably turned green at this stage.

There was no doubt in my mind we would not now die of starvation, but from dysentery. I sat with glazed expression and gave some thought to my most recent experience. How could anything smell so badly when the supposed source of the problem was dropping straight out of the train and on to the tracks? I later found the answer to this riddle.

After a while we struck up conversation with the western couple on the other side of the compartment. He was Norwegian and she was Hungarian and they were both quite large. They had met on the Internet and it appeared to us that their relationship may well fare better with the written word as opposed to the spoken one if their body language was anything to judge by. They seemed to have very little in common and the girl told us that so far she had hated every minute of the trip.
We envisioned them going their separate ways before too long, but we did take advantage of our meeting. Brian kept them talking while I borrowed their copy of The Lonely Planet guidebook, [ far more up to date than ours] and scanned it for information on our destination.

Before long a very scruffy porter came along and issued us with sheets, blankets and pillows, all which appeared to have been washed in a muddy stream and dried outside a coalmine.

Brian made up the bunks while I stood and cringed. He gave me a leg up to the top bunk where I sat fully clothed looking to see how I could cram my baggage and food supplies around me and still have room to lie down. I couldn't.
We had bought a length of chain and padlock with us for just this situation. We had been advised to use the chain to fasten our backpacks to the bed so that we would not be robbed while sleeping.
Unfortunately I couldn't remember where I had put the chain and lock so that idea went west.
I lay down like a ramrod and Brian packed bags around me, I had to put the small backpack under my knees, and it was very uncomfortable.
The only thing I removed from my body was my hat, so I lay there imagining the head lice moving in. I felt as if I were aboard a cross between Midnight Express and a cattle truck. Try to sleep? It was like dozing on a bouncy castle full of rocks.

I must have nodded off at some stage because during the course of the night I lost the ability to move my body or legs. Brian managed to lift me down like a pogo stick at around 5.30.a.m.
We were due to arrive at our destination Margao, South Goa, at 6.30 a.m. Obviously there would be no washing and teeth cleaning on this deluxe transport before disembarkation and so there was ample time to luxuriate in our surroundings.

As the conductor came around to collect our bedding we discovered that our arrival was going to be delayed.
The Norwegian-Hungarian alliance was leaving the train at Panjim, which was the gateway to Northern Goa.
I had been tempted to start this section of our journey from there too, but most of the places accessible from Panjim were more developed and touristy, and so I thought we should go farther south. As we had not yet reached Panjim it meant that we were at least three or four hours behind schedule. Bad news for sitting on the Paradise Express but it meant that I could have another session with our travelling companions' guidebook.
I really did not know where to head for once we reached Margao.

Colva and Benaulim were the closest and both reputedly had beautiful stretches of beach. Colva was also described as 'fly blown ' and having a stream that ran black with pollution between the bus park and the beach. Not much of an advert.
Palolem, which was much farther south, sounded idyllic but difficult to reach. We would need to catch another train to Canacona, wherever that was, and we had no idea of the train schedules to reach there.
In addition, accommodation looked sparse according to the guidebook.
What if we arrived and couldn't find anywhere to stay? It would be difficult to make our way back to Margao before nightfall. I really did not know what to do.

Finally I decided we should head for Colva. If it was foul at least we had the chance of finding accommodation even if for one night. If it was fine or acceptable, we could make a day trip to Palolem to see what we thought, and minus baggage it would be so much easier. So, decision made.

We waited for our travelling companions to leave the train before we broke into our remaining provisions. We could not really share our
left-over unappetising rations. For two people of such sizeable proportions I was surprised that they had come so unprepared in the snacking department.

Food had been available on the train. A series of very dirty looking men paraded up and down the corridors almost constantly. They had food in containers balanced in their arms. We could smell it but could not understand what they were saying, and so had no idea what was in the trays. I doubt that we would have touched it even if it had been scones and jam. These guys were filthy - and where had this food come from anyway? Other men came along shouting: `` chai, chai '' [tea, tea] but we didn't fancy that either.

It looked as if we would not arrive at our destination before mid-day and this brought on an unbearable decision. I had been making an attempt at the world urine retention record. For a woman who goes to the toilet two or three times during the night and immediately on waking I was beginning to feel like a water filled balloon. Dehydration was also a strong possibility; I couldn't drink anything if I had no intention of letting it out. Could I really face those toilets again?
I thought of sticking an antiseptic wet wipe up each nostril. I gritted my teeth and made for the door.
I couldn't believe it. I wouldn't say the toilet smelt of roses but it did by comparison with the previous evening. The answer: a good breeze of country air flowing up through the squat down toilet. The secret is: don't use the lavatory within 20 miles of a city. Everyone pees and poohs on the railway line and the whiff just blows up the lav. I returned to my seat relieved in every sense of the word.