All aboard!

Mettupalayam, India. May 15, 2011. 4 a.m. The night has a life of its own: locals roaming aimless, tramps sleeping on the floor. Wrapped in worn plastic bags, they form a sad, endless and grey wave on the littered ground. In the middle of this languor, I have not slept for a minute. Dreadful heat comes with monsoon and I am beginning to melt. For many Indians who rush here, gaining altitude to reach the fresh breeze that soothes their overheated bodies is their sole purpose. I can’t wait to get high! And hop onto the world famous Nilgiri Express which will take me on its epic ride through the colorful eucalyptus forests of the Blue Mountains.

4.40 a.m. The night fills with noises. In the distance, kids crying, dogs barking, grasshoppers‘ live orchestra and the call of a muezzin gaining in intensity. Next to me, a man snoring on a bench lets his body express itself freely...
I settled on an empty platform, but soon men begin to approach. Somewhat anxious, I know I will have to fight a fierce battle to keep my place in front of the queue. We scrutinize each other’s face, gauging opponents. We westerners have so little experience in this. Pressure is rising. Being the only woman is unsettling. Clearly, the next moments are going to be intimate, glued onto one another, pressed against the tiny ticket counter in the wall. Although we exchange smiles, we are fending off the person next in line to get to the famous summer station of Ootacamund.

With time, I have come to realize that in India the Station Master is the GOD of all trains. He is THE ONE who can create an available seat when no such thing exists. I am not religious but for once I am ready to believe! Though I am number 99 on the waiting list, I might just get lucky.

5.52 .m. My soaking clothes are stuck to my sweaty body, smelling of the mixed scents of my not-so-friendly companions. The red wall I have been pressed so long against is now tattooed onto my body. But I triumphantly escape the scene, a tiny piece of white paper in hand, where an unintelligible sign is scribbled.

Checking now the historic Thomas, the tank engine lookalike blue toy train getting its load of coal, I am happily reminded why I ended up in this brawl.
Getting in the antique coach, I see on the platform four young men sadly watch us leave. Tickets in hands, they were too shy to impose themselves.

The little pang of guilt quickly fades away as the wind starts playing with my hair.