Sometimes I wonder if we are all really creatures of comfort. Just what does that mean exactly and where does that saying come from, I wonder? When I observe the world around me, especially when traveling, I tend to witness what I'd perceive as discomfort. And then, I really begin to question and compare my tolerance for comfort with those by which I'm surrounded on a daily basis. I'd like to think my tolerance for discomfort is fairly high. For example, I don't prefer to sleep in a crowded and noisy room, but I can tolerate it. I don't really like extreme weather (hot or cold), but I can tolerate it. I don't like being filthy dirty for great lengths of time, but I can certainly tolerate it. I don't prefer chaos and crowds and noise and air pollution, but I can tolerate it.
In January 2006, I went on a climbing trip to Hueco Tanks State Park and Somewhere, New Mexico. It was a bizarre trip. One of my climbing partners fell wrong on his ankle, later to find out that it was actually broken the whole time he was limping around with what he thought was a sprain. He was a trouper though and was in it for the whole trip. So after bouldering for a week, my other friend and I planned for a multiple pitch climb in New Mexico, for a day, before heading home. By my stomach had other plans...
That night, we arrived to our campsite in complete darkness, in the middle of Nowhere, NM. We were the only ones for miles and miles, but somehow we pulled up on some empty land with a concrete enclosed porta-poty. It wasn't until we ate dinner, washed dishes and bundled up in our sleeping clothes that I realized how much I had in fact, lucked out. We huddled together in the tent, creating body heat to fight off the frigidness of the night. Then my stomach started to rumble, and so began the night which I spent keeled over, yet eternally grateful for the concrete encasement I mentioned earlier. The rest of the night, I went back and forth from the toilet to our truck, both seemed like refuge, until the other felt like a prison cell. The combination of my stomach bug fever chills, with the night desert temps left me in a state of discomfort like one I'd never known before. I felt broken down and helpless, while my partners struggled to keep themselves well and warm. And when the sun began to creep up over the cliffs, the sole survivor of our climbing trinity began to drive his crippled partners homeward bound.
That was then, this is now... And me and my 3 travel companions had a night last week that gave the one I just described, a run for its money.
Our couch surfing host linked us with a thoughtful and affordable travel guide in Delhi, so from that time, until Rishikesh, we were fortunate to draft under the wings of our driver, Hari, by a "comfortable" car.
In January 2006, I went on a climbing trip to Hueco Tanks State Park and Somewhere, New Mexico. It was a bizarre trip. One of my climbing partners fell wrong on his ankle, later to find out that it was actually broken the whole time he was limping around with what he thought was a sprain. He was a trouper though and was in it for the whole trip. So after bouldering for a week, my other friend and I planned for a multiple pitch climb in New Mexico, for a day, before heading home. By my stomach had other plans...
That night, we arrived to our campsite in complete darkness, in the middle of Nowhere, NM. We were the only ones for miles and miles, but somehow we pulled up on some empty land with a concrete enclosed porta-poty. It wasn't until we ate dinner, washed dishes and bundled up in our sleeping clothes that I realized how much I had in fact, lucked out. We huddled together in the tent, creating body heat to fight off the frigidness of the night. Then my stomach started to rumble, and so began the night which I spent keeled over, yet eternally grateful for the concrete encasement I mentioned earlier. The rest of the night, I went back and forth from the toilet to our truck, both seemed like refuge, until the other felt like a prison cell. The combination of my stomach bug fever chills, with the night desert temps left me in a state of discomfort like one I'd never known before. I felt broken down and helpless, while my partners struggled to keep themselves well and warm. And when the sun began to creep up over the cliffs, the sole survivor of our climbing trinity began to drive his crippled partners homeward bound.
That was then, this is now... And me and my 3 travel companions had a night last week that gave the one I just described, a run for its money.
Our couch surfing host linked us with a thoughtful and affordable travel guide in Delhi, so from that time, until Rishikesh, we were fortunate to draft under the wings of our driver, Hari, by a "comfortable" car.
From Rishikesh, we decided to spice up our means of travel by opting for the overnight train (an 8 hour ride from Haridwar to Delhi) and from there, it would be a simple navigation through the Delhi Metro and onwards towards the airport and a straight shot home to Mumbai. Little did we know just how spicy our train ride would be. But when we arrived at the open air train depot in time for our 11:10pm departure, it became immediately obvious that we had ordered a "3 chilly-pictured" Indian curry, that couldn't be sent back.
The waiting area looked like one of those disaster relief centers you've seen on the news. Families were spread out everywhere on pallets, protecting themselves and huddling together, from the frigid outside air, with thick wool blankets and full winter gear. Small boys crouched near the boarding docks, selling giant, uncut sheets of Butterfingers and Oreo Cookie wrappers. Jen had the genius insight to suggest buying some after taking a look around us. It was clear from the get go that we'd be venturing far away from our comfort zones for a bit. Maybe dressing ourselves in a giant heat trapping candy bar might make us more comfortable? Or blend in, as strange as a life size candy bar sounds...
The intercom announced the boarding of our train about 15 minutes before its departure, and the typical thing occurred: Indains swarmed to push and shove to be among the first to get in, and we patiently, yet anxiously walked the dock in search of our car. Once we got towards the end, with no sign of "S8", we began to question ourselves, before finally questioning someone else. Back and forth we walked, certain that we'd overlooked something. They told us to head front again and we declared it wasn't there. It was suggested that we just board somewhere and find our spots later. I got on the "AC" car at the front of the train and asked if we could park ourselves there, at the sight of pillows and blankets and privacy curtains. Not possible, so we got off and asked another, more official looking guy, who told us to follow another passenger to the front, after we walked again to the end. Finally, it clicked: our car hadn't yet been linked to the rest of the train, which gave me a strange mix of relief of our secured spot and dis concern that it would be hastily and improperly attached.
We boarded and found our section of seats, which we shared with an Indian family. They were bunk style beds, stacked 3 tall on each side, then 2 tall on the other side of the narrow walk path. The car, which uncomfortably slept 8, was smaller than what I'd imagine a 2 person jail cell to be. We selected our bunks for the midnight ride. Stacy chose the bottom across the ally and I chose the two top bunks. We were like the upper slice of white bread, between and Indian sleeping sandwich. Jennifer was the bottom slice in my sleeping sandwich and we had no middle. We began making our beds for the 8 hour ride. I placed my FiberOne wrapper on the bunk, where thousands had likely laid. It crinkled like Christmas cellophane wrapping, and the air inside was just as cold. I placed my giant backpack on the upper bunk above Stacy, for easy access. When we heard it would be cold, I thought I'd plan ahead by donning a bunch of clothing: leggings plus pants, thickest pair of socks and hiking shoes, a t-shirt and dress, my pull over sweater and fleece jacket, scarf, hat and gloves. I was fairly comfortable at that point, and as I laid out my airplane blanket, all purpose piece of fabric, shower towel and Butterfingers wrapper to seal everything in, I thought it might not be as bad as I thought. At least I still had a button up sweater and vest and ear muffs I could add if worse came to worse. I crinkled my way to a restful position, after using the pit latrine toilet that I was pretty certain emptied straight out on the tracks. At first I was self conscious of all the wrapping noise I was making, but as people somehow managed to drift on to dreamland, the snorechestra began. The man on the other side of the cage, directly next to me hands down placed 1st chair, with the guy sandwiched under Steven taking 2nd chair, and the lady on the bottom, a close 3rd.
I opted for music instead of earplugs, even though I have a hard time falling asleep to the former. At least this way, I could control the volume and act as the conductor of this 8 hour long sleeping symphony. As Elliot Smith creatively depressing lyrics drifted in and out of my consciousness, and the train moved to its own swaying beat, many thoughts went through my head. I was about 12 time zones away from home and even further from my comfort zone.
The train stopped for unknown reasons, for unknown lengths of time. I'd find myself getting frustrated until at one point, I heard a whistle coming closer and closer, until our whole car shook from the vibrations of the oncoming train, one track space away. Then my mind switched to the safety of our tracks, like I had hoped the railroad engineers had done, allowing the other train to pass. Take all the time you need, I thought.
As the night rolled on, I became more and more chilled. When we moved, so did the wind, through the bare windows. I put on all the clothes I had at one point when I got down to empty my bladder onto the tracks, and crawled back up into my ice tray. At one point, I remembered that our car had been attached last, and held on to that though. If for some reason, cars started unlocking themselves, maybe mine was less likely? Then, there was the thought that it could be worse. We could have been in a completely open, flat bed train, experiencing the wind and weather full force. Or we could have been crammed with 20x the people, standing room only, like cattle being transported from point A to point B. And then the slave trade and the holocaust crossed my mind. Not that I thought the situation was anywhere comparable, but I couldn't help picturing the thousands of people where were in a situation 1000x worse. Cold, hungry, crammed, sick, vomiting, excreting waste, likely next to strangers. This boxcar served as my ice tray for 8 hours, with a foreseeable thawing future, but their future was like black ice, dangerous and deadly.
Finally, 6am rolled around and I could see the end in sight. I kept trying to think of what I would communicate to my fellow Spatilloman clan. Wanting to remain positive, I tried to convince myself that "it wasn't that bad". But I couldn't even bring myself to declare that. In fact, the previous 8 hours had really really sucked. Really sucked. I had a cold going into the night, and that ride pushed it to a hacking chest cough, that I'm just now really getting over, a whole week later. And I felt emotionally drained and weak and tired and disappointed in myself for thinking of it as having really sucked. After all, 100s of Indians had just endured the same experience (or slept right through it). I try not to have expectations, especially when traveling overseas, because it can easily lead to disappointment. But what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, I guess, or at least lends you to make more informed decisions, and above all, teaches you tolerance.
We've spent this past week on a sunny beach in south India, in the state of Goa. It's like night and day from the north, and nothing like the train ride. I feel spoiled and sunburned, in a couple of words. Tonight is our last night and we held an open mic poetry night at our dinner table. I am sad that the trip is coming to an end, but excited about what I've taken away from it and ready to apply it to life in the States. Tomorrow, early morning yoga and breakfast with Vijay, our teacher here who's pushing 60.
xo
I opted for music instead of earplugs, even though I have a hard time falling asleep to the former. At least this way, I could control the volume and act as the conductor of this 8 hour long sleeping symphony. As Elliot Smith creatively depressing lyrics drifted in and out of my consciousness, and the train moved to its own swaying beat, many thoughts went through my head. I was about 12 time zones away from home and even further from my comfort zone.
The train stopped for unknown reasons, for unknown lengths of time. I'd find myself getting frustrated until at one point, I heard a whistle coming closer and closer, until our whole car shook from the vibrations of the oncoming train, one track space away. Then my mind switched to the safety of our tracks, like I had hoped the railroad engineers had done, allowing the other train to pass. Take all the time you need, I thought.
As the night rolled on, I became more and more chilled. When we moved, so did the wind, through the bare windows. I put on all the clothes I had at one point when I got down to empty my bladder onto the tracks, and crawled back up into my ice tray. At one point, I remembered that our car had been attached last, and held on to that though. If for some reason, cars started unlocking themselves, maybe mine was less likely? Then, there was the thought that it could be worse. We could have been in a completely open, flat bed train, experiencing the wind and weather full force. Or we could have been crammed with 20x the people, standing room only, like cattle being transported from point A to point B. And then the slave trade and the holocaust crossed my mind. Not that I thought the situation was anywhere comparable, but I couldn't help picturing the thousands of people where were in a situation 1000x worse. Cold, hungry, crammed, sick, vomiting, excreting waste, likely next to strangers. This boxcar served as my ice tray for 8 hours, with a foreseeable thawing future, but their future was like black ice, dangerous and deadly.
Finally, 6am rolled around and I could see the end in sight. I kept trying to think of what I would communicate to my fellow Spatilloman clan. Wanting to remain positive, I tried to convince myself that "it wasn't that bad". But I couldn't even bring myself to declare that. In fact, the previous 8 hours had really really sucked. Really sucked. I had a cold going into the night, and that ride pushed it to a hacking chest cough, that I'm just now really getting over, a whole week later. And I felt emotionally drained and weak and tired and disappointed in myself for thinking of it as having really sucked. After all, 100s of Indians had just endured the same experience (or slept right through it). I try not to have expectations, especially when traveling overseas, because it can easily lead to disappointment. But what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, I guess, or at least lends you to make more informed decisions, and above all, teaches you tolerance.
We've spent this past week on a sunny beach in south India, in the state of Goa. It's like night and day from the north, and nothing like the train ride. I feel spoiled and sunburned, in a couple of words. Tonight is our last night and we held an open mic poetry night at our dinner table. I am sad that the trip is coming to an end, but excited about what I've taken away from it and ready to apply it to life in the States. Tomorrow, early morning yoga and breakfast with Vijay, our teacher here who's pushing 60.
xo
What a wonderful post and I'm sure an entry that you will later cherish. I'm so inspired by you friend. Glad that you are feeling better and can't wait to see you when you get back home. Enjoy every second of your adventures! I know you are. :)
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