Sometimes the monks really are sleeping
We woke up early on a Sunday morning, because This Was A Chance For India to Redeem Itself. I'd been hearing wonderful things about this hill station called Matheran: it's rural; it bans cars and hence has (unlike Mumbai) oxygen; the air is cool; the food is great; it's easy to get to via a normal train to the town of Neral and then a little toy train that climbs up the mountain; it has monkeys. What's not to like? We'd tried to go once before, but it was some kind of holiday and we couldn't get a hotel reservation. So here it was, a few weeks later and again some kind of holiday (gotta love polytheism). We left the house at 8 -- ok, call it 8:30 -- for a 9 AM express train, and 20 minutes later were standing in a scrum of men (it's always men), while K tried to buy tickets, and I prowled the sidelines breaking the arms of anyone who tried to cut in line (we've got this down to a *science*).
The train departure board -- y'know, the big thing that periodically makes little clacking noises, and all the names of the trains and destinations spin around -- was, bless their hearts, painted. I mean, it was the normal size, and hung in the normal place of honor, but all the information was meticulously hand-painted. So, K and I spent 10 minutes staring at this thing listing the imminent departure of our train on an eminently trainless track, and, I don't know, I guess I was expecting someone to rush in and replace it with a new meticulously hand-painted sign in lieu of the little clacking whirl. Hey, I've seen weirder "full employment" schemes. Eventually, we realized the board hadn't been updated since about 1972, and hopped on the train that was pulling out. The compartment was unpleasantly packed and humid, but we struggled through to a nearly empty compartment that was no nicer but in a different color scheme. We didn't know what class of service it was, but, then, we didn't know what class of service our tickets were either, so fair's fair.
As the train headed into the northeast suburbs, we began to realize there was a quasi-reservation system at work. Large families were boarding, showing seat-occupiers their tickets, and evicting them. At each stop, the train filled up more. Those who were evicted early on seemed to do ok -- they were able to find another seat, and for some reason didn't seem to be hassled again. About 45 minutes into our 2-hour trip, our luck ran out. A very large sweaty woman in a sari rolled up to me, shoved her ticket in my face, and then practically sat on my lap before I could clear out. As K and I loitered in the aisle near our erstwhile bench, she hung her belongings in front of the window and glared at us. I think she would've taken possession of the view if she could have. And the train kept stopping.
At this point, I was standing crammed between K and a seat, with our large shared backpack on top of my feet. All the seats were full, with six sitting on benches numbered for three. The aisles were completely jammed -- and the train kept stopping.
It was oppressively hot and humid, and the compartment smelled, as most public places do, of dirty laundry, unwashed bodies, beedi smoke, and rancid coconut oil used as hair dressing. Time was going by very slowly. I told myself that the Piccadilly line in August was not much cooler or less crowded (though, ok, less pungent). But, then, as I was absolutely flattened against the seat, I had to also concede that crowded London Underground trains are not, as a rule, made worse by young women pushing past selling chikoo fruits, and warbling the sale of their wares in your ear, at the top of their lungs, in Hindi. (Ok, fine: I'm guessing that's what she was singing/shrieking. It also could have been "hey, everybody, watch, as I make this seat railing pierce the white chick's kidney.") She was followed by another woman with a huge basket on her head, and then -- seriously -- the chai-wallah. That's the tea-seller, and he somehow climbed through with an enormous battered metal urn of hot water, plus all the cups. And back again, of course. And the train kept stopping.
K and I couldn't see the stations, as we were no longer by the window and the physics of the train compartment no longer allowed us to do anything but stand up straight. We knew roughly when the train was supposed to arrive in Neral, and decided to just get off at whatever stop seemed to be timed about right. As the train slowed, we pushed our way towards what we were hoping was the door. It was a case of literally pushing toward the light. No one complained about being walked over, and, in fact, little old ladies caught my eye, smiled, and then reached out to give my back a big shove in the right direction. K suddenly pulled up short upon reaching the door, and I crashed into him. Between us and the station, a family had spread out newspapers on the floor of the compartment, and were seated, in the midst of a picnic. They looked at us with surprise: Mm, let's see. We're on a *train*. We've just pulled into a station for a 30-second stop. You're carrying luggage, and you're pushing toward the *door*. Hmmm. Nope, sorry, no clues there. Why the hell are you interrupting our picnic? A crinkled granny with a kind face gave my backside another helpful push, and we both popped out on the platform like watermelon seeds, just as the train started huffing off again.
The good news: it was Neral. The bad news: we were foreigners at a train station.
"Brace yourself," I told K, "for the touts."
There were no touts.
We investigated the toy train. Not running, due to some problem from the heavy monsoon last year, though its little toy station was still thronged with loiterers who looked content to wait for however many more months it was going to take. Walking down the alley and into town, K headed toward the taxi stand. A man lazing on the sidewalk called out to us, "Strike. Taxi man strike today."
"Yeah, right," I snickered.
There's this scam in Bangkok, see, at the Grand Palace/Temple, in which tuk-tuk drivers try to reach tourists before they reach the gates and convince them that the complex is closed and they should let themselves be taken shopping instead.
I watched the cat-and-mouse game evolve during my frequent visits (the best foot massage in town can be had nearby, so sue me). First, the Palace people posted signs clearly stating the hours. The drivers took them down. The Palace people affixed permanent signs. The drivers told people that yes, those were the *usual* hours, but *today* was a holiday. The Palace people put up permanent signs saying "PALACE/TEMPLE IS OPEN ALL THE DAYS!" They did not put up signs saying "DO NOT LISTEN TO A WORD THE TUK-TUK DRIVERS SAY, INCLUDING, YES, *THAT* DRIVER!" but I like to think they're there by now.
Anyway, one time when I was going to admire the Grand Palace and soothe my spirit and, what the heck, while I'm there, get my toes cracked, a driver tried the "Palace close" gambit with me. "Look, friend," I told him sternly in Thai, "I'm not a tourist. I live here. I come here every week. I see every sign they put up. And you know what? That Palace is open!"
The driver didn't bat an eye. "Monks sleeping now," he said.
So I wasn't about to be put off by some small-town guy who didn't even have his scam together enough to have his own taxi.
Wait a minute.
What's in it for him? And why are there police everywhere? And why does the only row of taxis look more like rusted lawn planters?
We went back to the grinning sidewalk dweller. He waved us over to the police.
Fighting the sense that I already knew what was going to happen, I walked up to the cop.
"Matheran?" He looked at me, puzzled. Neral is a town that would not exist were it not the gateway, the base camp, as it were, to Matheran, but I was, evidently, the first person in the history of the universe who ever thought to try to get there from here.
"Math-er-an?" I tried to charade it out, but the only thing that came to mind, unhelpfully, was the Matterhorn.
He grunted and pointed up the mountain.
Well, yes; very helpful, thanks. Matheran *is* a mountain. Glad we could get that straightened out.
Bewildered, K and I wandered the dusty streets of Neral in the blazing noon sun. We began to see people carrying luggage. We followed them to the edge of town. Occasionally, we were passed by a taxi, which I tried to flag down. I succeeded, once, but when I asked "Matheran?" the driver flinched, shook his head, and zoomed off, looking around to see if anyone saw. I really regretted not being able to say "how about the town *after* Matheran, for twice the price, and maybe we make a little stop along the way?" in Hindi. (For point of reference, my Hindi skills consist of about six words, mostly the names of fruit.)
Eventually, we ran out of town. A fellow tourist, a nice guy who was obviously a Bombayite, explained it to us: the taxis were protesting the introduction of minibuses. The minibus could take us, and the station was just a little further up the road, but they were totally overwhelmed by demand; we'd have to wait for hours outside in the sun. The strike was also projected to go the next day, so we'd spend most of our trip waiting to go up and waiting to come down. Or, of course, we could walk up the mountain...
We walked back to the station, on the brink of heat exhaustion. Everything was closed; there was no place to even buy water. K bought two first-class tickets back to Mumbai. The next train wasn't for over an hour. I found a sign that said "first class lounge" over a door, and opened it. Inside was a gloriously air-conditioned room with fixed-to-the-floor chairs around a big chipped table. The room was filled with police. K hesitated. I marched in and dropped my bag on a chair. All the cops stared at me. Their leader beckoned me over.
"What you want?"
"The sign --" I gestured, and showed him my ticket.
He looked at me with incomprehension. Evidently, I was the first person in the history of the universe...
"This is a first class lounge," I explained.
I held up my ticket. "This is a first-class ticket."
"The sign --" I pointed to the sign, "says 'for passenger waiting'"
I walked back to the chairs.
"Therefore --" I sat down, "I am going to wait."
He grunted.
I read.
Ten minutes later, the door opened, and an Indian woman walked in, clutching a first-class ticket. The cop beckoned her over.
"What you want?"
Our train arrived, and we found the compartment marked first class, for the long return trip to Mumbai. It looked exactly the same as the other two compartments we'd seen, but was a different color.
The train departure board -- y'know, the big thing that periodically makes little clacking noises, and all the names of the trains and destinations spin around -- was, bless their hearts, painted. I mean, it was the normal size, and hung in the normal place of honor, but all the information was meticulously hand-painted. So, K and I spent 10 minutes staring at this thing listing the imminent departure of our train on an eminently trainless track, and, I don't know, I guess I was expecting someone to rush in and replace it with a new meticulously hand-painted sign in lieu of the little clacking whirl. Hey, I've seen weirder "full employment" schemes. Eventually, we realized the board hadn't been updated since about 1972, and hopped on the train that was pulling out. The compartment was unpleasantly packed and humid, but we struggled through to a nearly empty compartment that was no nicer but in a different color scheme. We didn't know what class of service it was, but, then, we didn't know what class of service our tickets were either, so fair's fair.
As the train headed into the northeast suburbs, we began to realize there was a quasi-reservation system at work. Large families were boarding, showing seat-occupiers their tickets, and evicting them. At each stop, the train filled up more. Those who were evicted early on seemed to do ok -- they were able to find another seat, and for some reason didn't seem to be hassled again. About 45 minutes into our 2-hour trip, our luck ran out. A very large sweaty woman in a sari rolled up to me, shoved her ticket in my face, and then practically sat on my lap before I could clear out. As K and I loitered in the aisle near our erstwhile bench, she hung her belongings in front of the window and glared at us. I think she would've taken possession of the view if she could have. And the train kept stopping.
At this point, I was standing crammed between K and a seat, with our large shared backpack on top of my feet. All the seats were full, with six sitting on benches numbered for three. The aisles were completely jammed -- and the train kept stopping.
It was oppressively hot and humid, and the compartment smelled, as most public places do, of dirty laundry, unwashed bodies, beedi smoke, and rancid coconut oil used as hair dressing. Time was going by very slowly. I told myself that the Piccadilly line in August was not much cooler or less crowded (though, ok, less pungent). But, then, as I was absolutely flattened against the seat, I had to also concede that crowded London Underground trains are not, as a rule, made worse by young women pushing past selling chikoo fruits, and warbling the sale of their wares in your ear, at the top of their lungs, in Hindi. (Ok, fine: I'm guessing that's what she was singing/shrieking. It also could have been "hey, everybody, watch, as I make this seat railing pierce the white chick's kidney.") She was followed by another woman with a huge basket on her head, and then -- seriously -- the chai-wallah. That's the tea-seller, and he somehow climbed through with an enormous battered metal urn of hot water, plus all the cups. And back again, of course. And the train kept stopping.
K and I couldn't see the stations, as we were no longer by the window and the physics of the train compartment no longer allowed us to do anything but stand up straight. We knew roughly when the train was supposed to arrive in Neral, and decided to just get off at whatever stop seemed to be timed about right. As the train slowed, we pushed our way towards what we were hoping was the door. It was a case of literally pushing toward the light. No one complained about being walked over, and, in fact, little old ladies caught my eye, smiled, and then reached out to give my back a big shove in the right direction. K suddenly pulled up short upon reaching the door, and I crashed into him. Between us and the station, a family had spread out newspapers on the floor of the compartment, and were seated, in the midst of a picnic. They looked at us with surprise: Mm, let's see. We're on a *train*. We've just pulled into a station for a 30-second stop. You're carrying luggage, and you're pushing toward the *door*. Hmmm. Nope, sorry, no clues there. Why the hell are you interrupting our picnic? A crinkled granny with a kind face gave my backside another helpful push, and we both popped out on the platform like watermelon seeds, just as the train started huffing off again.
The good news: it was Neral. The bad news: we were foreigners at a train station.
"Brace yourself," I told K, "for the touts."
There were no touts.
We investigated the toy train. Not running, due to some problem from the heavy monsoon last year, though its little toy station was still thronged with loiterers who looked content to wait for however many more months it was going to take. Walking down the alley and into town, K headed toward the taxi stand. A man lazing on the sidewalk called out to us, "Strike. Taxi man strike today."
"Yeah, right," I snickered.
There's this scam in Bangkok, see, at the Grand Palace/Temple, in which tuk-tuk drivers try to reach tourists before they reach the gates and convince them that the complex is closed and they should let themselves be taken shopping instead.
I watched the cat-and-mouse game evolve during my frequent visits (the best foot massage in town can be had nearby, so sue me). First, the Palace people posted signs clearly stating the hours. The drivers took them down. The Palace people affixed permanent signs. The drivers told people that yes, those were the *usual* hours, but *today* was a holiday. The Palace people put up permanent signs saying "PALACE/TEMPLE IS OPEN ALL THE DAYS!" They did not put up signs saying "DO NOT LISTEN TO A WORD THE TUK-TUK DRIVERS SAY, INCLUDING, YES, *THAT* DRIVER!" but I like to think they're there by now.
Anyway, one time when I was going to admire the Grand Palace and soothe my spirit and, what the heck, while I'm there, get my toes cracked, a driver tried the "Palace close" gambit with me. "Look, friend," I told him sternly in Thai, "I'm not a tourist. I live here. I come here every week. I see every sign they put up. And you know what? That Palace is open!"
The driver didn't bat an eye. "Monks sleeping now," he said.
So I wasn't about to be put off by some small-town guy who didn't even have his scam together enough to have his own taxi.
Wait a minute.
What's in it for him? And why are there police everywhere? And why does the only row of taxis look more like rusted lawn planters?
We went back to the grinning sidewalk dweller. He waved us over to the police.
Fighting the sense that I already knew what was going to happen, I walked up to the cop.
"Matheran?" He looked at me, puzzled. Neral is a town that would not exist were it not the gateway, the base camp, as it were, to Matheran, but I was, evidently, the first person in the history of the universe who ever thought to try to get there from here.
"Math-er-an?" I tried to charade it out, but the only thing that came to mind, unhelpfully, was the Matterhorn.
He grunted and pointed up the mountain.
Well, yes; very helpful, thanks. Matheran *is* a mountain. Glad we could get that straightened out.
Bewildered, K and I wandered the dusty streets of Neral in the blazing noon sun. We began to see people carrying luggage. We followed them to the edge of town. Occasionally, we were passed by a taxi, which I tried to flag down. I succeeded, once, but when I asked "Matheran?" the driver flinched, shook his head, and zoomed off, looking around to see if anyone saw. I really regretted not being able to say "how about the town *after* Matheran, for twice the price, and maybe we make a little stop along the way?" in Hindi. (For point of reference, my Hindi skills consist of about six words, mostly the names of fruit.)
Eventually, we ran out of town. A fellow tourist, a nice guy who was obviously a Bombayite, explained it to us: the taxis were protesting the introduction of minibuses. The minibus could take us, and the station was just a little further up the road, but they were totally overwhelmed by demand; we'd have to wait for hours outside in the sun. The strike was also projected to go the next day, so we'd spend most of our trip waiting to go up and waiting to come down. Or, of course, we could walk up the mountain...
We walked back to the station, on the brink of heat exhaustion. Everything was closed; there was no place to even buy water. K bought two first-class tickets back to Mumbai. The next train wasn't for over an hour. I found a sign that said "first class lounge" over a door, and opened it. Inside was a gloriously air-conditioned room with fixed-to-the-floor chairs around a big chipped table. The room was filled with police. K hesitated. I marched in and dropped my bag on a chair. All the cops stared at me. Their leader beckoned me over.
"What you want?"
"The sign --" I gestured, and showed him my ticket.
He looked at me with incomprehension. Evidently, I was the first person in the history of the universe...
"This is a first class lounge," I explained.
I held up my ticket. "This is a first-class ticket."
"The sign --" I pointed to the sign, "says 'for passenger waiting'"
I walked back to the chairs.
"Therefore --" I sat down, "I am going to wait."
He grunted.
I read.
Ten minutes later, the door opened, and an Indian woman walked in, clutching a first-class ticket. The cop beckoned her over.
"What you want?"
Our train arrived, and we found the compartment marked first class, for the long return trip to Mumbai. It looked exactly the same as the other two compartments we'd seen, but was a different color.
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