Ooty to Cochin, a memorable ride...

Monday, November 26th

I'm leaving Ooty, but not before a last scoot around. I walk the road leading away from the town, round a huge patch of scrubland. It's actually a racecourse which you can tell from the bits round the edge that don't have weeds and bushes. Or anybody farming on it. Bang in the middle I can clearly see a tractor with a few people harvesting something or other. You can't really imagine the Grand National including ploughs and pickaxes as obstacles can you? I say goodbye and thank you to each of my many staff (!) and dole out tips like the Rupee Fairy I so love to be. Notes here go down as small as 5Rs (6p!) so I like to keep a wad of 10s & 20s to dish out to any kindly soul that helps me out, I feel like JD Rockefeller sometimes. "Here you are my good man! And something for you too, young boy!"

Anyway, today's journey is this: Toy train from Ooty down the mountain to Mettalpayalam. Another train to Coimbatore. Overnight train Coimbatore to Cochin.

Ooty's toy train is quite famous, and 25p gets you a ticket on a sweet little train for a 3 hour trip through the luscious Niligiri Hills. My Jeeves has purchased the tickets on my behalf, and I am in one of two 'reserved seats' carriages, the other two being unreserved. Train classes here are beyond complicated, there are at least seven I can decipher and I suppose it mirrors the real-life caste system as to who sits where and WOE betide anyone not in the right seat. The 'Ticket Examiner' will come along with his clipboard containing names of every passenger, including their age and gender. It's terribly (and uncharacteristically) organised. Despite most tickets being numbers, the scrum to embark borders on the dangerous. I hang back, quietly confident that I can wait for the hubub to pass, then take my seat. It doesn't so I get on anyway and spot some elderly European tourists in my way. The very modicum of Englishness, I politely suggest that they are in my seat, and would they mind awfully letting me sit there isntead. With a wave of his hand, the German man says "oh, look, you can just zit anywayerrr" and doesn't budge. No, that is MY seat and I would like it. Again, sit where you like Fraulein. There's further argument at the back and it transpires that the Germans don't even have reserved seats, which isn't very German of them. He is adament that they should remain, but this is India, where sitting in the wrong seat is akin to burglary and not only are they forced to change seats, they are thrown off the carriage altogether, into the 'non-reserved' area which has people already poking out of the window it's so full. Ha ha, and a smattering of ho!!!

Nobody helps them with their stuff, and I am so pleased to be rid of them, I don't even feel guilty that the guy in my place only has one arm. Be off with you!

I unravel my imaginary Union Jack onto my new sunlounger and observe the rest of the carriage. A large number of Rajasthani women - identifiable by their more chiffony saris, draped over their heads - some older guys and a youngish, modern family in jeans and T-shirts. It transpires that these are all actually members of the same family - 35 in all - on their way back to Chennai from a wedding. The view is beautiful and we pass nothing except beautiful scenery and the occasional rural family waving like mad at the train.

Even though the journey is only three hours, half way in, the younger male of the group pulls out a gignantic cardboard box from under a seat. I already know what's inside - the food. Inside the box are further large bundles, some in plastic, others in newpaper. Large paper plates with silver foil backing are whipped out and each is given a smattering of chutney, four pooris (deep fried puffed bread, so nice) and two vegetable accompniaments before being passed round to most of the party. The food is duly scoffed, and then, sadly, I also know what else is about to happen. Yep, everything out of the window. Here we are on one of India's major, unspoiled beauty spots, with a very middle class family who think nothing of chucking every bit of their litter straight out of the window. The crisp packets follow, along with some drinks cartons. The Polish couple to my right and I exchange horrified European winces at each other. No wonder this country is such a tip.

It's getting dark as we pull into our final stop, and as with all railway stations, the outskirts are grimly lined with small huts cobbled from various materials; iron, wood, plastic and matting. Most people are still outside, children all waving madly, but inside I can see each hut is lit by a single candle and/or the flame from under the cooking pot. I have passed all too many of these dwellings during a number of journeys, yet never in the dark so it just hadn't occured to me that there would be no electricity but I suppose, why would there be?

Another short train to Coimbatore, a non-descript town in Tamil Nadu used only for train connections by travellers. A bit like Crewe.

The Overnighter

It's a long wait til the overnighter but thankfully, I meet two nice Swiss girls in the Ladies Waiting Room, and we take up the challenge of trying to kill 4 hours in Coimbatore. It's not easy that's for sure but we make it back for 11.45, an hour before our quarter to one train and just in time to step over the appalling number of people who sleep permanetly in train stations up and down the country. Up two flights of stairs is a quietish waiting room with several bodies asleep in the corridor. I'm tired and a little grubby but at least there is somewhere to wash and change before the train. I part company with the Swisses as they are in a completely different carriage class from me, miles away.

As such a major mode of transport, Indian trains are absolutely enormous, usually 18 carriages which gives an entire train length of getting on for half a kilometre. If you're not in the right place when the train arrives, it's a loooooooong walk, especially when - as was the case here -they are re-doing the platform so you have piles of paving stones and wet cement to negotiate. The train is bizarrely on time and I only have to walk about 4 carriages to get to my place. Somebody is in my bunk bed but rather than disturb them, I gesture to the profoundly deaf train boy that I'm happy to hop into the next one after shoving my bag very tightly under the neighbouring seat to fend off any would-be burglars. I'm just helping myself to sheets and pillows when the officious Ticket Examiner pops up to check I'm the right person in the right bed. I'm not. This is the wrong train. What??!! He checks my ticket and tells me that this is not the Cochin train, but the one bound for Kanchipuram, wherever that may be. Shit! I've got to get off! NOW!!!! My bag is so tightly wedged that there's no shifting it and as just as I realise there's no point screaming 'help me!!!' at a deaf person, there's a clunk and the train begins to move. Uh-oh. I'm white with fear, where am I going??! The bag comes free and the train is still moving slowly enough for me to risk jumping off. The deaf boy signals for me to jump, which I do whilst he pushes my bag off. I don't know if you've ever jumped from a moving train before, but it's mighty scary, especially when after landing on an uneven platform, somebody throws a suitcase at you.

What the fuck just happened? I go and sit back down exactly where I was before so at least I'd be in the right place if my train ever did show up. I'm panting, sweating and generally all over the shop. I check my map - Kanchipuram is near Chennai, about 500 miles away. A shadow comes over me. It's one in the morning but the terrifying security guard is still on duty. He towers over me, his twirly moustache silhoutted against the platform lights.

"Whyyyyyyyyy........you take this tren?" I wasn't particularly in the mood for the Spanish Inquisition, but had to admit, that was a really good question. Why did I take that train? I had no real answer. Had I been reasonably compus mentis, I could have said something smart arse like "well, if you actually bothered to improve your passenger information system, perhaps I wouldn't be in this mess". But all I could manage after a long pause for thought was "Err.....because I am stupid". It was the truth and also exactly what he wanted to hear. "This noooo your tren". Well thanks, I know that now. "Next tren, half an hour". Thanks, I can't wait.

Suddenly, I remembered: this Swiss girls? Where were they? With half an hour to kill I walked the full length of the platform but saw nothing bar a few people settling down for the night. They were gone, and not where they wanted to go either.

The right train did indeed show up half an hour later but hell, blast, goddamit and general 'not again!', the carriage configuration was the other way round, so I was a good dozen cars away from where I wanted to be. Cue more running, sweating and general palpitations until I finally hopped on. I'm afraid there was no plonking myself down as that's very hard to do with a middle bunk. So shattered was I that I couldn't be bothered to make my bed up properly so then followed 5 hours of my sweat-drenched clothes sticking to a plastic bunk bed. So unpleasant, so not me.

As I piled off at Cochin, dreading ever looking in the mirror again it was still only 6.30 am, time to relax and take tea. You can at least buy chai 24-hours a day here. Lurching into the cafe barely awake, I was greeted by two grins - the Swiss girls! They had actually stayed on an entire stop which thankfully picked up our train. They had yet another journey to make but mine ended here. We not actually ended, as there was still another rickshaw and boat to the Fort Cochin peninsular but to be honest, I can hardly remember it and all I know is that I am finally - thankfully - here!!