I always thought that the train ride through the Atacama Desert in Chile was by far the craziest train adventure.
But it is not. After all, today is November 13th. Bad omen?
There is a train, a really crazy one, from Mandalay north to Myitkyina. It only dawned on me after departure that it would be a highlight of my train journeys. But one thing at a time.
The plan is to get off in Naba and then drive to Katha, the city become known by George Orwell's Burmese Days. And afterwards the part of my trip I am most looking forward to - the ride on the Irrawaddy to Bhamo.
In any case, I'm the proud owner of a ticket to Amba in the north, departing at four in the afternoon, arriving at seven in the morning. And I say goodbye to the two lovely ladies at the hotel reception.
Darkness in poverty
It is now 2 at noon, I have just eaten Vegetable Springrolls and now sit in front of the last coffee before the departure of the train. Thank God I'm not superstitious, otherwise I'd have to look forward sceptically to today's train adventure. Of course there is no sleeper, only a so-called upper class. Those will be hard hours, dear heaven, and I really don't know how long I want to do this to myself any more.
But let's start at the very beginning, at the Mandalay station, or more precisely, where the darkness of poverty is deepest, where little children are rolling in the dirt next to rubbish dumps while their apathetic parents are sitting on a mat ... staring into their cell phones.
Oh yes, poverty is one thing, but abandonment of the cell phone? No way. Poverty is worst in the outskirts of the big cities or in the train stations. Here you literally step over people living at the very bottom of society ...
Upper Class to Naba
The train to Naba is ready, my seat in the upper class is assigned to me, not a bad choice at first glance.
Two older women sit on the other side, the tight space in front of their feet crammed with something indefinable. They answer my questioning look with a loud laugh and unpack one of the objects wrapped in paper. It turns out to be a beautiful white flower, something like a magnolia. Of course, I don't understand what they are trying to convey to me with their torrent of speech, but I assume that they have shopped in Mandalay and now want to sell the flowers in the north. I wish the delicate flowers all the best on the long journey ...
The train is very long and very busy. However - no surprise - I seem to be the only foreigner again. This fact will be duly noted from the start, and the curious glances will accompany me along the way for the next few hours.
Riding the Iron Rooster
Well then, we saddle the iron horse. Riding the Iron Rooster. Anyone who knows Paul Theroux, the famous Canadian travel writer, knows what I'm talking about. His travels by train through America (The old Patagonia Express) or through Asia ((The great Railway Bazaar ) are legendary. And, Riding the Iron Rooster, his journey through Siberia and China. Wonderful!
Paul Theroux - Riding the Iron Rooster
Paul Theroux, the author of the train travel classics The Great Railway Bazaar and The Old Patagonian Express, takes to the rails once again in this account of his epic journey through China. He hops aboard as part of a tour group in London and sets out for China's border. He then spends a year traversing the country, where he pieces together a fascinating snapshot of a unique moment in history. From the barren deserts of Xinjiang to the ice forests of Manchuria, from the dense metropolises of Shanghai, Beijing, and Canton to the dry hills of Tibet, Theroux offers an unforgettable portrait of a magnificent land and an extraordinary people.
The train bucks and strikes out like a crazy horse.
But just, the iron horse seems to have successfully refused to ride. It bucks and lashes out in all directions.
Of course, this sounds familiar, but it turns out once again that something bad can always be topped. The said trip to Hsipaw is a mild breeze compared to the train to Naba. Now it's really down to business. The pieces of luggage above the heads of the travelers must be tied for safety, otherwise they will be hurled mercilessly through the compartment. Exaggeration? At most a little.
Long 15 hours
In any case, the hours from four in the afternoon to seven in the morning will be very long 15 hours. Sleep is out of the question, not even a cowboy, used to riding rodeo cows that have gone wild, would be able to sleep here. Nobody can, unless you're dead.
But, as expected, the ride has its own charm. Somehow the common experience brings us together, one feels close to each other in common suffering. And people laugh, chat, eat, drink. It is sunny for two short hours, then the sun sinks in an impeccable setting.
I realize briefly that I will still sit in this damned train when the sun reappears. And then it gets dark, it gets colder, now begins the long, frosty night ... It reminds me of another legendary train ride, it's been a long time, but branded in my memory. I try to remember ...
November 1981 - Chile
The bus ride from Antofagasta to the Atacama Desert gives me a pretty good idea of what awaits me in the next few hours. Imagine Mars, reddish-brownish-yellowish, somehow rusted, no sign of life, no plant, just stones, sand and nothing else.
The train station is somewhere in the middle of the desert, it's so hot that the air shimmers.
Apart from numerous Indians, some Travellers are waiting for the departure of the train. It indeed does not correspond to our idea of a train, it is more a kind of freight train for travelers. The windows are simply barred openings, through which, after the train has finally started moving, a lukewarm breeze blows. The fact that all the Indios immediately grab all the woolen blankets after boarding the train is a bit irritating. Wool blankets? In this heat?
A cold Night
A few hours later - the train has now left the Atacama Desert and is now heading for the higher areas while it is getting dark outside the windows - we know the reason.
With every meter upwards, it seems to get one degree colder, and God, it will be one of the coldest nights of my life. While the Indios are lolling into their blankets with a grin on their faces, the frustrated foreigners are trying to make the best of their situation. One puts on everything in the backpack and then gets into the sleeping bag sitting down.
But that doesn't mean that there isn't still a general trembling and chattering of teeth throughout the car. Sitting there all night in a T-shirt, frozen to a marble pillar, a young traveler, either a masochist or a fool, his gaze veiled. I can't help him, no one can.
Steaming Pig's Head
Eventually it turns into morning.
A young American guy gets out of his sleeping bag. Wow, that was rough, man. Oh yes, that was rough. Outside the window a huge salt lake shows up (oh yes, during the night we stopped for hours at the border, so we are in Bolivia) and now the spirits are returning, the stomach starts to rumble. What would be nicer now than a hot coffee and breakfast, anything.
And if our wish was an order, the breakfast delivery man shows up carrying on a tablet - a steaming pig's head.
P.S. Matching Song: Hammer - Train
And here the journey continues ...
