The Great Railway Bazaar

by Paul Theroux

  Long after I took the trip I wrote about in The Great Railway Bazaar I went on thinking how I’d gone overland, changing trains across Asia, improvising my trip, rubbing against the world. And reflecting on what I’d seen – the way the unrevisited past is always looping in your dreams. Memory is a ghost train too. Ages later, you still ponder the beautiful face you once glimpsed in a distant country. Or the sight of a noble tree, or a country road, or a happy table in a café, or some angry boys armed with rusty spears shrieking, ‘Run you life, dim-dim!’ – or the sound of a train at night, striking that precise musical note of train whistles, a diminished third, into the darkness, as you lie in the train, moving through the world as travellers do, ‘inside the whale’.

  Thirty-three years went by. I was then twice as old as the person who had ridden those trains, most of them pulled by steam locomotives, boiling across the hinterland of Turkey and India. I loved the symmetry in the time difference. Time passing had become something serious to me, embodied in the process of my growing old. As a young man I regarded the earth as a fixed and trustworthy thing that would see me into my old age; but older, I began to understand transformation as a natural law, something emotional in an undependable world that was visibly spoiled. It is only with age that you acquire the gift to evaluate decay, the epiphany of Wordsworth, the wisdom of wabi-sabi: nothing is perfect, nothing is complete, nothing lasts.

  ‘Without change there can be no nostalgia,’ a friend once said to me, and I realized that what I began to witness was not just change and decay, but imminent extinction. Had my long-ago itinerary changed as much as me? I had the idea of taking the same trip again, travelling in my own footsteps – a serious enterprise, but the sort of trip that younger, opportunistic punks often take to make a book and get famous.*

  The best of travel seems to exist outside of time, as though the years of travel are not deducted from your life. Travel also holds the magical possibility of reinvention: that you might find a place you love, to begin a new life and never go home. In a distant place no one knows you – nearly always a plus. And you can pretend, in travel, to be different from the person you are, unattached, enigmatic, younger, richer or poorer, anyone you choose to be, the rebirth that many travellers experience if they go far enough.

  The decision to return to any early scene in your life is dangerous but irresistible, not as a search for lost time but for the grotesquerie of what happened since. In most cases it is like meeting an old lover years later and hardly recognizing the object of desire in this pinched and bruised old fruit. We all live with fantasies of transformation. Live long enough and you see them enacted – the young made old, the road improved, houses where there were once fields; and their opposites, a good school turned into a ruin, a river poisoned, a pond shrunk and filled with rubbish, and dismal reports: ‘He’s dead,’ ‘She’s huge,’ ‘She committed suicide,’ ‘He’s now prime minister,’ ‘He’s in jail,’ ‘You can’t go there any more.’

  A great satisfaction in growing old – one of many – is assuming the role of a witness to the wobbling of the world and seeing irreversible changes. The downside, besides the tedium of listening to the delusions of the young, is hearing the same hackneyed opinions over and over, not just those of callow youth but, much worse and seemingly criminal, the opinions of even callower people who ought to know better, all the lies about war and fear and progress and the enemy – the world as a wheel of repetition. They – I should say ‘we’ – are bored by things we’ve heard a million times before, books we’ve dismissed, the discoveries that are not new, the proposed solutions that will solve nothing. ‘I can tell that I am growing old,’ says the narrator in Borges’s story ‘The Congress’. ‘One unmistakable sign is the fact that I find novelty neither interesting nor surprising, perhaps because I see nothing essentially new in it – it’s little more than timid variations on what’s already been.’

  Older people are perceived as cynics and misanthropes – but no, they are simply people who have at last heard the still, sad music of humanity played by an inferior rock band howling for fame. Going back and retracing my footsteps – a glib, debunking effort for a shallower, younger, impressionable writer – would be for me a way of seeing who I was, where I went, and what subsequently happened to the places I had seen.

  Since I will never write the autobiography I once envisioned – volume one, Who I Was; volume two, I Told You So – writing about travel has become a way of making sense of my life, the nearest I will come to autobiography – as the novel is, the short story, and the essay. As Pedro Almodóvar once remarked, ‘Anything that is not autobiography is plagiarism.’

  The thing to avoid while in my own footsteps would be the tedious reminiscences of better days, the twittering of the nostalgia bore, whose message is usually I was there and you weren’t. ‘I remember when you could get four of those for a dollar.’ ‘There was a big tree in a field where that building is now.’ ‘In my day …’

  Oh, shut up!

  What traveller backtracked to take the great trip again? None of the good ones that I know. Greene never returned to the Liberian bush, nor to Mexico, nor to Vietnam. In his late fifties, Waugh dismissed modern travel altogether as mere tourism and a waste of time. After 1948, Thesiger did not return to Rub’ al Khali, the Empty Quarter of Arabia. Burton did not mount another expedition to Utah, or to substantiate the source of the Nile – at my age he was living in Trieste, immersed in erotica. Darwin never went to sea again. Neither did Joseph Conrad, who ended up hating the prospect of seafaring. Eric Newby went down the Ganges once, Jonathan Raban down the Mississippi once, and Jan Morris climbed Everest once. Robert Byron did not take the road to Oxiana again, Cherry-Garrard made only one trip to Antarctica, Chatwin never returned to Patagonia, nor did Doughty go back to Arabia Deserta, nor Wallace to the Malay Archipelago, nor Waterton to the Amazon, nor Trollope to the West Indies, nor Edward Lear to Corsica, nor Stevenson to the Cévennes, nor Chekhov to Sakhalin, nor Gide to the Congo, nor Canetti to Marrakesh, nor Jack London to the Solomon Islands, nor Mark Twain to Hawaii. So much for some of my favourite authors.

  You could ask, ‘Why should they bother?’ but the fact is that each of these travellers, grown older, would have discovered what the heroic traveller Henry Morton Stanley found when he recrossed Africa from west to east ten years after his first successful crossing from east to west from 1874 to 1877 – a different place, with ominous changes, and a new book. Richard Henry Dana added a chastened epilogue to Two Years Before the Mast when, twenty-four years after its publication in 1840, he returned to San Francisco (but no longer travelling in the forecastle) and found that it had changed from a gloomy Spanish mission station with a few shacks to an American boom town that had been transformed by the Gold Rush. Dana was scrupulous about reacquainting himself with people he’d met on his first visit and sizing up the altered landscape, completing, as he put it, ‘acts of pious remembrance’.

  Certain poets, notably Wordsworth and Yeats, enlarged their vision and found enlightenment in returning to an earlier landscape of their lives. They set the standard in the literature of revisitation. If it is a writer’s lot to repeat the past, writing it in his or her own way, this return journey might be my own prosaic version of ‘The Wild Swans at Coole’ or ‘Tintern Abbey’.

  My proposed trip to retrace the itinerary of The Great Railway Bazaar was mainly curiosity on my part, and the usual idleness, with a hankering to be away; but this had been the case thirty-three years before, and it had yielded results. All writing is launching yourself into the darkness, and hoping for light and a soft landing.

  ‘I’m going to do a lot of knitting while you’re away,’ my wife said. That was welcome news. I needed Penelope this time.

  Though I had pretended to be jolly in the published narrative, the first trip had not gone as planned.

  ‘I don’t want you to go,’ my first wife had said in 1973 – not in a sentimental way, but as an angry demand.

&nb
sp; Yet I had just finished a book and was out of ideas. I had no income, no idea for a new novel, and – though I didn’t know what I was in for – I hoped that this trip might be a way of finding a subject. I had to go. Sailors went to sea, soldiers went to war, fishermen went fishing, I told her. Writers sometimes had to leave home. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  She resented my leaving. And though I did not write about it, I was miserable when I set off from London, saying goodbye to this demoralized woman and our two small children.

  It was the age of aerograms and postcards and big black unreliable telephones. I wrote home often. But I succeeded in making only two phone calls, one from New Delhi and another from Tokyo, both of them futile. And why did my endearments sound unwelcome? I was homesick the whole way – four and a half months of it – and wondered if I was being missed. That was my first melancholy experience of the traveller’s long lonely evenings. I was at my wits’ end on the trip. I felt insane when I got home. I had not been missed. I had been replaced.

  My wife had taken a lover. It was hypocritical of me to object: I had been unfaithful to her. It wasn’t her sexual exploit that upset me, but the cosy domesticity. He spent many days and nights in my house, in our bed, romancing her and playing with the children.

  I did not recognize my own voice when I howled, ‘How could you do this?’

  She said, ‘I pretended you were dead.’

  I wanted to kill this woman, not because I hated her, but (as homicidal spouses often say) because I loved her. I threatened to kill the man who, even after I was home, sent her love letters. I became an angry brute, and by chance I discovered a wickedly helpful thing: threatening to kill someone is an effective way of getting a person’s attention.

  Instead of killing anyone, or threatening it any more, I sat in my room and wrote in a fury, abusing my typewriter, trying to lose myself in the book’s humour and strangeness. I had a low opinion of most travel writing. I wanted to put in everything that I found lacking in the other books – dialogue, characters, discomfort – and to leave out museums, churches and sightseeing generally. Though it would have added a dimension, I concealed everything about my domestic turmoil. I made the book jolly, and like many jolly books it was written in an agony of suffering, with the regret that in taking the trip I had lost what I valued most: my children, my wife, my happy household.

  The book succeeded. I was cured of my misery by more work – an idea I had on the trip for a new novel. Yet something had been destroyed: faith, love, trust and a belief in the future. After my travel, on my return, I became an outsider, a ghostly presence, with my nose pressed against the window. I understood what it was like to be dead: people might miss you, but their lives go on without you. New people take your place. They sit in your favourite chair and dandle your children on their knees, giving them advice, chucking them under the chin; they sleep in your bed, look at your paintings, read your books, flirt with the Danish nanny; and as they belittle you for having been an over-industrious drudge, they spend your money. Most of the time, your death is forgotten. ‘Maybe it was for the best,’ people say, trying not to be morbid.

  Some betrayals are forgivable, but others you never quite recover from. Years later, when my children were out of the house, I left that life, that marriage, that country. I began a new life elsewhere.

  Now, thirty-three years older, I had returned to London. To my sorrow, about to take the same trip again, I relived much of the pain that I thought I’d forgotten.

  Nothing is more suitable to a significant departure than bad weather. It matched my mood, too, the rain that morning in London, the low brown sky leaking drizzle, darkening the porous city of old stone, and because of it – the rain descending like a burden – everyone was hunched, their wet heads cast down, eyes averted, thinking, Filfy wevva. Traffic was louder, the heavy tyres swishing in the wet streets. At Waterloo Station I found the right platform for the Eurostar, the 12.09 to Paris.

  Even at Waterloo, the reminders of my old London were almost immediate. The indifference of Londoners, their brisk way of walking, their fixed expressions, no one wearing a hat in the rain yet some carrying brollies – all of us, including honking public school hearties, striding past a gaunt young woman swaddled in dirty quilts, sitting on the wet floor at the foot of some metal steps at the railway station, begging.

  And then the simplest international departure imaginable: a cursory security check, French immigration formalities, up the escalator to the waiting train, half empty on a wet weekday in early March. In 1973 I had left from Victoria Station in the morning, got off at the coast at Folkestone, caught the ferry, thrashed across the English Channel, boarded another train at Calais, and did not arrive in Paris until midnight.

  That was before the tunnel had been dug under the channel. It had cost $20 billion and taken fifteen years and everyone complained that it was a money loser. Though the train had been running for twelve years, I had never taken it. Never mind the expense – the train through the tunnel was a marvel. I savoured the traveller’s lazy reassurance that I could walk to the station and sit down in London, read a book, and a few hours later stand up and stroll into Paris without ever leaving the ground. And I intended to go to central Asia the same way, overland to India, just sitting and gaping out of the window.

  This time, I had been refused a visa to enter Iran, and civilians were being abducted and shot in Afghanistan, but studying a map, I found other routes and railway lines – through Turkey to Georgia and on to the Islamic republics. First Azerbaijan, then a ferry across the Caspian, and then trains through Turkmenistan, past the ancient city of Merv, where there was a railway station, to the banks of the Amu Darya River – Oxiana indeed – and more tracks to Bukhara, Samarkand and Tashkent, in Uzbekistan, within spitting distance of the Punjab railways.

  After that, I could follow my old itinerary through India to Sri Lanka and on to Burma. But it was a mistake to anticipate too much so early in the trip, and anyway, here I was a few minutes out of Waterloo, clattering across the shiny rain-drenched rails of Clapham Junction, thinking: I have been here before. On the line through south London, my haunted face at the window, my former life as a Londoner began to pass before my eyes.

  Scenes of the seventies, along this very line, through Vauxhall, and making the turn at Queenstown Road, past Clapham High Street and Brixton and across Coldharbour Lane, a name that sent chills through me. Across the common, in 1978, there had been race riots on Battersea Rise, near Chiesman’s department store (‘Est. 1895’), where clerks sidled up and asked, ‘Are you being served?’ I bought my first colour TV set there, near the street on Lavender Hill where Sarah Ferguson, later the Duchess of York, lived; on the day her marriage to Prince Andrew was announced, my charlady, carrying a mop and bucket, sneered, saying, ‘She’s from the gutter.’

  We were travelling in a deep railway gully, veering away from Clapham Junction, and from the train I got a glimpse of a cinema I had gone to until it became a bingo hall, the church that was turned into a daycare centre, and beyond the common the Alfarthing Primary School, where my kids, all pale faces and skinny legs, were taught to sing by Mrs Quarmby. These were streets I knew well: one where my bike was stolen, another where my car was broken into; greengrocers and butcher shops where I’d shopped; the chippie, the florist, the Chinese grocer; the newsagent, an Indian from Mwanza who liked speaking Swahili with me because he missed the shores of Lake Victoria; the Fishmonger’s Arms – known as the Fish – an Irish pub where refugees from Ulster swore obscenely at the TV whenever they saw Prince Charles on it, and laughed like morons the day Lord Mountbatten was blown up by the IRA, and where, every evening, I drank a pint of Guinness and read the Evening Standard; this very place.

  From scenes like these I had made my London life. In those days I prayed for rain, because it kept me indoors – writing weather. So much of what I saw today was familiar and yet not the same – the usual formula for a dream. I looked closer. The tree
s were bare under the grey tattered clouds, and most of the buildings were unchanged, but London was younger, more prosperous. This district that had been semi-derelict when I moved here – empty houses, squatters, a few ageing residents still holding on – had become gentrified. The Chinese grocer’s was now a wine shop, and one of the pubs a bistro, and the fish-and-chip shop was a sushi bar.

  But the wonderful thing was that I was whisked through south London with such efficiency, I was spared the deeper pain of looking closely at the past. I was snaking through tunnels and across viaducts and railway cuttings, looking left and right at the landscapes of my personal history and, happily, moving on, to other places that held no ambiguous memories. Don’t dwell on it, the English say with their hatred of complaint. Mustn’t grumble. Stop brooding. It may never happen.

  I loved the speed of this train and the knowledge that it wasn’t stopping anywhere but just making a beeline to the coast, past Penge, Beckenham, Bromley – the edge of the London map and the old grumpy-looking bungalows I associated with novels of the outer suburbs, the fiction of twitching curtains, low spirits and anxious families, especially Kipps and Mr Beluncle, by the Bromleyites H. G. Wells and V. S. Pritchett, who escaped and lived to write about it.

  In the satisfying shelf of English literature concerned with what we see from trains, the poems with the lines ‘O fat white woman whom nobody loves’ and ‘Yes, I remember Adlestrop’ stand out, and so do the trains that run up and down the pages of P. G. Wodehouse and Agatha Christie. But the description that best captures the English railway experience for me is Ford Madox Ford’s in his evocation of the city, his first successful book, The Soul of London, published a hundred years ago. Looking out of the train window, Ford speaks of how the relative silence of sitting on a train and looking into the busy muted world outside invites melancholy. ‘One is behind glass as if one were gazing into the hush of a museum; one hears no street cries, no children’s calls.’ And his keenest observation, which was to hold true for me from London to Tokyo: ‘One sees, too, so many little bits of uncompleted life.’