Around the World in 80 Trains

by Monisha Rajesh

  ‘That’s the problem: we’re leaving tomorrow and will have to find another doctor.’

  ‘So, you just want to take medicines without considering the side effects?’

  ‘I won’t take them unless it’s actually shingles,’ Jem said.

  ‘Fine, have it your way. I can give you a three-day course of acyclovir.’

  ‘Doesn’t he need a seven-day course?’

  Glaring at me, he wrote out a script for three days and booted us back into reception where it took more than two hours to process our insurance details and make the payment. Four days later, Jem’s blisters broke down and wept, his chest seared with pain. Calling for another doctor, who diagnosed him with shingles – we both broke down and wept as he charged $400 to write out a script for a seven-day course of acyclovir.

  ‘This is beyond a joke.’

  After the shingles shenanigans, we’d upgraded to a roomette for the journey from LA to Chicago, our sixtieth train, in the hope that Jem would sleep better, and we were now being flung around in our berths as the train beat east through California. It was nearing midnight and I could hear our attendant fidgeting in the corridor as the train careered in the darkness, my head knocking against the wall. Without leaning forward, I could reach the door handle, so small was the space, which had come at the cost of around $50 per square inch. It was no bigger than a walk-in shower.

  ‘I can’t sleep up here,’ said Jem.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s so cramped, I’m getting claustrophobic.’

  Kicking off my blankets, I ducked out of my berth, still banging my head, and offered to swap. There was no room for me to stand in the roomette as Jem climbed down, so I waited outside in my socks as he wriggled down and slid into my berth. Hauling myself up, I shuffled into a space no bigger than a luggage rack. For five minutes, I lay in the dark, reminded of the time I’d had an MRI for a stress fracture in my hip.

  ‘Screw this. I’m coming down.’

  ‘I told you, I could barely turn my head from side to side.’

  Topping and tailing, we managed to contort like a pair of circus freaks in a box, and fell asleep as the train shuddered and groaned through the night.

  As compensation, the journey on the Southwest Chief proved to be one of scenic enchantment. Unfurling ourselves in Gallup, New Mexico, we spent the day on safari, squashed in our roomette, drinking tea, and scouting for animals. Unable to hear the announcements on the crackling speakers, we had to guess where we were and make do with blunt responses from our attendant, who had shown no interest since we had boarded and failed to tip him for saying hello. Somewhere between New Mexico and Arizona – maybe Raton – nervous deer tensed and scarpered as the train came blaring through their homeland. Scores of stags lay in golden grass, their antlers tuned in like antennae, and punk cows with orange ear-tags watched moodily as the train inched up the Santa Fe Trail. Across Arizona, ponies wearing white socks drank from pools, creeks curved among orchards, and tiny white chapels remained coy behind curtains of willow. Unless embarking on an ill-advised hike, we would never normally be privy to this part of the country and its wildlife.

  The curse of darkness eclipsed Kansas and Missouri, which slipped by overnight, and we spent the final morning in the dining car talking to Steven over breakfast. A six-foot-three Texan librarian with waist-length hair and acne, Steven was ferociously in favour of gun control, one of the reasons why he had left his hometown of Arlington, which, according to him, was full of ‘open-carrying, homophobic, transphobic pricks’.

  ‘I mean, what are you so frightened of? No one’s going to kill you or your family except another white person with a gun,’ he said, stirring sugar into his coffee.

  A couple of heads turned to look in our direction. Being in favour of a complete ban on firearms, I was delighted to hear Steven voice an unpopular opinion with such force. I gently egged him on. ‘Do you think that open-carry is unnecessary?’

  ‘Guns are unnecessary. It’s that simple. You just look at the stats. There are more gun-related deaths on American soil than the total number of American deaths in every war of our history – since the Revolutionary War.’

  The car was silent but for the sound of the train rattling the tracks.

  ‘Is that why you left?’

  ‘Like I said, they’re anti-LGBTQ, transphobic bigots, the kind of bastards who believe in conversion therapy. There’s a whole young queer generation growing up terrified, and suicidal, and full of mental health problems because you can be refused service anywhere because of their “sincerely held religious beliefs”.’ Steven sat upright. ‘And … I myself actually identify as Ophelia.’

  To my right, a woman literally stopped a glass from touching her lips. I was in heaven.

  ‘Anyways, I’m getting off at Princeton.’ Ophelia rose to her full height, tossing her hair over one shoulder and extended a hand. ‘It was a real pleasure to meet you guys. I hope you enjoy Chicago, it’s an awesome city.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you too,’ I replied. ‘Really lovely.’

  Ophelia strode out of the car and we followed at her heels, basking in her wake.

  With the subtlety of a right hook, I turned my back on the family behind me and eased out my notebook, ready to eavesdrop. Such cunning would usually have reaped great rewards were the family not speaking Pennsylvania Dutch dialect, leaving me and my pen with little to do but doodle. The twelve-strong Amish family had boarded at Columbus, Wisconsin, and were by far the most compelling aspect of the journey. Departing Chicago just after lunch, the Empire Builder had tunnelled through fog for two hours, before it lifted to allow for rain. The gloom had dulled the moods of most passengers, who were slumped around the viewing car, cajoling kids onto iPads and watching movies – with the exception of the Amish family, who appeared to be having a party. Known for their simple rural living, rejection of technology and desire to keep a distance from the outside world, Amish are Christians whose roots can be traced back to the early sixteenth-century Anabaptist movement in Europe. Fleeing religious persecution, Amish arrived in America looking for land to farm. As a result of family being the focus of their way of life – most families have an average of five children – their 300,000-strong population is one of the fastest-growing groups in North America, with the majority of settlements dotted around Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana and Wisconsin.

  Dressed in bonnets and ankle-length skirts, the women were fussing over a toddler who was being passed around his bearded uncles, each one quick to smother him with cuddles. His hair was cut into the same pudding-bowl style as the men, and his romper suit featured a black ribbon tied under the chin. Two of his uncles sat him in the middle of a table and opened up a storybook called Mei Bopp, talking him through the pictures as his grandfather looked on with an all-consuming joy. The rest of the family were playing checkers and giggling. On the opposite side of the car sat another American family. Sipping his second can of Coors, the dad was scrolling through his phone. A couple of tables away his wife was trying to pacify two young girls whimpering for iPads. Side by side, the two families illustrated where we had gone wrong as a people. The toddler was thriving on the undivided attention of his family, while across the car there was disconnect.

  Just before Tomah, the Amish family fastened their capes and adjusted their hats, buckling the toddler into a tiny coat. Smiling, the grandfather walked over to the two little girls, who were mesmerised by his teeth – half of which were missing, the other half decayed. Reaching behind their ears, he pulled out two dollar bills. Disappointed to see them go, I moved to the window and watched as they gathered on the platform like a portrait from the past, and waved as the train continued on its way.

  ‘They’re good, kind people,’ said the passenger opposite me, reading my mind. ‘Sure, they’re a lil different than us, but who isn’t? And their furniture is beautiful. Expensive, but top-of-the-range stuff.’

  ‘Their furniture?’

  ‘Carpenters, a lot o
f them. They craft with their hands. Clockmakers, cabinetmakers, and so on. Although some of them do use mechanical tools as long as it’s not to benefit their own homes. If it’s for a customer, then that’s okay. Amish furniture is well known through these parts. You should check it out.’

  ‘I thought Amish couldn’t use anything but horses and carts?’

  ‘For religious reasons, most use only horse-drawn vehicles known as buggies. It’s a way of making sure that they restrict their movements to within their communities. Having a car is seen as a temptation to go further out. But Amish use buses and trains for long-distance travel, and they’re a pretty common sight on Amtrak services in the northeast.’

  ‘Do you take this route regularly?’

  ‘I do. I didn’t used to, but it costs me around $300 in fuel for a round-trip from Fargo to Chicago, and it’s $440 for the four of us to travel on the train. For the extra $140, I don’t have to drive through the city, I’m not tired, my boys can run up and down the train and play, and I can sit here and look out of the window and have a can – and be happy.’

  ‘Don’t the delays bother you?’

  ‘You don’t take the train to go nowhere fast. Nobody does. But it’s a sacrifice you make for the upsides. And you know, sometimes it’s nice to have a little time to just think. That’s just me though getting old. I like to sit here and remember when I took the train with my dad. He was a railroader and he used to tell me how he saw moose and bears and stuff by the trackside. And you know why? Because they’re smart. You’re not allowed to hunt on railway property, so the animals still linger down there because they know they’re safe.’

  Playing musical chairs on an Amtrak was a guaranteed way to sponge up information, some trivial, but for the most part juicy little nuggets that I tucked away. The culture of these trains contrasted wildly with the way we conducted ourselves off the rails: cocooned within safe social circles, content to listen to the sounds of our own echo chambers, and clinging to the comforts of what was accepted and known. On board, there was only so long that you could sit in isolation before you became an outcast, as everyone else let down their guard and interacted. Perhaps it was the pace with which we lumbered along that catalysed the process of coming together in a shared experience of slowness and calm, where we were all compelled to listen, to speak, to question, to observe and to empathise with those who were different from ourselves. In just under a month I had met shopkeepers, chefs, NGO workers, pedicab drivers, predators, retirees, runaways, railroaders, the terminally ill, musicians, truck drivers and teachers, each one leaving a tiny but definite mark.

  An announcement let us know that it was time for dinner and we left the families to unpack their Tupperware, and went through to the dining car. Wondering who would be joining us, we had just ordered roast chicken and rice, when the door opened and an elderly couple were directed towards our table. The lady was wearing a grey, button-down dress with a short cape around her shoulders, her hair tucked into a white bonnet. Her husband was dressed in a green shirt with a waistcoat and thick braces. His beard was shaved into a thin strip so that he looked like he was wearing a bicycle helmet strap under his chin. Arlene and Russell were from Ohio, and nodded when they sat down. Jem arranged the condiments in a line as a long silence filled the space between us, the cutlery clinking as the train dipped to one side.

  ‘So, you’re clearly Amish,’ Jem said finally.

  ‘No … we’re not,’ said Russell.

  I cringed and stared at the tablecloth.

  ‘We may look like it, but we’re actually German Baptist Brethren.’

  ‘Are there any similarities?’ I asked.

  ‘Some,’ said Arlene, looking at Russell. ‘But we drive. I couldn’t harness a pony trap to do my errands. And we have electricity, too. I can’t imagine living with no electricity.’

  ‘Me neither,’ I said, pleased to find common ground.

  ‘Amish have a telephone at the bottom of the drive of their family home, as they say it disturbs family time, but we use normal cell phones. A lot of our beliefs are the same, I guess.’

  Russell and Arlene had wonderful enunciation whereby a bus could fit through each one of their pauses, but it made listening to them so much more enjoyable.

  ‘What do you do?’ Russell asked Jem.

  ‘I work in tech … technology?’

  ‘Well, good for you. If you’ve found something that you enjoy.’

  Our meals arrived at once and Jem ripped open a sachet of balsamic vinegar and began pouring it over his chicken. Russell cleared his throat.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind … but we’re going to take a moment before we eat our meal.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Jem quickly squeezed out the remaining drops as Russell and Arlene waited with their hands clasped, watching him roll up the wrapper like a tube of toothpaste. Touched by the sight of their bowed heads, I decided to join them and said grace before my meal, something I hadn’t done since primary school. The gesture warmed the relationship between us and we began to eat together. Arlene and Russell were on their way to visit their daughter and grandchildren in Idaho for two weeks and were keen to hire a car and drive across the border to Jasper to see the wildlife while they were there.

  ‘Do you hunt?’ I asked Russell.

  ‘Oh, I used to, but not any more. Used to like pheasant … quail.’

  ‘He can’t shoot deer,’ said Arlene, ‘not with those big brown eyes. There was a squirrel the other day eating up my yard and we shot that … and we deep-fried it and ate it. We liked that.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Oh, it really was.’

  ‘Do you take the train often?’ I asked.

  ‘We like the train,’ said Russell, dabbing his beard with his napkin. ‘We have our pillows and blankets. And we appreciate that we have the chance to make acquaintance with different folks such as yourselves. We like that.’

  ‘But these trains are delayed plenty often as they have to wait for freight,’ said Arlene. ‘We arrive in Idaho around 1 a.m. and then we have to drive two hours to our daughter’s home. Without the train, we wouldn’t be able to see her. It just makes you so grateful for what you have.’

  That night, the Empire Builder swept across America, shadows of cliffs and hills rising and falling like ghosts creeping up on the train. For all its failings, Amtrak was powered by human spirit and an intimacy of interaction that I’d once given up on. There were jakeys and fuck-ups aplenty, but for people like Ernie, the train was a dream fulfilled, for lost souls like Erin it was therapy – the anonymity emboldening. The train was a sanctuary for loners to find company, children to find play, and daydreamers to reminisce. Americans who have never ridden on their own railways have no idea what they are missing. Over two days we ploughed through rain and fog, forests and falls, rolling by rivers and shuddering through towns so small they were no more than a gas station, a church and a school. Sighing into Seattle, the train came to rest, abandoned by its passengers who waved at friends, kissed lovers, hailed taxis or simply picked up their bags and walked away, slipping back into the rhythm of their lives.

  8

  Keeping Up with the Kims

  Shortly after arriving in Seattle, our Amtrak passes expired and we completed our American circuit with a flourish, threading in and out of bays and islets up the coast on the Amtrak Cascades back to Vancouver. There, we discovered that Sarah and Scott were now Sarah, Scott and Stella – who had arrived a week after we boarded The Canadian. Eric the cat was ambivalent towards his new flatmate, picking his way round the room, as we sat on his sofa having cold feet about the next country on our route.

  ‘What do you think? Are we mad?’ I asked.

  ‘I think you’d be mad not to go,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Definitely. When are you going to do something like this again?’

  I watched Sarah rocking the little bundle, and realised that I had a finite window of oppor
tunity for taking such risks.

  ‘But what if something goes wrong and I get detained?’

  ‘You’re not going to be detained,’ said Jem. ‘And if you are, I won’t let anything happen to you.’

  ‘I’m not sure you’d have much say in the matter.’

  ‘Unless you do something really stupid like steal stuff or sneak off to the fifth floor of the Yanggakdo, there’s no reason why anything should happen. Thousands of people visit every year and they’re fine,’ said Jem.

  On this point, Jem was right. Until recently, I was unaware that tourists have been allowed to visit North Korea since 1953, when an armistice ended the Korean War. However, until 1988, tourism was restricted to visitors from fellow communist countries, or ‘friendly’ countries of the Non-Aligned Movement, which included India, Egypt, Indonesia, Yugoslavia and Ghana, among a handful of developing nations that refused to identify with the collective ideologies of the Western and Eastern blocs. Getting there isn’t as simple as booking a flight and turning up with a Samsonite in one hand and a Lonely Planet in the other; independent travel is impossible. But more than 5,000 Western tourists – and almost 100,000 Chinese tourists – visit North Korea each year through privately run tour companies that offer everything from cycling tours into the countryside, and hiking trips up Mount Kumgang, to running the Pyongyang marathon, or travelling around the country for ten days by train. It was this final itinerary that had piqued my interest. Beginning in the capital city of Pyongyang, the chartered train travelled up to Hyangsan before turning east to the cities of Wonsan, Hamhung and the port city of Chongjin – the last of which had only recently opened to foreigners. Pyongyang is depicted in the media as North Korea’s showcase city, where a carefully choreographed performance is put on for tourists. Whether or not this was true, it was certainly less easy to frame and control what tourists could observe outside the capital, particularly along the train routes. The trip also included a visit to the mausoleum to view the embalmed bodies of both President Kim Il Sung, and his son General Kim Jong Il, and the final day of the itinerary coincided with the seventieth anniversary celebrations of the Workers’ Party.