Arriving into Colombo’s airport at 03:30 in the morning, my mind was anywhere but present; stuck in the customs line waiting to access the cavalcade of ATMS and taxis that would grant me access to the capital. After penning my hostel address and giving the reason for visiting *tourism*, I was cleared to stack my wallet with multi-colored notes the accumulated size of a phonebook and source transit into the city. With the forthcoming twinge of back pain due to inches of notes, I approached a driver about costs. “Sir, good price. 21,000 rupee to get to the train station? Too much? Okay, okay my friend. 19,000. Good deal, friend, we have good car. With air conditioning. A-I-R C-O-N-D-I-T-I-O-N-I-N-G. But that extra. 2,000 rupee, cheap. Okay, 21,000 my friend and we take you. Where from?”
Stepping outside into the sticky heat of the monsoon season, my clothes seemed to shrink, growing both tighter and ever so more wet. My backpack doubling in weight, every word seemingly hanging in the air. No longer were we in the throes of a Midwestern spring. “Where to, my friend?” began the taxi driver. “Train station? Okay. Train where? Ah, Kandy. Kandy is very beautiful. Welcome to my country.” With 90 minutes to make it to the central station to catch a train to the East, this option, albeit more expensive, was far more efficient than the Lonely Planet-adored combination of a local bus and tuk-tuk for next to nothing, which took up to 90 minutes to reach said location. Due to the antiquated reservation system of needing a local sim card to reserve tickets in advance, I and throngs of both locals and backpackers advanced towards the central station before the sun had risen. After a squished journey in a car that wasn’t built to handle larger frames, we arrived, with an hour to spare before departure.
Train stations in Sri Lanka are not quite up to the same standard as their global brethren. Built by the British back in the fading days of the Empire, the structures were sound, with wooden ticket counters and chipped paint dating to decades past. Stepping up to the ticket counter, three options presented themselves. First class; the relative luxury, complete with air conditioning, seat reservations, and packed with Westerners seeking home-like comfort. Second class; what I had flown halfway around the world for, all locals, fans, no reservations, and nary an outlet to be seen. Third class; much like second class, but with less fans and more cramped seating, for the pernicious amongst us. Stepping forwarding, my choice was clear. For the princely sum of $5, I had a ticket for Second class. All aboard.
As the sun began to slightly break over the palm trees, I heard a whistle and the shriek of numerous delighted patrons. As the train pulled into the station, I realized a mistake had been made. Due to the lack of a seat reservation, what amounts when the train stops is essentially a free-for-all. Age, size, gender matters not, for the premise (or hope) of a seat trumps any physical limitation. Not knowing where to stand, I had aligned with the first class cabin and after watching a band of locals pile in, pushing and shoving, I had to run over the next coach and file suit. As luck would have it, after 40 hours of traveling, I was not to have a seat. Bags, expecting mothers, monks, students, had occupied every inch of seat; a veritable cornucopia of culture. No problem. In doing as the locals do, I opened a side door, filling the passing area with light and laughter. Yes, the locals thought it quite funny seeing a tourist joining them on each of the sides, legs off the edge, feet on the steps, gripping the grab handles. Soon after, the train began to pull away from the station, belching smoke and chugging along at the rapid pace of 20 miles per hour. As we gained speed, the city of Colombo passed. Gleaming pillars of glass and steel turned first into small brick hovels and then tin shacks. Sri Lanka is by no means a wealthy country, and this was quickly reflected in the throngs of women and men walking the tracks at daybreak, in search of a day’s pay or short-term labor. With what seemed to be a lack of restrooms, the scenery of temples, greenery, and blue skies was filtered by men, women, and children squatting alongside the tracks.
The train continued chugging along eastbound. As light continued to filter into the main cabin, samosa and coffee sellers began making their rounds. The scent of fresh beans and the sound of “Samosa fresh samosa cheap” rang throughout the metal cabins. I stood up momentarily to purchase both and enjoyed the first of many Sri Lankan snacks. The samosas; crunchy, fragrant, and savory, filled with a piping hot spiced mash. The coffee was instant-quality, but welcome after flying halfway around the world. After polishing off this breakfast-on-the-go, I returned to my post on the open train carriage. Wind whipping in my face, we edged closer to Kandy. Back home, trains generally slow down before approaching a platform and have ample clearance between the steps and the ground. Not so much in Sri Lanka. CRACK. My foot had smacked into the concrete below the steps at the now-current stop, with all of a gap of a few inches. A glancing blow which would have incurred a fracture, if not for wearing closed-toed leather shoes and wool socks. There’s a first time for everything, including being thankful the majority of sandals don’t work with my feet. An attendant comes running “sir look out, are you okay?” pulling me backwards by the backpack, foot managing to catch the extended metal of the large door. With the only damage a large bruise (but no breaks), he told me it was quite dangerous at my height to be sitting outside. I thanked him and hobbled back inside the train to find a seat.
Naturally, there was no seat to be had. Families lay strewn across rows and multiple seats, leaving the aisle as the only open space. Those in the middle had to contend with the traveling food salesmen and making sure they weren’t being pickpocketed. I tossed my pack onto the metal holders above the seats and held onto the rails, the heat from the car taking my attention away from the throbbing foot. More samosas and tea passed the time and after a few hours, my watch signaled that Kandy was close. Of course town sign visibility was non-existent, which meant asking a number of locals where Kandy actually was. After a number of puzzled stares and being waved along, a grizzled old man grabbed my forearm and led me towards the door. Pointing to my watch and then outside, the man uttered “Kandy. Yes. Us” and waved goodbye. After close to two days in total transit, I had finally arrived to the first stop on the route. Now, to haggle with a tuk-tuk driver to reach the hostel. And why are there so many images of teeth?
Dispatches by Alec 