12/08/07
Compartiment patience / Patience compartment
Reprendre la route me remplit de joie et d'excitation. Acheter mon billet n'en est pas moins eprouvant. Queues immenses, bousculades aux guichets... La femme qui me vend mon ticket se trompe dans la monnaie, s'enerve. Je ne comprends pas ce qu'elle dit, elle ne comprend pas mon anglais non plus, elle s'impatiente, deux hommes me doublent... et ce n'est pas le nom de la ville ou je veux aller qui est ecrit sur mon billet! Je vais verifier au guichet "information" si je vais au bon endroit. Cette fois je fais remarquer tres vertement a ceux qui me passent devant que, moi aussi, je fais la queue. Ils s'eloigent penauds.
J'apprends enfin que c'est le bon train et que je n'ai pas de place numerotee (la femme au guichet ne comprenait pas quand je lui demandais la classe superieure).
Pas de place numerote cela veut dire "pas de place". Cela veut dire cohue inimaginable pour monter dans le train.
J'attends sur le quai. Mon sac a dos encore sur les epaules au cas ou le train arrivait. Le train entre en gare avec une heure de retard, juste apres que j'ai enfin laisse tombe mon sac sur le sol brulant.
Bien sur, pendant l'attente, j'ai eu droit a l'insupportable Indien de service qui se croit irresistible et se sent soudain une ame dominatrice face a une "pauvre" touriste esseulee. Et d'ou je viens et ou je vais? Et est-ce que j'ai un partenaire? Et comment je m'appelle? Et vient ici et laisse ton sac et attends le prochain train avec moi... et j'en passe et des meilleures.
Le train arrive, certains Indiens descendent sur les rails pour monter dans les wagons par l'autre cote.
"reste la! Ne vas pas la-bas! Viens avec moi dans le compartiment avec air conditionne!". Oh mais fous-moi la paix! Je plante la le bellatre et file vers la premiere porte. Des centaines de voyageurs en font autant. Dans la chaleur accablante de l'apres-midi, tout le monde bouscule tout le monde, les sacs passent par dessus les tetes et sont jetees dans le train par les fenetres, les plus agiles se faufilent, les autres crient, poussent. La patience legendaire des Indiens s'arrete ici, sur le marchepied ou j'essaye de me hisser avec mon sac a dos et ma valise a roulette pleine de lourds carnets. J'y suis presque lorsqu'une enorme indienne me bouscule sans menagement. Je me retient pour ne pas perdre l'equilibre et rester dans le wagon. Par chance le train etant vide a l'arrivee, il y encore des places assises et je me precipite sur la premiere, pres de la fenetre. Ouf. J'y suis.
Tres vite il n'y a plus de place pour s'asseoir mais le train continue de se remplir et les voyageurs s'aglutinent dans l'allee centrale avec leurs bagages.
Sur la banquette il y a avec moi un couple plus tres jeune mais tres amoureux, un homme avec une petite moustache fiere et, tout pres de moi, un vieux monsieur au tres gros ventre.
Des que le train demarre il s'endort et pendant des heures glisse imperceptiblement vers moi, la tete penchee sur son epaule, bientot posee sur mon epaule. Je dois regulierement m'ebrouer pour me liberer de son poids.
Pendant que les amoureux se caressent et se massent les mains, l'homme a la petite moustache m'observe. Il finit par se pencher et me demander: "Do you mind if...?" " Est-ce que cela vous derange si...?". Du tac au tac je reponds "oui, ca me derange". Je n'ai pas envie de repondre a l'habituelle litanie de questions, j'ai envie d'etre tranquille. De regarder le magnifique paysage qui longe la voie. Il se ravise et ne m'adresse plus la parole jusqu'a la fin du trajet ce dont je lui suis tres reconnaissante.
Des vendeurs de the passent dans les wagons avec un gros recipient ferme muni d'un robinet. Ils crient pour annoncer leur passage:"chai chai chai!" (the the the!). Celui qui s'endort sursaute a leur arrivee. Mais les heures s'allongeant, le cri ne devient bientot plus qu'une berceuse reguliere et lancinante.
D'autres vendeurs passent, plateaux de cacahouettes et de noix de cajou sur l'epaule pour faire patienter les afames jusqu'a la prochaine gare. La, le long des fenetres du train, une foule se presse qui offre de gros beignets de lentilles dores, du riz aux petits pois enveloppes avec son curry (sauce epicee) dans une feuille de plastique et du papier jourmal. On mange avec les doigts, roulant le riz dans la sauce pour en faire une boule collante. A ma grande suprise on jette par la fenetre l'emballage et les bouteilles vides: il n'y a pas de poubelles et rats et cafards seraient vite attires par les restes de nourriture.
L'homme a la moustache laisse sa place a un vieil homme qui se tenait debout et s'est evanouit. Ce dernier se pousse a son tour pour laisser de la place a une petite fille qui tombe de sommeil. Toute la banquette se ressere.
Voila enfin Kanoor.
In Kochi I hear about an even more extraordinary ritual than kathakali: the theyham. If red is present in kathakali's costumes and make up, it's THE color of theyham. To witness this ancestral ritual one has to go to the North of Kerala, near a city named Kanoor. I therefore head for it, eventhougt I am warned that it's the end of the season and that I probably wont see anything: I give it a chance.
Being on the road again fills me up with joy and excitment. Buying my ticket remains nevertheless quite demanding.
Hudge lineups, bustle at the ticket windows... The woman who sells me a ticket gets it wrong giving me money back, gets mad. I dont understand what she is saying and she does not understand my English either, she looses her patience. Two men pass me... it's not the name of the city where I want to go that is written on my ticket! I go check at the "information" desk wether I am going to the right place. This time I tell very vivaciously to those who pass me that I, also, am queuing. They go away sheepish.
I finally learn that it's the right train and that I dont have a numbered seat (the woman at the ticket window did not understand when I was asking for a higher class seat). "Not numbered seat" means "no seat". It means unbelievable rabble to get into the train.
I wait on the platform. My backpack still on my shoudlers in case the train arrives. The train enters the train station an hour late, just after I finally have dropt my bag on the hot ground.
Of course, in the mean time, I have to deal with the unbearable and usual Indian who believes himself to be irrestistible and suddenly feels like dominating a "poor" lone touriste. And where do I come from and where am I going? And do I have a partner? And what is my name? And come here and leave your bag and wait for the next train wirh me... and more.
As the train is approaching some Indians go down on the tracks to get in the train from the other side.
"Stay here! Dont go there! Come with me in the AC compartment!" oh please give me a break! I leave there the handsome hunk and rush towards the first door. hundreds of travelers do as well. In the crushing hit of the afternoon, everybody shoves into everybody, bags pass above heads and are tossed in the train by the windows, the most agile ones slide in, the other scream, push hard. The legendary Indian patience stops there, on the footboard on which I am trying to haul myslef up with my backpack and my rowling suitcase filled up with heavy sketchbooks. I am almost there when a fat Indian woman barges into me I hold on tight and succeed not to loose my balance and stay in the coach. Luckily the train was empty when it arrived, I get up and dash on the first seat next to the window. Ouf. I am there.
Very fast there is no more place to sit but the train keeps on filling up and the passengers have now to stick together in the in the middle alley with there luggages.
On the bench with me there is a not so young but very in love couple, a man with a proud little moustache and, close to me, an old man with a big stomack.
As soon as the train starts up he falls asleep and during hours he imperceptibly slides towards me, the head leaned on his own shoulder soon layed down on my shoulder. I regularly have to shake a bit to free myslef from his weight.
While the lovers stroke and rub each other hands, the man with the little moustache is observing me. He ends up bending over and asking me: "Do you mind if...?" I right away replie " yes, I mind". I dont feel like hearing the usual litany of questions. I feel like being tranquille. Like watching the gorgeous landscape along the way. He thinks better of it and doesn't speak to me anymore til the end of the trip and I am very thankfull of it.
Sellers of tea pass in the coach with a big closed recipient wirh a tap. They shout to announce their presence: "chai chai chai!" (tea tea tea!). Anyone falling asleep jolt at their arrival. But as the hours
stretch the scream becomes nothing but a regular and throbbing lulluby.
Other sellers pass by, platers of peanuts and cashew nuts on their shoulder in order to help the starving ones wait to the next station. There, along the train's windows, a crowd hurries amd offers big golden lentil fritters, rice and peas wrapped with its curry in plastic and newspaper sheets. On eats with its fingers, rolling the rice in the sauce to make a sticky ball of it. The wrapping and the bottles are - to my great surprise - thrown by the window: there is no garbage cans and food leftovers would fast attract rats and cockroaches.
The man with the moustache give his seat to an hold man who was standing and just fainted. The latter moves to let some place to a little girl falling asleep. Everybody squeeze together.
The train whisks and hums, lush landscapes slide under my eyes. Green sometimes pierced with wide streches of peaceful water, rice fields where some brown cows are plowing or even one of those incredible trees covered with scarlet flowers.
My back and my knees hurt but I cant take the risk to move without loosing my seat. The woman in front of me has streched her legs on each side of mine, her sari is covering my knees. She fell asleep.
Behind the coconut-trees and the banana-trees which slowly rock along the track the sky is turning into a soft shell-pink color. The night is falling. The night is never-ending.
Bodies stick and overlap each others, legs tangle up. No one even shivers when the seller of tea passes "chai chai chai!".
At last there is Kanoor.
It's one in the morning. The man with the moustache shakes all of our hands and the old man with the big stomack, at last awake, worries about where I am going to sleep. He leads me towards a little desk on the platform that offers beds on the spot. But I would rather leave the train station and I take a rickshaw who is asking for 200 roupies. It seems really expensive but maybe the hotel is very far? My bags are heavy, I am sleepy... I accept the price. Within 2 minutes we reach the place, 200 roupies was really to much, but it's too late to change the price.
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