The Death Train

6 Jul

The train ride was cold, icy cold. Woke up in the middle of the night to a ghoulish nightmare.  The train was stuck in the middle of a forest , or a swamp.  Maybeiit was a bridge.

I wasn’t sure because of a strong haze and mist.  I’m on the death train, infamously named for the amount of people who died in the 80’s when the train derailed with an alarming frequency.

I head metal clanking.  It sounded like a piece of the train had fallen off.  Then a loud hissing sound, as if the train was too tired, and it exhaled it’s last breath in defeat.  I thought it sounded like gas – and trains, jews, and gas don’t mix all too well.

My watch, the only tell tale sign of my gringo status, as the rest of me is in ragged holes, tells me it is 9 at night.  Good.  We’re almost there.  My ticket says 9:45 so I force myself back to bed.  But soon I was up again, this time whitness to a cultish group of folks, with deep, evil black eyes and martching black attire.

It wasn’t Spanish they were speaking.  Missionaries I thought, or devil worshippers. Either way they ought to be avoided at all costs I thought.  That’s the aura that orthodox jews must give off as well.  Oh well, it’s ok to be hypocritical in the middle of the night.  Speaking of which, what time is it?  Two in the morning.  A butch, incredibly ugly, gentle woman with braids, gold teeth, and contraband wrapped around bright ethnic quilt told me the train was due to arrive at 9.  That’s right, I knew that.  My ticket says that too.  Shit, she means 9 in the morning.  Fuck, that means I’m on a 20 hour train ride.

No money, no food, and no water.  I tried giving dollars, worth seven times the local currency to the small children who invade the train to sell snacks, but they don’t know what a dollar is, and won’t sell me a thing.  It’s freezing too and I think about cuddling with the indigenous woman sitting in front of me, who had that bright ethnic blanket that looked oh so warm.   Instead I wrapped my ankles with dirty wife beaters and boxers, the only things I could find in my bag, and tried to curl up in a tight ball and call it a night.

I would find out the next day that my voyage took me through the coldest night of the year, a night so cold that Bolivians actually turned it into a holiday, and a night I would have done well to travel with a bottle of red or a bottle of vodka…


One Response to “The Death Train”

  1. Marina July 8, 2009 at 2:53 pm #

    oyy..what an image 😦

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