Misadventures on a Peruvian Train

Misadventures on a Peruvian Train

Phillip M Williams

2120 words

The Desamparados Railway Station in Lima, Peru was bustling at 7.00am. “Get there early to claim a seat” was the advice from other backpackers who we’d met the night before in a bar in the Plaza de Armas. We were all travelling cheaply in South America in September, 1976, and this cohort of multi-cultural adventurers were bound for Machu Picchu, the Lost City of the Incas. Marie joined the queue to purchase tickets for the 8.00am departure to Huancayo at 3,300 metres in the Andes, while I stood aside and tended our overloaded backpacks.

Compared to Peruvians, I was tall, and could see their colourful, alpaca woollen beanies ducking and weaving in the early morning shafts of sunlight. They shuffled along the platform carrying babies on their backs and dragged odd-shaped packages roughly wrapped in hessian and twine. Exhaust fumes swirled across the station from the adjacent unpaved parking area for buses and taxis. A coating of dust on the concrete platform was agitated by hundreds of pairs of leather sandals.

We weren’t interested, nor could we afford, the tourist train. Instead we preferred to mix it with locals and other backpackers on the slow train. The clamour and jostling added to our excitement. I’d been waiting for this train trip, our first railway journey in South America since we disembarked from the SS Socrates, a Dutch Freighter, eight weeks ago in Venezuela. The Ferro Carril Central, Andino narrow-gauge line traversed 58 bridges, 69 tunnels and manoeuvred six zig-zags on the second highest train trip in the world.

As I waited I was tempted with appetising aromas of gnarled cobs of corn roasting on hot coals nearby. Constant banter from stall holders harassed the crowd to buy their maize. I wanted to try the small cobs with red kernels because I hadn’t eaten breakfast.

“Let's get some corn," I suggested to Marie, who had returned with two cardboard tickets.

"You don’t want to get gastro here Phil," she said, handing me a floppy, dry carrot that she found in the her backpack. Then, an enticing, cheesy smell from a rack of golden empanadas passed my face, held aloft by an Inca girl, I cried out for her to stop, but she wasn’t interested in selling to a young gringo.

"Come on, let’s go," Marie said, adjusting her shoulder bag and scooping up her backpack. We bustled towards the well-used, colourful carriages following a Dutch couple and plonked our stuff onto a double seat opposite them to secure our spot for the day. The aisle of the carriage was bustling with indigenous women carrying cages of chickens and Andean farmers with sacks of seeds and produce. I placed my backpack on the overhead rack and helped Marie hoist hers. As we were about to sit she asked,

"Have you got my denim bag? I left it on the seat!"

"No," I replied and looked around assuming it had fallen to the floor. After a frantic search and requests to strangers to help us, there was no sign of it.

"I think it has probably been stolen," the tall, blonde Dutchman said. "They hassle you for the seat, but then pick up purses and cameras when you have your eyes turned away. As soon as they have it, they pass it out the window to an accomplice on the platform. And your stuff is gone in the wink of an eye."

We sat heavily on uncomfortable seats feeling completely devastated because the denim shoulder bag contained, among other things, our small camera, a wad of Peruvian Pesos and Marie’s indispensable tube of lip balm. There was no point in trying to chase the thief or their partner-in-crime, because ruddy cheeked Inca and mixed race locals were indistinguishable here, most men wearing brown ponchos that covered them from shoulder to waist and women with voluminous, long skirts. They were perfect places to conceal stolen goods.

"Well, at least we still have our passports and travellers cheques," I commiserated. "It could be worse. I’ve got some American dollars in my backpack and we can get more pesos in Huancayo and a cheap camera in Cuzco. The rolls of film we’ve already taken are in my pack - so they’re safe."

I offered Marie the half eaten carrot thinking that would provide some cheer, but she screwed her nose up. Then the Dutchman passed her a pack of Jelly Beans.

"By the way, my name’s Jacco," he said to Marie in a smarmy manner. I knew my wife would be the focus of attention. Her Aussie beach girl features and demeanour attracted men, old and young, to ogle her curvy body.

Jacco’s tattooed girl sat sullenly by the window with her head in a bulky novel.

"I love the black ones, Gracias," Marie said, and began to pick out her favourites, ignoring me and my sapping hunger.

I glanced at Jacco’s partner.

"This is Lotte. We’re on our honeymoon."

Lotte turned her head revealing several eyebrow and nose piercings and a wan smile. The fringe of her dirty, black hair half-covered her eyes.

“I'm Phil, and this is my wife Marie. We’re from Australia spending three months backpacking around South America."

The conversation ended when black diesel smoke blanketed the platform and its pungent smell permeated the cabin. The over-crowded train lurched forward and began to chug away from the station. We traversed the city, suburbs and slums before passing fields of potatoes and endless orchards. Settling into our solid, non-reclinable seats we began to enjoy the rock and roll of the railway car as we tried put the loss of Marie’s bag behind us. Spanish and Quechua accents filled the cabin and sometimes, a cranky "cluck, cluck, cluck" from an unruly chicken that hadn’t settled. The majestic snow-capped peaks of the Andean Cordillera Central were a mesmerising distraction.

At San Bartholomew station, our first stop, railway men decoupled the engine, spun it on a turntable and reconnected it to the other end of the train, ready for the ascent. There was no need to alight because the carriages were flooded with locals selling their tea, food and chicha, the local beer brewed with corn.

"Chicha, chicha blanca," shouted a beer seller as he made his way through the carriage ladling foamy yellow liquid from a dirty bucket into plastic cups. Most of the empty cups were tossed out the window, and we watched children running to collect them from trackside brush.

"Very good recycling," said Jacco, leaning forward towards Marie who was sitting opposite. "Nothing is wasted here."

The train slowed as it began the angular climb up the steep Western Andean slope. The line had been laid onto a narrow shelf cut into the rock face. Soon we reached the first zig-zag, or switchback, where the locomotive was decoupled and shunted forward on a parallel line, before joining up at the other end. Off we’d go again in the other direction, at another upwards angle.

"Can you imagine how they built this line in the 1860’s? What about these bridges?" I looked down into a chasm with a raging river at the bottom.

"A lot of this work would have been done by hand I reckon. Pick and shovel stuff."

"I don’t like all the tunnels," said Marie. "We seem to be underground all the time. It’s so cold and dark. My feet are freezing."

"There are 58 tunnels in total and these Coches Classicos are not heated," informed the Dutch know-it-all.

"Best to have good boots and thick socks," he said as he raised a European hiking boot with a tread like a tractor. By contrast, we were wearing Nike’s newly invented red waffle-soled shoes, lightweight and ideal for running, but they didn’t pass Jacco’s brief inspection.

"Will you be climbing the Inca Trail in those?" he asked in a contemptuous tone.

"We only have these and a pair of sandals. That’s all we can afford," I snapped back as Marie stood and reached for her colourful, tourist poncho from her backpack. Most of the local travellers had pushed their plain ponchos up over their heads and they sat in their micro-tent, asleep, for most of the day.

We’d travelled from sea-level, and were now about to pass the final and highest ridge at 4,781 metres. This was the site of the world’s highest railway station, Galero, but it was not a stop for us, the platforms were deserted and wind-swept. Inside the carriage, babies and small children were whimpering. Then we heard the inter-carriage door open and a voice above the clatter.

"Oxygino. Oxygino.”

Two first-aid attendants entered, each with a large rubber bladder under their arms. Their off-white, unbuttoned dust jackets distinguished them from passengers. At each distressed child, or an elderly passenger who was waning with altitude sickness, they released a valve, and with a squeeze of their arm pumped oxygen across their faces. The gas had a calming effect. We were tired, but passed when offered the oxygen.

At this altitude, the landscape was bleak. Not a tree in sight, only boulders, tussocky grass and patches of snow that had frozen into nooks and crannies.

"Look, see the alpacas?" Marie was pointing to five animals, standing erect watching the train slowly pass.

"These are actually Llamas," corrected Jacco. His comment made us feel like ignorant gringos.

"Llamas are bigger and tougher animals. You can tell by their coarser hair and longer faces."

We began our journey along the plateau, the Peruvian altiplano, eventually arriving at Huancayo at dusk. The town reminded me of a dusty settlement in a wild-west movie. Shops were boarded up, streets were pot-holed and there was no-one in sight. Yet this small, sleepy town was a stopover for Machu Picchu pilgrims like us. It was understandable that tourism in this part of Peru was not well developed. Having to endure a day of travel like we’d done was enough to turn many people away.

“Let's find somewhere to sleep, clean up and then we can eat. I’m starving."

A small room with a double-bed and running water was within our budget. We offered to pay with a US$ travellers cheque but the surly proprietor insisted on pesos. We had none, because of the morning robbery, but when we showed an American $5 note, her face brightened.

The main street was deserted and dark, with only three street lights. We chanced upon a Chinese Restaurant. Nothing else was open.

"We could get a stir-fry here," said Marie. “I'm craving for veggies."

"What sort of meat do you reckon they’d have?"

I was longing for a steak or lamb cutlets, anything but ubiquitous, rubbery chicken.

"How about a capybara schnitzel," she asked in jest.

The bare, cold restaurant was full of other backpackers, including Jacco, holding centre stage. Lotte was nowhere to be seen. His face brightened when he saw Marie, but I steered her towards the other end of the long table. After waiting for ages, we were served with a plate of partially cooked cabbage, potatoes and onion, dripping in peanut oil. It was made edible by gallons of soya sauce. We allowed ourselves a soft drink for sweets before wandering back to our accommodation, arm-in-arm, silent in mutual commiseration.

We nestled under one unzipped sleeping bag on a surprisingly good mattress. I spooned Marie, our favourite position for comfort and warmth. In our cocoon we felt as one. It was a safe place to talk and make decisions about our ad-hoc adventure.

"Im sorry about someone stealing my hand bag." Marie began to sob. “It's ruined our whole trip. It was my fault, I shouldn’t have left it on the seat."

I gently rocked her. Despite our misfortune I felt safe, warm and loved in this foreign town high in the Andes, and I wanted her to feel the same way. I patted her thigh like I would pat a baby on the back in preparation for bed.

“It's OK. No problema. We’ll ring home tomorrow and I’ll get Dad to send some of our saved money to a bank in Brasil. He knows the ropes. It should be ready to pick up by the time we get there. We’ll have enough money for the next week or so."

But Marie didn’t hear me, she was already asleep.

At daylight, Marie rooted around the dark recesses of her backpack and discovered two stale, white bread rolls and a chunk of hard, yellowed cheddar. Along with milky coffee (powdered) brewed on our one-burner stove, this was breakfast. We then set off to the bus station for another day of unknown adventure towards Cuzco. Machu Picchu here we come!