A Ride on the Rails of Distress

One of our funniest stories (in hindsight, of course!) of a massive culture-shocking experience came during a train trip home from the big city. It was one of those defining moments that either makes you stronger, or kills you with stress-induced anxiety. Let’s take a Ride Along the Rails of Distress, shall we?

It was shaping up to be a hot, no, blistering day. It often gets that way in the summer here, reaching daytime highs of 110 or more degrees. The taxi ride getting to the train station itself was a test of endurance and patience. Drivers are adamant about not allowing the windows to be rolled down in the car since everyone knows that a slight breeze will instantly make a young child ill with all kinds of various and sundry diseases, but mostly a sore throat. Added to that drivers follow absolutely no rules of the roads here; there are none. Red lights? So what?! Lanes? What the heck are those? Speed limit? Limitless they careen around corners, parked cars. We've even had taxis choose the sidewalks as alternate routes to a destination! Rattled, sweating and cranky, we piled out wondering how to get ourselves and our massive amounts of baggage to the correct track for departure.

Not, of course, before a full frontal assault from “baggage handlers”, who are ready and more than willing to pilfer your very last coins, we well as your possessions. They pounce on wary travelers faster than flies make it to a dead camel carcass on the Steppe. Grabbing, pulling, bargaining, screaming, and begging, they snatch at your belongings and try to make a break with them. I don’t know of anything else that can push one’s patience button so nicely and thoroughly.

After choosing one of the more savory looking porters, we successfully navigated the tunnels to the correct track and train and entered the Crowd of Doom. Back in the ‘good ol’ days’, before they actually paid attention to the fact that people had bothered to purchase tickets and expected to sleep on said purchased bed, folks would show up and dog pile the conductor clamoring for a black market ticket buyoff. Each car’s overseer would try to sell of every inch of available space to turn a profit for himself, including his own bed and any poor unfortunate children’s beds, because everyone knows that children can certainly pile 4 to a bed, right?
Bruised, yet undaunted, the fearless SteppeSister Family Travelers hauled our many boxes, which much to our amazement actually made it with us, and was not heisted to the local bazaar for fast hocking, to our coupes. Of course, there were already several folks who had already “claimed” our legitimately bought beds, and over the course of an hour or so, after much arguing, pleading, and massive amounts of butchering the local dialect on our part, they relented and moved on to stealthfully hork other unsuspecting travelers’ beds.

We’ve come now, my friends, to perhaps the most crucial part in the train travel experience- that of meeting your roommates and the children claiming their beds. Who would we be lucky enough to share 50 square feet of space with for the next 24 hours?? Who would fall off the top bunk first? How drunk can your coupe-mate actually get?? These, and other intriguing answers coming up on your next episode of Riding Along the Rails of Distress!

Until Next Time,

Your SteppeSister