Travel is an education no doubt. In Pakistan, however, it is more of an experience than education; and the experience varies with the mode of travel chosen.
Road travel is indeed such a treat to the eyes that R.L. Stevenson was prompted to write:
Wealth I seek not; hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I seek, the heaven above And the road below me (The Vagabond — Songs of Travel-1886). But considering the unavailable statistics of highway hazards and the type, hygiene, and number of freeway facilities we decided on a train journey to Lahore presuming that “We go on a journey chiefly to be free of all impediments and of all inconveniences” (William Hazlitt — On Going A Journey).
Reservation was available 15 days before date of journey. As booking office opened at 8am I was there by 7am. To my surprise people had thronged at the closed entrance before 5am. The crowd was impenetrable. A man at the threshold shouted, “Get into the queue Mr.”
“Which queue?” I yelled back. There was no answer. I scurried helplessly from one location to the other and was nudged each time I tried to make a room for myself. Demeanour, discipline, decency were all down the drain! At 8:45am the door opened and lo! The on rush to “conquer” the booking counters beat wild life stampede! Inside, I looked at the nameplates searching for the “AC Coupe” name. Again I became a yo-yo. There was not a soul at the counter whom I could ask for guidance. An elderly lady in white shalwar kameez sat quietly at a table far away from the public desk. She watched our plight, said nothing and when curious eyes gazed at her, she turned her face away meaning “nothing doing”. At 9:15am some staff appeared, sat at the computers and began working without addressing the public: perhaps they had previous day’s work to complete! At last, quite mistakenly, one staff looked at me. With electric agility I asked her about the AC Coupe counter. It was at the other end with a lady sitting behind it. She was polite enough to take my particulars and give me a computer slip with instructions to purchase tickets from the adjoining counter. When I did so I was asked to wait, as there was no change to refund me the balance. With a smile the cashier consoled me that soon many people will buy tickets and enough change would accumulate. It took about an hour for the change to come by. I thanked my stars for the end of three hours ordeal!
With the computerized slip and tickets, I felt insured. On the due date we reached Karachi Cantt half hour before departure time. The eagle-eyed porter seeing that we alighted from a private car quoted his own wage. “Bogey number?” He asked. The computer slip had no such information. There was nothing on the tickets also. I showed both to the porter presuming he had better knowledge of railway code/terminology. He shook his head and asked me to contact window No.5 in front of which was a huge crowd but no one behind it! Afraid of being tossed once again I took a deep breath and made beeline dive to the window chanting “Bogey number”. Just then the Chairman arrived. He looked over his shoulders, slowly raised himself to take the seat, took out a bunch of papers from his bulging coat pocket, began glancing at them and turned over the pages quite unconcerned about the long restless crowd at his window. “Bogey number please,” I pleaded. He looked up and pointed to his idle colleague at window No. 4. “Bogey number please,” I repeated. He took the computer slip, returned it blank, shrugged his shoulders and nodded with a grin towards window No.5.
The Baboo was quite leisurely untying the string that tagged his bunch of papers. He at last untied the knot, looked at the papers, passed half of them to his neighbour and with his raised thumb hinted me to get there. “Bogey number please,” I implored looking at the man behind window 4. He snatched my computer slip and scribbled the number on it. I had lost 20 minutes in the exercise. The poor porter waited all the time balancing the suitcases on his head. When I told him the bogey number he dashed towards the train and gently unloaded his burden. I tipped him a little extra. It was justified, I suppose considering the pain in the neck we both suffered.
The cool bright coupe with seats draped in tidy sparkling green velvet was a relief and well compensated for the hardships at the counters. Tired I deserved some relaxation. With an effort I pulled out the lower berth couch to convert it into sofa-cum-bed. As I did so the backrest fell out, looming over the sofa like a broken twig. Stunned and scared that I would be charged for the breakage, I tried to put it in position. It refused to stay put. Helpless, I pressed the bell for help. Soon a uniformed mechanic with a screwdriver in hand (as if he anticipated the event) entered. With a bang he pushed the backrest to its place and quickly tightened the screws. For a while the problem was solved.
Gradually we normalized to the AC temperature and began to feel warm. I fondly eyed the small fancy fan fixed over the sealed window and switched it on. Lazily it swung round one-way then to the other extreme and stopped. I shook it first, then thumped it lightly as if trying to revive a sinking heart. It showed no sign of life. I rang for help and again the same mechanic appeared. He repeated what I had done, then removed its doom shaped cap, unscrewed a pin, drew out a small fuse and said “carbon khatam”. From his pocket he took out another fuse and carefully fixed up everything. The fan returned to life. It swung full speed with high-pitched fluttering music, which the mechanic tried to allay, failed and left. I switched it off, as I had no taste for any music whatsoever.
By now it was time to sleep. I lowered the upper berth. To get over it, I looked in the cabinet marked “Ladder”. There was no ladder. On call again the same mechanic showed up. “There is no ladder,” I told him. “There is no ladder on the whole train,” he said adding, “rumours of downsizing, right-sizing, privatization, distressed the employees, so they donated all ladders to the fire brigades!”
With acrobatic alacrity I landed on the upper berth and crawled on my back to stretch my torso for sleep. The ping pong rolling, the bumps and jumps, the jolts and jostles rocked me like in a cradle but the rattling roar of transposing tracks, and shattering sound of approaching trains were throughout keep awake lullabies! Back home, I agreed with Thomas Jefferson: “Travelling — this makes man wiser but less happy”. Indeed it is an experience which Emerson aptly described “Travelling is fools paradise!”
Travel is an education no doubt. In Pakistan, however, it is more of an experience than education; and the experience varies with the mode of travel chosen.
