115.Second-class in Africa

115.

I wouldn’t think it was possible, but every time the train stops at a village more passengers squeeze aboard and it does not seem to me that any get off.

It is as crowded as the Tokyo Metro where professional “pushers” mash passengers in at peak commute times.

I couldn’t fall down if I tried.

In the end, I am squashed up against some cardboard crates of bananas. I am so exhausted that for the first time in my life I fall asleep standing up.

My backpack is buried somewhere under the mass of bags, bundles and bodies.

My mind flashes on the refugee scene in the movie “Dr. Zhivago”—only, they had snow. Here it is hot as hell.

This is not an easy ride.

Early next morning an old man carrying a club and leather bag with the fur left on squeezes in beside me.

As soon as there is a square inch of space he squats down and, shoving other people away with his club, gestures for me to join him. He pulls a small pineapple out of his bag and gestures for a knife. I have a pocketknife and using it to slice the fruit, he shares it with me. I share some of the three-cent bananas I bought in Abidjan for the trip with him.

It is much more comfortable squatting on the filthy floor than standing.

I am learning some important second-class coach-in-Africa lessons: get as comfortable as you can and look out for yourself. Be considerate, perhaps, but don’t give an inch if you want to survive. There are no gentlemen of the old school and no “manners” traveling second class on the train in Africa.

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