Give the SGR a pass?

I haven’t been on the SGR yet. Given the, shall we be generous?, flip-flopping of the Kenya Railways Corporation about food and drink “from outside”, I am not sure that I ever will...but let’s keep hope alive, shall we? I have been on trains before. And planes. And boats. And lots of cars. For long journeys. But I shall always remember my first ride on the Shatabdi Express (well, not really, but it was in India so...)

It was all of thirty-four hours, from Nee Delhi to Pune to Sangli and finally to Kolhapur, where Chattrapati Shivaji has a university named after him. Second Class Sleeper Car. At the height of summer. Eight bunks to the sleeper. Me and Johnson. Riding the rails as Black men in Hindu India.

We had a stash of chapatis that Elizabeth had made for us. Three litres of water each. We shouldn’t have bothered. We rode with this Army captain and his family...wife, son and two daughters. He’d spent time in Dar es Salaam in the eighties. Spoke passable English. Generous to fault the moment he heard we were from Kenya. They shared with us their rotis, aloo gobi, masala chai and the wisdom of the rails.

I remember pulling into Agra Station in the dead of night. An eerie silence in a busy train station. Rushing for the public loos and backing out equally as quickly because of the remarkable stench. I remember cut chai sold in clay kulhas by the tea vendors on the train. I remember the Hijras in their colourful saris demanding - yes, demanding - alms or they would embarrass you till your green to the gills. I remember the midnight ride through the eastern bits of Gujarat when the train slowed down because of the threat of militants attacking the train. And armed guards on the roof, keeping vigil.

The heat was oppressive at first. But Johnson and I had acclimatised to the oppressive heat of South Delhi. Soon enough, we had also acclimatised to the heat in those super-crowded sleeper cars. And the smell. Because it reeked! Of course, our three-litre rations of water - and the chapatis - were spent within the first twelve hours but the Bisleri vendors were always at hand and our rupees went the distance. But Captain Surinder and his family made sure we were well provisioned by the time the journey ended. I still can’t figure out how they packed so much food in such small-looking baggage. Their many kindnesses will stay with me till the day I die.

The last time I travelled properly was to Zanzibar. I hated the journey. I loved the place. I simply hated getting there. Kenya Airways and Precision Airlines made the trip a nightmare. Outbound, they lost my bag. Inbound, the flight was delayed for five hours. The inflight meal was shit. The seats didn’t recline. Legroom was a rumour. Turbulence for the one hour hop was incessant. And when did they stop offering those tiny Coke cans on flights? KQ’s cost-cutting has turned the Pride of Africa into a pale shadow of Air Bujumbura! While I loved Zanzibar, especially Ali my cabbie, I hated getting there. The journey had nothing on the beauty of my first Indian train ride that went on and on and on. If KQ is a reflection of how we treat travellers, and KR is bullying passengers over their pilau and Coca-Cola, maybe I’ll just give the SGR a pass.