The Tao of Travel

I awoke during the night to draw up my blanket. It was a novel sensation, after so many weeks, not to be sweating. Next morning I changed from white drill to gray flannel. We arrived in Nairobi a little before lunch time.

—

Remote People

(1931)

CLAUDE LÉVI-STRAUSS: A MOSLEM FAMILY IN THE COMPARTMENT

At the foot of the Kashmir mountains, between Rawalpindi and Peshawar, the archaeological site of Taxila lies a few kilometers from the railway line. I went there by train, which led to my being the involuntary cause of a minor drama. There was only one first-class compartment of a fairly old type—sleep four, seat six—simultaneously reminiscent of a cattle truck, a drawing room and—because of the protective bars on the windows—a prison. A Moslem family was already in possession, when I got in: a husband, with his wife and two children. The lady was in purdah: although she made an attempt to isolate herself by crouching down on her bunk wrapped in her

burkah

and with her back obstinately turned towards me, the promiscuity eventually appeared too shocking and the family had to split up. The wife and children went off to the "Ladies Only" compartment, while the husband continued to occupy the reserved seats and to glare at me. I managed to take a philosophical view of the incident.

—

Tristes Tropiques

(1955), translated by John and Doreen Weightman

SIMENON: THE MAN WHO WATCHED TRAINS GO BY

That feeling about trains, for instance. Of course he had long outgrown the boyish glamour of the steam engine. Yet there was something that had an appeal for him in trains, especially in night trains, which always put queer, vaguely improper notions into his head.

—

The Man Who Watched Trains Go By

(1938), translated by Marc Romano and D. Thin

GABRIEL GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ: TO ARACATACA WITH HIS MOTHER

We were the only passengers, perhaps in the entire train, and so far nothing had been of any real interest to me. I sank into the lethargy of

Light in August,

smoking without pause, but with occasional, rapid glances to identify the places we were leaving behind. With a long whistle the train crossed the salt marshes of the swamp and raced at top speed along a bone-shaking corridor of bright red rock, where the deafening noise of the cars became intolerable. But after about fifteen minutes it slowed down and entered the shadowy coolness of the plantations with discreet silence, and the atmosphere grew denser and the ocean breeze was not felt again. I did not have to interrupt my reading to know we had entered the hermetic realm of the banana region.

The world changed. Stretching away on both sides of the track were the symmetrical, interminable avenues of the plantations, along which oxcarts loaded with green stalks of bananas were moving. In uncultivated spaces were sudden red brick camps, offices with burlap at the windows and fans hanging from the ceilings, and a solitary hospital in a field of poppies. Each river had its village and its iron bridge that the train crossed with a blast of its whistle, and the girls bathing in the icy water leaped like shad as it passed, unsettling travelers with their fleeting breasts.

—

Living to Tell the Tale

(2004), translated by Edith Grossman

JAN MORRIS: ALTERCATION ON THE ZEPHYR

I had pleasant companions at breakfast on the California Zephyr—a girl from Fresno who had never been on a train before, and two railroad buffs who kept me informed about the state of the track. However, I did have one altercation in the dining car. My ticket, I had been told, entitled me to anything I liked on the menu, but when I asked for cornflakes and scrambled eggs I was told that I was entitled to one or the other but not both. I called for the supervisor to expostulate, but I did not get far. I had got it wrong, the functionary said, not unkindly, and I quote him word for word: "You're not from this country. You don't understand the lingo." But the girl from Fresno thought the man had been rather rude, and one of the train buffs offered to share his scrambled eggs with me—only fair, really, because I had already urged upon him some of my Cooper's Oxford Marmalade.

—

Contact! A Book of Encounters

(2010)

Travel Wisdom of Henry Fielding