How the Itsy Bitsy Spider may have Saved my Life

I have recently come out the other side some of the most frightening hours of my life. I know the trains in India are next to impossible to understand, and I have been warned intently time and time again since arriving that the trains are not safe for a woman traveling alone. However, the organization I used to reserve my travel arrangements booked two legs of my journey on a train, so I just assumed everything was going to be fine and that I shouldn‘t worry. Never assume. My first warning should have been that my train was leaving in the middle of the night. Because of this, Sanjay, my driver found me a hotel to rest at from 6 - 11pm. I now know what a $10 hotel in India looks and feels like. This said, this is the kind of accommodation he normally would stay at while I’m at a “nicer” hotel (though some of the dives I’ve been at make this debatable). As for the $10 accommodation - I’ll put it this way, I brought a travel size thing of Lysol spray, which I picked up on a whim back in the States thinking I wouldn’t need it - I used the whole thing on the bed before I laid on top of it. The whole time I tried to sleep the movie screen of my brain was playing that horrible expose from 20/20 where they showed things that live on hotel beds. But when faced with the choice of staying up straight for 36 hours or resting, rest simply had to come first.

So here’s where the real nightmare begins. At 11:00pm I arrive to the train station in Agra for a train that didn’t leave till 2am. The trains are perpetually late in India, as is everything. Let me explain what it’s like at that time of night at the Agra station - imagine people sleeping, spitting, and changing everywhere, some ticket holders and some not (there is no security). Now add in a few stray cows and dogs, a couple people arguing, and no clear signage for anything and there you have it. I received the normal amount of harassment at the train station, but nothing I haven’t encountered at every other major city location in India. When the train finally arrived I found myself standing with four other bamboozled back packing tourists looking for a coach named B2, that simply did not exist. We started yelling for where to find it and were pointed to the end of the track which left the five of us sprinting with people screaming “run, run!!” while pointing and laughing. To their regard, we did look like idiots. Of course true to form for a disaster story, the train started moving, and it was a game time decision: A) take my chances and hop on a random coach, or, B) be left in the station with no driver, and no place to go in the middle of the night. I picked A which was a terrible decision. We all did - I have no idea how the other backpackers faired as we got split up, yours truly being the only one alone, but I know at one stop, two of the men came out yelling, “oh my god, oh my god…” running down the track to get on another coach. Unlike most trains in the states, there is no way to walk between coaches, and at least on the coach I was riding - no one comes looking for your ticket - you are sealed in completely shut.

The coach I ended up was the coach for the very poor. When I hopped on I saw giant bags of some kind of grain, naked babies, filth, mice, and everyone (about 50 people at least) had their face turned a blind eye away from each other. I knew I was in trouble - white American single woman with a giant backpack all alone. This spells “money” as well as “fool“. I tried to settle in by sitting on top of two of the big bags of food in the back wall behind the coach by the bathroom (which might I add this said “bathroom” was two holes in the bottom of the train with urine and feces laying around). Within the first ten minutes I realized I was in a dangerous spot, man after man came back and eyed me up and down. I had an alarm/flashlight device I bought in my pocket but it wouldn’t of done any good. Plus, being by the bathroom, it would of been easy to force me in and close the door, rob me or do other unmentionable things. I also knew no one would come to my defense. These are desperately poor people. Things went from bad to worse quickly with one man coming back, glaring at me and then returning to the back of the cabin and waking up some other men. I do not think of myself as a paranoid person, if I did I wouldn’t India alone in the first place. But in that moment, in my absolute gut I knew my life was at risk. These are things you listen to. I am normally calm in emergencies, and with no obvious solution except leave my bag and jump from the train in the middle of nowhere or hope that someone would raise their gaze and rescue me if I sounded the alarm I started to silently pray. One Hail Mary, one Gayatri Mantra over and over and over. Over the prayers my friend Linda’s words came to me, “I always try to sit in the ladies coach with the women and babies.” Well this was a mixed car not a female only, so I found the nearest awake small child I could and started making eyes at it. I was smiling, waving, making faces, anything I could to keep the child engaged. I probably looked insane. It took all of my willpower to pretend I didn’t notice the impending threat coming towards me from the back of train. I tried telling the father who was holding this very dirty, big brown eyed gorgeous three year old, how beautiful he was, and I broke into a quiet rendition of the “itsy bitsy spider” to keep the child entertained, hand movements and all. Miraculously, the father smiled and asked me to sit. The men in the back of the train sat back down. I have never been so scared in my entire life.

The next six hours of my life were spent trying to make conversation with 3 Indian families and entertain their children. An older toothless woman adopted me, we pointed at each other’s jewelry, her petting my face and my skin and arms. I gave her my favorite silver ring, which she could barely get on her gnarled fingers. At one point she actually fell asleep with her head on my lap, and the father with his head on my shoulder. I helped another woman safety pin too big dirty pants on her naked one year old that had a horrible eye infection, and worked on some simple English with another child. I held some of the children so the mothers could nurse others. I also made it abundantly clear I was trying to get to the city of Khajuraho. It was clear I didn’t understand Hindi, less alone their local village dialect, and none of them spoke any English (at least not that they were willing to share). While it seemed as if everything was now going swimmingly, in the sea of mothers in colorful saris and doting fathers I continued to pray in the quiet moments, because there was something that was still not right in my gut.

I had been told that Khajuraho was 4 hours a way, but with a two hour delay I wasn’t keeping good track of time. Eventually the woman with the child in the too big pants hid her sari over her face so her husband couldn’t see what she was telling me. She leaned in close to my ear whispering, “I sorry this/you… late” and then with her eyes motioned to her husband and the men we were sitting with. I looked desperately to the other two women across from me, and they both looked me directly in the eyes apologetically. There is so much we can say with our eyes. All of a sudden I completely understood. They were all getting off the train in Mahoba not in Khajuraho, and the men had every intention of taking me off and too god knows where and to do god knows what with me. They had figured out where I needed to go and then let me miss my spot. They had wedged me in to the seat in such a way that I couldn‘t really see out the window (there is a giant screen over it that has to be lifted to see anything). With it being 6am there was no light out so it was impossible to see, not to mention the big bags of grain that had been rearranged to let people pass through the aisle, which were now blocking my passage out. I never knew quite where we were. The whole time the men had been motioning to me to sit anytime I got up going “Khajuraho, Khajuraho” indicating they understood where I needed to go. When I was feigning sleep to avoid conversation, I had noticed the men were pointing to my bag, but naively I didn’t think much of it. But now, I understood I was definitely at the least going to be robbed, at best case scenario, I would have had to pay for the ride to Khajuraho (which would not have been by car - probably by oxcart) - at worst - well let‘s not go there.

Then it hit me - call Sanjay have him speak to some of the men. I had tried to express that I had friends meeting me in Khajuraho (which was a lie). Thank God he gave me his phone number, and I thought enough of it to buy a cell phone. I got him on the phone and shoved the phone into the ear of first a woman who spoke Hindi, and then one of the father for confirmation.. Turns out I had missed my stop by an hour and half, and I was going to be in the middle of nowhere, in a poverty stricken area. He told me the men on the train are going to try to take me to Khajuraho, but that he was making calls, to wait and he would send a taxi from my hotel in Khajuraho to get me. I was also informed that under no circumstances was I to go with the men on the train. And true to his word, he did find a taxi for me. I managed to get off in Mahoba, along with the rest of the train not withstanding a lot of jeering and pulling at me to go in multiple directions. The only good out of it was the sweet old lady, who was powerless in the whole situation, who rubbed my cheek and said ‘Love.” and smiled her big toothless smile and walked away with her grumpy, yelling husband. I walked off, amazingly everything still in tact, and tried to go see the station manager for a protective place to rest, which was futile as he didn’t speak English and was rude at best. So I settled for a bench near him and waited from my driver for over 2 hours. Driving back to Khajuraho through the surrounding poverty stricken towns, I have no doubt I would of met a horrible fate had I allowed any of the people to drive me. The taxi driver on the way back to Khajuraho remarked time and time again how every single village and town we drove through was incredibly dangerous. In my heart, I don’t believe I would of made it.

But I’m safe now.

I’m not upset by the experience just blissfully thankful to be okay. You must understand, that people are incredibly poor here as a whole, and women are completely powerless, at least those not born into wealth. Because I am seeking to really understand India, I am prying a lot and asking a lot of personal questions. I spent a good deal of time talking to a Muslim man about the cost of living for his family. The base living price for a family of 5 is $400 a month. This covers only food, shelter, education. For my Muslim friend as a primary school teacher he only makes $100 a month salary. A typical driver’s salary is $60 a month. This is why everyone must work nonstop, and most work multiple jobs. It’s a constant wheel of poverty racing against hours in a week. And in many families, the women do not work outside the home, leaving the men as the sole earners. In the villages of course the living cost is much lower, but so is the income. And no one has cars, only the wealthy, so the village people must go by train or by rickshaw, or oxcart to sell their crops or wares in the city. In addition you should realize that five is a low number for a family. In many households there are 10 or more family members residing together. And it is expected, not requested that you will care for your elders. In addition it is common practice to produce children until you have at least boy to carry on the family name. Abortion based on female gender from ultrasounds and the killing of baby girls after birth is part of the underbelly of India that people don’t talking about, but it’s prevalent and happening, at least in the lower economic class. Everywhere I go, I am told that no one has any money. Many people, especially those in villages work seasonally. In Khajuraho there is no income other than from tourism, which only happens six months of the year. So everyone heads to major cities to find work on the alternate months. It is the way of life here.

The second thing that put me at higher risk is that women have no power here. I will be writing about arranged marriage and the dowry system which is alive and well in another post. In general the role of the woman is to service her husband and her family. Women are viewed and commonly treated as disposable. Beating your wife is still considered acceptable and common by many. Sexism or “Eve-bating” is a big problem for female tourists here, and technically punishable by law, but it‘s not enforced. It has been a horrible issue for me since I‘ve arrived. So much so, I have had only one driver that spoke English who has not sexually harassed me by either making sexual overtones, flat out asking me to have sex with him, or to be his girlfriend. I arranged my travel plans through an Indian tourist agency to help get me from city to city and set up my hotels, and after some prying I managed to find out that the agency has actually bothered to call the drivers and guides ahead of time to tell them that I am “beautiful and sexy American woman traveling alone.” In fact, the owner of the agency called to check in after the train incident. His first words out of his mouth after introducing himself were not I‘m sorry this happened but instead, “I hear you are very beautiful, you must send me a picture. I am sorry I did not get to meet you.“ He repeated this several times in our conversation, and actually offered to fly to Delhi to meet me in person because of my “beauty.” It’s not flattering, it’s disgusting. This is a man who has an MBA from Berkley. He should know better. Wait till I have time to write up a review about him and his company on Trip Advisor and Yahoo. The taxi driver that picked me up from the train station also thought nothing of showing me off, despite my obvious upset from the train which he fully understood. He stopped for tea at a roadside stand in the middle of no man’s land in the countryside. He insisted I get out and have tea and pulled up a chair for me to sit. Sometimes it’s best here to just shut up and go along for your own safety. Next thing I knew I was literally surrounded by 10 men in a half circle just staring at me. No words, just staring. This was of course a little frightening with no obvious exit, but I recognize I’m an oddity, especially in the countryside. So I just held my breath, drank my tea and hoped for the best. It was fine, they were just curious, my driver told me they had never seen a “white woman” before - but still it was unnerving.

I don’t blame the men in the back of the train for rallying for attack, nor do I blame the other men for plotting against me to cause me to end up at another station. How can I judge them? If it came down to rob the pale, clueless, American girl in the wrong place at the wrong time, or feed my struggling family - I believe that family would win. Morals aside, it’s hard to say what any of us would do in the face of poverty. I would never claim to be so righteous to think I wouldn’t do the same to feed or protect my family. I also don’t blame the women for what happened - what choice did they have? I wish I thought I was being paranoid about the situation, but in my heart I know I was in extreme danger. I learned a lot - for one, I really got to see poverty up close and personal. It makes one pause and reassess value of material things, of resources. The last few years have been particularly tough in India from what I’m told, partially thanks to global warming and partially to faltering economies all over the world. Crops are not producing well, and the tourist industry is down. Being here makes me think about everything in a more global sense… the waste I create increases global warming which will affect the crops, the food I waste could be a meal for someone else. The money I throw away on lazy things like coffee and a bagel is a day’s earnings here. It’s mind boggling really.

I am safe now in Varansi in the children’s ashram. All is well.