Travel Sickness

No one would derive even a modicum of pleasure by saying, "I told you so".

It is probably nothing more than my own neurosis regarding manned flight that leaves me with the sense that not a day passes without some sort of apocalyptic incident in the sky.

This is, of course, firstly untrue and secondly skirting dangerously close to repeating myself. So I'll leave the problems with flying where they belong, save for one final validation.

A review of Freakonomics, a book dedicated to exploding 'conventional wisdom' by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner summarises on such misconception as follows:

While it's true that many more people die annually in car accidents than in plane crashes, it's often overlooked that the dramatic difference in number of deaths is largely due to the amount of time the average person spends in an automobile in comparison to the relatively small number of hours spent in flight. Levitt goes on to show the per hour death rate of driving to be about equal to that of flying.

As I harbour such a completely rational fear of being rendered airborne in a twenty year old flying sarcophagus manufactured by the lowest bidder, I recently took the train around Europe. With such a limited period of time and the speed of most Eastern trains being marginally less than walking pace, I was naturally disappointed to find that train travel is not as safe as it's cracked up to be.

First, there was the time in Zagreb when I wandered wearily to the end of the carriage to see a thirty tonne engine careering towards us with no intention of stopping. The impact, although slow, was enough to catapult me toward the open doors and it was nothing other than my clawing grasp of the frame that prevented me from being innocuously crushed.

Then there was the almost incident involving a newly acquired Dutch friend and a track side signal post. A gruff carriage attendant had neglected to close the side doors, leaving up to trundle into the night with two potentially lethal holes in the wagon. Being young, impressionable and lubricated with a fair amount of Romanian wine, the Dutchman was foolishly hanging out the open doors when a friend exclaimed,

"Schtop Jip! There'sch a poscht comink!"

Or words to that effect. Had he not turned round in the nick of time, he would have lost his bonce.

These are tangible dangers, great clunking heaps of metal that threaten to take your life by smashing it out your skull. I reckon the real dangers with trains come in less obvious guises. For example, there must be some sort of bio hazard contained within the squalid, squat toilets situated at either end of your wagon like some sort of AIDS-ridden book-ends.

If you thought the main difficulty with a stationary squatter was purely psychological, it's nothing compared with the physical difficulty of finding stable purchase as your loo rockets along rickety tracks.

Dehydration is another silent train killer. Probably. On some of the longer legs (Bucharest to Istanbul, 26hrs) there are no restaurant cars. So, if you didn't fancy lumping litres of water on board as you depart, you'll arrive at your destination looking like this. The only way I staved off such wrinkling was to barter my Bulgarian money for tepid beer with one of the 1st class wagon attendants. I'd have paid in other ways too, so thirsty was I.

Thieves/muggers/bum-rapists are another constant danger, particularly when you are angrily forced from your plasterboard bed in the middle of the night for the pleasure of having a moustachioed neanderthal stamp your passport with his hairy knuckled claws.

There are continually shifty-looking men loitering around stations and along the side of tracks. I have heard stories of men dressing as carriage attendants on the way from Prague before rifling through passengers' bags and helping themselves to their juicy valuables.

Madmen. Or, more specifically, one madman named Jonah, of no fixed abode, who was convinced he foresaw the 7/7 bombings in a cryptic dream and has pulled out his front teeth as the government is spying on him through radio waves. He didn't hurt me, but I'm not entirely sure that he wouldn't if he could.

There are, in short, myriad ways of hurting yourself on the trains - I trapped my finger in a rusty window and narrowly avoided being bitten by a rabid dog that had jumped on board and slobbered everywhere. The trick is to look after number one.

If there are passport checks, don't wake up anyone until you've had yours stamped. If you find out there is an old woman three compartments down selling water and fresh fruit, but the whole bleeding stock, sell them on at a profit.

Long distance train travel can be a Darwinian endeavour. Take Herman, the egomaniacal German who didn't wake up in time for the customs checks at the Turkish border. He should have set an alarm, as I did. Had he, he would have avoided being removed from the train and kept at the border guards pleasure.

I don't feel guilty about this; it's a dog eat dog means of travel wherein you'll happily see teenage girls sit forlornly in the aisle because you want to put your feet up for a while.

I like to think of it as a metaphor for the modern world; not ideal, sometimes seemingly pointless, always vacillating between new-fangled coldness and old-fashioned good manners.

There's politics on trains. Do you offer your seat? Do you share your food, knowing how little money you have left? Do you bother waking up someone you actively dislike when approaching their stop?

Do you hell. If they had the chance, they'd probably steal your clothes as you slept. On a plane, your all in it together. On a train, it's every man for himself. And I love it.