INDIA
CONTINENTAL
DRIFTER
Lord
of the ring, ring, ring …
by Elliott
Hester
click
on photos for enlargements
The getaway is gone.
In October, 2002, I sold my car and all my furniture, broke my apartment
lease, and took off on a trip around the world. More than three-and-a-half
years and thirty countries later—having stood before the Taj
Mahal, ridden Thai elephants and Egyptian camels, wandered the Australian
outback, and danced through the streets of Port of Spain during Carnival—I
continue to drift from one destination to the next. Unattached and
blissfully homeless, I tote my worldly belongings in a rolling duffel
bag.
By most accounts, I’ve broken away from the rat race. But there’s
one modern annoyance even a vagabond like me can’t escape:
a ringing mobile phone.
 While
visiting India, for example, I took a 35-hour train ride from Delhi
to Bangalore. I often dreamed of boarding a train at one of
the Indian Railway System’s 6,856 stations. I fancied myself
as one of 14 million who ride the systems 8,702 passenger trains
each day. I looked forward to relaxing in a sleeper car for two nights
and a day, chatting with interesting bunk mates while chugging past
remote villages on the world’s largest independent train network.
My sleeper cabin was outfitted with four retractable bunks. The first
person to arrive in the cabin, I settled into one of the bottom bunks.
When Sandeep Mukherjee showed up, he occupied the bottom bunk across
from mine. A pleasant, soft-spoken gentleman, Mr. Mukherjee was traveling
to Bangalore to take a job with a travel agency.
Soon, two more men entered the cabin. Wearing crumpled business suits
and unknotted ties, they nodded and climbed to their respective bunks.
Not long after the train pulled away from the station, the four of
us drifted off to sleep. At about 2:00 a.m., however, I woke to the
sound of a ringing mobile phone. Well … it wasn’t actually
ringing. The phone had been programmed to play “Jingle Bells.” De-de-de,
de-de-de, de-DE-de-de-dee!
The high-pitched electronic tune was like a screwdriver jamming into
my eardrum. De-de-de, de-de-de, de-DE-de-de-dee! Here I was, journeying
across the Indian subcontinent, the romantic notion of train travel
destroyed by a cheerless song. De-de-de, de-de-de, de-DE-de-de-dee!
When the phone finally stopped ringing, I breathed a sigh of relief.
But before I could fall asleep, “Jingle Bells” started
jingling again.
I heard Mr. Mukherjee stir in his bunk, but the cellular noise did
not come from his direction. The guy in the bunk above him began
muttering in Hindi. He too had been awakened by the offending phone.
The culprit turned out to be the man in the bunk above mine. Through
eight or nine ear-piercing verses of “Jingle Bells,” he
failed to answer his phone. Instead, he snored with the vigor of
a drunken wildebeest.
Driven to the brink of homicide, I cried out in the moving car. “Please,
answer your phone!” Still, the snoring persisted. And so did
the electronic shrill of “Jingle Bells.” Finally, I kicked
the top bunk. The man gasped in the darkness. “Your cell phone
is ringing,” I said through clenched teeth. He answered the
call, mumbling in Hindi. In less than a minute he was snoring again.
There are precious few places on Earth where mobile phones—and
the people who inflict them upon us—can be avoided. While riding
the world’s highest cable car in Mérida, Venezuela,
I was stunned (along with a cable car full of passengers) when an
American tourist whipped out his ringing cell phone. In a loud, penetrating
voice that no one could escape, he described the breathtaking scenery
to his girlfriend back home.
On Legian Beach in Bali, Indonesia, I became entranced by the sound
of breaking waves. The trance was broken by a series of electronic
beeps. An Italian bather had left his cell phone on a nearby beach
towel. Unable to tolerate the constant beeping, I moved near a British
guy who stared at his own ringing phone and chose not to answer the
call.
While reading in a quiet Barcelona library, I was startled by a ringing
mobile phone. All eyes turned to a Spanish woman as she dug through
her purse, located her phone, spoke briefly, and ended the call.
Five minutes later, her phone rang again.
As is the case with many travelers, mobile phones continue to sound
off around me. I’ve cringed to the beep on a Singaporean subway
train, winced inside a Berlin post office, and nearly choked on my
cappuccino when “Jingle Bells” erupted at a Roman cafe.
While in public, I keep my phone on vibrate. My dream is that the
world will do the same.
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