There was a drama outside Nis. At a road near the track a crowd of people fought to look at a horse, still in its traces and hitched to an overloaded wagon, lying dead on its side in a mud puddle in which the wagon was obviously stuck. I imagined its heart had burst when it tried to free the wagon. And it had just happened: children were calling to their friends, a man was dropping his bike and running back for a look, and farther along a man pissing against a fence was straining to see the horse. The scene was composed like a Flemish painting in which the pissing man was a vivid detail. The train, the window frame holding the scene for moments, made it a picture. The man at the fence flicks the last droplets from his penis and, tucking it in his baggy pants, begins to sprint; the picture is complete.
“I HATE SIGHT-SEEING,” SAID MOLESWORTH. WE WERE AT THE corridor window and I had just been reprimanded by a Yugoslav policeman for snapping a picture of a steam locomotive that, in the late afternoon sun and the whirling dust the thousands of homeward-bound commuters had raised crossing the railway lines, stood amidst a magnificent exhalation of blue vapors mingling with clouds of gold gnats. Now we were in a rocky gorge outside Nis, on the way to Dimitrovgrad, the cliffs rising as we moved and holding occasional symmetries, like remainders of intelligent brickwork in the battlements of a ruined castle. The sight of this seemed to tire Molesworth, and I think he felt called upon to explain his fatigue. “All that tramping around with guidebooks,” he said after a moment. “In those horrible crocodiles of tourists, in and out of churches, museums, and mosques. I just like to be still, find a comfortable chair, absorb a country.”
Dusk in Central Turkey
IT IS DUSK, THE SERENEST HOUR IN CENTRAL TURKEY: A FEW bright stars depend from a velvet blue sky, the mountains are suitably black, and the puddles near the spigots of village wells have the shimmering color and uncertain shape of pools of mercury. Night falls quickly, and it is all black, and only the smell of the dust still settling reminds you of the exhausting day.
“Mister?” It is the green-eyed Turkish conductor on his way to lock the sleeping-car door against the marauders he imagines in the rest of the train.
“Yes?”
“Turkey good or bad?”
“Good,” I said.
“Thank you, mister.”
Hippies lay on their seats lengthwise, hogging half the compartment, and humped under the astonished eyes of Turkish women who sat staring in dark yashmaks, their hands clasped between their knees. Occasionally, I saw an amorous pair leave their compartment hand in hand to go copulate in a toilet.
Most were on their way to India and Nepal, because
The wildest dreams of Kew are the facts of Khatmandhu, And the crimes of Clapham chaste in Martaban.
But the majority of them, going for the first time, had that look of frozen apprehension that is the mask on the face of an escapee. Indeed, I had no doubt that the teenaged girls who made up the bulk of these loose tribal groups would eventually appear on the notice boards of American consulates in Asia, in blurred snapshots or retouched high school graduation pictures; MISSING PERSON and HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? These initiates had leaders who were instantly recognizable by the way they dressed: the faded dervish outfit, the ragged shoulder bag, the jewelry — earrings, amulets, bracelets, necklaces. Status derived solely from experience, and it was possible to tell from the ornaments alone — that jangling in the corridor — whose experience had made him the leader of his particular group. All in all, a social order familiar to the average Masai tribesman.
I tried to find out where they were going. It was not easy. They seldom ate in the dining car; they often slept; they were not allowed in the fastness of the de luxe sleeping car. Some stood by the windows in the corridor, in the trance-like state the Turkish landscape induces in travelers. I sidled up to them and asked them their plans. One did not even turn around. He was a man of about thirty-five, with dusty hair, a T-shirt that read MOTO-GUZZI, and a small gold earring in the lobe of his ear. I surmised that he had sold his motorcycle for a ticket to India. He held the windowsill and stared at the empty reddish yellow flatlands. In reply to my question he said softly, “Pondicherry.”
“The ashram?” Auroville, a kind of spiritual Levite town dedicated to the memory of Sri Aurobindo and at that time ruled over by his ninety-year-old French mistress (the “Mother”), is located near Pondicherry, in South India.
“Yes. I want to stay there as long as possible.”
“How long?”
“Years.” He regarded a passing village and nodded. “If they let me.”
It was the tone of a man who tells you, with a mixture of piety and arrogance, that he has a vocation. But Moto-Guzzi had a wife and children in California. Interesting: he had fled his children and some of the girls in his group had fled their parents.
Another fellow sat on the steps of the coach, dangling his feet in the wind. He was eating an apple. I asked him where he was going. “Maybe try Nepal,” he said. He took a bite of the apple. “Maybe Ceylon, if it’s happening there.” He took another bite. The apple was like the globe he was calmly apportioning to himself, as small, bright, and accessible. He poised his very white teeth and bit again. “Maybe Bali.” He was chewing. “Maybe go to Australia.” He took a last bite and winged the apple into the dust. “What are you, writing a book?”
Sadik