The train traverses the Bolan Pass, which has been used for millennia by travelers, traders, or invaders as a gateway to the Indian subcontinent.
The train runs once per day in each direction. It carries mail, packages, cargo, and passengers, who have the option of sleeper class, sleeper class with air conditioning, and— cheapest of all—economy class, which was what I took in since it was all I could afford. In those years I worked as an AB, able seaman, on U. If I got a deck job, say, in Bombay or Buenos Aires, I could work for a few weeks or a few months, earn union wages and get my trip back to America paid for.
The car was a broad gauge, wider than a normal train, and the passenger area was an open, undivided space with hard wooden benches along both sides of the train car, facing toward the center, as well as a block of seats in the middle, facing front. Surrounding the center seats there was a narrow open area piled with valises and boxes. It was crowded, but there was a bit of room to walk around, and a path to the toilet—a foul-smelling hole in the floor.
Unlike Indian trains, there were no pull-down racks in which to lie down or sleep. There was no catering either, so most of the forty passengers had brought food, which added another layer of smells. I brought my own bottled water and food: dried fruit, nuts, and crackers. As often happened during my travels, I was the only westerner aboard. Nearly all passengers wore Pakistani clothing, most of them in the pajama-like shalwar kameez used by both men and women.
There was one couple dressed in farmer-peasant work clothes, shoes clumped with manure, sitting in the middle section. They had several children, including a babe in arms. The whole family, especially the patriarch, smelled strongly of fermented goat milk.
