It was like travelling with Francoise d'Orleac, minus the chihuahua. Once we started moving I went in search of the buffet car. An old grizzled Tizourian was brewing the first pot of coffee of the day. He was very small and very taciturn, and wore a plum coloured chi-chia, the hat seemed to be an integral part of his head. I lifted two croissants from a plastic crate on the counter and asked for two black coffees.
As I was walking back to the seats I noticed an expensive-looking umbrella that someone appeared to have left behind. It was made of some sort of silk material and had a carved wooden handle. As it was the first train of the day, I wondered why one of the cleaners had not taken it. I felt a strange urge to pick it up and take it with me. Though I managed to resist, I continued to think about it while I sipped my coffee and looked out of the window.
The darkening sky was heavy with imminent rain as we left Tizourus and about half an hour out of the suburbs the downpour started. Maddy was more interested in Marie Claire than the landscape of prickly pear hedges, olive groves and jagged mountains.
This was a deluge of biblical proportions, so intense that I felt compelled to go along to the rear of the train to get a better view from the large rear window. A stocky habib in his mid-thirties soon joined me. On either side of the track the ground rose away. Slurries of mud from olive groves on one side and fields on the other charged down onto the track. It all seemed to happen instantaneously.
My companion turned to face me, his face was intent and serious.
It is raining.
Hamdulillah.
He nodded gravely.
Hamdulillah.
We introduced ourselves - his name was Karim - and then silently returned to the rain. Bulls of water rose out of the dust and charged down through the olives, burst through the hedge of prickly pears, and surged into the canal that only a few minutes earlier had been a railway line. Looking out of the rearmost window of the train we seemed to be skimming over the water, like a huge snake making its escape from the flood.
Karim broke the spell,
Ahmed, Hammadi!
he yelled at his friends who were watching the rain from their seats. On joining us, Hammadi, who was clearly not a railway employee, mysteriously produced one of the small spanners that the guards carry to open the air-locked doors. There was the sound of pressurised air escaping as the door duly opened, followed by a rush of wet, fresh air.
More passengers from our compartment came along to join us. The rain had caused real excitement, and to begin with there was great competition for a place at the door. Even the young Tunisian girl, whom earlier I'd caught looking at me with sly curiosity, came along to look at the rain. Susie stayed in her seat, steadfastly working through the guidebook, methodically committing to memory anything that might be mildly dangerous.
The initial excitement gradually subsided and most of the spectators returned to their seats. Only Karim and I were left.
His manner was very serious.
Look. Look at the rain. It is eight months since I have seen rain like this. Do you see those olives? They are dried up. Finished.
He pointed to the east.
Look, it is raining over Tendja.
Eventually even Karim had had enough and I was left there alone. In spite of the steadily increasing depth of the water, the train was still moving quite quickly. I leaned out of the open door, swinging on the chrome handrail feeling the spray in the slipstream.
The train passed an isolated, flat-roofed house. A young girl, about twelve or thirteen years old was sweeping the rainwater off the roof. I waved and she waved back, dropping the brush to the ground in the process. Everyone in the fields and small villages along the line seemed to be out in the rain, enjoying it. Many of the men were wearing Wellington boots, which struck me as strange. I didn't think they would have many opportunities to wear them. What would they do with these boots on the other 364 days of the year?
I was sitting on the steps with my legs dangling over the side of the train, when I noticed a small boy standing beside the tracks looking up at me. I shouted, assalama and waved. He waved back smiling broadly. When the train suddenly reduced speed he chased after it, waving at me furiously, his brave bare feet splashing in the mud.
The water on the tracks was getting much deeper, and the driver again reduced his speed. I lit a Mars Inter. The slow side to side rocking motion of the train was relaxing. The initial ferocity of the deluge had waned to a steady hiss. I smoked and thought of the motion of a snake across water. We crept on towards the south.