Train time

..deliberately
flouted and subverted.
On the other hand this dereliction of governmental responsibility has given
me ample time to attend to my inner thoughts and develop an almost Buddhist
tranquillity and acceptance of the vagaries of travel. Or the absence of movement.

My Zen training began in my early days of commuting. It was a very warm evening
with a tightly packed older train with no air-conditioning. The train stopped
three kilometres out of the city on a high embankment for a reason that is lost
in time. Perhaps the train in front had broken down or perhaps a sudden strike
of locomotive drivers had been called. No matter, after thirty minutes of being
held captive in our over-crowded railways carriages, (the doors were electronically
locked), more than eight hundred hot and irate commuters descended gingerly
onto the slopping shingle embankment ten or more metres above ground level.
We helped the aged and infirm down from the heights and then made our way through
assorted fences and railings to the nearest road. Where there were no means
of alternative transport, no buses, but some soon to be wealthy taxi drivers
.
No explanation was forthcoming – and, in my case, I made my way home independently
for the remaining twenty-five kilometres arriving several hours late.
Variations on this theme are not uncommon. Trains continue to break down, people
climb onto carriage roofs, or fall under the wheels. Mostly they just fail to
appear. Occasionally mysterious messages are relayed to the waiting throngs
such as “All trains are delayed owing to police action at Fairfield station”.

So given two decades of grief, why take a train to work when I have a car? Sometimes
several cars.
It is a combination of things – a naïve belief that it was more economical
than the automotive only alternative. Regrettably the difference is actually
marginal – only about $20 per week – which may not be a sufficiently rational
matter on its own to counteract the constant thwarting of reliability and punctuality.

I my case I couldn’t even reach the nearest railway station without a
car, as it is 15 kilometres away in verdant Eltham. This is a far less hazardous
choice that Ringwood, where you are likely to be affronted by some of the interesting
results of inter-breeding, drugs and poor dress sense.
Eltham has made its mind up that it is a just another middle-class suburb and
no longer the bohemian arts and craft centre of Melbourne. However there are
still enough trees and birds around to make it seem almost rural at times. This
can be cheering as one stands forlornly on a station platform, bereft of both
commuters and trains, shrouded by wintry mist with only the glorious sound of
magpies to keep one company.
The second reason for travelling by train is environmental. It is obviously
preferable for several hundred people to travel together in one vehicle when
they have a common destination. It is however beyond the pale when eight hundred
or more of Melbourne’s finest to occupy the same amount of space. Then
you can experience the joy of somebody’s umbrella advancing into your
sphincter whilst jammed face to face with a moustached two hundred kilo hairdresser
with halitosis and headphones turned up so loud that you know that she must
be deaf, as well as stupid and ugly.
Any government that cannot make the trains either run on time – or even run
– does not deserve our vote. Given that the caused of the parlous state
of Victoria’s suburban network are so well known there is no reason for
them not to work except the political will.
To put the matter simply: insufficient funds have been allotted with no new
lines built for seventy years, disintegrating infrastructure is poorly managed
by multiple non-accountable bodies, and there are both insufficient trains and
drivers . Various attempts at getting overseas companies to run the trains by
subsidised privatisation are doomed especially as their prime reason for their
introduction was to break the power of the unions.
As an example of age and decrepitude the Eltham railway station is approached
from the by a single track that runs over a wooden viaduct that is classified
by the National Trust.
The two hundred metres of the Diamond Creek Railway Bridge was built in 1902.
It is the only railway bridge of predominantly timber construction that is still
in regular use as an integral part of Melbourne’s metropolitan electric railway
network, and one of extremely few timber rail bridges in the State that still
carry trains.
Trains travel very slowly over it, and on those rare occasions when the Diamond
Creek actually floods, passengers have a thrill commensurate with Bungy Jumping
as the train inches over the brown raging flood waters.
The signalling is so bad that they use special tokens that are passed from train
to train to ensure that only one is on the track at a time, a system that originated
in Britain in the 19th Century but at least is reliable in ensuring that there
are no head-on collisions.
I must confess that I am not the most companionable of train travellers. I much
prefer to travel in hermetic isolation, free from conversation and the artificial
bonhomie of the mutual fact of life that we are all what the French call ‘
hommes d’affaires’ which sounds more interesting than the honesty
of the Japanese ‘Sarariman’.
To be frank I have moved carriages away from any or all acquaintances to the
point there is only one carriage left where I can remain undisturbed.
The third reason is that it is much easier to read in a train than whilst driving
a car – and much easier still to do cross-words. Over the years I have
trained my self to do “The Age” cryptic crossword and have achieved
a weekly record of five out of six completed.
But the main feature of these twenty years is the slow decline in civility amongst
people whom one would have thought might know better. Just simple matters, such
as not occupying the seat nearest the aisle when all others are empty, waiting
till people have left the train before barging on like the Springbok front row,
and not having loud and inane conversations on a mobile phone so that a whole
carriage can hear.
School children no longer stand for adults and pregnant women are left clinging
to the straps (though not by me).
We shouldn’t stand for it –but as the trains are over-crowded we
probably will.