In retrospect, it was probably not the brightest idea we’d ever had.

We could probably have afforded the first class train fare if we’d stretched our wallets and our patience and denied ourselves beer for a night. But we were young and stubborn and we thought there was simply no choice more obvious than the second class train.

We had arrived at Mazatlan train station at seven in the morning, ready to catch whichever train was leaving for Guadalajara, or thereabouts. The man behind the ticket counter confirmed that there were in fact two trains to Guadalajara that day - the second class train, which left at 09.25 and cost $7, taking about eleven hours, and the first class train which didn’t leave until half three in the afternoon, took only five and a half hours to arrive, but cost $19. Outrageous. There was no choice, obviously - we were backpackers, determined to rough it, so second class it was. We handed over our cash and retreated to a bench on the platform to await the arrival of the train, in a couple of hours.

It was already pretty warm. On the next bench along, a man in sandals made of discarded tyre strips noisily slept off the excesses of the night before as flies crawled over his face, licking up sweet tequila-flavoured sweat. I curled up with my head on my backpack, and Max smoked and watched people. It was December 1991, and we were in Mexico, travelling over the Christmas break, because neither of us could afford to travel back to Europe for the break.

Max was from Italy, belligerent and complicated, and without a single word of Spanish. I had a handful of words and a dictionary, but not much confidence in my ability to use them.

We were studying together in Western Canada, sharing anthropology classes and coffee and cigarettes out in the cold, and travelling to Mexico had seemed like a much better alternative than schlepping around in the snow up north. So one evening in November, over pizza in the Chemistry lab, we unfolded a huge map of Mexico on the workbench, got out a red pen, circled a few places, joined them with an unsteady line, and resolved to go. Two weeks later, we packed our backpacks in the shadow of a horrific hangover from the annual college Reindeer Party (don’t ask - suffice to say Max was convinced he was still wearing fake antlers for the first 48 hours of the trip, and kept swiping at the top of his head, as if expecting to find them there) and got on a bus to Seattle.

We spent a night in SeaTac airport, waiting for the dawn flight, watching the freaks and breathing over-processed air. We met up with a few others from college also travelling south of the border for the holiday season rather than back home to be with their families, just like us - Mika from Finland, Julia and Felix from Germany, plus Dave and Jer, two Canadians. We resolved to hook up to enjoy a margarita on the playa once we arrived. Like us, they were flying to Mazatlan via LA, and from there, we would all go our seperate ways.

When we had stepped out of the plane into the hot breath of coastal Mexico, it was like walking into another world. Palm trees. Hot, heavy, humid air. We stripped off layers, changed money and headed into town on a bus. We had stayed a couple of nights in Mazatlan at the dusty and dirt-cheap Hotel Vialta in the middle of the Zona Central, eating scary tortas ahogadas and drinking strong margaritas at night, wandering through the tatty markets and streets, and watching geckos run across the ceiling by night. We dried our swimsuits on the cranky overhead fan that swung dangerously above the bed. By the fourth day, it was time to move on, and so we re-stuffed our backpacks and headed for the train station.

By nine fifteen, there was no sign of the train. I’d slept for an hour or so, curled on the bench, and was impatient to move on. Max wandered off in search of supplies for the trip, and came back laden with goodies - well, five cans of beer and two doughnuts, which was as far as our budget would stretch at the time. I rolled my eyes at him and he shrugged in a totally Max-like way. Incorrigible.

The train pulled in to the station, and suddenly there was a mad rush for seats. People emerged from the main station building and swarmed to the train, so we joined in as best we could. The train was old american stock, dusty and showing its age. The seats were padded vinyl, with cracks which revealed the meagre stuffing. What windows there were were dirty and smudged. In some places there were no windows at all - just frames looking out onto the rusting rolling stock in the train-yard. We found seats in the last carriage, and esconced ourselves for the trip. I sat by the window (I’ve always been a window person) and Max sat on the aisle, already opening his first beer of the trip. Around us, the train quickly filled up with families and others, making the long trip to Guadalajara. At half past nine, the train shuddered into life, and we were off. Max checked his watch. I checked mine. We exchanged a look of pleasant surprise. Unthinkably, we had pulled out pretty much on time.

As we gathered speed out of Mazatlan, the empty window frames offered a cooling breeze through the stuffy carriage, and I started to take stock of the characters travelling around us. At the table in front of us was a family - a mother with three children, who stood on their seats and ignored her insistent orders to calm down. Across the aisle was a young mexican with a walkman and a stack of books. I swivelled on the seat to check out the people behind - a woman with a headscarf, young couple surgically attached at the lips, and an old man who looked like a walnut - deep brown and wrinkled, wearing a battered panama. He caught me looking and smiled. I smiled back, and he said “De donde eres?”

“Soy inglesa..de Inglaterra,” I replied.

“Ahh,” he croaked, “Inglaterra…eso es en las montañas or por el mar? - Is that in the mountains or by the sea?”

Neither, I replied, and he looked non-plussed.

He thought for a moment. “Quieres casarte conmigo? - Would you like to marry me?”

I laughed. The man was about ninety, and really not my type at all, besides being a complete stranger. “No, gracias,” I replied, still laughing. The man was not deterred.

“Tienes algunas hermanitas, primas que les gusta casarte conmigo, pues? - Well then, do you have any sisters or cousins who might like to marry me?” I thought for a beat and the shook my head. He smiled and showed a mouthful of gaps.

The train sped on through the coastal swampland, and I was impressed at the time we were keeping. Then suddenly, as if I’d thought too soon, there was a terrific pull backwards, and we were all thrown forwards in our seats as the train juddered to a sudden halt. People started to pour of the back of the train, running down the aisle next to us, while those still seated craned their heads out of the windows to see something on the track behind.

“Que pasa? Que pasa?” I asked “una fuego? - a fire?”

“No, no,” one said, “una vaca! - a cow!” I was confused. A what?

Looking out the window, I could see that we had hit a cow, and that meant it was a free-for-all for the meat. The crowd who had rushed off the back of the train were using sharp knives to butcher the cow beside the track, stashing the meat in crumpled carrier bags. Their movements were precise and efficient, and within ten minutes, the conductor blew his whistle and signalled that the train was ready to leave again. The crowd cleaned the blood from their hands on the sand from the track, and re-boarded the trains, carrying wet red bags of meat, smelling of sweat and blood and heavy air. The train moved off again. Max and I stared at each other in amazement.

Twenty minutes later, the train pulled to a sudden halt again. Another cow? No. This time I leant out of the window to see a man sprinting along the track before losing himself in the ramshackle huts that lined the track, stretching for miles in a thin cling, like a membrane. He had pulled the emergency cord to get off the train, and was hotly pursued by the conductor, who lost him within moments, shrugged, wiped his brow, straightened his waistcoat and reboarded the train. And off we went again. This happened periodically throughout the journey, and each time the same comedic and fruitless pursuit occurred.

We sped through the flatlands, towards the Sierra Madre. By now it was coming up to lunchtime, and I was hungry. All around me, families were unpacking parcels of strong-smelling food, wrapped in newspaper and cloth, and my stomach was rumbling. I ate a doughnut and drank a warm beer, which did nothing for my thirst and just gave me a headache. Max dozed beside me, and I started to play with the children from the family in front of me. Luckily, my Spanish was about the same level as a seven year old child, so Gustavo and I got on very well. He had wide round eyes and a mess of dark curly hair, and he laughed at my attempts at his language. He counted up to twelve for me in English, and I copied him, in spanish. He pointed at things - my shirt, the strap of my backpack, my eyes, and asked the names of the colours in English. Red, I said. Green. Blue. The young man across the aisle had been watching us for a while, and suddenly chipped in “Azul es mi color favorito - blue is my favourite colour.” That’s nice, I thought, before surfing on a wave of my own confusion through the undulating torrent of his rapid spanish which followed. I caught the odd word - university, christmas, girlfriend, english, food. I nodded in an all-encompassing way, though I’d understood practically nothing, and he reached for his thick sandwich, tore it in half, and gave me some. I wolfed it down with enormous gratitude.

Throughout the journey, people passed up and down the aisle, through the carriages, hawking food, drinks, music, religious pamphlets and the ubiquitous chewing gum. Small boys would practically run up the aisle, clasping a box of gum to their chest, intoning “Chicle-mil-pesos-chicle-mil-pesoooooos” while men with hefty moustaches and sweat-stained vests would serenade the entire carriage with a quick mariachi number, before proffering their hats for donations. I was enjoying the colour and light and life of the journey. This was good.

By mid afternoon, I had switched my attention to the outside. Many people, including Max, were sleeping in the warm afternoon, and I was frustrated and a bit bored. I took my camera from my bag and went to the back of the train to watch the world slide by through my viewfinder.

The conductor stood guarding the back of the train and smoking a thick cigar. He shook his head forbiddingly “No no,” he muttered “no se puede tomar fotos, lo siento - you can’t take photos, I’m sorry” I switched on the charm, albeit stilted by lack of linguistic ability. I wittered on about how much I was enjoying his country and how I wanted to show people at home how lovely it was. He remained unmoved. “No no, lo siento,” he repeated.

I stopped and thought. Well then, I asked, could I possibly take a photograph of him instead? Of course, he said, beaming. He brushed the dust from his blue waistcoat and wiped his aviator sunglasses on the hem of his shirt. He straightened up and looked very very serious. I framed him in the very far left of the picture, with the tracks receding off into the distance taking up the majority of the frame.

Click.

Take another, he ordered. I did, this time facing to the side, whizzing past a cemetery. He pointed at a lake coming up on the right of the train. Take one of that, he insisted, and pushed me into a good position. Click. And them, he said, pointing to a group of boys playing football on a dusty pitch on the left of the train, among run-down shacks. Click. Soon, he had retreated to his post in the doorway, smoking his stogie, sitting straight and beaming with pride, leaving me to take pictures as I wished.

I’ve always been a keen photographer, and part of my desire for this trip was to try and build up a portfolio of pictures taken in the field, heading towards a flighty goal of becoming a photojournalist. Time and experience have demonstrated that I’m not good enough for that, and besides, my studies pushed me in a different direction, but at the time, I thought that’s what I wanted to do. So with typical Meg pig-headedness, I snapped away, convinced that every photo could be a potential prize-winner.

And then I saw him. In the distance, on the left of the train, in the distance I could see a man riding a white horse laden with panniers. As he came closer, I could see that he had an impressive moustache and was wearing a string vest and a battered cowboy hat. The train was crawling along at this stage, and so I leant off the side, trying to reconcile the focus as best I could as we slid towards each other slowly. I framed him in the centre of the picture, riding towards us, the quintessential picture of Mexican rural life. In my mind’s eye, I could see the National Geographic masthead dropping in above his cowboy hat, the yellow of the lettering contrasting beautifully with the darkness of his skin. He was only about fifty metres away. I focused and refocused, determined to get that one perfect shot I was dreaming of. Suddenly, through the viewfinder, I saw him reach down to his waistband, pull out a gun and point it directly at the lens. I snapped and ran. I hid under my seat, as the train crawled along, convinced that at any second the man would hop off his horse, hop on the train and then put a bullet in my head. I had never been so scared.

An hour later, we had picked up speed, and I was still alive, so I thought it was safe to emerge from the sweaty depths of my hiding place, though my heart was still going like the clappers.

The train rolled on, towards the Sierra Madre. Late in the afternoon, we pulled into Tepic, a station we should have been at three and a half hours earlier, according to the sketchy timetable. We were now running officially very late. At the station, there were swarms of women selling food and drink from icy coolboxes. I was parched. A dusty seven hours on the train with only a beer for refreshment meant that I felt as if I had licked the road. Max had polished off the remaining beers while I was hiding under the seat, and it had been a long time since lunch. I hopped off the train and bought maiz with cheese and chilli, passing the food on sticks through the window to Max, minding the bags. I headed off to find something to drink.

I saw the woman I was heading for from about ten metres away. The crowds parted like Jesus-clouds, and my eyes fixed on her icebox, dripping with condensation, packed with ice and bottles of coke. Yes. Oh yes. I headed straight for her and asked how much - three thousand pesos, she said - a dollar, way over the local price for coke, but at that point I would have probably given her my left arm for a cold drink. I asked her for two, and she opened the bottle tops with a chilling hiss of escaping bubbles. Genius. I held out my hands to accept the drinks, but ignoring them, she proceeded to pour the contents of each bottle into a clear sandwich bag, and then pop a straw in the top of each. She passed me two bags of coca-cola, and took my money, leaving me standing, slightly confused, beside a train ready to depart.

I boarded the train, clutching the two bags around the top, like goldfish from a funfair, realising what had occurred, and why. There is a deposit for all bottles in Mexico, and this, presumably, was the only way of ensuring that she didn’t lose the precious few pesos each bottle cost her in deposit. Makes perfect economic sense. However, in the heat of the late afternoon, and with a jerking, lurching train to contend with (not to mention the added complication of corn on sticks), Max and I struggled to reconcile economic sense with the reality of a bag of tepid, sticky and rapidly-flattening fizzy drink. We had to hold the bags because we couldn’t put them down, and that meant that they warmed up even faster. Our fingers were covered with a sticky residue, and there was no bathroom on the train. I cursed myself for not buying water at the station. Moron.

As we climbed higher into the Sierra Madre, there was a palpable drop in temperature, which combined with the onset of twilight, meant that the open window-frames in the carriage now blew in chilly air and discomfort. We struggled with our backpacks to find jumpers not worn since Canada, a week ago, much to the amusement of the rest of the carriage.

By mid evening, the time we were scheduled to arrive in Guadalajara, we were clearly nowhere near the city, still climbing through the Sierra, on a track which in the half-light we could see consisted of many twists and turns, tunnels and perilous bridges over steep canyons. Max got out the cards to play solitaire, and I shut my eyes for a nap.

Ten minutes later, I was woken by a strange sensation of pressure on my head, almost like someone was pulling my hair. I opened my eyes, and found a man wearing a dirty shirt and jeans, with a tattoo of a tear just below his right eye, looming over me. His calloused hands were playing with my hair. I sat up with a fright, waking Max beside me, who had also dropped off halfway through his game.

“Por favor, no me toca - please don’t touch me,” I asked, politely. The man laughed. “Dejeme en paz! - Leave me alone!” I insisted, through scared, gritted teeth. The man ignored me. He spoke to Max in Spanish, explaining that his name was Chino.

Max didn’t understand a word - he was Italian, and although his latin colouring meant he had frequently been confused for a Mexican in the last few days, the reality was that he couldn’t speak a word, and was dependent on me and my limited grasp to get us through. This had caused us some trouble in the first few days in Mexico, as people automatically addressed the man first. This meant that in restaurants, or the hotel, someone would say something to Max, who would look at me to translate, then he would say something in English, which I would try and put into Spanish, which he would then have to partially repeat to the person addressing us, whose eyes would never have left Max at all. Men did the talking, even if they didn’t speak the language.

I told Max how to say he didn’t speak Spanish, and Chino snorted, drawling that he spoke some English. His accent was strong, with an American twang. Max asked him where he had learnt Spanish. Chino replied he’s learnt in jail in California. We didn’t ask what he’d been in for. Max asked Chino politely to please stop touching my hair “stop it, she doesn’t like it”

“Sure,” said Chino, “women, they always say no an’ they mean yes. My girlfriend, she says she no like making fucky wit’ me, but I theeenk she doss. When she say she don’ wan’ making fucky, I give it to her anyway. She don’ mind. She need to learn.”

I blanched, looking at Max with panic in my eyes.

“No,” said Max, “she really doesn’t like it. Please stop touching her.”

Chino whipped his face to within centimetres of Max’s, and poked him in the chest. “Are you fucking with me?” he roared. You could smell the tequila on his breath. “Are you fucking with Chino?”

“No,” replied Max, with more calm than I knew he was feeling, “I am not fucking with you. I am serious.”

Chino stared at him. The moment dragged on and on and on.

“Nobody fucks with Chino,” he said, finally, poking Max in the sternum for added effect, “You wait here. I’m going to go back to my carriage,” he continued, gesturing towards the other end of the train, “and I’m going to get my knife and my friends, and then I’m going to come back, and I’m going to kill you.”

With that, he turned quickly and stalked off up the train. Max was pale under the tan he had acquired so quickly over the previous few days. We looked at each other. Then, in a moment of tacit agreement, we split up and we hid. I tucked myself in next to the student whose favourite colour was blue. Max fled up the train. We agreed to rendezvous outside the station in Guadalajara when, and if, we made it there.

We hid for another five long cold hours, well into the night, as we sped across the desert towards the city. I have never known waiting like that, where every footfall among the noise and the clatter of the rumbling train felt like it was coming for me. I was fucking petrified.

Chino didn’t come back. My guess is he went back to his seat and found distraction in his friends, a bottle or some sleep, or all three. Regardless, when the train finally pulled into Guadalajara in the pre-dawn light, nearly ten hours late, I was nervous and skittish. My backpack felt suddenly like an enormous neon sign over my head, pointing and screaming HERE SHE IS. I dawdled by the carriages as the crowds loped sleepily off the train and homewards, frantically scouring the scene for Max. I muttered under my breath, “donde donde donde, dove ’stai, Massimiliano�.” until finally I saw him, crouching on his backpack near the door to the station.

There was no time for self-congratulation or conversation as we frogmarched each other in silence to the nearest hotel, the Flamingo, where the desk clerk grumpily checked us in at dawn, to a room which had gold swirly wallpaper and a bare lightbulb, but was still way beyond our budget, and meant we had to eat quesadillas from street-vendors for the next week and a half. We simply didn’t care.

In retrospect, we should have taken the first class train. We should have recognised that a little extra money often translates into a lot less hassle. We should have blown the budget and got the faster, easier train to Guadalajara. We should have foreseen problems, and acted in advance to avoid them. We should have, but we didn’t. Instead, we woke up in Guadalajara, frazzled and glad to be alive on a balmy December morning, in a hotel where the lift played muzak mariachi versions of Christmas carols, and the lobby contained a plastic fir tree, complete with fake-snow frosted baubles.