A devil of a train

Riobamba, Ecuador

At 6:15am, I arrived at Riobamba train station. Its usual calm was transformed to frenzy: the freight carriages already looked dangerously overloaded; as many as 800 people were piled on the rooftops; they looked like overdressed livestock readied for market. I opted for a seat in one of the final two carriages.

Three mornings a week, the Ferrocarril Transandino (the Trans- Andean Railway, or FCT), billed as ‘the most difficult railway in the world' when it was constructed more than a century ago, rumbles out of town. It's the last two of the ride's six hours that draw the crowds. The train negotiates a near perpendicular rock face called El Nariz del Diablo, The Devil's Nose. With a name like that, it is hardly surprising this train adventure in the heart of Ecuador's Andean Mountains lures tourists from the world over.

At 7:02, the engine was at last attached, eight carriages up the rusty track. It sent a ripple of anticipation all the way to the last seat. A few earsplitting puffs of brake pressure were released. Then a banshee whistle made certain everyone in town was awake.

At 7:04, we were off w ith a forward jerk. The train shook and pitched wildly not unlike a ship on stormy seas and I was certain we'd come off the rails. I wondered if it were possible to get seasick on dry land.

The seats had long lost comfort value. In fact, the whole of the train seemed to have little value - it was rusty, the curtains were tatty, the windows wobbled and promised to pop out, there was a hole in the wood floor, everything made a noise, everything seemed ready to simply fall off or apart.

Despite the train's frailty, the line is strong and the train is always packed. For most passengers, the 100-kilometer ride to Sibambe will be the train ride of a lifetime. For me, it was another lucky rail journey. I've traversed India by rail and journeyed from Beijing to London via the Trans-Siberian Railway. A few years ago, I rode on the Lima-Huancayo, Peru Ferrocarril Central Andino (FCCA) Railway, the highest passenger train in the world, topping out at 4,800 meters above sea level (the FCT only reaches a paltry 3,604 meters).

The Riobamba-Sibambe line is the only operational leg of a railway system that once curled its way over the backbone of the Andes from Quito to Gauyaquil, 464 kilometers to the south. Another branch continued on to the central Andean town of Cuenca, some 80 kilometers from Alausi.

The system was derailed by El Nino rains, floods, and landslides in 1982-3 and again in 1997-8. Recognizing the tourist value of the stretch of El Nariz del Diablo, the government rebuilt the line between Riobamba and Sibambe. The rest of the system remains out of service.

At 8:00, the Andean heartland was drifting by like scenes from a National Geographic special, only I was in it. The windows framed the photo-perfect views. These hills rise and fall, twist and drop as whimsically as the notes of a Chinese opera. At times, the hills seemed to hold the train up as farmlands stretched like an edible quilt to the horizon. Other times, they fell from the steel wheels setting the train aloft beneath cotton candy clouds, which sweetened the hamlets in the valleys below. I imagined that if all Ecuador's mountain creases and folds were stretched out flat it would be the largest country on the continent.

As we rolled on, I got up now and again to take photos from between the old-fashioned carriages. With nothing more than a thin handrail to hold onto, I leaned out of the slow-moving train shooting photos not unlike a cowboy firing his pistol in the Wild West. I caught glimpses of the people-laden carriages up front with each bend in the line. Some people dared to clamber up and down side ladders appearing not the least bit concerned about close-cut rock faces. Some were whipped by tree branches.

At 10:00, we pulled into Guamote, 3,048 meters above sea level and only 50 kms from Riobamba. This train was slow. We stopped on the main street and were immediately besieged by food vendors. There were pastry empanadas, grilled meals, eggs and rice, chicken and fries. Whatever you liked.

For most people, however, Guamote was a toilet stop. Men scrambled one way, women the other. I ended up in a walled field surrounded by three squatting women.

At 10:50, I returned my attention to the slow-forwarding world outside the train. There were frolicking donkeys and lazing cows, barking dogs and grazing sheep. I thought that if I were one of these animals, living midst these mighty hills must be as good a place as any to roam.

From a distance and at 35 kilometers an hour, the indigenous farmers who take care of them and work the fields looked overdressed in their colorful knit ponchos, skirts, and panama hats. But up close they are often threadbare.

At 11:31, we rolled down Calle Eloy Alfaro, main street Alausi, the headway of El Nariz del Diablo. The wait seemed long. There were whispers we had jumped the track. Sure enough, two sets of bogeys had slipped the rails crossing a set of points. I thought that was the end of the line. No ride on the Devil's Nose.

But no. The engineers, who had no doubt derailed the train before, placed rocks in strategic places beneath the wheels, backed the train up, and unbelievably, righted the wheels. At 11:45, grateful applause resounded through the carriages.

At 12:30pm, an hour behind schedule, we reached Sibambe, the nostril of the Devils Nose. Perhaps I had been spoiled by other great train rides because I actually felt disappointed. I hardly even noticed having negotiated the rock wall. Sure, there were a few switchbacks, but I was expecting at least a dozen. I wanted to be spooked by the devil himself. At very least, I thought my hair would stand on end. But before I knew it, we had reached bottom and were being invited off the train to take a look back up the nose of the devil. I wondered what all the fuss about the Devil's Nose was. For me, it was the least exciting part of the ride.

But as I looked at the hill from below, I realized that the nearly indiscernible descent is testament to the remarkable engineering skills of those American architects. I was doubly convinced when we easily rode back up the Devil's Nose.

At 2:00, the journey terminated at Alausi. The human cargo cascaded from the rooftops, flooding the street. The sleepy town was awakened. I walked five minutes to the center, stuffed myself into a bus, and was back in Riobamba in time for dinner.

Text & photos: Jono David