February 2007
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| New sign about the toy train - now a UNESCO site |
After a relaxing couple of weeks on the beaches of Kerala, in the southwestern tip of India, we’d come inland and up into the hills to visit the a few of the many tea plantations that take advantage of the higher elevations and cooler weather. We’d been to Munnar, and heard about another place with an impossible name – Udhagamandalam, or ‘Ooty’ – that was a ‘must go’ on most tourists’ lists, not as much for the town itself as for the wonderful little blue toy train that you could take to get there.
The station was old, and the woman herself almost as old (not quite), so as we slowly made our way up the stairs to the second floor, gazing at the chipped plaster-covered brickwork and the water-stained, sagging ceilings, we had our doubts. The old wooden door had a huge pad-lock on it, as one might imagine for an old warehouse or a jail cell in a western movie.
We were sold. And so, we spent the night before our “toy train” adventure in the railway station. But not before being “signed in,” which involved the filling in of a special form which the woman then perforated in two places and added to a ledger book of similar forms (I wish we’d had a look to see how far back they went), by passing two strings through the holes she’d made and then carefully retying the strings in a neat bow.
Everything about where we were and what we were experiencing could have been happening, and undoubtedly did happen, 100 years ago – or more!
Early the next morning we went down to inspect the “toy train.” It’s a relic from the days of the British Raj, when it carried British bureaucrats, their memsahibs (wives) and their many servants away from the oppressive heat of the plains up the 6000 feet or so to the cooler “hill stations” of Coonoor and Ooty. The climb is so steep that the train and the tracks had to be specially designed to make the ascent possible. The train uses the “Swedish rack system,” whereby two large wheels with alternating cogs on the undercarriage of the engine can be lowered to engage with long notched rails that run along the centreline of the track. Like the gears on an old clock, the cogged wheels grip the notched rails, thereby preventing the train from sliding backwards on the steepest grades (1:12) along the route.
The train is pushed up the narrow gauge track by the original old steam engine, black and grimey with soot and oil, but still working well. It never went faster than 25 mph on the flat, and slowed to a crawl as it ratcheted itself up the steeper grades. Twice we stopped for water for the engine’s boiler and to clean out the coal ash from the scuttle.
The three little cars of the train are made of wood, painted blue and white. They are divided into five or six separate compartments, with doors on both sides. The inside is also made of painted wood, with simple wooden benches for seats.
It was easy to imagine the toy train as ‘The Little Train that Could’, a kids’ story about a little blue train, struggling up a hill. Maybe the book was based on the Ooty train!
Although it’s cute, the toy train is not particularly comfortable. Fortunately it takes just about 4 hours to get to Ooty.
The scenery as we ascended from sea-level to 6000 feet was spectacular – blue mountains in the distance, lush green valleys and little villages below us, and dramatic bridges and tunnels at frequent intervals along the route. But the best part was hearing the toot-toot of the old steam whistle as we chug-chugged along, echoing through the mountains and valleys, just as it has done for the past 100 years or more. It was a great trip, well deserving of its fabled reputation.
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