The Real Savage

Anna had to urinate. The urgent tingle had turned to a frantic, dull pain that would not quiet no matter how she adjusted herself. Sitting on the train, watching Russian countryside flinging by, she knew that once she stood, another would take her well-deserved seat. Seven hours to Urumqi, not including immigration checkpoints. She couldn’t wait that long.

Four other women stood close to her, their hips, rough clothes and feet bumping into her body each time the train jolted against the iced tracks. They were waiting for her to get up; leave so they could squabble over who got her seat.

She had been breathing through her mouth ever since the famer had pulled his infant son’s pants down just enough to let a stream of urine splatter next to her foot. The urine specks on the seat had frozen over and now looked like misshapen freckles.

Dirt. Sweat. People bundled so thick that their arms jutted from their sides. Body odor seethed from any exposed skin, turning the compartment into a steaming enclosure of human stench.

Well, if these people were miserable they certainly were not showing it. Impassive, dark eyes, wide noses, black hair, ruddy cheeks—what was she, the only white person, doing here?

The train lurched, and woolen hips smashed her face. Hard. Anna let out a small bark of air and felt her cheek, sure that the farmwoman’s clothes had flogged her cheek raw.

Looking up, Anna saw that the woman simply stared at her with curious indifference before turning her head, closing one nostril with her thumb and letting a rocket of snot shoot to the floor. The content of her nose emptied, the woman sniffed once and continued to stare at Anna.

God, these people are savages.

She had come onto the train with her ticket between her teeth, arms clutching her one, heavy backpack. Maneuvering to her seat, she saw that a woman already sat there, a pile of sunflower seeds spilling around her feet and knees. As the woman cracked shell after shell with one hand, Anna tried to show her that the surely she was mistaken for sitting in the foreigner’s seat.

            “Look, this is my ticket,” Anna said, thrusting the pale blue paper into the woman’s face. “This seat, 23, is mine.”

The woman blinked and spat out a shell. Anna’s friends had been right. It was first come first serve, no matter who bought the ticket.

Frustrated, Anna took a deep breath and sat on top of the woman, backpack and all. The element of surprise worked; the woman shouted and tried to push Anna off, but she pressed all her body weight against the padded thighs and wouldn’t budge. The woman finally slid to the floor, glaring at the white girl and cursing under her breath.

Anna held up her ticket, pointed to the number on the seat and then the number on her little piece of paper. However hard, however wooden, however soiled, this seat was rightfully hers.  

Now, four hours later, the entire compartment knew about the white girl who snatched seats. This was one moment Anna was glad she did not understand the language.

She looked out the window.

Snow. Ice. Snow. Farmhouse. Trees. Snow. Snow. Snow.

Pee.

She had to pee.

The next jolt brought a stinging surge of pain and Anna uncrossed her legs.

Unable to bear the pain anymore, she stood, grabbed her ever-heavy bag and began to pull, shove, push, and squeeze her way to the bathroom door. Loud, thick voices behind her announced a winner, but she didn’t care which of these uncivilized creatures now sat on the cherished, cracked seat.

The slap of body waste and wind hit her as she opened the bathroom door.

A hole had been sawed into the floor, and she could see the tracks clacking below. Piles of waste and frozen pee clearly marked where others had missed—probably because the train swayed and lurched every few seconds.

With nowhere to hang her bag, and using one hand, she untied her ski pants and wiggled down three layers of leggings.

Cold. Oh dear Lord it is cold.

Holding her bag with both arms, she began to squat. Frozen urine covered the sides of the hole, and her thick-soled boots barely held her upright.

As she emptied her bladder, the steam from her body fluids misted the air. Like others before, she missed the hole.

Relief.

The train lurched sharply to the right. Her boots slipped on the iced surface and both ankles snapped inwards. Anna’s head hit the side of the wall; her backpack fell into the sick filth.

First heat radiated from both legs, then pain.

Her feet were pointing the wrong way.

Four hours later, an immigration clerk and two soldiers beat down the door to find a white woman lying with her pants halfway pulled up. 

It wasn’t till the soldiers lifted her by her arms that they realized that the blood had frozen her pants to the floor.