An Unexpected Stop in
Extremadura
by Tyrel W. Nelson
“What a great
weekend,” I thought to myself, as I sunk further into my seat.
As the train slowly rolled out of the station, I could not help
but grin. The two days I had spent exploring the sites of Mérida,
Spain, had done wonders for my attitude. I was captivated by the
town’s Roman ruins, revived by its mild weather, and delighted by
the friendliness of the various merideños I had met.
Hearing laughter, I turned my attention away from the landscape
and onto my blonde-haired friends, Katie and Lindsay, who had
accompanied me on the trip. Judging by their smiles, which
stretched to their eyes as they reviewed the highlights of the
previous 48 hours, I was sure that all of us were ready to return
to the grind of our semester studies in Toledo. Feeling completely
rested and relaxed, I focused back on the auburn countryside. Not
even the five-plus hour train ride we were embarking on could
dampen my spirits.
As the train chugged through Extremadura on that February
afternoon, my eyes grew heavy with the fading sunlight. Hypnotized
by the dark landscape and rhythm of the wheels spinning on the
rails, I fell fast asleep. A short while later, I woke up only to
notice that Katie, who sat to my right, and Lindsay, who was
seated across from me, were in a slumber as well. The girls, whose
short frames were tucked beneath their coats, appeared to be
sleeping comfortably. Having no one to talk to, I was intent on
waking up in Toledo and, therefore, returned to my nap.
About two hours had passed when I was suddenly awakened by a
cacophony of screeching train wheels and a force that propelled me
forward, almost on top of Lindsay. When I orientated myself, I
looked up and noticed that the car in front of me was tilted
heavily to the right, hanging off the track. Upon hearing violent
coughing, I whipped around to discover the short, dark-haired
woman, who was seated a few rows behind us, standing, wide-eyed.
She was cupping one of her hands over her mouth and nose as I was,
practically gagging from the putrid smell that permeated the car.
“Huele mal, huele mal (it smells bad, it smells bad),” she
kept screaming.
I nodded in total accordance and asked if she was okay. She
responded affirmatively and I spun back around when I heard the
door to our car swing open. Standing in the aisle were two
middle-aged men dressed in dark blue suits and hats—it was the
conductors.
The taller, bearded man kept walking up and down the center aisle,
loudly speaking Spanish into his cellular phone. He looked angry
and practically yelled as he informed the person on the line about
what had just happened. His grayer counterpart, obviously shaken
by the accident, took off his jacket to reveal a white dress shirt
saturated with sweat. In broken English, he asked if we were okay
and sat down in one of the seats in the middle of the car. We
gathered around him and he returned to his native language in
order to explain the situation.
As he removed his glasses and constantly wiped the beads of
perspiration off his brow with his black necktie, the engineer
told us that the fetid stench was the result of the toilets that
had spilled over in the derailed car. Moreover, the man told us
that we were the only passengers on the train and was obviously
relieved that no one was hurt. Then, he pointed towards the
windows to reveal something more disgusting than the fulsome odor
that overwhelmed us.
Curiously, I pressed my face against the glass, shielded my eyes
from the glare of the light from inside, and focused on what
appeared to be a field of white pillows. As my vision improved, I
could see that the white puffs were moving and noticed that red
was the other color that dominated the foreground. I was
horrified.
In the ditch alongside the railroad tracks was a sea of sheep.
Many were wounded, bleeding profusely, and screaming. The unharmed
sheep trampled over the plethora of dead bodies and looked stymied
by the unbearable cries of their dying mates. After hearing the
loud shrills of Katie and Lindsay, who were staring out of the
windows on the opposite side of the car, I knew that their view
was just as gory.
Upon their suggestion, we followed the conductors to the caboose
in order to escape the smell and wait for help. As we made our way
through several wagons, I began to realize the sheer massiveness
of the herd that had derailed us. Sheep continued to loiter in the
ditches that bordered the train until we reached the final car.
Even when I looked through the caboose’s rear window, I saw more
sheep walking over the bodies of others that had been run over. My
eyes were transfixed on this grotesque site until the other
engineer, who had spent most of the time on his cell phone, began
to provide us with more information.
Apparently, the herd of sheep was crossing the rails when the
train ran into it somewhere between Don Benito and Puertollano.
The man told us that he was able to contact the Guardia Civil
(Spain’s National Guard), which distinguished our fears of being
lost forever. However, he mentioned that it would probably take
awhile because it was late at night, and we were in the middle of
vast, sparsely populated countryside.
For the next hour or so, I occupied myself by pacing back and
forth throughout the car, occasionally stopping to smoke one of
Katie’s Marlboro Lights or to join the girls in talking to our
fellow passenger, who was from Mérida. Between drags from her
cigarettes, the friendly, shorthaired woman explained that she had
to be in Madrid in the morning to take a test, but never
complained about the sleep she would lack that night. I was
impressed with the positive attitude she had kept throughout the
ordeal.
Suddenly, the merideña stopped talking and hustled to back
window of the caboose. She pointed to a bouncing beam of light in
the distance, which continued to creep closer.
“Ya viene,” said the woman.
It was the Guardia Civil.
A few men clad in black police gear helped us off the train one by
one. As we were taken to a nearby dirt road, the other members of
the squad scurried about. Several men investigated the scene of
the accident while a few others questioned the conductors, writing
down information on small notepads. From the edge of the dusty
road, the four of us curiously observed the Guardia Civil work its
way along. We huddled together and tried to ignore the cold by
joking and laughing about the night’s events.
Soon after, a taxi pulled up. The man in charge of the rescue
squad had kindly called for a cab, giving us an all-expense-paid
trip back to Toledo and our new friend to Madrid. Before we got in
the car, Lindsay, Katie, the merideña, and I posed for a few shots
that the cab driver took with our cameras. We were proud to have
been part of such an adventure and, thus, wanted a picture to
remind us of this crazy night. However, a photograph would not be
necessary for me.
Although several months have passed, I often think about that
crisp February night in Spain. Every train whistle I hear, every
set of railroad tracks I see, and every unpleasant whiff from an
outhouse immediately puts me back on that train car, staring into
the gruesome countryside. Nevertheless, traveling has taught me to
welcome the unexpected, seeing every occurrence, good or bad, as
part of the adventure. I refuse to dwell on the accident
negatively. In fact, how could I complain? No one was hurt, Katie,
Lindsay and I made a new friend, and I have a story that I will
continue to share with others for the rest of my life.
© Tyrel W. Nelson, 2004
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