Bangkok to Sungai Kolok

Having frozen on trains from south to north and back again, shivering beneath my thin standard-issue blanket, it came as somewhat of a shock when the aircon failed. They do say you don't know what you've got...

Boarding the train at Bangkok's Hua Lamphong Station (after a few hours sheltering and dozing at the hostel we stayed in on our way north), the warm air wasn't immediately apparent, but the 50-odd passengers and sealed windows soon saw to that. At each station, the conductors gathered outside my window, the centre point of the carriage, and fiddled about with something to do with the aircon, passers-by sidling up, arms clasped behind them, sometimes offering advice, sometimes not. But the aircon stayed off.

To escape the heat a little, I walked up to the restaurant car, the border between 2nd and 3rd class. There wasn't any aircon there, either, but at least the windows opened, and the joy of being able to stick my head out and wave to the occasional Railway Child took a lot of the pain away. (In case you're starting to question my stamina, I should tell you that we passed a digital temperature display that showed 37°C. Nobody should have to sit in a sealed glass-and-metal box for hours on end when it's that warm.) I wondered why I hadn't decamped to the restaurant car (which was called Bogie Gourmet - I'm not sure whether the name was a little harsh, or a little optimistic...) earlier (but of course, earlier I had a lovely, extra wide, cool, private seat to keep me away.)

We hit a big town at 5:15pm, just after the school gates had opened. The railway crossing held back a tide of kids on scooters. There was no apparent order, just a thousand scooters pressed against the barriers, the odd intricately-painted truck rising above the sea of uniformed students. Schoolkids sat on the edge of the railway tracks smoking or eating ice cream, sometimes both, one vice in each hand, taking turns. The station was decorated with the usual painted statues and potted bougainvillea, but also old tracks recycled into benches, and sleepers into bridges over a deep ditch, leading to the stilt houses beyond. 

At Patharan, herds of marigold-garlanded elephants heralded the station, and I wished for the hundredth time that I'd had my camera on standby.

I walked to the back of the train, past First Class, and simply opened up the back door, looking out over the tracks as they whisked away into the distance.

We passed little stations without stopping; at each one, a man in starchy uniform dropped his flag as we passed and returned to his room. At most, the minute we passed, people walked onto the tracks, carrying produce or children, or in one case, a great big weapon, for who knows what use. Surely there's nothing in the scrub or the rice padi that would hold up to a metre-and-a-half metal-and-wood hatchet?

The further we got from Bangkok, the smaller the stations became, until we passed Ban Trok Khae, which was the first of many train stations that are simply tiny brick shelters with a sign - more like a run-down bus stop than anything else.

From a side door I watched the gathering sunset pick out golden stupas from the landscape, and cranes floating over waterways choked with lilies and lotus flowers. We passed a temple complex on a hill, lit up in the dusk by powerful lights, white and gold like an overwrought wedding cake. Thai people are certainly not the shy, retiring type.

. . .

In the morning, the scenery was more rural: rice padi fields and the occasional patch of bush and scrub. The karsts rose up in the distance again; it all felt quite familiar from the first trip through.

On our way to Hat Yai (around the time that my ticket said we should be arriving into Sungai Kolok), the attendant was changing seats into beds and gathering in blankets and pillows, when he started calling out in Thai, "something something something Hat Yai something." I looked about and everyone was nodding their acknowledgment, but thought, well, he's seen all us foreigners down this end, I'm sure if it's important, he'll come and try to let us know through sign language or something.

Hahaha. No, really.

Actually, I'm being a bit unfair here. He did come and check up on us. Approximately ten minutes before we reached Hat Yai, he came and looked at us worriedly for a bit. Then a neighbour took pity and translated for us: because there was no aircon or water in this carriage, we had to disembark in Hat Yai and wait for another train to come to bear us onwards to Sungai Kolok. When would this train come? Not sure, but we would get to Malaysia at about 4pm. No, 3pm. Well, maybe 4pm.

My friend and I looked at the other two foreigners in dismay - reaching Malaysia at 4 would mean missing the last ferry to the Perhentian Islands unless we were extremely lucky with transport. We asked the man if we couldn't stay on this train. Our translator explained there weren't any seats, but that he would try to find us one. We said, "We'll stand! Just please don't make us wait for another train!"

When we reached Hat Yai, the attendant came and took us and our bags to the next carriage along. He told us to wait there, but when he was gone, we thought that we might be more comfortable and have less chance of being kicked off if we were in the restaurant car. So off we went, piling our bags under the tables and sitting by the open window chatting to the other foreigners (who were at the end of a 6-month overland journey from Switzerland, so plenty to talk about).

After about an hour, during which time we hadn't moved, the attendant arrived in the restaurant car and said we could come and sit down again, so off we went again, following him to... a new carriage where all our fellow passengers were sitting. Yes, they hadn't meant "Wait for a new train", but "Wait for a new carriage." We felt a bit silly, really, for not simply getting onto the platform and waiting with the rest of them - I guess this is how tourists get a name for being difficult.

Anyway, the train finally set off again, heading into southern Thailand. We sat in our air-conditioned seats happily munching on green mango with chilli salt bought from one of the carts at the station.

Out the window, the scenery was still padi fields and small villages, the occasional rubber plantation flitting by. Wildlife too - well, mostly birdlife, really, but I did see some golden orb spiders, their bulk making them visible even from the train. Bee-eaters and kingfishers were common, and twice I saw fish eagles.

The scenery didn't change much, but the train stations did. When we reached Yala, an enormously long station, there were armed guards on the platform, and soldiers boarded our train, walking up and down the carriages talking to people for the remainder of the trip.

Thereafter, the small stations were guarded by soldiers, and were bound by well-kept metal fences, razor wire trimming the top. This being Thailand, of course, the fences weren't official grey, but were painted in bright reds, oranges and yellows.

The people changed at Yala, too - there was more of a Malay feel; women were still riding scooters, but now they were wearing tudong, the Malay headscarf. By Wat Chang Ha, mosques had become as visible as temples. The military presence grew - young Thai men in black vests and big boots, casually sporting rifles - they were set apart from locals by their paler skin, the locals being farmers and labourers.

Finally, finally, we came to Sungai Kolok, where we crossed the tracks (and by the way, I am all in favour of this method of crossing through a station - no lifts, elevators, stairs, tunnels or nasty smells in dark corners...) to the carpark to take a taxi to the border crossing, a few hundred metres away. There we left Thailand, and crossed a 50-metre No Man's Land, which spanned a small river - which, incidentally, was being crossed without any restrictions by the villagers who lived on either side :)

On the other side of the bridge, we returned to Malaysian soil.

Nong Khai to Bangkok

Now, Customs & Immigration is never much fun - certainly in Africa it is a nightmare of to-ing and fro-ing, queuing, forms, and, if you're unlucky, a bit of bribery and corruption. My abiding memory of Beitbridge on the SA-Zimbabwe border is of 8-hour waits in 45° heat. Airports are, of course, marginally better - if only because of the wait time (I think a regular 8-hour wait at Heathrow would probably bring down the government) - but train borders have got to be the best. You get off the train with about 20 other people, you wander over to a counter for your stamp, and then you get back on your train, or a new one of a different nationality. Either way, it's a matter of minutes - sometimes you don't even leave your seat.

Of course, the Law of Sod dictates that should you actually express this delight, something bad will happen. And so it was that the friend I was travelling with needed a visa for Thailand, was not a seasoned traveller, didn't think to get a multiple entry visa, and on departure from Thailand was told she couldn't re-enter the country from Laos at the train station without a pre-arranged visa. As it was a weekend and we were rushing off north to Luang Prabang, and therefore had no convenient access to the Thai embassy, I agreed for ease to forgo the train and to take a bus from Vientiane (Laos) to Nong Khai (Thailand), where we would rejoin the train to Bangkok. On our return from Luang Prabang, therefore, we made our way to the main bus station to board a rather grubby commuter bus, over-grandly named the International Thailand-Laos Express. It took 20 minutes to reach the exit point; we complete Laos formalities, then approached the Friendship Bridge where we waited for the train we should have been on to cross, before driving over - barely noticing the changeover of sides, were it not for the warning sign.

On the other side of the Mekong, we stopped again for Thai immigration, and while I waited in one queue, my friend went off to arrange her Visa On Arrival. I was back on the bus when she cam across the parking lot, with, I swear it, terror hanging above her head in a black cloud. They were refusing to let her through. Our train tickets to the southern border, proof of accommodation in Malaysia, and a two-year work visa weren't enough to convince the Thais that she'd be leaving the country, and they refused her application for a visa. Obviously another Small Man in a Small Job. I got off to try to help, but the next minute, the conductress from the bus was dumping our bags on the tarmac, shouting "No waiting for visa! Only permit! You get back on bus NOW or we leave!" The first and only unpleasant Lao I have ever met in my life (and I fear that I told her as much...) Not sure what to do, I was torn between abandoning a woman who'd never really travelled before, at a remote-ish Asian border post, and abandoning my long-planned journey - we needed to get to the train station within the next hour if we were to be in Bangkok for the next train - it was a row of shaky dominoes, and I'll admit to a slight frustration that it was in jeopardy through no fault of mine.

The un-Lao lady was still speaking in capital letters, and getting shriller by the second, when a man came up and took charge. I said "She needs to be at Nong Khai train station in one hour." He said, "No problem, see you there." I allowed myself to be bundled back onto the bus with my rucksack, and the last I saw of my friend was as the bus left the carpark: hurrying around the corner of a distant building behind a large Thai man who had already taken control of her cumbersome suitcase. That was also the moment I remembered that we'd been delayed getting to the airport that morning because she'd left her bankcard in the ATM, and now had very little cash (and no Thai baht) with her. Yes, I know - I can't believe I left her there either... But it was done, and there was nothing I could change. I got to the train station and sat down to wait.

Back at the border, my friend was told she'd need to buy a plane ticket before she'd be given a a visa. The man who'd offered to help took her to a small shop about ten metres from the customs official's desk, where a woman charged her USD10 to print out a fake ticket from Bangkok to Kuala Lumpur for the next day. The official barely glanced at it, stamped her passport and turned away.

Ten minutes before the train left Nong Khai Station, my friend arrived on the platform. And the line of dominoes remained standing.

The train journey itself was rather dull in comparison - just more endless beauty, small villages, wetlands and temples. Ah, the shame.

The only downer was our restaurant attendant, who was touting for business all evening. The menu had a small notice at the bottom: "If you receive overpriced or ungentle service, please call -". I didn't call, but I was tempted at 5am when he started to pace the corridors, calling out loudly in very whiny Thai, "BREAKFAST TIME!"

Bangkok to Thanaleng (Laos)

We boarded our train at 8pm, about 30 minutes after a foot massage which at first made me feel like I'd just undergone major surgery, but by the time I reached our platform had me walking on air and looking forward to my cocoon.

Train from Bangkok to Nong Khai. Obviously.

Our train carried us north through the bulk of Thailand to the border with Laos - a 12-hour journey, according to my ticket; but the minute the train left the station an emissary from the restaurant car told us it would be at least 14, and would we like breakfast at our seats at 8am? Although she'd charge us a little more than we'd pay if we walked down to the restaurant, we both thought it would be worth it, and so it was. At 8am she peeked around the curtain and interrupted my scenery viewing to say she would serve breakfast now. She'd set it up at a couple of spare seats at the end of our carriage, and as we ate, another attendant removed our bedding and turned our beds back into seats. Certainly the most efficient attendants we'd had on the journey so far.

We rolled into Nong Khai nearly 3 hours late, but as it was 3 extra hours of daylight to window-gaze by, the tourists weren't complaining, and I assume the locals were used to it as they were quiet too.

The sleeper train waiting to return to Bangkok

At Nong Khai, we officially left Thailand, the exit stamp filling up the last space of the first passport page to be used up by this trip - the Lao visa would complete the second. From the passport booth we were granted access to the end of the main platform, where a short train waited - just two carriages of simple, suburban train seats and slot-down, wood-framed windows. 

Train to Thanaleng on the left, the sleeper from Bangkok
on the right.

It didn't look much like a grown-up, worldly, border-crossing train at all, but that's what it was. It's a great, big, new train, just three years old, that twice daily makes the 3.5km journey across the Thai-Lao Friendship Bridge over the Mekong River, and back. On this Friday morning it was almost empty - perhaps around 20 passengers, mostly foreign, spread out over the carriages. I sat right behind the driver, giving me a good view of the tracks, which ran down the centre of the empty road.

At the other end of the bridge, about 40 cars and trucks waited behind a guardpost for us to pass. Just a couple of minutes later we pulled into Thanaleng Station - there are plans to extend the line further to Vientiane, the capital city, but for now the tracks we've been travelling for nearly 2,200km end in an unceremonious bit of scrub bush. Which I didn't take a photo of. Yes, I was a little exhausted by the journey, and I thought we'd have another chance later on the return trip. But here's the view looking back to Thailand:

Laos immigration was pretty down to earth - despite lots of forms to complete, and a process which is fast becoming rare these days: hand over your photo, passport, forms and money, plonk yourself down on your bags and get your books out, and when a pile of mixed-up passports are shoved back through a separate window, rush over before someone else with the same nationality as you nicks your little maroon identity. Then you just walk out the station into town, like any other city railway station.

Hah, yeah, right.

No, there was once a railway in Laos, a short section of tracks down in the south used by the French to transport lumber between two rivers, but other than that defunct stretch, these three-and-a-half kilometres from Thailand constitute the only railway in Laos and they're still getting the hang of it. Thanaleng sits in the middle of an expanse of carpark, upon which three minivan taxis await the morning influx of passengers. It took 45 minutes and 400 baht to reach the central market.

From there, there being no more railway to carry us onwards, we boarded a plane for Luang Prabang. Same as my last trip, this was a small turbo-prop plane, and we were barely up in the air before we were descending again.

Hat Yai to Bangkok

Hat Yai, down in the south, is predominantly Muslim; Thailand is nearly 95% Buddhist. You already know where I'm going with this, don't you? Yep. People being what they are, southern Thailand is currently undergoing what is politely called an insurgency. Nobody seems really sure what the causes are, but the ex-prime minister made good use of Bush's Global War on Terror (or "GWOT" as I've heard it referred to by people with abnormally loud voices and unpleasant views on drugs and foreigners) to claim that this was a local front of the aforesaid 'war' (as did a number of other unpopular leaders around the world in the drive to reduce local dissatisfaction to a mere religious fervour by a few dissidents.) Whether it's a religious war or an excuse for a militarised government to go on an arms spending spree, the fact is that the area is unsettled and unsettling - the day I bought my train ticket to Hat Yai in March, there was a bomb in the city that killed 9 people - just one of 8 fatal incidents that month.

The train journey north covers about 920km, from south to north, through the narrow central isthmus - the Isthmus of Kra, which is really just a name out of a Pratchett sci-fi novel - or, perhaps even better, "The Devil's Neck". Take your pick. The narrowest part is just 44km wide, and for a fair part of our trip we could catch glimpses of the sea. The train itself was another of the cocoon sleepers - no window this time, though. 

By the time I woke in the morning the landscape was utterly changed. The only traces left of Malaysia were in the headscarves of the women in my carriage. We were well into Buddhist Thailand. I spent most of the time gazing out the window at little wooden villages and canals and golden temples. The endless monotony of so much beauty was broken up by, well, more beauty, in the form of the railway stations, which were like wooden cottages overflowing with plants and flowers in carefully tended pots. At Hua Hin, a town I want to visit solely on the basis of having seen its train station, saffron-clad monks waited on whitewashed walls beneath roofs of bougainvillea. Because, you know, this train journey wasn't romantic enough already.

As we drew nearer to Bangkok, that city of 15 million people started to make its presence known. The tiny wooden stations were replaced by shiny, empty, marble shells, some newly built in class and steel, the flowers and statues making way for rows of wooden and plastic chairs. Shacks backed onto the railway; the condos rising in the distance had had some impact on the shack dwellers: they'd patched up their shaky walls with old banners. "Luxury one-bedroomed apartment! Move in now!" Later the tracks were lined with wooden houses blending into each other, back steps a millimetre from the first track, filled with trash and bags of glass bottles and old chairs, the cast-off debris of the lives of people themselves debris. Later I heard of how they trade from tables set up right on the tracks, and the minute the sirens wail, they take everything down in a flash and retreat to the safety of the houses until the train passes. And up ahead, the gleaming spires of commercial Bangkok. Right up to the moment we entered Hua Lamphong Station our view was broken up into this disconnected foreground/background dichotomy. And then we arrived into the station and in the joy of seeing a seating area reserved for monks and the clamour of the tuk-tuk drivers and the silence of the over-modern subway tunnel we took to reach our hotel; in the rush I forgot all about it.

@Hua Lamphong Hotel was just opposite the station: perfect for train travellers. It had a great cafe downstairs, with a sort of subverted Edwardian England kitsch - which  was a good thing (the cafe, not the kitsch) as I was confined to it for the rest of the day completing a university assignment due in at 5pm GMT. Oops.

So it was only the next day that i really ventured out, and even then, I at first only made it a couple of blocks, through Chinatown to Wat Traimit Witthayaram Worawiham, or the Shrine of the Golden Buddha. It was a popular shrine, and therefore a lot of other people circled the room at the top of the steps with me, but through the crowds of hats and parasols and the occasional bowing Buddhist could be seen a serene sitting Buddha, which was, yes, golden. 

Funny story. You know how clumsy movers notoriously are? Dropping pianos and the like? Well, in 1957, some Thai movers were lifting a 3-metre, 5-ton plaster statue from one temple to another, when something happened to make them drop it from a great height. Hundred-year-old statue gets smashed open... to reveal the sold gold inner statue, the appropriately named Golden Buddha. The temple that owned it must have been thrilled with their clumsy movers. It's thought it was encased in plaster to protect it from the invading Burmese; probably a good idea with 5 tons of solid gold... It;'s a testament to the power of belief that it even got to be 700 year sold - even now, there didn't seem to be much security around, although I'm sure that changes when all the tourists leave. What there was a lot of was donation boxes - about 50 of them, arranged around the room, requesting money for everything from novitiate education to building to upkeep of statues...

...to cattle...

...to everything.

Quite liked the idea of picking your destination though! (No, I didn't pay for cattle...)

Outside the complex I stood by a roadside shrine gazing out at the traffic for a while, undecided and mapless. A man in a blue uniform saw both of these lacks in me and thought he'd rectify the matter for me. Producing a map, he asked me what I'd like to see, and in response to my non-committal mumble, sketched out an itinerary for me. As an afterthought, he added in a gem store, telling me it was a famous one, only open this week to the public and I should just have a look. Then he hailed a tuk-tuk for me (from its sitting position about ten metres away), spoke to the driver about the itinerary, which now included four separate sites, and told me, "40 baht only for the driver." This is just Rm4, or about $1.50-ish. But determined to stuff down the rising tide of suspicion, in I jumped and off we sped.

The first step was for the Lucky Buddha, stored at a shrine in some back streets, 17th century buildings standing in a lovely tree-lined courtyard, completely and utterly empty. A stark contrast with the anthill of Wat Traimit. I took my shoes off and went into the Buddha's room to find that I was wrong about it being completely empty - there was a suited gentleman deep in prayer, his keys and smartphone on the carpet beside him. I hovered at the door in a misguided reluctance to interrupt his prayers, but he turned and saw me and immediately called me in, waving aside my embarrassed protests. I sat beside him for twenty minutes as he told me about the history of the Lucky Buddha and his job in Dubai and Buddhism in Africa and his export business in Dubai and the meaning of the string floating above our heads. Apparently the royal family had been here the previous week and a ceremony had been carried out to bless them and the monastery.

Finally I took pity on the waiting driver and left - just after the praying many looked at my itinerary and raved about the gem factory on it. So. Off we went, my linguistically tongue-tied driver and me, to the gem factory where I was welcomed in by a man in a gleaming suit and guided around some glass cases showing some very expensive sapphires and rubies. When I said I really wasn't going to buy anything, the smiles disappeared and I was shown the door. Literally. They pointed to the door and said, "Okay, you can go out that way." My driver asked me to look at one more place, so that he could get a free fuel coupon. I agreed under duress. I looked at sapphire earrings. I refused to buy. I was left to find my own way out.

The next step was the Golden Mount, at the base of which sprawled Wat Saket. Built on top of the ruins of an earlier shrine, a temple sits at the top of 318 shallow steps, protecting a relic of the Buddha. On the climb up, for your entertainment, there are beautiful bells and gongs and tubs of lotus flowers.

The wat was once the tallest point in Bangkok, which is easy to believe when looking out the door at the spectacular view. The modern city dominates, but like gleaming spears of defiance,a  thousand red-and-gold temples rise through the grey concrete.

Back on the ground I wandered for a short while through the temple complex, where young monks strode about clutching books and bags, through tree-lined avenues. It was so peaceful I found myself thinking it would probably be rather lovely to be a monk here one day... If only there were gender equality, huh?

Back in the main area, as I gazed at a counter selling care packages for Buddhists to buy for the monks, it dawned on me that it was way past the appointed time, and yet my tuk-tuk driver was nowhere to be seen. After a little more wandering and more than a bit of wondering, I approached a taxi driver, who laughed and told me that the driver was long gone, looking for someone who'd actually buy the gems. Of course the fare, which I'd brushed away suspicions about, was inconsequential, and my driver had abandoned it, preferring to spend his time chasing other, more pliable tourists.

I grinned and hailed an empty cab for a trip back to my hotel.

Later I learnt that even the smartly dressed man in the temple was part of an elaborate scam to get me to buy gems at a vastly inflated price in the hopes of reselling them for a profit in my own country. The driver got 200 baht from each shop merely for bringing me there, but the big prize is tourists who spend thousands of dollars, their greed getting the better of them. In the end though, I got a free ride around the city through back roads I wouldn't otherwise have seen, and the driver got a few baht for his pains. I just wish he'd told me instead of leaving me wandering round the carpark like an idiot! It didn't put me off Bangkok, but it did make me long for the simplicity of Laos.

Luckily, I was the proud owner of a train ticket north, for that very night...

Kuala Lumpur to Hat Yai

The train from K.L. to Hat Yai departed from Platform A at 9:20pm on the dot. Again the beds had already been made up in our carriage, a second-class one this time, but in fact nicer than the first class one. The beds were arranged  parallel to the corridor, each shielded by a curtain. Once I was settled, I was in a private cocoon. A small private cocoon, but at least one with a window! Despite the aircon, sleep came a bit easier tonight, possibly also because of the length of the journey - a whole thirteen hours.

In the morning, I wake up to sunrise over the limestone karsts of Kedah in northern Malaysia.

Thailand arrives in a hurry. We draw up to a station; one end is Malaysia, the other end is Thailand.

We get off the train with all our luggage, cross back to Malaysia, go through emigration, cross into Thailand, go through immigration, then return to Malaysia to await the return of our train, which is being shortened to three carriages for the onward journey, most passengers having disembarked before the border.

Once over the barbed wire border, Southern Thailand is an odd mix of same-same-but-different. The villages have wooden houses with shutters, like Malaysia, but in the gardens are golden shrines. There are lots of 4WD pickups but outside the huddled houses, the landscape isn't of oil palms or rice padis but of thick bush.

At Hat Yai we skillfully dodge the insistent touts ("Hey gorgeous! You wan Haad Yai ride?") and walk to the hotel where I've bought a room for the night. I know we're leaving at 6pm, but I knew I'd be desperate for a shower by this point, and the only hotels that actually offer rooms by the hour are also the hotels that offer ancient massages. 

I think 'ancient' might be a codename, as the bright airy visible massage parlours only offer plain "MASSAGE!!!" I believe the ancient sort are the ones Malaysian men come for - Hat Yai is popular with them for quick cross-border trips. But my friend and I are the only foreign faces we see during our 7-hour stay here.

Sex tourism isn't the only draw, of course. There is also the Wat Hat Yai Nai - which sounds beautiful in a Thai's mouth, and is also very pretty in real life. The reclining Buddha there is the third largest in the world, apparently.

There were other buildings scattered around the complex, and some beautifully kitsch tiny statues to mirror the enormous one.

Hat Yai is the fourth biggest city in Thailand, though you wouldn't know it to look at it. This lack of visible impressiveness is not entirely its fault - with a population of 150,000 people, it can't compete on any level with Bangkok, which boasts of 5.6 million! I'm a little nervous as we board our onward train...

PS I haven't been making a spelling mistake all the way through this post - Hat Yai is the official modern spelling; Haad Yai is the older usage which is still visible on the train station, and it's actually closer to the way Thais pronounce it.