Wakaf Bharu to Singapore

The train to Singapore leaves at 7:20am from a little station just outside Kota Bharu, called Wakaf Bharu. It's the first time this trip that we'll be taking a day train - there are sleeper trains available on this route, but they leave and arrive in the dark, and who wants to miss out on the scenery promised by the train's nickname, The Jungle Line? Not me...

Wakaf Bharu is a fairly nondescript station. We share the platform with a lot of other people.

And also a lot of their baggage. These trolleys all belong to just one couple:

Inside, the carriage is pretty scruffy, with dirty seats and a vinyl floor that's seen better days. The windows have probably never been cleaned in their lives. It's a distant thought on the horizon from the adverts that dotted the Wakaf Bharu station - I wish I'd taken a photo of one of the posters, but I assumed I'd be seeing the real thing when I boarded. Alas, however, it's not to be: the carriage is not a gleaming spectre of transparent glass and silver steel. Oh well. It's only, what... 14 hours to go? 

The Jungle Line runs south from Wakaf Bharu, through the eastern states of Kelantan, Terengganu, and Pahang before entering the southern Johor state. After stopping at the main town of Johor Bahru (where this trip began), it will just be a ten-minute trip over the Causeway to the final stop in Singapore.

The Jungle Line's also known as the East Coast Line, but this is a little misleading, as its course runs quite far inland. The Jungle Line is much more apt, and although I spend the first part of the journey locked in a silent and deadly territorial war with my neighbour, I do manage to snap a couple of photos out the windows of the gorgeous scenery. 

I actually want to do this trip all over again, just to take proper photos! I'm aghast now, looking back, at how lazy I was on these trains... The open door between carriages was a mere couple of metres from my seat. Of course, the space around the open door was occupied mainly by leering men generally smoking, judging from the wind-defying haze of smoke, around ten cigarettes each at any one time. So not a particularly appealing spot to be.

But gazing out the window, there's lots to be seen, even if I don't capture it all. Gua Musang is a beautiful and terribly dramatic landscape of rock cliffs and caves, and as we pass near the National Park, there are Pied Hornbills, monkeys, and eagles to be seen.

And then it all stops, and mile upon mile of bloody oil palms whip past. Honestly, what is wrong with people? Who in their right minds exchanges primary rainforest and hornbills for ugly, spiky, inedible monoculture? Sheesh.

There are positive moments, though - like a family (a big family - there were eight cars in the carpark, and just one person got off or on the train) bidding fond farewell to their relative by singing and taking photos on the platform. 

Compared to Sabah, there's a proper mix of cultures here - Malay, Chinese, Indian; we pass Hindu temples and Chinese cemeteries as much as Malay ones, even in tiny villages. Just before Tenang, there's a temple for the safety of train workers. When we stop at the station for 30 minutes, I'm tempted to jump off, run back the 200m and take a photograph of the temple, which includes a small shrine to what looks like a brown ferret-like bear, but I'm glad I don't, because the train leaves after we've been sitting for 31 minutes, and I certainly don't want to be stranded without any luggage in this corner of Malaysia.

Some of the temples are quite grand, but a lot are just a few small three-walled rooms, each one housing a statue, Tamil inscribed above the entrance, dotting the edges of the plantations.

Some of the stations are lovely and sweet, little wooden buildings that bear similarities to traditional buildings in Sabah, but these are fast disappearing, and often as we departed a station, we passed a monstrosity of a new and shiny (and bland and ugly) building site. It will be a shame when Malaysia bulldozes the typical stations and opts for a standard globalised version of the railway, but what to do, lah?

It's a long day of travel without a nap in a sleeper to break it up, but eventually we draw into Johor Bahru's train station. Here my friend departs - she needs a pre-arranged visa for Singapore, so she flies home from here instead. I am continuing on to Singapore to complete the journey. The border formalities are simple - the train has almost emptied out, so just 4 border officials enter our carriage and check our passports to stamp us out of Malaysia.

And then we're off, slowly, out of the station and onto the 1,056-metre Causeway that separates Malaysia from Singapore.

Johor Bahru Station from the departing train

As we've moved downwards through the countries - Laos, Thailand, Malaysia - we've moved upwards through "development", each country considered more economically powerful than the last. But even down here in the south, heading for the most developed nation of all, the rules are lax, and I'm allowed to hang out of the open door trying to take a photograph of the two cities at night.

Looking back towards Johor Bahru from the Causeway

Singapore from the Causeway

So, are you ready for a looooong historical politics lesson? No, not really, but it is an interesting tale. I'll try shorten it for you. Singapore, of course, was a part of Malaysia in the mid-20th century. When it declared its independence, Malaysia apparently retained control of the beautiful, central, Art Deco Tanjong Pagar railway station. Train passengers therefore used to arrive here, and complete customs here, before entering Singapore. But in Singapore, land is precious - and besides, Malaysia, in a rather aggressive move, hung a sign out front declaring "Welcome to Malaysia." This wasn't the beginning of the tussle, more the beginning of the end. Singapore signed a new contract with Malaysia that would see the land Tanjong Pagar stood on return to the Singapore government. With me so far? Malaysia interpreted the contract differently, and decided that the land would return to Singapore, but only when Malaysia felt like vacating the station. Singapore moved their customs to the nondescript Woodlands Station. For a time, passengers entered Singapore at Woodlands, and left Malaysia at Tanjong Papar, leading to a bizarre situation of being able to physically occupy two countries at once. Then Singapore stopped all trains to Tanjong Papar. One-nil to Singapore. Malaysia had to move their immigration offices back to Johor Bahru, and the station returned to Singapore. I miss out on arriving at one of the loveliest and most historical stations in Asia by 11 months, and instead arrive at one of the blandest.

And emptiest - there isn't even an ATM or money-changer. Quite an odd place, really. I have to catch a taxi from the front, and ask him to stop at a bank so I can withdraw Singaporean dollars.

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!"

Persevering

Well, I got the social security number. It near about killed me. I got talking to a guy from Angola while sitting outside waiting for my turn (I got there an hour before it opened, and was 48th in the third queue...) and he was very kind; him being the number before me, we went into the office together and he helped to translate when my "Slowly please!" didn't work on the official. It took another two trips to Finanças and one to my new Portuguese bank, but by 4pm I was through. I'm now the proud owner of 8 official pieces of paper which state my right to work here, which amazes me, as every EU citizen has the right to work in any EU nation anyway. But.

At least while waiting for my number to be called, I had time to wander around the area. It's quite amazing. Cascais itself is a popular seaside holiday for tourists from all over Europe; down by the seafront, the shops all sell postcards and green-and-red teatowels, and if you speak to someone in Portuguese, they answer in English. But here, just two (steep) blocks from the centre, it's quiet and traditional, and the voices in the streets are all clearly swallowing their words. Properly Lusophone.

The next day I started a three-day induction at my new school. All the teachers are undertaking some workshops run by the British Council, which is great, and very interesting. The other teachers (1 new, 3 veteran) are very friendly, and, astoundingly, all have British and Irish accents - I'm the only colonial there. The school is in a prime position near the fishermen's marina and in the very centre of town. It's the white building on the right:


Inside, there are 7 brightly-painted classrooms off a central reception.


I start actual classes on Monday with a group of 5 year olds - as terrifying as they are cute, believe me. I've never taught kids as young, but my director is great and will be walking me through it on Monday morning. I gather from the lesson plans that should you be wandering down the road that afternoon, and happen to pause by my open window, you will be able to hear me doing something I never do in front of any sane adult: singing!

Arriving

Having newly arrived in Portugal, I spent my first night at a celebrated hostel in Lisboa - one of the best in the world, according to certain sources. Amazingly spacious and beautifully done up, and clearly having cost a great deal of money right in the centre of Lisboa, I have to say I felt more at home in my sister's sweet hostel in London, where the staff's personality is there to see on every wall and in every room. The next day I was off on the railway line down the coast to São Pedro do Estoril, a small village just 20 minutes from Lisboa. I'd found a room there online, but, regardless of the enormous pool in the garden, the steep walk to the train station, from where I needed to catch a train to Cascais where I'll be working, was enough to convince me on the first day that unless I wanted to scare small children in the streets with my scarlet complexion and wheezing, I needed to find somewhere to stay in Cascais itself. Unfortunately, Cascais being as popular with wealthy Lisboans as it is with retired Europeans, rent costs twice as much in the centre as anywhere else in the area.

Sometimes life astounds me with its inventive coincidences. On Tuesday I went into Cascais to get some paperwork done. First stop was the Town Hall to get my Certificate of Residency, which I needed to apply for my Social Security Number. Unfortunately, you can't pay for the Certificate without the SS number - a rather strange governmental catch-22. Luckily, the lovely lady behind the computer, while quite underwhelmed by my attempts at Portuguese and urging me to take classes soon, offered to use her own Number for the receipt. First hurdle cleared. Town Hall having taken less time than expected, I decided to go to the Finanças office and walked all the way there up a steep hill, only to remember, at the door, that I didn't have my employment contract, which I'd been told I would need. So back into town I went, searching for an internet cafe in the cobbled streets of the old town, but not a single one was to be found. There's another Finanças office in another nearby town which I'd heard could be faster than the larger Cascais one, so I was about to give up for the day in Cascais when, outside the train station, I noticed a big official looking building advertising its Internet Space. I went inside to find a completely free governmental initiative where I could print my contract. Gotta love Europe. On my way out, I paused to look at an advert for yoga classes on the community noticeboard, and right next to it was a handwritten note offering a room to rent. Not being entirely happy in my current place, I took down the phone number. Back at Finanças, I glanced down the street to see an internet cafe almost next door... The dire warnings of two-hour waits evaporated in the face of a wait barely long enough for me to catch my breath. And guess what? They never even asked for my contract. Typical. That evening, my telephone skills utterly deserting me in my time of need, I texted the woman with the flat and set up an appointment to see it the next day. It's ideal. Cheap, close to town and the school, near a gym and a park, in a spotless apartment with a Portuguese woman, her fascinating English-professor mum and a tiny cat. Where would I be if my Finanças information had been right?!

I'm settled into the room now, and have been to see the director of my school; I have a bank account, a tax contribution number, a certificate of residency, a written income confirmation and a local resident card. Feeling proud. Still to get: my social security number, and a health card, which relies on getting the former. I anticipate the social security application with trepidation - I need to be there by 7am to get into the queue to get a number to get into a queue to see an officer, and then I don't know if he'll see me without having the forms, which are unobtainable without seeing the officer... Portuguese bureaucracy nearly rivals Zimbabwe's! But the sun shines, the sea beckons, and the cafe round the corner from Social Security serves amazing pasteis de nata; I'm already thinking of signing up for another year!