11  Singapore to Bangkok rail ride

Once through the Torres Straight it was smooth sailing—bright days and lovely sunsets. I saw a few birds, otherwise there was nothing except the wide dark-blue sea.

The ship’s table tennis Olympic finals were held. I attended, but I wished the crew wouldn’t treat me like a visiting duchess. When the basketball matches that were held in the swimming pool (dry!) finished, it was filled with water and looked inviting. The large Ukrainian engineer, whom I think I insulted once with a ‘Good morning’ in Russian, wallowed in it. The pool didn’t look much bigger than a large bathtub but a joker had hung a life belt on its side.

The Olympic table tennis finals were won by the divine second officer, Handsome Harry, and the Ahn Do lookalike, and the Olympic Challenge was then held between the finals winners and the two male passengers, Dave and Rick. The passengers won, but I think it was rigged as an act of kindness. I should have backed them when the captain offered me the chance of a bet.

Now the ship was slowly ploughing past many islands, Timor, Maumure, Sumba, Sumbawa, Flores, Komodo, Lombok and Bali, and I started to feel that I had been on it forever. A volcano appeared one day out of the distant gloom of smoke haze that had been colouring everything for a couple of days. The haze was coming from fires that burn every year at this time in Borneo and Sumatra.

Then we began passing other ships that were heading, like us, to or from, Singapore. One evening we had a barbecue on the deck for the chief engineer who was leaving the ship in Singapore. I got the duchess treatment again and was photographed a lot. More karaoke in the crew’s mess followed. This ship was more democratic in the way the crew and officers mixed than other ships I had been on, due no doubt to the gregariousness of our captain.

At last we arrived at Singapore, but only to an anchorage in the harbour where we spent two days waiting for a berth alongside. The ship sat rocking on a calm sea, and, without the breeze of our movement, it became hot and steamy. But there were beautiful sunsets and there was time for another party, this time to celebrate a crew member’s birthday and to farewell three others who were signing off in Singapore. Dave, Rick and I were also signing off and were told that immigration would come aboard at midnight when we docked to deal with us. What? Were they mad? Midnight! They did, but thankfully they didn’t need to see us, only our passports, which the captain had in his office.

From Singapore I planned to travel overland to Bangkok, where I knew I could get a quick Burmese visa, and then I would fly to Yangon. It had not been possible to obtain a visa before leaving home because the form required proof of arrival and a departure flight. Travelling by freighter makes dates and times movable feasts.

After breakfast we three passengers, farewelled by the crew, left the ship. Our communication with the taxi driver who took us was complicated by each of us wanting to go somewhere different, so he dumped us all in Bugis Street near the city centre. Here I ditched the blokes and as soon as I did, things improved. I found a nice security guard who directed me to the long-distance bus depot. It was close, only four Singapore dollars in a taxi. In fact it was five, but I had only four and the driver gave me a discount. Moral of the story: A woman is better off alone in Asia.

Getting a bus to Kuala Lumpur to connect with a train to Bangkok was easy. The taxi dropped me at the door of the bus company’s office and I had to wait only an hour for a bus. Five hours later I was delivered to KL’s Sentral train station. Although everyone wanted me to take a plane, I finally convinced the porter who was trundling my bags about on a trolley to show me to the train ticket office.

Only a second-class sleeper was available on the train to Butterworth that night, so I had to take it. This is the only problem with travelling without booking ahead. Malaysian trains run to Hat Yai or Butterworth near the Malaysian/Thai border. Then Thai trains take over, so it is necessary to make two bookings to reach Bangkok.

I had to wait in KL until eleven that night for the train’s departure. Checking my bag into the left luggage store, I met a couple of Aussies. I had no money to pay the storeman and the male half of the couple offered me a five Malaysian dollar note, then upped it to ten when I said it wasn’t enough. From then on I followed them everywhere. I told them it was because a man who’s willing to part with his money so freely should not be lost sight of! But actually it was just coincidence that they kept popping up wherever I was.

They went off to see Chinatown following my directions and surprisingly managed to find it. I met them again later in the station and we were in the same sleeper carriage on the train. We met again in Butterworth station, and on the train to Bangkok they had the sleepers across the aisle from me.

I did not have a very good night. Second-class sleepers are not compartments and their only concession to privacy are curtains across bunks that are tiered in rows down the carriage. Although I was tired after being awake from about 3.30 am when the ship docked, I had an upper bunk and the ceiling light shone in my face, keeping me awake all night.

The train arrived in Butterworth at 8.30 in the morning and I had six hours to wait for the Bangkok train. I tried napping in the waiting room, sitting upright on a hard wooden seat, and woke to find four locals standing in a row in front of me absorbed in the spectacle of my mouth wide open and ­dribbling. I ate lunch in a workers’ cafe outside the station where I was a novelty—‘Kangaroo!’ they called to me.

Finally the train came. A young Singaporean man and I shared a seat that converted into bunks later, his on the bottom, mine on top again. The Australian couple I had been stalking ever since he gave me money were across the aisle and a nice hyperactive young American was next door.

We arrived in Bangkok at 2 pm, two hours late. I said farewell to my friends and taxied to the Khao San Palace Hotel that I had chosen because I knew it would be near a travel agency where I could get a visa. It was an okay hotel but they don’t trust you not to skip out without paying the bill, so they made me pay up front plus a deposit in case I made off with the towels. Nice sort of people they must be accustomed to dealing with.

The Kao San Palace Hotel may have been okay but the street of Khao San outside it is a nightmare of repulsive tourist activity. I slept for ten hours. And washed!! Two nights on trains and no bathroom. Yuk.

Before falling gratefully on to the bed, I booked a return flight to Yangon with Thai Air International and arranged a Burmese visa application with a lovely girl in a travel agency at the entrance of the hotel. As the weekend was coming up, I had to pay sixty-six dollars for a fast visa. But it was painless and I had it two days later.

I spent four nights in Bangkok. The horrendous traffic makes it slow to get about but taxis are very cheap. And so is food. Drinks were cheap too but not in relation to the food. On Saturday I went to the Weekend Market. It is unbelievably big and crammed with tourist stuff, but also has other goods like fine furniture. It was much bigger than I remembered from the last time I visited, but that was a very long time ago.

I booked the Khao San Palace Hotel for when I came back from Burma, as well as a sleeper on the train south to Hat Yai. Going to the railway station to do this, the booking took a mere five minutes! Getting back took an hour and a half in the bedlam of finding a taxi and getting through the traffic.

My feet were about to do some serious walking, so I tried a fish foot massage. I put my feet into a tank of water containing thousands of tiny fish who nibbled away at them, supposedly removing excess skin. The poor little things had a hard time of it with my tough feet, which were covered in calluses from going barefoot whenever possible all summer, so I had a pedicure to finish the job. The young lady operator took to me with a scrubbing brush and sand paper, more suitable in my case than gentle little fish. I celebrated my new feet with a new pair of shoes. They cost six dollars fifty. And I found a new suitcase that walked with me instead of being dragged. I gave the old one, which was still serviceable, to the nice girl at the travel agency, who I felt sorry for after she told me they work ten hours a day six days a week and get no overtime.

I left for Bangkok airport in a minivan. I was at the airport two hours before flight time as requested by Thai. I complied, having bad memories of what happens when you disobey a Thai Air order. The last time I had flown Thai was in 1988 and though I had vowed, never again, here I was again. They proved to be more agreeable now, but they didn’t have the service of former days—no orchids for the ladies, no frills at all. The one-hour flight to Yangon was okay. There were some bumps and cloud but it was soon over.

Immigration at Yangon was a breeze and then there was the young man from Motherland waving a board with my first name on it. An hour’s drive to the guesthouse, and what a welcome I received. My room this time was way up on the third floor and not air-conned. It had only a fan, which was fine, it was cool enough. The rate for this room was twenty four dollars, one dollar less than the best rooms which have air-con and maybe even a hook or two.

I heard rain on the tin roof outside my room and, opening the casement windows, I hung out to look at it, revelling in the warmth and fanned by a cool breeze as the rain fell straight down past me. Hearing a tremendous hooting, I realised that I was directly over the train line and there, clanging slowly along to the howling of the local dogs, came the train.

Motherland’s ground floor restaurant is long and skinny and its entire eleven-foot frontage consists of wooden doors open onto the street. I sat before them eating my dinner as I watched the warm rain continue to fall softly down in the dusk outside. Now I knew I was back in Burma.

I slept wonderfully, well aware of where I was and very happy to be there. Awake early, I headed for breakfast then walked to the nearby phone shop for a replacement SIM card. They had none and sent me to the Ocean supermarket around the corner where I had no luck either. So I taxied to Chinatown where I was assured I could find one. I still had the phone I had bought last year. After trying several shops, I finally found a young man who inserted a SIM card for me that had on it twenty dollars’ worth of calls for twenty-three dollars. Not bad.

I walked about the downtown area thinking I knew where I was but I didn’t, so I taxied to the Central Hotel, had lunch in their blissfully cold air-con, then moved on down the road to the Bogeye Market. You get hassled a lot there but it’s not unpleasant. I bought a map of Burma, which proved difficult to read as the writing was so small. The Burmese must all have brilliant eyes. Then it was back for a rest—and to watch the rain again.

Dinner in the restaurant that night cost a whole three dollars, but I made the mistake of ordering a fruit salad and got enough to feed a family of eight. Replete, I retired to start reading Charles Frazier’s Thirteen Moons, which Dave from the ship had given me.

On my last Burmese trip I had travelled around the south. This time I planned to go north. I decided to take it in stages to get to Mandalay—I couldn’t face the train arrival time of three am. One of Motherland’s ever helpful girls organised a ticket for me on a bus to the city of Pyay, formerly Prome, about halfway. This was achieved with a minimum of fuss and before long I had two tickets for a bus that left at eleven the next day. She even phoned the Lucky Dragon Hotel in Pyay and secured me a room. It has become advisable to book ahead now. Burma has a problem with availability of reasonably priced rooms, so I also booked a room at Motherland for when I returned at the end of my twenty-eight days.