As the train pulled out of the Bangkok railway station, I was riveted by the scene that flowed past my window. Hundreds of shacks – crammed haphazardly together, their roofs a patchwork of corrugated tin strips weighed down by boards and stones – wedged themselves between the tracks and back wall of buildings behind. Strewn with refuse, crowded, they were home to the men, women and children who sat on the ground, on heaps and bags, on scruffy blankets, to watch the trains go by. Through and around and on top of these shacks hopefully sprung fresh bougainvillea, brilliant with papery pink flowers, their delicate beauty a startling contrast to the black and grey and brown of filth.
When the train paused on a bridge over a fast-flowing muddy river, I watched a young boy of about seven years, perch precariously on the edge of a wooden deck to dip a long-poled net into the swirling water 15 feet below. His neon pink shorts splashed a second bright punctuation mark against the brow of boards and water. A fear of his falling clutched at my heart, despite the nonchalance of his pose.
Those first dark images lasted just a few moments. The scene gave way to tree-lined streets, thinning to countryside. I turned my attention to the bustle inside the car as it filled with passengers, looking for their assigned seat, as they dragged an assortment of bags, suitcases and parcels tied with nylon string. As our journey progressed, a steady stream of vendors got on and off at each stop, carrying beer, soft drinks and Thai whiskey in buckets of ice; cut fruit in plastic bags, doughy confections, newspapers and shelled peanuts.
At sunset, we made our way to the dining car at the back end of train, which held a collection of old tables and chairs and an basic, open kitchen. We ordered the local cheap, Thai whisky and soda with ice. Surprisingly delicious food emerged from sputtering, black metal pans: seafood salad, chicken with cashews nuts, stir-fried vegetables, all napped in their own pungent sauce. The wooden-framed windows, pushed half way down, let in thankfully-moving air and the loud rush and rattle of the train wheels, echoing off the landscape outside. Now alone except for two cooks idly chatting behind the counter, we lingered on as the golden evening light faded to black, swallowing everything except for this rocking room. Much later, we wobbled back to find our seats had been converted to upper and lower single bunks, each tightly wrapped in clean white sheets.