We’re on the train, rocking our way towards Bangkok in the most literal rather than musical sense. Bangkok will be our last stop and this penultimate post, my last narrative about our journey, makes the end of our trip seem very close.
The verdant green of the rice paddies, the prancing egrets and the swooping cranes (Herons? Whatever. They’re HUGE.) – they’re all making me feel simultaneously restless and reminiscent. I am resisting the urge to take photographs from the walkways joining the carriages.
I went for a walk to explore the other carriages. Should’ve counted the number of curious stares. Counting the two of us, there are four white faces onboard; the other two are sleeping and oblivious, making ours the only two white faces likely to be seen around the cars. The end of the last carriage held six or eight monks, most of whom watched my progress into their territory with great interest. Maybe I should’ve covered my shoulders. Or not worn a shirt with a giant Buddha face on it. Maybe they were just wondering why anyone would wear a shirt with a giant Buddha face on it. Hmph.
At one stage during my walk, the carriage rocked violently and my balance failed. I reached behind me for the side wall to steady myself and felt a hand on my arm, steadying me. Looking over my shoulder, I met the gaze of a man who was smiling but concerned. I turned and looked down beside him and saw the youngest member of his family, not yet two feet long, stretched out and wriggling on the bench directly where my capacious rump would’ve landed, had my balance really failed me. I looked up sharply, a surprised grin on my face. He grinned back. We understood one another.
There’s something captivating about train travel. Is it the novelty? the motion, so different from a bus? the comparative solitude of the rails, despite being surrounded by dozens more people? Women get on and spend the day riding back and forth – down the line, up the line – between stations, selling a variety of snacks. Fresh fruit, dried fish, drinks, dumplings. I bought some pomelo and was pleasantly surprised to learn that I like the taste of it with chilli salt. Far better than horrid green mango – how is it possible for something to taste so good in a salad and so awful on its own? Bought some dumplings, too, the contents a mystery; mostly savoury on their own, sweet when dipped in the sauce (contents of which also remain a mystery), perfect when dipped in sauce and eaten with a little piece of chilli. My guess was pork. The vendor would’ve probably said chicken if he’d spoken English. Everything is chicken.
I realized earlier this morning that this will likely be my last trip to South East Asia as a full-fledged tourist. We’ve taken so much from this region in terms of lessons and experiences that I don’t think I can return without some sort of plan to give back. I feel like I owe these people something, and not because they’re in need of charity (although some desperately are), but because they make me want to contribute something of value to their society. They deserve it. As Frances Mayes writes, “This place alters the currents in my brain waves.”
Being as our trip is so close to its end, I’ve spent a good portion of the train ride smiling at memories of our adventures: the rich taste of roasted chilli paste during our cooking course in Chiang Mai; cries of “TunatunatunaTUNAAAAAA!” in Kota Kinabalu’s wet market; the satisfaction of finding the best kolo mee in Kuching’s tourist centre; the games of lemon juice roulette (will they have used salt or sugar?); finding corn cakes and marshmallow tacos in Sukhothai and relishing the experience of wandering its temples after dark; the childish urge to scrub my tongue with my fingers to get rid of the horrible salty-rice-and-pandan-jelly surprise in Santubong; the delight we shared with Dennis and Jana, our German friends, when we unexpectedly stumbled across an acoustic performance at The Old Wooden House in Siem Reap; gritting my teeth and smiling through my raw-kina experience in Wellington; sharing an awesome sunset in Christchurch; the awe that comes from watching orang utan in the wild; the “I never want to leave this chair” feeling at Big Wave; laughing hysterically after our photo bomb efforts on the pretty pedestrian bridge in Siem Reap; crayfish and scallops over wine and conversation in Coromandel; driving, wide-eyed, through the twists and dips en route to Milford Sound; Sunday roast “at home” in Welly. As several people have already told me, what an adventure we’ve had.
Grateful for: an understanding of “home”; a sense of adventure and the opportunity to pursue it
