The unnecessary tale of a very necessary train in Thailand

Words by Duncan Koop

Four hours after departing Butterworth our train reached the end of the line: the Malaysian-Thai border. But the trial was only beginning. Most of the passengers stumbled out of the car, through the cloying heat and across the tracks into their bucolic lives. We followed the remainder and, after getting stamped at a diminutive emigration desk, schlepped our backpacks onto Thai soil. My friend Brown threw some coins to the toilet merchant and rushed in to relieve himself. When he returned, the crowd had vanished. Down the empty hallway we found a man in uniform; the first we had seen since Singapore. He stood straight in his beige, badged, buckled, epaulettes and upon hearing our question, became urgent. Firing off “ticket ticket ticket ticket,” he guided us quickly up the platform and into an office. In the corner stood a heavy ancient iron contraption that looked vaguely like an early printing press. Opposite, there was a formidable safe on ornate legs of similar era; and at three desks ranged as far from one-another as possible sat similarly clad officials. But the first thing to take my attention was the enormous golden shrine –incense, flowers and all– centred by a seven foot portrait of a large and vaguely baffled looking Thai man, hands rested on the pommel of a curved sword. King Vajiralongkorn. The Thai leading us shouted something to his young compatriot at the desk opposite the king, who yelled something to the balding man sitting to the king’s right, our left, who called something back to the young man in front of the king, who sniffed, cleared his throat and yelled something back at our guide. We were told to approach, at which the young Thai became all smile and sniff and handed us tickets for a few hundred Bhat. 

We were raced back down the platform, uniforms in front and behind now, to a nondescript desk at which a uniformed lady appeared. She raised her eyebrows and shot “visa visa visa visa!”. By this point we had caught the drift and urgently obtained a form, filled it out, and returned to her. By gesticulation she demanded we change our made-up ‘accomodation address’ to ‘train hotel’. Then it became clear that we needed further documentation. But it was entirely unclear what this documentation was. By now we had gained a posse of clamouring helpers, each asking us to perform tasks which we already had or still needed to. For a moment I shared in Brown’s laughter, before remembering the reality of the situation. I had booked a first class sleeper cabin on the train from Hat Yai to Bangkok (for 21 bucks than you very much), and for the last few weeks had been thinking of the great choo-chooing, rattle-rail, gently-turning, dining-car scene, goods-haggling from the platform, paddy-field passing, ox-braying, literature-writing, beer-clinking, mystery acquaintance-making 16 hour trip through southern Thailand. All that remained was to get from this border outpost one hour north to Hat Yai. I’m against busses on principle, especially with the road rules (or lack thereof) over here, and you would be too if you had to spend 17 hours on one. 

A small man at my shoulder wearing a polo and thongs, water bottle in hand, asked if we would “be ready soon?” I ignored him out of general frustration, and, to be frank, had an impulse to tell him to bugger off. Yet when it became clear that we would not be ready soon, it was this casual character who sauntered out onto the platform where our train thrummed impatiently. With a glimmer look in his eye (I swear), he signalled the train to leave. As it pulled away, the people surrounding us drifted off like a dozen demystified disciples. We collapsed on a steel bench, thwarted. Well, to hell with it!: We had been beaten at Butterworth too, before (in a truly Around South East Asia in 12 Days moment) we realised that Thailand was an hour behind Malaysia and we would in fact make the connecting service to the border, by five minutes. 

So, after we got all ten digits scanned, faces photographed and passports stamped, we marched defiantly back to the King’s office to see if nothing could be done. We stood for a time in the middle of a three-way shouting match, coated in that membrane of sweat that exists in spite of the multitude of fans and air-conditioners. The young man in front of the king turned to face us and with much sniffing and false-starting informed us through two unqualified translators that another train would be coming, but was not picking up passengers. We would have to wait until evening for the next train to Hat Yai. I asked whether this train didn’t go all the way through to Bangkok. More shouting, some throat clearing and a “yes,” it apparently picked up several sleeper cars at Hat Yai. I produced our receipt for the tickets we were to pick up in Hat Yai entitling us to a room in one of those cars, and Brown negotiated with great subtlety and élan. He sniffed and asked, politely this time, a question of the one old man, in plain uniform, who had sat silent for the entire uproar. This unflappable silver head thought for a moment, shrugged slightly, and responded to an utterly attentive room with the monotone of authority. I wondered if his power came from the splendid figure in oil behind him, as from the weight of a hierarchy that went so far up it may have been a celestial object, capable of obliterating on impact the best laid plans of man and citizen. At this reply our man turned back to us, held us in suspense for a minute, and smiled.

You can bet we ran a fair clip back and forth on the platform at Hat Yai too –what with that episode involving the ticket-printer and the lizard. But eventually we made that train, and it was spectacular. Busses really are no good, trust me. You need only wake up as the orange orb slips out from behind ridging mountains towering over rice fields, and go to watch the cranes riding their oxen from the lowest step between cars, where the vegetation whips at your shoes and the breeze washes away your sleep to understand this.