Steadily the train moves northward along clacking tracks. The thirty minute delay has cost us the sunset view while leaving Bangkok; disappointed, we settle for gazing out on silhouettes of corrugated-tin shanties gleaming gold here and there with the shine of lamplight; past the shanties, the bustling streets move with traffic, and periodically we pass markets of smoking food vendors; and after a while Bangkok’s towering skyline recedes, leaving naught but dark concrete towns and train stops to gaze down upon. It takes little time to discern that the famed night train between Bangkok and Chiang Mai caters mostly to the Western crowd: pasty travelers on vacation to see the two most well known cities in Thailand. Rail Caucasia we call it. K.C. and I sit across from each other, sticky and reeking, hair matted and salty, a deck of cards between us. Immediately across from us is an American couple keen on rock-climbing; they are friendly and we speak with them most of the evening, talking about travel plans and swapping stories. A Dutch family with young children occupies the seats near us and they speak with us also; their kids are funny and remarkably well behaved. Beyond them, a group of American backpackers carry on loudly with their game of hearts and play Slightly Stoopid songs on a small speaker they carry with them. I have no desire to engage them. Anyone who has traveled knows the conceit that flares whenever you come across tourists you disdain. The loud, the rude, the drunk, the ignorant, the impatient; the obnoxious tourist takes many forms. And it's damned hard not to resent them, to distance yourself from them, and to assure yourself that you are better than the loud-mouthed gaping trolls that happen to look a lot like you. It's a real struggle for me at least. After just two weeks of living in a purely Thai town, it felt unnerving to be suddenly surrounded by other foreigners. As K.C. and I had familiarized ourselves with Chachoengsao, a city of 60,000 with a native-English speaking population of maybe two hundred, we had come to accept the peculiar looks and the giggling, murmurous chatter that inevitably burst from every group of young Thais we happened to walk past. The only word we could readily pick up on was, ‘falang,’ foreigner. That takes some getting used to; to know that in public we were always the center of attention. Yet it also gives us a sense of credibility once the chatter began to subside. The second-class train is not broken into individual compartments. Instead, the seats fold and flip into bunks all down the line. The entire train car transforms into a communal bunkhouse come 8:30pm. Some of these long haul overnight trains are infamous for being practically refrigerated, they get so cold, but ours was fortunately not one of them. With the beds flipped down, there’s little to do besides climb into them and wait to be rocked to sleep. I draw the bed curtain. Laying in the semi-dark, I try to jot notes about the trip into my journal. It’s not long before I give up the effort. My eyes close. The wake up call comes early, around 5:00 or 5:30am. We’re an hour outside of Chiang Mai. Thai porters move through the car rousing us from our bunks. “Time to wake up!” they shout politely, “coffee, coffee?” “No khrap,” I say. The coffee they bring is an instant coffee, condensed milk, and grain sugar swill served piping in a little paper cup. Better to make do without until we reach a coffee shop in town. Bunk curtains swish open and bodies thump off the beds. I draw the window curtain to the side and catch my first glimpse of the north. Bangkok’s sprawl has disappeared in the night and given way to lush vegetation that covers the craggy hills. Swaddling fog wraps around the ranks of rocky green mounds; it fills the valleys that briefly open up, then close; it wafts and dissipates into the brightening pre-dawn sky. Already the area feels cleaner that the south. There’s less dirt, less dust, and less trash. Back in the train car, the scene is one of bleary-eyed confusion. People shuffle to brush their teeth, pack their belongings, snap their beds into seats, and wait tiredly for the train to reach Chiang Mai. I feel the grime of twenty-four sweating showerless hours. I close my eyes and think of soap, warm water, and coffee. Chiang Mai (New City) enjoys a much longer history than its name suggests. Since it’s founding in 1296 A.D. the city has remained the cultural, political, and economic capital of Thailand’s northern Lanna region. Relative to Bangkok, however, this city of 170,000 feels quaint. The mile long ride into the heart of town brings us rumbling past lines of dusty auto shops, hardware stores, 7-11’s, and Thai restaurants. We cross the bridge spanning the Ping River and the faces of the storefronts lift, showing off racks of jewelry, antiques and souvenirs, the ritzy interiors of hotel restaurants. The streets are all but empty at 7:00 in the morning. Only a handful of early morning commuters and the first of the songthaews, red truck taxis, have begun making rounds. Cool bracing air washes the sweat and grime from my face. My eyes open to the city as we meet the Thai Pei city gate and turn past it to enter the city center. This segment, and the entire chronicle is dedicated to my grandfather, the original Hewlette Collier Connell, MD (August 16, 1932 - January 7, 2017). I pray that his intelligence, his straightforwardness, and his wit lives on in us who succeed him. Rest in peace. In loving memory, H. Collier Connell
1 Comment
John Connell
1/10/2017 13:22:55
Another outstanding effort, Collier. I shuddered to read your vivid description of the Ugly American, which sounds a lot like your Dad in Europe in 1981. I'm always disappointed to reach the end of a new post. Please keep them coming.
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Collier ConnellA traveler gone to teach English in Thailand who is far less interested in himself than the fascinating people, places, and things I'm ready to encounter. Archives
December 2016
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