“The conductor himself turned up, like the US cavalry in an old Western, and helped us off the train.”
We’d booked tickets on the Chiang Mai to Bangkok Special Train, scheduled to leave at 9.50am and arrive at 6.55 in the evening.
Our baggage was a bit of a struggle — two large bags, two backpacks and our hand bags. We hoisted half into the overhead and shared our legroom with the rest, ending up more comfortable than that sounds. The train left right on the dot.
We were out in the countryside very quickly — dry paddy fields and scrub — and arrived at our first stop. And then sat waiting for two hours.
The American girl in the seat ahead of us asked us if that was normal. We didn’t think so, we said. Eventually we headed off again through hilly terrain and, soon enough, long winding descents down to the plains.
Heather and I entertained ourselves by calculating new ETAs.
It was as if the train was treating its timetable as an aspiration, not a target — like a politician better at promises than delivery. Every now and then we’d stop for another 15 minutes or so. Heather took it personally and reckoned the train was underpowered or on a go-slow, but I thought we’d missed our slots in the timetable and had to take what we were given.
Two hours became three, and we told the American girl it looked like we’d arrive at something more like 10.00 than 6.55.
And then: No, make that more like 11.00 than 10.00. By then we had little credibility, and when we finally disembarked well after midnight I averted my eyes.
Apart from exchanging mutterings about the train, my main entertainments were finishing off Act of Oblivion so I could leave it on the train, and looking down my nose at the petite girl across from me, with inch-long nails and an obsession with her hair, flick-flick-flicking at her iPad, playing and replaying a game of some sort, skipping forward through whatever light entertainment she was watching — and group-zooming with her girlfriends, all of them made up and pouting and tossing their hair.
The staff were very pleasant and much less narcissistic. We were entitled to free meals. They started by serving bottled water and little packets of rather nice mid-morning biscuits, which we spun out over the day.
Lunch followed, but we declined it as Heather had wisely made sandwiches of Maasdam cheese with homemade bread and relish from the Jing Jai market.
I’d asked for the bread to be cut thick, so one monumental sandwich each was enough for lunch. We consumed leftovers from the loaf with an avocado to celebrate the halfway point and a second cheese sandwich to mark our original arrival time in Bangkok.
Meanwhile the staff had brought us our afternoon refreshments. “Oh, that’s a hot dog,” Heather said, “you can’t eat that!” I asserted my independence by accepting one anyway — I didn’t want to be rude — but put it aside when I discovered that the rather warm little roll was in fact filled with some sort of jam and cream.
Given that we were going to be so late arriving, servings of hot food were brought onboard for us at an evening stop. It smelt pretty good but the sandwiches were still keeping us company so again we declined.
By that time we’d noticed that there was a train station at Don Mueang Airport, and that we could disembark there rather than continue to the end of the line — but it was only a two minute stop and we had all that luggage. We used a translation app to ask the conductor — spotlessly turned out in a well pressed brown uniform — if getting off the train would be a problem. He wrote our seat numbers on his hand, 45 and 46, and gestured — no worries.
We packed, we prepared and we fretted. What if, despite my best efforts, our 16kg bag in the overhead landed on our neighbours?
No worries really did mean no worries. The conductor himself turned up, like the US cavalry in an old Western, and helped us off the train.
We wandered dimwittedly along the platform, past the out-of-order elevator and on towards the escalator … which was turned off. Heather much later had the bright idea that maybe it was the the type that activates when you step on it. Well, interesting thought but, you know, too late.
What was on offer was a long, steep, concrete staircase. There must have been six landings but as you know I’m prone to exaggeration.
We started clattering our way down it — bang, bang, bang on each step — like the baby in the pram in The Untouchables’ train station scene, with the Untouchables waiting with shotguns and handguns for the gangsters and their book-keeper, and gentleman Kevin Costner unable to resist helping the mother and baby. If you don’t know it, watch it on Youtube, then watch the movie.
But I digress. In our case an athletic young man came bounding up the stairs from the taxi rank, yelling “Let me! Let me! Where are you going?” And bounded back down with 16kg in each hand while we descended more leisurely with our little back packs and swollen feet.
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We were soon at the hotel and in the hands of the concierge.
Check-in didn’t want a credit card. But what about room service? You just pay them. Can we pay by credit card? Yes of course.
But of course we couldn’t. Still, it was prompt, we had plenty of Baht left, and we were fed and showered and in bed by 2.00, with the alarm set for 9.00. We’d booked a morning flight Bangkok to Luang Prabang next day.
We decided to avoid the US$26 breakfasts and eat at the airport, so dragged ourselves back to the check-in level and into the arms of the concierge staff. God bless them. They were wonderful. Loaded our stuff onto a trolley and ushered us into what we’d heard was a rather utilitarian “tunnel” but was in fact a respectable, enclosed skyway that lead directly into the departure area. Turn right a little bit, and after a few enquiries by our Chargé d’Affaires we found we could check in and offload our bags then and there. All in all a seamless experience.
We decided to go through security immediately and eat on the other side. This time I remembered everything at the scanner except my walking stick, which was returned by smiling staff, happy to help the disabled.
There wasn’t a plethora of places to eat so we settled on a rather crowded, downmarket looking place where Heather had a delicious bowl of noodle soup and me an equally delicious ham, cheese and tomato croissant. We had to go to Starbucks for coffee but you can’t have everything.
We decided to leave my stick with our trolley on our way to the gate. I hadn’t needed it, it was a nuisance and I kept forgetting it. Embarkation was via bus.
On board Heather had booked us the front seats and a vegetarian meal — the same as we’d ordered from Air New Zealand. It hadn’t been long since breakfast but we still managed to force down a simple but delicious rice dish with tofu, basil, tomato and chilli. It was comfortable and competent and we thought, if Air Asia is a bus we’d gladly catch it again.
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Flying into Laos the countryside looked arid and scrubby, then hilly, then mountainous. A prominent shark tooth mountain rose to our right, then a shark tooth range.
As we descended, the mountains got closer and closer. It was like flying into old Hong Kong but with mountains. There was housing right up to the runway, most of it plain and simple. The terminal was a slightly down at heel, two storey structure.
As we taxied Heather said what I’d been thinking, “This reminds me of Honiara,” now forty-odd years ago.
Security was a different beast from Singapore and Bangkok. Less than a dozen officials. We needed a photo for our US$20 visas, and then to stand in line to get our passports stamped. The woman officer was strict with anyone who sheepishly did the wrong thing — just a simple bark to get them back in line — but I earned a smile.
We booked a shuttle bus, adjusting to the fact that one New Zealand dollar is about 11,000 Kip and there are no commas on the banknotes.
We were seated behind two girls chatting to each other, one Canadian, the other French I think. They were travelling alone and both so deeply tanned that I assume they’d been on the road for quite a while. They’d certainly been to a few places and they did let us know, particularly the Canadian. She didn’t have inch-long fingernails but she was just as narcissistic. She was loud and every second word — no third — was “like”. The rest of us just sat and listened until she got off.
I felt that maybe I was being a little judgmental until Heather told me what she thought.
As usual our place was hard to find, although perfectly placed — just across the road from the Mekong, between the Saffron and Big Tree cafes —and then we were with the smiling Mr Peng, and finally home.