The Friday night commute to reach my wonderland that is Bangkok:
The 60-90 minute journey (depending on where I choose to get off) leaves Chach around every hour and a half (between 5am-6pm). It costs 10-13 Thai Baht (about 25 pence)
I sit with my knock-off airpods sucked deep inside my ear lobes, yet no music plays. The melodies of Thailand provide my soundtrack; the diesel-powered beast of an engine throbbing, the rusty tinny carriages rattling behind. This creaking vehicle has no doors. Gaping holes, with a ledge that nervously hovers, vibrate above the passing luscious landscape. The windows, similarly, are non-existant; their glass panes hidden inside the carriage wall leaving a sequence of rectangular openings down the length of the great bird’s neck.
A feathered creature cockoos in a bush as we glide by, its call dominating, until we encroach upon its habitat. The tired, SRT-branded chariot blasts its horn, once, twice, three times. It slows its pace and pulls into a station. To call this a station is perhaps a little dramatic. It is but a slab of concrete, designed to run the length of the train. An upward slab of grey creates a staircase and a bridge, connecting the identical slab opposite. The handful of departing passengers don’t use this facility. They scramble across the grey stones, putting their lives at risk should a train come in the other direction.
There are no benches nor kiosks, no toilets nor shops, only rich vegetation surrounds this lonely, tranquil, admirable plot. Vegetation which, if left to it’s own aspirations, would consume this drop off point, creating even more magic for easily-excitable observers like myself.