Third Class All the Way

I've never had an affinity at spoiling myself. Some have called me cheap, but I'd prefer the word thrifty. I only buy the things I need, the things most essential for a comfortable survival, and an air-conditioned sleeper train car is not one of those things. This is typically an un-American trait, and in this new-world recession Americans are learning the effects of un-adultered consumerism.

Taking a third-class train in Thailand is, without a comparison in American standards. In America trains are safe because Americans like to feel safe, even though the reality may be much different. The feeling is what's important.

I arrived at the train station early, walking past a food market, I picked up a kilo of oranges and bananas for around 2$ U.S. The train station was huddled in a back corner off the Chao Praya river. Hanging in the air, lingering like a corpse, was the constant smell of rotting sewage (in most of the third-world countries I've visited this has been the case). If you've ever forgotten to take the garbage out for a few weeks, than left it out in the rain, the smell is equal to the garbage water at the bottom. It can choke a person into madness. To make this worse I have a taste/smell aversion to this specific odor.

Last year in Mexico, I recieved, quite wonderfully, the typical traveler's ailment. Montezuma's revenge as it's known down there. As I lay in my hammock, running to the toilet every 1/2 hour, I ran past another typical sewage drain with this exact smell. Also, every time I burped, the same acidic rot spewed up from my bacteria-infested bowels; again, this same smell plagued me. So, now everytime I catch a wiff on the passing breeze, I'm transported back to that wonderful time.

Holding my breath, I ate a few oranges waiting for my train. Behind the station, spilled out over a half-block was a ramschackle community of shirtless bums, gambling and drinking in the late morning.

The train reminded me of a relic from the boxcar days of American Depression, back when jumping was still common. Rickety, rusty, and damaged, these trains didn't try to impress with aesthetics. Their cheap, community-based service their only importance in this global recession. I tried conjuring romantic images of Kerouac and Cassidy, drunk and crazy from cheap wine trying to hop one of these. Dangerous, deadly.

Inside, not much difference. Stale, drummed down wooden benches ran along the side walls facing each other. There were no assigned seats, no class reservations, but luckily no window restrictions either, as the heat of a hot Bangkok day barreled down on the baking train. A spasmadic antique fun buzzed and circled above, giving a second of respite every five. Sticky and sweaty I swatted at a fly, praying for the release of the drum brakes.

I was half-delirous by the time the train took off, but I was startled back to life by the rumbling dragon below. It bellowed as if a knight's sword had given it a blow that would kill it slow and with terrible agony. Every half-mile the bellowing ceased, replaced by a horrible metallic shrieking as the train came to a stop. At every stop, different snack merchants, selling everything from beer and sodas, to hand-sized pieces of BBQ chicken, got on. I had a coke and some roasted peanuts.

We rolled past palms dangling across rusty sewage canals. It seems that proper waste disposal is a priviledge reserved for developed nations. Luckily, our speed was enough so it didn't seep into the train bed and my fearful nose. Beyond, lay broken rice paddies and developed fields of smoke where farmers burnt-off piles of late summertime grass.

Now, writing this, I sit on the exit/entrance steps with the ground just a few feet below. There are no safety belts, emergency exits, or doors even. Nothing but common sense keeping me from jumping out. Still, I can't help but wonder if I'd live or die if I jumped.

I clutch the railing tight, as more verdant country rolls past. The doorway offers cooler, fresh air though it is tinged with carbon monoxide from the fires in the fields. I close my eyes letting the cool wind calm me. I meditate for a moment, calm and comfortable, until another bridge crossing threatens to throw me from the train. I return to my bench and let the sun wash over me again.