Third Class to Lopburi

Before making my way to India, I spent several amazing weeks traveling with my girlfriend through Thailand and then onto Hong Kong. It was a fantastic experience and one of the things that really stuck with me were the train rides. A story from the track.


Early September:

Sometimes a good book simply won’t let go of your attention regardless of where you are or what you’re doing. A few days ago I slung my 40 pound pack onto my back and listened for the sound of an approaching train to shuttle me North from Ayutthaya to Lopburi, Thailand. As I waited on the platform, I probably should have been thinking about the majestic ruins of Ayutthaya that I had just spent the past two days wandering through or the temples and monkeys of Lopburi that awaited my arrival an hour and a half up the track, but instead I was focused on Lieutenant Mellas and the Marines from Bravo Company.

I have been engrossed in Matterhorn, a novel about the Vietnam War and I have been savoring every chance to lose myself in the story. The perpetual chaos of traveling has made the opportunities to sink my teeth into the book relatively few and far between. It’s hard to justify hunkering down in bed for a few hours to read when the ruins of lost cities lie at your doorstep.

So with this in mind, I couldn’t wait for the train. An hour and a half to sit, read and gaze out the window and place myself in the triple canopied jungles, bamboo, rice paddies and elephant grass of Vietnam and perhaps coincidentally central Thailand.


Finally, the ground began to tremble and the train barreled towards me on the track. I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that my ticket cost 14 baht or roughly 45 cents. I’m not exactly sure why I was expecting relative peace and quiet on the train but that illusion was quickly burst.

The train arrived with a cacophony of screeches and moans, and the tired exhale of steam. I think most Americans have been done a great disservice. I didn’t grow up riding trains; the DC Metro certainly doesn’t count. Trains seem romantic to me and the communal, paced journeys they deliver always seems to produce incredibly vivid memories of exotic landscapes, worn-down stockyards, forgotten sides of great cities or dot-on-a-map small towns you would have never seen if they weren’t on the track.

Standing on the platform I was instantly impressed with the construction of the train. It was solid and powerful in ways cars and planes or metro cars are not. Trains are old sturdy brick houses in the midst of a forest of drywall new construction.

My awe with the train was matched with my disappointment that each car was packed. Not only were all of the seats taken but standing room was even at a premium. I turned to my lovely girlfriend, completely overwhelmed by her own pack, and started pushing her towards the stairs of the train. Up she went and I followed close behind.

Jessie was amused by the scene, I was not. Her delicate frame seemed to perfectly mesh into the car while I stuck out like a cumbersome sore thumb. With all of the seats taken, we stood in the aisle of a car next to the bathrooms as the train hurdled forward towards the next stop. This in itself was not ideal but circumstances only got worse.

I generously list myself at about 5’ 10” 170 pounds and while that is by no stretch of the imagination large, I towered over the dozens of people sitting around me. All I wanted to do was read, sink into one of the worn wooden seats and disappear into Matterhorn but instead I spent the next hour and half dodging a continuous stream of soda, dumpling and sausage salesmen. One after another they came, giving their tired sales pitch, calling out the Thai, unenthusiastic version of “peanuts” or “Bud Light” in a sing-songy lament. Up and down they went, the same passengers never buying but the salesmen still pushing forward.

I was all frowns and perspiration, Jessie was all smiles. The movement in the train car was a ballet; Jessie pirouetted beautifully and I was a bull in a China shop. All around us were sleeping Thais. They were stretched out in the most impossibly uncomfortable positions. Mothers slept on sons, brothers on sisters and strangers on strangers. While Jessie may not admit it, taking photos of sleeping Thais has quickly become her pastime. She was loving it, I was on the verge of a breakdown.

Just as I approached my wits end, a few seats opened up and I was beckoned forward by a group of smiling Thais. My pack off my back and a bottle of water in my hand, I closed my eyes and took a long, long deep breath. Just when I needed it most, Thailand delivered in its peculiar, exceedingly friendly way. Upon opening my eyes, I was presented with a dried plantain and three glorious smiles. Where there had been frustration, I found only overwhelming gratitude.



These shots are from a quieter ride from Bangkok to Ayutthaya. A boy stares back across the aisle and a monk catches a snooze (from Jessie's collection of sleeping Thais).