Restless Me - The Journal of World Travel

Train Tramp

The train station in Kuala Lumpur is a cauldron. High ceilings and ruthless fields of fluorescent lighting lie on the horizon like a wheat field. I sit on a hard pastel plastic chair. Candy corroded under-bellies. I am anxious to board the train.

The foreigners are easy to locate. We are easy to locate. I scan the station looking for a connection. I make eye contact with those who see me -- each one of us stemming off into our appropriate directions. We have our own history, and need to step into the next moment.

It arrives. I am there to witness every romantic movie ending with the split of two lovers. Although I have nobody to cry after me, chasing the train as it pulls away, tapping the window mouthing, 'I love you.'

An electricity in the air crackles like an invisible storm, with the force and suction from the heavy body and reflective steel tracks reeling me in. I contemplate jumping, not out of contempt for my life, just a desire to give into the Tornado. The sounds are painful, but listen thoroughly can imitate cat calls and opera through wet speakers on a hot rainy day created all at once with jealousy and sparklers in the belly.

And it's here, empty.

There is a silenced hot rush in my ears as I step into the corridor and pass people settling into their stifling seats. I am in the air-conditioned sleeper car.

Sleeper Car!

And I have a bottom bunk. The top, too much trouble last time; I couldn't dangle the legs. To get to the bathroom I had to first straddle the ladder -- and watch out for that sway in the train, could be a deadly slip, hitting the chin on the top rung and splitting the lip.

Now, I am in my own windowed-world on the bottom floor. I have my own personal narrow observatory to the trees, a curtain I can close with Velcro, and a light for reading. I eat a big cracker, an apple-pear, and have a bottle of water at my side. I am in possession of good reading material, and a smooth writing pen. All I need.

I am being carried to Hat Yai from Kuala Lumpur.

Looks like a Japanese man next to me, probably a Malay. Who knows? There is only quiet interrupted by occasional soft murmur of mixed languages. And I'm glad to be alone, in transit. Not to worry about moving bags, or myself. Just riding, with hours of track time ahead.

In the next bunk over, two male nurses talk about their future. I fall asleep to the sounds of happy chatter, the hum of lights, and the electric bathroom door that opens on its own.

A few warming jostles in my sleep, pushes my body around the small parameters of my coffin sized space. The occasional passing lamppost fills my home with a glowing womb-like serenity through burgundy curtains. And there is nowhere I would rather be than this moment of warmth under the provided delicate blue blanket and protective metal arms.

The next day, in the company of the nurses, we chat over noodles and crap coffee in the dining car. The countryside travels before us in a Pollack blur of thick velvety banana leaves and weighty palms. Smoking chimneys and small wooden huts are hidden in their foliage. Everybody is smiling this morning, even though sleep on the train has no meaning. We have flat hair and wear the same clothes. But our eyes are filled with promise and a fresh beginning. Here in the dining car, the train pulling us towards something new, we huddle over our 'Cup-O-Noodles', the steam softening our skin. Next