Humbled

---

Have been sampling various buses and trains where the doors never shut and passengers are free to dangle out of the vehicle, jump off, or collide with passing objects. Will find enclosed transport very contricting from now on.

But more seriously, on Sunday rode the Death Railway over the River Kwai to Nam Tok, then got a bus to Hellfire Pass, where there is a memorial museum. Forgot to say what an emotional experience the Death Railway Museum was. There we were, with our bottled water, wilting a bit in the heat and trying not to get cranky while being confronted with the terrible suffering of the poor brutalised, disease-ridden men who built the railway, mostly with their hands and the most rudimentary of tools. More than 100,000 died to lay the track - one for each sleeper - and it was only used in its entirety for around two years. No comments re the futility and waste of war required.

The living conditions of the workers were horrific, the starving and exhausted men couldn't even sleep because they lay on floors of bamboo rods which jutted into their emaciated bodies. Meanwhile they were attacked by mosquitoes from above, and bitten from below by lice in the bamboo.

And there I am worrying about a cockroach in the bathroom. (Now I know what they look like, I seem to see them everywhere. When I arrived in Bangkok, Melissa could not believe I didn't know what a cockroach looked like. 'Never mind, you'll see plenty here,' she said, adding: 'But hopefully not in this apartment.')

Sunday being Anzac Day, there were lots of Australians making the pilgrimage to Hellfire Pass, which is largely funded by the Australian Government and opened in 1998 thanks to the efforts of a POW who worked on the railway and returned to Thailand to find what was formerly known as Konyu Cutting, which had almost been consumed by jungle.

It seems a bit pathetic, but the train journey was quite tiring. It ran an hour late for a start, the seats were wooden and the train and track seemed to be having a constrant angry dialogue about whether the carriages should be bounced off. After crossing THE bridge, me hanging out the door and free to impale myself on sleepers, fall into the river or grab electrical cables, we had a glimpse of the river before trundling across a baking plain.

Nearly two hours later - less than 80 km - we approached Tham Krasae station, at the end of the Wang Po viaduct where the track is supported by a 300m trestlebridge jutting out of the cliff face as it follows the curve of the waterway. Every passenger runs to the left hand side of the train to see this alarming feat of engineering and I was hanging out the door - telling myself that just because I can fall off, doesn't mean I will - there was the squealing of stressed metal and it occurred to me that this crumbling wreck of a train could easily overbalance and if it overturned and toppled into the river, well there wouldn't be much left. But it does go slowly, and obviously operations were completed as expected.

Tham Krasae is the site of a famous cave - I've seen enough stinky caves this lifetime - and full of resorts and market stalls where POW camps once stood.

We alighted at Nom Tuk, which is the end of the line these days for the Thailand-Burma line these days. Part of the track was torn up, part lies submerged in a reservoir.

Then we walked though a village to catch the bus to Hellfire Pass. There was time for a sausage, some discussion of timetables and a big pink monster bus arrived. The driver had a bucket of drink, a tv and a remote operated stereo system. He cranked up the music and we roared off.

Twenty minutes later, we alighted and ambled over to Hellfire Pass Museum. Just walking down to the pass involved hundreds of steps and much sweating. I wouldn't have lasted half an hour dragging around bits of wood and trying to claw al rockface into submission with my fingers.

At what was formally known as Konyu Cutting, there is a symbolic piece of track on the ground and visitors can walk the line - up to 6km if you're keen. I would have liked to, but because the train was so late we didn't get there until 3.15pm and the last bus returned to Kanchanaburi at 5pm. But we had a good hour at the pass, which is apparently more than you have on tours. Though they probably serve a purpose if you're pressed for time.

Floral tributes and flags were left behind by those who had attended the dawn Anzac service. Tears were not far away.

Another piece of wartime history is now a vivid experience in my mind. And I must see the David Lean film as soon as possible.

****

A word about fluid management. I don't even like to think about the C word - that's C for Cystitis. Anyone who has ever had it will know what i' talking about, that's terrible agonising burning in the fulcrum of your being, that is impossible to ignore. I've had it on and off all my life. I know drinking lots of water more or less keeps it bay. Hence the problem when moving around countries where the bathrooms are either non-existent or present challenges involving balance and hygiene.

Hot countries have always been a problem for me, the heat seems to make the big C worse but glugging down water constantly just leads to one bathroom crisis after another. (India was good for this.) Here it's damn hot - I can chug away a litre and a half of water in the afternoon easily. Though you sweat so much that nothing much ever seems to come out. Anyway, some days are good, but a long day on a bus - enough to inspire bathroom panic at the best of times - seems to exacerbate unpleasant symptoms. Maybe it's the hard seats.

Have found a travel companion called Ellie. We met on the train to Kanchanaburi. She shares many of my preoccupations - not getting sunburnt, fear of deep water and trying to stick to a backpackery budget. She's not keen on hard seats either, and is still suffering from cycling around Kanchanburi.

---