The Bridge on the River Kwai

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Kanchanaburi is a small town west of Bangkok that is surrounded by memories of the Second World War. The town itself is nothing special, the interest lies in its history - the Bridge on the River Kwai and the Death Railway, so called due to the 15 000 Prisoners of War and the 80 000 forced labourers who died in its making. Wherever I went in Kanchanaburi there are reminders of this - the Bridge itself, the allied cemetary and the numerous museums dedicated to ensure that the events are not forgotten. I was in town at the same time as the annual commemorative ceremony, where a nightly show reenacting the destruction of the bridge. Many Thai tourists from all around the country were in town for this and every evening a night market was set up around the banks at the Bridge. The show consisted of fireworks, explosions and various sounds, and was pretty impressive. However the story told in the show was just a little different to that told in the museums - I sensed the fact that the Thai's were trying as hard as possible not to offend any Japanese tourists who were visiting.

Around Kanchanaburi there were also a number of places to visit, some nearby and others a fair distance away. Concious of this fact I decided to take a tour - which I usually am wary of doing. I should have listened to my instincts. Although there was nothing wrong with the tour, it wasn't quite right either. The guide was friendly, continuously cracking what I assume where jokes, but left you constantly waiting for the words "Free Time" to be uttered by his lips. I spent the majority of the bus journey hiding behind my seat in the back avoiding eye contact so that I wouldn't be drawn into a conversation. As the girl sitting next to me said, it felt like being back at school. Sadly I also found the time at Hellsfire Pass, part of the death railway was far from enough. Yet it was still amazing to see the deep cuttings made into the rock for the railway to pass through. The place had a dramatic impact upon me - you walked for miles along sections of old railway, concious that underfoot each sleeper was the equivalent of one man who had died in its making.

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