ON TRAVELLING
By: Iris P. Concepcion
I had, again, experienced a wonderful train ride two days ago, with youngsters in tudongs and kids of plain but lucid faces sitting in benches.
Kelantan, Khota Bharu, Malaysia has been improved since the last time I had visited it. The magical lights at night, softly hushed by soft glints, are now peaceful with a sustained air of Providence. I have seen newer stores that accept vouchers and sale coupons and are selling goods in bulk.
I have scouted and seen the Backpackers' Inns and found them airy and spacious with very agile and young persons off to their errands, marketing Roti burgers. Milton Hotel had been torn down for a new tenement of other pilgrims on the road. Young people are owned by people below 20 years old, offering plane rides around islands for affordable prices. These are not your average tourist, nomadic youngsters. They are frontliners in hotels, hostels and business establishments with focused eyes on receipts, accomodation facilities and easier access to roads. They go to China or Korea during their off-days, and are eating fruits as dinner meals. I have talked to a young guy from the Philippines who is selling burgers. I had a free taste of his concoction and said, as trade-off, that I could buy him a Big Mac for him to know the definitive meaning of burgers.
You enter the A&W outlet here not for its huge root beer but for its washing area; splendid dwarfian nook on washing your hands, with bursts of lavender flowers adorning its mirror. Be forewarned of the hotdog and burger patties' pictures though. They look like monsters in pans but are definitely mouth-watery.
I have scouted a new ice-cream parlor with Belgian cones the width of my arm wrist at 3 ringgit (30 baht) with ultra red cherries on top. The taxi drivers sit by the mall chairs, waiting for people on the road. One has hair all over his face like Hagrid and admitted to being friends with the chanting voice. Here, young people own the banks, stores, food outlets and are not too keen on hanging out in beaches. They earn bucks on weekdays and hide off to another country (say, Japan) on weekends.
My bus ride had friendlier men and women with strong argumentative skills, offering commentaries on the buildings as we pass by them. One temple of green make has Roman designs of angelic cherubims on the roof hanging like Nabokovian characters. The language is common, the critique on the socially conscious, adept.
This is a knowledge on scouting accomodations for less and I had been blessed to be too frugal that I ended up paying less for the best shower and water bed without grumping on a room without a window. Another young guy was hospitable enough to give me directions to the best roti dish, sitting in a corner, unlit road. At 2.50 ringgit, the fare is delectable as it is spiritually-fed. This has finally matched my Indian-inspired, Banana Leaf experience back in old Makati City, Philippines. Here, sauce is in clear pink, wrapped in readable newspapers. I just read this from a Malaysian website: this roti variety is called murtabak, a Malaysian version of the French crepes filled with meat or chicken. Manis murtabak is the sweet version. I got mine with veggie eggplants and minced meat.
Ang sarap. This is Filipino for overtly delicious.
I had at least broken the frontiers of the smug and the harried: I kidded them about their Potato Chips that are priced higher than my shower cream and Cadburry chocolates; there is no other way to parry but to accept respect to this travelling visitor who had located for them the places they could get stressed on normal days. Besides, these young 'uns are giving discounts like receding cash registers and are even to be trusted for rebates. I was given back my deposit of 5 ringgit that is exactly my fare in getting back to Sungai Kolok and Yala, Thailand without further mumbling.
I visited the Thai Consular Office but only for a brief, cursory look at the Caucasians sitting outside who looked like Vogue models. One was in a draped towel. They were animated and were watching television drama soaps for no apparent reason. I promised to return after realizing the soft brooms that had been repeatedly sent their feet; to keep the leaves off their paths. The immigration officer at the border has a newer tack; I gave him the knowing "what are you talking about" look and had won the laughable exchange via a shortened notice.
In this fresh but brief sojourn, I am elated by one reality: the Muslim community here no longer had to be entering countries in nocturnal forms, under pain of being domiciled with uncertainty. I almost shouted with joy when I saw them with their handsome passports, lining up at the border like myself and being embraced by the technology of transportation with equal dignity being accorded by the courteous officials reserved for alien visitors. Even their children in colorful Muslim garbs carry passports. I do not know why it had made me tearfully triumphant. I guess, I just wanted to give these people the respect that had been denied them in slanting prejudices. Yes, they can line up; yes, they can be trusted to travel in peace; yes, they are functioning humans just like us.
In Kota Bharu, Malaysia, they integrate well with the Orientals and Caucasians and I saw a world shrank in harmony.
This is, after all, a borderless universe.
To rewind on my train education:
This an Indian recollection, the railway track, when it was invaded by its British colonizers from where the humanity of Mahatma Gandhi was molded. Salt was then considered a prime commodity in this formerly named Kashmir country. The British controlled this particular trade to control its people.
India's railway system is fabled for its countless stories; of oppressed people reviling the colonizers. Where the Americans leave their colonized countries with specific agendas on free public schooling, the British leave their invaded lands with chugging trains that had remained old and untouched.
Thailand, a country that has not been conquered by colonizers with communism bent unlike its neighbors, has a railway system that is now caught in unbridled progress. Certainly, its rail tracks, even from its provincial outskirts, have faster engines than the first class varieties of its counterparts. From my experience, these could rival the best roller coaster rides of themed parks even if their coaches need refurbishing.
This recent trip using this transportation means brought me close to a Viper experience. This is a roller coaster ride in the United States where even the most hardened astronauts in space could experience barfing. This is how mean this machine is.
My foray into this is not exactly a new territory, chartered as I am in the unfamiliar terrains of airplane rides piloted by men who had perhaps survived air strip Khabul.
How does it feel getting caught in this cyclone as wild rivers with greeneries hover outside the train windows?
Exquisite.
I had heard shrieks from actual people in theme parks emitting gasps out of nowhere. I had silently guffawed as a consequence. It is the passengers' choice to embark or disembark at will, in places of somber settings populated by men with craggy smiles and untold stories of the past.
Sungai-Kolok now has a brochure of the railway with meaningful touches of the folklore. It is very catchy, with a picture of a train that I had seen in my readings of Hans Christian Andersen tales. Even the underneath lines invite literary allusion: "North British Locomotive Co., Hyde Park, England". Jekyll and Hyde has come to the fore even without googling the references.
The accompanying, drawn pictures are curious-looking. I was tempted to place captions above the sketches (Bangkok-Chang-mai) with passengers hitting bridges as some elbows were stuck out from windows.
Over-all, this is a neatly packaged brochure that is as good as your average cosmetic pamphlet.
I reiterate: getting inside a train is not a ride; it is an experience of transformational nature.