wanderlust.co.uk October 2019 69picked myself off
my cushion in
semi-panic,
grabbing my
camera almost as
an afterthought.
Mr Tin and his
friend whipped the
bamboo platform
off the old tank
wheels and then
pulled them and
the outboard
motor off the rails. We were just in
time. A shrill Klaxon sounded around
the bend and a heavy diesel train
clattered into view out of the trees,
swinging on the rails, carriages and
rice wagons clanking after them.
With bulldozer momentum it
lumbered past us – a few feet away –
leaving a trail of dust in its wake.
I thought of the tourists further
down the track towards Battambang,
snapping selfies as they whizzed
along on their bamboo-platform
trains, blissfully unaware of what lay
ahead of them. I hoped they’d got off
the track as swiftly as we had.
I asked Mr Tin if there’d ever been
an accident. “No. Everyone know the
train coming. No one ever get hit -
only one time a truck on a road
crossing near Phnom Penh. ”
I believed him. Trains in Cambodia
seldom run on time. Yet, like pets
waiting for their owner to come
home, everyone seems to know when
they’ll arrive. It’s a mystery how, yet
locals herald a locomotive’s arrival
like a gusty breeze before strong rain.
Empty stations begin to fill just
before the trains pull in, even if it’s
long after the scheduled departure.Riding the rail
I had made the trip to Cambodia for
the trains. Not only the Bamboo
Train, but the regular rail service too,
which after more than ten years off
the rails, had begun to roll again – all
the way from the Thai border across
the steamy Mekong in Phnom Penh,to the golden sands of the island-
studded south. The line cuts through
the rural heart of the country and
bisects the busy capital– both places
most tourists rushing between
Angkor Wat and the Indian Ocean
never visit. I took the train to find the
real Cambodia – from the sleepy rice
paddy landscapes and local towns to
the booming city. I’d discover
forgotten temples, hidden Thai and
French colonial towns, pepper
plantations, steaming rivers and
beach-fringed islands. And I’d see the
legacy of the Khmer Rouge, so easy to
miss on a highlights trip, yet so
fundamental to Cambodian identity.
I began my journey at the start of
the line – rumbling out of the scruffy
Thai border town of Poi Pet, past
parked trucks and untidy market
stalls covered in cheap Thai and
Chinese goods. The carriage was
almost empty – just me, an old man
with a chicken, and a black bin liner
for a suitcase, and a young Finnish
couple with shiny new backpacks
and the latest iPhones.
It took four hours to reach
Battambang, with a stop en route to
load the wagons behind the carriages
with big sacks of rice: newly
harvested and dried in the baking
Cambodian sun. It would go to
Europe, the old man told me, reading
the Khmer script on the bags.
“On the old train, in the ’70s,” he
reflected, “we would have to sit on
those bags. Or the bare floor. People
would hang hammocks off the train’s
side. The locomotive ran on steam.
And the toilets.... Well I won’t tell
you about the toilets but with
thousands cramming the carriages
you can guess...”
“These new Mexican carriages are
luxurious,” he smiled. “Air-
conditioning, comfortable padded
seats. There’s even space for me to
put my feet up!”
According to my guide, Mr Tin,
who met me on the platform, placard
in hand, Battambang means“Quick! Get off the
rails! Train coming!”