Like the bamboo train for instance. We’d heard about these home-made affairs that people used on the railways, but as yet we hadn’t seen one. We’d been told there was one in Sisophon, and of all the towns we’d been through this had to be the poorest. It was filthy, the houses little more than shanties. The railway line ran through here, though, or rather what was left of it did - a single line of warped tracks that had been laid by the French in the 1920s. The tracks were so overgrown and so knackered I doubted any kind of train could run on them now. In the 1960s a train from Phnom Penh to Bangkok would take just eight hours, but in the 1970s the Khmer Rouge tore up the tracks between Sisophon and the border. A journey from Phnom Penh just as far as Battambang - about three quarters of the way - now takes sixteen hours.
It really was grim; the walls of the houses flimsier than plywood, the roofs made of rusty tin and straw. The station looked derelict, a tired old building with a minute platform and cows grazing on the line. Russ and I walked past people crouched under umbrellas selling bits of food, bottles of cloudy water: this was as poor as anything I’d seen and it was really sobering.
On the far side of the platform we found the elusive bamboo train, one of the simplest modes of transport we’d come across. Basically it was a platform made of wooden boards attached to a metal chassis. The chassis perched on a set of wheels that had been gauged to fit the tracks. The engine came from a lawn mower with a fan belt that fitted to the wheels, the whole thing mounted on a greased runner. To engage the wheels you pulled the engine back and to slow down you eased it forward again. It was ingeniously simple. Lori, the guy who drove it, told us that when two bamboo trains met, the heaviest one had right of way. Only there weren’t two any more, this was the last one in use, chugging up and down between Sisophon and Battambang carrying bamboo, rice, cement . . . anything the people wanted. With so many roads being built the trains were pretty much obsolete, the wheels were no longer made and when this set wore out, that would be that. Lori had been working the line for twenty-five years and had no idea what he would do then.
He let me drive and together we trundled through thick jungle and paddy fields and people’s back gardens. We passed little market stalls where kids yelled out trying to make us buy things. We slowed for other kids wandering up and down the line, for cattle and goats, we had to stop and move an old pushchair, and we had to slow down where the line crossed dirt roads because there were no barriers and the cars were reluctant to stop. Crossing an iron bridge that spanned the river I realised how privileged I was to have driven the last bamboo train in the country.
We went as far as the main road and an hour later crossed into Thailand. It was a sad parting, the saddest yet, and the excitement of entering another country was a little tempered. The rain didn’t help; it was bucketing down now and the world seemed very grey. Russ and I had fallen in love with Cambodia. Nick had shown us a stunning place and we were very grateful to him. The people are very poor, many living only off what they can grow, but everywhere we went we were treated with smiles and kindness.
Having hopped in the back of a
songthaew
at the Thai border, we met up with the bus that would take us to Bangkok. We were pretty jaded: Russ had been feeling off-colour, which we put down to constant dehydration and the wearing nature of travelling. Sleeping in a different bed every night takes it out of you - you sleep less and less and eventually it all catches up.
It was still chucking it down when we arrived on the outskirts of Bangkok. Nothing could have prepared me for the contrast. I don’t know what I’d been expecting but it was only four hours from where I’d been navigating palms and paddies and filthy backyards on a motorised platform made of wood. Now I was in a concrete jungle with overpasses, a sky train, office blocks and hotels, and the kind of traffic that made London look empty. We had a couple of days here to regroup and hook up with Mungo. After that we would be spending forty-eight hours travelling by train and coach to Singapore.
I wasn’t happy about this. It was bad enough racing through Thailand and Malaysia to get to Singapore, without doing so on a fucking night train. But in reality we didn’t have much choice: I wanted to sail from Singapore to Borneo, where we had a date to keep with UNICEF, and this was the only way of ensuring we’d get there in time.
At least we had Mungo back. We’d really missed him, although Matt had been brilliant, stepping into the breach at short notice, and we were sorry to say goodbye to him. Mungo had been gone a month: he looked well and said he felt fine, though he still had difficulty kneeling for any length of time. We didn’t envisage him doing that any time soon. The only signs that anything had happened were a couple of marks from the keyhole surgery. Taking up the camera again he was ready and raring to go. Ironically, as Mungo returned, Russ went home. Before we left England he’d promised his daughter Emily that he would not miss her thirteenth birthday. He’d missed her twelfth birthday on Long Way Down and this time he was flying back for her party, but he would rejoin us in Bali.
Perhaps it was a good job we were going to be sitting on a train for so long after all, though I wasn’t looking forward to it. Before we left I went to see a guy called ‘M’. Nothing to do with James Bond, he was a Thai businessman with a classic-car collection. I’d not been that keen to begin with because it was a detour, but I had an hour or so before the train and I suppose we’d taken the odd other detour along the way before now. Besides, M had a DeLorean and I wanted to go back to the future - just the three months, mind, so I could say a quick hello to Olly and the kids.
M lived in a massive, and I mean humungous, house behind a high wall and steel gates in the suburbs of Bangkok. He made his money from coffee and real estate and had got his passion for cars from his father. Even though he had a wife and four kids, M’s dad always bought a two-door and tried to cram them into that, rather than a sensible family saloon. M himself was a really nice guy. He’d got his nickname from his mother when he was a boy - when his father was away he was the only ‘man’ in the house, so his mother called him ‘Man’ or ‘M’ for short.
Built over three storeys, the house was mind-blowing, with manicured gardens, wooden walkways and little bridges between the lawns and palms. There was even a lake with its own canoe. The whole of the ground floor was one gigantic showroom, the cars kept behind glass at room temperature, a bit like fine wine, because of the humidity. M had a whole stack of Mercs, a TR3, an American Bonnie-and-Clyde-mobile with stools in the back, a classic Daimler limo just like the Queen uses and a 1972 Ferrari 246 GTS Dino, the first mass-production car Ferrari made. It was named after Enzo Ferrari’s son Alfredino, who died from muscular dystrophy at the age of twenty-four. Alfredino - or Dino as he was nicknamed - had begun work on a 1.5 litre V6 engine, though he never lived to see it built. His father fitted it in the car named in Dino’s honour, along with an alternative V8.
M had one of only 8000 DeLoreans ever manufactured, and I was really keen to see it. A classic gull-wing design, the car was made of stainless steel, which meant you had to be really careful. One dent and the whole body was ruined. M’s DeLorean was immaculate. Lifting the door I hunched behind the wheel, looking for the knob that would take me back to the future.
From M’s amazing house I headed to the station, and spent the next twenty-four hours on a train. What can I tell you? I’d had it with overnight trains and the best thing about the trip was the air-conditioned station. The carriages were compact and intimate, the food OK but the pull-out bunks pretty cramped, and after seven minutes I was bored. Twenty-three hours and fifty-three minutes later we got to Butterworth on the Malaysian Peninsula where we connected with a bus for the next leg of the journey, and a full thirty-one hours after leaving Bangkok we rolled into Kuala Lumpur. It was late evening on 19 June and it was raining. The clouds had been gathering all day and finally they let go.
The Petronas Towers helped to lift my mood, rising above an already tall city like a pair of rockets waiting for take-off. They stand 452 metres high and had been the tallest buildings in the world before being overtaken by the Taipei 101, which itself is due to be overtaken by the Burj Dubai. Architects: they’re as competitive as bike racers.
I wandered around like a zombie, the victim of another sleepless night. My bunk had been far too narrow and I think I snatched only twenty minutes’ sleep. I’d had enough, and having already cancelled a second train journey in favour of a bus tomorrow, I couldn’t even face that. The first thing I did when we got to the hotel was hire a car instead. I’d drive us to the marina where we’d cross to Singapore. After sorting out some issues with the ongoing journey I headed to my room, and collapsed into bed. A real bed.
22
Abandon Ship
We left Kuala Lumpur with the sun in the east and a full moon still visible in the west. Driving instead of taking the bus south was definitely one of my better ideas. I was enjoying myself, and as we left the city we passed pristine white mosques and the grassy steps of an ancient burial ground.
But before I could get too comfortable, there was the small matter of a wakeboard challenge. I hadn’t surfed for twenty years, but that was all about to change - in fact, I was about to wakeboard right over the border. At Danga Bay we met Brandon, a Malaysian surf dude with black shades, muscles and a ponytail. He’d been recommended by a friend of mine and Olly’s called Catherine, whose sons Tico and Max are regular wakeboard customers. Catherine and Olly have known each other since college - years ago they travelled round Italy together trying to learn the language but mostly getting their bottoms pinched. Catherine lives in Singapore with her husband Rembrandt, and when she heard I was coming she suggested the idea.
‘So, Charley,’ Brandon asked. ‘Can you wakeboard?’
‘Yes - and I can mono-ski, too, though it’s been a while. But it’s like sex, right? You never forget how to do it.’
Brandon’s business partner Ryan arrived, thirty-five, maybe, with dreadlocks and a bandanna, a couple of Asian-style tattoos and a Native American bracelet on his ankle. He was living the dream: staying on a boat at the marina with his little dog, spending his days in the sun teaching people to waterski. He took us to customs, which was about fifteen minutes down the road. It was so simple; we just took our passports into the office, got them stamped, then went back to the marina for lunch.
The old nerves were kicking in now, though. When Catherine had first suggested the idea I thought it was a great way to arrive in a new country, but now I realised I’d not planned it properly at all. I was about twenty the last time I’d been on a board. Imagine how stupid I’d look flummoxing around on my belly amongst these cool dudes. I told myself to keep the faith, think positive thoughts and everything would be fine. But my palms were clammy and my mouth was dry.
After I’d put on a black lifejacket Brandon sat me down on the dock and reminded me of the basics. ‘Just sit in the water, keeping your knees bent and the inside of your elbows around your knees,’ he said. ‘When you feel the rope, don’t pull against it. Just go with it and let the boat bring you up.’
Christ, I thought. At this rate I won’t even be able to stand up, never mind wakeboard all the way to Malaysia.
‘Just relax,’ Brandon went on. ‘The more relaxed you are the easier it will be.’
‘Has anyone done this before? Crossed from Malaysia to Singapore on a wakeboard?’
‘Not that I know of. Hey, Ryan - did you ever hear of it?’
Ryan shook his head.
A first, then - that inspired me. Right, I thought: nicely chilled. If I can do
dolmus
I can do chilled for sure.
Before any more doubts could surface I was in the water, adrenalin pumping, the boat ticking over making a fantastic burbling sound. Ryan pulled away and I could feel the slack taken up, the waves washing over me. I kept my knees bent, the insides of my elbows pressed against them and the board edge-up. Then I was on my feet; a bit of a wobble but I didn’t lose it and we were off, the wind in my face and spray lifting from the wake.
We weren’t going straight across; Ryan was taking us to Raffles Marina, beyond the causeway where you would normally cross from one country to the other. We turned into the channel and now everything on my right was Malaysia and everything on my left Singapore. I’d fastened the boots a little tightly and was aware of a bit of cramping, but ignoring it I looked ahead and concentrated on staying upright. The engine was revving hard, the boat was kicking up surf and I thought, Jesus - I’ve come all the way from Annamoe and here I am, possibly the first person ever to wakeboard into Singapore.
I was terrified of falling because I was sure I wouldn’t be able to get up again, but after ten minutes I knew I’d have to loosen that boot, and reluctantly I let go of the grips and slid under the waves.
Ryan turned the boat and came alongside. ‘First time in twenty years, Charley,’ he said. ‘Spectacular.’
I got up again and now I was holding on with one hand, then the crook of my elbow, giving it the full works, shifting a little to the left and a little to the right instead of cruising along in the nice smooth path created by the wake. Deciding to switch feet, I half turned the board. The next thing I knew, I’d face-planted.
The wake must have caught the edge of the board and dragged it under: before I knew what was happening it was smack, face-down into water that felt like concrete. God, it hurt - not just my face but my neck and chest as well. It knocked the wind right out of me.
‘Nice face plant,’ Ryan said as he pulled the boat round again.
I was spluttering. ‘Jesus, I never knew water could hurt so much.’
‘When you’re trying to turn just relax: keep your knees bent and your back straight. Don’t hunch - just work your hips and the board will come around.’