tucked discreetly between stained concrete buildings. Not sights that made me regret leaving Bangkok so soon. I'm not much for sightseeing anyway. If I'd stayed a few more days, I doubt I'd have explored any further than the strip joints in Patpong.
Eventually I'd wandered so far I didn't have a clue how to get back, so I caught a tuk-tuk. In a way it was the best part of the excursion, chugging along in a haze of blue exhaust fumes, spotting the kinds of details you miss when you're on foot.
Étienne and Françoise were in the eating area, their bags beside them.
'Hey,' said Étienne. 'We thought you have changed your mind.'
I said I hadn't and he looked relieved.
'So maybe you should pack soon. I think we should arrive early for the train.'
I went upstairs to get my bag. On the landing of my level I passed the heroin mute on his way down. A double surprise, partly to see him away from his usual seat and partly because it turned out he wasn't mute after all.
'You off?' he said, as we neared each other.
I nodded.
'Heading for white sands and blue water?'
'Uh-huh.'
'Well, have a safe trip.'
'I'll try.'
He smiled. 'Of course you'll try to have a safe trip. I'm saying, actually have one.'
It's Life Jim, But Not As We Know It
We took the night train south from Bangkok, first class. A waiter served a cheap meal of good food at the table, which at night flipped up to reveal spotless bunk-beds. At Surat Thani we got off the train and took a bus to Don Sak. From there we caught the Songserm ferry, straight to the pier at Na Thon. That was how we got to Ko Samui.
I only felt able to relax once I'd shut the curtains to my bunk-bed, and cut myself off from the rest of the train. More to the point, cut myself off from Étienne and Françoise. Things had been awkward since leaving the guest-house. It wasn't that they were getting on my nerves, just that the reality of our undertaking was sinking in. Also, I was remembering that we were virtual strangers - something I'd forgotten in the excitement of our quick decision. I'm sure they were feeling the same, which is why their attempts at conversation were as limited as mine.
I lay on my back with my hands behind my head, content in the knowledge that the muffled sound of the wheels on the tracks and the rocking movement of the carriage would soon send me to sleep.
Most people find it easy to sleep on trains, but for me it's particularly easy. In fact, I find it almost impossible to stay awake. I grew up in a house that backed on to a train line and night-time was when you'd notice the trains most. My version of the Sandman is the 12:10 from Euston.
While I waited for the Pavlovian response to kick in, I studied the clever design of my bunk. The carriage lights had been dimmed, but enough came through the gap around my curtain for me to see. There was a whole array of useful pouches and compartments which I'd done my best to employ. My T-shirt and trousers were tucked into a little box at my foot end, and I'd put my shoes in an elastic net above my waist. Above my head was an adjustable reading lamp, switched off, but beside it a tiny red bulb gave a reassuring glow.
As I became sleepy I started to fantasize. I imagined the train was a space ship and I was en route to some distant planet.
I don't know if I'm alone in doing this kind of thing. It isn't something I've ever talked about. The fact is, I've never grown out of playing pretend, and so far there are no signs that I ever will. I have one quite carefully worked-out night-time fantasy that I'm in a kind of high-tech race. The race takes place over several days, even a week, and is non-stop. While I sleep my vehicle continues on autopilot, speeding me towards the finish line. The auto-pilot thing is the rationalization of how I can be in bed while I'm having the fantasy. Making it work in such a logical way is important - it would be no good fantasizing that the race was in a Formula One car, because how could I go to sleep in that?
Eventually I'd wandered so far I didn't have a clue how to get back, so I caught a tuk-tuk. In a way it was the best part of the excursion, chugging along in a haze of blue exhaust fumes, spotting the kinds of details you miss when you're on foot.
Étienne and Françoise were in the eating area, their bags beside them.
'Hey,' said Étienne. 'We thought you have changed your mind.'
I said I hadn't and he looked relieved.
'So maybe you should pack soon. I think we should arrive early for the train.'
I went upstairs to get my bag. On the landing of my level I passed the heroin mute on his way down. A double surprise, partly to see him away from his usual seat and partly because it turned out he wasn't mute after all.
'You off?' he said, as we neared each other.
I nodded.
'Heading for white sands and blue water?'
'Uh-huh.'
'Well, have a safe trip.'
'I'll try.'
He smiled. 'Of course you'll try to have a safe trip. I'm saying, actually have one.'
It's Life Jim, But Not As We Know It
We took the night train south from Bangkok, first class. A waiter served a cheap meal of good food at the table, which at night flipped up to reveal spotless bunk-beds. At Surat Thani we got off the train and took a bus to Don Sak. From there we caught the Songserm ferry, straight to the pier at Na Thon. That was how we got to Ko Samui.
I only felt able to relax once I'd shut the curtains to my bunk-bed, and cut myself off from the rest of the train. More to the point, cut myself off from Étienne and Françoise. Things had been awkward since leaving the guest-house. It wasn't that they were getting on my nerves, just that the reality of our undertaking was sinking in. Also, I was remembering that we were virtual strangers - something I'd forgotten in the excitement of our quick decision. I'm sure they were feeling the same, which is why their attempts at conversation were as limited as mine.
I lay on my back with my hands behind my head, content in the knowledge that the muffled sound of the wheels on the tracks and the rocking movement of the carriage would soon send me to sleep.
Most people find it easy to sleep on trains, but for me it's particularly easy. In fact, I find it almost impossible to stay awake. I grew up in a house that backed on to a train line and night-time was when you'd notice the trains most. My version of the Sandman is the 12:10 from Euston.
While I waited for the Pavlovian response to kick in, I studied the clever design of my bunk. The carriage lights had been dimmed, but enough came through the gap around my curtain for me to see. There was a whole array of useful pouches and compartments which I'd done my best to employ. My T-shirt and trousers were tucked into a little box at my foot end, and I'd put my shoes in an elastic net above my waist. Above my head was an adjustable reading lamp, switched off, but beside it a tiny red bulb gave a reassuring glow.
As I became sleepy I started to fantasize. I imagined the train was a space ship and I was en route to some distant planet.
I don't know if I'm alone in doing this kind of thing. It isn't something I've ever talked about. The fact is, I've never grown out of playing pretend, and so far there are no signs that I ever will. I have one quite carefully worked-out night-time fantasy that I'm in a kind of high-tech race. The race takes place over several days, even a week, and is non-stop. While I sleep my vehicle continues on autopilot, speeding me towards the finish line. The auto-pilot thing is the rationalization of how I can be in bed while I'm having the fantasy. Making it work in such a logical way is important - it would be no good fantasizing that the race was in a Formula One car, because how could I go to sleep in that?
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