|
I have dreamt of riding the rail ever since I was a young
child. I collected pieces of model railroad sets - setting
them up in my small room - imagining myself one of the passengers.
I would lie on the floor with my ear to the ground, watching
the toy engine make its circular path around the small track.
Only the slight hiss of the electric motor and the scraping
of metal tracks could be heard as it whizzed around in endless
circles.
Growing older, my fascination with model railroads waned
and I begun looking for the real experience. I toured train
museums and ate dinner on vintage rail cars converted to rolling
dining halls. I rode the subways of New York, Chicago and
the trolleys of San Francisco. I had the opportunity to ride
the rail from Venice to Florence, Bangkok to Nong Khai and
I even had a chance to ride the historical “Death Railway”
across The Bridge Over the River Kwai in Thailand. These were
all very impressive machines complete with services you might
expect to find from a modern railroad enterprise. The convenience
and punctuality of these systems left me satisfied, but craving
more.
For over a century, the romantic sensation of rail travel
has existed. Travel by rail harkens us back not only to the
industrial revolution, but also the advent of leisure travel
among the upper crust of western society. These magical overland
journeys remind us of exotic destinations and a bygone era.
There are places around the world, however, where rail travel
remains as much a part of the local culture as it is a means
to get to a final destination. The aging tracks of Burma are
that kind of railroad.
White-gloved service that accompanied The British East India
Company is now part of Burma’s history. These days, many
travelers choose to ride the “impress the tourists”
route from Yangon to Mandalay, where upper class cars contain
modern reclining seats, dining cars and sleeper coaches. The
less-traveled routes have barely changed since Burma declared
independence from Britain in 1948. Since that time, many of
the British-built rails have not been upgraded or maintained.
When they are, Burma’s military controlled government
tends to build them with reused equipment and forced labor.
Fatal accidents are common, but reports rarely make it into
the state-run media outlets. Unofficial reports tell a rather
grim tale of the Burmese railroad system.
Nearly every local person I talked to about the train immediately
cautioned me to take the bus or the boat. They said the train
was too expensive for foreigners. Their hushed references
to government ownership of the railroad sounded more like
a silent protest. They told me that the train was slow and
unreliable. Having spent 18 hours in the back of a bus from
Yangon to Inle Lake, I had a pretty good idea what to expect
of slow and unreliable Burmese transportation.
Having spent the afternoon aboard a private charter boat
visiting the ancient city of Mingon, near Mandalay, I decided
to forgo the traditional riverboat passage from Mandalay to
Bagan down the Irrawaddy River. I asked around about the night
train from Mandalay. Thinking I could get some sleep
on the train, and save the expense of getting a room for the
night, I decided to ride the rails.
After dinner and drinks with my Burmese friends, they offered
me a ride to the train station. I arrived early so I could
navigate the maze of a ticketing counter. The depot was dark,
all signs were in Burmese and there was very little indication
that a train was even nearby. I found the only open ticket
counter and managed to mutter out the name “Bagan,”
a deserted city, from 11th to the 13th centuries -- of magnificent
pagodas and temples on the banks of the Ayeyarwady. Bagan
is one of the wonders of Asia, ,one that many believe rivals
the temples of Angkor in Cambodia.
The ticket agent spoke English just enough to sell me my
$9 USD upper class ticket, a ticket which locals pay only
$1.50 for. The high ticket prices aim at dissuading foreigners
from traveling by train, reserving the seats for Burma’s
rich and military elite. I sat and chatted with a group of
vacationing monks before making my way to the Mandalay-Bagan
bound train.
As I walked down the dark platform, I passed a countless
number of families that had built make-shift residences along
the tracks. The environment felt like a small village - people
ate, slept and worked there. The smell of diesel fuel and
charcoal stoves hung heavy in the air. Food and drink were
traded with the train passengers. As the only foreigner on
the train that night, I was more of a curiosity to the hawkers
than a potential customer. Seeing that I was clearly out of
place, a young Burmese traveler helped me find my rail car
in the pitch-black night.
As I boarded the train, I struggled to find a torch in my
overstuffed bag. The locals were having just as much trouble
finding their seats as I was. Fortunately, the British not
only left behind these aging green rail cars but also English
seat numbers. Our upper class seats were just as hard as the
ordinary class benches, but had a thin fabric covering and
pad that made them look somewhat comfortable. The only illumination
in the rail car was a single bulb dangling from the ceiling,
attached by lose wires, barely making enough light to make
itself known.
As I took my seat, I was offered bottled water through the
open train windows. The other passengers bought snacks and
sometimes entire unidentifiable meals as the train started
to slowly fill with local travelers. The family across the
aisle from my seat offered me a candle for my table. I lit
a mosquito coil in a desperate attempt to discourage the smaller
buzzing passengers from feasting on me as their late night
snack.
At 10:00, the train blew her whistle a few times to signal
our departure. Minutes later, the train lurched forward and
pulled out of the station. Through darkness of night, we slowly
made are way away from Mandalay. The city lights faded in
the distant and was replaced by a shadowy landscape of rice
paddies and thatch roof houses. I could feel the countryside
passing by, but could see no more than a few inches outside
the window. If it wasn’t for the sensation of movement
and the click-clackety sounds of steel-on-steel over the rail
joints, I might have assumed we were trapped in a dark tunnel.
Further outside of town, the train started to pick up speed.
The dangling light bulb became bright as a burning ember.
It swung violently back and forth, creating a strobe effect,
further enhancing my psychological fear that I was riding
this train to certain death. The cars rocked from side to
side with fierce motion; the train made back-breaking lunges
up and down. I tried to close my eyes, but could only see
an image of the train being pulled from a deep ravine below.
I struggled to find my rucksack where I had conveniently stored
the only device that could save me from death by rail: an
inflatable seat cushion.
The nostalgia of riding the rail was now gone, survival mode
had become my only consolation. My body curled up like a pretzel,
trying to find a spot where I could rest without flying out
of the seat. There were times, throughout the night, that
the cars rocked so violently I thought they would fly off
the tracks. Plunging to the bottom of a dark ravine was not
a settling image. During the 8 hour trip I think I had a total
of 10 minutes of anxious sleep. In the haze of morning, I
sat disoriented trying to figure out how long I had been traveling
and if I had reached my final destination. It was a little
past 6:00 am, I was alive. The train had followed her rails
like she was built to do.
Rather than waking rested and relaxed for a day of temple
climbing, I was sure I had a case of vertigo and post traumatic
stress syndrome. The memory of riding Burma’s Mandlay
to Bagan rail line will not likely fade. Photos and video
will never tell the complete story. It’s only through
first-hand experience that someone can appreciate what it
is like to meet death face-to-face and survive. The next time
I travel to Burma, riding the rail will be at the top of my
list of things to do. |
Travel Writers: The Near-Death Railway of Burma by
Michael Kraabel