UNIT
13
exterior walls have been painted
with gaudy escapist murals, fan-
tastic landscapes as cheery as
illustrations from a children's pic-
ture book. The artist was one of
the prison's inmates, and these
murals were such a hit that he had
now been commissioned to beau-
tify the walls of Malaysia's other
major prisons as well.
3 Next day we caught a bus
through rolling green country to
the Cameron Highlands. At the
Merlin Hotel, set in the heart of
this cool, misty plateau, a mon-
soonal downpour drummed on
the roof and made the drainpipes
boom and clang.
4 That night we slept, content-
edly, under blankets, then
pushed on to Penang through flat,
dusty country badly in need of the
rain which, even now, was unfur-
ling like a black umbrella over
the mauve hills of the Cameron
Highlands.
5 Penang was crowded with Aus-
tralian families having a final fling
at the end of the school holidays.
We had already made arrange-
ments to cross the Thai border
next day, hiring one of the spe-
cialist operators who ferry people
back and forth in huge old sixties
cars with supercharged smug-
glers' engines. There is no bus
over the border, and taxis haven't
the documents. Two trains a day
go through, but the halt for fron-
tier formalities can take hours. A
long-tailed country boat runs
from Kuala Perlis to Satun, just
inside Thailand, but Kuala Perlis
was even more complicated to
reach than the border itself.
6 The car collected us at 5a.m.
We had hoped for one of the
extravagantly finned and
chromed Chevrolets the run is
famous for, but instead found
ourselves in a big 20-year-old
Datsun with a throaty, rumbling
engine that could have powered a
light aircraft. The driver, a
heavy-set, watchful man in a
worn aviator's jacket, set off at
Formula One speeds through
stands of rubber trees planted in
precise, mathematical rows.
Rubber, he said, was in decline
until a few years back. Everyone
had been scrambling to get out of
it but now, with the advent of
Aids and the worldwide revival of
the condom, they were all scram-
bling to get back in again.
7 In open, sparsely wooded
country walled in on one side by
hills, we halted at a roadside can-
teen for a quick noodle break-
fast. The driver took our pass-
ports into a tiny room behind the
kitchen where, surprisingly,
a languid, good-looking girl
stamped them with the Malaysian
exit permits...
8 At the Southern Star Tour Com-
pany in Hat Yai, Thailand's
southernmost town, a charming
Burmese couple sold us tickets
for the afternoon train to
Bangkok...
9 At the station an unshaven
young Dubliner carrying a back-
pack and guitar told us he was
heading for the Himalayas. He
had come over that morning in
one of the Chevrolets, his driver
boasting that certain Malaysian
snakes could travel faster than a
running man. 'They'll chase you
for bloody miles,' said the
Dubliner, 'and the only way to
slow them down is to tear off your
clothes, one by one, and throw
them behind you for the snake to
attack.'
10 The train was carrying numbers
of Thai army officers, small, dap-
per chain-smokers with grave-
yard coughs. We passed a succes-
sion of curious hills shaped like
wet sand tipped from upended
beach buckets. As the evening
drew in, clamorous flocks of
white herons began roosting in
the branches of dead trees. On
board, affable young men rushed
about taking orders for dinner, or
selling beer and fiery Mekong
whisky. We decided to break our
journey at Hua Hin, a small
resort on the Gulf of Siam; I
found the conductor dozing on his
sleeping mat in the corridor and
woke him to ask that he, in turn,
wake us at the ungodly hour the
train was due in.
n We slept fitfully. A hot, smoky
wind blew out of Burma, its bor-
der lying only a few miles to the
west of the track. Once, when
the train halted, I heard the harsh
cries of predatory birds. The
conductor, good as his word,
roused us at 3.30 and put us off
opposite the pretty Royal Wait-
ing Pavilion built for King Kama
VII, when he established a sum-
mer palace and golf course here in
the twenties. (The pug marks of
tigers down from the Burmese
hills may be seen occasionally in
the sandy bunkers.)
12 A cycle trishaw pedalled us
through the darkness to the old
colonial-style Railway Hotel, lat-
terly famous for its inclusion in
The Killing Fields. As the sun
rose we saw scores of small, sway-
backed fishing boats with pagoda-
like superstructures putting out
across a choppy, sparkling sea.
Family groups, all dressed to the
nines, processed gravely along
the beach beneath brilliantly col-
oured lacquered umbrellas.
13 We completed our journey
next day aboard a waddling little
local train that made its leisurely
way to Bangkok through tea
woods, paddy fields and groves of
coconut palms where the nuts
were being picked by trained
monkeys. The young driver's
pretty wife and baby were
aboard, seated just behind his
cab. He talked to me constantly
through the open door and, dur-
ing the numerous village halts,
stepped back to hold the baby in
his arms.
14 Then, all at once, our rural ser-
vice became a suburban service.
The countryside began to fill
with houses, and we took aboard
homebound secretaries, clerks,
merchants and severe-looking
men with document cases who
may have been writ-servers.
Entered through its back door,
the city presented a sprawling,
grimy aspect of flyovers, freeways
and smogbound traffic jams.
John remarked that it was diffi-
cult to think of this unlovely place
as the capital of the serenely
beautiful land through which we
had been travelling. He was
right, and, for a brief moment,
battling through the crowds, we
toyed with the notion of turning
around and going back again.
The Observer Colour Supplement
151