Dawn Punter

The train pulled out of Bangkok’s Hua Lamphong Station with a series of lurches and reluctant sighs, as if to remind everyone that it was getting far too old for all this hard work.

We settled into our hard wooden seats in third class. The pull-down windows, most of them broken with age, were either stuck fully open or stubbornly closed tight. Luckily, most still had wooden shutters to keep out the harsh sun.
It was stifling. I looked up and caught myself giggling loudly. Overhead, office desk fans were literally strapped to the ceiling, struggling to rotate and move the stale air around the carriage. So this is what they mean by fan cooled rather than air conditioned second class. I briefly wondered whether they were decorative, symbolic, or simply there to give us hope… or a just giggle. Only in Thailand, I thought, although Asia was soon to provide many more moments like this.
Luckily our small bags fitted under our feet. Legs tucked in, I watched the city thin out through dirt-streaked windows. High-rise buildings gave way to low buildings, then open land, and finally long stretches of green where nothing much seemed to happen at all. Just rice fields, water buffalo, and long, lazy sunsets that made the whole carriage fall briefly silent, even the overhead fans. A smile spread over my face.
It felt like permission.
Travelling by train felt very different from the hectic yellow chicken buses of our Central American trip, where time was measured in fear and potholes. It stretched it, softened it, made it less insistent. There was no rush to arrive, no sense of fast-forwarding ahead. We watched distance unfold rather than disappear, counted stations without needing to know their names, and began to understand that this journey wasn’t about efficiency. It was about movement. Comfort was clearly not the priority either, but then neither was speed, and we were learning to let go of both. The steady flow of monks in orange robes, getting on and off along the way, became a familiar glow of colour in my peripheral vision.
Hua Hin was our first pause. Coastal, unassuming, quietly comfortable. We swam, walked, ate, slept, and kept an eye out for the giant jellyfish that washed up on the beach like huge, clear plastic bags discarded by an especially careless giant. There was nothing to prove here and nothing to tick off. It was the kind of place that lets you arrive gently, easing you into the idea that this is your life now, at least for a while.
From there we drifted inland, stopping at Ayutthaya and Phetchaburi. Ancient ruins rose unexpectedly from modern surroundings, reminders that history has a way of lingering even when life moves on around it. Elephants walked home from work along busy streets, as if this were the most ordinary commute in the world. Buddha heads lay hidden in overgrown banyan trees. We wandered, half-read plaques, and sat in the shade when the heat became too much, sipping iced ginger or mint tea. It didn’t feel important to understand everything. Being there was enough.
And always the food. A constant stream of delicious meals, fresh spices and herbs, never a bad one.
The trains stitched these places together. Platforms, waiting rooms, the low hum of anticipation before departure. We learned which snacks travelled well, watched street sellers board the train to serve countless tasty dishes, then hop off again at the next station for the return journey, as if part of the train’s internal operating system. Young children sold soap, tissues, and various plastic gadgets. We learned how to wedge ourselves and our bags into unlikely spaces, and how to nap sitting upright without dignity. It was oddly comforting. Predictable in the best way.
Chiang Mai arrived with a sense of spaciousness. We stayed longer than planned, which was already becoming a theme. Days slipped by almost unnoticed. Markets, temples, cafes, wandering without purpose. Christmas crept up quietly. No frantic shopping, no packed calendars, just warm evenings, the familiar smells of garlic, chilli oil, and lemongrass, and a vague awareness that somewhere else in the world, people were rushing.
We didn’t miss those traditions at all.
Each time we boarded a train, the rhythm of travel felt even more natural. Borders no longer loomed large. We’d become experts at overnight sleeper trains, sometimes in our own cabin, sometimes in bunk beds, the steady clackity-clack rocking me to sleep, occasionally interrupted by my body reminding me that train beds are designed for optimism rather than anatomy. Nine-hour journeys passed in a blissful blur. And then there were Thai train toilets: a simple hole in the floor, the tracks rushing beneath. An experience best not overthought, or revisited mentally whilst eating dinner.
Christmas in Chiang Mai marked our last stop in Thailand. Noodles and temples by day, and a Christmas evening spent at the night market, a tasty meal followed by a local drag show. It felt entirely right.
We decided to end our month in Thailand by treating ourselves to a flight to Cambodia on New Year’s Eve. Our month’s visa was about to expire. Time to move on.
Phnom Penh greeted us with warmth and a mad rush. The city felt alive in a different way,   deeply marked by its past and complex. Catching a remork from the airport into town, I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, inhaling traffic fumes with a terrified gulp as I let out a silent scream . I briefly reconsidered every life choice that had brought me to this moment. Never since have I complained about local drivers or the sheer number of vehicles moving back and forth. Well, maybe Vietnam, but that was yet to come. Utter chaos.
New Year’s Eve arrived without much fanfare. We found ourselves sitting in the park outside the Royal Palace, eating chocolate-chip ice cream, watching families fly kites against the darkening sky. Children ran barefoot, adults chatted and laughed easily, the year turning quietly, punctuated by sudden bursts of firecrackers but no countdown. As 2015 arrived, nothing dramatic happened. No resolutions, no declarations. Just a shared sense of being exactly where we needed to be. In a park, picnicking outside a palace. Surreal, and yet perfect.
Somewhere between Bangkok and Phnom Penh, without making a conscious decision, I had slowed down. Not just my pace, but my thinking. Travel was no longer something I was ‘doing’. It was simply how I was living.
And I was only just getting started.