Ol' Man River

Over the past seven weeks or so, we’ve done a lot of standard touristy things that embrace Thai involvement, but still mostly cater towards western visitors. This weekend was not one of those things. Granted, it was part of a “package deal” at a hotel where all activities and meals were included, but we were the only farangs in the bunch. For once, it was nice to be able to vacation without being bombarded by people trying to sell me the tchatchkey of the day. Having absolutely no idea what was going on was a small price to pay.

This whole adventure took place in Kanchanaburi province, in central Thailand. Kanchanaburi is home to the Kwai River (pronounced “kwaeh” in Thai, “kwai” means “buffalo”) and the (in)famous Bridge Over it, part of the Siam-Burma railroad built during WWII by thousands of POWs and Thai civilians. The construction of the bridge was described, albeit with a certain amount of poetic license, in the 1957 (I think? I don’t remember exactly from Wikipedia) film starring Sir Alec Guinness (aka: Master Obi-Wan. You know, the good Obi-Wan). As a result, the whistled “River Kwai March” was ubiquitous around here, leading to a serious case of “It’s a Small World” syndrome. My brain needs a “shuffle playlist” button. Badly.

Before the program began, we stopped at museum, war memorial/cemetery and finally the bridge itself. The bridge was the only part of this weekend where western tourism still ran wild. I have to say that it was a little depressing to think that a landmark constructed with so much human suffering was now serving as the backdrop to vast numbers of western Christmas card photos, but I suppose it’s unavoidable. Plus, it does bring a certain amount of income to a relatively poor area.

Ok, enough downers for this entry. Walking across the bridge, the first thing I notice is the apparent replacement of any sort of guard rails with a sign that says, “Walk at your own risk.” Let us recall that this is a bridge over a river, and a rather high one at that. Pack enough tourists on there, and moving around can get a little dicey. We didn’t see any disastrous falls, though I’m sure someone must have gone for an unintentional dip at some point. Otherwise, why would they need a sign?

Plummeting into fast moving water aside, about 15 minutes later we discovered a far more pressing reason for the sign in question. We knew that trains still run on the railroad. What we did not know, however, is that they still run across the bridge with minimal warning that they’re coming. Furthermore, the bridge is pretty long, so running to the opposite bank isn’t really an option on the table. Fortunately for us, the train wasn’t moving too fast, and we were able to take refuge on one of the lookout points along the bridge which, also fortunately for us, were equipped with guard rails. This was pretty cool, watching the train drive within three feet of us while we were waiting over the water, until the train stopped on the bridge, preventing us from…well, from doing anything. Without anything else to do, we stood there for about 20 minutes until they pulled the German backpackers out from under the cowcatcher (I assume that must be why they stopped) and the train chugged its way across.

After the bridge, we made our way to the hotel to check in, eat, and go “rafting”. Details on this part of the day were sketchy at best, and all manner of theories had been discussed among us as to what “rafting” actually meant. None of us were actually right. We put on life jackets and hopped aboard a platform of bamboo poles tied to rusty metal pontoons. This vehicle was one of many in a floatilla carrying similarly attired (though much more intoxicated) passengers, all tied to the back of a boat. The plan: get towed about a kilometer up the river, abandon ship, and float back to the docks. Knowing this, we were a little surprised when the boat pulled us about 100 yards past the dock and stopped.

To this point, all the other people on the raft had been great fun, and we found ourselves retaliating for numerous series unprovoked splashing attacks (I later discovered that the guide had been using his megaphone to tell them to “splash the farangs”, which I still think is pretty funny). So, when we stopped and the guys sitting around me said “jump”, I was the first to throw myself off the raft. The rest of the group, including Aeng, followed suit. However, as we floated away we noticed that no one else had entered the water. Turns out that they were just having problems with the boat, but the Americans were dumb enough to think that this was as far as we were going, and jumped in the river. I didn’t figure out that I’d been pranked until aways downstream. After drifting away, climbing out, and running back along the bank, we all managed to get back on the raft before it drove away. I do have to hand it to our new friends, they did know how to act.

After floating home and drying out, we went to dinner and the accompanying festivities. I wish I could explain what these festivities were, but I have no idea what any of it was. If I had to guess, it reminded me a little bit of Bar Mitzvah entertainment, as similarly dressed guys in their mid twenties karaoked and danced their way through the night. Once the show was over, we watched the “Light and Sound Presentation”, which (I’m told) described the history of the railroad as lights were shone strategically on the section of track that ran nearby. The one piece of this show I did understand was the use of pyrotechnics to mimic artillery. I also understood the reaction of the guy next to me, who after the charge went off reminded me a little of the sea captain in that “Bring me my brown pants” joke.

The following morning (this one, I’m blogging on time!) we got up again at some ungodly hour (I think it may have started with a 6), headed across the river by boat, and hiked off into the jungle. After a nice uphill climb (the pace of which seemed to imply that I’m gaining back some of the muscle mass I lost during my gastric defeat of weeks past), we arrived at what can best be described as “a really sweet cave”. This cave (again, so I’m told by Aeng) was used as a hiding place for escaped POWs who had managed to elude their Japanese captors. They handed out candles (both for light, and to appease the spirits of the prisoners, who had all been executed when they were finally discovered) and we headed off into the darkness. This place was really cool, and I don’t know that I can adequately describe it without pictures (you may address all angry letters to the Blogger division of Google Co. which is still failing to allow me to post any). I will say though, at one point, we did have to slip through a crawlspace that probably would not have accommodated many western frames. Fear not, dear reader; I, with my elegant yet compact physique, managed to slip through unencumbered and return to write this gripping narrative.*


*This statement currently under investigation by representatives of the International Hyperbole Regulatory Commission (IHRC), who purport that Mr. Hamlin’s narrative is far from gripping. We, however, can attest to the high quality of his entirely unexaggerated and rippling musculature.