The train to hell

"Three days now. Three days rain came. Now it not so hot," the old man said, a big wide smile spread across his face.

We are on the early morning train to Kanchanaburi and travelling along the 'death railway' as it's now known - a train line built during World War Two by the Japanese to connect Bangkok to Yangon in Myanmar. It's construction required 180,000 romusha (asian civilian labourers) and 60,000 prisoners of war (POWs). Such was their maltreatment that the death toll stands at 92,399. 

Despite the fans straining from brackets in the ceiling and a strong breeze gushing through the wide open windows, the carriage is hot. Sweltering. At half past nine in the morning the thermometer has already struck the mid-thirties. I look at Sofia, who, like me, has just woken from a brief snooze, forced upon us by the blanket of warmth that cocoons our bodies. Her eyes are wide, they say: this isn't hot? Temperature is relative, I think.

"I hear it' been hot for a while," I say to the man, in reference to South East Asia's heatwave. It's not something reported widely in the Western press, but Asia has been under the strain of the sun for two months. The hottest and longest heat wave since the 1960s. Temperature records have been set in India, Laos and Vietnam, with close calls in Thailand, Burma and Cambodia. 

"Oh, yes. Hot," the man confirms. "The fruit, we have good fruit in Thailand. But look, all burnt." He points out the window at a field of banana trees. They are all wilted under the intensity of the sun's attack. Their leaves are black.

The day before, walking through the streets of Bangkok, had been tough on two Europeans used to the cool, cloudy, uninspiring weather of London. They say it's the humidity that kills you, and I can quite see that. Every breath was a slight strain, as though partially submerged under water. Just the short walk to the restaurant left us glistening with sweat. A small waterfall had built on my back.

"Bananas!" the man says, suddenly raising his voice. "Papaya! And there, look, mango tree."

We all sit in silence, either staring at the passing fruit harvests or at the other Thai people inside our old railway carriage. Painted green, the seats are wooden, yet covered with cushions. All of them are occupied by a sea of faces staring down at their phones or taking selfies. This is a ride for the tourists and the richer side of Thailand. Later on we would find the same thing in Kanachanburi when visiting the Bridge over the River Kwai. Selfies. Everywhere tourists hold up their phones to capture that magical moment when they stood on a War memorial. It's the same again at the graves of the fallen POWs. The museum, though, was practically empty.

I ask the man where he is heading. "Nam Tok," he says, "to see waterfalls."

He is going to the end of the line. The Thai government maintain only this section of the track - Bangkok to Nam Tok. The rest was deemed too difficult to manage, while none of the line exists in Myanmar. As well as a series of beautiful waterfalls, Nam Tok is where the infamous Hellfire Pass is situated. A stretch of track that was named by the POWs in reference to the creepy flickering reflection of the candles, which guided the men as they hacked through solid rock in a desperate attempt to meet the increasingly impossible targets set by their captors.

As I pull my t-shirt away from my sticky chest, I wonder what the soldiers and labourers who suffered and died building this line would make of us all sitting here taking pictures of ourselves and complaining about the heat. Before I do, the man speaks again.

"Rice. We have many rice. Years ago, just one rice per year," he says, referring to the harvests. "Now, with big dam, four times year!"

We all laugh. How times have changed, I think.