Monday 23 July
We sit on the modern station platform in Ipoh, with our mountain of luggage, waiting for the rusty little train which will take us to Singapore - our final train journey on this trip. A glossy, modern train glides into the station, but we know it's not ours. We're catching the same train to Singapore as brought us to Ipoh from Butterworth; it's just a continuation of that journey.
We reflect that we've loved our time in the Cameron Highlands, and are really glad we included it on our trip itinerary. Often travellers we meet say, "Didn't you go to so-and so when you were in China, Vietnam, Malaysia, etc"; we're aware that there are so many beautiful places and popular destinations we haven't managed to visit. Difficult choices have had to be made about where to go, especially as it's possible we may not return to South East Asia - not because we don't want to, but there are so many other places to see if we are fortunate enough to travel again. Reg is thinking about us cycling from Bristol to Istanbul!! :-)
Reg was able to choose where we sat when he booked this train, hence we're in seats near the end of the carriage with loads of leg room. That's helpful as the journey is 9 hours long - from 11.30 am to 8.30 pm; so it's a day journey, with customs checks as we near the end, we guess, as we leave Malaysia and enter Singapore.
This time Reg has booked Superior class, which we learn isn't as "high up" as the Premier class seats, that we occupied coming from Butterworth to Ipoh. The seats are just as comfortable - as far as we can see, the main difference is that there's a lot more people in the carriage, including a poor woman with a young baby who is crying incessantly. The other difference is that there's no free bottle of water and piece of cake. We're able to fill up our flask with boiling water in the buffet car though, which is the next carriage along, so we drink numerous cups of tea - especially as the toilets are just metres away from us, but in the next carriage, fortunately (no smells). One toilet has the "women" logo, one the "men" logo. I haven't come across that before in a train.
I write up my blog for the previous day in Open Office on the train, and am then engrossed in my book (oh dear, not my kindle - another paperback I bought in Cambodia - no wonder our luggage is so heavy). I barely glimpse the passing scenery, but when I do it's lush green forest and vegetation.
Around lunchtime Reg pops to the buffet car to refill our flask, and comes back with 2 nasi goreng (fried rice) takeaways. That with a Snickers bar each will keep us going for today. I barely notice that we pass through the "exit customs" as we leave Malaysia; it's the simplest procedure we've come across so far. No having to get off the train, no luggage searches; a woman official wearing the familiar Malaysian purdah (if you are Malay and therefore Muslim I believe you have to wear this headscarf which encircles the face but doesn't cover it - there's no burka) simply asks for our passports and writes today's date next to our immigration stamp (which notes the date we entered Malaysia) and signs it. And that's it.
A few minutes later we cross the Straits of Johor and are very quickly at our destination, the Woodlands railway station in Singapore, which is also the customs/border entry point. This too is a simple process; we complete an immigration form, our passports are stamped, and we are waved through; no-one wants to look inside our luggage. Reg is disappointed though, as he'd wanted the trainguard to take a photo of us in front of the train when we got off, as this is the final destination of our train journey - but we aren't allowed to take photos.
In the taxi I mention to the driver that I'd last been to Singapore over 40 years ago, and lived here for 3 years. This is a signal for the Indian-Singaporian driver, who was probably just a baby at that time, to chat non-stop all the way to our hotel. He tells us one thing we already know from others who've visited Singapore in recent years; there's virtually nothing of the "old" Singapore left. I might as well be coming to a different country. Some of the taxi-driver's views are interesting; I do try hard to concentrate, despite the fact that, including our journey to Ipoh station, we've been travelling for 13 hours. In the driver's view, Singapore allows money laundering; it doesn't care where the money comes from that is brought into the country, as long as it comes in. If you bring a lot of money into Singapore, you have to invest it for 10 years, before you can take it out again. The driver discusses the high cost of living in Singapore and how expensive everything is. He tells us he's moonlighting to pay for his 2 daughters' higher education; his proper job is a professional photographer.
We pass through the glitz and glamour of some of Singapore's new high rise architecture and state-of-the-art buildings; I don't recognise anything. We're really tired when we arrive at our hostel in the heart of Chinatown.
The young woman on reception is smiling and welcoming, but the young man with her just can't be bothered. There's tea available in a flask on the counter.
"I don't expect it's very hot," says the young man. I notice a kettle behind him.
"It would be lovely to have a fresh cup of tea," I venture with a smile. The young man doesn't say a word and grumpily goes to put the kettle on. We see a notice on the counter:
"Strictly no food or drink to be consumed in the bedrooms".
The young man wants payment up front but they don't accept Visa or Mastercard. Having paid the taxi, we'll need to get to an ATM to pay the hostel in full, as we only brought £50 worth of each currency with us on our travels. The receptionist agrees to us paying tomorrow morning.
He helps us upstairs with our luggage, shows us to our room, then leaves us. Reg and I look at each other, and I know we both feel the same deep disappointment. The room appears modern and clean, and sharing toilets and showers has never been a problem. But the room is tinier than a shoebox; described as twin bedded, it has bunk beds and barely enough space to walk around the bunks. There's no other furniture in the room at all, in fact there's no space for anything else. There's just enough room to dump our luggage.
Reg takes the top bunk, but the ceiling's low, and he can hardly get into bed, without hitting his head on the ceiling. The high-up air-conditioning in this miniscule room makes it extremely cold on the top bunk. The beds are flimsy and uncomfortable.
'Are you cold?" I whisper up to Reg.
"I'm alright.", he replies, in typical Reg fashion.
But he doesn't sound alright, and everytime he moves in the top bunk, I think the whole thing will tip over. It occurs to me that perhaps we're being fussy, and that we could have coped with this mouse -sized room and these rickety bunk beds better if we'd been a lot younger.
"Lets look on the internet for something else tomorrow," I say.
"Mmmm.. we'll have a look," Reg replies, a note of optimism in his voice.
It's very difficult to find reasonably priced accommodation in Singapore; it's such a tiny island, so built up, yet is home to over 5 million people, and is a magnet for tourists.
Welcome to Singapore.
We sit on the modern station platform in Ipoh, with our mountain of luggage, waiting for the rusty little train which will take us to Singapore - our final train journey on this trip. A glossy, modern train glides into the station, but we know it's not ours. We're catching the same train to Singapore as brought us to Ipoh from Butterworth; it's just a continuation of that journey.
We reflect that we've loved our time in the Cameron Highlands, and are really glad we included it on our trip itinerary. Often travellers we meet say, "Didn't you go to so-and so when you were in China, Vietnam, Malaysia, etc"; we're aware that there are so many beautiful places and popular destinations we haven't managed to visit. Difficult choices have had to be made about where to go, especially as it's possible we may not return to South East Asia - not because we don't want to, but there are so many other places to see if we are fortunate enough to travel again. Reg is thinking about us cycling from Bristol to Istanbul!! :-)
Reg was able to choose where we sat when he booked this train, hence we're in seats near the end of the carriage with loads of leg room. That's helpful as the journey is 9 hours long - from 11.30 am to 8.30 pm; so it's a day journey, with customs checks as we near the end, we guess, as we leave Malaysia and enter Singapore.
This time Reg has booked Superior class, which we learn isn't as "high up" as the Premier class seats, that we occupied coming from Butterworth to Ipoh. The seats are just as comfortable - as far as we can see, the main difference is that there's a lot more people in the carriage, including a poor woman with a young baby who is crying incessantly. The other difference is that there's no free bottle of water and piece of cake. We're able to fill up our flask with boiling water in the buffet car though, which is the next carriage along, so we drink numerous cups of tea - especially as the toilets are just metres away from us, but in the next carriage, fortunately (no smells). One toilet has the "women" logo, one the "men" logo. I haven't come across that before in a train.
I write up my blog for the previous day in Open Office on the train, and am then engrossed in my book (oh dear, not my kindle - another paperback I bought in Cambodia - no wonder our luggage is so heavy). I barely glimpse the passing scenery, but when I do it's lush green forest and vegetation.
Around lunchtime Reg pops to the buffet car to refill our flask, and comes back with 2 nasi goreng (fried rice) takeaways. That with a Snickers bar each will keep us going for today. I barely notice that we pass through the "exit customs" as we leave Malaysia; it's the simplest procedure we've come across so far. No having to get off the train, no luggage searches; a woman official wearing the familiar Malaysian purdah (if you are Malay and therefore Muslim I believe you have to wear this headscarf which encircles the face but doesn't cover it - there's no burka) simply asks for our passports and writes today's date next to our immigration stamp (which notes the date we entered Malaysia) and signs it. And that's it.
A few minutes later we cross the Straits of Johor and are very quickly at our destination, the Woodlands railway station in Singapore, which is also the customs/border entry point. This too is a simple process; we complete an immigration form, our passports are stamped, and we are waved through; no-one wants to look inside our luggage. Reg is disappointed though, as he'd wanted the trainguard to take a photo of us in front of the train when we got off, as this is the final destination of our train journey - but we aren't allowed to take photos.
In the taxi I mention to the driver that I'd last been to Singapore over 40 years ago, and lived here for 3 years. This is a signal for the Indian-Singaporian driver, who was probably just a baby at that time, to chat non-stop all the way to our hotel. He tells us one thing we already know from others who've visited Singapore in recent years; there's virtually nothing of the "old" Singapore left. I might as well be coming to a different country. Some of the taxi-driver's views are interesting; I do try hard to concentrate, despite the fact that, including our journey to Ipoh station, we've been travelling for 13 hours. In the driver's view, Singapore allows money laundering; it doesn't care where the money comes from that is brought into the country, as long as it comes in. If you bring a lot of money into Singapore, you have to invest it for 10 years, before you can take it out again. The driver discusses the high cost of living in Singapore and how expensive everything is. He tells us he's moonlighting to pay for his 2 daughters' higher education; his proper job is a professional photographer.
We pass through the glitz and glamour of some of Singapore's new high rise architecture and state-of-the-art buildings; I don't recognise anything. We're really tired when we arrive at our hostel in the heart of Chinatown.
The young woman on reception is smiling and welcoming, but the young man with her just can't be bothered. There's tea available in a flask on the counter.
"I don't expect it's very hot," says the young man. I notice a kettle behind him.
"It would be lovely to have a fresh cup of tea," I venture with a smile. The young man doesn't say a word and grumpily goes to put the kettle on. We see a notice on the counter:
"Strictly no food or drink to be consumed in the bedrooms".
The young man wants payment up front but they don't accept Visa or Mastercard. Having paid the taxi, we'll need to get to an ATM to pay the hostel in full, as we only brought £50 worth of each currency with us on our travels. The receptionist agrees to us paying tomorrow morning.
He helps us upstairs with our luggage, shows us to our room, then leaves us. Reg and I look at each other, and I know we both feel the same deep disappointment. The room appears modern and clean, and sharing toilets and showers has never been a problem. But the room is tinier than a shoebox; described as twin bedded, it has bunk beds and barely enough space to walk around the bunks. There's no other furniture in the room at all, in fact there's no space for anything else. There's just enough room to dump our luggage.
Reg takes the top bunk, but the ceiling's low, and he can hardly get into bed, without hitting his head on the ceiling. The high-up air-conditioning in this miniscule room makes it extremely cold on the top bunk. The beds are flimsy and uncomfortable.
'Are you cold?" I whisper up to Reg.
"I'm alright.", he replies, in typical Reg fashion.
But he doesn't sound alright, and everytime he moves in the top bunk, I think the whole thing will tip over. It occurs to me that perhaps we're being fussy, and that we could have coped with this mouse -sized room and these rickety bunk beds better if we'd been a lot younger.
"Lets look on the internet for something else tomorrow," I say.
"Mmmm.. we'll have a look," Reg replies, a note of optimism in his voice.
It's very difficult to find reasonably priced accommodation in Singapore; it's such a tiny island, so built up, yet is home to over 5 million people, and is a magnet for tourists.
Welcome to Singapore.
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