by Dr Rahim Said
Someday, when the world slows down enough for me to catch my breath — or when I finally muster the audacity to abandon the tyranny of WhatsApp groups, unending emails and pointless meetings — I would like to board a train in Portugal and not get off until Kuala Lumpur or maybe Singapore!
Yes, that’s right. Not just a little jaunt on the ETS to Ipoh on a weekend, for salted chicken and pomelo salad, but the longest continuous train journey in the world — a staggering 18,755 kilometres, taking a leisurely 21 days, traversing 13 countries, requiring seven visas, and costing roughly RM5,700.
A bargain, considering you could circle the world for less than what some pay for a single business-class ticket to London.
It’s the kind of old-fashioned, romantic adventure that feels plucked straight from a bygone era when travel was about the journey, not the destination.
The sort of expedition Paul Theroux might have scribbled in his notebook while leaning against the dusty window of a rattling compartment, plotting The Great Railway Bazaar as he watched continents slide past like a slow, living mural.
His book, published in 1975, chronicled a four-month odyssey from London to Tokyo and back via the Trans-Siberian Railway. It sold 1.5 million copies and is still hailed as a travel writing classic.
And though I can’t compete with Theroux’s literary flair or 1970s sideburns, perhaps I too might find my own narrative on those tracks. Maybe call it The Not-So-Great, Somewhat-Aching, Frequently-Delayed Railway Bazaar.
What makes this fantastical train ride possible today is the gleaming new railway line in Laos, a shining addition to China’s grand Belt and Road Initiative. And don’t forget – China is already linked to Europe by rail.
The new railway line now links Kunming in China with Vientiane in Laos, knitting together the mainland of Southeast Asia like never before.
From there, it’s a glide down to Bangkok, across the Thai-Malaysia border at Padang Besar, and onto KL Sentral — a sweet, overcrowded, slightly leaking home.
For those with stamina, or perhaps a mild case of masochism, the tracks continue southwards to Singapore. I suppose one could alight there, sip a ridiculously expensive cup of coffee at the Raffles, and congratulate oneself for completing the mother of all rail journeys.
What draws me to this imagined voyage isn’t just the novelty or bragging rights. It’s the unhurried pace, the conversations with strangers in cramped bunks, the mishmash of border crossings, the clatter of wheels against old steel tracks — that hypnotic lullaby of the rails. It’s the promise of stillness in movement, of being both nowhere and everywhere.
Imagine waking up in Moscow, watching the frozen Volga slip by, and then days later, sipping green tea somewhere in a Yunnan village.
Or stretch your legs on a platform in Mongolia, where the landscape looks like God forgot to plant trees. Or hearing the sing-song patter of Thai vendors boarding at small-town stations, peddling hot rice and skewered chicken while the sun sets over paddy fields.
It would be a living, breathing, rumbling epic — one not captured by Instagram filters or TikTok reels but by memory’s slower, richer lens.
So yes, one day I’d like to do this. And perhaps write my own book. Not a bestseller, no million copies, no awards. Just a modest collection of observations, missed connections, odd meals, and the kind of existential musings one inevitably has somewhere between Ulaanbaatar and Nakhon Ratchasima.
Meanwhile, I shall content myself with reading Theroux again, and perhaps take the KTM Komuter to Seremban on weekends — a humble rehearsal for a journey of a lifetime.
Because isn’t that what travel really is? A ticket not just to a place, but to a version of yourself you haven’t yet met.
And someday, my friend, if you see a gray haired eighty something old man scribbling notes on a train somewhere between Lisbon and KL Sentral, do say hello.
I’ll save you a seat — and perhaps, between us, we’ll write a story worth missing a few meetings for.
The thoughts of the writer are entirely those of his own
WE