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We start searching through international cruise line schedules. Cruises are meant to be self-contained va-
cations—not a practical means of getting from point A to point B—so most cruise ships run circle routes
that begin and end in the same port. Still, we figure we might be able to sweet-talk our way onto some
cruise ship for a partial segment of its journey.
Regent cruise line's
Seven Seas Mariner
makes port in Auckland and gets to Los Angeles about three
weeks later. Seems like a great fit, but with two caveats: 1) The cruise ship departs Auckland only one day
after our French freighter is due to arrive there. There's no margin for error, and freighters are notorious
for delays—sometimes en route (due to winds or currents) and sometimes while they're still in port (due
to snags in the container-loading process). There's a danger the cruise ship might be gone by the time we
get to Auckland, and we'd have no way of catching up with it. 2) This is a superhigh-end luxury cruise.
Absurdly expensive. A budget buster.
Unfortunately there aren't many other viable options for crossing the Pacific that don't involve hopping
on a plane. There are no useful-for-our-purposes freighters departing from Auckland in the next several
months, and we can't just plan to walk out on a pier and hail a Maori outrigger canoe bound for Honolulu.
So I gulp hard and enter my credit card on the cruise line site.
With this pricey leg of the journey arranged, we've now mapped out our basic route all the way to Los
Angeles. The restless wanderer in me wishes we could leave our itinerary more open-ended, but long-haul
travel over water doesn't lend itself to spontaneity. It turns out it's difficult, bordering on impossible, to
hitchhike across an ocean.
BANGKOK'S been a pleasing blend of upscale elegance and scruffy hubbub. We've found a delicious
hole-in-the-wall joint with the best tom kha gai soup Rebecca's ever tasted. Meanwhile, I've managed to
watch my Red Sox win the World Series, catching the final game on satellite TV in the juice bar of a
swanky fitness club. I had to beg the waiter to tune in the channel, and was the only person paying any
attention to the game. The fashionable Thai women sitting near me—fresh off their treadmills, sipping
pomegranate smoothies—glanced at me warily when I shouted and pumped my fist after a key home run.
But it's come time for Rebecca and me to start making some progress toward Singapore again. We
mustn't lose our momentum now. We zip up our packs, throw them over our shoulders, and put on our
travel faces.
The Bangkok train station is nothing like the madhouse we encountered in Beijing. In fact, it's rather
empty, which is refreshing. I'm envisioning a relaxing overnight ride to Malaysia.
And then a uniformed man sticks his face in mine. “Where you go?” he demands. “Train is canceled.”
This is suddenly less relaxing.
The man's uniform's a bit shabby, and I convinced myself he's running some sort of scam. Having per-
suaded us there's no train, he'll offer us a ride to Malaysia in his cousin's minivan. For a fee.
We ignore him, step past him into the station's main vestibule, and head for the ticket window designated
for foreigners. It now becomes clear that this is no scam. Several other uniformed men are breaking the bad
news to other travelers. The woman at the ticket window informs us that there's a rail workers strike.
There are no Thai people waiting in the train station, which makes sense, seeing as how all the trains have
been canceled. As for the western backpackers in the station—slowly coming to grips with the fact that
they won't be toking up on a Thai beach before the sun sets tonight—they've congealed into a miserable-
looking glob. They've sprawled out on their bags in the middle of the hall and appear to be waiting for
someone to rescue them.
Rebecca and I find a table at the station's café and begin poring through our guidebooks to figure out
the Thai intercity bus system. An American nearby overhears us plotting and pulls up a chair. He's a laid-
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