All Terrain Thinking

A Compendium of things I think are Important

Wonderful strange stories from around the world

All aboard the Ferrell Express

Sir Winston Churchill, that well-known, American-born conservative, once defined a fanatic as someone who can't change his mind and won't change the subject. If that definition is true, then we're surrounded by them - and probably doomed.

On my last journey to Malaysia on the "Disoriented Express," the train was seething with extremists and crammed with refugees fleeing from reason. I had a bunk in a carriage of anarchy.

The first guy introduced himself by interrupting. His brain was as frayed as his jeans. He wasn't a passenger on a train, he was a hippy on a mission. By the time the train had crossed the Chao Phraya and turned south, he had already insulted everyone he needed to. The possibility of a conversation never stood a chance as he ranted and sprayed his redundant philosophy in everyone's face.

"Give everyone forty acres and a mule," he splurted. "It's the only way to save the planet. By the way, have you got any ecstasy?"

He was from California. He had lost his mind and was losing his hair. I decided that he wasn't real, he was just a trick of the light.

"How long have you been in Thailand?" I managed to ask.

"I don't know. I woke up here."

And he staggered off, deaf to the language and blind to the culture.

The three spivs from Pattaya who held court in the restaurant car were large, friendly, and, mercifully, unarmed. They were tanned and tough, drank the train dry, and ate nails for breakfast. Naturally, they knew everyone who knew anything. they had stories, connections, inside information; they had everything covered. They winked at each other in conspiracy. I felt that gorillas would purr at their approach. They welcomed me. I read the menu - which was three pages of pure fiction - and sat back and listened.

They had a novel way of securing superior accommodation. They would check into a room and set fire to it. Then they would spray the room with foam, ring the manager, and pretend that they had saved the hotel from a devastating blaze. Naturally, they were upgraded to the best suite - free of charge. Drinks on the house.

"Works every time my son ... "

I liked them, but then I'm easily led astray.

And then there was the depressed New Zealander. He used to be a policeman, he said, from Waputo or Wanatoke, or someplace.

I've always thought that a desire to join the police should be grounds for not being allowed to - even among a nation of sheep. Anyhow, he had come to Thailand to teach. It depressed him. He'd had four motorcycle accidents in three months, he didn't like the food, it was too hot, and he felt that everyone was trying to rip him off. For a while, I was sympathetic, and then I realized that this guy enjoyed being depressed. He was hooked into the victim game. He had no curiosity. He didn't talk, he droned. He had the charisma of a peanut. He was a fanatic for failure.

"Have your tried alcohol?" I suggested brightly.

"Makes me sick," he moaned.

I may have invented a new word; Miserabalist.

The fanatics will not be budged. Their minds are set like concrete. They could never be accused of having a split personality, for there is no personality to split. They never ask questions. From Anchorage to Amsterdam, the fanatic is ignorant of geography, and the earth hums with the hustle of persuasion.

In a sweating alley in Georgetown, Penang, I shared a bowl of bobbing amoebas that looked suspiciously like whales eyeballs, with an Italian guy who had just spent time in a neighboring country where, "Murder is regarded as a legitimate means of career advancement."

The country was run with refined menace by men you told the indigenous people, "Look, either the borders move, or you do. Got it?"

I looked up from the fishy gruel to see smoke rising from a hotel in the distance, and thought, "Ah, the boys have checked in."

I relaxed. Everything was functioning normally.

By Roger Beaumont

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