The guide drops of us at the Nha Trang station where we are going to take the night train to Danang on this sixth day of our trip in Vietnam: “Don’t lose sight of your luggage and mostly don’t talk to anyone. But don’t worry, everything will be fine.” A hint of a doubt casts a shadow over our heads but it vanishes quickly: of course everything will be fine! This night train is a brilliant idea to save on airfare and hotel costs, and to travel in a more original and adventurous way.
The wait starts… the faces of people surrounding us are closed. A few street vendors try to sell their merchandise: souvenirs, snacks, drinks. A woman stands in front of the restroom door and declares herself bathroom lady, collecting a few coins from everyone who wishes to release their bladder. A small group of young Australians bursts into the station and all eyes turn towards them: gigantic backpacks, hiking boots, globetrotters’ body hygiene, loud voices and laughter… Perfect! If anyone is going to be the target of scammers it should be one of them.
In a cloud of thick black smoke, the train enters the station barely 30 minutes behind schedule. The so-far-indifferent crowd packed in the waiting area instantly storms onto the platform, with the Australians in pole position. We haul ourselves and our suitcases aboard and start walking the sleeping car in search of our assigned compartment. Number 2… this must be it. A quick glance inside, and Mai turns to me with her eyes flashing S.O.S. signals as I feebly attempt to hide my own disarray. A prison cell with four kid-size bunk beds. Three men playing cards and gulping unidentified snacks with suspicious scent. The good news: they are all perched on the upper two beds, the lower two seem available. The bad news: sheets didn’t get changed after the previous passengers, as indicated by the long black hair stuck on near-white pillows. Breaking the silence, I ask Mai: “Can you ask the conductor if there are other beds available… like a private compartment?” In other circumstances I would have managed the situation but I don’t speak a word of Vietnamese and my white face is a synonymous of ATM here, so it’s better for me to remain invisible. Mai grabs the conductor and a short yet lively discussion follows. All the beds are identical so there is no point in switching… well, there is a private compartment for two people but it costs 25 dollars extra per person, to be paid in cash immediately. We try to haggle it down but the price is just as firm as the conductor, his arms crossed on his chest as he awaits our answer with a poker face. A new look at the card players and pillows dotted with stray hairs convinces us to accept the deal, though we demand to see the place before we dish out the cash. The size of a closet, the “private compartment for two people” has the essential qualities we are looking for: cleanliness and privacy.
Money changes hands and we finally get settled in our new space, ready for a well-deserved rest. With our clothes still on, we slip into our beds – I chose the upper level one that brings back childhood memories: back then I used to share a room with my brother Marc whose dreams were sometimes agitated, so much that one night he fell off from the elevated bed and destroyed one of my rare Lego constructions in a big CRASH sound. Today I’m the elder so I get to sleep above! Sleep… a wish rather than a reality: the train is probably from the pre-war days and the notion of soundproofing seems missing. Earplugs in, I toss and turn in this minimalist bed obviously designed for smaller and lighter people: the cross-beams are digging trenches in my back through the mattress. Still I manage to close my eyes and rest.
The sound of a key turning in the lock, a man in a hat opens the door and speaks a few Vietnamese words then disappears and closes the door back. Mai and I look at each other, wondering how this guy has the key to our “private compartment”. My glance stops on a microphone and a switch on the wall – everything becomes clear: we are in the conductors’ bedroom, and the intruder is the colleague and roommate of the man who sold us the beds. Reassured but still under shock from being awakened so brutally, I can’t get back to sleep. Even better: I need to go to the bathroom really soon in order to avoid a catastrophe. I wander in the narrow corridors of the train, spotting on the way the conductor snoring in one of our assigned beds. Above him the food supply ran out but the card game is still going on fervently. Half asleep, I enter the bathroom: an empty space with a hole in the middle, revealing the railway underneath. I step back and pinch my forearm but unfortunately I don’t wake up in a comfy hotel room: I am still in the train, and that nasty opening in the floor is the only solution to my current problem.
Back in the bedroom, Mai asks me how the toilets are. “If you can hold it until we arrive I think you’ll be better off”.
A few long hours later the night is still dark when we get ready for the arrival, firmly motivated not to miss our stop. I put my shoes on, sitting on Mai’s bed. My zombie eyes pause on the elevated bed – my bed. From underneath I discover that it is made of a piece of cardboard laid between the metal cross-beams and the 2-inch-thick mattress. Every beam left a memorable souvenir in the flesh of my back. Mai’s bed seems normal: no cardboard there, only a classic wooden board… This is so unfair!
At dawn the train enters the Danang station. Exhausted, sore and famished, we are welcomed by our local guide. He doesn’t ask how our trip went: our faces must be self-explanatory. Immediately after the introductions I ask him to get our train tickets from Hue to Hanoi exchanged for plane tickets. He turns to me with a controlled smile but his eyes are laughing out loud. “Of course, we will take care of this as soon as the agency opens. But tell me please… why didn’t you take the plane to get here?”
Cedric, 8/25/2011
(Night train ride in January 2008)
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