Post from Tim:
3:00 p.m.
Arrived promptly for night train to Hanoi. Train is delayed until 6 p.m. due to flooding and poor track conditions.
6:15 .,m.
Three forty-five train arrives. A group of European package tourists boards the expensive sleeper car up-track. We enter the "hard sleeper" car with a few Vietnamese travelers.
Six questioning people stare back at us from the inside of our compartment as if we have crashed their private party. They have traveled halfway between Saigon and Hanoi. With people passed out on either side of us on unpadded plywood cubicles three tiers high, the compartment now resembles an opium den. I'm instantly filled with trepidation and I recheck my ticket to make sure I'm entering the correct berth.
We cause a commotion stowing our bags and clamber up to the third tier bunks. Eventually we settle in to a prone position and give each other looks across the compartment, asking each other with shrugs and giggles if being on this train is really better than taking the bus.
7:15 p.m.
We approach a stop in the Quang Tri province and the loudspeaker mounted on the ceiling by my head crackles to life with music and a five-minute speech in Vietnamese and English. In a strange mix of helpful tourism information and propaganda, we learn the details of evil American aggression, heroic Vietnamese bravery, and beautiful countryside near the old DMZ.
9:15 p.m.
I stare at the white metal ceiling 18 inches from my face. As I contemplate thirteen more hours of staring at the same spot, the man in the berth below exhales a plume of cigarette smoke that mushrooms off the ceiling and creeps around me. I grimace and look down from my berth high above in the cloudy heavens. I see a pile of shoes heaped in the center of the floor surrounded by bits of trash.
Our compartment has six berths, but nine people share the tiny space. Apparently, stragglers without seats are allowed to make themselves at home here, because several men are using the bottom two berths as seats. One man carefully scoops spoonfuls of soft-boiled duck egg from a shell and washes it down with gulps of beer. Two other men stare absentmindedly out the window and smoke. Another reads a well-worn magazine. I haven't seen the woman in the middle berth open her eyes in three hours.
So many children throw rocks at passing trains that protective cages have been installed on all the windows. I wonder if any rocks will crash against our car, and in the spirit of synchronicity, a heavy rock crashes down on the roof in a spot close to my head.
11:50 p.m.
We have stopped for a passing train. Someone has turned off the ceiling fan and the air has become suffocating. I bury my face in my shirt to filter the smoke and drape a bandanna over my eyes to darken the bright light.
3:00 a.m.
I can't help but to wish harm on the person below. I hope that a rock will make it past the protective covering on the window and knock him unconscious, or that he will choke on the food his slovenly lips smack loudly. I know I shouldn't think this way, but can't help myself. Everyone in the compartment had finally fallen asleep when he rudely turned on the bright lights to eat and smoke. Argh!
6:00 a.m.
Sunrise. I don't feel too bad considering.
I climb down from the bunk, crouch in the hallway, and watch the fields and villages come alive. I share brief conversations in broken English with the people in my compartment and wonder which one I almost killed last night.
Unsure, I'm forced to be nice to everyone.
9:30 a.m.
Arrival to Hanoi!
Arrived promptly for night train to Hanoi. Train is delayed until 6 p.m. due to flooding and poor track conditions.
6:15 .,m.
Three forty-five train arrives. A group of European package tourists boards the expensive sleeper car up-track. We enter the "hard sleeper" car with a few Vietnamese travelers.
Six questioning people stare back at us from the inside of our compartment as if we have crashed their private party. They have traveled halfway between Saigon and Hanoi. With people passed out on either side of us on unpadded plywood cubicles three tiers high, the compartment now resembles an opium den. I'm instantly filled with trepidation and I recheck my ticket to make sure I'm entering the correct berth.
We cause a commotion stowing our bags and clamber up to the third tier bunks. Eventually we settle in to a prone position and give each other looks across the compartment, asking each other with shrugs and giggles if being on this train is really better than taking the bus.
7:15 p.m.
We approach a stop in the Quang Tri province and the loudspeaker mounted on the ceiling by my head crackles to life with music and a five-minute speech in Vietnamese and English. In a strange mix of helpful tourism information and propaganda, we learn the details of evil American aggression, heroic Vietnamese bravery, and beautiful countryside near the old DMZ.
9:15 p.m.
I stare at the white metal ceiling 18 inches from my face. As I contemplate thirteen more hours of staring at the same spot, the man in the berth below exhales a plume of cigarette smoke that mushrooms off the ceiling and creeps around me. I grimace and look down from my berth high above in the cloudy heavens. I see a pile of shoes heaped in the center of the floor surrounded by bits of trash.
Our compartment has six berths, but nine people share the tiny space. Apparently, stragglers without seats are allowed to make themselves at home here, because several men are using the bottom two berths as seats. One man carefully scoops spoonfuls of soft-boiled duck egg from a shell and washes it down with gulps of beer. Two other men stare absentmindedly out the window and smoke. Another reads a well-worn magazine. I haven't seen the woman in the middle berth open her eyes in three hours.
So many children throw rocks at passing trains that protective cages have been installed on all the windows. I wonder if any rocks will crash against our car, and in the spirit of synchronicity, a heavy rock crashes down on the roof in a spot close to my head.
11:50 p.m.
We have stopped for a passing train. Someone has turned off the ceiling fan and the air has become suffocating. I bury my face in my shirt to filter the smoke and drape a bandanna over my eyes to darken the bright light.
3:00 a.m.
I can't help but to wish harm on the person below. I hope that a rock will make it past the protective covering on the window and knock him unconscious, or that he will choke on the food his slovenly lips smack loudly. I know I shouldn't think this way, but can't help myself. Everyone in the compartment had finally fallen asleep when he rudely turned on the bright lights to eat and smoke. Argh!
6:00 a.m.
Sunrise. I don't feel too bad considering.
I climb down from the bunk, crouch in the hallway, and watch the fields and villages come alive. I share brief conversations in broken English with the people in my compartment and wonder which one I almost killed last night.
Unsure, I'm forced to be nice to everyone.
9:30 a.m.
Arrival to Hanoi!
Photos From This Location
