See the sights, hear the sounds, (be thankful you cannot smell the smells)…

Danang Railway Station — and the Beast arrives…

July 10 Danang to Hanoi (or what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger)

SOME DAYS you just have to grin and bear it, right?  

Which explains why, for most of Day 10, I resembled a grinning simpleton powerless to prevent the horrors of Vietnam Railways’ SE4 Danang to Hanoi train looming large for the traveling troupe of Shines.

In fact, so appalled by the prospect of another night with the cockroaches were we, that I, while chest deep in the turquoise waters of Hoi An beach, uttered the unthinkable to Mrs S.

“Why don’t we just stay here for three weeks and then fly home,” I mused. “We must be mad,” I added needlessly for good measure, as the cooling water lapped on the white sands and palm trees swayed in the breeze.

 
Bliss in the South China sea

Jasper and Ben were balancing with various degrees of success on boogie boards in the surf — it would be the easiest of sells to them — and Mrs S smiled a wistful smile and dipped down into the sea. 

Three weeks of massages and lazy bathing on sun-kissed beaches, or a heavily stained, malodorous, cockroach-ridden rackety diesel engine up to Hanoi…

Of course just two hours later I was jammed into the waiting room at Danang Station, sweat dripping into my eyes, a lazy fan barely turning overhead, surrounded by those Vietnamese too poor to fly and by pimply, sweaty backpackers. 

Sweatsville 

Of them, almost universally the girls’ deliberately-so-therefore-unsuccessfullly insouciant faces were shiny with grime; while the boys’ scraggy, patchwork beards failed to adequately cover red spots and boils poking through their adolescent skin.

Their chat was as cliched as their appearance:  The cheapest meal they’d found; the most secluded spot they’d discovered away from tourists (they said this word like it was a swearword, as though they were hill farmers whose crops had been ruined by tramping visitors, as though they were *not* tourists themselves), the most authentic experience they had, uniquely, uncovered and so on. 

All sported slightly threadbare and sweat-stained clothes — peasant chic, I guess. Not a good look, though. And not a good smell.

The beast arrives 

And then there was us. The fragrant Mrs S, an English rose occasionally dabbing her upper lip; Jasper, warm but unruffled, his blond hair in hot demand by locals for a photograph; Ben, freckled and sunburnt but squatting down sitting on his heels as our Filipina helper in Singapore had taught him; Kitty, red-cheeked and drowsy in her mummy’s arms; and me. Hot, sweaty and impatient, like a soggy wicker man towering above the locals, my volume rising with each unanswered query.

It hadn’t looked good. Our train was late; the noise coming from the announcement speaker resembled a Dalek with a sore throat; the women in flowing blue dresses responsible for locking people into the sweltering waiting room until seconds before the trains pulled away would not look me in the eye, nor answer my questions with any degree of conviction. 

But then the noisy, smelly iron beast loomed into view; we detected the word ‘Hanoi’ in the garbled tannoy announcement; a blue-dress nodded and we were on, clambering up and aboard the monster. 

And do you know what, it wasn’t half bad. 

Whether we’d become inured to the horrors having gone through painful aversion therapy on leg one, whether it was boarding on a sunny afternoon in a relatively small station rather than at night in Saigon, whether it was having enjoyed such a pleasant time with locals the day before… whatever it was, this time none of us were fazed. In fact, we were relaxed. 

The Kit-Kat kicks back… nice and relaxed… 

Yes, our neighbours were just as noisy, yes we had to crush just as many unwelcome guests both in the air and underfoot and yes, the same Vietnamese cigarette smoke wafted into our carriage, but none of it mattered this time. 

The boys were more self-sufficient, even Kitty seemed a little hardier, and we were able to laugh at things that had perturbed us just days before.

Ben’s request to fire his Hoi An souvenir Spiderman spinning top (yes, really…) around the less-than-clean floor within seconds of hauling our bags into the carriage was met with what can only be described as an uncharacteristically calm rejection. A stoic and instant nod from son number two at the time suggests this might be a more productive method to employ in future, rather than my erstwhile more robust approach when under stress. 

We laughed along when the guard and her male equivalent from carriage 8  fell into our cabin mid play-fight, we waved and smiled at the hawkers on Hue Station whereas days before we’d avoided eye-contact… this was much, much more fun.

Our new best friends at Hue station (who inexplicably aren’t waving and smiling in this picture) 

And with the renewed sense of fun came a pang of pride and of happiness at what we were attempting and, so far, achieving. This really is a mammoth trip with three small children but if they get even a fraction from it that we are, it will be worth every fetid waiting room and cramped train cabin.

(Speaking of which, a big shout out to the fantastic Melissa Tan of Lightfoot Travel who helped tweak our Trans-Siberian plan today, after we decided to ditch the four-berth cabin from Beijing to Moscow and swap it instead for two “deluxe” — I use that word advisedly — adjoining two-berth cabins. We figure that for six days non-stop, a little more space might be a good thing as might the grandly-titled shared shower that comes with the “deluxe” version. Melissa, back in Singapore, responded to my emails and texts immediately, and sent a colleague down to the railway station in Beijing to swap the tickets. Thanks, Melissa, you’re a star)

The train ride itself from the central coast up to the north was a breathtaking slice through the most beautiful countryside, with hills on one side, azure sea on the other. We balanced on a precipice, gripping the rails as the jungle flew by below and forlorn railways workers stood outside isolated huts holding flags.

Marvel at this picture – it involved balancing in the loo and waving my camera out the window…  

Our bottomless picnic bag once again offered up its wares to the hungry travellers (actually Mrs S had been told to harvest a packed supper from the Victoria’s breakfast buffet when she requested a take away picnic, and she had done a five-star job). Ham baguettes, fruit and pastries were all plundered as we rattled northwards while Kitty had me shell pistachios for the best part of half an hour.

Supper time

And it was goooooood, mummy… 

Even a gymnastically yogic tantrum from the two-year-old before bedtime was not enough to shake my good spirits. Nor were the antics of the seemingly deaf pea-brain in the corridor bellowing at the top of his voice and rattling the door handle as the children tried to sleep and I peered into my laptop screen.

In the morning we’ll be in Hanoi. But today… today was a good day.

Other images from Day 10:

 

Are we there yet?

 
More pistachios, daddy…

Why are they making us leave?

Nice work guys, this *sure* beats bobbing around in a perfect sea…

Yogic tantrum time

 

Before sleeps…

Writing on the hoof… 

 

 

Hanoi-bound, the beast pulls into Danang

SE4 – our home for the next 15 hours…

July 8. Danang and Hoi An. A day of two halves.

I won’t lie to you, I was a bit over Vietnam when I woke up at 05:40 this morning, my train carriage rocking and Vietnamese cigarette smoke still seeping under the door as it had all night. A crone was rattling the handle of the heavy cast-iron door trying to get in — to offer us some coffee, it turns out — and the cockroaches were leisurely heading back to their holes after a night, presumably, crawling all over my family.

Dear GOD, let it be over…

SE2 is a beast of a train in which nothing seems to fit. The doors don’t quite fit their frames, and swing and rattle about as the train lumbers along. The carriages don’t fit together snugly, leaving fairly large gaps of daylight to step over when moving from one to another. The windows are scratched, or dirty, or both, the nylon curtains hang limply in a forlorn twisted ponytail and I won’t begin to describe the mattresses.

In all, we were penned into our mobile cell for something like 16 hours, only slipping out for a sporadic paddle in some urine or, as others might call it, to go to the loo.

Oh come on dad, it isn’t THAT bad, smiles Jasper the ultimate glass-half-full boy

If a train’s purpose, though, is to transport from A to B then fair’s fair, it did its job adequately and if the journey was a low-point in our Vietnam experience, then our arrival in Danang — or more accurately, Hoi An — was definitely a high.

Shut UP, Jasper, it IS that bad, says Ben, the glass-half-empty one…

The Victoria Beach Resort proved just the tonic after our journey, and after a particularly long and vigorous scrub in the shower we headed out for a swim.

That magical elixir of pool water instantly put a stop to the Shinettes’ squabbles which had plagued our day since waking. Mrs S disappeared off for well-deserved massage (did I mention she didn’t get any sleep all night because she was sharing a sliver of mattres with a headbutting-tossing-and-turning Kitty) and all was well with the world again.

Kitty did fall headfirst into a fish pond while I was in sole charge, but we didn’t let that spoil the newly positive tone.

And relaaaaaaaaaax. Pool action…

All was well with the world (so long as we banished from our minds the prospect of the Danang to Hanoi train later this week on the same accursed SE2) and it was with a spring in our step that we gathered up the kids and jumped on a mini-bus to Hoi An.

This city on the South Central coast of Vietnam contains a World Heritage Site in its Old Town, and is a marvel of care and careful planning.

While much of southeast Asia is racing to turn itself into a building site/rubbish tip in the pursuit of dollars, Hoi An, or the Vietnamese government, hearteningly sees profit in preservation.

Smile, you’re in Hoi An

The riverfront, illuminated by hundreds of lanterns, is breathtaking and each winding street is lined with colonial style buildings and shophouses.

Hoi An must be one of the cleanest cities I have visited, with the least aggressive hawkers and friendliest locals. There is a clean, friendly feel to the place at stark odds to our train experience. The food was spectacular, the streets safe and appealing. We only poked our noses into it for an hour before scooting the kids back to bed, but look forward to adventuring more tomorrow…

Images of Hoi An:

Riverfront

 

Someone’s been drinking falling down juice by the look of it…

 There *is* no wrong turn in Hoi An…

 

Arrival. Or should that be Survival?

The groaning, creaking, stinking Saigon to Danang train wheezes to a halt… couldn’t get off quickly enough.

July 7 Saigon to Danang, and insanity rears its head

Insanity – doing the same thing again and expecting a different result.

WHETHER those words were uttered by Albert Einstein or whether they are just another apocryphal aphorism attributed to the great man is a point of debate. The point is, I should have known better.

 It was in December 1999 I first (and last) visited Vietnam with the then not-quite Mrs Shine. Back then, we stayed in Saigon for a few days before heading up the coast and while in Saigon we took a tour of the Mekong delta, including in one of our stops the famous Cu Chi tunnels —- 250 kilometres of labyrinthine hiding space for the Viet Cong, entire connected villages built underground.

 While my claustrophobic girlfriend only got as far as poking her nose in before backing out in panic 14 years ago, I did manage to venture underground, and down two levels, before emerging some 60 metres later. 

 While triumphant, I was, however, drenched in sweat (I still have the pictures to prove it), breathing rapidly, and absolutely determined to never again step into a hole in the ground. 

Over the years, just the thought of that time on my hands and knees with the walls of the tunnel brushing my shoulders and the roof scraping my spine was enough to give me the wobbles. Quite why I thought things might be different this time round I have no idea.

 
Smiling for the camera… don’t I look relaxed?

Perhaps it was bravado in front of the boys, or a determination that the intervening decade had left no mark on me, I don’t know. But sinking into that first hole was a big mistake.

 You have probably all seen pictures of grinning tourists emerging from a VC hole in the ground in Cu Chi, the leafy disguised cover of the hole balanced above their heads as they pose for the cameras. If you haven’t, google it now.

That was the hole I ill-advisedly lowered myself into. I knew the moment I was forced to twist my hip sideways just to sink into the hole that something was wrong, but pushed the dark thought out of my mind as I fixed a smile for the camera and regulated my breathing,

Sure enough, as I tried to haul myself up, my belt buckle got caught fast on the lip of the hole. Never mind, I thought, I’ll just perform the hip wiggle in reverse and twist myself out. 

But as any wasp who has ever been suckered into entering a stabbed jar lid on a promise of some jam would know, it is often easier to wiggle your way in than to wiggle your way out again.

 “Are you okay, Oss,” Mrs S asked, a note of concern creeping into her voice. 

“Yes, fine,” I said, sweat starting to drip into my eyes. “I’m… just… trying… to… free… my… belt,” I laughed, in a slightly forced fashion.

“Can you help me?”

So Zoe reached down the back, but while I sucked in every Full English Breakfast I have ever had for all my worth, there was no way I could pull my belt buckle in at the front while at the same time free that CURSED THICK BELT at the back.

In a brainwave, I reached down and undid my belt, leaving the buckle to dangle down. Genius, I thought, until my next effort at hauling myself out left my body half out but my shorts firmly stuck inside. I think staying in the hole until sundown — only 7 or 8 hours — casually waving at passing tour groups, would have been preferable to slipping out sans pants.

Just as a shortness of breath and racing of heart, reminiscent of my last trip to Cu Chi, started to take a grip, Jasper saved the day. Reaching down and pulling my belt free first before helping my waistband through as I lifted my body out of its temporary sarcophagus. 

I don’t need telling twice. Once finally free I stayed above ground for the rest of the display, feeding Ben and Jasper into tiny rabbit holes and watching them emerge smiling some time later. 

 
How it should be done…

The displays and demonstrations of the traps used, and guerrilla tactics employed against the U.S. Army, are both grisly and interesting. Presented in a dispassionate, matter-of-fact fashion it is sometimes hard to remember many of the guides lived through the war as children, including our guide Jennifer who cuddled and played with our children while recounting a Saigon childhood during a time bombs rained down.

The experience is a sobering one, but one sadly shattered by the repeated clack of automatic gunfire as well-fed Caucasians flock to the shooting range. 

Kitty buried her head in my chest, gripped her arms around my neck and tried to shimmy higher up my body for comfort as the corpulent westerners’ bellies and boobs and back fat wobbled with each recoil of the heavy weaponry. It is a shame this proves to be so lucrative for the locals; that a corner of Cu Chi should be transformed into a grotesque theme park.

I would have thought enough bullets have been fired on Vietnamese soil.

 * * * *

The drive between Cu Chi and Saigon is a fascinating one, along a route flanked by paddy fields and dotted with small villages, comprised of corrugated iron lean-tos, rudimentary brick buildings, lively markets and stall and shops selling every moped component imaginable. Some sell only wing mirrors, others saddles, more still decals and transfers.

Bare-chested men sit cross-legged, hacking at coconuts with machetes. Women wearing conical hats, their slender sleeves joining their gloves so no inch of skin is exposed to the sun ride pillion sidesaddle. 

One man dressed only in shorts rides a scooter with a large, empty rooster cage strapped to his back with twine. Another weaves along the road carrying an enormous bundle of sticks. Families of four and five balance on 50cc mopeds, children tucked in between parents, on the front, and on the back.

 
All aboard, plenty of room…

These images I will treasure, With a roaring economy and ever more open governance, it cannot be long before Vietnam is transformed forever. Already the bicycles have been replaced by mopeds. The cars will be next.

We had just time for a quick bite and a trip to the imposing Post Office to surface-ship some things home before we needed to head to Saigon Station for the SE2 sleeper train to Danang.

On our way out of the Alcove Library hotel we once again encountered the newly-wed couples (yes, more than one pair) who had been having their pictures taken in the lobby all day — including one intriguing pose I shall call “post bomb-blast” where bride and groom lay on the floor, their bodies twisted as if by dynamite while a photographer perched on a step ladder capturing the action.

 
OMG! WTF? ROFL…

The station, or ‘Ga Sai Gon’ was a now familiar mix of the chaotic and the colourful, with locals and green-clad soldiers lounging on aluminium benches. 

I’d viewed this leg with a little more trepidation than usual ever since I’d read the note accompanying the tickets waiting for us in Saigon.

“Dear Customer, recently there have been some reports about trouble in the train,” it began, promisingly, before going on to warn of some of the dangers we might encounter. The best being number three, which stated:

3: “It is possible that other passengers will come to your compartment to use your berth, as the train might be overloaded, so please lock the door carefully and do not let anyone step in.”

What a ride…

SE2. What can I tell you? This thing makes an Inter-City 125 look like the Orient Express. A great, wheezing, dilapidated hunk of junk just about sums it up. 

Jasper nailed it when he clambered onto his lolly-stick thin bunk in our SECURELY LOCKED cabin. “This is like being in prison,” he said.

Oh, the horror of it… 

But this is all about the journey, right? And as we set off through inner city Saigon, we are just metres from shops and from homes. The view from our rain-streaked window looks straight into sitting rooms lit up by televisions, and into kitchens and yards with clothes hanging on lines.

Children and adults bellow in the corridors, their volume switch broken, while  Vietnamese cigarette smoke seeps into our cabin as surely and persistently as the tinny music from radios.

Still we roll on as Mrs S and the littles rock gently in their thin bunks, wide enough to lie still, but insufficient to even roll over. 

Tomorrow Danang, so until then, I’ll allow this heaving steel carcass to rock me to sleep. Goodnight…

 

Images from Day Seven: