The plan was simple. Hop on a train at Saïgon (Ho Chi Minh City) that will bring us to Phan Thiết — a small town just 24km west of Mũi Né.
Except that it was lunch hour, and the traffic was crazy as ever. We hailed a cab and arrived at the train station with 5 minutes to spare, but alas, the tickets were already sold out.
It’s only Day 2, but it was apparent that nothing was going to happen according to plan.
We could have easily requested the receptionist at the hostel to make a reservation for us. However, she demanded a 20% service charge. It wasn’t much but budget (or stingy) travellers that we were, no way we’re paying for that!
Since we had missed the direct train to Phan Thiết, we settled for a different line which took us to Mương Mán instead. That translated to an additional 15km on the road. What it meant, we’d soon find out.
This is Hao, an Australia-trained doctor who, as fate would have it, sat right behind us. As soon as our backpacks landed on the soft-cushioned seats, he blurted, “Where are you from?” He wasted no time to reveal that he could converse in English.
And that was just the beginning.
It’s been a while since he last spoke in English and thus he wanted to practice. We were happy to oblige. He told us about Ho Chi Minh City, Hanoi, his family, and then he started teaching us some (not-so) basic Vietnamese phrases. My buddy, Ed, asked how to say, “You are a giraffe.” That was definitely going to come in handy!
Slowly, most of the Vietnamese passengers within a 5-metre radius had their eyes and ears on us. Hao was translating whatever we said while they listened intently. As we attempted to pronounce the alien language we were taught, the cabin burst out in laughter. We were making the biggest fools out of ourselves, and enjoying every single moment of it. This was one of those travel moments that money can’t buy and we’d definitely never forget.
10 minutes into the ride, we got accustomed to the sound of “wheels” rolling in the deep. Without any entertainment on board, the windows acted as widescreen TVs while scenes of rural Vietnam breezed past. It was enchanting, hypnotic even. Some were lulled to sleep by the consistent ups and downs. Others were just too tired after a hard day’s work.
H. G. Wells said it best:
“From the railway station came the sound of shunting trains, ringing and rumbling, softened almost into melody by the distance. It all seemed so safe and tranquil.”
“VOOM!” The door flew open.
I instinctively raised my camera, and my fingers did the rest. “Clik-clak.”
Into the cabin came two men. Grasped firmly in their hands were plastic-bags-full of the fruits of their labour, literally. The fruits in questions were rambutans, or at least some variation of it. Here, they look tiny, jaundiced, and maybe a little diseased.
Despite their shouting, the intruders seem to come in peace. The cabin crew did little to stop them. (Two bags of freshly plucked berries were bound to do that!) They made their way across the cabin while doing business with interested (famished) buyers.
“Too-too!” The captain sounded the horn as the train slowly roared to life. It was about to depart from the station. Hearing that, the men disappeared back into the shadows like ninjas. It all happened so fast.
We later discovered that they were farmers peddling the day’s harvest. Each bag was a kilogram heavy, and each kilo went for a mere 20,000 Dong (1 USD). The small, yellowish ones were curiously favoured over the red, normal-sized rambutans, and cost 5,000 Dong more.
The passengers seated around offered us a handful of rambutans. We politely accepted of course!
Although they looked stale, the taste was one and the same with what we usually have in Singapore. So we got some more.
The train towards Mui Ne took 4, maybe 5 hours. We left mid-afternoon and reached soon after nightfall. While the skies were a perfect shade of blue in the day, a sudden rain had transpired and started pelting mercilessly at the unsheltered while thunder rumbled ominously in the background.
It would not be an understatement to say that as the train pulled over and the train conductor beckoned for us, we were most terrified. (I mean, it was pretty unnerving having a total of only S$52 in our pockets when we arrived in Hoi An with an exploitative ‘hostelier’ and no ATM in sight. Despite that, we weren’t exactly fearing for our lives.)
Why? What we’d arrived at was a huge expanse of pitch blackness. The bare-bones ‘train station’ was probably the only structure in a mighty-big-ass radius. Even then, it was barely lit, safe a few red bulbs here and there. There were no more than 4 cabbies at the lobby who sat or squatted or lounged in a circle of sorts, pokers cards out, eyes on the sly. Unlike the more popular cities, they seemed disinterested to score a passenger.
It was probably another one of those slow days. How often does the train even come this way?
It’s not like we had a choice. There was a reason this train station wasn’t mentioned in any guidebooks. It was local territory, far away from any tourist attraction. What were we doing here? Thankfully, our newly-made acquaintance helped got us a taxi to our hostel. In his own way, he reassured us that we would not end up being auctioned into the human trade or chopped into pieces and sold as the ubiquitous phở (beef noodles).
We got into the cab before the rain could transform us into 落汤鸡 (“a chicken that fell into soup”). The next 45 minutes turned out to be a very expensive lesson learnt, all US$40 of it. If we ever returned to Mui Ne, take a bus, and not them sleeper trains!
Fools that we were had to take the train again. This time from Da Nang (the neighbouring town to Hội An) to Huế.
Inside our cabin (about the size of 3 toilet cubicles side-by-side), the furnishing was spartan. 3 pull-up beds with barely enough breathing room were stacked one above another on both sides. On the metal bed were a paper thin mattress and a woolen blanket that together, were surprisingly comfortable.
Ed and I shared the room with a Vietnamese household and several other lone rangers. People came and went at random stations, we did not bother to keep count. The Vietnamese family consisted of a woman, her baby and probably her sister.
The wee child was hard to please. His mum had to sing lullabies repeatedly to coax him to sleep. I woke up the next morning to the sight of the mother breastfeeding her infant. Witnessing such a private and beautiful moment, I tried not to stare.
According to the prices, the lowest berth was the most expensive, perhaps due to the fact that you get a table and you could set your feet down anytime. However we felt it might not be safe, as the cabin door was kept open through the night — you could hear everything happening along the corridor.
We had the impression that the middle berth would be the best, so we booked it. Looking back, the upper berth would have been a better option. It was close to the A/C and had additional room to stash your belongings, away from people who are up to no good.
This was the view that greeted us the next day after 11 hours of almost complete silence and darkness. We’ve had a packed itinerary the previous day and were simply too exhausted by the time the clock struck 10. We probably crashed the moment we landed on the duvet, can’t seem to recall much.
Stepping out of the cabin into the daylight, you’d imagine it feels exactly like a butterfly finally breaking free of its chrysalis form. Such freedom!
Okay, it was more of a vampire being awoken after centuries of slumber and grudgingly crawling out of his coffin. The train ride was incredibly comfortable. (Sometimes, it’s good to splurge on the sleeper “seats”.) And after days of constantly moving, it was a nice change to just settle, even for just a bit.
