Don’t. Sit. At. That. Corner.
Hanoi’s train street draws a plethora of tourists each day. It is one of the most well-known attractions in this ever-bustling city. That particular dry and sunny morning in November, we decided to visit this tourist gathering spot.
We set off early in the morning, aiming to get there around 11:30 for the train at 11:45. Many cafes were already packed. We walked along the train track to find a place where we felt comfortable. We do not like being ushered or cornered into sitting down. Oh, there is no entry fee for the train street – don’t pay anyone.
Two menus were placed in front of us, and we opted for a black coffee and a strawberry smoothie. It was rather expensive for Vietnam. However, we figured there were limited windows in which local coffee shop owners could make some money. So, the price made sense. The coffee was excellent though, as expected from a country with a strong coffee culture dating back to when the century was in the single digits.
As we sat and waited, street vendors carrying big bamboo trays would call out, ‘Lady, postcards, 1 dollar!’ Some had food wrapped in betel leaves, some offered deep-fried dough sprinkled with sesame—plenty of options to choose from.
The atmosphere changed abruptly. Cafe owners shouted, ‘Train coming!’ ushering tourists who were still taking photos on the train track to get off and finally settle down at one of the stalls. The table in front of us was pushed inwards towards us, and that was when I noticed a faint yellow line.
Thameslink’s announcement popped into my head: ‘Please stand behind the yellow line away from the door area …’ We were behind the yellow line; we just noticed it now. As I took notice of the line that kept me safe for those years in England, I noticed many people placing bottle caps on the train track. The lady sitting next to me told us that the train flattened the caps, and people took them home as souvenirs.
She also told us about the track moving up and down. ‘Pretty cool,’ she said in English, a neutral accent similar to mine.
A train whistle sounded. More shouting. More shoving and ushering of clueless tourists. Some people were asked to sit sideways, or they would have to sacrifice a few limbs. We were in a very comfortable position and savouring all the madness. Pure chaos was such a joy.
The train was fast, loud, and kicking up dust into our drinks. People were cheering, and hoo-ha-ing, children were excited to see the speeding train up close – an act that is prohibited in many countries due to health and safety reasons.
It was fun and exciting. We got some flattened bottle caps as souvenirs and felt like we knew a bit more about the train street.
We liked it so much that we went back. This was when I vowed not to do this again. The thrill was worth it, but it was utterly stupid of me.
The second visit was another lovely day. The sun was bright. This time, Cătă the trip master chose a different section of the street. He did some research, and I trusted him.
We sat at this rather tiny, and oddly positioned, cafe on the train track. I noticed that the price was a bit higher than at the cafe we visited before. I didn’t think much of it until I noticed that my feet were ON the yellow line. The very line that I was told not to cross, and even if a smidgen of my being were to enter that sacred space, the security guard would whistle so hard you could hear it from the next life.
Yup, I sat on it. My feet were on it. I remember joking with Cătă about it hahaha the British and the Japanese wouldn’t be pleased.
The usual hustling and bustling occurred. My attention was drawn to a group of brown-skinned, Indian-looking tourists who were kicked out of a nearby cafe for refusing to order a drink to secure their spots. There was some yelling back and forth, with the cafe owner chasing them.
Also, the train was coming. These people were still on the track with no care in the world. This is a livelihood for the locals. The Vietnamese government is constantly on their back, cracking down on them; they couldn’t afford another casualty.
The ground shook. I was at the corner on the yellow line, after all. I heard the whistle, the horn as if the train was right behind me – because it was. The bright headlights. I smelled the metallic scent from this iron centipede, the gush of wind, the droplets of water – probably from the lavatory -, the dust from the track. It was the longest few minutes of my life. I clung against the wall, fearing that moving even a few centimetres to the left would cause my body to be torn apart. Blood would splatter, and I would be crushed – flattened. I don’t think that would look good.
I thought about many things. About the bloody trip master who is currently filming my reaction with joy and a hint of worry in his eyes. About the projects I have not finished. I didn’t even have a PhD yet. Don’t move, you’ll die. Shit. Of all the stupid things you could have done, you can’t get hit by a train. I haven’t seen my parents for eight years. No. FFS stop…
Tears rolled down my eyes. I swore at Cătă a little bit. And, I swore to myself… Don’t. Sit. At. That. Corner.
Yeah, Train Street is cool. I got more of the experience than I asked for and now I cherish my life a LOT more.
It was one of those times that I felt the presence of death… he was half a ruler away to my left, as gorgeous and tempting as ever. If I was born with nine lives, I had just lost one.
