The Storm…
When I was 20 years old, I spent a semester living and volunteering in Nam Dinh, Vietnam. Almost a decade on I feel inclined to do some “throwback” posts over to document this stage of my life. This ‘chapter” of time was life altering in terms of how I now understand the world we live in and very much was highlight of my formative young adult years. I hope you enjoy these retrospective posts as much as I do…
I originally wrote and published this blog post in the weeks following October 28th, 2012, when a large tropical storm (Typhoon Son Linh) made its way through the Philippines, up the coast of Vietnam and eventually dissipated after making its way through southern China. *The original post has since been edited in places for clarity.
As the Reunification Express slowly chugged its way down the tracks away from the hustle and bustle of Hanoi City this late Sunday afternoon, the raindrops gliding lazily down the window panes denied me the usually stunning view of the Vietnamese countryside in the late afternoon; the sky was not painted in brushstrokes of subtle pinks and purples; the water from rice fields did not shimmer with the reflection of the setting sun. Instead, an ominous and monotonous shade of grey was splashed angrily across the sky. The weather whilst dreary was not unexpected given the tropical locale and relative closeness to the latter end of monsoon season, and therefore, while sad to not once again witness mountain silhouettes melting into the distance at dusk, I gave little heed to the developing storm and settled in for the journey home. As the train meandered its way along the tracks, I gave little notice to the passage of time and even dozed off occasionally.
At 5.30pm the train was pulling into the station where I was due to cease my journey, or so I thought. The timing was about right but this did not seem to fit somehow, I was decidedly perplexed. As I strained to see a station name through the speckled windows, the sun had now completely departed, leaving in its wake a thick sea of blackness and thus my eyes failed me. For a moment I panicked thinking perhaps I had dozed too long and missed my stop. I apprehensively considered the possibility I was headed ever southward, and wondered if so, where I should depart to ensure I was not in Saigon come morning?
I motioned to the train staff at the end of carriage and eventually caught their attention. As they headed towards me, I wondered how I would convey my question given my distinct lack of proficiency in speaking Vietnamese and the only slightly better capabilities of the train staff to communicate in English? When they arrived, I pulled out my ticket and pointed to the destination of ‘Nam Dinh City’ and tried hard to look confused as I asked if we had passed the station yet? My attempts however were to no avail, the language barrier having thwarted my communicative intentions, and so I resorted to a game of Charades, calmly but enthusiastically pointing, shrugging, and acting out my dilemma, much to the amusement of other passengers. Eventually my enquiry was understood, and I was informed that we had not yet reached Nam Dinh station. It was at this point I noticed that the trains speed had slowed significantly, and we were travelling at little more than a crawl. After half an hour we were still yet to reach Nam Dinh. I was beginning to wonder if I had misinterpreted the staff’s assurances when a crew member came and tapped me on the shoulder and motioned to the doorway at the end of the carriage. I grabbed my bag and made my way to the doors.
As I arrived at the doorway, I received the usual questioning glances and ‘Nam Dinh’? enquiries from people nearby who were perplexed by a young, white, blonde haired Australian girl disembarking at a station so far from the tourist trail. As I disembarked, I realised that the confines of the carriage had diffused how ferocious the rain and wind had become outside. I threw open my umbrella and jumped onto the platform, but my umbrella reversed itself completely, the frame snapping and rendering it completely useless. Within seconds I was completely drenched, and I scrambled across the train tracks (platform crossings are non-existent at Nam Dinh station) and made my way to the relative safety and dryness of the waiting room. It was only once I paused in the waiting room that I realised I was shivering; The temperature had dropped significantly since I left Hanoi and I was wearing a t-shirt and knee length cotton pants, which were both dripping wet by now.
As I exited the station other passengers quickly scampered out to meet waiting friends and family and hurry home. As I looked around, I noticed that all the usual fixtures of this area of the city were conspicuously absent; sales vendors had long departed, the usual eager swarm of taxis and xe om drivers were nowhere to be seen, and an ominous black shrouded my surroundings in the absence of streetlights. It took a moment or two before it dawned on me that without the usual proliferation of transport offers that usually greet me as I exit the station, I was left without a mode of transportation home. I quickly pulled out my phone to call a taxi before realising that the receptionists spoke only in Vietnamese, and even knowing my location, my Vietnamese pronunciation was so hopeless as to render any effort to request a ride completely useless.
I glanced around in hope of finding someone, anyone, who could help me... and eventually spotted a small group of people standing under a large tarpaulin across the street. I scampered across the somewhat eerily abandoned road and greeted the group before motioning to my phone to convey my need to call a taxi. But my efforts drew no response and even my usual game of Charades failed me, perhaps due to my now pitch-black surroundings. Panicked by now, I made my way through my contact list in the hope that I could find someone who could call a taxi on my behalf. My first few attempts failed, and my frustration was growing rapidly. The rain was getting heavier, and the tarpaulin was collapsing so I scampered back across the road for the sturdier cover of the station veranda. I continued frantically dialling numbers until finally, the head English teacher at Le Hong Phuong High School, Ms Phuong, answered the phone, much to my relief. The rain was now coming so loudly though that I could barely communicate, but eventually, I conveyed my situation and was informed that her she and her husband would come and pick me up in their car. This was not the assistance I was expected but by now I was certainly not going to refuse the offer! After another 20 minutes passed standing on the balcony before Mr and Ms Phuong finally arrived and I gratefully climbed into the car, and we headed back to the school.
As I arrived at the school gate, I expressed my extreme gratitude once again and rushed past the guard house and onto the covered balcony outside the classrooms and guesthouse. The tiled balcony was flooded and perilously slippery, but nevertheless provided welcome relief from the torrential downpour. Eventually I made it to my front door and fumbled around for the lock and made my way into my pitch-black room. I texted another teacher, who lived upstairs, to inform her I was home and she filled me in on the events of the past hour or so; Apparently the power had been gone, throughout the city, for about two hours now. Then much to my surprised she informed me, this was not just a typical tropical storm but rather the beginnings of a Typhoon (Typhoon Son-Linh) which, as I would later discover, made landfall on the coast of Vietnam about 45 km southeast of Nam Dinh City.
Once home I scrambled for my torch which was conspicuously absent, and after borrowing one from another teacher I raced outside and upstairs to return the torch, and I was quite literally knocked over by a stray gust of wind in the process. Somewhat shaken, I scampered back to my room, shuttered the doors and windows as best I could and settled into my black surroundings.
The rest of the evening passed in a state of frazzled nerves and heightened senses as the cacophony of tempestuous noises were amplified by the open tropical design of the school buildings, and scattered impressions of the world coming apart around me. Soon after I settled in, I got a text from Mum, concerned that I hadn’t Skyped her as promised. At this point a text in return seemed hardly enough to explain the situation and I quickly replied with ‘you might want to call me… it’s a long story’. In retrospect I probably should have replied with a simple ‘home safe, talk tomorrow’, but alas I didn’t; instead had a rather rushed conversation with Mum informing her that her daughter was alone, in a foreign country, battening up the hatches and awaiting the full intensity of a tropical storm.
Once I finished the frazzled phone call it finally hit me that I was alone; in a foreign country; awaiting the full intensity of a tropical typhoon! Surrounded by blackness and with little else to do I dug out a comforting favourite book- Seven Little Australians- and with my dim reading torch settled in for the night- given I had very few other options at this stage.
I tried to ignore the constant banging and crashing of wooden desks falling onto tiled floors, the tearing sound as the school billboard featuring the beloved Uncle Ho was ripped clean off the frame and the shattering as the very large pot plant outside my door fell to the floor crushing the tiles beneath it. Eventually though exhaustion hit, and I was able to drift off into a restless sleep, comforted (however slightly) by a niggling voice in the back of my mind telling me that perhaps this would be a good story to tell (one day) …
Morning brought a quiet and almost surreal peacefulness. I woke at five and wandered outside I realised the quiet betrayed the trail of destruction left in Son-Linh’s wake. The day that followed was an eye-opening testament to the resilience and unshakeable determination of the Vietnamese people as everyone went about their day as though nothing significant had happened. At 6.30am students began to arrive at school and class went on as usual even though power was yet to be restored. That afternoon as I travelled around the city and found the already dishevelled state of Vietnamese infrastructure was intensified by downed power lines, destroyed, and randomly deposited signs, missing walls on buildings and general scenes of destruction.
However, the most startling observation (for me at least) of the ‘day after’ was the way in which life continued around the chaos. Motorist manoeuvred their bikes around the fallen trees, children ran around playing, seemingly oblivious to the events of the night before, residents set up their street stalls and restaurants. Even one venue with a wall missing opened as though it were just another day. Such a reaction to a natural disaster was completely foreign to my western upbringing. Back in Australia an incident such as this would have shut down the town for days and seen the SES and army of volunteers (or even the actual army) called in to clean up the mess. But that is just the way things work in Vietnam. When something goes awry you simply pick yourself up and keep on going; it really is one of the most endearing traits of the nation and its people.
Over the course of the next week things slowly returned to normal; the streets were cleared, and signs returned to their regular upright position. The power across the city was restored after about five days. The power lines remained precariously hung at best, but this too was a somewhat ‘normal’ part of day-to-day life in Nam Dinh. Looking back and writing about the experience it seems very intense, but chances are my prose deceives reality and it was probably actually slightly less chaotic than I make it seem. But nevertheless, that niggling voice as I drifted into an uneasy state of rest that fateful night was right… it certainly does make for a good story to tell!
