I’ve never been a backpacker. Luxury and comfort are my style. But I wanted to observe Vietnam between the growing tourist haunts along the country’s lengthy coastline from Ho Chi Minh City (HCMC), or Saigon, as the locals still call it, to Hanoi. 

As a solo female traveller, I decided the most convenient way to travel was by train rather than a sleeper bus.

Although the name isn’t emblazoned on any of the trains, the Reunification Express is the only way to travel north-south between Vietnam’s major metropolises. It’s also not express, stopping at many stations along the way. It’s the local’s primary means of transportation, besides a bus, car, or plane.

The French began construction of the line between Hanoi and Saigon in 1899. It wasn’t until 1936 that the first locomotive travelled the entire length, a journey of 60 hours. Known as the Transindochinois line, it also had a hairdressing salon and a cinema car.

During the Vietnam War, which lasted from 1956 to 1975, the line became a mass of broken metal, with 27 tunnels, 158 stations, 1,370 switches, and 1,334 bridges reportedly destroyed. However, 20 months later, the first train left Hanoi for Saigon, and Vietnam was reunited.

Today, the straight-through 1,726km journey takes 36 hours, and there are five classes of travel onboard: hard seat, soft seat, six-berth hard sleeper, four-berth soft sleeper, and two-berth VIP on a handful of trains. There are several trains, each slightly differently configured. Some have also been upgraded recently.

I’ve booked a four-berth soft sleeper for my journey from Saigon to Da Nang. 

On this leg, my SE22 train departs Saigon station (Ga Sai Gon) at 10:35am. The ticketing instructions say to arrive 30 minutes before departure. Always a stickler for promptness, especially in new surroundings, I arrived at 9.30am. 

Although the station is the hub for all national train services, the two-storey buttercup-painted Ga Sai Gon is nondescript. Groups are huddled around the station’s entrance and gardens, many smoking. 

I can’t see the train or platform listed on the departures board inside the minimalistic, spacious entrance hall. Perhaps it’s because I’m too early. I wait patiently behind a customer at the information counter. The demure receptionist confirms my ticket, indicating where to exit and the platform from which my train will depart. 

Rows of seats fill the other end of the hall opposite a handful of convenience-style shops. Soon, people gather around the exit door area, and I decide to join them. Multiple lines begin forming like octopus tentacles. 

With only one guard checking tickets, it becomes a game of who can block the best. I’m petite but utilise my spinner carry-on to maximum advantage and quickly move forward. 

Finding my carriage proves more difficult as I walk beside the train’s red, white, and blue livery. I nearly topple twice as passengers rush, push, and shove with their piles of goods. A smartly attired, blue-uniformed guard at Coach 8 eventually helps, putting my bag onboard, as the platform was not aligned with the train doorway. 

My four-berth cabin is in the middle of the carriage, and seat 17 is a lower bed. Since I’m the first to arrive, I quickly arrange what I need for the 20-hour journey and stow my suitcase under my bed. Friends, although they’d travelled the train over ten years earlier, advised me to buy a bike lock and secure my bag to the bed leg. My small backpack with food, water, red wine, notebook, pens, money, tickets, identification papers, jumper coat, scarf, toiletries, computer and phone chargers, and earphones is on my bed. My shoes are tucked beside my carry-on under the bed.

After placing the water and phone next to a tiny vase of plastic flowers on the little side table, I curl up on the bed to survey the fake timber laminated walled cabin. 

It’s clean, neat, and air-conditioned. Double bunks adorned with primrose monogrammed sheets and one pillow line either wall. The so-called soft bed felt like a plank under my amply padded bottom. Later that night, I confirmed that there was nothing soft about the thin, extremely firm mattress. 

However, I could only find one power outlet on the wall above the doorway. How were four occupants meant to share one power point, especially so high up? Surely, that was for the people in the top bunks. No, it was meant for everyone. Discovering there was no wifi either, my decision was easy. The laptop could go back into my suitcase, and I’d use the phone minimally for photos. 

 At the end of our carriage was a handbasin and Western toilet, but no toilet paper, hand towels, or soap. The carriages on either side of ours had squat toilets.

A few minutes later, a young Vietnamese woman nodded as she entered the cabin and quickly threw her bags on the top bunk opposite me, effortlessly hurling herself up after them. Donning her headphones, she clearly didn’t want to engage in any way. 

A young man followed suit and manner on the other top bunk. Finally, another young girl arrived with a gigantic suitcase and several overflowing soft carry bags, which she tossed on the opposite bed and disappeared again — soon, reappearing with another large suitcase. My eyes bulged, wondering where she would put all this stuff. 

I eventually helped by laying the largest hard suitcase flat under the little table so we could both put our feet on it. She was a student studying English in Saigon. She’d been away for a year and was returning home for the Lunar New Year. 

With the train’s horn blaring, we depart bang on time. I watch closely as rustic buildings, flapping washing, colourful flowering gardens, and locals going about their daily chores flash by. Pushbikes, motorcycles, cars, and trucks line the many boom gates as if saying farewell as we pass. 

Within minutes, the hustle and bustle of Vietnam’s capital thins, as do the towns and villages. We cross wide azure rivers, copious lush banana and coconut plantations, and bountiful fruit and vegetable gardens. The countryside rises gradually, cattle grazing undisturbed in the valleys. The hillsides become rockier, and sentinel white, solar-producing wind farms line the ridges and plains. Water-logged, emerald rice fields stretch back to mountains on the horizon below the cloudless cobalt sky. The variations of the countryside engross me during the 12 hours before sunset. 

As the sky turns blood orange behind charcoal-shadowed mountains, I pull the small bottle of red wine, cheese and biscuits from my backpack and toast the end of another beautiful and rewarding day in Vietnam. This is precisely why I chose to ride the Reunification train, not a sleeper bus or fly 30,000 feet above.

Even though announcements say not to get off the train at station stops unless you are leaving, the student would descend and return with foods purchased at the little stalls, happily sharing some with me. It included tiny doughy buns with meat, but too little for her liking, fruit-flavoured wrap-style sheets, and tasty gooey rice Tet cake wrapped in banana leaf. Apart from turning the main cabin light on at 2.30am and her phone alarm ringing loudly for several minutes at 3.30am she was pleasant. 

Instead of staring at a blank bed base above me, I saw flourishing Vietnamese writing. The student translated it – ‘If there is enough sunshine, flowers will bloom. If there is enough love, happiness will be abundant.’ The beautiful sentiment filled me with joy.  

By 4.00am, everyone in my cabin had disembarked. My Da Nang stop was two hours away. After a few more stops and no one else joining my cabin, I gathered up the other pillows and laid them along my mattress. My back was thankful. I’d also used my soft backpack under my pillow to raise it. Finally, I was comfortable, dozing peacefully.

When the train stopped at Da Nang, I was surprised to see we had to cross two rows of tracks with our luggage before reaching the platform. On exiting the station and entering the car park, a myriad of cars and people surrounded me, but there was no driver with my name on their board. I just waited in the hope he would eventually find me. And he did, 15 minutes later. 

I was breaking my journey to see if and how Covid had affected tourism. It was drastic. Seeing so many huge beachside hotels and restaurants standing like skeletons in Da Nang was sad. Even though the sea was rough and uninviting, a handful of locals were walking and cycling. 

Even my hotel in Hoi An, the Coco River Resort and Spa, was only half full. Luckily, I scored an upgrade—to the honeymoon suite. It seemed a waste, granting my solo status, but I loved every minute of the vast, rose-petal-decorated bed, raised bath, massive walk-in shower, and riverside views. 

The sunshine of Saigon had disappeared during the night. It was cool, with continual drizzly rain in Hoi An, but despite the grey weather, the colourful town delivered a warm, friendly, and fun stopover. 

Although Hoi An is void of the mass tourism it once enjoyed, my Victoria sidecar driver putters effortlessly amongst the verdant countryside, market gardens, rice fields, and almost deserted creamy sand beaches, pulling up on the roadside for me to capture daily life. Tourists stroll the streets in town, peering into the yellowing shophouses that display the latest fashions. We cruise by the Ancient Town, beside canals and the two rivers, where quaint Hoi An is nestled. While the rain didn’t ease during my four-hour adventure, I was as dry as possible in my new designer wear, a plastic cover-all raincoat, compliments of my driver! A two-hour foot and full body massage at Rosara Spa in my hotel perfectly ended my day and stay.

I’d arranged for a private driver to take me from Hoi An to Hue. Departing at 9.30am, he drove through town and along the coastline before heading up into the lush Hai Van Pass. He stopped whenever I wanted to take photographs or absorb the breathtaking scenery. 

Dio Hai Van means ‘Ocean Cloud Pass’. While the unseasonably cool, inclement weather had set in, and low, misty clouds made visiting Golden Hands Bridge and its vast views redundant, I still captured the flourishing panoramic outlook of Lang Co Peninsula, the stretches of champagne-coloured cove beaches and the Reunification train heading south through the pass as we made our way to Hue. 

At Hue, my royal cooking class at Y Thao Garden was memorable. As the only student, every mistake was noted, and sadly, there were many! But the five courses afterwards were worth the effort. The following day, my private English-speaking guide and driver ensured I saw every inch of the city and surrounding region. From discovering Dong Ba markets and purchasing a windproof/waterproof jacket with a hood for US$5, climbing the stairs of Imperial Citadel, to making an incense stick at Thuy Xuan before buying a professionally made pack to take home, checking out the Imperial City, Tu Duc tomb, Vong Canh hill, and Hon Chen and To Mieu temples. Before dropping me off at Ga Hue to join the 5.41pm Reunification Express train to Hanoi.

A deep burgundy brick building, Hue train station is surrounded by some dubious-looking eateries, with groups of men seated on little plastic chairs, smoking. I chose to stay in the station waiting room, even though the television had a loud, repetitive song playing, and charge my phone and camera, just in case we only had one power outlet in the cabin again.

This time, I’m on train SE2, which was refurbished in 2016. I’m in Coach 8 again, but the carriage isn’t in the middle of the train as previously; it’s right up front, way past the end of the platform. Again, I’m eyeballing the bottom of the doorway. Although my bag is small, lifting it above my head is difficult, and I need assistance.

Seat 18 is a lower bunk in a four-berth cabin in the middle of the carriage. The layout is like my first train but has free wifi, individual power outlets, and reading lights above each bed. This time, I don’t bother locking my bags under my bed. I had no issues before and wasn’t expecting any this time. I was correct. 

There are no passengers in my cabin yet, but having seen it firsthand already, I knew the staff only patted the bed sheets straight, plumped the pillow and folded the blanket when previous occupants left. Nothing was replaced during the journey. 

I set myself up again, preparing my red wine and nibbles for our sunset departure. I’m the only occupant in the cabin as we depart Hue.

The dinner cart at my doorway smelled wonderful, successfully tempting me, especially the price. A plate piled high with hot chicken, vegetables, and rice costs 40,000 dong (US$2). Enjoying my bounty, I peek at families also having dinner as we zoom by their houses.

A few stops later, a young Vietnamese man joins me, tossing his soft bag on the top bunk opposite and setting himself up with his headphones and iPad. I think he watched back-to-back shows all night, but the screen light didn’t worry me as he had his back towards the door. 

An elderly lady soon joined us, setting herself up on the other lower bunk. When she threw her pillow down the bottom of her bed, I asked if I could have it. Although she didn’t speak, she handed it over. After a few stops, when no one else joined our cabin, I grabbed the pillow and blanket from the other upper bunk. 

After the final mouthful of wine, I was set for a more comfortable night. The pillows provide a soft covering over the rock-hard mattress, and the extra blanket is cosy against the cold, wet weather outside. Every review I’d read about the train mentioned freezing air-conditioning, but both my trains were set at a pleasant level.

At 5.00am, I dragged my slightly aching body to the toilet, only to find it occupied. For fifteen minutes, I stood patiently outside next to the handbasin and mirror, watching a female train attendant rummaging through rubbish bags, separating the plastic bottles, and emptying any water before placing them in another bag.

I knock on the toilet door. With no answer, I try the handle, and although it was tight, it opened. A man quickly poked his head out. He didn’t reply to my question about how long he would be, just closing the door as quickly as possible. Finally, five minutes later, he exited. I lifted the toilet seat. Gasp. The bowl was a lake, ready to spill over the seat edge any minute. I dashed to the next carriage to be confronted with an equally revolting squalor around a squat toilet. I no longer had a need.

It wasn’t long before the inky night turned golden. Farmers were beginning their day, and people were heading to the markets on bicycles or motorbikes laden high with goods. Stretches of low rice fields were soon replaced by small villages, eventually merging into the drab steel and concrete interspersed with huge advertising boards and neon signs of the capital, Hanoi. Again, motorbikes, cars, and trucks gather haphazardly at boom gates as we speed by, this time welcoming us. 

Soon, we’re hurtling through Train Street. At 7:30am, it’s too early for the vendors and tourists. The closeness of the buildings gives me goosebumps, but it’s also exhilarating. Within minutes, we are at Ga Hanoi.

For the first time, the train carriage aligns with the platform. I’m relieved until, a few feet ahead, I see a massive flight of stairs. The old lady from my carriage is also looking for an alternate route or help. Thankfully, I don’t have a large suitcase, but my smaller bag isn’t light with heavy camera equipment and a computer inside. Eventually, a young Singaporean man helps me. With many more stairs ahead before we’re entirely inside the station, I’m grateful.

Ga Hanoi is several storeys high and lengthy. My driver has messaged what gate he’s at, but I walk miles to find no such number. The Singaporean man is still with me and insists that I stay put and that he’ll look for the driver. For all his hard work, he wouldn’t accept my offer to take him to his hotel.

Although the weather is still unseasonably cold, ten degrees below normal, there is a warm glow within. It’s lovely being back in Hanoi. Fortunately, my room at Thien Thai Hotel is ready and toasty warm, too. I can’t resist soaking in the bath, sipping my steaming hot coffee, and enjoying the rooftop views across my room and the Old Quarter below before exploring the ancient and hidden quarters that make Hanoi exciting.

At 2.30pm, I head to Train Street. It’s buzzing. Cafe staff set lines of little chairs along their frontage, hawkers walk between the train tracks peddling their souvenirs or snack foods, and multi-national tourists enter from both ends. 

I chose a café in the middle, ordered a hot drink, and grabbed my seat. It’s perfectly positioned, and I guard it with my life. No one will block my view of that massive locomotive, just a fingertip away as it travels down the street.

I stand firm against an Indian family trying to take over at 3.00pm. Fifteen minutes later, loud trumpeting sounds and glaring headlights appear as the raging Reunification Express engine rounds the corner at the far end. 

Deep-throated rumbling blocks the gasps emanating from the gathered crowds. The concrete and stone beneath my feet quiver as the gigantic beast reaches us — carriage after golden-lit carriage zooms by in a blur of red, white, and blue stripes. I hold my camera steady, videoing the snake charge through. Was my train really this long? It seems to go on forever. Everyone audibly breathes out as the last carriage passes. It’s a thrilling end to my day in Hanoi. 

Although not my usual luxurious standard, travelling the Reunification train allowed me to see a vast expanse of Vietnam’s stunning countryside and observe the local people onboard, along with some interaction. The journey delivered precisely what I was looking for. I chose my train times deliberately to enjoy maximum daylight hours to view the passing scenes, not simply use the train as a hotel-saving exercise. It’s an experience I’m grateful to have had, both onboard and along Train Street.

Header Image: © Efired. All other images: © Nannette Holliday