A Hundred Years on the Platform: Notes on Yunnan-Vietnam Railway

 

It was more than a century ago, in 1901, that French colonialists began to build a railway from Hai Phong in Vietnam to Kunming, in China’s south-western Yunnan province. By the time the railway construction reached the terminal in Kunming, it was Mar. 31, 1910.

This is the 854-kilometre China-Vietnam Railway, whose route I followed from Kunming at the beginning of the winter of 2006.

Afternoon, beginning of winter, on the platform of the railway station. . .

I arrived at the Kunming North Station in the morning.

Today, this is where the China-Vietnam Railway begins. But the real starting point is what used to be the Kunming South Station, which has disappeared over the years with the development of this south-western Chinese city.

On the grounds of the railway station stands a mammoth billboard that advertises Dali Beer. There were no crowds of passengers pushing their way through, and only few motor vehicles were parked outside. Upon entering the virtually empty ticket hall, only one window was open. For a long time, I did not see anyone buying a ticket.

“Is there any train departing for Hekou or Hanoi?” I asked.

“No more,” a middle-aged lady wearing a pair of glasses replied, absent-mindedly.

“For how long have there been no trains?”

“Two years,” replied the attendant. However, information about the China-Vietnam Railway – including conspicuous notices providing information about way stations and ticket rates – was still posted on the ticket office window.

On the deserted platform, only a signboard that said ‘Kunming North Station’ and a wooden-framed clock remained. The two sides of the clock, in fact, displayed different times. Indeed, time lost its meaning here. Eleven pairs of tracks, on which two stationary oil-tanker trains stood, stretched out from the platform.

Across the tracks were four old houses of six stories high, their windows and balconies tightly guarded by protective rails that gave them a depressing air. Behind the old buildings stood Century Garden, a newly-built apartment building of some 20 stories. These were separated from the railway by a white wall, over which ‘sanjiaomei’ flowers (bougainvillea spectabilis) climbed over, its purple flowers in full bloom.

Tranquility prevailed, except for the sound of building renovation work.

The blinding sun, meanwhile, shone on the railway tracks. From the gravel around the tracks, a stone tablet jutted out – on it was engraved, in black, the number zero to mark the start of the railway line. From there, the rusty rails stretched out until they disappeared into the thick growth of grass and the buildings beyond.

Since she was laid off years ago, Zhang Xiufang has taken to walking her dog by the railway tracks after lunch. I met her one afternoon of a bright winter day. “When I moved here a dozen years ago, there was a pool here,” she said, pointing to the new apartment building. “The railway station was very busy. But now, apart from a few freight trains, there are no more passenger trains. I heard that the narrow railway will be dismantled. It won’t remain for long. There is also talk about applying for World Heritage status. . . . It’s up to the officials to do that. It is none of us common people’s business. . . .”

Indeed, nobody can predict the destiny of this railway, whose journey of more than a century has been without many surprises.

The sun’s rays brought our eyes to the inverted ‘V’ bridge.

“You must go and see the inverted ‘V’ bridge. It’s the symbol of the railway,” my friend Zhang told me.

“Have you ever been there?”

“Yes, but that was more than ten years ago,” she replied.

“Where exactly is the inverted ‘V’ bridge?”

“In Pinbian county, but I don’t know the exact location. You’d have to find out when you arrive at the county town.”

There was a lot of talk about the gemel arched steel truss bridge, dubbed the ‘inverted V bridge’ because of its shape. But each time I heard people describe it, the more uncertain I felt because no one seemed to be able to give exact information about the bridge. This made me even more determined to have a close look at it myself.

Designed by a French engineer, Wujiazhai bridge is located in Wujiazhai, 52 kilometres from Pinbian county in Yunnan province. Construction started in March 1907, taking a year and seven months to complete. The bridge has a steel structure -- with steel plates, angle steel and U-steel, held together by rivets. Sixty-seven metres long, 4.2 metres wide, and with a clearance of 100 metres from the ground, it is a masterpiece in the history of building railway bridges. More than 800 workers, it is said, lost their lives during the construction of the bridge at this dangerous location. There was no precedent for it.

But amid this history, many locals – including my driver, Xiao Zhu -- had not actually seen the bridge up close even though they knew all about it.

“It’s mainly because it’s too far away and the road is bad. When there is rain, there would be landslides, making the journey very dangerous,” he said. “Look, even Wantang township is not accessible by bus, let alone travelling to the bridge. It’s still more than 30 kilometres from Wantang.”

The Chang’an minibus, driven by Xiao Zhou, bumped along the mountain path. Reaching up to the middle of the mountain was the China-Vietnam Railway, and in between the valleys, the Nanxi River surged by. Sitting in the bus, I unfolded a map of Pinbian county, and found the location of the ‘V’ bridge, spanning a canyon between Boduqing and Luogu stations in North Wantang township. The path narrowed after passing Wantang, with overgrowth of wild grass. After driving for more than an hour, we crossed a bridge and turned right uphill. The bus engine suddenly died. No sooner had I turned to speak to Xiao Zhou, when I saw a huge iron bridge right ahead of us, uphill. Although the mountain blocked part of my view, the inverted ‘V’ bridge that I had been looking for was there, just like it has been 100 years ago, except that it was less used than in the past.

Led by our guide Xiong Wen, we crossed a pile of gravel, climbed a gentle slope and a patch of cornfield, and went further. The bridge now appeared before me in its full view. I could only look up, like a pilgrim. Below, the Nanxi River flowed past the deep canyon, meandering through steep precipices and cliffs. The magnificent bridge stood like a giant holding the two sides of the mountains together with his arms. There was no train whistling by, but only the sound of corn leaves rustling in the wind. Clouds floated past, over the bridge. Everything stopped; everything remained still. The mountain and the bridge stood as they had for more than a century, the only change being that the steel structures of the bridge had become rusty.

“The bridge was built during my grandfather’s generation. We climbed up and enjoyed ourselves there sometimes. But now the train has stopped and it isn’t very convenient to go out,” said Xiong Wen, 28. His home in Moshi Zhai, the village nearest the bridge, is but a 20-minute walk from it.

Holding a torch overhead, Xiong Wen led us through a pitch-dark tunnel to reach the inverted ‘V’ bridge. As flames flickered, casting light onto the rock wall, we saw traces of tunnel digging. Drops of water fell from the damp rock wall, but at a turn in the tunnel, a sunbeam appeared. The sun’s rays almost blinded us, but led us to the bridge. Its rails stretched out along the bridge and beyond, until they disappeared into another tunnel at the other end.

I was now actually standing on the bridge, below which lay an unfathomable abyss a thousand feet deep.

On the Chinese side of the river…

Hekou is the last railway station on the Sino-Vietnamese border, located by the Nanxi River that marks the start of Vietnamese territory.

 

The Sino-Vietnamese railway bridge, all of 140 metres long, has been there since 1910. The three piers along the Nanxi River were also as they have been through the decades. Clearly visible on the other bank of the river was a boundary sign indicating Vietnam, beyond which stood a white bungalow, with a green roof and yellow windows, as well as French-style structures among the trees. Cars drove by occasionally. Tourists in twos or threes took photographs. The eight Chinese characters on a billboard caught my eye: ‘Yi Fang Re Tu Mai Xiang Hui Huang.’ (This prosperous land is marching toward Glory).

With the river in between, all these were no more than 200 metres away from where I stood.

I took these all in while standing at the bank by the railway bridge, as the sun sank in the west. A middle-aged man near me was sitting on a small motorcycle, his feet stretching out to the rail by the river, nibbling sweetened ice that cost one yuan (13 U.S. cents) a cup. People speaking in a babble of tongues strolled past him to have a closer look at the famous bridge. They were expecting a train to come roaring by, but for this, they would have to wait till 8:30 the next morning.

Soon, the sound of shutters being hauled down at the postal stall by the railway broke into my thoughts. I glanced at my watch, whose its hands pointed to 17:30. I found myself thinking that at this same time tomorrow, I would be looking over from the other side of the river. I wondered if I would still be able to hear the sound of the shutters being pulled down.

On the Vietnamese side…

The sun shone on the big bridge just as it did the day before, but this time, I was standing on Vietnamese soil. Time flowed ceaselessly, like the waters of the Nanxi River. Other than a bamboo raft floating down from upstream, no boat passed by today. A man was busy manoeuvring the boat with a bamboo pole, to avoid crossing the non-existent boundary. Soon, the raft disappeared from sight.

‘Hekou Railway Station’. Those words, engraved into the bronze plate, shone under the sun. I peered at the postal stall on the opposite bank, but it was already shut. There was no sound of rolling doors closing, no roar of a train’s engine on the bridge.

Everything was calm, so calm that it made me lose all sense of time.

Hours later, the train left Lao Cai, the Vietnamese town on the border with China’s Hekou, on time as it headed for the Vietnamese capital, Hanoi. There are four trains a day from Lao Cai to Hanoi, one in the day and the other three at night, running for eight to nine hours. If you missed the day train, nobody knew how long you would have to wait for the next one to come. I chose the LC4, the only day train to Hanoi.

The train chugged along the narrow rails, the sun’s rays not far behind. Though they were not crowded, the train’s cars seemed very busy as hawkers went up and down the aisles, peddling their wares to passengers.

Sitting opposite me was a young couple in their late twenties. The man was thin and calm. The woman was short, lively and prone to exaggerated expressions when speaking. She was fiddling with the man’s mobile phone throughout the journey. Finding out that I came from China, she held up the cell phone before me, saying “Made in China”. Then she pointed to what looked like a Walkman her companion had, saying: “Made in China too!” At first, I felt a bit excited. Then I examined the music player, which the guy said that he had bought for 35 yuan (4.6 dollars). I asked to see the brand, and he showed it to me with a smile – ‘Lontai’. What was that? I thought. “Cheap, cheap,” quipped the owner. Then the lady pointed to the clothes she and her companion were wearing -- “Made in Vietnam”, she said with pride. I began to feel a bit embarrassed. All of this reminded me of an English book about the Vietnamese town of Mong Cai that described it as an attractive town because Chinese merchandise there was cheap, but not of outstanding quality. I was reminded that this was the impression many people had about Chinese goods. I shifted my gaze, to the fast-retreating landscape outside.

Soon, the train left the mountains and went into the sunshine-bathed plains. Vast rice paddies stretched out along both sides of the railway. From time to time, tall churches appeared from among the bamboo groves. Farmers returning home late, with their buffaloes in tow, made their way along the narrow paths.

I was unable to associate this lush scenery with images of carpet bombing and that famous photograph of a young girl, wailing as she ran for her life during the war in Vietnam more than three decades ago.

As the train headed for a big bridge, the view outside began to change. Greenery gave way to a world of noisy motorcycles making their way across the bridge. The motorbikes zoomed past our train, and it was amid the din of their engines that we arrived at the Vietnamese capital.

Hai Phong Station. The hands of the wall clock were still moving. . .

The train to Hai Phong did not leave from Hanoi station, but from Long Bian station at the head of the railway bridge of the same name in Hanoi’s old quarter. In the waiting room and ticket office inside this small station, passengers, motionless and expressionless, had their eyes glued to a soap opera being aired on the television. The voices from the soap opera were, however, drowned out by the perpetual stream of motorcycles passing through the nearby Long Bian bridge.

As soon as the train pulled out of Hai Phong station, it passed through the century-old Long Bian bridge, which spans the Hong Ha river. That was the same bridge we had passed through as the train entered Hanoi earlier that evening. Not many passengers were going to Hai Phong -- the train had six cars, one of which was empty. I strolled out to the platform between two cars, taking in the view of the rich, alluvial Hong Ha plains. The skies were overcast, putting a depressing pall over the scenery.

I leaned against the train’s protective railings, holding on to them while sticking my head out of the carriage. The wind beat against my face so hard that I could hardly breathe. The sound of the rushing train rang in my ears, but I was not perturbed. The noise projected a kind of strength, a vigorous strength amid some kind of confusion. I felt a rush. I gripped the rail even tighter, my palms wet with sweat. Farmland, tree groves, factories, graveyards, small paths … all rushed at me and then disappeared in the blink of an eye. I could hardly imagine how the train passed through this vast expanse of land. Even less could I imagine how this railway was laid, inch by inch, until it reached Kunming across the border in China. But still, the train chugged along and surged forward with strength, regardless of how low the clouds hung and whether windstorms lay ahead.

Travel fatigue was waiting for me upon arrival in the north-eastern town of Hai Phong, by the Gulf of Tonkin. But I sat up when I realised that the big wall clock on the platform of the Hai Phong station was exactly the same one I had seen at the Bise Zhai station in Yunnan, at the start of my cross-border journey. Only then did I really fully associate the railway in Yunnan, China with that in Vietnam.

Indeed, the railway had always been linked and connected the two countries, except that the wall clock at the Bise Zhai station had stopped at God knows when. The wall clock in Hai Phong, however, continues to tick.