Bound for Vietnam

by Lydia Laube

  Disgorged into the street, I found myself in front of a great flight of steps which I thought led to the shipping terminal offices where I might buy a ticket to Shanghai. I struggled up this monumental obstacle course to discover that it wasn’t so. I lumped my bags further down the road. It was lined by offices that could possibly have been travel agents, so I stepped into one to enquire. An obliging man went to find someone who spoke English and shortly charming Miss Fong materialised. She made a phonecall for me and informed me that the boat would leave the next day. Miss Fong directed me to the ticket office, a cavernous affair a few doors down. Here I waited patiently while a woman meticulously stamped and sorted thirty thousand tickets under the enthralled gaze of the cluster of people who pressed about her. Although it was obvious that nothing was happening up front, the woman behind me wouldn’t stand quietly and kept pushing me closer and closer until she eventually wormed her way up alongside me in the starting gates. But I got shunted up to the desk before she managed to pass me.

  The ticket lady made it known to me that Miss Fong had been wrong – there were no tickets to Shanghai. All the people behind me joined in the effort of deciphering the phrasebook. ‘No ticket to Shanghai,’ they chorused.

  I returned to Miss Fong and said that perhaps the ticket seller had not understood me. She very kindly dropped what she was doing, locked her desk and went to see for herself. Fifteen minutes later she returned and said, ‘Sorry, no tickets today. You try tomorrow.’

  She dialled a number and let me speak to a man who explained that it was not possible to buy a ticket in advance.

  You had to get to the ticket office when it opened at eight o’clock in the morning and fight for a ticket for that day.

  My guidebook claimed that there was a baggage storage office in the vicinity, but it proved elusive. I suspect that it was secreted in the International Terminal Building, but a large policeman barred the entrance and sent me packing. I wasn’t allowed in there without a ticket to prove I was going somewhere.

  A taxi driver with a little English accosted me. I explained that I wanted a hotel that wasn’t too dear and we set off on the big search for this rare animal. Dalian was reputed to run a close second to Tianjin in the Most Expensive race. At the first hotel the driver and I discussed the price I would pay and he went in to negotiate for me – to no avail. Three hotels and a similar amount of rejections later, he finally established me in the Fortune Hotel at a cost of 220 yuan a night.

  The Fortune Hotel was another of those places where I was not allowed the responsibility of a key. The room attendant came attached at the waist to a thousand keys that jangled on a lump of fencing wire fixed to a railway sleeper. She rattled up and down the wire through a cacophony of keys until she found the one that matched my door. And each time I went in or out the door I had to find her to lock or unlock it for me.

  A sign over the front entrance of the hotel claimed that it had a restaurant. When I asked the desk staff to direct me to it, I was marched to the front door and handed to the doorman, a severe-looking fellow who turned out to be most amiable. Taking me in his custody, he trundled me down the street, across the road and into a place that served Chinese fast food. The doorman dragged me all around the room pointing out the food on the tables and the pictures of it on the walls, before giving me into the keeping of a young man at the counter.

  I ate some luscious steamed dumplings that were filled with a kind of green spinach and shrimps. I had been determined not to touch anything out of these polluted waters, but it was delicious. Seafood was the gastronomic specialty of Dalian, and it was hard to avoid it. Local tourists flock here to eat it, seemingly unconcerned by the foul state of the ocean it comes from. A dish of tasty sauce that contained at least six cloves of garlic accompanied each serve –with any luck it would kill any lurking bacteria. My attendant/keeper brought me a special serviette and a spoon, rather than chopsticks, and looked after me very well – all for the cost of a dollar. When I prepared to leave, he took me, literally, by the hand, and led back me to the hotel. And not just to the door, but right into the foyer. I must look mentally defective, I thought.

  Later, in my girlish innocence – or stupidity – I again tried CITS. I thought they would help me to get a ticket to Shanghai. I never learn! The phone was answered by someone who spoke no English and hung up on me. Totally disillusioned with CITS, I gave it away.

  We had crossed the Bohai Sea to reach Dalian, which is situated on the tip of the Liaoning Peninsular of Manchuria in China’s north east. Dalian is an important port with a buoyant economy and a busy industrial centre. Occupied by the Japanese in the late nineteenth century, it became a Russian concession, known as Luda, in 1898. Dalian was a valuable asset to the Russians and they planned to make it their great warm-water port. But, after the Russo-Japanese war in 1905, it was taken from them again by the Japanese. The Soviet Union re-claimed Dalian after the second world war and kept it for ten years – until Chinese liberation.

  There is a feeling of prosperity in Dalian’s wide cobblestone streets, but although it has long been a summer resort for Chinese, few western faces are seen here. Russian smugglers are said to be the usual foreign visitors. I had not seen a westerner for ages. Not that I wanted to; most of them were an embarrassment. I didn’t realise how ugly we could be until I passed one on the street in Dalian, and, looking at him through unfamiliar eyes saw him as the Chinese must have done. No wonder they stare. I did too. With his peaky, rat face, extremely pale and blotchy skin, tatty mouse brown hair and grotty clothes, he looked very strange indeed.

  Dalian’s buildings are an eclectic medley of architectural styles; Chinese, Japanese, old Russian and new Soviet mingled with fabulous, massive old colonial buildings. In the main square there is even a copy of a Bavarian castle. The old Russian and Japanese-built bourgeois suburbs survive today as seedy semi-detached villas with brick walls, bungalows with picket fences and big churches that are used as schools and municipal buildings.

  Dalian was a pleasant surprise. Like Tianjin it was more westernised than other Chinese cities I had visited. It was also cleaner, the traffic was not as horrendous and there were fewer bikes. And the people I had come across had been friendly. Some of them were natty dressers too. Although people looked at me, no one screamed, ‘Loala’ – foreigner – or ‘Gweilo’ – foreign devil – in my face. And I actually found my way downtown and back from the hotel on foot – alone and unaided!

  I wandered into a bank to ask if they changed money. The teller said, ‘Upstairs’. ‘Upstairs’ denied this, but it had been worth the climb. The white marble staircase had an onyx hand-rail that imitated malachite and from the mezzanine floor I had a good view of this very beautiful building. A young employee left her desk and took me to a plate glass window to point out the street I should go down to find another bank.

  In the next bank, another stunning building that had walls covered with glittering mosaics and a jade fountain in the centre of the black marble floor, I changed some money with an amiable young man who came out from behind his counter to practise his English with me. A tall, distinguished-looking Chinese nearby asked the teller what nationality I was. ‘Ah,’ he exclaimed with delight, ‘Otraylia! Where have you come from in Otraylia?’ ‘Darwin.’ I replied, thinking that he would never have heard of it, or anywhere else except Sydney, for that matter. But to my complete surprise he said, ‘I have just come from Geralton. And Bunbury. I am captain of ship. We take minerals.’

  ‘Fabulous,’ I said, ‘You don’t take passengers too, do you?’ He laughed and said no. ‘What a shame,’ I replied, ‘I am looking for a ship to Shanghai.’

  Later I found the Friendship Store, but I was disappointed. The same goods were far cheaper in Hong Kong. It was on the staircase of this shop that I made a firm resolve never to touch another hand-rail in China. I saw a man blow his nose with his fingers, flick the proceeds onto the stairs and then wipe his hand on the rail.

  I went acr
oss the street to visit the International Seamans’ Club. It was splendid. It even had its own post office with an international computer-controlled pay phone. A much better arrangement than in the government telephone office in Beijing where I had been hit for an enormous amount of money: no one had let me know how long I had been speaking.

  Returning to my hotel, I discovered that at about five o’clock in the evening the veggie market in the street outside blossomed into a night market that extended into many of the surrounding streets. I love night markets. They are always vibrant; and ordinary everyday things take on a festive air when they are displayed under rows of lights strung like fairy lanterns against the canvas backs of tiny stalls. I spent a couple of hours rummaging happily through the wares.

  2 VIP Voyage

  I awoke in Dalian to the sound of rain on the window-ledge. It was the first good steady rain I had seen in a long time. I was on the footpath outside the hotel by half past seven in the morning – some sort of miracle for me. The streets were almost deserted except for the cleaners who, covered by long, black waterproof capes and with black hoods over their heads, looked like glistening ants wielding stick brooms and pushing wooden carts about.

  I was the second person to front the rails at the Shanghai boat ticket window, but before long I was surrounded, and, if I had not seized the counter like a drowning woman clutching a spar of driftwood, I would shortly have been on the tail end of a long queue. Instead of lining up in the sheep-dip like rails that were supposed to promote an orderly line, the crowd struggled five deep along the edge of the counter, ready to create pandemonium the minute the ticket seller arrived.

  Although I was the second person served, I was told that there were no first-class tickets left. There’s something funny here, I thought. If tickets are issued each day and I am the first to ask for one, where are today’s tickets? Obviously someone was rorting the system. ‘Come back tomorrow,’ the official said. But that was what she had said yesterday. I refused to budge. To get rid of me the ticket seller offered me a second-class ticket for the ship leaving that afternoon. I took it.

  Back in the hotel I packed, ruefully surveying my sodden jeans. I had washed them thinking that I’d be leaving tomorrow. The sound of building work reverberated all around. The hotel was being renovated. Despite its three star status, my room was a masterpiece of bungling. All the bathroom fittings were chipped, the towel rails clung precariously to the walls, the taps could only be turned off with great difficulty, and the drain hole in the sink had no covering grate – I lost the soap the first time I used it. The electrical plugs looked extraordinarily dangerous. They drooped, with exposed wires, not quite fastened to the walls, from uneven holes. The window was cracked and didn’t quite shut, or open, and the usual, almost obligatory, stains adorned the carpet.

  Walking the length of the domestic ship terminal, I felt it might go on forever. As big as six large railway stations, it looked suspiciously Russian-built.

  Halfway along the terminal I came upon a jolly old man in a white coat. Beaming, he held out a wooden tray covered with an assortment of sea-sickness pills for my inspection. A marvellous touch for those with suggestive minds. Stallholders sold the usual edibles; boring looking buns, red-clad sausages, bottles of beer and wine, lurid lolly water and millions of cigarettes. One extensive stall that sold mostly unwrapped comestibles was positioned smack against a large public toilet.

  Installed in the waiting area indicated for my ship, I found it was cold, damp and draughty in this big open place. And being so near the water made it worse. The rain of the morning had stopped, but after a while – as soon as there was a distinct possibility that I might have to drag my bags through it to reach the ship – it started again. Although I had arrived at the terminal the requested two hours before take-off time, a crowd was already in situ when I got there. This one was eating, spitting, yelling and carrying on. Opposite me an old man in a Mao cap and suit dozed, his gnarled, leathered hands folded in his lap. But his wife, an ancient crone weather-beaten to the colour of a ripe walnut, stared at me in amazement. The bloke next to me unblinkingly watched everything I did. Unashamedly turning sideways in his chair so as not to miss anything, his eyes followed every move I made. Plastic spittoons had been placed enticingly here and there, but most people ignored them and spat on the floor. An attentive father held his infant over one, however, so that it could pee into it through its strategically split pants.

  After a time, several uniformed women walked among the seats examining tickets. I was sent to wait with a small bunch of passengers who, seated directly in front of the turnstile that led onto the wharf, were secluded from the common herd. I supposed that this was to enable us to get a head start in the marathon race onto the ship. The excluded mob stood up and, growling their discontent, glowered at us from over the other gate. But, despite the handicapper’s favouritism, as soon as we were out of the starting gates the mob caught up with, and passed me.

  The moment I stepped outside the waiting area the rain came down harder. I sloshed through deep puddles along the wharf until I came to three flights of steps. I cursed. At the bottom of the steps buses waited to convey the passengers to the ship and once more the crowd fought frantically to get in.

  I was finally shoved onto a bus. It trundled along in the now teeming rain and deposited me on the wharf in front of the ship. Before I made it up the gangplank and under shelter, I had to cross a wide open space where I was stopped three times by police who wanted to see my ticket, passport or anything else that I could provide for them to play with.

  ‘American?’ I was asked.

  ‘No, Australian.’

  ‘OK.’

  I think they were just curious, but in the pouring rain? I was drenched by the time I had been pushed and propelled up the gangplank.

  On the ship from Tianjin to Dalian I had discovered that, although I had been told there were no first-class cabins, there were actually plenty of empty ones on the ship. So now, when I was joined in the cabin allotted to me by three young men who were pleasant and personable, but who were all smoking heavily, I decided to ask if I could upgrade.

  I approached the ship’s officer, who had helped me carry my bags up the last few stairs. He was a real Creepy Drawers. I found his appearance and manner repulsive: Danny de Vito on a bad day – bulging eyes of evil aspect, heavy brows and thick lips. And he touched me. In China I had been pushed, shoved, and man-handled more in a short space of time than I had ever been before, but I had not been touched in an offensive manner. Creepy Drawers spoke slyly to me in Chinese, which sounded as though he was insinuating something. And when the young men joined me in the cabin, he came in and leered at me.

  After I asked if I could change to a first-class cabin, Creepy went away and returned with a young woman who spoke some English. I wasn’t sure whether she understood what I wanted, but I watched her, Creepy and another uniformed officer have a long discussion. Then she said, very politely, ‘Please wait,’ and returned shortly with a colossal bundle of keys.

  ‘Come and look.’

  After many attempts to open a glass-fronted door which none of the keys seemed to fit, she gave up, went to the other side of the ship and finally got the corresponding door open. Inside was what looked like a board room that stretched all the way across the prow. It contained a convention of chairs, a television set and one huge 1960s wooden table. For a moment I thought I was about to be billeted in here, but, no, a door led off one side wall which, after much more struggling with keys (I deduced that these rooms were not used much) opened onto a large cabin suite. One corner was occupied by a capacious double bed which Creepy took some pains to point out to me. Every time he came in afterwards, and this was often, he eyed the bed, looking at it longingly. I wondered, a little apprehensively, if he had deliberately arranged this secluded site in order to separate me from the mob, like a dingo separates a sheep from the flock before it pounces.

  For all that I was delighted
with my new accommodation and gladly paid the extra fee.

  From my cabin’s big portholes that looked down on the ship’s prow, I saw a few hardy souls brave the rain that continued to fall steadily and come out on deck as the ship left port. Not me. I was for comfort. Cosy in my special nest, I watched the ship sail through the two arms of the breakwater that encircled the harbour. Although it was only two in the afternoon, it was already so dark that the light beacons on the breakwaters were flashing. The face of the sea was heavily pitted by raindrops, but its grey surface was only disturbed by small, even risings. The sky was as grey as the sea and where they met it was so shrouded in mist that it was hard to see where one began and the other left off.

  At first Creepy and the other attentive crew member kept popping in with towels, hot water for the thermos, and other luxuries. I thought they’d never stop looking after me. But finally the girl said, ‘Now you rest,’ and I was alone to survey my splendour, and to wonder whether at any moment I would discover that the cabin actually belonged to Creepy. The thought then struck me that he had the keys.

  One of the first things I noticed was the absence of a spittoon. Almost all the accommodation I had occupied so far had been adorned with one, usually an enamelled tin job that looked like an old-fashioned potty.

  The Ningxia was Chinese-built and about the same 1950s vintage as the Hai Sing, the ship on which I had travelled from Hong Kong to Shanghai. But this vessel had been designed for local, not international, use and was very different. The Ningxia carried 800 passengers-some of whom travelled on her decks. Her exterior sported considerable rust and paint was conspicuously absent, but her interior boasted laminated wooden bulkheads and doors and the blond wooden furniture that was popular in the fifties and sixties in Australia. Overall there was a lack of finish to the fittings and all work seemed incomplete and grotty.