Day 68: Murder on the Orient Express (06/04/2011)

Sleeper-train. They are two words that evoke a bygone era.

Think David Niven and Cole Porter, sipping Martini in the restaurant car before dining on Chateau Briand and vintage Burgundy; the potted palms swaying rhythmically to the rocking of the carriage, the cutlery rattling imperceptibly at each rail joint, the crystal, and the white gloved waiter attending to every detail of the silver service.

A time of gentlemen travellers, when the performance of one’s butler determined the quality of one’s dining companions. Sophisticated, refined, but ultimately a lost age.

Or so you would have thought, had you not reserved a berth aboard the 5.30pm, Saigon to Danang overnight sleeper service.

Vietnam Railways will not go quietly into the night, but strives to keep the spluttering flame of first class service alight.

Shown to our berth by the immaculately uniformed train manager, the linen was crisp and clean and the small chandelier in our couchette cast a rich glow over the magnificent mahogany panelling. The en-suite facilities boasted an array of art deco finishes with polished brass fittings and perfectly preserved turn of the century sanitary ware.

Poirot would have slept peacefully aboard this train.

Eighteen hours later we were scheduled to arrive at Danang. Mid way up a country nearly 2,500km long but in places, only a hundred wide, Danang is a surfer’s mecca and the home of China Beach, famed as a place for R&R for GI’s decompressing from the terrors of jungle warfare.

We dressed for dinner and were escorted to the sumptuous dining car. Freshly cut frangipani greeted us. Excellent river fish, delicately steamed in lemongrass and fennel, sustained us.

Later we retired to bed. The covers had been turned back and a fresh lily lay on each pillow. The window had been opened and a gentle evening breeze blew through the shutters, fluttering the silk curtains and carrying with it the fragrance of the wild jasmine growing on the banks of the passing paddy fields. The moon reflected off the water and just audible above the motion of the carriage was the cry of the Night Jar.

We woke refreshed for breakfast. The French Ambassador invited us to join him at his table where he was dining with the delightful Count Stromberg who was conducting a tour of his plantations in Indo-China. We discussed the Occidental question before disembarking at Danang, keen to explore the crumbling 18^th century French villas of Hoi An, a short drive down the coast.

Not.