We need to get out, to catch the arranged train to Phuto Province. I had bought well fitting plastic shoes for sea bathing. I feel well equipped to wade groin deep in the brown water with my plastic mac tucked into my swimming costume and a rucksack on my back, negotiating submerged low walls, debris and floating desks. Peter goes ahead. No one else is about as we make our exit. Half our luggage we have left in our second floor apartment to be collected when the water recedes and then by us, hopefully, two months later when we leave Vietnam. It bothers me; I had wanted it all. Peter wades backwards and forwards the ¼ mile to dry land, relaying essential items. On the last journey he brings hot fried rice. Benson has waded out and brought us food for our train journey. We hail a taxi on Nguyen Trai. It fails to get past to the flooded roads to the station 5 miles away. We miss the train. Peter realizes he has left his guitar behind in a café by the university in our haste.
‘Benson, it’s Peter – can you wade out again and see if it is still there? We’ve missed our train. We can’t leave for Phuto today’.
‘It’s Benson ..your guitar is there, but they wouldn’t give it to me. They wanted to know if I was your son.’
I catch my breath.
‘Then in the end they did. I’ve got it. I said that we were colleagues and friends; that we all taught together at the university, and they gave it to me. I’ll bring it to you. I’ll meet you at the cathedral. I need to get out of here.
Later we hear on the news that this was the worst flood for 25 years. 80 people died in Hanoi, many of them children, through electrocution and being trapped in potholes.
We didn’t realize; as the as the waters rose people behaved calmly and lightheartedly, as if flooding was a regular occurrence. I feel ashamed at my concern about the luggage we left behind.