Why people commit suicide in Vietnamese buses


The whole bus smells like a case of bad dihorréa and I feel a bit like Carl Pilkington in “An idiot abroad,” wondering what the hell I’m doing here.

Thirteen hours on a Vietnamese over night bus makes the thirty hour bus in South America look like a day spa. An exema is beginning to torment my arm, the air is thick and everything itches. The blankets must be leftovers from the war and the “toilet”is a hole in a white plastic floor. A veil of shit dew shimmers over it. It looks like a sad Jackson Pollock painting and I never had to pee so bad in my life.

Vietnamese schlager is tormenting our tired ears until past bedtime and the drivers who might not be as sober as they should, smokes inside the bus trough out the night.

In the bus, on the top of a bunk bed I see a razor blade and an empty pill-case. Someone tried to kill himself. I totally get it. I try to fall back asleep in the bed made for midgets and hope to see a new day rise.


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