How to survive—and sleep—on a 24-hour long-distance night bus

There are moments in life when a journey goes smoothly. Good, even. You make friends, see some sights, and the hours pass painlessly. The long-distance bus generally isn’t one of those journeys.

Whether you’re into saving money or the planet (or there just aren’t any flights), it’s to be patiently endured at best. Yet uncomfortable experiences are sometimes the most memorable. Here’s a particularly long and bizarre one of mine, with a few tips to help you survive along the way.

9pm: Nighttime at Hanoi bus depot

Chaos. Hoards of people sit, catatonic, on hard plastic chairs, or wander around trying to figure out where they’re going. Luggage and bags amass around us on the floor as though we are here for good. There’s an otherworldly glow from the yellow-tinted lights overhead; a liminal space between day and night. The problem? None of the buses seem to be marked with their destination. Nor do the drivers speak English and more to the point, we don‘t speak Vietnamese.

A friend and I are traveling from Vietnam’s capital, Hanoi, to Vang Vieng in Laos. Twenty-four-plus hours. Eight hundred-plus kilometers. We are 18 years old and clueless—this becomes more apparent as the journey progresses—but at the very least, we know to arrive early.

In most countries, there are cheap—and then cheaper—buses. The very cheapest tend to take the local (supposedly more dangerous, definitely more bumpy) route. The next option generally offers added amenities of toilets and reclining chairs, with arguably smaller doses of theft. When possible, we choose the second option, but for this journey, there’s only one bus. And yes, we will have to stop for toilet breaks.

After some detective work, we think we’ve found our bus. We grab everything we need for the journey—comfy clothing, snacks, water, valuables, entertainment—and stow our big bags in the hold before climbing inside.

10pm: Nesting

We pick seats towards the middle of the bus. Even though there isn’t a toilet on this one, we know not to sit at the back: The night bus traveler’s lesser-known adversaries, the fire extinguisher and engine, are equal threats to our comfort.

It’s getting late so we wriggle in with snacks, water and valuables close to hand. There is no right or wrong way to make your ‘nest’ as long as it’s pickpocket-proof and warm, should the driver get trigger-happy with the aircon. We scrunch our pillows and blankets into the gaps, softening the plastic edges, and pop earplugs in to muffle the incessant sound of the overhead TVs.

We may have books, podcasts and movies (downloaded in advance as bus Wi-Fi never, ever, works), but we decide to cheat and take a sleeping pill. It’s a classic blue-pill-red-pill dilemma, which every traveler needs to decipher for themselves. On one hand, sleep will make the hellish journey go faster… but on the other, you might get robbed or miss a rare toilet or food stop. We throw caution to the wind for the promise of instant gratification.

2.30am: Sleeplessness

Incessant interruptions are a given. A normal night bus experience usually means waking up at least once every half hour. Maybe the driver is energetically honking at other cars or your neck has seized up. Perhaps you never managed to get to sleep at all.

With the right sleeping pill most of this can be replaced by a warm, fuzzy blankness. Even still, nature eventually calls. At the next stop, we shuffle outside to use the toilet. In some cases ‘toilet’ can be an abstract word. This was one of those.

7am: Border control

Nothing says ‘wake up’ like someone switching our spaceship’s blue mood lighting to bright white. I grumpily remove my eye mask. We’ve reached the border. My friend and I are still completely zonked and walk off the bus like it’s the moon landing. Somehow, we manage to remember the advice to never part with your valuables and “move your own bags to the next bus”.

Between checkpoints, we pass through some roadworks and I spot a couple of clean, ironed shirts on hangers suspended from the wheel of a tractor. It feels like I’ve hallucinated a rabbit. Through my haze, I wonder if someone forgot their dry cleaning, or has a date after work.

9am: What is time?

The sun is rising over the Laotian countryside. Wandering cattle and shanty huts among beautifully manicured rice paddies flick past at double speed. Time has taken on a sort of abstract quality, as has the landscape. Road signs, trees and buildings blur together into strands of color and my mind enters in on itself, daydreaming its way through past conversations and future scenarios. I gaze out of the window, drifting in and out of artificially assisted sleep.

2pm: Hunger

Picking at Oreos and Lay’s crisps will not get you far in life. By this point, my body has burnt through all the salt and sugar—and somehow it feels even emptier than it would have been without. It’s very rare and unlikely that a driver will stop for lunch at lunchtime. This time, though, our famine is rewarded.

We pull up to a restaurant carpark. With hand-painted signs and a bamboo structure, the place has that homely feel, seemingly only found in hot countries. A few inquisitive children, and more than a few wandering cats, greet us. The menu has pictures of the food; simple and served extra-large. I order a plate of contentment in the form of egg-fried rice.

5pm: Rerouting

I’m looking out the window when I notice a sign for Vang Vieng pointing to the right. We drive left. We seem to have failed the first (and only) rule of travel: Make sure you’re going to your destination. I try to communicate with the driver, but he is in no way invested in helping me. Amid the confusion, my friend and I end up ‘adopting’ a group of enormous Icelandic boys who are heading the same way as us. Wendy and the Lost Boys.

6pm: A helpful stranger

We, with our new Nordic friends, convince the driver to drop us off at a guesthouse by the side of the road. A middle-aged woman is cleaning up before closing for the night. The restaurant is bare; just a few wooden tables and chairs and chipped yellow paint on the walls. Unfazed and distinctly unimpressed by our adventurous spirit, she offers to help us find a driver.

We can’t believe our luck. Drinking happily from cans and eating leftover rice, we refuel as she calls around her friends. It turns out there are few situations that can’t be fixed with the help of a kind local and a strong conversion rate.

7pm: Ukulele

Nine of us pile joyfully into an eight-seater minibus. There’s nothing like some adversity and beer to bond people together. Then, something unexpected. The lad in the boot brings out a ukulele. A strange item for anyone’s packing list, but no one blinks an eye. Beginning to strum the small instrument, he breaks into an Icelandic folk song. With the rest of the group following his cue, the sound is somewhere between a football game and a Viking ceremony. As we hurtle down dark, unpaved roads, ancient lyrics dissipate into the night.

9pm: The end

To some, our hostel would appear to be an unattractive concrete apartment block with small windows. But to us, it’s a sight for sore eyes. We pile out onto the street. Our excited plans of finding a bar quickly evaporate: The possibility of a shower and bed is too real. In our back-to-basics bathroom, I pour water over my head as Nordic songs revolve through my mind. We have arrived.

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