Rizz goes round the world

A very long night (Saigon to Mui Ne, Vietnam)

A quick jerk forward of the bus jarred me awake from a brief nodding off. My tired eyes opened and looked out the window. The traffic was just as hopeless as before. Groaning, I stretched and looked at my watch. Two in the morning. We were supposed to be in Mui Ne 2 hours ago, but a 4 hour bus journey had already grown into 6, and, stuck in the midst of this absolutely hopeless traffic jam, I foresaw no ending near.

I flopped back into my seat and entertained myself by observing the bus next to us, the same bus that had been stuck next to us since we stopped moving. How long has it been since we moved now? An hour? That bus was jam packed, motorbikes piled on top of its roof and people piled on top of each other inside-- 4 to a seat, plastic shairs lining the aisles, people standing where ever they could squeeze themselves in.

As I sighed and turned myself sideways, throwing my cramped legs (there is never enough leg room in SE Asian buses, even for short-legged people like myself) over Karel's lap for some brief relief, I tried to reflect on the positive. At least I'm on a tourist bus. I may have paid 20 times what it costs for a local bus, but the extra cost is worth not having someones ass crash into my head as their hammock, strung above the seats, sways with every movement of the bus. Being in a hammock myself, though, that would be nice.

Before we had even left Saigon at 8 that night, there were already signs that this would be a very long night. The bus showed up 45 minutes late, and then, once we'd finally boarded, it proceeded to circle around the same block a number of times for another half hour. It took us over an hour to even leave the city. It was pure mayhem. This was not good. I had figured traffic would be busy, given it was Tet, the ten day long celebration of the New Year in Vietnam. However, I hadn't known that the day we'd chosen to move out of Saigon was the day that every Vietnamese person also left the city, en route to visit relatives. We'd chosen the busiest travel day of the year, in a country where plane flights are expensive and thus inaccessible to the bulk of the population, and where multiple lane highways simply do not exist. The main route running north/south in Vietnam is a 2 lane road, one lane for either direction.

Now, however, owing to the heavy flow of traffic and the frustration over the late hour, 2 lanes had turned into 4. In the space at the edge of the road where normally only motorbikes had enough space to form a second lane in either direction, large trucks and buses intruded on front yards and trampled vegetation to create 2 lanes in either direction. The vehicles jockeyed with each other to get ahead, causing an even greater mess than would have occurred naturally. When the main traffic lane came to a halt, drivers would rush to move into the extra lane on the side, cutting each other off and swerving haphazardly. Inevitably, somewhere down the road, an obstacle would block the path of the extraneous lane, and the vehicles that had passed would now hold up the main lane of traffic in order to cut back into the column. Typical story, but an atypical situation in a country where motorbikes normally rule, and people aren't used to negotiating this type of traffic. Our driver, cranky to begin with, would agitate easily, and he and his aide (there was always an assistant driver on all the buses I took in Vietnam), sitting in the back, would yell at each other in Vietnamese, a very nasal language that can be grating to the ear even when spoken at a normal level, jarring any who'd managed to fall asleep awake.

After we'd left the mayhem of Saigon, we'd had about 45 minutes of smooth travel. This situation, however, had been transpiring since our second hour of travel. At first I found it vaguely entertaining. Now, though, we hadn't moved more than 50 meters in over an hour and I was just tired and sick of being on a cramped bus. The situation was hopeless. Our driver had even turned off the motor and gotten off the bus. Some people were playing hackey-sack over to the side. I watched as a young woman emerged from the bus ahead of us and popped a squat next to the vehicle to relieve herself. The lack of modesty in certain matters in Vietnam always amused me. I perked up as I noticed the hammocks strung up in the bus next to us sway suddenly. Our neighboring bus started moving forward. Our driver ascended the stairs and turned on the engine, and we followed suit, only to stop again. I don't think we'd even progressed a meter. I sighed as the driver turned the motor back off again.

Sharing the headphones of my iPod, Karel and I tried to drift off into sleep. I lost track of the time and our progress, but somehow, somewhere, the traffic became unsnarled and we finally began to move again. As we raced through desolate streets, the driver attempted to make up for our 4-hour tardiness (it was now nearing 4 in the morning) by driving like a madman. I was too tired to care.

Finally, we reached Mui Ne, and passengers started getting off as we passed guesthouses and resorts. Karel and I moved up to the front seat. I followed our progress on the map in my Lonely Planet. Almost there, to a nice, comfortable bed! About 5 kilometers from our bungalows, the bus stopped. We were the only remaining passengers. The driver and his aide got off the bus. Oh no. I looked around, hoping to see someone dozing on his tuk-tuk or cyclo, or even his moto. No one. The entire area was desolate.

A young Vietnamese man, who'd been standing, smoking a cigarette in front of the cafe/ travel agency where the bus had stopped, boarded the bus. The driver and his aide didn't speak English well, so they'd elected him to explain to us that this was where the bus stopped and that we needed to get off. We begged, pleaded, offered to pay more, as much as the journey itself had cost, to have the bus drop us off down the road. The driver, a surly curmudgeon, snarled "no". The English-speaking Vietnamese man apologized genuinely, saying he was just visiting and didn't work for the agency, so couldn't help us. Resignedly, Karel and I got our packs from the bus, loaded up, and started on our very long 5 kilometer journey, with at least 20 kilos weighing each of us down. Not what I'd choose to be doing at 4 in the morning, but we saw no other choice.

Before we'd even progressed half a kilometer, a motorbike pulled up beside us. It was the kind, English-speaking Vietnamese guy from the bus. "Five kilometers too long. Hop on." We eyed the bike. Motorbikes in SE Asia are much smaller than the motorcyles we're used to. There was no way Karel and I were going to both fit. "But we won't both fit," I explained, nearing the point of inconsolable. "Yes you will. Trust me. I drive motorbike long time. Watch." Our new friend took my pack off my back and put it in front of him, between his seat and the handlbars. I grabbed our daypack and shoulder back, balancing myself with one on each side, and sat behind the driver. Finally, Karel squeezed on behind me, his big pack still on his back. And off we went.

Thank god our new friend had come to our rescue--as we rode on and on and on, we realized how long 5 kilometers really was. Finally, we arrived at our destination. We thanked our guardian angel profusely, and asked his name. "My given name is Phuc. My parents name me that because it mean 'happy'. My family name is Vinh. That mean 'forever'. So I am Vinh Phuc, Forever Happy." I laughed and smiled with him, the first smile that had come to my face in hours. Of course your name is Forever Happy. It couldn't be anything else. We thanked Phuc again, offering him compensation for his effort and wishing him a Happy New Year, along with a silent thank you to fate for sending Mr. Happy our way.

We made our way down the driveway into our resort. It was dark but I wasn't too worried; I'd made a reservation, precisely because of the lateness of our arrival, and had received confirmation. While we were much later than anticipated, I hoped they'd understand, given the circumstances. We just had to find someone awake. We crept around a bit, looking for a light or sign of life. We managed to find a few dogs, whose barking we'd set off drew out a sleepy Vietnamese man. As he rubbed his eyes, I tried to explain clearly that we had a reservation, and were meant to be here at midnight, but the bus had been late. He beckoned us to follow him up to reception, where another tired Vietnamese man, who'd been asleep on the couch, seemed more promising. I explained the situation again, saying I had emailed. He shook his head. "No," he said, "Sorry." "But we emailed," I persisted. "No, cannot help you. Wait until 6." We tried a few more ways to explain, to no avail.

We dejectedly headed back down the driveway. What were we going to do now? All around us, restaurants, guesthouses, cafes, houses; everything was dark. "Find a spot on the beach for a nap?" Karel suggested. I saw no other option. We decided to head down the road, to find a break in resorts or vegetation, and a path down to the beach, hoping against hope to find an open guesthouse on the way instead. As we walked, a Vietnamese family approached: an older couple, with their daughter, probably in her early 20s, in front of them. Karel paused and asked if she spoke English. When she nodded yes, he explained our predicament and asked if she knew of a hotel that would be open at this hour. "You have hotel?" she asked. "We had one reserved, but they turned us away." "So you don't have hotel? You can come to my family house and sleep there until hotels open," she offered, very kindly. As her parents approached, and she explained the situation, they looked us up and down, and the looks on their faces showed they were not as comfortable about the offer. We thanked the girl profusely, but, not wanting to put her parents out, and spotting a light not too far in the distance, we told her we'd go walk up the road a bit farther and, if we didn't find anything, turn back to find her again.

"Please please please," I thought to myself as we approached the light. The Sea Gull Resort. Great. Given the fact that I was attacked by a seagull that stole my grilled cheese sandwich at Narragansett Beach a couple of years ago, I didn't look upon it as a good sign. The gate to the resort was locked, but there was a guard booth, and the guard was awake. He didn't speak much English, but understood that we needed a room and opened the gate for us. As we followed him into the seemingly deserted reception, we nearly fell down as a young man jumped up from behind the counter. He had been sleeping there on the floor. We explained our situation as he listened blearily. "You have reservation?" he asked. "No," I replied, eying the board full of keys for available rooms. Only 2 were missing. "I call my manager," he said. After he explained over the phone in Vietnamese, he handed the phone to Karel. Finally, after much explaining and re-explaining, along with apologies for the hour, we had a room!

The tired young man from reception led the way. As we passed through beautifully landscaped grounds that wove through a number of bungalows, a pool hall/ bar, a restaurant, and a pool, we marvelled at our luck. This was even nicer than the place at which we'd made a reservation, and cheaper! Finally, the sound of the lock clicking open as the young man turned the key, the flick of a switch, and a sigh escaping from both Karel and I as we released the 20 kilo burdens from our backs. I looked at my watch. Five AM. I looked at Karel, the same thought on both of our minds. We've been up this long already, why not? We headed across the grounds down to the beach, just in time to catch the sun rise over the South China Sea.

posted by La Rizz @ 11:18 PM