The
ride back was groovy-the whole world slowed down and things came into sharp
focus. Our bemused drivers dropped us off in the vicinity of
Dong Khoi and I awoke the next morning with a headache and an aversion
to bia hoi.
A week is a luxury.
Remember this when you encounter harried Japanese and Korean tourist groups
abroad. Their panic arises from trying to squeeze a year or two worth of
experiences into 5 days. In a way, it seems as though they are trying to
justify their absence from routine. So, since I’d been living in Japan
for 5 years, just hanging out in HCMC would have felt like a waste of time.
I needed to go somewhere else. We finally settled on Nha Trang, a
resort about 440 km north of HCMC.
Nha
Trang is a popular destination, both for tourists and locals alike, so
at such short notice I could only get a one-way plane ticket, as the next
few days were national holidays and all return flights were sold out.
I would have
to find another way back to HCMC. Alone. My friend, operating on
Canadian time, decided to stay on longer to see more of the country.
So it is after
two short nights in Nha Trang that I reluctantly board the ‘express’ bus
bound for Pham Ngu Lao (the bus depot in HCMC).
As I settle
into my seat, I have happy memories of the most succulent, subtly flavoured
tuna steak ever to pass these lips, some cool bars, and an amazing white
sand beach.
It is as I
am taking out my journal to write about these things that the bus driver
whips out his screwdriver.
By the time
we have the near-miss with the goats I give up trying to write; the manic
swerving of the bus is just making my writing more illegible than usual.
Instead I
lean back and contemplate the scenery.
And it is fascinating;
we pass by luminescent green rice paddies, plodding water buffalo, and
little hamlets where peasants are sitting in the shade of trees literally
nit-picking.
After cruising
along the spectacular coastline, we stop for lunch at a small cafe nestled
between huge, luxurious resorts called such things as ‘Palmira’ and ‘Swiss
Village’. After a feast of pineapple beef, rice and iced jasmine tea, I
board the bus only to be greeted with the sight of the elderly female cook
from the cafe squatting behind one of Palmira’s palm trees.
I watch her
as she waters the lush lawn in an unhurried manner, and decide that despite
the good time I’ve had as a tourist, if I were Vietnamese I would probably
pee on the front lawn of Palmira too.
At 6:35 p.m.
we pull into the bedlam of Pham Ngu Lao and I unsteadily descend from the
bus. My feet and ankles are so swollen that I could use them as pin cushions
and yet remain blissfully unaware of the pain. I watch for a moment as
the pipe-smoking 60-something year-old French-Canadian man from my bus
disappears into the crowd with his 18 year-old Vietnamese girlfriend.
Following
him are the backpackers that joined us en route (hailing from the more
downscale resorts) Their hair spiky or matted, universally unwashed, grubby
feet carrying them into the descending darkness.
The Vietnamese
who were on the bus (and who in their quiet way thoroughly enjoyed the
people-watching that the bus had on offer) have already left with their
families or friends, handing over packages and presents from the countryside.
I have no more
time, and scamper for an available taxi to take me to the airport and back
to SARS-free Japan.
The
ride back was groovy-the whole world slowed down and things came into sharp
focus. Our bemused drivers dropped us off in the vicinity of
Dong Khoi and I awoke the next morning with a headache and an aversion
to bia hoi.
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