Waiting

Up until I arrived in Hanoi, I would have said I loved Vietnam without reservation.  I suppose it's true that one shouldn't judge an entire nation by a few cities, but on the other hand jumping to conclusions is a real time-saver. In HCMC I reveled in the frantic friendliness of the nation's largest city.  In Nha Trang I watched in confused wonder as hundreds of local kite enthusiasts, their eyes turned anxiously skyward, acted as anchors for the neon squadron that hovered daily, high above the South China Sea.  In Hoi An I had time to relax, letting the hours drift gently away, a pork sandwich and a 16 cent draft beer the only companionship I really needed.  After those cities I couldn't imagine a better place to travel.

But now it's Hanoi.  Regarding tourists, the mission statement of the nation's capital, agreed to by near unanimous vote sometime before I arrived, reads as follows: "Take what you can. Give nothing back.".  It's a policy that creates a disorienting contrast.  In previous towns, I had become accustomed to enjoying a cup of deliciously strong iced coffee for about 30 cents which was served on every street corner.  In Hanoi I approach a coffee vendor serving  locals seated in low plastic chairs. I pointed to the iced coffee and indicated my desire for one.  She shook her head and told me to go next door.  I went next door, a standard looking cafe, checked the menu, found the coffee priced at 1.25 USD, and returned to request a plastic chair and a cheap cup of coffee, only to be refused again.  Although I have managed to find several delightful exceptions, this strategy is quite common.  Restaurants, hotels, travel agents and shoe salesmen would all rather see me go elsewhere than let me take advantage of the prices that locals pay.  I watched a local man pay 1.50 USD for a large meal.  I asked about the same meal and was told it was 5 USD.  My bus ticket from Hoi An to Hanoi was 13 USD.  I asked about going back and was quoted 29 USD.  When I walk away there is rarely an attempt to bargain, just a quiet confidence that the conspiracy is intact and I will find no better price.  And even when the purchase is made, even when the price is agreed without bargaining, there are few smiles to be pulled from the exhausted looking staff at the restaurants, and I often get the sense that they would be a little happier if I had chosen another travel destination.

Still I love Vietnam.  Even in Hanoi there are friendly people (most of them seem to work at my hotel) and the food is mostly excellent.  And I love having the opportunity to settle in, even in my least favorite city so far, and get to know the neighborhood, my hotel staff and my favorite local restaurants.  It has been a recurring theme that the longer I stay in a city the more I like it, and Hanoi is no exception. It's just that if money were no object, I'd probably spend these days of waiting somewhere else.

On Pairing Up

Somewhere on the 12 hour bus ride from Hoi An to Hanoi I managed to acquire a roommate.  She was a forty year-old American woman who claimed to have been traveling for six years (I would later start to question the veracity of this statement). We chatted over dinner when we both ended up at the same local restaurant across the street from the expensive tourist-trap at which the bus had made a commission-stop and when we arrived in Hanoi she asked me about sharing a room to cut costs. The funny thing is, I was repelled by her from the moment we met, marking her as a showoff, a desperate seeker of attention and validation; which is to say that she was a glaring funhouse reflection of my flaws, a carnival caricature that highlighted and augmented my worst attributes.  But this town has expensive hotels and the prospect of cutting my lodging costs in half was tempting enough to push my reservations aside and tell myself that this was another "peculiar travel suggestion", an opportunity to welcome a little oddness into my world and see where it takes me, and so I accepted her offer.  


After two nights I bid her farewell again. It wasn't only because of her insistence on arguing with locals over everything, from a bottle of water to directions, or her dismissing my general sense of security in my travels as naiveté.  It wasn't just that she almost stormed off when I questioned the details of a story she told; an absurd claim to insider knowledge of a vast conspiracy taking place in the United States with the goal of perpetuating the illusion of democracy, culminating in the election of President Obama; a story wherein she failed, as the pathological often do, to make a shred of sense and yet still managed to be deeply wounded by my skepticism.  It wasn't even when I realized later that the story conflicted with her travel timeline.  Those might have been enough, but the deal-breaker was something else.  As I wandered the streets that morning I started to doubt my motives, becoming concerned that my choice to spend time with this woman was a symptom of my own need for acceptance, a product of road-weariness and perhaps a fear of being alone.  So I told her I needed to be on my own for awhile, checked out of our hotel and checked into a new one.  


I've now managed to stay unattached for two full days and life feels normal again.  This is not to say I won't still wander the bars and seek conversation with fellow travelers, but I certainly won't be as quick to take on a partner. On my own I'm more productive. I'm working out more often, studying Mandarin Chinese with renewed diligence and, in spite of a higher hotel bill, spending less money.  My visa granting me entrance to the PRC (143.00 USD, 30 days. Ouch.) should be arriving by the 20th which gives me ample time to settle in and explore this town.  So far the locals are less friendly than in the south which could have something to do with a conflict a few decades ago.  There also seems to be two menus with distinctly different prices for white people and Asians.  But apart from those small issues it's a lovely town and I feel just fine about being stuck here for awhile.                                  

Six Thousand Forty Dollars and Seventy Nine Cents

“Siddhartha began to speak and said, ‘Well, Govinda, are we on the right road?  Are we gaining knowledge?  Are we approaching salvation?  Or are we perhaps going in circles – we who thought to escape from the cycle?”  - Herman Hesse, Siddhartha 

I arrived in Hoi An yesterday, a quaint, dusty little tourist town on the central coast, and found out after several hours of patient searching that it would be the most expensive place I’ve yet stayed, the cheapest hotel providing me accommodation for not a penny less than 7.40 USD per night.  But the food and beer are ridiculously cheap and after a night’s sleep and a scenic bike ride up the river to the deliciously cold, royal-blue ocean, Hoi An is growing on me; not enough to stay a week, but enough to say it’s worth a visit. 

Tonight, in a small café near my hotel, I met a French woman who has been traveling two years and has recently bought her ticket back to Paris, scheduled for June.   She is 30 years old, retirement age for this life, and it was a small relief for both of us to talk to someone who’s not “taking a break from uni”.   We watched the motorcycles splash through the rainy streets, ordered beers, rolled joints, and talked late into the evening about traveling and what it teaches you; the things she had hoped to discover and the mysteries that still confound her.  She hasn’t figured everything out in two years, but she knows enough not to be disappointed by that.   

  

It has been five months since I set out on this journey and it may be that that constitutes “halfway”.   The original plan was long term enough, and my departure abrupt enough, that it has always felt like more than a long holiday, more than just a vacation where I take in the sights and pose for a lot of pictures and return refreshed to the routine of the same life that I left behind.  Still, it’s hard to say what I hoped to gain when I set out and I have, at times, found myself at a loss when I’m asked this question by the occasional, precocious traveler. I dimly recall something about using distance to get perspective and perhaps there was also something about challenging myself to become a better person, and of course simplifying my life, but the decision itself was an impulsive one, some might even say rash, and when it was finally finished there were few goals stated clearly other than leaving.  Those first days in Nepal had my blood rushing with the shock of leaving my old life behind and the promise of what felt like unlimited time and choices.  There were certainly moments, particularly around Christmas, when I wanted to go home, but there have been many more times when staying in motion was clearly the path of least resistance.  Now, as the end of the line comes closer even as I push it further into the distance, as I find the frequency of lessons and insights diminishing as living out of a backpack gets more comfortable, as the road gradually becomes an end unto itself, I have to ask myself that same question: “What do you hope to get out of this?”.  It’s possible I know part of the answer.  Other parts elude me, but I cling to the hope that they are waiting.  It’s my plan to find those parts and add them to what I have, using them to build something that I hope will be worth keeping.  “If it’s not worth keeping, if it’s not enough…” the quiet, persistent voice of doubt asks,”What then?”  Then I hope I’ll be wise enough, like the woman in the café, to count myself lucky, treasure the memories, and move on.  But already I feel it has been worth it.  And it continues to be worth it.   And I’m still a long way from stopping.               

Aufiederzein

Sophie invited me to join her on a diving expedition, springing for my passage on an island tour, where I snorkeled in crystal clear waters while she practiced diving skills with various instructors.  They served us coffee, pineapples, pork chops, and cake.  It was an unimaginable luxury.  Sophie will have a chance, in exchange for a little work and a little money, to repeat this experience six days a week for the next month or two.

After forty-three days and three countries it’s time to say goodbye.  Sophie will stay behind in the pleasantly bustling coastal city of Nah Trang to finish her training as a Dive Master while I head north, up the sparkling blue coast to Hoi An.  It’s been fun having a companion, especially one so inclined toward random adventures, but although we hope to travel together again someday; it’s a pleasant parting for both of us.  Even as we find comfort and security in our partnership, as well as the convenience of splitting a few expenses, we both bristle equally at compromise and recognize, perhaps too acutely for our own good, the freedom that we trade for this friendship.   If I’ve had one insight on this journey, one gut-level realization, it would have to be that one can live whatever type of lives one wants, the vast world of possibilities is wide open, but with the limiting clause that every attachment shrinks those options, forces concessions.   So I’ll say goodbye to my friend Sophie and be happy that I know her and take a deep breath as my day to day range of possibilities expands back to its original dimensions.                  

One Place Or Another

"I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion."  - Jack Kerouac

Sophie has had hitchhiking on the brain ever since we met.  She knows it’s not prudent for her, as a young woman, to do it alone, so she feels my companionship gives her an opportunity she can’t pass up. Hence, when we found out that it was going to be 16 USD apiece to take the bus a mere 4 hours from the beaches of Sihanoukville to the Vietnam border, she started beating the hitchhiking drum right away.  Unlike Thailand, where we had met reasonable people who had successfully found rides, Cambodia was uncharted territory and I needed some convincing.  In the end we decided to take the 5 USD bus to the in-between town of Kampot, about 2 hours away, see if we felt like staying and if we didn’t, then try to hitch the rest of the way.   Of course when we got to Kampot it was an ugly little town that didn’t seem worth a second glance, so after a passable noodle lunch in the market we shouldered our packs, headed east, checked the map along with a couple of road-signs and stuck out our arms, waving to the ground in the suggested Asian hitchhiker manner.

Our first mistake came early.  We knew the name of the town that we wanted to reach in Vietnam, we knew the names of two towns between Kampot and there, but we did not know the name of the town (Prek Chek) where we planned to cross the border until after we said goodbye to the first of what would turn out to be seven different groups of Cambodians, each of whom, for reasons still obscure to me, was willing to convey us from one point to another.  We later agreed it was possible that the truck driver who was kind enough to give us our first lift was in fact going all the way to the mercurial town of Prek Chek, but not knowing this we counted ourselves winners when we saw a road sign for one of the middle towns and asked to be dropped off, giddy at how far we’d come. 

From there confusion was the only consistency.  Many vehicles stopped, most were kind, but no one understood where we wanted to go.   Our maps had only Roman characters and were completely useless as communication aids.  After failing over and over again to pronounce “Prek Chek” and receive anything other than confused stares, we lowered our expectations and got in with a trucker going to Pnom Penh with the understanding that he would drop us where the road split.  Our spirits rose again as we saw signs to Prek Chek and gestured to our generous chauffer that we would like to go there.  “Vietnam?” He asked.  We nodded our agreement and thirty minutes later he dropped us off at an unmarked dirt road splitting off from the main highway just as the spectacular thunderstorm that we had watched approaching finally cracked open over our heads.  We took shelter from the grapefruit sized rain-drops in a darkened roadside shack, along with a few locals for whom we were an irresistible curiosity, ordered two glasses of a sweet, delicious iced-tea and coffee mixture, and watched with some skepticism as only two vehicles took the dirt road turn during our thirty minute stay.   When the clouds cleared we shouldered our packs again and asked “Prek Chek?”  Nothing.  “Vietnam?”  Yep. Down that dirt road.  “Ok then.”   It took us 20 minutes walking to catch our first lift on the back of a truck which unfortunately was stopping at a wedding somewhere in the middle, compelling us to negotiate a painful motorcycle ride (1.00 USD), three deep, packs hanging off our arms, to carry us within sight of the border.  

Our excitement at finally reaching Vietnam was short lived.  The border guards, a ragged looking group in an unmarked shack, explained that we cannot receive a passport stamp at this lonely outpost; for that we would have to go to Prek Chek.  “We’re not in Prek Chek?”  HaHa.  No.   A young man offered to take us there on his motorcycle for 20 USD.  We passed, opting to turn around and catch a lift back up the dirt road, turning back onto the main highway, now tracing the same path of the driver who had taken us to this odd little corner of nowhere.   A friendly Cambodian man in the back of this truck could speak enough English to ask about our ages and professions, but was clueless as to the location of Prek Chek.  As the sun set over the jungle, we were dropped off in a unknown town twenty minutes further up the highway, bidding farewell to our most recent hosts in some confusion, wondering where we were now and what we should do.

A couple of young men graciously took us to a guesthouse on their motorcycles where we dropped off our bags and then went back to the street, stopping occasionally to ask random shop owners where we were and if they had ever heard of Prek Chek, to which the reply was always some smiling, Khmer variation of, “I don’t speak English, you idiot.  Where do you think you are?”  After a cheap dinner and an epic banana shake served in a giant plastic bag, we found someone who spoke English.  Since he was heavily intoxicated, we decided to join him for beers in front of his shop.   For reasons known only to him he kept kissing my hand and telling me he loved us, but between kisses we managed to find out that we had been pronouncing Prek Chek wrong and that it was just up the road. 

The next morning found us walking up the road and waiving our arms again, confident this time that even if we failed to make ourselves understood, we would see the sign for the turnoff.    After a couple aborted attempts, we were picked up by a middle aged man in a tiny Nissan, uncertain where he was going but happy to be on the road.  The kilometers flew by and one hour turned to two as our confidence waned, both of us gradually reaching the realization that (a) there would be no road signs, and (b) we must have passed Prek Chek somewhere in the last hour, but (c) we had no way of knowing exactly where.   From there a debate of indecision began (“I’m not making the decision.”… “Well I don’t want to either…”) between getting out immediately and going back the way we came, or riding this out until our assumed destination of Pnom Penn.   Somewhere in the middle of this debate we arrived in Pnom Penn.

The driver wanted about 2 USD for his services, which we paid and began a new debate.  Sophie was a little dejected, convinced that the bus would be even more expensive from here and hating the frantic, dirty hustle of this metropolis.  I don’t hate cities like she does, but I knew where she was coming from.  It all felt like too much to cope with; too many failures, too much money that we would be forced to spend in our attempt to avoid spending money and on top of everything, we were not in the tourist part of town which meant that we would have to pay a taxi to take us to a travel agent.  But when all seemed lost and our bags seemed to be taking on both additional weight and heat, we stumbled right into a travel agency billboard offering tickets to Ho Chi Minh City for 12 USD each.   This would put us a good distance north of our original destination but since we had planned on stopping in HCMC anyway, it would ultimately save us time and money.   Six hours later we crossed the border.  Two hours after that we had a room in a back-alley guesthouse, a Styrofoam container filled with pork dumplings, and a love-at-first-sight kind of feeling about HCMC.   

I stayed out late that night, saying goodnight to Sophie early then wandering the bars, bullshitting with backpackers and volunteers, drinking cheap beer then overpaying for cocktails, trying without success to explain to strangers what I found so instantly appealing about this city.   I know it can’t just be the avocado shakes on every corner, or the beef noodle soup stalls, or the odd way the local spots seem shuffled in with the tourist traps.  It’s possible my love for this place has more to do with how I got here; the certainty and comfort of city life after the confusion and limitations of the countryside, the surprise and excitement of being here after planning to be someplace else.  

  

Flashpacking

Southeast Asia, particularly Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam and Laos, have in recent years become a fashionable travel destination for affluent, college-aged Westerners.  I was dimly aware of this fact before my first trip to Thailand, but it came into sharp focus the first time I wandered, confused (Thailand? Right?), through the jungle of white faces that is Bangkok’s Khao San Road.  This group, with tans that are too even, hair that’s too well maintained, and sunglasses that are not fake, is one that I try to avoid.    Maybe I’m a class warrior and maybe I’m judging books by covers, assuming that if a man wears Gucci sandals then I have little in common with him, but when I do sit down with this segment of the traveling population (I’ve been calling them Springbreakers,  Sophie calls them Flashpackers.), they always seem to get a little too drunk, laugh a little too loudly, and talk in tones that betray too much intensity, or not enough.  If I have to choose, and I often do, I tend to gravitate toward the hippies, or occasionally the French, who are apparently immune from this phenomenon.       

       

In Thailand I was under the impression, for some reason, despite taking note of the numerous T-shirts proudly worn by golden-skinned, freshly-manicured revelers which advertised that the wearer had indeed been to an impoverished Asian nation or two (you know, just in case it didn’t come up in conversation organically), that maybe the Flashpacker set wouldn’t be as prevalent in Cambodia.   As it turns out, they’re everywhere, wearing too little clothing, overpaying for everything, stumbling down the moonlit beach in a haze of Mai-Tais and weed smoke.   But then again perhaps their numbers are distorted in my mind.  It could just be that they stand out when viewed in contrast with the poverty here in a way that they did not in wealthier Thailand, and they seem to disturb me in direct proportion to that degree of contrast.     

The truth is, as much as I rebel against the idea, I have a great deal in common with the Springbreakers.  I have enough money to swing through a suffering nation, see the sights, and return, undisturbed, to my comfortable life.  It’s an unfortunate reality for me that whenever I follow the trail of my disdain back to its source, I always seem to find it’s the reflection of my own privilege and apathy that I can’t stomach, that causes me to roll my eyes in contempt at the blond college student with the shaved chest who sits down next to me at the beech bar and orders the same beer as we look out onto the same ocean, brushing off the overtures of the same beggars, as I hope desperately that I’m not really like him.   But even as I sit pondering our mutual need for salvation, I hear him speak a little Khmer (Cambodian) and when I look over, I see him smiling and joking with the children selling beads and suddenly I think maybe neither of us is beyond redemption yet.   Travel changes us, even if we resist it, and however bankrupt our lives were before we left, no matter what soulless occupation we plan to go back to, we will carry with us a lingering awareness of a world that is larger and more complicated than the one we see on MTV-Cribs.   And so with a shrug and a smile I raise my glass to the smooth-chested stranger and silently toast our mutual opportunity to leave this beautiful country a little wiser than we came.             

Touristing

Sophie sorted out her passport issues with greater efficiency than either of us expected and so it worked out that I had company on my journey to the must-see Temples of Angkor.  Everyone else was taking a tuk-tuk.  I wanted to take a tuk-tuk.  I insisted it was quite far.  But Sophie has a habit, or perhaps a policy, of avoiding the conventional way of doing things, and I am not particularly difficult to convince, so while all of the other tourists were catching tuk-tuks and being shuffled from one temple to the next at their leisure, we negotiated a couple of reasonably functional bicycles and headed off for the 40 kilometer round trip. Right away we managed to take the wrong route, using my trusty compass to determine a heading that took us straight for the temples, but managed to miss the ticket booth by 4 kilometers.

The Temples are remarkable, well worth the painful 20 USD price of admission that had me skeptical at first. They are intricate and massive and mysterious; almost rivaling Machu Picchu in their
other-worldly strangeness, hinting at the collective will of ancient and powerful people working at purposes far beyond my comprehension. I loved it. I loved playing the tourist; posing, taking photos that captured nothing, cycling from temple to temple, shaking off tour guides and drink-sellers. When my legs, which are apparently far from cycle-ready, started cramping horribly, I barely minded that we were still 15k from home. We managed to make it to the last temple on our rout in time for what turned out to be an unrestrained fiery spectacle of a sunset, then find our way, exhausted and uncertain, through the darkened streets of Siem Reap, back to our 8 USD guesthouse; an upgrade made just for one night, complete with the cherished extravagance of A/C. I started to love Cambodia a little that day.

Today I'm on a beach. The water is turquoise and luke-warm. The sand is white. Everyone wants to sell me fake Ray-Bans and beaded necklaces and hashish. It's another tourist town, like any other, but I don't mind it for now. Sitting in a beach-side bar, listening to the sound of waves breaking makes up for the lack of authenticity, for the lack of any real experiential connection with the culture or people of Cambodia. I wanted the beach and so here I am, and it's a pretty nice place to be.