Round and Round in Cyclos

Breakfast, included at the hotel, was a satisfying omelet, bacon, and a baguette. Baguettes in Vietnam have centers like spider webs. You can see there is something in there, but when you try to pull it out, the consistency is like cotton candy. If you wad it up, you have a teardrops worth of substance in your hand. The coffee is atrocious making me need to seek out better flavored caffeine elsewhere. Ron read in the guide (not Frommer’s mind you) about a place called Baguette and Chocolate, but after twenty minutes of walking up and down the street where it was listed as being, a young man came up to us to see if we needed assistance. The café had moved over a year ago. We found another reasonable looking coffee shop where real coffee was served. We sat in the window seat.

Outside the window and across the street was a young cyclo driver, the bicycle kind of transport. The young man waved to us and motioned he would take us around the city. We smiled and tried to ignore him. It was not on the agenda. Finally, he found a willing fare and left us. Before we left the café there was a replacement who offered an hour tour of the city for $8.00 for both of us. We decided to take him up on it, but cyclos are built for two Vietnamese, not two of any non-Asian body types. By contorting like we were playing a game of Twister, with one leg on the red dot and the other leg on the blue dot, we intertwined into the seat and off we went. Our driver started out with the first question they learn in all English lessons throughout the country. “Where are you from?” They could care less about the answer since they never respond to the answer. Case in point, we told him we just arrived from Pluto and he did not stop short and kick us out of our seats. The next question also follows the formula, but still throws me. “How old are you?” Again there was no reaction when I said twenty-five and Ron admitted to one hundred and one. Skipping over formalities, the next inquiry is “How many children you have?” Our cumulative total of forty-six did not stir a reaction.

Riding in one of these cyclos is very similar to the ride in the House of Horrors. You are riding along, and then suddenly you think you are going to smash into something and the car turns suddenly at the very last moment, causing your heart to beat as fast as tribal drums warning of impending danger. If I had started dying my hair again, I would have been white once again by the end of the ride. Someone should discuss implementing more traffic lights here, but the three that they do have go unnoticed by all anyway, so the lack of them must be to conserve electricity.

If someone could create a mechanism making car and motorcycle horns bleat every ten seconds while the motor is running, it would allow all drivers to concentrate on steering, freeing them from having to count to ten to hit the horn manually. Noise never stops and neither does the traffic. Adding to the suspense of our survival, the driver kept bending over to tell us things along the way. First he pointed out the Military Museum explaining in poor English what it was, and then said “You know, boom, boom!” About five minutes later, he was massaging my neck and told me he knew where we could get a good massage and some ‘boom, boom’. We are not sure if the Military Museum is displaying sexual exhibits or if the massage therapists have guns, but we thought it wise to refuse both.

The tour was especially delightful when we went around the lake; miraculously the traffic was reduced in the lake area, so we could actually speak to each other without shouting. The placid moment did not last long as we entered the real word soon enough. The clock had run over one hour and we were on the opposite side of the city; we thought of getting out and walking back, but with crossing streets it would have taken at least an hour and years off of our lives. When we were finally able to untangle ourselves in an area that held some familiarity, it was a two hour ride. Suddenly the cost of our indulgence went from $8.00 to $22.00. Okay, it was worth the money. He needed it more than we did, but still I hate being made the fool. Seriously, could have stopped him at one hour; we discussed the added costs and let him continue uninterrupted.

As we rode around, we noticed that the shops run in waves. Two blocks will all sell motorcycle seat covers, and then the next two blocks will all be pots and pans. Shoe stores cover the next few blocks. They all segregate according to their offering like they fear keeping the competition out of sight. Astonishingly, they do wear more shoes here than they did in the other cities, where flip-flops or other styles of sandals are worn. When it first caught my attention, I could barely count ten people wearing shoes, but here the statistics are just the opposite.

The other key difference here in Hanoi is that restaurants, shops, even the cyclo drivers crave U.S. dollars over their own Dong. In the other cities, we could not convince people to take dollars; we had to have Dong on hand. When we run out of dollars, we will have to plead vendors to accept their own currency.

Later when we were walking around, one of the women who looks like they are carrying the scales of justice, but are really carrying fruits or vegetables for sale, stopped me to buy fresh cut pineapple. With the opportunity to pamper ourselves with fresh fruits, it seemed reasonable to spend $1.00 on a pineapple already peeled and cut. She said to me, “Take my picture.” I indulged her by snapping her with her bracing and balancing her heavy load. Ron snapped a couple too. When I said thanks, she said “Okay, 50,000 Dong for the photos.” After a good laugh, I thanked her again saying not in this lifetime because other than a ‘NO’ she would not understand anything I replied with.

We wound up buying a nice carry-on type bag that has concealed wheels and a handle for $20.00. Tomorrow it will take it maiden voyage to the Halong Bay excursion. Another Hmong elephant made its way into our life also. There would have been a second Hmong dragon too, but could not find a blue one in the right size. Now that we each have a carry-on bag, might as well make good use of it.

Walking around the lake one more time, we walked a bridge to reach a small island. On it is a pagoda called “Where the Turtle Returned the Sword” based on a legend. There is a temple there where the deity looks like Confucius, but the explanation discusses a General in the Armed Forces from the 15^t century. People were obviously in prayer at the base of his statue.

Restaurants here are definitely more upscale than in Chau Doc and Ho Chi Minh City, implying the costs are higher, but they are more affluent in their décor also. Due to these, the people selling gum, books, water, cigarette lighters, and horses with bobbing heads are not likely to enter and give their spiel while diners are in the process of mastication.

One funny sign we have commonly seen restaurant bathrooms states “Do not stand on the toilet”. It is common in less touristy areas to have squat holes in the floor that you stand over. The country folk must not recognize the use of a toilet trying to stand and squat on them.

We went to a French/Vietnamese restaurant tonight called Le Cyclo. Each of the chairs were cyclos around a table. Different and interesting, it was one of the most expensive meals we have encountered on our entire trip. Ron had the duck and I had chicken over fried Vietnamese noodles. With two beers, the bill came to a shocking $16.20.

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Happy Bumpy Birthday to Me

At some point today, my birthday will start, but I don’t flip over the age counter until it is 8:25 am on the east coast of the U.S. the time I was born on this date. Then and only then will I accept being a year older, a dramatic change from my youth, when I waited for the clock to strike midnight in just about any time zone to claim a celebration should begin. I was having my morning coffee outside while having a cigarette when one of the tuk-tuk drivers came up to talk to me. After immediately telling him we were leaving today and would have no need for his service, he said he was waiting for a Brit or Aussie staying at the hotel who he had arranged to pick up the night before. His English was near excellent. We chatted about what I had seen in my limited time here, then there was a lull in the conversation as we watched the market place become more and more alive. He then turned to me and said “I feel sick. Yesterday, I went to a wedding in a village forty kilometers from here and in order to return here to work, I only had two hours sleep. Now I don’t feel too well.” I asked if he could take the day off to get some sleep and feel better, but he said he needed the work and the money to support his family who lives in the village he came from. He was so young looking, I assumed he meant his parents. Later, Ron had the opportunity to speak with him and found out he is thirty-five years old, has a wife and three children. He is one of nineteen children and his father is close to eighty years old. He father was hoping to have all of his children home for the New Years celebration in April since it may be his last, but this young man can not afford to attend and was feeling sad about it. There are so many stories similar to this one about how people in these countries have to make dramatic changes in their lives in order to survive; it makes many westerners look pathetic by comparison with our sniveling complaints about how difficult life is for us. We have no idea many times, what sacrifice to survive really means. Twenty minutes later than scheduled, our shuttle arrived to load us with nine others to bring us to the bus station for our trip to Ho Chi Minh City. With traffic, a journey that should have taken fifteen minutes, took twice as long. When we arrived at the bus station, there was not a bus in sight, but a parking lot full of soccer mom vans all painted the same green with white lettering, leaving us a scratching our heads perplexed. When I handed our tickets to a young man who seemingly was an official something, he took them, and returned them stamped and then pointed at yet another van. The second van was no different than the first van we rode in, making us wonder if this was another intermittent form of transport. He took our luggage and pointed to two seats, but at the time, I had not noticed our seats were numbered and matched our assigned ‘bus’ seats. As two of ten, we were ready for take-off. Traffic was mounting as the morning rush was well under way by this time. The zigs and zags that these drivers have to do are amazing. I think I have determined the qualification for a Vietnamese driver’s license. They use a tennis court with twenty cars in it. In order to pass the test, you have to drive one of the cars to each corner and to three random points in the rectangle without killing or doing major harm to anyone. If you can accomplish this, you have earned your license. A written test seems ludicrous since there are no traffic signs and only one or two street lights that no one pays attention to. They function as pretty red and green lights without stimulating any other associations. The first part of the drive was not too uncomfortable. The scenery was poverty row and more poverty as displayed by the run down businesses trying to sustain their proprietors. The word strip mall has new meaning here. These buildings and businesses have been stripped of whatever dignity they once had. It occurred to me that all of the Reality shows on television are all amateur wussy games compared to the reality of life these people have in daily existing. If you were to put a group of Vietnamese or Cambodians up against any of the groups who have suffered and whined about their trials of survival, the American group would have been voted off of the island so fast, there would not be second show, let alone a full season. One hour is about all I could take of looking out the window, since the weaving of our van in and out of traffic was a dizzying experience. Without lines painted down the middle of the road, the entire road is fair game regardless of the direction of travel. The car horn becomes an indispensible tool for signaling other drivers of cars, trucks, motorcycles, and bicycles of your intentions. In Egypt, there was a joke. “What is the first thing in an Egyptian car to wear out? The horn. Here, the answer should be the driver. I think I would rather suffer the trials of Hercules than attempt being a professional driver in this country or Cambodia for that matter. After two and a half hours had passed, we stopped for a ten minute rest break. I could not believe the colossal big gulp drinks my fellow passengers returned with. Surely, they knew when the next break would be. We thought ourselves brave eating a tangerine, still fearful it may be just too juicy for our own good. These people were drinking like camels preparing for a trip over the Sahara. As it was, I had to chant mantras just to keep my thoughts clear of anything that would lead to an unscheduled stop of the van. Ten minutes after leaving the bus station, we where stuck in traffic. The side door flung open and five people jumped into the van. Ron and I clutched our bags tightly. Highwaymen in broad daylight in the middle of a town have come to rob us? Rob us only if we were interested in what they were trying to sell; the five were hawking drinks, fruit, lottery tickets, and cakes. Two blocks later, everyone disembarked from the van, but the driver motioned for us to stay put. Were we the only two going to Ho Chi Minh City? What a strange place to drop off all of the other passengers. Within another block, we were on a ferry boat. As we sailed over the river, an older man who was a fellow passenger returned to the van and started talking to us. He asked me if I had been to Vietnam before. This is the third time in two days I had been asked this question. I am assuming they are asking if I fought in the war, guessing me to be age appropriate. He said he worked with the U.S. Army during the war, but he had not used his English for a number of years. When we changed the subject to the journey, he said that the ride was realistically two and a half hours, but because of the road conditions, it made it a much longer expedition. For the next two hours, the road was so bad, it was like riding the Matterhorn ride at Disneyland while an earthquake and tornado were happening simultaneously. The only thing we did not do was flip over and I can only assume it was because there was so much traffic, there was no room to do a flip. There was not even enough room on the road to flip a coin. The gravel roads had more potholes and pits than a teenage boy with a bad case of acne. Trying to read during this time could cause epileptic seizures even if you were not epileptic; trying to nap could cause the same sickness that affects astronauts in deep space. The mantras in my head were getting louder and more intense as my bladder was doing shake, rattle, and roll for another two and a half hours. But wait, that meant five hours on the road already and this was supposed to be a five hour trip, yet we were not at our destination. Bless Buddha, we did make a second rest stop. I would have rather wrestled alligators than get back on that van, for some undetermined amount of time, but not having a clue where we were and being short on alligators, I acquiesced. It was not until another one and a half hours passed that our senses led us to believe we were close at hand, however, the bus station looked eerily like the original and the two rest stops, so we could not be sure until the driver motioned for us to get out of the van. With the luggage in tow, our vet friend helped us arrange a taxi to our hotel, located in District 1. We agreed on $10.00 for the fare, which was ominous in this very inexpensive country. The drive was like something out of a science fiction movie. Swarms of motorized vehicles were coming from six different directions to one traffic circle with everyone wanting to finally escape it to go in a different direction. Hollywood has never produced such miraculous scene without having a fifty car pile up as a conclusion. I did not fear for our lives nearly as much as I did for the motorcyclists and bicyclists. This is something that should be videoed and put on YouTube, because it really has to be seen to be believed. Egypt’s drivers are pure amateurs in comparison. This city is immense, congested, and makes Las Vegas look like an abandoned playground by comparison. Though there is no plethora of casinos here, the lights and activity certainly make up for it. Our hotel is down an alley. That does not give me confidence. Once we start trekking down the alley, we discover fifteen other hotels and an equal number of restaurants are resident businesses of the same alley. Our room is spacious, clean, and comfortable, but nothing to do back flips over. We are on the first floor, the only room on the first floor at the top of the stairs from the reception desk, so our only window is looking down on them. We checked our alley and the next alley for dining opportunities which range from Vietnamese, Italian, Mexican, Thai, and Indian. We settled on Indian. The food was great, but after we finished, this young woman came up and asked if I wanted another beer, totally ignoring Ron. I said no thank you. Then she asked if she could sit with me. RED Flag, red flag! I simply said I did not think so and she left. I was expecting problems with the bill, but there weren’t any. There were many other tourists there, so it made me more confident in creating a scene if there were a problem. One of the rules of our hotel that is posted besides no explosives is that prostitutes are not allowed in the room. I told Ron if he had any birthday surprise planned for me, he had better nix it. My birthday continues until 8:25 EST tomorrow. I was ripped off on this one with this travel nightmare.

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Mack the Tuk-Tuk Driver

There is nothing about this hotel that has not charmed us. The services are excellent, the room has plenty of room, and the television gets over 50 channels, one of which is BBC, so we were able to get Iowa caucus news. The furniture is good quality, not cheap junk and the mattresses are superb.

Breakfast is included, so I was able to get an omelet with a roll and coffee. The amount of butter was nearly humorous that for such a tiny bit they would bother dirtying a dish. Ron asked for some jam and it is 2 cents extra. No complaints, it is just a funny cultural difference.

At 9:00 am, while we were eating, our bicycle tuk-tuk driver was waiting outside for us, like a puppy waiting for a scrap from the table. We were the scraps he wanted. We had arranged for 10:00, but he must have been fearful we would skip out on him. He most likely was casing the place guarding all of our escape routes. We went out to tell him we had to rearrange our hotel in Ho Chi Minh City; Ron had the dates wrong and we were scheduled to check-in today. The reception was kind enough to call and make the changes. He was happy to wait for us and he had a friend with him. There was no way the two of us would last in one tuk-tuk for a long distance ride without one or both of us either falling out or becoming crippled along the way.

We asked our main ‘driver’ his name three times, but each time, neither of us could understand what he said, but is sounded something like Mack. Between us, this is what we called him. He has a stuttering problem in English and in Vietnamese. Watching his face when he is speaking his mother tongue, you can see he struggles at times, his head goes downward and his face contorts. Regardless, we were off to the mountain and the temples. We agreed on 80,000 Dong each since we had two ‘drivers’.

Riding a regular bicycle with someone sitting on the bar is plenty of exertion, but to have a cart attached with a 6 foot 1 inch man adding weight is enough to make me want a rest just thinking about it. For him, it was effortless and we sped through town to go tell it on the mountain over the river and through the water buffalo fields, through hill and dale. The ride was approximately twenty minutes long before he parked his vehicle and said we would walk from here. Here was an area filled with temples, Buddhist temples. As we entered the first temple, I put my cigarette out and was able to take my shoes off to enter, but Mack said not to bother. Unlike in Thailand and Cambodia, they do not remove their shoes when entering the temples. The caretaker was walking around smoking a cigarette, which shocked both of us, but Mack said in Vietnam you can smoke anywhere. I had an instant picture of a Catholic priest offering the Eucharist with a cigarette dangling from his mouth and started to chuckle.

Each of the temples was dazzling in its own way and Mack was great about explaining things to us. Many of the monk caregivers from each temple are buried within the temple and a memorial is set up for each of them. Photos were allowed in every temple except the main one. You could smoke in it, but not photograph it. One of the Buddhas looked like a Las Vegas night show, with a robe that lit up and behind his head a rotating color wheel of reds, oranges, and greens. We dubbed him the Elvis Buddha as irreverent as that may be, he did look entertaining, though from our western perspective, really tacky. Along with Buddha, there were female statues, which presumable were Kwan Yin. She is frequently portrayed as a slender woman in flowing white robes who carries a white lotus in her left hand, an abiding symbol of purity of heart and spirit. Some answers to our questions we received from Mack were incomprehensible and rather than embarrass him by asking him to repeat it multiple times. We had to piecemeal information we could understand.

Outside the largest temple, there was a little boy running around with a strange haircut. He had patches of hair on each side of the head, while the rest of his head was close to shaved. Mack explained that the family has dedicated him to the temple. The temple was an active place with dozens of people bringing in offerings, lighting incense and praying. It turns out that this is a normal day’s business and all of the surrounding shops sell flowers and baskets of food for people to buy for offerings in the temple. If I lived here, I would have to seriously look into Buddhism. A peaceful calm comes over me when I am in a temple.

We did not make it completely up the mountain as Mack has planned since the temples are less ornate as you climb higher, so it did not make much sense to go further when we have seen the best first. When reaching the bottom, we stopped for noodle soup. My pork noodle soup had kidney or liver in it and I was more than willing to share it with the two Chihuahuas running around the place.

On the ride back, we saw water buffalos grazing in front yards, houses on stilts, woman cooking from portable pots, and other cultural iconography making this country stand out from the rest and ultimately charming. We had Mack drop us off at the hotel, but he had convinced us we should take a boat ride to see fish farming, the only Muslim mosque in the area, and a small indigenous group of people who are silk weavers. We agreed to be picked up at 2:30 giving us a chance to get our butts back in shape before taking off again.

Mack was outside panting waiting our return by 2:00. We both managed to fit into his cart by facing each other and we took off to the dock. We boarded a boat, the three of us with the woman who was our captain. First stop was a fish farm. Interestingly, there are many houses that are built on stilts out on the river. The only access to them or from them is by boat, but whole families live here full time, usually fishermen. Some even have dogs, but I cannot figure how they walk it or train it for that matter.

The fish farm is one such building as the houses, but with racks for floors that are lifted up with thousands of fish kept confined. Mack fed them to show the tremendous reception they give for food. When they reach a certain size, they are transferred to another holding area, all the while kept in their native waters, the river.

The next stop was the silk weavers and for the life of us, we could not understand why these people were special. After many futile attempts, we gave us asking for an explanation we could understand. Where our boat docked, it was incredibly high getting from the boat to the dock. With my bad hip, it was impossible for me to lift my leg that high, so wanted Ron to go without me. Mack would not hear of this and I thought he was going to lift me himself, but being half my size, I am appreciative he did not try. I had to sit on the dock first and get up from there. Embarrassing moments are part of the game of travel.

In this community, all of the men wear sarongs, not pants. Within minutes, Ron had a sarong wrapped around him, a silk scarf around his neck and a hat on his head. In the time it took me to take his picture with both our cameras, I was being costumed also. Excellent craftsmanship, beautiful colors, but not something we would go around wearing in Hungary or the U.S. for that matter. With disappointed looks at their lack of a sale, we disrobed, said thanks for the chuckle and moved onward to the mosque in the area. All of the while, we were surrounded by fifteen little girls trying their best to get us to buy their waffles. They look like Belgium waffles, but have different fruits in them. Ron succumbed to one little girl unbeknownst to me, while I was promising I would buy 7 quarters of waffle for $1.00 from another little girl when we returned. I was hoping to shed her like dead fur.

When we returned from the mosque, my little parasite was ready to storm me for her dollar, having no other diversion than to wait for my return. When I looked for a dollar, I did not have one, only a ten and was not about to give it up expecting change. Her face was heartbreaking, so I gave her more than enough for two quarters of waffles and then gave her all of my change besides without expecting yet more goodies in return. She was still clearly disappointed. I seem to think she could not return home until her quota was filled for the day.

Yet another little one latched on to me and begged sorrowfully for me to buy from her too and would not take no for an answer. Just as we were going down the plank, another tourist was approaching and I suggested she try him instead. Like a mechanical robot, she changed direction and attention to target this newest victim.

After we headed back, we decided to walk around, so said our good-byes to Mack giving him his requested amount of money and a large tip besides. He was truly thankful. His plan is to ride for one more year and then leave the country to study English in Great Britain. We wish him luck.

Yearning for a good cup of coffee, we asked at the hotel for a recommendation. It was a distance away, but we walked needing to flex our muscles. The ‘good’ coffee is an individual French pot type device that sits over a glass. There are no lattes, so ordering a white coffee means the coffee drips into condensed milk. Aside from not being what I really want, it was tasty with the right amount of sweetness from the milk.

When I used the bathroom, the toilet was an American Standard brand. The lid on the tank was cracked and the toilet had no seat. The cracked lid with the brand name, conjured up metaphors in my mind about the broken American standards in the country now and especially with primaries starting to take place.

They tried overcharging us and we are not certain if it was an accident or not, but 10,000 Dong is a big mistake. Fortunately, they had left the menus on the table so I could show the waiter the costs of what we had and why the bill was wrong, because he did not speak English.

By the time we walked back to the hotel, the sidewalk restaurants and portable kitchens were invading any free space usually reserved for walking, so it was a dodge ‘em game with the traffic getting back.

For dinner, we decided to ask the desk clerk for a recommendation and he gave us three, each out of walking distance. Not surprisingly, there were two tuk-tuk drivers outside the hotel door pleading for business. We hired both of them to go to the first restaurant on the list. As a good sign, it was filled with locals and we were the only obvious foreigners there. As usual, I have problems finding things on a menu I can eat throughout Asia, because I am highly allergic to fish. That rules out not only the obvious fish, but all things cooked in fish sauce also, which is often the case with beef or pork dishes. I had three options on this menu; however, I could have ordered squid, frogs, snails or snake, but I am just not that adventurous before a major bus trip in the very near future. My beef with sesame was served with a salad. My rule of thumb is not to eat any fruit or vegetable that does not need to be peeled unless the menu specifies it was washed in pure water. Out of the salad, I ate the onions and cucumbers, left behind the lettuce and tomatoes.

Tomorrow, we leave for Ho Chi Minh City on a five hour bus ride on a bus without a bathroom. NPO (nothing by mouth) for me after 9:00 pm.

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So Long Cambodia, Hello Vietnam

The hotel gets one credit in its favor. The wake up call was on time and it was a real person, not a recorded message. We raced through showering, went up for breakfast and was treated to some unusual sights along the riverfront. There was a large group of people doing their exercises as a group not far from the hotel. About ten minutes later, Ron spotted an elephant walking down the street. There was a man walking along side of it, but not riding it. The elephant was meandering down the street like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Every time I see Caucasians walking the streets, especially single women, I wonder if they knew what Cambodia was like, are they disappointed or overwhelmed, and then I wonder where they have been, and where they are going. The same thoughts about expectations occur to me about myself. I still have not processed it fully, but I have found it more intense than Malaysia, definitely in a positive way. There is a liveliness amongst the dirt, the chaos, the poverty that is energetic. There is no way to describe the traffic other than sheer madness. Regardless of whether it is a two or four lane road, there are no lines and seemingly no rules. Everyone drives wherever they can find room to fit between other cars, scooters, or bicycles without regard to what direction anyone else is going in. It is a combination of Italian and Egyptian driving taking the most negative of both.

Obediently, we made it to the lobby by 6:50 am only to be told, we would not leave until 7:30 am giving us time for breakfast. We had already shoveled it down, so only had to wait for our ride. We were transported in a new Toyota equipped with GPS and a steering wheel inlaid with wood. Our very young driver, a replacement for the one we were told would drive us, was competent and had the patience of Job to drive this route. It was not until the last ten minutes of the 1 ½ hour trip that the road was paved. We passed innumerable schools, so there were hundreds of children of all ages in white tops and blue pants or skirts, competing with road space with motorcycles and cars. We were praying for their safety, but they all looked like seasoned commuters trailblazing their way to their destination. There is not four turns of the wheels without hitting a pothole; in some places the entire road is dug out making it like driving through a valley before reaching street level once again.

Arriving at our destination seemed to be a mistake at first; it looked like someone’s battered car mechanic’s garage. Our driver assured us this was the correct place to be and waited for the young man there to get Vietnam forms for us. We filled out entry and exit forms and another list in triplicate. We were left sitting on benches in this dirt yard with a rundown corrugated metal building in front of us, not knowing if there was a river nearby. The driver told us before he left that the boat would arrive at 10:00 am, an hour yet to go. An hour’s sleep missed out on…

As the clock reached 10:00, other buses arrived and dropped off bedraggled travelers. In total, there were six of us and it was time to board the boat from behind this curious establishment. The luxury boat we were sold on was less than such. Carrying our luggage precariously down a gangplank of a dubious nature, we boarded a boat with two long wooden benches down each side. The crew, a family of father, wife, and son were more than pleasant and pleased to have the work. The deck we were promised to walk around was there, but the information missing was that the deck was only one foot wide, no barrier between you and the river, and a handrail at eye level. The upper deck was only accessible by maneuvering this width challenged deck as was the toilet, neither of which I had any intentions of negotiating.

With the challenges of getting to the toilet, I became obsessed with having to use it, willing myself not to have a need, but worrying about how I would get to it if I did. If I fell off of the deck, how long would it take for anyone to realize it? I used all of my mental energy trying not to concentrate on bodily functions, but when told not to think about pink elephants, they always appear.

The beautiful scenery was as valid as the deck to walk around. It was not unattractive, just repetitiously green with trees. I forgot to mention that I used to have nightly dreams about drowning while on a boat. It all started after watching the original version of the Titanic, but in my nightmares the boat is always less pretentious and similar to the one we are on. Therefore, I immediately notice there are no lifejackets and swimming to either side of the river are beyond my lung capabilities even if I had never touched tobacco in my life and only floated on my back.

Our travel companions were a mother and daughter from The Netherlands plus a Swiss couple. We are not sure of their relationship, but he had his big toe painted red on one foot and all of his toenails except the big toe painted red on the other foot. One toe had a ring on it and his left earlobe had a dime size hole in it sans an ear stretcher. My only resource for avoiding drowning and bathroom thoughts was to stretch out trying to sleep on the wood bench. Most of the others went to the ‘upper deck’. When I did snatch a snooze, I had dreams of the boat overturning, not good. The journey was 2 ½ hours before we pulled up to shore. I was hoping it was for a bathroom break and stretch, but it was Cambodian Passport Control. We filed out to show our passports; it was relatively easy. The guard looked at our Visa, pulled out our Exit card and then stamped it with so many rubber stamps; it would make the Hungarians jealous.

We were herded back on the boat, sailed for another ten minutes and docked again. This time we had to take our luggage with us for Vietnam Passport Control and Customs. The plank to reach shore was about the size of a balance beam in gym class. Being able to get over this with luggage in both hands should have qualified all of us for an Olympic gymnastics team. Once over this toothpick of a board, we had to climb rocks and eroded shoreline to get to the top. I guess if you can make it, you deserve to enter the country. This may be their endurance test for entry.

After handing over our passports to a guard who looks them over, we get waved on to a building to have them stamp, stamp, and stamp again. We all passed with flying colors, and then there was Ron. There was a problem with his Visa, but we could not understand the problem. I was told to continue on, but could see him from where I was told to go. I had to pay another $1.00 for some reason; the Visa already cost $20.00 from the Embassy.

We had all had our passports stamped, but Ron was still waiting to pass GO. Finally, he was told he could pass. The problem it turns out was that the Embassy put 2007 for his entry and exit dates, not 2008. Mine was done correctly, but we never caught it when we picked them up.

A very beautiful young Vietnamese woman shepherded us to a ‘restaurant’ where we had to wait for them to do yet something else to our passports, probably check them against wartime or CIA records. During this wait time, we were encouraged to order lunch, but I still had bowel-kidney obsession, so passed on that offer.

When it was time to re-board the boat, it was now a Vietnamese boat with a different crew. Actually, the boat was slightly nicer with eight sets of double seats with a narrow walkway down the center. Not having an upper viewing deck, they did have a back deck, but with no room for luggage, I was wedged in and holding tightly. This portion of the journey had a young woman working it. Her exact role was unclear, but she collected tickets from the passengers. Two Australians were added to our group. Their Visa did not start until January 3, but they showed up on January 2^nd and were not able to cross. The tour guide took them home, gave them dinner, a place to sleep, and breakfast before returning them to the boat today.

This section of the river was narrow enough to make getting to either side easily accessible doing the doggie paddle. At last I could let go of one fear. The views were interesting to say the least. We witnessed water buffaloes being washed in the river; people fishing with huge nets, ducks caged on the water, children swimming in the mud brown water, and families out for a boat journey to who knows where. It made the last two hours of the trip captivating.

Reaching land, we were greeted by young men who wanted to be our drivers to our hotel. Their version of a tuk-tuk here is a bicycle with a wooden seat in the back. Ron and I crammed into one with our luggage, Ron hanging over the edge. Fortunately, it was not far to the hotel. We found out hotel by chance on a site called travelfish.org. It had some good reviews, so we booked it for two nights. We are at the Trung Nguyen Hotel 86 Bach Dang in Chau Doc for $15.00 a night, we have a spacious double bed room (they call these twins, but the beds are double sized), a TV with over 50 channels and free WiFi. Tile covers the floor in the room and decorative tiles adorn the bathroom. Breakfast is included. We have a balcony with two chairs and it is air conditioned. We were really lucky with this one.

After consulting the guide, we were headed out of the hotel for dinner. Our tuk-tuk driver was waiting for us and wanted to ‘drive’ us. Since it was only two blocks away, we declined. He promised to find us again. We went to a local restaurant that was empty on our arrival, but had a waiting group of people when we left. The food was tasty and plentiful, while the cost was cheap. However, the friends who had lived here told us we should bring plenty of American singles with us to pay for things since they are regarded higher than the Vietnamese currency, the Dong. When we asked at the hotel if it was true, we were told that hotels you can pay in dollars, but restaurants and markets you have to use Dong. Gosh dang it or gosh Dong it, we purposefully took out extra dollars from the ATM in Cambodia to have US dollars. Their ATMs only spit out dollars if you don’t have a local account. If we had known, we would have waited until we arrived here.

Being full from dinner, we did a walk around. The night market was still active at 7:30pm, although not all stalls have electricity, so they sell in the dark. The city is still active in early evening with people setting up make-shift kitchens on the street or sidewalks and plunking down nursery school sized chairs at miniature fold up tables for their patrons. The cultural differences are alarming at times, yet the resourcefulness is ingenious.

In search of a larger hotel where our chances of getting a coffee would be better, we found a restaurant/guesthouse that serves coffee. We were not there longer than five minutes when our tuk-tuk driver shows up with a fare he was dropping off at this restaurant. Losing him is like trying to shake a summer cold. He sat down with us like he had been invited. His voice and accent are as jarring as a mosquito when you are just falling asleep, yet he did hook us into a trip tomorrow. We arranged for 10:00 am.

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