by Randy Ross
As we board, the bus driver swills a small can of what is hopefully an energy drink. The bus emits a grinding noise and accelerates. I grab a seat in an empty row. Once we reach cruising speed, I hear empty cans clinking in the trash bag by the driver’s feet. Minutes later, the tires hit something and the windows rattle.
Boom! Boom! Bash!
Eyeball-shaped lights and air-conditioning fixtures fall from the ceiling into my lap. I hold my hand up to the openings where the fixtures used to be: Hot air is blowing into the cabin.
Outside the window, vehicles ricochet through the highway potholes. Our driver drafts, or more precisely, tailgates, the cars in front. To pass, he swings out into oncoming traffic, honking frantically at the motorcycles that scatter like insects exposed to a kitchen light.
Boom! Bash! Boom!
I can’t bear to look out the window and I can’t read because the overhead lights are rolling around on the floor. I distract myself by counting the fingerprints on the headrest next to mine.
Bash! Bash! Boom!
In the row next to me, a girl wearing a Clockwork Orange bowler and a guy in a pink mortarboard sit quietly. The only sounds from them are the crashing cymbals from their earbuds. They are both gripping the handrests. From behind me, I hear the occasional cough. Otherwise the other riders are silent.
The girl in the bowler looks toward the back of the bus where a bathroom isn’t. “Seventeen more hours?” she says to no one in particular. “I’ll never make it.” Even in the dim light, I can tell she’s an endomorph, soft and round, not my body type, which is fine by me.
The guy in the mortarboard next to her is also an endomorph, a bearded version of her. He looks out his window. “Nutters, all of them,” he says in a British-like accent similar to hers.
After another round of potholes, I open a two-dollar bottle of Vietnamese rice vodka I bought for the trip.
Asian booze, like Asian food and milk, is rumored to contain formaldehyde. Though formaldehyde is great for preserving food and corpses, ingesting it can cause nausea, liver damage, and death. Works for me.
“Anyone for a toddy,” I say to the couple in the hats.
“Brilliant,” says the guy. “We’ve got a carton of peach juice and plastic cups.”
I mix a round of drinks. We toast and swill.
The girl hands me her cup for more: “This is my only hope for survival.” I pour another round. We introduce ourselves. They’re from London, a brother and sister, Alfie and Elizabeth. I finally got a foreign accent right.
The bus hits another pothole. I offer drinks to two guys sitting behind me, and then propose a toast, “To Vietnamese drivers.”
Another round of potholes, another round of drinks.
“I need to have a pee,” Alfie says, glancing at the back of the bus where a bathroom still isn’t.
I point to his empty cup. “Plan B?” I say.
During the night, the bus makes three pit stops. Each time, we all get off to eat and piss. Neither Alfie nor I remember any of this in the morning. I add another item to the list of things I’m done with: Vietnamese liquor.
At noon the next day, the bus pulls up in front of a Hoi An hotel called the Bang Su. The name sounds familiar. I look at the side of the bus: Bang Su Bus Company.
The four-story hotel has a soaring entrance supported by six lacquered pillars the size of telephone poles. As we stumble up the hotel steps, young Asian women in silky uniforms stream out to greet us. It’s like we’ve disturbed a giant hive.
“This way. This way. You room, this way.”
Alfie, Elizabeth, and the other kids surrender their cash and credit cards. Clever sales tactic: Deprive chumps of sleep for eighteen hours, then drop them off at your hotel where high-pressure salespeople lie in wait.
“This way, this way.” A young woman in uniform approaches with a smile that could mean many things. She’s also a wand. I can see how a guy might find it hard to resist her invitation to see a hotel room.
“How much is a good room?” I ask.
“Twelve dollar.”
“Let’s have a look.”
The room has a queen bed, air-con, a TV, a writing desk, and a full bathroom. There are no cracked mirrors or ceiling fans. A room like this would go for $200 a night in Boston.
I ask to see a better room. This one is twice the size with two beds and a view of the swimming pool. Bill Marriott would be impressed.
“How much?” I ask.
“Fifteen dollar.”
“How about twelve dollars?”
“OK, for you only, twelve dollar.”
That was too easy. Either I’m getting better at haggling or Vietnam is not Thailand.
After checking in, I check out the rest of the hotel. In the lobby, Alfie, Elizabeth, and several ski hats from the bus mill around.
“Hey, Randall,” Alfie yells over to me. “I owe you a shout, mate.” A “shout” is a round of drinks. Alfie is a good guy.
As soon as I join them, I regret it.
Elizabeth is reading out loud from a travel brochure: “More than 200 tailors dot Hoi An’s quaint, narrow streets. Eager to create the garment of your dreams, these boutique shops can whip up a custom-fitted suit in no time for $125 US.”
“I don’t have money,” says one kid.
“I’m hungry,” says another.
“Why don’t we go for cao lau?” Elizabeth asks. “That’s the local dish. It says here the noodles are made with water from a special well.”
“My stomach is not getting on so well,” says one guy.
“Right, right,” Elizabeth says. “How about a tour of the town? ‘Hoi An oozes charm and history. This World Heritage Site offers a well-preserved example of a Southeast Asian trading port of the sixteenth century.’”
“It’s raining.”
“I like the tacky clothes idea.”
After a few minutes of this, I find myself looking around the lobby: shiny black pillars, shiny oxblood beams, lacquered this, lacquered that, a wall crowded with flags from a dozen different countries.
I start to feel crowded. One of the benefits of traveling alone is that the only indecision and whining you have to deal with is your own.
Next to the flags hangs a sign for the hotel gym. “I’ve got to sweat out some formaldehyde,” I say to the group. “I’ll see you guys in a bit.”
Walking away, I hear:
“I don’t have a gym costume.”
“I need a ciggie.”
The Bang Su gym consists of three pieces of equipment probably left over from the French occupation. The gym attendant suggests a health club at a beachside resort called The Marlowe, five kilometers away.
On my way out of the Su, I see Elizabeth and the group in the lobby arguing. I sneak by them. Outside it’s overcast, drizzling, and probably sixty degrees. The street is lined with one- and two-story buildings with tiled roofs. The town’s roots as an ancient trading port are still evident: A tailor advertises custom-made suits in four hours; a restaurant offers cao lau and a Bia Hanoi beer for three dollars; a hair salon offers massage. Across from the hotel, a local woman in a ski vest and gray hoodie calls out to me: “Hey you, rent motobike?”
Her rental stand reminds me of the soup carts in Bangkok: mountain bike tires, worn wood, scratched metal. She looks a little old to be a hoodie hipster.
“Motobike special today,” she says.
“It’s raining,” I say.
“Where you go, me drive you.”
I turn back to the lobby and see the gang heading my way.
“How much to The Marlowe?”
“Four dollar.”
“How about two dollars?”
“Three dollar.”
“If we arrive in one piece, I’ll give you one dollar.”
“OK, OK, two dollar.”
This chick wouldn’t last an hour in Bangkok.
We hop on her little motorbike and go.
Every Vietnamese woman I’ve seen so far has b
een stunning and petite. Until now. I anchor my hands on her ample waist.
As we speed off, I take in the scenery:
Tailor, tailor, tailor,
cao lau joint,
tailor, tailor, tailor,
hair salon offering massage,
hair salon offering cao lau,
tailor offering cao lau,
another hair salon offering massage,
tailor, tailor, tailor.
The woman turns her head over her shoulder to face me as she’s driving. “Where you from?”
“Canada.”
“How old you?” The bike drifts into the lane for oncoming traffic.
“Twenty-five. How old are you?”
“Me twenty-five too.”
OK, we’re even.
“You marry?” The bike weaves back across the road, narrowly missing three kids hanging off one bicycle.
“Nope.”
“Why no?” The tires spin on a patch of sand.
“I got intimacy issues.”
“Eh?” The bike skids but doesn’t go down. “Me, no marry, either. You like Hoi An?”
“It’s a very nice town. Do you think we should go slower?”
“You should get marry and buy house here.”
She turns her head over her shoulder and makes me an offer:
• We get married.
• I buy her a big house in Hoi An for $30,000.
• I leave town and visit periodically.
As I’m considering whether to haggle with her, we arrive at The Marlowe.
“One piece, two dollar,” she says.
I give her three singles.
“Me wait you here.”
“No, thank you. Like I said, I have issues. You take care.”
She drives off and I’m left with a disturbing thought: That’s the closest I’ve come to getting married in years. I review the marital success rate in my family. Of fifteen aunts, uncles, and cousins who married, nine have been divorced—a 60 percent failure rate. My stepsister, Harriet, was divorced three times. Maybe I’m the lucky one.
At ten thirty that night, I forage around the Bang Su for dinner.
• Rip-off hotel buffet: closed.
• Cao lau noodle joints and tailors across the street: closed.
• Hair salons offering massage: closed.
• No sign of Alfie or anyone else from the bus.
A quarter-mile walk from the hotel, I see lights—it’s a large garage or a small hangar or a function hall. Inside, twenty or so Western guys are seated at long folding tables. Empty beer bottles are scattered on the tables, plastic chairs, and floor.
A cart with a boiling pot is set up in the corner. Noodles, greens, and unrefrigerated meat sit on the counter. Cases of 333 brand beer are stacked on the ground. I walk over and point to the pot, point to the 333s, and hold up one finger. Before I can ask the price, the proprietor hands me an open beer. He grabs ice from a cooler and puts it in a plastic cup. I shake my head, “No! No! No, thank you.”
I’ll eat aphid rice and breathe particulate-filled air, but I won’t touch Southeast Asian ice.
I sit near a lone guy sipping a soup.
He is wearing a black ensemble: a long-sleeved pullover, wool slacks, a large gold watch, no socks, and leather buckle shoes. A clump of gray chest hair protrudes from the neck of his shirt. He looks like he’s ready for a date—in Paris. I’m wearing my Keens, a blue quick-dry T-shirt, and olive river pants. I look like I’m ready to go white-water rafting.
“How’s the soup?” I ask.
“No English.” He shakes his long, gray coif. I know this accent.
“Vous êtes français?” I ask.
“Oui. Vous êtes americain?”
I speak basic French and introduce myself. He says his name is Guillaume. I’m too self-conscious about my language skills to say much more, so I listen. And squint. And listen harder.
I’m able to catch a few phrases:
“Forty-nine years old.
“Anarchist.
“Sarkozy and Bush, idiots, broke the world.”
Guillaume is talking too fast for me. “Lentement, s’il vous plaît,” I ask. He probably thinks I flunked third-grade French or that I’m dumber than Bush.
After we finish beer number one, he is talking slower and my comprehension improves to that of a fourth grader.
“Hate politics . . . Television . . . fake experience . . .
“Career change . . . degree in social work . . . drug and alcohol counselor.
“I want to experience life with the mind.” He points to his head.
“With the heart.” He points to his heart.
“With the passions.” He points to his crotch.
I point to the two empties in front of him. “Encore?”
I return with my soup and a beer for each of us. Halfway through 333 number two, my comprehension reaches fifthgrade level and his monologue turns to poverty.
“No retirement pensions . . . Vietnamese families care for old relatives . . . Old women selling trinkets on street probably have no family.”
I finish my beer and he continues. “I give elderly street women one million dong, about sixty-five of your American dollars. That’s a month’s salary for some. These people are poor but nice. Haven’t been ruined by capitalism like the Thais in Bangkok.” He points to my empty bottle. “Encore?”
I think back to the moped woman. Because of her homely appearance, she may never get married and end up on the street. I may never get married and end up on the street. I can’t even count on my friends who have barely written. I make a note to be nicer to Joey’s daughter, Jan. Maybe she’ll visit me when I’m old and in the home.
Guillaume returns with four bottles and slides two across the table to me.
We chug the first beer and start on the second. He asks in French: “Want to go visit some local bars?”
Isn’t everything around here closed?
I point to the street. “Toute fermé.”
Is toute masculine or feminine, singular or plural? Who gives a merde?
He points his half-empty beer bottle at a little red motorcycle. I gulp my last gulp and have to grab a chair to stand up. He grabs a chair to stand up, mounts the bike, and points to the backseat. “Allons-y.”
I steady myself with the chair and consider the situation with drunken detachment.
State Department warning: In Vietnam, at least thirty people die each day from transportation-related injuries and many more are hospitalized, often with traumatic head injuries.
The ride with the Vietnamese woman wasn’t so bad and I got a marriage proposal.
“Allons-y!”
State Department warning: Drivers should exercise extreme caution when driving at night. Road signs and streetlights are few, and buses and trucks travel at high speed with brights that are rarely dimmed.
He must be a good driver, he’s European: Grand Prix, Le Mans, autobahns, dressed in black.
“Allons-y, Monsieur Bush.”
State Department warning: International health clinics in Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City can provide acceptable care for minor illnesses and injuries, but more serious problems will often require medical evacuation to Bangkok or Singapore.
I hear Singapore is nice this time of year. Vive la France.
The crosstown bar is run by a Vietnamese woman who recognizes Guillaume. The waiters are young guys who recognize him. He starts tickling and horsing around with them. Friendly, these French. In the back room, a local woman in short-shorts plays pool with a Western guy twice her age. I buy two beers, and Guillaume and I wobble onto the patio.
I ask if he’s traveling alone.
He says “oui” and tells me about his two grown children.
I tell him that I’m single, traveling solo, and have never been married.
He says he’s never been married either. He lived with the mother of his children for twenty years, but they decided not to marry. They split up three yea
rs ago. He says he’s not cut out for marriage.
Then he says something about “les prostituées.”
Then I say something about “le HIV.”
He reaches into his front pocket and produces a handful of condoms. Then he shows me a text message on his phone. It’s from a prostituée he met down the coast in Nha Trang. He says she’s one of five women he’s “fait l’amour” with since arriving in Vietnam a week ago. He didn’t fuck, bone, or hose these women; he made love to them. Classy, these French.
But I didn’t see any prostitutes in Hanoi or Hoi An. Where is he meeting them?
The hair salons.
Ola was a hairdresser; the world is starting to make sense.
But I’m still missing something: Do you request a massage at these “hair salons” and the women automatically provide the coucher-coucher treatment?
He leans in and offers the following advice:
• If you’re getting a massage and want more, try to massage the masseuse.
• If she starts talking money, you’re in.
• If she slaps your face or calls the police, you’re out of luck.
• And don’t hire multiple women at once because while one is grabbing your unit, the other may grab your wallet.
Guillaume calls over the waitress and whispers something in her ear. She reappears with two busboys carrying a jug large enough to refill a watercooler. Inside the jug, there’s a hooded snake, a cobra, as thick as a forearm. The cobra is coiled several times and fermenting in a yellow liquid. A scorpion is crammed into the snake’s mouth like a gag, a gag with pincers and a stinger. The Vietnamese version of tequila with the worm.
The waitress pours Guillaume and me each a shot. “Good for the manhood,” he says in French. The snake brew smells like high-school biology and leaves a rubbery aftertaste. My manhood remains uninspired. I think of the black hooch on Mojito Island that was also supposed to stir the passions. Maybe it’s just me and my passions are too old to stir.
On the ride home, Guillaume takes a shortcut and gets stuck in the mud. We dismount and regard the situation: An overdressed Frenchman, a mechanically impaired Jew, and the little red bike that couldn’t.
