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Asia Update 6:  Vietnam, The Open Tour Period

September 2002

As promised, the bus ride from Danang to Hoi An is brief and painless, with an enjoyable stopover at Marble Mountain (sort of a Buddhist mini-Mecca.) The caves and shrines are remarkable, the hawkers benign, the day is balmy, and the road smooth. Things are looking up, travel-wise.

A quaint fishing village on the Thu Bon River, Hoi An is about 5 km inland from the South China Sea, and one of the few coastal towns not completely ravaged by generations of war. Much of the traditional architecture has been preserved, and the narrow lanes of historic Old Town are off limits to buses, cars and trucks. Although we still have to dodge motorbikes and cyclos, it’s a picturesque refuge from the nerve-jangling air horns and hideous cement structures that have defined the landscape since we left Hanoi. Antiquated tea warehouses and Chinese shops line the river; women in conical hats bicycle through the market or row miniature sampans on the water, collecting baskets of snails. 

An unusual stroke of luck occurs -- we learn that we’ve arrived just in time for the Full Moon Festival. A few locals try to explain the elaborate meaning in broken English, but the intricacies of Buddhist ritual are lost in translation. The logistics are simple enough:  every full moon they block off the streets, turn off the electric lights and illuminate the whole village with candles and paper lanterns. When the moon rises, a procession of small boats will ferry passengers up the river to release floating lanterns and prayers to Buddha. 

After dark, we wander down to the river to check out the festivities. All motor traffic has ceased and excited locals throng the streets on foot. The lanterns are lit, but it’s hard to tell if this heralds the festival, as the entire power grid has already failed 3 times in 2 days. While nothing seems to be happening yet, we observe a lot of preparation:  musicians tuning their instruments on the makeshift bandstand, food vendors unloading their carts and cooking pots, and passersby chattering in anticipation. Hungry, but not wanting to miss anything, we choose a restaurant with a second floor balcony overlooking the waterfront. 

We splurge (about $8) on a multi-course tasting menu and savor it while watching the boats on the river. A gregarious little boy joins us, advising that the boat parade will begin soon and luckily, he can help us out with a reservation. His job in the family business, he explains proudly, is “Sales”. I don’t usually give in to these tactics, but I actually want to go out on the river and his mother’s boat is probably as good as any. I agree to buy a boat ride, if he promises to leave us alone until we finish our dinner. Delicious food abounds in Hoi An, but unfortunately, so do touts. Overall, they grow more abominably aggressive as we travel south and we’re becoming jaded. 

As the moon rises over the river, the 3 outlandish moorings (shaped like a giant fish, a dragon, and a Chinese coin,) suddenly burst neon-bright with Christmas lights. Dozens of sampans cruise on their reflections, releasing wakes of floating lanterns downstream. It makes an incredibly charming picture from our perch above the street. We finish our exquisite meal and the boy, Ku, promptly reappears at my elbow. After agreeing on a price -- $2 USD for 1 hour -- he escorts us through the crowds to his mother’s boat. Apprehension mounting, I’m aware of how tiny the hand-hewn sampans are, and how dark it is on the river. We board cautiously, with Ku’s mother directing us in a blend of Vietnamese and pantomime, into positions that won’t sink the ship. With Craig in front, me in the middle, the mother roosting on the stern with a drowsy child of about 3, and Ku perching on the side, it adds up to a lot of weight for such a small craft even by Asian sub-standards of personal safety. 

“Do people ever ‘go swimming’ at this festival?” I ask Ku.

“Oh, no,” he assures me, “No swimming. Only swim if you have small boat. This BIG boat!” He gestures grandly at his family’s property, then points to a diminutive sliver of wood floating by on our left, in which 5 or 6 Vietnamese teeter just above water level.

“THAT small boat!”

Oh...right. When we don’t immediately capsize, I relax a bit and enjoy the ride through the festival. As it turns out, we saw the best part from the restaurant. The lighted moorings have gone out, the lanterns are starting to sink, and now it’s really just a bunch of toy boats bumping around in the dark. Occasionally, another boat veers perilously close. I react by flailing my arms at them to move off, nearly knocking the baby into the river. The mother barks at me in Vietnamese and I try to hold still after that. We meander the short distance between two narrow bridges, back and forth, back and forth, while Ku keeps demanding to know the time. He’s literally asking every three or 4 minutes; he wants to go back for fresh victims. His mother expertly rows a shorter track each time we pass the designated boarding area -- to call it a pier would be gross exaggeration -- until we give in and tell her to drop us off. 

When we alight, people are still flooding the streets as though something exciting is about to happen. The boat parade seems to be winding down, so we tag along after a crowd to see where they’ll lead us. But they aren’t going anywhere. They’re just walking around in the lantern-lit village, with lots of gossiping among the older women and covert flirting and giggling among the younger generation. It’s like being at the mall on discount movie night, without the actual movie.

With the big festival checked off our activity list, we reserve seats on the bus to Nha Trang. We’re not really interested in seeing Nha Trang (billed as “the most popular beach resort in Vietnam,”) but it’s the next stop on the Open Tour, so we figure we’ll stay a day or two, get some sun, and then go on to Dalat. 

Early the next morning, we’re dismayed to discover that our roomy tour bus has been replaced by a rickety minivan, crammed with 11 tourists, their luggage, a driver and a guide. The roads are wretched; I’m sick within the first hour and the knowledge that I will suffer through 10 more only makes it worse. In my customary, curled position with my head down, cramped into a half-sized seat, this decrepit vehicle adds injury to insult with a broken armrest that falls and clocks me on the skull at least twice an hour. Halfway to Nha Trang, the tour company makes its predictable lunch stop at a filthy, Kickback Café with revolting, overpriced food, and nothing else around it for miles. Fortunately, I’m too nauseated to eat. The café is isolated on a narrow beach that is redolent of rotting fish and raw sewage. A few passengers who entertain thoughts of a refreshing stroll are quickly chased back by the stench and the bugs. After lunch break, we all pile reluctantly back into the van for more jolting, bouncing boredom and stale air. The air-conditioning, barely functional when we left Hoi An, peters out completely. By the time we pull into Nha Trang, all of the tourists are silent, seething. I am permanently green, exhausted, and nursing a slight concussion; I would happily kill someone to get out of this van.

The Open Tour folks have a profitable tradition of strong-arming their passengers into the company hotels. The hotels are not a bad deal for the price, except that they are always inconveniently located on the outer reaches of town, and staying there guarantees you won’t ever enter or leave it in peace. Every member of the abundant staff is trained to harass on sight, hawking tour services with the bright-eyed zeal of Jehovah Witnesses on crack. On previous rides, we’ve simply declined and walked away without much difficulty. The weary travelers are unprepared for the Open Tour Militant Division awaiting us in Nha Trang. 

When the bus finally pulls up to the tour office, they don’t let us out. Instead, a new staff member boards, shuts the door behind him, and thanks us for traveling with them. We’ve arrived in Nha Trang, he announces, and now they will convey us to the “other” tour office across town, and then to a nice hotel. A few passengers grumble -- why not just stop here? The vague explanation is drowned out as the minivan roars ahead through town. At the second stop, yet another staff member gets in, shuts the door behind him, and welcomes us very pleasantly to Nha Trang. This welcome speech is met with even less enthusiasm than the previous one, but the guide seems oblivious to our collective Evil Eye. 

“And now,” he declares, beaming“,we go to a nice hotel.”

Tempers begin to flare. Several of the captives, including myself, inform him that we already have hotels and we want to go there, NOW. 

“Oh, don’t worry,” assures our ingratiating guide, “We just have a look here first. If you don’t like it, we take you anywhere you want.”

The van is moving again and there is no escape. We are hostages in a Bermuda Triangle of delay. When we finally arrive at the tour company hotel on the outskirts of town, mutiny is at hand. The door opens and a frightful melee ensues. A fleet of Open Tour cultists sets upon us:  pushing, pulling, plucking at our sleeves, blocking our exit, and trying to drive us all into the hotel like livestock to the slaughter while continuously bleating the sales pitch above the din of cursing travelers.

Furious, I threaten physical violence upon the next person who touches me and shove my way out of the fray. Craig elbows through the tour staff, dragging luggage out of the van and handing bags off to the other passengers, who flee into the dark as soon as they have their bags in hand. We strap our packs on and walk off into the unknown fringes of Nha Trang, plugging our ears to the pandemonium behind us and swatting away the transport vultures that have swarmed in to pick off the survivors. 

Although we have two more sets of unused bus tickets in our bags, I have just taken my final Open Tour in Vietnam.

(c) 2002, Laurie Weed. All rights reserved.