The Deported
Spoiler: No one dies in the end
I’ve been getting in these moods recently where I can’t stop smiling. I’ll be trekking through a mountain town, walking through a night market, or sitting in an open air taxi when I notice my ears tugging at the sides of my mouth. This life! If my teeth were camera lenses, I would regularly run out of film before dinnertime. As wheels touched down at the Hanoi airport on my way back from Hong Kong last night, I was in one of those moods.
The day began with a western brunch on a terraced patio in Hong Kong’s soho district, I caught the train to the airport with time to snag three golden egg tarts for my journey south. As we taxied to the gate upon arrival, I bit into my last tart—bliss. With my carry-on life on my back, I strolled confidently though the halls of international terminal as if it were my local grocery store. I had already been to this airport twice!
There was something about the military green uniforms of the government employees in the terminal that I quite enjoyed. Hanoi felt much more like the Communist Republic of Vietnam that I was promised than Saigon. I approached the immigration desk like I was coming home. I knew where to catch the public bus to my hostel, who I was meeting for dinner, and exactly what I was going to order (bun bo nam bo, extra peanuts). I handed over my passport with a smile and a nod.
The first red flag was the speed with which the officer turned the pages of that little blue booklet as if each stamp could be a piece of incriminating evidence. When he finally got to my visa, he began shaking his head and repeating a word I would hear a lot over the course of the next hour, “No.” His supervisor approached the counter and escorted me to a chair in the corner of the hall. I sat there, quickly becoming self conscious of my typical backpacker outfit — one bag in front, one in back, shorts, silly sun hat. I felt underdressed.
A team of officers looked down at my passport, then up at me. I was tempted to smile and wave, but it didn’t seem like the right time. Externally, I was calm, but on the inside I wavered between freaking out and looking forward to the adventure that awaited. The truth was, beside my dinner plan and hostel reservation, my schedule was quite flexible until the 6th of February. I had loose plans to travel down the Vietnamese coast and into Laos, but no mandates. Knowing this gave me solace as the guys in green decided my fate.
A representative from Dragon Air (yes that’s a real, non-Harry Potter airline) was my biggest advocate throughout this whole ordeal. She explained to me that my visa extension was not for multiple entries as the travel agent who helped me arrange it last week had promised. Originally, the airline lady, who at this point was my translator, lawyer, and surrogate mother, said the officials would let me go if I paid $160 USD. I asked if I could call my embassy. I think I saw that in a Jason Bourne movie once. While on the phone with Mr. David Nelson from the CDC (not sure why a disease prevention expert was the embassy’s go-to contact), my airline friend informed me that “the deal was off” and I needed to hurry to get on the next flight back to Hong Kong. “Hang out the phone, Sir.”
At this point, I was much less concerned with grammar mistakes or losing the deposit on my $5/night hostel than which airport employee would become my partner in crime if I was to have to play Tom Hanks in a reenactment of “The Terminal.” This was until a not-so-smiley gentleman showed up with a handwritten boarding pass in one hand, and a strong “come with me” gesture in the other. I obliged his suggestion with the conviction of a inexperienced salsa dancer. Before I knew it, I was back on the exact same aircraft I had arrived on, opting to go with the pork instead of the chicken for my meal option this time around.
After settling in at our cruising altitude and running through a blurry recap of what had just gone down, I needed to plan my next move. The best part about traveling light and alone was that there were no bad options. I looked at the inflight mini-map and quickly narrowed down my potential targets to Taiwan, Laos or The Philippines (three of the six countries visible on the screen on the seat-back in front of me). I’d heard from many travelers that the Philippines was their favorite country with “paradise beaches that you don’t want to ruin with pictures.” I arrived back in Hong Kong around midnight with spirits high. I did a quick google search on the airport’s free public wifi (thanks China!). “Do Americans need a visa to visit the Philippines?” I had my Philippines Airlines flight to Manila booked before most of my fellow passengers cleared customs.
So here I am, at 9am, writing this from the Cozee Monkey Hostel in Manila. About an hour ago, I arrived in this lovely country that worships 60's love songs, sweet spaghetti, and the Los Angeles Lakers. 12 hours ago, I was being escorted away from the arrivals foyer by airport security. Today, I will decide whether I want to go check out a lake inside of a volcano or go island hoping across glassy blue water. And I have no one to thank for my past and future excitement than my phony travel agent in a Hanoi back alley.
Audible-y,
Simo
