Why did the chicken cross the road?
The question really is, how? How sway, how?
You know those road crossing games? The ones with really fast paced upbeat music? The kind of heart in mouth, tension causing, Mario cart music? These are not games created from a pin drop in the ocean of someone’s imagination. This is real life, this is Vietnam. If you can cross the road here, I believe you will have significantly reduced your chances of ever being hit by a motor vehicle in England. If I had money, I would put it on that being fact. When I had a arrived in the fast paced road life of Bangkok Thailand, it was a new world to me; people didn’t seem to respect street lights, but they also didn’t drive so recklessly that you felt incapable of crossing. It was more a feeling of jumping into the skipping rope when your friends are swinging it; just about timing. In Vietnam however, mopeds are far more popular than cars and I think it’s safe to say, they probably don’t require any sort of licence or training to get on the road. If you thought walking on the pavement was a safer option, think again. Motor vehicles will happily drive on the pavement at whatever speed they want to avoid traffic and they expect you to move, no they will not slow down, they would much rather injure you first and shout at you for getting in their way. The friendly, welcoming faces of Thailand had most definitely been left behind the moment the plane had lifted off the ground to embark on its journey to Ho Chi Minh (Saigon), the capital city of Vietnam. Upon arrival, I had organised a reasonably priced taxi from the airport. He most definitely did not know where he was going, and after driving up several incorrect back streets, proceeded to drive out on to the main road and then point in what appeared to be the direction he thought my hostel was in. So I spent the next few minutes walking around unable to find it, until eventually some ladies assisted me by sending their daughter/niece to put me on the right path. We walked along a narrow road cobbled with stones, with shops all displaying signs emphasising that they were closed on both sides and out of nowhere, a set of corrugated metal shutters opened up and a Sikh man with a turban bellowed ‘Hewa home’ (the name of my hostel) whilst pointing at a piece of laminated A4 paper tied to the shutters which had the same name printed on it, indicating that his was to be my accommodation for the next few nights.I had arrived sweaty and clammy beyond belief after my night spent sleeping in a rain mac at the airport (to block the air con from freezing me to death). He handed me a glass of water, as I sat with my backpack and camera bag on what I can only describe as a hospital bed. I was given warnings about Vietnam, “always walk toward oncoming traffic”, as if you walk in the direction of traffic, people will zoom past on their mopeds steal your belongings and continue to drive off. Not to carry your phone in your hands, as it will be stolen. It was more like a promise than a possibility.
He offered me a sandwich from a plastic container sat on top of the fridge. Not in the fridge, on top of the fridge. I politely declined, even though I was starving as the sandwiches didn’t look like they had been made with clean hands and more to the point why were they on top of the fridge? It’s hot… I had not yet paid for my accommodation when he ushered me upstairs to my room where I placed my belongings. As I placed my left foot on the first step I glanced to the the right and saw a filthy kitchen, which is where my inclusive breakfast was to be made the next morning. So happy at my past self for declining those sandwiches. I had been looking forward to a long cold shower from the moment I had woken up to catch my plane that morning. But after having to tread barefoot on a murky grey/black towel (should have been white) dyed from dirty feet walking out of the bathroom across the small gap and into my room. I did not feel comfortable taking a shower here. He had opened a creaky door to show me the balcony which my room connected too. Though he had to pick up customers clean laundry that he had left on the floor out there first. I sat in the “freshly washed towel” he had provided, when I felt a tickling on my leg, someone’s shed hair was embedded in my towel. Not to mention all the hair all over the bathroom floor. I booked myself into new accommodation put my backpack on, cancelled this accommodation online, heaved myself back down the flights of stairs to the reception where I told him, “I will not be going ahead with my stay.”
When he asked “why?”, I told him, “it’s not clean”.
He retorted, and I quote. “It’s the other guests, they smoke in the rooms and make a mess, because we clean everyday”. I myself was trying to understand how this meant the bathroom plug hole could be full with weeks worth of hair, floor covered in grit, the filthy towel placed down, supposedly for drying clean feet. The laundry he had left on the floor and a disgraceful kitchen was all caused by guests smoking in the dorm room, which actually smelt completely fine! He asked me if I would like to see a room with AC instead as I had chosen a fan room, and when I told him I’d booked a new accommodation proceeded to raise his voice and say, I “should have a look.” I took great pleasure in leaving whilst he was still ranting. “You’re not my dad mate”, I thought to myself.
My new hostel. “Bui Vien hostel”, an astonishing contrast from the pigsty I had just been subject to. So accommodating, with a clean open plan reception area and believe it or not; smiling faces. I was greeted with a bottle of ice cold water, and another warning about my belongings, but they refused to let me carry bags with me when I went out as only that morning a guest had had all their valuables stolen, passport, money, and bank cards. Not including whatever else they had in their bags. Another guest was fooled into paying forty pounds for 1 can of coke as he didn’t understand the currency. I felt much more at home here, my first night I met a lovely Scottish girl who shared my mums maiden name, together we decided to hit the night markets in search of some bargains. Being a weekend the already chockablock roads, were even more chockablock. We were walking in the road and traffic was at a standstill (people and motor traffic). In front of me a moped, to the left of me another moped and to the right of me, lines of mopeds all parked up. I was boxed in, and yet much to my surprise I was being prodded in my back, very hard, initially I thought to myself, “rah I’ve only just met you Leighanne, can’t be poking me like that”, I turned around and it was one impatient Vietnamese man. He continued prodding me in my back as though I was Moses and could part the traffic. I looked around at him and stared into his soul for a few moments before turning back. I held my tongue, as in Thailand people are very peaceful and nobody shouts unless in very extreme circumstances, due to their dominant Buddhist beliefs, Vietnam however is not Thailand. The majority of the population is atheist, miserable, angry and will shout for no good reason. He continued prodding me, so even when the moped in front was able to move, I remained still not progressing forward until he got the message and stopped poking me in my back. This was just the beginning of Vietnamese aggression.
I purchased an open bus ticket, which takes you from one end of the country to the other, in my case south to north. So each time I am ready to move destinations I must visit the ticket office the day before so they can book me on to the bus for the following day. When I moved northward to my next destination, “Nha Trang”, I was told that my sleeper bus would stop, in front of the “Hanh Cafe” (bus company) ticket office, so I would know where to go to book my ticket. I woke up fifteen minutes before we arrived in Nha Trang, but the coach didn’t stop to show us where to book. So when I got off the coach, I collected my backpack and asked the man who was throwing baggage out from the underside of the coach on to the pavement, where I could find the bus cafe. Baring in mind I have my heavy backpack on my back he pushed me in my shoulder, I fell in to a small ditch beside me and he continued walking. When he eventually looked back, he simply told me to come, using only his hands as you would to a child, turning his palm to the sky and clapping his fingers back towards it. I couldn’t believe it. After this rude treatment, I decided that a trip to the mud baths and mineral pools was befitting.
I met a lovely travelling pair in my dorm room that night, Niamh and Dan. Our disastrous coach journey together, will feature but not today! Check out my Instagram for travel pic updates @gorging.globally and Niamh’s blog. Www.christiantraveldiaries.blogspot.co.uk if you enjoyed this read, ,please give it claps! Big hugs, Tesni xx
Originally published at tesnithetastebudtraveller.blogspot.com
