Mathew Biadun | Column Writer
In an extremely short time, I had traveled across much of Southeast Asia. I had dotted around the region, from Bangkok to Kanchanaburi, and from Siem Reap to Vientiane. Thailand, Cambodia, and Laos had all been seen. However, there was still a significant country I hadn’t gone to yet, and it was the one I had been the most excited for.
Unlike Cambodia, Laos, and even Thailand, of which most Americans know little, Vietnam looms far larger. The effects of our war there, even fifty years after its ending, haunt the United States today, as it does Vietnam itself. Seeing it for myself was a must.
Getting there looked easy on paper. Merely an hour from my dorm was the airport, and Vietnam itself was an hour from there. I had a hostel already booked, just twenty-five minutes from the airport in Ho Chi Minh City. Easy enough, and yet, getting to Vietnam was the most grueling part of my entire trip. My misfortune in that regard warrants its own article, and with the arrival of midterms (yes, midterms plague me even here, on the other corner of the world), I decided to split my article into two separate pieces; the destination, and the journey there.
VietJet was my airline of choice. Cheap, cheapest airline there was. It was known for its frequent delays, and even cancellations, but here I rolled the dice. Budgets can be kept small and affordable, if you’re careful, and take an odd gamble like this. Just to make sure I had enough time, I left for my 7:55PM flight at 5PM.
To my alarm, the traffic was horrific. The taxi was stuck on the highway behind rows and rows for cars, waiting for anything to move. Time crawled by more and more as I helplessly stared out the window, begging to get there soon. Two hours it took us to arrive; two hours! It was seven o’clock, meaning I had to get through security and customs to arrive there by 7:40, when boarding closed.
My haste could not be described aptly enough. I ran across the tile-floor, echoing my panicked step across the airports. Throwing my bag through the metal detector in security, rushing to get to customs, where I paced with an antsy air as they checked my paperwork. I tried to explain my rush to the worker, who only motioned for me to sit down. As soon as I got my paperwork I was running again, through the gigantic Suvarnabhumi Airport, so big that I had to take a shuttle train just to get to my gate.
7:35. 7:35 and I was running, as fast as my feet could carry me, towards my gate. Running and running, heart pounding as my lungs panted for breath. I arrived at the desk, sweaty and breathless, at 7:39. The attendant smiled and raised up a paper that, to my surprise, read ‘Mathew Biadun’.
“Is this you?” He asked.
“Yes? How did you know I was coming?”
“Customs called. You can go sit down; the plane is delayed.” I couldn’t believe it. All this time I had panicked and rushed, and all for nothing! I sluggishly moved over and practically collapsed in a seat, just happy not to have missed it. The plane took some time to arrive, and I only boarded it after forty-five minutes of waiting. To my relief, the flight there was at least easy. The last place you wanted misadventure was thirty-thousand feet up in the air.
Of course, getting to my hostel was another story.
The plane landed, and off through customs and security I went again, as if I had somehow managed to sneak something in between landing and then. Still, without the stress of urgency, it all went a lot easier. Earbud in at the line, slowly getting through, until I was finally out.
Now, I had two options to get to the hostel. Grab, the version of Uber I had in Thailand, also worked in Vietnam. The other option was a taxi, which would’ve been easier to just go find, but pricier. A grab was listed at 119,000 dong, or around 4-5 dollars. As soon as my foot stepped outside the airport, taxi drivers suddenly hounded me, asking if I wanted a ride. Their prices were far worse. A hundred-and-fifty, two-hundred, even three hundred! Nearly thrice as much! I called a Grab instead.
The only problem was the pickup area, a slab of old concrete with so many lines and cars and people that it became labyrinthine. I tried to look for my driver’s license plate, searching for it. Finally, a guy by a car spotted me and waved me over. He asked to see where I wanted to go, and upon showing him, nodded to me. “Are you my driver?” I asked.
“Yes, yes!” He nodded, motioning to follow. I shrugged and agreed, following behind when he asked to see my phone. Suddenly he canceled my Grab, motioning for me to follow. It wasn’t my driver at all! He had just stolen this hapless American tourist from another driver! Well, it was what it was. I clarified the price with him, and he agreed, so I got in the car anyway.
The driver sparked up a bit of conversation, asking where I was from and the likes while he seemed to set up the car, when he asked me if he could take a smoke. All the taxi drivers had been smoking, and it seemed like a habit of his too. Besides being tired, I wasn’t in a rush, so I told him to go. To my surprise, when the door opened again, it was a new man, thrice as big, and his English twice as poor. I understood; it was all a big sort of cabal, a racket. This man got the customers, and then his employees drove them around! A good business, if you were him.
Well, it all seemed fine, until the employee asked for twenty thousand dong (about a dollar). “Why?” I asked him, and he responded that it was to pay the ticket. Pay the ticket? To leave? Why, he was a taxi driver! What in the world kind of ticket would there be, he was coming in and out of here constantly, not parked overnight! Suddenly he was talking about extra fees for this and that. I just opened the door and left. In situations like these, you can’t win; you just have to leave. I ended up getting another Grab, a beat-up van which agreed to take me for the same price. I walked in and found two other Americans already there, heading to a nearby hostel. Well, I didn’t mind sharing it, and so we all rode away.
The van finally pulled up to my hostel, or in more actuality, an alleyway with a sign above it reading the name of my hostel. I walked down this cockroach infested alleyway, watching rats duck under buildings, and feeling that this was a fitting end to all the travel I had experienced. To my rejoice, the hostel itself was nice. A woman greeted me quickly despite the last hour, taking down my information and deposit, and giving me a room key. When I hit the bed, it was all I could do to hit an alarm before falling asleep. Luckily, this would be the most stressful part of the trip; it was all up here from there!
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