Buses, Bikes and the Beginning of a New Year

On the way to Can Tho.

Three thoughts describe my first day of 2016:

-I love motorbikes.

-Charades is more than just a party game.

-I have no idea how to navigate a Vietnamese bus terminal.

First, motorbikes. I love riding them. I love feeling the wind kiss my face and neck. I love feeling the heat and noise of the city roll away with each rev of the throttle.

A man I’ve never met, whose name I still do not know, parked his tan motorbike outside of the Lan Lan Hotel 1 at 10:37 am on New Year’s Day. I watched from the window of the lobby as he removed his helmet, tousled his jet black hair, and tugged at his red and blue plaid shirt. He walked up the steps to the hotel door and made eye contact through the glass. He pointed to me, Can Tho? I nodded yes.

And that was that.

I climbed on the bike, one backpack went on the man’s lap, the other on my back. Then we were off, weaving in and out of cars and other cyclists, dodging pedestrians. The reports about the dangers of riding the streets of Vietnam faded away and I beamed.

 I love motorbikes.

The man deposited me at a small bus terminal 20 minutes away and motioned me to one of the orange plastic seats. He went outside and lit a cigarette. A mini-bus pulled up, he motioned me on. The guards turned me away--not your bus. The man’s hand waved, go sit down. Another bus arrived, the dance was repeated. Go sit down. Third bus, this was me. I piled in with the other passengers; I looked out the window. The tan bike was already gone. I rode another 30 minutes across the city to the main bus terminal.

As we pulled through the gates at 11:48 am, it dawned on me, for the first time, that I had no idea how to find my bus.

There were 12 minutes until departure.

Destination: Can Tho.

With packs strapped on both sides of my body, I wandered toward the crowd surrounding half a dozen orange busses. I headed toward the first person I saw, an older Vietnamese man, donned a big smile, held out my ticket and asked, “Do you speak English?”

 “Yes.” Relief.

But he had no idea where I was supposed to go. He turned to the woman next to him; she looked at my ticket and pointed, “Go that way.”

I moved a hundred feet down the line and spotted a pair of backpackers: I smiled, ticket extended, “Do you speak English?” Fingers pointed further down the line, “I think you need to go that way.”

Next, a man in a uniform: smile, ticket extended. He points down the line. Five minutes until departure.

I started showing my ticket to anyone who looked official. Or knowledgeable. Or approachable. Or made eye contact. My smile was wavering.

A man in a tie stopped me and started to take my large backpack, pointing to the luggage hold. This must be my bus. I could see nothing about the giant orange vessel that indicated it was heading to Can Tho. But they let me board. So I got on.

A sleeper bus.

The bus was unlike anything I’d ever seen—a “sleeper” bus. All passengers had to remove their shoes before boarding. Gripping my smaller backpack, and grateful I’d decided to wear my blue and white ankle socks in the 90 degree weather, I entered what looked like a bunkhouse. But instead of cots, there were rows and rows of V-shaped, faux leather seats stacked on top of each other. I was definitely too big to gracefully navigation the environment. I got on my hands and knees and clumsily toppled into my assigned seat. I put my smaller backpack between my legs and looked around to determine how I was supposed to sit.

View from my seat.

My co-passengers were lounging, eyes closed. There was no way I was sleeping. Looking out the window has always been my favorite part of traveling. In order to see, though, I had to hold my back and neck at a 60 degree angle. I couldn’t sit all the way up or I’d hit my head. If I reclined to the 45 degree angle of the seat, the sky and the bunk above me were the only things visible.

We stopped an hour and a half later for a bathroom break. My neck was killing me. No one spoke English, so I didn’t know how long the stop was supposed to last. I just went as quickly as I could into the market-like rest stop. I really wanted to look around at all of the wares (gorgeous fruits and vegetables, strange pastries, Vietnamese fast food counters smelling of meat and fish). But I was not going to miss my bus.

Tombs in fields (sorry, cell phone pic).

If my calculations are correct, the stop lasted 24 minutes. But the driver was anxious to leave after just 12 minutes—and he sent his assistant into the terminal to start fetching passengers as he slowly crept the bus forward.

The next two hours I spent altering the hands were holding up my neck. I endless saw farms and small towns pass by. It’s tradition to build elaborate burial plots on the family land, so ancestors can remain at home. Outside the window I saw countless tombs on the corners of each field, with little family houses on opposite ends.

Bridge to Can Tho.

Finally, the big suspension bridge that marks the entry to Can Tho came into view. I was told by the ticket agent in Ho Chi Minh City that a free bus would take me from the Can Tho terminal to my hotel. But again, as we turned into the station, I realized I had no idea what the service was called or how to find it. I had the address of my hotel written on a torn piece of notebook paper and I clutched it as I was approached on both sides by taxi drivers.

I awkwardly pushed past them and made my way through the crowd to the main terminal office. I stopped and stared at all of the passengers waiting. I put my shoulders back, plastered another smile on my face and started showing everyone my crumpled little paper with the address on it. I found my way to an agent who spoke some English. “Just wait there,” he said, pointing to a seat.

The Mekong River, Can Tho.

So I waited. My eyes never left the man as he walked back and forth across the small station. At one point he became obsessed with an extension cord. He followed it across the length of the room to find out where it went. Then he followed it back to its origin. Then he moved the cord closer to the wall, trying to keep people from stepping on it. He went behind his counter, then leaned forward to check that the cord hadn’t moved. I started him down, willing him to remember I was there waiting.

A woman came from my side and grabbed my arm, motioning me outside. The man was still staring at the cord.

The woman ushered me into a gray mini-bus, crammed to the max. An amazingly kind Vietnamese woman looked at my clutched paper and told the driver where to take me. My smile came easily this time as I thanked her in my cringe-worthy Vietnamese.

I’d made it. Day one of the new year, and I’d made it. I hoped it was an omen for the rest of my year.