The window next to the table where I’m writing this offers a wide, ten-story-elevated vista of Bien Hoa City. Glancing away from the laptop I can see the hustle and bustle of the huge marketplace below. Looking further afield, past tall, narrow buildings that stand testament to French colonialism, an expanse of silvery-grey cuts a great swath through the urban jungle, disappearing into a diffuse pink-orange sunset. The clouds part and the river burns gold, a once-hidden sun painting new colours upon its surface. A long barge crawls towards the gap between two huge stone struts of a spanning bridge, upon which tiny black two-wheeled minnows dart across. They move sluggishly from this distance, and are broken apart by the occasional HGV, which, silhouetted against the sinking sun, roll along in stark contrast to the ubiquitous and endless flow of motos.
My own moto is ten floors below, a black and gold Suzuki something or other nestled between two more motos, packed within a sea of the little get-arounds. Picked her up a few days ago, after myself and Anne-Marie - the extremely pleasant, Queen-Liz-sounding South-African teacher who’d arrived a month before me – made a pact to get behind the handlebars forthwith. After dropping into the local boys-in-blue office to get our Vietnamese police clearances (pointless documents simply confirming we hadn’t been locked up within the few months we’d been here), we went off in search of secondhand motos. Following some fruitless haggling, I picked mine up for about ten million Dong (350 quid), Anne-Marie for a little less. Though with no clue of how to even start the thing, we had to sheepishly get the guys to drive them back to our respective apartment blocks. The next day, after some 1-0-1 tutelage from another British co-worker – Richard, who lives one floor below - I made my first baby steps around the carpark (much to his amusement; I was as awkward as a pig on ice but with worse balance).
Went back out the next day, did a few more circuits, would’ve done more if not for the fuel gauge reading virtually empty. Walking out to the nearest petrol station with an empty bottle seemed like defeatism, so felt I had to go for it. Tried to dredge up memories of my driving test(s) back home before coming to terms with, A: I was on a moto, a fraction of the size of the cars I’d been driving; and B: I was in Vietnam, where there is no right of way, motos can ride along pavements, and anything bigger honks as frequently and as loudly as it can until you either make way or end up under its wheels. Okay, maybe that’s hyperbole, but in the last three months I’ve seen more than a few moto-rider corpses, covered under a blanket or whatever they have to hand, after such an incident. You often see outlines chalked onto the road surface, faded ghosts of the bodies that fell before the monsoon rains wash them away. It’s a sad fact that the traffic-related death rate in Vietnam (and South-East Asia in general) is over twenty times that of the UK, much of which boils down to a general ignorance of road safety, a lack of road rules, and a laughably easy bike/car test.
Undeterred (or so I told myself) I struck out to quench the thirst of my moto’s parched fuel tank. Chose 1pm, when many a Vietnamese are taking a siesta or extended lunch break, and the roads would be relatively free of traffic. Almost did an about turn, but then saw the petrol station. After a fill up, I took a tour of the city. Fears assuaged, I felt comfortable cramming with the masses at intersections, having to jam on the brakes when pedestrians or other moto-riders abruptly ventured into my path, and letting it out hen there was a clear stretch of road. Was good fun.
Virtually all Vietnamese are brought up on motos. Ubiquitous are the sights of families riding around, father taking the helm, mother on the back, two kids and a baby squished between, undoubtedly struggling for breath. Yet, despite the apparent dangers, if you want to get from A to B, and you have a young family, you have little choice.
It’s not just families, however. It’s everyone. And even for the smallest of distances. I quite happily walk 20 minutes to and from work each day, and I’ll continue to do so. A nice bit of daily exercise in my opinion. Said opinion is not shared with the Vietnamese (nor the Thais for the matter). All of it boils down to the fact that south-east Asians won’t suffer to be out in the heat or under the sun any longer than they absolutely have to, and if they do have to, it’s with umbrellas (as in Thailand) or those broad straw hats (as in Vietnam). Most moto riders look like ninjas when they ride out, every inch of skin covered bar the area surrounding the eyes above their mask.
Turning away from the view, a large, modern, built-in kitchen takes up a third of the main living area, and a very empty looking lounge dominates the rest. There’s a big TV and stand, a sofa, two arm chairs, a good-sized glass coffee table, and the dining table I’m writing this on, but the area is so large it still seems sparsely populated. I need to hunt for some secondhand furniture. A large bedroom, bathroom and balcony are also present. The new abode dwarfs the hotel room I’d been dwelling in for the month previous – an altogether rather seedy establishment where I’d encountered ‘couples’ descending as I was ascending - an older male leading; a younger female trailing behind, tucking notes into her purse. As in Thailand, Vietnam’s a very male-dominated country, with husbands often having clandestine mistresses on the side. The fairer sex generally tolerate it, though I imagine not without a certain disdain. Most of the Vietnamese guys smoke and drink, yet very seldom would you see similar habits forming among the opposite sex, as doing so would typically label them as a lady of the night.
I definitely feel privileged, especially with a maid who comes in twice a week to clean up after me (Nghi calls it laziness) but this is the norm for foreigners. There is a huge gulf in terms of wages, bigger even than Thailand, where the TAs get less than a tenth of the lowest-paid foreigners, and they have to do just as much work. And while I’ve got a huge amount of personal living space with all the mod cons, the locals often make do with up to four people living in a single room and maybe a fan that barely cuts through the heat. One therefore has to be tactful and avoid saying stuff like, ‘how can you expect me to clean my place myself? It’s too damn big!’
I’m also a bit further away from the teaching establishments, where a foreign face not only elicits a second glance, but seems to warrant a protracted stare. Some of the teachers hate it; others don’t mind it at all - they like the novelty aspect. For me, the constant sensation of eyes following you, even in your periphery after you’ve walked past them, can be a trifle unnerving. Something I have to take in my stride I guess. The other thing – and this one does get under my nails – is that at any juncture of monetary exchange, a foreign face equates to (in the mind of the seller) “they’re loaded, I’m going to double the price.” You then have to engage in a dance of bantering, which, to begin with, I didn’t mind because it allowed me to practice my Vietnamese, but when you have to do it for every single purchase, it soon becomes tedious, and what should’ve been a simple transaction gets drawn out into a long annoying one. Even in the apartment I’m staying in, I have to pay more than a local would, by dint of my appearance.
Crossed my first ever land border a while back. Not an experience I care to repeat. Moc Bai is a town on the South-East border of Vietnam, its gate granting passage into neighbouring Cambodia. Set off from Bien Hoa early, changed buses at Saigon, and was soon away from the urban sprawl and cutting swathes through rice paddies. Thought I was making time as we sailed along, blessedly cool aircon slicing through the hot rays of the sun. Before I knew it, we’d ground to a halt, and were being ushered out into the heat. I was the last off of an all-Asian busload and was immediately swarmed by dodgy visa pushers and rip-off moto riders. Their insistence was both relentless and unnerving, trying to cajole me this way and that, until I didn’t even know where I was supposed to be going. I broke free and struck down the road where lorries were backed up for a mile or more. They didn’t let up however, and I ended up traipsing down this sun-baked track, ignoring everyone to the point where I walked right past the legit passport checking guys assuming they were more con artists. Had to then double back and go through a large warehouse to join a relatively short queue at the passport checkpoint. I’d heard that slipping a swift note or two into your passport before handing it over afforded a speedy exit and re-entry. Not wanting to hang around in the stifling heat, I did just that. Got the passport back, minus the cash, and carried on. Being completely ignorant of how land borders worked, this did absolutely nothing for me as it was just a passport check. After another bribe to the guys on the actual gate, I trudged over to the Cambodian side, runners of sweat coursing down my cheeks. There was a whole crew over there sat around chewing the fat. Again, handed over my passport and enquired how long it would take.
‘Oh long time. Very long time. You pay, short time.’
‘But I’ve already paid.’
‘You pay more.’
I looked them over, maybe ten guys doing sweet FA with no border crossers save me. I was now baking and rather annoyed so went ahead and gave them extra just to get out of there.
Upon re-entry, had to make two more undue cash settlements – one to a security guard who wouldn’t give me back my passport until I did – before getting back into Vietnam. I was then hounded all the way back to the bus by one of the guys I’d bribed who was now demanding more. I honestly felt like punching him, but grit my teeth and settled for stewing all the way home.
The whole process is deliberately vague and difficult to accomplish, especially for clueless border runners like yours truly, so as to better syphon money from the Western wallet. It’s unfortunate that the experience has lowered my opinion of Vietnam. And it harkens back to previous entries made in Thailand about corruption and flagrant racism to non-Asians, namely inflated prices for Westerners, and paying bribes or getting in a fix. Vietnamese hate the police the corruption as well, and it’s the only really negative thing I have to say about the country.
On a more positive note, romance has blossomed with Nghi, and I’m expected to do the obligatory meet-and-dinner-with-the-parents in a week or so. Families in Asia are a lot more close-knit. Protective parents often have unbendable rules which preclude what we would consider to be personal freedom, especially for daughters. Hers are stricter than most. At twenty three, she still has a 10pm curfew, is never allowed to stay away for a night (unless when in Saigon where she studies at a pedagogical university for three days a week), and has her mum constantly phoning to check up. We’ve thus had to come to a compromise that for the foreseeable future she won’t be able to join me in any jaunts that would necessitate an overnight stay. Hopefully, after meeting me and realizing I’m not an axe-wielding maniac, and can have a basic conversation with them in their native tongue (they speak no English, so I’ll need to sharpen up my Vietnamese) they’ll be a bit more lenient. Am dubious though, and it seems likely that only after there’s a ring on their daughter’s finger will they issue her a get-out-of-homestead-free card. My long-term goal to live and teach in, as well as learn the culture and languages of, all Asia’s major countries hasn’t changed, and I wonder if taking this next step is folly. One thing I’m fairly certain of is that I’ll spend at least a year in Vietnam, perhaps two or more depending on how my career progresses, but will I be here forever? Unlikely.
Yet everyone’s future is unscripted and uncertain. If someone had told me two years ago that before my thirtieth birthday I’d have lived and worked in both Thailand and Vietnam, I’d have said their crystal ball needed a hell of a lot of tweaking. And yet here I am. We are all makers of our own destiny, whether it takes us far and wide, or keeps us close to our roots. But for all our planning, unseen and unknown events will always impact on our intended road of travel, thwarting our paths. And in their wake other routes open up. We can but make a choice and walk down one.