Vietnam 2005
Vung Tau, Vietnam
January 2005
Greetings from Vietnam, Singapore, Hong Kong, LA, San Fran….more legs than a centipede on this trip. I spent one week in Vietnam and now am half through two weeks in Singapore.
I’ll start this with a Grimm Ferry Tale:
Chapter 1: I read a Hardy Boys book when I was 10 (Wow! That must have been…what…10 or 15 years ago?) about Joe and Frank riding on a hydroplane boat to solve a mystery. After reading the details of a hydroplane, I have always wanted to ride in one. (I guess I’m fortunate that the Hardy Boy’s never rode in a lunar buggy to solve a mystery!) While in Vung Tau, I found out that there was a Russian-made Hydroplane that ferried passengers to and from Ho Chi Minh. (“Ho” is Vietnamese for “A very large number - close to infinity“; “Chi Minh” means “Motor-bike”) And, instead of having a company driver take me the 2 hour drive from Vung Tau to Ho Chi Minh, I could ride the ferry for only $10 USD! I casually mentioned to the Vietnam Operations Manager near the end of my Vung Tau audit that since it was just me, I’d just grab the hydroplane to Ho Chi Minh. He just started with, “It won’t be any trouble for Hai to run you up to…” “NOOOO!” I accidentally yelled, startling him. Then I tried to casually add, “It’s no bother and since I’m the only one, I should set the example with the lowest cost route.” It is a good thing the ferry was less than the drive, or I would have had a hard time coming up with a reason I was paying 10 times the cost of the driver and car just to take it!
Chapter 2: On Saturday afternoon 10 minutes before scheduled departure, the driver dropped me off at the beach near a sign advertising the hydroplane. I looked toward the water only spotting some floating marine wreckage and asked the driver if the ferry was usually late. He shot me a strange look and pointed at the water and said “It’s there.” I turned and for the life of me I couldn’t see it for that dang eyesore blocking my view. Then I realized there was only beach between me and a ramshackle old dock he was pointing toward. I had a suitcase and computer bag with three weeks of dress cloths, work boots and work cloths for the rig, and workpapers, all together approximately the size and weight of Rhode Island. There was no cart, no concrete for luggage wheels, no porter, just me listening to the sound of the driver pealing out in a fury to get away before I could change my mind or ask for help. I followed several people across the ankle deep sand carrying my suitcase and computer bag. Although, my sweat-soaked clothes probably added an additional 10 or 12 pounds, I was fortunate that my rapidly dehydrating body was forfeiting more weight than my clothes could soak up while I trudged the 150 yards through the sands of the Sahara to the dock.
Chapter 3: Although this may seem obvious to the readers, it came as quite a shock to me that the rotting eyesore that littered the shoreline WAS the ferry. Once again fortune stepped in and deflected my disappointment through shear fear when I realized I had to navigate several feet across a steeply angled 2x12 board that connected the ferry to the dock. Luckily, there were no handrails to interfere with the several hundred pounds of ballast I carried in the form of luggage to help balance me as I crossed the board. The board was groaning and making bad cracking sounds under the strain as I crossed. (Although, in retrospect, it may have been me making those groaning and bad cracking sounds.) People were jammed in the boat. I was thankful that the office administrator had offered to buy an advanced ticket with reserve seating in first class. I spotted all the people without the advantage of my reserved first class seating, sitting in uncomfortable tiny plastic chairs bolted to the completely enclosed deck. “Suckers!” I ungraciously thought and set off in search for seat number 22 listed on my ticket. Seat 22 was an uncomfortable tiny plastic chair bolted to the completely enclosed deck. There was no place to set my luggage, so I crammed it between a chair and the window seal. This did not block my view because the tinting on all the windows was so old and so warped that there was no view to block. One could barely make-out daylight through the windows; the chances of seeing any Saigon river scenery on the trip was actually less than the odds of us arriving safely in Ho Chi Minh.
Chapter 4: The principle of a hydroplane is that a beam that runs down each side joins a plane that sits under the boat. Once the boat reaches a planing speed of 50-60 miles per hour, the hull actually comes out of the water and only the plane makes contact enabling the boat to go much faster due to the reduced friction. This boat, however, kept loosing the plane and would slam down into the water. This feels like hitting a cow driving 80 miles an hour. (OK, you know what I mean – I know cows don’t drive 80 miles an hour! They rarely go more than 35.) I don’t want to exaggerate the overall condition of the boat, but they would have to spend a lot in repairs just to be able to condemn it. And the trip was not all bad. OK, the lady two over from me filling up three puke bags during the trip was bad, but there was some good. For example, I caught up on my prayers. That is, when I wasn’t picking my forehead out of the back of the cheap-plastic-bolted-down seat in front of me due to losing the plane.
So, in summary, if you ever get an opportunity to ride in a quality Russian-made hydroplane on the Saigon River, I highly recommend you walk, swim or injure yourself to keep from going.
Vung Tau was a little town with noisy streets, poorly paved sidewalks, and bad food. Ho Chi Minh was a big city with noisy streets, poorly paved sidewalks and bad food. If there are 50 million people in Vietnam, then there are at least 100 million motor bikes. Well, that’s not exactly true since the average motor bike has three riders. To cross the street, you DO NOT wait for an opening. You just walk across slowly and the motor cycles will swerve around you. (I was warned about this by an old Scottish buddy that lived here for a year.) As I came up to a busy intersection in Ho Chi Minh, an American already standing there, muttered “Good Luck!” to me when he saw I was going to cross. I just smiled at him and stepped off the curb into a sea of motor scooters. I walked steadily across six lanes of endless traffic. I then turned back toward him when I got to the other side; he was standing staring at me with his mouth open. Unless he followed my lead, he is still standing on that corner. I have written only about bad experiences in Vietnam. I do need to say that all the people were very friendly. Especially some of the local girls who would call out to me from the bars as I walked by in Ho Chi Minh.
Now I am in Singapore, the cleanest city on earth. And, I’m not kidding – ask anyone who has been here. Dirty or dented cars are not permitted. When a local driver goes in for an annual safety inspection, they are failed if the vehicle is dented. I know there has to be some penalties for dirty cars, but asking around, I have not learned of any. However, there is no way every driver in a city/state of eight million would voluntarily wash their car every 3-4 days. I was told that the government does not allow cars that are older than 10 years and that the taxes on new cars tend to be 200-300% of the total cost. So, a car costing $20k in the states would cost up to $80k here. It prevents overcrowding on the roads.
I hope everyone is doing well. I also hope to see you soon.
Take care,
Keith