Saigon Touchdown

It was 1:00 a.m. I was exhausted from almost a full day of travel and I had no hotel reservation. Spending a night under the chairs in the airport lobby seemed tempting. I passed hired drivers in wrinkled suits holding up name placards for their newest round of customers, wives standing on their tip toes looking for their husbands, kids with flowers for mommy. No one was waiting for me, but I scanned the crowd anyway hoping to see my name on a sign. No luck.

The sliding doors swooshed open and I found some people who actually were waiting for me: a pack of tired, hopeful, sweaty taxi drivers. When they saw me, all 15 of them erupted with propositions—“You want taxi?” “Hey you! Cheap taxi, I’ll take you many places!” “Hey hotel! Come with me!” “This way, you! This way, very cheap!” “You want taxi, very cheap!” I walked through all of them and left a wake of Vietnamese curses floating in the air behind me. Two men followed me, convinced their offers were different enough from the others to gain my business. From past trips I’ve realized the best place to hire a taxi from the airport is not directly in front of the exit doors.

I walked for about five minutes and approached three men leaning up against their motorbikes. Each man was sipping soda from a clear plastic bag. They sprang to life when they saw me.

“Motorbike?”

“Where to?”

“Moto moto?”

“I want to go here,” I said and pointed to my map. “How much?”

One man spoke up before giving the question second thought.

“Five dollars U.S.”

I had never been to Vietnam before, but I knew that the ride was about 10 minutes by motorbike—far too short to warrant such a fare.

“Two.” I said.

The man laughed. “No, no, no. Impossible. Only five. Very far.”

I started walking away. I was tired, but I need to be near death with exhaustion and injured in some way to tolerate being ripped off. I walked for five minutes before I heard the high whine of a motorbike start up behind me. The man I spoke with earlier pulled up at my side.

“OK. Two, OK. Let’s go.”

He dropped me off in an area that, during the day, is described as a quaint neighborhood with narrow streets and lots of guesthouses. At night, however, with the help of booze, the cover of darkness, and the perceived freedom that cloaks Westerners on short stays to far off places, the neighborhood seemed seedy and intimidating. Prostitutes smoked cigarettes in small groups by guesthouse doorways. Motorbike drivers sat in the dark on small plastic stools surrounding a noodle vendor and drank beer. Squat dogs with sagging breasts scratched through debris in the alleys. Bars blasted music into the night sky as their young, white patrons chatted with prostitutes in tank tops. The night was still young, but the beginnings of later were well under way.

I was dropped off on a street that seemed to harbor a bit of safety in its liveliness and its few streetlights. As I walked, guesthouse owners spied my backpack and called out at me from their stoops.

“Hey, you want a cheap room?”

“You want a room tonight? Girls OK!”

“Place to stay sir?”

I walked up to a group of young men eating and drinking at small tables below a well-lit guesthouse. One man with slicked back black hair wearing an unbuttoned dress shirt sprang to his feet.

“Hello, how are you sir. Do you need a room tonight?”

“Maybe, can I see a room first?”

“Sure, follow me.” The man walked up four flights of crooked stairs. The hallway was dark and seemed to have an attitude all its own. We walked into a basic room—one bed, Spongebob Squarepants pillows, a tilting fan in the corner, a desk with Vietnamese words carved into its surface, a simple bathroom with bare light switches and bulbs. I dropped my pack.

“How much?” I asked.

The man looked me up and down and calculated.

“Eight dollars U.S.”

The price seemed steep based on information I got from a buddy who visited Vietnam a few months ago, but I was too tired to argue over a dollar or two at that point.

“OK.”

“Good. You relax and bring me your passport info soon. Here’s the key. Have a good night!”

left: Not my room that first night, but same idea. $5

I locked the door. The shower had hot water but I was so sweaty and tired I ran it cold. I leaned my back up against the tiles of the shower and was surprised by how cool they were. I closed my eyes. The trip has started, I thought. Another trip. Tomorrow new sidewalks under my feet, new smells for my nose. New-ness everywhere. This was the feeling I’d been waiting for, the feeling I’m always waiting for. Just then, a thought flashed through my mind—you’re no different from any junkie exhaling after he gets his fix. I opened my eyes.

What is it that has pulled me here? How do I keep ending up tired and sweaty in the middle of the night in $8, $6, $4 hotel rooms in rattled cities far from home?

I don’t really like being tired and sweaty. I end up that way though.

I don’t like laying my head on stained Spongebob Squarepants pillowcases. Yet I do. I pay to do it.

Why does this shower feel so damn interesting while my shower back home is nothing more than a means to finish a hygienic chore?

Why am I here alone, again?

Again.

I turned the water off. There were no windows in the room so I slept in my boxers and sweat into the sheets. I didn’t dream.