Dogs Dying and People Crying

<< back << home

Just a couple of minutes late, the minivan parked in front of the hotel and the driver came out to greet us.

"Just throw your backpacks on the backseat,” he said.

Josh and I did just that and made our way into the narrow bus to sit down. It was just past 6:30 am and the sun was already beating down on the window.

We were the first ones on and noticing the small number of available seats, I was happy, thinking that we would only be a small group of people.

The van made its way around hotels and slowly filled up with backpackers. The driver was a little abrupt when it came to speeding or slowing down but by that time, we had gotten used to crazy traffic in Vietnam and as long as he didn’t hit anyone, his driving technique was fine by us.

We stopped at several hotels around town and more and more backpackers got on. At each stop, I was surprised that we could still fit more people.

Everyone looked friendly though, I thought as I looked around at all the backpackers. In front of us, two English girls sat quietly, looking as though they hadn’t yet recuperated from an evening of drinking. On our right, a strange Spanish guy sat down. He was wearing a blue and white striped sweater, the kind sailors wear, and a long sarong around his neck. His girlfriend, a very masculine-looking woman, sat down behind him apparently not minding that her low-rise capri pants didn’t cover much of her red thong.

The last to join were two French-speaking Canadians and a guy, who we later found out, had been traveling for nine months and was too tired to make friends on buses. He showed no real interest in anything but his CD player.

The driver, a short and muscular guy in his early thirties, hadn’t said much to us but seemed to be having a great time with his two friends sitting by him in the front.

These guys were laughing and talking loudly in Vietnamese and I was enjoying listening to them. The driver looked at us in the rear view mirror and told us that we were going to stop at the company’s café to pick up some paperwork. We would then be on our way.

We had an eight hour ride on bumpy roads ahead of us and we all looked ready to hit the road. So another delay wasn’t what we had been hoping for.

When we pulled up, the tour operator who had sold us the tickets the day before, opened the door and asked us if we wanted to stop and have breakfast.

“A good cup of coffee and some food, that’s a good way to start the day,” he said.

We all looked at each other. We weren’t convinced. Sure, some food sounded great but what we really wanted was to get going.

Hopeful, the tour operator looked around again and finally caught the attention of one of the French-speaking Canadians.

“Café, yes, just one cup,” she said.

The tour operator smiled—a confused tourist who looked kind of interested was all he needed.

“Ok so it’s decided, you have 45 minutes to eat breakfast,” he said happily.

Did she think the guy would bring it to her in a to-go cup?

We were all told to get off the bus. If we didn’t want to eat, we could just order a drink. No matter what, we had to sit in the restaurant. Sit there and order something.

We all looked a little angry at the Canadian lady but decided to keep quiet. After all, a cup of coffee didn’t sound that bad.

Josh and I sat down and had the usual, some coffee, toast and butter and my personal favorite these past few days—gut-paralyzing medicine. This type of medicine works wonders, especially on long trips like this one. I just wished it could make the horrible cramps stop too.

Within half an hour, you could tell that happy breakfast time was over for everyone. We didn’t want to sit here all morning and besides, everything but coffee was twice as expensive as in other places.

The tour operator may have noticed our impatient looks because a few seconds later, as the van made its way back to the café, he announced that it was time to get back on the bus.

Out of all the seats in the bus, I chose the one over the tire so here I was, sitting with one knee up and the other leg down, trying to get comfortable and hoping that my stomach would stop hurting soon.

Every turn, bump and stop made me feel like someone was slowly tearing my intestines open, but every beach we drove past was more beautiful than the last and I knew that we would stop at one soon so I tried to enjoy the ride as much as I could. We drove past a sign I recognized from the pictures at the travel agency. I could have sworn the tour operator told us that this beach would be where we would have our first 20-minute break.

The Spanish sailor-looking backpacker opened his window to feel the ocean breeze.

The driver saw him in the mirror and ordered him to close the window immediately. The Spanish sailor explained that he didn’t like air conditioning, it was nice outside and he just wanted a little breeze.

The driver didn’t approve and the sailor closed the window angrily.

The driver laughed and started chatting with his friends again, driving faster and faster as we made our way up the curvy road. I noticed a second beach name I recognized, but we didn’t stop at that one either.

The Spanish guy smiled at us and opened his window just a little bit so that no one but him would notice. It worked, so I opened mine slightly too.

Outside, the scenery started changing. We were now driving away from the coast and up a mountain, then down into a valley. We began seeing more houses, taller trees and shady yards where children played. There were no more beaches around and the driver was showing no interest in stopping anytime soon.

We had been driving forever, four hours to be exact, and we hadn’t stopped once, not even for a bathroom break even though we all looked like we needed one. I wondered how long the medicine would last and rubbed my stomach to make it feel better.

The driver hit the brakes suddenly and parked on the side of the dirt road, by a house. Ah, I knew the guy wasn’t going to let us go without peeing for much longer, what was I thinking, that this guy was some kind of psycho driver?

We all grabbed our wallets and stretched, waiting for him to open the door. Instead, the driver got out of the car without saying a word, locked the doors and disappeared behind a big white house. We all looked at each other, surprised, some of us smiling because we weren’t sure if it was a joke he was playing on us. Think about it, when was the last time, a bus driver locked you up in his minivan in the middle of nowhere?

The restless Spanish backpacker decided to make a run for it. This guy wasn’t going to let anyone tell him when he could or couldn’t go to the bathroom, especially a crazy bus driver. He unlocked the door and ran behind a convenience store to see if he could spot a bathroom.

Before he could accomplish anything, the driver, walking back towards the bus, saw him and started running after him.

This was obviously not a planned bathroom break and the driver wasn’t going to let this happen. He walked back to the van with the angry Spanish backpacker in front of him. Poor guy looked like a little kid who had got caught cheating on a test. The driver closed the door and got back on without saying a word.

The Spanish backpacker, later nicknamed Bus Rebel, looked at us with a little smile. He took his sarong and wrapped it around his head like a turban, except he let some of it hang in front of his face to cover his eyes. Before he fell asleep, he opened his window just a little more.

About one hour later, the driver decided to stop. This time, he didn’t have any mysterious deliveries to make. He even let us walk into a store and go to the bathroom. We had to be quick but at least we got to go.

We walked back to the bus with snacks in our hands and relieved smiles on our faces. We all sat down and got comfortable again.

Until now, I had forgotten about our backpacks taking up the entire backseat, but when we stopped in front of a group of people on the side of the road, I looked back and wondered how we would be able to fit anyone else on this bus.

The driver didn’t seem too worried. He stopped the bus and let in the new passengers, who seemed to be friends or relatives, telling them they could pile up on top of the backpacks. I felt bad for the pregnant woman squished between two guys and some bags. I’m sure my stomach ache was nothing compared to her discomfort.

At about 2 p.m., the driver pulled up to a restaurant. This time, the driver told us it was lunch time and we had one hour. “Please bring money because food is not included,” he said.

Everyone got off the bus and looked around. I was looking for the restrooms. For all I knew this could have been our last scheduled stop before Hoi An.

Walking to the restrooms, I looked at the water behind the restaurant. As I got closer, I realized that what looked like a pretty lake from afar was more of a big dumpster with plastic bags and ink-colored water. The restaurant’s specialty was seafood, but I decided to go for the vegetarian dish.

When the hour was up, we all got back on the bus like a group of obedient tourists. We didn’t look excited.

Vietnam is a beautiful country and the landscapes I saw from that bus were amazing. I saw old women running after water buffalos, children waving with big smiles on their faces and the sun setting over rice fields. I even got a few good pictures, but always through the window of the minivan.

We had been driving for over nine hours and I felt that the medicine wasn’t really working anymore. I had taken the last pill that morning, thinking that by the time we got to Hoi An, I could just buy more there.

I read about Hoi An pharmacies in my guidebook and assured myself that we would be there soon. My stomach cramped once more.

Maybe it was just taking longer because there was a lot of construction on the road—that had to slow a bus down. But then again, the entire country seemed to be under construction so when the tour company said an eight-hour drive, they must have counted the delays, I thought.

We dropped off the people in the backseat. The pregnant woman smiled at me as she walked out of the van. This is surely our last stop before Hoi An, I thought.

The driver and his friends were still talking as we drove away and all the passengers in the bus were quiet. The Spanish guy was still napping under his turban, his girlfriend had fallen asleep using the window as a pillow and Josh was sleeping on my shoulder quietly.

Suddenly, the guy who had been listening to music the entire trip turned around on his seat in the middle of the bus. His eyes were wide open and his jaw dropped—we all knew something was wrong, but didn’t know what.

He was trying to figure it out himself, apparently, looking out the front window then the back—he closed his eyes and made a disgusted face. Only a few seconds had passed but by now he had everyone’s attention.

That’s when we heard a loud thump.

We looked out the back window, and saw a dog that the driver had just hit, tumbling along behind us at forty or fifty miles per hour for a good second or two before it stopped, dead in the middle of the road.

We braced ourselves for the driver to slam on the breaks and pull over, as this was the only stop we had all agreed on all day.

I imagined him acknowledging the horrible thing that had just happened, apologizing to the owners standing by and telling us how sorry he was for everything he had done that day.

Instead, he took a quick look at all of us in the rear view mirror. He must have found either our shocked faces, the dead dog, or both very funny.

He smiled, then started laughing.

This had to be the bus ride from hell. We had been locked up in a crowded minivan all day, waiting for our driver to deliver small packages to mysterious places, not being able to go to the bathroom. Now, here we were, driving away from a dead dog as people on the dirt road gathered around the animal looking like they were about to cry.

And the worst thing was that we had now been driving for twelve hours and we were probably nowhere near Hoi An. I looked around and saw that all the passengers were in shock.

It was clear at that point that it was us, poor backpackers who had tried to save a few bucks by taking a bus to make our way up to Northern Vietnam, against them, a psycho driver and his crazy friends who laughed at every horrible thing the guy did.

There was nothing we could do but sit quietly and hope to arrive soon.

Fourteen hours after we had gotten on the bus in Nha Trang, we pulled up at a hotel in Hoi An. I don’t remember the name, all I know is that the driver would receive a commission if we stayed there.

The problem was that they would only show the room to one passenger at a time, because there was only one room available.

While that was going on, we were, once again, told to wait patiently in the bus.

I had had enough. I looked at Josh and said, “That’s it, we’re leaving, we can walk to the next hotel.”

The tour operator ran after us and tried to hold me back by taking my hand. He explained calmly that he had better hotels and that he really wanted to take us to a nice place, if we could only wait.

We had agreed to breakfast, had been patient all day—but this time, I wasn’t going to let them have their way. I wanted to find a hotel, drop off my heavy backpack, finally go to the bathroom and then go to sleep.

Still holding my hand, the tour operator expected me to react. He waited for me to yell or bargain maybe, but I didn’t have the courage anymore. I tried to think of something clever and witty to say but the only thing I could come up with was, “No, thank you.”

He let go of my arm, and I could tell he wanted to say something, anything, but didn’t know what.

I gave a short wave and we walked away happy. They shouted after us but once we got around the corner, they gave up and went back to convincing other people in our group.

Helene Goupil is the editor of InsideOut Travel Magazine.

<< home

<< back