Khatoco Hotel Xe Lam (Vietnamese shuttle) riders   A caravan of wedding goers   Nha Trang beach at night Cyclo driving, a popular profession in Vietnam

Aug. 1 , 1998 Nha Trang      "Khatoco Hotel,"  The neon sign spelled brightly against a fresh dusk.  Up top, three giant well lit cigarette packages displayed prominently as if it said: "Smoke me please." Our group poured out of the packed van and marched into the air conditioned hotel lobby.  Tho, a ten years old boy who sat next to me in the van, flanked my left side. He was very talkative indeed.  His raw wit and frankness made me laugh during the ride.  I met him this morning in Saigon when I was squeezed into the back of a mini van between this little kid and  a grouchy looking woman.  There were fifteen people in this vehicle plus luggage.  I was a little concerned to say the least.  "My god, are we going to travel for 1000 km in this thing?"      As soon as I sat  down,  Tho asked: "Are you taking photographs?" after looking at the dangling camera around my neck.  "Yes."  I said, even though I wanted to say something like, "No, I just like to wear 'em."  It didn't take him long to introduce himself with all the background information.  He came from the countryside called Can Giouc, a small town by the Mekong river.  Tho belonged to the little wife (second wife) of a man who sat in the second row.  Tho's mother didn't make the trip because his father's big wife (first wife) sat in the first row of this van.       This women and her aunt, who sat next to her, were constantly chatting.  They chatted while the van was slowly moving.  They chat while it picked up speed.  They chat while everyone was asleep.  They chat while everyone was talking.  They even chat while the tour guide was busy curating the trip.  Their conversation was filled with true expression and raw thought.  It consisted humor and sarcasm.  Their speculation of the surrounding scenery indicated a lack of education.  Nevertheless, their sentences made the purest form of expression.  The carelessness in word choice somehow made their speech sounds better than poetry.  I was enthralled in their conversation while Tho was busy getting his hands on my camera.      The van rolled through the city making its pilgrimage through a school of motorbikes.  It seemed as everyone had one hand on the thruster while the other securely locked on the horn ready to honk.  The mixture of horns beeping and crackling sound of the engines reminded me of a pack of duck quacking while waddling through a muddy pond.  There were no traffic order it seemed.  People passed each other through the left, through the right or merging into the opposing traffic. Commuters rode on the sidewalk if there was one.  However, I rarely saw an accident.  If there was one, it usually resolved in a short shouting match between the parties  then everyone went on their separate ways.      Most women wore hats and a dusk masks, sometimes a folded handkerchief with a string tied to both ears like a western robber.  Their arms were covered with long gloves past the elbows.  They protected the arms from getting tanned by the sun.  In Vietnam and presumably many other places on earth, a person's complexion indicated his or her status in society.  A pair of dark arms indicated a laborer working in the field; thus a lower class citizen.      Within the myriad of moving vehicles, some 50 cc mopeds could carry four people on them.  It was a bizarre circuit of madness.  One time I saw a man stood straight up in the back of a swerving motorbike operating a video camera while the driver wove through the traffic trying to catch up with the vehicle in front which carried a newly wed couple.  Another time, a guy transported two German shepherds on his bicycle.  He secured two planks of wood across the crossbar.  The canines sat on the platform while the driver hovered over the animals and aimlessly paddled through the crowded street.  My mouth hung open in disbelief.     Our van reached a wider section of the highway with less traffic.  The noise seemed to reduce.  My cousin told me that a van like this is called a "shark."  Our shark picked up speed, occasionally warned the nearby traffic with its growling horn. Tho began to tell me about his activities in Can Giouc, his bicycle riding experiences, his fruit stealing expeditions and the vicious whipping by his older sister.  He told me about the television programs he saw.  He asked me about America.  "It is true that true that people kiss and hug out in the open there ?"  He questioned.  "Yes," I replied.  "Wow, that is weird.  If anyone get caught doing that here, people will talk about it 'til death."  Being talked about or bad mouthed is an equivalent to being cursed in Vietnam.  Tho was very curious and appeared to be knowledgeable about America.  I asked him how did he know so much about America.  He assuredly answered: "I watch TV !"     Our shark suddenly slowed down.  Someone in the van announced: "Oh god, it's an accident.  Somebody is dead."  The van suspenseful approached the scene.  A large crowd gathered around a truck.  In the middle of a crowd, a uniform policeman stood.  I couldn't see a thing from my position. Traffic continued to pass through the accident scene.  Our shark came up to the crowd.  I looked out the back window.  Next to the policeman, a body laid face down.  It appeared to be a young woman.  I couldn't make out how old the victim was.  Her arms pressed firmly against her sides.  Above her head, someone placed a bowl of burning incense.  Nearby, a puddle of fluid and internal substance mixed with organs spread over the asphalt road.  She was hit by a truck that wilted on the curb. I raised my camera and clicked profusely, only to found out later that I forgot to install film.  Our shark rolled on the victim's image imprinted in my mind.   The weary travelers checked into the air conditioned Khatoco Hotel in Nha Trang after a long trip.   I climbed to the third floor, entered my room # 309, dropped my backpack and quickly hopped into the shower.  I was in heaven.  After getting cleaned up, we were dropped off at a nearby restaurant for dinner.  I took this time to account for my travel companions.  The couple sat to the right me was Hiep and his girlfriend Ai.  Hiep was in his twenties and lived in the States.  His girlfriend was a Vietnamese national.  The couple sat to the left were ethnic Chinese who migrated to San Francisco some 20 years ago.  They owned a noodle shop on Ellis Street.  The Chinese man always carried a wad of Vietnam dong (Vietnamese currency) in his breast pocket and constantly paid for things and tipping people.  He liked to li xi (tip). Across from me was a woman and her French speaking son Jimmy.  She has been living in Paris for a long time.  Her teenage son, however, did not not speak or understand Vietnamese turning his mother into a busy translator.  At the other end of the table was Tho and his family.  On a smaller table sat the tour guide Sang, the driver Nhon, his mother and son.  They always sat at another table during meal.     After dinner, I went up to my room and picked up the Vietnam Fielding Guide.  Browsing through the pages to the Nha Trang section,  I searched for things to do but there was nothing listed for nightlife. I decided to take a walk along the beach since it was only a few steps away.  This beach was packed with people at night.  Young lovers held each other next to their Hondas.  Mothers fed young kids.  Young boys played soccer.  Merchants sold fruits from their compact stands.  Nearby, a little amusement park with bumper cars, carnival rides, swings and hawkers attracted a decent crowd.     Strolling further down the coast, a cyclo (bicycle rickshaw) driver followed me.  He insisted of giving a tour of the city.  I refused but he kept on begging.  I told him I'd like to go for a walk then he warned me not to sit down at one of the sidewalk cafes ahead.  I asked him why.  He told me it is not safe.  I felt his honesty and decided to accept his offer.     The driver started to paddle down the boulevard.  I felt the nice cool breeze on my face.  We started to talk as the cyclo headed to the business section of town.  He told me that he was a former soldier of the past regime.  He has three kids.  His wife sold lotto tickets, a popular profession in Vietnam, but made little money.  They lived in a narrow dark alley because they couldn't afford the expensive nests by the busy boulevards and hardly made ends meet. But they stayed together.  He asked me about America.  I told him that although the living standard is high, often people are lonely and overworked.  I met more unhappy people there (America) than here (Vietnam).  He grinned with a satisfactory smile on his face.     We rode around for nearly two hours until we noticed a woman on her motorbike whizzed by.  His face showed concerns at which time he told me that the owner of his cyclo was looking for him to collect the rent.  I looked at my watch.  It said 10:00 p.m. August 1st.  His rent past due.  The motorized woman made a u turn and cut him off.  He apologized for the inconvenience, stopped the rickshaw and walked over to the woman.  It appeared as if he was making an appeal to the woman who pulled out a notebook from her purse and wrote down some notes.  They conversed for a short while then the woman revved her bike and proceed on leaving the retrieving cyclo driver.  He returned, apologized one more time then hopped onto the seat and paddled again.  He told me his dilemma.  For each day that he missed the rent, a fine was compounded.  If he kept missing deadlines, her people would rough him up.  His worst time was the first of the month.  I sat in silence absorbing my sympathy for this struggling man.  He emphasized "I don't mind to work hard, but there is nothing to do here."  I remained speechless.     Unexpectedly, another cyclo flanked my side.  In it sat a woman in her casual pajamas clothing.  "Hi" in English she said.  I immediately realized her motive.  I stared at her without saying a word.  She then said "Where you goin'?"  I hesitated for a moment, then said "home" in English.  She said "where home?"  I pretended not understanding the question, shaking my head and twirling my hands.  She asked the driver of my nationality.  He said he thinks I'm Laotian.  He's been trying to converse with me in Vietnamese, French and English but it didn't seem to work.  I thought to myself how ridiculous this was.  I came half way around the globe to deny my own identity so this prostitute wouldn't make her proposition on me.  At that moment she said "You pay me, I go sleep with you."  I remained silent.  While pretending not understanded what they said, I listened in the conversation in Vietnamese between her and the driver.  She mentioned that she saw me walking across the street earlier.  But then I disappeared.  Once she spotted me again, she followed with a cyclo.     They followed me for awhile.  My cyclo driver understood the concept, he drove past my hotel.  They followed for another kilometer or so then lost patience and left.  The driver veered into a dark street making his detour back to my hotel.  He advised me not to say anything.  Because if they found out that he was trying to keep customer from soliciting their businesses, he'd get roughed up too.  What a doggy world a cyclo driver lived in.  He stopped in front of my hotel and let me off.  I handed him 50,000 dong, more than the agreed price.  I told him to keep the rest.  He accepted the note with both hands and gratefully thanking me.  Returning to my room, I dove into bed, closed my eyes.  Too tire to reflect, I faded out.