It was gone 3am. I had not had much sleep. I may not have had any sleep. Sometimes it is hard to tell whether you have been sleeping, or whether you are so tired you have simply forgotten you have been awake for hours. I lay in the darkness of Grandma Lu’s bamboo prison cell. The bedside desk, though barely visible in the darkness was overflowing with both empty and unopened cans of tiger beer. The room was cold… I never could figure out how to switch off the air-con… but my wakeful slumber was far less frustrating than it sounds… While sleep evaded me in the cold room, I was wrapped in both excitement and tranquility which created a warmth of its own.
Fast forward half a dosen hours and once again I’m sitting behind Tuan as we speed through Ho Chi Minh. We were singing again and it was like we’d never been off the scooter. We’d cut down a large list of songs to a small number we knew the words to, singing them over and over again. Though the sweltering heat of the day and the dust blowing down the streets made it more of an uphill battle than it had been in the night.
We stopped at a tiny shop where I printed my Indian visa. Then we went to Tuan’s house so he could change for work. I enjoyed some bitter orange juice given to me by his neighbour. Then it was back to Lebanhmi café.
Tuan entered before me and effortlessly resumed his post as head waiter. I couldn’t order the club sandwich again… I’d promised Tuan I wouldn’t. But noodles for breakfast was spitting in the face of my stomach’s demands so I opted for a juicy pork banhmi, though I made sure to make it clear to the waitress who took my order – please no onions and absolutely NO coriander.
The pork banhmi was superb. And… after a sleepless night, the latte was life-giving. When I went to leave, Tuan took me aside and told me to stay a while longer. He was getting off work early.
So, I stayed and gazed absentmindedly at the menu until I came upon an iced Avocado and coffee smoothie – one of the many ingenuities Tuan told me about last night. I ordered it at once.
The invention of the Avocado and coffee smoothie is a fucking genius, and THAT is putting it mildly. Wordy descriptions cannot do it justice, and neither can this picture… but here is anyway…
I collected my bag from Grandma Lu’s. Then hopped on Tuan’s bike. We sped to Tan Son Nhat Airport where I hastily checked in. Then I re-joined Tuan and we sped back into Saigon one last time.
‘I’m going to get you really full’ Tuan kept saying. He was talking about some broken rice dish called Com Tam. I could see when the dish was brought down that he’d really meant it. Not since Christmas had I been confronted with so much meat. Tuan instructed me on the etiquette of exactly how to eat the meal. You might wonder why such instruction was needed, but despite the fact I was faced with multiple pork chops, there were no knives, and Tuan showed me how to eat them using only a spoon and fork, and once again, how to mix the chilli sauce with the rice and the accompanying carrot and potato soup.
One final ride took us back to Tan Son Nhat Airport where I bid goodbye to Tuan and thanked him for everything. I looked at my boarding pass: Ho Chi Minh to Bombay. It read. Not Mumbai but the city’s original name before 1995. I couldn’t believe it. I was really going!
Not long thereafter, I was watching as the city of Ho Chi Minh dropped away – a photon carpet – it looked like a hologram. A brightly lit space station. After what must have been the longest ascent I’ve ever experienced, the lights of Ho Chi Minh disappeared, the plane levelled itself and we flew through darkness.
Out of all the airlines I’ve flown with, Viet Jet must be most closely comparable to Ryanair. A 5 and a half hour flight across the Bay of Bengal, followed the width of the mid-Indus itself, and not a single free meal, not a single free snack thrown in. It was a good thing I’d just eaten a load of pork chops with potato and carrot soup.
The poor hospitality of the airline couldn’t dampen my excitement. An Indian couple sat next to me. They’d been holidaying in Bali and were in Ho Chi Minh for a layover. The guy told me he was from Kerala, a state in southern India where they speak Malayam – one of the 22 major languages of the country. He moved to Mumbai for work he told me. I asked him whether I should travel north or south from Mumbai. He told me to go south.
Some 5 hours later, light could be seen from the plane window. We were over the Arabian Sea and Mumbai was just in sight. The plane did an unusually sharp turn and we hurtled to the ground.
I walked speedily through Chhatrapati Shivaji Airport feeling elated. That elation was soon to shrink into bafflement, distaste and fatigue.
I exited the airport and withdrew some cash, marvelling at how beautiful the exterior was. But there was also a lot of military personnel, and I quickly realised that you were only allowed into the airport if you had a flight to catch. Huge queues formed around the place as soldiers stood guard at each entrance and exit. I wasn’t able to get back in for a sim card, so I walked off to the car park to find a taxi.
I was promised a price upfront. But as soon as I got in I was being quickly driven away. I ordered them to stop the car until I had a price. So, we stopped and I was told 1400 rupies. My hostel had told me I could expect to pay 400. ‘I think I’ll just walk,’ I said and opened the door to leave.
The taxi man exploded with anger. ‘Fine. Get out and walk! Get out of the car and fucking walk! You can’t walk. There’s nowhere to walk! Get out!’
I was already out and turned to take my bags.
‘Get back in the fucking car! How much? How much will you pay?’
I was so taken aback by his anger I didn’t want to get back in at all. But I also didn’t want to have to seek out another driver just to go through the same crap.
‘600’ I said.
‘600? 600?’ He exploded with anger again. ‘900 and that’s my final offer!’
‘Fine,’ I said and dropped back into the car. The sooner I got to my hostel, the better.
‘900 and pay now!’ He said, still raving mad.
I hadn’t even looked at my new currency. I opened my money bag and took out some notes, turning them over and examining them carefully. I handed him 1000 rupies.
Within seconds he’d flung them back in my face. ‘I said 900!’ He snapped. What was he talking about? I picked up the notes. Two 100 rupy bills. I’d given him the wrong notes. How did I make that mistake? Then I realised I hadn’t made any mistake. These weren’t the notes I’d given him. He was attempting to confuse me; trick me into parting with more money. I looked carefully up at him. ‘No. I gave you two five hundreds,’ I said.
There was a 1 second pause as we looked at each other. Then he let out a booming laugh. ‘Ahahahaha! Of course, sir!’ He shouted, and we shot off along the motorway.
I was revolted at the determination and viciousness to trick me out of my money, and cursed myself for not having expected as much. But I was determined to stay optimistic, and after a short while, I asked my driver how his day had been. He looked at me in the rear-view mirror but refused to answer. Well, screw you then, I thought bitterly.
The ancient car – which looked like a model from the nineties with no seat-belts whatsoever – bolted along the highway, and I looked nervously out the window at the rows of slums unraveling from the darkness…
Why have I come here?
