Arriving In Hanoi
I’m in a period of immense growth and transition… or at least that is what my astrologer in Thailand told me a few weeks ago.
“You should probably keep travelling,” He laughed at me. I think he could sense that at the time I was feeling more wearier than usual about the backpacking lifestyle that has become my reality over the last year.
The next day I boarded a flight to Hanoi.
Vietnam wasn’t really on my travel itinerary for this trip, but I had to leave the safe cocoon and community I had created in Chiang Mai and reset the clock on my Thai visa, and Hanoi was the cheapest destination outside of the country. I didn’t know what I wanted to do in Vietnam beyond driving the Ha Giang Loop (recommended to me by Overly Opinionated Traveller) and hanging out in Hanoi with my new friend Sam - we had coincidentally booked the same flight from CNX to HAN.
As the immigration offer slammed the heavy rubber stamp down onto a new passport page, it suddenly dawned on me: I have no idea what the fuck I’m actually doing here. It has become a common practice now for me to do little research about a new place before I visit it. All I tend to Google is how to safely get to and from the airport for the cheapest price without getting scammed, and book at least one night in a hostel that looks social, but not the kind where my roommates are likely to be fucking loudly in the shower while the rest of us pretend we all cant hear them. I need to invest in some noise-cancelling headphones.
The cheapest way to get into the city from Noi Bai Airport is by bus. But it is not the safest option. That is certain. I was warned about the bus drivers in Vietnam by a friend earlier in the week, but staying true to my star sign (I’m a Sagittarius, can you tell?) I had to experience it for myself before I could make an accurate judgement on the matter. This mindset has gotten me into a few good pickles over the years.
The busses are the definition of rickety. They creak, groan and the doors sometimes get jammed. The roads are littered with potholes and traffic lanes mean nothing. This means that the top-heavy load could technically topple over at any moment as it swerves in and out between scooters, cars and large gaping potholes in the road. A man in a puffy ski jacket (it was 26 degrees C outside…) asked us for our bus fare. It was 26 pence.
The seats were dusty. In fact, the whole inside of the bus was covered in fine powder, and as I was gripping one of those dangling handles from the ceiling (it definitely wouldn’t support my weight in an emergency) the subtle waft of vomit snuck into my nostrils. I realised I was standing next to a watery puddle of regurgitated ‘cooked’ mincemeat.
Side note: I’m writing this approximately 3 weeks later and I can still remember this smell and image. It was that bad.
I’m not really sure what to compare the city too, as I’ve never been somewhere quite like it before. I guess it’s kinda like getting slapped in the face by your grandmother; unexpected, confusing but kinda funny.
There are sidewalks, but you don’t use them for walking on. Instead, shops spill out onto the pavements, restaurants don’t offer seating inside, but rather on colourful tiny chairs and tables that look like they’re made for children out on the street, and scooters are precariously left all over the place. The smog is so thick you can taste the air.
Why the fuck did I think it was a good idea to leave my hand sanitiser in Thailand?
