Alright, faithful readers, strap in for the second installment of my "Great Escape to China." As you know, I was bracing myself for a full-on, multi-round brawl with the U.S. State Department. The website had set the stage for an epic battle of wills, warning me that without the correct, computer-generated, non-existent form and a U.S. credit card I haven't owned in a decade, I would be publicly shamed and banished from the Embassy grounds.
Alright, settle in, because the adventure has officially taken a turn from "Leisurely Exploring" to "Existential Mid-Life Crisis and Bureaucratic Paperwork." You’ve read my ramblings about travel woes, but this is different. This is a living-abroad series. My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to relocate myself from the delightful chaos of Hanoi, Vietnam, to the… well, the slightly-more-profitable chaos of Nanning, China. Why? Because while Vietnam is a gorgeous place to be, my wallet is starting to look suspiciously thin.
Well, picking up where we left off in my last whinge – Turns out, I did manage to drag myself out of bed for the morning alms ceremony. And honestly? Good thing I did, for a couple of reasons. Firstly, karma points, maybe? Secondly, and more relevantly, Mother Nature decided to give Luang Prabang a good soaking, courtesy of Typhoon Wipha, which, after terrorizing Hanoi, apparently decided to pay Laos a visit.
Well, my final 24 hours in the land of serene temples and saffron-robed monks (at least, that's what the postcards promised) have come and gone. Did I suddenly stumble upon a hidden, authentic gem untouched by the relentless tourist tsunami? Did I have a profound cultural experience that made my soul sing? Reader, you already know the answer.
It's 3:20 am here, and I'm currently experiencing the unique joy of writing this from a sleeper bus hurtling (and I use that term loosely – more like lurching) towards Dien Bien Phu. Now, I'm no stranger to the questionable delights of Southeast Asian sleeper buses. It's a bit of a gamble, really. Sometimes you're pleasantly surprised, other times you feel like you've signed up for a low-budget torture simulator on wheels.
This particular adventure started with a glimmer of hope. The bus boasted cubicles! Roomy, private cubicles, according to the website that, despite its tourist-baiting name, seemed to have delivered an all-local clientele. Score one for unexpected authenticity, right? Wrong. Turns out, in the grand design of sleeper buses, cubicles are less "private oasis" and more "personal motion sickness accelerator."
See, the beauty (and by beauty, I mean only slightly less awful feature) of the standard reclined seats on these buses is that they somewhat strap you in. You're confined, yes, but the side-to-side, to-and-fro motion is at least partially mitigated. In these fancy cubicles, however, you're free! Free to be tossed around like a sock in a washing machine. The bus lurches, you lurch. It sways, you sway. The combined motion is a recipe for a truly spectacular wave of nausea.
And if my own churning stomach wasn't enough, I'm currently serenaded by the lovely sounds of a small child nearby who, about twenty minutes into our journey, decided to re-enact the entirety of their last week's meals in reverse. Hours of dry heaving. Just delightful. On a tourist bus, you might escape this particular brand of auditory unpleasantness, although then you'd have to contend with the other tourists. Swings and roundabouts, I suppose.
So, here I sit, somewhere in the pre-dawn darkness of northern Vietnam, feeling like I've spent the last few hours in a poorly maintained carnival ride. Sleeper buses: a constant reminder that the "adventure" in travel often translates to "mild to severe discomfort." Send ginger ale and a strong dose of denial. I have a feeling this is going to be a long
ride.
