Harassed in Hue

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My second stop on my tour through Vietnam was a bit of a disappointment and vaulted me full-speed into my quarter-life crisis. I was enjoying the tranquility of a cafe and biology book when Joshua brought his tourgroup into the same very cafe. Since I am a clandestine tourist of the same tour in the sense that I am staying at the hotel for free and doing solo-sightseeing on the same itinerary, it is fairly important to not appear to frequently before the "real" tourgroup. Just as they were sitting down, Joshua's phone rang, and was flung across the cafe to me with a quip of "W.H.O. Cambodia." It was indeed Dr. Massimo, my intended advisor for my internship at said institution.

His Italianized Inglese came crackling over the line. "Sofia, I have some bad news for you. Because of the tsunami wave, the office is having us focus all work around the relief efforts for an unspecified amount of time. Eventhough Cambodia was not hit, your internship has been postponed for a minimum of six months." I was instantly devastated. I felt like the most directionless bum in the world. The only plans for any specified period of time in my future life had just been snatched from my pocket book. I spent the entire day pacing around the old town of Hue, mulling over the possibilities. I could contact the nuns in Phnom Penh and see if there was anything to be done there. I could by my own cyclo and make my living pedalling around tourists in Vietnam. I could shave off my hair and become a buddhist nun, move to New Zealand and take to farming. The possibilities seemed much to endless and unsatisfactory as I roved the streets.

The constant harassing calls of motorbike taxis became increasingly aggravating. Unfortunately, there has been a grave miscalculation of supply and demand at the Vietnam Tourist Bureau, and far too many people have taken on the profession of moto-bike taxi driver. This means that anyone that is ambulatory and white has 3 stalkers at every intersection, and 5 stalkers on every one-block stretch. "Hello Miss, where you going?" is a popular pick-up line for drivers that I find particularly disquieting. Otherwise, you are subjected to a variety of claps, coos, waves, and the revving of imaginary motorbike handles from relentless taxistas. Seeking some solace and think-time, I headed for the riverside path, which is inaccessible to vehicles. I walked for a while, then sat on a bench to gaze at the river as I listened to my cassette tapes on Buddhism. Suddenly, there was the moto-bike driver from hell on my left. How could he be so persistent to bother someone nowhere near a road? I glanced over at the helmeted driver who was grinning, cock in hand, as he stood there next to me. I sprang to my feet, whipped my trusty from my thong-strap, and gave him a quick flash of my switch knife. He promptly buggered off, and I paced the remaining stretch of the river hurriedly.

Right, being a cyclo driver was definitely out-- scratched off the mental list of career options immediately. I might not have a profession, but I would certainly need more suitable colleagues.

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