Bitch-Slapped in Hoi An

---

The first day of kindergarten. Swimming lessons. Mascot Camp. Many a New Year’s Eve. All of these events were prefaced by great anticipation and high expectations, but in the end, I wondered if I would have been better off if I’d just stayed home.

Yes, I know it’s about the journey and not the destination. Lines (lives) are more interesting, dynamic and important than any given point (event) contained within them. Subscriptions to these proverbs skyrocket when the world is rife with disappointment. These terms can hardly be applied to a leisurely vacation, but some truth in these words was realized as we traveled to Hoi An.

We took the afternoon bus from Hue and looked forward to the relatively short three-hour jaunt south. Everyone insisted we hit Hoi An on our journey through Vietnam; the history, the people and all of the great bargains couldn’t be missed.

Our bus stopped in front of its preferred hotel a few kilometers short of town. The doors swung open and in came a stream of hard-hitting salesmen insisting we stay at their inn. Half of the bus succumbed to the high-pressure sales, but the rest of us managed to fend them off and finally the bus moved on. We sat at the next hotel stop for a few minutes when Justin suggested we get off and walk the rest of the way to town. As we attempted to disembark, an unfamiliar and unfriendly face barred our exit. His position was beyond verbal as he firmly grasped a handhold on either side of the door. His words and body language were all negative - nots, no’s and headshakes affirmed his position. I returned to our seats while Justin sat up front. Confusion morphed into irritation and soon outright anger. Justin rose to confront the man again at which point he supplemented his broken English with words like passports and police. Justin and his captor stood in the stairwell locked in icy glares. He finally looked to the bus driver for explanation or support, but the driver wouldn’t look Justin in the eye, simply nodding his head in resigned agreement with the enemy.

There is no greater motivation for doing something than someone telling you that you can’t, especially with regard to one’s freedom. Having watched the confrontation, the rest of the passengers were equally eager to get off the bus and as soon as the driver stopped once more, albeit a dark and uninviting alley, everyone rose from their seats and charged for the exit.

Fired up but happy to be free, we invented a scenario that the driver had illegally parked to accommodate a couple of passengers with hotel reservations and was in danger of getting a ticket. The evidence was weak, but it was all that could soothe Justin’s anger at the time.

We thought we would leisurely walk the streets, both an opportunity to stretch our legs and find a hotel room with a nice balcony suitable for reading and writing. This was not to be. A pair of men on motorbikes shadowed us as we walked, insisting we go with them to their hotels. Eventually we gave in and after a couple of stops settled for a hotel in our price range. No balcony (or window for that matter), but we now had a place to call home.

We were not going to be deterred by our rough start. After dropping off our bags, we went right back out there to explore the city. We soon put the pieces together: Hoi An was in the peak of its tourist season, a time when locals make the majority of their living. They were the predators, we were the prey.

To be fair, if we had a lot of money and an affinity for shopping, we could have lived out our wildest dreams in Hoi An. Tailored clothing is their mainstay and for a very reasonable price, you can walk away with a brand-new custom-made wardrobe. Dozens and dozens of tailors and cobblers line the streets, interrupted only by the occasional art gallery or restaurant.

The next day we rented bicycles and pedaled our way to the South China Sea. Just short of the beach, we were stopped by a man who told us we had to park our bikes in a tented area - for a fee, of course. Walking the remaining block, we were propositioned to buy, buy, buy. Drinks, seafood, trinkets, postcards - you name it, they wanted to sell it to us. We did eventually buy a bottle of water from a friendly old man after he and Justin bonded and swapped stories of their missing digits.

We walked along the beach and settled in a remote area we thought might be safe from peddlers. Ten peaceful minutes went by before a woman approached with her basket of goods. She pushed and pushed and although we knew she was just trying to make a living, oh, how we wanted to be left alone with the ocean for just 10 more minutes.

After pedaling back into town, we crossed the bridge into a non-touristy section of the city. Justin saw a barbershop and as he parted with his locks, I stood outside to document the event with our digital camera. As I snapped some shots, an old woman approached, smiling and pointing at the camera. We’ve found in our travels that locals are intrigued by the digital camera and love to see their portraits, even the nickel-sized version the camera affords. I captured a few images and proceeded to share them with her. Soon a pair of young boys came up and we played the digital camera game as well.

Normally at the end of the game, everyone smiles and goes their separate ways. This time they did not. They inched closer. I looked in my backpack hoping to appease them with some sort of snack or knick-knack, but I came up with nothing. I shrugged and smiled, but they didn’t back down. “Money,” the boys finally spouted, holding out their hands. The old woman followed suit. I had no money on me and didn’t want to encourage begging, so I shrugged and smiled once more. The boys persisted, but the woman soon realized I was a lost cause. Before leaving, she wagged her finger, insulted me in Vietnamese, and gave me two good whacks on my thigh. Bitch-slapped by an 80-year-old woman - I had reached a new low. Justin thought it was a riot, but I was ready to leave this town far behind in both miles and memory.

The next bus out of town didn’t leave until the following evening. We checked out of our hotel the next morning and thought we’d get some cash to replenish our dwindling dong. I reached for my ATM card and had a sinking feeling that it was gone. Losing your debit card at home can be a pain, but losing it thousands of miles away magnifies the inconvenience. Where was it? Did I forget it somewhere? Was it stolen? They told us to check our valuables at the front desk - why didn’t I do that? Why didn’t we bring more travelers’ checks? Credit cards and Western Union were options, but processing fees and outrageous interest rates danced in my head, still detached from any proactive moves.

After retracing our steps, we decided I probably left it in the ATM machine the last time we got cash. Checking our balance online and seeing no strange charges, we knew we got lucky. After a quick call to cancel the card and a trip to the bank to cash in our few remaining travelers’ checks, we decided to scope out a bench by the river and read the afternoon away.

No sooner had we settled into our bench when a man appeared before us in his rowboat. With one leg and one oar, his means of propulsion were severely diminished, but not his belief in the free enterprise system. We felt bad. All he wanted was a few lousy bucks to row us to the bridge and back, but by this time we had put up a wall.

Usually in these circumstances we have a system where one of us will entertain the salesman while the other plans the getaway. This time, Justin took the former role and I was suppose to take on the latter, but something inside me snapped. I mentally checked out, ignoring the man, ignoring Justin, ignoring the entire city. As Justin fully engaged in conversation and offered the guy Oreos, I just sat there. Quickly running out of conversation and cookies, Justin prompted me with, “Hey, you ready to go?” I didn’t respond. “Hey, how about we get out of here?” he asked again as he began packing our books. Still nothing. I came to when I saw him get off the bench and start walking away.

He led me to another bench, this one safely nestled among construction debris and a partially concealed 10-foot mound of dirt. Peace at last. Not even may bladder could coax me from this refuge. I squatted by the river several times, all semblance of modesty washed away.

We walked back to our hotel and waited on the steps for the bus to take us away. In a fitting farewell, our 10-minute wait turned into an aural assault via loudspeaker from the school across the street. We cupped our ears to block out the noise from the very loud, important and repetitive message they saw fit to broadcast to the entire block.

In retrospect, they were probably announcing the discovery of our ATM card.

---

Photos

The Culprit
Looks can be deceiving

The Haircut
Justin losing his locks

The Sea
Preparing for a dip in the South China Sea