Panic on the Streets of Hanoi

The following is my account of the scariest moment of our travels. It came at a time when we were travel-weary and trusting, just wanting to get to the next point in our journey.

The day had been a long one, starting with an early wake-up call on Monkey Island. We’d been roused early just to wait on boats and harbors all day long. The disorganization of our tour was beyond ridiculous, and Chris was taking ardent notes to post online to warn other travelers. Especially stressed by this misadventure was our tour guide who was openly announcing that he was quitting this company to start his own business. Despite our early morning departure, the van to take us back to Hanoi was late and we risked missing our sleeper bus to Laos (arranged by the same travel company). Our sleeper bus was to leave at 5:00, and yet our van arrived in Hanoi at 5:15. We were assured by the travel company that we would get on that bus, though we had to wait at a cafe a few blocks down. In another case of hurrying to wait, we sat at that empty cafe for over an hour with no word on when our ride would appear. It was getting dark when two young Vietnamese guys pulled their motorbikes up to the cafe. Their English was limited, but somehow we got the impression they would take us to the sleeper bus. This wasn't too unusual—buses for long-distance journeys usually had their terminals on the outskirts of the city. This was our first experience with motorbikes though. I wish I had known ahead of time, as I was dressed in a skirt and flip flops. Still, I figured it was a short trip to the bus station. Our rucksacks were secured and we tentatively strapped on our helmets and held onto our drivers as we took off.

It was a real adrenaline rush at first as we pulled into traffic. Not because of the speed, because traffic was pretty much at a standstill on the highway around the lake. It was rush hour on steroids; cars, trucks and motorbikes were packed so tightly my driver actually had to use his hands to push past vehicles. I felt incredibly vulnerable in my flip flops, car bumpers coming within inches of my ankles. It was exciting, but nerve-wracking. Thank goodness Chris was right along with me in traffic. We couldn't talk over the cacophony, but we smiled at each other reassuringly. It did seem like an adventure, as there would be a break in traffic and our motorbikes would shoot forward. Because we couldn't communicate with our drivers, we didn't know what was going on. Why were we going around the lake in circles? Perhaps we couldn't get over to our exit. The two drivers shouted to each other when we stopped, and they seemed to be formulating a plan.

At some point, my driver pulled off the highway. This was somewhat of a relief, as we were no longer prisoners of the traffic jam. Freed from the vise of madness, we whizzed down a dark street. Chris was no longer beside me on this adventure. In fact, we had gotten separated in the traffic jam. I continually looked behind us, but Chris and his motorbike were nowhere in sight. This was disconcerting, especially now that we were entering questionable neighborhoods. Gone were the upscale restaurants and shops; gone was the collective safety of the hub. We were now making our way through industrial areas and slums.

For the first time, fear gripped my heart. What if this situation was not what it appeared to be? We had only hopped on the back of these motorbikes because we figured they were our rides to the bus. Had we been too trusting?

We entered neighborhoods which were dark and quiet. It seemed to me that we should have stopped and waited for Chris and his driver. Or perhaps they were ahead of us and we were racing to catch up. It was hard to tell because I couldn't communicate with the driver. I had no phone, no way of contacting Chris to see where he was or ask what his situation was. I was afraid for myself. I imagined my driver pulling into one of those dark, abandoned parking lots. Scenarios played through my head—bad men with guns, a windowless van to haul me away to the countryside away from embassies and international help. I imagined myself a victim of the white slave trade, sold to pirates or drug dealers, or whoever fancies 30-something-year-old women.

I then thought of Chris. What were they doing with him? Had they mugged him? After all, he was carrying all of our money. Had they beaten him up and dumped him in a gutter? I felt this was a much more realistic scenario than me being sold into white slavery. How would I find him again? The reality of being in a completely foreign country washed over me in waves of horror. We had been coddled as tourists in Asia, relying on an English-speaking tourist industry. What the hell would we do if we found ourselves in real Vietnam without a word of the language to get us by? I didn't even know the word for “help.” It suddenly seemed stupid that the only words I had learned in Vietnamese were food-related.

We had been on the road for what seemed forever. Surely if there was a bus to catch, we had missed it by that time. Still, we rode on. Every time my time my driver slowed, I thought, "This is it. This is where I get raped and murdered." But we made our way out of the slums and onto a large highway. This could have been a relief, but my anxiety only increased as I realized we were heading out of the city.

This couldn't have been right. Bus stations were never this far out of town. As we waited at a light, and were surrounded by other vehicles, a thought occurred to me. Should I scream? Should I jump off the motorbike? Not that I'm an expert—but doesn't there come a time before each rape or murder where the victim has a choice to save themselves? Isn't it usually confusion which stops them from seeking help, by not understanding the situation? Well, I certainly didn't understand the situation. Either we were going to a bus terminal, or I was being taken into the country to meet a fate worse than death.

I shouted in the driver's ear, "Where's my husband?" "Not far," was all he said, which in Asia can mean anything.

We sped down the highway into the night. All I wanted to do was to catch a glimpse of Chris, to make sure he was alright. Even if they hadn't mugged and beaten him up, there was still the chance he’d been in an accident. How would I know? Our unpreparedness had left us both helpless.

My mind was racing with scenarios. After a good 45 minutes fraught with anxiety and worry, street lights illuminated a row of buses on the side of the highway. I can't tell you the relief I felt. Not only buses, but tourists. I was safe.

Chris was nowhere to be found, so my anxiety wasn't completely alleviated. It was a good ten minutes or so before his driver pulled up. His eyes were as wild as my own, communicating his worry. He also had entertained all kinds of scenarios in his head. We clung to each other appreciatively, having learned an important lesson. Always ask questions ahead of time and always, always be prepared for the unexpected.

This was the most harrowing experience in all of our travels. I suppose this is because we got separated. Everything we’d been doing, we’d done it together as a team. Even if one of us had ventured off, we knew where the other person was at all times. Uncertainty in a foreign place is terrifying. We were grateful that nothing underhanded and shady transpired on this leg of the journey. We would live to see another day on our loop around Southeast Asia—even if that day was to be spent on a Vietnamese sleeper bus.