The First Seventy Years: 136 - Good Bye Vietnam
...Enjoying my last breakfast in the country I moved all my baggage into the hotel foyer to await the arrival of the taxi. Spot on 8 am my appointed driver presented himself. Helpful to the n'th degree everything was carried outside prior to loading. As I followed him through the hotel entrance I immediately realised that I was about to move into 'choppy waters'...
Eric Biddulph faced a few problems when it came time to say goodbye to Vietnam.
Eric’s book The First Seventy Years can be obtained for £10 by contacting http://mary@bike2.wanadoo.co.uk or telephoning 01484-658175.
All the cash raised by the book goes to a water aid project in Malawi.
A boat trip on the Mekong River and around the delta waterways was a trip worth experiencing. It made me realise how difficult it would have been to intercept any insurgents, particularly at night. Coconuts grow there in abundance and a factory processes them to produce candy bars. Honey is collected from bee hives in a nearby location.
The return trip to Ho Chi Minh City was no less nerve-racking than the ride out and it was with some relief that I disembarked from the bus. My penultimate day was partially spent getting a box made for my bike for the long flight to New Zealand via Hong Kong. A cyclo-car hovered around the premises whilst the box was being cut to size. As soon as it was finished its owner swooped in to nail a commitment to pedal me back to my hotel together with my boxed bike.
Never far from the hotel entrance were taxi drivers hoping to entice the many overseas tourists into their car; no orderly queuing here. I negotiated a price with one driver with an estate car knowing that a saloon would not be able to take the box. I was at pains to get him to understand that it was vital that he picked me up at 8 am the next morning in this vehicle and this vehicle only. Assuring me that there would be no problem I duly put the matter out of my mind and set about making the most of my remaining time in the country.
Enjoying my last breakfast in the country I moved all my baggage into the hotel foyer to await the arrival of the taxi. Spot on 8 am my appointed driver presented himself. Helpful to the n'th degree everything was carried outside prior to loading. As I followed him through the hotel entrance I immediately realised that I was about to move into 'choppy waters'.
Instead of the car of yesterday, a small saloon with an equally small boot stood in hopeful anticipation of becoming an acceptable surrogate for its somewhat larger brother. "Where's the other car" I yelled. A shake of the head said it all. Despite an attempt to force the box into the boot, at least sufficiently for it to remain on board without falling out, was all in vain.
Not one to give up a good little earner, the driver made a valiant effort to slide the box on to the back seat. Alas, it was all to no avail. My driver began to sense defeat. A two-stroke three wheeler truck appeared as if from nowhere. Its driver realised he was going to be my salvation. Although not an ideal method of travel, the box was successfully placed on the seat beside me in an upright position; my other baggage was split between the two motorcyclists who were to accompany us on the 25 Km journey to the airport. After some 20 Km we stopped. I was told that the airport authorities did not allow cyclos within its perimeter. My baggage in the custody of one of the two motorcyclists was partially transferred to the other.
What he could not carry on the petrol tank or on his back was given to me to hold. I was instructed to get on the pillion seat and sit as close to the rider as was humanly possible. My driver meanwhile positioned himself so that he was sitting partially on the petrol tank. The space behind me; the unoccupied area of the pillion seat was quickly filled with the bike box. It became immediately clear to me that I was expected to balance the box by means of extending my arms behind me in a position which suggested I might be anticipating the clamping of handcuffs upon my already weary writs. In this posture and with the other motorcyclist alongside I arrived at the departure lounge. Four wheels had brought me here but they were not in the format I had envisaged a mere eighteen hours earlier. So it was not a case of a cheery "Good Morning Vietnam" as in the film of that name more an aching "Good Bye Vietnam."
I had a few hours to kill in Hong Kong. I took the opportunity to catch the rapid transit fully automated light railway which links the new airport by a series of small islands, viaducts and tunnels to the central area.
One massive shopping area characterised by the presence of hundreds of small stalls with major Western names dominating the more fashionable streets. Trams and double-deck buses dominate the available road space. The bus drivers all wear white gloves and are firmly 'belted up'. Clearly a very prosperous city, one could not help but observe the cramped living space of its citizens.
The stopover was a hiatus between two nations; one a country seeking to improve the lives of its people; the other enjoying one of the highest standards of living in the world.
