Tired of biking on traffic-choked highways, I opted to bus the leg from Cantho to Saigon. I hoped for a tranquil ride, forgetting the universal truism that buses are a microcosm of life on the street. And that I would be a captive audience.
At every ferry crossing, waypoint, and gas station, vendors thronged onto the bus. A file of conical hats bobbed up and down the aisle. As the only Westerner aboard, I made a ripe target.
One woman thrust a plate of barbecued chicken under my nose. I smiled politely and gestured to the sandwich I had tucked in my lap. She stuck out her tongue in disgust.
This sort of disparagement is a common sales tactic in Vietnam. When I first crossed the border, one tour guide tried to ingratiate himself by telling me how awful Cambodia is. You don’t have to worry about crime in Vietnam, he assured me, but they’ll cut your throat in Cambodia. This was nonsense on both counts, and he sensed that I was unimpressed. Gesturing at the mud on my bike, he wrinkled his nose and spat the word “Cambodia!”, as though Ho Chi Minh’s first act after the fall of Saigon was the banishment of all dirt from Vietnam.
Eventually Chicken Lady moved on. An eight-year-old girl tried me next. She shoved a bottle of water in my face and quoted an outrageous price. I waved her off.
She pantomimed taking a drink from the bottle and thrust it back at me, demonstrating just one of the fantastic uses to which I could put her water. The bottle hovered. No amount of vigorous head-shaking could dislodge it. A minute passed. Another minute.
Finally I took the bottle from her hand and tossed it onto the seat across the aisle. The girl’s mouth dropped open in stunned delight. This was war, and like Americans before me, I was to learn that the Vietnamese fight hard and to the finish.
The bottle reappeared in front of me, this time six inches from my nose. I tried reading my book. I tried gazing out the window. Everywhere I looked, the bottle faithfully followed.
Out of spite, I bought some water from another vendor. This earned me a hard slap. Fed up, I grabbed the bottle and held it out the bus window. The girl drew back her fist and smiled brightly.
I considered my odds. I had about 70 pounds and two feet on her. Assuming she didn’t take me out with the first punch, we were fairly well-matched. But the crowd was the wildcard. Although the Vietnamese had so far shown me hospitality, I knew the girl might unfairly use the fact that she was an adorable street waif to rally others to her side.
I handed back the bottle. Victorious, the girl gave me a sharp pinch and flitted away.
