By Lucy

The heat and sun are unrelenting and merciless. It rained twice while I was in HCMC, downpours of less than half an hour, and other than that it was sunny. I’ve never craved AC more in my life.

And it twists my guts to know part of the pain is because I am maimed and crippled. Before the surgery changed me, the heat didn’t bother me that much. There wasn’t a struggle to stay hydrated. I wasn’t afraid of running out of water.

They do have Gatorade here, but it’s imported and expensive. The two local options are Eastroc, presumably a Vietnamese creation, and Pocari, a Japanese brand. Between the two of them, I prefer Pocari, but Eastroc is cheaper.

The city is dirty, too. My nose runs constantly from the pollution, and my snot is black. It’s like living at the mill.

It’s hard to remember I met Vlad less than 10 days ago. I try to plan out days where I don’t see him at all, to have some time to myself, but it’s so very tempting – not helped by the fact that I might not see him again. He fills a hole in my soul that I have ached in ever since I lost Rich…

I debated learning Russian, but Vlad doesn’t much want to continue speaking it – just going backwards, that. Still, we often get into discussions about the curiosities of our respective languages. I know Da is yes and Nyet is no, but he also teaches me “sha sha sha”, Russian slang that means “wait wait wait”. He has a tic of saying “this is normal” whenever I express incredulity about something Vietnamese. He also teaches me the gesture to tell the endless street vendors no; lit looks ike the “so-so” gesture, and it instantly dismisses them.

I feel like the next logical question is, “is it romantic”? Certainly everyone around us thinks so. To be sure, Vlad has little patience for most people who aren’t me. He requests hugs, and doesn’t mind when I lean my head on his shoulder, and pays for most of our food. But I haven’t detected any flirting. Is he not interested? It’s entirely possible. Is he interested and choosing not to express it? Also possible. He is extremely thoughtful and introspective, and I won’t deny that there are lots of reasons not to say anything.

It’s hard for me to untangle my feelings as well. I hunger for closeness and I do tend to find it in romantic entanglements, which many people will hasten to tell me isn’t healthy, but it’s not like I’m incapable of being alone. I just have a high sex drive and the two tend to become tangled. I feel no overwhelming attraction to Vlad, but I wouldn’t kick him out of bed either. And it’s not unusual for me to be on the fence about someone until I “test drive” them. For all my bluster, I was still debating if I should bother sleeping with Kyle even the same night it ended up happening.

This is really what I needed… someone to be close to, no strings attached. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?

Maybe we are good for each other.

Nhan continued to bother me for the rest of the week, which really hurt. I was looking forward to rekindling my connection with her, but I can’t if she’s screaming. Also, I forgot to mention because I was baffled by Vlad’s behaviour, but I did pay the hotel something. When I went to check out, they told me there was a balance of 900k and change, which is roughly half what the room cost for the three days. I did entertain the notion that they were hustling me and Lan had paid the entire amount, but she has not replied to me since I saw her on Sunday night, I have no way to confirm it. I paid the amount in cash and moved on.

Slow start Thursday. Only one touristy thing left to do; the war museum.

I invited Vlad and this time he showed up at the appointed time. We walked down and went inside.

It’s not a big museum. And if you know anything about the war or you’ve watched Full Metal Jacket (or Forrest Gump), there’s not much in here that will surprise you. Pictures like the My Lai massacre are displayed in all their bloody… um… detail. Agent Orange victims going into the present day (I was later surprised that Hopper from Stranger Things connects his daughter’s death to his Agent Orange exposure). One thing that people don’t know/ forget is that the country is still littered with unexploded bombs. Between 1975 and 2002, 40’000 people were killed by unexploded ordinance, and 60’000 more maimed. It’s even a plot point in Blood+; Mui lost her leg when her brother stepped on one (he died).

The museum is also a weird mix of pro and anti American propaganda. Partly to court them, partly because the status quo for the detente between North and South seems to be “let’s blame the Americans”. For what it’s worth, the Americans were technically winning the war when they withdrew; they never actually ‘lost’ a military engagement.

It’s a lot. Me and Vlad, draft-dodging cowards that we are, were both sucked into existential debates. We were both reminding ourselves about things that outrage us on a daily basis. Here we were, reading about a bloody and pointless war, and now there was at least two happening; Ukraine and Iran (not counting endless little skirmishes, like Pakistan-Afghanistan, and Thailand-Cambodia).

It was also an opportunity for him to practice his English, as he pointed out words on placards that he didn’t know so I could define them for him.

We walked back to my hostel, stopping to grab something cold to drink on the way. My drink did not survive the walk.

I had an unpleasant surprise when I checked my email. The boat operator asked me for another chunk of change, in cash, in addition to what I’d paid for the cruise. Which was especially funny, because the automatic message from Viator above it said “the operator will never ask for money in the message below!”.

Is that a lot of money? By itself, no. But in the context of what I had already paid for the cruise, it was too much. Also, the day before? No thanks! I’m not playing this game. I asked them for a cancellation and a refund.

Now to plan out the next few days… again.

Turns out, you can organize Mekong day tours for 20 bucks, and you can pay for a speedboat from Chau Doc to Phnom Penh by yourself. The price has recently been increased to over 1 million dong, however, and considering that’s the same as the cost for the bus from HCMC to Phnom Penh, minus having to get the bus to Chau Doc and stay there overnight, I surrendered that dream and just booked the bus on Sunday. The decision-making exhaustion is real.

Vlad was curious in trying the Mekong tour, though, so we looked at a few options and booked one. Which led to us chasing down the operator, because both he and I misunderstood who was buying the tickets for whom and we ended up with too many, and technically Vlad ended up buying them for both of us.

Whatever! I had replacement plans booked now.

The evening was quiet and sad. It was Luke’s 40th birthday. Would have been. We should be toasting and calling him an old man.

I cried myself to sleep.

Friday was unintentionally exciting.

I needed money. You can apply for an E-visa to Cambodia for 25 dollars online, but you need at least three business days to process and I didn’t have that time. I needed at least 40 American to apply at the border, and the bus company will handle the paperwork. One of the quirks of Cambodia is that they accept – nah, demand – dollars, instead of riels, which can be hard to get.

Me and Vlad got coffees (he’s always up for a walk) and then walked down to Western Union. We talked all the way about Mount Kinabalu. I just learned – stupid – that Kota Kinabalu is in the shadow of a mountaineering destination, famous because it’s easy to climb; no equipment required. Me and Vlad were bewitched by the idea of climbing it, but the finances weren’t lining up. You’re required to pay for a guide and a hotel stay, to the tune of 2-300 Canadian. Which is a lot for either of us. I offered to pay for his half, but he wasn’t having it.

He stayed outside as I went into Western Union. I was hoping to withdraw it direct, but she told me “cash only”.

“Crap.” I said, sinking down on a curb in the shade. “How much will that cost? Like 10$ to take out more dong, then whatever they charge me to exchange it…”

“I have American money.” Vlad says.

“What? Why?”

He shrugs. “Because I am homeless? And everywhere accepts it?”

“Don’t you have a bank account?”

“I have something… I can’t have a Russian bank account. They’re all frozen by sanctions.” He points out.

That’s true. Still… “I need more than 40. I need to pay for the hotel in cash as well.”

“Would 130 work?”

“Sha sha sha.” I say, making him smile. “I have to pay you back somehow.”

He shrugs. “I’m not sure you can transfer in to my account. It’s fine.”

My heart is wrenched in two. Gratitude at the kindness, guilt about accepting it. But my other option was to pay almost 20 dollars in fees…

“Alright.” I said finally.

We also walked down to his hostel, as mine was booked solid for Saturday night and I now needed a place to sleep. His hostel had a sign on the desk saying “out of beds”, but when I asked, the man at the desk glanced at Vlad and said, “For you, yes”. I think sometimes hostels say they are full not based on not physically having the beds, but on how busy housekeeping is.

I had to have my laundry done. Laundromats are hard to find; they usually offer laundry drop-off at your hostel, which is probably more expensive. Around 4, my laundry came back, sans the shopping bag I had sent it away from. Ah, they pressed it nicely and everything! I’m not fancy, but there is something about getting out of a shower and slipping into nicely pressed clothes…

He convinces me to walk halfway across town for some “amazing” pho. It was not amazing, but it was alright. We took a detour through a park he wanted to show me. We walked past a Buddhist pagoda, and when we head back to downtown, there’s some ceremony going on; a service. Vlad encourages me to go inside. Everyone has a book they are chanting from. I don’t know how to get one and I probably couldn’t read it even if I did. I sit cross-legged on the floor and wish I had my mala (I left my backpack in the hostel).

“I felt nothing.” He tells me, after the service is over and everyone starts to leave.

“You don’t have to feel something. It’s not for everyone.” I say.

He frowns. I know what the problem is. He’s not annoyed at not being a Buddhist; he’s annoyed that he doesn’t feel like a part of something. But that’s not something I can give him.

We’ve wandered around District One so many times it’s as familiar to me as Port Arthur, but there’s a desperate edge to it now. The clock keeps ticking. We will never be back here again, not like this.

He takes my hand automatically to cross the road – I have a habit of running for it, which I shouldn’t do. I barely register him grabbing my hand.

We see some news; there’s an oil tanker heading to Cuba, finally.

“What… what’s up with that, anyway?” I ask Vlad. “Back in the Cold War, you guys all stuck together. Now what? Putin isn’t helping Cuba or Vietnam.”

He shook his head. “That’s the lie, right? We’ll all help each other? Except we don’t.”

He convinces me to go to Mixue, a Chinese ice cream chain. I get a taro smoothie and he gets what is basically an affogato.

I don’t sleep well that night. My room was commandeered by 3 British girls who had never heard of respect. When I grumpily got out of bed to pack and leave in the morning, one of them said “We’re sorry” and I snapped back, “No you aren’t.”. She had no reply to that.

Walked down to Vlad’s hostel and threw my luggage on his bed. We grabbed a coffee and walked to the bus station.

The hustle is real. Even as we sat waiting for the bus, a driver tried to convince us to hire him to drive us around the city; even pointing out that there was 2 of us and we were obviously busy did not deter him.

Vlad insisted on taking a seat at the front of the bus, “I need leg room.” He pointed out.

Oh yeah, Vlad is tall. Like maybe taller than 6 feet. “Not a problem I have.” I say smugly.

“How did you sleep?”

“Not well.” I tell him about the British girls.

“I didn’t sleep well either. I shouldn’t have had that last coffee.” He admits sheepishly.

I pat his shoulder sympathetically. He’ll miss me, I know.

Our tour guide is named Viet. One curious tic of Vietnamese language… both “Viet” and “Nam” means man. The name comes from the merging of the two tribes in the Hanoi area; Lac Viet and Nam. To me, it’s no more odd than a woman named Donna (which means woman in Italian). He jokes that his father wanted 2 sons so he could name one Viet and one Nam, but he got three sisters instead (“my father tried real hard”).

He can also tell I’m Canadian, which is impressive when Canadians can’t tell. I think I made the mistake of letting out an “eh” within earshot. They hand out waterbottles to all of us, and Vlad hands me his; he never drinks water, just coffee.

The Mekong is one of biggest rivers in the world. It winds its way all the way from China, though Thailand, Laos and Cambodia. It’s home to the Mekong giant catfish, which can weigh more than 600 pounds and be more than 10 feet long, although they don’t often reach that size anymore. It was fought over for centuries; before the rise of Bangkok, this was the biggest port in this part of the world. Merchant vessel traversing the Silk Road, from China or from India, stopped here. It was verdant and fertile, producing fish and rice. The Champa had it, then the Khmer, and now the Vietnamese.

On the boat! First stop is ‘unicorn’ island, which is mis-named. It’s actually Kirin/ Quilin island, which has no direct translation, but I think most people have heard of a Kirin.

The guide points out the big trawlers to us. The river is brackish; the current reverses during high tide, even this far in. The trawlers wait for the current before moving; saves gas.

Here they make honey and rice wine. They give us a sample of “honey tea”, which is more honey than tea, not that I’m arguing. I do miss my usual ritual of chamomile and honey in the evening. They also give us some snacks of dried ginger and glazed bananas, and Vlad eats his ravenously.

“You skipped breakfast, didn’t you?” I laugh.

“Yes!”

“I love honey.” I say, trying hard to sip the tea and not chug it.

“Oh yeah? Me too. What’s your favourite kind?”

“I don’t know if you have it in Soviet Russia, but buckwheat.” I say, in a cartoonish Russian accent.

He grins and offers me a high five. It was the correct choice.

There’s a lady walking around with a python on her shoulders, offering it to tourists to pose with. The tour guide flees – he’s scared of snakes. I’ve held enough snakes in my life – Josh used to breed them – but Vlad has never tried, so I call the lady over. A rare smile.

Back on the boat! To Diamond island, because it is diamond-shaped.

Lunchtime! They give us a whole fish per table; rice, soup, springs rolls. We’re here for an hour. The guide tells us we can borrow the bikes for free, and there’s a paved path the length of the island.

I just grabbed a bike. Vlad takes forever, finding fault with all of them. “It’s a free bike, Vlad!” I giggle.

“They should be paying us to use these bikes.” He groans, finally selecting one.

We bike for about fifteen minutes. Then we encounter someone repairing the road, and decide to turn around and head back. Hit the bathroom before we leave.

I’m always the first one back to the boat. The guide’s English is good, so I chat with him a bit. Vlad’s back last.

“Every time we get back on the boat, Viet tells me ‘Lucy is on the boat’.” Vlad rolls his eyes.

I smile, “That’s because they think we’re dating.”

If he thinks anything of that, he doesn’t show it. He says nothing and his face is impassive.

To coconut island! They make coconut candy here. They show us how it’s made, then we get to try some fresh stuff. It’s basically just coconut meat, water, and rice flour, but it is interesting. No added sugar, basically as healthy as eating a coconut. I’d be interested in buying some, but they only have giant bags that I will not get through customs, so my interest evaporates.

They also have the little bottles of “medicinal” rice wine that has a cobra pickled in it. I convince Vlad to try a shot and run around telling everyone, which they find hilarious and he finds annoying. He shuts down a bit.

The coconut bowls are pretty as well. The guide says whatever they don’t eat from the coconut, they grind up and feed to the fish in the farms. Or the chickens. With glee, he jokingly tells us that they feed the chickens coconut, then kill and roast the chicken over a fire made of coconut husks. “Real coconut chicken!”

There’s also some fake versions of Tintin; “Tintin in Vietnam”. That’s not a real book, but I debate buying it purely out of amusement. Since Tintin was Belgian, he won’t have anything but racist things to say about French Indochina (later on in life, Herge realized how uncritical his comics were, and rewrote them, but Tintin in the Congo was too broken to save).

Back on the boat! They give us coconuts with straws, but the liquid has obviously been topped up; no coconut is full to the brim.

Last stop.

I forget the name of this island. The heat and the travel were starting to get to me. Here, they gave us a sample of the fruits they grow here. None of it was new to me; papaya, pomelo, mango, pineapple, dragonfruit. Then a local band serenades us with their handmade instruments, including a rendition of “Jingle Bells” that gets everyone grooving.

Last trip of the day is the coconut boats. We took a rickshaw to the dock, and then the boat trip would bring us back to the big boat.

Now. This point annoyed me and Vlad. The guide gave us a big speech about tipping the boat drivers. What? What did we pay for, if not for you to pay them?

Still, the trip was fun. Gliding down the river, under the palm fronds. The ferry man points out which hovel is his, to me.

Back on the boat, back to the bus.

There was one more stop for the day, a temple. I don’t think any of us really cared about the temple, to be honest; we were all hot and tired, and we were here for the boats.

Getting back to HCMC was a chore. There was an accident on the highway and it took ages to get passed. And then we still had to walk back to the hostel from the bus station. I ordered takeout on Grab on the way and it was waiting for me on the desk when I got there.

Vlad took off. He said he was hungry, but I could see the emotions in his eyes.

I ate dinner and officially checked into the hostel. My room is nicer than his… actually, it was nicer than my room at the other hostel. But there’s no common area or kitchen, just the lobby, and the bathroom is wretched, just a single stall. The shower is just a hose attached to the ceiling, so whenever someone showers, the entire bathroom is drenched.

Whatever, a bed is a bed. I settle in the lobby to watch Stranger Things. You can tell the budget increase kicked in for season 3… it’s gorier. I will say, one of the things I like about the show is the sound design, and I’m not just talking about the music choices (I approve of most, but I don’t enjoy “Running Up That Hill”). Everything is so visceral – no one puts down a mug without a bass note thudding through the speakers. With noise-cancelling headphones, it’s an out-of-body experience.

When Vlad comes back, he looks mildly surprised. He sits on the couch next to me. “I though you’d be in bed by now.”

“I am going, shortly. I just… I was debating waiting for you to get back. I know you’re all socialed out.” I say. “But I wanted to say goodnight.”

He nods. “I’m grateful for today. I never would have gone without you. I don’t…”

He pauses, and I know all the things he wants to say. That he doesn’t usually bond with or trust people. That he’ll miss me and he’s past the “squeeze all the time out of it that I can” sad phase and into the “just get it over with” angry phase.

“I know.” I say simply.

I head to bed.

Time to head out, today.

I get up. The old man who has lived at this hostel for ages is here. He talks a lot. I chat with him a bit and ask him where’s good for breakfast. I watch my show, eat breakfast, pack up. Vlad surfaces shortly before I head out.

We walk down to my former hostel. My shopping bag finally surfaced… not that it was essential, but it was good to have. Walk down to the bus stop. Check in and pay for my visa. Get a card to fill out.

Finally it’s time.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again.” I said.

“You’ll see me in Kota Kinabalu.” He says, smiling.

If I expected a big display of emotion, it wasn’t happening. He hugged me quickly and then left. I got on the bus.

It was a nice bus. Wifi; free water, croissant and coffee; charging ports, including for my laptop.

The wheels start rolling. I fight tears.

The first bit is pretty boring. All of this I’ve seen on the drive out to Tay Ninh.

The guide takes your cards and your passport to apply on your behalf.

The border makes me nervous. It’s a proper DMZ. You go in, get stamped out of Vietnam. Then they drove us across the zone to a mall type area, where we could buy lunch. I brought food with me, so I just ate in the hall and watched the birds fly by the window. Then we had to get stamped in to Cambodia.

They scan your thumbprints here as well.

They hand you your passport back with a card in it. Apparently if you try to leave without the card, they’ll fine you 10 USD, so don’t forget it.

Then we were back on the bus.

I’d made it to Cambodia.