You Put The Load Right On Me

As I've arrived safely in Thailand, I can post this, and more about Laos, now. Having a hard time getting photos onto the blog too. Here's my story of leaving Vietnam and getting to Laos.

March 11, 2010
Hanoi to Vientiane

I decided I wanted to leave Vietnam earlier than planned the moment I got to Hanoi. Unfortunately, that was during a weekend and the Lao Aviation reservation offices were closed, as were those of my ticket broker in San Francisco. I foolishly left for Halong Bay (a wifi-free zone) minus the telephone number of either the airline or the ticket vendor. I returned to Hanoi on a Wednesday at about 5PM and learned that unlike the Vietnamese, who work every day of the week until all hours (the post offices are open until 11PM), the Laoations do not. 5PM and there was no answer at Lao Aviation. As it was 2 AM in San Fran with the time difference, I emailed my ticket broker and hoped to get out on Friday, a day ahead of schedule, and went to bed. I woke up Thursday morning to learn he had scheduled me on a flight out of Hanoi that afternoon. I'd planned to try and see Ho Chi Minh (his body lies in permanent state here, except when he's shipped off to Russia to be re-embalmed every few months) and then meet the gimp for dinner, but was happy to break those plans. I hit the post office to unload my Vietnam Rough Guide and send some post cards, had a final bowl of Pho, and caught a taxi for the airport.

When I got to the airport, things were not looking great. While my broker had emailed me a confirmation of the ticket change, the ladies at the counter could not find my reservation. My name was not on the e-ticket passenger manifest. She had my name, but no ticket #, in the computer system, and it was scheduled for Saturday (the original departure date) and was marked as a paper ticket. I tried to argue, but it seemed to be pointless. The “supervisor,” if you could call her that, had all the personality of a dirty dishcloth. She had no interest in helping me and also pretended not to speak English. They kept telling me my flight was on Saturday, and I kept telling them it had been changed. Needless to say, my temper was rising. No way was I spending 2 more nights in Hanoi. I was getting on that plane, no matter what. (Funny thing I've learned about a communist government: the people living under it do not question anything. It's not in their programming. E-ticket manifest says I'm not on the list, then I'm just not on the list.)

In the midst of the commotion (my voice rising, the 2 ladies at the counter basically ignoring me, even when I produced a ticket receipt for Lao Airlines complete with a bright red stamp that said “E TICKET RECEIPT” in big, bold letters), an American man looking to be in his mid to late '50s approached the counter and me. He was holding a pair of moustache trimming scissors and cuticle clippers. He asked to get his checked luggage back but it was too late. He turned to me and asked if I was going to Vientiane and if I would mind putting them in my checked luggage, with a joke about using them for terror purposes. His girlfriend did not want to lose them, so he told her he'd try to get another passenger to check them before tossing them in the trash. I very quickly weighed the options: I'm on the other side of the world, trying not to be a standoffish New Yorker, relying heavily on the kindness of strangers for advice and companionship, among other things. People have been pretty good to me, so a leap of faith and returned favor was due. Had I not been so frazzled, I might have told him to take a hike. He was about to be shit out of luck anyway, since the Lao Airlines ladies told me they could not help me. I raised my voice enough to draw attention, told them they were lazy bastards, and threatened to call the main reservations office in Laos. Lo and behold, as soon as I grabbed my bags and started to storm off, my reservation was miraculously found and my ticket issued. I took the guy's scissors, shoved them in the outside pocket of my bag and watched as it drifted off down the carousel, through the plastic sheets and out of sight. I immediately regretted my decision.

As I stepped into the immigration line (they have to check that you have not overstayed your visa, a painfully slow process), I was struck with a panic unlike I've ever felt before. Yes, he only gave me scissors and nail clippers. Yes, they would obviously be returned or confiscated by airport security if you tried to bring them in your carry on. Yes, the guy seemed legit as he asked for his bags back before asking me to help him. But I have watched too many episodes of Locked Up Abroad on the National Geographic Channel. I started to sweat and think about the possible consequences of my stupid decision. They were instruments that would obviously show up in an x-ray. The shady Vietnamese security forces would notice them as a tip off, and stuff my bag with heroin or black tar opium, the scissors would be the signal. One of two things would happen; I would be tackled by airport security in Hanoi, or I'd be allowed to fly to Vientiane and be thrown in a fetid Laoation prison upon arrival. My prospects were not looking good. I abandoned my place in the immigration line and ran back to the counter, begging to get my bag back (and also to try and spot the security cameras, that would serve as a record of my outburst and the hand over of the contraband, hoping the film would clear my good name. No smuggler would make a scene, this I convinced myself was in my favor). No such luck getting my bag back, but the woman at the ticket counter gave me the American's name and seat number (My sister has it. In case I run into any trouble – somebody call the embassy and report him!). I noted that security was not so swell here in Hanoi and got back in the immigration queue.

When you think you're a suspect, of anything, but in my case, of a potential frame, you notice more than you usually would. People pushing up on you from behind (did he just drop something into my bag?), people looking at you for longer than a split second, eye contact (which is discouraged in Asian countries), your breathing, whether you move the wrong way or look flushed, what you're going to say if things go bad. I got through security, and there was “Eddie,” waiting to introduce me to his Thai girlfriend and tell me that they were supposed to go to Bangkok but are avoiding it on account of the impending riots. (Was that good news or just bullshit conversation?) He offered advice on Laos, asked whether I liked Hanoi (on his 5th time here, he did not enjoy it at all), and was seemingly making the same conversation I've had with every other traveler I've come across. But I was calculating his every move. Thai girlfriend, good cover. Thai riots, better cover. Quick-dry performance clothes in shades of beige and khaki, salt and pepper hair and beard, long but neatly trimmed, typical travel look but potentially devoid of any hippie/expat-here-for-the-drugs-and-hookers look. I spent the duration of that flight sweating bullets, unable to read or listen to music, wondering whether the Lao government could be bough off to get me home, how long it would take for the jail water to make me sick, if they would feed me pig gruel, if I'd have to shave my head due to lice, whether I'd get rabies from a rat bite, and how long it would take for someone from the American embassy to visit me. Worst of all, would my family and friends think that I actually was smuggling drugs into a third world country? It was the longest 90 minutes of my life.

What followed, in contrast, was the quickest immigration experience I'll probably ever have. Visa on arrival was issued in about 2 minutes, passport stamped and luggage collected. I tore into my bag like a ravenous beast and found those scissors and cuticle clippers, handed them over to the girlfriend as if they were hot coals, and literally ran outside to find my hotel pick up. I guess the moral of the story is that people generally do not have bad motives, and that I am a little bit too paranoid, but fuck if I'll ever take anything from anyone in an airport EVER again. I'm at my swanky hotel drinking a giant Beer Lao and looking over my shoulder, still worried someone is coming to get me.