I really don’t like packaged tours, so I signed onto a 3-day boat tour with considerable reluctance. I expected a lot of crowds, delays, and trudging around to sights I really didn’t care to see. Unfortunately, I was exactly right.
Halong Bay is Vietnam’s biggest tourist draw — a calm, wide bay surrounded by ragged limestone islands that jut out of the water. I had planned on finding a hotel on Cat Ba Island and arranging day trips into the bay from there. While it’s low season throughout most of Vietnam, it’s high season for Halong Bay and every hotel I called was booked full. If I was going to see it –and everyone I’d met said I just had to– I was going to have to book a tour.
The cheap tour was $29, but I’d been warned to avoid the cheapies. “You get what you pay for,” seemed to be the going advice. For $59 (plus a $12 upgrade for a single room), I’d get to spend a full day and night on a Imperial junk boat, hike in a national park, visit a cave, kayak around Monkey Island, and eat seafood. I was tired of the noise and chaos of Hanoi and wanted nothing more than to sit on a boat and watch the scenery roll by.
Even the tours were full for a couple of days — a typhoon had rolled through over the weekend and bookings were backed up. I had time to kill, waiting on my Chinese visa, so I wandered around Hanoi for a couple more days and left Wednesday morning on the tour.
As we left Hanoi, our tour guide, Huong, introduced himself in a burst of nervous, stuttering pidgin-English.
Our group was a fairly small one: a Vietnamese family of five, an English couple, two Dutch women, and two French couples. As we left Hanoi, our tour guide, Huong, introduced himself in a burst of nervous, stuttering pidgin-English. He had that classic bullshitter’s smile and I knew instantly that he’d tell you anything you wanted to hear. Unfortunately, I was right again.
He proceeded to explain that there was a change in plans: instead of spending the first night on the boat, we’d be sleeping in a hotel on Cat Ba. We’d sleep on the boat the following night. This didn’t bother me too much, as it just seemed like a case of the Asian standard, “same same same, but different”.
One of the Frenchmen went absolutely ballistic about the news, however, haranguing the guide about this not being what was promised and the tour company being a bunch of cheats. I couldn’t understand why he was so mad, but learned later that this was his second tour — his first had been interrupted by the typhoon and he never got his night on the boat.
Everyone else took it in stride and four hours later, we arrived in Halong City, the base for most trips into the bay. We were then force-marched onto a large boat filled with dining tables. I’d got into a conversation with Mark and Jo, the English couple — they were charming and funny and were wrapping up a seven-month trip, heading home on Saturday, via Bangkok. They, too, were looking forward to some quiet time lounging on the boat.
The three of us were sitting at a table when the guide forced us to split up. The meals were served family-style and they didn’t want to prepare food for a fourth table. Mark and Jo joined the Dutch women, Charlotte and Annabeth — I was stuck at the fuming French table. They spoke no English (other than the angry guy, who I’d named Sulky), so my part of the conversation consisted of saying “merci” when someone passed a plate.
As we ate, the boat headed into the bay at a good pace. I finished my bland meal quickly and climbed up to the top deck to check out the view. The bay is just as lovely as advertised, though it was overcast and dark rain clouds were gathering on the horizon to the west. I could see at least 20-30 boats like ours nearby — the tour industry here is huge. I would guess that there are nearly 100 tour boats on the bay at any one time.
“You like ladies? You come with me to massage parlor. We meet many nice ladies.”
I was the only person up top for awhile, then Huong joined me, explaining that I would have a good time in Cat Ba. “Big party town,” he explained. “You like ladies? You come with me to massage parlor. We meet many nice ladies.” When I told him I didn’t really like massage parlors, he backtracked, explaining that he had a bad back and the massage was good for his health.
Thirty minutes later, we docked to tour the Hang Sung Sot Cave. I wasn’t terribly excited about the idea, but let myself be herded along with the others. The cave was hot, humid, and packed with over a hundred other tourists. Three large chambers were full of stalactites and other rock formations lit up with colored lights — they even had a fountain in the back that looked like a lawn sprinkler. All it lacked was a disco ball.
Huong played his role, singling out various rocks with a laser pointer and explaining in his terrible English that each was a dragon or a Buddha or such. He showed us a small rock with a squiggling line through the middle and explained that it was a “man and woman copulating”. I have a dirty mind and even I couldn’t see that.
A large rock that looked like a cupcake was a “fairy’s breast” and the grooves beneath it were blood. “So, you’re saying it’s a bloody fairy boob?” I asked. “Yes, exactly!”
Drenched in sweat and bored, we finally left the cave and returned to the crowded dock, where the French couple sat waiting — they’d seen this all the last time. The boat pulled back into the bay and we enjoyed a couple hours of touring around, passing close to the shear limestone cliffs and watching hawks soar above the peaks, hunting. Everyone had their cameras out and were clicking away. Everyone but the French couple, that is — they’d seen this too, and refused to enjoy it a second time.
The storm came closer and closer, finally catching us as we docked on Cat Ba to board our bus to the hotel. The rain was heavy and blowing sideways, blanketing us in heavy fog. It looked like we’d be waiting awhile, so Mark and I ordered over-priced beers to pass the time. When the rain let up, we headed to the bus and another tour group boarded our boat — they’d be sleeping on the bay tonight.
We checked into the three-star Sunflower Hotel and were told to meet downstairs for dinner at seven. It was still drizzling out, so I enjoyed the AC in my room and caught up on email. Dinner was the same bland affair — not too bad to eat, but nothing that you’d seek out again. I got stuck sitting across from a chattering Kiwi from another group — he was so jittery, he nearly vibrated. His leg constantly jiggled, shaking the table, and he wouldn’t shut up. In a club I’d have assumed he was coked to the gills.
Huong had recommended a bar called the Blue Note, but as the Dutch girls, Mark, Jo, and I gathered to leave, I suggested we find something on our own. I really didn’t want to deal with Mr. Jiggly or the tour guide anymore. They agreed and seemed glad that I was the one to suggest it — we were all on the same page. We found a nice place and spent the evening drinking beer and swapping tales, then returned to the hotel.
Breakfast was absolute mayhem, with everyone shouting over one another to be heard and children dancing on tables.
Breakfast was a large buffet in a dining room packed with Vietnamese tourists. It was absolute mayhem, with everyone shouting over one another to be heard and children dancing on tables. Literally.
I met Mark and Jo again and we agreed that we were all still hopeful for the day ahead. The plan was to hike in the nearby national park, then board another boat for an evening tour. We’d spend the night on the boat and head for shore in the morning. Beer prices aboard the boat were outrageous, so we conspired to buy a bottle of rum to sneak aboard.
After leaving our bags in the hotel lobby and piling into another minibus, I realized our group had shrunk dramatically. The older French couple had left the tour to spend time on the island and the Vietnamese family was gone as well. There were now only seven of us and my first thought was whether the tour company would hire a boat for such a small group. I asked Huong what the day’s plans were and he insisted that we’d be on the boat by 3pm.
Ten minutes later, after we were conveniently out of town, he stood up to announce that there was a typhoon on the way and that the bay was closed. We’d be spending the night in Cat Ba again. The bus erupted in angry questions. Sulky was apoplectic, demanding that they return to Hanoi. Mark and Jo were peppering Huong with questions — they had to be on a plane on Saturday. If there was a typhoon coming, the ferries would be closed and they couldn’t risk getting stuck on the island.
“No, no… ferries okay. Typhoon finish at ten tonight,” he claimed. Jo patiently explained that typhoons don’t just stop at ten o’clock. If it was a real typhoon, it could last for days. I checked the weather forecast on my phone and saw that there was a 50% chance of rain the next two days — hardly typhoon weather.
When asked for more details, Huong would reply “I don’t know. No one can predict weather.” “But you just said the typhoon was over at ten…” Jo reminded him. He flushed darkly and clammed up.
I was stuck on a bus with six unhappy people, heading for a hike that I had no interest in.
I had really hoped to stay on the bay, but was willing to roll with it — a night in Cat Ba would still be a nice change from Hanoi. The one thing that really irked me, however, was that they waited until we were on the bus to tell us. Had they told us upfront, I could have rented a scooter and had a great time touring the island. Now, I was stuck on a bus with six unhappy people, heading for a hike that I really had no interest in.
At the trailhead, the arguing continued, with Jo asking Huong for details. She was polite but firm and pointed out the inconsistencies in his story. It was decided that Mark, Jo, and the French couple would return to Hanoi after the hike. Charlotte and Annabeth wavered but when they heard I was staying agreed to stay as well and make the best of it.
As we argued, three tour groups of at least twenty people each headed up the trail. It looked muddy, steep, hot, and crowded. In short, it looked like a whole lot of “not fun” and I decided to stay behind while they climbed. I relaxed and chatted with some Vietnamese couples who were sitting in the shade of the snack hut. Huong was there and played translator for me, finally proving himself useful.
After awhile, I got up to explore and take some photos, finding an artificial pond and a spring at the end of a overgrown trail. The pond itself was nothing to look at, but the surrounding grassy meadow was filled with butterflies. I counted at least ten different types and spent a happy hour chasing them around with my camera, enjoying the quiet. It would prove to be one of the highlights of the trip.
People began returning from the climb and they were invariably muddy, sweaty, and exhausted.
Returning to the trailhead, I bought a beer and sat in the shade, watching the constant flow of tourists headed up the trail. Soon, people began returning from the climb and they were invariably muddy, sweaty, and exhausted. Several were scratched up heavily from slipping on the rocks. I felt pretty good about my decision to stay behind.
Two Americans were comparing stories — one had nearly fallen off a cliff, just catching ahold of a root at the last minute. The other had slipped on a steep section and slid ten feet on his butt, tearing his shorts. Feeling left out of the conversation, I remarked that I had nearly sprained my wrist while lifting my beer. They didn’t find it as funny as I did.
My group returned without major damage and Huong led us back to the bus to return to Cat Ba town. We weren’t allowed to board, though, as we had to wait for another group to finish. He said that it’d just be fifteen minutes, but it was a lie — the group had started up the trail just ten minutes before. We spent two hot, boring hours sitting on a concrete bench in front of the information center because they were too cheap to drive us back to the hotel — a twenty minute drive.
Charlotte and Annabeth had reconsidered on the trail and wanted to head to Hanoi, but Huong yelled that it was too late. “You make choice. You live with it!” Mark, Jo and the French couple had to be at the hotel at 3pm to catch their bus. “Don’t be late!”
Huong offered to arrange for the Dutch girls and I to visit Monkey Island, but it would cost extra. Checking in the guidebook, we learned that the monkeys there were quite aggressive and were known to carry rabies. We passed.
Arriving at the hotel at 1:00, we agreed to walk to the nearby beach for an hour before the bus arrived. Mark and Jo left their main bags in the lobby with everyone else’s. We found a table at the romantically-named Beach One and had a drink and chatted about what a disaster this had been. The French couple had joined us and finally relaxed a bit, now that the end was in sight. After an hour of pleasant conversation, the two couples said their goodbyes and headed back to the hotel.
Charlotte, Annabeth, and I wandered over to the much nicer Beach Two and hung out for a few hours, watching the place fill up with Vietnamese families. The Vietnamese really make the most out of a beach — grown men were wrestling in the water, kids ran about squealing happily, and the air was filled with laughter. It was a lovely scene.
We made plans to have a nice dinner at a place Annabeth had spotted earlier and headed to our rooms. I found a note under my door — it was from Jo. Both of her bags had been stolen from the hotel lobby and she wanted me to check and see if they ever turned up. It broke my heart — they’d traveled for seven months, only to have their stuff stolen right before going home.
Checking at the front desk for an update, I was told “They left tour, so we not responsible.” I met the girls for dinner and told them the sad tale — it drained the last dregs of energy from the evening. We all agreed that it was probably an inside job — the hotel employees knew they were leaving at three and wouldn’t be able to put up a fuss. Her’s were the only bags missing. She had also been the main thorn in the tour guide’s side, so it’s possible he arranged it out of spite. I’d like to think I’m wrong in believing this, but I bet I’m not.
We were told to meet in the lobby at 6am the following morning “to beat the typhoon”.
We were told to meet in the lobby at 6am the following morning “to beat the typhoon”. Apparently, the storm had stopped for a beer or two and was now running late. It had rained lightly the night before, but the skies were now clear. We all showed up on time, then waited on the steps for an hour for yet another group to join us.
We got another hour’s ride on the bay, but the boat headed straight for the dock with no extra time allowed for sight-seeing. After one last meal where I was split again from my friends, we headed for Hanoi. Sharing the bus with the group who’d spent the night on our boat, I found that they, too, were unhappy with the delays and lies. Any sarcastic remark about typhoons would fill the bus with grim laughter.
In Hanoi, I said my goodbyes to Charlotte and Annabeth, thanking them for their company. They were the real highlight of the trip and I was sad to see them go. I bumped into them again the following day and learned that they’d got a $5 refund on the trip. I’d asked the hotel manager about a partial refund and she’d been told by the tour company that Huong had denied everything I’d claimed — it was all the weather’s fault. If I wanted to come to their office and talk about it, they’d reconsider.
“No thanks,” I told her. “I think they’ve already wasted enough of my time.”
Sometimes, I hate being right.
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