Danang: Where No One Speaks English

I've debated at length whether or not to post my favorite picture of the nasty wound that by this time has become the defining event of the trip. It is a stark comparison shot showing the healthy, normal knee alongside the engorged, stitched, red, and oozy one. Fortunately for the squeamish, I think I'll err on the side of mystery and spare everyone the gore. Suffice to say that three days of rest felt nice but changed little, and by the time I hobbled into the airport at Nha Trang, I had become the sort of oddity that stops all (pedestrian) traffic. Had I thought ahead and dressed the part, I might have earned some pocket change posing as a handicapped beggar.

Yet onward we press, though my leg be rotund and discolored and aching, and though I pick my way ever more slowly through the treacherous zooming traffic. All part of the healing process, I say!

***For those of you who are terribly concerned about my well being, please rest assured that I will, it turns out, survive. Leg intact. For those of you who prefer suspense as a literary device, I offer this: Things were looking grim. I penned a truncated will just in case friends and family needed tools to deal with a sad ending.***

If we had been still in Singapore, land of beautiful law-abiding wealthy people, I likely would have been quarantined on the spot and fined for being disabled in public. But in Vietnam, happily, they let infected gimps like me into airports and onto planes. In short order, we were soaring over the rice paddies on our way to the country's third largest city, Danang. This commercial, sprawling, architecturally vapid place is the gateway to one of Vietnam's most charming towns, Hoi An. We hopped in a taxi, pointed to the map and address of the bus stop, and asked the driver to take us there. He spoke zero English. Smiling and nodding, he brought us to an industrial sort of road far from our target. After several minutes of frustrated gesticulating, we gave up and set out on foot. Surely someone could give us directions!

People tried, they really did. As we wandered from metal shop to car dealership to restaurant to (small jail??), everyone was happy to express his or her opinion about what we were looking for and how far we needed to go to get there. With answers ranging from 3km to 100m to "you here!", and no taxi in sight in this scrubby part of town, I was beginning to feel a creeping worry. And as it rose up from my stomach to tighten my chest and force me to breathe deeply, I assuaged my nervous mind that (a) this is why I do not travel alone-anymore-to developing countries where I do not speak a lick of the local language and (b) it was noon. We had plenty of time until real crisis.

Finally I suggested we try our luck in a bank, so we poked in, hapless as sheep and with backpacks in tow. None of the tellers understood us in the least, but one of the customers stood up and said he could be of assistance. God bless him. And he was quite a help, though his command of English began and ended with him telling us to follow him. We crossed the two-lane highway of a street, and waited on the curb with him until he flagged down a tiny yellow bus, presumably the right one, and he shuffled us on it, leaving us at this point to fend again for ourselves. We were the only non-locals aboard, and certainly the only Caucasians. Oh, the staring. I think the staring is the only thing I really hate about traveling outside my comfort zone. I can handle all manners of anxiety and I can manage an ever-growing set of insane situations, but just don't watch me! I feel like an animal in a zoo... "Oh isn't it cute how she tightens her backpack straps! And see now she's checking her watch! Just like we do, honey!" Fifteen awkward minutes elapsed on the local bus, but true to our helper's word, we alighted at the city bus station. From here we had only to follow the trail of other dizzied backpackers to a bus labeled "Hoi An." Our safe haven, and a break from the infernal walking, was only an hour away.