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No Hue out
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Feb. 2, 2000 |
"What restaurant?" I asked. "Nam Houng," he replied. "Velly goot food." I had heard about some really good restaurants in the area, but so far I hadn't been to one that stood out. I searched my guidebook to see if Nam Houng was listed. It wasn't. "Free cyclo ... I take you now," he persisted. I dutifully climbed in -- as if cyclos were hard to find, or expensive. It's possible to charter a cyclo and driver for about $4` a day almost anywhere in Vietnam. Years of passengers had worn the vinyl seat covering down to a thin membrane. It clung to my damp clothing. The metal foot rest, polished smooth in the middle from shower slippers and thongs, was rusty on the edges. The air was stale. The smell of decaying metal, perspiration and ambition dominated the environment as we cruised among the decrepit buildings of Hue, the once political, now cultural capital of Vietnam. We paralleled the Perfume River for a while, then crossed over it, the lights of the city reflecting in the serene water. "Where you from?" my driver asked. "America," I replied. "A-numba one. America," he smiled and gave me the thumbs-up sign. The mosquitoes were out in full force as the dusk hardened into a black, moonless night. Pedaling away from the busy downtown area, my driver had already exhausted his English, and I my Vietnamese. "How far to Nam Houng?" I asked. "Coming ... coming." He pointed and nodded. I settled back, observing the narrow, quiet back roads of Hue. Residents squatted around tiny grills, fanning the flames and awaiting dinner. Homes were lit with low-watt light bulbs, hung from single wires. Others looked like they had never been rebuilt after the heavy bombing that took place during the Tet offensive of 1968. Hue was the only city to be held by the North Vietnamese army for more than a few days. Far from the city's noise, I lost myself in the soothing rhythm of the pedaling. We turned north and then west; north then east; left, right, left. Before long, I had not only lost my sense of direction, but my confidence that the driver knew where this restaurant was. I began to think that maybe there was no Nam Houng. "No restaurant here," I said, tapping the driver on the hand. "Coming ... coming." He pointed, trying to assure me we were almost there. I thought of my predicament. I was miles from town, lost and vulnerable. However, my driver was small, and I might be able to out-wrestle him. Plus, he was a smoker, and if he did try something, I was sure that I could outrun him. "I no like this restaurant. I like go back Hue," I struggled to speak his familiar broken English. I turned around in the seat to face him and speak with authority. "Nam Houng coming ... coming," he said. It was then that I noticed the headlights behind us. Through the thick, humid air, these lights cast an eerie, stage-like glow as the vehicle silently crept behind our cyclo. It seemed to be stalking us. I felt sick. "Go back, go back, now!" I yelled. "Nam Houng here," he pointed. Our voices escalated in the darkness as we argued back and forth. I had to think fast. I could jump out now. The vehicle behind us kept enough distance. I remembered hearing stories that began like this: Carload of locals, naive traveler -- stripped, beaten -- maybe killed. How could I have been so foolish? | ||
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