Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
soon as I pushed the bike up to the second checkpoint, he took one look at it and said in his
best English, “Impossible for bike to Vietnam. Impossible.”
But those words didn't faze me—at least not at first. I could see freedom a hundred fifty
feet away, so I knew I was close. Plus, if I had become an expert at nothing else on this trip,
it was rejection. I asked to speak with the chief. I was told to wait thirty minutes. I stepped
outside of the crowded office, and then the weather turned, rain quickly drenched me as I
fought against an onslaught of other travelers all trying to seek shelter within.
Finally, the chief came out. I was soaking wet. Kindness One was soaking wet. We
needed some good news. He looked at the bike, and looked at my paper work, which I had
managed to keep dry, and then repeated the words of his associates, “Impossible for bike to
Vietnam, Englishman.”
Well, he didn't have to add the Englishman bit, but that was okay. I would find someone
else. Two people saying no was just the beginning. I'd keep going. I would go through
every single border guard until I found the words I was looking for: “Greetings for bike to
Vietnam, Englishman.”
I asked to speak to the chief of all chiefs—the big chief. The current chief apparently
didn't like this question, since he thrust my papers back into my hands and marched away.
I waited, and then another man, who was tall and wide and looked like he should be the
Head of Something, came out with four minions, including the last chap, who had gone to
find him. The head chief looked at me like I was insane and shook his head as he gave the
verdict, “You, inside Vietnam. Bike, back to Cambodia.”
Things were now getting serious. So I decided that I would start crying. It had worked
before. I figured the head chief and his four minions would budge once I hit my knees and
started weeping. The only difference was that this time the tears were real. The head chief
barked at me, “Come inside.”
I must have been embarrassing him in front of the other travelers. I didn't mind. I was
going to have a private audience with the chief. Once in his office, I went straight into the
story. My wife, Lina. My three sons. My dog, Winston.
“I won't get there without my bike,” I explained. “I don't have any money. Just my
bike.”
He squinted at me from across the table. Like others I had come across, he could not be-
lieve that an Englishman with a yellow motorbike would be doing this without any money.
“You are fine. You have visa,” he explained as calmly as he could. “But the bike, it can-
not come.”
