Beijing to Hanoi - Grounded: A Down to Earth Journey Around the World - page 60

I occasionally wonder if Rebecca's travel-planning skills are too good. It might be rewarding to endure
one of those mishaps that grizzled backpackers are always bragging about. (“So then I was stuck in Guinea
for thirteen weeks because of the coup. Funny story—I briefly became undersecretary to the finance min-
ister.”) But Rebecca is forever four steps ahead of all possible pitfalls and minor political revolutions.
In the Internet age, it's become possible to prepare for any dodgy border crossing, planned rail strike, or
imminent governmental collapse simply by reading the advice of others who've been there and done that.
There are always a few gung-ho travelers out there who are eager to serve as guinea pigs and equally eager
to boast about their exploits in real time—either on personal blogs or on the bulletin boards of travel sites.
Useful intel that could once be gleaned only by hanging out in expat cafés for days on end is now easily
searchable and freely available on the Web. If the railway bridge collapses at a major Malaysian junction,
that fact will be immediately noted online. And not long after, at least one traveler will post detailed direc-
tions for a viable detour.
We leave the crestfallen European couple behind and board our bus. It's comfortable and air-conditioned,
and soon we're zooming down an empty highway. The road is wide, and freshly paved, but totally devoid
of cars. The breakdown lanes are filled with bicycles and pedestrians, struggling along with heavy luggage.
It seems China's preparation for a boom in automobiles has outpaced actual automobile usage.
WITHIN a couple of hours, we reach the border. The Chinese exit point is remarkably efficient. The clerk
asks no questions and stamps our passports without any hassle. (By now we're collecting passport stamps
like pocket lint.) When he's done, he points to a device on the counter in front of him. It has buttons with
icons showing a smiley face, a frowny face, and two faces that lie somewhere in between. I realize, after
a moment of confusion, that he's inviting me to rate his job performance. I press the smileyest face pos-
sible—on the theory that the frowny face button might open a trapdoor to a dungeon for malcontents.
Chauffeured golf carts ferry us through a few hundred yards of no-man's-land between the checkpoints.
Armed soldiers stand along the road. When we get to the Vietnamese side, we enter what appears to be a
small, decomposing shack. This turns out to be the border post. Outside, an old woman offers to sell us
Vietnamese dong for our Chinese yuan—no doubt at an abusive exchange rate. Having no more use for the
yuan, we make the trade.
Once our passports are cleared, we're sent to a counter labeled “Medical Check.” The guy standing there
says, “This is fee,” and hands me a slip with a number on it. I pay the two thousand dong out of my brand-
new stash (it's roughly twelve cents) and then apprehensively wait for some sort of medical check to occur.
Will I be jabbed with a needle for a blood sample? Will someone beneath the table surprise me by whack-
ing my knee with a reflex hammer? No. Instead, the clerk stares at me blankly. “Is there an actual medical
check?” I ask, I feel somewhat reasonably. The clerk chuckles for a moment at my näiveté and then pushes
me along with an irritated wave of his hand. We get through customs without anyone so much as glancing
at our bags. Our connecting bus waits on the other side.
The Vietnamese bus is a bit rougher around the edges. Stuffing spills out of several seat cushions. The
road is also much bumpier than on the Chinese side. Each of the countless potholes sends a jolt through our
spines and coaxes a loud groan from the bus's suspension. Despite the ride, the scenery outside is growing
ever more spectacular. It was getting chilly up in Beijing, as fall approached and the nights got colder, but
now we're heading south into an entirely different climate. Palm trees line the road. All is green and lush.
Limestone formations pop up here and there, where the rocky hills have eroded into tall, jagged towers.
We stop for lunch at a roadside stand. Rebecca and I are the only westerners on the bus, and our fellow
travelers sweetly make sure that we understand the menu offerings. This is especially important because