Fear of Flying, Floating and Fatality

Whoever said getting there is half the fun never shared a berth on a Vietnamese train with two uninvited bunkmates. Or raced down a putrid canal on a Thai water taxi. Or crashed into a ditch on an Indian auto-rickshaw.

When Andrea and I set out around the globe, we knew we’d spend a lot of time getting from point A to point B, and beyond. What we didn’t foresee was the myriad modes of transportation we would use, most offering some level of discomfort, distress and danger. Traveling in the Third World is like visiting a rundown amusement park. The rides are cheap, but you half expect the roller coaster to slam into the cotton candy stand.

Several times a day here in Hanoi, we climb into a contraption called a cyclo, a cousin of the rickshaw. The driver pedals from behind the passengers, giving you the sensation of riding in a runaway wheelchair. The key is to keep your arms and legs out of the way of the gazillion scooters and other cyclos hurtling at you from every direction.

Besides the common plane, train and automobile, we’ve seen the world by minibus, bike, ferry, motorboat, rowboat, longboat and slow boat. Most of these means of transport involve squeezing into a space that forces you to ride with your knees up by your ears.

Our strangest trip in Vietnam was an overnight train from Hue to Hanoi. We paid $55 each for a “soft sleeper,” Communist Vietnam’s politically correct term for a first-class berth. But the foreigner’s fare--16 times more than what Vietnamese pay for a hard sleeper--does not buy privacy.

Around dawn I was awakened by the cackles of train workers who decided to take a break in our sleeping compartment. I peered down from my top bunk and found two women sitting on Andrea’s bed, eating hard-boiled eggs, throwing the shells on the floor. They inspected a few of Andrea’s things, taking special interest in a photo of our dog, Maya. Andrea, who is not a morning person, rolled her eyes and curled up in a ball.

Our transportation experiences in Vietnam have been mostly positive. The minivans, in particular, are efficient, convenient and clean. But like anywhere else in the world, sometimes even the shortest rides can get complex. One Hanoi cabbie padded the fare by driving us in the wrong direction. After I showed him I knew the right way by pointing at a map, he tried one more trick. The meter read 29,000 dong, about $2, when we reached our hotel. But with a touch of a button, the fare jumped to 51,000 dong. The driver denied changing the meter and insisted I pay the latest price.

He agreed to accept the lower of the two dubious fares only after I threatened to complain to authorities.

The cheapest trip of our journey to date was a 15-cent ride on a water taxi down the Khlong Saen Saep, a canal through Bangkok, Thailand. The low fare did not include such frills as stops. You literally jump on and off the overcrowded motorboat as it briefly slows down. The foul canal--it looks as though it could burn--puts the needed spring in your step to clear the water.

The scariest transportation moment of the journey so far came in Varanasi, India, where we took our last ride in an auto-rickshaw, a sort of mini-cab on three wheels. We should have seen we were at risk when the driver stopped to add brake fluid. The brakes failed a mile later when the driver tried to slow for an onrushing car borrowing our lane. He steered the speeding rickshaw to the shoulder, where we closed in on the backs of three female pedestrians, two of them carrying babies. At the last instant, we plowed into a pile of dirt, and the rickshaw stopped in a freshly dug ditch.

The driver rushed from the rickshaw and paid another rickshaw driver 20 rupees to take us the rest of the way. I took this as an apology and checked my urge to yell at him. But after we got into the second rickshaw, he reached in and demanded the 150 rupees we had agreed to pay him before the wreck, a debt I assumed had been canceled by his negligence. Too stunned to protest, I handed him the money. “Buy some brakes,” Andrea said.

I know flying is the safest way to travel, but it still makes me nervous, particularly in Third World countries on unfamiliar airlines. After a few long, sweaty bus rides, we weren’t so picky. On a recent flight from Cambodia to Vietnam, however, I experienced a first: When I visited the bathroom, the door pulled off its hinges. Rather than panic, I took it as a good sign. It meant money was invested in some other part of the plane. I hoped it was the landing gear.

NEXT WEEK: Off the tourist track in China.

Did you miss a Wander Year installment? The entire series since it began in January can be found on The Times’ Web site at https://www.latimes.com/travel/wander.