The bad is part of the good life

by Laura Visser (Netherlands)

A leap into the unknown Netherlands

The taxi driver stopped abruptly in the middle of a busy street. He made weird noises and big gestures to get me out of his car as quickly as possible. This came unexpectedly after a slow one-hour drive in awkward, yet welcomed silence. A drive down memory lane. The car was definitely older than I was. His taxi driver’s license looked like one from a detectives’ series from the nineties. The smell of aged cigarette smoke pinched my nose unpleasantly. The leather upholstery looked like the white ones from an episode of Dallas, but in a yellowed picture. In fact, everything was revoltingly yellowed or dusty gray, including the sky. When he threw my backpack at me, I gave him a confused look. I mean, I paid him a lot of money to drop me off right in front of the hostel. I was too exhausted to argue. Luckily, I then was able to make some sense out of his seemingly uncontrolled movements and sound diarrhea: “Home close, streets small!” He was not wrong. Thousands of scooters were racing into all directions in a microscopic path honking at each other as if death was nearby. The unfamiliar smell of pork, honey and pee mixed with emission was too much. The cable clutter right above my head stood ready to attack everyone in plain sight with high voltage. People were shouting at each other in a way that made my ears bleed. It was freezing. Just a few more meters, Laura. A few meters turned into a 20 minutes long detailed speech from the guy at the reception, who called himself Jimmy. Jimmy clearly took this moment as an opportunity to show off his English skills. I was not listening. Just a few more minutes, Laura. “Is everything OK?” Jimmy asked. That was my starting sign! Instantly, a waterfall of tears were running down my cheeks. “I just want to sleep!” I whined. Fortunately, I had to say no more. He immediately escorted me to my bunk bed and left. Instead of sleeping, however, I was watching reruns in my head of the past 24 hours with short breaks of puking. Maybe I should not have left Bali. There were clear signs in favor of that statement: My holiday romance, the surfing, the paradise feeling, the bronchitis I had for weeks accompanied by yet another round of Bali Belly. The highlight of it all was the constant vomiting in all public toilets of the airport in Denpasar. Nevertheless, I stepped into the airplane hoping it was over. I was mistaken. At that point, I was not sure if I was hot or cold, flying or sitting, awake or asleep. I’m certain that I cannot define the delusion during the long flight as a nap, just because the coughing kept me awake and the lack of water made it all turn into a living nightmare. The febrile reruns of that nightmare were better than any horror movie. It made me question my dreams of travelling, right before I started slumbering. 10 hours later I got out of a perceived coma. I felt like myself again. A weaker version, yes, but strong enough to feel hungry. I could manage to freshen up, go outside and find good food close by. The long steamy shower felt like a massage to my body and soul. The foggy feeling was washed off. A few blocks into the wilderness, I found myself a needed North Fake jacket and some tasty looking street food. One of the locals, a tiny old man, frenzied yaps of delight at me. He offered me on of the pink plastic baby stools in the middle of the street. I took the offer and joined the locals watching the urban jungle to come alive while sharing food. That sweet and salty smell is not too bad after all. I started to see patterns and logic in all that was going on. The chaos was order. The constant noise was the calming ujjayi breath of the city. Right there, I realized that I actually became a stronger version of myself. At that point, I fell in love with the city called Hanoi.