On The Road Again: Saigon

Never before have I set off on a journey so exhausted. Corona brought a lot of work at first. Then the reopening brought the biggest slump in profits ever. For the first time in a quarter of a century, I was looking for a permanent job as a web designer. Then, all of a sudden, lots of big orders came in again. What remains is the biggest tidal difference of all time – and all-encompassing fatigue.

When saying goodbye at the airport, the little ones’ last words are “Daddy, warm hands”. That’s the favourite compliment she can give a web designer with chronically cold hands. I will miss her very much. But it’s high time for more sleep, a heavy workout and plenty of big airs at one of the windiest spots in Asia. No exhausting expeditions. To be clear: the plan fails as soon as I arrive in Saigon.

As the winds in Phan Rang can offer practically anything between 15 and 50 knots, I’m travelling with three kites instead of two for the first time in ten years. My Core XRs accompany me in 7, 10 and 12m². Minimalism remains the trump card. An ultra-light travelling bag on a board with wheels holds the 7s, 10s, splitboard, fittings, harness and two bars. Three kilos of clothing and a pump tube still fit inside. Then it is fully loaded with 21kg. The pump remains on home leave and the linear dimension of 158 cm is undercut.

The safety check in Munich doesn’t want to inspect my travel organ and Midimix more closely for the first time. This is a great relief, given the frequent threat of dismantling on previous trips. Making music while travelling is probably now also a trend sport. After a ten-hour flight, I land in Beijing early in the morning. The gigantic airport is an icebox. Even wrapped up in the kite, I only sleep for a short time and wake up shivering.

I check the government censorship. Internet is still only possible with a passport scan. Facebook, WhatsApp and really all Google products including Android Mail are completely blocked by China. All German news portals as well. Somehow they also manage to kill the VPN button in Opera. If you search for “Activate Opera VPN” in German via cn.bing.com, only Chinese sites come up. Heise doesn’t work, Golem does. At least FTP works. The great wall has become even higher – and working during the seventeen-hour stopover has become more difficult.

Signs on the inside of the toilet doors at Beijing Airport read “Please lock the door for your convenience.” The Chinese tend to forget that. The toilet bowls are indeed uncomfortably narrow for double occupancy when taking a communist-correct dump (kkk).

In the evening, we continue on the last four-hour hop to Saigon. Russians have limited holiday options this year. They occupy half of the Boeing 737-800 to Saigon. After yesterday’s crack in a cockpit window on exactly this type of aircraft, I feel compelled to add a “stay away from the windows” to the safety instructions protruding boldly from the backrest in front of me.

Passport control in Saigon takes ages. Unfortunately, the ultralight kite bag comes off the conveyor belt a little battered. But the taxi to the booked bus stop to Phan Rang is quick and cheap. I wait three hours until the scheduled departure at 5.30 a.m. An hour later, the bus still hasn’t arrived. A couple of helpful Vietnamese call the bus company. “Coming soon”, they say. But Vietnam is still Vietnam. Ask four people for directions. Everyone helps, each with a different answer. So does the officer from the bus company who arrives at seven o’clock. Five phone calls later it’s clear: my name is right, the place too, but the bus is still not coming. After 40 hours on the road with only a few hours’ sleep, I’m very happy.

The officer packs me plus 30kg of kite luggage onto a motorbike behind an old grandpa. I’m expecting a short ride to the next bus stop. It’s not. We race 20 kilometres out of Saigon after the bus through the unimaginably dense rush hour. Thanks to the kitebag between us, there’s no room for our feet on the rests. I hold them up like a frog for almost half an hour just before jumping off until my thighs burn. My grandad races really well. He only has four near misses.

He drops me off at a seven-lane motorway roundabout with no hard shoulder and gets a day’s pay in tips. Another four phone calls, another Vietnamese man helping and a kilometre further on I watch the lights of the bus leaving – while Grandpa asks for directions on the phone again. Shouting. Waving. The bus reverses back down the motorway slip road. The helmet I’ve already taken off is definitely the least dangerous thing here and now. I jump on board and write about the madness. Thanks for the wait, the help and the chaos! I fall asleep in my full-size bed after Phan Rang.