Bleak House (Part B – Bleak)

Your first and last impressions of a country come from the airport.

Actually for some people it's the beach (refugee anyone?); a ship terminal (Julie McCoy anyone?); or a roadside checkpoint (dirty scumbag student backpacker anyone?). But this doesn't count though because these are not real people. Right?

Hanoi International Airport is bleak. It's fucking bleak.

And no matter how chirpy your Vietnam travel memories are, the experience of arriving and leaving via Hanoi Airport traps them between 2 very miserable bookends.

This morning I marched through the entrance to departures (keeping an eye out for barrels and ladders). I located the Singapore Airlines check-in and was herded onto the end of a very long queue, flanked by metal gates. I wondered whether this was how sheep felt when they are waiting to get drenched … and detected a slight acrid taste in my mouth.

There is more than one check-in queue. After half an hour of shuffling along this queue you are instucted to go stand in another queue, which is directly behind the check-in desk you have been told to use. The second check-in queue can be very long, or very short, but is always very unfair. It's tanty material.

At least the Evil Milkmaid is not the only person in Vietnam to treat me like livestock.

Fortune smiled on me today because the desk I was sent to was empty, even while others were 5 or 8 deep. Then I was sent along aa perplexing to-ing and fro-ing as one desk checked in my luggage while the other one produced my boarding pass. If they had been wearing leotards I would have sworn I had stumbled across an aerobics class.

I eventually stood in the middle of the two instructors and asked why 2 desks were being used for my check-in when it was so busy. And which one of them had my passport. They just smiled and ignored me. At least I knew one thing: my luggage would not be turning up.

Next step - Immigration. I completed in the Customs Declaration form, listing my occupation as "fancypants" and queued up for Immigration. After lots of page flicking and staring and stamping I was released.

I then joined another queue for the Customs checkpoint. This is a new queue. I hadn’t seen it before. There is always someone at the desk but they usually ignore you as you pass by waving your form.

For some reason, today she was doing her job. “Someone must be on Performance Management”, I thought to myself,before quickly reminding myself which country I was in.

In all my arrivals to and departures from I have never had this form collected or even reviewed. I have never met anyone who has. God knows I've asked. It's quite an ice-breaker actually ("Hey, I was just wondering ...").

I have tried to have my form processed. One time I even approached the desk with a "here you go", just to see what would happen. She just looked up, glanced at me, looked back down and returned to her game of Sudoku while casually saying "OK. I've seen enough". I laughed loudly and so did she.

I have named the desk Checkpoint Gladys and always say "Thanks Gladys" to the Sudoku player (male or female) as they ignore me walking past.

This time was different. I saw that she was checking boarding passes and passports. No one was handing over a Customs Declaration form. No one in the queue even had one ready.

When I got to the front I asked her whether I needed this form.

"No need" she told me. I asked why and she just repeated "No need".

A helpful man waiting behind me kindly explained that I didn’t need the form; that there was no need. I outwardly thanked him while inwardly wondering whether he really thought he was helping, or just wanted to practice his her his English.

I asked her why they still provided these detailed forms. Why had the Immigration official stamped mine? Gladys looked up, shrugged and said "No form now. Next time maybe new form." before waving me through. I walked through, a seasoned traveller, now more confused than a beginner.

Onto the bag X-ray. I emptied my pockets into the tray and walked through the door frame. It went off. I automatically turned around, walked out, then went back through while doing a self pat-down.

It went off again so I headed over to the guy behind the wooden podium with my arms automatically raising, ready for my crucifixion. He just shook his head and waved me away to get my bags. I guess he couldn't be bothered thwarting terrorists today. Maybe he had a date tonight.

I eventually got through the gates and headed to the Sky Cafe to do some work. I asked for a seat next to a power outlet. They were all taken. I asked if the wifi was working because last time it was flake.
We do not have wireless here, she told me. I have used it many times before, I said.

She responded with a blank look before repeating "No wireless".

"But ... you had wireless before, right?" I asked her ... then ... "When I was here before in May and June and July and August you had wireless?".

She smiled again and said "No wireless".

I headed out to waste some time, elsewhere, anywhere, knowing full well that shopping is limited in this terminal. There are many stores here but little variety. 3 souvenir stores sell exactly the same set of products and 50%-70% of your purchases will be confiscated at Singapore Airport on arrival. There are 4 cosmetic stores which sell exactly the same limited set of products.

It feels like that Simpsons episode where Bart goes to Springfield Mall to get his ear pierced and every store is a Starbucks except for the ear piercing place, which warns him he'd better be quick because they were about to reopen as a Starbucks. He struts out with a pierced ear, sipping a coffee.

There are 4 abandoned outlets which look like they used to sell either souvenirs or cosmetics.

No. This one has not been abandoned.

There are 2 fashion outlets which sell odd things, like $4000 handbags and $600 Bally shoes. I have never, ever seen a customer in any of the fashion stores.

So I walk upstairs to a second restaurant. This one seems to be abandoned, save for 2 potatoes and a Vietnamese family. That makes 6 waiters and 6 customers, counting me.

The only products I see on display here are an upright freezer full of New Zealand Ice Cream tubs and a row of giant Chinese rice wine bottles.

I sit at a table next to a power point and order a soda water off the menu.

There is no soda water. No, I would not like a tonic instead. I try to trick her by ordering something with soda water in it, but she's onto me.

As I wait for my lemon juice to arrive I look around again, bored and ajar. The word "bleak" comes to mind and I start writing this entry.

I finish my drink and head downstairs to the gate. The escalator is broken and I descend gingerly, expecting it to jolt into action at any time.

Me. Waiting at the gate. Yes it's really me. Hi.