I hunkered in the doorway of an office building as gray clouds moved in, threatening to break open above me. Piles of luggage were stacked in the doorway, but I held tightly to my backpack. As a solo traveler making my way through Vietnam, I had yet to let someone else touch my bag, the essence of my livelihood halfway around the world. 

“I am Ahn.” A short man holding a clipboard bowed and smiled, showing a full mouth of teeth. “What is your name?”

“I’m JoAnna,” I said, and received the quizzical look I’d gotten since arriving in Vietnam. “You can call me Jo.” I pointed to my name on his list. He checked it off and immediately moved on to the next person.

Earlier that morning I had taken a hired car from Hanoi to the coast of Vietnam. This part of the country, known as Halong Bay, was rumored to be tacky and touristy, so I opted instead to head straight for the water. In fact, most travelers come to Halong Bay for one thing: To tour the bay by junk. These pirate-looking ships generally hold anywhere from a single couple to several dozen people, depending on the boat and tour operator. The company I chose fell somewhere between the two with seven passengers and a small crew. 

Of the nearly 2,000 islands in Halong Bay, only about 300 of them have names. These sheer-faced rocks, covered with luscious trees and foliage, rise out of nowhere in the sea. Apparently birds, snakes, and monkeys live on them, but I can’t imagine that much else does.

As the junk floated among the islands, I sat on the top deck, my legs dangling over the edge of the boat, watching the world recede behind us. The warm, humid air sat heavy on my shoulders, and the dark green of the islands reflected onto the rough surface of the water despite the overcast sky. I felt like we were cruising through a waterlogged version of Jurassic Park.

We piled into the day cruiser that was pulled alongside the junket. One of the boat hands steered the craft toward Công Đâm. The village “chief” greeted us, poured lukewarm tea into a set of chipped mugs and answered our questions about his home. This, the second largest fishing village in the bay, is only inhabited by 163 people, many of whom have never been to the mainland (particularly the women and children). A typhoon had torn through recently and the school was completely destroyed, but there didn’t seem to be any rush to rebuild it. Such a shame, I thought, that these children learn to swim and paddle a boat before they learn to read or write. 

As we floated in boats paddled by women in the village, I watched daily life on the water. Dogs lounged on the porches; wet clothes hung from the eves above makeshift porches that surrounded colorful homes sitting atop big plastic barrels.

Despite rain, we set out in kayaks the next morning. I’d been kayaking in calm, clear waters before, but the rough conditions and inclement weather made the paddling tough, despite the fact that I was sharing a boat with Ahn, our guide, who kayaked several times a week.

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He muscled our boat between the outcroppings as I feigned my attempt to help power the boat. Several times we stopped the kayak, rain pouring down, waiting for the others to catch up. “They are slow,” Ahn said. “They are weak.”

“No,” I said. “They are tired. We’ve been rowing for over an hour. Where are we going?”

“Yes, we will keep going,” Ahn said, then pushed off on our random route without an end. Nearly three hours later we pulled up on a beach … within eyeshot of where the boat had been sitting most of the morning. 

The next morning, our final day in the bay, I awoke to a bright sun and clear sky. The emerald foliage of the outcroppings was painted a surprising shade of brilliant green, which reflected in the water like a flat mirror.

We hopped in the kayaks and paddled to a small island with a large cave. The opening on the island was heavily trafficked; the fragile formations were broken and discolored.

“What does this look like?” Ahn asked my shipmate, Jonas. 

“A dragon?” Jonas answered uncertainly.

“Nope.” Ahn laughed. “Jonas, what does this look like?”

This is only inhabited by 163 people, many of whom have never been to the mainland. A typhoon had torn through recently and the school was completely destroyed, but there didn’t seem to be any rush to rebuild it. 

And so we moved through the cave, trying to guess Ahn’s made-up formations quickly so we could get back in the sun. 

Back on the boat, we were each given a survey about our experience. I had the option to rate the various components of my trip as Excellent, Good, Average, and Poor. I waffled on a few options, uncertain how to handle the hair that clogged my shower’s drain or the fact that, though Ahn spoke English, he only knew enough to do his job and wasn’t very in tune with what we needed or wanted.

During our last lunch together, the seven of us bit into fresh fruit as we exchanged contact information and discussed tipping. Ahn walked up the stairs into the dining room and stopped by the table. “Jo, I don’t like the answers on your survey,” he said as he handed the piece of paper to me.

“This is a survey,” I said. “This is my opinion.” Silence fell over the table as everyone tried to busy themselves with the food on their plate.

“I am not happy,” he said.

“Are you asking me to change my answers?”

“I am not happy,” Ahn repeated.

Realizing this conversation wasn’t going anywhere, I tried to handle it as calmly as possible.

“First of all, if you want to call me out, please ask to speak to me apart from everyone else. This is very uncomfortable for everyone at this table. Now, if you want me to change the answers on my survey, just tell me what you want me to write.”

Ahn laid the paper on the table, and pointed out, one question at a time, which answers he deemed inappropriate.

Jaw tense, I packed my bags. Our junk pulled up to the dock, and I said goodbye to my new friends. Ahn, having received his tips, was checking his clipboard for the next boat full of passengers to take out into Halong Bay.