Hanoi to Cat Ba Island Travel: Escaping Hanoi Before It Changed Its Mind

Leaving Hanoi felt like sneaking out of a party that had gone on long past its natural end. The city continued to honk, surge and rev as if every road user had somewhere far more important to be than everyone else. By this point the horns had become so normal that I am fairly sure my internal monologue had started beeping.

After a few hotel mishaps that had tested everyone’s patience, salvation arrived in the form of a very apologetic hotel owner. He offered to arrange our onward travel to Cat Ba free of charge. 

It was a lovely gesture and a generous one. 

It was also a gesture that relied more on hope than on any known system of organisation.

The Free Transfer That Left Without Us

We arrived bright and early the next morning with our bags packed and our optimism still intact. We believed that a free transfer meant someone knew we were coming. The bus company, however, had absolutely no idea who we were.

There was no booking and no reservation. There were no names on any list. There was nothing at all. Our complimentary transfer had apparently been arranged in the same way children arrange tea parties for imaginary friends.

We stood there doing the traveller’s shuffle with our bags at our feet. We tried to look patient while quietly preparing to become permanent pavement ornaments. Phone calls were made and clipboards were frowned at. Several men nodded in ways that suggested nothing had been solved.

Then the bus to Cat Ba simply left. It did not leave metaphorically. It actually left. We watched it disappear like abandoned contestants on a reality show. At this point the free transfer felt less like compensation and more like experimental theatre.

Accidentally Joining Someone Else’s Holiday

Eventually, after enough confusion to qualify as a minor diplomatic incident, we were bundled onto a large coach that was already full of people on an organised cruise tour. This was clearly not the original plan. In fact, I am no longer convinced there ever was an original plan.

The coach was full of cheerful, properly booked passengers who all looked as though they had intentionally chosen this excursion. We looked like two lost parcels that had been redirected at the last moment. We had no matching stickers, no lanyards and no itinerary. We had only our bags and the quiet confidence that if we stayed seated, no one would ask questions.

Everyone else looked polished and purposeful. They were dressed for a day of scenic glamour and boat deck photographs. We looked as though we had escaped from a transport dispute in Hanoi. We were slightly rumpled and slightly suspicious, and we wore the faint expression of people who still were not entirely sure where they were supposed to be.

If there had been a prize for the least likely members of this tour group, we would have taken first and second place without competition. Still, nobody seemed bothered. We settled in with the sort of false confidence that travel teaches you. If you look as though you belong, sometimes that is enough. At least until the next transfer.

The rear side of Cat Ba that traveller post cards don’t often show – the ferry terminal.

From Forgotten Passengers to Speedboat

Once we accepted our new roles as unofficial cruise members, the whole situation became unexpectedly enjoyable. The coach rolled towards the coast and before long we were swept onto a speedboat with the rest of the group. 

One moment we were watching our supposed bus vanish into the distance. The next moment we were skimming across the water like minor celebrities.

It felt faintly ridiculous. It was like missing economy and somehow ending up in cruise class. 

In the distance, the limestone karsts rose out of the water in dramatic grey towers. They looked prehistoric and slightly theatrical, as if the landscape had decided to show off.

Arrival in the Countryside and Immediate Alarm

The transport saga was not finished. We left the speedboat and boarded a local bus. By this point we had surrendered completely to fate. Wherever they pointed, we went. Asking questions only complicates matters.

Somehow, against all odds, we were eventually delivered to the hotel. We had no clear understanding of how we had arrived and no certainty that we had ever been on the correct route. We arrived, and in travel terms that counts as a roaring success.

The hotel sounded idyllic on paper. It promised a peaceful location, karst views and a rural hideaway. It was the sort of place travel websites describe using words like serene and charming. 

Then we were shown the room.

Craig expressed concern. 

This is rare. 

Craig is not a man given to panic. He has endured sleeper buses, suspect bathrooms and enough mattress variations to write a consumer report. When he looked around and said with unusual firmness that we were not staying in this room, I knew matters were serious.

The electrics were hanging out of the wall, right next to the bathroom. This was not the usual slightly improvised Asian hotel style. This belonged firmly in the category of good grief, what is that. 

A wardrobe stood in the corner and appeared to be held together by cobwebs and historical optimism. Inside it contained more insect shells, body parts and evidence of former residents than we had encountered on the whole of Cat Ba. It looked less like storage and more like an archaeological dig.

Even I had to admit that it was pushing the definition of rustic. We made a rare moment of immediate joint decision making and moved rooms without delay.

Four Nights of Calm, Kettles and Thoughts of Home

Thankfully, the new room was considerably less likely to electrocute us although still significantly below expectations. The countryside retreat soon became home for five nights. 

After weeks of moving between buses, hotels and ferries, and after the daily question of where on earth we were supposed to be next, doing very little felt like doing something important.

We relaxed by the pool, chatted with like minded travellers and slowly began the strange mental process of preparing for home.  As well as recovering (still) from the flu bug, but pleased to say Craig is no longer yakking.

During one of these chats we discovered that we were apparently the only people in the place with a kettle. This naturally led to thoughts about hotel kettles in general.

There is a universal law of travel. Every hotel kettle looks as though it was designed by someone who has never boiled water. It sits there, squat and suspicious, with a cord shorter than a hamster’s patience. It is always positioned three inches from the only available socket, which is inevitably behind the bed.

Craig now has the kettle hunt and repositioning down to a ‘tea’. 

He wrestles it out, empties the bugs, fills it with water, plugs it in and waits. The kettle hums faintly like a bee trapped in a biscuit tin. It then produces water that is both scalding and lukewarm at the same time.

This water is poured down every bathroom hole, partly to dispose of it and partly to eliminate anything that might be playing hide and seek.

Eventually we sip our coffee, a coffee that has never met a coffee bean in its life, and wonder if this is how civilisations collapse.

Meanwhile, the kettle sits smugly as if it knows it has thwarted yet another weary traveller. One imagines it gathering at night with the minibar fridge and the hairdryer while they plot new ways to inconvenience humanity. 

Yet somehow you drink the coffee anyway.

In a few weeks (not exactly sure when) we will be home and Craig will be reunited with his coffee machine. 

The thought feels oddly mixed. 

We will miss the adventure and the constant newness. We will miss the feeling that every day brings another road, another view, another story and occasionally another bus leaving without us.

There is also something deeply comforting about going home. You have your own space and food you trust. You have a bed that does not wobble, squeak or slope in unexpected directions. It does not contain evidence of previous insect residents. 

And more importantly, our family and friends.

For all the joy of the journey, home has its own kind of magic. It is a quieter magic. It is less dramatic than limestone karsts and speedboats, but it is no less welcome. 

After four months on the road, it is beginning to sound rather wonderful.

A few shots from our little trundle around our hotel.