Paradise or Prison?

Over a year ago, I remember reading Thurston Clarke’s book, Searching for Crusoe, about 13 of what the author determined to be the “last real islands” in the world. Since his name bore an eery resemblance to Thurston Howell, the well-to-do gadabout from “Gilligan’s Island”, I assumed he was an authority. The eleventh island he covered in the book was Phu Quoc, Vietnam, renowned for its beauty as well as the prison on it that was the former abode of VC POWs. The title of the chapter was “Frightening Islands”.

Our trip to Phu Quoc took a grueling 14 hours, despite being only 140 miles from Ho Chi Minh City. We took a taxi to a bus; the bus to another bus; that bus to the town of Rach Gía, where we took another bus to the port-town, Hon Chong, where we caught a ferry to the island. After that we took another, hour-long taxi ride to the hotel. That was Friday, 12am to 2pm.

On Saturday, there were no horns honking, or loudspeakers calling “Anyone want some cakes?” in Vietnamese. We woke to the soothing sounds of the Gulf of Thailand lapping against a porcelain beach, and the sight of a nectarine sunrise peaking through the thatched roofs of our bungalows. Except for Kevin and Bryan, our crew. They woke to the sound of the backhoe laying a septic tank next door. According to the Vietnamese government and their infinite wisdom, Phu Quoc will be the next Singapore. So instead of preserving the island’s natural beauty for tourism, they’re laying pipes and leveling ground. So we followed suit, and unleashed 400cc’s of rented motorbike fury on the jungle roads. We were lost the whole time, so we drove as fast as we could. We came across (in this order) a deserted coral-sand beach, a nest of angry hornets, dozens of dump trucks, and a big, weird dam down an empty and disused road in the jungle.

Our deserted beach on Phu Quoc.

The dam view of all of the dam jungle.

Sunday was the crowning moment of our weekend. We woke up mid-morning after a good old-fashioned (mini) beach bonfire Saturday night, and climbed into a one-hour taxi ride to the ferry dock, prepared for another 14 hours of travel. One problem: there was no ferry. Double-check the tickets. Yep, 12:30pm on Sunday, November 30th, 2008.

We took a walk to the nearest ticket-seller and found to our incredible dismay that we had been sold passes to a ferry that doesn’t exist. No ferries out, no ferries in, no buses, no helicopters, no submarines. We split up, Matt, Kevin and I refunded our ferry tickets while Brian and Bryan scrambled to the airport to find a flight out. As the last plane left the tarmac, we realized we’d been stranded. We had classes to teach, and the all-important Monday episode deadline. But, as it turns out, Phu Quoc was, and continues to be, an island prison.

The retro ticket counter.

The next day, we woke up at 5:30am skeptical of our chances, rushed via taxi to the airport and waited for standby tickets to Saigon. The first flight left at 7:30- one standby ticket- Matt left to catch an early class. The next flight, 8:30- two tickets- Brian and Bryan. Finally, after 2 days and 3 and a half hours of irritating the standby clerk, the final flight left Phu Quoc at 11:00, with me and Kevin aboard. Arriving in Saigon, we faced more disappointment, realizing that our misstep had placed us a week behind our production schedule, and episode-less for Monday.

So Thurston, I couldn’t believe before how such a lovely place could earn that chapter’s name, but now I know. I’ve come to realize that no matter how lovely a prison can be, at the end of the day, it’s still a prison.