The Rooster Van Experience: A Memorable Journey

“Is this a bus or a van?” I ask, raising my eyebrows while glancing at my ticket.

“It’s a bus. A small bus,” the receptionist replies.

“Is it a minivan?” I gesture towards one parked outside.

“It’s a bus,” she insists confidently.

I nod, hoping she’s right.

The following morning, my alarm blares at 5:45 a.m. I quickly shower, pack, and dash downstairs for a hasty breakfast before my taxi arrives at 6:30 a.m. 

The taxi drops me off at the bus station, where I’m directed to my “bus,” which is, to my dismay, a minivan. This minivan is my only means of getting from Can Tho, the Mekong Delta’s capital, to Ha Tien, the ferry terminal for Phu Quoc island, one of Vietnam’s top tropical destinations.

After exiting the taxi, I give my ticket to the driver, who gestures for me to hand it to a woman outside. She instructs me to sit in the back of the van. I shake my head, opting for the seat directly behind the driver instead. I’ve learned that sitting in the back often leads to motion sickness, especially with the wild driving in Southeast Asia.

In the aisle, I spot a stack of plastic stools, which are used as extra seats once the regular ones are filled. This trip will definitely involve frequent stops to pick up more passengers.

The van is mostly empty, save for two people in the back. We leave promptly at 7 a.m. The woman hops in and takes a plastic stool at the end of my row, opening the window to shout at potential passengers.

Thankful for my front-row seat, I plan to sleep for the five-hour journey. As I inflate my neck pillow, the driver and ticket lady exchange puzzled looks. When she realizes what I’m doing, she bursts into laughter, slapping the front seat and shouting at the driver, who chuckles back. I shrug; don’t they know neck pillows are travel essentials?

I settle into my seat, ready for some sleep. Just as we pull out of the bus station, a loud crow echoes through the van.

Cock-a-doodle-doo!!

I glance around, confused. Where’s that coming from? There must be a rooster outside. 

Cock-a-doodle-doo!!

It’s too loud to be outside; it’s definitely coming from the back of the van, near my luggage. I can already picture my suitcase covered in rooster droppings. The crowing continues every couple of minutes for the next half-hour.

In my decade of travel, I’ve encountered many chicken buses—local open-air transports—but never one with live chickens onboard. Riding a chicken bus is often a sign of escaping the tourist path. Today, however, I just want some peace and quiet. Instead, I’m stuck with a crowing rooster.

As we drive along, Freddie, the rooster, quiets down. We stop every few miles to pick up more passengers. At least the air conditioning is blasting.

Then the driver rolls down his window to smoke, and I immediately regret sitting where I did. He lights up a cigarette every half-hour; at this rate, I’ll be inhaling second-hand smoke all the way to the ferry.

In typical Vietnamese style, the driver weaves in and out of traffic, passing cars on blind curves and narrowly avoiding collisions. 

With no chance of sleep, I reflect on how I ended up in the Rooster Van. It all started with my fear of flying. Yes, it’s possible for someone who has visited over 50 countries to be afraid of flying. My love for travel outweighs my fear, but a series of turbulent flights in Asia left me a nervous wreck. I manage my anxiety with various techniques, including carrying good luck charms—turquoise Buddhist prayer beads blessed by the Dalai Lama and a St. Christopher's medal from my favorite priest.

The flights into Vietnam had been bumpy, with one even taking a quick nosedive during landing. After touching down in Da Nang, I vowed not to fly again until my visa expired. That decision led me to this Rooster Van.

Statistically, flying is safer than taking the Rooster Van. (Reports indicate car accidents kill more Americans abroad than anything else.) Yet, I feel strangely secure with Freddie, despite the lack of seat belts in this van.

We stop for a quick restroom break at a gas station. After returning to the van, Freddie is so quiet that I wonder if he got left behind. Then I start to question if there’s even a rooster in the van. Could it be someone’s ringtone? I chuckle at the memory of accidentally having a frog ringtone back in Thailand, missing calls for a whole day.

Just as I begin to drift off, Freddie starts crowing again, sounding like he’s in a karaoke contest.

By the halfway point, the van is nearly full. Two guys in military uniforms sit up front with the driver. Two local women occupy my row, followed by a row of men and a German couple behind them.

I check my phone’s map. We’re making progress—less than two hours to go. I can manage this.

Suddenly, I notice the woman on the edge of my row holding a plastic bag over her face. I wince; she’s car sick. She seals the bag and hands it to the woman by the door, who promptly tosses it out the window. She grabs another bag for her face.

To distract myself, I decide to record Freddie’s crowing on my phone. I notice he seems to crow more when the driver hits the brakes. I spend thirty minutes trying to capture his vocals, nearly missing it each time. (If you check my Instagram story on Vietnam, you can hear Freddie!)

The van empties quickly as we approach Ha Tien. Finally, we arrive at the bus station, where the woman signals for me to disembark. Only the German couple and I remain.

As the van door swings open, a swarm of taxi drivers rushes in like seagulls after a dropped fry. I’m reminded of my time in India.

As I step off the “bus,” I glance back for Freddie and notice a cardboard box with holes cut into it. Freddie is indeed real. 

Nothing annoys me more than someone yelling “taxi!” at me. I hurry inside the bus station, but one man breaks away from the crowd to follow me, repeatedly asking if I need a taxi.

I’m cautious about trusting unsolicited taxi offers, so I approach the ticket counter to request a taxi. The woman calls over the man I was avoiding.

Feeling defeated, we settle on a price. I step outside, and he motions for me to wait while he retrieves the car. Two minutes later, he arrives on a motorbike. Confused, I look at my bright teal suitcase.

He grabs my suitcase and places it between his legs, then hands me a helmet and gestures for me to get on the back.

My transportation options are getting riskier as the day progresses. It’s only two miles to the ferry, I reassure myself as I reluctantly hop on the bike, balancing my camera gear on my back and a small duffle in my lap.

He asks if I have a ferry ticket. I don’t, but I lie. (The answer is always yes unless you want to pay double.)

The driver swerves slightly at first, adjusting his steering with my suitcase in the way. I grip the back tightly. Then he stops at a travel agency and asks me again if I need a ticket. I lie once more. Vietnam is known for trying to overcharge tourists.

Finally, we arrive at the ferry terminal. A man rushes over and asks if I have a ticket. I lie a third time.

I dash inside the terminal and buy a ticket directly from the ferry company to avoid inflated prices from third parties, only paying the amount shown on the ticket.

As the ferry departs, I locate the life jackets, even though I know it’s likely the safest mode of transport I’ve encountered all day. I settle in for a nap, thinking about Freddie. I’m sure we’ll meet again on another journey.

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UP NEXT

Photo Guide to Mongolia

In my next entry, I’ll provide a day-by-day photo recap of my two-week trip to Mongolia, which was the highlight of 2018 for me. 

(Hint: Expect plenty of CAMELS!)