Halong Bay, Coronavirus And Us

In the few days we’ve been in Hanoi, the news around the COVID-19 outbreak has raced on, both at home in the UK and across the world. And as these days unfold, so the evidence of change becomes more obvious here too: we are issued with face masks; Michaela is refused entry to a shop simply due to her Western appearance, and the talk of our next destinations on this trip being on shutdown is escalating.

So we are only half surprised when our bus to Halong Bay fails to show, and the message comes through that they are refusing to take us on board because we are British. It takes some persuasion that we left the UK before the virus hit those shores before we are allowed to travel on a later bus.

Halong Bay was originally intended to be one of the major highlights of this trip, but we already know that the cruise boats have been suspended, and Halong city itself is shut down. We think that by choosing a room in Tuan Chau on the other side of the bay, we may be able to find smaller boats still operating.

Wrong. Tuan Chau is an absolute ghost town, streets and streets of hotels and restaurants completely shut down, empty roads, silent apart from the building sites. All of the cruisers and ferries sit idly in the bay, nothing but nothing is open. Our hotel is empty apart from cleaning staff who have to unbolt the door to let us in. What should be, and would normally be, a thriving resort, is utterly deserted.

Walking around this ghost town is weird. There is zero chance that we will be able to sail around the famous karst islands, and no chance of having a choice of places to eat. Or things to do. And we are now even more concerned that onward travel will not be straightforward.

So regrettably the first thing we do in Halong Bay is to arrange our transport out of here, a day earlier than scheduled. Given that this was destined to be a major highlight of the entire trip, and given that we actually have probably the best room and balcony view of the whole trip so far, it’s all a big disappointment. The grey mist shrouding the islands is somehow sadly appropriate.

To avoid another bus issue, we’ve resorted to hiring a private car and driver to take us to our next destination, Tam Coc, but again we’re not sure what we’ll find when we get there. After that we have tickets for a sleeper train heading south, we just have to hope we’re allowed to board.

So we can only idle away a couple of days in the ghost town; there are just two cafes and a Circle K open. We wander round its empty streets and beaches, sit on what would have been a lovely balcony, and wonder how the rest of our trip will pan out. Perversely, we feel quite content: why we would feel quite so content in a shut down resort, we don’t know, but we’re calm. Until….

Around midday on the Sunday, having taken another stroll around this odd deserted place, we return to our hotel to find the boy on reception in a state of panic and calling to us. In broken English he manages to convey that the resort has been quarantined and we must check out and leave town NOW or face 14 days in a quarantine hospital. Needless to say this is the fastest we’ve ever thrown our stuff into our backpacks.

We try not to panic but it’s not easy. All buses and ferries are already suspended, there is no railway here, the only way out is by road. The hotel guy calls the girl at the agency who booked our Monday lift; she can get us out tonight, but not for 4 hours. They’re telling us it’ll be ok, but we will be mighty relieved when we’re in that car.

Our next destination is a 3-hour drive away and, apart from the fact we’ve managed to sort out a bed, we don’t know what we’ll face from now on. 

So as we write this, we sit outside the booking agent’s office, wishing these next 4 hours would pass quickly. And crossing our fingers.

To be continued….