Dangerously in Love in Vietnam
I met Cám eight months ago in the seaside city of Nha Trang in southern Vietnam.*
I was in a shuttle van en route from my hotel to a bus depot, where a sleeper bus would be whisking me away to Ho Chi Minh City, in seven hours or less.
Not long after I buckled into my seat as the van's first passenger, it stopped at a street corner crowded with shops. After a short wait, Cám glided inside.
She was pretty and petite. Draped in an ultra feminine skirt. Her makeup and manicured nails were on point.
Cám was a Vietnamese woman who looked younger than her years, yet her eyes were cunning and hungry.
Like a bird of prey.
Hers were the eyes of a hustler.
As the van bobbed and weaved through morning traffic, Cám smiled at me and offered me an unwrapped mint.
I smiled back politely, accepted one of the mints, then held it in my fist until I could dispose of it later.
For my teeth were freshly brushed and minty fresh.
Not only that, but I had been under increased surveillance during my weeks-long journey in Vietnam. At the time, I did not know exactly why I was being followed, by European men and Asian women alike. Though I had my suspicions.
I would later learn that operatives, working on behalf of Finland, China, et al., were tracking me from one city to the next, from one country to the next.
Wickedly devising the most covert way and date to end my life — and my investigative reporting —
By making my state-sponsored assassination look like a tragic accident.
Why?
To try to cover up the child trafficking transit network transporting kidnapped children from Asia through airports, seaports, and rental car parking garages in Finland.
To nefarious actors in Europe, the Middle East and beyond.
After Cám, there were no more hotel pickups to be had. So the van dropped us off on a quiet road with an imposing hotel to my left and the lackadaisical Cai River to my right.
Since the sleeper bus would not arrive for another 20 minutes or so, I took a few photos and videos of the river, which boasted glimpses of the towering Po Nagar Hindu temple complex across the way. Po Nagar was founded in the 8th century, when the Champa kingdom reigned over southern Vietnam.
Cám sat on a nearby bench, engrossed in her phone. The second I put my camera away and sat on the bench next to hers, Cám's hawkish gaze switched from her phone to me.
She spoke minimal English and I spoke minimal Vietnamese, so we communicated via a translation app.
"Where are you from?" she asked.
When I said America, her eyes brightened.
"My boyfriend lives in America," she typed in reply.
Unprompted, she showed me a digital photograph of her boyfriend. Cloaked in bad lighting, he looked tall, semi-fit, and mid 50s. His face was guarded. His skin was cocoa brown.
"Like you," she said, pointing at my forearm. As though, through his melanin, she and I shared a special connection.
"He is a doctor," Cám purred.
"I'm going to visit him in New York next month," she typed. "He bought my plane ticket and we're going to holiday in New York City."
"Is he Muslim?" I asked when she told me his name.
She nodded.
"Are you Muslim?" I asked.
She shook her head.
'Tis a tale as old as the Internet. The digital lovebirds met online a few months ago. Talked and texted on the phone regularly. But had never met in person.
As a global traveler, I knew how important reeling in a big fish, like an alleged American doctor, is to women like Cám. In Vietnam, the average monthly wage is 9 million VND or $350 USD.
As a Professor of Love who has spent years researching True Love, relationships, marriage and more, there were so many red flags in Cám's digital "love" story that I knew it would not end well.
Meanwhile, the travel journalist in me was giving her the side eye.
I highly doubted Cám would be going anywhere near the United States next month or anytime soon. Per the current administration's crackdown on visas to nationals from developing nations, tourist visa approvals were harder and harder to come by.
In recent months, I had met several educated travelers from wealthier Asian nations whose U.S. tourist visa applications were emphatically rejected.
But let's play along with this charade a little while longer, shall we?
"Do you know anyone in America?" I typed.
She shook her head.
I asked if she would be staying in his home or in a hotel room by herself.
"In his home for a few days. Then we're going to New York City to see the sights."
"I know you're excited, but honestly, you're putting yourself in a very dangerous situation," I typed.
"It is very dangerous for you to visit a man you have never met in a foreign country where you don't know anyone but him. Very dangerous."
Cám frowned.
"Honestly," I continued, "if he were truly serious about you, he would fly over here first to meet you; take you out on incredible dates; and get to know you in person."
This, of course, was not what she wanted to hear.
Yet Cám, ever the hustler, was undeterred. Not skipping a beat, she moved on to the next item on her agenda.
"Are you going to Sai Gon?" she asked, using the old name for Ho Chi Minh City.
I nodded. "And you?"
"Yes," she said with a smile.
At this point, more people had arrived, our sleeper bus was ready, and it was time to board.
Upon checking off my name on his list, the bus conductor handed me a clear plastic bag for my shoes.
Inside, the bus was cozy and spotless. The aisle floor was soft and heavily carpeted. On this bus, shoes had to be stowed away between rest stops.
I settled into my bed, a bottom bunk in the center of the bus, on the right side. Cám settled into a top bunk, two beds behind me.
My bed was semi-comfy, with a gold, quilted pillow; a matching blanket; and heavy-duty window blinds. There was a small TV unit in each bunk that did not work. And a small, overhead light to read by.
Before we departed, the bus conductor provided a snack and a drink to everyone on board.
I slept most of the journey, as day faded into night.
After a bathroom break at a rest stop two hours north of Ho Chi Minh City, I noticed that Cám's bunk bed was empty.
And she was long gone.
Turns out, Cám never had any intention of going all the way to "Sai Gon."
As I settled back into my bed for the final leg of the journey...
I suddenly remembered that, right before we boarded our bus, Cám really wanted to take a photo with me.
* I don't remember her actual name. For the sake of this petit mémoire, let's call her Cám. A la, the villainess in the Vietnamese fairy tale, 'Tam and Cám.'
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