vietnamese demoralization

Under the impression, based on my specific directions, that the bus stop I wanted was at the last stop of the local bus route, I just hung on for dear life and waited for the bus to stop. Nearly every other passenger had gotten off by that time, so when the bus came to a halt, only three of us got off. Once again I was nearly mauled by motorbike drivers trying to take me places, none of which understood that I thought the bus station was there. Convinced I was in the right place I just started walking around looking for the bus station. A young Vietnamese guy approached me whose English was exceptional compared to that of the moto drivers, so I asked him where the bus station in question was located. His expression led me to believe I’d received bad advice, because he couldn’t figure out why I thought there was a bus station near by. It turns out the place I was looking for was only 20 minutes from the airport and was halfway back the way I’d just come. Fortunately it had stopped raining by this time, so, a bit defeated, I hailed a motobike driver, hopped on with my flip-flops flapping in the wind, and held on as we zoomed through traffic, across intersections, over bridges, and through the old capital of Hanoi en route to the elusive bus station.
My motorbike driver was pretty awesome, he got me where I needed to be, and was as helpful as he could be; he delivered me to his buddy whom he surely gets a kick back from who rushed me onto a very comparatively lavish bus with ample legroom, and only four or five other passengers. I asked several times if the bus was heading out to Halong Bay, each time assured that it certainly was, and that the bus was going to stay fairly empty and comfortable. As usual in Southeast Asia, I was rushed from the motorbike and onto the bus with an alarming fury, as though the bus would be leaving in exactly two seconds with or without the second half of my body through the door; and then we sat and waited, for god knows what. Taking advantage of the fairly empty bus and exorbitant amount of time between boarding the bus and taking off, I made myself exceptionally comfortable, taking two seats for myself and my bag, and stretching my legs in between the seats in front of me, I thought I had it made for the next four hours. They more and more people began getting on. We would go about 20 feet in a forward motion every five minutes or so, a few more people would get on, rushed like I was, then we’d stop again, and wait.
Finally, all of the stragglers seem to have made it on board so we get out of the parking lot it took us nearly an hour to get across and set out for Halong. While many more passengers had boarded, I managed to retain my dual seats, which was nice because I could turn my body 45 degrees to the side and stretch my legs out a bit. Again, I thought I made off like a bandit and was in for a roomy ride for the duration. Then we started out on the highway, and I managed to forget about all of the little towns sprinkled across the countryside in these countries, each one of which having a bus stop that we would stop at to see if anyone needed a ride. There were two men working on the bus, the driver and the salesman. We drove 90 percent of the way with the side door of the bus open and this guy hanging out of the bus from only a few fingers allowing his opened button up shirt and Eric Estrada hair to flow in the wind. At every one of these towns the bus driver would slow down enough for the salesman to jump off, landing in a full stride, at which point he would run around the bus stop yelling things I couldn’t understand, presumably trying to get people to come with us, to take my extra seat away from me. Each time we stopped, we’d pick up a person or two, and each time I grew more and more resentful of this guy for getting me that much closer to losing my extra seat, selfish of me, I know, but these buses aren’t made for tall travelers.
About an hour into the journey, my dreams of a comfortable ride are shattered when we stop at what is to be our last small town stop and pick up a young couple. The man grabs a seat all the way in the back, and the woman comes to my row. Being the gentleman that I am, I give her the aisle seat and slide over to the window. Just then I realize I was sitting in the row where the wheel well is located, and my feet are now up on this thing, about eight inches off the floor, leaving me with my knees tucked up towards my chest, with no room between them and the seat in front of me, and my now hideously heavy bag on my lap. I look around for a pair of sympathetic eyes, but not a soul has any idea about my discomfort, and I’m the only westerner, so my chances of explaining the situation to someone in hopes of a seat swap were slim to none. I had to suck it up and remove myself for the situation.
I pride myself on being a good sport when I travel. I don’t let discomfort get to me, and I always maintain a positive outlook on my situation and my circumstances. Typically, if in a situation like this I start to get bummed out, I just remember that I’m on a bus flying east across Vietnam. A thought like that in and of itself is typically enough to bring me back to bliss and relinquish and feelings I may have about discomfort, and sitting on this bus, with my knees in my chest and my bag on my lap, I couldn’t have been less comfortable. This is the first time I was unable to beat the feeling and it started to get to me, I was getting annoyed, irritated, and having those feelings that I’d rather be at home, where things are comfortable, where things all make sense, where everything is on time, and “normal.” Demoralization can happen to the best of us, and it this bus ride started to get to me. One of the other ingredients to my dismay was the uncertainty of how far away Halong really was and how long the bus ride would actually be. I’d learned early on that the people selling tickets will tell you the journey will be considerably shorter than it really will be in an attempt to gain your fare, so when I was told four hours, I was thinking six, and at only two hours into it, I was petrified of the remaining four. This feeling is an unfortunately familiar one, it reminded me of the feeling I had in jail, not knowing what time it was, not knowing if the sun was still out, and unable to gauge the time by anything recognizable. The Paul Frank watch I carried was in my pocket, but due to my physical contortion I wasn’t able to get to it without asking the girl next to me to get out of her seat - and then what? – then I would just be staring at my watch, and we all know how quickly time slows to a painful stop when we watch it go by.