First Third World Experience... and Musings on Happiness

Travel Story by Tania Campbell

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

A recent sojourn to beautiful, scarred Vietnam; my first visit to a third world country, was a profoundly eye opening experience as well as a steep learning curve – not only did I gain knowledge of the history and culture of Vietnam, but more so I learned about the wicked ways of the West and the nature of happiness.

My friend Greg and I spent a few days traipsing around humid, muggy Ho Chi Minh City. From the first moment we left the safe confines of our rooms in a guest house located near the scummy backpacker's ghetto, we were constantly dodging stampedes of motorcycles, rickshaw drivers begging for our patronage, and a thick fetid smell that consisted of varying notes of sewage, rotting meat and vegetables.

We politely but firmly declined the leather faced rickshaw drivers who were as pervasive as the bad smells. Given the chaos on the roads, we figured it was safer and more interesting to wander around and soak up all the lively street action by foot. We passed old men engrossed in card and board games; old women squatting under their conical hats, selling small plastic bowls of pimply, deformed fruit. The decrepit, cracked windowless buildings were made beautiful by the large frangipani and jasmine leaves that hung overhead, offering a pleasant respite from the wafts of stale blood coming from the carcasses that were being butchered on roadside stalls. Serene, translucent skinned women glided by in silk tunics – tunics of all the colors of an Easter basket that danced behind them in the breeze.

I ventured around on my own for a while. One rickshaw driver was extraordinarily persistent and followed me around and around. Buddy, take a hint. My avoidance of him became less about the fact that I wanted to walk and more about the fact that I couldn't stand the notion that I had enough US dollars in my pocket to feed him and his family for a week. The more I looked into his sad eyes and weather beaten face the more I hated myself. I looked over his grease stained cotton trousers and shirt and a grubby cap shielded his eyes from the piercing rays of the sun. But of course, I wouldn't give in.

I became deaf to his calls of 'Where you go? Where you go? Come, I show you city, good tour, good tour!' I began to get angry and I tried to cross a busy road to lose him. However, this backfired as he promptly jumped off his rickshaw and escorted me across the sea of speeding motorcycles, rickshaws, cars and trucks. As we neared safe confines of the other side, I thanked him and then proceeded to stride away. 'But money! Please, some money!' he called after me. I scrounged around in the bottom of my bag and thrust him a handful of coins. He looked offended and upset, angry even. 'Very little, no much, no much!' he cried. I stared at him and saw a tear of desperation in his eye.

Too late, I didn't ask for your help. I don't owe you anything, I huffed and strode away. Later, while sitting over a milky ice coffee at one of the new stylish European style cafes to pop up in the city center, I read in my guide book that most rickshaw drivers used to be professionals such as lawyers, teachers and journalists and who were barred from working in these occupations under the oppressive socialist regime. They are desperately poor and work like donkeys to earn a very meager living. Did this make me feel bad? Not as bad as it should have. And of course, I didn't think twice about paying $5 for my watery, bitter drink.

Back out on the streets, the country's haunted past walked around in human form – the limbless beggars on the street, the disfigured freaks, victims of Agent Orange, sat quietly and desperately holding out their little pots. Greg gave generously, saying "I can't stand to see stuff like that, I can't handle it." I didn't give a dime and I wondered why not? I justified it by the fact that Greg comes from a wealthy American family and has a trust fund. I'm from a working class background and have a huge student loan. I can't possibly afford to give away money (naturally, money wasn't an issue when booking my ticket to come here).

It wasn't until we escaped the city and went to the beach for a few days that my attitude began to change. A bumpy crowded bus took us to a popular resort area a few hours north of Ho Chi Minh City. We found a hotel, which had decayed from its former glory and beauty, but was still very decent. It was right on the beach, overlooking the vast expanse of the South China Sea. Sitting on the large balcony, we watched British honeymooners walk by hand in hand, older Americans escaping the winter and gaggles of cool young things with bronze tans and tidy dreadlocks lounging in hammocks.

We strolled past the dozen or so large resort areas, boasting gleaming swimming pools and pristine gardens and then further north into the local fishing village, which was like entering a different time and place. Small wooden fishing vessels lined the water front and clusters of Vietnamese hiding under their conical hats lounged around with their skinny dogs, watching the ocean. There were small, dusty huts and ramshackle sheds masquerading as stores and bars.

The close proximity of such an ostentatious display of wealth to a dirt-poor fishing village was nothing short of shocking. I felt waves of incredulity and outrage. I felt very naïve as I couldn't believe the contrast – a first world of luxury resorts existed minutes from a third world village. I was momentarily disgusted.

I discussed this with Greg and he said, "You know, you can't help where you're born". My guilt dissipated under my own pleas of being relatively poor by western standards. I thought that Greg should feel guiltier than me since he had a cushion of wealth to fall back on. Of course, however, he didn't see it that way. He was thinking of all the people much richer and more able than himself who were in a better financial position to do something. And so the cycle continues....

One evening, before heading back to Ho Chi Minh City, we sat on the hotel's balcony overlooking the ocean, watching the sun set on the horizon and the little fishermen bring in their half-coconut shaped boats. We chatted with a British and an American man, both old and well traveled. The silver haired, rotund American owner of the hotel came out and sat with us. Immediately, the men directed the conversation towards the prices and availability of sections of land along the beach front. The men were disappointed to hear that most of the beachside sections had been sold and were about to be developed. All of the sections had been bought by wealthy foreigners. The only spin-off for the locals would be to get a job cooking or cleaning in one of them, for a meager sum of course.

It reminded me of my friend Annika, who after returning to New Zealand after a swashbuckling, rip-roaring two months in India, wouldn't shut up about starting a furniture importing business. I had to probe long and hard for information about the poverty, the street children, the disgusting toilets, the disease filled slums. She spoke of them as if they were mere distractions to her money-making dreams.

After witnessing everything I had seen in Vietnam – the riverside slums, the myriad billboards warning of the dangers of heroin and AIDS, the people with their faces half burnt off, - I should at least feel grateful. As someone born in a first world country, I am among the most privileged of humans to have ever walked the face of the earth. Sadly, however, I'm not happy. I stress about achieving, success, finding a fulfilling career, wondering if I choose a career if I'll ever be a mother, about not being able to visit all of the countries I daydream about.

Those of us in the first world have gone ahead and made a very destructive little planet for ourselves. We are so obsessed with consuming, with having more, with being more. We are never satisfied because someone else is always raising the bar of what 'success', 'happiness' and 'wealth' entail, and of course, no-one wants to be left behind.

A poor Indian woman who appears in journalist Sarah MacDonald's account of her time in India, Holy Cow, states that: "We are all very happy, we have no other choice". Recently, upon my return home, I picked up psychologist Jonathan Haidt's book The Happiness Hypothesis, and guess what, it echoes the sentiment expressed by the Indian villager – people in poorer parts of the world are happier, because they don't have a choice. Many lead unenviable lives on the outside (such as the prostitutes of a Calcutta slum), but from the inside, they are content, spending a lot of time with close friends and family.

Out there in the West, most of us have been taught to play the game of life, enter the rat race and become as 'successful' as possible. When the basic needs of shelter, food, warmth and companionship have been met, the sky is the limit for educated First Worlders. But is it? Despite my experiences in Vietnam, I find myself filled with fear, doubt and insecurity about being successful. It's not that I want to be wealthy, it's just that I find there is a very narrow, well-defined path to what is considered successful in the West. It comes down to whether or not you want to jump on the hamster wheel.

All this is relative of course. Many people in Vietnam would love to trade places with me – New Zealand citizenship, a decent education that will ensure a very middle class existence. However, my American friend Greg is just as unhappy as me and confused and undecided about 'what should I do with my life'. The problem is we have too many choices. We're scared about choosing the wrong path, about choosing a path that leads to unhappiness and god forbid, being 'a failure'. I often hear my friends say 'I want to be the elite of society'. It doesn't mean much to me when I see all of this poverty and disease. What does elite mean? Is it our purpose in life to be the best we can be?

I return to Planet First World. My experience has been amazing, as a traveler, a tourist, and a human. Do I appreciate what I have more, or do I continue trying to play the rat race, to live up to the impossible, self-defeating standards of success set by western standards. And am I a brat simply because I have the choice? I eventually decided that I'm lucky and that one day, if I work hard enough, I'm going to be in a position to contribute to the welfare of people in these countries. And if not, then I will always remember the lessons learnt there – be grateful for what you have, hold on to what you've got, material things do not equal happiness, and most of all, it's how your life is on the inside that matters, not how it looks from the outside.

Read more about the author of this story:
Tania Campbell

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