Dear Tourist,

You know who you are.

I used to see you every day. Back when I lived in District 1, I’d see you walking around the Pham Ngu Lao area every time I went out. You’re that guy who lives right in the center of the Backpacker District, in a guesthouse with a couple college friends you brought along. Somehow you managed to convince your friends it would be fun to backpack through Southeast Asia. I’d really like to hear the logic you used on them. Was it the same logic you used on yourself?

At any rate, now that I’m living in District 10 I don’t see you anymore. I guess you haven’t left District 1. And why would you want to? You have everything you could possibly want there: all the city sights are within walking distance, there are lots of clubs, plenty of nice restaurants serving non-Vietnamese food, and even a few karaoke places. What more could you need? Of course, you’ll have to leave the vicinity to check out the new bar that just opened; all of your American friends say it’s great. How is the American beer there? I hear it tastes like it’s from America.

I can spot you easily in a crowd, except when you’re walking around the Backpacker District and everyone looks exactly like you. Since you’re always walking around the Backpacker District, I guess I can’t spot you easily in a crowd. But if you somehow wound up in the company of Vietnamese people, believe me, you wouldn’t stand out just because you’re tall and white. It would have more to do with the $500 backpack you carry around everywhere, your plaid Abercrombie shorts, and that old Dark Side of the Moon t-shirt you've worn for about six days straight. In case you haven’t noticed, Vietnamese men all wear collared shirts when they go out, and they don’t wear shorts. You really should have picked a different Pink Floyd album, by the way; you’ll get awfully hot wearing black around here.

In case you’ve yet to detect my snide, condescending tone, I’ll say it outright: I don’t like you. I know I shouldn’t form an opinion without talking to you first, but I just can’t help it. I see you on the street and I cringe. You see, I have a moral objection to your lifestyle. It’s not that I have a problem with bars or clubs or fancy restaurants; I’ve been to all of these myself on occasion. There’s nothing wrong with going out and having fun. It’s more that I have a problem with your reasons for being here.

Why are you here, anyway? Maybe you’re “taking a year off” from college. Maybe you’ve just finished college, and are doing a little backpacking before you have to go to work permanently. Maybe you’re trying out the ESL teaching bit, or maybe you’re just taking a vacation. It doesn’t matter. The one thing you are not here to do is live in Vietnam. You are here to be in Vietnam, which you equate to living here. Personally, I think you want the social status of being “well-traveled” without having to actually travel. You’re probably doing this so you that when you go to a party back home, you can tell the girls, “You know, when I was in Vietnam, this guy tried to pickpocket me….” I realize I don’t have the right to make this kind of judgment. I have no idea why you’re here; I’m just trying my best to think of a plausible reason. This is the best I can come up with. You certainly aren’t here to gain cultural experience. Your contact with the Vietnamese people is limited solely to the commercial plane. You stay in your role as buyer; they stay in their roles as sellers. Everyone stays comfortable and safe. You treat the country like it is an exhibit in a carnival sideshow: you observe, but always keep a distance.

I met someone the other day who is the exact opposite of you. He has given me newfound faith in what tourism can be. He is in his early twenties, is from the Netherlands, and has biked through Mongolia, China, and most of Southeast Asia. He left for Jakarta yesterday. Most of his six-month journey has been spent in small villages where no one can speak English. He eats their food, sleeps in beds they provide, and is constantly struggling to adapt and communicate. He confided to me that after a few weeks living like this, he has to stay in the city for a while; he has to eat something without rice and talk to someone in English. This is perfectly understandable; I don’t expect you, as a tourist, to go to the remotest village of the Amazon rainforest and live there without outside contact for three years. But what I do expect of you is respect for the country you inhabit, and therefore a willingness to spend time living among the people, experiencing their way of life. That is what separates this man from you. I can guarantee that when he gets back to the Netherlands, he’s going to have a lot more to tell girls at parties than you will.

I’m probably going too far in judging you. I have to step back. You’re not a bad person, probably. I really have no way of knowing. All I know is that you could be like this man I met, and are not. Instead you’ve chosen to waste your time here—time that has the potential to be truly life-changing—and waste it in a way that shows disrespect to a country and its people.

I feel sorry for you, really. Whenever I see you, you look lost and out-of-place. Perhaps because you are.




Sincerely,
Aaron