Good morning, Vietnam!
Sunlight streamed through our window this morning, casting a spotlight on my green roller bag—almost as if the universe itself was nudging us to get up and get moving. As I rolled out of bed, the distant calls of birds and the occasional honk of a motorbike reminded me we had a day of exploration ahead of us. From the kitchen, John called out, reminding me not to forget my bathing suit. We were heading to a waterpark on a neighboring island, but as we’d soon discover, forgetting them wouldn’t be a disaster—both the entrance and exit gift shops sold replacements. Gotta provide what the tourists need, y’a know?
Our Airbnb sits on a hill overlooking the town, making our balcony the perfect vantage point for people-watching. From as far as the ocean’s horizon line to the Bavarian-style brewery two blocks down, we’ve had a front-row seat to the daily rhythm of this recreated Mediterranean town. Watching scooters zip off to unknown destinations, construction workers pacing across rooftops, and tourists navigating the narrow streets always gives me a strange feeling—catching glimpses into strangers’ lives without them ever knowing I existed. It feels oddly intimate, witnessing their everyday moments from afar. It made me wonder—how many times has someone watched me in the same way?
I stepped onto the balcony, smiling a little as I watched the cable cars traveling steadily along their course. With the sunlight reflecting off the glass, they looked empty, much like the houses scattered around Sunset Town. But the line of tour buses parked outside the gondola station told a different story—there were plenty of people inside, hidden from view. Once we made our way down to the cable car entrance inside the recreated Colosseum, bought our tickets, and boarded, we would become those hidden figures ourselves—gliding silently above the town, unseen yet watching.
With John sporting his man purse (post-publishing editing request via John: man satchel) and me in my blue checkered dress—the one I had bought from a local seamstress at an outdoor market in Ho Chi Minh—we made our way down the hill to buy our cable car tickets. When we arrived, the ticket prices flashed on a screen, rotating between different offerings: Kiss of the Sea, Mango Buffet, Cable Car… John turned to me, his confusion evident.
“I have no idea what any of this means,” he admitted, staring at the screen.
“Me neither,” I said, squinting at the listings. “There are different tiers it seems? Gold, Platinum… It looks like there’s only a 50 dong difference between them.”
As the couple ahead of us completed their purchase and stepped away, we took our place at the ticket window.
“Two cable car tickets, please,” John said.
The ticket attendant held up two fingers, confirming, then nodded. “700,000 dong,” she said, gesturing to a sign taped to the window.
“For one?” John asked, confused. We had checked the website earlier, and it had listed 650,000.
“Yes, one. Gold package,” she replied briskly, eager to keep the line moving.
John glanced back at the screen, still trying to decode the ticket tiers—but everything was written in Vietnamese.
“Okay I guess, two tickets,” he replied, “what does that include?”
“Cable car, there and back. Water park. Something (that sounded like a buffet),” she said before confirming, “1,400,000.”
John handed her 14 green 100,000 dong bills, each adorned with images of Ho Chi Minh—a testament to how deeply he is revered.
With a zzzt-zzzt, the ticket printer pushed out two white tickets with QR codes in the top right-hand corner.
“Don’t lose,” she said, “tickets to waterpark too.” And with that, she waved us on.
With a smooth passage through the security checkpoint, we stepped into the wooden cable car station. Each gondola could hold up to 30 people—easily the largest I’d ever seen. The massive bullwheel rotated our cabin slowly along the track, guiding it into the center of the loading area. I felt a flicker of nervousness. I’ve ridden gondolas at least forty times in my life, yet that brief, heart-pounding window—the moment between stepping inside and the doors sliding shut—always gets me. Those final seconds before the gondola makes its first thrilling push off the platform sends a rush of excitement and nervous tingles through me. What if I hesitate? What if I mistime my step and get stuck? But there’s no room for second-guessing. You have to push forward and take that step onto the car—because the ride is always worth it.
John and I chose the wooden bench along the side of the gondola, facing the direction of travel. A Russian couple occupied the middle, seated back-to-back on the central benches, while another Russian man sat in the far corner, gripping his phone for dear life. Phu Quoc has so many Russian tourists thanks to the 30-day visa-free policy that John and I started getting pretty good at guessing who was Russian—usually by their serious expressions. They rarely smiled, unless they were asking someone to take their photo. Each time the gondola dipped or passed over a support pillar, the solo Russian man muttered, “uh oh,” and his eyes widened just a little more. Meanwhile, the couple let out small, playful “whooooooop” sounds, clearly enjoying the belly-lurching sensation. John and I spent the ride taking in the unbelievable views from all four glass walls— passing over islands, pearl farms, fishing boats, fish farms, small villages, and stretches of ocean. Midway through, a light sprinkle began to fall, even though the sky had been clear when we boarded. The patter of rain on the glass gave the ride a cosy feeling, in the best possible way.
When we arrived at the cable car station on Sun World Hon Thom Nature Park, the island at the end of the line, the number of tourists had noticeably increased. Tour groups, led by local Vietnamese guides holding brightly colored flags, attempted to walk in single file toward the waterpark. Families pulled their strollers off to the side, to tend to their restless children (who needed a snack or their favorite stuffie). The air buzzed with excitement, full of overlapping conversations in different languages blending into a vibrant, multicultural hum. John led the way through the crowd while I scanned my surroundings, searching for interesting angles and moments to take pictures of. We made our way through colorful halls, passed through a gift shop, and stepped into the open air of the Tiki Village —where we could hear screams of excited terror in the distance. Both John and I were hungry so we walked over to the big village map sign to find where the buffet restaurant was. “Looks like it’s just up this way,” I said, pointing ahead to where the path turned ‘round a corner. “Okay, but if you are wrong I’m blaming you,” John said jokingly. Turns out I was wrong and it was back in the opposite direction, through the village market. On either side of the path, food stands sold bowls of pho, skewers of mystery meat, and an array of exotic fruits. Vendors called out to us—“Sir, miss, come this way! Over here!” We shook our heads and continued on, drawn toward the promise of a feast. And a feast it was—delicious in every way.
Once we had fueled up for the adventure ahead, we set off toward the waterpark, eager to be tossed around in plastic tubes as a refreshing escape from the hot sun. I needed to change into my bathing suit, John wanted to secure a locker for our belongings, and we needed a towel—so we set off in search of a building that offered all three. We came upon a building with an archway that led to a row of lockers, with the men’s and women’s changing rooms on opposite ends. At the payment counter, friendly Vietnamese staff dressed in Aquatopia Park’s signature blue uniforms handed out towels and locker keys on yellow silicone bands. “Wear around your wrist,” the woman at the counter told us, “don’t lose or we keep your deposit.” Roger that.
After a few back-and-forth trips between the middle of the waterpark and the locker—figuring out what we actually needed to keep with us (which turned out to be just our shoes and the yellow locker bracelet)—we finally took our first dip into the water park experience via the lazy river. Named the Lost Lagoon, the lazy river featured decorations of big mountainsides, tropical animals, and jungle foliage. John opted for the two-person float, kicking back in style with his feet up. I, on the other hand, went for the single float—because I wanted to feel like a strawberry stuffed in a donut hole, drifting down a coffee river. Every so often, the current would nudge us into another floater. They’d giggle and push away, and we’d laugh too—it’s hard not to have a good time, even for the Russians. As we floated, it wasn’t hard to appreciate what a brilliant invention the lazy river really is: just a winding, human-made, chlorinated relaxinator with the power to melt your worries away.
Once we drifted back to our starting point, it was time to toss our tubes aside and step out of the turquoise-painted lazy river. After grabbing our shoes from the wooden and mesh rack, we exchanged a glance—ready to take on our first big slide combo. Little did we know, we were about to face the most intense ride of the day, which we referred to as the “grey slide.” At the top of five flights of green metal stairs, the entrance to this slide—and the one that coiled around it—was housed inside something that looked like an upright cryostasis chamber. When it was their turn, each rider stepped onto the transparent trapdoor, their weight shifting slightly as they adjusted to the unsettling feeling of standing over glass. The 20-something slide attendant, expression unreadable, slowly lowered the door until there was an audible click, sealing their fate. For a brief moment, time seemed to stretch. The pod filled with a quiet, rhythmic thump of a heartbeat—an added bonus meant to put the rider at ease. Then, a recorded voice broke through, counting down in Vietnamese.
Ba… hai… một…
Before the final syllable could even register, whoosh!—the floor vanished beneath them. Gravity yanked them down a nearly vertical drop as they plunged down the open slide, a continuous stream of water preventing their back from sticking as they fell. Toward the end, the slide curved—protecting them from being launched out of the ride—offering just enough time to let out a scream before the final splashdown. Within what seemed like seconds, they were propelled into the rectangular splashdown lane, where, if they hadn’t followed the proper hand positioning at the start, water would inevitably surge up their nose. Drenched and shaken,the rider would sit up, reorient themselves, and step out—not quite sure what they had just experienced but already eager to do it again.
John did this ride by himself the first time, as we learned that I couldn’t wear my Apple Watch… so I had to take it back to the locker room, this time making sure it was the last thing we removed and left there. In a way, the high standards of the slide attendant put me at ease, because I knew he was paying attention to the little details. After I returned, it was my time to tackle the grey slide. The anticipation of what awaited me at the top of those stairs nearly made me turn around, but I persisted—despite having a fear of both heights and glass floors. The slide attendant unhooked the thick metal chain, waving John and me forward. With two identical slides side by side, we could go down at the same time. He stepped into his pod with the calm acceptance of someone who had made peace with his fate, while I cautiously slid into mine, careful not to look down. As the attendant closed my door, he gave me a thumbs-up and said happily, “Good luck!” Then—Ba… hai… một… Bam!—the floor dropped, and I fell. Then, I died. Just kidding—but it felt like it for a moment. However, being submerged in a block of water at the end jolted me back to life, allowing me to rise from the dead and return to the world of the waterpark—Sun World, as they say.
I met up with John by where we put our shoes, both sopping wet but smiling. “Wasn’t that incredible?” he asked, his eyes sparkling. “Oh man, that was crazy. It was so short!” I responded, shaking my head to get the water out of my ear. “Yeah, it felt like three seconds max. Want to go to the next one?” he asked, gesturing to a yellow slide with a similar trapdoor-style beginning. “Let’s do it,” I said, grateful we had taken the time to come to the waterpark. After seeing so much of Vietnam’s darker history recently, dedicating a day to something purely fun felt like exactly what we needed.And on we went, moving from one ride to the next, pausing for dips in the lazy river or a wade in the wave pool. By the end of the day, we headed back to our little Airbnb, a day of fun behind us. Tired but content, we looked forward to whatever tomorrow would bring, ready for a good night’s sleep.
-W