⚠️ CONTENT WARNING ⚠️: This post contains graphic injury photos. Visitor discretion is advised. By continuing, you accept responsibility for any discomfort caused by viewing these images.

This is a story that I’ve been thinking about how to share for a while now. Not only with some existential dread because it meant going back to day one of my biggest travel disaster to date, but also with some rushed anticipation because that promise of sharing seemed to offer some sort of closure and sense of enlightenment after the whole ordeal.

But now that I’m actually sitting here, writing my “tragic” little travel tale via office dictation; my wrist secured in a new black brace and resting softly on a feather pillow beside me, I feel quite calm and even proud. Proud not for the mistakes and hiccups that led to my disaster abroad, but for how I chose to embrace the experience and go on to have the most magical international adventure possible. So without further delay, here’s how my trip to Vietnam quickly turned into an empowering journey of self-healing and resilience.

disaster in vietnam

A Beautiful Scene

This story begins on Day Two of my long-awaited, two-week solo trip to Vietnam; my first time in Asia. I’m nearing the end of a self-organized tour of Huế, a central Vietnamese city known for its royal history, cultural splendor, and imperial palaces.

And despite the fact that any trip-induced adrenaline is beginning to give way to an inevitable bout of jet lag and the fact that my cell phone didn’t have service as I had initially planned, I’m still mustering all my energy to excitedly gaze out the car window and take in the lush landscapes and small shops surrounding the road on my way to An Bang Cemetery, City of Ghosts, the last site on my Huế itinerary.

Having been undeterred by its ominous name or hour long drive, I hire an amazing driver named Mr. Trung, who kindly streams and lets me regale him with facts about Laufey, a jazz artist who I have been listening to non-stop for the past year, our entire journey.

In what quickly felt like no time at all (thank you Laufey and thank you Mr. Trung), we arrive at a jaw-dropping, colorful display of mausoleums known as An Bang, City of Ghosts.

As Vietnam’s largest and most opulent cemetery, it’s easy for me to see how this cemetery earned its moniker. Getting out of the car, the vast expanse ahead is riddled with rows and rows of towering structures, some two – maybe even three – stories tall, and adorned with the most intricate gold carvings, beautiful ceramics and the brightest colors imaginable. The cemetery is both boundless and extravagant, feeling sort of like an abandoned metropolis from a fantasy video game or an animated film.

disaster in vietnam

The Moment

Mr. Trung and I walk up some brightly painted stairs and onto a nearby mausoleum that’s still awaiting future occupants. Despite a few dark puddles accumulating near the empty plots, the mausoleum’s ornate tile work and stunning view out toward the neighboring structures seem all the more unreal. So naturally, I do what just about anyone would do in such a dreamlike place: I capture it.

When I find a spot to set up my camera and tripod, it’s raining – not enough to warrant an umbrella, but enough to try and be quick about it. With the “city” spread out before my lens, I step into frame and nab a few photos with my camera’s interval shooting mode before carefully moving back along the tiled floor toward my tripod.

I find one more angle that I want to shoot before wrapping up and so I repeat the process: adjusting my camera to the correct scene and pushing the shutter-release button to activate the interval shooting mode. Only this time, the rain picks up and so does my pace. I’m not but three steps in front of my camera when I no longer feel my feet gripping the floor.

A dark puddle, hidden on top of the surrounding black stone tiles where I had once been standing, breaks my fall. Now, completely soaked with the cold water that was once beneath my feet and flooded with a combination of embarrassment and adrenaline, I bolt upward.

“I’m okay, I’m okay”, I mean to shout to a concerned-looking Mr. Trung as I stand, but the words freeze in my mouth and remain unspoken as a sharp rush of pain rings out from my left wrist.

“No. Absolutely not,” I think, unintentionally putting my hands behind my back; my mind refusing to believe what my body is now screaming at me.

Standing there for a few critical, yet swirling moments, I take in a few deep breaths, thinking, “You’re not injured. You’re fine. You’re on a dream trip abroad. You can do this. Suck it up.” Somehow I had unknowingly hunched over, my arm still tucked out of sight behind my back. I straighten, my brain desperately trying to believe the lie I’m telling myself in order to wish away the pain.

I suddenly realize that Mr. Trung had managed to close the gap between us and was beginning to help me over to the less precarious spot near my tripod. “Stay here, I’ll be right back” he says when we near my camera and rushes down to the car.

I now brave a seeking glance at the large lump that had formed on my wrist. Shuddering, my mind connects its unnatural appearance to the striking pain that has spread down to my hand and up through arm. “No, this is not happening,” I whisper, aloud this time, as I turn toward my tripod, trying to ignore the obvious by attempting to remove my camera with my one good hand.

Mr. Trung returns, “No, no. Let me help with that. But first, try this,” he says, rubbing a green ointment onto my now oversized left wrist. “A few American and British tourists gave this to me for joint pain – it helps.” The familiar sensation of Icy Hot envelopes my wrist and for a quick moment, a feeling of endearment for Mr. Trung’s thoughtfulness dances alongside the pain.

I give him the best smile I can muster and say, “Thank you so much, Mr. Trung. I think I need a hospital. Can you please drive me?“.

disaster in vietnam

Potato Chips

On the road to the Huế hospital, my mind is racing, not just about my injury, but also about the potential costs ahead. It’s the first time I didn’t purchase travel insurance before an international trip. With no physically-exhausting or adrenaline-inducing activities planned, I had been so sure that I wouldn’t need it. Now, I know I’m wrong. And with no travel insurance or familiarity of the local healthcare system, worst-case scenarios are playing out in my mind like a relentless movie reel.

Luckily, my doomsday thoughts are interrupted when Mr. Trung makes a quick stop at a convenience store, returning with makeshift ice packs and bags of potato chips in hand. It’s then that I realize the time—3:00 PM. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast and my stomach growls.

The next is a peculiar moment—here I am trying to ice and elevate my swollen left wrist in the back of a car while also trying to quell my hunger via a bag of tomato-flavored potato chips in my right hand. I definitely hadn’t anticipated this particular twist in my solo adventure.

disaster in vietnam

The Hospital Visit

After an hour, we reach the hospital. I check my phone—still no cell service and no WiFi. Google Translate is out of the question. At reception, a bureaucratic dance begins, where rapidly-spoken Vietnamese and sweeping hand gestures—obviously on Mr. Trung’s part—are used to relay my injury. The language barrier adds a layer of complexity, and I register how much I’ll need to rely on Mr. Trung to help me navigate this foreign healthcare system. Eventually, the obvious and unnatural and warped swelling in my wrist, elicits a sympathetic grimace from the receptionist who points us inside.

I trail behind an unsure Mr. Trung, who’s guessing our way through hallways and doctor’s offices. The uncertain minutes feel like hours, but eventually, we find a doctor who quotes us 600,000 VND, or $25, for an X-ray. Lacking travel insurance, I must pay this grand total upfront, managing to do so with one hand and finding relief that the cost is reasonable. I hope my luck holds out!

20 minutes later, I’m gestured into an X-ray room and over to a small stool set beside a large, metal table. Sitting and awkwardly placing my wrist on top of the cold slab, I clock the absence of a standard protective lead apron for the scan—a stark contrast from home.

I move back into the waiting area, where Mr. Trung shares his personal hotspot so I can text my family and tell them what’s happening. It’s around midnight there, so I’m surprised when my mom responds. We send some texts back and forth, “Sorry this happened,” she writes, “I love you. Keep us posted please“. Tears well up in my eyes as I process just how far away everything seems, a vulnerability that I had kept hidden away until now. But I blink away the forming tears and take a breath—clinging to the hope that my wrist will be fine.

Soon enough, I’m called back to the doctor’s office, only this time, I’m not alone. Another patient is already in the room, getting his arm put in a cast. He half-smiles at me while I sit down and attempt to calm my rising anxiety, brought on by the lack of privacy and my potential future.

The doctor now speaks through Google Translate on his phone instead of via Mr. Trung, whose translation skills had hit their limit. My verdict: a broken wrist, possibly requiring surgery. The weight of this information, as revealed in a short sentence on an iPhone screen, as well as the uncertainty of my trip, potential surgery, and future plans hit me like a ton of bricks. This time, I can’t stop the tears that come.

disaster in vietnam

The Unexpected

In the midst of my distress, my doctor learns I’m from California and asks if he can FaceTime his friend in the Bay Area to help us communicate better. Through tears, I agree.

With the help of our new translator, we attempt to bridge the language gap. It’s a surreal moment. Communicating my various questions and worries on a FaceTime call to someone I have never met, and then receiving an extreme amount of patience, sympathy and sensitivity in return. Somehow my anxiety eases and I’m able to start thinking about the reality of a cast and the impending changes ahead.

In due time, my cast is set and wrapped in white gauze. It’s a bit odd and uncomfortable, but having no previous experience with casts, I go along with it. Mr. Trung, guides me back to the waiting room. Confused, I wonder why we aren’t leaving yet. He then drops the bombshell, “You need another X-ray… to make sure the bone is set properly”. Another $25.

Back to the X-ray room I go, my mind swirling; my wrist throbbing. I anxiously wait for results. This time, the doctor declares all is well and I sigh in relief. However, my newfound peace is broken when I read his next translated message, “This is a temporary cast. You will need to get a new cast in one week“.

disaster in vietnam

My Village

Fresh out of the hospital and back in my hotel room, I’m sporting a temporary cast and waiting for my pain meds to kick in. I’m physically and emotionally bracing myself for my next step along this wild ride, and despite being a seasoned solo traveler, I know that I can’t take it alone.

Making the most of my room’s WiFi, I spend the better part of the night using Speech-To-Text to communicate with family and friends who were finally starting to wake up. My thoughts launch toward my next move as heartfelt messages and offers of “What can I do to help?” flood in. For the first time since my injury, I feel some level of certainty and realize what I need to do.

I FaceTime my friend, Kate, who luckily for me, is amazing in these types of scenarios. Recalling an Orthopedic surgeon I saw back home a year ago, I suggest, “If I can get him my X-rays, he can advise on surgery and if can continue my trip—I’m still his patient after all.” While FaceTiming me from her computer, Kate calls my doctor’s office and I explain the situation remotely. The receptionist relays that I must email the details quickly so my doctor could review during the few hours he’d be in office the next morning before their week-long New Year’s closure. Over the next 45 minutes, Kate helps me type up my injury details, and I forward her X-rays and wrist photos. Together, though thousands of miles apart, we send the email.

disaster in vietnam

Fast-Forward

My doctor’s reply came in a little over 24 hours later, while I was exploring Hoi An: “Based on your x-rays, this is a non-op fracture and it is ok to complete your trip in a splint“.

Once I had more concrete answers about my health, logistics became my new daily puzzle. I found myself in situations where having two hands would’ve been ideal, but I pressed forward, overcoming awkward dental flossing, solo photography limitations, unconventional packing techniques—and of course, another Vietnam hospital trip and a second cast.

My friends and family continued stepping up from abroad as well—sending me Vietnamese contacts, tour information for the days I could no longer explore independently, and even helpful Vietnamese information, like the translation for “floss sticks” (“cây xỉa răng!”).

disaster in vietnam

Resilience

So here I am, happily back home. My cast has since been swapped out for a small brace, but memories of my journey in Vietnam are still fervent in my mind. Resilience unexpectedly became the theme of my first solo adventure in 2024 and will be the thread with which I will continue the year.

As I embark on my next phase of recovery, I’m not sure what twists and turns await me, but I know I’m be equipped to conquer them all. Braced for anything, ready for everything—such is the saga of my broken wrist.