Serenity and peace reign over the carp-pond at the Pagoda's entrance
November 19, 2004
Hué
Arriving in Hué at seven-thirty after a restless night in a hard sleeper berth (2 feet of head room from the carriage ceiling and less padding than the ‘soft’ sleeper!), I found a decent hotel room with en-suite for $6. I then set about finding the hotel where I’d arranged to meet the Aussies. There was no sign of them at the agreed place and, with the Vietnamese predilection for copy-catting anything that sells well, there were at least half-a-dozen hotels in the vicinity with similar looking names. I didn’t hold out much hope of us all managing to congregate in the same place so, rather than leaving hopeful notes in every reception, I decided to send them an e-mail with my hotel’s details and a few rendezvous suggestions for later in the day. It was then that I discovered just how lucky I’d been with internet connections thus far in Asia. After trying four different internet cafes with snail-like results, I was starting to get more than a little vexed. I didn’t end up paying for any of them at least, as my patience tended to run out after 3 or 4 minutes of waiting for the Hotmail sign in page to load up. I had given up on the e-mail plan and was walking disconsolately back to my hotel, when who should I run into, but Mel and Mark with a cute girl sporting masses of curly blonde hair. Their bus had arrived rather later than expected and they and their new companion, Kate, were just heading up to our original meeting point. Kate it turned out was from Barrow-on-Soar…literally ten minutes from my old front door in Syston. Amused by the co-incidence, we were just discussing former haunts and hang-outs when we were accosted by a tout on a motorbike. It turned out that he was offering hotel rooms at a very reasonable $5 and the other three decided that they should at least go and check the place out. The rooms looked decent enough and, as they were all checking in, I made a reservation to move up there myself the following night.
Russ, it turned out, had disappeared straight off the bus on the back of a motorbike for a tour of the local sights. The idea had a vague appeal, as Hué seemed a lot less chaotic than Hanoi and I for one was itching to get out of town and see some of the local countryside. It turned out that our hotel tout, Tanh, actually ran motorbike tours around Hué and, at a cost of $5 it was too good an opportunity to pass up. We agreed to meet him at the hotel at 9am the following morning, giving us the rest of the day to get our bearings and deal with mundane matters such as laundry and feeding ourselves. After a tasty bowl of noodles, I set about conquering the internet challenge once again. I managed to send an e-mail to Fleur detailing our whereabouts before Hotmail crashed and I lost my rag – as an added precaution - in case the crash had lost my e-mail - I left a note at reception in our agreed rendezvous, on the off-chance that she might find us.
It had started to rain quite heavily by the time I met Mel and Mark for lunch and this had put an effective dampener on any sight-seeing plans for the afternoon. We passed the time with a few hands of cards and I also brought up the possibility of taking a tour into the central highlands to try and get away from the Highway 1 tourist route. Both Mel and Mark seemed very keen on doing it by 4WD and I agreed to send an e-mail to Tin to see if this might be a possible alternative to a motorbike tour. After another frustrating half hour completing this task – and with no let up in the rain - I ended up heading back to my hotel and making a start on Joseph Heller’s ‘Catch 22’ to pass the time. Outside the hotel I ended up running into Fleur who had, unwittingly, booked into the hotel across the street, before getting my e-mail. I arranged to meet her with the others for dinner later on at a place called the DMZ bar.
At the agreed time, there was no sign of Fleur and still no sign of Russ so the four of us ended up going for supper at the Lonely Planet recommended Mandarin Café. While Mark and I got stuck into traditional Vietnamese fare, the girls obviously felt like a taste of home and the kitchen produced excellent results in both respects. The two Aussies had spent the afternoon at the market but had eventually left in disgust, after realising they’d been ripped off over a couple of T-shirts they’d bought. To be fair to them, they hadn’t really had too much experience with the local currency at this point (Halong Bay was virtually all-inclusive), but it was too good an opportunity to miss taking the mickey. Kate and I both vowed to go to the market the next day and to try and procure the same T-shirts for as little as a quarter of the price. Fair play to Mel and Mark – they took their ribbing well…and I knew they’d be more than willing to give it back when the time came. Our only real concern at this point was that we still hadn’t caught up properly with Russ or Fleur and, as we headed back to the DMZ bar for night-caps, we were wondering what to do about the situation.
Of course, there was no need to worry…at the DMZ we found Fleur drinking with the two girls she’d met on the train, with whom she’d just been out for dinner. Not twenty minutes later, Russ walked in with the Danish girls from his motorbike tour. It turned out he was already booked in the same hotel as the others, having found my note to Fleur at the original hotel. After a couple more beers, I headed off to my hotel with promises to meet the rest of them bright and early the following morning.
The sky was still dark and gloomy when I rolled out of bed…not a promising start to the day. As I was humping my kit up to the new hotel, a steady drizzle began the slow, but inevitable, process of soaking everything through. For the first time on my travels, I was glad of my poncho – a last-minute purchase before I left – which I hadn’t really envisaged having much use for. While I wouldn’t bother donning it whilst wandering (preferring cool rain to the sticky perspiration the non-permeable material traps inside), I wouldn’t fancy riding around on the back of a motorbike all day without protection. All thus suitably attired, our mini-motorcade of five bikes headed off through the narrow side-streets.
As we headed into the country, we were greeted with the daily sights of Vietnamese rural life: Deluged paddy fields populated by conical-hatted workers; cyclos and bicycles laden to breaking point with fresh produce, furniture and live animals (one bike rode past with as many as 30 ducks tied to a cage – looking for all the world like some mythical, many-headed duck god!); a local woman on a motorbike with her foot on the stanchion of her husbands cyclo, giving him a boost up a steep hill with his heavy load of firewood. Children actually ran out into the streets to wave at us and parents turned the heads of toddlers to catch a glimpse of the round-eyes. Within ten minutes, I felt like I was seeing something of the real Vietnam and, despite the British-style weather, my spirits soared. Wherever we went and whatever we did, it was refreshing not to be doing it at the bidding of a tour-guide and on some kind of timescale. We visited an old covered bridge, war bunkers situated on a peaceful bend of the Perfume river, a Buddhist monastery and the tomb of one of the ancient dynastic kings. The calm and serenity of the temple as the monks gave thanks for their morning meal was matched by the still mist over the meandering river; the austerity and splendour of the vast burial complex contrasting the air of rustic simplicity in the small market town by the bridge. Gliding effortlessly along the rice paddy dikes, it seemed we had been transported back in time to an era without machinery and intensive agriculture…of course, we had merely left the confines of city life. It became apparent to me that this kind of travel was what I’d been looking for in Vietnam and I was all the keener to pursue an off-road adventure into the mountains.
As the day progressed, the sun eventually began to burn through the brooding clouds. The burgeoning sunshine, coupled with our shared pleasure at the freedom of the open road (as opposed to the stale, air-conditioned environment of the tour bus), soon had us all smiling and joking. When we stopped to see local girls rolling sandalwood incense sticks, Russ even had a pop himself. His first effort looked more like hot dog than an incense stick and provoked further merriment and a good round of piss-taking. However, with a little help from a pretty local (which I’m sure he didn’t mind at all!) he was soon knocking them out like an old pro. We offered to leave him there to earn a days wages, while we took the girl with us…but he blanched a little when told that on an average day, she rolled out around 12,000 of the buggers.
After a fine lunch at a local eatery suggested by Tanh, we headed back into town to inspect the Imperial Enclosure of the Nguyen dynasty. Once again, the buildings and their layout were on a grand scale and it was possible to imagine being the emperor and strolling around the massive Forbidden Purple City, surrounded only by Eunuchs and a harem of 143 wives. It’s hard to say whether he was a very lucky or very unfortunate man…although I somehow doubt that a feudal emperor would have put up with nagging on that scale!
Our trusty guides met us once again outside and took us on the final leg of our tour to the local market. As with most markets I’ve experience in Asia, the smell inside varied from pungent to overpowering, depending on the kind of produce you were wondering past. More so than anywhere else I’d seen in Vietnam, there was also a surfeit of begging children. Many looked hungry and dirty, but refused offers of food – persisting in asking for money. I have my reservations about handing out cash to youngsters who quite obviously ought to be in school…it seems their parents – or organised gangs – try to take advantage of their cute appeal and prey on the sympathy of affluent tourists. If they are unwilling to take food my suspicion is that there is an adult waiting around the corner to pocket the proceeds…and I’m loath to encourage the abuse. Even more distressing were the deformed or mentally impaired kids, encouraged to play up to tourists by wailing and moaning at a prod from a watchful minder. Again it was hard not to give them something, but for the knowledge that they would see very little of their day’s ‘work’. If they made less money from begging there’s a chance their parents may send them to school or have them properly cared for. We didn’t stay in the market long – our pale skin attracting too much attention from anyone with a cause to plead. My only purchase was a quick snack of Nem Lui from one of the trolley food stalls: a rice pancake wrapped around fresh herbs and pork sausage and dipped in a delicious peanut satay sauce.That evening we feasted on more of the same at ‘Xuan Trang’ – easily the best restaurant so far in Vietnam. The local brew, Huda, was tasty and refreshing…and at 9000 dong a bottle (about 40p) we sank a few to wash down dinner. Mark, Mel and I had decided to take a tour bus around the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) the following morning and, with an early start at 6am, we made an early night of it to ensure we didn’t miss the bus.
Russ, it turned out, had disappeared straight off the bus on the back of a motorbike for a tour of the local sights. The idea had a vague appeal, as Hué seemed a lot less chaotic than Hanoi and I for one was itching to get out of town and see some of the local countryside. It turned out that our hotel tout, Tanh, actually ran motorbike tours around Hué and, at a cost of $5 it was too good an opportunity to pass up. We agreed to meet him at the hotel at 9am the following morning, giving us the rest of the day to get our bearings and deal with mundane matters such as laundry and feeding ourselves. After a tasty bowl of noodles, I set about conquering the internet challenge once again. I managed to send an e-mail to Fleur detailing our whereabouts before Hotmail crashed and I lost my rag – as an added precaution - in case the crash had lost my e-mail - I left a note at reception in our agreed rendezvous, on the off-chance that she might find us.
It had started to rain quite heavily by the time I met Mel and Mark for lunch and this had put an effective dampener on any sight-seeing plans for the afternoon. We passed the time with a few hands of cards and I also brought up the possibility of taking a tour into the central highlands to try and get away from the Highway 1 tourist route. Both Mel and Mark seemed very keen on doing it by 4WD and I agreed to send an e-mail to Tin to see if this might be a possible alternative to a motorbike tour. After another frustrating half hour completing this task – and with no let up in the rain - I ended up heading back to my hotel and making a start on Joseph Heller’s ‘Catch 22’ to pass the time. Outside the hotel I ended up running into Fleur who had, unwittingly, booked into the hotel across the street, before getting my e-mail. I arranged to meet her with the others for dinner later on at a place called the DMZ bar.
At the agreed time, there was no sign of Fleur and still no sign of Russ so the four of us ended up going for supper at the Lonely Planet recommended Mandarin Café. While Mark and I got stuck into traditional Vietnamese fare, the girls obviously felt like a taste of home and the kitchen produced excellent results in both respects. The two Aussies had spent the afternoon at the market but had eventually left in disgust, after realising they’d been ripped off over a couple of T-shirts they’d bought. To be fair to them, they hadn’t really had too much experience with the local currency at this point (Halong Bay was virtually all-inclusive), but it was too good an opportunity to miss taking the mickey. Kate and I both vowed to go to the market the next day and to try and procure the same T-shirts for as little as a quarter of the price. Fair play to Mel and Mark – they took their ribbing well…and I knew they’d be more than willing to give it back when the time came. Our only real concern at this point was that we still hadn’t caught up properly with Russ or Fleur and, as we headed back to the DMZ bar for night-caps, we were wondering what to do about the situation.
Of course, there was no need to worry…at the DMZ we found Fleur drinking with the two girls she’d met on the train, with whom she’d just been out for dinner. Not twenty minutes later, Russ walked in with the Danish girls from his motorbike tour. It turned out he was already booked in the same hotel as the others, having found my note to Fleur at the original hotel. After a couple more beers, I headed off to my hotel with promises to meet the rest of them bright and early the following morning.
The sky was still dark and gloomy when I rolled out of bed…not a promising start to the day. As I was humping my kit up to the new hotel, a steady drizzle began the slow, but inevitable, process of soaking everything through. For the first time on my travels, I was glad of my poncho – a last-minute purchase before I left – which I hadn’t really envisaged having much use for. While I wouldn’t bother donning it whilst wandering (preferring cool rain to the sticky perspiration the non-permeable material traps inside), I wouldn’t fancy riding around on the back of a motorbike all day without protection. All thus suitably attired, our mini-motorcade of five bikes headed off through the narrow side-streets.
As we headed into the country, we were greeted with the daily sights of Vietnamese rural life: Deluged paddy fields populated by conical-hatted workers; cyclos and bicycles laden to breaking point with fresh produce, furniture and live animals (one bike rode past with as many as 30 ducks tied to a cage – looking for all the world like some mythical, many-headed duck god!); a local woman on a motorbike with her foot on the stanchion of her husbands cyclo, giving him a boost up a steep hill with his heavy load of firewood. Children actually ran out into the streets to wave at us and parents turned the heads of toddlers to catch a glimpse of the round-eyes. Within ten minutes, I felt like I was seeing something of the real Vietnam and, despite the British-style weather, my spirits soared. Wherever we went and whatever we did, it was refreshing not to be doing it at the bidding of a tour-guide and on some kind of timescale. We visited an old covered bridge, war bunkers situated on a peaceful bend of the Perfume river, a Buddhist monastery and the tomb of one of the ancient dynastic kings. The calm and serenity of the temple as the monks gave thanks for their morning meal was matched by the still mist over the meandering river; the austerity and splendour of the vast burial complex contrasting the air of rustic simplicity in the small market town by the bridge. Gliding effortlessly along the rice paddy dikes, it seemed we had been transported back in time to an era without machinery and intensive agriculture…of course, we had merely left the confines of city life. It became apparent to me that this kind of travel was what I’d been looking for in Vietnam and I was all the keener to pursue an off-road adventure into the mountains.
As the day progressed, the sun eventually began to burn through the brooding clouds. The burgeoning sunshine, coupled with our shared pleasure at the freedom of the open road (as opposed to the stale, air-conditioned environment of the tour bus), soon had us all smiling and joking. When we stopped to see local girls rolling sandalwood incense sticks, Russ even had a pop himself. His first effort looked more like hot dog than an incense stick and provoked further merriment and a good round of piss-taking. However, with a little help from a pretty local (which I’m sure he didn’t mind at all!) he was soon knocking them out like an old pro. We offered to leave him there to earn a days wages, while we took the girl with us…but he blanched a little when told that on an average day, she rolled out around 12,000 of the buggers.
After a fine lunch at a local eatery suggested by Tanh, we headed back into town to inspect the Imperial Enclosure of the Nguyen dynasty. Once again, the buildings and their layout were on a grand scale and it was possible to imagine being the emperor and strolling around the massive Forbidden Purple City, surrounded only by Eunuchs and a harem of 143 wives. It’s hard to say whether he was a very lucky or very unfortunate man…although I somehow doubt that a feudal emperor would have put up with nagging on that scale!
Our trusty guides met us once again outside and took us on the final leg of our tour to the local market. As with most markets I’ve experience in Asia, the smell inside varied from pungent to overpowering, depending on the kind of produce you were wondering past. More so than anywhere else I’d seen in Vietnam, there was also a surfeit of begging children. Many looked hungry and dirty, but refused offers of food – persisting in asking for money. I have my reservations about handing out cash to youngsters who quite obviously ought to be in school…it seems their parents – or organised gangs – try to take advantage of their cute appeal and prey on the sympathy of affluent tourists. If they are unwilling to take food my suspicion is that there is an adult waiting around the corner to pocket the proceeds…and I’m loath to encourage the abuse. Even more distressing were the deformed or mentally impaired kids, encouraged to play up to tourists by wailing and moaning at a prod from a watchful minder. Again it was hard not to give them something, but for the knowledge that they would see very little of their day’s ‘work’. If they made less money from begging there’s a chance their parents may send them to school or have them properly cared for. We didn’t stay in the market long – our pale skin attracting too much attention from anyone with a cause to plead. My only purchase was a quick snack of Nem Lui from one of the trolley food stalls: a rice pancake wrapped around fresh herbs and pork sausage and dipped in a delicious peanut satay sauce.That evening we feasted on more of the same at ‘Xuan Trang’ – easily the best restaurant so far in Vietnam. The local brew, Huda, was tasty and refreshing…and at 9000 dong a bottle (about 40p) we sank a few to wash down dinner. Mark, Mel and I had decided to take a tour bus around the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) the following morning and, with an early start at 6am, we made an early night of it to ensure we didn’t miss the bus.
November 17, 2004
Halong Bay
I arrived back in Hanoi just as the sky burst and began to dampen the spirits of the city’s early risers. I had planned to make my way down to the lakeshore (no not for the young men!) to witness Hanoians performing their daily exercise routines, over a nice bowl of noodles. Instead I sheltered from the rain under a piece of tarpaulin projecting from a garden shed, whose owner got a little cranky with me for not sitting down and purchasing tea or a cigarette whilst using his facilities. His grumpiness did nothing to ameliorate my Sapa-and-rain-induced foul mood so I politely ignored him until the rain stopped, before wandering off in search of my travel agency with a bone to pick. After 10 minutes of semi-aimless walking, I didn’t have much notion of where I was – the boarding platforms of the train station appearing to be some way from the place I’d bought a ticket from the other day. However, I had a couple of hours to kill and knew the Lonely Planet was in my bag if I got really lost…so I took pleasure in wandering through the wakening city, observing the pre-dawn lull rise to the usual steady chaos of activity. Arriving at my travel agency before the doors were open, I perched on the step reading Phillip Pullman’s ‘Dark Materials’, while a lady set up her noodle stall on the street beside me. Eventually, having watched the garlic peeled, the stock stirred and the chicken diced, my grumbling stomach forced me to park myself on one of her kiddie stools and partake in a fine bowl of Pho Ga (chicken noodle soup). Very tasty and a damn sight healthier than a Full English…
My travel agent eventually opened up shop and I immediately set about voicing my disappointment and displeasure. Coming from the UK, where the Trade Descriptions Act protects us from dodgy deals, I suppose I was expecting a partial refund or something. After listening to her sob story about the 4 day treks actually costing them money (some sort of loss leader scenario, which explained why everyone had been so keen to sign me up for a 3 day trek) and surmising that she felt not one jot of guilt, I gave up and put it down to experience. To be fair, I’d only paid $79 for my 4day/5night trip…and I knew Jonny and Steve had paid well over $100 for their 3day/4night effort. I figured the agency had another chance to prove itself to me with the trip to Halong Bay…and if that didn’t go as expected, then I might just spit the dummy.
Waiting for the bus to pick me up, I found Fleur standing in the doorway…she had managed to book the same tour to Halong Bay and I assumed we’d be travelling together and stand an outside chance of bumping into Jonny and Steve in a bar or something. However, it seemed we would be taking different buses to the bay – although we would at least be staying in the same hotel that evening. I’d taken a liking to Fleur’s down-to-earth scouse attitude…and it turned out we had both given up jobs in pharmaceutical sales to go travelling. It seemed a shame not to get a chance for a proper natter again, but there was nothing we could do about it.
Of course we did bump into each other a couple of times en route to Halong, as it became apparent that the bus drivers all travelled a set route and herded their passengers into the same pitstops. This started to irritate me again as I felt like a fish swimming around in a barrel waiting to be shot by a local. Literally hundreds of tourists all heading for the same destination like sheep on a droving road. After a month of independent travel in Korea and the Philippines, I wasn’t used to following the crowd. Also, at the back of my mind I was realising that the chances of Fleur and I bumping into Jonny and Steve were probably fairly low, considering how many hotels and tour groups there would be. To cap it all, our tour guide was an irritating little git who kept trying to crack jokes and get all pally with us. At this stage, the last thing I wanted was his false bonhomie and all he succeeded in doing was putting my back up further. At this point, I was about ready to jack Vietnam in and head straight for Cambodia’s less-developed sights.
Once we arrived in Halong Bay, things started to pick up. We found ourselves on a rickety old motor junk that had an authentic weariness to its paintwork and a true oriental charm. As we tucked into a tasty seafood lunch we wallowed and chugged our way out into the eerie beauty of the bay. The sky was overcast and the light poor, so I’m afraid the photos don’t do the place any justice. Suffice to say, rolling over the green water and threading our way through this maze of tiny green islands was a serene experience and one I’m unlikely to forget. Interestingly, the limestone crags rearing out of the water reminded me of the jagged peaks of Seoraksan and it occurred to me that it already felt like months since I’d been riding Shanks’s Pony over that rocky terrain. The mind seems to lose the ability to keep track of time when its experiencing new things every day…perhaps my ten months will seem more like a decade by the time I return home.
I only had to put up with my irritating tour guide for another few hours – the limestone caverns of Hang Sung Sot and some of the more suggestive formations gave his puerile sense of humour a field day, but by this stage I was calm enough to laugh. As the light began to fade, four of us were transferred to another boat, which was to take us to Cat Ba Island where we were due to stay the night. Of course, I was terribly upset to be leaving my companions with their guide, but such is life, eh? ;-) The minute I stepped off that boat, everything started to go well again. First thing to greet me on board the new boat was a thick Burnley accent proclaiming, ‘Alright, Fin! How’s it going, fella?’ To my surprise and delight, I had found Jonny and Steve…on a boat…in the middle of nowhere!! Woohoo!
Against all odds it seemed we would be staying in the same hotel on Cat Ba Island. They’d had heavy night the night before and had spent the day at Monkey Island and Sea kayaking around the bay…thrashing a pair of Swedish lads in an unofficial international race. Judging by the state of the Swedish boys, I’d say Jonny and Steve had nobbled them with that most famous of British talents…coercing them into necking to great a quantity of beer the previous evening.
At the hotel, I found myself bunking in with a pleasant German chap called Ziggi. Taller than me, if not quite so broad, Ziggi looked to be in his fifties and had found solo travel in Vietnam as uncomfortable as I had at times. However, his easygoing disposition made light of the low ceilings and cramped beds…certainly a lot more affable than most younger Germans I’ve encountered.
A delicious dinner (including some stir-fried frog) was hoovered up in no time and the English teamed up with three Aussies and a Canadian girl to shoot a few racks of pool and sink some Tiger beer. Canadian Robyn from Nova Scotia was a softly spoken lass with a mischievous grin and easy-going sense of humour. Not given to extroversion, her witty observations were few and far between, but all the funnier for their scarcity. Jonny and I both have similar jack-the-lad styles and the banter was soon flowing as fast as the beer. Steve, as the quieter, calmer foil to our loud exuberance completed the team and we soon cleaned the Aussies up at pool (or stick as they call it) and thought to seek alternative entertainment. Mel, Mark and Russ all hailed from Brisbane and had that welcoming, open attitude that travelling Aussies are renowned for. At 19, Russ was considerably younger than the rest of us, but had a refreshingly old head on his young shoulders. The first thing I noticed about Russ was the constant bottle of Tiger in his hand…the second, his constant willingness to engage with travellers and locals alike. He’d obviously taken the time to learn some Vietnamese and wasn’t the least afraid to meet and befriend the locals. His openness and straight attitude reminded me very much of another 19-year old I’d met in a Spanish airport just over a year previously and I soon warmed to him. Mark and Mel had previously been a couple (although it took me two days to work out the ‘previously’ bit!) who had decided their friendship was still strong enough to withstand the pressures of travelling together. At any rate, a trip to Vietnam seemed too strong a temptation to pass up over a relationship break-up. The triumvirate were connected by Mel and Russ’s jobs at Brisbane airport and all three had got cheap flights on this basis. Naturally more reticent than myself or Jonny, Mark, nevertheless, came across as a playful wise-cracker at first glance, although his shrewd political observations belied a keen intelligence. Mel was the more reserved of the three and spent much of the evening nattering with Fleur and Robyn while we lads got the measure of each other on a pool table that bore a closer resemblance to Twickenham after Lomu, than the putting greens of St. Andrews.
Over dinner, a tout had come round with cards for the Blue Wave nightclub and on Jonny and Steve’s assurances (they and the Swedes had had the place to themselves the previous night and thoroughly enjoyed themselves) we headed up there to continue our merry-making. First thing we noticed was how busy the place was for a Monday night in, what was really a sleepy little island port. The next thing that struck us was how few girls seemed to be throwing shapes on the packed dance-floor…with Fleur, Mel and Robyn we’d almost doubled the number of female punters. Thinking back through our inebriated haze, it dawned on us that the tout had only distributed cards to the lads at dinner…had we unwittingly stumbled on gay night? It appeared so…but didn’t make any real difference…we were battered and determined to ave it large! Russ, tanked up and giving it some was the first to fall by the way side…after a sweaty, frenetic half hour on the floor he caved in to exhaustion and alcohol over-indulgence and made an early exit. The DJ wasn’t much cop and the music not much better (swinging wildly from painful R&B ‘classics’ to eighties kitsch pop to dirty Eurotrance). I’m sure if I’d found my eardrums so assaulted at home, I’d have sat at the bar and annihilated myself…or gone home. However, I hadn’t been clubbing in such good company since early October and was fully determined to make the most of it. Jonny, Steve, Fleur, Robyn and I were last to stagger out of the place at the unearthly hour of half-midnight…living up to our national stereotypes for enjoying the sauce. Ziggi claims not to have heard me snoring, but I’d imagine that the skinful I’d imbibed probably put the turbines into overdrive. He was either being polite or had healthy supply of sleeping tablets, I reckon.
I jumped out of bed at seven to see Jonny and Steve off…their boat back to the mainland leaving an hour before our coach to Cat Ba National Park. It was unlikely I’d see them again until our returns to Blighty – their tour of South-East Asia a little briefer than mine, on the way to Australia. I’d have liked to spend more time getting to know the boys, but was chuffed that we’d at least spent one night out together…and I knew we’d stay in touch via e-mail.
Our walk through the national park was the perfect antidote to the previous night’s excesses and the views from the observation tower on the rocky peak were certainly beautiful. However, there was scant evidence of the abundant flora and fauna the Lonely Planet had described and we returned for lunch slightly underwhelmed by the experience. The saving grace was our tour guide Hăng – very sweet and friendly, although not in the sickeningly obsequious fashion of my previous guide. She had recently graduated from college in Hanoi and her English was excellent. Her ability to involve all members of the tour group was the making of the remainder of the trip…the two Swiss ladies on our trip and Ziggi were made to feel as much a part of the experience as the Anglophones…and we all found ourselves talking with people that we might not have taken the time to get to know otherwise.
Back on the ship once more we took a trip to Monkey Island. Unfortunately, the poor weather still seemed to be following us. At first, it seemed our trip was going to be to No Monkey Island…the little critters having disappeared into the trees to get away from a keen wind. We were on the verge of leaving, when the park rangers started gesticulating and shouting with excitement…sure enough, one by one several of the little fellas came swinging down through the trees and set about pestering us for food. The mother and baby combination won the lion’s share of the spoils due to extreme cuteness…although Alpha male monkey asserted his authority by chasing them down the beach, much to my pleasure and the consternation of the girls.
After another hearty lunch on board, we headed off to pick up our sea kayaks. Personally, I wasn’t overly excited by the prospect and when it was suggested that we might be able to fish off the boat if we returned from kayaking early, Russ and I jumped at the chance. Two further members of our party Thoai and Cody (Vietnamese/Californian and Hawaiian girlfriend and boyfriend) liked the sound of this too. A quick paddle around the nearest island was enough for us to assert that we could have beaten anyone in a race if we’d wanted to…and it was also enough for the curse of Sapa to come back and bite me in the ass one more time. Wearing my lightweight, but warm, ethnic shirt against the stiff sea breeze, I was a little disconcerted to find the dye from the embroidery staining my arms and swimming trunks a nice lurid yellow colour. Back on the boat, waiting to find some bait for our fishing lines, my multi-coloured skin tones (yellow and blue!) raised a titter from a group of Swedes who seemed to be invading our boat. It eventually became apparent that there was no bait to be had, but I was far from disappointed, having struck up conversation with a rather stunning Swedish girl, named Anna. We seemed to be getting on reasonably well and I had made the assumption that they were to be joining us on the boat that night. Thoai, the little scamp, could see that I was none too disappointed by this turn of events and made a point of asking them if this was indeed the case. When it turned out that they were merely using our boat for transfer to the island after theirs had broken down, my disappointment was all too obvious. This brought titters and smirks all round (particularly from Thoai!) and the nice crimson hue of my face gave a good contrast to my various other skin tones. When the rest of the guys returned from kayaking, we were unwillingly transferred to the boat we were to spend the night on…and the Swedish sweetie sailed off into the distance, never to be seen again…or so we thought!
Our night on the boat turned into another drink-fest (this is what you get for hanging out with Aussies!) and a late night cards sessions. Between them Cody & Thoai and Mark & Mel concocted a game known as Presidents & Arseholes…the concoction, being the meshing of American and Australian rules. The aim of the game is to get rid of your cards first to be President (Ho Chi Minh) and not be the last player and become the Arsehole (Hao Mung – Vietnamese names for a local flavour!) For my part, I like to think I eased the flow of conversation by translating between American and Aussie slang. It’s amusing to realise that so many people speak the same language in so many different ways. Thoai wasn’t averse to using her language skills to translate between us in the crew in Vietnamese to ensure a steady flow of beer and snacks. When we all finally decided to call it a night at three in the morning, I was able to enjoy a few quiet moments on deck, snatching glimpses of the starry night through the passing clouds. Drifting off to sleep in my cosy cabin to the sound of lapping water, evoked memories of my stay on Lugbung...it was good to be back with the ocean again.
We awoke the following morning to find ourselves back in Cat Ba Harbour once again…and it soon became apparent that our Swedish friends from the previous day were here too, waiting to embark on their return to Halong. By this time Thoai had managed to enlist the entire tour group in my cause with Anna and, as twelve pairs of eyes scanned the dock for a hint of blonde hair, I almost found myself hoping we wouldn’t see her. I was, admittedly, disappointed when we set sail without one last glimpse and received a good ribbing about it from my companions for most of the way back. Of course, when we returned to Halong, all the other ships were disembarking and, sure enough, we caught sight of Anna and her friend Peta, who Russ had taken a liking to. In an uncharacteristic display of boldness, I summoned up the courage to talk to Anna after the previous day’s embarrassment and – as the bus was about to leave (thus preventing any awkward waiting around) I slipped her my e-mail address and ran away before any of the gang started winding me up. It was foolish to assume we wouldn’t see them again and I had to put up with the good-natured goading of my companions during the cattle drive home, as our minibuses were disgorged at the same watering holes twice more. In conversation with her at the last of these stops, I ascertained that she was actually heading in completely the opposite direction to me, having come from Ho Chi Minh City northwards. Any ideas of hooking up and spending any time with her later in the trip were now resolutely dashed…ah, well…such is life.
Once back in Hanoi, I met up with Mark, Mel, Russ and Fleur for a last meal before making our separate ways to Hué. Fleur and I had booked sleepers on different trains while the Aussies were taking their chances on the notorious open tour bus (very cheap, long-distance tourist buses with a bit of a reputation for crazy driving and pushing passengers to stay in more expensive hotels for a commission). We were also hoping to catch up with Cody and Thoai but, as it later turned out, they spent 2 hours arguing with their hotel over a dodgy bill and we couldn’t afford to wait any longer for fear of being late for transport. I took the guys to a street café that Simon had recommended before heading back to San Fran. Despite Mel’s obvious initial reservations at eating on the street, the food was excellent and very cheap. We left each other with plans to hook up in Hué and to hopefully travel further south together from there. Having spent my first month travelling alone, I had begun to enjoy the company of like-minded travellers and I looked forward to spending some more time with them.
My travel agent eventually opened up shop and I immediately set about voicing my disappointment and displeasure. Coming from the UK, where the Trade Descriptions Act protects us from dodgy deals, I suppose I was expecting a partial refund or something. After listening to her sob story about the 4 day treks actually costing them money (some sort of loss leader scenario, which explained why everyone had been so keen to sign me up for a 3 day trek) and surmising that she felt not one jot of guilt, I gave up and put it down to experience. To be fair, I’d only paid $79 for my 4day/5night trip…and I knew Jonny and Steve had paid well over $100 for their 3day/4night effort. I figured the agency had another chance to prove itself to me with the trip to Halong Bay…and if that didn’t go as expected, then I might just spit the dummy.
Waiting for the bus to pick me up, I found Fleur standing in the doorway…she had managed to book the same tour to Halong Bay and I assumed we’d be travelling together and stand an outside chance of bumping into Jonny and Steve in a bar or something. However, it seemed we would be taking different buses to the bay – although we would at least be staying in the same hotel that evening. I’d taken a liking to Fleur’s down-to-earth scouse attitude…and it turned out we had both given up jobs in pharmaceutical sales to go travelling. It seemed a shame not to get a chance for a proper natter again, but there was nothing we could do about it.
Of course we did bump into each other a couple of times en route to Halong, as it became apparent that the bus drivers all travelled a set route and herded their passengers into the same pitstops. This started to irritate me again as I felt like a fish swimming around in a barrel waiting to be shot by a local. Literally hundreds of tourists all heading for the same destination like sheep on a droving road. After a month of independent travel in Korea and the Philippines, I wasn’t used to following the crowd. Also, at the back of my mind I was realising that the chances of Fleur and I bumping into Jonny and Steve were probably fairly low, considering how many hotels and tour groups there would be. To cap it all, our tour guide was an irritating little git who kept trying to crack jokes and get all pally with us. At this stage, the last thing I wanted was his false bonhomie and all he succeeded in doing was putting my back up further. At this point, I was about ready to jack Vietnam in and head straight for Cambodia’s less-developed sights.
Once we arrived in Halong Bay, things started to pick up. We found ourselves on a rickety old motor junk that had an authentic weariness to its paintwork and a true oriental charm. As we tucked into a tasty seafood lunch we wallowed and chugged our way out into the eerie beauty of the bay. The sky was overcast and the light poor, so I’m afraid the photos don’t do the place any justice. Suffice to say, rolling over the green water and threading our way through this maze of tiny green islands was a serene experience and one I’m unlikely to forget. Interestingly, the limestone crags rearing out of the water reminded me of the jagged peaks of Seoraksan and it occurred to me that it already felt like months since I’d been riding Shanks’s Pony over that rocky terrain. The mind seems to lose the ability to keep track of time when its experiencing new things every day…perhaps my ten months will seem more like a decade by the time I return home.
I only had to put up with my irritating tour guide for another few hours – the limestone caverns of Hang Sung Sot and some of the more suggestive formations gave his puerile sense of humour a field day, but by this stage I was calm enough to laugh. As the light began to fade, four of us were transferred to another boat, which was to take us to Cat Ba Island where we were due to stay the night. Of course, I was terribly upset to be leaving my companions with their guide, but such is life, eh? ;-) The minute I stepped off that boat, everything started to go well again. First thing to greet me on board the new boat was a thick Burnley accent proclaiming, ‘Alright, Fin! How’s it going, fella?’ To my surprise and delight, I had found Jonny and Steve…on a boat…in the middle of nowhere!! Woohoo!
Against all odds it seemed we would be staying in the same hotel on Cat Ba Island. They’d had heavy night the night before and had spent the day at Monkey Island and Sea kayaking around the bay…thrashing a pair of Swedish lads in an unofficial international race. Judging by the state of the Swedish boys, I’d say Jonny and Steve had nobbled them with that most famous of British talents…coercing them into necking to great a quantity of beer the previous evening.
At the hotel, I found myself bunking in with a pleasant German chap called Ziggi. Taller than me, if not quite so broad, Ziggi looked to be in his fifties and had found solo travel in Vietnam as uncomfortable as I had at times. However, his easygoing disposition made light of the low ceilings and cramped beds…certainly a lot more affable than most younger Germans I’ve encountered.
A delicious dinner (including some stir-fried frog) was hoovered up in no time and the English teamed up with three Aussies and a Canadian girl to shoot a few racks of pool and sink some Tiger beer. Canadian Robyn from Nova Scotia was a softly spoken lass with a mischievous grin and easy-going sense of humour. Not given to extroversion, her witty observations were few and far between, but all the funnier for their scarcity. Jonny and I both have similar jack-the-lad styles and the banter was soon flowing as fast as the beer. Steve, as the quieter, calmer foil to our loud exuberance completed the team and we soon cleaned the Aussies up at pool (or stick as they call it) and thought to seek alternative entertainment. Mel, Mark and Russ all hailed from Brisbane and had that welcoming, open attitude that travelling Aussies are renowned for. At 19, Russ was considerably younger than the rest of us, but had a refreshingly old head on his young shoulders. The first thing I noticed about Russ was the constant bottle of Tiger in his hand…the second, his constant willingness to engage with travellers and locals alike. He’d obviously taken the time to learn some Vietnamese and wasn’t the least afraid to meet and befriend the locals. His openness and straight attitude reminded me very much of another 19-year old I’d met in a Spanish airport just over a year previously and I soon warmed to him. Mark and Mel had previously been a couple (although it took me two days to work out the ‘previously’ bit!) who had decided their friendship was still strong enough to withstand the pressures of travelling together. At any rate, a trip to Vietnam seemed too strong a temptation to pass up over a relationship break-up. The triumvirate were connected by Mel and Russ’s jobs at Brisbane airport and all three had got cheap flights on this basis. Naturally more reticent than myself or Jonny, Mark, nevertheless, came across as a playful wise-cracker at first glance, although his shrewd political observations belied a keen intelligence. Mel was the more reserved of the three and spent much of the evening nattering with Fleur and Robyn while we lads got the measure of each other on a pool table that bore a closer resemblance to Twickenham after Lomu, than the putting greens of St. Andrews.
Over dinner, a tout had come round with cards for the Blue Wave nightclub and on Jonny and Steve’s assurances (they and the Swedes had had the place to themselves the previous night and thoroughly enjoyed themselves) we headed up there to continue our merry-making. First thing we noticed was how busy the place was for a Monday night in, what was really a sleepy little island port. The next thing that struck us was how few girls seemed to be throwing shapes on the packed dance-floor…with Fleur, Mel and Robyn we’d almost doubled the number of female punters. Thinking back through our inebriated haze, it dawned on us that the tout had only distributed cards to the lads at dinner…had we unwittingly stumbled on gay night? It appeared so…but didn’t make any real difference…we were battered and determined to ave it large! Russ, tanked up and giving it some was the first to fall by the way side…after a sweaty, frenetic half hour on the floor he caved in to exhaustion and alcohol over-indulgence and made an early exit. The DJ wasn’t much cop and the music not much better (swinging wildly from painful R&B ‘classics’ to eighties kitsch pop to dirty Eurotrance). I’m sure if I’d found my eardrums so assaulted at home, I’d have sat at the bar and annihilated myself…or gone home. However, I hadn’t been clubbing in such good company since early October and was fully determined to make the most of it. Jonny, Steve, Fleur, Robyn and I were last to stagger out of the place at the unearthly hour of half-midnight…living up to our national stereotypes for enjoying the sauce. Ziggi claims not to have heard me snoring, but I’d imagine that the skinful I’d imbibed probably put the turbines into overdrive. He was either being polite or had healthy supply of sleeping tablets, I reckon.
I jumped out of bed at seven to see Jonny and Steve off…their boat back to the mainland leaving an hour before our coach to Cat Ba National Park. It was unlikely I’d see them again until our returns to Blighty – their tour of South-East Asia a little briefer than mine, on the way to Australia. I’d have liked to spend more time getting to know the boys, but was chuffed that we’d at least spent one night out together…and I knew we’d stay in touch via e-mail.
Our walk through the national park was the perfect antidote to the previous night’s excesses and the views from the observation tower on the rocky peak were certainly beautiful. However, there was scant evidence of the abundant flora and fauna the Lonely Planet had described and we returned for lunch slightly underwhelmed by the experience. The saving grace was our tour guide Hăng – very sweet and friendly, although not in the sickeningly obsequious fashion of my previous guide. She had recently graduated from college in Hanoi and her English was excellent. Her ability to involve all members of the tour group was the making of the remainder of the trip…the two Swiss ladies on our trip and Ziggi were made to feel as much a part of the experience as the Anglophones…and we all found ourselves talking with people that we might not have taken the time to get to know otherwise.
Back on the ship once more we took a trip to Monkey Island. Unfortunately, the poor weather still seemed to be following us. At first, it seemed our trip was going to be to No Monkey Island…the little critters having disappeared into the trees to get away from a keen wind. We were on the verge of leaving, when the park rangers started gesticulating and shouting with excitement…sure enough, one by one several of the little fellas came swinging down through the trees and set about pestering us for food. The mother and baby combination won the lion’s share of the spoils due to extreme cuteness…although Alpha male monkey asserted his authority by chasing them down the beach, much to my pleasure and the consternation of the girls.
After another hearty lunch on board, we headed off to pick up our sea kayaks. Personally, I wasn’t overly excited by the prospect and when it was suggested that we might be able to fish off the boat if we returned from kayaking early, Russ and I jumped at the chance. Two further members of our party Thoai and Cody (Vietnamese/Californian and Hawaiian girlfriend and boyfriend) liked the sound of this too. A quick paddle around the nearest island was enough for us to assert that we could have beaten anyone in a race if we’d wanted to…and it was also enough for the curse of Sapa to come back and bite me in the ass one more time. Wearing my lightweight, but warm, ethnic shirt against the stiff sea breeze, I was a little disconcerted to find the dye from the embroidery staining my arms and swimming trunks a nice lurid yellow colour. Back on the boat, waiting to find some bait for our fishing lines, my multi-coloured skin tones (yellow and blue!) raised a titter from a group of Swedes who seemed to be invading our boat. It eventually became apparent that there was no bait to be had, but I was far from disappointed, having struck up conversation with a rather stunning Swedish girl, named Anna. We seemed to be getting on reasonably well and I had made the assumption that they were to be joining us on the boat that night. Thoai, the little scamp, could see that I was none too disappointed by this turn of events and made a point of asking them if this was indeed the case. When it turned out that they were merely using our boat for transfer to the island after theirs had broken down, my disappointment was all too obvious. This brought titters and smirks all round (particularly from Thoai!) and the nice crimson hue of my face gave a good contrast to my various other skin tones. When the rest of the guys returned from kayaking, we were unwillingly transferred to the boat we were to spend the night on…and the Swedish sweetie sailed off into the distance, never to be seen again…or so we thought!
Our night on the boat turned into another drink-fest (this is what you get for hanging out with Aussies!) and a late night cards sessions. Between them Cody & Thoai and Mark & Mel concocted a game known as Presidents & Arseholes…the concoction, being the meshing of American and Australian rules. The aim of the game is to get rid of your cards first to be President (Ho Chi Minh) and not be the last player and become the Arsehole (Hao Mung – Vietnamese names for a local flavour!) For my part, I like to think I eased the flow of conversation by translating between American and Aussie slang. It’s amusing to realise that so many people speak the same language in so many different ways. Thoai wasn’t averse to using her language skills to translate between us in the crew in Vietnamese to ensure a steady flow of beer and snacks. When we all finally decided to call it a night at three in the morning, I was able to enjoy a few quiet moments on deck, snatching glimpses of the starry night through the passing clouds. Drifting off to sleep in my cosy cabin to the sound of lapping water, evoked memories of my stay on Lugbung...it was good to be back with the ocean again.
We awoke the following morning to find ourselves back in Cat Ba Harbour once again…and it soon became apparent that our Swedish friends from the previous day were here too, waiting to embark on their return to Halong. By this time Thoai had managed to enlist the entire tour group in my cause with Anna and, as twelve pairs of eyes scanned the dock for a hint of blonde hair, I almost found myself hoping we wouldn’t see her. I was, admittedly, disappointed when we set sail without one last glimpse and received a good ribbing about it from my companions for most of the way back. Of course, when we returned to Halong, all the other ships were disembarking and, sure enough, we caught sight of Anna and her friend Peta, who Russ had taken a liking to. In an uncharacteristic display of boldness, I summoned up the courage to talk to Anna after the previous day’s embarrassment and – as the bus was about to leave (thus preventing any awkward waiting around) I slipped her my e-mail address and ran away before any of the gang started winding me up. It was foolish to assume we wouldn’t see them again and I had to put up with the good-natured goading of my companions during the cattle drive home, as our minibuses were disgorged at the same watering holes twice more. In conversation with her at the last of these stops, I ascertained that she was actually heading in completely the opposite direction to me, having come from Ho Chi Minh City northwards. Any ideas of hooking up and spending any time with her later in the trip were now resolutely dashed…ah, well…such is life.
Once back in Hanoi, I met up with Mark, Mel, Russ and Fleur for a last meal before making our separate ways to Hué. Fleur and I had booked sleepers on different trains while the Aussies were taking their chances on the notorious open tour bus (very cheap, long-distance tourist buses with a bit of a reputation for crazy driving and pushing passengers to stay in more expensive hotels for a commission). We were also hoping to catch up with Cody and Thoai but, as it later turned out, they spent 2 hours arguing with their hotel over a dodgy bill and we couldn’t afford to wait any longer for fear of being late for transport. I took the guys to a street café that Simon had recommended before heading back to San Fran. Despite Mel’s obvious initial reservations at eating on the street, the food was excellent and very cheap. We left each other with plans to hook up in Hué and to hopefully travel further south together from there. Having spent my first month travelling alone, I had begun to enjoy the company of like-minded travellers and I looked forward to spending some more time with them.
November 14, 2004
Sapa - The Misty Mountains
The train journey into the north was a far cry from the British Rail Sleeper to Fort William – but an adventure all the same. The rolling stock was a curious mixture of communist back-to-basics and technology…battered, unpainted metal carriages with narrow corridors and antique sliding doors versus digital trip computers displaying speed, projected arrival time and ice-cool air-conditioning. There are several classes of accommodation on Vietnamese trains – and two levels of pricing for each: tourist or local. The hardy (and hard-up) can opt for a very cheap and very basic hard bench seat – think British park bench with bright fluorescent lighting and windows covered by protective metal cages. Next level up are the soft bench seats – think British park bench with a thin sliver of foam covered in non-absorbent vinyl. Reclining seats – a little like the sleeping lounges on ferry boats, but without climate control or sound-proofing. Finally, the two sleeper classes: hard and soft. Hard sleeper carriages pack six coffin sized bunks into each air-conditioned compartment. The mattresses would make an anorexic roll-mat jealous with their sparseness of padding and the berths themselves are just long enough to taunt a tall man into thinking he can lie down at full stretch – only to realise that he can’t! I felt fortunate to find myself in the top bunk of a soft sleeper carriage. Added benefits over hard sleeper include only four berths to a compartment, a thick (but still vinyl-covered) mattress and a free bread roll and bottle of water (gasp!) The berths however are still, tortuously, too short…I found myself wedged in with feet flat on one wall and top of head gently pressing against the other. However, the slightest lateral head movement brought it into contact with the heavy duty chain attaching the bunk to the wall. Eventually, a recovery style position on alternating sides allowed me to take an hour’s kip at a time, before pins and needles required swapping. The journey was surprisingly smooth and quiet – probably mainly to do with an average speed of about 50mph – and I was able to read only a few pages of Mark Twain’s ‘The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn’ before the swaying motion and rhythmic percussion of the passing miles sent me off to the Land of Nod. Apart from the inherent problems of being a big man in a small man’s land, I was woken several times during the night by my poor travelling companions as the locomotive sound of my snoring became too much. Anybody who’s suffered the dubious pleasure of sharing a room with me and my rhinoceros-being-slaughtered-with-a-blunt-spoon night noises, should spare a thought for my three roomies…imagine the reverberation in a 6ftx9ftx6ft metal box…ouch!
We arrived in Lao Cai as dawn was struggling to break on the mist-shrouded mountains. One pleasing similarity between the Euston-Fort William and Hanoi-Lao Cai routes, is that marvellous sensation of having left the hustle and bustle of the city behind to wake up breathing fresh mountain air and drinking in the alpine scenery. A ‘cosy’ ride into the hills in a tiny clapped-out minibus, saw us arrive in a cool and misty Sapa in time for an early breakfast. I got talking to a trio of English Northerners – Steve and Jonny were mates from Liverpool and Burnley; Fleur another Scouser who’d met this pair of likely lads on the train. We hit it off pretty well from the start and I was disappointed to discover their tour of Sapa was a day shorter than mine and on a different route. Over breakfast we managed to swap e-mails and itineraries, with a view to meeting up in Halong Bay or back in Hanoi if we could.
Not long after they left, I learnt my first lesson about package tours in Vietnam: You don’t always get what you’ve asked or paid for…:-( My guide turned out to be an affable young chap called Huom. The first thing I discovered after his name was that he was very sorry, but the requisite permit for our third village home-stay had not been forthcoming. We would therefore be trekking only for three days and I would be spending my last night in Sapa in the hotel. I was a little irritated as I had deliberately signed up for the 4 day hard trek as I wanted to give myself a good workout after all the beach-bumming in the Philippines. I had also wanted to spend an extra night with a different ethnic minority family, as my other reason for coming to Sapa had been to meet the hill tribes and see how they lived…as I was to discover, the extra night would make little difference. I was left waiting for an hour with no real idea of what was happening next (a familiar feeling after a few days in Vietnam, believe me) and wondering when I’d be able to take my promised hot shower. Huom eventually returned to tell me that we would be leaving in 15 minutes and seemed a little flummoxed by my request for a shower…it seemed like he had very little idea of what was going on either. He explained that my tour company in Hanoi paid the hotel to arrange tours…and that he merely guided the tourists according to the hotel’s instructions. I could see there was no point in shooting the messenger, but I was definitely given the impression that the management of the Royal Hotel don’t give a rat’s ass about customers once they’ve taken their cash. Fortunately, Jonny and Steve came to the rescue and allowed me to use the shower in their room – so I didn’t hum too badly when it came to meeting the rest of my tour group.
There were only five of us including Huom, which I was very pleased about…I didn’t want to be part of a dozen-strong gaggle of ‘round-eyes’ barrelling through the villages and disturbing the locals. Lesson number two about package tours in Vietnam: you’ll never disturb the locals en route…they’re ready and waiting to ambush you to try and make money from you. As I and my fellow travellers were to discover, three days of ‘You buy this from me…you buy that from me (I’ve already got one!) ….you buy two…you have brother? Buy for brother….buy for friend’ gets a bit wearing. I won’t claim to have the patience of a saint, but you could not ask to meet two nicer, gentler folk than Jamie and Melanie from Alaska…and even they were a bit sick of it by the time we returned to Sapa. The other member of our party seemed to be spared most of the hassle by dint of his English skills. Hamada-San was a logistics manager from Japan and, while Melanie, Jamie and I were able to make intelligible conversation with him (with a little effort on our part), seeing non-native speakers trying to sell stuff in English to another non-native speaker was actually quite comical at times. Prior to our trek, our Japanese companion had completed a hard 3-day assault on the summit of Fansipan (at 3143m, Vietnam’s highest mountain). He certainly had the appearance of an office worker rather than a hardened outdoor enthusiast and, despite his admirable stoicism, by the end of day one it was apparent that he was finding the going tough. Hamada-San’s natural reticence and growing fatigue meant that, increasingly I found myself in stride and conversation with the Alaskans. In contrast to Hamada, it was obvious that Melanie and Jamie made regular forays into the spectacular outdoors of their homeland. They made excellent company for the road with a good level of light banter and plenty of tales and good humour. They had only recently married and, while it was obvious that they were very much in love, they made me feel as welcome and included as an old school-friend. I’ve been struggling to find words that do them justice, as I took such pleasure in their company and intelligent conversation. I think what it boils down to, simply, is that they are plain, salt-of-the-earth, good people…and I look forward to our paths crossing again in the future. From very different backgrounds and refreshingly different perspectives we all seemed to share common views on the benefits of travelling and the necessity (at least to try) to understand other cultures. Melanie’s job as a flight attendant with Alaska Airlines and Jamie’s occupation as a house-builder (a seasonal activity in their neck of the woods!) mean that they are both able to take extended vacations. If you can take the time off, trips to South-East Asia and South / Central America instead of mundane all-inclusive package holidays are certainly more cost-effective and mind-stimulating. You certainly get to meet a different breed of traveller…
After our initial uncertainty (it turned out the other three had been sold different tours too!), Huom turned out to be an excellent guide. His English was excellent, having spent 4 years studying in Hanoi, and his knowledge of the local paths and tracks meant we followed an interesting and varied route down into the valleys of the local hill tribes. He kept up a constant stream of information about the origins of the various tribes and their customs, whilst taking us along at a nice steady pace in the growing heat. We made stops for drinks and food at various shady shacks along the way…and soon came to realise that a stationary group of tourists is like a magnet to the quaintly dressed girls and women of the local tribes. For the early part of the day we encountered mostly H’mong tribeswomen in their indigo dyed traditional dress. I understand that the villagers have adapted their lifestyle to make the best of their situation, so it would be unfair to blame them for wanting to sell their wares to as many tourists as possible. What was difficult to accept was their hardcore persistence…double-glazing and timeshare salesmen could learn the true meaning of hard-sell by taking lessons from these girls! Saying, ‘No, thank you,’ twenty-five times to each and every member of the twenty-strong scrum that descends on you in every village is taxing – on both patience and energy. Still, the sun was shining, the scenery spectacular and the company excellent – so the novelty factor took plenty of time to wear off. The sun was shining so hard, in fact, that I soon began to worry about my lack of sun-block (having not had chance to apply my hi-tech gunk after my rushed shower earlier on). I thought I could kill two birds with one stone by purchasing one of the beautifully embroidered local shirts from one of the hard-sellers. Namely, to cover up my arms and to put off new vendors by showing that I’d already bought something. As a ploy it worked only partially…I was too late to stop my arms from burning, although I suppose it would have been worse without the shirt…and the villagers only tried harder to sell me stuff – probably, as Melanie suggested, because they thought I was an easy target, having succumbed once already. The best part of the joke was still to come though…later, having stripped off my sweaty shirt, it became apparent that some of the shirt had stayed with me…namely the indigo dye! The salt in my copious perspiration had also caused the dye to set on my skin…so I actually spent much of my first two weeks in Vietnam looking like a smurf…much to everyone else’s amusement.
Disappointingly, our first day’s trek came to an end at 3pm – the supposed 18km of hard trekking we had been expecting probably wasn’t more than 12km of gentle hill-walking…certainly not what we’d signed up for. Our next bug-bear was our home-stay. Expectations involved staying in a traditional house with a family, sharing a meal with them and perhaps sitting round the fire talking with our guide translating for us. Reality was a purpose built guest-house (admittedly in traditional style, but around 4 times the size) with 12 mattresses, separate meals for us (tour group on porch) and them (guide and family in kitchen) and being left to entertain ourselves while they watched television. Once again, I appreciate that the locals’ life has been adapted to meet tourism demand…but it was, nevertheless, disappointing. Instead of gaining a true insight into the lives of the local people, we merely discovered that they were very good at making money out of tourists. Melanie and Jamie taught me to play cribbage and, certainly, the hours didn’t drag in their company but (as Jamie remarked) we could have been playing in Anchorage or Harrogate…why travel to the Vietnamese mountains? Dinner was certainly delicious and there was plenty of it, but it would have been nice to break bread with our hosts…
Day two was very similar to the first day, although the tracks were a little treacherous after overnight rain. A filling breakfast of pancakes suited me to a T…although Hamada didn’t look too impressed. Asians tend to eat noodles for breakfast and he only managed to force about half a pancake down before giving up. He seemed unusually tired and, when questioned, admitted that he’d been kept awake by some horrendous snoring…I felt extremely guilty eating his share of breakfast and knowing I’d prevented him from getting some much needed sleep. Still, I wasn’t about to let good food go to waste! The scenery was, once again, breath-taking but we were forced to take to the road for a long stretch to avoid some dangerously steep downhill sections, which the rain had turned into death slides. The road into the valley was in the process of being widened and properly paved, so the abundance of digging machinery and fume-belching lorries didn’t do much for the aesthetic appeal of the place. Once again our home-stay was disappointingly commercial and the over-whelming feeling was not one of mutual understanding…more like prey being circled by predators.
Our final day on the trail was by far the best in terms of both local interaction and hard physical effort. We crossed the valley and climbed up the other side to see a village of the Dao minority. They seemed far less interested in selling us stuff and we were even able to elicit shy smiles from some of the local kids instead of having to fend them off. Village life seemed to continue around us - with the daily food preparation and cleaning chores being carried out alongside weekend activities such as maintenance on their wooden houses and repairs to agricultural machinery (equivalent to banging up a couple of shelves and washing the car?).
Back in the valley just nicely for mid-day, we began the long and arduous climb back up to the road as the sun beat down fiercely on our bowed heads. Jamie and Melanie left me for dead as their mountain-ready legs bore them steadily up the winding path. Unable to sustain their perpetual motion, I was forced to take ever-more-frequent, gasping and sweaty breaks. Still, Hamada-San was the true hero…after his exertions on Fansipan, no sleep and a breakfast consisting of the juice of two lemons he forced his tired limbs up the slope only fifteen minutes behind me.
After lunch, it seemed like we waited forever for our Jeep to come and pick us up. While I was content to rest and allow lunch to settle, Jamie and Melanie found themselves drawn into a game of shuttlecock with some local girls. The kids were genuinely enjoying themselves and, while they made an easy sale of the shuttlecocks when the game ended, I don’t believe that was their ultimate motive.
The jeep ride back to Sapa over the un-constructed road was one of my least favourite automotive experiences ever…ranking pretty closely to a certain trip down the A30 a few years ago. Poor suspension, underpowered engine, exhaust fumes and heat contributed to a fairly nauseating experience…add the possibility of certain death from the steep drops on the left side (just as well my weight was on the right!) and you can understand that we were pretty relieved to return to the hotel in Sapa.
Of course, our relief only lasted long enough for us to work out that the hotel didn’t have any rooms for us. I wasn’t so fussed about that particular hotel…I was supposed to be staying in a village anyway. Jamie and Mel, on the other hand, were pretty disgruntled. Having stayed in the hotel the night prior to our trek, they had reserved and paid for the same room again to keep the beautiful view. They had even left their passports at the hotel and paid extra as this was a Saturday night. The attitude of the hotel staff, once again, left a lot to be desired. We finally got rooms at a nearby hotel and found a decent restaurant for a bite to eat. After dinner, in order to learn a little more about the local culture, we headed down to a bar with a floor show of traditional hill-tribe dancing. I’m no expert in the dancing customs of North West Vietnam, but I’m pretty sure the show was just an elaborate hoax to make more money from tourists. Some of the miming and the sheer lack of effort from the participants brought embarrassed grimaces and even sniggers of derision from the audience. The knowing smirks exchanged by the dancing girls seemed to add credence to the hoax theory and we left after twenty minutes, opting to spend our tourist dollar elsewhere.
The following day, with nothing to do until my night-train left at 8.50, I took a wander around the market and purchased a new ethnic shirt – this time mostly white, with some nice embroidered detail. I felt particularly chuffed with my bartering skills – walking all the way round the market, trying on twenty or so shirts until I found one that fitted at the right price. The food market was teeming with every kind of plant and animal as you’ll see from the photos…but I had arranged to meet Melanie and Jamie at a café for lunch, so passed up the exotic fare on offer. Their experience with the Royal Hotel had deteriorated further since the previous evening, with some screaming harpy haranguing them over breakfast for having the audacity to ask for their money back after being put in an inferior hotel. Contrary to everywhere else I’d been in Asia (and thus far in Vietnam), customer service and good manners seemed to be sadly lacking here – something we attributed to the sheer volume of tourists who come…if you upset the odd few, it doesn’t matter as you’re still making money hand over fist.
Melanie and Jamie were catching an earlier train to Hanoi, so we parted later that afternoon after a farewell beer. E-mails were exchanged - and mutual invitations to visit too. Characteristic of their generosity of spirit, they kindly gave me their (brand-spanking new!) copy of the Cambodia Lonely Planet as they knew I was heading there after Vietnam. Whatever else happened in Sapa, I’m glad to have met these two and I look forward to introducing them to you guys when they’re over in England. I’m already planning an Alaskan leg on my next trip to check out the hiking and climbing near their home. Thanks guys…you were the one saving grace of Sapa :-).
After they left, I buried my nose in Huck Finn…Huom had noticed me reading it the other day and had professed to it being one of his favourite books in Vietnamese, so I had promised to give it to him before I left. I can only imagine how he’s coping with the colloquialisms of the Mississippi basin!
On the journey back to Hanoi, I lay reflecting on my Sapa experience. I was pretty disillusioned…I hadn’t expected the commercialism to be so rampant, nor the locals to be so affected by the tourist influx. I was glad to have met Melanie and Jamie and to have seen the beautiful scenery and the equally beautiful people, but I couldn’t recommend my experience to a friend. A better option might have been to head up to the hills under my own steam and book a two day trek. This would have minimized the commercial overkill and the chances of being ripped off by cynical tour operators. In the back of my mind I was desperately hoping that the rest of Vietnam would not be so sullied.
Sorry if this hasn’t made particularly pleasant reading, guys. It was my first (partially) negative experience since leaving home, but I want to give a full and honest account of my travels …warts ‘n’ all.
We arrived in Lao Cai as dawn was struggling to break on the mist-shrouded mountains. One pleasing similarity between the Euston-Fort William and Hanoi-Lao Cai routes, is that marvellous sensation of having left the hustle and bustle of the city behind to wake up breathing fresh mountain air and drinking in the alpine scenery. A ‘cosy’ ride into the hills in a tiny clapped-out minibus, saw us arrive in a cool and misty Sapa in time for an early breakfast. I got talking to a trio of English Northerners – Steve and Jonny were mates from Liverpool and Burnley; Fleur another Scouser who’d met this pair of likely lads on the train. We hit it off pretty well from the start and I was disappointed to discover their tour of Sapa was a day shorter than mine and on a different route. Over breakfast we managed to swap e-mails and itineraries, with a view to meeting up in Halong Bay or back in Hanoi if we could.
Not long after they left, I learnt my first lesson about package tours in Vietnam: You don’t always get what you’ve asked or paid for…:-( My guide turned out to be an affable young chap called Huom. The first thing I discovered after his name was that he was very sorry, but the requisite permit for our third village home-stay had not been forthcoming. We would therefore be trekking only for three days and I would be spending my last night in Sapa in the hotel. I was a little irritated as I had deliberately signed up for the 4 day hard trek as I wanted to give myself a good workout after all the beach-bumming in the Philippines. I had also wanted to spend an extra night with a different ethnic minority family, as my other reason for coming to Sapa had been to meet the hill tribes and see how they lived…as I was to discover, the extra night would make little difference. I was left waiting for an hour with no real idea of what was happening next (a familiar feeling after a few days in Vietnam, believe me) and wondering when I’d be able to take my promised hot shower. Huom eventually returned to tell me that we would be leaving in 15 minutes and seemed a little flummoxed by my request for a shower…it seemed like he had very little idea of what was going on either. He explained that my tour company in Hanoi paid the hotel to arrange tours…and that he merely guided the tourists according to the hotel’s instructions. I could see there was no point in shooting the messenger, but I was definitely given the impression that the management of the Royal Hotel don’t give a rat’s ass about customers once they’ve taken their cash. Fortunately, Jonny and Steve came to the rescue and allowed me to use the shower in their room – so I didn’t hum too badly when it came to meeting the rest of my tour group.
There were only five of us including Huom, which I was very pleased about…I didn’t want to be part of a dozen-strong gaggle of ‘round-eyes’ barrelling through the villages and disturbing the locals. Lesson number two about package tours in Vietnam: you’ll never disturb the locals en route…they’re ready and waiting to ambush you to try and make money from you. As I and my fellow travellers were to discover, three days of ‘You buy this from me…you buy that from me (I’ve already got one!) ….you buy two…you have brother? Buy for brother….buy for friend’ gets a bit wearing. I won’t claim to have the patience of a saint, but you could not ask to meet two nicer, gentler folk than Jamie and Melanie from Alaska…and even they were a bit sick of it by the time we returned to Sapa. The other member of our party seemed to be spared most of the hassle by dint of his English skills. Hamada-San was a logistics manager from Japan and, while Melanie, Jamie and I were able to make intelligible conversation with him (with a little effort on our part), seeing non-native speakers trying to sell stuff in English to another non-native speaker was actually quite comical at times. Prior to our trek, our Japanese companion had completed a hard 3-day assault on the summit of Fansipan (at 3143m, Vietnam’s highest mountain). He certainly had the appearance of an office worker rather than a hardened outdoor enthusiast and, despite his admirable stoicism, by the end of day one it was apparent that he was finding the going tough. Hamada-San’s natural reticence and growing fatigue meant that, increasingly I found myself in stride and conversation with the Alaskans. In contrast to Hamada, it was obvious that Melanie and Jamie made regular forays into the spectacular outdoors of their homeland. They made excellent company for the road with a good level of light banter and plenty of tales and good humour. They had only recently married and, while it was obvious that they were very much in love, they made me feel as welcome and included as an old school-friend. I’ve been struggling to find words that do them justice, as I took such pleasure in their company and intelligent conversation. I think what it boils down to, simply, is that they are plain, salt-of-the-earth, good people…and I look forward to our paths crossing again in the future. From very different backgrounds and refreshingly different perspectives we all seemed to share common views on the benefits of travelling and the necessity (at least to try) to understand other cultures. Melanie’s job as a flight attendant with Alaska Airlines and Jamie’s occupation as a house-builder (a seasonal activity in their neck of the woods!) mean that they are both able to take extended vacations. If you can take the time off, trips to South-East Asia and South / Central America instead of mundane all-inclusive package holidays are certainly more cost-effective and mind-stimulating. You certainly get to meet a different breed of traveller…
After our initial uncertainty (it turned out the other three had been sold different tours too!), Huom turned out to be an excellent guide. His English was excellent, having spent 4 years studying in Hanoi, and his knowledge of the local paths and tracks meant we followed an interesting and varied route down into the valleys of the local hill tribes. He kept up a constant stream of information about the origins of the various tribes and their customs, whilst taking us along at a nice steady pace in the growing heat. We made stops for drinks and food at various shady shacks along the way…and soon came to realise that a stationary group of tourists is like a magnet to the quaintly dressed girls and women of the local tribes. For the early part of the day we encountered mostly H’mong tribeswomen in their indigo dyed traditional dress. I understand that the villagers have adapted their lifestyle to make the best of their situation, so it would be unfair to blame them for wanting to sell their wares to as many tourists as possible. What was difficult to accept was their hardcore persistence…double-glazing and timeshare salesmen could learn the true meaning of hard-sell by taking lessons from these girls! Saying, ‘No, thank you,’ twenty-five times to each and every member of the twenty-strong scrum that descends on you in every village is taxing – on both patience and energy. Still, the sun was shining, the scenery spectacular and the company excellent – so the novelty factor took plenty of time to wear off. The sun was shining so hard, in fact, that I soon began to worry about my lack of sun-block (having not had chance to apply my hi-tech gunk after my rushed shower earlier on). I thought I could kill two birds with one stone by purchasing one of the beautifully embroidered local shirts from one of the hard-sellers. Namely, to cover up my arms and to put off new vendors by showing that I’d already bought something. As a ploy it worked only partially…I was too late to stop my arms from burning, although I suppose it would have been worse without the shirt…and the villagers only tried harder to sell me stuff – probably, as Melanie suggested, because they thought I was an easy target, having succumbed once already. The best part of the joke was still to come though…later, having stripped off my sweaty shirt, it became apparent that some of the shirt had stayed with me…namely the indigo dye! The salt in my copious perspiration had also caused the dye to set on my skin…so I actually spent much of my first two weeks in Vietnam looking like a smurf…much to everyone else’s amusement.
Disappointingly, our first day’s trek came to an end at 3pm – the supposed 18km of hard trekking we had been expecting probably wasn’t more than 12km of gentle hill-walking…certainly not what we’d signed up for. Our next bug-bear was our home-stay. Expectations involved staying in a traditional house with a family, sharing a meal with them and perhaps sitting round the fire talking with our guide translating for us. Reality was a purpose built guest-house (admittedly in traditional style, but around 4 times the size) with 12 mattresses, separate meals for us (tour group on porch) and them (guide and family in kitchen) and being left to entertain ourselves while they watched television. Once again, I appreciate that the locals’ life has been adapted to meet tourism demand…but it was, nevertheless, disappointing. Instead of gaining a true insight into the lives of the local people, we merely discovered that they were very good at making money out of tourists. Melanie and Jamie taught me to play cribbage and, certainly, the hours didn’t drag in their company but (as Jamie remarked) we could have been playing in Anchorage or Harrogate…why travel to the Vietnamese mountains? Dinner was certainly delicious and there was plenty of it, but it would have been nice to break bread with our hosts…
Day two was very similar to the first day, although the tracks were a little treacherous after overnight rain. A filling breakfast of pancakes suited me to a T…although Hamada didn’t look too impressed. Asians tend to eat noodles for breakfast and he only managed to force about half a pancake down before giving up. He seemed unusually tired and, when questioned, admitted that he’d been kept awake by some horrendous snoring…I felt extremely guilty eating his share of breakfast and knowing I’d prevented him from getting some much needed sleep. Still, I wasn’t about to let good food go to waste! The scenery was, once again, breath-taking but we were forced to take to the road for a long stretch to avoid some dangerously steep downhill sections, which the rain had turned into death slides. The road into the valley was in the process of being widened and properly paved, so the abundance of digging machinery and fume-belching lorries didn’t do much for the aesthetic appeal of the place. Once again our home-stay was disappointingly commercial and the over-whelming feeling was not one of mutual understanding…more like prey being circled by predators.
Our final day on the trail was by far the best in terms of both local interaction and hard physical effort. We crossed the valley and climbed up the other side to see a village of the Dao minority. They seemed far less interested in selling us stuff and we were even able to elicit shy smiles from some of the local kids instead of having to fend them off. Village life seemed to continue around us - with the daily food preparation and cleaning chores being carried out alongside weekend activities such as maintenance on their wooden houses and repairs to agricultural machinery (equivalent to banging up a couple of shelves and washing the car?).
Back in the valley just nicely for mid-day, we began the long and arduous climb back up to the road as the sun beat down fiercely on our bowed heads. Jamie and Melanie left me for dead as their mountain-ready legs bore them steadily up the winding path. Unable to sustain their perpetual motion, I was forced to take ever-more-frequent, gasping and sweaty breaks. Still, Hamada-San was the true hero…after his exertions on Fansipan, no sleep and a breakfast consisting of the juice of two lemons he forced his tired limbs up the slope only fifteen minutes behind me.
After lunch, it seemed like we waited forever for our Jeep to come and pick us up. While I was content to rest and allow lunch to settle, Jamie and Melanie found themselves drawn into a game of shuttlecock with some local girls. The kids were genuinely enjoying themselves and, while they made an easy sale of the shuttlecocks when the game ended, I don’t believe that was their ultimate motive.
The jeep ride back to Sapa over the un-constructed road was one of my least favourite automotive experiences ever…ranking pretty closely to a certain trip down the A30 a few years ago. Poor suspension, underpowered engine, exhaust fumes and heat contributed to a fairly nauseating experience…add the possibility of certain death from the steep drops on the left side (just as well my weight was on the right!) and you can understand that we were pretty relieved to return to the hotel in Sapa.
Of course, our relief only lasted long enough for us to work out that the hotel didn’t have any rooms for us. I wasn’t so fussed about that particular hotel…I was supposed to be staying in a village anyway. Jamie and Mel, on the other hand, were pretty disgruntled. Having stayed in the hotel the night prior to our trek, they had reserved and paid for the same room again to keep the beautiful view. They had even left their passports at the hotel and paid extra as this was a Saturday night. The attitude of the hotel staff, once again, left a lot to be desired. We finally got rooms at a nearby hotel and found a decent restaurant for a bite to eat. After dinner, in order to learn a little more about the local culture, we headed down to a bar with a floor show of traditional hill-tribe dancing. I’m no expert in the dancing customs of North West Vietnam, but I’m pretty sure the show was just an elaborate hoax to make more money from tourists. Some of the miming and the sheer lack of effort from the participants brought embarrassed grimaces and even sniggers of derision from the audience. The knowing smirks exchanged by the dancing girls seemed to add credence to the hoax theory and we left after twenty minutes, opting to spend our tourist dollar elsewhere.
The following day, with nothing to do until my night-train left at 8.50, I took a wander around the market and purchased a new ethnic shirt – this time mostly white, with some nice embroidered detail. I felt particularly chuffed with my bartering skills – walking all the way round the market, trying on twenty or so shirts until I found one that fitted at the right price. The food market was teeming with every kind of plant and animal as you’ll see from the photos…but I had arranged to meet Melanie and Jamie at a café for lunch, so passed up the exotic fare on offer. Their experience with the Royal Hotel had deteriorated further since the previous evening, with some screaming harpy haranguing them over breakfast for having the audacity to ask for their money back after being put in an inferior hotel. Contrary to everywhere else I’d been in Asia (and thus far in Vietnam), customer service and good manners seemed to be sadly lacking here – something we attributed to the sheer volume of tourists who come…if you upset the odd few, it doesn’t matter as you’re still making money hand over fist.
Melanie and Jamie were catching an earlier train to Hanoi, so we parted later that afternoon after a farewell beer. E-mails were exchanged - and mutual invitations to visit too. Characteristic of their generosity of spirit, they kindly gave me their (brand-spanking new!) copy of the Cambodia Lonely Planet as they knew I was heading there after Vietnam. Whatever else happened in Sapa, I’m glad to have met these two and I look forward to introducing them to you guys when they’re over in England. I’m already planning an Alaskan leg on my next trip to check out the hiking and climbing near their home. Thanks guys…you were the one saving grace of Sapa :-).
After they left, I buried my nose in Huck Finn…Huom had noticed me reading it the other day and had professed to it being one of his favourite books in Vietnamese, so I had promised to give it to him before I left. I can only imagine how he’s coping with the colloquialisms of the Mississippi basin!
On the journey back to Hanoi, I lay reflecting on my Sapa experience. I was pretty disillusioned…I hadn’t expected the commercialism to be so rampant, nor the locals to be so affected by the tourist influx. I was glad to have met Melanie and Jamie and to have seen the beautiful scenery and the equally beautiful people, but I couldn’t recommend my experience to a friend. A better option might have been to head up to the hills under my own steam and book a two day trek. This would have minimized the commercial overkill and the chances of being ripped off by cynical tour operators. In the back of my mind I was desperately hoping that the rest of Vietnam would not be so sullied.
Sorry if this hasn’t made particularly pleasant reading, guys. It was my first (partially) negative experience since leaving home, but I want to give a full and honest account of my travels …warts ‘n’ all.
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