Monkey magic...
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.
November 10, 2004
Hanoi
As I'm coming to appreciate on this trip, cities have certain immutable - and often tiresome - features in common: they smell, they're noisy and they're full of people who can't wait to get where they're going! It's an inevitable fact when you fly from destination to destination, that you find yourself at the mercy of one of these sinkholes of humanity. So it's with some satisfaction that I can now look forward to three months of overland travel throughout Indochina. Of course, I'll still be making forays into cities - but now entirely by choice.
I hope I haven't implied through my little rant that Hanoi is a particularly awful place - compared to Seoul and Manila it's actually quite pleasant, but two days is wearing enough after my idyllic time on Lugbung. For a start the traffic is like nothing I've ever seen...not insanely dangerous so much as grating on the nerves. After a day you realise it's both pointless and dangerous to try and wait for a clear gap in the traffic and run across the road. For a start there is never a gap in the traffic...and if it ever seems like there is, you can guarantee a high-speed moped appearing from nowhere and beeping its horn close enough to perforate your eardrum. You simply saunter out into the road and proceed at a slow and steady pace to your destination - often walking along the middle of the street is the only option, with so many mopeds parked on the pavements. As you saunter (sucking in your breath a little to avoid the old dears with their baskets and clenching your buttocks to avoid the wing mirrors) the traffic miraculously parts around you, using every part of the highway, pavement and gutter to full effect. There appear to be no laws governing which side of the road you ride/drive on, none to place any limits on speed nor to stop when the lights are red. As far as I can tell the only rules are to beep your horn continuously for any and no reason and to get out of the way of anything bigger than you...this works pretty well for me as there aren't many mopeds plus driver that get to be my size - and the denizens of Hanoi are smart enough to work out that mowing me down is going to cost them. I didn't see one accident during my time in Hanoi and the haphazard chaos at every juncti0n and crossroads seemed to have an almost organic fluidity that allowed everyone to pass without too much obstruction. The only downside is the constant ringing your years develop after being assaulted by a daily battery of horns, ranging from the irksome to the comical (theme tune to Only Fools and Horses, anyone?) and from foghorn to piercing. Visitors to Hanoi seem to develop a form of shellshock induced by moped horns...one can only hope its not a precursor to a full-blown PTSD by the time I get to the DMZ!
So, apart from the traffic, what does Hanoi have to offer? Well, unusually for me, food was top of the list of attractions. There are two things you can't avoid whilst wondering the streets of Hanoi - the ubiquitous Xe Mo driver offering you a ride on the back of his motorbike and the countless street-food stalls spilling out of every doorway. Everywhere you look, someone has entered the catering trade with nothing more than a bunsen burner or a tray of hot charcoal and an exotic array of vegetables and herbs surrounding a tray of animal parts. Chicken feet, cow's heart, dried squid, pig guts, fish heads t0 name a few...as well as dubious looking piles of recognisably edible cuts. For a little more than 50pence, even a man of my considerable appetites can satisfy himself on tasty, filling snacks that appear in the twinkling of a goat's eye. I like vietnamese food well enough back in Blighty - imagine my horror at being surrounded by myriad opportunities to consume from the minute I get up until my head hits the pillow. If the profusion of bunsen-burner hot-food stalls don't appeal, it takes little effort to be pestered by one of the old dears carrying double-ended baskets of fresh fruit or donuts. One almost feels compelled to eat something from them just to lessen the horrendous weights they seem to casually sling over their shoulders as they pace the gutters, dodging mopeds.
It is possible to escape the temptation of food and irritation of traffic by taking a wander down to the shady shores of Hoan Kiem Lake. This (relatively) tranquil spot, to the north of the teeming Old Quarter, is bordered by trees and flower gardens. In the centre sits the solitary Thap Rua (Tortoise Tower), while at its southern end is the Ngoc Son Temple, reached by the charming hump-backed Huc Bridge. On my second day, seeking solace from the humidity and heat of midday, I perched myself on a shoreside bench and had a satisfying lunch of donuts and fresh fruit supplied by one of the ubiquitous basket carriers. Satiated and enjoying a little peace and quiet, I was pleasantly surprised to be approached by an amiable young man, who seemed keen to make polite conversation. I was just thinking how friendly even big cities in Vietnam were, when said young man asked me if I would like to make love to him...a little taken aback I replied with a firm negative, whilst trying not to be too rude. Ten minutes of convincing him that I only liked members of the opposite sex in that way (including fictional description of girlfriend back in England!) finally persuaded him to leave me alone. Perusing my Lonely Planet ($3 at book exchange - although turned out to be a knock-off with slightly difficult-to-read photocopied maps) a little later, I discovered that the lake is actually a favourite pick-up point for locals and tourists looking for 'man' love...hmmmm! Oops! At this point I was on the verge of feeling somewhat flattered...until I read on that the local boys frequenting the area were doing so for money rather than love. I appear not to be a big hunk of gay love...just a walking dollar sign. This it seems is a recurring theme in Hanoi...the locals trying every possible (mainly legal) means to wring tourist dollars from tourist wallets and money belts. Certainly Hanoi feels very safe as capital city's go, but it's not the violent crime you need to watch out for so much as the daylight robbery that takes place in the multitude of travel agencies and hotels throughout the Old Quarter. I had been tipped-off by friends that Sapa and Halong Bay were must-see stops on my tour of Vietnam, so had gone window-shopping for all-inclusive tours to both. The prices for my 4 day trekking trip in the north-western mountains ranged from $69 to $120, depending on which company you went through. I can imagine that those too lazy to venture past the travel desk at their hotel could easily get ripped-off. As it was, I felt quite smug after sweating and toiling around a dozen different agencies to find the best deals...and pride cometh before a fall (details later).
Staying in my $2 dorm with me were a couple of older guys who had been touring Vietnam by motorcycle. Jonny English (nickname) hailed from Lincolnshire and Simon was a policeman from San Francisco. Together with another American - Mitch from Arkansas - they had followed a Vietnamese guy called Tin all the way from Danang to Hanoi on motorbikes (about 600km). The more they told me about it the better it sounded...and they were all salt of the earth types so I was inclined to take what they were saying at face value. We hung out for the next day or so - enjoying Cha Ca (fish cake hot pot - a local speciality) and endeavouring to find the cheapest beer in Hanoi. The eventual winner was a little street stall with plastic kiddie stools selling a glass of no-name draught beer at 1500Dong (about 5p!) E-mail addresses were dutifully exchanged and I wouldn't be surprised if I was using Tin's services later on in the trip myself. On my final evening in Hanoi, Simon, John and I went to see the famous water puppet show. Performed in a murky pool with scenery and accompanied by a nine piece traditional band and choir, the show was amusing and instructive on the Vietnamese way of life...with each little vignette exploring traditional agricultural and historical themes. The puppets themselves were intricately designed and brilliantly coloured, while the team of puppeteers showed great strength and skill maneuvering them about the 'stage'. The show only lasted an hour but was well worth the 'tourist price' of 40,000Dong (locals pay considerably less...another theme that recurs throughout the country!) I bade farewell to my companions after a final beer and headed up to the train station to catch my sleeper train to Lao Cai, en route to Sapa.
I hope I haven't implied through my little rant that Hanoi is a particularly awful place - compared to Seoul and Manila it's actually quite pleasant, but two days is wearing enough after my idyllic time on Lugbung. For a start the traffic is like nothing I've ever seen...not insanely dangerous so much as grating on the nerves. After a day you realise it's both pointless and dangerous to try and wait for a clear gap in the traffic and run across the road. For a start there is never a gap in the traffic...and if it ever seems like there is, you can guarantee a high-speed moped appearing from nowhere and beeping its horn close enough to perforate your eardrum. You simply saunter out into the road and proceed at a slow and steady pace to your destination - often walking along the middle of the street is the only option, with so many mopeds parked on the pavements. As you saunter (sucking in your breath a little to avoid the old dears with their baskets and clenching your buttocks to avoid the wing mirrors) the traffic miraculously parts around you, using every part of the highway, pavement and gutter to full effect. There appear to be no laws governing which side of the road you ride/drive on, none to place any limits on speed nor to stop when the lights are red. As far as I can tell the only rules are to beep your horn continuously for any and no reason and to get out of the way of anything bigger than you...this works pretty well for me as there aren't many mopeds plus driver that get to be my size - and the denizens of Hanoi are smart enough to work out that mowing me down is going to cost them. I didn't see one accident during my time in Hanoi and the haphazard chaos at every juncti0n and crossroads seemed to have an almost organic fluidity that allowed everyone to pass without too much obstruction. The only downside is the constant ringing your years develop after being assaulted by a daily battery of horns, ranging from the irksome to the comical (theme tune to Only Fools and Horses, anyone?) and from foghorn to piercing. Visitors to Hanoi seem to develop a form of shellshock induced by moped horns...one can only hope its not a precursor to a full-blown PTSD by the time I get to the DMZ!
So, apart from the traffic, what does Hanoi have to offer? Well, unusually for me, food was top of the list of attractions. There are two things you can't avoid whilst wondering the streets of Hanoi - the ubiquitous Xe Mo driver offering you a ride on the back of his motorbike and the countless street-food stalls spilling out of every doorway. Everywhere you look, someone has entered the catering trade with nothing more than a bunsen burner or a tray of hot charcoal and an exotic array of vegetables and herbs surrounding a tray of animal parts. Chicken feet, cow's heart, dried squid, pig guts, fish heads t0 name a few...as well as dubious looking piles of recognisably edible cuts. For a little more than 50pence, even a man of my considerable appetites can satisfy himself on tasty, filling snacks that appear in the twinkling of a goat's eye. I like vietnamese food well enough back in Blighty - imagine my horror at being surrounded by myriad opportunities to consume from the minute I get up until my head hits the pillow. If the profusion of bunsen-burner hot-food stalls don't appeal, it takes little effort to be pestered by one of the old dears carrying double-ended baskets of fresh fruit or donuts. One almost feels compelled to eat something from them just to lessen the horrendous weights they seem to casually sling over their shoulders as they pace the gutters, dodging mopeds.
It is possible to escape the temptation of food and irritation of traffic by taking a wander down to the shady shores of Hoan Kiem Lake. This (relatively) tranquil spot, to the north of the teeming Old Quarter, is bordered by trees and flower gardens. In the centre sits the solitary Thap Rua (Tortoise Tower), while at its southern end is the Ngoc Son Temple, reached by the charming hump-backed Huc Bridge. On my second day, seeking solace from the humidity and heat of midday, I perched myself on a shoreside bench and had a satisfying lunch of donuts and fresh fruit supplied by one of the ubiquitous basket carriers. Satiated and enjoying a little peace and quiet, I was pleasantly surprised to be approached by an amiable young man, who seemed keen to make polite conversation. I was just thinking how friendly even big cities in Vietnam were, when said young man asked me if I would like to make love to him...a little taken aback I replied with a firm negative, whilst trying not to be too rude. Ten minutes of convincing him that I only liked members of the opposite sex in that way (including fictional description of girlfriend back in England!) finally persuaded him to leave me alone. Perusing my Lonely Planet ($3 at book exchange - although turned out to be a knock-off with slightly difficult-to-read photocopied maps) a little later, I discovered that the lake is actually a favourite pick-up point for locals and tourists looking for 'man' love...hmmmm! Oops! At this point I was on the verge of feeling somewhat flattered...until I read on that the local boys frequenting the area were doing so for money rather than love. I appear not to be a big hunk of gay love...just a walking dollar sign. This it seems is a recurring theme in Hanoi...the locals trying every possible (mainly legal) means to wring tourist dollars from tourist wallets and money belts. Certainly Hanoi feels very safe as capital city's go, but it's not the violent crime you need to watch out for so much as the daylight robbery that takes place in the multitude of travel agencies and hotels throughout the Old Quarter. I had been tipped-off by friends that Sapa and Halong Bay were must-see stops on my tour of Vietnam, so had gone window-shopping for all-inclusive tours to both. The prices for my 4 day trekking trip in the north-western mountains ranged from $69 to $120, depending on which company you went through. I can imagine that those too lazy to venture past the travel desk at their hotel could easily get ripped-off. As it was, I felt quite smug after sweating and toiling around a dozen different agencies to find the best deals...and pride cometh before a fall (details later).
Staying in my $2 dorm with me were a couple of older guys who had been touring Vietnam by motorcycle. Jonny English (nickname) hailed from Lincolnshire and Simon was a policeman from San Francisco. Together with another American - Mitch from Arkansas - they had followed a Vietnamese guy called Tin all the way from Danang to Hanoi on motorbikes (about 600km). The more they told me about it the better it sounded...and they were all salt of the earth types so I was inclined to take what they were saying at face value. We hung out for the next day or so - enjoying Cha Ca (fish cake hot pot - a local speciality) and endeavouring to find the cheapest beer in Hanoi. The eventual winner was a little street stall with plastic kiddie stools selling a glass of no-name draught beer at 1500Dong (about 5p!) E-mail addresses were dutifully exchanged and I wouldn't be surprised if I was using Tin's services later on in the trip myself. On my final evening in Hanoi, Simon, John and I went to see the famous water puppet show. Performed in a murky pool with scenery and accompanied by a nine piece traditional band and choir, the show was amusing and instructive on the Vietnamese way of life...with each little vignette exploring traditional agricultural and historical themes. The puppets themselves were intricately designed and brilliantly coloured, while the team of puppeteers showed great strength and skill maneuvering them about the 'stage'. The show only lasted an hour but was well worth the 'tourist price' of 40,000Dong (locals pay considerably less...another theme that recurs throughout the country!) I bade farewell to my companions after a final beer and headed up to the train station to catch my sleeper train to Lao Cai, en route to Sapa.
November 08, 2004
Au revoir Romblon - Je retournerai bientot
What can I say...I was sad to leave Romblon province - particularly Tony and Violet's idyllic island hideaway on Lugbung. I had met and spent time with some canaos (white men) with whom I felt a kindred spirit...more importantly, I had met and spent some time with 'real' Filipinos. I don't mean this in any other sense than that they were people (so it seemed to me) who lived and worked like the vast majority of their compatriots. Boracay was an unreal environment in much the same way as Magaluf, Ayia Napa and Ibiza are in their own respective ways. People go there with the sole purpose of enjoying themselves and they expect to find entertainment...in Romblon province, I found my entertainment as a smaller, integral part of my day - not its main focus. With so much natural beauty and the peace and solitude that I've really grown to love, this small group of islands will always be calling me back. As a kid, I could never understand why my parents frequently replied to my inquiries about what they would like for Christmas or birthdays with, 'Peace and quiet!'...I get it now. It's the hardest thing to find back home and when you do, it's difficult not to appreciate.
My journey back to Manila was a lot less arduous than I had been led to believe...punctuated by one of those strange, but pleasing, coincidences that often seem to surprise me. I took one, reasonably-sized rustbucket back to the port of Odiongan on Tablas Island. As ever, the sky was clear and the sun was shining - so I limited myself to a shady spot on the starboard rail and listened to DJBillyGonzalez's 'Ethereal Trance' to pass the time. I deliberately didn't feed myself, as the Lonely Planet had suggested an air-conditioned (extremely important for me as the clubbing fraternity will attest!) diner in Odiongan. As there were three hours to kill between my ship arriving and the ferry to Manila departing, I had already made up my mind not to sit around at the ferry terminal. A quick and pleasant lunch, drowned with a couple of 'last-chance' bottles of San Mig, left me with a little time to kill...just as I was about to head to the market to try and find some books to read, a familiar face walked through the door. On my departure from Lo-oc, the previous week, I had talked briefly with a guy in the town plaza, whilst loading my bag onto the Jeepney. We'd not had chance to get into a decent conversation before the Jeepney had fired up to go to San Agustin...I'd left with some small regret that we hadn't been able to chat. Anyway, it was the self same guy walking through the door in front of my eyes - and we both gave a start of surprised recognition. It turned out he was giving a friend a lift to the ferry port (a 50km round trip in his palatial Mitsubishi people carrier) and they had just stopped in at the diner for a farewell meal with some friends. Champ (yes, his name!) kindly offered to take me back up to the port after they'd eaten...and we ended up being able to have that chat after all. Nothing of any great consequence...just nice to shoot the breeze with a contemporary...and we did swap e-mails as I boarded the boat.
I found my berth in what was formerly a car deck of the ferry. Instead of a hundred cars, there were 400 bunk beds - each with its own thin, vinyl mattress. I found myself lucky to be on a top bunk - a space about 5ft by 12ft, which was designed to sleep four. As the boat got underway, it became apparent that I wouldn't have to share with anyone, so I had the luxury of spreading out and relaxing. I was just tucking into a collection of short stories by W. Somerset Maugham (20 pesos - bargain!), when a Filipino in his 50s asked if I would mind him talking to me. Never one to deny someone a good jaw, I nodded. His first question gave me some warning, 'What do you think of this election between Bush and Kerry?' and we spent the next hour debating the 'War on Terror', Bush's motives and the relative evils of Christianity and Islam. The Philippines (for the most part) is strongly pro-American and pro-Bush...there seemed to be little real thought in most of his arguments - mostly a depressing parroting of Bush propaganda. I think he was slightly taken aback that I didn't support Bush's policies and couldn't really understand my point when I told him that I have little faith in most politicians to do the right things for the right reasons. I was trying to show him that there are two sides to every story, but he really didn't seem to go for that one. Politics is a subject I tend to avoid, only because it gets frustrating discussing it with people who have firmly entrenched views that they refuse to reconsider. In the end, I made an excuse to go to the toilet and disappeared into the cinema to watch a crappy horror flick, 'Darkness Falls'. The guy had asked me if I was playing safe with my views because I was away from home - a logical and wise choice if I'd had to think about what I was going to say. At the end of the day, there is no right or wrong way to look at a situation...as long as you look at the whole situation. If you're not in possession of too many facts, it's difficult to make an informed decision. I'm not a fence sitter, but I won't judge people or a situation when I only know one side of the story. I think I left him a little disappointed...
The rest of my trip was peaceful...I even slept for about 5 hours, before the ship pulled into Manila around 3.30am. A jeepney and a taxi ride to my hotel, left me7hrs to sleep, spruce up and feed before my flight to Hanoi. I left the Philippines with regret - but in the certain knowledge that I'll be back in the not-too-distant future. The islands are beautiful, their inhabitants too in every sense of the word. Filipinos are so open and friendly that its hard not to love being around them and I met some kind and interesting people, with whom I shall endeavour to stay in touch. I just hope that political corruption doesn't allow the natural resources and the immense work ethic of the people to be permanently squandered. It would be heart-breaking to return and find that things were not as they are now.
My journey back to Manila was a lot less arduous than I had been led to believe...punctuated by one of those strange, but pleasing, coincidences that often seem to surprise me. I took one, reasonably-sized rustbucket back to the port of Odiongan on Tablas Island. As ever, the sky was clear and the sun was shining - so I limited myself to a shady spot on the starboard rail and listened to DJBillyGonzalez's 'Ethereal Trance' to pass the time. I deliberately didn't feed myself, as the Lonely Planet had suggested an air-conditioned (extremely important for me as the clubbing fraternity will attest!) diner in Odiongan. As there were three hours to kill between my ship arriving and the ferry to Manila departing, I had already made up my mind not to sit around at the ferry terminal. A quick and pleasant lunch, drowned with a couple of 'last-chance' bottles of San Mig, left me with a little time to kill...just as I was about to head to the market to try and find some books to read, a familiar face walked through the door. On my departure from Lo-oc, the previous week, I had talked briefly with a guy in the town plaza, whilst loading my bag onto the Jeepney. We'd not had chance to get into a decent conversation before the Jeepney had fired up to go to San Agustin...I'd left with some small regret that we hadn't been able to chat. Anyway, it was the self same guy walking through the door in front of my eyes - and we both gave a start of surprised recognition. It turned out he was giving a friend a lift to the ferry port (a 50km round trip in his palatial Mitsubishi people carrier) and they had just stopped in at the diner for a farewell meal with some friends. Champ (yes, his name!) kindly offered to take me back up to the port after they'd eaten...and we ended up being able to have that chat after all. Nothing of any great consequence...just nice to shoot the breeze with a contemporary...and we did swap e-mails as I boarded the boat.
I found my berth in what was formerly a car deck of the ferry. Instead of a hundred cars, there were 400 bunk beds - each with its own thin, vinyl mattress. I found myself lucky to be on a top bunk - a space about 5ft by 12ft, which was designed to sleep four. As the boat got underway, it became apparent that I wouldn't have to share with anyone, so I had the luxury of spreading out and relaxing. I was just tucking into a collection of short stories by W. Somerset Maugham (20 pesos - bargain!), when a Filipino in his 50s asked if I would mind him talking to me. Never one to deny someone a good jaw, I nodded. His first question gave me some warning, 'What do you think of this election between Bush and Kerry?' and we spent the next hour debating the 'War on Terror', Bush's motives and the relative evils of Christianity and Islam. The Philippines (for the most part) is strongly pro-American and pro-Bush...there seemed to be little real thought in most of his arguments - mostly a depressing parroting of Bush propaganda. I think he was slightly taken aback that I didn't support Bush's policies and couldn't really understand my point when I told him that I have little faith in most politicians to do the right things for the right reasons. I was trying to show him that there are two sides to every story, but he really didn't seem to go for that one. Politics is a subject I tend to avoid, only because it gets frustrating discussing it with people who have firmly entrenched views that they refuse to reconsider. In the end, I made an excuse to go to the toilet and disappeared into the cinema to watch a crappy horror flick, 'Darkness Falls'. The guy had asked me if I was playing safe with my views because I was away from home - a logical and wise choice if I'd had to think about what I was going to say. At the end of the day, there is no right or wrong way to look at a situation...as long as you look at the whole situation. If you're not in possession of too many facts, it's difficult to make an informed decision. I'm not a fence sitter, but I won't judge people or a situation when I only know one side of the story. I think I left him a little disappointed...
The rest of my trip was peaceful...I even slept for about 5 hours, before the ship pulled into Manila around 3.30am. A jeepney and a taxi ride to my hotel, left me7hrs to sleep, spruce up and feed before my flight to Hanoi. I left the Philippines with regret - but in the certain knowledge that I'll be back in the not-too-distant future. The islands are beautiful, their inhabitants too in every sense of the word. Filipinos are so open and friendly that its hard not to love being around them and I met some kind and interesting people, with whom I shall endeavour to stay in touch. I just hope that political corruption doesn't allow the natural resources and the immense work ethic of the people to be permanently squandered. It would be heart-breaking to return and find that things were not as they are now.
November 07, 2004
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