Hometime
December 02, 2004
December 01, 2004
The Mighty Mekong
The previous night’s nightmare turned out to be far worse in reality. How I managed to haul myself out of bed is beyond me…let alone squeeze everything into my bulging bag and stagger down the road to the travel agency in good time. There were a few people milling around waiting to be picked up by bus for transportation to the river dock…I couldn’t have told you a thing about them if they hadn’t been on the boat with me for the next three days…what with the sunlight and traffic noise, my ailing brain was too overloaded to assimilate any new data. I pulled on my shades and hat and retreated into a cocoon of trance and Catch 22 for the best part of the morning.
As it turned out, my chosen unsociability went un-noticed by my companions – our boat was extremely noisy and the sun was mercilessly hot. The former meant that conversation was frustrating, the latter that most people were too torpid and lethargic to make the effort in the first place. After the worst of my hangover had passed, I eventually struck up conversation with a New Yorker and a Dutchman. Jonah Leff (the American) had spent three years teaching English in Japan and was now heading slowly back home, Erich was on a 4 week holiday through Vietnam.
Everywhere along the river’s steep banks shanty towns encroached – some shacks constructed sturdily with corrugated iron, others flimsily leaning out over the river with their bamboo frames and palm frond walls. Even from these humble abodes, sprang the ubiquitous television aerial. Young children seemed to have nothing better to do than wait for tourists to drift by, before performing acrobatic dives or dropping their pants to salute…the more retiring ones merely shouted and waved. Older children cycled by, school uniforms flowing elegantly behind them as they crossed creeks and canals on the way from school. All around, as we cruised south away from the city towards Mytho, you could see the importance of the river in their daily lives. To these people the Mekong serves as bathtub, washing machine, larder, sink and (rather grimly) toilet. Its tumultuous floods bring destruction and chaos during the wet season, but also the rich alluvium that fertilises the rice bowl of Vietnam. If the country were reduced to living on rice and fish alone, the Delta’s fecund lands could support the entire populace.
For all the life that teems on its many banks, there is just as much activity on the river itself. For longer trips or freight, it isn’t possible to use the mainly narrow riverside tracks. Everywhere there are small boats, passenger ferries, fishing boats, cargo boats and the leviathan dredge barges with their tugs. Every boat has a pair of eyes painted lividly on the prow, signalling the Mekong as home waters and scaring off potential predators – both mythical and real. The dredge barges are the most unsettling sight on the river: seemingly impossibly laden with the riverbed’s fine alluvium, they nose up the middle of the current under the power of an attendant tug. All other traffic cedes right of way to these lumbering hulks – not least, because a collision with such an unstoppable force would only produce one outcome. As they chug by, waves break over their seriously low bows and you wonder how many have been sunk due to that crucial extra half-ton dumped on top by a reckless dredger operator. Immediately after their passing, of course, its all hands on deck in the smaller boats to prevent them being swamped by the wash.
After a poor lunch of instant noodles and vegetables we disembarked at Mytho for a tour round some of the local islands. We visited tropical fruit farms (one of the main suppliers to the celebrated floating markets – more of which, later), honey farms and witnessed the production of coconut candy…which was a useful supplement to lunch. Highlight of a hot, sticky, hungover afternoon was the appearance of a python who I immediately made friends with and found much to my surprise (despite numerous people telling me that this was the case) that his skin was extremely smooth and almost supernaturally dry.
We took small boats down myriad side canals, hemmed in by dense foliage and swarming with mosquitoes and the calls of tropical animals. This murky-watered maze of waterways was reminiscent of scenes from Apocalypse now…a little mist and the distant chatter of machine gun fire would have completed the illusion.
Later, by a combination of boat and (blessed) air-con coach, we arrived at our evening’s destination in Can Tho.
As a group, we went for dinner and I got talking to Aussie-English Pete and Kulli and Joti from, of all places, Ealing. A brief discussion ensued about the various merits of Thai and Vietnamese restaurants in their neighbourhood, before promises to try them out together next time I was there. After my earlier befriending of an innocent snake, I turned Judas by having one of his cousins for dinner in an onion and garlic sauce. Very tasty, if a little chewy.
As it turned out, my chosen unsociability went un-noticed by my companions – our boat was extremely noisy and the sun was mercilessly hot. The former meant that conversation was frustrating, the latter that most people were too torpid and lethargic to make the effort in the first place. After the worst of my hangover had passed, I eventually struck up conversation with a New Yorker and a Dutchman. Jonah Leff (the American) had spent three years teaching English in Japan and was now heading slowly back home, Erich was on a 4 week holiday through Vietnam.
Everywhere along the river’s steep banks shanty towns encroached – some shacks constructed sturdily with corrugated iron, others flimsily leaning out over the river with their bamboo frames and palm frond walls. Even from these humble abodes, sprang the ubiquitous television aerial. Young children seemed to have nothing better to do than wait for tourists to drift by, before performing acrobatic dives or dropping their pants to salute…the more retiring ones merely shouted and waved. Older children cycled by, school uniforms flowing elegantly behind them as they crossed creeks and canals on the way from school. All around, as we cruised south away from the city towards Mytho, you could see the importance of the river in their daily lives. To these people the Mekong serves as bathtub, washing machine, larder, sink and (rather grimly) toilet. Its tumultuous floods bring destruction and chaos during the wet season, but also the rich alluvium that fertilises the rice bowl of Vietnam. If the country were reduced to living on rice and fish alone, the Delta’s fecund lands could support the entire populace.
For all the life that teems on its many banks, there is just as much activity on the river itself. For longer trips or freight, it isn’t possible to use the mainly narrow riverside tracks. Everywhere there are small boats, passenger ferries, fishing boats, cargo boats and the leviathan dredge barges with their tugs. Every boat has a pair of eyes painted lividly on the prow, signalling the Mekong as home waters and scaring off potential predators – both mythical and real. The dredge barges are the most unsettling sight on the river: seemingly impossibly laden with the riverbed’s fine alluvium, they nose up the middle of the current under the power of an attendant tug. All other traffic cedes right of way to these lumbering hulks – not least, because a collision with such an unstoppable force would only produce one outcome. As they chug by, waves break over their seriously low bows and you wonder how many have been sunk due to that crucial extra half-ton dumped on top by a reckless dredger operator. Immediately after their passing, of course, its all hands on deck in the smaller boats to prevent them being swamped by the wash.
After a poor lunch of instant noodles and vegetables we disembarked at Mytho for a tour round some of the local islands. We visited tropical fruit farms (one of the main suppliers to the celebrated floating markets – more of which, later), honey farms and witnessed the production of coconut candy…which was a useful supplement to lunch. Highlight of a hot, sticky, hungover afternoon was the appearance of a python who I immediately made friends with and found much to my surprise (despite numerous people telling me that this was the case) that his skin was extremely smooth and almost supernaturally dry.
We took small boats down myriad side canals, hemmed in by dense foliage and swarming with mosquitoes and the calls of tropical animals. This murky-watered maze of waterways was reminiscent of scenes from Apocalypse now…a little mist and the distant chatter of machine gun fire would have completed the illusion.
Later, by a combination of boat and (blessed) air-con coach, we arrived at our evening’s destination in Can Tho.
As a group, we went for dinner and I got talking to Aussie-English Pete and Kulli and Joti from, of all places, Ealing. A brief discussion ensued about the various merits of Thai and Vietnamese restaurants in their neighbourhood, before promises to try them out together next time I was there. After my earlier befriending of an innocent snake, I turned Judas by having one of his cousins for dinner in an onion and garlic sauce. Very tasty, if a little chewy.
November 30, 2004
War…what is it good for? Absolutely nothing!
After a restless night with the humidity, I made an early start. First stop was the architecturally imposing post office – a former administrative edifice of the French colonial government, it’s high, vaulted ceilings and miles of gilt detailing are a testament to the rich cultural legacy left by the French. Far more disconcerting is the 30ft high portrait of Ho Chi Minh surveying all the comings and goings from a position high on the wall opposite the entrance. Almost an hour later, after signing innumerable forms and paying untold amounts of Dong for god-knows-what, I escaped having despatched a parcel of presents and coffee back to Blighty. Fortunately, my cyclo driver was still waiting to wheel me sedately to the museum. On arrival at the museum, I found myself falling foul of another cultural legacy of the French: the immutable, Vietnamese lunch-break. For a country that has evolved the most comprehensive system of relieving travellers of every available cent, it is a surprising truth that the only place you can spend money between 11.30 and 1pm is in a bar or restaurant. Anyone hiring a Vietnamese tour-guide for the day who doesn’t allow them time for lunch is viewed with the same suspicion as a backstreet, sweatshop owner in Bradford…only the worst kind of slave driver lacks the civility to take lunch it would seem. I settled for returning to the museum after lunch and a spot of internet action. I certainly didn’t want to rush through what I expected to be grim reminder of the brutality of war.
When the time came, I wasn’t really prepared for what was a harrowing experience. I care not a jot for the whys and wherefores of the Vietnam War (referred to by the Vietnamese as the American War). I’m not interested in who was to blame, who had the moral high ground or who committed the worst atrocities. The museum simply and succinctly gives out one clear message…war can only cause pain and horror – both for its participants and for the innocent bystanders so often involved against their will. I am not the President of a great nation or a general planning an assault on a fortified position. I will never have to make decisions that will affect the lives of hundreds or thousands of people. I don’t know how I could decide that carpet-bombing villages, defoliating forests or destroying crops could be the best option available to me. For that I am very grateful. In war, as the museum so clearly demonstrates, people die – often in gruesome circumstances. Some survive, only to produce deformed offspring due to chemical agents used by their enemies. Others survive, only to return to a country that despises their uniform and the cause they fought in it for. The number of American veterans from this war who later committed suicide is almost double that of those who died in action. Ultimately, the war achieved nothing except to brutalise an already war-weary nation and two generations of young Americans. Out of respect, I chose not to take any photographs…I think anyone who wants to gain a better understanding of the situation should see the exhibits in the museum with their own eyes…and the thought of capturing these images of death and torture was a little too macabre.
Perhaps the small ray of hope left over from this war, is the apparent lack of animosity towards Americans displayed by the local people. There has been harsh retribution towards and continuing repression of former members of the South Vietnamese armed forces (many of the city’s cyclo drivers are former soldiers who are punished by lack of residency permits – forcing former teachers or businessmen to scratch a living from and live on the streets), but the general attitude towards Americans is astonishingly friendly. If it is possible for the Vietnamese people to forgive (if not forget), then there is hope for the rest of the world.
Back at the street café where I had so fortuitously bumped into Robyn the previous day, I was pleasantly surprised to run into the two Swiss ladies who were also with us in Halong Bay. While Robyn had been on her way to Cambodia and the breath-taking sights of Angkor Wat, sadly these two were preparing to take their flight back to Zurich the next day. As they wandered off to pack their bags, I sat there musing that it would be poetic if I were to bump into Mark and Mel in the same spot. Not fifteen minutes later, they strolled by laden with rucksacks and bags and looking like they’d been on the end of a long bus ride. We agreed to meet up for some food and drink after they’d found a hotel.
At this point I realised that I’d left a floppy disk in a computer on the other side of town and, after picking up the offending article, I took the opportunity to stroll in a leisurely fashion back to our rendez-vous point. The vibrant street-life and bright lights nearly made me change my plans for leaving the following morning. I spent an amusing half-hour watching Braveheart (on an enormous widescreen TV in the window of a department store) with a team of uniformed street-cleaners. The two-cheek salute given by the Scots in the ‘Battle of Sterling’ drew great guffaws from my companions and we all cheered when the armoured horse were brought down by ‘spears as long as a man’.
We found a local eatery where the food and booze were both cheap and tasty and set-to catching up on Mark and Mel’s experiences with Tin and Tong. They had enjoyed the open-road as much as Russ and I did and had also had the luxury of seeing only one other tourist during their wanderings through the National Park at Cat Tien. Disappointingly, they hadn’t seen anything of the rare Rhinoceros that lives there in the jungle, but had an amusing evening night-spotting with one of the park rangers and lots of cunningly hidden tree-stumps and other natural booby-traps.
We ended up in the bar that had witnessed my mercurial pool talents the previous evening. Once again, I played one sublime game to depose the local shark (the girls are bloody good in Vietnam!) and then ignominiously descended into ridiculous farce against my next opponent. I would like to claim the effects of alcohol were ruining my natural ability – of course anyone who’s seen me play pool sober, will testify that the booze was probably helping me in that first game and that my usual monumental ineptitude was merely making a comeback.
We were all too pissed to be surprised when Fleur turned up at some point during proceedings. She had acquired a couple of new travelling buddies on her bus journey from Dalat and introduced us to Kirsty and Jo from Yorkshire and Portsmouth. The rest of the evening was a bit of a blur…drinking games made an appearance (bloody Aussies!), Oasis was sung, beer was drunk…I eventually made my excuses and crawled off to bed at about 2.30am. As I set the alarm for 6am, I noted with some anguish that the contents of my bags were strewn chaotically on the bed and floor…bumping into Mark and Mel had thrown my packing plans somewhat and I drifted off with the unpleasant thought of trying to pack with a hangover the following morning.
When the time came, I wasn’t really prepared for what was a harrowing experience. I care not a jot for the whys and wherefores of the Vietnam War (referred to by the Vietnamese as the American War). I’m not interested in who was to blame, who had the moral high ground or who committed the worst atrocities. The museum simply and succinctly gives out one clear message…war can only cause pain and horror – both for its participants and for the innocent bystanders so often involved against their will. I am not the President of a great nation or a general planning an assault on a fortified position. I will never have to make decisions that will affect the lives of hundreds or thousands of people. I don’t know how I could decide that carpet-bombing villages, defoliating forests or destroying crops could be the best option available to me. For that I am very grateful. In war, as the museum so clearly demonstrates, people die – often in gruesome circumstances. Some survive, only to produce deformed offspring due to chemical agents used by their enemies. Others survive, only to return to a country that despises their uniform and the cause they fought in it for. The number of American veterans from this war who later committed suicide is almost double that of those who died in action. Ultimately, the war achieved nothing except to brutalise an already war-weary nation and two generations of young Americans. Out of respect, I chose not to take any photographs…I think anyone who wants to gain a better understanding of the situation should see the exhibits in the museum with their own eyes…and the thought of capturing these images of death and torture was a little too macabre.
Perhaps the small ray of hope left over from this war, is the apparent lack of animosity towards Americans displayed by the local people. There has been harsh retribution towards and continuing repression of former members of the South Vietnamese armed forces (many of the city’s cyclo drivers are former soldiers who are punished by lack of residency permits – forcing former teachers or businessmen to scratch a living from and live on the streets), but the general attitude towards Americans is astonishingly friendly. If it is possible for the Vietnamese people to forgive (if not forget), then there is hope for the rest of the world.
Back at the street café where I had so fortuitously bumped into Robyn the previous day, I was pleasantly surprised to run into the two Swiss ladies who were also with us in Halong Bay. While Robyn had been on her way to Cambodia and the breath-taking sights of Angkor Wat, sadly these two were preparing to take their flight back to Zurich the next day. As they wandered off to pack their bags, I sat there musing that it would be poetic if I were to bump into Mark and Mel in the same spot. Not fifteen minutes later, they strolled by laden with rucksacks and bags and looking like they’d been on the end of a long bus ride. We agreed to meet up for some food and drink after they’d found a hotel.
At this point I realised that I’d left a floppy disk in a computer on the other side of town and, after picking up the offending article, I took the opportunity to stroll in a leisurely fashion back to our rendez-vous point. The vibrant street-life and bright lights nearly made me change my plans for leaving the following morning. I spent an amusing half-hour watching Braveheart (on an enormous widescreen TV in the window of a department store) with a team of uniformed street-cleaners. The two-cheek salute given by the Scots in the ‘Battle of Sterling’ drew great guffaws from my companions and we all cheered when the armoured horse were brought down by ‘spears as long as a man’.
We found a local eatery where the food and booze were both cheap and tasty and set-to catching up on Mark and Mel’s experiences with Tin and Tong. They had enjoyed the open-road as much as Russ and I did and had also had the luxury of seeing only one other tourist during their wanderings through the National Park at Cat Tien. Disappointingly, they hadn’t seen anything of the rare Rhinoceros that lives there in the jungle, but had an amusing evening night-spotting with one of the park rangers and lots of cunningly hidden tree-stumps and other natural booby-traps.
We ended up in the bar that had witnessed my mercurial pool talents the previous evening. Once again, I played one sublime game to depose the local shark (the girls are bloody good in Vietnam!) and then ignominiously descended into ridiculous farce against my next opponent. I would like to claim the effects of alcohol were ruining my natural ability – of course anyone who’s seen me play pool sober, will testify that the booze was probably helping me in that first game and that my usual monumental ineptitude was merely making a comeback.
We were all too pissed to be surprised when Fleur turned up at some point during proceedings. She had acquired a couple of new travelling buddies on her bus journey from Dalat and introduced us to Kirsty and Jo from Yorkshire and Portsmouth. The rest of the evening was a bit of a blur…drinking games made an appearance (bloody Aussies!), Oasis was sung, beer was drunk…I eventually made my excuses and crawled off to bed at about 2.30am. As I set the alarm for 6am, I noted with some anguish that the contents of my bags were strewn chaotically on the bed and floor…bumping into Mark and Mel had thrown my packing plans somewhat and I drifted off with the unpleasant thought of trying to pack with a hangover the following morning.
November 29, 2004
Saigon (or Ho Chi Minh City if you want to be fussy!)
After all the reports I’d heard from fellow travellers passing in the opposite direction, Saigon was not a place I was planning on exploring for long. You’ve already read my diatribes on city life and, by all accounts, the traffic, noise and pollution in HCMC were supposed to be three, ten and fifty times worse than Hanoi (depending who you spoke to). I was therefore pleasantly surprised to find it far more to my liking than Hanoi. I have a theory on this…it stands to reason that, wherever you’ve come from prior to Vietnam, your first city experience is going to be pretty full-on. Whether you’ve come overland from Cambodia, China or Laos, Hanoi and HCMC are going to seem like pure bedlam compared to the rural experience. Similarly, if you’ve flown straight in from the normality of your home country or after peaceful weeks in the Philippines (a la moi!), Vietnam’s major cities have a frenetic, chaotic rhythm that can’t fail to grate on the nerves for the first day or two. Of course, by the time you’ve travelled through Vietnam (north or south, depending on your point of inception), the constant clamour and hustle has become part and parcel of your daily life and your final city destination seems comparatively more bearable than the first. Suffice to say, I felt a lot more in tune with HCMC than Hanoi. There was also a feeling that I’d been there before – not so much a déjà vu, but a familiarity brought about by the congruence of reality and fiction. From the snapshot images of films, books and musicals my subconscious expectations of Saigon were suffused with a peach-tinted light. Much to my surprise, as our ridiculously slow coach headed due west into the city, the clouded sunset was producing a shade of peach that could have been used by Dulux as an industry standard. The whole sky above the sprawling, neon-punctuated conurbation had a surreal luminosity…almost as if someone had taken a sheet of tinted gel and fastened it over the housing of the sun’s spotlight. In the city itself, there were fine colonial boulevards and avenues, lined by stately trees and imposing European architecture. Fleeting glances down side-alleys and behind construction fences gave away the continuing developing nature of the city…while towering blocks and shiny department stores gave the impression that development had already been and gone. I found myself disappointed by the fact that the traffic appeared to be so much more regulated than in Hanoi – cars, bikes and cyclos all waiting patiently at red lights; one side of the road being used for one direction of travel. When moving, traffic was gaining hazardous speed…and drivers seemed less inclined to keep their eyes peeled for stray pedestrians. While side-alleys teemed with activity and tightly-packed construction, the main streets were airier and gave the appearance of having been recently cleaned. In Hanoi, every street corner had been an opportunity to kick over a bag of rubbish or pick your way through a minefield of precariously parked motorbikes. Here in HCMC, I felt less hemmed-in…better able to breathe…which is ironic, as the alien colour of the evening sky owes itself primarily to pollution! ;-)
As luck would have it, the bus dropped us off slap-bang in the middle of backpacker land…and right outside the travel agency I had decided on for my Mekong trip. Delta Adventure tours was highly recommended by the LP and, when I looked at their brochures, I was pleased to find a trip that incorporated everything I wanted to see in the Delta and dropped me off in Phnom Penh two days later. Without further ado, I handed over my passport and some dollars to allow them to obtain my visa for me…paying $2 extra certainly beats standing around in the embassy for several hours when there’s sight-seeing to be done. I had no further plans for the evening other than checking out the quality of internet access and getting a bite to eat. My visa would be ready for collection the following evening and my boat departed the following morning. The only place I really wanted to see was the War Remnants Museum (formerly the American Warcrimes Museum)…not that HCMC doesn’t have plenty else to see, but having seen and done so much of the tourist route in Vietnam, I was itching to move on to Cambodia.
I was sat, poring through my Cambodian Lonely Planet (the gift from Melanie and Jamie in Sapa) over a plate of spring rolls in a street-side café, when who should walk by, but Robyn – the Canadian girl from our boat-trip in Halong Bay. She stopped for a chat and we agreed to meet with her new travel buddies for a drink later on. I’ve ceased to be amazed by the small size of the travelling world in Asia…how many times had we bumped into Ziggi through Vietnam, or met people who had spent a week with someone else the week before we did? At the bar that evening, Robyn showed up with a Midlander called Dan and the crazy Irish guys we’d met in the DMZ bar in Hue. Not really in the mood for a comprehensive lashing, I nevertheless spent a pleasant couple of hours shooting pool and comparing notes on Vietnam.
As luck would have it, the bus dropped us off slap-bang in the middle of backpacker land…and right outside the travel agency I had decided on for my Mekong trip. Delta Adventure tours was highly recommended by the LP and, when I looked at their brochures, I was pleased to find a trip that incorporated everything I wanted to see in the Delta and dropped me off in Phnom Penh two days later. Without further ado, I handed over my passport and some dollars to allow them to obtain my visa for me…paying $2 extra certainly beats standing around in the embassy for several hours when there’s sight-seeing to be done. I had no further plans for the evening other than checking out the quality of internet access and getting a bite to eat. My visa would be ready for collection the following evening and my boat departed the following morning. The only place I really wanted to see was the War Remnants Museum (formerly the American Warcrimes Museum)…not that HCMC doesn’t have plenty else to see, but having seen and done so much of the tourist route in Vietnam, I was itching to move on to Cambodia.
I was sat, poring through my Cambodian Lonely Planet (the gift from Melanie and Jamie in Sapa) over a plate of spring rolls in a street-side café, when who should walk by, but Robyn – the Canadian girl from our boat-trip in Halong Bay. She stopped for a chat and we agreed to meet with her new travel buddies for a drink later on. I’ve ceased to be amazed by the small size of the travelling world in Asia…how many times had we bumped into Ziggi through Vietnam, or met people who had spent a week with someone else the week before we did? At the bar that evening, Robyn showed up with a Midlander called Dan and the crazy Irish guys we’d met in the DMZ bar in Hue. Not really in the mood for a comprehensive lashing, I nevertheless spent a pleasant couple of hours shooting pool and comparing notes on Vietnam.
November 27, 2004
The Home Stretch
The following morning, bright and early, we headed back down to the Ede village for a different kind of riding all together. After a noodle breakfast, we awaited the slow, laborious crossing of the lake by a mighty leviathan. The eye-watering smell oozing from every pore of her leathery hide wasn’t about to win her any friends…but those warm, intelligent eyes and that searching, curious proboscis beckoned us forward and insisted we climb aboard from our raised platform. I’ve got a few tips for prospective elephant riders: if you’re in a hurry, don’t do it; if you don’t like strong smells, don’t do it; if you’re scared of heights, don’t do it. But if none of the above apply and, in this case, if you don’t mind spending 2 hours sat on a hard wooden bench, prone to jerking from side to side and occasional submersion…then elephant riding is a fascinating experience, you’ll never forget. I’ve no doubt our mighty steed could have lumbered around at terrifying speed under duress, but three unaccustomed days on the back of a motorbike had left Russ and I with seriously sore seats – and the gentle rolling gait with which she set off was more than enough to remind us that we were sat on an upturned, unsanded, uncovered wooden box. Once in the water, it was amazing to see the graceful power with which she propelled herself, almost effortlessly, along. On the far side of the lake we took a slowly, swaying tour of the local village. While assuredly used to the sight of the elephant (raised mounting platforms every few hundred yards gave this away), the locals were obviously not all that used to big, white men riding astride her. Several times we were followed by youngsters on bikes, cycling perilously close to the oblivious power of hind legs the size of chimney stacks. Fortunately, the only things to suffer from Nelly’s might were the occasional trees she stopped to snack on: at the scent of something juicy and delicious, she would deviate from her course (despite the proddings and protestations of her mahout) and wrap her delicate, sensitive trunk around a leafy branch. Suddenly, the trunk would be replaced by a thick, menacing python – flexing and twisting to inevitably snap arm-thick branches and strip them of all their succulent verdure. The python would relax once more into a precision instrument as the fruit of its labours was stuffed delicately and lovingly into the smiling mouth of its owner.
Eventually, we returned saddle-sore and nasally decongested to continue on the final leg of our journey to Dalat. We passed through a series of beautiful mountain passes, bathing, still, in glorious sunshine. As we headed south, nearing our final destination, I couldn’t decide between relief at the impending end of saddle-soreness or disappointment to be at the end of our little adventure. At points along the way we had met two lads called Paul and Stijn. Paul, from Aberdeen, and Stijn, from Amsterdam, had bought their own bikes in Danang and were undertaking a similar journey to ours, but under their own steam. I would have appreciated the ability to hop off and on as I pleased and there is no doubt as to whose journey was the more adventurous. However, the major reason not to take a bike myself was my limited, previous biking experience (and that on the deserted roads of the Philippine provinces)…and it wasn’t all plain sailing for our daring duo: they had come unstuck for three days, when targeted by police and lacking the services of a local guide to sort it out – their bikes had been impounded while the police had gone to Danang to check they hadn’t been stolen. With no means of leaving, they had been stuck in the same arse-end-of-nowhere mountain town until their bikes were returned. Of course, this in itself sounds like as good a way as any to get to know the local people.
We pulled into Dalat’s cosmopolitan bustle in the late afternoon. The sun had temporarily disappeared behind some clouds and the cool mountain air, blowing in our faces ensured we were wide awake and ready to party the night away. After our excellent adventure, it seemed only right that Russ and I took the boys out for dinner to say thank you. We caught up with Mark and Mel, who’d spent an enjoyable couple of days on the coast at Nha Trang. Overflowing with excitement after our ‘epic’ 900km bike journey, Russ and I spent most of the evening telling them how great a time we’d had. It must have had some effect because, before the evening was out, Mark and Mel had signed the boys up to take them to Cat Tien National Park.
We ate goat and rabbit from another dodgy-looking-but-exquisite-tasting back-street café – more than anything else, the boys had shown Russ and I the excellent culinary underbelly of the Highlands. Copious quantities of beer and rice wine were drunk in celebration and, after Mel and Mark retired to prepare for an early start, the lads took us to a street bar, where we were served cold beer and a steaming plate of tasty cockles and dipping sauce.
We were all up early in the morning to see Russ onto his bus for Ho Chi Minh City. I’d enjoyed the last two weeks in his company – and particularly his company on our road trip. Regardless of his age, Russ was as much man of the world as I’ve met. I was sorry to see him go and look forward to a re-union in Blighty or Brisbane. After his departure, I also said farewell to our trusty guides, Tin and Tong. Their irrepressible senses of humour, unerring culinary taste and detailed knowledge of the terrain and its inhabitants had given us a priceless gift – seeing the undeveloped side of this beautiful country and thus escaping the wearing grind of the Highway 1 tourist trail…something I would recommend to anyone.
I spent an unexciting day in Dalat trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to find a decent internet connection and waiting for my laundry to be returned. I’ve come to realise the importance of rest days – time to regroup, clean, repack and catch up on correspondence. I bumped into Paul and Stijn during the day and we met again for a bite to eat in the evening. They were due to continue on to Ho Chi Minh to renew Paul’s visa, before spending a fortnight to-wheeling through the Mekong delta. I was envious in some respects, but already feeling a need to explore a new country. I booked the morning bus to Ho Chi Minh, planning to spend 2 days there and then take the mighty Mekong up into Cambodia.
Eventually, we returned saddle-sore and nasally decongested to continue on the final leg of our journey to Dalat. We passed through a series of beautiful mountain passes, bathing, still, in glorious sunshine. As we headed south, nearing our final destination, I couldn’t decide between relief at the impending end of saddle-soreness or disappointment to be at the end of our little adventure. At points along the way we had met two lads called Paul and Stijn. Paul, from Aberdeen, and Stijn, from Amsterdam, had bought their own bikes in Danang and were undertaking a similar journey to ours, but under their own steam. I would have appreciated the ability to hop off and on as I pleased and there is no doubt as to whose journey was the more adventurous. However, the major reason not to take a bike myself was my limited, previous biking experience (and that on the deserted roads of the Philippine provinces)…and it wasn’t all plain sailing for our daring duo: they had come unstuck for three days, when targeted by police and lacking the services of a local guide to sort it out – their bikes had been impounded while the police had gone to Danang to check they hadn’t been stolen. With no means of leaving, they had been stuck in the same arse-end-of-nowhere mountain town until their bikes were returned. Of course, this in itself sounds like as good a way as any to get to know the local people.
We pulled into Dalat’s cosmopolitan bustle in the late afternoon. The sun had temporarily disappeared behind some clouds and the cool mountain air, blowing in our faces ensured we were wide awake and ready to party the night away. After our excellent adventure, it seemed only right that Russ and I took the boys out for dinner to say thank you. We caught up with Mark and Mel, who’d spent an enjoyable couple of days on the coast at Nha Trang. Overflowing with excitement after our ‘epic’ 900km bike journey, Russ and I spent most of the evening telling them how great a time we’d had. It must have had some effect because, before the evening was out, Mark and Mel had signed the boys up to take them to Cat Tien National Park.
We ate goat and rabbit from another dodgy-looking-but-exquisite-tasting back-street café – more than anything else, the boys had shown Russ and I the excellent culinary underbelly of the Highlands. Copious quantities of beer and rice wine were drunk in celebration and, after Mel and Mark retired to prepare for an early start, the lads took us to a street bar, where we were served cold beer and a steaming plate of tasty cockles and dipping sauce.
We were all up early in the morning to see Russ onto his bus for Ho Chi Minh City. I’d enjoyed the last two weeks in his company – and particularly his company on our road trip. Regardless of his age, Russ was as much man of the world as I’ve met. I was sorry to see him go and look forward to a re-union in Blighty or Brisbane. After his departure, I also said farewell to our trusty guides, Tin and Tong. Their irrepressible senses of humour, unerring culinary taste and detailed knowledge of the terrain and its inhabitants had given us a priceless gift – seeing the undeveloped side of this beautiful country and thus escaping the wearing grind of the Highway 1 tourist trail…something I would recommend to anyone.
I spent an unexciting day in Dalat trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to find a decent internet connection and waiting for my laundry to be returned. I’ve come to realise the importance of rest days – time to regroup, clean, repack and catch up on correspondence. I bumped into Paul and Stijn during the day and we met again for a bite to eat in the evening. They were due to continue on to Ho Chi Minh to renew Paul’s visa, before spending a fortnight to-wheeling through the Mekong delta. I was envious in some respects, but already feeling a need to explore a new country. I booked the morning bus to Ho Chi Minh, planning to spend 2 days there and then take the mighty Mekong up into Cambodia.
November 26, 2004
‘Friendly’ locals…in every sense it would seem
The third day of our trip was to be the easiest so far. We started off with a short trip out to Dray Sap waterfalls. This series of impressive falls (including a mini Niagara) were at the confluence of three rivers. Just as impressive as the roaring, tumultuous descent of water were the colossal, impassive tropical hardwoods that made up the surrounding jungle. Trees as thick as the span of my arms and as tall as the spire of a church steeple, grew in chaotic proximity to both each other and the water’s edge. It struck me that the soil must be of astonishing fecundity to support such a density of life. All around us insects teemed and chirruped – almost, in their exuberance, drowning the cacophonous roar of the falls. The whole place seemed very much alive…
We stopped for a brief lunch at another roadside café. For once the meat, pre-cooked and sitting in dishes on a trolley, did not inspire me with confidence and I made do with vegetable-fried rice. Russ attacked the pork chops with some gusto and certainly suffered no ill-effects later on – so it seems my suspicions were somewhat unjust.
We rolled into Dak Lak in the warm afternoon sunshine and, after depositing our belongings in the long house, made our way up to Ho Lak. This site, on a rocky outcrop above the lake, had once been the winter home of Emperor Bao Dai. The views over the lake, and the far-spreading upland plateau surrounding it, were majestic and the four of us supped well-earned beers in silence as the westering sun sunk to meet the distant mountain tops.
For dinner we went to a restaurant in an Ede-minority village. Whilst waiting for the food to be prepared, Russ and I joined a group of local lads watching the Vietnamese Army playing Indonesia at football. Whilst I’m not known for being the biggest football fan, I can see why its supporters claim that it’s a game that can unite nations. The picture on the ancient television was fuzzy and blurred, the game of no great significance and the standard of play akin to a game between Harrogate Town and East Barnet Wanderers 2nd XI…and yet there we were – ten of us – swilling our beer, abusing the flickering image of the man in black and whooping and cheering at every attack or near miss. In the end, Vietnam were 1-0 winners and Russ and I had made new friends.
After another tasty meal (including, officially, the best spring rolls in Vietnam – according to a committee of experts consisting of…me…and Russ) we went off to another Karaoke bar…things were considerably more interesting than the previous night’s aural purgatory. For starters the waiting staff were female and suspiciously friendly…the next thing I noticed was how eager they were to pour our beer and feed us nuts. My suspicions were confirmed when the bill arrived. The prices were astronomical…and it seemed our gracious hostesses wished to come back to our hotel rooms with us…at a price, of course! I’m sure my face and Russ’s must have been a picture as the wave of reality slowly broke upon the shores of our booze-addled brains…Tin and Tong certainly enjoyed the show. As we rode the bikes the short distance back to our longhouse lodgings, the four of us were laughing like drains…Russ and I with relief…Tin and Tong at their well-executed joke.
We stopped for a brief lunch at another roadside café. For once the meat, pre-cooked and sitting in dishes on a trolley, did not inspire me with confidence and I made do with vegetable-fried rice. Russ attacked the pork chops with some gusto and certainly suffered no ill-effects later on – so it seems my suspicions were somewhat unjust.
We rolled into Dak Lak in the warm afternoon sunshine and, after depositing our belongings in the long house, made our way up to Ho Lak. This site, on a rocky outcrop above the lake, had once been the winter home of Emperor Bao Dai. The views over the lake, and the far-spreading upland plateau surrounding it, were majestic and the four of us supped well-earned beers in silence as the westering sun sunk to meet the distant mountain tops.
For dinner we went to a restaurant in an Ede-minority village. Whilst waiting for the food to be prepared, Russ and I joined a group of local lads watching the Vietnamese Army playing Indonesia at football. Whilst I’m not known for being the biggest football fan, I can see why its supporters claim that it’s a game that can unite nations. The picture on the ancient television was fuzzy and blurred, the game of no great significance and the standard of play akin to a game between Harrogate Town and East Barnet Wanderers 2nd XI…and yet there we were – ten of us – swilling our beer, abusing the flickering image of the man in black and whooping and cheering at every attack or near miss. In the end, Vietnam were 1-0 winners and Russ and I had made new friends.
After another tasty meal (including, officially, the best spring rolls in Vietnam – according to a committee of experts consisting of…me…and Russ) we went off to another Karaoke bar…things were considerably more interesting than the previous night’s aural purgatory. For starters the waiting staff were female and suspiciously friendly…the next thing I noticed was how eager they were to pour our beer and feed us nuts. My suspicions were confirmed when the bill arrived. The prices were astronomical…and it seemed our gracious hostesses wished to come back to our hotel rooms with us…at a price, of course! I’m sure my face and Russ’s must have been a picture as the wave of reality slowly broke upon the shores of our booze-addled brains…Tin and Tong certainly enjoyed the show. As we rode the bikes the short distance back to our longhouse lodgings, the four of us were laughing like drains…Russ and I with relief…Tin and Tong at their well-executed joke.
November 25, 2004
The ‘Real’ Vietnam
Our overnight stop had been made in a small town called Kon Tum. In the morning we took a brief tour of the town, before cracking into another, marathon 240km leg of our journey south. We made stops in two villages of the Bahnar peoples. Their lives in this region of Vietnam are quite restricted and the government is following a strong line of ‘Vietnamisation’ here. Their peaceful and law-abiding communities are policed with a heavy hand because the government is scared that they may disappear and migrate over the border into Cambodia – leaving fertile, arable land un-worked. Much of this seems to stem from a residual resentment at the Montagnard’s co-operation with American and Southern Vietnamese forces during the conflict. It seems a little churlish to continue to punish these people for, what was effectively, coerced co-operation over thirty years ago. However, this residual ill-feeling (and often hostility) against Southern Vietnamese ‘collaborators’ is much in evidence in all areas of government policy.
We spent some time with a local family…it made such a refreshing change to be amongst ethnic minorities in this country and not feel like prey under the shadow of a stooping hawk. Not only were these people not trying to sell us anything, they seemed content to talk and drink tea with us – forsaking their daily routines to show hospitality to visitors.
After the villages we made our way to a place that has more meaning for me (and I suspect Russ) than anything else I’d seen in Vietnam. The Cô Nhi Vinh Son I orphanage, on the outskirts of town was one of the most uplifting – and simultaneously – heart-breaking places I’ve ever been to. The bright, welcoming exterior – dominated by the religious architecture of the Catholic order that oversees the daily administration, education and welfare of its charges – belied a dark, featureless interior…echoing, empty rooms, devoid of toys or the other distractions of childhood. A lingering smell of urine and lice-treatment solution mixed with smoke of the wood-fired bread-oven and the homemade loaves baking within. All of this would have had an ultimately depressing effect, were it not for the beautiful, happy, carefree faces of the diminutive inhabitants. Russ and I were suddenly surrounded by a shirt-pulling, hand-grasping, short-tugging crowd of the most heart-achingly pretty little nippers I’ve ever seen. I make absolutely no criticism of the care provided by the cash-strapped, under-staffed nuns who run the establishment – they do the very best job they can under the circumstances, but are simply under-resourced to give each individual child the love, care and stimulation it needs. All these adorable little mites wanted, was to be loved: a cuddle, a hug – the simple warmth of close, human contact was all they sought. Most were in the care of the orphanage due to the death of one or both parents from diseases like AIDS, hepatitis and tuberculosis…grim, unnecessary deaths – preventable by education or vaccination sadly unavailable in these neglected communities – leaving the children to an even poorer start in life. Russ and I both made donations to the orphanage – mere drops in the ocean when measured against the true need – but both of us have vowed to do something more constructive and sustainable when we’ve returned to our respective countries. We left Kon Tum with the children’s waves and parting smiles making an indelible impression on our minds.
The day’s journey was a rolling vista of mountain scenery and coffee breaks. The weather was nothing short of glorious and the roads, now on the upland plateau, were mainly flat and straight – with the occasional, pleasing, sweeping curve to remind us that the miles were being consumed. We made a pleasant stop at Bien Ho Lake – thought to be the submerged crater of a, now inactive, volcano. The pleasant peaceful surroundings reminded me of the less-populous areas of Britain’s Lake District – an it was easy to see why the place is a popular haunt for courting couples.
On arrival in Buon Ma Thouot – heart of the great coffee plantation region whose coffee bears its name – Russ and I insisted on a pre-dinner snack…three meals a day not being enough for growing lads on exhausting bike trips. We discovered a new form of spring roll (nem) called Nem Luong…these were the ‘roll-your-own’ variety, which came with the usual selection of fresh greens, strips of grilled pork and fried rice paper. This pleasing combination of textures was inevitably complemented by a divine dipping sauce of the sweet-chilli-flavoured variety. The delicious pre-meal disappeared in the twinkling of an eye and it was only the promise of further culinary explorations under Tin and Tong’s expert tutelage that stopped us from ordering seconds.
We certainly weren’t disappointed as our guides took us to another, excellent, back-to-basics street café. Stir fried pork and chicken with lemongrass and coriander, mountains of rice and several bottles of local brew at a risibly cheap cost. A less successful outing to a bar that did nothing to improve my opinion of Asian karaoke, meant that we headed home early enough for me to spend a couple of hours using the first decent internet connection since Hanoi to catch up on a hideous backlog of e-mails from home.
We spent some time with a local family…it made such a refreshing change to be amongst ethnic minorities in this country and not feel like prey under the shadow of a stooping hawk. Not only were these people not trying to sell us anything, they seemed content to talk and drink tea with us – forsaking their daily routines to show hospitality to visitors.
After the villages we made our way to a place that has more meaning for me (and I suspect Russ) than anything else I’d seen in Vietnam. The Cô Nhi Vinh Son I orphanage, on the outskirts of town was one of the most uplifting – and simultaneously – heart-breaking places I’ve ever been to. The bright, welcoming exterior – dominated by the religious architecture of the Catholic order that oversees the daily administration, education and welfare of its charges – belied a dark, featureless interior…echoing, empty rooms, devoid of toys or the other distractions of childhood. A lingering smell of urine and lice-treatment solution mixed with smoke of the wood-fired bread-oven and the homemade loaves baking within. All of this would have had an ultimately depressing effect, were it not for the beautiful, happy, carefree faces of the diminutive inhabitants. Russ and I were suddenly surrounded by a shirt-pulling, hand-grasping, short-tugging crowd of the most heart-achingly pretty little nippers I’ve ever seen. I make absolutely no criticism of the care provided by the cash-strapped, under-staffed nuns who run the establishment – they do the very best job they can under the circumstances, but are simply under-resourced to give each individual child the love, care and stimulation it needs. All these adorable little mites wanted, was to be loved: a cuddle, a hug – the simple warmth of close, human contact was all they sought. Most were in the care of the orphanage due to the death of one or both parents from diseases like AIDS, hepatitis and tuberculosis…grim, unnecessary deaths – preventable by education or vaccination sadly unavailable in these neglected communities – leaving the children to an even poorer start in life. Russ and I both made donations to the orphanage – mere drops in the ocean when measured against the true need – but both of us have vowed to do something more constructive and sustainable when we’ve returned to our respective countries. We left Kon Tum with the children’s waves and parting smiles making an indelible impression on our minds.
The day’s journey was a rolling vista of mountain scenery and coffee breaks. The weather was nothing short of glorious and the roads, now on the upland plateau, were mainly flat and straight – with the occasional, pleasing, sweeping curve to remind us that the miles were being consumed. We made a pleasant stop at Bien Ho Lake – thought to be the submerged crater of a, now inactive, volcano. The pleasant peaceful surroundings reminded me of the less-populous areas of Britain’s Lake District – an it was easy to see why the place is a popular haunt for courting couples.
On arrival in Buon Ma Thouot – heart of the great coffee plantation region whose coffee bears its name – Russ and I insisted on a pre-dinner snack…three meals a day not being enough for growing lads on exhausting bike trips. We discovered a new form of spring roll (nem) called Nem Luong…these were the ‘roll-your-own’ variety, which came with the usual selection of fresh greens, strips of grilled pork and fried rice paper. This pleasing combination of textures was inevitably complemented by a divine dipping sauce of the sweet-chilli-flavoured variety. The delicious pre-meal disappeared in the twinkling of an eye and it was only the promise of further culinary explorations under Tin and Tong’s expert tutelage that stopped us from ordering seconds.
We certainly weren’t disappointed as our guides took us to another, excellent, back-to-basics street café. Stir fried pork and chicken with lemongrass and coriander, mountains of rice and several bottles of local brew at a risibly cheap cost. A less successful outing to a bar that did nothing to improve my opinion of Asian karaoke, meant that we headed home early enough for me to spend a couple of hours using the first decent internet connection since Hanoi to catch up on a hideous backlog of e-mails from home.
November 24, 2004
Wet and wild in the mountains
After nearly four days of continual rain, Russ and I had tried to kid ourselves that we were due some dry weather. As we crawled down the stairs with our heavy packs, it became apparent that the clouds had other ideas. A flat, dark grey sky and a heavy monotonous patter signalled that this weather wouldn’t give up easily and we spent several minutes lashing our belongings to the back of the bikes and covering the lot with layers of plastic sheeting and a few second-hand pac-a-macs. My lightweight trousers were destined to get extremely wet but I consoled myself with the knowledge that they would dry very quickly once we got into the highlands where, Tin had assured me, summer was in full swing. We set off, swaddled in layers of thin plastic, which may have had a better chance of keeping us dry were it not for the gaping holes around our necks and the sheer malevolent intensity of the rain. It wasn’t by any means cold – Vietnam’s tropical location making sure of that - but after seven hours of riding with wet clothes plastered to your skin, the core body temperature certainly begins to drop. I say seven hours…for at least one of those hours of merciless, unrelenting deluge we were off the bikes and gulping thick, sweet mouthfuls of Vietnamese coffee or wolfing down sustenance at the local version of a transport café – watched curiously by local travellers on their way through the mountains. There was a silver lining or two to the continual rain. Every piece of mountain scenery was able to make its own majestic appearance - at first dissolving out of the mist until the dark, densely forested slopes solidified into a crisp contrast against the flat, pale light of the sky. Another delight was the roaring, gushing fullness of the rivers and the torrential streams and rushing gullies that fed them. The tumescent, murky boiling of the valley bottom, evoking memories of Willie Wonka’s river of chocolate; the white fury shooting down surrounding rock faces, a reminder of the elemental force of nature in a hurry. Our stops were kept to a minimum: owing to Russ’s timeframe (flying from Ho Chi Minh City on the Sunday), we were having to complete a five-day trip in four days. This meant that our first day would cover a monumental 330km…pretty serious going when your backside isn’t used to motorbike seating…more so when it’s pissing it down with rain for most of the day! We finally came into sunlight at about 4pm – still with 90km to go. While the sensation of not completely freezing my arse off was registering somewhere in the pleasure quarter of my brain, it was being vastly out-gunned by the growing discomfort from my nether regions. My backside was taking turns at being numb and feeling like it had been trampled on by a stampeding herd of the water buffalo that occasionally wandered into our path. I have every admiration for the driving skill and attention to safety of our two guides Tin and Tong – every rut and jutting stone avoided; every dumb beast of burden or small, oblivious child, noted and reacted to. Not once did I feel unsafe on the back of my heavily-burdened bike (try me and my luggage alone = 160kg!) – but, nevertheless, I gratefully jumped off as Tong parked up (in the foyer!) at our hotel, where we arrived long after the sun had dropped into the mountains.
After showering and donning warm, dry clothing Russ and I gingerly climbed on the back of the bikes for Tin and Tong to take us for the first of many excellent culinary experiences. The décor and seating arrangements at our restaurant of choice were basic to say the least – plastic stools, bare concrete floors and basic bathroom facilities. Nevertheless, the food was delicious and in sufficient quantities to make a dent in my ravening hunger. Very similar to my barbeque experiences in Korea, we had a hot brazier deposited on our table along with several plates piled high with wild boar and venison. To combat the slight fever my amphibious, bike-riding exploits seemed to be bringing on, there were also several cloves of garlic. These were placed on the grill (whole), long enough to take away the acrid sharpness and soften the flesh before munching them up with a strip of deer or hunk of boar. In no time I was feeling strong enough to drink a beer and even partake of some of Tong’s rice wine. This ubiquitous spirit tastes like a very light Speyside malt…with a dash of methylated spirits. Not exactly an appealing combination to the cultured palate – but mine has never reached such heady heights and I was more than happy with pleasant warming of the cockles, produced by the afterglow.
The four of us slept in a dorm that evening…for about ten minutes I was able to appreciate my ability for disturbing others’ sleep. Tin dropped off first and began to produce the most extra-ordinary succession of guttural snorts and groans. If the rest of us hadn’t been absolutely shattered from our epic, mountain journey I’m sure Tin’s Captain Bligh would have been subject to a mutinous uprising from his crew and banished to the corridor…as it was, we all had a bit of a chortle at his expense and promptly fell asleep.
After showering and donning warm, dry clothing Russ and I gingerly climbed on the back of the bikes for Tin and Tong to take us for the first of many excellent culinary experiences. The décor and seating arrangements at our restaurant of choice were basic to say the least – plastic stools, bare concrete floors and basic bathroom facilities. Nevertheless, the food was delicious and in sufficient quantities to make a dent in my ravening hunger. Very similar to my barbeque experiences in Korea, we had a hot brazier deposited on our table along with several plates piled high with wild boar and venison. To combat the slight fever my amphibious, bike-riding exploits seemed to be bringing on, there were also several cloves of garlic. These were placed on the grill (whole), long enough to take away the acrid sharpness and soften the flesh before munching them up with a strip of deer or hunk of boar. In no time I was feeling strong enough to drink a beer and even partake of some of Tong’s rice wine. This ubiquitous spirit tastes like a very light Speyside malt…with a dash of methylated spirits. Not exactly an appealing combination to the cultured palate – but mine has never reached such heady heights and I was more than happy with pleasant warming of the cockles, produced by the afterglow.
The four of us slept in a dorm that evening…for about ten minutes I was able to appreciate my ability for disturbing others’ sleep. Tin dropped off first and began to produce the most extra-ordinary succession of guttural snorts and groans. If the rest of us hadn’t been absolutely shattered from our epic, mountain journey I’m sure Tin’s Captain Bligh would have been subject to a mutinous uprising from his crew and banished to the corridor…as it was, we all had a bit of a chortle at his expense and promptly fell asleep.
November 22, 2004
Hoi-An
Of course, I missed my bus…woke up with the alarm at 6am and promptly decided to lie back down for another 5 minutes before attempting to cope with what was promising to be a monumental hangover. 5 minutes became an hour and, unfortunately, the night porter had failed to tell the day shift that I had changed rooms the previous night. When they came knocking on my door to take me to the bus, the room was empty and they left empty-handed. The good news (for me at least) was that my Aussie chums had been left stranded too. For some reason the tour company had them down to be picked up from a different hotel…when they came looking for one person (me!) the bus driver assumed they were with a different company. Of course, if I’d been awake or in the expected room, I would have been able to clear all this up and we would all have been on our way early doors. We arranged for the bus to come for us at 1.30 instead and all promptly went back to bed. However ropey I was feeling, Russ was certainly looking a whole lot worse after deciding that going to bed was a waste of time. Mel, on the other hand, was looking the most bright-eyed and bushy-tailed after sloping off around 2am – lightweight!
The bus journey was fascinating – not just for the fantastic mountain scenery as we headed down to Hoi-An. I had never realised just how badly a bus’s suspension could be and still make a journey of 260km. I had staked out a claim on the middle of the back seat on account of it having the only leg room on the entire bus – i.e. the aisle. Sitting there I was treated to a full panoramic, bouncing glory every time we hit a pot-hole or bump. The distance in height between the front and back of the bus was as much as 8ft at times, depending on how fast our driver decided to steam over the high-quality road surface. The other effect of the poor suspension was the crazy fishtail-concertina effect brought about with every swerve to avoid a motorbike or oncoming vehicle. The best bit about all of this though was watching the effect it was having on Russ. As the journey progressed he grew steadily greener and his face was as good as a large-scale topographical map for the nuances of the road surface – every new irregularity, producing a further wince or grimace. We were all pretty glad to arrive in Hoi-An and readily agreed to stop at the suggested hotel, which was clean and pleasant and only cost $8 for each twin room. Russ and I had agreed to share to save money…but only on the understanding that I was to give him a pair of earplugs.
Our main mission in Hoi-An was to get some clothes tailor-made to send home. I also had designs on the fine local cuisine and was interested in checking out the famous local architecture.
On our first evening we got stuck into the local food – ravenous after our long, painful bus ride and with that peculiar hunger that afflicts only those who’ve battled hard all day with a hangover. The local specialities are White Rose, Cao Lau and fried wonton. Cau Lau is a delicious mixture of doughy noodles, bean sprouts, croutons and barbequed pork topped with crumbled, crispy rice-paper and a tasty sauce. The White Rose are steamed shrimp wrapped in rice-paper and the wonton are like mini-tacos filled with shrimp paste and topped with a bright selection of crispy, stir-fried vegetables. Not just the taste, but the contrasting textures of these foods meant we were all hooked after our first sampling. This was just as well really – if the food had been as shitty as the weather, there’s no way we would have enjoyed waiting while our suits etc. were made up.
It rained almost continuously from the first morning until we left two days later. There was no way I could be bothered with any sight-seeing in the constant downpour and the alternative source of entertainment was eating and drinking…which, surprisingly, I did a lot of. I did attempt to use the time constructively by getting on the internet at a few different places. Unfortunately, the access here was every bit as bad as in Hue and caused mostly frustration.
The other constructive thing we managed to do was to meet up with Mitch (American guy from Hanoi, now living with his new Vietnamese wife in nearby Danang) and his friend and motorbike tour operator, Tin. I had been excited about the prospect of doing something in the way of motorbiking with Tin when I’d first met these guys in the north. With the Aussie crew on board it seemed a 4WD might be a better way of escaping the tourist traps on Highway 1. It was a pleasure to be back in their easy-going company again and we enjoyed a very pleasant lunch at Ly’s Cafeteria 22 – by this stage I was considering myself to be a true connoisseur of Cau Lau, having had it for breakfast, lunch and dinner (and a few extra time for good measure) every day - the Café 22 Cau Lau was definitely my favourite.
Tin was able to put together an interesting-looking itinerary for the 4 days we had to reach Dalat in time for Russ to get the bus down to Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon) for his flight home. Russ and I were definitely game on for our little adventure – even if the cost was a little higher than we’d been expecting. We both reasoned that in ten years time we wouldn’t be remembering how much money we’d spent – but rather, where we’d been, who we’d met and what we’d seen.
Unfortunately, Mel didn’t see things our way – and Mark was unwilling to leave her to travel solo to Dalat via the coast road, despite appearing to be as keen as Russ and I for the adventure. In the end, Russ and I decided to take the trip anyway. Instead of a 4WD we would be riding on the back of two bikes – with Tin and another of his local guides. As we walked away from the meeting, we both had an air of uncontained excitement and wore jubilant grins on our faces: we were going on an adventure to see the ‘real’ Vietnam!
The bus journey was fascinating – not just for the fantastic mountain scenery as we headed down to Hoi-An. I had never realised just how badly a bus’s suspension could be and still make a journey of 260km. I had staked out a claim on the middle of the back seat on account of it having the only leg room on the entire bus – i.e. the aisle. Sitting there I was treated to a full panoramic, bouncing glory every time we hit a pot-hole or bump. The distance in height between the front and back of the bus was as much as 8ft at times, depending on how fast our driver decided to steam over the high-quality road surface. The other effect of the poor suspension was the crazy fishtail-concertina effect brought about with every swerve to avoid a motorbike or oncoming vehicle. The best bit about all of this though was watching the effect it was having on Russ. As the journey progressed he grew steadily greener and his face was as good as a large-scale topographical map for the nuances of the road surface – every new irregularity, producing a further wince or grimace. We were all pretty glad to arrive in Hoi-An and readily agreed to stop at the suggested hotel, which was clean and pleasant and only cost $8 for each twin room. Russ and I had agreed to share to save money…but only on the understanding that I was to give him a pair of earplugs.
Our main mission in Hoi-An was to get some clothes tailor-made to send home. I also had designs on the fine local cuisine and was interested in checking out the famous local architecture.
On our first evening we got stuck into the local food – ravenous after our long, painful bus ride and with that peculiar hunger that afflicts only those who’ve battled hard all day with a hangover. The local specialities are White Rose, Cao Lau and fried wonton. Cau Lau is a delicious mixture of doughy noodles, bean sprouts, croutons and barbequed pork topped with crumbled, crispy rice-paper and a tasty sauce. The White Rose are steamed shrimp wrapped in rice-paper and the wonton are like mini-tacos filled with shrimp paste and topped with a bright selection of crispy, stir-fried vegetables. Not just the taste, but the contrasting textures of these foods meant we were all hooked after our first sampling. This was just as well really – if the food had been as shitty as the weather, there’s no way we would have enjoyed waiting while our suits etc. were made up.
It rained almost continuously from the first morning until we left two days later. There was no way I could be bothered with any sight-seeing in the constant downpour and the alternative source of entertainment was eating and drinking…which, surprisingly, I did a lot of. I did attempt to use the time constructively by getting on the internet at a few different places. Unfortunately, the access here was every bit as bad as in Hue and caused mostly frustration.
The other constructive thing we managed to do was to meet up with Mitch (American guy from Hanoi, now living with his new Vietnamese wife in nearby Danang) and his friend and motorbike tour operator, Tin. I had been excited about the prospect of doing something in the way of motorbiking with Tin when I’d first met these guys in the north. With the Aussie crew on board it seemed a 4WD might be a better way of escaping the tourist traps on Highway 1. It was a pleasure to be back in their easy-going company again and we enjoyed a very pleasant lunch at Ly’s Cafeteria 22 – by this stage I was considering myself to be a true connoisseur of Cau Lau, having had it for breakfast, lunch and dinner (and a few extra time for good measure) every day - the Café 22 Cau Lau was definitely my favourite.
Tin was able to put together an interesting-looking itinerary for the 4 days we had to reach Dalat in time for Russ to get the bus down to Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon) for his flight home. Russ and I were definitely game on for our little adventure – even if the cost was a little higher than we’d been expecting. We both reasoned that in ten years time we wouldn’t be remembering how much money we’d spent – but rather, where we’d been, who we’d met and what we’d seen.
Unfortunately, Mel didn’t see things our way – and Mark was unwilling to leave her to travel solo to Dalat via the coast road, despite appearing to be as keen as Russ and I for the adventure. In the end, Russ and I decided to take the trip anyway. Instead of a 4WD we would be riding on the back of two bikes – with Tin and another of his local guides. As we walked away from the meeting, we both had an air of uncontained excitement and wore jubilant grins on our faces: we were going on an adventure to see the ‘real’ Vietnam!
November 21, 2004
November 20, 2004
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)