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.
November 27, 2004
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
DMZ - Down the tunnels with Charlie
The trip looked interesting – with various visits to sights that had played significant roles during the war years. However, I obviously hadn’t learnt my lessons about organised tours in Vietnam. After four hours of sitting on a cramped and uncomfortable bus, we realised that we really should have taken a motorbike. Many o the sights were not, as we’d imagined, a short walk from the road. Instead the bus would pull over for 5 minutes at the side of the road, while punters reeled off a few shots of eg. A bombed out church or a hill of strategic importance. We would all then climb back onto the bus for the next stretch of terminally boring highway. There were two stops that I had really taken the trip for – the tunnels at Vinh Moc and the museum at Khe Sanh firebase. I wouldn’t have missed these for the world so it seems churlish to complain about the means of getting there…but a bruised backside and stiff back still say otherwise!
The tunnels at Vinh Moc are a testament to the stoicism and determination of the Vietnamese people. Dug into the cliffs on the east coast, just north of the DMZ, this subterranean labyrinth was home to village community for four years during the height of the American bombardment of the area. The VC found it useful to have a base here to keep supply lines open to a nearby island and no doubt their encouragement persuaded the villagers to persevere. The tunnels are dark and cramped and yet families survived in living spaces the size of your average understairs cupboard. Amazingly, 17 babies were born underground in the maternity room! How were the Americans ever going to win a war against a people that wanted to stay this much? Although the tunnels were bombed repeatedly (the noise underground must have been terrifying for the civilian women and children who endured it for so long), only one of the infamous ‘digger’ bombs ever penetrated the tunnel system – and that didn’t explode. Both the villagers and the VC emerged physically intact, after the Americans withdrew…the psychological scars from their years in the dank, terrifying darkness of the tunnels must still be with the survivors today.
Khe Sanh was an object lesson in the horror, brutality and, ultimately, the futility of war. For many months, American forces had defended the base (on a strategic summit near the supply lines, feeding the VC from Laos) heroically under a constant barrage of heavy artillery. American and South Vietnames forces sustained some of their worst losses here, under the impression that the North Vietnamese Army would be compelled to secure the position, before pushing further south. In the end, these lives were given in vain as the NVA were using Khe Sanh as a diversionary tactic prior to the final, decisive Tet offensive. NVA troops bypassed Khe Sanh altogether as they streamed unopposed into the major coastal city of Danang to effectively end American involvement in the war. The high price paid by Americans to defend the base was a major contributory factor in the withdrawal of public and political support for involvement in Vietnam. Some of the pictures and remnants of military hardware at the museum left us in little doubt that, whatever the outcome, war produces only losers in the end.
After a marathon journey back to Hué, we felt it only right and proper to treat ourselves to another slap-up meal at Xuan Trang. We moved on from there to the DMZ bar – shooting pool with fellow travellers and generally consuming excessive quantities of beer. I can only claim Aussie influence in the decision to move on to a club called ‘Brown Eyes’ (!) when DMZ finally kicked us out at 4am…what on earth I was thinking with a 7.00am bus to Hoi-An, I’ll never know!
The tunnels at Vinh Moc are a testament to the stoicism and determination of the Vietnamese people. Dug into the cliffs on the east coast, just north of the DMZ, this subterranean labyrinth was home to village community for four years during the height of the American bombardment of the area. The VC found it useful to have a base here to keep supply lines open to a nearby island and no doubt their encouragement persuaded the villagers to persevere. The tunnels are dark and cramped and yet families survived in living spaces the size of your average understairs cupboard. Amazingly, 17 babies were born underground in the maternity room! How were the Americans ever going to win a war against a people that wanted to stay this much? Although the tunnels were bombed repeatedly (the noise underground must have been terrifying for the civilian women and children who endured it for so long), only one of the infamous ‘digger’ bombs ever penetrated the tunnel system – and that didn’t explode. Both the villagers and the VC emerged physically intact, after the Americans withdrew…the psychological scars from their years in the dank, terrifying darkness of the tunnels must still be with the survivors today.
Khe Sanh was an object lesson in the horror, brutality and, ultimately, the futility of war. For many months, American forces had defended the base (on a strategic summit near the supply lines, feeding the VC from Laos) heroically under a constant barrage of heavy artillery. American and South Vietnames forces sustained some of their worst losses here, under the impression that the North Vietnamese Army would be compelled to secure the position, before pushing further south. In the end, these lives were given in vain as the NVA were using Khe Sanh as a diversionary tactic prior to the final, decisive Tet offensive. NVA troops bypassed Khe Sanh altogether as they streamed unopposed into the major coastal city of Danang to effectively end American involvement in the war. The high price paid by Americans to defend the base was a major contributory factor in the withdrawal of public and political support for involvement in Vietnam. Some of the pictures and remnants of military hardware at the museum left us in little doubt that, whatever the outcome, war produces only losers in the end.
After a marathon journey back to Hué, we felt it only right and proper to treat ourselves to another slap-up meal at Xuan Trang. We moved on from there to the DMZ bar – shooting pool with fellow travellers and generally consuming excessive quantities of beer. I can only claim Aussie influence in the decision to move on to a club called ‘Brown Eyes’ (!) when DMZ finally kicked us out at 4am…what on earth I was thinking with a 7.00am bus to Hoi-An, I’ll never know!
November 19, 2004
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