Leaving Cambodia involved walking past an unguarded
gate with a Cambodian flag, through a field on a little uneven path, where motorbikes
puttered by, to another unguarded gate with a Vietnamese flag, where a soldier sat
with his back to the gate, shielding his phone from the sun while he texted or played
on it.
 |
| Cambodia-Vietnam border. Strictly no photos. As enforced by the absent security. |
Fascinatingly, the different feel of Vietnam
was palpable within these first few seconds - the floors were cleaner, fields smarter
and seemingly greener, and animals did not seem to roam freely.
While we waited for the boat to arrive, stranded
in the 'international tourist port' where rude staff tried to cheat you out of change
for their extortionately priced drinks, we chatted to the myriad of nations comprising
our little group, each sharing information on the places to go and avoid, and the
tips for a successful trip to Vietnam / Oz / UK etc.
Soon the little longboat arrived and took us
on the three-hour long journey along the Mekong river - the key winding waterway
covering most of South-East Asia, past tiny villages, little children waded through
the murky water with spears fishing for lunch, and bamboo houses leaned precariously
to the water's edge on their stilts.
We pulled in to the little town of Chau Doc
in the late afternoon, walking a narrow jetty about one foot wide to cross the deep
mud and filth of the shore, to reach the town itself. This clean, friendly town
was a lovely surprise, not least due to the fabulous vegan restaurant just a few
doors from our room. Catering for the Buddhist community, 'com chay', or vegetarian
rice' is a popular phenomenon throughout rural Vietnam, where tofu and soya are
seasoned and textured to alarmingly resemble real meat. While I tried a beef noodles
dish, Deb tried her hand at crispy shrimp. Both really tasty, neither quite realistic
enough to make us doubt eating them.
When I tried to order dessert, the language
barrier became a little problematic, and a friendly local woman came to our aid
to explain that they did not have any desserts left. Not so special... until the
same lady came back a few minutes later with a tub of sweet rice dumplings, left
them on our table, and disappeared before we could properly thank her, let alone
pay.
The next morning, we headed off to visit a Cham
floating village, part of an Islamic minority people long persecuted in Vietnam,
living in floating houses where they are exempt from council taxes and bills, and
make their living breeding catfish in nets under the houses, and haranguing tourists
to buy their overpriced trinkets, and silk ties boxed and ready for sale in Primark,
but costing double in Vietnam.
After the very early rise to get to the village
'in time' we were a little peeved when we arrived at 11am in Can Tho and were told
by our tour guide that we had free time until the next morning. Simply put, we we
told to wake up at 0530 so that our bus was free at 1130 to take another herd of
cattle in the opposite direction. This method of highly efficient and utterly impersonal
movement was to become a recurring feature throughout our (infrequent) use of tours
in Vietnam. Nonetheless, we used the free time well, including a visit to the Can
Tho military museum, which was in effect a collection of shot-down US warplanes,
decrepit and rusty, and the shiny, maintained Russian missile launchers responsible
for them. Information signs explain the skills of the resistance, the Vietnamese
superiority, and the American disorder and lack of morals.
Aside from a quick visit to the floating market
of Cai Rang, where a nip down to the shops involves rowing down the Mekong and bartering
with the man on the pineapple/potato/tomato/coffee/yam boat as the entire market
slowly drifts downstream, and a tasty visit to a fruit plantation, and rice noodle
factory (factory being a field with a furnace in the middle heating water, fueled
by the unwanted husks of the previous batch's rice), it was time to move on to Ho
Chi Minh City, formerly known as Saigon according to the Vietnamese government,
still known as Saigon to local people.
 |
| Pineapple for sale in the floating market. |
This former capital of South Vietnam is a booming
commerce centre, complete with luxury shops found only in the likes of Knightsbridge,
and all the theft, drugs and prostitution of the thriving night markets, selling
counterfeit bags, tacky T-shirts, and aphrodisiacs made of pickled scorpions and
snakes.
We took a trip out to the Cu Chi tunnels - the
massive underground network from where resistance fighters coordinated their smuggling
and fighting against the occupying US soldiers.
When our very knowledgeable and enthusiastic
singing tour-guide showed us the scars from the bullet wounds inflicted by a US
helicopter, and told us of his siblings who died in battle, we already anticipated
some degree of bias, but we nonetheless appalled by the level to which the tour
descended. As we were shown the 3 foot long bamboo spikes that lay under a thin
layer of leaves covering a revolving trap door, and the iron hooks that would drive
deep into the flesh of a soldier triggering a trip wire or various other mechanisms,
the guide reassured us with a laugh that these 'deterrants' could only inflict minor
injury, unlike American bullets. Later in the tour came the opportunity to fire
various guns of the war - M4, M16, AK47 for about 70p per bullet. While various
Russian tourists went to play with the guns, I grimaced at the total lack of any
safety demonstration, ear protection, or in fact any deterrant from taking a gun
and going on a killing spree.
 |
| Deborah's always taken hide and seek that step too far. |
 |
| Vietnamese haemorrhoid suppositories. |
 |
| "Buy your bullets here. Pound a kilo" |
The final amusement came from the documentary
video; a bleached and tinny video showing the beauty of the countryside before,
and I quote, "like heartless evil demons the American soldiers came, shooting
and killing at will, not caring whether the target was pot, pan, mother, baby or
field". Even through the video we waited in hope of a positive message of peace
or forgiveness or coexistence; but that message never came.
I think that the reason I was so bothered by
the incessant one-sidedness was due to the fact that I can so easily imagine being
on the other side; however many years from now, the son of a Hamas terrorist killed
by an Israeli airstrike could be giving tours of the Gaza tunnels, proudly showing how 'civilians' smuggled
in Iranian rockets to resist the Zionist evil oppressors, even though (with a smile)
they were clearly no match for Israeli helicopters. To the uneducated (or miseducated)
tourists gulping down new information, there would be no doubt of Israeli guilt
and Palestinian innocence.
But, the most significant amusement (or, some
might say shaudenfreude) came from passing the gift shop, where one could support
the triumph of good over evil, communism over capitalism, Vietnam over America,
by buying an M16 bullet (made in the USA), a can of Coca Cola or a Pepsi. But anyone
wanting a McDonads, KFC, Pizza Hut, Starbucks, Coffee Bean, Hard Rock Cafe, Haagen
Dasz or Subway would have to wait to get back to HCMC.
Over the weekend, we relaxed, slept and met
the very tiny Jewish community of the city, comprising a few Israeli businessmen,
a few Israeli backpackers, and of course a Chabad rabbi (chabad is an organization
that sends delegates around the world to isolated Jewish communities to help them
maintain some semblance of Jewishness in their daily lives) and his wife and kids.
Enjoying chicken soup, potatoes and shabbat bread made a very nice change from noodles
and veg, but more so was the pleasure of chatting in Hebrew for the first time in
months.
We made friends with a couple of other couples
over the weekend, and they decided to join us on our night bus to Dalat, Vietnam's
answer to Brighton; but more on that shortly.
Sunday was our "tourist-about-town"
day, where we donned backpacks with water, hats for the sun, cameras round the necks,
and wandered around disturbing traffic and photographing statues of the Independence
palace, opera house, Ben Thau market (another place perfect for buying that Versace
iPhone cover, or a Prada baseball cap) cathedral, and riverside, all tucked away
beside modern behemoths of 50 storey monsters with helipads on top.
Now, back to Dalat. This mountain town is the
honeymoon and dirty weekend capital of the country for locals, surrounded by wineries,
coffee groves, waterfalls and temples. We took an overnight bus from HCMC and were
delighted with the result - clean, new, filled with bunk beds where each person
can lie very nearly flat, I made good use of Singapore airlines' eye patches and
ear plugs to get a near full-night of sleep, while Debs was suffering from the speedy
corners and rocking of the mountain ascent. One of the benefits of army service
is the ability to sleep under almost any circumstances.
 |
| Inside a sleeper bus |
 |
| Coffee beans. Fresh from the weasel's anus |
After a brief visit to the old railway line,
now used to shuttle tourists a few kilometers down the track, and a nice wedding
photo backdrop, it was time for a nice plate of com chay. Again.
The next morning we wandered down the the cnter-piece
of the town, the romantic lake with swan shaped boats, floating on the murky green
sludge of eutrophication, and from there to the market, where we bought silk paintings
- compulsory in any tourist's souvenirs, and fruit and veg for the long journey
ahead. Any temptation to buy other items was dampened by the massive rats casually
strolling along, staring at the humans, sitting in cages empty since the sale of
the chickens that were on their way to someone's kitchen, and browsing through the
offcuts of meat left convenietly on the floor.
In the afternoon, we started the long bus journey
to Na Trang, starting with the stunning mountain descent past waterfalls, sheer
cliffs, hairpin bends, and the occasional bus wreck. In the seaside resort of Na
Trang with its long beaches and Western hotels, we had just enough time for com
chay and a stroll down the Russian dominated promenade before the next bus - an
overighter to Hoi An. In principle like the last sleeper bus, this one boasted faulty
air conditioning and lighting, and ergonomics designed for tiny Asian people - so
the lanky likes of me find their feet crushed or their heads hanging backwards.
With stopovers planned for the most random and unpleasant times and locations, we
were momentarily transported back to Burma, to use filthy squat toilets in cafes
with no walls or doors and bare concrete floors at 3am.
Early in the morning, we arrived on the outskirts
of Hoi An. Hotel touts boarded the bus (after bribing the driver) to assure us that
their hotel was the best/only one available/closest to stuff/will include free transport
from the bus. Forced into making a snap decision, we agreed to take their car to
the hotel, but only to stay after inspecting the room. Then, hardened by prior experiences,
we were brazen enough to just walk away when their description failed to match the
reality. However, the resultant trudge into the old city, searching for hotels with
space not costing the earth, while carrying all our belongings, was not pleasant.
'Independent' scooter riders would recommend hotels with cheap rooms, and take us
to them (on foot - no three seater bikes with space for four rucksacks), only to
find we had 'just missed the last cheap room... but we have another one for more
money'. Out of principle, we did not submit to the simple scam, and eventually found
a great hotel, with a pool, in a great location, just outside the old city. Customer
service was atrocious however, and we later watched the manager telling a girl whose
camera had been stolen from her room while she slept that 'it's not my problem.
You shouldn't have left it alone. You don't like it, then check out.' The woman
who checked us in was equally obnoxious until I had to fill in a form declaring
my occupation. When she realised she could ask me questions about her unplanned
and newly-discovered pregnancy, suddenly I was showered in smiles and respect; even
after I refused to perform a clinical abdominal exam.
Hoi An is a beautiful town, through the centre
of which runs a small river, just a few miles from the estuary out to the South
China Sea. Whereas other similar fishing towns developed to become massive tourist
and industrial centres over the past few decades, Hoi An was spared thanks to a
period in which the river silted up, shutting down much industry, throwing the town
into poverty, and thus preserving its traditional appearance, which ironically is
what makes it an up-market tourist trap today. The world-heritage list 'ancient
city' (a few blocks of quaint buildings from the late 19th century) on the riverside
is most famous for its supposedly bargain bespoke tailoring. Bring in a picture
of your dream design for a suit or dress, or even select any item from the various
mail-order catalogs they have acquired (even including the latest 'Next' catalog
fresh from the UK) and they will make a hand tailored item virtually while-u-wait.
However, the number of rogue merchants reported to make shoddy suits that fall apart
quickly, combined with the requirement to pay up front in cash now mean that paying
something between the cot of Primark and Burton's for a suit may not in fact be
worthwhile, especially when it has to survive a long journey to the UK. So, we broke
the tradition of leaving Hoi An with a new collection of suits, shirts and dresses,
and instead will visit Moss Bros and Monsoon when we get back to the UK.
The best way to see the winding streets is by
bicycle, especially since no motorised vehicles are allowed in the old town through
most hours of the day. A short ride out takes you takes you to the beach, where
an 'official', with the usual accidentally-back-to-front ID card will show you where
to park your bike for a fee, use the toilet for a fee, and get changed for a fee.
Some simple confrontation and asking who employed him quickly nullified the bicycle
charges; although the toilets were apparently pay-per-pee. But hey, what's the sea
for?
 |
| The streets of Hoi An |
The next day we learned a crucial tip for all
Asia travellers. Superstition has it that if you make a sale with your first customer
of the day, you will have a good day of trade. So, the worst thing you can do is
go into a shop first thing in the morning and 'just browse', thereby devastating
the owner's prospects of a good profit all day when you walk out empty handed. However,
choosing a shop and ruthlessly bartering over an item that you want will usually
result in a very good deal indeed. While some shop owners would use puppy dog eyes
to try pry a little more cash from us, others would chase us down the street until
finally relenting and accepting our lowest offer. This practice, while sounding
cruel and exploitatory, has to be offset by the quite hilarious mark-ups multiple
shop owners made on our earlier purchases, and will make on American tourists for
evermore (US$4 for a piece of grass that when blown over sounds like a duck, for
example).
That evening, with our chopsticks, chopstick
resting blocks, chopstick box, and a new day bag for Debs, we boarded yet another
night bus, this one heading for our next stop, Hanoi.
But more on that later.
 |
| Deborah's little pet bunny. |
