Gyeongju

A Short Trip to Gyeongju

Wednesday 29^th April

 With my students suffering a week of mid-term exam hell, I decide to put my spare time to good use, and go somewhere.  It doesn’t take a great deal of consideration to decide that somewhere will be Gyeongju, the ancient capital of the Silla Dynasty, which ruled the Korean Peninsula from 668 to 918 AD. It’s been said many times that this city is like an open-air museum, so numerous are the tombs, temples, pagodas and pavilions that still survive after almost 1500 years. The fact that much of this ‘survival’ is actually the result of extensive and relatively recent restoration makes the place no less remarkable, and it boasts the added draw of being a stone’s throw from the Bulguksa Temple, a complex I’ve been meaning to visit since I arrived in this country. Lying only a four hour bus journey from Seoul, Gyeongju is also readily accessible.

   It’s a sunny, cheerful morning, as befits the start of a journey, although with the exception of a one-stop stretch between Seokgye and Taereung, the entire 70 minute subway ride to Express Bus Terminal is less cheerful, being as it is completely rammed. Ideal conditions for picking up a bit of swine flu.

    Having arrived, I suffer some confusion, since I can find signs directing me to ticket offices for what must amount to every town and city in Korea, although not unfortunately the very one I wish to go to. I do locate the boarding gate (or at least a sign pointing to it) but then a boarding gate with no ticket is only marginally more useful than no boarding gate at all.  After significant back tracking, and in a tucked-away corner, I finally stumble upon the ticket booth for Gyeongju and Busan.  Why the two major tourist centres in the south of the country, one of which is Korea’s second city, should be hidden with such professionalism is a mystery.  Nonetheless, as luck would have it the ‘Deluxe Non-Stop’ bus for Gyeongju departs in a mere ten minutes, so no further relationship need be built with the inconveniences of the Express Bus Terminal.

   Rather than being one of the countries prime historical and tourist sites, one would more likely imagine, from the four people that make up the entire passenger roster, that Gyeongju was the centre of a contagious disease outbreak. Perhaps it’s just Wednesday.  I’m already sleepy as we pull out into the busy streets of Gangnam in the south of the city, and have progressed effortlessly from sleepy to asleep long before we leave the environs of Seoul.  Indeed, I only wake up at the half-way rest stop, taken at a pleasant little place nestled among green hills somewhere in Chungcheongbuk-Do, a province in the centre of South Korea.

   It’s just after 1pm when we pull off the highway along with a worryingly large number of tour buses, and proceed through a large, fake, ornamental gate bearing the name Gyeongju in Korean, Chinese, and English. Mere minutes later we’re approaching the bus terminal.  My first observation is that Gyeongju has many more traditional, tiled roofs than I’ve seen anywhere else in the country. Whether these are original, or have been converted in order to enhance the city’s charm is a matter of uncertainty.

   The first order of business, as always, is lodging. There’s no shortage; around the bus terminal it seems every other building is a yeogwan (cheap Korean guesthouse) a hotel, or a motel, and I’m greeted with names such as ‘Icarus Motel’, ‘Hotel Royal’, and ‘Magic Motel’, which almost certainly, judging from the look of it, isn’t.  I settle for Hanjin Hostel, mentioned in the LP as being cheap and cheerful, with a roof terrace.  The owner, as is often the way of things where Korean places of lodging are concerned, is about 75 years old, and I find him lying on the floor in a vest and pyjama bottoms. It takes him quite a while to shuffle out of his little office, although not as long as it takes him to shuffle up the stairs to the second floor.  Still, to his credit, he speaks a respectable smattering of English, and seems quite friendly and helpful. Once installed in room 203, for the stately sum of \20,000 (10USD) a night, I’m given a map, and directions to such things as ‘very big supermarket’, ‘ATM’ and perhaps pessimistically, ‘police station’.  He then asks me how much I weigh, and informs me that I’m, “Very healthy.”

   Buoyed up by this encouraging medical assessment, I head out to see what Gyeongju town centre has to offer.  My first stop, having passed and noted the location of the aforementioned ‘very big supermarket’ is the Noseo-Dong Tombs, one of many collections of Silla Dynasty burial mounds, or tumuli as I prefer to call them, in Gyeongju. This particular group contains the largest remaining Silla tumulus in the country. Bonghwadae as it’s known, is over 22 metres high, and has a circumference of over 250 metres. All the tombs date from the 4^th and 5^th centuries AD, and many are of quite some size, although in all honesty, how spectacular a mound of dirt can ever be I’m not sure.

   Across the road the tumuli continue in the not inexplicably-named Tumuli Park.  Here it’s possible to actually enter one of them, the fancifully named, ‘Heavenly Horse Tomb’.  Inside are displayed many of the artefacts recovered from within, and one can also see the spot where the inhabitant (if that’s the right word) was originally placed. More interesting to me though is the chance to observe the mound in cross-section. Basically, the tombs were created thus – atop a layer of gravel and stone slabs was placed, centrally, a wooden chamber into which the deceased (plus artefacts) was inserted.  Once sealed, this chamber was covered all around with more stones, to create a large mound.  This was then covered in clay, and once dried a layer of dirt was added, and then planted with grass.  All of this effort produced the large, grassy hillocks that abound throughout Gyeongju today.  I enjoy exploring the inside of Heavenly Horse Tomb, until a horde of loud Elementary School children come flooding in like a barbarian invasion force. I retreat to more civilized climes.

   A short distance away is Wolseong Park, in which can be found East Asia’s oldest observatory – Cheomseongdae.  It looks like a small castle turret although apparently is a work of not inconsiderable technical skill, its various layers corresponding to days, weeks, and months of the year, and its orientation aligned to certain stars.  Sadly, once again my enjoyment is cut short by the arrival of vast numbers of screaming schoolchildren, this time all wearing identical blue shirts.  It seems actually that visiting Gyeongju is as much about avoiding school parties as it is about visiting historical sites. I move on.

   En route to Anapji Pond, King Munmu’s 7^th century pleasure garden, I pass the edges of Banweolseong, an ancient fortress and royal palace. Unfortunately this once great edifice is now reduced to some stones sticking up through the grass, and I am unable to get the imagination sufficiently fired even to begin contemplating its former glory. At the pleasure garden too regrettably, the passage of time has not gone unmarked.  Only three small pavilions remain of what was once a sprawling complex of buildings constructed round a large ornamental pond flanked by forest.  Most of what used to stand here ended up in the pond itself by all accounts. Still, it’s a very pleasant place if one is skilled in one’s efforts to evade school parties, and it’s clear that in its original form it would indeed have been spectacularly beautiful, particularly with the addition of a liberal number of concubines.

   With the various wonders of central Gyeongju now visited, I find myself rapaciously hungry, and head back towards to hostel for a bite to eat.  On the way, I stop off at ‘very big supermarket’ for a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, which I hope will compliment early evening on the roof terrace perfectly. A half hour or so later finds me beneath cloudless skies as the sun hangs above the western mountains.  The roof terrace is really more accurately described as simply a roof, and there’s nobody else up there (in fact I’m not sure there’s anybody else in the hostel at all) but no matter. Sunset, wine, journal, and a new city; I have all I require.

   It’s odd actually; I realise that after almost six years in this country, this is the first time I’ve visited another part of Korea alone. I visited Jeju Island, Seoraksan National Park, and Deokjeokdo with Jung-ok, Daecheon with William, and Busan with my friend Chuckie, but this is a first. It feels rather weird – I’m in Korea, but I’m travelling. I’m surrounded by the familiar, but I’m somewhere new. It’s particularly strange to be staying in a hostel, but to know that Jung-Ok is a text message away.

With a spectacular sunset over, and the standard Korean neon adornments beginning to flash, pulse, and sparkle, it’s time to find some entertainment. There’s a bar mentioned in the guidebook, but after about half an hour of grid searching every street near its apparent location, I can only conclude that neither it, nor the road it is supposed to be on, actually exist. In fact, I begin to think that, in a worrying parallel to Taipei, Gyeongju has no drinking establishments whatsoever. It abounds with clothing stores, electrical shops, cosmetics boutiques, hairdressers, and other such superfluences, but no bars. This is Korea for goodness sake! A lot more searching and I finally find a place.  It’s called Oolie Boolie Bar, and inside are two barmaids, and three middle-aged Korean men. The music is dire.  Nevertheless, it’s my only option, so I order a Long Island Ice Tea and hope for the best. Neither of the barmaids speaks more than a word or two of English, but they’re friendly, and we get by in broken Korean.  By the time I’ve been there a while, and especially after the other customers have left, we’re getting on quite well, and I’m actually enjoying myself.  Hui Young and Ji Suk are their names, and the latter astounds me with the revelation that she’s a 38 year-old mother of two. She looks like a student!  I leave just before midnight, with the promise that if I return tomorrow, I’ll be given a whiskey and coke on the house.

Thursday 30^th April

   I am inexplicably wide awake at 6am, but after a visit to the loo I return to bed, and by the time the alarm goes off at 7.30, I’m exhausted. Even at 9 o’clock when I finally rise, I have to drag myself out of the bed. I hit the streets soon enough though, for today I am heading out of town to Bulguksa Temple, and then Seokguram Grotto, both some distance to the south-east.  The no.11 bus for Bulguksa arrives promptly, and it’s not long before Gyeongju gives way to hills and rice fields, punctuated by the inevitable resorts and hotels, plus the very uninevitable enormous glass tower with the shape of a giant pagoda cut out of the middle of it (?!) I have no explanation. The onboard announcements about which stops we’re approaching are at a volume only audible through the use of sophisticated sound equipment, but I’m not too worried, as Bulguksa is apparently the last stop anyway. As we’re pulling away from a large car park, at which we were only stationary for about five seconds, two Korean girls suddenly get up saying, “Wasn’t that Bulguksa?” to each other. It turns out it was, the driver just didn’t bother to inform any of the bus load of tourists he was carrying. He seemingly thought it quite normal that a bunch of people would ride all the way out here just to stay on the bus as it began its return circuit to Gyeongju; not especially helpful.  Anyway, he pulls up again one hundred or so yards later, and everyone gets off.

   From the car park it’s a short walk to the ticket booth on the slopes of Mt.Toham, where a large sign displays a map of the complex. It certainly looks impressive. Once though the gate, a pleasant, forested track leads upwards, and it’s now that I hear the awful sound of very large numbers of children echoing down through the woods from somewhere up ahead.  I immediately regret not having got up earlier. I regret it even more when I reach the complex itself. It is swarming, and that isn’t an overstatement. Clearly the only way this will even be tolerable, let alone enjoyable, is by shutting the world out as much as possible.  It’s therefore on with the dark shades and in with the earphones. I select some suitably atmospheric oriental music, and turn it to a volume that mostly drowns out the cacophony around me.

   Bulguksa (Temple of the Buddha Land) was originally constructed in 528 by King Beop Heung, and then later enlarged to its current size by King Gyeong Deok in 751. It survived the next 800 years until the Japanese invasion in the 16^th century, when it was burnt to the ground. For four centuries it lay in ruin, and it wasn’t until the 1960s that renovations began to restore it to its original glory. It’s now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

   In the main courtyard, I’m greeted by National Treasures Nos. 22 and 23. The former is the combined structure of Lotus Flower Bridge and Seven Treasures Bridge, which form a staircase leading to Peace Enhancing Gate. The stairs were originally carved with delicate lotus flowers, although 1200 years of pilgrim footfalls have worn these away entirely. A little to the east, National Treasure No. 23 is another pair of bridge staircases, Blue Cloud Bridge and White Cloud Bridge. Built in 750, these are larger than their counterparts, and contain 33 steps, corresponding to the 33 stages of enlightenment. Access is now forbidden, but if it wasn’t, the 33 steps could be followed up to Purple Mist Gate, beyond which lies the Hall of Great Enlightenment. This is the largest hall in the complex, and contains two stone pagodas. Dabotap, the larger of the two stands 10.4 metres tall, but is presently under restoration, so is surrounded by scaffolding, with only the topmost section visible. I seem indeed to have a habit of arriving at places of historical interest to find them shrouded in scaffolding. Seokgatap is smaller, at just over 8 metres, although does bear the distinction not only of being visible, but also of having a more impressive name. Its full title is Sakyamuni Yeoraesangjuseolbeoptap, or The Shadowless Pagoda. The story tells that both pagodas were constructed by a mason known as Asadal of Baekje. He became so consumed by the long work, that he neglected his wife, who was turned away whenever she tried to visit, as women could not enter the temple. Eventually, when she became rather distraught, she was directed to Shadow Pond, where she would be able to see her husband’s reflection in the water as he worked on the top of the pagoda. When she gazed into the water, all she could see was the completed Dabotap, and her husband was nowhere in sight. In what I consider to be somewhat of an overreaction, in light of the fact that he could well have been on his lunch break, or using the conveniences, she threw herself in the pond and drowned. Asadal apparently, as it turns out, had recently finished Dabotap, and was now working on Seokgatap, which is why it gets the name Shadowless Pagoda, because his wife was unable to see it in the waters of Shadow Pond.

   Interestingly, in 1966, thieves dynamited Seokgatap in order to steal the treasures within it. They were thwarted by the monks, but their efforts exposed what they were looking for. Inside the pagoda the monks found various reliquaries, as well as the oldest woodblock printed material in the world – a copy of the Mugujeongwang Great Dharani Sutra, which has since become National Treasure No. 126. In fact, without going into too much detail, Bulguksa it seems is home not only to National Treasures 22, 23, and 126, but also 20, 21, 26, 27, and 61.

   From the highest point in the complex, a shrine containing an image of Avalokitesvara, the Bodhisattva of Compassion, I look down across a sea of tiled roofs and courtyards, surrounded by forest in its spring glory. This single view alone is enough to have made this trip worthwhile, and despite a few doubts, Bulguksa has not disappointed me. I had feared after six years, that my expectations might have outdone reality, but happily it’s every bit as beautiful as I’d hoped. The craftsmanship of the buildings is exquisite, particularly the carpentry and painting of the eaves, which demonstrate the Asian penchant for expressing religious devotion through intricacy and complexity. It’s easy to see how Bulguksa could have taken twenty-three years to complete.

For much of my time at Bulguksa, I’m in the middle of a sea of school children, although I mostly scowl at them to dissuade attempts at communication. Nonetheless, it’s possible to avoid the school parties in some of the more remote corners of the complex, and only one particularly persistent child really makes an effort to get my attention. He shouts, “Hey!” at me three times, then pulls on my sleeve and tries to take my photo. Since I’m feeling rather unlike a curiosity in a zoo, museum, or freak show, I say, “No thank you” and make a swift tangent through the nearest ornamental gate.

   More peaceful, is Shadow Pond (of the aforementioned feminine overreaction). Here a weeping willow sheds its tears into the water next to an elegant oriental three-arched bridge, while the heights of Mt. Toham rise behind them. It’s an idyllic spot, and just the sort of thing oriental wall hangings are made of. I sit by the still water, absorbing the atmosphere of this place, which has somehow managed to retain its spiritual calm even in the face of a thousand children rampaging nearby. I’d like to remember Bulguksa this way, so I decide to take my leave.

Back in the car park, I jump on a bus to Seokguram, which lies about fifteen minutes further up the mountainside. The journey takes us along a steep, winding mountain road, with deep, plunging, forested gullies and ravines to our right.  The driver, fortunately, is a careful soul, but even so there are a few quite bracing moments as we swing round particularly tight hairpins with nothing but a fate you wouldn’t want to contemplate beyond their edges.  Climbing higher, sweeping mountainscapes open up beneath the vastness of a sky as clear as any I’ve ever seen.  I’m glad I came up here even if only for the journey. Entering another car park I notice a pleasing lack of tour buses and children. Perhaps they’re all in Bulguksa, and there are none left in the whole province.  The peace and quiet remain as I stroll along the winding track that leads through dense forests on the mountainside and then on to the grotto itself.

A Joseon Dynasty style pavilion has been built over the entrance to the artificially made cave that is Seokguram.  Completed in 774, the grotto houses a 3.5 metre statue of the Sakyamuni Buddha, along with forty or so other carvings and reliefs, depicting Bodhisattvas, saints, disciples, and the faithful. All are considered to be exquisite examples of Buddhist art. There is a heavy Indian influence to the work, and there are even carvings of two Hindu gods, Brahma and Indra, on the wall behind the Buddha himself. All of this sounds wonderful, but the realities and necessities of preservation are such that the whole of the grotto itself is now behind glass, and it’s almost impossible to make out any small detail, particularly of the carvings behind the statue in the main rotunda. To make matters worse, the cave is badly lit and heavy reflections of the sunlight outside play on the glass, so that one has to lean against it and shield the eyes in order to see anything much at all. Just outside the entrance to the grotto is a sign the purpose of which I can only assume, was to explain the need for these inconveniences, however it succeeds merely in adding its own perplexities to the situation by way of a wonderful sentence stating that “…the glass is placed between the visitor and the grotto in order to keep the inside outside.”

Having returned to Bulguksa, I’m soon on my way back to Gyeongju, and dinner. I dine this evening on dolsot bibimbap, one of my favourite Korean dishes, which consists of a bed of rice, covered with mixed vegetables, a fried egg, and a generous dollop of gochujang, or hot pepper paste, all served in a piping hot stone bowl that is brushed with sesame oil before the rice is added so that the grains around the edge turn crispy and golden brown. Once served, the whole thing is mixed together before being eaten. Indeed, the word bibimbap means ‘Mixed Rice’. Thoroughly satiated, I return to the roof to catch up with the journal. Sunset is a cloudy and unremarkable affair this evening, but it’s still nice to take the time out just to sit and watch it.

When night has descended, I return to Oolie Boolie bar, where I am, as promised, given a free whiskey and coke. I follow it with a few beers and a bit of a chat, before heading back around 11.45, tired, but happy with the day and the trip as a whole. It’s been great to see another part of Korea; I spend so much time in and around Seoul that it’s sometimes easy to forget there’s anything more to this country. Also nice to finally get out on my own here after six years. It’s hard to believe I haven’t done it before.  Tomorrow I bid farewell to the ancient Silla capital, and return home to Seoul, the very bustling modern one.

 

   

Mongolia 1

Mongolia

Saturday 18^th September.

The approximately one thousand six hundred kilometres that separate South Korea from Mongolia, apparently make the world of difference to the weather, for while September is the hot tail-end of summer on the peninsula, it’s the cool leading edge of winter in the vast, landlocked North East Asian country in which I’ll be spending the next nine days. Preparing to leave, I try to dress so as to be neither too warm for the journey to the airport at this end, nor too cold for the journey into Ulaan Baatar at the other end.  Sadly, after twenty minutes in the hot sun, waiting for the airport bus, I’m already quite damp from sweat. Bring on cooler climes.

In the pleasant air-conditioning of Incheon International Airport, I rendezvous with my best friend and travelling companion, Austin.  This will be the first time we have really travelled together, aside from a weekend in Amsterdam and a few brief meetings in further flung parts, despite fifteen years of friendship.  Mongolia is a place that’s new and unfamiliar to us both, so there’s a great deal of excitement in the air this afternoon. Regrettably, there’s also a great deal of appalling fashion, although most of that is waiting to get into the air. At check-in we are a few places behind a woman who looks Mongolian, but clearly has Russian blood; there can be no other explanation for her decision to wear pink, stiletto-heeled boots and a shell suit, much less the perm she’s sporting, which looks like it was crafted by a hairdresser with a bramble fixation. On the other side of immigration, the sartorial oddities continue. Bizarrely there’s a Choseon Dynasty wedding parade, complete with spears and swords (how they passed security with them I’ll never know), and also large numbers of young, lady travellers who seem to have dressed for a nightclub, rather than for international travel. Personally, I’d prefer not to cross the globe in seven inch stilettos and a mini-skirt the size of a leopard print handkerchief, but that’s just me.

A brief wait at the gate sees us board a small MIAT (the Mongolian national airline) plane, which, after a short delay, whisks us away from the Land of the Morning Calm, towards the Land of Blue Sky. Soon after take-off, soft drinks are served. We enquire as to the availability of wine, and are told that we can get some during the meal, but not now.  Austin asks whether beer is available, but is ignored completely. Minutes later we notice the people across the aisle enjoying a couple of cans, and so once again we nab the stewardess, and ask her if what they are drinking is beer. She says, “Yes.” and then walks off, apparently oblivious to our inference. Thankfully, a few minutes later she returns with two cans of some kind of Mongolian beer, although my command of the Cyrillic alphabet is too woeful for me to be able to say what it’s called. It’s good though, and compliments the start of the trip very nicely. The meal, which is surprisingly palatable, is accompanied by red wine, and followed by a semi-successful attempt to sleep. I’m roused with news of our impending descent, and look out of the window for any sign of Mongolia below us. There is none, only a large expanse of utter darkness. But then perhaps that in itself is a sign of Mongolia.  As we approach Ulaan Baatar, it becomes obvious just how small the city really is.  I expect capitals to stretch below me almost to the horizon – sprawling and enormous; this one has clearly defined boundaries of darkness on all sides of it, resembling a large town more than a capital city.

It’s been raining, and it’s still damp as we taxi to the gate. As ever, frustratingly little can be gleaned about the destination from a view of the airport tarmac, but at least we’re told that it’s 10 degrees outside. We are fortunate to get to a rather slow and inefficient passport control before the bulk of the other passengers, but still things take a while. Proceedings are enlivened by a serial sneezer, for whom I would feel sympathy if his condition didn’t provide such amusement. Once we’ve been allowed in, baggage reclaim is swift, and then it’s through the masses at arrivals, until, loitering near the back of the throng, we find ‘our man in Ulaan Baatar’, or less romantically, the hotel pick-up driver. There’s something wonderfully reassuring about landing in a new and unfamiliar city at night, and being greeted by a man holding a sign with your name on it. He escorts us to a Korean car, whereupon we are briefly trapped by bad parking, but are soon able to make way onto roads that are, basic. This is the main highway from the country’s only international airport, to its capital, but it’s rough, and ridden with potholes. Low-rise buildings flank the road, all appearing functional and somewhat bleak. I’m cheered by the appearance of the ‘Sod Oil’ petrol station, but in general the journey is rather like driving through a declining English town whose roads have been lightly bombarded by shellfire. The driver is a friendly, chatty sort, and conversation covers topics including the shift from communism to democracy, vodka, North Korea, the weather, economic migration, and strip clubs.  Interestingly, he tells us that before communism, most Mongolians drank traditional alcohol, based on horses’ milk. Now, Russian vodka has become the drink of choice, but it’s nasty stuff, and has caused a great deal of alcoholism in Mongolia. Whenever we pass an obvious roadside inebriate, he proclaims, “Ah, a good Mongolian boy!”  After about forty minutes, having passed one of the aforementioned strip clubs, which the driver says used to be a good one, but has gone downhill of late, we pass the front of the LG Guesthouse, our residence in Ulaan Baatar, and then go round the block to the back. Here we enter a world that I’m not sure either of us are entirely prepared for. I cannot help but feel that I’ve just been thrust into an alcohol-fuelled Stalinist nightmare.  We are surrounded by soulless, depressing, run-down apartment blocks that owe equal amounts to Salford and Moscow. Various enormously inebriated youths are either staggering around, or prowling menacingly. One of them is bare-chested, so obviously Russian vodka, while destroying Mongol society, does at least negate the effects of temperature. The first thing we see upon actually exiting the vehicle, is a skip, next to which is a smashed up minivan containing a couple of people who seem to be living in it. In a state of mild shock, we’re led inside and up to reception.     

Our room is actually very nice, with a great bathroom, a TV, and most importantly, a balcony commanding spectacular views of the urban wasteland below.  Both of us are in need of a beer to cushion the blow, and so head down to the deserted restaurant, where a woman of large proportions and decidedly Russian appearance, waits to serve us two bottles of Chinggis. A child I assume to be her son amuses himself by alternately staring at us and playing with a pink inflatable ball. The restaurant is decorated with a variety of paintings and holographic oddities, most of which seem to depict snarling wolves. It seems somehow appropriate given what’s going on outside. As the restaurant closes, we take our drinks back to the room, and spend an hour or so on the balcony, observing the prowling drunkards, and being thankful that, despite our mutually extensive travel experience, neither of us are here alone; safety in numbers. Having said all this, both of us are actually having a great time enjoying the shock. This is what going to a new country is all about, however startling it may be.  Much entertainment is gleaned from the sporadic, monosyllabic exclamations emanating from dark corners of the car park, most of which would not sound out of place in a documentary about Neanderthal man.  Equally amusing is the repeated sounding, over a prolonged period of time, of a car horn that seems to be permanently in the same spot. We theorize that a drunk Mongolian has driven his vehicle into a brick wall in a vodka-fuelled frenzy, and is now attempting to beep the bricks off his car.

We retire from the madness around midnight, entirely unsure of what tomorrow will bring, but certain that whatever happens it won’t be dull, and happy that we are here. I fall asleep repeating four simple words to myself; words that are enough to ensure that sleep comes quickly and contentedly, “I am in Mongolia.”

Sunday 19^th September

   A good night’s sleep was punctuated by bizarre dreams, which included being chased through the streets of Ulaan Baatar, and eating a carrier bag while a Mongolian hotel receptionist called Austin “Stronzo” (which means ‘excrement’ in Italian).  A piping hot shower is followed by a bit of Mongolian TV, the best description of which would be ‘Channel 9’, while I sew up the four inch rent that has spontaneously and without evident cause, appeared at the bottom of one of my trouser legs.  The hotel breakfast, taken beneath the same snarling wolves from last night, consists disappointingly of stale white bread, jam, chocolate spread, and Nescafe.

   Soon afterwards we make our acquaintance with the Manager, Tseggi.  She’s a petite, cheerful woman, who strikes me immediately as being genuinely honest and helpful. With her and Gana – last night’s driver who turns out to be the owner of the hotel, we sit down and begin thrashing out the details of a five night, six day tour into Arkhangai, one of the central provinces. It became obvious even in the early planning stages of this trip, that with our limited time, the even more limited availability of public transport, and the approaching onset of winter, our only real option if we didn’t want to spend most of our time here waiting by the side of deserted roads with our thumbs in the air, would be organizing a tour.  We’d envisioned trawling round UB’s travel agencies today, but the hotel offers a wide range of reasonably-priced itineraries, and as they seem to be good, reliable people, concerned with their reputation, there’s no reason not to see what they can do for us. We manage to work out something that will take in sand dunes, lakes, national parks, monasteries, ruined monasteries, large rocks, and very importantly, sleeping in a variety of gers, the traditional nomadic dwellings, common to various parts of Central Asia. Calculations based on accommodation, food, and fuel, bring everything to $605 each all inclusive, which is very reasonable, and gets us a guide into the bargain. It would be cheaper if we travelled by ‘Russian Minivan’, but since these very words conjure images of severe discomfort, we plump for a Landcruiser instead. Easy – job done.  We depart tomorrow morning. Gana even offers us a lift into the centre of town thirty minutes hence, which we accept gratefully.

We’re dropped off in bright sunshine and beneath utterly cloudless skies, near Sukhbaatar Square, and thus begins our first exploration of Ulaan Baatar. The place has a far more favourable air in daylight, when it isn’t populated entirely by drunkards. Oddly enough, one of the first things we see is a garden containing a Korean pavilion, and with gates that have a Korean inscription. We are at one end of Seoul Street, an area apparently heavily influenced by the sizeable Korean ex-pat community.  At Sukhbaatar Square itself, we find the kind of wide open expanse that communists seem to have a passion for. It was clearly designed by the sort of minds that gave the world Red, and Tiananmen Squares. At its northern end, is a grand, columned edifice that plays host to a large statue of a seated Chinggis Khan.  He was clearly an expansive gentleman, and if this monument is to be believed, had knees the size of a small family car. He’s flanked by two mounted warriors, Mukhlai and Boruchu, two of his finest generals, and further to the left and right, by statues of Ogedei (his third son) and Kublai (his grandson). Taking in the rest of the vista, it’s clear that UB is an architectural oddity. It is composed of a mixture of bland communist nastiness, grand ornamental splendour, shiny modernity, and gently-crumbling dilapidation. Equally clear is its size; only a few kilometres away in every direction lie the green hills that mark the edges of the city.  If that were not evidence enough, the lack of people and cars make the point with equal clarity. Peace Avenue for example, which is to UB what Oxford Street is to London, or what Jongno is to Seoul, bears more relation traffic-wise, to a small Scottish town on a Tuesday afternoon.  It is as modest a capital city as I’ve ever seen, and with a population of just over a million people, well represents the country with the lowest population density of any in the world. The people themselves bear stark resemblance to the Koreans in some cases, and the Tibetans in others, and seem generally cheerful and good-spirited. The streets also have a friendly air, which is a very pleasant revelation in light of last night’s expectations.

From the square, we make our way along Peace Avenue to the State Department Store, an enormous place selling, it would seem, everything from TVs, to kitchenware, to zodiacs, to bows and arrows. It’s the fifth floor that we’re interested in however, as it is apparently the best place in the country to purchase souvenirs. It’s immediately obvious that there is an awful lot of very nice stuff available, including footwear, clothes, masks, bags, cushion covers, ornaments, rugs, vodka, and the aforementioned archery equipment. We leave with jackets, waistcoats, and every intention of returning at the end of the trip for a more comprehensive retail spree. Thoughts turn to lunch, and a short distance down a sunny, and very pleasantly warm Peace Avenue, we come across Richy’s Restaurant and Pub, where we are the only customers, and where we are shocked and delighted to find Mongolian vegetarian food. We’d been rather concerned that this trip would see us surviving on instant noodles, since everything one sees and reads about Mongolia tells of a nation where vegetarianism is virtually impossible. It had appeared the closest we’d get to veggie food would be picking the onions out of a mutton stew. Nonetheless, Richy’s seems to deliver the goods. We order soya-meat goulash, and soya-meat noodles, both of which are very nice indeed, and nicer still washed down as they are with pints of Chinggis beer, and people-watching out of the large bay windows. Forgive the observation, but Ulaan Baatar has more than its fair share of very attractive women, at least some of whom one presumes, get their hair done at the salon across the street – the magnificently-named ‘Destroy Hair and Beauty’.

Following lunch, we attempt to locate the Museum of National History, but are scuppered firstly by the utter uselessness of the LP Map of Central Ulaan Baatar (no great surprise there), and secondly by the fact that when we do eventually find the place, it turns out to be closed on Sundays and Mondays. Denied our rightful share of historical wonders, we elect to return to the hotel for an equally rightful share of downtime, as the afternoon is now getting on. On paper, the walk back appears simple – down Seoul Street, turn left, turn right, enter hotel. Paper however, is notoriously unreliable, particularly when it’s bound between two covers of a Lonely Planet, and has a map printed on it.  Things don’t begin well. We’re making our way to Seoul Street, down the same road we walked up this morning after being dropped off, when we pass a large pile of rubble which I’m fairly sure we didn’t pass earlier, and then a ger, which we’re both absolutely sure we didn’t pass earlier. We have, and it’s only fair to say, through nothing but our own distractedness, gone right past the end of Seoul Street.  A little later, and back on what we believe to be the right track, we make our way past ‘Kenny Rogers Fried Chicken’ and make our left turn. This doesn’t look promising either. Having gone a bit further, we are forced to admit that we’re lost. We ask for directions at a hotel, and although the guy seems to recognize neither the name of our hotel, nor the name of the road it’s on (perhaps not a great sign) he points us down the street regardless. We find ourselves in an area of suburban apartment blocks. Everything is slightly overgrown, and grass is forcing its way up through the paving stones, such that the whole place resembles one of those towns deserted after the Chernobyl disaster. Time for more directions, these from a middle-aged woman who appears to have absolutely no idea where our hotel is, and little more idea where she is herself.  Finally, we ask an attractive young woman outside a pizza joint, who very kindly calls the LG for us, and establishes that we are only about two minutes away.  As we eventually turn onto the right street, we see Tseggi coming down the road to meet us! In hindsight, the route was actually very simple, provided one didn’t get it wrong.

The delay has caused our chillage window to close slightly, but there’s enough time to get a bit of journal done before heading out for the evening’s merriments. We’re going to take in a Mongolian cultural performance at the nearby Tsuki House theatre. It promises throat singing, music, dance, and even a contortionist, something the Mongols seem to have a peculiar talent for. En route we make use of the inspiringly wise Mongolian concept that is the 24 hour bank (not just the cash machines – the whole bank) and then having found the theatre without navigational hiccups, enter the small auditorium.  We are the only people here, aside from a large group of vodka-swilling Japanese tourists in business suits, and so are able to get front row seats. Actually it’s more of a front row booth, the kind of thing that wouldn’t look out of place in an East End strip club circa 1965. Two large glasses of Chinggis set us up nicely as we await the darkening of lights, and the raising of curtains.

Things get underway with some traditional folk dancing, performed by two men wearing long, green skirts, and a woman with a magnificent headdress shaped like ram’s horns, and sleeves that hang down to her knees. This is followed by a female singer accompanied on the horse fiddle, a horse fiddle solo, and then the much-anticipated throat singing. For anyone unfamiliar with this most bizarre and inimitable vocal talent, throat singing is achieved by means of the singer controlling the shape of the mouth, larynx, and pharynx, so as to produce two entirely separate, but harmonious pitches simultaneously. The result is a low, guttural sound, accompanied by a higher pitched, warbling whistle, and the whole effect sounds so unlike anything that could possibly emanate from a human being, that it’s an absolute marvel to behold. We’re treated to a good twenty minutes of it, in various styles. Just when it seems things can get neither better, nor more extraordinary, the contortionist appears. She begins with various staples such as doing the splits, bending over backwards and touching the floor, and hugging her own head with her feet. While all this is certainly impressive, it in no way prepares us for what she does next, which is something, having witnessed it, that I can’t quite believe I’ve actually seen. She is kneeling up with her back to the audience, but then begins to rotate her torso, and continues rotating it until she is looking right at us. Her legs are still facing the other way.  She has, very simply, rotated her spine and entire upper body 180 degrees. Were it not so mind-bogglingly improbable, it would be quite grotesque. Austin and I share a look that says clearly, “Did she really just do that?!” I’ve never seen anything like it. Following this, the rest of her act, consisting even as it does of folding herself double, balancing by one hand on a tiny pole, and bending her legs backwards over her head while supporting herself by her mouth, seems relatively tame.  After the rubber-boned enigma has moved on, there’s more singing, and then an ensemble, who perform some wonderful Mongolian folk music, and an entirely incongruous rendition of the Andean classic ‘El Condor Pasa’. The evening is rounded off with another folk dance, and a shamanist ritual dance. We are both buzzing when it’s all over, mostly from the exquisite talents of the throat singers, and the unfathomable skills of the contortionist.  The whole performance was great though, and something that certainly won’t be forgotten in a hurry.

Ulaan Baatar has developed a notable chill now that darkness has descended, but fortunately it’s a short walk to the Great Khaan Irish Pub, an enormous establishment with a clientele that seems to be composed of a healthy mix of Mongolians and ex-pats. Vegetable Khushuur (a crepe-like local option) fills the food gap, while Chinggis helps to make short work of any remaining chill. We are seated at a table by the windows, and should therefore, be able to scan at out leisure, all the goings on in the rest of the pub.  Unfortunately, the very first time a glance that way, I catch the eye of a middle-aged Mongolian strumpet at the next table, who smiles at me in a coquettish, and entirely worrying manner. Her drinking partner does the very same thing to Austin moments later. The potential perils of offering even the tiniest seed of encouragement to these two, are such that we now feel entirely unable to look anywhere but straight ahead, or out of the windows. Happily, an American man lures them to his table about thirty minutes later, and thus the vista of the Great Khaan is finally ours to enjoy. Cocktails seem the ideal way to accompany the view, and so I progress to a Long Island Iced Tea, while Austin plumps for a Great Khaan Summer Punch, complete with orange, lemon, and about half a kilo of blueberries.  After a few more, and now reasonably well-oiled, we make our way back to the hotel. Tomorrow, the real adventure begins!

Monday 20^th September

   Clouds. This is a minor disappointment after the sunny loveliness of yesterday, but on the bright side, I am largely free of any lingering residue from last night’s merriment, so my head is clear, if not the sky.  After a breakfast at which we’re forced to listen to two Japanese men slurping noodles very loudly, we move outside to see our swanky green Landcruiser being packed with food, water, cooking equipment, and camel hair sleeping bags. Parked nearby is the ‘Russian Minivan’ whose services we declined. Seeing it in person only makes our decision seem wiser. I’m not sure I’d want to travel even one kilometre in it, let alone the sixteen hundred we have planned. Gana introduces us to Hishte, our guide. She’s a bubbly sort, with short hair, glasses, and a ready smile. Of far more import to us however, she’s also vegetarian, and the cook for this expedition. As I mentioned, food had been a major concern, especially once we got outside the city. Knowing that we are in no danger of being served anything untoward is a real comfort.

We’re soon heading out of Ulaan Baatar, and after passing the ‘Sod Hotel’ we’re leaving concrete behind as we hit the ger suburbs. One of the most remarkable things about UB is the fact that most of the housing on its outskirts is still composed of these nomadic dwellings – tens of thousands of them. As we get out into the hills, it actually starts to snow, which gives the landscape a rather bleak appearance. Even here, not far from the capital, Mongolia has taken on a middle of nowhere feel, and it’s not long before the asphalt gives way to what Gana euphemistically referred to yesterday as ‘natural roads’. Of course this merely adds to the fun, as one of the best things one can do is be bumped around on dirt tracks in the wilderness.

Our first stop, an hour or so further on to the southwest , is the 50,000 hectare Hustai National Park, home to a sizeable population of the quite unpronounceable Przewalski’s Horse, as well as gazelles, lynx, deer, marmots, and wolves. There’s a small museum near the entrance, which has as its centrepiece, a rather forlorn-looking stuffed foal.  We’ve acquired another guide for the park. Her name is Ganga, and she exudes a surly air from behind her enormous sunglasses. She squeezes into the back seat with us, and we head up into the hills. The track is steep and winding, but it’s only about five minutes before we glimpse a large group of horses grazing on a hillside. This is, I think, the first time I’ve ever actually seen wild horses, and to do so here, in this awesome landscape (it’s like Patagonia meets Derbyshire, on steroids) is quite something. We take a walk to get a little closer, and even catch sight of a marmot on the way.  Obviously the horses don’t let us get anywhere near them, but we do manage to get a few photos before heading back to the vehicle.

Back on the road, I’m asleep quickly, and wake up sometime later in bright sunshine, as we stop for lunch.  We are in a dusty, windswept, flyblown little settlement, very far from anything much else. Hishte and the driver go into the small roadside cafe to prepare the food, while we get the look of the place. There’s not a great deal to see. Two large Russian lorries that could quite easily have been on the Eastern Front in 1943 are parked nearby, heavily loaded with bales of hay, and there’s also a large pack of dogs, which, when not wandering around threateningly, spend most of their time scavenging through the piles of rubbish stacked next to the rather foul outhouse. The long wait for lunch is enlivened by some pigs eating litter, a slanging match between the waitress and the cafe cook, in-fighting amongst the dogs, and the appearance of a well-dressed and attractive woman who seems less that enthralled at the prospect of using a rancid toilet surrounded by beasts. It’s just as well there’s some entertainment, because our food takes an age to appear. It’s almost four o’clock before ‘lunch’ is finally served. Clearly Gana’s warnings about ‘Mongolian Time’ were not entirely in jest. Still, it’s worth the wait; Hishte does us proud - Tsuivan (noodles with vegetables) and an olive and sweet corn salad. It shouldn’t really have taken almost two hours to produce, but then ours is not to reason why.

We leave the nameless dustbowl and get back on the road in crisp, bright sunshine, and the vistas through which we pass become ever more spectacular to the point of ridiculousness. Sweeping plains stretch off to the horizon, punctuated by dramatic rock outcrops, cliffs, and mountains; epic simply isn’t a big enough word. Here, Mongolia is a truly vast and awe-inspiring land that stirs the emotions as only places blessed with this level of grandeur can. It far out-does my expectations. I’d imagined rolling grassland, but there’s far more variety and relief, and no matter how far we travel, it never seems to end. What there isn’t, is people. The occasional cluster of gers is the only evidence of human life. No towns, no villages, just scattered bands of nomads. It’s almost incredible that such a place can still exist in the 21^st Century.  A brief roadside stop sees me take a pee in what must qualify as one of the most desolate locations in which I’ve ever done so, and oddly, I find a cassette lying on the ground, which I take, resolving to hear what randomness is on it once I get home. The music in the car is now complimenting the scenery perfectly. We have a six CD selection, and we’ve hit the traditional Mongolian folk music option. Throat singing and horse fiddles as the wilderness surrounds us. Regrettably, this delightful audio-visual ambience is not to last. The next CD is something akin to ‘Now That’s What I Call Music’, and begins with a number by someone called Marvellous Eddie (Rodriguez). It’s a pseudo-Latin nightmare, containing the lines, “Maria, why won’t you talk to me? You ignore all my calls. Maria, instead of making love to me, you just kicked into my balls.” Charming.

Continuing on to our first overnight stop, we make a diversion off the ‘road’ to a large, isolated outcrop of rocks, and having clambered up its boulder-strewn flanks to the very top, we’re greeted by a simply phenomenal view of indescribable scale. Massive emptiness, rugged mountains, and the early evening sun casting vivid light and shadows over everything, make this one of the most beautiful sights I’ve seen. I take photos, and even video, but I know neither of them will do it justice. Having descended, we drive only a short distance before Hishte asks if we’d like to try airag – fermented mare’s milk. This is the traditional tipple of the Mongolian nomad, and unsurprisingly we respond with an immediate, “Yes.”  Moments later we’re pulling up next to a group of gers, and are ushered into one of them.  This is a totally unexpected surprise. I knew we’d get to sleep in tourist gers, but I had no idea we’d get the chance to enter a ‘real’ one; the home of a group of true nomads. Inside, the ger is cosy and colourful. A decorated latticework structure runs around the edge, and the wooden supports rising to the conical apex of the roof are also painted brightly. The family, consisting of husband, wife, and three children, have a stove, a TV run from daisy chained car batteries fed by solar panels, electric light, two beds, numerous cabinets, and a very sleepy cat. Horse wrangling equipment hangs all around, as do strips of drying mutton. The airag is served from a large plastic drum, via a kettle, by the man of the house. He’s in his mid thirties (or so it appears, although he could easily be younger, such are the rigours of nomad life) and is dressed in splendid maroon robes.  The driver, perhaps worryingly, is the first to partake of the booze, and after he’s drained the bowl, it’s refilled and passed to Austin. Emptied again, it comes to me, and then Hishte.  She polishes hers off in about a tenth of the time it took either of us to. It’s actually very nice stuff once you get used to it. I think the best description would be alcoholic liquid natural yoghurt, with a hint of goat’s cheese.  Among other things in our time with the nomads, we learn that it takes about two hours to erect a ger, that the family have ten horses and a Toyota, and that the aforementioned horses are never tethered, so when they wander off in the middle of the night, one has no option but to go in search of them, a process than can sometimes take days. Camels apparently, are much worse. Just before we leave, a few more family members come in (I assume them to be uncles and grandparents) so I ask if I can take a photo of the family. They agree happily, and seem to approve of the results. Having taken delivery of a few more litres of airag, we say our farewells, and set off into a nearby valley, where we ourselves will be spending the night.

At the end of the valley, we stop next to a ger, a small shack, and a collection of modest temples and stupas. There’s a fabulous view back down to the plains we’ve just left, and the ever reddening sun is illuminating the surrounding hills and cliffs with a deep red glow, even as the moon rises above them, giving us another in the acclaimed series of ‘Grand Mongolian Vistas’.  A short distance behind the temples is a ruined monastery from the Manchu Dynasty, apparently destroyed by the communists.  All in all it’s a wonderful place in which to spend our first night in the wilds. Hishte and the driver turn to preparing the evening meal and getting the fire going in our ger, while we take in the atmosphere. Once the sun has begun to set in earnest, it gets quickly chillier, and we’re invited into the shack for airag and conversation. The place is run by an old woman who lives here alone. Well, that’s not entirely accurate – she has a dog, although it seems to spend all of its time outside, barking forlornly in a vain attempt to muster some company, and she shares her house with a disturbingly large number of flies, many of which are trying to get a piece of our approaching dinner. It seems a harsh and lonely existence here for someone of her advanced years, and conversation turns to practicalities. Where, for example, does she buy replacement light bulbs, or for that matter, food? Apparently the nearest place is twenty five kilometres away. Perhaps she rides the dog, as she seems to have no other means of transport. We also learn with some satisfaction, that we are almost certainly the last tourists of the year. I like the idea that after we leave, no-one will stay in this ger until sometime next April.  Dinner, when it comes, is an enormous stew, of such vast proportions that delicious as it is, neither of us can finish what we’re given.  Austin requests smaller portions for the rest of the trip. After a bit more airag, we retreat to the ger, now much warmed by its own stove. The camel hair sleeping bags are a bit of a mind bender however, consisting of multiple layers that appear only to close properly if one is willing to be trussed up like a mummy in a sarcophagus. Once installed, I realise that I can either lie sideways with a decidedly chilly shoulder, or lie on my back and be entirely warm but without the ability to move. Surprisingly, I still manage to sleep quite well until about 4am, at which point I have to go outside to use the facilities (the ground in this case) and then get the stove going again. After this I’m largely incapable of getting back to sleep, due in part to the slope of my bed, which has me perpetually rolling towards the wall, and in part to the dog, which barks grumblingly until well after dawn.

Tuesday 21^st September

   Up at 7.30 and into a crisp, clear morning on the steppe. I venture to the toilet proper, a rickety shed a hundred metres away, and find planks over a very ominous hole in the ground, and no door of any kind. The results of losing one’s footing do not bear consideration. Awaiting breakfast, Austin makes friends with the dog, and such is its enthusiasm for a little bit of attention, that its endless barking, which last night I found terribly irritating, now becomes poignantly sad, with the lonely air of a creature calling out every day and night, but hearing no reply from his kin. Breakfast in the fly-infested shack consists of severe Russian bread, veggie sausages, boiled eggs, and the now standard assortment of sugary condiments. We make sandwiches, but so appalling is their appearance (fashioned as they are using nothing but forks) that Austin feels compelled to photograph mine before I start eating it. Satiated, we spend a bit more time with the dog, whose still continuing cries lead us to the distraction, “There’s nothing for you here, this is a local steppe for local people.”

   Hishte and the old woman show us into some of the little temples dotted around, and there’s some nice stuff within – statuary, some nice thangkas, and lots of pretty prayer flags. At the second one we’re taken to, a small, roundish construction, we’re told that if one enters, bows, reverses out, and then walks round clockwise three times, one’s karma will be entirely cleansed. This seems like a bargain, and an opportunity not to be missed. I’m not sure what kind of deficit my karma has, but I’ll happily cleanse it all the same. Leaving the old woman behind, Hishte and the two of us move up into another valley, laden with rocks and boulders, and walled in by the kind of hills one could quite easily imagine concealing an Apache ambush party, towards another ruined monastery a few kilometres away. It’s a fun hike, and as we ascend the valley, through large groves of dead birch trees and the occasional animal skeleton, the view back in the direction of camp becomes ever more attractive. As we near the monastery, a group of horses appear, and provide a wonderful photo opportunity against the background of rugged hills behind us.  There isn’t a great deal left of the monastery, built about six hundred years ago, but what remains is thought-provoking, as another example of the needless waste and destruction wrought upon this country by the communist regime.

   Back at camp, we make final checks, thank our host, and then get ready to make way under utterly clear skies and yet more bright sunshine. Actually, it’s a little too bright if truth be told.  I have a travel mirror with a UV sensor, and when I put it out on the ground, it turns a deep purple, the maximum on the scale; sun cream may be in order. It’s gone 11am by the time we get moving, but we’re in gorgeous sunshine, moving through gorgeous landscapes, so no-one really cares. We stop off at yesterday’s gers to return the large container in which we bought the airag, and what remains is decanted into empty water bottles, which Hishte then hands to us with a mischievous smile, probably due to the fact that it’s not yet midday, and yet she’s already plying us with more horse milk alcohol. Ah well, when in Mongolia.

   Sometime later we pull up to another set of gers, on the promise of riding Bactrian camels. Unfortunately, or possibly not, they have all just left bearing another group of tourists. Rather than wait an hour for them to return, we elect to forego whatever pleasures we may have gleaned from spending sixty minutes astride bad-tempered, flea-bitten beasts, and go on our way.

Sooner than anticipated we are approaching the outskirts (although that term perhaps suggests a rather larger size than is realistic) of Kharkorin, nee Karakorum, the ancient capital of the Mongol Empire. We’re in Ovorkhangai Province, and today, where once there stood a magnificent city, one finds a depressing, bleak, communist inspired hole, dominated by a gargantuan flour factory. Indeed, one of the only remaining points of interest is Erdene Zuu Khiid, one of Mongolia’s first Buddhist monasteries, which lies just outside the town.  I say one of the remaining points of interest because on a hilltop nearby is a twenty foot stone phallus, adorned with blue ribbons, and rising (obviously) with abandon into the clear blue sky. This apparently, is a replacement for the old one, which is now broken and crumbling nearby. Originally, it was erected (excuse the term) to discourage monks from the monastery from going up into the hills to misbehave with local girls. I’m not entirely convinced that the sight of a giant erect penis would discourage anyone from anything, but there you go. In fact the hills themselves, when viewed from a distance, do by all accounts bear an uncanny resemblance to a vagina. I can’t help but think that if one wished to encourage abstinence, this would seem about the worst possible location in which to build a monastery.  A short walk from the giant phallus, is an Ovoo, a sacred pile of rocks bedecked with blue prayer flags. This particular one is also flanked by a row of skulls, and will, if walked around three times, apparently bring luck.  I make the required circuits, thereby securing both luck and karmic purity in a single day.

Down at the monastery, we park just across the road from two enormous golden eagles, perched on small wooden stands. They look oddly out of place amongst people and passing cars. Hishte accompanies us into Erdene Zuu Khiid while the driver waits behind and does, well, whatever it is he does at times like these.  It’s a remarkable place, covering a very large area here on the wide flat plain, and surrounded by a white-washed wall incorporating one hundred and eight stupas. The monastery was built in 1585, using stone from the remains of Karakorum itself. In 1939 the communists ruined it, leaving only nineteen of the original sixty temples. Satisfactorily denuded, they then turned it into a museum. Happily, since the fall of the communist regime, Erdene Zuu has once again become an active place of worship.  We’re shown around some of the temples by a local guide who speaks only Mongolian, so Hishte translates everything. There are some beautiful ancient thangkas and statues, and since this monastery was largely devoted to Vajrayana, or Tantric Buddhism, there are also many objects and pieces of artwork that fall into the ‘wrath, punishment and pain’ school. Interesting relics include cups made from human skulls, and musical instruments fashioned from human bones. In the only remaining temple that is actually used for spiritual practices, Hishte purchases a small zip lock bag of holy water, and another of herbs, for each of us. Apparently we can drink the water (it’s brown) and burn the herbs for spiritual cleansing.  I’m not honestly sure what I’m going to do with either of them, but it is a very, very nice gesture on her part in any case. I find much of Erdene Zuu very reminiscent of the Buddhist architecture in the Himalayas, which I suppose is not surprising as the religion spread here from Tibet in the first place. What is unique about this place however, is its atmosphere of remoteness and age. Here in the middle of the vast Mongolian emptiness, Erdene Zuu really feels like a relic lost in time, a glimpse into something long gone.

We get moving in the direction of Khar Balgas, the now ruined former capital of the 8^th Century Uighur Khaganate. It’s quite a way off, and we’ll be stopping there for lunch, which is a novel idea in itself. 

Vietnam

Vietnam

Sunday 8^th February 2009

Let me begin with a word or two about Vietnam Airlines, or more specifically the revealing uniform worn by their flight attendants. It consists of a pair of very thin off-white trousers, so thin in fact that underwear is plainly visible beneath.  These are combined with a figure-hugging jacket, which has slits up each side to a length of four or five inches. Thus when a flight attendant performs even the most modest of stretching manoeuvres, such as is necessary to close an overhead compartment for example, she cannot avoid displaying, to all who are fortunate enough to notice, five or six tantalizing inches of her bare flesh. This sporadic delight, combined with a glass or two of red wine, and bright, warm sunshine, help to make the five hour flight relatively pleasant, aside perhaps from another in a lengthening succession of profoundly mediocre special vegetarian meals. This particular one is based almost entirely on plain, boiled vegetables.  What accompaniment it does have, comes in the form of a salad containing spinach that has obviously been marinating in concentrated garlic since sometime in the mid-nineteenth century. I’m a big fan of garlic, but this is so strong as to be entirely unpalatable, not to mention antisocial. I suspect the one mouthful I am unwise enough to ingest, will taint my breath for at least the next forty eight hours.  Speaking of antisocial, there are also far too many babies on this flight. Not only are there too many, but they are all too noisy, and more disturbing still, are all sitting far too close to me.  One in particular has done little but emit a vile, gurgling wail ever since we boarded. Perhaps someone should fetch him a large brandy. His Vietnamese-Korean mother offers such tender placations as, “Hajima!” which translates literally to, “Stop it!”

The creature is still howling banshee-like in the terminal of Hanoi’s Noi Bai International Airport, as I get my visa processed and proceed to baggage reclaim. This latter is not the most efficient I’ve ever encountered, and indeed the same five or six bags, apparently without owners, continue to parade forlornly around the carousel for a good twenty minutes before any others emerge. My own doesn’t see fit to make an appearance until some forty minutes after landing, although I feel unable to complain, in light of what emerges just before it, and perhaps qualifies as the single saddest sight I have witnessed on a baggage carousel. It’s a plastic suitcase handle with a Hanoi tag attached to it.  I can’t help but think that the owner would probably have appreciated a suitcase attached to it as well, but I suppose a handle is better than nothing.

The thin cloud through which we landed is clearing, and the temperature is very pleasant as I emerge from the terminal and am immediately collared by a taxi tout. He asks, “Where are you going?” to which I reply, largely in an effort to avoid him, “To the bathroom,” before reversing back into the building. He’s gone when I return.  I engage an official airport taxi, and although I probably pay a couple of dollars over the odds for the thirty kilometre journey into Hanoi, I don’t feel too robbed, as taxi drivers the world over have infinitely greater potential for fraud than that.

Most of the journey is along archetypal tropical roads, flanked by modestly shabby buildings and punctuated by palm trees. Motorbikes abound, and become only more numerous as we draw into the Old Quarter. This area, now a centre of cheap hostels, travel agencies, backpacker cafes and other traveller infrastructure, was the extent of the city only a few hundred years ago, and is still an atmospheric and bustling area where the senses are bombarded with each step. Colonial architecture, reminiscent of a tropical Amsterdam (a similar taxation system based on house width led here, as it did there, to narrow buildings), flanks the busy, scooter-clogged streets, each of which at one time, was dedicated to a particular product or trade. Their names still reflect this specialization; Hang Bac – silversmiths, Hang Manh – bamboo screens, Hang Duong – sugar, Hang Dan – wooden bowls. These days most of the streets should probably be renamed ‘Hang Travel Agents and Cafes and Hotels and Souvenir Shops and Bars and Restaurants’, but nevertheless, the Old Quarter still succeeds, through a liberal peppering of people in conical straw hats purveying their wares, and through the very human scale of everything that goes on here, in feeling traditional. There’s a vibrant sense of life and energy on the streets, probably only enhanced by the unbelievable profusion of mopeds and scooters which buzz past and around you from all angles. Often one is forced to walk in the road, since parked bikes completely block many of the pavements, and this makes a constant awareness of the traffic a prerequisite for survival. To the beeps and growls of the bikes, is added the constant attention of touts, sellers of lighters and wallets, xe om (or motorbike taxi) drivers, and every store owner one makes even the briefest of eye contact with. A walk through the streets of Hanoi’s Old Quarter, is a constant succession of polite declinations and the avoidance of two-wheeled peril.

I take a break from the bounty of new sights, smells and sounds, to find my friend William, who arrived a week ago. He is, as promised, waiting in his hotel, and having not shaved for a couple of months, he now has the appearance of Grizzly Adams. I dump my stuff in his room, and we head out once more. My first mission is to find the offices of Adventure Indochina, the travel agency that arranged my visa, and very helpfully told me that I could pay for it when I arrived in Hanoi. With this goal in mind, I entrust myself to William’s experience and knowledge of the streets he’s been exploring for the last seven days. Without the necessity to navigate myself, I merely take pleasure in absorbing all that’s around me, and am thus totally disorientated after the first couple of turns. Despite this, and the numerous opportunities for death by moving vehicle, I take to Hanoi immediately. It has a unique character, unlike anywhere I have ever been before. Hanoi could only be Hanoi.

En route to the travel agent’s, we take a look into a small market.  Some of the things on sale are recognisable, but a great many of the others aren’t. We find, for example, a shiny, jet black, gelatinous cube with sides about 9 inches long.  Neither of us can even begin to offer an explanation of what this might be.  Additionally, on a stall specialising in coffee, we notice an assortment of strangeness, the pinnacle of which is the quite unfathomable ‘Weasel Coffee’.

It’s not long before we come to Hang Buom (sails), the street where Adventure Indochina’s offices are located. The owner, Mr. Diep, welcomes us warmly and immediately, by purchasing five bottles of Hanoi Beer. While the three of us make our way through them, by way of much toasting, we chat to him about business, possible tours, and life in general. He’s a very friendly guy, who has been running this business for about three years. Moreover, he seems to genuinely care about forging himself a good reputation, which is why he lets people pay for their visas after they arrive, and charges $4 less than any other company for the service.  I ask him if he’s worried that people might get the visa, then just not come to pay him afterwards. He replies, “Well, it’s $16, so if someone doesn’t pay me, it’s not going to kill me, but if they do, I’m happy, and they go away satisfied.” I will certainly be recommending him in the future.

Buzzing merrily from our visit to the travel agent’s, we make our way to Hoan Kiem Lake, a modest but attractive body of water lying almost in the centre of the Old Quarter. A quaint oriental footbridge leads out across the water, to the island home of Ngoc Son Temple, which is dedicated to, among others, General Tran Hung Dao, who defeated the Mongols in the 13^th century. It’s easy to see that the temple, amid lush greenery, and surrounded by the placid waters of the lake, could be a serene place of contemplation and rest, however this evening it is overrun with crowds of visitors, both local and foreign, and only just succeeds in retaining any semblance of spirituality. I draw more inspiration in fact from the sunset, the deep, warm glow of which, on this balmy evening, is reflected perfectly in the mirror-like water.

With spiritual culture attended to, it’s time to dip our toes into one of Hanoi’s other popular cultures – beer. One of the city’s institutions is ‘Bia Hoi’, a locally brewed draught beer, which is sold on the streets, and must, at about 17p a glass, qualify as one of the cheapest beers in the world. It doesn’t take long to find one of these Bia Hoi joints, in fact there’s a junction in the heart of the Old Quarter that has one on each corner. Seated on tiny plastic stools, with motorbikes zipping past inches from one’s feet, and the world passing by in endless form and variety, is the ideal situation in which to enjoy this brew, which is light, and rather watery, but by no means unpleasant. 

Darkness falls at around 6.30pm, and it’s not long after this that I retrieve my stuff, and head for my next rendezvous. This time I am to meet my best friend. Austin has been living here in Hanoi, teaching English, for the last six months, and it is the opportunity to meet up with him, as much as the country itself that has brought me here. His house lies some way south of the Old Quarter, and all I have to go on is an address, and the knowledge that it’s “Near Lenin Park.” I decide to get there in sedate style, and engage a cyclo driver. The cyclo is basically a rickshaw, and my driver must be at least seventy years old.  For the most part, these guys do short journeys shuttling tourists around the Old Quarter, so he must be a little startled when he’s asked to cross a fair chunk of the city. Nonetheless his willingness is in no doubt, and if only this could be said for his geographical expertise the journey would be unproblematic. Sadly however, he seems to have absolutely no idea where 42 Pho Van Ho Ba is, and not a great deal more idea where Lenin park might be. He stops on many occasions to ask passers-by for guidance, and even studies the map in my copy of Lonely Planet. To his credit though, when we are on the move he attacks the oncoming traffic with fearless abandon. Many roads in Hanoi seem to have very negotiable rules with regard to which lane travels in which direction, and intersections, no matter how busy, are often totally devoid of signals. Being in the middle of all this on a tricycle driven by a septuagenarian is, shall we say, exhilarating.  When after some thirty minutes we finally reach my destination, the sheer exhaustion on the driver’s face is enough for me to tip him 10,000 Vietnamese Dong. I make my way up Pho Van Ho, more alley than street, and after a few dark turns, in a particularly dark and narrow area, reach no.42. Things don’t look good. For a start there is a locked shutter across the door. Additionally I can see mopeds, and I’m pretty sure Austin doesn’t own one (let alone three). I decide to check that this is the right street, and double back until I find an open house front. A young Vietnamese guy is sitting reading a book. “Is this Pho Van Ho Ba?” I enquire.  He looks at me quizzically before replying in a disturbingly non-committal manner, “Yes.”  Right then, back to no.42. I decide to rattle the gates a little, and my suspicions that this may not be my friend’s house only become stronger as I see a Vietnamese teenager emerge from within. “Er, hi. Does an English guy live here?” “No.” Bugger.  Clearly this is not Pho Van Ho Ba.  I make my way back towards where I was dropped off, and on the way pass a middle aged local man.  I show him the slip of paper I have with the address on it, and after studying it intensely for some minutes, he nods knowingly and begins to lead me off down the street.  As we reach the end, I glance at the sign for the road I just unsuccessfully experimented with, and realise that it says Pho Van Ho Hai. The gentleman takes me twenty yards down the street, and there I find a sign for Pho Van Ho Ba. It’s at this moment that I recall my very scant perusal of the Vietnamese language section of the guidebook. Hai means two, and Ba means three.  I was on the wrong Pho Van Ho. I tell my guide that it’s fine, but he insists on taking me all the way up the street until we locate no.42.  Once there I thank him gratefully, and am happy to notice a note attached to the metal shutter.  It reads, “Andy, I’m on the top floor. There’s no doorbell, so you’ll have to shout.” Some women in a nearby house find my attempts to make myself heard highly comical, but it isn’t long before a familiar face leans out of a window above me.  I’ve arrived.

His place is a very nice one, commanding lovely views across Be Mau Lake and the elusive Lenin Park, although apparently there’s a 6am disco aerobics class held down there, which could do a lot to destroy the tranquillity of any location.  A few very happy hours are spent in conversation, wine, and generally catching up on all the things you don’t get enough time to talk to your best friend about when you only see each other once every two years. It’s fantastic to meet up with Austin again, and even more so that it’s in Hanoi. Very generously he’s invited me to stay at his flat, so my pack can finally remain in one place for a while. We however, have more fun to attend to.

We’ve arranged to meet William at 9pm back in the Old Quarter. It’s not long (it never is in Hanoi) before we find a couple of xe om drivers, and Austin uses his limited, but far better than anything I could rustle up Vietnamese to negotiate a reasonable price. We’re soon on our way. Everything is going swimmingly until at a large junction, I see Austin on the bike in front turning right, while my guy steers determinedly to the left. Realising that he’s gone the wrong way, he contacts his colleague on the other bike.  This he does by controlling the bike with one hand, while sending a text message with the other. A call would surely be easier, and more importantly from my point of view, would not involve him taking his eyes off the road and the ten thousand surrounding vehicles for protracted periods of time. A few kilometres, much confusion, a couple of phone calls, and some pointless waiting on a corner later, I arrive at the restaurant, to find Austin watching a local hammering a chicken into the pavement. Aah…Vietnam.

Will is already waiting for us, and a splendid meal follows, during which I sample a local speciality – tofu with tomato sauce. Despite its simplicity, this dish is delicious. From food we move on to drinks, at a nearby bar called Mao’s. It has a nice, ethnic vibe to it, and we spend a very enjoyable few hours here, before the fun police arrive.  Hanoi is still a city that shuts down early where nightlife is concerned. Indeed while the streets may swarm with human and vehicular traffic all day and all evening, they are near deserted after about 11pm. Approaching midnight, the local constabulary does its rounds to ensure that everyone knows they should be going home soon. Apparently opening hours can sometimes be extended by paying the officers a ‘gratuity’ shall we say, but not tonight it would seem. Back at Austin’s, the two of us are up until 4am, “The tales too long, the hours too few.”

Monday 9^th February

   Having spent over 24 hours awake yesterday, a lie in is clearly prudent, and it’s 10.30 before I stir this morning. While searching for xe oms into town I am almost run over twice in five seconds by little ‘boy racer’ types who find it amusing to swerve dangerously close to pedestrians. Once we ourselves are mounted up and on our way, we enter some splendid traffic bedlam, quite the best (or worst depending on your viewpoint) I’ve seen so far.  Being in the thick of it only amplifies the experience. When we reach the occasional red traffic light, I am suddenly surrounded by what can only be described as a throng of motorbikes, the closest mere inches away, all bottlenecked, and all idling in expectation of the moment when the signal changes and it’s every rider for themselves in a battle of engines, manoeuvring skill and guts, to get away from the signals first. Most bracing.

   Our destination, fortunately, is considerably more serene. We arrive at the Temple of Literature to find it busy, but not hideously so. The temple was dedicated to Confucius, as a place to honour scholars, and was built by Emperor Ly Thang Tong in 1070. It was also the site of Vietnam’s first university, established some seven years later. Much of the courtyard is taken up by stelae, or large stone tablets bearing the names and achievements of those who were successful in state examinations from the 15^th to 18^th centuries. Each tablet is mounted on the back of a stone tortoise, a symbolism I have also observed in Korea. The temple itself is modest in size, but very attractively designed in bright reds and greens, and all around are hung lanterns, colourful banners and long red ribbons, which give the place a rather festive atmosphere.

   From the Temple of Literature, we make the short walk to the appropriately named One Pillar Pagoda, which is a pagoda, mounted on a pillar. Sensible people the Vietnamese. The Pillar, and thus the pagoda stand in the middle of an ornamental pond, and the whole arrangement is very, for want of a better word, sweet. 

   Morning is rapidly becoming afternoon, and we have an appointment to keep with William, but there’s time enough for us to forego transport, and walk back to the Old Quarter. It’s not a direct route however, since we must go around the Hanoi Citadel, a military complex slap bang between us and where we want to be. We also get to pass Ho Chi Minh’s mausoleum, but can’t see the man himself, because last admission is 10.15am.  In any case, I’ve seen Lenin, so how many embalmed revolutionary leaders does a person really need to visit?  We’re soon back in the Old Quarter, and as we make our way east from Hoan Kiem Lake, suddenly hear a distinctive and unmistakable outburst of laughter emanating from a nearby shop front. It’s William, and he’s attempting to buy a cheap watch.  It seems the proprietor can’t quite grasp this concept however, as illustrated by the following conversation, “Show me the cheapest watch you have” “Sorry Sir, what do you mean by cheap?” “Well, cheap.” “But how cheap is cheap?” “Cheaper than all the others.” He comes away without a watch.

   It’s a warm afternoon, and Bia Hoi seems to be the perfect solution to some freetime. We return to Bia Hoi Junction, and there meet Brett and Ruth, American and English respectively. Both are living and teaching in Hanoi, and I think Austin vaguely knows the former. They’re both friendly and pleasant, although Brett is very American.  In his own words, “Saigon is loud, brash, and in your face – very similar to me actually.” We learn of an interesting idea in experimental travel. One of the resident Hanoi ex-pats, is apparently planning to go from Hanoi to Sapa, up in the far north, by buffalo. Yes, buffalo. Obvious questions this raises, other than “Why?” are “Where does one find a buffalo in Hanoi?” “What does one do with a buffalo at night?” and, once more for good measure, “Why?” That journey takes about ten hours on a train, so goodness only knows how long would be required to complete it by buffalo. Still, all credit to him for doing it, and I wish him luck.

Happily lubricated by the Bia Hoi, we return to Adventure Indochina, so that William and I can arrange our trip to one of Vietnam’s most beautiful places, Halong Bay – an area of over three thousand limestone islands, sitting serenely in the Gulf of Tonkin, off the east coast. All of the many, many travel agents in Hanoi offer trips there, ranging from one day to a week or more, but since Diep was so nice yesterday, and has so far been absolutely reliable, we decide to place our faith in him again for this part of the journey.

We should perhaps have predicted than mere seconds after arriving, we would be confronted with more beer, and so it is. None of us have really got over the last Bia Hoi yet, but Diep’s not having any of that kind of nonsense. Not only does he ply us with beer, he also empties a large box of custard cakes onto the desk with the words, “They’re yours.” I have one. Austin has one. I lose count of how many William has. Aside from the socializing, we do succeed in conducting some business, and book a two night three day tour of Halong Bay and Cat Ba Island, leaving tomorrow at 8am. Diep is even kind enough to organise a xe om driver to come down to Austin’s place to get me in the morning, free of charge.  Somehow I can’t imagine any of this happening in Thomas Cook.

This evening’s plan is for Austin and I to attend the water puppet performance, a traditional Vietnamese art form preserved, largely for the benefit of tourists, in a theatre next to the lake. Prior to that we’re going to meet William for dinner. Predictably, our xe oms to the Old Quarter go in entirely different directions, and it takes considerable logistical support to get them both to the same place, a restaurant called Con Viet

The restaurant has what is certainly the most extensive menu I have yet seen in Hanoi, and includes such marvels as duck, rabbit, pigeon, and tortoise, as well as a large number of things that are utterly incomprehensible. I choose something safe involving tofu, and Austin goes for Morning Glory with garlic. William on the other hand chooses pigeon. When it arrives, it proves to be an entire bird in a clay pot full of soup.  When I say ‘entire’, I am being literal, as about ten minutes into the meal he suddenly, and with a look of mild shock, fishes out its head, beak still attached. Only the feet it seems, are not included. So taken is he with this culinary surprise, that he mounts it in his rice bowl, so that it resembles a young fledgling in the nest, mouth agape for the next meal. Even the waitresses seem to find this highly comical, as indeed they find it when William starts munching into the thing a little later. On our way out, we notice that this very restaurant has been patronized by a fair smattering of foreign dignitaries, including Hillary Clinton, and, horror of horrors, Laura Bush.  I wonder if either of them had pigeon.

From dinner, it’s on to the Thang Long Water Puppet Theatre.  Water puppetry began in the 11^th century in the Red River Delta, and is unique to northern Vietnam. It was originally performed in flooded rice paddies as a means not only of entertainment, but also to amuse the spirits, which people believed affected every aspect of their lives.

We have ‘2^nd class’ back row tickets for the water puppet performance, indeed they were the last two tickets available. Nonetheless, it’s a fairly small theatre, so our view is not impaired to any great degree. The stage is a pool of greenish water about four feet deep, in front of an oriental temple façade. The performance begins with some traditional music from the Vietnamese orchestra seated on a raised platform to the left of the stage. Their instruments include horns, gongs, drums, cymbals, bells, and bamboo flutes, and there are also a number of vocalists who, as well as singing, provide the voices and narration for the puppet performance.  This begins with a puppet that bears a stark resemblance to the Deputy Headmaster of my senior school – he even has a similarly bad comb-over. To be fair though, the puppet is wearing nothing but a gold thong, and I don’t recall Mr.Russell ever having done that. The rest of the performance takes the form of a number of short skits, mainly on rural or legendary themes, and includes scenes such as ‘Boy on Buffalo Plays Flute’, ‘Catching Frogs and Chasing Foxes’, ‘Phoenix with Egg’, and ‘Unicorn Plays with Ball’. The puppets, which are lacquered wood, emerge either from behind a green bamboo screen, or from beneath the water itself, and are controlled by means of long rods and strings, hidden under the murky water. Some of the scenes are so complex as to make one wonder how on earth the puppeteers can achieve them, notably an entire wedding parade, consisting of about twenty puppets, and a scene involving children somersaulting over and around each other from the backs of buffalo. It’s really very impressive. Only at the end of the performance, which lasts an hour or so, do we get to see the puppeteers, when they emerge from behind the screen wearing long waders. A most entertaining evening. 

Michael Schumacher, or perhaps more accurately Barry Sheen, takes me back to Austin’s place, and it is without doubt my least favourite xe om ride so far, especially as the helmet he gives me has a strap that cannot be tightened, and thus would certainly, in the event of a crash, fall off before having the chance to save my head from anything. Happily, we make it back in one piece. Tomorrow is an early start for Halong Bay.

Tuesday 10^th February

Confounding all expectation, the xe om driver arrives spot on time this morning, so I bid farewell to Austin, thank him for his hospitality, and then mount up. William is already waiting when I arrive at Adventure Indochina’s office. It’s a warm, sunny morning, and I find myself thoroughly excited, not only about the upcoming adventure, but about the whole reality of being here in Vietnam. It’s vital I think, to really appreciate every moment when in a new place, because even now, waiting for a minibus outside a travel agents, there is the new and unfamiliar all around me, and that is a wonderful thing.

  

   The minibus is a little short of legroom, but not uncomfortable, and I settle in to enjoy the three hour journey to the east coast. Once we make it out of the Hanoi traffic, and through the thinning suburbs, the view changes completely. Here in the countryside, we are surrounded by a patchwork of flooded rice paddies, verdantly green, and tended by the stooped figures of farmers in conical hats, with the occasional water buffalo thrown in for aesthetic value. Indeed, Vietnamese paddies are almost too quaint and attractive to be real. Gazing upon them it almost feels like someone has simply plastered a series of postcards, and photographs from Geographical Magazine onto the landscape. The images are so traditional that it’s hard to believe they exist in reality, here in 2009.

   Midway through the journey, we make a rest stop at what can only be described as a paradise of tourist exploitation. There’s a café, small in size and large in prices, and a series of souvenir emporiums, where a vast selection of mostly nasty, mass produced tat is available, again at inflated costs. I use the time to photograph the rice paddies on the other side of the highway.

   Back on the road, William and I get chatting to one of our fellow passengers, Anar from Kazakhstan.  While she’s very friendly, on the occasions when either of us misunderstand her, or infer something incorrect from her words, she has a way of putting us straight that reminds me of an impatient teacher, and the sensation is rather like talking to someone who clearly believes themselves to be intellectually superior. I’m sure this isn’t her intention, and is probably just her use of English, but even so, it doesn’t make for the most comfortable of conversations.  As the journey continues, the by now familiar paddies begin to appear framed by tall karst formations, rising up from the plains. This is the first geological sign that we are nearing Halong. Indeed no sooner have these limestone monoliths, domes, and spires begun to appear, than we are suddenly in Halong City.

   There is, by all accounts, very little to be said for this overdeveloped sea of resort hotels, and fortunately, our experience in it will be brief to the point of fleeting. We make straight for the harbour, and the boat that will be our home tonight. While the guide is securing the necessary paperwork and taking care of other administrative tasks, the rest of us sit around idly in the hot sunshine, and I have my first chance to examine the group with whom we’ll be spending the next two days. There’s an oriental couple, one of whom sports a very dashing pith helmet, two young couples, whose origins are as yet unclear, an American guy and his Vietnamese friend, and finally a middle-aged American man with a considerably younger Vietnamese girl. I’m not sure what’s going on there.  Once the guide returns, we make our way along a pier crowded with tourists, and surrounded by a jostling mass of boats, to our own vessel, a not quite majestic junk, at least from initial inspection largely identical to the scores of others occupying every mooring in the harbour, and poised to dispense a few thousand tourists out across the bay. It’s called ‘Hoa Phuong II’; probably best not to ask what happened to ‘Hoa Phuong I.’.

   On board, I’m very pleasantly surprised. The interior is all dark wood, tastefully designed. There’s a spacious dining area with a small bar, as well as an open sun deck.  Will and I are allocated a spacious twin cabin with en suite bathroom, and by the time a quick exploration has been made, we are motoring gently out, under blue skies pastel stroked with the occasional high, feathery cloud. It’s hot, but not oppressive; in short, the day is perfect as we move serenely away from the harbour towards the labyrinth of 3000 islets that form the bay.

   The first conclusion one must reach about Halong Bay is that it is magnificently, some might venture obscenely, photogenic.  If 3000 limestone islets aren’t enough, there’s also the wide variety of vessels plying the millpond waters - tourist junks like our own, local fishing boats, and small rowing boats laden with food and drinks. These latter, usually piloted by women in conical hats, float around the bay, making straight for any tourists not moving fast enough to outrun them. In addition to the various craft, there is even a smattering of floating houses and other structures of a more permanent nature, some of which I suspect are almost certainly fish farms. The feast of human life, cradled amidst the infinite variety of the undergrowth-clad limestone formations, bathes today in bright tropical sunshine from a cloudless blue sky and as we chug lazily across the still blue waters, I find myself in a true idyll. Now while I admit that I am somewhat prone to idylls, I would challenge anyone with even half an ounce of integrity to argue that Halong Bay this afternoon is not one.

   We haven’t been on the bay long, when lunch is served. I’m happy to note that there is a profusion of veggie stuff, more than I could ever eat in point of fact.  William and I dine with Anar, and the oriental couple (he of the pith helmet). They transpire to be Korean and Taiwanese.  Yeong-Heun is from Seoul, and he is most entertained to discover that we both live in Korea. Our table bonds quickly and very amicably, over rice, noodles, deep fried tofu, egg roll, salad, chicken, fried fish, fresh fruit, and of course, beer.

   With lunch over and appetites satiated, the boat turns to the pressing business of lounging in the sun, watching one of the world’s most beautiful places drifting serenely by.  The commitment shown by everyone on board to this straining effort is nothing short of commendable, and you may rest assured that I do not shirk my own responsibilities in this regard.

As the afternoon draws on, we moor at a modestly-sized island, for a visit to what the guide describes as “The Amazing Cave.”  I enquire as to whether this is actually its name, or just his opinion, but no, apparently it’s official.  I will confess that I disembark with some reservations; surely a name of such gravity can only lead to disappointment.  We climb a set of steep, winding stone steps, cut dizzyingly into the cliff side, and about one hundred and fifty feet up, cast our eyes upon…a souvenir stall. I suppose one can’t expect much else in a place like this.  More encouragingly, a short distance from the Viet Cong pith helmets and conical straw hats, is another set of steps, leading into the cliff itself. The way soon opens out into a larger chamber, and almost immediately any reservations I may have had about this cave living up to its ambitious soubriquet disappear like a fine mist. It’s not just amazing, it’s absolutely spectacular. The whole cave is illuminated with various colours of light to dazzling effect, but it is what those lights illuminate that makes this place breathtaking.  It’s filled with almost every conceivable geological formation.  Never have I seen such diversity in one cave system.  The roof resembles a sea of sand dunes, while stalagmites, stalactites, and all manner of weird and intricate rock formations abound in startling profusion.  Each successive chamber, as we proceed downwards, appears larger and more impressive, and we encounter such marvels in stone as a turtle, two snakes’ heads, a couple in embrace, a man fishing, a pair of dangling feet, and a quite striking two metre phallus, angled upwards at forty five degrees.  Our guide, Diep (another one), seems to believe that almost every piece of stone in the place is a charm for fertility and successful procreation; “People touch this if they want to have many children” he informs us repeatedly as we walk onwards. One can sense most of the young guys in the group resolving on pain of death to touch nothing.  Having progressed a few hundred metres into the earth, the path loops round and we begin to head back towards the daylight world.  The Amazing Cave is without a shadow of a doubt the largest, most impressive, most beautiful, and most, well, amazing cave I have ever seen, and its name is very well deserved. To ice the cake so to speak, we emerge from the cave’s exit to be greeted by a grand view of the bay; junks chugging gently across it. An incredible location, for an amazing cave.

Having made our acquaintance with the bowels of the earth, it’s time for us to forge a slightly more intimate relationship with the marine world; our tour includes kayaking.  The Hoa Phuong II chugs a few hundred metres from where it moored, and pulls into a raft-like construction, to which are tied a selection of ever so slightly worse for wear-looking kayaks.  Diep tells me I’m sharing one with Anar because she can’t swim very well.  Having picked up our paddles and life vests we’re directed to the embarkation point, across the other side of the rickety platform. Here Anar is horrified, well at least notably perturbed, to find that our kayaks are of the ‘sit on’ rather than the ‘sit in’ variety. They are basically long, kayak-shaped pieces of hollow plastic, with vague troughs for the placement of posteriors.  Still, they’re quite stable, and once we’re in she seems a little calmer.  The Asian approach to health and safety is once more applied as we are given no instruction whatsoever above and beyond “Be back in an hour, off you go.”  In fairness, kayaking is hardly rocket science, but there are enough vessels in these waters, most of which would make short work of a kayak, to warrant some form of cautionary prep-talk one would feel, just for those of a less sturdy disposition.  Aside from Anar and I, Yeong-Heun and his wife, one of the couples, who transpire to be from Belgium, and William are also on the water. We all make our way out and head to --------- around the nearest islet. It takes us into a small, shaded bay, the exploration of which confirms it to be a dead end.  At least it provides entertainment; having been told that all breakages of paddles would result in a $30 replacement charge, everyone is stirringly amused to see William holding two halves of what, not ten minutes earlier, was one paddle.  Around the cliffs come echoing choruses of, “Oh dear!” “Tut tut tut, $30!” and “You broke the paddle! You broke the paddle!”  as the rest of us circle around him in amusement. He manages to get it back together, so no damage done really.  Our abortive voyage around the small bay completed, Anar and I head back out and target two tiny islets, with a view to sailing (can I call it that?) between them. Having done so, we narrowly avoid being broadsided by a junk, and since the sun is glaring down on us ferociously, decide to avoid burning by retreating to the shade of the Hoa Phuong II. Once all the other seafarers have also returned, our vessel heads out once more, to where it will anchor for the night.

Although Halong Bay is busy with boats, at our point of anchorage we are at least two hundred metres from the closest other vessel, so rather than be a disturbance, all that the other boats achieve is to add photogenic charm to our view.  Once anchored we are invited to swim. Only myself, the Belgians, and the other couple, Kevin and Joanne, (he from Australia she from Ireland) indulge.  Jumping off the boat is great fun, but the Gulf of Tonkin is decidedly chilly, so nobody stays in for long.  Besides, sunset is beginning to get itself organised, and for that I intend to be on deck with a drink.

A quick shower finds me up on top with a cold beer, good company, and the magnificent spectacle of the sun reflecting a deep orange-red off the sea, as t casts the junks and rowing boats into a golden haze. Its passage towards and then behind the rolling slopes of an island to our west is a short but undeniably beautiful one, and when its last lingering beams have disappeared, and the blue sky of day begins to give way to the darkening blue of dusk, I succumb to an attack of happiness; a perfect sunset to end a perfect day in a perfect place.

While sunset may mark the end of the day, it marks only the beginning of the evening. This is the first chance the whole boat has had to mingle and get to know each other. Kevin and Joanne earlier purchased a bottle of cheap Vietnamese wine from one of the rowboat vendors and are kind enough to offer it round, which gets the social ball rolling, with a little help from the boat’s own bar. Dinner soon follows, and once again the food is very good indeed. Afterwards, I’m on the top deck with Yeong-Heun, and we remark on the absence of the moon. I’d had romantic visions of moonlight shimmering on the sea this evening, and am a little disappointed not to see it. Mere seconds later a silver glow appears at the upper edge of the nearest island, and this is followed by the fastest moonrise I have ever seen. In the time it takes Young-Heun to go dowstairs and get his wife, the moon has gone from beginning to appear as a sliver over the island, to being full, and well clear of it. A little later over a beer, I get talking to Kevin. He tells me that he spent a couple of years teaching PE in London.  When I remark that I used to live there he asks where. “Oh, a fairly unexciting place south of central London, called Croydon.” I reply, to which he says, “Yeah, that’s where I worked – in a school called Haling Manor.” I’m dumbfounded by this latest in a string of bizarrely improbable international coincidences. Haling Manor is the senior school my sister attended some twenty five years ago.  It was a rough place then, but according to Kevin, it’s nothing short of hellish now. Apparently a student was screwdrivered in the brain while he was teaching there. The unfortunate individual was lucky enough to survive, but it serves as a graphic example of the school’s deterioration.  I also spend time talking to Chip and Dao, the middle-aged American/young Vietnamese couple I mentioned. I establish that both are very friendly and talkative, but come no closer to figuring out the nature of their relationship. Around 9pm most of the boat retreat to their cabins, leaving only Will and I on deck, enjoying a bottle of wine, and some cans of beer he bought in Hanoi and smuggled aboard. Just when we’ve concluded that we are the only people aboard who are going to see the whole evening out, the female half of the Belgian couple reappears.  Marika is a cheerful and friendly young thing, on her first trip out of Europe. She seems to be having a great time, which is a good sign, and she has an insatiable curiosity about the world, and the places she hasn’t yet been to, which is an even better one. I excuse myself to use the facilities, and on the way back happen to glance over into the water. I almost wish I hadn’t. What has all the appearance of a trail of sewage is drifting past in exactly the place we were swimming only a few hours ago. I’m loathed to accept that it is what it looks like, so I shine my torch on it. The light illuminates what is undeniably, and very regrettably, a convoy of turds.  Tracing the trail’s unpleasant heritage back, it is clear that it’s emanating from one of the other boats anchored nearby. I’m struck with the unpleasant thought that this probably happens here every night. I know the South China Sea is big, but even so, the idea that I went swimming in water that is regularly laced with human waste really isn’t a pleasant one.  After Marika has turned in, Will and I stay on deck until around midnight, when tiredness robs us of all energy, and we are reluctantly forced to say goodnight to Halong Bay. At least we can sleep easy in the knowledge that we will wake to its many charms again tomorrow morning.

Wednesday 11^th February

   Not a bad sleep really, considering the shortness of the bed, and the night-long chugging of the generator.  I rise at 5.30 in the hope of catching a nice sunrise, but find that Halong Bay is shrouded in low cloud and mist. While this might knacker the sunrise, it does cast the whole place into a slightly mysterious air, such that it feels very different from the bright, tropical ambience of yesterday. This morning Halong is much more like a Chinese painting – the foreground clear but disappearing back into mist such that only imagination can fill in the spaces.  Mine runs riot with the opportunity, and I find myself at one moment deep in valleys of pine, the sound of the boat transformed into the burbling of a mountain spring, then the next drifting the shores of some undiscovered island, mist shrouded and mysterious – perhaps a lost world. Indeed wherever I look I am presented with another unfinished canvas upon which to paint the image that takes my fancy.  A half hour or so of this, and the absence of a sunrise has become more of a blessing than a misfortune. The cloud and mist has allowed Halong Bay to become a hundred different places this morning.

   A modest (by Hoa Phuong II standards) breakfast is followed by a cruise across the bay to Cat Ba Island. Here we must say goodbye not only to the Hoa Phuong II, but also to most of our group. There are mixed itineraries among us, and so only Chip and Dao, Kevin and Joanne, and William and I are to disembark and continue on together. We’re soon in a van making our way into the island’s interior, a rugged, mountainous landscape swathed in thick tropical vegetation. At the National Park we get cycles, and go for a pleasant, but in all honesty unspectacular ride along a long, straight road. The views are nice, but I think we’d have been better off choosing to walk as Kevin and Joanne did. When we see them later they tell us that they made it to an observation platform at the top of the mountain, and were rewarded with seeping views of the bay.

   It’s early afternoon when we are dropped off at our hotels. I use the plural because it is at this point that the extra $20 Will and I paid begins to make a difference.  We are to have a nicer hotel than the other four. Diep is tickled by the opportunity to call us ‘deluxe’ with tedious regularity, although not as tickled as he is by the opportunity to offer us what he refers to as “Massage boom boom,” a service widely available in Cat Ba town, and certainly more ‘boom boom’ than ‘massage’. I think he must be on commission from one of these parlours of ill-repute, because he keeps bringing it up and telling us that if we want it, he can show us where to get it.  Even the revelation that I am happily married is shrugged off with a carefree, “Oh that’s ok! No Problem! Very good boom boom!”

   Our hotel, the blandly named ‘Holiday View’, is exactly the kind of place I never stay. It’s huge, sterile, soulless, and looks like it would fit right in on a beach front in Benidorm. There is however uniformed porteridge, so at least we don’t have to carry our own bags up to the 7^th floor. The room is, by my standards, luxurious, in that it contains such things as complimentary bathroom kits, a safe, and a shower that works. Unfortunately, and to add to the goldfish bowl feeling of being entirely separated from the reality of Vietnam, the windows are sealed shut. This is the kind of hotel where people need air conditioning, not fresh breezes.  Lunch, which we take on the 2^nd floor outdoor terrace is very nice, although I do notice that we are surrounded by real people – the kind that have company cars, pension plans, their own homes, and matching suitcases. It’s a revelation I find quite disturbing. Clearly we don’t belong here.

   At 2pm we are picked up for more kayaking, this time to the infamous ’Monkey Island’, home to an apparently rather aggressive and unpleasant, not to mention potentially rabid, troupe of monkeys, who occasionally take to biting those tourists fool enough to get too close. Joanne and I, while both very much up for the journey, have serious reservations about landfall in such a place, since even the LP advises avoiding it, and so vow to gauge the situation on arrival, and possibly stay off shore if things look too unruly.

   The journey is simply splendid, aside from the fact that the kayak William and I are in seems determined, despite our best efforts, to go any direction other than straight ahead. We are therefore constantly correcting ourselves, and this zig-zag course probably means that we paddle twice the actual distance we need to in order to reach the island.  Still, everyone else, with the obvious exception of the guide, seems to be having the same problem, so we are not unduly humiliated. An hour or so in the kayaks sees us land on a beach of sand and rough pulverised coral.  It’s quite idyllic, particularly as the view is nothing less than gorgeous, and there is a very pleasing lack of non-human primates.  We spend an hour or two soaking up the sun, swimming, chatting, and drinking beers that Chip very generously buys for everyone. Indeed it’s only after some ninety minutes that one solitary monkey makes an appearance, and even then it contents itself with stealing Joanne’s can of Coke, only to discover that it’s already empty. The creature glances back at her, and if a monkey is capable of such things, expresses very effectively, “Well you could have left some for me!”

   On the way back to Cat Ba, the mist and cloud descend upon us once more, and the effect, amplified I think by the very human scale of being in a kayak, is rather sinister. It feels as though we are being cut off from the world, set adrift in our fragile vessels, at the mercy of an incoming storm. Fortunately, the massing clouds do nothing more than mass, and it isn’t long before we are greeted by the comforting sight of the harbour. Once back on dry land, we happen to notice a large collection of glass jars on shelves at the kayak rental place. I’ve seen stuff pickled in jars quite often in Vietnam, but it’s usually snakes, which are used to produce ‘Snake Wine’, an apparently aphrodisiacal concoction.  Here, pickling has been taken to an entirely new level, such that the shelves have the appearance of a rather grisly biology lab. There are pickled lizards, pickled birds, pickled snakes, and most improbably of all, a pickled goat’s head.  I find myself hoping that this is not, like the snakes, used to produce wine.

   As a prelude to dinner, William and I go for a walk along the waterfront, and find ourselves having a couple of drinks in a place called ‘The Good Bar’. While we are there Chip passes by, and we arrange to meet him and the others for drinks after everyone’s eaten. At the Holiday View, I’m presented with a plate of what appears to be small squid, accompanied by rice.  At lunch, they knew I was vegetarian, so I’m not sure what’s happened now. I call the waiter, and he, through a combination of broken English and sign language, manages to explain that the ‘squid’ are in fact nothing more than rice cakes, fashioned to resemble the betentacled denizens of the deep.  Ingenious, if rather inexplicable.  A middle aged French couple, exactly the kind of ‘real people’ I referred to earlier, keep glancing across at us disdainfully. I am close to taking offence, when it becomes apparent that they ordered before we did, and are somewhat bitter that their table remains bare while ours overflows with delights. They are in the middle of complaining to the waiter, when their guide arrives. They start complaining to him, but in the wonderful style of Asia, and apparently oblivious to their frowns of consternation, he shrugs it all off with a wide smile, repeated use of the phrase “Yes I see” and the deft, nay expert, application of the ‘change the subject completely’ strategy. He’s clearly been dealing with western tourists for years.

Later, we meet up with the others back in ‘The Good Bar’ and a very enjoyable evening ensues. Festivities wind up at about 11pm, when everyone begins to flag.  It would appear that cycling and kayaking have taken their toll.

Thursday 11^th February

   We begin the day with the many and varied delights of the Holiday View hotel’s breakfast buffet, which includes among other things, fried eggs, rice, noodles, pancakes, toast, jam, fresh fruit, coffee, fresh juices, and for the carnivorous contingent, bacon, and sausages. Soon afterwards we’re picked up and shuttled back to Cat Ba harbour, for the boat to the mainland. There’s a throng of junks and tourists comparable to that we encountered at Halong City two days ago, and it’s only after fighting our way through this, and across a number of different vessels, that we find ourselves on the boat that will take us back.

   The journey is uneventful, aside from another opportunity to enjoy Halong Bay in its mist-clad eastern glory.  Back on the mainland, we are taken for lunch at a huge, sprawling, cattle wagon of a restaurant, which obviously caters for vast numbers of tourists, and nothing else. Once again, William and I are separated from those of a non-deluxe nature.  While they sit at enormous tables amongst the proletariat, we are taken to a separate room, complete with cushioned seats and a chandelier, and here enjoy a private table with personalised service. It is, as one of the others comments, very romantic. Rather a shame we have to share this with each other.  The food incidentally is exactly the same as that enjoyed by everyone else. As we’re waiting for the bus to depart after lunch, and whilst being besieged by an improbable number of women selling pearl jewellery, I notice a sign that requests all visitors to take “vesonsibility” for their bags.

   During the return journey, I start to ponder more on the relationship between Chip and Dao.  He spends the entire three hours in conversation with a pair of attractive Vietnamese-American girls, and doesn’t so much as glance in her direction at any point. Nonetheless, she doesn’t seem to be even remotely annoyed by this; curious. The nature of their dalliance it seems, will remain a mystery.  As we near Hanoi, I glance out of the window to see a scooter passing by.  Nothing unusual about that, except that on this particular one there is a very obvious shotgun laid perpendicular between the driver and passenger. Quite what that might be needed for is perhaps something upon which I shouldn’t dwell. We cross the Red River back into Hanoi at about 4pm, and are dropped off at Diep’s office.

 

 The Old Quarter takes a bit of getting reacquainted with after the last couple of days of peace and tranquillity on the bay. It seems now, even more bustling and chaotic, although is simultaneously, and curiously, even more charming too. In terms of atmosphere, Hanoi’s Old Quarter must rank up along side places like Stone Town and Marrakech. It’s impossible not to be moved by a city like this – in the face of such sensory overload, being impassive is simply not an option. There’s the endless soundtrack of scooter engines, beeping horns, people shouting and selling and chatting, food frying, and Bia Hoi glasses clinking. This is underscored by a cocktail for the nose – garlic, spices, soy sauce, exhaust fumes and incense. The greatest feast however is the visual one. The myriad scooters jostle endlessly in what seems at first glance, utter chaos, with matters compounded by the addition of the occasional bus or minivan. Vendors in conical hats carry bundles of vegetables, hanging like oversized balances from bamboo poles across their shoulders; groups of people sit on the ubiquitous tiny plastic chairs on the pavement, enjoying noodles or fruit or beer; children play on the streets beneath the crumbling colonial architecture; travellers and tourists wander in states of euphoria, frustration, confusion, delight or exhaustion; shops overflow with eastern delights.  It all makes for a unique and wonderful kaleidoscope of humanity.

   It is into this kaleidoscope that we hurl ourselves once more following the procurement of a room and a shower. Near Hoan Kiem lake is a Korean restaurant, which we think may well be an amusing choice for dinner. It’s not that either of us is craving Korean food, more that we find the prospect of being surrounded by Korean tourists quite surreal and entertaining. Aside from this the restaurant has the additional benefit of commanding great views over what must be one of Hanoi’s most chaotic junctions. We exit the elevator on the fourth floor, and walk into the restaurant. There are no other customers, and if this were the Wild West, there would almost certainly be tumbleweed drifting across the floor. A waitress hands us a menu.  It’s all Vietnamese food, priced in Dong. We look through it in some confusion, and then Will asks, “Do you have any Korean food?” Apparently slightly startled that two foreigners would come into a Korean restaurant looking for Korean food, she hands us, with a smile, a different menu. This one contains Korean food, and is priced in Dollars. Vietnam routinely uses both currencies, but Dollars tend to work out more profitable, and Korean tourists are notoriously fleecable, so perhaps that explains the pricing system. Anyway, the food looks good, so we decide that with the entertainment sadly lacking, we’ll fall back on the view – at least we have a wide choice of table. There are indeed, marvellous views of the traffic bedlam to be had from this vantage, and the very authentic, and delicious Korean food augments the visual experience perfectly. This is I suppose, where two Asias, the one I am totally accustomed too, and the one I’m merely visiting, meet in harmony.

   After dinner, we make for Bia Hoi junction, but this evening the beer has a distinctly industrial quality, and neither of us are prepared to take risks with the wellbeing of our digestive systems so early in the trip. We therefore head back to Mao’s for a drink, before trying a place called, imaginatively enough, ‘Pub’.  Inside, on a table not far from us, is a group of Brits who look like they have just been air-dropped in from Levenshulme. They are so startlingly chav-like, as to look completely incongruous. We theorise that perhaps they boarded the wrong plane (their luggage waiting happily for them in Malaga) and discovering their mistake, took refuge in the only familiarity they could find – ‘Pub’. Here they have been hiding ever since, slowly making their way through the stores of Heineken.

Friday 13^th February

   Although the Spring Hotel is nice, William and I are parting company tonight, and if I’m not sharing a room, I need something cheaper. The streets are already busy when I head out at 9am to find an alternative. It’s warm and sunny, and I find the world a very cheery place this morning. I am, put very simply, thoroughly happy. The day is beautiful, and I’m in Hanoi. It doesn’t take long to find a couple of cheap hotels mentioned in the LP as being under 10USD a night. They’re opposite each other in a narrow, peaceful street, next to a small local vegetable market. This would be a lovely area in which to lodge, so I’m hoping something is available. In the first of the two I’m told they have nothing, but to come back at 10.30, when something might be available for 7USD. In the second, the woman at reception quotes me 10 USD, but immediately starts trying to sell me tours, which I don’t appreciate. I head back to the Spring, and happen to ask if they have anything cheaper. “We have a room for 10 dollars, but very small, on top floor, toilet outside, and no air-con.” is the reply. I decide to check back with the other place at 10.30 and then take it from there. In the meantime, William and I go for breakfast. It’s time for some home comforts, so he goes for beans on toast, while I plump for muesli with fresh fruit and yoghurt. When it arrives, I have to wonder if it shouldn’t have been called yoghurt with fresh fruit and muesli, so little of the latter is there to be found in the veritable lake of yoghurt I am presented with. In any case, it’s still an enjoyable start to the day. At 10.30 I check back with the other hotel, but they have no rooms, so I’m staying at the Spring. Conveniently this gives William somewhere to dump his bag all afternoon after he checks out – a favour returned. The room is indeed on the top floor, but it’s actually quite nice. For a start it has a double bed, which is always appreciated. Furthermore it’s not particularly small, and there is an extensive collection of French magazines, and a huge wall hanging depicting two startlingly garish tigers in repose. Satisfactory all in all.

   With all the day’s practicalities attended to, the fun can begin in earnest. A pair of xe oms carry us through the ever thronging traffic to the Museum of Ethnology, and miraculously we both arrive at exactly the same time and in exactly the same place. It’s 30 degrees today, and humid, so before things get too oppressive, we decide to see the outdoor exhibits.  The whole museum is dedicated to the culture, crafts, and lives of Vietnam’s many minority tribes’ people, and in the attractively laid-out gardens have been constructed a number of houses in the styles used by various ethnic groups. The most impressive of these are a 42 metre longhouse of the Ede people, a spectacular Banhar communal house, which is shaped like a sail and rises to a height of 19 metres, and a tomb of the Giarai people, which while modest in size, is surrounded by large numbers of sexually explicit carvings, ranging from hugely well-endowed men thrusting their manhoods at startled-looking women, to others who seem to prefer going it alone (if you see what I mean) to massively pregnant women in postures that leave little room either for shame or imagination.

   After a lunch stop in the museum café, where I enjoy the nicest baguette I can remember having anywhere, we explore the indoor exhibition. Most of this is made up of clothing, textiles, weaponry, and everyday items, although it does include a couple of things worthy of special note. The first of these is a long, narrow strip of wood, unremarkable save for its description.  It is apparently, a ‘stick for measuring pigs’. Not far from this is the even more intriguing, ‘calabash for inhaling spicy water’. Despite these marvels, after an hour or so, as usually happens, I fall victim to museum lassitude, and having seen most of what there is to be seen, we make our way out. We’ve only progressed a few metres from the exit, when we are surrounded by a sizeable group of high school students. Most of them giggle nervously as they cajole a couple of the bravest of their number to speak to us. When finally one plucks up the courage, it turns out they would like to be photographed with us. We agree of course, and the process seems to cause much hilarity on their part. Whether it is some kind of ‘find a foreigner’ school project, or they merely want to capture the moment they were lucky enough to encounter two dashing, handsome English gentlemen, is unclear.

Our return to the Old Quarter sees us travelling in a new and novel manner. We engage the only motor tricycle I have so far seen in the city. It’s driven by a large, talkative man, wearing a silver crash helmet with a picture of Che Guevara on it. I feel quite secure initially, until thoughts of dodgy welding jobs creep into mind, and I begin to imagine this somewhat Mad Max-like contraption splitting into two pieces at 40 miles an hour. Matters are not improved when William points out an electronic sign at a large intersection that carries a running total of traffic accidents for today, this week, and this month.  Today’s count thus far is still zero, but then most of them probably go unreported. As we draw away from it, the growl of a thousand scooters closing in from all directions, William turns to me and says, “No accidents so far today; maybe we’ll be the first,” before letting out a raucous guffaw of self amusement.

Having made it back in one piece, I indulge in some spontaneous shopping, and manage to purchase my standard quota of an item of clothing, an item for the house, and a present for the wife all in the same shop in the space of ten minutes. The rest of the afternoon is spent at Bia Hoi junction, although once again the Bia Hoi tastes suspiciously unlike beer, so we stick to bottled Tiger to be on the safe side. It’s an afternoon of great, open, honest, and interesting conversation, to the wonderful backdrop of Hanoi street life. A man who has been pursuing William around with a tube of superglue ever since he arrived a week and a half ago makes a number of reappearances in a continuing effort to fix a tiny bit of loose rubber on his boot, but is sadly no more successful than the shoe shine guy who attempts more than once in the course of the afternoon to get my business. I’m not sure how exactly he intends to shine suede walking boots. Having said that, he’s clearly an industrious and innovative chap, since I later see him requesting to shine the footwear of a guy a few stools away, and he’s wearing sandals. Mr Lighters is another of our sporadic visitors. He carries a large selection of Zippos, with a few disposables thrown in for variety, as well as an array of wallets. His sales technique is largely based on a total unwillingness to accept that the potential customer is not interested in buying anything. He begins by offering me, very generally, “Lighter? Wallet?” When I say, “No thank you,’ he begins to pick lighters out individually, “This one?” “No thank you.” “This one?” “No thank you, I don’t need a lighter.” “This one?” “No thank you.” “Wallet?” …and so it goes on.  

Happily, not everyone at Bia Hoi Junction is exclusively interested in parting us from our money. Just behind where we are sitting (and bearing in mind that all the customers of the establishment on this corner, of which there are twenty or more, are wedged onto a strip of pavement three feet wide and about seven feet long, when I say ‘just behind’ I am being crampingly literal) are three local guys who in the proprietor’s busier moments have been relaying our orders back to him. They’re very friendly, and one in particular, through a wide smile, offers to buy us each a beer to celebrate the safe and healthy birth of his son this very morning. I’m touched by the gesture, and offer him my most sincere congratulations. Perhaps it’s an Asian thing that while his wife is in hospital recovering from childbirth, he’s out on the street beering it up with a couple of friends. It’s not long afterwards when time catches up with us, and our long and merry afternoon must come to an end.  William has a train to catch this evening, and still needs to get his stuff back from my room. As we are leaving, we buy three beers for our kind benefactor and his friends, but he refuses to accept two of them, insisting that we drink them with him instead. We try to explain that they are for his friends, but he responds, “Yes, I know, but I want to drink them with you.” I point out that we really have to be going, and he offers a predictable solution, “No problem, 100%,” which in this part of the world is the common way of saying, “Down in one.” I’m already quite, shall we say, happy, not to mention full, so I really don’t feel like chugging an entire bottle, but when in Rome. I finish third, and have to pause half way through; a lamentable performance. Social rituals attended to, the walk back to the hotel is a little blurry round the edges, and as he is whisked away on the back of a xe om at silly miles per hour, his backpack looking as though it may dislodge him at any moment, I find myself glad that I’m not in William’s position.  It’s been a pleasure travelling with him, and we’ve agreed that if it’s doable, we’ll hook up again down south near the end of the trip.  I shall miss his company, although I’m also happy to be on my own if truth be told. In no way is that an aspersion on William, it’s just the way things are. Now I can start dealing with all that’s around me alone, and for starters that means I’ll be forced to navigate the Old Quarter myself, a challenge I am thoroughly looking forward to. I’ll also get more time to contemplate where I am and what I’m doing, which can only be a good thing. However, before all that, I have one more social engagement to attend to.

I have arranged to meet Austin this evening, for what will be the last time while I’m in Vietnam. We’re to rendezvous by Hoan Kiem Lake, and it’s as I wait there some time later, that he suddenly appears and hurriedly tells me to follow him. The rush, he explains as we make our way round the lakeshore, is due to the possible, and very rare appearance of one of the Hoan Kiem lake tortoises. Legend has it that in the 15^th century, Emperor Le Thai To, having driven the Chinese from Vietnam with a heavenly sword, had this most magical of weapons taken from him by a giant golden tortoise that rose from the waters of the lake before disappearing with the sword.  Indeed the lake’s name means ‘Lake of the Restored Sword.’ It seems, legends apart, that a species of very large tortoise does actually survive to this day in Hoan Kiem Lake, and their infrequent appearances are thought to bring great luck to anyone who witnesses them.  It was a large crowd and a multitude of flashing cameras by the lakeshore that alerted Austin to this possible sighting as he sped by on a xe om. He is fairly convinced that he saw something in the water, but by the time we get back there the crowd has dispersed and there is no evidence to be seen of the elusive Rafetus leloii, or Sword Lake Tortoise.  Oh well, an almost sighting is far closer than I ever expected to get anyway, so I’m quite happy really. 

Austin and I spend the last of our precious hours back in Mao’s, where conversation ranges across its usual comprehensive and sporadically esoteric territory, accompanied by beer and a shisha, or water pipe. This evening that territory includes life in Asia, and more specifically comparisons between Vietnam and Korea, and the possibilities of a joint property investment in New Zealand – there to finally establish a permanent base in which live out our latter days, and to display to its full potential all of the stuff we have accumulated from our forays around the globe, most of which currently, and rather sadly, resides in storage boxes back in England. It’s an idea that I think may actually be practicable, and is also one I think Jung-Ok will be quite enthusiastic for. Originally the plan was formed to include a number of other people, but it is, at this time, uncertain whether those in question will ever be in a position to become a part of it. Austin and I remain determined and resolute however.

It’s in this climate of optimism, and great pleasure at the valuable and thoroughly enjoyable time we have been lucky enough to share this past week, combined with the likely prospect of a not too distant, and even longer-term meeting in Korea within a year, that Austin and I make our final farewells just after midnight. After some brief conversation with an Irish girl who is doing an internship at a newspaper, I head off, and with a sad inevitability that pursues me wherever I go, engage a xe om driver who has no idea where he’s going, and gets hopelessly lost within minutes. When finally we do make it back to my hotel, I dismount to be immediately approached by an attractive girl on a scooter who asks me if I want a woman.

Saturday 14^th February

   A leisurely start finds me at the Tamarind Café for brunch. The place is recommended in the LP for its great veggie selection, and on perusing the menu, it’s immediately obvious why. On offer is a fascinating and mouth-watering array of dishes, ranging from Eastern to Western, to unexpected but tantalizing fusions of both. Everything is vegetarian. I’m in heaven. I order Saigon Spring Rolls, Thai Glass Noodle Salad, and an Indian Cooler – a mix of papaya, pineapple, ginger, yoghurt and milk. It is all spectacular, and I am fairly sure I’ll be returning for dinner later.

I have had an ever so slightly unsettled stomach since getting up today, but it’s nothing severe enough to either worry or inconvenience me, and is certainly not enough to affect my plans. I have decided to make for the Red River. With such a broad and imposing waterway dividing the city it seems a shame not to see it. Making my way east of the Old Quarter, I find myself walking narrow streets, in which I am the only foreigner. It’s nice to escape areas where travellers exist in numbers rivalling the locals. Here there is a refreshing absence of travel agents, souvenir shops, and shoe shiners. This is normal day to day life in Hanoi, and I’m happy to be seeing it. I’m less happy, at the eastern end of the street, to be confronted by a dead end in the form of a long mud wall. Peering over it I can see the river, but all further progress towards it is comprehensively blocked, and I suspect that getting any closer would require extensive wandering. Frankly, it’s too hot, and I can’t be bothered. The Red River will just have to get by without me.

After a break at the hotel, I make my way, via a pint at Bia Hoi Junction, to the City View Café, which occupies the floor above the Korean restaurant William and I patronised a few nights ago. At this hour of the late afternoon it’s totally deserted, so I am able to secure a seat overlooking both Hoan Kiem Lake, and the by now notorious and much observed intersection. This is a time to enjoy the sunshine, the city, and the solitude, and to catch up on my journal, as well as having time to process and assimilate everything I’ve experienced in the last six days. It’s only now that the reality of travelling in Vietnam is really sinking in. The first couple of days staying at Austin’s, as great as it was, didn’t necessitate me organising hotels, or finding breakfast, or navigating myself around, or any other of the little things that one is forced to do when travelling. Now that I’m alone here, it’s all beginning to kick in, and a great feeling it is. I’m finding myself contemplating everything more, and appreciating everything more, which is evidenced by the fact that my relationship with my journal has suddenly become far more intimate. After a couple of very pleasant, if slightly overpriced Halidas, taken to the accompaniment of the wonderful evening light, and a lovely sunset that casts a magnificent golden glow over the lake, I reluctantly make my way back to street level, and less reluctantly back to the Tamarind Café. For dinner I select Malay quesadillas, and veggie crepes; once more a fantastic meal. In the course of this phenomenal repast I get chatting to the girl at the next table, Sarah from Nova Scotia.  She lives and works in China as an English teacher, and we engage in very interesting conversation for forty five minutes or so until it’s time for her to go back about her thing.

I repair to Bia Hoi Junction, where I fall into conversation with a trio of middle-aged men, two of whom are British and rather seedy. They went to a ‘karaoke’ bar last night – the kind of karaoke bar where the girls are more important than the karaoke. Euuchh. Fortunately there is also a young and entirely wholesome kiwi who now works on Thames pleasure boats. He’s most amused when I relate the tale of the guy travelling to Sapa by buffalo, and indeed his first question is, ‘Why??”  On the way back to the hotel I pass the most insane traffic I have yet seen in this city. The whole of Hang Gaiy is utterly rammed with scooters (all of which seem to be hooting simultaneously) and is at a total standstill. I have to take some video, as it really has to be seen to be believed. Shortly afterwards, I notice, on the other side of the street, a guy being pursued at high speed by an angry looking fellow with a crash helmet. A few moments later he catches up, and proceeds to lamp the guy round the head with it, repeatedly and very hard. A split second later they’ve disappeared into the throng.

Back in my room, I turn on the TV to find Lethal Weapon II being shown. It’s been dubbed, although bizarrely, every character is being voiced by the same voice artist.  Even more bizarrely, she’s a woman, and a very high-pitched one at that.  How anyone can have figured that this was a good idea is beyond me. I shall never think of Mel Gibson the same way again.

Sunday 15^th February

   I take a taxi at 8am bound for Noi Bai Airport. Today I will leave Hanoi, and north Vietnam behind, heading south to Ho Chi Minh City, or as I much prefer to call it, Saigon. At the terminal I attempt to deal with Jetstar Airlines, who have managed through a combination of technical and personal incompetence to charge me four times for one flight. I get nowhere with the woman at the ticket counter, and despite having a credit card statement that clearly shows their mistake, nowhere with the next person they send to talk to me either. I’ll let my credit card company deal with it for me. Having popped outside for some air, I witness a little more incompetence. From the arrivals building on the lower concourse there suddenly appears a man who runs at full pelt across the car park.  Moments later about three security guards and a number of police officers are chasing after him. I have no idea what he’s done, but he puts them all to shame physically speaking, outpacing and outdistancing them easily. When he reaches the edge of the car park he shins over the fence onto the highway, narrowly avoiding being struck by a bus, and then jumps onto the back of a passing motorbike, from where he is clean away, leaving the police standing, and I should imagine a little embarrassed at their pitiful performance.

My plane it turns out is not leaving at 11.35 as scheduled, because it hasn’t arrived yet. A new departure time of 12.00 is posted, and feeling rather hungry, I decide to use the extra half hour to get a bite to eat.  Unfortunately Hanoi airport is somewhat on the small side, and as a consequence the only food available seems to be Toblerones, enormous bags of dried fruit, or hotdogs that look like they were shipped from a dodgy fairground stall in 1973. They sag over each other in large pyramidal piles, sweating lazily and looking thoroughly unappetizing.  I’ll wait until Saigon.

It’s a short, sleepy flight, and almost before I know what’s happening, we’re descending into an overcast Saigon. Despite the clouds it’s sticky and tropical here in Vietnam’s southern city. An airport taxi to the backpacker ghetto of Pham Ngu Lao costs me VND82000, which is cheaper than I expected, and I’m dropped off on a busy street lined with travel agents, internet cafes, foreigners, and more importantly, cheap hotels. I manage, after some searching to locate the small alley in which are located two decent looking accommodation options recommended in the LP. They’re both full. I’m wandering around in vague search for something else, when a tiny Vietnamese woman approaches me with the words, “You want room? My hotel very close very nice air con TV bathroom very clean ten dollar very nice only ten dollar.”  Well why not? I follow her down an alley only just wide enough to accommodate me, and past a number of  open-fronted houses (in which incidentally I see not only a vested man sleeping on the floor, but also a woman doing laundry, and an old man loudly slurping a bowl of noodle soup.) At the end of the alley, I’m beckoned into a place that is only discriminated from any other house by a sign hanging outside and bearing the words ‘Guesthouse Dang’. Having removed my shoes I proceed through a kitchen and under a not inconsiderable amount of drying laundry, before mounting a narrow winding staircase up to the room. It seems to be one of only two. Inside it’s perfectly adequate, although air-con turns out to mean electric fan. I decide to stay, mainly as I just get a nice feeling from the place, although I also particularly like the fact that it lies down a tiny residential alley rather than on one of the main streets; it kind of feels like it’s just mine, and no-one else knows about it.

With a place to stay sorted out, and my pack stowed, it’s time to deal with sustenance. From Guesthouse Dang, it’s mere moments to one of Pham Ngu Lao’s main thoroughfares, and it’s here, on a corner, that I find Alez Boo Bar, an open-sided café bar that seems to be the hub of activity in this particular area. I grab a street-side table, and order veggie fried rice, which is delicious, and a Saigon beer, which is nicer than any brand I tried in the north. Speaking of comparisons, everything I read and heard about Saigon, said that it was busier, noisier, and more chaotic than its northern counterpart. Well not so far. There are certainly a lot of motorbikes, but there’s a lot less horn honking, and the traffic seems far more orderly than in Hanoi. Maybe it’s just Sunday. While the city at large may be relatively calm, he backpacker crowd is thronging. I’m surrounded by more copies of Lonely Planet than you’d find in most bookshops. This is an irony explored in a book called Road to Anywhere. Us ‘travellers’ like to think we’re independent, breaking new ground, and seeing the world’s frontiers on our own, not like the tourist ‘sheep’. The reality is that we all follow each other around in much the same way, even if it’s in little divisions rather than huge herds; from one backpacker ghetto to the next. We just get between them independently.

As I sit watching the world go by, I observe a pair of backpackers having a heated argument with a xe om driver. He’s obviously tried to fleece them, and they’re having none of it.  After a couple of minutes the backpackers win.  It all seems to amuse the Alez Boo staff immensely. Shortly afterwards I’m approached by a beggar with one leg. He’s young, and may well be a landmine victim. As sympathetic as I am, I have a self-imposed rule never to give to beggars. It may sound harsh, but that’s just how I deal with it. Poverty isn’t solved on a person to person level, and while my few dollars might help somebody out, maybe they’d also just perpetuate the cycle. Speaking of things that are perpetual, the street side hawking in Saigon equals if not outdoes that of Hanoi. One is continually approached and offered a wide variety of goods and services. In many cases that on offer is very similar to the north – lighters, wallets, shoe shining, and cigarettes being just a few examples. There seems for some reason though, to be a much larger trade in knock-off photocopied Lonely Planets here in Saigon than I ever saw in Hanoi; as if we didn’t have enough already! I’ve also been offered marijuana at least five times since I got here, and other, stronger drugs twice. Despite its hassles, I like Saigon. It’s as full of life as Hanoi; there’s always something to observe, be it reputable and respectable or otherwise. Being here feels a little like being in Bangkok, but with a few less westerners. Just the name, Saigon, is one of those evocative ones. It conjures images of seedy GI hotels and bars, balmy tropical streets, and other less pleasant things like napalm and ill-justified wars. I regard it altogether as a better name than Ho Chi Minh City, and despite official decrees, I shall, as much of its population do, continue to call this city Saigon.

As the evening progresses, thoughts turn to plans for tomorrow. I hit a couple of the nearby travel agents, and based on a combination of price, convenience and interest, decide to take a one-day tour to the Mekong Delta. I think it’s only right, being as close as I am to such a notable river, to see it and travel on it, if only briefly. The trip requires a relatively, but not offensively early start, so I retire after another beer at an anonymous local bar down the street, which may or may not also have had rather more seedy dealings behind the scenes.

Monday 16^th February

Guesthouse Dang is next to a laundry business, which gives me a ringside view of about a hundred drying shirts, and also ensures that my listening to the washing machines running until the early hours is not interrupted by anything as dull as sleep. Nonetheless, I’m bright eyed and cheerful as I walk out down the tiny alleyway and across the road to Kim’s Travel at 7.20 am. Once my presence is registered, I’ve time for a scrambled egg breakfast in the café next door, before the bus departs some twenty minutes later. Pulling out onto Pham Ngu Lao itself, I look out on the morning’s comings and goings, and find myself observing a lost soul – one of those casualties of the Asian travel experience. He’s walking down the main street barefoot, with a Bermuda shirt, a pair of shorts, and a shell-shocked, vacant look in his eyes, as if he’s just come to consciousness after a drug-fuelled stupor, only to realise that all his worldly belongings have been stolen by last night’s hooker. Poor sod.

Inside the bus, things are far less intriguing. I’m sat next to a portly, middle-aged British man with washed-out eyes and yellowing teeth, who opens dialogue with, “I met some right fat birds from Blackpool last night…” I’m plugged in to the MP3 player soon afterwards. A short time later our guide, Hai, gets on the microphone, and orders everyone to stop sleeping and pay attention. He proceeds to give us a rough itinerary for the day, interlaced with an almost endless succession of jokes about Vietnam. Oddly, he’s taken the novel and surprising approach, considering that he’s a tour guide, of actually making his jokes amusing. It doesn’t seem quite right really.  At one point he asks one of the passengers which side of the road people drive on in her country.  She replies, “On the right.” He then says, “Yes, and I know in some countries they drive on the left. Vietnam is very special because we do both.” He also mentions the profusion of motorbikes on the streets of Saigon, and the inevitable profusion of accidents. Until a few years ago, it wasn’t even mandatory to wear a crash helmet apparently. Hai says he was relieved when they changed the law because he thought it would reduce the number of injuries and deaths, but then laments that it hasn’t made much difference. When someone asks why not, he enquires, “How much does a crash helmet cost where you come from?” “About $300” is the reply. Hai nods knowingly and says, “In Vietnam, $300 would buy you about one hundred and fifty crash helmets.” After my various xe om experiences I have no difficulty in believing this.

About two and a half hours finds us at My Tho, where we transfer to a boat. As we’re pulling away from the shore, a headcount reveals that we’ve lost someone. How this could have been achieved in the ten yards between the bus and the boat is anyone’s guess, but it doesn’t take long to figure out that the missing party is the middle-aged Brit. We return to the quayside, and Hai disembarks to look for him. There’s no sign. After about ten minutes, with the guy still nowhere to be seen, we can only assume that he’s absconded intentionally. Why someone would come on a day tour only to leave it before it begins, and why, given the intention to do that, the individual would not even have the courtesy to tell the guide, is yet another matter to be entered into the ‘Don’t Even Bother Asking’ file.

The fairly short journey to Unicorn Island is, I don’t believe it’s stretching it to say, delightful. The palm-fringed river banks are dotted with small, ramshackle houses, all of which possess the impermanent air so common to the tropics. We’re frequently passed by local fishing boats, and the slightly larger cargo vessels, but none of them appear to be going very far very fast. Once we’ve landed, we begin a walk that, given the rapidly developing scorch of today’s sun, is thankfully short. It takes us down narrow dirt paths flanked by thick groves of palm, banana, and various other forms of green, which at least provide some small shade. Soon enough we find ourselves in a clearing with a roof, or more accurately, a roof on stilts. Hai proceeds immediately to a beehive, from which he extracts a panel generously covered with bees. After encouraging a few people to stick their fingers in it, he hands it to me and takes a photo. This it transpires is but the first of the day’s entertainments. It’s now that we move on to the snake.  In a pitiful cage not far away from the bees, is a fat python.  Hai removes it, and puts it round the neck of one of our group. The poor creature looks rather listless, and I can’t imagine it enjoys a very good standard of life in the small, wood and wire mesh box it appears to live in. Nonetheless it’s passed around a number of people, in a thoroughly undignified manner, to the sound of squeals and nervous laughter. This is the downside of tours – the quick, pass-it-round encounters with nature, and the general idea that it doesn’t matter how an animal is treated, as long as it can be used to increase the chances of getting a tip at the end of the day. I have nothing to do with it; I’ve been close to enough snakes in the past, in much better circumstances, and I’m not going to encourage the exploitation of this unfortunate specimen.

Moving under the roof, we sit down and are offered honey tea, and then honey wine, both of which are delicious. These are followed by rice wine, which tastes rather like brandy, if a little rough around the edges, and then the finale - snake wine. It comes from a transparent plastic vat that must contain at least twenty or thirty dead snakes.    The topmost of these is a cobra, which Hai drapes over the rim, creating a theatrical, if rather ghoulish spectacle. The grisly ensemble happens to be on my table, so I am therefore the first to be offered a glass.  It’s the colour of strong tea, and smells fiercely alcoholic. I am under close observation by the rest of the group, who I suspect are hoping that I’ll throw up, or at least embarrass myself by reacting with violent disgust. A tangible air of morbid fascination has settled around me, and whether I want to or not, there is clearly no backing out of this now. I set aside mild concerns about how unsanitary it is to drink from a vat full of dead reptiles, with the hope that there is enough alcohol in this concoction to kill any form of life. The glass is raised, the loins are girded, and down it goes.  I find myself pleasantly surprised. If rice wine was like brandy rough around the edges, then snake wine is like brandy rough around the edges, and everywhere else as well, but that said, it’s actually quite drinkable. Not perhaps something I’d seek out, but by no means unpalatable. Emboldened by my no doubt disappointingly un-dramatic reaction, one of the girls in the group comes forward for a glass, and Hai, rather than scooping the glass into the vat as he did with mine, lifts the cobra’s head, and drips wine from it into her glass. It looks like what it is – a dead cobra dribbling wine from its mouth. The girl seems not to find this as funny as Hai clearly does, but she drinks it anyway, and then a few others partake too. The general consensus seems to be that it’s vile. Oh well, no accounting for taste. 

Shortly after the snake wine, I find myself, along with three others, in a pirogue, cruising in a leisurely manner down the narrow channels that separate the many small islands in this part of the delta. Our craft is piloted, and powered, solely by the oarsmanship of a frail-looking old woman, who must be at least seventy. Despite her age, the whole thing seems breezily effortless, and she’s obviously a lot tougher than she looks. It’s a quiet, peaceful journey beneath thick stands of palm trees that almost entirely close us off from the glare of the sun, leaning as they do from both banks to form a kind of tunnel of foliage. The only sounds to be heard are the whirrs and buzzes of insects, the cheerful songs of the myriad birds, and the gentle splashes of the oar as it passes through the water. After a time on the channels that could happily have been longer, we disembark, and proceed on foot to another clearing. Here we are to be treated to tropical fruit and traditional Vietnamese music. I sit with a young English girl, who despite having been in Vietnam for three weeks, is conspicuously pallid, and whose face seems permanently to display an unsatisfied countenance. Also at the table are a middle-aged Australian couple. The woman strikes me in both appearance and manner, to be so thoroughly Australian (she’s calling me ‘Darl’ within seconds of meeting me) that it would not surprise me to learn that she’d just been air-lifted from the set of some early afternoon Antipodean soap-opera. He on the other hand is, shall we say, on the rotund side, with a beer-belly of gargantuan proportions that must have taken long years of dedication to achieve. Hai finds it riotously funny to call him Happy Buddha, although I’m not sure the comedy value of this is shared by Happy Buddha himself. The music meanwhile is wonderful, and takes me right back to the water puppetry of Hanoi. A lilting ensemble of tinkling bells, soft drums, and melodies provided by strings, flutes, and a number of different singers, the most impressive of whom is a tiny, sylph-like young woman with long, straight, shiningly black hair, and a voice that seems able to hit, with perfect tone, about nine different notes in a single second.  The fruit is very nice too, although it comes with a salt and chilli powder dip, which, having tried it on a piece of pineapple and a piece of melon, I am forced to conclude should be kept as far away from fruit as possible.

After a visit to another in what is becoming a long series of clearings, this one home to a rather rustic facility in which sweets are being manufactured from coconuts, we stop for lunch, in a clearing. I find myself sharing a table with the same people again. We’re offered either a basic, free lunch, or something more elaborate, for which extra payment is required. When Hai asks the Aussie couple what they want, they reply that they’ll have the basic lunch. “Oh! Why?” he responds. “It’s too expensive, but we’ll have it if you pay!” the guy replies jokily. “Oh no! I am too poor, I don’t have money and I don’t eat lots of food not like you big Happy Buddha you eat a lot yes yes big Happy Buddha!” Hai replies while putting his hand on the guy’s stomach and shaking it violently, before convulsing with laughter. This is received stonily (to say the least) by Happy Buddha, who mutters something under his breath, and for a moment looks as though he’s going to punch Hai in the jaw. His discontent only seems amplified by the fact that he is bright red and sweating profusely from the heat and humidity. I’m sure it’s obvious to everyone that he would prefer not to have his weight ridiculed in this manner, although Hai seems blissfully ignorant of having caused any offence whatsoever. I’m quietly relieved that he makes no more of these comments, even if this is more by luck than judgement.

After a pleasant, if unambitious lunch of rice, vegetables and tofu, we’re given some free time, and I elect to go for a stroll out to a nearby village. The back roads of the Mekong Delta are tropical Asia in a bottle. People pass by in loose nylon shirts, shorts, and flip-flops, the uniform of SE Asia, although here there are also a large number of conical hats. Some people are on foot, others on bare-bones bicycles, but no-one is going anywhere fast. Dogs, chickens, and even a few pigs can also be seen scratching around, rummaging through food scraps, or simply lying in the sun. This is not a place to be in a hurry, and as the breeze gently wafts the palm leaves against the thatch roofs, I wish I had more time to linger in this quiet little corner of Vietnam. Unfortunately, this is the whistle-stop Mekong experience, and we must soon make our way back to the bustle of Saigon.

The good news is that we will not be returning the way we came. Instead of a bus, a number of us will be taking a fast boat, back up the Mekong and Saigon rivers, all the way into the city itself, a journey that should take around three hours. Our boat, an apparently nameless but surprisingly sleek and modern-looking vessel, has seating within an enclosed area with glass windows, thus sealing the passengers off almost entirely from the river experience. I am about to become very disappointed by this revelation, when I notice a small hatch to aft, which on investigation leads to a small area with outdoor seating for six people. It’s occupied almost immediately. And so, in jubilant mood, under cloudless blue skies, with the sun on my face and the breeze in my hair, I begin the journey back to Saigon, along the Mekong River.

With three hours ahead of us, and little space between us, it isn’t long before people start talking. I’m sharing the luxuriant sundeck with most of the tour’s younger contingent. The unsmiling English girl from lunch is here again, but seems totally disinclined to talk to anyone. There’s also Ben, a German guy with whom I exchanged a few words during the snake wine adventure, and who seems, aside from generally being a very nice guy, to be blessed with a humour that defies national stereotypes. Outwardly, he’s tanned, with short, shaved, and substantially receding hair, but looks like he could probably run a marathon. Not surprising to learn that he used to be in the army. Then there are Rick and Shingo, American and Japanese-American respectively. They met Ben a couple of days ago apparently. Rick, with his Rayban shades and bleached, spiked hair, could only be American, but he strikes me immediately as friendly, open, and sincere. Shingo meanwhile is a superb enthusiast, and seems to take great pleasure in, well, everything. They are on a South East Asian adventure together, taking in Thailand,Cambodia, Vietnam and Laos. From what I can gather, Shingo was the driving force behind the endeavour, and has basically dragged Rick here to show him how much fun this kind of thing can be. It seems to have worked. They are both loving the whole experience, and this boat journey in particular. I can’t disagree.  Watching the world pass by as the sun sparkles on the water, and the palm trees sway in the afternoon breeze is a fine way to spend a few hours. The other two seats are occupied by an international couple, Lindon and Mi-Kyoung. He’s American, and she’s Korean. This predictably leads to conversation about Korea, and marrying the natives, but as nice as Lindon may be, his voice has a numbing, monotone quality, and he speaks in a way that seems expressly designed to make his subject matter as uninteresting as possible. He is, in short, one of life’s undeniably dull people, and once engaged in conversation with him, thoughts immediately begin to turn to how one might escape again. Additionally, while I don’t like to point out such things, I cannot leave a description of Lindon without mentioning what is by far the most notable thing about him – he has no chin, whatsoever. His bottom lip slopes down in an almost straight line to the base of his throat. Never before have I seen such an extreme example of this phenomenon, and whenever I talk to him my eyes are inexorably drawn to it. The same mental discipline is required as when one converses with an amply-busted woman in a low cut dress; ‘Look at the eyes, look at the eyes.’ It doesn’t make for comfortable conversation.

Talk aside, most of us spend most of the journey in our own private ways. I make long and delightful use of the ‘happy’ playlist on my MP3 player, designed specifically for situations just like this one, while others take photos, trail their feet in the water, or simply soak up the sun. The river isn’t particularly busy, and most of the craft that we see are small, local fishing boats, although occasionally we’re passed by much bigger barges, most of which seem to be transporting vast amounts of dirt in huge piles that would not look out of place on the edge of a mining town. About an hour into the journey, the first event of note occurs. The engine suddenly stops. It seems, although this is only educated supposition, that something has gone wrong with either the propeller, or the rudder. I make this assumption based on the fact that one of the crew strips down to his shorts, and climbs off the back of the boat into the river, where he disappears completely beneath the water. For some minutes there’s no apparent sign of him, but eventually he pops up again, and once re-emerged, he clambers back on deck, and after a brief exchange with the engine room, the boat is restarted. We take a few minutes to let the engine build slowly, but then whatever the problem was, it is clearly no more, and it’s all systems go once again. The adjustments seem in fact to have increased our speed, which was already considerable. We are now positively flying along, so much so that our wake causes some difficulty to the small pirogues and fishing boats that pass us, as they find themselves being rocked mercilessly. At one point, as we are passing a cargo junk laden with bags of rice and piles of fruit, our bow-wave is so considerable that the rocking effect causes some of the cargo to tumble off into the river, to the sound of much shouting and consternation.

It is, as predicted, three hours or so before the rural begins to give way to the urban, and slowly, the signs of Saigon start to take over. Endless lines of palm trees become long lines of shacks and shanty dwellings. Rickety-looking stilt houses, with patchwork roofs of corrugated iron and plastic sheeting line both sides of the river for mile after mile. They look frighteningly precarious as if they could fall apart at any moment, much as could, in all probability, the lives of those who have no alternative but to live in them. This is the starkest, largest, and most confronting view of poverty I’ve seen in Vietnam. It is life on the edge, in more ways than one. And yet, the people we see here seem to laugh, smile, and deal with their lot just as well as anyone, anywhere else, and there are of course a host of children, happily jumping into, and swimming around in waters that have now, with such proximity to the city, taken on the hideously unnatural greyness of pollution and filth. After the shanty suburbs, the other face of Saigon rises up before us; sleek high rises and office towers, the signs of commercial and financial prosperity, form an impressive skyline behind the cargo cranes and heavy lifting equipment of container shipping. The contrast to what came before is clear, and pronounced. It seems indeed, that here on the Saigon river, the city is laid bare; its failures as plain as its successes, its dispossessed as evident as its prosperous.

Sunset is beginning to stir itself into action as we disembark a short time later. A minibus waits to take us back to Pham Ngu Lao, and en route I ask Rick what his plans for the evening are. I’m immediately given a firm, and welcoming invitation to join him, Shingo and Ben for dinner and beers.

Pham Ngu Lao has its full tropical evening buzz on when I head out a little later to meet them. Music emanates from the cafes and bars, while scores of travellers wind their way through and round the armies of xe om drivers, touts, vendors, and locals going about their business. A sweltering day has given way to a warm, humid evening, and the first beer, which I share with Ben at the Alez Boo Bar, provides very welcome refreshment. Once rick and Shingo arrive we relocate to a mildly pokey nearby street, and a vaguely Mexican establishment called La Cantina. Beer is substantially cheaper here, accompanied by decent food, and although backpackers still abound, the area has at least a touch more of a local feeling about it. Still in search of a more authentic Saigon night however, there is really only one option – bia hoi. I begin to rave about my happy experiences in Hanoi with this brew, but Rick cuts in quickly, “Shit! Don’t drink the fresh beer here man! It smells like vomit and gives a man the shits!” With a recommendation like that, I resolve to stick to bottled. The bia hoi place is a basic, no-frills, open-fronted establishment, with the obligatory tiny plastic stools spilling out onto the pavement. A motley assortment of drinkers surround us, including Magnus and Rasmus, two young Swedish guys who are very drunk, but would probably seem equally unhinged even if they weren’t. Magnus, with about a week’s growth on his face, and shaggy, shoulder-length blonde hair, tells me enthusiastically that he’s been wearing the same clothes for a week. A little later, Rasmus suddenly exclaims, “Wow!!” and jumps from his stool, running off across the street, having just spotted a man with a portable weigh yourself machine. He spends the next fifteen minutes raving about how it was the most amazing thing he’s seen in Vietnam. It takes all sorts I suppose. Slightly saner company comes in the form of Laura from Holland. She’s an attractive girl, travelling SE Asia alone for three months, and has an air of self-assuredness and independence that compliments her intelligence and friendliness. Through conversations with both her and Ben, I am able to ascertain that Nha Trang, a coastal town some ten hours by bus from Saigon, is the best place on the mainland for scuba diving. I’ve been debating since the beginning of this trip, what to do with the few days I have spare. My options were to dive, or to head into the jungle. The former meant either the remote and expensive Con Dao islands, which I’d have to access by air, or somewhere on the mainland. The latter would have been Cat Tien National Park, but this would’ve hinged on a number of uncertainties, primarily accommodation. It seems therefore, that Nha Trang might be my best option. When I learn that Ben is heading there himself tomorrow night, the decision is sealed.

It’s a very enjoyable evening at the bia hoi parlour, marred only by the periodic appearance of a machine that could well have come from the set of a Mad Max film. Its rear end is, or at least was, a motorbike, while the front is a substantial box, with two bicycle wheels. Every time it arrives, we are all forced to move our stools to allow it access to the alley behind the street. Minutes later we all move again when it goes to leave. The puzzling thing is what it’s actually doing, since the box appears to contain nothing when the driver trundles into the alley, and nothing when he comes out again. Best not to ask I think.

Tuesday 17^th February

I rise reluctantly, on account of the fact that someone very near my window was hammering something very loudly, well into the early hours. First business this morning is onward travel. Sinh Café (a nationwide chain of travel agents) has an 8.30pm sleeper bus to Nha Trang for $10. It arrives there at 6am tomorrow morning, and is I believe the same bus for which Ben already has a ticket. With this arranged, I repair to La Cantina for breakfast, and run into the man himself. I fill him in on my plans over a cup of coffee and a vegetarian Irish breakfast, which turn out to be exactly what the doctor ordered in light of my mild hangover and lack of sleep. We also formulate a plan for the remainder of the day in Saigon, and with this in place I return to Guesthouse Dang to check out and stow my gear.

A little later I reconvene with Ben. We’d hoped that Rick and Shingo would be able to join us, but apparently the latter is still sleeping off the bia hoi, and the former has to arrange emergency funds from home, having had his wallet stolen inPhnom Penh.  They plan to rendezvous with us later. It is therefore only the two of us who make our way out of Pham Ngu Lao, and northwards on foot, in search of the Jade Emperor’s Pagoda. The streets of Saigon are extremely hot and sticky this morning, indeed I can only recall having felt such oppressive conditions once or twice before, out of all the places I’ve been to. Largely in the hope of some shade, we pass through a small park, where I notice a palm tree the like of which I have never seen before. From a short, stumpy trunk about 3 feet high, there suddenly sprouts what looks like a single, giant leaf about 4 feet high and 6 feet across, in the shape of a fan. So perfectly does this palm seem designed to replicate a fan, that it’s hard to believe such a thin could be natural.

From the park, we emerge once more into the draining heat of the streets. The whole journey to the Pagoda is only about 2.5 Km, but by the time we get close, I’ve already consumed the best part of two litres of water, and both of us are quite ready for a sit down. Unfortunately, we still haven’t found it. We know where it should be, and one would imagine it hard to lose an entire Pagoda, especially one belonging to a Jade Emperor, but it is nonetheless, nowhere to be seen. Having been round the block twice, we explore a number of side streets, but are still no nearer our goal. This proves a considerable frustration, until we are finally saved by the sight of a tour party, all dressed in identical T-shirts, and being herded like cattle by a purposeful woman with a large yellow flag. In this part of the city there is only one place they can be going. Sure enough, after following them for a minute or two, we finally arrive at the elusive, and long sought-after, Jade Emperor’s Pagoda.

The Pagoda, more of a temple in actual fact, is located in a shady courtyard tucked away off the street. It’s modestly-sized, but with a number of notable features. Just inside the main door are two statues, both depicting fierce and menacing figures. On one side the ‘General who defeated the Green Dragon’, and on the other the ‘General who slew the White Tiger’. Both men stand in warlike poses, while the unfortunate creatures of the piece lie on the ground being ignominiously stamped underfoot. In the main chamber, amidst the lingering clouds of incense, resides the supreme Taoist deity, the Jade Emperor himself, or at least a papier-mache statue of him. I try to be awe-struck by his magnificence, but in truth he’s rather small, and if his long beard were white rather than black, he would look just like a generic evil cackling villain from a 1970’s Kung Fu film. Certainly more imposing than the Jade Emperor, is Thanh Hoang, the Chief of Hell. He is to be found in a side-room off the main chamber, along with a number of elaborate, and beautifully intricate carvings known as the Hall of the Ten Hells, which depict in grisly detail the array of unpleasant punishments that await sinners in the various regions of hell. For me though, the most memorable thing in the Pagoda, is a simple effect of smoke and light. In part of the roof there are a number of square holes, through which pierce bright and intense shafts of sunlight, almost like laser beams in the dim light of the temple. Into and across these shafts, dance curling trails and drifting clouds of thick incense smoke, and the effect is as though the beams of light were imbued with their own life, forming ever-changing patterns, fleeting and transitory. I find the spectacle quite mesmerising, and only tear myself away from it when the room suddenly fills with a group of American tourists, and the peace of the moment is lost.  Outside the temple, just to the left as one exits, is a sunken pond of pronounced murkiness, which contains more turtles/terrapins than I have probably seen in my entire life prior to today. How and also why, I suspect I shall never know.

Not far from the Pagoda is Saigon’s War Museum. We break the walk with lunch at a busy little place that seems to cater more for locals than tourists, and at which the food, rice with sautéed vegetables in my case, is wonderful. We’d arranged to meet Rick and Shingo at the museum, but they are nowhere to be seen, so we head in. A large part of the museum is outdoors, and houses tanks, planes, helicopters, and assorted ordnance from the Vietnam (or American as it’s known here) War. There are also replicas of the ‘Tiger Cages’, cells used at the infamous Con Dao prison, where interrogations, and tortures such as water-boarding, electrocution, removal of finger nails, and driving 8 inch nails into various parts of the body, where routinely carried-out.

Around this area are a number of buildings containing other exhibits. The first I enter is lined with displays giving a bewildering variety of facts and statistics about the conflict, the most startling of which is that the Vietnam War, adjusting for inflation, cost in total, twice as much as World War II. Figures relating to the tonnage of bombs, toxic chemicals, and defoliants dropped make grim reading, as do the statements made by various politicians concerning the number of aspects of the Geneva Convention and tenets of international law the American campaign flouted heedlessly. One cannot help but draw parallels to the modern day conflict in Iraq.

In another room is a collection of photos taken by journalists who were killed during the war. One in particular was taken seconds before the photographer stepped on a landmine. It depicts a soldier trying to give emergency medical aid to a comrade who’d stepped on another one moments earlier. If all of this is awful and depressing, then the main hall defies words of description. I come first to a display about the Son My massacre of March 16^th 1968, in which an entire village of women and children were mercilessly gunned-down by US soldiers. There is even the actual section of guttering in which three small children hid before being discovered, dragged out, and shot. Moving on I come to a section illustrating, through a large selection of horrific photos, the immediate, and long-term effects of toxic chemicals like Agent Orange, as well as phosphorous grenades, and napalm. There are children born with awful deformities, veterans literally eaten-away by the toxins they were exposed to, and civilians with appalling injuries. More tragic photographs follow – mangled corpses, landmine casualties, executions; it’s all here. This is a museum that pulls no punches. It’s unclear whether the overriding message it aims to convey is the brutality of the American forces, or the general barbarity, futility, and tragedy of war, but either way the exhibits achieve a palpable sense of horror and sadness. No-one really speaks as they walk round. Everybody absorbs it silently, in their own way.

I’m emotionally drained after a couple of hours of all this, and having seen all I want, or can bear to see, I head back outside to wait for the others. Back at Pham Ngu Lao, there’s time for a shower, a cold beer, some journal, and a few emails, before meeting the guys for a last meal, and a couple of drinks together. It’s combination fried-rice with tofu and vegetables, followed by a bottle or two of Tiger at the bia hoi emporium. Then, email addresses are exchanged, and farewells bid, before Ben and I make our way back to Sinh Café for our sleeper bus to Nha Trang. 

It arrives on time, and I board and begin the search for my berth, L16. This process is made no easier by a numbering system that owes most of its design to chaos theory, and is made considerably more difficult still by the fact that the aisles running between the three columns of two-tier seat/beds are about a foot wide and rammed with large numbers of other confused people with luggage, trying desperately to find seat A3, or seat F12, or seat B19. When finally I locate L16, I find it to be at the very back of the bus, on the bottom tier. Whereas most of the berths are separate, isolated seats, the ones along the back are a big group of five, and so I’m wedged in between two Vietnamese guys, at a proximity I generally reserve for people I hold rather more dear. Fortunately, L16 is at least in line with the aisle, so I’m able to stretch out and hang my feet over the edge, whereas the guys on either side of me are crammed in and unable even to lie straight. Still, none of us are in as bad a situation as the guy in a nearby berth, who has managed to reserve a seat that barely reclines at all; for all its confines, mine goes almost horizontal. With my boots stowed in the sinister dark space under the seat, my bag has to be shoved forcefully behind my head, and it is in this cramped luxury that I recline and prepare for the ten hour journey.

Within two hours the guy next to me is snoring. I could happily throttle him, given that in this case, ‘next to me’ means about two inches away. He also has the window open, even when a truly repellent smell begins to waft into the bus. Public opinion is swiftly raised, and he’s compelled to close it. The snoring however continues until a rest stop after some four and a half hours. I’m only staying sane by trying to sleep with music on.  It’s a tactic I have to employ for pretty much the remainder of the journey, as he doesn’t stop all night. Equally, if not more infuriating than his endless snoring, are his wandering limbs.  Three times his arm flops over me, and on the third occasion receives a violent rebuttal. His leg then starts to do the same, and even though this gets equally short shrift, nothing seems to wake the noisy restless bastard from the slumber he has enjoyed at my expense for almost the entire journey.

Wednesday 18^th February

It wasn’t an awful bus ride, despite my neighbour, all things considered, but I’m nonetheless happy to disembark, somewhat bleary-eyed, in Nha Trang at just after 6am. It’s overcast, but hopefully things will cheer up later.  Our search for accommodation sees us try four or five places, before hitting ‘Po Bien’, a place a veritable stalker of a xe om driver has been trying to get us to try for about twenty minutes. The room is $12 for a twin with en suite, air-conditioning and cable TV. Ben and I agree to share. If it was ever in doubt, the deal is sealed by the fact that the girl at reception is one of the cutest Vietnamese girls either of us have yet seen. 

I’m not sure at this early stage what I think of Nha Trang. If I was looking for beach huts and a rustic, chilled-out tropical paradise, I’ve come to the wrong place. The streets of Nha Trang remind me of a thousand other small towns, and although the beach is undeniably nice, fringed as it is with swaying palm trees, there are a large number of resort hotels just up the coast, and a distinct lack of things like hammocks and ramshackle beach bars. Maybe I just need to give it time. 

We take breakfast at a place called ‘Veranda’, where I enjoy an overpriced muesli with fruit, yoghurt and honey. Ben then goes off to check the diving options, while I introduce my feet to the South China Sea; it’s warm. A little later I head out for a stroll. A brief sortie along the white sands finds me at The Sailing Club, a posh, faux-rustic beachside bar and restaurant.  I stop for a drink, as it seems to be the only place on the beach, but am greeted with the alarming news that the bar doesn’t open until 1pm!  In Vietnam?!  Nha Trang is still a bit of an uncertainty. There don’t seem to be that many cool people around, and so far the sun has only made a short (if scorching) appearance. After an extortionately priced Diet Coke, I return to the hotel, where I find Ben taking a nap. We head out for lunch at a nice Italian place, and then return to The Sailing Club. I decide that if anything is going to brighten up Nha Trang, it’s going to be a Long Island Ice Tea. We sit at a table on the sand, and sure enough, I’m soon having a much better time. Even a brief rain shower, which forces us undercover, cannot now disturb my spirits, and after a couple of Saigons, I am totally in the vibe. Ben and I agree that tomorrow he’s going to dive, while I go on the ‘alcoholic boat tour’ offered by the hotel. In this way, we’ll serve as each other’s guinea pigs.

Dinner is taken at a lovely Vietnamese restaurant, where I dine on Tofu and Straw Mushroom Claypot. It’s fantastic, as am I apparently to the mosquitoes that devour me while I devour my dinner.  From here, we go in search of the nocturnal delights of Nha Trang, a town that seems to have become significantly livelier since sundown.  Promises of happy hours, cocktail buckets, and free beers shine from fliers all over the place.  We end up in a place called Why Not Bar. A couple of cocktail buckets and some entertaining Aussies make for a fun few hours, and I’m offered ladies/massage/boom boom a number of times on the way home.  I decline obviously.

Thursday 19^th February

It’s 8.45am as my vessel leaves the harbour, and begins to speed our mostly Vietnamese and German group out into the South China Sea. We are a little like cattle on board, and I suspect the boat is probably rated to carry significantly less passengers than it currently has, but I manage to find a nice spot in the sun, and settle in.  Our guide is an amusing fellow in his own way, and tells us our itinerary, which includes snorkelling, lunch, live music, happy hour, fruit, and a beach. I kick back, relax, and await the day’s fun, as we pass beneath cloudless skies, and over calm and enticing waters. After an hour or so we make our first stop, and I’m delighted to dive off the side, snorkel and mask wrapped around my wrist.  I love jumping off boats. The reef we’ve moored next to isn’t large, and there isn’t an astonishing number of fish, but there are some lovely ones, and the water is clear and millpond-calm. To be honest, having done SCUBA diving, snorkelling is always a bit of a let-down, although having said that I thoroughly enjoy myself, and am a little disappointed when we’re rounded up for departure to our next stop – lunch.  

The food, nice but unspectacular, is served up on the roof under awnings.  We’re then beckoned down to the lower deck for the entertainment, although in light of what follows, I use the word with some reservations.  Four of the crew set up a guitar, bass, drum, and microphone. I’m already nervous. In my experience, and with very few exceptions, live music in Asia tends to be very good when it’s traditional, and absolutely appalling when it’s contemporary.  I can’t see this being traditional, and the fact that it’s going to be performed by four guys who are actually sailors, can only bode even more ill. The first song starts, and all my fears are made reality, and then some; it’s ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham. This is incongruous anyway, being as we are moored under scorching sun next to a tropical island. Additionally, the crew are not the world’s most talented musicians. However quite the worst (or best depending on how you look at it) thing about this rendition is that the bass player/vocalist has obviously only vaguely heard the lyrics, rather than actually find out what they are. This, combined with his less than perfect English results in something that only occasionally, and then only very loosely, resembles the original. Actually, it only loosely resembles English of any kind, let alone the English of the lyrics: “Last Christmas, nah goova na hmmm, ban a lala na day, noo ngi ngi away…”  This is followed by ‘Hotel California’, a song that fares no better in the crew’s merciless hands. In fact if anything, and if it were possible, it fares worse. I retreat upstairs, but the crew have amps, so it’s really impossible to escape.  Thankfully, they switch to Vietnamese songs next, which we can only hope they don’t butcher quite so brutally.

With the recital over with, it’s time for the floating bar. A large metal ring with floats tied to it is hurled overboard on a rope. Rubber rings are then thrown in for the ‘patrons’. The guide dives into the sea, and is handed a crate of red wine. He installs himself, and the wine in the middle of the metal ring, and then shouts, “Come come!! Welcome to my bar!!” About ten or twelve of the passengers, including myself, avail ourselves of his hospitality. The water is wonderfully cool, while the wine is wonderfully cheap. Still, I wouldn’t realistically expect anything else to be honest. The overwhelming sweetness of it is offset very slightly by the slivers of pineapple that are added, but quality aside, there is something undeniably enjoyable, if only for the sheer ludicrousness of it, about floating in a rubber tube, in the sea, drinking red wine out of a plastic cup. The very cheerful ‘barman’ is quite happy to dish out as many cups as anyone wants, and it seems a lot of people want quite a few.  Well, it is free after all. There’s a moment of crisis when the crate falls off the bar, and half the wine cellar plummets into the deep, but other than that the whole thing is really rather merry.

The rest of the afternoon is taken up with a visit to a small beach, where I take another lovely swim, but am concerned to notice a worrying reddening of my arms, despite having plastered them in sun cream all day.  I hope it doesn’t extend to my face.  Red arms I can handle, but a sunburnt face is just embarrassing. By the time we get back to Nha Trang I can feel the warm dryness of sunburn on my arms, back, and feet.  My right hand is particularly red for some reason.  Bugger.  At least my face is ok!  Dusk is seen out with Ben at The Sailing Club, but it’s a sedate evening after that.

Friday 20^th February

Up at 8.30.  I’m very sunburnt.  Both arms, my back, my feet, and the back of my legs.  My right hand is purple. Thank God the face escaped. I have an adequate breakfast at ‘Same Same But Different Cafe’, then head back to the hotel to organise my transport back to Saigon. I leave at 8.30 tomorrow evening, this time in seat C40 – hopefully an improvement on seat L16. I’m on the internet in the lobby when Will arrives. We’ve been exchanging messages about meeting up again in Nha Trang, and it’s great that he’s made it. We repair to The Sailing Club, where we meet Ben. Everyone gets on very well immediately, which is nice. It turns out that Will was quite sick while travelling south, and during his time in Hoi An, under medication, got drunk, went a little loopy, and purchased a pair of combats in a blue, floral material usually used for curtains. Apparently the tailor made every effort to dissuade him, but he was determined to get them.  They sound vile, and I can’t wait to see them! A good few hours of very entertaining conversation follow.  Ben is without a doubt the most amusing German I’ve ever met, with a perfect appreciation of sarcasm, which he employs skilfully and to great effect. The Sailing Club also employs something skilfully, but in their case it’s overpricing. Following a lovely, streaky pink sunset, we’re presented with a bill for VND745000; ouch.

Will appears this evening wearing his curtain combats.  They are indescribably awful; bright blue with large white flowers all over them. Still, all credit to him for having the balls to wear them in public. We eat at a cheap local place round the corner from the hotel, in the company of Seok Myoung, a Korean guy Will met on his travels. He’s nice, but a bit of an effort to talk to.  Ben meanwhile enters into one of his frequent critiques of other nationalities. His target this time is Russians. He’s quite loud, and I feel it only prudent to point out that the six people at the next table are almost certainly Russian. “Oh yeah, for sure, but they can never speak English!” is his reply.  Let’s hope he’s right. Will attracts more attention by laughing very loudly and doing a series of very high volume, and very high pitched impersonations of Korean girls. This leads to a conversation about Korean culture, and Ben is surprised, or more accurately horrified to learn of things like the concept of ‘testicle friends’ - a term describing very close friendship between two men, and ‘shit needle’ – the name given to the action of jabbing someone in the anus with two index fingers (mainly, though not exclusively, employed by children). He maintains that he’s never going to go to Korea.

Dinner is followed by Why Not Bar, where we immediately join a group of people thanks to Ollie, a heavily built, bald Londoner, who Will met on the train to Hoi An. Ollie’s testimony to this meeting is that Will is (assume cockney accent),”The nicest fuckin’ bloke I’ve ever met!  I fuckin’ love ‘im!!” At the table are also Liz from Austria, Richard from Canada, Merina from Denmark, and Ariel from Israel. All are good, friendly people, but Merina is particularly entertaining. In fact I would go as far as to describe her company as delightful. Inside there’s a foosball table, and having been decimated twice by Ben last night, I am relieved to beat Will and Seok Myoung twice tonight; honour is restored. That any kind of game, let alone a victory is possible, is a minor miracle, since this table is beyond dilapidated. It trumps even the table I used in Taipei, on which every player was decapitated. Here, one team is entirely devoid of defenders, while the other has a double amputee goalkeeper, who is incapable of making any contact with the ball. At least it’s even I suppose.

Later, Will and I stroll back along the beach, where he becomes convinced that a UFO is hovering some distance away. There is certainly an odd shape with flashing lights a few hundred metres away.  We go to investigate but it proves to be nothing, literally nothing. A mutual trick of the eye it would seem. No escape into space tonight then. Near the hotel we bump into two American guys, one of whom has just been mugged by a gang of girls outside Why Not Bar. He’s lost about VND2.3 million. I do feel sorry for him, but anyone who carries that much money round in an accessible trouser pocket in the early hours is asking for trouble frankly. Will simply laughs at him, which doesn’t go down very well. It’s 3.30am when I finally get back into the hotel, waking up the sleeping doorman, again.

Saturday 21^st February

There’s a power cut this morning, so it’s clearly a day to be elsewhere. On the other side of town lies the Long Son Pagoda, and its apparently very attractive Buddha, and this seems as good an elsewhere as any at which to gets things started. Will and I consider walking, as the (albeit generally notoriously unreliable) map in the LP seems to indicate that it’s not that far. However, by 10am, the day is absolutely sweltering, so xe oms seems the more sensible option. This is a wise decision as it turns out, because it isn’t ‘not that far’ at all.  Even on a motorbike it takes about twenty minutes to get there. I think, had we attempted to walk, we would probably have been discovered expired by the side of the road somewhere, a long way from the Pagoda.

Once at Long Son, and as soon as we have come to a halt, we are greeted by a wall of heat and humidity, in addition to an army of hawkers and beggars. It is through all of these that we must fight our way if we are to get to the temple. I’m usually good with hot weather and humidity – I much prefer being hot to being cold, but this morning is getting even to me. I cannot remember experiencing more draining weather anywhere.  It seems to suck every ounce of energy out of you immediately, with the result that the modest one hundred and fifty steps up to the temple are a serious effort. The experience is made additionally harrowing by the beggars who line the steps on both sides. The old, the young, the twisted, the crippled, and the diseased all sit with palms outstretched and faces that bear empty-eyed expressions of utter resignation. I don’t think poverty is something most of these people are aspiring to escape; it’s more something they’ve accepted, and now all they do is survive from one day to the next.

In contrast to what surrounds it, the temple itself, originally built on another hill in 1886, but moved here after a cyclone in 1900, is very attractive. The grounds are lush with vegetation, and the exterior of the building is inlaid with a multitude of twisting dragons, which writhe down the sloping tiled roofs and coil down the pillars that support them. Inside, things are basic, and not especially impressive. This last can also, sadly, be accurately applied to the Long Son Buddha, which sits perched on a hill above the temple itself. It should be lovely, after all it’s fourteen metres high and pure white.  The problem is, or to be more precise the problems are, that firstly it looks like it’s been made out of fibreglass and could’ve been put here yesterday, and far more worryingly that it bears a very unfortunate resemblance to Steven Seagall, which alone is enough to strip it of any and all majesty. About the only good thing that can be said about the Long Son Buddha, is that it commands great views across Nha Trang, and to the rice fields and mountains beyond the town, so is worth visiting for that, and possibly only for that.

We stop in a cafe back at the bottom of the steps, primarily to break some large notes and ensure we have change for the xe om back to the beach. I buy a coconut, which is nice enough, but tinged with menace in that I don’t actually see them open it. When Will attempts to pay for his mango juice with a VND50,000, the waitress uses it for both, leaving us with no change at all. We spend the next five minutes trying to get my VND100,000 changed into units of VDN10,000. She speaks essentially no English whatsoever, and obviously we can’t do this in Vietnamese. Having slowly and painfully ascertained that I wish neither to buy two more drinks nor pay for the same two again, the waitress seems at a total loss. Only when she gets a colleague over for support, and after we give up on language and resort to pointing, does the seed of our message seem to find some kind of fertile ground.

Back by the beach, the electricity is still off, so with the internet an impossibility, and the rooms just impossibly stuffy without air-conditioning, The Sailing Club is really the only alternative. Not long after we sit down, and with an inevitability that is proving rather amusing, Ben turns up. He’s followed a while later by Liz, the Austrian girl from last night.  Her hair is not tied up today, and resembles a stylish bird’s nest, but in a good way. A conversation ensues in which we assess the achievements of our various nations. Ben begins with the largely unrelated (as none of us are Swiss) assertion that the Swiss, “Fuck everything up,” including written German. Liz defends her nation by offering the likes of Freud, Schrödinger, Mozart, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and more dubiously, Hitler. I challenge Ben to name something Germany has achieved, and he responds, “Oh come on, we got a couple of wars started didn’t we?!” Liz interjects that it was really a Bosnian who set off the first one.

Much of the rest of the day is spent on the beach. I am trying to avoid thoughts of leaving, and of this trip coming to an end, but it’s hard.  I miss Jung-Ok, and my cat, and I’ll be very happy to see them again, but the end of a trip, whether it’s been a week, a fortnight, or three months, is always painful. Gazing at the turquoise sea, the palm trees, and the mountainous islands lying serenely in the South China Sea, all I can think is that I want to stay. I wish my bus tonight was to Hoi An, or Vientiane, or somewhere that wasn’t going to take me home.

I share a farewell dinner with Ben, Liz and Will this evening, before returning to the hotel to await my bus to Saigon. I shall miss Ben, he’s been a great travelling companion. He’s one of those people with whom you wish you could spend much longer, and with whom the time you’ve spent seems mournfully short. Still, in this age of internet communication, Hotmail, and Facebook, at least we won’t lose touch just because our paths are diverging tonight.

A little late, but only a little, the bus arrives and I’m pleased to find that I have a top tier separate bed. I feel utterly disinclined to talk to anyone, particularly the crass Australian in the bed across the way, and so put the MP3 player on immediately, and face the window.

Sunday 22^nd February

I wake up at 5.47, having slept the vast majority of the journey. Saigon’s suburbs are illuminated by a spectacular sunrise, which bathes the city in a warm red glow, and it promises to be another hot day, even as we disembark in Pham Ngu Lao at 6am. Guesthouse Dang is full, but after breakfast they direct me to the place next door, which is run by a tiny, white-haired old woman, appears to be nameless, and is even more like someone’s house than Dang was. The room is fine, and for only $8.

I head out a little later to the Ben Thanh Market, a sprawling indoor affair not far from the bus station. It’s interesting, but not the most riveting market I’ve ever seen. Most of it consists of stalls selling housewares or tacky souvenirs, and really, how excited can one get about soap dishes and Brillo pads? There is a lot more fun to be had in the surrounding streets, through which I wander for much of the rest of the morning, soaking up the Saigon atmosphere. After lunch, I head out once more into the intense heat, bound for the Reunification Palace. In light of Nha Trang yesterday, and Saigon right now, I think Vietnam now holds the weather superlative for heat and humidity.

Once I’ve negotiated the delay waiting for the ticket booth to open, and the small queue that had already formed, and the X-ray machine, and the metal detector, I’m finally allowed into the Reunification Palace. This large, grandiose building is one of the strangest places I’ve been. Formerly the seat of the President of South Vietnam, it’s essentially in a permanent time warp, stuck forever on April 30^th, 1975, the day that communist troops stormed through the gates and the Republic of Vietnam ceased to exist. This was the day on which the Independence Palace became the Reunification Palace. Within there are conference rooms, reception rooms, offices, a library, kitchens, and even a screening room. All have sat virtually unchanged for the last thirty five years. Without doubt the eeriest part of the place however is the basement. Some of this is still off limits, but along the dimly lit, narrow corridors there’s the tangible atmosphere of a war in progress. The President’s duty bedroom is here, along with his war room, still complete with maps and a red emergency telephone (dial version obviously). Down here are also radio rooms, communication rooms, offices, and a shooting range. Nothing seems to have been altered or changed – every piece of equipment and furniture is just where it was, and as it was in 1975. On display upstairs is the helmet worn by First Lieutenant Bui Quang Than, the soldier who reached the roof of the palace and raised the North Vietnamese flag on the day the palace was stormed. Around it are photos him running up the front steps – the same way I entered the building, and of tanks ploughing into the very gates I walked through an hour or so ago. It’s all made a lot stranger and more real by the time warp this place is in.

Having walked back to Pham Ngu Lao, I recover with a beer at Alez Boo Bar. I’ll be leaving Saigon, and Vietnam within hours, and I try to take as much of all this in as I can, before my inevitable departure. I’ve had a blast in this country; it’s been great and I shall miss it. From the exotic bustle of Hanoi, to the serene beauty of Halong Bay, and from the energy of Saigon, to the unhurried idleness of the Mekong Delta and Nha Trang – Vietnam has been fine company.

After a hot, sticky walk, I arrive at the bus station at 7.40pm, only to be told that the airport bus stops at 6 o’clock. Marvellous. Another hot, and even stickier walk takes me back to Pham Ngu Lao, where I get a xe om. The traffic is insane, but at least the driver isn’t. At the airport I’m informed that the flight is full, so I’m going to be upgraded to business class!  This has never happened to me before, and the prospect is delightful. I am in the middle of routing through my bag for some slightly more respectable clothes, when the woman processing me suddenly stops with an, “Oh…er…” that can only presage bad news. She’s just discovered that I requested a veggie meal, and because of that, I cannot be upgraded. I fail to see why they can’t just carry my meal through economy and into business class, but clearly they can’t. Bugger! My first and maybe only chance of an upgrade, denied by a veggie meal that will almost certainly be shockingly bland and unimaginative anyway.  To add insult to injury, my seat in economy proves to be next to a Vietnamese woman with a toddler that wails, wriggles, kicks, and repeatedly scatters my stuff off the table. Even when I say, in a very annoyed manner, “Look!  Can you please control your child?!” she seems oblivious.  I can almost hear the people who got upgraded giggling over their complimentary champagne. I honestly down know how I’m going to handle five hours of this brat and it’s useless mother. Fortunately, one of the flight attendants has obviously noticed my plight, and asks me if I would like to move to another seat.  Hell yes! Perhaps not the nicest way to end a trip, but if the most unbearable situation you find yourself in when travelling is on the plane home, then you can at least be grateful that everything else went so well. Thank you Vietnam.