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Market stall, HCMC
Phu Quoc
Local, Hoi An
Our second overland boarder crossing of the trip (South Africa – Swaziland no. 1) today. The old skool way is to bus, then motorbike, then ferry, then taxi. That’s four forms of transport for under one hundred miles. We took the flashpack alternative – a single bus for the whole journey from one capital city to the other, waiting for us while we purchased our visas. Beautiful: that’s what I call progress! Now, before the grubbier among you start lecturing me about being intrepid, I’ll have you know that I’ve laughed in the face of gun-toting Chinese officials quizzing Neil about my sanitary protection, and can mime in 12 languages (yes I know) ‘Excuse me madam is that the last chicken bus to XYZ or might I get a later one after I’ve eaten some of your delicious-looking intestine/testicle/spleen hotpot?’ Besides, there was some suffering..
Everyone knows that in foreign parts bus drivers like their music and they like it LOUD. This is partly to drown out the sound of the rattling engine, but also because a little sing-along takes their mind off the mind-numbingly boring job of driving for 10+ hours. Each country has its signature beats: Ethiopians favour sinister local tunes reminiscent of acid techno (rather good); Indians are heavy on the Bollywood themes (fun for about 10 minutes); the Chinese prefer ear-splitting classical Chinese opera (hellish caterwaulling); and the Vietnamese, well, whenever possible they go one better, they play a video to punish you in two modalities. Let me explain.
Imagine sitting by an enormous speaker listening to the drunkest female karaoke performer of your life. She’s attempting a very complex Mariah Carey number in the falsetto voice of Mickey Mouse. For many, many hours. Hideous yes? These are the Vietnamese bus journey sounds. Added to them is your second sensory assault: the video images. These do not match the song, but are instead a technicolour 5 minute advert for the Vietnamese army: young attractive Vietnamese men and women in uniform, giggling together, passing sacks of rice, flag and machine gun waving, brushing each other’s hair, tickling each others’ toes (I jest thee not), and generally having a superb time in the jungle. See how the huge explosions don’t take out these plucking souls as their shiny military vehicle crosses a river bed. Are they ok? Oh yes, look, there they are again, young attractive Vietnamese men and women in uniform, giggling together, passing sacks of rice, flag and machine gun waving…… Arrrrgggh. I get the message: join the Vietnamese army – it’s great! Except of course, I think you have to, if you’re Vietnamese, so stop bloody advertising.
Side tunnel
We’ve just visted almost 3km of underground tunnels dug by villagers fighting in the American (read: Vietnam) war. Allowed to explore, our 3/4 hr was more than enough to induce nightmares. Whole families lived underground in the claustrophobic warren for almost 4 years. Main arterial tunnels (ie the largest) were too small for Neil to stand in, measuring approx 5’6″ by 5′ wide. Side chambers and living quarters an oubliette pure hell into which 17 children were born. With being bured alive a real possibility, sleeping pods were no more than a metre below the surface, so that when tanks roared overhead, survival from a collapse was theoretically possible via a ‘night of the living dead’ rebirth. Needless to say, medieval diseases were rampant.
The villagers’ decision to fight rather than take flight resulted in catastrophic aerial bombardment: 4 tonnes of bombs were dropped for every man woman and child. Armed with guns and grenades, and making unimaginably cruel mantraps for the enemy, many Vinh Moc inhabitants survived (16 of the 17 babies made adulthood): a testament to their determination to triumph at extraordinary cost to quality of life.
American plane wreckage
The Vietnamese, it seems, have always been fighting: first the Chinese, then the French, then the Japanese, then the Americans and each other, and most recently the Cambodians (the Vietnamese definitely started this one), with lots and lots of little skirmishes in between. They are, by all accounts, very good at scrapping and proud of that fact: sending home hostile super-powers is no small achievement.
Floating market outside Can Tho
Back on the mainland, next stop is the Mekong Delta, rice basket of Vietnam, producer of 50% of the nation’s staple. We’re not here to toil in the luminous paddy fields, but to take to the waters of the Mekong river and it’s tributaries in search of floating markets.
A crack of dawn visit was required to see the markets at their bustling best. Vietnam is an early to rise country; everyone – and I do mean everyone – appears to start the day at 5am with some light exercise and then food shopping before work. To get the blood pumping we rainchecked on the aerobics and started the day with rocket fuel coffee and condensed milk creamer bought from a speeding boat vendor (obviously drinking the product). Our early start was worth it, traders were out in force.
Two Facts of the Day: i) Rice involves 70% of the working Vietnamese population in its production and distribution.ii) Market boats advertise with samples of their wares tied to long bamboo poles pointing skywards.
Mermaid by Vero
Ended the old and started the New Year on a perfect sun-soaked island all golden sand, turquoise sea and cornflower blue sky. Phu Quoc is so gorgeous that Cambodia continue to assert it’s actually theirs..
Celebrations with the wonderful Claire, Jenny, Vero and Tim saw disco divas, midnight mermaids and near-calamitous slapstick falls (steps and hammocks are notoriously dangerous after fizzy pop).Excellent fun and a great start to 2010.
Tan-o-meter: Still beige and considering getting some paler friends.
Popn. 6 million – every single one of them on a motorbike…
Motorbike madness
ABC of crossing the road in Vietnam.
A is for ALWAYS pick a trajectory and stick to it. Sudden changes in direction or speed will result in roadkill status.
B is for BETTER to cross glued to an experienced local pedestrian than on the shoulder of an unpredictable fellow tourist.
C is for CRYING won’t help. And, there is no point waiting for a ‘quiet moment’ to cross; there won’t be one, so get out there.
Today, like you, we spent the day nursing sore tummies and heads after the Christmas excess. At the party yesterday, the neighbours’ children tried to teach us a few words in Vietnamese. We were terrible. Learning a tonal language is tough, even our attempts at parrot-fashion repetition had them in stitches as nothing came out quite right. For example, ‘ma’ has six different meanings: rice seedling, ghost, mother, horse, tomb, and which, depending on how you sing-song it when spoken.
Put several inaccurate sounds together and you can get into a real pickle. One gal I’ve met (I won’t out you) spent several weeks getting motorbike taxi drivers to stop by saying something innocuous in Vietnmaese of the ilk ‘we’ve arrived, it’s here’. Unfortunately, due to tonal trouble this came out as ‘I need to defecate’. Poor thing didn’t realise the inaccuracy for some time as both the desired and accidental phrase have the same effect – motorbike comes to an abrupt halt! In fact, until she demonstrated her Vietnamese in the office, nobody had laughed…
Fact of the day: Nearly 50% of all Vietnamese people have the surname Nguyen (just one of the 300 in use in the country). The phonebook must be a complete nighmare.
Say "Heartburn!"
After previous sorry entry, we had a stiff drink and got into the Christmas spirit with gusto! Lunch at a local Vietnamese restaurant was great fun; curious waiters were very keen to pull crackers, wear silly hats, and have the jokes explained(!) Later on, Jenny held a fabulous party at her flat, replete with christmas tree, handmade paper decorations, mince pies and the essential Cliff hits. Vietnamese neighbours joined in the fun, including Hoe (10yrs) and Han (16yrs) who were in their element for the games. Pass the parcel was a treat, the clamour to win eclipsing all previous experiences.
Thank you Jenny for inviting us to stay, it was a brilliant Christmas.
Fact of the Day: What do the Vietnamese do at Christmas? On Christmas eve in Hanoi every man pops the wife and kids on the back of his motorbike and spends the evening doing slow laps of the lake. Balloon and sweet sellers, along with students wearing ‘free hug’ signs, all join the melee and a fairground atmosphere prevails. Amusingly, hundreds of skinny santas also cruise the streets – padding isn’t used by the figure-conscious Vietnamese. And, forget what you know about Jesus and a stable; the nativity scene outside the main Catholic church in town reveals he was born in a cave…
A pick-me-up for the ladies
We are tired. Dog tired. Fatigued. Bushed. Exhausted, frazzled, spent, wasted, tuckered out, pooped… You get the picture. Damn.
We’ve been dashing about loving the freedom, thoroughly enjoying every new bed to sleep in and every sunrise somewhere new. But now, just in time for Christmas, as if someone has pulled out the plug, we’ve lost our mojo. Damn damn damn damn.
Neil is in bed having been sick for the past two days and I can barely be bothered to lift my head from the pillow. Right now, we are about as much fun as a wet weekend in Margate when you’ve left your brolly at home.
No pressure us, but PULL IT TOGETHER people. I know what you’re thinking, and I agree, there’s nothing I hate more than moaning backpackers. It’s like students saying they have too much work to do. Pleeeaaase. What-bloody-eva!
Yours self-loathing,
Me x
* Promise we’ll have the ‘fun’ channel back on very shortly. In the meantime, the seatbelt sign is lit, so sit down and buckle up for some unexpected turbulence.
** And no, of course I don’t feel like Wilbur, it’s just a super quote.
We gotta get out of this place... 