The following morning, we met up with our tour group for a two day trip to Halong Bay. At 8:30 a.m. we boarded a minibus with 16 others and made our way to Halong City to catch the boat to Halong Bay. The group consisted of Kevin and myself, three girls from Ohio, a couple from Australia, a couple from the Netherlands, a couple from France and a couple we befriended while waiting for the bus, Eileen from Ireland and Duncan from Scotland. We arrived in Halong Bay in two and a half hours and found the docks filled with old Vietnamese fishing "junks" turned tourist boats. The junks were large wooden boats with sleeping quarters ringing the lower deck, a dining room on the middle deck and a sun/lounge deck with chairs rounding out the top.
About half an hour after we set out, we shared a lunch table with Eileen, Duncan, Eddie and his girlfriend and traded travel stories. After lunch, we were allowed to check into our rooms, which were neat little cabins with two twin beds, a night stand and a wardrobe. We left our things in the room and mad our way to the deck to enjoy the scenery, the company of our fellow guests and the warmth of the sun. Climbing to the top deck, I could hardly believe that just 24 hours ago we were freezing, teeth chattering in the pouring rain on our way back to Hanoi. Around us the islands of Halong Bay rise from the water, giant limestone rocks covered with trees and brush, their imposing perpendicular cliffs looking harshly uninhabitable from a distance.
Our afternoon of leisure was punctuated with two cave trips, each relatively touristy, but interesting nonetheless. The first cave was the smaller of the two and the route out took us through a small tunnel opening to a path that led up to the top of the cliff revealing a beautiful panoramic view of the bay. The second cave was enormous, with three rooms, the largest easily the size of a small football stadium. After the cave tours, we were taken back to the boat where we spent an hour or so swimming in the water around the boat until the local jellyfish scared us all out of the water.
Dinner was nice, afterwhich, exhausted, I turned in early, while Kevin stayed to enjoy the company of the other members of the group. The following day we rose early for breakfast and for a few hours of kayaking around the bay. The boat docked near a floating village - a cluster of houses built on individual wooden platforms with fish farms underneath them - where we got into pairs and loaded into our kayaks and headed out into the bay. Kevin was in the rear where all the work is done, so we were soon well ahead of the pack. We rowed around many of Halong Bay's "islands" and through some cuts in the rock where Kevin happily steered me under all of the spots dripping water. At one point we rowed into what we thought was a cove, but found a cave on the far side that we could manuver through and we found another little cove filled with jelly fish (the kind that itch, not the kind that sting).
After about two hours, we made our way back to the boat, where we showered, packed and enjoyed our last few moments on the boat before getting the bus back to Hanoi. All in all it was a nice trip (except for all the little cockroaces on the ship, which I wrote lots about on the evaluation form); a relaxing way to spend our last two days in Vietnam.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Hanoi by Motorbike
We had timed our departure so that we would arrive into the city before nightfall so that we would not have to try to navigate Hanoi traffic in the dark, and found ourselves in a mass of increasingly growing traffic as we neared the city just as the sun began to set. Kevin had done wonderfully on his bike for his first time out, but I knew that he wasn't comfortable in the heavy traffic, being both a new rider and not yet accustomed to the madness that is traffic in Vietnam. I had plotted a more or less direct route from the southwest corner of the city to the Old Quarter where we would return our bikes and we had planned for Kevin to simply follow me in, meeting up at a central location if we were separated. Even though I knew Kevin was a bit shaky, I began to enjoy myself as we plowed headlong into Hanoi.
Besides the rain and a few crowded roadside stands with customers spilling out into the road, our ride back had been free of obstacles, but as we neared Hanoi, much like in a video game, the closer we got to our goal, the harder the journey became. The road became over-run with motorbikes, heeding no rules of the road save a grudging stop at each traffic light. The next obstacle came in the form of streams of traffic turning left into oncoming traffic in places where there were no lights, with only the mass of bodies in each direction determining which side won out. Most times it was less an acquiesence from one side, but more a merging of individuals filling up the intersection weaving in and out around oncoming vehicles coming from every direction. Each intersection mastered evoked a feeling of great accomplishment and the anticipation of the next upcoming challenge. Then there were the buses, who insisted on riding in the far left lane even though they had to stop every few blocks to let passengers out on the right side of the road; so each time they pulled away from the curb they would honk and force all other vehicles out of their way, a few minutes later repeating the process in the opposite direction. The next level threw pedestrians at us, who simply walked through the madness with the expectation that all vehicles would avoid them, forcing sudden shifts to the left or right, keeping everyone on their toes.
Along with the increasing number of obstacles, I was soon faced with yet another challenge. Throughout the rainy day, Kevin and I had had our headlights on and were able to keep track of each other with relative ease as we were the only ones on the road with our lights on, but as the sunlight faded and night came upon us, suddenly Kevin's solo beam was lost in a sea of burnnig headlights and there was no way to distinguish him from the next guy in my rear view mirror. Each time I made a turn, I had to pull over to the side of the road to let Kevin catch up and to give him a warning about the next turn to come.
After just one wrong turn and a little orienting with the map and the street signs, we finally made our way into familiar territory and back into the Old Quarter, where I promptly lost Kevin, leaving him to find his way back to the bike shop on his own. Luckily we both found it within about five minutes of each other and turned in our helmets and keys, both happy to be on solid ground - Kevin happy to have made it back alive and me, thrilled with my new skills and my success at having mastered the chaos that is Hanoi by motorbike.
Besides the rain and a few crowded roadside stands with customers spilling out into the road, our ride back had been free of obstacles, but as we neared Hanoi, much like in a video game, the closer we got to our goal, the harder the journey became. The road became over-run with motorbikes, heeding no rules of the road save a grudging stop at each traffic light. The next obstacle came in the form of streams of traffic turning left into oncoming traffic in places where there were no lights, with only the mass of bodies in each direction determining which side won out. Most times it was less an acquiesence from one side, but more a merging of individuals filling up the intersection weaving in and out around oncoming vehicles coming from every direction. Each intersection mastered evoked a feeling of great accomplishment and the anticipation of the next upcoming challenge. Then there were the buses, who insisted on riding in the far left lane even though they had to stop every few blocks to let passengers out on the right side of the road; so each time they pulled away from the curb they would honk and force all other vehicles out of their way, a few minutes later repeating the process in the opposite direction. The next level threw pedestrians at us, who simply walked through the madness with the expectation that all vehicles would avoid them, forcing sudden shifts to the left or right, keeping everyone on their toes.
Along with the increasing number of obstacles, I was soon faced with yet another challenge. Throughout the rainy day, Kevin and I had had our headlights on and were able to keep track of each other with relative ease as we were the only ones on the road with our lights on, but as the sunlight faded and night came upon us, suddenly Kevin's solo beam was lost in a sea of burnnig headlights and there was no way to distinguish him from the next guy in my rear view mirror. Each time I made a turn, I had to pull over to the side of the road to let Kevin catch up and to give him a warning about the next turn to come.
After just one wrong turn and a little orienting with the map and the street signs, we finally made our way into familiar territory and back into the Old Quarter, where I promptly lost Kevin, leaving him to find his way back to the bike shop on his own. Luckily we both found it within about five minutes of each other and turned in our helmets and keys, both happy to be on solid ground - Kevin happy to have made it back alive and me, thrilled with my new skills and my success at having mastered the chaos that is Hanoi by motorbike.
Off the Beaten Path
Having spent a good deal of time on my little 110 cc motorbikes since leaving the security of the CCS house, I felt completely comfortable riding from Hanoi to Mai Chau, but I was a little concerned about riding the bikes out of Hanoi because Kevin had never ridden one before and learning to ride a motorbike in Hanoi is something akin to learning to surf in a hurricane. Kevin assured me that he was up for it and after just a few minutes on the bike, he hadn't fallen off or crashed into anything (or anyone) so I was able to relax and concentrate on my own driving. We followed a man from the rental agency out to a petrol station, bade him farewell (in English, not Vietnamese, our Vietnamese being limited to "hello," "thank you" and "bathroom"), and headed out on our own.
Once out of downtown, the streets widened and although the traffic was heavy, we were able to stay to the right and keep up a pretty steady pace, relatively unmolested by other vehicles. The sky had been threatening all morning and had let loose a few light showers, but it wasn't until we were out on the open road that the torrents came. At first, I felt free; liberated. Finally, I was on my own, able to go where I wanted to go, wherever I wanted to go, by my own power, not constrained by tours or bus schedules or insistent moto drivers. Riding a motorbike in the rain, soaked to the skin, how much more free can you get? But like the clear skies, my jubilation soon gave way to a more resigned complacency as we pushed on hour after hour in the cold driving rain.
Seventy-four kilometers from Hanoi, we reached the town of Hoa Binh, where we stopped for hot coffee and tea and a lunch of bread and cheese, packed for a roadside picnic, the opportunity for which never presented itself in the constant rain. At 4:30 we were off again, with a little more haste, knowing that we needed to reach Mai Chau by dusk in order to obtain a room (being that it was a small village and likely to be devoid of electricity or public guest houses).
The first leg of our journey consisted mostly of flat landscape of rice fields stretching to the horizon interrupted every so often by a small town, but after Hoa Binh, these scenes gave way to a landscape of lush green farmlands with huge individual limestone cliffs dwarfing the farm houses below. They were beautiful sights, but we hesitated to stop to take pictures in the rain, knowing that we'd be back through the following afternoon which we hoped would be more amenable to picture taking.
Flat roads soon rose to meet the mountains and we found ourselves riding on a road carved out of the side of the mountains far above the valleys. The mountainsides were heavy with deep red soil and rocks of every shape and size, which let loose from their places on the rock, spread themselves across the road in areas, making the roads hazardous to speeding vehicles. Since we were on bikes and were keeping ourselves at a safe speed, we were able to make our way through, around, and over these mini-landslides whenever we encountered them, but I couldn't help wondering if I'd be taken out by the next wall of rocks to come crashing down the mountainside.
As we climbed even higher into the mountains, the temperature dropped noticeably and my already chattering teeth began a rapid staccato. Our visibility dropped to about 10 feet and soon became apparent that we were riding in a cloud. I had been riding behind Kevin since we began our way into the mountains and it was comforting to have him leading the way. Luckily, the road dipped down again and we rode back out into the dwindling sun light. As the sun started to set, we found ourselves getting a little anxious about finding Mai Chau in the day light. We had passed a few little towns, but we figured it had to be substantial enough to warrant a spot on the map and we knew that there were 'guest houses' in family homes in Mai Chau, but had no idea where we'd stay if we didn't reach it. Finally we spotted a pretty good sized down in the valley to our left and picked up our speed.
As we turned into the road leading into town, we were flagged down by a young Vietnamese man, who asked where we were going and if we needed a guest house for the night. Forgetting that I'd been grumbling about guest house touts for the past three weeks, I gratefully accepted his offer and we followed him through Mai Chau to a neighboring village where his family ran a cozy little guest house out of their home. The Cau Loc "Guesthouse #1" was a wooden house on stilts, with the main living and dining quarters for the family below and a large two-room loft above for guests. Kevin and I put our things next to our bed in the corner of one of the large rooms and made our way down stairs in dry clothes for a delicious home-cooked meal.
The next morning we rose early to take advantage of the morning hours for some trekking around the neighboring villages. The rain had moved on during the night, but returned in the morning and greeted us just as we finished our breakfast and made our way out the door. Not relishing the thought of slogging around in the rain for hours, but knowing that we only had precious few hours, we donned our rain gear and set off passed a duck farm, through the rice fields and onto a path of red soil, quickly becoming mud under our feet. We walked for an hour or so, walking through farmland, between walls of weeds (or other unidentifiable plant) reaching five feet in the air. The path was about four feet across, the center of which bore the mark of those who had traveled that way before in the form of countless footprints captured in the thick mud. As I walked, the mud oozed though my toes, a sensation that, Kevin, in his sneakers, was spared the sensation, as the bottoms of his shoes become caked with red mud.
We had walked through open fields circled by low mountains and past a few solitary farm houses, when we were confronted with the choice of continuing on our present path or turning left to follow a trail of rocks and boulders leading up the moutain side. We decided to go up.
The rocky path zig-zagged up the mountain, alternating between muddy incline and clusters of boulders. Even in the rain, the going was easy enough, but I did pause for a moment to think about our inevitable return descent and just how much harder that promised to be. Almost nearing the top of the peak, we found the our path barred by a makeshift gate of logs and twine, obviously put there to prevent further ascent. A bit disappointed, we decided to make our way back down to see if there was an alternative path. Halfway back down, we found a flat rock and decided to take a break for some water and snacks. As we sat on the rock, I looked down and notice two hollow bamboo rods peaking out of the bushes near our feet. I reached for one, and as I pulled it out of the bush, I noticed that it was a water pipe of some sort, crudely fashioned out of a hallowed out bamboo. After admiring the local handiwork, I place the pipe back on the ground and didn't think of it again, until its owner came to put it to use.
With little warning, a dark, wiry man in worn clothes, walked into our clearing from the path above and came straight for the pipes. He nodded his acknowledgement of us and immediately sat down and pulled out a machete from a hand carved wooden sheath hanging from his belt and began to carve the side of the pipe, before filling it with something and lighting it up. A few minutes after he appeared, he was joined by another man who helped himself to the second pipe. Kevin and I decided that we should probably leave the in peace and quietly packed our bags, offered them the rest of our fruit in a gesture of friendship and headed back down the path.
We made it back to the guest house after another detour through a small village of wooden homes on stilts housing cows, pigs and chickens in the space below. We said goodbye to our hosts and began the five hour drive back to Hanoi in the pouring rain.
Once out of downtown, the streets widened and although the traffic was heavy, we were able to stay to the right and keep up a pretty steady pace, relatively unmolested by other vehicles. The sky had been threatening all morning and had let loose a few light showers, but it wasn't until we were out on the open road that the torrents came. At first, I felt free; liberated. Finally, I was on my own, able to go where I wanted to go, wherever I wanted to go, by my own power, not constrained by tours or bus schedules or insistent moto drivers. Riding a motorbike in the rain, soaked to the skin, how much more free can you get? But like the clear skies, my jubilation soon gave way to a more resigned complacency as we pushed on hour after hour in the cold driving rain.
Seventy-four kilometers from Hanoi, we reached the town of Hoa Binh, where we stopped for hot coffee and tea and a lunch of bread and cheese, packed for a roadside picnic, the opportunity for which never presented itself in the constant rain. At 4:30 we were off again, with a little more haste, knowing that we needed to reach Mai Chau by dusk in order to obtain a room (being that it was a small village and likely to be devoid of electricity or public guest houses).
The first leg of our journey consisted mostly of flat landscape of rice fields stretching to the horizon interrupted every so often by a small town, but after Hoa Binh, these scenes gave way to a landscape of lush green farmlands with huge individual limestone cliffs dwarfing the farm houses below. They were beautiful sights, but we hesitated to stop to take pictures in the rain, knowing that we'd be back through the following afternoon which we hoped would be more amenable to picture taking.
Flat roads soon rose to meet the mountains and we found ourselves riding on a road carved out of the side of the mountains far above the valleys. The mountainsides were heavy with deep red soil and rocks of every shape and size, which let loose from their places on the rock, spread themselves across the road in areas, making the roads hazardous to speeding vehicles. Since we were on bikes and were keeping ourselves at a safe speed, we were able to make our way through, around, and over these mini-landslides whenever we encountered them, but I couldn't help wondering if I'd be taken out by the next wall of rocks to come crashing down the mountainside.
As we climbed even higher into the mountains, the temperature dropped noticeably and my already chattering teeth began a rapid staccato. Our visibility dropped to about 10 feet and soon became apparent that we were riding in a cloud. I had been riding behind Kevin since we began our way into the mountains and it was comforting to have him leading the way. Luckily, the road dipped down again and we rode back out into the dwindling sun light. As the sun started to set, we found ourselves getting a little anxious about finding Mai Chau in the day light. We had passed a few little towns, but we figured it had to be substantial enough to warrant a spot on the map and we knew that there were 'guest houses' in family homes in Mai Chau, but had no idea where we'd stay if we didn't reach it. Finally we spotted a pretty good sized down in the valley to our left and picked up our speed.
As we turned into the road leading into town, we were flagged down by a young Vietnamese man, who asked where we were going and if we needed a guest house for the night. Forgetting that I'd been grumbling about guest house touts for the past three weeks, I gratefully accepted his offer and we followed him through Mai Chau to a neighboring village where his family ran a cozy little guest house out of their home. The Cau Loc "Guesthouse #1" was a wooden house on stilts, with the main living and dining quarters for the family below and a large two-room loft above for guests. Kevin and I put our things next to our bed in the corner of one of the large rooms and made our way down stairs in dry clothes for a delicious home-cooked meal.
The next morning we rose early to take advantage of the morning hours for some trekking around the neighboring villages. The rain had moved on during the night, but returned in the morning and greeted us just as we finished our breakfast and made our way out the door. Not relishing the thought of slogging around in the rain for hours, but knowing that we only had precious few hours, we donned our rain gear and set off passed a duck farm, through the rice fields and onto a path of red soil, quickly becoming mud under our feet. We walked for an hour or so, walking through farmland, between walls of weeds (or other unidentifiable plant) reaching five feet in the air. The path was about four feet across, the center of which bore the mark of those who had traveled that way before in the form of countless footprints captured in the thick mud. As I walked, the mud oozed though my toes, a sensation that, Kevin, in his sneakers, was spared the sensation, as the bottoms of his shoes become caked with red mud.
We had walked through open fields circled by low mountains and past a few solitary farm houses, when we were confronted with the choice of continuing on our present path or turning left to follow a trail of rocks and boulders leading up the moutain side. We decided to go up.
The rocky path zig-zagged up the mountain, alternating between muddy incline and clusters of boulders. Even in the rain, the going was easy enough, but I did pause for a moment to think about our inevitable return descent and just how much harder that promised to be. Almost nearing the top of the peak, we found the our path barred by a makeshift gate of logs and twine, obviously put there to prevent further ascent. A bit disappointed, we decided to make our way back down to see if there was an alternative path. Halfway back down, we found a flat rock and decided to take a break for some water and snacks. As we sat on the rock, I looked down and notice two hollow bamboo rods peaking out of the bushes near our feet. I reached for one, and as I pulled it out of the bush, I noticed that it was a water pipe of some sort, crudely fashioned out of a hallowed out bamboo. After admiring the local handiwork, I place the pipe back on the ground and didn't think of it again, until its owner came to put it to use.
With little warning, a dark, wiry man in worn clothes, walked into our clearing from the path above and came straight for the pipes. He nodded his acknowledgement of us and immediately sat down and pulled out a machete from a hand carved wooden sheath hanging from his belt and began to carve the side of the pipe, before filling it with something and lighting it up. A few minutes after he appeared, he was joined by another man who helped himself to the second pipe. Kevin and I decided that we should probably leave the in peace and quietly packed our bags, offered them the rest of our fruit in a gesture of friendship and headed back down the path.
We made it back to the guest house after another detour through a small village of wooden homes on stilts housing cows, pigs and chickens in the space below. We said goodbye to our hosts and began the five hour drive back to Hanoi in the pouring rain.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Ho Chi Minh
After a day of sightseeing in Hanoi on Saturday, Kevin and I headed out early on Sunday morning to swing by to see Ho Chi Minh and then head over to the Old Quarter to pick up our bikes for our two day trip to Mai Chau. Since we were short on time (only five days in Hanoi) and we wanted to make the most of them, we planned for one day in Hanoi, a two day Halong Bay trip, and with our two remaining days, we decided to find an interesting day trip from Hanoi, settling on Mai Chau, a village 135km southwest of Hanoi, to add a little more variety to Kevin's brief tour of North Vietnam.
The crowd is herded up one side and down the other, each individual face peering towards the center while individual pairs of feet continue movement forward. Moments after we enter, we find ourselves walking down the steps and towards the exit of the building. Back in the sunshine, we spend another hour or so touring the grounds and the HCM museum, before heading back to the Old Quarter to pick up our bikes.
After just one spin on the back of a Vietnamese moto-taxi, Kevin had decided that he'd rather walk wherever we were going, regardless of how far it was (apparently, that one ride was enough for him to swear moto-taxis off forever) so we headed off in the direction of Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum on foot. Ho Chi Minh died in 1969 and since that time, his embalmed corpse has been on display for the people of Vietnam (and visitors from around the world) in a large mausoleum in Hanoi. The mausoleum is an imposing stone structure flanked with columns reminiscent of the Lincoln Memorial with the words "HO CHI MINH" engraved in stone in huge block letters. From 8:00 a.m. to 11:00 a.m. each day, hoards of visitors stand in lines curling around street corners and filling up narrow streets, for a chance to pay their respects to Vietnam's "Uncle Ho." Luckily, we arrived early enough to not have to wait long and soon found ourselves passing through security and making our way into the air conditioned tomb.
Past the stoic guards in their sparkingly clean white dress uniforms, the line snakes up a stair case and around the corner, past more guards actively scanning the crowd for any evidence of prohibited materials. In complete silence, the line enters the main room, where it continues up, left and left again, walking along three of the four sides of the six foot deep "moat" the surrounds Ho Chi Minh's glass encased bed. Four more guards stand at attention in the moat at each of the four posts of the bed, their heads about even with Ho Chi Minh himself. Ho Chi Minh's body is displayed in the middle of all of this looking as if he could rise any minute to greet his visitors.
The crowd is herded up one side and down the other, each individual face peering towards the center while individual pairs of feet continue movement forward. Moments after we enter, we find ourselves walking down the steps and towards the exit of the building. Back in the sunshine, we spend another hour or so touring the grounds and the HCM museum, before heading back to the Old Quarter to pick up our bikes.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Sa Pa
I took a few of the days I had left in North Vietnam before Kevin's arrival to travel 12 hours north to Sa Pa, a village in the mountains near the Chinese border. The overnight train was uneventful and we arrive in Lo Cai, the village bordering with China, for our bus to Sa Pa, which took us up windy mountain roads to a beautiful, picturesque village, overlooking terraced rice fields leading down to lush farmland in the valley below. For for first time since being in Vietnam, I was not herded into a hotel and was able to choose a guest house of my own and soon found myself in a cozy room with a balcony facing out into the surrounding mountains.
While tourism hasn't quite taken off yet in Sa Pa - thankfully - there are definitely signs of its impending arrival, with guided treks to the surrounding villages and hoards of colorfully dressed women from the local villages imploring you to purchase their wares. Unfortunately, I had been convinced to pay for my train tickets in cash instead of credit as I'd planned and I found myself in Sa Pa without enough money to spend as freely as I'd like. Eventually though, I did buy a few things from the girls and found that it was much more fun just to sit and talk with them, than it was to walk by repeating 'no thank you' twenty times to each one who approached.
The woman from these villages are married at 15 and 16 and many of the young woman I met had babies on their backs and older children at home. They all began their conversations with the parroted demand "buy from me, buy from me," but once they realized that you weren't going to buy anything, many revealed a much more comprehensive grasp of the English language and would talk to you about where they were from and how they made their crafts and fell easily into the teasing, playful banter of young children. After just two days in Sa Pa, a few of the girls remembered me - "you were the one who helped me read that email yesterday" or "you're staying at the Queen guest house" - and it gave me a brief glimpse of the joy that would come out of being a more longterm part of these girls lives.
After a brief, but very enjoyable stay in Sapa, I again boarded the overnight train, this time heading south and made my way back to Hanoi to get a shower and some rest before meeting up with Kevin Friday evening.
While tourism hasn't quite taken off yet in Sa Pa - thankfully - there are definitely signs of its impending arrival, with guided treks to the surrounding villages and hoards of colorfully dressed women from the local villages imploring you to purchase their wares. Unfortunately, I had been convinced to pay for my train tickets in cash instead of credit as I'd planned and I found myself in Sa Pa without enough money to spend as freely as I'd like. Eventually though, I did buy a few things from the girls and found that it was much more fun just to sit and talk with them, than it was to walk by repeating 'no thank you' twenty times to each one who approached.
The woman from these villages are married at 15 and 16 and many of the young woman I met had babies on their backs and older children at home. They all began their conversations with the parroted demand "buy from me, buy from me," but once they realized that you weren't going to buy anything, many revealed a much more comprehensive grasp of the English language and would talk to you about where they were from and how they made their crafts and fell easily into the teasing, playful banter of young children. After just two days in Sa Pa, a few of the girls remembered me - "you were the one who helped me read that email yesterday" or "you're staying at the Queen guest house" - and it gave me a brief glimpse of the joy that would come out of being a more longterm part of these girls lives.
After a brief, but very enjoyable stay in Sapa, I again boarded the overnight train, this time heading south and made my way back to Hanoi to get a shower and some rest before meeting up with Kevin Friday evening.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Hanoi
After arriving in Hanoi off the overnight bus, being dumped in the middle of no where, accosted by five separated moto drivers, doing my best impersonation of the reason why tourists are hated everywhere ("Will. you. just. GIVE ME A MINUTE?!?! I just got off an extremely uncomfortable, 12 hour, over-night bus ride, I don't know where I want to go yet, but I am going to pick a place where *I* want to go and if you will just GIVE ME SOME SPACE, I will be able to figure it out. Thank you.), finally agreeing to be driven to the train station to buy a ticket (where I am told repeatedly that you don't buy tickets at the train ticket office. Silly me. These are tickets for the local people. Rich tourists such as myself must go through the ticket office to buy a ticket for the tourist train - which amazingly enough is the exact same train as the local train, but the tickets are just more expensive - and they would be more than happy to take me to such an office...), walking off disgustedly to find my own hotel, walking around, tired, dirty and miserable for about half an hour, I finally settle into the first hotel that offers me a$5 room and crash until 3:00 p.m. that afternoon.
After a nap, a shower and a decent meal, Hanoi looks much more appealing. A big city like Saigon, it seems to differ from Saigon in many ways. Where Saigon is more modern and spread out, Hanoi is a cluster of two lane streets and narrow alleys; Saigon has parks, Hanoi has lakes. The colorful buildings of Saigon are more muted here and even Siagon's populace seems more modernized than that of Hanoi.
Although still accosted by moto drivers on every corner and a few in between, the whistles and shouts of 'hey you' have been replaced by a much more pleasant, "moto madam?" Which, when replied to with a smile and a polite no thank you, cease until the next corner. Hanoi's old quarter, where I have spent much of my time so far, is a maze of narrow streets and even narrower alleys lined with shops, hotels, restaurants and over 8000 tour agencies, the majority of them proclaiming to be 'Sinh Cafe,' a reputable company recommended in all of the guidebooks, proving that trademark infringement has found Hanoi a hospitable place. As with the rest of Vietnam, shop owners selling the exact same product line the streets making it easy enough to get around - ah, tire street, that's right next to book street and moto part street. If I keep walking this way, I should soon be on clothes street... - but more difficult when you are trying to find something that is not sold on the street you are on. A few times I'd wished I'd found myself on 'bakery' street, as opposed to 'electric appliance' street.
At night, the sidewalks suddenly disappear under the feet of small, red plastic chairs and folding tables which soon fill up themselves with the many residents of urban Hanoi. It is easy and enjoyble to find a nice spot to rest and enjoy the life in the streets that is life in modern Hanoi.
After a nap, a shower and a decent meal, Hanoi looks much more appealing. A big city like Saigon, it seems to differ from Saigon in many ways. Where Saigon is more modern and spread out, Hanoi is a cluster of two lane streets and narrow alleys; Saigon has parks, Hanoi has lakes. The colorful buildings of Saigon are more muted here and even Siagon's populace seems more modernized than that of Hanoi.
Although still accosted by moto drivers on every corner and a few in between, the whistles and shouts of 'hey you' have been replaced by a much more pleasant, "moto madam?" Which, when replied to with a smile and a polite no thank you, cease until the next corner. Hanoi's old quarter, where I have spent much of my time so far, is a maze of narrow streets and even narrower alleys lined with shops, hotels, restaurants and over 8000 tour agencies, the majority of them proclaiming to be 'Sinh Cafe,' a reputable company recommended in all of the guidebooks, proving that trademark infringement has found Hanoi a hospitable place. As with the rest of Vietnam, shop owners selling the exact same product line the streets making it easy enough to get around - ah, tire street, that's right next to book street and moto part street. If I keep walking this way, I should soon be on clothes street... - but more difficult when you are trying to find something that is not sold on the street you are on. A few times I'd wished I'd found myself on 'bakery' street, as opposed to 'electric appliance' street.
At night, the sidewalks suddenly disappear under the feet of small, red plastic chairs and folding tables which soon fill up themselves with the many residents of urban Hanoi. It is easy and enjoyble to find a nice spot to rest and enjoy the life in the streets that is life in modern Hanoi.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Hue
Writing from Hue as I wait for my overnight bus to Hanoi. I arrived from Hoi An yesterday at 5:00 and am shipping out the following day to Hanoi. It is Sunday July 17th and I have to be in Hanoi on Friday, July 22nd to meet my brother. I've decided to try to catch an overnight train to Sapa either Monday or Tuesday night and then be back in Hanoi by Friday morning. Here's to hoping.
Kevin and I had planned to travel from Hanoi, into Laos and down to Bangkok through Chiang Mai, but our plans have had to be re-arranged due to the ASEAN Regional Forum (for those of you interested in Southeast Asian Politics..) being held in Vientiane. From the 22nd to the 30th of July there will be no inbound or outbound travel in Vientiane, where both our bus or our plane would have brought us.
Sooooo... We've decided to skip Laos altogether, which although disappointing to us both, will allow us a much more leisurely and enjoyable pace. We will be in Hanoi until Wednesday, when we fly to Bangkok, taking an overnight train to Chiang Mai and spending a few days in the mountains of Northwest Thailand, before heading back down to Bangkok and possibly taking a day trip somewhere from there.
Kevin ships out on the 3rd of August, leaving me to fend for myself once again, doing some last minute shopping and visiting friends, before catching my August 7th flight to Bangladesh (assuming I get the flight I am trying to book...). Where from the luxury of my dear friend Erica's mammoth apartment, I will gaze down at the streets of Dhaka, remember this moment, not long before, when I sat in an internet cafe, desperately needing a shower, facing a 12 hour bus ride (preferably not with extremely loud, exceptionally bad Chinese movies dubbed in Vietnamese blaring all night) and yet another early morning search for yet another $5 hotel room. The thought is blissful.
Kevin and I had planned to travel from Hanoi, into Laos and down to Bangkok through Chiang Mai, but our plans have had to be re-arranged due to the ASEAN Regional Forum (for those of you interested in Southeast Asian Politics..) being held in Vientiane. From the 22nd to the 30th of July there will be no inbound or outbound travel in Vientiane, where both our bus or our plane would have brought us.
Sooooo... We've decided to skip Laos altogether, which although disappointing to us both, will allow us a much more leisurely and enjoyable pace. We will be in Hanoi until Wednesday, when we fly to Bangkok, taking an overnight train to Chiang Mai and spending a few days in the mountains of Northwest Thailand, before heading back down to Bangkok and possibly taking a day trip somewhere from there.
Kevin ships out on the 3rd of August, leaving me to fend for myself once again, doing some last minute shopping and visiting friends, before catching my August 7th flight to Bangladesh (assuming I get the flight I am trying to book...). Where from the luxury of my dear friend Erica's mammoth apartment, I will gaze down at the streets of Dhaka, remember this moment, not long before, when I sat in an internet cafe, desperately needing a shower, facing a 12 hour bus ride (preferably not with extremely loud, exceptionally bad Chinese movies dubbed in Vietnamese blaring all night) and yet another early morning search for yet another $5 hotel room. The thought is blissful.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Hoi An
Twelve hours and two blissful sleep inducing Dramamine later, we arrive in Hoi An. Since beginning this trip, I have heard great things about this city. Situated on the coast, it used to be a primary trading port for the surrounding countries, providing the elite of Paris with all of their fancy 'oriental' goods, but since Da Nang has replaced Hoi An as a port of call, Hoi An has turned its designs on the clothes making industry. Thus, since having mercifilly avoided the bombs of both the Vietnamese and the Americans during the war, Hoi An's quaint historic shop fronts display every imaginable article of clothing, all of which can be whipped up in the material of the buyers choice, fit to size, in a matter of hours.
One of the (many) things I have yet to figure out about Vietnam, is how it can be Communist, and yet be almost, if not more, capitalistic than we are. Walking down the streets in Hoi An, marveling at the buildings that seem to be straight out of the set of an old Western film, I, along with every other tourist in sight, am constantly bombarded with the entreaties of the local craftswoman, "Hello. How are you? Where are you from? Would you like to come see my shop? No buy, no problem." "You buy something?!" "I think you buy something from me?" "Oh, beautiful eyes! You want to come see my shop?"
While all this might seem excessive, it is almost a necessity, because literally, every single shop on some of the streets in the center of town are exactly the same. On those streets where not every shop sells tailor made clothing, the tailor shops are interrupted by shops selling crafts and souvenirs, restaurants and the occasional convenience-esque store. Other streets cater specifically to the art connoisseur, providing shop after shop after shop after shop of paintings and prints. I have yet to figure out why it is that the Vietnamese cluster a million shops selling exactly the same thing in one area. I don't know how it can possibly be profitable for any but the most driven, who are constantly out in the street dragging customers in by the armload.
As I made my way into town for lunch on my first day, I was approached by my first of many woman, inviting me to see her shop. Although I protested that I was simply looking for something to eat before I decided what I wanted to do for the day, the woman kept insisting that after I ate, she would take me to see her shop. Knowing that I wanted to see what it was all about anyway, I finally relented, secretly thinking that I would probably lose her by the time I had found and finished my lunch. But to my surprise, not two seconds after I had finished my lunch at a little local cafe, the woman reappeared and led me dutifully to stall number 42, in the middle of the Hoi An cloth market.
The cloth market a huge warehouse structure filled with rows of separate workspaces containing a table covered with catalogues and L-shaped shelves containing hundreds of reams of material of different patterns, colors and textures. I was led to a stall in the middle of the room, sat down at a table, and was told that I could pick anything out of any catalogue, chose a fabric and they would have it ready for me by the following afternoon. I flipped through the catalogues somewhat unenthusiastically, not yet sure that I wanted to commit to a purchase. Noticing my lack of vigor, the woman came over to me and began asking me what I was looking for and explaining all of the things that she could make for me. Encouraged by her prodding, I began to explain the design for a dress I had imagined in my mind for years, that I had never seen the likes of, save for the few that came close, on ladies walking the famed red carpet in Hollywood. I have no clue if I would ever have the occasion to wear such a dress, or if such an occasion ever presented itself, if I would actually wear such a dress, but I figured that this would be my one chance to turn the image into a reality for the rock bottom price of $20. A few minutes later, armed with a ream of beautiful shimmering satin in a golden amber, I was being measured for my dress.
Soon after, I learned that not only do the woman of Hoi An sew, but they also massage, give manicures and 'thread.' I had heard from one of the girls I met from New Zealand that she had gotten her legs 'threaded' which, she explained, entailed a woman wrapping a piece of thread around each hair and pulling it out, a process which, to me, seemed would be excessively long and excessively painful.
Just as I paid the deposit, I was approached by an older Vietnamese woman touting her skills as a masseuse and picking up my hand and clucking disapprovingly at the sorry state of my nails (not carrying any nail polish remover, I had simply been letting the polish put on by the girl in the market in Saigon chip away). Dispute my protestations, she insisted on showing me her shop where she performed her magic. She led me to a little room in the back of the market where she continued her spiel, while sitting me down and bending down to inspect the two days growth of hair that adorned my legs. Not taking pausing to take a breath, she whipped out a piece of thread, doubled it over, twisted the edges and began running it over my shin, removing the hairs in its path as it went, leaving a smooth patch of skin that she told me would last two weeks. Explaining that I had told a Scottish guy that I'd met over lunch, that I would meet him in five minutes time, I tried to make my escape, but the woman wasn't hearing it. "Oh that man just went with the little boy to his hotel to get money for his suit, so he won't be there. You have time." Not believing that she could know the exact whereabouts of the man I had met over lunch, I protested once again, in response to which, she changed tactics and began imploring me to simply let her do my eyebrows - "I'll make you bea-u-ti-ful....". Realizing that I wasn't going to get out of there without forcibly removing the woman from my path, and admittedly having grown a little fond of this little woman, I gave in and for 20,000 dong (a little over a dollar) I had my eyebrows 'threaded' and left with a promise to return later during my stay for a manicure and a more comprehensive threading.
I met up with Steve, from Scotland, who, to my amazement, had actually been taken by the little boy to his hotel to get money for his suit, and spent the rest of the afternoon over iced-coffee talking about social work, our shared profession - if I can still claim a profession wandering out here on the other side of the world - and the situation in Scotland as it relates to English control (I had never realized before that Scotland is somewhat where we would be today had we lost the Revolution). He was interesting to talk to and having grown up hearing very few international voices, a few timesduring our conversation, I felt like I was watching a movie listening to this Scottish accent, not sitting across from a real, live Scot. Sad I know, but I've lead a sheltered life.
The following morning, I went to the market to try on my dress, which just needed some minor alterations, afterwhich I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the streets of central Hoi An to kill time until I was to pick up the final product. I have always bought art from the countries I've visited, usually something that grabs me that really embodies a certain feeling of the place that I've wanted to bring home. Since I've been in Vietnam, I've seen countless works of art, beautiful in their simplicity, depicting scenes with young Vietnamese woman wearing traditional Vietnamese dress, walking arm in arm down a city street, or Vietnamese fisherman setting their nets under the light of a full moon. While these prints have drawn me in for their artistic value, I can't help wishing that they were not scenes of Vientiane, but scenes of Thailand or Cambodia, countries for which I've formed an emotional attachment. I decided not to purchase anything, until, if ever, I find that sense of fondness for this country, whose essence still eludes me.
Walking back through the market, I stopped to watch the woman unloading fishing boats and sorting fish into baskets by size, their din of conversation filling the air and for a moment, I thought, maybe I'd caught a glimpse of what I was looking for. But only a glimpse it was, for just that moment the woman I'd been watching clean her net, looked up and saw me standing there and yelled, "You want ride in my boat? Come ride in my boat. One hour, you ride in my boat!" and turning from her, I noticed an older woman motioning to me to take her picture (for which I knew she would ask a fee)." Vietnam can't just be about money....
One of the (many) things I have yet to figure out about Vietnam, is how it can be Communist, and yet be almost, if not more, capitalistic than we are. Walking down the streets in Hoi An, marveling at the buildings that seem to be straight out of the set of an old Western film, I, along with every other tourist in sight, am constantly bombarded with the entreaties of the local craftswoman, "Hello. How are you? Where are you from? Would you like to come see my shop? No buy, no problem." "You buy something?!" "I think you buy something from me?" "Oh, beautiful eyes! You want to come see my shop?"
While all this might seem excessive, it is almost a necessity, because literally, every single shop on some of the streets in the center of town are exactly the same. On those streets where not every shop sells tailor made clothing, the tailor shops are interrupted by shops selling crafts and souvenirs, restaurants and the occasional convenience-esque store. Other streets cater specifically to the art connoisseur, providing shop after shop after shop after shop of paintings and prints. I have yet to figure out why it is that the Vietnamese cluster a million shops selling exactly the same thing in one area. I don't know how it can possibly be profitable for any but the most driven, who are constantly out in the street dragging customers in by the armload.
As I made my way into town for lunch on my first day, I was approached by my first of many woman, inviting me to see her shop. Although I protested that I was simply looking for something to eat before I decided what I wanted to do for the day, the woman kept insisting that after I ate, she would take me to see her shop. Knowing that I wanted to see what it was all about anyway, I finally relented, secretly thinking that I would probably lose her by the time I had found and finished my lunch. But to my surprise, not two seconds after I had finished my lunch at a little local cafe, the woman reappeared and led me dutifully to stall number 42, in the middle of the Hoi An cloth market.
The cloth market a huge warehouse structure filled with rows of separate workspaces containing a table covered with catalogues and L-shaped shelves containing hundreds of reams of material of different patterns, colors and textures. I was led to a stall in the middle of the room, sat down at a table, and was told that I could pick anything out of any catalogue, chose a fabric and they would have it ready for me by the following afternoon. I flipped through the catalogues somewhat unenthusiastically, not yet sure that I wanted to commit to a purchase. Noticing my lack of vigor, the woman came over to me and began asking me what I was looking for and explaining all of the things that she could make for me. Encouraged by her prodding, I began to explain the design for a dress I had imagined in my mind for years, that I had never seen the likes of, save for the few that came close, on ladies walking the famed red carpet in Hollywood. I have no clue if I would ever have the occasion to wear such a dress, or if such an occasion ever presented itself, if I would actually wear such a dress, but I figured that this would be my one chance to turn the image into a reality for the rock bottom price of $20. A few minutes later, armed with a ream of beautiful shimmering satin in a golden amber, I was being measured for my dress.
Soon after, I learned that not only do the woman of Hoi An sew, but they also massage, give manicures and 'thread.' I had heard from one of the girls I met from New Zealand that she had gotten her legs 'threaded' which, she explained, entailed a woman wrapping a piece of thread around each hair and pulling it out, a process which, to me, seemed would be excessively long and excessively painful.
Just as I paid the deposit, I was approached by an older Vietnamese woman touting her skills as a masseuse and picking up my hand and clucking disapprovingly at the sorry state of my nails (not carrying any nail polish remover, I had simply been letting the polish put on by the girl in the market in Saigon chip away). Dispute my protestations, she insisted on showing me her shop where she performed her magic. She led me to a little room in the back of the market where she continued her spiel, while sitting me down and bending down to inspect the two days growth of hair that adorned my legs. Not taking pausing to take a breath, she whipped out a piece of thread, doubled it over, twisted the edges and began running it over my shin, removing the hairs in its path as it went, leaving a smooth patch of skin that she told me would last two weeks. Explaining that I had told a Scottish guy that I'd met over lunch, that I would meet him in five minutes time, I tried to make my escape, but the woman wasn't hearing it. "Oh that man just went with the little boy to his hotel to get money for his suit, so he won't be there. You have time." Not believing that she could know the exact whereabouts of the man I had met over lunch, I protested once again, in response to which, she changed tactics and began imploring me to simply let her do my eyebrows - "I'll make you bea-u-ti-ful....". Realizing that I wasn't going to get out of there without forcibly removing the woman from my path, and admittedly having grown a little fond of this little woman, I gave in and for 20,000 dong (a little over a dollar) I had my eyebrows 'threaded' and left with a promise to return later during my stay for a manicure and a more comprehensive threading.
I met up with Steve, from Scotland, who, to my amazement, had actually been taken by the little boy to his hotel to get money for his suit, and spent the rest of the afternoon over iced-coffee talking about social work, our shared profession - if I can still claim a profession wandering out here on the other side of the world - and the situation in Scotland as it relates to English control (I had never realized before that Scotland is somewhat where we would be today had we lost the Revolution). He was interesting to talk to and having grown up hearing very few international voices, a few timesduring our conversation, I felt like I was watching a movie listening to this Scottish accent, not sitting across from a real, live Scot. Sad I know, but I've lead a sheltered life.
The following morning, I went to the market to try on my dress, which just needed some minor alterations, afterwhich I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the streets of central Hoi An to kill time until I was to pick up the final product. I have always bought art from the countries I've visited, usually something that grabs me that really embodies a certain feeling of the place that I've wanted to bring home. Since I've been in Vietnam, I've seen countless works of art, beautiful in their simplicity, depicting scenes with young Vietnamese woman wearing traditional Vietnamese dress, walking arm in arm down a city street, or Vietnamese fisherman setting their nets under the light of a full moon. While these prints have drawn me in for their artistic value, I can't help wishing that they were not scenes of Vientiane, but scenes of Thailand or Cambodia, countries for which I've formed an emotional attachment. I decided not to purchase anything, until, if ever, I find that sense of fondness for this country, whose essence still eludes me.
Walking back through the market, I stopped to watch the woman unloading fishing boats and sorting fish into baskets by size, their din of conversation filling the air and for a moment, I thought, maybe I'd caught a glimpse of what I was looking for. But only a glimpse it was, for just that moment the woman I'd been watching clean her net, looked up and saw me standing there and yelled, "You want ride in my boat? Come ride in my boat. One hour, you ride in my boat!" and turning from her, I noticed an older woman motioning to me to take her picture (for which I knew she would ask a fee)." Vietnam can't just be about money....
Nha Trang
Heading back to the coast, the bus brought me to Nha Trang, which didn't look unlike many of the beaches I've seen along the Eastern Coast of South Florida, except for the mountainous island not too far off shore. I didn't feel like spending days lounging in the sun by myself and so decided that I would stay for a night and then head up to Hoi An.
Determined not to be herded in to whatever guesthouse the tour operators had planned for me, I approached the bus driver with my guide book and, pointing to the name of the one I had chosen, asked him if he knew where it was. He replied that he did and confirmed that he would drop me off in front of this hotel. Fifteen minutes later, I found myself standing outside the Hanh Cafe office being informed by the ever-so-helpful moto-taxi drivers that the guest house that I wanted was "very far" away, but that they would happily take me for a "small"l fee. Slightly annoyed at yet another attempt to strip me of independent decision, I agreed to let the woman at the hotel above the office to show me a room. She led me upstairs to a $6 room (a dollar more then I'd decided to pay for accommodation for my remaining time in Vietnam, having found what posh accommodations could be had for just that amount), which I politely declined and decided to set off to the guesthouse that I had chosen originally.
When I got back down to the street level, I was again accosted by moto-taxi drivers all telling me that the guest house that I wanted was "very far" and "very expensive," but the ones that they could take me to for no charge at all, were conveniently right around the corner (but of course not so close that I could walk) and could provide me a room near the beach for $5 (the news of my requested rate having spread down the grapevine). Finally, I gave in and allowed myself to be driven to the O'sin Hotel, where my standard of living for my $5 rate dropped drastically from my private balcony and TV in Da Lat to a room more reminiscent of Thailand, sporting only a mattress and mosquito net. Feeling a little more at home in this room with the cracks in the walls, than I had in my fancy room, and enjoying the teasing banter of the hotel manager, I decided to stay.
After almost two weeks in Vietnam, I was still feeling disconnected from the country, riding along only on the tourist laden surface of its depths, and found myself, for the first time in over four months, thinking wistfully of home. Determined not to waste my next two weeks pining for the company and warm embraces of my family and friends and the delicacy of home cooked food, I decided to treat myself to a day of pampering and face the rest of my trip armed with a new determination.
One of the many delights of southeast Asia, besides the food is the ever present availability of a cheap massage. I decided to begin my day with a Swedish massage and a stint in the sauna and finish off with a facial and a hair treatment (all of this for under $12). Feeling buoyed by my plans for the following day, I set off to the nearest book exchange, determined to find a book on Vietnam that would help me to begin to scratch below the consumerism and guerrilla enterprise that had permeated my trip since entering the country.
At the book store, I traded Middlesex and Snow Falling on Cedars for Phoenix Rising: Impressions from Vietnam and the Alchemist. Walking out into the street, I ran into two of my fellow canyoners from Da Lat, one guy from Israel and another from Switzerland and spent the rest of a very enjoyable evening in stitches listening to tales of travel and stories from their days in the mandated armed service of their respective countries.
The following day, I packed my bags, said farewell to my host and began my day of leisure. One massage, one really hot sauna, a facial and hair treatment later, I boarded the overnight bus bound for Hoi An.
Determined not to be herded in to whatever guesthouse the tour operators had planned for me, I approached the bus driver with my guide book and, pointing to the name of the one I had chosen, asked him if he knew where it was. He replied that he did and confirmed that he would drop me off in front of this hotel. Fifteen minutes later, I found myself standing outside the Hanh Cafe office being informed by the ever-so-helpful moto-taxi drivers that the guest house that I wanted was "very far" away, but that they would happily take me for a "small"l fee. Slightly annoyed at yet another attempt to strip me of independent decision, I agreed to let the woman at the hotel above the office to show me a room. She led me upstairs to a $6 room (a dollar more then I'd decided to pay for accommodation for my remaining time in Vietnam, having found what posh accommodations could be had for just that amount), which I politely declined and decided to set off to the guesthouse that I had chosen originally.
When I got back down to the street level, I was again accosted by moto-taxi drivers all telling me that the guest house that I wanted was "very far" and "very expensive," but the ones that they could take me to for no charge at all, were conveniently right around the corner (but of course not so close that I could walk) and could provide me a room near the beach for $5 (the news of my requested rate having spread down the grapevine). Finally, I gave in and allowed myself to be driven to the O'sin Hotel, where my standard of living for my $5 rate dropped drastically from my private balcony and TV in Da Lat to a room more reminiscent of Thailand, sporting only a mattress and mosquito net. Feeling a little more at home in this room with the cracks in the walls, than I had in my fancy room, and enjoying the teasing banter of the hotel manager, I decided to stay.
After almost two weeks in Vietnam, I was still feeling disconnected from the country, riding along only on the tourist laden surface of its depths, and found myself, for the first time in over four months, thinking wistfully of home. Determined not to waste my next two weeks pining for the company and warm embraces of my family and friends and the delicacy of home cooked food, I decided to treat myself to a day of pampering and face the rest of my trip armed with a new determination.
One of the many delights of southeast Asia, besides the food is the ever present availability of a cheap massage. I decided to begin my day with a Swedish massage and a stint in the sauna and finish off with a facial and a hair treatment (all of this for under $12). Feeling buoyed by my plans for the following day, I set off to the nearest book exchange, determined to find a book on Vietnam that would help me to begin to scratch below the consumerism and guerrilla enterprise that had permeated my trip since entering the country.
At the book store, I traded Middlesex and Snow Falling on Cedars for Phoenix Rising: Impressions from Vietnam and the Alchemist. Walking out into the street, I ran into two of my fellow canyoners from Da Lat, one guy from Israel and another from Switzerland and spent the rest of a very enjoyable evening in stitches listening to tales of travel and stories from their days in the mandated armed service of their respective countries.
The following day, I packed my bags, said farewell to my host and began my day of leisure. One massage, one really hot sauna, a facial and hair treatment later, I boarded the overnight bus bound for Hoi An.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Da Lat
After happily leaving Mui Ne behind, I headed to Da Lat, an old French Hill Station in the mountains of South Vietnam. The ticket from Mui Ne to Da Lat said that the bus would leave Mui Ne at 8:00 a.m. and arrive in Da Lat at 4:00 p.m., the schedule that I had gotten from the tour operator said that the bus would leave at 8:00 a.m. and arrive at 1:30 p.m. In reality, the bus left at 8:30 a.m. and arrived at 12:15 p.m. I was thrilled. On a few rare occasions, a bus I have ridden would arrive on time. Most of the time they would arrive late - from five minutes to two hours. Not once have the been early. It was a nice surprise.
I immediately liked Da Lat. The 'bus' that picked me up at my hotel that morning, wasn't a bus at all, but more of a airport shuttle that some company cast off in the 70's and has since been carting tourists up and down the mountain roads of Vietnam. About half way to Da Lat, I realized why.
Most of the road to the base of the mountain and a little way in was nicely paved, but as soon as we began ascending, the smooth pavement disappeared and in its place was left the rocky, gravelly roads I'd thought I'd left behind in Cambodia. While not nearly as bad, the sheer drops on the side of the road, coupled with the lack of a barrier and the scalloped edge of the cliff from the pressure of countless vehicles causing mini-avalanches of road gravel, it was a still little unnerving. I always think of my mother on trips like this, holding tight to the dash board and repeating my father's name like a mantra, decibel level rising with every increase in speed or especially sharp curve.
Nearing our destination, the curtain of trees parted, revealing a vast, colorful city built on a plateau surrounded by misty green mountains. The windy streets were lined with old French villas and more recent additions in the narrow, new age style I've come to associate with 20th century Vietnamese architecture. Against the natural back ground of gray and green, Da Lat shows off its splendor in every imaginable color; blues, greens, oranges, yellows, pinks, reds, purples and a myriad of variations there of. I was immediately taken in and new that I could spend days just walking the hilly streets, marveling at this city that one would expect to find nestled in the hills of Southern France, not tucked away in the mountains of Vietnam.
That first day, I spent the afternoon wandering around my little neighborhood, stocking up on funds, picking up some snacks at the grocery (still trying to find those delicious little sesame crackers that Steven and I lived on in Cambodia to no avail) and settling in. I hadn't yet decided on my plans for my stay, when I was accosted by one of the local tour guides, who call themselves "Easy Riders," aggressively selling his personal tour against the "touristy" tours offered by the hotels, who had too much money already. I was prepared to brush him off, when he showed me a book in which past customers had written reviews and, one after another, I read rave review after rave review, proclaiming 'An' as an alternative to the 'Open Tour' and 'a way to see the real Vietnam.' Even though I wasn't too thrilled with An himself, I figured that it would be a good way to see the area and to contribute to the local economy instead of to the tour agencies. I agreed to meet him at my hotel at 8:30 the next morning.
The next morning, at 8:30 on the dot, An was sitting outside my hotel, having what looked like a not so friendly conversation with the man from the hotel. Apparently, An 'steals' business from this hotel on a regular basis and they are not very happy about it. I felt bad for a moment, but then rationalized that this was my decision to make and that by buying the bus ticket, I had in no way obligated myself to stay at the hotels they chose or take advantage of the tours they provided. After a few more dirty words directed at my driver, we were off.
An asked me if it was okay if another girl went along with us, because she had wanted to go with him, but wasn't comfortable going by herself. With my approval, we stopped at another hotel where we were joined by two other girls, one Dutch, one Irish, who accompanied us for the day (each with their own driver).
The tour he had sold us on was one that stopped at numerous destinations around the city and we soon learned that these were the same destinations that every tour bus stopped at. We visited an old French railway station, a Chinese monastery, and a waterfall, the only difference between us and the other tourists, being that while they boarded buses, we rode of on motorbikes. After three such stops and much lamenting between the three of us, I brought up to An that the day before he had promised me "the real Vietnam" and said that his tour wouldn't be touristy and all we had done so far was exactly what every other tour did. He replied, arrogantly that his tour was the best tour and that if we didn't want touristy, we wouldn't get touristy, that we would go to a minority village and then to his village for lunch, both of which were off the beaten path. Placated, we mounted the bikes and sped off.
While the stops themselves were nothing to speak of, the rides from one to the other were spectacular. Many of the roads took us high above the city where we could look down into the valley and marvel at the city from end to end. On the other side of one stretch of mountains, lay rows of rust colored soil interspersed with rows of fresh vegetables: cauliflower, carrots, celery, tomatoes, peppers, onions. Brilliant green rice fields dotted with conical hats swaying above the heads of their owners as they bent and rose tending to their crops.
When we reached the minority village, we found that the village itself had been turned into somewhat of a tourist trap, with women making silk throws on manual wooden looms while others invited you to browse and buy gifts for your family. Even so, it was definitely rural and when you got past the shops, you were greeted with the sights of barefoot children playing in the mud, while naked younger siblings looked on clapping. Women sat in door ways, grooming each others hair and men ran hoes through their fields.
After the village we went up to a Chinese Pagoda in the mountains, which to me, although I've never been there, seemed like something you'd find on a mountain top in China.
Now time for lunch, An began his pitch about his longer tours into the Central Highlands, and both of the other girls immediately declined. He looked at me and said, 'Okay then, I will take you to my village for lunch.'
Thinking we were all heading in the same direction, I climbed aboard, but when we reached An's home, I found that the other girls were no where to be found. I figured that perhaps the other driver's were taking them somewhere else to eat and sat down at a stool in a shop run by An's family, while he pulled out his pictures and more rave reviews of his trips.
I browsed through the pictures, but knew that I was not interested in spending any more time with this man, not to mention more money and once I had made it clear that I wasn't interested, he turned on the TV and spent the next half an hour watching Chinese soap operas and slurping his soup in a way that almost made my stomach turn. I was not going to be adding to An's book of rave reviews.
After lunch, we went to see what turned out to be the last stop on the tour. Waiting for us outside, I found the two other girls, who apparently had been taken straight there and not even offered lunch, a delicacy reserved only for those from which there appears a possibility of getting more money. We were all disgusted, but I decided not to harp on it, paid An his money and spent the rest of the afternoon touring the city on my own.
The next day, I rented a mountain bike from my hotel and tooled around town enjoying the views and using up my current role of film. As I pedaled up and down the hills (okay, I walked up most of the hills), I began to feel a little more positive about my tour with An, because I realized that, even though it was touristy and a bit of a disappointment after reading the reviews, I would have never seen so much of the area on my own.
Today, I went canyoning with an adventure tour group, which basically consisted of hiking through the mountains and instead of going around steep cliffs and avoiding rivers and waterfalls, we went over them, through them and down them, with the help of harnesses, ropes and life jackets. I can now say that I have repelled down a waterfall (and that I'd be up to do it again some day).
Tomorrow I head back to the coast to take in the sun, sand and surf of Vietnam’s answer to Phuket - Nha Trang.
I immediately liked Da Lat. The 'bus' that picked me up at my hotel that morning, wasn't a bus at all, but more of a airport shuttle that some company cast off in the 70's and has since been carting tourists up and down the mountain roads of Vietnam. About half way to Da Lat, I realized why.
Most of the road to the base of the mountain and a little way in was nicely paved, but as soon as we began ascending, the smooth pavement disappeared and in its place was left the rocky, gravelly roads I'd thought I'd left behind in Cambodia. While not nearly as bad, the sheer drops on the side of the road, coupled with the lack of a barrier and the scalloped edge of the cliff from the pressure of countless vehicles causing mini-avalanches of road gravel, it was a still little unnerving. I always think of my mother on trips like this, holding tight to the dash board and repeating my father's name like a mantra, decibel level rising with every increase in speed or especially sharp curve.
Nearing our destination, the curtain of trees parted, revealing a vast, colorful city built on a plateau surrounded by misty green mountains. The windy streets were lined with old French villas and more recent additions in the narrow, new age style I've come to associate with 20th century Vietnamese architecture. Against the natural back ground of gray and green, Da Lat shows off its splendor in every imaginable color; blues, greens, oranges, yellows, pinks, reds, purples and a myriad of variations there of. I was immediately taken in and new that I could spend days just walking the hilly streets, marveling at this city that one would expect to find nestled in the hills of Southern France, not tucked away in the mountains of Vietnam.
That first day, I spent the afternoon wandering around my little neighborhood, stocking up on funds, picking up some snacks at the grocery (still trying to find those delicious little sesame crackers that Steven and I lived on in Cambodia to no avail) and settling in. I hadn't yet decided on my plans for my stay, when I was accosted by one of the local tour guides, who call themselves "Easy Riders," aggressively selling his personal tour against the "touristy" tours offered by the hotels, who had too much money already. I was prepared to brush him off, when he showed me a book in which past customers had written reviews and, one after another, I read rave review after rave review, proclaiming 'An' as an alternative to the 'Open Tour' and 'a way to see the real Vietnam.' Even though I wasn't too thrilled with An himself, I figured that it would be a good way to see the area and to contribute to the local economy instead of to the tour agencies. I agreed to meet him at my hotel at 8:30 the next morning.
The next morning, at 8:30 on the dot, An was sitting outside my hotel, having what looked like a not so friendly conversation with the man from the hotel. Apparently, An 'steals' business from this hotel on a regular basis and they are not very happy about it. I felt bad for a moment, but then rationalized that this was my decision to make and that by buying the bus ticket, I had in no way obligated myself to stay at the hotels they chose or take advantage of the tours they provided. After a few more dirty words directed at my driver, we were off.
An asked me if it was okay if another girl went along with us, because she had wanted to go with him, but wasn't comfortable going by herself. With my approval, we stopped at another hotel where we were joined by two other girls, one Dutch, one Irish, who accompanied us for the day (each with their own driver).
The tour he had sold us on was one that stopped at numerous destinations around the city and we soon learned that these were the same destinations that every tour bus stopped at. We visited an old French railway station, a Chinese monastery, and a waterfall, the only difference between us and the other tourists, being that while they boarded buses, we rode of on motorbikes. After three such stops and much lamenting between the three of us, I brought up to An that the day before he had promised me "the real Vietnam" and said that his tour wouldn't be touristy and all we had done so far was exactly what every other tour did. He replied, arrogantly that his tour was the best tour and that if we didn't want touristy, we wouldn't get touristy, that we would go to a minority village and then to his village for lunch, both of which were off the beaten path. Placated, we mounted the bikes and sped off.
While the stops themselves were nothing to speak of, the rides from one to the other were spectacular. Many of the roads took us high above the city where we could look down into the valley and marvel at the city from end to end. On the other side of one stretch of mountains, lay rows of rust colored soil interspersed with rows of fresh vegetables: cauliflower, carrots, celery, tomatoes, peppers, onions. Brilliant green rice fields dotted with conical hats swaying above the heads of their owners as they bent and rose tending to their crops.
When we reached the minority village, we found that the village itself had been turned into somewhat of a tourist trap, with women making silk throws on manual wooden looms while others invited you to browse and buy gifts for your family. Even so, it was definitely rural and when you got past the shops, you were greeted with the sights of barefoot children playing in the mud, while naked younger siblings looked on clapping. Women sat in door ways, grooming each others hair and men ran hoes through their fields.
After the village we went up to a Chinese Pagoda in the mountains, which to me, although I've never been there, seemed like something you'd find on a mountain top in China.
Now time for lunch, An began his pitch about his longer tours into the Central Highlands, and both of the other girls immediately declined. He looked at me and said, 'Okay then, I will take you to my village for lunch.'
Thinking we were all heading in the same direction, I climbed aboard, but when we reached An's home, I found that the other girls were no where to be found. I figured that perhaps the other driver's were taking them somewhere else to eat and sat down at a stool in a shop run by An's family, while he pulled out his pictures and more rave reviews of his trips.
I browsed through the pictures, but knew that I was not interested in spending any more time with this man, not to mention more money and once I had made it clear that I wasn't interested, he turned on the TV and spent the next half an hour watching Chinese soap operas and slurping his soup in a way that almost made my stomach turn. I was not going to be adding to An's book of rave reviews.
After lunch, we went to see what turned out to be the last stop on the tour. Waiting for us outside, I found the two other girls, who apparently had been taken straight there and not even offered lunch, a delicacy reserved only for those from which there appears a possibility of getting more money. We were all disgusted, but I decided not to harp on it, paid An his money and spent the rest of the afternoon touring the city on my own.
The next day, I rented a mountain bike from my hotel and tooled around town enjoying the views and using up my current role of film. As I pedaled up and down the hills (okay, I walked up most of the hills), I began to feel a little more positive about my tour with An, because I realized that, even though it was touristy and a bit of a disappointment after reading the reviews, I would have never seen so much of the area on my own.
Today, I went canyoning with an adventure tour group, which basically consisted of hiking through the mountains and instead of going around steep cliffs and avoiding rivers and waterfalls, we went over them, through them and down them, with the help of harnesses, ropes and life jackets. I can now say that I have repelled down a waterfall (and that I'd be up to do it again some day).
Tomorrow I head back to the coast to take in the sun, sand and surf of Vietnam’s answer to Phuket - Nha Trang.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Working Backward
It is raining in the afternoons here in picturesque Da Lat and I am finding myself with a lot of time to relax, read and catch up on my posts. I wanted to keep things in chronological order, so all of the posts for the past three weeks will appear between the newer posts and my last posts from Thailand. I am enjoying writing them, although the writing actually elicits some of the stress of a few of those days, and I hope you enjoy them as well.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Mui Ne
After a brief run on the beach this morning, I stopped in to have breakfast and to confirm my ticket to Da Lat this morning after only half a day in Mui Ne. Mui Ne isn't really a happening town.
After breakfast, I set out to see the one thing that Mui Ne is famous for - the sand dunes. Having picked up a map at the Hahn Cafe (my Open Ticket tour group) that conveniently listed five hotels out of about 100 (most likely the five they get commissions from), I set out. Yesterday I had looked at the map and the dunes didn't seem that far away and I had laughed (to myself, of course) at the guy who offered a six dollar 'tour' of the dunes. I could walk there myself, thank you very much. This place isn't very big. How far could they possibly be? And did you really need a 'guide' to sand dunes?
At 11:00, I set off on the road north. The road ran along the beach and for a time I walked along the beach to avoid the numerous moto taxi drivers who pull up beside you every two minutes to see if you want a ride. Apparently, all the sand in Mui Ne seems to have blown up into the dunes because the beach soon disappeared and I was left walking on concrete erosion control barriers.
Back on the street, I consulted my map, noting that I had past about 20 hotels, none of them on my map. Along with hotels, I also began counting taxi rides refused. "Hello! Moto bi?" "No." "Hello! Moto bi?" "No." "HELLO! Where you go? Moto bi?" "Hmm, uh. No". I wasn't going to pay some guy to take me somewhere that I could easily walk myself; and besides, it was good exercise.
Two hours and 31 refused moto taxi rides later, with the stench of dead fish permeating the air, I was beginning to question my decision. How far was this place?? I'd been following the road along the coast and had been passed up by at least six tour buses, so I had to be going the right way, hadn't I? I decided that at the next turn, I would see what there was to see and take the next moto taxi driver up on his offer back to the hotel. Mue Ni was impressing me less and less.
As I turned the corner, I was greeting by two young Vietnamese boys carrying what looked like long laminated signs. The came up to me and after asking my name and where I was from, asked if I wanted to "slide." Looking up ahead, I saw that I had reached the dunes and sitting below the towering mounds of red sand were about 20 children all carrying these laminated mats. I told them that I didn't want to slide, but I would watch them slide.
Joined by another three little entrepreneurs, I walked up to the dunes and started my ascent. Looking out over the dunes the to west, your eyes were met with what seemed like endless mounds of red sand hills, straight out of an Arabian film (not that I've ever seen one...). To the east, the coast was dotted with homes of the village of Mui Ne and the water was filled with fishing boats. The children walked with me up and down the dunes, asking my name, my age, where I was from, how long I'd be in Vietnam. I countered with my own questions: their names, their ages and where they were from - the last one they all found amusing. I wasn't sold on the slide, but I wasn't going to let the opportunity that huge mounds of sand presented go, so I turned and looked at the kids and said, "Run?" They all nodded eagerly and the six of us took off running.
After a few pictures and a few more runs and climbs (for the assents, I was offered four little hands and one pair pushing me up from the rear) we headed back toward the road where there was some sort of scene being filmed. I asked the kids if it was a movie and they replied that it was a music video. In the four months I've been in Southeast Asia, I have seen my share of sappy Thai, Cambodian and Vietnamese music videos, but what a treat to see one filmed! A handsome Vietnamese man of about 25 was singing (or lip synching) to a pretty Vietnamese girl in a head wrap sitting in the back of an ox cart pulled by two oxen. It was just as sappy in person than on TV, but still neat to see. I will have to keep an eye out for it on Asian MTV.
After the video, I walked down to one of the nearby food stalls and bought ice cream popsicles for all the kids. While they were picking them out, one new kid came up and as I asked for four (I had lost one of the kids at some point), said "five." I looked at her and said, "I'm sorry, I don't know you, I don't know if I have enough money." She smiled and nodded. I found a cheap brand that they all said they liked so that I could buy five, but as I handed one to her, she started passing them out to the others, thinking that she wasn't going to get one and not taking one for herself. As the four were passed around, I handed her the fifth and her face lit up into a smile as she thanked me and took the ice cream.
Saying good bye to my new little friends, I rounded the bend and started planning my bargaining strategy for the numerous motos that I presumed would be heading my way. But following the strict law of individual transportation in this region of the world - there are 31 taxis when you don't want one and none when you do. After about five minutes, a young man on a motorbike stopped and offered me a ride, which I gladly took and made my way back much quicker than I had made my way there.
After breakfast, I set out to see the one thing that Mui Ne is famous for - the sand dunes. Having picked up a map at the Hahn Cafe (my Open Ticket tour group) that conveniently listed five hotels out of about 100 (most likely the five they get commissions from), I set out. Yesterday I had looked at the map and the dunes didn't seem that far away and I had laughed (to myself, of course) at the guy who offered a six dollar 'tour' of the dunes. I could walk there myself, thank you very much. This place isn't very big. How far could they possibly be? And did you really need a 'guide' to sand dunes?
At 11:00, I set off on the road north. The road ran along the beach and for a time I walked along the beach to avoid the numerous moto taxi drivers who pull up beside you every two minutes to see if you want a ride. Apparently, all the sand in Mui Ne seems to have blown up into the dunes because the beach soon disappeared and I was left walking on concrete erosion control barriers.
Back on the street, I consulted my map, noting that I had past about 20 hotels, none of them on my map. Along with hotels, I also began counting taxi rides refused. "Hello! Moto bi?" "No." "Hello! Moto bi?" "No." "HELLO! Where you go? Moto bi?" "Hmm, uh. No". I wasn't going to pay some guy to take me somewhere that I could easily walk myself; and besides, it was good exercise.
Two hours and 31 refused moto taxi rides later, with the stench of dead fish permeating the air, I was beginning to question my decision. How far was this place?? I'd been following the road along the coast and had been passed up by at least six tour buses, so I had to be going the right way, hadn't I? I decided that at the next turn, I would see what there was to see and take the next moto taxi driver up on his offer back to the hotel. Mue Ni was impressing me less and less.
As I turned the corner, I was greeting by two young Vietnamese boys carrying what looked like long laminated signs. The came up to me and after asking my name and where I was from, asked if I wanted to "slide." Looking up ahead, I saw that I had reached the dunes and sitting below the towering mounds of red sand were about 20 children all carrying these laminated mats. I told them that I didn't want to slide, but I would watch them slide.
Joined by another three little entrepreneurs, I walked up to the dunes and started my ascent. Looking out over the dunes the to west, your eyes were met with what seemed like endless mounds of red sand hills, straight out of an Arabian film (not that I've ever seen one...). To the east, the coast was dotted with homes of the village of Mui Ne and the water was filled with fishing boats. The children walked with me up and down the dunes, asking my name, my age, where I was from, how long I'd be in Vietnam. I countered with my own questions: their names, their ages and where they were from - the last one they all found amusing. I wasn't sold on the slide, but I wasn't going to let the opportunity that huge mounds of sand presented go, so I turned and looked at the kids and said, "Run?" They all nodded eagerly and the six of us took off running.
After a few pictures and a few more runs and climbs (for the assents, I was offered four little hands and one pair pushing me up from the rear) we headed back toward the road where there was some sort of scene being filmed. I asked the kids if it was a movie and they replied that it was a music video. In the four months I've been in Southeast Asia, I have seen my share of sappy Thai, Cambodian and Vietnamese music videos, but what a treat to see one filmed! A handsome Vietnamese man of about 25 was singing (or lip synching) to a pretty Vietnamese girl in a head wrap sitting in the back of an ox cart pulled by two oxen. It was just as sappy in person than on TV, but still neat to see. I will have to keep an eye out for it on Asian MTV.
After the video, I walked down to one of the nearby food stalls and bought ice cream popsicles for all the kids. While they were picking them out, one new kid came up and as I asked for four (I had lost one of the kids at some point), said "five." I looked at her and said, "I'm sorry, I don't know you, I don't know if I have enough money." She smiled and nodded. I found a cheap brand that they all said they liked so that I could buy five, but as I handed one to her, she started passing them out to the others, thinking that she wasn't going to get one and not taking one for herself. As the four were passed around, I handed her the fifth and her face lit up into a smile as she thanked me and took the ice cream.
Saying good bye to my new little friends, I rounded the bend and started planning my bargaining strategy for the numerous motos that I presumed would be heading my way. But following the strict law of individual transportation in this region of the world - there are 31 taxis when you don't want one and none when you do. After about five minutes, a young man on a motorbike stopped and offered me a ride, which I gladly took and made my way back much quicker than I had made my way there.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Moving On
Steven left me this morning to begin his 38 hour trip back to Atlanta. It has been a dreary day in South Vietnam, perfect weather to contemplate my new solo status and not lament time spent in internet cafes and my hotel room planning the rest of my trip.
I just found out today that my brother will be joining me on the 22nd of July, which is very exciting and I'm sure he'll have his two cents to add to our adventures. Until then I am on my own and I've decided to take advantage of the booming tourist industry in Vietnam, as much as I disparaged tours in Thailand. They just make it so easy here, it is hard rationalize bothering with the details yourself.
I will spend July 4 on a $6 one-day tour of the Mekong Delta which I've heard is too short, but since I only have 19 days, I've opted for the whirlwind tour, knowing that it will be touristy, but vowing to appreciate it for what it is. On the fifth, I embark on the first leg of my $24 "open tour" bus ticket, which lets me visit five predetermined destinations (and surrounding areas) on the way up to Hanoi for any length of time I desire, only requiring me to book the following leg one day in advance. I chose the bus with the most stops: Saigon - Mui Ne - Da Lat - Nha Trang - Hoi An - Hue - Hanoi.
I am going to read up on each place, but I don't want to have a set schedule, as it will be more fun to take it a day at a time and enjoy myself.
I hope you all have a wonderful Forth of July. I will miss friends and family and outdoor BBQs as I don't think they celebrate the Forth in Vietnam. ;)
I just found out today that my brother will be joining me on the 22nd of July, which is very exciting and I'm sure he'll have his two cents to add to our adventures. Until then I am on my own and I've decided to take advantage of the booming tourist industry in Vietnam, as much as I disparaged tours in Thailand. They just make it so easy here, it is hard rationalize bothering with the details yourself.
I will spend July 4 on a $6 one-day tour of the Mekong Delta which I've heard is too short, but since I only have 19 days, I've opted for the whirlwind tour, knowing that it will be touristy, but vowing to appreciate it for what it is. On the fifth, I embark on the first leg of my $24 "open tour" bus ticket, which lets me visit five predetermined destinations (and surrounding areas) on the way up to Hanoi for any length of time I desire, only requiring me to book the following leg one day in advance. I chose the bus with the most stops: Saigon - Mui Ne - Da Lat - Nha Trang - Hoi An - Hue - Hanoi.
I am going to read up on each place, but I don't want to have a set schedule, as it will be more fun to take it a day at a time and enjoy myself.
I hope you all have a wonderful Forth of July. I will miss friends and family and outdoor BBQs as I don't think they celebrate the Forth in Vietnam. ;)
Single in Vietnam
Steven and I went to the market on Saturday to do a little gift shopping and he was swept into the first stall we passed by a threesome of attractive Vietnamese shop girls. While one of the girls fussed over him -asking for his preferences and his measurements, seeking out items to his liking, and watching admiringly as he tried on each new pair of pants - I sat on a small stool on the outside of the stall getting to know the rest of the staff.
One of the girls sitting on a stool behind me, leaned up against me and reaching over my shoulder, thrust the screen of her mobile phone in front of me.
"What does this mean?" she asked, pointing to the screen with a message in English stating, "Every day is one day closer to holding you in my arms." "What does 'every day is one day closer' mean?"
I tried to explain that, if she was going to see this guy on Friday, that after Monday, there was one less day until Friday, one less day until he could hold her. Then after Tuesday, it was yet one more day closer to Friday, and so on and so on. She smiled.
"Is this your boyfriend?" I asked.
"No!" She said, shocked. "He's just a friend."
I raised my eyebrows at her and said, "I think he likes you...".
She giggled and put the phone away.
We talked awhile about her job and life for a 26 year old woman in Vietnam in 2005. From there we, along with the girl across from me, launched into a conversation about dating and marriage, mostly with them doing the asking and me trying desperately to find answers that would make sense to them. "Is he your boyfriend?" they asked in a friendly and teasing manner. "How old is he?" "How old are you?" "How long have you known him?" "That long?" "Why aren't you married yet?" "Don't you love him?" "Don't you want to have babies?"
I tried to fend them off with the excuse that I was "too young," to which the obviously pregnant woman across from me rubbed her belly contentedly and said, "I am 28. This is my second baby."
I steered the conversation away from my unsatisfactory marital status for a few minutes asking about her little girl and her marriage, but the conversation came right back to me.
"Don't you miss him when you're gone?" "You should go home, get married and then come back and live in Vietnam," with approving nods in Steven's direction.
From where I sat, I could tell that Steven was not immune from the barrage either. "Is she your wife?" "Do you love her?" "Why aren't you married?" He weaseled off the hook with a quick "maybe, but not yet," while I sat trying to explain women's lib and feminist theory, concepts unknown to (or unappreciated by) these women in 21st century Vietnam. Finally appeased as I parroted Steven's concessions of "maybe, someday, but not yet," we chatted more about work and life in general.
While Steven paid for his purchases, the girl who had been helping him came over and took my hands in hers and proceeded to paint my nails a frosty translucent green.
Of all the overseas market experiences I've had, even though I was found to be sorely lacking in the feminine initiative department, that was my most enjoyable. It was nice being seen as a person and not just a customer and getting to know these women, even if for just a short period of time, on more than just a surface level.
As we walked away, the women made Steven promise to take me home and "give (me) a baby," and waved us off with happy smiles.
One of the girls sitting on a stool behind me, leaned up against me and reaching over my shoulder, thrust the screen of her mobile phone in front of me.
"What does this mean?" she asked, pointing to the screen with a message in English stating, "Every day is one day closer to holding you in my arms." "What does 'every day is one day closer' mean?"
I tried to explain that, if she was going to see this guy on Friday, that after Monday, there was one less day until Friday, one less day until he could hold her. Then after Tuesday, it was yet one more day closer to Friday, and so on and so on. She smiled.
"Is this your boyfriend?" I asked.
"No!" She said, shocked. "He's just a friend."
I raised my eyebrows at her and said, "I think he likes you...".
She giggled and put the phone away.
We talked awhile about her job and life for a 26 year old woman in Vietnam in 2005. From there we, along with the girl across from me, launched into a conversation about dating and marriage, mostly with them doing the asking and me trying desperately to find answers that would make sense to them. "Is he your boyfriend?" they asked in a friendly and teasing manner. "How old is he?" "How old are you?" "How long have you known him?" "That long?" "Why aren't you married yet?" "Don't you love him?" "Don't you want to have babies?"
I tried to fend them off with the excuse that I was "too young," to which the obviously pregnant woman across from me rubbed her belly contentedly and said, "I am 28. This is my second baby."
I steered the conversation away from my unsatisfactory marital status for a few minutes asking about her little girl and her marriage, but the conversation came right back to me.
"Don't you miss him when you're gone?" "You should go home, get married and then come back and live in Vietnam," with approving nods in Steven's direction.
From where I sat, I could tell that Steven was not immune from the barrage either. "Is she your wife?" "Do you love her?" "Why aren't you married?" He weaseled off the hook with a quick "maybe, but not yet," while I sat trying to explain women's lib and feminist theory, concepts unknown to (or unappreciated by) these women in 21st century Vietnam. Finally appeased as I parroted Steven's concessions of "maybe, someday, but not yet," we chatted more about work and life in general.
While Steven paid for his purchases, the girl who had been helping him came over and took my hands in hers and proceeded to paint my nails a frosty translucent green.
Of all the overseas market experiences I've had, even though I was found to be sorely lacking in the feminine initiative department, that was my most enjoyable. It was nice being seen as a person and not just a customer and getting to know these women, even if for just a short period of time, on more than just a surface level.
As we walked away, the women made Steven promise to take me home and "give (me) a baby," and waved us off with happy smiles.
Chu Chi Tunnels/Museum
On our first full day in Vietnam, we did what all American tourists to Vietnam do and delved into the horror of our presence in Vietnam during the war.
About an hour from Saigon are the Cu Chi tunnels. (The following description is taken from the previous link.) The tunnels a network of connecting underground tunnels located in the Cu Chi district of Vietnam, and are part of a much larger network of tunnels that underlie much of the country. The Cu Chi tunnels were the location of several military campaigns during the war and were the Viet Cong base of operations for the Tet Offensive in 1968. The tunnels were used by Viet Cong guerrillas as hiding spots during combat, as well as serving as communication and supply routes, hospitals, food and weapon caches and living quarters for numerous guerrilla fighters. The role of the tunnel systems cannot be underestimated in its importance to the Viet Cong in resisting American operations and protracting the war, eventually forcing the Americans into withdrawal.
The site was really impressively preserved and educational without being touristy. Aside from the propaganda laden introduction video, the tour was quite interesting and showed us, not only the insides of the tunnels, but also how the people of Cu Chi managed to defend themselves and their families, through the creation of various really scary looking traps set in holes in the ground, to an intricate network of compartments dug above the kitchen designed to trap smoke from the fire and force it to travel slowly upward to a location further away and rise to the surface like fog, as opposed to coming straight up from above their location and giving them away. There was also a shooting range where for $1 a bullet, visitors could shoot off anything from an old Soviet rifle to an AK47. Both Steven and I found this abhorrent and I could not see the sense a country that is finally at peace glorifying weapons (although Steven brought up the drive for the almighty dollar).
After leaving the tunnels, we continued our tour of the atrocities committed in Vietnam at the War Remnants Museum which displayed American fighter planes, tanks and helicopters along with news articles on the war, a display dedicated to the effects of Agent Orange, and a display on the Anti-war peace movements across the world during that time. It was interesting, but not very easy to follow without knowing more about the specifics of the history of that time period. The most disturbing was the display about the victims of Agent Orange and the pictures of their horribly disfigured children as a result of being exposed.
Something else I'd read pertaining to the war is the current state of affairs for Southern Vietnamese men. Apparently after the war, those who fought for the US or the South were put into one year "re-education" camps and now many are unable to work, forced to work as cyclo-drivers for very little money, or like one man we met, forced to live in a temple and live off the tips of the tourists he takes through the temple each day. Even with all of the history and all of the continuing effects on the present, the Vietnamese do not seem to be at all mired in the past, but are very much looking to the future.
Vietnamese Border "Taxes"
After reading about all of the corruption and national hobby of wringing all the money they possibly can from visiting tourists, it was appropriate that our first experience was watching the border guards indiscriminately demanding fees from people on our bus for inexplicable reasons.
After we'd been stamped out of Cambodia, walked across the border (amazed by the complete and utter lack of beggars, touts and or anyone else trying to separate us from our money) filled out our entry forms in Vietnam and walked over to the next desk. A girl who had been on our bus was arguing with the man at the desk about a fee he was asking her to pay. She was obviously perturbed and was explaining to him with barely masked aggression that she had crossed this border before and she had never been charged a fee. What was the fee for? He couldn't tell her. Did he want her to call his boss? Call your boss!
Finally she agreed to pay and handed him some money. When he returned her change, she looked at it incredulously and told him that he had not given her the correct change. After another few tense moments of arguing, he handed her another bill and she stormed off. All the while the woman had been yelling at him, the man had been taking forms from the next people in line and filling them out. My passport was next in line, but was lost as he continued to take other passports without finishing the process with mine. I thought I might get out of the whole mess, but sneaking around to the other side of the desk and picking up my passport, but as I did, he looked at me and said, "you must pay the fee." I asked him how much it was and he replied that it was 15,000 Dong (or US $1). I explained that we didn't have any Dong to which he replied, "1000 Reil" (or US $.25). We happily paid our 25 cent bribe, as we watched others hand over US $1 and listened to complaints from other travelers that the men at the first desk were charging people $1 just to sign their forms. I don't know how we escaped all that, but it was nice to watch with the detached emotions of a bystander instead of the frustration of a victim.
Bokor Hill Station
During my trip research, I had come across Bokor Hill Station, an old French Resort in the mountains near the town of Kam Pot in Southern Cambodia that had long since bade farewell to its last aristocratic French visitor. Intrigued by the pictures and descriptions, I had marked it as a 'must do,' so after three days in Phnom Penh, we made our way to Kam Pot.
When we had arrived and settled in, we refused our hotel guide's offer to rent us motorbikes at $6 a day or to take his guided tour to Bokor Hill for $12, and made our way to the local bike rental shop and rented our own bikes for $3 a piece. The first afternoon, we rode to Kep, an old, mostly abandoned seaside resort. The ride to Kep, in keeping with most of the Cambodian countryside, was amazingly picturesque - a veritable photographer's dream come true. The streets were lined with neat little wooden houses on stilts surrounded by groups of smiling children and various species of farm animal separated by blindly green rice fields dotted with the occasional water buffalo, with the tops of misty mountains rising in the distance. I wanted to stop every two seconds to take a picture, but rode on lamenting the fact that I had black and white film in my camera reserved for what I dubbed 'more artistic' shots.
The next morning, we rose early and began the two hour ride to Bokor Hill Station. The first part of the journey was made on freshly paved roads, some even as we passed by, blending in - to the extent that two white Westerners on motorbikes in a secluded mountain village can - with the morning traffic of motorbikes, bicycles, ox carts and the occasional load bearing truck. We initially passed the road leading up to Bokor Hill, but upon realizing our mistake, doubled back and began the long, slow, painful ride up to the top of
the mountain. We had heard that the roads to Bokor were in bad shape, but neither of us were prepared for the reality of what was meant by the word 'bad.' The road to the top was a narrow, barely one lane, road that had at one time been covered in asphalt (as those to Siem Reap) but had long since seen better days. We spent the first 30 minutes or so employing our newly acquired moto driving skills steering around boulders and worn pits in the road and lifting off the seat to spare our backs the shock when we couldn't avoid them. An hour later, the novelty had warn off and I, for one, was ready to be at the top, but since there was no way to go but up and no way to speed the journey, I tightened my grip and continued on. After two hours of nerve wracking uphill climb, we were rewarded by the site of the ruin of a building at the end of the road. We both gladly left our bikes on the side of the road and went to explore the buildings.
The first building we came to appeared to be an old temple, which we passed up to explore the buildings further in on the edge of the cliff. As we walked around in the ruin of the building, we tried to identify it on our map, but were unable to come to a conclusion as to what building it might be. We decided to go a little further up the road to orient ourselves. Back on the road, we soon realized that the buildings we had found weren't even on the map and we still had a ways to go. At least the condition of the roads improved somewhat at this point and the last leg was a little less punishing than the first.
As we continued further up the mountain, the normally warm Cambodian air took on a biting chill and both of us stopped to put on a warmer layer of clothing. The cold air also took on a sinister quality, growing more and more dense with fog, the further we went. Just as I began to think we had gone too far, an image of a church toped with a simple cross dramatically materialized some 30 feet from where we stood. For a moment, I stared incredulously at the spot where just a second before had been nothing. As we watched, the church faded out of view again, swallowed by the mist, as if we had imagined its presence. Moving on we discovered an old post office, government buildings, a casino, a water tower and, my favorite spot of all, the old hotel (the first picture at the top of the page, which was even creepier in person than it is in the picture, and my very first trip picture on the blog thanks to Steven's (Pete and Shaney's - Thank you!!) borrowed digital camera). Adding to the spookiness of the scene was the fact that we were the only people in sight (and hearing distance) making it seem even more poignantly, a ghost town.
After walking around the buildings for a few hours, we got back on our bikes and began the long ride down the mountain back to Kam Pot. Our gas gauges were low, so we took advantage of gravity and the steep downhill grade, and coasted a good part of the way back down. We both found going down much easier and more pleasant than going up and I really began to feel in control and enjoyed myself immensely as I maneuvered around holes and over bumpy rock beds - although I paid for the journey with a very sore back for the next three days.
Cambodian People
After I had spent a few days in Cambodia and realized that I was unjustly judging them based on our border crossing experience, I began to see them in a new light. While Thailand calls itself "The Land of Smiles," Steven and I decided that the title could also apply to Cambodia, sometimes even more so. We found more Cambodians spoke English and more still that wanted to talk to us about their lives or their country.
Our moto drivers told us of their families and their pasts, some even mentioning family members killed under the Khmer Rouge. A few of the people we spoke with talked of the corruption that is a part of their daily lives. One young man we met outside of a bus stop talked of his frustration with the corruption in the Universities, with teachers taking bribes in exchange for good grades causing Cambodian degrees to be worthless outside of Cambodia, and his frustration at the government for not doing anything to stop the corruption. Further corroborating these stories was an article I read in one of the local papers that told of firefighters who arrived at a burning village and refused to turn their hoses on the flames unless the owners of the homes paid them exorbitant sums of money; those who didn't simply watch helplessly as their homes burned to the ground.
Talking to the people we did, put a human face on the places we had visited and the history about which we had read, endeared us even more to this country we were just allowing ourselves to get to know and made it all that much harder to leave when we did.
Our moto drivers told us of their families and their pasts, some even mentioning family members killed under the Khmer Rouge. A few of the people we spoke with talked of the corruption that is a part of their daily lives. One young man we met outside of a bus stop talked of his frustration with the corruption in the Universities, with teachers taking bribes in exchange for good grades causing Cambodian degrees to be worthless outside of Cambodia, and his frustration at the government for not doing anything to stop the corruption. Further corroborating these stories was an article I read in one of the local papers that told of firefighters who arrived at a burning village and refused to turn their hoses on the flames unless the owners of the homes paid them exorbitant sums of money; those who didn't simply watch helplessly as their homes burned to the ground.
Talking to the people we did, put a human face on the places we had visited and the history about which we had read, endeared us even more to this country we were just allowing ourselves to get to know and made it all that much harder to leave when we did.
Facing Cambodia's Past
The next day, we arranged for a tuk tuk to take us to the Killing Fields and the Toul Sleng Museum. It is hard to separate Cambodia from the atrocities of the Khmer Rouge and we wanted to learn more about the history of the country and what had made it what we saw today. The trip to the Killing Fields took us out of the city down a rural strip of fields and farms. When we arrived, we were greeted by the local kids begging for money, but now almost expertly, brushed them off and paid for our entrance into the exhibit.
In the middle of the Fields there is a huge tower built to commemorate those killed during the Khmer Rouge regime, inside which are housed the skulls of hundreds of victims unearthed when the mass graves were discovered. The Fields themselves are pocked with pits where mass graves were discovered and relieved of their contents, and little else. In the background, school children played in the school yard, while further off a baby cried inconsolably. It was a sobering experience.
As we went to leave, we were approached by a group of children who looked up at us and repeatedly implored us to take a picture, miming taking pictures with an imaginary camera. Steven bargained with them over the going rate for a picture and they all happily gathered around me, shouting "one, two, three, cheese!" as Steven's shutter clicked.
From the Fields we went for lunch at Friends Cafe run by a nonprofit that trains children living on the street with marketable skills and supports their well being an education. The food there was without a doubt, some of the best I've ever had, and the service was impeccable. Their attention to detail was such that when placing our silverware on the table our servers made sure that it was straightened and when a corner of napkin caught on the edge of a plate, one young man made sure to reach over to lay it flat on the table.
After our meal, we walked next door to the Friends Thrift store, where I seriously considered a $30 cookbook - straight from the menu - until realizing that it was too expensive and too heavy to be practical, and gained a little peace of mind by reading a sign on the door that warned against giving money to children on the street, suggesting instead for people to patronize local organizations such as theirs that assured that your contributions went to the well being of the children and not the pocket of unscrupulous adults that often collected whatever money the children received.
After lunch, we continued our tour through Cambodia's horrific past at S21, or the Toul Sleng Museum. S21 was a high school turned prison where political prisoners - or those thought to be political prisoners - were held and tortured, often their last stop before being murdered and thrown into a pit at the Killing Fields. The torture rooms looked as if they hadn't been touched since the last prisoner left and many were just bare rooms with a metal bed frame, some shackles and a car battery lying in the center, leaving the fate of its former occupants all too easily imagined. The rooms where the prisoners were housed were even worse: claustrophobic brick cells with only eye slats through metal doors offering evidence of the world outside. Other rooms housed exhibits with the tools of torture and boards displaying rows and rows of the black and white photos of prisoners taken the day they came to S21. The mood was grim and the museum only further showed the depths to which some people will go; evidence of a holocaust decades after the fall of Nazi Germany, that was wholly unknown to much of the outside world.
Phnom Phen
We were greeting in Phnom Penh by the throng of taxi drivers we had come to expect. One young man caught my eye and motioned to me as if a young boy at a middle school dance hoping to be chosen by a the pretty girl- 'pick me' 'pike me'. Luckily for us, one of the drivers held a sign above his head for the guest house we had chosen that read, "Narin Guesthouse - Free Taxi for Our Guests." After we claimed our luggage, we made a bee-line for the man with the sign and followed him to his Tuk Tuk, which took us to our next hotel room in a long line of rooms blurring in our memories.
Narin Guesthouse was an unassuming three story building on an unpaved gravel road off a main drag. Our room was on the third floor, above the restaurant, the last door at the end of the hall to the right. The first room on the right as you entered the hall was home to an unshaven hermit of a man who spent his days sequestered in his room in the dark, door open, with a constant stream of American pop music the only hint of his existence, unless you peered into his dark doorway to catch a glimpse of him sitting on the bed humming to himself. We weren't overly impressed with Narin Guesthouse, but it had been recommended in the Lonely Planet and they arrang
ed Vietnam VISAs and buses to Saigon, so we decided to stay.We weren't up for much that afternoon, so we decided to head up to the river front and have a leisurely afternoon. Our first of many Phnom Penh moto taxi drivers dropped us off right in front of Frizz, a cafe that had been recommended to me by some of the new volunteers in Thailand, so we decided to stay and have lunch.
Our experience at Frizz was mixed. The food was great, the availability of Cambodian newspapers to read was great, our waiter (who talked to us about how he used to sell newspapers as a child before he saved up for his first motorbike and then became a taxi driver, before getting his current jobs as a waiter and an employee at an NGO that fights sexual abuse of children) was great, but the whole experience was tainted by the fact that we were consistently confronted with small children carrying new born babies begging for money, mothers with babies begging for money, or young boys arguing with us that our excuse that we had no money didn't hold water because how were we going to pay for our lunch if we had no money?
After lunch, we walked across the street to sit on the wall overlooking the river - which in my estimation was more an eye sore than a scenic water front – the bombardment continued with women insistently trying to get us to buy soft drinks and beer, begging children and a man who wanted to take us on a tour who would not leave us alone even after my repeated pleas that he do so. It seemed that there was nothing we could do to avoid being begged or hassled except to stay holed up in our hotel room and what was the point of being in Cambodia if we saw nothing of it but four dreary walls? And of course the fact that I wanted to run from it weighed on me even more.
Besides a day trip to the Killing Fields and the S21 museum, we spent most of our time in Phnom Pehn wandering around, taking taxi rides to the river front for lunch or dinner and taking in urban Cambodian life. I learned to ride side saddle on the motor bike between Steven and the driver, as the majority of Cambodian women, enjoying the ride as our numerous moto drivers rode unfazed into oncoming traffic, turned in front of buses and sped out into roads filled with motorbikes zooming along in every direction. I didn't take to the food in Cambodia as I had in Thailand, but we managed to have a few good meals. Steven soon had the maze of streets pretty well mapped in his head and we enjoyed the freedom of wandering around knowing we could make it back to where we wanted to go. After a few days in the city, despite our discouraging introduction, Phnom Phen grew on both of us and we enjoyed our stay there.
Cambodia Through a Lens of Fear
After returning from Phuket, we headed to my favorite Thai town of Kanchanaburi, where we spent a relaxing two days. On the morning of the third day, we caught an early bus back to Bangkok, followed by a cab to the Eastern bus terminal, where we purchased our tickets to Aranyapratet on the Thai/Cambodian border. During my stay in Thailand, I had been warned numerous times about the dangers and annoyances involved with the land border crossing to Cambodia, but I thought that they were all just tales of the pampered and for the hardcore budget traveler I fancied myself to be, it wouldn't be so bad. The bus ride to Aranyapratet was relatively comfortable, as had been most of our bus rides in Thailand and did nothing to prepare us for what was to come. I should have listened to the warnings.
As we exited the bus, we were mobbed by tuk tuk drivers wanting to take us to the border. After a quick stop at the toilet, we found a driver and rode the short distance to the Cambodian border. I had printed out a step-by-step guide to crossing the border (although this has since been updated to include MUCH more detail and we would have faired much better had we had this one handy) and getting to Siem Reap off the internet and felt that we wererelatively prepared for all of the scams and touts that we were about to encounter.
We were stamped out of Thailand and walked across the border to the VISA window for our Cambodian VISAs. Throughout our journey from the bus to the border and beyond, we were led by an enterprising young Cambodian who talked us through every step, leading us eventually, we figured, to an over-priced taxi, which would earn him his commission. At the VISA office we were charged 1000 baht (about $25) even though the VISA only costs $20 USD. I tried to pay in USD, but was refused, as we were told they would do. I bet the border guards are doing quite well for themselves, as $5 per person adds up pretty quick.
After obtaining our VISAs and getting stamped into Cambodia, we walked into a mass of tuk tuks and taxis with touts asking us where we were going, and children and women in rags begging us for money. I had read online that we were to walk through this mass and find a ride on the other side, advice I'd wish I'd eschewed for the overpriced ride offered by our temporary border guide; but thinking I was too smart for the scam, I refused the ride and led Steven through the crowd to the other side.
We soon found ourselves surrounded by kids with hands outstretched begging for money. A few of them were staring directly at the smaller pack I was carrying in front, obviously coveting whatever I had inside. There were so many of them, coming from every direction, that my only thought was to politely refuse and keep walking until they left us alone. The next thing I knew, two of the boys in front had unzipped the front pocket of my back and were quickly grabbing anything they could. I had been carrying Steven's goggles from the beach and seeing them in the hand of one of the boys first alerted me to the fact that we were being robbed. I yelled to Steven that they had his goggles and raced after the boy demanding for them back. As he handed them back, I noticed another handing Steven's camera, which he had grabbed out of a pocked of Steven's bag, to a boy behind him and I quickly raced after it. Putting my foot on the strap as one boy tried to kick it under a cart, I yelled something (I don't remember what) to Steven and we both went for the camera, knocking heads and subsequently knocking Steven's glasses, in two pieces, to the ground. I was in such a state at this point that I don't remember exactly what happened, but I remember becoming intensely aware of all of the pockets on my bags and their current states of vulnerability and yelling at the kids to get the #%^@ away from us. Steven was doing some threatening of his own and when we finally connected we agreed that we wanted to do whatever it took to get out of this situation.
As the boys ran off, shaken, we turned back towards the mass of taxi's and immediately agreed to go with the first tout who offered us a ride. He led us to the back of a pick up filled with Cambodians and bags filled with various goods. As they helped us aboard, they reached for our packs in order to pile them on top of the rest of the goods, but I wasn't letting go that easily. I positioned myself on the rear ledge of the truck bed, with my larger pack between my legs, my smaller pack in my lap and tried to calm my whirling mind.
Everywhere I looked there were beggars and Cambodian locals in rags and I was acutely aware of my status as a tourist and the value of everything I carried on my back. I began to see myself as merely an obstacle in the way of the contents of my bag, which would likely make someone a good bit of money on the street. The fact that I meant nothing to these people and that my life mattered less to them then articles that I carried that could help them sustain themselves and their family, obsessively throbbed in my brain. I was terrified.
Finally after filling the back of the truck to beyond capacity, we set off. The road between Piopet and Sisophan - where we would catch a share taxi to Siem Reap - was undoubtedly the in the worst condition of any road I have ever been on. It appeared that the road had been paved at one time, but riding on what was left of the pavement was often worse than riding on the dirt that was left in spots where the pavement had ceased to exist. Pot holes the size of riding lawn mowers and tons of jagged rocks forced the truck off of the road and onto the shoulder cumulatively for more than half the journey. In order to reduce the shock of the road on our spines, we had to intently watch the road ahead and raise up off our perches on the side of the truck bed at the prescise moment of impact; if we weren't watching and were caught off guard, we were rewarded with a painful jolt. To make matters worse for me, there was a young Cambodian boy perched next to me on the tailgate who kept "innocently" putting his hand on top of my fingers as I gripped the tailgate in an desperate effort not to fall out of the truck, replacing his hand on mine each time I moved my had further and further away. I contemplating telling him firmly to stop, but given the early events, I didn't want to do anything to jeapordize our ride. I was relieved when he got out of the truck at one of the rural towns we passed through.
For four hours we rode on this road and while the beautiful, rural scene of Cambodian countryside calmed me a bit, the approaching sunset and the fact that we had yet to reach our destination, triggered another wave of anxiety. We arrived at Sisophan just before dark and were directed to the area where we would find share taxis to Siem Reap. Share taxis are usually licensed or unlicensed four door sedans or mini-buses that make trips between locations, leaving only when the car (or bus) is filled with passengers (the definition of full varying depending on whether you are the driver or a passenger). When we arrived, I was still in a state of fear and shock and was glad be able to rely on Steven's calm demeanor and knowledge of such situations from his days in Jamaica.
We walked across a cement court of some type and were immediately approached by a group of young Cambodian men, who after ascertaining that we were looking for a taxi to Siem Reap, led us to a waiting car and told us that they would take us for 4000 baht a piece. At this point, I was beyond bargaining and was ready to pay anyone anything they asked in order to get to where we were going. We agreed, paid them what they asked (although I questioned this because I had been told never to pay until you had arrived at your destination and envisioned this man walking away with our money and leaving us stranded until someone else demanded payment to drive us to Siem Reap) and I hesitantly let them take my pack and load it into the truck of the car. They motioned for us to get in the back seat and made like they were getting ready to leave. Steven had found himself in this situation countless times and explained to me that there was no way they were going to leave with just two of us in the car. He said that we would most likely be waiting awhile and would find ourselves crammed in the back before the key even turned the engine.
About 10 minutes later, the men came back and told us that we had to switch cars. They unloaded our packs and walked us to another car about 20 yards away. Again our packs were loaded in the trunk and we were instructed to climb into the backseat. Fifteen minutes later, I was near hysteria. I found that I couldn't open my mouth for fear of bursting into tears as my mind ran over and over the possible scenarios that would find us dead on the side of the road in a ditch somewhere. Steven kept trying to calm me down by rationalizing that this was just how it worked and these men weren't out to kill us, but were simply doing what share taxi drivers did; but I wouldn't hear him. All I could think about was my own vulnerability and the fact that our very survival depended entirely on a group of people whose language we didn't speak, whose culture and traditions we didn't know and who viewed us, or so I thought, as big glowing orbs of money - money that they didn't have and could easily get their hands on with us dead in a ditch.
A few minutes later, a man came over to us and told us that we could get out of this car and pay 12oo baht to get into another car that was leaving. This only confirmed my suspicious and I sat and fumed as Steven refused the offer and told him that we were fine and would wait until the car filled up. When he left, through clenched teeth, I implored Steven as to our chances of getting out of that town, that night, alive. He placated me by agreeing that if no one materialized in the next 15 minutes, that we would simply pay whatever they asked for them to take us alone. A few minutes later, we were joined by a mother and her husband and small child in the back seat (forcing Steven to sit on the edge of the seat to make enough room for everyone to sit) and another woman in the front. Finally we were off.
The road from Sisophan to Siem Reap was just as bad, if not worse, than the road we had come in on and we spent the next four hours riding over rocks, skirting pot holes and doing all we could to avoid the constant jarring of the road. Steven was crammed up against the back of the passenger seat and I was squashed between him and the woman next to me with my legs in an unnatural position behind the driver's seat, my feat crushed between our bags. Halfway through the journey, we switched places, Steven sitting back and me moving up and re-adjusting my feet, allowing us a little more comfort in a horribly uncomfortable spot.
We arrived in Siem Reap around 10:45 p.m. and gladly agreed to be driven to the hotel of the driver's choice (after we learned that he was not familiar with the one we had hoped to stay at - all this gleaned through gestures as he spoke no English). The driver dropped us off at the Sydney Angkor Hotel, which turned out to be sparkling clean and secure, a welcome and stark contrast to the past 12 hours, where, exhausted and relieved to be out of the car and in Siem Reap, we checked into our room.
The next few days in Cambodia found me wanting to be anywhere but there. Drastically impacted by the events of our first day, I viewed the people through a lens of fear and distrust and felt like a target and a victim at every turn. The hoards of begging children, women with babies and men with missing limbs further aggravated my negative state. Luckily, after a few days of relative calm, I came to realize that it wasn't the country that was putting me in this state, but my own perception, shrouded by fear. After I realized this, I was able to look back over the previous days events and see how badly I had over-reacted and how much I had misjudged situations because of what we had been through. I came to see the beauty of the country and the people, despite the poverty and the atrocious history of war. I will never be glad that we had the experience we did at the Cambodian border, but I am glad for the lesson it taught me - of how quickly one's perceptions can be marred by fear and how easily harmless people can be turned into 'the enemy.' Given the relative triviality of the situation we encountered compared to atrocities committed in the past and even today, all over the world, it is frightening just how much of an impact it had.
As we exited the bus, we were mobbed by tuk tuk drivers wanting to take us to the border. After a quick stop at the toilet, we found a driver and rode the short distance to the Cambodian border. I had printed out a step-by-step guide to crossing the border (although this has since been updated to include MUCH more detail and we would have faired much better had we had this one handy) and getting to Siem Reap off the internet and felt that we wererelatively prepared for all of the scams and touts that we were about to encounter.
We were stamped out of Thailand and walked across the border to the VISA window for our Cambodian VISAs. Throughout our journey from the bus to the border and beyond, we were led by an enterprising young Cambodian who talked us through every step, leading us eventually, we figured, to an over-priced taxi, which would earn him his commission. At the VISA office we were charged 1000 baht (about $25) even though the VISA only costs $20 USD. I tried to pay in USD, but was refused, as we were told they would do. I bet the border guards are doing quite well for themselves, as $5 per person adds up pretty quick.
After obtaining our VISAs and getting stamped into Cambodia, we walked into a mass of tuk tuks and taxis with touts asking us where we were going, and children and women in rags begging us for money. I had read online that we were to walk through this mass and find a ride on the other side, advice I'd wish I'd eschewed for the overpriced ride offered by our temporary border guide; but thinking I was too smart for the scam, I refused the ride and led Steven through the crowd to the other side.
We soon found ourselves surrounded by kids with hands outstretched begging for money. A few of them were staring directly at the smaller pack I was carrying in front, obviously coveting whatever I had inside. There were so many of them, coming from every direction, that my only thought was to politely refuse and keep walking until they left us alone. The next thing I knew, two of the boys in front had unzipped the front pocket of my back and were quickly grabbing anything they could. I had been carrying Steven's goggles from the beach and seeing them in the hand of one of the boys first alerted me to the fact that we were being robbed. I yelled to Steven that they had his goggles and raced after the boy demanding for them back. As he handed them back, I noticed another handing Steven's camera, which he had grabbed out of a pocked of Steven's bag, to a boy behind him and I quickly raced after it. Putting my foot on the strap as one boy tried to kick it under a cart, I yelled something (I don't remember what) to Steven and we both went for the camera, knocking heads and subsequently knocking Steven's glasses, in two pieces, to the ground. I was in such a state at this point that I don't remember exactly what happened, but I remember becoming intensely aware of all of the pockets on my bags and their current states of vulnerability and yelling at the kids to get the #%^@ away from us. Steven was doing some threatening of his own and when we finally connected we agreed that we wanted to do whatever it took to get out of this situation.
As the boys ran off, shaken, we turned back towards the mass of taxi's and immediately agreed to go with the first tout who offered us a ride. He led us to the back of a pick up filled with Cambodians and bags filled with various goods. As they helped us aboard, they reached for our packs in order to pile them on top of the rest of the goods, but I wasn't letting go that easily. I positioned myself on the rear ledge of the truck bed, with my larger pack between my legs, my smaller pack in my lap and tried to calm my whirling mind.
Everywhere I looked there were beggars and Cambodian locals in rags and I was acutely aware of my status as a tourist and the value of everything I carried on my back. I began to see myself as merely an obstacle in the way of the contents of my bag, which would likely make someone a good bit of money on the street. The fact that I meant nothing to these people and that my life mattered less to them then articles that I carried that could help them sustain themselves and their family, obsessively throbbed in my brain. I was terrified.
Finally after filling the back of the truck to beyond capacity, we set off. The road between Piopet and Sisophan - where we would catch a share taxi to Siem Reap - was undoubtedly the in the worst condition of any road I have ever been on. It appeared that the road had been paved at one time, but riding on what was left of the pavement was often worse than riding on the dirt that was left in spots where the pavement had ceased to exist. Pot holes the size of riding lawn mowers and tons of jagged rocks forced the truck off of the road and onto the shoulder cumulatively for more than half the journey. In order to reduce the shock of the road on our spines, we had to intently watch the road ahead and raise up off our perches on the side of the truck bed at the prescise moment of impact; if we weren't watching and were caught off guard, we were rewarded with a painful jolt. To make matters worse for me, there was a young Cambodian boy perched next to me on the tailgate who kept "innocently" putting his hand on top of my fingers as I gripped the tailgate in an desperate effort not to fall out of the truck, replacing his hand on mine each time I moved my had further and further away. I contemplating telling him firmly to stop, but given the early events, I didn't want to do anything to jeapordize our ride. I was relieved when he got out of the truck at one of the rural towns we passed through.
For four hours we rode on this road and while the beautiful, rural scene of Cambodian countryside calmed me a bit, the approaching sunset and the fact that we had yet to reach our destination, triggered another wave of anxiety. We arrived at Sisophan just before dark and were directed to the area where we would find share taxis to Siem Reap. Share taxis are usually licensed or unlicensed four door sedans or mini-buses that make trips between locations, leaving only when the car (or bus) is filled with passengers (the definition of full varying depending on whether you are the driver or a passenger). When we arrived, I was still in a state of fear and shock and was glad be able to rely on Steven's calm demeanor and knowledge of such situations from his days in Jamaica.
We walked across a cement court of some type and were immediately approached by a group of young Cambodian men, who after ascertaining that we were looking for a taxi to Siem Reap, led us to a waiting car and told us that they would take us for 4000 baht a piece. At this point, I was beyond bargaining and was ready to pay anyone anything they asked in order to get to where we were going. We agreed, paid them what they asked (although I questioned this because I had been told never to pay until you had arrived at your destination and envisioned this man walking away with our money and leaving us stranded until someone else demanded payment to drive us to Siem Reap) and I hesitantly let them take my pack and load it into the truck of the car. They motioned for us to get in the back seat and made like they were getting ready to leave. Steven had found himself in this situation countless times and explained to me that there was no way they were going to leave with just two of us in the car. He said that we would most likely be waiting awhile and would find ourselves crammed in the back before the key even turned the engine.
About 10 minutes later, the men came back and told us that we had to switch cars. They unloaded our packs and walked us to another car about 20 yards away. Again our packs were loaded in the trunk and we were instructed to climb into the backseat. Fifteen minutes later, I was near hysteria. I found that I couldn't open my mouth for fear of bursting into tears as my mind ran over and over the possible scenarios that would find us dead on the side of the road in a ditch somewhere. Steven kept trying to calm me down by rationalizing that this was just how it worked and these men weren't out to kill us, but were simply doing what share taxi drivers did; but I wouldn't hear him. All I could think about was my own vulnerability and the fact that our very survival depended entirely on a group of people whose language we didn't speak, whose culture and traditions we didn't know and who viewed us, or so I thought, as big glowing orbs of money - money that they didn't have and could easily get their hands on with us dead in a ditch.
A few minutes later, a man came over to us and told us that we could get out of this car and pay 12oo baht to get into another car that was leaving. This only confirmed my suspicious and I sat and fumed as Steven refused the offer and told him that we were fine and would wait until the car filled up. When he left, through clenched teeth, I implored Steven as to our chances of getting out of that town, that night, alive. He placated me by agreeing that if no one materialized in the next 15 minutes, that we would simply pay whatever they asked for them to take us alone. A few minutes later, we were joined by a mother and her husband and small child in the back seat (forcing Steven to sit on the edge of the seat to make enough room for everyone to sit) and another woman in the front. Finally we were off.
The road from Sisophan to Siem Reap was just as bad, if not worse, than the road we had come in on and we spent the next four hours riding over rocks, skirting pot holes and doing all we could to avoid the constant jarring of the road. Steven was crammed up against the back of the passenger seat and I was squashed between him and the woman next to me with my legs in an unnatural position behind the driver's seat, my feat crushed between our bags. Halfway through the journey, we switched places, Steven sitting back and me moving up and re-adjusting my feet, allowing us a little more comfort in a horribly uncomfortable spot.
We arrived in Siem Reap around 10:45 p.m. and gladly agreed to be driven to the hotel of the driver's choice (after we learned that he was not familiar with the one we had hoped to stay at - all this gleaned through gestures as he spoke no English). The driver dropped us off at the Sydney Angkor Hotel, which turned out to be sparkling clean and secure, a welcome and stark contrast to the past 12 hours, where, exhausted and relieved to be out of the car and in Siem Reap, we checked into our room.
The next few days in Cambodia found me wanting to be anywhere but there. Drastically impacted by the events of our first day, I viewed the people through a lens of fear and distrust and felt like a target and a victim at every turn. The hoards of begging children, women with babies and men with missing limbs further aggravated my negative state. Luckily, after a few days of relative calm, I came to realize that it wasn't the country that was putting me in this state, but my own perception, shrouded by fear. After I realized this, I was able to look back over the previous days events and see how badly I had over-reacted and how much I had misjudged situations because of what we had been through. I came to see the beauty of the country and the people, despite the poverty and the atrocious history of war. I will never be glad that we had the experience we did at the Cambodian border, but I am glad for the lesson it taught me - of how quickly one's perceptions can be marred by fear and how easily harmless people can be turned into 'the enemy.' Given the relative triviality of the situation we encountered compared to atrocities committed in the past and even today, all over the world, it is frightening just how much of an impact it had.
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