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Published: October 16th 2006
Why I keep taking buses is beyond me. Frankly, they irritate me, but in most countries they’re the only way to get around. My next one took 7 hours: from Saigon to Dalat, in the highlands of Vietnam.
Dalat is 1500m above sea level, and is home to roughly 130,000 people. It’s a quiet area with beautiful mountains, jungle and hardly any foreigners. Its cool temperature made it a welcome retreat from the humidity of the city and with its numerous lakes, waterfalls, and forests, I was looking forward to some serious exploring.
I was in Vung Tau during the huge typhoon that hit this area, and by the time I arrived in Dalat, the rain was still evident in the flooded roundabouts, but that was the only remaining evidence of the storm that caused thousands of people to be evacuated from the region to the North.
Dalat is described as ‘kitsch’ and is nationally known as the honeymoon capital of the country. During the French occupation of Vietnam, it was known as ‘Le Petit Paris’ and the evidence of that is still true today, as you can’t help but notice the mini Eiffel Tower behind the main
post office.
The ride from Saigon into the highlands was fairly similar to the honking madness of the ride to Vung Tau, but the last couple hours were majestic. The bus climbed the steep banks of the mountains with laboured breath, and when we passed cloud level I could see for miles and miles; I was surrounded by green.
I checked into the cheapest guesthouse I could find and was pleasantly surprised that for $5/night I could get a single room with a double bed, TV, phone and private shower. That fit into my budget quite nicely!
I had two full days to spend in Dalat, and since the 1st day rained nonstop, I had little choice but to spend it indoors. Luckily for my blog readers I was able to catch up a little on my writing and picture uploading. My newly acquired Vietnamese words for ‘vegetarian’ came in quite handy in Dalat, as no one I met spoke English. I ate dinner every night at hawker stalls with the words “Com Chay” written above them. Meaning anything I chose from the numerous open-air bowls of substance would be vegetarian friendly. With look-alike meat products and
seriously creative vegetable dishes, I felt quite adventurous eating like this. Especially for $1 a meal.
Even in the pouring rain, a local Easy Rider tour guide tracked me down. These Easy Riders are famous in the region for driving old beaten up Russian-made motorbikes, speaking fairly fluent English, and driving their clients around the highlands, or even as far as Saigon or Hanoi. The man who convinced me to travel with him went by the name “Hung”. He was the father of two daughters, who were doctors who lived in Saigon; he had spent his whole life living in Dalat, and had been giving personalized tours for the past 10 years. Because it was low season, I had the misfortune of having to pay double the price for a personal tour. $20 got me a full day of countryside tours, lunch, admissions to temples and waterfalls and the privilege of having an English-speaking guide. On MY budget, $20 is a huge amount, but with no other alternative and Hung seeming like a pretty interesting guy, I accepted his terms and we agreed on a 9am start time. I just crossed my fingers that it was a ‘blue sky’
day!
I don’t think I’ve mentioned this yet…but I’ve been travelling without a watch on this trip. Having not worn a watch for years and relying on my cell phone in Japan, I’ve resorted to not caring about the time for the most part. However when I have to be somewhere for a certain time, I get a little anxious and my body (thankfully) seems to wake itself up on-time. I tried to program myself to wake up at 8:30am the next morning, but I must have been on UK time or something because when I got down to the lobby it was 5:40am and I had TONS of time to kill. Since it was a GORGEOUS day, I took a long walk through the town, down to the lake and of course stopped in for some Com Chay food for breakfast. Hung was waiting for me outside of the guesthouse by the time I returned so we left straight away on my ‘countryside tour’.
Just on the outskirts of town was the Dragon Pagoda, which was once a fighting ground where the Viet Cong had made their post. Hung described for me some of the brutalities that
had occurred on this site, and it was hard to believe that this beautiful area, fully reconstructed in vibrant colours and huge dragon statues had once been the tortuous death place of so many South Vietnamese people. Hung’s stories about the war and the Viet Cong didn’t end there. Each place we visited had a terrifying history of death and sadness.
We left the town of Dalat and carried on into the mountains. We stopped to speak to local farmers who let me walk through their fields, learn about what they were growing and what it WAS exactly, that they were growing. The petite Vietnamese women, all in their triangular hats crouched down among their harvests, and the devastatingly thin and lean Vietnamese men carrying copious amounts of weight from a plank of wood across their shoulders, welcomed me. They answered my questions through Hung’s interpretations, and he answered their questions about me. Most commonly: Where are you from? Do you like Vietnam? What is your job? Or at least thats all that Hung translated!
We stopped again at the flower gardens, which have become a great source of income for the highlands, and Hung explained that the
flowers were shipped daily to Saigon. Families all help each other here when it comes time for planting, and large families can live semi-comfortably on a relatively small amount of money in order to put profits towards more land for growing more product. In most of the homes I visited, I found it common for the eldest female to be seated at the entranceway. Perhaps now at this age, she had been dismissed from household chores and the harder daily tasks, for the comforts of observing the slow life of the mountainside. I always offered a smile upon entering, but it was never once returned; as surely most foreigners were seen as Americans who had at once devastated her/their country. It seemed for most of the older generation; it didn’t matter where you were from. Although they didn’t say a word, I had the uncomfortable impression I wasn’t welcome.
Despite the hard faces of the older Vietnamese, all the younger people warmly welcomed me. We pulled up to a work crew on the side of the road who were eating guava for a midday snack and they allowed me to join them. All the women instantly began remarking on
my skin. Hung translated that they were jealous of my white skin and how soft it was. From working in the sun all day for years, these ladies were weathered and darkened. It’s interesting how Westerners spend copious amounts of money on self-tanning and bronzers and those with naturally dark skin spend their extra few coins on skin bleaching and long arm gloves to preserve their skin and make it as white as possible. I took some pictures with the ladies and a small video and they were all mystified to see themselves on my digital camera’s screen. Figuring that was a good as being on television.
Hung led me into a coffee plantation where I had my first lesson on how the addictive substance that I love so much (especially in Vietnam) was grown. The rows of coffee beans were separated into flavours from dark roast to light roast and chon, which is also called ‘fox shit’ coffee because the beans are fed to foxes and weasels and then recollected from their excrement. Not exactly a pleasant thought, but the coffee is strong and delicious! Mmmmmmmmmm…….
We stopped for lunch at a local eatery where Hung got
us the locals’ discount, which was something ridiculous like $.30. Rice, vegetables and a warm bowl of water with chunks of cucumber were the house specialities and it hit the spot, bang on!
After lunch we visited a small house, which produced silk worms. The whole family was busy in the front collecting the cocooned worms from their bamboo posts. One of the older women was the most taken with me and wanted to be in all my shots, her traditionally blackened teeth shown off with pride. The silk worms that are collected from individual farms are then sent down the road to the factory, where young women quickly set about soaking the cocoons in warm water, removing the worm/half transformed butterfly and letting the spindles take it from there. The wet silk is then wound into a tight circle and left to dry. When it’s ready to be used, it’s either left white or dyed with natural agents. Dyes are created using leaves and spices and then the silk is wound into a machine which uses a pattern from a hole-punched template to construct the fabric, which is THEN sewn into dresses, shirts, plants, scarves, purses etc. PHEW!
Thats hard work!
The factory allowed us visitors to watch every step from right beside the workers. The room was hot and sweaty and I imagined how hard it would be to stand all day pulling worms out of cotton and have foreigners stand over your shoulder snapping pictures all day. And this was a good job to have! Vietnam certainly had my heartstrings pulling, everyday. On the other hand though, without the foreigners visiting and buying their materials, their businesses wouldn’t stay alive. I guess that’s why they put up with us.
Our last touristy stop in the countryside was to Elephant Waterfall, which was at the base of a huge temple (which I didn’t learn the name of in English). The waterfall was comparable to Niagara but the water was milky brown. The temple above had the most amazing statue of a laughing blue Buddha. On such a beautiful day, back behind the temple and sitting in the shadow of the gigantic Buddha belly, I shut my eyes and had one of my “I can’t believe I’m actually here” moments. Those moments are what keep me going.
From the waterfall it was a LONG ride
straight back to Dalat, and with my backside becoming numb, I suggested that we stop for a rest and I would buy him a coffee. Perched on small child-size seats, Hung and I drank our caphe sua das (coffee with milk) and he told me how his life was during the ‘American War’ (a more popular title for the Vietnam War used by locals). Hung was the only one in his family who survived. His brothers and sisters were either forced to join the Viet Cong or were murdered in the streets. His father had been taken away in the middle of the night and his mother had died of heartbreak before the war finished. He provided for his wife and daughters by working odd handy man jobs like most other men. He started operating tours for domestic travelers once tourism became a little more popular in Japan, and eventually began showing around Western travelers once he learned English.
I asked Hung (as I’ve asked many other people on my trip) how he felt about foreigners coming into his town and country. He answered with a smile that he loved meeting new people, and although he got a little
bored of showing people the same things everyday, he appreciated that we had come. Hung understood that tourism was vital to Vietnam’s economy and to his own financial security. He no longer holds any hatred towards the Americans; he said he’d made his peace a long time ago. Whether that was a truthful or not, I'll never know.
After an hour conversation that made me so thankful to be from a country like Canada, it was hard to visit our last destination, but the 40 minute drive through the once Viet Cong inhabited forests and my back side re-numbing itself, I was ready to see ‘Crazy House’.
Officially named the Nang Nga Gallery & Guesthouse, it’s an ‘Alice and Wonderland’ type place with giant caves, wire spider webs, plaster animals and insects on the wall, and guests must vacate their rooms during the day for tour groups to come through. The gallery’s designer is the daughter of Vietnam’s ex-president Truong Chinh (Ho Chi Minh’s successor), Mrs. Dang Viet Nga. Although the town and the Dalat People’s Committee have not always appreciated her designs, especially the nude female statue, she’s been allowed to keep her crazy house the way
it is. Just like in Canada, it’s all in whom you know! I had quite the time trying to navigate through the place, with its small stairs that led to nowhere, or to dangerously steep drop-offs. It was a nice, lighthearted way to end my day, and my stay in Dalat.
As Hung dropped me off, it began pouring rain again. Although Hung had to ride home in it, it was perfect timing for me to dash into the Internet café and upload all the videos and pictures I took during the last 8 hours. And I’m sure Hung didn’t mind the rain, as he had my $20 in his pocket, which is more then most Vietnamese guides make in 2 weeks.
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emma
non-member comment
again your so lucky!
hey girl! wow you are so lucky i know i keep saying these things everytime i write but hey!! you are certainly one girl on a mission! wow wow wow!! i seriously want to do these things! i cant believe you do them on your own!! i am so jealous again!! you just take care love em xx