Vietnam Part 1: Hanoi

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I liked Vietnam. Scratch that, I loved it. The places, the parties, the scenery; it was awesome. The people though were fucking cowboys! There were exceptions to the rule of course, but for the most part, every native we came across attempted to rip us off. In fact, from the minute we crossed the border the shafting commenced.

Neil and I had planned to get a train from the border to Hanoi where we had booked a hostel. To get to the train station we needed a taxi, however, the taxi driver present told us that there were no trains scheduled for hours, though there was a bus service which left regularly. At this new information I raised an eyebrow in a quizzical fashion. It could have been true, but then there was no way to check from the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. After a momentary lapse of composure on my part, (resulting in a bit of a screaming match), I convinced Neil that we should pay the scandalous $20 asking price for the taxi to the bus station.

Bus station my arse! The bastard drove us to some shitbox house in the next town and to what looked like it was probably his mates fucking bus. Cowboys Ted. We found ourselves in front of an angry Vietnamese dwarf who demanded a further $20 to get to Hanoi. We had it on good authority that the train to Hanoi should cost around $4, so there was no way this balloonhead and his accomplice were ripping us off again. Christ, we had only been in Vietnam for 20 minutes, getting stroked twice already would have been too much to bear! After lengthy negotiations with team arsehole, we managed to gain passage to Hanoi aboard a minibus for $6.

The bus was smaller than I had expected, but the 12 or so passengers on board were able to fit in comfortably. That wasn’t to last. The bus was soon filled to bursting point as we picked up every hallion we passed on the way. I got in some good yoga practice over the course of the next 3 hours as I contorted my extremities into all sorts of positions in a vain attempt to get comfortable. It was a great relief both to me and my twisted sweaty nutsack when we reached Hanoi, and began the search for our hostel.

The traffic in the city was mental to say the least. Waves of motorbikes cascaded far into the distance, they droned through the narrow streets like a swarm of angry insects. The noise and the mayhem was overwhelming. It wasn’t long before we reached The Hanoi Backpackers Hostel, which would be my home for about the next 12 days. Most people don’t usually spend quite as long as that in Hanoi, but this fucking joint was so good I almost didn’t leave!

Arriving in the searing afternoon heat we were greeted by an encouraging sight; scores of backpacking revellers in what looked like the early stages of a mad rip. ‘We will do well here’ I thought. $7.50 secured a bed in an 8 or 12 bed dorm room, and a membership to the best social club since the week when the ‘Free Beer For Anyone Holding a Monkey Club’ had the Swedish (female) beach volleyball team round for a strawberry jam fight. Ah what a night that was. If only I had been able to hang onto my monkey…

Considering it is Vietnam's capital city, there isn’t an awful lot to do. If you were keen enough you could plough through all of the cultural whatsits in a day. More alarming than this, however, was that almost all of the bars in the city closed at 11pm, and finding an open one can prove difficult. I managed it though. Quite a lot to be honest. We will get to the drink-related highlights in a moment, but let’s get the cultural nonsense out of the way first shall we?

Those familiar with the Vietnam War (although the Vietnamese call it the American War for obvious reasons) will be aware of Ho Chi Minh, the Communist icon who led the North Vietnamese to ultimate victory over the opposing US forces. Following his death in 1974, his embalmed body now lies in state at the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum. Unfortunately, if you wish to visit the man himself you will need to drag you arse out of bed and get there before 10am. Not an easy task for those of us who are prone to a late night drink or 12.

Indeed despite my best efforts (well okay, maybe best efforts is a bit of a stretch), I didn’t manage to make it until my tenth day in the city. As for Ho Chi Minh’s corpse, well it’s as you would imagine; like a waxwork in a glass case. There was a stupidly pointless amount of security personnel to ensure you are appropriately respectful to the beardy one during your visit. Silence must be observed at all times, while keeping your arms by your sides. Females with exposed knees or shoulders must cover up or be denied entry. That kinda shot my naked communist custard fight plan to shit. Ah well, there’s always Lenin I guess. I hear he was up for a laugh.

As far as other cultural dingle-berries go, the war museum was definitely a highlight (although clearly a little biased as regards the Vietnamese involvement during the war with the Americans). There are some pretty nifty remnants from the war to be seen, including tanks, planes and unexploded bomb cases. Besides that, there was a cool Buddhist pagoda where I was able to witness a service of some description, and the Ho Chi Minh Museum was definitely worth a visit. If only for the over-sized novelty furniture.

Believe it or not I pretty much run out of non-drinking related tales from Hanoi at this point. Cheesus, now that I see it written down I don't think that shit would even take half a day let alone 12! Ah well. On with the drinking stories so...

Perhaps the best tale originates at a place called Bia Hoi, or Beer Corner. So called because if you get caught drinking beer without trousers you get whipped in the corner. Or maybe it's because some bright sparks set up four bars at a crossroads where you can buy cheap beer. I can't remember which. Anyway, it was close to closing time when a group of tipsy pioneers from The Backpackers Hostel hatched a brilliant plan. None of us were in the mood to stop drinking, and a few began jokingly discussing the possibility of buying a keg and bringing it back to the hostel. We were throwing figures around trying to come up with a reasonable offer, but when we finally asked the beer broad we were fucking stunned to discover that one of these shiny cylinders of pleasure could be ours for the knockdown price of $9. Christ on a bike, she could have held out for way more!

After a brief whip-round we had the necessary dong (that's Vietnamese currency by the way, although as with the majority of South East Asia most a lot of prices are quoted in US Dollars) and attempted to procure a rickshaw to transport our precious cargo back home. The rip which followed etched our legend in hostel folklore. It got messy.

Sticking with Beer Corner for a moment, I'd like to tell you about 'the book incident'. Since the untimely passing of my iPod, books had become more prevalent in my travels, and I try to read something about the countries I am visiting if possible. So when a book seller approached me mid-beer, I felt my usual urge to swear profusely replaced with the urge to buy a book. I selected 'The Quiet American' by Graham Greene (a book set in Saigon at the end of the first Indochina war, and follows the development of a love triangle between the main protagonists in the build up to the Vietnam-American war) and negotiated a price of 30'000 Dong, which is about a pound. If that seems cheap it is because all of the books on sale are shitty photocopied versions of the real thing. Not having the correct change I was forced to break out a hundred Dong note. Captain rip off claimed he was unable to provide me with change, but his cowboy accomplice across the street could help out. I didn't trust him, having already been screwed over several times that day already, however I said I would watch as he got change from his friend across the street. I looked on as Jimmy Ribshite meandered across the street to his colleague and began shuffling notes. I turned for a moment to get a drink of my 3000 Dong beer, and turned back just in time to see the bastard high-tail it up the street and onto a waiting moped. Okay so it wasn't the crime of the century, he only fucked me out of 2 quid, but still...

I mentioned that most bars were shut quite early in the city; the police are quite strict as regards licensing laws, or at least strict with those who aren't prepared to pay a bung. One such place was an Irish bar called Finnegans. Upon the reluctance of the clientelle to vacate the premises come closing time, the shutters were pulled down and we carried on drinking. It was just before 12 when a crashing at the shutter prompted a chorus of 'shushes', and bewildered expressions from the majority of the congregation. The police had arrived, and were demanding that the shutter be opened. Anyone trying to speak in a volume higher than a whisper was chastised and glared at. Well fuck me, if that isn't a recipe for a fun evening. We were held prisoner in that bastard place (because the only exit was behind the shutter, which would mean letting in the authorities) in silence for a very long, peculiar hour and a half before someone caved in and we were released. I expected the police to storm in and batter all around them, but they stood by the entrance as we were walked past, not giving a flying fuck. Strange.

On another evening on Hanoi's dark and deserted streets, I found myself wandering with a few newly acquired friends in search of a place open 'til the wee hours. There were rumours abound about a place named 'Hair of the Dog', which apparently didn't close until the last person left. As you might imagine this appealed to me, and so following directions from a less than reputable source we ventured forth into the night.

An hour or so later we wandered still, unable to find the place amongst a maze of similarly dim streets. Our determination waning, we rounded a corner and sure enough, there it was. And the fucking shutter was down. A kick in the spuds, as I'm sure you can imagine. However, just as we were about to make for home, there was a crashing from across the street as the shutter was flung open. Sweet Jesus! An instant party from oblivion! Hundreds of drunken revellers were partying the night away where moments before there had been nothing but the signs of a fruitless journey. This was clearly a gift from Jeebus himself, who were we to refuse...

'Hair of the Dog' was to become my final destination for most evenings in Hanoi. In any other city it would have been a fairly ordinary place to be, but options being as limited as they were, it was the dogs danglies.

The only real nightclub in Hanoi is a place called 'Solace', and by fuck it's hard to find. Honestly, even the taxi drivers had trouble finding this place. On the first attempt to find it, a group of us hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to "Solace", "Soliiice", "Soolaaace", "Solassss", however many different ways there were to pronounce the fucking word, before he made an "Ahhhhh..." noise and beckoned us to get into the taxi. Little did we know he hadn't a baldy where it was, and was going to try and figure it out as he went. After half an hour of going around in circles, Bananman admitted he had no idea, and dumped us off in the middle of God-knows-where.

You may recall I mentioned that the majority of the locals I met were cowboys. Well, while we're on the subject of taxis (and mopeds come to think of it), practically every bastard tries to rip the bag. I got used to negotiating a price before getting on board rather than being forced to pay some invented price upon arrival at my destination, but even this approach went to shit. Most of the time, regardless of whatever price was agreed, it would swiftly double upon arrival. That's not the best part readers, ohhh no. What tickled my pickle was the fact that when one tries to contest the fact that one is clearly being ripped off, (appropriate use of 'one' there I think you'll find. Don't worry, I wont make a habit of it as it's almost impossible not sound like a twat) the whorebag will get angry at, umm, one (last time, I swear!). It always baffled me as to why the fuck they were so annoyed when you refused to pay the inflated prices they invented. "YOU'RE THE BASTARD DOING THE SHAFTING HERE YA PIECE OF SHIT! I'M THE ONE WHO SHOULD BE PISSED OFF!" I consider myself an easy-going sort of spud, but even Mother Theresa would be hurling rosary beads at these scheisters.

Let's get back to Solace for a moment. As nightclubs go it was fairly dung, but In Hanoi terms the place was fucking BCM. When we did eventually find it I was pleasantly surprised; it was a floating oasis bathing the black river in neon and gold, a flurry of dancing shapes visable from within. Crossing a bridge less than fit for the drunken patrons within, we come to the sliding door entrance. That, unfortunately, was as good as it got. We are presented with a miniscule room filled with, mostly, tools. Where the grating R'n'B music bores a hole through your skull and the shit beer is twice the price of anywhere else. The place did, however, manage to claw back some points in the entertainment stakes; you see, there was no due consideration given to health and safety here, so on occasion, the odd inebrieated balloon would fall into the water (usually while waiting on the rickety wall outside the toilets to use the facilities). Don't worry nobody drowned or anything! They usually just float around to the bridge at the entrance and are dragged out of the water by security, the bonus is that anyone standing on deck is usually in prime position to see it all unfold. Apart from the possible impending death of the silly fucker who bailed into the water, it's funny stuff!

One of these episodes that was particularly entertaining was when a hefty American had to be rescued by an even heftier Viking of a man after stacking it off the side of the boat. The American didn't seem concerned with self-preservation; he was dead weight as the Viking pulled him to safety. The wet Yank mess lay on deck babbling incoherently, and at his point you would assume that someone would arrange his safe passage home before he attempted any more depths of the river again. Nope. At the end of the night there was further commotion coming from the bank of the river, and a loud splash. The crazy bastard managed to crash a scooter into the river! I have no idea if someone gave up a scooter voluntarily for this rocket, but I wouldn't be entirely surprised. Honestly, a drunk mental patient on acid could get a moped in Vietnam so long as he had money.

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Photos

The Roof of Hanoi Backpackers Hostel
AAAAARRRRRRRIIIIIIIIBAAAAAA!!!!!

Fun With Fruit
If I look nervous it's because some random Vietnamese chick has just swapped her fruit for my new camera to take this picture.

Beer Corner
'Now where did I put my drinking trousers?'

The $9 Keg of Beer
The shiney cylinder of pleasure makes her journey home.

Having a Swim at Solace
Another drunk punter falls into the briney deep.

The War Museum
The site of many artefacts from the Vietnamese/American War

Hair of the Dog
Late night/early morning, and conciousness prevails.

Eating Snake
It actually tasted pretty good! The green stuff in the shot glass is bile from the gall bladder. It would soon be consumed along with the still-beating heart (not in frame). They weren't just as tasty.

No Dumping
When I was finished my dump I used this piece of paper to wipe my arse.