H is for Vietnam

H is for Hoi An and tailor made threads,
H is for Hue to visit the dead.
H is for Hanoi, big, dirty and hot,
H is for hydrated, which I was not.
H is for Ho Chi Min, a leader entombed,
H is for Hilton, where propaganda has bloomed,
H is for hills, of which Sapa has plenty,
H is for Halong, where I am now,
And H is for Hong Kong, and I'll be there soon and I can't be asked to rhyme anymore.

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Ahem. When we last parted, our hero was making his way by overnight bus from Nha Trang to the city of Hoi An. Although unsure exactly what lay ahead of him, he did have three things to hold as truth. The first being, that two fellow Korea-escapees would be in Hoi An. The second being that his birthday was imminent, and the third that tailor-mades clothes are Hoi An are everywhere, and he could use some new super-threads. Contact was made, dinner was eaten and a rather large Aussie-villan named Damo send our hero home before midnight, Sambuca defeated. Our hero recovered well enough the next day to drop some dong on some clothes, and put in some beach and tourist time around the old town. Reflecting back on the town, Michael remembers mosts the fading facades of the houses in the old town, which was once an important trading town, and home to interesting Vietnamese, Chinese and Japnese architecture.

On to Hue, a mere 5 hour journey by mega-bus. In Hue, Michael was joined by a Brit, a Yank (also, by chance, Korea-escapees), a German and some Irish for cheap beer and merriment. The hostess, 'the best thing on Thu Wheels', provided not only entertainment, but commentrary on the relative size and age of bananas. Quite a lady. Plans to visit the DMZ and Hamburger Hill were squashed by bunker-buster hangovers, although the tombs and citadel of the city (visited by motorbike, of course) were worth the trip.

To Hanoi, our hero flew (and offers his apologies to Mr. Crompton), where crowded streets, an entombed communist leader and a French-built POW camp awaited. Our hero wishes to express that Hanoi, perhaps more than the cities in the south, was hot. Not just hot, but HAAAT. So, by stomping around all morning to check out Uncle Ho, the Temple of Literature (Confucious say, 'man who stand on toilet high on pot') and something else that escapes his memory at the moment, he found himself rather dehydrated, causing a retreat the next day his Fortress of Solitude, accompanied only by HBO. After this minor setback, and again accompanied by the German from Hue, he set out to the Hanoi Hilton, most of which has been razed to make room for, ehm, a hotel. Pictures and commentrary of poor mistreated Vietnamese political prisioners (bloody French!) and of course content, well fed and smiling American POWs, including John McCain. Quite a place, although perhaps not given the treatment (or honesty) that its history deserves.

Onward our hero surges! By night train, patrolled by surley Vietnamese conductors, to the mountain town of Sapa. The landscape (and altitude) of this former French hill station was appealing. The weather was a few degrees cooler, and the landscape, which, although not quite defying description, is best represented though pictures, which you will most likely see. So check 'em out. A visit to a market, a quick night in a hotel and then an overnight trek into the terraced rice fields that pour from the mountains. A homestay, good food, rice wine (makes soju seem smooth) and some good English and Norweigen company.

Michael returned to Hanoi, where he is perpetually lost, and then departed for the majestic Halong Bay, where he currently is. He would like to convey his love and regards to all, and wishes he could be here to accept this award in person.

The lack of photos in this entry is due to a screwed up memory card resulting in 2 weeks worth of photos being lost...for the time being -ed.

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