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Published: September 10th 2009
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The Jazz Club
Our second bar of the night...and definitely the snazziest one Hungover in Hanoi
Finally, after having endured corrupt taxi drivers, theft, a sinus cold, creepy old men on the trains, pushy locals, an attempted mugging, blatant exploitation, a raging hangover, and more sexual innuendoes then I care to count, I had arrived safe and sound in Hanoi. I had expected that the capital city of this strange and bustling country would be large, impersonal and utterly devoid of charm. The reality was quite different. Hanoi was compact. Cozy even. Full of twists and turns and ragged rundown alleys. It invited you to poke around corners and explore musty shops. The roads seemed to list and lean and tumble drunkenly over each other. The same street might change names five times in as many blocks. Even after a week there I still got hopelessly lost every time I tried to find my guesthouse. I learned to live with a map perpetually under my nose.
Despite the crowded and confounding maze of the Old City, I still managed to bump unexpectedly into Val and Eoin from the Halong Bay cruise ship. They filled me in on their horrible trekking experience and the retribution that they doled out on Mr. Denny for
Goofing off
At the gay bar having me unceremoniously tossed overboard. I had made plans to meet an old friend from Canadian Tire that night at a nearby bar, and invited Val and Eoin to join in. A party isn’t complete without at least one Irishman after all.
That night, in the midst of a violently pounding thunderstorm, I enjoyed a little reminder of home. Darin, a fellow CTC employee, had followed in my footsteps and decided to quit his nice and stable job in the midst of a recession and travel the world. He had joined a tour group who would be traveling from China to Bangkok and everywhere in between. Our paths happened to cross in Hanoi and we were both looking forward to picking each others brains on the adventures to come. Val, Eoin, and a fellow Irishman named Matt, joined our party and we set out to a local Jazz club for some overpriced wine and music. Eventually tired of shouting at each other over the noise of the band, we set off for Pub Street for some cheap drinks and a game of pool. As our pub of choice had the indecency to close at 11pm, we ventured out and
Having some laughs...
...while watching Matt try to pick up the local women onwards to the fringe of the city in pursuit of a dance club. We found it in the form of a small gay bar. Tequila was consumed. This made the grey décor and horrible American music slightly easier to bear. We laid claim to a corner of the dance floor and danced until dawn. My landlady was not very pleased when I pounded on her door at 5am to gain admittance. It took an additional 15 minutes of squinting through 1 eye before I could get my key in the lock of my door. Collapsing into bed and groaning at the thought that I would be meeting up with everyone again in a mere 5 hours, I dropped into sleep.
Waking up a cruel 3 hours later, I felt as though the hammers of Hell were pounding their way through my skull. Apparently wine, beer, tequila, and margaritas do not play well together. Stumbling into the shower, I turned it on full and waited for death. I’m not sure whether I was relieved or disappointed that it didn’t come. In fact, the only thing that the shower accomplished was making me aware of the urgent demand for food. Putting
Drunken Eoin...
Insurance in case he stumbles overboat off of our floating dance club on sunglasses I ventured out to try and find something to fill the void. Nothing was open. Nothing. Wasn’t this the capital city of Vietnam!? You’d think one lowly bakery or restaurant would open their doors before 9am!! I finally had to make do with a Snickers bar at a local convenience store. Pitiful. Heading back to my guesthouse, I crawled back into bed and prayed for oblivion.
A few hours later, feeling marginally better, I set off for Darin’s hotel. We had all, in a moment of insanity, agreed to meet there at 10am so that we could drive to the nearby Snake Village and drink snake blood. I was hoping that the blood of a Cobra had some healing properties. Worst case scenario was that it would make me throw up. Which might actually make me feel better.
In typical fashion, our taxi driver assured us enthusiastically that he knew
exactly where he was going…even though he had no clue. We drove around for over an hour before we finally arrived. I thought that Darin was going to physically wrest control of the vehicle and take over. It was so nice to be able to sit
Posing for the camera...
...bracing ourselves before we head inside to dance back and let the men handle it for once.
Our taxi finally pulled up in front of this ordinary looking restaurant hidden away in a back valley. The owner, a young man with a rather sinister looking scar around one of his eyes, led us inside. Jars of preserved and pickled snakes were the predominant theme in the décor. Along the back wall there was a series of cages emitting a soft hissing noise. The owner led us upstairs to a large table and presented the menu. It featured such delicacies as Sauteed snake, ribs brittele, and snake bile alcohol. While we were giving each other uneasy glances, he brought out a large and murderously angry Cobra snake. Playing to his audience, he let the snake twist and hiss, even dropping it down to slither over the floor before scooping it back up again. After he had managed to elicit a few gasps, curses, and rapidly retreating stumbles from his captivated audience, he efficiently slit it’s throat, drained the blood into a small glass, and then carved out it’s still-beating heart. It was amazing that such a violent act could be over so quickly. While our host dragged the
Admiring the decor
Definitely a theme going on here... lifeless body off into the kitchen, we all stared at the glass of cobra blood. This better be a damn good hangover cure.
We split the blood 6 ways and toasted each other before shooting it back. It wasn’t half bad. The addition of vodka definitely helped it go down. The heart sat in a small glass in the middle of the table. In continued to beat for over 20 minutes. I had visions of Poe’s ‘Tell Tale Heart’ circling in my head.
Our host eventually came up with a veritable feast of snake. It was sautéed, deep fried, grilled, boiled, and steamed. They had even managed to turn it into a soup. I hadn’t thought that there was enough meat on that snake to account for such an amazing feast. I nibbled (very delicately) on everything and enjoyed nothing. The blood was much better.
However, whether it was the medicinal properties of the Cobra, or the pure distraction of this barbaric practice, I can truthfully say that my hangover had disappeared somewhere along the way.
That night I said a sad goodbye to friends both new and old as I stepped on a train bound
Draining him dry...
before cutting out it's still-beating heart for Sapa. A few days of trekking through the mountains of Northern Vietnam was exactly what I needed to flush out the rest of the snake and alcohol from my poor and abused system.
Signing off,
Jen
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