Hectic Hanoi.

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Arrive into Hanoi, Vietnam's capital just in time for my birthday. More scooters than I have ever seen. Loud, dusty, hectic. Crazy traffic. Beeping horns. No discernable rules of the road, but suprisingly no jams anywhere despite the volume of traffic.

As a treat. Paula has booked us into a luxury hotel for a few nights. Huge pool, sauna, gym, the lot. Her mum and dad sort out an upgrade for us - 14th floor view across the city. Breakfast in bed. Awesome. Manage to drag ourselves into town about midday and have a boozy long lunch in a French restaurant. Budget out of the window, champagne uncorked. About 3 hours and 6 courses later we spill out, and go for a poke about the winding streets of the Old Quarter. Find a man selling old Soviet watches and clocks, and use all my negotiating skills to bring his price down by one whole US dollar.

After 3 days of luxury, reality kicks in and we move hotels. Across to the bustling streets of the Old Quarter and check into a hotel that is less than ten feet wide, and run by a kindly old man who charges an extra 3 dollars a night to switch on the air con.

Spend most of our time exploring the winding streets and markets, and booking trips (see the next 2 entries...). Strangely most of the shops are clustered together - there's a street for hardware, a street for silk, a street for pans, bags, shoes, pens, headstones...

Find ourselves drinking cheap (15p a pint) beer on the pavement whilst sitting in tiny plastic chairs. Apparently this is normal. At one point we're interviewed by a camera crew for a film about tourism. I have some recollection of ranting about the beauty of the Vietnam peoples, whilst staring off into the middle distance.

One night we found a small canteen-style restaurant, with tables spilling out on the street. Really busy (as everything in this town seems to be) with waiters running about shouting orders and pushing people inside. (London people - think Tayyabs as it used to be, but with tiny furniture and more queuing problems). We're shown to our child-size plastic chairs and table, and order what everyone else seems to be eating (minus the goat udders). A plateful of tender pink beef strips, bean sprouts, onions and herbs is slapped down in front of us, along with a small stove and a thick frying pan. The waiter lights a block of parafin and we chuck all the ingredients in. We have some trouble adjusting the flame and manage to spit fat onto the bloke next to us's chinos. It looks like he's on a date and it doesn't go down well. We don't do too badly though - some others behind us manage to set fire to their table, and their neighbour's napkins. A family on the other side of us are tucking in to the same thing. Their young son is given his first can of red bull (he's about 6 years old), which he gulps down as the family watches on proudly. Ten minutes later he is vomiting into a plastic bag held between his mum's legs. She, along with the rest of the family, doesn't seem bothered and carry on, oblivious to his hurling. Despite this, it is delicious. We polish off the lot, mopping up the juices with warm freshly baked baguettes. Although we do decide against having a coffee and leave as soon as we're finished.

Our last day is the 35-year anniversary of the North's victory over the South in 1975, so as seemed to be the tradition, we celebrated by going to Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum, which turns out to be closed.

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Photos

Street drinker.
Apparently this is the norm in Scotland.

Say what you like about communism
but they knew how to design watches.

Paula on the train.
Doing the accounts.