Dalat

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The sleeper bus is not as horrific as it sounds - it's only half full and I manage to find somewhere to put my legs. Before we know it, we're bouncing along a coastal road into Nha Trang at about 5am, with a big orange sun rising through the window. The beach is bustling with hundreds of people swimming in the sea and doing aerobics on the promenade. It's like we've stumbled on a secret world of exercising Vietnamese.

Couple of hours to wait for our connection (that sounds a bit jet-set - basically it was another bus), which then takes a few hours more. We arrive in Dalat later that afternoon, bringing to an end a marathon 20-hour and 740km journey. Two severely numb rumps. We scoff some tea at a recommended canteen, packed full of locals. Sticky barbeque-roasted chicken with rice, and a bowl of freshly made wonton soup, all for less than 2 dollars each.

Next day is a bit more active. Dalat is a town in the central highlands built by the French in the early 1900s as a temperate holiday resort - it's cool, wet, and surrounded by hilly forests. We go on a mountain bike trip - just me, Paula and a guide called Tree. Most of the route is rutted muddy tracks up and down some taxing slopes. We both quickly get splattered in red mud. I'm the first to fall off, ramming the handlebars into my groin in the process. I manage a high-pitched "yeah I'm fine, I'm OK really" to the other two. Paula's turn to fall next - although a bit less spectacularly. Slow and graceful like a felled tree, straight into a muddy puddle. She blames it on not being able to touch the ground.

Tree pulls lunch from his backpack, which is like the tardis: Watermelon, dragon fruit, bananas, some energy drinks, crisps, a salad, pate, a leg of ham, cheese, about 8 baguettes. All a bit squashed but wolfed down nonetheless. We eat next to 'Lovers Lake', a romantic lake for honeymooning couples who are supposed to enjoy cruising about in a massive mechanical pedalo-swans. More up and down hills in the afternoon in town by late afternoon, thighs burning. Collapse on our bed and watch the excitement of the general election 'results' roll in.

Visit the Crazy House that evening, the architectual showpiece of the town, and variously compared to the Taj Mahal and the Eiffel Tower for its iconic design. It was supposed to be a hotel, but is now just a tourist attraction. The highlight for me was the huge stone kangaroo with glowing red eyes that stood over the bed in one of the rooms. Can't imagine you'd get much sleep with that there.

Next day board a bus south to Saigon...

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Photos

Lunch stop
Mr Tree on the left

Comments

[Fouldsy]

Crazy House!
Was Welsh Matt at the Crazy House drinking two cans of red stripe and starting fights with random indie-louts?