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Our two unofficial guides are on the rightTuesday 25 May
Cat Ba Island, Halong Bay.
Its 6.00 am, and the noises of Vietnam have already had me awake for 30 minutes. Crossing from China to Vietnam, nothing marks the differential as much as the noise at the start of the day. If Robin Williams made us understand how HOT, DAMN HOT it gets here, then noise, noise, noise is what a visit will confirm. Nothing makes this change more obvious than the omnipresent motorbike. Whereas the Chinese have moved in massive numbers to silent electric battery powered scooters, and golf cart buses, the clattering Vietnamese “Honda Dream” still rules south of the border. Daylight signifies time to rest the thick digit on horns and for hopeful motorbike-taxis to start shouting, looking for work. The trucks, vans and buses, with their cascading multi-toned horns, are already jockeying for position, despite this town being sparsely populated and not in the slightest bit challenged by congestion. The plastic tables and chairs that covered the town square last night have gone, replaced already by the aimless strolling of local tourists. The fishing boats are all on the move out of the harbour, emitting the dullest and most baritone unmuffled drumming
Rules of the Village
Somehow I think most of these are over looked, particularly given the Polygimist behaviour of the Hmong Women as they depart. Close by, the plastic sandals, that everyone wears, scrape noisily along the footpath - maybe caused by the weary state of mind, as another day looms for the lone vendor peddling such necessities as plastic wind-up chickens, 50 cent poncho’s or a sea shell sheep. Or maybe it’s the peddler, dragging back to their footpath space, their fruit and peeled pineapples, unsold as they left last night at midnight, or later?
To add to the rising din, generators all over town have kicked in. The nation waits for the rainy season to start and the multiple failings of lack of water, withdrawal of Chinese power supplies, corruption in trying to commission new plants and poor infrastructure planning mean the dams are empty and the demand cannot be met. Here, electricity comes on and off intermittently, sometimes off all day long, at other times, only off at night.
Earlier in our travels, we spent six nights in Sapa, a new destination for us in Vietnam. Established as a resort by the French, before Uncle Ho gave them new passports and a complimentary exit stamp in 1954, it’s in the mountains and it’s cool. Its still a
Exploring villages in Sapa
Lauren was totally at home on the bike. small town, and the local Hmong villagers its most alluring feature. Transformed in a decade or less from subsistence farmers, the women have now found a new outlet for their talents. Surely in no other place in the world, can the woven blanket and bag sellers be so utterly charming, so beguiling with their English, so persistent in their tailings and not fail to win one over completely. “Hello! What your name? Where you from? Ahh nice country nuw sheland, how old you? How old him, beautiful daughter, you buy from me?” From here on, one has a friend for the duration of one’s stay; even polite rejections are taken in good heart. In 6 days, we saw not a cross word, not a harsh attitude, not even a “leave me alone”. And amazingly in 6 days we saw so few Dong change hands that you cannot help but wonder how long the politeness can last.
We trekked from Sapa, (well walked really) for 2 days and, for the first half of day 1, we had our guide plus our two unofficial Hmong guides. Having walked into town in the morning, done whatever Hmong women do at the market,
they shadowed us for 4 solid hours back home again; holding out a hand for Lauren, correcting the freshly graduated official guide where needed and generally engaging us in conversation. The price we paid? A couple of dollars for a bag and bracelets. Four hours, walking in the hot sun, for about $4.00. And this is a better life than a few short years ago.
The trek was mild, but to have Molly and Lauren in tow it couldn’t be construed as being easy. A little trooper Lauren was on day one, up hills, over bridges, along rice paddy walls, anywhere her legs would stretch far enough, but by day 2, we had to carry her for much of the time as exhaustion and heat kicked in. Molly, well, let’s just say she is getting better at this thing called hiking. Vacillating between a rare form of tropical heat stroke or unbridled enthusiasm, she seems to be enjoying some of the trek, if questioning the ultimate purpose. We overnight at a homestay, an upper loft floor within a simple farmhouse, with 12 foam mattresses on the floor as beds, Marae style. The wife is 9 months pregnant with 3
already in the house. Dad cooks dinner, an outstanding affair, and we sit drinking his rice wine, poured from empty water bottles until darkness is well set in. Tiredness and exhaustion overtakes us all and we submit to some of the most basic accommodation imaginable. Later in the evening, we are “treated” to a delightful tropical thunderstorm, enough to terrify Molly and send Frances and Lauren scurrying for dryer beds.
It proves a lovely trip, albeit hot and tiring, but proof that, when travelling with kids, your limits are not too significant and only really what you set them at.
Only a few years ago, Sunday, was the Ethnic Minorities market day in Sapa. Hmong and Dao villagers would walk into Sapa on Saturday afternoon from all directions, meet in the town square, find potential partners for their young on Saturday night at the “love market“, sleep rough, sell or buy on Sunday morning and presumably head home Sunday afternoon. While no longer the procession it once was, at Sunday lunchtime we stumble into the middle of the food market, and witness the remnants of this tradition. The rice wine has been flowing for hours, hookah pipes are
combusted with local raw tobacco and I can’t help but presume that the pipes are still topped up with a bit of opium - perhaps explaining the glazed and suspicious eyes? Women are all at their own tables, men at separate ones. The voices are loud, aggressively so to my ear.
We keep our heads down, devour our Pho Bo, and allow ourselves to be absorbed. I get the camera out cautiously, manage a few shots and indicate to a table of men a request to take a few more. Their confirmation quickly takes a negative turn after the posing, as the demand for money starts. I am partly rescued, as a 13 year old street seller approaches. She knows the man and immediately tells me to give him 10,000 dong. He is asking for 30,000. This girl is 13, she is taking a day off selling and has the negotiation skills of Winston Peters. Her English is street taught, she stumbles at times, but engages easily and has a confident and relaxed manner. How different she is from her NZ contemporaries! After 20 minutes we are all old friends, and for no other reason than kindness, she has
Sucking on the hookah pipe
Look at those eyes and tell me its just Drumm.... come in to assist. We take our exit, having had a neat little insight into these people.
Hanoi has changed a lot in our 5 year absence. Gone are the heaving swarms of motorbikes, replaced by a more orthodox mix of bike and auto. Gone is the parting of the Red Sea when a pedestrian would walk through the heaving mass, replaced by a more orthodox Chinese game of chicken. Gone are the women riding their “Dreams” in flowing Ao Dai dress with full arm length gloves to protect their socially desirable white skin, replaced with imitation designer clothes from Milan. Gone is the carefree lack of motorbike helmet, replaced with a vigilant police crackdown. But it is still frantic, it’s still totally foreign, it’s still stupendously humid and it’s still the heart of Communist Vietnam.
This land is ruled by a select few. Now well into their 80s, the Ruling Party Politburo has sunk into a mire of corruption and desperation as they hang onto political control of this country and use the booming economy to pilfer what they cannot have legitimately. Mimicking China in so many ways, the economy has become tigerish and aggressive. But unlike
China, it’s the military here who corrupt the most. No one young can tell me the name of the country’s leader; instead they all simply dismiss the question and scathingly blame the Politburo leaders for terrible financial crimes, to which no-one will be accountable. The Army appears to dominate this corruption. Many roads and construction projects are constructed by the Army. Even the nation’s largest mobile phone company, Viettel, is Army owned - maybe more an indication of the value this leadership puts on ensuring the army is fully prepared for invasion. In less than 40 years, the Vietnamese Armies repelled the Japanese, the Chinese, the French, the Americans, Koreans, Australians and Kiwis, then finally went and sorted out the Cambodians where others failed. Relying on a Telecom XT network to communicate should China repeat its invasion of 1979 is clearly on their list of must-not-do’s. As far as the young here are concerned, it appears the clock is still ticking on the old boys in the green uniforms. Once they die, there is only a young generation, raised on capitalism and forgiveness of America ready to step in. The time, is surely near?
We love Hanoi, but with
Educational day
OK so it was getting late. Whats his name again Dad? kids, 38 deg and extreme humidity, we regret lingering for 4 nights. Molly might love the DVD stores, but there’s more to life than having your satin underwear sticking to every square cm of your legs and your perspiration saturating tee shirts in an awful pattern, starting not under the arms, but from the thorax, as your body just oozes from places only the tropics can trigger.
While we have avoided revisiting places we have already seen, Hanoi and Halong Bay are the two destinations on our trip that we have seen before. There’s a kind of traveller’s vortex that occurs when revisiting a city and Hanoi sucks us in. We sit down to lunch on our first day, at Paris Deli Cafe. It’s not long before we both question the familiarity. Surely, of all the restaurants in Hanoi, we have not been pulled back to the same one twice? We remain unsure, but the suspicion remains with us.
Later, we plan a day out, and decide to return to The West Lake for an early evening dinner, a venue with a range of restaurants we well recall from our last visit. I get the fantastic hotel staff
Hanoi Traditional House
Similar, I suspect, to the famous Beijing courtyard focused houses (Hotel IndoChina 1) to write down the name of the location for us. We taxi to the Army Museum, get marginally ripped off as usual, and then proceed to swelter in the oppressive heat. Molly and I did Uncle Ho’s Memorial earlier in the day, so today is an educational day for her. To her credit we manage 2 hours and she leaves with a little bit of insight into this part of the world.
We call it quits at 4.00 pm and walk out to be greeted by a taxi. For future visitors to Hanoi, beware, the taxi industry is at the cutting edge of theft and deception. Yes they have meters, yes they are sealed with lead, but nobody regulates or rules. Within a minute, the meter is ticking over like you might imagine in a cartoon. When we should go 1.8 km for 9,000 dong, it’s racing past 20,000 within 250 metres. It hits 50,000 dong, and the game is on. We are uninitiated novices and fighting against the sons of the Viet Cong. What hope do we have? Arm waving and shouting starts, we get to 70,000 dong. I demand he stops. He does not
understand and we plough on feeling foolish and sheepish. I force a truce at 80,000 dong, and we continue to the destination. A ride that should have been about 30,000, costs us 80,000. We argue at the destination, but short of calling the police, it’s a feeling of hopelessness as his fellow rouges come over to watch the fun and support their comrade. We trudge off, depressed at having been cheated again.
Within minutes, the vortex strikes again. We have landed right outside the same restaurant of 5 years ago. What more can we do? It’s time for a couple of Beer Hanoi, prawns with tamarind, garlic and ginger, pigeon and some watercress with garlic. Delicious. The restaurant seats over 300 - it’s huge. The setting is divine as the sun sets, Lauren finds a playground and after nailing the first couple, I succumb to putting ice in the beer to keep it cool lest I drink too fast…... We cab home, circumspect and determined not to get done again. We manage, for the time being! (NB - Take this seriously if you come to Hanoi, it’s a real problem and for long trips could have disastrous consequences.)
We ignore all the on-line warnings and foolishly book a package tour to Halong Bay and Cat Ba Island. After weeks of Francophiles and Krauts, suddenly we are in a bus full mainly of 19 year old Brits and a few Scandis. It’s a weird experience, seeing this generation embark on their OE. Francie enjoys the change of company and its nice to sit and smile at the enthusiasm with which they approach their travels.
A gap year jaunt around the world seems to require a visit to Vietnam and Halong Bay is a must-do. We tolerate a couple of days, getting frustrated only when the skipper of “Phong Tin 10” will not turn on bedroom air conditioning because we did not “book it” with the agent. Instead, the boat cabins fail to cool down below what seems like 40 deg, the fans struggling to move air leaden with moisture. The humidity rises through the night as thunder and lightning play on the horizon, but fail to bring the cooling rain. Lauren has a fitful night, plummeting well over half a metre off the side of the bed with a poor turn. Having just lost her cheek bruise from
Uncle Ho's resting place
And to think he demanded to be cremated and scattered. Tragic really a roll down some tiled stairs in Fenghuang, she now develops a black chin!
Tired, hot and appalled at the customer service on the package tour, we take a reprieve at Cat Ba Island, for a 4 night stay. We find a nice hotel, we find our first beaches of the trip and I discover why it is that I need to buy a Harley when I get home…..
Cat Ba is fun. It can’t match the Southern Vietnam resorts, but there is an endearing charm about this place. The water is warm, the sand golden and clean (by Vietnamese standards) and the beer cold. We break traveller’s rule 39, (stay away from the expat bars) and we head for a drink at “The Flightless Bird Café”. Graham the owner, is from Dunedin originally. Married a Vietnamese women, opened the first bar in the waterfront, works “in the mines” in WA and commutes out here. His wife runs a beauty salon within the bar so naturally Molly is whisked away to part with $3.00. We don’t see her for an hour at least. Lauren is entertained with pens and paper, Frances has a cold Beer Hanoi in hand,
Spotted leaving Hanoi
I can give you the address.... and Graham provides a great overview of life in Vietnam. He has seen this strip, (see pictures) go from his and 3 other buildings to this. He tells me from Saturday, (2 days away) it will be wall to wall with Hanoi families on holiday for the 3 month summer break. Last night we sat in a 136 seat restaurant, wondering why 130 seats were empty. The shops have all been over staffed, motorbike taxi’s at every street corner. Now the mystery is solved and we are thankful we return to Hanoi tomorrow. Sadly, with kids, the night as always finishes before it starts and, although we are late, we are still back at the hotel well before 9.00 pm. The power is back on, the air conditioning works, the windows seal out the noise and we have the kids in a separate room.
Now, about that Harley…well, that’s another story.
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Sue Rean
non-member comment
Fantastic
What a mission, love reading your superbly written blogs. Almost feel as though am there with you ! Continue to enjoy your travels, take care :-) Sue R.