We leave for Halong Bay the next morning with a tour the backpackers had organized. A three hour bus ride, during which we meet Alex - a solo traveler, with a well-worn beard and who had been forced to use women's deodorant, male roll-on either being non-existent or ineffectual in South East Asia. However, even in hygiene obsessed Japan, this seems to be a common complaint. I have heard tell that it is due to different swear glands and thus Asian people don't require deo. My morning bus ride to school would like to disagree.
We take our toilet break at a touristy rest-stop, that is happy to part you with your money for trinkets and over-priced food. Mr N, Mr S and I had been contemplating what Japanese tourists would think of a place like Vietnam - so contrary to all they hold dear (dirty, noisy, people talk to strangers) and we were to find an answer. We had spotted the Japanese tour buses on the road and were already aware of their tendency to travel in packs on neatly organized tours. However, we were unaware of the extremity of the situation until we reached the aforementioned rest-stop. There were three souvenir stores in the building. After acquiring refreshments to fill the emptied bladders, we took a gander and were startled to see a banner in Japanese. Not just kanji (which is still used a little in Vietnam). Full-on Japanese. An entire souvenir store just for Japanese tourists! With staff who spoke Japanese! And especially designed, individually wrapped omeyagi for them to take back to their co-workers to apologize for taking their paid leave. Because that's the whole point of traveling isn't it? To speak to people in the same language as home. To travel only with people from home. To be protected from the Big Bad World.
At Halong Bay we meet our tour guide, the unbelievably sexy Mexican David. He was the kind of sexy that would cheat on you with your best-friend on your bed, while you're in hospital recovering from brain surgery, and you would be the one who would end up apologizing.
We set out into the bay, the beauty of this incredible place only slightly marred by the plastic bags floating just below the surface. The Mr.s jumped off the side of the boat (I refrained due to Body Issues) which resulted in Mr N holding the easy access flap of his boxers for the remainder of his afternoon, having only brought one pair with (yeah, and he criticised us for packing too much luggage!). We kayaked to a cave - which sounds faaaar more thrilling than it actually was. The kayak was rushed because we had to get to the cave, and Sexy Mexican David failed to inform us of quite how far this adventure was. The cave was disappointing, and the lagoon (contrary to the pamphlet), was about as big as a guy's penis who insists on repeatedly informing you how big it is.
In the late afternoon, we returned to the boat for dinner and Forced Fun (aka a drinking party, which was really set-up to increase the alcohol sales on the boat and get Sexy Mexican David laid). We soon discovered that the majority of the other people on the tour were not recent university graduates, but rich Brits who had barely escaped high school. The evening degenerated after that. We escaped to the top deck to hang out with the crazy Israeli paratrooper and the South Americans with unbelievably good teeth. I watched a woman confront not being as young as she thought she was at the bottom of a vodka tonic. The party raged on until the wee hours. I turned in at midnight feeling that enforced fun was a little more fun when I was younger.
I was the first on deck the next morning, and soaked up the splendour of Halong Bay feeling as though I was the only person in the world cradled between the cliffs of broken teeth(with the exception of the other boats a few meters away). Breakfast was disappointing, but I did acquire the info that Sexy Mexican David had, indeed, had carnal knowledge with one of the British girls.
The evening brought a return to Hanoi, and I was given the best donut I have ever had - small and round and the perfect balance of crispy outside and mushy inside, with an aftertaste of coconut that lingered in the mouth like an ex-lovers smell on shared sheets. I searched the streets for more in the coming days, but, alas, no.
My love affair with Hanoi deepened on during the night, but an uncomfortable voice wonders if the experience isn't a little too safe, a little too packaged, a little too sterile, that I need to see more as I walk the streets - take in the whores and hawkers rather than cocooning myself in a mental NO. How little we trust ourselves to deal with consequences.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Vietnam Part Three: Ho Chi Mihn continues and Hanoi begins
We woke up to a dripping air con and scrubbed the travel grim off our skins before heading into the hustle of Saigon. We walked to a nearby market, and disappeared into the aisles of sweatshop merchandise. Breakfast began with durian and mangosteens, followed by spicy pho that soothed the acheyness of exhaustion with chili and lime, and the day was finally kicked into gear with iced coffee. It was love at first slurp. Ah! Strong, syrupy Vietnamese coffee, beans the colour of dark chocolate, glossy and sticky. "With milk" means condensed milk - a style that hits the spot with a bang (this is not easily admitted, being a strong supporter of the "Sugar does not belong in coffee club").
A gander through the stalls, then back on the street, where we get picked up by two motorcycle taxis. We were hesitant at first, having being warned about the risk of being ripped off, but they won us over in the end (the leader having some family connection to an American GI that made him incoherently entertaining).
The ride was better than any merry-go-round or fair ground attraction that could ever be invented. Clinging onto the hips of my driver, I let him do his thing, and suddenly I was in a movie, with the baddies chasing us in hot pursuit.
Next stop: War Memorial. We were suitably sober, but then spent more time in the souvenir shop than actually looking at the displays. Mr N and I had a half-hearted debate over the nature of evil - my main argument being that war is insanity, and how much responsibility can individual soldiers be expected to carry, when their generals are aiming to "bomb the Vietnamese back into the Stone Age"?
Back onto the streets, where we learn the trick to crossing the road lies not in waiting for the robot that will never change, but simply to step into the on-coming traffic and walk - slowly and directly - to the other side.
We wander for hours, lapping up the free entertainment provided by the anniversary of the Vietnamese victory, then finally clamber into a taxi. The driver tries to rip us off, but is too confused in his highness to pull it off.
The next morning we fly to Hanoi, which is an unbelievable smoothie of Europe and Asia. The architecture is an insane mix of skinny, multi-storeyed houses that have been cut from different buildings and dumped next to each other - like a cake made of slices from eight different cakes - with Tarzan vines swinging between them.
I thought the backpackers would be a welcome break from Japan, but it was strange being around so many foreigners - especially young Australians and Brits trying to assert their Independence after school or university by acquiring a cancerous tan, not washing their hair and wearing large amounts of paisley, whilst making Skype calls to anxious parents that, yes, they have been able to find Western food.
After settling in and a shower, we amble into the night and gawp at the group in the common room watching satellite TV. We aim for the chaos of the night market and eat more street food, and return some hours later to the same group, still watching TV, but now in the possession of a large quantity of pizza.
A gander through the stalls, then back on the street, where we get picked up by two motorcycle taxis. We were hesitant at first, having being warned about the risk of being ripped off, but they won us over in the end (the leader having some family connection to an American GI that made him incoherently entertaining).
The ride was better than any merry-go-round or fair ground attraction that could ever be invented. Clinging onto the hips of my driver, I let him do his thing, and suddenly I was in a movie, with the baddies chasing us in hot pursuit.
Next stop: War Memorial. We were suitably sober, but then spent more time in the souvenir shop than actually looking at the displays. Mr N and I had a half-hearted debate over the nature of evil - my main argument being that war is insanity, and how much responsibility can individual soldiers be expected to carry, when their generals are aiming to "bomb the Vietnamese back into the Stone Age"?
Back onto the streets, where we learn the trick to crossing the road lies not in waiting for the robot that will never change, but simply to step into the on-coming traffic and walk - slowly and directly - to the other side.
We wander for hours, lapping up the free entertainment provided by the anniversary of the Vietnamese victory, then finally clamber into a taxi. The driver tries to rip us off, but is too confused in his highness to pull it off.
The next morning we fly to Hanoi, which is an unbelievable smoothie of Europe and Asia. The architecture is an insane mix of skinny, multi-storeyed houses that have been cut from different buildings and dumped next to each other - like a cake made of slices from eight different cakes - with Tarzan vines swinging between them.
I thought the backpackers would be a welcome break from Japan, but it was strange being around so many foreigners - especially young Australians and Brits trying to assert their Independence after school or university by acquiring a cancerous tan, not washing their hair and wearing large amounts of paisley, whilst making Skype calls to anxious parents that, yes, they have been able to find Western food.
After settling in and a shower, we amble into the night and gawp at the group in the common room watching satellite TV. We aim for the chaos of the night market and eat more street food, and return some hours later to the same group, still watching TV, but now in the possession of a large quantity of pizza.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Vietnam Part Two: Donging Ho Chi Mihn
Our plane lands at 11.20pm, and we make our way past the dour faced Immigration officials. I always tightrope the border of Panic Attack whenever I wait in those ques. Even though I know there is no logical reason why I should be stopped, I keep expecting Gandalf to jump our from behind the counter and inform me: "Yooooou shaall nooot paaaaas!" If you are (as I am) inclined to doubt the sanity of humans and are (as I am, unfortunately) one of that species, you have to doubt your own sanity too, and leave room for the idea that you may have multiple personalities that you are unaware of - that it is not the 24 hours of no sleep and airline food that have left your digestive tract as clogged at the N1 to Pretoria during peak traffic, which the municipality thought would be a super time to kick roadworks into full swing, after a taxi has collided with a bakki (rather, it is the result of one of The Voices that have found it amusing to thrust condoms of Colombian Gold where angels fear to tread).
By midnight we meet the taxi organized by the backpackers, after waiting for Mr S's luggage and trusting that the money exchange didn't rip us off. We all enter Ho Chi Mihn (still Saigon to everyone but the people would make the signs and official city stationary) millionaires. With the amount of sex we were offered over the course of the next week, it is fitting that the currency is called the dong.
The heat slaps us in the face, and even at this hour, the streets still whiff of syrupy chaos. The drive to the hostel shrugs off the dust of exhaustion, and the new city calls to us. We dump our bags and head into the night. First, Mr N is determined to find pho. Tick. Then, we head to the Crazy Buffalo - a bar on the main corner of the backpacker's strip. Tables spill onto the sidewalk and a gargantuan buffalo head of neon lights, puffing its nostrils in light fantastic smoke, looms above the entrance. I suspect that it is really the lair of a supernatural villain in a B rated fantasy series and that Buffy is just around the corner.
A beer feeds the exhaustion, and soon we are all in bed. No one sets an alarm. The air-conditioning is a blessing - until it begins to drip during the night, which sends Mr S to the insomniacs asylum.
By midnight we meet the taxi organized by the backpackers, after waiting for Mr S's luggage and trusting that the money exchange didn't rip us off. We all enter Ho Chi Mihn (still Saigon to everyone but the people would make the signs and official city stationary) millionaires. With the amount of sex we were offered over the course of the next week, it is fitting that the currency is called the dong.
The heat slaps us in the face, and even at this hour, the streets still whiff of syrupy chaos. The drive to the hostel shrugs off the dust of exhaustion, and the new city calls to us. We dump our bags and head into the night. First, Mr N is determined to find pho. Tick. Then, we head to the Crazy Buffalo - a bar on the main corner of the backpacker's strip. Tables spill onto the sidewalk and a gargantuan buffalo head of neon lights, puffing its nostrils in light fantastic smoke, looms above the entrance. I suspect that it is really the lair of a supernatural villain in a B rated fantasy series and that Buffy is just around the corner.
A beer feeds the exhaustion, and soon we are all in bed. No one sets an alarm. The air-conditioning is a blessing - until it begins to drip during the night, which sends Mr S to the insomniacs asylum.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Vietnam Part One: The Road to Uncle Ho
During the first week of May, the natives of this island celebrate a string of public holidays commemorating, well, I'm not quite sure what, but it's commonly referred to as Golden Week. It's "golden" primarily because it allows one to take a week off without actually having to take a week off. A few months ago, Mr N, Mr S and I decided that we would take the opportunity to escape our daily drudgery with a week in Vietnam. Mr S had not traveled outside of Japan since he stranded himself here almost two years ago, with the exception of a visit to the Home Republic, and Mr N sought a last adventure before his impending return to the New World, where he will no doubt build an army of robots to ensure that all humans eat their vegetables, refrain from all vices and never sneeze again.
Our journey began with a six hour overnight bus ride from Sendai to Tokyo. We had opted for the cheaper, and therefore less comfortable, bus - a decision we would later come to regret as we were driven to the brink of sleep deprived madness and homicidal inclinations.
The windows were curtained in a clash of blue and yellow and purple fabric that seems to plague public transport and budget hotel rooms. I was seated next to a woman who sighed repeatedly (interestingly, when Mr S and I had gone to purchase the tickets, the cashier inquired if the third person was male or female. The masculine confirmed, they proceeded to seat me next to another woman, presumably for fear that I would drive a man to wanton abandon, resulting in disastrous and unmentionable consequences. Unmentionable because I can't think of a suitably witty punchline here). Where was I before the parentheses? Oh, yes! The sighing woman! She was trying to tell me through the violent, tense release of air how annoyed she was with my presence - that I should deign to have been designated a ticket next to her seat.
She wore a leopard print shirt over black pants with too many zippers. She was years beyond looking good in this statement of coolness (but I doubt anyone would, except in the 80s, when standards were lower). I didn't get a good look at her when she twaddled on to the bus, but I could sense the presence of a few extra kilos (although, I may have been projecting) and suspected that she sold make-up at cosmetic Tupperware parties. She enjoys white wine out of a box and laughs a little too loud. Divorced, but believes in the Hope of Pop Love thanks to the Japanese version of Oprah (aka J-Oprah). She was hoping for someone - a similarly situated laydee (not a gaijin) - to sit next to, so that she wold be distracted from her return home to a romance novel collection and mid-range chocolates.
It was at this point in my presumptuous musings about my neighbour that the lights were turned off, and everyone was well-behaved and went to sleep. Except for me.
Hours of dozing later, we were dumped in Toyko at 5.30am. We stumbled past the drunk salary men who had failed to score the previous night into Tokyo station just as the first trains arrived, and watched the deserted platform swarm with hundreds of synchronized suits and heels that had no business being up this early on a public holiday. Hours were whittled away as we hunted for a palatable breakfast that would not offend our collective dietary fussinesses. Already the sleep starvation was taking its toll, as we wondered the streets of Shibuya, snipping and biting each other's heels.
I erupted as Mr S and Mr N sauntered while debating the finer points of Japanese grammar and schedules were delayed. My concerns over time management were met with, "Chill the Fuck out" - which only stirred the madness more.
Twelve hours after arriving in Tokyo, we finally boarded the plane and prayed for sleep to descend in Economy Class. No one was listening.
Our journey began with a six hour overnight bus ride from Sendai to Tokyo. We had opted for the cheaper, and therefore less comfortable, bus - a decision we would later come to regret as we were driven to the brink of sleep deprived madness and homicidal inclinations.
The windows were curtained in a clash of blue and yellow and purple fabric that seems to plague public transport and budget hotel rooms. I was seated next to a woman who sighed repeatedly (interestingly, when Mr S and I had gone to purchase the tickets, the cashier inquired if the third person was male or female. The masculine confirmed, they proceeded to seat me next to another woman, presumably for fear that I would drive a man to wanton abandon, resulting in disastrous and unmentionable consequences. Unmentionable because I can't think of a suitably witty punchline here). Where was I before the parentheses? Oh, yes! The sighing woman! She was trying to tell me through the violent, tense release of air how annoyed she was with my presence - that I should deign to have been designated a ticket next to her seat.
She wore a leopard print shirt over black pants with too many zippers. She was years beyond looking good in this statement of coolness (but I doubt anyone would, except in the 80s, when standards were lower). I didn't get a good look at her when she twaddled on to the bus, but I could sense the presence of a few extra kilos (although, I may have been projecting) and suspected that she sold make-up at cosmetic Tupperware parties. She enjoys white wine out of a box and laughs a little too loud. Divorced, but believes in the Hope of Pop Love thanks to the Japanese version of Oprah (aka J-Oprah). She was hoping for someone - a similarly situated laydee (not a gaijin) - to sit next to, so that she wold be distracted from her return home to a romance novel collection and mid-range chocolates.
It was at this point in my presumptuous musings about my neighbour that the lights were turned off, and everyone was well-behaved and went to sleep. Except for me.
Hours of dozing later, we were dumped in Toyko at 5.30am. We stumbled past the drunk salary men who had failed to score the previous night into Tokyo station just as the first trains arrived, and watched the deserted platform swarm with hundreds of synchronized suits and heels that had no business being up this early on a public holiday. Hours were whittled away as we hunted for a palatable breakfast that would not offend our collective dietary fussinesses. Already the sleep starvation was taking its toll, as we wondered the streets of Shibuya, snipping and biting each other's heels.
I erupted as Mr S and Mr N sauntered while debating the finer points of Japanese grammar and schedules were delayed. My concerns over time management were met with, "Chill the Fuck out" - which only stirred the madness more.
Twelve hours after arriving in Tokyo, we finally boarded the plane and prayed for sleep to descend in Economy Class. No one was listening.
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