Vietnam Part Four: Halong Bay

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.

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.