• Nick Brown

Vietnam

Une aventure de 23 jours par Nick En savoir plus
  • Début du voyage
    10 mars 2018
  • Flight Night Live!

    11 mars 2018, Hong Kong ⋅ 🌙 15 °C

    Never my favourite bit. More accurately my second-least-favourite bit, pipped to prominence only by the flight home. Gotta say though, speaking relatively to a prejudicially low base, our journey to Hong Kong was rather luxurious.

    Planeophobia isn't the word and possibly isn't a word at all to describe my attitude to air-travel, but such fears are somewhat soothed when the magnificent flying contraption assigned the task exudes class and quality. From the svelte exterior to the neat contours of the cabin, by way of the massive back-of-the-seat entertainment system with an actual lag-free fully-functioning touch-screen (take note BA) to the personal plug socket and USB port and actual leg-room for actual legs and the multiple fold-out tray-tables to suit a myriad purposes and free peanuts the entire experience looked and felt futuristic. And as we all know, or at least did before Brexit/Trump, the future equals good.

    Only minor foible, they'd run out of my preferred meal option by the time the food-cart reached us, but that's nothing a formal complaint/law-suit can't resolve. Fed and full-up with the aubergine-pasta thing nobody else wanted, we commenced consumption of the on-board entertainment selection.

    The M-Dubyas both watched The Death of Stalin, but having seen it already I took in Alien Covenant. It's about as good as you'd expect an 8th instalment of a franchise to be that isn't produced by Marvel or starring pubescent wizards. Underwhelmed, I decided to stick with the b-movie vibe and watch 'Happy Death Day', which was fairly good mainly because it's a horror rip-off of Groundhog Day. I then decided to watch a bit of Groundhog Day itself, figuring my familiarity with it might help me drift off to sleep, but alas it kept me perky with it's ruddy entertaining perfect script, casting and direction. I considered watching Edge of Tomorrow, but determined such thematic repetition might instil the sensation I was enduring the underlying premise as opposed to simply observing it, so I put on some Family Guy instead. Farts lol.

    Tried to get some shut-eye, but only achieved it in the purely literal sense. Whilst Mark enjoyed Paddington 2 : Paddington Strikes Back Reloaded With A Vengeance, I watched It, by which I don't mean an aforementioned something beimg latterly referenced as it but instead the film entitled It about something called It in lieu of It's actual moniker, it being unclear what It actually Is. It was alright.

    I then tried to watch Kong: Skull Island, but it quickly felt more like Skull Island feat. Kong and I lost interest, so decided to begin chronicling our exciting adventures with a point-by-point re-telling of our flight. Then we had some noodles and I watched some Blackadder and we got breakfast and then I watched Young Sheldon and Woody watched Detectorists and I couldn't see what Mark was watching and I didn't ask.

    We're starting our descent into Hong Kong now so have to put my phone away. Might post this, might not ; will decide later. If I don't, guess nobody will know. Unless I leave this bit in, which would be dumb.
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  • It's On like Hongy Kong

    11 mars 2018, Hong Kong ⋅ ☀️ 20 °C

    Layovers can be a pain. Short ones mean you're rushing about, cautious not to miss your connecting flight and cursing that immigration won't just briefly abandon national security concerns to let you saunter through unimpeded. Several-hours ones can be just dull, resulting in aimless lingering in the airport whilst too many hours requires consideration of accommodation, sustainance and the acknowledgement your stopover is effectively a mini-break in itself.

    I think we hit the sweet-spot with ten hours in Hong Kong. This was partly due to timing; we landed just before their 7am, perfectly synchronizing the commencement of our exploration with their morning cornflakes. As the city awoke we travelled on the ridiculously-nice-when-you-compare-it-to-literally-every-train-in-England Airport Express into the metropolis.

    Though we were fairly tired, after all 'their' 7am was closer to our bodies' midnight, we also had an advantage. Woody had been to Hong Kong before so would know the most efficient way to navigate and experience the key sights. Granted command, we followed his lead and alighted at Kowloon station to head toward the harbour.

    In Woody's defence we only spent an hour or so lost in the private accommodation complex / closed shopping-mall he took us too, only nearly died when we tried to escape by walking on the motorway and only slightly wasted 10% of our Hong Kong experience by the time we got back to the same station we'd arrived at, gotten back on the train and travelled the few stops to where we were supposed to be.

    The views of the harbour were stunning and probably attached. Mark did his standard poses, I did my standard selfies and we progressed to the Star Ferry, apparently quite famous but I haven't gotten around to googling it yet. Once on Hong Kong island we traversed through the crowds of Filipinas folk socialising on cardboard boxes in the streets (a cultural weekly occurrence when the maids of Hong Kong have Sundays off) and stopped by for pictures at HSBC HQ to relieve my withdrawal symptoms.

    We next queued, and boy did we queue, for the furnicular railway up to the peak, which the locals refer to simply The Peak and thusly I've forgotten the actual name for. We were the last ones aboard so didn't get seats, but that turned out to be dangerous/awesome as the tram undertook it's steep climb and as we could each stand angularly to the floor, messing about with our sense of gravity.

    There was a vast visitors centre at the top and after a few escalator rides we were atop the highest 360 degree viewing platform in the city, looking up at the points higher than us unable to advertise a 360 degree viewing platform. Looking down we took-in more stunning views and took more obligatory pictures/selfies. It's easy to see why the platform is one of the more popular proposal locations in the city, with packages for such being heavily advertised by the venue. Neither Mark nor Woody popped the question.

    My ring-finger bandless, we visited the gift-shop where I bought fridge magnets and Mark haggled a deal for the purchase of a pretty picture print. I wasn't clear on the specifics of the deal, but it apparently involved the handing-over of his travel card as he had to buy a new return ticket before we left. We descended the peak, finding the queue to go back up completely dissipated and proving we'd definitely come at the wrong time, further damning the day's Activities-Director.

    We were hungry and, after introspective analysis of the situation, decided to find some food. Harnessing the power of Google, I assumed directorial duties and guided us toward the authentic (by which I mean how it looks in the movies) centre of Hong Kong island. Keen to locate some authentic (by which I mean how it looks in Chinese restaurants) local cuisine, our efforts were mildly hampered by the apparent local preference for foreign food. Akin to trying to find an English restaurant in central Manchester, it was exceedingly tricky to find a simple Chinese restaurant in the centre of a Chinese city however, after a little searching, we stumbled upon our Wetherspoons proxy. Unfortunately there was no kids menu, so Woody had to leave half of his perfectly standard adult meal uneaten.

    By this point, circa 6am to us after a night without sleep but with extensive activity, we were pretty exhausted and headed back to the airport. We each intermittently though thankfully alternately fell asleep on the warm, comfortable, no-reason-they-shouldn't-be-this-nice-in-the-UK train and went through into the terminal.

    We were quite early for our plane and expected to get bored, but we fortunately found an exciting mission to occupy ourselves. Mark's headphones had broken and, having forgotten to pack his spares, needed some new ones. Though the airport was vast we soon found an electronics dealer, but the headphones available were excessively priced so we moved on. Seeking a WH Smith equivalent, where headphones were positioned more as a point-of-sale convenience item than a business focus and priced accordingly, we trapsed through several other retailers in search of a decent set of earbuds costing the equivalent of around a fiver. We almost had a breakthrough when we found some Disney-branded versions at around a tenner, but these were considered unsuitable for reasons. We spied a 7-Eleven on a lower floor and tried to reach it by going down an escalator but overshot. In an attempt to course-correct upwards Mark suggested we go further down. This didn't work. We later took a lift to the correct floor but to a 'staff-only' section of said floor which we didn't enter because it's an airport and we might get shot. We never figured out how to get to the 7-Eleven floor or find Mark some suitable headphones, but at least we got this fantastic story out of the experience. Also I remembered I had a spare set of headphones and said Mark could have those.
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  • Hanoi : Day One-and-a-bit

    12 mars 2018, Vietnam ⋅ 🌫 19 °C

    Q. Why did the chicken cross the road?
    A. It didn't

    If there's one thing we learnt in our first 26-or-so hours in Hanoi, it's how to cross the road. This lesson transpired to be essential, lest we remain holed-up in our hotel for our entire stay as, whilst the door from our lodgings technically opened up onto a pavement, pedestrian walkways aren't really a 'thing'.

    Instead, the 'pavement' as it were or would be were it a 'thing' is utilised as a combination seating area, barbecue pit or, most commonly of all, parking space for motorbikes. As such, one doesn't wander beside the street but instead on said street, aside said pavement and both alongside and in direct conflict with such things expressly designed for traversal on said streets most commonly, as I said, said motorbikes.

    Walking parallel within isn't too tricky; just find a gap and join the traffic lane like any other vehicle, maintaining consistent speed and clearly indicating any sideways shifts. You don't have to emit 'brum-brum' sound effects, but it's fun.

    Crossing perpendicular to traffic flow, however, is a teensy bit more perilous. With traffic lights functioning as mere suggestions and zebra-crossings simply exceedingly-neat graffiti, picking a suitable point to cross is both difficult and easy, insomuch as every potential choice is equally unsuitable.

    You have to unlearn everything you learnt about crossing safely. Looking both ways is a sign of weakness. Traffic won't stop and the cacophony of blaring horns is mere background noise. You simply take a breath, shake hands with your compatriots whilst expressing fond sentiments for your time together (actually happened), then...walk. To misquote but ascribe rythmn from Dory of Nemo fame, and latterly of Dory fame, you 'Just keep walking, just keep walking...'

    If it feels like you're going to die, you're doing it right. Bikes will swerve, cars will slow and I'm not sure what coaches do since we're not idiots and obviously don't step blindly in front of speeding coaches. In summary; be brave, don't hesitate, stay alive.

    We first began honing this technique on our first night in Hanoi. Landing rather late in the evening and reeling from being awake for 40 hours we had intended to simply a) find hotel and b) sleep. But so invigorated were we by our taxi journey through the vehicular insanity and sensory onslaught of the Vietnamese backstreets, with the musical accompaniment of local pop hit 'Welcome to Vietnam' blaring from Airport-Pickup FM, that we resolved to go outside.

    Informed by the helpful hotel probably-owner that our first night was the final one during our stay when the local night market was open, we decided to go. Amidst a vast row of stalls selling all manner of fake good we carefully examined the various street-food stalls, then picked one at random and feasted on things on sticks, different things that looked like they'd be on sticks but were in fact chopped-up and mixed in a cup and finally some frozen stuff, on a stick. We had a beer on some children's garden furniture across the road, then called it a night.

    Next morning we discovered breakfast was not only included in our ridiculously-cheap room-rate, but was also really good, definitively putting Premier Inn Leicester City Centre to shame (see TripAdvisor review entitled 'Fucking Terrible' for more details). Scrambled-eggs/pancakes/toast consumed, we headed out into the city.

    First we went to jail. The remains of the former Hoa Lo prison, somewhat entertainingly referred to as the 'Hanoi Hilton' by Americans during their relatively pleasant detainment there during the American/Vietnam war and less-entertainingly a harrowing historical incarceration centre for heroic Vietnamese political prisoners resisting against the oppressive and ruthless French colonialists. There was an informational/propaganda video set to the music of Pirates of the Caribbean. Or Pirates of the Caribbean cribbed it's soundtrack from a patriotic Vietnamese anthem.

    Mark, the exalted organised-one of our trio, guided us on a walking tour of Hanoi's Old Town. The streets of Hanoi appear largely segregated by the nature of goods for sale; there are streets dedicated to tin, some to knock-off toy brands, an odd cluster dealing exclusively in television remote-controls and others solely concerned with the prolonged suffering, torture and meticulous murder of marine life. We visited the 'Memorial House'; a preserved, traditional house that hadn't been actively lived-in since the late 90s, granting it equal historical credence as pictures from my 14th birthday party. We also ventured into a covered market billed as stocking 'anything you could possibly think of', which was true, so long as you limited your free-thought to stationary, confectionary and dried fish products. Should your imagination apropos retail possibilities be so restricted, check out amazon.com and thank me later.

    During our tour we would intermittently pop-in to numerous small Buddhist temples and visited one very large Catholic cathedral. Like most people visiting such places, I couldn't help but be reminded of the evolving design philosophy of the Legend of Zelda video game franchise. The juxtaposition here of the many-but-small Breath of the Wild approach against the fewer-but-bigger LTTP through Twilight-Princess structure (discounting the obvious anomaly of Skyward Sword) helped me, in common I'm sure with most tourists, once again conclude that Ocarina of Time remains the definitive entry in the series.

    At Hoan Kiem lake we visited possibly the most famous temple in Hanoi, Ngoc Son, dedicated to a legend about a sword of the lake and a Turtle God or something I'm not really sure it wasn't all translated. Nearby in the middle of the lake was a structure known as 'Turtle Tower', in memory of the legend or the turtles or towers. There was a resident hero-in-a-half-shell by way of a preserved giant turtle specimen that was either dead, bronze or dead and bronzed depending on who you asked.

    From the makers of 'The Eiffel Tower' came the penultimate instalment of our tour, a bridge that we saw almost 75% of from a distance. Finally we experienced the Ceramic Road which, whilst admittedly an impressive four-kilometre mural carefully constructed and depicting beautiful cultural imagery, is in fact a wall next to a road and not technically a road so reportable under the Vietnam equivalent of the Trade Descriptions Act (Articles 103/106, 1992 Constitution of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam, fact fans!)

    We returned to the hotel for a brief rest before heading out for dinner. On the suggestion of the hotel probably-owner we went to a local street-food venue, selected a few things off the menu and received at least 40% of what we ordered. What we had was delicious once coated in chilli sauce, following which we walked a few streets to an upmarket craft beer venue which we'd spotted earlier in the day. Turns out it's an outlet for a brewery we'll be visiting in a couple of weeks in Saigon, so functioned as something of a preview. They had a mix of delicious dark stouts and IPAs for people into that sort of thing. It was relatively expensive, but the 'relatively' aspect is key here since for five drinks each, several of which fell into the premium 'ultra-strong' category, total bill for the evening was just over a million dong; approximately a tenner a head. Or, to translate into a more relatable metric, around three pints of Kronenberg at the Trafford Centre Namco Station circa 2002.
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  • Hanoi 2 : Electric Boogaloo

    13 mars 2018, Vietnam ⋅ 🌫 19 °C

    After a busy first day in Hanoi and after an evening of alcoholic indulgence, we opted for a more sedate Day 2, setting the alarm for five minutes later, visiting seven or eight cultural sites and walking only a measly thirteen kilometres.

    Much of our initial distance was achieved via periodic shuffling whilst queuing to see the body of Uncle Ho, not the friendly neighbourhood pimp but the affectionate nickname of the reverex revolutionary leader Ho Chi Minh.

    When first approaching the mausoleum from the road we spied a particularly long queue that Mark remarked made the queue for the Reichstag in Berlin, our to-date point of reference for exceptionally long queues within the context of the three of us holidaying together, look short. Alas, on rounding the corner to join this really long line we noted that this was the line for people with appointments to see Ho Chi Minh, which we didn't have.

    Unable to fathom how to secure a spot in a dead man's diary, we continued walking round the complex to find the queue for people with a more spontaneous attitude toward cadaver ogling. We soon found the end of the queue, only it was the end at the end of the queue, as opposed to the start of the queue we could join. We followed the queue through the designated queuing space, out of the designated queuing space, out of the complex, onto the street, across six-or-seven other street, restraining our remarks that this actual queue made the queue we thought was the queue that made the Reichstag queue look short look short until we found the back.

    We never actually found the back of the queue. In an astounding breach of ethics and Englishness, Mark surreptitiously found a gap into which we could queue-jump and myself and Woody, abiding sheep/accomplices that we are, followed. The woman in front of whom we jumped yelled some choice words at us, but she chose them in foreign so didn't sting too much. After much, though unfairly curtailed, queuing we reached the impressive mausoleum and walked through the viewing chamber, kept cool for freshness.

    Uncle Ho has been dead for nearly fifty years. Still is. I've never seen an almost fifty-year post-human human before, but it's honestly not a good look. I think it's fair, and only possibly very slightly offensive, to say that yesterday's preserved giant turtle looks more like a turtle than Uncle Ho looks like a person. To each their own, but family/friends note when I die I don't wish to be placed in a cooled glass case in the centre of a tourism complex with visitor's centre, museum and gift shops. Just the museum will suffice.

    After a brief walk round the museum, wherein limited translations required us to interpret ourselves the meaning of the various esoteric displays, and a quick climb/descent of the single-stilted pagoda the complex closed for lunch. We left and headed toward a temple, though the sheer abundance of temples in Hanoi render such statement meaningless. The temple was nice, though the sheer abundance of nice temples in Hanoi make etc.

    We then walked, and I checked this afterward for accuracy, a billion miles north to visit another temple that was slightly nicer than the previous temple but didn't really satisfy the effort/reward ratio. We then took a taxi back, in which I left my bag containing my passport and so my holiday was over and we'd have to find the embassy and plead for my passage back home, until about five minutes later when the driver returned. We tend not to dwell on epic fails unless committed by persons other than myself, but still God bless that man, and his descendants, and his descendants' descendants, but that'll do.

    The Ho Chi Minh complex reopened, we went for a stroll round Uncle Ho's former home and grounds, including Uncle Ho's fishing hole, Uncle Ho's stilt house and Uncle Ho's classic car collection. Being leader of a nationalist movement for more than three decades, fighting against the Japanese then French colonial powers and then the US-backed South Vietnamese and being President of North Vietnam for fifteen years clearly brings home the bacon.

    Tired and with aching feet we returned hotelwards, coincidentally also in the direction of a temple, for a rest before our planned evening excursion. Walking back past the turtle-tower-temple we'd visited on Day One, now all lit up and pretty at night and likely one of the pictures I'll attach to this post, we went to a Water Puppets performance. It was genuinely very entertaining, even the parts I could only see through the conduit of some dickhead's phone who'd dickheadedly decided to film the first third of the show. It's hard to describe, but closest approximation would be Punch & Judy meets The Muppets on Ice, only the ice has melted due to global warming. A bit like Waterworld. Only good.

    We had steak sandwiches for dinner then tried to find a new bar, but failed and went to the one over the road from the hotel. We had a few beers and eventually remembered probably all the rules to play blackjack. I invented a brand new game called Blackjack Extreme with all-new special rules and cards that we only played once because it was so great.
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  • Hanoi 3 : Han'goi-ver

    14 mars 2018, Vietnam ⋅ ⛅ 23 °C

    Hanoi puns are hard. Recognising the pun as my favourite tool when titling blog entries, we all sat down a couple of days ago to think of some. Brainstorming reaping little, we collectively concurred that the incompatibility of Hanoi with basic wordplay was rather Hanoi-ing...

    Such is the nature of writing in arrears, today's title in fact references the after-effects of the day under review. Whilst far from an Albuquerque Incident II situation, we did drink a fair bit on the evening of Day 3 and, coupled with some exhaustion and dehydration and the heat and the pollution and the persistent honking of horns for literally no reason at all, here in the far-flung future of Day 4 my faculties are a mite subdued.

    So, just time for a quick recap of the day's activities. We started out by visiting the Citadel. The former seat of Imperial power, the site has undergone numerous transformations over the years and been utilised for a great many purposes, from royal palace to military command centre to tourist attraction. The venue's current claim to fame is its Guinness World Record for Loudest Loudspeaker in the 'tour-guide belt-clip' category. Most commonly witnessed delivering a Chinese translated tour for about seven people through quiet rooms where even raising one's voice would be redundant, the skilled operator is famed for their ability to progress through exhibits at precisely the same pace as western tourists so as to completely disable capacity to concentrate and render any reading of artefact descriptions completely impossible. It's ability to incite the instinct to grab the device and crush it in bare hands then chuckle as the debris sprinkles to the ground in a beautiful silence aside from the aforementioned chuckle makes it's persistent existence all the more incredible.

    We then went to the Lenin statue so Mark could do his Lenin pose, as you do, then popped to KFC for a drink. As the Colonel's Secret Recipe appeared disappointingly unchanged for the Vietnamese market, we didn't eat. Also we weren't hungry. In fact we skipped lunch entirely on Day 3, recognising we'd been eating out of habit rather than necessity. Though on reflection that decision may have been a contributor to my present weariness.

    We then went to the Temple of Literature, a Confucion Temple containing the National Academy, Vietnam's first national university. There were some robed graduates there throwing their mortar boards in the air, after which they came down again, definitive proof of gravity's stranglehold on Vietnamese society.

    Next we went to the Fine Arts museum. It was fine.

    We wandered next to the Military Museum, firstly part-ascending the Flag Tower, a square structure taller than it was wide with a stick at the top bearing rectangular cloth emblazoned with the Vietnam country emblem. Whilst Woody and I were fairly certain it was identical from all angles, Mark took photos from every corner just to be sure. This was permitted as we'd purchased a special 'camera ticket' on the way in; presumably a canny way of ensuring national defence secrets can only be committed to film by those able to stump up the 47 pence fee.

    There were numerous military aircraft for us to view and Mark to photograph and some tanks for Mark to photograph and a genuinely impressive sculpture in the courtyard constructed from several war wrecks from combat in the French Indochina War as well as the Vietnam War for Mark to photograph. Not dissimilar to the international killing spree upon which Bond embarked once granted his permission slip, Mark made thorough use of his License to Snap.

    We returned to the hotel, stopping only briefly to drip hot oil down my t-shirt via a fried banana conduit, then had a chat with Phillip, the hotel owner. We told him where we going next and he booked the train tickets for us, gave us a free beer whilst we waited for the email confirmation to arrive and then gave us a discount voucher for a recommended restaurant nearby. In the vast Venn diagram of 'Nam, Phillip most definitely occupies the crossover between 'friendly' and 'cannot do enough for you', whilst intersecting the smaller 'hotel owner' circle and the relatively exclusive 'named Phillip' set. In fact, most everyone we've met or transacted with since we've gotten here has satisfied those first two qualities, rocketing the Vietnamese people right into the Acceptable Foreigners Top 10 list. We later found out Phillip was from Germany, but he can retain an honorary position.

    After unsuccessfully attempting to find me a spare pair of trousers (I'm too tall for literally any garment worn by anybody here ever), we went to the recommended eatery and were met by Phillip's little brother at the door as Phillip had phoned ahead for us because of course he had. For a change we each had portions of carbs and protein with some veg before heading to the nearby bar district, also recommended by Phillip.

    This was by far the most 'touristy' region of Hanoi's Old Quarter we'd witnessed, with the patrons predominantly Chinese or Western. But whilst you'd expect things to be priced at a premium, and technically they were, a circa 25% increase on next-to-nothing remains practically nothing. We had a beer at a street-bar, then were guided to a second-floor bar and greeted by a woman so scantily glad we were momentarily concerned it was something seedier. Turned out to be a normal and very nice bar where we enjoyed a private balcony with stunning views of the balconies and rooftop extensions of the building opposite.

    After a few we went back to Prague Bar, which we'd visited a couple of days earlier by chance and had tables that faced right onto a busy junction - a mesmerising spot to sit and watch the traffic go by. An actual, honestly not sarcastic, fascinating spectacle to observe.

    We ordered beers from the menu we hadn't yet tried, only to be informed by the apologetic waitress that they were out of stock. I jokingly expressed chagrin at this mild inconvenience, but I don't think my humorous tone translated as they rushed out to a different bar to purchase our selected tipple and sell-on to us. Feeling a bit bad about this, we drank up and left a nice tip, which would have been insulting from a monetary perspective in the UK and is apparently insulting from a cultural perspective in Vietnam unless they've done something particularly surplus to requirement, which we felt they had so it was probably okay.

    We then went to another bar where they gave us free shots along with another three beers each. We put our names on the 'winner-stays-on' list for the pool table, on which we all played but didn't stay on. Moderately drunk, we wandered back the hotel and so this morning had the titular Han'goi-ver.

    But since this is written intermittently through the day in 20-30 second bursts, mainly when Mark is taking pictures, I'm feeling quite a lot better now and can likely stomach the Egg Coffee we're walking to try. Will we like it? Find out in tomorrow's thrilling instalment if we have wi-fi on the boat, which is unlikely.
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  • Hanoi 4ever : The Final Chapter

    15 mars 2018, Vietnam ⋅ ⛅ 25 °C

    We began Day 4 in Hanoi with disappointment.

    Upon arriving at breakfast at our semi-regular table at our regular Hanoi hotel, my regular order was unavailable. Toast would be fine they said, no problem whatsoever with the toasting me some bread (aside from their persistent problem of not actually toasting the toast, instead only introducing the bread to a heat-source momentarily then swiftly yanking it away lest it get a sweat on), but they were out of the ingredients to concoct scrambled eggs. Fortunately however they were able to root around in the cupboards to find the completely different required ingredients for fried eggs, so I had those instead. This culinary inventiveness however, per some cognitive one-in-one-out policy, did require them to forget how to make even their own 'interpretation' of toast and so they came served with a crusty roll of bread.

    Fortunately the day quickly recovered from this extremely mild annoyance, though clearly didn't generate sufficient wordage to remove the breakfast bit in the edit.

    Realising it had been almost eighteen hours since we last visited a temple, we first rushed out to a temple. The distinguishing feature for this one, Bach Ma Temple, was it was dedicated to or inspired by a white horse and so had a decorated artificial white horse in the main worshippy section. This was different as, generally, the animals portrayed have been one of the four key spiritual animals: the dragon, the unicorn, the turtle and the fourth one.

    Before Mark told us this one was the white horse temple we momentarily considered that the white horse was a unicorn. In retrospect that was a stupid consideration, though not because the horse was horn-less; a bee without it's stinger remains simply a very safe very dead bee. Turns out unicorns native to Vietnam look quite dissimilar to their western genetic cousins, something we learnt at our next stop, the National History Museum.

    The journey there was quite fascinating as it involved walking through the French Quarter, an area of the city we'd heard rumours was now dilapidated as the result of some dastardly scheme to revenge historical repressive transgressions with subdued real-estate prices. This transpired to be fake news as instead it was the fanciest, most up-market district of the city, home to a Prada store, a Rolls Royce garage and a Hilton hotel no-doubt peeved about their ranking in the Google search results. It was still Hanoi so the streets were as perilous to cross as ever, but it was the sort of area where you felt if you got struck the emergency services might actually attend the scene.

    Near the one and only and very busy petrol station in Hanoi (that we saw during our brief stay) we found the museum. We learnt things aside from the weird-unicorn tidbit, which I'm yet to fully verify, but that's the only thing that really stuck - still had a bit of a han'goi-ver at this point. I learnt something about the Mongols I hadn't known previously, but that was something Woody told me so doesn't count.

    After being kicked-out so the museum staff could go for lunch, we headed to the Women's Museum, where we finally learnt about women. There were exhibits on marriage traditions, birthing rituals and some very sombre displays telling the stories of female rebels killed whilst fighting for freedom. There was also space dedicated to the Mother Goddess, an important deity to many Vietnamese people whom they thank when things go well, pray to when things go badly and are just text once-or-twice a week when things are fine. She likes beer and Mother Goddess shrines usually contain stacks of beer cans gifted to her. It is in honour of the Mother Goddess that we have been sure to consume a beer every evening since arriving.

    For lunch we stopped at a roadside outlet and indulged in another Vietnamese specialty, pho. A couple of us had tried pho before, at Pho no less, and I can say with confidence that Pho restaurant in the UK nails the taste absolutely, if not the rough-and-ready ambience ours and therefore presumably all genuine pho is served.

    After lunch we headed to the Ambassadors Pagoda, in my view the most impressive pagoda we've yet seen. Discussion regarding this assessment raised the valid concern as to whether the grounds surrounding a pagoda should be factored into it's overall aesthetic merit, in which case the Confucian temple wins the gold star. We agreed that the best outcome would be to put the Ambassadors Pagoda in the Temple of Literature grounds and so filed the appropriate planning applications to make it happen. We also found some guy apparently asleep on the floor one of the shrine rooms so, mature thirty-somethings that we are, took a sneaky selfie with him in lieu of checking for a pulse.

    We stopped by Lenin park, entry to which is free for locals but a gouging 60p for tourists, which we were racially-profiled to be. Whilst beautifully kept, it looked as though it had once tried to be a rudimentary amusement park but hadn't removed the tired attractions and rides once the attempt had failed/ceased. There was also a serious lack of Lenin, 100% less in fact than where we'd seen the Lenin statue a couple of days back. We postulated that the statue might be better placed here so as to more efficiently consolidate the Lenin experience into a convenient singular locale for Lenin-heads to congregate and collectively get their Lenin-on, but had filed enough paperwork for one day.

    We visited yet another temple (I'm not souring on the experience, but there's only so much you can say). This one felt akin to a community centre, with kids playing football in the courtyard. We got told off for sitting on the steps with our back to the shrine and were pointed toward the designated seating area, but left in shame.

    To conclude the day part of the day we trekked to the venue claiming to produce the original Hanoi 'egg coffee', situated in a narrow alley nestled between tens of imitators. Basically a cappuccino with the milk replaced with a whipped egg-whites/butter/cheese mixture and was far more delicious than Mark and I anticipated. Woody, disliking coffee and egg and with a very finite tolerance for hot drinks in general, decided it probably wasn't for him.

    In the evening we decided to bypass the traditional 'seated dinner' for a true street-food experience, ordering steak butties from a roadside vendor before being directed to a table in hitherto unseen seating area. Determined to eat on our feet we finished our tasty sandwiches and found somebody grilling skewers at the side of the road for seconds. Failing to find a sufficiently grubby-looking dessert purveyor on the streets, we settled for a blended ice-cream dessert in a place sufficiently clean to be labelled a 'parlour', then headed to the hotel for an early night ahead of our boat trip tomorrow where, as expected, I've no Wi-Fi so haven't been able to post this until Saturday. Call off the rescue squads - we're alive!
    En savoir plus

  • Ha Long Bay from home

    17 mars 2018, Vietnam ⋅ ⛅ 23 °C

    After working fairly hard so far this holiday, we decided to go on holiday.

    For our mini-break we went for a 24-hour cruise into then back out of Ha Long Bay. We had to wake early to get to the travel office by 7:45 ; not even enough time for the hotel to tell me they don't have the ingredients for what I would usually order, so we each had quick untoasted 'toast' instead.

    (Disclaimer : our hotel in Hanoi was and is fantastic, digs are affectionate and my TripAdvisor review confirms this stance)

    Our journey from Hanoi to Ha Long harbour felt swifter than it was, on a reasonably comfortable bus with interesting scenery and a brief bathroom-break stop at a shop selling imported goods at imported prices, presumably mainly to tourists making the same journey we were.

    The harbour was organised chaos, with much an abundance of the latter diluting any hint of the former. Finally reaching the waterside we were vaguely shepherded toward a small boat labelled 'Treasure Junk', the name of the boat we'd booked. After putting on our lifejackets, taking a seat on hard wooden benches and wondering where we were supposed to plug in our essential smart-appliances, also sleep, it became clear that this was a smaller shuttle boat to take us to the main boat.

    (Disclaimer : this was clear way before this moment, but portrayed as it happened would be less narratively satisfying)

    The main boat, the actual Treasure Junk, looked slightly worn from the exterior, but was stunning on the inside. Like a floating 4-ish star hotel, we knew instantly that this would be the most luxurious accommodation we'd be experiencing during our trip.

    The rooms were immaculate, with beautifully kept furnishings, waterfall shower facilities, stunning sea views (which, fair enough, not too admirable an accomplishment for a room on a boat) and, having strategically outplayed my compatriots in a heated match of rock-paper-scissors, I had won the added benefit of a room all to myself. It was almost a shame that our itinerary was so jam-packed, we'd be spending little-to-no time in them.

    First they fed us. We were seated to a table with menus listing seven listed meals we naturally assumed would either be options on a buffet or from which we could select our preferences. Instead we were each brought all seven courses of perfectly cooked and flavoured seafood in succession. The dessert course included a mysterious fruit, white with black spots that when tasted conveyed neither texture nor taste, rendering it both unique and utterly un-noteworthy. On reflection, I'm not entirely sure there was any fruit, perhaps my limited perception of it was a hallucination caused by some poorly-cooked seafood, my assessment of it as being perfectly cooked itself a symptom, or maybe some sort of magic-eye placemat. Woody said it was dragon-fruit, which is appropriate as dragons don't exist either.

    Next we went kayaking. Each kayak held two people and, following a team rock-paper-scissors performance to rival our lunchtime doubles kickabout days, Woody and I were paired. Weight distribution is important in a kayak and, my natural height and strict regime of unhealthy food and minimal exercise paying-off, my bulk had to be seated at the back and Woody at the front. To use completely accurate kayaking terminology used by the crew, I was the King and Woody my Queen. Just like in that dream I once had.

    We kayaked to a nearby beach, taking in the gorgeous scenery as we went. We quickly achieved a good rowing rythmn, our years at the gym together rotating through every apparatus aside from the rowing machine reaping reward. Upon reaching the beach, Mark was overjoyed to find the first cave of the holiday, which was like this concave chamber in the cliffside that you could walk into and everything. More, way way more, on the caves front to come.

    In the evening we attended a spring roll rolling demonstration, then got to roll ones for ourselves. They were the same dish we'd tried constructing at Woody's birthday/housewarming party last month but had found difficult to wrap due to the stickiness of the rice paper. Turns out the trick is to make the rice paper less sticky.

    We had some beer on deck as the sun set then went for our predictably-by-now fancy dinner. We then tried our hand at squid fishing. This involved them turning on some bright lamps over the water, theoretically to attract squid, and having us hold poles supporting un-baited hooks over the side of the boat. That there appeared to be no plan in place as to what we'd do if we caught a squid suggests they didn't expect us to, and these expectations were met. We stood there for quite a while and, though we couldn't find the hidden cameras, I'm convinced the activity was being filmed for idiot-tourists-look-what-we-made-them-do.com

    We had an early start on the second day, assembling on the deck for a Tai Chi lesson before a light breakfast then sailing to the floating village. This was, and still is presuming no typhoon has struck in the past day, a community living in floating shacks in Hanoi bay, their economy centred around the cultivation of pearls. We were first taken on a boat tour of the village, rowed through by a slight Vietnamese woman with incredible shoulder strength, culminating at workshop where we were taught how pearls were made before they tried to sell us the pearls they, or more accurately the oysters, made. The jewellery was very nice, laid out for tourists and for sale at tourist prices, but I was totally about to drop a few grand on a necklace before realising my girlfriend is vegan so mightn't appreciate it.

    (Disclaimer: I wasn't, but actually now wouldn't. Creating and harvesting pearls is sadistically clever but needlessly brutal and nobody should buy them or wear them for any reason, ever)

    After this we went for a 9:45am lunch then sailed back toward the harbour for a bus back to Hanoi to walk to collect our bags from the ever-helpful Phillip at the highly-recommended Hanoi Brother Inn & Travel hotel (tell 'em Nick sent ya and you'll get the same deal as everybody else) then walk to the station to catch a sleeper train to Phong Nha-Kẻ Bàng National Park, our next destination, where Mark promises there'll be caves. Which I'm really really looking forward to...

    (Disclaimer: the rule-of-three dictates that this is one-to-many disclaimers)
    En savoir plus

  • Phong Nha-ke Bang - Caving In

    19 mars 2018, Vietnam ⋅ ⛅ 24 °C

    (Featuring our special caves correspondent, Mark!)

    Caves are cool.

    They did it with Westworld. They did it with Star Trek. They tried to do it with Power Rangers and they failed miserably with The Mummy. And now somehow Mark has managed to take something dreary, dormant and rocky (they also did it with Rocky) and successfully reboot it into actual entertainment.

    I can't give Mark all the credit however. I gave him full credit for our last group caving excursion to Carlsbad Caverns someplace in the USA (I forget exactly where, my repression techniques are working), and it was a consequence of this experience that I approached the caves at Phong Nha-ke Bang with trepidation.

    Credit here though must also go to Phong Nha Discovery Tours, the facilitators of our tour of the Paradise and Dark caves on Day 1. There's a certain ambience to organised tours in Vietnam; an enjoyable, ramshackle mania that makes it feel as though they just discovered these caves last week and so quickly cobbled together a visitors centre from banana leaves and bamboo and diverted the local bus service to ferry people to it. If we could actually understand the words the guides are frequently yelling at one other, perhaps comparing their running tallies of tourist fatalities, it would certainly take something away from the experience.

    Also want to give props to our main man Kris, the assigned guide for the day, who maintained an exiteable aura throughout the day, snapping pictures of the group and mixing jokes with fact (edutainment?) as he taught us some Vietnamese geography and history.

    As we travelled in our bus through the jungle on Victory Road, a key transport route during the American war, he explained to us how Vietnam was shaped like a letter S (debatable, but I see it) or, alternatively, like a woman (perhaps, after you've had a few drinks and imagining the woman doing a particularly painful yoga pose). Expanding upon his analogy further, Kris explained how as we were now in the approximate middle of the country, Phong Nha-ke Bang could be considered the 'sexy bits'.

    Keen to capture Vietnam's sexy bits on film, Mark had ensured his camera was thoroughly charged, fitted his other Go-Pro-like action-cam into its waterproof casing and ensured memory card capacity by uploading all previous pictures to his portable hard drive. In fairness, he did this every day, but feels most pertinent to mention here.

    We briefly stopped for the pre-show that was Eight Ladies Cave, less a cave more a shrine built into a naturally-formed cubby-hole, which Mark attended cosplaying as one of the titular ladies. We then proceeded to the first feature presentation; Paradise Cave. Whilst a respectable effort, this cave was very much from the 2001 Tim Burton Planet of the Apes school of reboots; too similar to the original in some ways (flashbacks of Carlsbad), too different in others (had to ascend a winding slippery slope to get there) and with an ending that was somehow both a retread and frustrating in it's own right (back up the stairs we came down).

    For some genuine geological commentary, I pass you to our special caves-correspondent, Mark:

    "It was aethetically very pleasing, well illuminated, and not garish. The variations of stalactites and stalacmites, their shape and sculpture, particularly notable. The overall scale of the place was breathtaking. There aren't many geology jokes."

    Thank-you Mark.

    We then travelled fifteen minutes to the Dark Cave, where we were first given lunch. This consisted of piles of meat and rice in massive wicker baskets that brought to mind the dustbin-lid presentation style of Reds Barbecue, and contained similar quantities of food. Having consumed a heavy meal, we recalled the rule that you should only swim within two hours of eating, so headed to the waterside without delay.

    The fastest route was via zipline. I was nervous as I'm not a fan of jumping off ledges at heights that would kill me were it not for apparatus I haven't fitted myself, don't fully comprehend and haven't examined the warranty for, but Woody was in the queue in front of me and his survival of the experience gave me faith. Mark slightly exceeded the weight requirements for the zipline, invalidating both the attraction's insurance policy, his personal travel insurance policy and endangering both his life and all those that might follow him, so I made sure he was in the queue behind me.

    Upon touchdown I agreed the zipline had been exhilerating, safe in the knowledge we wouldn't have to go on one again. We walked to the water where there were some boats waiting to be told we would have to swim. We swam toward a nearby cave mouth and a small jetty poking out the front. Woody enjoyed ascending the jetty ladder so much he decided to slip and fall back into the water just so he could have a second go.

    We then walked single-file into the Dark Cave, named genuinely for its darkness. We were each wearing helmets with lights attached, these being our only source of illumination. As the passageway became gradually narrower the floor underfoot became muddier, eventually culminating in a large pool of mud that we all waded into. It was doing that Dead Sea shtick where you could naturally float on the surface and we were told the mud was good for our skin, but then they always say and I've yet to see Boots start stocking big tubs of mud in place of Oil of Olay.

    After walking through mud to mud and coating ourselves in said mud, we were rather muddy. On our exit from the cave we were invited to go down a mudslide, with the promise this would make us briefly muddier but conclude in a clean water pool in which we could wash-off the magic regenerative exfoliating goop.

    Once outside we had the opportunity to kayak once more, this time in a three-way arrangement whereby Woody and I ruled as co-Kings with Mark as our shared Queen. Basically we rowed, whilst Mark took pictures. We ended up back at the visitors centre, where Mark & Woody raced on a mini-zipline (I'd had quite enough of that) followed by a few rum & cokes in the bar and Mark had a staring contest with a fire-ant. In all, an excellent afternoon that thoroughly restored 'cave' from its standing as an occasional curse-word to that which invokes open-minded intrigue. This was Rise of The Planet of the Apes style rebootery ; I would queue-up for the sequel and even buy the Blu-ray.

    Then the next day happened. We went on a lovely boat trip into a huge cave and all was well and epic and wow but then Mark said we'd be going up a mountain to a temple. 'Brilliant' we thought, so did. The climb was tough-going, steep and in sweltering heat but the views were phenomenal. Alas, however, when we reached the summit there was no temple, only cave. An okay cave, but hardly a good cave. Think War for the Planet of the Apes; acceptable I guess, but that'll do.

    This sort of duplicitous ploy is precisely what gives caves a bad name and Mark's mislead why the world looks down on geological professions with scorn. With only the descent then a late, hot, 90-minute bus journey then 4-hour train journey to look forward to today, this was a monumental letdown. Still I'll say one thing for caves, after a humid sweaty climb in the baking Vietnamese climate they have a singular redeeming feature:

    Caves are cool.
    En savoir plus

  • A-Hué we Go!

    20 mars 2018, Vietnam ⋅ ⛅ 25 °C

    There were no seats available on our train from Dong Hoi so we had to book beds for the journey to Hué. It being late afternoon and only three-ish hours away, we didn't get much shut-eye, but the lie-down proved beneficial when we reached Hué and, after barging our way through a throng of Vietnamese offering us ludicrously inexpensive taxi deals, discovered it was a thirty-five minute walk to the hotel.

    But it was good to stretch our legs, see a bit of the city and having only walked about 12km so far that day, most of it up-hill to see a temple that turned out to be a cave, the prospect of an additional 3km with 15kg strapped to our backs was too tantalising to miss.

    First impressions of Hué are that it feels like a far more modern city than Hanoi. By which I don't mean Hanoi isn't modern, by definition everything that literally exists now is modern, but I mean Hué feels more modern than some other places. Except for the ancient ruins, which feel old but not really all that ancient. I mean it's not the future like Tokyo or the past like Amish Country but closer to the middle than you might expect. I don't know what I mean.

    The city economy is most definitely driven by tourism, with Hué being positioned as the perfect halfway destination for people travelling North-to-South or South-to-North and the only destination of note for those undertaking the very short and far less popular East-West route. There are an abundance of bars, restaurants, tour-operators, mini-marts and hotels, all of which we made use of in our first day (categorically, not literally). Our chosen hotel was down a narrow dark alley close to the wide, well-lit tourist streets.

    'Chosen' is a somewhat grandiose descriptor for the process of selecting amongst the tiny percentage of hotels offering rooms to accommodate three adult males without infringing our night-time intimacy boundaries. But our hotel, 'The Times', is a lovely place with great facilities that I'm assured is in no way affiliated with the Murdoch empire.

    After dropping off our laundry to be processed for the princely sum of a quid a kilo, we ventured out via a tour-operator, to book our following day's excursion, then on toward the former Imperial Citadel. En route, it began to rain so we popped into a shop to buy some umbrellas.

    The umbrellas were of equivalent build-quality to a primary school kid's art project. You would tell them 'well done' and possibly hang on the handle of the fridge door, but wouldn't use outside lest the rain dissolve the papier-mâché canopy and weaken the lollypop-stick spokes, condensing the apparatus to a PVA-soaked mound atop a resistant yoghurt-pot handle.

    But some form of portable sheltering was certainly required, most essentially for Mark so he could perform his visual documentation duties. In our tight role-based group structure it has evolved that Mark is our Planner, Co-ordinator and Photographer, I'm our Scribe and occasional Navigator and Woody is here too. Alas, the need to both hold his camera and umbrella in such a way that the umbrella also protected the camera proved difficult. This repeated reconfiguration of equipment, coupled with the frustration of idle tourists wandering into his perfectly framed shots at the very point of perfect shelter/shutter alignment, pushed our photographer to peak perturbation before we'd even entered the Imperial City gates.

    Mark. Was. Furious. The anger eminating from his being only intensified when he noticed an interloper blotching his viewfinder in the form of a tiny dust-mite. Much as the Southern Vietnam troops occupying the citadel must have felt in January 1968 when, as part of the Tet Offensive, a Division-sized force of the People's Army of Vietnam and Viet Cong soldiers invaded, Mark was incensed by the intrusion and found it troublesome to extract. However, a quick Google search clarified this to in fact be an intentional in-built system designed to keep the aperture dust-free, confirming the mite to be a feature, not a bug.

    The rain soon ceased and we wandered through the Citadel and Imperial City calm and dry. Outside the city walls we found two clusters of cannons. One set of five represented the different elements, smartly conserving bronze by eschewing the periodic table quantities for a more Captain Planet inspired approach. The remaining four cannons represented spring, summer, autumn and winter; whilst the capital city may have the Hanoi Hilton, Hué has the Four-Seasons Cannons (DID-YOU-SEE-WHAT-I-DID-THERE!?!)

    There was much to see in the Imperial City: the ornate Throne Room, the former Forbidden City (patch of grass), nine dynastic urns opposite ten shrines for eight out of the thirteen emperors, the Reading Room, the Long Corridor, the Flag Tower, the Pavilion, the other Pavilion, gates, gates, more gates and gates being restored to their former gateness, several gardens, numerous courtyards, we fed some fish, had some ice-cream and for reasons hummed the A-Team theme-tune in harmonious adagio tempo. It was a full day, and took up most of it.

    After walking over the river to the Dieu De National Pagoda it was surprisingly late in the day so we headed back toward the hotel. We stopped-off at the first supermarket we've seen to buy some interesting hot-dog pizza-breads for a late lunch which we followed with a round of not-sure-whats a lady was making on the street outside. They were like deep-fried sweet-bread doughnuts with sesame seeds and delicious. We also finally found some Dark Choco-Pies, which since I've not explained the ubiquity of the brand nor previously chronicled the quest to locate this particular variant will mean little to anybody except us.

    In the evening we went out for food, accompanied by several good-quality beers that cost 30 pence each. We like Vietnam.
    En savoir plus

  • DMZ Run : It's Tricky

    21 mars 2018, Vietnam ⋅ ⛅ 25 °C

    You know me. I like to keep these write-ups breezy. I shoot for an irreverent tone, keep any criticisms tongue-in-cheek, and maintain relative detachment from facts and detail whilst delivering accounts of interesting occurrences that reflect our personal experience with a brand of wit that has been reviewed as both 'trys too hard' and 'must try harder'. When we in the future leaf back through the hardback copy of this travel book I sincerely hope it will bring back memories, bring a smile and above all else be a concise record of our trip without any superfluous sentences or unnecessary pentasyllabic words or tiresome lists of exemplar alternatives inserted only out of pure self-indulgence on my part so as to satisfy my own personal penchant for meta-commentary.

    I mention as there may be a degree of tonal disparity with today's entry. We had booked, and took, a 10-hour day trip to the former DMZ (De-Militarised Zone) wherein we saw and learnt about a great many things that aren't at all funny. I'll be trying for a nuanced spirit, trying harder than usual without trying too hard, but will shy from making the heavy light.

    It will be tricky; I did go back and forth on the blog title but figured I was moderately safe with an obtuse pun that doesn't really work and references something that hasn't been relevant since the 90s. Well, I guess it's like that, and that's the way it is. Huh.

    We'd arranged to be picked up at 7:30am, giving us just enough time to grab breakfast first. Unfortunately for our driver the road outside our hotel, The Times, is currently a-changing; the resurfacing works blocking the through-road and meaning that although he could reach the front of our hotel we had to very very slowly reverse out of the narrow alley before we could get going.

    Our first stop was to pick-up our English-speaking tour-guide in a town on the way that was sufficiently unnotable to not make a note of. She was wearing a very loud top emblazoned with the massive words 'CHOOSE JUICY', designed by Juicy Couture. This, we felt, might jar slightly with the serious history she'd be imparting through the day. It did.

    We first travelled along the Highway of Horror. As a result of the Easter Offensive of 1972, the nearby Quang Tri province was lost to the North and people fled down this highway, the only escape route. Many, many people died, as is reinforced by the many gravestones in the one of many cemetaries we visited. We had to cross an active railway on foot to reach it and our driver was nearly hit by a train as it's nigh impossible to tell the horn of an oncoming train from the stupid amount of horns being honked by highway traffic. I saw a Caramac wrapper on the railway track and remarked I was surprised this particular snack had made it's way to Vietnam and wondered if they still made them in the UK as I've not seen them for ages. Woody told me they do.

    Next we visited Long Hung Church. This place was subject to 8 days of continuous attack and bombings during the same offensive, and it shows, being little more than ruins. It has been kept as it was, with its remaining walls strewn with bullet-holes. Tourists used to be able to pry bullets from the wall as souvenirs, but they're all gone now.

    We next passed by The Rockpile, which was a US Marine outpost atop an outcropping of rock in the shape of a gigantic pile, hence the imaginative name. It was smart positioning as the pile was unscaleable, with marine shifts being facilitated with helicopters. As such, we couldn't drive up it and could only see it from afar, illustrating a poor lack of aforethought on the part of the Americans who should really have predicted it's future pertinence as a tourist attraction. We took a selfie, as objectively this wasn't too depressing.

    During a walk through a small village we remarked on the ubiquity and versatility of bamboo, which the locals seemed to be employing for a dizzying myriad of purposes. In the west we're giving Nobel prizes to Graphene and the Vietnamese have been using the true wonder material for centuries.

    After viewing but not crossing the Dak Dong Bridge, a key junction of the Ho Chi Minh trail that was used by the North to transport troops and supplies during the Vietnam War (which incidentally the Vietnamese refer to as the American War, for obvious reasons), we visited a former combat base, now a coffee plantation. Mark and I had some coffee and Mark bought some coffee and Woody still doesn't like coffee and then we went for lunch.

    Following some average grub at a place packed with coach parties so you know it was overpriced but it's still Vietnam so it was embarrassingly cheap, we went north to the actual DMZ zone. The rocks and hills suddenly disappeared entirely and we were in a wide, flat space filled with paddy fields. We reached the Ben Hai River, the natural divisional boundary between the former North and South Vietnam, and walked over the Hien Luong Bridge that crosses it. In the middle there's a line representing the formal border. In addition there's something called the 17th parallel that was a proposed but unused border line but I don't know what that is and didn't want to ask because everyone else seemed to know already.

    On both sides of the river there were enormous loudspeakers that had once been used by each side to broadcast propaganda at incredible volumes at one another. Both sides also used to compete to make sure they had the highest flagpole, regularly destroying their opponent's and forcing repeated, hasty rebuilds. Such juvenile japes, reminiscent of prank-wars between rivalling summer camps in films I've never seen but have seen referenced sufficiently to know they must be a thing, sounded quite amusing and brought a temporary touch of levity to the day's mood. It was easy to imagine a Vietnamese Rowan-Atkinson-type uttering sardonic quips pertaining to such events in Blackadder Goes Pho.

    Our final stop was the Vinh Moc tunnels. These were subterrainian tunnel dug into the clay over thirteen months and occupied intermittently for five years by the local farming community of circa 100 people in a similar fashion to an air-raid shelter. We were able to go underground through the tunnels and view the pokey living and utility spaces.

    It was set over three levels down to a depth of 23 metres. We were given some plastic, made-in-cheapest-part-of-China, 'Baby's First Flashlight'-standard torches to help light our way through. Mark and I had to duck for most of our time underground as the ceilings were constructed intentionally low so as to be burdensome should Americans ever infiltrate, again showing poor precognition as to the site's future commerciality. Exploring the tunnels was admittedly rather fun (at one point we found the coastline!), though it was harrowing to think how people lived there. There were many impact craters to be seen topside, showing just how under-attack this area had been and how clever an idea and well-constructed the tunnel network was.

    Overall it was a good day. Sombre in places but certainly very interesting; I learnt a lot and would recommend it to others. On the drive back we passed some fields where they were growing peanuts. Our tour-guide spoke excellent English, leaps and bounds ahead of my Vietnamese, but it transpired she couldn't quite pronounce 'peanuts', unintentionally omitting the 't' sound. We passed a lot of such fields, necessitating frequent repetition. It would have been more embarrassing to correct her.

    Dinner will be addressed separately.
    En savoir plus

  • Hué Delicacies - Something's Fishy

    21 mars 2018, Vietnam ⋅ ⛅ 19 °C

    We're in a new city. We want to experience the local culture. We've had a long day on the road touring the DMZ and we're hungry. We should sample the local cuisine.

    I consult the Lonely Planet book. Lonely Planet will know where to go. Lonely Planet won't steer us wrong. Lonely Planet is our friend.

    The book tells us the Hué delicacy is Royal Rice Cakes. Great, we think. We like rice, we enjoy cake and whilst I don't care for our Royal family, at least not to the extent I feel the media expects me to, perhaps the relevant royalty here had an exceptional palate and thusly their attributable fare, in keeping with the other Vietnamese specialties we've sampled, will be delicious.

    Also we have rice cakes at home and they're fine. These ones, the book informs, are a little different, but the difference seems to be the addition of shrimp; an addition that consistently heightens any experience. The picture looks promising and anything achieving the echelon of 'local delicacy' must possess certain merits.

    The recommended outlet isn't far. We walk the five minutes to it, turning up our noses at the similarly-named shop next-door attempting to coast on the coat-tails.

    We're brought a menu. There's six items on it. We don't know what to choose but the lady conveys to us in Mr Bean mannerisms that we can order and share all of them for about a tenner. We trust the lady. The lady won't steer us wrong. We like Mr Bean.

    We wait, salivating with anticipation. They're doing that Wagamamas thing where they bring things when they're ready so they don't need to properly manage their kitchen like every other restaurant does. It doesn't take long for the first plate to arrive.

    Dish one is actually a tray filled with twelve smaller dishes. Four apiece - bargain! Each is filled with a white, jellified substance topped with dried bits of bits and a fried morsel of pig skin; a proximate pork scratching. It isn't immediately clear how we eat them, but the lady kindly illustrates we're supposed to pry it from the sides of the dish with a spoon then contort it into a bitesize blob that we consume. We oblige.

    The pork scratching is nice.

    The shrimp bits might have been were they not now infused with the white goop, that presumably at some point in the manufacture involved rice. It doesn't taste of rice. It tastes of, and neatly mirrors the consistency of, what I imagine a cooled tub of cooking fat might taste like if I was dumb enough to eat it, with a hint of fish.

    Ah well, we figure. There was bound to be one we didn't like, just what rotten luck that it's the first one. Undeterred, the second plate arrives and we eagerly dig in for our hopes to be partially validated. The puffed rice cracker topped with savoury cream and a shrimp is fine. Not nice, but broadly recognisable as sustainance. Notably, this is the only dish pictured in the book.

    In quick succession the remaining plates appear. Overwhelmed, and with a degree of dread pertaining to what lies in the periphery, we employ tunnel-vision and take from the plate holding what looks like the sliced innards of pork pies, only less appetising. We don't think it's pork. Its possibly sausagised shrimp, but that we can't tell is of concern.

    Of the three other plates, one stands out as the preferred option. Like how the 'red one' looks the least repellant of the Aftershock liqueur range. Translucent, flat, gummy disks rolled like crepes and sprinkled with the same dried shrimp they must have buckets of in the back. They're easy to pick-up and hold with chopsticks, which is about all I'll say for them. Useful though, as it's less easy than usual to convince my lips to part and embrace this alien matter as nourishment.

    Nausea brewing, we cast our eyes upon the similar-looking though differently proportioned contents of the final two plates. Cursory examination only reveals that whatever we are to convince our gullet to permit passage is wrapped in banana leaves. Unless we're supposed to eat the banana leaves which, despite being indigestible by humans, following was has preceeded might be a step-up.

    We cautiously unwrap the leaves. It's a little like unpeeling a napkin from a slice of birthday cake that's been smushed into a kid's party-bag. Unfolding the final leaf-fold we find the contents don't fall free of their wrappings but cling to it, like the sticky, globby, snotty gunk it appears to be.

    I dry heave. Caught within this gelatinous web of putrified spewtum is some sort of protein, cooked so as perfectly resemble a chunk of congealed vomit. We're British and polite so we have to scrape this crap off the garden-cuttings and introduce it to our digestive system.

    We're living-out the dinner scene from Temple of Doom, only the beheaded primate has sneezed-out it's chilled monkey brain then cleaned it's nose with the same leaf it just finished wiping it's arse with. A hygienic monkey to be sure, but not tantalising gourmet.

    The sole acceptable plate of almost-food has already been polished-off. We won't finish the rest. We sit back, contemplate the sheer ludicrousness of our unappetising, inedible banquet and laugh. And laugh and laugh. I'm almost in tears. This is a memory we'll hang onto always and will forever recontextualise any piffling complaint we have with a restaurant's output.

    After a rather morose day, despite in no way sating our hunger, this experience was somehow what we needed. Now if only we can find a cowboy bar and some cheap beer, we'll be all set.
    En savoir plus

  • Hôi An Then...An then, An then, An then.

    23 mars 2018, Vietnam ⋅ ⛅ 26 °C

    Got to do a bit of catch-up. What with taking a day-off (during my holiday, no less) and then generously doing two entries for a single day, I've fallen a bit behind...

    So then, having been told tales, overhead candid comments and Mark having read in the book how nice the drive from Hué to Hôi An is, we had arranged a private car to take us on the journey to our next destination.

    An then the car arrived at the time we'd scheduled so we got in. It was a nice car, but I don't do car-brands so that's as much as I can tell you. We set-off through the busy morning Hué traffic, the roads entering the city packed with travelling culinary connoisseurs hoping to taste these Royal Rice Cakes they'd heard so many good things about.

    An then, a bit later, we arrived at the first stop on our drive. It was a drive with stops; forgot to mention that. First stop was a beach; I'll ask Mark what it was called later before I post this, unless I don't. There was a thin strip of sand to walk on out into the water, which was either the sea or a lake depending on where we were. We took a selfie as you do, or we do...or I do and they smile politely when caught in in the snap-radius. There was a theoretically nice view, but it was shrouded in mist.

    Now then, the weather. Aside from the one mention of rain I've been rather coy as to the weather we've been experiencing. Our pictures might tell a thousand words, a pitiful benchmark I smash daily, but there's truly just one word needed: overcast. Like, all the time. There's been a few isolated moments of cloud-break, and the sun made a brief cameo appearance to ensure we were toasty and warm climbing that mountain in Phong Nha-ke Bang, but that's been it. Travelling south, we held hope this might change.

    An then we reached Hai Van Pass; the highest pass in Vietnam, made famous by Top Gear back when it was great; when the trio felt like a begrudging partnership fuelled by cut-throat one-upmanship as opposed to the warm friendship they share now, which I guess is what happens when you hire the friendly guy from Friends. There was a ruined French fort at the peak crawling with tourists, so we joined them. You could climb around, in and on it, but for some reason at no point did any one of us stand on top, fart in a general direction then issue command in accent to boil bottoms and compare the aroma of mothers to elderberries. Must be the humidity...

    An then we reached the Marble Mountains, a cluster of five hills (so not mountains then...) just south of Da Nang, made primarily of marble and everybody's favourite sedimentary composite, limestone. There's only one hill you can go up and, despite strong 4/5 odds against, by lucky chance our driver took us to that one. There were tens of street stalls at the base selling marble figurines, but Mark advised this was imported marble, not marble from the Marble Mountains as if they were to use marble from the Marble Mountains there'd be no Marble Mountains where they could sell their imported marble. There was a neat-looking lift that took visitors to the top.

    An then we took the steps. We found a fantastic dragon sculpture,a temple, a giant buddha and a pagoda. Not entirely surprising, but a far more satisfying peak experience than the fabled temple-in-a-cave fiasco.

    An then we found a temple in a cave! It was genuinely impressive, making the previous broken promise sting all the more in retrospect. Within this temple we found a bank of rocks you definitely were It supposed to go up, so we scrambled up and did some free-hand rock climbing that none of us are insured for. It didn't go anywhere special, so we came back, but got to briefly feel like Indiana Jones. He never used to take lifts either.

    An then there was light! Not merely a trick of the eyes on our exit from the cave, the sun finally made it's overdue entrance in a sustained capacity, finally justifying the sun-cream we'd been applying daily, the volume of ice-cream we'd been consuming I'd somehow managed not yet to lose.

    An then, later that day, I lost my sunglasses.

    An then we thought we were done, but instead of turning toward the exit we tried the other direction, for a giggle, and found the place was even bigger than it looked. We found another pagoda, another cave...

    An then another. An another.

    An another.

    We climbed up a steep set of steps leading to what Mark told us was the highest point on the mountain.

    An then another, when the first turned out to be only the second highest peak. An then another cave/temple/combo. An another an another an we were running out of time, the amount of time we'd self-determined would be likely too long to expect our driver to wait, so had to rush through the final twenty-to-thirty attractions and get back to the car.

    An then, after checking-in to our Hôi An hotel, we went for a wander to the old town. The streets lined with tailors, on a whim we decided to spend a few hundred quid on suits.

    An then we did. Mark made a beeline for the best fabric for his suit then issued a decree that nobody else could have it. Woody complied, but I waited until Mark had gone for his fitting before sneakily selecting the same one. For the fitting itself we had to strip-off, put 'special' underwear over our own then be scanned by a Terminator-style red laser so they could build us polystyrene doubles to dress. It's here I think I lost my sunglasses. Something something T1000, something something sunglasses, something something chill out dickwad.

    An then we went for a lovely meal where we feasted on local specialties that don't make you hurl. Hué take note. We had white rose dumplings (5/10), spring rolls (9/10), crispy wontons (7/10) and local dish Cao Lau, which is basically noodles, pork and veg in a broth but was delicious (10/10). They supposedly achieve this unique taste by using water from an undisclosed ancient Cham well outside of town for every dish.

    An then the next morning we visited the Ba Le well, claimed to be the source of this water. This location is both disclosed and is inside the town. A mislead perhaps? It wasn't much to look at. Mark called it under-well-ming, which I told him was good enough to get in the blog.

    An then we properly toured the old town. Once again there were temples. I'd say they were amongst some of the best temples we've seen yet, though I'd be hard-pushed to tell you why. Probably because it was sunny. One had conical ringed incense burning sticks hanging from the ceiling, confounding all those who'd claimed innovation in the incense field had peaked.

    An then we tried to view a heritage house but it was closed for three weeks because the owner was away. Like how they close Alton Towers every time Mr Towers has a dentist's appointment.

    But then we found another an then another etc. They each had their own 'special skill' they were keen to demonstrate to us with a view to selling us the product. Be it embroidery, silk, lucky coins, ceramics...we saw all and bought none. Well, we bought one, but I bought it for a gift so won't say what.

    An there were lots of these places and a Japanese bridge an they were all very interesting but to tell all would frustrate my 'catching up' intent.

    An then in the evening, after two suit follow-up fittings and a failed attempt to find a massage venue with availability and reasonable pricing, we had everything we'd had for dinner the previous night for dinner again that scored 7/10 or higher. Incidentally on our first night there'd been some sort of festival/celebration happening in the town with boats and lanterns aplenty and we felt lucky and fortunate to have coincidentally arrived in Hói An on such an occasion.

    An then they did the same thing on the second night.
    En savoir plus

  • &Which is more—we’ve been Hôi An, Mỹ Sơn

    24 mars 2018, Vietnam ⋅ ⛅ 29 °C

    If you can keep your head when all about you,

    Tour agents, selling trips, sound the same,

    To Mỹ Sơn ruins, Champa temples, 4th to 14th century,

    And for which you're mispronouncing the name,

    If you can bear to hear the way you’ve spoken,

    And be told it's 'Mee-Soon', oh, the ridicules,

    Then book, with boat back, and trust,

    It be not some twisted tourist-trap for fools,

    But on coach, prepare, collect from ten or fifteen other hotels, others,

    And watch for things not included in quotes,

    Like the entrance fee, for example...

    And stoop and pay ’em up with worn-out, utterly pointless, 500 Dong notes.

    /

    If you can walk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, be smart,

    Mark, remember, those standing in frame of your shots,

    Are a tour-group, of which you're now part,

    If you can trust your tour-guide when all men doubt him,

    Because he's wearing a wild purple suit, a weird green helmet and shouting in a crazy screechy twang,

    Like if like they cast, as The Joker, Ken Jeong,

    That guy in the car boot in The Hangover,

    Also Community's Chang.

    /

    But make allowances for doubting too,

    Like whether he was actually a qualified archaeological preservation specialist, as he suggested, 

    And if you pretend every omitted fact is a mystery,

    It will certainly keep people interested,

    If you wish to tour-guide, for anywhere, heed words,

    Respond to each question with 'nobody knows'

    Saves time on researching, learning, doing any training for your job at all essentially,

    But do wear more sensible clothes,

    /

    If you can make one heap of all your boiled rice and vegetables,

    And risk having flavour on one shake of a sauce,

    And not lose your appetite, and start eating at the beginning

    And never breathe a word about how piss-poor an effort it is for an included lunch course;

    If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew to accept food served from a bucket,

    To serve you seconds long after firsts are gone,   

    And then hold on when you climb on top of the boat,

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Eh, it's not going that fast, fuck it!’

    /

    If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    When the bus pick-up doesn't arrive when they told us.

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

    Like when you said we'd be picked up at 5pm and had to wait till 5:45,

    It was only a few hundred yards to the sleeper bus,

    Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    Except for sleeper buses, which demand and deserve your hate.

    They get a low TripAdvisor rating,

    /

    If you can dream—somehow without actually sleeping—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think (for instance I think they should re-name them the Lie-Uncomfortably-All-Night bus) and not make thoughts your aim;   

    And treat sleep impostors, like the lights and horns and bumps and cramped sleeping bunk...

    ...the persistent stops for no reason and the crappy films playing in the background and the general bodily noises of strangers around you, just the same;   

    If you can fill an unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of actual kip,

    You'll have done a darn sight better than I did,

    At giving insomnia the slip,

    /

    And now, to conclude, this passage,

    In entirety, it's form, all for a pun,

    So, then, ours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—we’ve been Hôi An, Mỹ Sơn!
    En savoir plus

  • The Gang do Nha Trang

    25 mars 2018, Vietnam ⋅ 🌬 30 °C

    We arrived in Nha Trang tired, agitated, and an hour too early. Ordinarily the expediency of travel between locations is an achievement to be lauded, but rocking up at before 5am in any city, at least those whose citizens operate under the broad principle of sleeping till sunrise, poses certain logistical challenges.

    Attempting to pounce on the opportunistic circumstance of the city's bus drivers not yet even eating their morning slightly-warmed bread and us being in a brand new place and not knowing where we were, several taxi drivers immediately offered to take us to our hotel. I told them the name of the hotel and they nodded in a knowing 'we go there all the time' manner and quickly calculated that the price would be 100,000 Dong, each.

    This was pre-daylight robbery. We'd taken taxis before and, whilst just over £3 a head would be a borderline bargain in the UK, here it was extortion. In unison so synchronised it seemed rehearsed we balked "fuck off", turned and walked off down the street. Better we walk some indeterminate distance in a direction that transpired to be opposite that we wanted to go than part with a tenner for a taxi; so sayeth our creed.

    They then gave mild chase and offered us the same deal for half the quoted price, which was still expensive but just within the upper boundary of our creed's excess limit. We loaded up, climbed into the taxi and set off. At the first junction it became clear that the driver had no clue where we were going, shrouding their charging structure into even further mystery. I turned-on my Google Maps and directed us to the red pin.

    There was no hotel apparent by the name we were looking for, Alibaba, but investigation once again of a nearby dark alley proved fruitful. The hotel was, much like the alley, the city and Anakin Skywalker's force alignment from halfway through III till the last ten minutes of VI, dark. We dropped our bags outside and generally loitered about for a bit. After about half an hour we decided to try the door and found it was open but that there was somebody asleep behind the desk, so I quickly dropped my bag inside and we left him to sleep. At around 5:50am there was activity which, I realised in retrospect, was likely because the alarm in my bag that was supposed to make sure we were awake for the time the sleeper bus was supposed to arrive was going off, as it was supposed to, and whilst I suppose I should have turned it off I hadn't supposed it really mattered.

    We couldn't formally check-in till 2pm so we secured our bags against the vague side-wall of the hotel lobby and walked across town as the sun rose. We stopped for breakfast and they brought us each a glass of strange green liquid that tasted fowl. They'd go on to bring us this, without ordering, at nearly every establishment in Nha Trang. Must be some local specialty; never did find out what it was. It would pair nicely with Hué Royal Rice Cakes.

    Still hungry and in need of a sugar-boost to counteract the onset exhaustion consequent from our sleep-free night, Woody and I popped into a bakery. Woody had a 'Monster Cake', a massive piece of colourful cake that tasted like cake with artificial colouring. I had a doughnut and an egg-custard, something they've managed to improve upon massively from the UK version by simply not putting cinnamon on it. Seriously, less can be more. Also no fruit-slices in coke. Or cherries on bakewells. Or onions in anything.

    First stop on today's tour-by-Mark was Christ the King Cathedral, a cathedral. Unfortunately it was Sunday morning so full of worshippers and the sign outside advised sightseeing was forbidden on Sundays. But cathedrals are big, far bigger than the sign, so despite its best efforts we were still able to get pictures from afar.

    We then visited a pagoda/temple. I usually jot down the names of these places when we're there but I was tired so I didn't and, unsurprisingly, googling "[ANY VIETNAMESE CITY] pagoda" reaps rather inconclusive results. There was a giant Buddha statue on a hill, which also doesn't do much to narrow things down, but there was a fantastic view of the city. There was also a giant sleeping Buddha statue, whom I was deeply envious of.

    We next visited a place far simpler to identify on a Google image-search, Po Nagar; a series of Cham temple towers built between 8th and 11th centuries and looking similar to the Mỹ Sơn ruins only less bombed-by-the-Americans, so less ruined. I guess this comparison conveys little as I didn't really describe Mỹ Sơn that much, opting to butcher an iconic British poem that day instead, but there'll be a picture below. Or above, or to the side, I don't know how this publishes. Or on Google.

    Our next stop was a cluster of rocks on a jutting outcrop next to a small portion of beach that somebody had had the enterprising idea to put a ticket-booth next to. It was a fair enough place to take coastal pictures, and we did, but if there was any significance beyond that I missed it. With the gentle sound of the lapping ocean and beautiful surroundings I attempted some meditatory mindfulness, but it was difficult to clear my mind amongst hordes of yammering foreign tourists, presumably also wondering and loudly debating what exactly they'd bought a ticket for.

    And so came midday, the hottest part of the day in the hottest city we'd yet visited. To celebrate we decided to walk five kilometers down the coast with rapidly diminishing water supplies and no shade. I think it likely at least one of us died of dehydration and remains with us now only as a spectral apparition. Possibly me.

    En route we stopped-off for a brief lunch, finding comfort in ordering the least Vietnamese meal of our holiday yet; a beefburger between two slices of white bread with chips and milkshakes. At the precise strike of 2pm we checked into our room, which transpired to be rooms as they'd messed-up our booking, and shuffled off for afternoon naps.

    After lying on our beds for a few hours, re-energizing, we decided to go and lie on some tables for an hour. At a nearby spa we each had a traditional massage employing ancient Vietnamese techniques. I'm not sure how ancient, but ceetainly post the invention of the cup as a primary component of the experience was the application of heated cups to our backs followed by their swift removal, so as to stimulate blood flow, relieve tension and incur nasty bruising by the following morning. At one point the small Vietnamese ladies conducting the treatment climbed entirely onto our backs, applying pressure with their full body weight for presumably therapeutic reasons. Or we misinterpreted their requests for piggy-back rides.

    In the evening we went out for craft-beers at an Australian brewery specialising in Japanese food. Cultural.
    En savoir plus

  • Better Dalat than Never

    26 mars 2018, Vietnam ⋅ ☀️ 17 °C

    We had a few hours to kill on the day we travelled to Dalat, so we continued our deep cultural immersion by going to the beach, where I managed to exactly read the first 14% of a book I started the last time I went to the beach, and then returned to the Australian Japanese beer place and ordered English Breakfasts. Woody, a preacher of discriminatory views on eggs, ordered something listed as without egg called the 'Breakfast Potato', which arrived as a bowl full of chopped potato and bits of sausage swimming in molten cheese, with a fried egg on top.

    With an hour till pick-up we went to Vinny's Pub and ordered some beers. Mark had an odd green concoction, Woody had an iffy passion-fruit version and I had a simple and delicious standard lager. Downed, we headed back to the hotel to catch our car.

    We'd pre-booked our private transport the day before, in-person as the three quite-large men we are, advised we would have three big bags and that we needed driving through the mountain pass to Dalat. They sent us a Kia Picanto. A small Kia Picanto.

    Technically it was a 'Kia New Morning', an eastern, stripped-back edition of the Picanto, designed for people who maybe drive to their local shop once or twice a week and don't mind squashing the bread to get it all in the boot. At a squeeze I hold responsible for the disintegration of one of my few remaining Choco-Pies, our bags crammed into the boot and we crammed into the tiny seats and we were on our way. At least there was air-conditioning.

    As we approached the steep mountain pass, our driver switched the air-conditioning off. He turned it back on again briefly when we had to stop for twenty minutes whilst they exploded some of the hillside ahead of us, as you do, but as soon as we were moving again back off it went. Not knowing the Vietnamese for "Are you crazy, it's hotter than taking a sauna on the sun in a sweater out there!" we had to just accept it, but it soon became clear why. It was a classic Captain Kirk manoeuvre, divert power to the engines from all non-essential systems and, in doing so, nearly almost get us up the hill.

    After being passed on the incline by buses, heavy-goods vehicles and a little girl on rollerskates the car eventually spluttered to a stop at a picturesque little spot only spoiled by the broken-down car in the foreground. Whilst the driver tinkered under the bonnet and tried to recall if he'd renewed his breakdown insurance, we took some selfies and actually enjoyed the opportunity to briefly straighten our contorted legs.

    After about fifteen minutes we clambered back in and the car resumed climbing. Not how a twenty-first century car should a road, more like how a rheumatic tortoise might ascend a water-slide. After a while we reached the top and, with an assist from gravity, down the other side. I'm told they also filmed some of the Top Gear special on this road, but they took the turns a little faster.

    Around a half-a-mile from the hotel in Dalat, we briefly broke down again. We could have gotten out and walked, but that felt defeatist at this point and we felt we owed it to our driver to stick it out till the end. Or, rather, our end and his halfway point; I didn't much fancy his chances of getting back to Nha Trang.

    Once checked into our hotel, called for some unknown reason 'Lavender Tim', we chilled for a bit in the oscillating breeze from our room's fan (no air-conditioning here) then headed out for dinner. I'd found a place in the Lonely Planet book that apparently served local delicacies and I know, I know, fool me once etc. but we thought we'd give it a try. We went to the listed address but it was a guitar shop, but didn't fret as there were plenty other places to pick from.

    Of the four or five restaurants on the same short street proudly displaying 'Recommended by Lonely Planet" signs, though presumably due to a mistake at the printing-company omitted from both mine and Mark's editions, we selected the one with an empty table in it called 'Chocolate'. We had an awful, repulsive glass of wine each that tasted like ASDA-brand berry cordial diluted with vinegar. We course-corrected with some Saigon Beer (the red export variety, 0.5% stronger ABV) then ordered our standard spring rolls/wontons/rice-or-noodle-dishes medley. We don't know why the place was called 'Chocolate'; I'd have called it 'Vietnamese Food & Beverages' but then, as I've been told a million times, I have a tendency to be too literal.

    There was a bar over the street called 'Woody' that we didn't go in but took a picture outside because obviously.
    En savoir plus

  • Dalat's the way uh-huh uh-huh I like it

    27 mars 2018, Vietnam ⋅ 🌧 16 °C

    I didn't sleep well in Dalat. I don't know if it was the hum of the fan, needed in lieu of air-con, or the bed-sheets being around seven-eighths the length of the bed therefore only six-eighths the length of my body, or the fact that the rest of the hotel was seemingly occupied by a single family perpetually walking between each other's open doors and engaging in a group activity similar to how we might get out the Monopoly board only the aim of this game was to shout loudly in the hallway with the winner being declared, equally loudly, the one who can piss-off the westerners upstairs the most. The game is called 'Let's be a Family of Selfish Pricks' and is being localised by Hasbro for the UK market with a more suburban theme under the working title 'Scallys in the Alley'.

    However it didn't take long for my mood to improve. Our hotel, 'Lavender Tim Bed & Breakfasts' didn't serve breakfast so on the way to our first sight we stopped off at a bakery. Woody had a meat sandwich, Mark went for a bun shaped like a cat and I picked-out a fat piece of sweet bread and what appeared to be an unexciting sort-of squashed croissant thing. The sweet bread was delicious, but then I bit into the croissant-thing and discovered a vein of chocolate, à la pain au chocolate, and was overjoyed. It was the most intense mood-swing instigated by a pastry in my entire life.

    Our first proper/planned stop of the day was the Crazy House. This is, ostensibly, a house that could only have been designed by somebody with wild imagination, intense perseverance and the resources and governmental connections that come with being the daughter of the former leader of the Vietnam Communist Party. With its sculpted cave-like corridors, fantasy-inspired detailing and twisting, tree-like walkways it felt like a Tim Burton fever-dream at Disneyworld. It also isn't actually a house, but a hotel, though with prices three times what we're paying for the peace and privacy of a zoo enclosure, we decided just to pay a brief visit.

    Next we walked the width of the city toward Da Lat railway station. We stopped briefly to take pictures of something that looked like a massive bagel, then went into the building beneath it and found it to be a shopping mall. We wandered it briefly, with Woody and I being captured on camera in our first co-starring roles as 'westerners stood behind actress getting fake-mugged, not offering assistance or giving chase to culprit'. I heard Matt Damon and Ben Affleck got their big break in much the same way.

    We eventually arrived at the station, an old but restored Art Deco style building, to find to our surprise that there were trains running. The line formerly served by the station had been decommissioned during the Vietnam war, but a short section was now open as a novelty tourist route. There weren't many trains a day and they didn't sync with our schedule, so we took some pictures and moved on.

    Following a maze-like trek through the narrow, winding backstreets of a nearby suburb we arrived at Lam Dong museum. There were exhibits on the local culture and history, ancient and moderately-recent artefacts and some disturbing taxidermy, most memorable of which were the wild-cats that looked far more threatening in their deceased/stuffed state than I'm sure they ever did when they could follow-up that threat with a sharp-clawed mauling.

    A short walk from the museum was the King's Palace, the former residence of Vietnam's last emporer. Within stunningly kept grounds were several modest-sized-for-a-king but still-bloody-massive houses. Since leaving the mall and here, whatever show Woody and I appeared in must have aired as we were mobbed by a flashmob of fans all wanting pictures taken with this mysterious new talent.

    In every city we've been to in Vietnam we have been invited to pose for photographs with local or travelling Vietnamese. As white westerners we are a novelty here and there appears to be some caché attached to having one's picture taken with such exotic visitors to their country. We eagerly partake, our novelty being something of a novelty to us also, and will of course be encouraging the uptake of this custom back home. I implore all, should you come across somebody with a different colour skin to you, maybe they believe in a different faith or perhaps just possess a physical deformity, do be sure to snap them in a selfie. It would be discriminatory not to.

    The clock struck Cornetto'clock so we had our daily packaged cone ice-cream then jumped in a taxi to take us back to the opposite side of town to the cable-car station for transport to Truc Lam pagoda. The cable-car crossed some standard gorgeous landscape and the pagoda was equally, standardly impressive. We had lunch at a cafe and had disagreements over the mechanics of the Nightmare Before Christmas Extended Universe, but agreed the soundtrack is catchy. There was a cool water feature; a water jet supporting a huge stone ball that was spinning erratically under the pressure; like a fountain with something blocking the pipe, but intentionally so.

    With time to spare we whizzed back across town and got back to the station again for the final scheduled train of the day. There were four class tiers to choose from, all cheap, so we opted for the VIP2 class, so as to not come across as the ostentatious, stuck-up toffs that went for the 50p more expensive VIP1.

    The journey was nice, the carriages authentically old-looking and Mark got some good pictures precariously leaning out the window with his camera. It was our understanding that this brief, scenic trip to a small nearby town was the attraction and upon arrival in the bustling, slightly dingy-looking Trai Mat we considered our understanding . With half an hour till the return train we decided to wander into town on the off-chance we might find a Dalat specialty we'd seen some street-sellers peddling, Pizza Dalat.

    Expecting to fail and keeping check of our valuables we walked down the street then turned an unassuming corner and found something spectacular. We were all like:

    What's this? What's this?
    There's colour everywhere.
    What's this?
    There's incense in the air.
    What's this?
    There's temples, pagodas, statues, stalls and people selling bric-a-brac and knicks and knacks and Pizza Dalat to share...
    What's this!?

    Well, I was anyway.

    We'd stumbled upon a very pretty district with some of the most striking temples, pagodas and statues we've yet seen. They were far from the most ancient, fairly modern relatively speaking but, despite what the correct minority of Doctor Who Smith/Capaldi debaters might argue, older isn't always better. They also had the largest Buddha statue in the world constructed from flowers, guinness world record, which if that doesn't impress you nothing will. Dalat Pizza was a very poor-man's pizza; heated rice paper topped with spring onions and an egg cooked on top then wrapped-up like a crepe. Dominoes won't lose any sleep over this challenger-product.

    By evening we were tired so went for a proper normal pizza, with dough and tomato and cheese and everything, at the 24H place over the street. We had originally planned to go there for breakfast, but it had been closed.
    En savoir plus

  • Terrain, Grains & Automa-weasels

    28 mars 2018, Vietnam ⋅ ⛅ 16 °C

    Following our final night in Dalat we had booked to go on a cycling trip out of the city to visit a few attractions. Expecting to be once again part of a tour-group and Mark having self-administered his necessary Valium dosage, we were pleased to discover the tour would be just the three of us and a guide.

    We began by cycling through the busy Dalat streets at peak rush-hour then climbing a hill reminiscent of that which killed our Kia a couple of days back. I made it about a quarter of the way up before dismounting and pushing, Woody a little over halfway and Mark made it to the top, but injured himself in the process.

    Slightly mitigating my underperformance were issues I was having with the gears. Two-thirds of the theoretically-available gears were inoperable, but the range available weren't shifting as expected. The problem was one of communication; there were two triggers and the guide had advised that the upper trigger was 'down' and the lower trigger was 'up'. So when the terrain began sloping upwards I logically sought to move down to a lower gear so pressed the upper trigger, but this seemed to be moving the gear up, much as I'd do when going down, and which should have been linked to the lower trigger. Put simply, going up I flicked up but this moved up instead of down so I should have been pressing down to go down so I could efficiently go up. I later understood the guide had meant the upper trigger was for 'downhill' and the lower for 'uphill', and cycled far better from then onwards. The brakes were also crap.

    Our first stop was a coffee plantation, where we were shown the different varieties of plant, invited to sample the end-product and shown the cages where they keep the weasels that enable them to produce Vietnam Weasel Coffee, also known sometimes as Shit Coffee, albeit affectionately.

    Now I'm going to go on record here and say I'm not a fan of the weasel-coffee thing; keeping them in small cages and feeding them a coffee diet to produce product. It's treating them like machines; beans go in, shit comes out, harvest that shit for beans then sell. I don't care if they like the coffee - I think it was Jean-Paul Sartre that said, and I'm paraphrasing, "hell is being locked forever in a room with unlimited coffee". It's the veal argument - we already have perfectly good coffee so why do we need to produce an incrementally 'better' version by torturing animals. Woody said he'd happily waterboard a cow for a more succulent steak, so I guess people are different.

    Now, I want to make it absolutely clear, it was purely for these ethical concerns that I wasn't keen on ingesting something that had passed through a weasel's digestive tract. But the other coffee was delicious (bought some to bring home) and the view of the plantation from the balcony we drank on was incredible. Woody had a 7up.

    Incidentally, and not at all to help validate a convenient rhyme, a granule of coffee can be accurately described as 'grain'.

    After a further 30k ride we reached Elephant Falls, a large and beautiful waterfall that can be reached via a precarious scramble over slippery rock. There was also a cave, which got Mark wet. Our guide waited until the climb back up to tell us about the volume of fatalities that occur there; I'm not surprised.

    Also, in the world of wood-joints, 'waterfall' is a type of grain where the wood grain carries from one plane (horizontal) to the next plane (vertical).

    We next had lunch in the company of some friendly dogs, which I fed and they became even friendlier. We had rice, which is a cereal grain. This was the end of the line for our bikes, the half-broken contraptions taken from us so they could be live to be half-broken another day.

    Afterward we a pagoda, which our guide couldn't enter for religious reasons. There was a big, happy, fat Buddha statue that I'd doubt we'd permit in the UK lest it promote an unhealthy body-image aspiration that would further strain our under-pressure NHS. Mind, these are unlikely photo-realistic depictions and should be taken with a grain of salt.

    Next stop was a silk factory, where they produced silk from worm to cloth. We were offered a silk worm to eat and Mark and Woody both took-up the offer. Now, I want to make it absolutely clear, it was only because I was full from lunch and not the nasty wrigglesome look of the things why I didn't try one... Oh, also any woven fabric has a grain line, this being the longwise threads which are stretched on the loom, forming a warp, as opposed to the weft threads woven across it.

    Our final stop was a small farm where the owners kept a variety of animals; turkeys, crocodiles, pheasants, guinea pigs, regular pigs, porcupines but mostly, volumetrically speaking, crickets. They also made rice wine, from the already-established grain, which we were offered to try with a side of crickets. Now, I want to make it absolutely clear, that it was only my fondness for the film Pinocchio as a child and particularly my affection for the Jiminy Cricket character that I refused to partake. I had the wine though. Mark and Woody had the lot.

    We headed back for a rest, occasionally experiencing the cool breeze from our single oscillating fan. In fairness, Dalat has been broadly cooler than Nha Trang so the absence of a/c hadn't been as bothersome as I expected. We later returned to the same "best street ever" per Lonely Planet, Trip Advisor and/or the people running the places on the street. Woody and I had a simply delectable coconut curry and Mark had mango chicken which was nice but not as nice as the coconut curry. Honestly the best coconut curry I've ever had. I spilled my beer and it was this whole thing.
    En savoir plus

  • Saigon in 60 Seconds

    1 avril 2018, Vietnam ⋅ ⛅ 26 °C

    Hot in Saigon, can't be assed,
    Thought I'd churn out something fast,
    If read very, very quick,
    Without pause, breath or verbal tic,
    Within a minute, all will fit,
    Obviously don't include this bit,
    A whole entire second for every line,
    Easy done, you'll manage fine,
    Our time in Saigon, baking sauna,
    Here in no particular order:

    (1) Bakery breakfasts; pastries, juice
    (2) Lost my hat, got no excuse

    (3) Lonely Planet walking tour
    (4) 7am till half-past four

    (5) Dated parks wandered through
    (6) Mariammam temple, goddess Hindu

    (7) Tiger-beer & Avengers Towers
    (8) Roundabout Concrete Flowers

    (9) Bitexco views, massive city
    (10) Ho statue, Peoples' Committee

    (11) Taoist Jade Emporer Pagoda
    (12) Peddled street food, spiced aroma

    (13) Air-con mostly not a thing
    (14) Instead just fans, oscillating

    (15) Tank-gate Palace, more fine art
    (16) Quickie lunches, FamilyMart

    (17) Another Ho Chi Minh museum
    (18) Fried chicken, wedges, chips, Korean

    (19) Aching feet, Intense heat
    (20) Saigon Beer at six-hundred feet

    (21) Found my hat
    (22) Lucky fluke
    (23) Pistachio ice-creams
    (24) All except Luke

    (25) Notre Damn, no not that one
    (26) Champa statues, heads are gone

    (27) Wartime remnants, solemn time
    (28) Aftermath, atrocity and war-crime

    (29) Buddhist resolve, must admire
    (30) Memorial statue, monk-on-fire

    (31) Looked for snake to eat, no luck
    (32) Zoo enclosure, big yellow duck

    (33) Tigers, giraffes, crocs, apes and more
    (34) Hippo, bear, sheep, fake dinosaur

    (35) Those Crazy roads
    (36) Bikes just go
    (37) Red man or Green
    (38) Constant flow

    (39) Underground mall, Indian curry
    (40) Order failure, got back my money

    (41) Demolished market, pile of bricks
    (42) Worship chants, death-urns and sticks

    (43) Walked sixty-k, aching thighs
    (44) Incense smoke got in my eyes

    (45) Sunny days, getting tanned
    (46) Wet one too, brollies-in-hand
    (47) Mr Brown's iced coffee brand

    (48) As little left remains, time's sands
    (49) Trickles through, falls then lands
    (50) Packing bags
    (51) Won't all fit
    (52) Crap; I bought a lot of it
    (53) Last night here, final treat
    (54) Brewery down on Pasteur street
    (55) For crafty beers
    (56) And massive cheers
    (57) To times to remember
    (58) For years and years

    (59) Trip Vietnam, end of line
    (60) Now, it's going-home time

    Anon, 2018
    En savoir plus

    Fin du voyage
    1 avril 2018