East Asia 2023: Part Two. Vietnam
29/9/23 Hanoi
After Japan with its clean streets and polite motorists, Hanoi is a bit of a shock. A big shock, like a poke from a cattle prod.
The lovely pre-booked taxi guy from the airport, having already negotiated several unsurfaced ‘roads’ in order to beat the traffic, calls us ‘customers number one’ when we suggest we’ll walk the last 50m. I mean, the road is impassable, because of a gazillion teenagers on mopeds. Apparently, a festival is going on and we’ve arrived at the worst possible time.
The driver helpfully calls the hotel. The manager quickly arrives and, with a smile, asks if we're staying at the Hanoi Central Hotel and Spa, to which I reply that we're not, which I had tried to explain to the driver. The manager walks off without a word.
We have to walk in the middle of the road and these bikes just pass around us. It’s not nice. Claire has her face mask held firmly and looks shell-shocked.
The Airbnb is down a dark alley and it’s okay, far enough back from the road to avoid the worst of the noise. We venture back into bedlam. There are processions with people in dragon heads and a lot of noise - I mean A LOT. Anybody who fancies it can sit themselves down on the side of the road and barbecue some meat or vegetables, or deep fry fish, or burn fake money. There are pavements, but you can’t walk on them because that’s where the mopeds are parked and things are cooked. Thinking we’ll find a nice quiet place for a drink, we struggle to ‘Beer Street.’ Big mistake. Fewer bikes here, but that’s only because you can’t move for the crowds. It’s like being at a festival, stuck between the three dance tents you didn’t want to go to - each in competition to be the loudest - playing house, drum and bass and ‘Simply the Best’ by Tina Turner. It’s 32c. in the evening and 91% humidity.
It’s 23:30, we’ve had some cold beers, but I’m hungry. We find somewhere on a corner that’s less hectic, tiny little seats and tables like those at a primary school parents’ evening. There are 30,000 Vietnamese Dong to the pound, but the problem is you forget that and sometimes think there are 3,000 or 300,000. I order some ribs, the guy suggests I order the duck also. 250 each (they don’t bother with the thousands). I think I’m going to get a nice small meal for a couple of quid, but they give me a whole duck, randomly chopped into small pieces, bones and all. It is unbelievably delicious, but the chilli makes me sweat all the more. I have a doggy bag for the ribs, which are also extremely good (for breakfast and lunch) served on a bed of fried garlic and curry leaves.
On the way back Claire trips and falls. She's okay - a bit shaken, and we find out later that she's lost her Fitbit. She blames me for not helping her up, but the truth is she knocked me over whilst falling. Go to bed at 01:00, 03:00 in Japan.
Everything you see is fascinating but, honestly, I don’t know how I’m going to cope with Hanoi.
30/9/23 Hanoi
Make peace with Hanoi, that’s the plan today. Try and forget you’re walking through a sauna with the perfume of petrol, assassins at every corner. Fewer mopeds on the road than last night, but still too many.
We walk to the lake - Ho Hoan Kiem - via the Road to Hell. It’s a pedestrianised zone - hallelujah! After a decent breakfast in a post-it note cafe, sitting in a sweaty foxhole, we stroll around. Linger too long and little kids come up to practice their English. Some have paper sheets and reel off random questions such as ‘do you like chips?’ ‘what is the name of your sister?’ and ‘when is your birthday, mine is tomorrow.’ They’re all very sweet. Especially the little boy who joined his sister’s questions half way through.
We wander the perimeter of the lake. I’m drenched in sweat - why is nobody else as affected? I’m even told, by the young reporters, that Hanoi is very fresh and cool in autumn (i.e. now). People come here to pose for photos and there’s a lot going on. We visit the pretty Confucian shrine of Den Ngoc Son. I buy fake Raybans for £8 and then a hard case suitcase for £27. While doing so, a guy takes off my shoe. I knew it was bad, but had no idea it was in such a wretched state. He mends both of them, gluing and stitching them then and there. He’s a true craftsman. Claire, who’s in charge of money, asks how much it costs and produces a 500,000 note. Turns out he wants that and 200,000 more. I think he initially only wanted 70,000 but it's an opportunity too good to miss and ends up costing nearly as much as the suitcase. Okay, lesson learned, agree the price first. But it’s hard to not pay a con man when he’s so smiley and nice, and when you just don’t care anymore.
The kids in Hanoi learn how to drive a scooter young.
Back to the Airbnb. Shower, beer, left-overs, sleep. Then on the trail for a Fitbit. Shop is 2 km away according to Google Maps. That’s easily walkable, but in Hanoi each kilometre is x10 because you’re constantly trying to avoid scooters on the road, attacking you from every angle, or you have to walk around them on the pavement. Each moped seems to have a minimum of two riders, some as many as five. Honestly, whole families, babies ‘n’ all, pop to the shops on these. They have traffic lights with little green men at some crossings and every vehicle, without exception, ignores them. You just have to set forth, hand in hand, , chanting in your head: ‘Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.’
There’s no breeze and I’m drenched in sweat yet again. South of the lake, Hanoi is relatively affluent. The Fitbit shop is closed. A random taxi driver with air conditioning, lost in the back streets, saves my life and takes us back to the Airbnb. Only costs £1.50.
Claire has been here 24 hours and has yet to have a single mouthful of Vietnamese food. We go to a seafood restaurant recommended by Google and Tripadvisor. Closed. We end up at an average Indian place instead. As they say in Vietnam, do la cuoc song.
1/10/23 Ninh Binh
Went on a day trip from Hanoi today or, as I prefer to call it, the North Vietnam Triathlon.
Picked up in an 18-seat coach, our guide is Quangthang, pronounced ‘Tongue,’ a cheeky, humorous, informative and occasionally repetitive man. Vietnam is the first country I’ve been to with speed bumps on its motorways. We make a stop for the ‘happy room’ after an hour and sample a molten coffee that’s despatched with such speed it’s almost thrown at us. It’s then we realise we don’t know which coach we’re on, or recognise our other day trippers, among the 30 other buses at the stop. Luckily, Tongue has a good memory for faces.
The first event is a heat endurance test at Bai Dinh. Alighting the coach, we’re given a comical hat each. Like the practical non la but made of plastic with a floral design. Never have I felt more like a tourist.
An electric golf buggy, the driver’s foot to the floor around hairpins, takes us to the complex. It’s a scorcher of a day and for once it’s not just me sweating - even Tongue is, although he appears to be wearing a thermal latex vest below his t-shirt. The complex is impressive and massive, hosting South-East Asia’s tallest pagoda, biggest bell and loudest drum. Tongue gives us a detailed account of Buddhist folklore but how can I put this… I mean, I don’t want to appear snobbish but… I’ll whisper it... it's not very old.
We stop for lunch. It’s a pan-Asian buffet that, curiously, seems to have forgotten Vietnam. We get to meet up with our friends in the thirty other tour buses as we queue, school-dinner style, for very bland food that’s piled up on the plate because it comes free with the tour. Nobody seems satisfied.
The second event is aquatic. We’re paired with two independent female travellers from Austria and Serbia for the rowing race. Except we’re not doing the rowing, it’s a little old lady who spends the trip nattering to her mates and poking me in the back when she wants me to do anything - usually demanding I take photos.
The boat is about one metre wide and two long and, once I’m in, floats about 15cm above the water line. Squeezed into a tiny life jacket, once I’ve overcome my paranoia at capsizing and thus losing our passports, phones and wallets, making this a shorter-than-expected holiday, I settle back and enjoy the magnificent scenery of Trang An and listen to the soft clunk of the oars and the splash as they dip into the water. It would be so peaceful if it weren’t for the other 1,500 boats.
We round an island and, after an hour, head back to where we boarded. But, oh no, we’re not just going to give you that! There’s an hour trip in the other direction. We have to see the spot where they filmed Kong: Skull Island. I stop caring about sweating and concentrate on sunburn. My arse aches. With nothing else to do, the Austrian and Serbian women put aside the historical differences between their countries and become lifelong friends.
Back on the coach, Tongue asks what we thought of the boat trip. ‘Too long!’ say the Austrian and Serbian in unison. ‘It only took us an hour and twenty minutes,’ says a German behind me. ‘Oh, perhaps we should have helped our lady with the rowing,’ I say innocently. ‘Yes, perhaps you should have!’ says the German bitterly.
Our tardiness means there’s less than an hour to complete event three: the climb to the viewpoint above the Mua Caves. 20 minutes up, 15 to wander around, 20 minutes down. Claire and I assess the options: 500 steep steps up and down in extreme heat. Or cold beer.
The Mua cave isn’t so much to look at, but there’s this beautiful walk through lotus water fields that allows you to see the stunning scenery… oh, did I mention which option we chose? …but from the ground level. Right decision.
Compared to the weekend Hanoi seems almost serene. It’s a school night and the festival of the full moon, or whatever it was that assaulted us, has passed. Claire finally gets to eat Vietnamese food. Unfortunately, it isn’t good.
2/10/23 Hanoi to Cat Ba
Hanoi rush hour is something to behold. Luckily, we’re going in the other direction.
The commandant of the coach is a sinister looking man in dark glasses who looks like the guy in the Deer Hunter in charge of the pistol. His English pronunciation is very poor and I only understand two words in sixty and these are ‘Cat Ba.’ He put armbands around our wrists in case we got lost and, after a few hours we reach a ferry port where our large suitcases are plonked onto a speedboat which chugs across to the island. This is an overnight all-inclusive excursion and I have to confess that at no time did I understand what was going on.
The twenty couples on the coach seem to have twenty separate itineraries. We are first off the bus for our paid-for lunch, at 11am. It’s a fish restaurant on the pleasant traffic-free seafront with tanks of crustaceans which the locals choose from and pay by the weight, the seafood not coming willingly. No such choice on our menu but it was delicious nonetheless – hot oysters, squid, prawns, bok choi and rice, cooked the sweet and spicy Vietnamese way, not bland tourist rubbish.
We check into our pokey hotel and then there’s a hike. Now, I’ve been on many walks and they vary in the amount of physical effort required. We once went llama walking in Herefordshire. It was very nice and I don’t remember there being many hills.
We drive to the centre of the island and find we’re the only ones on the trek apart from our guide, the bus commandant in his militaristic helmet. His name is Charlie. Yes, really. Not his real name of course, which tourists find unpronounceable, so some cruel Australian barman suggested it. Actually, Charlie is lovely. He’s never seen Apocalypse Now and he’s very proud to have the same name as the King of England. The sunglasses are because he has a deformed eyeball.
The first km is very pretty. Huge butterflies flap around us and it’s flat. We said hi to some young Germans sitting beside a pretty natural pool and I think hear them sniggering behind my back.
Then we have a mountain to climb. Literally. The trek is to the peak of Ngu Lam, the highest point on Cat Ba, 1500 metres above sea level. We don’t know this. Charlie asks if we want to go the easy or harder route, the Vietnamese words for ‘easy’ and ‘quickest’ seemingly the same. The first 500 steep steps through the jungle are bearable. I ask Charlie if we’re nearly there yet, but he pretends not to hear me. For the next 5,000 steps or so I stop taking pictures and concentrate on staying alive. We pass some young, fit Spaniards. ‘Is it far?’ I ask desperately. ‘Yes, but there’s a beautiful beer,’ one replies smilingly. He might have said ‘view.’
The final 100 steps are particularly steep and gruelling. Then there’s some vertical rock climbing and my legs decide they will go no further. When I finally recover to look around, yes the view is stunning. Have I mentioned that I sweat a lot? Claire may have glowed slightly.
Then we have to walk back down. Had I done this climb in Wales on a dry April day in my twenties I probably would have moaned about it for the rest of my life, but it’s 32c and 80% humidity or, as BBC Weather likes to call it ‘feels like 44c.’ I recover in a bar under a fan where the concerned waitress feeds me fanta.
Then Charlie takes us to the beach. There’s a better one a ‘short’ hike away (no thanks), but the one we go to is lovely all the same. The water is warm and people are having fun falling off a banana towed by a speedboat, but the plastic pollution is sad. The beach is almost white with disintegrated polystyrene and the sea is full of plastic bags. Beautiful sunset.
After shower number three and a second change of clothes because sand got everywhere, we go to the hotel restaurant for our inclusive dinner. We’re the only ones there, it’s silent and the air conditioning is turned off. The seafood looks nice but it’s bland. When the lady returns to the kitchen, we leg it to the lift.
We get lost and stumble upon an inviting hostel called the Secret Garden. It has a large pool table and an Irish singer-songwriter is performing requests such as ‘Where Is My Mind?’ and ‘If You Tolerate This, Your Children Will Be Next.’ Pool is a very sociable game and soon we meet a lovely American couple and quickly became firm friends. I ask them: 'What is wrong with your country? Why isn't Trump in jail yet?' To which they laugh and enthusiastically agree.
We meet some French, Austrians, Scots and Australians too. I've had the correct amount of alcohol to become an unexpected pool master and the American guy and I thrash the cocky young Aussies. We drink until the early hours, or 22:30 to be precise, because it’s only beer and costs 80p a pint.
3/10/23 Cat Ba-Hue
Cat Ba is paradise. The island would be a destination on its own, but it’s Lan Ha Bay that draws the crowds (note: not Ha Long Bay, which Cat Baians think is rubbish, as well as being full of rubbish). Yes, it’s touristy, but there are good reasons for this, and it’s the low season at the moment on account of the expected torrential rain. There seem like a lot of boats when the cruise sets sail, but that’s because they all leave at the same time and they soon find their space.
Our guide for the day is a supercharged power bunny called Dai whose enthusiasm and disregard for health and safety is boundless. There are thirty of us on the boat and they could have crammed on many more, but didn’t. We pass water-top fishing villages and some jaw-dropping scenery.
Our first activity is swimming and kayaking. Knowing where we’re going later, having sand in my swim shorts and disbelieving the boat would have showers, I am woefully unprepared so don’t bother, listening to the Man with the Golden Gun soundtrack instead. Probably a good idea as after two minutes there’s a casualty - a young guy on our designated lunch table jumps from the top deck and dislocates his shoulder. A speedboat ambulance is summoned.
Weather is fine and, apart from this incident, it’s beautiful and quiet here. Until the Disco Boat shows up.
Lunch is surprisingly good - lots of food, lots of choice, good quality mainly-Vietnamese. We spent hours drifting past rock after rock - I’ve never seen so many bleeding eagles! Dai says they’re pests because they nick the fishermen’s catch. Nick Nack comes out of Scaramanga’s hideout onto the beach, impeccably dressed in a tuxedo and bow tie, a bottle of Moët & Chandon Dom Perignon ‘61 on a silver tray.
The afternoon activity is to see a traditional Cat Ba village. It isn’t what anybody expects. Set back from the sea, ‘energy’ cars race each other through spectacular valleys until we reach a quite ordinary village with a few dilapidated restaurants and supermarkets, do a ring around it and come back to a makeshift bar with a pond. Invited to refresh our legs in the water, a thousand mini-piranhas attack our toes and defoliate my legs below the calves.
On our return to the boat I ask a young German what he thought of the experience. He pauses for a moment and says: When I woke up this morning, that was the last thing I thought would happen to me today.'
Genuinely sad to leave Cat Ba, we are reluctantly escorted back to Hanoi by Bing, a would-be comedian whose mother works in air traffic control and is from Birmingham. He tells us that the train station is 250m to the left from where the bus drops us, which may be part of his comedy act. It’s more like 800m and there are three roads going left, each accessible by several suicidal do-not-cross-here points. By giving the moped drivers Paddington stares and swearing at them really loudly we eventually reach our destination.
Most train stations around the world are eating hubs but, oddly, not in Hanoi where every single other place is an eating hub. All I’m able to secure for our 14-hour overnight journey are some biscuits, crisps, nuts, beer and water from a convenience store.
The sleeping carriage meets all my expectations. I'm sure I booked two lower-level beds, but no, one’s up top. How do I get up there, I ask the swine of a guard, where’s the ladder? He smiles evilly and points to a series of bars that a monkey would have rejected as being too challenging. Claire manages the ascent by standing on the table, which I would have broken. Then a girl with no luggage comes in and sits on the other lower bunk, playing with her phone without a word. The guard uses Google translate: ‘do you want the carriage to yourself?’ Yes. ‘1 million dong’ (£33). We give him a credit card, but oh no. We show him that we only have half a million in cash and he takes that. With one word the girl leaves for another carriage or, more likely, off the train. Of course, it’s a scam, but cheap for an upgrade.
The toilet is disgusting but I’ve seen worse on British Rail. Surprisingly, I have a half decent sleep. Maybe that’s because I like creeky trains that brake hard, and noisy air-conditioning. Maybe it’s the four beers and tub of cashew nuts for dinner. The morning views out of the window are spectacular, so I'm told.
4/10/23-5/10/23 Hue
The Airbnb host in Hue, Mrs Thanh, is one of the loveliest people we’ve ever met. Even though I can’t inform her of our late train arrival because of a roaming malfunction, she's there waiting in the pouring rain with umbrellas for us. The accommodation is fantastic - a two storey waterfront house on the Perfume River, great views from the balcony, with an army of hero dragonflies in the trees protecting us from mosquitos. She makes us fresh orange juice and gives us dragon fruit and local sesame biscuits. I offer to pay extra because we checked in early, but she won’t have it. Having survived French and American bombing and a massacre by the Viet Cong (she’s the heroine in La Riviere des Parfums by Richard de Swarte, by the way), she’s only interested in peace and love, not money. Her English is patchy, but when she discovers Claire speaks fluent French they get on like a house on fire. Very good value property, but they are building a riverside walkway out front, which is rather noisy.
Hue is more relaxed than Hanoi. A very (very) small percentage of moped drivers even stop at red lights. A good place to hang out and explore. Instead, we spend the afternoon in a phone shop. Several attractive young women in short shorts and a couple of dapper men hold us captive for two hours, trying to download software for a Fitbit. None speak English or have a clue what they're doing, and the wireless speed is 4mbps.
On Mrs Thanh’s recommendation we go to Madame Tu’s for breakfast at 3:30pm. I’m ravenous and their 10-dish ‘taste of Hue’ is ridiculously delicious, so I tuck in. After the very nice waitress has changed the default language on Claire’s phone from Vietnamese back to English, she explains what each dish is. ‘These are steamed in banana leaf, but don’t eat the… Where’s the other one?!’ she exclaims in panic. Too late. ‘Will he die?’ asks Claire. The waitress’ open mouth and troubled expression suggests she doesn’t know.
The next morning we have coffee, somewhat spoilt by someone nearby beating the crap out of a piece of sheet metal. Then to the Citadel. The person in charge of Google Maps in Vietnam is a complete bastard. Having already sent us on five erroneous treks to non-existent tobacco, electronic stores and restaurants, I stupidly trust them to tell me where the Hue Citadel is. I mean, it’s the main thing people come to see here. We trudge for 4km, religiously following the directions to ‘Hue Historical Citadel,’ dicing with death when crossing roads, and we reach a toilet in a shanty town. Having located the real one, it’s 1km to its Northern Gate, but that’s staff only. It’s another 1.5km to the Southern Gate entrance.
BBC Weather assured us there would be thunderstorms so I brought my brolly. Because of this it was a 32c all-day scorcher with not a cloud in the sky. The sun dries my t-shirt almost as quickly as I can sweat into it.
But once in, oh the calm. It starts off meh, but gets good soon and keeps on getting better. Once we know there are clean toilets and vending machines to buy cold water we relax and explore. It’s massive. Built in the early 19th century for the unifying Nguyen dynasty who made Hue Vietnam’s capital, there used to be 160 major buildings, until the Americans bombed them to smithereens and now there are ten, gradually being restored. At every turn there’s something unusual or breath-taking and they’ve done a very good job explaining the history. There’s hardly anyone here.
Eschewing numerous offers of rickshaws back due to traffic concerns, we look for the boat that several salespersons wanted us to take on our outgoing journey, but it appears it only goes one way. So, we walk along the river bank among the off-duty rickshaw drivers, which is fine, until we decide to go a bridge too far. The nearest to our Airbnb only looks to be 500m away, but I don’t know about the tributary river because I’ve stopped looking at Google Maps in protest. Eventually I do and it would have added 10km to the journey, so we turn around. Still, we get to walk through the Cho Dang Ba market twice, which is fantastic and non-touristy hassle-free.
There’s a Madam Tu 2 too, to which we go for breakfast at 3pm. Same menu, we go to two Tu’s two days to eat too. That’s boring, but when you’re close to heat exhaustion having walked 20km over six hours with little shade you don’t want to be disappointed. All you want is a strong fan 30cm from your face and t-shirt, delicious food and several cold beers.
Our last night in Hue and we go to a bar that’s entirely run by children. The Happy Hour £1.50 caipirinha isn’t bad, the mojito tastes the same as the caipirinha. Bahn mi lady has gone to bed so, after a fiery Thai stir-fry in a tiny kerbside restaurant, we do too.
6/10/23 Hue to Hoi An
Getting bored, we abscond to a coffee shop before our 12-noon checkout, thus depriving Mrs Thanh of adding our portraits to her hefty guest book. She wasn’t happy judging by the cold Airbnb guest review she gave us. Sorry, Mrs Tranh.
The minibus to Hoi An is luxurious with six huge business class sized armchairs and a middle seat on the back row which slopes at a right angle, cannot be adjusted and has a broken seatbelt. The surly driver that cruises in the middle of the road waiting to overtake very slow, old lorries, his ear pressed to a mobile, is probably the least dangerous driver on the highway. The four hour trip passes through beautiful mountains then goes through Da Nang. Not for us.
A hassle-free taxi ride to Can Nam, an island south of Hoi An, possibly because the driver thinks he’s going to get extra business. Then we are locked out of our Airbnb for one and a half hours. The owner has passed on responsibility for management to her niece, who is too busy on Tik Tok or whatever to read my repeated messages that we’ve arrived. Get bitten by insects. Not happy. The caretaker finally comes and shows us how to turn on and off every light switch. Amazing property though, not that I’ll say that in my Airbnb review.
Hoi An is incredibly touristy, but fascinating all the same. The river boats with their bright lanterns are a sight to behold, the night market is huge and spreads everywhere. Of course, most of the stuff it sells is for tourists, but it's the kind of crap you want to own. Restaurants, bars and street food stalls abound. Failing to persuade her that we should eat genuine Vietnamese food on kiddy stools, Claire opts for an Asian fusion restaurant where she has snapper carpaccio in a mango, ginger and chilli marinade, and white tuna wrapped in nori and rice paper, served in a passion fruit mint yoghurt sauce. I have pho.
We return to the villa to listen to the placid sounds of rats jumping into the river and flying cockroaches plummeting from tree to tree. Bit ratty for me outside, so I go to bed.
7/10/23 My Son and Hoi An
It’s happened at least five times in the past week. We go to a coffee shop or bar, just a handful of Vietnamese in there, usually playing cards, some ballad or patriotic war anthem playing. As soon as they clock us the music changes and it’s always the same tape - bland instrumental muzak, a classical guitar accompanied by a double bass - ‘I Will Always Love You,’ ‘How Deep Is Your Love?’ ‘Streets of London’ ‘Everything I Do, I Do For You,’ etc. It’s like there’s a directive from the Communist Government, perhaps getting their revenge.
Last night the Vietnamese singers in the live bars along the waterfront were pulverising the repertoires of Tina Turner, Jennifer Rush and Bon Jovi. Today, our mini bus driver has a mini-TV where his satnav should be and it’s playing, on a loop, videos of attractive women with huge kits. Drum kits. They're drumming, karaoke style, to the greatest hits of Boney M. It’s like the 1980s have only just arrived.
My Son is a holy Hindu temple complex that flourished between the 4th and 14th centuries CE, the longest inhabited site in South East Asia, where the Champa Kings and nobility are buried. It’s a massive complex and had over 70 temples until quite recently. Until the Americans bombed the crap out of it in 1969, targeting the main temple deliberately. They only stopped because Nixon, under pressure from outraged archaeologists worldwide, told them to.
What remains, deep in the heat of the jungle, is definitely worth seeing, despite the legions of Chinese tourists and their eye-level umbrellas that they use as parasols. Our guide Lin has a preference for standing in the sun and describing how every brick was laid, so we try to escape from him at every opportunity. The Aussie couple also abscond and he’s left to explain, in dubious English, to six young polite French people. He tracks us down and, thinking we’ve hurt his feelings, we follow to the native Champa dance and culture show in which three young ladies dance gracefully with bowls on their heads. I leave when the trumpet (?) player comes on, but return when the girls strip to their bikinis.
Lunch, which is included in the price of the tour, is a bowl of chicken noodles. It tastes of absolutely nothing until you add several squirts from the numerous bottles of condiments, then it's quite good (or maybe that's because I'm hungry). The Aussie guy doesn’t even trust the chicken breast in the soup.
We return by the advertised boat trip, but not from My Son, rather a couple of km from Hoi An on a ferry. I’m not complaining, it was a cheap day trip and we got to watch a woman make rice pancakes.
Back in Hoi An and there’s serious shopping to do. It’s our last night in Vietnam and we have dong that has to be spent. Slow progress. There’s a touristy street in the Old Town down which legions of Chinese in rickshaws trundle and they have to stop for a selfie outside every shop. I want to buy a t-shirt with a picture of Ho Chi Minh on the front. ‘200,000 dong,’ says a girl. ‘Pah!’ say I. ‘They’re selling these for 100,000 down the road.’ ‘Allow me to make some mark-up,’ she says. So we settle on 150,000.
Even after the trauma of Hanoi, I think I’m in love with Vietnam. The country is beautiful, there’s so much to see and almost all the people are just so lovely. They work hard, try so earnestly to please but welcome constructive criticism. Despite the recent brutal history, everyone seems happy. We only had a couple of rip-offs, in Hanoi of course, and they were minor, no bad feelings afterwards. I’m sure we’ll be coming back and, next time, I’ll have a better idea of what I’m doing.
Comments
Post a Comment