Travel Writing | Pant Hoot | Online Travel Magazine

November 2005 – Vietnam
If only the shower pressure in Vietnam could match the intensity of the rainfall. CNN had been tracking a Typhoon off the Philippines for the past few days and it seemed that Vietnam was now copping some rain squalls from the fringes. The wind was howling and the fourth floor shook under the force of the gale blowing in from the sea. Rosie sleepily asked me if a cyclone had hit. I reassured her that this was unlikely however I was in no hurry to go outside. After an hour or so the wind died to be replaced by torrential rain. We crossed fingers and toes that this wasn’t the beginning of the monsoon.

By 5am we were packed and downstairs waiting for our cab to the station. The rain had not let up and the cab driver literally backed into the hotel foyer to pick us up. The cabbie cut Rosie’s attempts at haggling the fare abruptly short. Our bargaining power reduced due to the rain – What were we going to do walk?  By the time we reached Ga Nha Trang the rain had eased and we joined the multi cultural melee in the waiting room to be informed that our train was running approximately half an hour late due to the weather. We settled in to watch Corrs music videos and Hana Barbera cartoons on the big plasma screen on the wall - The same song and the same cartoon on endless loop.

George was an American from Seattle whereas Garry and Gloria were Canadian fire fighters from Vancouver. As the only westerners on the platform we gravitated together and swapped small talk and once we determined that we were all headed for Hoi An made tentative plans to split a cab on arrival in De Nang. When our train arrived we split and went to our different carriages for our 8 hour trip north.

This time we had scored the E train - The bridesmaid service on the train travel spectrum but a definite step up from the cattle car of a few days previously. We had the top of the line “soft class” tickets which meat a private sleeper compartment although being morning the beds had been slept in the night before and the booths still contained the rubbish of the previous nights tenants. Rose was a tad grossed out by this however we soon found ourselves catching c couple of hours shut eye as the train got underway.

It was not just Nha Trang that had copped a bucketing, as we headed north we observed flooded paddy fields, swollen rivers and the odd café neon sign protruding from the waters. Every now and then we would come across a car stranded on high ground with roads fore and aft underwater. As we took in the view we got George’s life history as his voice boomed from the compartment next door drowning out his conversational partner.

He was a Native American commercial fisherman who was on a lighting South East Asian holiday between fishing seasons. He was travelling alone however there was a girl in Saigon that he was going fly down and spend some time with once he had reached Hanoi. He had made his decision to come to Vietnam only weeks before and in his haste had not fully thought through the logistics. In hindsight he said it would have made more sense to arrive in Hanoi and travel south.

Garry had been to Vietnam before and his no nonsense techniques for dealing with the taxi drivers and getting a good deal took the pressure off as we just sat back and watched him work two or three drivers against each other for the best deal. We got a five seater cab and the fare worked out to be three bucks each which meant we saved about nine dollars on getting an individual taxi for the 40 kilometre trip top Hoi An. This was all organised within a matter of minutes of alighting from the train, our only delays being to wait through a series of George dramas as he firstly sorted out some ticket anomaly at the station and then had to drop by a bank en route.  Rather than use the ATM out the front George insisted on using the tellers inside to save a few Dong on the charges, leaving us slightly bemused at the situation as we waited whilst he ran the gauntlet of dealing with Vietnamese bureaucracy. Ten minutes later he apologetically re-emerged and we recommenced our journey. We all swapped travel stories on the drive out of De Nang. Garry and Gloria told of how they had traveled to the other side of the earth only to repeatedly run into a friend’s neighbour - A person of such apparently annoying habits that their friend had refused to talk to whom never quite grasped the hint. The diplomatic tip toeing that followed marked the Canadian couple as prime candidates for a spot on the UN should Kofi Anan decide to hang up his boots.

For George Hoi An was only a one night stop over on his sprint up the coast. He was looking for a bit of luxury after roughing it for a few days. The Canadians had a few days to kill and to the backing of the Boney M mega mix coming from the cabbies CD player we discussed the merits of the various attractions and accommodation options. Using the trusty Lonely Planet as a guide we had decided on a rough area filled with hotels where we should get the cabbie to drop us off however George, oblivious to all of this discussion, had simply told the driver to take us to a three star hotel. Before we had a chance to suggest otherwise we found ourselves out the front of the Phuc Ahn Hotel.

Having asked the cabbie for guidance re accommodation we were a lot more receptive to the possibility of staying where he recommended, and where he no doubt received a kick back of some kind. He had been quite friendly and joked with us on the way and as the hotel owner fawned over us offering everything but the kitchen sink in extras we decided to check the place out. The other area where we had planned to stay was only a block or so away so we knew we could change if it wasn’t up to scratch. After orchestrating this drop off point George decided he wanted a bit more up market faire and scooted off in the taxi leaving us slightly slack jawed. With the offer of the best hotel rooms that we encountered in Vietnam, free breakfast, pool, internet and bikes for touring around town we settled on a $12 room for three nights.

After the obligatory round of jokes about the pronunciation of our hotel we decided to do some exploring of town. Visiting Hoi An is like stepping back in time into a Chinese trading port from the nineteenth century. Cars are banned from the old town and history wafts over you from every door, balcony and architrave. The town itself is built almost at sea level and plays a continual game of Russian Roulette with the Hoi An River. The recent rains having raised the water level over the dock and flooding many streets and businesses. The end result was a surreal vista of streets disappearing into the river and stubborn restaurateurs vainly trying to entice customers to brave the ankle deep waters lapping at their steps.

Apart from the historical vista and its role as the backdrop for much of the film The Quiet American, Hoi An’s other claim to fame are it’s tailors. Literally every second shop is a tailor or cobbler offering fast food style delivery of the latest fashions in rapid time. With Rosie salivating Pavlov style as we roamed the streets it was not long before we found ourselves wrapped in measuring tape and thumbing through the latest fashion catalogues from Europe. How much you pay depends upon the cloth you choose. I got a suit made out of the best material in 24 hours for 80 dollars that fit like a glove, Rosie went for the whole summer wardrobe. Our packs would be full by the time we left. Rosie could have filled a semi trailer. We explored the old town browsing silk and lanterns, nick nack stores filled with figurines and carved chess sets, art galleries and antique stores. We ate and drank well. Hoi An was like being in a theme park with the gift shop merged with the exhibits.

Roaming Hoi An by bike.  Forcing ourselves to remember to ride on the right – Wishing that the Vietnamese showed similar diligence regarding the road rules. The rain came and stayed. Venders selling plastic ponchos emerged out of the ether.  Hardly a fashion statement but they kept us dry. The rain and mist adding a melancholy counterpoint to the hustle and bustle of the traders – The water glistening on the roof top dragons, as the mirror like Hoi An river reflected the graceful arch of the Japanese Bridge and the rain drops added a shimmer of ripples to distort the symmetry.  

We ditched the bikes and hit the market as the rain stopped. We browsed the wares as shopkeepers gave us their best spiels and Rosie refined her “Gwa Mook” walk away strategy ensuring that all the Murphy family girls had a nice selection of trinkets for Christmas. At about this time we picked up our stalker.

Touting for her shoe store hidden away within the labyrinth of shops and stalls, she had observed Rosie’s hippy bling binge and had latched onto us like a faithful puppy. Following us through the streets extolling the glorious wonders that awaited us should we follow her back to her shop. Over the next couple of days she would pop up beside us unexpectedly across town and pick up where she had left off. This must surely be the Tutenkhamon’s tomb of shoe stores. We imagined crossing rivers of mercury to recline on ermine couches as we tried on golden slippers. On our final day in town we decided to humour her. A cursory viewing of her wares enough to sever the umbilical chord that had seemed to tie her to us the previous few days.

The waters had receded from the previous evening offering us the opportunity to stroll the now dry waterfront and pull up a pew at a dockside café. Both of these activities would provide unexpected surprises. The first was the Vietnamese interpretation of a vegetable satay – French fries and peanut sauce. The second was the volatility of the Hoi An river.  At first we had marveled at the beauty of the river washing over the edge of the dock like a lap pool. Then we had laughed as the passing motor bikes had almost drenched an annoying street vendor, selling fake zippo lighters and sunglasses, as the water level rose. By the time we were halfway through our meal it dawned on us that we could no longer exit via the way we came without wading through ankle deep water. As we necked our Tigers and prepared to slip off our socks and runners the café owner came to our rescue by directing us up a narrow alley that ran up the side of the building next door.
 
The township and shopkeepers play a continual dance with the river. When the rains come and the water rushes down from the mountains the delicate balance between river and the shore is broken and flood waters turn the place into a mini Venice – With the gondolas substituted for shallow canoes carrying farmers and fishermen with their wares to market or simply sold from the boat to passers by. The locals take it in their stride and this is no more apparent than in a traditional old Chinese house named Tan Hy that we visited that has been in the same family for seven generations going back 200 years. Chalk marks on the wall record the water levels from previous floods. The house matriarch points out the mark a few feet from the floor as being from last month and the one an inch from the ceiling as from 1999. It is just as well they have pulleys and winches to haul the antique furniture and fittings up to the second storey as the ground floor regularly becomes a swimming pool.

At the conclusion of the tour our host took Rosie and I aside to impart some Confucian wisdom. She showed us a small ceramic jar that was constructed so that it could never be filled more than 80 percent. Any attempts to add more liquid resulted in the draining of the entire jars contents. It was a metaphor for greed - A lesson for life. It seemed also a lesson that the emerging Vietnamese tourist market place should take to heart. Rather than the teachings of Confucius, (Riches and honours acquired by unrighteousness are to me as a floating cloud), most Vietnamese traders seemed to subscribe more to the example of Macchiavelli (The ends justify the means) – Yet another Italian counterfeit to be sold in the market.

We finished off our official tour of the old town with a bit of live music Hoi An style. Traditional Viet musicians and dancers pumping out a few golden oldies to a backpacker crowd. Sung in the warbling Vietnamese style they opened with the crowd pleasing “My Cat is Not Well” and finished off with an accopello medley of police sirens from around the world – Or at least that’s what I could decipher from the lyrics. It was however entertaining and extremely colourful with the dancers a highlight resulting in some great snap shots. Rosie cuffed me on viewing the photos from the digital cam. “Trust you to focus on the prettiest dancer.” I pleaded a mere coincidental conjunction of shooting position, proximity and opportunity. A story I am sticking to and documenting here so as to have a written memory trigger when the subject is inevitably raised at some future argument over dish washing.

In Australia white Rose is a condition experienced around the winter solstice when the sun hides it’s rays behind grey clouds and the melanin content of my traveling companion drops accordingly. In Vietnam however White Rose is a Hoi An delicacy comprised of a dumpling enclosed prawn, fried shallots and a yummy sauce garnished with an intricately sliced tomato. Together with the other local specialty Chau Lau, (Shredded pork and noodles), the tanned one and I dined Yum Cha style on the balcony of an ancient building that housed the restaurant and watched as the streets below became taken over by school children at play.
 
Rosie had learned from her tailor, on her numerous return trips for fittings and tweaks, how the next day was to be Teacher’s Day. Vietnamese kids go to school every day although only for four hours. Some go in the morning and others in the afternoons and around lunch time the streets are full of children going to and from school in their cute little uniforms straight out of a French Madeleine comic strip. Throughout the year however there are public holidays of sorts and one of these is a day when school children do not have to attend classes but rather visit their current and former teachers to say thank you and take them gifts. On our return to Australia Rosie plans to lobby for this to become part of the next collective bargaining agreement.

To the sound of kids riotous play, as they enjoyed a non school night on the tear, Rosie asked the waitress for a glass of white wine. She had previously assured us that they did in fact have both white and red varieties. The screaming kids were now punctuated by short shrill blasts on whistles that we soon realised were uniformed officials on duty at the intersection enforcing the No Vehicle rule in the old quarter. Whether this was in some way related to the kids on the street, the fact that it was Saturday night or was some random policing measure I could not be sure however it had not been present on any other night that we had spent in town. Our pondering over this question was interrupted by the return of the waitress with Rosie’s “white wine.” Technically I guess Sherry does count as a wine however it was not quite what we had expected. I wondered whether their red would indeed be Port. Safer to stick to the beers.

Part 1 - Saigon

Part 2 - Cu Chi
Part 3 - The Reunification Express
Part 4 - Nha Trang
Part 5 - Hoi An
Part 6 - My Son
Part 7 - Hue
Part 8 - The Dee Em Zee
Part 9 - Hanoi
Part 10 - Ha Long Bay