Travel Writing | Pant Hoot | Online Travel Magazine

November 2005 – Vietnam
 
If Hoi An is a town of tailors then Marble Mountain is a town of stone masons. The main drag like driving through a cemetery expo with headstones lining the streets in neat little piles - Welcome to Tombstone Viet style.

The town itself is pretty uninspiring despite the marble Madonnas and Buddha’s a plenty. Grey marble dust covered everything. As we pulled into the car park of a souvenir marketplace we started to think it might have been a dud. What we didn’t realise is that the wonders of the Marble Mountains are not on the outside but within.

We had elected to jump on the bus to Hue rather than grab a cab as it was much cheaper and the Marble Mountains rest stop was a bonus. On approach to the town we appreciated why the area is called Marble Mountain. A series of huge hills of marble that have been systematically mined for generations, some just wafer like wedges standing like pillars on the outskirts of town. Teetering as if one extra peck would send them toppling over.

Several of the Marble Mountains have been mined on the inside and partially hollowed out. They stand like a jungle covered Crunchie bar, with the insides honeycombed by a network of tunnels. Round a corner and grand halls emerge from the electric torchlight full of gods and idols carved straight out of the rock. Seep ladders lead upwards six stories to lookouts and temples. We only had enough time to climb to the first tower for a 60 second view before returning to our boarding bus.

It was lunchtime when we got to Hue. On the way the bus swung past China Beach and some narly breaks, hopped on a modern freeway through a six kilometre tunnel under a mountain, and took a rest stop at a dodgy roadside café.  It was here that we became aware of the trade in foreign coins. I had retained a little bit of Aussie shrapnel and when a kid of about ten asked if I had any Australian coins I naively had visions of him as a collector rather than looking to flog them to the jewellery makers to melt down into necklaces.  “No no I want the Kangaroo!”  He still took my fives and tens. “Platypus and Echidna” we told him. “No worries.” We were not the first Australians he had played this game with.

The predators were waiting at the booking office as the bus pulled up. A few started trying to get on the bus before we got off. Handing out hotel flyers and business cards “Very nice hotel, I take you”.  We were supposed to be met at the depot by someone from the sister hotel of the Phuc An in Hoi An, but it seemed that this was the only hotel in Hue not to have a representative on the footpath.
 
This was the harassment that Claire had been speaking of. True to form the bus had dropped us off with no idea where we were. The experienced hunters had managed to split us up and Rosie and I found ourselves negotiating three competing Vietnamese hotel toutseach. We made eye contact and moved off down the street like movie stars with a trail of paparazzi. A few doors down we found a restaurant and found sanctuary. Our pursuers settled down to stake us out, sharing cigarettes and jokes with sideways glances inside and occasional smiling waves. We got a round of applause on entering from an English couple, fellow refugees from the mean streets. 

You get a real appreciation of the madness of Vietnamese traffic when you are in the middle of it on the back of a motor bike taxi.  Baulking vehicles like a Leigh Matthews highlights reel. Horns bellowing out in arbitrary Morse code – Get out of my way!
We found ourselves pillion passengers after a mad dash to our chosen hotel burned off the tout army. A quick visit to a friendly travel agent and we found ourselves on a guided tour of the cities highlights crammed into a three hour window of daylight.

Hue is an ancient town, a fortified imperial city that has been the front line of conflict and pageantry for centuries. It was the epicentre of the Viet Cong Tete offensive during the war and was held by the communists for three brutal months before the Americans retook it in 1967.  The lasting legacy of this three month siege is documented in the royal buildings.  Blackened by napalm and fire, pock marked by bullets, holed by shell and bomb craters, the bits that still stand tease at what once was.

Tu Duc was an Emperor with a taste for wives and concubines according to the guide book. He built a summer palace to entertain them by lakes and forested hills. When he died they built his tomb there and smaller ones for his Queens.  They had peacefully rested there behind the colourful tiles and ornate carvings for generations until modern warfare laid a black shroud over the splendour. As we walked around the small lakes and bridges that linked the buildings the mist drifted in through the trees and made it a quite eerie setting. The ravages of war and the black grime that covered everything made the buildings seem much more ancient than they were. The forest and the high boundary walls shut modern Hue out and the stone elephants and dragons lining the courtyard would have made a good setting for a showdown with the big boss in Mortal Combat or and appropriate mystic lesson from some martial arts guru. “You still have much to learn grasshopper.”

Another white knuckle bike ride later we were at the steps to the tomb of Khai Dinh. Set into the side of a hill the steps lead up through four terraces filled with statues of soldiers and elephants. At the top a life size bronze statue of Khai Dinh sits above his tomb in a large mausoleum. Though much smaller in scale than Tu Duc’s final resting place the terraces offered grand views of the surrounding hills where we could see huge statues and the spires of pagodas towering over the tree line. This tomb had been constructed in the early twentieth century and it was quite saddening to compare this indigenous grandeur with the cookie cutter architecture of the commie years.

The old city of Hue sits on the banks of the romantically named Perfume River, so named due to the aromatic algae that grows there. We decided to take the guide books word for it as most rivers we had smelled in Vietnam had more septic fragrances. The old city is effectively a large castle with ancient stone walls serving as a defensive perimeter.  Further within lay the Citadel a more heavily fortified structure where the Nguyen Dynasty version of the Forbidden City lay. Here the Vietnamese Emperors had lived, wined and dined in style. Palaces for the Emperor, separate grand buildings for the wives and lovers, and gardens and lakes to while away the day within. We wandered within the shell of what remained and tried to imagine what it must have once looked like, before the place was practically levelled in the sixties. Some buildings escaped and others are gradually being restored but there are huge vacant areas left to nature or sewn with grain and other crops. War and neglect ruining what must have once been truly magnificent. Hopefully the increasing volume of tourist dollars can be ploughed back into restoration.

The most impressive thing at the Citadel is the huge flag tower and the equally enormous Vietnamese flag.  Large enough to comfortably roof a cup day marquee it dominates the riverfront. Our motor bikes zipped through the stone archway and away through the traffic to our final destination, a Pagoda at a fork in the Perfume river. It was getting dark when the bikes pulled up and Truong, who had been ferrying Rose, explained that he was studying for his tour guide ticket and asked if he could show us around and practice.

Pagodas have deep significance for Buddhists, who make up a sizable population in Vietnam but have been quite frequently persecuted. With it’s symbolic seven tiers this particular pagoda was in the grounds of a Buddhist monastery and as we strolled we watched the shaven headed monks prepare for dinner. It was here that we came face to face with another famous iconic news photograph of Vietnam. Protesting against the religious discrimination against Buddhists a monk from the monastery had driven his old beat up sedan into town, covered himself in petrol and then lit a match. The car that he had driven that day was on display behind glass next to a poster print of the horrific photo of the burning monk -  US band Rage Against The Machine had used it for an album cover - Another sobering experience from Vietnam’s recent history.

After dinner we stopped for a beer at the DMZ Bar, a seedy westerner joint with a pool table - As good a place as any to reflect on our adventure thus far. The sort of touts who hit on you in bars and cafes fall into a few different types. There are the “True Pathetics” who will add a tale of woe or theatrically mime some hardship that will supposedly make you more inclined to buy a packet of teeth whitener. Then there are charming ones who pitch a well honed routine and ad lib instinctively and engage in friendly banter. One of these types had succeeded in selling me a few silk paintings back in Nha Trang as he had taken the time to add a little bit of passion for the art. Yes I had been ripped off but I did not feel bitter about it. The third type are those that just go through the motions. It was one of these that captured our attention at the DMZ bar.

“You want to buy some paintings?”

He was about sixteen and half heartedly flipped through the plastic wrapped selection. We shook our heads.

“Have you got any Aussie coins?”

Rosie asked him why he wanted foreign coins.

“To spend them.” Was his honest answer.  He didn’t seem too fussed about our decision and loitered around outside the beer garden showing the occasional passer by his wares but not overly exerting himself. His mind was on something else. Soon a group of boys of similar age arrived on the scene and after a bit of jovial banter started to get a little agro – Giving him a little push and ranting in Vietnamese.

The next time that I noticed him he was inside the bar and over near the door to the kitchen where some crates were stacked. He had put down his paintings and was nervously looking around as the waitresses took orders. When the last one had vanished inside the kitchen he reached behind the crates and grabbed a six pack of beer and sprinted out of the bar and down the street.
We laughed as we realised that we had just witnessed our first bit of petty crime in the country. A few minutes later another group of youths gathered outside the bar. We were a little concerned when we saw that one was holding a lump of wood and another had a rock in his hand. The waitress came out and spoke with one of them and after a bit of animated conversation left. Rosie reckoned that they were looking for kid that pinched the beer and I tended to agree with her. Five minutes after they had left the beer thief returned, sheepishly fetched his paintings from their hiding place and vanished.

Sandy and Kevin were from Forbes in NSW. A place that had been ruined by the blow ins for the Ultra Marathon each year, according to them. They made no attempts to hide their Xenophobia. We had watched them wander in and out of the bar and then gather on the footpath. They were anxiously looking for someone and were still standing there when we made to leave. Rosie made a comment in passing and suddenly we were drawn into conversation. It was as if upon hearing our accents they had latched onto us and unburdened themselves of pent up travel tales. Somehow we found ourselves in the Why Not Bar playing pool and listening to their adventures. It was as if we had invited bible bashers or insurance salesmen into our house and now we couldn’t get rid of them.
 
They were caricatures - A mixture of Steve Irwin and one of the Moe “Pig’s Head Crew” - Over the top surf yobbos with none of the charm that would allow you to call them larrikins. They were on a crash and burn tour through South East Asia. Their stories compelling like a car crash, funny like slapstick – At least it would have been if the only victims had been themselves.

They didn’t believe in being passive observers. In the sex shows in Bangkok Kev had ripped off his gear and danced on the bar with the Lady Boys. In Vietnam he leapt on the back of a rice farmers buffalo and rode it rodeo style. Where we practised a polite but firm dismissal technique with the touts they just told them to fuck off.  They were an international incident waiting to happen. We tried to respond with a few anecdotes of our own but they bulldozed over them with their own. They took a similar attitude onto the roads as well, having by their own admission had three car accidents since they had arrived in the country a little over a week earlier. The latest incident told in an indignant tone by Sandy as if they were the victims.  She had taken out an old lady on a bicycle by blindly opening her car door in heavy traffic. The old girl had gone flying and an angry crowd assembled. We never did find out what happened to the poor lady, but heard them whinge continually about the hundred dollars US that it cost them to hush the crowd up and stop them calling the cops.

We left them racking up the pool table and tucking into possibly the world’s worst pizza. They were still wondering aloud what had happened to their friends that they had lost earlier. “They went into this shop and then they just disappeared.”  Rosie and I looked at each other. We knew exactly what happened to them. They did a runner just like we were doing. We were still laughing about them when we woke the night porter from his mattress on the foyer floor to let us into the hotel. It was 11.30. Hue is not a party town.

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