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Nha Trang

Back on the South China Sea

sunny 34 °C
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12-14 May: Escaped from Alcatraz, I headed to Quy Nhơn. The journey was no fun. The driver tried to charge me twice the right amount because I was foreign. This is commonplace, but stupid because I told him that I knew the right price ($5 for a five-hour ride). Since he persisted, I walked 50 metres, bought a ticket at the ticket office and waved it in the driver’s face. This kind of bullshit happens several times a day and sometimes I feel I am close to snapping under the accumulated frustration. As it is I call them obscene names. The public minibuses are fitted out to take 16 small people, but they cram 22 in. Then they turn on the music, at maximum volume, and then they smoke. At least there’s no livestock.

I liked Quy Nhơn immediately. I’m not stared at or hassled very much, and there is a palm-lined corniche like Nice.

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There are large numbers of fishing boats and fish traps in the bay, and the odd guy wiggling his oar in a coracle.

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I had a cocktail on the eighth floor of a posh hotel just after sunset, and things were good again. (The hotel is called the Saigon Quy Nhơn and the cheapest room costs $35 a night. This is great value because there is a pool, gym, free wifi, obsequious service etc. But my place cost $11 a night and for that I got a big room with a balcony.)

The cocktail would have been a perfect moment but for the Kenny G/Michael Bolton soundtrack and the waiter hitting on me. Nice chap actually, I met him the following day with a friend of his, both very camp. It's refreshing to see people being quite so openly camp in VN, where I've hitherto got the impression that homosexuality is strongly disapproved of (Thailand, by contrast, is the most relaxed place on earth). But I don't enjoy being chatted up, particularly when trapped, and the unwanted attention did end up placing the nicest place in town pretty much off limits.

There's a pair of 800-year old Cham towers near the edge of town, bang in the middle of a block. On the way there I saw a guy riding a bicycle with three sofas on it. You see a lot of overloaded bikes here, but three sofas is something.

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The sea is said to be too polluted to swim in. This was no constraint: in the 40 hours I was in Quy Nhơn it rained every minute. I walked along the beach in the drizzle. Over the water, a flock of white birds – cranes perhaps. On the sand, hundreds of crabs; as soon as they see me they scuttle sideways into the water at an amazing speed – 10-12 km/h I would guess.

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A further gold star for the town: the seafood is very good. I had my first taste of nautilus: like strong whelk. And because there are very few westerners, prices are reasonable: I had a rice & veg meal including beer for 19,000 dong (60p).

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The museum took up about half an hour. Some of the best stuff is piled up unlabelled and unguarded at the back. This is all 800-year-old Cham sculpture.

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There is a pagoda, Long Khanh, with a 17-metre-high statue of Buddha in front of it. As often, he has a swastika on his chest. The twentieth-century appropriation and abuse of the ancient symbol by the Nazis has not tainted or prevented its continued use in this part of the world. But if you’re a westerner you can't help but stare.

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On 13-17 May it’s the tenth UN Day of Vesak – a UN day because in 1999 the UN acknowledged the Buddha’s birthday as an international day of culture. They celebrate the Buddha’s birth, enlightment and passage to Nirvana. This year it is being celebrated at a convention centre in Hanoi and there are posters all over Vietnam commemorating the event.

So it’s the first day when I visit Long Khanh pagoda, and lots of people are visiting to leave gifts. A monk attaches himself to me. He’s called Tu and speaks enthusiastic but execrable English as he shows me around the pagoda. He is off to Saigon to study more Buddhism and English.

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I would happily have stayed in Quy Nhơn for a while if it had ever stopped raining. A tropical storm for an hour every afternoon is no problem. But when bracketed by 23 hours of rain it saps the spirit and sogs the sandals, and there isn’t much to do.

So I headed south to Nha Trang where I immediately saw my first western faces in five or six days, spoke English and wolfed a plate of pasta. It’s like a somewhat squalid Khao San Road (qv): tour shop, dive shop, souvenir shop, restaurant, bar, hotel. It’s welcome light relief after some slightly challenging travelling. It's squalid both because of the dirt in the streets, and because after dark all the xe om drivers turn into pimps and drug dealers.

On 14 May it still rained. The locals are saying it was because of the earthquake in Sichuan. Can this be true?

15 May: Today, though, there was thin cloud cover for most of the day and sunshine for parts. I spent a lovely day on a lounger at the beach. It slopes steeply into the sea and so big waves crash and hiss even without much of a swell on the sea. They knock you flying if you are not careful.

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Vendors come along about every few minutes. Sometimes they even have things you might want, like grilled rice paper. The tropical sun is not to be trifled with, and I did so trifle, so now I look just like an Englishman abroad.

Vietnamese beachwear is different. The men wear what they like. The women generally swim in whatever they are wearing, although I did see some big one-piece swimsuits-n-skirts today. I suspect this pattern holds true all the way round the coast to South Africa.

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This woman is dressed as if prepared for a gas attack, and this is not unusual. A high proportion of women wear face masks. (Men only do so if they are working in the streets.) Even in the middle of a national park. It seems disproportionate to the threat of dust; in fact I haven’t had to reach for the Ventolin since Bangkok. It’s as if they’ve taken the veil.

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  • ****

Randy, of Randy’s Book Exchange in Hoi An, was kind enough to bus me the notebook that I’d left in his shop a week ago. Even more kudos to him.

There are a lot of Russians here it seems. Several of the places have Russian menus, and two have Russian names. For the first time since I got to Vietnam, I’ve heard Russian being spoken.

One lot there aren’t any of in VN is Italians. In the book exchanges you see a lot of English books, plenty of German, Dutch, Nordic and Finnish, French, Russian, some Hebrew and Japanese. No Italian. I met one Italian couple in Hoi An. We chatted in Italian, which pleased me immensely. Where are the Italians? I asked. In Italy, they said. And it’s true: the Italians take domestic vacations while the Germans, Dutch and English head abroad.

16, 17, 18 May: In one of the earlier novels – Live and Let Die, at a guess – James Bond prepares for a daredevil amphibious mission by living in a beach house and swimming and running for a week. That it takes him only a week to get into shape is improbable, because Bond smokes upwards of 70 cigarettes and drinks half a bottle of vodka a day - much less than Fleming himself drank while running a publisher. (Bond has his own cigarettes made by Morland’s, with three gold bands at the filter, from his own blend of Balkan and Turkish tobacco. His prissy obsession with having the right clothes/car/café/cocktail is probably not unrelated to his sadistic/psychopathic tendencies. Indeed, he shares his brandmania with the narrator of American Psycho.) Anyway, I’ve done the same thing today and after two months of travelling in hot weather it feels great to get some exercise. If it takes high-tar Bond a week, I thought I’d try to maintain the regime for three days. But the big sand, great lumps of silica, blisters the soles of the feet; I can’t run on it a second time.

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The prices at the two beach restaurants are very high, particularly at the Sailing Club. 80,000 (nearly $5) for a plate of fried rice; 25,000 dong for a can of coke or a bottle of water - outrageous. Yet there is a good restaurant down the road, the Khanh Kat, selling food at normal prices: a mojito, a bottle of beer, seafood soup, fish-and-bacon kebabs and some fruit for 105,000 dong ($6.50). That the two beach restaurants can behave like local monopolists is testimony to the inertia of the average consumer, which creates the low price elasticity of demand that supports high profit margins.

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Posted by Wardsan 18:43 Archived in Vietnam Comments (0)

A Ho Chi Minh Trail

rain 25 °C
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I spent the two VE days – Russia celebrates a day later, I think – on a motorbike. Cương picked me up at eight and we headed north towards Ðànãng. We stopped at the Marble Mountains, next to China Beach slightly south of Ðànãng. The five outcrops have long provided marble for the local sculptors; now they ship the marble in from China because the output is large. They sculpt the lot, from life-size lions and eagles and huge fat Buddhas down to candleholders. A lot of people buy from abroad. It must cost a fortune to ship a life-sized marble lion, but then if you are doing that you probably have a tastelessly decorated ranch. On the largest outcrop there is a temple complex and some caves, one of which was used as a field hospital by the VC.

We head west from Ðànãng. In the late morning it is not easy to tell the direction because the sun is overhead. We are about 16 degrees north of the equator, and the sun is vertical at noon for two short periods during the summer as it passes to and from its midsummer date at the Tropic of Cancer. One of those times must be about now.

They are in the middle of a rice harvest at the moment and the land is smoking as if at war. They harvest the rice, then burn the stubble, then turn the heavy soil.

They dry the rice for several days in the sun, forking it constantly.

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They spread the grains on plastic sheets in front of the houses, and often in the road. Sometimes they pour the rice directly on to the road. I suppose the road is as convenient place as any; also, perhaps, the dark road is hot. Rice blankets stretch out, mile upon mile, interrupted by the occasional bright orange maize blanket. On small lanes the rice is poured in the middle, like a grass verge in an English country lane. Vehicles drive over it, especially when the SUVs barge them towards the ditch.

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We stopped at a village where they make the province’s rice paper. The first step is to steep the rice in water. Then it is churned into a paste. Cheroot stub in mouth, an old woman used a small stick to spread perfect rice paper circles on to a hotplate, looking for all the world like a Belgian crêpe-maker. Ignoring the camera-toting tourist, she slung the soggy circles on to a horizontal wheel, where a younger, masked relative placed them on to racks to dry – a true cottage industry.

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The racks and contents dry in the sun, if there is any; otherwise they are smoked indoors.

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Heading west, our next stop was at a waterfall: Suối Mơ. There was a café at the entrance to the park. Tacked on to a wall was a wallchart of the 2008 European Championships, which we all discussed in depth. Every match will be televised and widely watched in Vietnam, most at 1.45 am. Output will suffer.

Cương and I dived in and swam in the pool below the waterfall. This is Cương. (The topless photo of me is not for publication.) Like most Vietnamese men, he chain-smokes.

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Then back on to the road – now Highway 14B - and I’m into the standard posture: sitting upright, hands braced on knees, looking around. I don’t hold on, because I figure that if something goes wrong, I want to be where the bike is not. At 50km/h the wind is in our faces, but it is Saharan and provides no relief.

In any case, a hand must be free and ready to wave at all times. Many children shout ‘hello’ and wave as soon as they see a westerner; very few adults do so. They are taught to say ‘hello’ as soon as they can speak; you see parents saying ‘hello’ to tiny toddlers in their laps. You wave back to the children and their faces light up, so there’s immediate positive reinforcement - ideal conditions for operant conditioning. The Vietnamese also answer the phone by shouting hello, so I have waved at several bemused people holding mobiles.

We soon reach the hills – the beginning of the central highlands. The rice paddies disappear and we see cows and pineapples. Next to a lorry loaded with pineapples I buy a pineapple. Sweet, delicious, 5,000 dong.

Cương says he works for the Easy Riders, a well-known outfit of motorbike riders offering trips into the hills. He is 37 and the father of two daughters aged 12 and 14 months. They live in Ðànãng. He has been doing this for 8 years; before that, cyclo in Ðànãng; before that, working in a tyre factory. Like many Vietnamese men, he tends to bark rather than speak (the women tend to shriek). He drives slowly and safely.

Shortly afterwards we stop at a bridge and have lunch – 20,000 dong each. The heavens opened as we stopped. In the afternoon, wearing a purple plastic cape, I fell asleep on the back of the bike. I didn’t fall off but it’s not an experiment to repeat.

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I took a walk by the river in the rain to wake up.

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The name of the road is the Ðương Ho Chi Minh – Ho Chi Minh road, or Ho Chi Minh Trail. It follows the route of one of the Ho Chi Minh Trails. There were quite a few: 16,000 km of them in all, in a country that is 1,600 km long, all supplying the VC from North Vietnam. One of them went down the coast from Vinh. The Americans, recognising the strategic imperative of cutting supply, bombed, defoliated and napalmed the whole road. And if that wasn’t enough, the VC nearly all got malaria.

As in Laos, the tree cover on many of the hills is sparse. This is partly because of the continued effect of Agent Orange, which is in the soil. The plants grow to a certain size, their roots reach the dioxins, and they die. So staggeringly toxic is the stuff that, generations on, children are still born with deformities. And as in Laos, there are still a lot of incidents with UXOs around the DMZ and in the hills – about 4,000 a year. Usually the maimed and killed are children, who find and play with the brightly-coloured cluster bombs - often with their brothers and sisters.

According to Vietnamese figures at the Army Museum in Hanoi, the US dropped 76 million litres of Agent Orange on to 607,500 hectares of forest and 89,500 hectares of cultivated land. According to the same figures (which should be approached with caution), the American War resulted in 2 million people disabled, 2 million people affected by dioxins, 500,000 children born deformed, and 300,000 MIA. Whatever the exact figures, the US has a lot to answer for. What I genuinely don’t know is whether the US government, accepting its moral responsibility, is doing anything official to mitigate the tragic effects of Agent Orange and UXOs. Perhaps the Embassy encourages or funds the charities that deal with landmines and their effects, for example. I bloody hope so.

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Another reason for the absence of trees is the illegal activities of the locals. In Laos there is a lot of illegal logging – the army got into it to fund itself – and no doubt there is in VN too. The local minority people also practise slash and burn agriculture. They burn a clearance and grow manioc or rice on the bare hillsides.

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Highway 14B is about five years old and – except where landslides have translated or buried the road – it is in good shape, entirely sealed and partially asphalted. Still, the speed limit is 40 km/h and I’m not complaining.

Heading south we are in the hills, next to a river, surrounded by rainforest. The countryside looks like nearby Laos – admittedly not an enlightening comparison for many. For the first time in Vietnam, the main hazards on the road are not other vehicles but cows, chickens and goats – unpredictable and stupid chickens above all.

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In the afternoon the clouds arrive and it gets very dark. At 4pm we reach Khâm Dức. The Khâm Dức Hotel, a government hotel, is threatened by a private hotel opposite and has revamped its facilities. There is even an item I have not seen in two months – a bath. It isn’t big enough for me, but the insects like it.

Children are playing foot-volleyball with a shuttlecock – a very common pastime in VN. Some other guests are playing a very competitive game of badminton on a marked court.

There are only one or two other foreigners in town – there is gold in the hills and the Filipinos are after it - and the children are very curious. They follow me to my room and would walk in if I didn’t shut the door on them.

Cương and I head for a drink. Cương says he has rice wine every day after driving – it helps him sleep. While hitting the rice wine, the Vietnamese always eat. We had a bowl of leaves with a bowl of brain, and some salt and lemon. Both cow and pig brain were available; Cương said he thought it was pig brain and I hope he was right (since the VN sensibly do not feed cows to cows, the danger of CJD should be minimal). The brain was huge – more than enough for two - entire, the cortex highly involuted, its texture that of lightly cooked scrambled egg. Only an hour later we were eating my xao bo – fried beef noodles. Fortunately I had finished by the time a cockroach joined us at the table.

The following morning the sun is shining again and it’s fun to watch the road passing by. We stop at a waterfall next to a minority village, where people are washing. Cương tells me about an Easy Rider who drowned at a waterfall a few days ago and suddenly I don’t feel like swimming.

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We climb through the hills. I take photos from the back of a bike. It’s difficult to avoid taking photos of electricity pylons. We head over the pass at 2,000 m; at the same altitude as Alpe d’Huez, it’s balmy.

We go to a minority village – Gie (Ge?) people. Chickens, pigs and children roam. Rice is drying next to a hut: dry rice, grown in the hills, a far poorer yield. Next to it, bark is drying. The villagers sell it to the government, who make detergent from it.

In the middle of the village is a communal house on stilts; tied to the lintel, a buffalo skull. A dedication to Thor?

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The house is used, as you would expect, for important ceremonies such as weddings and the annual three-day feast, for which said buffalo is killed.

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The village is obviously poor, but as in Laos there is a satellite dish on almost every roof.

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And there is one fine big building in the village: a school. Cương says that even those who are good students will need to get jobs locally; they suffer discrimination in the cities. It’s mid-morning break; the children crowd around me and show off.

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As on the first day, in the late morning the clouds rolled in, the temperature dropped and it began to rain. Driving through the painful rain we saw the aftermath of two accidents. The second was a bizarre sight: the road had turned right, but not sharply, and a bright pink bus had ploughed straight on up a steep bank. The passengers, if any, had disappeared, but the driver sat in his seat reading a newspaper.

By this stage it was getting ever more difficult to remount, and more difficult once on to think of anything but major league pain in the arse.

Next we stopped at a Chiên village with a Bahnar-style communal house (nhà rông): stilts; boat-shaped; a very steep, tall, thatched roof. Superb buildings. Underneath, a cart and chickens.

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We pass through a number of minority villages. The houses are made from woven bamboo and corrugated iron; or from brick with clay tiles; or from wattle and daub with tiles. Cương says their families are matrilineal; the man moves to live with his in-laws after marriage. The villagers do seem to look different from your average Kinh but I’m not sure entirely how. Perhaps their mouths are bigger and fuller – there are a lot of Steven Tyler mouths.

We have a chilly lunch 14 km from the Lao border: a hotpot, sometimes called a fondue around here. A bowl containing water, pineapple, onions, tomatoes, tamarind seeds, okra and bamboo is placed over a noisome naphtha candle. A bowl of aromatic leaves, including mint, is next to it, with bean sprouts; next to that, a bowl of white noodles; and then a plateful of animal: squid, prawns, fish, and assorted chicken organs: heart, liver, kidneys, gizzards. Into the soup it all goes.

Then through the hills (the distant ones, blue and russet, remind me of the Grampians at Aviemore) we head to Ðăk Tô, the scene of heavy fighting and an inevitable victory for the VC on 24 April 1972. There is a memorial there – to the winning side only, of course – together with a couple of Russian tanks. All the memorials are in the same socialist realist style familiar from Russian propaganda posters. As usual, though, there is nothing of the battle left to see.

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Heading downhill after leaving Ðăk Tô we are waved over by three CSGT traffic police. Looking frightened, Cương dismounts and hands over his documents. The policemen appear incapable of smiling. Cương has been caught driving at 50 km/h and they could impound the bike, his stock in trade. Instead he palms a 100,000 dong note and we are free to go. Still spooked, he is temporarily grave, but within five minutes he is laughing about it.

Fifteen minutes from Kon Tum the bike stalls. I have been wondering how far the bike would go on a single tank of petrol, and this is the answer. Cương calmly tips the bike over and we make it a couple of km to a petrol station, where he buys 30p worth of petrol to get to Kon Tum.

In the middle of another strangely dark afternoon we reach our destination. Cương offers to take me to one of the two orphanages here: ‘you will cry’ he says. I’ve had my fill of that, thanks, and I’m tired and sore, so we just drink more rice wine with some unappetising lumps of boiled duck. It comes with livid gelatinous cubes looking like chunks of raw beef – duck blood. It doesn’t taste of much – I so long for black pudding - but it goes well with the spirits.

Kon Tum is not much of a destination. The Lonely Planet guide describes it as the friendliest city in VN. It’s about as friendly as a Siberian mining town – the children, naturally, excepted. Even the dogs are unfriendly. It is as unlovely as Ninh Bình, with less of interest around it. In the evening, I wander around town completely lost. The only westerner in town, I am stared at at all times by ten unsmiling, unselfconscious locals. And quite openly sized up by some of the women, who don't manage to look me in the face when I am talking to them. I realise that I want to leave.

No English is spoken; my impoverished VN is strained beyond its limits. (It does not help that the accent here is completely different: ‘r’ is a Scottish /r/ here, but /z/ up north; ‘gi’ is pronounced /y/ here but /z/ up north. I don’t know how to pronounce words here.) On the few occasions when I can make myself understood, people assume that I’m fluent, which is no better. This is why I’ve given up trying to learn the language.

In the morning the noise begins at six. There are the usual cockerels of course – as everywhere – but people are decorating the ceiling two feet below me and breaking up the pavement right outside the hotel. I switch hotel and breakfast at Dakbla’s, where, briefly breaking off from kicking each other, they try to charge me even more than the tourist menu prices. I go to a hotel to inquire about bus times; they are actively unhelpful in a manner at which the Vietnamese excel. While walking, I am completely unable to get anyone to understand that I want a cold bottle of water; no-one even has the gumption to guess. So I am now in a vile mood, hating the town and the country. The orphanages are taken off the agenda.

The black mood slowly evaporates as I wander around the older sections of the town. There is a wooden church built by the French, serving the Bahnar community.

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In the grounds there is a Michelangelesque Pietà . As at St Peter’s, the Virgin is young and has a belt over her shoulders, but this Jesus is bigger, notably prognathous. With huge arms and skinny legs, he looks like a canoeist.

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I can't get over the brief sense of weirdness I feel every time I see a Christian church in Vietnam. Christ, of course, was no more European than he was Vietnamese, unless you believe, like Blake, that he visited England. But the main tradition of pictorial representation is European; the largest sect is based in Rome; and the European connections began at a very early stage, once St Paul had made his unpopular decision to preach to Gentiles. (Not to mention the role of the Roman army and procurator in the crucifixion.) So I feel I have an excuse. Anyway. There are several churches in town, and a seminary, and no pagodas as far as I can see. The seminary looks like a boarding school.

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Farther along there is a Bahnar village. As in the Gie village, children and pigs wander around. Many of the buildings are built in wood in the traditional stilt style. But in between the Baba Yaga huts, quite a few are concrete.

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This is the sort of house that many people aspire to live in: plastered brick, fenced and decorated without restraint.

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I stroll through another Bahnar area. There are several of those Asiatic cattle with fatty lumps in front of their shoulders.

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The village has a very impressive communal house. Made from wood, bamboo and thatch, and on stilts, it is in the shape of a boat, with a very steeply pitched roof. Underneath it children are playing, and women are stripping corn from cobs. This little Tiger Woods-alike was completely obsessed with my camera.

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Note the woven dossers on the backs of his older relatives.

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It begins to pour, so I head to Eva Coffee. This is by far the best thing to see in Kon Tum. There are several buildings in the compound, the peripheral ones built in a traditional Bahnar style, wood and thatch. I have lunch and coffee there and the owner, Ẩn comes over to talk and we chat for a couple of hours. He speaks good English and French, and he is an artist in his spare time. In the war he lost two uncles killed, and his father and father-in-law were MIA. No monuments for them; they were with the ARVN. He studied at the seminary in town, but like almost all of his colleagues he wanted children – only two of his cohort became priests. He studied English at university in HCMC, and his son is about to study TEFL in Sweden on a scholarship.

This is one of the pieces in the garden. It is made out of half a cluster bomb shell and drum casings. Ẩn says it represents the impossibility for the soldier of being a complete person.

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In the afternoon I am complimented by Ẩn and by a xe om driver on my Vietnamese. The sad irony: Ẩn has to do so in English, the xe om driver in French.

Trust my luck to get stuck in one of the few places on the trip I have really wanted to leave. Yesterday I was due to take a 6 am bus to Quy Nhơn but at the appointed hour I was evacuating violently at both ends. Probable cause: under-grilled chicken at Dakbla’s (I had to go back - it was raining hard and the place is next door). If so I have fallen foul of a fowl. A foul fowl. I remained prostrate with fever all day, assailed by the noise of hammering and of a powersaw outside the window. At five I shambled shivering to Indochine, a three-star hotel on the river, for a lemon juice and a change of scene. The bar was closed. There is a restaurant on the seventh floor with a bonzer view over the river, but it was like an empty lecture theatre.

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A tropical thunderstorm hit and for an hour I nursed a cold lemon juice under a tin roof next door, feeling cold. Then back to the hotel. A miserable and lonely end to a chapter.

Posted by Wardsan 21:30 Archived in Vietnam Comments (2)

Pictures of Laos

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I’ve realised that I barely covered Laos in my blog. It's not easy to upload photos and I don’t feel like writing. So here are some photos of Luang Prabang, Vang Vieng and Vientiane.

This and many other parts are on sale in the market in Luang Prabang.

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A miniature lottery ticket seller in Luang Prabang.

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Snake whisky. I have been told that it is good for old men because it relieves stiffness. I have also been told, in the alternative, that it induces stiffness.

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Protective spirit at the National Museum, Luang Prabang.

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Elegant scooterists in Luang Prabang.

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Wat Xieng Thong in Luang Prabang. Xieng Thong is the old name for LP.

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In Vang Vieng: the bridge posts are bomb casings.

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Vang Vieng is on a river. Most of the bridges are made of bamboo.

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Vang Vieng is a backpackers' hangout between Luang Prabang and Vientiane. You can float down the river in an inner tube or, as I did, sit in a hammock eating sticky rice with mango. People recline in cafes watching endless reruns of 'Friends', or in internet cafes, surfing. In either case they stare into space like opium addicts. For that reason I didn't take to it, but its location is picturesque. This is the street in which we stayed.

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From my hammock I watched some cattle ford the river to graze. One of the guys from the cafe shooed them off by flinging stones. It seemed unnecessary; I think he just enjoyed catapulting cattle.

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The shooter is southpaw. My sinistrality attracts a lot of attention here. Many people in this part of the world are prohibited by parents and teachers from writing with their left hands. Forcing people to write right-handed against their nature is extremely bad for people and can induce stuttering or dyslexia.

I took this photo from the moving minibus on the way to Vientiane.

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In Vientiane we ate by the river one night. (Actually the river, very low, was flowing on the Thai side several hundred yards away.) And the moon really was this red.

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At the same restaurant I took this bizarre photo of Izzy and Ed on a long exposure.

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Wat Mixayaram, Vientiane.

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A boat on the Nam Theun, allegedly made from the fuel tank of a B-52.

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PS The day before yesterday I went to the beach and took two long swims with my phone in my pocket. It seems to have drowned. I've spent two days on the back of a motorbike - my arse is history - and I'm posting from Kon Tum, which is in the epicentre of absolutely bloody nowhere.

Posted by Wardsan 08:44 Archived in Laos Comments (0)

Promotion

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Come on you Reds! I’m not talking of Premiership teams. One year after throwing away a huge lead in the promotion playoffs in possibly the most ignominious defeat in the club’s history, Nottingham Forest secured a miraculous promotion by beating Yeovil 3-2 while, amazingly, rivals Doncaster lost to Cheltenham. (If this was in India, you’d investigate for match-fixing.) Leeds can consider themselves very unfortunate, docked 15 points for matters off the field.

Now Forest are back within a division of where they should be. They will need to strengthen their squad. I’ll celebrate in the traditional manner by drinking 15 pints of beer, vomiting in the street, insulting foreigners and picking fights.

Congratulations and respect to Frank Lampard for having the courage to take and score a big penalty midweek. I hope people will get off his back now.

I’m in Hội An, which is blue, yellow and photogenic. The sun has come back after several weeks in hiding, it’s very hot and I am doing almost nothing. This is the place to do it. I did make it to the Cham ruins at Mỹ Sơn yesterday, rising at 4.30 to beat the crowds, and tomorrow I hope to get around to visiting the Cham museum in Ðànãng.

I’m having clothes made. At the last count: 3 pairs of shoes; 7 shirts; 5 pairs of trousers; 2 pairs shorts; pyjamas; 1 suit; 15 ties. There may be more to come. I don’t need any shirts at all, but when I buy off the peg, the chest is usually 8 cm too big and the waist 15 cm. These shirts fit – so long as I never drink another beer (at 4,000 dong a glass it’s as much as I can manage not to have beer for breakfast). The shoes are as I had expected: the quality of the leather is poor and the stitching distinctly unBritish (there isn’t any). But they fit and they’re comfortable.

The Vietnamese are extremely tactile. You see men walking around with their arms around each others’ shoulders or hand in hand. They have less need for personal space, and fewer parts of the body are off limits. In London, if a man touches my thigh, I’m suspicious. When I went to Hạ Long Bay, Tinh was all over me at one stage; he didn’t mean anything by it. The women, too – although since I don’t know the rules (I assume there must be some), I’m careful.

It’s the same in the tailors’ here. They are all female. One tailor, Chi, was always rubbing my stomach or back, or feeling my meagre biceps as if I were carrying apples and clad in lionskin. Nor is there any polite question about which side you dress.

And they all say ‘you very handsome’. It's untrue, but it certainly does no harm. In Thailand the compliments flow like water, but there have been none in Vietnam until Hội An.

I finally polished off The Aeneid the day before yesterday. For two months I was stalled in Book 7, which is really boring, but the last five books raced by. I raced through The Quiet American by Graham Greene, having woken up to the fact that I hadn’t read it. It’s no better than an average novel of his, which puts it head and shoulders above most things written in English in the last century. I cannot think that anyone has written better dialogue. The movie is a faithful adaptation and nearly as good as the book.

"We went out by time-table and came back by time-table: the cargoes of bombs sailed diagonally down and the spiral of smoke blew up from the road-junction or the bridge, and then we cruised back for the hour of the aperitif and drove our iron bowls across the gravel." Very good.

I’ve read less than usual on this trip, partly because I am spending about an hour a day deleting photos. Other books read: A Short History of Laos by Grant Evans, The Coroner’s Lunch by Colin Cotterill, Pattaya 24/7 by Christopher G Moore, The Role of Pool in Asian Communism by Colin Cotterill, The Sorrow of War by Bao Ninh, Blood on the Moon by James Ellroy (not his best).

I only picked up the first Cotterill book – at Daunt Books in London - because he writes fiction about Laos. But it was a happy discovery. The protagonist is an elderly doctor forced to become Laos’s only coroner after the revolution in 1975. Cotterill writes with great assurance, a bit like Alexander McCall Smith. I’ve searched Thailand, Laos and Vietnam for others in the same series but found none.

A great pleasure while travelling is to be able to listen to a BBC Radio show by podcast. I try to catch In Our Time with Melvyn Bragg every week (hat tip: Melanie and Iain Shaw). A little bit of England, it explores ‘the history of ideas’. Every week he takes a subject and invites two or three academics to discuss it. Part of the pleasure is that listeners are not, for once, assumed to be unintelligent children with attention deficits. In recent weeks he has covered the dissolution of the monasteries, the Fisher King, the enclosures, Newton’s laws of motion and Darwinian adaptation. He is very good on cultural history and the arts, rather wobbly on the science, but it doesn’t matter because he is talking to experts.

I have met four people called Dung in the last week or so, three female. The Vietnamese consider the name euphonious.

Posted by Wardsan 19:34 Archived in Vietnam Comments (0)

Pictures of Hanoi

sunny 31 °C
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For me the iconic image: dense two-wheeled traffic.

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Queues outside the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum. They move very rapidly.

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On another day, no queues. It was closed.

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Schoolchildren in front of the Bahnar house at the Ethnology Museum.

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The water puppet theatre.

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One scene at the water puppet show depicts the restoration of the sword. Hồ Hoàn Kiếm means the lake of the restored sword. Lê Lợi used a magic sword called Heaven's Will in his sucessful revolt against the Ming Chinese. Like Bilbo's dagger, it gave him great power. While he was boating on the lake, some time after the revolt ended in 1427, a golden turtle took the sword from his belt and dived back under the water. Lê Lợi then renamed the lake in honour of the event. The Turtle Tower has something to do with this legend.

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Apparently turtles still live in the lake. An impressive specimen of rafetus leloii is displayed at the Ngoc Son temple. It's a surprise that anything can live in the water, which is bright green.

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On the left of the Turtle Tower is Ngoc Son temple. It honours general Tran Hung Dao and a couple of scholars. Tran Dung Hao has a claim to being one of the greatest generals in history (as does Vo Nguyen Giap, hero of the most recent wars of independence). He beat the mighty Mongol army in the time of Kublai Khan. There is always an image of the person or people being honoured. People worship them. I don't know who this guy is, though. A protective spirit, I suppose.

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Hoàn Kiếm is a refuge from the fug of the inner city. In the early morning Hanoians go there to exercise (I emphasise that this is hearsay). A lot of people also use the place to meet up and chat.

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Silks on sale in the Old Quarter.

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Cyclos are broader in Hanoi than elsewhere. Some broad people travel in them.

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The Temple of Literature, a university as old as Bologna's.

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You see a lot of vendors in Hanoi, as elsewhere in Vietnam. If on foot, they are invariably female and conically hatted. They carry their burdens hanging from a rod across the shoulder. Sometimes they shoulder extraordinary loads, and when they do, they move their limbs in an exaggerated and rhythmic manner, like the Tracy brothers.

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Finally, some shots taken around Hồ Tay, west lake, a large lake to the north of the Old Quarter. There is some very expensive real estate on the east and north sides; Sofitel have a hotel there.

Half way up the east side there is a pagoda called Tran Quoc.

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Lots of families and couples come to stroll of an evening. Others come to drink or fish.

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You can rent pedalos. Like everywhere else in Vietnam, there is a lot of construction work around the lake.

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Vendors sell balloons, windmills and carvings.

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It is altogether a pleasant spot.

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Posted by Wardsan 08:27 Archived in Vietnam Comments (0)

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