End of the Road in Chau Doc

It's hard to believe that I've come to the end of my Vietnam adventure already. The last six weeks have taken me - via motorbike, train, boat, and bus - from Lai Chau and Sapa near the Chinese border in the north to Chau Doc, a small Mekong Delta town just a few river miles from the Cambodian border in the south. Although I doubt the differences between Vietnam and Cambodia will be overwhelming (the Delta was Cambodia for hundreds of years, after all) I'm trying particularly hard to enjoy my last full day in the country. Chau Doc has turned out to be yet another wonderfully mellow riverside town filled with more of the friendly southerners I've grown accustomed to since leaving Saigon. Although it's seen a fair share of misery over the years (mostly due to the Khmer Rouge), you'd never know it after a casual look around. I've spent the better part of two days wandering the streets and surrounding countryside and meeting a handful of locals - including Thuan, the 15 year old wonderkid from Cambodia who dragged me all over nearby Sam Mountain this morning. Although it's an out of the way sort of place, Chau Doc serves as a jumping off spot for river traffic into Cambodia. Word on the street is that crossing the border is fairly straight forward, if you don't mind paying a bribe or two to the corrupt Cambodian officials wielding the visa stamps. If all goes well, I'll be lining their pockets a bit by 10am tomorrow before heading into Phnom Penh to begin the next leg of the journey.

Traveling the length of Vietnam has been an amazing experience, and one, I'm sure, that won't entirely sink in until I'm back among friends and family in Utah.

While I'm sure that I had some preconceived notions about what I'd find in Vietnam, it has completely exceeded all of my expectations. The fantastically varied landscape and scenery combined with the absolute friendliness of the locals are what have touched me the most. Vietnam may not have the abundance of "Asian exoticism" that other nearby countries do - mostly due to the ravages of war, communism, and capitalism - but it more than makes up for it with a fascinating history and interesting people....who have survived more than their fair share of hardship and, yet, continue to make an American traveler feel welcome.

Floating the Mekong in Can Tho

After an uneventfully straight forward bus and motorbike ride from Vihn Long I arrived at another riverside town in the Delta called Can Tho. The guidebook says it's the largest city in the Mekong Delta with a population of just over 330,000 - which still makes it a relaxing breath of fresh air after Saigon. Sitting smack dab in the middle of the watery labyrinth of rivers, canals, and channels that make up the Mekong, Can Tho is unique due to its proximity to so many floating markets. Picture your regular fruit/vegetable/and everything else you can imagine market on dry land. Now put all the goods, vendors, and buyers on boats and add a river. That's a floating market. Almost immediately after arriving I was appraoched by a guy who said he could introduce me to a guy who would take me out on his small boat for some sightseeing, for a price, of course. After a little haggling, we had a deal. He said his friend would meet me at my guesthouse the following morning at 5:30am. After a short walk to the pier, he said we could be on the water in time for the sunrise.

I'll admit, to my surprise, his buddy showed up right on time. After waking the front desk clerk who was passed out cold on the lobby floor, I got him to unlock the main gate and off we went. I hate to say it, but I never figured out "the buddy's" name because he didn't speak a word of English. Well ok, he spoke three words that I know of: "fish," "frog," and "banana." Throughout the trip, he enthusiastically pointed out these three things over and over. He was one cool dude. I'll call him Buddy.

So, I spent the better part of a day crusing the Mekong and its meandering side channels with Buddy on his small wooden boat (sort of a longtail design ala Thailand). We managed to visit a the Cai Rang and Phong Dien floating markets while they were in full swing. Buddy just pushed our small boat right into the thick of it. I sipped coffee (provided by an enterprising guy in a floating drink stand) and snapped photos while my skipper bullshitted with all of his friends - he seemed to know alot of people. At one point, we tied off to a big barge that his friend was running and he motioned for me to climb up on top of the wheelhouse to get a better view of the activity around us. Like any good guide, safety be damned for a good photo op! By the early afternoon, I was getting a little saddle sore from the low wooden bench I was sitting on and near bursting with all the tropical fruit Buddy had me sample along the way. But instead of returning via the main river channel, Buddy took me home the back way - along small canals that run like back alleys behind homes and shops for a real behind the curtains tour. I cringed a bit whenever I saw someone swimming in the canals (not the cleanest water around) but had a blast watching surprised looks turn to smiles whenever we passed people just doing their thing. A great morning. Thanks Buddy!

Mekong Delta Days

After a slightly chaotic and confusion filled morning (including one last kick to the ass and wallet by an unscrupulous ticket salesman...or was he?....to be honest, I don't actually know who the guy was) I managed to break free of Saigon City using the only mode of transport available to my next destination - the city bus. After finding my way to one of several large bus stations scattered around the city - this one in Cholon, the China Town neighborhood - I was alternately laughed at and obviously pitied by the group of guys loitering around the bus station until one of them gesticulated madly at a bus that was pulling out of the gate. Thinking that anywhere would be better than hanging out at the bus station, I clambered aboard and found one of the last open seats. All appeared to be going well as we wove through the city sprawl in roughly the right direction - since the Vietnamese street signs were worthless to me, and no one on board spoke a word of English, I resorted to using the position of the sun (no kidding) to plot my course. To make a long story short, I was on the wrong bus, but eventually got on the right bus using the expensive services of the "mystery dude" mentioned above. Smarting from the loss of Dong but glad to know I could relax for the next several hours, I settled in and had a great time my fellow passengers - some of whom actually knew a few phrases in English.One woman assured me that the man who had helped me onto the bus was a "bad man" who "makes war" with everyone. Not sure what that means, but it didn't sound good at all and I was glad to have left him behind. Other than another woman dry heaving in the seat behind me, the drive to Vinh Long passed pleasantly.

Before too long we had left the outskirts of Saigon behind and had truely entered the Mekong Delta. With one eye on the periodic road signs to make sure I didn't miss my stop, I took in the pancake flat scenery. Greener than almost anything I've ever seen before, the Delta is crisscrossed by rivers and canals. Although the rivers all have their own individual names, they are really all part of the braided Mekong that spreads like an outstretched hand across the southern quarter of Vietnam. And it is a HUGE, MUDDY river, when you actually see one of the main channels. Amazing....but that's coming from a river geek.

I wasn't too impressed with the town of Vihn Long when I eventually arrived - of course, that was after yet another motorbike taxi drivers tried to overcharge me for the lift from the bus station. Independant travel is great, but all the middle men nickeling and diming you gets old quickly - the price you pay for being an illiterate mute in their county, I suppose. After a false start or two, I got oriented, found my way to a guesthouse and settled in. One short walk around town and a swing by the water front was all I needed to adjust my attitude. Vinh Long turned out to be a great place and I thoroughly enjoyed my two short days there. There's a different vibe in the Delta - very relaxed (lazy?) and friendly. Although I've never been, I assume it's the same sort of feeling you might find in America's deep south (KKK and bible thumpers notwithstanding). I spent most of my time walking the streets, exploring a ferry-accessible island in the middle of the channel, and giving myself a crash course in Cambodian history over coffee at a river side cafe. Yeah, the thumping karaoke from the disco down the road sucked at night, but all in all, a great place. Next, a hop over the Can Tho, a city on the other main channel of the Mekong.

Cao Dai Temple

While Vietnam is a predominantly Buddhist (first) and Catholic (second - thank the French) country, it is also home to the Cao Dai religion. It was founded in the Mekong Delta region by a mystic named Ngo Mihn Chieu in 1926 and, to put it simplistically, is a blend of "Buddhism, Confucianism, Taoism, native Vietnamese spiritualism, Christianity, and Islam." Among the more interesting aspects of the religion is belief that the spirits of Joan of Arc, Shakespeare, Lenin, and Victor Hugo can be contacted via seances in order to guide the living. Followers wear all white, are vegetarians, practice daily meditation, and attend prayers at the Cao Dai temple four times a day.

As part of our day tour out to Cu Chi we stopped to observe one of the prayer sessions from the upper balcony of the temple. I had mixed feelings about the visit - only because by the time the last tourist bus arrived, there were way more gawkers than actual Cao Dai members at the temple. While I was glad that we were all kept in the rafters in order to keep the disruptions to a minimum, it still felt a little awkard and I can't imagine why they would allow the tourist circus into town to watch the daily prayers. A Vietnamese guy from California told me later that the Communists have always had it out for the Cao Dai stemming from their refusal to support the VC during the war (I guess the Cao Dai had a standing army of about 25,000 men at one time). Anyway, the rumor is that the Cao

Dai are only allowed to practice their religion as long as it is made available to the public. Whatever the case, it felt pretty intrusive. But it was a great chance to experience, however briefly, another unique religion.

Cu Chi Tunnels...or fun with AK-47s

Well, I did it again. With a little apprehension I signed up for another organized day tour, as much for a break from the city as anything. Cu Chi is (today) a good size town located at the furthest reaches of the Saigon megopolis. Forty years ago, it was the site of the famous Cu Chi tunnels - an elaborate system of underground tunnels, dug several stories deep and stretching out for 250km. The tunnels were first built by the Viet Minh to fight the French and then upgraded by the Viet Cong to fight the Americans. The tunnels essentially allowed the VC to control an entire district within a stone's throw of the Saigon. When the Americans moved in to suppress the enemy activity, they ended up building a base right on top of the tunnel system without knowing it. In the end, the Americans destroyed most of the tunnels with massive B-52 bombing raids. Out of 16,000 VC fighters who used the tunnels during the war only abourt 6,000 survived. Today, the tunnels, in addition to attracting the regular contingent of foreign day trippers from Saigon, also serve as sort of a Gettysburg for regular Vietnamese. Lots of local tourists, especially school kids.

As it turns out, I got lucky and was assigned a great tour guide. "Slim Jim," a joke-cracking, thin as a rail, Saigonese guy picked our crew up in the city and spent the day with us. He had spent a couple of years in the South Vietnamese army and just sort of fell through the cracks of the purges that took place after the war. After a three-month stint in a "reeducation camp" where he was forced to learn the finer points of communist theory, the government turned him loose and he returned to his pre-war job as an English teacher. Now he spends his days dragging tourists through the tunnels and brushing up on his English slang. "FUBAR" (Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition) was his word of the day, in addition to "wakey, wakey" and "shake a leg."

The tunnels, although definitely upgraded for tourists (enlarged considerably), were actually pretty cool and worth the long drive out. The Vietnamese government has done a good job building an interpretative center and the place doesn't have the usual circus atmosphere that you find at many other Vietnamese historic sites. It really is fascinating to see the War from the perspective of the other side...and just to be reminded that there are always two sides. That being said, I can't imagine what it would have been like to have been an American soldier out here. Not good.

The tunnels complex today is situated in a forest - 40 years ago the whole area was a wasteland. One of the strangest sensations was walking quietly through the trees and listening to rounds being fired from rifles and machine guns over at the nearby shooting range. Oh yeah, there's a shooting range. At the end of the tour, we were all given the chance to take a few shots with our weapon of choice, for a fee, of course. I passed - but the Europeans in the group loved it. I suppose if you've never had any real exposure to guns, this would be a pretty far out experience. One of the Dutch girls in the group decided that a couple of shots were enough for her - too loud - so she gave me the rest of the magazine to pop off. I won't lie, it was pretty fun.

SAIGON

"Saigon. Shit." Those words - mumbled by a drugged out Martin Sheen in the opening scene of Apocaplypse Now - ran through my head as our bus lurched through the gridlock traffic that greeted our arrival in Ho Chi Minh City. First, lets clarify one thing: although the government likes to pretend that Saigon was renamed Ho Chi Minh City (HCMC for short) at the conclusion of the war in 1975, in reality, they're the only ones using the new name. So far as I can tell, this city will always be Saigon to the locals. And what a city it is. I guess I had been lulled into a false sense of serenity by the rest of the country (even in karaokeville Da Lat) because Saigon was a head-thumping rude awakening.

With a population of around 7 million and over 3 million registered motorbikes, to the untrained eye Saigon - the land knockoff zippo lighters - is an unqualified chaotic mess. That's not to say that I haven't enjoyed the last few days here - I certainly have - but Saigon has yet to win my affection like Hanoi or Hue have. Unfortunately, it likely won't have a chance - first thing tomorrow I'm plunging into the Mekong Delta for a few days before beginning the Cambodian leg of my journey.

Oh well, Saigon is one of those places you've got to experience - and I have. Like any good Asian city, Saigon is loud, dirty, and filled with exotic sights and even more exotic smells. However, unlike most Asian cities, there hardly seems to be any respite from the craziness. Motorbikes are screaming at all hours - just the prospect of crossing the street makes the idea of walking more than few blocks seem daunting. The all-encompassing noise of endless construction projects - jackhammers, dumptrucks, tractors - effectively wring all the peace and quiet from the local temples. Hotel touts and motorbike taxi drivers are on you as soon as you leave the relative safety of your alleyway hotel. And then there's the heat. Ahhh....deep breath.

Ok, let me back up a bit. Saigon IS a really cool place. The history here is unreal. I mean it's SAIGON after all. Everywhere you turn, there are reminders of the Vietnam War: the Presidential Palace, the old American Embassy site, the War Remnants Museum, the War Surplus Market, and even the people that you meet. Everyone over the age of 40 has an incredible story to tell about living through the war and it's aftermath. While it lacks much of the obvious old-time appeal that makes Hanoi so fascinating, Saigon has cornered the market on recently created history. In that respect, Saigon really is an amazing place. However......

Saigon strikes me as a wanna-be Bangkok, and I suppose someday, if the current construction boom is any indication, it may achieve that status. But today, it's a city with all of the negatives of Bangkok with very few of the positives. In all fairness, I've got to say that my visit can be described as cursory at best. You could never claim to "figure out" a place in a few days, and I certainly won't claim that now. I found a handful of amazing places (the Jade Emperor Pagoda is hands down, one of the coolest temples I've ever visited) and met a few great locals who took time to talk to me about their experiences in the city. The examples of French colonial architecture that remain are gorgeous (I mailed in my absentee ballot under the eye of Uncle Ho in the spectacular French-style central post office). I found a half kilo of weasel coffee to share with my friends when I get home - ask me about it sometime. I was hit on by my first hookers in Saigon. But I'm also leaving with a nasty heat rash and a dull headache. Maybe it's just all part of the Saigon experience. Shit.

Da Lat..."City of Eternal Spring" or cheese capital of Vietnam?

Well, I'll say this much, Vietnam continues to amaze me. Pulling out of a sweaty, steamy Nha Trang in the morning, I never would have guessed that later in the day I'd be fishing around in the bottom of my backpack for a jacket while hiking through a pine forest. As it turns out, Da Lat (at 1475 meters above sea level) is situated in the rolling, evergreen forested hills that constitute the roof of Vietnam's Central Highlands and after 7 hours in a bus, I couldn't wait to stretch my legs by tramping through the pine needles. Once again, the French, in their never ending quest to create some semblance of home, found the area with its (relatively) near perfect climate and familiar vegetation to be the ideal location for their vacation homes. Hence, Da Lat.

I'll be honest, I didn't know a lot about Da Lat before I got here but I had one hell of a pleasant image in my head. I knew that Da Lat was the primary wine-producing area in Vietnam. In fact, almost any Vietnamese wine you're likely to stumble across came from Da Lat. I knew there were lakes. I knew the weather was nice. I had also heard that Da Lat was the "Honeymoon Capital of Vietnam." While all that is true, I didn't realize that Da Lat may also be the cheesiest city in the entire country. Why? Well, it IS the honeymoon capital of Vietnam. It's also one of the biggest domestic tourist destinations in the country, with Vietnamese tourists outnumbering foreign visitors by 10 to 1.

I'll be the first to agree - make that argue - that tackiness is relative - God knows Americans can be a kitchy lot (check out your neighbor's Christmas display this year...Daniel). That being said,
the Vietnamese do a bang up job as well. From being helplessly funneled into a decrepit "amusement park" after touring Emperor Boa Dai's palace to the photographers who prowl the city with their horses in search of customers (not difficult to find) wanting dress up in ratty cowboy outfits, complete with fake six-shooters and very serious Wyatt Earp glares to the Gaudi-esque themed hotels complete with glowing-eyed kangaroos and grizzly bears with fireplaces for crotches (not making this up - I toured one hotel), Da Lat is one strange place. It feels like such a cool place - Vietnamese artists flock here, beret-wearing old men wander the streets, a genuinely decent cup of coffee is not hard to find, French music flows through the cafe speakers, the lake IS beautiful, the climate is perfect, even the market - overflowing with fruits and vegetables like you might find at home - is the best I've come across so far. And then, inevitably, there's the karaoke blaring from the clubs until midnight, the Vietnamese package tourists up from Saigon for the weekend, the constant nagging by the "Easy Rider" motorcycle guides, and yes, that creepy kangaroo with the glowing eyes.

Ah, Da Lat. Two days was plenty. Off to Saigon...

SUNNY Nha Trang

Pulled out of Hoi An in a down pour and, as we were getting settled into our bus, a Dutch guy told me that one of the pedestrian bridges crossing the river downtown was now completely submerged. I also found out that several of the buses heading in different directions were being held back due to flooding. Although the weather wasn't looking so hot our direction either, we shoved off into the dark. Sianara Hoi An!

For the next leg of the trip - down the coast Nha Trang - I opted for a "sleeper bus" instead of the train as I had originally planned. However, the suggestion that you might actually get any sleep on this "sleeper bus" was really just cruel joke. We were all assigned individual reclining seats/bunks that resembled a cross between one of those weird Japanese sleeping pods and a coffin. The pods were obviously designed for the Vietnamese-sized body and watching the six foot plus Germans and Norwegians on board trying to cram themselves into their slots was pretty funny. At 5 foot 8, I had it a little easier than most, but by the time I manipulated my body to fit within the pod and around my bags, I couldn't reach my camera to document the situation without popping something out of place, whether it be one of the rivets holding the bunk together or, more likely, a vertebrae. So there we sat/lay for 13 hours down to Nha Trang. Not so bad once your body started going numb, but then of course the stereophonic snoring began. Between one of the overweight Germans and an old Chinese lady below me, it was all I could do to drown the noise out with my IPod. Burned through a couple batteries listening to Tibetan chants in an effort to chill out. Sort of worked and I did manage a couple hours of sleep before we pulled into Nha Trang around 6 am.


I hadn't really planned on visiting Nha Trang until the weather turned so bad on the central coast. According to the guide books, weather forecasts, and for geographiclimactic reasons I can't explain, Nha Trang marks the boundary between the shit weather (scientific term) and the good. Surpassing all my hopes, by the time we pulled into town the surf was up and the sun was shining bright. I, of course, went straight to bed for a few hours to sleep off the memories of the sleeper bus. But when I got up and started exploring a bit, I was pretty excited to be in Nha Trang.

I'll admit right off the bat that I am NOT a beach person - unless 1. the beach is underwater and I've got a scuba tank on my back, or 2. I'm making a fool of myself trying to surf. Other than that, I can't stand the idea of just laying around dehrydrating in the sun and trying to look cooooool. But I was pleased to find that Nha Trang has more to it than just its admittedly beautiful beaches. When all was said and done, I spent a couple of days wandering around Nha Trang on foot and by motorbike. Cham ruins (the Anasazi were amateurs compared to these guys), the gritty fisherman's district on the north end of town, a ride south to Cam Ranh Bay, meeting Vietnam's most famous photographer (Long Thanh) at his gallery in town, and yeah, spending a bit of time on the beach. The highlight of the entire visit - besides simply drying out - was spending a mellow Sunday afternoon on the beachfront promenade with half the population of Nha Trang. Apparently, every Sunday, locals descend upon the beaches for picnics, swimming, soccer games, kite flying, cruising, and catching up with family and friends. The weather was perfect, the backdrop of Nha Trang Bay was spectacular, and with a armful of tropical fruit, I just pulled up a seat for some serious people watching.

All in all, Nha Trang was great - a little touristy in a second-rate Waikiki sort of way, but much needed. I'm even enjoying the new sunburn. Now it's time to head back to the mountains: On to the Central Highlands and Da Lat!

Water is Rising in Hoi An!

Woke up to a familiar sound this morning- rain pounding on the tin roof outside my window. Not necessarily unexpected so I just put on my standard rainy day uniform - Chacos, quick-dry shorts, t-shirt, rain jacket, military rain poncho, topped off with an umbrella - before heading out the door for a quick breakfast. My ride to the My Son temple complex was supposed to pick me up at the hotel around 8:00 but when I returned the girls at the front desk explained that the trip had been canceled due to flooding on the roads. Fair enough. With ten hours to kill before my night bus to Nha Trang leaves (assuming we can float out of town), I took my refund and headed back out into the storm.
I figured that 24+ hours of fairly heavy rain had to be doing something to the Thu Bon river so I went straight to the closest bridge to check it out. It must be the river guide in me, but I get the biggest kick out of watching a river in flood. Apparently, I'm not alone - a small group of local kids had assembled at the bridge to see what kind of goodies were being swept out to sea. The river had come up overnight - dramatically so. A line of ratty styrofoam boxes from the market floated beneath us on the current. Looking upstream I could see the water had risen into the homes and shops lining the river. I could also just make out the figure of a man busily tossing armloads of trash, including the type of foam boxes I had seen, into the stream - garbage disposal, Vietnam style.

I wandered a few blocks into town, bypassing the market on the water's edge, and made my way to the riverside promenade where I had been going for dinner each night. The owners of several of the cafes had told me about the flooding that occurs each rainy season (ie. now) and they weren't joking. The entire block was knee deep in water...and it was still rising. Small wooden boats had taken over for the motorbike taxis and people carried on with their business as best they could. Rats scurried for high ground and people pushed loaded bikes through water that rose to the tops of their tires. Scooters were stalling out as kids tried to ford the streams developing at intersections. Boat owners kept moving their bowlines further and further inland - a few were using sculptures in the city park as anchors. Tourists and locals alike crowded the few spots of dry land to get a look at the flood. And no one seemed overly concerned with the situation - lots of laughing, smiling, and shrugging of shoulders. The last big flood, I was told, occurred two years ago when the water had risen to the rafters of the ground floor shops and restaurants. Shopkeepers weren't evacuating their furniture and goods to the second floor yet.
After taking photos and walking (wading) around a bit I started back for the hotel to dry out.
Approaching the riverside fish/vegetable market, I could see that it was also knee deep in water and still as busy as ever. Against the steady hum of a hundred Vietnamese conversations, women continued selling vegetables on table tops literally only an inch or two above the rising river. Vendors, buyers, and gawkers (me) splashed through tight aisles as God only knows what sloshed and swirled in the water around our legs. My sandaled toes occasionally strained chunks of soggy vegetable matter from the water and the smells of the steamy fish market mixed with the surging river water started to make me nauseous. There was a perceptible current running through the market stalls and I laughed when I saw little old ladies peeling vegetables for sale and just dropping the rinds and skins in the water at their feet - knowing they would just drift away. The only problem is when the entire market starts doing the same thing. I can only imagine what must be floating into the South China Sea right now.

Update: With another hour or so to kill before the bus ride, I wandered back down to the waterfront for another look. It hasn't stopped raining and the river has NOT stopped rising. Another few square blocks are flooded out and, short of hiring one of the newly minted water taxis, I couldn't even get close to the spots where I took the photos above. Most of the market has migrated a couple of blocks inland to higher ground and hasn't even skipped a beat. Just another day in rainy-season Vietnam.

Humble Hoi An

As I tried to ferret out a little information concerning travel in Vietnam prior to my trip, I began to notice a pattern. Every guide book, every website, every blog, and every friend I spoke to emphatically recommended an extended visit to Hoi An. Now that I've arrived, I can see why.
Hoi An (formerly known as Faifo) is sort of an anachronism in modern day Vietnam. For one reason or another it was barely touched during either of the Indochinese wars and many of the buildings and homes in the river front neighborhood are hundreds of years old - a few have been opened to the public by their current seventh and eighth generation owners. More recently, it was designated as a World Heritage Site by UNESCO meaning that active restoration and preservation efforts of historic buildings are on-going. In addition to all of that, it's just an amazing place to explore and hang out. The streets are narrow, the buildings are old and quaint, the food is delicious, and the people are pretty friendly (if a little aggressive when trying to attract customers to their shops or cafes). Hoi An is also situated in a great location - it fronts the Thu Bon river which flows into the South China Sea just a kilometer or two out of town. For several hundred years, Hoi An was one of the busiest ports in Vietnam and many of the oldest buildings were constructed as warehouses and homes for the Chinese, Indian, Japanese, Dutch, and Portuguese sailors who had to spend months at a time in Hoi An waiting for the trade winds to change direction and blow them home.

In addition to my Da Nang adventure up the coast I've been splitting my time equally between exploring the city, dodging rabid silk dealers, and hiding from the rain. This stretch of the Vietnamese coast has the most schitsophrenic weather patterns I've ever seen - one day it's blue sky and I'm getting sunburned to a crisp (I finally read the warning on my prescription bottle of malaria pills: "Avoid prolonged exposure to sun. Medication may dramatically increase sun sensitivity." Oooops..) and the next a mini-typhoon is inundating the city. Now, if there's one thing I hate, it's the folks I see on river trips who freak out because their vacation is being "ruined" by less than perfect weather. Well, tough shit. That's the way it goes, I think to myself. Now I'm putting my money where my mouth is by taking advantage of the good weather and sucking it up to deal with the bad (most of my clothes are now in varying states of "damp"). At least it's not cold.

If all goes according to plan - and the roads aren't completely washed away in this most recent deluge - I'm going to try and find an ancient Cham temple complex in the mountains outside town tomorrow morning before returning to catch an overnight bus down the coast to Nha Trang. I had considered stopping along the way, but unless the weather forecast changes it doesn't seem worth the time or effort to try and find my way to a couple obscure villages off the beaten path. Word on the street is that Nha Trang marks the southern extent of the Autumn monsoon season and things will start drying out a bit. We shall see...and if not, no big deal. It's just liquid sunshine, right?

Ohhh...Viva Da Nang!

Sorry, but I can't hear "Da Nang" without picturing Robin Williams in the movie Good Morning Vietnam as he belts out the (slightly twisted) Elvis lines "Ohhhh Viva Da Nang! Danang me Danang me, why don't you get a rope and haaaang meeeee?"

That being said, I made it to Da Nang this morning after passing through yesterday. Huh? Da Nang lies on the road (Highway 1A) between Hue and my new home for a few days, the seaside town of Hoi An. While I half-heartedly hoped to see Da Nang (if for no other reason than to put a face to the song), I really had no desire to stay there - it's just a big port city lacking much of interest. But once I settled into Hoi An, a glance at the map showed that Da Nang was just a quick 30km up the road. Why it took our bus over an hour to do that same stretch, I'll never know. At any rate, I decided to rent a motorscooter for the morning, follow a smaller coastal road up to Da Nang, have a quick look around, and cross Da Nang off my "been there, done that" list forever.

In the end, the drive to and from Da Nang was the highlight. Hoi An and Da Nang are separated by a thirty kilometer-long swath of coastline known to most of the world as "China Beach." China Beach or, more specifically the stretch nearest to Da Nang, was one of the largest in-county R&R locales for American troops during the war. It also spawned a mediocre 1980's tv drama that is better off forgotten. While the beach wasn't spectacular, I can certainly understand why soldiers looked forward to their few precious days there. Today, however, there is little to indicate that the Americans were ever here - save for a neighborhood of rundown beer joints, roadside restaurants, and the occassional massage parlor that are all probably in their 20th incarnation.

At its very northern edge, China Beach is bordered by "Monkey Mountain," a name given to it by the American troops getting plastered in its shadow. They thought its twin, jungle-covered peaks resemebled a monkey's head with ears. Its a beautiful mountain overlooking the coast and I managed to follow a recently built road across its face for quite a while before I was turned back by security guards at an ultra-swanky hillside resort. In fact, that's one thing I saw plenty of during my entire drive - construction of high-end luxury resorts. I can only imagine that in a decade (or sooner) there will be wall to wall resorts from Hoi An to Da Nang, which would be a shame, especially for those living in the few small villages currently scattered along the coast. But I can see why people are drawn to this part of Vietnam - great weather (so I hear), beautiful scenery, laid back beach-town vibe. There's money to be made and the developers are swooping in fast.

After crusing around Monkey Mountain, I made the obligatory pass through downtown Da Nang -getting lost more than once along the way - before heading home. Had a mini-crisis when I realized that the fuel gauge on my bike was stuck. I knew I was getting close to the bottom of the tank but had no idea how close - I managed to coast back into Hoi An on fumes. In the end, I'm glad I saw Da Nang and China Beach, but I'll be sticking to Hoi An for the next few days.

Honeymoon over?

I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later - and, in the grand scheme of things, this really was a trivial incident - but it just goes to show what can happen when you've been lulled into complacency by easy traveling.

On my last afternoon in Hue, after an all-day rain storm had finally subsided, I needed to get out side and burn off a little pent up energy. Took a long meandering walk through the old quarter and was about to finish it off with a lap around the canals that ring the Citadel when I met "Thue," a local high school English teacher. Turns out he had a couple of days off because his river-side school had flooded and the cleanup was taking some time. At any rate, he had just wrapped up an afternoon of fishing in the canals and was ecstatic at the prospect of actually talking to an American. We chatted for a while before his wife came to pick him up on their motorscooter, at which point he insisted that we go to a nearby cafe to have a beer and talk. His wife had to do some shopping and would meet us at the cafe soon. Fine, I thought. I've got a couple of hours to kill and this is what travel is all about, right? Meeting the locals. So off we go.

He takes me to a quiet little restaurant a few blocks away, we chat and he orders a couple of beers. Cool, whatever. Then more beers. And a couple more. And another. I've got to be honest, this guy was a total lightweight. After an hour of matching him drink for drink, I knew he wasn't any sort of threat - at this rate, he'd be flat on on the floor long before me. Anyway, his wife eventually shows up - a very friendly woman, a little younger than me - and suddenly they begin ordering food. That's cool. I wasn't hungry but I was happy to keep them company while they ate.

Long story short, wife leaves - she has to get back to their two little kids at home - and the check shows up. Guess who suddenly doesn't have any money to pay the wildly inflated bill? Yep, my new buddy. I avoid making a big scene, knowing how seriously Asians take a loss of "face," and cover the bill. Thue promises over and over that he'll pay me back at his house. Yeah, right.

At this point, trying to maintain my composure (the bill was literally 5 times what it should have been - the staff must have assumed the white guy was paying and let me have it), we wandered to his house which was on my way home anyway. I'm pissed, he's dodging my requests for his 2/3 of the bill for a meal and drinks I never wanted, I'm getting more pissed. Suddenly my head is flooded with Africa flashbacks - where you really are getting screwed on a daily basis - and I can feel my temper rising. By the time we get to his place I'm equal parts fired up and completely over the incident. But I'm not leaving without putting up a diplomatic fight. So, I take his wife aside and present her with the bill from the restaurant and she suddenly feels bad (maybe her husband does this kind of thing on a regular basis?). She disappears next door and comes back with a few dollars. Not nearly enough to smooth things over but realizing it's all I'm getting, I decline a ride home and start walking back to the hotel.

Disecting the situation on my walk home, I instantly recognized that it wasn't the money that bothered me - it came to a lousy $20 (which, for perspective's sake, is at least two night's lodging). No, it was the fact that I was taken advantage of because I was a foreigner - first by the restaurant when they overcharged me, and second by Thue when he didn't argue against the outrageous tab, nor even consider paying part of it....after asking ME to join HIM.

But, of course, what it really came down to is that I allowed myself to be taken advantage of. I'm normally so much better at spotting this kind of shit and not allowing myself to fall into the trap. Two years of African-style boot camp may have made me suspicious of everyone's intentions but it also protected me from getting jerked around. And now look at me - I've gone completely soft! Trusting people.....ha.

By the time I reached the little alley leading to my place - after being cheerfully greeted by the woman who owns the coffee shop/travel agency across the way and the guy who runs the internet cafe next door - I was calming down a bit and putting it all into perspective. And after chatting with the front desk girls for a few minutes, I had mentally written off the twenty bucks and begun putting the incident behind me.

Whatever the restaurant staff did, it obviously wasn't personal. To them, I'm just another wealthy foreigner who can afford to part with a few dollars. Thue...well, I can't really explain his behavior or motives, other than he just saw me the same way - a white skinned, English-speaking meal ticket. Hmmm....not exactly the image I had hoped to portray. But, when all was said and done, it was a relatively inexpensive reminder that you DO have to stay on your toes. My image of Hue or the Vietnamese people has not been tarnished....but the bullshit detector has been activated.

The Tour

With more than a little trepidation, I did something that I've always sworn off in the past (with one regretable exception in China): I signed up for an organized "tour." I'll be blunt, I f***ing hate organized tours - and yes, I am completely aware of the irony. For the past 14 years or so, I've made my living leading organized tours down rivers. That's probably part of the problem. I just can't handle not being in the driver's seat, so to speak. And I hate being just another tourist, herded from one sight to the next. I repeat: I am completely aware of the irony. And it hurts.

That being said, I decided to bite the bullet and sign up for a tour of the DMZ (demilitarized zone) - a swath of land that stretches from the Vietnamese coast to the border with Laos. The DMZ is about a hundred kilometers long and ten kilometers wide, centered on the Ben Hai river. From 1954 until the Communist victory in 1975, it was the official demarcation line between the Republic of Vietnam (South) and the Democratic Republic of Vietnam (North) and, according to international agreement, the area was supposed to have been, well, demilitarized. Of course it wasn't, and the areas just south of the DMZ saw some of heaviest fighting of the war while the stretch just north of the DMZ suffered some of the heaviest shelling and bombing. Today, the former DMZ has been reclaimed by villages, towns, and farms, although UXE (exploded ordnance) is still a serious problem. I saw a few signs (the classic skull and crossbones) warning about leftover explosives. Billboards on the side of the road use cartoon characters to warn the public - primarily children - about the danger of picking up old landmines and bombs. Sad.

At any rate, while I thought I might be able to rent a motorbike and make my own way around the DMZ, the distances, rainy weather, and difficulty even finding many of the sites, convinced me to throw in the towel and submit myself to a tour. At $15 dollars for a full day, I figured I could eat the financial loss if the tour was crap. The lost 12 hours of my life would be harder to justify, but I eventually gave in.

The tour itself was typical: the DMZ tour mafia ran the show and we were shuttled from one "family" owned restaurant to another. The bus itself was alright, minus the blaring stereo, lack of rear shocks, and the a/c unit directly overhead that dripped like an incontinent old man for the duration of the trip. That just became funny after a while. Sort of. I was also surprised to discover that out of a group of maybe 25 foreigners, I was the only American. Lots of Aussies, Germans, a few Israelis, a funny Brit and his overweight Austrian girlfriend (who nearly had a panic attack later that day), and a chain-smoking Japanese kid, but no other Americans. I don't why I expected to see more Americans in Vietnam, but they've proven to be few and far between. Maybe that's a good thing (honestly, the one who stands out- a guy I met in Hanoi - was an overbearing, obnoxiously naive prick).

We managed to squeeze in quite a few sights during the day, considering the distances covered from Hue. Along Highway 9, which parallels the DMZ we stopped at an old Marine Corps. observation post called the "Rockpile." Set on top of a seriously steep limestone peak, we just looked up from the bottom - even Marines didn't climb this one, they were ferried by helicopter. A quick stop at a section of the Ho Chi Minh trail - which today is the fully paved Ho Chi Minh Highway (really). And finally a visit to the Khe Sanh combat base. The site of the bloodiest battle of the Vietnam war is now a lush hilltop covered in small coffee farms. All that really remains is the old airstrip and an expectedly biased museum display. I'm not really sure what I expected to find at Khe Sanh, but I wasn't prepared for the completely ordinary, overwhelmingly peaceful surroundings. I suppose, in the grand scheme of things, the Vietnam War was just a blip in the history of this country. The tropical landscape and even the Vietnamese people, in the form of the younger generations, are quickly reclaiming all that was destroyed by the war.

The second half of the day was spent touring Highway 1 which runs parallel to the coast line. We passed directly through the old DMZ as we crossed the flatlands that surround the Ben Hai - still sort of a no man's land of rice paddies and tidal flats. The final destination of the trip was the village of Vinh Moc, and more precisely, its tunnels. Vinh Moc was a small fishing village that just happened to find itself on the northern edge of the DMZ in 1954. For that, it suffered repeated bombing and shelling from American bombers and ships off the coast. To survive, the entire village went underground - way underground. At any given time 300 villagers (and North Vietnamese fighters) were living up to 60 feet below ground in a labyrinth of tunnels. There were rooms for living, hospitals, guard posts, meeting halls, bomb shelters, and even water wells all below the surface. Secret exits opened up into the demolished village above and directly on to the beach so that villagers could come out at night to work their rice paddies and care for their animals. Pretty amazing and most of it was open to walk (stoop) through - this is where the Austrian girl had here mini-freak out. Her boyfriend's attempt at humor to talk her down had most of us rolling, although she may not have appreciated it. Oh well.

After the tunnels we began the long drive back to Hue - 4 hours or so - and we returned after dark and in the thick of a new round of rain. My plans are to head south to Hoi An in a day - of course, the owner of the internet cafe that I've befriended mentioned that Hoi An is flooding a bit. Hmm...always an adventure.

A Couple of Days in Hue

Ok, so as I sit down to write this there is a pretty serious screaming match going on in the lobby of my guesthouse - I'm guessing between the owner and some family members, but I don't really know. Man, high-pitched, higher-decibel Vietnamese is grating on the ears. The German kid sitting at the computer next to me is chuckling to himself and stealing glances at the verbal warfare going on behind me. And it really was such a relaxing day.....

I've spent the last couple of days exploring the city of Hue on foot and by bicycle and I've got to say that (current screaming match notwithstanding) this is a place where, in another life, I could see myself settling down and staying for a while. The heart of modern-day Hue (pronounced "way," by the way) is the old city which is enclosed within the walls - 2 meters thick and 10km around - of the old citadel. "Old city," however, is more or less a misnomer since a hundred years of combined French, American, and Vietnamese aggression had destroyed most of the city by 1975, when the Communists permanently rolled into town. But Hue has been rebuilt, slowly but surely (including inevitable sprawl) - a process that has been financially subsidized due to its UNESCO rating as a world heritage site.

As soon as you ride across the bridge spanning the Perfume River and enter the Citadel via one of a dozen gates, everything slows down a notch. Although a good chunk of the population lives within the Citadel, it feels as though you've left the city for the country with its quiet lanes, small markets, ponds, canals, parks, gardens, and family farms. I don't want to make the Citadel sound like a paradise, because it's not. There are still pockets of poverty, visible damage remains from the war that ended 35 years ago, and God only knows what long-time residents of the city have been through. But, I'm quickly learning that the Vietnamese don't dwell much on the past and Hue is a testament to that attitude. A beautiful city with (once again) some of the friendliest people I've ever met. On a leisurely morning bike ride around the Citadel, I stopped counting how many people waved and said hello to me. At a construction site, no less than a dozen workers stopped what they were doing and asked me to take their photos (side note: after looking at the pictures again I noticed a few lewd gestures that sort of transcend the language barrier, if you know what I mean). I passed dozens of young boys playing marbles in the dirt on the side of the road and when I asked to watch, they gave me my own handful to keep. That's the kind of stuff that I'm growing to love about this country.

The highlight of Hue - and the reason for its UNESCO attention - is the "Imperial Enclosure." Essentially a citadel within a citadel (guide book's words, not mine), it was home to generations of Vietnamese emperors and structurally based on the Forbidden City in Bejiing. Temples, palaces, living quarters for the hundreds of eunuchs and concubines who served, and serviced, the Emperor. Man, what a life. In all honesty, there's not a whole lot left - the French destroyed most of it, and the Americans and Viet Cong finished off the rest. But a few temples and palaces have been restored and reconstruction is ongoing. I spent the better part of a morning just wandering around the complex and was amazed by the history, and destruction, associated with the place.

I've got a couple more days in Hue before moving on and there's still plenty to see and do. Should have a good story to share after my next adventure - Daniel, if you're reading this, I've signed up for another "DAY" like the one we had in Bejiing. Wish me luck.

Crossing the DMZ: Hue

Rolling out of Hanoi's Ga Hang Co train station, I found myself alone in my four-bunk "soft-sleeper" compartment. Guessing I must have settled into the wrong berth, I wandered up and down the coach looking for someone official to talk to. A quick check with a uniformed guy half-heartedly cleaning the car's bathroom confirmed that I was in the right place. Based on previous developing-world-train-adventures (think India) I just assumed I'd be sharing second hand cigarette smoke and fighting for elbow room with drunk travel mates, all the while dodging flying hot noodle soup...at least for the first few hours. Not this time around, apparently. For the next 13 hours, I shared the entire train car with a grand total of three other travelers and one persistent s.o.b. of a mouse. Perfect.

Arriving in Hue around 10:00 am, it was easy enough finding a place to stay for the several days. The hordes of rickshaw, motorbike, and taxi touts descended like starving vultures on anyone exiting the station. Before I knew it - and against my better judgement - I had given into one of them and was zipping down back alleys on the back of his bike looking for a recommended hotel. To his credit, my driver took me straight away to the Phong Nha Hotel without even a suggestion that he be my permanent tour guide for the duration of my visit. Cool.

At first glance, Hue looked like a nice place - infinitely calmer than Hanoi - but the souvenir hawkers and wanna-be guides are definitely a little more aggressive than their northern counterparts. Feeling a little groggy from lack of sleep (thanks, mouse) I sacked out for a few hours and woke up with just enough daylight left for a quick run down to Hue's Citadel, the part of town within the walls of the old imperial city built in 1804. In addition to being the site of one of the biggest, hardest fought battles of the Vietnam (ie. American) War, Hue also has a reputation for its architecture - the Citadel (or what remains) is a Unesco-designated World Heritage Site. At any rate, I wandered around just enough to get my bearings and find a cold beer. Easy enough on both points. Hue is dominated by the Perfume River and the Citadel's Flag Tower is easily seen from almost anywhere. Barring that, the super-plush, five-star Imperial Hotel makes a decent enough landmark. Hue is also most definitely a tourist town - cafes, bars, hotels, curio stands (at least in this neighborhood).

On my very short walk, I also got a sense of Hue's darker history - old, brick walls around the Citadel still pockmarked with bullet holes, kids playing on aging American tanks and artillery pieces (a few sneaking off to smoke cigarettes inside a battered armored personnel carrier), street vendors selling old gas masks, canteens, combat boots, deactivated (I hope) mines, and a couple rusted-out Colt .45 pistols.

Lots of history in Hue - I'll start sorting it all out first thing in the morning.

Vietnam Road Rules

One of the very first things you realize when attempting to negotiate the highways and byways of Vietnam is that, in order to avoid becoming just another piece of road kill, you've got to behave like the locals. That, of course, means chucking every "westernized" notion of proper roadway behavior that you've ever learned and diving headlong, and confidently, into the motorized fray. While traffic rules apparently exist (why else would they have traffic cops loitering on street corners?) they seem to be rarely, if ever, enforced. So where does that leave the hapless visitor? A good start would be dropping your common sense at the curb and adopting the local customs:

(1) Realize that NO ONE will observe the sanctity of the crosswalk, not even the little old ladies pedaling their mobile flower stalls. With traffic racing around you in not two, but possibly three or four directions, it would be suicidal to try and outrun passing vehicles. You must walk as slow as possible - I mean glacially slow - through the crosswalks. Oh no, the cars and motorbikes will not stop for you, in fact, they'll probably speed up. But they will SEE you and, if at all possible, avoid running you down. By moving one half-step at a time, you (hopefully) give them ample time to adjust their course. I admit, it's a little scary to stand in the midst of a sea of speeding steel, screaming engines, and blaring horns - and you will feel a little silly doing your best snail impersonation in the middle of Ho Chi Minh Blvd. - but to sprint is only asking for total destruction.

(2) Don't be ashamed to use other vehicles (cars, scooters, bikes, rickshaws, or strollers) or pedestrians (especially the elderly or women with infant children) as a buffer between yourself and oncoming traffic. Yeah, your sense of manliness may take a beating, but it's nothing compared to the beating you'd take by a runaway motorbike loaded down with 500 lbs. of poultry or 15 vertical feet of wicker fishtraps. Seriously, suck up your ego and hide behind the old people.

(3) When riding a bike or motorscooter of your own, just assume that everyone around you is a MUCH better driver than you are. Trust me, they are. For good measure, why not assume that they are actively trying to avoid plowing into you from behind. They may not be - in fact they may not even notice you as they drive and (a) try to light their cigarette (b) chat with their passengers (c) text message (d) attempt to restrain whatever sort of animal(s) they are taking to market, or (e) hustle for tourists - but ignorance is indeed bliss, even if it is intentional ignorance. Just proceed at your own pace and hope for the best.

(4) USE YOUR HORN....LOUDLY and OFTEN. I've never understood the insanely incessant use of horns on the streets of the developing world. It always seemed to me that drivers were just attempting to auditorially torture everyone within earshot for some sick, twisted, and unexplained reason. However, after a stint on those same roads, in my own vehicle, this behavior has begun to make sense. Perfect sense, in fact. Assuming that traffic laws mean nothing- including rules for passing, lane changes, turning, etc - how do you signal your presence and intended behavior to your fellow drivers? You honk like a friggin mad man. Honking lets everyone know you're there and coming on fast. Another benefit of the horns is that, after a while, you learn to tell exactly what sort of vehicle is coming up on you - allowing you to plan your response accordingly: booming, low pitched horn is a city bus, dump truck, or army tank - get the hell out of the way; mid-range pitch, often gussied up with a dial-tone like song snippet is probably an SUV and deserves your respect - move off to the side of road, but don't slow down; high-pitched horn that sounds like a bleating sheep, that's just another scooter - fight off his advances and hold your ground; and finally, that little bike bell you hear tinkling behind you, probably just an old man being a smart ass - swerve in front of him and show him who's boss.

(5) Finally, when all else fails, just play the clueless foreigner card. So far, I've found that most traffic-related difficulties and potential confrontations can be easily dealt with by pulling out my laminated Hanoi city map, staring at it intently for a few moments, staring up at the nearby steet signs (printed in Vietnamese, of course), staring again at the map, flipping the map around, and repeating the act...er, I mean process. Works like a charm.

***Although I certainly don't subscribe this little nugget of sage advice, I feel it should be included to reflect a local's take. This is from Ahn, the man I rented my motorbike from:
Ahn: "And remember, sometime chicken and dog cross the road and get in way. If that happen, just hit them, ok. Don't stop. Keep going."
Me: "Are you serious? Just keep going?"
Ahn: "Oh yeah, there are many, many chickens in the countryside and they will not miss one."
Me: "But what if I hit a dog?"
With a completely straight face and deadpan tone, Ahn replies "The family probably want new puppy anyway."

R&R in Hanoi

Ok, I suppose you can't really claim to be taking R&R when you're already living in an R&R world. Be that as it may, I'm running errands and enjoying my last day or two in the capitol city before heading south on the next leg of my journey: faxing absentee-ballot paperwork back to the States - planning (hoping!) to vote at the American consulate in Saigon; getting some serious Dong....at the bank (whew, that joke never gets old); and arranging a ticket on the "Reunification Express," the train that runs from Hanoi to Saigon and points in-between.

The last afternoon on my trusty motorbike was spent getting completely lost in the maze of old streets that make up downtown Hanoi - and to be quite honest, I'm still not sure how I managed to find my way back home at the end of the day. The one site on my list that I had missed on my first Hanoi go-around was the Vietnam Museum of Ethnology. It's a little out of the way and off the beaten path, but according to reports shouldn't be missed, so off I went. Eventually found my way there and was pleasantly surprised by the museum (I think the fact it is "guided" by Paris' Musee de l'Homme helps alot). Great exhibits about the majority of Vietnam's ethnic groups, including the montagnard (hill tribe) people I had come in contact with during my motorbike trip. The grounds surrounding the museum were covered in replicas of traditional tribal homes and, bizarrely, seemed to be the hottest location in town for wedding photos. Couples, done up in their finest wedding duds (for some, straight out of a late 1970's highschool prom) were wandering the grounds with their gear-laden photographers. Wistful (lustfull?) gazes between couples as they posed in front of a thatched-roofed H'mong home seemed to be the most popular photo op. The second most popular location - for all museum visitors - was a replica funeral hut surrounded on all sides by carved wooden figures....about to get some serious "conjugal action." As you might expect, all the guys wanted their photos taken next to the fertility statues, all the girls feigned shock and embarrassment. Typical. Yeah, I got a photo or two.

The motorbike was due back at the shop first thing this morning. Slightly delayed by a lost set of keys - by the hostel security guard, not me - I pulled in to "OffRoad Vietnam" just a few minutes late. The owner, a guy named Ahn, came out to meet me with a cup of tea and was anxious to hear about my trip. Turns out the same storm that had caused me so many problems in Son La had actually (literally) sunk one his motorcycles on a guided trip he was leading. He was in the process of disassembling and drying out the bike in his shop when I arrived. I guess, in comparison, the damageI did to my bike was pretty mellow and he let me off with a $4 bill for the stolen mirror. Didn't even charge me for the electric starter I had fried by attempting to cross a flooded road. A very nice guy - I'd recommend his outfit to anyone. And with that, my motorbike tour of northern Vietnam officially came to an end. Having the bike for two weeks was amazing and I can't imagine having seen the country any other way. That being said, returning the bike safely to Ahn was a like finally kicking an overweight monkey off my back. Throughout the trip, I had been nagged by concerns of potentional theft or annihilation by water buffalo (and the resulting financial hit). It was a bittersweet parting as I gave one final, misty-eyed, wave to my trusty steed.

Post-Sapa Blues.....

Ahhh....the post-Sapa let down. I had been congratulated by a German kid for (admittedly ignorantly) saving Sapa for the end of my motorbike journey. "Nuting elze vood cumpare after zee vizit to Zapa," he said. He was only partially right, but I was a little disheartened the first time I had to mime my way through another attempted meal order at a dusty little roadside food stand. The days of Parisian-style chocolate-coconut pastries are over for now, so it seems.

Taking advantage of another gorgeous day's weather, I cruised the 26km straight down hill to the river-side town of Lao Cai. Although the Chinese border crossing was only a couple kilometers north of town, I decided to skip the sightseeing, and crossed the Red River before heading straight up into the hills again. This time the target was the mountain town of Bac Ha. A full two thousand feet lower - and accordingly warmer - than Sapa, Bac Ha was surrounded by impressive mountains of its own. Terraced rice fields and streams finished off the scenery, but it really was a toned down version of Sapa. Bac Ha's big draw is a Sunday market which, apparently, pulls in hundreds of local hill tribe women every weekend - and dozens of loaded tour buses from Hanoi and Sapa. Watching the weather carefully and noticing another round of storms in the forecast, I decided to visit Bac Ha on Friday and Saturday, leaving town before both the market and the cruddy weather. Not really much to see or do without the market in action, but I enjoyed a mellow day of walking and reading. Knowing I had a long, very rough stretch of road ahead of me - I got an early start on Saturday morning and dodged a steady stream of incoming tour buses for my efforts.

The next stretch of road, from Bac Ha to an city called Yen Bai, was some of the very worst that I had seen. Chewed up tarmac - where it existed - mixed with rutted and potholed dirt roads for nearly 120 miles. Toss in the heavy traffic utilizing the only "main" road in the province, and not only was I forced to go painstakingly slow, all the while fearing a busted shock-absorber, slipped disk, or ruptured spleen, but I was choking on a non-stop curtain of dust. Pulling over for the occassional break, I'd have to slap the layers of road dirt off my pants and shirt. After stopping for lunch, I glanced in my one remaining rearview mirror and was met with a clown-face of sweat and dust. I can only imagine what the locals thought. While I tried my very best to maintain a Zen-like state of understanding and sympathy for the inherent difficulties faced by the Vietnamese road-maintenance crews, there were a couple of times that I nearly lost it. Nothing that a few profanity-laced rants (directed at the water buffalo, of course) couldn't help. Sort of.

I FINALLY arrived in Yen Bai after nearly 7 hours on the road (120 miles divided by 7 hours....uh huh). Like Lao Cai, Yen Bai sits on the Red River, but most importantly, it marks the transition between the mountains and the flat lands that stretch all the way to Hanoi and beyond. The roads were paved, the terrain mellow, and I started cooking. I got another couple of hours of riding in before the impending darkness started freaking me out a bit. The last place I wanted to find myself after dark was the middle of the Vietnamese countryside - especially after watching an elderly lady earlier in the day bash the living shit out of yet another roadside snake. So, without a clue as to where I was, I started looking for the Vietnamese words "nha khach" (guesthouse) on buildings as I whizzed by. When I found one, it was a quick shower, bottle of beer, and lights out.

The storm that I had been worried about hit with a vengeance last night as I slept. At this point - out of the mountains and back on paved roads - it didn't concern me too much, and the last 70 km into Hanoi this morning were a relative snap. I've checked back into my hostel for the next couple of days and, since I've still got an afternoon and half a tank of gas left on my motorbike rental, I'm heading out the door for a little exploring further afield. Not exactly sure where I'm heading next, but I do know it's south and by train.

On Being a Round-Eye in Vietnam

One thing that I've quickly come to realize is that solo travel through Vietnam is only "solo" if you are determined to make it that way. Granted, I've only been in the country for a couple of weeks, and in that time I've only seen one small corner of it, but I can't say enough about the Vietnamese people that I've met so far. Before I left, a couple of friends wondered aloud how the Vietnamese would treat an American traveler - either because of the war we fought here or the dangerously moronic foreign "policies" that have poured out the White House in recent years. Having visited Vietnam a couple of years ago, I got a taste of the hospitality that was offered all visitors to Vietnam, Americans included. My experiences over the past two weeks have only validated those impressions.

In every city, town, or village I've visited, in every hotel or guesthouse that I've spent a night in, in every little restaurant or roadside food stall that I've stopped in at, and in every typhoon-related flooding event I've found myself knee-deep in, I've found the some of the kindest and most helpful people I've ever met, at home or abroad. Whether it was the guy who immediately offered to truck my bike across a flooded road in Son La, the teenager who helped me get my bike started again after I killed the electric starter (the water was apparently deeper than it looked), the young business man from Hanoi named Than, who, while visiting his girlfriend in Son La, saw me eating dinner alone and invited me to their table - they shared their food, MANY shots of rice wine, and multiple toasts to VIETNAM! AMERICA! FRIENDS! Then there was Mr. Voo, an older H'mong man in Sapa who helped me navigate the electronics store in search of an electricity converter. Only at the end of our search did he tell me that he actually lives with his son in Las Vegas for half of the year - the guy actually knows where Kanab is! And Ms. Vu (no relation), the mountain guide who, during a down day, "adopted me" for a couple of hours and patiently answered as many questions that I could come up with.

Maybe it should be attributed to the "mountain-people" phenomena that I've come across before. Whether I've been village hopping in the Himalaya, living in a Colorado coal-mining town, or naively taking on the "Tonkinese Alps" during a typhoon, I've found mountain people to to be some of the most honest, hospitable, helpful, and funloving people that I've ever met. Often times their lives are amazingly difficult and their futures uncertain but they're never short on kindness towards strangers.

In Sapa, even the souvenir stand owners and motorcycle hustlers, hotel touts and tour guides ply their goods and services politely. None of the hardball stuff typically found in the bigger cities. A smiling "no thanks" on my part generally get a smile and an "ok" in return. The local women who wander the streets selling handicrafts are just as likely to sit down and talk with you about their lives, and ask about yours, as they are to push their jewelry and embroidery.

Of course, I'm not naive enough to believe that there are no bad dudes in Vietnam, or that I won't occassionally be taken advantage of (my newly missing motorbike mirror is a testament to that) and I suppose this posting will be supremely ironic if I get mugged, robbed, or worse somewhere down the road, but at this point, so far so good.

Welcome to Sapa! Marijuanaopiumhashish?

By all accounts, Sapa is one beautiful place. Five thousand feet above sea level, tucked into a spectacular high-mountain valley below Mt. Fansipan, rice terraces that "spill down the surrounding mountainsides like a patchwork quilt." Of course, coasting into town from the pass above, I wouldn't have known any of that except for my guidebook. Clouds were hanging heavy over Sapa, completely obscuring any view of the surrounding peaks and valleys. Ever the optimist, however, I quickly checked into the "Mountain View Hotel" whose reputation for...well, moutain views won me over - that and the $7 a night room I scored.

Sapa is "THE" travel destination in the northwest and for good reason. It's an old French hill station that, having been abandonded for decades, is currently in the middle of a tourist boom thanks in large part to its mountain setting, tolerable climate, and most importantly, the colorful hill tribes that make up the population of the area.

After dropping my bags and finding a spot for the bike, I took a quick walk through the misty streets. One look around and I knew that I would be living large for a few days. This was most certainly NOT the Vietnam I had been experiencing on the other side of the pass. Pubs, cafes, and high-end souvenir shops lined the narrrow, steep roads. Local women and girls, decked out from head to toe in traditional garb, prowled the streets looking to pounce (politely) upon anyone who so much as glanced at their goods - and by "goods" I mean embroidered handbags, hats, jewelry, and other village knicknacks.

I also found out pretty quickly that the women were dealing in more than just the traditional souvenirs. "Marijuanaopiumhashish" became a pretty common greeting so long as no one else was standing within earshot. After turning down an elderly H'mong woman's offer to sell a braclet, she pulled out all the stops and slapped a big, gooey ball of hash into my hand. "Good hashish! Good price!" Quickly realizing that bribing my way out of a rural Vietnamese jail fit into neither my travel schedule, nor budget, I politely declined. She smiled, shrugged, and went back to describing the virtues of a pair of rusty earrings.

Even though being in Sapa feels like I'm somehow cheating (or being cheated of) the "real" traveling experience, I've got to admit that I'm enjoying myself. Good food on every corner, pleasant weather, spectacular scenery (yep, the clouds finally lifted), reliable internet, hot showers - better yet, the need for hot showers - and the kindest local people I've yet met. And, in all honesty, the prevelance of spoken english doesn't hurt either. In fact, the only downsides are the soft middle I'm developing from the deep-fried deserts, the screeching throngs of Chinese package-tourists, a localized rash I've developed on my arm (the $7 room's bed linen looked a little suspicious), and the fact that one of the mirrors on my motorbike was stolen last night. Hmmm....if it wasn't for the few bits of trouble in paradise, I'd probably try and find myself a cute young H'mong or Dzao girl to settle down with, open a roadside cafe, and call Sapa home forever.

Now it's all downhill to Hanoi.