Foreign travel often has a tendency to explode our assumptions and turn everything we take for granted upside down. What follows is a brief glimpse into a journey to Vietnam which did exactly that.
The airport in Ho Chi Minh City, or Saigon as most know it, is intimidating for even the most seasoned of travelers. It begins with the perpetual permafrost persona of Immigration Officials with enough arrogance to last multiple lifetimes. Clearing that hurdle, a scrum of touts then converge like buzzards on a carcass as all travelers are stereotyped as ‘walking wallets’. We cannot show the airport our backs fast enough!
Fleeing to the backpacker area of town we find a little oasis of calm at the unpretentious CAM Mini-Hotel. Outside in the adjoining alleyway caged songbirds push glorious notes from their feathered throats while their owners, squatted on the ground, consume exotic smelling meals in a blur of chop-sticks.
The Olympic-class craziness of crossing Saigon streets has our decision making process resembling that of a psychotic squirrel. We can make it. No we can’t. Yes we can. Eventually, taking a kangaroo-size leap of faith we step out into the daunting tight as teeth traffic, hoping our action doesn’t put us in traction. Vietnam’s high-risk roads are a constant game of ‘chicken’ where one can easily end up as a dead duck!
Roads are treated as battlegrounds, and avoiding idiocy is difficult with drivers seemingly under the impression they are inoculated against accidents at birth. Who knows, perhaps the Vietnamese believe Nirvana may be obtained through the head-on crash? Horns act as the brake pedal and drivers foster a mind-set that horn-honking safeguards them from any harm, but my paranormal powers of deduction suggest the lion’s share of Darwin finalists must have suffered cracked craniums as very young children!
Driver incompetence has proven to be the rule rather than the exception with driving being Vietnam’s most popular contact sport. Last year’s stats indicate there were 26,874 accidents, with 10,548 killed and 30,175 injured; equating to 73 accidents and 110 people killed or injured every single day of the year!
The mugginess responsible for our perspiration incontinence is so brutal I swear people walk out into the crush of traffic just to feel a breeze, and with Saigon’s rush hour an all-day all-night affair I’ve resorted to running in place on the bed in our room to keep an edge for my upcoming ultra-run across the country.
Crossing the road after visiting a bank today we are involved in a frightening ‘drive-by snatching’ when two thieves on a motorcycle make a grab for Christine’s money belt. The belt is ripped in half but, but my ’shero’ miraculously manages to catch it with her elbow, forcing the muggers to either abort the robbery or risk toppling their bike.
As the thugs race away our hearts are thudding in our chests from the dangerously close call as the belt contains her money, visa, passport, and Traveler Checks. The attempted robbery is a serious reminder that danger is never far away in the verminous city of Saigon. Nice save my darling!
Home to over 7,000,000 people, the city abounds with contrasting images. Beautiful French architecture, horribly deformed beggars, wonderful little cafes, streets reeking of human excrement, steaming fresh croissants, puppy-size rats in the streets, ladies sheathed in elegant ao dais, bicycles buried beneath preposterous loads of shellfish traps, third world dogs all mange and rib, cyclo drivers, a gut wrenching war museum, coconut carts, spaghetti-like alleyways, diesel fumes, squid carts, five on a motorcycle, snake wine, photocopied book sellers, monks with toques, shoeshine boys, caged snakes, child gum sellers, duck-topped buses, bicycle garden shops, locals in tendon-snapping squats, and barbaric markets where dinner writhes, wiggles, croaks, clucks, and barks! Yes, around every corner there seems to be exciting new stimuli playing out in the conundrum that is Saigon.
In Vietnam the name ‘sidewalk’ is a blatant misnomer. Saigon’s ‘walking dread’ are obstacle courses cluttered with food carts, motorbikes, merchants, barber shops, and anything else to make walking near impossible. Countless Saigonites also use them for cooking meals, cleaning dishes, and getting leg-less on snake wine or beer while sitting on itty-bitty plastic stools sized for kindergarten kids! Sidewalks my arse; on any day of the week ending in a ‘Y’ they clearly rate no better than ‘sidestumbles’!
On a day trip a few hours south in the river town of Cai Be we rent bikes and immerse ourselves in the rhythm of daily life in the delta of the Mekong. Originating in Tibet, the mighty river flows 4,350 km as it carves through the countries of China, Burma, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia, and finally Vietnam where it is absorbed into the South China Sea.
Longing for the scent of the sea after ten days of Saigon’s madness we head for the tiny island of Phu Quoc, located 15 km off the coast of Cambodia. The good news is there are likely less than a dozen foreigners on the entire island. The bad news is on checking into a hotel our passports are immediately confiscated and taken to the police station. We’re unsure of the paranoia, but having no choice in the matter we just keep our fingers crossed that they will be returned when we’re ready to leave.
Exploring the tranquil island on a rented motorcycle we stop at the remote but spectacular Sao Beach. Only one local family lives here and we’re greeted by the kids. We offer them tic-tac mints, and showing them they are candy, they cautiously put them in their mouths and burst into ear to ear enamel. Quickly they become exuberant little tour guides and happily escort us around the stunning beach they call home. When we saddle up on our motorbike to leave, our new little pals wiggle their fingers at us, and we wiggle back.
The road we’re on actually crosses an airfield, but with no planes in sight we seize the opportunity to roar up and down the runway on our crotch-rocket. After all, how often do you get a chance to crank the throttle and cruise with knees to the breeze on an airport runway?
Phu Quoc’s ginormous insect residents include one looking like a furry egg with wings. The Goliath bug is a good reminder to keep my mouth zipped while on the motorbike, because if one of these bad boys should happen to whap me in the ‘chiclets’ there’s a fifty-fifty chance I may never whistle again!
We enjoy our days at the elegant Saigon Phu Quoc Hotel. By day we slothfully chill out at the pool, and at night we savor fresh fish dinners on our room’s balcony while contemplating a sparkling sea illuminated by fire-lit lanterns on the gaggle of squid boats out plying their trade.
Returning to Saigon we instantly miss the island’s mellow vibe, and wandering into the War Museum are taken aback by the horrific pictures of savagery committed during the gruesome ‘American War’.
Looking for something on the lighter side we visit a shoemakers shop nearby, and studying what appears to be a crocodile belt, I want to confirm my theory and ask the shopkeeper ‘what animal’?
With marginal English he catches me off-guard by replying ‘chicken’. A dubious shake of my head sends him scurrying to the back of the store and he proudly drags out the full skin of a crocodile for my inspection! Having now confirmed my new ‘chicken’ belt is in fact reptile leather, I pay him the full price and everybody is happy; except of course the crocodile.
Christine and I join the Saigon Hash House Harriers Club for a splendid romp through a gorgeous chunk of countryside; passing paddy-hatted farmers plucking lotus roots, chaperoning ducks, and wading through mud over their kneecaps while almost impossibly catching eels by hand.
After a lot of ‘trail and error’ the run finishes at an old abandoned French fort, and with all runners present and accounted for, the absurd and beer-friendly ritual known as’ The Circle’ commences. The Grand Master begins berating runners for their Hash sins; both real and imagined. The good news for us sinners is that all our ‘sins’ are punishable by chugalugging a beer; the bad news is it’s from a hand held urinal!
Far too many beers south of lucid, the beer-swilling extremists engage in a sing-a-long of bawdy Hash songs to help shorten the ride back to Saigon. Having put some serious thought into the matter, I just don’t think the adulthood thing is ever going to work for me!
A couple of weeks later it’s time to let Saigons be Saigons, and we bus 7 hours north through pine-forested mountains to Dalat. Surprised by the highland’s icy air, it takes only one night with frigid digits before we’re fumbling for our next bus fare, and spotting a bus bound for Nha Trang’s promise of warmth we’re all over it like freckles on a redhead!
Vietnam can be a more than a little stress-inducing given the unfamiliarity of the language, sanity-testing traffic, and the peculiar food offerings. Markets display unrecognizable meaty things looking like leftovers from an organ donor clinic that I’m pretty sure would leave us shackled to the porcelain and singing through our sphincter.
The same can be said for many of Nha Trang’s restaurants, and tonight we peruse an appetite-cauterizing menu looking like it was based on a dare. Guaranteed to spawn intestinal unrest and likely capable of putting even a slaughterhouse janitor off his lunch, it offers the following creepy cuisine:
- Marrow and goat’s brains
- Goat’s penis & breast with oriental medicine in bowl
- Snake head in steamed pot
- Stuffed swimming bladder
- Grilled salamander
- Jellyfish mixed with wild boar
- Goat’s blood wine or Goat penis wine
For reasons unknown my mind suddenly goes A.W.O.L., and to Christine’s horror I order the goat penis wine and take a swallow. Yowza! With my liver aquiver, a full on shiver, and my esophagus traumatized for life, I immediately lose my fondness for goats! Honestly, I don’t know what on earth I was thinking by partaking in this bleating buffoonery. Note to self: chat to therapist when home.
Out on a morning run I encounter a guy pedaling a cyclo that looks like a 3-wheeled baby buggy on steroids. He seems hot-to-trot to race, so sharing a smile I take up his challenge and infuse my strides with a little extra giddy-up to ensure there’s no chance of a photo finish. Farther down the street I’m handed a flower by little girl, and as I stop to put her gift in my hair she shyly tries to muffle her girlish giggles with cupped palms. These little interactions are why I’m so enamored with getting the feel of a country through my feet.
After a few blissful beach days we are once again prisoners of the dreaded bus. During a 13 hour journey to Hoi An it seems we’ve lost part of our hearing from the constant eardrum-rupturing blasts of the air horn. It’s either that, or because of our kidneys relocating to the vicinity of our ears as a result of being shaken like a Bond martini over nasty roads with potholes the size of a bathtub!
The diminutive riverside town of Hoi An has a charming ‘elegantly shabby’ feel. Billowing bougainvillea abound and people stroll or pedal past houses with the sun’s mood-lifting morning light bouncing off the egg-yolk coloured walls. Hoi An’s specialty is its countless tailor shops that make quality clothes and leave a happy wallet. We find it impossible to resist a few wardrobe additions while ‘threading’ our way through the historic little town.
Our timeline dictates that once again it’s time for a loathsome bus! Visibility is minimal on the cloud- swathed Hai Van Pass (The Pass of Clouds), and as the bus negotiates the 21 kilometers of treacherous switchbacks and alarming cliff drop offs we implore the mountain Gods to be kind.
Finally our frayed nerves get a break when the bus stops beside workers hand carving colossal blocks of marble at Marble Mountain. Time-wise, the severe road conditions have not exactly produced a podium standing result. It has taken 6 ½ hours to travel 140 km, a pathetic average speed of less than 14 mph!
Traveling up the spine of the country from Saigon to Hue, the wearisome journey has involved over 1,000 kilometers on antiquated Vietnamese buses. Gingerly exiting like a couple of arthritic crabs, we’re convinced the rusty relics are designed for invertebrates, and should be required to carry some kind of warning for anything with a backbone longer than a toothpick!
In Hue a relentless rain robbing our day of joy is not uncommon, with the city known for being a gulag of fog and rain 300 days of the year. Though concerned about growing webs between our toes, a more serious problem is we can’t find a guide willing to make an overnight stay in Khe Sahn due to a fear of ‘ghosts’ from the war. This humongous letdown is now putting my attempt to run across the country in jeopardy.
Thinking we’ve resolved our driver dilemma after two days of struggle, we stop at a market near the Perfume River to purchase a ‘paddy hat’ for Christine to wear during my run. Originally named for a floral aroma of flowers that once fell into it, the contaminated river’s name is sadly now a serious misnomer.
On the morning we are set to leave we are told our plans to hire a guide in Dong Ha have once again failed! I am immensely distraught, but Mr. Huy, one of the English-speaking staff at the hotel, comes to our rescue. Somehow garnering both a car and driver, he agrees to accompany us on the trip to act as our interpreter. What an immense stroke of good fortune this turns out to be!
The morning after getting out of hospital I’m still quite shaky but ever so grateful to be alive. The doctors and staff, along with our interpreter and driver, are all very much in our thoughts. Due to my current condition I’m unable to walk a decent distance, so Christine and I hire a pair of cyclo drivers to pedal us to the Forbidden Purple City and Thien Mu Pagoda.
Returning to town, the pedaling predators try fleecing us out of more than twice the agreed price, sending a torrent of profanity tumbling from my mouth before my brain has a chance to put its pants on. Despite their threatening gestures we refuse to capitulate, and walk away leaving the moral pygmies to search for easier prey. Fortunately, in addition to losing their principles they’ve also lost their backbone.
Back at the hotel Christine somehow manages to cut her toe, so I rummage around in a side compartment of my shaving kit in search of a bandage. Oh shit! Suddenly ratcheting up the gasp factor, my fingers find a little ‘BC bud’ left over from a camping trip back home. Horrified by this careless oversight, I realize that for the last few weeks I’ve unknowingly been a drug smuggler in Vietnam!
With joint in hand I bolt into the bathroom to eradicate it. However, having had the little fellow as a traveling companion for such a great distance, it somehow seems cruel to have its life end in the watery grave of a toilet, so in lieu of death by drowning, I arrange for a cremation ceremony!
Switching on the bathroom fan I assist the incriminating evidence in going up in smoke and put an end to the careless cannabis caper. Then, paranoid over the fumes finding a nosey nostril to nest in, we quickly show the crime scene the soles of our shoes.
Letting out a sigh of relief capable of separating leaves from trees we recognize just how lucky I’ve been in carrying the contraband undetected in my backpack. Amazingly, it slid through major airports and travelled more than a thousand kilometers overland from our setting-off point in Saigon! The laws on drugs in Vietnam are severe, and surviving any time in a ratty prison is something I cannot even contemplate.
Anxious about ongoing chest pains resulting from my ultra-marathon, we abandon our intended visit to Laos to return home early and seek medical attention. However, flying back to Hanoi we learn our first opportunity to leave is not for another six days, so until then we’ll just hang out in the capital city.
Hoan Kien Lake is Hanoi’s hub, and a lovely sanctuary within the city’s mayhem. Smoochy young couples canoodle on the lakeshore beneath gorgeous mimosa trees dressed in Christmas lights, and large tethered balloons hover overhead while a quaint temple appears to magically float on the lake.
Joined by an American couple we hire transport to the Perfume Pagoda. The car horn works but not its wipers, shock absorbers, or brakes. Actually, I’m not sure of the latter, because they are never put to the test. For us this is awfully familiar. Or familiarly awful!
As our eyes try to adjust to the fleeing landscape the car threads its way through traffic like pylons on a race course. Learning that our guide and driver’s names are pronounced ‘Miss Chance’ and ‘Mr. Zoom’, we can’t help but chortle at the suitability of the names. I mean come on – you just can’t make this kind of stuff up!
Our experience leads us to believe we have now deduced Vietnam’s rules of the road:
- When driving anywhere in Vietnam, overtaking is
- Every moving vehicle is required to overtake every other moving vehicle, irrespective of whether it has just overtaken you.
- Cornering should only be done on two
- Overtaking should only be undertaken in suitable conditions, such as in the face of oncoming traffic or blind corners, and preferably in the center of a village or city.
- Steer directly at anything that can kill you and then swerve at the last second before the crash.
- No more than two inches should be allowed between your vehicle and the one you are passing; and no more than one inch in the case of bicycles or pedestrians.
Leaving the car, our eyes devour the exotic scenery from a small boat as we’re rowed along the Yen River. Limestone monoliths similar to those in Halong Bay emerge from a waterscape choked with floating islands of purple water hyacinths and flamingo-pink water lilies. Near a stunning old pagoda rising from the river we pass by locals standing in shallow flat-bottomed boats mere inches above the water, using poles electrified by a car battery to paralyze and catch fish.
Spending Christmas Eve in Hanoi, Christine and I splash out at Mama Rosa’s beside Hoan Kien Lake. Sampling ginseng and licorice wines with the owner after a fabulous feed, an unknown local dressed up in a Santa Claus outfit suddenly walks in off the street, and though the restaurant is full of people, ‘Santa’ approaches only one table; ours.
Presenting us a with small gift wrapped package, he then jingles a small bell and buh-bye’s us! Flummoxed by this gesture we open his unforeseen present, absolutely shocked to find a matchbox-sized pair of ceramic shoes. We have no inkling what prompted his generosity, but the gift of the shoes is a lovely way to cap off the evening and a most appropriate coincidence given the saga of my epic run across the country.
During our intoxicating journey through the mosh-pit of awesomeness that is Vietnam we have come to expect the unexpected, and it has left us infatuated with a country we had previously only related to a gruesome war. Our hats are off to these warm and gracious people whose resilience shines on despite the many misfortunes they have endured.
On these awe-inspiring travels Christine and I have accrued a myriad of magic memories, along with a profound sense of achievement from conquering personal challenges. The trip was an opportunity for reflection and a chance to reassess life’s priorities. Our dramatic experience on the run has given us a greater appreciation of not only our lives, but each other; and for that Vietnam, you have our eternal gratitude.
Mark Colegrave 2000