Short on both days and rays, February is a most uninspiring month. The cold, wet, and grey, of each and every day has morphed my running trails into muddied slop-fests and squelched any enthusiasm for cycling. So, with my only current exercise coming by way of shivering and pushing my luck, it’s time to try and fast-forward the rest of winter.
Having previously fallen head over heels for Vietnam’s splendidly preserved little town of Hoi An, we are off to rekindle the relationship. Depressingly, a delayed flight out of Hong Kong sabotages our connecting flight to Danang and results in being rerouted 600 km south to Saigon.
As on prior trips to Vietnam clearing immigration turns into a vat of unpleasantness. Queues are slower than a nursing home sack race, and with our connection time to Danang rapidly dwindling, a group of folks kindly allow us to go ahead of them in line.
However, reaching the lemon-licking lookalike official in charge, he seems to have a chip on his shoulder the size of a blue whale. Spearing us with adversarial eyes he will not allow us through. Asking why, he offers no explanation, and simply dismisses us with an insolent bark of ‘back of line’ accompanied by an infuriating backhand flip as if shooing away bad air.
Baffled by his gruff affront, a few people in the queue unsuccessfully appeal to the guy to let us through, and the look on their faces lets us know we’re not alone in thinking the jerk should be persuaded to donate some of his chromosomes for research in the field of assholeology!
Frantically seeking an alternate official we jump over a couple of queues, only to find another constipated looking dolt staring at us as if we’re gum on the bottom of his shoe. Finally he reluctantly relents, and we welcome the thud of his stamp colliding with our passports.
Bolting to the flight gate like a cork popping out of shaken champagne, we’re the last passengers to board. Vietnamese airports always seem to have self-aggrandizing officials with all the charisma of a stool sample and attitudinal issues so serious that I don’t think even Dr. Phil would be of help!
Landing in Danang we taxi towards Hoi An over risky roads home to none other than Lou Natics. With addresses never what they appear to be in Vietnam, our muddled taxi driver drops us at the wrong hotel and buggers off. Left to search for our booked hotel we glumly drag our bags through a ceaseless sea of honking of horns that have all the subtly of a sledgehammer!
Shambolic roads without rules are one of Nam’s biggest stressors with horrendously hyperactive traffic having only sporadic outbreaks of anything resembling sanity. Even the traffic light signals are lost in translation. Vietnamese version: Green – I can go. Amber – I can go. Red – I still can go!
The country’s vehicular ridiculousness is exacerbated by delinquent drivers all from the same Daredevil Driving School! Apparently intent on suicide by stupidity, they drive on whatever side of the road they fancy, with an overwhelming preference of horns over brakes. I can just picture the total scope of what a Vietnamese driving lesson must entail; “horn here, accelerator there; any questions?”
Mercifully arriving at our hotel we are surprised to learn that it was sold a few days ago, with the new managers arriving only yesterday. The hotel honors our booking but is taking on no other guests because of a staff shortage and the much needed renovation construction. The redeeming feature of the hotel is the calming panoramas across flawlessly green rice fields.
Ingrained with an ‘early gene’ I love to wander a city at the blush of dawn as it tends to show a face typically hidden from visitors. You know what they say about birds and worms! Well, at first light in Hoi An’s wet market the early bird also gets anything else that wriggles, flops, slithers, or pinches!
Topping up at a currency exchange we flex our math muscles trying to get our heads around all the zeros on the VN dong. As one of the world’s least valued currencies it requires over 28,000 dong to compensate for a single Canadian dollar, and exchanging two hundred bucks we become dong millionaires almost six times over! Almost in need of a wheelbarrow to cart away our new wad of currency we set off to engage in a little de-donging in the town’s interesting artisan shops.
On the streets of Old Town, sunshine bounces off shop facades the color of a canary and naturally lifts our mood. Beneath dangling cloth lanterns so prevalent it seems like the sky is raining down colorful miniature hot air balloons, we gently ignore sellers sitting in ambush on the curbs touting wares ranging from mango cakes to clay whistles.
Sadly, in recent years the town has been invaded by hordes of mannerly-bankrupt Chinese whose shouted conversations alter the once peaceful vibe. Another bummer is the river being treated like the town’s toilet; polluted with a flotsam of rubbish from those entrenched in the south of sane, ‘I don’t want it here, so I’ll toss it there’ mentality.
Honestly, if these cultural bumpkins were knives I swear they wouldn’t be sharp enough to behead a muffin! To escape the bothersome crowds we minimize town time by cycling outside of Hoi An via the reversibly named An Hoi Bridge to Kim Island, and enjoy its rural calm following only the end of our nose and a series of eenie-meenie-minie-mo decisions.
Cycling away from the boat building village of Kim Bong we end up disoriented in the realm of rice fields. Trying to get our bearings we meet a friendly English speaking girl who kindly invites us to her family’s house, where they’ve been making rice papers for three generations. After a pleasant visit our new friend bequeaths us a couple of conical paddy hats to help shield us against the sun; another reminder that when travelling, getting lost can often be the best way to find what you’re looking for.
Back in Hoi An cycling changes dramatically with road crazies constantly testing our hazard dodging prowess. We’re never totally comfortable in the chaos, because let’s face it, in a country where the horn is king, a tiny bicycle bell ding-a-linging its little heart out just doesn’t quite cut the mustard!
In the claustrophobic market sellers are business barracudas who could likely sell salt to a slug. Putting my well-honed bargaining skills to work against their Asian persuasion, my ‘foolosophy’ is to try and brighten the drudgery of their day by jollying them up, and judging by the little snorts of laughter and wrist-spraining handshakes I receive it clearly seems to be working.
TET holidays are now upon us, and sidewalks are carpeted with large clay pots of yellow flowers and heavily laden kumquat trees meant to ensure good luck in the coming New Year. The roads resemble moving gardens with every second motorbike carrying one of the celebratory pots precariously balanced on the back.
Trusting new owners leave us the keys to the hotel today as they’re traveling to Saigon to celebrate TET with family. This unique opportunity means that for the next week Christine and I have the complete run of the hotel and its facilities all to ourselves! Well this is certainly a first!
Unfortunately TET does have a few downsides for travelers. Most businesses and restaurants lock their doors for a week to spend time with family, and my extrasensory perception tells me alcohol moderation is not the name of the game in the raucous karaoke parties being held by those remaining.
Working towards cirrhosis, the late-night revellers fancy themselves as singing sensations. But in reality, their mangled songfests into a microphone are simply tonally-challenged yowls that sound extraordinarily akin to a cat being castrated – without anesthesia! The days of TET have no pity on our ears, and struggling at night waiting for sleep to take us we wish laryngitis upon them all!
Cycling to An Bang Beach every day during TET has been our salvation; sipping the cold sweet juice of soccer ball size coconuts and flipping the pages of a good novel with an oceanic lullaby of waves rhythmically chasing each other to shore and frothily hissing onto the sand.
Somehow I get some grit stuck in my eye today and it’s painful to the point that it feels as if somebody has parked their motorcycle under my eyelid. After a few hours vainly trying to flush it out I am still unable to open my eye and worried about damaging the cornea.
Seeking medical attention, Christine and her cyclops pedal off in search of a recommended doctor. However, after braving the daunting roads to reach his office, we’re totally shocked by his curt reply. Looking at me as if I’m a leper without a colony, he says; “TET. Too busy. No, you go other doctor”. W.T.F.? It seems to me the apathetic oaf is a bit of a hypocrite when it comes to his Hippocratic Oath!
Unable to find another doctor we cycle to the hospital, experiencing déjà vu from another Vietnamese hospital drama eighteen years ago. Beds are clogged with victims of motorbike accidents and the bed I’m told to lie on is a gross petri dish harbouring the mystery stains and DNA of previous patients. Finally a doctor appears, but after several futile attempts to flush out my eye, he suggests I use some eye drops.
Hmmm, let me get this straight. Both Christine and I couldn’t flush the eye out, you can’t flush it out, and now you think a few eye drops are the answer? Not exactly Mensa material, this guy. Unable to contain my exasperation and voicing my concern, a lovely nurse who has been patiently observing suddenly decides she wants to have a look for herself.
Grabbing hold of my eyelid she rolls it back and in a matter of seconds lets out a little whoop, having spotted the lodged debris. With the aid of a Q tip she quickly extracts the piece of grit, bringing instant relief to my eye and turning my grimace into a grin!
It seems that unlike many doctors, nurses are rarely short on caring, and this little sweetheart’s attitude certainly has my gratitude. Sometimes a little thing can make a sumo-sized difference. I am now able to cycle away with both eyes open, which on the streets of Vietnam is always a very prudent idea!
Walking from town to Thanh Ha Pottery Village we pass a pair of old codgers sharing some staggering looking rice whiskey. They encourage us to stop and join them, but having gone down this road before and knowing Vietnamese moonshine to be a real pain in the glass, I tell them we are in a hurry to meet someone. An outright falsehood told on behalf of our livers!
On the way back to town we come to a little bar. The sun is scorching and the beer icy cold – you do the math! Even though the price of a glass of local beer has risen from 14 cents on our last trip to 16 cents today, the more astute among you will likely surmise the inflation does little to dissuade my will to swill. In fact, for some strange reason it appears I’ve become Krazy-glued to the bar stool!
Some claim that ‘day beer’ here is a rough draft compared to more mature craft beers, but as a ‘beerologist’ I feel it my vocation to purchase several in order to enhance my beer acumen, and be able to provide a thorough review on product quality if asked. Yeh I know; I’m selfless like that!
With Hoi An a foodie’s mecca we’ve become connoisseurs of drool-inducing salads infused with the likes of passion fruit, pomelos, papaya, mangoes, shallots, dragon-fruit, and other marvelous morsels evoking murmurs of pleasure. The freshly plucked organic veggies are produced without chemical fertilizers, only special algae found only in a lagoon near the vegetable village of Tra Que.
We cycle out to the organic village through the green silence of rice fields on paths flatter than a ducks instep. Coming to a water buffalo is sliding its bottom jaw side to side, a smiling farmer gestures us to get on top of it. Even knowing a dong donation will be expected I figure it’s a new experience so why not?
Christine readies her camera as I awkwardly climb onto the beast’s back, but a photo shamefully implies I’m trying to ‘mount’ the mammoth mammal. Hoisting myself further up to more respectable position, I become uncomfortably aware that I have absolutely no business sitting atop a 7 foot, 2500 pound animal, which with one toss of his huge upturned horns, could instantly convert me into Canadian shish-kebab! Fortunately the brute has the gentle manner of a Buddhist monk and is unfazed by its Canadian cargo!
These traditional symbols of the country are of such value they have been dubbed the ‘BMW of Vietnam’. The cud-chewer’s cartoonishly large feet act like hooved snowshoes, helping them as they lumber through the peanut butter textured fields during their search for something to swallow or a place to wallow.
Apparently building inspectors are a completely unknown profession in Vietnam. At the romantically crumbling 100 year old bar called Hill Station in town we climb unsound stairs to an equally unsound balcony with rotted floor boards offering glimpses of the bar’s lower level. Sitting beneath the hairy pink blossoms of a mimosa tree, we pray not to plunge through the dissolving floor as we sip a tasty French wine watching life’s daily activities unfold on the streets below.
In search of dinner, we following aromas smelling like a handful of heaven down an alley to a well-hidden hole-in-the-wall called Ba Le Well. The décor is below basic but it wows the masses with its fixed menu, that like IKEA, comes with variety of items requiring assemblage.
Ingredients transported to the table include satay-style barbequed pork and chicken, peanut and dipping sauces, a plate stacked high with herbs and garden greens, rice paper sheets, and a Frisbee-sized pancake known as ‘banh xeo’. What is not included with the meal is tableware.
As we ponder how best to tackle our meal without cutlery our cheeky waitress emits a tsk of her tongue, and perhaps pitying her puzzled patrons, offers tutelage with a demonstration of how to construct a rice paper wrap. OK, our turn now, we got this. Actually we don’t. Our lame attempt to squash and roll the bulky ingredients together results in decorating ourselves from fingers to elbows in spillage, and leaves an outbreak of peanut sauce emblazoned on my shirt.
Scowling at her ankles, the lurking waitress is no doubt aghast at our sloppy struggles, and returns to offer the supper-spillers another lesson. Thanking our taskmaster once again we order a beer, and take advantage of her absence by quickly cramming all the food together inside the big pancake to create one monster wrap. Having brought great shame to the art of roll-wrapping at Ba Le Well, the meal was still a mess of good eating, and we sincerely hope the waitress will be out of therapy soon!
With our two-wheeled steel steeds groaning beneath us we cycle through bucolic surroundings including duck and fish farms, boats with painted eyes, basket boats, forests of Nipa palms, towering bamboo, and sprawling rice fields spread out before us like vast green tablecloths.
Relaxing back our bungalow after our ride I find myself doing a little head-scratching over the translation and spelling of the swimming pool rules:
- check the deepth before swimming;
- when bathing pool, do not thrown bottles, cups, can, and food into pool;
- not allowed children use mable or something else to break pool ( broken one will cut your toes);
- when coming pool area people have to keep common hygiene. Don’t play dangerous game;
- If you need helps please call receptionist.
Musing at a medley of misinterpretations and misspellings, I’m wondering if I should ask management for ‘helps’ in explaining about ‘playing dangerous games’ and preventing children from using ‘mable’ to break the pool!
Cycling out of town today to a workshop called Taboo Bamboo we meet a third generation bamboo carver named Tan. A master of his craft, Tan shows us his bamboozling bamboo creations which include a rotary telephone, beer mugs, bicycles, his entire house, and fully functional electric car!
Since arriving in Hoi An we’ve been noticing some shops have a striking photo on display called “Hidden Smile”. The subject is an elderly boat rower named Bui Thi Xong, who, shy about smiling due to a lack of teeth, smothers her mouth with gnarly leather-like hands. Even so, the lovely crinkle lines radiating from the corners of her eyes betray her smile, and she holds the honorary title of “The World’s Most Beautiful Old Woman”.
Walking beside the Thu Bon River today we have a chance encounter with this same 80 year old Ms. Xong, and absolutely jump at the chance to have her take us for a row in her shallow flat-bottomed boat. Sadly she speaks no English, but without notice in the middle of the river, the wonderfully wizened woman unexpectedly sets her paddle aside and strikes up the famous pose allowing us to preserve the moment in a photo. Lovely lady, lovely experience; just wish we could have enjoyed a conversation.
For reasons unknown my back has gone out today, converting me from hale and healthy into a hobbling hunchback. With my activities crushingly curtailed we cycle into town in pursuit of a muscle relaxant. Finding a pharmacy is the easy part, but then things quickly begin to go downhill.
Since no English is spoken in the shop I try making use of my acting skills, as most Vietnamese are usually quite adept at sussing out any pantomime thrown their way. With a performance I’m sure would easily qualify as a contender in the Oscar’s Best Actor category, I begin wincing and point to my back.
The woman pharmacist signals she’s got it. She scoots off and returns to the counter with diarrhea medicine! No ma’am, my bowels are just fine, but thank you for asking! I try improving my apparently crappy acting, and in Act Two embellish a grimace as if chewing on raw rhubarb, while bending over and holding my back and stomach simultaneously to demonstrate I cannot straighten up.
Again she scurries away and in a flash comes back with ….… Wait for it; Drum roll please; Ta-dah ….. Drugs for pregnancy! Oh terrific; now I’m also going to need a paramedic to help remove my jaw from the floor! W.T.F. lady, are you a for real pharmacist or have you just been brought in to do the dusting!
Turning her big brown eyes on me, Christine senses my patience disassembling and comes to the rescue by mentioning the actual name of the drug. One more time the pharmacist scampers away. Inspecting her next presentation of items we spot one with a label that actually mentions ‘muscle relaxant’. Bingo; I’ll take the box! Ah yes Vietnam, you are always an adventure package just waiting to be unwrapped!
The oddity of this year’s trip is that we’ve spent the entire month in the same town, and as the weeks blur into one another our exuberance begins to flat line. Our remedy is hiring a car and driver for a road trip to Quang Nam Province and the tiny fishing village of Tam Thanh. Enjoying a recent makeover it’s become the first mural village of Vietnam, with many house walls vibrantly painted with scenes depicting everyday Vietnamese life.
After roaming about the village and checking out a beach sprinkled with fishing boats we drive to the Heroic Mother Monument. Chiselled into solid rock 18 meters high and 120 meters long is the face of Nguyen Thi Thu and her nine children, all tragically killed in the American war. Amazingly, the mother who endured such unimaginable loss lived to the ripe old age of 106.
Our last stop of the day is My Khe Beach in Danang. Formerly called China Beach, it was used by the Yanks during the ‘American War’ for R & R (rest and recuperation), or perhaps more accurately, I & I (intercourse and intoxication). Having since morphed from soldiers to skyscrapers it is far too crowded for our liking so we head into the bowels of the city in search of a deceased chicken in peanut sauce, and a cold beer to wash it down.
Hoi An’s ‘Lantern Festival’ occurs once every month on the full moon and tonight is the night. After a medicinal tipple at the Hill Station Bar we saunter into town randomly dispensing a bag of plastic dinosaurs that leave the appreciative little recipients dressed in big shiny smiles.
On this festive night electricity is used to a minimum and transportation limited to walking. Alongside Thu Bon River small kids and old ladies sell candle-lit lotus flower lanterns meant to pay respect to ancestors. The offerings released on the river mingle with others dispersed from shallow boats out on moonlit maneuvers, and the atmosphere after dark is enchanting as the river dances with the reflections of the softly flickering floating flotilla of fire.
Numerous times we’ve tried in vain to locate an inspiring local couple married for over 70 years, said to be living somewhere near the organic vegetable village of Tra Que. Today is the last of our holidays, but with our flight not leaving until late afternoon, we decide to make one final attempt.
I’ve brought along a picture of the couple, and after pumping pedals for distance and people for directions, we’re finally pointed towards a small dirt road and favored by luck, spot the paddy-hatted veggie farming duo sitting hand in hand outside on a house porch. Though not speaking a word of English they are kind enough to show us about their humble abode and the thriving gardens out back.
The well-known horticulturists are 96 year old Le Van Se and his spry but toothless 88 year old wife Nguyen Thi Loi, who together are a great story of everlasting love. Farmer Se was supplying the Viet Cong with food supplies during the Indochina War, and caught by the French army, was imprisoned and tortured for 10 months in Laos. When released, he came back to his home in Hoi An to rejoin his wife and resume their habitual farming.
Years later during the Vietnam War, Se was captured yet again; this time by the American army who imprisoned him for 6 month for once again providing food for the Viet Cong. His wife Nguyen, at the time the head of women fighting for the liberation of Vietnam, was held captive for 4 months. Eventually, both the gritty old farmers were freed and once again reunited. When asked if he has any hatred against the French or Americans, Se says he lives in peace with the past, and in his old age has chosen to forgive.
The inspirational couple have become living history books for the young people in Hoi An. Still living peacefully in the exact same village where they were born, they are busy doing what they have done all their lives – tending to their beloved organic vegetable garden every single day. Our persistence in searching out the lovely couple has produced a delightful ending to travels in a country full of wild and wonderful contrasts.
Back in Canada spring has now sprung, and with the plants and trees starting to put their clothes back on, it’s time for the Vietnam vagabonds to skedaddle, so I can coax out a dormant green thumb and tend to a garden of my own.
Mark Colegrave February 2018