Shopping and Ho.

In love with Ho.

Back on dry land we hired bikes for a quick tour of the rest of the island that hadn’t been modelled on Bognor Regis. We decided on the kind with engines despite the lure of pedal power and the urge to pack a picnic, make a den and solve a mystery. We spent a few hours pleasantly honing around, looking like we’d escaped from the special needs boat before escaping back to the luxuries of Hanoi.
In Hanoi we spent the next few days not eating fish, which led us to discover that when birds return, frequently they are burnt to a crisp. Hmm bird's face. The mornings and afternoons escaped from us as we ran around markets, shopping delightedly for tat.
Due to probably completely foreseen circumstances Tim and I visited the Ho Chi Minh Complex by ourselves the next day. This was the site of Ho Chi Minh’s last house, his final resting place and the museum dedicated to his memory. As is normal we turned up with limited time when the mausoleum had closed and the museum was shutting in the next half an hour. Not to be deterred we made a whistle stop tour of the strangest museum we’d ever been in. Without the time to study the exhibits explanatory notices we stared in delight and bemusement at the display of large plastic fruit and the large tower of reflective Perspex standing in a dim room, which in my memory was churning out house music but now I’m not sure if this is wishful thinking. Tim and I could only surmise that large fruit and house music was a particular favourite of the man himself and we left the museum with a love of Ho that any communist would be proud of.
Collecting the village boys we charged towards our flight, avoided Katie Foley, and the city of Ho.
The boys left in a ragged formation, leaving everyone involved in dire need of a holiday.

Another day, another boat.

Forcing the more reluctant of us out of bed with heavy sweet pancakes we were transferred onto our second boat of the trip which although lacked some of the charm of the good boat had stairs up to a sunbathing level. After a day on the hard deck of the good boat and 30 hours on uncomfortable prison bunks some nights before our eyes widened at the sight of two blue judo mats laid out for our comfort. We traipsed through caves that looked tragically man-made with stuttering attempts at explanations from our guides limited English. All we managed to gather from the seemingly most important story was that there had been a war and some Chinese hid in trees, which was very sad. Escaping we settled down to more lying, swimming, not finishing plates of spring rolls, trying not to smell the bowl of fish sauce and kayaking and began to wonder where we were going to sleep.
With his strangely Italian influenced ‘Excusa Me’ the captain informed us we would be changing boats once more. Reluctant to leave our judo mats we were apprehensive at more change until the posh French boat came into view. With wary looks from the crew, who were obviously used to a more refined class of customer, we were shown to our separate rooms with full double beds and separate bathrooms. For reasons only known to French designers there was a window between the toilet and shower room, with an ineffective curtain between them should you be too prudish for this bourgeoisie set-up.
We spent a delightful night on the best boat and were unceremoniously thrown back on the bad boat in the morning, after a swift breakfast of eggs, to Tim’s absolute delight. We gleefully plonked ourselves back onto the judo mats and leant back for more sun worship. After picking up some kayaks and heading off for further exploration of the bay Tim’s engine ear heard a distinct plunk and we came to a stuttering halt. As minutes crept into hours everyone crawled into the foetal position as flashbacks of the prison train flickered before our eyes. We solemnly ate lunch as we watched the ‘engineer’ try to fix the engine with different tactics and methods of bashing but unfortunately to no avail. We could almost hear the fanfare as the crew accepted defeat and best boat appeared on the horizon. We were rescued and set off at an insipid pace towards our last kayaking of the trip. The dirty waters of the thoroughfare didn’t inspire us but it was still the first time all of us made the effort to the leave the vicinity of the boat and we headed for the much visited cove we were pointed to. A quick cool swim and my undignified clamber back into the canoe later, where I almost broke Tim’s finger and realised I only have direct motor control over my left leg, we were heading back to shore content that we had seen the best that the boats of Ha Long Bay had to offer.

Good boat, Bad boat and Best Boat

In my memory the days on the boat all meld into one long lazy day of sun soaking with intermittent jaunts of kayaking, fishing, swimming and man-made caves. However the boats did give the trip some structure in my mind. Even though we quickly noticed that the claim of the only sailboat tour on the island was a blatant lie we were excited about the good boat. We had ass cushions to make us more comfortable and finally the village boys could experience some of the Vietnamese sun they had flown all this way to find.
Soon we found ourselves in relative calm away from the crowds to enjoy the amazing scenery. Ha Long Bay consists of small clusters of boat people living amongst the 1969 islands (the number, not the year) that tower out of the water as you drift by. In the afternoon of the first day the crew hoisted the sails on the good boat, with a little help from Adam's super human strength, and we became characters in a sun-drenched episode of Howard’s Way. The evening meal was served on the top of the boat, a spread we would quickly become over familiar with. The main delight was cooked fish that had been caught on the boat, from which we discovered that real freshness tastes overpoweringly of garlic. This was accompanied by a massive bowl of rice, vegetables and more fried spring rolls than would ever be necessary for a group of 10. We watched the lights of bobbing lanterns as they were released for the delight of the passengers from the posh French boat at the other end of the cove.
As night fell to pitch black darkness the bottles of cheap rum that had been carried on board, to raised eyebrows from the crew, were opened and the evening ended in predictable consequences. Luckily no-one ended up overboard in the black, still water but the communal bed with four mattresses meant that some (one) of us may have wished that was otherwise.

Fat heads on Bus boat bus.

Hanoi was literally a ray of sunshine. It is the capital of Vietnam and the second largest city. Our first impression of the city was that its smaller stature lent it a relative air of calm and tranquillity amidst the familiar strain of motorbike horns. Still craving sun and sea we left for our ultimate destination, Ha Long Bay. We were informed that we could get to the gateway to the thousand fold cluster of island on a bus boat bus combo to Cat Ba Island for a very reasonable fee. We jumped into a taxi made for midgets, which caused some passengers to experience feelings of gigantisism that none of us could explain afterwards.
As our tiny little taxi neared the bus station different men started shouted our destination to each other like it was an order in a fish market, and even though we were early we were shepherded onto a bus that we were told was leaving that very minute. The cunning bastards. We quickly realised we were on the wrong bus but settled back to watch the beautiful sights of the industrial outskirts of industrial Hanoi pass us by. On arrival in Hai Phong, possibly the ugliest place in Viet Nam, we were set upon by a bubbling babbling crowd of motorbike taxi drivers. Hearing Tim’s outrage at their prices in Vietnamese they were disgusted at our refusal to be ripped off as we looked for a taxi. Not to be deterred their quick exchange with the taxi driver meant we were taken to a different location, where women began shouting that this was the last bus to the island. Deja vous ringing in our ears. Dazed and confused we were hustled towards the waiting bus that would take us to the boat and the next bus in the dizzying relay of transportation. I was spitting disgusted rage all over them at their price, which dribbled pathetically down the bus windows as we sped away.
Luckily our life’s savings meant that we were treated to the fast boat and we made it to Cat Ba City before night fall. The City is a strip of identikit tourist hotels and restaurants all offering the exclusive offers for boat trips, climbing or kayaking tours. We booked a three night two day boat trip from the man who had been following us all night, an excellent recommendation, and waited to see what we’d let ourselves in for.

30 hours in prison.

We left Saigon for Nha Trang to get the pasty English men some Vietnamese sun. We packed our buckets and spades and boarded the sleeper train, just a short 5 and a half hour train journey until seaside fun, or so we thought... We crowded into our six berth cabin and ignoring the paper thin mattress we settled down to sleep, wanting to be refreshed for our jaunt by the sea.
The alarm woke us five minutes before we were due to arrive and we took our time as we weren’t expecting to be completely punctual. Rubbing our aching joints, which happened to be any part that was in contact with the hard surface called a bed for more than five minutes we all looked expectantly out into the dim light of a drizzly morning. Disappointed by the lack of sun we were still excited to get out of the confined space. We waited patiently as the train continued to trundle on at a speed British Rail would have been ashamed of until we stopped about an hour later. Our slight annoyance at the hour delay was nothing at the shock we got when we saw the station we’d pulled into and consulted a map. Realising we were still two hours from our destination we sat heavily back onto our bunks, changing position every ten minutes or less.
As the hours stretched on and we began to get panicky from the limited space and the flickering lights we began to wonder what we’d done to deserve this imprisonment. To increase the levels of tension the tannoy barked out orders and talked of unknown horrors we couldn’t understand in the voice of an angry dalek. For most of the journey we watched the day progress as we sat for hours on end at different tiny stations, interspersed with short-lived flurries of motion, steadily becoming more depressed wondering how long we had been sentenced for.
As night fell again we were given our 20 minutes of yard exercise on the platform where we enjoyed a warm can of coke in the rain. After ten minutes the guards decided enough was enough and we were hearded urgently back into our cells by shrill whistles and shouts in case we missed the departure five hours later. We slept, twisting and turning, as our Chinese companion shouted endlessly into his mobile phone. Presumably to his lawyer, he was still there when we got off so god knows what he’d done.
Almost exactly 24 hours after we were due to arrive the train trundled into the station and with no notification of our crimes we were finally set free.
The rain that had caused our delay was still falling heavily as we stumbled towards a hotel. In the alternating rain and gloom Nha Trang wasn’t the seaside paradise we’d been hoping for but instead a wet and boozy stop of Wham shorts and cocktails. With memories of the prison train still haunting us we flew to Hanoi the next day.
They don't let us take photos in prison.

Saigon - nothing to report

Our pull across the world is still strong, either that or the next batch of arrivals were a little lost.
The village boys arrived with rucksacks in hand and pressed their faces to the window of the cab, watching as the Vietnamese tried to kill each other on different modes of transport. We spent some quiet evenings in, the boys appreciated their introduction to noodle soup, enjoyed the array of condiments on offer and eventually we left Ho Chi Minh City.
Saigon – nothing to report. Nothing.

As it should be

As it Should be

Another holiday was due so that we could replenish our store of adjectives for the classroom. For a short break we decided to hop across to the island of Phu Quoc, which is at the bottom of VietNam but actually closer to Cambodia. The weekend passed in a blur of glue-sticks, crayons and the verb to be and we staggered out the other side with bright holiday faces.
Unfortunately by 8pm my holiday face had turned green. By 2am I was throwing up for England, bringing a yellowy orange tinge to the holiday rainbow. The following morning we set off with my legs still slightly shaky and my nausea not abating. After a while standing in the heat of the morning, trying not to be sick on the street vendors we found a taxi and in air conditioned comfort I began to feel a little better. A slight nap in the airport and all was going well as long as I didn’t stand up for too long. My optimism was short lived when I saw the bus waiting to transport us from the gate to the plane, a lovely rickety little affair. I’m not entirely sure what happened on the bus but Tim assures me it was pretty warm in there. Things started to turn white quite quickly, accompanied by little purple spots. I managed not to faint or throw up on my shoes but the 5 minutes of complete blindness worried me slightly. Thankfully it clearly almost instantaneously when I hit the air-con of the plane and the rest of the journey was undertaken with full vision.
It was low season in Phu Quoc, being the end of the rainy season, and thus the place was pretty deserted. We had booked into a resort for 4 days and there was a taxi driver holding a sign with my name when we arrived. Admittedly not with the air of class the printed signs had but I thought the crayon was probably more suitable to our style. The island is 48km from tip to tail and 25m at its widest point and much is covered by dusty red roads that quite regularly turn suddenly into dirt tracks. Our taxi driver traversed the four wheel drive nightmare almost effortlessly and we arrived in our very own paradise. Walking into our accommodation, I was instantly struck by the thought that it was nicer that our flat, and settled down for a quick nap. It turns out paradise is the nicest place to be ill. The resort had its own private stretch of white sand beach, with clear blue waters, and we were the only guests. I fell asleep in a hammock, in the sun, for the rest of the day.
The nearly 24 hours of sleep did wonders and the next day I was ready to explore with Tim, who was champing at the bit to get back on a motorbike. It had been two days. We hired a motorbike for two days. On the first we headed south to look at the main attractions. These were the famous pepper factory and a beautiful pagoda, which we managed to miss completely, and a waterfall, which we nearly did. Phu Quoc tourist board obviously aren’t into the crass use of signs and so it seemed like luck to find anything advertised despite the fact there were only about 3 roads on the island. The waterfall was nice, especially watching the Russians taking photos of each other.
Our next stop was Sao beach in the south, which is supposed to be the jewel in the Phu Quoc’s beachy crown. It was predictably beautiful, the water clear and calm, giving us perfect views of the swarms of blue jellyfish. As the storm clouds gathered Tim and I enjoyed a walk and a quick game of plastic bag or jellyfish. We watched the torrential downpour as we ate lunch and then when we finished it stopped, which is as it should be. After a quick dip we hooned out of there and took the road up the west coast to Long Beach. This is the stretch of beach where development has been the most successful. Restaurants and resorts have popped up all over the place that looked like they were squinting under the full glare of the sun. We returned to the resort to relax after all the strenuous activity.
The next day we turned North. In complete contrast to other places in Vietnam Phu Quoc is still in the first throws of development and so we were delightfully surprised to find that there were long stretches of deserted beaches to ditch the bike and jump in the water. Tim and I swam about feeling like we were the last people on Earth while we discussed the possibility of investment in his sunbathing rotisserie. We continued on to the town at the top of the island, which we nearly missed as it was disguised as a couple of mud shacks, and took the nicely levelled out road through the national park. Feeling like we were in a rally computer game we swung through the beautiful scenery until we had to head back round on ourselves.
The main road down the centre of the island is currently under construction and rocking back and forth over the bumps we discovered an interesting technique. I’m no expert in civil engineering, despite being my father’s daughter, but I saw a few flaws in the Vietnamese process. Three men, three diggers, five years! Instead of choosing a starting point and continuing until they had finished the entire stretch the men seemed to have become a little bored. Each stretch of completed road lasted for on average 200m before it decayed into a building site rollercoaster for about 10 minutes until someone had built another little stretch. The alternating pattern made for an interesting ride that surprisingly didn’t get tired until after about 45 minutes.
That next day was spent lazing around, swinging in hammocks, swimming in the sea. As we were eating lunch we spotted a small snake weaving through the short grass. Closer scrutiny found a little frog hopping along in front. What at first seemed to be a picture of the natural cycle of the wild, prey versus predator, eventually appeared as a bizarre ‘chase me, chase me,’ episode as the frog hopped on slightly and stopped while the snake caught up and waited a little way off. I wanted to swallow my words immediately as the waiter appeared with a big stick. Tim and I looked slightly horrified as the childish game went all horror movie as the snake was brutally beaten to death with the big stick.
Later Tim came over all Jack Johnson and wrote a song on his guitar by the beach while I read the first draft of my book. The day was rounded off by the most spectacular sunset I’ve ever seen, slightly marred by the fact that Tim missed it, riding off to get some money. Thankfully I was there to document the experience for him, including lots of self-portraits of me looking smug in front of the colours. I think he appreciated it.
The next day came too soon and we bumped and rolled our way back over the dirt tracks to the airport, where Tim had a slight run in with security, though thankfully not one requiring a cavity search. Putting my bag through the scanner Tim was certain that I had been vigilant in adhering the rules and regulations of carry-on luggage, so when we was asked if there was any scissors he was confident in the negative. The woman watching the x-ray TV was of a different opinion, as was her slightly angrier colleague who caused slight problems with the language barrier.
‘Scissors?’ she demanded.
‘No,’ Tim said.
‘Scissors?’ she demanded.
‘No,’ Tim said.
‘Saw?’
‘A saw? What? No,’ Tim said, laughing. This did nothing for the angry eyebrows.
‘Saw!’
‘No!’
‘I think she’s asking if you’re sure,’ I said.
‘Oh.’
There were scissors in the bag. We apologised.
Paradise over.

Phu (Quoc) ing Lovely

Phu (Quoc) ing lovely