Blog Crazy

I seem to have gone blog crazy. To read the exciting events in order start at 'It's been a long time coming'.
xx

The Chinh-less journey to Jungle Beach, singing The End of The Road.

Leaving Mr Chinh we achieved our goal of a swim and a beer and went in search of anything that wasn’t rice noodles for dinner.
The next day we got some more motorbikes without a Chinh in sight and went in search of the coconut mangrove forest using a beer mat map from an enthusiastic Italian. We had been informed that we hire boats from the locals and navigate ourselves around the water logged forest. Using the strangely accurate map we managed to find our way to the coconut forest growing out of the mangrove river but the going got a little hard-going when we decided the map was telling us to take a right turn towards the forest. Soon three inexperienced drivers and two pillion passengers found themselves driving down a very narrow strip of sand with a drop down to the water on either side. It took Tim and I at least 5 minutes of distinctly worrying travel before we concluded it was madness as we turned to find the ghostly white faces of our companions peering out in fear we wondered if they would indeed follow us into the pits of hell. As history could have informed us we found ourselves amongst the forest at the peak of the day’s heat and if boats were to be hired at any point during the day this was not it so Laura and I watched as the boys turned their bikes round carefully and then their precarious motion as they made their way back to safer ground.
The rest of the day was spent at the more tourist beach, where Chris eyed up the waves suspiciously and tried not to leap back in fright at it tried to attack his paddling toes.
After some shopping, some impressive and pathetic haggling in equal measures and a very enjoyable boat ride, on which we managed to get in amongst the coconut forest we decided Hoi An had showed us all her delights and we decided to head for the deserted shore of Jungle Beach.
We booked ourselves on a night-train to Nha Trang, halfway between Hoi An and Siagon, although the consequence of our exiting spontaneity was that only four sleeper berths were available so one person would have to sleep in a chair. Luckily this would be a padded air-conditioned chair and not the wooden, straight backed school chairs of third class but this was of little comfort to Tim, who had literally chosen the short straw. The wobbly, rocking train offered mild peace and comfort in the sleeper cabins, which held three bunk beds on either side with mountaineering foot holds to get us to the top bunk, as it rattled its way south, being only occasionally jolted awake as you were flung into the guard rail. At 5am the Vietnamese began to wake and stalk about the train and some of us were able to watch the passing of the countryside.
Arriving only 30 minutes late we eventually found our lift to take us the 64km to Jungle Beach where we spent the next two days in peace and tranquillity. After the Americans left we found ourselves on an essentially deserted beach with a sea the colour of photographs and the temperature of a cool bath. Predictably these days were spent lounging under sun shades on the beach while everyone tried to first even out their tan, to hide the ridiculous wrist burns that had been the gift of the motorbike tours, to then trying to protect their skin from any further damage from the sun. We slept in beach bungalows under mosquito nets and only called from the lounging to the all inclusive lunch and dinners of seafood, meat, strangely always one dish with over-powering garlic mayonnaise, that’s what Westerners like.
I had heard rumours that the sea was home to plankton that as night draws in reveals its luminescent nature so we decided a night swim was in order. We were unsure if the season was right but as we entered the sea I was reliably informed that the sea was glowing. Realising that for the first time I would have to enter the sea with my glasses on I fled the waves and tried to find our clothes in the dark. Rejoining the waves, to shouts of incoming to help me prepare for the waves and keep the glasses on my face, I was pleased to find their eyes weren’t deceiving them and the water was sparkling, even dripping from our skin when the moon went behind a cloud.
Our beach paradise was over far too quickly and we headed back to Siagon aboard a train that didn’t seem as long as it should have. Arriving back in the city we were plunged straight into the chaos of the city as we spent 20 minutes in a traffic jam following a diversion from another traffic jam that eventually led us back on to the road we had left but 200m further on. Tim was practically spitting fire.
We celebrated our return to a city where anything is possible with a steak, cocktails, a brief trip to a bar’s launch party that was populated by young, trendy Western things looking smug and gulping down free drinks that the VietNamese can’t afford. We left there post haste and found more suitable surroundings drinking rum on deckchairs on the street. Once suitable lubricated we made our way to 24 karaoke to sing few songs. As the drinks continued to flow and the singing included more power dancing we were joined by a VietNamese boy pretending to mop the floor, staring at us incredulously. I think the power of the performances overwhelmed him or it may have just been laughter in his eyes. Four hours later, we emerged into the dawn of a new day, trying to avoid the eyes of the industrious locals as they began their long day of work.
Needless to say that the next day was one of repose. In the evening we took the tourists shopping for trinkets as commiseration prizes to those that haven’t been to Viet Nam and the next day they flew home through clouds of Icelandic ash, dodging the occasional prawn ring that was still intact.

A Downhill Slalom for Tea.

We awoke to a chilly morning by comparison to find that the beetles were still in the planning stages of their invasion and that the showers were cold. Following a breakfast of more noodle soup, which Andy greeted with a smile that said ‘this isn’t coffee.’ We got back of the bikes with arses that remembered the day before and took a sandy track up to the mountain while Chris tried to work out how to turn off his indicators. After a quick stop at another village we were off on the road we had traversed the night before, this time able to appreciate the view and the objects to avoid in the daylight. We took the back towards Da Nang, the nearest city to Hoi An, through a path that made yesterday’s look like a nursery slope. We sped through the mountainous countryside that was much closer in its lushness and Chinh increased his speed as pace-setter along with the downhill degree. No photos of this section of the ride exist and Laura and I clung on for dear life, our heads twisting and turning trying to memorise each astounding view of mountains, lakes and lush greenery as we rounded bend after bend. For me this was definitely the best part of the tour, like a self-driven roller-coaster that was terrifying, exhilarating, astoundingly beautiful and seemingly never-ending.
There were few stops on this part of the journey but everyone was glad to stop to look at an authentic Vietnamese tomb and the offerings selected to accompany them to the next world, if for nothing else than to stagger round and make sure the ground was still there. After stopping to look at the tea fields we burned up the rest of the road to Da Nang where Chris and Andy were treated to some light ruleless city driving. After lunch we stopping to look at the beach underneath a cloud-topped mountain but as the speed of the bikes dropped so did our enthusiasm for stopping and looking.
Between Da Nang and Hoi An stand the reasonably impressive Marble Mountains. As we arrived the film of sweat and dirt was starting to sit uncomfortably on our skin and visions of a cool swimming pool and colder beer were swimming in front of our eyes. Deciding to leave the 136 steps to the viewing point of the mountain to another time we dutifully traipsed into the marble shop Mr Chinh was pointing us into as we treated to the hard sell. I managed to escape the clutches of the persistant woman who repeated ‘Lovely Jubbly’ at us until Andy took one for the team and bought the cheapest trinket he could find.
Our final stop was the Vegetable Village which sounded reasonably interesting. I kept my fingers crossed for houses made from various vegetables, walls from sturdy marrows, thatch roofs of cabbage and door knockers of plump tomatoes. Possibly even little vegetable people to come out and show us their way of live, tottering towards us on cucumber legs, looking at us with grape eyes and proffering their carrot fingers to shake. Alas once we arrived it couldn’t be denied that Vegetable Village, despite Chinh opening his arms wide as if to display a kingdom ,was an allotment. The last section of road was a sad one as we knew the journey was ending but not as sad as for Chinh who knew that in a few minutes an emotional farewell was required. As we parked our bikes and paid to keep Mr Chinh’s children in i-phones for the next year he politely hoped that Christina and Lauren had had a nice time, he shook Chris and Andy’s hands wishing them well and then turned to Tim. After promises they would be reunited once more in Siagon to listen to music together Mr Chinh finally threw himself at Tim in a man hug that emulated the last scene of the Killing Fields before stepping aside to let us pass.
So our motorbike tour of Vietnam was over without even a glimpse of Jeremy Clarkson.

The villages

Falling water and prettiness

My Son

Pots and Pancakes

He’s an Easy Rider, he’s got a hold on you, believe it.

We met a smiling Mr Chinh the next morning. He showed us the three motorbikes that would be our transport for the next two days without any pesky questions about licences, previous experience on motorbikes (or any other motorised vehicles for that matter) and certainly no irritating health and safety warnings. We clambered aboard and after a shaky start we were all cruising through the streets of Hoi An, some clinging on with whiter knuckles than others. Chinny led us smoothly towards our first stop with everyone still moderately safe until the brake lights of the bikes in front of us went unnoticed until a scream of ‘Tim!’ was followed swiftly by a collision with Andy’s bike which caused him to fling himself forward onto the grass. Now that all the bikes had successfully halted Tim stuck to his story that he had been admiring the beautiful scenery and had failed to notice that party had stopped in front of him. It was definitely not because he was seeing how he looked in his new sunglasses in the wing mirror. Definitely not.
Everyone now a little more shaken up we headed off again, all pretending not to notice that Mr Chinh’s rear light was now at a strange limp angle. Our first stop was on the outskirts of the town at a village where families earn money by making pottery. We were led through to the back of the huts where an elderly woman was shaping an elaborate pot with ease while a younger woman turned the wheel with her foot. We were soon encouraged to take a turn at the wheel and Chris, Tim and Laura were able to make passable copies with the help of old Vietnamese hands. After our play amongst the clay we were treated to the expectant sale of pottery goods. Arming ourselves with the cheapest and thus ugliest things on sale we managed to skirt past the insistant woman who appeared from nowhere offering us a paid tour of the village in an angry voice. Fearful that we would spend the next couple of days being taken from one sales opportunity to the next we set off once more. We arrived without incident, our confidence growing, we were pleased that the rest of our stops were simply so that we could see traditional way of life in the countryside and the ways in which the people manage to make a living, from making exquisite religious offerings made from copper of quality that only the rich from Siagon can afford them to the silk weavers still using the old machines in a wooden hut.
After a quick ferry trip on a wooden raft captained by an old woman, bikes and all, our third stop seemed to be just someone’s home. We were ushered inside and Laura and I were informed that it was time for women’s work. Swallowing protests I watched as the smiling woman showed us the technique of making rice flour pancakes. A tight drum of black linen had been stretched over the steam and smoke of burning rice husks. The thick liquid of rice flour was ladled on to the drum and spread out quickly before a lid was placed to steam the pancake. A second layer was added and then a piece of carpet on a stick was used to roll it off. Laura and I both put our X chromosome to work and successfully produced food worthy of our expectant men folk. Thankfully we wouldn’t be beaten for another day. Unfortunately the enjoyment of making the pancakes wasn’t transferred into the eating. As the name suggests there is little in a rice pancake other than rice which once rolled into a fat, slightly slimey, tube isn’t the most pleasant of snacks. Thankfully we are polite Westerners and managed to put away most of it without a grimace. We left with smiles after feeding some pigs and doves, with the knowledge that the couple had welcomed us into their home and showed us their way of life, expecting nothing in return, merely in the spirit of hospitality.
We left the villages and zoomed towards My Son, the ruined temples of the Champa civilisation. We arrived around noon and left our bikes with the Chinster while we explored the sight. Only a few of the temples are left standing after it was bombed extensively by the Americans during the war, showing that indeed nothing is sacred. We had the place mostly to ourselves as few people find the experience that pleasurable under the intensity of the midday sun and we found that our need to fully explore that sight dimmed as we found ourselves in the hottest place any of us had ever been. We walked amongst the shade listening to the strange electronic screams of beetles, wandering if this was a mind-numbing hallucination as dehydration kicked in.
After lunch of rice noodle soup and a warm drink we set off on the longest stretch of riding so far to join the Ho Chi Minh Trail, with just a brief stop for fresh pineapple, to get used to the bikes before we hit the mountains.
Sticky and sweaty we turned off the road and drove down a dirt track. Following a scampering, laughing Mr Chinh we climbed over rocks and treeroots until we all stood on a large outcrop looking at the tumbling water fall into a glistening pool promising to wash the sweat away. After jumping in to the surprisingly warm water we were soon joined by a gaggle of Vietnamese boys whose youthful bravado shone through the language barrier as they climbed up the rocky face of the waterfall to jump of flowing streams of testosterone.
Soon enough we were back on the bikes and heading into the mountains on the Ho Chi Minh road which delivered the spectacular views promised. We charged along the weaving road which took us up and down amongst the mountains over rocky patches, dodging pot-holes and bumping over the debris of road works as we navigated the twists and turns at speed. We made two more stops before dinner to visit the ethnic minorities that live amongst the mountains of the Central Highlands. Immigrants from the surrounding asian countries that have settled into a peaceful community driven life in countryside, away from the Western influences affecting the larger towns. We stopped at a small collection of huts at the bottom of a particularly twisting downhill section that Mr Chinh took at quite a speed, where two families lived a simple life with astounding views out over the mountains of Viet Nam. After giving sweets to the younger ones who stared at us with obvious interest we were invited into the hut of the elders. When asked how old he was the old man of the tribe laughed at the ridiculous question as his people didn’t count the years nor were they aware of what day it was. Hazarding a guess I would say he was well into his 80’s but we all agreed that he could take all of us in a fight, even given the element of surprise. As we were leaving the younger girls of the tribe asked how old Tim was, presumably impressed by his previous attempts at Vietnamese and judging his suitability as a husband, despite accidentally calling the old man Grandma.
Our second stop was at the community hall of a much larger village where the younger children stared at us with happy curiousity whilst the older teenage boys dressed in Western branded clothing held a look of contempt in their eyes. Young or old though they obviously recognised the respectability of Tim and I as the youngsters formed an orderly queue for our sweets while the bags were ripped from Chris and Laura’s hands. After a slightly uncomfortable time of mutual staring we left, waving to those we left and those we met as they shouted greetings at the Westerners speeding through their settlements.
After a quick stop for dinner, watching night draw in we got back on the bikes to embark on some night driving to find our hotel. Swallowed up by the mountains once more we were all surprised at the sudden drop in temperature and shivered as we followed each other’s weaving lights hoping to miss the holes and to avoid any sudden drops. The lights managed to illuminate sections of the road and the barrier at the edge but no light infiltrated the thick black curtain that hung over the rest of the world. Twenty minutes after I wished we were there we arrived at the town, close to the Laos border, whose halo we had been following along the path and found our hotel, which as we were on a guided motorbike tour and not donkeys did indeed have room at the inn. Chinh informed us that tourists weren’t usually allowed to stay in the village as it was designated for the teaching of ethnic minorities but as his brother was one of the teachers he was allowed to make reservations. After dinner and some beers during which Chinny and Tim formed the burgeoning bonds of friendship we called it a night. We shut the door against the slow, attacking beetles and prepared ourselves for another day.

Not a drowned man in sight.

Not a drowned man in sight.

A Very Devon Invasion.

Many have promised or threatened it, depending on your viewpoint, but the first to lurch towards us across the World were a small peace-keeping envoy from Devon. They promised us they would be aboard a flight for Siagon and even went as far as giving us a specific time and date. We found them standing looking sleepy and confused outside Arrivals, trying to fend off the unwelcome advances of persistant taxi drivers, looking upon them as easy prey, though not wanting to get too close in case the drunk one with long hair and a beard attacked.
After a vocal reunion I took Chris and Laura in the relative safety of a taxi, so they could gawp at the chaos of traffic from air-conditioned comfort, while Tim threw Andy onto the back of his bike to treat him to a first-hand experience of the acceleration, braking, weaving and beeping of Siagon traffic before his hands had even stopped shaking from the flight.
Once luggage had been deposited in our flat, that was looking distinctly smaller with the addition of three people, we headed out to show our visitors the bright lights of the tourist district. Tim and I watched their heads swivel this way and that as foreign stimuli bombarded them from all angles and we were able to enjoy the chaos of familiarity through their new eyes.
After dinner and some drunkenness we managed to get to bed reasonably early to tackle their jet-lag and ran back out into Siagon the next morning. We treated them to a breakfast of Pho – a beef noodle soup popular amongst the locals – that with the addition of lime juice is a breakfast worthy of Devon stomachs. On energy fuelled by beansprouts we toured some of the sights of the city, including the tourist factory of Ben Thanh market, where thin arms reach out to prod and poke Westerners, testing whether a sale can be made, and the reunification palace where we stood like dignities on the balcony waiting for our subjects to come.
We left Siagon early the next morning on a small domestic flight to the central town of Hoi An, during which Andy proved his claims that he was scared of flying with the impressive maintenance of a state of complete terror for the entire flight. I thought the addition of a manically screaming baby during the moments of turbulence was a nice touch.
After an unimpressive taxi drive and a confusing haggle over price, which left the driver looking like we had just bought his children for a bag of rice we arrived in Hoi An, a town on the coast which harbours the beautiful architecture of the old town in its centre. Hoi An is famous for its wealth of tailors who will make anything from suits to dress to shoes in a matter of hours, most of whom probably can’t vouch for the quality. The town is best caught at night when hundreds of lanterns line the streets of the old town giving it the atmosphere of a small Spanish fishing village. Wandering the streets gawping at the lights we found a restaurant across the river to sample their seafood. After marvelling at the skills of the woman filleting our fish with chopsticks and watching the pile of flyers offering Western wallets free buckets of alcohol rise, one of which was offered by a sullen Vietnamese boy who relayed English colloquisms such as 'Easy Tiger', 'Cor Blimey' 'Wai ai man' and 'Lovely Jubbly' delivered as if we had insisted he perform like a monkey, we turned to find a middle aged Asian man standing quietly to the side of our table, waiting respectfully for our attention.
This was Mr Chinh. Decked out like a survival expert he informed us that he was a tour guide for Easy Rider, a motorbike touring company. Carried along by Mr Chinh’s enthusiasm we soon found that we had agreed to a two day tour of the mountains, encouraged by a few friendly pats of the boys' thighs.
The next morning we continued to be carried along on the Mr Chinh’s wave of tourism as we paid our deposit, had breakfast at his friend’s cafe and hired bicycles from her aswell.
Free for the rest of the day we rode our bikes through the countryside to the beach where we dropped onto shaded sunloungers in the midday heat.
As Andy took a bear-soaked nap I watched Tim, Chris and Laura play in the sea. I watched as one figure swam out into the breaking waves and I watched as another followed. I watched as one returned and as breaking waves crashed upon the small head of the other. I watched with Tim and Laura as a broken man stumbled from the sea, coughing sea water and looking the colour of seaweed. He waved a limp wrist in their direction and I watched as his rescuers pulled him from the shallow waters he had made it to. Stumbling through the sand, breathing like an emphysema patient Chris collapsed on the sun lounger and took some moments alone with his memories of his near-death experience. I would like to say that we all showed due concern and that no pictures were taken of his slumped figure with hands shaking from laughter but instead I will say nothing except that Chris was pleased to hear that Tim had been swimming out to answer the call of nature and that there was little chance that Chris had been drowning in anything other than sea water.

It's been a long time coming.

We have been quiet for a while but life continued on regardless, the continuing journey of teaching in Viet Nam. The only notably interesting thing that occurred was our visit to the local Buddhism theme park. When we arrived I thought that I would never be able to leave. The park is considerable in size but on the day we went there were so few people that we recognised the few that were there when we occassionally bumped into them. Its probably one of the most bizarre and fantastic places I have ever been to and there is still a chance I might set up home there. The park is decorated with lurid plastic creations of mountains, dragons and buddha's. Within its confines it held a water park with pitch black water slides that shoot water straight into your face at unexpected intervals and also nets and floating rafts to play strange, slow water polo.
We ran round the park giggling with the wide grins of retarded children to the roller-coaster, whose thrill was if it was going to stay on the tracks, and the crocodile farm, where Tim dangled raw meat in front of the face of snapping crocodiles. A place where tasing ferocious wild animals is actively encouraged.
We were so excited that we even went to the supermarket thinking that it might be a bizarre food wonderland but left quickly when we realised it was just a supermarket.
Exciting and fun yet still the routine of life until the clouds parted and a plane carrying a very Devon contigent landed in Siagon...