Look back in Angkor

Angkor was the ancient capital of Cambodia, and, for almost six hundred years, the site of one of the most important religious centres in the world.  It remains the largest religious complex on earth, with more than seventy temples, and countless tombs and ruins.  From the early 800s to the mid-1400s, from Hinduism to Buddhism, this extraordinary collection of buildings reflects the rolling history of the Khmer people.

It is beyond amazing that, in this country which has been regularly ravaged by mega- conflicts and civil carnage, such a world treasure survives at all.

Even more so, that it sits smack in the middle of the jungle, and covers an area almost twice the size of Paris.

Our little bus carried us through the centre of Siem Riep, and then the few miles north, towards Angkor.  We arrived at a bustling area of entrance booths, where we disembarked, were photographed, and duly processed with our multi-day tickets.

Back on the bus, we edged towards the closest temple, Angkor Wat. The traffic was manic, and there were crowds of tourists everywhere. Sareth chatted away to Sokhom, a friend of his, and a real temple expert, who’d joined us for the trip. They decided that we would change the order of our visits, to start further away from the masses, at Angkor Thom. Just as we were leaving the throng behind, we saw queues of people, lining up in the already scorching heat, to take elephant rides.

Now, it doesn’t do to get too anthropomorphic about these things, but you’d be hard-pushed to convince us that these little elephants were having a particularly enjoyable time. Very much smaller than the more familiar African elephants, their hair was almost black, and they blinked their tiny eyes under massive eyelashes, as they plodded to and fro, wooden howdahs on their backs, packed with squealing passengers, gently persuaded by long, swishing sticks.

As our bus chugged along, it cranked out a fair effort at air-conditioning, but when we at last stopped and got off, the jungle heat hit.  We’d been advised that, on this occasion, out of respect for these religious sites, we should cover up.  The jungle setting for these temples is also amazingly popular with insects, so it was in our interests to deny them nourishment.  Any movement meant clothes sticking to skin, and we all soon fell to picking our paths in the shade, every footfall raising clouds of dust.  Hats were a must, water-bottles, vital.   The constant birdsong in the jungle canopy was regularly drowned by the strange, guttural barks of packs of baboons. And then we reached a clearing, and ahead of us, and towering above, was the eight miles of twenty-six feet high wall, that protects the four square miles of fortified city, Angkor Thom, once home to a million people, and filled with beautiful temples and ruins.  Most of the temples are of red-brown stone, imposing, steep-stepped, and highly decorated, with wonderful carvings, bas-reliefs, and statues everywhere.

We approached across a bridge, flanked by headless statues, the tops having been summarily severed, as a succession of conflicts between the Siamese and the Khmers, ebbed and flowed across this land in the fourteenth century.  We don’t intend to compete with the guide books, but, inside the citidal, we’d pick as highlights the beautiful Bayon and Baphuon temples.   We saw endless carvings of serried ranks of deliciously sexy celestial dancing girls, smiling secret smiles, and wearing not a lot.  Somewhere, in the mists of time, someone decided it might bring good luck to briefly buff a bare breast or two.  To judge from the glut of glowing globes on display, many had decided not to pass up the chance, and indeed, we duly added the odd rub, squeeze, and tweak of our own.

In the surrounding gardens, under the kapok trees, is a beautifully shaded swimming pool. It was huge, and was reserved for the hundred concubines of the king.  Oh, and the king.  He was allowed.  Probably showed off his butterfly.  And his breaststroke.  There was a much smaller pool nearby.  Men only.  And, probably, the odd baboon. There were enough of them about.

And, amongst the highlights, a lowlight.  Many of the temples sport incredibly steep flights of steps, many angled beyond forty-five degrees   No-one said reaching heaven, or, in this case, nirvana, should be easy. But what goes up, must come down, and, unfortunately in this case, coming down was Alastair. Plus his entire photographic studio, that he’d dutifully ported across half of Asia without mishap. Luckily, as far as he was concerned, his gear survived, but his ankle bore the brunt.  He gave it the brave face, but we were all acutely aware that templing in the jungle is a pedestrian exercise, and a tough one, at that.

We lunched at a collection of haphazard shacks, crouching under the towering trees.  The food was superb, and the local beer stunningly welcome.  It’s called Angkor, and why not? We were entertained by a bunch of tiny kids, playing all around us, who produced some marbles, and proceeded to demonstrate unbelievably dextrous skills, flicking them about with incredible accuracy.

On to another highlight, the almost pink-coloured stones of Banteay Srei, the Citadel of Women, almost twenty miles to the north, and, from there, a lovely return drive through busy little villages, past fruit-laden roadside stalls, sharing the dusty track with the usual eclectic collection of two, three, four, and no-wheeled vehicles. Our next stop? A tiny museum, in a couple of huts, backing onto the jungle.

The  Landmine Museum.

When we were in our motel room in Amarillo, North Texas, we watched Larry King, fronting a programme about the CNN People of the Year awards for 2010.  One award was for a Cambodian, who had devoted his life to defusing landmines in his country.  His name?  Aki Ra.

And by extraordinary coincidence, here was the name Aki Ra, on the wall of this makeshift museum.  His parents were killed by the Khmer Rouge, and he was kept in a camp with other orphans, until, at ten years old, he was inducted as a child soldier of the Khmer Rouge, and taught to lay mines. He thought of mines as ‘friends’. If he laid them, he got fed.  At thirteen, he was captured by the Vietnamese, and continued to fight for them.   When the fighting ended, he was trained by the United Nations to diffuse mines, and has spent his life since, clearing much of the same deadly ordnance that he’d been forced to lay, with simply a knife and a stick.  As he travelled through the jungle villages, he came across many children, severely injured by some of the millions of landmines that remain scattered and hidden to this day.  He took a maimed child home. Since then, he has defused more than 50,000 mines, and has 27 children who now live at his little museum, and go to school from there.  The Cambodian Government closed down his original museum in Siem Reap, but have allowed him to settle by the jungle roadside, supported by a grant from a Canadian NGO, and a Californian film director. His wife died two years ago, aged twenty-eight, but Aki Ra continues to de-mine his countryside, with help from Australian and American Vietnam Veterans, and the money his museum makes from visits like ours. It’s one man’s war story, and life story.  It’s very compelling, and we left the museum with a feeling of hope.

We paused on our way back to Siem Reap, to take in the sunset from the temple of Phnom Bakheng, and then it was back to the hotel for an early night, in preparation for an early start – we were due to be up at 5am. We had a date with sunrise over Angkor Wat

Hot, and getting hotter

Waving goodbye to tottering towers of tasty tarantulas, and swarms of chattering children, we  boarded our bus, and were back on the road again – to Siem Reap.  This was probably
the most eagerly anticipated leg of our Cambodian trip.  The vast area of temples, deep in the jungle surrounding Siem Reap would bring us to the historic heart of Cambodian
culture.   Oh, and Sareth had promised us a couple more treats on the way…no, no, not culinary delights, not again… but there again,  impish Sareth, there was always the threat…

We stopped for lunch at Kampong Tong, and then bussed onwards to Spean Preah Toeus, the site of an amazing, ancient bridge.  Built in the twelfth century, and sporting ornate carvings and beautiful arches, this structure has somehow survived uncountable years of warfare and general wear and tear, and still proudly spans the Chikreng River, a caramel soup, sliding silently by, ten metres below.  In the 1930s there were twenty-two such bridges carrying the Route 6 road to Siem Reap, but today there are only eleven.   Lately aware of their diminishing stock of architectural treasures, the authorities have banned heavy traffic.   Even our little bus was deemed too much, so we dismounted and watched our woebegone transport disappear on a dusty detour.  We wandered across the unsheltered bridge, very aware of a massive hike in heat and humidity. Bussed-up again,
we continued for an hour or so, entertained by an impressive stream of amazingly
inventive agricultural machinery.  These hybrids seemed to have been cobbled together from a  random selection of engines, planks, bikes, tractors, string, anything, and were mostly piled high, and to the limits of overloading, with a variety of crops and, more often than not, with an improbable number of workers, family members, and sundry others, somehow balanced on top.   These people invariably waved as we passed, despite
the fact that raising a happy hand to us left them distinctly disadvantaged in
the clinging-on department.   Alongside, little houses were set back from the road, backing onto impenetrable jungle, with large ditches in front, dug to catch precious water, and no doubt to be used for washing, cooking, watering crops and animals, and, probably, drinking…these ditches were no more than mud-pits at this time of year – no doubt they’re full to bursting during the rainy season.

Dry, but getting wetter

Sareth announced a side-trip to a Floating Village.  This had been in doubt, as there’d been an extended drought, and the water levels in Tonle Sap Lake and its servant
rivers, were at a record low. So, after a lengthy discussion between Sareth and
our driver, we left the relative comfort and sophistication of the “main” road,
and took a dusty dive off to the left.  Any semblance of manufactured roadway was soon a distant memory, as we clattered along a twisting track, disguised under swathes of dusty earth.  The land either side of the track dropped sharply away to scrubby mudflats, scarred with a myriad of water channels which were guarded by stands of giant bullrushes, the whole area dried to a crusty moonscape.  Vegetation was all around, evidence that this was normally a world of water.  Beside our track, willowy trees hung their heads, draped in clouds of bougainvillea, and in their shade were thick plantings of palm fronds.  We came to our first village.  Our road was on a narrow spine of land, weaving its way through the wetlands, and now, on each side, rose the most fantastical collation of rickety wooden structures. These houses were erected on a mad cross-hatching of wooden scaffolding, which, in more normal, wetter times, would be under water.  Rooves of rushes, floors of bamboo, flaps of hessian for doors, raised up, and accessed by a network of ladders, they appeared impossibly flimsy as the retreating water had left them high and dry, up to thirty feet above terra firma.  And they were full of life.  A mass of waving, cheery people, smoking home-built ciggies, wreathed in clouds of jos, all with something to sell.  The usual range of vegetables, beer, fruit, clothing, whiskey bottles filled with petrol, and baskets of dried fish.  Cats were everywhere, in all colours, long-legged and languid, and children, naked and brown, shouting happily to us, children playing on the ladders, playing under the houses, playing in the street, always smiling, always waving.  It was an incredible sight. And everywhere, everything and everybody was covered in a sheen of dust.

Our bus stopped in a square at the edge of the village. Beside a beautifully decorated temple, steps descended, and we took in another astounding view.  Below us, was the disappeared river, and on the horizon, a hint of the fourth-biggest fresh water lake in the world.  Yes, the level was down, but here the brown stripe of sluggish river still ran, the volume of water just too much to be parched.  Down the steps, and we walked
to the riverbank. A little boat waited for us, and, as we boarded, we were plied with cans of soft drinks and beer. No place is too small, poor, or out-of-the-way for commercial opportunity. A man with a little camera took snaps of us as we climbed onto the boat, and we waved to him as we chugged out into midstream.

We passed under a gossamer bridge, an extraordinarily fragile structure linking the two banks of the river.  There was so much to see, we almost couldn’t take it all in.  To
say the joint was jumping is an understatement. On both sides there was so much activity – people fishing, washing, swimming, cleaning their nets, building new stilted houses.  There were brightly-coloured boats of all shapes and sizes,  zipping up, down, back and
forth, this way and that, some with chuggy, deep-throated diesel throbs, others
with petrol screams, but most with the plashing of paddles.   And  further down-river, people, chatting, shouting, laughing, splashing around in the water, either to cool down, or
working – catching the fish, putting nets in place, mending, patching, building. And as the river widened and the banks receded, we saw that this was where these people lived – not for them the stilted houses on the banks – their homes were on the water.  Haphazard
constructions of wood and cloth, tethered to oil drums and tree-trunks.

We’d noticed more of the fascinating, floating water hyacinths we saw on the Mekong.  They were being energetically trapped and corralled, and tied to stakes, to keep their snaky roots from snagging propellers. On either side were fields, filled with crops, used, no doubt for trade, and to supplement their predominantly fishy diet.   There was the odd water buffalo standing starkly against the bright sky, and then the banks, the tall grasses, and the walls of rushes melted away and we were on the lake.  It might have been an ocean in flat calm. All trace of land was gone. The water changed from the muddy, dirty brown colour, to a deep blue. Dots on the horizon resolved into beautifully decorated boats, moving gracefully between an increasing number of floating structures, homes, shops,
even a fairly substantial school.  Apparently a group of Vietnamese from the Mekong Delta settled here after the war.  Now they spend their entire lives afloat, and are tolerated because they’re superb fishermen. All too soon, our boat turned round, and we made our way back to the mouth of the river, and on upstream.  It was a fascinating glimpse into a seemingly placid, timeless world, filled with charming people. How weird to realise that so recently this country had been wracked by warfare…

We landed. The chap who’d leapt around taking photos of us as we’d  embarked had by now had the results converted to gaudy plates, a souvenir, to take home, for sale, very cheap, only 7 dollar.  Oh dear! They’d have lasted two seconds in a rucksack…

He took the no sale very well. We raised our usual dust-storm  back to Route 6 and
then drove through the late afternoon, and ever-increasing traffic, to Siem Reap, and our hotel.  It was bliss – to our huge surprise it sported not only a lift, but a swimming pool.  Luxury!

After showering off the dust of the day, we tuk tukk-ed  into the centre of Siem Reap.  Although it was already dusk, we could tell that is was very different to Phnom Penh.
We could make out many beautiful colonial buildings, lining the river banks, illuminated by the lights on the many bridges.   We passed the smallish house/palace, owned by
the present King, and eventually ended up at a restaurant, with live, traditional Apsara dancing and music.
The food was superb, and the entertainment was excellent. It had been another outstanding day, with so many new sights and sounds, and experiences. And a long day, and very hot, and very humid, and with a lot of dust, which, in turn, created a lot of thirst, which needed slaking. Delicious fodder, beaucoup de booze, the throbbing of the drums…and suddenly, our happy little band of travellers was no longer at table, but was beside the stage, and in possession of a variety of mostly unfathomable musical instruments, plinking, plunking, bashing and bewailing…oh dear…there was a culture gap, and they had the culture, we had the gap…

We were not thrown out – they’re far too polite for that. But we had to face it – we were
not that good – a sort of sober version of the Pogues…

Time for bed?

Why?

Fishy business

Next up – the night market!  Another colourful, hot, steamy, cramped and smelly market, with stalls selling beautiful silks, carvings, lacquer-ware, and, as the Temples of Siem Reap are a huge tourist attraction, the ubiquitous rip-off designer watches, belts, bags etc. etc.  And then, some of us, senses blunted, and imaginations dulled, plumped for the foot massage.  It was Sharon’s idea – sounded great, as most of her late-night ideas tend to… and then we saw the fish.  Yes, you guessed, it was a fishy footy massage.

There’s a tank of tiny tropical fish. Their only joy in life is to nibble the human foot.
Indiscriminately. Whether it’s been sweatily swathed in Italian leather for a day, chargrilled in Canadian canvas for a week, or stewed in a Sydneysider’s socks for six weeks, the crevices, cracks, lumps, gristle, and grease of the human foot are as nectar to these minute piscatorial pedicurists. The idea is to sit on a plastic couch, hoick your legs into the tank, and let the buggers bite your bits.

Pause.

Are you thinking …

a) They’re mad
b) They’re pissed, or
c) They’re simply indulging in a meaningful interaction that reflects and respects the cultural mores of the locale?

If you answered
a) you’re right.

If you answered
b) you’re right.

If you answered
c) you’re certainly a), and probably b)…

(Rosey:
perhaps the most tickly experience of my life.  Robin managed to overcome the urge to have his feet nibbled by fish – can’t think why.  I would like to say it was a magnificent,
fulfilling, relaxing experience, and that I benefited greatly from it… But,
frankly, at the time it was just very funny – and the jury is out as to whether
it has any lasting benefits.  However, my feet were pretty bashed, battered and generally abused, and the next day, felt a lot better, so – who can tell?  On a plus-note, we were offered beer to drink whilst we were being nibbled – that was relaxing!)

(Robin: I also drank the beer. And I can still look a fish finger in the face without worrying…)

The sight of the hotel that night was welcome. We’d spotted a laundry across the road, and
sorted a load for the morrow. Temple Day.

A day of history and beauty.   Of the ingenuity and creativity of man.  Of Elephants, Baboons, and Tourists.  Oh, and also of concubines, and landmines.
See you there…

Cambodia, the fragile frontier

]

Saigon, early morning.  Weather, hot.  Traffic, insane.  We have to get from our hotel to the bus station, to pick up a public bus, for the seven-hour trip to another country.  But how?   Sareth, our new minder for the Cambodian leg of our odyssey, offers us a choice – comfortable, air-conditioned, people-carrier taxis, or cyclos.  Hmm.  Let’s think.  There, that didn’t take long, did it?  There was a unanimous, group-blanch at the thought of careering our way through the Saigon rush hour, perched on a little seat, with our legs stuck out in front, powered at the back by a frenetically peddling chain-smoker, and with our luggage piled – well, where, exactly?  Basically, the only place for our luggage would have been on our laps.  We’d have lost the lot.  Bring on the taxis.   And so it was, that we all found ourselves, once again, with ruckies, camera bags, and extra luggage, perched on the edge of the pavement outside the hotel, casting hopeful entreaties at every taxi zooming past us, which they did, all of them, without a glance.  We weren’t quite in panic mode, but it was after 8am, and our bus departure time was 8:30.  What we hadn’t sussed, was that taxi-hailing in Vietnam requires the same steely, single-minded, careless abandon, as road-crossing.  Move over, Rover, let the pros take over.  Sareth, pursued by a couple of the reception staff, ran down the hotel steps and plunged straight into the stream of traffic.  There, complete with whistles and cries and much flapping of arms, and other wild gestures, they began a mass hailing of taxis.  It worked.  We were impressed.   Minutes later, three taxi-loads, bags and all, were weaving their way across the city, until eventually, we fetched up at the bus terminal.  OK, not a terminal as we know it, Jim, but a stretch of pavement beside a busy main road, where jostling crowds were already fighting the good fight to mount one of the several buses that waited there, engines chugging.   A carbon copy of our Megabus experience in New York City, so many weeks ago.

Mercifully, a darling young girl found us, plucked us out of the clamour, supervised the stowing of our gear, and soon had us sitting comfortably on board the Saigon – Phnom Penh Express Bus.  We’d been imagining that this public bus might be a rattling old boneshaker, packed to the roof rack with sweating humanity, but, in fact, it was practically empty, and very smart. Frangipani Annie ( we’d asked her name, but it whisked by, in a blur of silky sibilants, and rollercoaster vowels), ticked us off her list, and then presented us with a bottle of water each, and little boxes of pastries, to keep us going through the morning.  Later, we realised that we’d barely glanced back at Saigon, and Vietnam, barely said goodbye.  It’s in the nature of travel, though.  We’d had a great time, and it had been a fantastic experience, but now it was on with the next – we were Cambodia-bound!

The journey to the border crossing at Moc Bai took around two hours.  The glamour of Saigon city centre soon gave way to the reality of a poorer life, existing alongside the highway.  There are many, many pretty little villages tucked away in the vast agricultural hinterland, but few big towns.  Almost every form of commerce is right there, lining each side of the road.  There’s an unbroken ribbon-development of small food shops, restaurants, garages, undertakers, bike-repair shops, temples, and stonemasons.  Anything that can be sold or traded, animal, vegetable, or mineral, is on display, laid out on tarpaulins or on blankets, in the street, or across the pavements, on makeshift stalls, or in ancient, immaculately-stocked shops.  In stark contrast to the vast swathes of timeless, verdant countryside, occasionally glimpsed between the buildings as we passed, life teems along the wayside. Woman haggling, bartering, selling and buying, carefully balancing goods on heads, tying impossible loads to frail, overloaded bicycle-frames, men playing dice, or chequers, or cards, drinking tea, arguing the toss, setting the world to rights, it all happens, all the time. Tiny children playing everywhere, birds in cages, puppies chasing each other, and snuffling their noses in nameless street odours, that they’d have done better to have passed by… it is a constantly moving, constantly fascinating world, a technicolour  blur of costumes and flowers, and food, and brightly-coloured lanterns and shrines.  There is poverty, by western standards, certainly, but Vietnam is one of the fastest-growing economies in the world, and you could never accuse these people of being work-shy.  There is an irresistible feeling of “up” about the place…

Before leaving home, we’d organised our visas for Cambodia, but some of our party hadn’t.  They set about completing application forms, ably assisted by Frangipani Annie.  Sweet F.A. spoke fluent, albeit heavily accented, English, as well as Cambodian and Vietnamese, and explained to us all, in a selection of those languages, the procedure to be followed at the border.  Borders.  Again, it’s in the nature of travel, that these are places of excitement, and, on occasion, trepidation.  Here, we were simply excited.

Every last bit of our luggage had to be taken off the bus, and carried through the border building, to be scanned through an airport-style machine.  All the uniformed staff seemed very pleasant, if not particularly thorough.   There was a short queue, before we reached passport control.  A charming, smiley man asked us where we were going.  Bearing in mind that we were at the Vietnam/Cambodia border, and were looking over his shoulder at a door, through which we could see Cambodia, we decided to stick with the bleeding obvious.  Cambodia, we said.  He smiled.  We passed through the door.

Reunited with our bus, we loaded our luggage and were soon on our way, into our next country.

The first building we noticed, immediately after the border, was a giant casino.  It was incongruous, almost absurd.   A vast building, dedicated to mammon, set back from the road, and totally out of keeping with its surroundings.  We were in a different country.  Yes, there were still a billion mopeds and motorbikes, but they seemed older and tattier than their Vietnamese counterparts.   The few cars that we saw, however, appeared to be extremely expensive, pristine, and huge.  This was our first exposure to the more obvious divide between rich and poor that exists in Cambodia.  The continuing strip-development of roadside shops, traders and cafés, was similar to that in Vietnam, but gave the impression that it was closer to poverty.   Much of the land flanking the road seemed uncultivated, the road itself potholed and dusty, and, in many places, rutted and fraying at the edges.

Sareth outlined some of the differences that we might encounter, moving from Vietnam to Cambodia.  Firstly, he pointed to the looks of the Cambodian people. Many of them, particularly from the south of the country, are darker-skinned, and look more Indian, than oriental.   Sareth, himself, has an almost chocolate complexion, as opposed to the pale, sallow skin-tones of the Vietnamese.  The Vietnamese are a very tactile people, and, while the Cambodians share this attribute, they consider it rude to be touched on their heads.  Older people can touch kids, but it is very wrong for those of equal age, even lovers, to touch the head.  Now, it’s doubtful whether any of us had previously entertained notions of randomly tousling the hair of the nearest passing Cambodian, or chucking them under the chin, or even tweaking their earlobes, but it’s amazing how being warned against things makes one feel a bit rebellious, a touch naughty.  Sweet F.A. and Sareth will never know how close they came…

It’s also rude to show the soles of your feet at any time.  Which is presumably why there are no Cambodians playing for Man. United, or Arsenal, or Chelsea.  They’d never get the job, because they couldn’t roll about on their backs, feigning life-threatening injuries, whilst flapping their feet in the air…

Soon after crossing the border, Sareth called a halt for lunch.  It was steamy hot, but only just after 11am, so, while most of our travelling companions tucked into some spicy goodies, we abstained, and just had beers.  Back on the road, and after another couple of hours, we arrived at Phumi  Banam.  This was a hustling, bustling little town, on the eastern bank of the Mekong River, with the usual crush of traders, and press of customers, jostling and weaving, in a fury of yelling and bartering.  They love it.    Our bus slowed to a halt, as an eclectic line of vehicles formed a ragged queue for the ferry.  Sareth jumped off the bus and picked up a bag of milky fruit.  These look like large damsons, but are milky white inside, and very refreshing.  We were beginning to realise what a sweet guy Sareth is.  He bought the fruit with his own money.  He simply wanted us to taste milky fruit, to share this unique taste of his country.  This was the first of many Cambodian culinary delights he was to offer us over the next few days.   Frangipani Annie bought some sticky rice, stuffed inside a large bamboo tube, also for us to sample.  How could we refuse?

The smoky line of trucks, buses, and mopeds edged forwards, down an uncertain grade of crusty, dusty ruts, towards the mighty Mekong.  Eventually we arrived at the river’s edge, and squeezed our way on to the waiting ferry.  This was more a metal raft, a creaking vessel of uncertain vintage, that’d probably racked up thousands of crossings of this famous waterway.  Yet again, on this amazing trip of ours, we were momentarily flashed-back a couple of months, to our first sight of the magnificent Mississippi.  Another vast, brown expanse of water, bringer of life and death to many generations of people.  As the ferry prepared to cast loose, we got off our bus, to be greeted by a flock of kids, all desperate to sell us something.  Postcards, fruit, sweets, cigarettes, anything.  And they were only the advanced guard. They were closely followed by women with buckets of raw fish, baskets of rough breads, and some with flat, palm panniers balanced on their heads, festooned with birds. Dead birds.  River birds.  Baked, and basted a light, caramel brown.  Moorhen, anyone?  In a Mekong  jus?  No?

We shuddered and shook our way across the moody fluence, under an unrelenting sun.   The western bank focussed sharp, and brown.  Dust seemed settled, everywhere. Our bus grumbled up the ragged slope, tyres struggling for grip, as we left the river valley behind.  The last of the town petered out, and, now, on either side there was only scrappy vegetation.  A tough, unforgiving vista unfolded, that spoke of tough, troubled times, and grinding poverty.  Gone was the verdant refulgence of Vietnam’s jungle forests.  Instead, there were thousands of acres of braised, khaki grasslands, offering scant hope of crops, and plenty.  The volume of traffic had eased, but not the propensity for any vehicle, whatever its size, to imagine it had the right to occupy the very centre of the road.  Actually, not an unreasonable attitude,  given the uncertain state of the margins of the highway.  The distance signs ticked away decreasing  numbers  to Cambodia’s capital.  Sweet  F. A. delivered another of her delightful, semi-audible, multi-lingual speeches and, hey presto, seven hours after departing Saigon, we were in Phnom Penh.

The Nawin Guest House, our digs for the next couple of nights, is in a tiny side-street, in the middle of the city, a stone’s throw from the Tonle Sap River, the Palace, and the museum.  Brilliantly situated.  Our room was on the third floor, and there was no lift.  So we lugged our stuff upstairs, collapsed on the bed for a few minutes, had a quick shower, and ventured out.

We were hungry, having eschewed the early lunch, and the blandishments of the moorhen-sellers, so we strolled out into the thick, clammy, afternoon air, and found a little café between the hotel and the river, which offered hearty, and stupidly-cheap, noodle soup – absolutely fantastic.  This was washed down with large bottles of the local Angkor beer – lovely, and less than a dollar a pop.   The temperature had steadily increased as we progressed south through Vietnam, and on into Cambodia, and a hefty dollop of humidity came with it.  We were hot.  We took a walk along the banks of the Tonle Sap, and on our way back, discovered that the FCC (Foreign Correspondent’s Club), perched atop a bar on the corner of our street, sold Illy coffee.  This was a joy beyond joys, as our caffeine buds had been severely deprived during our South-East Asian trip; they just don’t really do serious coffee, and Illy is a Bardot amongst the Vestals.

You may think that we’d have learnt our lesson in Saigon, but no, cyclos were once again on the menu that afternoon.  City tour, anyone?  It has to be said, it’s a fantastic way of taking a white-knuckle, whistle-stop tour of any city.  Terrifying?   Well, it’s not quite standing up to give a speech at a wedding, clutching a blank piece of paper, with your trousers round you ankles, but, as these things go, a little scary.  The traffic in Phnom Penh was just as mad as in the cities of Vietnam, but perhaps a little more dangerous.  This is, in part, due to the amount of enormous four-wheel drive cars, mostly without number plates, many driven by teenagers, looking decidedly shifty.  They bullied their way through the streets, and onto roundabouts, only missing squashing us in our little cyclos, by fractions.  We were all bumped a fair bit, but by now, were fairly resilient.  It was great.  We toured the sights, including the Palace, a decorative structure, finished in yellow, and looking rather glorious, bathed in the setting sunlight.  We fetched up at Wat Phnom, an artificial hill, 100 feet high, on which a Mrs Penh erected a temple to Buddha in the 1300s.  The temple, the hill, the park and the trees were infested with monkeys, real ones, hairy, flea-bitten, but, nonetheless real.  Sort of thing that makes you find yourself inadvertently scratching.  Only one cure for an inadvertent scratch.  Alcohol.  We were dropped off at the FCC, and made our way up to the bar on the third floor.  This was another press bar, famous as a safe hang-out during the war, and, for once, the cocktails served were first-class.  That is, alcoholic.  We could wax lyrical, and indeed Sharon and Logan never stopped doing so, about the merits and delights of the Ginger Roger, a potentially dubious concoction, chosen for the irresistible name, but suffice to say, it contained gin and ginger, and assorted stuff.  The exact recipe has been posted somewhere on the internet.  It was gorgeous, and had a real kick. None of the fake, overpriced disappointment, served in the press bar, back in Saigon.  We ambled up the road to a restaurant, overlooking the river, and had our first taste of Khmer cuisine.  It was great.  Similar to Vietnamese, but less spicy, and more coconut based.  The dish we enjoyed the most, during our time in Cambodia, was the “amok”.  This comprises vegetables, with or without meat or fish, cooked in coconut milk, and served in a young coconut.  You are given some sticky rice to go with it, and it is just heaven.   Other dishes include crispy spring rolls, chicken satay, vegetables, in profusion, and rice or noodles.  This was pretty much the cuisine available throughout the country, and we really loved it.

S21 and the Killing Fields

Those of you familiar with the history of South-East Asia will be aware of the almost constant turmoil that has afflicted the region for the best part of two thousand years, and particularly the disastrous period from the mid-seventies to the mid-eighties, when terror engulfed Cambodia, with lasting effect.  While this is no history blog, we are not going to dodge the issues that patently still burn, and, some of the effects of which, we glimpsed.  We were invited to visit S21, and the Killing Fields.  Well, Killing Field, actually, as there are a couple of hundred of them, and we were to see but one.

After the French withdrew from Indochina in the mid-fifties, constant disputes and power struggles plagued Cambodia, and, as the Vietnam War ended in 1975, bloody civil war came to a head.  The Khmer Rouge, a communist-inspired group that had been fighting for five years from the jungles and agrarian outlands, marched into Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia, on 17 April 1975.  There was little resistance.   The Khmer Rouge was headed by Pol Pot. He’d been to Paris in the early fifties, to study, but failed his exams three times, and had to return to Cambodia.  He’d been in contact with Communists whilst in France, and had evolved his own version of a social movement that would ‘free’ his people.  He would take over the country, cleanse the population of all opposition, and turn the clocks back to ‘Year Zero’.   Everyone would be forced to work on the land, and would  be returned to the’ glorious’ state of being a peasant.  This would be a peasant population with no books, no money, no schools, no hospitals and no religion. And no need for them.  Nice and easy  to govern.

The Khmer Rouge scared everyone in Phnom Pehn, by convincing them that the Americans were about to bomb their city, thus enabling them to evacuate the city quickly, and completely.  Anyone who refused to leave immediately was shot.  Any hospital patients, indeed, anyone unable to move or walk, was shot.  This happened in every city and town throughout the country.

Next, anyone who was suspected of having benefited under the previous regime, or could form part of any potential opposition to Pol Pot, was to be eliminated.  This included professors, judges, politicians, doctors, teachers, and civil servants.  Along with their families, and friends, and acquaintances.  Every vestige of an intelligentsia was to be destroyed.  

In 1975, Tuol Sleng school, in the middle of Phnom Penh City, was re-named  S21. Today it is the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum.

The high-school buildings and playgrounds at S21 were used for the detention, interrogation, and torture of all prisoners, men, women, and children, who’d been arrested between 1975 and 1979.  All were photographed, all were recorded.  They were mainly Cambodians who were deemed to have been part of the lazy elite – in other words, anyone skilled and educated.  This was soon extended to include anyone who wore glasses, as they believed these to be a sign of intelligence, and they used to check the condition of people’s hands.  Soft hands meant that you can’t have done manual labour, and thus were privileged.    Many people tried to conceal their identity, or former occupation, but eventually gave in under torture, and ‘confessed’.   Or they were betrayed, usually by other prisoners, trying to save themselves, but these betrayals were also taken as confessions.  After the confessions were recorded, the prisoners were photographed again, and then loaded into trucks and taken to the outskirts of the city, to the killing fields, where they were clubbed over the head until they were dead, and buried in mass graves.  They were not shot.  They were not considered worthy of a bullet.  No quick deaths.  No mercy.

Such was the paranoia of Pol Pot’s regime, that, as they ran out of potential opponents to eliminate, they turned on their own. Many members of the Khmer Rouge thus suffered, including the guards at S21, and the other detention centres, who were deemed to know too much. They were killed, and then replaced by children, some as young as 10, who were kidnapped from the countryside, and trained, under threat of death, to torture and kill.

It is conservatively estimated that, in all, more than 20,000 prisoners were tortured at S21, including children and babies.  And this was just one of 200-such detention centres across Cambodia.

We visited S21, now the Genocide Museum, on a glorious morning of blue skies and hot sun.  Bustling, busy, city life was all around, shops open, kids going to school, streets full of trading, selling, and moped mayhem, and then a long, low wall appeared on our right, topped with barbed wire, surrounding yellowing buildings.  We got off the bus, and entered through the old school gates.  We’re not going to take you with us, through those gates.

Back on the bus, and on to Choeung  Ek, the killing field for S21, the ground where the remains of those 20,000 poor souls are mixed with the earth itself.

We all had our cameras with us, and none of us have any photos of that morning.

It is not known exactly how many people died during Pol Pot’s time of ‘Year Zero’.  The estimate is between 1.8 and 2.4 million, mainly by execution, but many from disease.  Mainly diseases that were preventable, had it not been for the abolition of hospitals and doctors.  The result is that, today, almost 50% of the population is under 18, and less than 4% are over 65.

Pol Pot was born, Saloth Sar, in 1925.  ‘Pol Pot’, the name he adopted, was short for Political Potential.  We think Mass Mur Pot would have been more apt.

The Vietnamese finally invaded Cambodia in 1979,to stop the horrors, and Pol Pot ran away, with the remains of the Khmer Rouge, to hide in the forest.  There followed 20 more years of upheaval, during which both China, and the CIA, supported the Khmer Rouge covertly, with food and arms.  In 1989, the Vietnamese withdraw all their troops.  In 1996, the Khmer Rouge splintered into factions, and in 1998, Pol Pot died.  Of heart failure.

Moving on…

That afternoon, we visited the Russian Market, a massive collation of stalls, a sort of North-African souk, all undercover, and selling a vast variety of foodstuffs, household goods, and local wares.  Our group split up and disappeared into the dark recesses of retail.   We, meanwhile, realised that we’d worked up a real thirst.   After a satisfying swoosh of beer in a nearby bar, we ventured into the hot and sticky air of the market.   We were tempted by many things, but, as always, were conscious of the fact that we only had our little rucksacks to carry everything, and still had the rest of Cambodia, and then Thailand, to go.  So, regretfully, we restrained  ourselves, and just bought a couple of lightweight, and very necessary, shirts, for just $10 and then, after hooking up with Roseanne, we grabbed a $1 Tuk-Tuk  ride back to our hotel.

Another vital shower later, we ventured out into the scorching late-afternoon, and walked to the Museum, just across the park from our hotel.  It was interesting, but a little solemn.   It’s not blessed with a huge amount, or great variety, of exhibits, but provides a glimpse into the past, and sufficient hints of what still might be found, should the country be left at peace, long enough to dig and discover.  The building, in French Colonial style, like so many in Phnom Penh, is lovely, surrounded by flowers and trees, and festooned with decorations.   Afterwards, we wandered across the dusty, littered park, and strolled around the grounds of the palace, and then down towards the river, and the FCC, for another Illy.  Later that night, we dined at a massive open- air restaurant that specialises in spit-roasts.  The evening air was still quite hot, and was now heavy with the fume of fat-spitting coals and roasting flesh.

On the way home, we saw a stray dog run-over and killed by a Tuk-Tuk, and later, texts started to come through from all over the world, bringing us the tragic news that a junk had sunk in Halong Bay, and that some young travellers, and boat crew, had been killed.   A sad end, to a difficult day.

Our time in Phnom Penh was both thought-provoking, and fascinating.  It is an exciting, colourful and “on the edge” city.  It would be wrong just to associate it with genocide and dead dogs, but, as a city, it is difficult get your head round.  The disparity between the rich and the poor is enormous.  Corruption is everywhere, and obvious.  There are beggars on every corner, and the bits in between.  We saw many young women begging, with their naked toddlers and babies, lying in the dusty, littered streets.   There are still a number of  beautiful French Colonial buildings that survived the 1970’s, and some signs of development and growth, particularly along the river front, but it is impossible to tell when, if at all, any benefits will filter through to the very poor.  Phnom Penh is, very much, unfinished business.

North, by North-West

Our next destination, the following day?   Siem Reap, gateway to the temples, and Angkor, the ancient capital of Cambodia.  This was undoubtedly one of the most eagerly anticipated destinations of our whole trip, so we decided to set the day off in style, with an early breakfast at the FCC.  Buckets of Illy, of course, accompanied by platefuls of cinnamon toast, soaked with lashings of butter.   Illy coffee was, unquestionably, the phoenix rising from the coffee ashes of South East Asia, and so, with caffeine levels vastly heightened, and rucksacks packed, we were going up the country, off on the road again…

The northern districts of Phnom Penh cling to the banks of the Tonle Sap River, a tributary of the Mekong, which is the obvious thoroughfare, and lifeblood, of this region.  Our road ran northwards, and would eventually have to cross this substantial river, which was draining from Tonle Sap Lake, the fourth-largest fresh-water lake in the world.   Before long, a huge and splendid, modern bridge came into view.  But it was not for us.  It had been built with private money, and there was a toll to pay.  We continued north, and eventually headed east, over a much older, narrower bridge.  The traffic dwindled, which was lucky, because so did the road.  It had become a series of giant potholes, separated by narrow veins of dusty earth. The progress of our little bus became painfully slow, but the view was amazing, as the road had been constructed on a huge bank, giving far-reaching views of a much more productive agricultural landscape. Great forests appeared on the horizon, as well as distant mountains.  We drove through little villages, and small towns, and while there weren’t exactly signs of wealth, the people looked healthier, and seemed better-dressed, and there were more crops in the surrounding fields.  We swung to the north again, and then to the north-west, as we made our way past Tonle Sap. The roadway improved, and we were making better progress. The sun was beating down on the tree-lined road, and either side were lily-ponds, crammed with gorgeous lotus lilies. We passed little houses, shrouded in multi-coloured bougainvillea, and frangipani.  Children staffed little roadside stalls, sporting stacked hands of bananas, and little mountains of milky fruits.

Sareth signalled a stop for the Happy House.  We pulled over to a roadside café, around which were gathered a mass of stalls groaning under displays of fruit, sweets, cans of drink, and homemade foodstuffs.  As the doors of the bus opened, we were crowded by a gang of children, from toddlers to teenagers, all offering incredible bargains, all at once.  Some of our party braved the Happy House, and the rest of us defended ourselves against the tidal wave of commerce.   It was good-humoured, but unrelenting, pressure.  Even the tiniest of the children had something to sell, maybe one postcard, or a little plastic bag of semi-rotten bananas.

Sareth then gathered us round, and opened his hands, to show us that he was holding a live tarantula. He had a huge smile on his face.  We were not so sure.  Lots of kids surrounded us, evidently keen to see if these strange, tall, white people would be scared, silly, or just scared silly.  Logan accepted the proffered arachnid.  He held out his hands, and Sareth carefully placed the eight-legged creature on him.  To this point, we had not seen the spider actually move, but now it made a short and sudden scuttle forward, and nearly disappeared.  For, as Jacob said, ’Esau is an hairy man, but he has nothing on Logan’.  Logan remained remarkably stoic, as the furry creature blended with his arms.  Go, Canada! We had a momentary worry that the Australian flag would be at half-mast, but Alistair stepped up, and took a turn with Boris the Spider.

Then Sareth produced his trump card.

He introduced us to the specialty of this region. There was plate piled high with – what?  Lots of black, curled shapes, with just a hint of – hair?  We couldn’t quite make it out.  Because we didn’t really want to. But it couldn’t be denied.   It was a vast plateful of tarantulas.   Deep-fried.

Delicious, said Sareth. Does anybody want one?

Well, did anybody?  Go on, guess.

No prizes, fans of Alistair, he didn’t let you down, and the answer to your question is:  rubber bands… but Al was not alone.  Let’s hear it for Logan, previously circumspect in his diet, throwing caution to the winds, and crunching toothsomely on a tasty tib and fib.

Surely, you ask, that must be the giddy limit to culinary gross-outs on this trip?

Well, no, it wasn’t…it does get worse.  So join us next time, for tales of tall temples, and baths for a hundred concubines, and hear about more locally-sourced, seasonal foods, and a hammock-full of Swiss buttocks…

On and on, to Saigon

Massive fruit bats sailed and whirled about our heads, as we made our way to breakfast. Our lovely little hotel in Hoi An had a circular wooden restaurant in the middle of its luscious gardens, and they’d opened specially early for us. We sat and ate in travellers’ companionable silence, as we prepared for the next stage of our adventure, and watched the mists rise off the surrounding lily-ponds, in the breaking dawn. It was all aboard a little bus for the journey to Da Nang airport, and our flight to Saigon

Packing had been, for most of us, a little perplexing.   We were, after all, backpacking.  Travelling light. So, there was David, who, thanks to the craftsmen and women of Hoi An, had increased his wardrobe to the tune of two suits and two pairs of shoes.  And he was not alone. Logan, Peter, Aaron and Stacey had all bought the equivalent of a department stores’ entire stock of suits, frocks, and shoes, all of which had to be crammed into rucksacks, and toted around most of South East Asia. And then there was Al, who’d picked up more ties than Rabbit has friends-and-relations.  Had they thought this through?  Well, yes, actually, they had.  They just bought more bags.  So, with the total volume of our luggage now inflated by at least 25% across the group, we staggered from the bus and joined a growing throng of post-Tet travellers, converging on Airport Departures.   We collated our bags into a free-form mountain range, that blocked all access to the check-in desks, and Tracey Lee, fists full of our passports, negotiated with a clutch of worried-looking airport staff.  We obviously presented as an unruly, and distinctly foreign, entity, and they evidently wanted no truck with us. Our luggage was hasted away, and TL triumphantly doled out our boarding passes.

There were a few other tourists amongst the crowds of locals, and you can only but imagine the enormous group-double-take we performed, as we heard some horribly familiar shrill voices, with distinctly French accents.  Yes, of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, they’d walked into ours…we were about to be reunited with our bickering, cheapskate ladies from the restaurant last night. With various asides, mostly on the theme of “anyone got a spare dollar?, we exited, stage left, towards the departure lounge.

It was due to be a short flight, but, as every seasoned traveller knows, you should never pass up on the chance to squeeze out one last drop. Now, where there’s a loo, there’s a queue, and the ‘Ladies’ in the departure lounge boasted a cracker. People-watching is  always a great way to pass the time, but was now spiced by a rising air of desperation, as the line edged forward at snail’s pace.  And it’s difficult to edge with crossed legs. (Rosey: there was only one loo for hundreds of people, and when I finally came to wash my hands, there was a child in the basin, being given an entire bath, bubbles and all! So, all travellers, please note – in the same bag as your spare loo roll, please ensure you carry antiseptic wipes at all times – luckily, I did!)

Our flight to Saigon took just over an hour, and most of us took the opportunity to catch up on a few zeds, or meditation, as Shazzah calls it.  We landed, and, by some miracle, were reunited with our luggage.  There was, however, a casualty – during bag-handling, one of our rucksacks had been ripped, right down the front, rendering it useless.   Fortunately, Saigon is a city of markets, and we procured a replacement for a mere $15, that very afternoon.   It is red, very smart, and sports an impressively expensive logo. And for another five bucks, we bought a ‘North Face’ bag to go with it…

Hot town, summer in the city…

If you look at your maps, you’ll no longer find Saigon. That’s not our fault.  Promise.  It’s just that, in 1976, it was officially re-named Ho Chi Minh City.   But, people-power will out.   To them, it’d always been Saigon, and so it remains.   It is a huge and sprawling city, the largest in Vietnam, nearly eleven-hundred miles south of the capital, Hanoi.   It has plenty of parks, and public spaces, and wide, tree-lined boulevards.   It also has the usual bustling centre, with a mazy warren of narrow streets, packed with shops, street-vendors, and outdoor-life.   It has a tropical climate, but we were there in the dry season, and it was baking…

Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty…

We’d all reached clothes-crisis-point.  There comes a time, travelling in countries with uncertain sanitation, unreliable plumbing, and a distinct lack of launderettes, when you can no longer continue blaming the malodorous whiffs on the passing population, and have to take ownership of a certain amount of the ‘hum’.   This was that time.   We consulted Tracey Lee, and she duly pointed us in the direction of a nearby laundry.   Do not be daunted.   Laundries here tend to be little stalls, jammed in, hugger-mugger with the rest of the commercial offerings, but they are damned quick, and damned cheap.   We also craved a serious cup of good coffee, so, after showering and primping, we dropped off our laundry-bag, and made our way to another TL recommend, Stella’s, and enjoyed our first decent cup of coffee since Hanoi.   We took a leisurely stroll back to the hotel, via the Aladdin’s cave of Ben Tranh market, and a series of lovely, tree-shaded avenues.   The sun was forcing us to navigate from shade to shade, but this is a city that is used to coping with its climate.   The pavements were slow and easy, a stark contrast to the motorbike-madness that is life on the roads of Vietnam’s major cities.

Cyclomania

Faithful readers will realise, by now, where this is going.   We’re in for another mad excursion into the fetid backwaters of extreme transport experience.  Next up, welcome, the CYCLO!  You all know that the traffic in Vietnam is crazy, and, at its best, terrifying.  So, why not get right in, amongst it? Protected by, well, fresh air.  Propelled by, well, a total stranger.  Who sits BEHIND you.  Who doesn’t speak one word of English.   A cyclo is a crazy contraption, comprising one-third bicycle, one-third seat, and one-third bloke.  The passenger sits, balanced on a little chair at the front, and the ride is fuelled by an impossibly-skinny Vietnamese bloke, peddling like crazy, at the back.  The fuel is what he had for lunch.  The front bumper is your feet.   We left in a convoy, and were launched into the middle of crazy Saigon rush-hour traffic (rush-hour runs from six am, till one am).   Our first stop was at the War Remnants Museum.

War (Huh, yeah), what is it good for? Absolutely nothing (Uh-huh yeah)

War is never less than sad.  The war in Vietnam was the first in history to be reported, at least on occasion, first-hand, and in real time.  This museum reflects the bleak raw materials of both the fighting, and the reportage.   Over the four floors there are a variety of displays,  grouped to show an escalating defiance of what they considered to be Imperialist interference in their country.  There is an extensive collection of ordnance.  Rusted and decayed machine-guns, shells, bullet-casings, grenades etc.   There are blown-up illustrations of contemporary statements, supposedly made in the US Congress, in the US press, and on TV, some supporting the war, and some against.   There are copies of front-page stories from around the world, reporting protests about the conflict.  There is a superb and evocative collection of poster-art, detailing various successes, and encouraging continued efforts.   And then there are the photographs.  Harrowing photographs.   Now, frankly, if you’d given an Instamatic to anyone, at any time in history, at a time of war, they’d have been able to produce a harrowing record of civilian suffering, of unnecessary hurt and pain.   From the Punic wars, to the Crusades, to the Hundred Years’ War.  But this display of photographs, by some of the bravest, most persistent war photographers of all time, was outstanding.   Not a patch, maybe, on the Pulitzer prize-winning efforts, showcased in Washington’s Newseum, to be sure, but an enduring testament to bravery.   So much harder, when the world goes insane around you, to shoot a picture, than to shoot a gun.  War is never less than sad.

Our next cyclo stop was at the gates of the Reunification Palace, where, famously, a North Vietnamese tank burst through, signalling the last knockings of the South Vietnamese regime.   We continued to the Notre Dame Cathedral, an extraordinary red-brick edifice, constructed in the late 1870s, virtually entirely from materials imported from France.   Our Aussie mates then popped across to the magnificent post office, to check on the viability of posting their excess baggage home, rather than humping it around for the rest of the trip.  It proved not to be viable.  But at least it gave us all the chance to look round the Post Office, a really rather lovely, Gothic creation, designed and built by a man of towering ambition, Gustave Eiffel.   Our cyclo experience came to an end, as we parked up beside the Opera House, another confection dating back to the French Colonial years.  Our cyclo power-packs rolled some ciggies, sparked up, and disappeared, with cheery waves, into the sunset.   Didn’t even have the grace to look remotely exhausted…

We walked around the front of the Opera House, picked out in beautiful lighting as the dusk fell, and fetched up outside the Caravelle Hotel.  During the Vietnam War, this housed the embassies of Australia and New Zealand, as well as providing a base for all the main US TV companies.   The place was stiff with journalists, who famously reckoned that they could report the final days of the conflict from the roof-top bar.  The combination of a bit of history, a bit of alcohol, and the opportunity to utilise some undoubtedly luxurious plumbing was a winner, so we took the lift to the ‘Saigon Saigon’ Roof Bar, where we were right royally ripped-off.   The alcohol content of the cocktails was minimal at best, and the totals on the bill bore no relation to those on the menu.  All sorts of mysterious taxes had been added.  In San Francisco, you can go to the Top of the Mark bar. It’s on the very top of the Mark Hopkins hotel, which is on the very top of Nob Hill, and provides a 360◦ view of that stunning city  . And a cocktail, with alcohol, will cost you less than a pale imitation at the Caravelle.  And you get a groovy piano-man tinkling everything from Gershwin to the Beatles, chucked in for free…

Tracey Lee suggested a restaurant, and hinted at an ‘authentic’ menu. Anyone’s antennae twitching yet?  No? Well, we fetched up at a BBQ restaurant, packed to the gunwales with locals. We wafted our way past tables, on each of which baby barbies were churning out great smells, and copious smoke, and were shown upstairs.  It was a noisy, boisterous, jolly place, with an extensive menu. Tracey Lee offered to order for everyone.   We’d already spotted that crocodile and kangaroo were on offer, and quickly decided to go for fish.  Beatrice and Sharon, our house vegetarians, settled on their choices.   Logan and Peter, and Stacey and Aaron made their decisions.  But Al and David? What is it about the Australian Male?   It seems the merest hint of a challenge cannot be resisted, particularly when the gauntlet is dropped by an Australian Female.   Up at their end of the table, somehow, Tracey Lee had suggested it might be a good idea if the boys tried scorpions.  Yes, you’ve got it.  Scorpions. Barbecued, of course.   But still, those desert-type thingys, with the sticky-uppy tales, that essentially exist to sting your unsuspecting arse.  There were degrees of horror (vegetarian end of table), astonishment/bewilderment (sentient middle of table), and anticipatory hilarity (mad Aussie end of table). Our dishes arrived, and they might have looked delicious, but who knew?  All our eyes were on A and D, and their really rather large helpings.  They didn’t exactly attack their first scorpions with gusto, but gingerly picked them up, and posed, looking rather glazed, we thought, for photos, before starting at the pincer-end, and then chomping their way through the rest of the insect.  Alistair asked the waiter, do we eat it all? Little bloody late to ask that, you might think. The waiter nodded eagerly.   As well he might, you say.   So, the blackened creatures disappeared down the little red lane, venomous stingers and all.   Only later we did note that the locals at the adjacent table were religiously spitting out the shells.  Perhaps the waiter was having a little joke.

‘Tastes like prawns’, Alistair proclaimed, a little uncertainly.   He’d actually refrained from eating the stinger, but David had eaten the lot.   And didn’t mention prawns at all.

Right, we thought, that’ll be the last time anyone eats anything outlandish on this trip!

Well, how could we possibly know..?

Mekong, you Phuong

Off early again next day, this time to the Mekong Delta.  The journey gave us a great opportunity to get a better look at the extent of Saigon. The road we took followed the river, which was lined with traditional trading boats, stuffed with all sorts of household  goods, plastic chairs, loo rolls, children’s toys, and all sorts, piled on high, and roped together in precarious mounds!  They were so old-fashioned to look at, but most of the merchandise was modern.   It was an incongruous sight.  Finally, we arrived at the delta. The Mekong, at over three thousand miles, is the world’s tenth-longest river.  It runs through China, Burma, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia, and into the South China Sea, via the delta, in Vietnam.   It looks vast.   The brown, muddy-looking water runs swiftly, thick with silts and nutrients.   The surface is studded with little floating islands of greenery.  These are water hyacinths, one of the fastest-growing plants in the world.   They can double their population in just two weeks, and, up and down the river there are efforts to break up the growths, as they can be lethal when wrapped around propellers, or tillers.  The river provides a living for many thousands, both on the water, and on land.  We boarded a little river-boat , to visit Coconut Island, and were introduced to Phuong.  She was to be our guide, and is one of those girls that cannot help smiling. Further north, the girls wear traditional tabards, over little tops and pantaloons, all made of silk, but here was Phuong , in tight jeans and an Indy music tee-shirt. But wherever they’re from, the Vietnamese girls surely know the value of a ready smile.

As our little craft navigated across the choppy Mekong, we became aware of a low hum, a sound not unlike an electric razor. Because that, in fact, is what it was. Well, an electric hair-trimmer, really.   Or scalper.   Sharon had decided to cut Peter’s hair.   While we were bobbling about on the water. What made it even more extraordinary was that it was obviously prearranged. The poor chap had actually invited her to cut his hair, and had bought his scalper with him.   It is almost impossible to describe the randomness/madness of this act.   There we were, on an old wooden boat, in the middle of the Mekong Delta, and suddenly it ‘s turned into a hair-salon.  Unfortunately, Shazzer had the setting a little high on the first scalp, and proceeded to fashion a bald streak, right up the back of Peter’s head.  She then tried to repair this, by attacking the edges of said streak, with the predictable result.  Bald just got balder.  Peter’s a darling, a little unwise on this occasion, perhaps, but still…we all told him it looked fine. It didn’t, of course, but, well, it’ll grow back.

We approached Coconut Island.  Prosaically named, as it’s nothing but a mass of coconut palms, laced with a myriad of irrigation canals, and a sprinkling of larger tributaries that feed the Mekong. We landed at a rickety pier, and gingerly made our way ashore.  We were invited to cross a monkey bridge.  This consisted of two uneven poles, laid side-by-side across a ditch of murky water. This made a wobbly bridge, perhaps six or seven inches wide, and fifteen feet long.  A rope had been suspended, at ear-height, between two trees, to act as a safety grab.  We crossed, one at a time. Only one of our party had the supreme balance, nerve, and daring, to complete the crossing without recourse to the safety rope. (Robin: modesty forbids me…)

We were welcomed ashore by a giggling Phuong, who introduced us to a friend.  Who had a friend. Her friend was a wizened old chap, and his friend was a three-and-a-half metre python.  Would we like to hold it? We shuffled about a bit.  Er, what’s its name? She translated.  The chap looked a little nonplussed, and then, smiling a toothless smile, said something.  Phuong turned to us. He’s called Python.  We were assured he was friendly, and uttered for the nth time, ‘When in Rome’, as we each took turns to have him wrapped around our necks.  We had to swallow some very deep-set prejudices and fears to do this, but we did, and were all seriously impressed at the strength of him.  He felt cold and smooth, and you could literally feel the muscles contracting and expanding under his skin, as he slid around our bodies. It was fantastic, and scary. We were instructed to keep one hand on him, about a foot from his head, but such was his strength that he could twist in any direction, and we could do nothing about it. He showed an alarming proclivity to spear his head towards the pubic region, with both male and female hosts.  A sign that it was time to pass the parcel to the next brave soul.  Python was about four years old.  He grew up on Coconut Island. Pythons can live for thirty years or so.  Blimey.

Next we moved to a hut, entirely made from coconut palms . The wood, the leaves, nothing goes to waste. We watched some ladies making coconut candy (delicious), tasted some snake wine (yeah, that’s from a bottle with a whole snake in it), and went for a walk through the mangrove swamp, until we reached a clearing.  There, ahead of us, were three motocarts.   These are flat-bed trucks, mounted on the back of motorbikes.  Yet another extraordinary way of getting from A to B. Although, not the most extraordinary we would encounter on our travels. That still lay some days ahead.  So, we donned unattractive, and completely useless, plastic hats, clambered aboard, and enjoyed yet another teeth-rattling form of transport in the joyous, mechanical mayhem, that is Vietnam.

We careered down jungle paths, along the tops of drainage ditches, past houses and temples, and stands of beautiful wild flowers, and exotic plants.  Our plastic headgear wasn’t a nod in the direction of legality, it was to protect our heads from the whipping palm fronds, as we pelted past at unabated speed.   We clung on to the sides of our tin chariots for dear life, yelling warnings to each other, ducking the worst of the foliage, and having a brilliant time.  Finally, we reached another clearing in the jungle.  The treat that followed was worth all the bouncing around, as we were welcomed to a private house, shown to a series of hammocks, and were plied with plates of fresh fruit, some recognisable, some not.   It was a delightful interlude.   Back on the motocarts, we were entertained by a further whistle-stop tour of the island, before ending up, amongst jungle and mangroves, by the river, for lunch.  We were served, once again, absolutely beautiful food – elephant fish – which were propped up on bamboo sticks and served to us by more smiling ladies. Vegetables, rice, and finally really delicious tea, made with limes and honey.

It was goodbye motocarts, hello sampans. They were waiting for us after lunch, and we were paddled along the limpid backwaters, through the mangroves, gliding silently towards the Delta.   It was so quiet that we were able to watch an absolutely beautiful kingfisher, going about his business, as we slid silently by.

Vietnam, Ho Chi Minh, derrum derrum…..

…was a catchy song, taught to us by our little guide, Phuong, as our river-boat putt-putted away, re-crossing the Mekong. The Vietnamese are very keen on entertaining, and being entertained, and we all sang our way back to shore, and said farewell to delightful Phuong.

It was our last night with Tracey Lee – and we only had one day left in Vietnam.  She was due to collect another group of travellers, and accompany them northwards, all the way back to Hanoi. We arranged to meet her for dinner, our farewell meal, at Stella’s, where we’d found the magnificent coffee the previous day, and ended our evening in the small hours, in one of the many street bars.

Cu Chi Tunnels

Another early morning, and another bus, this time heading north-west out of the city.  Our first stop was at a farm.   According to our guide for the day, Dang, the owner of the farm was a hero.   He’d hidden and fed Viet Cong soldiers during the war.   It must have been an incredibly risky thing to do, so close to Saigon, and surrounded by any number of people who could have turned him in.   Hero, or traitor.   Depends on which side wins.  We were taken round his farm, which was neat, and boasted a variety of crops, and cattle and ducks, and geese and chickens.   The farm, which like most, is part of a co-operative, was interesting, but it was just a farm, like many another.  It was set in a calm and serene landscape, but, as we negotiated our way across a narrow ridge of mud, beside a massive paddy-field, we remembered not to put a foot off the path, because there is still a mass of unexploded land-mines and bombs in the fields, that, even now, take a terrible toll of the unwary. We kept to the path.  Single-file.   Unfortunately, a number of our group were not sporting suitable footwear, and Shazzah, in the course of leaping over a little stream of particularly smelly slurry, managed to land in it. Her flip-flops, er, thongs (she’s Australian), were a brown colour anyway, but they’d got a whole lot browner.   Back in the farmyard, we hosed down our feet, and Shazzer, before continuing our journey to the site of the tunnels.  The road led through miles and miles of wooded countryside.   Serried ranks of skinny trees stretched from horizon to horizon, each with a little coloured tape around the trunk.   It was a vast rubber-tree plantation, and the different colours indicated which trees were due to be tapped next.

Arriving at the Cu Chi Tunnels, one is supposed to “…learn about the resonant victories….”,  and  “… express gratitude to the heroic martyrs who had sacrificed for the cause of national liberation…”.  Hmm.  We were beginning to get the point.   Elements of this visit were a little hard to swallow, particularly in the wake of our visit to the War Remnants Museum.   The tunnels are a huge complex of hideaways and escape-runs, carved out of the landscape by the local population, to hide from the war, and used by the Vietcong, to prosecute the war.  They are fascinating, and you cannot help but admire those that built them.  The locals tend to be on the small side, but these little rat-runs are minute.  Some of our group went down into the tunnels, but we found them too claustrophobic, and only visited the rooms – a hospital, a kitchen, dining rooms etc.  We were also given a demonstration of all the stomach-churning booby-traps that the Vietcong manufactured, mainly out of the metal of bomb-casings.   These were then hidden in the woods, the undergrowth, the earth, and the tunnels themselves, to maim and kill the South Vietnamese and American troops. There was a certain glee and delight with which these were shown, and demonstrated, that left us a little cold.  The heavily-wooded setting was distinctly spooky, a feeling heightened by a background clattering of sporadic gunfire.  There was an outdoor range set up.   Anyone could blat away with an assortment of unpleasant ordnance, to their heart’s content.   All you had to do was pay for the bullets you used. Now, with an automatic weapon, you could do serious damage to your wallet in extremely short order…

Our visit ended with a 10 minute propaganda film, about the tunnels, and the war.  But the real highlight came before the film.   There was a presenter, to introduce it.   Presumably for an English-speaking audience.   He was a man who knew the full value of a gesture.   Never use one, when fifty will do.   He was a whirling dervish, a cross between an Italian traffic policeman, and Nicholas Cage, dad-dancing…  Limbs all over the place, and of uncertain age, he’d obviously learned his English solely by watching Jimmy Cagney films, and then had promptly forgotten most of what he’d learned. He was Vietnamese to look at, but retained the twang of a Chicago gangster.   We are guessing that he was once in the South Vietnamese army, and had spent years and years on some island prison after the war, being “re-educated” as a propaganda film introducer.

And then there were ten…

The remainder of the day was spent in a relaxing amble around the city.  We returned to the hotel, to sort out our gear.   We had another early start the next day, and didn’t want to leave packing our ruckies till the last minute.   We had quite an evening ahead of us.   Down in the foyer, we introduced ourselves to the amazing Sareth So, a diminutive Cambodian, who was to be our ‘Tracey Lee’ for the next stage of our adventure, and who would play such an important part in the next week or so, of our lives.   And then we all went out to dinner.  Our little group was about to lose another of its number.   This was our last evening with Peter.  He was flying to China in the morning, to continue his work there.  We’d so thoroughly enjoyed his company, and the whole group were very sad to say goodbye.  We finished up the night at a street bar, and toasted Peter, and Imogen, and Tracey Lee, and Peter, again.  And then we saw the world’s fastest prostitute at work, and a rat busily foraging under the next table, and, well, it was just another hot night in Saigon, really.

And on the morrow, another day, another country, another world.   Cambodia.

On our Hue, again

Our night train from Hanoi to Hue (pronounced Huaaaaaaay) had been daunting in prospect, but had turned out to be a bit of a wheeze. First Class it ain’t, fifth Class? Hmm…Anyone travelling on their own might have found it a bit of a strain, but doing it with our fellow ‘Intrepids’ was a right laugh. Arriving in Hue was a bit of a challenge. There was an insistent voice on the train tannoy. It was definitely the gold medal winner from the British Rail International School of Advanced Network Communications. This successful student, having had all his teeth removed, was enunciating through a Geordie Jesuit’s jock-strap. Despite having a darling friend, who regularly translates the hideous grunts and whines of that region for us, we were bemused. We prepared to disembark. As we were loading our ruckies, there was a cry from Tracey Lee. (It’s possibly unwise to let bloggers know your middle name, but, a: it’s too late now, b: it’s a fine name, redolent of the most anguished country singers, and, c: it’s too late now). The jist was, we had four minutes to get off, before the train moved on. There ensued much sorting out of stuff, clambering over each other’s ruckies and bags, and a mad crush in the corridor, as those trying to get off were pressed back by those eager to get on. No-one knew which door we should exit from. Apparently there was a “get on” door, and a “get off” door. Confusion was rife. This, coupled with a distinct language barrier, meant that we were practically clambering over ditherers, and incomers, as we fell off the train. Hello Hue! Twenty minutes later we were all in our rooms, and showering off the vestiges of our extraordinary night. We took a wander into town, and fetched up at DMZ, a bar about ten minutes stroll from our hotel. Tracey Lee had mentioned it in passing, and most of our group fetched up there for a beer and a snack, in the sunshine.

The Imperial City

In the early afternoon, we’d settled on a visit to the Citadel, the palace, largely built by the Emperor, Gia Long, in the early 1800s. He died in 1820, and was followed by a succession of kings from the Nguyen family. Their influence, however, was miniscule, as, basically, they were in hock to the French, who were the puppet-masters across Indo-China, until the second world-war. The journey to the Citadel, in the old city, north of the Perfume River, was undertaken in a series of people-carriers, probably the most orthodox vehicles we had seen since our arrival in Vietnam. The driving was well up to the unorthodox national standard that we’d come to admire, with lots of ducking and diving amongst a throng of bikes, motorbikes, scooters, cyclos, as well as those on Shanks’ pony. We were dropped off at the gates of the Citadel, and introduced to Phuong, a charming man, born and raised in Hue. He was to be our guide in Hue, and, luckily, had an utterly brilliant sense of humour. It took us all a while to get properly tuned into this, as he had the most uncanny ability to pull our legs, whilst being thoroughly entertaining and informative.- genius. Touring the Citadel was a delight, and delivered just about everything that the Temple of Literature in Hanoi was unable to do, largely because it was not crowded, and thus we could entirely appreciate the vast palaces and buildings that comprised this “Forbidden City”, that has seen so many battles over its 200-year history. (Battles with the French (twice), and the Viet Cong-inspired Tet Offensive massacre in 1968, to name just a few). Bullet and blast holes are clearly visible in many of the fascias, but there is extensive renovation going on too, and some of the repairs, most notably, the lacquered paintwork on the ceilings, are absolutely exquisite. We wandered around for a couple of hours, thoroughly absorbed in the history, and the beauty, as well as Phuong’s fascinating and in-depth knowledge of this amazing place.

One of the most remarkable things to note about this particular visit was the informality. We’re used to being “allowed” to go into only a few designated areas in, say, National Trust properties. Phuong took us into some pretty special parts of the palace, that weren’t exactly off limits, but would have been impossible to find on our own. It was great.

That evening we wandered back to DMZ for dinner. Lunch had been delicious, and cheap, so, if it ain’t broke…unfortunately, we no sooner arrived, and ordered, than there was a massive power cut. Not just in the bar, but in the whole street, and, possibly, the entire area. A couple of fire engines roared past, sirens blasting, firemen hanging, like baby gibbons, from every possible hand-hold. Dinner was a bit delayed. Robin’s arrived eventually, but Rosey’s didn’t. It transpired that it had been forgotten, with all the brouhaha, and so they quickly drummed up a squid, shot it, and served it with some very tired rice. Not What You Would Call A Big Success. We decided not to eat there again.

I’ve got a bike, I can ride it if I like

OK. Hands up. We know a thing or two about bikes. Those of you who know us well will be more than aware of this, and those of you who don’t, just need to know that we work in motorsport. We love bikes and enjoy riding them, so it was with some trepidation that we greeted the following day, having been told that we were to be mere passengers on motorbikes ridden by locals, on a tour round Hue, and its surrounding villages. We were told that we were NOT allowed to hijack the bikes, and had to be VERY good, VERY well behaved, and were NOT to try to ride ourselves. Understood? IT WAS FANTASTIC. We were actually taking part in the totally mad, insane, bonkers, terrifying traffic of Vietnam, and we LOVED IT. Our chauffeur-bikers were terrific, totally insane, and our adrenaline just pumped! At our first halt, Phuong, realising that Robin actually had riding experience, offered him a bit of a solo go, around the village square. No-one was run over. Rosey took photos, just in case… We were shown the local village hall, and were introduced to two delightful ladies. One showed us how to separate rice from husks with a sieve, and then grind and refine it using ancient wooden machinery, and did other interesting things, including eating betel nuts. And smiling. And suggesting a direct connection between chewing betel nuts, and achieving a state of grace. Sharon stepped up, to take one for the team. She munched on a nut for ages, waiting for some sort of mystical high. Her expression remained inscrutable, as her mouth turned a very funny colour of cochineal. No high, just a blood-red mouth. The consolation, Shazzer? It could have been us.

Another lady stepped up to the plate. Totally toothless. A little beyond her prime. She told fortunes, reading palms over cups of green tea, for a VERY reasonable sum. Peter and Al had all sorts of good news about general fecundity, and specific sexual activity. They grinned at Mrs Popeye, she gummed back. It was delightful. Logan sat beside her, and she clamped his hand between her paws, and was on the verge of eating a significant part of his head. She was in love. He was stuffed. He is going to have twins by a fourteen year-old, win the Nobel prize for Astral-Viral-Micro-Nucleaic-Systems mapping, get divorced, marry Shania Twain, have quintuplets, win an Oscar, save the whale, splice the mainbrace, explain Fermat’s Last Theorum in words of one syllable, and re-launch Soft Cell as a proto-grunge band.

Back on our bikes, we rode over an elaborate, enclosed wooden bridge, built by the Japanese, and picked our way through the usual crowds of kids, dogs, bicycles, carts etc, and stopped at a little concrete stage area, beside the roadway. There, four young people stood, in martial poses, dressed in silk pyjamas. Three boys, and a girl. They surrounded a rack of fearsome steel implements. These ranged from broadswords to garden hoes, from giant razor-blades to King Kong’s toothpick. All shiny and gleaming. All as sharp as a Jesmond jesssie’s jodhpurs. One of the boys started to belabour a giant drum, instigating a dervish rhythm. The others, in turn, selected various kitchen implements of mass destruction from the rack behind them, and proceeded to narrowly avoid diminishing their stock of limbs, but not for the want of effort, their exertions accompanied by Wimbledon-esque grunts, and orgasmic squeals. The drumming stopped, they stopped. They posed. We applauded, more in relief at their survival, than in admiration of their skill. But that would change. The drum was pounded into life, and the whole scenario was enacted again, with a slight variation of implements. Blimey, it was amazing, sort of Bruce Lee meets the Karate Kid. Or Fanny Craddock meets Gordon Ramsey. As the tenth round commenced, we were all thoroughly into it, legs pumping to the drum, all fears gone, willing them to swipe the five-foot slabs of Sheffield’s finest, ever-closer to their family-fundementals. The girl was particularly adept at narrowly avoiding dividing herself in two, from groin to grommets. We were particularly astonished, performers and audience all, when a gentleman, the dead-spit of Robert Donat in ‘Inn of the Sixth Happiness’, invaded the stage, and proceeded to remonstrate with the youngsters. He was in full fig, in a powder-blue, full-length costume, and a black, pill-box hat. They had all the ironmongery, and he but a short stick. They were peaceful artists, and he – well, he may have been ancient, but he was full of violence. A couple of adults stepped forward and gently ushered him away, although he continued to make his point, verbally and loudly, and punctuated it by random stabs with his stick. Apparently, he was the chief elder of the village, and didn’t think it appropriate that the kids were performing for us during Tet. That’s about as close as we could get to an explanation. It’s hard to be sure if it tells the whole story, or even a bit of it, but it was an extraordinary occurrence, and full of genuine feeling. However, the kids seemed unperturbed, and brought their performance to its conclusion. The penultimate offering was a karate chop through breeze blocks, and the finale involved one of the young gentlemen bending a steel sword in two, using his Adam’s apple. Somewhere in the world, someone will be reading this at dinner-time. So. Suffice to say, an amazing show, performed for tips, in a tiny village, in Central Vietnam.

Back on our bikes, we left the village behind, and were soon in the flat, open countryside, given over to seemingly endless rice-paddies. At this point, the country is incredibly skinny – barely forty kilometres across. To the west, there rose a sudden, high mountain range, marking the border with Cambodia, that mysterious country that we would come to know in about a week or so. To the east, was the sea. The sun was beating down, and far out in the paddies, bent double, human figures toiled, the only discernable movement, the slight bobbing of their ubiquitous bamboo-leaf hats. Not a pip of land is wasted. The track we were travelling on was the bare minimum, a ribbon of mud, running across the top of the banks of the irrigation ditches that are the life-blood of rice production. Our little wagon-train trundled onwards, the narrowness of the path forcing us to maintain single-file. Very occasionally, we met a bike coming the other way. How we passed safely doesn’t bear thinking about. There were surely closed eyes all round. And then we came to the bridge. It was a span of, perhaps, ten metres, over a main irrigation canal. It was a strip of concrete, with some sort of support underneath, or so we hoped. It was, at best, a metre wide. The water below was turgid, thick and brown, home to unimaginable things to sting, bite, and eat you. At this point, our riders gave it the gun, perhaps excited by the prospect of a hard surface for a change. Or, maybe, they thought we could do with the extra thrill. And then, all at once, we saw her. An ancient biddy, laden with baskets, in the middle of the bridge, plodding along, with her back to us. One of the most evocative sounds of Vietnam is the constant peeping, parping, and yelping of the bike hooter. It can be a warning, an admonishment, a greeting, or simply a celebration of being alive. Whatever, it is a constant. The old lady may have been deaf, stupid, stubborn, or any combination of those, but she wasn’t moving. Our guys were committed. Hooters on full thumb, we bore down on her. There was an impossibly small gap, but we all made it. Lots of success whoops, and guilty glances back to an unmoved, seemingly unfazed old girl. Eventually, the track became a concrete strip, and started to twist and turn its way uphill, away from the paddies, and through lively little villages. Everywhere, the very young, and the very old, shouted hellos and waved to us. Tet is an inexact celebration. It is officially a three-day knees-up, at New Year, but the whole country throws itself enthusiastically into it, and tries to drag it out for another week or two. All is en fệte. Even the poorest of villages has bunting in the trees, and paper lanterns hanging from the eves of the houses. The national flag is much in evidence, the scarlet and yellow screaming out against the background greens of the trees and shrubs. Bananas seem to grow like weeds. They are everywhere, and villagers pile them on roadside stalls, together with pineapples, melons, and mangoes. The bananas are small, and the sweetest we have ever tasted. The flesh inside is blushed pink. Pretty, and gorgeous.

We were in the hills, now. At this point, Al’s bike was in front, And he managed the prodigious feet of holding his camera over his shoulder, to take shots of the pursuing snake of bikes, despite the fact that the immensely dusty track had broken up into a series of gut-churning potholes. He was also hefting a mighty camera. A real professional job, that could capture a speeding bullet, freeze the whites of a crocodiles eye, and probably brew a pot of tea and tell you the temperature in Panama at the same time. He took thousands of pics, but it was no scattergun effort. Almost everything he shot turned out to be a great picture. He fast became the Annie Leibovitz of our little group. We soon arrived at the impressive tomb of the Nguyen Emporor, Kai Dinh, built in about 1925, although it looked much older. Then we were back on board our bikes, and the road climbed through a vast cemetery of both Buddhist and Christian graves. Suddenly, we were headed off-road, plunging through a forest, up sandy tracks, peppered with tree-roots. It was an exhilarating charge, ever uphill, until we finally broke cover, at the tree-line. We had arrived at the summit of a conical hill, commanding fantastic views all around. Down in a steep valley to the west, the Perfume River snaked below the jungled slopes. On the summit itself were two forlorn concrete pillboxes, the earlier one, French, the later one, American, both pockmarked with the scars of shells and bullets. Terrible reminders of the horrors, in this beautiful place. If you have ever visited any once war-torn areas in peacetime, you will understand how such places can be so still, so peaceful. The Somme is a classic example. It is a somnolent river, placidly sliding through a beautiful valley, and the only things that betray it’s history are the hard-to-spot, grassed-over trenches. So here we were, on Bunker Hill, almost three months since we’d stood on the original Bunker Hill site, in Boston. A weird symmetry. This magnificent viewpoint now serves as a lovely picnic spot for locals, but, in among the trees, there is evidence of fresh floral tributes, pointers to a recently violent past, and those who never forget it.

Another precipitous ride, this time, down the mountain. We paused in a little village where everyone makes a living manufacturing incense. The sights and smells were fantastic. Thousands and thousands of brightly-coloured sticks, drying by the side of the road, glorious whiffs as the sandlewood and cinnamon were mixed. We were offered a chance to roll our own sticks, and Roseann proved to be a dab hand. They must roll some skinny stogies up on the Clyde.

We continued on down through another little village, negotiating impossibly narrow streets, ducking under washing-lines, dodging kittens, small children, old ladies washing-up in bright plastic bowls, until we arrived at the little house of a hat-maker. Not just any hat-maker, but the most famous in the country. This lady’s mother had contracted ‘flu when pregnant, and as a result, she was born with only one arm. The other “arm” ends at the elbow and she has a little finger-tip on the end of it. The dexterity with which she uses this little protuberance is extraordinary – watching her thread a needle and sew was a revelation. Her traditional, conical hats are renowned nationally, as being the best you can get, and she gave us a fascinating display of her craft.

Next up – scoff! We were famished. Lunch had been organised at a nearby monastery. It was vegetarian, and boozeless, the first of which pleased our two resident veggies, and, eventually, pleased us all. The food was quite delicious, with lots of dishes, served in strict order, and as always, the finale was rice. I think it was the first time that either of us had actually tasted palatable tofu, but the real star was the scent and taste of freshly-baked, warm white bread. Part of the money that we paid for our lunch goes to help pay for a small school that the monks were running.

Our last visit on this amazing bike safari was to the Tiger Pit, an extraordinary, mini-coliseum in the jungle, where they used to force tigers to fight elephants. We listened, horrified, as Phuong told us how they used to drug the tigers a couple of nights before the fight, and remove their claws and teeth. This barbaric fighting between beautiful animals is now history. Unfortunately, this is not the case with cock fighting, which seems as prevalent as ever, throughout Asia.

The bikes then took us back toward Hue and to the river, where we boarded a boat on the Song Huong (Perfume) River. It sounds extremely exotic, but although it is a fine river, we couldn’t actually smell any perfume. A few other things, but none of them perfume. The boat was run by a family that live on board. The lady of the family spent the entire journey trying to interest us in buying firstly, drinks, secondly, post cards, thirdly, book marks, fourthly, more book marks, and finally, pyjamas. Nobody minded, she wasn’t pushy, just keen for a sale…

We purred down the river, a calming and sedate journey after our day in the saddle, and arrived at the Thien Mu (Heavenly Lady) pagoda. This rises above the north bank of the Perfume River, was founded in 1601, and houses a huge bronze bell. Phuong took us round, and happily answered all our questions about the place, and Buddhism in general. Then he showed us the singed and rusting old Austin, of Thich Quang Duc. This monk drove his little blue car to Siagon in June, 1963, and set himself on fire at a crossroads, in a protest against the treatment of Buddhists, by the government of South Vietnam. The car is a very chilling sight.

Our tour of the pagoda was wrapped up, and we made our way back to the boat, for the journey back to the southern shore, and our bikes, which were waiting for us. As we landed, there was nearly a mishap (Rosey: one of the crew lowered the gangplank, and as I was half way across, the boat lurched alarmingly, a foot or so to the right. I am not known for my balance, but am known for the volume of my voice, which I used to full effect, as I let out a timely yelp. Fortunately, there was a boat moored right next to ours, and I managed to grab hold of it. I had no desire to be launched into the “Perfume” of that particular river). Major incident averted, we returned to the hotel, and bade farewell to our gallant chauffeur-riders.

Widow Twanky

It is now time to pay tribute to the humble laundry. Actually, not so humble at all. It’s an absolutely necessity, first-class, and incredibly cheap. Honestly, if we had such a facility in the UK, we would put all washing-machine companies out of business. Ushi was our laundry lady in Hue. She also ran a very successful restaurant in the town, (Ushi says “Hi”) where we dined on our last night in Hue. It was great – and afterwards, we took ourselves off to the DMZ to finish the night. It was a late one…

The Road to Hoi An

Another very civilized 8:30 start the following day, and off to our next destination, Hoi An. We were really looking forward to this journey, as we knew it would take us further south, down through central Vietnam, over the Hai Van pass (fans of Top Gear will remember it from their Vietnam adventure). It was a startlingly wonderful journey, steep roads, up and down mountains, hair-pin bends, and amazingly, cyclists. Picture it. It was blisteringly hot, almost vertical, and there were people cycling. They weren’t training for the Tour de France, they were just DOING IT FOR FUN. And they wore tee-shirts admitting this. We finally overtook the last of this brave bunch, our little bus huffing and puffing, and bathing them in diesel-fumes. At the very top of the pass, we stopped, and some headed for the Happy House, and others for the most stunningly wonderful coffee, the best we’ve had so far in South East Asia. It was iced-coffee, with condensed milk. That may sound a bit gruesome at home, but on top of a mountain in Vietnam, believe us, it’ll coddle your codpiece. The Happy House was a little basic, as you might expect at the top of the pass, but every sensible traveller packs their own personal bog-roll – an absolute essential in this part of the world- so, no problem. On, down the pass, and eventually through Da Nang, past the massive wartime American airbase, and thence to Hoi An.

Our hotel, the Phu Thinh II, was perched at the edge of the Old Quarter, and was an absolute winner, set in tropical gardens, with a lovely pool, and a superb garden restaurant, set by huge lily-ponds. It was a mere five minute walk to the beautiful narrow streets, home to personal tailors, personal cobblers, jewellery shops, cafés, restaurants, and an absolutely stunning river-front, with a bustling market. It was absolutely delightful, and we loved it instantly.

After a group lunch, we all went our separate ways. Stacey, Aaron and David were in the market for suits and shoes, Peter was definitely going to get suited up, Logan was getting creative ideas about footwear, and Al was interested in ties…for those that don’t know, Vietnam, and particularly Hoi An, is the home of superfast tailoring and cobbling. They measure every conceivable curve, lump and bump of your body, you chose a design from the hundreds of catalogues they have, or from the internet, or a photo, or take them a favourite garment to copy, choose your materials, and it’ll be ready for you the next day. Or even the same day, if you get measured in the morning. And it’s stupidly cheap. That evening we spent our time ambling along the Thu Bon river front, and taking a million pictures of the beautiful floating displays on the river, that had been put there to celebrate, yes, Tet. We met up with the others and dined at The Green Chilli – a restaurant perched on the river’s edge, made famous for it’s extremely eccentric Vietnamese chef, who had spent some time in Milano, and there had converted to all things Italian, including speech. He communicated in a kind of Italian-accented English, with Vietnamese intonations. Think 400g Carluccio, 200g Gino de Campo, 600g Ken Hom, a liberal dash of humility-free sauce, and a pinch of Herbes de Bullshit, and you have our host. Later, we moved on to a bar for a nightcap. Somehow Beatrice managed to source even more chocolate cake, so she was very happy. We’ve discovered, along the way, that chocolate is an essential daily ingredient for a healthy, happy Beatrice…well, she is Swiss.

The following day, we had arranged to have a bike for ourselves. Peter and Beatrice were keen too, so two scooters were delivered at 9am – and we were off. We stayed together for a short while, and then went our separate ways. We had a truly magnificent ride in gorgeous sunshine, through the surrounding villages, then onto the island of Cam Nam, a heavenly backwater of pretty little houses and beautifully manicured small-holdings, all with neatly laid-out crops, utilising every square inch of growing space. Superb. Back on the mainland, we rode out to An Bang, a delightful local beach. It was pretty much deserted, except for a couple of small cafes, and a cluster of fishing boats. These are like giant coracles, sea-going versions of the little circular wicker boats that have been fishing the River Severn for a couple of thousand years. The sea looked so gorgeous that we had to take a dip. It wasn’t that warm, but it was very refreshing, and we then spent a leisurely few hours on the beach, before making our way back into the old city, and winding our way through the narrow streets, crammed with market-sellers. It was just amazing.

That evening, we were scheduled in for a Asian cookery class. It was at a little restaurant, again on the beautiful Thu Bon River. The chef came to us, set up a little stove at the end of the table, and then expected us to cook. We all had a go at chopping, stir frying, grating, gutting and ultimately, eating our fare. It was an excellent way to spend an evening, but there was more entertainment at the table adjacent to ours. We had speculated during the evening as to who they were. They were mostly ladies of a certain age, and rather loud. They weren’t cooking their own food, just eating. They turned out to be French (without prejudice – we, being English, feel this is a useful legal term, which needs to be introduced at this point). So, there were about a dozen of these, obviously, fairly well-heeled women. And the food was ridiculously cheap. It was the end of their meal, and they were arguing over the bill. It was getting heated. Something had, evidently, gone deeply wrong. The bickering between themselves, and the abuse of the waitresses, and then the chef, continued for a good twenty minutes. It was taking the edge off a great evening. Finally, Sharon could stand it no longer. She marched across and said that she would pay whatever the difference was, if they would only shut up, and go home. That’s when we discovered these twelve women had been arguing over a discrepancy of 20,000 Dong. That’s right, just $1. Sharon dropped the money on their table, and they left. It was a great night, but unfortunately, it was our last in Hoi An. We loved this little place. It has a real charm, all it’s own. The coast and beaches are beautiful, and utterly unspoilt, but perhaps, not for long. There are signs of extensive development on the sea front. We would go back to Hoi An in a heartbeat, but who knows whether it can hang on to its unique spirit. We wish them luck. For us, it’s next stop, the siren call of Saigon. From unspoilt country backwaters, to the bustling metropolis. Where, on the menu, there are scorpions…

Down Halong the Bay

Our first trip with our new travelling companions. We’re travelling to Halong Bay, off the coast, to the east of Hanoi. It’s 1500 sq km of the Gulf of Tonkin, in the China Sea, and has more than 2,000 pinnacle-shaped outcrops of limestone and dolomite, that protrude from the emerald green waters. It’s like Madonna, lying on her back in the bath, a thousand times.

We were so excited that we made an extra-special, bright and early start to the day -we’d packed an overnight bag, and were first down to breakfast, well before anybody else. Indeed, if anything, we were a tad disappointed that nobody else seemed to share our enthusiasm for the excitements ahead. With much muttering, and a little tutting, we checked our watches. We were still on Singapore time, and thus an hour ahead. They weren’t late, we were an hour early…

We were accompanied on our journey by our local guide, Hung. We said hello, and asked if he was well. That seemed to go over his head, a potentially alarming thought. He turned out to be an expert in all things Hanoi and Halong, and all bits in between.

The journey would take at least four hours and we were told that there would be a stop about half way, so that we could avail ourselves of the opportunity to visit the ‘Happy House’. We were all incredibly charmed by this somewhat gentile reference to the loo, and immediately adopted it as our own. For the rest of our time together, ‘Happy House’ became the International Standard Terminology for the lavatory, kharzi, WC, etc,, and will probably remain so amongst us, forever.

One reason the phrase struck such a chord, is that it seemed so directly opposed to the local sensibilities concerning all things lavatorial. As we left the outskirts of Hanoi, we entered a dual carriageway, and there, on the other side of the road, a bunch of mopeds had pulled up, and seven commuters, three men and four women, all in business attire, were lined up, side by side, squatting on a mound of rubble, distributing their largesse. It’s impossible not to admire their unconcern for the mundanities of life, whilst being grateful that this sort of loucheness doesn’t extend to the 7.42 to Liverpool Street.

So, a couple of hours into our journey, we pulled over for the aforementioned comfort break. And there, our adventure underwent a fundamental change. As we stepped down from the bus, it was immediately clear that Imogen was unwell  Luckily, Sharon (our resident nurse), and Tracey (our boss/wrangler), were on hand, and poor Imogen was soon on her way to hospital, a rendezvous with her parents, and back to Melbourne, to recover. We, all of us, wish her the very best of complete health in the future, and we often raised our glasses to her in the ensuing days.

The journey was outstanding. The main road had soon dwindled to single-carriageway, and on either side was an almost unbroken succession of small cafes, shops, businesses, cemeteries, paddy-fields, Buddhist temples, irrigation canals, and street-vendors, and everywhere, no matter how poverty-stricken, was decked out in colourful lanterns, ribbons, banners, flags, and finery, celebrating Tet. Some of the villages seemed almost medieval, surrounded by forbidding, crumbling stone walls, and everywhere the signs of industry were mainly human. Men and women, bent double and thigh-deep in sucking mud, working the rice-fields, or perched up elaborate webs of bamboo, patiently waiting for the bite of a fish, or toiling behind pairs of yoked water-buffalo, ploughing the straightest of furrows through the dusty soil. The sun blazed down, and roadside stalls boasted melons and bananas and pineapples by the hundred.

Arriving at the port for Halong Bay, we were plunged into a bustling, busy, crazy place, with hundreds of junks, house-boats, sampans, and some completely unrecognisable craft, bobbing cheek-by-jowl in the harbour. Tracey had left with Imogen, so Hung took charge, and we were guided through the throng, down to the waterside. We were ushered to a gangplank and onto our junk.  It was amazing. And then we realised that we had the whole junk to ourselves. All around us, groups of travellers crowded onto their boats, and we were smugly thankful to Intrepid, for their policy of limiting their group-size to twelve. We had three decks. At sea-level were the cabins. Wood-lined, and beautiful, and each with an en-suite shower and Happy House. The middle deck was the restaurant, already laid-up for lunch. And the top deck was a delight, with a mainmast and furled sails, and chairs and loungers, and even a gym – OK, a wooden bench, and a pole with a slab of concrete at either end. Sharon was soon demonstrating her bingo-wing-defeating bench-presses for us. We were impressed, and raised our cans of beer to her.

Down below, the crew had prepared an amazing lunch for us – typical Vietnamese food. Lots of little courses of deliciousness, beautifully presented, with lovely flavours, and they’d specially catered for Beatrice and Sharon, our resident vegetarians. No mean feat this, as Vietnemese food is heavily based around chicken, pork, beef, and fish. We also started our bar tab. By the way, did you know that the bar tab was the prototype for the credit card? Simply a cunning way of steadily parting you from your cash, at the same rate as your senses are dulled by a false sense of wellbeing?

As we enjoyed our lovely lunch, lots of chat, and a few drinkies, our junk glided across the pellucid water, and, after a couple of hours, we fetched up beneath a huge  semi-circle of towering rocks. We’d arrived at Bo Hon Island, home to the Hang Sung Sot caves. Our junk carefully manoeuvred its way beside a very rickety, little wooden jetty, alongside a few other junks, and we walked the plank, once again, to terra almost firma.

There were just a few steps up to the caves (nothing like the Blue Mountains’ Giant Staircase, thank God!) Inside were three spectacular linked caves, each successively bigger than its predecessor. They showed evidence of thousands of years of habitation, and the porous limestone has left a fantastic residue of stalagmites and stalactites. The third, and deepest, of the caverns was outstanding. Certainly the largest we have ever seen. Needless to say, as with all cave systems, all over the world, all the unusual or suggestive outcroppings have been given names.

As you enter the first, smallest cave, you are confronted by what can only be described as an enormous knob. In case you are a lifelong nun, a deeply unsuccessful Jewish doctor, or so fat that you haven’t seen one for years, the helpful Vietnamese have floodlit this unmistakable protuberance in shades of pink and red. IT’S A KNOB! Geddit?

The cave system was superb, and, after an hour or so underground, we emerged, and then had to traipse down a vast network of more bloody steps, and fetched up back at the junk. We set sail to a vast bay, surrounded by looming, ragged cliffs, and took position for our overnight anchorage. Hung had arranged for some kayaks to be delivered for us, so we insinuated ourselves into a selection of garish lifejackets, and gingerly left the relative safety of our new floating home, for what appeared to be the inherently unstable fibre-glass two-seaters. Double fun! Quadruple fun! Kayaking amongst the startling rock formations of Halong Bay was probably one of the most peaceful things we have ever experienced.  It was absolutely gorgeous. The water was so green, and seemed so thick, that every carve of the paddle had its own weight and silence. Sea-eagles slid above our heads, and then lazily folded their wings and rocketed into the water, emerging with a glistening fish. There ensued a sudden, bitter squall, as an alpha bird deprived the successful fisher of its supper. It was heady stuff.

We’d leisurely paddled our way through the placid waters for around an hour and a half, and then made our way back to our junk, where we transferred, more or less gracefully, to the larger vessel. A clutch of floating, local traders instantly appeared, their little craft surrounding ours, and we bought various crisps and nibbles to go with our imminent drinks. Very Good Idea.

Suddenly we were aware of a couple of awesome and dreadful splashes. Alistair and David are lifelong friends. And Australian. Most of us kayaked, and all were reasonably exhausted, and ready to mellow, but Alistair and David? Who knows who geed-up whom? Whether it’s betting on raindrops running down a window, or geckos running up a wall, your average Aussie can’t resist a punt. And average, they’re not. Seriously good company, seriously good fun, and thoroughly nice guys. Oh, and just a  little barmy. They’d entered the water from the top deck, in what can only be described as ante-dives – what we knew, at school, as bombs. You ball up your body, and launch yourself. The resulting impact with the water creates an enormous noise, and maximum water-displacement. And a huge possibility that anyone within a square-mile radius will get wet. Blimey! The water wasn’t that warm, but A and D were not to be thwarted.

Dinner was next.  More yummyness from the kitchen. It was similar to lunch, but with more exotic carvings on the fruit and vegetables.  The bar tabs were totting up, and bearing in mind that 24 hours ago we were mostly total strangers, it was all going rather well…

Suddenly there was a dreadful crackling noise from the tele in the corner. Hung was brandishing microphones. It was karaoke time. Oh, God! At this point, we must pause to ponder the improbability of this. There we were, in a junk, at night-time, in the middle of paradise, and someone is threatening karaoke. They didn’t suffer this in Guantanamo Bay. Hung began to sing. We really wish we could remember what he actually sung, but suffice to say, it was brave on all counts. Hung is a party animal, and was determined that we would all be joining in. So, not content with just having thrown himself off the Eifel Tower into an ice-box, David grabbed a microphone, and thus was the first to discover that none of the backing tracks were the originals. They were Vietnamese garage. That is, they were Vietnamese, and recorded in a garage…the result, somewhat appropriately, was a car-crash. Most of us had a go, and scaled similar gruesome depths. Peter, love him, thought that telling a joke might help. Logan revealed a hitherto secret affection for country music – it was that kind of evening.  When we’d finally finished our attempts at recognising the genre on offer, let alone the songs, and had made serious dents in the boat’s brandy supply, Hung offered the microphone to Cuong, our taciturn, but friendly, captain and, frankly, he wasn’t half bad. He could sing. Really well. After he’d finished a couple of songs, and with a little encouragement, he fished out a battered old guitar. Hung told us that when Cuong had been conscripted into the Vietnamese Army, he’d been used as an entertainer for the troops. He sang a couple of songs for us in Vietnamese, mostly about Ho Chi Mihn, who he referred to as ‘Uncle’, and we were all entranced.  He was great, and this was such a wonderful experience. Yet again, we felt that we were beginning get under the skin of Vietnam.

Here comes the sun

Some bright spark said that there would be a sunrise at 6am-ish, and through a bit of an alcohol haze, a lot of us decided that the sight of the sun rising, probably behind a mountain, probably hidden by an early-morning mist on the water, would be UNMISSABLE. We went to bed, well into the small hours, having set the alarm (now on Vietnamese time), and, God help us, were up for the spectacle. Oh dear! This proved to be the first of a number of ‘let’s see the sunrise/sunset’ suggestions that didn’t quite pay off. Very funny, though.

We walk the line

After breakfast, and sparked by recollections of Logan’s affection for country music, we decided to list famous Canadian rock/pop/folk artists. Confounding those who were betting on there being a greater number of famous Belgians, we scorched it. Logan was duly impressed with the news (to him), that Celine Dion (Canadian), had won the Eurovision Song Contest for Switzerland, singing in French, and that we shared an affection for Shania Twain. It was at this point that Logan revealed a penchant for Line Dancing. This was too good to be true. All up to the top deck. There we were, on a junk, surrounded by peaceful islands, line-dancing.  Apparently line dancing is on the curriculum in Canada (all our mob get is domestic science), and Logan evidently paid attention at school. He was excellent.  We were less so.  We needed practice

So it was back to the harbour, and we reluctantly vacated our little cabin, settled our Very Embarrassing Bar Tab (which was the biggest of all, but was still remarkably cheap when compared to western prices), and enjoyed the last moments of our wonderful trip to this astonishing piece of paradise.

Halong terminal was as mad as ever, and we made our way through the bustle and back to our little minibus.

Our journey back to Hanoi was a little delayed, owing to a road accident a couple of hours up the road. We still made it back in time for lunch – Tracey decided we needed to experience street food. It was fantastic and, like everything we had sampled so far, tasty and cheap. We sat on plastic children’s chairs, and scoffed our chops by the side of the road. After Australia, where the strong Australian dollar made everything very expensive for us Brits, Vietnam was proving to be a great financial antidote.

After lunch we teamed up with Peter, Logan and Roseann, and made our way to the Temple of Literature. This is certainly a great venue to visit, at any time other than Tet, because it was absolutely teeming with not just visitors, but worshippers, which actually made us feel interlopers, and a bit uncomfortable.  Tourism at such places at such a time seems a bit shallow, and really we felt we should just leave them to it – which we did.  We split up with the others, and decided to visit the War Museum. We were seduced by another Highland Coffee outlet, perched next door, and thus missed the last entry time to the museum by just five minutes. We had a look round the grounds and then decided to make our way back to the old quarter. This took a little longer than expected, as we took a wrong turn and ended up walking past the Ministry of Defence. Evidently, we posed some huge threat to the integrity of the State, because we were made to cross the road and walk past on the other side – westerners are not permitted to walk directly in front of the Ministry. Blimey! We took a surreptitious photo, anyway.

On our return to the old quarter, we popped into our favourite joint, EZ Rider, and were welcomed with open arms, and, free drinks! Big ones too. They remembered us from our previous visits, and were utterly delightful.  After three whacking Mojitas, we said our good byes, and hit the streets. By now, we had already become veterans of the street traffic. We were launching ourselves across the streams of cars and bikes without a care in the world – God help us when we get home!

It was about 5pm, and we had plenty of time before our departure to Hue, our next destination. We had arranged to meet the others at the Water Puppet Theatre. The Water Puppets are a hugely popular, traditional entertainment here. The stories were obviously well-known, and well-loved by the locals in the audience, but our attention was taken by the superb orchestral accompaniment. They sat at the side of the stage, and played and sang beautifully. Their star player was a lady who was absolutely mustard, on what can only be described as an acoustic Melatron. That’s the thing that makes the whoo-whoo noises on the Beach Boys’ Good Vibrations. Except that her toy was infinitely more versatile. Great stuff!

Hip hip, Hue!

We’d been excited by, and dreading, in equal measures, the next stage of our journey – the overnight train to Hue. Ten hours, on the single-track railway. Six beds to a cabin, and there were 12 of us, as we were now re-united with Tracey. We arrived at the station, and all trepidation disappeared. This was VERY evocative, and we were up for serious fun. The train was huge, the platform crowded with comings and goings, and wheeltappers were solemnly going from wheel to wheel, armed with thin metal rods, tapping away, checking the tinny response that might give the first clue to tell-tale cracks. We located our two Intrepid cabins, in Coach 4 – side-by-side, and opening onto the corridor. The Lady Vanishes, Night Train to Munich, Strangers on a Train, North, by North-West, oh, it was all here, and all so exciting! We stuffed our luggage in as best we could, and dismounted, to raid the food and drink stalls that lined the platform. Back on board, and, with much clunking and heaving, we were finally underway. It was10:30pm.

It was hilarious. OK, the loos were beyond imagination, in both sight and smell, and our nearest one completely ceased to function during the night.  Oh, and the doors to the cabins were difficult to close, and to open. And the corridors were full of uniformed patrols, with very stern expressions. They looked at us as though we might prove to be trouble. As if. But the inmates made the journey an experience we would not have missed for the world.  We shared a cabin with Tracey, Logan, Beatrice and Peter, although everyone sociably cabin-hopped, and the pile of empties grew. As the night wore on, and the to-ing and fro-ing in the corridor lessened, another activity suggested itself. We piled out of our cabins, and lined up, side-by-side, in the corridor, with Logan at the centre. It was, of course, time to put our newly-acquired line-dancing skills to the test. Why is it, that when an entire group of people are having a rattling good time, that their jollity fails to infect others? For some unknown reason, the guards were not amused, and they shouted at us, and tried to herd us back into our cabins. Have you ever tried to herd line-dancers? This was our second brush with authority that day – we were doing rather well.

The bunk-beds were ranked, three either side of a cabin, with the noses of the top bunks’ occupants perilously close to the ceiling. The beds were wider than we’d expected, and the rocking and rolling of the train soon lulled us into the arms of Morpheus.

There were a few mysterious stops during the night. It wasn’t so much the slowing down and stopping that was likely to wake us. It was the sudden, and incredibly violent jerking, as the carriages took up the slack when the train got going again, that threatened to pitch unsuspecting sleepers onto the floor. No-one was hurt, though. There was no floor. Just a carpet of back-packs. Our entire world was packed into those cabins. Daylight revealed a forested, more mountainous region. Already, workers were in the rice-paddies. The early-morning mists gave way to an absolutely baking day. We crossed a massive river, into the old DMZ, the supposedly de-militarised zone, and were soon approaching the ancient, sometime capitol of Vietnam, Hue. We transferred to a bus, and were soon at our next hotel, a stone’s-throw from the Perfume River, and the historic citadel. With little idea of the adventures to come.

Way down yonder, in Vietnam

The world is packed with evocative place-names. Some have historic, and, maybe, romantic, connotations. But surely none quite as historic and romantic as the Orient, the Yellow Sea, the South China Sea, the Mekong Delta, and the Andaman Sea. These are the stuff of Joseph Conrad.

Heart of Darkness, eat your heart out – here come the aging hippies, treading the trails of these ancient territories. Over the next few blogs we will bring you tales of scorpions, of tarantulas, and of rats – all on menus. We will amaze you with our encounters with giant pythons, monkey-bridges, and baboons. And stretch your credulity, with our increasingly bizarre methods of transport…

Our flight from Singapore to Hanoi was delayed by a couple of hours. Nothing sinister, just a function of the fact that we left Singapore in the clutches of Chinese New Year, and arrived in Vietnam slap-bang in the middle of Tet, the Vietnamese New Year! The whole world around us seemed in the grip of riotous celebration. We’d done it again.  Thanksgiving, in the US, in November, Christmas in Palm Springs, New Year’s Day in Australia, Australia Day in Australia and then Chinese New Year in Singapore, and Tet in Vietnam. Anyone would think we were chasing a knees-up…and, by the by, Tet is the celebration of the Lunar New Year, and this year it is the Year of the Cat. Al Stewart will be pleased.

Fog and mists blurred our first views of the ancient city of Hanoi. We landed, taxied, and were through immigration in super quick time, but then had to suffer the agonies of the modern traveller’s greatest doubts, as our luggage refused to appear on the conveyor-belt.  We waited, and sweated, and still our rucksacks remained absent without leave. Finally, as almost everyone else had moved off, the rubber curtains bulged, and our luggage issued forth. We gratefully stacked it on a trolley, and made our way out into, what was for us, a Brave New World. We were already excited by the looks and the feel of the place – it seemed so completely different from anywhere we’d ever been.  

We had pre-booked our transfer from the airport to the city, and, as we left the terminal, were approached by a man brandishing a card that had the words ‘Robin Murphy’ written on it. And, just below, the words, ‘Barbara von Plunker’.

We had a quick passport check. With the best will in the world, and bringing the full power of our anagrammatic skills to bear, we couldn’t work out how ‘Rosey’ could be transmogrified into ‘Babs’.

Luckily, our man with the name-card was not one to be diverted by such trifles. He ushered us towards a 12 year-old, skulking beside a people-carrier. The boy grabbed our bags by the armful, and stuffed them into the back of the vehicle. As he shut the door there was a sudden blur of bodies, as a group of Chinese barged in front of us, and spread themselves across the rear seats. It was dark, it was foggy, we were late, and we were tired. And in a strange city, in a strange country. It was no time to start a world war. Rosey forced her way into a tiny gap that the Chinese had missed, and Robin climbed into the hotseat, alongside the driver. The driver hopped in, fired up the engine, and we were under way. And, in that moment, we realised that our chauffeur was the 12 year-old…

He was a whippet. He had a deep and wracking smoker’s cough, and far too many mobile phones. But, at least, he was a genius driver. Genius, of course, only in the context of the madness, that is, ‘riding the roads of Vietnam’.

For those who are strangers to this part of the planet, there are rules of the road. Rule number one is, there are no rules. Rule number two is…er…what was rule number one?

‘Chaos’ doesn’t quite cut it. ‘Culture Shock” is inadequate. We were on a motorway, from the airport to the city. A two-lane motorway. Oh, and a hard shoulder. There were hundreds of scooters and small motorcycles, for every car. It is obviously the most stunning social faux pas in Vietnam to ride a machine with the same number of passengers, as wheels. So, two wheels, at least three people on board. We quickly spotted a four-up, and were congratulating ourselves as wise old eastern hands, a la Graham Greene, when the ante was upped – five teens on a Lambretta! Quintrophenia! The standard had been set. Come on, you sixers!

Now don’t just settle back into your armchairs and think ‘what’s the fuss? A few overloaded bikes? Pah!’

Keep your ‘pahs’ to yourselves, and let us tell you about lane discipline. None. Anybody, driving or riding anything, goes wherever they want, whenever they want. Helmets? A fashion accessory. Hooters? Somewhere to rest your thumb. The hard shoulder is for, well, pretty much anything you fancy. Most common, is taking a wazz. Male or female, young or old, if they feel the need, they just stop and release their inner person. The only nod to decorum is that most choose to point their arse away from the motorway. But not all. The second-most common is the fag break. The Vietnamese seem to smoke more than a drag queen’s undies, They have no compunction in pulling over to spark up, chat to their mates (who’ve also pulled over), and bang out a couple of hundred texts, and a phone call to Mum.

Back in the serious lanes, overtaking means that you are going a little bit faster than someone else, and that you are prepared to die to get past. And to take your passengers, and anyone else foolish enough to get involved, with you. You achieve your objective by roaring up behind them, kissing the chrome of their bumper, and giving your hooter some serious grief. Thoroughly recommended is that fast, twiddly  bit from the second movement of Brahms’ violin concerto in D – that’ll shift ‘em…

So, there was no way that we were going to nod off on this run. The Chinese seemed oblivious to our impending doom. They chatted constantly. Probably discussing sovereign debt, and the floating of the yuan. We held hands, and squeezed hard.

Mr Whippet, though, was fine. In between hawking his lungs inside out, accompanied by a sound like a runaway chain-saw being dropped down a lift-shaft, he undertook a series of startling manoeuvres that evidently bewitched, and, finally, foxed the opposition. We had arrived in the outskirts of Hanoi. He found some hitherto unused button, and we started to scrub off some speed. Lest this might appear as some unmanly capitulation, he proceeded to demonstrate his mastery of modern comms, by answering his mobile.

We’re still doing 100km per hour plus, and a cock crows. It’s extremely realistic. We look around, and under our seats. The cockadoodledooing goes on. Even the Chinese show a little interest, although there’s a suspicious smacking of lips. Mr Whippet grabs his phone, and launches into a machine-gun exchange with his bookie/astrologer/11 year-old wife. Then another phone rings. We freeze. The Chinese freeze. Mr W. now has a mobile in each hand, and the steering wheel clamped between his elbows. You think we exaggerate. We do not. You don’t get Vietnam. We were getting it in the face.

We were soon in the impossibly narrow, impossibly overcrowded streets of the old quarter. This area has been occupied for over a thousand years and reeks of history, and of life. For a thousand years people have lived, loved, worked, cooked, laughed and died on these streets, and believe us, you can smell it all. Incredibly vibrant. And, being Tet, an explosion of light and colour, and noise. Streets, too narrow for cars, had scooters four abreast, jostling for supremacy with pedestrians. Pavements are simply parking places for even more scooters, so there’s a constant stream of humanity strolling up and down the ancient alleyways and byways, in and out of the traffic, window-shopping, bartering, eating, drinking and enjoying life. We arrived at our hotel, the Hong Ngoc 3, and were catapulted out of our taxi, and tottered up the steps.

The building was tall and skinny, and our room had windows that faced inwards to a central stairwell, elaborately decorated with flowers, pictures and plates.  Our room was fine, and reflected a certain fifties demi-elegance – high ceilings, and lots of carved wood. There was a TV, a fridge and a bath and shower, and a little pink hairdryer.  We loved it.

We dumped our stuff. We weren’t hungry, just excited. We’d eaten at Changi airport, and had scoffed the plane food, so we went in search of a drink. As we left the hotel, we could hear singing.  This was not Kylie, not garage, nor rock and roll. It was proper Vietnamese singing. We wandered over to where a group of people were crowded round, watching a girl wearing traditional dress, singing a lilting, haunting song, whilst clutching a plastic baby doll. We hadn’t the faintest idea of the context, the purpose, or the story, but it was beautiful, and a wonderful entrée to this crazy, fascinating city.

Lips were smacking, and bars were beckoning, and resisting the blandishments of the street food-and-drink, we dived into EZ Rider. It delivered what it said on the tin. It’s a bar with sawn-off, half-barrels for chairs, a pink cut-down coach for a bar, and facing it, a huge mural of Monument Valley, featuring a train of bikers, led by Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper, winding their way to a beery nirvana. Note to bloggees under 40 – you might need to google ‘Easy Rider’ to get the point.  We downed a couple of welcome beers, nearly fainted at the more-than-welcome prices – just a couple of dollars for the lot – and called it a night,

Two points here:

1. The Vietnamese currency is the Dong. Amusing, certainly. Yes. But, it seems extraordinary after the recent animosities that the US Dollar is such a respected back-up to the local currency, especially if you want to purchase big items.  Not so surprising, perhaps, when at 20,000 dong to the dollar, $100 bill equals a 5 inch thick wedge of dong.
2. We had decided to employ a specialist company to assist us with the Asian leg of our trip.  We had only a limited time to do three countries, and we wanted to do them properly, to get a real taste of them, and really maximise our time. Intrepid had been highly recommended, and, after a lot of research, we decided to be guided by them.  Basically, they arrange your transport, accommodation, and anything else you might want, and then they offer optional activities and side-trips. Groups are limited to just 12 people, which allayed our worries about it being a claustrophobic process. We had a whole day before meeting our new travelling companions, and so planned to spend the next day exploring Hanoi under our own steam.

After a robust breakfast of fruit (some recognisable, some not), toast, jam, and some astonishingly bitter coffee (we eschewed the noodle- and rice-based options at this juncture), we made our way to Lake Hoan Kiem, just a brief ten-minute stroll from our hotel. There, by the side of the water, we found a huge stage, with a banner wishing everyone a happy new year. The presence of abundant armed police, lounging around on armoured carriers, curbed our natural urge to leap up and give the locals a tune.

Spying a crowd of jolly, jostling people, we took our lives in our hands, and shimmied our way across a massive road to the lake shore.  The people appeared to be buying tickets to walk over a brightly-coloured bridge, onto a little island.  Going with the flow, we bought tickets and followed the throng over the bridge. Arriving at the other side, we were greeted by the sight of Ngoc Son, a small Buddhist temple, suffused in an enormous cloud of incense, and the somewhat alarming sight of families, apparently burning money…they were, and they were praying, all over the place, to various little altars/temples, and also in the large temple in the middle of this very small, very sweet island.  Ngoc Son Temple is all about turtles, which represent long life. There is a large silver turtle, in a rather dusty glass case, in an ante-chamber of the temple. It was busy, but nothing like as crowded as it was to get later. It was still only 9 in the morning.

We circumnavigated the beautiful lake, with it’s festival decorations.  Flowers were everywhere, and the masses of holidaying people were surrounded by food-sellers, traders, balloon-sellers, and many jolly people in national dress.  It was a busy, happy, beautiful sight. 

It was time for a coffee, so we repaired to the Highland Coffee, on the north shore of the lake. There were three floors of coffee and refreshments. It was gorgeous coffee, and we perched ourselves on one of their balconies, overlooking the lake and the temple, and tried to make some sense of the traffic madness below us. There were zebra crossings, rather faded, but these were largely ignored.  If you want to cross the road as a pedestrian, you literally just have to do it.  Don’t hesitate. Hesitation will only confuse other road-users. If you maintain your line and pace, they will be able to drive around you.  There are literally thousands of scooters/motorbikes, some carrying whole families, mostly without helmets, frequently on mobile phones, many riding alongside their friends, happily chatting away. Horns toot merrily, but, miraculously, there appear to be no traffic jams – if the drivers/riders run out of road, they simply use the pavements. Why not?

Dollars, as we’ve noted, are acceptable currency in Hanoi, but it was still a surprise to see a four-story celebration of all that is Kentucky Fried Chicken, packed to the gills with local fans of the Colonel…

We continued to enjoy a gentle amble around the city, having a thoroughly good time, winding our way through the old quarter, and getting happily lost. At one stage we heard fire-engines, and then watched, with an animated and growing crowd, as a basement restaurant smoked away.  Lots of shouting, and excitement, and wrestling with recalcitrant hoses. We made our way back to our hotel, via EZ Rider, for a quick quaff and bite. We were having such a good time!

Hello, good evening, and welcome…

At 6pm, we rendezvoused, in our hotel, with our fellow travellers, for the first time.

First impressions? Well, there were 12 of us. And Tracey, our guide/mentor, who faced the unenviable task of keeping an eye on us!  Tracey hales from Melbourne, Australia. Seems to like a good time.

Beatrice, Bern, Switzerland. Slender, elegant, explosion of hair, like an early Julia Roberts

Roseann, Glasgow, Scotland. Reminds us of good friends.  Sounds like Maggie, looks like Sally

Imogen, Melbourne, Australia. Young, lively, just finished Phd

Alistair, Canberra, out of Sydney, Australia.  Just two more lens filters, and he’d be a completely mobile Hollywood studio.

David, Sydney, Australia. Accountant. Childhood friend of Alistair.

Aaron, Sydney, Australia. Policeman, studying hard. Boyfriend of;

Stacey, Sydney, Australia. CSI. Spunky sense of humour.

Sharon, Alice Springs, Australia. Nurse, taking a year off from her work with Médecins Sans Frontières.

Peter, Lewis, Sussex, England. Blue-eyed pixie, ex Head Teacher – currently working in China.

Logan, Canada, and, soon, Montana. A scientist specialising in the study of viruses.

So, that’s our cast. We’re in each other’s pockets, to a certain extent, from now on. Lots of new experiences to share. And so much to learn.  We started with dinner, followed by a bar crawl – finishing up at the favourite EZ Rider (which, we discovered, had been separately frequented by most of us during that day!)

Tomorrow, we’re off to a World Heritage site, the amazing Halong Bay. We’ll be spending the night on a junk – oh, come on! You know you want to..!

The Red Centre, and the Tropics

 

 

 

 

Bye-bye Siouxie

We were sad to say goodbye to Madi after such an excellent week, and Melbourne obviously felt the same. We were up bright and early on Monday morning, and the skies of Melbourne cried floods of tears. It bucketed down. We splashed our way amongst the commuter traffic, and, on approaching the airport, found the ‘car rental return’ signs. Several sudden and complicated turns later, we entered an enormous hanger, full of cars, only to discover that the company we’d hired from didn’t live there. Check-in time was looming, and the situation was becoming a little worrying. There were no useful signs whatsoever, but, eventually, thanks to a very jolly helper from Hertz, we finally got some directions that made sense. We had to go off the airport site, and head further away, to the south. The clock was ticking, and the rain was still tanking down. At last we found East Coast Car Hire and managed to hand over Siouxie to her rightful owners. We said our goodbyes to another great car, and Billie (a lovely lady, originally from Croatia), duly drove us back to the airport, where we arrived, thankfully, in time for our flight.

Hello Alice

Our flight to Alice Springs was just a couple of hours, and yielded fascinating glimpses of the massive wilderness below. Canyons and cliffs, multicoloured rock-faces, and riverbeds, both wet and dry, told of a tough, near impenetrable land. As we approached the airport, a scant covering of greenery smudged across the red sands, and we stepped off the plane in temperatures of 40C, and glorious, glorious sunshine.  The airport at Alice is really lovely, very small and easy to negotiate. We picked up our bags and took the airport shuttle bus – an excellent deal – to our hotel, the Crowne Plaza, on the bank of the Todd River. Which wasn’t wet.  At all.  In fact, it’s bone-dry for 95% of the year. It’s named for the amazing Charles Todd, who, in an extraordinary life, left Islington for Australia, was instrumental in the completion of the pan-Australia telegraph, linking the country to Britain and the rest of the world, and the setting-up of a series of meteorological stations. His knowledge allowed him to make the first observations that showed how droughts in India and Australia were the result of the ‘El Nino’ phenomenon, and to observe two of the rare transits of Venus. He also demonstrated the first-ever electric street-lighting in Adelaide. His wife, just seventeen when they left London, produced six kids whilst living in the tough desert territories, and lent her name, Alice, to the heart of the region.

The heat was incredible.  So we did the sensible thing after unpacking – we had a couple of beers in the bar, and planned our afternoon.  We needed some provisions, and although the walk to the centre of town took only about 30 minutes, it was a super-hot afternoon, so we decided to take a taxi.  This was a Very Good Idea.  Not expensive, and we were there in a trice.

We picked up a few bits at Woollies, and then made our way to the booze shop, which was shut. We hung around for a few minutes (until 2pm – official booze-shop opening-time in Alice), and then pounced on some wine. We then discovered, to our disbelief, that you need ID in order to buy alcohol in Alice. Whatever your age. Alice Springs, we understand, is one of only a very few places in Australia where this is the case, and we know they have their reasons, but it would have been good to know in advance!  So, muttering profanities and majorly pissed off, we grabbed a taxi back to the hotel, picked up our passports, returned to the same booze-shop, and eventually managed to purchase our very necessary nectar.

After all that activity and frustration, there was only one thing to do, so after a quick swifty to make sure the booze was OK, we donned our swimmers and plunged in the pool!  It was gorgeous.  Warm, without being too much so, and blissfully welcome after our busy day. Lovely.

Dinner was a revelation.  The hotel has a wonderful Thai restaurant, called Hanuman, which has picked up a stack of great reviews. Another good move – the food was outstanding.

On the Rocks

It was a 6am start for our visit to Uluru and Kata Tjuta (known, prior to 1985, as Ayers Rock and The Olgas).  We booked with Emu Tours, because it was a 335km drive from Alice, and it had to be done in a day.  While we waited for our tour bus, we chatted with a Canadian couple, who had booked with another company for a two day trip. Our bus duly arrived and we were on our way. Almost. One of our number had got caught in traffic, and we had to detour to pick her up. Which was lucky, particularly if you happened to be both elderly, and Canadian. Because, just as we got to the outskirts of town, there was a phone-call. The couple we’d been chatting to were supposed to be hitching a lift with us, because their company couldn’t fulfil their booking. So we waited. They finally arrived, and, eventually, about 40 minutes behind schedule, we were on our way.

Warwick and Richard – forever now known as “Wick and Dick” were outstanding guides, and really good fun.  The journey down to the rocks took about 4 hours, including a stop, and they took turns driving, chatting, and keeping up a constant amusing and informative banter.

Both Uluru and Kata Tjuta are in a vast national park, and we visited Kata Tjuta first, and walked The Valley of the Winds. It’s a fairly steep climb, with red rocks and earth, green vegetation, and multi-coloured rock, under very, very blue skies. And then there’s the brightness. The sun screams down. Walking into the valley between the rocks in temperatures in excess of 46C is a full-body experience!  It goes without saying that long sleeves and hats are sensible, and sunscreen must be worn, along with a hearty spray of insect repellent. The only really unpleasant thing about the whole deal is the bloody flies. They fly into your face, and appear to have a predilection for nostrils and earholes, which they target with an unerring accuracy. It is horrible, and most irritating. Many travellers choose to wear unsightly nets over their faces, sometimes attached to floppy hats, and sometimes just freestyle, pulled down over their heads like a Tyneside tart’s tights, but although they are, of course, incredibly sensible, we are not. We just couldn’t bring ourselves to put them on. We’re on holiday, not a Post Office raid. We know we’re are daft, but they looked it….

The walk took about an hour, and we returned to our magnificently air-conditioned bus. Bliss. Wick and Dick then told us the Aboriginal legend relating to KT. Apparently, one day, the men of the local tribe left their families, as per, to do their normal day’s hunting, sitting about, and chewing the cud, and, whilst they were away, the men of another, very naughty, tribe kidnapped their women and children. When the hunters returned, they were absolutely livid (natch – no supper for them), and managed to track their families down.  They quickly overcame the baddies, and the baddies expected to be speared for being baddies. Well, the original mob had a better idea and made said baddies dig holes in the ground with the women’s sticks (which was very infra-dig because the baddies were men and mustn’t meddle with women’s things – sticks, that is).  They then buried the baddies in the holes they’d dug, with their heads sticking out the top, and they became rocks. The rocks of Kata Tjuta. There are many other stories that Wick and Dick told us about these rocks, involving snakes and things, and we were highly entertained by them all.

Next was Uluru.  It is so famous that most of you will probably have seen pictures or film of it, but as is always the case, seeing it is a completely different experience.  It is big, beautiful and, again, very, very red, and we had two more extended walks around the base of this wonderful rock. These are walks we would not have missed for the world, but it was bloody hot!

Wick and Dick were brilliant guides. Not just because of their great humour, but also for their depth of knowledge. They had so many stories and anecdotes up their sleeves, it was really fantastic. We had a brief look at the Sunrise Viewing Area, an enormous space set aside for the said activity. It is an impressively large area of tarmac, set beside the rock. It has masses of car parking spaces marked out, and special areas for coaches and buses, and for the disabled. It also has a splendid set of loos for all persuasions. It is immaculate. It set the Government back 21 million dollars to build, and they certainly got their money’s worth. The orientation of the site was the special project of a Sydney company. Who experienced a little difficulty with the concepts of ‘sunrise’ and ‘sunset’. So the brand-new viewing area sits in the shadows of Uluru, as the pesky sun continues to rise on the other side. Oh dear…Wick and Dick were on the ball, though. They found us a lovely place to park up and enjoy the sunset, and proceeded to cook us a ripper barbeque, with loads of salads and snorkers and wine and everything – fab!

We left the park at about 7:30pm, and ETA at Alice was about 1am!  We had an in-bus movie, on one of those baby screens – Avatar. Blimey, great choice. Filmed in 3-D, and even shown in I-Max cinemas – not exactly small-screen stuff…but it’s a long enough film and managed to chew up well over 2 hours of the journey.

Our final day in Alice was Australia Day.  We’d been warned that everything would be shut, and it was, but, frankly, that suited us fine.   We were whacked after our trip to Uluru, and used the day usefully, doing laundry, and reading books by the pool.  It was heaven.  We made a return visit to our delightful Thai restaurant, and then packed our bags in readiness for our flight to Darwin.

Darwin, and the Origin of Beaches

We really didn’t know what to expect.  We ‘d seen weather forecasts for Darwin whilst travelling round the rest of Oz, and it looked permanently thundery and humid.  So we decided that if the weather wasn’t going to be great, well, we’d just chill out for a couple of days, and catch up on the blog.

What a great surprise! A short flight from Alice, and we landed in blazing sunshine! We shuttled to our hotel – the Vibe, on the new waterfront complex in Darwin.  It is brand new, very comfortable, super cheap and we had A MICROWAVE in our room. Yee hah! This might not mean much to you, dear readers, but it was vital to us. Our  stock of Oz dollars was rapidly diminishing, and a microwave meant that we could pick up a couple of cheapo meals, and thus could slip into the brilliant routine of doing stuff during the day, and eating in/reading/blogging in the evenings – perfect.  So, Darwin was shaping up very nicely indeed.

We explored the city, and fell in love with it, and the people, who were uniformly pleasant and laid back.  We investigated hiring a car or motorbike, but decided against it. It would have been a waste of money, as it was just not necessary.  Darwin had enough to keep us happy for the few days we were there, including lovely walks, and great bars. Especially The Fox, where we met Debbie, a lovely lady who is threatening to include the UK in a proposed world trip next year (just DO it, girl!), and a cinema, where we managed to catch up on a couple more Oscar-nominated movies. One was The King’s Speech. We thoroughly enjoyed this. A small film, beautifully done. And then there was the Grey Duck. Er, Black Swan. OK on some levels, dire on others. Still have True Grit and The Fighter at the top of our pile.

The Vibe, our rather groovy hotel, is part of a huge regeneration project, down by the sea. They’ve built hotels, apartments, a conference centre, shops, roads, a wave-pool, and a lagoon, with a beach. Why build a false beach, with such an extensive coastline? Well, in the sea there are sharks. Oh, and maybe, the odd crocodile. And a plague of stingers – jellyfish, that is. So, we loved the lagoon, and it’s lovely, sandy beach. Man-made, yes, but hot, swimmable water, and nobody biting chunks out of you…

It’s an ill wind…

Mother Nature’s really playing the bitch on Australia this year. Not content with floods in Queensland, New South Wales, and Victoria, and fires at Lakes Entrance and Perth, she decided to introduce another Cyclone.  This event was planned for the night of our departure. It was expected to make landfall around Cairns, which threatened to impact our flight. Our plane from Darwin to Singapore originated in Cairns, but that was just one of the airports that had to close because of fears about the approaching tempest. We were lucky, however. Jetstar managed to re-jig their schedules, and eventually we left Australia behind, just one-and-a-half hours late. The cyclone wreaked havoc, as predicted, and once more the population of Queensland was subjected to more pain.

Singalonga Singapore

We had every intention of staying in a transfer hotel room at Changi Airport, as we were due to arrive at 9:30pm, and it seemed the most sensible thing to do, as our flight to Hanoi was due to take off at 3.30pm the following afternoon. However, at check-in at Darwin airport we discovered that we couldn’t in fact do that, because we were not, technically, in transit.  So, literally moments before we were called for our flight, we managed to book a hotel in Singapore using the laptop, and Expedia. Our priorities were (a) near the airport and (b) cheap. We found what seemed to be a very reasonable hotel, called the Perak, in Perak Road. It was nowhere near the airport, but  cheap? Oh yes!

Our flight with Jetstar was very comfortable.  The food was the best airplane food we have ever eaten – chicken and noodles.  It was just scrummy. Masses of chicken, and the flavour was really terrific.  Well done, Jetstar.

The flight was about 4 hours, but went by in no time.  When we arrived at Changi, we quickly collected our bags, found the hotel shuttle bus, booked our journey and were on our way.

It was night time, knocking on 10pm, and the place was buzzing. It was Chinese New Year, and hair, everywhere was being let down. The transfer took about an hour – longer than we’d thought it might, but that was because we were the last hotel on the run!  The first drop was at a Hilton, and the next was to another one – how many do they need? Both were in what seemed to be a rather flash, modern part of the city, near the river. There was light rain, but certainly not enough to dampen spirits. Lights sparkled, New Year’s lanterns swayed in the breeze, and, everywhere, masses of people swarmed to their various celebrations. We looked, somewhat regretfully, at the Novotel, as we sped past, wondering fleetingly if we should perhaps have played safe, and paid more…but the bus carried on, away from the splendour of the high-rise part of the city, and into a warren of little lanes, thronging with people, bikes, music and cafés.  Our excitement began to mount and, suddenly, the driver announced that our hotel was just ahead, but that the road was too narrow to take the bus any further!

We dismounted, ruckies on backs, and trudged through the crowds to the Perak Hotel.

We walked into a different world. A charming man on the desk immediately presented us with a satsuma each, and a bottle of water, wishing us a Happy New Year.  Yep, we’d managed to bag ourselves another festival – it was Chinese New Year, it was nearly midnight, and we were in Singapore!

Chinese New Year is a major deal for the Chinese, and there are a lot of them in Singapore. Now, everyone enjoys a good knees-up, and the fact that we were slap-bang in the middle of the Indian section of town, didn’t lessen the hoolie one whit. The joint was jumping, and the whole world seemed to be celebrating. The Year of the Rabbit was underway, and the streets were hopping to a cacophony of Bangra, Reggae, Rap, and Europop, blasting out of every café, car radio, house and shop. Because it was nearly 11:30pm, we went out for a drink and snack immediately on dropping our bags, in our cutest of rooms, and the receptionist recommended a bar/café, the Countryside Café, just around the corner.  Inaptly named it may have been, but it was just terrific. We fought our way through the press of revellers, and there, deep in the heart of this crowded city, was a little haven of delights. Countryside? No. Café? One of the very best. The owner, Shreelatha Menon, gave us the menus and immediately started chatting to us.  Within minutes there was very little we didn’t know about her family, and even less she didn’t know about ours!  The food –  hot and sour curries from Southern India, was outstanding, and even though it was washed down with a decent splash of beer and coffee, the whole bill came to less than £7 each. Delicious, and outstanding value, and a real shock coming on the heels of expensive Oz. Wonderful. Shreelatha was great fun, and we were up to the scuppers in New Year spirit, before the long day kicked in, and we retired to our hotel

We fell into bed, although as our room was street-facing and the whole neighbourhood was set in for an all-nighter, we didn’t really sleep until 4ish in the morning. At 5am, on the dot, the local muezzin kicked in with his call to prayer, and, by 6am the local traffic sprung into life, hooters hooting, and honkers honking.

Unperturbed by our short night, and conscious of the fact that we had to leave for the airport in the early afternoon, we had a splendid breakfast (included in the price!) before setting out to explore. It would have been silly to have strayed too far from our area, as there was just so much to take in, and, besides, we had already decided we will definitely have to return. Singapore has, apparently the best quality of life of any city in Asia, and we can add to that the fact that they know how to party as well.

The atmosphere in the Indian district, with it’s cafés, markets, shops, smells (well, most of them) and fascinating streets was so exciting. We had a really good look round, and, surprise, surprise, found ourselves back at The Countryside Café for a couple of beers, before taxiing back to the airport. We sat outside the café, enjoyed our beers, and had a chat, this time with the absolutely charming Thishanthi Thanuja Perera, a beautiful Sri Lankan student, who was working at the café. As we sat there, we were most entertained by the ladies of the Thai massage parlour next door.  Yes, yes, but not that sort of entertained.  There were three lovely ladies there, and because it was the Chinese New Year, they were very busy building a beautiful little shrine to Buddha outside their premises.  The shrine was decorated with incense, candles, fruit, flowers, biscuits and, finally, a very beautiful little cake!  It was charming, and the effort and time they took to make it as beautiful as possible was really sweet. We said farewell to the café, and the city.  A very brief, but thoroughly energising visit.

So, back to the airport, and a bit of a wait as the plane was delayed by a couple of hours, and then up on the board came that most exotic of destinations, Hanoi. We were finally on our way to Vietnam, and we were well up for it. Into the unknown – yee-double-hah!

A tale of one city (2)

It’s a dog

Madi says blog-dog Chisel is, in fact, Chizel. It’s a dog, Madi. A small dog, at that. Covered in long hair. You can barely tell one end from the other. It’s in love with a pink plastic ball, with nobbles on. If you throw the ball, he’ll chase and recover it. Even in three hundred degrees of heat. Ah well, it’s a bit much to expect him to be able to spell, as well.

(Robin:  Madi is my daughter, currently in the midst of a two-year visit to Australia, via the US, and she’ll complete her circuit of the planet in 2012. The story of her trip is to be found in the blog of all blogs, at http://lamurph.wordpress.com.  My son, James, currently in New York, also has a great blog, at http://lemurph.wordpress.com Blimey! Worra Lorra Bloggers! That reminds me of three towns in Queensland…)

Big circuit, little penguins

Madi had to work the following day, so we took ourselves off to Phillip Island, located a good 130km south of Melbourne. 

We left Melbourne after lunch, and had a leisurely drive down to the southern coast. We had an evening date with some little people, but first we had a track to see. Off the mainland, across the bridge, and soon, on the left, comes the turning to the race track.

Phillip Island boasts possibly one of the most beautiful circuits in the world, and annually hosts rounds of Moto GP and World Superbikes, as well as the Aussie V8s. The girls working there were great – they let us in for a good look round, and a wander through the grounds.  The track is stunning. A mini-Mugello, set beside the sea. Their Visitor Centre is an impressive facility, with great displays, and a museum and shop. Out the back is a pretty little wooded area, with an enclosure for wallabies and, rather sadly, a beautiful cockatoo called Robbie, all on it’s own in a cage. Maybe they’ll find him a friend, called Gary.

We then drove down to the far south-west of the Island, to the beach where the little penguins live. These are really quite famous, and it’s always been our intention to pay them a visit. We bought tickets at Penguin Visitor Reception, and were told to be back at 8pm to secure a good spot on the bleachers, to view them coming ashore. We went to Cowes, a charming little resort on the north coast, and had a lovely meal at a Tex-Mex restaurant.  It was nearly penguin time, so we returned to the beach and waited patiently for 9pm – the scheduled time of their arrival. And penguins don’t do late…

Do they have wristwatches? GPS? Or, God forbid, sat nav?

Well, however they do it, every evening, at sunset, about six-and-a-half thousand of the little pingwings, who’ve been at sea all day, filling their tummies with pilchards for their families, roll out of the water. They’re about a foot tall. They used to be called Fairy Penguins, but now are, officially, Little Penguins. Don’t ask. At 9pm on the dot, they appear, as if by magic, from the surf, in groups of about 20. They stand up, shake the excess water off their stubby wings, and stand around, waiting for one of their number to be brave enough, or stupid enough, to be the first one up the beach. Eventually, one of them blinks, and sets off on a waddle towards the dunes, and its burrow. Once that first move is made, the others duly fall in behind, single-file, spruced up like a flock of waiters at a black-tie do, heaving along in each others footsteps. You can tell who’s had the best day’s fishing – it’s the one with the greatest rotundity. The better  the fishing, the bigger the tummy, the greater the waddle. Simple as that.  Except there are not words to describe how absolutely wonderful this is.  It is beyond cute, beyond clever, and they don’t seem to mind at all, all the humans, perched on two makeshift grandstands, aaaaahing and cooing all over the place; they just carry on with their fat little tummies, until they reach home, which can be as far as 2km away from the shoreline. The best part is that once they’ve left the beach, you can follow their progress, and see them reuniting with their chicks. There are boardwalks that connect the beach to the dunes, and you walk alongside the penguins as they, after a few strategic rest-stops, make it back to their families. We were there for hours. A superb experience. All photography is strictly forbidden, except for the usual dispensation that seems to be issued to all certified idiots who simply will not do as they’re asked. May they zoom into their own graves at 400 ASA, and find their endings uploaded to YouTube.

We bought a couple of official snaps from the shop, and re-photographed those, so you can sit in cuteness judgement.

It was a long journey home that night, but we were so happy after seeing the little fellows, we just didn’t care.

Maditours Grand Prix: Lap 1 

The next day, Madi was to play guide to us, in the city of Melbourne.  When we say ‘guide’, well, you may be acquainted with some of the elements required for qualification in this profession. But. No woggle in sight, no telescope, no cleft-stick. No stout boots, no ordinance-survey map in a plastic pouch, no topee. No flask of tea, no elastoplast, and, definitely, no Kendal Mint Cake. No, just Madi, on back seat of Siouxie, with one of those not-terribly-detailed flexi-maps, and six month’s knowledge of Melbourne, that includes never having driven there. Just to spice things up a little, we’d picked up a brand-new map of Melbourne in a newsagents in Lakes Entrance. Brand-new, but, on subsequent inspection, published in 2006, and never updated. In the interim, Melbourne had grown a few new roads, including some fairly major ones, and has implemented a few surprising one-way systems. Throw in some special signage for the Open Tennis, the 20/20 cricket, and a bit of visionary stuff for the F1 Grand Prix, and add to the mix one of the finest tram systems in the world. So, lots of tramlines in the middle of the road. And lots of tramstops. And woe betide you if you overtake a tram when it stops. And then there’s hook-turns. Is there anywhere else in the world with hook-turns? Kabul, maybe? Bhagdad? Hook Norton?

For the uninitiated, a hook-turn is a right turn, from the left hand lane. Geddit? So you’re at the lights. You want to turn right. You have to get into the left hand lane, and wait. And wait. Traffic crosses, all at once, from all directions. The lights change, and change again. And you sit there. And traffic crosses. And the lights change again. And you reach ‘sod-it’ level. The lights change, and you give it steam. Rubber on pavement. Better than a mouse on the Aga. You’ve completed your first hook-turn.

Between us, we successfully navigated our way to Albert Park.

Albert Park is the venue for this year’s Australian F1 Grand Prix, the second round of. the 2011 Championship. It is a beautiful park in the middle of Melbourne, in which they create a temporary circuit, importing grandstands, pit garages, hospitality areas etc., and make it into a wonderful venue for this spectacular event. Madi is our entry for Mastermind – specialist subject, F1. She loves it, and has managed to infect many of her friends, too. We did a couple of laps (natch), missing out a little bit which hasn’t been built yet for this year, parked up on pole position, and had a good look around race control.  They still have all the qualifying and race results for 2010 displayed on the board – sweet.

We then made our way down to Acland Street in St Kilda, and the beaches – and had an absolutely stonking brunch at Greasy Joe’s, served to us by a delightful Irish girl.  For pudding, and because Kate (our friend at the Flight Centre in Wimbledon) had given us the heads up (verified by Madi – who is a connoisseur in such matters), we went to the 7 Apples. It was heaven. One of the world’s great ice-cream parlours. After that, we needed a little walk – so we drove down to the beaches and had a little meander around along the cliffs.  We then went onto Brighton Beach and admired the beautiful bathing huts.  The weather was great, and we had a stunning, and toasty, walk.

Heading back into the city, Madi announced that she would like to take us up the Eureka building for our Christmas present. This is a skyscraper with the highest viewing platform in the Southern Hemisphere. We parked underneath the tower, and went up the 297 metres to the top.  The views were outstanding. We could see absolutely everything in the inner city. Taking it a step further, we bought tickets to go into The Edge, a glass cube that slides sideways out of the top of the building. Walls, ceiling, and floor are completely see-through. Yee hah! It was actually a brilliant way to get a handle on the layout of the city.

Afterwards, determined to take full advantage of the great weather, we wandered out onto Southbank, by the river, and found a delightful Greek restaurant called Othello (presumably they think the food is so good that you’ll want eat Moor…)

Maditours Grand Prix: Lap 2

A good start, but we were just hitting our stride. Again the weather was fab, so after much debate (tram v. train v. car) we drove into the city (car won).  Initially this was not such a good idea.  To our horror and disbelief, we discovered that parking in the city centre was on offer at about $70 for the day! No, Sir! So we doubled back to the MCG (Melbourne Cricket Ground), further along the river. We had intended to visit this former site of the 1956 Olympics later, as Madi had already found out that there was to be a 20/20 match there on the Saturday night. It is a hundred-thousand seat stadium, and has ample car parking around it. We found that they were providing parking for the Open Tennis, at the next-door Rod Laver stadium, for just $8. Yes, Sir! The MCG is an enormous stadium, and around the outside is a whole series of lovely sculptures, celebrating famous Australian sporting heroes. The walk from there into the city was fairly short, but it was very hot, and so probably felt a bit longer.  We crossed the most amazing pedestrian bridge, which sang to us (v. spooky, esp. if it had been night time). It was a sort of multi-ethnic oral extravaganza – weird, but it gave us the most amazing view of the Rod Laver Arena – and a free view of the tennis! We took some pics, because we could, and then wandered into Federation Square.

The buildings around Federation Square are incredible. Very modern, but with a real feel for public space, and history.  The colours they’ve used are the colours of the desert. It’s all browns, and terracotta and creams, and it houses the Museum of the Moving Image.  When travelling, it’s always a bonus to find decent exhibitions or museums, particularly those that are actually free.  ‘Doing’ a city, you can actually tot up mucho dinero on entrance fees. 

We were immediately grateful for the blast of air-con that assailed us on entering the building, and in turn, entranced by the exhibitions. It is not enormous facility, but it is great, and very much ‘hands on’. There were hundreds of children, no doubt using up a day of their school holidays, enjoying this very interactive experience, which showcases all aspects of the moving image, from the beginnings of cinema to the advent of computer games and the internet. A brilliant place.

Moving on, we walked further into the city, where the modern mixes very well with the old.  There are sleek high-rise buildings, cheek-by-jowl with the original little streets, lined with street cafés and individual shops.  We stopped for a beer and a light lunch, before making our way to Victoria Market.  This is a enormous area, devoted to massive stalls of meat, fish and veg, and, in a separate area, clothes and household goods.  It reminded us of some of the best city markets of Europe. It was already 4pm by the time we arrived, and it was winding down, so we made our way back to the car, and turned our thoughts to tucker.

Those of you who are hardened readers of our blog will remember our encounter with an Ethiopean, Aberra. He works at Alamo Car Rental, at Los Angeles airport. He was the guy who checked over our hire-car when we dropped it off, and incredibly, we discovered he was a polymath, who had attended, as a volunteer, all the Olympic Games, both Summer and Winter, and World Cups, for the last 40 years. He actually greeted us with ‘You’re from the UK – see you in 2012!’  After telling him we were off to Australia, he told us of an Ethiopian restaurant in Melbourne that we just had to visit. ‘It’s run by a dear friend. It’s called Nyala. It’s on Brunswick Street.’  Well, we were in Melbourne, we were ready to eat, so Madi’s next navigation task was to Brunswick Street – and the restaurant.  

After a couple of interesting u-turns, and the odd ‘actually, you probably should have turned right there, Dad’, we fetched up on Brunswick Street, in Fitzroy, and found Nyala. 

It is an absolutely beautiful restaurant, with African embroidered tablecloths, pictures and carvings on the walls, and completely different to any other restaurant we had visited on our entire trip.  We ordered beers (African, this time), and then our food, from a massive menu that boasted dishes from all over East Africa.  It was outstanding. Aberra was right; the food was just marvellous. We spotted a guy who we thought might be the manager, and asked if he was Ermias.  He said yes, and we started to tell him how his restaurant had been recommended to us. Before we could mention his name, Ermias said ‘Ah – you met Aberra!’  Aberra, it turns out, is an old friend of his, who’d  travelled all the way from LA for Ermias’ wedding in the 1990’s.  They are extremely good friends. So far, this evening had been great on so many levels, but we were totally unprepared for what happened next. Ermias came towards us, proffering a mobile phone. He had phoned Los Angeles, and had Aberra waiting to speak to us.  Bearing in mind that we last saw him in LA a month earlier, and had chatted to him for a maximum of 5 minutes, he remembered us really well – it was honestly like chatting with an old friend.  He was delighted that we had managed to make it to his friend’s restaurant, and determined that we should meet again, in 2012, at the Olympics.  So are we. We know where to find him, and how to make contact. Just Google his name, and you will find him. Aberra, what a legend!  And, it has to be said, he epitomises all that travelling is about. Chance meetings, with such big-hearted and interesting people. Awesome.

Working our way through the Oscars

After our magnificent repast, it was still early, so we decided to notch up another Oscar-nominated film. This is a great hobby, and always makes the Oscars so much more worthwhile, if you can either agree, or vehemently disagree, with their choices. We had clocked a multiplex within 10 minutes of Madi’s home, so made our way up there to see The Fighter, which has notched up a few nominations. It was outstanding.  Not going to give anything away, promise, but we urge all of you to see it.  We didn’t know much about it before we saw it, and may have been put off a bit if we’d have known that it involved boxing, but boxing is absolutely not what the film is about. Nuff said. The cast is magnificent, the pace and plot are superb, and it’s a true story.  Just go and see it – now!

The film came down pretty late – past 11pm, and we were a bit directionally challenged as to how to get back to the car. We‘d parked outside one of the entrances to the mall. The flexi-map was no good for this eventuality – and, amazingly, it took us about 20 minutes to find the car! All malls look like all other malls.  Luckily, we weren’t tired enough to be too irritated by this, just amused at the total lack of signage.  Anyway, safely back in Siouxie, we dropped off Madi, and made our way back to our motel.

Maditours Grand Prix: Lap 3 

Because we knew we were going to the cricket in the evening, we picked up Madi a little later in the morning. Once again we drove into the city; our destination this day, the Museum. We quickly found a parking-space and a meter, and discovered to our glee that we only had to pay for parking up until 12:30.  We put the money in the meter, and it promptly spat it out, plus an extra 30 cents. And a ticket. This, my dears, meant the parking had PUT US IN PROFIT.  Has this ever happened to anyone else?  Anywhere? We thought it was a miracle!

We walked through the beautiful Carlton Gardens to get to the museum, and on the way, came across an unbelievable collection of classic and hot-rod cars. It’s apparently Australia’s biggest Hot-Rod show of the year, and we’d come across it by chance.  It was just incredible, a petrol-heads dream.  The cars displayed were fantastic, and although we didn’t go into the building, as that would have cost money, there were at least 50 or so cars on display outside.  They were just gleaming and gorgeous.  Some in original livery, and some souped-up in bright and beautiful colours. All were in fantastic nick.  And some of the owners were in full period costume as well – great stuff! We enjoyed a good stroll through the cars and bikes, both on the way, and on the way back from the Museum.

The Museum was lovely.  Not expensive to get in, and very worthwhile. It’s really a natural history museum, and we spent ages looking at the dinosaurs, insects, and animals on display, in this bright, mainly glass building.  They also had a tropical rain forest section, where we found an Eastern Water Dragon, like the ones we’d played with in Queensland, with Mandy and Peter, called Wally.  There were also two owls watching our progress. They have an area devoted to past bush fires, and it struck us, once again, how many challenges Australia has for the population. Having experienced the floods in Queensland and Victoria, and now reading about all the devastating fires, not to mention the insects and snakes out there – well, it just reinforces the fact that it’s a wild and difficult country still, and it makes you appreciate just how terrifying a place it must have been for the early settlers. 

It was nearly time for the 20/20 cricket, but as we’d planned to do the Great Ocean Road the following day, we dropped by Safeways, to buy our picnic, and a Magnum each, to keep us going….

Having stored our picnic safely in Madi’s fridge, we made our way back to the MCG, and our evening’s entertainment – the 20/20 match between Victoria and New South Wales. Very much a local derby, with not a lot of love lost.

We decided to get there early, to take advantage of the cut-price entry to the museum underneath the stadium, to which all ticket-holders were entitled. This was well worth it. The museum features virtually all the sports, famous sportsmen/women, and all the sporting events in Australia’s history, including features and exhibits on the 1956 Olympics, the Melbourne Cup winners, F1, Aussie Rules footy, and cricket, of course. There were cabinets full of trophies donated by the stars, including a splendid collection from Jack Brabham. His World Championship-winning car was there as well. We had great fun with the interactive screens. Madi proved a dab hand at guessing whether a batsman was out or not, and then having her decision confirmed by the third umpire. Every cricket fan should try it. There was a superb projected hologram exhibit, featuring Shane Warne. It was almost too good to properly describe. But great fun. A great exhibition, and well worth the visit.

We escalated up to the match. It really is the most magnificent stadium. The sun was blazing down, and we settled in our seats, armed with our beers, ready to rumble.

The tickets were only $15, and it was lovely to see so many whole families turn up for what was a great evening’s entertainment. There were Mexican waves, mascots, people in full fancy-dress, flamethrowers accompanying every four, six, and wicket, singing, chanting, beach-ball bouncing, live TV interviews, snatches of rock music at the end of every over – oh, and a bit of cricket thrown in as well! For the record, New South Wales won, and deservedly so. We had a brilliant time. Madi disappeared at one poiut, and returned with Meat Pies. An Aussie tradition. A circular pie, filled with meat, and very hot gravy. Almost impossible to eat without making a horrible mess. But we managed, and they were actually quite delicious.

Maditours Grand Prix: The Final Lap

Fog, rain and wind greeted us the next day. We’d planned to visit the Great Ocean Road, and we stuck with the plan. It was a long trip, and the weather has a habit of changing rapidly here.  We successfully navigated our way out of Melbourne, managing at all times to avoid the dreaded toll roads, which tend to sneak up on you if you are not careful.  Note to all possible travellers and bloggees: the toll roads around Melbourne are terrifying. You don’t always know you are approaching one, so you can find yourself on one without knowing. There are no toll-booths, and you have to pay by phone or online.  Which is fine, if you know you’ve been on one. But the signage is crap. Non-existent. Be warned. They are empty roads, because the locals know better. Grrrrr..

The weather didn’t improve – visibility was rubbish – we couldn’t see the sea, the hills or anything, so, 200km into our trip, we decided to call it a day, and admit defeat. We’d gone a considerable way along the Great Ocean Road, a stunning drive normally, with fantastic coastal views, but not today. So we ate our picnic, and turned back.  As luck would have it, the nearer we got to Melbourne, the better the weather became. It improved enough for us to stop and wander round Lorne – delightful – and buy ice creams – even more delightful, which we ate on the beach.

By the time we got back to Melbourne, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky!  Madi had a Really Good Idea.  A bar/pub selling Belgian Beer.  We parked up, and enjoyed a welcome refreshment in the extensive beer garden, before making our way to Ligon Street, and dinner.

Ligon Street is Little Italy. A long, long street, lined with Italian restaurants. All the owners are outside their establishments, touting for trade. They entice potential customers with offers of free drinks, snacks, the finest, finest food you will ever eat etc etc. Actually, they’re right. We settled for free drinks, and free bruschetta, and had a great meal. After dinner, we headed back to the motel, and Madi, reviewed our trip photos so far – a mighty task!

Sadly it was time for goodbyes – our time with lovely Madi, and lovely Melbourne, had come to an end. We’d greeted her with a few little, late Christmas presents that we’d picked up in the States. She’s almost certainly the only person in the whole of Australia with an Obama colouring-book.

We gave her gifts, and she gave us a great time. Vaya con Dios, babe.. .

PS: As we post this, a cyclone is approaching the East Coast. It contains enough energy to power the whole world, for a year…blimey!

A tale of one city

 There’s an amazing, steep railway that links the Blue Mountains to Sydney. It’s a real feat of engineering, with an endless series of cuttings and banks, keeping it beside our road, on the descent to the valley floor just south of Penrith. It is really funny coming across such British-sounding places in such a totally foreign context – Penrith, Windsor, and Richmond all sit at the foot of the mountains, regularly basking in the heat of the Hawkesbury valley, west of Sydney. Our drive was short, direct and easy, taking us through lovely scenery and little villages, until we started to reach the urban outskirts of Sydney. Our map wasn’t terribly detailed, and, well, you know that thing where it all looks fairly straightforward on paper, and then you hit the reality of the city? However, we kept our heads and, after only falling foul of a couple of one-way systems, found ourselves outside the door of the Woolbrokers Hotel. We’d found it, tucked away on the internet, and now here it was in the flesh, in Pyrmont. It’s in a stunning position, on the corner of Harris and Allen Streets, just a four-minute stroll from Darling Harbour. You couldn’t ask for a more central location in the city. They probably style themselves as a hostel, but they boast some facilities that would shame many a hotel. We were distinctly unsure when we booked it. It was remarkably cheap for its position, just moments from the harbour and all the ferries that link you to the rest of the city and beyond. Lovely. We haven’t really waxed too lyrical about many of our accommodations on this trip, but do feel this one deserves a special mention.  The guys on reception were great, full of very handy local information, and with a totally relaxed, informal attitude.  The building is, as it says on the tin, the old Woolbrokers building, and dates back into the 1800’s. Our room had a beautiful high ceiling, a brand-new shower room, air con, and a kitchen area with a fridge and a kettle etc. Within minutes of our arrival, our trusty travel hair-drier, still set to American voltage, blew itself to oblivion. Steve, one of the reception desk-jockeys immediately lent us a really posh replacement, and said we could hang onto it till we left – marvellous.

Hot Town, summer in the city.

Sydney.  A great city.  A beautiful bright, bustling, friendly place, spread around a fantastic harbour of numerous pretty bays, and studded with little islands. The water is the lifeblood of the place. Tiny craft mix it with super-size ocean liners, commercial fishing boats with speed-boats, swimmers, water-skiers, oil-tankers, freighters, water-taxies, yachts, rowing-boats, kayaks, and even a number of seaplanes, giving tourists a bird’s-eye view of the action, swooping above the tumult, and somehow finding enough space to take-off and land on the crowded waters. And through it all weave the ubiquitous ferries. It’s a fantastic network that links all parts of the harbour with its surrounding neighbourhoods and beaches. We used them to the max. We were only there for a short time, but we bought a couple of weekly tickets. This proved very cost-effective, as, after eight trips you begin to save money. And we knew we’d easily clock up the journeys, particularly as the tickets are valid on the city buses and trains as well.

So, after a couple of Tooheys at Darling Harbour to celebrate the glorious sunshine, and a smidge of calamari for energy, we boarded our first ferry out to Circular Quay, the major ferry terminal/interchange.

You will probably all have seen pictures of Sydney Opera House, and the Harbour Bridge, but seeing them in the flesh is a marvellous sight.  As we left the quiet waters of Darling Harbour and entered the busy mainstream, there they suddenly are, in front of you.  You go under the Bridge, swing right in front of the Opera House, and are soon in Circular Quay.

Crowds swarmed around, eyeing the ferry destination boards, the tourist-tat stalls, the cafes – the joint really jumps. Oh, and the buskers. There are buskers. Now, we like a good busker. Someone with a bit of skill. Doesn’t matter what instrument, as long as they can hold a tune. Or juggle. Or dance. Or whatever. As long as there’s a modicum of talent on show. What is a major piss-off, is the new breed of techno-busker. This is a person whose only major skill is to get hold of a ghetto-blaster. And turn it up to eleven. From this machine comes a tape of the London Philharmonic/the Beatles/the Three Tenors/the Brighouse and Rastrick Brass Band, filling the air with all their glory. Techno-busker waits, and then feebly attempts to pick out a version of the melody, in a sub-Bert Weedon beginner’s way. Not good enough. This was exemplified, on the Quay, by an Aborigine, covered in make-up, puffing the odd note on a didgeridoo, to a fulsome backing tape, whilst a white guy with a microphone went into a deathless routine that begun ‘come closer, don’t worry, he won’t eat you, we fed him earlier…’ It was nice to see that most tourists passed by on the other side…

We made our way around the Quay towards the Opera House, which is smaller than you’d think from pictures, and not white.  It is, in fact, cream and brown, and looks very sweet and, a bit old-fashioned now.  After all it’s 40 years since the Queen opened it, and is a building very much of it’s time. But this, and its familiarity, only seems to enhance the charm, and we decided to have a closer look, inside – and, of course, as outside it was now officially scorchio, take advantage of its air-con!  There were a couple of long queues at the box office, so we decided to check out the events. We saw that the following evening was the first night of Carmen. A classic opera, at one of the world’s most iconic opera houses? What a laugh! So, with no real expectation of success, we joined the queue. The air-con was good, anyway. We eventually made it to the front, and to our utter astonishment, got lucky.  There were a couple of tickets left, in the stalls. We grabbed them. Yee hah! On our way back, we celebrated with further schooners of our dear friend Mr Toohey, and discussed plans for the following day.

Which dawned a little overcast, but the cloud cover would soon burn off in the sunshine. We’d planned, one, to buy a more detailed map, two, to find an internet connection, and, three, to explore, via ferry, other bits of the city.  So, on the advice of our Helpful Reception Staff, we boarded the nearby monorail (a couple of bucks each), and took ourselves to George Street, in the main shopping district of the city.  We found our map in Dymock’s, and internet in – Macdonalds!  Apparently Macdonalds is the only free internet available in the city – and all their branches have it – great.  Coffee isn’t bad, either. 

We walked down to Circular Quay, having consulted our new map, and decided to embark on our first ferry ride of the day, to Watsons Bay.  The sky was still a little bit hazy, but there were promising bright bits up there. The ride was lovely. Watsons Bay is delightful. It’s on the southern headland that forms the mouth of Sydney Harbour. The sandy bay is flanked with little cafes and pubs and a short, steep walk takes you across a green park, with trees full of chattering cockatoos and galahs, to The Gap.  This is a low saddle in the wall of cliffs. And it overlooks the crashing ocean. Next stop New Zealand!  The waves smashed against the rocks below, in a very Cornwallian type of way, and refreshed the air beautifully, under the now hot sun. It’s a dramatic sight, and, in common with many such a place around the world, is, sadly, a bit of a hotspot for suicides. On Australia Day, a lovely old boy was honoured. He’s local to the Gap, and over the years he’s been responsible for saving 150+ lives. His method is to chat to the unhappy people, and invite them back to his nearby bungalow, where his wife plies them with cups of tea… After admiring the view for a while, we made our way back to the jetty, and some very welcome beers.  Beer really is a staple of Australian culture, and, in the climate, very necessary. We were more than happy to embrace this culture. 

We left Watsons Bay and made our way back to the Woolbrokers, a wonderful trip that became like a mini cruise, as the ferry went back and forth across the harbour, making its stops and pick-ups.

We had to find something suitable to frock up for the opera. It wasn’t just propriety – tee-shirts, shorts and flip-flops (alright, bloody thongs!) can be a bit chilly in air-con. This was our first posh outing of the trip really, and we needed to do a little work on clothes that had been rucksacked since the States. We found an iron and a board on the second floor, and attempted to press out 2 months of travel from skirt, trousers and shirt, respectively. Duly impressed with the results, we boarded the ferry and, after the important swift beer at the theatre bar, made our way to our seats.

The Gypsy Woman rules

An opera buff might say that the production was magnificent, doing full justice to the rousing melodies and flamenco-inspired romanticism of Bizet’s masterpiece, and features a world-class performance by mezzo-soprano, Rinat Shaham, a massive star, at the forefront of her profession, who embodies the mercurial, sensual Carmen with an electrifying emotional power.

A non-opera buff might say that it was a cracking show, with ripper tunes, and the beaut playing Carmen has a massive front…

Australia has just awarded a young soldier, Ben Roberts-Smith, with the Victoria Cross. Already decorated for bravery on a previous occasion, this father-of-two ran twenty metres over open ground, and took out a machine-gun nest in Afghanistan, as he and two other Aussie solders came under heavy fire, having been caught out in the open, with no cover. His younger brother, Sam, came on in Carmen, as a last-minute understudy, to sing the part of the Toreador. Brilliant, both of them.

We were utterly blown away by the show.  It was a magnificent evening. The orchestra, cast, venue, everything combined to produce a night we will never forget. Proper singing,; no mikes, just powerful, passionate and utterly, utterly beautiful voices.  What a treat!  With Bizet buzzing in our ears, we wandered under the stars, back along the harbour front, and, having missed the last ferry, decided to have a go at catching a bus home.  This proved unexpectedly easy.  We picked up our bus at the terminal behind Circular Quay and it dropped us off 50 yards of our hotel. Fantastic. 

Hats off to Manly

On our last full day in Sydney we decided to start with a visit to the Rocks, a waterside area by Circular Quay, where old cottages, pubs, and warehouses, set in a warren of little streets, have been revitalised as an area for street markets, craft shops, and restaurants. They are very quaint, and beautiful, and the market-stalls had an unusually varied selection of stuff. We spent a good couple of hours pottering about there, but, although we saw plenty of things we liked we were, as per, up against the usual problem faced by all backpackers. We just don’t have the space to carry extra bits around the world. So, sadly empty-handed, we made our way back to the quay, and caught a very full ferry across to Manly Beach. 

The sun was belting down, and although it was refreshing on the boat, we felt the heat of its rays as soon as we hit land. We decided hats were the order of the day. Now, some of you have been introduced to Mr Hat, as featured in our Washington blog. It was time for him to adopt a couple of summery relatives, and so welcome now to Master Hat, and his friend, Miss Very Floppy Hat.  These, we feel, are good future investments, i.e. for the hotter parts of Australia and Asia. The effect of these hats was immediate, and the wisdom could not be challenged.  So, proudly wearing our new purchases, we took in Manly, including a packed beach, and welcome refreshments, before ferrying back to Circular Quay. We then took a stroll uphill, and into the green gardens of Government House. This is a lovely old building, with a series of rooms to explore, including a dining-table set for a giant scoff. The planting in the gardens was beautiful, with glorious bright colours set against the vibrant blues of the sky and harbour. We made our way down to the Botanical gardens, a real treat of a walk, even though we had to pass beneath huge trees, dripping with hundreds of Fruit Bats. Hmm.

Another ferry, back from Circular Quay to Darling Harbour. We lingered awhile, taking it easy in the sunshine, before returning home to the Woolbrokers.

We had decided to eat out that night. We reckoned a restaurant at The Rocks would be good – there were certainly plenty there, so at about 7:30 pm we made our way over by ferry.  Unfortunately, once again, we fell foul of the early eating thing again, as all but one restaurant, which we didn’t particularly fancy, were shut. So we fixed on a very good fish restaurant back at Circular Quay, and enjoyed fine views of the Opera House and Sydney Harbour Bridge at night, for the last time.

Siouxie

The following day, we began our journey to Melbourne.  We vacated our room at Woolbrokers, and discovered that we had also, inadvertently, done another clever thing when we booked.  The car park charge was subsidised, down to $10 a day – that is $30 in total.  Terrific.  So, we paid our dues, picked up Siouxie and were on our way.

Ah yes – Siouxie (without the Banshees) is the SUV that we collected in Coolengatta.  It occurs to us now that we haven’t properly introduced her to you.  She has been named Siouxie for several reasons:

• She has a lot of “X’s” in her reg plate
• She is a pretty white colour
• She is eminently practical
• All the other cars have been blokes

She was actually a Mitsubishi Outlander, and a very fine vessel too.  Coincidentally, she is also the same make of car as Mandy and Peter’s, only white, not navy, and theirs is a bloke called Billy.

We debated our route to Melbourne.  The choices were (1), to take the inland and shorter route, with a side-trip to Canberra, and (2), to take the longer coastal route, continuing along Route 1, which we had taken originally as our route down from the Gold Coast.  In the end we decided to take Route 1, largely because the weather was beautiful, and it looked a bit more interesting.  To take the first route, visiting Canberra, we would have had to do a 100km round-trip off our road anyway. 

So, we took the road down the coast, which definitely lived up to its promise.  This journey was over 1,000km, and it was our intention to do at least 700km that day. We made it to a place called Lakes Entrance, which, we’d heard, was rather lovely.  We had nothing booked in advance for the night, so we took pot luck. We fetched up at  the Bamboo Motel, and got talking to the owner, a chap from Sevenoaks!

It had been a long journey, probably the longest since we had been in Australia.  And the road, although major, alternated between either single or dual carriageway, with a selection of sometimes very confusing and contradictory speed limits.  But, it was a beautiful route, through Woollongong, down to Nowra, Batemans Bay, Moruya, Bega, Eden, Orbost and eventually Lakes Entrance.  We left at 9am, and arrived at Lakes Entrance at7pm.

After swapping memories of Sevenoaks with the owner, we went out to find some supper.  This was very successful on several counts.  We managed to get to the fish and chip shop before 8pm (we’re learning…), and they did terrific fish and chips.  Grilled barramundi and chips, with pickled onions – yum – and boy, were we ready for them!

The following morning we had a look around the resort. There’s a 90km long, sandy beach, enclosing a strip of calm water, and a series of lakes, between itself and the land.

It’s really very pretty, and had a sort of Amity (Jaws) meets Hayling Island (Gums) feel about it.

The 300km or so left to Melbourne were soon under our belts, and we easily found the Elizabethan Lodge, our lodging for the next 6 nights.

We had pre-booked, because we knew we were to be in Melbourne at the same time as the Open Tennis, so decided it would be better to book accommodation, and not to leave it to chance.

Madi ahoy!

It was a very comfortable motel, but once again, a little tired.  Used frequently as wedding venue, it even has it’s own chapel, and is positioned close to the newly completed M3 toll road, in the suburb of Blackburn. We were a handy 20 minutes away from Preston, where Madi is currently living.

We arranged to meet Madi for dinner, and after finding our way to her new home, we made our way down High Street, to a pub with a great menu, and stuffed ourselves with vegetarian tagines, and tuna salad.  We had a really great night, and ended up on a sofa, in the garden at the back of Madi’s house, repeatedly chucking a pink rubber ball for Chisel (a dog-type dog), and chatting our chops off, until late in the evening.