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…