Photos: http://princeton.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2059952&l=4eadc&id=1101094
My overnight bus arrived in Hanoi the following morning at 7:30, and I dropped my pack at a guesthouse and set off to Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum to view Ho Chi Minh’s preserved body. Immediately I came face to face with Hanoi’s wretched traffic. Though Hanoi, the capital of Vietnam, has two million fewer people than Ho Chi Minh City, its traffic is less tolerable because of its narrow streets. And because the entire sidewalk is taken up by street vendors, the only place to walk is on the road, where you’re constantly dodging motorbikes and half-expecting one to ram you from behind at any moment.
As I made my way through the busy streets, I realized two more things about Hanoi: it’s the dirtiest city that I’d seen in Vietnam, and its people are the least friendly. Here, when I refused a motorbike ride (which happened approximately every thirty seconds) I was met with glares and grumbles. Is it so wrong that I prefer to walk? Plenty of Vietnamese people were walking along with me, and not one of them got asked if they wanted a motorbike ride.
I ate breakfast at a dirty looking pho stand, and despite appearances had the best bowl of noodles of my entire stay in Vietnam. I guess this shouldn’t have surprised me considering pho originated in Hanoi.
When I arrived at Ho Chi Minh’s tomb, it was closed. Though my guidebook told me that it was closed on Fridays, apparently it’s really closed on Mondays. This was disappointing, mostly because I was excited to add another Communist leader to my bodies count. I had already seen formaldehyde-Lenin and formaldehyde-Mao; all that was left was formaldehyde-Ho Chi Minh! But my disappointment was tempered by the realization that I would be back to Hanoi in a few months on my way into southern China. I just need to make sure I’m not here on a Monday again.
I spent the rest of the morning wandering around the Old Quarter of Hanoi which, if not for the trash, the river of motorbikes, and the blasting of motorbike horns, would be quite attractive. Colonial buildings line the narrow alleyways, and in the middle of it all is an attractive lake called Hoan Kiem. I visited a quiet temple in the middle of the lake and stayed there for over an hour, enjoying the break from the stress of the city.
Directions in Hanoi are complicated by the fact that roads change names every few blocks or so. During my 900m walk from the lake to my guesthouse, the road changed names four times. And the one time I took a motorbike, I asked to go to the intersection of two major roads and the driver had no idea what I was talking about. I think people talk about directions here in terms of landmarks rather than road names.
That afternoon I visited Van Mieu (Temple of Literature), an 11th Century complex that served as a university dedicated to the education of mandarins. As in Hoi An, here again Vietnam’s historic links with China are clear: the temple was dedicated to none other than Confucius upon its construction in 1070.
Given its age, the buildings of Van Mieu are very well preserved, and the many courtyards and reflecting pools that surround the buildings made for a relaxing walk, not least because of the absence of crazy motorbike drivers.
On the way back to my guesthouse I passed a huge statue of Lenin. Clearly, Vietnam is much enamored with the man, as the major city park in Hanoi is also named after him.
That evening I attended a traditional water puppet performance at the municipal theater. Though I had low expectations going in (the tickets cost $1.25), the performance was actually quite entertaining despite the fact that I had no idea what the puppets were saying. The music was good, and many of the scenes involved fishing or fighting, which are easy enough to follow even without understanding the language. The performance was short—just over an hour—but it was one of the most entertaining hours I spent in Vietnam.
After the puppet show I downed my last round of Vietnamese food and topped it off with a few French-style pastries (clearly the best remnant of colonialism). The following morning I’d catch a flight to Kuala Lumpur and then on the Bali.
Overall impressions of Vietnam? Not so different than those I expressed back in Ho Chi Minh City. The traffic is terrible, the people are less friendly than most anywhere in Southeast Asia, and everything from food to accommodations is more expensive than in neighboring countries. But the food is excellent, the scenery is stunning, and the culture and history are fascinating. I came away liking the place, though not in any big hurry to return (besides a short stay in Hanoi, Halong Bay, and Sapa in two months).
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Days 139 – 141: Hue
Photos: http://princeton.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2059950&l=817c7&id=1101094
The following morning I caught a bus to Hue and experienced my first daylight intercity travel since I’d entered Vietnam. The road wound along the South China Sea coastline, and the views from the cliffs were at times spectacular, and I found myself half-wishing that I’d taken fewer night buses on the way up the coast. But twelve hour bus rides really are far more painful when they don’t include at least ten hours of sleep.
The weather worsened throughout the five hour journey, and by the time we reached Hue the sky was dark and a slight drizzle was falling. The temperature had also dropped considerably—I’d guess it was only 60 degrees or so. Seeing as I had two more days in Hue, I decided to wait for the weather to get better before wandering around the town, and I spent most of the afternoon reading in a café near my guesthouse.
But the following morning the weather was even worse. The air was just as cold, and the drizzle had turned to a steady rain. I ate a leisurely breakfast and waited for the clouds to clear, but they never did, so in the late morning I set out to see Hue in the rain.
Hue has historically been a very important Vietnamese city, although today it seems like more of a museum. Hue served as the political capital of Vietnam during the Nguyen dynasty, from 1802 to 1945, and it was during this time that the impressive Citadel was built. Situated on the north bank of the Song Huong (Perfume River), the Citadel measures four square kilometers and is enclosed by a thick 6m wall. Though the structure was heavily bombed by the US during the Vietnam War, most of the important imperial buildings still remain, although most of the rest of the land inside the walls is now used for agriculture.
I spent the entire afternoon wandering around the grounds of the Citadel. Though the architecture of the temples and palaces was impressive, the cold rain hardly added to my enjoyment of the place, and by the late afternoon I was cold and covered in mud from the knee down. I walked over the Song River bridge and back to my guesthouse, excited for a hot shower. Unfortunately, the hot shower lasted only two minutes and was followed by a frigid shower. Hot water heaters are not Southeast Asia’s forte.
I was hoping to take a riverboat down the Song Huong the following day to visit an important temple and a few royal tombs, but I awoke to more cold rain and I bagged the idea. Instead, I walked four kilometers down the river and visited the temple, which was called Thien Mu Pagoda. Apparently the temple is one of the most holy temples in Vietnam, but I saw far more tourists with cameras that worshipers in the two hours I was there. The thing I found most interesting about the temple was that it was the home pagoda of Thich Quang Duc, the monk who burned himself in Saigon in 1963 to protest the oppressive policies of then-president Ngo Dinh Diem. I’m guessing you’ve all seen the famous photo of the burning, but if you haven’t it’s on the cover of Rage Against the Machine’s self-titled album.
By midday I had seen all I cared to see of Hue, and the constant rain meant that wandering around the city was a less-than-appealing option, so I stopped by the city market and then passed the last few hours before my bus came in a café, finishing Pride and Prejudice and starting Love in the Time of Cholera.
The following morning I caught a bus to Hue and experienced my first daylight intercity travel since I’d entered Vietnam. The road wound along the South China Sea coastline, and the views from the cliffs were at times spectacular, and I found myself half-wishing that I’d taken fewer night buses on the way up the coast. But twelve hour bus rides really are far more painful when they don’t include at least ten hours of sleep.
The weather worsened throughout the five hour journey, and by the time we reached Hue the sky was dark and a slight drizzle was falling. The temperature had also dropped considerably—I’d guess it was only 60 degrees or so. Seeing as I had two more days in Hue, I decided to wait for the weather to get better before wandering around the town, and I spent most of the afternoon reading in a café near my guesthouse.
But the following morning the weather was even worse. The air was just as cold, and the drizzle had turned to a steady rain. I ate a leisurely breakfast and waited for the clouds to clear, but they never did, so in the late morning I set out to see Hue in the rain.
Hue has historically been a very important Vietnamese city, although today it seems like more of a museum. Hue served as the political capital of Vietnam during the Nguyen dynasty, from 1802 to 1945, and it was during this time that the impressive Citadel was built. Situated on the north bank of the Song Huong (Perfume River), the Citadel measures four square kilometers and is enclosed by a thick 6m wall. Though the structure was heavily bombed by the US during the Vietnam War, most of the important imperial buildings still remain, although most of the rest of the land inside the walls is now used for agriculture.
I spent the entire afternoon wandering around the grounds of the Citadel. Though the architecture of the temples and palaces was impressive, the cold rain hardly added to my enjoyment of the place, and by the late afternoon I was cold and covered in mud from the knee down. I walked over the Song River bridge and back to my guesthouse, excited for a hot shower. Unfortunately, the hot shower lasted only two minutes and was followed by a frigid shower. Hot water heaters are not Southeast Asia’s forte.
I was hoping to take a riverboat down the Song Huong the following day to visit an important temple and a few royal tombs, but I awoke to more cold rain and I bagged the idea. Instead, I walked four kilometers down the river and visited the temple, which was called Thien Mu Pagoda. Apparently the temple is one of the most holy temples in Vietnam, but I saw far more tourists with cameras that worshipers in the two hours I was there. The thing I found most interesting about the temple was that it was the home pagoda of Thich Quang Duc, the monk who burned himself in Saigon in 1963 to protest the oppressive policies of then-president Ngo Dinh Diem. I’m guessing you’ve all seen the famous photo of the burning, but if you haven’t it’s on the cover of Rage Against the Machine’s self-titled album.
By midday I had seen all I cared to see of Hue, and the constant rain meant that wandering around the city was a less-than-appealing option, so I stopped by the city market and then passed the last few hours before my bus came in a café, finishing Pride and Prejudice and starting Love in the Time of Cholera.
Days 137 – 138: Hoi An
Photos: http://princeton.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2059947&l=3ae2b&id=1101094
I caught an overnight bus north to Hoi An, and this one was far less restful. Would someone please explain the need to stop at midnight for dinner and turn on the interior bus lights for half an hour? And don’t get me started on the A/C issue again.
I arrived in Hoi An around 7am and checked into a guesthouse with an Argentine girl I had met on the bus. I napped for a bit and managed to get a few solid hours of sleep, and then headed into the Old Town, which was centered around the Thu Bon River.
Hoi An was at one time an important port, visited by Chinese, Japanese, and even European traders. As I wandered through the narrow streets of the Old Town, I saw evidence of these foreign influences—a Japanese covered bridge, a Chinese temple, and Chinese and Japanese characters on many of the buildings. And when I visited an old house that was once owned by a Vietnamese merchant, I found Japanese, Chinese and Vietnamese architecture all in one house.
But today Hoi An’s status is much diminished, and the Old Town is now little more than rows of yellow colonial buildings, most of which house silk tailors. There must be several hundred silk tailor shops in Hoi An, which is all the more shocking when you realize that the population of the town is 75,000. I’m a little mystified as to how all these shops stay in business, though I’ll admit that every tourist I saw (except for me) was scooping up hand-tailored clothes with both fists. I would have been right behind them if I’d had the faintest idea when I’d next need fancy clothes on a daily basis.
Wandering around the quaint Hoi An center was quite pleasant, especially after the hustle and bustle of Ho Chi Minh City, and even of Nha Trang. Life in Hoi An seems to move at a slower pace than elsewhere on the Vietnamese coast, and the hassle was diminished as well; while I did frequently get asked if I wanted a motorbike ride, not even one tailor asked me to come into his store. But maybe that was because they all looked at what I was wearing (faded t-shirt and torn jeans) and decided that I clearly had no interest in buying new clothes.
I visited a few temples, one of which was built by Chinese immigrants, as well as a colonial home and even a museum that detailed Hoi An’s architectural history. Though nothing in particular struck my fancy, the overall peace and laid-back attitude of the town made the day one of the most enjoyable that I’d spent in Vietnam.
And that night it got even better. I ate dinner with my Argentine friend at a restaurant overlooking the river, and we sampled some of Hoi An’s traditional dished: white rose (a fancy name for shrimp dumplings), fried wonton topped with shrimp and vegetables, and cau lao (flat noodles, croutons, vegetables, and pork in a tasty broth). Though none of the dishes sounded particularly exciting on paper, everything was excellent, and besides I was grateful to get a break from my usual pho routine.
After dinner the real fun began. It was the first full moon since the Lunar New Year, which meant that the town held a festival along the river. Stages were set up for traditional singing and dancing, and though I had no clue what was going on most of the time, I enjoyed the sudden liveliness that swept over the town and its residents. I even participated in some sort of lottery that involved singing; apparently each person selected three words, and then as the singer in the middle of the circle sang, we checked off our words as he sang them. The first person to hear all their words sung won; needless to say, that person was not me.
Toward the end of the night the festival moved onto the river, and children began lighting candles, placing them in paper floats, and sliding them out onto the water. Coupled with the row boats that glided through the water carrying young Vietnamese lovers, the whole thing made for a wonderfully romantic scene. I toggled between smiles and snickers, though in the end I must admit that I enjoyed myself even in my state of singleness.
After the festival I went for a few beers with the Argentine girl, and at her urging we switched exclusively to Spanish, which gave me the chance to remind myself just how bad my language skills are. I really must live abroad sometime soon or I’m destined to be monolingual for life.
The following day I had planned to rent a bike and ride to the beach, which was 5km outside of town, but I awoke to clouds and rain and spent most of the day working on my Foreign Service application. For those of you who keep track of these things, I take the test March 6th in Jakarta.
By the afternoon the clouds had cleared and I wandered around the Old Town a bit more before visiting the central market (always a delight in Southeast Asian cities) and then going for pizza at a restaurant run by an Italian immigrant. By the time I returned to my guest house, I had grown quite fond of the town and its relaxed ambience. And I’d learn to miss it even more once I encountered Hue’s weather and Hanoi’s whirlwind.
I caught an overnight bus north to Hoi An, and this one was far less restful. Would someone please explain the need to stop at midnight for dinner and turn on the interior bus lights for half an hour? And don’t get me started on the A/C issue again.
I arrived in Hoi An around 7am and checked into a guesthouse with an Argentine girl I had met on the bus. I napped for a bit and managed to get a few solid hours of sleep, and then headed into the Old Town, which was centered around the Thu Bon River.
Hoi An was at one time an important port, visited by Chinese, Japanese, and even European traders. As I wandered through the narrow streets of the Old Town, I saw evidence of these foreign influences—a Japanese covered bridge, a Chinese temple, and Chinese and Japanese characters on many of the buildings. And when I visited an old house that was once owned by a Vietnamese merchant, I found Japanese, Chinese and Vietnamese architecture all in one house.
But today Hoi An’s status is much diminished, and the Old Town is now little more than rows of yellow colonial buildings, most of which house silk tailors. There must be several hundred silk tailor shops in Hoi An, which is all the more shocking when you realize that the population of the town is 75,000. I’m a little mystified as to how all these shops stay in business, though I’ll admit that every tourist I saw (except for me) was scooping up hand-tailored clothes with both fists. I would have been right behind them if I’d had the faintest idea when I’d next need fancy clothes on a daily basis.
Wandering around the quaint Hoi An center was quite pleasant, especially after the hustle and bustle of Ho Chi Minh City, and even of Nha Trang. Life in Hoi An seems to move at a slower pace than elsewhere on the Vietnamese coast, and the hassle was diminished as well; while I did frequently get asked if I wanted a motorbike ride, not even one tailor asked me to come into his store. But maybe that was because they all looked at what I was wearing (faded t-shirt and torn jeans) and decided that I clearly had no interest in buying new clothes.
I visited a few temples, one of which was built by Chinese immigrants, as well as a colonial home and even a museum that detailed Hoi An’s architectural history. Though nothing in particular struck my fancy, the overall peace and laid-back attitude of the town made the day one of the most enjoyable that I’d spent in Vietnam.
And that night it got even better. I ate dinner with my Argentine friend at a restaurant overlooking the river, and we sampled some of Hoi An’s traditional dished: white rose (a fancy name for shrimp dumplings), fried wonton topped with shrimp and vegetables, and cau lao (flat noodles, croutons, vegetables, and pork in a tasty broth). Though none of the dishes sounded particularly exciting on paper, everything was excellent, and besides I was grateful to get a break from my usual pho routine.
After dinner the real fun began. It was the first full moon since the Lunar New Year, which meant that the town held a festival along the river. Stages were set up for traditional singing and dancing, and though I had no clue what was going on most of the time, I enjoyed the sudden liveliness that swept over the town and its residents. I even participated in some sort of lottery that involved singing; apparently each person selected three words, and then as the singer in the middle of the circle sang, we checked off our words as he sang them. The first person to hear all their words sung won; needless to say, that person was not me.
Toward the end of the night the festival moved onto the river, and children began lighting candles, placing them in paper floats, and sliding them out onto the water. Coupled with the row boats that glided through the water carrying young Vietnamese lovers, the whole thing made for a wonderfully romantic scene. I toggled between smiles and snickers, though in the end I must admit that I enjoyed myself even in my state of singleness.
After the festival I went for a few beers with the Argentine girl, and at her urging we switched exclusively to Spanish, which gave me the chance to remind myself just how bad my language skills are. I really must live abroad sometime soon or I’m destined to be monolingual for life.
The following day I had planned to rent a bike and ride to the beach, which was 5km outside of town, but I awoke to clouds and rain and spent most of the day working on my Foreign Service application. For those of you who keep track of these things, I take the test March 6th in Jakarta.
By the afternoon the clouds had cleared and I wandered around the Old Town a bit more before visiting the central market (always a delight in Southeast Asian cities) and then going for pizza at a restaurant run by an Italian immigrant. By the time I returned to my guest house, I had grown quite fond of the town and its relaxed ambience. And I’d learn to miss it even more once I encountered Hue’s weather and Hanoi’s whirlwind.
Days 134 – 136: Nha Trang
Photos: http://princeton.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2059945&l=fa338&id=1101094
I arrived at Nha Trang the following morning after a surprisingly restful ride on the night bus; although I hadn’t paid extra for a sleeping bus, I ended up on one anyway, and so I spent the night in a “bed” of sorts instead of a seat.
I escaped the clutches of the motorbike drivers who had swarmed around the bus, walked into town, found a dorm bed for $3, and dropped my pack. After a day wandering around frenetic Saigon, I wanted one thing: peace and quiet on the beach.
I found the beach without problem, but the peace and quiet was a bit harder to come by. Actually, it was nowhere to be found. Even at nine in the morning, the beach was swarming with locals selling everything from books to fruit to massages. I was one of the first foreigners on the beach, but as I learned in visiting India during the low tourist season, that doesn’t make things any better: when you’re the only foreigner, you get all the attention.
All I wanted was to sit on the beach and read, but every minute or so a different hawker would walk up and try to sell me something. I tried ignoring them, but that didn’t work—they just kept saying, “Sir, you buy something?” until I acknowledged them. Then, even after I glanced up and said, “Kom, kam ern” (No thank you), or just “No” if I was feeling lazy, they continued to stand there and ask me to buy something. One of their favorite lines was “You buy now, happy hour! Cheap for you!” Apparently, it is always happy hour in Nha Trang.
Despite my insistence that I didn’t want to buy anything, it took anywhere from fifteen to 30 seconds to get rid of each hawker, and it was only another minute before the next one arrived. And the worst part was that there was no end to the game—the same hawkers kept returning, somehow expecting that my willingness to buy a French romance novel had changed in the past fifteen minutes.
One little girl was so annoying and so persistent that I agreed to buy a bag of chips from her if she would agree to leave me alone for the rest of the day. That was the best 30 cents I ever spent.
Not surprisingly, I got very little reading done. I tried taking a nap for a while, but that didn’t work either, because the hawkers woke me up to ask me if I wanted something to eat or drink. “NOOOOOO!”
The beach itself was wide, golden, and fringed with palm trees, though it wasn’t particularly clean. I was always impressed with how clean Thai beaches were, even when there were loads of tourists on them, but the same thing doesn’t seem to be true of Vietnamese beaches. One fellow backpacker that I talked to argued that Thailand is more aware of the benefits of tourism, and as a result keeps its natural treasures clean to keep the tourists coming. That logic could also explain the exuberant friendliness of Thais compared to their Vietnamese counterparts.
Over the course of the day the beach gradually filled with foreigners, and the hawker visits because less frequent, although they never ceased entirely. The weather was quite nice—lots of sun, and plenty warm for a swim every once in a while. But in the afternoon the wind picked up, and by 4pm sand was flying into my eyes and I decided to call it a day.
That night I ate at an Indian restaurant that was run by an immigrant from New Delhi. We talked about my travels through India a bit, and he told me about his new life in Vietnam. Apparently, things are going quite well for the guy—after his restaurant in Nha Trang did well, he opened satellites in Hoi An and Hue, to similar results. I guess after nonstop noodle soup, every tourist likes a little Indian curry.
The following morning I caught a boat to Hon Mun (Mun Island), which sits about 10km off the Nha Trang coast. The idea was to do some snorkeling, but at the first place the boat stopped it was so windy that waves kept knocking me onto my back. And the waves also kicked up the sand from the ocean floor, making visibility practically nonexistent.
The second stop was inside a semi-sheltered bay, which mostly fixed the wind problem. The reef here was decent, but not quite as good as southern Thailand, and not anywhere near as good as Sumatra. And the species of fish were largely the same. I spent an hour or so in the water, but after that I got quite cold—the water temperature, after all, was only about 72 degrees.
Back in Nha Trang, I spent the afternoon on the beach and dealt with similar hassles from the hawkers. The strange thing is that I didn’t see anyone buying anything from these folks, especially from the ones selling sunglasses, books, and hair clips. I assume that the business must be profitable considering the number of people who do it, but the mechanics of the thing are a mystery to me.
The next morning I rented a motorbike and explored greater Nha Trang. I visited a few temples and some ruins of the Cham civilization that were originally built in the 7th Century, and then I swung back to the coast to visit a rock formation called Hon Chong Promontory that was essentially a collection of granite boulders jutting out into the ocean. I was overjoyed to find an attractive beach just north of the promontory—it wasn’t quite as wide as the main beach in Nha Trang, but it was free of hawkers, and at this point that was all I cared about. Unfortunately, after only a half hour on the beach the clouds rolled in and the wind picked up, and at one point the gusts were so strong that they knocked my motorbike over. Eventually I gave up on the beach, drove back into town, and spent my last hour in Nha Trang reading of the scandalous behavior of Miss Lydia Bennet and Mr. George Wickham. Thank goodness for Mr. Darcy.
I arrived at Nha Trang the following morning after a surprisingly restful ride on the night bus; although I hadn’t paid extra for a sleeping bus, I ended up on one anyway, and so I spent the night in a “bed” of sorts instead of a seat.
I escaped the clutches of the motorbike drivers who had swarmed around the bus, walked into town, found a dorm bed for $3, and dropped my pack. After a day wandering around frenetic Saigon, I wanted one thing: peace and quiet on the beach.
I found the beach without problem, but the peace and quiet was a bit harder to come by. Actually, it was nowhere to be found. Even at nine in the morning, the beach was swarming with locals selling everything from books to fruit to massages. I was one of the first foreigners on the beach, but as I learned in visiting India during the low tourist season, that doesn’t make things any better: when you’re the only foreigner, you get all the attention.
All I wanted was to sit on the beach and read, but every minute or so a different hawker would walk up and try to sell me something. I tried ignoring them, but that didn’t work—they just kept saying, “Sir, you buy something?” until I acknowledged them. Then, even after I glanced up and said, “Kom, kam ern” (No thank you), or just “No” if I was feeling lazy, they continued to stand there and ask me to buy something. One of their favorite lines was “You buy now, happy hour! Cheap for you!” Apparently, it is always happy hour in Nha Trang.
Despite my insistence that I didn’t want to buy anything, it took anywhere from fifteen to 30 seconds to get rid of each hawker, and it was only another minute before the next one arrived. And the worst part was that there was no end to the game—the same hawkers kept returning, somehow expecting that my willingness to buy a French romance novel had changed in the past fifteen minutes.
One little girl was so annoying and so persistent that I agreed to buy a bag of chips from her if she would agree to leave me alone for the rest of the day. That was the best 30 cents I ever spent.
Not surprisingly, I got very little reading done. I tried taking a nap for a while, but that didn’t work either, because the hawkers woke me up to ask me if I wanted something to eat or drink. “NOOOOOO!”
The beach itself was wide, golden, and fringed with palm trees, though it wasn’t particularly clean. I was always impressed with how clean Thai beaches were, even when there were loads of tourists on them, but the same thing doesn’t seem to be true of Vietnamese beaches. One fellow backpacker that I talked to argued that Thailand is more aware of the benefits of tourism, and as a result keeps its natural treasures clean to keep the tourists coming. That logic could also explain the exuberant friendliness of Thais compared to their Vietnamese counterparts.
Over the course of the day the beach gradually filled with foreigners, and the hawker visits because less frequent, although they never ceased entirely. The weather was quite nice—lots of sun, and plenty warm for a swim every once in a while. But in the afternoon the wind picked up, and by 4pm sand was flying into my eyes and I decided to call it a day.
That night I ate at an Indian restaurant that was run by an immigrant from New Delhi. We talked about my travels through India a bit, and he told me about his new life in Vietnam. Apparently, things are going quite well for the guy—after his restaurant in Nha Trang did well, he opened satellites in Hoi An and Hue, to similar results. I guess after nonstop noodle soup, every tourist likes a little Indian curry.
The following morning I caught a boat to Hon Mun (Mun Island), which sits about 10km off the Nha Trang coast. The idea was to do some snorkeling, but at the first place the boat stopped it was so windy that waves kept knocking me onto my back. And the waves also kicked up the sand from the ocean floor, making visibility practically nonexistent.
The second stop was inside a semi-sheltered bay, which mostly fixed the wind problem. The reef here was decent, but not quite as good as southern Thailand, and not anywhere near as good as Sumatra. And the species of fish were largely the same. I spent an hour or so in the water, but after that I got quite cold—the water temperature, after all, was only about 72 degrees.
Back in Nha Trang, I spent the afternoon on the beach and dealt with similar hassles from the hawkers. The strange thing is that I didn’t see anyone buying anything from these folks, especially from the ones selling sunglasses, books, and hair clips. I assume that the business must be profitable considering the number of people who do it, but the mechanics of the thing are a mystery to me.
The next morning I rented a motorbike and explored greater Nha Trang. I visited a few temples and some ruins of the Cham civilization that were originally built in the 7th Century, and then I swung back to the coast to visit a rock formation called Hon Chong Promontory that was essentially a collection of granite boulders jutting out into the ocean. I was overjoyed to find an attractive beach just north of the promontory—it wasn’t quite as wide as the main beach in Nha Trang, but it was free of hawkers, and at this point that was all I cared about. Unfortunately, after only a half hour on the beach the clouds rolled in and the wind picked up, and at one point the gusts were so strong that they knocked my motorbike over. Eventually I gave up on the beach, drove back into town, and spent my last hour in Nha Trang reading of the scandalous behavior of Miss Lydia Bennet and Mr. George Wickham. Thank goodness for Mr. Darcy.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Days 132 – 133: Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon)
Photos: http://princeton.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2059291&l=c6726&id=1101094
I left Phnom Penh at 7:30 the next morning and, though the trip to Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) was only supposed to take six hours, I didn’t arrive in the former South Vietnamese capital until nearly 3pm. Counting the stops on either side of the Cambodian/Vietnamese border, the bus made six stops, two of which were half-hour stops for food. Apparently Cambodians have no interest in getting anywhere quickly, nor do they know what getting food “to go” means.
We arrived in Ho Chi Minh City (hereafter HCMC) to a swarm of motorbike drivers and guest house owners, despite the fact that I was one of the only foreigners on the bus. Lucky me. My arms were pulled in about seven directions before I even managed to get my pack out from under the bus, and though I said “Kom, kam ern” (“No, thank you”) over and over again, no one seemed to notice. In the end I just walked down the road with a parade of touts in tow.
I checked about ten places before finding a room; everything was either full or expensive. I ended up paying $9 for a room that was inferior to a room I had paid $2 for in Phnom Penh. So far Vietnam is no bargain.
I dropped my pack and wandered around Central HCMC a bit; the first things I noticed were 1) the incessant motorbike traffic and 2) the unwillingness of motorbike drivers to take “No” for an answer. Ever.
Traffic on most HCMC streets is so bad that you have no hope of finding an opening in which to cross. Similar to Cairo, you just have to walk. But while the method of choice for crossing streets in Cairo is “Close your eyes and open your heart,” in HCMC there is a little more that the pedestrian can do to ensure he doesn’t get popped. The basic strategy is to walk at a constant pace, making eye contact with the motorbike drivers and allowing them to flow around you without making any sudden movements. This can be more difficult than it sounds when piles of metal are whizzing by you at 60 mph, but with a little practice it becomes easy. And, actually, the system is quite convenient for the pedestrian: forget waiting for the “Walk” signal, just go whenever you want.
Motorbike drivers in HCMC are something like rickshaw drivers in India; every one of them wants to give you a ride, and despite all your claims that you do not need a ride, they are completely unwilling to believe you. The average numbers of times I told rickshaw drivers in India “No” before they left me alone was probably ten. For motorbike drivers in HCMC, it’s about five. That may not seem that bad, but when you consider that the figure is two or three in Cambodia and Laos and barely over one in Thailand, you can begin to understand why this is a bit of a shock to the system. I’ve gotten soft since India. Guess it’s time to learn to be emphatic again.
My favorite part about motorbike drivers is that they seem to think that they’ll actually convince you that you need a ride. It’s as if they assume your internal monologue is, Do I need a motorbike ride? Hmm. Where am I going? I have no idea. Do I have anything better to do? Not really. Should I take a motorbike ride? Gosh, maybe I should. “OK, how much?”
Sorry, guys, but I know whether I need a ride or not. Asking me ten times is not going to change my answer. And if I did need a ride, chances are I would have gotten it from one of the ten thousand other motorbike drivers that I passed before I got to you. So how about you let me figure it out from now on, OK?
That night I sampled Vietnam’s most common dish, pho. For those of you who haven’t had it in the US, it’s a bowl of white rice noodles in beef broth and some kind of meat (usually beef) along with garnishes of onions, lime, cilantro, and bean sprouts. But most importantly, it’s cheap and it’s good. I figure I’ll be eating it at least twice a day for the next two weeks.
On the way back to my guesthouse, I was accosted by at least six prostitutes. I’m going to go ahead and assume that I was a popular target simply because I’m a man walking by himself at night, because it’s far too depressing to consider the possibility that I look like someone who would require the services of a prostitute. In any case, apparently there’s something to the term “Saigon whore.”
The following morning after a bowl of pho in the main market, I checked out the sights of HCMC, which revolve around the Vietnam War, or, in the local nomenclature, the American Aggression War. I first visited the Reunification Palace, which was called the Independence Palace from when it was built in 1966 until the Viet Cong overran it in 1975. Today, it’s nothing but a museum, and it’s been left in the exact state that it was in back when it was taken by North Vietnamese forces in April 1975 (well, minus the battle scars).
The inside resembles a Western-style palace, with fancy dining and entertaining rooms as well as a “gambling room” and a movie theater. But the most interesting part was the film that was shown in the basement. Clearly made by the Vietnamese government, the film gives an account of the Vietnam War that doesn’t even attempt to be unbiased. The narrator refers to the North Vietnamese army as “our army,” American forces as “the American imperialists,” and the war as “the American Aggression War” and “the unjust war.” Another favorite soundbite of mine was “the Americans said that the targets of their bombings were military, but they were really civilian.” Perhaps a bit harsh.
The next stop on my tour was the War Remnants Museum, which is filled with even more propaganda than the Reunification Palace. The general theme of the museum is “The Americans came in here with their guns and bombs, and look what they did to us.” Hundreds of photos of dead or dying Vietnamese soldiers and civilians are on display, as are American (but not Vietnamese) guns and tanks. Strangely, the museum felt much like the Tuol Sleng prison that I visited in Phnom Penh—but that was a former prison where innocent civilians were tortured and murdered by an evil regime. The War Remnants Museum, it seems, conveniently left out that all these atrocities happened during a war; yes, perhaps an unjust war, but still a war. It’s not as if the Americans came in, rounded civilians up, sent them to prisons, and systematically murdered them.
In any case, it’s clear that the Vietnamese government is determined to advance the theory that the war was nothing but an unjust American intervention into the affairs of a free and independent country. Whether the local population feels the same way I can’t say. I haven’t brought the subject up and I don’t plan to.
Having eaten nothing but pho since my arrival in Vietnam, I decided to get my Western food kick at the local KFC that afternoon. As far as I can tell, KFC is the only foreign fast food chain in HCMC. That may sound strange, but for some reason KFC is immensely popular in Asia. In China, for instance, it comes a close second to McDonald’s; Burger King and Wendy’s are not even in the race.
But KFC in Asia is not quite the same as KFC in America. First off, there are no biscuits. You’re probably saying, “What’s the point of KFC if there are no biscuits?” My answer: “I’m not sure.” When I first visited KFC in Shanghai and asked for a biscuit only to find it wasn’t on the menu, I was devastated. And in Vietnam the situation isn’t any better.
But KFC in Vietnam does have rice covered in heavy gravy. In case that’s what you were craving. And you’ll get your Pepsi in a glass rather than in a paper cup. And an employee will open the door for you as you enter and leave the restaurant. This place is high class, baby.
I tried to keep things as Western as possible, considering that was the entire point of the visit, and ordered a “Zinger” (spicy chicken) “burger” (sandwich), fries (fries at KFC? WHAT ABOUT BISCUITS?), and a Pepsi. I’m now ready for a few more meals of pho.
That afternoon I walked down to the Saigon River, which isn’t particularly attractive, and roamed around the posh Dong Khoi section of town, which is home to a Louis Vuitton, a Burberry, and a Tag-Heuer, as well as the largest church (Notre Dame Cathedral), mosque, and Hindu Temple in town. As the day went on I began to find the city, which at nearly 6 million people is Vietnam’s largest, more attractive, although the traffic and the smog limit the aesthetic appeal. Nevertheless, by the evening I was more than ready to head north to cooler weather and, more importantly, the beach. Next stop Nha Trang, for some swimming, snorkeling, sunbathing, and all those other "S" words.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Day 131: Battambang to Phnom Penh
The following day I left for Phnom Penh; I’d layover there before heading for Ho Chi Minh City, in Vietnam, the next morning.
The day was uneventful, and I used the free time in Phnom Penh to post some blog entries and pictures and catch up on emails.
But before I turn to Vietnam, I’ll mention a couple interesting things about Cambodia that I haven’t yet discussed. First of all, of all the ATMs in the country (in contrast to Laos, there are many), not one of them dispenses riel, the country’s official currency. They all dispense US dollars. Though I had been using dollars throughout my stay in northeast Cambodia, I had only done so because there were no ATMs; I hadn’t considered the possibility that US dollars were actually a semi-official form of currency. This marked the first time I’d been able to withdraw US dollars from a foreign ATM since Central America.
Secondly, no matter where you are in Cambodia, you’ll see countless signs displaying the names of the country’s major political parties. And these aren’t homemade signs—they’re large, metal, official, standardized signs that resemble ones you might see posting the distance to the next exit on an American highway. Apparently Cambodian political parties spend a good deal of money manufacturing these signs and then giving them to people to put in front of their homes. In some villages, more than half of the houses have a sign in front. The whole thing makes the campaign signs that we put in our front yard in the US look rather second rate.
Finally, I’ve never visited a country whose buses made more stops per hour than Cambodia’s. As I mentioned before, many of the stops I witnessed were necessary to keep the engine from overheating, but even when I was on buses that had no need to stop, they stopped anyway. On my five hour bus rides from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap and Battambang to Phnom Penh, the bus stopped twice for people to use the bathroom, and twice more for food—and not snacks, mind you, but sit down meals! I added up the total stoppage time on the trip from Battambang to Phnom Penh, and it came to over an hour and a half. All of it jives with the prevailing Cambodian mindset, though—“What’s the hurry?”
Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day.
Days 129 – 130: Battambang
Photos: http://princeton.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2059207&l=fad49&id=1101094
I set off the following morning on a boat for Battambang, which, at population 158,000, is somehow the second largest city in Cambodia. The boat first motored down the Stung Siem Reap (Siem Reap River), then across the Tonle Sap, Asia’s largest lake, and finally up the Stung Sangker (Sangker River), on the banks of which Battambang sits.
I had taken the boat (as opposed to the bus) for two reasons: the road from Siem Reap to Battambang was notoriously bad, and the boat ride was supposed to take in some of the finest scenery in all of Cambodia. Sure enough, the scenery did not disappoint; we wound through green countryside, palm trees, and villages of bamboo houses, many of which were floating on the water. In every village we passed, children ran out to the riverbank to wave at us and then splashed into the river to play in the waves of the boat’s wake. I was struck by how friendly and happy everyone seemed, despite that fact that most of the villages we passed were dirt poor.
The one thing that no one had mentioned about the boat trip was that in the dry season, when water levels are low, the boat can hardly fit up the Stung Sangker. As the bends in the river became sharper and sharper, the boat began sticking in the mud every few minutes; at one point, the engine even stopped from sucking in too much mud. In the end, the six hour trip to Battambang became a ten hour marathon.
That night in Battambang I ate dinner at a local ex-pat hangout called the Riverside Balcony Bar. Though I usually stay away from such places, the food at this one was supposed to be excellent, and besides, after Siem Reap package tourists Battambang ex-pats would be a pleasure. Over burgers, fries, and apples crepes, I talked with two Canadian couples who worked for agricultural NGOs in and around Battambang. They had lived in Cambodia for nearly four years, and seemed more than ready to leave. Their main claim to fame was that Angelina Jolie’s NGO was just down the road.
The following day I rented a motorbike and explored the countryside around Battambang. Everywhere I went I was the subject of stares and shouts of “Barang, Barang!” (Westerner). I visited two temples, one of which, Wat Banan, was built in the 12th Century, a century before Angkor Wat, and looks like a mini version of the famous temple. The locals tried to tell me that it served as the model for Angkor, though that may be a stretch.
The other temple was at the top of a mountain called Phnom Sampeau. On the way up the mountain, I passed two guns that were used in the Vietnam War, one German and one Russian, as well as a cave used by the Khmer Rouge. The temple itself, at the peak of the hill, was once used by the Khmer Rouge as a prison.
On the way back to Battambang, I took a ride on the bamboo train, which is really just a small bamboo platform on wheels that is powered by a tiny motor. It runs on the main rail line, which is all but abandoned now (only one train per week traverses the line), and locals use it to get from their villages into Battambang.
Back in town, I had a quiet dinner at a local cooking school that has an attached restaurant. Sitting there on the patio, I decided that I really liked this town, though for a while I couldn’t put my finger on why. In the end I think it’s a combination of the pace of life, which is a welcome slowdown from the constant buzz of Phnom Penh and Siem Reap, and, as one of the few tourists around, the feeling that I was actually experiencing the real Cambodia that makes the place so appealing. In some ways the town reminds me of Chiang Mai, Thailand, though far less discovered.
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