Perrenial Peregrinations in:Vietnam


Our Photos of Vietnam
Ancient House Resort
Elephant Guide to Asia
Vietnam Tourism



A scant week has elapsed since our return from Vietnam, but such are the demands of my daily routine that few are the tangible vestiges of what was a very unique and memorable trip. Be that as it may, inspired by nostalgia recaptured by viewing a few photographs, allow me to paint for you my own personal picture of Viet Nam, country of kings. As every syllable is a word there, I will try and adhere to their spelling style and split all place names accordingly, but dispense with the diacritical marks which bestow meaning on the words.

Why Viet Nam? The Egyptian Riviera (Sharm El Sheik, Hurgada) threatened to be too congested and/or tainted by mass tourism, and Goa, my original destination idea, appeared, on closer examination, to be going down that road as well. Not even the worst wear and tear of daily life could get me to tolerate more than a few of days of a "float and bloat" vacation, so as the designated family vacation planner, the rest were pretty much at my mercy. The fact that the ubiquitous, complimentary tourism magazines here dedicated only 4 entries, comprising one twelfth of a page -and no photos!- to Viet Nam, as opposed to over page upon page for Egypt, the Emirates, Cyprus, Thailand and the like, respectively, piqued my interest and our fate was sealed by perusal of the published websites.

Viet Nam is still relatively unspoiled by tourism, but having said that, has an impressive infrastructure in place for all manner of budget and taste. Accommodation is available throughout the country in several categories, ranging from $2 per night dives -probably best left to the realm of the imagination - to luxury five star resorts. In a country that is 80 to 300 km wide and about 1800 km long, there are several train and other land connections, though painfully slow, but numerous and frequent flights to points north, south, east and west, as well, all for very little financial sacrifice. Anyone setting out to travel lightly - a challenge to even the strongest wills, as the temptations en route are quite irresistible - and unhindered by time constraints, has the option of acquiring a cross-country Hanoi--Ho Chi Minh City bus pass for as little as $27, with unlimited stop-overs. Bus travellers beware: displacement by road is not for the impatient!

We took a 10-hour long flight from Moscow on Vietnam Airlines, rather taxing to delicate circulatory systems - the length of the flight, and not the relatively roomy seats and warm hospitality on the flight. Starting off in Ha Noi, in the subtropical north, where nocturnal temperatures dipped to 12 degrees Celsius, we moved on to pleasantly warm central VN, stopping for 6 nights in an enchanting resort on the outskirts of the ancient town of Hoi An, and concluded in tropical Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Sai Gon) for the last 48 hours of our 13 day-long stay. With the exception of our plane tickets there and back, and our first night's accommodation, we were committed to nothing, and we moved on as our whims and wills, and it must be said, the dictates of the local travelling public, would have it. You may well gasp in horror, considering we had 2 children in tow, but what may at first appear to be stark, raving lunacy was only possible because the country, its people and our tentative route, including accommodation options, were thoroughly researched via the Internet prior to departure. Surprises were as such few and far between, almost invariably favourable and/or such created by discrepancies in perception. This mode of travel proved to be just the ticket - for us.

Arriving in Ha Noi on the morning of the 27th of December, we set out to explore the area around our base in the old quarter. It has retained much of its traditional 19th century character with low, very narrow store-front buildings spilling out their wares onto the street, shallow open gutters, food stalls, and roving conical-hat-clad street vendors toting their picturesque produce in baskets slung across their shoulders on yoke-like contraptions. It is easy to miss the fact that this space is also residential, as travel agencies, restaurants and groceries vie for space alongside exquisite silkware boutiques and souvenir shops.

Ha Noi has comparatively few private automobiles, and the streetscape is defined by a pandemonium of mopeds, bicycles, omnibuses, taxis and cyclo (rickshaw) drivers. A horn is an indispensable vehicular accessory, generously applied by all, and our taxi ride into town from the airport was one riotous fanfare. I suppose one must quickly become inured to the cacophony or lose one's mind. Crossing the street involves unspoken rules: pleading eye contact for the insecure, confident aloofness for the initiated. After standing for what seemed like an age at a pedestrian crossing, facing an incessant stream of two-wheeled traffic that showed no sign of abating and almost despairing of getting across, we saw an elderly woman, frail and bent over with age, approach from the opposite side. We watched in amazement as the dowager unhesitatingly stepped out into the oncoming flow and, as mopeds and bicycles wove obligingly around her, strode slowly and confidently across, eyes fixed upon a point ahead of her. From then on, it was "when in Rome....."

From our base in Ha Noi, we took two day trips. A motley crew of Australians, Singaporeans, Hong Kongese, French, Spaniards and Canadians accompanied us on both excursions. The first, to the Perfume Pagoda, a natural shrine within a cave, 2 hours' drive, an hour's canoe ride and a 4 km / 2000-step hike up a verdant, but steep and rocky mountain trail from the capital. The epithet �perfume� is no immediate reference to the olfactory stimulation produced by profusely applied incense, but rather to a local name for the mountain � that is, if our guide be believed. Our second trip, to Ha Long Bay, a UNESCO World Heritage Site with over 2000 rocky islands, islets and caves, was not favoured by clear weather, but was impressive nonetheless. Towering crags, with graphic names like �Fighting Cockerels�, �Human Head� and �Goat� rise out of the turbid jade waters of the Bay of Tonkin, and form a picturesque backdrop for traditional Vietnamese fishing vessels and �banana� boats, the latter which hawk produce to passing conveyances. Located 170 km northeast of Ha Noi, the UNESCO appellation has unfortunately created an over-exploitative and unpalatable mass-tourism industry, which, in the foreseeable future, through pollution and unconsidered development will almost surely spell the demise of a natural wonder. A visit to Ha Noi's celebrated water puppet theatre show put a fine cap on a day's outing.

Local New Year's "pilgrimages" and our happy-go-lucky planning being incompatible with flying on to our next stop, we were held hostage in Ha Noi for a day longer than we would have liked. We used the opportunity to take in some of the city's colonial architecture, Ho Chi Minh's Mausoleum -an exterior view only, due to limited opening hours, probably just as well- and the museum dedicated to his achievements. The latter was remarkable for the lack of any direct personal information about HCM, but it was possible to deduce from pictures of a man bearing a striking resemblance to him that he wasn't born with that name. Perhaps Comrades Lenin and Stalin were taken as role models? When and under what circumstances his transformation took place was however left as a test of one's curiosity. Uncle Ho, as he is affectionately known, was evidently an erudite, charismatic and humanistic grass roots leader, with a clear and noble vision for his country based on the precepts of Buddhism, Confucianism, Taoism and Christianity. On his death, his dreams may have been dashed on the sharp rocks of an unstable foundation, but they are living again in a renascent Viet Nam. Though the country is officially a socialist republic, the only evidence I saw of this status was in the uniformed Big Brother-like "minder" figures lurking around Ha Noi's airport, the registration procedures required of foreigners at every stop on one's itinerary and some frustrating bureaucracy.

For instance, what started as a banal visit to the Hoi An Post Office to dispatch a parcel and some postcards soon turned into a test of composure. There, three young ladies, resplendent in traditional ao dai finery, languished beneath ceiling fans in the afternoon heat. Approaching one with my burden of paper, I was informed that the postcards that cost 9,000 dong to send in Ha Noi cost only 8,000 here, though why 10,000 dong stamps were affixed to them, I will not even begin to conjecture. My parcel, painstakingly packaged with the help of a hotel clerk, was then duly relinquished, only to be threatened with summary destruction by scissors ambisinistrously wielded. A timely verbal intervention limited damage to the parcel to an easily resealable slit. Contents minutely examined, returned to and repackaged in the now sorry excuse for an envelope, the parcel somehow found itself in the hands of damsel #2, who due to boredom, inattention or a combination of both, wasted no time in reaching for the nearest pair of scissors, threatening to subject it to the same punishment. A discreetly clenched fist and a vice grip on the pen used to complete the 3 (!!) documents necessary to mail the package were my only concession to a seething ire, as I insisted that she reconsider. As I discovered, a pen can be a wonderful surrogate for a neck!

Left with the option of bus or rail for continuing southwards, the four of us took a relatively comfortable 22-hour-long train ride from Ha Noi to the port city of Da Nang, situated just below the former demilitarised zone in central Viet Nam, a distance of less than 800 kilometres. Vietnam Railways trains, which run on a single track with passing areas at regular intervals -thus the 35 km/h average- retain vivid reminders of the war years in the form of mesh and solid metal screens, which protected passengers from the odd lob of a Molotov cocktail. We found berths -upper ones at that - in 3 separate compartments, nestled among citizens of our host country who tried very hard, but did not succeed in speaking much intelligible English. Lack of a common language did not preclude attempts at conversation by my fellow travellers, and ad hoc translators were enlisted wherever they could be conscripted. A typical conversation, after the inevitable "where are you from?" (answering Ghana only produced blank stares, or "Canada?", so though I loathe the practice, I saved myself a few breaths by simply replying Africa, which then provoked "Oh, South Africa") went like this:
"How old are you?" � (Gulp) Was that how old or how are you? - No, how old. (My ego invariably got a stroking on reply)
"Married?"
"Children?"
"Boy, girl?"
On hearing both, "Oh, lucky, lucky, happy family" ......

From Da Nang, we continued by taxi to Hoi An, another on the UNESCO World Heritage list, the ancient town of which is preserved almost in its entirety, and renowned for its trade links established with China, Japan and the West in the 16th century. Built up along the banks of the Thu Bon river, it lies just five kilometres from the sea and is as such an ideal spot for combining some cultural and recuperative activity. Hoi An has a distinct Chinese atmosphere with low, tile-roofed houses and narrow streets bustling with activity. Its architectural heritage includes a Japanese covered bridge, Chinese assembly halls, ancient houses, temples and museums. Tailors and cobblers display their merchandise in row upon row of shops, one seemingly more tempting than the next and I cannot say I resisted very successfully: I came away with an entirely new wardrobe in exquisite Thai silk, with shoes and handbags to match (now, now, green does NOT become you!).

Hoi An was the undisputed highlight of our trip, in large measure because of the fabulous boutique-hotel that we happened upon as a last resort (pardon the pun). The Ancient House Resort (www.ancienthouseresort.com), a newly opened establishment located along the river between the ancient town and the beach, was ideal for shuttling to either, and provided the most personal, personable and unique hospitality that we have ever experienced anywhere. Putting it down in words really does not suffice - it simply has to be experienced. Forty odd spacious guestrooms decorated in refined Viet-colonial French style with dark wood and plentiful carving, rooms with mosquito-net-draped four poster beds ingeniously set in 5 or 6 terraced buildings such that no other guest room is visible from one's windows, a breathtakingly beautiful garden with sculpted pool, an authentic ancient house on site (from which the resort's logo is derived) with discreet rice paper manufactory, bicycles for guest use, the warm send-off on every departure and hearty welcome on every return, genuinely friendly and helpful staff dressed in elegant traditional attire, local "goodnight" tales printed on handmade paper laid on one's pillow in a bamboo tube each night, billiards and board games, a small library comprising guests� literary cast-offs and not least, the epicurean delights of a tastefully appointed dining room, all created a framework that made us feel more like guests in a private, albeit palatial, home than anything else.
To name just two instances of exemplary service: one evening, we ordered a late supper before going off to experience the Full Moon Festival in town. The F&B manager suggested that we make our selections in advance, which we did. On our return, although we were the only diners (surprisingly, none of the other guests ever seemed to use the restaurant outside of the breakfast period), the entire dining room had been decked out, each table and place set with sparkling crystal and china: Our table was marked with "reserved for the Meiers", and a personalised menu of our courses was printed on handmade paper. It was like something out of a film. The next day, as morning broke, a knock on the door woke us to a bouquet of roses in celebration of Cord's birthday, with no prompting from me whatsoever.

From Hoi An, we visited My (pronounced mee) Son, where remains of more than 17 temples and towers built between the 4th tand13th centuries in a style reminiscent of that in Angkor Wat in Cambodia are found. My Son was the isolated and strategically placed holyland of Champa, land of the Cham people, who, with their Indian influenced culture ruled Vietnam for well over a millennium. It's not called Indochina for nothing! It remains a mystery how exactly the brick buildings, which have no visible mortar, were constructed; one theory would have it that each complete structure was fired following construction, both on the inside and out, and the resultant fired bricks were carved and shaped in situ. Sadly, during the American (Vietnam) War, most of the area was defoliated and reduced to rubble (the Viet Cong also cherished its merits as a strategic jungle location) and little but ruins remain of its once-imposing splendour. We also visited Marble Mountains (5 mountains of solid marble) from Hoi An by moped - the kids favourite mode of transport and Jared enjoyed his turn at the helm enormously), where mysterious caves, pagodas, wonderful littoral and coastal scenery, but unfortunately also abominably tasteless marble souvenirs, were the main motifs.

We bid a very reluctant farewell to Hoi An after 6 nights (we'd originally intended 3) and embarked on our last internal journey, a flight to Sai Gon, aboard a jumbo jet that rivalled our longhaul flight for comfort. Sai Gon, though much more industrialised and even more commercial than Ha Noi, was something of an anticlimax after all else, and I fully corroborate my resident friend's recommendation that any trip to Viet Nam must start, rather than end there. We decided - alas quixotically- to forego the planned Me Kong Delta day trip in favour of exploring the city, but other than some pagodas in and around China Town, some rather grand French colonial buildings, including the opera, the post office and municipal building, and certain sites made famous by the war, there is not much to recommend it.

Vietnamese food was light, tasty, rice-dominated (no surprise there) and healthy, attested to by the fact that despite copious indulgence, no surplus weight, other than that in my newly acquired suitcase, accompanied me home. We sampled everything from roadside pho - rice noodle soup accompanied by grilled chicken or beef and fresh coriander, basil, mint and bean sprouts- to Chinese influenced specialties in Hoi An and Franco-Vietnamese "Indochine" dishes in the northern and southern capitals, with not so much as a hint of intestinal mischief. Everything was so splendidly presented that one could easily dispense with any additional aperitifs. We also discovered dragonfruit, an incredibly beautiful, if bland specimen with fuchsia pink skin and a white pulp bespeckled with edible tiny black seeds, which gives it a kiwi fruit-like consistency. The children got all pho'd and cau loa'd out towards the end, and went the pizza and pasta route instead. It was astounding to find that one pasta dish cost more than a five-course local set menu at our resort!

Wherever one went, if not resident, vendors appeared as if on order - whether on the beach, market, excursion bus stop or the street. With an amicable "My friend!" or "Help me, buy something", one was sometimes cajoled into parting with some of the contents of one's wallet. It seemed an unspoken rule that a foreigner must never be sold anything for the price that Vietnamese pay- sometimes annoying, but fair enough, given the unbelievably low prices. Vendors rarely became overbearing or aggressive, though this stance did not exclude some rather Job-like persistence and tenacity.

Jared loved Vietnam for all the bargain name brand sportswear acquisitions he could make, and let no opportunity slip by. Kyra was the darling of the Vietnamese, but towards the end, tired of being stroked and having her cheeks squeezed. Both weathered the various excursions by boat, plane, bicycle, foot, bus and motorcycle with enviable sovereignty - something that did not go unnoticed by our fellow foreign travellers, with many of whom we crossed paths again and again at various stages during our travels. Cord was not at all pleased at being taken for 64 instead of 46 by the hotel staff when he celebrated his birthday en route - well, all Europeans look so old, was the unabashedly ingenuous and tactless reply. The latter incident notwithstanding, our hosts impressed us as being very friendly, astute business people (the whole country appeared to me to be one large market) with generous and open hearts. The thought of returning soon is a very real one.

GAMK

Moscow, January 16th, 2004


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