Leave At Your Own Chosen Speed

February 21, 2010
HCMC to DaLat

I decided to break up the trip to Nha Trang with a detour to the mountain town of DaLat in the Central Highlands. It was advertised by my bus company as a 6 hour ride northeast of HCMC. In Vietnam, as this trip would teach me, pick up times and estimates are vague at best. You're at the whim of your driver and his cronies. Not five minutes into the trip and the only whitey on board, I knew six hours was a fantasy.

The conductor, who looked to be about 19, did not speak a lick of English and was a prick to boot. I tried to ask him a question and he flatly ignored me. Just walked away and pretended I was invisible. Yep, this was going to be a long ride. As we got underway, leaving the city and hitting the open “highway, ”we were clipping along at the steady pace of about 5 miles an hour. I don't know what the metric conversion is, but it's damn slow. I stood up to see what the problem was. Maybe an accident? No traffic up ahead. I had a window seat and craned my neck to check out the scene to the east. All clear. After 10 minutes, we stopped at a roadside stall selling baguettes. It was not a stop for us to purchase any, however (and I would have; the bread is good here). We picked up a random man who loaded everything but the kitchen sink into the luggage compartment. As that was right beneath my seat, I took inventory. Cases of water, boxes of mangoes, something in a cylinder that I hoped was not flammable, a duct taped box containing God knows what, and a tiny backpack, which he brought with him on board. I would not have been surprised to see a basket of piglets loaded beneath. And that is how we proceeded for the next two hours, picking up random passengers at random (as in clearly not bus stops) places along the road.

Once into the drive, the road began to climb steeply into the hills It was not as scenic as I'd hoped. Lots of shanty towns lined the way, which meant lots of garbage and all its wonderful odor. A girl got on at one point halfway through the trip, and I was happy to have her company. She spoke pretty good, if formal, English and seemed eager to practice it. She was good company, and ran interference with the surly conductor until she passed out and kept knocking her head into my shoulder for the next three hours. She also took my mind off the hairpin turns and dirt roads that thankfully our driver was not taking at break neck speeds. It was still a little sketchy. Four wheeled vehicles have the right of way here over two (and over pedestrians for that matter), so the driver basically had a constant hand on the horn, as a warning for anyone on a motorcycle to get out of his way. At one point I counted; 45 loud beeps in 60 seconds. Couple that with the Kenny G that our conductor was blasting at brain damage inducing volumes and I was pretty happy my ipod was fully charged.

The Rough Guide to Vietnam says that the North and South agreed to leave the town of DaLat out of their war, as it was such a fine hamlet in the hills. Why, I cannot understand. While its mountainous surroundings are scenic, the town itself is nothing more than a run down ski town in the off season. It reminded me of Hunter or Tannersville, NY, but with none of the charm. My guest house, the Nice Dream Hotel (insert PeeWee joke here) which I foolishly let the bus company in Saigon book for me, had a kind of a Shining vibe. It was almost totally empty, and was dark and dank. My room only had windows that opened into the hall and the smell of mildew was sickening. I'm sure the going rate was 8 bucks a night, but I had already paid 20 and was none too happy about it. They refused to move me to another room, so I was stuck there. Thankfully it would only be for a night.

Aside from a very tasty meal and a chance encounter with a loopy hippie lady from New Mexico, this side trip was a bust. Total waste of time and money - - the lake didn't even have any water in it! I went to bed early, eagerly awaiting my 7AM pick up for the beach.

TEST

can anyone reading this email me if you get it? i cannot access my blog site; wondering if it's been censored.

Didn't Even Have to Use My AK

FEBRUARY 20, 2010
Ho Chi Minh City

I had wanted to take a day trip to the Mekong Delta, which included a long boat ride on the river out to the tributaries at its end. It is the only way to really see how those fishing communities live, and is said to be quaint and picturesque. I was disappointed to learn that it was a 12 hour excursion which included a 3 hour bus ride there and back. Since I would be leaving Saigon the following day on a 6 hour bus ride to Da Lat, I opted for the closer and shorter trip out to the Cu Chi Tunnels, about 60 km from Saigon. The War Museum had really been enough for me, but I also had exhausted much of what there was to do in the city, and I knew an organised tour was likely a good way to meet people (I was correct).

During the war, The Viet Cong used an underground system of tunnels to combat the US and South and the government has turned them into a huge tourist attraction. They lived in these multi-level tunnels, spanning over 250 kilometers in an area known for being a hotbed of activity, for several years. It was guerrilla warfare at its finest. While these tunnels provided somewhat of a safe haven from napalm and agent orange assaults, it also allowed the fighters to create and plant thousands of hideously imaginative traps designed to capture, maim and kill GI's. The War Remnants Museum makes a deliberate and unapologetic spectacle of massacres, tortures and other war crimes committed by the Americans, many of them called out by name, rank and photo. They are portrayed as villains of the worst kind. Here, at the Cu Chi Tunnels, the very same barbarism is praised and glorified when committed by the VC (and to the tune of “Phoung Nguyen, hero of Viet Cong, killed 342 Americans! Made many prisoners!”). I immediately had a problem with the logic, but decided to keep that sentiment to myself, and also to maybe say I was Canadian if asked. Our tour guide was a funny little guy who knew I was from NY; the armed guards and proud members of the Communist party, I sensed, were not.

Speaking of the tour guide, he was a chipper young fellow named Hui. He probably wasn't that young actually and I thought only after we parted to ask him if he'd been born during the war. (The men in this country age oddly. Hui could have been my age, or older, or he could have been 25. My guess is the former.) He hopped on the mini bus like a streak of lightning and started talking a mile a minute. He was met with a a tough crowd: 4 twenty somethings who had just taken a 10 hour taxi overnight from Nha Trang and went from the taxi to this bus, a couple from Ireland who I later shared beers with, 2 young Germans who had the unfortunate seats of front row (3 across including the driver), 6 surly Turks and me. Hui was annoying but harmless, cracking jokes and singing, just trying to loosen up a bunch of tourists who had no interest in engaging him. I kind of felt bad for him.

About an hour into the journey as I was willing him to shut the hell up, he stopped cracking jokes and broke into some old war song. Amazing how a crowd can be captivated by somber song somehow befitting the surroundings. Now he had our attention and, song finished, began to talk, somewhat seriously, about the war. He said that his father's family was from the South but that his mother's family was from the North, and that there was some serious bloodshed due to the family's division (here's where I started questioning his age), and that it was an all too common story for everyone living in the south of the country today. I listened to a few more details and then he said something interesting, seemingly addressed at me since I had told him where I was from. Apparently a tourist from France asked him if he hated the Americans, assuming he would say yes. He told me he replied saying, “No. I hate the French. They started it all,” with an immense sense of pride. He followed that up with a glass-half full sentiment, that the war provided him with a good job for which he was thankful, as the government paid for him to go to school and learn English to be a certified tour guide, and that in 10 years Iraqis would be able to earn a decent living doing the same thing as him. Not sure I agreed with him, but it was food for thought.
We arrived at the tunnels and the tour started with a propaganda film, followed by some government comedian who told us, in all seriousness, “is true story, is no bullshit” that Americans would get stuck in the narrow tunnels because they, “smoke too much marijuana and then eat too much hamburger,” as he pointed to the diagram of the bloated GI stuck in the tunnels with the enemy coming at him from both directions. Followed by a chance for us to climb into a secret hiding hole (I declined) and pose for a photo. And then we heard a giant blast, which was undoubtedly a gunshot. I thought it was a nice touch, the battle ambiance. Fast forward to a lot of meandering, displays of myriad VC traps and bombs, and we were at the tunnel entrance. I walked down a steep staircase into the first room, which was well lit and led off into a lower, darker, and very narrow tunnel. As I get claustrophobic and am afraid of the dark (plus we were told that the 2nd and 3rd levels of the tunnels had been closed off to tourists because someone had died down there), I turned around and climbed back out. All the while listening to gunshots off in the distance. It was an erie and unpleasant feeling. My fellow tourists who completed the run of the tunnels that were open to them all emerged gasping for breath and telling me “you made the right choice, mate. Wouldn't want to go down there again.” Off to the gift/ice cream hut and what do you know – an entire artillery of US weapons was right in front of my eyes. That shooting we'd heard was real, and for sale. You could have your pick of guns, AK-47, M-16's, they even had a rocket launcher, though I hope that one was just for show. The prices for ammo were steep; you paid by the clip. The Turks in our group were all about it and scurried off donning schoolboy grins. I, on the other hand, had absolutely zero desire to handle a gun that belonged to a dead American, let alone shoot anymore bullets into this landscape. We sat and ate our bootleg King Cones to the sound of automatic weapons.

Back in the afternoon heat of Saigon, and I was ready for a beer. Luckily, so was an Irish couple who had been on the tour. We found a spot on a semi-busy corner and sipped Tiger beers as we watched the afternoon traffic grow heavy with cityfolk returning from their Tet holiday.

I'd have to say, it was a good day.

Do You See What I See?

February 19, 2010
Ho Chi Minh City

A couple of days ago, I didn't even see what I saw. That is, while looking through the purplish lenses of my stylin' new fake Salvatore Ferragamo prescription shades. Before leaving home, I had come across a thread on a Lonely Planet message board about bargains to be had in Saigon. One of them was prescription eyeglasses. Considering the main reason I started wearing contact lenses was to have the ability to don several different styles of sunglasses, this was news I was happy to discover. So, on my second day in Saigon, after a leisurely morning of sitting in the market and eating breakfast (a giant shrimp, pork and sprout omelette that you tear apart and then wrap in lettuce and herbs & dip in hot and sour sauce, taco style – delicious), I jotted down the name and addresses of a couple of eyeglass vendors and set out to find them.

I had thought about bringing my Marc Jabobs frames with me to have filled, but the limited space in my pack prevented that. No worries though, this city had pantomime models to please anyone's taste. Gucci, Fendi, Armani, Ray Ban, whatever your pleasure. I settled on a pair of pretty decent Ferragamo knock offs, not because of the name (I actually am not a fan of counterfeit goods, especially shades) but because the color, size and shape were perfect. The fine folks at Sol Moscot in NY reluctantly gave me a print out of my prescription, so I handed that over to the man behind the counter. His English was limited, but he seemed to understand the numbers just fine. Then he informed me of the price. The frames were 300,000 dong. The cheaper lenses were an additional 250k, scratchproof and UV protected, 300k. I weighed the difference (less than $5 USD) and opted for the deluxe model. Total price 600,000 dong or about $31USD. Total wait time, 2 hours (thus confirming my theory that the eyeglass market in the States is the biggest racket around).

I'd seen a bit of the city the previous day, so with 2 hours to kill, I decided to hop a taxi (still not brave enough to get on the back of a moto, but my time would come soon) to the post office, said to be both beautiful and functional. The beauty part (a remnant of French colonialism) was either closed or the guard did not like the way I looked. He directed me around the corner to the newer, functional part, which was as drab as you would imagine. It also seemed empty (I feared it may still be closed on account of Tet) save for three women and their hundreds of boxes that I almost plowed into upon entry. At first it didn't make sense. ALL of these giant boxes couldn't belong to these women, what could they possibly be sending...and then I took a second glance. The giant boxes were stamped with the Marlboro logo. The hundreds of smaller boxes they were filling (which Uncle Ho was happily selling to them at about 50 cents a box) were perfectly proportioned to fit exactly 4 cartons of cigarettes. Ever heard that saying “Smoke 'em if you got 'em”? Well, I don't got 'em. I haven't had a cigarette since November. But Huy Thuy Nguyen in San Jose, California is about to get a very large shipment.

The War Remnants Museum is walking distance from the post office, and while I was initially not interested, I decided to check it out. It is strategically located across the street from the Reunification Palace, and you can spot the blades of a giant chinook US chopper from a block away. There were also several different size U.S. tanks and fighter planes on display in the front yard of the museum. I noted a few bullet holes here and there, but for the most part these downed planes and captured tanks were in good shape. One could almost mistake it for the Intrepid. Then you go inside.

Propaganda is, for the most part, always extreme, one-sided and at times outright untrue. This museum was a fine example of the extreme and one-sided. The tale of the “American War” is told in photos, and they are the most extreme photos I've ever seen. The untrue part, however, seems missing. Rooms and rooms of gruesome photos of death and destruction don't lie. They were right there in front of me with dates, photo credits, and some deliberately un-candy coated hyperbole on the fate of their subjects. Either there are some photos that were just too unpleasant to publish in America in 1968, or Johnson's press secretary buried them before I was born. Regardless, couple that with the exhibit on the prison atrocities committed by the South/States on the North and previously the French (a real life guillotine complete with red stained head collection bin, the infamous barbed wire tiger cages), add the agent orange “oddities” wing, and I'd had enough.

Upon leaving, I wondered where all the beggars were. When I visited the SR21 torture prison in Phnom Penh, the block was surrounded by beggars with all sorts of crippling malformations, burns, amputations, etc. I'd expected much of the same here, especially agent orange victims. There were only a few touts selling old zippos and coconuts, and the omnipresent moto taxi guys. I made use of the latter (thankfully, they all carry a spare helmet) and set off, breath held and eyes closed, into Saigon's rush hour to claim my shades.

They were ready, polished, gleaming even. I was a little late getting there, and I could tell the optician and his mother were waiting on me to close. I removed my contacts and he fitted me with the specs. One look in the mirror, and I loved them. Everything inside the shop was hyper crystal clear. I strolled out towards the central market and my hotel, feeling like the most fashionable backpacker in town, when I realized something was off. I almost fell face down to the concrete over my own feet (which looked to be Yeti sized) twice. The depth perception in one eye was not right. I felt like I was walking on the moon. I turned around, but the vendor had already closed. I figured I could will it to work, new glasses are always weird and if I covered each eye, separately things were perfect. I wore them for the 20 minute stroll back to my guest house, narrowly avoiding being mowed down by a family on a sooter. An hour later, I was curled up in bed in a fetal position with a serious migraine. I had just gotten rid of the previous day's headache, and this one was far worse. I suppose the moral of the story is you get what you pay for, but I have a sneaking suspicion Sol Moscot is to blame. They massively screwed up my prescription a year ago, also inducing migraines until it was corrected. I wonder if they gave me the wrong numbers. Maybe I'll look into an actual eye exam in Hanoi. In the meantime, I can only sit and admire my bargain glasses from afar.

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PHOTOS!

Doctor, Doctor, Gimme the News

February 17th, 2010
Hong Kong


Following a week of serious overeating, unrelenting jetlag and too many Tsing Taos to mention, it was time for a health check up. I was actually feeling pretty good thanks to the combo of walking Hong Kong's hilly landscape and the outstanding spa at our hotel. I don't remember a time when I willingly got up at 7AM, let alone got up at 7AM to swim laps. The old Sheung Wan area of HK houses a long row of Chinese medicine shops (adjacent to vendors touting exotic dried creatures of the sea. Did you know that scallops turn orange when they are dried? Now you do.). Lonely Planet recommended one of these shops that has doctors on site to diagnose your ailments and write a prescription to cure them. My walk in appointment went something like this:

ME: “I get headaches and have a weak stomach.”
DR: “Show me wrist.”
I handed over my wrist.
DR: “Pulse Weak. Show tongue.”
I stuck out my tongue, remembering that I have a giant permanent gash in the middle of it from an accident with my former tongue ring and biting into a pork chop the wrong way.
DR: “Hmph. Do you have thirst?”
ME: “Not chronic, why?”
DR: “You have no problem with appetite. Maybe eat too much.” (Now he was beginning to get somewhere. It was like he knew me.) “ Spicy food no good for you. Take this tea 2 times and you will never have headache again.” Considering I've had a headache of some form almost every day for 20 years, the doc had just dished out a tall order.

And with that, he wrote me a prescription that I'm sure included dried toad skin and deer testicle, among other things. We all handed the chemist our scrips and were told to return in an hour for the meds.

In keeping with the healthy theme of the day, the best way to pass the time while our prescriptions were being filled seemed obvious: foot reflexology. HK is almost polluted with neon signs of feet, so we picked what seemed to be the most reputable foot joint in the neighborhood (meaning they had the biggest sign and several floors of an office building). Lucky for us, they had a private room for 4 at the ready. Unlucky for us, the air conditioner was blasting (HK was freezing and I was not dressed properly) and my foot masseuse had ice cold bony little hands. I knew I was not exactly in for a treat.

So dug in they did, and quite literally. We suffered through 50 excruciating minutes of foot torture. Knuckles were ground into my heel, thumbs pinching my toes, too much pressure releasing what must have been gallons of toxins considering the extreme pain they caused on their way out. At one point the pain was so bad I got nauseous and almost puked. Once it was over, though, I felt like I was walking on pillows. My sinuses were clear and I was ready to go take my medicine.

What the doctor ordered, exactly, I can't tell you. It was written in some ancient form of medical Cantonese. What I can tell you is that it was not two asprin and a bowl of chicken soup. Instead, out of the thermos was poured a thick murky dark brown brew, almost the color of Guinness but with none of the appeal. It was piping hot, and tasted like I was drinking a mix of sewage water and leather tanning chemicals. They gave us these candies to ease the intake process which barely helped us gulp the tonics down. I was sick to my stomach for the next 2 hours. Gio almost thew up. Veronica got an instant headache. Michelle, who was actually sick with flu like symptoms, felt instantly better. Maybe that's the ticket – go see these guys when you're actually under the weather.

We all got a dose of goods to take away, said to be drank the next day. While the prospect of never having a headache again was intriguing, I was filled with relief when one of the teas spilled and we were forced to toss them. A hot toddie and two lychee martinis was my prescription for eradicating the muck taste from my mouth. Sometimes, self medication works wonders.

The next day, as I was walking around Saigon in the blazing heat, I was hit with a crippling headache.