Tam biêt, Sua s’dai.

Another month has passed, another visa has expired. Vietnam has been very easy to navigate, thanks to the well-establised tourism industry, but I don’t think that this is necessarily a good thing. There hasn’t really been a situation where I’ve been challenged. Everyone speaks English, everything is easily available, and everything works pretty much as it should. It seems perverse to see this as a negative, but I think the ease of travelling this country has a downside in that it seems to attract people that like to be comfortable. Ho Chi Minh boasts multiple KFCs, Burger Kings, McDonald’s’ and Pizza Huts; it would be entirely possible never to dip into a pho or crunch a bahn mi. In light of this, Vietnam hasn’t really felt very foreign. I’ve been surrounded by other travellers whose foray into the local culture begins and ends with bia hoi (fresh beer), and whose idea of a busy day is one that starts before the hostel breakfast is closed. I’m fully aware that this sounds a bit snobby, but I just think that it’s a massive shame that people are missing the gems that are on offer, even if they are set in the tarnished silver of a package tour.Trekking in Sapa, cycling in Hue, canyoning in Dalat and windsurfing in Mui Ne were definite highlights, partially because they were incompatible with the interests of hungover laze monsters. I’m not saying that it’s stupid to drink when you travel, I’m saying it’s stupid to let drink limit your travel. Nevertheless, it’s a testament to Vietnam that it can cater to the multifarious tastes of the tourists who visit, and I’m sure that everyone is able to tailor an experience to suit them, or else to experience a tailored suit.

I hopped on the bus at 08:30, and was pleasantly surprised by the wide leather seats, the cool air-conditioning, and the passable WiFi. After a couple of hours, we arrived at the border, Moc Bai. We scanned our bags, then stood in a confused huddle. After about thirty-five minutes, our passports were handed back to the guide, and we went through to the Cambodian side. This also passed without incident, although we were slightly concerned as to why we were leaving our passports with the guide, and getting on the bus without him. We stopped five minutes up the road for lunch, during which time the driver got a call saying that there were problems with four of the visas. All five western people were herded back to the border on motorbikes, myself included. It soon transpired that those who had e-visas needed to be photographed and sign something. I just got a visa at the border, so had a bit of a wasted journey, but it made things exciting. We finally arrived in Phnom Penh just after 16:00. I employed my first tuk-tuk, and forced my society on a group that I met at the hostel. We had a lovely evening walking by the river as the sun was setting, and I enjoyed my first a mouk, before a much-needed sleep.

The next day I went downstairs and met Anna and Katharina, and together we set out to see the sights. We wandered down to the disappointing Knotted Gun Monument, then came back along the river, stopping for lunch at the ‘Friends’ cafe, set up to offer Cambodian street-children skills and employment. Feeling satisfied in our bellies and hearts, we split up. Katharina and I visited the National Museum, which is filled with artefacts taken from Angkor Wat. The detail of the sculptures was magnificent, and I can’t wait to experience the grandeur of the temples themselves. We then sweltered over to the Royal Palace. I didn’t realise that it wasn’t just religious sites that you need to cover up for in Cambodia, so I was sweating even more, wrapped in my black raincoat. The palace was heaving – it was almost like being back in China. It took us a couple of attempts to understand why the Silver Pagoda is so called (because of the silver tiles that pave the floor, but that are mischievously obscured by a red carpet), and to take in the beauty of the Buddha statue that contains 9584 diamonds. We filed past various stupas and shrines (so in hindsight maybe it was a religious site after all), before accepting defeat and dragging ourselves home.

Later that evening Katharina and I went to the night market. I’m ashamed to say I purchased another terrible traveller t-shirt – the kind that I formerly resolved never to buy. It was the easiest bartering I’ve encountered so far, the saleswoman promptly accepting my first offer, and with a sense of achievement, and regret at not starting lower, we sat on some mats nibbling on street food, watching locals and foreigners alike flow through the narrow alleys, looking for a bargain.

This morning Hannah, Freya, Rebecca and I hired a tuk-tuk together to visit the Killing Fields at Choeung Ek; one of the three-hundred sites in Cambodia where Pol Pot ordered men, women and children to be killed and buried in mass graves. The audio guide carefully led us through the site, offering a touchingly personal narration of the horrific events that occurred there only forty years ago. The peaceful orchard and fluttering butterflies belied the horrors of what lay beneath the earth; bones and rags continuing to be exposed in the soil by the rains. We walked in silence, taking in the sickening information being presented to us. Four people remain on trial for crimes against humanity, but many have escaped retribution through death by natural causes, including Pol Pot himself. Twenty-thousand people are thought to have died at Choeung Ek, and in total three-million Cambodians were wiped out – over a quarter of the population.

With these figures still ringing in our ears, we visited the Tuol Sleng Prison, where many of the people who died at the Killing Fields were detained. Countless photographs were displayed, some people wide-eyed with fear, others with their eyes closed in pain. Many looked broken, resigned, defiant, scared, numb, but some smiled. The naive innocence of children was the hardest thing to witness. One mother even held her newborn baby in her arms. We filed through the narrow cells and read the miraculous testimonies of the seven survivors, before heading back to the hostel to reflect on what we’d seen.

Phnom Penh has been a haunting introduction to Cambodia. In many ways, it doesn’t feel like a capital city. Piles of rubbish are strewn across the streets, paths are broken or inaccessible, thanks to platoons of parked motorbikes, and poverty seems to be more common than affluence. But it isn’t as loud or brusque as Ho Chi Minh City. The history of this city is etched in the memories of those who lived through its horrors, and that gives a very distinct character to the place; it is eager to move forward, whilst keeping the past painfully visible.

Miss Saigon, Miss Mekong.

I stepped off the bus into the sultry humidity of the Saigon afternoon, checked in at the hostel and then made my way to The War Remnants Museum, which documents the atrocities of the Vietnam War. I walked past the American helicopters and planes that stand poised outside the entrance to the main building, and veered left to see the barbed wire ‘Tiger Cages’ – which were used to hold up to five people as punishment. The lurid descriptions of the myriad methods of torture made my stomach turn, and whilst I felt horrified on the behalf of the victims, I couldn’t help pitying the people who inflicted these punishments, who had become utterly brutalised by violence and war. I then entered the main museum and was exposed to devastating photographs depicting victims of Agent Orange. Adults and children alike where dismembered and disfigured, yet many of them smiled through their pain, heroically reconstructing and adapting their lives. The second generation of mutilated victims were a haunting testament to the lasting consequences of war, and whilst today I have experienced Vietnam as a peaceful country, memories of the war will never completely fade. I then moved upstairs, and my feeling of nausea returned as I saw photos of soldiers desecrating corpses, and phials containing the deformed shapes of stillborn foetuses. Despite having studied the war at A Level, it wasn’t until I saw these images and read the testimonies of the people who suffered that I realised the true horror of what occurred.

The following day I visited the Cu Chi tunnels – a subterranean complex developed by the Viet Cong as part of their guerilla strategy. The site was heaving with tourists, but we did our best to follow our guide, Jack, through the throng. In a bunker he showed us a model of the tunnels. He then demonstrated how to use a concealed entrance into the tunnels, hopping into a hole, before raising a camouflaged plank of wood above his head and lowering himself down. I don’t really have the stature of a Vietnamese person, particularly in the posterior, so it was a bit of a squeeze as I lowered myself into the hole. I managed to hide myself, but I wouldn’t have wanted to be down there for very long.

Then we were shown the ‘booby-trap gallery’. Jack used a pole to demonstrate the ‘folding chair trap’ and the ‘clipping armpit trap’ – evoking shudders and grimaces as we imagined the plight of the unsuspecting victims. Then it was time for the tunnel itself. We filed down a narrow stairway, descending about two metres below ground. It was stuffy, and I tried to suppress the anxiety that was rising in my throat. We stooped through the tunnel, which was only a metre tall, occasionally lowering ourselves further underground, and at one point being forced to crawl. This continued for one hundred metres, and while that doesn’t sound like much, it felt like a long time to be in that environment. I can’t imagine how people managed to conduct their lives in similar spaces, with the added threats associated with war. We emerged sweating into the sunlight, and were glad to head back to the bus.

When we returned to Ho Chi Minh City I walked down to the market. The vast hall was a warren of vendors, much like I’ve seen elsewhere. I bought some cashews for a reasonable price, but decided against the rest of the touristy tat on offer – I’m determined not to have a repeat of the tea-set debacle (though for those following its progress, it arrived home safely). In the evening I offered pearls of wisdom to my team in the pub quiz, securing a respectable third place, before crashing into an early night.

The next day me and my hostel buddies, Franzi and Adam, went to the Independence Palace, where North and South Vietnam were reunified into one country. We walked through impressive conference rooms, furnished with questionable mustard carpets and vile brown chairs, which spewed out the late sixties with vehemence. After surveying the upper rooms we descended into the bunker – which proved highly essential on the 8th of April 1975, when the palace was bombed by a communist spy in the Vietnam Air Force. The dingy rooms were like something out of an old Bond film, boxy switchboards and bulky typewriters stuffed into the cells. We found our way out, glad to see daylight, and admired the industrial kitchen, before watching a documentary about the role of the palace in the war, and how it was eventually stormed on the 30th of April 1975, and the puppet government removed.

We then wandered down the leafy boulevard, grabbed some lunch, and separated. I went for a walk around the north west of the city, to see the strikingly European Notre Dame Cathedral, and the cavernous Post Office, operating under the benevolent gaze of Uncle Ho. Just as I got back to the hostel, the heavens opened and within seconds, rivulets were coursing down the streets. We watched a couple of films, drank our free beers (it would be rude not to), and made some preparations.

Franzi and I met for breakfast at 7:30, and then contorted ourselves into a minibus straight out of the eighties. Mildly concussed after two hours of bumping our heads as we catapulted over the road, we arrived in the Mekong Delta. We stopped of at My Tho to see the Vinh Trang Pagoda, complete with giant ‘Happy Buddha’ – his raucous laughter almost audible, his protruding belly almost jiggling. We then took a boat across to Ben Tre, where we were shown the process for making coconut sweets, and shamelessly coerced into buying them. Our palates still cemented with the cloying toffee, we were taken to a restaurant for lunch by the water’s edge. We finished our meal and were herded past a bask of crocodiles, which we were convinced were made of plastic until their keeper began to taunt them with meat on a line, at which they snapped furiously. We swung in some hammocks before getting back on the boat and visiting another island, where we tried local honey tea, and held an apathetic python.

After we’d all taken our pictures we were put onto smaller boats in groups of four, and were rowed under a canopy of leafy ferns. The roots of mangroves arched out of the water, forming claws at the base of the trees. A silence fell, the only sound that of rhythmic paddling and the occasional snagging branch. We soon fell into another tourist trap, and were plied with fruit while we listened to traditional Vietnamese music, which I quite liked. The lilting melodies seemed to meander like the river itself, virtuosically weaving across the pentatonic scale. Then we were shipped back to the harbour, where half of us were sent on a bus to a home stay, and the rest of the group made their way to a hotel.

I had enjoyed my day, but some people in our group complained of the touristic nature of the ‘tour’ (one could argue that the clue is in the name), and were frustrated at not having seen ‘real river life’. After dinner they proceeded to moan that there was nothing to do, to which I suggested that this may be the ‘real life’ they wanted to see. Sitting on buses through small towns, I’ve seen a lot of Vietnamese people lying in hammocks or sitting on plastic stools watching the world go by. Life here is slow, relaxed, and unhurried. This was obviously not the life that the group wanted to see.

We were up at 5:45, and watched the sun rise over the river as we had breakfast. A long boat then took us past homes constructed of corrugated iron, panels of wood, and crumbling concrete stilts. We saw men showering, children eating, and women washing clothes as we chugged along, their daily routines continuing as if they were unobserved. We met the rest of our group at the floating market, where boats laden with everything from pineapples to pumpkins converged. We steered through the chaos, occasionally offered coffee or Coca Cola by persistent oarsmen. We then went to see how rice noodles were made. A woman artistically spread a rice mixture onto a hot plate, forming a crepe which would then be dried on bamboo for two or three hours. Once a disk of rice paper had been formed, it was shredded through a machine into noodles. Thus edified, we boarded the boat once more where we were taken to a garden, and shown trees laden with papayas, jack fruits, dragon fruits, dambian, mangoes, plums and oranges. We were then taken back to the mainland, where we had lunch and were bundled off back to Ho Chi Minh City.

I had limited expectations of the tour, and as a result didn’t feel disappointed or frustrated by the experience. It would be very naive to believe that a tour, or even a home stay, is a legitimate means of immersing oneself in a different culture. An outsider’s view will always be refracted by language, cultural background, and prejudices. We could have eaten dinner with the family at the home stay, but what if they wanted to enjoy some frog, rat or dog? These are traditional meats in Vietnamese cuisine, but unthinkable to a sterile western palate. Moreover, it seems unfair to expect people to speak English in a country where it isn’t an official language, so the potential for communication with the family is reduced to the visual and indirectly, the superficial – there isn’t a forum for deeper cultural understanding beyond observation. I also think it’s important to remember that most of the time people work, and work is pretty dull. An alternative of the Mekong Tour might be a London Tour, where you can get up at 06:00, crush into the tube at rush hour, have a brittle cereal bar for breakfast, follow a weary and crumpled man into an office and watch him stare at a screen and procrastinate. We saw people doing what they do every day – and yet some of the group expected an original experience. I enjoyed the tour, but I found it hard to do this while being assaulted by the negativity of the others. I did my best to justify what I thought was a perfectly reasonable itinerary, but was met with the circuitous arguments of hypocrites who wanted both exotic authenticity and home comforts.

Sand dunes and salty air.

A hilariously tiny minibus, with limited air conditioning and two customers suffering from travel-sickness took me from Dalat to Mui Ne; a small resort on the coast. In the morning I was up early (old habits die hard) to have a go at surfing the wind. I met my instructor, Matt, and together we caught some motorbike taxis up to a sheltered bay. Matt meticulously went through the various terms he would be using, explained the angles of the wind, and described the different parts of the equipment. Feeling overwhelmed by information, I lifted the board into the water, walking in until the waves were up to my stomachs. I clumsily heaved myself onto the board, and then pulled the sail out of the water. Matt taught me to tack, and after a couple of attempts I managed to push the sail in the right position and turn around. We then covered jibes (which are swingyer and more fun) and how to reach optimum speed. In a disconcertingly short amount of time, Matt left me to my own devices, going inside to sort out the equipment while my confidence and speed gained momentum. Soon I was (sedately) streaming along the coastline, beginning to understand now to harness the power of the wind. After two hours I had a huge sense of accomplishment – I never imagined that I would have been so independent so quickly. The upshot of this was that I booked another night in Mui Ne, just so I could have another go.

Still brimming with achievement, I grabbed some lunch and returned to the hostel. At 13:30 me and four other people squashed into a Jeep to see some of the natural highlights of town. Our first stop was the ‘Fairy Stream’. Slightly confused as to why we’d been brought to a little creek, we waded through the red sand. After a few minutes we were confronted by beautiful rock formations, red and pale gold against the cerulean sky.

We followed the stream until we met a waterfall, struck a few poses, and then made our way back to the Jeep. We passed a harbour speckled with tubs and boats, and strewn with fishing nets, before finally reaching the White Dunes. Set a few hundred metres inland, pure white sand rose in smooth ridges, snaking along the horizon. The tracks of quad bikes ran across the surface like veins, the buzz of engines audible, but muffled. We climbed to the top of the steepest ridge, and were mesmerised by the landscape. We ruminated on profound philosophical truths, like the fallacy of our self-importance in the face of nature, before sliding on a sheet of plastic to the bottom of the dune.

We took a circuitous route back to the Jeep (never leave me to navigate in a desert) and then sped to the Red Dunes, arriving seconds before the sun hit the horizon. Our gritted legs showed the gradation of the different coloured sands; we wriggled our toes deeper under the surface, warming our soles with the residual heat as we watched the moon rise. We returned to the hostel tired but content, attempted to shower off the stubborn particles, and went out for dinner and a couple of drinks.

The following morning I indulged in my new passion, renting the gear rather than having a lesson. After a shaky start I was soon cruising the shoreline, trying to dodge the jet skiers and swimmers, and to maintain my balance on the surging waves. I returned to shore achey but exhilarated, sad in the knowledge that my opportunities to windsurf again in the near future might be limited. I had a lazy afternoon by the pool, although I did manage to rouse myself for an aloe vera massage (rendered necessary by the pinky glow that had spread over my body over the course of the day). In the evening me and two Dutch girls, Isabelle and Lis, went out for dinner, then headed to the beach for a pirate party, dancing in the sand to a Vietnamese cover band and some crazy techno until the crowd began to thin and our eyelids began to droop.

Mui Ne has felt a bit like a holiday. Perfect weather, and a dearth of historical and cultural sites to visit has meant that I’ve slowed down a little. I normally feel very guilty when I relax (a consequence of five years of indefinite and potentially infinite study – “You can always read more,”) but at this point in my life, I am completely free – I have no responsibility (other than for myself), no work, no stress, and for the first time in this trip, I gave myself time to acknowledge that.

Don’t go chasing waterfalls.

Dalat was only a four-and-a-half-hour bus ride away. We drove towards the mountains in the distance, past conical hats that bobbed up and down in the fields, stooping to gather crops. The road snaked round blind corners as we got higher and higher, until eventually we were level with the clouds. We then began to descend. I walked to the hostel from the bus stop, met some guys in the reception (one of whom bizarrely works in the same office as my dad) and went for lunch. I then visited the Dalat Flower Gardens. It was a bit disappointing, as I was paying for something that I would get for free in my hometown (Castle Park has beautiful flowerbeds), but the collections of orchids and bonsai trees were pretty, and it was a nice way to spend a hot afternoon. I then traced the outline of the lake and headed south to Bao Dai’s Summer Palace. The art deco building reminded me of a school that needs refurbishing; the dingy wallpaper drooped off the walls, and the furniture was worn, but it was interesting to see where the king lived, and to imagine what the life of his family might have been like there. I then made my way back to the hostel and had a lovely dinner courtesy of our hosts Kha and Chau. It was a great way to meet the other guests, and the food was delicious. I then dragged myself up to the dorm (and my memory foam mattress) to sleep.

I rose bright and early to tackle the biggest challenge that Dalat could throw at me; canyoning in the Datongla Falls. I’m terrified of heights, and I hadn’t abseiled since I was on Brownie Camp, aged ten, so I was feeling a little shaky as I slurped my breakfast pho. Eleven of us in the hostel were all booked on the same tour. We were greeted by Loc, who radiated enthusiasm like the star on his T-shirt (emblazoned with the Vietnamese flag). We hopped into a minibus, and about fifteen minutes later arrived at the falls. We were then strapped into damp life vests and harnesses, and topped off our look with bright orange helmets and dingy gloves. We were ready. Loc gave us a practice run of abseiling down a hill, and then we were thrown into the first dry cliff. Well not literally into it, that’s what we were trying to avoid. We nervously peered over the top of the precipice, unable to see the bottom. With the click of the hook that Loc attached to my harness, my anxiety dissipated. I slowly leaned back and began to walk. After a couple of steps the rock face became perpendicular to the water. A few jumps was all it took to hit the water. With a sense of triumph I swam across to the other side and watched the rest of my team bounce down the cliff.

I felt more confident, and as a result the second abseil was even better; it was sheerer than the first, allowing more courageous jumps. We then leaped off a rock into the base of the waterfall, the force of the water pounding the air out of our lungs as we posed for photos. We floated down the river à la Baloo, and then hit some rapids, which pulled us backwards down towards the calmer water. We scrambled up to the bank, our sodden jackets and puddled trainers weighing us down, and hiked up to the top of another fall, where we had lunch. As we were eating, we saw another group gradually diminish as individuals disappeared into the torrid waters. Nerves began to prickle in my stomach, and I regretted having demolished our picnic so effectually. It was our turn. Loc and Tiger explained in acute detail the potential difficulties that we could face, and showed us how to position our bodies in case we slipped. When someone asked what to do if we accidentally let go of the rope, there wasn’t really an answer. I took off my shoes and carefully shuffled in to the water to get harnessed up. I took a deep breath, smiled, and then began the descent. The water gushed at my body, spraying up in my face as I squinted to get directions. After a couple of metres I couldn’t hear anything but rushing water. The current got stronger as the cliff dropped. I couldn’t do anything but go down. About four metres from the bottom my rope ran out. I counted to three. I jumped. Swept under the water, I eventually bobbed back up. Shaking, I clambered up to dry land, beginning to understand  the gravity of what I’d just done. The whole team did a great job, cheering the most impressive leaps, offering enthusiastic encouragement to moments of hesitation. We all made it down safely.

Then it was time for the free jump. This was the part that I’d been dreading most. I opted for the seven metre over the eleven, because of the necessity to clear a good two metres of jutting rocks with the latter. Feeling prudent, I hurtled off the rock, bombing into the pool below, and then watched with a mixture of awe and disbelief as the bravest members of our group launched themselves, suspended for an age in midair, before plunging down to comparable safety.

The last obstacle was ‘The Washing Machine’. The explanation was slightly rushed as the sun was beginning to creep behind the mountains. Not completely certain of what I was going into, I was hooked up for the last time. I abseiled down some large, awkward steps, and then the rock was gone, curving away from my outstretched legs. I lowered myself down with the rope, and then was churned around by the force of the cascade. The root of the nickname became evident. Drenched, jittery, and drained, we faced a steep climb back up to the bus, the relentless dirt steps showing no sign of ever ending. Just as we were about to give up, we heard the road.

The group had become close over the day. We all went out for dinner, along with the rest of the guests at our hostel, and then hit the karaoke bar next door. At this point, my energy reserves had completely emptied. I crumpled into bed, overcome by the satisfying tiredness that only comes from strenuous effort.

Dalat has been fantastic. The town itself is nice enough, but maybe not worth a trip in itself. The canyoning was the essence of my whole experience here, and it was incredible. I’m definitely getting over my fear of heights, and I’m learning that I do actually enjoy the whole ‘physical activity’ thing – a pleasure that school P.E. lessons had completely thwarted for the duration of my childhood. Experiences like this are going to be more of a priority for the rest of my trip. I’ve become, what one might term, a ‘Thrill-Seeker’, and I’m already wondering where I’m going to get my next fix.

More mud, and a bit of beach.

Another sleepless sleeper bus brought me to Nha Trang, just as the sun was rising over the South China Sea. A pinky glow stretched across the waves as they gushed into the shore with a soothing regularity, forming a stark contrast with the driver’s erratic changes of direction. I met a couple of Scottish girls who were booked into the same hostel, so we walked together. We dumped our bags, shovelled down some breakfast, and then made some enquiries about a mud bath.

We caught a ‘bus’ that was more closely related to a golf buggy, and bombed along the road, waving to children on the motorbikes that were overtaking us. After about twenty minutes we arrived at I Resort, a new spa complex dripping in luxury and Russians. Ali, Laura and I put our things in a locker, and then walked through to the baths. A wooden tub was filled with warm mud; we cautiously slid into the goop. Unlike Sapa mud, this didn’t harbour an interesting odour. The greeny brown slime felt silky against our skin, and we soon relaxed into sensation.

After about half an hour, the mud was getting cool, so we clambered out and rinsed off, before getting pounded by the waterfalls and sprayed by the ‘hydrotherapy cave’. We then secured our loungers in the sun, and crashed, to make up for our journey the previous night. A few hours dissolved, and we decided it was time to head back to the beach. The shuttle dropped us across the road from the sand, and a nice man herded us over the triple carriageway with a condescending smile. We found a spot and watched the sun disappear behind the high rise hotels that guard the front.

Later that evening, we explored the tat of the night market, which was identical to the tat at the other markets that I’ve visited. As we turned the corner we came across a performance showing the different masks and face-paints of traditional Vietnamese theatre. Four characters leaped around the square, their gorgeous costumes and impossible shoes making their acrobatics even more impressive. We then grabbed a bowl of pho and headed back for an early night.

This morning the sun was burning again. We hired bikes and headed north on a terrifying road, punctuated by chaotic roundabouts, to the Po Nagar Cham Towers. The beautiful red brick structures were unlike anything I’ve seen so far; ornate yet practical as they shielded worshippers in their cool, cavernous shrines. As we rested in the shade from the piercing heat, we admired the magnificent view of the harbour, the distance making the traffic seem to flow organically across the bridges.

We got back on our bikes and successfully cycled to the Long Son Pagoda. The pagoda itself was fairly standard, but behind it loomed a gigantic white Buddha, looking out across the city. We stood in awe of its sheer size, and read the plaques dedicated to Thich Quang Duc, and six other monks who self-immolated in 1963. A ‘monk’ then emerged from the shade, told me to bow (which I did) and took me round to see the gravestones set behind the Buddha. He then asked for a fee, but as I doubted his legitimacy (his head wasn’t shaved, and he was wearing a shirt and jeans) I deferred my gift, deciding to wait until I could be sure my money would be received where it was needed.

At this point Ali and Laura headed back to the beach, while I visited the Long Thanh Gallery. Mr Thanh welcomed me in, and offered me a cigarette, which I politely declined. I then surveyed the stunning black and white images that he had captured. The stories of laughing children, working mothers, and gossiping old women, poured out from his work. I was particularly taken by the agile movement of a young boy hopping across the backs of water buffalo as they followed a stream, and the portrait of one woman whose eyes burned out from her papery skin, exuding wisdom, fortitude, and weariness. I hope one day I’ll have enough money to justify buying these photos and having them shipped. I then went to the Do Dien Khanh Gallery, which had similar subjects, but less of the artistry of Mr. Thanh. The light lacked mysticism, and the faces were harder to read, but there was still an impressive collection on display. I then returned my bike and went to the beach, however my inclination to relaxation was thwarted by the spitting rain. I chilled out at the hostel before heading to the cinema with some French-Canadians to watch the new Hunger Games, gilded with Vietnamese subtitles.

I was warned before I arrived that Nha Trang was seedy and full of Russians. The latter was true, but I’ve had a great couple of days. I’ve had a lot of new experiences, which have rejuvenated my enthusiasm and reminded me that I have a lot left to see. Its also been nice to chill out – something that I often forget to do. Two days was enough, but I’m so glad that I had the chance to form my own opinion. That’s an important lesson in itself.

Master chef.

I arrived in Hoi An at lunchtime, and was picked up by a shuttle bus which took me straight to the hostel. Really it was more of a hotel than a hostel. I was staying in a dorm but there was a pool, so make of that what you will. I tried the local beef noodles (Cau Lau) before hiring a bike and exploring. First I visited the Chuc Thanh Pagoda. Set a little way from the town, the grounds were cloaked in an eery tranquility, broken only by the sporadic groans of a gong. I then went south towards the Old Town, which is set on the banks of the Thu Bon River. I bought a ticket which permitted me entrance into five of the twenty-three sites of interest, then had a nose around the traditional houses of Tan Ky and Quan Thang, and the Museum of Folk Culture. I’m beginning to find these kind of attractions a bit samey, although the latter did have an interesting exhibition on the production of silk. A woman told me how to identify genuine silk – when you burn it, it should smell like hair, not plastic. This was all very well, but I don’t think a shopkeeper would be too happy if I started singeing her wares, so the practical application of this knowledge is somewhat limited. I then went back to the hostel, and had a couple of Bia Hoi in the bar.

It was at this point that the inevitable happened. It would appear that I had involuntarily consumed a purgative, and so I spent the night and the following day feeling sorry for myself, and begrudging the fact that everyone assumed my suffering was a result of alcoholic excess. To be fair, it’s been pretty nonstop for the past two and a half months, so I think a day off might not have been such a bad thing. Plus it rained all day, so I didn’t miss much.

The following day I was feeling much better, so I enrolled in a cooking class. I met Glyn, grandad of ten from Australia, and along with Chris, our guide, we hopped on our bikes and cycled down to the market. Chris unravelled the mysteries of alien fruits and vegetables, and led us through the the maze of produce, ranging from crates of live chickens, to slabs of fresh fish. We then cycled out to the village of Tra Que to begin our class. Chris set us the infuriating though hilarious task of cutting various fruits and vegetables into flowers. I’m not known for my delicacy or artistic flair, but Glyn was skilfully adept, and together we managed to create a flowery gardeny menage of carrots and chillies, all stuck into an onion.

There is no way that I would ever waste more of my life by making it at home, but it was a fun experience all the same. We then tried our hands at Ban Xeo – a local fried pancake. We watched bewildered as Chris flambéed pork and prawns, before expertly pouring in the pancake mix and tossing. Then it was our turn. By some miracle my pancake didn’t end up on the floor, although my consternation is perfectly captured here:

We then moved on to Green Papaya Salad, Chicken Clay Pot, and Pho. To be honest Chris did most of the work, but the dishes were pretty straightforward and I’m confident I could recreate something resembling the real thing at home. Then there was nothing to do but eat our creations. It was all delicious (as we expected), and even the pouring rain couldn’t dampen our spirits as we cycled back to town.

Hoi An is riddled with tailors, so I thought I’d have a couple of dresses made. I’m not a very good shopper at the best of times, and the prospect of infinite cuts, colours, and fabrics only served to challenge my limited capacity. Eventually I found a couple of designs, and when I returned to pick up the finished articles four hours later, they fitted perfectly. I’d successfully achieved everything I’d wanted to do. Safe in this knowledge, I went out for dinner by the river with a group from the hostel, and had a very pleasant final evening.

Hoi An was recommended to me very enthusiastically before I arrived, but unfortunately my experience of it was blighted by illness and bad weather. It’s okay, the Old Town is quite nice, and I really enjoyed the cooking and the tailoring, but it hasn’t been my favourite place. The ho(s)tel has been engulfed by a miasma of frustration and boredom as people try and figure out how to pass a rainy afternoon. The weather hasn’t been getting better as I’ve been going south, but I live in hope.

Which Hue should we go?

I had a recovery day in Hanoi, (most of which was spent eating) to compensate for my muddy exertions in Sapa. At 18:00 I boarded another sleeper bus – it was about time I headed south. I’m not the biggest fan of sleeper buses. Space is very limited, particularly if you sleep in a ball like I do, but the night passed joltingly enough. I woke up at 06:00 to find us hurtling through a rain-soaked village. We narrowly missed a water buffalo, before careering out into fields. At this point the rain stopped, and was replaced by a muggy humidity. The heavy air had lost its powers of oxygenation, but the timid sun made the verdant ferns and banana plants glisten, offering a promising alternative to the grey clouds of Hanoi.

I had a much-needed shower on finding the hostel, before grabbing some local Hue food; Banh Khoai (deep fried crepe stuffed with prawns and pork). Satisfied, I wandered over to the Citadel that marks the heart of the city. The Imperial City was a cross between the Forbidden City of Beijing, and a construction site. Some of the buildings had been restored in the nineties, but war and natural disaster were clearly evidenced in the scattered bullet holes and the crumbling walls. Like the Forbidden City, the site was a maze of continuation, another temple popping up just when you thought nothing else could be contained within the brick walls. The Citadel lacked the completion and longevity of Beijing’s version (it was only constructed in the 1800s), but it was a pleasant way to pass a few hours, and to momentarily escape the incessant calls of the motorbike taxis.

After the Citadel I followed the river down to the Dong Ba market, and was immediately implored to buy shoes, t-shirts, cashew nuts, shampoo, and stationary from all sides. Tiny cubicles were stuffed to the roof with piles of miscellaneous items; I’m not convinced that the vendors always knew what they were selling. I battled my way back to the hostel for a nap, before finding the night market. Here the chaos was much more organised; clothes and shoes were laid out on sheets on the ground. I bought a T-shirt for £1.35, and then meandered circuitously (definitely not because I was a bit lost) back to the hostel.

The following day I went down to claim my free breakfast at 08:00, and met Stephan, who would be my buddy for the day. On Monday I’d made some enquiries about hiring a bike to visit the Royal Tombs, but was told by the hostel that it was too far, and that I should take the very expensive tour instead (which didn’t even include the entry fees). Disgruntled, I went out for dinner and got talking to a guy who had successfully rented a bike that day, for exactly the same purpose. Furnished with the details, I returned to the hostel, where I bumped into Stephan, who wanted to do the same thing. Hence the universe colluded, and my plan was set. We got the bikes easily enough, and were soon cycling out of the city. The road became a dirt track, as we passed by haphazard homes, shrieking schools and tussling bulls. Eventually we arrived at the Tomb of Khai Dinh. Blackened concrete steps led up to the imposing tribute, which took eleven years to construct. Textured ceramic walls encased a golden statue, and the tomb itself. The garish colours contrasted with the dullness of the exterior, but they couldn’t contend with the view from the hilltop. It’s a shame the emperor couldn’t enjoy it for himself.

We then cycled to the tomb of Tu Duc. This monument couldn’t have been more different from the previous one we’d explored. Centred around a placid lake, tombs in various states of repair opened up before us, peeping out from behind frangipani and pine trees. The foundations of the former home of the Emperor’s one hundred and four wives and numerous concubines, were visible as rubble, but the tombs of the Emperor himself and the Empress Hoang Le Thien were better preserved; their empty stone structures (for fear of looting) guarded by the requisite stone mandarins and elephants.

After lunch we cycled back towards the city, then went along the Perfume River to the Thien Mu Pagoda. Rising elegantly towards the sky, the pagoda towered above the working monastery and serene gardens. We saw the car of the self-immolating monk, Thich Quang Duc, and a collection of impressive bonsai trees, before parting ways – Stephan headed for the Citadel, while I headed for the hostel.

We regrouped later in the evening to try some more of Hue’s gastronomical specialities. In a small restaurant, reassuringly populated with locals, we tried Banh Beo, Banh Nam, and Banh Loc – various combinations of a gelatinous rice substance, interspersed with prawns and wrapped in banana leaves. It was similar to mochi, but not sweet, and I finished the meal still undecided as to whether I’d enjoyed it or not. We walked back to the hostel via the river and parted ways once more, grateful for the company we’d afforded each other.

Hue was a good place to spend a couple of days. It felt really liberating to get out of the city and see more residential areas, and the cultural heritage is rich and distinct. I got the impression that a lot of people in the hostel were missing out on the individuality of the city, primarily because of alcohol, and because of the sterile and overpriced tours offered by the hostel (although I was told that the motorbike tour to Hoi An is amazing – I just knew that my Grandad would kill me if I even thought about taking part). I’m learning a lot about the different approaches people take to travelling, and I’m grateful that I’m always able to find someone with a similar agenda to my own.

Stuck in the mud.

A symphony of blaring horns and a motorbiking cavalcade welcomed me back to Hanoi. My return to civilisation renewed the necessity for some life-admin, however this time my endeavours were rewarded. I succeeded in getting the photos taken (and dated) for my Canadian visa, and I finally said goodbye to the cumbersome, (though not in any way regretted or begrudged) tea set that I’ve been lugging around for about a month, praying fervently that it would make its journey in the appropriate number of pieces. After my affairs had been set in order, I caught the bus to the Museum of Ethnography, about 7km from the centre of Hanoi. It was fantastic, giving detailed information about the origins and customs of the fifty-four ethnic groups of Vietnam. The Viet people make up 86% of the population, but I was ignorant to the rich diversity that can be found in this country, which boasts an ancestry from across Asia. Exhibits and videos formed windows into the everyday life of these groups; from market day, to religious celebrations, weaving to hunting. A temporary exhibit of the photography of Jean-Marie Duchange gave an intimate glimpse into the customs of the people he met in the fifties, and in the grounds of the museum an array of houses had been constructed by the tribes themselves, rendering the imagination redundant, as you experienced the pliant bamboo floors and the vast wooden beams for yourself. Two and a half hours later, I prised myself away and caught the bus back into town. I wandered over to the Temple of Literature, and sat watching graduates proudly posing in their mortarboards and gowns, worn over elegant silk dresses and smart suits. I then headed back to the hostel to make some preparations.

At 21:00 I was picked up by a minibus, which then transfered me to a gigantic two-storey sleeper bus. Glowing with neon lights and furnished with leather seats that fully reclined, I sank back to pass the night. At 07:00 I woke up to the sound of voices outside the bus. We had made it to Sa Pa, and a crowd of local H’mong women in pink and lime green headdresses had come to greet us, though, somewhat suspiciously, not to sell anything. A motorbike taxi took me to a hotel, and after breakfast and a shower, I was met by Na, our guide. Eight of us began the trek, which started well enough. We squeezed through the market, briefly protected from the drizzle, before heading down a road that led to a field. With no other course available, we cautiously joined a dirt track, that almost instantaneously became thick, sludgy, mud, disintegrating into a precipice that descended into blind mist.

My trainers were saturated, making a satisfying squelch with every slip. Fortunately I had Zayn, a lovely H’mong women dressed in a beautifully embroidered tunic, (and, more importantly, wellies) holding my hand and preventing me from faceplanting. One guy wasn’t so lucky, stacking it twice, and one lady slid a good few metres on her bum, but by this point we were so caked, and my shoes were so far beyond repair, that nothing mattered. The rice fields were stacked in steps, laced with a mist that ran through the layers, until it completely obscured their summit in a wistful haze.

After a good few hours of hard slog, we arrived at Lao Chai and had lunch. It was at this point that our helpers turned on us, bribing us to buy their handicrafts by pointing out that they’d just hauled us through a mud bath. Successfully persuaded (or emotionally blackmailed – one of the two) I bought a bracelet, which was the cheapest thing with which I could pacify Zayn. We then continued with Na to Ta Van, the location of our homestay. Inside we found a large room with a table, some low wooden stools, and an old TV, carefully supervised by a two-year-old watching ‘Tom and Jerry’. We drank some tea, before huddling round the fire as Na began preparing dinner. We ate hungrily, then wound down the evening by playing card games. We were forced to retire by the cold. I snuggled into bed in a long-sleeved top, a hoodie and a coat, exhausted, but very content.

I fell asleep instantaneously, and was woken about ten hours later by a cockerel (or five) crowing. We had breakfast and set out, the faintest glimmer of sun elevating our hopes and spirits. The path was easier than the previous day and after a couple of hours we came to a waterfall cascading down a sheet of rock.

The sun had once again sought solace behind the clouds, and as we sat down to lunch in Giang Ta Chai, a light drizzle had started to fall. At this point our group disbanded; the other seven (very wise) people headed back to Sa Pa. I was the only fool who had chosen to sleep at home stays for two nights, so Na and I made our lonely way onwards. She told me it would be another four hours, but I’m a pretty speedy walker, so two and a half hours later we arrived at Ban Ho village. As we descended the muddy course down to the main road, the clouds seemed to zoom past us like a camera lens focusing on the horizon. The steep rice fields were scarred by landslides, and the sound of construction rang through the mist as a new road was being carved into the clay. We passed Thai women, distinguishable from the H’mong, by their high cheekbones and taller build. We also met Red Zhou people, their hair scraped back under red headdresses. We bumped into a French couple and their guide, who were also destined for the homestay, had dinner, and watched some crazy imported soap from China, and the fire fade to embers.

Our last day’s trek took us up to Nam Toong; a village of only twenty families.The path was relatively dry (we didn’t walk through any irrigation channels, for a change), and once we reached the top of the mountain, the paddies opened up into a gorgeous valley. We inhaled the view, then began to clamber down to our home stay, had lunch, and got the bus back to Sa Pa. There I was picked up by another bus, which should hopefully bring me back to Hanoi.

I never really considered myself much of a trekkist before this trip, although I did walk up those mountains in Poland and Japan. ‘Trekking’ for me conjured up images of dense jungle, machetes, and waterproof trousers, however I can safely say that my misconceptions have been allayed. Trekking actually combines a lot of things that I really enjoy; walking, the outdoors, people, mud, guilt free food, and hard earned sleep. The past three days have been an awesome experience, and while the weather prohibited the views that I was hoping for, I loved meeting some of the people that I’d read about at the museum, and seeing a more authentic picture of village life than I accessed in China, (even if their domestic industries are now dominated by tourism rather than agriculture). My trainers may never be the same, and I don’t think I’ve smelt this bad since Reading Festival 2010, but I’m very happy, and I think I will embark on another ‘trek’ when the opportunity arises.

A castaway in Halong Bay.

I’m now firmly on the backpacker trail, and couldn’t think of a more appropriate way of celebrating than by going on a tour to Halong Bay. The last time I went on a party boat was in Turkey, with my sixty-eight-year-old grandmother, and whilst we both had a great time, I imagined that this would be slightly different. I was promptly picked up by a minibus at 08:00, and after doing a couple of laps of Hanoi to collect other people, we made the four-hour journey to Halong Bay. Unfortunately the weather wasn’t cooperating, and we arrived in a mist of fog and fine drizzle. Disappointed but not disheartened, we took a junk to our three story ‘party boat’. The room was pleasant, and I was sharing with a lovely Korean girl called Yan. Everyone in the group seemed nice, and we quickly bonded over our reluctance to wear the mouldy lifejackets that had been provided for our safety, and by moaning about the grim prospects offered by the weather.

After lunch we took the junk to Thien Cung cave. The stalactites and stalagmites were dramatically lit with purple and green lights, and our guide (self-christened Snake) pointed out some rocks that looked like a mushroom and a tortoise (if you have a gargantuan imagination). We looked out onto the bay from a wooden deck, but the mist stubbornly refused to give us the shining vistas that we’d seen in the Lonely Planet. We then tried our hands at kayaking. Yan and I teamed up, and after a couple of scrapes on the rocks, we started to get the hang of it, exploring caves and coves. Sea hawks circled overhead as we stutteringly made our way back to the pier. Darkness fell, and after a brief drama courtesy of a fishing net caught on the propeller, we weighed anchor for the night, passing the evening with Ring of Fire, Flip Cup, and some terrible techno-rave-trance provided by a group of five German guys who were mercilessly acting DJ. Driven away by the incessant pounding of the bass, Yan and I retired.

The party didn’t stop there. Prised from our beds at 07:30, the group divided in to two. Nine returned to Hanoi (including the Germans), and nine took another boat to an island (including me). By a stroke of improbable chance, all nine of us were female – and we delighted in the fact that we wouldn’t have any snorey boys staying in the dorm. Before we reached the island we were given the opportunity to jump off some rocks into the sea. I was the only one keen enough and stupid enough to accept the challenge. I’m not particularly athletic or strong, so I only managed to climb a little way, but it was still fun to plummet into the warm water, even if I was shivering for the rest of the ride.

After what seemed like an age, we juddered towards Freedom Island. Sandwiched between two private beaches stood a tall structure on stilts, thatched with straw and shielded from the absent sun by bamboo blinds. This was our new home. Welcomed by Tai and Phi, we dumped our bags and settled into our desert bubble, phone signal and the internet happily banished, the only sound that of the waves gently lapping the sand. We spent the afternoon playing volleyball, fudging together some yoga, and attempting to circumnavigate our island, hindered somewhat by our slippery flip-flops and the jagged sharpness of the rocks. We made it back safely, had a delicious dinner (complete with baked oysters) and played The Hat Game and The Stick The Name Of A Celebrity To Your Head And Guess It Game. It might not have been the mad party that we were expecting, but I think it was infinitely more fun.

This morning I was sad to leave. We got back to the main boat, learned how to murder a recipe for Vietnamese Spring Rolls (which were still delicious despite our clumsy folding), and then faced the long journey back to the chaos of Hanoi. Already the city feels more claustrophobic than the limited space of the island, but I can’t escape to a deserted beach forever. Can I?

Zàijiàn, Xin chào.

This month has disappeared. My flight earlier this morning from Guilin passed without a hitch (despite the fact that some fellow passengers and I arrived before the airport opened), and I’m now sitting at Guangzhou airport waiting for my flight to Hanoi.

China has been an experience. I was warned about some parts of it, not about others, but there have been a lot of things that I didn’t anticipate, and that have embellished my time here with amazing memories. I’ve been the recipient of unbounded generosity (big shout out to the Shi family); of more free dinners than it would be reasonable for anyone to expect (special thanks to Quin Ru and company) and of unguarded friendship from everyone I’ve met. The people here have been open, inquisitive, and welcoming, and I really appreciate the time that they spent with me – the questions that they answered, but more than anything, the questions that they generated.

Things haven’t always been easy. At times I’ve been lonely, lost, and ripped off, but despite this my perception of the country is overwhelmingly positive. It is (by questionable means) achieving astounding results, and it will be interesting to see how it develops in the next ten, twenty and thirty years. China is vast. Beyond any scale that I could have imagined before I came here, and the attempt to unify the diversity inherent in such a large area is admirable, if (perhaps) futile. I never thought that this would be the case, but I’m utterly beguiled by China; and I’m nursing an unexpected, irrepressible, and potentially insurmountable desire to come back.

The first thing I saw as we descended into Vietnam was green space. I breathed a sigh of relief, it was almost like coming back home. Immigration and baggage reclaim passed without incident, making the journey much more straightforward than anticipated. The hostel’s driver was waiting for me with a placard, and in about forty five minutes we arrived. I dumped my stuff, then headed out into the rain to see the night market. Uncountable stalls were selling clothes, shoes and souvenirs, of a much higher quality than I’d seen in China. Moreover, the vendors didn’t hassle bystanders, but had a relaxed approach, reaching a fair price without undue pressure. I weathered the rain for as long as possible, before heading back to a shower and bed.

This morning I was ready to see Hanoi. After a bit of life-admin I walked down to the Hoa Lo Prison, which was used by the French to detain Vietnamese political prisoners, and later was home to American Prisoners Of War during the conflict. The difference between how the building was used at these two defining points in history was astonishing. The brutality of the French and the hospitality of the Vietnamese couldn’t be more disparate, and whilst I was aware of the potential for bias, it was difficult to argue with the video evidence of the American prisoners playing sports and celebrating Christmas, and the statistics for the deaths of Vietnamese prisoners merely decades earlier. The dank cells were haunting, as was the guillotine that stood on display, poised to end a life. It was fascinating and nauseating to learn about, as history often is.

After the prison, I made the short walk over to the Women’s Museum. Each of the three floors was packed with captivating exhibitions on the ways that different Vietnamese ethnicities celebrate marriage and childbirth (varying depending on whether the culture is matrilineal or patrilineal), on the active engagement of women in the war with America, on mothers forced to move away from their families to the city to earn money, and on traditional female dress. The numerous films gave a fascinating insight into these women’s lives through candid documentaries, clearly demonstrating their admirable resilience to adversity, and a tenacious propensity to enjoy life.

After a lunch of Ban Cha I wandered around the northern part of the Old Quarter, getting lost amongst the shops that spilled out onto the streets. They sold everything. Metalworkers welded on the path, wooden furniture was carefully fitted together, washing machines stood in towers. I picked my way through mounds of clothes and battalions of shoes, past fish being filleted, meat being jointed, and I carefully dodged a net full of live frogs. During my ramble I found the Memorial House, and had a quick nose around the elegantly (though sparsely) furnished rooms and the small courtyard. I then circled around the lake, before winding back to the hostel, but not before a steaming bowl of Pho.