One of life's little puzzles - why is it that the busy people of the planet are able to fit an impossible multitude of activities into their day, both painfully necessary and entirely optional, whilst those who laze around doing absolutely nothing find it extremely difficult to fit anything in at all? This is my roundabout, excuse-less and unanswerable apology (to myself more than to you - anonymous, hypothetical reader) for the extended delay of this blog. Procrastination has, this time, been encouraged by the tranquility of La Marina Hotel in Mui Ne, Southern Vietnam - our temporary home with a pool and ocean view for $20 a night, where we did absolutely nothing for more than three weeks...
It's a rare opportunity we've been lucky to encounter more than most. (Well, part of it is luck, but most of it is simply about following dreams when you can, doing what you want to do, and making it happen. Life's short - a fact we all become increasingly aware of the older we get, and thus far no one fortunate enough to live beyond a wise and experienced 70 has told us we ought to get back to work.)
The body falls into a natural routine after a while. We'd wake up around 7.45am, then bleary eyed we'd yawn and stretch for at least 30 minutes before making coffee. We'd squint in the hot morning sun, as we scoop out sweet, juicy dragon fruit from its colourful, spiky skin with a teaspoon, and devour lychees by the dozen - seated on our second floor balcony over looking the South China Sea. And each day would commence this way - dreaming of the future, reminiscing about the past, relishing the present and digesting all we have learnt, seen, felt and absorbed in recent weeks...
As we travelled down Vietnams coastline, one common entity became apparent - contrary to the inland, slow-paced calm, relaxed business styles and gentle nature of the people - the ocean is a turbulent, adventurous element, constantly reminding us who's boss. For many, it's a challenging but fruitful lifeline - the waters thriving with edible (undeniably delicious) sealife of a thousand varieties. Fisherman line the shores as far as the eye can see, littering sandy beaches with soggy broken nets, unwanted jellyfish, rotting remains and occasionally their own giant, steamy poos when there's nowhere else to go.
Find a touristic beach spot away from these fishing villages and venture in any deeper than your ankle and you'll instantly experience the intense power of the tugging currents. Brave a breaking wave with nothing but your body, and you'll get whisked up into a washing-machine-like swirl of a warm and gritty sea - gasping, blinking and stumbling as you eventually surface with both boobs and bum now fully exposed to the masses, having been forcefully ejected from the bikini that simply was not designed for this sort of shit.
Consequently you'll never see anyone swimming out very far. Mostly, young men brandishing their testosterone entertain the predominantly Russian holiday-making audience, by competing with their friends - diving through incoming surf, showing off their heroic masculinity, while pretending to have fun. A few let slip the occasional yelp or high-pitched squeal, and onlookers momentarily panic as one or two disappear beneath the bubbles following a far-from-agile accidental backwards roly-poly that could well have snapped their neck. Girls rarely venture beyond shin-deep and even at this level the pull is so strong many fall down and subsequently pace back and forth along the edge, testing their courage to see if they dare try again.
The sites I describe above we're mostly witnessed at the beaches in Hoi An, and slightly less exaggerated versions in Nha Trang. The latter location being popular with water sports enthusiasts and adrenaline junkies for obvious reasons. Further south in Mui Ne, kite surfing is the big thing. On any given day, around 50 kites will be in action within a 2km range. Needless to say, with such an abundance there have been many serious accidents, and even fatalities. But the colourful display of their speedy elegance is both thrilling and unknowingly artistic in the wandering eyes of the sun-soaked spectators.
If you've read my Hong Kong blog, you'll understand our apprehension about taking overnight sleeper buses down the country. But from Hanoi to Da Nang we had no choice. It was some sort of war-related holiday in Vietnam and the train was fully booked. It was early evening when we were lead to a 16-seater mini van, which was loaded with 22 heavy backpacks and as many Western passengers, including a hairy, seven-foot Spaniard who was last to board and forced to squeeze into the narrowest of gaps between the seats and sliding door. There was no communication from the driver, or the man who lead us to him, but we all assumed we were heading toward roomier transportation - and fortunately we were...
Wow - such luxury! Granted our expectations were extremely low, but we were delighted to find it far exceeded them. A brand new bus. Leather reclining seats long enough to comfortably lay flat (unless you're a seven foot Spaniard). A clean, flushing toilet with locking door, working light, toilet paper, sink and soap - at the back of the bus, fast working wifi, and little ladders enabling access to every top bunk so no one has to tread on anyone else's face. It was glorious.
Furthermore to this unanticipated magnificence, the bus wasn't even full. About half I'd say. And everyone around us was an English speaking tourist. Diagonally to my right was a single Dutch woman not much older than me, travelling alone but wearing a wedding ring. When she spoke she instantly displayed "tough cookie" indicators, telling us of her adventures exploring India solo. Diagonally to my left was a couple from the UK. He was from Bournemouth. She was from Sussex. (Of course they'd both been to the Isle of Wight - my home - when they were 11 with their school. Everyone in England went to the Isle of Wight when they were 11, with their school.) They were touring Asia before heading to Australia with temporary work permits.
Two Canadian girls sat to my left. They each wore hundreds of stringy bracelets covering half their forearm and those marvellous hippie-pants. One of them said to me, "prepare for it to stop, a lot, for no reason." She was making the assumption we were first-timers on a bus like this. I just said "ok" - but secretly wanted to instantly implant my entire text about our journey from Yangshuo to Shenzhen into her brain. She has no idea how wonderful this vehicle was.
And actually, the bus didn't stop once. From the moment we left, six minutes prior to our scheduled departure time, the coach raced rapidly toward its first destination - Hue. The roads in Vietnam are terrible. Most of them are undergoing constant construction work being conducted at a snails pace, and evidently melting tarmac has been pushed in all directions forming great lumps and deep dips in the mostly single lane "highways." Consequently we were thrown around quite dramatically, and the girl from Sussex actually yelled "oh my god, we're all gonna die!" Because being driven is one of my favourite things in the world, I rarely fear it under any circumstances - and rather enjoyed the roller coaster journey. (And of course I was especially elated not to be suffering from diarrhea this time.)
We had to switch buses at Hue, to one which has somehow been over booked, forcing one of us to join an elderly German couple on a three-man upper bunk at the rear of the bus, and the other to sit on the floor in front of the toilet door. I laid down next to the Germans. Having been suppressed by communism until the collapse of the wall 25 years ago, they'd not had the chance to travel before they had children. Now retired Geo-cashing enthusiasts, they're doing the backpacking they'd always dreamed of. Perhaps they were in their early 70s - a fact he appeared to have embraced with his outrageously high-wasted tweed trousers yanked up enough to reveal long white socks. She, however, had dyed her bob-cut hair a deep shade of maroon and had brightly coloured nails. Despite her aged and well-fed physique, she was able to effortlessly leap from the top bunk to converse with pre-uni travellers young enough to be her grandchildren.
I loved the German couple, and was glad to be squished up against such an interesting duo for four hours. We talked about Frankfurt, which Guillaume and I had heard has 999 jobs for every 1000 people and as such sounded like a prosperous place to reside. Although the job availability ratio is apparently true, none of those jobs are at all well paid. In fact, the Germans described it as slave labour. Ah, ...well we never thought about that.
Da Nang has not fallen victim to any typhoon since 2010. Coincidentally (or not as locals and Buddhists alike believe) this coincides with the erection of Vietnams tallest statue - the Lady Buddha. So serene and reassuring is her life-like face that it's impossible not to be impressed. She's bright white and can be seen from miles away, overlooking the bay from above the dense, tropical greens of the mountainous terrain. They say she protects Da Nang and always will. For a town that was once frequented by vicious, damaging, and deadly storms, (most notably in 2006 when Typhoon Xangsane caused roughly $200 million worth of destruction, swept away more than 5,000 houses and killed 26 people) one can only agree that it is a compelling story and feel hopeful for her continued success.
We cycled to see the Lady Buddha up close. We could see her from our hotel, but to get right up to her was a strenuous two hour pedalling session up a relentlessly steep hill. We got off and pushed for much of the way. These were far from road worthy bicycles might I add. Aside from Guillaume's being pink with a basket on the front, which certainly drew attention from chuckling onlookers, the bells were broken, chains rusty, tyres worn, thin and deprived of a full inflation. Screws we're lose all over the place and, most alarmingly, the brakes didn't work. The return journey back down the mountain was exhilarating to say the least! But all absolutely worth it for the beautiful view from the top, and a peaceful hour spent in a genuinely zen environment amidst gold and intricate temples, bonsai trees and dragon flies.
Da Nang Beach Hotel, where we stayed for just $9 per night, served up my most favourite Vietnamese breakfast to date. Thick, dry, rice noodles on a bed of crunchy lettuce, a generous bunch of mint, coriander, spring onions, chunks of juicy cucumber and other indeterminate flavoursome greens - and topped with ginger, peanuts, tiny quail eggs, chili, lime and salty spices. The main reason why I'm listing the ingredients in such detail is I intend to make this at home when we get back to Canada. Between us we're generating quite a menu for our return. It's evident we both miss home cooking - those cozy evenings with good music, good wine and an exciting plethora of tasty comestibles to experiment with on the stove. ...There'll be plenty of time for all that.
Because Southern Vietnam is swarming with Russian tourists - shop signs, agency billboards, bar menus and hotel notices are all in Russian. Local entrepreneurs shouting their list of services at you from across the street do so in Russian - we all look the same after all. But in Da Nang there are fewer Russians, and in their place are Australians, as if some years back there had been agreed a territorial divide of holiday destinations, and the north would be where Aussies bought pubs, rented apartments and began businesses referencing dingos, BBQs, rugby or billabong to lure others of their kind. And the South was for the portly Slavic tourists, and their younger generation of dreadlocked, pot-smoking teens.
Both Aussies and Russians enjoy an alcoholic bevvie or 12 of an average evening - but it's certainly those from the colder, northern hemisphere that have a greater capacity for blood-warming booze. The Russians will carry large bottles of vodka with them during the day as if it's water. They'll drink it in addition to mugs of beer with their meal. And it's not uncommon to see them swigging straight from a rum bottle while they muse over their breakfast options.
One of our favourite towns in Vietnam is Hoi An. They say it's the place to go for clothes, although our limited budget didn't put us in the market for that. But that didn't stop hoteliers, restauranteurs, locals and other tourists from assuming we'd gone there just to expand our wardrobes. "What clothes have you bought? Have you been to the tailors? How much are you shipping home?" It wasn't the unique made-to-measure garments we were interested in in Hoi An. No three piece suits or elaborate ball gowns for us. We were just taking in the vibe...
It's a colourful, pretty and historic town on a river, where house boats, junk boats, rowing boats, tourist boats, local transport boats and mini floating markets congregate by the tree-lined concrete banks where rouge lanterns light wooden terraces in front and atop yellow stone-walled shops and bohemian boutique cafés. The street markets are busy and vibrant but have a brighter, more touristic feel than those in the slightly greyer and more noticeably crumbling city of Hanoi.
The best thing about our stay in Hoi An was the cycle route to the beautiful beach. This time we hired adult sized, comfortable, modern bicycles with sturdy tyres and reliable brakes for free from the Viet Family Homestay located at the foot of a wild and swampy lake, in a more rural and quaint residential area of the town, where we spent three nights.
The journey to Cua Dai Beach was just 20 minutes along a flat road through constantly changing scenery - over little bridges, into suburban villages, and alongside endless overgrown fields - home to an abundance of wildlife from large, wallowing bulls to shiny, slithering snakes. I almost ran over the latter with my bicycle. The gentle breeze against your face as you head towards the sea air is refreshingly good for the soul. Everybody you pass by has a smile and wants to say hello, and once or twice with half a hand still on the handle bar, I'd raise two fingers to return greetings with a casual peace sign as I continued past. ...Man, I'm cool.
There are a few semi-scams going on in Hoi An. There are many excellent actors who don't realise how much money they could make in Hollywood utilising the same skills they hone on a daily basis in their home town. In quieter shops you'll always be told you are their first customer of the day, a message with a two-fold intention - firstly to plant a hint of guilt within you for not helping their struggling economy and secondly to provide them a reason to offer you a "special price."
Girls in their late teens and early 20s will find you while you're eating dinner or partaking in a "fresh beer" for just 3000 dong (about 18cents, or 10p). They'll quickly befriend you with surprisingly witty charm, perfect English and intriguing tales. Then they'll show you the greeting cards they've "made" - usually with their much younger brothers and sisters. If they feel like really pushing it, they might tell you a blind relative designed the cards, or that sale proceeds will go towards medical costs for a dying parent. (And they're VERY convincing.) But most of them just say they're trying to save for college to get a decent education - which may well be true enough. There are thousands of those greeting cards, produced on mass somewhere and distributed for a fee to those selling them on the streets.
Similarly, in Nha Trang, dozens of middle aged men claim to be a "famous" artist, or a close family member of said artist (if they don't look enough like the one pictured in the eight year old newspaper article they carry with them to verify their authenticity). They're all selling "one off originals" knocked down from several hundred dollars to just 10 for you - because you're not Russian... And they don't like Russians... But they do like YOU! And so YOU, my friend, can have it for 10. Of course, from time to time you dish out the cash, especially if you like what they're offering. But it's all a game.
We'd read and heard that Nha Trang can be dangerous. The police simply go home and watch TV with their families at 9pm, and whatever happens thereafter is free to be confidently lawless. Drugging cocktails, snatching bags and sexual assault are among the crimes apparently occurring at an unnervingly high frequency in the city. So we were pleasantly surprised to feel so safe and comfortable, and did not witness any illegal or particularly naughty behaviour once during our four night stay, even after several beers in the hours after dark. However, we did avoid the bar run by a Brit which suspiciously offered "all you can drink" of on-tap beer, for just 120,000VND (that's $6 or just over three quid.) Considering the majority of visitors to this Vietnamese coastal resort can probably drink their weight in alcohol quite happily, there's obviously something naughty going on there...
The only real inconvenience we experienced was the power cuts that occur so often in this part of Vietnam that those living there think nothing of it. We were in the Far East Rock Cafe one evening - a fabulous bar with deep red walls covered with retro paintings of mostly British musicians, belting classic rock tunes from decades gone by on HDTVs playing the accompanying music videos. We were contently eating generous portions of creamy seafood pasta for less than $4 each, when a small explosion sent fiery sparks flying in all directions from one of the overloaded low-hanging cable connection points outside the entrance. Few people so much as flinched as the entire street plunged simultaneously into silence and darkness. The waitress appeared after about 30 seconds with candles, romantically decorating every table. It seemed inappropriate and unnecessary to react in any way to this apparently normal occurrence and so we carried on with our meals, like everyone else, without being able to see them.
The power cut lasted for hours, yet hot food continued to come out of the magically unaffected kitchen. Customers squinted at menus under the lights of their mobile phone screens, and were seemingly undeterred by what would be quite an exciting and dramatic problem if it happened in the UK or Canada. When we paid the bill, the waitress almost ignited the notes as she examined their denominations in the flickering light of the candle flame. Nothing unusual about any of it.
By the time we checked in to La Marina in Mui Ne, we were ready for another elongated stay - much like we did in Yangshuo in China. It was time again to stop somewhere long enough to get to know it a little better. We had originally booked seven nights at La Marina. We stayed for 24.
We extended our tourist visas to enable us to legally remain in Vietnam for another month. This was a slightly worrisome process as it involved handing our passports over to an adolescent travel agent operating from behind a broken desk in an open-fronted shed plastered with faded photographs of the various tours they have on offer. We were asked for $50 each ($110 each at first... Always whittle them down), and instructed to return in 10 days to collect our passports. They were sent to Hanoi (by sleeper bus no doubt) as that had been our original point of entry. A simple stamp is added to an empty page and presumably something is officially entered into a computer database of some kind, so we don't get fined or arrested for overstaying our original visa when we leave the country. Fingers still crossed.
We're used to leaving our passports with all sorts of dodgy looking characters by now. Everywhere we stay keeps hold of them at the reception desk for at least one day. They have to scan them and register our presence with the authorities. Big brother.
A 20 second walk up the narrow, dusty road from La Marina Hotel is Mui Ne's latest addition and the talk of the town - Dong Vui Square. It's owned by the same people who own La Marina. Local street vendors rent square bamboo huts for 900,000VND per month (less than $50). There's about 20 of them in total, each one offering different delectables at local prices. There's two bars. We became regulars at Lams stall, where he serves gold or black beer. The latter is definitely the tastier but aptly the more pricey at 18,000 a mug (about 50p) so we opted for the lager at half the cost. Having only opened during the first week of October, we were privy to experiencing the early days of this new attraction. The idea is that you can order from any one of the stands, a bit like a food court in a shopping mall, and sit anywhere you like - once we realised this (after our fourth visit), we stopped crouching at the child sized plastic tables and treated ourselves to wooden chairs of more accommodating proportions at a table height we're more comfortable with.
Dong Vui is open plan and roofless, bar a few large orange canvas' tied between the tree tops and bamboo shack lids. Light bulbs in small wooden bird cages hang from branches here and there and there's often live music playing at occasionally deafening decibels between the two bars. The local musician spends a good hour tuning his guitar every night before inviting anyone and everyone to take the microphone and sing badly.
After frequenting Dong Vui square almost nightly for dinner, we began to know and become known by many of the local characters. The first time we met Cha Cha, we didn't like him. It was a brief encounter in which we refused his beef curry and ran away. He was intimidating at at least 6ft 5inches tall, in his 50s, bald and broad with massive feet and a stern, scary face. From Punjab, not India. He didn't like to be lumped in the Indian category, he seemed to prefer Pakistan, and recognized Punjab as a separate place entirely.
The second time we met Cha Cha, it was around 6pm on a Tuesday and he was outrageously drunk, having been downing Vietnamese rice wine since the early morning. (That stuff's lethal -at 60% they ferment it with dead animals and call it medicine. Good for a bad back, apparently.) He grabbed three shot glasses, sat down at our table and insisted we drink with him as we learnt his story. His young Vietnamese wife had died suddenly six months ago from a mysterious illness, leaving behind their one year old baby, Nina, who now lives with her grandparents in Hanoi, a 20 hour drive or more to the north. Cha Cha only sees Nina once a month, yet says he cannot return to Punjab as he doesn't want to leave her.
He has lived in Portugal, Italy, Africa and now here in Vietnam. He speaks multiple languages with impressive fluency and can't say for sure how many children he has but he estimates more than 100. A well travelled, self proclaimed bigamist with no regrets, he has many wives in many countries. We forced fake laughs at his inebriated jokes, and daren't refuse the alcohol, as we each began to wonder if he was a runaway from some sort of mafia. But we felt safe in the company of other regulars, a few inquisitive backpackers, and long time residents of the 10 bedroom boutique hotel in which we were staying. When Cha Cha began eating Guillaumes pork fried noodles, we simply left him to it. At the end of the night, although he was unable to walk in a straight line, he jumped on his scooter and rode off into the darkness.
Despite his controversial beliefs, and different lifestyle, over time we got to know Cha Cha better and eventually started to like him. He was never drunk again in our presence and once I had sampled his vegetable curry, I never looked back. It was by far the best curry I've ever tasted and he prepared me something completely different, but always vegetarian, every evening.
Lam lives with Cha Cha. He says he is 100% Vietnamese, but he has wavy hair and a round face, so we have our doubts. He's 34 and has a 19 year old girlfriend, whose age we know because we were invited to attend her birthday celebrations. Lam was the only one able to speak any English at that party, but with enough free black beer and a small bottle of rum we made it to 1.30am with smiles, sign language and many misunderstandings.
Mui Ne is primarily a coastal resort. Along one narrow 15km road you'll find resorts, guest houses, shops, travel agencies, bars, restaurants, and markets. It's rather spread out, and we were at the end with more locals than tourists - which is cheaper. It's visibly a developing area, where children play barefoot with stray puppies and kittens, and houses range from little shacks with corregated iron roofs and no running water, to newly built gated villas painted in cheery colours. The bay faces South and has it's own micro climate. It rarely rains, but it's humid. Every day, the sun shines, the sky's blue, and the temperature hovers around a sweaty 30 degrees.
Attractions to see in the area include two sets of desert sand dunes. One red, one white. We visited both when on an organised jeep tour. Having ridden camels for three hours into the Sahara at Merzouga in Morocco in 2011, we have memories of much larger, endless sands - but these in Mui Ne were unique in so much as the view includes both ocean and forest on either side.
Simply walking along miles of beach, or down the sandy, rat infested main road taking in the sights, sounds and smells was enough to occupy small portions of our day, whilst the rest was spent simply breathing on our balcony, drinking beer at Dong Vui, or playing in the pool. Everyone plays in a pool like that. For some reason submerging oneself in water on a hot day makes even the dullest and most ordinary of adults perform all sorts of unangelic acrobatics - particularly couples - hopping from foot to foot, competing to stay afloat with legs crossed, and laughing hysterically at how wonderfully easy it is for me to lift my 6ft, 200lb husband with just my index finger. For a moment we might have wondered if we were perhaps a bit immature, but every holidaying couple does exactly the same thing. It must be healthy and magical to behave like children from time to time, and there's something acceptable about doing this in a hotel swimming pool.
Staying in a hotel for that long, you get to know the other guests. It's reminiscent of living in university halls, each resident has their own en-suite room and privacy but can socialise in common areas... (Definite TV series screenplay opportunity. I'm gonna write it.) Tony is from London. His home is in Fulham. He's about 70, with a son and daughter in their 40's and grandchildren too. His wife died two years ago. They had been together since they were teenagers. He says she was one in a million, the love of his life. They always talked about travelling together, and were planning to do it when she tragically got very ill. Now Tony is travelling alone. We loved him. He spoke so positively about everything. "Wow!" and "yes" were his two most used words. Days would go by when we did nothing but talk to Tony. From the moment we'd go down and sit by the pool in the morning until dusk approached and we'd all be thinking about dinner, we'd just chat.
Tony has three brothers, one was his twin - Martin. Martin died in the late 90's. He had brain cancer. When he had less than a year to live, he and Tony began ticking things off a rather adventurous bucket list together. They did a sky dive, raced cars on the old formula one track, drank lots of beer and shared all the childhood secrets they'd never told one another. The life tales and wisdom of hindsight Tony shared with us made us want lots of children. He said they're the best years of your life, when you've got young kids and go for beach days and countryside picnics. His slight cockney twang and distinctly brit-culture-anecdotes, and UK shared references made me miss home.
Although sad to leave La Marina, we were ready to get moving again and knew the coming weeks would fly by as we planned to venture quickly from place to place. We're 80% excited, 20% nervous. Maybe it's more like 70/30, but what matters (as is the case with most things in life which are never 100%) is which outweighs the other. There's going to be a lot to take in, so I shall need to don my most absorbent of observation spectacles...