It was when I saw the menu that I realised we were in one of the most debauched locations in south-east Asia.
Along with the glossy list of dishes we'd browsed through outside, we were handed a tatty exercise book offering fare including a "happy" omelet, opium shake and "a bag of weed".
Only then did I realise that all the other "diners" were practically horizontal.
I feared it probably wasn't the best place to try the Lao national delicacy of Laap - meat, minced with herbs and served in a salad.
As it turned out, it was delicious. Presumably the chef was too chilled out to suffer Gordon Ramsay-style stress in the kitchen and was able to calmly put his art to good use.
While the meal was great, the same could not be said of the surroundings.
By dark, Vang Vieng is like the Wild West. Drunken, topless men maraud the streets, bawling at each other, while girls in various states of undress stagger around aimlessly.
The dangers of all this excess could be seen in the form of one bloke who was leaning forward to talk earnestly to the pavement.
"Nononononononononono," he kept saying, in the style of that bloke from the Vicar of Dibley. Scary.
We had only decided to visit at the last minute, having been told that despite the depravity it is a beautiful place to go tubing.
For the uninitiated, that involves sitting in an inflated tractor inner tube and floating serenely down the Nam Song river while admiring the jagged peaks of the surrounding mountains.
However, the growing backpacker contingent has altered the experience to a simple process:
i) carry your tube to the first bar alongside the river to down a bucket of cheap whisky and coke
ii) on entering the water, float about 100 yards to the next bar for more drinks and lots of noisy splashing off rope swings
iii) repeat until somehow finding your way back to the guesthouse and passing out
iv) spend the next morning watching re-runs of Friends in a bar, while swearing to do it again and take in more of the scenery next time
Of course, the One With The Common Sense and I weren't going to get involved in all that and would instead enjoy the odd civilised beer while taking in the scenery.
You probably won't be surprised to know that instead we got a bit carried away, having met a really nice group of English and Norwegian people.
It was great fun but the problems started when I tried to get in my tube after polishing off the bucket of mojito.
We thought we'd been sensible by sharing the buckets and diluting their effect with some good old beer.
But as I lowered myself gracefully on to the rubber, I somehow turned a somersault, plunged into the water and then ended up clinging onto the edge of the tube as we drifted downstream.
I was quite happy. But The One With The Common Sense evidently felt I was something of an embarrassment and politely urged me to manoeuvre my rear end into the tube.
A couple more pikes with half-turn followed before I clambered, feeling quite pleased with myself, into the middle of the tube.
Only then did I notice I no longer had my glasses and - being unable to see properly - wasn't in a position to retrieve them from the river bed.
Things were to worsen as we left the next bar. With the skies beginning to darken, we started to feel a bit guilty about having concentrated on the boozing rather than the scenery and only having floated 500 yards of the three-mile route.
So back on the water we went - without the rest of our group - and, as the light faded, I took some splendid photos of the murky blackness of the mountainsides.
After 10 minutes on the water, during which the temperature dropped and the number of revellers dwindled, it was with some relief we grabbed the towrope to a bar and hauled ourselves to the bank.
Only on getting out did I realise I no longer had the camera - the handy waterproof neck-wallet we'd bought was empty - and that with it had gone the cash we'd tucked into the case.
I was livid with myself. If it had been stolen I'd have been happier but I can only assume I dropped it when trying to get out of the water.
Losing the camera is really annoying but - as always - it's the photos we'll miss.
Fortunately, we'd backed most of them up. But our images of the perfect sunset and beautiful pre-dawn in Halong Bay are gone, along with those of the crazy bus journey into Laos, the homestay near the cave and a video of my favourite bin lorry.
I might stop hating myself eventually.
The One With The Common Sense did see one small silver lining. The video of her doing some weird Macarena-style dance - a second out of time from everyone else - to that boingy-boingy dance tune that's been following us everywhere, was also consigned to the depths.
Despite still feeling sick over the camera - and having to wear my spare glasses - we're glad we went to Vang Vieng.
It was great fun and the first proper blowout of the trip. It also gave us the chance to visit my new favourite service station.
The bus journey to to the old capital of Luang Prabang wound through Laos' northern mountains - being tackled by numerous hardy folk, including a young family of four, on pushbikes.
Our meal break stop was at a cafe on a ledge overlooking a valley and for once the word "breathtaking" was truly appropriate. It even served home-cooked food - meaning it edges out the truck stop just off the M6, near Preston, as my service station of choice.
Luang Prabang is a place many people get "stuck" for days, thanks to its colonial charm and easy-going atmosphere.
We certainly enjoyed it - though mainly for the food. I could have spent a week there eating everything on offer, especially at the night time market which had all manner of fare on the barbecues.
It certainly had more going for it than the modern capital Vientiane, where even the best asset - its riverfront - had an unfinished air.
I can't think of anything noteworthy to say other than I dropped my hat into the only puddle in town (and a muddy one at that) and that The One With The Common Sense fell into a concrete draining ditch.
It's been one of those weeks.
Thursday 17 February 2011
Friday 11 February 2011
...with a man asleep on his knee
It was when the guy sitting in front fell asleep on my knee that I knew I was experiencing one of those epic Laos bus journeys we'd heard about.
When we were shown to the back seat of the bus in Vinh, central Vietnam, we had been among only about eight passengers.
But after stopping several times for pick-ups, there must have been nearly 100 on the single-decker.
The two rearmost sets of seats had been removed and in the space freed up I counted 13 heads - on top of the six of us jammed onto the back row.
Dozens sat in the aisle or stood at the front, while it was three to every two seats further forward.
Despite squatting on tiny plastic stools or perching on bags, the Vietnamese around us - to a man - managed to nod off.
The bloke perched between my legs just rested his head on my knee and started drooling over the mate sitting to the left.
In spite of all this, the journey proved exhilarating as we first passed through mile upon mile of paddy fields before winding slowly up the steep mountain's jungle landscape towards the border.
Despite losing the sensation in my feet several times, it would have been a really enjoyable trip were it not for the lingering anxiety over whether we'd have enough time - or cash - to get our Laos visa.
We also weren't sure whether we'd managed to convey to the driver that we wanted to get off in rural Ban Na Hin and not go all the way to the capital, Vientiane.
As it happened, he stopped in the right place and we made an unconventional departure through the bus's back window. It was nice for us to leave the other passengers wide-eyed for once.
One guy we met remarked that the sun starts shining the minute you cross from Vietnam into Laos.
That was true - literally and metaphorically - in our case.
As we walked through no man's land, in baking heat we'd not experienced in Vietnam, we were greeted with a ''Sabaai-dii'' by a passing Lao.
And we've met that casual friendliness ever since - a far cry from view that Western tourism is simply a cash cow to be milked that exists in much of Vietnam.
Mountainous borders must tend to be quite spectacular but this one really was beautiful. Laos immigration was housed in a pagoda-style building, surrounded by greenery. (I still wasn't going to risk taking a photo, mind, given I was ordered away when I tried to look back up the road into Vietnam to see where our bus was.)
When we arrived in Ban Na Hin, we ended up walking the wrong way up the main road until a kindly local pulled over.
We told her the guest house we were looking for and she insisted on driving us there - and refused payment.
Only in the car did she reveal she was the owner of a rival guest house. She made no attempt to talk us into staying at her place. No wonder the Lao have a reputation for being such great people.
Given that we'd messed around with our itinerary several times to make sure we could get to Ban Na Hin to visit the Kong Lo cave, it was a pity we marked our arrival with a furious barney.
It was our first proper row of the trip (not bad a month in, I reckon) and, as usual, it was over nothing more than the pair of us being a bit stressed and weary.
Still, it must have been highly comical for the two guys steering the long boat into the 7.5km cavern through the limestone mountains of Phu Hin Bun national park.
The odd occasion when we had to climb out of the boat to wade through shallower parts of the river left me with the dilemma of whether to risk an ear-bashing by telling The One With The Common Sense she was hitching her skirt too high and exposing her pants.
The alternative seemed to be risking an ear-bashing by not telling her and letting her realise for herself. I chose the coward's way and said it very quietly.
It was impossible to stay in a bad mood too long, however, as we disappeared into the eery blackness, lit only by our headtorches.
We pulled over for a short walk to admire some stalactites and stalagmites which, unlike some we'd seen in a cave in Halong Bay, had not been spoiled by insensitive "disco lighting" that seems overly popular around here.
It was great to feel the cool wind flowing past us - the noise of the boat's engine amplified to sound like a helicopter and the water rushing past us seeming like a waterfall whenever the walls closed in.
Above us the roof of the cave sometimes rose to 100m, while in other places water seemed to have created weird spirals in the ceiling.
There were one or two big tree trunks positioned as though holding the roof up, here and there, but we tried our best to ignore them.
Later that night, The One With The Common Sense had awoken to find an old lady peering at us with a torch through the sheet dividing our sleeping quarters from hers.
Apparently I had been snoring, or talking in my sleep, or something.
Sleeping on the floor of someone else's home in a totally alien environment is always going to throw up the odd awkward moment but it was a brilliant experience.
After the cave trip, we opted for a homestay in one of those wooden stilt houses we'd seen all over the region.
The village was a hive of activity, with locals - kids included - tying up what we think were tobacco leaves, ready for sale.
Our host family consisted of the aforementioned granny, a young teacher and two very cute girls of about three and five.
We spent an hour or so drawing pictures with a pad and pencils we'd bought them as presents, coaxing them out of their shyness.
It was so nice to sit, nine feet up, on the floor of the timber house as the sun set.
Dinner consisted of sticky rice, which you roll into balls before dipping into the main dishes.
There was fresh fish, seasoned with a paste of chili, lime and herbs, pork with green beans and spinach with herbs. All were delicious - and I think we managed to convey our appreciation.
When your host doesn't really speak any English, it's pretty difficult to know what is acceptable behaviour.
We left a little bit of each dish on our plates, which we think is the polite thing to do. (If you clean your plate, I think that obliges your host to provide more)
Knowing when to go to bed when everyone sleeps in the same room is also tricky - particularly with young kids involved. Anyway, we didn't mind a very early night so retired at about 8.30pm to our mattress on the floor.
It's something we'd love to do again.
They eat most things in these parts and we had no idea what we were munching through but our best guess is that it was a chicken's stomach.
The lady had pointed to her abdomen when we asked what was on the skewer and we assumed she meant it was a chicken breast that had been flattened for marinating - something quite common here.
But the rubbery texture proved otherwise. It actually tasted really good - a stronger-than-usual taste, more like duck.
It certainly was more filling than the chicken's foot we shared, which tasted like the crispy skin on the outside of a roast, and was covered in a beautiful glaze.
We were visiting Chicken Street in Hanoi - after a great tip from a workmate. A side alley a fair walk from the city centre, it was filled with stalls barbecuing every imaginable bit of chook. Great fun.
And where else to go after Chicken Street but Beer Junction.
All four corners of the crossroads were filled with people sitting on plastic stools drinking Bia Hoi, that 50p-a-pint nectar of joy.
We just had a couple but were joined by a passing cyclo driver (that's a kind of bicycle with a scoop on the front where two people can sit) who was quite obviously hammered.
I conducted a hilarious conversation with him through sign language and animal sounds - I never miss a chance to perform a few mooing noises.
Seeing how his eyes were rolling, however, we declined the free ride home and bought him a beer instead - seemed safer somehow.
When we were shown to the back seat of the bus in Vinh, central Vietnam, we had been among only about eight passengers.
But after stopping several times for pick-ups, there must have been nearly 100 on the single-decker.
The two rearmost sets of seats had been removed and in the space freed up I counted 13 heads - on top of the six of us jammed onto the back row.
Dozens sat in the aisle or stood at the front, while it was three to every two seats further forward.
Despite squatting on tiny plastic stools or perching on bags, the Vietnamese around us - to a man - managed to nod off.
The bloke perched between my legs just rested his head on my knee and started drooling over the mate sitting to the left.
In spite of all this, the journey proved exhilarating as we first passed through mile upon mile of paddy fields before winding slowly up the steep mountain's jungle landscape towards the border.
Despite losing the sensation in my feet several times, it would have been a really enjoyable trip were it not for the lingering anxiety over whether we'd have enough time - or cash - to get our Laos visa.
We also weren't sure whether we'd managed to convey to the driver that we wanted to get off in rural Ban Na Hin and not go all the way to the capital, Vientiane.
As it happened, he stopped in the right place and we made an unconventional departure through the bus's back window. It was nice for us to leave the other passengers wide-eyed for once.
One guy we met remarked that the sun starts shining the minute you cross from Vietnam into Laos.
That was true - literally and metaphorically - in our case.
As we walked through no man's land, in baking heat we'd not experienced in Vietnam, we were greeted with a ''Sabaai-dii'' by a passing Lao.
And we've met that casual friendliness ever since - a far cry from view that Western tourism is simply a cash cow to be milked that exists in much of Vietnam.
Mountainous borders must tend to be quite spectacular but this one really was beautiful. Laos immigration was housed in a pagoda-style building, surrounded by greenery. (I still wasn't going to risk taking a photo, mind, given I was ordered away when I tried to look back up the road into Vietnam to see where our bus was.)
When we arrived in Ban Na Hin, we ended up walking the wrong way up the main road until a kindly local pulled over.
We told her the guest house we were looking for and she insisted on driving us there - and refused payment.
Only in the car did she reveal she was the owner of a rival guest house. She made no attempt to talk us into staying at her place. No wonder the Lao have a reputation for being such great people.
Given that we'd messed around with our itinerary several times to make sure we could get to Ban Na Hin to visit the Kong Lo cave, it was a pity we marked our arrival with a furious barney.
It was our first proper row of the trip (not bad a month in, I reckon) and, as usual, it was over nothing more than the pair of us being a bit stressed and weary.
Still, it must have been highly comical for the two guys steering the long boat into the 7.5km cavern through the limestone mountains of Phu Hin Bun national park.
The odd occasion when we had to climb out of the boat to wade through shallower parts of the river left me with the dilemma of whether to risk an ear-bashing by telling The One With The Common Sense she was hitching her skirt too high and exposing her pants.
The alternative seemed to be risking an ear-bashing by not telling her and letting her realise for herself. I chose the coward's way and said it very quietly.
It was impossible to stay in a bad mood too long, however, as we disappeared into the eery blackness, lit only by our headtorches.
We pulled over for a short walk to admire some stalactites and stalagmites which, unlike some we'd seen in a cave in Halong Bay, had not been spoiled by insensitive "disco lighting" that seems overly popular around here.
It was great to feel the cool wind flowing past us - the noise of the boat's engine amplified to sound like a helicopter and the water rushing past us seeming like a waterfall whenever the walls closed in.
Above us the roof of the cave sometimes rose to 100m, while in other places water seemed to have created weird spirals in the ceiling.
There were one or two big tree trunks positioned as though holding the roof up, here and there, but we tried our best to ignore them.
Later that night, The One With The Common Sense had awoken to find an old lady peering at us with a torch through the sheet dividing our sleeping quarters from hers.
Apparently I had been snoring, or talking in my sleep, or something.
Sleeping on the floor of someone else's home in a totally alien environment is always going to throw up the odd awkward moment but it was a brilliant experience.
After the cave trip, we opted for a homestay in one of those wooden stilt houses we'd seen all over the region.
The village was a hive of activity, with locals - kids included - tying up what we think were tobacco leaves, ready for sale.
Our host family consisted of the aforementioned granny, a young teacher and two very cute girls of about three and five.
We spent an hour or so drawing pictures with a pad and pencils we'd bought them as presents, coaxing them out of their shyness.
It was so nice to sit, nine feet up, on the floor of the timber house as the sun set.
Dinner consisted of sticky rice, which you roll into balls before dipping into the main dishes.
There was fresh fish, seasoned with a paste of chili, lime and herbs, pork with green beans and spinach with herbs. All were delicious - and I think we managed to convey our appreciation.
When your host doesn't really speak any English, it's pretty difficult to know what is acceptable behaviour.
We left a little bit of each dish on our plates, which we think is the polite thing to do. (If you clean your plate, I think that obliges your host to provide more)
Knowing when to go to bed when everyone sleeps in the same room is also tricky - particularly with young kids involved. Anyway, we didn't mind a very early night so retired at about 8.30pm to our mattress on the floor.
It's something we'd love to do again.
They eat most things in these parts and we had no idea what we were munching through but our best guess is that it was a chicken's stomach.
The lady had pointed to her abdomen when we asked what was on the skewer and we assumed she meant it was a chicken breast that had been flattened for marinating - something quite common here.
But the rubbery texture proved otherwise. It actually tasted really good - a stronger-than-usual taste, more like duck.
It certainly was more filling than the chicken's foot we shared, which tasted like the crispy skin on the outside of a roast, and was covered in a beautiful glaze.
We were visiting Chicken Street in Hanoi - after a great tip from a workmate. A side alley a fair walk from the city centre, it was filled with stalls barbecuing every imaginable bit of chook. Great fun.
And where else to go after Chicken Street but Beer Junction.
All four corners of the crossroads were filled with people sitting on plastic stools drinking Bia Hoi, that 50p-a-pint nectar of joy.
We just had a couple but were joined by a passing cyclo driver (that's a kind of bicycle with a scoop on the front where two people can sit) who was quite obviously hammered.
I conducted a hilarious conversation with him through sign language and animal sounds - I never miss a chance to perform a few mooing noises.
Seeing how his eyes were rolling, however, we declined the free ride home and bought him a beer instead - seemed safer somehow.
Thursday 10 February 2011
...falling on his arse
The rickety wooden sun lounger was already creaking as The One With The Common Sense sat down to enjoy the view across Halong Bay, northern Vietnam.
But when I lowered my more-than-ample behind into position alongside her, it was bound to end in tears.
The whole thing collapsed, sending our fellow passengers into howls of laughter as we thudded onto the deck.
Never has the term "junk" been more apt than in reference to the Halong Bay Party Cruiser we had the misfortune to hop aboard for a three-day tour.
We had opted for the budget trip rather than the promised "better boat, better food, better service" available on the $100+ versions, suspecting the offering would be pretty much the same. (After all, we didn't come all the way here to enjoy a mahogany bedside table.)
We were partly right. As we sat down to our first lunch to discover passengers had paid an array of prices through tour agents. One Japanese lady looked horrified when she heard how little we'd spent. I suspect she'd been stung.
Certainly, some of the other boats were much smarter - I don't think the pricier versions featured broken chairs, holes in the decking and protruding nails - but we shared our trip with people like ourselves and had the invaluable chance to trade a few travel tips.
The organisation was, frankly, terrible.
Our kayaking centre which did not have enough oars and we had to wait until another couple brought back a pair.
However, luck was shining on us and the timing meant we were able to paddle between the karsts (towering limestone islands) just as the sun was setting.
The party cruiser proved to be anything but - they played four Vietnamese dance tracks on repeat and most passengers headed to bed early. However, the One With The Common Sense and I sat up to enjoy a few beers under the stars on one of the few remaining intact sun loungers.
The weather was kind. Reports suggested it had been cold, wet and misty for weeks beforehand but after a clear night we were first up to enjoy a beautifully tranquil morning, complete with sunrise over one of the pinnacles. (Once I looked in the right direction).
We realised we had really lucked out when we met the group who were spending a night on Cat Ba island - a national park - rather than two on the boat, like us. They had suffered delays on buses and, while the island is great to explore, they ended up stuck in the environs of their hotel for much of their second day.
We called in at Cat Ba for a walk up a hillside. Having chosen the "adventure path", The One With The Common Sense wished she'd followed the guide's advice not to wear flip-flops as we scrambled up a the rocky hillside.
Others had similarly been lulled into a false sense of security because we met several rather portly people on the wrong side of middle age puffing and panting their way down.
Our reward at the top was the chance to climb an observation tower from which rust peeled as you grabbed the handrail and which swayed slightly in the wind.
Several people had already been to the top and survived - albeit rather ashen-faced - so I reasoned it was safe enough.
The One With The Common Sense this time lived up to her name and stayed at the bottom where, in any case, the view of the heavily-forested island was just as good.
Despite all its faults, we had a great trip and met some really nice people.
Anyway, chuc mung nam moi - or happy lunar new year - to you all.
The Tet holiday is a bit like Christmas at home. News reports feature nothing but traffic congestion and the weather as everyone heads back to their family home.
We saw in the year of the cat in beautiful Hoi An. It doesn't matter how touristic some places are, they retain their magic.
Like York, Concarneau in Brittany or Santiago de Compostella in Galicia, this medieval town's secret is the winding lanes and passages of the old town.
There, we found a guest house which looked like it hadn't been altered for hundreds of years in the back of a souvenir shop.
Perhaps because Hoi An's people are so used to tourists, they seemed more laid back, with less of the hard-sell that can spoil some places in Vietnam.
Along with a festival of brightly-coloured lanterns and the usual fireworks, we were able to enjoy our first taste of bia hoi.
Probably the cheapest lager in the world, at 21p for a half pint, it can be quite moreish for the budget traveller. Unlike most beer here, it's served on tap. Its origins remain a mystery.
Given it was new year's eve, we enjoyed a few scoops. When I woke up the night to relieve my bladder, however, I suffered a serious dizzy spell.
I had to sit down and give a limp cry of "help" for The One With The Common Sense to lead me - sweating and scared witless - back to bed. Obviously, that was a side effect of my malaria pills.
Hoi An was also memorable for being the place I found my new favourite bin lorry. It uses an ice cream van-like siren to call the shopkeepers out with their rubbish. But rather than playing London Bridge, or some other common Mr Whippy ditty, it sounded like the soundtrack to a Spectrum kung fu game. Brilliant.
After our previous nightmare bus journey, we opted for the overnight train to get to Hanoi for the Halong Bay trip.
I'm a sucker for a train ride at the best of times but with a cool name like the Reunification Express, how could I resist?
We opted not to pay extra for the sleeper carriage and instead enjoyed a sound night's sleep on a reclining chair - that is, when we weren't being prodded by the feet of the girl sitting behind.
It was a highly entertaining journey. Before we got on, I took a picture of the stampede to get to the carriages and found I'd inadvertently snapped a family watching a little girl having a wee on the platform.
Later, we saw one man instructing his little boy to wee into a beer can, in full view of the carriage. (I'd always use a pint glass for safety reasons).
I stuck to the WCs for this trip, however, and reckon I could solve Virgin Trains' problem of stinking toilets.
South-east Asia's hole-in-the-ground model was spotless, easy to use and had none of the annoying buttons which occasionally seem to open the door unbidden at a crucial moment. (Yes, I have seen that happen).
But when I lowered my more-than-ample behind into position alongside her, it was bound to end in tears.
The whole thing collapsed, sending our fellow passengers into howls of laughter as we thudded onto the deck.
Never has the term "junk" been more apt than in reference to the Halong Bay Party Cruiser we had the misfortune to hop aboard for a three-day tour.
We had opted for the budget trip rather than the promised "better boat, better food, better service" available on the $100+ versions, suspecting the offering would be pretty much the same. (After all, we didn't come all the way here to enjoy a mahogany bedside table.)
We were partly right. As we sat down to our first lunch to discover passengers had paid an array of prices through tour agents. One Japanese lady looked horrified when she heard how little we'd spent. I suspect she'd been stung.
Certainly, some of the other boats were much smarter - I don't think the pricier versions featured broken chairs, holes in the decking and protruding nails - but we shared our trip with people like ourselves and had the invaluable chance to trade a few travel tips.
The organisation was, frankly, terrible.
Our kayaking centre which did not have enough oars and we had to wait until another couple brought back a pair.
However, luck was shining on us and the timing meant we were able to paddle between the karsts (towering limestone islands) just as the sun was setting.
The party cruiser proved to be anything but - they played four Vietnamese dance tracks on repeat and most passengers headed to bed early. However, the One With The Common Sense and I sat up to enjoy a few beers under the stars on one of the few remaining intact sun loungers.
The weather was kind. Reports suggested it had been cold, wet and misty for weeks beforehand but after a clear night we were first up to enjoy a beautifully tranquil morning, complete with sunrise over one of the pinnacles. (Once I looked in the right direction).
We realised we had really lucked out when we met the group who were spending a night on Cat Ba island - a national park - rather than two on the boat, like us. They had suffered delays on buses and, while the island is great to explore, they ended up stuck in the environs of their hotel for much of their second day.
We called in at Cat Ba for a walk up a hillside. Having chosen the "adventure path", The One With The Common Sense wished she'd followed the guide's advice not to wear flip-flops as we scrambled up a the rocky hillside.
Others had similarly been lulled into a false sense of security because we met several rather portly people on the wrong side of middle age puffing and panting their way down.
Our reward at the top was the chance to climb an observation tower from which rust peeled as you grabbed the handrail and which swayed slightly in the wind.
Several people had already been to the top and survived - albeit rather ashen-faced - so I reasoned it was safe enough.
The One With The Common Sense this time lived up to her name and stayed at the bottom where, in any case, the view of the heavily-forested island was just as good.
Despite all its faults, we had a great trip and met some really nice people.
Anyway, chuc mung nam moi - or happy lunar new year - to you all.
The Tet holiday is a bit like Christmas at home. News reports feature nothing but traffic congestion and the weather as everyone heads back to their family home.
We saw in the year of the cat in beautiful Hoi An. It doesn't matter how touristic some places are, they retain their magic.
Like York, Concarneau in Brittany or Santiago de Compostella in Galicia, this medieval town's secret is the winding lanes and passages of the old town.
There, we found a guest house which looked like it hadn't been altered for hundreds of years in the back of a souvenir shop.
Perhaps because Hoi An's people are so used to tourists, they seemed more laid back, with less of the hard-sell that can spoil some places in Vietnam.
Along with a festival of brightly-coloured lanterns and the usual fireworks, we were able to enjoy our first taste of bia hoi.
Probably the cheapest lager in the world, at 21p for a half pint, it can be quite moreish for the budget traveller. Unlike most beer here, it's served on tap. Its origins remain a mystery.
Given it was new year's eve, we enjoyed a few scoops. When I woke up the night to relieve my bladder, however, I suffered a serious dizzy spell.
I had to sit down and give a limp cry of "help" for The One With The Common Sense to lead me - sweating and scared witless - back to bed. Obviously, that was a side effect of my malaria pills.
Hoi An was also memorable for being the place I found my new favourite bin lorry. It uses an ice cream van-like siren to call the shopkeepers out with their rubbish. But rather than playing London Bridge, or some other common Mr Whippy ditty, it sounded like the soundtrack to a Spectrum kung fu game. Brilliant.
After our previous nightmare bus journey, we opted for the overnight train to get to Hanoi for the Halong Bay trip.
I'm a sucker for a train ride at the best of times but with a cool name like the Reunification Express, how could I resist?
We opted not to pay extra for the sleeper carriage and instead enjoyed a sound night's sleep on a reclining chair - that is, when we weren't being prodded by the feet of the girl sitting behind.
It was a highly entertaining journey. Before we got on, I took a picture of the stampede to get to the carriages and found I'd inadvertently snapped a family watching a little girl having a wee on the platform.
Later, we saw one man instructing his little boy to wee into a beer can, in full view of the carriage. (I'd always use a pint glass for safety reasons).
I stuck to the WCs for this trip, however, and reckon I could solve Virgin Trains' problem of stinking toilets.
South-east Asia's hole-in-the-ground model was spotless, easy to use and had none of the annoying buttons which occasionally seem to open the door unbidden at a crucial moment. (Yes, I have seen that happen).
Tuesday 1 February 2011
...who has just become a millionaire
The Money has gone to my head.
I've been in a permanent state of confusion since we crossed the Vietnamese border.
It was with a childish relish that I went to the cash machine to withdraw my first million (dong that is, sadly, not sterling).
Only afterwards did I realise the sum I'd taken out was the equivalent of just $50 and not the $500 I had intended.
Shortly afterwards, I wondered why a waiter looked a bit glum at the tip I'd given him. When I worked it out, I realised the 2,000 dong gratuity amounted to about 7p.
I later realised he'd also given me too much change.
However, I didn't have much time to feel guilty about that. Moments later, I went for a pee only to be mugged by the cleaning lady who actually dipped into my wallet to take out 12,000 dong.
The Chinese bloke who went before me didn't pay a penny.
Our border crossing had not exactly gone as planned.
We'd booked a three-day boat trip from Phnom Penh, into Vietnam and then on through the Mekong Delta, via our guest house.
The bus picked us up on time, along with two other travellers who planned to join us on the slow boat.
However, when the tour operator announced we would take the bus to the border, there was mutiny. We filed into his office to sort the problem out - only to notice that the operator we'd paid for was different to the one we'd actually got.
What followed was a lesson in how to sort out problems.
One of our co-passengers was an obnoxious Yorkshireman. He'd done nothing but pour forth a loud and expletive-laden moan about delays to his trip since we met him. (Two words: Go home.)
Within two minutes of introducing himself, he'd also managed to insult a friend of mine he'd never met before blathering on about his experience of travelling in Asia. What a bore. And he was a Liverpool fan.
Anyway, he kicked up enough of a stink to get his money back and find another boat - though I'd bet his trip did not end up going smoothly.
At the other end of the scale was a very laid-back Swedish guy, a retired academic whose youthful demeanour belied his vintage.
Calmly assessing the situation, he decided that what was on offer - the bus to the border, followed by a boat trip to our first stop in Vietnam - would be pleasant enough.
Over a tasty dinner in the busy riverside town of Chau Doc that night, he noted that sometimes things just work out better, even if they don't go the way you planned.
And so it turned out.
The next day, we looked on jealously as a very swish boat left the dock belonging to none other than the tour company we were supposed to have booked with.
However, we then stepped in to the tiny boats that act as kind of boat taxis - for people and goods - across the delta.
Being paddled slowly by a local woman proved a far more atmospheric way to see the village of floating houses populated by ethnic Vietnamese who fled Cambodia, impoverished, during the Khmer Rouge's time in power.
We reckon we may have been ripped off by about $20 each by the guest house where we booked but in the end we probably had a better trip than the one we'd planned.
The delta, where the Mekong splits into nine sections before reaching the sea, is a fascinating place.
It really is the lifeblood of the area.
Inevitably with a tour you end up going to some cheesy places - for example, the visit to a crocodile farm seemed really to be aimed at allowing rich Chinese to buy handbags.
However, it was made worthwhile by the sight of ducklings waddling over the croc's nose, unaware they would soon become dinner. We later avenged our feathered friends by having a croc curry. (Tastes like a slightly fishy version of pork, for the uninitiated)
We had also expected the floating markets near Can Tho to be a bit of a tourist display but they proved far from it.
This was a really bustling wholesale market - with fresh fruit, plastic goods and bricks among the wares on sale from vessels of various sizes, and women on tiny kayaks bobbing between them to offer cooked meals to the crews.
We also spent one night at a homestay on the delta and while it didn't really live up to the title (we didn't eat with the family and slept in our own cabin, rather than the family home), it was on a beautiful stretch of river.
Dinner was delicious: Fresh fish from the Mekong, tofu stuffed with pork, prawn cakes rolled in rice paper and soup. We were also able to spend a couple of hours relaxing in hammocks, watching the river traffic go slowly by.
We got there on motorbikes. The sight of The One With The Common Sense's white knuckles of one hand clinging on to the "Jesus bar" at the back, while the other arm flapped at her ballooning skirt in a bid to preserve her dignity proved highly comical for the other motorists.
Once there, the men of the house didn't quite fulfill their duties.
The eldest son failed to give us a promised bicycle tour of the village because he fell asleep, while the father got drunk and the stay ended in some sort of family row.
But then, I guess that really is seeing real life in Vietnam.
I've been in a permanent state of confusion since we crossed the Vietnamese border.
It was with a childish relish that I went to the cash machine to withdraw my first million (dong that is, sadly, not sterling).
Only afterwards did I realise the sum I'd taken out was the equivalent of just $50 and not the $500 I had intended.
Shortly afterwards, I wondered why a waiter looked a bit glum at the tip I'd given him. When I worked it out, I realised the 2,000 dong gratuity amounted to about 7p.
I later realised he'd also given me too much change.
However, I didn't have much time to feel guilty about that. Moments later, I went for a pee only to be mugged by the cleaning lady who actually dipped into my wallet to take out 12,000 dong.
The Chinese bloke who went before me didn't pay a penny.
Our border crossing had not exactly gone as planned.
We'd booked a three-day boat trip from Phnom Penh, into Vietnam and then on through the Mekong Delta, via our guest house.
The bus picked us up on time, along with two other travellers who planned to join us on the slow boat.
However, when the tour operator announced we would take the bus to the border, there was mutiny. We filed into his office to sort the problem out - only to notice that the operator we'd paid for was different to the one we'd actually got.
What followed was a lesson in how to sort out problems.
One of our co-passengers was an obnoxious Yorkshireman. He'd done nothing but pour forth a loud and expletive-laden moan about delays to his trip since we met him. (Two words: Go home.)
Within two minutes of introducing himself, he'd also managed to insult a friend of mine he'd never met before blathering on about his experience of travelling in Asia. What a bore. And he was a Liverpool fan.
Anyway, he kicked up enough of a stink to get his money back and find another boat - though I'd bet his trip did not end up going smoothly.
At the other end of the scale was a very laid-back Swedish guy, a retired academic whose youthful demeanour belied his vintage.
Calmly assessing the situation, he decided that what was on offer - the bus to the border, followed by a boat trip to our first stop in Vietnam - would be pleasant enough.
Over a tasty dinner in the busy riverside town of Chau Doc that night, he noted that sometimes things just work out better, even if they don't go the way you planned.
And so it turned out.
The next day, we looked on jealously as a very swish boat left the dock belonging to none other than the tour company we were supposed to have booked with.
However, we then stepped in to the tiny boats that act as kind of boat taxis - for people and goods - across the delta.
Being paddled slowly by a local woman proved a far more atmospheric way to see the village of floating houses populated by ethnic Vietnamese who fled Cambodia, impoverished, during the Khmer Rouge's time in power.
We reckon we may have been ripped off by about $20 each by the guest house where we booked but in the end we probably had a better trip than the one we'd planned.
The delta, where the Mekong splits into nine sections before reaching the sea, is a fascinating place.
It really is the lifeblood of the area.
Inevitably with a tour you end up going to some cheesy places - for example, the visit to a crocodile farm seemed really to be aimed at allowing rich Chinese to buy handbags.
However, it was made worthwhile by the sight of ducklings waddling over the croc's nose, unaware they would soon become dinner. We later avenged our feathered friends by having a croc curry. (Tastes like a slightly fishy version of pork, for the uninitiated)
We had also expected the floating markets near Can Tho to be a bit of a tourist display but they proved far from it.
This was a really bustling wholesale market - with fresh fruit, plastic goods and bricks among the wares on sale from vessels of various sizes, and women on tiny kayaks bobbing between them to offer cooked meals to the crews.
We also spent one night at a homestay on the delta and while it didn't really live up to the title (we didn't eat with the family and slept in our own cabin, rather than the family home), it was on a beautiful stretch of river.
Dinner was delicious: Fresh fish from the Mekong, tofu stuffed with pork, prawn cakes rolled in rice paper and soup. We were also able to spend a couple of hours relaxing in hammocks, watching the river traffic go slowly by.
We got there on motorbikes. The sight of The One With The Common Sense's white knuckles of one hand clinging on to the "Jesus bar" at the back, while the other arm flapped at her ballooning skirt in a bid to preserve her dignity proved highly comical for the other motorists.
Once there, the men of the house didn't quite fulfill their duties.
The eldest son failed to give us a promised bicycle tour of the village because he fell asleep, while the father got drunk and the stay ended in some sort of family row.
But then, I guess that really is seeing real life in Vietnam.
...finding fame and misfortune in Vietnam
Our first real cock-up had to happen sooner or later.
And shunning Vietnam's most popular beach resort (Nha Trang) and reportedly it's most stunning beach (Mui Ne) in favour of Ca Na was certainly it.
It's just we were fed up of the bustle of busy towns and cities and wanted somewhere to lie low for a while.
A borrowed Rough Guide made the place sound like a quaint port - Whitby, or Padstow, or somewhere.
However, picture the most run-down seaside resort you can imagine, remove any cutesy seaside buildings, reduce it to only one road and ban people from strolling in the harbour and you have Ca Na.
There were some lovely stretches of beach but the fierce gale that blew for two days meant you were sand-blasted every time you dared set foot on them.
It's probably really nice during high season.
In order to leave, we had to yomp three miles with loaded packs along the side of Vietnam's main Highway 1 to get to the pick-up point.
To add insult to injury, the cafe there tried to charge us three times the going rate for our meal.
Thankfully, the One With The Common Sense had the brainwave of saying we'd check with our bus driver what the real price should be. The waiter - fearing he'd lose the coach company's regular trade - panicked and reduced the price accordingly before offering a squirming apology.
What followed, however, was the 14-hour overnight bus ride from hell.
Sitting, legs crammed above the wheelarch on a glorified minibus, we wondered how the rest of the passengers would fit on board - only for the driver to fold down seats which filled up the aisle.
I spent most of the first three-hours stifling yelps as the driver overtook around blind bends on the mountainside.
Meanwhile, the feet of the canoodling Vietnamese couple sitting alongside us kept prodding me and a couple of Vietnamese girls were demonstrating their perfection of the art of silently throwing up into plastic bags, sending the aroma of regurgitated fish sauce through the vehicle.
Still, at least I know how it feels to be David Beckham (or Phil Neville round our house).
It was when I heard the guest house had gone up and down the street announcing that a foreign couple was staying with them that we knew we were special.
She had apparently been inviting people around to see the white couple.
Our presence in Ca Na had already left several children agog and set tongues wagging. But when we eschewed the flash-looking hotels by the beach in favour of her place, we won a special place in this lady's heart.
It turned out they had only been open a week and we were the first guests.
She was so happy, she grabbed The One With The Common Sense by the arm and led her on a tour of the building before inviting us in to share dinner with the family.
And so we found ourselves sitting cross-legged on the floor - with great difficulty on my part - eating delicious salted fish, deep fried seafood and a beautiful concoction of pork, black bean (I think) and chilli, with soup and rice.
Conversation was conducted through her son, who spoke good English - albeit with an accent less intelligible than your average Glasweigian.
It made for a very special experience and while Ca Na might not have the attractions of its more illustrious neighbours along the coast, it certainly gave us something we wouldn't have found elsewhere.
And shunning Vietnam's most popular beach resort (Nha Trang) and reportedly it's most stunning beach (Mui Ne) in favour of Ca Na was certainly it.
It's just we were fed up of the bustle of busy towns and cities and wanted somewhere to lie low for a while.
A borrowed Rough Guide made the place sound like a quaint port - Whitby, or Padstow, or somewhere.
However, picture the most run-down seaside resort you can imagine, remove any cutesy seaside buildings, reduce it to only one road and ban people from strolling in the harbour and you have Ca Na.
There were some lovely stretches of beach but the fierce gale that blew for two days meant you were sand-blasted every time you dared set foot on them.
It's probably really nice during high season.
In order to leave, we had to yomp three miles with loaded packs along the side of Vietnam's main Highway 1 to get to the pick-up point.
To add insult to injury, the cafe there tried to charge us three times the going rate for our meal.
Thankfully, the One With The Common Sense had the brainwave of saying we'd check with our bus driver what the real price should be. The waiter - fearing he'd lose the coach company's regular trade - panicked and reduced the price accordingly before offering a squirming apology.
What followed, however, was the 14-hour overnight bus ride from hell.
Sitting, legs crammed above the wheelarch on a glorified minibus, we wondered how the rest of the passengers would fit on board - only for the driver to fold down seats which filled up the aisle.
I spent most of the first three-hours stifling yelps as the driver overtook around blind bends on the mountainside.
Meanwhile, the feet of the canoodling Vietnamese couple sitting alongside us kept prodding me and a couple of Vietnamese girls were demonstrating their perfection of the art of silently throwing up into plastic bags, sending the aroma of regurgitated fish sauce through the vehicle.
Still, at least I know how it feels to be David Beckham (or Phil Neville round our house).
It was when I heard the guest house had gone up and down the street announcing that a foreign couple was staying with them that we knew we were special.
She had apparently been inviting people around to see the white couple.
Our presence in Ca Na had already left several children agog and set tongues wagging. But when we eschewed the flash-looking hotels by the beach in favour of her place, we won a special place in this lady's heart.
It turned out they had only been open a week and we were the first guests.
She was so happy, she grabbed The One With The Common Sense by the arm and led her on a tour of the building before inviting us in to share dinner with the family.
And so we found ourselves sitting cross-legged on the floor - with great difficulty on my part - eating delicious salted fish, deep fried seafood and a beautiful concoction of pork, black bean (I think) and chilli, with soup and rice.
Conversation was conducted through her son, who spoke good English - albeit with an accent less intelligible than your average Glasweigian.
It made for a very special experience and while Ca Na might not have the attractions of its more illustrious neighbours along the coast, it certainly gave us something we wouldn't have found elsewhere.
... Seeing the sadder side of Cambodia
It was when a boy of about seven swiped a gnawed pork rib from my plate that the depth of Cambodia's poverty hit home.
We had been eating at a cheap barbecue stall, where several grubby-faced kids flitted from from table to table asking for cash.
The One With The Common Sense had finished her meal and a young lad asked for a bone which had a thin strip of pork left on it, before rushing off to some hidden place to eat it.
I looked at my own plate, feeling a little guilty about how my habit of picking bones clean meant there would be nothing for them.
How wrong I was.
I had been watching the boy absent-mindedly swinging a plastic bag around his arm, looking for all the world like any carefree primary school kid from home.
But while he looked as though he was daydreaming, those sad eyes must have been scanning the tables.
He quickly stole in to swipe a chewed bone from my plate, popping straight into his mouth to suck off some tiny morsel I'd missed.
It was heartbreaking.
You see poverty everywhere.
Children collect plastic bottles and cans from the rubbish, landmine victims hobble along on crutches, while old women with creased faces are reduced to begging at bus stations.
In rural areas, the tiny wooden or corrugated iron houses must leak like sieves in the rainy season.
One in 15 children die before adulthood, with malaria and HIV among the chief killers.
Yet while what hospitals and clinics there are seem run down and apparently lack specialists, there is plenty of cash to build swanky offices for government departments.
There's also plenty of money to erect hoardings in support of the Cambodian People's Party. Which "people" do they represent, I wonder?
A country so industrious, where all sorts of work goes on at all hours, and inventive (the things they use to fix motorbikes...) must surely be able to develop if it's people are given the opportunity.
It's difficult to know how to react to begging when you're on a long trip and trying to be as thrify as possible.
But even if you could give to everyone, would you be helping or simply further trapping them in that existence by making begging worth their while?
The cynic in you also questions which are real beggers and which are just trying to take advantage of comparatively rich Westerners.
Charities say it's better to donate to organisations that help people out of poverty - but, then, they would say that to justify their existence.
Nonetheless, we decided to make this sort of donation and not give to beggars. Whatever, it won't be enough.
Cambodia's tragic recent past can't have helped.
On arrival at the Khmer Rouge's killing fields, you are greeted by the stares of the skulls of hundreds of unidentified victims from a glass-fronted memorial, known as a stupa.
They represent just a tiny portion of the 1.7 million people killed by the regime, in defence of nothing except a crazed ideology.
Walking around the site, where some 20,000 bodies were slung into pits, reveals the mass graves from where the corpses were eventually recovered.
There is also a large tree, which prison guards used to kill babies and children by swinging their head against its trunk.
Meanwhile, the S21 jail in Phnom Penh - a former secondary school transformed to house political prisoners - reveals rows of wooden or brick cells barely big enough to lie down in.
Another block contains the torture cells, where the beds remain, along with the prisoners' manacles and chains.
Photos on the wall show the disfigured bodies of 17 people as they were found when the Vietnamese liberated the capital.
Most chilling for me, however, were the simple photos of the victims - taken as they arrived at the jail - which line the walls of one block.
Row upon row of men, women and children of all ages stare out. Within them, it seemed I could see the faces of the tuk-tuk drivers, fruit sellers or farmers we had seen on our travels.
It really brought home the cruelty of the regime.
Our final meal in the country sounded a positive note for the country's future, however.
We visited an NGO-run restaurant, staffed by former street children who are being trained to work in the catering industry.
The food was delicious and the service superb. It was so heartening to see.
The meal also allowed us to take our final step on our tour through Cambodia's culinary menagerie. I'd been desperate to try tarantula after we saw great eight-inch beasts being sold during one stop on a bus journey.
However, I'd not been feeling the best that day and so settled for watching one of the locals slowly savour each leg before devouring the body.
As it happened, the fellas that ended up on our plate were only three-inches long.
But they were still hairy enough and, deep fried, they were delicious.
The legs tasted something like crispy fried squid, while the body was something like a shrimp.
I never did find any cockroaches, though. Maybe I'll have to wait until we get to Laos...
We had been eating at a cheap barbecue stall, where several grubby-faced kids flitted from from table to table asking for cash.
The One With The Common Sense had finished her meal and a young lad asked for a bone which had a thin strip of pork left on it, before rushing off to some hidden place to eat it.
I looked at my own plate, feeling a little guilty about how my habit of picking bones clean meant there would be nothing for them.
How wrong I was.
I had been watching the boy absent-mindedly swinging a plastic bag around his arm, looking for all the world like any carefree primary school kid from home.
But while he looked as though he was daydreaming, those sad eyes must have been scanning the tables.
He quickly stole in to swipe a chewed bone from my plate, popping straight into his mouth to suck off some tiny morsel I'd missed.
It was heartbreaking.
You see poverty everywhere.
Children collect plastic bottles and cans from the rubbish, landmine victims hobble along on crutches, while old women with creased faces are reduced to begging at bus stations.
In rural areas, the tiny wooden or corrugated iron houses must leak like sieves in the rainy season.
One in 15 children die before adulthood, with malaria and HIV among the chief killers.
Yet while what hospitals and clinics there are seem run down and apparently lack specialists, there is plenty of cash to build swanky offices for government departments.
There's also plenty of money to erect hoardings in support of the Cambodian People's Party. Which "people" do they represent, I wonder?
A country so industrious, where all sorts of work goes on at all hours, and inventive (the things they use to fix motorbikes...) must surely be able to develop if it's people are given the opportunity.
It's difficult to know how to react to begging when you're on a long trip and trying to be as thrify as possible.
But even if you could give to everyone, would you be helping or simply further trapping them in that existence by making begging worth their while?
The cynic in you also questions which are real beggers and which are just trying to take advantage of comparatively rich Westerners.
Charities say it's better to donate to organisations that help people out of poverty - but, then, they would say that to justify their existence.
Nonetheless, we decided to make this sort of donation and not give to beggars. Whatever, it won't be enough.
Cambodia's tragic recent past can't have helped.
On arrival at the Khmer Rouge's killing fields, you are greeted by the stares of the skulls of hundreds of unidentified victims from a glass-fronted memorial, known as a stupa.
They represent just a tiny portion of the 1.7 million people killed by the regime, in defence of nothing except a crazed ideology.
Walking around the site, where some 20,000 bodies were slung into pits, reveals the mass graves from where the corpses were eventually recovered.
There is also a large tree, which prison guards used to kill babies and children by swinging their head against its trunk.
Meanwhile, the S21 jail in Phnom Penh - a former secondary school transformed to house political prisoners - reveals rows of wooden or brick cells barely big enough to lie down in.
Another block contains the torture cells, where the beds remain, along with the prisoners' manacles and chains.
Photos on the wall show the disfigured bodies of 17 people as they were found when the Vietnamese liberated the capital.
Most chilling for me, however, were the simple photos of the victims - taken as they arrived at the jail - which line the walls of one block.
Row upon row of men, women and children of all ages stare out. Within them, it seemed I could see the faces of the tuk-tuk drivers, fruit sellers or farmers we had seen on our travels.
It really brought home the cruelty of the regime.
Our final meal in the country sounded a positive note for the country's future, however.
We visited an NGO-run restaurant, staffed by former street children who are being trained to work in the catering industry.
The food was delicious and the service superb. It was so heartening to see.
The meal also allowed us to take our final step on our tour through Cambodia's culinary menagerie. I'd been desperate to try tarantula after we saw great eight-inch beasts being sold during one stop on a bus journey.
However, I'd not been feeling the best that day and so settled for watching one of the locals slowly savour each leg before devouring the body.
As it happened, the fellas that ended up on our plate were only three-inches long.
But they were still hairy enough and, deep fried, they were delicious.
The legs tasted something like crispy fried squid, while the body was something like a shrimp.
I never did find any cockroaches, though. Maybe I'll have to wait until we get to Laos...
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