Vietnam

Cham Mosque door near Chau Doc

Temple of Literature, Hanoi

Chinese Buddhist temple, Hanoi

Ho Chi Minh City

Famous Pho restaurant with ex-Viet Cong owner

Outside Chinese Temple, Ho Chi Minh City

Ho Chi Minh City Chinese Temple

Inside Chinese Temple

View from a Chinese pagoda, Ho Chi Minh City

Chinese Temple, Ho Chi Minh City

Lion dancing practice in Chinese Quarter, Ho Chi Minh City

Ho Chi Minh City street traffic

Pagoda in Chinese Quarter, Ho Chi Minh City

Monks' ashes, Ho Chi Minh City Chinese Temple

Wrecked American aircraft in Military Museum, Ho Chi Minh City

Morning commute on the way to Cuc Phuong

Big tree, Cuc Phuong

HANOI, VIETNAM: Date: Fri, 14 Dec 2001 06:04:35

Culture Shock!

We just arrived from Laos in Vietnam, and whoa, what a difference!  It all started with getting on an airplane and realizing that we're actually sorry that the flight was so short.  We were giddy with happiness after our journal -- which we forgot at a cafe last night -- was driven to us at the airport by a nice guy on a motorbike, and ever since then there is no stopping our happy smile!  We got wet towels to clean our faces with on the plane.  We got delicious apple juice.  We even bought duty-free chocolates at the airport.  The flight was flawlessly cheerful, and neither of us paid too much attention to the ever-so-slight turbulence in the air.  We arrived in Vietnam with fond and loving feelings towards Laos, and anxious about Vietnam.

Part I: Last and lasting impressions of Laos

Leaving Vientiane, we kept running into tuk-tuk drivers who had driven us around before.  Each time, they would stop their tuk-tuk, lean out, honk, and wave.  We'd wave back and they'd say, "Hey!" and we'd say, "Sabbai dii" and they'd laugh because they always laugh when falang (foreigners) say "sabbai dii" and then we'd laugh because they'd laugh and then we'd say, "Hey" and it would start all over again.  What fun!  We felt by the time we met up with the tuk-tuk driver we promised to ride with that we were saying good-bye to old friends, even though our conversations had consisted of "How much?", "Too much", and "Good."

Our day was so happy we can hardly remember what we did today, just that we saw some temples and ate Indian food.  The highlights actually involved bargaining. We feel like pros.  We have progressed leaps and bounds since our nervous days in China when we always felt cheated.

Part II: Great Bargaining Moments in History

Today we bought a used Lonely Planet guidebook for Vietnam, which we exchanged in a book store for two books (one awful LP for SE Asia) and 200 baht.  We bargained long and hard, and almost walked away twice, until arriving at the happy compromise.  We were congratulated in the end by the seller who said "Ah, very good bargainers.  you are number one."  We said, "No you are very good.  You are number one."  "No, YOU are number one."  "No you are."  "No YOU are."  "Ok, we go.  Good luck."  "Good luck"  "Good luck." We really need to work on ending conversations.

Today in Hanoi, we bought a LP Vietnamese phrasebook.  The seller assaulted us in the street, so we knew we had the upper hand (much better than walking into a store).  We said, "How much?" and he said, "You say." so we said two dollars.  He scoffed and scowled and howled and said six dollars.  We said, "Okay, fine, two dollars."  This continued, and we moved down from two dollars (30,000 dong) to 20,000 dong because it was a photocopied phrasebook.  He said, "Yes, good photocopy" and tried to get 40,000.  We walked away and he dropped to 30K. We said, "OK, fine, no problem, we like you, we say 20,000, you say 30,000, 25,000 good for everyone."  He said, "No, too little, no good, 30,000."  We walked away again and, sure enough, got chased down about 5 seconds later with, "Okay, 25,000."  Woo hoo! He was very wily though, and tried to give us only 2000 back for change from 30000, but we are old hands in this game.  We fought well for our 25 cents, and our dignity.  The end result is that we got a cheap phrasebook, and we feel pretty stupid and yet oddly proud of our new-found street-wise skills.

Word to the wise: Laugh and smile, and when they get a bit upset, go up a bit and walk away.  Then you know you found the right price to make everyone happy.

Second word to the wise: After you've bought something, don't ask or tell what price it was, in case you overpaid or got a good price.  Either you or the person you're talking with feels stupid, so just be happy with whatever price you got.  We're sure this philosophy can be turned into a best-selling self-help book (instead of "Who Moved My Cheese?" how about, "I don't remember what I paid for that hand-made paper fan, but I'm sure we both got good deals").

We made a funny realization today.  People always talk about how traveling changes them, etc., and we have never taken that too seriously. But we realized today that our 3 weeks in Laos have temporarily changed us.  After three weeks of being on buses and never getting anywhere, we were completely fascinated by a) the existence of 2-lane highways, b) leather seats and air conditioning in the bus, and c) traffic jams not involving animals.  We actually watched the idle traffic with interest and did not once get the urge to cuss at the stalled cars, wild motorcycle drives and waste of time in traffic.  We were both starring into space, amusing ourselves with thoughts such as, "I wonder if it's true that Vietnamese coconuts don't have water inside, but just more soft meat.  (ten second pause)  Mmmm... coconut meat."  We suggest you try this new method of coping with time loss on the road.  We are the epitome of anxious drivers, and here we are dreaming of food and enjoying the non-ride.

Word to the wise, take three: If you don't want to get stressed out, don't expect to get anywhere.  Put yourself in a mindset where when you get to your destination, you are downright surprised.  We found this to be a survival skill for Lao travel, but now enjoy applying it to our new everyday lives.  Go, self-help book!

 Part III: Culture Shock in Hanoi

We are shocked.  We don't exactly know why, but we are.  You wouldn't believe what people wear here.  Clothes, we tell you!  And do you know what they drive?!  Cars and motorcycles!  On PAVED roads.  Very strange, but somehow calming and familiar.  We have a TV in our room, and our first instinct upon seeing it was, "No no.  No TV.  Room too clean.  Shower water hot and plentiful.  Something terribly wrong.  Run.  Run rabbit run."  We actually considered looking for a cheaper room that has shared cold-water shower, no air-con and no TV, but we consulted our guidebook and realized that we can save a maximum of $1, if we look really hard.  But once we turned on the TV and saw MTV on, we were mesmerized and didn't move.  The room is ours, and we have hot water! And the electricity is on 24-hours a day.

There is something to be said about infrastructure.  That something is, "Infrastructure facilitates economic development and eases the strain on vehicular traffic (particularly shocks) as well as the human spine when compared to roads in disrepair or roads faced with frequent wash-outs." 

We will not go so far as to say anything against Lao infrastructure -- we have no idea what the development of the country will do to its well-being.  And we also really enjoyed the fact that we could make our way to the middle of nowhere in Laos. It made it a very pleasant and beautiful country to visit, in a way that we have never seen before.  Still, we felt bad for people who took rides which, while for us were an adventure, were for them an every day reality.  We had a good time, but then again, we were there for three weeks, not 60 years.

 Part IV: Tomorrow We See Preserved Dead Man

We're going to the Ho Chi Minh mausoleum tomorrow, which was erected completely against his wishes.  He said something to the effect of "Land is good" and asked to be cremated and that no monument be built on arable land.  Nice sentiment, but he is now preserved for perpetuity, they say, and can be viewed daily by the public.  They take his body out for "maintenance" sometimes, which sounds weird to us.  And others say the body is really wax and that's why they don't let you stand too long in front of him.  The same thing is true of Mao’s body in China -- supposedly, armed communist guards (whom we have seen, and they ain't friendly folks!) don't let you stand next to the body for more than 5 seconds, so you basically run past him and see his body while running -- it's all a blur, no chance for TRUTH.

Take care everybody, and we'll let you know if our wallets are stolen!

HANOI SUBURBS, VIETNAM: Date: Wed, 19 Dec 2001 06:38:54

We go native!

Part I: We pay a visit to Uncle Ho

We spent a couple of days touring Hanoi, and saw Ho Chi Minh.  One may say he looks dead.  Others may say he looks waxy.  We pride ourselves in not taking sides.  Still, we didn't make such comments until after we left the mausoleum and its dozens of very stern guards with very real bayonets attached to very real guns -- honor guard doesn't come with "honorary" weapons in Vietnam.  The Vietnamese take Ho Chi Minh very seriously.  We stood in line with hundreds and hundreds of people, and were all rushed in because the Mausoleum is open only from 8-11:00 and it was 10:30.  We were shushed and asked to take our hats off.  Then we were quickly ushered around the body, and noticed that kids have their own raised ramp so that their view is not blocked by taller folks.  The lighting around the body is very yellow, in such a way that Uncle Ho's hands and face are brightly illuminated while his dark simple suit is out of the light.  The lighting has two effects: 1) it makes him look like he is glowing from within, and 2) it makes him look pasty.

We then went to see the Ho Chi Minh museum.  It has two floors -- the first dedicated to Ho Chi Minh quotes, the second to symbol-heavy "art" exhibits (us from the west may refer to it as propaganda).  There were some pretty strange exhibits on the top floor, ranging from a 1958 Ford Edsel bursting through the wall (Lonely Planet says this is a symbol of America's military failure by displaying a commercial failure) and a brick volcano surrounded by a red curtain and child-like drawings (the sign in the museum said this represents the Vietnamese Revolution's effect on world Communism).  In any case, the quotes on the first floor were very interesting, and we found ourselves quite impressed with Ho's views and genuine commitment to his cause.

After the museum, we went to the Paris Deli Cafe where Michael had French onion soup with cheese bread, grilled chicken with tarragon cream sauce, mashed potatoes, steamed vegetables, followed by a slice of cheesecake and a cup of hot chocolate.  Hagar had French onion soup, pan-seared red snapper with beurre blanc, undercooked potatoes and carrots, and steamed vegetables, followed by a piece of flaky pastry with cream filling and a cup of hot chocolate.  They had the right idea about the meal, but we felt like something was missing.  The hot chocolate, for example.  It was lukewarm, and mostly bitter chocolate with no milk.  So we asked for some milk and got a HUGE glass of... lukewarm milk.  This meal taught us one lesson: when in Vietnam, eat Vietnamese food.  We're sure you can all sympathize with the great hardship we have undergone.  It was just terrible.  Boo hoo.

Part II: "Yes, we DO have passports, just not here."

We decided to rent a motorbike to help us tour the north more effectively, and we now have a wonderful 110 cc Suzuki in our hands.  Before this Suzuki, however, we looked at a number of vehicles, including a Russian-made 650 cc behemoth with side car, that looked just like Snoopy's motorcycle from Peanuts.  It came complete with a bad starter.  It took the guy 15 minutes to get it going -- he then took Hagar on a ride around the block, and changed his mind about renting it to us.  He explained that only he knows how to fix this Russian monster from the 60s, and that if it broke down (which it will, guaranteed) then we'll be stuck.  We listened and walked on.

We then arranged for a 125 cc to be delivered to our guesthouse, but after serious thought about trying to figure out how to use a clutch for the first time while fighting Hanoi traffic, we decided to keep our lives and swallow our pride, and called the guy back to change our order for a regular ol' 100 cc automatic Honda Dream for pick-up at 6:30 am. The idea was to leave early enough so that we don't have to put our lives in the hands of maniacal Hanoi drivers, but the guy arrived late, and the roads began to fill up, so we ran next door to get another bike, which was no problem until our passports turned out not to be present.  We are getting our visas extended.  After much discussion, we gave the guy a flight ticket and our bartending licenses (alternately "school ID" and "work license" depending on who we talked to). And off we went. Yeah right.

It took us about an hour to leave the city.  It took us about three hours to catch our breaths. 

If there is one thing we learned about Vietnamese people is that they don't know how to drive. The roads are narrow, and there are many motorcycles on the road.  No problem.  But then there are the bicycles.  And the cars.  And the 12-ton cargo trucks driven by a drunk man whose friend is vomiting out the window.  All this doesn't include the other commuters, including the buffalo, the suicidal chickens that always dart to the middle of the road just as you're passing them, and the women carrying enormous loads of vegetables to market.  And no one ever, and we mean EVER, stays in their lanes.  People go wherever they want whenever they want, and we have many-a-time darted away from oncoming traffic.

Part III: Having survived, we begin to enjoy Vietnam again.

We left the city, and drove all of ten kilometers before Michael shouted, "We're in France!"  We pulled off the road and drove about a kilometer to a huge French cathedral.  We chatted with the assistant parish priest and the district priest (who acts as parish priest for five parishes).  We toured the church and made ready to leave, our fifteen minute tourist stop over... we thought.

We wandered down a small lane and through a doorway, but found ourselves in the middle of a small courtyard.  A boy looked at us funny, but instead of leaving, Hagar pointed at the word "house" in our dictionary.  The ice broken, we were escorted into an old woman's home where we were served tea. Soon, two young women joined and the chatting began, mostly with pointing to the usual questions in our book: Where are you from?  Are you married?  How many children do you have?  Are your possessions insured?  Ooops, we mean, How old are you? And of course, the usual comments about how white Hagar's skin is, and how furry Michael's arms, legs, and yes, beard, are.

Soon, the never-spoken, but always hoped-for question came about: Have you eaten?  We said no, and got excited about a real home-cooked meal... with vegetables supplied by... us.  It took some time to figure out, but after some confusion we realized that one of the young women asked us to go to the market and buy food for them.  Whatever we can do to help, ma'am.  We climbed on the bike and in Vietnamese style, didn't leave until we had a third person stuffed on there.  Our hostess wedged in between us, we set off to market where to everyone's bewilderment (including our own) the hostess pointed to what she wanted and we paid.  We could have refused, but seeing as we don't speak the language we just did as told.  FYI: food for ten people cost 15,000 dong, or one dollar.  So really, we didn't care.  It was funny.  After shopping at the market, we piled on again, this time over-loaded with people and groceries.  We looked real native this time.  Next time you are trying to sleep and need a picture to help you relax, imagine this:

Hagar in front, with helmet on head and hands on bike, about half of her left butt cheek on the seat, keeping an eye on a backpack, tomatoes, and scallions in the front basket.  Behind her sits a skinny Vietnamese woman clutching a bunch of five-foot long sugar cane stalks in one hand and a bag with a dozen eggs in another.  Michael behind grips bags of potatoes, tofu, cabbage, and parsley; our bag was held on to the back rail by bungee cords.  The looks we got as farmers and others realized we were Westerners were priceless.

After helping to prepare lunch (Michael tended the hearth while Hagar chopped and peeled), we ate a tasty lunch and were taught how to eat rice the real way -- by shoveling it straight into your mouth.  It's one of those things we are all tempted to do when eating with chop-sticks, but are afraid to do for fear of looking un-authentic.  We were all wrong -- next time you eat rice with chopsticks, shovel away!

After lunch, we were invited to stay the night.  Why not!  We later realized that in addition to our magnetic personalities, stunning good looks, and important government positions, we were also paying for dinner.  We decided to go beyond the one dollar level and spent four, count them four, dollars on a real feast.  We bought chicken and carp, and we think it was a pretty nice meal.  It was a good meal.  We were very tired by that point, as we spent the whole day being taken from house to house, having the same conversations and rather bitter cups of tea with countless family members. 

We went to sleep at 8 pm, after visiting the church band practice session, carrying a few of the kids on our shoulders, and trying out betel nut chewing (it gave Hagar quite a buzz).  We couldn't refuse the nice offering of betel nut, but after chewing it the family got much merriment from pointing out Hagar's red face. The next morning, we left, with hugs and address exchanges, and lots of smiles.  They encouraged us to come back, and we said we'd try.

GDP per capita aside: By Vietnamese standards, we know these were very expensive meals.  The nephew (studying to be a doctor) told us that the average farmer earns 10,000 dong (70 cents) per day.  Multiplying by 350 (they don't get too many holidays) gives $245 per year, compared to the official GDP/capita of $300-some.

STOP EVERYTHING, READER!  TOILET UPDATE TOILET UPDATE TOILET UPDATE

In Thailand, the toilets are the squat types but they are 4 inches off the ground, which makes it quite scary to use them, as we are always afraid of falling off.  The other thing is that it took us several uses to figure out that flushing them requires pouring water from the water basin using a small plastic bowl. In Laos, there are seldom toilets.  We often were pointed to the bushes. In Vietnam, it really depends where you are.  In touristy guesthouses, flushable western style is the norm.  It seems that in the more rural areas the toilet is right next to the pig pen.  You go into a room without a door, which shares a very low wall with the pig.  You squat over a compost pile. Actually, you are producing the compost every time you use the toilet.

AND NOW BACK TO OUR REGULAR BROADCAST

We left our friends (the Nguyen family, the name of which they share, by the way, with about forty-percent of all Vietnamese people) and soon realized that drivers here are crazy outside of Hanoi as well.  We fought our way through the bicycle riders and realized that a hand on the horn is a survival tool.  Here is our analysis of honking around the world:

a)       In New York you honk to dispel road rage.

b)       In China you honk all the time, for no apparent reason, until it loses all meaning and just becomes a matter of course.

c)       In Thailand, there are several honks.  One is to call out the woman who sells good-luck flowers for the car. Another is to call out the guy who sells charcoal.  Another is to pay respect to the Buddha when driving by a wat. And the last (most common) type is to announce your arrival in town.

d)       In Laos, it's quite simple.  There is the respect for the Buddha honk, the I'm leaving the town, the I'm arriving in the town, the look at me here I am passing through town, and just for the hell of it, man I love this horn honk.  In other words, vehicles usually are alone on the "road."

e)       In Vietnam, the honk is a serious business.  Because no one follows any logical road rules, the driver must use his honk as a communication method.  You honk when you pass bicycle riders to prevent them from wandering to the middle of the road while you pass them. You honk when passing big trucks that take up the whole road in order to avoid them running you over, as well as warning on coming motorcyclists that have the same idea.  Basically, we can't detail all the honks, because the horn becomes an extension of your intention-communication.  Your left thumb tells the world in series of short, long, sustained, loud, quiet, or any other possible combinations of honks, what you're doing and where you're going.  Before we knew this, we were most unfortunately bumped from the side and fell off the bike, causing our mirror to break.  We had to buy new mirrors, and put a little band-aid on Hagar's knee.  Since then, the honk has been in full operation.

Part IV: Two's good company, three's a crowd.

We finally arrived at Cuc Phuong National Park, established in 1962 by Ho Chi Minh himself as Vietnam's first national park.  One aspect of this establishment was the cessation of logging.  Sounds good?  It is for the forest, but for the Muong peoples, it's not.  50,000 or so villagers were forcibly ejected from the park, and there have been problems with villagers "poaching" (hunting for food, from their perspective).

In any case, the park is beautiful, but our accommodations were not.  We had a rat again.  Michael wanted to take up a post on a chair over the bed with a flashlight, but Hagar convinced him he's stupid by asking, "What will you do if you see it?"  "Nothing, I guess."  "Go to sleep."  Still, we woke up several times to the sound of a rat eating at our bags.  Once, Hagar slept soundly until Michael leapt out of bed, picked up a slipper, and beat a plastic bag into submission.  "I swear, the rat was there."  Whatever, Michael.  The rat was pulling the plastic bag into a hole in the floor when all this happened, so Michael pulled the now-beaten bag out and covered the hole with a small tea plate we found.  We have proof that this was a rat, indeed.  Hagar saw the big brown furry thing climb the wall, jump on the coat hanger, and out of the crack between the ceiling and the wall.  When we told our tour guide of these happenings he responded by saying, "At wedding party, have rat meat.  No rat meat, no party."  We said, "Pardon?" and he repeated his statement three times, finally adding for emphasis, "No rats, no party, but sometimes look for mice."

Despite his poor English, our guide Thuy was very knowledgeable about the park and told us a lot about snails, bananas, dirt, trees, and other stuff.  We took the less touristed trail and soon discovered why.  You have to take a guide with you because... there is no trail!  We found ourselves hiking through the jungle, climbing slippery sharp rocks and looking out for thorny branches.  It was fun, and really beautiful, and we were rewarded by the sight of Big Tree.  It was a big tree in the middle of the trail.  The jungle is really exciting though, and it's so thick that barely any light makes it to the forest floor.

One other reason why the trail is less touristed.  There are leeches.  Michael said at the beginning, "I've never seen a leech before."  By the end, he saw three, all puffed up with his blood.  No more desire to see leeches.

After about six kilometers of hiking, most recently over a particularly sharp hill, Thuy stopped and turned to us.  He looked a bit worried and said, "I regret to inform you that we have gone the wrong way.  It is about two kilometers back we must go."  We looked at each other and at Thuy, until he said, "Ha ha!" and kept walking.  He did it again an hour later, and we believed him AGAIN.  He looked particularly serious that time, honest.  This time, after he laughed, he started running!  We were almost left behind in the jungle so we ran after him.  Turns out the road was a couple of steps ahead of us.  We went to the prehistoric man cave, and walked about.  And then off we went to Ninh Binh.

There is nothing in Ninh Binh except water convolulus*.  Well, there's shops and stuff, granted, but we ordered "Vegetable" from the menu (the only thing that didn't have meat in it) and got water convolulus.  So it goes.

And we got hassled by the hotel manager about our passports.  We don't know how we convinced him to let us stay but we suspect it had to do with the same reason that the guy on Emei Shan in China took us into his home -- we threatened to sleep outside and blame it on him if the police asked.  Also, we gave him chocolate cream cookies.

Tomorrow we may head for Hanoi to pick up our passports, or we may continue on to Haiphong and Halong Bay as planned, then back to Hanoi.  In any case, we'll let you know how things go.

*[Ed Note:  Could they have meant the following definition?  "Latin name, Convolulus pluricaulus. Convolulus pluricaulus plant is used in Ayurvedic formulas to improve the immune system and nourish brain cells. Sanskrit texts say that Convolulus pluricaulus supports and improves all aspects of mental functioning, including comprehension, memory and recollection."  Nah, probably not.]

HUE, VIETNAM: Date: Thu, 27 Dec 2001 07:22:27 -0800

Postcards, postcards, postcards

Last you have heard from us, we were in Ninh Binh.  Now we are in Hue.  The story of how we got here...

We left Ninh Binh early the next morning, heading out to Tam Coc, or the three caves, which is karst geography amongst rice paddies (or rice paddies amongst karst geography).  After pausing when three ladies yelled at us and sprinted across the road to reach us, we realized they were trying to convince us to let them watch our motorbike while we rented a bicycle from them.  We sped away.  At Tam Coc, we paid about seven guys 5000 dong (35 cents) to watch our bike for us.  As we were locking the front wheel, one guy said, "No, no."  We looked at him, expectantly.  "I am police.  No lock bike."  The other fellas looked eager and excited.  Michael looked at Hagar, looked at the bike, and then said, "Okay, you police" and locked the wheel as quickly and securely as possible.

We paid 55,000 dong a person for entrance fees and boat fees (Vietnamese are charged 5000 dong), and onto the boat we went. It was a rickety ole thing, and our boat rower sat in front of his wife, whose role we had yet to find out.  We began our excursion through the rivers and rice paddies.  And then we reached what looked like a land bridge, and were asked to exit the boat.  We were only on the go for ten minutes and wondered what we were supposed to do next, when the couple lifted the boat under the land bridge and we went back in the craft.  We were no longer alone.  A group of three snack ladies, each in her own boat, greeted us excitedly.  We suspect they took turns with the tourist -- we had our own snack lady for the ride.  Great! So off we went through a romantic and very beautiful ride through the paddies, with a squawking woman yelling behind us "cafe?  coca cola?  Banana?"  And us saying, "No, thank you.  Khong, cam on!" (very important words in Vietnamese).

We passed by some beautiful bluebirds with auburn chests and long beaks.  The ducks and white geese were also very fun to watch as they dove for whatever it is they dive for.  The snack lady added to the fun by switching from arm rowing to pedal rowing, just like a bike machine.  We pointed and said, "Very good!" and she gestured to show that her arms were weak and our boat driver's arms strong, then added, "Cafe? Coca Cola? Banana?"  When we reached the end of the last cave, the boat driver said, "Finis" and asked for more money to go on.  We said no thanks, and he rowed back through the cave, but paused for a quick breath before going on.  And paused.  And waited.  And the snack lady stayed near us.  And we waited.

And then we realized that we're not going anywhere until we buy something.  The snack lady used an old tactic -- buy your driver coke, he's very tired. "Tres fatigue, tres fatigue!"  We heard of this scam, where the boat rower later sells the coke back for half price.  So we said no, but caved in and bought a banana for 5 cents.  And we offered our driver water because he was so tired, but he said, "no water!  coke!" Before returning, we had to refuse some high-pressure embroidery sales, at which point we figured out the wife's role: pressure us greatly to buy her embroidery, which she made by hand with her adorable grandchildren and daughters.  A napkin was a dollar.  We enjoyed what scenery was left to us, finally saying "No" for the last time when asked to give presents, "We are very tired!  Hard work!  Presents, presents!  Cadeaux!  Cadeaux!"  We felt bad, but we left the rower and his wife empty handed.

Off we went, ate lunch, and drove to a pagoda where a similar scene followed.  Michael eventually had to turn to a group of no fewer than six girls and say, "No tour guide.  We don't want a tour guide.  No.  Khong" while Hagar covered her soft-hearted eyes and ran away, seconds away from purchasing postcards from an old lady who wouldn't leave her alone.  People have a way of knowing who is weak.  Hagar is.  She has been persuaded by many a snack and postcard lady/child to buy unneeded and unwanted things.  And once she was manhandled into accepting a shoe shine and sole-gluing. 

But let's not talk about that.  At the pagoda, we finally accepted the guide services of an apparently deaf and mute man who pointed and made whooshing noises but succeeded in explaining to us what everything was in the cave ("magistrate" was signified by upturned pinky, for example). We don't know how we understood him but we suspect it was a combination of his excellent communication skills and our lack of language abilities.  He couldn't have explained things better to us in Vietnamese.

After Ninh Binh, we drove northeast through Thai Binh and Nam Binh. We expected to get to Haiphong that day, as it is only 70 km away from Thai Binh.  We were wrong.  Very very wrong.  It turns out that all, and we mean every square inch, of highway 10 is under construction at the same time; that is, now.  The construction method seems to be thus: rip up the asphalt, dig new potholes, pour in water for mud, and block off any escape routes with the now-idle bulldozers.  We sped along at 10 km an hour, fearing for our lives while cussing madly. Seriously, if it's one thing we learned from our bike trip its how to swear in the most fulfilling ways.  As the sun descended, and we were still 58 kilometers from Haiphong, we started asking for a guesthouse.  "Three kilometers" ahead, we were told.  We went about two and a half and decided to ask for directions.  "There's people in that cafe," said Michael. "Ask there."  It was pitch dark out by then, and the prospect of driving through monster-sized potholes was not attractive. 

Actually, it was down-right frightening.  Hagar ran into the cafe, asked for a guesthouse, and the lady said, "Oh.  Come come come come."  She signaled Michael to come in (the come-here signal in SE Asia is the same as the go-away signal in the U.S.  In the past, we have run away quickly from people who apparently were inviting us over).  We put the motorcycle inside, realized this was a kind of trucker's motel, got our room for at least triple the Vietnamese rate, ordered food, and waited for room service to arrive while watching a Vietnamese soap opera to unwind.  We have never been so relieved to arrive at a room before.  It took two hours for the color to return to Michael's knuckles.  Hagar's knees were shaking.  We were alive.

After waking early, we finally arrived at Haiphong at around ten, ate a yummy lunch (breakfast? brunch?), and went to the ferry.  Not before we cussed and had some scary moments in this big city.  If there is one thing that's scarier than sharing the road with water buffalo, trucks and bikes, it's doing this in a big city.  After purchasing some postcards (NOooooo!), we boarded the right ferry, and realized that there was no ramp for our bike.  We lifted the bike onto the walkway, but the captain told us to move it to the front, down a corridor and up some stairs.  We managed to do it ourselves for the most part, with a man helping out on the last stair.  We gave him and the captain a cigarette and made new friends.  We wrote postcards and waited for the boat to set sail for Cat Ba Island and paradise.

By the time we left the dock, Hagar managed to buy gum, candy, bread and more postcards.  We didn't eat anything except the gum, and the postcards are still unwritten (till tomorrow!).

Cat Ba Island was fantastic.  We went to the first hotel offered us, took a room for four bucks, and fussed about the motorbike for a while, locking it and asking everyone and their brother-in-law to look after it for us.  We were very worried that it would get stolen (although in retrospect -- we were on an island...), but the hotel English-speaking guy said if it gets stolen he would pay us 2100 dollars.  We agreed and went to eat.

Backpacker's Side Note: Backpacker cafes have the same menus.  Misspelled items, and you're always wondering if "omelette" and "fried egg" are what we think they are.  And sometimes pizzas come with ketchup, and sometimes "vegetables" turn out to be turnip and water convolulus.  The point is that the menus need help.

We helped this cafe.  One of the two owners (they're brothers) asked us for help with a new sign.  We told him our suggestions, then on impulse asked if we could help with the menu as well.  If he takes all of our advice, there will be perfect spelling, descriptions that make sense, and a couple new pizzas (eggplant and the Supreme, for which we told him he could charge the most. His eyes lit up... "How much can I charge?"  We suspect he was disappointed when we declined to say, "$100").    We had a good time.  We learned some things about Vietnamese cuisine, and helped the owner translate some foods whose English name he didn't know.  If you ever see a "Halong fish" on that menu, that's the same as "mystery- fish-whose-name-we-didn't-know-either."

That night we played pool (poorly) and wandered around before finding ourselves in the Flightless Bird, a bar owned by a New Zealander who doesn't like two Americans who only order Cokes and just want to read.  Fortunately for him (and us), there was a fellow Kiwi who became quite drunk as the evening went on (Michael was called, "Hey Wolverine man!  Wolverine!" and Hagar became "Trinity" only when his third whiskey was gone ... after four or five beers).  He bought us each a beer, obliging us to stay.  We entertained him for a while, bought him a whiskey and discussed a wide variety of intellectual issues, ranging from Star Wars to toilets to the joy of working four weeks on and one week off at a gold mine (his job).  The conversation then turned to Bin Laden and terrorism, and we spent quite some time trying to explain ourselves, our country, and the history of humanity to a Kiwi who kept saying, "Nuke 'em." We escaped and went to sleep.

Next day, we took our bike out to Cat Ba National Park, first driving the length of the island through some gorgeous hills and rice paddies, surrounded by clear blue sky.  This is one of the most beautiful places we've seen yet.  The park itself was nice, and after a one hour hike and a forty-foot climb up a tower, we were treated to a 360 degree view of the entire island.  Wow! We climbed down, got on our bike and went off to eat.

We also coasted around the island and tried to go to the beach, where we had a close encounter with the island mafia.  He was following us on his motorcycle up the steep hill to the beach.  We didn't think much of it, paid our entrance fee of 7000 dong each, and drove down towards the sand.  We parked our bike, and noticed that the man parked his bike next to us.  He said, "pay 5000 for the motorcycle."  We stared at him for a while, confused, and talked amongst ourselves, questioning why the toll people didn't ask us to pay anything.  We finally decided to drive back up and see what happens.  We arrived and were told the price is 5000 per person on the motorbike.  10,000 dong for guarding our motorbike against "vandalism."  The tollbooth guy did a very convincing description of what could happen to our bike, almost as if he had firsthand knowledge of such events.  We asked for our entrance fee back, were refused, and sped away in less-than-quiet resignation.  Some road-rage cussing made its way into our vocabulary.

That evening we went to a floating restaurant where we hand-picked our shrimp as they struggled to crawl away.  While tasty, it probably made quite a frightening shrimp horror film.  They were taken from the water and placed on the grill.  Eyeballs, legs, everything.  Yum.  We also got to pick our fish.  The poor little guy was scooped out of the water, and after we gave the death sentence ("looks succulent, let's take him") he was thrown onto the floor.  A man with heavy sharp looking boots appeared from the middle of nowhere, and began stomping on the fish.  At one point the creature got caught in his shoe and had to be shaken off.  We could have done without that sight.  It was for a good cause, though, as the ginger-garlic-mushroom-onion-tomato sauce was delightfully delectable, and the fish was tender and sweet.  The shrimp were... with lots of legs.

Next day, we took a boat tour around Halong Bay.  Again, karst geography, but this time in the middle of emerald waters.  The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and we lay out in the bow of the boat chatting with the three travelers sharing our large boat.  We passed countless boulder-islands and got rowed through a small cave.  The crew cooked us fish, and this time it wasn't our fault. We enjoyed it too.

We went through some floating fishing village, saw pearl farms (rows of buoys), and stopped by monkey island to play with the little macaques.  Hagar became friends with one of them, but he violated her trust.  His first move was to bite her shirt after she didn't let him have her glasses.  His second offense was that he had a dirty mind, and started to play with himself while perched on Hagar's arm.  Adventures aside, that was just too weird.

When we returned to the island, we ate at the restaurant whose menu we had helped rewrite, and chatted with the other brother who told us that unless you pay doctors under the table, you don't get any care in the "free" hospitals.  He has a son and says he doesn't want another one for 10 years because the hospital fees to take care of his wife were too high (1 million dong for a week of care, or $70, in a country with GDP/capita of about $300 per year!). He also said that his wife couldn't work for 6 months during the pregnancy and the financial strain was too much.

Standard of Living and Way of Living Note: People in Vietnam are poor in a very different way than in Laos.  People here really struggle to make ends meet, and the standard of living is very low.  People keep telling us how poor they are, and point to the very real lack of what we consider to be necessities: good shoes, enough clothing, varied diet (meat is very expensive for farmers), and of course medical care.  In Laos, people were rather removed from the cash economy, and the village seemed to take care of its own needs.  In Vietnam, villages specialize a bit (only growing rice and making baskets, in the Ha Dong community we stayed in, for example).  Without a large garden or varied handicrafts, they have to rely on the market to sell their surplus and buy other things.  It doesn't always work out well for them, although Vietnam as a whole has watched its rice production soar so that it has changed from a net importer to the second-largest rice exporter after Thailand.

We left Cat Ba island the next day, and hit the highway.  Our bike, by the way, had to be lifted into the ferry this time.  We drove back to Hanoi and we almost froze.  It was cold.  Michael maneuvered us beautifully through Hanoi's psychotic drivers, and we arrived safely at our motorbike rental place. We had to pay 10 dollars for a broken piece of plastic, but we were lucky that that was all.  He noticed the new mirrors, but he couldn't complain too much.

For the next couple of days, we wandered about Hanoi, saw the National History Museum, ate, and rested.  We tried to have a Christmas dinner, but had pizza again.  Alas.  Also, our visa extension was declined, apparently because the Hanoi immigration office doesn't like Americans.  We took the night bus to Hue with the hopes of getting a visa extension here. They did it in the same day!  We spent today on a DMZ tour with a great guide who was born in the area, and lived through all the temporary migrations south, war troubles, mine-clearing after the war, and rebuilding the land.  He was very knowledgeable, and made the tour very interesting, despite the singular lack of sights (Khe Sanh combat base, sight of the largest battle of the war, is a big nothing, leveled by the departing Americans so that no evidence would remain for a propaganda film).  The Vinh Moc tunnels were exciting, having three levels down to 23m underground, built by hand, and never detected during the war. it was exciting and somewhat eerie to visit all these former war sites.  Still, we had a very nice time!

We are going to see the town tomorrow and then continue south.  Onward till morning!

Happy New Year's, Merry Christmas, and a belated happy Chanukah to all!

HOI AN: DATE: THU, 03 JAN 2002 03:46:15

 We took a train to Ho Chi Minh City and found ourselves in Saigon

When we last wrote, we had just done an interesting DMZ tour out of Hue.  The next day we tried to do a tour by cyclo of the major city sights, but rain limited us to just the Flagpole (where the VC raised the Communist standard for 25 days during the 1968 Tet offensive) and the Citadel, where the former Imperial Palace is.  The Citadel had an interesting mixture of ancient walls, 19th century decadence, and 20th century bomb craters.  Our cyclo driver was wearing a big plastic bag over his clothes because he said he accidentally had three children instead of two and couldn't afford a poncho.  We bought him a poncho for 60 cents.  He dropped us off at a "very good, very cheap" vegetarian restaurant which was neither good nor cheap.  The best part was the wheat gluten shaped into meat shapes with soy sauce, but the worst part was a very bitter cabbage-like thing. 

We left Hue the next morning with packs full of dirty laundry, catching a tourist bus to Hoi An. We heard through the very dependable backpacker grapevine that Hoi An is better than Hue because there are fewer tourists and rooms are cheap.  Everyone must have heard this rumor the same day we did, because when we arrived, it was tough to pick out the Vietnamese residents through a sea of tye-dyed, sunburned, camera-wearing westerners.  We should have known this would be the case when we noticed that there were dozens of Hoi An-bound tourist buses on the road.  We were too enamoured with the scenery, and it was too late when we arrived.  All the hotels were booked.  We had an option of taking a room for 20 dollars where the bus dropped us off, or splitting off from our fellow bus-comrades and making a run for any back-alley hotel we could find.  We of course chose option 2.  At twenty dollars a night, you'd be seeing us back in California next month. 

So we started walking and were attacked by a Vietnamese woman who convinced us that she could find us a hotel on her motorbike.  We saw no motorbike but said ok.  There were no people on the street, so we suspect that she has lived with her husband so long that they share a telepathic ability.  Her husband popped up from somewhere in these wild back-streets, and off we went on his motorcycle and his neighbor's bike as well.  As tourists ran around looking for rooms, Michael's bike stalled and he desperately called to Hagar, "Go on without me!  Get a room!  The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one..."  She didn't even look back.  her driver sped along the hard, hot asphalt, stopping at one hotel and then another... all full.  Finally she pulled in to some nice looking hotel.  Behind it was a not-so nice hotel. 

There was a bus that just pulled in, and it unloaded tourists by the dozen.  Hagar leapt off the bike, over hurdles of backpacks and into the reception.  There was one room left, for 15 dollars.  Hagar hesitated and then was about to say, "ok I’ll take it," when a mean lady with shifty eyes appeared behind her and said, "Fifteen dollars?  I'll take it!"  ACK!  But alas, there was another room left for 20 dollars.  There were no rooms anywhere.  It was either that, or threatening our bike driver to sleep on his porch if he didn't let us sleep over at his place.  We even asked if this was an option, to which he replied, "Police raid my home and fine me lot of money."   Not worth the ten dollars we offered to pay.  To make it up to him, we rented his motorcycle, which didn't have brakes.  If only we knew this ahead of time...

So we had a bed, and realized that we could only stay in this crazy town one night.  We had to make the best of it.  We booked a train ticket from Danang (just north) to Ho Chi Minh City, ate, and fell asleep at 6 p.m., gone for the night.  It must have been the stress of finding a hotel room.  Ah, the problems we have.

We woke up the next morning, went to the market, and then jumped on our bike for a wild ride to My Son.  It is a beautiful site of Champa ruins, with Khmer and Hindu influences.  The "development period" for My Son is from the 4th to 13th centuries, or 900 years, compared to only 300 at Angkor Wat.  Needless to say, the place was beautiful and over-run with wild flowers.  it is hard to describe the sight, so we'll let the pictures speak for themselves.

We glanced at the watch, saw that we had just enough time to drive slowly through the countryside and still catch our taxi to Danang.  All was well and all was swell until we swerved to the side of the road to avoid an oncoming truck.  A few seconds later, Hagar said, "Do you hear that sound?" and Michael noticed the bike was getting tough to handle.  We had a flat.  We made good use of our new-found love for road language, and walked the bike to a shack on the side of the road that fixes bicycle flats.  An old guy with stunted legs fixed our flat while everyone else from the village crowded around us, occasionally saying, "Where you come from?" and "Are you married?"  The answers never changed, but they still questioned us.  When we asked them, "Where are you from?" they said, "Vietnam."  We laughed.  Twenty  minutes later we were back on the road.  Five minutes after that, we got off the bike again, and Michael jogged with the bike to the nearest shack (next time you watch the Olympics, think to yourself, 'Could they go that fast while pushing a motorbike with a flat? NO!).  Alas.  while the flat was getting fixed, we called our tour guy and asked for the car to pick us up at 4:30.

Off we went.  We arrived at exactly 4:30, but we forgot where we were supposed to return the bike.  After an excruciating 20 minutes, we found it, gave the key to some lady that was hopefully the bike owner, and jumped in our taxi.  Our driver said, "When your train?"  We told him, "5:51."  He looked at his watch. 4:50.  "How long to Danang?" Michael asked. "Fifty minutes to one hour."  We cringed.  "You no late," he added.  He pulled over on the way out of Hoi An to yell at our tour guy about us being idiots, but the tour guide just pointed to his watch and yelled back.  Our driver shot off, and we darted in and out of traffic, until our darting put us across the path of a cow.  The driver followed SOP (standard operating procedure) and honked and honked and sped up to scare the cow.  But this cow stared us down and kept plodding across.  At the last minute, we braked and swerved, but not far enough, hitting the cow in the chin.  "Mooo-oooo," as the cow face lurched near our windshield.  We looked back to see the cow think for a second and then continue on.  Our driver didn't think.  We no late.

On the train we shared the compartment with a nice retired couple from Saigon.  We have to hurry so this will be short.  We liked them, they liked us.  We spoke. We arrived in Saigon, finally away from the rain and cold. 

It's hot here!

 Safety in Numbers

 The roads here are insane.  More than ever before, especially on New Year’s.  Everybody takes their motorcycle out and goes cruising.  The result is millions of bikes lining the streets, and very dangerous crossing for us. 

We spent New Year's wandering around aimlessly, until we started meeting people... by crossing the street.  We walked around, trying to find the celebrations which were supposedly "everywhere" according to our guesthouse owner (whose baby we always play with).  While trying to cross a particularly big street, we saw a group of ten Vietnamese and hid ourselves in the middle of them while they deflected motorbikes.  One of them said, "Where are you from?" and we wearily answered, "California."  He responded, "I'm from Orange County." Turns out we were with overseas Vietnamese who returned for New Year’s.  They took us around and later let us count down with them at the New World Hotel (Clinton visited there!) 

Countdown was a particularly strange spectacle.  First of all, right before count-down, the band broke out into a rockin' out version of that sound you’re supposed to sing after drunkenly kissing the person next to you when everyone yells "happy new years!" "Auld Lang Syne" is a nice low-key song, but here, everyone was jumping, dancing and clapping while singing it up-beat.  Then, after the count-down (which was yelled in Vietnamese), we found out why Abba's "Happy New Year" has been on TV since we got here.  It's what people here sing at that blissful moment.  It is strange.  We never heard of the song, but all of Vietnam knows it by heart.

Afterwards, we left the hotel and again attached ourselves to a large group for our protection.  One of them clapped Michael on the shoulder and said, "Happy new year!"  Michael responded, "Chuch mung nam moi!" (happy new year)  He laughed and said, "Eat soup with us."  So we did.  For two hours, we hung out with the group, which turned out to be the bell boys and receptionists of the New World Hotel.  Good times had by all.  At one point, we asked them if they were born in Ho Chi Minh City to which they all angrily replied, "We were born in Saigon."  All righty then.  We've gotta run to have dinner with our cyclo driver (we'll update you soon).  Bye byeeee.  

SAIGON TO CANTHO: DATE: SUN, 06 JAN 2002 05:12:21

Cyclos and bike-os

 We last left you off with a tantalizing taste of what Saigon had to offer us.  A list of what we saw: museums, a palace, motorcycles and pho.  Now for more detail.

We ushered in the New Year at the New World Hotel and had a great time hanging out with the employees there.  The next day, we woke up a bit late (ready for this... Hagar had a hangover! we're so cool!... ok, it was caused by only one beer, but still...) and headed off to the Reunification Palace with Wendy and Peter, our Dutch friends. (we know you're wondering, so we'll fill you in: we said, "Those aren't Dutch names, are they?" to which they responded, "No, they're English") 

We spent a full three hours at the former French governor's mansion turned Presidential Palace turned bombed Independence Palace turned Reunification Palace.  We wandered around the grounds and saw the art-deco rooms, basement command post (which included a bed for the President and his playmates right next door to the signal room), and the two tanks that burst through the front gate on April 30, 1975 to liberate South Vietnam.  When the North Vietnamese troops rushed the building, the South Vietnamese president (for all of five days, following two resignations) said, "I have been waiting for you since this morning to transfer over power."  The soldier responded, "You cannot give what you do not have" and ignored him after that.  We also got to watch a propaganda / "history" film about the American War, which was very interesting.  The video was accompanied by Russian-Polka-Marching type music, all in Vietnamese.  We came out of there not knowing whether to applaud the communists, criticize the propaganda, or hang our heads in shame for being Americans.  We decided to eat a mango instead of making a decision.

The next day we took a cyclo tour around, and saw: the Military Museum, two or three pagodas, the War Remnants Museum (which was called "Museum of French and American War Crimes" until the Minister of Tourism decided to change it), and the Binh Soup Shop, a humble pho shop that was the Viet Cong command post for the Tet Offensive in Saigon.  The pho was not very good, but the owner of the shop wanted to take our picture with him, so we had a “pho-to” shoot. He was a nice man, about 85 years old.  In Vietnam, everyone we meet says the Vietnamese hold no grudges against the Americans, but that doesn't mean that memories of the war aren't everywhere.  Every town of any size has a war veterans cemetery.  Every city also has a War Museum and a Ho Chi Minh Museum.

The War Remnants Museum was particularly interesting because most of the photographs and data were from American sources, and they were pretty horrifying.  Also, there was an exhibit on the victims of Agent Orange, a defoliant used here to deny the Viet Cong cover in the jungles.  The result is not only barren land that was once covered in triple-canopy jungles, but also people with awful skin diseases, reproductive and development abnormalities and a variety of degenerative diseases.  Part of the exhibit included deformed fetuses in a jar.  It was a disturbing museum, but very important.  Although the American government compensated its soldiers and those of its allies during the war for Agent Orange side effects, Vietnamese people are still suffering the consequences with no compensation from anyone.

Our cyclo driver that day (and the next one) was Tran Quang, a very interesting guy.  He worked as a machine operator, we think, for a printing press that made children's books.  He's divorced, and has one son who is 18 years old and is studying to be an engineer.  All of Tran's money goes either to his son's education or his mother's medical needs.  Tran is forty-two years old but looks much older.  We told him, "You must have strong legs!" and he told us that every day after cycling, he must rub his legs and joints with oil to relieve the aches.  We went over to his house for dinner the next night, and were treated to an “identical” meal to one we had shared at a restaurant the previous day.  He even went to the trouble of buying a bottle of Coca-Cola and two beers, same as the night before. We had a nice time and helped him write letters to other tourists he met in the past.  We have to admit that it was a bit uncomfortable.  He is a very lonely man and when tourists promise they will write but neglect to do so, he takes it very personally.

The next day we went to Cholon, the Chinese district.  It was nice, but there was nothing special there except a couple of interesting pagodas and a huge market.  Markets in Vietnam have the unique quality of selling nothing unique.  Everybody sells the same thing, so that part of the market is dedicated only to identical shoes, or identical snacks, or blankets or shampoo.  It's like going to a big department store and always knowing what is there.  No surprises.  Cries of "You! Buy shoe!" followed us everywhere except for those without as much mastery of English who stuck to "You! Shoe!"  Although after the first visit the items are no longer interesting, a trip to the market is always an adventure in communication.

And the next day... we did nothing.

After doing nothing, we did something.  Then we did something else.  After that, we took a bus to Mytho, a big city in the Mekong Delta.  We continued on from there to Ben Tre by motorbike taxi, where we were ripped off (50,000 dong instead of 20,000; c'est la vie).The hotels were expensive.  But it was a nice place.  It is right on the river, and its very easy to get away from the city -- right across the river are small villages along river-canals. There are coconut groves and banana trees everywhere.  The main industry of the town is coconut everything -- coconut meat, coconut water, coconut fiber, young coconuts, old coconuts.  The specialization was crazy. 

While wandering through a village, a tour boat captain approached us and asked us to take a tour with him.  We went back to his neighbor's house, where we ended up spending three hours, first talking about the tour and then....

Michael gave an introductory lecture on matrices to their fifteen year-old son while Hagar briefed the father on necessary steps to take to ensure that his son gets into medical school in seven years.  It was a bit... psychotic... but the father has all his hopes in the young boy.  Michael told the father that he should be very proud of his son.  We looked it up in the dictionary, and the son told us that in Vietnamese, "proud" is the same as "only hope."  We were told this matter-of-factly.  His father is very poor, but hopes that his son will study and work in the U.S., become a wealthy doctor and help him live a better life.  We wished them good luck and told them to email us if they need more help with getting into college. 

The tour was fine, by the way. We were sorry, once again, that we have yet to win the lottery jack-pot.  We have a theory that if we won, we could buy many people in Vietnam new motorcycles.

From Ben Tre, we headed to Rach Gia.  We never got there.  We got to the ferry landing in Mytho no problem, and with only minor hassles wrangled our way to the bus station.  There the hand-waving and "helpful" people started in on us.  "No bus to Cantho" today (Cantho is a midway point to Rach Gia). 

"No Cantho."  "Khong gia rac ngoc pia gia hua blua mua karang chang" Ignoring street-knwoledge, the ticket lady sold Hagar two tickets to Cantho, where we were supposed to pick up a bus to Rach Gia (according to Lonely Planet... stupid piece of garbage!).  The bus to Cantho dropped us off in the middle of nowhere, fifty kilometers away from somewhere.  After a few minutes, a packed minivan came along and we said, "Cantho?" and they said, "Ok, Ok."  We got on, argued about money (we'd already paid all the way to Cantho) and got off.  Then we got on again and stayed on and finally paid the money.  When you don't know the language, there is very little you can do about scams, especially because it's difficult to know when you are wrong, and when someone is really trying to empty your pockets. 

The minibus to Cantho dropped us off in Vinh Long, where we developed new tactics for deflecting eager motorbike taxi drivers.  Michael gestures wildly while Hagar sticks her nose in the book.  Then Hagar bargains, and when she's about to settle a price, Michael says, "What are you bargaining for?"  Hagar pauses, says, "I don't remember. But 5,000 dong sounds cheap."  We walked to the ferry, took the ferry to Cantho, and began our walking.  According to our map we were 400 meters away from somewhere.  It turns out we were 3 km away from anywhere.  We are still confused about where we are and what we're doing here, but we know that we have a place to sleep (the place is called "Hotel-Restaurant 31" and it smells like they burned someone's dinner.  We must admit that the smell is slightly better than rotting rambutan, which we had for breakfast -- we're back to weight-loss traveling). We're taking a bus tomorrow at 12 pm to Rach Gia, where there is a ferry to an island on Tuesday at 9.  We hear the island is nice (famous for fish sauce, which we hate), but we have a dreary feeling that by the time we get there we'll have to swim back to land and hike to Cambodia.

Anyway, here we are, and we feel happy, giddy and very tired. Also, we have a comment to make about being double-charged.  We don't mind when the price of things is a little bit higher than the local price.  But when we pay for a bus ticket three times, and then have to walk to our destination, that's just pushing it.  This is reminiscent of the time in China that we paid for a taxi and then ended up walking with the driver the whole way.  Only that was better, because at least he was friendly.

Before we go, we have a very, very important bathroom update: Generally, there are plenty of Western toilets in Vietnam, or squat toilets which are quite clean.  Privacy is golden here, unlike China.  But there have been four, count them four, times now when we didn't have a clue what to do.  It always goes like this:

"Toilet?"

We are pointed outside and walk through a garden/storage facility to a small boxy room.  Looks like an outhouse.

We open the door, and are staring at a floor.  No squat toilet.  NO HOLE OF ANY SORT (actually, two times there was a small drain).  We double-check with our hosts.

"Toilet?"

They point emphatically to the floor.

We close the door and do our thing.  We cannot avoid the feeling that we just somehow managed to pee in someone's shower.  

View from Buddhist Temple near Tam Coc

Snack lady boat at Tam Coc near Ninh Binh

Former Imperial Palace of Nguyen emperors, Hue

Ceremonial brass cannons, made from rebel weapons, Hue

Haute Cuisine in Hue

Karst formation, Cat Ba Island, Halong Bay, north Vietnam

Hagar at far end of Cat Ba

Cat Ba Island fishing fleet & floating homes

Karst formation, Cat Ba Island, Halong Bay, north Vietnam

View from Cat Ba

Monkey Island at Halong Bay

Cathedral in Ha Dong

Part of the Ha Dong family and us, near Hanoi

Michael cooking a traditional Vietnamese meal on the farm

Hagsy chopping veggies in Ha Dong

Lunch

Hill Tribe Village coming out to take pictures with tourists for money.

My Son

Hagar-Buddha at My Son, near Hoi An, central Vietnam

Shiva carving at My Son

Liberation Palace, Hanoi

Liberation Palace, Hanoi

Temple on the lake at Hanoi