Phnom Penh - Thursday. I flew down from Siem Reap this morning to go to an interview with the Australia Centre of Education (ACE) here in Phnom Penh. It was not planned but with the 9-week journey about to end, it was time to come home with something.
The interview went well and I was offered a position provided my credentials are genuine. No problems - but I could not take up any offer while Honey is still alive and needing me around. Well, that's the feeling at the moment.
Siem Reap is an amazing town and, still amazing, Janet and I will have spent nearly two weeks in total at the Angkor Hotel and still have not been out to see the world-famous temples and archeological sites. Janet is on intimate terms with about 20 books and the hotel's huge swimming pool. I am just busy waiting on her.
This is a town where I feel most alive. The people, for a start, are wonderful. We have made so many friends with hotel staff and done things for them that we are part of their family. The morning's attendance in the dining room is the closest I'll ever get to being considered royalty. There would be over a dozen people come to express their enjoyment (or amazement) that we are there once more and we really feel warmed to the core - this even before 8.30 am. I shall miss them very, very much.
____________________
Just some indelible memories of our journey:
In Saigon, I saw from my taxi, across the boulevard, an old person in a wheelchair, pushing in the compacted traffic, with a collapsed body of a young teenage boy lying across his lap. What does one do? The scene receded and I lost sight. Looking at it, even for those few moments, was painful. But what can one do? It reminded me of a sight my friend John recounted a few days ago after he came back from Dhaka. He said he walked past a youth, probably again a teenage boy, lying half on the gutter, his right foot missing and his left leg suppurating from massive infection. The boy was in septic shock, lying in the sun, crying softly to Allah, nearly unconscious. People stepped over him as they hurried about. John was new to the city and looked back, wondering what he should have done. This, I think, will haunt him.
In Taipei, we went to what was recently the tallest building in the world - constructed in an abstract design resembling bamboo and rising 101 storeys. Of course, on the day we visited it was raining and cloudy.
In Bangkok, we went to the state tower at the sun set and viewed this glorious city at a height of 61 storeys. Bangkok is unbelievable at any time, but with the city lighting up and the colours of red and black, it was sheer magic.
In Hanoi, the 36 streets of the Old Quarter provided more magic as streets swarmed with tourists from around the world. They competed with motorscooters for space on the roads as the sidewalks were blocked with locals eating. Someone will bring a portable light, some plastic stools, a gas-fired wok and some food, establishing an instant kitchen. Locals stop to eat, chatting to each other or the cook and feeding themselves from her cooked meals for as much as $2.
In Siem Reap, a local took me to his favourite eating place where laminex tables, fluorescent lighting and paper strewn all over the floor gave no hint that two very tasty fruit smoothes, a large plate of beef stew and fried rice as well as soup, could be purchased for $2. Of course I was stared at - Westerners do not eat at places like this, or even know about them.
At the elephant camp an hours' river taxi from Chiang Rai, I was feeding an elephant with sugar cane when four other Thai elephants, said to be the most gentle of their breed, caressed me with their trunks. It was like the Day of the Triffids. Their trunks were seemingly controlled to exactly within an inch of where they wanted them to be.
In Kuala Lumpur, the home of the spectacular Petronius Towers, all glittering, twinkling and shimmering at night, I visited a modern food market in the basement area, only to see the locals clustering around a particular shop and ignoring the wonderful Malaysian food. The shop was the doughnut specialty shop.
Janet has had the most amazing overall: from manicured fingers and toes, each painted a frosty pink, to her new Gucci glasses, to her wonderful dental work, to her new rusty red hairstyle, to new clothes and suntan, she looks gorgeous.
No place disappointed, except for Saigon but we were both sick there. We've met marvellous human beings and our affection for them is such that it has been painful to walk away. We are concerned for their country, their politics and their futures.
If you've got this far, thank you for your patience and dedication to reading events we thought were worthwhile recording and despite the varying quality of reporting, the people we left behind were all mentioned at practically every stop. Now, we look forward to seeing you and not discussing our break as you know as much as we do about travel, surviving, and launching ourselves into this incredible part of the world - South-east Asia.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Friday, January 18, 2008
Chiang Rai - Friday
We are really enjoying this far northern part of Thailand. The weather has been within a perfect range, with crisp mornings and cool evenings. Even at midday, it's very pleasant with sunburn only if hats are not worn. In the evening market, which is where we will be in an hour, summer evening clothes are sufficient or a light wrap.
I was sitting on my elephant this morning, in about 2-3 metres of river water, when my hat blew off. It was one I detested, being a horrible brown cotton thing that made me appear demented. Just at that moment, my bull elephant released a dozen coconut-sized spheres of dung. My mahout suddenly noticed my hat floating past us (we were moving slowly downstream) and called out. There was no hope the elephant would catch up to the hat, now looking more like dung in the water than the real thing, so he called out to Janet's elephant, about 30 metres ahead. "Mai pen rai!" I called out instinctively, "Don't worry. It's nothing." My mahout swung around and grinned, "Mai pen rai" and made it a question. "It's OK," I said in English. "It's OK." By then, thankfully, the hat had sunk. I would not have kept it anyway after it was by now indistinguishable from half a tonne of elephant droppings. But it did give me a reason to buy a 75-cent lovely straw hat, thus helping immeasurably the local economy.
Six huge pythons were in their cages at this up-river outpost-village this morning. they are a tourist attraction. Their skins are as exquisite as jewels, their bodies as thick as thighs. But they are deprived of all the sensation of sliding through the jungle because, being captured, they lie on linoleum inside wire-netting cages, curled up and never having their own kind to lie with or communicate. They move silently, slowly in these prisons, endlessly searching for escape. You could use the same argument for the elephants, an endangered species. They are either tethered or have the mahouts on their back riding them. At least they communicate as they jostle around each other, competing with long trunks for the 20 Baht bunches of bananas and sugar cane sticks tourists are urged to buy for them. It's a strange sensation to feed these sticks to an elephant while those behind curl their trunks around me all wanting to be fed. I had five elephants with their trunks trying to wrestle sugar cane sticks from my hands, all at once and very gently, but I had to fight the urge to holler for help.
The longboat we hired took about an hour to reach the village. It's a speedboat built on traditional shallow-draft lines but powered by an LPG-driven small car motor engine and a long drive-shaft that zooms it along at a speedboat velocity. The owner waited while we did the elephant thing, including our half-hour ride and the river walk on the way back, then the shorter ride back as we were with the current. I had vowed never to have another elephant ride after the tortuous experience of seeing old elephants at Chiang Mai painfully climb a 30 degree slope. In metre-deep mud, their lumbering, puffing, relentless plodding, depressed me for such a long time.
But at this village, the elephants walked on paved roads with virtually no slope and the promise of a walk in the river on the way back. But I guess that doesn't remove the guilt of exploiting such a huge, sensitive animal. It's confusing.
Now, Janet wants to go to the night market to buy a few presents for her grandchildren. We are overloaded with weight problems at each airport so the metre-long wooden marionette horses just may get a miss.
We are really enjoying this far northern part of Thailand. The weather has been within a perfect range, with crisp mornings and cool evenings. Even at midday, it's very pleasant with sunburn only if hats are not worn. In the evening market, which is where we will be in an hour, summer evening clothes are sufficient or a light wrap.
I was sitting on my elephant this morning, in about 2-3 metres of river water, when my hat blew off. It was one I detested, being a horrible brown cotton thing that made me appear demented. Just at that moment, my bull elephant released a dozen coconut-sized spheres of dung. My mahout suddenly noticed my hat floating past us (we were moving slowly downstream) and called out. There was no hope the elephant would catch up to the hat, now looking more like dung in the water than the real thing, so he called out to Janet's elephant, about 30 metres ahead. "Mai pen rai!" I called out instinctively, "Don't worry. It's nothing." My mahout swung around and grinned, "Mai pen rai" and made it a question. "It's OK," I said in English. "It's OK." By then, thankfully, the hat had sunk. I would not have kept it anyway after it was by now indistinguishable from half a tonne of elephant droppings. But it did give me a reason to buy a 75-cent lovely straw hat, thus helping immeasurably the local economy.
Six huge pythons were in their cages at this up-river outpost-village this morning. they are a tourist attraction. Their skins are as exquisite as jewels, their bodies as thick as thighs. But they are deprived of all the sensation of sliding through the jungle because, being captured, they lie on linoleum inside wire-netting cages, curled up and never having their own kind to lie with or communicate. They move silently, slowly in these prisons, endlessly searching for escape. You could use the same argument for the elephants, an endangered species. They are either tethered or have the mahouts on their back riding them. At least they communicate as they jostle around each other, competing with long trunks for the 20 Baht bunches of bananas and sugar cane sticks tourists are urged to buy for them. It's a strange sensation to feed these sticks to an elephant while those behind curl their trunks around me all wanting to be fed. I had five elephants with their trunks trying to wrestle sugar cane sticks from my hands, all at once and very gently, but I had to fight the urge to holler for help.
The longboat we hired took about an hour to reach the village. It's a speedboat built on traditional shallow-draft lines but powered by an LPG-driven small car motor engine and a long drive-shaft that zooms it along at a speedboat velocity. The owner waited while we did the elephant thing, including our half-hour ride and the river walk on the way back, then the shorter ride back as we were with the current. I had vowed never to have another elephant ride after the tortuous experience of seeing old elephants at Chiang Mai painfully climb a 30 degree slope. In metre-deep mud, their lumbering, puffing, relentless plodding, depressed me for such a long time.
But at this village, the elephants walked on paved roads with virtually no slope and the promise of a walk in the river on the way back. But I guess that doesn't remove the guilt of exploiting such a huge, sensitive animal. It's confusing.
Now, Janet wants to go to the night market to buy a few presents for her grandchildren. We are overloaded with weight problems at each airport so the metre-long wooden marionette horses just may get a miss.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
It was bye-bye Bangkok this morning as we went off to the airport for our 13th flight on this south-east Asian expeditionary mission. Chiang Rai is in the Golden Triangle area, surrounded by Laos and Burma. We are at about 580 metres altitude and it's cool at nights, down to about 13 degrees. Chiang Rai is a lovely little city, clean air and relatively unpolluted, compared to the smoke and fumes of Bangkok and the cities in Vietnam. Most of the signs are not given an English translation, which is so common in tourist areas, and I've not yet seen a sign advertising a school at which you can learn English. The internet site, however, says the native-English-speaking teachers earn about 1/3 as much as if they were in Bangkok, and that's not saying much. Thailand is the place so many wish to live in SEA as it is relatively stable with a patchy but high degree of sophistication (just take a day to wander around Siam Center with your mouth open at the luxury!). Also, the Thais are just wonderfully warm people, quite the contrast to Saigon, in our experience.
We've had our ride around town in a tuk-tuk, 250 Baht for half-an-hour. Although there are open fields in the built-up area, there's not the piles of rubbish we've seen elsewhere. The roads are quite good and lots of work is in progress. The native area of town, where the tourists do not go, is well-kept and relatively prosperous. But the centre of town seems to have massage shops every second doorway or, strangely, opticians. A strange combination but something must be sending the population blind.
Tomorrow, Janet says we must explore the river. Not the exploring done by the dozens of younger people intent on trekking, but something sedate. Or maybe the food festival which commences in the morning at the old airport. New places are always fun and Chiang Rai does not have attitude, but, where's the excitement?
We've had our ride around town in a tuk-tuk, 250 Baht for half-an-hour. Although there are open fields in the built-up area, there's not the piles of rubbish we've seen elsewhere. The roads are quite good and lots of work is in progress. The native area of town, where the tourists do not go, is well-kept and relatively prosperous. But the centre of town seems to have massage shops every second doorway or, strangely, opticians. A strange combination but something must be sending the population blind.
Tomorrow, Janet says we must explore the river. Not the exploring done by the dozens of younger people intent on trekking, but something sedate. Or maybe the food festival which commences in the morning at the old airport. New places are always fun and Chiang Rai does not have attitude, but, where's the excitement?
Monday, January 14, 2008
We said Sayonara Saigon on Saturday, 12 January. Not sure we'll be back. The amputees, the deformed, the beggars, the scooters, the poor, the noise, the dangers, the crowding, the grab for the dollar... It was very sad because we had half-hoped that Vietnam would be the place to start teaching. However, there is always Hanoi and friends were made there. Quaint, cooler, more Party politics (the street loudspeakers broadcast their propaganda for 20 minutes, about 4 times a day) and the police are more in evidence. I could teach in Hanoi but Janet just wants to be out of Vietnam.
So, here we are back in Bangkok. Nok Air have twice daily flights (or "frights" as the booking clerk explained) from Hanoi to Bangkok, at $45 for each person. Considering that Bangkok Air is charging $400 return to Siem Reap from Bangkok, which is about one-third the distance, it's a bargain.
Back home, I said to Janet. Yes, she said, back home. Everything is so familiar. People know us, we know the streets, the transport system, the best shops, the markets... We have breakfast under the trees with goldfish swimming underneath the tables. A lazy breakfast (where I have mentioned the price fluctuates daily). This morning, after reading the two excellent Bangkok papers, it was 10:30 before we rose from the table and decided to go into the city and perhaps buy a book.
Yesterday, Sunday, was apparently a holiday but nobody seemed to know why. At 10:45 am, the streets were largely deserted. The train stations were practically empty. Hardly anyone anywhere. The sky was blue, there was no pollution and it was even quite cool. This couldn't be Bangkok. But at the magnificent Siam Center, where 880 shops sell everything from Prada to Porsche, it was packed with those with money. Dozens of restaurants, the place buzzing with the sounds of happiness and food and people talking over each other's heads. True gourmet foods, apples for $5, so gorgeous they probably each had names. Movies in a dozen theatres (Janet saw Elizabeth with Kate Blanchett) but you stand when they play the King's anthem, otherwise you are asked to leave.
Here were the thousands missing from the streets and, as we watched and ate, bought books, browsed for colognes, we felt as much at home as we would in the Sunshine Coast. Bangkok, it is some great city!
So, here we are back in Bangkok. Nok Air have twice daily flights (or "frights" as the booking clerk explained) from Hanoi to Bangkok, at $45 for each person. Considering that Bangkok Air is charging $400 return to Siem Reap from Bangkok, which is about one-third the distance, it's a bargain.
Back home, I said to Janet. Yes, she said, back home. Everything is so familiar. People know us, we know the streets, the transport system, the best shops, the markets... We have breakfast under the trees with goldfish swimming underneath the tables. A lazy breakfast (where I have mentioned the price fluctuates daily). This morning, after reading the two excellent Bangkok papers, it was 10:30 before we rose from the table and decided to go into the city and perhaps buy a book.
Yesterday, Sunday, was apparently a holiday but nobody seemed to know why. At 10:45 am, the streets were largely deserted. The train stations were practically empty. Hardly anyone anywhere. The sky was blue, there was no pollution and it was even quite cool. This couldn't be Bangkok. But at the magnificent Siam Center, where 880 shops sell everything from Prada to Porsche, it was packed with those with money. Dozens of restaurants, the place buzzing with the sounds of happiness and food and people talking over each other's heads. True gourmet foods, apples for $5, so gorgeous they probably each had names. Movies in a dozen theatres (Janet saw Elizabeth with Kate Blanchett) but you stand when they play the King's anthem, otherwise you are asked to leave.
Here were the thousands missing from the streets and, as we watched and ate, bought books, browsed for colognes, we felt as much at home as we would in the Sunshine Coast. Bangkok, it is some great city!
Friday, January 11, 2008
Last month a Vietnamese fisherman hacked a large piece out of a cable to sell as scrap metal. It was one of the two internet connections into the country. As yet, it has not been replaced and explains the very slow internet speed and the frequent hang-ups we have encountered here.
Saigon, I have mixed feelings. Getting to a destination is nerve-racking. Today, we were in a taxi that collided with a cement truck. Imagine being in a swarm of bees but each is a motor scooter, car, truck, pedicab, bicycle, truck, bus, pedestrian. Crossing a road is a skillful exercise. I'm not sure of the death rate but I read tonight that in a 2-day period over Christmas in Thailand, 118 road deaths were recorded.
Could we teach in Saigon? Possibly, as there is work available. Hourly rate is OK and rents are reasonable, although the houses are small and squeezed together. To get to work, you learn to ride in the traffic swarm, where it is rumoured that road rules existed once long ago. Nobody drives without having their hand on the horn button. At least, in Hanoi, there was a special horn for people in close proximity: a kind of burble or 5-note soft cadence. Not so evident in Saigon.
We wandered through some lovely old streets about one kilometre from this tourist area. The old homes look like very stately senior citizens who have not moved from their sickbed for some years. Grand, decayed, with memories of colour and mystery, architecture that, to us, is so totally foreign in design and construction.
We dodged dozens of local dinner-time gatherings on the footpaths as we walked slowly back, slow because the footpaths are treacherous. Sometimes beautifully tiled, mostly torn up, their former glory merely a memory of when the French had so much influence. Some grand avenues still remain but destruction is everywhere you look.
Destroyed people also. At the Military Museum this morning, an armless but well-dressed beggar, speaking good English, bade me to sit with him. He had postcards for sale but so does everyone, postcards or sunglasses or photocopied books. This beggar was nearly blind, his right eye missing as was his right leg. His story was that an American landmine exploded when he was a child. He asked whether he could give me a hug and then opened up his two soft pincer-like remnants of arms to hold me. I wondered how he would manage going to the toilet - the same thought I had when approached outside Notre Dame cathedral in Saigon, also this morning. This beggar had tiny, baby-like arms sticking out the front of his shoulders, looking practically useless but that's all he had.
The Military Museum was a paean to the resilience of the Vietnamese against the imperialism of the United States. Dozens of large photographs of tortured men, women and children. Atrocities, cruel devices, body parts, phosphorus burns victims, "tiger cages", a French guillotine that saw lots of service here in Saigon, the museum walls were full of heart-wrenching sadness. Once you have had your fill and can take no more, you leave, only to face more beggars outside with their gross deformities, twisted thin limbs, pathetic faces.
Suddenly, I find I could take no more. The crazy traffic, the continual beggars, the poverty always evident. But how much do the locals actually see as being a problem? In the tiny lane next to this hotel, so thin that nothing more than two motorscooters side by side would fit in it, is the entrance to the interior of the block. Out in the street, there are nice hotels and travel agencies - down this non-descript colourless lane is the path that leads to many dozens of families with their living rooms open to passers-by. As we use this path as a shortcut to a major street parallel to our hotel street, we brush by the locals eating, playing, gambling, sleeping, lazing in this alleyway. Their homes open as we walk past and, in the centre, a local policeman sits on a plastic chair, watching everything.
Local police are fed information about strangers in the area. This keeps the crime rate low in the poorer areas. Apparently, it is forbidden for Vietnamese to spend the night in other bedrooms. People report this to their local policeman and a reminder is given that citizens must spend their night in their own houses. This makes it very difficult for Westerners who are used to the freedom to move as we wish. But, on the other hand, safety of a kind comes with this restriction.
There are hundreds of oddities here in Saigon, from the crowded park before dawn with everyone exercising, to the vast number of cripples, pregnant mothers lying in the street with their children, to the sadness that many will never have a hope in hell of escaping life-long poverty. At the moment, I see Saigon as having an overwhelming sadness that has now permeated my bones and I am anxious to leave. When I get it into perspective, I may be back.
Saigon, I have mixed feelings. Getting to a destination is nerve-racking. Today, we were in a taxi that collided with a cement truck. Imagine being in a swarm of bees but each is a motor scooter, car, truck, pedicab, bicycle, truck, bus, pedestrian. Crossing a road is a skillful exercise. I'm not sure of the death rate but I read tonight that in a 2-day period over Christmas in Thailand, 118 road deaths were recorded.
Could we teach in Saigon? Possibly, as there is work available. Hourly rate is OK and rents are reasonable, although the houses are small and squeezed together. To get to work, you learn to ride in the traffic swarm, where it is rumoured that road rules existed once long ago. Nobody drives without having their hand on the horn button. At least, in Hanoi, there was a special horn for people in close proximity: a kind of burble or 5-note soft cadence. Not so evident in Saigon.
We wandered through some lovely old streets about one kilometre from this tourist area. The old homes look like very stately senior citizens who have not moved from their sickbed for some years. Grand, decayed, with memories of colour and mystery, architecture that, to us, is so totally foreign in design and construction.
We dodged dozens of local dinner-time gatherings on the footpaths as we walked slowly back, slow because the footpaths are treacherous. Sometimes beautifully tiled, mostly torn up, their former glory merely a memory of when the French had so much influence. Some grand avenues still remain but destruction is everywhere you look.
Destroyed people also. At the Military Museum this morning, an armless but well-dressed beggar, speaking good English, bade me to sit with him. He had postcards for sale but so does everyone, postcards or sunglasses or photocopied books. This beggar was nearly blind, his right eye missing as was his right leg. His story was that an American landmine exploded when he was a child. He asked whether he could give me a hug and then opened up his two soft pincer-like remnants of arms to hold me. I wondered how he would manage going to the toilet - the same thought I had when approached outside Notre Dame cathedral in Saigon, also this morning. This beggar had tiny, baby-like arms sticking out the front of his shoulders, looking practically useless but that's all he had.
The Military Museum was a paean to the resilience of the Vietnamese against the imperialism of the United States. Dozens of large photographs of tortured men, women and children. Atrocities, cruel devices, body parts, phosphorus burns victims, "tiger cages", a French guillotine that saw lots of service here in Saigon, the museum walls were full of heart-wrenching sadness. Once you have had your fill and can take no more, you leave, only to face more beggars outside with their gross deformities, twisted thin limbs, pathetic faces.
Suddenly, I find I could take no more. The crazy traffic, the continual beggars, the poverty always evident. But how much do the locals actually see as being a problem? In the tiny lane next to this hotel, so thin that nothing more than two motorscooters side by side would fit in it, is the entrance to the interior of the block. Out in the street, there are nice hotels and travel agencies - down this non-descript colourless lane is the path that leads to many dozens of families with their living rooms open to passers-by. As we use this path as a shortcut to a major street parallel to our hotel street, we brush by the locals eating, playing, gambling, sleeping, lazing in this alleyway. Their homes open as we walk past and, in the centre, a local policeman sits on a plastic chair, watching everything.
Local police are fed information about strangers in the area. This keeps the crime rate low in the poorer areas. Apparently, it is forbidden for Vietnamese to spend the night in other bedrooms. People report this to their local policeman and a reminder is given that citizens must spend their night in their own houses. This makes it very difficult for Westerners who are used to the freedom to move as we wish. But, on the other hand, safety of a kind comes with this restriction.
There are hundreds of oddities here in Saigon, from the crowded park before dawn with everyone exercising, to the vast number of cripples, pregnant mothers lying in the street with their children, to the sadness that many will never have a hope in hell of escaping life-long poverty. At the moment, I see Saigon as having an overwhelming sadness that has now permeated my bones and I am anxious to leave. When I get it into perspective, I may be back.
Monday, January 7, 2008
With all the wisdom of nearly 66 years on this planet, I am no match for these Vietnamese. Hundreds of centuries of surviving have honed these people into the incredible personalities we see daily. For example, today I bought a newspaper up at the rich end of town. It was The Australian for last weekend - about $6 - but I ended up spending nearly $30 on powdered infants' milk formula as well. Looking back, if only that kid who should have been at school had not been there, I would not have looked into those painfully sensitive eyes of his and I would not have bought one of his Saigon postcard packs. But, as quick as a flash, he thrust the money back at me and asked me to buy some milk instead. His mother was around the corner, he quickly explained, and she would take the money for herself so he could then not buy the milk he wanted. "I just want you to buy me some milk. Will you do that?"
It was starting to get a bit bizarre and that creeping feeling was emerging that said to just get out of this situation, but I could not let a slight Vietnamese kid with remarkably good English see he'd won so quickly. I smiled and said, "What now?" "Please sir, that is the supermarket over there on the third floor of that plaza. That is where I can buy the milk." We got past the guards, who apparently keep kids from the streets out of the Louis Vuitton and Rolex shops in the centre, and he guides me up to the third floor and to the tins of infant formulae.
"That is the one I need," he whispered. It was a large gold tin, looking very self-important on the shelf, and it was priced at 469,000 Dong. A little flustered by the speed of all this, I calculated the cost to be, oh, I don't know - maybe $10. But at 16,000 to the US dollar, I suddenly realised this was no cheap exercise. So I obviously said, "This is not cheap, you know." He looked at me quite puzzled. "Please sir, it is for my sister. She is only one year and one month." I paid at the register. He shook hands, literally jumped onto the escalator, and I stood there bewildered. But I learned something from all this: bizarre situations require the conservative traveller to flee the scene. This prevents anything interesting from happening and encourages healthy sleep and appetite, whereas forsaking our usual cautions often turns out to be colourful entertainment. In fact, not often but every time.
Distances from our hotel on the main small-hotel drag opposite the park, are measured in Approaches. If you go to the right, the best cafe is 7 approaches: that is, 3 selling sunglasses, 2 selling wallets, one selling wooden horses and something that looks like a lottery. Getting a good drink is 11 approaches, for it is half a block further. You have to add a few sellers of guide books, cigarettes and lighters, and feather dusters. If I bought anything, it would have been a feather duster.
To even sit in a cafe is to invite hawkers to come in. Merely sitting down somehow indicates I am ready to be purveyed shoeshines, amulets, more sunglasses, paperback novels, small bottles of something and packets of something else. The shopkeepers generally do not get them to leave - that is understandable - so the wise traveller finds truth in that ancient maxim: the higher you go the fewer you get. Eating at the second floor of a restaurant virtually ensures peace and quiet.
To the left of the hotel is rather sad. It's 3 approaches to the ATM. That is one gentleman missing his left leg followed by someone looking up from the pavement, then the old lady in yellow whom I presume is a nun, holding an ancient aluminium pot with rosary beads in it. They all get a dollar or two, so lunch can be quite expensive if you venture far from the hotel. On the way back, they do not hassle again. In fact, we are treated like lost friends, with big smiles. Most days now, I get to the front of the hotel and dash across the street, looking neither right or left. Yesterday, I ran straight into a mother holding a tin in one hand and a baby in the other. "Please sir...." I panicked. An old woman was sitting on her left and grinning at me, and to the right was a group of men holding a sign and staring. I made my choice, turned immediately around and dashed back to my hotel, buying only a packet of scented Kleenex on the way.
It was starting to get a bit bizarre and that creeping feeling was emerging that said to just get out of this situation, but I could not let a slight Vietnamese kid with remarkably good English see he'd won so quickly. I smiled and said, "What now?" "Please sir, that is the supermarket over there on the third floor of that plaza. That is where I can buy the milk." We got past the guards, who apparently keep kids from the streets out of the Louis Vuitton and Rolex shops in the centre, and he guides me up to the third floor and to the tins of infant formulae.
"That is the one I need," he whispered. It was a large gold tin, looking very self-important on the shelf, and it was priced at 469,000 Dong. A little flustered by the speed of all this, I calculated the cost to be, oh, I don't know - maybe $10. But at 16,000 to the US dollar, I suddenly realised this was no cheap exercise. So I obviously said, "This is not cheap, you know." He looked at me quite puzzled. "Please sir, it is for my sister. She is only one year and one month." I paid at the register. He shook hands, literally jumped onto the escalator, and I stood there bewildered. But I learned something from all this: bizarre situations require the conservative traveller to flee the scene. This prevents anything interesting from happening and encourages healthy sleep and appetite, whereas forsaking our usual cautions often turns out to be colourful entertainment. In fact, not often but every time.
Distances from our hotel on the main small-hotel drag opposite the park, are measured in Approaches. If you go to the right, the best cafe is 7 approaches: that is, 3 selling sunglasses, 2 selling wallets, one selling wooden horses and something that looks like a lottery. Getting a good drink is 11 approaches, for it is half a block further. You have to add a few sellers of guide books, cigarettes and lighters, and feather dusters. If I bought anything, it would have been a feather duster.
To even sit in a cafe is to invite hawkers to come in. Merely sitting down somehow indicates I am ready to be purveyed shoeshines, amulets, more sunglasses, paperback novels, small bottles of something and packets of something else. The shopkeepers generally do not get them to leave - that is understandable - so the wise traveller finds truth in that ancient maxim: the higher you go the fewer you get. Eating at the second floor of a restaurant virtually ensures peace and quiet.
To the left of the hotel is rather sad. It's 3 approaches to the ATM. That is one gentleman missing his left leg followed by someone looking up from the pavement, then the old lady in yellow whom I presume is a nun, holding an ancient aluminium pot with rosary beads in it. They all get a dollar or two, so lunch can be quite expensive if you venture far from the hotel. On the way back, they do not hassle again. In fact, we are treated like lost friends, with big smiles. Most days now, I get to the front of the hotel and dash across the street, looking neither right or left. Yesterday, I ran straight into a mother holding a tin in one hand and a baby in the other. "Please sir...." I panicked. An old woman was sitting on her left and grinning at me, and to the right was a group of men holding a sign and staring. I made my choice, turned immediately around and dashed back to my hotel, buying only a packet of scented Kleenex on the way.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Saturday 5th January already
Hello to all blog readers from Janet
Richard is down with a chest infection and head cold, so is flat on his back for the second full day running- in fact ever since we arrived in Saigon. I think he is a bit better today, but it is going to take a couple more days for him to regain energy.
I managed to find a pharmacy - no easy feat - and got him some antibiotics made in Austria. The ones from China are mostly made of chalk, so hopefully they will help him to recover.
Saigon is a place to be experienced first hand. The traffic is way beyond anything I have ever seen anywhere. It seems like every one of the 22 million motor bikes in Vietnam is arriving at the same time. To cross a road, even a little one takes divine intercession, sublime courage and a lot of luck. Basically you stride off into the traffic, close your eyes, and hope everyone will miss you. What I try to do is to get on the lee side of a local and go across with them.
I would like to go shopping in the markets, but the pressure is so great from all the girls trying to sell T shirts etc., that I can't stop to look. Yesterday I found an up-market department store so was able to buy some fruit, and fruit juice At the same time I was able to have a look around without being harassed which was great.
I don't think anybody in Vietnam eats at home - everybody is busy on the pavement, eating, cooking, playing checkers, and in Hanoi, combing one another's hair for lice, doing their feet and talking on the mobile phone. Every three steps you take, literally, you are accosted by a cyclo driver, a motorbike driver, a beggar, a bookseller, a newspaper seller, a taxi driver, or somebody wanting to sell anything from hammocks, to sunglasses and wallets. Mothers with babies are a common sight, usually trying to sell some moist Kleenex in little packets.
Nothing has a price on it, except in the department store. Normal ratio is 100 for a local and 1000 for the tourists if I want to be cynical.
For the benefit of my sister in Canada, no Richard has not had his computer stolen, and she could write me a bit more than 1 line.
With love to all the patient blog readers, Janet
____________________
The taxidriver brought us to the wrong hotel yet again but the room is quite nice, overlooking a long, thin city park. The constant roar of scooters and cars under my window reminds me that when Janet is out on her own, her successful road-crossing is entirely dependent on some local wearing a straw cone hat who does not harbour her a grudge. The city park opposite, at 5 am, has scores of citizens strolling, jogging, doing tai-chi, stretching, standing and taking their dog for a walk. This is well before dawn and it is still dark when they turn off all the street lights.
My enjoyment primarily comes from meeting the locals and so far it's been the two who clean the room and make the beds. Under the circumstances, Saigon has not attracted us but I know it is our fault for not getting out and about. Hanoi, despite being more Communistic, was most enjoyable eventually. The large red flag with its golden star is very much in evidence in Hanoi but, including the airport, I've seen nine since arriving in Saigon. This should be a more exciting city but so far it's not and that's mainly due to a respiratory infection that's lasted 3 days with little sign of abating.
Now, it's time to have a sneezing fit.
Richard is down with a chest infection and head cold, so is flat on his back for the second full day running- in fact ever since we arrived in Saigon. I think he is a bit better today, but it is going to take a couple more days for him to regain energy.
I managed to find a pharmacy - no easy feat - and got him some antibiotics made in Austria. The ones from China are mostly made of chalk, so hopefully they will help him to recover.
Saigon is a place to be experienced first hand. The traffic is way beyond anything I have ever seen anywhere. It seems like every one of the 22 million motor bikes in Vietnam is arriving at the same time. To cross a road, even a little one takes divine intercession, sublime courage and a lot of luck. Basically you stride off into the traffic, close your eyes, and hope everyone will miss you. What I try to do is to get on the lee side of a local and go across with them.
I would like to go shopping in the markets, but the pressure is so great from all the girls trying to sell T shirts etc., that I can't stop to look. Yesterday I found an up-market department store so was able to buy some fruit, and fruit juice At the same time I was able to have a look around without being harassed which was great.
I don't think anybody in Vietnam eats at home - everybody is busy on the pavement, eating, cooking, playing checkers, and in Hanoi, combing one another's hair for lice, doing their feet and talking on the mobile phone. Every three steps you take, literally, you are accosted by a cyclo driver, a motorbike driver, a beggar, a bookseller, a newspaper seller, a taxi driver, or somebody wanting to sell anything from hammocks, to sunglasses and wallets. Mothers with babies are a common sight, usually trying to sell some moist Kleenex in little packets.
Nothing has a price on it, except in the department store. Normal ratio is 100 for a local and 1000 for the tourists if I want to be cynical.
For the benefit of my sister in Canada, no Richard has not had his computer stolen, and she could write me a bit more than 1 line.
With love to all the patient blog readers, Janet
____________________
The taxidriver brought us to the wrong hotel yet again but the room is quite nice, overlooking a long, thin city park. The constant roar of scooters and cars under my window reminds me that when Janet is out on her own, her successful road-crossing is entirely dependent on some local wearing a straw cone hat who does not harbour her a grudge. The city park opposite, at 5 am, has scores of citizens strolling, jogging, doing tai-chi, stretching, standing and taking their dog for a walk. This is well before dawn and it is still dark when they turn off all the street lights.
My enjoyment primarily comes from meeting the locals and so far it's been the two who clean the room and make the beds. Under the circumstances, Saigon has not attracted us but I know it is our fault for not getting out and about. Hanoi, despite being more Communistic, was most enjoyable eventually. The large red flag with its golden star is very much in evidence in Hanoi but, including the airport, I've seen nine since arriving in Saigon. This should be a more exciting city but so far it's not and that's mainly due to a respiratory infection that's lasted 3 days with little sign of abating.
Now, it's time to have a sneezing fit.
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