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4月25日 Bangkok - the good, the bad, and the uglyI came to Bangkok with a lot of preconceptions, none of them good. (Are preconceptions ever good?) I had a feeling it was going to be loud, dirty, intense, and just not my thing. In fact, the only reason I was coming to Thailand at all was to travel up into Laos!
Our bus dropped us off near the infamous Khao San road. Up and down SE Asia, from Indonesia all the way to Hanoi, I've heard stories about this place. I had no intention of staying there! Luckily, John had already been to Bangkok, and knew of some hotels that were close enough to Khao San to be convenient, and yet far enough away to be comfortable.
That evening, after checking into the hotel, we took a walk along the Khao San. Everybody seemed to be drunk, or getting there. Lots of people had their hair braided, or were in the process of getting it done. (Seriously, is this ever a good look for anyone?!) Many people were getting pierced, and tatooed, and otherwise branded for being in Bangkok. Every few feet girls would stop you and try to entice into their bar. Near them, men would hold cards advertising this sex-show or that one - they all appeared more revolting than erotic. And throughout the crowd, the notorious ladyboys did their thing, although I'm not quite sure what exactly that is!
To escape the madness, John suggested we go to the Secret Garden, an Israeli cafe that he knew of. It was a great suggestion. The place is very cool (Bangkok is the hottest place I've ever been in my life), and the music was good. The crowd was relaxed, to such a degree that I don't think you'd get in Israel itself these days. Also, the food was delicious. I ordered a mint shake, which turned out to be fresh mint leaves blended with ice and water - simple, tasty, and very refreshing.
I've spent the last two days in Bangkok handling the redtape for my trip to the US. I haven't had time for anything else. This evening, I take the night train north, and from there into Laos. I'll return to Bangkok in the next few weeks, and see some of the sights that my uncle Paul has recommended.
Until then, I'll be glad to get away! Life's a beachSihanoukville was founded about 50 years ago as a beach paradise for the rich and shameless. Back then, the only people who could afford to use it were the French, and Cambodian elite. Nowadays, it's a haven for backpackers, travellers, and older ex-pats who make their way in and out of Thailand on visa runs.
To be honest, I find the beach a little boring, unless I'm with good friends. There is something to be said however, for warm water, cold beer, and cheap seafood. As usual in Cambodia though, the train of poor people passes constantly, and it's a little hard to drink shake after shake, and eat lobster tails, when the unfortunates of the world are begging at your side.
I had gone to Sihanoukville mostly to relax after the tiring wonders of Angkor, and the nightmares of Phnom Penh's history. Also, I was meeting the rest of the gang there, and we were going to make our way into Thailand, and on to Bangkok. As much as I, more or less, enjoyed the few days I spent there, I was glad to get moving again. Hill of Poisonous TreesAfter Angkor Wat, I returned to Phnom Penh with the intention of spending only one night, just long enough to visit the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, before making my way south to the coast to meet up with the others.
Originally, Tuol Sleng was a high school called the Tuol Svay Pray. When the Khmer Rouge took over in 1975, they converted it to a prison and interrogation centre, called Security Prison 21 (S21), or Tuol Sleng, which in Khmer means Hill of Poisonous Trees.
Purely out of habit, I had brought my camera with me to Tuol Sleng, but I didn't once feel like using it. Out of the estimated 17,000 people who came through S21, only about 7 are thought to have survived. The Khmer Rouge meticulously documented every prisoner - they were photographed, and forced to provide a full biography of their lives, and then tortured to confess their "crimes". More often than not, their entire extended families would also be brought in for interrogation, and extermination. Most of the museum is given over to the photos of prisoners. I managed to pass the pictures of the adults without feeling much of anything, but when I came to the section on children, some of whom weren't old enough to hold themselves upright to be photographed, I found it hard to breathe.
I moved quickly through the classrooms. Most of the them still have the beds and shackles that were used during interrogations. Some of them still have blackboards on the walls, and in one there's a faded mural for the Boy Scouts of Cambodia, and next to it, the photo of a mutilated corpse.
The place still looks like a school, and the sounds of children playing in the new schoolyard next door is rather disconcerting. Outside at the back, some men were playing bowls, and just like the laughing family at the Killing Fields, I wondered how they'd learned to deal with the horror of it all.
I left S21 in a hurry, and not just because I had a bus to catch. I'd seen enough. 4月24日 Angkor What?After a few days in Phnom Penh, our motley crew broke-up a little, as everyone went their own way. I, along with John, his Swedish girlfriend Emma, and her friend Madeleine, were travelling together to see Angkor Wat. We arrived at the bus station 30 minutes before we were due to depart, but were informed that the a/c on the bus was broken, and we wouldn't be leaving for another 2 hours. This was clearly a lie. For one thing, they had stored our luggage in the bus hold, but no one was working on the its "broken a/c". For another, the only people waiting for the 10.30 a.m. departure were us and a few other tourists. Clearly, they were waiting until 12 p.m. to send a full bus. Now, I no longer mind delays, unless I'm trying to make an important connection. What I do mind is being lied to. If they'd said they weren't sending a half-empty bus, we would've had to accept that. As it was, we had to not only accept the delay, but their lies too. It's very annoying. As it happened, when the bust did leave (full), it made good time, and was about the only bus I've been on so far this trip (outside of the Singapore Snoozer) that actually arrived on schedule.
Siem Riep is the largest town nearest to Angkor Wat, and the temple is about the only reason you'd want to be there. It has a large central market, but as it was still New Year's, it was closed. At night, the main downtown strip, called Bar Street, is closed to traffic, and it's pleasant strowling along, listening to the various kinds of music, from the bars and the street performers, while you choose somewhere to eat. The food was good everywhere that we ate in Siem Riep, and we even found one place that combines good culinary skills with a charitable business practice. The Blue Pumpkin takes people off the streets and trains them to work in the service industry. The profit from the delicous food goes a long way to providing for the poor in the neighbourhood. (Actually, SE Asia is full of these types of places, and most seem to be run by ex-pat French chefs, but they can be hard to find, and are rarely well-advertised. I suppose they can't be spending all the income on publicity, but surely the government should play their part to make these places more accesible to the tourists?)
We wanted to be in Angkor Wat for sunrise, so we hired a driver to collect us around 5 a.m. We were almost the first group to arrive at the temple and we had a hard time finding our way inside - it was pitch black! It wasn't long before the hordes arrived, chattering like demented flamingos, and it was amusing to watch them all jostle for the best photographic position - few people seemed to watch the sunrise with their own two eyes, most did it via a lens.
The sunrise itself was rather disappointing because the sky was so cloudy, so we quickly made our way into the temple proper. Two hours passed by quickly as I wandered from room to ruin, finding carvings and writings on almost every surface, and even hidden in the most unlikely nooks and crannies. If you are able, you can make the vertical climb up the worn stone steps to the upper rooms of the temple. The view is very good - trees behind you, and in front of you the rest of the temple, with monkeys racing to and fro along the rooves.
The next temple we visited was the Bayon. It contains about 54 statues, each with a number (mostly 4) of faces carved into their sides. At first glance the faces all appear the same, and indeed debate rages as to whom it is they represent, but upon closer inspection there are subtle, and not-so-subtle differences, and some have stood the test of time and the elements better than others. The place was positively swarming with Koreans, all of whom demonstrated the frustrating habit of taking individual pictures of themselves in front of the same statue. This can go on forever if you let it. I discovered that a few words in Korean were enough to distract them for the time it took for me to fire off a few shots!
After the Bayon we were thoroughly exhausted, and it wasn't yet 11 a.m. We retired to a cafe to eat, but I almost fell asleep at the table. The owner came over, and took me by the hand - almost like her own child - and led me to the back of the cafe, where there were hammocks hung-up for the family to use. I gratefully collapsed into one, and was soon joined by my companions. We spend the hottest part of the afternoon resting here, and after some fruit and coffee for lunch, set off for the last temple.
Ta Prohm is almost as famous as Angkor Wat, but for different reasons: it was here that parts of the movie Tomb Raider were set. I haven't seen the film myself, but it's easy to understand why this place was chosen as a location. The whole place is being reclaimed by the jungle. Huge trees are creeping in, and their massive roots are clealy breaking down through the walls and arches. Efforts are being made to support the remaining ruins, but it's evident that the trees are winning this fight.
Miraculously, the place was all but deserted when we were there - the Koreans mustn't have seen Tomb Raider either - and we had it all to ourselves for hours. The best thing about this temple is crawling between tree roots and over branches to find the hidden faces of the Buddhas carved into the stone.
The sun was starting to set, so we made our way to a hilltop temple to have a look. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, so did about 1000 other people. Some were even climbing the hill on the backs on tired-looking elephants. The same clouds that had obscured the sunrise were blocking the sunset, so we gave up and left early to beat the hordes down the hill. About halfway down, the sun burst through the clouds, and we stood and watched it sink into the horizon for over 15 minutes.
Angkor Wat was wonderful, but also exhausting. There's a lot to take in, and even a week later I found myself looking back over the photos (which I'm unable to upload at this point!) and marvelling at the beauty of the complex. 4月23日 Phnom Penh - can you pronounce that?Just no one can decide on what to called Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City?), so too is there much confusion over the capital of Cambodia. I've heard it pronounced Fa-nom Pen, Pa-nom Pen, and just nom Pen. This much is certain, however you say it to a Cambodian, they'll be sure to know where you're talking about; and however you say it to another foreigner, they'll be certain to correct your pronunciation. After our long and arduous bus journey from Saigon, I woke up feeling rather rough, with a bad cold coming on. We moved from the hotel to the Happy Hostel, near the lake. Happy, in Camglish, means you can buy drugs from every employee, and most of the other guests too. The hostel was packed with pot-heads, air-heads, Dead-Heads, and dickheads. I spent my first day there lying on a sofa, watching movies, reading my book (G.K Chesterton's Father Brown stories), and eating amok - the national curry dish. The others had gone to the Killing Fields, but I was in no mood for that.
Waking up on my second day in PP, I felt much better, and more able to tackle the Killing Fields. Unfortunately, it was still New Year (we never actually figured out what day was New Year's Day, but the whole holiday seemed to go on forever), and that meant a number of things. First of all, tuktuk and moto drivers wanted more than the normal fare for taking you anywhere. On the way to the Killing Fields, my moto was stopped three times by gangs of youngsters demanding money. The penalty for not paying was getting splashed with water, then smeared with talcum powder. The driver readily handed over fistfuls of sweaty cash, but I was no mood for such perfumed extortion, and they must have known, for they didn't ask twice, and didn't punish my failure to comply.
The Killing Fields site was not was I expected. For one thing, there was a New Year's party taking place right next to the grounds, so the sounds of music drifted across the Fields, and you could actually see people dancing. Also, there were lots of other tourists there, all of whom seemed to have a lot to say to each other about nothing, so it was hard to concentrate. Again, the place was full of kids who would come up to you and sing the Cambodian version of "I know a song that'll get on your nerves, get on your nerves, get on your nerves", and then offer to stop if you pay them some money. Now I know I'm basically a millionaire in comparison to these barefoot wretches, but I don't think the Killing Fields is the sort of place where this nonsense should be allowed to take place. They weren't so much begging as bothering you until you bribed them to shut-up.
The centrepiece of the exhibit is a huge stupa containing shelf-upon-shelf of skulls. On a number of them you can clearly see the method by which they died. A Cambodian man and his two children were there too, and I don't know what he said to them, or they to him, but they were all laughing quietly. The man was old enough to have lived at least part of his life under the Khmer Rouge, and I'd love to know what he told his kids about the skulls, or what it was that made them laugh, or how they all dealt with the horror.
I wanted to go to the Tuol Sleng museum, but it was closed by the time I got there, and I realised I'd have to spend another day in PP later in the month in order to see the museum.
That evening we all attended a concert near the Wat Phnom - the main temple in PP. The concert was really more of a play, which was very hard to follow, even for the Cambodian girl that was now part of our group (thanks to one of the English Lotharios). We all sat on a canvas mat, eating noodles and drinking beer, just watching the crowd. One of the locals came over and gave our group a bag of cockroaches to eat. I used to think I'd try anything once, but now I'm not so sure. I certainly couldn't bring myself to try roasted roach, and the few brave (foolish) souls who did instantly regretted it. A little half-naked boy was hovering near our group, and he asked the Cambodian girl if he could have something to drink. She gave him a beer, which he proceed to down in one. Now, he couldn't have been more than 7 or 8. Picture a 7 year-old child. Now picture a 7 year-old Asian child. Now picture a 7 year-old Asian child from a country with no stable economy and hardly any food. Can you imagine how small he was? That made his ability to handle the beer all the more impressive, and a little scary. He sat with us, burped a lot, and gobbled up the noodles that the more responsible among us bought him to soak up all the suds he'd been downing.
The next day we were leaving PP for Siem Riep, the largest town near the Angkor Wat. I wasn't as taken with Phnom Penh as I had been with Saigon, or even Hanoi. It didn't help that I was there for another New Year - my third New Year this year! I was, however, very excited about Angkor Wat. Good morning Vietnam, Goodnight CambodiaThe road from Saigon to Phnom Penh is well-travelled, and you are spoiled for choice of travel agencies to use to get from place to the other. I decided I wanted to combine my travel between the two capitals with a trip along the mighty Mekong. For one thing, I wanted to see that part of the country, for the Mekong plays (and has always played) an important role in the lives of the people of Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos. Also, I didn't fancy a direct, but long, bus journey, and though it would be good to break-up the travel over a few days, and travel by boat a little too.
Among other things, the Mekong tours promise visits to floating markets, floating villages, fish camps, and even ethnic settlements. They promise a lot, but really deliver a little. After you've experienced the busy, lively, well-stocked street markets of places like Hanoi and Saigon, you are expecting something similiar in the floating markets. You'll be sorely mistaken. On both mornings during my trip, the floating market consisted of nothing more than two or three boats, with locals trading pineapples and coconuts. As much as I like pineapples and coconuts, outside of a glass with rum they're really not that exciting, and the locals weren't all that lively about bartering.
The same could be said for the floating villages. Indeed, it is interesting to see that there are lots of people living on boats and other floating domiciles along the river, but you don't get anywhere near the houses to actually see what their life is like. And from the looks you get from the locals I imagine it must get a little tiresome having boatload after boatload of foreigners pass-by, taking photos of them. We stopped for a while at a fish camp, and learned a little about the local trade in fish. I'm sure you can imagine how interested we all were. The best thing about that was the little girl who lived in the camp. She couldn't have been more than 3 years old, but she kept sneaking around, lifting little handfuls of food and tossing it into the camp, so that the thousands of fish therein would scramble like mad to get something to eat. The mother kept scolding her, in a half-hearted fashion, while the little girl just giggled at the fish.
I had been teamed up in a room with a German guy called Bene. On the second day our bus was combined with another busload of travellers, and we continued the rest of the journey together. Among the group were Irish, Danish, English, Swedish, Germans, and Australians. Arriving at the Vietnamese border, we quickly passed through mmigration, and into a little patch of no-man's-land. There we had to wait for a boat to take us up to the Cambodian side. As it turned out, the driver of our boat had apparently lost the keys, and we were left to wait, between countries, not really exising anywhere on a map, for over 3 hours, in the sun, with nothing to do but buy beer after beer from the eager kids running around making a fortune. It's times like this that you start to feel you're being scammed a little, but there's nothing for it but to relax, and drink. Eventually the boat arrived, we made it through Cambodian immigration, and onto our last bus which was to take us up to Phnom Penh.
Unfortunately for us, it was New Year's in Cambodia. That meant every Cambodian on Earth was trying to get to Phnom Penh, and they all seemed to be travelling via the road from Saigon. The road from Saigon, one of the most important and well-travelled in the country, is nothing more than a dirt track. Imagine driving along a beach (it was a sand-strip), in rush-hour, in an overcrowded bus, with no a/c, and you'll have an idea of what it was like. On numerous occasions we simply had to stop, because cars and trucks in front of us had become stuck in the sand. Most of the locals got out to walk the 40 kilometres to the end of the road, where they would be picked up by the bus again. Bus after bus drove by us, with 30 or more people inside, and almost as many on the roof. It was madness. We eventually arrived in Phnom Penh (only 7 hours late). Of course by that stage you're so tired and worn-out that you've little option but to choose to stay in the hotel that they drop you at. We decided we'd stay there for one night, and five of us got a room together. We went for dinner, drank a lot of the cheap and delicious Angkor Beer, and hit the sack feeling much better.
Easter Sunday in SaigonAs Mass wasn't until 4p.m. on Easter Sunday, I decided to spread my religious wings a little and visit the Temple of the Jade Emperor. Consulting my map, I saw that getting there would involve a pleasant walk along the Saigon River, and shouldn't take more than 25 minutes. I should learn not to take maps for granted.
As it turned out, the road didn't really wind along the river, but rather veered off to left, putting the crazy Saigon traffic between me and river. About an hour after I had set out, I was still no nearer to the Temple. I did pass the Majestic Hotel, which gets a number of mentions in The Quiet American; but apart from that, there was nothing of interest at that end of town. After I crossed a bridge over a rather dirty tributary of the Saigon, I realised I had definitely gone too far, and decided to turn back. Along the way, I met two tourists from Hong Kong. They too were baffled by the same map that I had been using, but with the security provided by our increased numbers, we chose to take one of the side streets off the main road, and see if we would have any more luck. Of course, the Temple was located no more that 50 metres from where we had been standing, but with no signs to guide us, and a useless map leading us astray, it was pure luck that we found it.
After that long walk, and realising I couldn't spend more than a few minutes there before making my way to Mass, the Temple didn't impress me all that much. It was crowded with all manner of statues - Buddhas, kings, horses, birds, swordsmen. women carrying babies - and there were a lot of people worshipping at the various shrines, lighting insense sticks and bowing three times, so I felt as if I were intruding on their prayer time. I made a quick exit, and set-off for Notre Dame Cathedral.
For Mass at Christmas in Hanoi you are advised to be at the cathedral at least 6 hours in advance, just to get in the door. I was rather worried that something similar would be happening when I got the cathedral for Easter Mass, but I needn't have worried. Not only did I get in, but I also found a seat towards the back. Although I couldn't understand a word of the service, it was still very peaceful inside the church, and I was glad that I had made it in time. All religions, and none; sitting in the deck-chair to HellAlthough I had heard of it, had in fact seen a video of one of its services, it wasn't until I had read Graham Greene's The Quiet American that I remembered that the Cao Dao Temple was just outside Saigon. At the travel agency they offered a combined trip to the Temple, and then to some of the tunnels of the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
Cao Dao is a mixture of a number of relgions - chiefly Buddhism, but also Christianity, and Confuscianism. The Holy See at Tay Ninh recognises only a few saints, through whom the religion received messages from God - among them is the author Victor Hugo. The Holy See is an assault on the senses from the very beginning. Huge, ornate, garish, and gaudy - the temple provides a colourful clash of all its religious components, and with God represented by the ever-present All-Seeing Eye, the effect is quite startling. It's as if you're looking at an alien-made collage of some of Earth's main religions, and yet it's not alien: followers of Caodaoism are said to number between 2 and 3 million in Vietnam alone.
You enter the temple barefoot, and must proceed to the upper gallery to view the service. Only those actually taking part are allowed to enter the main body of the church. The air is thick with insense, and at the back a choir sings (or should I say "moans"?) continuously. At noon the priests and other worshippers enter in neatly formed lines, proceeding through the temple to kneel in place. The service goes on for at least 30 minutes, by which time most of the tourists have drifted outside again. The singing continues unabated, and while it's obvious that those down below are praying, nothing else about the service is clear. The building is interesting in itself, but the service is rather monotonous.
After the temple we make our way to the Cu Chi tunnels - part of the infamous Ho Chi Minh Trail, that played such an important role in the defeat of the US during the Vietnam War.
Before we tour the tunnels, we are subjected to a propaganda film from 1967, detailing the lives of the people of Cu Chi, and their efforts to build and maintain the vast network of tunnels. Though it would be hard to defend the actions of the US during the war, it's also quite difficult to sit through this tripe, and listen to the innocent-sounding voice of the young female narrator relate how many medals she won for killing or maiming a certain number of "American devils". I doubt they realised that many of those "devils" were fighting in war they neither understood now desired; then I think of the attitudes of some people when I was growing up towards the British soldiers on our streets, most of whom were fighting in a war they neither desired nor understood, and it puts a different view on things.
Later we were afforded the opportunity to crawl through a section of tunnel. It was only 60 metres long, and yet my legs and back were still aching 2 days later from the effort. If you believe what they tell you, that 16,000 VC fighters lived and operated out this network, it's not hard to see why they won - any army that can mount a war from such a tight, cramped space will prove almost impossible to defeat.
After the tunnels, and before we make our way home, they show us the workings of some of their man-traps - utterly vicious in their operation of course, and the pride with which they are demonstrated is a little sick. One in particular stands out in my mind, because it should have stuck out like a sore thumb in the jungle. It was a simple deck-chair, but of course when you sat it in it would immediately collapse upon itself, pulling you onto long spikes set underground. Personally, I think any soldier foolish enough to sit in a deck-chair, in the jungle, in the middle of a guerilla war, deserves to be caught, and I have to wonder if they ever actually caught someone with it, or if perhaps it's just on display to add a bit of black humour to the end of the tour... 4月10日 War! Huh! What is it good for?The next morning I leapt out of bed, conscious of the fact that my free breakfast offer expired at 10 a.m. After a delicious baguette, and some over-sweet coffee (they almost always use condensed milk if you order white coffee), I checked-out of the hotel and moved into the dorm.
Consulting my map, I discovered that the huge, 50s-style structure I had seen on my way to Notre Dame was the Reunification Palace, formerly the Independance Palace, and seat of the South Vietnamese government prior to the fall of Saigon in April 1975. On my way there, I was accosted over a dozen times by cyclo drivers, hash dealers, postcard vendors, and souvenir sellers.
The Palace is set in some beautiful grounds, with a large manicured lawn, a working water fountain, and some peaceful forest walks. The surroundings are somewhat upset however by the presence of models of the tanks that burst through the gates of the palace, when the North Vietnamese troops overtook Saigon.
Inside, traditionally dressed tour guides lead you from room to room, telling you the history of each, its former occupants and their fate, and for what it is used now. What struck me about the place was the furniture - it all looked so uncomfortable, perfect in fact for a palace, but completely unpractical for the seat of government (no pun intended!). Furthermore, the Vice-President's rooms looked much nicer than the President's, and the First Lady's even nicer still. Perhaps they did their own decorating. Perhaps with the imminent collapse of their capitalist system seat cushions were the last things on their minds. The best thing about the place was the cinema on the 3rd floor, for just outside was a landing pad, whereon sat a helicopter, ready to evacuate the government at a moment's notice. How could you possibly relax and enjoy a movie with that reminder of your (ever increasingly) precarious position within view?
At the end end of the tour you can watch a short video retelling the history of the Palace, upto and including its fall. Surprisingly, the tone of the video wasn't as harsh as I had expected, with only a few mentions of the "American Imperialists".
A short walk from the Reunification Palace stands the War Remnants Museum, also known as the War Crimes Museum. The grounds are filled with captured American jets, tanks, bulldozers and other military machinery, but the presence of so many souvenir stands, including one selling Pepsi and Dr Pepper under the wings or a fighter jet, somewhat takes the edge off.
What we refer to as the Vietnam War, the Vietnamese call the American War. Throughout the museum you are encouraged to ponder why the Americans became involved in a conflict so far from home. And it will be pointed to you often that there were no Vietnamese soldiers fighting on US soil. You can't help but think that they have a point. Furthermore, you could easily exchange the word Vietnam for Iraq, (as indeed, did some other tourists that day) such are the apparent similarities between what you see in the museum, and what you'll hear in the news today.
Most interestingly (and perhaps uniquely?) a large proportion of the museum is given over to displays of the work of the many foreign reporters and photographers who covered the war on the "bayonet border" of the world, many of whom were killed in the conflict, some of whom simply disappeared after running into the Viet Cong, or the Khmer Rouge.
The last exhibit that you pass through, that I in fact hurried through, deals with the effect of Agent Orange, used to wipe out large swathes of trees and bushes in an attempt to reduce the natural cover used by the VC, but which in fact only destroyed the ecology of Vietnam, and lives of so many Vietnamese people. Soldiers too, from America, Australia, and even Korea, all suffered the effects of this crude chemical warfare, and the museum lets them have their say.
I'd had more than enough history for one day, so I made my way back to Mini-hotel Alley to rest. I had discovered that, apart from the bars, wherein you're expected to drink copious amounts of something or other, and where you are blasted with loud tunes, there aren't really any places you can go to just relax in Saigon. Sure, there's plenty to do, but what do you do if you don't want to do anything? Good morning Vietnam?The government calls it Ho Chi Minh City. The people call it Saigon. The departures board read HCMH. My luggage label said SGN. The confusion over the name of this city, Vietnam's largest, reflects the general chaos on its streets.
At the airport arrivals hall, I bought a ticket for a taxi into the city centre, and was escorted by a beautiful Vietnamese girl, dressed in the traditional long silk robe, split along the leg to show silk trousers, to my cab. Despite having told them exactly where I wanted to go, and having a printed receipt for same, the driver doggedly tried to convince me to let him take me to a hotel that he knew. I had to constantly insist that he drive me to my stated destination. Once there, he had the nerve to ask for a tip. I wished I knew enough of their language to explain to the guy (and people like him) that tourists are unlikely to tip if you don't do you job, or if you try to scam them, rip them off, hassle them, or otherwise put them in a bad mood 5 minutes after they've arrived in the country.
The area around Mini-hotel Alley, as that moniker might suggest, is a labrynth of places of stay (and eat, and drink, and buy souvenirs). In one way, you're spoiled for choice. But if, like me, you're trying to travel on a budget, even the host of places charging only $10 or $15 per night will seem excessive. It was only shortly after 9 a.m. but it was already over 30 degrees and the sky was cloudless. I quickly gave up my bargain search and settled on a nice hotel. For $14 I had a double en-suite, with air-conditioning, satellite TV, a fridge, and breakfast included! Settling onto my bed, I flicked around for the Australian Network, found Home & Away, and decided to rest for a few hours.
In the afternoon I set off to find cheaper (yes, cheaper!) accomodation, an Internet cafe, and some lunch. I quickly found a $3 dorm (you can see now how $14 might be too high?), but reliable Internet access proved a challenge. Twice I got through to my (increasingly irritated) mother - I could hear her, but she couldn't hear me. Eventually I got through, and we talked for quite a while - Skype rules!
It was only after I had tucked into my Vietnamese beef curry that I remembered it was Good Friday, and I finished quickly in order to find my way to Notre Dame Cathedral. The church was packed when I got there, with a whole host of people listening to the service on their motos outside. I did managed to get in and stand at the back though, and although I couldn't understand the words they were singing, it was still rather haunting. The building itself provided some much-needed peaceful relief from the noise of the city.
That evening, something very strange happened. As I sat at the bar of the Allez Boo, drinking a banana milkshake, I noticed that all the staff were smiling at me. Not smiling at me in a general Vietnamese way, but rather as if they knew me. Then a waitress came over to talk to me, to talk to me as if she knew me. After a few minutes of this she said, in almost perfect English "I waved at you from bus the other day, Joshua, you see me?" "Eh, I'm not Joshua. And I've only been in Saigon for one day". She looked at me the way you would look at someone who was telling you that they weren't the person you knew them to be. Of course, it was nearly impossible for me to convince her of my true identity now, especially after I'd been smiling back at the staff, and chatting to her beforehand. Eventually, I had to show her some ID, because she was getting rather annoyed. That seemed to settle her, more or less. Now I'm left wondering who is this Joshua, that looks so like me? (Or is it that I look like him?) 4月9日 You know what really grinds my gears?You know what really grinds my gears about travelling through an airport? Well, a few things actually, so here goes.
First of all, the security checks. I'm not talking about the ridiculous measures to which we are all now subjected in the name of prevention of terror, or whatever (although they are ridiculous), I'm talking about the way people get on at the security checks. You know what I'm talking about: the line is so long that the authorities have opened more scanners, and put out more rope lines to keep the multitude in some semblance of order. You've been standing in line for nearly an hour, and just when it's almost your turn to pass through, you notice that the guy in front is holding up the lines at the scanner, because it's only now that he's decided to take off his jacket, empty his pockets of loose change, cell phones, laptops, lighters, and water bottles. Seriously pal, you've been standing in line for 45 minutes, couldn't you have done this then?
Then there are the people who stand in the aisle of the plane to load or unload the overhead locker. All the while, there are other passengers waiting to get past. Instead of standing into the seat and doing it (a little more awkward I grant you, but a lot more thoughtful), they stand there deciding if they want to read their John Grisham, or do some Sudoku. Move out of the way, a-hole!
And lastly, the shorter people who request the exit row seats, affording them some wasted extra legroom, while those of us above average height are crammed into steerage. Actually, that's not my only complaint about exit-row dwellers. You should know that having the exit row (with that glorious extra inch or so) carries with it extra responsibility - you can't have bags under your seats; you can't have the window shade down (true of any seat during take-off or landing); you can't be an idiot (in fact you can, but you shouldn't be. If we need to get out in a hurry, I don't want to wait while you decide if you should save your John Grisham, or your book of Sudoku puzzles).
And switch-off your damn phone - we're about to depart! 4月8日 What's so special about the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region?For as long as I could remember, I'd always wanted to go to Hong Kong. It's hard to explain why; perhaps it had something to do with James Bond, or some other pop culture association. In any case, once I had arrived, I began to wonder exactly what I was doing there. I was a aware that my melancholy had more than a little to do with leaving Rose, and also something to do with the awful weather too. But more than that, I couldn't think of a single thing I wanted to do there. Nor had I a map or book to guide me!
I congratulated myself on getting out of the subway system at the place I needed to be. The network itself isn't all that complicated, but each station has numerous exits, all with letters and numbers assigned to them, and the maps contradicted what I'd been told at the information desk. Finding my way to Mirador Mansion, where most of the hostels are located, I was quite taken by surprise. Rose had told me what to expect, but this place almost defies description. 15 floors of shops, stalls, businesses, apartments, cats, tailors, locals, and tourists, all trying to either buy something, sell something, or find somewhere to sleep. The building has 4 elevators, but in the entire time that I was there, only 2 were working at any one time. For this reason, I had been advised to stay in the hostel on the Third Floor. After checking in and collapsing on my bed, I fell asleep. An hour or so later I woke up freezing - the window was open onto a grey afternoon, and the overhead fan was on. Putting on shoes and socks (something I had hoped I wouldn't have to do until I got back to Ireland), I went out to see what I could see. It was pouring rain, so I bought an umbrella and walked around. Stopping for lunch at a steamy restaurant, I realised I was the only Westerner in the place. I spent an hour picking chicken bones from my lunch, and sipping the bitterest tea I'd ever had in my life. Downcast, like the weather, I bought the paper and went home.
Reading the English language papers in a place like Honk Kong always proves interesting. They're usually full of letters from, or articles written by (or intended to be read by) the ex-pat community. It seems they mostly complain about things which I had already noticed in that short afternoon stroll - the annoying (and illegal) street hawkers selling everything from postcards to fake Rolex watches; and the increasig amount of trash on the streets. Of paramount concern is the alleged corruption in the goverment. The paper was also running a feature on the 10-year anniversary of the handover, with the general feeling (among the ex-pats at least) that, although things weren't as bad as some had feared, they were certainly worse off now than they had been before 1997. (I realise some will find it hard to believe that a place could be better off under British rule!). Later I took another walk, but all I seemed to find was shopping mall after shopping mall. I went home to bed, praying that the weather (and my mood, and Hong Kong) would have improved by morning.
I woke up feeling less than refreshed - my room mates had kept the fan on all night, so I was freezing. Luckily, they'd already checked out, so I thought I might have the place to myself. I rode the subway to Admiralty, simple because it sounded familiar. Outside, the first thing I noticed were all the skyscrapers - banks, hotels, companies I'd never heard of, they all had their own tower of power. Seeing signs for the Hong Kong Park, I meandered in that direction, hoping for a little peace and quiet.
The park has an extensive range of trees, plants, bushes, and flowers, all labelled in English, Latin, and Chinese, but that didn't interest me in the slightest. There's a quiet little section dedicated to the victims of SARS. Therein are a number of bronze busts of various people, some doctors, but there's nothing to explain who they are or why they were singled out from all the others. Of course, there's a huge plaque explaining who the architect was, and the sculptor, and the members of the local Rotary that paid for the memorial, but very little about the people who should be remembered.
The park also has a huge aviary, with a long and winding walkway. I spent a happy hour there, listening to the birds sing, ducking my head each time they flew too low, and watching a pair of Red Dorys feed each other it. With no one else around, it was wonderful. After a late lunch in one of the banking buildings, I went home. That evening, I took a walk through the back streets of Kowloon, and marvelled that so many places could all sell the same things and still stay in business.
Back at the hostel, I discovered I was sharing my room with two German girls - Wera and Lisa. Thankfully we were all in agreement about leaving the fan off overnight! Over some chai tea, they convinced me to get up early with them the next morning to go see some tai chi (I'm not making any of that up, by the way!). In the end, we didn't make it to the tai chi, and not because we slept in. Upon waking, we found bugs in our beds, pajamas, and luggage. Clearing all our stuff out, the manager told us he'd have a clean room for us that evening.
Making our way to Hong Kong proper, we felt that we deserved a proper breakfast, and so treated ourselves at a fancy bistro. Feeling better, we took a walk along the Harbour to look at the skyline. It isn't all that impressive during the day, and certainly not when the weather is bad, so we went to the Hong Kong Zoological and Botanical Gardens instead. This was much more enjoyable than the park - partly because I had some company with whom to share the experience, but also because among the flowres, with their English, Latin, and Chinese names, were some of the coolest animals I'd ever seen. And, unlike other places like Korea and Indonesia, this park was clean, bright, well-mainted (with an army of staff working away), and the animals all looked well cared for.
One thing you must do in Hong Kong is climb the Peak for a look at the city. The climb takes 2 hours on foot, so instead we rode the tram. The view was good, if a little misty, but it was too cold to stay out on the platform for long. Of course, most of the Peak centre is concerned with shopping or eating - they even have a branch of the Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. Before heading home Wera and I stopped off at the huge Bird Market, and I realised that if I ever lived in Hong Kong, my apartment would be full of exotic feathered creatures!
On my last evening in Hong Kong, I walked down to the pier for a look at the skyline at night. The best thing about it is that all the buildings belong to companies (most you've heard of, in fact chances are you'll be taking a photo of said skyline with a camera made by one of the companies you're shooting), each with their own name, logo, and colour schemes, so the skyline, and the waterway, are awash with different colours. On a whim, I decided to ride the ferry across to Hong Kong, and as I bought my ticket, the bell started to ring to signal the departing ferry. Dodging the closing barrier, I had the thrilling experience of hopping onto a moving gangplank, as the ferry pulled out into the channel.
I made it to the airport more than two hours before my flight was due to depart, but, it being Holy Thursday and a national holiday in Hong Kong, the airport was already crowded with tourist, escaping locals, and even kindergarden kids on a field trip. By the time I had checked-in, all the good seats were gone, and I was told to proceed immediately to immigration and security. It took me so long to pass through those two barriers, that I didn't have enough time to stop for anything to eat. On board the plane, by the time the stewardess got to me, all she had left was a measly chicken sandwich. At first she refused to accept Hong Kong dollars, but when I started to kick-up a stink, and when other people joined in (they were still waiting to be served, and were hungry too!), she relented.
I was glad to have visited Hong Kong, but also glad to leave. 4月7日 Not so much Singapore Slings as Singapore SinghsFor an idea of how Singapore is made up, you need only look at the names of stops along its fast, efficient, and extensive Mass Rapid Transit system: Boon Keng - Farrer Park - Little India - Dhoby Ghaut - Clarke Quay - Chinatown - and those were just the stops around where we were staying! Singapore's population is similar to that of the Republic of Ireland, but it's about 100 times smaller, so it feels busy and crowded all the time. Busy and crowded, but not intimidating - it's all very clean and organised. The population is about 77% Chinese, 13% Indigenous Malay Singaporeans, 8% Indians, and the rest are a various mix of Europeans, Eurasians, and Arabs. All these people seem to co-exist peacefully, but I rather think that has more to do with Singapore's infamously stringent laws than any secret formula the inhabitants have for living happily with everyone else! Anyway, it has the make-up of a big city, but the charm of a small town.
We had been advised to look for accomodation in Little India, and this turned out to be good advice. Besides the wide and varied range of places to stay - popular dorms, low-to-high end hotels, brand new hostels - it's a great place to base yourself. Little India buzzes with life, the streets are full of bars, restaurants, stores and market stalls. There are always people around: Indians of course - the men, smiling in the doorways of their businesses, the women walking in their saris; young Chinese fashionably dressed; Muslims in their robes; and tourists like us. The hostel we wanted was so full that they even had a waiting list! After checking out a few of the shabbier establishments, we settled on the Fragrance Hostel. I say "settled" because the Fragrance was more like a hotel than a hostel - it was slightly more expensive that its competitors, and it didn't offer breakfast or use of the Internet like everywhere else. On the other hand, it was brand new, sparkling clean, and very safe.
Singapore is supposed to be all about shoppping, and a walk down the Orchard Road - its main shopping thoroughfare - will prove this. Every shop you'd ever need or want, and a whole lot you'll never have heard of, is here. The neighbourhood is thronged day and night with people of all ages and races, with something in common - they're fashionably dressed and they're spending like mad. Everyone carries a shopping bag. There's something about the Orchard Road that put us in mind of London - I can't exactly plain why. Perhaps it was the big cosmopolitan city feel mixed with the British history, perhaps it was the diverse mix of people, doing different things, calling this one place home.
Happily, (for me at least!), Singapore isn't all about shopping. A walk downtoan near the old cricket pavillion will give a general idea of Singapore's colonial past - former British government offices are now Singaporean ones, or else they've been converted into galleries, theatres, and museums. Chief among these is the Asian Civilisations Museum. Housing a vast collection of art, documents, and other antiquities, the museum goes into a detailed and interesting hostory of Asia, and the various Asians and Europeans that helped make Singapore what it is today. You could easily spend a day just in here.
On our last day Rose and I went to Sentosa, a tourist island off the south coast. You can get to Sentosa by various methods: walk or drive across the bridge, take the ferry, ride the monorail, or even by cable car. We opted for the monorail, which dropped us at the foot (or perhaps I should say "tail") of the Merlion statue. The Merlion acts as a symbol for Singapore, and it's a strange one at that. A cross between a Lion (the head) and a Mermaid (the tail), it's supposed to represent the reliance on (and importance of ) the sea for the people of Singapore. You can climb into the Merlion for a view of the city from its mouth. The only building of note is the Carlsberg revolving Sky Tower. Of more interest to me was the busy dock, with the vast cargo ships coming and going. Sentosa has a mall (naturally) the roof of which has been used as a sort of playground for kids. It also has some lovely parks and gardens, so it was full of familes that day. I fear that plans to build a casino here will somewhat change the atmosphere for the worse; but then again, perhaps not, perhaps those Singaporean laws will kick-in and keep the place peaceful for all.
I was very sad to leave Singapore, and not just because it's a great place to pass a few days. In saying goodbye to Singapore, I was saying goodbye to Rose for another few months, and all the Singapore Slings and retail therapy in the world couldn't do anything to ease that pain. 4月5日 Beers to you, Birthday-Face!I just tried to call Jodi, to wish her a Happy Birthday, and to tell her to go birthday herself. She must've known it was me, because there was no answer. So, I'm just going to have to do it here:
Happy Birthday Jodi!
Go Birthday Yourself!
 In all seriousness though, Happy Birthday Captain Turbotastic. You're a pal, and I wish I was in Platinum this weekend to buy you a beer - it's on me when I come back. 4月3日 PhotosI've uploaded a few photos to the latest entries. I'm afraid it's not always possible to do it when I write the entries - I can't always get to a decent computer. Enjoy. The 21.30 "Snoozer" to SingaporeYou know how when you board an airplane, you sometimes have to pass through First Class before you get to your seat in steerage? I usually spend the time during that short, but seemingly endless walk thinking of the fastest, easiest, legal ways to earn enough money to be able to travel like that all the time. Well, travelling by luxury coach in Malaysia is like travelling in the First Class section of an airplane.
Having regaled me with tales of buses that leave on time and arrive on schedule (a novel concept after Indonesia), of fully reclining seats and comfortable overnight journeys, the girls knew that there was no question about how we were going to travel down the Malay Peninsula and into Singapore: we were riding the Super VIP Express, also known as the "Snoozer".
Even though they'd told me what to expect, we were still like kids at Christmas when we got on the bus. There are only 18 seats in total, so you can imagine how much space you have. Diving right into our little cocoons of comfort, we disovered that the seats reclined almost flat back (electronically too), and that there was a moving footrest as well. Furthermore, we each had our own TV screen and control pad, with a selection of movies to watch, and games to play. I watched Hoodwinked, a Shrek-esque retelling of Little Red Riding Hood, that was rather funny. I also tried to watch the recent movie version of The Dukes of Hazzard, but it was so unlike the TV show that I gave up in disgust. After that I settled in for a good night's sleep.
Immigration was a breeze. My guy was clearly was more eager to get back to his Dan Brown novel than asking me if I was smuggling in any seditious materials, or chewing gum. He even stamped my passport where I asked him to (I'm down to 3 blank pages, and I need at least two for visas this month...)
Driving along the Harbour Front Road, it's easy to believe that Singapore is the second-busiest port in the world. Cargo containers, stacked 20 high and stretching as far as the eye can see, sit in tightly organised rows along the dock. The sun was rising as we arrived, and it bounced off the many shiny skyscrapers that line the horizon, welcoming us into the Lion City. 4月1日 Living it up in LangkawiRealising we had about a week to kill in Malaysia, and not wanting to spend it in Penang, Rose and I decided to go to the island of Langkawi. Jodi had spent Christmas here and was so enamoured with the place that she intends to go back after Korea. Unfortunately, the hostel she recommended was full, so we were forced to take another (expensive) taxi back into town to look for somewhere to stay. Our second taxi driver was useless - the first place he took us to was full (admittedly, that wasn't his fault), and the other places he showed us were dumps. We paid him, and decided to find somewhere by ourselves. This proved a mistake, for no sooner had we walked a block with our bags than the heat got to us and we had to stop at a cafe to drink something. I left Rose and I went to look for a hotel. Stopping into the Bayview, the town's grandest and most expensive hotel, I discovered that roomrate was about 8 times what we were used to paying in hostels, but much less than half what you'd pay for a similar hotel back home. It didn't take much deliberation for us to decide to splash out and spoil ourselves at the Bayview. We looked slightly out of place, tired, sweaty, and carrying huge dusty backpacks, while checking in. The room was huge, and everything, from the TV and A/C, to the lights and door, was controlled from a bedside remote.
Langkawi is a dutyfree island, which means you can get all the huge Toblerones and bottles of Bombay Sapphire Gin that you want; but trying to get a bottle of orange juice or a newspaper proves difficult. Luckily, a buffet breakfast was included in the roomrate, and by the time you get back from your morning swim on the rooftop pool, Housekeeping has been in to tidy-up and leave a copy of the English-language paper for you.
On our second day we inquired at the front desk about car rental. As it turned out, the guy working there that morning had a friend who rented cars (How convenient), for about half what the hotel itself charged. 30 minutes later, we had a new sedan delivered to the front door, and we were off to explore the island. We wanted to hit the beach for a while, but it was too hot, so instead we headed to the cable car. The cable car is truly magnificient, rising at times almost in a vertical line up the mountain, and providing spectacular views of the island. At the summit, you are among the clouds, which provide a welcome relief from the heat down below. Leaving the car park, we paused to watch a huge iguana cross the road; and a little further on, I had to stop while a troop of monkeys made there way into the horse stables, in search of food.
On the way back to town, we stopped at a reflexology place for a foot massage. Actually, I wasn't going to bother, but one look at Rose's face when she had her feet in the hotel tub was enough to convince. I spent a glorious 40 minutes, giggling to myself, and making the reflexologist giggle too, while she worked my tired feet.
Leaving Langkawi, it's hard not to take advantage of the duty-free. Boarding the ferry, we clutched in our hands a large Toblerone. No gin though. "Luxury" bus to Lake Toba, and the problems associated with escaping from Indonesia...Lala had taken it upon himself to arrange our transport to Lake Toba, some 13 hours away by bus. He assured us that the bus was a "luxury" coach, complete with reclining seats and an onboard toilet. What he didn't tell us, what we really should've known, what that the bus would run on Indonesian time, with Indonesian passengers, and that our reclining seats would be beside the toilet. If we had thought that our mini-van journey to Bukit Tinggi was bad, we were in for something worse altogether.
Besides the fact that most of the leering locals seated around us smoked like chimneys for most of the journey (despite, or perhaps in spite of, our frequent requests that they stop), the bus stopped all the time, for long periods of time, with no explanation given. At one rest-stop, when everyone except the driver and I got off to eat, I realised things were about to get a lot worse when he started searching the radio stations for music. Each station was worse than the last, and as the back speaker was located above our heads, I realised I had to do something. With no one around to see, I got up, and tore the wires out of the speaker system. The rest of the journey passed by quietly, if smokily, and no one seemed to notice.
We eventually made it to Lake Toba, 7 hours late, and, after some tea, made our way by ferry across to the island where we were staying.
Lake Toba is a very beautiful place, and it would seem that a lot of foreigners fall in love with it (and the local women), and decide to stay on indefinitely. Like BT however, it was deathly quiet while we were there, and our lakeside hotel, with its numerous well-appointed chalets, was all but empty. We took a tour of the island, visiting shrines, tombs and even an old Batik village, where locals performed a number of dance routines, much to the amusement of the (stereotypical but none the less true) camera-wielding Japanese tourists that were there at the time. Despite the heat, one of the highlights of the tour is a visit to the hot springs. Located in the crater of a volcano, Lake Toba plays hosts to a number of natural springs, where you can spend a few sweaty, but really not uncomfortable, minutes.
Leaving Lake Toba, we took another mini-van to the east coast. This 5-hour journey wasn't half as bad as any other we had taken in Sumatra, and it arrived more or less on time. However, instead of dropping off us when he drove up our road, the driver let every other passenger out first, even making a run to the airport, before letting us get off last. No sooner had we got out of the bus, than we were approached by the usual crowd of leering local men, all swarming around the girls, and asking silly questions. It was disgusting. One of these insisted on going with us while we checked some hotels. He even sat outside waiting for us while we had lunch, no doubt hoping for a commission from whatever place we chose. After checking into the best of a bad bunch, we let him take us to the ferry ticket office. It was closed. He then insisted we go to a nearby hotel, where the ticket vendor was having lunch. What followed turned out to be a rather badly executed, but no doubt frequently successful, scam.
At the hotel the office worker told us that the office was closed for the day, and because the next day was Sunday, it wouldn't be open then either. There was no Monday sailing to Malaysia. She couldn't issue us a ticket, but if we gave her the money, she give us a receipt, which we could use to board the bus to the harbour the next morning, and we could collect our tickets from there. We could pay the face-value ticket-price in Malaysian Ringgit, or pay a hugely inflated price in Indonesian Rupiah. At this point, Rose stormed off, and I was left to tell them what a lousy operation they were running. We decided to make our own way to the harbour town the next morning, and buy our tickets directly from the ferry company. Of course, our taxi driver tried to rip us off at the toll bridges (he didn't get it); and, the guys working the gate into the docks tried to charge us 3 times the entrance fees (they didn't get it); and, the guy working the ticket counter at the harbour also charged an inflated price for the ferry, but by that stage we were so desperate to get out of Indonesia that we paid it.
I wouldn't recommend anyone to go to Indonesia, and I'll never go back. With the exception of Bucharest, I 've never been more glad to leave a place. But that's a whole other story. |
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