I arrived in Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon), which is the country's largest city and the main hub in the South of Vietnam. Saigon was the first city to be renamed after formal reunification in 1976.
Ho Chi Minh was the founder of the Vietnamese Communist Party and president of the country for 23 years, before his death in 1969. He is affectionately known as 'Uncle Ho' and his avuncular features beam at you from all manner of places; statues, paintings, wall clocks, calendars, temperature guages, you name it.
Ho Chi Minh City is quite a shock for the first time visitor. The roads are a seething mass of two-wheeled transportation heading in all directions and carrying up to 5 people or perhaps just 4 and a wardrobe. There seem to be no obvious traffic rules or regulations except to avoid collisions, of which there are remarkably few. The city has an incredible energy that can only emanate from the millions of people struggling to survive each day.
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A cyclo ride is the best way to see the city; cyclos are three-wheeled pedal-powered rickshaws which the city is trying to erradicate, believing them to cause more congestion than mopeds. They are often piloted by ex-South Vietnamese soldiers who were stripped of their citizenship and sent to 're-education camps' after the 'American war' (as it is known). Many were doctors, teachers or journalists who were forbidden to return to their jobs or own a property and are technically illegal immigrants.
You might imagine a cyclo ride to be a leisurely and relaxed affair, however it is more like an amalgamation of fairground rides; rollercoaster, ghost train and waltzer, without safety measures and with real traffic. Just as you are certain to become the thin filling in a motorbike sandwich the driver drops his shoulder, you clench your buttocks, and as if by osmosis you both appear intact on the other side.
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Many of the road users wear face masks covering all but their eyes which adds a certain menace to the chaos. I first assumed they acted as a barrier to pollution, however they are also worn in the fresh air of the highlands and they prevent the wearer from tanning; paler skin is more desirable, in contrast to the West; it seems you always want what you haven't got.
I didn't find Ho Chi Minh City to be that polluted, certainly not compared to cities such as Kathmandu where one's only chance of survival is to bite off chunks of smog and try to extract the oxygen through rapid mastication.
Vietnamese is a difficult language to get to grips with, not so much the grammar (so I hear) but the pronunciation. Additionally, one word can have several meanings depending on the pronunciation; 'ma', for instance, can mean 'mother', 'ghost', or 'funeral'; however, to achieve the correct intonation and therby obviate offence I would need to trap my fingers in a car door.
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After only a day I headed off to Nha Trang to celebrate New Year. Nha Trang is the beach party capital of Vietnam but is also the country's seedy underbelly, exhibiting the spreading malaise of Western tourism in Asia. New Year was fun but I was relieved to leave Nha Trang and see the real Vietnam.
Luckily my wish was granted. I headed to Dalat in the central highlands where I signed up for a six day motorbike tour with 'Easy Riders'. These are independent bikers who take you completely off the beaten track and we followed the Ho Chi Minh Trail 1000kms through the central highlands. This was the last place in Vietnam to open up to tourists, doing so in 1986 after years of insurrections by the indigenous tribespeople. Six of us set off on our adventure; our three guides (Long, Ba and Tan), myself and a lovely couple from Scotland, Aaron and Mags. I could write reams on our adventures as we had the most fantastic time. It was such a privilege to travel through areas that seldom encounter tourists and to receive the most gracious and genuine hospitality.
One highlight was gatecrashing a wedding in a small village 10kms from the Cambodian border. We entered the makeshift marquee expecting to be eyed suspiciously but instead were greeted with the most enthusiastic welcome imaginable. We were pulled left and right as guests fought to have us at their table. 100 handshakes, a dozen embraces and at least a couple of sloppy kisses later (from one particularly fervent old man) and we were seated beside the bride and groom!
Our glasses were filled with beer and our plates with food (it was 10:30am and we were still digesting breakfast and nursing a rice wine hangover). The salute went up: 'Do!' (Cheers!). We took a sip, smiled, and looked up, only to see the rest of the table staring at us through the bottom of empty glasses. 30 minutes of speed drinking ensued and we were well on the way. Aaron was sporting a fine collection of fingernail marks on his wrists and his cheeks glistened with saliva, Mags was peering out through a tangle of arms and I was grinning inanely. Our guides explained that our hosts wanted us to sing them a song. At this point I should say that the guests consisted of children, older relatives and community leaders, the younger guests arrive later in the afternoon when the party really gets going!
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After a quick discussion it was decided that I wouldn't spoil the mood with my warblings and Mags and Aaron gave a rousing rendition of 'Flower of Scotland'. Our guides told the audience that the song concerned flowers and the children spontaneously ran outside to gather some which they then presented to the singers. The true meaning, driving the English out, was fortunately concealed.
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That afternoon we visited an orphanage; the children were so pleased to see us that I couldn't help but question the need to produce more children when there are so many that need love and homes. Obviously I later rationalised that it would be unacceptably selfish of me not to bestow another round of my genes on the world, but it is a thought that remains. Some of the children were abandoned because of innocuous deformaties such as cleft palates and one little girl was rescued from being buried with her mother who died during childbirth.
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The trip continued in a similar vein visiting simple hilltribe communities battling to maintain their subsistence lifestyles and traditions in the face of rampant development. Many still live in the forest, but others, with government encouragement, have moved to basic villages. The government provides free television sets to hilltribe communities (those with electricity) in the hope that this will educate them. It was interesting to note that communities without televisions were a hive of activity with children playing amongst a background of conversation and music (played on unique bamboo contraptions), whilst those being educated stared listlessly at a flickering rectangle in the corner of a room.
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The motorbike trip was also a culinary odyssey; wild venison, boar, fresh rice-paper pancakes, fondues, hotpots and a liquor made from rice wine and fermented bovine testicles. Most homes we entered had a micro-brewery producing rice wine, which appeared to be mainly for personal consumption, and we would invariably be offered a glass no matter how early in the morning.
Rice wine is an integral part of life in Vietnam and the rallying cry "Mot-Ba-Hai-Do!" (1-2-3-Cheers!) which heralds each new round is a familiar participant in the night chorus.
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For the last day and a half it poured with rain and we were provided with an assortment of lurid plastic sheeting. I have a fixed memory of us trudging around a remote hilltribe community dressed in purple, pink and green plastic, with crash helmets on, peering unexpectedly into people's homes. Aaron being a 6'7" second row forward must have made it all the more alarming for the occupants.
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We were greeted by beaming smiles and waving arms wherever we went which was a wonderful feeling and re-awakened my regal pretentions. It's a testament to the spirit of the Vietnamese people that they are so welcoming to all Westerners; the war only ended in 1975, which is living memory for a lot of people.
Before the war began 85% of the central highlands was covered by jungle, as a result of nepalm and agriculture that figure is now only 15%. When an area is sprayed with nepalm no crops can be grown safely for the next 25 years, however the villagers don't know how many times each area was sprayed and consequently only grow poor quality shallow-rooted crops to avoid the potential store of poison.
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Our final stop was a picturesque coastal town called Hoi An. Hoi An and its impressive French colonial architecture survived the war intact; so much so that it almost feels like a film-set and consequently the tour groups are out in force.
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While in Hoi An I signed up for a cooking course, which was interesting not least because I was battling with my first bout of colonic commotion; by the time we arrived at the warm squid and pineapple salad I was on first name terms with my sphincter muscles.
I was due to head up North but the weather reports were not good (with limited visibility for the spectacular views) so I contacted my Easy Rider guide, Long, and we headed off for an 8 day motorbike adventure, this time covering the South central highlands and down to the Mekong Delta.
The South central highlands probably has the most beautiful scenery I'd seen in Vietnam, with jungle clad hills stretching to the horizon. We stopped at a local beauty spot and I set off to take some photographs of the waterfall. Within a few minutes I was invited to join a group of boys picnicing. Out came the rice wine, off came the clothes and the next hour was spent dancing around in a natural shower (that sounds terrible if taken the wrong way so please don't!).
We headed off to the coast and the impressive red sand dunes of Mui Ne. Within an hour we had travelled from thick jungle through scrubland to red sand dunes and white sandy beaches.
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The journey South followed the Ho Chi Minh Trail which at times resembled little more than a series of pot holes connected by strips of gravel. At one point a group of road construction workers insisted we joined them for, yes, rice wine. This rice wine was particularly unpleasant, in stark contrast to the warmth of the hosts. The manufacture of rice wine is vaguely similar in a way to olive oil where the first pressing is the finest and the quality deteriorates thereafter. The final extractions are used as rice vinegar and not for drinking, except by hardy construction workers it seems. A large bamboo pipe was produced, lit, and offered enthusiastically in my direction. Moments later I was a spluttering mess having scarified every bronchiole in my lungs. I stared through tears at the warm rice vinegar and only antidote to the irritation. The state of the roads was no longer a mystery.
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We passed by groups of men who live in makeshift camps for months on end and spend their days breaking up large granite boulders with a hammer and chisel. Although it reminded me of my days at Cannon Hill Consulting I had to admire their fortitude and smiling faces.
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The Mekong Delta was formed by silt deposits from the great Mekong River which originates 4,500kms away in Tibet; the silt deposits continue to extend the delta by up to 80m per year. The soil is highly fertile and the landscape is a tapestry of orchards, paddy fields and pagodas. Due to persistent flooding, roads are not seen as ideal and a network of 1000s of canals enable locals to navigate their way around and tourists to get completely lost.
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We stopped to ask directions (even Long was lost, there's a bad pun lurking somewhere) and we were invited into a Khmer family home for tea, such is their hospitable nature. By the time we were ready to leave, the whole village had gathered around to see the strange pointy-nosed, wide-eyed, farmer-tanned visitor. We continued on through rural scenes of simple agrarian life that haven't changed for centuries.; hand-ploughs, wooden houses, motorbikes.
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The two bird sanctuaries we had planned to visit were both closed due to bird flu. Long was hugely apologetic and began deliberating over alternative options; I on the other hand was rigidly fixed on the chicken noodle soup we'd had for breakfast.
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I parted company with Long after another fascinating adventure and met up with Robert and Lisa, a young couple from Buffalo N.Y. with whom I'd spent a great Christmas in Borneo.
We took a boat around the floating markets and canals of Cantho in the centre of the Mekong Delta; stopping for lunch in the shade of an orchard, with pre-lunch massage and post-lunch hammock; I could get used to the laid-back delta life.
The delta is famous for its floating markets; market traders come to buy produce from wholesalers very early in the morning before returning to their neighborhoods to sell it on. The wholesalers announce their wares by hanging specimens of the vegetables and fruit from long bamboo poles, removing each item as it sells out.
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The following day Robert and I hired motorbikes to go in search of a Cao Dai temple 80kms away. The route involved ferry crossings and roads and bridges in various stages of construction, which in hindsight was probably a little ambitious.
The journey there was remarkably smooth, although I parted company with a significant portion of skin; an offering to the god of gravel roads.
Caodaism is a chimera (they favour fusion) of secular and religious philosophies including Buddhism, Confuscianism, Taoism, Vietnamese spiritualism, Christianity and Islam. It was created in 1926 as a supposed 'ideal' religion; a paradox if ever there was. I didn't delve too deeply into the scriptures, which mainly consist of messages communicated to leaders during seances, but if its interior decoration is anything to go by I'm sure it could be a little confusing.
Caodaism is indigenous to Vietnam where there are 3 million followers (from a population of 80 odd million). Due to his frequent appearances to Caodai mediums, Victor Hugo has been posthumously elevated to chief spirit and quasi-deity. I'm not sure what they dip their incense sticks in but they certainly have fun.
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After a brush with pigs intestine soup, iced coffee and highlights of Spurs v Arsenal, each increasingly more palatable, we set off for home. Meandering through beautiful stilt villages and along scenic canals, we exchanged plaudits and eulogies, blindly ignoring the fact that none of this bore any resemblance to the large highways and roadworks of our outward journey.
The path narrowed, the sky darkened, the petrol gauge dipped and the stilt bridges began to defy gravity.
Our inumerable attempts to pronounce 'Cantho', our destination and the largest city in the Mekong Delta, fell on deaf ears. The precise inflection required was evidently beyond us. After 4 weeks the only Vietnamese words I can pronounce with a moderate degree of success are: 'hello', 'thanks', 'beer' and 'cheers'; luckily those are the 4 pillars of any successful journey.
A few hours later we did manage to find our way home with the help of an exceptionally kind local resident. Incidentally the correct pronunciation of 'Cantho', as I later found out, can be achieved by catching your scrotum in your zipper (on the second syllable).
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The following day we enjoyed some excellent Vietnamese beer. Other than the bottled brands (Saigon, Bivina, Tiger) there is 'bia hoi' (draught beer) and 'bia tuoi' (fresh beer). The latter is unpasteurised and lasts less than a day (a good excuse to have beer for breakfast). I had my cheapest glass (1/2 ltr) at a whopping 3 pence, if you're willing to stretch to 6 pence the quality would rival any good pilsner.
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My last day in vietnam was spent climbing Sam mountain near the Cambodian border. There are a swaying mass of hammocks to greet you at the summit from where you can watch the sunset over Cambodia. The serene experience was somewhat compromised by the man next to me skinning and beheading a large pile of rats.
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Vietnam has provided a rich cultural experience; although lacking the spectacular thrills of Borneo it has been a fascinating journey (new cliches urgently required and gratefully received).
Tomorrow I take a boat across the border to Cambodia as I move inexorably towards China and the looming spectre of an honest days work, until then, cheers!
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