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| The back streets of Abbotsford |
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Back At The Salt Mines
Work, work, work. I'm back at a company I worked for earlier in the year. Nothing much had changed, well, it has only been a few months, really and nothing changes that fast, no matter how much we may like to blame our stress on such things. In fact, the work that I did for them hadn't progressed since the last time I worked for them. I am, actually, taking up where I left off... kind of.
I’m not complaining, at least I know what I am doing straight up. It is just an observation. We all blab on about the wonderful technology and the amazing advancements, but in all reality, those things are as flawed as the humans that set them up and use them.
I managed to get through the morning without a cigarette, but at lunchtime I caved in. Oh well, after smoking on holidays it is two steps forward and one step back with the return quitting. I kind of hit the home ground with the best of intensions, stumble a few times, bounce, fall over and then I quit, if not before, by the weekend. It is like Little Toot and all that “I think I can,” stuff, not really knowing if I really can, and then I have.
Sam is not happy about my smoking, he punches me every time I light one up. So, a couple of days, as they say.
I ran into the HR director in the car park when I got there this morning and he said, "You know you are Mr Popularity around here, it wasn't so much the job as we all just wanted you back." So, you know, that was kind of nice... and I like them too, so it is, kind, of mutual.
I was told, later in the morning, that they will probably want me till the end of January. Yay. The end of January, I thought? Goodness me, all that work. Yay. Just be positive, Christian, that was my next thought. Oh yes it was. Yay. How many months is that? Fingers. One, two , three… I've got to be that glass half full man, you know. Wonderful! How many months is that until I can loll around the lounge room with Buddy pissing the time away? Six months. Six months shouldn’t kill me?
Last year, when I worked in Collins Street with Chuckles for five months it began to feel interminable in the end. But, I am sure, that was mostly because of Chuckles sparkling personality. Dour bitch.
Up at 7am, iron a shirt, prepare my lunch box (actually, my lovely boyfriend does that for me) get in the car, negotiate the morning traffic, arrive at 8.30, be smiley, be fun, work till 5pm, drive home, cook dinner (my lovely boyfriend does that for me too) clean up the kitchen, go to bed at a time that the schedule dictates. Repeat. For six months. Every day. Big smile. Be happy. Woo Hoo, fists punching the air.
And, you know, after all of my carry on, I know, work is, actually, beneficial. Oh yes, big sigh, it is true. It socialises you, it engages your mind, it takes you out of the house, and out of yourself and it is, actually, easier to work than to stress about having no money. I think it is far less damaging to one’s psyche. Work.
I’m not complaining, at least I know what I am doing straight up. It is just an observation. We all blab on about the wonderful technology and the amazing advancements, but in all reality, those things are as flawed as the humans that set them up and use them.
I managed to get through the morning without a cigarette, but at lunchtime I caved in. Oh well, after smoking on holidays it is two steps forward and one step back with the return quitting. I kind of hit the home ground with the best of intensions, stumble a few times, bounce, fall over and then I quit, if not before, by the weekend. It is like Little Toot and all that “I think I can,” stuff, not really knowing if I really can, and then I have.
Sam is not happy about my smoking, he punches me every time I light one up. So, a couple of days, as they say.
I ran into the HR director in the car park when I got there this morning and he said, "You know you are Mr Popularity around here, it wasn't so much the job as we all just wanted you back." So, you know, that was kind of nice... and I like them too, so it is, kind, of mutual.
I was told, later in the morning, that they will probably want me till the end of January. Yay. The end of January, I thought? Goodness me, all that work. Yay. Just be positive, Christian, that was my next thought. Oh yes it was. Yay. How many months is that? Fingers. One, two , three… I've got to be that glass half full man, you know. Wonderful! How many months is that until I can loll around the lounge room with Buddy pissing the time away? Six months. Six months shouldn’t kill me?
Last year, when I worked in Collins Street with Chuckles for five months it began to feel interminable in the end. But, I am sure, that was mostly because of Chuckles sparkling personality. Dour bitch.
Up at 7am, iron a shirt, prepare my lunch box (actually, my lovely boyfriend does that for me) get in the car, negotiate the morning traffic, arrive at 8.30, be smiley, be fun, work till 5pm, drive home, cook dinner (my lovely boyfriend does that for me too) clean up the kitchen, go to bed at a time that the schedule dictates. Repeat. For six months. Every day. Big smile. Be happy. Woo Hoo, fists punching the air.
And, you know, after all of my carry on, I know, work is, actually, beneficial. Oh yes, big sigh, it is true. It socialises you, it engages your mind, it takes you out of the house, and out of yourself and it is, actually, easier to work than to stress about having no money. I think it is far less damaging to one’s psyche. Work.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
House Repairs Disturbing the Peace
Sam went back to work today, lucky him. I had today to myself, or at least that is what I thought. A day just to settle and centre and lay on the couch with my hand gently stroking Buddy's back as he lay asleep next to me. Sounded grand.
However... Jill had organised carpet samples and she had organised the carpet measuring guys to be here at 11am. She sprung it on me yesterday.
She, of course, would be here at that time too. She had been looking after my lap-top. It is backed up on two hard drives wirelessly, but if the two hard drives and the laptop are in the same place? Not best practice.
"Have coffee ready," said Jill.
Of course, she is a woman who will be late to her own funeral. (she was late) "You look so well."
"Thanks. I think it is beginning to fade now."
She smiled.
I smiled.
“So, where is my laptop?”
“Oh,” said Jill. I could see her mentally recalibrating the truth, as she spoke it. “We’re going to my house after this for lunch…”
We are?
“…and then to the carpet place, you’ll pick it up on the way.”
“You forgot it?”
“No I didn’t.”
“But that is why you came over here.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Jill. “I came to see you.”
“I’d rather see my laptop.”
“Charming.”
“Well.” Shrug. She had kept an eye on my place during the holiday, I guess I had to be nice to her. “You with the laptop.”
“Really?”
Jill had the key to my place while we were away and she was itching to do the repairs that she has deemed necessary for the longest time, that she has been nagging me about for years. (Oh, it can't be years) But, I made her promise she wouldn't do anything unless I was here. So, the carpet samples were all laid out on the kitchen bench when we returned home from Vietnam.
Most of them were awful, but one.
Then, of course, we were off to the carpet place, Jill and I, to look at carpets. I was going to make excuses and get rid of her after the measuring guys had been, but, of course, that didn't work. She was gung-ho, I was, literally dragging my feet. Rolls of carpet are ginormous, now aren’t they? The man at Fowles was nice. $20 a metre instead of $110, if we are lucky. (something like that, anyway) I wasn’t too tired to listen to that fact. Lovely! Secretly, I am pleased, my carpet is, literally, threadbare at the entrance to my lounge room. No, really, it is non-existent, there is a great big hole where carpet used to be. It is time to open the purse and let the trapped butterflies escape. (Is that moths?)
Fortunately, Jill had a massage appointment at 3pm, which meant I could grab my laptop and scamper home and catch up on my blogging, which was what I really wanted to do with the day, not look at stupid carpets. It was 2pm as we left Fowels.
“Can we go and get my laptop now.”
“I don’t think I’ll have time…”
“Sure you will you have an hour.”
We were on The Princess Highway, just up the road from Jill’s, we just had to pop in and get my laptop on the way.
“I really need something to eat, though,” said Jill. “Before my massage.”
“Oh,” I said. “We can still do that.” I looked at my Nike band. I don’t think I was really convinced that we could.
“There is a hungry jacks just here,” said Jill. “Let’s go there.”
“Sure.”
She was able to pull off an astonishing traffic manoeuvre, across two lanes, to pull in quickly to the Hungry Jacks.
“What do you want?”
I just had what she was having, a chicken burger meal deal.
“We’d better pull over here (in the carpark) so you can eat your burger…”
“Why?”
“You can’t eat a burger as you drive along?”
“What?” said Jill. “You can when you have as much experience as I do.”
It was getting on to 2.20 something as we pulled back onto to The Princess Hwy, with Jill behind the wheel chomping at the chicken burger, taking out a quarter of it at the time. She had fries in one hand, the drink in another and the burger in another, or so it would seem.
We now, in all reality, didn’t have enough time to pick up my laptop as well. Boo Hoo. “Don’t worry about the laptop.” I was crushed. “I’ll get it another time.”
“Oh, okay. Now if we shoot down Warragul Road and onto City Link, that should be the quickest, shouldn’t it?”
“Yes.” All I wanted was my laptop, that’s all I wanted from the day, like your front teeth for Xmas, but somehow it wasn’t going to happen.
Still, I shouldn’t complain, I still have my small laptop, the MacAir, to write on. But, my 17 inch MacPro is the mother ship, it is what stores all of the data, with its dual hard drives and huge capacity… and I wanted it back, to transfer my photos across.
Still, I believe, there are boys who don’t have access to a laptop at all. How awful.
We ate porkbelly and bokchoi. The porkbelly wasn’t quite as sublime as normal, something about a lack of fish sauce, or oyster sauce, or something.
I start a new assignment tomorrow, full time for the rest of the year. I'm exhausted.
However... Jill had organised carpet samples and she had organised the carpet measuring guys to be here at 11am. She sprung it on me yesterday.
She, of course, would be here at that time too. She had been looking after my lap-top. It is backed up on two hard drives wirelessly, but if the two hard drives and the laptop are in the same place? Not best practice.
"Have coffee ready," said Jill.
Of course, she is a woman who will be late to her own funeral. (she was late) "You look so well."
"Thanks. I think it is beginning to fade now."
She smiled.
I smiled.
“So, where is my laptop?”
“Oh,” said Jill. I could see her mentally recalibrating the truth, as she spoke it. “We’re going to my house after this for lunch…”
We are?
“…and then to the carpet place, you’ll pick it up on the way.”
“You forgot it?”
“No I didn’t.”
“But that is why you came over here.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Jill. “I came to see you.”
“I’d rather see my laptop.”
“Charming.”
“Well.” Shrug. She had kept an eye on my place during the holiday, I guess I had to be nice to her. “You with the laptop.”
“Really?”
Jill had the key to my place while we were away and she was itching to do the repairs that she has deemed necessary for the longest time, that she has been nagging me about for years. (Oh, it can't be years) But, I made her promise she wouldn't do anything unless I was here. So, the carpet samples were all laid out on the kitchen bench when we returned home from Vietnam.
Most of them were awful, but one.
Then, of course, we were off to the carpet place, Jill and I, to look at carpets. I was going to make excuses and get rid of her after the measuring guys had been, but, of course, that didn't work. She was gung-ho, I was, literally dragging my feet. Rolls of carpet are ginormous, now aren’t they? The man at Fowles was nice. $20 a metre instead of $110, if we are lucky. (something like that, anyway) I wasn’t too tired to listen to that fact. Lovely! Secretly, I am pleased, my carpet is, literally, threadbare at the entrance to my lounge room. No, really, it is non-existent, there is a great big hole where carpet used to be. It is time to open the purse and let the trapped butterflies escape. (Is that moths?)
Fortunately, Jill had a massage appointment at 3pm, which meant I could grab my laptop and scamper home and catch up on my blogging, which was what I really wanted to do with the day, not look at stupid carpets. It was 2pm as we left Fowels.
“Can we go and get my laptop now.”
“I don’t think I’ll have time…”
“Sure you will you have an hour.”
We were on The Princess Highway, just up the road from Jill’s, we just had to pop in and get my laptop on the way.
“I really need something to eat, though,” said Jill. “Before my massage.”
“Oh,” I said. “We can still do that.” I looked at my Nike band. I don’t think I was really convinced that we could.
“There is a hungry jacks just here,” said Jill. “Let’s go there.”
“Sure.”
She was able to pull off an astonishing traffic manoeuvre, across two lanes, to pull in quickly to the Hungry Jacks.
“What do you want?”
I just had what she was having, a chicken burger meal deal.
“We’d better pull over here (in the carpark) so you can eat your burger…”
“Why?”
“You can’t eat a burger as you drive along?”
“What?” said Jill. “You can when you have as much experience as I do.”
It was getting on to 2.20 something as we pulled back onto to The Princess Hwy, with Jill behind the wheel chomping at the chicken burger, taking out a quarter of it at the time. She had fries in one hand, the drink in another and the burger in another, or so it would seem.
We now, in all reality, didn’t have enough time to pick up my laptop as well. Boo Hoo. “Don’t worry about the laptop.” I was crushed. “I’ll get it another time.”
“Oh, okay. Now if we shoot down Warragul Road and onto City Link, that should be the quickest, shouldn’t it?”
“Yes.” All I wanted was my laptop, that’s all I wanted from the day, like your front teeth for Xmas, but somehow it wasn’t going to happen.
Still, I shouldn’t complain, I still have my small laptop, the MacAir, to write on. But, my 17 inch MacPro is the mother ship, it is what stores all of the data, with its dual hard drives and huge capacity… and I wanted it back, to transfer my photos across.
Still, I believe, there are boys who don’t have access to a laptop at all. How awful.
We ate porkbelly and bokchoi. The porkbelly wasn’t quite as sublime as normal, something about a lack of fish sauce, or oyster sauce, or something.
I start a new assignment tomorrow, full time for the rest of the year. I'm exhausted.
Monday, August 12, 2013
Collecting Buddy
I was up at 8am. Oh yeah, got to love that after a thirteen hour flight and turning off the bedside lamp at 1.11am. But, you know, the old story... bing! Awake.
I still felt a little, oh how do I put it, hit in the head when I padded down the stairs to the kitchen. You know that jet lag feeling, there is the feeling of ringing in the ears and a thick head, without having either of those things. What would you call it? It's like having your brains pulled out of your head, stretched tight like elastic, hit with a timpani hammer and then relocated between your ears.
I don't know how else to put it.
The coffee was dangerously low, a little shocking upon first sighting. You know, considering my eyes weren't, exactly, focusing correctly and I couldn't immediately tell if there was enough, or not. Sharp inhale of breath. Pulled by the centre of my head to the pinnacle of the roof. Release, it's okay, we have enough beans.
I was talking on the phone to Jill at 9.30, when Sam was showered and standing at the lounge room door tapping his foot wanting to head to the country to collect Buddy.
That was a four hour round trip, up the Calder. It was cold, it was wet, the skies were grey and then they were black and then they were silver. The doors were nearly blown off the car when we stopped at the Calder Park servo to eat Maccas for breaky. You know, like you do on your days off. The wind swept across the flat planes and shot through the car park like a hurricane. It was that kind of wind where if you lay into it, it would hold you up. I love it, I am a wind baby. Not many people do, it freaks them out.
There was Kath, in her nylon stretch pants and her oversized cardigan, and Jude, with his post stylish crimson hair and his egg shaped figure, enjoying a lunch time treat of KFC at the local servo. Jude was commenting on the price of Macca’s macaroons.
“One macaroon,” her eyes widened, “two dollars.” Her eyebrows raised up and her forehead creased. “For one.” She waited Jude’s response and when it wasn’t forth coming. “Two dollars for one.” She was shaking her head. She left her mouth open like a guppy to, I assume, emphasise her point. She nodded and screwed up her lips. “Six for nine dollars.” She said the words carefully, as if, to make sure she said them correctly. She looked incredulous. She removed the plastic lid to her coffee and sipped at the rim of the cup hesitantly. She looked around the restaurant. She picked up a chicken nugget with her thumb and pointer finger, her remaining fingers raised in the air, and she nibbled at the breadcrumb covered meat.
It was sunny, but cool. Sam punched me on the arm as I lit a cigarette as we headed to the car. The wind moved the car across the freeway lane, as we headed around the Digger’s Rest bypass. The rain bounced across the road and the bonnet heavily, each drop bouncing and then splattering as they strummed the metal of the car.
Sam remembered the place I call “Canada,” the area where there are pine trees plantations. I was impressed.
There were huge puddles on the road, once we had turned off the freeway and were on the back roads. What are they? B roads?
Buddy stank like a sheep farm. He did his little bulldog dance when he saw us. Then he walked straight to the car, and where he usually waits at the car door sill to be lifted in, he climbed right in there, crawled his fat bull doggie arse up on to the back seat and sat looking straight ahead, as if to say, okay take me home.
Sam declared it an emergency shower situation and Buddy was bundled into the bathroom as soon as we got home. He looks adorable post shower wrapped up in a beach towel dripping wet.
The rest of the day was a blur.
I still felt a little, oh how do I put it, hit in the head when I padded down the stairs to the kitchen. You know that jet lag feeling, there is the feeling of ringing in the ears and a thick head, without having either of those things. What would you call it? It's like having your brains pulled out of your head, stretched tight like elastic, hit with a timpani hammer and then relocated between your ears.
I don't know how else to put it.
The coffee was dangerously low, a little shocking upon first sighting. You know, considering my eyes weren't, exactly, focusing correctly and I couldn't immediately tell if there was enough, or not. Sharp inhale of breath. Pulled by the centre of my head to the pinnacle of the roof. Release, it's okay, we have enough beans.
I was talking on the phone to Jill at 9.30, when Sam was showered and standing at the lounge room door tapping his foot wanting to head to the country to collect Buddy.
That was a four hour round trip, up the Calder. It was cold, it was wet, the skies were grey and then they were black and then they were silver. The doors were nearly blown off the car when we stopped at the Calder Park servo to eat Maccas for breaky. You know, like you do on your days off. The wind swept across the flat planes and shot through the car park like a hurricane. It was that kind of wind where if you lay into it, it would hold you up. I love it, I am a wind baby. Not many people do, it freaks them out.
There was Kath, in her nylon stretch pants and her oversized cardigan, and Jude, with his post stylish crimson hair and his egg shaped figure, enjoying a lunch time treat of KFC at the local servo. Jude was commenting on the price of Macca’s macaroons.
“One macaroon,” her eyes widened, “two dollars.” Her eyebrows raised up and her forehead creased. “For one.” She waited Jude’s response and when it wasn’t forth coming. “Two dollars for one.” She was shaking her head. She left her mouth open like a guppy to, I assume, emphasise her point. She nodded and screwed up her lips. “Six for nine dollars.” She said the words carefully, as if, to make sure she said them correctly. She looked incredulous. She removed the plastic lid to her coffee and sipped at the rim of the cup hesitantly. She looked around the restaurant. She picked up a chicken nugget with her thumb and pointer finger, her remaining fingers raised in the air, and she nibbled at the breadcrumb covered meat.
It was sunny, but cool. Sam punched me on the arm as I lit a cigarette as we headed to the car. The wind moved the car across the freeway lane, as we headed around the Digger’s Rest bypass. The rain bounced across the road and the bonnet heavily, each drop bouncing and then splattering as they strummed the metal of the car.
Sam remembered the place I call “Canada,” the area where there are pine trees plantations. I was impressed.
There were huge puddles on the road, once we had turned off the freeway and were on the back roads. What are they? B roads?
Buddy stank like a sheep farm. He did his little bulldog dance when he saw us. Then he walked straight to the car, and where he usually waits at the car door sill to be lifted in, he climbed right in there, crawled his fat bull doggie arse up on to the back seat and sat looking straight ahead, as if to say, okay take me home.
Sam declared it an emergency shower situation and Buddy was bundled into the bathroom as soon as we got home. He looks adorable post shower wrapped up in a beach towel dripping wet.
The rest of the day was a blur.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
 |
| I think, quite possibly, that is the saddest plane I have ever seen. The photo doesn't do it justice. It had no windows, the white was all dirty, the yellow looked as though it had been painted on with a brush and it had no decals at all. It looked like it should have been filled with cocaine and been flown out of Columbia under the cover of night. |
Heading Home
I woke at some stage and I was sure, hoping, as I felt quite awake, that it was some where near 5.30am, as I got up for a piss. I’d put my Nike band on to charge before I went to sleep, so I had to find in on the brown faux-Queen Anne dresser before I knew what time it, actually, was. 3.23am. Dam! I had a piss and got back into bed convinced I wasn’t going to go back to sleep easily, in the dim light of our Saigon sleeping cell, with its white walls, lack of window and cold granite tiled floors, but that turned out not to be true. Zzzzzzzzz. What I do best, after all.
There is a certain anxiety when you have to get up early, pick up everything, pack it up and catch a plane.
The next time my eyes opened and I glanced at my Nike band, now on my wrist, it was 5.29am. Lovely.
Yay. There is a certain relief when the hour arrives. There, it is done, no need to worry about it any longer. There is a completion, no matter how much you may not want to go home.
We had half an hour. I had a shower, which took five minutes. Sam had a shower, which took twenty five minutes. And then it was 6am. We were good to go, as Sam had packed everything he could before we went to sleep. I’d have offered to pack and even if he let me, which is doubtful, he’d only take over halfway through, a quarter of the way through, as I begun, with “No, no not that way,” or, sigh, “You are not doing it right,” or, “Here, let me do it.”
We hit the foyer at 6.03 and our booked taxi was already waiting out the front, in the still, only-quiet-early, Ho Chi Minh City morning light. Our driver hunched over the steering wheel, gazing upwards towards the foyer desk, strumming his fingers on the dashboard. I struggled out the door with the suitcase, as Sam hesitated at the desk while the receptionist headed up to our room to check the mini bar contents. Not one bellboy in sight. What was that about, I thought, as I struggled down the steps? Bump, bump, bump. The taxi driver didn’t rush to my aid either, what does a boy have to do, I thought? It was kind of unusual, I have to say, usually, they are hovering around you like seagulls trying to snatch hot chips from your paper plate, as they reach for any bag you may have in your possession.
The roads were clear, well, relatively, but still we drove slowly. A Lexus 4WD set the snails pace despite nothing in front of it. We crawled along behind it. “Come on Auntie. You drive Lexus. I could shit faster than this,” I said to Sam. He laughed. (There is a YouTube video, look it up)
All the streets were relatively empty, just a few hundred motor scooters in either lane whizzing somewhere, why did we have to drive so slow. Come on. Look at the watch. Go around him. Look at the watch.
We turned a corner, away from the Lexus. “Just one moment, so sorry,” said the driver, suddenly. We were stopping for petrol. What the? We had plenty of time really, but still the traveller angst spoke to me somewhere inside. The driver chatted to the petrol attendant as though he had all the time in the world. I noticed that he had a nice smile and he laughed easily. His eyes sparkled when his face beamed.
The morning then seemed free and easy and relaxed. A smile, shiny like the sun, makes the world spin easier. Always. Okay, maybe I’m shallow.
Ho Chi Minh City airport was surprisingly quiet. The sun was crisp.
We hadn’t checked in online, where usually we do and just do a bag drop, but this morning, the check in line was far shorter than the bag drop line. I guess, everybody is checking in online nowadays which now appeared to be defeating the purpose, lucky for us.
There was a girl in front of us with excess luggage. Of course. There’s always one. She had on boots, what looked like electric blue baggy sports shorts, a black singlet and a black hoodie. Her skin was a little too fake tanned and her black hair was a little too wavy, made so by some sort of hair appliance, no doubt. She was given the options by the check in girl and she just stood there trying to decide. Come on, today would be good, I thought. And she just stood there. She asked all the same questions and was given all the same answers and she just stood there again. Then she ask the same questions yet again and she was yet again given the same answers. And she just stood there. What do you think is going to happen, I thought? Was she waiting for some sort of divine travel intervention? Then we all stood there still and silent, until the check in girl suggested she move away to ponder her options. And yet she just stood. My mouth was forming into words, I was about to speak, when the check in girl again suggested she move away, with hand movements, as though she was directing traffic. And finally Miss Excess Baggage stepped away hesitatingly… and the travel world breathed a huge sigh of relief.
We ordered Pho and watched the planes take off and land. The Pho turned out to be four times as much as normal and, in fact, more expensive than the Pho we buy in Victoria Street back at home. We didn’t have enough Dong to pay for it. But they accepted all currencies, which was just as well considering the price. A complicated negotiation ensued where we used all of our Dong, three hundred thousand, and we used Australian dollars, 20 of them. We seemed to be handing over a fist full of dollars. Still, we were getting the food we wanted.
“How will you give the change, as we don’t really want Dong, as we are, obviously, leaving the country?”
“The change will be in American dollars.”
The soup was passed to us. The Vietnamese coffee was handed to us. And we were given one, crisp American dollar in change.
“One dollar?” I said to Sam.
He shrugged.
No idea, I thought.
We ate our food and gazed out of the window, gazing down at the shinny parked jets.
“You don’t see any Jumbos around much any more, do you?”
“No, I guess not,” said Sam. “Too old.”
And right at that moment, I kid you not, a bloody big pale blue Jumbo appeared stage left, exactly on queue. They are huge, they really are. It looked like a huge 1970’s American sedan, compared to the sleek 2000’s European sedans parked at the gates, as it trundled out to the runway.
The flight seemed to go quickly and we landed in KL. As we landed, there were hectares and hectares of some sort of crop.
“What is that,” I asked Sam. “Is that palm oil?”
“That is palm oil,” said Sam.
There they were, palm oil crops as far as the eye could see. No really, to the horizon. Still, I guess, as long as it isn’t taking away native habitats, it’s okay. Isn’t it? It is the orang-utans that is the point of contention and not the palm oil itself? It being unnecessary and bad for us, withstanding.
“We’re going to the shitty KL airport,” complained Sam. “The shit airport on the way over and now on the way back. Why not the good airport?”
“We’re only here for two hours, don’t worry.”
Grumble.
The plane landed on the tarmac and we climbed down the stairs onto the bitumen. There were covered walkways that wend their way to the buildings some where in the distance, passed a huge number of parked passenger jets, any number of them potentially being refuelled. And some idiot lit a cigarette. None of us said anything to him, we just grumbled. One of the ground staff yelled out to him from across the way, but our smoker just ignored him and the ground staff didn’t follow it up. I was amazed. I imagined an explosion and a a fireball at any moment... still, I could have told him to put it out, I guess.
Everybody walked like sheep, at the speed of the person in front, which, unfortunately, was slow. “Oh come on!” I hate slow walkers.
“Don’t make my ears bleed,” pleaded Sam. “Nobody else ever listens to you.”
“Well, um?” I could have been hurt, but I knew what he meant.
The barricades that penned us in, suddenly broke open on either side and we were able to over take the morons in front who couldn’t set their own pace in an empty paddock. They broke open several times at varying places and I was able to shoot ahead even leaving Sam behind. I shot in the door and headed up the stairs two steps at a time. I looked back once I’d got to the top to see Sam at the bottom giving me “that look” pointing at the door I had sprinted passed in my rush to be the first to the top of the stairs, just to prove my point. Sadly, I had gone the wrong way and then I had to come back down the stairs sheepishly with my tail between my legs. Boo hoo.
The smoking room at KL must be the worst. “Of course, it is the old airport,” Sam said. That look. No sympathy what so ever. I knew where it was from the trip over and I headed straight there.
We bought cakes, two custard buns and a piece of layer cake. The problem was that we were just short of cash, by 20 ringgit cents. A nice Aussie chick gave us 20c so we could buy the three cakes we wanted. Sam noted that the prices were back to normal, he was still cross about the soup. He had 50 ringgit… always organised. We'd already used it to buy two Nasi Lemak earlier.
I headed back to the smoking room, for one last gasper before the flight.
Then it was time to board. The skies had turned black beyond the terminal windows, we wondered if that meant for a bumpy take off? Or, at least, Sam predicted it was going to be a bumpy take off… but, it wasn’t.
We left right on time, 13.40 to the minute. Does that ever happen in Australia?
There were five planes in front of us on the tarmac, three Air Asia, a Jumbo cargo plane (yes, another one. I guess they are flown as cargo planes now a days) and one Malaysian Airline. I timed for the 1.25 (or whatever it is) minute time gap between each take off… which we got, I am happy to report.
And that is where I closed my laptop and laid my head back and closed my eyes.
Sam has a liking for telling me what time it was and how long we had to fly, despite me telling him that I don’t want to know the time, or look at the time when I am on a long flight. It amuses him. I am sure he thinks he is being funny. I just give him dirty looks and object for the umpteenth time.
I read my book for quite a while, but then they dimmed the lights, as if to annoy me.
The last two hours seemed interminable, not the least because of Sam’s annoying time keeping… and sharing.
We were exhausted when we climbed into the back of the Statesman taxi and directed the driver to where we wanted to go.
I turned off the bedside lamp at 1.11am.
There is a certain anxiety when you have to get up early, pick up everything, pack it up and catch a plane.
The next time my eyes opened and I glanced at my Nike band, now on my wrist, it was 5.29am. Lovely.
Yay. There is a certain relief when the hour arrives. There, it is done, no need to worry about it any longer. There is a completion, no matter how much you may not want to go home.
We had half an hour. I had a shower, which took five minutes. Sam had a shower, which took twenty five minutes. And then it was 6am. We were good to go, as Sam had packed everything he could before we went to sleep. I’d have offered to pack and even if he let me, which is doubtful, he’d only take over halfway through, a quarter of the way through, as I begun, with “No, no not that way,” or, sigh, “You are not doing it right,” or, “Here, let me do it.”
We hit the foyer at 6.03 and our booked taxi was already waiting out the front, in the still, only-quiet-early, Ho Chi Minh City morning light. Our driver hunched over the steering wheel, gazing upwards towards the foyer desk, strumming his fingers on the dashboard. I struggled out the door with the suitcase, as Sam hesitated at the desk while the receptionist headed up to our room to check the mini bar contents. Not one bellboy in sight. What was that about, I thought, as I struggled down the steps? Bump, bump, bump. The taxi driver didn’t rush to my aid either, what does a boy have to do, I thought? It was kind of unusual, I have to say, usually, they are hovering around you like seagulls trying to snatch hot chips from your paper plate, as they reach for any bag you may have in your possession.
The roads were clear, well, relatively, but still we drove slowly. A Lexus 4WD set the snails pace despite nothing in front of it. We crawled along behind it. “Come on Auntie. You drive Lexus. I could shit faster than this,” I said to Sam. He laughed. (There is a YouTube video, look it up)
All the streets were relatively empty, just a few hundred motor scooters in either lane whizzing somewhere, why did we have to drive so slow. Come on. Look at the watch. Go around him. Look at the watch.
We turned a corner, away from the Lexus. “Just one moment, so sorry,” said the driver, suddenly. We were stopping for petrol. What the? We had plenty of time really, but still the traveller angst spoke to me somewhere inside. The driver chatted to the petrol attendant as though he had all the time in the world. I noticed that he had a nice smile and he laughed easily. His eyes sparkled when his face beamed.
The morning then seemed free and easy and relaxed. A smile, shiny like the sun, makes the world spin easier. Always. Okay, maybe I’m shallow.
Ho Chi Minh City airport was surprisingly quiet. The sun was crisp.
We hadn’t checked in online, where usually we do and just do a bag drop, but this morning, the check in line was far shorter than the bag drop line. I guess, everybody is checking in online nowadays which now appeared to be defeating the purpose, lucky for us.
There was a girl in front of us with excess luggage. Of course. There’s always one. She had on boots, what looked like electric blue baggy sports shorts, a black singlet and a black hoodie. Her skin was a little too fake tanned and her black hair was a little too wavy, made so by some sort of hair appliance, no doubt. She was given the options by the check in girl and she just stood there trying to decide. Come on, today would be good, I thought. And she just stood there. She asked all the same questions and was given all the same answers and she just stood there again. Then she ask the same questions yet again and she was yet again given the same answers. And she just stood there. What do you think is going to happen, I thought? Was she waiting for some sort of divine travel intervention? Then we all stood there still and silent, until the check in girl suggested she move away to ponder her options. And yet she just stood. My mouth was forming into words, I was about to speak, when the check in girl again suggested she move away, with hand movements, as though she was directing traffic. And finally Miss Excess Baggage stepped away hesitatingly… and the travel world breathed a huge sigh of relief.
We ordered Pho and watched the planes take off and land. The Pho turned out to be four times as much as normal and, in fact, more expensive than the Pho we buy in Victoria Street back at home. We didn’t have enough Dong to pay for it. But they accepted all currencies, which was just as well considering the price. A complicated negotiation ensued where we used all of our Dong, three hundred thousand, and we used Australian dollars, 20 of them. We seemed to be handing over a fist full of dollars. Still, we were getting the food we wanted.
“How will you give the change, as we don’t really want Dong, as we are, obviously, leaving the country?”
“The change will be in American dollars.”
The soup was passed to us. The Vietnamese coffee was handed to us. And we were given one, crisp American dollar in change.
“One dollar?” I said to Sam.
He shrugged.
No idea, I thought.
We ate our food and gazed out of the window, gazing down at the shinny parked jets.
“You don’t see any Jumbos around much any more, do you?”
“No, I guess not,” said Sam. “Too old.”
And right at that moment, I kid you not, a bloody big pale blue Jumbo appeared stage left, exactly on queue. They are huge, they really are. It looked like a huge 1970’s American sedan, compared to the sleek 2000’s European sedans parked at the gates, as it trundled out to the runway.
The flight seemed to go quickly and we landed in KL. As we landed, there were hectares and hectares of some sort of crop.
“What is that,” I asked Sam. “Is that palm oil?”
“That is palm oil,” said Sam.
There they were, palm oil crops as far as the eye could see. No really, to the horizon. Still, I guess, as long as it isn’t taking away native habitats, it’s okay. Isn’t it? It is the orang-utans that is the point of contention and not the palm oil itself? It being unnecessary and bad for us, withstanding.
“We’re going to the shitty KL airport,” complained Sam. “The shit airport on the way over and now on the way back. Why not the good airport?”
“We’re only here for two hours, don’t worry.”
Grumble.
The plane landed on the tarmac and we climbed down the stairs onto the bitumen. There were covered walkways that wend their way to the buildings some where in the distance, passed a huge number of parked passenger jets, any number of them potentially being refuelled. And some idiot lit a cigarette. None of us said anything to him, we just grumbled. One of the ground staff yelled out to him from across the way, but our smoker just ignored him and the ground staff didn’t follow it up. I was amazed. I imagined an explosion and a a fireball at any moment... still, I could have told him to put it out, I guess.
Everybody walked like sheep, at the speed of the person in front, which, unfortunately, was slow. “Oh come on!” I hate slow walkers.
“Don’t make my ears bleed,” pleaded Sam. “Nobody else ever listens to you.”
“Well, um?” I could have been hurt, but I knew what he meant.
The barricades that penned us in, suddenly broke open on either side and we were able to over take the morons in front who couldn’t set their own pace in an empty paddock. They broke open several times at varying places and I was able to shoot ahead even leaving Sam behind. I shot in the door and headed up the stairs two steps at a time. I looked back once I’d got to the top to see Sam at the bottom giving me “that look” pointing at the door I had sprinted passed in my rush to be the first to the top of the stairs, just to prove my point. Sadly, I had gone the wrong way and then I had to come back down the stairs sheepishly with my tail between my legs. Boo hoo.
The smoking room at KL must be the worst. “Of course, it is the old airport,” Sam said. That look. No sympathy what so ever. I knew where it was from the trip over and I headed straight there.
We bought cakes, two custard buns and a piece of layer cake. The problem was that we were just short of cash, by 20 ringgit cents. A nice Aussie chick gave us 20c so we could buy the three cakes we wanted. Sam noted that the prices were back to normal, he was still cross about the soup. He had 50 ringgit… always organised. We'd already used it to buy two Nasi Lemak earlier.
I headed back to the smoking room, for one last gasper before the flight.
Then it was time to board. The skies had turned black beyond the terminal windows, we wondered if that meant for a bumpy take off? Or, at least, Sam predicted it was going to be a bumpy take off… but, it wasn’t.
We left right on time, 13.40 to the minute. Does that ever happen in Australia?
There were five planes in front of us on the tarmac, three Air Asia, a Jumbo cargo plane (yes, another one. I guess they are flown as cargo planes now a days) and one Malaysian Airline. I timed for the 1.25 (or whatever it is) minute time gap between each take off… which we got, I am happy to report.
And that is where I closed my laptop and laid my head back and closed my eyes.
Sam has a liking for telling me what time it was and how long we had to fly, despite me telling him that I don’t want to know the time, or look at the time when I am on a long flight. It amuses him. I am sure he thinks he is being funny. I just give him dirty looks and object for the umpteenth time.
I read my book for quite a while, but then they dimmed the lights, as if to annoy me.
The last two hours seemed interminable, not the least because of Sam’s annoying time keeping… and sharing.
We were exhausted when we climbed into the back of the Statesman taxi and directed the driver to where we wanted to go.
I turned off the bedside lamp at 1.11am.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
It's a New Day
I was awake at 5am. Well, I must have gone to sleep at 8pm, or some such ridiculous hour. I got my camera and went out into the street and had a smoke. I was surprised how quiet the city was. The streets were practically deserted. It all seemed so peaceful and still, it was quite a contrast.
A gorgeous boy pulled up on a motorbike and sat as though he was waiting for somebody. I tried to sneak a photo of him, making it look as though I was photographing the street, but he put his head down as I took the shot.
We ate breakfast at 6am. Buffet. The coffee was strong, that is, pretty much, all I care about. The fried noodles were good. The congee had salted egg and pickled vegetables. The fried eggs were cold. The strawberry jam very strong, but nice. I had three pieces of the fresh bread with it on. I saw one girl put strawberry jam on her eggs and bacon. What the fuck? The fried bread was fatty and tasteless, I am guessing, it was supposed to be French Toast. No. The spring rolls terrible, surprisingly, all things considered. The juice was fruit juice drink, which I quite liked, but Sam didn’t.
It was a new day, and this city deserved a new chance. We walked to the park and took photos of people. It was already heating up. It was a lovely park and I felt a little sad to be going home so soon, maybe I could have spent a few more days here. The Ho Chi Minhians were out doing their state suggested exercise. The older ones were, primarily, doing exercises on their own, while the younger ones tended to be playing ball games, or volleyball. There were quite a few doing Ti Chi, not surprisingly. The lush green parks were full of people. There was quite a “green” strip just a bit away from the hubbub.
I asked a table of older Vietnamese women if I could take their photo and they agreed and giggled like girls at someone wanting to photograph them. They were lovely. They waved as I took the shot. One of them asked me where I was from in quite fluent English? She said something about Australia being a good country.
I asked a teacher if I could take a photo of the children she was supervising, and she formed them into a line and told them to wave as I took the shot.
I do like taking photos of people. I, pretty much, always ask before I do and sometimes they say no, but mostly they say yes. If they say no, of course, I don’t take the shot.
We headed off to the Independence Palace, which was right near where we were yesterday and I am surprised how we didn’t see it.
We stopped and drank coffee on the street, on the way, in a café right on the side of the road. It was a kind of box affair, like a shipping container, with a serving bar and tables with high stools around them. I’m liking Vietnamese coffee with sweet milk and ice, who’d have thought, when usually I am a dedicated espresso drinker. All the motorbikes were lined up out the front, there even seemed to be a scooter valet parking them for the patrons. There were lots of young Vietnamese sitting in couples, or groups.
After our morning tea coffee, we proceeded around the corner to the Independence Palace. We had to force ourselves to go in, as it looked like 60’s architecture from the gate… and just another “monument” so to speak. It was a very low key palace, very stark and simple and understated. It looked as though it was a product of the 1950’s, 1960’s, which, I’m guessing, it was. It was kind of your faux palace, not really a palace at all, but just a big, communist style building with some nicely furnished rooms. It had nice dimensions, it had nice spaces, big and open. It had a sweeping foyer open to the gardens. It was used for official functions, and dignitaries, and I think I heard one of the guides say something about the president sleeping there. It had war rooms in the basement that were used as a command centre.
It was hot again. I was wearing a green polo shirt, which pretty soon ended up sweat stained all over my body. I was sick of being the Anglo with the sweat covered shirt. I was sick of being the white boy dripping with perspiration. I was sick of feeling slightly damp and slightly uncomfortable.
We went straight from the Palace to the Ben Thanh Market, and bought an over-sized singlet for me, to replace the then awful sweat stained polo. There was me standing shirtless in all the hubbub of Ben Thanh Market, trying on singlets. It was great, with Saigon emblazed across it, why didn’t I buy one sooner? I was lovely and cool in my new singlet, much more so than the body hugging polo I was wearing. I tried to buy lose cotton shirts in Hanoi but they didn’t have my size. The Vietnamese tend to be smaller than us. So, I guess I looked like a ridiculous tourist in my singlet, but I didn’t care, suddenly I felt free and relaxed.
We tried to find a Pho shop that was recommended by the hotel, but we couldn’t find it. We walked for some way in the heat, battling the traffic. Oh, the traffic. I rather fancy myself as a good driver able to drive in any conditions, but in Ho Chi Minh City, or Hanoi for that matter, I’m not so sure. It is amazing to watch, mesmerising almost. I stood at one of the large roundabouts, on Ly Tu Trong, that had six roads coming into it and just watched the sport, mouth agape. We never did find the Pho shop.
We returned to the hotel and posted on Facebook. What Sam loves best. Not! “Enough fucking Facebook already!”
“Oh I am just writing a bit…”
“Enough computer!”
Of course, the truth is, that he uses his phone, so he checks it whenever he likes. I can’t do the phone thing, call me old fashioned.
We hunted around for a massage place, but got too confused. So many varying prices, so many different packages, so many choices. Who can choose? We came back to the hotel and got a recommendation for Eva Spa.
Eva Spa wasn’t so far away, so we went and had massages.
We bought fruit from the supermarket on the way home. Durian, for Sam. Jack Fruit for me. And bananas, well, for health. The Durian stunk out the hotel room, so Sam took the leftovers down to the lobby and they disposed of it.
Anthony called on Skype. He has shut down his Facebook page as he couldn’t handle it, it caused him too much grief. I had been emailing him, but he just decided he wanted to have a face to face chat. I usually talk to him every day.
We headed out to the Pho restaurant, that the lady from the massage place recommended, for our last meal in Ho Chi Minh City. It seemed appropriate. Oh yes, we spent the afternoon having massages. I had a foot massage and Sam had something that involved hot rocks. Mine was great, very relaxing, until she, inexplicably, sat me up and beat me on the back at the end, rather unexpectedly, for a foot massage. Shrug? I could only assume that that was the signal to leave.
It was raining lightly as we headed out to dinner. Sam wanted umbrellas, I didn’t care that much. I cared less when the bellboy gave us two girlie umbrellas. Sam’s blue with a subtle pattern, a kind of deco siren pattern none the less, and mine, mauve with a very floral pattern. We looked as though we were walking down the street with parasols. We’d only have needed to slosh on a mud mask and we’d have been mistaken for Kabuki, I was sure… minus the wooden shoes, of course. I wondered what “you filthy poofters” might sound like yelled in Vietnamese from a passing scooter?
They didn’t speak any English at the Pho restaurant, so that always makes it interesting. There was chicken sitting out on a bench at the front door as we entered, which wasn’t a good welcome. Oh? I thought. Sam was undaunted, as we hadn’t had Pho yet in the time we’ve been in Vietnam, and it was our last night and we had a recommendation, after all. The owner’s son somewhat resembled Grace Jones and didn’t have one clue when we mimed a couple of questions about the condiments. Sam looked at me blankly as I started to sing, Pull up to the Bumper, which amused me.
Then, as we ate, the rain came down torrentially. The nice lady at the massage shop said it was the beginning of the wet season here and it lasted, more or less, till the end of the year, when I asked her if it rained every afternoon. I was glad we had the umbrellas, at that point, as I watched the raindrops ricocheting off the road like machine gun fire in the headlights of the heavy traffic.
Grandpa came in and ate Pho. He spoke Chinese to the other patrons. He loaded his Pho with more chilli and more garlic than any one has a right to, and still live. Unfortunately, I was looking directly at him when he regurgitated, both times, into a bowl as if he was feeding baby birds inside, the nests masquerading as bowls, pre-digested bean shoots, with a gag and a rasp.
We dodged the traffic in the heavy rain as we crossed the road after dinner, as we couldn’t wait for the rain to stop, as it didn’t look as though it was going to any time in the next twenty four hours. We headed to the supermarket to purchase our last litre bottle of water, you know, just in case we might need it between 8pm and 8am... you never can tell and there aren’t that many suitable alternatives. I’m sure a couple of the street food ladies, on their small plastic stools with their portable cookers, were laughing at me as I strolled passed with my violet parasol, but I didn’t care, as most everybody else looked as though they had been turned into spotted dicks, as the current trend for wet weather gear here seems to be transparent plastic with coloured spots, kind of like Twister condoms. The rain was still falling and every thing was dripping, as it steamed and, I’m sure, hissed. And I was dry.
We have to be up at 5.30am, as we are catching a plane at 8.30am, you’ve got to love those morning flights. Not even time to fit in the buffet breakfast. Sad face.
And now a baby is crying on the floor above our Saigon cell. Did I mention that we rather skimped on the hotel in Ho Chi Minh City, as we were only going to be here for two days and it was so confusing on the internet that we decided just to go for the cheapest, which never occurred to me would mean we’d get a room minus a window. Next visit we could afford to go up a star, I feel. Happy times.
Nana S is in bed, waking intermittently to berate me for still being awake. “Enough!” The noisy Chinese across the hall are being inexcusably loud, yet again. Gritted teeth.
It is 10.45pm.
We ate breakfast at 6am. Buffet. The coffee was strong, that is, pretty much, all I care about. The fried noodles were good. The congee had salted egg and pickled vegetables. The fried eggs were cold. The strawberry jam very strong, but nice. I had three pieces of the fresh bread with it on. I saw one girl put strawberry jam on her eggs and bacon. What the fuck? The fried bread was fatty and tasteless, I am guessing, it was supposed to be French Toast. No. The spring rolls terrible, surprisingly, all things considered. The juice was fruit juice drink, which I quite liked, but Sam didn’t.
It was a new day, and this city deserved a new chance. We walked to the park and took photos of people. It was already heating up. It was a lovely park and I felt a little sad to be going home so soon, maybe I could have spent a few more days here. The Ho Chi Minhians were out doing their state suggested exercise. The older ones were, primarily, doing exercises on their own, while the younger ones tended to be playing ball games, or volleyball. There were quite a few doing Ti Chi, not surprisingly. The lush green parks were full of people. There was quite a “green” strip just a bit away from the hubbub.
I asked a table of older Vietnamese women if I could take their photo and they agreed and giggled like girls at someone wanting to photograph them. They were lovely. They waved as I took the shot. One of them asked me where I was from in quite fluent English? She said something about Australia being a good country.
I asked a teacher if I could take a photo of the children she was supervising, and she formed them into a line and told them to wave as I took the shot.
I do like taking photos of people. I, pretty much, always ask before I do and sometimes they say no, but mostly they say yes. If they say no, of course, I don’t take the shot.
We headed off to the Independence Palace, which was right near where we were yesterday and I am surprised how we didn’t see it.
We stopped and drank coffee on the street, on the way, in a café right on the side of the road. It was a kind of box affair, like a shipping container, with a serving bar and tables with high stools around them. I’m liking Vietnamese coffee with sweet milk and ice, who’d have thought, when usually I am a dedicated espresso drinker. All the motorbikes were lined up out the front, there even seemed to be a scooter valet parking them for the patrons. There were lots of young Vietnamese sitting in couples, or groups.
After our morning tea coffee, we proceeded around the corner to the Independence Palace. We had to force ourselves to go in, as it looked like 60’s architecture from the gate… and just another “monument” so to speak. It was a very low key palace, very stark and simple and understated. It looked as though it was a product of the 1950’s, 1960’s, which, I’m guessing, it was. It was kind of your faux palace, not really a palace at all, but just a big, communist style building with some nicely furnished rooms. It had nice dimensions, it had nice spaces, big and open. It had a sweeping foyer open to the gardens. It was used for official functions, and dignitaries, and I think I heard one of the guides say something about the president sleeping there. It had war rooms in the basement that were used as a command centre.
It was hot again. I was wearing a green polo shirt, which pretty soon ended up sweat stained all over my body. I was sick of being the Anglo with the sweat covered shirt. I was sick of being the white boy dripping with perspiration. I was sick of feeling slightly damp and slightly uncomfortable.
We went straight from the Palace to the Ben Thanh Market, and bought an over-sized singlet for me, to replace the then awful sweat stained polo. There was me standing shirtless in all the hubbub of Ben Thanh Market, trying on singlets. It was great, with Saigon emblazed across it, why didn’t I buy one sooner? I was lovely and cool in my new singlet, much more so than the body hugging polo I was wearing. I tried to buy lose cotton shirts in Hanoi but they didn’t have my size. The Vietnamese tend to be smaller than us. So, I guess I looked like a ridiculous tourist in my singlet, but I didn’t care, suddenly I felt free and relaxed.
We tried to find a Pho shop that was recommended by the hotel, but we couldn’t find it. We walked for some way in the heat, battling the traffic. Oh, the traffic. I rather fancy myself as a good driver able to drive in any conditions, but in Ho Chi Minh City, or Hanoi for that matter, I’m not so sure. It is amazing to watch, mesmerising almost. I stood at one of the large roundabouts, on Ly Tu Trong, that had six roads coming into it and just watched the sport, mouth agape. We never did find the Pho shop.
We returned to the hotel and posted on Facebook. What Sam loves best. Not! “Enough fucking Facebook already!”
“Oh I am just writing a bit…”
“Enough computer!”
Of course, the truth is, that he uses his phone, so he checks it whenever he likes. I can’t do the phone thing, call me old fashioned.
We hunted around for a massage place, but got too confused. So many varying prices, so many different packages, so many choices. Who can choose? We came back to the hotel and got a recommendation for Eva Spa.
Eva Spa wasn’t so far away, so we went and had massages.
We bought fruit from the supermarket on the way home. Durian, for Sam. Jack Fruit for me. And bananas, well, for health. The Durian stunk out the hotel room, so Sam took the leftovers down to the lobby and they disposed of it.
Anthony called on Skype. He has shut down his Facebook page as he couldn’t handle it, it caused him too much grief. I had been emailing him, but he just decided he wanted to have a face to face chat. I usually talk to him every day.
We headed out to the Pho restaurant, that the lady from the massage place recommended, for our last meal in Ho Chi Minh City. It seemed appropriate. Oh yes, we spent the afternoon having massages. I had a foot massage and Sam had something that involved hot rocks. Mine was great, very relaxing, until she, inexplicably, sat me up and beat me on the back at the end, rather unexpectedly, for a foot massage. Shrug? I could only assume that that was the signal to leave.
It was raining lightly as we headed out to dinner. Sam wanted umbrellas, I didn’t care that much. I cared less when the bellboy gave us two girlie umbrellas. Sam’s blue with a subtle pattern, a kind of deco siren pattern none the less, and mine, mauve with a very floral pattern. We looked as though we were walking down the street with parasols. We’d only have needed to slosh on a mud mask and we’d have been mistaken for Kabuki, I was sure… minus the wooden shoes, of course. I wondered what “you filthy poofters” might sound like yelled in Vietnamese from a passing scooter?
They didn’t speak any English at the Pho restaurant, so that always makes it interesting. There was chicken sitting out on a bench at the front door as we entered, which wasn’t a good welcome. Oh? I thought. Sam was undaunted, as we hadn’t had Pho yet in the time we’ve been in Vietnam, and it was our last night and we had a recommendation, after all. The owner’s son somewhat resembled Grace Jones and didn’t have one clue when we mimed a couple of questions about the condiments. Sam looked at me blankly as I started to sing, Pull up to the Bumper, which amused me.
Then, as we ate, the rain came down torrentially. The nice lady at the massage shop said it was the beginning of the wet season here and it lasted, more or less, till the end of the year, when I asked her if it rained every afternoon. I was glad we had the umbrellas, at that point, as I watched the raindrops ricocheting off the road like machine gun fire in the headlights of the heavy traffic.
Grandpa came in and ate Pho. He spoke Chinese to the other patrons. He loaded his Pho with more chilli and more garlic than any one has a right to, and still live. Unfortunately, I was looking directly at him when he regurgitated, both times, into a bowl as if he was feeding baby birds inside, the nests masquerading as bowls, pre-digested bean shoots, with a gag and a rasp.
We dodged the traffic in the heavy rain as we crossed the road after dinner, as we couldn’t wait for the rain to stop, as it didn’t look as though it was going to any time in the next twenty four hours. We headed to the supermarket to purchase our last litre bottle of water, you know, just in case we might need it between 8pm and 8am... you never can tell and there aren’t that many suitable alternatives. I’m sure a couple of the street food ladies, on their small plastic stools with their portable cookers, were laughing at me as I strolled passed with my violet parasol, but I didn’t care, as most everybody else looked as though they had been turned into spotted dicks, as the current trend for wet weather gear here seems to be transparent plastic with coloured spots, kind of like Twister condoms. The rain was still falling and every thing was dripping, as it steamed and, I’m sure, hissed. And I was dry.
We have to be up at 5.30am, as we are catching a plane at 8.30am, you’ve got to love those morning flights. Not even time to fit in the buffet breakfast. Sad face.
And now a baby is crying on the floor above our Saigon cell. Did I mention that we rather skimped on the hotel in Ho Chi Minh City, as we were only going to be here for two days and it was so confusing on the internet that we decided just to go for the cheapest, which never occurred to me would mean we’d get a room minus a window. Next visit we could afford to go up a star, I feel. Happy times.
Nana S is in bed, waking intermittently to berate me for still being awake. “Enough!” The noisy Chinese across the hall are being inexcusably loud, yet again. Gritted teeth.
It is 10.45pm.
Friday, August 09, 2013
Arriving in Ho Chi Minh City
Sam could be the perfect travelling companion except for one flaw, his total and utter lack of interest in cars and motorbikes.
“Look Sam, a D series Citroen, look Sam an antique Vespa…”
Nothing. Nada, Niente. Completely expressionless face. Looks the other way. Walks off.
I point, I get excited, wow! “Look, look, look.”
Nothing at all.
“But, but, but…”
“I don’t care,” he says, if he even says anything at all and usually it is nothing at all.
Well, here it is 5.30am and we’re up and packed and ready for breakfast at 6am, the taxi at 6.30 and then it is off to De Nang airport, for a flight at 8.45 to Ho Chi Minh City. De Nang is a wasteland, such a crap town, the awfulest of the awful. How it got that way, I’ll never no?
Then it is two days to go and Vietnam is over.
De Nang, where the communist state meets a building site. They look as though they started massive redevelopment program and then they ran out of money, or the GFC hit, or they just lost interest, who knows? There are Gold Coast style resorts and half built buildings and empty blocks of land, kind of dug up and then forgotten, like a child’s sand pit at dusk. As Bette Davis would have said, "What a dump." We've got an hour to wait at the standard issue silver, blue and laminex airport until our plane boards. It is hot, boiling hot at 7am. Oh, that sun, it is out as I head outside to the ashtray. There is just enough time for some strong coffee from paper cups and a couple of ciggies. Sam is nagging me about the ciggies... of course, we have to go through security. Really? Roll of the eyes. Apparently, we have fifteen minutes till boarding. Oops.
Ho Chi Minh City was hot when we arrived, very hot, scolding hot. The air conditioning in the taxi didn’t seem to work, but then, eventually, as we got going it did. We pulled out on to mucky motorways that were ugly and which pretty soon clogged with traffic. There seemed to be all the “Asian Ugly” without any of the “Asian Charm.” Concrete and development and squalor all piled on top of each other, with concrete barriers stopping you crossing from the old to the new. Advertising and wires and car fumes and rubbish and grey as far as they eye could see… all wrapped in a floral face mask so you had a chance to breath. There were cars and trucks and scooters and taxi’s and busses all trying to occupy the same space in the same lane at the same time, with everybody tooting and nobody going anywhere.
Oh, where had we come to? We’d come from my new favourite place in the world – until I travel again – the beautiful Hoi An, which only seemed to highlight the difference.
We struggled through the traffic and eventually turned a city block and turned a city block and turned a city block to our hotel. The foyer was as tacky as the internet had suggested. Our hotel room was half the size that the internet had suggested and it had no window. Cell block Saigon. It had faux-Queen Anne furniture, in brown. It, actually, had granite tiles on the floor, which unfortunately resembled lino.
It was just a little depressing, thus far.
We asked the hotel desk where to eat lunch and they suggested a place in the next street. The food was good, but we felt got ripped off for the first time with the napkins. They placed wet towelletts in front of us without a word, so naturally we ripped open the packets and used them. When the bill came we had been charged for them. Six thousand dong. We were cross. In reality that is 30c, 15c each.
We went to the market, the Ben Thanh Market. It is big and loud. So much landfill, really. There was stuff just everywhere. It was great if you wanted clothes or food. I kind of enjoyed the game, for a while, don’t know why, but I did. We tried to get undies 5 pairs for 100 thousand Dong, we chose the stall with the cutest son. Sam was cheeky, holding the undies up against him suggestively. He said, “Not for me.” Pity. We continued to haggle. We didn’t manage to get them for 100 thousand Dong, though. “No.”
I wanted my gold coconut bowl for twenty thousand Dong. I didn’t get that either. Forty thousand Dong was the lowest they’d drop it to. But, I only wanted it if I got it for twenty, because I didn’t really want it at all, it was just a challenge to see if I could beat them down. (I wish I’d bought it for forty thousand Dong now, $2 instead of $1)
We came back to the hotel for the air conditioning to get out of the heat. Exhausted. (Well, we had got up at 5am)
We walked to the Ho Chi Minh memorial or, at least, that was where we were heading when we got ripped off by a street seller. He captured out attention by offering us directions. Then he helped us across the street. He wanted me to carry his shoulder pole, a favourite trick of the street seller. He produced coconut juice, first one for me, then one for Sam. It was hot, we were disgruntled and we were thirsty. Two coconut juices for 150 thousand Dong. We were tired and we just didn’t think. We should have paid 50 thousand Dong. He saw us coming
We walked to the Notre Dame Cathedral, in the blazing heat. It was closed for another half an hour. We walked over to the post office, which was across the road. Yes, well, it was kind of nice, maybe you’d be impressed with it if you lived in, say, Camoowheal.
We were way unimpressed with Ho Chi Minh City at this point. It seemed like another big, dirty city with few, to no, redeeming features. We didn’t care enough to wait the half an hour for the cathedral to open.
Hotels, museums, memorials, opera houses, Palaces, I’m just not so interested in them, to a point. I like features that make a city unique, I feel you can see cathedrals and museums in any city.
We were heading back to our hotel when we stopped to have Haagen Dazs by the park. I had to talk Sam into it, and besides there was air conditioning. The compromise was that we were going to share a cone, but we ended up ordering a multi flavoured, double stacked waffle creation. And two Vietnamese coffees. It started to rain just as we’d finished our treat. It started to deluge. We had to wait for two hours for it to stop enough that we could walk in it without getting drenched. The people waiting started to pile up. A beautiful English couple, he with his white t-shirt just a little tight across his manly chest, she with her gorgeous face and luxurious long blonde hair. An older, I think, Danish couple, who looked like seasoned travellers with their sensible shoes and small back packs. A couple of young Vietnamese men. A group of highly chic Vietnamese girls who never stopped talking as they sipped their coffees.
Eventually, the rain subsided to a light sprinkle and we walked back to the hotel. Sam photographed the old black Citroen Light 15, I didn’t have my camera with me. Usually, he just looks blankly at me when I enthuse about a car, but this time he didn’t. Yay.
We headed out for dinner. It was still raining. We walked all over, and the place just seemed awful. We kept walking, but there didn’t seem to be anywhere where there were restaurants and people and coffee shops, anywhere nice. And it kept raining. We walked to the opera house. The surrounding shops seemed chic, shiny and lovely, but still there was not much happening. And it just kept raining. We had one umbrella, which barely covered us. We walked passed bars that were behind closed glass doors. We walked through a night food market. I was over being wet, with my damp clothes sticking to me. I was over the rain drip, dripping on me. I was over the broken footpaths and the grime and the shit and just nothing and no where to eat, in the city that is most famous for eating in Vietnam.
I got pissed off. Sam got pissed off. We both came home pissed off. I went to sleep as Sam had a shower to go out for dinner. I didn’t wake up again till the morning. We didn’t eat.
“Look Sam, a D series Citroen, look Sam an antique Vespa…”
Nothing. Nada, Niente. Completely expressionless face. Looks the other way. Walks off.
I point, I get excited, wow! “Look, look, look.”
Nothing at all.
“But, but, but…”
“I don’t care,” he says, if he even says anything at all and usually it is nothing at all.
Well, here it is 5.30am and we’re up and packed and ready for breakfast at 6am, the taxi at 6.30 and then it is off to De Nang airport, for a flight at 8.45 to Ho Chi Minh City. De Nang is a wasteland, such a crap town, the awfulest of the awful. How it got that way, I’ll never no?
Then it is two days to go and Vietnam is over.
De Nang, where the communist state meets a building site. They look as though they started massive redevelopment program and then they ran out of money, or the GFC hit, or they just lost interest, who knows? There are Gold Coast style resorts and half built buildings and empty blocks of land, kind of dug up and then forgotten, like a child’s sand pit at dusk. As Bette Davis would have said, "What a dump." We've got an hour to wait at the standard issue silver, blue and laminex airport until our plane boards. It is hot, boiling hot at 7am. Oh, that sun, it is out as I head outside to the ashtray. There is just enough time for some strong coffee from paper cups and a couple of ciggies. Sam is nagging me about the ciggies... of course, we have to go through security. Really? Roll of the eyes. Apparently, we have fifteen minutes till boarding. Oops.
Ho Chi Minh City was hot when we arrived, very hot, scolding hot. The air conditioning in the taxi didn’t seem to work, but then, eventually, as we got going it did. We pulled out on to mucky motorways that were ugly and which pretty soon clogged with traffic. There seemed to be all the “Asian Ugly” without any of the “Asian Charm.” Concrete and development and squalor all piled on top of each other, with concrete barriers stopping you crossing from the old to the new. Advertising and wires and car fumes and rubbish and grey as far as they eye could see… all wrapped in a floral face mask so you had a chance to breath. There were cars and trucks and scooters and taxi’s and busses all trying to occupy the same space in the same lane at the same time, with everybody tooting and nobody going anywhere.
Oh, where had we come to? We’d come from my new favourite place in the world – until I travel again – the beautiful Hoi An, which only seemed to highlight the difference.
We struggled through the traffic and eventually turned a city block and turned a city block and turned a city block to our hotel. The foyer was as tacky as the internet had suggested. Our hotel room was half the size that the internet had suggested and it had no window. Cell block Saigon. It had faux-Queen Anne furniture, in brown. It, actually, had granite tiles on the floor, which unfortunately resembled lino.
It was just a little depressing, thus far.
We asked the hotel desk where to eat lunch and they suggested a place in the next street. The food was good, but we felt got ripped off for the first time with the napkins. They placed wet towelletts in front of us without a word, so naturally we ripped open the packets and used them. When the bill came we had been charged for them. Six thousand dong. We were cross. In reality that is 30c, 15c each.
We went to the market, the Ben Thanh Market. It is big and loud. So much landfill, really. There was stuff just everywhere. It was great if you wanted clothes or food. I kind of enjoyed the game, for a while, don’t know why, but I did. We tried to get undies 5 pairs for 100 thousand Dong, we chose the stall with the cutest son. Sam was cheeky, holding the undies up against him suggestively. He said, “Not for me.” Pity. We continued to haggle. We didn’t manage to get them for 100 thousand Dong, though. “No.”
I wanted my gold coconut bowl for twenty thousand Dong. I didn’t get that either. Forty thousand Dong was the lowest they’d drop it to. But, I only wanted it if I got it for twenty, because I didn’t really want it at all, it was just a challenge to see if I could beat them down. (I wish I’d bought it for forty thousand Dong now, $2 instead of $1)
We came back to the hotel for the air conditioning to get out of the heat. Exhausted. (Well, we had got up at 5am)
We walked to the Ho Chi Minh memorial or, at least, that was where we were heading when we got ripped off by a street seller. He captured out attention by offering us directions. Then he helped us across the street. He wanted me to carry his shoulder pole, a favourite trick of the street seller. He produced coconut juice, first one for me, then one for Sam. It was hot, we were disgruntled and we were thirsty. Two coconut juices for 150 thousand Dong. We were tired and we just didn’t think. We should have paid 50 thousand Dong. He saw us coming
We walked to the Notre Dame Cathedral, in the blazing heat. It was closed for another half an hour. We walked over to the post office, which was across the road. Yes, well, it was kind of nice, maybe you’d be impressed with it if you lived in, say, Camoowheal.
We were way unimpressed with Ho Chi Minh City at this point. It seemed like another big, dirty city with few, to no, redeeming features. We didn’t care enough to wait the half an hour for the cathedral to open.
Hotels, museums, memorials, opera houses, Palaces, I’m just not so interested in them, to a point. I like features that make a city unique, I feel you can see cathedrals and museums in any city.
We were heading back to our hotel when we stopped to have Haagen Dazs by the park. I had to talk Sam into it, and besides there was air conditioning. The compromise was that we were going to share a cone, but we ended up ordering a multi flavoured, double stacked waffle creation. And two Vietnamese coffees. It started to rain just as we’d finished our treat. It started to deluge. We had to wait for two hours for it to stop enough that we could walk in it without getting drenched. The people waiting started to pile up. A beautiful English couple, he with his white t-shirt just a little tight across his manly chest, she with her gorgeous face and luxurious long blonde hair. An older, I think, Danish couple, who looked like seasoned travellers with their sensible shoes and small back packs. A couple of young Vietnamese men. A group of highly chic Vietnamese girls who never stopped talking as they sipped their coffees.
Eventually, the rain subsided to a light sprinkle and we walked back to the hotel. Sam photographed the old black Citroen Light 15, I didn’t have my camera with me. Usually, he just looks blankly at me when I enthuse about a car, but this time he didn’t. Yay.
We headed out for dinner. It was still raining. We walked all over, and the place just seemed awful. We kept walking, but there didn’t seem to be anywhere where there were restaurants and people and coffee shops, anywhere nice. And it kept raining. We walked to the opera house. The surrounding shops seemed chic, shiny and lovely, but still there was not much happening. And it just kept raining. We had one umbrella, which barely covered us. We walked passed bars that were behind closed glass doors. We walked through a night food market. I was over being wet, with my damp clothes sticking to me. I was over the rain drip, dripping on me. I was over the broken footpaths and the grime and the shit and just nothing and no where to eat, in the city that is most famous for eating in Vietnam.
I got pissed off. Sam got pissed off. We both came home pissed off. I went to sleep as Sam had a shower to go out for dinner. I didn’t wake up again till the morning. We didn’t eat.
Thursday, August 08, 2013
Bike Riding and Shopping and the Beach
It is sunny and warm here and we have been riding bikes around the city, it is so relaxing and enjoyable, we’ve been drinking sugar cane juice, mixed sweet bean drinks and sweet tofu out of small dishes on the streets, in between picking up our jackets and our shoes. The whole town is like one long enjoyable stroll, meandering along, as the world whooshes by on motorbikes, or pads by with baskets hung over its shoulders.
“Buy from me, buy from me.”
We were offered five pairs of undies for 1.1 million dong and we got them for 200 thousand. I even tried them on in a corner of the shop that wasn't so private. The girl staff giggled as I dropped my dacks, but it was their idea. "Yes, yes, try them on." Anything for a sale. Oh, what the hell, undies aren't so much different to what we wear on the beach. Did we need L or XL, it is hard to know any other way. Just do it, don’t think too much about it. Our mission now, is to get another five pairs for 100 thousand dong, as we reckon we could have got the first lot for that price.
So far, I haven’t managed to get a coconut bowl for 20 thousand dong, but I am working on it, much to Sam’s chagrin.
We ate lunch on the corner across the river, where we ate dinner last night. The food was good there and the view across the river lovely, all of pretty Hoi An captured in one panorama. I tried to get some passing tourists to come in and eat, but I was too slow the first time and the second time I don’t think they spoke English, or they just ignored me. There seemed to be a lot of French in Hoi An. The proprietor of the restaurant thanked me for my efforts.
We rode home. It was so lovely riding around Hoi An by bike, we should have just ridden around the whole time. The fresh air passing over you kind of counteracted the heat.
I bought a painting. Finally. After all of the looking and humming and ha’ing, I bought a watercolour on paper, and not the large paining I really wanted for my lounge room, if only I had know to measure the size before I left. I haggled her down to 200 thousand Dong from 700 thousand Dong, even though she didn’t want to go that low. It took leaving the shop to get it. She said that I was her only customer for the day and she hoped the sale would bring her luck.
We rode our bikes around the city, enjoying the day, the gentle streets and the gorgeous surroundings.
We rode our bikes to the hotel’s beach in the afternoon. The water was warm and lovely and we dived through the waves. We sat back on the lounges provided by the hotel. We stayed for a few hours. There were rows of lounges shaded by rows of thatched beach umbrellas. The sand stretched for as far as the eye could see.
The French couple in front of us continually kissed. I’m sure the boyfriend got a woody in his swimming shorts, as she was keenly rubbing herself against his leg. Hairy-chest and handsome was he. They ate, what we’d call, rice paper rolls, almost suggestively. The couple next to us, with the handsome son who’s legs and arse where that of a man, but who’s torso and chest looked like that of a teenager, drank fancy drinks in fancy wine glasses, bought to them by the guy who was serving everybody. A group of young, muscular, Vietnamese boys, with their girls, chatted on the other side of us, smoking continually. The boys seemed to be strutting just a bit, for the girl’s attention, which I didn’t mind at all. And English couple lay right next to us, covered from head to toe in towels. A fat, berry-brown, Italian girl lay on a lounge in front of us and to the side. She unhooked her bikini as her girl friend rubbed sunscreen on her and then seemed to laughed loudly as she struggled to get her ample bosom back into the far too small pink material. It looked like trying to push marshmallow into a small container with a stick, and it threatened, on more than one occasion, to flow freely out onto her towel.
We ate at Miss Sau’s. We tried to find somewhere new, but the restaurants were either too western – the moment we saw hamburgers and pizza we moved on – or too simple, or too expensive. Miss Sau made really nice home cooked Vietnamese food. She was busy, so 80 year old grandma delivered the food, with a tray and a shuffle and a smile, from her toothless grin. She was adorable. I drank lemon juice, which Sam always complained a bout – he doesn’t like it, so he can’t sip on it too – and he drank sugar cane. He does like to taste everything I have, no matter if he has eaten it before.
I'd recommend Miss Sau's if anyone is heading to Hoi An.
“Buy from me, buy from me.”
We were offered five pairs of undies for 1.1 million dong and we got them for 200 thousand. I even tried them on in a corner of the shop that wasn't so private. The girl staff giggled as I dropped my dacks, but it was their idea. "Yes, yes, try them on." Anything for a sale. Oh, what the hell, undies aren't so much different to what we wear on the beach. Did we need L or XL, it is hard to know any other way. Just do it, don’t think too much about it. Our mission now, is to get another five pairs for 100 thousand dong, as we reckon we could have got the first lot for that price.
So far, I haven’t managed to get a coconut bowl for 20 thousand dong, but I am working on it, much to Sam’s chagrin.
We ate lunch on the corner across the river, where we ate dinner last night. The food was good there and the view across the river lovely, all of pretty Hoi An captured in one panorama. I tried to get some passing tourists to come in and eat, but I was too slow the first time and the second time I don’t think they spoke English, or they just ignored me. There seemed to be a lot of French in Hoi An. The proprietor of the restaurant thanked me for my efforts.
We rode home. It was so lovely riding around Hoi An by bike, we should have just ridden around the whole time. The fresh air passing over you kind of counteracted the heat.
I bought a painting. Finally. After all of the looking and humming and ha’ing, I bought a watercolour on paper, and not the large paining I really wanted for my lounge room, if only I had know to measure the size before I left. I haggled her down to 200 thousand Dong from 700 thousand Dong, even though she didn’t want to go that low. It took leaving the shop to get it. She said that I was her only customer for the day and she hoped the sale would bring her luck.
We rode our bikes around the city, enjoying the day, the gentle streets and the gorgeous surroundings.
We rode our bikes to the hotel’s beach in the afternoon. The water was warm and lovely and we dived through the waves. We sat back on the lounges provided by the hotel. We stayed for a few hours. There were rows of lounges shaded by rows of thatched beach umbrellas. The sand stretched for as far as the eye could see.
The French couple in front of us continually kissed. I’m sure the boyfriend got a woody in his swimming shorts, as she was keenly rubbing herself against his leg. Hairy-chest and handsome was he. They ate, what we’d call, rice paper rolls, almost suggestively. The couple next to us, with the handsome son who’s legs and arse where that of a man, but who’s torso and chest looked like that of a teenager, drank fancy drinks in fancy wine glasses, bought to them by the guy who was serving everybody. A group of young, muscular, Vietnamese boys, with their girls, chatted on the other side of us, smoking continually. The boys seemed to be strutting just a bit, for the girl’s attention, which I didn’t mind at all. And English couple lay right next to us, covered from head to toe in towels. A fat, berry-brown, Italian girl lay on a lounge in front of us and to the side. She unhooked her bikini as her girl friend rubbed sunscreen on her and then seemed to laughed loudly as she struggled to get her ample bosom back into the far too small pink material. It looked like trying to push marshmallow into a small container with a stick, and it threatened, on more than one occasion, to flow freely out onto her towel.
We ate at Miss Sau’s. We tried to find somewhere new, but the restaurants were either too western – the moment we saw hamburgers and pizza we moved on – or too simple, or too expensive. Miss Sau made really nice home cooked Vietnamese food. She was busy, so 80 year old grandma delivered the food, with a tray and a shuffle and a smile, from her toothless grin. She was adorable. I drank lemon juice, which Sam always complained a bout – he doesn’t like it, so he can’t sip on it too – and he drank sugar cane. He does like to taste everything I have, no matter if he has eaten it before.
I'd recommend Miss Sau's if anyone is heading to Hoi An.
Wednesday, August 07, 2013
Having a Great Time
We have decided to extend our time in Hoi An by a day, so we will only spend two days in Ho Chi Min City. We are no longer travelling by train as, apparently, it is a 24 hour train trip from Hoi An to Ho Chi Min City. (who knew?) So, that is too long and we are now flying. So, as you can imagine, Sam is devastated. (I think he did a happy dance) We managed to book a flight to Ho Chi Min City and a hotel room there this morning. The lovely internet. I remember the days of just heading off to a destination and then trudging around, often, until dusk finding a Pensione, with varying degrees of anxiety.
Hoi An is lovely, a historic village as beautiful as they come, with its yellow ochre walls and attached buildings with flowering bougainvillea climbing up the walls. I could imagine having a little house here, just to get away from it all... tourists withstanding.
We rode on bikes to the beach yesterday, lovely it was too. It was four kilometres along a winding country road. Lovely. Of course, it was busy with motorbikes, tracks and cars, but still lovely, none the less But, we didn't have any swimming shorts, so it was just a look and then we returned to the town. The most interesting thing about merging traffic here is that they just don't look, just come straight out in front of you.
In the hunt for swimming shorts, we some how managed to have shoes and black woollen jackets made for each of us. (not sure how that happened) Then it was lunch, of course, what Sam loves the most, over looking the river. All washed down with passionfruit juice. Lovely. We walked along the river and finally found the famous bridge that everyone goes to see, but had so far alluded us. Duh! We had to ask some Australians, in the end, who looked kind of bemused, as it was literally around the next corner. (nervous smile)
We walked through the hubbub that is the markets. We ate street food in the form of bean curd drinks. We haggled for goods and felt that we had become quite skilled at it, but maybe we are kidding ourselves. They haggle here with gusto, unlike the jaded shop keepers in Hanoi. We bought a few things with the advantage of not really caring if we got them or not. One woman we haggled hard with asked us finally to give her some "lucky Dong" to help her out with the deal. "Ah, no, sorry," we said. I took it as a good sign.
So, anyway, I think we are now off to the beach on our trusty steeds, new swimming shorts and sun block out SPF 90 (?) as I have a sunburn face, I think for the first time for as long as I can remember. All packed in our bike baskets.
Hoi An is lovely, a historic village as beautiful as they come, with its yellow ochre walls and attached buildings with flowering bougainvillea climbing up the walls. I could imagine having a little house here, just to get away from it all... tourists withstanding.
We rode on bikes to the beach yesterday, lovely it was too. It was four kilometres along a winding country road. Lovely. Of course, it was busy with motorbikes, tracks and cars, but still lovely, none the less But, we didn't have any swimming shorts, so it was just a look and then we returned to the town. The most interesting thing about merging traffic here is that they just don't look, just come straight out in front of you.
In the hunt for swimming shorts, we some how managed to have shoes and black woollen jackets made for each of us. (not sure how that happened) Then it was lunch, of course, what Sam loves the most, over looking the river. All washed down with passionfruit juice. Lovely. We walked along the river and finally found the famous bridge that everyone goes to see, but had so far alluded us. Duh! We had to ask some Australians, in the end, who looked kind of bemused, as it was literally around the next corner. (nervous smile)
We walked through the hubbub that is the markets. We ate street food in the form of bean curd drinks. We haggled for goods and felt that we had become quite skilled at it, but maybe we are kidding ourselves. They haggle here with gusto, unlike the jaded shop keepers in Hanoi. We bought a few things with the advantage of not really caring if we got them or not. One woman we haggled hard with asked us finally to give her some "lucky Dong" to help her out with the deal. "Ah, no, sorry," we said. I took it as a good sign.
So, anyway, I think we are now off to the beach on our trusty steeds, new swimming shorts and sun block out SPF 90 (?) as I have a sunburn face, I think for the first time for as long as I can remember. All packed in our bike baskets.
Tuesday, August 06, 2013
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