Ho Chi Minh City

(apologies for the lack of photos…time constraints, stay tuned)

You enter Saigon along a highway that is flanked for miles with small stores, rice farms, and repair shops. As you approach, they increase in frequency, until the black soot clinging to the concrete tells you are in a city again. Motorcycles dominate the roads, chaotically darting and buzzing amongst the cars. The only traffic rule they follow is a Darwinian one: wherever a motorcycle can go, it will. That includes sidewalks, crosswalks, and the wrong way on a one way street.

Interestingly enough, the drivers of these death machines will often cross several lanes of traffic, pop up a curb, burst through a fruit stand, and then casually ask you if you might need a ride somewhere. One imagines that if one of them took you to your execution, you'd be somewhat relieved to arrive in one piece.

In any case, your bus beeps and honks its way over a bridge or two, and plunges into a modern, but still old city. Saigon is built flat and spread out, rather than up. Depending on where you stay in it, you can have a dozen different experiences. On the outskirts, you'll swim in a steamy sea of South East Asian grime and mania. Trucks and buses belch smoke and dust onto impromptu cafes where patrons poke through bowls of pho. Women walk balancing loads of coconuts or fruit on long staves. Motorcycles run down everyone in sight.

In the center, though, you find the wide, patient boulevards of colonial France. The traffic is still incredible, but you can easily escape it in small boutiques or cool cafes, which serve some of the best iced tea you'll ever find.

We liked it so much, we immediately ditched our idea of a trip to see some wartime tunnels outside the city (there's a perfectly informative book we'll read), and concentrated on the city itself. The first day took us to the War Remnants Museum. It is, as you might imagine, a long, gruesome, and pretty much accurate portrayal of the US war on Vietnam. Hardly the sort of thing you follow up with a steak dinner.

From there, we went book shopping, and I was left, as usual, to ponder who chooses the absurdly high-falutin titles in a foreign bookstore. It had no less than five books by Thomas Hardy, in addition to Vanity Fair, Edmund Spenser's The Faerie Queen, Middlemarch, Ethan Frome, Silas Marner, volumes of eye-closing Wordsworth, the sonnets of the Reverend John Donne, and the complete works of the lesser Bronte sisters. I was once a graduate student in literature, and I've read most of that stuff. My advice: buy a gun instead. It's quicker and you'll suffer less.

We ended up eating dinner at a café and considered the day a success. Tomorrow, we'll head back out to take in the Ho Chi Mihn City Museum and the city market. Then, we're off to home.

Mui Ne: The Backpack Archipelago

We are relaxing in Mui Ne, a coastal town about three hours north of Saigon. Nicole and I have a tradition of ending every trip with a stay at a resort for a few days. This one, "The Beach" is like any you've ever seen: beaches and pools, cabanas, and German and Russian men sunning themselves in bikini bottoms. Since there's nothing interesting here, we'll take up a different topic.

Mark Twain once said something like the following. A person may naturally be a great bore, but he will never reach his true potential until he travels. How many of you have seen a pair of travelers come back from a 'round the world' tour, world-wearily heave their backpacks into their living rooms, and proceed to tell everyone who can't run fast enough all about the eye-opening trip they've taken to Thailand and beyond? They must be brave, foolhardy, or just plain nuts.

In reality, exotic travel is amazingly easy today. The reason is an institution we've nicknamed the Archipelago. It's a network of interlinked budget hotels, restaurants and travel agencies that stretch out like friendly islands across the developing world.

How does it work? Let's imagine that you're in Thailand and want to go see Angkor Wat. Don't have a visa? No worries, it can be arranged either at your hotel or at the travel agency next door. Need a plane ticket? No problem. Hotel room? Let us know what you want to pay per night. Not sure what to do there? They'll arrange a tour. When you arrive, the Archipelago is there to feed you, house you, do your laundry, and send you on your way to the next stop. A child could do it, maybe even a dumb child.

Oddly enough, the Archipelago makes the most visible symbol of the adventurous traveler, the backpack, an unnecessary affectation. The modern travelers' backpack has become an evolved monstrosity, capable of carrying more than any normal suitcase. It is designed not for serious travelers, but for well-heeled 20-somethings who want to look fabulous in far flung destinations. We abandoned ours years ago in favor of much smaller rolling suitcases that can double as backpacks in a pinch. In five years of travel, we've used them as backpacks once. That was in Copacabana, Bolivia, and it was only because we went the wrong way.

The Bible of the Archipelago is The Lonely Planet, that maddeningly uneven but unavoidable travel guide. In addition to providing valuable transportation information and dreadful restaurant tips, the Planet also gives the Archipelago its moral backbone. In sanctimonious and claptrap-filled asides, it urges you to be a sensitive traveler. According to it, that means not feeding Bolivian peasants candy, picking up after yourself if you're in the wilderness, pondering the adverse psychological effects of Chinese children growing up without brothers and sisters, and avoiding plane travel if possible (this, from a travel guide!). The LP's hold is so pervasive though, I challenge anyone to travel the length of Bolivia without having at least one conversation in which an earnest backpacker warns you not to feed the proud peasants sweets. As if it would have occurred to you to do so otherwise!

The Archipelago has both advantages and disadvantages. On the one hand, it has made travel to anywhere convenient and pleasurable. You can see great sights without undue effort. Wherever you are in the world, you can find a lounge with natural wood chairs, tapestries on the walls, and a menu that features hamburgers, fried eggs, pancakes, and coffee. (That's right, the anti-American backpacker universe has brought Denny's with it everywhere). You can listen to old rock and roll in a setting that feels exotic and authentic. It's fun, and easy to meet people.

On the other hand, the Archipelago has also MacDonaldized travel to a great deal. We may find the faux-Tiki lounges exotic, but that doesn't mean they have anything to do with native culture. Americans often deck out their backyards in a similar style. We have whole chains of stores like Cost Plus and Pier One that sell the same crap that is supposed to be so authentic in Hoi An. When the Third World goes upscale, it likes bright paint, marble, tile floors, clean walls, crystal chandeliers, and gold leaf—not wicker chairs and bamboo roofs.

It also insulates us to a great degree. Travel is supposed to be about confronting other cultures and learning about them. The Archipelago is much more about other cultures anticipating what you'd like to see in them and delivering it to you. If you want to find a country spiritual, they'll find a monk or a medicine man for you to study under. If you want to feel adventurous, they'll bring you a mountain to climb. Whatever need you have, whatever itch you want to scratch, the Archipelago can supply it. Of course, most people simply want to drink beer, see sights, and party in a "Third World" environment. And that's what the Archipelago is best at.

One of the best parts of our trip, and most difficult, was that we decided to avoid the Archipelago in China. Instead, we made separate arrangements outside the sainted Lonely Planet. This made travel much more cumbersome, but also more interesting. In Vietnam, this was impossible. There is only the backpacker's route…the few Vietnamese who travel use it as well. So we dropped back in.

Nha Trang

Leaving Hoi An, we boarded a Vietnamese Air ATR-72, one of my least favorite planes. It heaves and pinwheels into the air, turning every atmospheric disturbance into a gut-wrenching lurch. Our destination, reached happily without barfing, was Nha Trang, a coastal city that had had an important military airport during the war.

Today, Nha Trang and its beautiful bay are all about tourism, both foreign and domestic. Large hotels line the beaches. Strips of open air restaurants provide a gathering place for a vast population of underemployed motorcycle taxi-drivers. Along the coast runs a wide boulevard and a concrete boardwalk. Vietnamese youngsters crowd the beaches in bicycles. The only sound you hear, though, is the towering waves pounding the coastline. No one can swim here, but that doesn't stop them from coming.

As with much of Vietnam, we've been impressed by Nha Trang's fast-approaching modernity. Poverty exists of course, especially away from the coast, but this is a country on the upswing. Everywhere new buildings are going up, streets are being paved, and the strange concrete blockhouses are receiving their coats of bright lacquer.

We checked into our hotel, and walked along the beach. There, we were struck by something. Stretching across the miles of beautiful white sand were acres and acres of sunburnt European flesh.

Naturally, the sight of all those bloated bodies was worrisome to a true patriot. For years, America has been the undisputed world power when it came to waistlines. Our Nachos Bell Grandes, Whoppers with Cheese, and Grand Slam Breakfasts have kept us in a class of our own. And while the title is still not in doubt, warning shots are being fired across the bow. New powers are gathering at lunch counters around the world, devouring pizzas, choucroutes, and haggises whole. They are ordering an extra schnitzel when no such schnitzel is nutritionally necessary. Who knows where it will end?

I urge my countrymen to get to work. We cannot afford to rest on our capacious laurels. To the trough! Applebees and Papa Johns await, my friends! Go forth. Order something made in a skillet, and get it with a side of hamburgers!

Hoi An: The Cham

Vietnam's entry in the sweepstakes for Large Ancient Monuments of Note is the Cham ruins about 30km outside of Hoi An. In a rattling and mostly comprehensible overview, delivered free of charge by the bus company tour guide, we learned that the Cham were a Hindu kingdom established in Vietnam around 200 AD. It flourished for about ten centuries after that until it was subjugated by the Vietnamese. Interestingly enough, they used Sanskrit for their inscriptions. Sanskrit is an Indo-European language, derived from the same root as English, Russian, Greek, and French. It's quite far from home here.

The first order of business on arrival, however, was to escape the free tour guide. He was a short young man in a button down shirt with a voice like a bullhorn. Like many tour guides here, he spoke his own, entirely unique dialect of English. But he completely lost our confidence by insisting that we spend 20 minutes in the tiny Cham museum. Its exhibits consisted of a few stone inscriptions and some large-format photographs of the site. It all would have been much more apropos if we not sitting a kilometer or so from the scenes they depicted.

Finally, he released us from the bondage of the museum and allowed us to go towards a "staging area," where we were to wait for some "jeeps." He was technically correct in his use of the plural—there were two, honest to god American military Jeeps—but with a group of roughly 30, we were in for a long wait. Luckily, the first people into the initial jeep were three portly natives of Holland, whose bulk took up 95% of the space.

"Come on," said urged our sanguine guide, "It holds six."

The hell it did, but Nicole and I were desperate. Before the Jeep pulled off, we leaped into two startled but ample Dutch laps. Then, clinging to the frame of those legendarily uncomfortable vehicles, we made our way up to the ruins.

We had been warned that the ruins themselves were not overwhelming. Even so, we found them pleasantly whelming. The Cham built modest brick towers with small, claustrophobic sanctuaries. Their stately but decaying brick blends nicely with the rich, emerald green of the subtropical forest. The Vietnamese have made the most of it too. Handsome stone paths run throughout it, leading you easily from site to site. We spent a happy hour there.

Hoi An

It took three dollars and over four hours to move the short distance from Hue to Hoi An. An hour or two of that was driving. The rest was spent at a hotel and restaurant on the outskirts of Hue. It was a charming place in own small way, and I'm sure the bus driver's brother is quite proud of it, but it was hardly a necessary stop. Welcome to this part of the world.

You don't hear of Hoi An nowadays, but it was once quite the place. Here, a major river met the ocean—think an Asian New Orleans. Traders from all over the east piled in for a four-month-long trade fair. They built Chinese mercantile clubs, Indian trading houses, and Japanese homes and bridges. All of this has left Hoi An a charming jumble of architectural styles, dominated mainly by the yellow walls and gently sloping tile roofs of Old China.

In recognition of its unique character, UNESCO has designated Hoi An a World Heritage Site, an awesome distinction that is intended to preserve places of cultural interest. Instead, it has had the perverse effect of drawing millions of tourists who might potentially destroy it.

In Hoi An, though, the crush of tourists actually works to the site's advantage. It was a bustling market center, and the thousands of visitors return it to its original purpose. The heavy wood Chinese houses, the narrow streets filled with foreigners, and the Vietnamese hawking wares are somehow more authentic than otherwise.

So what do you do here? Tour Vietnam style. You buy a ticket, and wander through houses, museums, and temples. At every one, you're greeted by a person who clips your ticket, sits you down, and then, in the most astonishingly impenetrable accent and diction, starts to tell you about the place.

"Welcome to theees hoose," a girl says, "live in this place blah blah blah wood walls blah blah blah marble blah blah blah China, impenetrably nonsensical stuff that goes on for no less than ten minutes, and then you hear, to your immense relief, 'Follow me.'"

From what I can tell, the Vietnamese speak excellent French, but their English is largely theoretical in nature. Their tour guides memorize long scripts which have been quite artfully constructed, with anecdotes, recurring jokes, and other important literary devices. Then the scripts go through a strange metamorphosis, first to French, and then to a kind of English that no human being has ever spoke or is likely to speak. In this form, it is memorized by a Vietnamese guide, who delivers it faithfully to you, even though he or she hasn't the foggiest idea what the words mean. The result is a painful ordeal for both teller and audience. I'm sure it will improve with time.

In other words, we're quite enjoying ourselves. They like to serve beef wrapped around cheese and fried won tons smothered with garlic tomato sauce. They smile a lot; we smile back. It's a very welcoming place.

Hue: The Wet Way Tour

Hue, Vietnam is one of the rainiest places on earth, and we have caught it in high mass form. It has alternated between drizzling, pouring, and raining water buffalos ever since we have arrived. Water is pooling ominously in the streets, and at times I half expect animals to start lining up two by two and asking the way to the ark, but it hasn't quite come to that yet.

The people seem perfectly accustomed though. Many get around by bicycles that have been customized with a basket that holds an elongated rain poncho from wheel to wheel. The shops and restaurants also have wide awnings that make it possible to walk around without getting too wet. Street life, so common in the rest of the Vietnam we have seen, is muted here, or driven into the garage-like restaurants on the bottom floors of buildings.

Hue was the first large town south of the Demilitarized Zone, or DMZ, the 10 kilometer swath of land that separated North from South Vietnam. It also lies at the narrowest point of the country, only 50 Km (30 miles) across. These circumstances made it the scene of some of the fiercest fighting of the war.

Of course, in Vietnam, no one seems to remember. The DMZ tour is remarkable for its lack of sights. Apparently, on the few sunny days when it operates, you are taken to areas where such and such a thing happened, or such and such a firebase used to dominate a hill, but there are almost no monuments. The tour is supposedly a good way to see the countryside. The Vietnamese seem as intent on forgetting the war as the Americans are on refighting it shot by shot in books, movies, and chat rooms.

But it is rainy and nearly impossible to get around, or even stay outside for more than ten minutes at a stretch. What you do see is an unpretentious city that stretches out along two sides of a river (its lovely name is "Perfume River"). On one side is the imperial seat of the Vietnam empire. On the other side is a familiar backpacker district of hotels, restaurants, photo shops, and Internet cafes.

This afternoon, we will don our ponchos and go see the imperial palace.

Ha Long Bay

(Apologies for photos, it's been quite rainy and hard to shoot anything but grim-looking landscapes)

Dawn has struck on Ha Long Bay, and we are in our cabins on an "authentic junk," in reality a junk-shaped, diesel powered, mini-cruise ship. It has showers, flush toilets, air conditioning, and a staff that is currently preparing us hot coffee and breakfast. So far on this voyage we have eaten stir-fried squid, steamed clams, boiled shrimp, stuffed crab, poached fish, and French fries. I love seafood, but I am concerned about breakfast.

The event is a two day cruise on Ha Long Bay, in the Gulf of Tonkin, where an ambiguous incident led to a foolish and angry declaration by the US Congress, which was in turn used by successive presidents to widen and prolong the Vietnam War. Our spiffy tour was arranged by our hotel (a bargain at $50 per person for transportation, one night, two days, and a bushel of freshly-killed crustaceans).

We began with a long van ride through a very young country. Most Vietnamese were born after the war, which has filled the country with sprightly 20-somethings.The object of their desire is—unlike the Chinese—not a car, but a motorscooter and an apartment in one of the narrow concrete buildings found everywhere. They are an entirely unique architectural form. They have three stories, two balconies, all squeezed into a building perhaps 12 feet wide. Their street side is garishly painted and often fitted with ornate Art Deco balconies--always empty--while the other sides remain concrete-prison gray. At their base, dozens of people squat at impromptu restaurants, which typically consist of a woman and her daughter ladling out soup to customers who laugh and gesture with chopsticks.

Still, Vietnam is not a place where it is easy to get close to the people—by this I don't mean it's not easy to wrangle a bowl of pho out of the confused woman and her daughter mentioned above. I mean that tourism mostly consists of sitting with other westerners on buses and boats and looking out at the Vietnamese as if you were in some kind of human zoo. A good example of this was a French couple (doctor and radiologist) on our boat who had brought their young daughter for a three week trip. They said, "She is learning a lot, she is seeing poverty. Tres triste."

For all that, it's sometimes nice to be in a zoo. Ha Long Bay is one of the more magical places on earth, a rare instance of beautiful green mountains buried mostly under sea. Our first day began with a visit to a cave, where our guide seemed to think that we would all be interested in seeing stalagmites that (he said) looked like camels or stars or turtles. None, in fact, looked anything like those animals. However, there was one called "finger rock," which did bear a most striking resemblance to a human appendage. Not a hand with a finger pointing in the air, mind you, but from the peals of laughter that rang out in the cave, you'll know it was something far more amusing.

From there, our guides shanghaied us into some cold kayaks—a circumstance that led not to kayaking, but to a huddle of cold tourists shivering on a dock and pooling their money together to buy beers. Our party consisted of three Austrians (who seemed vastly less interested in the scenery than they did the astonishingly reasonable price of Hanoi vodka on the boat), a young French couple who spent most of the time with their faces stuck together, and a chummy Australian who could talk about Brisbane weather for fifteen minutes at a stretch. In all, a good party.

The second day, those of us who were not throwing up Hanoi vodka over the side railing were treated to a cruise through the mountains and a long description of the many golf courses available in the Brisbane metro area. It was raining, though, and it looks like more of the same is on the way.

Rain Check

A pair of windy, rainy days has kept us in our hotel room (which is, in most respects, exactly like any other hotel room). It has also provided some time so that Joe could complete a rush job for one of his long suffering clients. We're off for a boatride today on Ha Long Bay, with an overnight stay, but hope to return on Saturday with a more interesting post.