Mekong delta

There's no way roads in inner Southeast Asia are worse than those in the Mekong delta. No fucking way. A six-hour ride on literally non-existent roads for more than half of the journey - alternating between a hardly smooth surface of large rocks and deep potholes with dusty paths and muddy tracks. And whoever designed these roads clearly never thought about the gradual incline to and from bridges.


I'm surprised my stomach withstood it all despite a lunch of soup noodles - even the conductor stuck her head out of the window to throw up. Irony: foundations of new tarred roads and wide bridges being laid down parallel to the 'road' we were on throughout the entire journey by labourers.


The Mekong delta is bewildering even when viewed at sea level - what more from above. It's one wide expanse of lowland divided erratically into little islands by the Mekong river which fans out into the region. There are no mountains to behold, just flat farmland as far as the eye can see - obscured by tall trees every now and then.


Throughout the journey, we cross countless bridges spanning the little tributaries of the Mekong river, bordered by little villages that live off them. At the ferry crossing, the land looks as if it had been torn asunder and the sea rushed into the gash and churned up the silt to form the great brown river.


The harvest season must've just ended. The fields are mostly bare and the smog and the smell of smoke in the air suggest the burning of chaff. I see more churches here - apparently thanks to the missionaries who tried to save the poor souls of the tribes who live in godlessness far away from the civilization of big cities. Development is approaching, slow, but everywhere you go, you see the sign of the New Messiah.


So I'm sitting in this bus, and I'm thinking, 'This is going to be worse than Chongqing and Dazu.' There, at least I had a map (not for Dazu) and I could probably save my life with Chinese. But here, I don't have a map and I speak only three phrases of Vietnamese. This is going to be hard and will most likely be the toughest leg of this trip this time around.


The thing about sunsets is that they're very brief. The sun puts on its show just within that small window of a few minutes; just before it dips completely below the horizon, throwing red splashes all over the darkening sky. And for a brief moment, it's all over and the world is plunged into darkness.

Ho Chi Minh City Museum

Reunification Palace

Visiting the Reunification Palace and the Ho Chi Minh City Museum has been an enlightening experience. Ho Chi Minh City's take on the Vietnam war is a refreshing change from that of Hanoi. Coming from the capital city of the defeated faction in the civil war, it is also a more informative and interesting perspective.


I think it's fair to say that Vietnam's history is unique. Throughout its history, it has always faced the threat of invasion by foreign powers: the imperial Chinese dynasties of Qin, Han and Ming; the Mongolians under Kublai; as well as the French and American imperialists. And they have always fought back for their freedom and sovereignty. Although they have not always prevailed, this nationalistic fervour seems to have bridled under the surface like embers waiting for the right conditions to fan into a blazing fire of vengeance.


And this is why I don't understand the Vietnamese. After having gone through such a turbulent past, you'd have expected it to show in their behaviour whether in their ferocity in handling business, or their suspiciousness towards foreigners, or even a certain roughness in their speech. But instead, you find the opposite in the Vietnamese. If anything, they appear to have a blase attitude towards everything.


I spoke to Kiet about this and he thinks it's because the Vietnamese knows there's nothing that can be done but to try their best to keep on surviving. There's nothing they can do about the war, but there's certainly something they can do to save themselves. And that's how they persevere.


Forgive me but I don't think this is true. Being fatalistic does not cause a people to unite and build Ho Chi Minh's Trail, or even dig the Cu Chi Tunnels or win the Vietnam war. Being fatalistic only lets you survive for a little while longer.


After two weeks in Vietnam, her people still intrigue me.

War Remnants Museum

The War Remnants Museum is an excellent museum - and not just because of its detailed English captions. As its name suggests, it houses - as part of its exhibits - a collection of US fighter planes, tanks, artillery and bombs. Small mention is made on the Indochina war with the French but the stress lay more on the (second) Vietnam war.


My favourite exhibit has to be the exhibit dedicated to the photojournalists who risked their lives to bring us such vivid photographs of a war even before my time, which now serve to remind me of unfortunate times. Aside from the informative captions, their photographs are also accompanied by excerpts from their journals, writings, books or interviews (those who survived). I don't think I've ever been moved by such an exhibition before.


What I like about this musum is the lack of outright recriminations (except for one exhibit). Instead, its exhibits sue for peace and act as a reminder to all so that history is not repeated. Even the emblem of the museum bears a white dove in the foreground. Sure, it's not entirely neutral but I find the exhibits on chemical (Agent Orange) warfare and the brutality of war to innocent civilians a warning to the horrors of any war.

Couchsurfing Saigon

Meet Steve. He's a high-school graduate from Canada. He lives in Ho Chi Minh City with Charlie from Buffalo, Martin from York and Whitney from an undisclosed location. Minh does not live here although she apparently spends more time here than wherever it is she lives. She's Vietnamese but speaks impeccable English and only a smatter of Vietnamese which gives me doubts as to her background.

They all live together in this house, a 45-minute walk from the centre. Their rooms are simple and basic - some with only a mere mattress on the floor. It's a good indication as to how I might possibly live now that I've got a house of my own. They all teach English at private tuition centres around Ho Chi Minh City.

When prompted as to why Ho Chi Minh City, they replied, "This is the life!" What followed was a discussion on the different mindsets between Asians and Caucasians. Steve said it is "more free" here - easier to get a job with his high-school credentials. I've yet to ask whether a 'free-er' job meant a non-'nine-to-five' job or a job that's not the standard professional job as expected of a person who comes from a society that can afford tertiary education or where tertiary education is so easily available.

Giac Lam

Altar for body remains: The walls are lined with shelves enclosed by glass. Within them are jars in which ashes of the deceased are kept. Some jars are plain and simple, some are carved in the shape of lotus buds, others are ornately decorated with Buddhist themes. Photos are attached to some. And one jar, huddling inconspicuously amongst the rest, displays two photos: ashes of both husband and wife. A love inseparable even by death - a true everlasting love, one that surpasses space and time.


I like this temple very much. It's a true place of worship where prayer is taken seriously: only between Man and God. The front doors are locked and the only way in is through the back. But obviously only if you're familiar to the place of worship (or if you explore it thoroughly).


Most pagodas are seven-stories high. They represent the seven steps to enlightenment or so I read somewhere. And I quite like the whole concept: reaching nirvana by climbing seven-stories of stairs, or in this case, the top where you get a sweeping view of the land, the state of nirvana when one comes to deep understanding.


And what a view, houses spreading in all directions as far as the eye can see. It's like a never-ending Athens. And all around, you hear the noisy sound of traffic and the deafening noise of construction. Even the chanting of monks which filled the entire temple complex are drowned out. It's actually driving me up the wall.

Phuoc Hai

The Phuoc Hai: the wood carvings and panels above the altars are blanketed from the smoke of incense over the span of years whilst the ceramic statues on the roof still gleam in their colours under the sun.

Saigon sights

Notre Dame Cathedral

City Hall

Ho Chi Minh City is similar in some ways to Hanoi. I was expecting a busy metropolis enclosed by tall skyscrapers but the backpackers' area where the bus dropped me off is pretty much similar to Hanoi's Old Quarter. Kiet says it's because we're in the wrong district: business and commercial districts are not located in the centre of the city.

Opera House

That said, its city centre where the French built their colonial structures - remnant of French imperialism - is pretty . I mean, come on, would the Vietnamese build an opera house? The city hall, and post office are really something to see. The river is another story though - apparently, the city council is trying to build up the district situated just across the river into another commercial district so maybe in a few years time, it may just look like Shanghai's Pudong area.

Post Office

Ben Thanh Market

If I thought Hanoi was bad enough, Ho Chi Minh City is worse. Not only is the traffic heavier here, but motorists really push it to the limits here, coming within millimetres between them and you - and here I am contemplating if I should rent a motorcycle or not.

Cholon

Cholon, or Ho Chi Minh City's Chinatown, is not as I had expected. Apparently, it was the Chinese who first founded this city, with its market at the very centre. If you study the map of Indochine (as the French call it) on the left wall of the Post Office, you'll find a black dot indicating the town of Cholon and distinct from the black dot indicating the new French settlement of Saigon. For the obvious reason of political influence, the French decided to establish their outpost a little distance away from the local city, heralding a new era of change and reconstruction.


Over time, the town of Cholon became incorporated into the rest of the sprawl that is Ho Chi Minh City as the latter expanded. Cholon itself assimilated local Vietnamese culture - Chinese signboards can still be seen here and there although Vietnamese signs now outnumber them. The local community speak both Cantonese and Vietnamese proficiently without an accent that could distinguish them from the local Vietnamese. The district is no longer the Chinese outpost trying to spread civilization to the local barbarians- another of Ho Chi Minh City's many districts modernizing beyond distinction and recognition.

Thien Hau Temple

Po Ngar Cham Towers

Long Son Pagoda

Nha Trang

I can't see what all the fuss is about: Nha Trang is such a boring city.

Hoi An riverbank

Sitting on riverbank, I can just picture Chinese junks sailing into the little river from the great South China Sea sea. Casting their anchors just a short distance away from the banks, they are swamped by smaller ships that pull up alongside them or moor off the piers and every other vessel in between.


I've just had one last good look at the old town. The Frenchies are definitely having an effect on me: here I am sitting on a low stool by a low table - which I'm getting used to - watching the traffic up and down the river. The sun's just about to set and it's been a good day.

Hearts melt

The Land of Smiles - beautiful everywhere. A suggestion, a flash. A reply broad and big. Hearts melt.

Hoi An Market

Early morning again - this time to the wet market. Saturday morning - no other better time, surely?


I love markets - both wet and dry - not just for what is being sold but also for its human-esque quality. It's obvious how markets reflect the livelihood and economy of a town; less obvious its history; and even less so its culture and beliefs.


But it's such a human thing - markets: where everybody converge at a specific point in space and time to interact with each other in more ways than one. It's simply a characteristic of human civilization: no civilization has ever occurred without a marketplace.

Eating in Vietnam

So I have a theory, which obviously need not be true, but could possibly have some grain of truth in it. Let's start by introducing the problem: the Vietnamese are, let's say, unhygienic, when it comes to food. And that's an understatement. I kid you not.


When preparing food, they'd use their bare hands and reuse any food that's fallen on the ground. They don't seem to mind that there are flies everywhere and washing liquid is unheard of. And yet, I've eaten cold rice, noodles and bread but have not fallen ill, not even once.


My theory is that aside from the dishes (e.g. noodles) cooked in boiling water, other dishes are served with a sour sauce. It's this very same sauce in which they preserve their vegetables - I'd say it's vinegar but those of you who know me, know of my renowned tasting (in)abilities. But it's something vinegar-y (read: acidic). And I think all that acid must be doing something to keep the food sterile.


That, and the amount of chili they use. God, even I'd stay off food if it had that much chili in it. Surely though, they must have some antibacterial activity in them? Just a hunch.

***

So we were all having dinner together that night and somewhere in the middle of it, a waitress came to take away a dish I considered not finished. So I stopped eating abruptly, sat up and looked around the table at the others before giving a very loud 'err' at the waitress. She paused in her movements with her hand on the dish and I explained politely that we weren't done with the dish yet.

After she had left, the Frenchies started snickering at me before giving way to a full hearty laughs. Apparently, I'm too polite. 'Very British,' they tell me in their blocked-nose, throaty French accent. Had they done it, they would've stopped eating abruptly too but proceeded to wave their hands wildly in the air while saying, 'No no no no no,' in their blocked-nose, throaty French accent. Go figure.

***


Tonight, I had the best sugarcane juice ever. So I trekked out of town a bit. Came across an unattended sugarcane machine outside a house. It sounded as if the family were gathered in front of the tele with their dinner. I showed my face and someone in the family calls.

Before long, a young girl of about 11-13 appears at the doorway. She operates the machine and starts squeezing out the juice from the stick. When I paid her, she flashed me the sweetest smile ever. And when I thanked her in Vietnamese, she replied, 'Thank you.' So it's a little too sour from too much lime but it was the best sugarcane drink ever.

Da Nang

With half of the journey completed, I suggested that we lunch at Da Nang. It's not a pretty city at all: one of those neither-here-nor-there types. I'm not even sure if it has any heritage value. Ever since taking over Hoi An's role major port, the city has probably never looked back and is trying to catch up with the likes of Hanoi and Saigon. So think of a city that's trying to modernize but still has a long way to go as well as enough people to make the city noisy and congested but not enough to make it vibrant and you'll be pretty close to Da Nang.

***


As agreed, Lionel taught me how to ride the motorcycle. I'd ask him to run me through the mechanisms of the vehicle before we even started on our excursion so I could observe whilst he drove the outward leg. True to his word, it's damn fucking easy. Oh my god! It's so different being the person holding the steering handles and having the wind blown at you rather than being blocked by the driver. I notched an average of 60 km/h and we got back to Hoi An before long. Learnt a new skill today! Tres proud!

Marble Mountain

Marble Mountain is amazing. Halfway to Da Nang and six kilometres away from Hoi An (seven from Da Nang). Lionel and I rent a motorcycle whilst the girls spoil themselves with girly stuff. The road hugs the coastline and the view of blue sky, green sea and white sand is gorgeous. But I digress.


If I understand the ticket-lady correctly, the mountain consists of five parts, each coinciding with one of the five elements, with water having the highest peak. The climb up to the peak is an adventure itself. After climbing the few flights of steps up from the entrance, you'll encounter what's called Van Thong cave. There's really nothing in it. But if you explore as far back as possible, you'll find that where the cave seems to have fallen in on itself, there's a small hole through the ceiling - small enough for a person to climb through. Beyond that, you'll find the trail which will lead you to God's seat and the stunning view at the summit.


Marble Mountain doesn't just end with the view at the top. The mountain itself conceals a network of caves, home to a small number of impressive Buddhist statues reminiscent of the cave sculptures at Dazu. They lack the elaborate style of the Tang dynasty but within these silent caves lit only by shafts of light streaming in through holes in the mountain wall, the simplicity and austerity command respect and encourage meditation. When I say 'explore the mountain', I *mean* explore the mountain.

Cua Dai beach

4:45 am and it's already light. The air is cool but I break into a sweat almost as soon as I start jogging. My Shuffle blares out remixes you normally hear at a club. It's the first time I'm listening to it since leaving England.


The jog is uneventful. Other than the thumping beats of my iPod, only the prospect of watching the sunrise over the South China Sea at Cua Dai beach spurs me onwards. Views of paddy fields and rivers in the soft light of dawn distract me every now and then.


5:50 am. Sunrise was slightly disappointing: a big fat cumulonimbus in the way paints the sky a nice shade of dark red above the Vietnamese mountains behind. The beach is surprisingly packed with people. No, not tourists but locals. They bury themselves in the sand, play volleyball or badminton, jog and exercise along the surf, or paddle and swim about in the sea. I guess it's early to bed, early to rise for the Vietnamese. I, myself walk along the surf, lie down on the beach and paddle about where the sea reaches just above the knees.


Rising above the cloud, the glorious sun casts its rays and sets the sea ablaze in dazzling reflections of white and yellow. The Cham islands, once mere shadows amongst dancing mists, now disappear as if the legendary giant turtle on which it rests on decides to submerge. Likewise, the locals decide to leave in an attempt to escape the hot sun whilst the beach is overrun by mad pale-skinned tourists who seek the sun.


The jog back is different; interesting, now that the town has woken up. The road is no longer mine and I strive to constantly remember to jog by the side of the road now that they are filled with cars and motorcycles. Every now and then, a child cycles past and I try to keep up. Before long, I reach the hostel, dump my valuables in the room and dive into the cool refreshing waters of the pool.

Hoi An sights (4 of 4)

Tan Ky house

Japanese Covered Bridge

Museum of Sa Huynh Culture

Cantonese Assembly Hall

Quan Thang house

Chinese Assembly Hall

Fukien Assembly Hall

Quan Cong Temple

History and Culture Museum

Tran house

Hoi An banter (3 of 4)

I find the locals here in Hoi An friendlier. Well, maybe not friendlier but certainly, less perseverant. One 'no' and they won't ask you again. And now that I think about it, they are indeed friendlier here - helping you despite not making any profit out of it.

Also, French is used here more than English. So maybe it's not commonly used anymore but the old folk still speak fluent French of a certain level of proficiency. Their basic English pales in comparison. But no worries, at least I get to learn some French from the Frenchies (although it is weird to see them conversing at ease with the locals whilst I stand around like a fool despite the fact that I come from Southeast Asia myself!)

Museum of Trade Ceramics (2 of 4)

Standing on the balcony with my hands on the balustrade, I close my eyes. Below me, the street pulses with life and bustles with activity in the relative cool of the early morning.


The tinkle of bicycle bells and the shouts of men on their bicycles can be heard as they try their best to manoeuvre through the congested street. With the street this crowded, you'd be better off on foot than on anything. And no wonder too: other than the ones trying to jostle their way through the street, some stop to chat about the latest happenings with their friends and neighbours. At such loud voices, nothing remains secret for long. The better off ones ride on rickshaws but in this traffic, they're no better off than the next, to be honest.


Peddlers display and sell their goods along the street on two baskets which they hang from a wooden stick balanced on their shoulders. The trundling of carts can be heard as Chinese traders cart the latest shipment of their finest ceramics from their boats moored at the docks right up to the doorstep of this mercantile building. Their wheels groan and creak under their heavy burden.


My bookeeper comes out and greets them. What starts off as an exchange of words becomes a parry of loud words. They must've shortchanged us again. It happens all the time: people trying to pull a fast one. It's fine. My man will sort it out. He's very competent. It's why I hired him in the first place.


Everything else remain pretty much the same. The men below are hard at work: unpacking the wares, packing them again accordingly, distributing them to our customers and storing the rest of them. Everything has remained the same this long and will forever continue to do so, as long as Hoi An still stands and one has a good imagination.

Hoi An (1 of 4)

It's rather difficult to write about Hoi An. It was Vietnam's most important port from the 16th to the 18th century. The city was a major trading post for ceramics, dealing especially with nearby China and Japan. As a result, the old town is a smorgasbord of Chinese-, Japanese- and Vietnamese-influenced architecture, sometimes even in the same building, a legacy of the traders who did business and settled here.


From the 18th century onwards, Hoi An's role of port and trading post shifted to the port of Da Nang and the town reputedly began its decline. Many mercantile centres fell into disuse and were abandoned whilst residential houses became neglected, a mere shadow of their former glory.


In 1999, UNESCO recognised the old town as a World Heritage site not only for its architectural wealth but also for the unique livelihood and culture of the local inhabitants. As a result, the whole town has undergone a facelift with buildings damaged by water and termites being repaired or even taken apart and rebuilt with the funds that come with its new status. Now, the whole place looks and feels tacky: the sort that occurs when you try to make something old that inevitably ends up looking new. It's definitely lost its authenticity.


However, the tourists don't seem to notice this and with them coming in droves in search of that authentic Vietnamese town, the livelihood of the locals has shifted to a tourist-centric industry. According to a study, souvenir shops, restaurants and cafes as well as mini-hotels have increased whilst a decrease has been observed in small manufacture industries. Even the front of houses have been renovated to serve their new purpose. It can't possibly get any tackier than this.


But - yes, there is a 'but' and a very strong one at that too - Hoi An still retains some of its beauty which caught the hearts and imaginations of the first travellers who visited this town before fame caused its demised (or so I'd like to think). If you look between the mannequins sporting traditional Vietnamese clothing, past the racks of leather shoes and through the shelves of craftsware, you'll find supporting columns of timber and wall plaques with Chinese characters inscribed on them as well as Vietnamese bow-and-arrow beams in the ceiling supporting Chinese yin-yang roofs.


What I like best is how you can pop into any shop and ask to see the building. Most shopowners are more than happy to let you do so and some will tell you how old the house is and explain how they've lived there for generations, passing down the house to their children. Look past the reception hall and you'll see the Chinese-inspired open-air courtyard with Zen rockery and behind that, untouched and preserved, is the age-old way of life of the locals. Simple, frugal, basic.


I guess, after writing all this, Hoi An is exactly that: difficult. It's difficult to like it but once you know what to look for, you'll learn to appreciate it.

Tu Duc's tomb

The Vietnamese are really friendly - once you get past the people who are trying to con you. I guess you find people in every country trying to make a quick fix. But I think people are good by default. I've yet to meet a community of people who are mean.



So I was looking around for an adapter (I did not bother to bring the one I bought on my travels around continental Europe because I thought everywhere in southeast Asia would use the standard three-pin socket), and I popped into this proper mobile phone shop with two young attending ladies. After conveying my message, they actually gave me one for free! I don't even know what force was working to my advantage back there.



That night itself, we met up with couchsurfer Cang and his friends who took us out for Hue's specialty. Maybe karma does exist after all?

Minh Mang's tomb

I've got two questions, the first a proper one, the second, a rhetorical one. So one, why it is that tombs such as Khai Dinh's were not sacked of its treasures? I mean sure, there aren't any gold or silver or previous stones lying about. But I'm sure that the statues, or any fragments of stonework, or pieces of ceramics would fetch a prince's ransom on the antique black market. Look what's happening to Angkor watt. If anyone knows the answer, feel free to comment.



Two. At Minh Mang's tomb, I saw a lady - I'd say of middle age - clasp her hands in prayer before the altar of Minh Mang. Do the Vietnamese people still revere their kings of old as gods? What does that tell me about them? Hang on, I may just have found the answer to my first question.

Khai Dinh's tomb

Tombs are tricky ones, aren't they? Set aside a small plot of land as your burial grave, and you fall into oblivion. Build a fucking huge tomb and you risk the wrath of the people.


Look what happened to the Old Kingdom after having built the pyramids. I mean, as a taxpayer, I'd be quite annoyed at the Nguyen dynasty to know that money, time and effort were being spent on one person's final resting place instead of bettering the lives of the people and kicking out the imperialists.


That said, I very much prefer Minh Mang's tomb than Khai Dinh's. It's subtle, soft and quiet, unlike Khai Dinh's brash, hard and loud in-your-face pompous tomb. I mean, come on, a life-size gilded statue of yourself? Puh-leeze.


The grey and black tones of Khai Dinh's are trumped by the red wood, yellow-orange tiles, green trees and lakes, as well as blue skies. When I think of Khai Dinh's tomb, I hear a big loud fucking gong. When I think of Minh Mang's, I hear the rustling of the wind in the trees.


Let's put it this way, when you're finally laid down to rest for all eternity, would you rather have many tourists gawking and speaking disrespectfully in your tomb or would you rather be entombed in a park where people stroll quietly by the banks of the two rivers?


Besides, Ming Mang's tomb kicks Khai Dinh's tomb's arse in terms of size.

Hue by day and night

So I met three French backpackers on the sleeper bus to Hue. I've decided to tag along just for the fun of meeting new people (they're heading in the same general direction anyway). In many ways, they travel around like myself: cautious and thrifty but always up for adventure - whether it's getting lost on bicycles or trying out random foods at roadside stalls. One thing though: they really take it slow.


So this morning, we were all having breakfast. Everyone else had finished theirs. I still had my cup of tea which I proceeded to gulp down as quickly as I can. Aurelie turns to me and says (in her French accent which I find amusing), 'Woah! Slow down. Take it easy.' Double take.


In some ways, it's doing me good. I'm learning how to take it easy and to once again enjoy myself. It's been some time since backpacking's been enjoyable for me and I need to rediscover that which attracted me to it in the first place. For once, I'm taking in the sights and soaking up the atmosphere (the Frenchies' favourite phrase) after every meal instead of asking for the bill and leaving just as fast as I got there.

***


So we're walking along the bank of the Perfume River. The promenade is filled with people selling wares and snacks. I'm desperately looking for sugarcane juice. Oh god, it's been years since I last had some - a faint memory of a taste as if from a long-forgotten dream.


Here in Hue, sugarcane is crushed with lime by the same hand-operated machines that you find in the night markets of Malaysia. The novelty makes it taste better until I find a sugarcane vendor in a small street. Lime-less but the taste of pure sugarcane juice freshly crushed is so good. Someone kill me now, honest.

Thien Mu Pagoda

The chanting of the monks is reassuring. As I sit in front of the temple, the gong resonates throughout the temple, enveloping my entire existence, spreads forth from the temple and envelopes the very world, even.

Citadel of Hue

It's beautiful here. Most of all, it's quiet. Serene. In front of me, a black spotted orange koi peaks through the lotus leaves - comforting in their flat round surfaces. A dragonfly rests on a lotus bud, yet to bloom. A light breeze ruffles the shrubs on the Zen rock and blows through the pavilion. Beyond the pond, the ruins of unfortunate structures bake under the unmerciful sun.



Hue's Imperial City is much better than the Forbidden City. I prefer this one. It's quieter and more relaxing. More in harmony with nature with its green parks and lotus-covered lakes. It's not as extravagant and brash like the Forbidden City but a lot of it has been damaged by war. Most of the Purple City has been utterly bombed to destruction whilst the rest were left to fall into disuse and neglect.



I think the best way to do it is by travelling up the central axis, then come back via the left axis before crossing and exploring the right axis. Once they reconstruct the entire site - which I assume will take a few more years - the citadel will become a beautiful park where many people - locals even - will just stroll the day away. Even now, it's not too bad a place.

Water puppets

The water puppet show is interesting for only one reason: the music. I'm actually in love with traditional Vietnamese music now. It's amazing how the music actually evokes the atmosphere of setting: lazy melodies for sailing down the river and strong vibrant beats at a local festival. And speaking of beats, who would've guessed that they'd be as ting tong as Ting Tong herself? It definitely lends some credence to coach's theory.

Hanoi Opera House

Ok, now that uncle, auntie and Duong have driven me around town on their motorcycles, I think it's safe to say that only the younger generation drive haphazardly. Uncle and auntie couldn't possibly be any safer: 1) they don't use their horns, and 2) they drive so slow and carefully that even I feel impatient at times. This causes me to wonder how many motorcyclists in Vietnam actually have a driving license.

Halong Bay

Today I got sunburnt all over my shoulders. I knew all that cycling wouldn't do me any good.


I've definitely been far too comfortable back at Cambridge and Malaysia. Having decided to make my own way to Halong Bay, I look back on the whole morning and I can spot so many opportunities where I could've been conned. (Thankfully, I wasn't but that's not the point). Will have to be more careful in the future.


That said, caught a boat with other Vietnamese tourists. Don't think it gets any more authentic than this (unless you rent a paddle boat yourself).


Thank god for picking up Mandarin whilst on my travels around China and for the lessons I took this past year: Met a Vietnamese staff on board who worked in China before and could therefore speak Chinese. Also met another Vietnamese staff who could speak Malay after having worked in Malaysia for a year. Apparently, the pay was shit (even working in Vietnam pays better) and I'm thinking, 'Jeez, how do we treat these immigrant workers?'


I'm still undecided as to Halong Bay. It's beautiful, very beautiful in fact. It's as if time froze the very moment these hills erupted from the green sea, taking bits of it with it. It's like Yangshuo, but not quite. There's the sea, for one. And until you own your own yacht or are rich enough to hire a private boat, you're at the mercy of service providers and the scams that go hand-in-hand with them. For that, I think I prefer Yangshou and the freedom you get just by renting a bicycle.


Amazement Cave is alright as caves go. Ok, so I don't know how to appreciate caves, alright? I mean, you see the same thing with candles, no? Just give and take a few million years or so. The same thing applies to evolution. And frankly speaking, I find biology more interesting?


Ti Top Island on the other hand is amazing. When I asked Ting for a mountain to climb in Halong Bay, I was thinking of one which takes the average person two days to climb. This hill took only five minutes. That said, the view from the top is breathtaking.

Hanoi IV

You know when it rains, motorcyclists tend to slow down? In Hanoi, they speed up.

***

Two gems of Vietnamese culture:

1. A close neighbour is better than a distant brother.
2. It is rude to have your guest in the kitchen.

***

Home-cooked Vietnamese spring rolls for dinner. Mmm.

Tran Quoc Pagoda

West Lake

Now West Lake is definitely something. It's still not as pretty as that of Hangzhou - not in the manicured way anyway. But it can surely kick arse in terms of size.

Downed B52

Temple of Literature

Ho Chi Minh Residence

Visiting Uncle Ho's residence confirms my suspicions: the Vietnamese do indeed live simple lives. For example, they don't believe in cushions or mattresses. Hence, their couches and chairs have hard seats and their beds consist of a rattan mat placed over the supporting woodwork. They also don't use air-conditioners: contented instead with a table fan underneath the mosquito net suspended over the bed. I think it's a great idea.

One Pillar Pagoda

Ho Chi Minh Museum

Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum

It appears that the Vietnamese too, have developed a fondness for communist grandeur. The surrounding layout of Uncle Ho's mausoleum unsurprisingly resembles that of Tiananmen Gate: wide road for parades and seating for spectators on both sides of the mausoleum.

Hanoi III

Ok, so I think I've finally figured out how it all works over here.

1. My dad owns the road. I needn't bother with traffic lights or road lanes.

2a. If car driver: Motorcycles are small and should get out of everyone else's way.
2b. If motorcyclist: I am small and can evade traffic easily by weaving in and out of it.

3a. If non-pedestrian: Refer to rule no. 1.
3b. If pedestrian: Refer to rule no. 1.

***


Ok. So first I said you'd never catch me driving in Hanoi. That night itself, I rode at the back of a motorcycle for the first time. Today, I thought I'd try my luck and cycle around Hanoi. I know, I know. I have absolutely no idea how it happened. I rented a cheap bike, so cheap that it had no gears and the brakes were not working. Despite risking my life, I was forced to cycle really slowly and got to take in bits of Hanoi I'd never otherwise see. That said, I must've used up all eight of my lives (if that's even possible).

Hanoi II

'Oh god oh god oh god oh god!'


That was all that was running through my mind the entire journey back to my couchsurfing host's home. And I thought being a pedestrian in Hanoi was bad enough. But riding on the back of a motorcycle trumps it all especially when he's using his mobile at the same time. I grip the back handles hard till my knuckles ache. I sit stiffly until my bum also ache and my legs cramp up.


'Fuck!'


I swear that car was millimetres away from my skin - I could feel it at the tips of the hairs on my leg as it revved past us.


***

Apparently, it's a custom to wait for everyone to return home for a family dinner when a guest is around. My first home-cooked Vietnamese meal. They certainly eat funny things here: pig ears included. When I told them that we don't eat them in Malaysia (at least I've never had them before), his mother asks me, 'So what do you do with them?' To which I reply, 'Don't know. Probably throw them away.' I guess when you're in a country this poor, anything goes and you can't afford to let anything go to waste.

St. Joseph's Cathedral

Hanoi's Old Quarter

The Old Quarter is somewhat similar to Beijing's hutong with small congested roads lined with small shops ever increasingly catered towards tourists. However, there is a slight difference where shophouses have actually been converted into beautiful residential buildings in the top floors. When there's no other space, where else do you go but up?


Locals sit about with their friends in front of their shops; talking or playing cards; preparing dinner or eating; or simply having tea or smoking from a pipe which resembles that used for opium. I would later be told that it's like shisha: with water contained within the bamboo pipe between the mouthpiece and the place where the tobacco is burnt. The smoker sucks long and hard before exhaling and refilling the pipe for the next round.

Ngoc Son Temple

Hoan Kiem Lake

Hoan Kiem Lake, which I think is the corruption of the mandarin 'huan qian', or the Lake of Returning Sword isn't anywhere close to the West Lake in Hangzhou or the Mountain Resort lake of Chengde. It can't compare in terms of size and is definitely not as beautiful. That said, it has its own charm as the converging point of many people: locals and tourists alike: strolling, walking, jogging or sitting by its banks.

Hoa Lo Prison

Quan Su Pagoda

Hanoi I

Touchdown in Hanoi and I encounter my first problem: spillage of shower gel in my toiletries bag because I didn't shut the cap properly. I've been comfortable for way too long.


Oh my god, traffic in Hanoi is crazy. Think of the many bicycles in Cambridge, multiply them by a factor of a million and replace them with motorcycles. Add a continuous supply of blaring horns from them and cars; generous amounts of exhaust fumes and dust; and a touch of sun and sweat just to indulge me.


I've never been more afraid to cross a road in my life but once you start, don't ever *ever* stop.

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

Things have certainly changed. Whereas before, I did not know how to appreciate the beauty of my homeland, could not comprehend why anyone would want to settle here for good; but now, after having travelled far and wide (or so I'd like to think), I look around my beloved country with different eyes and I see potential. Potential.


My issue with Malaysia - especially Kuala Lumpur - is that it's neither here nor there. I compare it to Prague and I see dilapidated historical buildings, most having been torn down to make way for skyscrapers. So I compare it to Hong Kong, and I see dull architecture of unimpressive short buildings.


And yet, Kuala Lumpur still has potential: the Moorish architecture of the Sultan Abdul Samad Building and the Kuala Lumpur Railway Station is reminiscent of a glorious era long gone past and the towering height of the Petronas Twin Towers is a testament of our architectural capabilities. Something needs to be done about that Klang River though: its muddy brown turbulent waters (or silt) just doesn't do anything for the aesthetics of the city.


Things don't just stop at Kuala Lumpur however - the whole country itself is bursting with potential. Its political scene is slightly unstable but the workings of democracy are obvious in the boldness and strength of the opposition party, the Pakatan Rakyat, which is trying to obtain a vote of no confidence in the current Prime Minister. It also champions equal rights for all races although I'd take this with a pinch of salt, to be honest.


I'd say the economy is still fairly good. Of course, we're also affected by the increase in the price of oil but then again, who isn't. I'd like to think that inflation is in check but I'm not really informed about it (prices are still about the same for all I care). Sure, there are issues of corruption, cronyism, and general organizational matters to attend to but all it needs really is a prod in the right direction. Don't you find this terribly exciting? Because I do.

Kuala Lumpur International Airport

Baggage reclaim. They've hired someone to make sure luggage doesn't hit the side of the conveyor belt when it is belched out from the depths of the airport. He even makes sure they're facing the right way up (possibly for easy identification). Two ironies:

1. So much for technology and machinery replacing human workforce.
2. Whilst waiting to disembark from the plane, workers could be seen outside the windows throwing luggage carelessly into transport carts.

The arrival hall is quiet for such a large hall. People hold cards with names. No point looking - no one's waiting, which is fine but it does reflect the sad part that I might not even be returning in the first place. And yet, the headscarves of Muslim women - a sign of religious piety or the suppression of human rights depending on which side you're on - is a welcoming sight.

With a bang

I walk down the aisle. On the plane. Squeeze past the Chinese nationals standing in the middle of the aisle playing cards. These guys are resilient. Set the twelve plagues upon China and it won't even change their habits.

I reach the exit. It's locked but the instructions are printed red on the door. It doesn't help my compulsions. I unlock the door, cabin pressure and air masks drop. The plane tips and swerves to one side due to physical forces I do not understand. Passengers scream in their panic, serves them right for not buckling up. I look around at the silly fools, 'We're all going to die anyway. So why not go with a bang?' I smile and jump out into the sea of golden ripples.

My hands become clammy and my legs wobbly. With great effort, I control my compulsion. I don't think I'd ever skydive. Bungee jumping's still my record. I could never bring myself to jump out of a plane. Speaking of which, I could never be a dad, I'm just too selfish.

I wonder if Jeen did it over the sea? Do chances of survival increase if you skydive over the sea? I must ask her over coffee. It's funny how out of all my exes (which don't really number that many), she's the one I'm still on talking terms with.

Stupid Chinese man. The seatbelt sign has been switched on ages ago. The plane is beginning its descent. And what does he decide to do? Stand up, open the overhead compartment and starts fiddling with whatever it is he's fiddling with. Then sits down without bothering to shut the compartment until other passengers shout at him. I mean, is it disregard for the rules, or taking flight safety for granted, or it is just plain ignorance (which is really a euphemism - it's the best I can do)? Or am I just being too judgemental?

Touch down and I'm ?home? But am I truly home?

When

1. Passengers start unbuckling their seat belts immediately after landing despite the safety announcement telling them otherwise
2. You have to tell the two men in front of you off for cutting the queue

That's when you know you've arrived in Asia.

***

Transiting in Hong Kong feels weird after having stopped here for some time to teach English before continuing with my travels for the past two summers. I do miss it quite a bit. But no worries there, I'll be back here again before the end of summer.

***

It's weird. This feeling inside. I've lost all sense of belonging. Like I don't belong anywhere. I thought I'd be able to call Hong Kong my home after having spent more than twelve weeks here. But no.

Home in Kuala Lumpur isn't going to feel like home after what's just recently happened. It's a strange feeling this. Not very pleasant at all. But a bearable sort of unpleasantness. I've always thought being vagrant would be quite nice. Perhaps I was wrong?

Patches

Four days proper in Horsham. Decided to spend time with the cousins - namely the pickle. Notwithstanding I didn't have a place to stay, I haven't seen him since winter where I visited after my excursion to central Europe and the Balkans. After the past few hectic days, it'll be good to relax and recharge for my trip around southeast Asia.

Day 1: Friday. Spent the day around town where an authentic French market was being held in conjunction with the French Horsham Fest. Spices, flowers, dried fruits, olives, green plants, onions, garlic, pancakes, biscuits from Brittany, French bread, tarts, croissants, cheeses, charcuterie, tartiflette, garlic mushrooms, prawns, cold sausages, basketwork, wooden toys, jewellery, scarves, bags, sunglasses, Parisian handbags, Provencal soaps, sweets. Boxes of sweets like quilt patches. Patches of sweets.

Day 2: Saturday. The pickle's school holds a summer fete. I find out from his parents that it's a Catholic school but keep my reservations to myself. Pretty quaint little thing with stalls selling second-hand books and toys; burgers and hotdogs; as well as cakes and tea. I salvage my deprived boyhood by tinkering with the fire engine that's dropped by.

The pickle goes off and does his thing: playing footie with his mates. I go off and do my thing: check out if there are any good books on sale. Before leaving, I challenge him to a race on the obstacle course meant for ten year olds like himself. There's no way I'm going to go through the sramble net, the tires and collapsible tunnel.

We both end up with green patches on our jeans where the knees are. I give him a piggy-back all the way to the car to stop him from feeling too disappointed. At least, he's back to laughing now.

Day 4: Monday. Weather forecast: intermittent showers. Woke up to windless rain today. Made my way to the local park where the sun peaked out from a break in the clouds. Wind started blowing rain underneath my umbrella halfway there.

Now on the swings. Patches of blue amidst dark rainclouds above. I was just thinking: I'm quite glad to be on my own. If I were to be in a relationship, I'd run to my boy, cry myself in his arms whilst feeling sorry for myself. Most likely end up not doing anything about my problems because I take comfort in knowing that everything'll be alright as long as I've got my boy. But now that I'm single, there's no point in feeling sorry for myself. There's no time for helplessness. I take control of my future and change it where possible. I guess I feel happier but I still wish for a pair of arms to fall asleep in.

Tate Modern

Photo courtesy of lee1004gg @ Flickr

I see the white dome of St. Paul's Cathedral setting the skyline of London Thames riverside and I think it is art. Not a canvas filled with random blotches of paint.

Photo courtesy of trondelarius @ Flickr

I see a small insignificant figure huddling by the tall walls of the turbine hall of what used to be a power station now converted into a modern art gallery and I think it is art. Not a ten minute video of someone playing squash with herself in a white box.

Photo courtesy of laynecom @ Flickr

I see a mother helping her child solve a puzzle in front of a painting and I think it is art. Not a collection of soaps strung upon a steel wire.

Photo courtesy of pwiwε @ Flickr

I look at the contorted figures of Francis Bacon and I think it is art. Not emotionless photographs of people in a studio.

Photo courtesy of meaning_of_light @ Flickr

I think a lot of things are art. I just don't know how to appreciate modern art.

Photo courtesy of chrispercival @ Flickr

Waterfowl

There's something rather endearing about British weather. I woke up to bright sunlight streaming through the sky window. Tad bit annoyed. I throw open the covers and windows in response to the stifling heat. Sky was a cloudless blue and it promised to be gorgeous day.


After brushing my teeth and a shower later, I was breakfasting on buttered toast over an article in the Economist. Interruption: soft, even patter of rain on the moss- and lichen-covered roof. The leaves on nearby trees danced gracefully to unseen winds whilst the grey clouds raced above.


Having packed everything after breakfast, I set off as the sun shone through a break in the clouds. The damp gravel crunched softly beneath my feet as diamonds glinting in the light of the sun showered down on me from the leaves as I made my way through Burrell's Walk.


Ten minutes before the train station, it begins to pour. All around me, people open their umbrellas and pull their raincoats over. I try my best to walk under the cover of the trees lining the road but within minutes, I'm drenched to the bone.


Anger overcomes me for a brief moment: it's easy to think that even the universe conspires against you. The feeling goes away just as quickly when I rationalize to myself that the universe is not conscious, let alone has intention. It's really least of my worries to be honest, albeit very uncomfortable and a pain up the arse.


Calling at its stations, I see people in short khakis and Bermuda shorts and polo shirts and t-shirts. Large black aviators offer protection from the glaring sun which has decided to show its face once more. Inside the train, I'm feeling slightly cold under my wet clothes as I roll my eyes at the irony of it all.