Well really not much happened today. The Russian and I took a Pacific Airlines flight to Hanoi at 10 am. To board, we had to take a shuttle bus from the gate to the plane. On the bus we made friends with Raphael, a middle-aged Australian guy travelling alone. He'd stayed at Luan Vu in Ho Chi Minh City too, and we'd actually seen each other at the guesthouse that very morning during breakfast.
On the bus, when the Russian and I got on, the only space we had for standing was right in front of Raphael's seat and that's how we got to talking. He initiated the conversation, asking us where we were from. When I said Singapore, he said, "Yeah I noticed you were reading an English book this morning." After a bit of talking we made plans to take a cab from Hanoi airport into the city centre.
The seats on the plane were assigned, so we sat apart from Raphael. Instead we sat next to a Vietnamese woman with an infant. Fortunately he was quite well-behaved. The mother, however, kept waking me up from my sleep. She tapped on my arm every once in a while asking me to do things for her, through hand gestures, like pick up her son's cap from the bag on the floor or buckle up her baby carrier. Perhaps she didn't understand the concept of flight attendants.
Once on land, we caught up with Raphael again and looked around for a cab. But then we realised that Pacific Airlines provided a free bus into the Hanoi city centre, so we took that instead. On the bus with us were a group of 6 Spanish-speaking teens, talking loudly throughout the 45-minute ride.
Our first impression of Hanoi was really, wow. We drove in on a smooth, clean highway, supposedly one of the most advanced highways in Southeast Asia. And from the elevated vantage point of that highway we looked down upon beautiful homes clustered in sprawling neighbourhoods. Two- and three-storey houses in yellows and greens and blues in all manner of architectural styles, all charming. It was so pretty we started talking about having a holiday home there. There was the Red River, unpolluted as far as we could see. We also saw a Singapore-Vietnam industrial zone.
But then suddenly the highway gave way to the tight roads of the city centre and immediately we were back in reality, back on level ground. Sure, Hanoi's buildings were older and prettier than Ho Chi Minh City's, but the traffic was worse! The roads were narrower, infrastructure that was meant for bicycles and trishaws, not motorbikes and cars. The cables drooped lower from the electric poles in thicker, more menacing bunches.
Once we got off the bus it was Phnom Penh all over again. Taxi drivers crowded around the bus demanding that we take their cab. After we grabbed our bags, one driver attached himself to us, asking us where we wanted to go. I asked if he had a meter. He said no.
Ok then, I said, and walked away.
Immediately he ran after us and said, yes, yes, I have meter.
"Well wasn't that funny how he suddenly realised he had a meter?" said Raphael.
Raphael was staying at a guesthouse at Hang Bac Street. We were at Hang Ga. Both were in the Old Quarter. Raphael was dropped off first and without really looking at the meter, he gave us some money. I didn't count it either but after he got off I realised he'd gven us almost the full cost of the taxi fare.
We got off at our Thuy Lam Guesthouse, which Sur.yani had recommended. Already, the location didn't seem as good as Raphael's spot. Hang Bac had been filled with restaurants, cafés and souvenir shops. Hang Ga had a shop selling bamboo, a pharmacist and grocery stores and street stalls. Nothing that was really relevant to us. It was only when consulting a map did we realise we were at the northern edge of the Old Quarter, not as touristy as the centre.
This meant that we were getting a full immersion into local life, which was good, I suppose. But it also meant a fucking hell of a lot more stress when trying to look for food (my Vietnamese friend told me there was a disease going around and to avoid street food) and areas of interest. But more on that later.
We checked in and got to our room. Definitely not as nice as Luan Vu. A bit more run-down, not as clean. My toilet phobia kicked in.
"Sury.ani hates you," said the Russian.
"No she doesn't. She loves me!" I protested. But I was sad and unsure.
After washing up we went out to look for lunch. It was almost 3 p.m. and we hadn't had a bite since breakfast.
Ok, so this is where Hanoi really began.
It was a shock for me. From everything I'd read and heard, I was expecting Hanoi to be relaxed, calm, a bit like Battambang but with even more character and colour. Instead, it was all motorcycles, as far as the eyes can see and as loud as the ears can hear.
Hanoi is a city run by motorcycles, who use humans as a means of transportation to get around. Motorcycles get first dibs on everything. People are the second class citizens.
You can't really walk in Hanoi. In Ho Chi Minh City, you can walk on the pavements. But you can't even step on Hanoi's pavements. The pavements are meant for parking motorcycles. So you have to walk on the road. But often the sides of the roads are also used as parking lots, so you might have to walk in the middle of the road. Or you could do a winding dance around the tightly-packed, stationary motorcycles, if you are thin enough and agile enough. (Most of the time I was not).
A lot of times I would have to perform a balancing act, in which I would place half a foot on an inch of bare pavement between two parked motorcycles, stretch out my other leg and place that foot on the road but not too far out in case I get run down by the oncoming traffic, then skip and try to make sure my first foot lands right in front of my second foot. Then I would have to stop, look around, take a step onto the road, change my mind, take a step back onto the pavement, realise there's no space, then take a step back onto the road, shake my head in exhaustion, and sigh. Then finally, take a breath and walk back onto the pavement because knocking over motorcycles is better than death.
It was difficult. And then, there were the road crossings. I never got the hang of it, not after 10 days. It is simply too excruciatingly terrifying for me to cross a road and see a barrage of motorcycles and cars coming right at me with their lights shining right in my face and getting ever brighter... My heart stopped beating each time we crossed a road. Even now as I write this and remember it, I feel my chest tightening.
And Hanoi was dirty. There was no rubbish on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City but Hanoi is really dirty. The gutters are always overflowing with black water that the shopkeepers constantly sweep into their neighbours' territories. Rubbish lies everywhere.
Given the situation, we decided to eat somewhere near our guesthouse. We looked for Cha Ca La Vong, which was listed in Lonely Planet. When we got there, it was closed for renovation. We looked for another restaurant listed in the book, and this time we simply couldn't find it at all. It had disappeared. So we walked some more until we got to Hang Bac, and ate at a restaurant called Cafe 138.
In Vietnam the sun begins its descent from about 5 pm. By 6 pm, it is fully night in Hanoi. We returned to our room after lunch, hurrying before it got too cold for us to be out without our jackets. That's one good thing about this city -- it's cold, so even though it's congested and polluted and smoky and dusty, you never really break a sweat, even at noon.
After grabbing our jackets and moaning a bit about not wanting to face the traffic again (mostly on my part), we set back out to discover the city. This time we decided to go to the Hoan Kiem district and watch the water puppet show. It was a long, long walk. Staying at Hang Ga street is really not a good idea for someone who is terrified of walking in Hanoi.
And to get to the water puppet theatre and the Hoan Kiem Lake, you have to cross this huge circle junction. And then another very wide, very busy road. Hoan Kiem was heart attack central for me, but it was also the centre of all tourist activity in Hanoi and a popular chill out spot with the locals too.
The main thing about Hoan Kiem is the lake, of course, and on the lake is a bridge and a temple. Surrounding the lake are restaurants and shops, the water puppet theatre, a tourist information centre and some banks. It is always crowded, as much with vehicles as with people. Tourists outnumber locals here. Souvenir shops range from the high class designer goods boutique to the knock-off stall. What I found most interesting about Hoan Kiem was that on one side of the lake was the Old Quarter, which is dirty and narrow and crowded, but when you walk around it, you get to the upper class part of town on the other side - wide boulevards, fancy new buildings, five-star restaurants, clean streets.
Alas, tickets to the water puppet show were sold out. So we walked some more. We walked by the lake. It was breezy and cool. Calm if not for the traffic surrounding it. We saw a lot of local couples making out, cocooned in the romantic shroud of Hanoi's incessant HONKING. Our Fort Canning is a meditative haven compared to this park. But they have much better weather. Peaceful but oven-like, or cool but deafening? I can't choose either.
Once we'd had enough of the lake, we did a spot of shopping. Well I bought a bag, that's all. The lock on my suitcase had stopped working after the Pacific Airlines flight and I needed a safer bag. I got a cavernous Kipling bag, really huge and very well-made, for just 30 SGD. Well I think it's a steal.
Then we had dinner at Bun Pho. Or whatever it was called. We ordered too much and couldn't roll our own spring rolls properly. And then we trudged back to our guesthouse, where I bathed only after much persuading by the Russian. That night we slept quite soundly despite the fact that our room faced the traffic. It was, for me, a sleep that was needed to soothe terror and distress, more than the sleep of weariness, and my wounded constitution needed as much of it as I could get. I'm sure I snored more loudly than usual that night.
I have spent the last three days selecting, uploading, rotating, cropping, retouching, arranging and labelling my 501 photos of Vietnam. (We actually took more than 800.) Please make the effort worth it:
(As in the body part, not weapons. Joke to be explained in Day 5 post. Stay tuned.)
Shaz: I can't tell if they've adopted French words into their language (like the Indonesians did with Dutch) because they were completely unintelligible to me. But the only French we saw/heard were tourism-related, i.e. some tour guides spoke French, some menus had French words in them, but otherwise local life is completely in Vietnamese, except for the word "baguette". For some reason that sticks.
In Cambodia I saw a lot more French, for example all the government and university buildings had French signs but in Vietnam no signs in French or English at all, so a lot of the time we saw pretty buildings, but didn't know what they were, which was quite a shame. In Cambodia too there are a lot more street names that are French, like Rue Pasteur and whatnot but in Vietnam everything has been nationalised. It's all Dung Hai Ba Trung and Pho Ly Thai To from Hanoi to Saigon. They'd rather reuse the same names in different cities than name their streets after any white dude, it seems.
About the embassy, yeah don't be sorry about it, I was really pissed off at how little they could help and everyone has been telling me to complain. But I'm too lazy and I don't know if anything would come of it anyway.
You went to Morocco! That is one of my dream destinations. Please please write about it.
Joon: Haha. I will only allow you to do it because you compliment me. And anyway you spent half the trip separated from us so you have no choice. Write about Hue!
We booked a day trip out of Ho Chi Minh City today, to go to the Cao Dai Temple and the Cu Chi Tunnels. It cost us only 6 US dollars each.
We set off at 8 a.m. A bus picked us up at our guesthouse after breakfast, which was provided free at the guesthouse. The bus was a big coach, and picked up other tourists at other guesthouses along the way out of the city. In total there were about 20 people on our bus, many Germans and French, a small group of Hong Kongers and two Japanese men who didn't speak any English at all and so didn't understand anything.
It was a long drive from Ho Chi Minh City to Tay Ninh, where the biggest Cao Dai Temple, which is also its Holy See, was. We slept most of the way. We reached the temple just before noon, just in time to watch the noon prayers.
First, a brief history of the religion, from Wikipedia:
Caodaism was officially established in Tây Ninh, southern Vietnam, in 1926. The term Cao Đài literally means "high place." Figuratively, it means that highest place where God reigns.
Caodaiists credit God as the religion's founder. They believe the teachings, symbolism and organization were communicated directly from God. Even the construction of the Tây Ninh Holy See is claimed to have had divine guidance. Cao Đài's first disciples Ngô Văn Chiêu, Cao Quỳnh Cư, Phạm Công Tắc, and Cao Hoài Sang claimed to have received direct communications from God, who gave them explicit instructions for establishing a new religion that would commence the Third Era of Religious Amnesty.
Adherents engage in ethical practices such as prayer, veneration of ancestors, nonviolence, and vegetarianism with the minimum goal of rejoining God the Father in Heaven and the ultimate goal of freedom from the cycle of birth and death.
Estimates of the number of Cao Đài adherents in Vietnam vary, but most sources give two to three million. Some estimates are as high as eight million adherents in Vietnam. An additional 30,000 (primarily ethnic Vietnamese) live in the United States, Europe, and Australia.
Although various sects of Caodaiism claim to have received messages from numerous spiritual entities, the Tây Ninh Holy See acknowledges significantly fewer. Inside the Holy See is a painting depicting the Three Saints signing a covenant between God and humanity. From left to right, they are Sun Yat-sen, Victor Hugo and Nguyễn Bỉnh Khiêm, a Vietnamese administrator, educator, poet, sage from the 16th century.
Ours wasn't the only bus that had come to watch the ritual, of course. There were hundreds of tourists converging on the temple. It must be quite an annoyance, having to pray everyday with tourists snapping photos of you. But then, only the noon prayer is open to public viewing. Who knows what they do once all the tourist buses leave...
It was a gorgeous temple, very colourful and so different from all the other temples I've seen in Vietnam and the rest of Southeast Asia. The tourists had to take their shoes off at the entrance, then we were all herded to the second floor of the temple, from which we looked down at the prayer hall.
A live band played and a choir of women sang throughout the prayer. The worshippers stood in neat formation and performed their prayers in unison, sitting down, standing up and bowing down as one.
After the prayers were over, we returned to our bus and headed for lunch, at a spot I don't know where. Lunch was simple but nice. I had a sour fish soup with rice, the Russian and Joon had chicken. The most exciting thing that happened was one of the Japanese men sat on a chair that broke and he fell over with a loud bang. This was just after he had asked the three of us if we were Thai.
Then, it was another hour-long ride to Cu Chi, a suburban district of Ho Chi Minh City that served as headquarters for the National Front for the Liberation of South Vietnam, also (disparagingly) known as the Viet Cong.
Again, from Wikipedia:
The tunnels of Củ Chi are an immense network of connecting underground tunnels located in the Cu Chi district, and are part of a much larger network of tunnels that underlie much of the country. The Củ Chi tunnels were the location of several military campaigns during the Vietnam War.
The tunnels were used by NLF guerrillas as hiding spots during combat, as well as serving as communication and supply routes, hospitals, food and weapon caches and living quarters for numerous guerrilla fighters. The role of the tunnel systems should not be underestimated in its importance to the NLF in resisting American operations and protracting the war, eventually persuading the weary Americans into withdrawal.
The tunnels began in 1948 so that the Viet Minh could hide from French air and ground sweeps. Each hamlet built their own underground communications route through the hard clay, and over the years, the separate tunnels were slowly and meticulously connected and fortified. By 1965, there were over 200 kilometers of connected tunnel. As the tunnel system grew, so did its complexity. Sleeping chambers, kitchens and wells were built to house and feed the growing number of residents and rudimentary hospitals created to treat the wounded. Most of the supplies used to build and maintain the tunnels were stolen or scavenged from US bases or troops.
This was the main highlight of going to Ho Chi Minh City for me, so I was plenty excited. The part of the Cu Chi tunnels that is open to tourists is one section of what I can best describe as a park, a large wooded area that's been gated and compounded and turned into a tourist destination.
First we were put into a darkened room and made to watch a propaganda video which I barely understood because the video was very old and sound quality was poor. I even fell asleep. But it was basically talking about how Cu Chi used to be a village of peaceful farmers and schoolkids, but when the US attacked, they all turned into national heroes. The video highlighted a particular schoolgirl who was about 15 who killed many American soldiers and was given a medal for it.
After that we were taken on a tour of the park. There was an American tank that had been left behind from the war, a large crater created by a bomb, several wax figurines depicting the lives of Communist soldiers during the war -- a man writing a letter to his beloved, a woman combing her hair and prettying herself so that, according to our guide, she could flirt with the men.
Our guide, whose name was Hai, was a middle-aged man who had fought during the war, on the American side. He had two missing fingers on his left hand and a wicked deadpan sense of humour that reminded us of the Russian's father. He said, some of these women, they flirt with the men, and then afterwards it becomes more than flirting and then she become no longer virgin, because they don't know about... the banana. My English is not good, I don't know how to say it, but you know what I mean. And then nine months later there is a baby. There were many babies born in the tunnels.
In fact the woman who manned the souvenir stall in the park was born in the tunnels, he said.
We also looked at an exhibition of the different types of booby traps that the Communists made during the war. Traps to tear the flesh of your leg, traps to spike your gonads when you burst open a door, traps to make you fall face first onto a bed of rusty nails. There was another installation, complete with electric wax figurines that could move and show how the Communists made their weapons underground.
And then, we were brought to a closet filled with five different types of guns/rifles. An AK-47, an M60, I can't remember what else. For 1 US dollar a bullet, you could fire a round of shots at the shooting range. A lot of the people in our group lined up for it, but the three of us sat out.
It was so fucking loud and only the shooters were given earmuffs (and even they could barely stand the noise, we found out later). My body jerked involuntarily at every shot. This was something I only discovered then, at Cu Chi, that I can't control my body jumping whenever there's a loud noise, even when I'm anticipating and waiting for it. I am such a loser. So I basically sat there with my fingers in my ears waiting for it to stop, with the understanding that I was not cut out to be a revolutionary.
Finally, finally, after the shooting was over, it was time to crawl into the tunnel. Or at least, 100 metres of it. We first went 2 metres underground, then 6, then 8. The tunnel was very dark the whole way, and at some points completely pitch black. It was so narrow we had to walk while squatting. And note -- this was the part of the tunnel that had been enlarged to twice its original size so that fat tourists could waddle through it. I cannot even imagine how people had sex in the original tunnel, much less give birth or heal the wounded. But it was so much fun. We were giggling throughout because it was such an impossible thing we were doing. On top of the duck-walking, there were parts where you had to pull yourself up, parts where you had to jump and trust that the ground wasn't too far away. I would have done it again if I could. We were exhausted at the end of it, and for the next 2 days, I couldn't walk properly because my thighs hurt so much. But it was worth it.
At the end of the tunnel crawl, we were given a nice Communist guerilla treat -- boiled tapioca and peanut sugar. And then it was time to go home. It was another 3-hour drive back to Ho Chi Minh's city centre. We took a shower back at the guesthouse then set out again for dinner. Dinner was a lovely French meal at the French Cultural Centre. The Russian had this amazing tuna steak, we'd never had anything like it before. And then we had some really good desserts -- chocolate mousse, profiteroles, apple crumble with ice cream.
After dinner Joon went off to take a train to Hue, while the Russian and I went to the Rex Hotel. The rooftop bar at the hotel gave us a nice view of Ho Chi Minh City. We saw how close the slummy apartments were to the swanky hotels. We could look into people's homes, their grimy white walls and uninspired furnishings. We saw a lot of old buildings taking their time to rot, but also a city rapidly taking on change and progress. And then we saw a group of motorcyclists zooming through the streets waving giant Vietnamese flags and cheering at the top of their lungs. (We found out later that Vietnam had beat Laos at soccer in the SEA Games that night, but the passion of their ecstasy puzzled us. It was Laos, not Thailand or Indonesia. Or Singapore, for that matter.)
The rooftop of the Rex Hotel was also a nice vantage point from which to say goodbye to Ho Chi Minh City. We were going to Hanoi the next morning. We went back to the guesthouse exhausted and hungry for sleep. But at 5 a.m. our neighbour could be heard yelling at her child and beating it again, and the child could be heard wailing in response.
We landed in Ho Chi Minh City at 8 a.m. Vietnam time. The airport was grey and spartan, a cold welcome to a Communist country. But Ho Chi Minh's weather was not cold at all, in spite of our expectations. It was very warm, just under sweltering.
The moment we stepped out of the airport, we met a scammer. This set the tone for the rest of the trip. He was a taxi driver, offering us a 300,000 dong ride into the city centre. That's 30 SGD. (Just take away four zeros from the dong and you get SGD.) We said, no way. We want you to use your meter.
He said, no meter, no meter. You want how much?
He shoved his mobile phone into my hand, signalling that I should punch in my preferred price.
I said, no, no, we want meter.
No meter, no meter, he said, still pushing his phone at me.
The Russian began walking away, snapping at me and Joon to ignore the driver. He's just out to scam us, he said. Can you guys just walk away?
We then debated taking an airport bus, which would have taken us to the city centre either for free or for a small sum, I forget. But as we were still debating, another taxi driver came up to us. We asked him if he had a meter in his cab. He said yes, and we jumped in. The total fare to our hostel in the city centre was 70,000 dongs, less than a third of what the scammer had tried to get from us.
I love the first sight of a city, the ride into it, taking in all these new sights but not absorbing any of it because it's all too strange for your brain to comprehend and process, yet knowing that in a few days it will be easier to understand and it will feel less foreign.
As with entering any new country, I tried to match my first impressions of Ho Chi Minh City against all the other foreign lands I'd been too. But Ho Chi Minh City wasn't like anywhere else I knew. It was like Siem Reap but with more order and heavier traffic. It was clean -- no rubbish on the streets at all -- but dusty and polluted. And the one thing that really left an imprint on us was the fact that it was very, very noisy.
Motorcyclists and drivers honked all the time. To us, it seemed like they were honking for no reason at all. In Singapore, people honk only when they're pissed off or panicking. In Vietnam, they honk just to let you know they're there.
We got off at Bui Vien Street, where our Luan Vu Guesthouse was. It was just a street away from Pham Ngu Lao Street, Ho Chi Minh City's equivalent of Bangkok's Khao San Road.
It was a small guesthouse down a narrow alley, reminding me a lot of the Baan Hua Lam Phong guesthouse we stayed in in Bangkok. The lobby was not much, but when we got to our room we were awestruck. It was spotless. The floor tiles were a shiny pink and the walls were cream. The beds were smooth and lint-free. The toilet was cleaner than the ones in our own homes. We high-fived each other over our great fortune.
We changed into fresh clothes, rolled around a bit, peered into the neighbouring homes. The guesthouse was surrounded by people's homes, and the one across the alley from us was so close that we could look right into its window and see what the occupants were doing and, if we wanted to, we could have talked to them without raising our voices. We closed the curtains.
Then we went out for our first foray into the city. The first things we saw were a lot of fake paintings - fake van Goghs, fake Boteros, fake Warhols. A lot of tourist t-shirts, with "Good Morning Vietnam" and Uncle Ho's smiling face on them, communist-style guerilla caps with the red star, cigarette lighters, Vietnamese flags. But our first stop was lunch.
We came across a street filled with restaurants of all types. For some reason, we decided to eat Mexican. Joon and I had chimichangas. The Russian had chilli con carne. My banana milkshake was an awakening to the fact that sadly, Vietnam doesn't have great milk/fruitshakes.
While we were eating we saw what was probably a travel documentary being filmed right outside our restaurant. There was a cameraman, a soundman and a blonde male host with over-styled hair who looked as if an airplane had softly dropped him right onto that very spot where he was standing because he was way too clean and fresh to have been on Vietnam soil for more than a minute.
After lunch we decided to walk around Ho Chi Minh City. Joon led the way. We basically did a truncated version of Lonely Planet's suggested walking tour of the city, and it taught us one major thing: crossing roads is a hell of a scary thing to do in Ho Chi Minh City. Remember what it was like in Cambodia? Ok now add two times as many vehicles. There are few traffic lights, and even fewer that are switched on, and the vehicles go any which way they like. They don't give way. They don't stop. And it's honking, honking, honking the whole time when you're trying to concentrate on staying alive.
We walked past Ben Thanh Market, not bothering to enter because we didn't want to shop and we'd been inside enough markets all over Southeast Asia. We then crossed the longest street in mankind's history (title bestowed upon it by me and not Guinness), and went to the Fine Arts Museum. It was ok, nothing remarkable to me. I was more enamoured of the museum building itself than the artwork contained within.
We then walked east, and turned north to a colourful street market at Ton That Dam Road, where stalls are really specialised in what they sell. There was a stall that sold only snacks. One that sold only detergents. One that sold only soaps and perfumes. The Russian bought a small bottle of soap for 90 Singapore cents, and a packet of tissues that had been treated with menthol so that when you blew your nose, you also got some heavy powder action going right back into your lungs.
Despite the fact that we'd just barely begun our walking tour, we were already pooped. Lack of sleep combined with the constant fear of street-crossing, you know. So when we came across a Sarpino's Pizza parlour on the way from the street market to our next destination, we stopped for ice cream.
After ice cream we thrust ourselves back into the world and realised that we were in the upper class part of the city. The pavements and roads were wider, the buildings better-looking, the shops weren't just shops but boutiques. We walked and walked some more, coming across some lovely hotels that we would never be able to afford.
We also came across a shopping centre which we entered for the heck of it. Vietnam celebrates Christmas in a big way! We didn't expect that. Workers were installing fake snowmen and some big structures in the middle of the mall and there were lots of styrofoam snow mounted on walls everywhere. Not just at that one shopping centre too, but at most buildings. There were Christmas trees in hotel lobbies that were big enough to have one, streamers and the works. Inside the shopping centre we heard our first Vietnamese Christmas jingle. It was creepy. Not like, in a this-is-a-strange-and-unusual-way-to-sing-a-Christmas-jingle kind of way, but in a why-does-this-song-bring-to-mind-tribal-funeral-rites kind of way. Vaguely unsettling.
We then went to the Museum of Ho Chi Minh City, where the Lonely Planet says visitors are warmly welcomed, but the reception we got was unremarkable, same as at any other museum. You pay, get your brochure, and walk away so that the welcomers can resume their conversation with each other in Vietnamese.
The first thing we saw at the museum was a couple taking their wedding photos. Outside the museum entrance was a small garden with a swing and some really old trishaws. It was quite a charming set up, if not for the incessant traffic noise still surrounding us.
The museum contains exhibits about the history of the city, major events that had happened there, and even a room filled with fake animals and real animal parts to show the kind of ecosystem that thrives in Ho Chi Minh City's less urban areas.
My favourite section was a row of five vehicles that had been kept since the war. Each had been used to transport military personnel, equipment and resources between Saigon and Cu Chi and other surrounding towns where the Communists had their bases.
After that we walked some more, but by the time we got to our next stop, the Reunification Palace, it was already closing time. The guards only allowed us to take a few steps past the gates to take some shots of the palace facade.
By this time, the War Remnants Museum, the History Mueum and the Notre Dame Cathedral had also closed, so we pretty much walked around aimlessly for a while until we decided to take a look inside the post office, which was still open.
I liked it a lot. Classy French architecture and Uncle Ho beaming down upon you as you go about your business. We sat there for a while, debating what to do. Eventually, we decided to try to find pants, which Joon and I needed to buy, and then to go for drinks and dinner.
We walked two streets down to a department store but it was way too swanky for our backpacker budget. So we gave up and took a cab down to a Vietnamese restaurant recommended by Lonely Planet -- Tib Restaurant. It was a lovely meal, starting with a jackfruit salad that the waiter had to teach us how to eat because he saw us doing it all wrong. We also had a steamed catfish and some chicken. We paid about half what a similar meal would have cost us in Singapore.
And then, it was time to go back and sleep. We were way too tired to hit a bar or check out Ho Chi Minh City's nightlife. Our flight out of Singapore had been at 7:15 a.m., so we had all been at the airport by 5:30 a.m. and the Russian and I had only had about 2 hours of sleep the night before. We took a cab back to Luan Vu, watched TV (and quality TV it was too -- Singaporean and Malaysian malay rock music videos) for a bit, and went to sleep.
The Russian and I didn't sleep well at all, because despite the fact that the traffic noise was muffled given the location of our room, it wasn't completely muted. Traffic goes on all night, and there's always the occasional extra-loud honk or engine revving from a particularly passionate motorcyclist. And there are many other loud sounds to contend with in the Vietnamese night. Shopkeepers around us rolling down their shutters at midnight and then rolling them back up again at 5 a.m., and at about 6 a.m. we were both woken up and stayed awake for a long time because one of our neighbours (as in, a Vietnamese living in one of the apartments surrounding the hostel, not other guests within the hostel) decided that was the best time to abuse her child, so we had to endure her yelling, her child's wailing, and the occasional sound of slapping and beating.
Good morning Vietnam indeed.
Lianyi had been sniffling and coughing a lot and suffering from an on-and-off fever since Halong Bay. That was Tuesday. We thought nothing of it, just kept plying him with Panadol and Strepsils and their Vietnamese equivalents.
On Saturday I found out my grandma was in hospital with water in her lungs. We were on our way back to Hanoi from Tam Coc when I got the message. He was sleeping because at that point the fever was on. I cried quietly in the dark unlit bus, fearing the worst. I asked my mother if I should go home sooner. She said no need.
Back at the hotel room that same night his temperature was very high. We didn't have a thermometer but I could feel it. I rubbed his back. We looked through the list of clinics in Hanoi in our Lonely Planet. SOS International sounded like a good bet. But he said he didn't want to go to the doctor yet, maybe we could wait until the next morning.
On Sunday we were supposed to go home. He didn't have a temperature anymore, but he was still feeling very weak. Every hundred metres he asked to sit down and take a breather. But still I pushed him on, asked him to walk with me in the cold polluted air to get the most out of our last day there, do some last minute shopping.
In the taxi on the way to the airport he slept while I kept my eyes open, absorbing every last detail of Hanoi. The overcrowded streets and bus stops, the haphazard buildings, the beautiful but moulding architecture. He said he was feeling very bad. I said ok, don't worry, we'll be home soon.
At the airport I walked around finishing up all my Vietnamese dongs. He sat down. Every twenty minutes he would say he was feeling very bad.
What can I do?, I asked.
Nothing, he said.
Half an hour before boarding he said, walk around with me. I feel pins and needles throughout my whole body and my head.
So we walked.
Is this making you feel better, I asked?
Not actually, he said, I think I need a doctor.
We asked one of the shopkeepers, is there a doctor in here?
She said we'd have to go back out to get one.
We sit back down. Five minutes to boarding.
I don't think I can get on the plane, he said. I need a doctor. Take me to a doctor.
We went to an aiport official.
My friend is sick, I said, can you get a doctor?
She barely spoke English. She talked to her colleague in Vietnamese. She told us to sit down.
When we sat down that was when it began. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't feel his fingers, then his arms, then his legs. Mucus was running down his nose and I had to wipe it away for him.
I asked the airport woman, where is the doctor?
She told me to wait. She asked if we could board the plane.
I said no, I need a hospital. I need an ambulance. Where is the doctor?
A Singaporean man came over to us and asked us what was wrong. I said, my friend is sick.
He asked if we'd done any jungle trekking.
I said no.
He asked if we had gone to Sapa.
I said no.
He said, I'm afraid that maybe he caught one of their viruses. You sure you didn't go to Sapa? You better report this to the Singapore embassy.
I asked him to help me find the number. I handed him my Lonely Planet. I was busy wiping Lianyi's nose and holding his hand and making sure he didn't lose consciousness. Everytime his eyes stayed open too long I would snap, Blink! just to make sure he was still alive. When he closed his eyes I would shout at him, Wake up! Don't sleep!
The Singaporean man couldn't find the embassy number in my guidebook. He said he would try his. He went away and the last I saw of him, he and his daughter were thumbing through a guidebook.
The airport doctor still hadn't arrived. Where is the doctor? I yell at the airport woman.
She told me to wait some more.
It's getting worse, Lianyi said, I think I'm going to die.
No you're not, I said.
No, you don't know how I feel right now, he said.
Then his face froze up. He couldn't move his mouth. He couldn't talk properly. Saliva was starting to appear in bubbles at the corners of his mouth. His eyelids flickered crazily.
Oh my God I'm calling your mum, I said, swallowing back my panic tears.
If I die, he said, I love you.
You're not going to die, I said, Oh my god oh my god oh my god.
I'm sorry, he said, I'm sorry.
No, I'm sorry, I said, I shouldn't have made you walk around Hanoi with me today, or let you eat ice cream. I should have forced you to see a doctor.
In my head I also thought, I'm sorry for being a whiny little bitch. I'm sorry for all the times I ever got angry with you. I'm sorry I wasn't a better person. Please don't die. I'm not ready.
I called his mother. The moment she picked up, the words rushed out in an unintelligible mess: Lianyi is very very sick he can't breathe or move and he thinks he's going to die. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do.
She told me to calm down and get a wheelchair. She told me to put him on the wheelchair and board the plane. She asked me what she could do.
I said I don't know, I don't know, I don't know what to do.
The doctor finally came. She was an old woman and didn't speak a word of English. She put a few drops of something in his mouth. It worked, he could feel his limbs again. He could talk. He calmed down. But only for a while. Ten minutes later it started all over again.
I need a hospital, I said.
They put him on a wheelchair and took him out. I carried our bags and his shoes and walk out with them. At the border between the departure gates and the public part of the airport a guard took away our passports.
Why are you taking our passports? I asked.
Yes, said the guard.
They wheeled him to a first aid station. On the way there I called Adr.ian, U.ma and Joon to ask for the number to the Singapore embassy. The first two didn't pick up and Joon had no access to the Internet. I gave up.
The first aid station had a bed and a table and two chairs, nothing else. Another doctor came in, this time a middle-aged man. He also didn't speak a word of English. He injected something into Lianyi's arm and hooked him up to an oxygen tank. Lianyi felt better again for another short while but soon he was telling me that it was getting worse again. By this time a flock of airport officials were in the room shouting at each other in Vietnamese. I wanted to cry very badly. We were fucked. But I had to keep holding it in.
Can I have our passports back? I need to go to a hospital now, I said.
The airport woman who was with us from the beginning said ok, we will get it for you.
It was a 2-minute walk from the gate where the guard took our passports to the first aid station but five minutes later the passports were still not there.
Where's my passport? I said.
Wait, ma'am, we are getting for you, she said.
Then the Singapore embassy called my mobile.
My name is Mr Pang and I'm from the Singapore embassy, he said. Mr Ho's mother called me. I understand you have an emergency.
Yes, yes, I said. I told him everything.
He said, ok go to a hospital.
Can you help us with that? I asked, thinking the embassy might have an ambulance or an emergency vehicle of some sort.
He said no.
How about afterwards, could you help us get home? I asked.
He laughed, he fucking laughed, and said no.
I wanted to tell him to fuck himself in the ass but I didn't.
He said, you better go to an international hospital like SOS or the French hospital. The Vietnamese hospitals are not very good.
I said ok and hung up.
I called our insurance company. The woman said, when you get to a hospital call me again.
In the meantime Lianyi was getting worse. He was clutching my hand and saying, It's getting worse, I can't breathe.
I tried to make him calm down but it was impossible since I was also panicking and the room was full of Vietnamese yelling.
Then the embassy guy SMSed me the numbers of the two hospitals he had recommended me. Why couldn't he have called them for me? I had difficulty saving the numbers because my hands were shaking so badly and I had to read it over three times before I could remember one of the numbers, my brain was so wonky. Eventually I managed to call SOS International.
I said, I need an ambulance please I'm at Hanoi airport and my boyfriend needs help.
Well we can't just send out ambulances you know, the French bitch at the other end said. This is a private hospital not a public one. First you have to tell me what's wrong.
I told her what was wrong.
She said, The ambulance will take an hour to get there.
I said An hour?!
She said, yes we are in the centre of Hanoi and the airport is far away. So what do you want to do now?
I said, I don't know, I don't know, ok send an ambulance here please.
Our passports were still not there.
Where is my passport?! I yelled.
The woman told me to wait some more.
I asked, where is the nearest hospital?
Nobody seemed to understand the concept.
One of the airport people said, you want to take taxi to nearest hospital?
I said yes.
They shouted at each other some more. Then they asked, are you using our ambulance or are you calling for one?
I said, you have an ambulance here?
They said yes.
Ok then take me now! I yell.
The woman said, we have ambulance here but must pay 35 US dollars.
I said ok, can you take us to the nearest hospital?
They still looked blank.
You want to go to hospital? they asked.
Yes. Take. Me. To. The. Nearest. Hospital. Please. Where's my passport?!
I thought, maybe I could take him to the nearest hospital for basic care and then transfer him to SOS International afterwards.
Finally our passports arrived. Our luggage came too. We took everything into the ambulance. It was spartan. No lights even. For some reason the doctor sat in the passenger seat in front with the driver. I sat behind with Lianyi and an airport official, a man. Five minuts into the ride they stopped to get more oxygen tanks. Then Lianyi had to pee. There was no bottle to pee in. The airport guy, Dong, rummaged around and finally got a plastic bag. He wanted to help Lianyi pee but Lianyi kept pointing at me and pushing him away. I helped him pee and when he was done I handed the bag to the airport guy but he refused to take it. He pointed out the window instead.
You want me to throw it out the window?! I said.
He nodded, took the bag and threw it out the window.
Joon messaged and asked what was wrong. I told her.
She said oh my god shit, I'll ask Zat to help.
I asked her to maybe google his symptoms and find out what's wrong with him.
I remembered that I'd called for an SOS ambulance, so I called them back and canceled it.
The ride was bumpy, which made Lianyi worse. He kept saying, it's getting bad again, my chest is tight, I can't breathe.
I knew part of it was panic that was making it hard for him to breathe but it was so hard to try to make him calm down when both of us thought he was going to die.
I told him, calm down, you're still breathing, you're still alive, it will get better and worse from time to time, it's just the cycle, don't worry. As if I knew for sure.
I kept calling out to the doctor in the front seat to ask him for help but he kept saying, no problem, no problem.
Then Ad.rian called. He asked what was up. I said Lianyi is dying and we're in an ambulance, it's ok now. I hung up quickly.
Then I got another call. This time it was the manager of Tiger Airways in Vietnam. He said, don't go to the nearest hospital. Vietnam's medical system is very bad even I don't use it. Go to SOS International ok. I will meet you there. Give the phone to your driver.
I did that, and the Tiger guy told him in Vietnamese about the change of plan.
And then SOS International called me. The woman said, we have sent out an ambulance with a doctor.
I said, oh but I'm already in an ambulance going there.
The woman said, Listen to me, listen to me. Ok? We've sent out an ambulance and we will meet your ambulance halfway and transfer your boyfriend to our ambulance. Give the phone to your driver.
So halfway there, we saw another ambulance speed past us in the opposite direction. We stopped by the roadside and waited for them to come to us. I whispered to Lianyi, It's going to be ok now, the SOS people are here. He just looked at me and blinked.
The airport ambulance driver asked me for 40 US dollars. This was no time to be fighting scammers, of which let me tell you, Vietnam has plenty. So I just gave him the money.
When the SOS people came I knew everything was going to be ok. The doctor was a Vietnamese woman who spoke English. She asked me a lot of questions, then she and her nurse took charge. They took his blood and ran a test on the spot, hooked him up to an IV drip, scanned his vital stats. Then they transferred him into their ambulance. It was a world of difference. This ambulance actually had lights and equipment.
This time I sat in front with the driver, while the nurse and doctor sat behind attending to him throughout the whole ride. It was my first time in an ambulance. On the dashboard were several buttons. There were three sound buttons that said, "Yelp", "Yeowl" and "Wail". The driver hit Wail.
Ten minutes into the ride I called to the back, How is he?
He's fine, the doctor said.
Then he began vomiting. A lot.
Half an hour later we were at the hospital. The moment the ambulance stopped the nurse rushed out and gagged, ran into a toilet and threw up.
The manager of Tiger Airways was waiting for us outside the hospital. He was already at home when the airport called him and told him about our emergency. He didn't have to come all the way to the hospital but he did. I suspect he was the one who had called SOS and told them to meet the airport ambulance halfway and take over, even though I'd cancelled on them. He made sure everything was ok and when there was nothing else he could do, he left.
The doctors spent about an hour attending to him behind closed curtains while I sat outside calling the insurance company and messaging his mother, my mother and our friends. Each time I flipped open his phone I saw my own damn face looking up at me. It was the worst, knowing that someone loved me and that I didn't deserve it.
At about 1 am the doctor came out and told me what had happened: He'd had hypokalemia -- low potassium in his blood, which caused his heart to misfire. He also had low blood pressure. Now he was stable. He was hooked up to an IV drip injecting potassium into his body and he just had to rest.
After they were done I went in to see him. I spent the night sitting by his bedside except for 3 hours, when I slept on a bed in the adjoining room. He was discharged the next morning and we booked the first flight home. This time on the taxi to the airport I slept the whole way. I'd had enough of Hanoi.
The moment I got home I put down my bags and went with my parents to visit my grandmother. Turns out she has heart and kidney failure, water in her lungs and deep vein thrombosis. At the hospital I wanted to cry again but again had to hold it in in front of my family. And again there was the guilt -- of knowing that I was her favourite granddaughter and had done nothing to deserve the position, that I don't spent enough time with her and that now I might lose her before I could make up for it.
When I got home I spent half an hour in the shower letting go of three days' worth of bottled up panic and tears.
In the hotel on Sunday we'd seen a documentary about how scientists have found that your brain is only fully adult at 25. On my 25th birthday I think I was made painfully aware of my entry into adulthood. I almost lost the 2 people I loved most in the world and for the first time had to sign a hospital legal consent form as someone's guardian.
Then this morning I realised that our insurance policies had expired the day BEFORE Lianyi got hospitalised, because I'd forgotten the date of our return and had only bought insurance up to the 15th of December. That's over 2,000 US dollars in hospital bills and plane tickets that can't be claimed. I am such an asshole. I feel really fucked up about this you have no idea.
I'd like to write a travel journal of the rest of the trip, which wasn't bad at all, especially the parts with Xa.i, but it might be a while.
Yesterday I came home from dinner running a slight fever. Four days before my trip and I have a slight fever, and my fevers usually last an average of 7 days. So I took a couple of paracetamol pills and went to sleep. I woke up feeling better but still a little off so I took the day off from work.
I didn't go to the doctor. I hope nobody calls me out on my missing MC. But this is basically how little I care about losing my job right now. The other night I had a dream that I was being given another chance to pick Reu.ters. But I'm pretty sure I'd say no again, if I got another chance now. Too much fucking work, man. I need a break. I need a year off to work in a bookstore.
As I told Joon, I'm not so much looking forward to Vietnam because of what Vietnam has to offer as I am looking forward to it because it's not work.
And you know, this given the fact that when I think about it, my job's not too bad. Not when I don't have to work the fucking 5 a.m. shift anyway.
But I can't stop working, because I've been looking through sites about home renovations (yeah, I know) and I really, really don't want to live in a house that looks like the "before" picture. I know, it sounds like serious bourgeois shit but I have always been affected by architecture. I mean, the first time I saw NTU I almost had a nervous breakdown and it was only when I saw the CS building that I calmed down and decided to go there.
So yeah, I hate work but I can't stop working because I need a house with warm wallpaper and bathroom tiles that are my own. Serious bourgeois shit.
Recommendation:
World Nomads -- primarily a provider of travel insurance for travellers from anywhere going to anywhere else, but also a place where you can keep a travel journal, upload unlimited photos and download language guides for your iPod.
Also sign up for travel danger alerts on your phone, and even get alerts for job opportunities in the country you're travelling in.
Part of your insurance payment goes to specific aid projects around the world. $2 out of my $16 went to providing water and sanitation services for villages in Timor-Leste.
And the policy I found here was less than half the price of the one on Zuji.
I'm not sure how it took me so long to find out about this site.
There comes a point when you have to admit that you have a problem, and then you have to take steps to confront the problem, take it by its proverbial horns and wrestle it to the ground until you triumph with a mighty HAH! and feel so good about yourself that you immediately go on a self-destructive binge all over again.
Of course, I am talking about my addiction to books. Or rather, the buying thereof.
This is a schedule. I will stick to it. I hope.
1. Moby Dick, Herman Melville - currently reading
2. The Fourth Bear, Jasper Fforde - something light to soothe the pain of reading Moby Dick
3. Something non-fictional here. Maybe How Proust Will Change Your Life, Alain de Botton
4. Heavy-duty fiction. Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy or Feast of the Goat, Mario Vargas Llosa
5. Then light fiction to give my brain a break. Salmon Fishing in the Yemen, Paul Torday
6. Non-fiction. How the Mind Works, Steven Pinker
7. Light-heavy fiction that will make me feel like I am accomplishing something. Either The Sea, John Banville, or The Harmony Silk Factory, Tash Aw
8. Whichever one I didn't read in #7
9. Whichever one I didn't read in #4
10. Back to non-fiction. Infidel, Ayaan Hirsi Ali.
11. I'm guessing that would lay the ground for something pseudo-intellectual. Perhaps Things Fall Apart, Chinua Achebe?
12. And light fiction again. The Cutting Room, Louise Welsh or The Courage Consort, Michel Faber, or something like that.
At the end of these 12 steps, come up with 12 more. Wish me luck.
She.rnice went for a gynae check-up, not because she was feeling any pain, but just to be on the safe side. The doctor scanned her womb, printed the film and told her to take them down the hall to another doctor.
As she walked down the hospital corridor, she decided to try to decipher the sheets of film, based on the extensive knowledge she'd gleaned from such informational programmes as Gr.ey's Anato.my and House, M.D. She saw that there were some dark shadows hovering over certain sections of her womb as represented on film. Within the shadows were squiggly marks that looked... like death.
She started panicking.
"I'm going to die," she thought to herself.
She reached the second doctor's office and knocked on the door. The doctor opened it, took the film from her and told her to wait outside until her name was called.
She waited an hour and a half. It was enough time for her to convince herself that she had cancer, and that the doctor was taking so long because she was trying to think of ways to break the news to She.rnice gently.
She called her boyfriend, because boyfriends are sources of solace and care.
"I think I have cancer. I saw some weird stuff on my film. I'm pretty sure they were tumours."
He exhaled, then said:
"It's ok ah. Just eat a lot of tomatoes."
