Dong Jokes.

It seems rude to sign off on Vietnam without recounting some of the Dong (Vietnamese currency) jokes that kept 5 highly mature blokes amused for 3 weeks.

“Check it out, he’s sleeping with my Dong on his head.”

“Dude! Did you just slap me with your Dong?”

“I’ll see your dong and raise you.”

“Dude! Stop eyeing up my Dong!” (Usually in a restaurant after leaning a note out in plain view)

“That’s a whole lot of Dong!” (My that is expensive!)

You get the idea.

The tunnels

A side trip from Saigon takes us to the Cu-Chi Tunnels where the Vietnamese outsmarted the American folks by not eating burgers and being able to not only fit but live in a rabbit warren.  They’ve widened the tunnels since for the western physique but myself and the Chris’s still decide to exit at the first option.  Even on his knees Big Chris is a fair bit taller than the intended inhabitants.  Sam and Alex soldier on, Alex’s Asian blood serves him well and he pretty much strolls through. Sam however is reborn from the far end of the tunnel decidedly muddier in the shirt and redder in the face. Should Chris ever wish to keep his beer safe from Sam; Tunnels are the way forward.

At Cu-Chi you can also get your gun on for $1 a bullet.  You can apparently also pay to dispose of a cow by means of bazooka.  However, given the average beef curry costs $3 a whole heifer is likely to be quite pricey.

Saigon.

Saigon is a city of extremes.  My favourite of which is that between dinners as the boys gloat over their KFC feast as I go out to meet friends for what is expected to be yet more noodle soup. The gloating shall be mine; I meet Glen and Pynar, old friends from Turkey, and am shouted to a ridiculously swish all you can eat (and all you can drink) buffet at the Saigon Sheraton.  Feeling slightly underdressed I decide to go with it and give my most grounded ‘Ow do’ to our neighbouring suited and booted patrons and tuck into 7 or 8 courses of food that puts the most finger licking of chickens (I get to this point and am unsure of which chicken cliché to use? Out to roost? Seem quite paltry? A fowl option? Perhaps I’ll just leave it. Needless to say; the boys were less impressed with their bargain bucket than they had been.).

In Saigon we experience the extremes of serious and sillyness.  A visit to the war museum sees a lot of back patting for the larger of the Watts Brothers after the preserved Agent Orange babies prove a bit too much.  To be fair it’s not for the faint hearted especially if you had family in the war.  Luckily he’s easily cheered by a pint or two around the corner.

Onto the sillyness; our hotel is staffed by two twins (well there would be two of course) who in between near constant giggling manage to find time to educate us in Vietnamese.  More precisely this is limited to saying ‘noodle soup’ or ‘Pho’, ‘Fooah?’ No. ‘Phoooaha?’ No. ‘Foooaaha?’ Nearly. ‘Foooaaaha?’ No.  This will be why all the menus have pictures then.  After our language lesson they move on to stealing our ice cream.  It’s an old move; distract us with phonics and pilfer the dairy products.  Sam doesn’t take this lying down.  You don’t get between the big fella and his food! He bravely goes forth to reclaim his triple choc fudge and promptly returns under siege of very giggly pinching.  A wise move then sees him seek refuge behind Alex (½ his size) who selflessly (or without option depending on your view point) surrenders his nipples to the pinching and saves us all.  What a hero.  What a strange hotel!

Nha Trang

On the list of drunken activities, Nha Trang is an easy place to tick of a fair few Do’s and a fair more Don’ts.

Do; take a cyclo to the next bar.

Don’t; physically put the cyclo driver in the passenger seat and then drive said cycle into the next bar. Sorry!

Do; treat the city to a rousing rooftop rendition of Tenacious D’s ‘Fuck her gently’ with the boys nailing harmonies for an acquired audience of pub patrons.

Don’t; take exception to a distasteful shirt and launch it from said rooftop. Sorry!

Do; partake in a booze cruise involving an extremely poor version of karaoke yellow submarine, meet Lou and Nia and dive overboard when asked to sing again.

Don’t; forget the suncream people! Ouch!

Do; stop in when Chris finds himself arguing with a big Russian fella and his minders about Liverpool Football Club.

Don’t; miss the opportunity to continue winding said Russian up about football, organised crime, needing minders and his choice of shirt. The result of which being a rather disconcerting man hug and a couple of rounds of Grey Goose.

Do; make sure Big Chris is standing behind you when you gamble on the mafia having a sense of humour.

Don’t; go to the aquarium.
 

Hoi An

There is decidedly more on offer in Hoi An than in Hue.  For a start we’ve gone up a notch in our lodgings, now paying a whopping $10 a night.  This 5 star fee earns you air con, TV, a pool, plastic flowers on your pillow and free cocktails at happy hour. The later seems like the icing on the cake and gets the thumbs up from all involved for the first 3-4 drinks.  At around drink 5 the secret ingredient (which I’m guessing is Diesel) starts actively attacking internal organs, time to move to Beer.

Hoi An has some nice little bars & restaurants though I am grading them mostly on my lack of memory which usually indicates a good time was had by all.  What I do remember is that Hoi An is very hangover friendly with early afternoon happy hours in lazy street bars making damn good Bloody Marys you can knock back whilst shooting pool with nearly all the balls.  If you wake before the bars open you can meander through the markets and test your battered brain cells trying to identify the disturbing items that were probably in last nights curry.  Hoi An is in fact well tailored for all post debauchery activities.  That is apart from that for which Hoi An is most famous; tailoring.

If there is a list of tasks not to be undertaken when worse for wear the buying tailor made clothes is surely up there. I had the pleasure of witnessing various gentlemen (hung-over Englishmen and perfectly sober Americans) make extremely ill-informed choices matching styles of suit last seen on a Bee-Gee video with fabrics stolen from a futuristic animal themed psychedelic tea shop. This is definitely a case of doing something just because you can.  They surely can’t have a use for these outfits at home?  Maybe they do, maybe Hoi An is the only place they can get required clothing for the little advertised vocation of holistic therapist for African mammals suffering from time displacement psychosis with a side addiction to Bergamot.  Perhaps. 

Having said this, I did leave Hoi An with some very ugly shorts against all of Elisa’s advice.

An out of date update.

So, the last 3 posts have been sat on my computer for over a year and were scribbled in my diary for roughly 7 months before that.  Why so long?  Well it is certainly true that the longer you leave things the harder it is to pick them up again (ice cream on a hot day springs to mind) but I am going to lay the blame squarely at the feet of the event that coincided with the the start of this mammoth chasm in writing.  Yup, meeting a woman just seems to get in the way of getting stuff done and the fact is; in the 18 months odd I’ve been with Hayley I’ve written little more than a postcard.  I’m sure she won’t appreciate me blaming her, especially as she’s told me to to crack on with the writing on numerous occasions, but I feel justified in my my tarring for the following reasons;
It is in the job description as someone’s partner that you must shoulder and accept the other person’s complete lack of logical thinking over any matter particularly one that involves something being your fault.  Arguing against such thinking does not serve you well as it only propagates further irrational brain activity.  Hayley, along with anyone who’s ever been in a relationship will be forced to agree with this (whether she actually agrees or simply abides to point one as described).
Women are a distraction.  This is twice as true when they are making a point of not being distracting.
Anyway, as long as we’re clear that the lack of writing was in no way my fault or due in any part to a procrastinating character. Sweet.
So, it’s New Years (see it’s not, it’s taken me a month to type this scrawl up!) and I’m making a resolution to finish off everything I’ve started.  Sounds simple but it would be better described as self torture - this is going to take ages!  The most over due thing on my list is 14 years out of date!  Anyhoo, this rather optimistic and some would say foolish venture starts off with finishing my blog and a dozen other ideas that are presently comprised of incomprehensible scribblings on assorted bits of paper.
I figure I’ve got about 20 more posts to finish of my rants and ramblings about my time in Asia.  They may not interest anyone now they’re well past being current but it should at least provide me with something to look back at in the dark future where I’m either chained to a desk or ruminating over my choice in fawn knitwear.

Hue is pronounced as if a Spaniard is consuming his curds with it.

Just as the Italian palette isn’t accustomed to $1 vodka so the Italian derma is unaccustomed to $3 lodgings.  Elisa greets our new accommodation with the verdict of “shit’ole”.  I can’t argue with the assessment, it is indeed a shithole.  But I like shitholes!  They tend to be a step above a dive and are in a whole different class than the hovels that I have often fondly called home.  Still, it’s one night and I offer assurances that the next town shall be an improvement.
So, why should you go to Hue?  To be honest, if you miss it, don’t worry too much.  The big attraction is the palace fort - a collection of neglected buildings undergoing very sporadic attempts at restoration.  Elisa seems to get the most out of it whilst the guys and I amuse ourselves with a small cat, some flip flops and a camera.  Cultured to the bone we are.
There are also meant to be some pretty impressive pagodas although, after an hour or so of searching, the only one Elisa and myself find is still under construction.  If these are their historical highlights then local builders really take their tea breaks seriously.
It’s a pretty sharp exit from Hue on another night bus.  The night buses in Vietnam are probably the best I’ve experienced and in stark contrast to those of India.  You can lie down fully (unless you’re Big Chris) and there’s little danger of flying out the window or landing on the poor soul below you.
The only thing causing me any discomfort is a girl by the name of Kia.  Verbal diarrhea doesn’t even come close!  She is somehow able to pick up on a conversation as mundane as Oreo cookies and steer it towards politics, religion, tourism, waste management, globalisation and aquariums.  Of course it quickly ceases to be a conversation and flows with the smoothness of Desperate Dan’s chin into a preaching monologue.  Her travel companion is a poor, beaten down, shadow of a man named Duncan.  Not that I got his name from him!  He seems to have developed a physical muteness by acquaintance.  I find the best way to combat Kia’s verbal volleys is to supply her with numerous movies to watch on the Ipod.  When the batteries eventually fail it’s back to my old friend - Valium.

Hanoi, Halong Bay and the Fibreglass.

5 million mopeds in Hanoi and they all seem to be on the road at once.  It’s busy, and by busy I mean; Duck! Watch out! Woa! Hey! Shit!  Crazy but we like it.  Sam and myself like it for the pirate dvds, Chris likes the trees?, Big Chris likes that there’s a KFC and Alex likes it because he knows how to say “Fuck off” in Vietnamese. 
First things first, we need to replace the women we’ve lost.  First stop - collect my old flat mate Elisa from the airport.   Looksy, she’s brought my shiny new laptop with her.  Now off course I’m happy to see Elisa but ooooh look how shiny it is!!
For Elisa’s first stop in Vietnam I make her feel right at home and we meet the boys in the local Irish bar for the football.  We all become honourary Liverpool supporters for the night as we team up against Mikey (met on the bus from hell) and his fellow misguided Man U fans.  It’s truly the authentic Vietnamese experience; Irish pub, English football, Dutch beer and ABBA on the stereo!
A quick look around Hanoi and we’re off to Halong Bay under the supervision of a guide named Tongue (they just keep getting better).  On the bus we meet Leigh and Sophie and we’re nearly back up to our original quota of girls in the group.  The girls make the fatal error of letting slip that they’re from Essex and I know we’re in for some entertainment.  Sam’s eye also noticeably light up.
So, how to describe Halong Bay?  Big load of water with a vast collection of towering islands, some holding tether to floating villages and markets, some housing labyrinthine caves and some appearing particularly phallic.  Our 2 days in the bay are spent swimming from the boat (more backflips from Sam and an impressive superman impression from Chris), seeing how many wasabi peas you can eat at once and taking a tour of a gigantic cave that, within 5 minutes I have convinced Sophie, is made entirely from fibreglass.  I knew I liked her for a reason - she will actually believe anything you tell her - this is going to be fun!
Our evenings are spent firstly arguing with the boat’s captain who wants to charge us $10 corkage for each of the $1 bottles of vodka we bought aboard (of course the agent selling the tour said byo was fine).  We then spend our time being unconvincingly secretive about our drinking.  The first 2 bottles of vodka go down with the usual enthusiasm.  There’s a bit of a sing song, Leigh shows of her dancing skills (the stuff of legends!) and Elisa remains unconvinced by the ongoing cocktail combinations (the italian palette did not evolve to enjoy the subtleties of a drink that costs less than a dollar).  The third bottle raises it’s head and turns out to be something I don’t think I’l ever forgive Chris for; It is technically vodka but it’s made from fermented sticky rice and tastes very much like a Ukranian shotputter’s armpit (don’t ask me how I know).  Not even 2 cans of dodgy Vietnamese redbull-a-like can disguide the taste although Sam now think it smells like Ameretto.  If Ameretto is the smell of a communal lavatory the morning after the night before then sure, it smells like Ameretto.  The fact that it ends up in a gerkin jar in an attempt to improve it speaks volumes.  Still, it did provide the inspiration for an interesting rendition of ‘No Woman, No Cry’.
‘Cultural’ excursion over and we head back to Hanoi.   Everybody meets at Quan an Ngon which roughly translates as “double price for tourists”.  It’s a pretty slap up affair which is a pleasant change from our usual roadside garages with the playschool chairs that the owners start frantically doubling up when they see our band of giants approach.  i manage to disgust everyone by ordering swan and then disgust myself by tasting it.  There are though some spare spring rolls on offer after I’ve told Sophie that they’re wrapped in skin!  Too easy!
Next stop; Alex’s birthday celebration on Paddy’s day - it’s back to the irish pub.  This promises to be messy.  The deal is; buy a rugby shirt and get free beer all night! - oh dear god!  Once bored of beer (and with a much lower centre of gravity) it’s time for the jagerbombs and assorted things in small glasses.  Now, there is talk of conducting singing form atop a chair or table, there are pictures involving a small hat and there was definitely a beermat grabbing competition won by Chris ‘baseball mitts’ Hill.  There are evne reports of a crazed englishman running down the street in a stolen helmet before being tackled out of the path of oncoming traffic by regular sized Chris.  I however, remember nothing past the point of a very tall ginger guy handing me a shot of something nasty at the bar and therefore absolve myself of all and any responsibility.  Still, it could have been worse; when I later meet Mikey again in Thailand he tells me that his night ended standing next to a guy who lost 2 fingers to a cleaver wielding street chef!
So, up until now Elisa has had to see many sights solo as I’ve nursed numerous hangovers so I feel a little obliged to see at least one.  After getting lost within markets where I can’t tell which are the food stores and which are the pet shops, we find a merchant’s house museum.  The draw being that this is a step back in time.  Authentically completed by the gift shop (half the house) and plasma tv’s.  5 mins and my emersion into the history of Hanoi is complete.  Time to buy some dodgy dvds!
That done and having failed to buy Sam a family because he refused to take the husband as part of the deal, we catch the night bus south.

Vientienne via the bottom of a river.

So, leaving the girls behind, we decide to take a kayak trip to the capital to break up the journey a bit.  Once transferred to the river we make our first mistake; pairing the Watts brothers together.  It’s a very short period of time until the arguments start and quickly progress into paddle jousting.  This is in turn shortly followed by Alex and I mounting a rescue mission for Chris as Sam happily pilots his hotrod-esque kayak blissfully unaware of the amount of water his seating position is causing the kayak to take on.Our second mistake of the day is thinking we were remotely coordinated enough to negotiate a rather substantial rapid successfully.  After bouncing off the riverbed I end up 20m downstream flailing about like a lunatic.  After bouncing off the kayak Alex ends up £300 worth of prescription sunglasses worse off.  I wasn’t to see him that upset again until Cambodia.....
All in all we survive (Big Chris just barely after insisting on taking a one man kayak) and are looking forward to our luxury coach ride to Vientienne.  Unfortunately we are told that the driver has managed to get himself lost.  Seeing as there are only about five roads in the entire of Laos I am a little skeptical that any such coach ever existed.  We are promptly bundled aboard a local truck cum bus cum death trap.  With the space obviously designed for your average Laonese/Laonite/Laoation or whatever, four of us sit with our left ears firmly attached to our shoulders whilst Big Chris’ knees take on the role of ear muffs.  This continues for 3 1/2 long hours as we pick up and drop off numerous and often quite amused locals.  Eventually we arrive in Vientienne.  We spend about an hour wandering around in search of digs (not easy) and about 5 seconds in search of alcohol. 241 cocktails! Oh Really?! (thought of you Roto!) We meet Laura and the Swedes, all the men order exceptionally girly drinks and we try to mentally prepare ourselves for the next leg of our trip.
Unfortunately, nothing could prepare us for the bus ride from hell.  26 Hours! Straight!  the driver got a 4 hr break for which we had to stay on the bus!  The seats reclined approximately 0.04mm.  The aisle was stacked high with rice meaning your exit strategy was quite like the vent scene in Mission Impossible.  The air-con had the same effect as a fat kid hyperventilating in my face and they played karaoke!  Karaoke is bad at the bet of times but when it’s Asian pop music...urgh.  Now generalising statements can be dangerous especially when applied to a race or country but it’s unavoidable; from everything I’ve heard around SE Asia I can safely say their pop music reaches new heights of ear torturing, vomit inducing, why are you dressed as a new romantic shite.  I would rather eat Westlife cd’s to get my dose of pop poison.  And then the guy behind me starts singing along!  You BASTARD!  There’s only one thing for it; I take enough valium to kill a baby rhino and hey presto! GOOOOD MORNNING VIETNAAAAAAAAAAAM!! (Sorry, had to be done.)