As you all know I am now back in the country and have been for some time. I think it's safe to say that my life is now very uninteresting and consists mainly of me trying to apply for jobs between pulling pints for lecherous old men. However, it would be wrong to think that my life is no less amusing (from the outside- for me it is still disastrous) and so I thought that as we are constantly threatened by terrorism, economic collapse, environmental meltdown and a rather oddly shaped government why not bring a little smile (if I can) to you and see that life really isn't so bad. It could be worse. You could be me.
Apart from the obvious things that I have done in the last few weeks like severely scalding my leg with mint tea or poisoning myself with tesco-own vodka I thought I would relay my recent little trip to London town.
My visit was based around two plays which I had been invited to see with a theatre company I interned for and having a "chat" with an arts PR company about more interning. Between these outings I was going to get a cheap haircut with Toni and Guy trainees maybe do a spot of shopping and generally enjoying the capital. Exciting, relaxing and productive what could go wrong?
Let me start by saying that I was going to drive to the Thornhill Park and Ride. I haven't driven by myself until very recently and I imagine most people's mouth's have just made that "ee" shape like when you're watching a home video show and someone falls backwards over a deckchair. I thought I would drive to Thornhill get the coach and be in London fro 1.45pm for a haircut. My dearest mother gave me directions for Headington so that I wouldn't have to go on any scary dual carriageways this did involve driving through some countryside that I swear I have never seen before. I almost gave up but sure enough the signs for Headington appeared and I found the Park and Ride. The only problem with this was that there wasn't a parking space. Not one. I decided I would do the adult thing and call my mother. No reply. Shit. Right I was going to be an adult God damn it I would go to the other Park and Ride in Watereaton. I would go through Headington to Summertown. Right. How do you do that again? After making up a route, I found myself in Headington which was chock-a-block with road works, new students at Brookes (bloody students) and people leaping out in front of me. Did they not know that I had relatively little control over my vehicle and would/could probably kill them? (It turns out probably not since at some point during this debacle my P plates had either been stolen or fallen off). I stalled at several traffic lights, stopped suddenly at another set of traffic lights almost causing a collision with the driver behind; I got to Summertown, same situation- reckless pedestrians, roadworks and even worse school children. Parked down South Parade, almost cry, stop, have to try and parallel park because damn road is too narrow just to stop in, try to call mother again, no reply; carried on to Watereaton after again stalling/pausing too long at roundabouts; at Watereaton; found parking space; ran to bus; looked at watch-now 1pm. I call Toni and Guy and convinced them to hold my place for me after begging and looking like a crazed/flushed person running down George street.
After that the day gets a little better, have lovely haircut from nice young man, which turned out to be free. Feeling a lot better I step onto Oxford street and now I have to get to Dalston to see the play. I have bus number but really no clue about which end of London Dalston is. I get on a bus and vaguely remember the map I saw from the station to the theatre and think "Oh someone will be able to direct me". I ask the first passerby when arriving in Dalston and he directs me up the road and to turn at Tescos. Cool. Get to tescos and ask the security guard, he directs me down dark side road. Hmmm. Not convinced but having faith I amble down for about twenty minutes ask another person who tells me to keep going. I then get to a big junction and ask a few people where the theatre is none of them know and someone says "Isn't that in Dalston?" I am a little confused until I see a sign saying the "Hackney Downs". I am now very lost and very late. In a fit of panic I call my dearest older sister to Google map me and the theatre and find my way for me. It's times like these I think the Iphone would be a good investment. She chastises me for not organising myself but finds my way and I arrive as the bell goes for everyone to go in. Yes! Success. On the way back the overground trains are all delayed so I have to get a series of buses home that take an hour and a half. I no longer care but I think Jen does though when I have to wake her up at 12.30 so she can open the door for me.
So London Day 2 has got to be easier. I over-plan both my journey to the theatre and the PR company. After I meet with the PR people (which I hope went well) I head to covent garden for some shopping since I have four hours til the play. My phone is now running out of battery so I do the proactive thing and find somewhere that will charge it for me. Now who knew that in vodaphone there are little lockers in which you can charge your phone by putting money in a meter and take a key away with you and retrieve the phone when it is charged? An excellent idea I think you'd agree. I am browsing along Long Acre and decide that I will just go and get my phone now so I'm not rushing later- I amble up to the shop and it's closed. Ah. My mother and sister keep asking me what time this was- I don't actually know because I use the clock on my phone. The irony is not lost on me.
So now I can't think what to do; I need my phone but that would mean staying another night to get it back in the morning but I'm supposed to be working at 10am. Tricky. I decide to get to the theatre earlier than planned and use a phone there. The theatre is easy to find thank god. I very politely explain to the box office man what I've done and now need to phone my mum to get my sister's number to ask if I can stay an additional night. I also have to google my work's number and call them to explain I will be a little late for work the following day due to this error. I have to keep repeating what I've done down the phone to the great amusement of the staff. My mum at this point is driving to Glasgow and has to call me back from a motorway stop with my sister's number. What the box office staff failed to tell me was that the phone I was using didn't ring, it only flashed. After trying to call one another many times, calling a wrong number and mistaking someone who was calling for Ellen (a theatre employee) for my Mother (Helen) ("Yes, yes my mum's called Helen I think the call's for me. What? Ellen? Who's Ellen?") my sister managed to get through to me. She agreed to let me stay another night as I downed a glass of wine after realising I wouldn't be driving.
The following day I retrieved my phone and when turning it on get a variety of messages from friends and family including an anxious one from my dad asking if I was in a cell.
*I should breifly explain that before, when I was arrested at the protest, I text my sister from the police van to tell her what had happened but to tell the parents that I had lost my phone therefore, not to panic if they couldn't get hold of me. Ever since then losing a phone is apparently synonymous with prison time to my parents.*
I get to Paddington board my delayed train and worry how late I am now going to be for work. Coincidentally at that instant I get a phone call from my the pub telling me that I wasn't down to work today and that I'm not working til 6. At this point I began to laugh hysterically.
It was only when I got back to Oxford that I began to worry about the car. I thought I could leave it there for free for 72 hours but Jen was convinced that after a day you needed to pay. If it had been towed or I had a fine (which I wouldn't be able to pay) my Father would kill me. Oh really just kill me. As I slowly approached where I'd left my little Ford Focus, I spotted that dented boot (my grandma's work not mine) and there it was in all it's blue glory, Brian, my car. I threw my hands in the air in a Rocky type gesture and drove home. Luck was finally on my side and I only stalled twice.
Saturday, 25 September 2010
Sunday, 13 June 2010
Week 13: Motos
How apt it would seem that my final post would be on it's 13th week. It's only unlucky for some though...
We are now in, the slightly cooler than anticipated, Australia for the next few weeks. However I am saving these anecdotes for our return. So, for my final blog will be on our final week in Vietnam and something that typifies its capital.
Although I think the previous blog's moto driver will stick in my (and my mother's) memory for quite some time we were not done with Motos.
We had quite a few memorable rides on the back of bikes around Hanoi due to the risk-taking abilities of the drivers but it got me thinking; what would happen if we tried to drive them ourselves? (There is my tribute to the new and the terrible Sex and the City 2 film).
In our final week in Asia we decided to visit the renowned Halong Bay and Cat Ba Island. Halong Bay is famous for its gorgeous limestone formations that jut out of the bay's waters.
We arrived on the Island and it did not disappoint. The main reason for this is that most of the island is a protected National Park meaning that only the sea front has been allowed to develop. The area was slightly too big to see on foot and so we were debating how else we could see the island in its entirety. It was then that we saw many street vendors offering moto rental for $3 a day. The roads were fairly quiet and we thought how hard can it be?
The owner of the bikes asked for our driving licenses. I could offer my one for a car but Lizzie can't drive. The man merely shrugged and explained that we may just have to pay off the police if they stopped us. Well thank goodness for that.
We were both a little nervous and decided that we would test our driving abilities in the car park first. It turns out that those things really zip along when you first start them up. After a few failed attempts we got the hang of it and ventured onto the roads at a snail's pace compared to the other drivers. We were not going to be hurried along however. Slow and steady wins the race and all that.
As we first went to get petrol with the bike owner still on the back of Lizzie's bike we managed to pick up a young German student who was also looking for the National Park entrance. He stayed with us for the rest of the day despite riding a proper motor bike and seeming to become exasperated with our slowness. We did encourage him to go off alone but he simply smiled and sighed. He didn't seem to remember that he joined us through choice.
After about twenty minutes of driving I noticed Lizzie was no longer behind me. I turned round and went back to find Lizzie looking quizzically at her bike. It wouldn't start. We were now too far to push the bike back and on a pretty dangerous corner of road. We pulled the bike over and kept prodding and poking it until two young Vietnamese boys stopped and offered to help. We were really grateful until we realised that they wanted money for fixing it. They didn't speak English and without our phrasebook we were useless. We wanted to know if they fixed it wold it last for the rest of the day? This was futile. After a few more minutes another man stopped on his bike who spoke very good English and translated for us. We haggled the boy down in price at which point he seemed to start the bike as normal and it worked. Grrrr.
After this minor hiccup we could enjoy our surroundings and relax. Except of course when my bike kept backfiring and spitting out oil. Nevertheless, we were having a good time. We reached the northernmost point of the island and turned around to go to the West. It was at this point that I realised my bike was running out of petrol. The backfiring was happening because my bike was leaking. All the shops we passed sold oil in old water bottles so we bought one of these and shared it out.
My bike began running out of oil again fairly quickly and so we stopped for food and to figure out what to do. As we were chatting I said to Lizzie that she'd obviously become more confident on the bike as I worked out she must be going about 50-60mph when she said she wouldn't go over 30.
"What?" Lizzie said sounding surprised.
"You were just going quite fast that's all",
"I didn't think I was going fast", she paused, "But then again my speed gauge is broken", another pause "And I only have one mirror". We had not hired the best bikes.
I told her how fast I thought she'd been going and she thought she couldn't have been doing more than 40.
We returned to our bikes and since my bike was nearly out of oil again I drove very slowly back to the vendor trying not to burn the petrol too quickly. We arrived back feeling invigorated and full of life, if not a little shaky. Neither of us crashed but I very nearly went straight into a bollard. All in all we counted it a success.
A few days later we flew from Hanoi to Bangkok (where the only odd thing we encountered was a guard on a segway) and then to Sydney.
I don't think this is the most exciting of my blogs but I think it shows the progression of our travels. If we had tried this in China we would have died. Now, we are practised travellers with the life experience under our belts. Or we were just the luckiest eedjits in south east Asia at that point.
I think I have managed to answer my own question though; What can possibly go wrong? Well, quite a lot really but nothing that can't be fixed with a smile and a Lonely Planet to hand.
We are now in, the slightly cooler than anticipated, Australia for the next few weeks. However I am saving these anecdotes for our return. So, for my final blog will be on our final week in Vietnam and something that typifies its capital.
Although I think the previous blog's moto driver will stick in my (and my mother's) memory for quite some time we were not done with Motos.
We had quite a few memorable rides on the back of bikes around Hanoi due to the risk-taking abilities of the drivers but it got me thinking; what would happen if we tried to drive them ourselves? (There is my tribute to the new and the terrible Sex and the City 2 film).
In our final week in Asia we decided to visit the renowned Halong Bay and Cat Ba Island. Halong Bay is famous for its gorgeous limestone formations that jut out of the bay's waters.
We arrived on the Island and it did not disappoint. The main reason for this is that most of the island is a protected National Park meaning that only the sea front has been allowed to develop. The area was slightly too big to see on foot and so we were debating how else we could see the island in its entirety. It was then that we saw many street vendors offering moto rental for $3 a day. The roads were fairly quiet and we thought how hard can it be?
The owner of the bikes asked for our driving licenses. I could offer my one for a car but Lizzie can't drive. The man merely shrugged and explained that we may just have to pay off the police if they stopped us. Well thank goodness for that.
We were both a little nervous and decided that we would test our driving abilities in the car park first. It turns out that those things really zip along when you first start them up. After a few failed attempts we got the hang of it and ventured onto the roads at a snail's pace compared to the other drivers. We were not going to be hurried along however. Slow and steady wins the race and all that.
As we first went to get petrol with the bike owner still on the back of Lizzie's bike we managed to pick up a young German student who was also looking for the National Park entrance. He stayed with us for the rest of the day despite riding a proper motor bike and seeming to become exasperated with our slowness. We did encourage him to go off alone but he simply smiled and sighed. He didn't seem to remember that he joined us through choice.
After about twenty minutes of driving I noticed Lizzie was no longer behind me. I turned round and went back to find Lizzie looking quizzically at her bike. It wouldn't start. We were now too far to push the bike back and on a pretty dangerous corner of road. We pulled the bike over and kept prodding and poking it until two young Vietnamese boys stopped and offered to help. We were really grateful until we realised that they wanted money for fixing it. They didn't speak English and without our phrasebook we were useless. We wanted to know if they fixed it wold it last for the rest of the day? This was futile. After a few more minutes another man stopped on his bike who spoke very good English and translated for us. We haggled the boy down in price at which point he seemed to start the bike as normal and it worked. Grrrr.
After this minor hiccup we could enjoy our surroundings and relax. Except of course when my bike kept backfiring and spitting out oil. Nevertheless, we were having a good time. We reached the northernmost point of the island and turned around to go to the West. It was at this point that I realised my bike was running out of petrol. The backfiring was happening because my bike was leaking. All the shops we passed sold oil in old water bottles so we bought one of these and shared it out.
My bike began running out of oil again fairly quickly and so we stopped for food and to figure out what to do. As we were chatting I said to Lizzie that she'd obviously become more confident on the bike as I worked out she must be going about 50-60mph when she said she wouldn't go over 30.
"What?" Lizzie said sounding surprised.
"You were just going quite fast that's all",
"I didn't think I was going fast", she paused, "But then again my speed gauge is broken", another pause "And I only have one mirror". We had not hired the best bikes.
I told her how fast I thought she'd been going and she thought she couldn't have been doing more than 40.
We returned to our bikes and since my bike was nearly out of oil again I drove very slowly back to the vendor trying not to burn the petrol too quickly. We arrived back feeling invigorated and full of life, if not a little shaky. Neither of us crashed but I very nearly went straight into a bollard. All in all we counted it a success.
A few days later we flew from Hanoi to Bangkok (where the only odd thing we encountered was a guard on a segway) and then to Sydney.
I don't think this is the most exciting of my blogs but I think it shows the progression of our travels. If we had tried this in China we would have died. Now, we are practised travellers with the life experience under our belts. Or we were just the luckiest eedjits in south east Asia at that point.
I think I have managed to answer my own question though; What can possibly go wrong? Well, quite a lot really but nothing that can't be fixed with a smile and a Lonely Planet to hand.
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
Week 12:Culture Clashes
I have so much ground to cover figuratively having not kept up with the blog when we have covered so much ground physically. I last wrote about my encounters in Dalat that lead us to the seaside town of Nha Trang. I have failed to write since then about Nha Trang, Hoi An, Hue and Hanoi.
As you will have already noticed most of my blogs have been about the clashing of our culture with the far east. However, it seems that these last few places are best talked about in relation to specific moments where something was definitely lost in translation.
To start where I left off then with Nha Trang. This large beach town reminded me of an under-developed version of Miami with the tall hotels and apartment buildings lining the coast. If you turned your back on all of this the view out accross the water was still beautiful.
We spent our time on the beach and enjoying the "buzzing" nightlife. It was not a place to immerse yourself in culture. Our most memorable experience came from (as ever) a day trip on a boat which included seeing a few of the surrounding islands. This was all lovely except when, after lunch, the guide said that a famous Vietnamese boyband were going to play for us all. We of course thought he was joking. In a matter of minutes the table we had eaten lunch on was turned into a stage and a few of the crew were tuning guitars and had set up a drum kit. They proceeded to play a few Vietnamese songs but most of the time was spent with the guide/lead singer thrusting at all the girls on board. Of course I was sat right in the middle didn't quite know where to look. Before anyone asks-no he was not cute. He was 40 if a day and kept saying things like "Up the bum no baby". Culture clash number one.
The second occurred in Hoi An that is famed for its tailoring. Unfortunately, we seemed to pick the most reluctant tailors in the town.I got a dress and Lizzie had a dress and playsuit made. After the initial measurements we came back for a fitting and all garments had to be adjusted. That was fine but when we returned and my dress was now a little too big and Lizzies' were still not right they seemed to become...well...arsey. When we came back a third time they quite obviously wanted to see the back of us and all pretence of friendliness had vanished. My dress was slightly baggy and Lizzie's playsuit was slightly too small. It seemed that my width and Lizzie's height was alien to them. Culture clash number two.
Hue was fairly uneventful and really quite pretty. We spent our time enjoying the old citadel and the surrounding countryside. Our only problem ocurred when we thought we had agreed a fixed price with a cyclo driver and we had not. It wasn't pretty.
We were very excited to get to Hanoi becasue we knew a few people who had told us it was their favourite city while travelling and we were keen to see what all the fuss was about.
A majority of our time was spent wandering around the the old quarter where we were staying. We could get lost for hours in the narrow winding streets that were crowded with restaurants, bars and shops.
I felt that I should try and experience some culture before we left the city so I went to see the Museum of Ethnology. Oh what a mistake. I seemed to attract the moto drivers from hell.
The one who took me there (after some rather heated haggling) was chatting away quite politely about where I was from and where I was staying, all joking and light. He then asked if my dorm was mixed or just girls. "Just girls", I said happily. Although this hadn't been our choice I was pleased not to be seen as another easy Westerner.
"I think you have more fun in mixed dorm", he said.
I just laughed thinking he was being funny. He was quiet for a minute and then said, "After you have been to Museum you spend an hour with me". This should have been my first warning but I thought he wanted me to spend more money getting him to show me the city.
"No thank you. I have to get back to meet my friend".
"Oh come on you come back and have fun with me". This same dialogue continued for a bit until I realised that he didn't want to show me the odd Pagoda or War monument. I continued to be polite.
"No thank you".
"Oh come on you come for half an hour".
"No".
The fact the amount of suggestively allotted time had decreased hardly made me keener.
"Don't you want to see my big banana?" shockingly he actually said that. I wondered how successful I would be at rolling off the bike at the next corner. I was wearing a maxi dress and this made the manoeuver far more complicated. I thought I might just be able to beat him into a stupor with my Lonely Planet if he didn't back off. I kept saying "No" for another few minutes.
"Why not? I like women you like men"he said.
Ah, get out clause here.
"Actually I like women", I ventured.
"Bullshit".
I don't think they really believe in lesbians here.
We still weren't at the museum and I was beginnning to wonder if he was taking me back to his house to have his wicked half an hour with me.
"You come with me and you will be happy".
I tried to explain that it wouldn'tmake me happy.
"I tried Vietnamese women but never Western woman".
"I'm flattered you want to "try" me but still no".
Thankfully we were approaching the museum. I warned him that it would be very unpleasent should he still be there when I came out.
On the way back the driver barley talked to me which was a relief. It was only when he tried to dupe me out of 100 dong by pretending he hadn't just put the note I'd given him in his back pocket, that I almost throttled him.
I got back to the room and flopped down on the bed vowing never to leave the room again.
As you will have already noticed most of my blogs have been about the clashing of our culture with the far east. However, it seems that these last few places are best talked about in relation to specific moments where something was definitely lost in translation.
To start where I left off then with Nha Trang. This large beach town reminded me of an under-developed version of Miami with the tall hotels and apartment buildings lining the coast. If you turned your back on all of this the view out accross the water was still beautiful.
We spent our time on the beach and enjoying the "buzzing" nightlife. It was not a place to immerse yourself in culture. Our most memorable experience came from (as ever) a day trip on a boat which included seeing a few of the surrounding islands. This was all lovely except when, after lunch, the guide said that a famous Vietnamese boyband were going to play for us all. We of course thought he was joking. In a matter of minutes the table we had eaten lunch on was turned into a stage and a few of the crew were tuning guitars and had set up a drum kit. They proceeded to play a few Vietnamese songs but most of the time was spent with the guide/lead singer thrusting at all the girls on board. Of course I was sat right in the middle didn't quite know where to look. Before anyone asks-no he was not cute. He was 40 if a day and kept saying things like "Up the bum no baby". Culture clash number one.
The second occurred in Hoi An that is famed for its tailoring. Unfortunately, we seemed to pick the most reluctant tailors in the town.I got a dress and Lizzie had a dress and playsuit made. After the initial measurements we came back for a fitting and all garments had to be adjusted. That was fine but when we returned and my dress was now a little too big and Lizzies' were still not right they seemed to become...well...arsey. When we came back a third time they quite obviously wanted to see the back of us and all pretence of friendliness had vanished. My dress was slightly baggy and Lizzie's playsuit was slightly too small. It seemed that my width and Lizzie's height was alien to them. Culture clash number two.
Hue was fairly uneventful and really quite pretty. We spent our time enjoying the old citadel and the surrounding countryside. Our only problem ocurred when we thought we had agreed a fixed price with a cyclo driver and we had not. It wasn't pretty.
We were very excited to get to Hanoi becasue we knew a few people who had told us it was their favourite city while travelling and we were keen to see what all the fuss was about.
A majority of our time was spent wandering around the the old quarter where we were staying. We could get lost for hours in the narrow winding streets that were crowded with restaurants, bars and shops.
I felt that I should try and experience some culture before we left the city so I went to see the Museum of Ethnology. Oh what a mistake. I seemed to attract the moto drivers from hell.
The one who took me there (after some rather heated haggling) was chatting away quite politely about where I was from and where I was staying, all joking and light. He then asked if my dorm was mixed or just girls. "Just girls", I said happily. Although this hadn't been our choice I was pleased not to be seen as another easy Westerner.
"I think you have more fun in mixed dorm", he said.
I just laughed thinking he was being funny. He was quiet for a minute and then said, "After you have been to Museum you spend an hour with me". This should have been my first warning but I thought he wanted me to spend more money getting him to show me the city.
"No thank you. I have to get back to meet my friend".
"Oh come on you come back and have fun with me". This same dialogue continued for a bit until I realised that he didn't want to show me the odd Pagoda or War monument. I continued to be polite.
"No thank you".
"Oh come on you come for half an hour".
"No".
The fact the amount of suggestively allotted time had decreased hardly made me keener.
"Don't you want to see my big banana?" shockingly he actually said that. I wondered how successful I would be at rolling off the bike at the next corner. I was wearing a maxi dress and this made the manoeuver far more complicated. I thought I might just be able to beat him into a stupor with my Lonely Planet if he didn't back off. I kept saying "No" for another few minutes.
"Why not? I like women you like men"he said.
Ah, get out clause here.
"Actually I like women", I ventured.
"Bullshit".
I don't think they really believe in lesbians here.
We still weren't at the museum and I was beginnning to wonder if he was taking me back to his house to have his wicked half an hour with me.
"You come with me and you will be happy".
I tried to explain that it wouldn'tmake me happy.
"I tried Vietnamese women but never Western woman".
"I'm flattered you want to "try" me but still no".
Thankfully we were approaching the museum. I warned him that it would be very unpleasent should he still be there when I came out.
On the way back the driver barley talked to me which was a relief. It was only when he tried to dupe me out of 100 dong by pretending he hadn't just put the note I'd given him in his back pocket, that I almost throttled him.
I got back to the room and flopped down on the bed vowing never to leave the room again.
Thursday, 13 May 2010
Week 11: Easy Riding
Sometimes in life you just have to say "Fuck it"- you throw caution to the wind and deal with the consequences later. I have never been that person. However, when given the opportunity to spend three days on the back of a motorbike with a man I didn't know, how could I refuse?
What I am referring to are the "Easy Riders" of Dalat in Vietnam. Dalat is a sizable town up in the Central Highlands. The surrounding area is full of delightful mountains, waterfalls and many minority villages. The service the Easy Riders offer is unique in that they take you on a guided tour of the area on the back of a motorbike. The idea is that you can have a more personal tour and see more of the country with someone who knows about it.
When we first arrived in Dalat we were approached by a Mr Phuc and a Mr Thien who encouraged us to take their tour. After they'd followed us to our hotel and waited outside we felt we should hear them out. We saw that they did a three day tour to Nha Trang (our next destination) that took us to many exciting places along the way and the opportunity to stay overnight in one of the villages. They were both very enthusiastic about the trip and convinced us that the three day tour was our best option.
We handed over a deposit and agreed to start the trip the very next day. Although we'd only just arrived the initial part of the tour took us around the vicinity of Dalat and then beyond.
Although we had happily agreed to the tour we still had concerns; I had never been on the back of a motorbike before and worried about falling off; Lizzie worried it wouldn't be fun; I worried we'd be raped and murdered; Lizzie worried she'd burn her leg on the exhaust; I began worrying I'd burn my leg on the exhaust. But the Easy Riders had been recommended by guides and other travelers alike so we spent the night in Dalat convincing ourselves all would be well.
When Mr Phuc and Mr Thien met us at our hotel it seemed I would ride on the back of Mr Thien's bike and Lizzie would ride with Mr Phuc. There seemed no problem with this as both had seemed perfectly nice the previous evening and I was comforted by the fact that Mr Thien's English was slightly better.
It was clear after the first few hours that our guides were very different.
Now that we had handed over our money Mr Thien saw no need in making small talk or in fact talking to me at all. The only times when he would speak were to explain a point we'd stopped at or berate my choice of clothing. During that first day Mr Thien huffed every time I climbed on the bike because I was wearing jeans and this meant I had to stand on the foot rest to throw my legs over meaning that the bike would tip every time I did this. I tried to explain it wasn't the jeans but the fact I was too short. He ignored this and said I should wear something more appropriate tomorrow.
By comparison, when Lizzie rode with the smiley Mr. Phuc his phone went off. The ringtone was Barbie Girl by Aqua and he then proceeded to sing along. He also said that in his next life he would like to be a pig. Lizzie understandably asked why to which he replied, "All they do is get fed by women and sleep. I think it would be nice". Mr. Phuc was both adorably sweet and unknowingly funny. Mr. Thien was neither.
On our first day we visited the "Crazy House"- a hotel designed to look something like Alice in Wonderland meets a Dali painting- the Dragon temple, the Elephant waterfall, a flower farm and many villages. Despite the unfriendly nature of my guide both men were very good at explaining each visited spot and the importance in Vietnamese culture.
Over the three days we kept stopping in villages inhabited by Vietnamese minorities. Although interesting it was exceptionally awkward. Mr. Thien would lead us around showing us the differing designs of the houses and the farmland they owned. This was fine. It became uncomfortable when we went into a few people's houses and while it was amazing to see how differently people lived we couldn't help feeling we were looking at these people and their lives like animals in a zoo. It didn't help that Mr. Thien encouraged us to take pictures saying, "They don't mind they happy". This was empahsised when Mr Thien showed us a Ho Chi Minh trail bike which could carry an 300kg. He dressed Lizzie up in a conical hat and made us both pretend to push it. We felt like we were violating the culture somehow.
By the end of a brilliant but very long first day we were offered the opportunity to do a homestay in one of the villages. By "homestay" we had understood that we would be staying in a family's house. We were lead to a cabin on stilts where, inside, was an empty room of about 20m by 8m except for two mattresses with mosquito nets and electric fans. This was our room for the night. Rather surprised, and a little confused, we quickly fell asleep and only woke the next morning to the sound of tractors, cows and the constant crowing of the cockerel.
I started our second day with renewed enthusiasm thinking that maybe Mr. Thien had just been having an off day before. He hadn't. He was still rude and still unfriendly.
We stopped at various places again along the way but most memorably another waterfall surrounded by jungle where we swam for a few hours.
It was a really stunning spot with crystal clear water that we welcomed after the intense heat of the morning. The only thing that worried me was when Mr Phuc (who had just done an over-zealous butterfly stroke across to reach us) said that an Easy Rider Driver had died here a few years before. Dumbstruck with horror Lizzie tentatively asked how. Mr Phuc went on to explain, laughing as he did so, that the guide had gotten cramp and the tourists that were with him didn't understand what was going on until it was too late. We tried to express our condolences but Mr. Phuc just seemed to find it funny. We couldn't begrudge him though- maybe he thought his friend was now happier as a pig?
After "gracefully clambering" as Lizzie put it, back up the path to the bikes we carried on with our journey.
We stopped at a few more villages and several spots where the effects of Agent Orange were most prevalent.
Mr. Thien explained how the Americans had sprayed the chemical to kill off all the plants and crops of their enemy. What we didn't realise was that more than thirty years later the land would still be effected by it. It looked like patches of the hillsides were bald where things still couldn't be cultivated. More importantly it means that the small villages surrounding it are even poorer than the ones we had previously seen because they can't grow food to feed their families. I was just happy that the Vietnam War was one that Britain had decided to stay out of.
That evening, we were glad to be staying in a little hotel that both guides proudly told us had 2 stars. We were surprised by the level of luxury it gave us; it had a TV, a bath (granted no plug but I still sat in it) and air conditioning. We felt very taken care of. We all once again ate together at a restaurant and Mr Phuc made good company where as Mr. Thien went and sat at a different table once he'd finished.
We quite happily passed out in our huge beds and were a little sad at the prospect of spending our last day with Mr. Phuc and wondering if I could casually push Mr. Thien off the bike. Not so he seriously hurt himself just a scratch or two maybe.
On our final day we had a lot of ground to cover to get to Nha Trang and so a majority of the day was spent on the bike. We still managed to stop at a small basket market, a rubber tree forest, a cocoa plantation, a pepper plantation and a brick factory. These may not sound the most exciting things but we had never seen cocoa pods growing or peppercorns on a tree or even see people make bricks and so it was interesting if anything just to see a little more of the country and the work people do.
Even with these stops we still spent a lot of time on the bike and after a while my bum lost all feeling. Mr Thien seemed even less happy when I tried to shift my weight, as I had done before, and managed to make the bike almost veer off the road. Our relationship was never going to recover after that.
By mid-afternoon we arrived in the beautiful seaside resort of Nha Trang and were sad to say goodbye. Despite Mr. Thien's continual rudeness we had really enjoyed ourselves and definitely seen more of the country we could have ever of otherwise hoped for.
Lizzie wrote a stellar review for Phuc in his comment book. I was more reserved with my opinion. Mr. Thien reminded me three times to write a review for him online. He even said that he would be going on the next day to check and "Hoped he would see my review on there". I have yet to compose exactly the right phrasing for such a review all I know is that it will contain the words "bad-mannered" and "arse".
What I am referring to are the "Easy Riders" of Dalat in Vietnam. Dalat is a sizable town up in the Central Highlands. The surrounding area is full of delightful mountains, waterfalls and many minority villages. The service the Easy Riders offer is unique in that they take you on a guided tour of the area on the back of a motorbike. The idea is that you can have a more personal tour and see more of the country with someone who knows about it.
When we first arrived in Dalat we were approached by a Mr Phuc and a Mr Thien who encouraged us to take their tour. After they'd followed us to our hotel and waited outside we felt we should hear them out. We saw that they did a three day tour to Nha Trang (our next destination) that took us to many exciting places along the way and the opportunity to stay overnight in one of the villages. They were both very enthusiastic about the trip and convinced us that the three day tour was our best option.
We handed over a deposit and agreed to start the trip the very next day. Although we'd only just arrived the initial part of the tour took us around the vicinity of Dalat and then beyond.
Although we had happily agreed to the tour we still had concerns; I had never been on the back of a motorbike before and worried about falling off; Lizzie worried it wouldn't be fun; I worried we'd be raped and murdered; Lizzie worried she'd burn her leg on the exhaust; I began worrying I'd burn my leg on the exhaust. But the Easy Riders had been recommended by guides and other travelers alike so we spent the night in Dalat convincing ourselves all would be well.
When Mr Phuc and Mr Thien met us at our hotel it seemed I would ride on the back of Mr Thien's bike and Lizzie would ride with Mr Phuc. There seemed no problem with this as both had seemed perfectly nice the previous evening and I was comforted by the fact that Mr Thien's English was slightly better.
It was clear after the first few hours that our guides were very different.
Now that we had handed over our money Mr Thien saw no need in making small talk or in fact talking to me at all. The only times when he would speak were to explain a point we'd stopped at or berate my choice of clothing. During that first day Mr Thien huffed every time I climbed on the bike because I was wearing jeans and this meant I had to stand on the foot rest to throw my legs over meaning that the bike would tip every time I did this. I tried to explain it wasn't the jeans but the fact I was too short. He ignored this and said I should wear something more appropriate tomorrow.
By comparison, when Lizzie rode with the smiley Mr. Phuc his phone went off. The ringtone was Barbie Girl by Aqua and he then proceeded to sing along. He also said that in his next life he would like to be a pig. Lizzie understandably asked why to which he replied, "All they do is get fed by women and sleep. I think it would be nice". Mr. Phuc was both adorably sweet and unknowingly funny. Mr. Thien was neither.
On our first day we visited the "Crazy House"- a hotel designed to look something like Alice in Wonderland meets a Dali painting- the Dragon temple, the Elephant waterfall, a flower farm and many villages. Despite the unfriendly nature of my guide both men were very good at explaining each visited spot and the importance in Vietnamese culture.
Over the three days we kept stopping in villages inhabited by Vietnamese minorities. Although interesting it was exceptionally awkward. Mr. Thien would lead us around showing us the differing designs of the houses and the farmland they owned. This was fine. It became uncomfortable when we went into a few people's houses and while it was amazing to see how differently people lived we couldn't help feeling we were looking at these people and their lives like animals in a zoo. It didn't help that Mr. Thien encouraged us to take pictures saying, "They don't mind they happy". This was empahsised when Mr Thien showed us a Ho Chi Minh trail bike which could carry an 300kg. He dressed Lizzie up in a conical hat and made us both pretend to push it. We felt like we were violating the culture somehow.
By the end of a brilliant but very long first day we were offered the opportunity to do a homestay in one of the villages. By "homestay" we had understood that we would be staying in a family's house. We were lead to a cabin on stilts where, inside, was an empty room of about 20m by 8m except for two mattresses with mosquito nets and electric fans. This was our room for the night. Rather surprised, and a little confused, we quickly fell asleep and only woke the next morning to the sound of tractors, cows and the constant crowing of the cockerel.
I started our second day with renewed enthusiasm thinking that maybe Mr. Thien had just been having an off day before. He hadn't. He was still rude and still unfriendly.
We stopped at various places again along the way but most memorably another waterfall surrounded by jungle where we swam for a few hours.
It was a really stunning spot with crystal clear water that we welcomed after the intense heat of the morning. The only thing that worried me was when Mr Phuc (who had just done an over-zealous butterfly stroke across to reach us) said that an Easy Rider Driver had died here a few years before. Dumbstruck with horror Lizzie tentatively asked how. Mr Phuc went on to explain, laughing as he did so, that the guide had gotten cramp and the tourists that were with him didn't understand what was going on until it was too late. We tried to express our condolences but Mr. Phuc just seemed to find it funny. We couldn't begrudge him though- maybe he thought his friend was now happier as a pig?
After "gracefully clambering" as Lizzie put it, back up the path to the bikes we carried on with our journey.
We stopped at a few more villages and several spots where the effects of Agent Orange were most prevalent.
Mr. Thien explained how the Americans had sprayed the chemical to kill off all the plants and crops of their enemy. What we didn't realise was that more than thirty years later the land would still be effected by it. It looked like patches of the hillsides were bald where things still couldn't be cultivated. More importantly it means that the small villages surrounding it are even poorer than the ones we had previously seen because they can't grow food to feed their families. I was just happy that the Vietnam War was one that Britain had decided to stay out of.
That evening, we were glad to be staying in a little hotel that both guides proudly told us had 2 stars. We were surprised by the level of luxury it gave us; it had a TV, a bath (granted no plug but I still sat in it) and air conditioning. We felt very taken care of. We all once again ate together at a restaurant and Mr Phuc made good company where as Mr. Thien went and sat at a different table once he'd finished.
We quite happily passed out in our huge beds and were a little sad at the prospect of spending our last day with Mr. Phuc and wondering if I could casually push Mr. Thien off the bike. Not so he seriously hurt himself just a scratch or two maybe.
On our final day we had a lot of ground to cover to get to Nha Trang and so a majority of the day was spent on the bike. We still managed to stop at a small basket market, a rubber tree forest, a cocoa plantation, a pepper plantation and a brick factory. These may not sound the most exciting things but we had never seen cocoa pods growing or peppercorns on a tree or even see people make bricks and so it was interesting if anything just to see a little more of the country and the work people do.
Even with these stops we still spent a lot of time on the bike and after a while my bum lost all feeling. Mr Thien seemed even less happy when I tried to shift my weight, as I had done before, and managed to make the bike almost veer off the road. Our relationship was never going to recover after that.
By mid-afternoon we arrived in the beautiful seaside resort of Nha Trang and were sad to say goodbye. Despite Mr. Thien's continual rudeness we had really enjoyed ourselves and definitely seen more of the country we could have ever of otherwise hoped for.
Lizzie wrote a stellar review for Phuc in his comment book. I was more reserved with my opinion. Mr. Thien reminded me three times to write a review for him online. He even said that he would be going on the next day to check and "Hoped he would see my review on there". I have yet to compose exactly the right phrasing for such a review all I know is that it will contain the words "bad-mannered" and "arse".
Week 10: Round Up
Unsurprisingly I am once again behind on the blogging front so I will have to give you a brief surmise of where we have been since we arrived in Vietnam. I think the picture above just about makes up for it but please keep reading to understand how we got to that point.
We first went to the Island of Phu Quoc which is at the very southern tip of Vietnam. It was a beautiful place to spend time on the beach and we even did some squid fishing. The only thing was that because it was the low season it was really quiet. Almost eerily so.
After a few days there we headed up to the madness that is Ho Chi Minh City. Althought we have heard a few people complaining about the fast paced style of the city we really enjoyed it. It was a beautiful place to wander around, visit markets, museums and the nightlife was pretty good too.
It was here in old Saigon that we agreed to play a little game called the "Ten Dollar Challenge". Basically, each person is given ten dollars and had to buy an outift for the other person. We gave ourselves forty-five minutes in the biggest market in the city to the find the most ridiculous outfit for the other. Hence the above picture. I am wearing an England football shirt and a B-Boy cap to look like an English yob whereas I chose a more lady of the night look for Lizzie who wore a silk dressing gown, a bamboo explorers hat and, although you can't see it in the photo, a tie with the Australian flag on. Lizzie then chose to spend most of the night with the tie round her head.
Yes my friends we actually went out in public like this. With the aid of much rum we even enjoyed ourselves and were told by one boy in a club we went to (rather oddly called "Apocalypse Now") that our hats had collectively made his night.
After our successes in Saigon we headed to Mui Ne which is again on the coast. This was a lovely little beach town that was nicely chilled out and spent more time lying in the sun. Well I lay under an umbrella; two months on and I've barely changed colour.
Sunday, 25 April 2010
Week 9: Days Trips
The day trip/excursion is a popular backpacker pass time with tour operators vying for your attention with offers of "free water" or additionally useless gestures. They will advertise a trip to some lovely idyllic place that shows the best bits of the country and you only have to pay "x" much to experience it. I have come to be a little skeptical of said trips since they rarely are what they appear to be. I have two examples on offer- one day of snorkeling and one trekking through a national park. I have to say the result of my snorkeling endeavor was completely self inflicted but the trekking was a little different from the advert.
After we left Phnom Penh we headed to the coast and Sihanoukville which is a little backpacker haven with a lovely stretch of beach, bars and restaurants. Self-indulgent perhaps but it was really too hot to care.
There are a few smaller islands around Sihanoukville which boast excellent diving spots. Of course for those who cannot dive there is always the option of snorkeling. There were numerous places that offered days trips and I was keen to explore.
Lizzie on the other hand preferred to stay on dry land so off I went on my own into the unknown waters.
When I arrived at the meeting point early in the morning it appeared that it would just be me and a middle aged Japanese man on the tour. We were later joined by a Frenchman and his eight year old son, a young Swiss man and many Khmer diving instructors. It turned out that I would be bobbing on the surface alone while the others did their dives. This made little difference to me since I realised that while snorkeling is hardly a social activity anyway.
The boat took about two hours to reach the first spot where we would have an hour and then lunch then another hour of snorkeling before heading back. The first "snorkel" was lovely. There were a lot of incredible coral formations, anemones and fish to admire.
We had a simple lunch on one of the islands and then headed out for our second dive. When I got in the water a second time I realised that my legs were beginning to sting a little. I thought it must just be the salt but then in a horrible moment of recognition the burning pain down the back of each pale leg was a little too familiar. I retreated back to the boat and dabbed my legs with lotion and tried not think about the pain for the two hour journey back.
When I got back to the room I examined the damage in the mirror; it looked as if someone had taken paint rollers to the back of my legs because now there was nothing to see but burnt red flesh. I spent the rest of the evening face down on my bed unable to put any weight on the delicate skin.
The next few days were a little difficult when it came to sitting down but with the aid of a lot of after-sun the skin finally healed. Well peeled then healed.
Just as I made this recovery we went off to Kampot which is a small but pretty town the main attraction being the nearby Bokor National Park. The park houses monkeys, tigers, pangolin and wild pigs. Safe to say the most we saw was some lizards but then again I think it's probably best we didn't bump into a tiger.
The trip was advertised as a "trek" so we did the responsible thing and asked just how strenuous this "trek" was. I don't know if I have mentioned this but I am not what you would call athletic. The guide warned us that the first part of the two and a half hour trek up was quite hard and then got easier. Full of confidence at our walking abilities (it wasn't as if we were getting in a boat or anything) we went back to our hostel excited about the following day.
We met our minibus with a young German couple and already inside were a French couple with their daughter who couldn't have been much older than five. I joked that she would probably find it the easiest while I would be sweating up the mountain but was comforted by the fact a child was allowed on the trip at all. It couldn't be that hard if the guides let a young child on the trek could it? We were also joined by an American girl our own age and an older German gentleman who seemed to be traveling alone.
The bus drove up the newly developed roads for the first ten minutes and then along with an English speaking guide and a ranger from the park (who had a rifle) we walked from the road into the trees and began up the mountain.
After the first few minutes I realised that this was going to be a little harder than I had previously thought. The first clue was the practically vertical slope in front of me and the second was the lack of things to hold onto while I attempted to do so. We were the last ones in the line (the little girl was having to be carried alternately by her parents) but we soon had to overtake the young German couple and the young American girl who looked seriously worried about the difficulty of the climb. We stopped in a clearing to admire the view and it seemed that the three we overtook had given up and returned to the truck.
As we kept walking the single German man asked us where the three had gone. "They had to go back" we replied. "Oh that couple were far too fat anyway" he commented, "I think the lady said she had asthma" Lizzie interjected, "They could do with the exercise" he carried on unperturbed by the potential danger the young German woman now faced. Now worried that my own size was being unknowingly commented on I tried to keep up as best I could. It was a hard climb but it wasn't nearly as bad as the bruises or scratches that I seemed to incur on the way due to my own clumsiness. It also didn't help that my walking boots we tearing my heels to shreds. We stopped again while the kind French lady offered me plasters for my blisters. The ranger with the rifle, who spoke no English, kept mock pretending to be out of breath while he easily bounded up the mountain in flip-flops. At first I smiled politely but when the impressions did not stop I began to wonder how quickly he might be able to run up the mountain if I had his rifle. His flip-flops would be of little use then.
Of course as a wise person once said, "What goes up must come down". We were to come down the mountain the way we had climbed up. I was not confident that I wouldn't just trip and quite literally roll all the way home.
We trekked for a further two hours and then the truck met us to take us to the very top.
Before the site was a National Park the top of the mountain had been a small village created by the French with a casino, hotel, post office and Church. The French colonialists had used the high altitude to escape the heat of the town. In the course of the many wars and internal conflicts in Cambodia the town was abandoned and all that remains are the empty buildings. It is oddly eery up there as we went through the casino, imagining a scene from the 1930s unfolding around us, we noticed the bullet holes in the walls from when the Khmer Rouge occupied the area.
The views from the top were incredible and it made the arduous trek worthwhile.
When it came to climb down the French couple couldn't carry their daughter and so asked if there was alternative transport. Lizzie and I also requested that we share what truck etc was provided, not trusting ourselves and knowing that gravity is a far stronger force than our balancing abilities. The insulting German didn't want to climb down alone with the armed ranger so he opted to join us too.
We waited at the spot we'd been dropped off at and up pulled a small hatch back. It had five seats. There were six of us on the tour and the tour guide, a driver and her son were already in the car. That made nine. Surely were weren't all going to fit? Like the sketch of clowns fitting into a mini we all squashed in with four in the back and five in the front- the guide and the woman shared the front seat while her son sat on her lap. The German was holding the young French girl and the four of us left were all sitting at odd angles in order to squeeze in the back.
It was exciting to say the least. We were glad that we had done it, in a sort of masochistic way, and the top had been extraordinary. It might just have been nice if they had told us that it was that hard. We still would have done it but then we could have felt stupid at our own fitness levels rather than deceived.
The snorkeling outcome was no ones fault but my own but I am still tempted to write to a certain sun-tan-lotion manufacturer to complain about their products water resistance levels.
After these strenuous outings we retreated to Kep and the tropical Rabbit Island where we lay in hammocks for two days and ate fresh seafood every night. I like to think we try to achieve some sort of balance on our travels.
After we left Phnom Penh we headed to the coast and Sihanoukville which is a little backpacker haven with a lovely stretch of beach, bars and restaurants. Self-indulgent perhaps but it was really too hot to care.
There are a few smaller islands around Sihanoukville which boast excellent diving spots. Of course for those who cannot dive there is always the option of snorkeling. There were numerous places that offered days trips and I was keen to explore.
Lizzie on the other hand preferred to stay on dry land so off I went on my own into the unknown waters.
When I arrived at the meeting point early in the morning it appeared that it would just be me and a middle aged Japanese man on the tour. We were later joined by a Frenchman and his eight year old son, a young Swiss man and many Khmer diving instructors. It turned out that I would be bobbing on the surface alone while the others did their dives. This made little difference to me since I realised that while snorkeling is hardly a social activity anyway.
The boat took about two hours to reach the first spot where we would have an hour and then lunch then another hour of snorkeling before heading back. The first "snorkel" was lovely. There were a lot of incredible coral formations, anemones and fish to admire.
We had a simple lunch on one of the islands and then headed out for our second dive. When I got in the water a second time I realised that my legs were beginning to sting a little. I thought it must just be the salt but then in a horrible moment of recognition the burning pain down the back of each pale leg was a little too familiar. I retreated back to the boat and dabbed my legs with lotion and tried not think about the pain for the two hour journey back.
When I got back to the room I examined the damage in the mirror; it looked as if someone had taken paint rollers to the back of my legs because now there was nothing to see but burnt red flesh. I spent the rest of the evening face down on my bed unable to put any weight on the delicate skin.
The next few days were a little difficult when it came to sitting down but with the aid of a lot of after-sun the skin finally healed. Well peeled then healed.
Just as I made this recovery we went off to Kampot which is a small but pretty town the main attraction being the nearby Bokor National Park. The park houses monkeys, tigers, pangolin and wild pigs. Safe to say the most we saw was some lizards but then again I think it's probably best we didn't bump into a tiger.
The trip was advertised as a "trek" so we did the responsible thing and asked just how strenuous this "trek" was. I don't know if I have mentioned this but I am not what you would call athletic. The guide warned us that the first part of the two and a half hour trek up was quite hard and then got easier. Full of confidence at our walking abilities (it wasn't as if we were getting in a boat or anything) we went back to our hostel excited about the following day.
We met our minibus with a young German couple and already inside were a French couple with their daughter who couldn't have been much older than five. I joked that she would probably find it the easiest while I would be sweating up the mountain but was comforted by the fact a child was allowed on the trip at all. It couldn't be that hard if the guides let a young child on the trek could it? We were also joined by an American girl our own age and an older German gentleman who seemed to be traveling alone.
The bus drove up the newly developed roads for the first ten minutes and then along with an English speaking guide and a ranger from the park (who had a rifle) we walked from the road into the trees and began up the mountain.
After the first few minutes I realised that this was going to be a little harder than I had previously thought. The first clue was the practically vertical slope in front of me and the second was the lack of things to hold onto while I attempted to do so. We were the last ones in the line (the little girl was having to be carried alternately by her parents) but we soon had to overtake the young German couple and the young American girl who looked seriously worried about the difficulty of the climb. We stopped in a clearing to admire the view and it seemed that the three we overtook had given up and returned to the truck.
As we kept walking the single German man asked us where the three had gone. "They had to go back" we replied. "Oh that couple were far too fat anyway" he commented, "I think the lady said she had asthma" Lizzie interjected, "They could do with the exercise" he carried on unperturbed by the potential danger the young German woman now faced. Now worried that my own size was being unknowingly commented on I tried to keep up as best I could. It was a hard climb but it wasn't nearly as bad as the bruises or scratches that I seemed to incur on the way due to my own clumsiness. It also didn't help that my walking boots we tearing my heels to shreds. We stopped again while the kind French lady offered me plasters for my blisters. The ranger with the rifle, who spoke no English, kept mock pretending to be out of breath while he easily bounded up the mountain in flip-flops. At first I smiled politely but when the impressions did not stop I began to wonder how quickly he might be able to run up the mountain if I had his rifle. His flip-flops would be of little use then.
Of course as a wise person once said, "What goes up must come down". We were to come down the mountain the way we had climbed up. I was not confident that I wouldn't just trip and quite literally roll all the way home.
We trekked for a further two hours and then the truck met us to take us to the very top.
Before the site was a National Park the top of the mountain had been a small village created by the French with a casino, hotel, post office and Church. The French colonialists had used the high altitude to escape the heat of the town. In the course of the many wars and internal conflicts in Cambodia the town was abandoned and all that remains are the empty buildings. It is oddly eery up there as we went through the casino, imagining a scene from the 1930s unfolding around us, we noticed the bullet holes in the walls from when the Khmer Rouge occupied the area.
The views from the top were incredible and it made the arduous trek worthwhile.
When it came to climb down the French couple couldn't carry their daughter and so asked if there was alternative transport. Lizzie and I also requested that we share what truck etc was provided, not trusting ourselves and knowing that gravity is a far stronger force than our balancing abilities. The insulting German didn't want to climb down alone with the armed ranger so he opted to join us too.
We waited at the spot we'd been dropped off at and up pulled a small hatch back. It had five seats. There were six of us on the tour and the tour guide, a driver and her son were already in the car. That made nine. Surely were weren't all going to fit? Like the sketch of clowns fitting into a mini we all squashed in with four in the back and five in the front- the guide and the woman shared the front seat while her son sat on her lap. The German was holding the young French girl and the four of us left were all sitting at odd angles in order to squeeze in the back.
It was exciting to say the least. We were glad that we had done it, in a sort of masochistic way, and the top had been extraordinary. It might just have been nice if they had told us that it was that hard. We still would have done it but then we could have felt stupid at our own fitness levels rather than deceived.
The snorkeling outcome was no ones fault but my own but I am still tempted to write to a certain sun-tan-lotion manufacturer to complain about their products water resistance levels.
After these strenuous outings we retreated to Kep and the tropical Rabbit Island where we lay in hammocks for two days and ate fresh seafood every night. I like to think we try to achieve some sort of balance on our travels.
Friday, 23 April 2010
Week 8: New Year
Cambodia, Laos and Thailand all share an alternative New Year to the West which is normally celebrated in mid-April. Each country has its own traditions but generally speaking it is a family time. They clean their houses and wash the temples to have a fresh start for the new year. In the spirit of cleanliness young people have water fights and plaster one another in talc as an extension of the more religious traditions.
We were excited to be in Cambodia for this national celebration and planned to be in the capital, Phnom Penh, for the three day event. First however, we were going to spend two nights in Battambang before heading further south.
We left Siem Reap to take a delightful boat trip along the Tonle Sap on one of the most scenic pieces of river in the country. It was advertised to take 4-5 hours. It took 9.
Battambang is a small Khmer town that, due to the French colonial buildings lining the riverbank, is quite beautiful. We spent our time wandering around and generally enjoying the peaceful atmosphere.
On one of these wanderings we passed a Wat and I was keen to have a look in the hope that one of the monks could explain to me a little more about the New Year celebrations.
I went in and sure enough a young temple boy took me round. The various statues surrounding the temple were decorated in coloured streamers and ribbon in preparation for the following few days.
The young boy also explained to me about basic Buddhist beliefs and stories. One story was depicted by a few statues and it couldn't help but catch the eye. It was the story of an Indian Prince who had never seen any unhappiness in his life because he had never left his palace. Buddha takes him outside to show him the real world including the old, the ill, the dead and also a monk none of which the Prince has seen before. When he sees the monk he vows to dedicate his life to Buddhism. The story I had no problem with the statues depicting it on the other hand were a little disturbing. More specifically the depiction of the dead man was really odd. They were all new statues, almost cartoon-esque, and painted in bright colours. The dead man was a man lying on the floor with a green face and a hole gouged out of his stomach where a statue of a bird was perched now eating his insides. For such a peaceful religion this seemed a little grotesque.
That evening Lizzie and I ventured to the only club in Battambang that was advertised as playing Khmer love ballads and house music. The intrigue was too great to resist.
Inside the "Sky Disco" we were unsurprised to find ourselves the only Westerners. The evening was evidently a special club night for the New Year. The only reason we knew this was because every now and again between remixes of American and Khmer rap, the DJ shouted "Happy New Year!" Also, there seemed to be some kind of special raffle where someone won an electric fan. We didn't get it but the winner seemed happy.
The following day we carried on to Phnom Penh. When we arrived at our hostel we asked the owner about any special celebrations going on for the holiday, "Not really", he replied, "Most people go out to the country to be with their families". We noticed that evening walking around the town that, for a capital city, it seemed quite quiet. We were hoping for huge water fights in the street when in fact we were lucky that things had stayed open at all.
The next day we saw some lights and heard music coming from a nearby Wat and went to investigate. The Wat served as a kind of roundabout and on this huge green space was a stage with a live band and families gathered to eat and dance.
We grabbed ourselves a drink and stood back from the crowd to watch the band. Soon we attracted the attention of a few young Khmer boys who were inviting us to dance with them. I say boys; Lizzie was asked to dance by a boy about our age who seemed genuinely friendly and meant no harm. I was asked to dance by a man in his late thirties with his front teeth missing. We both politely declined and retreated further back. We were just swaying and bobbing where we were when a small round woman, who was with the afore mentioned group of men, came up to us and indicated we should dance. We smiled and shook our heads. She then grabbed Lizzie's arm and dragged her towards the dance floor. Lizzie grabbed my opposite arm sending me spinning round before being dragged along behind. We found ourselves in the middle of group and could do nothing but dance. While dancing a few youths ran passed patting our faces with talc leaving hand prints across our faces.
All in all it was not what we had expected of the new year but we saw some celebrations and were invited to join in. I thought the dance must be the Khmer equivalent of singing Auld Lang Syne but without the organised handholding or everyone being too drunk to remember the words. Mybe the Khmer have it right.
We were excited to be in Cambodia for this national celebration and planned to be in the capital, Phnom Penh, for the three day event. First however, we were going to spend two nights in Battambang before heading further south.
We left Siem Reap to take a delightful boat trip along the Tonle Sap on one of the most scenic pieces of river in the country. It was advertised to take 4-5 hours. It took 9.
Battambang is a small Khmer town that, due to the French colonial buildings lining the riverbank, is quite beautiful. We spent our time wandering around and generally enjoying the peaceful atmosphere.
On one of these wanderings we passed a Wat and I was keen to have a look in the hope that one of the monks could explain to me a little more about the New Year celebrations.
I went in and sure enough a young temple boy took me round. The various statues surrounding the temple were decorated in coloured streamers and ribbon in preparation for the following few days.
The young boy also explained to me about basic Buddhist beliefs and stories. One story was depicted by a few statues and it couldn't help but catch the eye. It was the story of an Indian Prince who had never seen any unhappiness in his life because he had never left his palace. Buddha takes him outside to show him the real world including the old, the ill, the dead and also a monk none of which the Prince has seen before. When he sees the monk he vows to dedicate his life to Buddhism. The story I had no problem with the statues depicting it on the other hand were a little disturbing. More specifically the depiction of the dead man was really odd. They were all new statues, almost cartoon-esque, and painted in bright colours. The dead man was a man lying on the floor with a green face and a hole gouged out of his stomach where a statue of a bird was perched now eating his insides. For such a peaceful religion this seemed a little grotesque.
That evening Lizzie and I ventured to the only club in Battambang that was advertised as playing Khmer love ballads and house music. The intrigue was too great to resist.
Inside the "Sky Disco" we were unsurprised to find ourselves the only Westerners. The evening was evidently a special club night for the New Year. The only reason we knew this was because every now and again between remixes of American and Khmer rap, the DJ shouted "Happy New Year!" Also, there seemed to be some kind of special raffle where someone won an electric fan. We didn't get it but the winner seemed happy.
The following day we carried on to Phnom Penh. When we arrived at our hostel we asked the owner about any special celebrations going on for the holiday, "Not really", he replied, "Most people go out to the country to be with their families". We noticed that evening walking around the town that, for a capital city, it seemed quite quiet. We were hoping for huge water fights in the street when in fact we were lucky that things had stayed open at all.
The next day we saw some lights and heard music coming from a nearby Wat and went to investigate. The Wat served as a kind of roundabout and on this huge green space was a stage with a live band and families gathered to eat and dance.
We grabbed ourselves a drink and stood back from the crowd to watch the band. Soon we attracted the attention of a few young Khmer boys who were inviting us to dance with them. I say boys; Lizzie was asked to dance by a boy about our age who seemed genuinely friendly and meant no harm. I was asked to dance by a man in his late thirties with his front teeth missing. We both politely declined and retreated further back. We were just swaying and bobbing where we were when a small round woman, who was with the afore mentioned group of men, came up to us and indicated we should dance. We smiled and shook our heads. She then grabbed Lizzie's arm and dragged her towards the dance floor. Lizzie grabbed my opposite arm sending me spinning round before being dragged along behind. We found ourselves in the middle of group and could do nothing but dance. While dancing a few youths ran passed patting our faces with talc leaving hand prints across our faces.
All in all it was not what we had expected of the new year but we saw some celebrations and were invited to join in. I thought the dance must be the Khmer equivalent of singing Auld Lang Syne but without the organised handholding or everyone being too drunk to remember the words. Mybe the Khmer have it right.
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