Typhoon about town
In Vietnam, the immanent arrival of a Typhoon, I have learned, is a jovial event and cause for eating and drinking. The town took on a festival atmosphere as I walked the streets that were already strewn with wind-blown detritus and floodwater. I was amazed to find the bars and restaurants full with mostly Vietnamese and scattered (scatty?) foreigners. The thing is, the locals had taken whatever precautions necessary, and there was nothing left to do but wait. Moreover, if you are going to be sitting around for any length of time, you may as well have a beer in your hand.
As nighttime fell, the storm seemed to intensify. How do you know when this is actually it, the peak moment? Anything not bolted down flew around the streets, and torrential rain lashed the swaying palms. Intermittent power failure brought the usual cheers you find anywhere in the world, and sensibly, people began to drift off to their respective hiding places. Not wishing to be dodging any fallen power cables, I followed suite.
Soaking wet, I could not resist one final look at the beach before turning in – and here I found I was not alone in my curiosity. Plenty of folk were there to inspect the awesome waves crashing on the beach, the high tide bringing saltwater right up onto the land. The wind necessitated me walking like I had invisible weights strapped to my feet, and as a section of corrugated roofing iron whistled past, I deduced it may be a good time to go home.
It is now obvious to me why so many people often die during natural disasters. Inquisitiveness draws us to the action, like so many lemmings, and we all know what happens to them.
Mad Dog
Earlier in the day, I had ridden out to the port for a look-see. Colourful ships and boats of all shape and size bustled for moorings, and men with weathered faces paddled their conical boats around to secure ropes. In the fishing harbour, quite the largest collection of gaily-painted boats formed a flotilla so tight; it was possible to walk across water. Where there was space, it was still possible to walk across water; on the flotsam. Countless times, I witnessed men and women throw bins full of trash into the sea. Food waste, plastic and just about anything else spoiled this otherwise pleasant scene. I find it amazing; the people here earn their living from the sea, and this port is their home, and yet they foul it without a thought. Litter anywhere in Asia is an unpleasant fact, but somehow it is more offensive along the coast, where so much sea-life can suffer as a result. It is no use blaming governments about this; when people so freely chuck their waste around, and the kids learn from them, the only way forward is to educate them in the schools and make them understand the consequences. I just do not comprehend how the people cannot see anything wrong in what they are doing.
I rode down a dead-end road leading to a wharf, to take photos. Waiting for me was a scruffy looking terrier, his once mostly white coat blackened with grime. His menacing eyes spied me from behind a curly fringe, but no action was taken when I dismounted the bike to walk around. Now, I know dogs, I have spent a lifetime working with them. Any doggy person can read their behaviour and pre-empt the next move. Most can be dominated, by showing them confidence and leadership. I always exercise a little extra caution in Asia, wary of rabies, and of course, I do not speak their language. But it takes more than short shaggy canine to scare me, so I strolled about with impunity.
With photographic business taken care of, I mounted my bike to leave. A glance at the hound confirmed my suspicion; I could see it in his eyes. He was one of those dogs. You know, the ones that let you in, allow you to stroll around, and then bite you on the ass as you leave. I started my engine, and he revealed a set of teeth far too large for a dog of his physique. Without further ado, I took off, him in hot pursuit. I checked behind and was astonished to note, in a whir of legs the fury critter was gaining on me. All too soon, the thing pulled alongside as I entered a street lined with a fish market. Traders laughed and pointed as I lifted my legs in order to avoid the snapping jaws; but now I had a problem – I could not change gear to increase speed, so I revved the Honda to the max, but it was not enough to lose him. Just as I thought he was about to pull me to the ground to commence disembowelment, I reached the junction on the main road. This was a critical moment, darting into the traffic; it was going to be him or me. Spotting a gap, I pulled onto the road with no loss of speed, and at the same time, I crossed an invisible line, the edge of his domain. He stopped dead, turned, and triumphantly strode back to the wharf, another foreigner successfully dealt with – every dog has his day.
I slept soundly through the night, with Durian banging away on my door. I woke early and pulled on my board shorts, keen to get out and inspect the destruction she had left in her wake. Thankfully, major structural damage, at least in my immediate area, seamed minimal. The coastal drag was, as you’d expect; palm fronds, sand, floodwater and driftwood; but nothing too dramatic. A check on the storm tracker website revealed that it had had the decency to stay some 30km offshore, before turning south, thus, we only caught the edge of it’s rage.
I had spare a few more days to enjoy the delights of Nha Trang. The weather was good enough to get some beach time, but poor post-storm water visibility ruled out the planned scuba diving. At night I usually hung out around Rainbow Bar, the operational base of Rainbow Divers. It had a cool vibe, and free WIFI where I could catch up on website work. Diving is very fashionable these days, and no backpacker would dream of going home without his or her PADI certificate. It has become a necessary on any trip, and consequently numerous dive operators have sprung up around the world’s hot spots to cash in. In some places, the number of outfits vying for space is laughable, and some areas have become a sort of production line. This enables young backpackers to get qualified with minimal cost, effort and time, cross that off their list, and get back on the bus. Diving, despite making people look silly with a mask on their head, is essentially a very bling activity, and operators go to great lengths to look the best. Particularly expatriates, who throw large sums of cash into the single most important thing in an outfit; the bar and social area. This is front-of-house to the businrss, and the cooler it looks, the more pretty girls it contains, the more customers it will drag off the street. I have frequented a few in my time, and I have learnt one thing; that is, unless you are in the gang, diving with them or a long-term hanger-on, or a shapely blond Swede – they are not usually a particularly friendly place to be. However, Rainbow Divers does not fit into this category. It is a rare gem, and despite scoring well on the coolness, and being a large operation with outfits in several locations, it remains friendly. The owners will happily sit and chat, and even bought everyone a beer occasionally – but that has nothing to do with my good reports, honestly.
I had been re-joined by Dan, who was also heading south on a different time-scale to me. Keen to satisfy his lust for Karaoke, we found ourselves sat in a small tiled room with a rather large set of speakers and a microphone each. You all know, this is a hugely popular pastime throughout the Far East. The room is rented by the hour and you can order beer or “female company” with the simple press of a buzzer. Before you fill my message board with wise remarks, the answer is “no, I didn’t”. I did, however, discover two things. First, is that I do a very good Johny Cash “Walk the Line” and second, and rather more embarrassingly, I know every single word to Lionel Richie’s “Hello”. I really do not know how, but I did not need to look at the screen once, the words just came from within.
And that somewhat unremarkably concludes my journey through this magical country. A quick dash south to Ho Chi Minh City (the locals still prefer Saigon), where I spent just a few days organising onward travel into Cambodia. I did not care for Saigon so much, but it was a shame I could not spare time to tour the Mekong Delta region. I am already planning my next trip.
All the razzmatazz surrounding my previous journal, The Motorcycle Diaries, can leave you in no doubt as to which part of this country really grabbed me. But it has to be said, I have very much enjoyed all of Vietnam. In the interests of conciseness, I have had to sum up the rest of the trip quickly, in order to catch up with myself on this website. In China, I met a few people coming in the other direction and generally heard only bad reports of the country. It was almost enough to convince me I should re-route. I’m glad I did not; you have to see a place for yourself to form an opinion. Certainly, the Vietnamese are “highly motivated” when conducting business affairs. They are traders born and bred, and a guy has to keep an eye on his dong. Most bad experiences I have heard have been related to people being ripped off in one way or another. I have been very lucky, I guess. Like anywhere in Asia, you keep your eyes open and a friendly smile on your face. It is true in the tourist areas that you do get constant hassle from traders, but I have learned to simply turn it back on them and try to sell them something. Good humour always helps. Sometimes I pay too much for something, but hey, you win some, you lose some.
As I recall it, my most frustrating time in the country was taking two hours to post Christmas presents home. I had carefully wrapped each present, but left the parcel open because I knew they always like to have a little look before sealing. Once we had established a price we could agree on (the woman insisted I was not posting enough, it would be cheaper if I sent more), she set about opening all my carefully wrapped presents. I gave up on trying to explain the concept behind Christmas presents and waited an eternity while she checked every item, then, satisfied I was not shipping arms are cultural treasures, re-wrapped them. |
