Halong Bay - Part II

Our Captain reminds me of an Asian Napoleon…“Nah Poh Leung”. He might be small but what he lacks in stature he amply makes up for in character. Unlike all the other ship Captains, our little fellow stands proud and erect in his uniform as he commands our attention. So what if the sleeves of his oversized navy blue jacket are so long that only his fingers dangle through. Or if his trousers, on the other hand (no pun intended), are so short that this only draws more attention to his flip flop clad feet. Or finally that his cap is so large that it permanently hoods his eyes.

Despite, the fashion faux-pas, the wee man exudes great competence and any Captain capable of skillfully steering the wheel with just one foot is pretty darn awesome in my book. He’s no Richard Gere and he won’t be carrying me off into the sunset to the sound of “Up Where We Belong” (great karaoke song by the way) yet I am disturbingly captivated by this striking little chap. It must be the uniform and what he can do with his feet.

Anyway, on my second night, for obvious reasons (please refer to Part I), I am reluctant to go to my cabin and decide to stick around for the Karaoke portion of the evening. Also, I figure, if you can’t beat them then join them. And if you join them, then put your heart and soul into it! So here I am, singing my lungs out to the cheesiest songs imaginable. Think Britney Spears and Back Street Boys. Secretly (well. Not really) I LOVE it. I even get to, and I use this term loosely, “perform” my signature Karaoke song  (everyone should have one) which is Doris Day’s “Que sera, sera”! After one last round of thunderous applause (Ok. Maybe more of a cheer) from a clearly undemanding audience, unable to delay the inevitable any longer, I finally make the long walk to my cabin…Next door.

Vince, seems decent enough. A quiet (wasn’t Norman Bates?), middle-aged postman from Canada. I am a slightly troubled though when, en passant, he mentions that he was his Mother’s executioner…Erm…I mean Executor (Norman Bates, Norman Bates…). While I’m sure Vince is harmless (that’s what Norman Bate’s victims thought too), I discreetly keep the knife my father gave me for just such “special” occasions safely tucked under my pillow. To be clear, my Dad didn’t really take me aside one day presenting me with it and say: “Paula, bambina, if ever you find yourself alone in a room with a (strange) man, please use this.” But I’m pretty sure that’s what he meant and this moment certainly qualifies (Ok. So I led a very sheltered life. Better safe than sorry). In fact, if my Dad reads this, I imagine he’s relatively proud of me. I add relatively because knowing my father, this moment is swiftly replaced with annoyance. I can see him now rolling his eyes and internally reprimanding me for being in this situation to begin with.

Anyway, in case you were wondering, I did make it through the night…Not unscathed, mind you. The real danger, it turned out, lie elsewhere, in an unexpected corner. It was not my life nor my virtue but my sleep that was jeopardized by my roommate’s nocturnal respiratory activity. Yes people. A snorer…

Halong Bay - Part I

I am lulled into a restful sleep by the gentle sound of waves lapping against our ship. Wait. Scratch that. I am lying in bed, wide awake, listening to the ship’s crew singing the night away to Vietnamese Karaoke tunes. Even the Captain is letting loose. The Karaoke is part of the onboard entertainment (it’s this or squid fishing). Unsurprisingly most of the westerners have opted either for the fishing or for an early night (of Karaoke induced sleeplessness). On the first evening, I am no exception and after about 2 minutes of extremely uneventful fishing, I retire to my little cabin.

I’m in Halong Bay and (apart from the lousy tunes) it’s spectacular. We sail amid thousands of limestone islands, rising from the Ocean, each topped with thick jungle vegetation. I won’t even begin to describe the beauty so you’ll just have to take my word for it. Alternatively, I’ll give you a second to google some images! Back yet? Didn’t I tell you it was spectacular?

Even though the last few days have been cold and misty, this only adds a certain eeriness to the place that just makes it even more mysterious. The scene is perfect for a ghoulish horror movie (starring Jack Nicholson) and in the distance, a shoe floats forlorn in the emerald green water…Brrrrrrr…Perhaps today of all days, I shouldn’t allow my imagination to run wild especially since tonight, on my second night, I’m sharing the room with a stranger. A man I don’t know. Oh Joy…But before telling you this story, let me preface by stating that I think the Vietnamese are a cheeky bunch with a great sense of timing. Let me explain. I booked the Halong Bay cruise through my hotel. If you’re alone and don’t want to share a room, you’re expected to pay a 50$ supplement. The receptionist thinks the probability of sharing is slim so I chance it (How Italian of me) and don’t pay extra (How Dutch of me). On the morning of my departure, while waiting for the bus to pick me up at the hotel, I have breakfast and chat with another friendly receptionist, Bom (this is her real name and as you continue reading, you’ll agree it could not have been better suited for this story). My bus finally arrives and just as I board, Bom, who walked with me, casually mentions: “Ok Pola, tonight you hab room alone, tomorrow you share wid nice man. He 60 year old. Ok. Byyeeeeeeeeeeeee”.

Quick-witted as I am, my clever reaction naturally is: “What? No! What?”. Just then the bus door slams shut and as the bus drives away, Bom sees a bewildered wide-eyed woman staring back at her, two sweaty palms glued to the window, her “O” shaped lips silently mouthing the word: “Nooooooooooooo”.

Deported

Hoi An is magical! But before even taking you here, I feel we’re missing a few important chapters worth recounting. So let me take you back and rewind to the day I leave Macao for Vietnam, on a fateful Tuesday (17 Jan). I am staying with my good friend Cynthia, her husband, Michael and their cute kids, Micah and Jazzy. After 9 days of quality time with the family, unlimited singing of “twinkle twinkle little star” (hand movements included) and NOT gambling in the massive Macanese casinos, it’s time for me to leave. Filled with excitement at the rose-colored adventures that lie ahead, I merrily take the 45 minutes ferry ride from Macao directly to the Hong Kong Airport to catch my flight to Saigon (HCMC). According to my trusted Lonely Planet, I can apply for my visa upon arrival so I’m not too worried…Can you sense what’s coming? I certainly couldn’t. Have I built the right level of suspense yet that usually preludes disaster? I’ll give you one more second to figure it out. You there yet? Yep, imagine my surprise when at the counter, they won’t let me check in without an official government visa approval letter. Unwilling yet to accept this new bleak reality and still naively gripping on to the hope for a positive outcome, I demand to speak with the supervisor in my most authoritative tone. An older Chinese gentleman appears.

Confident Me: “Sir, I booked my ticket to Saigon for today. I plan to leave today. How can you help me?”

Unstirred Supervisor: “I can help you get back on the ferry to Macao.”

Optimistic (slightly agitated. You can tell by the higher pitch in my voice) Me: “No, no. You don’t understand. I must leave today to Vietnam. I have my ticket and everything. What can we do?”

Unmoved Supervisor: “There’s nothing I can do. You must return to Macao.”

Delusional (whining) Me: “But why? I don’t want to go back. Just let me go and I’ll take my chances in Vietnam.”

Silence. Why is he looking at me that way?

At this point in my very own personal Game Show of “Who wants to go to Vietnam”, which clearly I’m not winning, I use my “Phone-a-Friend” Lifeline (since the audience, while entertained, really doesn’t care) and dial Cynthia who now also demands to speak with the Supervisor. She tries to convince him to check me in but even Cynthia, famous for her persuasion skills, fails to impress him and is as successful as the peace talks in the Middle East. It turns out I am now in No Man’s land, neither in Macao nor in Hong Kong so even though I’d have enough time to rush to the Vietnamese Embassy in Hong Kong, they won’t let me out. The only way is back.

One hour later, exhausted from the fruitless exchange with Impassive Supervisor, realization finally dawns on Defeated Me as I draw the following brilliant conclusion: “So you’re saying I can’t fly out today?”

And so my journey prematurely ends as I am shipped back to Macao. Deported no less! My passport is confiscated and I am escorted by a security agent back onto the ferry. When we arrive in Macao, another customs guy escorts me to a little room in the back of the Terminal. After a lot of paper filling and even more stamping (of paper, not feet), my passport is finally returned to me and I am released into the cold Macanese air. Luckily, while all this is going down, Cynthia is able to reschedule my flight to the next day at no extra cost (Thanks again Cyn!). And as much as I would love to blame the world, it really was my own stupid rookie mistake. So kids, allow me to impart my newly acquired knowledge with any one of you planning a trip to Vietnam. For 50$, you can apply online for a visa approval request and actually get it in less than 2 hours. And now, back to “twinkle twinkle little star” J

Sweet Potato Moment - Sun 22 Jan

At the end of our 40Km(!) first day, we are rewarded with a boat journey along the Mekong river, drinking fresh coconut juice and watching the stunning sun set. As we reach the home of the family we’re staying with, I’m prepared to commit serious crime for a hot shower (and a cold beer). Even though there is no hot water, not even a shower for that matter (really more of a tap and a bucket), the sensation of pouring water over aching limbs feels blissful. I may have cheated a little though. See, Ben, my Aussie biking buddy wasn't feeling very well and really didn’t want to brave the cold water. So when he asked for some water to be boiled for him, I may have been slightly over-solicitous: “Yeah Ben, you should totally get hot water. Don’t want you getting sicker!!!”. So what if I took a little of it (it was very little. Really!)?

By the second day, we pick up the pace and I’m doing exceptionally well, much thanks to the encouragement of my travel companions. As we cycle through the lush green fields of sweet potatoes stretching for kilometers to the eye, everything just falls into place. Any worry (no matter how trivial) I was feeling just melts away. I am having a perfect moment of happiness. A perfect sweet potato moment!

On our way to the (basic) hotel the second evening, I think of the beautiful Pina Colada that I am NOT having tonight. This does not prevent me from unleashing Becky (my occasional alter ego) on my travel companions. Becky typically makes incredibly shallow and out of context remarks in a high pitched voice such as: “OMG, I’m like so hitting the Jacuzzi tonight” and “will you look at my nails? I sooo need a mani!”. It’s entertaining to watch their faces as they decide whether or not to take me seriously. Thankfully humor flows in abundance and the decision is easily made with Aussie Chris chiming in: “I’m so booking a massage by the pool”.

By the third and last day, I am cycling right behind Hao, our guide. I’m all: “Come on people! We have a schedule to keep!”

After three intensive but amazing days, I have become a seasoned almost amateur biker in this “Tour de Fruit”. Hear me roar (or at the very least ring my bell)!

Tour de Fruit - Sat 21 Jan

My biking buddies are very cool and relaxed. There are six of us: American Erin, German Stefanie, Argentinean Flo, Aussies Ben and Chris and me. While they sympathize with my plight, a spark of humor ignites as they reconcile the idea of “Dutch Me” not being able to operate a bike very well! By now, undoubtedly, my friends back home, reading this, are cracking up and mercilessly making fun of me: “Really Paula? A biking tour? Who are you Paula? What were you thinking” Very soon this familiarity will extend to this bunch but for now, they are very considerate of the group’s weakest link (yours truly). We agree to slow down the pace and after a brutal morning’s adjustment, things pick up (my outlook, not the pace). In fact, things just keep getting better. By mid day, Flo politely suggests: “Ermmhh…Paula, perhaps, maybe, if you shift your gear to a higher one, you wouldn’t need to pedal as much?”OMG Flo! That’s the best tip ever! By the end of the day, Erin recommends to stand while cycling on uneven ground and relax my arms instead of tensing them up after each bump. This relieves the saddle discomfort and tension in my back. THANK-YOU Erin (my ass thanks you too), that’s the second best tip ever!

The landscapes are beautiful. The narrow paths that skirt the river are shaded by so many different trees and there is this fragrance very similar to jasmine (but it’s not) in the air. The villagers are friendly and the kids yell “Hello” each time we cycle by. Most of the houses are in very good shape, some are beautiful. Life is good for these people who so easily live off their land. Hao, our guide, takes us through different “Kingdoms”, as he calls them, of fruit. The tree branches are heavy with fruit, ripe for the plucking. We are treated to so many different kinds! From Durian (stinky but good) to Jackfruit to Pomelo to Mangosteen to Rambutan and many more. There is one particular fruit that cracks us up and inevitably elicits many jokes among us. It’s called Star Apple which in Vietnamese translates into “milk from the breast” (Vu Sua). You’re supposed to massage the fruit (beautifully round) until it becomes tender so that the juice mixes with the meat of the fruit to become a sweet substance that looks like breast milk. You drill a small hole at the top of the fruit, lift it to your mouth and drink the flow as a baby sucks milk from its mother's breast. It sounds so wrong but it tastes soooo good!

Mountain Biking 101 - Fri 20 Jan

“What the hell am I doing here?” This thought screams in my mind as I frantically pedal to catch up with the rest. My helmet keeps sliding over my forehead, which is covered in a sheen of sweat. The sun block I meticulously applied earlier this morning found its way into my right eye which is now burning and tearing up badly. I have no idea how to work the gears on my mountain bike and am pedaling (as I later find out) way too fast on a gravel and uneven dirt path which constitutes our trail. There is a steady stream of curses that threaten to burst out of my head and shortly thereafter vocally carry out their threat. Since I am eating everyone else’s dust though, no one gets to enjoy my rather eloquent litany of profanities. So here am I, cycling through the Mekong Delta, with just one good eye, the other shut tight, dirty and sweaty in the blazing heat, cursing out loud, pedaling at a ridiculous rate without seemingly getting anywhere fast! My only consolation is the letter of complaint I am, as we speak, drafting in my head amid expletives. “Dear Mr f&*%ing LeVietnam Sh*&ty Tour Group. What the F&#K?? This is not what I signed up for.” Sure, when I spoke to “Tung” over the phone just the day before and enthusiastically cried out “Sign me up!”, I had a different picture in mind. I envisioned myself cycling on one of those pretty lady bikes (you know, the kind with the cute basket in the front), at a leisurely pace through newly paved, even roads shaded by coconut trees and fragrant, colorful flowers bordering the paths (ok, ok, perhaps I exaggerate a tad but you get the point). Reality slaps me hard in the face. Anyway, I finally make out the back of someone’s helmet in the distance and relief sweeps through me. As I race towards it, I learn a very valuable lesson (one of many) in mountain biking: when speeding down a steep and sharp sandy slope, it is not wise to suddenly use both brakes. The imminent fall propels me out of my (uncomfortable) saddle. I manage to veer off to the side and land into a patch of grass. Now I am pissed! When our tour guide finally stops for our first break of the day, I am fuming (and not just from the heat). Controlling my rage, I try to find a diplomatic approach to the matter.

Me: “How am I expected to enjoy the scenery at this speed?”.

Guide: “Yes”

Me: “How?”

Guide: “Yes?”

Oh, right, my guide’s name is Hao.