An Experience of a Different Sort: Going Capitalist in a Communist Country

I ended up spending three days and nights in Nha Trang. If I wasn't diving and wasn't hanging on the beach, well there wasn't much else to do. I did go on a boat cruise though to four of the neighboring islands which proved to be a good time. It's a nice enough town, but it could resemble any small beach town in Florida, just maybe a little poorer. The night life has a better reputation than a lot of the other coastal towns, which is how I first got to know Tom and Jade.

I remember seeing them in Peace Cafe on my infamous first night in Dalat. We hadn't spoken or met, but I remembered their faces when I saw them on the same bus from Dalat to Nha Trang. Even then, it wasn't until they ended up in the very next room at the Perfume Grass Inn in Nha Trang that we first properly introduced ourselves. We chatted casually as we crossed paths until we decided it best to meet for drinks our last night there. Tom and Jade are Australian, and upon meeting them for drinks I was in turn introduced to another Australian couple, Lucas and Tiffany, who they kept running across in their travels. We had a wonderful time that night at the Kangaroo Cafe, and it would prove to be an important night for my travels, because In Tom and Jade I would discover a pair that I got along with famously, but more importantly I found a pair who shared my affection for potables; we would end up spending many a-night together. For the most part we were on the same travel schedule but were using different bus companies. They were to leave Nha Trang the next morning at 8:00, I was to take an overnight bus the next evening at 8:00; they would be twelve hours ahead of me.

We were headed to Hoi An, and I, much to my chagrin, had no choice but to take an overnight bus; it was a 12 hour drive. I've never done well sleeping on buses or planes, so I would have much rathered taken a day bus where I could at least have read and enjoyed the scenery.

Hoi An is a town of less than 100,000 that served as an international trading port as far back as the 17th century. As a result, European, Chinese, and Japanese influences are found in its architecture, and the town has been built around narrow streets only slightly larger than alley-ways. It is situated on a river and is incredibly charming. It is famous for its tailor shops, numbering around 200, and seemingly has just as many art galleries. But it's the tailor shops more than anything else that brings Western travelers here. For a tiny fraction of what you would pay in the States, you can have clothes and shoes custom made within a day or two.

I had two items on my shopping list upon arriving in Hoi An: a tuxedo and a light casual summer suit. Fair skinned individuals walking the streets of Hoi An are constantly approached by women trying to get them into their shops. Shop keepers holler from inside their stores, and if you so much as stop to look at what they have on display they're at your side in seconds. The receptionist at my guest house recommended a shop for me, one of the best in town she said, and since I didn't have anything else to go on I figured I'd start there.

The shop, Yaly, was a lot bigger and nicer than the others I had seen and appeared to be a professionally run organization. They sat me down, assigned me a "server," Rebecca, and placed about five or six binders in front of me to help me choose a suit. I was surprised to find out that the catalogues didn't contain ads and pictures of clothes from their own store, but instead contained ads cut out of magazines and pages from tabloids with the likes of Johnny Depp and Tom Cruise in suits. Apparently you just show them the kind of suit you want, any suit you see, and they'll make it. Oh boy, this could be a lot harder than I thought. I had a perfect mental visual of what I wanted but couldn't quite find a picture representative of my image. I found a couple that were close, but only close enough to help me verbally describe what I wanted. Rebecca's English is fair, but still I'm worried about my instructions getting through. At this point I'm having serious doubts about this.

After describing what I wanted, I had to choose the fabric. The fabrics are arranged by quality, and therefore cost. I wanted something that would last but wouldn't break the bank. That is, after all, the whole point; getting tailor made clothes for super-cheap.

Looking at the fabric in my price-point, I again couldn't quite find what I was looking for. Again, I wonder if I should just walk out the door. Rebecca and I find a color close to my mental suit. I'm really unsure if it will turn out the way I want it, but I have to try. I've never done this before; it's hard to visualize what a suit will look like from yards of fabric. Rebecca and the tailor each take my measurements independently, and they take digital photos of me so the tailor can see my "body type," or something like that. The tuxedo was a bit easier; they had one on display close to what I wanted. Oh, and I also need new dress shirts. So I sort throught the cotton for colors and/or patterns I like and decide on four. I tell Rebecca the kind of cut I want, length, collar and cuff type, and that's that. I'm done, or so I thought.

As I'm walking around the streets after leaving Yaly a lady was following me to try and get me into her shop, or rather the shop she gets commission for bringing people in. I tell her I've already gotten clothes but she doesn't let up, so I go to her store. I tell the ladies in the shop I already have suits and shirts and don't need anything else, but there's a lady standing there who owns a shoe shop next door and drags me off. Fine. They're amazingly persistent and I'm tired of fighting. But I'm not buying anything, I tell her. Just to the side of the tailor shop is an alley way full of shoe makers; there must of been about thirty of them. Hmmm...I didn't know about this.

So I look through her catalogues. Same deal; ads and pictures ripped out of magazines. I didn't see anything I wanted so I left, and I see at the last shop before I exit the alley a pair of boots that catch my eye. I stopped and tried them on and decide to have a pair made. The lady traces both my feet on paper, measures them in various places, and tells me to come back tomorrow.

I'm usually not one for prolonged shopping, so a drink was required at the end of the day. Luckily I had run into Tom and Jade earlier in the day and we had make plans for the evening. While searching for a dinner place, the three of us found Lucas and Tiffany (it's a small town), and then we were five.

In Hoi An, when backpackers get together at the end of the day for dinner and drinks, instead of discussing the temples they had seen or the parks they had visited, they talk about what clothes they bought. And it's everybody, including the grungiest of travelers. Most people take advantage of the economical formal wear, like suits and dresses. Lucas had some fun and had made a three piece white suit, complete with white leather shoes, and a full-on purple velvet suit. I saw the pictures, and they were brilliant.

I had seen a corduroy coat I liked on display at a few of the shops, so the next day I stopped at a different tailor shop to try it on. In the process, I found a nice overcoat (mine's five years old with a tear in the fabric), so I had both made. I then proceeded to try on the shoes from the day before - too big, "come back in a few hours" - and my clothes from Yaly. Suits usually take a couple of fittings; this was my first of several. Aside from the infamous Thai sex industry, I assumed that folks in this part of the world were of a modest sexual orientation, so I was a bit surprised when Rebecca joined me in the dressing room as I tried on my clothes. Standing behind me, she would help me slip on a shirt, and as I started to button she would sidle around in front of me to take over the task. It only took a couple of shirts before I quit even attempting to button them myself and just waited for her to do it for me. This was service at its best; I could get used to this.

While I was trying on my new clothes, feeling pretty good about how they were looking, I discovered that they could make jeans too. Not surprising really, these shops will make anything you want; Tom had silk boxers made. I have problems buying jeans back home, what with the low-rise, slim fit craze going on. It doesn't jive with my hockey ass. So I had jeans made. Oh, and I've been wanting a casual sportcoat...it'll go nicely with my new jeans.

After all this hard work, I need some "me" time. With a rented bicycle I made the 3 mile trek to Cua Dai Beach. The beach was quiet with white sand, turquoise water, and mountainous islands visible on the horizon, with a single, continuous line of beach chairs beneath thatch umbrellas running the length of the beach. Now this was a beach I could love. Not for too long today, though; I have to get back to town for some more fittings.

And this is how it was for four days. Fittings in the morning, some beer and beach in the afternoon, followed by more fittings in the evening and dinner with my friends. The only thing missing was a personal chauffeur to cart me around town. And I certainly wasn't alone. One night during dinner and drinks, Lucas and Tiffany had to excuse themselves from our company twice to go for fittings. So it goes in Hoi An.

It's easy to get carried away with the possibilities, and the custom made process makes it an adventure. I'm still not sure if my tux pants turned out quite right, we'll see when I get home. It remains to be seen the level of my buyer's regret in two months. Oh, and if it's not a tailor shop, it's an art gallery. I also bought three canvas oil paintings, $30 for the bunch. Now it will only cost me a couple hundred more to have them framed back home.

With Rebecca. Yes, I'm sweating through my new pink shirt that I've only had on for two minutes. Gringos don't belong in Southeast Asia.

Eight Hundred and Forty Turns Into Nine

My animosity towards the Big Ten has been well documented over the years. It has been the topic of many a discussion between me of a Big Twelve upbringing and my friends who are Big Ten loyalists. They find it incomprehensible and inexplicable that I have a legitimate beef against their conference, and I on the other hand believe I have all the reasons I need. Besides, the world of sports is filled with sometimes arbitrary and often petty allegiances and opposition. All the same, the driving force behind my rancor is the number of Ohio State and Michigan fans I went to school with. One can only take so much, and when your two jackass roommates in Colorado wake you on college game days with the Ohio State fight song, it gets personal.

But whereas before I could only root against Big Ten teams, now I have one to root for. Starting this fall, I will be a student at Northwestern University's Kellogg School, and will then have my very own David to cheer on against the Goliaths of the Big Ten; my friends will no longer be able to question the validity of my ill-will. My team may not have a fighting chance in hell, but at least now I'll be a legitimate spectator and fan.

Go Wildcats,

TH

It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)

I succumbed to the open bus ticket in Dalat. Deciding between visiting another town straight north in the Central Highlands or going to the coastal town of Nha Trang, I chose the latter. In so doing, I couldn't pass up the ease, efficiency, and economics of the open bus ticket. So for $21 I had secured transportation all the way to Hanoi with stops in Nha Trang, Hoi An, and Hue...a total of approximately 36 bus hours.

At this point I'm excited to get to Nha Trang. I've met several travelers who speak highly of it, and I'm looking forward to seeing the Vietnam coastline. Nha Trang is a beach town which serves as the premier diving location in Vietnam. I fully intend to get certified but decide to wait until I get to southern Thailand.

For as much as I was looking forward to getting to a beach, I quickly discover that I'm not much of a beach person. It sounds silly, but I've spent a minimal amount of time around beaches in my life, and I'm not so sure what to do with myself. Nha Trang's beaches are crowded, commercialized, and teeming with European muchachos in banana hammocks. I am not impressed. Besides, the inactivity of the beach makes me feel like I surely must be missing something. So I make the transition from severe inactivity to extreme activity, of a sort. I rent a motorbike.

The thought hadn't really occurred to me until I met a few travelers who had. "It's easy," they tell me. "If you can ride a bike, you can ride a motorbike." The traffic in Nha Trang is mild, at least relative to Saigon, so I figure if I'm going to do it, this place is as good as any. I tell the guy at my guest house I want to rent a motorbike for the day ($3), he yells at another guy across the street, and a bike appears.

"I've never ridden a motorbike before. Is it hard?"
"You never ri' befoe?" (I'm trying my best to convey the Asian accent in writing, 'cause that's half the humor.)
"No." Which is more or less true, save the five minutes driving a motorcycle in Colorado before laying it down.

He looks skeptical. The guy who brings the bike starts showing me how to use it. Gears left foot...brake right foot...acceleration right hand. Part broken English instruction, part pantomime. Seems easy enough. But I'm terrified and just sit on the bike trying to rationalize exactly what the hell I'm doing. At this point I've got about 3 or 4 Vietnamese guys around me, all probably wondering just how quickly it will take me to kill myself. With effort, one of them spits out "uh..uh..American Hero!" (followed by bellowing laughter) at my attempted bravado. Another is offering to drive me around the city for the day on the back of his bike. He just wants my money of course, but I sit on the bike in front of the guest house for a good ten minutes trying to explain to myself why I don't take him up on it. I at least have the good sense to pay extra for a helmet. It will not only serve as my last line of defense for when my body rockets off the bike, but also for when my Mother rips into me for being such a fucking idiot. "It's cool Mom, I was wearing a helmet...I was fine."

And I started driving.

I figure I'll just take a lap around the block to see how it goes. A few minutes in I realize one of the Vietnamese guys is following me on his bike to see how I'm doing. He's not really concerned with my well-being though, he wants me to pay him to serve as my guide. I will do no such thing - there's no adventure in that - but I yell over to him while I'm driving "Where's the horn!?" Over here, the horn is as crucial as the brakes. He shows me and I keep on driving, with my hand laying on the horn to alert every motorbike within a 50 yard radius that an American Hero is coming.

My first destination is meant to be an old Cham ruin on the edge of town. I have a general idea of where I need to go, but everytime I come upon an intersection the street sign means nothing to me and I'm too scared to make a turn. Remember, there are rarely traffic signals at intersections of any kind, not to mention four-way intersections. So to make a left turn, I'm required to turn slowly and let the oncoming traffic stream around me. Like a proper agnostic, I cannot yet make the leap of faith. Anyway, I'm driving on the road along the beach and the South China Sea, the scenery is breathtaking, and I'm having too much fun going straight to bother with turning.

I eventually come upon a mountain pass that leads out of town into the country. What the hell. When I reach the other side, I decide it best to turn back given I have no map. Although when I turn around to start heading back up the pass, there are signs that seem to indicate it is a one way road and I'm not able to travel the direction from which I just came. As I'm figuring out exactly what to do, a motorbike passes me going the direction I want to go. I look again at the road sign, which I've never seen before, but surely it must mean no entry. And then another bike goes up the pass. I sit a while longer, and then a third bike. This deliberation process of mine goes on for about ten minutes before I decide my best option is to travel back up the pass, the wrong way as best as I can figure.

I successfully make it back to town and try to visit the ruins to which I had initially set out. Still wary of making turns in traffic, I must have passed it about five times never quite figuring out how to get inside. Screw it. I've seen enough ruins on this trip already, these ones can't be much better. I'll just drive around instead. And so I spent most of the day cruising around Nha Trang on a motorbike. (I am happy to report, however, that I did make it to one temple of cultural significance.)

There was a time in my life when I was set on buying a motorcycle; I even got as far as scouring the classifieds for a ride. My dream as I was leaving Colorado was to travel the length of Highway 1 on the California coast before cruising cross-country. It of course never materialized and my open-road, open-air ambitions gave way to an older, more sensible self. But maybe, just maybe, Nha Trang has given me the bug once more.

A Man of Means by No Means

After spending three days and four nights in Saigon, including a day trip to the Mekong Delta, it's time to move. At this point I'm still unsure of which route I want to take. The geography of Vietnam, for the most part, makes travel decisions easy; you move north or you move south. On the eastern coast of Vietnam lies Highway 1, which travels the length of the country. Highway 1 offers access to all the coastal towns that most tourists want to visit. All the same, the western portion of the country, the Central Highlands, is home to several mountain towns. In talking with the travel agent at my guest house about a bus ticket the next day, I learn that all buses, to all destinations, are full.

Fuck.

It's a national holiday and the entire city is taking off for three days. And of all things, it's Reunification Day, a holiday celebrating the end of the American War and the liberation of Saigon. April 30. It's actually a two-for-one with May Day, a communist celebration, closing out the holiday. They didn't write about this shit in Lonely Planet. My guy picks up the phone and calls another travel agency. One ticket left on a bus to Dalat, which is one of the towns in the Central Highlands I'm considering visiting. The price is an inflated $6 because of the holiday, but I'm anxious to get out of Saigon so I take it. I'm assured that I'll be able to get a room in Dalat, albeit at a higher price because of the holiday.

Many Western backpackers traveling through Vietnam purchase an open bus ticket. For about $20 the ticket stops at all the major destinations, about four or five, all the way from Saigon to Hanoi, and allows you to jump on and off as you please. It's a great deal, but I'm a bit reluctant to buy the ticket because of the tourist factor; it lacks the authenticity of the local culture. But given my one option out of Saigon the next day I have no choice. When I go to catch the bus the next morning, I realize that my reservation was made through a Vietnamese travel agency and I'm the only wide-eye on the bus. No worries though, I assume that with the slight build of Asians and my American frame I'll be able to dominate the seat and ride to Dalat in comfort. When I find my assigned seat, however, seated next to me is an man who could star in the Vietnamese version of The Sopranos. Bald on top with the side and back of his head boasting shoulder-lent hair, he wore black pants, a black shirt with a black coat on, dark sunglasses and had a satchel between his legs. He kept one hand inside his coat for the entire trip, presumably on the handle of his gun. When we reach a checkpoint and a Vietnamese policeman boards the bus, I mentally plan my escape route should my buddy pull out his piece and start trading rounds with the commie cop as the cop approaches to check my papers. Alas, the policeman exits the bus without incident. My friend clearly doesn't honor the unwritten yet universal rule of the "my side of the seat" dividing line, and he unabashedly makes himself comfortable. I of course don't argue and spend the entirety of the trip with one arm across my torso, clutching the arm rest on the opposite side, to remove my American made shoulder from the equation, thus aiding his comfort. For the next seven hours on the bus and the towns we stop in on the way, I don't once see another white person, and no one on the bus speaks English. This is the most isolated I've been since I arrived in Southeast Asia.

The bus stops twice over the course of the seven hour trip, the purpose of which is unclear to me. I can't understand the driver's announcements to the bus, but each time there's a restaurant along the side of the road and people go in to eat. Since I have no idea for how long we're stopping, I'm forced to stay close and keep a watchful eye on the bus lest it leave without me. Each stop is about 45 minutes, which is equally inexplicable and maddening to me because I'm my Father's son and don't like to fuck around on the road. I learn later the bus companies get a commission for stopping at these restaurants. Everybody in this part of the world gets a commission for something.

It's dark by the time I arrive in Dalat and passengers start hopping off the bus in what seems to me as arbitrary locations. The bus eventually pulls over at what appears to be the last stop. I try to confirm my suspicion with the driver, but he of course doesn't understand me. So I get off the bus, grab my pack, and watch to see if everyone else is also getting off. Lots of people remain seated, but they could just be waiting their turn to get off. I don't stick around to find out; I start walking. You have to understand that the bus didn't pull over at a bus stop or in front of any kind of bus terminal, it was the side of the road, in front of nothing. It's dark, I'm drawing attention to myself with my pack, and I have no idea where I am. For the first time since I landed in Bangkok, I'm really, really nervous. But I shortly come upon some stores and loads of activity and I stop to gather my wits. Unable to locate any of the street names I see before me on my map, I present it to a lady selling cell phones in a street front store. After a brief game of charades she helps me figure out where I am and which direction I need to go...we made a great team. The streets are packed for the holiday celebrations and I'm serving as a curiosity to the revelers. But I get to where I want to be in no time and stop in at a hotel.

No rooms.

I move on to another one down the road.

No rooms.

About ten hotels later, none with rooms, my situation looks dire. I had made a point to ask the travel agency in Saigon if I'd be able to get a room and they assured me I'd be fine. Well, I wasn't fine and I started envisioning my worst case scenarios, most of which involved sleeping outside. I peek my head into another hotel, not bothering to enter fully, and I get the reaction I'm expecting.

No rooms.

The proprietor though is an older lady and she tells me I can leave my pack there while I continue to look for a room. She lets me use the restroom and offers me the phone so I can call some hotels, which I do. She even calls a few herself on my behalf, but even the hotels outside of town are full. All the while travelers continue opening the door to her hotel, not only Westerners but also Vietnamese in town for the holiday, looking for a room. I am one of many in trouble. The lady tells me she hates turning people away, but she already has people sleeping in the hallways and has no choice. She then says that if I can't find a room I can come back and sleep on the couch in the lobby. It was a genuine act of compassion in my time of fragility that made me smile in spite of my situation. I wanted to hug her for her kind heart, but instead I picked up my pack, thanked her as best as I could, and forged on.

At the very next hotel I visit, a man comes from the back room from where he was eating dinner. With little hope, I ask if he has a room.

"You need room?"
Yes, I need a room.
"You have no room?"
No, I don't have a room, which is why I need one.

He's smiling good-naturedly as he finishes chewing the remnants of the last bite he took before I had interrupted him, but his smile also reveals a hint of amusement at my situation. He hesitates for a moment and I can't help but feel he's sizing me up. He beckons me up the stairs, so I follow, with a companion of his at my heels. His friend speaks better English that he does and tells me it's a national holiday.

"I'm aware."

"200 hotels in Dalat. All full."

We climb past all the rooms and the top of the staircase reveals an open room with corrugated tin serving as walls and a roof. It's a storage space of sorts with a doorway, but no door, to the roof of the hotel, and there's crap everywhere. But in the mess is a bed, with a bamboo frame and a thin mattress. He tells me it's where he sleeps sometimes when he stays overnight at the hotel, but it's impossible to tell because there's about three feet of old clothes, sheets, and cushions on top. Their eyes are fixed on me and they're wearing shit-eating grins as tribute to the hilarity of the situation. I too cannot help but smile, if only half-heartedly.

"There's water outside." He adds.

I go on the roof to check it out. It's a tap over a bucket already full of stagnant water. I have no options, but still I try to weigh them. Given the situation I decide I'm lucky to have even this. I'll deal with the fact that my "room" is open to anyone who chooses to ascend the stairs later.

"How much do you want for it?"
"How much do you want to pay?"

Shit. I really don't want to play this game, not now, and I've got zero leverage to negotiate. I ask him again.

"How much do you want?"

And he asks me again in return, "How much do you want to pay?"

"60,000 dong." (About four dollars.)

He looks at me for a moment..."Okay."

I'm surprised and relieved at his response. I would have paid $30 dollars or more to sleep in that bed, and he knew it, but chose not to exploit me. It was much more subtle, but it too was an act of compassion equaling that of the old lady and it touched me just as much. As I jokingly (but actually quite seriously) made sure he wouldn't sell half of the bed to someone else, he cleaned it off, put fresh sheets on, and set up a mosquito net for me.

It's about 9:00 p.m. at this point and I still need to grab dinner and a few drinks to settle my nerves; it's been a long and trying day. Still worried about leaving my belongings unprotected, I put all my valuables in my day pack to take with me and hide my larger pack in a far corner of the roof behind some rubbish and under a sheet. If it's gone when I get back it won't be a huge loss, just a pain in the ass.




Here's my "room"...














...and here's my despair.










Just three doors down from the Nam Viet hotel, where I am now unofficially a guest, is the Peace Cafe and Hotel, which caters to backpackers and serves as the quickest option for me to eat and drink. The cafe is an open rectangular room situated with benches built into the walls on the periphery, fronted by short legged tables that stop just short of the knees. The set up of the room is conducive to conversation, and indeed when I enter there are two Western couples and an Asian guy all sitting on the benches facing the middle of the room, engaged in conversation. I quickly join the fray and recount my adventures in trying to find a room. (Over the next couple of days I hear several accounts of travelers in Dalat less fortunate than I. After failing to find a room, one couple took a flight out of town, only because all buses were full, after having been in Dalat for an hour. Two British girls I met paid $30 for a room in a lady's house, where they watched as the lady kicked her kids out of their bedroom, where the British girls would be sleeping.) The Asian guy I sit next to asks me where I'm from; his English is broken with a heavy Asian accent. I'm therefore both surprised and skeptical when he responds to my answer, "The United States," with an overly enthusiastic "Me too!"

He says he's from San Diego, and upon learning that I live in Chicago he gets excited again and tells me he went to graduate school at the University of Chicago. So we talk Chicago for awhile and it starts to add up. His name is Kevin and he's a Vietnamese-American, born in Nha Trang Vietnam...my next destination. His mom worked for the American embassy during the war and his family was evacuated three days before the fall of Saigon. He was six. After a stop in Okinawa, Kevin's family landed in San Diego. Still, for as long as he's been in the States his English and his accent are awful...I'm befuddled but choose not to inquire. We chat for awhile in Peace Cafe before heading out to explore the Dalat nightlife. He's an interesting fellow and I'm glad to have his company. He has a wife and small boy in California, but he's been in Singapore for work for the past two years. He also offers me some much needed insight into north/south Vietnamese relations, which I'm extremely curious about. We closed down the bar, made plans to meet the next night at Peace Cafe to do it again, and I head to my hotel still unsure if I was actually going to have somewhere to sleep.



Kevin and me at "Saigon Nites."










The guest houses through Cambodia and Vietnam are small operations, where the entire family that owns it lives in it. They lock the gates at the front somewhere between 10:30 and 12:00 and someone usually sleeps right on the floor inside to let in the late night deviants. I therefore made certain before leaving for dinner that I would be able to get in if I stayed out later than expected - which happens from time to time - and I was assured there would be someone right on the couch to let me in. So I was a bit concerned when I arrived at the guest house at two in the morning and there was no one on the couch. My gate rattling started gently, but grew progressively louder and more urgent the longer I was stranded outside. When no one came, my thoughts again turned to sleeping outside. By this time I'm hollering and frantically shaking the gate; I must have woken half of the guest house. After about fifteen minutes of this absurdity the night man comes scrambling down the stairs and lets me in. He disappears just as quickly as I use the bathroom on the ground floor.

When I climb the flight of stairs to my bed I discover that the fluorescent light - jerry-rigged every which way to Sunday - that I couldn't turn off when I left is no longer on. As I make my way through the dark, somebody wakes suddenly and violently in my bed. It scares the bejeezus out of me. It's the night man that just let me in; he was sleeping in my bed. Son of a bitch. But he promptly gets out of the bed and scurries downstairs to the couch, where he was supposed to be in the first place. I fink my pack where I left it, and I enjoy a good night's sleep - in a bed - in Dalat.

I wake up the next morning to two men walking through my storage space to the roof. Interestingly, there's an oversized shed on the roof that serves as an art gallery. I've taken a liking to my accommodations and consider staying another night for the kitsch factor, but I find a room at the Peace Hotel for $5 and reason an extra dollar justifies having access to a shower. It's my first hot shower in two weeks.

Dalat is different than what I've seen in Vietnam thus far. It's a hilly town of about a couple hundred thousand, I believe, with narrow winding streets that make their way through town without reason. The French colonial architecture in Saigon is also ubiquitous in Dalat, as it is through most of Vietnam; I could just as well be in an old Paris neighborhood. At the town's edge is a pristine lake which draws couples and small gatherings of friends to its grassy banks. The town was described to me by a Vietnamese guy in Saigon as "very romantic" and I've been told it's a popular destination for newlyweds. There are several waterfalls on the outskirts of town, and as you would expect, much more natural beauty than in a metropolis like Saigon. The mountain geography makes for chilly nights, and I happily don a long sleeve shirt for the first time, thrilled to escape the brutal heat of Cambodia and Saigon.

I only planned to spend one full day in Dalat, and I chose not to see the waterfalls, nor any pagodas or temples. It's easy to get caught up in the tours and the sightseeing; you rightfully want to waste precious little opportunity to see the wonders you may never have the opportunity to see again. But I believe that mind-set can sometimes come at the expense of experiencing the town or city itself. Sometimes the best way to understand a town's energy is to do nothing at all...to walk the streets and sit in a cafe with a coffee, or a restaurant with a beer. And so I did nothing in Dalat. I roamed the streets looking at the shops, I had an iced coffee at the Cafe 100 Roofs, a cold Tiger Beer on the patio of a restaurant with a now forgotten name, and I read and I wrote. It was relaxing and it was lovely. And thirty years from now I'll be able to reminisce about my travels and know that for one day I was part of a town a world away from my own, and I'll be able to say "I remember vividly what I did with my one day in Dalat, Vietnam," despite the fact that I did nothing at all.

Me Love You Long Time

Phnom Penh was a welcome respite from the third-world vibe of Siem Reap. By comparison, it was much more developed, maintained a city atmosphere and appeared much cleaner, although was still dirty by Western standards. Within an hour, I had run into my American friends from Siem Reap, so it was great to have dinner and drinks with familiar faces. It turns out that one of them was suffering from the same affliction from which I had just recovered, offering me assurance that my constitution was no weaker than the next man's. They were still ahead of me on the travel schedule, so once again I bade them safe travels and hoped that I'd rejoin them in Vietnam. I had, however, met two girls from California on the bus ride to Phnom Penh, so I spent the next day exploring the sites with them. They also introduced me to a guy from New York they had met in Siem Reap. The backpacker area in Phnom Penh was great; a dirt alley-way situated next to a large lake full of guest houses, internet cafes, bars and restaurants. Cambodian tuk-tuk and moto drivers lie in wait, hounding travelers for business and trying to sell their "goods." "Hey, you smoke?" "Hey, want marijuana?" "Hey you, where you go? Need driver?" Every ten feet; anything goes in this corner of the world. Guest houses on the lake have huge decks on the water with hammocks, pool tables, bars, tables and chairs. It was a relaxing atmosphere for a drink and offered an island vibe in the middle of a poor urban landscape.


Advertising in the Phnom Penh backpacker area.




Other than the Killing Fields and S-21 (and I also visited the National Museum), there's really not a whole lot to do in Phnom Penh. So I made the decision to cut my stay short after one and a half days. I wasn't sure if I was making the right decision, feeling I hadn't fully explored the city, but after my extended stay in Siem Reap I was anxious to move on and make up for lost time. So I bought a bus ticket for $3.50 bound for Ho Chi Minh City.

The border crossing to Vietnam was a far cry from my entry into Cambodia. Crossing the border on foot to change buses, the facilities were really nice, the process was efficient, and the moment you cross the imaginary line separating the two countries you were in a different world. The landscape was suddenly clean and colorful, with well manicured vegetation and pristine roads. And that's how it was the whole way to Ho Chi Minh city; clean and comforting. The whole trip from Phnom Penh took about 7 hours.

On the issue of nomenclature, the city's name was changed from Saigon to HCMC after the fall (or liberation, if you're Vietnamese) of Saigon in 1975, so I thought it proper to refer to it as such. I was intrigued then when I heard some Vietnamese refer to it as Saigon, so I asked a local I had befriended in a cafe. Evidently, Saigon is still the name of choice for the city (at least in the south), and the south Vietnamese aren't fond of the HCMC designation. Accordingly, in English, locals are called "Saigonese."

I wasn't quite sure what to expect of Saigon, but it is utterly and completely awesome. The throngs of people, the energy, the activity...it's phenomenal. The city is well kept, there seems to be a lot of new, contemporary construction, and there's a lot of French colonial architecture as a result of the French occupation. I'm convinced they must have an army of people manufacturing Vietnamese flags, because there's one every ten yards on every street in the country...no joke. For sure, Saigon is a thriving, and growing, city.




It's hard to capture a city in a photo, but a lot of the streets in Saigon look like this.








Transportation in this part of the world is a trip. It's all about the motorbike. Traffic laws as we know them are pretty much non-existent. The only rule seems to be that might makes right, with smaller always yielding to bigger, and driving into oncoming traffic is the norm. In Cambodia, there were four way intersections with no traffic signals whatsoever. Every one just slows down and snakes their way through the mess. And not once have I seen an angry driver or any kind of frustration. There is no regard for personal safety. It's not uncommon to see thirty people jammed in the bed of a pick-up...on top of an overflowing load of cargo. Families of five seem to have no problem fitting on a motorbike, nor do four adult men. And there's nothing wrong with a man driving his bike with one hand while holding his six-month old baby with the other. They use their horns not out of anger as Americans would, but as a form of communication between drivers, and they are used incessantly.

Traffic in Saigon is a little more organized than in Cambodia, but it's still chaos. There are 8 million people in Saigon, and I've been told there are 3 million motorbikes. And since they never stop - it's a constant stream of motos - there's no waiting for a break to cross the street. So what you do is step right into oncoming traffic...and start walking. You walk slowly so they can see you and drive around you, and you make your movements depending on which way they choose to go around you. It's a lot like playing Frogger, and it's kind of fun and kind of insane.

I spent my first full day in Saigon walking around the city, and I'm loving it. But my enthusiasm for the country is dampened somewhat when I visit the War Remnants Museum, a museum of the "American War," and I'm disheartened when I leave. It's been difficult for me to reconcile my emotions as an American traveling through Vietnam, and the manner in which the museum depicts Americans doesn't help matters. I understand I carry an American perspective, and I understand that we were responsible for countless atrocities, but the narrative in the museum was in no way impartial and can almost be described as propaganda. One caption underneath a photo read "An American soldier laughs as he holds the remains of a dead Vietnamese." The picture was graphic, but clearly the soldier wasn't laughing. For sure, our current situation in Iraq, with parallels to Vietnam, and the global perception of the US these days amplified my discomfort. I felt like if anyone else in the museum knew I was an American they would turn on me with contempt and disgust.


Outside the first exhibit at the War Remnants Museum.






The next day I visited the Cu Chi tunnels, a 250 km tunnel system outside of Saigon used by the VC. I admit it was rather remarkable how the VC constructed and used the tunnels, but once again I really didn't feel good about anything I saw. Before the tour they played a video which could undeniably be described as anti-American, communist propaganda. It was unsettling to say the least. It's hard to say how other Westerners view the museum and the tunnels, but I've been comforted somewhat to hear a few share my sentiments. Just last night I was having drinks with three Australians and one of them, unsolicited, made the comment of how one-sided the museum was.

I wanted to get the perspective on the war from a local but was hesitant to bring it up. I had made friends with a Vietnamese girl, about my age, who worked in a cafe by my guest house, and after talking to her for awhile I asked her what Vietnamese people thought about Americans in regards to the war. From what I understood, she made it sound like people (in south Vietnam, at least) don't really think about the war, and it was only recently that some of them had really seen or heard much about it, and only because of the increase in tourism in recent years and the government's effort to capitalize on some of the attractions, like the museum and tunnels. Later, I was talking with an older Vietnamese guy in a bar, and again it came up. He asked me a question I had troubles making out; It sounded like he was asking me about Iran. Surely I thought I was mistaken and thought he must have said Iraq. To clarify, he spells it out on the bar with his finger. Iran. He was asking me what I thought about Iran, which I thought a bit strange. It seemed he thought because I was an American I had inside information on whether the US was going to invade Iran. Anyway, I think from there I had asked him his take on the war and whether he remembered American soldiers in Saigon. (Just to be clear, what I'm trying to figure out is if images, notions, and references to the war are pervasive in Vietnam, and the resulting attitude towards Americans. It's still such a sensitive topic in our country, I wanted to know how it was viewed over here.) Well, his English wasn't great and conversation was difficult, but he was 10 during the war, doesn't really remember the presence of soldiers in Saigon, and seemed to brush off any thought of the war, as if it doesn't really matter to anyone anymore. I don't know if the perception differs in the north, but generally speaking I get the feeling that the war is a distant memory for a lot of south Vietnamese. My polling sample is, of course, statistically insignificant. So for now, I think I can harbor ill will towards the Vietnamese government, but not necessarily the Vietnamese people. The people here are friendly and welcoming. The fact that I'm an American seems to mean something to them, especially the younger ones. A lot of folks will approach and extend a "Hello" upon seeing me in the hopes that I speak English and will reciprocate. On a side note, most people over here don't understand the "U.S." or "United States." To them, I'm from America, and I've learned to answer the question as such for sake of ease. I say it quietly, though, if I'm within earshot of other Westerners. And they tend to only know two places: California and Washington.

I never did run into my group of four Americans in Saigon, but I did run into the two girls from California and the guy from New York, who at this point seemed to be traveling together. Americans are few and far between on this travel route, so when you meet one it's a precious commodity. Although, I did see a guy in Saigon wearing a Brian Urlacher Bears jersey and a Cubs hat, but he looked like the kind of guy who would wear an Urlacher jersey and Cubs hat while traveling through Saigon, so I chose not to say anything to him. I don't know why it is that there aren't many Americans. Granted, it's a long way for us, but generally I don't think Americans are nearly as well traveled as other Westerners. And the number of Europeans I've met that are traveling for six, ten, twelve months is astounding. It makes my two months feel insignificant. Maybe it's my paranoia of current global affairs, but I get the impression that Europeans aren't too interested in Americans over here. All the more reason why it's so wonderful to discover other Americans. (And for all the stereotypes of the ugly American, there are a lot of Canadian and European buffoons over here.) Nevertheless, I was eating dinner in Saigon with the Cali girls and New York, and I couldn't take it anymore. The girls were only a year out of college and they talked like what every European must imagine a rich girl from southern California to talk. The Clueless inspired dialogue wasn't cutting it, and I thought I'd be better to go it alone. So I paid my bill, excused myself, and proceeded to find a bar where I had full reign of the music selection via the computer mouse which was on the bar for anyone to handle. Brilliant. I spent the rest of the night getting pissed with a Brit who had been traveling for 17 months.



Cruising through the Mekong Delta. The hats are actually quite functional.















Also in the Mekong Delta.