Going home

Tomorrow, I have a bus-ticket for the bus to take me back to Nanning in China. On saturday I have a plane ticket for Shanghai. And on monday morning, I am homeward bound. 

It is always with a certain feeling of sadness that I write these last entries. Although it is always nice to come home to what is familiar, to what is home, it is also sad to leave a place I feel I haven't even begin to touch. But maybe I will come back some day. Maybe for a longer period. Who knows? I am actually looking forward to the coldness of Norway now. According to a local weather service, it will be 20 degrees in Oslo on monday when I come home. After four weeks in above thirty degree temps, I think it will probably feel a bit cold. Even for a warm personality like myself...

I am looking forward to listening to the cd's I have bought. To eating full-bran bread. To walking outside without having my t-shirt stick to my body. But I will miss the people. The food. The great times. As it always is.

I hope you all have enjoyed this blog as much as I enjoyed writing it. I hope that I have been able to depict the country as fair as possible, and that you will have gotten a fair and honest picture of what Viet Nam is all about.

I have talked to a number of locals, and they are proud of their country. Proud of their history. Proud of who they are. I have debated them about life and politics, and I think we have all learned something. But isn't that what travelling is all about? If you leave your open mind at home, then it is just your body travelling.

As a small note I read in the inflight magazine of SAS once : Travelling isn't just about going to a different place, but viewing the world through different eyes.

Take care

Ragnar

Back in Ha Noi

I have now soon completed my vacation in Vietnam. I haven't been so much around as I would have hoped, but I have to admit that the heat combined with the humidity really knocked me out. I don't know if I'm just getting old or if it is the 40 degrees combined with 100% humidity. But I have been unable to think straight. Even writing this blog has been a giant task at times. Even in the coziness of aircon, I have been so drained that I could hardly do anything at times.
But what I have been able to do, is to take at least some trips around the towns I have been and taken a number of photos. Like today, I walked for three hours around greater parts of Hanoi. Taking photos of scenic spots. And even some "illegal" shots. There where a few buildings where guards would come running and shaking their fingers. I did what I have done before. Let my camera hang to my side, and pretend to look at something completely different whole taking the photo. Too many great buildings were "off limits". So I just ignored the "verboten"-sign and pretended to be "touristas stupido" in case they complained. 
During the walk, I saw the same thing I see in all communist countries. It is the perfect example of what Orwell wrote in his famous book "Animal Farm", where "comrade Napoleon" rewrites the laws of their revolution by writing "all animals are equal, but some are more equal than others.". And thus they had access to more luxury and rights. As I see everywhere, the partymembers have enourmous mansions and palaces, paid by the money that was supposed to feed the people. And riding in luxury cars when everybody else barely has enough money for a bicycle. Some are more equal than others. I cannot but wonder how many starved so that the enormous buildings and mansions could be built in the name of communism. 
And on top of it all, the vast size of the Ho Cho Mihn mausoleum. Several hectars of the city has been used for a gigantic park and mausoleum for "oh great leader". If he was one of the people, then why spend millions and possibly billions of dollars to erect a monument to his glory? If he was a true communist, he wouldn't want anybody to waste such amounts of money that could have been spent on the people, and building the nation. But like I always say, there is a difference between political socialism and real socialism. In real socialism, you share yours with others, so they can have a better life. In political socialism, you force others to share with you, so you can have more. The first is based on altruism, the latter on selfishness.
I have included some of the photos I took today. Enjoy!

At the local market. Dried fish in all varieties and fresh fruit.

I didn't really know what to make of this statue, so I called it "The statue commemorating the revolution in power grids when the two-prong contact was replaced by the three-pronged by our heroic leaders. " 

The result after the revolution...

Giant area beside the mausoleum.

Forbidden image of some building.

The mausoleum.

Train tracks going through the city.

If you worship Steve Jobs, then this is a MUST!

My t-shirt after the walk.

Hoi An

I was sitting in the reception of my hotel in Hue. Waiting for someone to take me to the bus. I was heading south to Hoi An. It was 5 minutes past the time the bus was supposed to leave. I looked at the receptionist who had sold me the ticket. "A few minutes!" she said. Like she had been saying for the past half hour. 
A man came. "You Hoi An?" he said. I nodded. "Come come!" he said with an urgency. I picked up my stuff and went after him. After a few meters, he stopped me and asked me to wait. He went into another hotel and picked up some more people. After a few hotels I felt like I was on a kindergarden excursion to the city. A long line of packers with the "teacher" in front. Stopping traffic to get us across the street. After a 10 minute walk, we arrived at another hotel. "Wait here for the bus!" he said. "Only a few minutes". I was starting to think "african time". A few more minutes. Just a few more minutes. I wasn't going anywhere. Except the toilet. I ran in case the bus "suddenly" appeared. It didn't. We waited around half an hour before it came.
We were finally on our way. Hoi An. My final southern destination. I didn't feel like going any further south. It would take too long to backtrack up north. Except for the mandatory "meal stop", or "support the expensive restaurant we are getting kickbacks from for stopping here", as it should have been called. I had eaten a strong breakfast, so I wasn't hungry. 
In Hoi An, the bus stopped at "sponsored" hotels. After the second, I didn't want to wait anymore, so I got off the bus and started walking. A lot of motorbike drivers told me it "incredibly far" to the centre of town. Yeah right. I picked up some street names, and found I was about 400 metres from the centre... Oh, well. They're just trying to make a buck, I guess.The hotel was recommended in "the guide". I didn't care to look for something else. Especially not since I knew this was a gathering point for packers. So hotel rooms would probably be scarce. I entered a large courtyard before the hotel. The hotel itself was a two-storey building which proved to be extremely deep. Which is the "vietnamese" style for building. A narrow front, and then the area is spread out backwards. This hotel was maybe 5 metres wide, and 40-50 metres deep. 
A small, and I mean SMALL girl greeted me. Or more precisely, looked at me. "Yes?" she said. I had interrupted her watching a soap. 
"Do you have a room?"
"With or without aircon?"
"With"
"12 dollars"
"Can I see?"
She took me to the room. It wasn't too bad. If they had cleaned it before I came. The sheets were clean. The floor not. Neither was the bathroom. Or the walls. They could maybe have removed the webs... But I didn't care. I am not too picky. And I wasn't in the mood for looking around for something better.

"Pass, please!"
I gave her my passport and went out into the town. It was truly a packer town. People from all over the world had landed on this little place, where restaurants, bars and street vendors where trying their best to lure the tourists into their nests.
"Please, sa. Buy from me!", "Buy something!", "We have cold beer!", "Best pissa in town!"
I found a small restaurant that was not in the guide. I am an adventurous guy... I ordered a noodle soup with chicken. Or "phö gà" as it is called here. This is actually the only name I have managed to learn in vietnamese. Which is a shame. Since there are so many brilliant dishes here. But I just dont know how to order them unless I see them.
After the meal, I went on a small walking tour around the town, taking lots of pictures. It is a pictoresque little town. And it was the most quiet place I had been to so far. That was probably due to the fact that most motorbikes where banned from the centre. Only electric ones were allowed. I addition to the xich lo's. I liked the town. It had a nice feeling to it. Relaxed and laid back.
I have included some photos. Again not the best, but I hope they give you a certain sence of what it was like. Enjoy!

On the last day in Hue, I had some breakfast at a restaurant close to my hotel (see image below), and set off to see the forbidden city of Hue.

When I say "forbidden city", most will think of the one in Beijing. But Vietnam also has its forbidden city. It was the closed city of the emperor until he surrended and abdicated to the revolutionaries. The oldest buldings are a few hundred years old, while the newest is as new as from the thirties. The structure of the city is much like the one in Beijing, with an impressive entry, and homes to servants and concubines. 
Much of the buildings are being restored, so images doesn't show too much of what was once an impressive city. I have enclosed some images that I took. Not the best images, but I hope they give you an idea. Remember that you can click on the images to see larger versions.














One bad point of the experience, was this "student" who had designed an elaborate scam. First, he approached you and told you he had a survey for tourists. And after you had filled in the form, he told you he was collecting money for the blind on behalf of The Red Cross. This is of course not true. How many millions of dong he earned from this scam, is unknown. But given that the average wage for a school-teacher is 1 million dong, and that most people gave him 100 - 200 000 dong, it is obvious that he made a relative fortune from this scam. I told the guards, and one of them took me with them to point him out. I saw him, but when he saw me and the guard coming, he ran like the wind. I had taken a photo of him, that I showed to the guards. 
The "Red Cross scam" is found all across the country. Using the credibility of this organization, and the fact that "everybody" knows it, lends them the credibility. And thus, they can lure unsuspecting tourists into giving them lots of money. Not much to the tourists, but a fortune to them.
Here is a picture of him approaching a spanish woman. I managed to convince her it was a scam before she paid him any money.

Vietnamese for beginners

I thought I would give you a small dictionary of common vietnamese expressions and their translations, so when/if you ever come to Vietnam, it will be easier for you to understand them.

Oh Shitty = old city

Friend! = Walking Moneybag!

Wah yo fo = where are you from?

Wah go motobai = want to go by motorbike?

You butifa = you want to buy something from me?

You my lucky = you want to buy something from me?

Bah toh espesi ga to hote, tass sheep. We tah yoh toh bah taien weah ba sta, ahn yo ge oh ba! = Bus too expensive to go to hotel, taxi is cheap. We take you to bus-station where the bus stands, and you get on the bus! (It took my brain in overdrive a couple of minutes to decipher this one.)

Ragnar
Language jedi

Doing it by the book

I sat in a restaurant here in Hoi An yesterday, eating a delicious noodle soup, when I saw a young couple walking by. They saw me, looked at the name of the restaurant, and the girl brought up the "bible" she was carrying in her hand. After some scanning, she shook her head, and they carried on walking. The place was not in the guide, and therefore potentially lethal.
When I was a freshman traveller, there was one thing I never did. I never stayed in any hotel unless it was in "the Guide". Lonely Planet was the "bible" of travelling. All other hotels were dangerous, terrible and full of bedbugs. Same for the restaurants. I have later learned that they are not. Most of them are just as good, and some even better, than the ones in the guide.
It is easy to understand why people follow the guide to the letter. It is like the michelin guide. Someone has been there and rated the place. You don't have to be disappointed. You can go directly to the "incredible value, clean and friendly" place. I realized after a while that some of the places knew they were in the guide, and exploited it to the max. Some of these have upped their prices to ridiculous levels. Some have just let their quality drop. They know that as long as their name appears in the guide, 'packers will come. In our modern world, everyone knows who is in the guide and not. And hotels and restaurants are sure to place a big note outside their spot "recommended by Lonely Planet". They know this is like honey. 'packers will buzz around.
I often find that hotels and restaurants that are not in any guide are often better. They strive to gain a piece of the market, and the last thing they need, is a bad reputation. Hence their service and quality tends to be higher. One good thing, though, is that the guides will give you a sence of price level. And they have quite useful maps showing where the sights and action is.
So far, I have only stayed in one "recommended" place here in Vietnam. And it is the worst place I have stayed in. It was cheap, in every meaning of the word.
So if you ever go backpacking, resist the temptation of doing it by the book. Let it be a guide, not a bible. And you will have a much better trip. Believe me.

Ragnar
Black belt travelling.

Crossing the DMZ

I was waiting for the bus when a taxi-driver came to me. "Hue" he asked. I nodded. He wanted to see my ticket. I showed it to him. "Ok, come! I take you to the bus.". I protested, saying that the girl in the ticket office said that the bus would come to pick me up. "No, no. Too expensive. They send taxi instead!" I settled in the overcrowed taxi. The guy spoke with an accent so thick I thought he was speaking vietnamese. I looked at the spanish couple beside me. They looked as puzzled as me. Oh well. Who cared.
On the bus I eventually realized that I had gotten the by far worst sleeper seat in the bus. All the way in the back. Mid seat. Between two couples. And blocked by the sleeper in front of me, making my seat maximum 1.5 meters. Which would mean I would have to crumble the whole night. Did I mention the heat? If not, it was hot. And the aircon was only on about 5 minutes an hour. I was relieved when I leared the belgium couple next to me where only going as far as Nihn Bihn. 2 hours drive away. I hoped and prayed they would not be replaced. To my relief, they weren't. My louse seat was now the best seat in the bus. With vacant seats on both sides, and the longest seat on the bus just for me. I placed my bags on one of the seats and my water bottle on the other.
The ride was typical for vietnamese busrides. Most of the trip consisted of the driver playing "chicken" with all facing traffic. Turning over two the right hand side of the road only in the last second before impact. The bus swung back and forth with trucks, buses and cars coming at us at alarming speeds and rates. I just wasn't able to sleep all night. Partly because of the flashing lights and horns of oncoming traffic, but also because the driver, because of the way he drove, were either flooring the gas of the breakes, in addition to swinging back and forth between the lanes.
In the morning, we stopped at a local eatery, where they served anything we wanted to eat. I was too tired to be hungry. So I baught a can of coke and wandered around the joint. I realized we had just passed the DMZ. Old propaganda posters on the wall talking about the "evil americans and their puppet soldiers". I wanted to scream "Gooooood morning Vietnaaaaaaam!" in the spirit of Cronauer. The famous DJ from Radio Saigon. They transmitted to the american troops south of the DMZ.
We arrived in Hue early in the morning. To greet us was the usual crew of "catchers" trying to get us to come to their hotel. I followed one of them up the road. He promised me a premium room for $10. As we were approaching the hotel, he started talking about a neighbouring hotel, which had MUCH MUCH better rooms for $15. Of course... I followed the manager up to one of the MUCH MUCH better rooms, only to find that the MUCH MUCH better involved TWO beds instead of one, in case I needed to spread my body, and a tiny veranda facing the backyard. I wanted to see the $10 room. It had "only" one bed, and no balcony. Suited me fine. I wasn't going to sit on no balcony anyway. The guy wasn't too happy with me choosing the "inferior" room, but he accepted it.
As usual, I was given a map of the city by the receptionist. It looked handmade. So I didn't really know whether to trust it or not. But to test it out, I did what I normally do when I get to a new place ; start walking. Noticing misplaced streets on the map, or wrong scales. After a few hours, I was sweaty, tired and hungry. I found a small sidewalk cafe whose only customer was the odd american couple. He was in his 60's I would think, with Coke-bottle glasses and a body that said "experienced traveller who has drunk himself snowblind in most bars across the earth". His travelling companion was a girl in her twenties. The old geezer was looking at me as if he tried to stare me to death or something. I ignored him. Sat down and ordered som noodle soup with chicken. A delicious and filling meal later, I was ready to hit the sack for a few hours while the sun was doing her best to scorch the Earth.

Waking up

The next day I walked across the river to the Citadel. The old fortress town where the emperor used to live. After a couple of hours walking around the whole citadel,

I walked along the street by the river. A lot of old stuff, and war relics were displayed for sale on the sidewalk. A lot of medals, old coins and gas masks. But one thing made me shrug. In the movie "Falling down", the main character played by Michael Douglas comes into an "army shop" run by a seriously deranged person. The shop-owner shows off his secret stash. He picks up a canister used for "Zyklon B". The gas used to kill jews in the death camps. He shook it and uttered with great enthusiasm : "You hear that? Its empty. It has been used!".

I felt much in the same way now. In front of me lay scores of dog tags. "From captured and killed american soldiers" the seller told me. I felt disgusted. Captured and killed. Gomez, Steele, Hodges. O negative. Baptist. Catholic. Serial number. Boys from upshit creek. Places nobody had heard of, let alone wanted to. Going to fight a war in a country most people had never heard of, let alone cared about. Until some "commies" decided they wanted a piece of the action, and Uncle Sam didn't want them to. "Kill a commie for mommie". Instead of glory and a welcome home party, they, or what was left of them, were sent home in bodybags. And their dog tags sold as souvenirs on the streets of Hue. By the way. If you search american homes, I am sure you find a lot of "souvenirs" there too.
I saw a movie yesterday. "Freedom Writers". A true story about an american teacher whose determination turned a class of "misfits" into productive young men and women. "You think respect is something you earn when you are killed by a gun? When you are dead, you are rotting underground. And nobody remembers you!" she said to one of her students. She found to her astonishment that none of the students knew what the holocaust was. She took them to the holocaust museum, and let them speak to holocaust survivors. It made them realize that their thoughts and street code was just the same that started the holocaust. "Remove this group, and my life will be perfect."
She earned their respect, and they realized she was right. Street code and honour was the name of their game. She taught them how to break free from this thought prison.
A prison made for them by their parents and peers. Nobody are born hating. They are taught to hate. By the media. By politicians. Religious leaders. The 'hood. Using fear and threats. Breaking the pattern, the code, and you will be severly punished. Think otherwise, and you will be expelled from the society.
In the visitors log of the genocide museum in Kigali, Rwanda, I wrote "when will we ever learn?". When will we?
Killing isn't glorious, honorous or heroic. Preventing it, is.

Ragnar

Audiophilia

Those who know me, know that I love good sound. Not fat sound. Not massive sound. Good sound. I am an audiophile. And whenever I come across a shop that sells real hifi-gear, I cannot stay away. I have to go in and check it out. 
In Vietnam I had for the first week only found stores that sold crappy "massive sound" systems. That is, enormous amplifiers with fronts packed with knobs and indicators. And PA-speakers. The purpose was "impressionator"-effect. That is : stripping the paint off the neighbours wall. The sound was terrible, to say the least. I had seen this in a lot of countries. How I pity them. I was also once of the impression that watt was an indicator for good sound. Until I heard a 10 watt tube amp. It completely blew me away. Not by sound pressure, but by its sound quality. And that lauched my career as an audiophile.
I wandered off into the streets of new Ha Noi, and entered into what appeared to be the rich part of town. With the Hilton hotel and a few other luxurious places dotted around. Suddenly, I saw a shop with names that made my mouth water. Audio Note, McIntosh, Plinius. Like moth to a flame, I was drawn to it. Inside the airconditioned room, the altars of good sound was dotted around everywhere. To my disappointment, the staff didn't speak any english, and they where more interested in making their pirate copied Hong Kong movie blast the doors open, than putting together the best gear. I had a suspicion that these where not altars of good sound, but altars of mammon. Where rich people could buy impressivly expensive gear to show off to their peers. 
First was a Audio Note Quest amp. 8 watts of purity per channel. Connected to some low-sensitive speakers of dubious origin. I didn't even want to hear it. From another room, I heard the familiar sounds from "Carmen". With a guy tailing me, I entered the room to find a 600 watt Mcintosh connected to some horn speakers. Horn speakers? HORN speakers. 600 watts?! When the crescendos of "Carmen" blasted, the indicators on the maccie showed 100 MILLIwatts. Horn speakers are supposed to be connected to amps capable of delivering a few watts. Not 600. If they can handle the load at all, the speakers would output literally earsplitting volumes. You would be deaf in seconds. For life. You ears would probably bleed. 
As if that wasn't enough, I heard something instantly that I didn't quite believe was possible in a shop like this. I tried to find some other explanation, but in the end I just had to admit the almost heart-crushing fact. They had managed to connect the speakers out of phase. And worst of all : without noticing. It was obvious that this was a temple of mammon, not audiophilia. The pricetag was more important that quality of the sound. It ripped my heart. I had to leave.
In conclusion, you might say that it has been a disturbing experience. I have found a number of audiophile recordings in cd-shops around the city. I am hoping these are the japanese versions, as the japanese tend to be REAL audiphiles. I am sure there are some vietnamese true to their audiophile nature, but they are not in this shop.
Some explanations to those of you not into audiophilia :
Horn speakers are speakers with, well, horns. They are normally extremely sensitive in the sense that you need only milliwatts to attain normal listening levels. They are most often used in combination with so-called single ended triode amplifiers. These are notiriously low powered. One example is amps using the tube 45, they normally output a maximum of 750 milliwatts. They would be gasping for air with most speakers. But with horn-speakers, they can reach THX-levels before starting to run out of air.
If you have even a moderate system, set up correctly, you will notice that the instruments are placed between the speakers. And in a high-end system, they are better focused, so the speakers almost dissappear. When the speakers are connected out of phase, the sounds appear to come from the speakers, and what comes from between the speakers, is unfocused. Almost blurred. If you have ever heard it, you cannot miss it. 

Ragnar

Licensed audiophile

Cow dung

I have been trying to locate the local eateries where I could scoop up some of the vietnamese food I have heard so much about. But to no avail. So my food has been a mix of baguettes, which are french-vietnamese, and kebabs.
I came to my usual kebab-joint, and found another whiteboy seated at the small sidewalk table. I joined him and started to talk to him. Jack from Canada. Cycling through Vietnam. He laughed when I told him the level of crazyness I found his venture. 40 degrees on a bicycle seat wasn't exactly what I considered healthy. Neither to the body nor the brain.
"You know, when I am cycling, I have been pouring down 10-15 litres of water a day, and during the nights, I haven't gone to the toilet once. It has all come out as sweat. But it is ok." he said and laughed at my obviously facial expression of non-belief.
"You are crazy, you know that? Seriously!" I said. He laughed.
He talked about the incredible food here in Vietnam. I told him I so far had not found any.
"Try the streets around Cao Dong street." He said.
"Cow dung? That doesn't sound promising." I replied. I let it sink into him for a few seconds.
He broke out in a roaring laughter. "No it doesn't, does it? Well, apart from the name, it has some of the best chow in the city. You should try it."
I promised I would go there the day after to check it out. We talked through the meal, and shared experiences from the different countries we had been to. After two kebabs each, we were ready to split. We said our goodbyes, and left.
I checked out the street the day after. And it did have food stalls. But the street bore its name with pride. It DID smell like cow dung. And even I have my limits when it comes to where I'll eat. The food was probably excellent. But like they say : smell is half the taste. And with the smell of dung accompanying my meal, I think I'll pass. Maybe some other time.

Ragnar
With a licence to play with words

The old man and Nam

"You know, I was supposed to be here during the war."
I was sitting in the "No Noodle" restaurant. Chowing away on a breakfast baguette. There were only two tables in the place. An American named Tom sat on the other. We started talking about our plans and our lives. And he told me about his.
"I am from nowhere. My dad was a regular army. So we moved a lot. Iran, Afghanistan, US. All over the place. My dad was a military advicer to the Shah of Iran. We used to live on the outskirts of Teheran. I had a BB gun that I used to shoot at the animals in the caravans that used to come into the city with goods to the shah."
He laughed. His eyes went dreamy. He took a sip from his coke. Looked at it and continued.
"My dad would be smiling in his grave if he knew I was here now. He had gotten me into West Point. But I turned it down. West Point would mean straight to Nam afterwards. I didn't want to. My dad was a colonel here during the war. He was so insulted by me not wanting to 'do my duty to my country' that he didn't speak to me for many years afterwards."
He laughed again. But it was a hollow laugh. He looked at me with a serious face.
"I just didn't see what business the US had, fighting other peoples war. Fight the commies? Well. We didn't exactly do that, did we?"
He took another sip. Looked out into the street.
"I became a teacher to pay for some of my dad's crimes. Me and my sister we became teachers. And became the poor ones."
His laughter roared.
"My younger brother saw that we were poor, and went into finance. He is now a millionaire. While I teach English to kindergarden kids in Shanghai. But I don't complain. I love my life. I live well."
He paid his bill. Thanked the waiter.
"It took me almost 40 years to get to Nam, but now I am here. Now I am here."
We said our goodbyes and he disappeared into the streets of communist Vietnam. Nam was no more.

Ragnar
Aka "collector of stories"