Unkie Herb

I’m back, and I hope you realize that when I disappear its because I’m having too much fun to consider wasting an hour in a stuffy internet cafe.

Today is New Years Eve and yesterday marked two months since I apprehensively boarded that JetStar flight from Taipei to Singapore, and so its time for a little change up. I love telling you where I am and what I’m doing, but I can ramble about other things, as well.

Surprisingly, my “baby” controversy has sucked in more people than my mother and sister. Their approach has been lightly badgering me about my use of the word, calling it immature and Austin Powers-ish. Both solid comments, indeed. Once, my mother lectured me (at length) about calling my closest girl friend “babe”, remarking that it belittled her and women in general. At the time, I was studying both feminism and the philosophy of language. In true mother fashion, however, it was a lecture and not a debate, and so all my rebuttals were ignored or misunderstood.

Indeed, the best argument against my (over)use of the word was a comment on my last post (”On the islands”) by a mysterious bystander who has observed the comment-board conversation with growing interest. I assume we are friends from Toronto, “baby baby baby baby baby”, but who are you?

At any rate, I have decided to approach this in a quasi democratic fashion. Help me choose a replacement word because, as the post mentioned, “baby” is simply too played out and I need a shred of originality on this website.

So here are a couple of words I’ve considered, try saying them in the following example sentences and tell me what you think.

1. sailor 2. doctor 3. barber 4. head tribesman

“I’m in Laos, xxxxxx, Laos!”

“Those are some fantastic pants, xxxxx.”

“Two Beer Laos, xxxxxx, and four glasses.”

Any help on this issue would be appreciated, and of course write in ballots will be accepted and, likely, used instead of the four ideas I came up with (I especially like barber).

Oh, and after an amazing eight days on Don Det in the four thousand islands, I sped up to the capital Vientiane (which might be the only capital city in the world that still wakes its visitors up with roosters at four in the morning) and then a few days later to the tourist mecca town of Vang Vieng. This town is bursting at the seams, and people are sleeping on hotel lobby floors in preparation for New Years tonight.

I hope all of you have a ridiculous but safe New Years, and know that at exactly 12 noon on the 31st (if you are in eastern North America) I was singing and dancing and kissing complete strangers (I hope!).

HAPPY NEW YEAR, BARBER!

Share This

No, not Thailand’s (in)famous group. Not even Malaysia’s higher end bombshells. I’m in Laos, baby, Laos.

The islands here, unfortunately, are not situated in the sparkling waters of the Gulf of Thailand. Nor are they aligned along the azure coast of the Andaman Sea. No, instead, they are plopped square in the way of the mighty, muddy, magnificent (enter another m-adjective here) Mekong.

Now, one would expect that placing several thousand islands in a mid-river delta would waste the charm of island life. I mean aren’t the waters of the Mekong much too dirty and snake-infested for enjoyment? But then no one expected a bunch of hippies to show up, did they? And so, to no surprise, people are swimming all the time, and generally lazing around. I have joined the bandwagon on both fronts, lazing on a muddy river beach and splashing around in the river. After all, my shower water is pumped up from the shore directly, so what’s the difference?

This relaxed attitude about things like hygiene stems from a general attitude that permeates this place.

You can lie in the sun, burning all day long. Or try rolling in a hammock in the shade, enjoying the island’s greenery (it’s very green). There are only a few islands that are large and permanent enough for habitation, and only three with tourist amenities. Your days are spent on boats, bicycles, or your back, doing absolutely nothing. It is the definition of chill, and people from different countries and different backgrounds come here and find a common ground. That ground is known as a “hammock”.

The hippies are on to something…

 

Share This

After a week of cool weather (high teens) and rainy, grey skies, I was beginning to ponder the vaunted weather of the region. As I exited my ride, a minivan packed with fourteen people for the four hour ride to the border, the sun suddenly burst through the clouds and things warmed up. Welcome to Laos.

Here, for the past few days, things have slowed wwwaaaayyyy down, and I am at peace once again. Here, sellers and motorbike drivers assume that if you wanted their business, you’d ask. Here, life races by at the same speed as the muddy Mekong, which - while huge - is not what you’d describe as “quick”.

Oh, and despite my glorious entrance, my first trip in Laos wasn’t so perfect. Packed onto a rickety tin can bus (of Korean origin) with forty other people, we set off from the border town. About thirty yards down the road, we stopped and twenty or so students climbed aboard. At nearly every cluster of stilted, wooden shacks, we repeated this clown car performance. A few people getting off, twice as many getting on. At one point, our bus with seating for forty had around seventy people on board. This is Laos.

I have made my way quickly down from the small provincial capitals of Savannakhet and Pakse (pack-say) to Champasak, which is a little village perched above the river. Nearby is an Angkor era temple which I will explore tomorrow at sunrise with a Dutch guy I met a couple days ago. I am writing this because after tomorrow I will make my way down to Si Phan Don (Four Thousand Islands), which I doubt will have electricity, let alone internet connections. It will, however, have two dollar bungalows with hammocks, and a whole lot of chilling.

Check the page “Where am I now?” on the sidebar for a Laos map.

So Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah if I disappear there for a while, and I will post again when I can.

Share This

I’m already regretting what I said about the Vietnamese, even though when I read my last post it still rings true.

The problem is that there are also many upsides to traveling in Vietnam, and that many of the people - usually the ones you don’t interact with - are fantastic. Here’s a rundown of my run up from Saigon to Hue, which is where I caught the bus for Laos.

Mui Ne (moo-ee nay): A quiet strip of hotels and restaurants along a beautiful beach just a few hours from Saigon. It’s quite windy and has a solid surf, and has become a hotspot for kite surfing in Asia. Many of the foreigners I met there were living there for months, which is quite unusual outside of the major urban centres, which tend to attract teachers and other professionals. Instead, many backpackers have settled here and dropped their travel plans to stay and be carried around the violent ocean by whipping winds. Brian, come check it out.

Outside of Mui Ne are fantastic sand dunes, which tower over you as you approach. We took a jeep there at sunrise, and were not disappointed by our timing. After sitting and enjoying the views for an hour, we took some plastic sleds offered by the local children and skimmed down the sides of the dunes for a while. Afterward, in true Vietnamese fashion, the children demanded two dollars each for the sledding. Sigh.

Hoi An: Probably the most beautiful town I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s streets are narrower than elementary school hallways, and nearly the entire town still remains from the French colonial period. It was untouched by the American War, and so it is awash with time-machine feelings and charm. As well, it’s the newest hotspot in Asia for custom clothing. I had a pinstripe suit, two dress shirts and two silk ties made for seventy USD, and it all shipped home to Canada for another twenty. Brilliant.

Hue (hoo-eh): Another historical marvel, but a much larger town (several hundred thousand compared to Hoi An’s fifteen thousand), Hue was very much touched by the war. Across the Perfume River from the centre of town is a massive Citadel, walls and gates still in tact. The interior of the Citadel was almost entirely destroyed by American bombing, however, yet was named a World Heritage Site by Unesco (as was the entire town of Hoi An) and is in the process of restoration.

Here, i rented a bicycle and rode around the old walls and museums within the Citadel, and then promptly got lost trying to find an old Japanese covered bridge out of town. I ended up, eventually, at a pagoda that had been adapted into a school for young monks. There, I was quickly set upon by twenty or so monks who were on recess from school. They were all in their teens, and spoke next to no English, but were very interested in me. We took a few photos and then one monk offered to trade his sandals for my flip flops. I declined, but then another offered to take my sunglasses from me (he didn’t offer anything). Again, I declined. Yet a third monk offered to trade his rope and bead bracelet for my wooden beaded one which I had purchased for less than a dollar on the streets of Saigon. I took the offer and the monk kissed my hand in appreciation. Not knowing what else to do, I returned the favour.

Vietnam: probably the only country in the world were even the monks are swinging deals.

Share This

I hope I can get passed it, but I am jaded. It should never have come this far, and yet I understand why it has. I am, sad as it is, frustrated by the Vietnamese. I was warned of it while still in Cambodia, yet I thought I could handle it. I am sorry to any Vietnamese or those of Vietnam origin who may be offended. For here I will generalize terribly, and probably end up coming off as insensitive and downright racist.

The harassment is non-stop. Ladies come out of their shops and try and drag you inside, talking quickly into your ear: “You wan soot? Berry goo price! Numbah one!” Motorbike drivers offer you rides, marijuana, prostitutes, all while following you down the street for blocks. Restauranteurs walk alongside you trying to get you to read their menu, even though its quarter to three in the afternoon. As soon as one tout, book-seller or shop owner has given up calling after you, another one appears.

I realize that by traveling to the main stops I have invited the attention, but these towns are touristy for a reason: sights, atmosphere, beaches, etc.

What’s more, the prices foreigners pay here are inflated to the point of hilarity. I have learned (quite quickly) to memorize the prices for the food and drinks I have ordered, as well as total the bill in my mind beforehand, as there are often “mistakes” on the bill. One waiter even seemed annoyed at me for demanding to pay the price on the menu, not the one on the bill. I have become a relentless haggler, losing face all over the place, just cut into the extra dollar or two (if not more) I know I am being forced to pay.

To top it off, I have experienced relentless crime. Prostitutes in Nha Trang, a famous beach resort town that doesn’t deserve tourists at all, will swarm you at night and grab at all things holy and unholy, just to distract you while a few of them put hands in your pockets. I have heard stories of lost cameras, wallets, cash and mp3 players. Slapping hands does no good, as there are usual three or four of them traveling together in packs. I carry all cash and valubles under my pants, and so they wasted their time on me. Again, to my surprise and frustration, these women had the nerve to look at me in disgust when they discovered my pockets were empty. The police, if you see them, could not care less.

I suggest, to all who consider traveling this region, to avoid Nha Trang all together. When the tourists stop coming because of the frustrations of the town, the police will have to crack down and perhaps arrest some of these blatant thieves. Indeed, Vietnam in general is risking allowing the exploitation and harassment of tourists spiral out of control, and then the millions of foreign dollars will flow out of the country.

What is, to use the word again, the most frustrating aspect of the whole situation is that this country is beautiful. It has amazing history not only from recent wars and French Colonialism, but also from its haunting past of Chinese domination and rebellion. On rare occurances when I have connected with local people not selling me something, they are generally energetic, polite, thoughtful and amicable. Most locals, however, when they realize you are not in buying mood, will simply move on.

I have become my worst nightmare: the tourist who when he is asked “Where you from?” will immediately respond with “I don’t want whatever it is you are selling.” Or even worse: one who will simply pretend that local people don’t exist.

Traveling should never be like this, although I know it is a reality in poor countries all over the world. Vietnam is nowhere near as poor as Cambodia, and yet its people more persistent and exploitative.

At any rate, I am fleeing the country and heading to Laos. My camera is not working in this internet cafe and so I will post pictures on the last week and half from Laos. I have been to some great places and (see: Nha Trang) some disappointing ones. Hope you are well.

Share This

After an afternoon nap, I lay in bed watching the fan spin. The sounds from the street were distant and anonymous: honking horns, children playing, women gossiping. I sluggishly rose and attempted to wash away the dreariness with a cold shower. Not that I had an option, I’ve been on cold showers for the past month or so. I dragged on some clothing, brushed my teeth and ventured downstairs. Stepping out the front door, I was presented with a teeming streetscape. I had almost forgotten. I was in Saigon.

A city of immense activity, a barely contained population and a pumping pulse. It embodies modern Asia in all its contradictions. While it rises with the dawn, it also finds time for a few hours with a coffee, newspaper and bowl of rice at midday. While thousands of scooters roar by in an endless stream, they flow with an organized cohesiveness. The mass parts like a river around a rock as an elderly woman pushes a cart stuffed with baguettes, cucumbers and pate across the boulevard.

The streets are wide and lined with mature trees; indeed, it is a city as green as any in Europe or Canada. While at once full of the newest trends of fashion and technology, it also offers bicycle taxis, traditional theatre and dozens of pagodas and temples. The smell of exhaust mingles with incense. Beside the television in every home (and I mean every home: the small villages of dilapidated bamboo and corrugated tin shacks are a veritable forest of TV aerials) is a small shrine to Buddha or dead ancestors, depending upon Buddhist or Taoist adherence. I saw these things intermingling daily in Taiwan, but in Saigon everything is more intense, more densely packed, and more in your face. In short, I love it.

Also noticeable are the lasting effects of the American War and French Colonialism. Many of the buildings in central Ho Chi Minh City (the name was changed when the communists “liberated” it in 1975) are remnants of French architecture, and the communist government has done a respectable job of restoring them without losing their romantic nature. The post office is particularly popular and well-known, both inside and out. Left from the American presence is a bitter taste contrasting with lasting friendship. Because the city was the heart of the American militaristic, journalistic and diplomatic organizations during the sixties and seventies, many of the older citizens here remember their friends and colleagues fondly. Yet the government, which is still dominated by the old boys club of northern Vietnamese communists, remembers the period with disgust. This is justified, and one visit to the War Remnants Museum in Saigon will convert whoever still holds that intervention in Vietnam was morally acceptable.

This museum was once named The Museum of Chinese and American War Crimes, but has since been changed to avoid offending visitors from across the Pacific. The message, however, has changed little. Deformed babies, victims of the defoliant Agent Orange, are kept in jars. Photos show American soldiers grinning with the severed heads of suspected Viet Cong spies, dragging suspects behind tanks and jeeps, and pushing men out of helicopters. These photos were all taken by foreign journalists, and many won awards and accolades in the west as public opinion was inexorably turned against the war. It is a difficult museum to swallow, but the propoganda aspect cannot diminish the power of the images. As with my experiences in Cambodia, immense pity and respect have led to a love for the local people, dispite the fact that they try to squeeze you for all you’re worth.

 

 

Share This