China, Viet Nam, Thailand,

Hong Kong and Taiwan

Or

Mike and Marcy Explore the

Orient

 

 

Journals written by

February 17, 1995 to March 13, 1995                                       Mike Richards

 

February 12, 1995 Sunday       Los Angeles, California

 

To begin the journal now, less than a week before the actual trip begins,

overlooks the massive preparation that Marcy and I have already done.  I

first discussed my intention to visit the Orient after my trip to Russia

in mid-1994.  Marcy said that she'd enjoy going, but had never backpacked

before.

 

We talked about difficulties and perils involving my style of travel and

she was receptive to trying it.  We decided to take a short trip

somewhere more locally to test our collective abilities. Marcy and I

went to a sporting goods store, REI in Northridge, where she bought a

backpack.  She was astounded that she really bought one.  I noticed that

she put the receipt in a secure place, just in case she would want to

return it prior to using it.

 

We did make the short trip, an adventure in itself, to Cuba. She

surpassed both our expectations of her adaptation to a strange

environment.   Only one book, published in England, was available on

Cuba, so we had no knowledge of what to expect.  We had a great time and

a wonderful adventure unfolded before us.  She had proven to herself, and

me, that she would enjoy this casual style of travel.

 

Our original plan was to land in Singapore, about fifty miles north of

the Equator, then travel north a short distance to Kuala Lumpur and

Phuket or the island of Pei-Pei, which were described as beautiful but

touristy spots.  Then we would go northeast to Bangkok.  Cambodia,

although it is extremely dangerous  to go there, holds the wonders of the

temple complex of Angkor Wat.  I wanted to get there especially.  In

Vietnam we intend to see Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) and Hanoi, its

northern population center.  Then into Hong Kong and China especially

Beijing and other east coast cities.  Possibly we'd go to Xian where the

thousands of clay soldiers were unearthed recently.   To have done all

that would have been a tremendous undertaking and probably would not have

been possible.

 

The many books we bought gave us plenty of ideas and were helpful in

getting overall ideas about where we should visit and why.

 

Marcy's manicurist, a Viet Namese fellow named Andrew, was most

instrumental in guiding us to seek advice and tickets from Voyages Saigon

in Little Saigon (Orange County). Marcy called him and was impressed

favorably with what he had to say.  We drove down to see him on a

Saturday in early January.  He warned us of the great dangers of Cambodia

in the same breath that he spoke of the beauty of Viet Nam (his home).

 

 

In mid-December there was the purchase of a $1,500 video camera -- state

of the art -- which would be much more useful than the huge monster of a

camera I took with us to Cuba. The cost of film and batteries are very

expensive, too.

 

 

 

We considered weather as a major factor as to when we wanted to go.  All

books said December to March were best to avoid because of monsoons in

Viet Nam and the deep chill in China. My son, Mark, won a trip to Hawaii

(from Financial Indemnity) so we must return on March 13, 1995 so my

office would get out of control.

 

Mr. Ching and Annie at Voyages Saigon called Marcy with a price of $1,620

per person that included several flights over areas, which, he felt, were

unsafe to travel by land.  He emphasized the dangers of Cambodia again,

and Marcy made up her mind at that moment she would not accompany me if I

went to Angkor Wat in Cambodia.

 

To confirm, for our own sake, that this was the cheapest way to do it, we

individually called another travel agency and neither of us was able to

come close to matching costs.  I did read a book that suggested travel as

a courier that would cut costs very much, but several inconveniences

would have been heaped upon us.  This just wasn’t for us.

 

On Saturday, January 30, 1995, Marcy and I visited Ching and after a long

while we bought tickets from him.   We took him to lunch and he gave us

several Asian travel pointers to think about.  None of which I can

recollect now.

 

Marcy left her passport and I left mine at the travel agency because

Ching said we needed visas for China and Viet Nam. At the time we are

doing this, the newspapers issue daily reports of closer relations

between Viet Nam and the U.S. Full diplomatic relations are opened and

the American flag now flies again in Hanoi. Today’s newspaper says Los

Angeles' Mayor Richard Riordan wanted to establish sister cityhood with

Saigon but the City Council turned it down. Other stories in the local

newspapers told of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. Two Americans were shot

and killed as they were on their way to Angkor Wat.

 

Annie advised me that I had to renew my passport since it would be valid

for only another three months and China insisted on at least six months.   

I went to the Federal Building on Wilshire, as Marcy did three weeks

earlier.  I got the passport two days later and immediately had it sent

next day delivery to Annie at Voyages so they could get my China visa.

 

 

About February fifth we went to a local doctor who gave us some shots and

pills to prevent malaria and other ailments very common in Asia. There

is no turning back now.

 

On January 22 the split with Poucette concluded when I moved out of Playa

del Rey.     I moved in with Marcy, whom I was spending most of my time

with anyway.  Now we have more time together, and we'll be able to talk

about this day and night.   Each night we discuss our trip, falling

asleep while reading about what lays ahead is common for either of us.  

Discussion about the trip was the focus point of most of our conversation

constantly.  Mr. Ching called to tell us he now has our flight plans laid

out and we should visit him to review or adjust them.

 

Yesterday, February 11, 1995, we went out and bought a bunch of stuff for

the trip.  Clothing, books, cosmetics.  We traveled to many stores under

some ill effects from the pills or the shots or both.

When we returned to the condominium, Ross was there to take us to dinner

but we were not hungry, and he was tired from a hard day of golfing.   

The February 12, 1995-edition of the Los Angeles Times newspaper says the

Exchange Rate is:

            Taiwan’s dollar:      .0434 / 23.01 per US dollar

                        Thailand Baht:        .0448 / 22.29 per US dollar

 

 

 

Voyagers Saigon

99 Bolsa Chica

Westminster

Mr. Ching and Annie (714) 775-

7884

Temperature

C to F = 9/5 x C? + 32

F to C = 5(F? - 32)

                          9

Distance:

1 Mile = 1.61 km

1 KM   = .6214 Mile

Centimeters to inches = .3937

Inches to centimeters = 2.54

Weight

Lbs. to Kg                  .37324

Kg to Lbs.                  2.2046

 

 

 

NOTES OF THINGS I'D LIKE TO SEE

•          Thailand

•          Temple Ruins at Pimai

•          Near Nakhon Ratchasima

•          Phra Pathom Cheddi in Nakhon

Pathorn

•          Pattaya

•          Bangkok

PRESCRIPTION FOR GLASSES

D.V.  O.D. - 0.75 - 1.50 X .098

O) - 1.25 - 1.00 X .088

                           N.V.

O.D. + .50 - 1.50 X 98

O.S. + .25 - 1.00 X 88

TEMPERATURE

                                    Hi/Low           Rain

            Beijing            45/24 18%

            Hong Kong 64/55 18%

            Taipei 67/54            23%                

 

 

 

 

 

February 17, 1995    9:45 P.M.                LAX

Tom Bradley International Terminal Gate 103, China Airlines

 

This flight is still on schedule to leave at 11:55 P.M. Ross, her

brother, drove Marcy and me to the airport.  I'm very tired.  I worked

until 2:30 P.M. then I drove out to Sherman Oaks to pack the rest of my

stuff.  I exchanged cash and traveler checks and put it in safe places

with a slit in the belt and other hidden-from-sight places.

 

I advised Mark about running the office on his own, but he knows how to

do it.   Everybody in my family called to wish to us a good and safe trip

(except Jessica and Michele, who hardly ever call anyway). Mr. Ching

asked us to be at the airport by 9 P.M., three hours early. So we ate at

a fancy Italian restaurant, Spumante, in the Valley, then crawled across

congested Friday night freeways to make one stop at Trader Joe's Market. 

We bought some Turkish apricots, English biscuits, American cheese, and

sausage -- all together costing $9.25.  As we left the market, the time

was 9:05 P.M.  The airport was very busy, especially the Bradley terminal

where it seemed like ants crawling over other ants.  We were assigned

seats, and then we walked to the Terminal Gate 103.

 

I hadn't slept, except the brief hour rest of last evening, so I fell

asleep while waiting the three hours before departure. Marcy woke me at

11:30 P.M., still 15 minutes before the mobbed boarding scene was played

out.   This was my first clear observation of “line cue etiquette,”

oriental-style.

 

While one of the stewards attempts some organization of those to board,

another steward reminds several of the passengers that they have too much

carry-on luggage, and they will be charged extra.   I noted that the

condition of "polite" was not especially omnipresent here; the steward

chose passengers randomly other than the passengers without luggage.

 

I fell asleep again quickly, after we put our gear away. I was awakened

by a pretty, round-faced stewardess who offered breakfast of "an omelet

or fried noodles,” your choice.  "Fried noodles," I replied.  I wanted to

get right into this thing.  The noodles had bits of seafood or chicken --

I wasn't certain -- but it was good, even though it tasted a bit oily.    

My watch is still set for L.A. time, and, according to it, the time is

now 6:45 a.m.  Just sitting, watching the time go by is a difficult waste

of time.

 

I am very tired but, because of conditions here on the plane (less space

per passenger, most things written in Chinese, etc.) I was a bit

withdrawn, and I tried to spend as much time as possible sleeping.  Most

of the movies shown were martial arts films.  All of them seemed the

same, and we were treated to an American movie (subtitled in Chinese)

with Steve Martin called "Simple Twists of Fate." It was terrible in the

beginning (I can't speak of the remainder of the movie because I didn't

watch it through).  We land now in less than five hours. 

 

They have flashed an information chart on the movie screen after the

movie was finished:

                        Time until Arrival:  3.11 Minutes

                        The plane is over Japan now

                        We have traveled 2,153 Mi.

                        The Flight Will Last 13 Hrs.

                        We are traveling at the speed of 331 KM Per Hour

 

Still Marcy sleeps, but when we land in Taipei we have about forty

minutes to catch the plane to Viet Nam.  I wonder how others who are

doing this similar trip?  The ticket agent had said seventy per cent of

this full plane will be going on to Saigon, why are there no direct

flights?  Fortunately, we have backpacks to move around quickly, so we

have no problem going directly to the connecting flight.

 

Marcy changed plans through Mr. Ching, who arranged for first night hotel

at Dong Ho Hotel for fifty dollars nightly.   Someone would meet us at

the airport and take our backpacks and us to the hotel (for twenty bucks

. . . Now that’s the ole American spirit).   Ching confirmed the train

ticket to Hue.  I reminded her that we chose to take this flight, rather

than an earlier departure time which was cheaper, so that we'd be

arriving during daylight and we could handle those details.

 

 

February 19, 1995            Sunday          Taipei to Ho Chi Minh City

 

Looking at my watch, now reset to local time, it is 9:50 A.M.   We should

land soon in Saigon (also called Ho Chi Minh City).  We've been flying

for over twenty hours now, with only a short pause in between.    I have

slept enough to exist and function normally, but the long night must have

affected my biological clock in ways yet unbeknownst to me. This kind of

change takes a couple of days before it really affects me.

 

The first hour of this flight was spent completing a massive compilation

of forms, handed to us by the stewardess.  After reading advice in the

tour books, the forms are pretty typical based on what the guidebooks

describe.  It's an unusual feeling to stand out as an obvious minority as

Caucasians do in this part of the world.  We should be landing soon; I

believe I'm prepared.  The meeting at the airport to check over the forms

at four different checkpoints was a little strange.

 

When we landed in Taipei we had forty minutes to catch the flight to Ho

Chi Minh City (formerly called Saigon).  While waiting in this very clean

airport, I was amazed that none of the plants are real -- all plastic! 

Out of 70 people waiting for this flight only four other people were not

Oriental.  Many were fluent in English.  Language has not been any

problem so far.  The food on the plane was different from what I am used

to, but that is what I look forward to when I am traveling. Because of

the frequent time changes, I ate four breakfasts before arriving in

Saigon.  I ate the same thing because every time because each time a meal

was served the stewardesses gave me the same choices: stir-fried noodles

with a shredded chicken or egg omelet.  Unfortunately each time a few

hours had past and the passengers were scheduled for a meal we’d always

be in a time zone that dictated it was time for breakfast. Since I have

a slight aversion to eggs, I ate the noodles.  Apparently this is a

common choice for breakfast.  Both flights were on China Airlines.  The

landing of the second flight in Ho Chi Minh was smooth on the runway, but

the wait to get through Customs was slow, tedious, and uncomfortable.  

Marcy and I passed through quickly once we got to the front of the line.  

As we left the airport, all luggage and handbags were X-rayed. There was

a lot of pushing and crowding, but we muddled through.  I was surprised

to find the fellow waiting for us, according to instructions from Mr.

Ching in the U.S.  I was amazed that he found us through the throngs of

people.  His name is Mr. Ban.  He drove to the hotel somewhere in the

city close to the Floating Hotel. We are staying at a pleasant-looking

five story building called Saigon Hotel.  While we are on the fifth

floor, the view is not anything worth photographing.  Old buildings crowd

around our hotel to prevent any photo opportunity.

 

After spending around forty minutes regrouping and showering, we went to

the hotel lobby to meet Mr. Ban, who was waiting for us. He hired a cab,

and we began the tour of the city at one p.m. local time in Saigon.  We

drove along the very busy, wide avenues of commerce.  We watched

thousands of merchants transport goods, five feet high, on their rusty

bicycle or smoke-spewing moped.  The random action of all vehicles meant

constant near-accidents, at every turn, at every moment. Watching each

driver maneuver his or her vehicle through cross traffic was a phenomenon

that exists in other overpopulated areas of the world, but I don't

understand how they do it without frequent accidents. 

 

Our guide brought us to the Palace of Reunification, which is now used as

a memorial to the Reunification of North and South Viet Nam. The

President previously used the Palace.  Before him the King, having it

been rebuilt numerous times in its spotty history, used it. I found it

to be less than interesting.  The architecture was bland and ignoble.

Nobody lives here except a caretaker.  It had no life of its own despite

a crazy-quilt history.    When I told the guide I had enough, he was

surprised, but took us back to the colorful streets of Ho Chi Minh. 

Cloth Street, Cigarette Street, Coconut Street,  many of the streets of

commerce are entirely devoted to certain product sales. I had my first

roll of pictures developed at a photo store.  For 6" x 8" double prints

it cost 160,000 Dong, about $14.50.

 

We were tired so at 4:30 p.m., we went back to the hotel. We planned

to go out to the Floating Hotel for dinner.  Instead, I laid myself down

for a rest, and didn't awake until one in the very early morning the next

morning.    After writing for twenty minutes, I went back to sleep for

another five hours.  We got dressed in our small room.  The air

conditioner had been on all night because of the heat. I waited for

Marcy to join me, downstairs, for breakfast.

 

 

February 20, 1995,    Monday         Ho Chi Minh City, Viet Nam

 

The restaurant in the hotel seemed good, even though I overheard a

hostess/waitress remark to another patron that she was sorry because they

had no napkins today.  I would soon discover that there were many items

that they just did not make available, only because they felt that the

item was superfluous and not important.  That list includes napkins and

knives.

 

We sat and read the menu that was printed in English, French, Chinese,

and Vietnamese.  I asked for the fried chicken with vegetables  -- oops!

No chicken yet today, the waitress said in faltering English. “Then,” I

said, “bring me the pork noodle soup.”   Marcy ordered an omelet.  During

our light breakfast the waitress brought a saucer and teacup over which

posed a silvery device that held coffee grounds and hot water. Slowly

the boiling water seeped into the cup.  It was very aromatic, but Marcy's

coffee tastes better, still, it was a good cup of coffee. The soup was

passable, so I ate it, quickly -- I was hungry.

 

Mr. Bahn, our guide from Voyages Saigon, was there to meet me at nine

a.m. as previously agreed.  I told him to wait for a little while, so I

could finish my meal.  Marcy and I had struck up a conversation with an

American from Michigan named Duke who was on a honeymoon with his bride. 

They were in Taiwan before this city and really enjoyed it. Our meal was

charged to the room.  Bahn brought us to the waiting cab.  We drove out

of the steamy city.  Motorbikes by the thousand, a few trucks, buses, or

cars and every remaining open space filled with bicycles or hurried

pedestrian.  Lines are painted down the streets for advisory help, but

few drivers paid heed to the advice, preferring to cut their own path to

whatever destination they were headed.  No driver hesitates to head into

oncoming traffic across the white line if he is certain he’ll be able to

force his way back into this line at the last possible moment.    I’m

sure every driver must have high blood pressure.

 

Our cab flew forward, occasionally having the roof of the vehicle

regularly pounded by the fist of a cyclist who felt we were too close to

him or her.  In the swirling morass of vehicles of every kind it would be

impossible for this not to happen. We drove through suburb after suburb

of Saigon.  Bahn said the name of one particularly attractive (in a

primitive way) village was called Potato Corner.  It was a common sight

to see a cyclist with a gaggle of ducks or small pigs within a cage

fastened to the rear of his vehicle.

 

After a couple of hours we arrived at Tay Ninh, a temple for Taoism,

which, according to Bahn, is now a dying religion because of governmental

persecution.  The ceremony, which, is performed daily was in process.   I

filmed much of it.  The temple and the rites seemed similar to Buddhist

rites I've witnessed before.  The colors seemed bright and eclectic, but

totally in harmony somehow.

 

The weather has been warm and moist.  The air conditioning in the car was

great relief from the heat.  Eventually it became too cold in the car,

and I had to open a window to escape the cold.

 

Next stop was a small village food stand, exactly the kind I was advised

not to go to.  Chicken parts and pork bits were lying in the cooking area

drawing a great audience of black flies.  There are many Vietnamese

enjoying lunches at one of the twenty small round tables provided for

their use.  Several patrons stood by the open kitchen, chatting with the

chef.   Bamboo leaves covered a large frame of robust bamboo poles,

providing shade for the customers.  Bahn explained this is his favorite

restaurant.   The guide, a youthful looking forty-seven years old,

explained that he often brings his grandchildren here. 

 

The first course served to us was a potpourri of local greens and weeds

piled high over one large platter for communal use by all those at our

table.  No dressing, but the flavors from the varied greens combined in a

uniquely bitter way.  I didn’t like it.    Bahn and the driver were

sitting at a separate table until we invited them to join us.  The next

course followed smoothly because the plate of greens was refilled.   The

procedure continued, as I eventually saw, to take an assortment of the

indigenous weeds, lay them orderly on a thin, limpid pancake made of

rice.  Then a white radish, two small chunks of pork, then roll it all

tightly to resemble an egg roll.  This is dunked into a vinegary fish

sauce and eaten, by hand, in the same fashion that I would eat a taco. 

For four people it cost 99,000 Dong, which about eight dollars.

 

Seeing Caucasians fascinated people.  They constantly stared.  I didn’t

have a problem with their curiosity, however they would come very close. 

I think they sniffed the air around me.  It is true that cultures with a

different diet will cast an odor that is just as foreign. The open-

air restaurant was pleasurable to a measure.  I had certain trepidation

about eating at an establishment like this.  It was probably ill advised

to do so, but we did it.

 

Back into the refrigerated auto we sat; it was refuge from the oppressive

heat.  We had to travel another seventy kilometers until we got to the Cu

Chi Tunnels.    These tunnels were used, successfully, to kill and harass

American and French troops who were entrenched in positions around

Saigon.  No other Americans were there.  The three levels of tunnels were

difficult to maneuver through because they were made for much smaller

people.  I found it hard to carry a camera and bag with me.  Still I

wanted to see it, more than the problems of mobility I had to deal with

as I scraped through the narrow corridors, so Marcy and I just stooped

down and did it.

 

The admission fee was $3.00 U.S.  A film played in English extolling the

virtues of several young Vietnamese children-heroes who earned a

military-decoration stars as great "American killers," a high honor.

 

About 120 miles of tunnels to the outskirts of Saigon, all for the

guerilla warfare tactics around several American bases near the city of

Saigon.  I explored, with a guide, many tunnels, each interconnecting

horizontally and vertically with other rooms.    Without a guide it would

be easy to get lost at each turn.  Punji stick traps were dug in many

rooms.  These are pits in which long slender sharpened bamboo poles are

dipped in water buffalo urine to create an infection if one of them

pierced a man’s skin.   Air vents went to each room from the surface

above.  Camouflaged vents on the surface of the ground were practically

impossible to see.

After leaving the area, we drove back to the city, leaving the tunnels

just before sunset.  We arrived back at the hotel, exhausted but still

unbitten by any mosquitoes (my major fear).   Since it was dinnertime, we

needed to find a good eatery.  Next door to the hotel was a restaurant

that seemed nicer and offered more interesting cuisine than at the hotel. 

For six dollars Marcy and I shared a large pot of delicious Tom Yun Goon,

a spicy sour soup with shrimp and chicken in it.  So many items were in

it for flavor that I found myself separating the inedible morsels on an

adjacent plate intended for some other use.  Marcy went back to the room,

totally exhausted.   I let her rest for an hour then I went out onto the

busy street in front of the hotel.    I hired two cyclocab drivers to

take us to the main market.  Because I speak no Vietnamese, and they

spoke very little English, the conversations were strictly limited to

items of high importance like Stop; Go; Over There; Wait. Each

instruction I issued was accompanied with appropriate hand and body

language. 

 

The main marketplace was closed.  Now I understood what the bicycle cab

drivers were trying to tell to me.  Eventually we found an open market,

and purchased goods we needed for tomorrow:  crackers, two boxes, a

toothbrush, and several other small items, including bottled water. 

 

After returning to the hotel we found our favorite guide, and I asked to

drive me around to photograph the nightlife.  I purchased a coconut for

Marcy for fifteen dong.  Marcy had gone to the hotel room, unable to

continue today for she was totally spent.   The Viet Namese people

frequently buy immature coconuts for the thirst quenching liquid they

contain.    I found myself losing focus and falling asleep in the open-

air bike seat.  Ten minutes later I was back at the hotel, and paid Hoa

4,000 dong (about $3.70).  He's a good cyclist and I enjoy his

enthusiastic company.   I went to the room and immediately fell asleep.

 

 

February 21, 1995         Tuesday           Ho Chi Minh City, Viet Nam

 

I awoke at four in the early morning.  Hardly a soul, I observed from the

eighth story window, was walking the streets.  Many Viet Namese people

were "camping out," but all were asleep except a street cleaner slowly

and lethargically sweeping a small section of the trash-strewn street. 

It would have been an impossible task for him to gather all the garbage

on this short street and put it into the wheeled garbage can that served

as a receptacle for all he found.  An orange-robed monk and the young

disciple who accompanied him walked around the corner holding a small

wooden bowl.  The Buddhist inhabitants of this city would put food in the

bowl as a token of their faith and with the desire that the act would

bring them good fortune.    I walked back to the room because the

elevator seemed to be out of service.  I wrote in this journal after

unsuccessfully trying to sleep another hour.

 

Eventually Marcy woke too, and we went downstairs for breakfast. I had

the chicken soup.  At eight o'clock, this morning, we found Hoa, who

brought a friend to drive the other bicycle-driven rickshaw that Marcy

rode.  We packed our gear on the cyclocab and went to the Saigon Train

Station.  Marcy had an uncomfortable experience using the Turkish toilet

in the station.  She decried the filth and ilk that cluttered the public

restroom.  She vowed never to use such facilities again.

 

At about 8:40 a.m. we found the proper train car to board. The train sat

in the station for another hundred and twenty minutes before departing

for Hue.  It started with a metal-twisting lurch, but then it slowly

built up to its regular crawl of five miles an hour as it slithered out

of the train station.  There were areas that the train picked up speed to

fifty mph.  As I try to write, the jerky movement of my pen is not due to

some involuntary muscle contraction, but the usual side-to-side shifting

of the train as it tries as best it can to remain on the track. For this

I am thankful.  The track shifting is due to the initial inadequate

laying of track.  This berth is first class so the seats convert to beds. 

Within our compartment there are fold out cots with very thin mattresses. 

An employee of the train comes around to provide each occupant with clean

folded bed linen.  Blankets are stored in a trunk-like compartment built

into the wall of this unit. 

 

The dark pink linens have many holes and have been ripped, but every hole

has been patched and repaired, then crisply ironed.  Other less

comfortable units include other options like a hard sleeper that provides

a bunk, but no mattress or blanket.   I may elect to wander into second

or third class.  I can only imagine what hellhole slime pits they must

be.  I was told that a diner exists on this train; however, a Vietnamese

came around with a plate filled with numerous lightly browned baked bite-

sized cakes of varying shapes.  Such a tray was happily purchased and

quickly consumed by one of the two young Vietnamese men who are our

cellmates on this locomotive adventure.

 

Earlier I brought the video camera to record, for those who are

interested, the utilitarian value of Turkish-style toilets. While Marcy

is yet to visit it (and she will) she did not relish the less than

photogenic images she viewed with the video camera.  She vowed to neither

eat nor drink until we exited at our destination. Unfortunately, even a

yoga expert might have problems to accomplish that state of suspended

bodily functions for the duration of this long train trip.

 

At this point, it's only three hours into our journey, and I'm ready to

get off this train.  The hot, humid room we are in is cooled by one small

green fan that spins around wildly, frequently ceasing when it becomes

dirt clogged.  That has been remedied by a handyman who comes around to

all compartments to repair the undulating fan.

 

Our otherwise peaceful jaunt through the tree-laden jungles has only been

marred twice:  once by an errant ember of a "controlled fire."  It shot

into the room and landed on Marcy's bed, but I noticed it immediately and

scraped it to the floor where it could do little damage. The second

encounter began when an inch-long cricket errantly hopped through the

barred window opening and into the room.  Marcy was immediately drawn

away from this tiny life form, but I captured it in a teacup and let him

free outside the train.  I now found a new nuisance.  One of our roomies

is blissfully sleeping but has gradually worked a soft sleeping sniff

into a roaring snore, drowning out the din of the incessant rattles,

rocks, and rolls as the wooden rail cars are dragged along the track to

Hue.

 

Eight hours of this travel has not endeared me to it. The terrain has,

for the most part, been thick with trees and brush or flat farmland. 

Nothing else.  Only one hill of any significant size to break the

monotony until now.  We are traveling north along the coastline.  We just

passed Cameron Bay.  Views of the ocean now have made it all more

interesting, until now when we are cutting back inland.

 

 

February 22, 1995            Wednesday                    Saigon to Hue

 

I've been up since 5:00 a.m., but the Sun didn't cut through the early

morning fog -- thickly spread over the vast rice paddies. The sultry air

covered me during the night, and I slept soundly, from sunset till

morning.  I woke to the staccato beat of the clacking tracks and the

maternal rocking motion of the train.  

 

I was able to see the landscape this train bustled through as the rising

Sun pulled aside the curtain of darkness. It opened not at the beginning

of a scene, but in the middle of it, appearing suddenly when I had looked

away for two moments.  Through the faintly lit night people have been

working, starting their work day without more than what little moonlight

was cast their way.  Row after row of a myriad of vegetables or edible

weeds each small household could grow in their backyard plot made a

quilt-like pattern in each village.  Looking out over the myriad rice

fields, I am not certain as to why I haven't noticed overseers as the

people labored in the fields.  Everybody is working.

 

It seems everybody who has one has the exact same bicycle, the exact same

conical straw hat, the exact same two buckets suspended from a long

bamboo pole.  I cannot imagine a people more close to the earth (yet I am

certain they must exist somewhere I have still to discover).

 

Since morning's light I have noted attractive variations in the terrain. 

To have flown would have deprived me of this visual feast. Each movement

I see something rare or beautiful, but we pass too quickly for me to

capture it with a camera, but I'll never forget the lush visions I have

been granted . . . the opportunity to witness late yesterday and

extending through the night at each stop, regardless of the hour,

Vietnamese chatter abounded.  Many conversations crossed each other,

blurring one into the next.

 

The humid warm still air was made so much heavier at each stop by the

smell of stale urine wafting from the primitive train toilets.

 

At seven a.m. an attendant brought a bag of food containing a very fresh

French roll, sugar wafers, and two small triangles of aluminum-wrapped

semi-soft cheese.  Also, I was served a glass containing instant coffee,

boiling water and much sugar.  Somehow there were coffee grounds at the

bottom of the glass, but it was hot and I drank it.

 

Having to use the toilet is, in itself, something difficult, but add to

that the unpredictability of train motion and little to steady myself

save my knees, made a morning ritual into a test of my agility.  For

reasons I choose not to explain, I could only give myself a "C+."

 

We stopped in Da Nang at nine a.m.  After 30 minutes we pulled out of the

station.  A mid-weight metal mesh screen is over the window that I am

allowed to pull up when we are not in a station.  There is concern by

workers that the screens prevent some snatch and run crimes as well as

other crimes they have associated with "the Mafia." Regardless, I obey

basic rules of safety and keep the screen down.  I am a bit tired, but

the balance of this trip is supposed to be the most pleasurable and

scenic, so I'll wait to rest later.

 

Leaving Da Nang the front cars are now the rear cars.  Because of the

overcast sky it seems like we are headed south.  Vast areas are covered

with white sand and brown earth speckles are becoming larger and more

common as we get further from Da Nang.  We've stopped just outside the

city.  A light mist, not quite rain, is coming down, and intensifying the

color of the paved asphalt road. It generally runs parallel to the

tracks.  The earth and all greenery have a richer hue, now that it is

awash with the dew.

 

Traveling further north, the train tracks cut into the hillside

overlooking the China Sea.  The rough-cut boulders scattered along the

beaches and the old boats drifting along the waterline distinguish this

area uniquely from my own Pacific coast.  There are similarities, too,

but the pungent odor of fish, the indecipherable rhythm of the spoken

word overwhelms any thoughts of parallels between the two locales.

 

Finally we arrive at Hue.  A driver held up a sign with our names on it. 

Marcy spotted him right away.  Dirty, tired, and exhausted, we stepped

down three steep gray metal steps to disembark from the train. The

driver, after making hand sign contact with us, did not pick up any of

the bags we were burdened with.   Instead he beckoned us to catch up to

him as he moved through a sea of people who all too closely resembled

him.  It required a great deal of single-minded focus to maintain visual

contact with this "guide."  But we successfully followed him to the

waiting van, where he kindly opened the side door to allow us to stow all

gear.  He then disappeared into the nearby street.

 

The driver sat stoically waiting for all doors to shut, and then he

started to van and pulled off.  The street and buildings surround the

stations were layered in a heavy blanket of dust.  The van kicked up a