Getting Lucky

Something happened on the sleeper bus that is a theme of my travels.  Maybe I’m just lucky.  Maybe I’m just good.  Anyway, here’s what happened . . .

This was definitely not the tourist bus.  The crowd was all locals, and the driver was telling people where to stand and who knows what else, and he was not used to dealing with people who did not speak Vietnamese.  I just stood there, looking confused, and then this guy came over to me and asked where I was from.  At first, I thought it was just someone trying to sell me something or practice their English, but it turns out that he lived in Atlanta.  His name was “Kevin” and his father was a pilot for South Vietnam.  He moved to the U.S. in the 70’s.  I didn’t realize it at first, but he noticed my cluelessness and came over to guide me along the confusing boarding process.  He also asked the conductor if I could take my backpack onboard (originally, it had to stow it underneath the bus) and this time I was allowed to.

About five hours into the trip, we pulled into a depot.  Based on the time and the size of the depot, I figured it was Hanoi, so I grabbed my bag and headed out.  By this point, the bus was really full, with moms and their little kids sitting in the aisle.  I had to step over them in the narrow aisle with my bags, and somehow I made it without squashing anyone.  On my way out, I asked people “Hanoi?”, even asking the conductor, and people nodded.  I got out, and it was just anarchy, with people going every which way, some sitting down and eating, others going to the bathroom, others just standing.

Kevin spotted me and waved.  He explained that we were not in Hanoi yet, that the bus was making a rest stop.  We chatted and he clearly did not like being in Vietnam.  The rest stop was pretty gross and this fact really bothered him (he had also made a comment about the dirty food carts in Sa Pa).  He had only gone there to get his new wife and bring her to the U.S., where she has never been before (they had just gotten married).  I was curious about how this marriage came about, but did not ask.

It was time to get back on the bus, though I would not have known that without Kevin.  I stepped over moms and kids again, and a half an hour later, we were in Hanoi.  At this point, I needed a taxi.  Hanoi taxis do not have the best reputation for honesty, but again, Kevin to the rescue.  They weren’t going to pull anything on him, so we shared the cab, which worked out because our hotels were close.

And then he was gone, leaving me to ponder if I am just lucky to always find these random people who, without any effort on my part, show up to help me out, keep me company, even let me stay in their homes.  I’d like to think I am special, but I suppose it happens to everyone who travels like I do.  Even so, there is one thing that definitely happens to me more than anyone I know.

There are a lot of clueless tourists in DC, especially where I work (by the Smithsonian), and I often take the initiative to help people out.  But nobody gets asked for help more, especially by foreigners, than me.  There may be an entire subway platform full of people, but I always seem to get picked.  One time, it was a group of deaf people.  One of them handed me a note, written in advance, that said “Is this the train to Rosslyn?”

Maybe it is just something about my face, but more likely, I am giving off some subtle clue that says “I have been in your position.  I will help.”

 

Waterfalls in Laos

 

 

Outside of Luang Prabang in Laos are two sets of waterfalls.  The water is so blue and the terraces are so perfectly arranged that you would think they were designed by an architect.

 

 

Sleeper Bus

     With a belly full of wine and a full 3 hours sleep, I arrived at the Sa Pa bus terminal, which was a muddy lot with 2 busses and a food cart selling baguettes and coffee.  The bus was very new and clean (you had to take off your shoes in the front).  There were lots of individual beds,

but I went for the dream spot, setting up in the very back were there were five beds in a row.

 

            I was aware that this was the high risk, high reward spot.  If the row filled up, I would be lying next to some stranger, but I decided to roll the dice.  I was the only one up there for about three hours, during which time I slept quite well.  But as we rolled along, the bus picked people up (often they were just standing at the side of the road in a seemingly random spot).  It also stopped a few times to let people go to the bathroom on the side of the road, with very little discretion.

            Yes, I was quite comfy for a while, but eventually I paid the price for my greed.  Those back seats filled up, and I had some guy practically lying on top of me, and talking in my ear on his cell phone to boot.  My bag had to go on top of me, and my legs were cramped (the bus was built for Vietnamese people, who aren’t very tall).  Obviously, the next two and a half hours were not very pleasant.

Food Wars: Pho

The next food battle is pho (pronounced ‘fuh’, rhymes with ‘duh’), which is a clear broth with noodles and some sort of meat.  I usually get it with thinly sliced beef (pho bo) that is served raw and cooks in the bowl while it is on the table, though you can also get chicken (pho ga).  Add bean sprouts, thai basil, a squeeze of lime juice, and chili sauce to taste.  In the U.S., most places give you this sriracha sauce with the rooster on the bottle.  This sauce seems to really be taking off in popularity lately, just as salsa did in the 90’s.  I did not see this brand anywhere in Vietnam.

This is my go-to food when I have a cold.  It is piping hot, and is good when your stomach may not be up for solid food.  The spiciness clears my sinuses and my throat.  (Ideally, I load it up with so much sriracha that one more drop would make me gag.)  Sometimes I am even glad to be sick, because it gives me an excuse to have some pho.

Instead of a restaurant vs. restaurant competition, this will be an overall battle.  I have enjoyed pho at many places in the U.S., dating back to 1995 when classmate Han Nguyen took me to the Monterrey neighborhood in Los Angeles, beginning my love affair with the dish.  Being a staple item, I had it at several places in Vietnam.  It took a lot of debate, though I am confident in the final verdict . . .

A tie.

In short, I seemed to be getting the same product that I would get back home.  This is not that surprising, when you think about it.  It is just broth and noodles, meat and vegetables.  There is not much of a trick there.  Most of the flavor comes from the chili sauce, and that was the one difference.  There was a greater variety of sauces in Vietnam, some appearing to be homemade, as opposed to the inevitable rooster brand sriracha in the U.S.  In Vietnam, the sauces tended to add heat only, whereas the U.S. sauce has a more complex flavor.

I came to realize that pho tastes as good as your desire for it.  I had one bowl in Sa Pa that was absolutely delicious.  That was after 3 hours on the scooter with shorts and no jacket.  I showed up with a chill and pho was there to warm me up.  I had other bowls that were good, but certainly not outstanding.  I have been cataloging my more memorable pho experiences at home, and they all involve a very cold day and a sore throat.  Don’t get me wrong, I usually enjoy it, and bad pho is very rare.

But I think the critical difference between a good and a great pho experience is me, rather than the food itself.

Food Wars: Vietnam

In case you forgot, the “Food Wars” feature compares a food that I eat at home with the version in its country of origin.  I eat Vietnamese food regularly, so there will be two battles.

The first food is known as “Hanoi pork” back home, but in Hanoi it is called . . . no, not “pork”.  It is known as “bun cha.”  For those of you who are unfamiliar with this dish, it is grilled pork served over rice noodles.  I don’t know what marinade or seasoning is used, but it is delicious.

My standard for Hanoi pork (or any Vietnamese food) is Queen Bee in Arlington.   Unfortunately, Queen Bee’s reign ended in 2006, closing its doors after a 20+ year run.  But so memorable was the Hanoi pork at Queen Bee that its flavor is seared into my culinary memory, and I felt comfortable that I could make an effective comparison.

Going up against Queen Bee is Hanoi’s own Dac Kim.

Not only was it recommended by my hotel, but also by the gauntlet of vendors who tried to sell me things on my way there.  “Very famous” one said.  This picture was taken at 3 PM, but at dinnertime, it is a very different scene.  The seats are full, and a woman stands on the street, endlessly shouting “bun cha”.  Once you sit down, they practically throw it at you.  There is no menu or even asking (they serve exactly two things, the other being crab spring rolls).  Busy servers unapologetically bump into your table constantly.  The food is cooked on the ground in front of you

and the dishes are cleaned to your side.

But it is really about the food.

I was initially disappointed because it was at room temperature, but I got over that almost instantly.  The flavor was intense and delicious, but what really impressed me was the tenderness of the meat.  I have never eaten pork with such a smooth, melt-in-your-mouth consistency.  The winner was clear within two bites.

My only comment is the food is so rich that you cannot eat a lot, and for the same reason, I did not enjoy it as much when I returned the next day.  Queen Bee had a more subtle flavor that would lend itself to more regular consumption.

Nevertheless, this is a single meal competition.  I hate to say this about my beloved Queen Bee, but if you want to find the best Hanoi pork, go to Hanoi.

 

Rice Wine

Of course my trek in Sa Pa was very scenic, but I had seen all of that already.  It was more memorable because of the guide.

Another downside to solo travel is the pressure of the one-on-one tour.  The guide feels compelled to keep talking to me, which is often hard for them because of the language.  I feel compelled to be polite, desperately trying to hide the facts that I don’t quite understand what they are saying, and that I am more interested in seeing the sights than talking.

Sometimes it is obvious that they are gunning for a big tip.  When I met my driver who was taking me to the pyramids, he said “Hail to our great visitor from mighty America”, flourished his hands, and bowed.  I knew it was going to be a long day.  The shameless a$$ kissing went on for about an hour, when he asked me for my honest feedback about how he was doing as a guide.  I told him in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t buying the act, and the royal treatment was making me uncomfortable.  He appreciated the direct feedback (as I suspected he would), and once he stopped that nonsense, I turned out to like him a lot.

So when I met my guide for the Sa Pa trek and found out that I was the only person, I groaned to myself.  And when he asked me all the rote questions (my age, my job, am I married, kids, etc.) I grumbled to myself.  But as the day went on, I came to really like the guy.

For one thing, he worked for himself, so he wasn’t trying to get a tip, yet he was clearly trying hard to keep me satisfied, despite problems with the language.  Born in a small village about 60 miles away, he left his family after high school so he could make some money.  He would save until he was too old to guide people up mountains in flip flops (age 60, he estimated), and then go back.  In his entire life, he has only been to his village, Sa Pa, and Hanoi.  He just seemed like a genuinely good person who was very happy with the little he has.

He kept telling me that I needed to get married, so I would have someone to take care of me when I get old.  “I can help you find a nice Vietnamese girl, one who knows how to take care of you.  She can do that without knowing English.”  And while I am sure he would get a cut of that action, I think he genuinely believed he would be helping me out.

After the hike, I earned the special privilege of being invited back to his place for some rice wine that his father made (which he kept in a 7-Up bottle).  I had heard about this stuff before.  One other traveller said it tasted like “petrol”.  He told me the “happy water” was 45% alcohol, but it tasted (if you can call it “taste”) more like 90%.  I have never drank any alcohol that affected me so quickly.  His wife was at work, and he seemed disappointed that we couldn’t meet.

His kitchen was about the size of my bathroom.  For cooking, he had a rice cooker and an 18” charcoal grill on the floor.  The picture above is of the living room, which you can see is not that big either (and the top bunk is unusable, by the way).  There was nothing on the walls other than hooks and a little holder for toothbrushes and toothpaste.  There was a chicken outside the front door that would come inside occasionally.  The roof was a corrugated piece of metal with some gaps as big as 3” between it and the walls (it can get very cold there in the mountains).  I do not remember any window.  There was also a bedroom, which was about the size of the living room. At one point, the power cut out, and he simply said “no hot water tonight”.

We sat there, and drank “happy water” and chatted, and he laughed a lot and seemed like one of the most content people I have ever met.

Now, I don’t need a lot of stuff, but I do get bored pretty easily.  I just don’t understand what goes through his mind when he is in that place, especially  day after day for months in the off season.  Is his mind blank, or does he just think happy thoughts?  In third world countries, there are a lot of people just sitting or standing there idle–next to roads, in stores, in front of houses.  What are they thinking?  Are they thinking anything?  Are they bored? I would go crazy just staring at cars going by for 12 hours, but they do not seem to mind.

I wish I could be more like that.

 

 

Continuation

At the end of yesterday’s episode, our hero wanted nothing more out of life than a belly full of food and a quiet night at home.  But fate had other plans for him, not only that night, but for the rest of his time in Sa Pa.  Let’s find out what happened . . .

I was just about head out for dinner, and then the phone rang.  Not my cell phone.  I do not travel with that.  I mean the wall phone for the room.  I had noticed that it was unplugged when I checked in.  I assumed that the maid fixed it, but the cord disappeared behind the bed, so I could not confirm that it was actually in the socket.  I picked up with some trepidation, feeling like a character in a horror movie.  It was the front desk guy, speaking in very broken English.  The only words I could understand were “friend” and “mess”.

I went down to figure out what was going on, and there was a note, a “message”, for me.  It was from that California woman, Cassandra.  I had forgotten that we stopped by my hotel at one point.  She was going to be at the H’Mong sisters bar later.  The place reminded me of Margot Kidder’s bar in the mountains in Raiders of the Lost Ark, only it had a pool table.  So I met up with her and some other backpacker types (that seemed to be the hangout place for my people), and had a beer or two and started a trend by ordering a glass of this hot spiced red wine (delicious) that was perfect for a rainy night.

The next day, I did a 12 mile trek, which was pretty exhausting, so I formulated another plan involving dinner, a hot stone massage (only $10 for an hour!) and then going directly home.  I knew that the gang was going to be at H’Mong sisters again, but I was barely awake after the massage, so I was just going to take my stone-heated body back home.  Again, those plans were foiled.  The bartender from H’Mong Sisters spotted me as he was on his way to work.  He insisted that I hop on the back of his motorcycle.  It is hard to reason with people who know very little English, so I lost that battle.  It was a fun night, involving a few beers, but no hot wine this time.  The skies had cleared and it had warmed up.

On my last day, I went for a group ride with Cassandra, two dudes from Chile, a French guy, and even some random H’Mong woman who rode on the back.

I left them early and packed so I could make my 9:30 train.  I had an hour to spare, to take in one last sunset from the hotel balcony

and I thought about how I had done so much in Sa Pa.  More, in fact, than I had planned.  And realizing that I did the right thing by accepting the invitations that came my way.  My trip was more than complete, and there was no need to do anything more in Sa Pa.

By now, you should know where this is leading.

I looked at my ticket again, and realized that I misread the time, and the train left at 7:30.  It was 6:35, and the station was an hour away by car.  Maybe I would have made it, if the driver rushed.  Rather than stress about it, and since the room was already paid for, I simply got a bus ticket for the next morning.

I knew that the crew from today’s ride was at the market drinking wine and getting dinner.  Because I had officially deemed my time in Sa Pa to be more than fulfilling, I decided to skip that, and was quite satisfied to lay on the bed and watch the movie “Space Cowboys”, circa 1999.  The one where Clint Eastwood, Tommy Lee Jones and the rest of their crew go into space and show the youngsters how to get things done.

As Frank Sinatra crooned “Fly Me to the Moon” over the closing credits, I got ready to head out for dinner.  And only dinner.  My bus left at 6AM, after all.  Home by 9, in bed by 10.

My hand was literally on the doorknob when then the phone rang.  I guess I could have let it ring, but I didn’t.  Of course I picked up.  My dinner invitation was re-extended, and of course I said yes.  The night ended with wine on a high rooftop above the valley and under bright away-from-any-city stars.

At 2AM, I walked back along completely empty streets.  Dreading the next morning, shaking my head in disbelief at all the unexpected things that happen when I’m on the road, and glad that I decide to go along with them.

The Ride

When you travel solo, you meet more people and have more unplanned adventures as compared to when you have the insulation of traveling with others.

The obvious downside is that you can get bored and lonely, though I am not sure why I should ever feel that way, as my fortunes will inevitably change.  Someone will appear out of nowhere inviting me to do something (which I rarely refuse, even though I may want nothing more than to go back to the room).  Or in my wanderings, I will stumble upon something memorable.  By now, I should have come to expect the unexpected.  But I’m glad I have not learned that lesson.  It is nice to still be surprised.

It was my third day in Sa Pa, and I was in a funk.  Most places there were very empty (I was the only person in my hotel), and it just had a lonely vibe.  On day one, I met one other solo traveller,

but meeting her was a bit of a fluke (she was from California and thought I was wearing a San Francisco Giants hat).  After hanging out for a few hours, she disappeared.

So I sat there on day 3, expecting a boring couple of days ahead, followed by an overnight train ride with little sleep, which got me to noisy Hanoi again for a night.  I did not like that lineup.

For lack of anything better to do, I rented a scooter.  I had done the same thing the day before, but the ride was not all that inspiring, so I didn’t expect much.  I was just killing time.

This time I took a different route, taking a small road.  And then it happened.  I don’t know if the mist descended upon me, or I headed up the mountain into it, or both.  But I disappeared into a thick fog that gave everything a mystical quality.

There was something soothing about being devoured by it.  Maybe it was the way the cool, tiny droplets coated my face.  Maybe it was the way it muffled sound.  Or maybe it was the floating feeling I had from losing the horizon.  Whatever the reason, I was in that fog, physically and mentally.  My thoughts strayed no further than my 30 foot view.

But even with limited visibility, there were many things to see.   Some were animal. Some were vegetable.

And some were man made.

All had an eerie quality that the camera could not quite pick up. Eventually, I made it to what I suppose was the top of the mountain, and stopped and stared into the void. I listened to the muted sounds coming from an unseen village down in the valley below.  Chickens, dogs, people.  Consumed by my surroundings, just as the fog had consumed me.  I stayed there for maybe a half an hour, but it is hard to tell.  Time seemed to be distorted in the fog world.  This ride could have taken no more than four hours total, but it seemed like it lasted the whole day.

After this indeterminate amount of time, some tribal people suddenly emerged, stopped to gather some plants,

and even posed for a picture.

And then they vanished.

I continued on my way, now riding down the mountain and out of the mist, but still with much to see (I was stopping every two minutes to take pictures for the entire ride).

Those white spots are spiderwebs that are about 3’ in diameter, made by 2” spiders.

My small road ended at a highway which would have taken me back home in about 10 minutes.  But I didn’t want any busy road, nor did I want the ride to end so soon, so I doubled back. This time, I was passing by just as school let out.  These kids chased me, waving and laughing.  I almost let them catch me and then drove off with them chasing again. This time I let them get me, but as you can tell from their expressions, they did not quite know what to do once they did.

Fortunately, the afternoon rush hour was going in the opposite direction. I was getting thirsty, so I stopped at the “store.”   More kids were there, keeping themselves quite amused with a stick and a tire. They were also playing some checkers type-game using rocks as the pieces.  The board appeared to be drawn on the concrete by scraping those same rocks. Night was falling rapidly, with visibility down to only a few feet.  By now the fog was turning to rain.  I could see the headlights of approaching bikes and hear their horns, but livestock would pop up with almost no notice (these are goats). I had to drive almost at a walking pace, but I did not mind.

I was a bit damp and chilly when I got home, so I took a steamy hot shower.  The day was a success, and if nothing else happened in Sa Pa, my visit there still would have been memorable.  I formulated a plan to get dinner, head right home, maybe start a fire in the tiny fireplace in my room, listen to the rain and read until I fell asleep.  And I would have been quite content to do just that.

But as I said above:

“Someone will appear out of nowhere inviting me to do something (which I rarely refuse, even though I may want nothing more than to go back to the room).”

–To Be Continued–

Sa Pa

The second place of great beauty in Vietnam is the small (but rapidly growing) town of Sa Pa.  It is known for its lush mountains and hillsides terraced with rice paddies. Sa Pa is also populated by “ethnic minorities,” as they are called in Vietnam.  They are the tribal people, such as the H’Mong (pronounced ‘mung’, like ‘tongue’) and the Dao (pronounced ‘zao’, like ‘cow’) who live in tiny villages nearby. . It gets very cool after sunset.  I always slept well there.

Halong Bay

The best advice I can give to people traveling to Vietnam is to get out of the cities as fast as possible.  There is no need to be around the noise and the filth when there are at least two places of incredible scenery.  The first is Halong Bay.

There are 1,969 islands in the bay.  I took a two day cruise, and we just weaved around the islands, surrounded by them the whole time.  It makes for an impressive sight, even on a drizzly day.

We did get off the boat to check out some caves and do a hike up one of the larger islands to a pretty good view.

We also saw some monkeys.  As I have said before, I do not trust monkeys.

https://wheresmike.wordpress.com/2011/12/13/478/

These monkeys were off to the side (unlike previous, overhead monkeys), so I felt safe from any potential mischief.  Also, there were several mama monkeys with their babies clinging to them.  It’s very hard not to find that adorable.  So I softened my stance.  A bit.  In this one instance.