Wonder x Jungle: Hanoi, Vietnam (Part 2 of 2)
What would Mr. Ho Chi Minh say?
It serves us right for going on a second cruise to Ha Long Bay. (Reservations had been made even before our day trip.)
The day had begun auspiciously enough, with a very efficient system for herding tourists and getting to the boats on time. We were initially a bit confused as to why the representative from the cruise had called us, only to tell us to wait some more in the hotel lobby. As the bus made its way along the busy streets of Hanoi, I noticed that the rep was actually on a motorbike, whizzing ahead of the bus to call on the tourists in hotels to be ready to get on the bus when it actually arrived. Efficient.
And so we rode on the bus on the same streets and stopped at the same pearl farm tourist trap and arrived at the same marina in Tuan Chau (mercifully, without the COUGH people.) Definitely a black-cat-in-the-Matrix feeling.
We had booked a 2-night-3-day cruise, so we hopped onboard with luggage, enjoyed a buffet lunch (better than the day trip’s but that was a very low bar), and settled in our cabin. Our own personal hacks on the planned itinerary came already in the first activity of the trip: travelers would be taken to Ti Top Island for an afternoon of kayaking and beach time, which was something we had done before during our day tour. Instead, we chose to enjoy the views outside our cabin’s windows — islets and karsts and caves oh my! — and take a nap in the merciful air conditioning.
We were awakened by an announcement by the activities director that a Happy Hour party would begin on the sun deck, including a “cooking class with a master chef”, which turned out to be a 15-minute “Make Your Own Vietnamese Summer Roll” time. And the Happy Hour turned out to be an unhappy stream of servers who had been sternly directed to sell as many drinks to cruise-goers as possible, whether we had finished our drinks or not — which were not included in the price of the cruise.
Sunset led to some beautiful photos, but in the dark, the beauty of the islets and karsts became invisible and the only things that we could see were the great number of boats, likely restricted by the government in the small area around Ti Top Island and all of them lit up with happy/unhappy hours of their own.
The same theme of “gaps between reality and description” continued during dinner where a printed menu at the table announced a “Caesar Salad” that turned out to have red leaf lettuce, tomatoes and carrots, and a “Mushroom Soup” that tasted suspiciously like a brand I remember eating long ago and not even the canned kind — the powdered one. The other courses continued in the same theme. What idiotic marketing genius recommended this cruise company to serve ersatz Western food — heaven only knows how they went about procuring the ingredients — instead of widely available local cuisine?
For some insane reason, we held out hope that the night’s activity of squid fishing would somehow be exciting. How else to explain the fact that we stood at the bow of the boat, which was lit by a couple of bright lamps — squid were apparently attracted to light — with bamboo fishing poles that had nothing but a hook and a bright neon green rubber lure? There we were with a couple from Scotland and a solo traveler from Switzerland, bobbing our poles into the water, sharing travel stories and commenting on the seeming madness of this activity.
Hours spent on squid fishing: 2
Squid fished: 0
Feeling that activity organizers knew we would catch absolutely no squid: priceless
The next morning, we were awakened by a call from the activities director, whose English was a bit challenging to comprehend. I heard something about breakfast at 6:45 am, getting on a boat at 7:20 am for cave tour, and then some incomprehensible jumble. For the record, we did not get up in these early hours even when we were working.
It turned out that the incomprehensible jumble was a cancellation of Day 2 of our cruise because of the threat of an oncoming typhoon. (We later learned that the explanation offered unanimously by the cruise representatives, tour guides, and hotel concierges was a prohibition by the government authorities concerned for the safety of all.) Instead we would hop on a quick visit to what the activities director called the “Amazing Cave”, which turned out to be the very same cave we visited with Lucy from our day tour — the one she called “Surprising Cave” — and then be taken back to Tuan Chau and back to Hanoi. We chose to stay on the boat and skip this tour, which we had already seen just two days ago.
And so it was that we found ourselves on a cruise that magically transformed itself from a “Two Nights and Three Days” affair to a “One Night and Two Days”. We also had not set foot off the boat for any of the activities.
Coda of the Story: the Cruise Director insisted that I provide a review. I wrote something about some challenges in communication with the staff. Upon reading the review, the CD came to ask me directly if I found his English difficult to understand. I did — but I didn’t tell him straight to his face. I grumbled something about the skills of the staff, so he had me write the word “staff” on my review card as clarification. I didn’t want to be responsible for getting anyone fired, but I also was left wondering about providing cover to someone who had no hesitation in throwing other people under the bus. Survival of the fittest, I guess.
Moral of the Story: Ha Long Bay in Vietnam is sufficiently experienced on a day tour.
P.S. to the Moral of the Story: after a brief morning drizzle, not a drop of rain, much less a whole typhoon, materialized in the Hanoi area. Tropical Storm Sanba decided to veer east toward Beihai in China and likely cancel travelers’ trips there instead.
***
After a day of recovering from the activity-deprived Second Cruise of Ha Long Bay, dinner of cha ca — vermicelli with rice noodles, fish and fish intestines and greens, much better than what the words themselves appear to describe — was unfortunately made challenging because it took a 20-minute walk in hot humid weather to get to the restaurant. By the time we arrived, N. was wilted and even a beer drunk Vietnamese-style — with ice — could not cool him down. It didn’t help that the cha ca was served in a hot grill table-side. I tried to enjoy the experience despite N.’s grumblings.
***
We were in Hanoi, were we not? So how could we avoid going to the Hanoi Hilton?
The entrance of the complex announced in large letters, “Maison Centrale”, given its original purpose as a prison built by the French during its colonization of Indochina for political prisoners and, later, by the North Vietnamese for American POWs during the Vietnam War. We arrived on a hot and humid day where the now-museum was being visited by equally large numbers of foreign travelers and local students on field trips.
We respectfully declined the guided tour headsets and followed the directional arrows from room to room. In most of the plaques in English, the explanatory remarks wanted to emphasize repeatedly that the terrible French colonists were brutal in their treatment of the Vietnamese who faced their incarceration and torture with fearless courage and unstinting sacrifice. Visitors were to never doubt the yearning of a subjugated people to be free and their steadfast loyalty to their country.
Where the plaques lost me was when we arrived in the part of the museum exhibit in which they described this heretofore horrendous prison almost as if it were a wonderful vacation spot for the American POWs during the Vietnam War. They showed clips of American soldiers playing soccer, eating lavish meals and receiving medical care, including John McCain.
History is, indeed, written by the victors.
***
Visiting hours at the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum would end at 11 am. I guess even Mr. Ho in his eternal nap needed to rest on weekends.
So we had to get up earlier than usual, dress appropriately — no scandalously exposed knees or shoulders — and, to save some time, rode on motorcycle taxis… and lived to tell the tale.
But it seems the Curse of Mr. Ho on visiting Enemy Capitalists was not over.
Getting in was incident-free, but once inside, while waiting in another line, a guide pointed at my water bottle, shook his head and made a face. He didn’t speak a word of English, but his body language made clear that he was unhappy with my water bottle, and I sensed it was not the color that bothered him. There were water stations around — with reusable plastic cups that the locals seemed to have no hesitation of using and reusing. I mimed to the guide, “Do you want me to pour the water down the drain?” He nodded. So I poured my water down the drain and made to continue on my way.
The guide again shook his head and made a face.
He finally commandeered the translation services of another guide leading a group of Chinese tourists, and this person went on to communicate to me that, according to the rules of the mausoleum, water bottles of any kind were prohibited on the grounds. I couldn’t figure out how to mime, “Then why did that guy nod and lead me to believe that pouring my water out would satisfy this rule? I just threw precious filtered water down the drain and will die of thirst later!”
I just made my way back to the entrance, left my bottle with the backpack we were required to leave in the luggage storage, trekked my way to the guide, glared at him and silently sent him a minor curse — perhaps a persistent case of toenail fungus — and continued on my way.
At a fast clip, we walked through the serpentine line leading to the imposing mausoleum and made our way inside where white uniformed soldiers were posted every three meters or so. All were standing nonchalantly in a way that would lead the sentries of the King’s Guard at Buckingham Palace to disapprove: with the exception of their white uniforms, these young Vietnamese guards with their casual stance would not look out of place in any Hanoi street corner flagging a motorbike taxi. And don’t get me even started on comparing their discipline with that of their Communist Comrades in North Korea.
We walked into a darkened room illuminated with yellow light. In the center, in a see-through case — similar to the ones that encased the large turtles in Hoan Kiem Lake — lay Mr. Ho’s embalmed body. As we scurried along under the persistent direction of the white uniforms, we blinked and soon found ourselves outside, among throngs of tour groups taking pictures, looking at souvenirs, and buying drinks. I somehow sensed a connection between the water bottle prohibition and the drink sellers on the grounds of the mausoleum, which made N. and me wonder what Mr. Ho would have thought of the veritable capitalistic goings-on on the grounds of his final resting place. (He didn’t look as if he had turned over yet.)
We haggled again with motorcycle drivers, hopped on, and went to Trang Tien Plaza, more for the bathrooms and AC than the stores. We ended up staying for a movie, “Dat Rung Phuong Nam”, a comedic/patriotic tale of a boy whose mother dies in a skirmish with the French colonial collaborators and whose father makes the sacrifice to fight the colonists, represented in the movie by a bombastic French actor. At the end of the movie, we walked out as the patriotic music soared and the lights came on, and I saw a woman in the back row bawling her eyes out. Mr. Ho would have approved.
In the evening, we enjoyed a performance of the Thang Long Water Puppet Show. An ancient art form, the musicians and their traditional instruments sat slightly above the stage, on either side. It was nice to see the musicians sitting — instead on the ominously-called “pit” — so prominently and getting the attention they deserved. On the back of the stage were curtains and screens. The novelty was the front of the stage: the whole center floorspace was covered in what looked to be about two to three feet of water. As the puppets were trotted out to tell various tales of Vietnamese folklore, the water hid the long sticks used to manipulate the puppets. At curtain call, the puppeteers emerged from the rear screens and took their bows; they were up to their waists in water, which made me wish for that for their sakes the water was more like a hot tub rather than a cold pool.
We walked the streets of the Old Quarter — it was again crazy busy this Friday — and, after banh mis for dinner, capped the day with cocktails at the rooftop bar of the hotel.
***
Live and learn: avoid 10-hour layovers in cold airports where sleeping lounges are closed from 11:30 pm to 5:30 am.
Our transit day began, deceivingly, smoothly enough. Miraculously, even the ride from our hotel in Hanoi — Gooooooooood bye, Vietnam! — to the airport was traffic-free. The flight was just a three-hour-hop-and-a-skip to Taipei, Taiwan.
The trouble began when the workers at lounge we were hanging out in began to give us side-eyes and strong hints that they wanted us to leave so that they could leave: they began cleaning out the food and drinks, making announcements through the intercom system, closing doors half-way. Only dunces would miss the hints. It was now 11:20 pm Taipei time; the lounge would not open again until 5:30 am; our continuing flight was at 7:55 am. In the meantime, where could we go?
As it turned out, nowhere much. We ended up at a large open area with a few booths and benches and upholstered seats. We considered ourselves lucky to find two benches side-by-side and made ourselves comfortable: we took off our shoes, guarded our bags, and slipped into a couple of silk sleeping bag liners — without the sleeping bags — and tried to shut out the constant announcements reminding passengers to board flights to Sidney, Tokyo, or Amsterdam.
By the time we woke up, N. was sick: fever and chills, probably from the cold (he was wearing shorts and a thin shirt), and diarrhea. As soon as the proper lounge opened at 5:30 am, we headed back to the lounge, and N. got lots of pink pills and some sleep in one of their sleeping rooms.
Onwards and upwards to our next destination.
