Author: Adrian's Got the Moose

Having survived the sleeper bus, I walked into the Back Home Hotel, just as the excellent receptionist, Hang, was wrangling a host of backpackers through check out and out the door and into a fleet of taxis. Check-in was not going to be possible, but I could leave my backpack and use the downstairs bathroom. I got a map, some recommendations and advice against the local scams and stepped out into the early afternoon heat to search for some coffee and elbow room.

I ate dinner twice at a small place on the edge of the old quarter, picking local specialties both times.

Walking the streets, it seemed that the Cycle Rickshaws were doing a roaring trade, being the preferred transport for Japanese and Korean tourists, perhaps due to the sheer anachronism.

To and from airports, the same tourists seem to prefer to be transported by those elongated golf cart things, which seem little better.

That first night I managed to avoid the touts, and taxi driver mafia, but was shocked by the sheer numbers of tailors, and leather goods shops lining the old quarter, but I had no need for any of them.

But at night, the old quarter shines. The lanterns festooning the shopfronts and strung across intersections and alleyways make for an impressive display.

Even more so, on the Thu Ben River, with the lanterns on boats and the prayer candle boats.

However the mass tourism nature of the place made it not a place easy to relax, and prices for drinks seemed to double within the old quarter, so after a walk through the night market I didn’t linger.

I was here without a lover, and renting a little boat to float down that gentle river, would be incredibly romantic with someone you love, and utterly nonsensical on my own.

Upon this realization I had a strong impulse to run back to my hotel, pack up, pay up and take the first bus out of town. It probably would have been what my more confident alter ego would have done, but it would not have solved anything.

So I stayed and tried to ignore the couples walking hand in hand, along with the bodies sleeping feet away from me in the dorms.

I immediately felt more at home at Hue than I had previously on this trip. While tourism is a welcome addition to the economy, I never got the feeling it was the only thing keeping people out of abject poverty, like I did in Hanoi.

I stayed at Hue Happy Homestay, and my host, Viet, seemed to genuinely care about his guest’s comfort and well-being.

Over fruit and coffee, I decided to book a tour of the DMZ, which in hindsight turned out to be an excellent plan after the visit to the ancient palace turned out to be a major let-down. I am not sure where the 200K Dong ticket price is being spent but it certainly is not on restoration efforts.

Apparently, it was looted by the French, and to my mind, very little of it seemed to provide any historical context or even general interest to the average visitor.

The next morning after a hasty noodle soup breakfast, I was picked up for the tour. Our first stop was at a citadel on the outskirts of town, which featured a memorial to soldiers that fell during the war.

Also within the grounds were the remains of cells, where some South Vietnamese were imprisoned after the fall of Saigon. To three of my fellow guests on the tour, this was very personal, as the father was imprisoned in similar conditions as a young child before immigrating to the USA. And the emotion between him, his wife and his young son was very palatable. It’s worth noting that no one in the tour ever complained about them taking their time after this revelation, including our guide, who like me would not have been alive at the end of the war.

The remains of the Khe Sanh air base was next, and a small museum featured artifacts and photos, with a clear pro-communist slant. here another visitor, Vietnamese perhaps mistaking me for an American, almost forced me to be in a photo with his arm around me.

Near the museum was aircraft, tanks and APCs left behind by US troops.

Further afield was a series of bunkers and tunnels, that would have provided scant protection and comfort to US servicemen and their allies.

The actual airstrip had long ago been dug up and reused for local roads, which is both sad, but the pragmatism is undeniable.

I had planned, here, to sing, roughly but with emotion, the first lines from Cold Chisel’s Khe Sanh,  which is something of an unoffical Ausralian anthem,  but when faced with the opportunity it seemed a pointless, redundant thing, so I had to resort to a selfie. 

We had a nice lunch in one of those roadside restaurants that always seem to be empty except for tour groups, before continuing on.

The penultimate stop was the border crossing of the DMZ, that divided North and South. Now entirely defunct, but highly poignant. How many families had been seperated by this bridge? It was a strange experience, and especially moving to see the Vietmanese-American family.

The final stop was the Vinh Moc Tunnels. An entire village was relocated underground for protection against US bombing.

I managed to keep my claustrophobia under control as I was in the tunnels, which were obviously cramped and uncomfortable and contained kitchens, medical suites and bathrooms. I was grateful to be able to leave, and gladder to know that I have never been forced to live in such conditions.

On the long drive back to Hue, I couldn’t help but think how easy it would be to let the jungle take over and hide these scars of a terrible war. I am not normally in favour of pretending history, both good and bad, didn’t happen. But for the good of the Vietnamese people I could not help but think it was a wound that is best left alone.

After Halong Bay, nothing was keeping me in Hanoi, except that every bus heading south was booked out, and I spent a few hours trying until I gave up, booked the next day and extended my stay in the hostel. I took another walk around Ho Houm Kiem Lake, this time I attracted the attention of a group of uni students, who had been tasked with interviewing a Westerner. They were lovely and spoke perfect if halting English, and we finished up with selfies and I handed over my Moo card which seemed to delight them (who the hell bothers with business cards in 2023?)

Five minutes later I was asked by a cheeky bunch of schoolboys if they could practice their English on me, which I was happy to go along with until they asked me if I was rich, and I made my excuses and kept moving. Five minutes after that this young girl asked the same and invited me to sit on a nearby raised garden bed, and we chatted happily for fifteen minutes while her mum chatted to another lady nearby.

I finished up the day by visiting Saint Joseph’s Cathedral, and a local artists collective where I purchased a few things for Arum and I, which was about the best I could do for her considering our geographical estrangement.

The only other thing I had to do before I departed Hanoi was a tour of Halong Bay. Seven years ago I visited on an overnight trip and had an amazing time. This was not repeated. Halong Bay is too far away from Hanoi to do it properly as a day trip, except in the most perfunctory, tick-box manner. Also, the crowds of different tours all visiting the same sites made me feel like I was on a conveyor belt.

A long bus ride takes us to a building dedicated to explaining the cultivation and setting of pearls to indifferent and impatient tourists. Fifteen minutes later we were herded back onto the bus for a short ride to the port, before being thrown onto a boat.

After a fairly decent lunch most of us made our way to the upper decks for fashion shoots and selfies.

Eventually, we made our way to Titop Island, where we had forty-five minutes to sunbake, swim and otherwise frolic with hundreds of other tourists. I managed to get some swimming done, the first time in salt water this trip.

The next stop was a cave system I never quite managed to get the name of, but needless to say, it felt like every tourist in Vietnam was trying to visit at once, which didn’t do anything positive for my claustrophobia.

However the formations and sunlight shining through holes in the rock made it worth it.

It didn’t help when a pair of either Australian or New Zealander women started screaming abuse at other tourists taking selfies.

The last activity was kayaking or bamboo boating under a low cave entrance, which was nice but I trusted the boats about as much as I trust Hanoi pimps, so I left my phone behind.

The rest of the day involved a slow boat trip back, then the bus. It was a good, but not great day.

Bordering the old quarter of Hanoi is a lake, containing an island on which a temple, Den Ngoc Son, dedicated to Confucius.

It features some nice gardens, carvings and statues, and interestingly to me, a dedicated place to burn offerings to ancestors, a tradition influenced by Chinese beliefs.

As usual, the tourist hordes detracted from the enjoyment, but it was a place of worship still in use by many, so I tried to stay unobtrusive as possible.

That night I had dinner on Beer Street, with people strolling past my low table as I tucked into my rather tasteless vege noodles and drank my beer.

A short stroll after dinner and I watched some traditional theatre. I lacked the language and the cultural background to fully appreciate it, but I did like the exaggerated style and minimal set design all the same.

This experience was mired by the local pimps, who took the opportunity to try to show me pictures on their phones of the ladies who, for a liberal application of currency, would provide me with a short massage followed by a happy ending. This I found as appealing as a rotting fish to the face, and I returned to my dorm bed, mildly drunk and mildly sexually frustrated.

While Hong Kong is in constant motion, a constant buzz of business and human movement, Hanoi is frantic in a more personal way, which I found to be more pleasant, but not inviting.

I was staying at Hanoi Backpackers and Rooftop Bar, a new, purpose-renovated building. It was large, well-designed and completely impersonal and lacking in character. I was staying in a dorm, Hong Kong having depleted my savings much earlier into my trip than I would have liked.

The first morning some beautiful backpackers and I became refugees from the walking tour. After multiple attempts to phone the guide and to catch up with the group, my suggestion to just find a cafe and try the egg coffee was actioned in the absence of better ideas. After a perilous road crossing, we made our way through a dark corridor, up some rickety stairs and to the cafe, where we sat at a counter on the balcony overlooking the road we just risked our lives crossing. I and the three ladies ordered egg coffees, while the only other male, a Dutchman, ordered a black coffee.

A Hanoi specialty, the egg coffee is a result borne from a need for a dairy option in coffee where getting dairy products transported and kept from spoiling was an extreme difficulty. Egg coffee is made by topping up Robusta coffee with a cream made from egg yolk, sugar and condensed milk. It sounds bizarre to anone who has not tried it, but to me is delicious, and more of an after dinner dessert coffee rather than a morning caffeine hit.

After we finished our coffees and a pat with the cafe cat, we walked around Ho Houn Kien Lake.

Plans were discussed for a swim in one of the hostel pools, but I choose to leave them to enjoy that while I hunted out lunch and some more walking.

I had to get out of Hong Kong. While I have a girlfriend there (and no one was more shocked with that development than I), and a ready-made social scene because of her, and a place to stay more homely than a monk’s cell in Chungking Mansions, Hong Kong was sending me broke.

I either had to leave or get a shitty job waiting tables or running a petrol station. Hong Kong is not a kind city to those on a budget, and having done everything I set out to do, if I stayed longer I felt I would end up resenting Arum as I killed time waiting for her to finish work and her other aspects of her life. This would not be fair for either of us. In addition, Hong Kong seems to induce a constant anxiety that while I could push through in the short term, was not something I was wanting to deal with in the long term, even with my supply of anti-depressants.

So I left Arum’s North Point apartment in the early hours, so early the trains had not started yet, but the bus got me to Terminal 1 just as the train would have started. I can’t say it was a tearful farewell, but it was sad, and tentative promises were made. Next stop; Hanoi.

Hong Kong is justifiably famous for its high class shopping, hotels and dining, all with equally high price tags, none of which is much good to me as a backpacker, and who the hell wants a $30 USD glass of wine in the middle of a shopping mall?

My Hong Kong is different. It’s the Philippine domestic helpers making room for me so I can shelter during a sudden downpour. It’s the smile on the Pakistani shopkeeper when I give him the exact change for my mango lassi. It’s the elderly Chinese lady on the train too proud to accept my seat when I offered it. It’s the local staff member walking out to talk to me when I window shop Rolexes, knowing my broke arse is never going to buy one because she’s bored and wants to know about me. It’s the mutual nod with a cigarette-smoking man waiting outside the B4 exit of TST East, because we are both waiting for someone we love.

Saturday night came around and I was invited over to watch Lord of the Rings with Arum’s friends. Courtney, a beautiful and attentive host, and Adam, a vivacious Englishman with endless enthusasim for football and Tolkien, both worked with Arum at the learning centre that kept them living in Hong Kong, and in my opinion and theirs, exploited. It was a sobering experience hearing from Courtney and Adam about their working experiences. All three love their work, but ultimately the conditions they worked and lived in are not sustainable. All three also have to spend considerable percentages of their income to share flats, and have little chance of improving their situation under conditions that would be llegal under Australian labour laws.

While we watched Fellowship, the Two Towers and a minor league English football game the trains stopped, and started again while Adam gave us a running commentary on characters and events in LOTR lore, as well as football and his underdog team. At some point we made our way to the nearest Seven-Eleven for more drinks, which Adam refused to let me contribute to. There was so much genuine hospitality and friendship I struggled to know how to behave after so much Hong Kong indifference.

After making our way back to Arum’s apartment early Sunday morning, we slept away most of the day before having dinner at the Indian place next to the apartment building, which was a vegeterian set affair, and quite lovely.

The next morning as Arum was getting ready for work I started getting horrible stomach cramps, followed by a complete lack of propriety from both ends of my digestive system. This continued for twenty-four hours, until I was brave enough to almost sprint to the Circle K downstairs and across the road for loperamide and Pocari Sweat. Arum’s married couple flatmates then made the mistake of trying to talk to me while I was trying to act like a person with a minimum of human dignity and failing. Twelve hours later I was feeling mildly human and left the apartment. I changed some money and ate a disappointing fast food meal that nonetheless stayed in my stomach. I bought some more drinks and snacks, and made my way back to the apartment. I checked my email and discovered that my Vietmanese visa had finally aproved, in a very SE Asian interpretation of the three working day time frame.

I slept away most of the morning until a staff member of the hostel knocked on my door to find out if I was going to check out or book another night. After I sorted that out I visited the visa agency and picked up my passport and my partial refund.

Then I found my way to the nearest Starbucks, where I applied for another Vietnamese Visa using their wifi and comparitive calm compared to the streets below. Already losing the light, I went for a methodical walk through the Avenue of Stars, the Chinese answer to the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I spotted martial arts greats such as Jackie Chan and Jet Lee, as well as Michelle Yeoh from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and Tomorrow Never Dies.

But the real treat for me was a plaque commemorating Director Wong Kor-Wei, director of Chungking Express.

Later on I met up with Arum again, and found some lovely painted steps leading up to Kowloon City Park.

As well as some excellent statues showcasing cartoon characters that I lacked the cultural background to recognise.

We were also entertained by a mime, who was well worth the few dollars we put in her hat.

We had a very pleasant dinner of stir fried vegetables and noodles, and after picking up the tab I led Arum to a corner behind ISquare Shopping Mall, where I had a debt to pay.

Earlier in the week I had to buy some first aid supplies to cover up a tattoo after the sansiderm peeled straight off in this humidity, and a lovely Laotian lady helped me with the bandage and only after handed me a flyer to the massage place she works for, which makes her a cut above most of the people hawking around Chungking. I found her again and asked to be taken to the massage shop, which ended up being up a few levels overlooking the same street. Arum and I got foot massages, while holding hands under the blankets and watching Jaws on the TV screen, out of a need of our hosts to make us comfortable.

Something not mentioned here yet is that almost as soon as I landed on Hong Kong concrete I matched on a dating app with Arum, a South African lady working in Hong Kong. At some point, I mentioned that I wanted to go see the Big Buddha and invited her to join me. Arum, foolishly, accepted this offer and on Wednesday we met up and travelled together for the day. This involved a ferry across Victoria Harbour and another water body not important enough to be labeled on Google Maps, and then a long hilly bus ride to the base of the monastery grounds.

We had an impromptu morning tea involving sour gummies and Pocari Sweat in a nearby garden currently ignored by the rest of the tourist hordes

The path towards the steps leading to the Big Buddha is guarded by statues of the twelve heavenly generals of East Asian Buddhism, which also align/represent the Chinese zodiac and certain times of day.

Two hundred and sixty steps lead up the hill to the Big Buddha, to serve as time for contemplation. while Arum and I used the landings between the steps as rest breaks, as well as the occasional photo.

The view from the statue itself were fairly epic.

The Big Buddha was surrounded by six smaller statues, “The offerings of the six Divas” each an impressive work themselves. 

The Big Buddha itself is 34 metres tall, weighs in at 250 metric tonnes, and was created from 202 separate pieces of bronze. When casting the largest piece, the face plate, they only had forty seconds from the smelter to pour it into the mould, otherwise they would have to redo the piece. after it was cast they had to wait five days before breaking the mould and finding out if it worked or not. I doubt many of the people involved got any sleep during those five days.

In the opinion of your humble narrator, The Big Buddha is entirely deserving of the awards it has been given and is well worth the time checking out, even for an atheist like me.

However like much of Hong Kong’s sights, its mired by an unhealthy dose of consumerism. While the 711 is always a welcome sight, the addition of the high priced cookie shop and a claw game parlour seemed rather crass to me, like someone building a Maccas in the Louve.

Sadly on the bus ride back to the ferry dock, I got a bad case of motion sickness and had to get off the bus at the Interchange station at Discovery Bay. I sat, sweating and shivering against a wall, while Arum sat with me patiently and worriedly. At least one well-heeled expat asked if we needed anything while I sat, embarrassing myself, like a poorly finished monument to the folly of travelling on anything faster than a donkey.

After recovering some colour, we discovered there was a train that took us right back to Hong Kong Island, which we took, but not before watching a group of children playing in one of those water fountains, a good time being had by all.

On the train I received my one and only call on my HK Sim, from the agent I was using to get a Chinese Visa. My application had been denied, no reason given but the agent suspected it was because of my sparkly new passport being considered suspicous by the Chinese government . This flew the rest of my plans out the window, my plans were to travel overland from China, and then the train to Hanoi, and my Vietnamese visa was not valid for weeks yet, and was only good at one particular land border.