Moustache brothers and chapati corner

To be honest, the reason why I wanted to visit Mandalay was to attend a Moustache Brothers show. The Moustache Brothers are a subversive group of Burmese comedians, who for years performed at weddings and village shows. Until 1996, when ‘Moustache Number One’ Par Par Lay was arrested and cousin Lu Zaw were arrested after telling contoversial jokes at an outdoor performance in front of Aung San Suu Kyi’s house in Yangon, and sentenced to 7 years forced labour. Par Par Lay’s freedom became a pet cause for several celebrities , culminating in his mention in ‘About a Boy’. After his lengthy stint, Par Par Lay was arrested twice more, as leader of the troupe. Amazingly, Lu Maw, Moustache Number Two and the only English speaker of the group, was never arrested. Following these events, the Moustache Brothers were banned from performing outdoors or at public events. Nowadays, their performance takes place at 8.30 nightly at their home in downtown Mandalay. Burmese are forbidden to assist; the show is for tourists only. However, a crowd of Burmese people can often be seen hanging around the entrance door...



After a dinner of the very best chapati and veggie curry, we arrived at the Moustache Brothers home half an hour early and were greeted by Lu Maw. A fit 60 year old man wearing a singlet an a longyi, and puffing away on Burmese cigars, Lu Maw was instantly friendly. The show was performed in the Brothers’ living room, on a rustic wooden stage surrounded by a dozen plastic chairs. Lu Maw said we could do ‘anything you want, eat, drink beer, smoke... I am 60 but look maybe 22, 23 because I smoke 24 hours a day!’. After showing us articles about the troupe on several magazines he presented the 1996 Italian issue of Lonely Planet, with his wife’s picture on the cover....’this is my wife! She is pin-up, cover girl! I am 60, she is 41... I am... how do you say it? Bed-snatcher? Ah, that’s right... cradle snatcher! Sugar Daddy!’.

The show started shortly afterwards, with an audience of 11 sipping Myanmar beer, eating noodles and puffing on cigars offered by Lu Maw. The room was small, with wooden walls and concrete floors. Lu Maw stood on the stage talking into a creaky microphone, surrounded by puppets (the other brothers are puppeteers). A number of wooden boards with therms as diverse as ‘sarong’, ‘turban’ and ‘KGB’ were used by Lu Maw, who pointed at the relative term to aid the understanding of non-English speaking audience, a bit like makeshift subtitles. The show started with Lu Maw entertaining the audience with jokes, along the lines of ‘....don’t steal anything in Myanmar! The government doesn’t like competition!’ and ‘....I had to go to Thailand to visit the dentist! In Myanmar I can’t open my mouth’. He kept referring to the government police as KGB (as well as Stasi, Sismi and MI5, in honour to the multicultural audience). He explained this KGB knows ‘everything you do’, along the lines of the Orwellian Psychopolice. He had a point; a favourite Burmese joke is that Orwell wrote three books about Myanmar, Burmese Days, Animal Farm and 1984.




The show continued with Par Par Lay appearing in handcuffs, with a sign around his neck saying ‘Jailbird’ and ‘blacklisted’; sarcastically true. The show moved to the an interpretation of the traditional a-nyent-pye, a Burmese vaudevillian show with dancing and music with the background of Lu Maw’sketches and jokes. The famous pin-up wife, in reality an accomplished dancer, came on stage demonstrating some figures of Burmese dancing. In a particularly difficult one, the lady was jumping and landing on her knees, with Lu maw saying ‘I want to see the blood....not just the bruise’. The show was a family affair; as well as Par Par Lay, Lu Zaw, and Lu Maw’s wife, also a sister and a sister in law participated. Par Par Lay demonstrated traditional Shan, Chinese, Indian and Thai dancing, then his sister explained the audience how to wear the traditional 8-cubit longyi that was the court’s prerogative. She kicked the train in the air, then skillfully grabbed it and tucked it at the waist. Lu Maw instructed the audience to capture the moment on photo, then went around mocking those who didn’t get it be saying ‘...your camera is made in China... Three dollars!’.







The last sketch was a big dance off with 6 characters; Ozi drum (whatever that is), court page, monkey, ogre, alchimist and chamberlain, performed by the various members of the family. The show was entertaining and interesting. Lu Maw’s sense of humour was rather slapstick, and he seemed to be pleasing most of the audience. He earlier explained that he had to simplify his sense of humour to perform for tourists, who may be unaware of political or historical references he used to make. Anyway, the show for me was only an excuse. I was proud of meeting these men, who represent a voice of dissent in a country where freedom of speech is nothing more than a distant dream.

The road to Mandalay

Our visit to Yangon was a brief one. We planned to return later to apply for our Indian visas, so we put the sightseeing off until then. Our first ‘real’ destination was Mandalay, the second largest town in Myanmar. After a night bus ride we reached the city exhausted and quickly retreated to our guesthouse for a rest. At a first glance, Mandalay appeared as a giant village, where a multitude of trishaw drivers peddle their trade on the streets and overloaded pick-up trucks chug up and down the streets. It looked interesting, but not particularly appealing.

In Mandalay the scarcity of tourists was readily apparent. In three days in the city I saw less than 20 people, of which 8 were a German group on an organised trip. Myanmar doesn’t seem to be on the tourist radar. Asking around, we discovered it is also low season; between November and February there are far more tourists. As a result, competition between trishaw and taxi drivers was rife, and hassle from vendors was becoming rather annoying. It is understandable, though. As I wrote in my Cambodia post, vendors and drivers at highly touristed sites have an easier life; there were hundreds of tourists in Siem Reap, against 20ish in Mandalay. Of course locals will try harder. I was followed by trishaw drivers begging me to accept a ride as they had no fares for the whole day.

In our quest of minimising our support to the government, we decided not to buy the combo $10 Mandalay ticket. This meant we couldn’t see most of the city sights, such as Mandalay Palace, which was built with forced labour in the 90’s in preparation for Visit Myanmar Year 1996. Never mind, though. The real appeal of Mandalay lies in the ancient cities in the countryside surrounding it; Amarapura, Inwa and Sagaing. We hooked up with a friendly taxi driver named Put Put who drove us around for the whole day, promising to avoid checkpoints where we would have to buy the combo ticket. The first stop was Maha Ganayon Kyaung, where we witnessed the monks’ lunch. The monastery is home to hundreds of monks, between 3 and 78 years of age. After the morning alms collections monks gather into the refectory to consume what they have; the sight of hundreds of monks eating lunch in silence was one of those ‘camera-candy’ moments. We stayed and talked to a young monk who briefly told us about his life in the monastery, and we told him about our life in the UK. Many people in Myanmar are interested about foreigners’ life; asking what we do and why we travel. Many are just willing to practice their English, asking standard questions like ‘What country you come from?’ and ‘How old are you?’ then replying with a smile and welcoming us to their country.

We spent the rest of the day visiting Sagaing Hill, home to 500 plus stupas and monasteries. It is a tranquil place, with covered walkways which we named ‘the Great wall of Burma’joining stupas on the hillside. The views from the top of the hill were of a vast expanse of golden stupas, with the Irrawaddy river on one side. We walked around in the afternoon sun, taking in the views and the atmosphere, joined by dozens of smiling monks, nuns and Burmese but not one other tourist. Same for Inwa, where we took a horsecart tour of the main sights. The countryside setting was what I loved about Inwa, rather than the sights themselves. We were followed by groups of children who wanted their picture taken posing like superheroes, then giggled looking at themselves in the camera. However, we also discovered that horsecarts are not the most comfortable way of travelling!

The day was drawing to a close with U Bein Bridge, the longest teak bridge in the world at 1.3 km. Once again, the bridge was not spectacular, but it provided a snapshot of life in the Burmese countryside. Men and women rested in the covered areas whilst vendors sold samosas and pakoras to the crowd. Others crossed the bridge back to their homes, whilst all around children played with kites and threw rocks at stray dogs. A small boy approached us with a smile, wanting to have his picture taken, then proceeded to challenge Nick in a rock-throwing competition. A few middle aged men advertising their ‘Maths BSc’ on laminated posters were in reality astrologers or palm readers, and seemed to attract a sizeable local clientele. They asked whether I wanted them to read my hand, but I replied I like surprises.

On Burma

‘This is Burma. It is quite unlike any land you know about’ Kipling wrote. Funnily enough, the author only ever spent three days in Burma. He had never even been to Mandalay, the town he exotically portrayed in his poem ‘The road to Mandalay’. How right he was in his quote, though. So right that the quote has been used as an opening line for thousands of articles and guidebooks about the land now called Myanmar. Burma really is unlike anywhere else I’ve been. On the way from the airport we saw a procession of pink-clad Buddhist nuns, each holding a paper parasol. Most men wore longyi, the sarong-style garment that reaches the ankles. We saw several women and children with their face covered in a thick paste, which we later discovered is called thanaka and is made from sandalwood bark. We jumped on a 60’s style bus for the route to our guesthouse thinking it was just a touch of nostalgia, then discovered most buses are from that era. Quite unlike any land I know about.




Myanmar has a sad history, which unfortunately stretches all the way to the present day. After independence from the British and the assassination of Bogyoke Aung San, father of ‘the Lady’ Aung San Suu Kyi, the country was taken over by a military-backed dictatorship. And so it has been for nearly 50 years, who have been ruling with an iron fist and a taste for lunacy. Protests have been repeatedly crushed, first in 1988, then during the Monks Protest in 2007. Attempts of political opposition are retaliated with imprisonment and forced labour. Aung San Suu Kyi, now leader of the opposition party National League for Democracy (NLD), has been at home arrest for the best par of two decades. Even promises to the world of democratic elections seem to do nothing to change the leadership, despite widespread support for the NLD. Embargoes and economic restrictions from The US and EU seem to hurt the people rather than the regime, who keeps receiving sizable investment from India and China. Meanwhile Yangon, the old Rangoon which in the 20’s and 30’s was one of the richest cities in the world, now lingers in decadence, with potholed roads and crumbling colonial buildings.



Perhaps the most controversial sanction thus far has been the embargo on tourism backed by several Western NGOs. Personally, I think embargo-backers had a point for a few decades, when tourism was strictly controlled by the government, Westerners were only permitted to travel and stay in government enterprises and each person was requested to change $200 in government notes upon arrival. Especially during the ‘Visit Myanmar Year 1996’ when the government used forced labour to build tourism-related infrastructures. Nowadays, in my opinion the embargo is preposterous. Similarly to economic sanctions, it does more harm to the common population than good. Independent travelling is now possible, and with careful planning the individual traveller can minimize the amount of money given to the government, helping instead establishments like family run guesthouses, small restaurants and local guides. In this way, backpackers can help the local community more than they would help by staying away.



My first opinion of Myanmar was sad. The infrastructure was at least half a century behind everywhere else I’ve been, including Cuba. Sewage drains lined Yangon’s roads, the black muck swelling dangerously after a day of heavy rains. The poverty and repression were palpable on Yangon’s streets; there were many more beggars then everywhere else I’ve been. Military personnel s found at every street corner, observing whilst maintaining an appearance of public order. To give an example of government lunacy, one day in 1970 it was decided that from that day onwards all roads in the country would become right-hand drive, to distance themselves from British colonization. Nowadays still, the majority of vehicles roaming the streets are left-hand drive, posing considerable threats of incidents. Another example; following astrologers’ advice in 2005 the capital city was moved from Yangon to Naypidaw. Until then, Naypidaw was a nondescript village in an arid plain in the centre of the country. Millions of dollars were spent upgrading Naypidaw, whose name means ‘Royal Capital’ to the status of capital of the country. Mansions were built for the government cadres, palaces for government assemblies, roads were upgraded and infrastructures improved. To cover the costs, petrol prices rose by 500%. Once again, the people were paying the price for government’s extravagance.





Although sanctions are in place, most locals are happy to talk about the government. In Yangon we spent a morning at Sule Paya, a pagoda located on a roundabout right in the centre. As we sat down, an elderly monk approached us and started chatting in excellent English. He seemed to be really knowledgeable on the state of politics in Western country. He made a few comments on Berlusconi and his love affairs. We kept talking about subject as varied as the electoral reform in the UK and the recent Red Shirt protests in Bangkok. I was amazed by his eloquence and knowledge. The dialogue moved onto life in Myanmar. The man said the government does absolutely nothing for its citizens. Unlike Cuba, the only other country in the world with a long-running embargo, who was able to develop an excellent healthcare and education system, most Burmese live in poverty, hospital are useless and infrastructure is in shambles. Monkhood is the only way for children to receive an education. I asked him if he has been a monk since childhood. He replied he took up the robe 28 years ago, to avoid being brainwashed by the government. ‘Only as a monk’ he replied ‘I can be a free man’.

Stir-fried bamboo shoots and little ladies of the mountains, plus the second near-death experience

After our Halong cruise we had in mind the performance of that other backpacker approved activity, trekking in Sapa. This time, though, we were not to fall prey to any soulless dong-grabbing tour. We were going to go there, find a guide, and spend two days trekking through the mountains. After an afternoon spent lazying around at Kangaroo Cafe in Hanoi for another Western food craving treatment (the cure was a huge Aussie beetroot egg and bacon cheeseburger, plus sesame crusted chips) we boarded the night train to the far north. After the train and a minibus transfer from Lao Cai station to Sapa, we were filled with hope for the trek. The mountains were absolutely stunning, amongst the most beautiful scenery we’d witnessed after 10 months on the road. The morning air was crisp and refreshing, a welcome change after 40 degrees heat and 90 per cent humidity. We were lucky enough to have Our Woman In Sapa; we’d been given a contact by a couple in Saigon. They suggested we’d go for a hike with Ker, a young Hmong guide who leads treks through the mountains surrounding Sapa. We’d contacted Ker and had a date with her; in the meanwhile, we set off to explore Sapa.



It was easy to see why the French were so keen on Sapa. The town is set in a picturesque valley, surrounded by those mountains that, out of memories or homesickness, were dubbed Tonkinese Alps. And they do bear a resemblance with the Alps. Sapa is a haven for minority-tribes women wishing to sell their handicrafts, as thousands of tourists ascend daily to experience that ‘hill station experience’. Black Hmong are the most popular by far; they are absolutely tiny ladies (around 1.2-1.3 meters) and wear dark-indigo embroidered petticoats over jackets, tunics and legwarmers, whilst Flower Hmong wear beautifully coloured tops. Red Dzao ladies are very peculiar-looking, with their shaved brows and red turbans. The legend goes that a Red Dzao lady poisoned her husband by letting a lock of her hair fall into his meal as she was cooking. From that day onwards, all Red Dzao women shave their eyebrows and their hair for approximately two inches back from the hairline.



As we were waiting for our date with Ker, we thought to visit a travel agency to have an idea of the price for the trek we were planning, to help us negotiate. We chose a random agency which quoted $30 for two days, inclusive of bed and board. Not really intending to join, we left quickly. Not even 30 seconds down the road, we heard a massive crash. We turned around to see a bus crashed into the travel agents’ shopfront. Our first thought was for the agent we were just talking to, as he was sitting on the desk closest to the front. We dashed back to find him shaken up but unscathed, save a cut on his hand. His desk and the chairs we were sitting on were shattered. Apparently, after talking to us, he left his desk; he was just returning as the bus crashed, and was hit on the hand with a shard of glass from the front window. We spent the rest of the afternoon in a mixture of shock and relief for having escaped the crash. Had we stayed into the shop another 30 seconds and we’d be dead.



We arranged to start the trek with Ker on the following day. I quickly developed a soft spot for Hmong people; the ladies populating the square were there for selling, but they adopted a friendly technique, a little persistent but never aggressive, on the other hand they appeared curious and very tactile, a bit childish. This may have bothered some but endeared them to me. Ker was no exception; she greeted me with a hug (although she only reached to my waist) and was instantly kind and friendly. We learned she is 20 years old and pregnant with her second child, and has 5 years experience working as a guide. As we set off the following day, it was clear she knew the terrain very well. Her knowledge of English was also excellent. We set off on foot from Sapa, bound for her village where we were going to meet her family and lunch at her house. The day was ideal for trekking; sunny and dry, with temperatures in the low 20s, and excellent visibility, which is a rarity in Sapa. We soon entered the forest on the mountainside, and after a short walk through it we emerged at a stunning viewpoint over the Tonkinese Alps. On that side, mountains were still covered in forests. We kept going towards Ker’s village, a small Black Hmong community called Si Sai. As most Southeast Asian hilltribes, Hmong practice agriculture, mostly rice and hemp which is used for making their traditional petticoats, and indigo for dyeing. Most Hmong families also possess a buffalo, which is used for help in ploughing, and pigs which are killed for celebrations. Ker told us that in occasion of the birth of her son she killed a pig, a celebration followed attended by the whole village in which the local shaman named her son Pein. Unfortunately, Ker’s parents, who leave in a neighbouring village, could not make it. So she had to kill another pig when they finally came to visit!





We had a delicious lunch of tofu and tomatoes, water spinach and my favourite, bamboo shoots. I love their crunchy texture and their saltiness, with a garlic sauce they were indeed palatable. I had asked Ker to serve us what they would normally eat, the meal was light but filling and delicious, and it was nice to share the meal at the family’s table. During our other trek in Laos there was a clear separation tourists-villagers, whilst with Ker it felt more real. We set off after lunch, bound for the mountain pass which would’ve led us back into the Sapa Valley. As we crossed the pass... what a view. We had climbed 500 meters, and we could see rice paddies below us, built on the mountainside as far as the eye can see. Ker explained that most Hmong have their paddies in that valley, and leave other areas uncultivated for hunting and foraging, whilst small areas around the villages are used for planting hemp and indigo. The paddies were criss-crossed with ploughing buffaloes and men and women sowing; a beehive of activity from our privileged viewpoint.



We started descending towards Lao Chai, the largest Hmong village in the Sapa area, where Ker grew up. Lao Chai was larger, nearly a small town, with roads, shops and motorcycles. We stopped off briefly at Ker’s mother’s house where we were explained their traditional form of clothesmaking and dyeing. All clothes are dyed with indigo, and the colour takes a while to settle on the fabric, explaining why most Hmong women have blue hands. We continued through Lao Chai; it was indeed a busy little town, with people at work in the fields and carrying produce up and down the steep roads. A very steep contrast with the Khmu villages in Lao, where life went on as slowly as ever. A sleepy village in sleepy Laos, a busy one in Vietnam-on-the-move.

At sunset we reached our homestay in the Dzay village of Ta Van. Once again, the wonderful Vietnamese standards pleasantly surprised us; no thin mat on a plank of wood, this time we had a four-poster bed, flush toilet and hot shower, no communal latrine and bath in the river. What was even nicer, we even had roommates for the night, two Dutch guys! We were longing for the company of others, as it’s been only Nick and I since the south of Cambodia, save a few chats at Bia Hoi around Vietnam. After a cold beer, dinner was served; a huge spread of rice, stir-fries and curries, vegetables and meats. We were all stuffed, and decided to while away the rest of the evening playing cards. Until those naughty Hmong women intervened and turned our game of cards into a drinking version of Spoons; the loser had to drink a shot of ‘happy water’ (rice moonshine). So much for your usual trekking-early night combo, we went on until way past midnight, going through three bottles of ‘happy water’. Mercifully I only lost a couple of hands, it was the Dutches who took the hit.

And mercifully again, we did not have an early start, we had breakfast around 9. The second day was not as spectacular as the first. We kept following the valley, away from Sapa, down from Lao Chai. The area was rather more touristy, being a common destination for day walks from Sapa. The valley was still beautiful, though. We cut across the rice paddies, walking on their edges (a rather difficult task for Nick). The beauty of the valley unfolded before us, with children running through the paddies while their parents toiled away. We went through a Red Dzao village where we had lunch, but saw not a soul; perhaps all the women were in Sapa’s main square selling handicrafts. As we returned to Sapa on the back of a motorbike, with me wedged between the driver and Ker’s 5 months belly, I couldn’t stop thinking back to the experience and how I loved it. It was just like taking a walk with a friend through her home country, the only aim Ker had was to show us the way Hmong people live, with no attempts at selling handicrafts or else. Indeed, when we went at her Mum’s house I was the one to ask her if she had any jackets! But the scenery was what did it. That, and the friendliness of the Hmong people, both at Sapa and during the trek.

Fear and loathing in Hanoi, or the price of a pineapple

By the time we reached Hanoi we had spent nearly three weeks in Vietnam. Around Southeast Asia, the nation has a rather unenviable reputation; we heard things along the lines of “Vietnamese are all thieves” and “They absolutely hate Westerners, they’ll spit at you and insult you”. I do admit having felt rather uneasy during our first days in Vietnam, around the Mekong Delta; but I guess this was due to the sharp contrast between Vietnam and Laos/Cambodia, rather than any particular unpleasant experiences. However, I guess the Vietnam-related remarks related more to a game of Chinese Whispers than reality. At least, that was my experience after three weeks. Boy oh boy, was that going to change after Hanoi!

Piece of advice number one: don’t start your Southeast Asian odyssey in Hanoi, or you may want to pack up and return home rather quick. Piece of advice number two: don’t even start your Vietnamese odyssey in Hanoi, or you’ll may start wondering why prices become suddendly cheaper once you leave the capital... is it the ‘capital city syndrome’? No, it’s the capital city of scoundrels’ syndrome. Hence comes piece of advice number three: start south and move north, so when you’ll get to Hanoi you’ll know how much things cost, and be ready for haggling. Actually, that’s not even haggling; just offer to pay the price you’ve been paying everywhere else in Vietnam, and eventually they’ll agree. That’s the first step in enjoying Hanoi. I’ll make a quick example here. A common Vietnamese street snack are small pineapples, which are peeled and cut for you at the moment of purchase. The price for this is 5000 dong, about 25 US cent. I payed 5000 dong in several locations, from Saigon, to Nha Trang, to Can Tho in the delta. In Hanoi suddenly the price skyrocketed to 30,000 dong ($1.50). A six-fold price hike! Idon’t think so. I persisted, holding my 5000 dong note, ignoring the seller trying for 20, then 10,000, then 7000, and lastly imploring “Cannot do 5000! That’s locals price!”. Sure enough, I paid 5000 at the end.

Apparently some tourists (I shan’t dwell on the demographics) don’t mind paying inflated prices. I do, for one simple reason: it’s theft. In Hanoi, having a white face will see you paying an extra 5000 dong on anything, bottle of water, bowl of noodles or else. It gets rather tiring after a while. To this, add the fact that Hanoi is a noisy and chaotic city, with small streets filled to the brim with rumbling motorcycles and ‘Sinh Cafe’ agencies on every streetcorner (more on this later). At the same time, it’s a fascinating place to explore, provided one keeps one’s wits. The Old Quarter still has roads devoted to particular activities, from Silk Road (Hang Gai) to Roasted Fish Road (Cha Ca). A walk to the northwestern side of the centre will take one to the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum, which hosts Uncle Ho himself. We went to visit one morning after a particular fierce thunderstorm, and could not believe the amount of people lining up. Little by little the queue moved, and we entered the mausoleum. There, in a glass casket at the centre of the room, surrounded by 5 guards in a starched white uniform, lieth The Man. He rested under the Communist and Vietnamese flags, looking like he died yesterday, although he passed away in 1969. The sight of Vietnamese approaching the casket was interesting; some displayed deference and admiration, some just didn’t care too much, but every single person showed respect (I don’t dare thinking what would happen if you didn’t). It was moving being in the presence of such a historical figure. Unfortunately, photography was very forbidden.

The time we spent in Hanoi was a combination of highs and lows; from anger to the continuous overcharging attempts to evenings chatting with a Bia Hoi, from Nick going mental over the traffic and noise to an absolutely glorious ice cream from Fanny's on Hoan Kiem lake (and meeting some gentle Hanoian souls). However, we had to keep moving quickly; our time in Vietnam (and our visas!) were running out. The next step was going to be the fist and foremost backpacker approved Vietnam activity... a cruise around Halong Bay. Sorry, but this needs a prologue. As I said we had little time, so we had no choice but to take a tour. Having used the famous Sinh Cafe travel agency in Saigon for our open bus to the north, and being satisfied with the service, we decided to visit them again. But, as I said before, there’s a Sinh Cafe on every streetcorner in Hanoi! That’s because in Vietnam apparently business names cannot be trademarked, so often new businesses just take the name of existing ones with the hope of luring customers away. Sometimes, these ‘copycats’ bear nothing more than a pale resemblance to the original, other times they are downright dodgy. So what would one do? Check the address and go to the legit one! Nothing that a bit of research wouldn’t fix.

For $35 we booked a two days-one night cruise of Halong Bay, from the original legitimate Sinh Cafe in Hanoi. Guess what.... it was excellent. In the same boat as us were another 10-odd people who booked exactly the same thing from their hotel lobbies for $75 or more, and got exactly what we did. Halong Bay is absolutely spectacular, a must-do for everyone in Vietnam. Although some parts of it did feel really touristy (i.e. paddling fruit sellers, souvenir stalls at the entrances of caves), gliding through the bay amid the thousands of limestone karsts was absolutely unforgettable. We were also lucky enough to witness a sunset, apparently a really rare occurrence this time of year. It was, however, one of those things that are only nice to look at, having been spoilt of any character for the benefits of tourism. One of those box-ticking activities that backpackers seem to love so much. As I lied on my bed,trying not to listen to the party noises from the nearest backpacker boat (and thanking God we weren’t on it), I drifted off to sleep filled with expectation for our next destination, Sapa.

A day on Thu Wheels

Hue was our next destination before reaching Hanoi. Those of you familiar with Vietnam war history will recognise Hue and its Citadel for being one of the stages for the Tet offensive. As such, there’s nothing much to the Citadel these days; a pile of rubble and a few creaky buldings, a pale comparison to that once-magnificent seat of the Imperial government said to compare to the splendour of the Forbidden City in Beijing. What a shame. We were just about to deliver Hue to the list of places which are not really that great when we stumbled upon Cafe on Thu Wheels, a great little cafe just in front of our hotel. The friendly owner convinced us to participate to a motorcycle tour for the following day around the countryside. A good choice it was... good enough to redeem Hue from the hasty judgement we bestowed upon it.

For the motorbike tour, I opted for a driver, while Nick (who is afraid of riding on the back of motorbikes) decided to drive himself. It was interesting to zip around the countryside, led by somebody who knew where to go. The Vietnamese counrtyside appeared far wealthier than its Laotian or Khmer counterparts; most houses were brick and mortar rather than wood or bamboo on stilts. The first stop was a Japanese bridge, far more impressive than the one in Hoi An, and with a more authentic feel, with people resting under its cover to escape the heat of the day. Our guide Trang was friendly and knowledgeable. Afterwards, we were taken to a viewpoint high above the Perfume River, which was used for bunkers during the Franco-Viet Minh war then once again during the more famous war. Trang explained the name ‘Perfume River’ comes from the variety of flowers falling into the river’s waters during springtime, carrying their perfume with them until they reach Hue. Fact or fiction? But a nice story, nonetheless.

I have just noticed I’ve said nothing about Buddhism in Vietnam. Firstly, it’s not nearly as prevalent as in other Southeast Asian countries such as Thailand or Laos. Monks are few and far between and pagodas are not the centre of village life. Perhaps the Communist regime has something to explain for it? Secondly, Vietnamese follow Mahayana Buddhism, same as China, Japan, Nepal and Tibet. On the other hand, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, Myanmar and Sri Lanka follow the Theravada doctrine. I am not near as knowleadgeable enough to illustrate the difference, but I can tell that to an outsider Theravada Buddhism appears stricter and more orthodox. Mahayana draws heavily from Chinese Taoist and Confucian tradition, often displaying images of gods and goddesses alongside the Buddha. During our Tour on Thu Wheels we witnessed a chant in a pagoda; drums and gongs accompanied the chanting, giving the ceremony a happier, less solemn and undeniably Chinese flavour.

Our guide, jokingly, said “Why would I want to be a monk? No women, no beer, no cars, no smoking... always up early, no going out!”. It does express the attitude of the jovial Vietnamese towards monkhood. There is no tradition of joining for a period during childhood and again as adults, a highly regarded and followed practice in those countried following Therevada, where the sight of 5 year old children in robes is common. However, monks did play an important role in recent history. A monk named Thich Quang Duc, from Hue, left his monastery one day in 1963 and travelled to Saigon to protest against the treatment of Buddhists performed by the Catholic president Ngoc Dinh Diem. When he reached Saigon he sat down in the lotus position and set fire to himself, burning to death. His gesture was followed by several other monks around the country, becoming one of the factors to increase dissent towards Diem’s policies, dissent which would then culminate in Diem’s assassination. We visited Thich Quang Duc’s pagoda on the banks of the Perfume River, which still hosts the car he drove down to Saigon on that faithful day.

It was an enjoyable day which single-handedly lifted our impression of Hue. So, if you find yourselves there, visit Cafe on Thu Wheels! And now follow us for our adventures in Hanoi and Northern Vietnam...

Cao Lau and White Rose

Having lingered in Nha Trang for a week meant we had to rush from there henceforth. We did promise ourselves of not rushing during this trip, but the 3 months we were meant to spend in South East Asia were close to becoming 6. Indian shores are calling us, and the Vietnamese visa was running out. So we reached Hoi An, the gem of Vietnam, the Luang Prabang of the situation, that place that everybody loves. And I did too, to be honest. Hoi An is undeniably pretty; a small town with a distinctive Chinese flavour on the banks of a river, with rickety old houses and that decadent feeling that pervades century-old towns in tropical climates. Wandering around Hoi An in the morning one can see merchants crossing the Japanese Covered Bridge with that iconic contraption made with a long stick and two baskets (of which I don’t know the name). There are still several old Chinese shophouses with wilted fronts, but no old men smoking opium inside; they have been converted as museums or handicraft shops.




What Hoi An is chock-a-block full of is tailors. Some reckon there are about 600 tailor shops in the town which, trust me, is rather small. Hoi An has been famous for centuries for being an impostant centre for the trade of silk; the concept has remined but modernised, and now it’s an important centre for the manifacure of clothes for falangs. Scores and scores of shops with rolls of fabric line the town’s streets, some good, some bad. How to choose a good one? Follow the old Lonely Planet? By all means do so, if you have money to spend. All ‘mentioned’ places seemed to charge an extra $10 to 20 mentioned-on-the-Lonely Planet tax. At the same time, I have to admit those places looked and felt legitimate, whilst many of the nondescript shops charging $25 for a men’s suit probably employed sweatshops to produce the garment in the promised 24 hours. I walked and walked for a whole morning, taking the initiative and following touts, but nowhere satisfied me. What I wanted was an ao dai, the traditional Vietnamese outfit of loose-fitting trousers and long Chinese-style tunic split on the sides, for $30 tops. I was just about to fold and admit defeat when a gentle soul pointed me to Mrs Lan’s shop, who charged me $25 for the ao dai. Mrs Lan instantly impressed me with her friendliness, and with the fact that she didn’t need to employ phony misspelt recommendation letters to lure customers. Her rolls of silk where thick good quality fabric, and not just the usual dragon-and-ideogram pattern. I chose a roll feturing colorful dragonflies on a golden background, plus dark blue for the trousers. And guess what? The ao dai was ready on the following day at 9 am, manifactured by Mr Lan, tailor extraordinnaire. And it fits like a glove.




Hoi An is one of those places, like Prague and Venice, Luang Prabang and Salvador de Bahia, where it’s just nice to be, to wander around, to soak up the atmosphere. Although geared towards tourists it wasn’t overrun with them, thus it was pleasant to stroll the cobbled streets early in the morning, flanked by ladies in conical hats riding bicycles. There was a disctinctive lack of touts, with the exception of those for the tailor shops, but even those where not at all aggressive. And to make the place even better... wonderful cuisine. We tried Cao Lau, the traditional Hoi An specialty of thick doughy noodles in a savoury broth, with bean sprouts, a variety of herbs, pork slices and crackling, and it was absolutely delicious. A good cross between noodle soup and dry noodles; the savoury broth only filled about one third of the bowl, ensuring moistness but still making the dish palatable in 40+ degrees. Another interesting specialty was white rose, this time more of a snack than a dish. It was similar to steamed shrimp dim sum, but a thousand times more delicate; a tiny freshwater shrimp encased into a papery thin riceflour wrapping and covered with crispy onion flakes.




To be brutally honest with you, I’m getting rather sick of Asian food. After having nothing but rice, noodles, noodle soups and stir-fries for 5 months, I’m craving Western food. Yes, I’ve had my relapses, I’ve had burgers, pasta and pizzas, and every single one of them tasted wonderful (especially the gnocchi bolognese in Nha Trang... almost as good as the diving). But Western food is expensive, and probably the fact that I’ve enoyed it so much recently is because we’ve only had it sporadically, as a treat. So forgive me for the lack of enthusiasm in presenting local specialties that pervaded my earlier Asian blog entries. Perhaps I’ll make up for it in India?