Blog 7

In this edition

• Historical Hoi An
• Tailor made clothes... too many
• Matt gets sick
• Inside the tour guide trade
• The Capital, Hanoi – nuts, but not as nuts as Saigon.
• Uncle Ho says hi... well, he lies down for a while
• The rest of the crew turns up
• Insane bicycling

As I write, the 5pm siren sounds over Sapa City – this means it is time for the government workers to knock off. There aren't many vestiges of communism left, but this is one of them.

Hoi An is another place largely spared the brunt of the American War in Vietnam, largely due to its proximity with Da Nang, the US base during the war. As such, it is a beautiful French colonial town, perfectly preserved but all too touristy. Preserved seems to mean pickled, and served with a side of fries.

The main industries are tourism and tailor made clothes. We took advantage of both and are now carrying much more weight. Emma had six or so tailors working for her for four days! She has some lovely clothes to show for it. Leo is looking dapper in his new fitted shirts and three piece suit. I clearly didn't get the hang of the process. While the others poured through catalogues, choosing the perfect designs, I walked into a tailor and said "four shirts and two pairs of pants please". They showed me pictures of shirts and pants in a book and I said, "yes, that's right, shirts and pants". Emma was horrified. I did choose the colours. All brownish. Tanzania is cruel to clothes.

In Hoi An we enjoyed a cooking class and were stuffed full of our own cooking. It was fun to cook when all of the ingredients were measured out for you, just like on the cooking shows. I was fairly sick at the time, but still managed to eat all of my food. Yum.

We met up with an old friend from Melbourne but his name will be kept secret due to incriminating tales. He has been running tours through South East Asia for the past seven years and has escorted hundreds of westerners around the many sights of Thailand, Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam. He told us of all the kickbacks, scams and skims that tour guides (himself included) run on their hapless clients. Every shirt they get made in Hoi An he gets 20% of the price. Every meal he gets free and every bus he gets a commission. This is of course against the rule of the tour companies but they turn a blind eye and every guide does it. Perhaps keep this in mind when booking a tour. He was great to have around because he wasn't screwing us!

After Hoi An we caught a plane (such flash packers) to Hanoi, the capital of Vietnam. If communism was lacking from the facade of Saigon, here it was obvious. Official buildings looked like Moscow's Kremlin and there were propaganda posters aplenty. I visited Uncle Ho but he didn't say much. He has been dead forty-one years and is preserved in a glass case. It takes almost two hours to get to the front of the line but it was worth the wait. The experience was the closest to old school communism I am likely to get outside of North Korea. Stern soldiers in revolutionary guard uniform directing your every step, a wide, empty boulevard used for military displays and the mausoleum itself, a perfect example of Spartan design, enough hammer and sickle flags and marching tunes to rouse any lefty. Ho Chi Minh himself looked peaceful, but he has just come back from two month's holiday in Russia so he should be well rested. The is where his embalmer lives. Leo and the others (there are now six of us) wanted to go on Monday but Monday is Ho's day off. There ya go.

The rest of the crew turned up. Gaz, Ash, Carlie. This is a welcome change as I am no longer Leo and Emma's third wheel. Oh, amusingly, the word 'emoi' means 'worker girl' in Vietnamese, so this is what we call Emma.

We rode pushbikes around the capital city, deliberately getting lost and eventually pedalling through peak hour traffic. This is not advisable to anyone suffering heart conditions. Gaz almost got creamed a few times and I'm sure I did too, I just didn't realise with my eyes shut. We got lost down some tiny alleyways and a local woman with a bicycle full of helium balloons thought it would be funny to block our path and laugh at us for five minutes. She was right, it was funny. In the end she moved aside and let us past. Jolly friendly.

After catching the night train, we are now in Sapa City at the extreme north of Vietnam. This is the home of many of Vietnam's minority tribes. Tomorrow we hike into the hills and stay a night with them.

Thinking of you all (if I have any readers!) and praying for you too.

Blog 6

Included in this edition of 'what Matt has been doing and stuff':

• The crew travels to the least interesting place in Vietnam
• Matt falls down a cliff
• Leo rips out a DJ set on board a boat
• The crew have a whole theme park to themselves

Right. The least interesting place in Vietnam is called Jungle Beach. It is a little resort type thing sixty kms north of Nha Trang. It has a beautiful beach set before a wonderful mountain range... but that's it. Period. We were supposed to stay three nights but ended up staying one.

In order to make Jungle Beach more interesting I decided to fall down a cliff. Perhaps falling down a cliff is too dramatic a phrase for what actually happened but I'm sticking to it. I set off for a morning of waterfall searching with a lovely fella called Sean. Sean is a Sydneysider who is riding a pushbike from Saigon to Hanoi (that's a really long way). Our journey started well until we found the waterfall thirty minutes down the road. It was small and unimpressive. Seeking adventure and confident that there would be something more impressive at the top we decided to climb the waterfall. Halfway up I took a tumble, falling about three meters before coming to a less than dignified but nonetheless welcome halt, legs in the air and pride suffering. I looked below me and pondered what could have happened if I had continued falling the remaining twenty or so metres. It reaffirmed that I am indeed mortal and should take a little more care. With this in mind we continued climbing. At the top there was a stunning pool fit for swimming. My bleeding leg convinced me not to swim. I now have a big scab on the back of my knee – what a poo spot to be in pain!

Back in Nha Trang, we decided to do a day tour of the islands surrounding this beautiful city. At 11pm, we scoured the tourist area for a travel agent of which there are usually many. We found one who didn't speak English, but he got on the phone and within two minutes his sister was there to sort us out. When Leo quizzed her on where she had come from in order to get there so quickly, she confidently told us 'the moon'. Fair enough. 120000 dong later ($7) and we were booked on a tour leaving at 8:45 the next morning. Our $7 was enough to secure us hotel pick-up, the boat cruise, use of snorkelling equipment, entertainment and a huge lunch. Ridiculous.

The boat ride was a great amount of fun. We spent time meeting other travellers. Some of them, such as the very old Japanese man in tight purple Lycra shorts will be difficult to forget. Later, when a band jumped onto our boat to play karaoke songs, the old guy showed us his strut. Gold. The English speaking host was called Mr Phuc. He started his routine with a good bit about saying Phuc you, no Phuc me to English speakers. He was genuinely amusing and it was no surprise that he and Leo soon started hitting it off extremely well. After touring the islands, swimming and drinking a goodly amount of beer, we found ourselves heading back to port with Leo in a captain's hat, playing tunes from the cabin. Never the shy one and very rarely a passenger our Leo.

Nha Trang is taking off as a western holiday destination, but before this it was a major destination for Russian and domestic tourism. Vin Pearl, the biggest island off the coast is home to a big theme park and water park catering to these two groups. In July it is reportedly packed with tourists from across Vietnam. It is not July now. When we went it was packed with... us. An empty theme park is a bizarre thing, but lots of fun. Having never been to a waterpark I thoroughly enjoyed the waterslides and ran around like a little kid saying 'again!' After catching the immense cable car back, we enjoyed a spectacular Indian dinner, talking cricket with the guy who ran the place. Goodbye Nha Trang – hello Hoi An. More next time.

Blog 5

It took us fourteen hours to complete the return trip from Phu Quoc Island to Ho Chi Minh City that had taken us fifty minutes the first time. Taxi – Boat – Taxi – Bus – Bus on boat – Taxi – Airport. We slept on the floor of the airport before battling the no-queue system of Vietnamese ticketing fat 4:30am for our tickets to Da Lat. We came out winners. That's the end of that story.

Da Lat is a stunning city in the central highlands. Spared the main brunt of the war (Both sides decided to keep it as a retreat, leading to the improbable phenomenon of opposing generals having holiday homes near each other) the French colonial architecture has largely been left intact. The Bible (Lonely Planet) calls Da Lat bizzaro Vietnam. It is not too far wrong. The cool air is such a change from the muggy oppressiveness of the coast and the scenery is alpine forest rather than jungle.

We spent a day riding motorbikes through some of the most stunning roads I have ever seen. We visited a mountain with breathtaking views of stepped rice fields and distant villages, pausing long enough to breath in the best air in Vietnam. There were some persistent hill tribe women who wanted to sell me purses. I never quite know what to do. I can't carry stuff around for eleven months, but I don't want to say no to everyone. First one to give me their address gets presents in the mail. It is a little sad that the only industry capable of bringing in the big dong is tourism. It is almost like the minority tribes in Vietnam (like Australia) have become sights in and of themselves. Does this reduce them in some way?

Emma and Leo decided to stay in a ridiculous hotel in Nha Trang because it was her birthday. Although he shook his head at the opulence, Leo enjoyed the pool immensely. I did too. We dined out at a cool self barbecue restaurant and drank too much at an Irish pub. Well it was paddy's day. After Leo and Emma scampered to their hotel I was left to walk 20 minutes back to my hotel in the kamikaze prostitute capital of Vietnam. Travellers tell tales of gangs of girls on bikes who accost western men and offer to service them. If you say no, they mug you. It would seem you lose your money either way. Knowing this, I steeled myself for the gauntlet and was faced with... nothing. Not a thing. Twenty minutes of paranoid marching later and I was back at my $12 place – one twentieth the price of Emma's room.

PS. We had a fun night the other night - we gave ourselves $3 to buy an outfit for each other then we had to wear it to a karaoke bar. Leo bought me a really patriotic American outfit and emma had to wear a Vietnamese pyjama suit! hahaha.

Blog 4

We hired bikes, got lost, saw one of our Austrians tear his skin up falling off, rode spectacular roads and eventually found ourselves again.

The bikes are little 110cc Japanese numbers, the same used by virtually everyone in the country. It is almost as if the entire nation is speeding itself into the future on underpowered Hondas.

How we ended up so lost on such a small island is a mystery to me. It could have something to do with the map that we left on the table back at Freedomland. We were a party of five, Leo on his first motorbike, the two Austrians Thomas and Alex and Emma and me on the last bike together. The trip started well, with us buying two litres of petrol each – enough to last the whole day for everybody bar Leo who seemed to ignore fourth gear, preferring the grunt of third.

Soon enough we were lost, heading down eroded dirt tracks in the uninhabited core of the island. We were promised luscious beaches, primeval rainforest and villages that hadn't changed for decades. We went the wrong way. Instead of vistas and culture we got eroded tracks and hair raising bridges. Several times we had to turn back because the road had simply fallen into a chasm. At one point, perched before a bridge that looked as if it would break under the weight of a large chicken, Leo looked back at us, asking if we should go on. He was at the front so off he went, we held our breath hoping that this bridge wouldn't make us a party of four. It didn't.

Once again images of Indiana Jones chase scenes might help to imagine the roads we rode on. After five hours of being lost we eventually found our way back to the beach near our resort in time for a sunset swim with cold beers. All in all a spectacular day.

Blog 3

Freedomland, Phu Quoc.

None of these words is recognised by the spellchecker. One day they will be.

One has to drive halfway across the tropical southern island of Phu Quoc, down red sand roads and past rapidly developing resorts in order to reach the tiny hideaway known as Freedomland. Designed as an alternative to resort accommodation, it is a collection of bungalows set amongst the jungle. This is the kind of place where your alarm clock is jungle birds and all you can see past the sand and bungalows are palm ferns, towering trees and other jungle shades of green. Peter, the guy who runs this place likes to keep it communal, so everybody eats dinner together on a big dining table amongst the trees. There are many courses but all of it is good. It could not be more idyllic.

At the moment we share Freedomland with two German girls, a couple of Austrian guys, an American living in Turkey and a mother with child. The group gathers for dinner then sits cross-legged on the balcony sipping drinks well into the night. Leo and Emma are spectacularly happy here. I am hiring a motorcycle today, so I think I will be happy too.

Blog 2

Hello all from sunny Viet-freakin-nam. As they say, 'you don't know man... you weren't there'.

We have eaten pho at street stalls, met Marcel the Vietnamese/French/American, shopped at the insane market, gone drinking with ex-pat lawyers at the grand hyatt, been offered modelling jobs at a Vietnamese night club and are now waiting for a flight to a tropical island.. It's been a big two days.

My attempt to surprise Leo and Emma at the airport with a crazy car was thwarted by over-officious governance on the part of the Vietnamese Communist Party. Some time ago they put a twenty year limit on the age of cars thus eliminating all of the fun cars in one fell swoop. Saigon used to teem with old American cars in the war era then a bevy of Soviet vehicles hit the newly named Ho Chi Minh city when the communists took over. With this piece of historical knowledge in mind I was disappointed to find that I could not hire a crappy old Soviet bomb with which to collect the crew. I took a crazy motorbike instead. The luggage wouldn't fit on the motorbike so we got a taxi back. Very lame.

Marcel was born in Saigon in the late 1940s and survived the war without being forced to declare an allegiance. In the face of communist reform, he decided to leave, joining the French department of cultural development. Seventeen years later he tired of France and relocated again, this time to sunny Florida where he took US citizenship and accepted a job with the government.

I meet him in a tiny local restaurant in Saigon where I have come hoping for a dinner of pho noodle soup. There are many of these makeshift places, with plastic chairs and a cart out the front that serves as kitchen. I believe these are the places that the Australian government suggests we avoid. Bah. I announce that I would like dinner. The locals look at me quizzically as if to say 'is he mad?' Marcel's odd Vietnamese American accent cuts through the misunderstanding... 'They only do morning food here'. Oh, ok. 'But you should come in and sit down anyway.'

I sit with Marcel, a small dark man of 63 who holds his age like a Russian holds drink, he looks no more than 40. It turns out that the family who run this place helped him in his youth and now they are like family. They serve me spectacular drinks and I discuss Vietnamese culture using Marcel as the translator. After an hour of amazing hospitality and a flat refusal to take any money for the drinks they serve, I am escorted to another little place that serves cheap night food. This place is not in the Lonely Planet.

Blog 1

Ahh, the bus man just took my passport... on the up side he added it to a pile of passports he seems to be collecting. He seems friendly enough so I'm going to assume the best for now.

This bus promises to take me from Phnom Penh, the vibrant and still semi-colonial capital of Cambodia, to Ho Chi Minh City in Vietnam. Ho Chi Minh city was once called Saigon (and still is by many of its inhabitants) but in the greatest finger up to their defeated foes, the invading North Vietnamese army renamed it in 1975. Good one.

This bus shall take six hours, plus one at the border to fill out many tiny forms declaring that I'm not up to anything fishy. Add this to yesterday's six hours from Siem Reap to the capital and Wednesday's eight hours from Bangkok to Siem Reap and I can tell you what a bus feels like.

Cambodia's troubled past is not reflected in its optimistic present. As fatty and Dayna attested, the Khmer people are almost to a person friendly and personable, keen to try English and always ready to lend a hand whilst laughing at a westerner. The food is great and everything is cheap. Dinner last night cost me $1 with a drink, so I tipped 25c and felt generous. Hey, a 25% tip is big, people!

I have found Cambodia to be very much like East Africa, without the scary undertone of potential violence. This is odd given yesterday I visited the site at which Pol Pot's security apparatus interrogated tens of thousands of Cambodian people before sending them to the killing fields. With such a history of violence I find it particularly impressive that the country seems so peaceful now. If they can keep this up, tourism is going to go mental.

After visiting the Angkor Wat temples on Thursday, on Friday I decided to catch a tuk-tuk to the landmine museum an hour out of town. It was concerning but unimpressive as a museum. USA, sign the freakin anti landmine treaty already! What was more impressive (and I often find this on my travels) was the handiwork of the tuk-tuk mechanic. A tuk-tuk is a little carriage towed along by a little motorbike. Feel the power of 125cc engines pulling carriages with four people in them. Cut a long story short, my tuk tuk blew a tyre on a long dusty countryside road. 'Poo' said my driver in Khmer. Apologetically he said we would have to limp the thing to a little shack inhabited by two mechanics. They managed to have the tyre off, puncture repaired and us back on the road in no time for less than 50c. We would have bought a new $10 tube. Maybe this is why the carbon footprint is low in these countries. Later in the day I managed to convince the driver to let me have a go... tuk-tuks are hard to drive.

Yesterday's bus movie was The Gods Must be Crazy 2... in Khmer! Haha, the British girl next to me loved my translation of the plot but the great thing about those movies is that the dialogue is somewhat secondary to the ridiculousness. I am now enjoying the wondrous spectacle of the Bond film Die Another Day dubbed into Khmer with Vietnamese subtitles.

This is a proud country and I pray that it continues along the path of wealth creation.

Fyf's random observations:

Cambodian law mandates that the rider of a motorcycle (90% of all vehicles) must wear a helmet. Anyone else on board does not have to wear one.

There are often 4-5 people not wearing helmets on a single motorcycle

There is something sad about seeing the remains of an 11^th century mega imperial capital surrounded by a modern country that is so weak.

Cars are a boring way to travel

$1 is a great price for dinner. $3 is still a great price for dinner but starts to look really expensive, how odd.

Cambodian ATMs dispense $US. Cambodian Riel are really only used for amounts under $US1. Come on guys, use your own money, there's nothing wrong with it!

Many professions here seem to involve regular hammock breaks. I think my Australian citizenship might need to be revoked.

That's all for now. Hoorah and keep the country nice for when I get back.