Vietnam: The Central Coast Dec. 9 – 31, 2008




Hue

The night train from Hanoi to Hue (pronounced Huay, not Hoo-ee as the Americans, who bombed most of it, called it) was uncomfortably cold. We'd paid the extra for a 'soft sleeper,' which was much softer than the board-like 'hard sleeper' we'd been tortured by from Lao Cai to Hanoi, and air-con. What we didn't realize was that the air-con would be turned on high, and that even the train man wouldn't be able to turn down. After several complaints about it we, like others, used the sheet we were given for our mattress to stuff into and over the air-con grill. But still the cold came through. And the blankets were small and thin, so I spent most of the night desperately trying to cover both my freezing feet and my cold shoulders – but it was either one or the other. So despite the soft sleeper, I didn't get much sleep, and arrived in Hue feeling exhausted and hung over.

The best thing about the train ride was meeting and talking with the young Irish couple who shared our compartment, and a Canadian woman, closer to our age, now living and working in Nepal. She and a friend have started an NGO focusing on providing economic opportunities to people who are often excluded from other kinds of projects – street sellers for example. She and I had a great chat about our working histories, including our shared experiences with 'bitchy women syndrome' – girls behaving badly. Although she was sorry to hear about it, she was not at all surprised by the selfish and mean-spirited behaviour of my colleagues. Her comment: 'well, now you're here traveling in Asia, and they're undoubtedly carrying on with their in-fighting back there.' Too true!

We were met at the train station by a clutch of touts, all wanting us to come with them to their hotel. One young man offered us a free ride into town, a distance of four kilometres or so, promising that if we didn't like his hotel, we were under no obligation. So the five of us piled in. As it turned out, the hotel was fabulous – new, comfortable, with hot water, tv and lovely balconies in every room – and, best of all, a little bit away from the city's centre, with its tourist strip and string of hotels. The staff are all very friendly and helpful and, music to our ears, they're happy to provide us a big thermos of hot water in the morning so we can make ourselves tea – for me, and coffee – for Doug, in our room. So we're set – we could stay here for weeks! Except.... that it's still a little cooler here than we expected. We still need our sweaters at night!

Hue was the political capital of Vietnam from 1802 to 1945, under the 13 emperors of the Nguyen dynasty. It continues, according to our Lonely Planet guide, to be the 'intellectual, cultural and spiritual heart of Vietnam.' It's less than a third the size of Hanoi, with only about 300,000 people, and from the looks of it so far there are less than a hundredth of the motorcycles on its streets. It is blissfully quiet and slow-paced. People actually walk here, and ride bicycles. The streets are wide and tree-lined, lovely for walking. And you can cross even the 'busiest' streets without feeling like you're playing Russian roulette with your life. What a relief!

Despite our exhaustion we set off to see the 'citadel' – a huge walled city that once served as the centre of the imperial dynasty. Within the citadel is the Forbidden Purple City where the emporer's family, and royal concubines, lived. Only female servants and eunuchs were permitted within its walls. Unfortunately Americans did not spare the citadel in their bombing sprees, and many of the buildings within the enclosure were heavily damaged or destroyed. What's left, a collection of beautiful and colourful ruins, suggests a sumptuous life. Some of the buildings are being restored – a huge and painstaking process – by the Vietnamese government. The restorations are a priority primarily because Hue has been designated as a World Heritage Site, and therefore draws tens of thousands of tourists, all of whom, like us, come to see the citadel and the famous 'Forbidden Purple City.'

As we strolled back towards our hotel we were looking for a little pho (noodle soup) place, but all we saw were com (rice) places. We stopped to take a closer look at one of them, a typical rather grotty-looking place on a street dedicated to fruit and vegetable vendors. A slim older woman in a beautiful printed silk top and trousers invited us to sit down. We asked 'pho?' and she nodded. We sat, and watched as she plucked three packages wrapped in banana leaves that were hanging on a wire at the front of her stall. These contained our individual portions of noodles. Another gal placed a plateful of mixed greens on our table – water cress, cilantro, basil, bean sprouts, and a few other unidentified herbs, along with a few slices of lime. Our hopes were raised: so far we haven't been given these ingredients, essential, in our view, to a real bowl of pho. Then our bowls arrived, steaming hot and filled with noodles and finely shaved pieces of pork. It was one of the best pho soups we've had yet. Who'd have thunk?

As we were slurping it down, the silk-suited woman came over to watch, gesturing towards us in a question of 'do you like it?' We gave her an enthusiastic thumbs up, saying 'very good, number one!' and smiling broadly. She was chuffed. The next thing we knew she had brought us each a glass of cold Vietnamese tea, and then a little banana-leaf packet with a slab of gelatinous rice inside – something we'd seen the locals eating, but hadn't yet tried. She sat down beside us, glowing with pride as other vendors in the little market area called back and forth, drawing attention to her happy foreign customers. With service like that, we'll be back! This was the second time we had had such a great bowl of pho, and received such solicitous service, at a humble street stall in a market, frequented pretty much exclusively by locals. The first time was the day before, in Hanoi. Most tourists are too afraid they'll pick up something nasty from eating in these places. Interestingly, it's often at the more upscale places that one runs into trouble.

The Delightful Mr. Cu

We had a short nap after lunch, then lazed about reading, trying to recover from our train journey. Then it was time for dinner. We set out looking for the Mandarin Restaurant, which was highly recommended in our trusty Lonely Planet: “A magnet for travelers, the cheerful owner, Mr. Cu, speaks English and French and serves big dollops of travel advice along with pho, BLTs, salads and pancakes.” And.. “he has consistently improved his services since the first LP mention, a rarity worth noting.” Indeed it is! We often find that once places are recommended in the LP their prices go up, and the quality of their services goes down. So we decided to give the Mandarin, and Mr. Cu, a try. The restaurant was not where our book said it should be, but we did find a sign there which gave us directions to the new location, just a few blocks away.

He was standing in the broad open doorway of his restaurant, at the top of a short flight of stairs. As we walked towards the stairs, he opened his arms in welcome, smiled, and said: “come in, come in please!” As we mounted the stairs, I asked “Are you Mr. Cue?” He admitted that he was, and I said “We've been looking for you!” We shook hands – he exuded unusual warmth and grace even in this simplest of gestures. He cut an elegant figure – a little taller than most Vietnamese, slim, and well-dressed in a nicely tailored dark suit. He had a handsome face with strong chiseled features – softened by the wrinkles of age, and warmed by his lively thoughtful eyes. A delightful man.

Mr. Cu was born in the spring of 1945, on a sampan on the Perfume River, a broad river that separates the modern business centre of Hue from the old city, with its historic imperial enclosure and the famed 'Forbidden Purple City' where the emperors' concubines and family lives. Mr. Cu was the second of six children. His parents were poor – his father worked as a cyclo (bicycle taxi) driver in the city. They were too poor to have a house, so they lived on the little sampan. Mr. Cu's mother was particularly anxious around the time of his birth: the Americans were bombing a bridge on the Perfume River that was still in Japanese hands. The bridge was not far from where Mr. Cu's family tied their boat. But he arrived without incident, and the family continued to live on the boat for another eight years, when they managed to buy a house in the centre of the city.

Mr. Cu and his brothers and sisters all attended school. At that time, education was 'free' – parents did not have to pay to send their children to school. Mr. Cu completed grade twelve and then, like most of his classmates, went to work. He became a bus driver. And then came the Vietnam War. Hue is located on the coast of Vietnam, almost precisely in the middle, between what was North and South Vietnam. It lies just south of the DMZ or 'Demilitarized Zone.' The Americans had a base here, and recruited locals for a variety of jobs. Like many South Vietnamese, Mr. Cu was keen to work for the Americans – they paid well. He applied for a job as a driver. Apart from his experience as a bus driver, Mr. Hue had the right credentials for the job: his family was 'clean' – it had no connections to the Hanoi government. He was hired by a US Army contractor to drive a stand-by fire truck at Hue's airport. The job lasted only two years: in 1971 and 1972 the U.S. began their withdrawal from Vietnam. Mr. Cu was let go.

But he was soon re-hired by another US Army contractor, this time driving 'big trucks.' The U.S. Army's withdrawal from Vietnam meant that its equipment, furniture and the personal effects of its service men and women had to be transported to depots for shipment back home. There was a lot of stuff to move, but by 1973 the troops and their paraphernalia were gone, and Mr. Cu was again without work. There was little work in Hue, so Mr. Cu went south to Qui Nhon, a larger city on the coast, about half-way between Hue and Saigon (now Ho Chi Minh City, or HCMC). He looked up one of his old bosses, a Vietnamese woman who had managed the transport of goods for the U.S. Army in Hue. She had married a Korean man, who had helped her win a contract supplying rice and vegetables to the Korean Army, which had a base in Qui Nhon. Mr. Cu became her personal chauffeur.

In 1974 Mr. Cu met and married his wife in Qui Nhon. They lived there until 1975. After the American withdrawal from Vietnam, the Hanoi government had difficulty controlling the population. There was widespread violence and looting. According to Mr. Cu, it was a 'crazy time.' He decided that he and his wife would be safer in Hue, closer to his family. The drive between Qui Nhon and Hue was difficult and dangerous. They arrived on May 15th, the day before their first baby was born. Mr. Cu took his labouring wife to the hospital for the birth, but there were no doctors or nurses to help them. Mr. Cu had to look after his wife himself, washing her sheets and clothing and bringing her food. He agreed, with a laugh, that they might just as well have stayed at home. Their next child, another daughter, was born two years later, in 1975.

From 1975 to 1990 Vietnam was ruled, as it is today, by a communist government located in Hanoi. But during this fifteen year period, Vietnam, like other 'good communist' countries, was heavily subsidized by Russia. Russia gave large amounts of money to Vietnam: the country was almost entirely dependent on Russian aid. According to Mr. Cu, 'the government owned everything.' There was no private enterprise. Mr. Cu, having worked for the Americans, was unable to get work with the only employer: the communist government of Vietnam. He describes this as a 'very difficult time.' But when he spoke of how he got through it, he laughed a lot. “The North Vietnamese were very poor. They had three dreams: to own a watch, a radio and a bicycle. They particularly wanted self-winding watches, the ones where you can just wave your hand: you don't have to wind it. Many South Vietnamese had been given such watches as presents by U.S. Army personnel. Some of them were broken, but I learned how to fix them. I would fix them so they worked. Sometimes they would only work for a few seconds – just long enough for me to sell the watch. But I had no shop. I just sold on the street. So when the watch stopped, they would have no way of finding me! Radios I knew nothing about. I couldn't fix a radio. But my brother-in-law could. So he fixed the radios, and I sold them too. And I learned how to repair bicycles.”

Mr. Cu described how North Vietnamese people would arrive in Hue – many with no shoes – looking for 'presents.' “They thought that all of us in South Vietnam were rich, and that we would give them things. They were so poor. It was sad really.” During this entire period of time, food was scarce: the government instituted a ration system. Citizens were entitled to buy only 15 kilos of rice and one kilo of sugar per person per month. There was a black market for meat, vegetables and fruit. When we told Mr. Cu that this was still the reality in Cuba today, he just shook his head. “I know, very sad.”

In 1990, when Russia felt apart, all aid to Vietnam was cut off. The situation became desperate. Interestingly, the Hanoi government's reaction, unlike that of Cuba, was to allow private enterprise. Tourists were allowed to visit Vietnam for the first time since before the war. This was the dawning of a new era for Vietnam – an era which has seen an incredible growth in development and in opportunities, and prosperity, for the Vietnamese people. (The contrast with Cuba, where private enterprise is still prohibited, is striking. It is not just the American embargo that is beggaring Cuba: it is the determination of Cuba's leaders to maintain a draconian communist regime.) Mr. Cu's ability to seize an opportunity when he saw it again came to the fore: he opened a small cafe in the government owned 'Hotel #2 Le Loi,' one of only four hotels at that time in Hue, all government owned, but the 'Le Loi' the best and most popular of the lot.

During his first year of business, Mr. Cu's customers were largely Vietnamese. They'd come for a coffee, and to watch the t.v. and videos that Mr. Cu wisely installed. By 1991 tourists started coming in larger numbers, and Mr. Cu's cafe became 'the place' to go, recommended in guide books not only for its food, but perhaps more importantly for Mr. Cu's ability to speak English. Most of the staff at the other hotels and cafes spoke only Russian. Their service was slow, and their food was bad. Meanwhile, Mr. Cu's outgoing personality and willingness to help foreign tourists was making him friends.

These friends, many of whom he still has contact with, helped him to steadily improve his service – and his food. An American from Colorado taught him how to make banana pancakes. Mr. Cu's banana pancakes became famous enough to win the #8 Le Loi restaurant a special mention in a 1993 New York Times article on Vietnam. Other foreign tourists helped their friend Mr. Cu by writing and designing menus for his restaurant and advising him on good business practices. The enterprising Mr. Cu was ever quick to implement their suggestions.

The popularity of Mr. Cu's cafe did not go unnoticed by the authorities. He had frequent visits by the local police, who would ask him all sorts of questions about the tourists in his cafe: where were they going and what were they doing? He laughed when he told us about this. “How do I know where they're going? I don't ask them!” he would answer. The popularity of his cafe was also a sore point for the hotel, whose restaurant was almost always empty. In 1994 the hotel management (ie. the government) decided to get rid of the competition, and terminated his lease. In his typical indomitable style, Mr. Cu relocated just a few doors away, at #8 Le Loi. He leased a building owned by a French organization that had been running a school and social development centre for Vietnamese children. The building was run down and dirty, but Mr. Cu fixed it up and opened his new restaurant, which he called 'The Mandarin.'

We asked Mr. Cu how his restaurant got its name. “Ah,” he laughed (always laughing!), “that's a good story!” When Mr. Cu was forced to relocate from #2 to #8 Le Loi, an American tourist who had first met Mr. Cu in 1992, when he and a friend were bicycling around Vietnam, and who had met and married a Vietnamese woman, and stayed in touch with Mr. Cu, said: “you're new restaurant has to have a name!” He suggested 'The Mandarin.' Why? “Because,” said Mr. Cu, “your restaurant is located in Hue, which is famous for the imperial city and the old emperors of Vietnam. But you are not an emperor. You are just a mandarin!” And it's remained 'The Mandarin' ever since.

Mr. Cu's tenure at #8 Le Loi lasted only 18 months before the French organization decided they wanted the building, and the land, back. So he was forced to move again, this time into the Army (Vietnam) Hotel. Over the next six years, Mr. Cu the hotel managers made him move his restaurant three more times – to different locations within the hotel. And then they too kicked him out. In 2000 he leased a building, again from the Vietnamese Army, at #3 Hung Vuong, one of the main streets in Hue. Again he was wildly successful. And again his lease was terminated, although this time he'd managed to last for five years – the longest period yet.

But this move proved one move too many for the indomitable Mr. Cu. He said he felt “old and tired.' He suffered a debilitating depression. “For eight months I did not leave my room. I didn't care about anything. An American friend was very worried about me. He would come almost every day to visit me. Sometimes he slept in my room. He made me go to a doctor for treatment. I got medication, and started to get better... .” A little later, Mr. Cu, again on the recommendation of an American friend, went to see an American woman doctor who recommended daily exercise to prevent further episodes of depression. Mr. Cu has taken her recommendation to heart: he exercises and takes only a minimal dose of medications, and his depression remains under control.

During the eight months of his debilitating depression it was Mr. Cu's wife – his partner and the cook (still) at the restaurant – who took on the responsibility for moving the restaurant one more time. It was her decision, on advice from another American friend, to buy a piece of land and build their own restaurant. To this day Mr. Cu does not know how she did it. “I had nothing to do with it. I stayed in my room. I didn't care.” For six months the Cu's ran two restaurants – the one at #3 Hung Vuong and the new one at #24 Tran Cao Van Street. “The Vietnamese Army wanted us to continue: they needed someone to pay for the lease of the building! Sometimes I would be at one restaurant and get a call from the other one. I would have to run over to see what was the matter.”

Now Mr. Cu sits, or rather perches, on a chair just inside the new 'Mandarin' restaurant. He turns in his chair to face the street, watching for tourists. When he sees them, he jumps up, and walks down the stairs to the sidewalk to greet them. “Please come inside, I have a table for you!” His manner is more charming than pleading, and genuinely friendly. Mr. Cu likes people. And people like him. He says that business, up until lately, has been good. But now he is noticing the downturn in the world economy: there are fewer tourists this year than previously. Things are “difficult.” But despite the downturn, Mr. Cu's restaurant should continue to do well. It serves up some of the best food in town, at reasonable rates, and in a spotlessly clean restaurant. He offers free internet and wifi, and there's a booking desk for tours and tickets. And there's Mr. Cu himself – always friendly, always helpful, and always smiling.

In addition to his other accomplishments, Mr. Cu is a well-known photographer. His many framed photographs – all taken in and around Hue – are hung on every available bit of wall space in 'The Mandarin.' He has a wonderful eye. He started taking pictures in 1994, when he moved from #2 to #8 Le Loi. Business was slow, so he borrowed his brother-in-law's camera and started taking photos. He learned as he went. In 1997 Mr. Cu's photos were shown at an exhibition in Italy; in 1999 in France. He sells both large and post-card sized prints of his photos to tourists who frequent his restaurant. My favourites are his photos of ordinary Vietnamese people engaged in everyday activities: a barber cutting a child's hair, two children playing with a cat, a group of women sitting on a bench in a park, kids eating ice-cream, and a classic of a couple of very old women, twins, squatting in the dust, their ancient lined faces set in looks of grim determination: what are they thinking?

For me, Mr. Cu epitomizes the resilience, resourcefulness and industriousness of the Vietnamese people. The communist government's decision in 1990 to allow private enterprise opened the door to a new era for Vietnam. An era of growth and prosperity. And Mr. Cu believes, despite these hard times, that it will continue. “Some people now complain about the government. But it doesn't matter. Our leaders are old. Soon they will be gone, and younger people with more modern ideas and open attitudes will come in. Things will change. Things will get better.”

Posting a Parcel in Vietnam: Watch Out Canada Post!

As Canadians we have, over years of experience, come to associate the words Post Office with sometimes civil, but more often surly, inefficiency: women and men moving at considerably less than half-speed, spending more time dithering about, examining their fingernails and talking to their colleagues, than serving customers who inevitably wait, patiently or impatiently (it doesn't matter) in long queues, to post a parcel, pick up a registered letter, or just buy some stamps.

So we were totally unprepared for our visit to the Vietnam Post Office in Hue. We went there to mail a parcel: a few paintings on silk and a couple of embroidered t-shirts, rolled up in a cardboard tube that started its life as a container for badminton birds.

We had read that we must take our parcel to the post office unwrapped so they could examine the contents. At an earlier visit, we'd been told that they would wrap it. We showed up at the post office around mid-afternoon, and took our unwrapped tube to the 'International Letters and Parcels' wicket.

Behind the glass, a young woman dressed in the Post Office uniform – a pair of flowing white silk wide-legged trousers topped with a close-fitting, long-sleeved royal blue tunic, the front and back panels of which fell gracefully to mid-calf. She looked like she was dressed more for a formal dinner party than a day's work at the post office. Although all young Vietnamese women are beautiful, she was particularly pretty, with a lovely smile.

She took the tube from us, removed one of the caps, and looked inside. But rather than dumping the contents out on her desk, she just asked us, in excellent English, what was inside. We told her. She picked up a couple of forms, made a few quick marks on them, and then passed them over to us with instructions on how to fill them out.

Meanwhile, she started into the wrapping process. First she used a huge set of shears to cut a piece of brown paper. She wrapped the tube around twice, then used a special roll of wide blue packing tape, emblazoned with white Vietnam Post Office letters and symbols, to seal first the length of the tube, and then the two ends. She first criss-crossed each end with two short length of tape, then covered the ends of those tapes with a circular wrap. She did all this in the space of about three minutes, maybe less. We were impressed: no one was going to get into this package.

But she wasn't finished yet. She handed us the tube, on which she'd written “to” and “from” in the appropriate places, and asked us to write the addresses. Once we'd done that, we handed it back to her. She used a length of sturdy string to tie up the tube, and attached a customs declaration to the ends of the ties. Once that was done, she used a special 'gun' to attach a metal clasp to the ends of the string, sealing them together.

Then, with lightening speed, she consulted a book of tables to establish the price of sending the package to Canada. She affixed the necessary stamp, and then another stamp indicating the 'class' of the package (first class, registered). She used clear packing tape to cover both of the stamps – no stealing those (they're worth several days' wages to many Vietnamese) – and a section of the string.

She did all of this in less than five minutes. And during the process she also directed a man on how to fill out the multiple forms he needed to fill out to send six books to different addresses in the USA, and a young woman on where to get the proper envelope to use to send a beautifully gift-wrapped package. When she was speaking with them she looked up just long enough to make sure her communication was understood, and to smile at them in a friendly, encouraging way.

We looked on amazed, almost stunned, wishing we had a video camera, to document her stylish super-efficiency. No one 'back home' would believe a postal person could – or would – provide service like this!

She handed us a copy of our statement of contents, on which she'd filled in the amount we needed to pay (for the stamp only, not the wrapping service, which is 'free'). We gave her a large bill and she gave us our change, quickly and efficiently counting the notes for us so we could see that it was correct, and we were done. As we walked down the stairs of the Post Office building we both shook our heads in disbelief: we had just mailed an unwrapped package to Canada in less than seven minutes. Look out Canada Post!

Danang

Before leaving Hue we went to our favourite dinner joint, the Saigon Pho, for one last meal. We'd taken some photos of the cooks and waitresses, which we handed to one of the girls as we came in. They crowded round, gawking and giggling at the photos, passing them back and forth among them. It took quite a while before we could distract them long enough to order our meal.

When we were finished, we went over to say thanks and good-bye to the duena, a middle-aged woman who sat regally on her stool in the corner, taking the cash from the waitresses and giving them the change togive to the customers. Although she was often expressionless, when we told her we were heading to Danang the next day, her face lit up. “You are going to Danang? Tomorrow?” she asked. “Yes, tomorrow.”

She stood up and grabbed one of her business cards from the little stand beside her. “My son is opening a restaurant in Danang the day after tomorrow. I am going to be there. Please come. Can you come?”

We hadn't planned to stay in Danang more than one night – it was just the nearest train station to Hoi An, an old historic city that we wanted to visit. But her invitation was too good to refuse. “Yes, we'll come! We'll see you there.” She was chuffed: “See you there!” she echoed.

As it happened, the restaurant, which was called 'Saigon Noodle,' was some distance away from our hotel. But we decided to walk. It started to rain when we were about half-way there. We quickened our pace.

We knew we'd found the place when we saw several great stands of flowers out front of a brightly lit restaurant. A young man stood in the doorway. We showed him his mother's card, and he welcomed us in. Within seconds she appeared, ushering us to a table with great fanfare. “Welcome, welcome! I'm so happy you came!”

We were, of course, the only foreigners. Tables of locals turned to look at us - the people being welcomed so warmly by the duena. They smiled appreciatively too. It was clearly a family and friends affair, but we weren't party crashers: we were welcome, and special, guests.

The menu was identical in all respects – right down to the cover – to that of the Hue restaurant. And the food was just as good. The duena's son had done a beautiful job finishing and decorating the place, and had made some good innovations in terms of locating the cooking area along one side of the restaurant, behind a little counter, in full view of its patrons. The chief cook, his wife, was radiant, stirring great pots of soup and passing filled bowls to the waitresses, who stood in a chorus line on the other side of the counter.

We took photos, the duena wielded a movie camera, and we all celebrated what we hoped would be the beginning of a successful business. Before we left, we once again went to say our thanks and good-byes to the duena. We asked her and her son for some business cards so we could leave them at our hotel for other guests, and told them we'd write to the 'Lonely Planet' and recommend both their restaurants. They thanked us profusely - “so kind, so kind.”

The duena took my arm and pulled me close. She looked into my eyes and said: “You are good woman.” To which I replied: “You are good woman!” Good woman and good mother. She is one of many many Vietnamese people we have met who have found a way to capitalize on the recent surge in tourism in their country. And she is sharing her hard work, the fruits of her labour, with her son. We wish them every success: they deserve it.

Hoi An

We took a tourist bus to Hoi An, about an hour from Danang. Although it's a lot smaller than Danang (population just over one million), Hoi An (population 75,000) attracts far more tourists. It's literally flooded with them. On many of the central streets, and almost all of the restaurants, tourists outnumber locals by a wide margin.

Hoi An is a UNESCO World Heritage site, famous for its historic buildings, some of which were built by the Japanese in the late 1500s and 1600s. There are photo ops at every turn. But what really draws the tourists, in droves, are Hoi Ans scores of clothes stores. These stores sell not only off-the rack clothes – dresses, shirts, jackets, suits, pants, shorts and bathing suits – but will make anything you can show them, or describe to them. Or you can bring them something you like, and they'll copy it. They also have great books of patterns. They do it in just a day or two, and their prices are unbelievably cheap - $50 for a man's suit, $7-10 for a dress, $30 for a jacket.

We saw some lovely fabrics – lots of silks – and great designs – everything from ultra-tailored, which is favoured by the Vietnamese, to modern (western) blousey and baggy. They do it all. Some tourists were there just to buy their winter wardrobes. It's cheaper for them to fly to Vietnam and spend a week or two having clothes made than it is to buy them in their own countries.

One day we rented bikes and cycled out to the beach not far from Hoi An – thirty kilometres of golden sand with just a handful of tourists, mostly clustered in front of the various resort hotels that front on the beach – thankfully far enough back as to be almost invisible to those on the beach.

We sat and watched the waves crashing in. The South China Sea. We didn't see any pirates, but we did watch as several fishermen in round woven basket boats called caracols manoeuvred their way in and fought their way out through the surf, standing up in their 'boats' and using just one paddle. The boats seemed pretty inefficient, but they're cheap and disposable (likely only lasting one season, or maybe two), and that's likely more important to the fishermen. We couldn't believe how far out these guys went. We'd lose sight of them completely. We were glad to see that they seemed to go out in pairs or little groups.

While we were in Hoi An we extended our Vietnam visas for another month. There's just so much to see and enjoy here. The country is beautiful, the people are wonderful, the food is fabulous, the accommodations are terrific, and the country is one of the cheapest we've ever travelled in. We're managing very comfortably on around $35 a day – for both of us. Unbelievable. But it won't last. Vietnam is on a roll, tourism is increasing, and the word is spreading... .

Nhatrang

It was a long 9 hour train-ride from Danang to Nhatrang, about half-way to Ho Chi Minh City – or Saigon as all but the northern Communist government officials and western ultra-politically correct types call it. What made it longer was the dreadful 'rail tv' – loud adverts, a dumb 'Home Alone' movie in English with a voice over giving the story-line in Vietnamese (presumably cheaper than dubbing, and more effective than sub-titles, as many Vietnamese cannot read), and a truly awful series of Vietnamese comedy shows with screeching women and screaming men. The Vietnamese passengers (there were only four foreigners in the car) loved it, or slept through it.

The train staff came round several times with drinks, snacks and dinner. The first big snack, around 4:00 o'clock in the afternoon, was duck embryos. These are immensely popular in Vietnam, and we've seen people eating them everywhere. To us, they are absolutely disgusting. Duck embryos, complete with little beaks and feathers, cooked inside the eggshell along with their yolks. Ug. I was amused to see a little girl steadfastly refusing her mother's attempts to get her to have a bite of one. She turned and twisted in her seat, trying to get away from the proffered spoon, making truly awful faces. I guess it's an acquired taste. But they all seem to acquire it. It's amazing to watch beautiful women and handsome men devouring these poor little would-be ducklings.

Nhatrang's an interesting place. Fairly modern, with lots of construction going on (but that's going on almost everywhere in Vietnam). It's right on the coast. Our hotel is about a block from the beach – another long stretch of golden sand with just a few tourists, most of whom keep to their rented deck chairs well up on the beach.

Walking around Nhatrang – as well as Danang, Hoi An, and to a lesser extent Hue – has increased my concerns about the global economic crisis. The number of tourists here is down – way down according to locals who depend on it. Hotels everywhere are empty – especially the big fancy ones. Yet everywhere large hotel chains are building massive new hotels. Massive is almost not big enough to describe these monsters, or monstrosities. They are completely out of scale with the rest of the built environment, in which few buildings are over three, or maybe five stories at most. They are also uniformly ugly – great concrete and glass structures with none of the lyrical grace of the indigenous architecture.

Along the beach front we passed miles of ugly, naked concrete walls. Walls that surround resort hotel complexes, many of which sit almost empty. And equally ugly construction fencing, guarding half-finished resort hotels, many of which appear to have been abandoned several months, if not years, ago. Small wonder. There are already far more hotels than tourists. It appears everyone expected more and faster tourist growth than has actually taken place, and no one did their homework, in terms of realistic projections, before starting their projects. Perhaps they were too keen to be the first past the post, so focused on out-competing one another that they lost sight of the goal.

One can't help but wonder what the impact will be when these big hotel chains decide to write off these ill-conceived projects, they will surely have to do unless.... unless the Chinese, who seem to be the only ones with real money in their pockets, decide to spend it on travel to destinations like Vietnam. We already see a fair number of Chinese tourists. They generally travel in schools, like fish, following a guide around a museum, a historical site, a natural wonder. But at this point there are hardly enough of them to even begin to fill a fraction of the hotel rooms already available, and empty, let alone the ones now under construction. These big white elephants represent yet another unhappy economic story in the continuing saga of downturns and crises. And, more importantly, in the greed and mindless actions and developments that have fueled them. Will the west ever learn 'restraint' or 'circumspection?' Or are we genetically programmed to 'damn the torpedoes and go full speed ahead?'


Ho Chi Minh City

Five million people, three million motorcycles. Ho Chi Minh City, known as Sai Gon by pretty much everyone here except the 'politically correct' westerners, is a walker's nightmare. Traffic obeys no rules, but flows like a relentless river. When there's a blockage ahead, the river separates into little streams that flow up onto sidewalks, or the wrong way up one-way streets. No where is 'safe.'

But it's also a lively colourful place – a bustling metropolis that exudes high-octane energy. Our arrival at the train station coincided exactly with Vietnam's winning of the Asia cup for football (what we call soccer). The place went wild. Porters running along the platform with full baggage carts whooping and yelling; ticket-check girls jumping and laughing. In the streets it was pandemonium. Every single one of the three million motorcycles was out there, riders waving flags on long poles, singing at the top of their lungs, cheering. They cheered, clashed cymbals, blew on home-made horns – anything to make as much noise as possible. And the jubilation was all-inclusive – youngsters, oldsters, men, women – everyone celebrated. One guy was so excited he stalled his bike. What was truly wonderful, from a westerner's perspective, was that there were absolutely no drunken louts or obnoxious rowdies in the crowds. It was all just fun – like a kid's party. And it was a great introduction to this amazing city!