In Da Lat

An eight hour bus trip takes us north into the Vietnamese Highlands and the city of Da Lat.  It’s three hours of HCMC’s urban sprawl before we’re truly in any sort of countryside.  Several hours later we climb out of the tropical vegetation, suddenly in the mountains covered with green, smelling strongly of evergreens.  As we enter the outskirts of Da Lat, the temperatures is noticeably cooler, and by dinnertime we’ve put on our long pants and long sleeves for the first time in three weeks.  The locals looks like they’re ready for a major blizzard, and the local night market is littered with jackets, sweaters, hats, scarves, earmuffs(!), and gloves. 

We wander into a “hot pot” restaurant, where fortunately there is a smattering of English words on the menu.  We order a chicken and straw mushroom hot pot and ask for extra vegetables.  Not entirely sure what we’re going to be eating, we look around where other patrons are busy with their own hotpots.  A stand with a small container for fuel underneath comes to the table, topped by a pot filled with broth, chicken pieces(mostly bones for broth), mushrooms, various leafy greens and onion/chive pieces.  The fire is lit and we wait for the whole thing to heat up while watching the other customers consume their food.  Andres gets up to show the lady that we want some noodles, as well as some extra greens.  We do our best to eat the mixture properly, and are politely ignored by the people around us when we throw our cold noodles INTO the pot—something no-one else seems to do.  We leave deciding that basically we’ve had chicken soup that we heated up ourselves at the table. Nothing too special.

Wandering through the crazily busy night market, which spills out over stairways, sidewalks and into the streets, we’re tripping over dozens of watercolor sellers, who flash portfolios of garish paintings, invariably introduce themselves, and then to make sure we reconnect with them later, point out their hats—all of which are indeed different.  “My name Dao, say Dao, remember me yellow hat.  See you later for you buy me, Dao.”  And on to the next woman with the same speech, different name, different hat.  Weary, we wander home.

The first full day we walk around sections of and near the central lake, where locals wander the sidewalk, fish, hang out on their motorbikes, ride the swan boats, or sip coffee at one of the few cafes on the shore.  It’s actually a dammed reservoir, and long ago it was a rice paddy.  We walk into the hills above the lake, and later walk to the “must-see” destination, Da Lat’s flower garden, a kitschy flower park, with everything from hundreds of potted plants, fountains, bonsai pavilions, topiaries of various kinds, large penguin trash cans, and a large tower made from bottles of Da Lat wine(Vietnam’s only wine).

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A Week on Phu Quoc Island

We’ve settled into a quiet routine almost immediately.  We walk along the beach just after sunrise, eat some breakfast, head to the beach and last for about 4 hours, most of which in the shade.  The fruit lady stops by to cut us a pineapple, a watermelon or a papaya for lunch, and then we head down the beach to have a fruit drink.  A respite from the intense heat during the middle of day in the hotel room, and then about 4pm, another couple of hours at the beach til sunset, which unfolds directly before us.  Showers, and dinner on the beach.  We don’t need shoes basically at all, and clothing is minimal at the best of times.  At night the fishing boats are out on the sea with bright lights bobbing, and we sit staring at the stars until bedtime, which comes early.

One late afternoon we walk into town(Duong Dong), which is about 20 or 30 minutes down the main road, and reacquaint ourselves with the unchanging madness of Vietnamese traffic.  In town we wander through the impeccably clean and attractive night market, essentially a series of food stalls.  Beyond the market we’re back in the midst of the river mouth area, overrun with people, fishing craft of all sorts, and gaudy pagodas.  There’s also a small and oldish lighthouse at the river mouth.  We veer back, find dinner, an ATM, and then head home to our quiet.

A few days later we take our only excursion.  We have “booked” a motorbike for the day, and open the shop, where the owner is still in pajamas, and her young daughter sits like a sleeping statue inside in the darkness.  Andres makes a couple of runs alone on the street, then I get on the back, he tries again, and we’re off.  The traffic is fairly light until we get into Duong Dong, where we promptly lost.  With a basic map from some tour agency in my pocket, we point where we want to go, and after navigating a rickety wooden bridge and the mad activity of the market on the bike, we finally leave town behind.  We put gas in the tank, and then head off in the direction we’d been pointed.

Wrongly, apparently!  Before we know it, we’re on a road to the northeast of the island, instead of the northwest, although we've seen no different option.  We intimate this from the only sign we see along the way, but decide we might as well forge ahead and see this end too.   We’ve travelled along an asphalted 4 lane highway, with virtually no traffic other than a few motorbikes and cows, neither of which attach the slightest importance to traffic direction.  The mountains rise to our right, covered with lush vegetation.  We see what we later discover are pepper farms all over. The road narrows and becomes a dirt road and finally we reach the tiny village of Bai Thom.  There are a handful of little shop/homes, a school, schoolchildren in their uniforms and lots of dust.  The blue strip of ocean lies beyond the homes that line the dirt road, but there doesn’t appear to be any obvious access.  We look, then turn back, determined to find the way to the northwest corner of the island.

At an intersection we previously missed there are about 10 Russians on motorbikes—evidently also exploring the island—, who’ve stopped to try and get directions from a local.  Rough going with communication apparently, but they finally come out and tell us that this is the way to Ganh Dau, which is where we’re looking to go.  The road is thick with small pepper farms, the plants tall bushes filled with small red fruits.  The areas outside homes are covered with large tarps where the pepper is being dried.  We stop so I can take some photos, and are invited in by a woman and her husband.  She motions to smell the pepper, then takes my hand to bring me to the house, where she shows us the large sacks full of peppercorns.  It smells heavenly, and we end up buying about half a kilo to take home with us.  She poses for a picture with me and we’re off again.

Ganh Dau is a small fishing village, dirt poor, virtually tumbling into the ocean.  It’s become hot now, and the smell of fish(fresh, dried, rotting) is pervasive.  We park the bike and wander around town, through the warren of tiny lanes, almost through people’s homes.  The coast is truly unbelievably filthy, but the locals are working in the middle of the squalor, sorting fish, doing laundry, and children are playing.  Televisions blare as we walk by rocking hammocks, thrown-together shacks, barber shops and market stands.  We head to a “resort” on the edge of town, on a much nicer but still litter happy beach for something to drink, as we have seen no shops that even have a refrigerated case for drinks.  The beach has lots of potential, but needs cleaning up as well.  We rest in the shade and then head down the west coast and through the thick forests back to Duong Dong.  We’ve managed to find our way, and survived the madness of motorcycles back in the city, coming back with a better idea of the island, and ready to return to our daily beach routine.  A few more days and we’ll fly back to HCMC and then begin bussing north to DaLat.

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