We made our last trek up the mountain of stairs for breakfast today. We leave at 5am tomorrow morning for Mombasa, Kenya. Zanzibar was nice, but we overstayed. Seven nights is too long. As romantic as the name sounds, there is not a lot to do and those who come expecting beautiful beaches are gravely disappointed. Add in the electric and banking issues and it can make it extremely challenging.
Honestly, over two weeks into this trip, we planned it the way we usually plan trips, but we goofed this time around. Normally, what we do is pick the time we want to be away and then fill in what we want to do, where we want to stay, and what we want to see within that range. Up to this trip, this method has worked well for us. As I said, in retrospect, 7 days on Zanzibar is too long. Four days would have been plenty. We could have done the turtle tour to spend another day doing something, but we had the feeling there were would be as many turtles as there were dolphins, making it a waste of money.
The beaches in Stonetown are not swimming beaches, they are for the fishing boats and tourist dhows, though there is not much of a beach anyway. The better beaches are a taxi ride away. We are not beach people anyway, but those we know who have come for the beaches swore they made a mistake. The sights on the island are limited. Today, we did go to the old palace of the Sultan. It was interesting, but in dire need of repair in every inch of the place.
We saw the fort last night when we went to dinner, we did the spice, dolphin, and monkey tour. We toured every touristy souvenir shop innumerable times and they all have basically the same merchandise.
We have seen more of the hotel room here than we ever have on any vacation. Part of this is that the heat and humidity wipes us out, but there really is not much to persuade us to stay out for. Been there, done that. We could have cut it short, but live and learn. According to the owner of the 236 Hurumzi Hotel, Stonetown is the largest city on the island and there is not much else on the rest of the island. Even if there were, we would need to taxi there, the public transportation consists of trucks with lengthwise benches in the back. When they are filled up, they go to the destination. After arriving someone, we may never be seen again, not knowing how to return again.
A stop at Mercury's for a drink took some time today. Later, we went to another restaurant we had drinks at previously, but this time Ron had a pizza. One last trip through the shops was just to waste some time until the fan and air conditioning at the hotel were turned on again. For dinner, we went to Monsoon Restaurant, but almost didn't. We wanted to have a drink on the terrace and dinner inside. They refused to allow us a drink outside, but would serve us dinner inside. Not understanding their reasoning, we questioned it again when the manager, a German woman overheard us. She came to the rescue and said it was fine. Inside, you leave your shoes at the door and sit on mats on the floor. Dinner was good, but my chicken curry was a leg and thigh only. Ron had prawns and a healthy serving of them too.
We did our last stop at Kilude Cafe, said good-bye to Esther, our favorite waitress and went to bed for a 4:30 am wake-up call.
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"I think they give you those tourist advertisements because they know that you are reviewing hotels and they want you to know (and mention in your book) how they usually deal with guests and what they give them. Although I have never done it, reviewing hotels seems to be a pleasant job…" says Árpád. Yes, I think you are probably correct. Sleeping in different hotels to do reviews can be fun, it the beds are comfy and the pillows to your liking, otherwise, it can be a miserable nights sleep.
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The further adventures of sleeping elsewhere besides home, but not when on vacation, always brings some surprises. Last night was another "sleep in a hotel to review for my book" mini vacation. In the past, I have slept in some disappointing hotels, but for a new hotel, this one takes the cake. If first impressions matter, I named it Bed in a Box.
Again, I will not divulge the name here, but the pictures will justify my impressions, I do believe. But let me start at the beginning. When I checked in, the front desk manager handed me an envelope while welcoming me to the hotel. Well, isn't that special! So I thought until reached the plain vanilla hallway to my room, devoid of decor other than a single plant in a cutout in the wall.
Opening my welcome envelope, I found the usual tourist advertisements we give our own guests. Does anyone listen to me when I say "I LIVE HERE" or are they all on remote pilot and have a required need to maintain automation? There was one surprise in the envelope. A little sheet offering massages: Swedish, Honey, or Chocolate massage for 25 Euros an hour. For an additional 10 Euros, I could get a "Vacuum" massage or full body coiling. Now I had to wonder if this was in everyone's envelope or was I just special? If they had specified whether it was dark, bitter, or semi-sweet chocolate, I may have bit for the chocolate massage, but I am particular about my chocolate.
The room is a box with a bed, period. I have felt firm mattresses before, but this was a slab. Pillows that refuse to change shape when you put your head of them, should be outlawed. It was fine for sitting up reading, but for sleeping, half of my body was at a forty-five degree angle.
Two large windows made up the fourth wall. One opened six inches, while other looked like it was fitted as a door the balcony outside, but without a handle it was possible. Perhaps they were afraid that at these rates, guests would jump after realizing what a poor choice they had made, so why risk letting them out on the balcony.
Then there was the sarcophagus shaped tub. Notice the similarities. Was I supposed to bath in it or wait for mummification to set in? I could not decide, but I would love to explore the mind of the decorator after he or she gets out of rehab. They must have been using something really potent when they came up with this idea. You cannot see the shower, but notice there is no door. Why bother?
It is a tough life being a travel writer, but someone has to do it. I had to sleep in a luxurious hotel last night, but before anyone gets too jealous, it was only four stars.
I am not going to mention the hotel, because they should not get the free publicity. After all, I did not publish photos of all of the other hotels I have slept in in the past. You may be able to see the plate of fruit on the table. The classier hotels that have managers with a sense of good marketing, provide a little "gift" when a writer is staying with them. Nice touch!
When it is a bottle of wine, I bring it home to Ron, but fruit gets smashed along the way. Besides, I had a number of things to check out in the area, so I knew I would not be home right away.
I have another hotel to stay at tomorrow night. We will see how well they treat me there.
The super efficient airport shuttle not only deposited us at the airport on time, but with plenty of time to spare. Our flight was due to leave at 10:30 and we were there by 8:00. Going through security was speedy and efficient, but we found ourselves immediately in the shopping area for duty free. There was no Passport Control to go through now that Hungary is part of the Schengren Agreement.
SkyEurope had us boarded and ready to go within minutes, though they had a flight come in from Trieste at 10:00. We arrived at our destination after 1 hour and 10 minutes. The airport is tiny, so there is no fear of getting lost. We bought bus tickets into town at the tourism office for 3.10 each and walked over to bus 51 to stow our suitcase.
More than once, I had a thought of “that is interesting, we should come back there to see that mosaic” or “an open café , we should check it out”, but the bus kept going and going. The other thought I had was, "Are we on the correct bus?" We have been known to get on the wrong trains and buses at times. While taking one hour to get into town, all of those places are closer to the airport than they are to Trieste. Let’s review - It took one hour-10 minutes to fly here; it took one hour to get from the airport.
Our hotel, is one whole floor of a building, there are three such hotels within one building. It was an easy 10 minute walk from the bus station. The room is extra large, but with a shared bathroom. This is not a problem as there are three of them, two equipped with showers. They were reviewed by Frommer’s in 2003, but has not been seen since with gives me pause.
After dumping our things, we walked around the city, noticing not much was open, 
but being Sunday, we did not think about it. The reception at the hotel suggested going closer to the waterfront to find a restaurant, or perhaps around the major square. There were a few open there, but not too crowded. Is this what Sundays are like? As often as we have been in Italy, I am not sure we have been here too many Sundays before.
Just a short walk from the hotel, we ran into the stature of James Joyce. Joyce had lived here twice during his life. First he lived here from 1904 to 1915, and then again from 1919 to 1920 when he finished The Dubliners and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
The major square the Piazza Unita d’Italia is an umph experience with stunning architecture on three sides. Built in 1870, to the left is the Palazzo de Governo, Palazzo Stratti, Palazzo Modelo, the Town Hall, Palazzo Pitteri, and the Lloyd Triestion Palazzo. All of this overlooks the sea.
At the waterfront, people were milling up and down the cement walkway again certifying Europeans as strollers. As families, as couples, as groups of friends, people were walking up and down the walkway, taking in the soothing view of the Gulf of Trieste. Still, it was not crowded as one would expect for the end of summer. When we rode in on the bus, we noticed a number of people sunbathing on a concrete platform along the sea. Only one or two people were actually in the water at any given beach. There is not a beach to speak of, mostly rocks you climb down into the water. It certainly is not inducing to sunbathe if you cannot easily go for a dip to cool off, but the Italians are sunworshippers. I know from family history.
We by chance decided on a restaurant where the waitress working was from 
California up until nine years ago, she lives here now. She suggested we go to a bar “where there are other people like you”. We were not quite sure what that meant. What kind of people? We had just told her we lived in Hungary, where there other ex-pats living in Hungary there? Where there other Americans as bar guest? She once again reiterated that there would be people we would like at this particular bar and than added there are lots of "those" types of bars around the city. Interesting. She discovered all this from two orders of eggplant Parmesan and a few questions about where the best pastry shop in town happened to be. By the way, the eggplant was good, but the sauce needed to cook more. Even Ron, a non-Italian could tell it was not ready yet. As it turned out the pastry shop was the most highly rated by the tourism board as being historic, but it is closed for the month of August.
We gave in to our early hour start of the day, and went back for a nap. We had to get rid of that jet lag from that hour long flight. Within minutes, I was out and stayed out for three hours. After I revived from that drugged feeling I get when I oversleep, we took off to explore the city on a Sunday night.
After wandering for an hour, looking at menus, we decided on one for pizzas. I had the thrill of years when I found a pizza with sausage, sweet peppers, cheese, and tomatoes. The highlight was the sausage, though not enough, it was real Italian sausage, something I had been hunting for the last four trips to different Italian cities and have not found. The peppers were sweet peppers like I have grown accustomed to in the US, but never find in Hungary.
Ice cream, an Italian tradition, is not to be by-passed. As we were wandering back to the hotel, we by chance passed a large parlor of frozen delights. The pistachio screamed out to me and then there was this other flavor bufala, which was intriguing. I had both in a cup. Pistachios were more abundant than the ice cream itself, but I did not complain.
My mission this trip is not to leave with any regrets. It will be tough, but I will have to have ice cream, pasta, and pizza as often as possible.
Our room here at the Comfort Inn is slightly smaller than what we had the first time here, but the beds are just as comfortable. One thing I look for at hotels is how clean the mattress is. The sheets may be clean, but if the mattress or pillows are old, soiled, or downright groady, it gives me the heebie geebies. With one exception, the roach hotel, all of the places we have stayed pass the deep down cleanliness test with impressive colors. Hence this is why they are added to Our Picks on our web site www.budabab.com/our_picks.htm . We only refer to the best.
Toward the end of vacation, I go into what Ron calls ‘reentry’ mode, where I stop thinking about the present and concentrate on the things that need doing once we return home. Pushing these thoughts back, we forced ourselves to visit Starbucks to use their WiFi. There is this compulsive need to pay our credit cards hours after we have used them so the rich do not get richer on our interest charges. Plus there is satisfaction in reaching the stage of life where one can say they are truly debt-free. Needless to say, with the e-mails and other utilitarian tasks, we were at the café for over two hours, and then had to return the computer to our room.
There is one Hindu temple we had read about after our first time here, which from pictures looked well worth seeking out. Ron thought he knew where it was having seen it from the monorail in the past, so this was our destination today. Tickets for the monorail are point to point, whereas the point we were headed cost 1.20 Ringgits, less than 50 cents and much cheaper than a Disneyland ride. We disembarked where Mr. Map thought the temple was, but he was in grave danger of losing his designated title; we arrived at a Chinese Taoist temple instead of a Hindu one. The temple looked like it had lost its congregation long ago, being in an unkempt state of affairs, but interestingly, there was a flourishing traditional Chinese medical clinic operating inside and to the right of the main altar. They must deal with foreigners often enough to warrant a translation of the information into English.
Close, but no cigar for the temple we wanted to see, so we walked a few blocks and found an area where there were dozens of stores that sold wholesale jewelry. Block after block, shops were specializing in the glitz and gaudy items to accessorize, a cross-dressers dreamland. As we wandered, other shops started to appear as we reached a neighborhood downtown area, though still in Kuala Lumpur. Then peaking over the tops of other buildings, we spotted the temple we were searching for and magnificent it was.
Although I firmly hold to being agnostic bordering on atheist, there are places where I feel such serenity, there is no denying for me that it has to relate to some past life experience. This only happens when I enter Buddhist or Hindu temples strangely enough. Weirdly, when my photos in Buddhist temples are usually on the blurred side regardless of how artistically I control my camera, yet in Hindu temples, the photos seem to be crisp and clean. Finding this temple was worth the effort. Statues everywhere inspire a regal solemnity over my soul that I rarely find elsewhere worming a desire within to sit around and take lessons from whoever is willing to share their wisdom with me. Ganesh is always my favorite with his elephant head and my love of elephants. I walked around the massive complex taking it all in and wanting to share it with everyone through my photos, but halfway through my batteries died. End of the pictures; I had not recharged the back-up set thinking there were not be a need. My mind holds all of the untaken pictures, but how to share them will be a mystery.
Ron loves taking us off of the beaten track not answering direct questions. When we left the temple for parts unknown to me and asked where we were heading next, he only committed to the light rail train. Buying a day ticket for 7.50 Ringgits seemed ominous to me, our hours were ticking away and we had to leave this evening. We got off of the train at a section in the city where the old wooden houses are built on stilts. Walking in search of a drink, we found we were in a local neighborhood with the usual impromptu looking restaurants patronized by locals, yet only one was open. Ron was searching for a beer, which gave me internal giggles. We were in the land of Islam with head covered women working around us and alcohol being against the teachings of Islam as strictly as Mormonism. There would not be a beer to be found, but he fought on with his ethnocentricity assured that they would indulge tourists. However, after a few blocks, it was a certainty, we were in areas where tourists never tread and the locals were staring at us with smiles and word balloons lingering over their heads saying “These tourists took a wrong turn.”
Admitting defeat, we moved on and in search of a beer. We returned to the central bus station and then to our old ‘hood’ where we started this whole adventure a month prior. It did not seem as overwhelmingly crowded and busy as it had originally. We have been inoculated with the crowd and confusion vaccine. From a street vendor, I purchased some durian already to eat. Durian is one of the smelliest fruits imaginable and not pleasantly fragrant. Some areas restrict their growing it due to the stench. However, some brave soul in some millennia decided to venture past the aroma and cut through to the innards where four avocado shaped pieces of light yellow fruit are waiting to be evacuated. Unlike its smell, the fruit is mind in flavor, slightly juicy, but carries some of its smell into the taste. I tried it, but I could live without it.
Still not finding a beer, we went back to our hotel neighborhood where we knew for certain alcohol was not restricted and found beer before going to the laundry to collect our clean clothes. One of the best things about these countries is the inexpensive laundry services all over. We have never had to suffer with dirty clothes, having it laundered along the way. Now we would be returning home with the only dirty clothing being those that we traveled in.
Our flight to Doha, Qatar is at the unthinkable time of 3:30 am. According to the front desk clerk, we need to leave the hotel at 11:30 via taxi to get there in time. Not liking that answer, we are waiting for a change of shift and will ask again when the new clerk comes on duty. We prepare by taking a nap, though my naps are never longer than one hour, so I am up earlier than Ron to write in semi-darkness with the monitor for illumination.
Our last dinner here and we are going to do it up. We returned to a restaurant in the neighborhood where they have pork ribs in a lemon sauce. The sauce is so delectable if they bottled it, they could be rich. The ribs are almost a misnomer being chunks of pork almost absent of bone. I ordered a medium portion of chicken curry, small was not an option for some reason. To complement this, I also order a small portion of the lemon ribs, warning Ron that I am guarding my plates like a starving dog. If he wants any of this, he had better order his own. The medium portion of the curry was enough to feed a family of four; the ribs could have fed a small tribe in Botswana. I did my best, but since I did not have the time to send the leftovers via Fedex to the poor starving children in China, I had to admit defeat after giving it a glutton’s go at it.
Returning to the hotel, the change of shift desk clerk said we could leave for the airport at 12:30 am, an answer we liked so much better. We went to repack for the final time after showering and tried to nap yet again. Sleeping on my stomach was like trying to sleep while stretched over a beer barrel, it wasn’t going to happen.
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Today we left for Hanoi. Our hotel arranged a driver for $8.00 to bring us to the airport. They told us it would only take thirty minutes, but we figured we would need an hour to get there; it was the right thing to do. Traffic was horrendous.
Being second in line to check in with the airline, low budget Pacific Air, it was our turn next. I handed the agent our passports, all it took for her to find our reservations. With baited breath, we put our suitcases on the scale with as much horrendous anticipation I always have when having to climb the scale at the doctor’s office. No sirens went off, no alarms or red flags contaminated the air, we passed with flying colors on the weight issue. Guess this means we can shop more. So, the agent is typing away getting our boarding passes, Ron is standing behind me and there was another non-Asian soon-to-be passenger behind us. To my right, a young Vietnamese man is holding a paper and I.D. card under the nose of the agent shoving it at her. Applaudingly, she totally ignored him and continued working away. I could not stand it and said loudly “Doesn’t he see me standing here? Doesn’t he see the man waiting behind us?” There is no telling if he understood English or even if he cared if he did, but it was something to get off of my chest or it would have simmered coming to a boil at some inappropriate time. After all, at 5:30 am, I was awake and could not sleep yet again, so being tired and cranky were as good excuses as any to speak my mind. Needless to say, it had no effect, when we were done the clerk took care of this annoying person who learned these behaviors were appropriate. My bad or his!
This was really preparation for the rest of the trip. Our flight was delayed for forty minutes due to the plane arriving late from the last pit stop. When we started boarding, they asked for all those whose seat rows were 1-50 enter the plane from the front. For those 51 and higher enter through the rear of the plane. Having been announced in Vietnamese and English, had no bearing on the pushing and shoving of the little people. I had visions of Gulliver’s Travels when he found himself in the land of the giants. We were the giants and these little people were scurrying through the line like mice escaping a ferocious cat. From tenth in line, we were suddenly fiftieth and all to climb on a bus.
Revenge is sweet. When we disembarked from the buses, all of the locals were like deer in the headlights, not knowing where to go. I was first to get on the stairs up to the plane, not that it mattered, but it made me feel avenged. Ron showed up ten minutes later. Many of these people must never have flown before. They sat in a seat, and then some non-Asian tourist would approach them and say they are sitting in their seat. The errant passenger would pop up and grab another empty seat like they were responding to a game of musical chairs hearing music stop that no one else heard. No one was playing their game either, a few of them were displaced multiple times.
It was not luxury, but it was fine, even if the seats were tight enough to scratch my kneecaps with my teeth. Regardless, I fell asleep. In the middle of a dream with some mythical animal, I was bending over to pet it when the animal made this unnatural screeching sound, not only waking me, but sending me skyrocketing out of my seat. After being fully awake, that sound came yet again. It emanated from a woman two seats behind me who was playing with a baby. Those sounds should be restricted from planes.
The man next to me, I think a Vietnamese, had his seat belt undone and was ready to get his luggage out of the overhead bin once they announced our descent. You can imagine what deplaning was like, again all to get on a bus. When we were waiting for our luggage, I was pushed, shoved, and bumped away from the luggage conveyor belt so many times, I thought I was going to have to use my Traveler’s Insurance before I left the airport.
Our hotel had a driver waiting for us. He explained it was only 32 km to the hotel, but it took us close to an hour to get there. Hanoi at first looks same, same, but different from Ho Chi Minh City. The hotel is lovely, but the room sits on the third floor without an elevator. Thankfully, they have a porter bring up the luggage or we would have needed an oxygen tank and massage therapist on each floor. The room is really cramped, with the most space going from the bed to the bathroom and useless. You have to scale the wall to get out of bed on one side. To get in the door, you have to walk sideways to get from the door to the end of the bed getting through the obstacles of the two chairs and refrigerator.
Ron is his enthusiastic mode ran downstairs, going down is easy, to check on a trip to Halong Bay and then reserved it to the tune of $125.00 each for a one overnight trip. Seriously, I thought I had taught him never to book through the hotel before checking the plethora of travel agencies, but this is the second time he has made this mistake this trip. It seems that the disaster with the trip in Cambodia would have reverberated in his mind, but nope.
Hanoi is as overloaded with traffic as all of the other cities. Being tired and beyond irritable, road rage was setting in even if I lacked a vehicle. The thoughts of jutting out my arm continually until I hit some motorcyclist kept running through my mind. Air pollution is only beat out by the noise pollution straining my nerves. Sidewalks are either occupied as intermittent restaurants with nursery school chairs or as a parking garage for motorcycles, forcing pedestrians to walk in the streets where they are human traffic cones.
We were really at a loss as to how to spend the day today having covered the major sights and attractions already, which is really a short list. We had passed the zoo on the city tour, but it had heartbreak hotel written all over it, so it was not a way to have a happy ending here. We both had different ideas for breakfast and thankfully many restaurants offer a variety of menus including Vietnamese, American, British, and even Mexican breakfast options. We went to the one offering French toast as well as a breakfast burrito settling for these choices. We chose well, both being satiated, we went back to the market to get t-shirts.
Strategically planning the door to enter closest to the clothes, we were able to avoid being mauled or maimed while at the same time avoiding mauling and maiming anyone trying to grab us. Successfully buying two t-shirts and one pullover with smiles and the rewarding feeling for the sales people as well as ourselves, we left to walk the city. I had found a stuffed dragon made by the Hmong people in one shop, but was not thrilled with the color. We went in hunt of another dragon of a different color. Searching high and low over blocks and blocks of shops, it seemed this type of craftsmanship was limited to the only store I saw it in. We walked a couple of miles in the meanwhile in a much longer period of time than it would normally take since it is usual for sidewalks to be parking lots for motorcycles or temporary restaurants, causing detours into the street where you have to play Ping with traffic. Crossing the street is another time waster; it reminds you of an old television show called “This Is Your Life”.
Ron had read about an ice cream parlor that is French owned while supposedly serving the best ice cream in the city. We sought it out and placed our orders. He was more gracious with his compliments than I was, but I did not think my choices were all that flavorful. While we were sitting there, it started to sprinkle. We were hoping for some rain as the sky had been overcast for a couple of days and the humidity was in the 80-90 percentile each day making it feel unusually warm with the heat and pollution from six million motorcycles.
Meandering back to the hotel, we had decided to buy tickets for the Vietnamese Golden Dragon Water Puppet Theater, the only water puppet show in the world, so they claim. Tickets were $4.00 each and the hotel sold them. The show was at 6:30 or 8:00 pm, so we chose the early show and had planned on a restaurant nearby for afterward. In the meanwhile, we read, wrote, and planned the rest of our trip out.
I was checking e-mail here at the hotel, where they had a cable I could hook up to my computer; no wireless was available. When I work off of the battery, the computer is extraordinarily slow. After minutes, Outlook finally opened and the mail downloaded rather quickly being a high speed connection. I spotted an e-mail from my editor, which was a stab in my stomach. I had submitted my manuscript, if is it is still called a manuscript when it is a travel guide, on October 8th getting an immediate response thanking me for getting it in weeks early. I had then written him a couple of times before leaving having concerns about rewrites, but never received a response. Having fifty percent Italian DNA, I worried obsessively that there were so many things wrong with the book they had not decided not to use it and did not know how to break the news to me. Until we left for the trip, I was panic stricken about not getting a response, but miraculously when the trip started, I was able to let it go completely. Now, with a week left of vacation, the e-mail I had waited months for has arrived. Outlook corrupted and would not open any of my mail. Grrrrrrrr…
We walked to the puppet show not exactly sure of the location, but Ron with his map in hand and after asking for directions a couple of times, we found it. I had imagined a water puppet show as puppets being hung down over a pool of water, not really remarkable, but could be interesting. There was no preparation for what we saw, which was phenomenal. On the stage on either side sat three musicians: two woman and one man on the left and two men and one woman on the right. Center stage was an oversized red and gold temple type building sitting on a large pool of river water. The water was as muddy as the actual river making it as opaque as a black cat in the dark on a moonless night. The water had some other props as well. We half expected the temple to be the stage for the puppets, but wrong again. The water was the stage as many of the puppets emerged from the sides of the temple while others came from the water directly. Puppet dragons broke the water’s surface along with fish and ducks. People entered the fluid stage from the sides. There were seventeen vignettes in all accompanied by the musicians playing instruments and being the voices of the characters. Even without language, it was enthralling. All of the tourists were flummoxed as to how the puppeteers performed these feats. It seemed possible that they were all under water manipulating the puppets upward, but there were not enough disturbances on the waters surface to betray someone below. In addition to this, there were no air bubbles rising to the top to betray breathing apparatus below. When the show was over, the puppeteers came out for a bow, all ten of them. They were in the water, but only wet from the waist down. Their chests and heads were dry as a bone. The magic continues, for us, anyway.
Around the corner and two blocks away was the restaurant the hotel recommended. When we reached it, there was a crowd of about forty people waiting to be seated. We took a taxi home again and ate locally.
When we returned to the hotel, I booted up the computer and tried the Internet and Outlook yet again. Finally, it worked and I was able to open the letter from my editor.
“Hi, Ryan,
At long last, I'm getting back to you. I apologize for the delays. It was ridiculously busy around here in November and December, and I realized that I never emailed you in the chaos leading up to the holiday break...
I assume you were busy with end-of-the semester activities, so hopefully not hearing from me was a blessing in disguise... The good news is that things went smoothly on my end and I've already shipped files off to the copyeditor. I think the book's in great shape, and I'm pleased with all the work you did... I mentioned earlier that I didn't think I'd have a long list of queries for you, which turned out to be true, though I do now have one substantial query here for you, and I hope you'll bear with me and this tardy request: I'm wondering if you could rework the introduction in chapter one. I think you did a nice job of explaining how you came to live in Budapest, which is just what I requested, but I think you maybe steered a bit too far off the topic of the city and what it's like to live there now. I think this would be a good opportunity to discuss what the city was like when you first got there and sum up how you've seen it change, with a few historical references thrown in. I would possibly cut the story about September 11th and shorten up your "getting there" story to 1 to 3 sentences and then focus the intro on living in Budapest, since your stories of teaching courses, opening up a B&B, etc., would be more interesting to readers... Also, anything you could add about Budapest *right now* as opposed to even a few years ago would be great to include. I know you added a lot of these notes and observations in the What's New chapter, but unfortunately, I had to cut some of those anecdotes to tighten the chapter (and keep us on page count). I'm attaching a copy of the current What's New chapter so you can see its final form, and I'm pasting your original chapter 1 intro below for reference... Please let me know if you're game for reworking this intro; again, it shouldn't be more than a page and a half, but I think it contributes a lot towards setting a tone for the book, introducing you as the writer and getting the reader excited about the book; so I think it's important to get it right, and I apologize if my initial instructions didn't help us to do that on the first take... Would it be possible to get a new introduction by the end of this month? Please let me know... I hope all is well, and hope you enjoyed the holidays... Best, Steve”
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There is nothing about this hotel that has not charmed us. The services are excellent, the room has plenty of room, and the television gets over 50 channels, one of which is BBC, so we were able to get Iowa caucus news. The furniture is good quality, not cheap junk and the mattresses are superb.
Breakfast is included, so I was able to get an omelet with a roll and coffee. The amount of butter was nearly humorous that for such a tiny bit they would bother dirtying a dish. Ron asked for some jam and it is 2 cents extra. No complaints, it is just a funny cultural difference.
At 9:00 am, while we were eating, our bicycle tuk-tuk driver was waiting outside for us, like a puppy waiting for a scrap from the table. We were the scraps he wanted. We had arranged for 10:00, but he must have been fearful we would skip out on him. He most likely was casing the place guarding all of our escape routes. We went out to tell him we had to rearrange our hotel in Ho Chi Minh City; Ron had the dates wrong and we were scheduled to check-in today. The reception was kind enough to call and make the changes. He was happy to wait for us and he had a friend with him. There was no way the two of us would last in one tuk-tuk for a long distance ride without one or both of us either falling out or becoming crippled along the way.
We asked our main ‘driver’ his name three times, but each time, neither of us could understand what he said, but is sounded something like Mack. Between us, this is what we called him. He has a stuttering problem in English and in Vietnamese. Watching his face when he is speaking his mother tongue, you can see he struggles at times, his head goes downward and his face contorts. Regardless, we were off to the mountain and the temples. We agreed on 80,000 Dong each since we had two ‘drivers’.
Riding a regular bicycle with someone sitting on the bar is plenty of exertion, but to have a cart attached with a 6 foot 1 inch man adding weight is enough to make me want a rest just thinking about it. For him, it was effortless and we sped through town to go tell it on the mountain over the river and through the water buffalo fields, through hill and dale. The ride was approximately twenty minutes long before he parked his vehicle and said we would walk from here. Here was an area filled with temples, Buddhist temples. As we entered the first temple, I put my cigarette out and was able to take my shoes off to enter, but Mack said not to bother. Unlike in Thailand and Cambodia, they do not remove their shoes when entering the temples. The caretaker was walking around smoking a cigarette, which shocked both of us, but Mack said in Vietnam you can smoke anywhere. I had an instant picture of a Catholic priest offering the Eucharist with a cigarette dangling from his mouth and started to chuckle.
Each of the temples was dazzling in its own way and Mack was great about explaining things to us. Many of the monk caregivers from each temple are buried within the temple and a memorial is set up for each of them. Photos were allowed in every temple except the main one. You could smoke in it, but not photograph it. One of the Buddhas looked like a Las Vegas night show, with a robe that lit up and behind his head a rotating color wheel of reds, oranges, and greens. We dubbed him the Elvis Buddha as irreverent as that may be, he did look entertaining, though from our western perspective, really tacky. Along with Buddha, there were female statues, which presumable were Kwan Yin. She is frequently portrayed as a slender woman in flowing white robes who carries a white lotus in her left hand, an abiding symbol of purity of heart and spirit. Some answers to our questions we received from Mack were incomprehensible and rather than embarrass him by asking him to repeat it multiple times. We had to piecemeal information we could understand.
Outside the largest temple, there was a little boy running around with a strange haircut. He had patches of hair on each side of the head, while the rest of his head was close to shaved. Mack explained that the family has dedicated him to the temple. The temple was an active place with dozens of people bringing in offerings, lighting incense and praying. It turns out that this is a normal day’s business and all of the surrounding shops sell flowers and baskets of food for people to buy for offerings in the temple. If I lived here, I would have to seriously look into Buddhism. A peaceful calm comes over me when I am in a temple.
We did not make it completely up the mountain as Mack has planned since the temples are less ornate as you climb higher, so it did not make much sense to go further when we have seen the best first. When reaching the bottom, we stopped for noodle soup. My pork noodle soup had kidney or liver in it and I was more than willing to share it with the two Chihuahuas running around the place.
On the ride back, we saw water buffalos grazing in front yards, houses on stilts, woman cooking from portable pots, and other cultural iconography making this country stand out from the rest and ultimately charming. We had Mack drop us off at the hotel, but he had convinced us we should take a boat ride to see fish farming, the only Muslim mosque in the area, and a small indigenous group of people who are silk weavers. We agreed to be picked up at 2:30 giving us a chance to get our butts back in shape before taking off again.
Mack was outside panting waiting our return by 2:00. We both managed to fit into his cart by facing each other and we took off to the dock. We boarded a boat, the three of us with the woman who was our captain. First stop was a fish farm. Interestingly, there are many houses that are built on stilts out on the river. The only access to them or from them is by boat, but whole families live here full time, usually fishermen. Some even have dogs, but I cannot figure how they walk it or train it for that matter.
The fish farm is one such building as the houses, but with racks for floors that are lifted up with thousands of fish kept confined. Mack fed them to show the tremendous reception they give for food. When they reach a certain size, they are transferred to another holding area, all the while kept in their native waters, the river.
The next stop was the silk weavers and for the life of us, we could not understand why these people were special. After many futile attempts, we gave us asking for an explanation we could understand. Where our boat docked, it was incredibly high getting from the boat to the dock. With my bad hip, it was impossible for me to lift my leg that high, so wanted Ron to go without me. Mack would not hear of this and I thought he was going to lift me himself, but being half my size, I am appreciative he did not try. I had to sit on the dock first and get up from there. Embarrassing moments are part of the game of travel.
In this community, all of the men wear sarongs, not pants. Within minutes, Ron had a sarong wrapped around him, a silk scarf around his neck and a hat on his head. In the time it took me to take his picture with both our cameras, I was being costumed also. Excellent craftsmanship, beautiful colors, but not something we would go around wearing in Hungary or the U.S. for that matter. With disappointed looks at their lack of a sale, we disrobed, said thanks for the chuckle and moved onward to the mosque in the area. All of the while, we were surrounded by fifteen little girls trying their best to get us to buy their waffles. They look like Belgium waffles, but have different fruits in them. Ron succumbed to one little girl unbeknownst to me, while I was promising I would buy 7 quarters of waffle for $1.00 from another little girl when we returned. I was hoping to shed her like dead fur.
When we returned from the mosque, my little parasite was ready to storm me for her dollar, having no other diversion than to wait for my return. When I looked for a dollar, I did not have one, only a ten and was not about to give it up expecting change. Her face was heartbreaking, so I gave her more than enough for two quarters of waffles and then gave her all of my change besides without expecting yet more goodies in return. She was still clearly disappointed. I seem to think she could not return home until her quota was filled for the day.
Yet another little one latched on to me and begged sorrowfully for me to buy from her too and would not take no for an answer. Just as we were going down the plank, another tourist was approaching and I suggested she try him instead. Like a mechanical robot, she changed direction and attention to target this newest victim.
After we headed back, we decided to walk around, so said our good-byes to Mack giving him his requested amount of money and a large tip besides. He was truly thankful. His plan is to ride for one more year and then leave the country to study English in Great Britain. We wish him luck.
Yearning for a good cup of coffee, we asked at the hotel for a recommendation. It was a distance away, but we walked needing to flex our muscles. The ‘good’ coffee is an individual French pot type device that sits over a glass. There are no lattes, so ordering a white coffee means the coffee drips into condensed milk. Aside from not being what I really want, it was tasty with the right amount of sweetness from the milk.
When I used the bathroom, the toilet was an American Standard brand. The lid on the tank was cracked and the toilet had no seat. The cracked lid with the brand name, conjured up metaphors in my mind about the broken American standards in the country now and especially with primaries starting to take place.
They tried overcharging us and we are not certain if it was an accident or not, but 10,000 Dong is a big mistake. Fortunately, they had left the menus on the table so I could show the waiter the costs of what we had and why the bill was wrong, because he did not speak English.
By the time we walked back to the hotel, the sidewalk restaurants and portable kitchens were invading any free space usually reserved for walking, so it was a dodge ‘em game with the traffic getting back.
For dinner, we decided to ask the desk clerk for a recommendation and he gave us three, each out of walking distance. Not surprisingly, there were two tuk-tuk drivers outside the hotel door pleading for business. We hired both of them to go to the first restaurant on the list. As a good sign, it was filled with locals and we were the only obvious foreigners there. As usual, I have problems finding things on a menu I can eat throughout Asia, because I am highly allergic to fish. That rules out not only the obvious fish, but all things cooked in fish sauce also, which is often the case with beef or pork dishes. I had three options on this menu; however, I could have ordered squid, frogs, snails or snake, but I am just not that adventurous before a major bus trip in the very near future. My beef with sesame was served with a salad. My rule of thumb is not to eat any fruit or vegetable that does not need to be peeled unless the menu specifies it was washed in pure water. Out of the salad, I ate the onions and cucumbers, left behind the lettuce and tomatoes.
Tomorrow, we leave for Ho Chi Minh City on a five hour bus ride on a bus without a bathroom. NPO (nothing by mouth) for me after 9:00 pm.
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The hotel gets one credit in its favor. The wake up call was on time and it was a real person, not a recorded message. We raced through showering, went up for breakfast and was treated to some unusual sights along the riverfront. There was a large group of people doing their exercises as a group not far from the hotel. About ten minutes later, Ron spotted an elephant walking down the street. There was a man walking along side of it, but not riding it. The elephant was meandering down the street like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Every time I see Caucasians walking the streets, especially single women, I wonder if they knew what Cambodia was like, are they disappointed or overwhelmed, and then I wonder where they have been, and where they are going. The same thoughts about expectations occur to me about myself. I still have not processed it fully, but I have found it more intense than Malaysia, definitely in a positive way. There is a liveliness amongst the dirt, the chaos, the poverty that is energetic. There is no way to describe the traffic other than sheer madness. Regardless of whether it is a two or four lane road, there are no lines and seemingly no rules. Everyone drives wherever they can find room to fit between other cars, scooters, or bicycles without regard to what direction anyone else is going in. It is a combination of Italian and Egyptian driving taking the most negative of both.
Obediently, we made it to the lobby by 6:50 am only to be told, we would not leave until 7:30 am giving us time for breakfast. We had already shoveled it down, so only had to wait for our ride. We were transported in a new Toyota equipped with GPS and a steering wheel inlaid with wood. Our very young driver, a replacement for the one we were told would drive us, was competent and had the patience of Job to drive this route. It was not until the last ten minutes of the 1 ½ hour trip that the road was paved. We passed innumerable schools, so there were hundreds of children of all ages in white tops and blue pants or skirts, competing with road space with motorcycles and cars. We were praying for their safety, but they all looked like seasoned commuters trailblazing their way to their destination. There is not four turns of the wheels without hitting a pothole; in some places the entire road is dug out making it like driving through a valley before reaching street level once again.
Arriving at our destination seemed to be a mistake at first; it looked like someone’s battered car mechanic’s garage. Our driver assured us this was the correct place to be and waited for the young man there to get Vietnam forms for us. We filled out entry and exit forms and another list in triplicate. We were left sitting on benches in this dirt yard with a rundown corrugated metal building in front of us, not knowing if there was a river nearby. The driver told us before he left that the boat would arrive at 10:00 am, an hour yet to go. An hour’s sleep missed out on…
As the clock reached 10:00, other buses arrived and dropped off bedraggled travelers. In total, there were six of us and it was time to board the boat from behind this curious establishment. The luxury boat we were sold on was less than such. Carrying our luggage precariously down a gangplank of a dubious nature, we boarded a boat with two long wooden benches down each side. The crew, a family of father, wife, and son were more than pleasant and pleased to have the work. The deck we were promised to walk around was there, but the information missing was that the deck was only one foot wide, no barrier between you and the river, and a handrail at eye level. The upper deck was only accessible by maneuvering this width challenged deck as was the toilet, neither of which I had any intentions of negotiating.
With the challenges of getting to the toilet, I became obsessed with having to use it, willing myself not to have a need, but worrying about how I would get to it if I did. If I fell off of the deck, how long would it take for anyone to realize it? I used all of my mental energy trying not to concentrate on bodily functions, but when told not to think about pink elephants, they always appear.
The beautiful scenery was as valid as the deck to walk around. It was not unattractive, just repetitiously green with trees. I forgot to mention that I used to have nightly dreams about drowning while on a boat. It all started after watching the original version of the Titanic, but in my nightmares the boat is always less pretentious and similar to the one we are on. Therefore, I immediately notice there are no lifejackets and swimming to either side of the river are beyond my lung capabilities even if I had never touched tobacco in my life and only floated on my back.
Our travel companions were a mother and daughter from The Netherlands plus a Swiss couple. We are not sure of their relationship, but he had his big toe painted red on one foot and all of his toenails except the big toe painted red on the other foot. One toe had a ring on it and his left earlobe had a dime size hole in it sans an ear stretcher. My only resource for avoiding drowning and bathroom thoughts was to stretch out trying to sleep on the wood bench. Most of the others went to the ‘upper deck’. When I did snatch a snooze, I had dreams of the boat overturning, not good. The journey was 2 ½ hours before we pulled up to shore. I was hoping it was for a bathroom break and stretch, but it was Cambodian Passport Control. We filed out to show our passports; it was relatively easy. The guard looked at our Visa, pulled out our Exit card and then stamped it with so many rubber stamps; it would make the Hungarians jealous.
We were herded back on the boat, sailed for another ten minutes and docked again. This time we had to take our luggage with us for Vietnam Passport Control and Customs. The plank to reach shore was about the size of a balance beam in gym class. Being able to get over this with luggage in both hands should have qualified all of us for an Olympic gymnastics team. Once over this toothpick of a board, we had to climb rocks and eroded shoreline to get to the top. I guess if you can make it, you deserve to enter the country. This may be their endurance test for entry.
After handing over our passports to a guard who looks them over, we get waved on to a building to have them stamp, stamp, and stamp again. We all passed with flying colors, and then there was Ron. There was a problem with his Visa, but we could not understand the problem. I was told to continue on, but could see him from where I was told to go. I had to pay another $1.00 for some reason; the Visa already cost $20.00 from the Embassy.
We had all had our passports stamped, but Ron was still waiting to pass GO. Finally, he was told he could pass. The problem it turns out was that the Embassy put 2007 for his entry and exit dates, not 2008. Mine was done correctly, but we never caught it when we picked them up.
A very beautiful young Vietnamese woman shepherded us to a ‘restaurant’ where we had to wait for them to do yet something else to our passports, probably check them against wartime or CIA records. During this wait time, we were encouraged to order lunch, but I still had bowel-kidney obsession, so passed on that offer.
When it was time to re-board the boat, it was now a Vietnamese boat with a different crew. Actually, the boat was slightly nicer with eight sets of double seats with a narrow walkway down the center. Not having an upper viewing deck, they did have a back deck, but with no room for luggage, I was wedged in and holding tightly. This portion of the journey had a young woman working it. Her exact role was unclear, but she collected tickets from the passengers. Two Australians were added to our group. Their Visa did not start until January 3, but they showed up on January 2nd and were not able to cross. The tour guide took them home, gave them dinner, a place to sleep, and breakfast before returning them to the boat today.
This section of the river was narrow enough to make getting to either side easily accessible doing the doggie paddle. At last I could let go of one fear. The views were interesting to say the least. We witnessed water buffaloes being washed in the river; people fishing with huge nets, ducks caged on the water, children swimming in the mud brown water, and families out for a boat journey to who knows where. It made the last two hours of the trip captivating.
Reaching land, we were greeted by young men who wanted to be our drivers to our hotel. Their version of a tuk-tuk here is a bicycle with a wooden seat in the back. Ron and I crammed into one with our luggage, Ron hanging over the edge. Fortunately, it was not far to the hotel. We found out hotel by chance on a site called travelfish.org. It had some good reviews, so we booked it for two nights. We are at the Trung Nguyen Hotel 86 Bach Dang in Chau Doc for $15.00 a night, we have a spacious double bed room (they call these twins, but the beds are double sized), a TV with over 50 channels and free WiFi. Tile covers the floor in the room and decorative tiles adorn the bathroom. Breakfast is included. We have a balcony with two chairs and it is air conditioned. We were really lucky with this one.
After consulting the guide, we were headed out of the hotel for dinner. Our tuk-tuk driver was waiting for us and wanted to ‘drive’ us. Since it was only two blocks away, we declined. He promised to find us again. We went to a local restaurant that was empty on our arrival, but had a waiting group of people when we left. The food was tasty and plentiful, while the cost was cheap. However, the friends who had lived here told us we should bring plenty of American singles with us to pay for things since they are regarded higher than the Vietnamese currency, the Dong. When we asked at the hotel if it was true, we were told that hotels you can pay in dollars, but restaurants and markets you have to use Dong. Gosh dang it or gosh Dong it, we purposefully took out extra dollars from the ATM in Cambodia to have US dollars. Their ATMs only spit out dollars if you don’t have a local account. If we had known, we would have waited until we arrived here.
Being full from dinner, we did a walk around. The night market was still active at 7:30pm, although not all stalls have electricity, so they sell in the dark. The city is still active in early evening with people setting up make-shift kitchens on the street or sidewalks and plunking down nursery school sized chairs at miniature fold up tables for their patrons. The cultural differences are alarming at times, yet the resourcefulness is ingenious.
In search of a larger hotel where our chances of getting a coffee would be better, we found a restaurant/guesthouse that serves coffee. We were not there longer than five minutes when our tuk-tuk driver shows up with a fare he was dropping off at this restaurant. Losing him is like trying to shake a summer cold. He sat down with us like he had been invited. His voice and accent are as jarring as a mosquito when you are just falling asleep, yet he did hook us into a trip tomorrow. We arranged for 10:00 am.
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