Venturing toward Vietnam

We absquatulated from the cultural traipsing to enjoy some well earned relaxation on the South coast of Cambodia, revelling in our exotic global conference in an appropriately luxurious setting. We stopped off in Sihnaoukville which is the surrupticious gateway to Koh Rong, a little known backpacker island jaunt off the coast, and coinsided this pitstop perfectly with a well timed rain and thunderstorm as we wallowed in the shallows off the beach. A rickety old boat took us and some beers two hours South into the seas, and we arrived on a tiny paradisiacal white sand beach. Cambodia had been somewhat shockingly expensive so far, when compared with the furious frugality of India, especially as everything is dealt with by the dollar, and our $35/night beach hut was no exception. However, the ten metre proximity with the sonorous gentle lapping of the sea really made it a steal...

Rising for yoga at dawn was a celestial breeze, and sunrises on the deserted early morning beach were beyond radiant. We ate exquisitely well, hula hooped on the beach and sipped beers in charming little sylvan shacks. The steadily increasing amorous (I think) raillery reached new heights in our solitary trio and Josh and I were bickering benevolently like borderline violent siblings. From the all too frequent assertions, I think people may have began to think my name was actually 'sket...'.

Two more nights in Sinaoukville at the quaint wooded labyrinth hostel Footprints concluded our time in Cambodia. We boarded an ill-fated bus bound for Viet Nam which proceeded to break down in the darkness aside a dusty deserted old road. The ill-tempered drivers suited the scenario impeccably. When our sweaty worn out forms crested the busy skyline of Ho Chi Min City, previously known under French jurisdiction as Sai Gon, the other three members of our caravan sought out a beastly Burger King before we headed for our hostel. Having checked in, we headed for the botanical gardens having been utterly fleeced by an insidious quadret of cyclo riders. However, the ride was devillishly fun and we laughed gaily as we careered in convoy through the rushing traffic. The botanical gardens turned out to be linked to a city centre zoo which we sensibly opted to avoid, instead venturing into a bizzare museum which seemed to be loosely trying to chronicle the anthropological history of South Viet Nam. The day was capped off by langourously relaxing in the humidity with beers at a swanky streetside bar whilst being gently massaged by a passing hawker for the equivalent of three pounds. I didn't even feel bad.

I woke early next morming for a solitary trip to the nearby Cu Chi tunnels. During the Viet Nam war, the communist North and its guerilla Viet Cong army stealithily snuck soldiers and supplies down the forested Ho Chi Min trail which at the height of combat snaked 10,000km down the Western coast of Viet Nam occasionally dipping into Laos and Cambodia unfortunately sealing their fate in the crossfire of the conflict. The Cong became infamous and deeply feared for their subversive tactics utilising all of nature's offerings in their weaponary from traps to tree trips wires. The Cu Chi tunnels were dug over 25 years to house 16,000 Viet Cong in their subterranean holes. The dizzying matrix included homes, schools, meeting rooms, supply stores, rudimentary hospitals and functioned as robust underground lodgings for the left opposition to battle the Southern armies and their mercinary Americans with Russian rifles running around using Chinese torches. The brief and somwhat passé picture we were required to watch initially, alongside our overzealous guide, were in no way reserved with their rigorous reproach for the evil American imperialists who 'like a crazy batch of bats' attacked Viet Nam's people, making me all of a sudden deeply greatful for my irrefutable Bristish accent which having come recently from India was a refreshing change. This time I was free of the imperial interference implicit of Western inclusion in recent Eastern history.

Discussing tactics

No more than 40cm in width, the tunnels were wide enough for surrupticious Vietnamese soldiers to slip through, and anything but a possiblity for many of the turgid Western men in our cohort. The Cong utilised a myriad of clever adaptations to attempt to make life underground as comfortable and safe as possible. Disguised airholes provided ventillation, particularly whilst cooking which was done only at dawn when mist and fog concealed the smoke. The relentless bombing overhead caused frequent casualties but also served to strengthen the clay rich soil fortifying the Cong's strong hold inadvertently and providing smooth tracks for the down pours of rain to sweep quickly through and out preventing flooding. Exploded shells were recycled into rudimentary but devestating bombs to use in ironic retaliation against the ememy. I took the oppourtunity to gingerly lower myself into one of the tiny holes, shutting the small clandestine wooden lid over my head, which would have been scattered with leaves to prevent detection, and was submerged in a damp and disquieting quiet environment for but a few dark moments, imgaining darting off in combat, before I happily reemerged into normality. It was a staggering trip which offered a stark perspective on the sacrifices and hardships endured by the Cong, and the terrifyingly grisly yet resourceful guerilla prowess encounteres by the enemy.

 

I really loved Ho Chi Min City and the amiable buzz from its warm and helpful inhabitats. Refusing the offer of a taxi was a simple yes no affair with no fear of unrelenting repatition and bombardment. The abundance of motorbikes, perhaps 6 million for the 9 million people that populate the city were a maddening din which provided endless fun dodging the oncoming throng to simply cross a road. On my final evening, our caravansary cohort caught an eccentric little endemic water puppet show expertly organised by Mia (the trip that is, not the show itself). An elderly 6 man band serenaded us with strident stringed instruments and played the voices of many towns folk as wooden idols threw themselves crazily around the little watery stage alongside cryptic Vietnemese narration. An excellent adventure, slightly improved by the sneaky beers we'd smuggled in and some adlib narration of our own. I left Mia and Josh to begin my journey North, and regrettably I was going to miss Josh's acerbic vitriol and malicious disdain, and Mia's friendship during my travels which included the inevitable ascertion she would always hold my tickets for me having organised our group travel. With a final goodbye embrace with Mia and a reluctant perfuntory hug from Josh I hopped onto the bus laden with lassis, cakes, crisps and other fancies to accompany some reclined book reading en route to Mui Ne. The buses in Viet Nam were a vast improvement on, well, anywhere I'd been so far and a drastic leap from transport in India, the steady improvement of which closely resembles the evolution of mankind from its early lumbering ape antiquity to the more sophisticated sauntering creature of today.