Vietnam By Train: Part IV

After trekking through the terraced mountains, we climbed back aboard the train, headed back to Hanoi, then south to Hué (pronounced Hway), a small city in the center of Vietnam, dense with history. It seems almost half the city is contained within the walls of the Citadel, the royal capital of Vietnam’s ousted monarchy.

Inside the stone gate, neighborhoods, moats, and pagodas all surround the Forbidden Purple City, the complex once accessible only to the Nguyen kings and his concubines and eunichs. I expected a maze of opulent palaces; I found a grassy field. Fighting during the American War 40 years ago virtually razed the Forbidden City, and like most things unrelated to the Communist party, little has been done to restore it.

The liveliest part of the grounds is the massive koi ponds near the main entrance, where young Vietnamese feed bread to giant fish who flap and scramble over each other, mouths agape, trying to catch the crumbs.

Beyond the palace, Hue is a city remembered for the horrors it endured during the Vietnam War. This legacy is still palpable. The Demilitarized Zone that separated the capitalist south and communist north for much of the mid-20th century is located a few dozen kilometers north. The city bore the brunt of battles along this border, and, today, disgruntled South Vietnamese veterans lead tours to the area, and openly discuss their anger with both the south and the Americans for their abandonment, and the north for their post-war “re-education camps” and prejudicial policies.

Other vets earn their living on the roadside, selling casings from exploded land mines and dog tags belonging, supposedly, to dead American soldiers. Its morbid tourism at its saddest, and made us wonder whether someday I’ll be touring the eastern region of Iran, that was once called Iraq, where locals scrape by selling Hum-V shrapnel. It's an odd mix of history, and one worth experiencing during a trip down Vietnam.

One of the best parts of the Hue visit was renting a motorbike and exploring the nearby surroundings. For $4, plus gas, I headed to Thuan An Bien Gua, a nearby island with chilly, empty beaches strewn with canoes and lined by giant, crashing waves. Equal parts stark and beautiful, fittingly, it looked like a movie set for a grim beach side battle.

Vietnam By Train: Part III

After returning to Hanoi from Halong Bay, we rode our first overnight train northwest to Sapa, the mountainous town famous for its proximity to Fansipan, Vietnam’s tallest mountain, and for the ubiquity of indigenous tribes.

Riding Vietnam’s national railroad is an experience in itself, and during my travels through the country, we slept on four trains. Cars range from whimsical, antique wooden boxes that look like something straight out of Darjeeling Limited to dingy, plastic cells with mattresses covered in hair.

True story—we found a bottle of warm urine resting on the windowsill in one of our rooms.

Once, our Vietnamese roommate snored louder than the locomotive engine. We also got screwed into paying the same for a six-bed car as others paid for a four-bed car. And unless you enjoy sleeping on a hard slab of plastic, stacked like Chinese businessmen in Kramer’s dresser, I suggest you always book a four-bed “soft bed” car.

Nonetheless, overnight trains are an efficient and fun way to experience the country. There’s nothing that says “I’m in Vietnam” quite like waking up at 6 a.m. to a touching story about Ho Chi Minh’s humble beginnings blaring from a speaker beside your head.

I arrived in Sapa, and walked out into the brisk mountain air. The town is frigid by Southeast Asia standards, and almost always foggy. Young Black Hmong women dressed in traditional woven dresses take tourists from the main town trekking through the villages that dot the mountainside.

Along the way, Hmong as well as ethnic Red Dzao villagers help you inch along the banks of terraced rice paddies. Small women with strong hands guided me along—a veritable giant compared to them—preventing me from falling face first into a muddy pool of water.

The villagers also try to sell you crafts—aggressively. Be prepared for a serious racket, although the people are equally helpful and welcoming as they are entrepreneurial. The prevalence of tourists has certainly changed the traditional way of life for the hill tribes, and one can make arguments that this is both good and bad.

Either way, most of the villages in the area remain outside the tourist path, and those inside it are trained businesspeople who are certainly doing well for themselves. Each of the villages closest to Sapa have many home stays, and by purchasing a $25 tour in town, you get a guide, a soft bed, three delicious meals, and an evening with a kind, welcoming family.

Vietnam By Train: Part 2

From Hanoi, we headed east to Halong Bay. More than 3,000 limestone islands jut out of the Gulf of Tonkin.
Like many UNESCO sites, the beauty of Halong Bay is constantly at odds with the ugliness of heavy tourism. Its adjacent city is the worst of rapid, unchecked development, with hideous high rises abutting massage parlors and slums. The bay itself is littered with “junk boats,” heavy wooden boats that ferry tourists through the maze of islands. The antique boats themselves look quite beautiful lumbering through the water, there is simply too many of them. Often, the iridescent glean of oil is visible on the water, and I floated past empty bottles and debris.

Tours through Halong usually cost between $32 and $56, and include three meals, transport from Hanoi, and an overnight junk boat stay. In our experience, there’s little difference between the cheaper and pricier rates. The only discernible distinction on our boat was that the first-class group was served a shrimp cocktail with their meal. Unless you’re willing to pay $30 for a shrimp cocktail, go cheap.

Tours also include stops at one of the bay’s many cliff-side caves and the use of kayaks. Paddling our small slab of buoyant plastic away from the crowds is probably the only time we could appreciate Halong’s beauty without throngs of fellow tourists. But the place is so freaking beautiful, it makes sense that so many people trek out to see it.

My travel companion is the kind of person who must always go the longest distance, paddle as far as we can, try and find the most beautiful, isolated spot, and really soak it all. He always challenges me to make the most of experiences, and although I sometimes complain in the process, I'm usually really grateful for it. This time, he paddled us both far from the crowd, where we enjoyed tasty bottles of Beer Hanoi and watched the sunset over the bay. It's a moment I'll remember for a long time.

Vietnam by train: part 1

Spoiled travelers around these parts often complain of desensitization. I still generally find myself in awe of the world and want to keep it that way. Still, I bet even the most seasoned whiners in Southeast Asia cannot deny the beauty of Hanoi. Although I'm sure they'll whine about all the hostels there these days.

For the first two weeks of January, Stephen and I traveled from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City by train. We flew from Phnom Penh to Hanoi, and, immediately, the Vietnamese capital exceeded all my expectations. We arrived in the midst of a pre-Tet (lunar New Year) celebration, and intricate, carefully manicured gardens and giant dragons made entirely of red chillis and flower blossoms lined the streets. Vendors lined the narrow streets, selling bowls of steaming pho and two-cent glasses of ice-cold local beer. In the midst of all these pleasures are constant reminders of the country's history and political state. Political propaganda—posters, flags, and images of Ho Chi Minh’s face are plastered virtually everywhere.

Other than all the giant, red signs, green is the most common color in Hanoi. In Asia, the “pave paradise, put up a parking lot” ethos is often an unironic way of life. Historic buildings are demolished and replaced with high rises; lakes filled and parks razed to make way for new developments. In Vietnam, a country that spent most of the last century at war, it’s amazing that its centuries-old architecture—and trees—somehow managed to survive.

Whenever we travel, Steve usually develops an objective/obsession with one sight he wants to see. In Hanoi, this was Ho Chi Minh’s Mosoleum. Arrive early. We learned this lesson the hard way, showing up too late one morning and having to return a few days later. Visitors can view the preserved corpse of communist Vietnam’s founder from 8 to 10 a.m. every day of the week except Monday. Locals take the ritual seriously, and dress in formal attire. After viewing the body, which resembles a Madam Tussaud’s wax replica, we headed to the adjacent Ho Chi Minh Museum, which is open all day, and contains loads of interesting war-era documents and artifacts, as well as odd modern art installations exalting the communist struggle. This is no place for someone who finds a particular political ideology offensive. Nor is Vietnam, for that matter.

After the mausoleum, Lenin Park is probably the second-biggest and most ornate homage to communism. It is anchored by a giant statue of the father of Soviet Russia, communist Vietnam’s benefactor and great friend. Inside, groups of women in track suits practiced aerobics in unison, kids played soccer, and lovers cuddled on benches looking out over Bay Mau Lake. In other parks around town, we spotted old men in fedoras and berets sitting on the sidewalks playing Tien Len, a traditional Vietnamese card game. We also saw a mid-day cockfight.