Riders on the storm

Salutations good citizens of the globe, it's time for another update from your local wandering drunkard.

Although, as far as the actual travelling goes there is little to report, as my last email was sent from the mountain town of Da Lat, and here we are a week or so later writing from, you guessed it, the mountain town of Da Lat. Our delay not due to mechanical failure for a change (though we have no shortage of those, which I shall detail shortly), but rather it's simply because we like it here. And the great thing about travelling for such a long time as we are is that if we like a place, there's no reason whatsoever to leave until we're bored of it.

Da Lat is a beautiful town, high in the hills and surrounding a peaceful lake. The town was originally settled by the French some 120 years ago and this reflects in the architecture, the general laid-back lifestyle and the glorious bakeries that can supply fresh baked baguettes at seven in the morning, and are still churning out delicious éclairs and cream cakes long after the sun goes down. Couple this to the utterly staggering hilltop landscapes, the waterfalls, the pagodas, the local malt and barley based refreshment (which is in some cases, literally cheaper than water) and food that's fiery enough to initialise a respectable thermonuclear reaction, and well, I could live here. For ever and a day.

Oh, and while we're on the subject of food, here's something that might amuse you. The Vietnamese word for “spicy” is “gay”, the pronunciation being exactly as you imagine. “Bring me my curry good waiter sir, and make it extra, extra GAY!”. “You heard me, as GAY as you can possibly make it!” snigger snigger. . .

Ok, enough of the Michael Palin crap. If you want a description of the towns I'm visiting, go pick up a book labelled “Vietnam”. I want to talk about weasels. Particularly, “Weasel Coffee” the chief product of the coffee plantation we visited just this afternoon. Funny name that, “Weasel Coffee”. Mr Bob was puzzled, in a part of the world known for tigers, elephants and all manner of other great and majestic critters, why would you select a singularly unglamorous rodent as your company mascot? Answer: It's not a mascot. There really is no way to sugar coat this one for you boys and girls, it's coffee, and it's made from weasel shit. “Bullshit!” I hear you cry. But nay, “Weasel Shit!” I shall retort.

Basically, it goes like this: wild weasels live in the area where coffee plantations were started, and these weasels will happily eat the fallen coffee beans. Sooner or later, somebody noticed that these beans emerge from the weasels only partially digested. And then, blind drunk, sickeningly perverted, or just outright mad, this person decided to brew up a batch of it. And thus, Weasel Coffee was born. In my mind, the business model must be structured something like this - 'Ok, so no one in their right mind would want to drink coffee made from weasel shit. However, there are in this big wide world, just enough people at any one time who are not in their right mind, for business to tick over just nicely'.

Did we try it? Of course we fucking tried it. One does not surrender one's home and all possessions to go exploring bizarre places and cultures, then wimp out when a man presents you with a mug of steaming brown liquid derived from a rodent's effluence. You take it like a man; black as sin, hot as hell and absolutely sans sucre. I guess it would spoil the fun if I told you what it tastes like. I'll tell you that it either A) was the finest and most flavoursome coffee I've ever had in my life. Or, B) It tasted exactly like weasel shit.

Only afterwards, when reading up a little, did I realise that I've already heard of this drink. It's a form of Kopi Luwak, renowned as the rarest and most expensive coffee in the world (ever seen the film 'The Bucket List'?). And this particular variety is the rarest of them all, there are only two farms in the world producing it, and they're both located right here in Da Lat. And it IS expensive. Ruinously expensive. Probably. In Europe. Here in Weasel Coffee's home town we got two cups of it (and the elaborate 15 minute brewing ceremony) for 200,000 Dong. About six quid.

God. My girlfriend will not be pleased. I'm supposed to be documenting all of the many incredible and exciting things we've done over the last week, and instead I've devoted a page of text to muttering about the consumption of mammalian excrement. Sorry. I'll do a quick round up:

Monday – Visited the Lihn Phuoc pagoda. Eight stories tall, decorated with recycled ceramics and incorporating a gigantic marble dragon.

Tuesday – Crazy House. Like a Salvador Dali painting dragged into the third dimension. Stairways that twist, carry you up across rooftops, then ultimately lead to nowhere. Rooms with doorways that a hobbit would have to crawl to pass through, and outbuildings inside hollowed trees. I can't explain this place well (and I believe that's the idea), just check out the photos.

Wednesday – Adventure day. Abseiled down five enormous waterfalls, jumped off/slid down several smaller ones and hiked up a very steep valley wall. Kudos to Miss Marie-Carmen by the way who, despite being bandaged with a twisted ankle, still volunteered five minutes later for sliding head first down a waterfall with no ropes or protective gear beyond a plastic helmet.

Thursday – Flower Garden. Just what it says on the tin, a vast botanical garden and park featuring a minimum of several varieties of flower and/or plant life. Sorry, I'm no botanist.

Friday - Truc Lam Pagoda. A peaceful and very pretty mountain temple accessed via a 2km cable car ride high over the forest and lake.

Saturday – Datanla Falls. Another awesome waterfall system. This time accessed via, of all things, a toboggan. I'm sure there's some dangerous and back breaking path that could take you there instead, but no, I'd rather climb in a single seat toboggan car, push the lever forward, and be at the bottom of the valley in less than two minutes with a massive grin on my face.

Sunday – Motorcycle adventuring. Da Lat is packed with local guides on motorcycles who collectively call themselves the 'Easy Riders', and today we recruited one, an old fella called “Heip” to take us on a whistle stop tour of some of the more obscure local sights. And boy did he deliver. Pagodas, tea plantations, silk factories, waterfalls, a rice whiskey distillery, “Weasel Coffee” plantation (did I mention that already?) all covered in a six hour blast. He even carried MC on his own bike too so poor Desmond got a rest from hauling the both of us around.

Ahh Desmond. I promised details and here they are. The front suspension has been repaired, the rear suspension has broken. The left indicator has been successfully reattached to the bike and the right indicator has fallen off. The crappy luggage rack has been discarded completely and a new , sturdier one custom built in a back alley metal workshop, it took the guy most of a day to make and he charged me a fiver. The ignition key abandoned ship on a bumpy road and is lost for good. Fortunately, the key from my luggage lock can be made to fit with a little jiggling and even better, my trusty penknife operates it just fine (you know that mysterious tool present on most Swiss army knives that legend has it has something to do with parting fish of their scales? Turns out that's not what it's for after all. Turns out it's actually a replacement ignition key for a 1992 Daelim VS. Those Swiss really do think of everything). Oh, and the tachometer has a mind of it's own; sometimes it works flawlessly, sometimes not at all and other times it just swings like a pendulum from zero to max and back again regardless of what the engine is actually doing.

And tomorrow is the day we leave, and work our way down to the beach resort of Nha Trang. Tomorrow is also the day, we are advised by the local newspaper, that an enormous typhoon will hit Nha Trang and begin working it's way inland. The precise opposite of the journey we intend on making. So, to recap, that's one very small, very ancient and fairly broken motorcycle, carrying two people and a lot of luggage, down steep mountain roads composed mainly of mud and rocks, directly in to the path of a fucking typhoon. What could possibly make this more dangerous? Perhaps I'll get drunk before setting out. . .

I've always harboured a suspicion that the Gods respect lunacy. Do something very dangerous and you'll probably get hurt. But go that bit further, do something ridiculously, absurdly dangerous, and the powers that be can't help but tip their hats to you, and godspeed you on your way. My theory anyway.

Lets see if it holds out.

Peace & Love,

Robb. x

PS. Mr Bob Vs the Mosquitoes score stands at 13 - 6 in my favour.

Interlude - The first travel - Should auld acquaintance be forgot...

Today, as Mr Bob is too busy enjoying the local Saigon Beer to bother writing a new letter, here is a random snippet of his last travel blog from almost three years ago while adventuring in India. . . 

Thursday December 30 2010, Old Delhi.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot. . . .

Today I saw a couple of famous objects. Items that I've spoken of by name probably a hundred of times over the last 10 years or so as a euphemism, but that I'd never dreamed I'd one day find myself face to face with. I suppose I expected that they didn't even exist anymore but here we are; a pair of brown, ox-leather chappals (sandals), formerly belonging to one Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi. That's right boys and girls, it's Gandhi's flip-flops!

And assuming that no one had the foresight to clip off and preserve Hitler's moustache from his bloated corpse, it's difficult to imagine a more iconic artifact of twentieth century history. Every object that Gandhi owned when he died is laid out in the room I'm standing in, and it wouldn't fill a Tesco 'bag for life'. But it's the sandals that interest me most; maybe because they're synonymous with the man himself or maybe it's because he probably wore them at the head of the famous Salt March, and certainly did on the day he was cut down just 30 feet or so from this spot.

Gandhi Smriti; the memorial garden and museum that now stands at the site where a great man's long journey of peace came to an abrupt and violent end. It's quiet. Not empty, there are people everywhere around but it's startlingly sombre and no one speaks a word. Such an atmosphere of mourning, a stranger might think he'd died 3 days ago not 63 years. In India people still just refer to him as 'Bapu' (Father). It's also the first place I've visited that isn't entirely geared towards fleecing tourists; there's no entrance fee (at the Taj Mahal for example, it's 10 rupees for Indians, 750 rupees for foreigners) and there are no touts, rickshaw wallahs, unofficial 'tour guides' or people selling overpriced plastic tat as souvenirs to gullible Americans. It could just be because they don't expect tourists to visit this place, but I like to think it's because India doesn't want to cheapen the memory of their most famous holy man by cashing in on the site of his death. Whatever, I'm glad I didn't miss this one. A good experience all round.

So, the history buffs among you will have already worked this out but for the rest, I'm back in Delhi. With some gentle cajoling (and some less gentle kicking), I got the bike and myself back here in one piece and it's once again in Lalli's shop for what I can only describe as a postmortem. Everythings broke, but Lalli's like a dog with a bone and has drafted in extra workers just to make sure it's all fixed and ready to go again tomorrow. And I don't mind in the slightest, it's given me an opportunity to see some of Delhi's sights that I missed the first time around.

I've checked myself into another bargain basement hotel filled with hippies, backpackers and general eastern casualties. It's a fair place, especially now that I've been upgraded (see below for details of my latest cunning scheme. . .) and I've met a couple of english speaking travellers so at least I've got two or three people to get drunk with tomorrow night. Should be leaving town again and picking up my trail on Saturday I think, new year, new quest and all that. The next place on my intinerary is the fabled city of Udaipur but as that's over 700km from Delhi, I'll probably have to make a couple of overnight stops along the way.

On to the new scam then; it was a spur of the moment thing but seems to have paid dividends. Quite late last night I was sitting in the bar/restaurant/web cafe of this hotel and typing away on the laptop with a letter to someone (if you didn't get a letter yesterday, it wasn't you, alright?) when one of the hotel owners materialised behind me and asked if I was working, I might have had a drink or two last night so was feeling just the right combination of ballsy and daft so I told him yes, I write a little freelance for a couple of travel magazines. At the time, he disappeared with little more than a raised eyebrow but I'll be buggered if he wasn't back 10 minutes later with a jug of coffee. Complimentary, he said.

Yeah yeah, I know, a little unethical and about as original as the "pull my finger" gag but it got me a free drink last night and even better, when i returned from my wanderings this afternoon, a nicer room had miraculously become available, and would I prefer that one instead at the same price for the next two days? you know what matey, I think I just might. Probably get rumbled in no time but hey, what can they do? hehe.

In conclusion, all is still well in the orient and I've visited a couple more touristy spots today so I'll upload some pictures later. Apologies for the quality but it was foggy today (and raining, oddly). My New Year's wishes to everybody, try and force down that one extra drink on my behalf won't you?

My hovercraft is full of eels.

Anyone get that reference? Award yourselves 10 points.

Language is a funny thing. Especially to those denizens of the British Isles, where even a vague grasp of any tongue other than English is regarded as a mark of extraordinary intellect, and where knowledge of more than one foreign language is frequently viewed as outright witchcraft.

Even to a relatively international Englisher such as myself, who has lived overseas, has substantial globetrotting experience, a French/Spanish speaking girlfriend and a (illegitimately pirated) subscription to Rosetta Stone, I rarely get further than learning the local lingo for “Hello”, “Beer”, “cheers” and “thank you” (often utilised in that precise order). And until now, that's been good enough to see me through.

No longer, it would seem. Unlike almost everywhere I've travelled previously in Asia, English is hardly spoken in Vietnam outside of tourist areas. In India for example, no matter how remote a hamlet I found myself in, once recognised as an English speaker, some bearded village elder or other would be wheeled out and happy to interpret for me. Not so here in the 'Nam. People here generally take the British approach, ie: if you don't understand the first time, they will usually just speak Vietnamese louder. Or ply you with endless cups of tea until you go away*.

The logical thing to do would be to learn a little Vietnamese ourselves but this is easier said than done; the Vietnamese language has six different tones and a change in tone changes the meaning of the word completely. Accordingly, even if you're reading the word phonetically from a phrasebook, your intention to request a hotel room for two could easily be interpreted as a request to have your toenails painted lilac or a room service instruction to urgently bring forth two roasted quail’s eggs and a choc-ice.

We have fallen afoul of this several times, usually in restaurants. We've ordered a beer and received three (I didn't mind this too much), we've ordered a bottle of cold water and received two steaming mugs of tea, we've ordered a hot coffee at breakfast and received an iced coffee with rum, and we've ordered a pork stir-fry with rice and received steak with egg and chips (actually, I didn't mind this one too much either). On the whole, I'd say we've been lucky, but there are only so many times one can be lucky when playing the game of Russian roulette. And that's precisely what I consider this ordering process to be, when you consider that at one of the few eateries with an English translation of the menu we saw such delights as 'snake-head stew', 'pigeon porridge', 'sautéed frog with banana curd', 'crocodile hotpot' and 'grilled dogmeat with chilli & lemongrass'. Only so long before one of us pulls the trigger on a full chamber, so to speak.

You don't believe me do you? You think I’m exaggerating for comic effect. I can't blame you, I'd think that too. That's why we took photos of the menu.

Where's Douglas Adam's Babelfish when you need one?

Travel roundup time! We're in Da Lat, about a quarter of our way up the country, comfortably ahead of schedule (we have a schedule?!?) and just one days ride from Phan Rang, the start of the beach resorts. The front half of our beloved Desmond is now fully operational following my fitting of new fork seals, springs and brake pads. The rear half less so, following my fitting of a luggage rack that a) was woefully inadequate for our needs, b) gouged a massive hole in the rear suspension, and c) disintegrated completely on a mountain road miles from anywhere. This last forcing us to flag down a bus to transport Marie-Carmen and half of the gear to Da Lat, while Mr Bob jockeyed the crippled old goat the remainder of the journey alone, up what must be some of steepest roads I've seen since Nepal.

We've seen some amazing things too. Like a man with a fridge-freezer bungied to the back of a scooter. Like a huge medieval European castle currently being quite inexplicably constructed among the tea plantations. Then there's this place called Dambri. . .

It's hardly a footnote in the guide book, it just says there's a waterfall, but since there wasn't much else in the area around Bao Loc, we decided to go for a nosey. And we were in for a surprise. It's the biggest waterfall I’ve ever seen, by a factor of about 15, in fact it's one of the largest waterfalls in Asia, both in height and flow rate, and set amongst spectacular jungle scenery. Unquestionably the most beautiful place I've ever seen. And it seems the Vietnamese government agrees, because they've gone to the effort of sculpting a most bizarre visitor park around it that gives the whole place an Alice-in-Wonderland feel, with giant mushrooms and carved wooden animals both realistic and mythical, all blended in among pathways through the natural jungle. Very tastefully done too, the park doesn't encroach on the waterfall itself (other than the cable car that can carry you to the bottom of the valley for those who don't feel like braving the terrifyingly steep and slippery stairway cut into the rock of the valley wall). There's even a rollercoaster. Sort of.

Stand aside Disneyland because this is the most awesome rollercoaster in the world. Or it was, once I discovered that I was supposed to be controlling the fucking thing. Up until that point, it was rather frightening. I mean it; there I was, alone on a rollercoaster (MC chickened out) twisting and hurtling down a canyon wall at what felt like 100mph and thinking 'fucking hell, this thing is ludicrously fast and doesn't feel safe at all', when I rocket past an orange sign. It said “Brake now”. 'Do WHAT now?!?!?”. Ohhh' that's what this lever is for. No one had thought to tell me I was fucking driving! Tailor me up one more pair of brown trousers please Mr Moss Bros.

Anyway, an excellent visit all in all, and Madame was pleased because it gave her the opportunity to play with all of camera equipment she's been lugging around since we left. Madame was even more pleased when some of her pictures were rated highly on her photography website, and positively ecstatic when one of her shots from a temple we visited was selected for publishing by Le Routard (the French equivalent of the Lonely Planet guide). Congratulations my dearest.

Well, as usual dear readers, I've got much more to tell than I can be arsed to type so I'll call it a day here. We have a Halloween party to attend shortly. . .

Peace & Love,

Mr Bob.

*Being without a cup of tea is evidently a crime here; any hotel, bar, restaurant or even motorcycle workshop that you enter will swiftly present you with a brew. And when the liquid level in your cup dips below the 20% threshold, it will be refilled. In Bao Loc we visited a coffee shop and ordered two coffees, and these we received. Accompanied by two cups of tea. Apparently no other hot beverage meets the national requirement, one

must always have tea.

My kingdom for another 50cc's!

I'll start today with the triumphant news that we've finally escaped Saigon and completed the first half of the first leg of our Vietnamese Derby, with a gruelling 240km slog Northeast aboard our magnificent steed “Desmond”. He's a handsome looking Korean fellow that we found languishing in a Ho Chi Minh garage and acquired for the princely sum of just 9 million Dong. That might sound like a king's ransom but actually equates to about £290.

Sadly, Herr Desmond is not the quickest of cats. Internet research tells me that when new, the 124cc single packed approximately 9.5 horsepower. When new. Herr Desmond was new I suspect at around the time King Tutankhamen graduated from short trousers. And when you consider that he's pulling the not insubstantial weight of myself, Miss Marie-Carmen, two enormous backpacks and of course, the mass of the bike itself, that's about 350kg being dragged along by at best, seven horsepower. A power to weight ratio roughly equivalent to a 1980s Austin Metro that's towing another 1980s Austin Metro. That's towing a caravan. Containing a medium sized water buffalo. I'm not exaggerating when I say that we both let out a howl of elation when, during a downhill section at full throttle, we briefly reached 60. And that's 60kph not 60mph. Riding up an incline requires an unending dance between first and second gear just to maintain a steady speed of 20. And yes, that's kph again.

And in two days time we leave for the mountain town of Da Lat. The “mountain town”. Gordon Bennett.

I can't help but feel a pang of deja vu as I sit here intent on typing another essay detailing the hellish road conditions in this part of the world, I've half a mind to not bother and just say “see previous emails circa December 2010”, but as there are quite a few newcomers to my travel blog, I'll cover it briefly:

Traffic rules in Vietnam: -

None. There just aren't any. Absolutely none. The square root of Jack Shit. Perhaps instead I should provide a list of:

Traffic “guidelines” in Vietnam : -

1. Biggest vehicle has right of way. Also known as the “Bus is Boss” rule. All other traffic is advised to part like the Red Sea before Mises* when one of these lumbering behemoths appears on the scene. The driver has a death wish, formula one aspirations and a timetable to keep. And the tremor he feels as he rolls over your lifeless body wouldn't even cause him to back off the accelerator for a second.
2. What is behind you is not your problem. Vietnamese drivers are seemingly born with racehorse blinkers attached, they will not look sideways before manoeuvring and they will not look in their mirrors for any reason. That tractor (with trailer attached) will happily pull out into the road 15 metres in front of you. After all, he's in front of you, so it's not his problem. It's yours.
3. Green light means “GO”. Amber light means “GO, FASTER”. Red light means “check there are no police then GO”
4. Road surfaces change. Quickly and often. Expect 200 meters of smooth tarmac, followed by 50 metres of sand, followed by 300 metres of rocky gravel followed by 100 metres of mud, then back to tarmac again. Repeat. Today we travelled on National Highway 20. “National Highway”; a name suggestive of a serious multi lane motorway, no? It was like driving on the moon, with surfaces, craters and potholes so vast that I've a suspicion that it wasn't built by the Vietnamese Highways Agency at all, but rather it was the handiwork of the US Airforce some time in the mid to late 1960s.

Oops. There it is, I've mentioned the war. Better get it over with then. And as I'm not great at tackling serious subjects I'll apologise now for the paucity of knob gags during the next few paragraphs.

Vietnam. To many people around the world the word 'Vietnam' means the war first and the country second. I'll admit that until a few months ago, everything that I knew about this country of 90 million people came from American war films, excepting only the Top Gear Vietnam Special (which I heartily recommend that you watch. Even if you hate Top Gear, even if you'd happily watch Jeremy Clarkson being fed through a ham-slicer, this one episode is a fantastically funny piece of television, and the route they travel [on motorcycles, no less] is almost identical to our own. Not by design I might add).

Now I'm here, and reminders of 'The American War' (as it's referred to in Vietnam) are all around, so we jumped in at the deep end and paid a visit to the War Remnants Museum in Saigon. It was a blisteringly hot day, and began in high spirits in the grounds of the museum where all manner of American military gear, captured after the US evacuated, is proudly displayed. Ohh look at the shiny fighter jet. Here, take a photo of me arsing around on this battle tank. Then in the blink of an eye it changed into probably the most harrowing experience of my life when, to escape the heat, we ventured into the museum halls. And that's where the heat stopped being an issue. Not because of the ample air conditioning, but because in this building I swear, my blood actually froze.

The first hall they shepherd us into is the 'Hall of Aggressive War Crimes', a supermarket sized room filled with horrifically graphic exhibits, photographs and footage detailing the war crimes and atrocities committed by American troops during the conflict. It's a ghastly montage of mutilated bodies, mass graves, tortured and staved prisoners, and images of civilians being beaten, interrogated and even burned alive.

Then, while you're still reeling from those sights you enter a hall dedicated to the legacy of Agent Orange, the name given to the toxic chemical the US dumped in massive quantities to kill off the foliage their enemies used as cover. But as you're probably aware, this chemical has some hideous side effects. Cue an almost pantomime freakshow of all the birth defects and deformities that resulted from the use of Agent Orange, and that still continue to affect hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese people, some four decades after the war ended.

Now, I'd like to point out that I'm not naïve enough to believe that these, and the other equally disturbing exhibits represent a true and complete reflection of the war. It's just the image that Vietnam's communist government wants people to see. I'm sure that somewhere in America there's a museum analogue dedicated to the tortures and suffering inflicted by the Vietnamese army on US prisoners of war. But that doesn't mean you can discount the things that you see with your own eyes. There was no Photoshop in 1967, so when you're shown Reuters footage of Vietnamese prisoners being thrown alive from helicopters or dragged to death behind American tanks, you can be fairly sure that real events are depicted.

I'd also like to clarify that I hold no particular resentment towards Americans in this or other conflicts. They might come across as the bogeyman in recent history but these actions are in no way unique to them, similar atrocities were committed here by the French a few decades earlier, or take a close look at what we Brits were getting up to in India a few decades before that. Not to mention Burma, Congo or those whom Godwins Law prevents me from speaking of. No, my resentment, and to some extent, despair, is reserved for none other than humanity itself, the ordinary men and women who commit these abhorrent acts, just because they were instructed to do so by someone with a couple more stripes on his arm and a slightly fancier hat.

Blimey. All that guff sounds a little negative, maybe it's time I told you that despite being in the country for only a week, and having seen such a small proportion of it, I've decided that Vietnam is my all time favourite country. The reasons are great and numerous, and I shall attempt to address them quickly before everyone gets bored and puts me on their spam filter list.

Firstly, the food. Every time anyone goes anywhere they remark that the food is wonderful and if all were to be believed, there must not be a bad meal anywhere in the world. I'm as guilty of this as anyone else but Vietnam really is something special. It's better than anywhere I’ve been in Europe or in Asia. I'm no food expert so I won't even attempt to describe in terms of flavours and cooking methods, but we've eaten restaurant meals 2 – 3 times a day since landing and every one of them you'd pay £15 to £20 for in a restaurant back home and go away happy. Not just the local cuisine either, this evening I had beef steak with fried egg and chips. It cost just over a pound.

Then there's the people. A few notable examples being;

• The hotel manager who, upon hearing that I was struggling to buy a bike, took me out on his scooter to tour motorbike shops until we found a suitable machine. Then he haggled the price down to $200 less than the garage was asking. He wouldn't take any money for his services.
• The restaurant chef/waitress who was so keen for us to try her latest dish that when we ordered something else, she bought and paid for a plate of it anyway to give us as a gift. She was right, it was delicious. We had to argue to get her to accept a tip.
• The truck driver who was behind us when Desmond ran out of puff on a particularly steep incline, causing him to skid his rig to a halt. As he climbed down from the cab I braced myself for my first taste of Vietnamese verbal abuse. But no, he was offering to give us and the bike a ride to Da Lat, about 150 km away. No money asked.

These are just a few among many, no sense in rabbiting endlessly about the people we've met and the incredible scenery we've seen. I know you people, and I know all you really want is some kind of wise crack about how this afternoon's torrential rain soaked through my trousers and made my Dong all wrinkly. . .

Something like that.

Peace & Love,

Robb & Marie-Carmen.

PS For those facebook refusenicks out there (I approve by the way) you should soon be able to view photos on Marie-Carmen's website orientexcessfr.blogspot.com. There'll also be her own blog on there for those of you who speak French. 

*that's right, Mises.  

Check out my dong.

Sorry for that opener, but when you're in a country in which the national currency is the “Dong” it's difficult to resist a small jest, or even an invitation to others to view the magnitude of dong that you're packing at any given moment. And I am packing significant dong. Approximately 7 million dong stuffed in my trousers at time of writing, and I call it pocket change.

I never thought I’d be a millionaire but here I am in sunny Vietnam settling five and six digit bills without a second thought. “A hundred and fifty thousand huh? A Bargain! Go on sweetheart, stick another ten grand on for yourself as a tip. No, no, I insist! Here, can you break this half million banknote for me?”

This place is fun. It's vaguely reminiscent of what music festivals used to be like before things got all corporate. Though I've only been approached three times this evening by shady gentlemen asking “you want marijuana?”, so there still some way to go before it meets Glastonbury on that score. Don't do drugs. Drugs are bad, kids.

The food so far is magnificent, the beer is respectable (an ice cold bottle of the local tipple comes in at about 19 pence) and the traffic is so chaotic and brutal that it'd have a seasoned Old-Delhi tuk-tuk driver reaching for the brown trousers. Then there's the weather, which alternates between downpours of biblical proportions (I’m thinking genesis 6 – 9 here) and at other times it's so hot and sweaty that, I imagine, it's not all that dissimilar from being inside of Beelzebub’s posing pouch during his fifteenth consecutive round of table tennis. Thank god the hotel has air con. Oh yeah, the hotel, about that . . . .

We booked the place online before leaving the UK, lured by excellent online rating and a plethora of tales remarking on the comfy rooms, cheap rates, great food and friendly staff, and all this appears true. So what could be wrong? Well, it's called 'The Pink Tulip', does that tell you anything? No? How about the fact that the dnd notice for our door features a large pink flower and the inscription (I shit you not) : “ Too FABULOUS to be disturbed”. Or the large rainbow motif on the reception desk? Yep, boys and girls we've somehow found and booked ourselves into Ho Chi Minh City's one and only Gay Pride Hotel. Still, cheap beer is cheap beer, and as already mentioned, the air con works just fine so there was no need to rummage around in the wardrobe for the complimentary assless chaps.

So, the new adventure begins in much the same way as the last; with spicy food, sweaty nads, and a hunt for a suitable steed. And in a country where over 90% of all road vehicles are motorcycles, that ought to be easier than getting laid in a women's prison with a pocket full of pardons. You'd think. I've seen 50cc scooters and I've seen monstrous 1800cc Harley Davidson's, but bafflingly, almost nothing in between. All I want is a rugged and preferably Japanese two wheeler between 200 – 600cc but in my first day's forage, slim pickings. And the longer this state of affairs continues, the more the likelihood of my purchasing a Russian military Ural increases. Yes I know that'd be cool but they're also less reliable than a Chinese Rolex and almost as silly a choice as say, riding a 70 year old Royal Enfield across the Himalayas.

I know of a guy who did that once. Fucking idiot.

Miss Marie-Carmen is indisposed. She decided to treat herself to a Vietnamese massage this afternoon, which it would seem may have been administered by Chuck Norris. Since emerging from this 'tranquil, relaxing spa experience' she has done little but lay in bed complaining that her back hurts. Mr Bob graciously offered a back massage. Miss Marie-Carmen was somewhat discourteous when declining this offer.

Any downsides to this lush new land upon which we have so recently set afoot? One word: Mosquitoes. No wait, two words: Fucking Mosquitoes. I'm a true hippy at heart (even if I don't wear the uniform these days) and would never wish harm upon a single living creature, with this sole exception; if all of the world's mosquitoes could be crammed into a single enclosed space, I'd happily set about them with a fucking flamethrower. And I'd laugh like Woody Woodpecker all the while. The current score stands at Mr Bob: 5, Bastarding Mosquitoes: 3. I'll be updating this scoreboard for the duration of the trip.

Farewell for now folks, it's beer o'clock in Saigon. Wish me luck on the bike hunt, I really don't want to resort to a scooter and Madame is likely to veto any attempts to purchase a relic from the soviet union.. .

Peace & Love

Robb. (& Marie “Ironside” Carmen)

xxx

Once more unto the breach dear friends, once more . .

. . Or close up the wall with our English dead!


Surprise!! It will be for a few of you anyway. You see, although some of those on my mailing list may have been in my company very recently and have been expecting (even demanding) a resumption of my somewhat surrealist travel blog, others will have heard no word of my exploits for approximately two years. And if that's you, you're receiving this because you were privy to my last great adventure and I thought you might enjoy the dubious honour of being copied in on this, the Sequel!


That's right boys and girls, the time has finally come for South Yorkshire's most intrepid, least prepared, seldom presentable and frequently foul-mouthed scrofulous drinkist to attempt, once again, to conquer the lands of the Orient. Rucksacks have been packed, safety nets have been cast aside, all possessions have been sold, given away or burnt atop a sacrificial pyre, and Thunderbirds are at last, GO. I suppose one could say that the trip has already started, as I departed the UK yesterday and I’m currently living out of a backpack. But for me, the adventure proper commences on the 14^th with a flight to the sunny shores of Vietnam.


And this time dear readers, I shaln’t be going alone . . .


Every sequel needs new characters and every hero, a sidekick. As Kirk needs Spok, as Holmes needs Watson, the great & powerful Mr Bob requires a companion to share a beer in an exotic locale, to laugh uproariously at the outrageous facial hair of foreign types, to guard my backpack while I’m locked in the khazi with my good friend Jimmy Squits, and occasionally to simply point out those times when the great and powerful, wise and all-knowing Mr Bob has inadvertently put his t-shirt on inside out, his underpants on back to front, and drunkenly mistaken a sacred shrine for a public convenience.


This illustrious position was of course first offered to such great names as Chuck Norris, Ranulph Finnes and Peter Dinklage. But, in view of these individual's other commitments. It seems I will be forced to settle for my girlfriend, the Beneficent Miss Marie-Carmen. Probably for the best really, nobody doubts for example, Robin's loyalty and dedication to Batman's cause, but I wouldn't think he did much to warm the big man's bed of an evening.


Some of you know her well, others may vaguely recall her as the red-haired frenchist who led me on a tour of Burma during the civil war (a 65 year war which incidentally, officially ended just weeks after of our visit. Perhaps the UN would care to sponsor us for a trip to the Korean Peninsular?). Regardless, no one can doubt her credentials, blessed as she is with ample travel experience, a cracking pair of boobs and the ability to speak more languages than your average pope. She'll be handling the photography and I'll be concerning myself with my customary beverage-induced ramblings (largely in parentheses) and further hilarious misuse of the semi-colon.


All clear? Ok, on to the 'meat & spuds' then. And as this story will feature two protagonists, I'll be providing you with two brief perspectives on the planned itinerary.


The plan in the mind's eye of Miss Marie-Carmen:

• Fly to Ho Chi Minh City in the south of Vietnam.
• Acquire transportation. Motorcycle / Jeep / Tuk-tuk / Donkey / Space-Hopper / Whatever.
• Head North. Spend 2 – 3 months touring the legacy of President Lydon B Johnson's little 1960's Southeast Asian holiday.
• A spot of fishing and diving in the magnificent Halong Bay.
• Turn the space-hopper westward to traverse Laos and Thailand, approximately one month each.
• Revisit Bangkok. Drink tequila at the spot where an impromptu argument in a Kao San alleyway brought about our union and spawned a myriad ambitious and deeply silly ideas.
• Turn East for a quick jaunt through Cambodia to bring us back to Vietnam. Likely highlights of this leg include playing Indiana Jones in the sprawling ruins of Angkor Wat, and trying to avoid being shot by any atrabilious remnants of the Khmer Rouge.
• Fly from Vietnam to Sri Lanka.
• Acquire flamboyantly painted auto-rickshaw for the long journey North through my old stomping ground of India and Nepal, then down into Bangladesh.
• Fly to China. Eat spaniel sandwiches and learn Kung-Fu.
• Board the trans-Mongolian railway in Beijing and ride that baby right across the Gobi desert to Ulan Bator, the capital of Mongolia.
• Acquire horses. Really this time. Travel the plains and steppes of Mongolia astride said equines. Miss Marie-Carmen shall charm the indigenous tribes-people and Mr Bob shall wear a very, very splendid hat.
• Crowbar visits to Philippines, Malaysia and a revisit to Burma somewhere into this plan, wherever time, weather and budget permit.
• Get married.
• Open a B&B on the beach in one of the aforementioned countries, with seventeen dogs and absolutely no children.
• Live happily ever after.

Well, it's nice to have a plan. If only so that one can watch helplessly as it sails out of the window. Man plans and God laughs. I prefer to keep things simple, and thus I present to you. . .


The plan in the mind's eye of the Great and Powerful Mr Bob:

• Fly to Vietnam.
• Purchase inflatable alligator.
• ????????????????
• Profit.

Whichever of these strategies comes to fruition you can be fairly certain that when we next meet I'll be at least a year or two older and sporting a suntan and a massive grin. And I suppose, at the end of the day, that's all that really matters.


That's all folks. To you the people of Great Britain (and a few other places) I wish you all the best, may your lives be filled with joy and wonder. And, exclusively to the people of Yorkshire, may your brown sauce bottle never run dry.


Peace and Love,


Robb. x