“All we could see was the dust on the road ahead and ourselves on the bike, devouring kilometres in our flight northward”
(In late 1951, Ernesto “Che” Guevara and Alberto Granado set off on the 500cc Norton they nicknamed La Poderosa (‘The Powerful One’) with no other agenda than a lust for life and a desire to see it all. Guevara later documented this in The Motorcycle Diaries, an extraordinary insight into the revolutionary legend he was to become.
Thursday 20 February 2025
What a stuff up!
Is it because I am grown old that mistakes of my own making, of others’ making; or just inefficiency on the travel day, kept occurring? Yet after all these happening in the previous 24 hours and beyond, I said quietly to myself: “This could be one of the great experiences of my life?”
It had begun with my 24-year-old son Dexter James Cooper Wright suggesting he take me on a motorcycle tour in Vietnam’s north. This grew to a father-son group ride but that fell through due to dates – it would be unwise for Dexter to take holidays in February and November. Business commitments then steered Dexter to add his original Vietnam idea to the end of a skiing trip to Japan with his girlfriend Liv and other beloved friends.
He said he would arrange everything but I should include any preferences into the trip. There was only one. Being a city-centric person, I chose Hoi An or Hue, attracted by their French colonial architecture. The rest was his to do and his first draft itinerary had Liv remarking: “You’ll kill him.”
Dexter’s planning was meticulous but unfortunately, as he had taken complete command of the trip and its bookings he had reserved a Perth-Hanoi air ticket in my known name, Frank. The passport read Francis. Problem.
Vietnam Airlines was unmoved although they did say they would consider the matter. Three keystroke alterations were allowed. Frank to Francis was three keystrokes but after being strung along by his travel network with hope of alteration without cost, the outcome was: “No way.” A second ticket was bought. The kid bore the cost.
Visiting Japan before our meeting in Hanoi proved a further problem as most of the young travelling party became ill. This marred what should have been a fantastic skiing and snowboarding holiday. For my part, arriving in Hanoi unscathed was largely dependent on my flights, first to Ho Chi Minh City (the former Saigon) and then to Hanoi. Paranoid about sneezing passengers or coughers tightly packed into a flying metal cylinder, I was most disgusted with the hawking sound made from deep within the nostrils of a man sitting in the seat behind. Nasal detritus was snorted into the head. You would think having attended many Asian racecourses during my working life, this would prove nothing to me. It did.
My departure had been early morning and this steered the first mistake of my own making. Stuffing up the dates, I was arriving in Hanoi a full day before Dexter joined me. Once this was realised – and knowing the intractability of airlines towards free-of-charge change – I booked a room in the city’s Hoan Kiem district in the old quarter. When I told Dexter how much my one night’s accommodation at Le Chateau was going to cost, he parried with “That’s about the budget for all the rest of our accommodation during the trip.” He was exaggerating but I was going to be alone. I wanted comfort and convenience to the things I wanted to see.
A big fan of Perth’s airport rail service, I had this transfer negated by the after midnight time of my flight. My soon-to-be wife Annie drove me to the airport. She was rewarded with a kiss and me leaving my mobile phone on the passenger seat of her car – this discovered after I checked in. Friendly staff at the currency exchange booth allowed me to ring her.
When you have no interest in motor vehicles, looking for a familiar one can be awkward. Many look the same to the disinterested eye and I didn’t know so many cars could be white or pale grey cum silver. Eventually Annie’s white Honda came into view. She had got to Bull Creek but turned around and passed the device through the passenger window in a drive-by delivery. This was one unintended way to kill 30 minutes of a two-hour wait in the departure lounge.
Next stumbling block was the automated passport refused to match the Francis Wright in its camera with the man in the document. A patient operative shepherded me to an actual person, who checked me through in a rather friendless manner. Very rare I thought for Australian border staff?
Problems at security. My bag was pushed into the ‘check this’ line. Having packed my luggage into one carry-on bag, I had forgotten the rule of oversized toiletries. Shaving cream, hair conditioner and Derma Wash, specifically decanted into a plastic squeeze bottle (think tomato sauce container at your usual take away) were confiscated. Reapplying my belt and filling jacket pockets with documents, I applauded the officer concerned for his diligence. It was my error and no one else.
Onward to the bar where I had my heart set on a liqueur served on ice. As you reach older age, things regarded as standard in your time somehow become obsolete. Cointreau, Grand Marnier, D.O.M. Benedictine rarely adorn bar shelves. Port? That’s a joke. Rums, tequilas and at least a dozen gins or vodkas per bar are the go-to drink for young imbibers. Stylish places have a similar number of whiskies.
Whatever happened to Gilbey’s and Vickers gins, the only two available in our Belmont hotel when, as a boy, I used to restock the bottle shop on weekend mornings? Perhaps people were drinking Gordon’s in the western suburbs but at the Ascot Inne we were none the wiser.
The airport lounge barman looked at me as though I had flown in from a foreign clime. “No, we don’t have Cointreau,” he said.
The food section of the same bar held nothing to lure me. I had eaten dinner already but that was at 5pm. The same bar took a right-hand turn and I wandered there. At the opposite end of this was a tray containing about 10 bottles, all covered in a tea towel. No one was there so I removed this rag and saw a couple of tequilas, two bourbons and liqueurs, including Cointreau with no lid.
A female bar person wandered past and I asked if any of these were for sale. Completely ignored. She was wearing some sort of concealed communication device allowing her to talk to someone but appearing deranged if you were a Martian or a bloke just turned 70.
Still talking, she turned a 180 and disappeared back around the corner. Next to the assortment of alcohol was another tray containing two clean water glasses. I poured myself a generous nip of Cointreau and repaired to a table.
There were several possible negative outcomes. An airport security SWAT descending on me within minutes; the clear liquid I poured was cleaning agent which all the bottles contained; or as Guy Ritchie so beautifully put it in The Gentlemen, some nosy cunt noticed my movements and went the dob.
Or I could take a sip, be comfortable it was legitimate and bask in the glory of sticking it to the man. Not because I steal but because the ignorance of a barman not knowing what products his bar contained and the arrogance of another staff member seemingly talking into thin air instead of responding to a customer, had to be punished. It was.
Friday 21 February 2025
There followed a pleasant and uneventful plane ride to Ho Chi Minh City. I have no idea what I watched on the screen in front of my eyes or what I ate and drank? The memory was dim but anticipation and excitement must have been foremost? After landing, I hoped to wander the duty free shops for a relaxed two hours before flying to Hanoi. I hadn’t factored in immigration.
Ridiculous though the notion, I thought all the thorough checking would be done in communist Hanoi. My point of entry into Vietnam was the former Saigon and I still was classing these as two different countries. News in my teenage years had been dominated by the Vietnam War where South Vietnam – alongside US and Australian forces – was trying to hold off the North Vietnamese of Uncle Ho. Those of you who don’t know the result, think America’s greatest military failure and that Saigon is re-named Ho Chi Minh City.
My plane landed at 6.15am. Ninety minutes later, after shuffling through lines of passengers from several planes, I was released to join my connecting flight in the so-called nearby Terminal 2. Perhaps with two hours to spare, this would have seemed close but, with 10 minutes until my flight, it wasn’t.
Helpful attendants guided me to the right area but security here was even stricter than Perth. No free kick for passengers on flights about to leave. Shoes, belt, jacket, pockets, everything into the scanner. When I finally got aboard, the hostess said: “Wrong flight number.” My shoulders sank then I realised I had handed over the Perth-outbound boarding pass.
Hot and sweating I took my seat between two young people who must have thought how unlucky they were to get the running late, perspiring Australian in their midst?
Another good flight. Again I cannot remember what I watched but the flight was as pleasant as these trips can be. Without luggage to collect, I headed straight for pillar 10 and my previously-arranged driver. No sign of him. Two what’s app messages to the hotel manager, Lana, went unanswered.
Hot, needing some Panadol, my daily prescription pills somewhere deep in my bag, not having slept a wink and needing a wee was a recipe for losing the plot. Common sense got the better of me and I sorted all these deficiencies before worrying about my lift to the hotel.
Fortunately, pillar 10 – just a numbered concrete pole near the airport entrance – was right next to the tourism information booth. Two very friendly staff helped out. They found Hotel Chateau de Hanoi’s number, called it, then handed me the phone. After making some progress, we were cut off. I began to think my only way to the city was with one of the reputedly fare-gouging taxi drivers who had swooped on me when I first went out the departure door.
The young woman rang again and the Chateau said “The driver is on his way.” Perhaps he hadn’t even left but I didn’t care. He took a long time to arrive but I was very grateful. After all the stuff ups, all that was at risk now was time…I had plenty of that.
The airport road to Hanoi had some spectacular bridges and there were extraordinary buildings in the distance. The minuscule verge dividing each side of the major artery had small shrubs. a solo, metre-high buttercup stood out like Angelina Jolie at a school reunion. As I looked at all this, I told myself: “This could be one of the great experiences of my life?”
The trials of the previous day were forgotten. I was here and philosophically reasoned that the common denominator to any of the stuff ups or criticisms was me. Perhaps it was time for another closer look at my personality?
The route to the old quarter showed Hanoi to be fairly typical of Asian cities – shopfronts, mini garages and eating places set near the road with apartments on top.The driver was silent except for private telephone conversations he occasionally had with a woman. There was no defensive driving school about this man. He attacked the traffic with great zeal. Was he trying to make up time for having this additional pick-up included in his day? I cared not.
We entered the old quarter and, as expected, the scenery became more traditional. However, there was a twist. I have always thought businesses in Western Australia should not be frightened of competition but embrace it. Too much angst is wasted on ensuring another bar doesn’t open near a pub; a new hairdresser nearby an existing one, rather than being a good thing, is viewed as being detrimental. My view has always been that having like businesses close together attracts clients because they have choice. In the Hoan Kiem section, each street was dedicated to one product. There was a street which only sold pots and pans and Beer Street explained itself.
In one of these stood Le Chateau, a fairly new build in the ancient surroundings. The staff were as charming as Lana had been in all our previous correspondence. She and her colleague Anne asked questions about family. “How old is your youngest son?” asked Anne after I had told them of Dexter’s planned itinerary. “I am 24 too,” she said. When I told Lana that my eldest child was 43, she replied “I am even younger than that.”
Shown to my room by Cammie, who had taken the car-pick up call, I was thrilled. Tasteful, charming, history interspersed with an original look. A queen size bed all in white, polished pretend-wood flooring and a floor-to-ceiling window into the bathroom. I thought of Annie as I purveyed the Milano bathtub. She would have been in heaven. The division between bed and bath had curtains for privacy but, pulled apart, made the room feel huge. A desk and chair, TV, cabinet for drinks and mini-bar completed the decor. Everything I needed was here.
Doing what I hope Annie and my Air BnB guests do, I studied the restaurant recommendations in the in-room guide and looked at the map provided by the welcoming committee. The restaurant I most wanted turned out to be the closest and, erring on the side of caution, headed to Cha Ca Thang Long, a fish restaurant serving a specialty dish. Navigating your way on foot was easy. Dodging the vehicles less so but a certain confidence builds in the solo traveller. You just keep moving and make good decisions. The other road users understand this and work around it.
Cha Ca (the mobile phone translator said ‘fish cake’) looked closed but this was only the restaurant’s street facade. Closer inspection revealed a short lane, charming courtyard and a throbbing restaurant. The ceilings were very high off the ground and the entry suggested a former grand house. The wait staff were all uniformed, except one young man in a polo shirt – the boss. While being shown to my intended table, I noticed the diners were a mixture of business people, expats, tourist families and locals.
The humble two-person table I was shown to was not ideally placed. I demurred. This was my first meal in Vietnam and being close to the toilets or the kitchen wasn’t my preference. It was past 2pm and the crowd was thinning out. I negotiated a four-person table in the heart of the action. On the way there I pointed to a fry pan sitting on a gas burner and told the waiter. “I’ll have that.” Unbeknown to this tourist, it was the specialty dish – the only dish served.
A Saigon beer was ordered. It came chilled in a short stubby and condiments were placed on the table. Peanuts, coriander, onion, fish sauce, chillies, dill. The burner in the middle of my table was lit and a big plate of dill and possibly spring onion was placed near it. Soon after a frypan of lightly cooked cubes of fish in a thin sauce was put on the burner. The waiter poured the greens onto this, stirred and served. He explained the need for the condiments and was surprised when I added all the chillies. “You like spicy?” he said.
What a meal. The fish tasted like salmon but it wasn’t. It was sensational. I eventually took the fry pan off the flame because fish should never be overcooked. Took some photos, ordered another beer and began taking notes for the diary that was eventually to become what I am writing.
As I did, I savoured the whole experience. What a start! My first Hanoi dish and, without underscoring what was to come, it had already reached a high water mark for the rest to reach. When so much variety was available it seemed ridiculous to repeat but Dexter should eat here too. But I know he researched some places and I wasn’t planning to steal his thunder. I paid the bill. A$14.
As I left I spotted a convenience store and bought a small shaving cream and a chocolate. A$11. What? We live in a skewed world.
Back to Le Chateau and sleep – my first since leaving Perth more than 30 hours ago. Then a shower and back to the streets. These were humming with noise, traffic and people having a good time on a Friday evening. Every footpath was jammed with parked motor cycles and scooters. Walking on the road as close to the footpath as possible was the only way forward. Gaps between parked vehicles often had small gas burners going with people cooking and serving the throng. Shops of many descriptions, cafes and restaurants dominated the businesses.
I went looking for the night market and was a bit disappointed. I had imagined Vietnam to be less like Thailand (communist, religious reasons?) but there were a lot of massage parlours. The aged Australian walking alone looked a willing client.
At each street corner a motorbike was parked on the diagonal with its rider leaning against the frame. Seeing a tourist, the man would ask: “City tour?” A negative shake of the head would have him then up the ante: “Massage? …Happy ending?” The last was said in a conspiratorial whisper. I loved it. It was like a 1940s English movie with a shifty-looking Egyptian in a galabeya, selling ‘dirty post cards’ to some gormless English soldier.
A street full of massage places was followed by a beer street. This was loud and urgers (was this the concept from which influencers evolved?) were trying to get punters into their bar. Restaurants were also plentiful but the glamour ones were conspicuously empty. Like me, the tourists were after the food stall/local style fare.
I got lost and stopped for a beer at a corner location away from the influencers. Chosen by me, I had not been seduced by an insistent welcomer hand-rushing me into their place. Quite the contrary. It had been raining and a young waiter gave the street umbrella a poke and water splashed across my shoes. I remonstrated jovially but he just laughed and walked on. Ordered a beer, looked at my map and calculated the way back. Then I got lost again so stopped for pork and turmeric rice at a busy spot. Good but not enviable. Realising I had turned right out of the bar instead of left, the error was corrected and it was home to bed.
Saturday 22 February 2025
Woke early but too much so for breakfast and went back to bed. Then heard teeming rain on the roof. Dressed accordingly and took the lift to the seventh floor for breakfast. This left one floor to navigate on foot which didn’t faze this traveller but I wondered about people with dodgy hips and knees? Would they be pissed that the terrain would deny them complimentary breakfast? Amply fed from an excellent buffet, I pondered my next move. Dexter was arriving mid afternoon but if I went sightseeing would I be denying him some special treat he had in store? Went to my fall back position. Coffee.
There was a hole in the wall right next door to Le Chateau’s entry. Just knew it would be good and not having a hot beverage since home (I ignore all attempts of airlines and hotel breakfasts to produce good coffee and tea) was really keen to imbibe. Ca Phe Hat Dac San (Coffee Hat Special Food is the curious translation) did not disappoint. Two espresso beneath occasional misty rain. A$2.60 each.
Back inside to pack and then write this diary. The journal was an attempt to revive my previous efforts of hand-written explanations of overseas holiday events interspersed with business cards, receipts of clothing purchases and occasional photographs. Stopped my writing to have a long chat to Lana. She divulged she grew up about 200km from Hanoi and had come here for university. She has a 12-year-old son. Her staff, bar one, are students doing internships. They receive a basic salary but get opportunities to advance, very much influenced by guest reviews. I hoped what I was to write helped because this was a well-run, quality hotel in the midst of the old quarter.
Checked out and walked to the Hanoi Emerald Waters Hotel about 1km away in Lo Su Street. The street wasn’t difficult to find but the hotel was. Having the street number narrowed it down to a laneway with a hotel lobby at its end. Another delightful hotel, good room and more very friendly staff. Dexter was due mid afternoon. It was 11.50am. Went searching for a bar while I waited and found Etesia, a glamour affair a quick stab kick from the hotel.
The young man serving was being very polite when a woman who came in with her family of grown children began to overwhelm his attention. One of the staff joined her at the bar table and she ordered food. Whenever she indicated the barman left me and served her. Entitled? The owner? Film Star? My natural diplomacy stopped me commenting!!
I ordered a carafe of Villa Gunderloch QbA from Rheinhessen, Germany (“Intense minerality freshened by wonderful fruity apple flavours. Off-dry on the palate but with good grapefruit acidity and an excellent finish” Rannochscott). My barman suggested perhaps try a glass first, then he gave me a taste. Sweet but not overpoweringly so. He was back in my good books.
As my journal was up to date, I studied the wine list and did some dollar conversions.
– Domaine Laroche Grand Cru ‘Les Blanchots’ Chablis, Burgundy, A$13.50 glass/A$31 bottle
-Vasse Felix Filius Cabenet Sauvignon, Cowaramup A$10 glass
-Catina Moscone ‘Bussia’ DOGC Nebbiolo, Piedmont A$20 bottle* *more on this later
Had a duck canapé which was served san choy bow style and paid the $24 bill. Expensive for Vietnam but this was a high-end bar/restaurant.
Got to 1pm and took a chance Dexter wouldn’t get in until later. Wandered into Bliss Spa, two doors from my hotel on the other side from Etesia. My terrible heels needed shaving and treating. There were five reclining chairs and the women put me in the middle seat. Then four Canadian women in their early 20s came in and I had two on each side. I said I felt like James Bond. “A very old James Bond” and they enjoyed the ice breaker. They were from Vancouver and had been to Japan, South Korea and China before doing Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos and possibly Sri Lanka. Where do young people get the money? Where do they get the time?
The two on my left told me The Great Wall was one of the most fascinating tours they had thus far experienced. Also said the wall and Beijing had military and police security everywhere and that cameras were ubiquitous, even in the forest when they had to detour off the wall for a few hundred metres. As I left, I tipped them into Cha Ca Thang Long and hoped they would go.
Read my book, The Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman until Dexter arrived. He did and we caught up on each other’s stories before he showered and we went for a walk. This was aimless sightseeing after an egg coffee (“unique coffee drink made with robusta coffee, egg yolks, sugar, and condensed milk, resulting in a creamy, custard-like topping over the coffee”) at Giang, one of his must-attend places. Google Maps helped find this easily but my attempts to take him back to the old quarter were hapless. We eventually found another place on his list and had a bahn mi (“Crusty baguette-style bread filled with savory meats, pickled vegetables, fresh herbs, and a spread of mayo and/or pâté”). We had the pork belly version and an accompanying beer.
As we walked there, Dexter said it was rated. I cynically replied “Yes. By Wanita of Kenwick on her first overseas trip.” Naturally, I was wrong – the first of at least a hundred times across the next 10 days – because it was really good. On the walk back, the night markets were beginning and we stopped at a trolley for a chicken and seaweed kebab on a skewer.
More walking and then a locals-only restaurant where we shuffled inside to the only two empty stools. Who knew we were going to eat so much? Dexter ordered. I hadn’t planned to eat but the waiter mistakenly brought two plates of the same dish. I ate most of mine.
END OF PART I
I WRIGHT 