Friday 28 February 2025
Breakfast the next day was another passable meal but the toast and jam was a highlight. Then it was onto the tender, shore bound to a small island for a pushbike ride. The ever-lucky Duncan, having no one to answer to, stayed on board again.
As I wobbled away on the rented bicycle I heard my son say “This is going to be good.” He didn’t need to be a soothsayer to know disaster was just a case of when. Two minutes in I was already over the experience and an upcoming incline nearly finished me. I dismounted and walked up.
We were headed to Hai’s home village and he steered me and some other stragglers onto the easier path, eventually to join the others for a fairly downhill route the rest of the way. “Has anyone taken into account how much downhill there is?” I said to whoever wanted to listen. “It’ll be uphill on the way back.” I needn’t have worried.
As we entered the wide road into the village we were stopped by police, diverting traffic away from roadworks onto an L-shaped, flat but narrow walking track. Dexter was well ahead with the other young, fit riders as I was approaching the 90 degree left turn which would take us into the village. I was completely aware of the turn. I was telling myself that I had to turn. I could hear my voice instructing my brain to turn. I didn’t turn. With a loud scream I rode straight off the road and catapulted into some rocky ground.
As Dexter raced back to help, I was already being assisted by San and then Poupi who both had medicinal aids in their backpacks. San was very kind but Poupi had the first-aid kit. She was a nurse and patched me up even better when we reached our destination. Meanwhile Jean-Luc was telling Dexter “I was behind him. I watched him see the danger and he just went straight through it.” Now it was known that I was all right, this brought raucous laughter.
The town wasn’t very interesting. After having a tea to cure my shock, we wandered past relatively new-looking brick buildings to another cafe. The street was festooned overhead with triangular shaped pennants in all manner of pastel shades. The perennial favourite, red, broke up the pattern. Bicycles, many from our own boat, were in abundance and the occasional scooter rode past.
At the cafe, we had a pretty ordinary bubble tea and I returned to the group to ask Hai if I could get a lift on a truck back to base. I was told they would put me on the back of a scooter and Dexter cracked up. He was in further fits when I grabbed the rider’s hips – another helper from the boat – with each hand. “You’ve got him interested. I think he’ll have a crack when he gets you back?”
We returned to the boat for packing and dropped our luggage at the stern. We repaired upstairs for a final look at the scenery. Stunning hills and I photographed more of their reflection on the lake. We were heading back to port and passed another very neat fishing village. All built above the water line were houseboats, cabins, houses under construction and lean-tos with the checkerboard design of walkways at every domicile. There were speed boats, a double-deck ferry, older-style fishing boats. Many of the buildings were painted teal. Was this by design or had there been a job lot of the pale green liquid made available? It all looked well kept and functional. I doubted if stress played a part in any of the residents’ lives.
Again the passengers assembled in their small coteries but Dexter soon fired them up when he reproduced his pipe.
Arthur was having a fair old heave of this but Dexter was keen for his father to try it. Aware of the theatre of me coughing and spluttering while he took another video for worldwide consumption, Dexter reached for his latest toy. “I’m not finished,” said Arthur to the amusement of the swelling gathering. When the pipe was released I was happy to imbibe. The natural actor in me wanted another episode of my old-man-trying-to-fit-in status.
It was hard to light in the wind but when I finally sucked strongly enough and extended the draught, I was inhaling. I coughed once and was disappointed that they hadn’t been lying all along. It wasn’t ganja but tobacco. As usual, Fawlty came to mind: “Is this how you’re meant to feel? Happy?…Oh yes, I remember that.”
Once again bar service was considered unnecessary. Are Australians at fault? Do we feel that every grouping of people should be shared with alcohol while many other cultures do not even consider it? Don’t know but where was Lucas? Without a barman in sight I went downstairs to grab my flask of Cointreau. Returned and got behind the bar, found as many shot glasses as I could see and even cleaned a couple before pouring my liqueur into them.
Everyone there was invited to have a shot which completed our farewell. Jurgen swallowed his with apprehension and was pleasantly surprised. “I thought it might be some firewater you had picked up on the way?” This isn’t PRC Jurgen, I thought, but didn’t verbalise. Perhaps I don’t have Tourette’s after all?
We said our goodbyes and Poupi made sure she had Dexter’s contact. The boat docked and complete pandemonium was brilliantly handled by the staff who sorted the contents of several ferries into areas akin to the limousine buses they were about to board. In a distant other group, Poupi was showing her phone to the plump mademoiselles.
The bus was roomy, comfortable and spotless. Seats reclining to sun-lounge position and this added to the pleasure. I was about to sleep when Dexter wanted me to continue with our notes for this book. Searching my phone showed I had lost our previous efforts but he was undeterred. We revisited from the previous Sunday 23 February in Hanoi to the current moment. Five days of memories doesn’t sound like much but it translated into plenty of copy. Fortunately, our phones and their photo/video libraries aided a lot of recollection.
Another civilised bus ride, complete with comfort stop where Dexter ate a bahn mi and had an egg coffee. The facility was spotless and had a twin section selling clothes. My taste and the Vietnamese style were worlds apart. A North Korean with a limitless Mastercard would have struggled to find something worth buying.
Not far out of the port was a long cable perched very high above the ground. Research showed this to be the Sun World Ha Long Cable Car which traverses the bay. The capsules looked tiny from the bus but online photographs showed them to be very spacious. Notwithstanding the attraction, I was glad we had seen the bay the traditional way.
Before Dexter fell asleep he began receiving friend requests from Gallic women and then Poupi’s daughter chimed in from France. Good work Poupi! It didn’t stop him sleeping for the remaining four hours of the trip before being awakened by the very polite on-board concierge. “Your car will be waiting on the road and you get off in two minutes,” he said. The transition from bus to car was seamless and we headed to the airport for our 6.50pm flight to Da Nang. It was 3pm and we arrived at the terminal at 4.
My bag weighed 17kg and was barred from being hand luggage. As this accorded with my long-held theory that passengers are allowed too much freedom in what they carry on board, I was the last to complain. We stopped for an orange juice (Frank) and a coconut (Dexter) after struggling to find something we really wanted to eat. Wifi was the key. The drinks break afforded us communications.
We walked to our gate for the Vietjet flight and it was a zoo. People sat on their luggage and the room was over warm and over crowded. We found a spot well away from the hubbub and relaxed until called. Like me, Dexter liked to be nearly last on as we both hate waiting in line. I must have had a sensible check-in attendant because when the plane began to load the on-board luggage would have sunk a dinghy. Dexter needed to go back several rows before stowing his backpack and I was happily seated watching the other passengers making room for their luggage.
One bloke had the kind of bag professional cricketers carry with their four bats, two sets of pads, gloves and a protector. Most of us know how long a cricket bat is so you get my drift? Tourette’s kicked in. “There’s a bloke up there playing cricket,” I shouted to my audience of mainly Vietnamese passengers. One of my great joys and to the embarrassment of all my loved ones is that I have outbursts that only a very discerning cryptic crossword-solver would understand. No one on board knew 32 across or any of the other clues.
The plane was leaving late so we settled in for the 90-minute journey, only to be told that the flight would now take 60 minutes. Were they taking a shortcut? It seemed like we had only reached cruising height when informed to prepare for landing. Amidst this was a blend of flight crew announcements and recorded information coming at us.
Though only 60 minutes, the coughing and hawking was in world title mode. I remembered I had some clothes needing washing at my feet and found my slightly damp bathing trunks. I covered my head with these and kept them in place for the last 50 minutes of the flight. Every sucking of head liquid and coughing of vile air had to penetrate the pale blue Gazman bathers before affecting my health. Yes, I’m nuts but it was worth the comfort.
Coffee and tea was served but we demurred and, as the plane began to descend, a recorded voice said: “We will soon begin serving a delicious spaghetti dinner.” Dexter and I cracked up. They hadn’t even got the tea and coffee trolleys out of the way.
Coughing and sneezing continued unabated and close to landing I heard a kindred spirit. “Where’s my dinner?” shouted a man, apparently delighting in the improbability of it all. This was followed by someone hawking and the dinner protester then imitated this perfectly. I loved this flight, the worst of the trip but the humour was enormous.
Dexter went to retrieve his bag and waited patiently in line at the same spot while the inevitable early standers took their places in the aisle. He later related how some Indian men tried to worm past his position. My son, usually kind and tolerant, bristled. His stance became more firmly rooted, the massive arms braced back. The pushers remonstrated. Frank Wright-like fury, with a body that could match it, was unleashed. They weren’t going anywhere. I wished I had seen it.
Da Nang airport and, after collecting my stowed bag, walked outside to find a driver with a sign. Dexter had organised it so this guy showed up. We commenced the 40-minute ride to Hoi An.
We eventually approached what seemed to be the city’s outskirts when we surprisingly pulled into the driveway of what Dexter referred to as Raon. More traditionally it was Hotel Sala Ancient Town, the name allaying my fear that we were a long way from the action. There was a swimming pool, with an unattended bar and our first-floor room was neat and comfortable.
Far from being too far out, everything we wanted in Hoi An was around the corner and we soon happened on a neighbourhood which was beautiful, traditional, compact and had waterways to boot. What a town!
PART VII ENDS
I WRIGHT 