Vietnam 3/3: Monkey Island

It's a strange thing to slowly cruise towards a small island with thatch-roofed huts nudging against a backdrop of six shades of green and a front lawn of white sand. It seems like a postcard come to life in a Frankenstein recreation that was never meant for real life. One of those places that only exists in other people's worlds or the kind of place that can be found on a cartoon map of an amusement park. Right next to the hot dog stand. But I can assure you, Monkey Island does exist and it's home to one of the world's greatest getaways.

As our boat rocked up to the sand and pebble beach, we made way to allow an eight food board no wider than a toaster to be set from the front of the boat to the shore. This was apparently needed to entice tourists from the boat to paradise, but I have a feeling it was proposed when people were throwing themselves overboard with excitement the minute they were within fifty feet of the shoreline.

With packs on our backs we set one foot in front of the other along the narrow plank while the boat rocked back and forth to the beck and call of the gentle waves. A few of the island residents held up a equal length of bamboo to create a makeshift handrail; a nice gesture I thought. Once on shore you were free to dig your toes in the sand or just marvel at your surroundings as you came to grips with the fact that you can actually afford a vacation like this. I must have uttered countless times "I'm not supposed to be able to go to these places..." and I joked to a friend that at any moment, one of the workers was going to smack the back of my head and tell me to grab a shovel and get back to work. I'm more comfortable on the blue collar side of these arrangements and found it hard to believe that I was the one being catered to for once.

We set ourselves up around the pool table and exchanged passports for bungalow keys. I was to bunk with Renee from Mexico and once we were given our key there was little small talk as we rushed to find our accommodations.

Right at the very end of our row of huts stood good ol' Number 8. Perched on stilts of bamboo, there were five simple stairs leading to the front door which was padlocked shut. You had to bend down under the overhanging palm fronds that made up the roof to get close enough to the door to figure out the lock. Once inside we were amazed to find two white sheeted cots, each with a majestic looking mosquito net hung from each corner in a perfect square of protection, an air conditioner as well as a wall mounted fan and in the back quarter of the room a working bathroom and shower. I was stunned. An air conditioner in a thatch-roof hut.

We guffawed for a little while and played with the switches on the wall until we discovered all their electronic magic. We played with the mosquito netting and slid the shutters of the windows open to the sound of our neighbors exasperated glee as they took in their new homes for the first time.

I jumped back outside to snap a photo, still in shock at the fortune that had obviously been bestowed upon me. I couldn't help but notice a large ceramic vase at the corner of the stair post and when I inspected it, found it to be filled with water. Poking out from the middle was a bamboo handle which was sticking out of a halved coconut shell. I picked up the makeshift ladle and spooned some water into the air, letting it fall back into the urn with a puzzled look on my face. "What's this for, you think?" I questioned Renee. "I don't know, don't drink it." Good advice. I would later learn that this pot comes in handy as you find yourself forever covered with sand and need a quick rinse before going into the hut. A great idea, and a small sample of the detail to which we were cared for.

I actually miss that pot of water almost as much as the island itself. The sound it made when you dipped the ladle in and bumped the edge, a resounding "poom" that meant the perpetually cool water was about to dance and tickle it's way down your legs and through your hair. It is the sound of paradise for me. The sound of natural luxury made with simple human ingenuity.

Right away the guide brought us over to the main building, also thatch-roofed, where our lunch was served. Another delicious meal of fried calamari, white rice, steamed vegetables of all variety and color, perfectly salted peanuts, sweet and sour pork, spicy tofu and whatever kind of ice cold beverage you preferred.

We ate hungrily, as though we had been without food for days when it was really more like hours, and shared in each others excitement about the trip we were having. Di, our guide, reminded us that in a few hours there would be a short hike over to the other side of the island, where the monkeys lived, and that we were free to do as we pleased but to be here again if we wanted to partake in the monkeys. Everyone was in agreement that seeing the monkeys was a must do, it's Monkey Island after all, and after we finished our meals we immediately changed into our swimming gear.

The water was the perfect temperature. Not cold enough to make you wince at that first dip above the waist, but not so warm that you weren't refreshed from the humid air. We all took to the water like ducks in a pond and soon people were grabbing life saver rings, sea kayaks, snorkel kits and all the other things strewn along the beach for our pleasure. "Don't use that one! It has a hole in the back and will sink if it gets any water in it, try the orange one." Di was always there to let you know what to do but was never, ever, pushy about rules or regulations, of which there seemed to be none.

Will, a University student from England, got it in his head to set up a volleyball court on the beach and began a laborious process of filling in a sunken area of beach with sand from a berm that had built up along the edge of the shore a few meters away. This involved shovels, a wheel barrow, and some planks of wood to push the barrow across so that the sand could be dumped where it was needed. It certainly looked like work to me and at first I did what I could to make sure I wasn't caught up in the testosterone fueled frenzy of shovels and rakes. It wasn't long before I was being cajoled into leaving the comfort of the ocean for the baking heat of the beach to shovel sand and move planks of wood around with rusty nails sticking out of them.

I'll admit, it felt right in my bones to be working with my hands and toiling away under the sun, especially given the surroundings, but that didn't mean that I enjoyed it 100%. I would have liked to continue playing in the water, enjoying a lazy bob in the ocean with a life ring positioned just right under my arm pits, but I also understood what it meant to Will and the others to set up the volleyball court and knew that it would take effort now to have fun later.

With the work of six guys, one of them an Irish farmer who took to the shoveling and pushing of barrows without pause, we were finished with our project in half an hour's time. I was amazed that it was finished so quickly, and before I knew it Di was smiling his broad toothy grin as he hopped down the last of the stairs to the beach with cans of beer in his hand. "I told him that for our work we should at least get a beer," said Will with a smile. I couldn't agree more, and was reminded of the scene in The Shawshank Redemption when Andy barters beer for his friends in return for some accounting advice to the prison guard, only our guard was the ever friendly Di, and our prison was a pristine island paradise in the south pacific.

One of the men who lived and worked on the island, named Sun, put together a game of water polo that was played in the shallows where you could stand and even run at a lumbering pace. With two life rings spaced twenty yards apart and held in place by a rock anchor, we set up teams of six and began an all out war for points. It was a wild, thrashing, heartfelt game that went on for a lot longer than any of us thought it would, as we all seemed to be just the right kind of competitive. The kind that wouldn't allow us to give an inch but also kept smiles on our faces even when we were losing.

After the water polo Di reminded us of the monkeys and we all made way to the bungalows to change. I put on my same damp shirt that I'd used for our hike on Cat Ba and felt comfortable with the smell of stale sweat and dirt caked into the fiber. We met at the big house and listened to Di as he explained the guidelines which he ensured would keep us safe from attack. "If you're going to smile, put your hand over your mouth, baring your teeth is a sign of aggression for the monkeys and they might harm you." He gave his speech with his usual thousand watt beam and I couldn't believe that this man was in charge of telling us not to smile. "If you feel uncomfortable, just back away slowly and don't make a lot of crazy movements, just be calm and they will be calm too." We nodded and agreed to be good and rushed him to get on with things so we could see the damn monkeys already. "Ok follow me, it's an easy hike but I want everyone to be careful."

We started up a rocky path that twisted through the jungle behind our huts and reached a metal gate with a number lock. Beyond the gate lie more rocky outcrops which led along a beautiful ridge where you could take in both halves of the island at once. On the one side, our quaint bay with the volleyball court and bungalows, on the other, a beautiful strip of fine sand beach and even more enticing water which led out into a large enclosed bay set against the Halong Bay island-scape that we'd come to expect.

It was a quick hike, as Di had said, and before we knew it we were walking along the beautiful stretch of beach that far outclassed the pebbly bay on the other side of the island. I was smitten, and after all was said and done and everyone had gone back to the other side again, I asked Di if I could stay a little longer by myself. "Sure, if you can just lock up the gate for me you can stay here. The code for the lock is 1234." It felt good to be entrusted with the gate code, though I'm sure he felt nothing of handing out information like that to strangers.

The monkeys themselves had made a home among the branches of some wild and untamed beach shrubs with leafy branches and good perches. Within this patch of shrubs was a cement block of what must have once been a foundation of some kind but now stood as the only human intrusion on an otherwise natural kingdom for the monkeys.

I have to admit, wild monkeys are much scarier when you know there isn't a protective barrier between you. To them, you're just a big monkey with no claws and a stupid hand over your mouth and they wouldn't think twice to snatch the bread out of your paw as you held it towards them. One of them had a baby clinging to its underbelly and it seemed to be quite unsure about guests. Di assured us, behind his hand, that it was alright and that we could get closer, eventually pulling me and Dan up next to him in the shrubs while the others trickled onto the beach from the trail. I was nervous, and felt like I needed a better exit route among the shrubs and the cement wall. Dan plodded straight over to Di and asked for some bread to feed them and seemed far less wary, which I admired as a sign of bravery.

Before long the others were standing a safe distance behind us and staring with wonder as Dan fed the monkeys and I stood within grasping distance of their wild paws. Dan had his back to the wall, where a couple of monkeys were perched, and was feeding a big fat monkey on of the branches when disaster struck.

One of the monkeys on the wall made a wild attack at the back of Dan's head and neck, trying to bite his way into his skull while hanging on tight to his shirt collar and neck. Dan didn't even make a sound and was sure to have one hand over his mouth as he crouched down to get away from the attack. His eyes the size of golf balls, he made a beeline past me and towards the safety of the open beach, which I followed with equal enthusiasm.

"HOLY shit!" Yelled Sarah. "Am I bleeding?" He asked with a calm that I could only describe as coming from shock. "Yes," was Sarah's reply, which caused everyone to crane their necks to check out his. "Oh yeah, he swiped ya pretty good, one big gash and a couple little scrapes, nothing too serious." Will was unimpressed and gave Dan a quick clap on the shoulder before looking back out over the water. "Did you get your rabies jab? You've only got... 48 hours I think, before the rabies kills you." Everyone was an expert now and Dan brushed off their best efforts to stir him into a frenzy, "Oh it's alright, I didn't get bitten it was just his claw, you can't get rabies from a claw." I agreed, if only for his piece of mind, and told him that it looked alright to me. "Just put some antiseptic on it and a band aid and call it good."

Di was deflated. "I don't know why that happened, these monkeys are my friends, they know me and I come here everyday to feed them." He apologized profusely to not only Dan but everyone else, sad that he had to cut short what was obviously one of his favorite parts of the trip. "I'm sorry guys, I just don't know what happened." We all told him it was fine, that it wasn't a big deal and that we didn't mind leaving the monkeys early. At this time we were sitting in a shady patch of sand under a thick canopy of mangrove, half of us lounging in hammocks that were swaying in the ocean breeze. "Really, it's alright."

After enjoying the secluded beach to myself, taking a swim sans clothing in the perfect water, I joined the others on the opposite side of the island, being sure to lock the gate before I left. My arrival was perfectly timed. Di had just begun his famous "Floating Bar" which was a sea kayak that he sat in with a tub of vodka and orange juice between his legs. Everyone else grabbed a life ring and chased after him like baby ducklings as he scooped small cups of booze into their outstretched arms, everyone grasping their own tiny teacups.

In this way we enjoyed the sunset as it dipped behind a far stretch of islands that wound around the outside edge of our view. Slightly buzzed, bobbing in the ocean, perfect.

When we made it to shore, the beach volleyball began and our competitive streaks kicked in once more. It was a close game, each side talking merciless trash between serves and almost invariably screwing up the first touch of the ball. None of us were experts, but we all played with heart.

As darkness began to set in we changed once more into our formal dining attire: flip flops, faded t-shirts and whatever shorts we could find scrunched up at the bottom of our packs. Some of the women were wearing very nice dresses, new purchases on their trip, and looked much more elegant than the men. As usual.

The feast was buffet style and included fried rice, pork, chicken legs and wings, whole boiled crabs, a vegetable medley, watermelon and dragon fruit. We were spoiled for choice and the banter was cut to a minimum until everyone was finally full, leaning back with a rosy cheeked grin as we surveyed the carnage. There's a lot of a crab that you can't eat, for example, and when you've done your best to devour two, your plate can come to resemble an abandoned pier after the seagulls have had their dinner.

When the food was finished the drinking began, some of the English folks purchasing bottles of wine at a time and breaking out the cards. I didn't have the money or the appetite for booze and sauntered on out to the patio where some of the others were chatting away.

Around the table sat Minh, her sister Yiv, their mother and my Dutch friends Carla and Erica. I sat down and joined in their discussion on life in Vietnam, Minh and her family being from Saigon, and the trip that Carla and Eric were currently embarking upon. It turned out that Vietnam was the second stop on a worldwide tour which began in Russia, where they boarded a train to Cambodia to do some camping by horseback. Then they met me at Central Backpackers Hostel in Hanoi and booked their trip to Halong Bay. After this, they were going to head south along the coast of Vietnam until they got to Saigon, where they would board a flight for Vancouver B.C. Then they were to rent a car and drive it across the length of the Canadian border, taking some time to enjoy the sights around the Canadian Rockies, before dipping down to the US and into New York. From here they planned to fly to LA on the west coast and then rent another car to drive across the US and back to New York, which would put them on another plan back to Denmark. I admired their grand plan but it seemed pretty bold given a two month time frame. I offered council on ways to pack everything they wanted to see from America into a shorter trip, saving them time and money. I also mentioned that they ought to visit Seattle, since it's the best city in the US.

After chatting with them for about an hour I decided to go down to the beach by myself for a while to stare at the stars. I grabbed a pad off of one of the lounge chairs and threw it on the sand, laying back with my hands folded behind my head to gaze up at the unpolluted view of the night sky. Along the horizon, there was a massive thunderstorm broiling over far off mountain tops, each lightning bolt sending a strobe of light to reveal the size and contour of gargantuan cumulus clouds otherwise invisible as they blended in with the black of the night sky. Each flash lit up a small portion of the monstrous cloud formation with a brief orange and yellow glow, just enough to give you a taste for the size and might of the far away storm. With the thunderstorm unleashing it's light show in the distance and the shooting stars flaring up in the sky above me, so many that I lost count, I gave in to the majesty of night.

I lay peacefully and in complete silence, other than the lapping waves on our gentle shore, for just under an hour before deciding to share my find with the others.

I went back up to the patio and invited them down to beach, explaining all that was to be found out in the darkness. Erica, Carla, Minh and Yiv all agreed to come, along with Sun, who had been playing cards with the others. I brought them down to the sand and grabbed a couple of mats off the lounge chairs, setting them up so they could enjoy the sensation of the stars and lightning bolts the same way I had.

We sat and talked about life, religion, our views on the world and what it meant for us to be at this place at this time in our lives. We discussed stars and galaxies, thunderstorms and island chains, all in the varying skill level and accents of their non-native English. I did my best to explain to Sun that when you look at the stars and there's a particularly bright spot that doesn't twinkle, that's a planet. And that by the time we see a shooting star, it's already been gone for millions of years--that what we see has traveled light years across space to bring the flash of their death to us, here on Earth. I don't know if he understood, but he shook his head vigorously while pointing at the sky and saying "Yes, yes, and it is so beautiful."

For the first few shooting stars, everyone pointed and inhaled a quick breath at once, each of us turning to look at each other and laughing at our reactions. Then we bowed our heads silently and made a wish, something that I guess people do in every part of the world. Sun explained to me that he lived on Cat Ba island and that he wished for a motorcycle, which was why he was working on Monkey Island, saving his money for two wheeled freedom. He had been on Monkey Island for four months and was one month away from going home to Cat Ba. Minh asked him if he had a girlfriend or wife, to which he smiled brightly and said "When I have a motorcycle, I will have a girlfriend." It's the same the world over. Him and Minh had long discussions in Vietnamese while I stared off at the flashing sky ahead and wondered what it must feel like to be in a boat beneath a storm like that.

Eventually Erica retired to her bungalow, at around one in the morning. Not long after that, Carla did the same, leaving just Sun, Minh and me. We continued to discuss life and nature, beauty and struggle. It was interesting to hear Sun describe his life on the various islands he called home, and he was shocked and happy to find out that I had not only known about, but had been dying to see Halong Bay for over ten years. This was home to him, nothing special, and in his 29 years he had never gone so far away that he couldn't hop on a boat and get back. It was moving to get to know someone in one night and hear their life story, hear about all the things that make them tick and how those things were only different in a matter of proportion and objectivity from the wants and needs of myself. He wanted a wife, some day, a home and a job that made him happy. He desired a motorcycle and a place where his parents could be safe and help him to raise his children--the simple and necessary parts of life.

We sat out on that beach until three in the morning. The stars shifting slowly across the sky as the world turned another revolution. The thunderstorm refused to let up and continued to flash and beat it's chest over the horizon. On the sand in front of us I'd discovered that bio luminescent algae between the grains would light up if you swished your hand along the surface. We dug our heels in creating a crater of flashing lights, lasting for a fraction of a second, like the dying stars above our heads. I'd never experienced so much natural wonder in one place and at one time. I felt like a little kid who was seeing everything for the first time, still enraptured by the banality of human existence. Give me an ice cream cone and stroller and I would be out like a light, dreaming the technicolor dreams of youth with a soggy sugar cone grasped in-firmly between pudgy fingers.

Minh had begun to show Sun some yoga moves, as she was a professional instructor, and they even had a push-up contest. Sun tried to get me to agree to be up at six to do some exercise before the sun came up when the air was cool and clean. I told him I would try, but that I couldn't promise I would be able to get up in three hours.

At three in the morning I called it good, not wanting to leave but knowing that the eight o'clock wake up call to catch our boat off the island would come all too soon.

As I grabbed the pads and dusted off the sand I was reminded of something that one of the men on our first boat had said. I had asked him, "Since you work in Halong Bay, is it boring after a while, just seeing the same islands every day?" His answer was poetry and I won't soon forget it:

"If you see boring, you get boring. If you see beauty, you get beauty. I choose to see beauty."

Vietnam 2/3: "The only reason I came to Vietnam..."

Asian airlines are amazing. Even a short domestic flight of no more than 2 and a half hours means you get a meal. Sure you sometimes are flying on used planes from other airlines that have been repainted but on the big names, like Eva Air or Vietnam Airlines, you have your own television screen, a remote that doubles as a telephone and all on a plane that still has that new plane scent.

I arrived at the Hanoi airport in the early morning, deciding to split a cab with a couple of girls, who I thought were from France, to the heart of the city. Turns out they were from Budapest, but one of them did live in Paris. We chatted for the hour long ride about Europe and Asia, their similarities and obvious differences and even delved, momentarily, into the subject of American politics. "Well, it's just difficult because you've got two parties that are constantly at opposite ends of the argument, constantly fighting over votes and it can seem like nothing is really getting done." "We pay attention to your political process closely because it has such a huge effect on our own, I only wish we were able to vote with you!"

The Hanoi airport is much further out of the city and it takes about an hour to get to the old town. After forty-five minutes you instantly recognize the hoof prints of city life as you begin passing the characteristically thin homes of Vietnam. They stack up like books on a shelf, some taller and some shorter, some well worn and others that have never been tilted off the rack. The reason for their diminutive width being that colonial law stated that people pay property taxes based on the amount of space their home took up along the street front. This led to a great number of homes that are no wider than an American SUV but go up for five stories and reach back a hundred or more feet.

We circled around and finally pulled up to the Central Backpackers Hostel, at the address that I'd given to the taxi driver. We split our bill and shook hands, parting with "Good luck with the rest of your trip" and "Have a great time!" The fast friends of travel never last long.

I walked up the earthy red tiles towards the entrance to the hostel and was happy to find a row of three computers on the right, each dutifully serving some western travelers as I passed. The man behind the counter beamed a smile at me and asked if I'd like a room, I said yes and he showed me upstairs. For $5 a night you were treated to a comfortable bed, air conditioning, free internet access, travel booking services, laundry service, free beer hour, and a courteous family staff who seemed to know everything you needed. I was amazed and felt immediately comfortable. The first thing I did was meet a man named Renee from Mexico who wanted to book a trip to Halong Bay, I mentioned that I'd be interested in the same and we followed the man who had shown me the room downstairs to book our trip. It was as simple as: "Two days or three? Two days means you sleep on the boat and return the next morning, three means you sleep on a private island the second night and return the third afternoon." It was a simple decision and only a $40 difference.

When our receipt was finished, Renee looked at me and said "You should keep this, if I'm in charge of it we'll never see it again." I laughed and felt honored that he trusted me with the only piece of paper that showed he'd just paid nearly two million dong for his trip. I dutifully folded it and tucked it into my travel folder and we went back upstairs to our eight bed room. I decided a nap was in order and set my alarm for an hour in the future, waking up moments later to the alarm signaling it was time to get up.

I didn't want to waste a minute, so I hopped out of bed and grabbed my camera before heading out into the street. Right outside the hostel was a beautiful old Catholic church which could do with some pressure washing but stood like a haunted relic above every other building in sight. I snapped a quick photo and meandered down the street, taking in the sights, the sounds, the smells and the feel of the ever churning, ever changing city.

Being Sunday, that night the church bells rang and the doors opened to reveal a beautiful hall that was just beginning to fill. I popped inside with my tripod, camera and voice recorder, hoping to get total coverage of the event. It had been over a decade since I'd stepped foot in a Catholic church and this time, purely as an observer, I felt like I was experiencing it for the first time as it was truly meant to exist. Listening to the passionate voices as they sang in unison and without books or sheet music, I found myself mesmerized by the feeling of being one with all those people, what they must feel like to be a member of that community, how their hearts and minds meet together for every mass, singing and breathing as one. I took some photos and recorded some music, being as reverent as I could while trying to stay on the periphery and bowed out to find that the steps outside the church had swelled with people, many lining up around the sides of the church where the open windows allowed them to connect just as well to the voices as those inside.

That night I slept deeply to the sound of church bells ringing out the hours.

The next morning I got up early to find that we received a free breakfast of french bread, butter and jam along with tea or coffee. I hungrily ate my portion and still felt the pangs of youthful gluttony in my stomach, so I wandered down to the street where i found another sandwich place which filled my roll this time with a fried egg, cucumber slices, tomato, what I believe was tofu and some mystery meat, all slathered with chili sauce and rolled up in a copied page of a Lonely Planet guide to Vietnam. Ironic, eh?

The bus ride out to Halong bay was inconsequential, but it did lead me to the place that I've been wanting visit since I was twelve years old. The moment I was nudged awake by Renee, who pointed out the window at the very beginnings of the fog shrouded humps of rock floating out in the ocean sitting serenely in mist, two places of my brain lit up. One, the section that spoke to my eyes and told me what I was seeing was true, and the other which held onto the catalog of the hundreds of photos and videos of the place that I was now for the first time encountering on my own. I felt a strange feeling of calm and couldn't help but feel the tug of my cheeks on the corners of my mouth. "This is it," I told myself, "this is Halong Bay."

No amount of tourist hubub or scheisty vendors could scratch the surface of my high as I hopped off the bus and bee lined toward the shore, looking out over the hundreds of wooden boats that had only existed in my dreams until this moment. There they were, with their ubiquitous triangular sails and multi-leveled elegance. There they were, the gorgeous humps of stone cast around the water by, as legend goes, a dragon which came down to help the Vietnamese people cast out the Chinese, spitting pearls down into the bay as it flew, creating the limestone monoliths that stand to this day. There it was, the styrofoam and diesel fuel floating along the surface like an oil slick. Wait. What was that last part?

I was shocked and hurt to see the amount of flotsam skulking about the edges of the harbor, floating into my mind like demons of truth, the truth that wherever you have enough humans gathered in one place, you have destruction and pollution. I tried not to let it get me down but as we made our way out to the boat that was to be our home for the night, I couldn't help but sigh as the plastic bottles and bags floated past, grim reminders of a reality my dreams couldn't bring to me. I knew too, that I was in part responsible for every piece of garbage in that bay, that it was people just like me, who were there to gawk and snap photos, who were polluting this water, creating the problem by being the problem.

Se la vie.

We boarded our magnificent boat, which looked a little worse for wear, and scrambled around it's partridges and planks until we all settled in deck chairs on the rooftop, ready to be whisked out into the magic of the bay. I grabbed a bamboo lounger and positioned it at the very front of the top deck, determined to squeeze every atom of life out of my time there, the time that I'd waited so long to use.

We chugged along into the bay, the distant shapes in the mist looking like crocodile teeth thrust out of the water and into a lushly vegetated ether. The humps began to take on layers as we got closer. First you could make out the individual rocks and trees that made up surface of islands, then you could glimpse, when there was space between the them, the third, fourth and a myriad more levels behind them, all retaining that elegant and peaceful presence with a mix of curve and pitch. Every degree of my view was a post card photo, every blink of an eye the shutter of a camera snapping another memory for the treasure banks in the deep recesses of my mind. I gawked while others chatted, sat silent while they caught up on each others plans and countries of origins. Two Dutch girls who had sat down next to me giggled as I sat, trance like, staring at the features before me like I could read them, that I could decipher their secret, that the years I'd spent waiting for this moment were enough to grant me access to their truth. I turned to them with a slack smile on my face, and could hear myself saying: "Isn't it amazing?"

We were called down to the second level for lunch at 1:00 and I stood up from my chair for the first time, shaky as I made my way down the steeply inclined stairs that led from the top to the middle deck. Our food, breakfast, lunch and dinner, was always impeccably prepared and laid out. The linen napkins were folded to resemble cranes sitting in the middle of our large white plates. The dishes came out, one by one, to each table and brought about a whole new round of conversation over their possible ingredients, taste, and always the worry that there wouldn't be enough. I ate my dragon fruit while staring out the window at the slowly passing scenery and noticed a butterfly keeping pace with the boat, wondering how on earth those fragile wings could keep up with all the man made machinery that kept us moving.

As we pulled into a semi secluded bay, flanked on all sides by high standing cliffs, some baring their gray rocky form where no tree or shrub could cling to the inclines, and parked ourselves alongside a few other boats, or Junks, as they were known. "Now we are going to be sea kayaking, but we must leave in our small boat to get to the sea kayaking. This way please." Our guide brought us down to the lowest level of the boat, where we hopped on to the skimmer that we'd been towing with us which would take us to the floating dock where the kayaks were tethered. As we coasted towards them, I thought that the lame looking tourists in their bright orange life preservers up around their chins looked silly and was not too enthused about the situation. However our guide told us that we didn't have to wear the preservers if we didn't want to, and we all hopped, unencumbered, into our two man boats.

Renee and I paddled out unceremoniously backward, bumping into multiple boats and splashing the people on the dock waiting their turn. "Sorry, ok, wait. No Renee you paddle on that side, wait. No, back again. Wait, this way, yeah, ok now just push off of that and we're good." We took to the open water more warmly and soon we were brave enough to pull out our cameras and take some photos as we glided through the calm water. We only had about forty-five minutes, but in that time we were able to see quite a bit, and got close enough to one fishing boat to capture some heart warming images of a small, smiling, baby as he reached out his hand to wave to us.

By the time we got back to the flotilla neither of us could say that we hadn't enjoyed it. Stepping out of the boat, I realized that Halong Bay had more tricks up it's sleeve than I'd imagined and despite the touristy nature of the trip, which I typically avoid, I was loving it.

Our next stop was a quick climb, up a few hundred steps, to a view of our bay within the bay that was enough to make you stop and smell the flowers, which stood at the entrance to a remarkable three chambered cave system. Another, "well would you look at this," moment for me, as I stepped into the hidden world of the cave, staring up at the golf ball style indentations in the ceiling, blown up to electron microscope size.

The caverns themselves were lit with different colored lights and it was unlike anything I'd encountered in the natural world. These kinds of formations were the territory of Disneyland, spray on cement and well balanced paint jobs, none of this could really exist in the wild. I was enthralled, and all the more drawn in by the fact that I'd never even known it was there, never heard of it's existence being so swallowed up by the majesty and magic that took place all around it. It's a testament to the magnificence of Halong Bay that such a place can be completely overlooked in all but the most thorough of travel brochures or vacation television shows, if it's even mentioned at all.

Renee, the Dutch girls (Carla and Erica, pronounced 'Herica' like you have a hairball in your throat) and I were the last ones to leave, pulling up the rear as we tried our hardest to soak in the surroundings to capacity. We ended up having to jog our way down the wooden planks to the boat so that we didn't get left behind, but it was worth the extra seconds in that place.

That night I watched the sun setting over the distant peaks of those pearl islands on the bow of our boat, as we cruised along to another bay within the bay to find a place to sleep.

In the morning I woke to the sound of rolling thunder and the drizzle of rain. I was nervous, believing the tropical storms that were causing turmoil in the strait between China and Taiwan had finally caught up to us, that our plans for a hike on Cat Ba would be rained out, or worse. Fortunately the thunder kept it's distance, as did the rain, and we were able to make it ashore to Cat Ba with no trouble at all.

Cat Ba is so synonymous with Halong that it garnered a whole new level of appreciation for me. Again, I couldn't believe that this was my life, that I was the one who was on Cat Ba island instead of the TV host, it was really me boarding the bus to the interior of the island where our trail lay in wait for my adventurous footsteps. We piled in, literally, and began a fast paced trip through the jungle scenery after being passed over to the capable hands of our new guide, Di. An instantly likable guy, his round face wore a big smile at all times, with bright eyes set beneath a smooth brown brow and short trimmed black hair. He told us all that we could choose one of two options, a hike to the top of the highest peak in Cat Ba, or a bike ride around part of the National Park and asked for a show of hands. We split from there into two groups at the gate to the park and I felt the itch of adventure in my bones, ready to conquer the mountain and demand it's views.

The hike was simply steep in the beginning, nothing wild, not a lot of mud or anything to complain about, but about halfway up began the rusted ladder system. Climbing up the wet boulders were rust eaten metal skeletons that were the rotting remains of what must once have been a very nice idea. We grasped onto wobbly, when available, railings as we climbed the muddy steps, some preferring to use hand and feet on the steps rather than risk themselves with the wholly unreliable hand rail. At times, the incline was so steep that using hand and feet was the only way, and with a strangers wet, sweating ass in your face you gritted your teeth and kept plugging away toward the top.

And what a top.

We were rewarded handsomely for our troubles and for those of us who were slightly more adventurous, there was even a fifty foot rusted out fire outlook that you could climb, the floor boards of the top leaving much to be desired. Only five people at a time could be at the top of the old lookout, for fear that the patchy wood that stood for the floor would collapse under any more weight and the rusty, creaking joints didn't provide much comfort either. Renee, Carla, Erica and I made a trip to the top, figuring we'd come too far not too, and stood in awe at the landscape. I know that I evoked the image of crocodile teeth for the islands before, but the only way to describe the way the peaks were piled inside this small island is to say that it looked like a swarm of Nile crocs thrashing about the water, fighting over a scrap of meat and frozen in time to become overgrown with foliage, mist covered streams gouging away at their seams. Hundreds of them poked out through the distant clouds, all fighting for space on their island home, fighting for rain to keep their gardens happy, fighting for room and crunching together, causing the rock of their bones to crumble down into the valleys.

We stood up there for a long time, what felt like a great while but was only a matter of twenty or thirty minutes, before heading down one or two at a time to let the next group in on the magic.

When we made it back down to the bus to catch up with the biking crew, mostly English, my shirt was see through with sweat. "Oh My Gawd. Is that swet? No! Did you jump in a riva? Is that truly swet? My gawd, that is foul!" Apparently the bike ride wasn't much of a workout, but all of us hikers were muddy, sweaty, and happy. I had a little more room on the crowded bus the second time around and a couple of the people behind me even ventured a poke at my shirt to see how damp it really was. It was all in good fun though, and these same people would later turn out to be very good friends by the end of the trip.

The bus took us across the island to another wharf where a small boat was waiting to whisk us away to our private island.

Monkey island.

Vietnam 1/3: First Impressions

Money? Check, all nine million of it. Bag? Check, and it's not as heavy as I thought it would be. Passport? Got that, but which pocket did I put it in again? Ok, time to find a bus.

Pulling out of the Ho Chi Minh airport, I finally felt like a traveler. Living in Taiwan has been a great experience, but having someone meet you at the airport and help you find a place that you know you're going to live in for the next year takes the edge off of what you feel as you truly explore a country. Getting on a bus downtown to a city that, until now, has only been a faint name scrawled on the corner of a map was like being driven to the dark side of nowhere. My first views were of low buildings, barely higher than the trees that stood in front of them and a street lined with draped flags of either red with a gold star, Vietnam's national flag, or the far more ominous red with gold sickle and hammer.

My visa said "Socialist Republic of Vietnam" but it doesn't really hit you that you're in a communist country until you see your first sickle and hammer dangling from a lamp post and a motorcade of black Mercedes drives past you with a small army of green suited and pith helmeted police officers. Or peace keepers, or militia men. I'm not sure what they call themselves here.

As the bus wound around I started to wonder how I would know when it was my turn to get off. All I had for directions was a hand drawn map that I'd printed off the internet which showed no more than a few blocks of space with street names I couldn't pronounce if I'd had a year's training. I sat back in my chair and decided to get off when everyone else did, just as I'd do back home.

We pulled into a bus station where the choking diesel exhaust outweighed the heavy humidity. The sky was filled with gray and it looked like rain was on it's way at any moment as I headed across one of the most dangerous roundabouts I've ever seen. Reaching the other side, I noticed an area where more than a few people my age were scouting around with backpacks and figured this would be as good a place as any to start my hunt.

Immediately I was pounced upon by a street vendor. She smiled sweetly and asked me if I'd like to buy a copy of Lonely Planet: Vietnam. I would, I said, but I didn't care to buy one at the moment. No matter, thought she, would you like these post cards? This map? A Vietnamese phrase book? Some finger nail clippers? She had it all and she wasn't budging. I could have walked five blocks and she'd be on my tail the whole way with a new gadget for sale. I told her that I'd like a map and she threw the postcards in to sweeten the deal. Unfortunately, I had absolutely no concept of the currency and all I could think about was "You have nine million dong, this lady looks like she hasn't got a bench to lay down on." She began the hustle at $400,000 for the map and postcards. I decided that I'd try my hand at haggling, which I'd never done and have subsequently learned that I am just no good at, and countered with 300,000. Smooth I thought to myself, low-ball her. "I buy for $300,000. You buy for 350." You couldn't even detect a flicker of life in those smiling eyes, the flicker that should have told me that she saw me for a fat fish and was set to deal a weeks pay out of my pocket at this moment. I firmly stuck to my $300,000, feeling like a man who needed to make a stand. She lamented some more and asked, with all the pity of someone on their death bed, "you give me $50,000? 20,000?" I rejected her and stuck with my offer. She agreed and I handed over the money, she had already placed the map and postcards in my hand at the start. Smart woman.

I walked away feeling good about my first haggling experience and grabbed my rain jacket out of my pack, as it was beginning to pour down big fat tropical drops. The moment I got around the corner a sickening thought came over me and I flashed back to the currency exchange counter, remembering that $1 US was $19,500 dong. I'd just paid $15 US dollars for a map of Ho Chi Minh city and a couple of postcards, which I hadn't even checked to see were decent or not. "Goddamnit." I said to myself. "Damnit-damnit-shit."

I took a moment to allow myself to calm down and closed my eyes to listen to the drops splashing off the hood of my jacket. Within seconds it was back again, "Goddamnit!"

I repeated this about every three minutes as I walked around the city trying to find the hostel that I'd picked out online. Even pulling out the map, which harbored so many ill feelings that I was shaking as I unfolded it despite the 80 degree weather, and found it to be completely worthless to me as I couldn't understand where anything was. I stuffed it back in my bag and said to hell with it and pulled out my little hand drawn map, asking anyone on the street who would look my way if they knew where the market on the map was.

In this way I was able to make it to the backpackers district. Eventually I did find the hostel I was looking for, after about an hour and a half of tracing back and forth along the same few streets, finally finding the three foot wide alleyway that led back to the hostel's entrance. When I walked past it however, it looked more like someone's home and there was a family sitting on a couch watching television. I decided that I didn't like the look of it and headed back out to the main road to try my luck at a place called "The Canadian Hotel" which had a five foot wide maple leaf on the front doors.

This proved to be much more suitable and I quickly booked a private room, as they had no other choices. Here I was able to take a hot shower, trying hard to wash my bruised ego. I put on some fresh clothes and felt like a new man, ready to hit the streets and try out some of the Vietnamese that a friend back home had taught to me so I could order some food. This proved comical as the first place I sat down at to order Pho (noodle soup) either didn't understand me, or was not serving that at the moment and instead brought me a glass of the most potent coffee I've ever set my lips to.

Now, I'm no coffee drinker. In fact the only coffee I really like is in Taiwan and it comes in a small can with a Latino caricature on the front with the name "Mr. Brown." It's sickly sweet and is the color of soft brown clay. This drink, on the other hand, was jet black and poured over ice. I couldn't even tell from the smell what it was and ventured a tiny sip because I figured, if I'm expected to pay for this, whatever it is, I'm going to damn well drink it. At first I thought it was spiked with vodka, the kick was so strong. Then as I pressed the liquid with my tongue to the roof of my mouth I was able to get a better reading on it. I don't know coffee, this is true, but I did work as a barista for a month so I can recognize some things. From what I could gather, it was about 6 shots of espresso on ice, with no sugar or milk. You could pour this stuff in your scooter, in a pinch, and be home with half a tank left. I struggled my way through most of it and left a small portion at the end, defeated. Fortunately it only cost $5,000 dong, or roughly one quarter US.

With a stomach clinched tight around nothing but espresso flavored gasoline, I searched with renewed vigor for some food. I plodded through the open air market and down a few streets with plenty of western looking restaurants, but I wanted something Vietnamese for my first meal, and soon found myself in front of a shop no more than a stone's throw from my hostel. I ordered chicken curry and a beer, not worried about getting a look, as it was only 11:30 in the morning; this is a country where any cold drink is welcome at any hour of the day. I gave myself over to the saucy meat and steamed rice, bowed down to the healing power of protein and carbohydrates, I satisfied my most basic of needs in an extravagant caloric splurge. It was good.

Finally satisfied and feeling truly happy, I walked back to the hostel to knock around on the computer a bit to find a place to stay in Hanoi, which I was planning on flying to the next morning. When I walked in there was another foreigner at the counter fumbling with his passport and looking somewhat frazzled. I walked up and asked if he needed some help, I was, after all, practically a native to the city by this point. He turned out to be from Austria and I would later learn that he was working as a civil engineer in Singapore with an Austrian firm. He explained that he worked with and socialized with almost exclusively Austrian coworkers and didn't have much chance to get any culture under his fingernails. Tired of the sterile world of Singapore, he booked a weekend trip to Vietnam to feel what a living, breathing city felt like. We spent the day walking around the city and laughing at things or pointing out peculiarities to each other. When night fell we posted up at the corners of intersections and watched the thirty second Indy-500 that occurred at every major light. Finally we hatched a plan to have one beer at as many bars as we could find and began our tour in the westernized backpackers section, where a bottle of Tiger was $1. From here we made our way out and around, looking specifically for places that didn't have a white face in the crowd so we could feel what it was like to drink like a local.

After making a broad loop around our small area of Saigon, as it was formerly named, we found ourselves back in the backpackers district, sitting down at a table with a couple of obvious Americans who invited us to their table. "So what are you doing in Vietnam?" The man asked, clutching a Miller. "Oh, well I teach in Taiwan and I just took a vacation here, wanted to get out of the country and I decided Vietnam was a good place to begin." "Oh? We were just teaching in Korea, great place to teach if you want to make money but the life there is shit." "Oh yeah? I have some friends that were teaching up there, what'd you say your name was?" "I'm Kenny, you?" "Brian..." "Oh my God Brian Buckley?" I shit you not, I ran into someone I knew from High School in a small bar in Vietnam. "Yeah! Kenny Brill?" It went on like that for a moment while we oo'd and ahh'd over what a strange coincidence this was before I leaned over to my Austrian friend and filled him in on what was going on. He agreed that it was a strange circumstance to find ourselves in and we decided to order our beer. We chatted for over an hour about teaching in Korea versus teaching in Taiwan with the obvious upside to Korea being that he'd saved around $11,000 US in one year. I haven't saved nearly as much, but we both agreed that life in Taiwan has been far more enjoyable and I wouldn't change my location for anything, not even $11,000 in the bank.

Maybe next year?

After our obligatory beer my Austrian friend and I decided to shove off and hit the sack. I had to be up to catch my taxi to the airport by 5:00 and needed some sleep after the two hours I'd received the night before. When we got back to the hostel, I said goodbye to him as he got off on his floor from the elevator and we shared a quick smile, knowing that we'd never see each other again.