When
it came time to leave Dalat, it was obvious it wasn't going to be an
easy, or dry affair. Numerous roads were blocked due to floods,
numerous destinations weren't worth visiting for the same reason and
the bus we chose to leave on started the trip going in every
direction except for the one that lead out of town. I'd like to say
that we were on a local bus for the sheer colour and variety of the
experience. In reality, it was because we paid for a flash open tour
bus only to be hoisted onto something half as comfortable, twice the
age and four times more expensive than if we had have gone to the bus
stop ourselves. Some seats had been removed to accommodate two
scooters and a few more seats needed removal before my legs could be
comfortably accommodated.
If
the windows hadn't have been on a mud safari, the next hour spent
scouring for passengers could have quite rightly been called a scenic
tour of Dalat. Locals were picked up from obscure locations, laughing
and smiling when they saw us aboard. They delighted in us returning
smiles of ignorance or simply the sight of Uncle Ho's pith helmet
perched precariously on my head
To
continue the party atmosphere of the ride, simply alighting was ample
reason to light up a cigarette in celebration. The overwhelming smell
of petrol fumes had already made me think about buying a face nappy.
The naked flame hadn't aroused explosive possibilities in the mind of
the driver, or everyone else who failed to understand the cause and
consequence of ignition. One stop was made so the driver could top up
on the cigarettes he was choking down like he had less than 24 hours
to live, a joke his actions were firming as fact.
With
smoke covering the windows like a cancer curtain, reading seemed like
the best way to overlook a four hour trip threatening to take eight
hours. I had picked up a copy of Walter Mason's Destination
Saigon
in Hoi An, and enjoyable and in-depth look at Vietnamese culture by a
Westerner with over a year spent in the country. Fluent in
Vietnamese, his insights far surpassed my own adventures that rarely
step outside the large footprint left by the lonely planet. Unaware
when I had closed the book last, I was surprised to find I was up to
the chapter entitled 'Escaping to Mui Ne', our destination and
sentiments about leaving Dalat.
It
was one of those sublime moments where the written word before you
perfectly matches your thinking at the time. I was still bothered by
the continual shake downs that had nothing to do with dancing, and
the fact the lady had been so friendly as she ripped us off blind
with the bus ticket. The chapter starts “Sometimes I feared I was
falling out of love with Vietnam. On some days I would be so furious
with the country, with the system, with the people, that I just
wanted to go home.” It actually helped me appreciate the Vietnam
experience more knowing that it wasn't just me that the entire
country was out to bankrupt. I was quite adept at that myself and I
feel a sense of powerless when people insist I do it their way and
not my own.
Like
every Vietnamese town, Dalat had more than its fair share of karaoke
parlours, impressing upon me the possibility of function beyond the
Western use of the term. That Uma wanted to celebrate Halloween in
one troubled me more than mangling a few hits with a singing voice
that didn't escape puberty unscathed. Still troubled by my conscience
and taunted by Uma, I was unwilling to find out a Karaoke bar's real
purpose without the aid of a cricket box or chastity belt. Deepening
the coincidence, Walter Mason's next chapter had this to say about
them. “One must always be careful, however, because the karaoke
experience covers the whole gamut of social possibilities-from a
family sing-song with granny and the kids to a lurid orgy with
friends and ladies of the night. Such interaction normally goes on in
the same venue”. I felt vindicated, yet strangely intrigued by how
family fun and a fuck-fest could go down in the same place.
After
reading my fill, I noticed that a considerate few had opened enough
windows to clear the dutch oven and the out-of-place, yet familiar
surrounds drew me into quiet reflection beyond the constant cries of
car horns. The nurseries and veggie patches that littered the
landscape were more reminiscent of rural Melbourne where I grew up.
The square architecture of the housing was far more European than the
strange skinny and slender Vietnamese housing that skirted around a
tax based upon street frontage. Distinctions between abodes in most
of Vietnam could only be drawn from one gaudily painted place
contrasting with the colour of its neighbour.
Never
has such a large contrast been more evident than the Hang Nga Crazy
House we visited the previous day. A concrete curio concocted by a
Tim Burton like mind, quite possibly dazed and deluded from a
dangerous dose of Daytura. The plant was evident in the area, but the
construction went far beyond drug-induced creative craziness. A
laudable attempt at organic architecture, the crazy house's walls
flowed like melting wax, straight lines were notable for their
absence, random reflective surfaces refracted reality and tiny
tunnels took circuitous routes to nowhere. Every convention was
broken to warp the senses like childhood regression or a strong
psychotropic.
Equally
confused, claustrophobic and constipated (I wish white rice tasted
like cucumber so I wasn't tempted to eat it!), we opted for the open
air of a lake stroll. The mornings tofu burger wasn't sitting well,
unaided by the inexplicable deep frying of the bun as well as the
burger. Some flower gardens became our destination when the seven
kilometre circumference of the muddy and half empty lake proved
beyond our capabilities and interest. With the climate offering
conditions like Melbourne's conducive cold, to my untrained eye the
flowers being cultivated were identical to Australian ones.
My
reveries were broken by frantic activity from the other passengers.
The back road from Dalat to Mui Ne constantly wound around mountain
sides in a dizzying test for the strongest stomach. It wasn't having
much effect on me and I remained blissfully unaware of the hardships
of others as I stared out the window. It was a test that some ladies
on the bus were starting to fail. I noticed I was getting envious
looks from Uma as her steely focus belied an inner battle of wills
that she would have happily lost if she thought throwing up all over
me would have made her feel any better.
Before
long, it was like watching a sequel to Lardass Hogan's barf-a-rama at
the blueberry pie eating contest in the movie 'Stand by me'. The poor
lady in front of us had retched so persistently she had turned
herself inside out. The boyfriend of the regurgitator to our right
went into full denial and started handing out bread rolls. In
excellent English, he turned to us and said “Good time to eat, no?”
with enough good cheer and a proffered roll to think he might not
have been joking. Uma's look of unmitigated hatred answered for us
both before I was able to say the continued cementing of my colon
with white bread was not as high on my priority list as dodging the
other body secretions flying around the bus.
Six
hours after departure, we arrived in Mui Ne with the smell of bile
and cigarettes staining our clothes and memories. We were sceptical
of the flash looking resort the driver dropped us at, believing it to
be a shit hole which offered kickbacks for the delivery of suckers.
We checked in to a seedy place across the road only to find out the
flash resort was the Lonely Planet's top pick for budget
accommodation in the area. Again I am reminded that every day of
travel is a new lesson about the country you are in, yourself and
what effect combining the two has on your preconceptions.
