VIETNAM – PART I
Jackfruit chips?
By the time we boarded VietJet Flight 931 on the afternoon of Wednesday 22 November from Osaka to Hanoi, Lolo and I felt like seasoned Asian travelers. After all, with our purchases, we had increased our luggage count by one, and were completely relaxed after a near flawless period in Japan. With the extra luggage, and belatedly realising that it was an almost six-hour flight, we upgraded our tickets a few days in advance. Having also become much wiser in Japan, we contacted our hotel, the Sofitel Legend Metropole, to arrange our airport transfer. All these changes, despite the number of zeros in the quoted prices, were relatively inexpensive.
On the flight, our first pleasant Vietnamese surprise. We were served a snack of jackfruit chips, or crisps, if you are English. The jackfruit is one of the fruits I knew and loved as a child in rural Jamaica. It is usually about the size of a watermelon, or larger, with a rough, slightly prickly exterior, and is borne from both the trunk and the branches of the tree. Each jackfruit, when cut open, contains multiple small bulbs, each gold in colour and luscious in taste. Given the overall size of a jackfruit, there was always a great risk of having too much. So, what starts off as a delightful burrowing into the bowels of this delicacy, very often leaves you with rumbling bowels of your own, not to mention sticky fingers.
The thing though, is that I had never seen jackfruit except in the “wild”, or just recently picked by someone who happens to have a tree on their property. No one seemed to grow it on a farm, or sold it. I had never seen it in a market, and never saw it in the city. Nor in any other country. So to be served jackfruit chips as a real packaged delicacy was quite something.
“Oh wait,” I thought, as I ripped open the package. Is it even from the same fruit? You kidding! This is jackfruit! There was none of the yummy brine running all over your hands as when you eat the actual fruit, and just as well, but the taste and flavour were unmistakable.
For one, I was surprised that it even has the same name. Jamaica does have a number of plants which were brought there from Southeast Asia in the 17th century by Captain William Bligh (yes, the same one of Mutiny on the Bounty fame). But it is quite unique for a name to survive translation, or renaming, and still ends up being referred to by the same name in both Jamaica and the place of origin in the modern translation.
What else did we have to eat on that flight? I have no idea. Jackfruit chips! Can you imagine?
Where’s the sky?
Consistent with the standards of service we had by then come to take for granted, we were met by a representative of the Sofitel Legend Metropole at Hanoi’s Noi Bai International Airport, precisely according to the instructions we had received by email. We were escorted to our “limousine” (really a nice min-van) and set off on our way.
With no preconceived notions about Vietnam, or Hanoi in particular, I tried to pay attention to my surroundings as we drove. I did note that the main infrastructure seemed well developed – proper dual carriage highway, for example. I also noted that the driver had a tendency to straddle the centre line separating the two lanes on our side of the highway, even when there was no apparent reason.
My most significant observation however was the stinging feeling to the back of my throat once we had traveled some distance. The windows were closed and the air conditioning was on. I also noted that the driver would occasionally give off a little cough. It would turn out to be an affliction of every driver we had in Vietnam. The air quality was really poor.
I was still examining our surroundings as we approached our hotel, trying to make a mental note to assist with our navigation when we went on our inevitable walkabout.
The Sofitel Legend Metropole had its origins in the French colonial period, 1901 in fact, and was originally The Grand Metropole. There was abundant evidence of the efforts to preserve every vestige of French sophistication, through division of the country, war and Communist unification. The staff, for example, would greet the guests in French, although no doubt relieved when you respond in English, since no one really speaks French in Vietnam.
We were met by James, our personal concierge, who took us directly to our room in the Opera Wing, bypassing reception. The Opera Wing is the more modern of the two wings in the hotel. The other, the Metropole, is the historic section of the hotel. That was where they had the bomb shelter during the Vietnam War, for example. The Opera Wing did not have the history but did not miss out on the efforts to portray class and sophistication. Mind you, the place is nice. Both wings are separated by a central area which sites the swimming pool, spa, gym and one of the restaurants.
James (not a very Vietnamese name for a very Vietnamese guy) was very attentive and provided us with much detail about the property, its services and amenities. Beyond all, he was insistent that we made sure we contact him if we needed any assistance at all. The service throughout our stay was excellent. Beyond the call of duty was simply routine for the staff.
That first evening we had dinner at angelina (not a typo), which is a classy and elegant restaurant, offering, I would say, a metropolitan menu. The food was good but not necessarily memorable – we were spoilt in Japan.
This was also our first experience of receiving a bill which reads like a financial statement. The exchange rate between the US Dollar and the Vietnamese Dong (VND) was around 24,000 to 1. So your roasted pumpkin soup would be 350,000 VND, and if you ordered the foie gras, that would set you back around 1.5 million.
No wonder a number of businesses simply leave off the last 3 zeros, just like an accountant would on a balance sheet in USD.
The next day, Thursday the 24th, was our walking tour of our surroundings. James had already advised us that we were close to Hanoi’s Old Quarter and the Hoan Kiem Lake. So those would be the main focus of our walk of discovery.
The previous night, after dinner, we had taken a walk around our block – literally a 360 around our hotel. We even ran into James, in his civvies, having completed his shift, and heading home. He instantly recognised us and I am sure if we had mentioned even the slightest unattended issue, he would have whipped back to the hotel to sort it. Luckily, there was none, so James could head home peacefully.
That mini tour revealed that there was a park just across the road from our hotel. On the morning of our walk we saw that it was a popular spot to play badminton, as it was for the nightly performances we saw the night before.
Having noted the air quality on our trip from the airport, we armed ourselves with our masks as we headed out. They were securely fitted by the time we hit the streets. We looked up but could not see the sky, even though it was not a naturally cloudy day. “Where’s the sky?” was our constant refrain throughout Vietnam.
Sensory Overload
We were only a few minutes from the Old Quarter. But wow! Our senses were not prepared for the instant overload. The traffic, 70% motor cycles, 10% rickshaws and 20% motor cars, came from all over, including along the sidewalks, which were already almost completely filled with restaurant patrons seated on miniature chairs, and parked mopeds.
OK, let us try to cross the street. Better use the pedestrian crossing, we thought. That must be safer. Hang on, do the pedestrian crossings even mean anything? There was not even the slightest hint of a vehicle pausing to allow us to cross. I guess we just had to brave it. So we stepped out. The vehicles just swerved around us. Not even the slightest reduction in speed was noted. Phew! Safely on the other side. This was what we would be in for. Bring it on! We were experts at Hanoi Street crossing by the end of the day.
The streets were an absolute riot of activity – restaurants, shops, cafes, tailor shops, pharmacies, foot massage parlors, other massage parlors. There could be several people on a moped. And there were mopeds with about as much luggage as you could fit in a tractor-trailer. And it was everyone riding mopeds – young, old, stylishly dressed girls who were just as aggressive as the men. There is obviously no equivalent in the Vietnamese language for “give way”.
We went through a food and fruit market. To our delight, there were all these fruits which, like the jackfruit, I had only ever seen in rural Jamaica, such as (using the Jamaican names) naseberry, sweetsop, custard apple. And there was the jackfruit. There, in the market. We decided to buy some on our way back to the hotel, after our tour.
We were walking past one of the little parlors with ladies offering massages and pedicures when Lolo asked me if I wanted to try one. I looked at my questioner really hard, just to make sure someone had not switched places with my wife. The Lolo I know owns Amara’s, an award-winning spa where the service clearly justifies all the international accolades it has received. She is also a bit of a germophobe. Yet, I was the one resisting the entreaties of these omnipresent offerings on the Hanoi streetside. She reasoned that she really liked to see what was available wherever she went and is always on the hunt for talented and skilled staff.
I am not sure I was persuaded, but I eventually relented. To the delight of the young lady pitching the service at the streetside, we entered one of these establishments. I was to have a pedicure and Lolo a manicure – well, mainly to remove her smudged nail polish and have her nails cut and filed – as I understood it.
We were led upstairs to a room where there was already a man lying on his stomach getting a massage. There were a couple of seats right next to him. Mind you, this was simply a regular couch. None of those fancy chairs or those tables with the little compartments for the equipment, different colored nail polish. etc. Nor was there any sight of any fancy container for your feet for the pedicure. Nor, for that matter, the “soothing” spa music – not necessarily missed by me.
We were made to sit down, right next to the man having the massage. Some type of bucket was brought up for my pedicure – I barely looked. Beside me, it was quite clear Lolo was not happy with whatever the attendant produced to get her task done. I could hear her remonstrating, and getting increasingly frustrated through the language barrier. I then heard sounds similar to a metal cutter cutting wires. I definitely dared not look to see what they were using to cut Lolo’s nails and how they would look after.
On my side, I noticed my attendant speaking to her colleague in Vietnamese. She then disappeared around the back and returned with a grater – one that I had only previously ever seen in a kitchen. That was the scrub for my soles. OK, they were not in great shape, but…
I was only too happy to exit the building once the “service” was finished. My feet were still attached to my body; no blood was spilt; and the cost, the equivalent of US$5 each. Well, Lolo’s remonstrations did not quite end even when we were “safely” back in the street. She eventually took my point that we really could not insist on much for a $5 pedicure or manicure.
We continued our walk, up to the lake, which we could see was very picturesque when the blue sky was visible. We struggled to find a place for lunch which did not scream “Street food”, but eventually did. Then, having retraced out steps to the market to buy fruit, we returned to the hotel, only to find that our room was amply supplied with fruit provided by the hotel. Well, you can’t have too much fruit, can you?
Sa Pa and Cat Cat
We had entered in our itinerary for Friday 24 November, but had not reserved, the following: “Drive to Muong Ho Valley and take a full day walk between the villages of H’mong and D’zay ethnic minorities.” Just before we traveled to Vietnam, we had done some research. This revealed that the best way to do this is to travel to a town called Sa Pa, northwest of Hanoi.
Our research also showed that Sa Pa is a 6-hour drive from Hanoi, longer by train. That was definitely not a trip for a single day. We therefore booked a two-day trip to travel from Hanoi to Sa Pa on Friday morning and return Saturday evening.
We purchased an all-inclusive package to include a “limousine” transfer, accommodation, meals and an English-speaking guide. We were to be picked up at our hotel on Friday morning at 6:30am, which would have us arriving in Sa Pa at lunch time.
The “limousine” was on time, except, it was no limousine. It was another minibus, albeit larger than our airport transfer. It had individual seats which, we believed, once reclined and had proper headrests, etc. This one did not quite have those amenities. It had definitely seen better days and the term “limousine” was very much a misdescription.
We were the first to be picked up and we then went to each of the other hotels where our traveling companions would be collected. It was slow and painstaking as a couple of the hotels were well in the heart of the Old Quarter.
There were two rest stops along the way to Sa Pa. When we pulled into the first, we noticed that this was by no means random. Every other vehicle transporting tourists to Sa Pa had also pulled in. It was a sprawling street arcade where, apart from using the toilets (in return for paying 3,000 VND), you could buy coffee, snacks, water, etc. We had somehow forgotten that this is a Communist country. It never occurred to me that something like this could not simply be left to market forces. It was obviously micro-managed. I suppose, to think of a justification, there was the issue traffic control, so probably best to have only one major exit to the highway.
Speaking of which, I was quite pleased to see that the highway was in really good condition all the way to Sa Pa. I was also pleased to have left the mopeds of Hanoi behind as it appears they are not allowed on the highway. Not to mention getting a few thousand feet in altitude above Hanoi.
In Sa Pa, after lunch, we were taken to our hotel, The Sa Pa Charm, where we would spend the night. But, first things first. Once we deposited our bags, we went to meet our guide, a delightful, extremely knowledgeable and well-spoken local lady. We then set off down to the village of Cat Cat. There was one other person in our group, a young man from Singapore, who lived in Canada. It was quite a lengthy hike, downhill initially, some areas being quite steep.
Between our guide outlining the history and the culture of the area, Lolo was, as she tends to be, more interested in the guide’s own life and lifestyle. By the end of the tour, Lolo had a plan for how to direct a female empowerment programme to the area.
Although we passed picturesque rice fields planted on the terraced hillsides, and other notable features of the landscape, what struck us most was how heavily commercialised the place was. There was absolutely no natural feel about it. It was as if we were walking through a never-ending market, with stalls on both sides of the trail, all populated by locals, all selling the same items, or perhaps I should say displaying, since I did not witness much in the way of sales. There were some really interesting artifacts, such as some hand-woven tapestry, the making of which was demonstrated to us. It is quite a distinctive skill which we were pleased to see in the various stages of production. Seeing the level of skill involved prompted us to make a few purchases.
The walk back to the hotel was all uphill. Now here was a demanding hike. Some areas were really steep but we were ready for it. Lolo had by then managed to purchase hiking boots and we took on the challenge with relish, and more than a few rest stops.
Prior to that day all we knew about our overnight accommodation was that it would, or should be, 4-Star. We had done no research. Nor did we even know the name. Our encounter before the trek to Cat Cat was brief as we only had enough time to drop our bags and change.
The Sa Pa Charm was a pleasant surprise. The place was decent enough. The views, when we were able to see clearly, were spectacular. I have added the qualification because we had the clouds for accompaniment for most of the time. We would look through the window and see only a soft white sheet. Then the clouds would lift, and an entire mountain would emerge. Just observing that contrast was itself an event.
Because of the clouds, we still did not manage to see the sky, an objective we had failed to achieve in Hanoi for different reasons.
The following morning, we were to have another trek before we boarded our transport back to Hanoi after lunch. Our guide came to the rear of the hotel and rang to summon us. We were taken down some stairs to a grilled door. When we got there the door was locked. Well, minor inconvenience you might think. Yet it took the better part of 15 minutes to find out who had the key; consider whether the guide should circumnavigate the hotel to meet us at the front entrance (a 20 minute walk we were told due to the topography); and eventually to wait until whoever had the key showed up.
For this trek, the guide had a group of around 10 trekkers, mostly university students, already assembled. We joined them, as soon as we were released, and started the trek down.
Now this was more like what we were expecting. The path was steep and uneven in places, but it took us through delightful landscapes of rice fields on the terraced slopes, actual villages where people farmed, and not simply sell merchandise, and across little rickety bridges which traversed the little creeks used to flood the rice fields. We passed a few young tourists, who had obviously chosen to be embedded with a family, working in the fields.
Not long after we started, we were joined by a few local tribespeople. Lolo and I mainly had the company of two ladies and two little boys. At least one of the ladies spoke just enough English for us to have a bit of a conversation (you could tell they had done this before). One little boy had a very neat little bamboo trekking stick, which he generously gave to me, my own trekking sticks still resting comfortably back at the hotel. It proved I needed it, given the unevenness of the terrain. The little boy certainly did not, as he and his little friend skipped across the terrain like mountain goats.
At the bottom of the slopes we stopped for a comfort break, and to give the locals a chance to sell us their wares. There was obviously no lower age limit to be a vendor, especially since they obviously realised how much more difficult it was to resist the entreaties of a cute little child. Except that once you made a purchase, there was a sudden swarm descended upon you, like fishermen suddenly identifying a spot where the fish are biting.
As it happened, our local walking companions, including the little boys, were also vendors. Their wares were however no different from everyone else’s, and from what we had already purchased before. So we simply sought to give them money in gratitude, which was initially met with some hesitation in simply accepting money, but I was just as hesitant to carry more stuff I did not really want. Part of my argument to them was that I was paying for the bamboo trekking stick.
It was interesting that throughout our treks we saw no sign of a developed ancient civilization. What we were shown as the traditional huts were quite basic, with no real sophistication in the design or engineering. Perhaps on my next trip to Vietnam that probably will be my focus, to find some place where the history is not dominated by images of French colonization and the Vietnam War.
This time we did not have to trek back uphill to our hotel. Good thing, as we were still feeling the effects of the exertions of the previous day. We were met by a bus which would take us to our hotel and our “limousine” back to Hanoi.
On the drive back from Sa Pa we had a punctured tyre. No one realised until the driver pulled over, and another bus pulled up behind us and both drivers proceeded to change the tyre almost as fast as they do in a Formula 1 pit stop. And just as well. We have all had the experience of passing and feeling sorry for people standing by the roadside looking forlorn whilst they await repairs to their vehicle. We were conscious that we were now those travelers. Luckily for us our period of forlorn dejection was minimal. Before too long we started to have the company of motorcycles, which meant that Hanoi was drawing nigh.
Unscheduled Saturday night hike
It was late evening when we approached the uncoordinated chaos of the Old Quarter. We expected that it would take us a while to make our way through the traffic to drop off all the other passengers, and then to our hotel.
So did the driver, clearly. He drove to an intersection, stopped, pointed at Lolo and me, pointed up the road and said, “Two minutes.” We looked at each other, and at the driver, who again said, “Two minutes.” We tried to ask him what he meant. Nothing seemed familiar to us. The driver, who spoke no more than about 10 English words, merely pointed, though more forcefully this time, and again repeated, “Two minutes.”
We looked at the other passengers. Everyone obviously wanted to get back to their hotel and had the look of, “Why don’t you two just get out and go. Can’t you walk two minutes?”
So we got out, loaded our backpacks on our backs and headed along the street the driver had pointed out. Still, nothing seemed familiar. It shouldn’t be difficult to spot our hotel. We kept going. The streets were packed with people, street side restaurants, traffic. The atmosphere was almost festive. After all, it was a Saturday night.
Ten minutes into our walk we were wondering if we had taken a wrong turn somewhere (we had made no turns), or somehow walked right past our hotel, something I might have been prone to do, but definitely not Lolo.
So we whipped out our phones, topped up with data for exactly this situation. We checked Google Maps. We had not taken a wrong turn. Nor had we walked past our hotel. We were simply nowhere near it. We duly mapped our way and walked the remaining 30 minutes to our hotel.
Lolo was furious. As soon as we got to the hotel, she grabbed my phone (I was the one communicating with the tour operators by WhatsApp) and unloaded her wrath on them, threatening them with the worst review imaginable, and a lot worse.
The agent was very apologetic, explaining that the transport company was an independent contractor, etc, etc. I was a bit more relaxed. I knew I at least had a good story for my blog. I was also hoping I could get the tour operators’ assistance on another matter. Lolo had left her flowing red coat she had worn on the way to Sa Pa in the restaurant where we had lunch the first day. At least, that was what we surmised when we could not locate it. We needed the tour operators to track it down and have one of the drivers return it to us in Hanoi.
In the end, the tour operators offered, and we accepted, a refund of the cost of the transport. We did not write a review of the tour, good or bad, and Lolo’s coat was duly found and returned to our hotel after a couple days.
We had one more day in Hanoi before our scheduled cruise at Ha Long Bay. Walking through our hotel corridors we had seen a notice advertising the Sofitel Legend Metropole’s Sunday Brunch. We were keen to compare it to Sunday Brunch in Cayman, so we brunched the following day. The food was good, excellent in fact, and with the bottomless champagne, it cost 4.5 million VND per person. It therefore matched Cayman in price, but not in the usual display of fashion and festivity.
The highlight of that day however was our people watching sitting at La Terrasse, the street side cafe and restaurant at the Metropole. We observed quite a phenomenon. Young people, women and men, would dress up and have a fully staged photo shoot just outside the hotel. I do not mean smartphone photos. There would be a cameraman, often with an assistant, with large elaborate cameras and all the equipment, and props, for a proper photo shoot. The photographer, or an assistant, would take on the role of director of everything, including the facial expression and the poses. There was a steady stream all day, to the point where we stopped noticing, until we saw a photo shoot by one photographer of another photographer going through his staging act. There is clearly an online audience for this.
A lovely last memory of Hanoi before our trip the following day to Ha Long Bay.
Sabbatical Odyssey 
Leave a comment