The East
Saigon, or rather, Ho Chi Minh City was fascinating. Our last night there, we were taken to dinner by one of my dad’s colleagues, who spoke disparagingly of the corrupt system of government. He said, that the country’s biggest and most notorious gangster, drug dealer, pimp etc, was above the law, as he was the son of the Prime Minister. A minor civil servant, who probably earned a couple of hundred US dollars per month, just had a multi-million dollar mansion built for him and his family. Nobody informs on anybody else as they are all just as bad as each other. Or at least, this was the message my dad’s colleague seemed to put across. He has lived in Vietnam for 10 years, is married to a Vietnamese lady, but speaks not a word of the language. The dinner was delicious, the conversation cynical.
Can Tho, the Mekong River Delta, was beautiful in terms of scenery. We saw a fruit farm, the owner of which was an 82 year old whose evident health made him appear half that age. We observed the traditional way of popping corn, in a giant wok over a stone fire, catalysed by the addition of black sand to the mixture. Early in the morning, we were shown the floating markets, where people advertise what it is they are selling by tying a net bag of their produce to the mast of their boat. It was hot, more humid than ever and we were tired, but the experience was one of a kind.
Bangkok, I love that city, am determined to go back. Our hotel, The Peninsula, was the most decadent and luxurious I have ever seen or stayed in, but managed to be totally unostentatious. We had adjoining rooms, but it was more of a suite. Our door opened onto a hallway, off which there were two more doors, one to each bedroom. The bedrooms were enormous. My sister and I had a queen sized bed each, my parents a massive king sized one. Each room also contained a TV and DVD player, large writing desk, wardrobe, fridge, table and chairs, sofa. The lights and curtains were all controlled from a panel on the bedside table and headphones were provided so that one person could sleep whilst the other watched TV in bed. The bathrooms were almost as big as the bedrooms, entirely marble, with a seat area in the shower cubicle, a TV you could watch from the bath, and four different levels of mood lighting. Each floor (which housed just 2 sets of adjoining rooms) had its own 24 hour on-call butler.
We saw Jim Thompson’s house - he was an American who set up the company Thai Silk, in order to revive the traditional art of silk making and painting and boost the country’s economy. His business was thriving when, in 1969, he disappeared in mysterious circumstances. His body was found in Malaysia some time later and there is still no definite story of the final part of his life. We spent hours in Central, the big department store, which I loved, and I ate yummy sushi in their food court, as well as buying cheap CDs.
Nusa Dua, our tourist resort in Bali, was quite idyllic. Not so our first hotel. It had looked lovely from the brochure but in truth was badly in need of total refurbishment. After one night there, we opted to move to the hotel next door. It was entirely surrounded by swimming pools, all with beautiful flowers and trees overhanging them.
We went shopping to the local mall, where restaurateurs habitually approached and harassed us, to persuade us to dine at their establishment that evening. I was so used to this after a while, that when a young guy called out “Good evening” to me as I was heading back to meet my family at 9.30pm when the shops shut, I said “Good evening” back, but kept walking. I was too far away to hear his next sentence, so I just called out “No thank you, I’ve already eaten tonight!” At this, the guy ran up to me and said in a somewhat injured voice, “I wasn’t advertising, I was asking you your name, because I think you’re beautiful.” I apologized and told him my name, at which he grabbed my hand and said “I’m Andi. I think you have a beautiful name. For how long can you stay in my country?” Not knowing quite what to say and not wanting a random fling with a waiter in a Balinese restaurant, I replied that, unfortunately, I was going home the next day. I then ran back to the hotel.
I spent much of the week in Bali hanging out with Mia, a fellow Londoner, and drinking iced tea with sugar syrup. We lay in the shade and the hotel bar staff brought tall glasses on trays. We luxuriated and moaned about men.
Can Tho, the Mekong River Delta, was beautiful in terms of scenery. We saw a fruit farm, the owner of which was an 82 year old whose evident health made him appear half that age. We observed the traditional way of popping corn, in a giant wok over a stone fire, catalysed by the addition of black sand to the mixture. Early in the morning, we were shown the floating markets, where people advertise what it is they are selling by tying a net bag of their produce to the mast of their boat. It was hot, more humid than ever and we were tired, but the experience was one of a kind.
Bangkok, I love that city, am determined to go back. Our hotel, The Peninsula, was the most decadent and luxurious I have ever seen or stayed in, but managed to be totally unostentatious. We had adjoining rooms, but it was more of a suite. Our door opened onto a hallway, off which there were two more doors, one to each bedroom. The bedrooms were enormous. My sister and I had a queen sized bed each, my parents a massive king sized one. Each room also contained a TV and DVD player, large writing desk, wardrobe, fridge, table and chairs, sofa. The lights and curtains were all controlled from a panel on the bedside table and headphones were provided so that one person could sleep whilst the other watched TV in bed. The bathrooms were almost as big as the bedrooms, entirely marble, with a seat area in the shower cubicle, a TV you could watch from the bath, and four different levels of mood lighting. Each floor (which housed just 2 sets of adjoining rooms) had its own 24 hour on-call butler.
We saw Jim Thompson’s house - he was an American who set up the company Thai Silk, in order to revive the traditional art of silk making and painting and boost the country’s economy. His business was thriving when, in 1969, he disappeared in mysterious circumstances. His body was found in Malaysia some time later and there is still no definite story of the final part of his life. We spent hours in Central, the big department store, which I loved, and I ate yummy sushi in their food court, as well as buying cheap CDs.
Nusa Dua, our tourist resort in Bali, was quite idyllic. Not so our first hotel. It had looked lovely from the brochure but in truth was badly in need of total refurbishment. After one night there, we opted to move to the hotel next door. It was entirely surrounded by swimming pools, all with beautiful flowers and trees overhanging them.
We went shopping to the local mall, where restaurateurs habitually approached and harassed us, to persuade us to dine at their establishment that evening. I was so used to this after a while, that when a young guy called out “Good evening” to me as I was heading back to meet my family at 9.30pm when the shops shut, I said “Good evening” back, but kept walking. I was too far away to hear his next sentence, so I just called out “No thank you, I’ve already eaten tonight!” At this, the guy ran up to me and said in a somewhat injured voice, “I wasn’t advertising, I was asking you your name, because I think you’re beautiful.” I apologized and told him my name, at which he grabbed my hand and said “I’m Andi. I think you have a beautiful name. For how long can you stay in my country?” Not knowing quite what to say and not wanting a random fling with a waiter in a Balinese restaurant, I replied that, unfortunately, I was going home the next day. I then ran back to the hotel.
I spent much of the week in Bali hanging out with Mia, a fellow Londoner, and drinking iced tea with sugar syrup. We lay in the shade and the hotel bar staff brought tall glasses on trays. We luxuriated and moaned about men.