Saturday, 30 April 2011
Friday, 29 April 2011
Hoi An
So long Sapa and hello Hoi An. We have left the hill tribes of North Vietnam to head south to the historic former trading mecca awarded Unesco World Heritage status in 1999. Between the 15th and 19th centuries Hoi An was one of South-East Asia's major ports and a hub of commerce, traders flocking here from India, Japan, China, Indonesia, America and many European countries - Britain, Portugal, Spain and the Netherlands among them. The diversity of cultures made for a heady brew, and the influences live on today.
The section known as the Old Town remains much as it did centuries ago. Just a two minute walk from our neat little riverside hotel and across the bridge that spans the Thu Bon River we find ourselves taking a trip back in time in the quarter's pulsating heart - narrow streets and tiny alleys buzzing with life, medieval homes turned into museums, ancient assembly halls, handicraft workshops and weathered timber-fronted merchant houses, with colourful silk lanterns billowing outside them in the warm gentle evening breeze.Sadly there is a price to pay for all the history and heritage - it's called tourism. The floating red, yellow, pink and blue cartoon-like characters that dot the river near the bridge, and which are garishly lit up at night, give this part of town a Disney theme park feel.
On the other hand were it not for the tourist dong (Vietnam's currency) - and, at the end of the day, we are part of the gaggle who flock here in their thousands every week - Hoi An may have fallen into obscurity many moons ago.
Tourist trap or not, there is much to like here - not least the cute little cafes, bars and restaurants doing brisk business and the countless tailors and dressmaking shops where traders continue to market high quality silk just as their ancestors did done for hundreds of years before them. In fact, tailor-made clothes are the big drawcard here, with shop after shop specialising in traditional Vietnamese dresses, tunics and trousers, plus a nice line in nifty footwear.
Chris is looking to have a dress made and really likes a lady named Mai, who has made her feel welcome at her little shop, without being at all pushy - there are touts galore here trying to get you through their door. Mai vows to rustle up a little tangerine number in a couple of days once she has taken measurements. John, not to feel left out, indulges himself at a different premises by being fitted for a new pair of soft leather loafers. They can be knocked up in 24 hours. Hey presto. Shopping in Hoi An is a bit like turning up in Aladdin's Cave.
Spend the evening in funkly little restaurant with fellow travellers and friends Sam and Polly - we must stop meeting like this, folks - Mason. We first came across this fun young London couple in Fiji around seven months ago and then again, much more recently on the Cambodian leg of our travels. They, like us, have been in Vietnam for a while - but going from south to north (we headed in the opposite direction) - and happened to be in Hoi An at the same time, just as we had been in Siem Reap to explore the temples of Angkor.
We hit off with Sam and Polly from the off in Fiji, so reunion No.2 was very definitely called for - and, as is always a case when the Walters and Masons get together, a good time was had by all - this time at a little riverside restaurant that specialised in some mouth-watering spring rolls and super spicy hotpot (Sam did warn us how hot the red-hot chilli peppers actually were), washed down by several beer hois (fresh beer at 4,000 dong, 15pence a glass) for the boys and a bottle of the local Dalat red wine, lovely and very reasonably priced, for the girls. Cheers, we'll drink to that - and we did - and, just like in Cambodia, we were the last customers to leave the premises. Ooops.
Sam and Polly have made arrangements to take a dawn boat ride on the river tomorrow in the hope of seeing fishermen casting their nets, and ask us if we would like to join them. While Chris is well up for it, John is a tad reluctant at first (he's never been much of an early morning person) but several beer hois (must be some kind of magic formula) later is much more receptive to the idea.
The alarm is set for 4am. We are meeting Sam and Polly at 5.30am. It's daybreak already, but the sun has not come up. Considering the late night and early start everyone is very chipper and our boatman sports a jolly and toothy grin. We glide serenely along the river. The light is quite beautiful. In the distance we can make out huge orange-hued nets looking for all the world like massive upside down UFOs. Either side of the nets, which are supported by tall bamboo poles, men sit on platforms operating a wheel - a kind of pulley which makes the nets rise and fall in the water. It's difficult to see the bounty harvested, but we spot the occasional flash of silver squirming against the orange.
By now the sun comes up to greet us and we pull up near some fishing boats. Alongside them are women in what are, to all intents and puroposes, coracles - only rounder, less beetle-shaped than the ones once used on West Wales rivers. The fisher folk ladies clamber on board to sort and weigh the catches of the day before rowing back in their little 'tubs' to the banks of the river where the locals line up to barter.
We return to dry land at 7am, so glad we made the effort to get up early. Thanks Sam and Polly for letting us in on your adventure - and persuading John he should go along for the ride (dawn start or not). He did appreciate it - honestly. Telling Chris it was an experience he would not have missed for the world is proof of the pudding.
The Masons are leaving Hoi An today for pastures north and new - so we bid them a fond farewell and promise to team up again for reunion No.3 back in Britain when they eventually return from their travels sometime during late summer. Next stop for them as we write is base camp at Mt. Everest. Wow.
Famished after our river trip we enjoy a hearty breakfast on the balcony of our hotel - the Long Life Riverside - and decide on a day out in the country on a couple of bicycles. Fifteen minutes later we are among rice paddy fields. Stop to greet a happy as larry rice farmer who temporarily swaps hats - his is a traditional Vietnamese conical bamboo lampshade-like number - with Chris, at the same time handing her a lovely bunch of water-lilies he picks especially for her.
After exchanging several knowing nods and smiles, and hats returned to rightful owners, we wave him goodbye and cycle on past vegetable allotments through little villages off the beaten track. They are unspoilt and charming - geese, ducks and water buffalo seem to even outnumber dogs and cats here - and little children run out to wave to us and bid us xin chao (hello). It's a delightful way to see the real Vietnam - a simple and charming rural way of life that has existed for hundreds of years.
Sadly all good things must come to an end, and tomorrow - after picking up Chris's outfit - we will have to reluctantly say our goodbyes to Hoi An too. As we make for Dalat in the Central Highlands on the next leg of our journey through this intoxicating country we'll be packing our suitcases, not only with a new dress and a pair of shoes, but a pocketful of fabulous memories.
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
Monday, 25 April 2011
Sapa
High Street Station may not be the most salubrious place to hang around after darkness has fallen but, compared to a late-night outing at Hanoi's railway terminal, one of Swansea's least attractive areas is more shining beacon than eyesore.
Let's just say New York's Grand Central this is not. But here we are anyway waiting to catch the night train to Sapa, a mountain village in the far north of Vietnam close to the Chinese border. Having firstly encountered a problem with our taxi driver - he demands more money from us than the one agreed for trip from our hotel - we find the station teeming with locals and tourists.
Not only is the terminal itself chaotic, airless, and sweaty, the toilets are filthy and we then have to cross several rail tracks to find our train, humping our luggage with us.
Cue then for a scam where baggage 'helpers' arrive from nowhere, whisking our suitcases away from us as we struggle over the tracks and take charge of loading them onto the train. Once we have boarded our two 'helpers' - not railway staff - then demand their dong (Vietnamese currency) for having carried the bags when we hadn't asked them to in the first place. We are in our sleeper carriage and two of them are at the door looking as if they mean business. When we get our wallets out and give them what we think their 'services' are worth they start getting aggressive, jabbing their fingers towards other larger readies.
These snarling hustlers are not nice (not remotely like the genuinely lovely and charming Vietnamese people we have met on our travels), but we stick to our guns and insist that what we have given them is all they are getting. Frustrated, they eventually give up and disappear back into whatever holes they originally surfaced from.
Train eventually gets going and, after a couple of unpleasant incidents, we are not sorry to see the back of Hanoi Station. The journey takes eight-and-a-half hours. The train noisly grinds, bumps and swings its way northwards. It's pitch black, of course, and we try to settle down for the night in our carriage, but sleep is pretty nigh impossible, though we do catch a couple of fitfull hours.
We arrive literally at the end of the line at 5.20am at Lao Cai, a town straddling the Vietnam-China border and which is the gateway to an unique region of towering forested mountains reaching into the clouds, cascading rice fields, fertile river valleys and remote hill-tribe villages.
We are met by Don (we have arranged for a guide) and he takes us to a little local cafe for a breakfast of toast, jam and black tea. Don, a regular guy and full of smiles, and his driver will transfer us by car to Sapa later that afternoon.
First, though, we face a full day. Being tired doesn't enter the equation. Morning destination is the Coc Ly market high up in the mountains on a muddy brow overlooking a stunning mist-shrouded valley where the hill tribes (a heady and frothy mix of ethnic minority people) come to sell their wares.
The market is a riot of colour where young and old exotically dressed H'mong women strap babies to their backs, swathe them in shawls and blankets and carry them around all day as they go about their business of buying, selling and bartering.
The H'mong, who migrated from China in the 19th Century, have become one of the largest ethnic tribes in Vietnam. They live at high altitude, raising animals - cattle, water buffalo, horses and pigs - growing rice, and making medicine from plants. There are groups within the group too - the Black H'mong wear indigo-dyed costumes of linen skirts, aprons, fancy headgear and leggings, while the Flower H'mong are among the most colourful, draped in rainbow-hued heavily sequined traditional outifts and sporting silver bangles, necklaces, dangling earrings and bracelets galore.
These resilient and hardy women - many of them have been shepherding water buffalo and horses to the market from distant villages in the mountains since 1am - sell everything under the sun, while the more soberly-dressed menfolk haggle with each other over the price of animals. The market is not so much a souvenir-hunting affair - though there are scarves, clothes and embroidered ethnic fabrics for sale - rather a true experience of what life in the mountains is like among the H'mongs and other native groups such as the Dzao, Tay and Nung.
The sights, sounds and smells astound us. On all sides are food stalls with huge vats of bubbling broths and rice, fish large and small wriggling about in silver pans, table tops strewn with pigs heads and entrails, dead snakes of every description stuffed into medicine bottles and the local hooch (70% proof rice wine) for the men to neck once trading is over for the day.
We spend a couple of fascinating hours here before taking a scenic trip with Don and a local boatman down the Chay River. Surrounded by jungle-topped limestone peaks on all sides, we pass tiny villages and caves where families have lived in the past. After our hectic start to the day this proves very relaxing - so much so that, lulled by the soothing waters of the river and our relativley sleepless night, we are close to nodding off, as is Don, who admits to having stayed up into the early hours to watch a movie.
Boat docks at little village where John enjoys a cold beer and Chris a hot tea before meeting up with driver again and finally arriving in Sapa feeling sapped. Enjoy lunch at little cafe restaurant with open terrace, watching the H'mong trying to get tourists like ourselves to part with their money as they urge them to buy trinkets and handicrafts.
After a good night's sleep at our hotel we awake refreshed to find Sapa, an old French hill station which sits high on a plateau 5,000-feet above sea level, covered in dense fog. To us the village seems more Swiss-Austrian than Vietnamese, but that's before we see the tribesfolk appearing like ghosts out of a pea-souper London would have been proud of in Jack The Ripper's day. Reality check time, too. Swiss-Austrian? We are just a few miles from China, not Germany.
Over the next two days Don has plans for us - a couple of exciting treks to see some of the more remote villages around Sapa and meet some of the people who live there. As soon as you are on the streets a group of colourfully-dressed women and children buzz around you like bees at the honeypot, chattering 10 to the dozen - their English is excellent given that they are self-taught - and wanting to know where you are from and whether you are married, have children etc etc.
Despite being poor, they are all smiles and happy with their lot. The expectation, however, is that you buy something from them at the end - and we have no problem with that. The way we see it is that it contributes a little to their village, so off to go then.
Once out of Sapa we start descending along steep and muddy mountain footpaths and we leave the fog behind. Breath-taking vistas of vast swathes of rice paddy fields open out in front of us. They are like giant waterfalls tumbling down one after another from the heavens. Here we are well and truly off the beaten path, with the urban madness of Hanoi and its choking motorcycle traffic a million miles away.
After a couple of hours trekking and being helped down mud-caked hillsides by the local women and children (who are as sure-footed as mountain goats) Chris arrives in the rustic Black H'mong village of Lao Chai - John, troubled by a knee problem (an old war wound from footie days flares up), has headed back to the comfort of his Sapa base camp (warm and comfy hotel) by this time.
Chris, meanwhile, lunches with some of the the local tribesfolk before visiting a couple of little schools and is invited into the classrooms where she spends some time with the children at lessons and puts sweets into grateful and tiny hands as she leaves.
The hugely appealing kids sing and dance, while nearby the local women, skilled embroiders, weave and dye fabric, just as their ancestors have done for thousands of years before them. Chris returns exhausted from her visit to Lao Chai and the isolated Red Dzao outpost of Giang Ta Chai but thrilled that she has been able to see and take part in a way of life that has existed for centuries and which remains virtually unchanged today.
Trek No. 2 the following day is to the village of Cat Cat, which sits in the valley below the majestic Fansipan mountain - at 3,000-plus metres Vietnam's highest peak. John passes late fitness test (knee feeling much better after resting up) and assures Chris he is geared for this one.
Again it's a steep, but beautiful hike down hillside to valley hundreds of feet below, passing a lovely waterfall on the way. Stop to watch children making dams in the mud, a villager crouching down and plucking a chicken for dinner and also try to avoid getting in the way of men humping massive bamboo sticks, used as pipes for building, on their shoulders. John tries lifting one - and is staggered by the sheer weight of it. To the pencil-thin fit-as-fiddles locals carrying them appear a breeze.
We are doing a circular trek today. While the fog still hangs over Sapa like a damp grey blanket, the lower you descend into the valleys below the clearer everything becomes, and again we are rewarded with magical views both above and below us.
The mid-day sun is beating down relentlessly as we head back to Sapa and, despite the undoubted beauty around us, we find it a slog. We are both bathed in sweat and return to our hotel in time for a quick shower before saying our goodbyes to this sparsely populated area of mountains, paddies and rivers quite unlike anything we have come across on our travels.
We are leaving to catch the night train back to Hanoi and, from there, flying to Danang Airport in the heartland of the country. Our drive back down to Lao Cai is hugely memorable - and we are rendered virtually speechless by amazing views of rice terraces which unfold like one giant step after another at every twist and turn as our minibus wends it torturous way along a mountain pass with sheer drops to seeming oblivion on one side.
Our next stop promises more of the Orient's treasures at the ancient former trading port of Hoi An - now an Unesco World Heritage site. We are leaving one exotic tapestry of riches in the hope of finding another.
Let's just say New York's Grand Central this is not. But here we are anyway waiting to catch the night train to Sapa, a mountain village in the far north of Vietnam close to the Chinese border. Having firstly encountered a problem with our taxi driver - he demands more money from us than the one agreed for trip from our hotel - we find the station teeming with locals and tourists.
Not only is the terminal itself chaotic, airless, and sweaty, the toilets are filthy and we then have to cross several rail tracks to find our train, humping our luggage with us.
Cue then for a scam where baggage 'helpers' arrive from nowhere, whisking our suitcases away from us as we struggle over the tracks and take charge of loading them onto the train. Once we have boarded our two 'helpers' - not railway staff - then demand their dong (Vietnamese currency) for having carried the bags when we hadn't asked them to in the first place. We are in our sleeper carriage and two of them are at the door looking as if they mean business. When we get our wallets out and give them what we think their 'services' are worth they start getting aggressive, jabbing their fingers towards other larger readies.
These snarling hustlers are not nice (not remotely like the genuinely lovely and charming Vietnamese people we have met on our travels), but we stick to our guns and insist that what we have given them is all they are getting. Frustrated, they eventually give up and disappear back into whatever holes they originally surfaced from.
Train eventually gets going and, after a couple of unpleasant incidents, we are not sorry to see the back of Hanoi Station. The journey takes eight-and-a-half hours. The train noisly grinds, bumps and swings its way northwards. It's pitch black, of course, and we try to settle down for the night in our carriage, but sleep is pretty nigh impossible, though we do catch a couple of fitfull hours.
We arrive literally at the end of the line at 5.20am at Lao Cai, a town straddling the Vietnam-China border and which is the gateway to an unique region of towering forested mountains reaching into the clouds, cascading rice fields, fertile river valleys and remote hill-tribe villages.
We are met by Don (we have arranged for a guide) and he takes us to a little local cafe for a breakfast of toast, jam and black tea. Don, a regular guy and full of smiles, and his driver will transfer us by car to Sapa later that afternoon.
First, though, we face a full day. Being tired doesn't enter the equation. Morning destination is the Coc Ly market high up in the mountains on a muddy brow overlooking a stunning mist-shrouded valley where the hill tribes (a heady and frothy mix of ethnic minority people) come to sell their wares.
The market is a riot of colour where young and old exotically dressed H'mong women strap babies to their backs, swathe them in shawls and blankets and carry them around all day as they go about their business of buying, selling and bartering.
The H'mong, who migrated from China in the 19th Century, have become one of the largest ethnic tribes in Vietnam. They live at high altitude, raising animals - cattle, water buffalo, horses and pigs - growing rice, and making medicine from plants. There are groups within the group too - the Black H'mong wear indigo-dyed costumes of linen skirts, aprons, fancy headgear and leggings, while the Flower H'mong are among the most colourful, draped in rainbow-hued heavily sequined traditional outifts and sporting silver bangles, necklaces, dangling earrings and bracelets galore.
These resilient and hardy women - many of them have been shepherding water buffalo and horses to the market from distant villages in the mountains since 1am - sell everything under the sun, while the more soberly-dressed menfolk haggle with each other over the price of animals. The market is not so much a souvenir-hunting affair - though there are scarves, clothes and embroidered ethnic fabrics for sale - rather a true experience of what life in the mountains is like among the H'mongs and other native groups such as the Dzao, Tay and Nung.
The sights, sounds and smells astound us. On all sides are food stalls with huge vats of bubbling broths and rice, fish large and small wriggling about in silver pans, table tops strewn with pigs heads and entrails, dead snakes of every description stuffed into medicine bottles and the local hooch (70% proof rice wine) for the men to neck once trading is over for the day.
We spend a couple of fascinating hours here before taking a scenic trip with Don and a local boatman down the Chay River. Surrounded by jungle-topped limestone peaks on all sides, we pass tiny villages and caves where families have lived in the past. After our hectic start to the day this proves very relaxing - so much so that, lulled by the soothing waters of the river and our relativley sleepless night, we are close to nodding off, as is Don, who admits to having stayed up into the early hours to watch a movie.
Boat docks at little village where John enjoys a cold beer and Chris a hot tea before meeting up with driver again and finally arriving in Sapa feeling sapped. Enjoy lunch at little cafe restaurant with open terrace, watching the H'mong trying to get tourists like ourselves to part with their money as they urge them to buy trinkets and handicrafts.
After a good night's sleep at our hotel we awake refreshed to find Sapa, an old French hill station which sits high on a plateau 5,000-feet above sea level, covered in dense fog. To us the village seems more Swiss-Austrian than Vietnamese, but that's before we see the tribesfolk appearing like ghosts out of a pea-souper London would have been proud of in Jack The Ripper's day. Reality check time, too. Swiss-Austrian? We are just a few miles from China, not Germany.
Over the next two days Don has plans for us - a couple of exciting treks to see some of the more remote villages around Sapa and meet some of the people who live there. As soon as you are on the streets a group of colourfully-dressed women and children buzz around you like bees at the honeypot, chattering 10 to the dozen - their English is excellent given that they are self-taught - and wanting to know where you are from and whether you are married, have children etc etc.
Despite being poor, they are all smiles and happy with their lot. The expectation, however, is that you buy something from them at the end - and we have no problem with that. The way we see it is that it contributes a little to their village, so off to go then.
Once out of Sapa we start descending along steep and muddy mountain footpaths and we leave the fog behind. Breath-taking vistas of vast swathes of rice paddy fields open out in front of us. They are like giant waterfalls tumbling down one after another from the heavens. Here we are well and truly off the beaten path, with the urban madness of Hanoi and its choking motorcycle traffic a million miles away.
After a couple of hours trekking and being helped down mud-caked hillsides by the local women and children (who are as sure-footed as mountain goats) Chris arrives in the rustic Black H'mong village of Lao Chai - John, troubled by a knee problem (an old war wound from footie days flares up), has headed back to the comfort of his Sapa base camp (warm and comfy hotel) by this time.
Chris, meanwhile, lunches with some of the the local tribesfolk before visiting a couple of little schools and is invited into the classrooms where she spends some time with the children at lessons and puts sweets into grateful and tiny hands as she leaves.
The hugely appealing kids sing and dance, while nearby the local women, skilled embroiders, weave and dye fabric, just as their ancestors have done for thousands of years before them. Chris returns exhausted from her visit to Lao Chai and the isolated Red Dzao outpost of Giang Ta Chai but thrilled that she has been able to see and take part in a way of life that has existed for centuries and which remains virtually unchanged today.
Trek No. 2 the following day is to the village of Cat Cat, which sits in the valley below the majestic Fansipan mountain - at 3,000-plus metres Vietnam's highest peak. John passes late fitness test (knee feeling much better after resting up) and assures Chris he is geared for this one.
Again it's a steep, but beautiful hike down hillside to valley hundreds of feet below, passing a lovely waterfall on the way. Stop to watch children making dams in the mud, a villager crouching down and plucking a chicken for dinner and also try to avoid getting in the way of men humping massive bamboo sticks, used as pipes for building, on their shoulders. John tries lifting one - and is staggered by the sheer weight of it. To the pencil-thin fit-as-fiddles locals carrying them appear a breeze.
We are doing a circular trek today. While the fog still hangs over Sapa like a damp grey blanket, the lower you descend into the valleys below the clearer everything becomes, and again we are rewarded with magical views both above and below us.
The mid-day sun is beating down relentlessly as we head back to Sapa and, despite the undoubted beauty around us, we find it a slog. We are both bathed in sweat and return to our hotel in time for a quick shower before saying our goodbyes to this sparsely populated area of mountains, paddies and rivers quite unlike anything we have come across on our travels.
We are leaving to catch the night train back to Hanoi and, from there, flying to Danang Airport in the heartland of the country. Our drive back down to Lao Cai is hugely memorable - and we are rendered virtually speechless by amazing views of rice terraces which unfold like one giant step after another at every twist and turn as our minibus wends it torturous way along a mountain pass with sheer drops to seeming oblivion on one side.
Our next stop promises more of the Orient's treasures at the ancient former trading port of Hoi An - now an Unesco World Heritage site. We are leaving one exotic tapestry of riches in the hope of finding another.
Wednesday, 20 April 2011
Tuesday, 19 April 2011
Monday, 18 April 2011
Halong Bay
Worn out by Hanoi's havoc, we are looking forward to relaxing overnight on a luxury junk boat and waking up among some of the 3,000 limestone karst islands that soar like skyscrapers out of the South China Sea.
Our escape route - a three-hour journey south by taxi - proves less than memorable. There is little to see of Vietnam's famous green countryside. Out of our car window we spy the odd paddy field, with humans and water buffalo hard at work, but, in the main, we are treated to a jumble of depressing little towns each one resembling the last, a couple of huge concrete power stations belching smoke into an already polluted atmosphere, and thousands of cars, buses and motorbikes jockeying to get the better of each other along the tedious and pot-holed highway.
When we eventually arrive at haze-shrouded Halong City after what seems an eternity we find a sprawling ugly high-rise port, but we haven't come to see this gateway to the Bay, rather what lies beyond its shoreline and eagerly wait to board the Chinese-style junk waiting to take us on a new voyage of discovery.
We have been advised that you get what you pay for with these boats - we have seen some trips advertised for a rock-bottom 20 dollars, and have read some horror stories. How about rats running around, just for starters, not to mention lousy service, rubbish food and, in the most extreme cases, junks actually sinking (tragically one - 12 people lost their lives - went down just months ago).
It's a no-brainer. Splash the cash, it is then - and we are glad we have when we see The Valentine. She's a beauty. Our ensuite cabin (there are only five on the vessel) for the next 36 hours is a spacious affair of deep wood, the bathroom one of the best we have seen in our entire lives - and, yes, it even has a luxurious bath (something we have hardly encountered in seven months of travelling). Our bedroom features a huge window to watch the world - sheer vertical islands, topped off with dense jungle and forests, and boats of all shapes and sizes - as we glide by on jade-coloured waters so calm we feel we are cruising on a lake rather than the sea.
Bedroom inspection over - wow factor 10 out of 10 - we head up on deck to meet our fellow travellers - a charming guy, Alex, from Brazil, and three happy-go-lucky couples from Northern Ireland. The three men - Charlie, Tom and Peter are avid Ulster rugby supporters. (Well somebody has to be, we figure - and they rub up us 'Welshies' mercilessly too). Even Alex confesses to preferring rubgy to soccer (never thought we'd hear that from someone hailing from Sao Paulo).
After quick introductions all round it's time to eat. We admit to having had a bit of a splurge when it came to choosing The Valentine. What we hadn't counted on was the magnificent blow-out five-course deluxe Vietnamese and international lunch prepared for us by the ship's own chef. Sumptuous does not begin to do it justice.
Post-lunch, it's an effort to even clamber to the upper deck to take in the bewitching beauty surrounding us, leave alone jumping off The Valentine onto a smaller craft which drops anchor at Dao Titop island. Once there we climb to the top of its mountain for a panoramic view of isles laid out like sparkling jewels in front of us.
Now that we are closer in among the karsts the haze has lifted, visibility is much better and we can really begin to appreciate the sheer beauty of this richly evocative and rightly-lauded region where mountains met the sea in such dramatic fashion.
A quick relax on Titop's small sandy beach (John braves the icy waters of the South China Sea, declaring it not unlike Gower's Pwll Du on a brisk April morning) and we are heading back towards The Valentine.
Next on the agenda is either a 40-minute spell of kayaking, or the chance to explore the largest floating village in Halong Bay. We choose the latter option - and it proves a rewarding experience, with a lovely local lady rowing us around the village, whose main income comes, not suprisingly, from fishing.
It's quite amazing to see upwards of 100 small wooden homes - there is also a small school - tethered together and floating in one of the sheltered coves, and three-year-old children confidently rowing alone - a skill they seemingly learn and perfect almost as soon as they can walk, and a neccessity given that they live their lives permanently on water.
Back on board The Valentine we anchor for the night, relax on the sun loungers on the upper deck and watch afternoon turn to dusk before preparing for dinner - yup, five more delicious courses (but, by now, we are both beginning to feel like Mr Creosote from Monty Python's The Meaning Of Life).
After dinner it's back up on deck to wonder at a star-filled and moonlit sky before turning in for the night and being lulled to sleep by our gently swaying junk on still waters. We wake as first light seeps through our window - we have deliberately not closed our curtain to see what dawn will herald. We are not disappointed. The reflection of these mysterious and magical karsts on the water is postcard-perfect.
Feeling energetic? Then there is a tai chi instruction class on upper deck for those who want it - Chris does; John reckons on just taking the photos. Workout over (tiring taking all those pictures of Chris and the others in our group) it's down to the dining room for coffee, tea and pastries before a trip to Hang Sung Sot (Surprise Cave). Neither of us overfussed on doing it (Dan yr Ogof, Blue Grotto in Mallorca. A been there, done that sort of cynicism has crept in) but, in fairness, we find a subterranean wonderworld, with two vast and extraordinary chambers packed with stalactites and stalagmites. We take a loop walk through the cool interior of the cave, which we agree resembles something from a James Bond movie.
After a couple of hours we return again to The Valentine for breakfast and then it's back to the top deck for a last long lingering look at the scenery that rightly saw Halong 'where the dragon descends into the sea' Bay designated a World Heritage site in the mid-90s.
Back on dry land, we bid farewell to the crew of The Valentine and our Brazilian and Irish friends and start to put into motion plans for our next trip - to Sapa, a mountain village in the far north of Vietnam close to the Chinese border.
To get there we must return to Hanoi and board a night train to take us to the former hill station set high above valleys of tiered rice fields. It's a a nine-hour journey and another new adventure. Night Train To Sapa - sounds like a title for a novel, or a movie perhaps. Well we were talking about 007 only a few hours ago.
Our escape route - a three-hour journey south by taxi - proves less than memorable. There is little to see of Vietnam's famous green countryside. Out of our car window we spy the odd paddy field, with humans and water buffalo hard at work, but, in the main, we are treated to a jumble of depressing little towns each one resembling the last, a couple of huge concrete power stations belching smoke into an already polluted atmosphere, and thousands of cars, buses and motorbikes jockeying to get the better of each other along the tedious and pot-holed highway.
When we eventually arrive at haze-shrouded Halong City after what seems an eternity we find a sprawling ugly high-rise port, but we haven't come to see this gateway to the Bay, rather what lies beyond its shoreline and eagerly wait to board the Chinese-style junk waiting to take us on a new voyage of discovery.
We have been advised that you get what you pay for with these boats - we have seen some trips advertised for a rock-bottom 20 dollars, and have read some horror stories. How about rats running around, just for starters, not to mention lousy service, rubbish food and, in the most extreme cases, junks actually sinking (tragically one - 12 people lost their lives - went down just months ago).
It's a no-brainer. Splash the cash, it is then - and we are glad we have when we see The Valentine. She's a beauty. Our ensuite cabin (there are only five on the vessel) for the next 36 hours is a spacious affair of deep wood, the bathroom one of the best we have seen in our entire lives - and, yes, it even has a luxurious bath (something we have hardly encountered in seven months of travelling). Our bedroom features a huge window to watch the world - sheer vertical islands, topped off with dense jungle and forests, and boats of all shapes and sizes - as we glide by on jade-coloured waters so calm we feel we are cruising on a lake rather than the sea.
Bedroom inspection over - wow factor 10 out of 10 - we head up on deck to meet our fellow travellers - a charming guy, Alex, from Brazil, and three happy-go-lucky couples from Northern Ireland. The three men - Charlie, Tom and Peter are avid Ulster rugby supporters. (Well somebody has to be, we figure - and they rub up us 'Welshies' mercilessly too). Even Alex confesses to preferring rubgy to soccer (never thought we'd hear that from someone hailing from Sao Paulo).
After quick introductions all round it's time to eat. We admit to having had a bit of a splurge when it came to choosing The Valentine. What we hadn't counted on was the magnificent blow-out five-course deluxe Vietnamese and international lunch prepared for us by the ship's own chef. Sumptuous does not begin to do it justice.
Post-lunch, it's an effort to even clamber to the upper deck to take in the bewitching beauty surrounding us, leave alone jumping off The Valentine onto a smaller craft which drops anchor at Dao Titop island. Once there we climb to the top of its mountain for a panoramic view of isles laid out like sparkling jewels in front of us.
Now that we are closer in among the karsts the haze has lifted, visibility is much better and we can really begin to appreciate the sheer beauty of this richly evocative and rightly-lauded region where mountains met the sea in such dramatic fashion.
A quick relax on Titop's small sandy beach (John braves the icy waters of the South China Sea, declaring it not unlike Gower's Pwll Du on a brisk April morning) and we are heading back towards The Valentine.
Next on the agenda is either a 40-minute spell of kayaking, or the chance to explore the largest floating village in Halong Bay. We choose the latter option - and it proves a rewarding experience, with a lovely local lady rowing us around the village, whose main income comes, not suprisingly, from fishing.
It's quite amazing to see upwards of 100 small wooden homes - there is also a small school - tethered together and floating in one of the sheltered coves, and three-year-old children confidently rowing alone - a skill they seemingly learn and perfect almost as soon as they can walk, and a neccessity given that they live their lives permanently on water.
Back on board The Valentine we anchor for the night, relax on the sun loungers on the upper deck and watch afternoon turn to dusk before preparing for dinner - yup, five more delicious courses (but, by now, we are both beginning to feel like Mr Creosote from Monty Python's The Meaning Of Life).
After dinner it's back up on deck to wonder at a star-filled and moonlit sky before turning in for the night and being lulled to sleep by our gently swaying junk on still waters. We wake as first light seeps through our window - we have deliberately not closed our curtain to see what dawn will herald. We are not disappointed. The reflection of these mysterious and magical karsts on the water is postcard-perfect.
Feeling energetic? Then there is a tai chi instruction class on upper deck for those who want it - Chris does; John reckons on just taking the photos. Workout over (tiring taking all those pictures of Chris and the others in our group) it's down to the dining room for coffee, tea and pastries before a trip to Hang Sung Sot (Surprise Cave). Neither of us overfussed on doing it (Dan yr Ogof, Blue Grotto in Mallorca. A been there, done that sort of cynicism has crept in) but, in fairness, we find a subterranean wonderworld, with two vast and extraordinary chambers packed with stalactites and stalagmites. We take a loop walk through the cool interior of the cave, which we agree resembles something from a James Bond movie.
After a couple of hours we return again to The Valentine for breakfast and then it's back to the top deck for a last long lingering look at the scenery that rightly saw Halong 'where the dragon descends into the sea' Bay designated a World Heritage site in the mid-90s.
Back on dry land, we bid farewell to the crew of The Valentine and our Brazilian and Irish friends and start to put into motion plans for our next trip - to Sapa, a mountain village in the far north of Vietnam close to the Chinese border.
To get there we must return to Hanoi and board a night train to take us to the former hill station set high above valleys of tiered rice fields. It's a a nine-hour journey and another new adventure. Night Train To Sapa - sounds like a title for a novel, or a movie perhaps. Well we were talking about 007 only a few hours ago.
Saturday, 16 April 2011
Thursday, 14 April 2011
Hanoi, Vietnam
Good Morning Vietnam - well it was good until a deafening sit-you bolt-upright in your bed clanging of bells woke us from our peaceful slumbers at an unearthly hour. We had landed at Hanoi Airport from Siem Reap, Cambodia, at 11pm the previous night, and our hotel had arranged for a driver to meet us there, which he did. Strangely, though, he had a pal with him - the first time we have experienced two people waiting to pick us up. To be honest, arriving for the first time in Vietnam on a dark mist-shrouded night and finding two guys, who spoke not a word of English, occupying the front two seats of our taxi was a bit disconcerting and we both admitted to feeling a little uneasy. We were well aware of the scams that operate around the airport - one of them involves taxis and minibuses whisking hapless tourists and travellers off to a similarly named, but altogether different, hotel to the one booked. Our imaginations running riot - we were feeeling whacked and the journey in seemed endless - we thought at one stage we might be heading towards northern China never to be seen again! Silly us. Driver and mate, who sniffed, snorted and coughed almost non-stop, deposit us safely at our hotel in a dark Hanoi street and, despite it looking all locked up, there is someone at reception there to let us in. Shows us to our room - and proudly opens shutters to balcony which looks out on imposing Gothic cathedral of St Joseph's, architecturally looking much more English or French than Vietnamese. It's a serene moonlit evening, the street below us is quiet - and that peaceful easy feeling has returned. What our genial host has not revealed to us is that at 5am every morning the Notre Dame-like bells boom loud and proud for about 20 solid and earth-shaking minutes. Wake up Hanoi, it's time to get up - and no sleeping in for us either. After eventually rubbing the sleep from our eyes, we eat a quick breakfast before venturing out to the city's famous Old Quarter. We are about seven minutes walk away - and when we see the madness and chaos of Hanoi's major centre of commerce we are glad we are staying where we are - bells, or no bells. The OQ lies to the north of pretty tree-lined Hoan Kiem Lake and is the beating heart of the City of the Soaring Dragon. It's a maze of narrow streets, choked with thousands and thousands of motorcycles. The traffic and noise - a blare of honking horns - is unrelenting (even crazy Bangkok in traffic terms appears a backwater in comparison). Crossing any road here - particularly the wider boulevards which lead into the OQ - requires you to keep your antennae up at all times. Believe us, it's hairy out there, but we follow what the locals do - walking slowly and deliberately out into the traffic and allowing those motorbikes to go around us. One thing is sure as eggs - they won't stop for you, neither will they slow down, but they will do their best to avoid mowing you down. The worst thing you can do is to freeze mid-crossing. This is not recommended and could lead to a Hanoi hospital visit, or worse. It's not easy just walking straight out into the traffic, but unless you want to stay in your hotel room all day then you have to go for it. We do and, despite closing our eyes once or twice and praying for safe deliverance, we live to tell the tale. Surviving this urban jungle brings rich rewards - the Old Quarter itself. One thousand years old, this exotic and bewitching area oozes character from ever pore - rich in sights, sounds and smells. It simply pulsates with life. On every street there are hawkers selling their wares, while the aromas of sizzling food and spices on every corner make your mouth water. Despite the chaos - you must also step out into the road to avoid parked motorbikes and mopeds mounted on the pavements - the best way to savour and soak up this unique atmosphere is to walk (just be careful out there). Hanoi, though, is not just about the OQ. There is much more to it. Certainly one of the highlights is a visit to the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum. Deep in its bowels in a clear glass tomb lies the embalmed corpse of modern Vietnam's founding father - and its people's most revered figure, communist ideologist and liberator from French colonialism. Our trip to the Ho's complex proves a bizarre occasion. Pre-viewing, we must register and leave our possessions, including cameras and mobile phone, at a reception hall. Hats are to be removed and dress must be appropriate (shorts and sleeveless T-shirts are a no no). Then it's join-the-queue-time to file past the body. As you do, you are aware that you are being watched all the time - and you are, by countless military guards - silent sentinels - in spotless brilliant white uniform. It's all very sombre and heavy, macabre even, joining this snake-like mix of part-Vietnamese, part tourist procession - the locals coming here in their droves to pay their respects to perfectly-preserved Ho, his face a whiter shade of pale and his hair and wispy beard silver grey. Very weird and surreal. Also weird, but a lot more fun, is Hanoi's Water Puppet Theatre, a colourful and ancient art form that is a sort of Punch & Judy show on water. Unique to Vietnam and set to traditional music, the stage is set in a tank of waist-deep water, the puppeteers - each of 11 is trained for a minimum of three years - control their characters (villagers, farmers, fishermen, water buffalo, horsemen and fire-breathing dragons). It's graceful and quite magical. Back in the OQ - after trawling the many markets, boasting everything from fake Ray-Ban sunglases and Rolex watches to authentic tribal wear and asssorted silver bangles, rings and suchlike - one of the best ways to relax is to pull up a plastic seat at a bia hoi joint where 'fresh beer' (light draught or microbrewed beer) is sold at around 5000 dong a glass (around 17p). The beer is indeed fresh. It's brewed daily and sold from steel kegs at bia hoi street junctions - backpackers and locals mixing aimably to sup copious amounts of the amber nectar. It would be rude not to join in - and so we do, with much relish. Lovely taste and lovely on the wallet too, so bia hois definitely win our vote - and it's been fun spending time sitting alongside the locals in a very convivial atmosphere. Ho Chi Min, water puppets, bia hois and motorbike madness - and lots, lots more - Hanoi is a heady Orient experience - where modern and medieval, not so much collide but fuse into one. It's energetic, frenetic, irritating and charming - one pot-boiler of a place. It's also utterly exhausting and polluted - Chris has donned a face mask in an attempt to combat the choking fumes - and four days here proves enough. Time to move on in search of some solitude then and where better to find it perhaps than on a traditional junk boat among the 3,000 island karsts (towering limestone rock formations) that soar out of the jade-coloured waters of the South China Sea. The islands lie in Halong Bay - a three-hour drive south of Hanoi. We have an early start. But no need to worry about setting any alarm clock. The bells of St. Joseph's will do the job.
Monday, 11 April 2011
Friday, 8 April 2011
The Temples of Angkor, Cambodia
Have flown into Siem Reap and donned our Indiana Jones hats to search, not for the Temple of Doom, but the awesome Temples of Angkor. Using Cambodia's top tourist destination as a base to explore, among other sacred sites, Angkor Wat, the eighth wonder of the world and the largest religious structure on Planet Earth - a completely realised microcosm of the Hindu universe. Find ourselves a sweet little French-run family guesthouse Le Tigre de Papier which sits on a red dirt track road - a veritable dustbowl - away from the beating heart of the city itself. Owner is a delightful laidback guy from Toulouse and his local Cambodian staff utterly charming. Nothing is too much trouble for them. Picked up at the airport by a tuk-tuk driver who charges us a very reasonable five dollars for a 15-minute ride to hotel. Introduces himself as Lacky, and asks us whether we would be prepared to let him be our driver over the next few days. Like most Cambodians we come across, Lacky has a winning smile and easy-going nature, so we strike up a deal with him to take us Indiana-style into the network of stupendous ancient monuments built by the mighty Khmers between the 8th and 13th Centuries. Angkor Wat, constructed 1113-1150 during the reign of King Suryavarman II, is the stuff of legend - and we see it in all its glory at sunrise, Lacky having spirited us there in his tuk-tuk after 5am (Aaaargh) pick-up. It is the grandest and most sublime of all the Khmer temples. Dedicated to Hindu god Vishnu, it is an architectural masterpiece, the magical five tower structure surrounded by an enormous 190-metre wide water-filled moat. After crossing a broad causeway we enter the temple - its galleries, mysterious corridors and terraces climbing skywards take our breath away. The sheer size and scale - total area of almost 200 hectares - defies belief. While the moat represents the mythical oceans surrounding the earth, the succession of galleries symbolise the ranges that surround Mount Meru, the home of the gods, and its five staggering towers (now we know where Manhattan's roots lie) the peaks. The wow factor is undeniable, but strangely, and despite its total and absolute majesty - it may be something to do with the swarms of visitors who throng to it (okay, we were there too) - Angkor Wat, we feel, has pretenders to its throne. Lacky is proving lucky for us and knows his way around some of the lesser-known sites built by a succession of Hindu and Buddhist kings. Among them are the enigmatic and complex Bayon, its 54 towers decorated with more than 200 huge smiling faces; the amazing Ta Prohm. which has been left as it was discovered in a jungle-like state (its pink and green-hued walls are covered in lichen and moss, while centuries-old trees wrap their branches like tentacles around its walls); and, last but not least - and our particular favourite - the tumbledown grace of Preah Khan, a maze of coal black corridors illuminated by glorious bursts of dazzling light at journey's end. Staring down them is like looking into a hundred mirrors - infinity perhaps. Linger long enough and you become aware of an almost hypnotic effect. Did the phrase light at the end of the tunnel originate here perhaps? It would not surprise us if it did. These were just some of the several highlights - the sublime Banteay Srei, boasting some of the best preserved stone carvings, is another unmissable gem. There are so many temples, both large and small, it's like an assault on the senses (in the best possible way, of course). We scratched the surface - tip of the iceberg - over three days, but to really get into the underbelly of this labyrinthine world would take months and months, if not years. All we can say is that in our short time here we gave the temples - as many as you could pack into any given day - our best shot (aching limbs surely the testament). We loved exploring this wonder world of stone - and learning about a civilization which created such spellbinding images and intricate and elaborate carvings. The good, unfortunately, has to be tempered with a little bad and the one downside comes with, what is in all essence, the begging of small children, pleading with us to buy some little trinkets from them ''for a dolla''. It's hard to say no to them - they are full of smiles and mean well. But there is also a sense of desperation about their persistency. We feel - rightly or wrongly - that they are being exploited by adults, sent to the entrances of temples to bring home the tourist dollar. Chris handles it well. John, while sympathetic to the plight of these poor (and they are truly poor) kids, finds the constant hassle hard work (maybe it's a guilt factor thing). Believe us, though, when you have heard ''Where you from, buy from me, give me dolla'' repeated constantly over a 10-12 hour spell your patience starts to wear thin. Being much the nicer person, Chris buys a few items from them at various temple sites. The problem is that two cheeky young ones can quickly multiply to 20 once your wallet comes out - all insisting that you buy something from them.
Also, while most are appealing, there are hints of aggression from others. A plague of locusts (albeit it without the destruction) springs to mind. but it's tough to refuse. Here we are Westerners with money in our pockets in a land where poverty has no margins. However much as we want to help, giving money to these kids is not the answer. We can't escape the feeling that this use of young people to sell knick-knacks and postcards is wrong and are not fooled into thinking that they get to keep any money handed over to them. Oliver Twist is hard at work in the heart of Cambodia, while Fagin waits in the murky shadows to count his fistfull of 'dollas'. Preachy? Maybe. It's just that we feel strongly about it - plain and simple. Over to Bob or Bono. Live Aid 2012? Anyway (rant over) after exhausting, but truly exhilarating, days climbing terraces and towers, clambering through ruins and remains, discovering hidden and secret corners - and fending off the unwanted attention of the, by and large, rather lovely local 'locusts' - our evenings are mostly spent recovering slowly in the bars and restaurants that make Siem Reap a lively place to stay. It was on the very aptly-named Pub Street (yup, believe it or not, it has a very Wind Street feel about it) that we enjoyed a reunion with young London couple Sam and Polly, who we first met in Fiji some seven months ago. Like ourselves, Sam and Polly are travelling the world (they are going at it full on for a year with an incredible itinerary that makes ours look like a two-week holiday in Barry Island). We struck up a great friendship in Fiji, so we were just so pleased to catch up with them all this time later here in, of all places, Cambodia. Several Ankor beers later (what can the brew be possibly named after?), some hearty nosh and comparing travel adventures - theirs are mind-blowing - we say our farewells and wonder whether we will meet again in Vietnam, next destination in South-East Asia for both the Walters and the Masons. They start the latest leg of their journey in the south, while we begin in the north. It would not surprise us were our paths to cross again somewhere in the middle.
Also, while most are appealing, there are hints of aggression from others. A plague of locusts (albeit it without the destruction) springs to mind. but it's tough to refuse. Here we are Westerners with money in our pockets in a land where poverty has no margins. However much as we want to help, giving money to these kids is not the answer. We can't escape the feeling that this use of young people to sell knick-knacks and postcards is wrong and are not fooled into thinking that they get to keep any money handed over to them. Oliver Twist is hard at work in the heart of Cambodia, while Fagin waits in the murky shadows to count his fistfull of 'dollas'. Preachy? Maybe. It's just that we feel strongly about it - plain and simple. Over to Bob or Bono. Live Aid 2012? Anyway (rant over) after exhausting, but truly exhilarating, days climbing terraces and towers, clambering through ruins and remains, discovering hidden and secret corners - and fending off the unwanted attention of the, by and large, rather lovely local 'locusts' - our evenings are mostly spent recovering slowly in the bars and restaurants that make Siem Reap a lively place to stay. It was on the very aptly-named Pub Street (yup, believe it or not, it has a very Wind Street feel about it) that we enjoyed a reunion with young London couple Sam and Polly, who we first met in Fiji some seven months ago. Like ourselves, Sam and Polly are travelling the world (they are going at it full on for a year with an incredible itinerary that makes ours look like a two-week holiday in Barry Island). We struck up a great friendship in Fiji, so we were just so pleased to catch up with them all this time later here in, of all places, Cambodia. Several Ankor beers later (what can the brew be possibly named after?), some hearty nosh and comparing travel adventures - theirs are mind-blowing - we say our farewells and wonder whether we will meet again in Vietnam, next destination in South-East Asia for both the Walters and the Masons. They start the latest leg of their journey in the south, while we begin in the north. It would not surprise us were our paths to cross again somewhere in the middle.
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
Cambodia - Phnom Penh and The Killing Fields
Cambodia is a heavenly country which has been to hell and back. The horrors and atrocities of the Khmer Rouge regime under the barbaric Maoist dictator Pol Pot are evident for all to see at The Killing Fields not far from Phnom Penh, while the former Tuol Sleng prison in the capital itself is a bleak Austwich-type reminder of the suffering of the poor Cambodian people. We are steeling ourselves for a difficult and depressing time at these poignant, but must-see sites, but look forward also to a more uplifting experience at the ancient Temples of Angkor outside Siem Reap - an hour's flight north. Plan to spend around eight days in Cambodia in total - four in Phnom Penh and four in Siem Reap, so farewell Thailand for the time being. After arriving at Phnom Penh airport from Bangkok find we must pay 25 US dollars each for visas. It's a bit chaotic and the queueing haphazard, but we get there in the end. We have booked ourselves into a smart boutique hotel called Villa Lanka and, not knowing quite what to expect in PP, have arranged for a taxi to pick us up. Ride in proves quite an eye-opener. Struck by how much poorer people appear than in Thailand. Off the main road are red dusty tracks leading to shacks and small-holdings, while the drive into the city amazes us, with cars, motorbikes and tuk-tuks coming in all directions. Lane discipline does not appear to exist. There is a vague keep to the right policy. But that's as good as it gets - people are actually driving in any direction they want and on any side of the road. Incredibly, it appears to work. There are hoots and toots galore, but no road rage. If people drove like this back home there would be fist fights at every junction. We close our eyes and hope for the best. Eventually arrive safely at hotel to find a little oasis amid the urban chaos around us. Swimming pool and garden area stunning and we have a luxurious bedroom. Take an evening stroll around a couple of streets nearby and are struck by colonial French influence of buildings. Some are Parisian in style, but wear a faded grandeur from another era. Find a nice little open-to-the-road Australian-run bar - geckos running riot on the walls around it - for a couple of beers and some food before turning in for an early night. We are bracing ourselves for The Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng tomorrow. Sure you don't need a history lesson about The Killing Fields of Choeung Ek - incredibly just one of more than 300 throughout the country (estimates are that nearly four million people died between 1975-79 in what was renamed Democratic Kampuchea) - suffice to say that the place can reduce you to tears. It's where most of the 17,000 detainees - men, women and children - imprisoned and tortured at Tuol Sleng (Security Prison 21) were brought to and murdered, the majority bludgeoned to death by brainwashed children as young as 10. The fact that these atrocities were committed as recently as the mid-70s makes it all the more harrowing. The two of us wander through what was once a peaceful orchard trying to come to terms with what happened here - and the sheer scale of the genocide is quickly brought home by a memorial stupa which displays 8,000 skulls of victims and their ragged clothes. Our guide also shows us the remains of mass graves - one held more than 400 bodies, another was for women who had been raped and murdered by 'soldiers'. There was also a 'Killing Tree' where babies were literally smashed to death against it. Feeling thoroughly depressed and down, we wondered whether to leave Tuol Sleng for another day, but thought we would push on and see it - getting 'All The Evil' over with in one day. Our taxi driver Chang takes us to the former school which Pol Pot turned into a high security prison and classrooms into torture chambers. Today it a macabre museum. You are free to walk into the cell blocks and see the various instruments of torture used to inflict pain on those imprisoned there. Absolutely haunting are the rows and rows of black and white photographs of the former inmates staring back at you. They are the ghosts of Tuol Sleng. Only seven of the 17,000 prisoners survived its terrors - and we are humbled to actually meet one of them, who is selling his book of memoirs at the museum's gates. While he can speak little English, Bou Meng gives us a warm smile and we buy his translated book. He only survived S-21 because his captors were impressed by his paintings. We linger a while with Bou Meng before saying goodbye, shaking him firmly by the hand. Incredibly the 69-year-old - his wife did not survive S-21 - still has a radiancy and hope for the future that astonishes us. His book reveals that he is not seeking revenge, but justice for the victims. We are bowled over by his humanity, knowing that he had endured such torment. The Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng have left us feeling numb by now and we decide to seek out the FCC (Foreign Correspondents Club) during the evening for some serious chill-out time. The FCC is an institution in Phnom Penh, with two great upstairs bars offering super views looking out across the Tonle Sap and Mekong River systems. It's a good place to unwind - enjoy a few beers and good food and reflect on a day that will stay in the memory for a long time to come. A raging thunderstorm outside merely adds to the old colonial atmosphere. We are expecting Ernest Hemingway or Graham Greene to walk in through the door any time. It's that sort of place. We have been on the road for around seven months now - and remarkably have stayed illness-free. But the next day Chris is struck by the dreaded lurgy big time and spends the next 24 hours in bed - there are numerous visits to the bathroom also (but you don't want to be hearing about those). Feeling a bit more chipper the following day Chris is up for a trip to the Royal Palace and Silver Pagoda in PP. It resembles Bankok's Grand Palace in many ways, but we actually prefer it. For a start there is hardly anyone here. We have the freedom to stroll around the lovely gardens and, unlike its counterpart in Thailand, it is calm and serene. The Khmer structures and life-size gold Buddha encrusted with diamonds enthral us. Even Pol Pot, in his quest for a giant peasant-dominated co-operative, could not get his blood-stained hands on these. There are further treasures awaiting us in Cambodia - the eighth wonder of the world Angkor Wat being one of them - at Siem Reap, and that's where we are headed next. Phnom Penh and The Killing Fields we leave behind. From The Beast we go in search of The Beauty.
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