In the park

We were on the bus waiting to pick up additional passengers to take on the same tour as us (because heaven forbid that we should leave on a bus not completely packed to the gills).  We were parked next to the public park where there was ample to look at during our wait - ballroom dancing lessons in the gazebo, Christmas decorations going up, kids playing games, adult playing sports.

My eyes fell upon an older lady who was the poster-woman for back-pain; bent over double, she had her elbows on her knees propping herself up as she stood still and watched the scene around her.  Her unfortunate proximity to the bush behind her made me laugh.

     "Hey, doesn't that lady look like she's peeing in the bush?"

There was a shared chuckle until the next moment when the woman straightened up, pulled up her pants and walked off.

Nailing it

It's a North American stereotype that nail salons are staffed by Asian manicurists/pedicurists, typically Korean or Vietnamese - and stereotype or not, they're good at what they do.  With Vietnam on our itinerary, you can bet your ass I was going to get a mani/pedi straight from the source.

Now, for the uninitiated, North American standards for nail salons are as follows:

Hygiene:
NA is HUGE on this.  All instruments involved in the process are sterilized before each use, if they're not brand new to begin with.  Surfaces and sinks are disinfected between each client's use.  Floors are constantly being swept and towels come freshly bleached and laundered from an unending supply as is mandatory.

The process:
Now, while this varies from salon to salon or spa to spa, the typical procedure usually begins with the hands/feet being soaked in tubs of warm water for some time.  Then the hands/feet are washed and a quick application of moisturizer ensues which sometimes includes a hand/foot massage.  Nails are clipped and shaped, dead skin/cuticles are removed, and polish is applied.  You'd then go and sit for ten minutes with your nails under a dryer and voilà - there is your typical mani/pedi.

Needing a bit of de-stressing in Ho Chi Minh City, I figured a pedicure would not only be a perfect option, but it was my chance to put the Asian mani/pedi talent/stereotype to the test.  While I left my selected salon with perfectly soft feet and prettily polished toes, it was a tale to tell in itself.

After pointing assertively at my choice of JUST a pedicure on their menu of services, I was directed to my seat in a row of other in-progress pedicure clients.  It wasn't the giant massage chair with an attached foot spa in front, but it wasn't NA afterall - it was a back alley in HCMC.  A moment later, my soaker tub appeared; it was a stainless steel mixing bowl (like the ones I use for making salads in), filled with lukewarm water.  Okay, fine - hot water seemed to come at a premium in South East Asia, and what's a container?  Mom soaked dad's feet in a plastic bucket at home - why judge?

When I'd been thoroughly soaked, my pedicurist came by and dried my feet with a towel that she tossed on the floor after.  She started looking for something, and after not finding it, she picked up that same towel again and spread it over her lap to begin on my nails - I gathered she'd been looking for a new towel, but not finding one, just re-used my original one.  Okay, fine - five second rule, right?

Feet dry and perched on the slightly used towel on her lap, it was time to get my nails clipped.  But we didn't start right away - we were waiting for something.  After watching my girl wait a while, chatting with her other salonist friends, it became apparent what we were waiting for.  We were waiting for her friend two seats down to finish with the one set of nail clippers on another client before they could be slide down across the floor to be passed to my pedicurist to be used immediately on me, as was their process with the cuticle trimmers, nail files, heel files, and skin scrapers (which cost me extra, btw).  Oooooookay, fine - it's not like I sterilize my stuff at home and I share it all with Malcolm or family anyway...

An (embarrassingly long) hour later, my feet were clean, my toenails clipped, and my heels were smooth again - after some extensive travelling in the wrong flipflops, I'd acquired myself some epically dirty, scaly, and cracked heels - it was gross.  Then it was time for my foot massage.  While the woman went at it vigorously enough, the only thing I could think of was how when she went to massage my calves, she rested my feet right up against her boobs - sometimes inadvertently (I hope) manoeuvring a toe inside her shirt as she massaged - as she rubbed me, I was rubbing her...I was mortified, while she didn't even seem to notice.

Polish (their home brand was no OPI by far) and I was finally good to go.  Well, after she personally sat and fanned my nails dry in lieu of any electric dryers.

The prices?
50,000 VND for the pedicure (nail clipping)
50,000 VND for the heel scraping
20,000 for painting my nails
for a whopping total of 120,000 VND.

As I originally walked in for the 50,000 pedicure which turned out to not include all that I expected from a pedicure at home, I was ready to squawk.  But then the conversion of VND to CAD in my head convinced me otherwise and I tipped my girl generously (I'd thought my feet would never be smooth again) and left.

For what I'd usually pay $35 for at home, I'd just paid $6.  Sure I had to give up a few things (massage chair, hot water, sterilized/new equipment, all inclusive pricing, un-molesting massages, quality nail polish, electric dryers), but for $6, it was pretty damned worth it.

Fine Finer print

***Author's note: I have nothing but respect for the late Ho Chi Minh and the edifice that is his mausoleum.  My visit into and through the mausoleum was a very respectful and solemn experience.  This story is about the people and procedures surrounding the mausoleum itself, and all that was lost in translation.***

Wanting to be able to cross the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum off the list of things to see, we made a beeline for it after checking out of our Hanoi Hotel.  We were stopped outside of the gates and herded into a double file line.

   "I guess this is the line-up before the line-up?"

When the appropriate number of us had spend the appropriate amount of time waiting in the appropriate double file line, we were allowed to enter the grounds.  Having read up on the site in advance, I knew we were not allowed to take any belongings into the mausoleum and that there was a free baggage check to accommodate this, so as soon as I spotted the baggage check inside the gates, I headed straight for it and left others to wander towards the start of the next line-up to get in.

First at the baggage window, I could clearly see the sign that told me "NO CHARGE" to check my belongings.  So why was it that the lady behind the counter was demanding 5000 VND from me?  But at that moment, the rest of the crowd had caught on and were all pushing and shoving all around me.  I guess by then they had all taken note of the giant notice sign just inside the gate:

and they realized they had weapons and/or "germstones" to check in.  One lady in particular--holding onto the strap as a tether--THREW her purse over my shoulder so that it landed on the counter in front of my own bag.  Headache forming amid the chaos, I threw the attendant the 5000 VND just so I could escape, but loudly questioned to myself,

   "What part of 'NO CHARGE' exactly did I not understand?  5000 VND does not mean 'NO CHARGE.'"

Bags checked, we headed to the (real) line-up.  This was a covered pathway while rails on either side that guided us to the x-ray machines and metal detectors.  With the crowd rushing to catch-up behind us, we hurried down the pathway to secure our spot in the (again) double-file line.

Or so I thought.

Watching the line creep along ahead of us, I became aware of a person hovering close behind me to my right.  A discreet glance told me it was the woman who had thrown her purse.  I couldn't believe it. There was no way she'd managed to check her bag, pay her money, and beat the rest of the people to be in line right behind me.  So I watched her.  She was anxiously glancing over me to the front of the line, edging her way ever closer to me; I believed she was trying to edge her way past me.  Defensive of my spot in line, I shifted my weight and took a wider stance with my legs, while putting my hands on my hips in an attempt to spread myself out as widely as possible.  Now there was no way to get between me and the railing on my right, while my left side was protected by the presence of other people.

Satisfied with my efforts to block her, I turned to look directly at her.  She didn't make eye contact with me - she was too busy hopping over the railing and scurrying up to the metal detectors.  My hope that she would be caught and sent to the back of the line was dashed when the security guard who noticed her simply fed her back into the line-up--at the front of the line.

Incredulous, from then on I wouldn't shut up about how "no charge" wasn't "no charge" and a line-up wasn't a line-up.  Another tourist (also Canadian) heard me and joined in on the laughter--until we were shushed by one of the guards.  In a lower tone, she explained that she'd overheard my initial complaint about the 5000 VND back at the baggage window and had questioned it herself when it came to be her turn.  Apparently, baggage check was indeed free of charge, but the site map/brochure was 5000 VND.

   "But I didn't even get a brochure!"

We were promptly shushed again.

After we'd proceeded through the serious part of the reason we were there in the first place (though the other tourist had to be told three times to keep her hands out of her pockets), introductions were made and more laughs were had.

   "Canadians are really funny, aren't they?"

While I never saw the purse lady again (probably because there were no more line-up for her to skip), we managed to get our 5000 VND back for not having received the crappy brochure in the first place.  So NO CHARGE really does mean NO CHARGE afterall--we'd just failed to read the invisible print.

It's not the destination, it's the journey

Traffic lights as suggestions, street signs and lines for decoration, the constant honking of horns of anything other than annoyance.  The traffic in Hanoi just works.  If you want to cross the street, you just steel yourself to the task and go and the vehicles will miraculously miss you no matter where they come from or where they go.  As another traveller said: "you can't get mad when there are no rules."  As long as all the vehicles and pedestrians alike understand the one rule of no rules, then no one gets angry, no one is wrong, and it just works.

With all of that in mind, then what happened on our way back to Hanoi from Halong Bay should not have come as a surprise--and I guess it wasn't; it was just simply incredible.

Having complete about 3/4 of our 3 hours bus journey, all of us on the bus were eager to get back to the city and disembark at our respective hotels.  We had been travelling at a good clip along the highway when our bus suddenly slowed; traffic.

We inched along until we came upon the source of the slow down - a bus like ours appeared ahead, sideways across the lanes of the highway.

     "What's wrong?"
     "What happened?"
     "Was it hit?"
     "Did it spin out?"

Our questions were immediately answered as the bus began to reverse and then move forward to complete its U-TURN on the highway.  Amazingly, the horns of the other vehicles on the highway were quiet save for the motorbikes that were letting you know they were there skootching by you in the meantime.  When the bus was out of our way, we continue on past it to where the high was was a little clearance - only to begin to make our own u-turn.

     "What's going on?"
     "Festival."

Apparently a festival in town was either blocking traffic or causing traffic (maybe he meant "parade") and the highway was impassable ahead.  A glance out the front window seemed to corroborate this story, but it was hard to say.  Nevertheless, we were turning around.

Our own crazy highway manoeuvre was also accompanied by minimal honking from the surrounding vehicles who instead did their best to give us room to move (?!).  Once we'd completed our turn and were now facing traffic head-on, we made no effort to move to the shoulder to drive back to the last exit--oh no, we just drove straight down the middle (I suppose the motorcycles were using the shoulder anyway, so down the centre was safer).

You could suppose that once we'd made it off the highway, our highway hijinx manoeuvres would be over, but they weren't.  Coming of the highway, we encountered even more traffic; our guide AND driver disembarked to find out why.  Apparently via this exit there was only one route into the city and for some reason, there were giant concrete pipes in the way of the road access.

But that didn't mean we couldn't get by.

When we reached the road block (which took a while because our driver kept getting out to give advice or to direct other drivers), we could see exactly what the problem was and what the Vietnamese solution was going to be.

The giant pipes that were blocking the roadway (they were big enough to walk through) had been placed so that there was one in each lane of the 2-lane road, but there was a gap in the middle.  When give the opportunity, motorbikes would whiz their way through no problem.  Even mid-sized cars and pick-up trucks could make the squeeze and they were chaotically, yet civilly taking their turns to pass through one at a time from either direction.

However, our mini-bus and the full-sized tour buses following us were too big to make it past those pipes.  The solution: jump the curb and go around.  Simple enough, except for the fact that just outside of the pipe was a road sign solidly cemented in place that still made this route impossibly narrow and passing outside of the road sign was out of the question due to a drop off and ditch below.  But, as with all Vietnamese traffic, no matter how impossible it seemed, it was just going to work.

And so, we lost our driver a number of times more as he went to help guide or push other buses through the new route.  Once, we lost him so that he could go and pull on the road sign in order to try tot give another driver the 2 more inches of clearance he needed.  When it finally came to be our turn, we all had to disembark and watch (and video) from the far side of the ditch as our ride carefully climbed the curb and inched by between sign and pipe with zero room to spare.

After our driver made it through, there was little time for celebration as we were quickly ushered back on board and we continued ambling our way back into the city.  Besides, there was no need to celebrate what was just part of an ordinary day anyway, right?

Beep Beep - look out for me!

That's how a friend of ours (notorious for getting into accidents) changes lanes.  She turns on her turn signal, says "beep beep, look out for me," and changes lanes without so much as a glance over her shoulder.  it's kind of cute, yet terrifying at the same time.

Driving in Vietnam is the same, though not quite as cute.  Cars and buses and trucks and motorbikes alike all use their horns as a short of notice-giver...they honk to let you know they're there, that they're turning, going straight, avoiding you, you need to avoid them,...practically any reason at all.  Their turn-signals even make noise; motorcycles sound like a little squeak, buses sounds like muted and lazy car alarms.

And yet the amazing thing is that no one is mad.  It's never a "get out of my f-ing way" honk, just an "FYI" honk.

Although our bus driver today - for the entire 1.5 hour ride - was incredibly horn happy.  After about half an hour into the ride, the general consensus was that he should have just continuously leaned on the hour and gotten it over with.  But of course it figures that when I finally had the notion to take out my camera to video the phenomenon, he stopped completely.  It would have made the most amazing drinking game.

Take only pictures

My memories of Halong Bay will be forever topped off with the late night giggles that we shared off the sloping front-end of the boat on our overnight in the UNESCO site.   The sky was cloudy and the night was cool but not cold.  Some of us had beers in hand, some were jigging for squid, some of us had our feet dangling over the edge and some were just standing around for the company.

Everyone was from somewhere different from the rest; Germany, Sweden, Canada, Malaysia, Argentina, Australia.  We all shared English--broken as it was in some cases--and passed the time sharing stories of where we'd come from or where'd we'd been.  Laughter erupted amongst the crowd when our day was recounted and our guide's accent and favourite phrases were poorly imitated.

As the night stretched on, the crowd dwindled with people heading to bed, wishing the night owls goodnights.  The last few of us followed shortly after, fittingly closing the evening with a few favourite lines from FRIENDS.  Retiring for the night, we left the karst isle wonders to stand guard over the twinkling historic junks drifting quietly in the bay.  

Getting closer...

Reminiscent of the days of university yore, Malcolm, dimps and I pounded out the details of the Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia leg of our trip together. Caffeine, munchies, books, paper and wifi took up the table as we virtually and literally explored the countries that awaited us. We added a few locales to our trip, (regretfully) nixed a few, and got pumped up for the rest.

Temples, Bat Cave, and Abandoned Pepsi Factory, here we come!

And the countdown ticks away...

As the clock rang midnight, "our trip countdown days just hit less than double-digits!" Malcolm so dutifully pointed out.

Oh gawd.

I haven't made it through half of these yet.