Travel Diaries: Vietnam pt.4
As Martha and the Muffins once famously said, sixteen times:
“Echo Beach, far away in time
Echo Beach, far away in time
Echo Beach, far away in time
Echo Beach, far away in time
Echo Beach, far away in time
Echo Beach, far away in time
Echo Beach, far away in time
Echo Beach, far away in time
Echo Beach, far away in time
Echo Beach, far away in time
Echo Beach, far away in time
Echo Beach, far away in time
Echo Beach, far away in time
Echo Beach, far away in time
Echo Beach, far away in time
Echo Beach, far away in time…”
I could really resonate with this song (you could say I “echo” their thoughts), particularly as when one thinks of travelling South East Asia, they would think of white sand dunes and crystal clear water, but the last six or seven weeks couldn’t have been any different. We’d spent time in the Thai jungle, sailed down the Mekong River, and rode mopeds around the mountains of North Vietnam, but we hadn’t parked our arses on a beach since our time in India, which feels like a lifetime ago. Well, luckily for us, we were beach bound. The coastal city of Nha Trang had been included in our travel itinerary for one reason - that it boasted a beautiful coastline. Unluckily for us, we got off the sleeper bus and found it to be pissing it down.
The forty-eight hours we’d planned to spend basking in the sun and getting sand in every crevice of our bodies needed to be replanned. But, in a realisation that came as a shock to us all, there was nothing to do. Snorkelling, jet skis, boat tours, booze cruises and parasailing were available in abundance, but when it rains in Nha Trang, the city pretty much goes to sleep (“when it rains, it snores” if you will). A shame really, because if it had been nice weather I’m sure we’d have had a great time, as it was a very pleasant city. But no, there would be no water activities for us, unless you can count running through the rain. Instead, we replaced the sea excursions with beer and mediocre food. We were staying at the Fuse Hostel, home to a friendly ginger cat and a reasonably priced menu, offering both Western and Asian food.
In terms of what we did in between meals, I can safely say I’d have been lost without Mia’s iPad, and her generous nature in letting me watch British telly on it. I binge watched the new two-part Channel 4 drama starring Steve Coogan about Brian Waldren and Margaret Thatcher, Brian and Maggie, and also a three-part documentary on the legendary interviewer David Frost. After five hours of admiring pure journalistic genius, some dramatised and some authentic, I’d decided that I was going to become the next Louis Theroux, and pursue a career in broadcasting. I had the idea that I could interview tennis players whilst playing them at tennis, Motorsport stars whilst riding alongside them, chefs whilst cooking for them (or vice versa). Original and brilliant, I thought, and something that would come straight out of Alan Partridge’s dictaphone.
We also left the hostel to go and get matching tattoos. Myself, Mia, Eden, Helena and Tanya, all agreed to get bottle caps from the countries we’d been to on the trip so far. Mia went for Saigon beer, Helena chose Hanoi, Eden opted for Chang, Tanya eventually decided on Tiger, and I was left with Bintang, an Indonesian beer which I haven’t yet tasted or seen anywhere. We were happy with the ink, and made our way back to the accommodation through the rainy streets of Nha Trang, which is remarkably home to an astonishing amount of Russians - some expats and some visitors. Much like the village of Arambol in Goa, India, the place has completely surrendered itself to Russian tourism (if you’ll pardon the pun), and is now plastered with signs and adverts in the Cyrillic alphabet, whilst offering the best exchange rate for the ruble in Vietnam. So much in fact, that as we were leaving a restaurant with Russian translation printed on the menu, one of the waiters said “spasibo” to me as I was leaving. I found it ironic we’d arrived here on the third anniversary of the invasion of Ukraine, and wanted to find out how much of an effect the war was having on people moving here.
We were sat at a coffee shop over the road from the hostel the next morning, when a big bloke with a Russian-sounding accent asked us if he could take one of the chairs from our table. We dully obliged, and he went to sit with another Slavic-looking man. I channelled my inner David Frost and saw an opportunity. I frantically wondered how I could spark a conversation and then ask my pre-thought out questions about why there are so many Russians in this little corner of Vietnam. Perhaps I could show off some of my Soviet Union knowledge, maybe by naming all fifteen post-Soviet states without blinking an eye. Perhaps I could impress them by naming all of the former Soviet leaders, in order, or even better, let them know that I actually own a set of Russian dolls featuring the likes of Lenin, Stalin, and, my favourite, Mikhail Gorbachev. My mind went blank, so I just blurted out “‘scuse me, comrades, could I ask you a question, please?”
“Yes,” said the man, as if impersonating Nikita Khrushchev.
“I was just wondering,” I began. “Why have so many Russians chose to emigrate to Nha Trang of all places?”
“I am not Russian,” he replied sternly. “I am from Belarus.”
Oh come on, mate. In typical Soviet manner, he’d basically just told me to fuck off. I’d never come face-to-face with who I assumed was a former KGB agent, but Frost didn’t back down with Muhammad Ali, nor did Waldren with Thatcher, and I’d be damned if this lad was going to get away that easily.
“Ah interesting, whereabouts? I asked.
“How many places do you know in Belarus?” He responded mockingly.
“A couple,” I said, with a golf ball in my throat and sweaty hands. “I know the capital, Minsk, and I know Gomel, the second largest city.”
“Oh,” he said, surprised. “I am actually from Gomel.”
I think I’d managed to impress him slightly, but the rest of the conversation was unsubstantial, and I never actually got any answers to my questions, even though he was definitely more than capable of answering them, given that Russia and Belarus are basically the same country (and no, that’s not xenophobic). I also embarrassed myself at the end of the chat by saying “dovidenja” which is goodbye in Serbian, not Russian (nor Belorussian). I did a little bit of online research later, and found that a much more capable journalist had got to the story first, and it was a good read (available here).
Later that day, in between bouts of doing nothing, a Russian bar rep sporting a cowboy hat tried to persuade me to come into his bar. Far from the status quo, he was surprisingly friendly, and asked me where I was from. He said he was from St. Petersburg, and at that point, once I knew for sure that he was from the motherland, I released my wave of questions. He was kind enough to educate me, told me that the majority had come here to escape the war, and proceeded to tell me that the Russian population there is only going to grow, given that airline companies have pencilled in plans for a direct flight from Nha Trang to both Moscow and St. Petersburg, set to go live this year.
We soon found ourselves on the move again, making the eight hour journey to the culturally and historically rich Ho Chi Minh City, or as the locals still call it, Saigon. We boarded the bus early doors, and arrived in Vietnam’s second city at around three o’clock in the afternoon. A metropolis with an infinite amount of hostels, hotels and guesthouses, we were thrilled to discover that we’d coincidentally booked our accommodation just three doors down from the drop-off point. We checked in to the Adenia Hotel, which seemingly hadn’t changed since the Fall of Saigon, but had a spacious private room for me and the girls to share. Our first night was spent on the vibrant, chaotic walking street. Reminiscent of Khaosan Road in Bangkok, each bar boasted deafening music and exotic dancers, mostly women (though not all), strutting around on tables, trying to entice you in, like an Asian red-light district. I couldn’t wait to leave, and called it a night after a couple of games of pool - a game at which I have improved drastically at an alarming rate over the course of the last couple of months.
After some genuinely excellent Mexican food the next day with the girls, I took some time to myself and wandered around the city, eventually finding myself at the War Remnants Museum, one of the most harrowing and moving places I’d ever been. Dedicated completely to the Vietnam War, it housed abandoned US fighter jets, boats, tanks, artillery and weapons in the courtyard leading to the building. Inside, the bottom floor had a section dedicated to memorabilia from the various anti-war movements across the world, and made fascinating reading. But, the second and third floors were a lot more profound and pressing.
On the second floor sat a whole room dedicated to the photography of victims of Agent Orange. Brilliant, powerful photographs of people, many of them children, with unimaginable and heartbreaking deformities lined the walls. Each with a name and an explanation, not wishing to trivialise or saturate the effects of war - an issue we often encounter with contemporary news. We see it so much on our screens in short bulletins that, in my opinion at least, we have just become accustomed to it. Therefore, it’s always so shocking coming to museums like this, to spend an hour or two walking through a building racked with atrocities, as they often indirectly turn into a place of mourning.
In another room on the same floor were photographs of the actual conflict; executions, the Battle of Hue, the Fall of Saigon, Vietnamese trenches, the slaughter and demolition of fishing villages and rice fields. It was all very powerful stuff, and anyone who knows me knows I have a lot of room in my heart for photography. As mentioned in another entry, the subject of my dissertation at university was photography in conflict zones, and to see the work of some of my favourite ever artists on the walls, in person, was really touching… the likes of Larry Burrows, Robert Capa, and Catherine Leroy, whose names and stories I know so well. I was impassioned to find that on the third floor, there was a room dedicated to these fearless journalists, who died in the line of duty.
Our time in Vietnam had been brilliant, and could’ve only been better had the weather been on our side. We scaled the length of this beautifully diverse country, from north to south, met some amazing people, and made memories for life in the process. Regrettably, all good things must come to an end, and I thought it was very fitting that I’d ended my time here in a very educational manner. Travelling is about learning, not just about yourself but about other people, their way of life, and their hardships. Vietnam certainly hasn’t had it easy, but their attitude towards the heart-rending atrocities that occurred here in the 60s and 70s completely epitomises their attitude to life; they are optimists, opportunists and absolute warriors. With a very heavy heart, we boarded our bus to Cambodia the following day and said, “tam biet, Vietnam.”