Charlie and Steve's Excellent Adventure

August 12, 2015

Top 10 – Vietnam

A Top-10 means a top ten, not two top tens but we’re all about breaking out of strict rules and living dangerously after a road trip too big to fit into just one. In a country that’s basically the worlds biggest food buffet placed into dramatic scenery with inspiring people we ate, we saw, we road tripped the length of this emblematic country. For the first time in this trip we simply need to do two top tens, food and travel. Strap in, forget the diet and come road tripping with us through this brave little nation that is nothing short of a travellers dream.

THE FOOD:

10 – Street noodles, Hue:

How do you pick one street noodle in a country famous for street noodles. In truth taking a tiny red plastic chair on a footpath and diving into hot steamy noodles is what makes Vietnam, Vietnam. With quail eggs and a crumbling fish cake the ones in Hue brought us back for seconds and tops the very competitive pile to get the coveted gong for the best street noodles.

9 – Warehouse Coffee, Ho Chi Minh city:

Going against the grain can be dangerous in a nation with such a reputation for coffee of it’s own style. One of our top three espresso coffees globally was Warehouse Cafe in Ho Chi Minh City. Is there anything Vietnam can’t do?

8 – Red Bean, Hanoi:

Our farewell dinner is always an occasion but this one was different. From an immersion into street food like no other we were pulled back to the world of fine dining, wine and most dramatically, western food. It seems that Vietnamese food isn’t just a street phenomenon, it’s gotten high-brow too.

7 – Trung Nguyen, Buon Ma Thuot:

Viet coffee is unique, it’s its own beast and there’s nothing like it. Thick, sticky, sweet and strong enough to deserve a heart condition warning it defines this nation like few foods do. Trung Nguyen grows coffee for Vietnam and the home town cafe remains the best for this unique gem of a drink come health warning.

Lining up in a dark Saigon alley for the best baguettes in Vietnam.

6 – Dinner at Tung’s, La Phu:

Dinners don’t get more real, being hosted by Tung’s family was a treat we couldn’t dream of. The home made pork sausage sat like a stone in our stomachs for a few days but nothing dulls the hospitality, generosity and window into a culture we’re completely captivated by.

5 – Dalat Market, Dalat:

I’m just going to say it; this is the best market we have seen on this trip, in fact probably the best ever. Big call I know but we had no option to begin the tradition of the glut-a-thon in Dalat, eating one of every thing on offer. Heaven.

4 – Pho on Road, Near Mui Ne:

Pho, the dish that built a nation, we had pho nearly every day. Pho is more than a noodle soup, it’s more than a meal, it’s a way of life. Pho was mostly best at random houses along the roads of rural Vietnam and none were better than a small house perched in the mountains above Mui Ne, when a lunch stop got confused with being welcomed into a family home and a way of life.

3 – Cao Lau, Hoi An:

We had heard of the legend, were teased of the mystery, the noodles to sell a kidney for, the noodles only available in one town on earth. We came, we tried, we tried again and then found an excuse for just one more. Big talk so rarely gets so comprehensively backed up with fat firm noodles atop fresh herbs sitting so perfectly with pork sumptuousness only to be offset by a sweet sauce and pork crackling texture. Brilliance in a bowl.

2 – The Dark Heron, Ho Chi Minh City:

The pork pattie baguettes were superb, the mystery sauce was spicy and sweet but above all the secret alley location made the meal what it is. A masked woman dealt her poison like a drug and we came like junkies to a fix. The Dark Heron sat behind her mask and dished up not just food but the quintessential street food experience we will never forget.

1 – Banh Cuon, Hoi An:

Banh Cuon, Hoi An market.

There’s banh cuon and then there’s banh cuon from the market in Hoi An. Silky rice gluten sheets sprinkled with mushroom are the essential ingredient but slathered over a bed of green herbs so fresh they’re still growing and doused with a salty hot sauce the Hoi An banh Cuon only needs the crunchy texture shift of pork crackling to rocket it above the legend that is cao lau and take the number one spot in a nation of number one’s.

THE TRAVEL:

10 – Vietnamese motorbike mechanics, Everywhere:

The expression ‘a force of nature’ comes to mind. Be it fixing a puncture in the middle of nowhere, hammering bent metal on the side of the road or fishing chunks of broken plastic from your engine there’s nothing these guys won’t do, can’t do to get you back on the road in no time.

9 – Paradise Cave, Phong Nha:

Some places just seem too bizarre, too surreal to be part of our humble planet; welcome to the largest caves in the world. So many thousands of years are told in stories of silent organic architecture in these enormous spaces. Rarely is silence filled with such drama, such awe and there’s nothing to do but stare.

8 – Roadside Coffee, Everywhere:

The joys of a road-trip. Viet coffee is a phenomenon on it’s own but it takes on new proportion when it’s from a tiny roadside cafe somewhere in rural Vietnam. From the first ‘real coffee’ that came served in a tiny aluminium contraption called a phin to slowly drip the intense syrup into a waiting glass we were perplexed and hooked. No looking back, the first coffee stop was often the most awaited part of a riding day as soon as we got clear of the cities and towns that never seemed to do it quite the same.

Hoi An’s old town.

7 – Hanoi:

Hanoi, it’s all you have to say. Crazy, fast paced, noisy and heaving are words that come to mind. In the midst of all this we met Tung, and Hanoi became so much more. An inside view to a city seems so trivial when you get ‘the’ inside view not only to a city but a family and through it all, a nation. A city has rarely ever represented a nation to us quite like Hanoi.

6 – La Phu:

The extension of our joy in Hanoi was the joy mixed with harsh truths on our visit to Tung’s home town of La Phu. When travelling it’s easy to say that we want the real experience and we’ve never gotten it with such honesty as in La Phu. Set in an idyllic rural location with hot springs and stunning national park mountains, La Phu was more experience, insight, relaxation, food, immersion and scenery than a one night stay should be able to accommodate.

5 – Dalat:

Somewhere on the Ho Chi Minh trail in the highlands close to Laos there’s a town called Dalat. Surrounded by coffee, dramatic waterfalls and mountain scenery this food explosion offers more than meets the eye. A blessedly cool climate houses tourists among a local vibe with more elegance than seems possible. It’s the place to be a traveller and not feel like a tourist.

4 – Road Trip, Dalat to Nha Trang:

Leaving Dalat was a sad affair and although every leg on the road was dramatic for some reason or other the roll down out of the mountains from Dalat to Nha trang was the most comprehensively positive of the lot. An easy day set in stunning mountain-scape was filled with being forced to share moonshine at a roadside lunch stop, local coffee up with the best of the trip succeeded in the impossible, making leaving Dalat not so bad.

3 – War Remnants Museum, Ho Chi Minh City:

Food, culture, people, scenery and all the rest, Vietnam is a country made for a tourist brochure. It’s also the place to weep for the barbaric nature of our species and weep even more for our bravery and fortitude of the same animal. The American war captured on film for the first time and put on display here was a David and Goliath battle, and David won despite what can only be called atrocities from the worlds greatest power not accustomed to losing wars. Museums are always educational yet the horrific S21 in Cambodia is the only other I can think of that sparks emotion like this. There’s no shame in shedding some tears here.

There is life everywhere, even the rivers of Vietnam.

2 – Hoi An:

It’s a simple rule really, when something’s a UNESCO world heritage site, it’s a pretty good bet that there’s something there worth seeing. Architecture, local bustle and food squash together against a river that, at night, literally lights up with hundreds of floating candle lamps carrying wishes and dreams slowly by. If Dalat is where travellers come to not feel like tourists Hoi An is where you feel like a tourist but it’s so damn beautiful you just don’t care.

1 – Road Trip, through Phong Nha National Park:

It’s hard to pick a winner from 12 legs of a road trip that held not a single mundane day. In truth it’s the road trip, the escape, the freedom that’s the overall memory that will never fade and the pinnacle of that memory will always be Phong Nha national park. Soaring limestone mountains swathed in a jungle that couldn’t be stopped was our world for a time as we tasted a life that wanted for no adventure or freedom. This memory will forever define the romance of a road trip that defined an adventure.

August 12, 2015

While you were working – Forget Me Nots, Hanoi, Vietnam

There’s love affairs and there’s just affairs, some are meant to last and some are made only for the memories which outlast a dream that will never be. In 40 days we’ve indulged in love affairs with Rob and Greg on the road trip to end all road trips, an affair became so much more as kilometres, mechanics, coffee and no shortage of tantrums became etched to memory not likely to fade anytime soon. As much as the affair reached out to become more at times, an affair it always was and an affair it now returns unmistakably to. We’re breaking up. Charlie and I have had a long chat and we have come to the conclusion that, while it’s been fun, this relationship is better as a duo with no space for the boys any longer, handsome as they are. Just like slave brides in barbaric cultures we sell away our boys to the highest bidder, cherishing only the memories that were meant to last and discarding what was never meant to be. The boys will understand in time, it’s for the best.

And what memories they are. 13 days of riding took us 2,524km’s seeing the famous Ho Chi Minh trail and tasting Vietnam from the base to the tip. There were 21 visits to mechanics, each with their unique charade and emotional rollercoaster while the first stop for coffee out of a town became more than just a fleeting ritual, food and coffee on the road will remain near the top of the memories from this adventure. We learned new philosophies of traffic more akin to laws of the jungle and with countless close calls we escaped relatively unscathed with just one minor spill. Rob and Greg not only carried us the whole way, they took us into places and moments that are out of reach for so many; Vietnam as we now know it would not exist without our flaky boys.

A self portrait in Phong Nha national park on one of the best days we’ve had this whole year.

We scout Hanoi for the best price, dodging streets that move more like a panicked crowd fleeting a burning building than a collection of vehicles, driving the wrong way down a street and barging our way through traffic snarls that should end in an accident but somehow don’t. We started off dazed by the impossible function of a traffic ethos that has no rules but end settling into the impossible flows that we still don’t understand, now firmly believing that no one really does. Yes now we’re driving like a local and I didn’t quite appreciate the pride that might come with such a statement; despite the chaos there’s no mistaking that there would be more danger in driving like a Vietnamese person in Sydney than the other way around.

With a little help from a local guy at our hotel we’re on a street with the chaos of a world passing by as a mechanic scratches his chin in pensive thought. We could send the boys back to Ho Chi Minh city but a quicker transaction is on offer right here in Hanoi. The market for boys like ours though isn’t strong and we’ve resigned to losing money on the deal that still feels like a victory for us as we cash in memories that could never be purchased. A shake of hands, a deal is struck signalling the end of a great affair that will now never turn into the love it wanted to become. We ride the boys one last time to the shop to metaphorically sign the divorce papers. Differences are irreconcilable, there’s no fairytale ending to this affair, now nothing more than memories and a stack of dispassionate cash.

Greg (aka Steve’s motorbike) being fixed again in Hué.

But what memories they are, memories that will rise above the roar of memories this year has produced long into the future. Charlie pushing Rob in a huff after the first flat tyre, that perfect pho on the ride from Mui Ne to Dalat, being forced to try moonshine on the road from Dalat to Nha trang, sweeping the mountain turns on the Ho Chi Minh trail; and who could ever forget the death of Greg only to ride the revived Greg Frankenstein triumphantly into Khe Sanh. Those early tentative steps on a wrong turn out of Ho Chi Minh City became such bold forays into an unknown world with such false confidence we took for certainty.

In truth I’ve never quite understood the universal appeal of the romanticised road trip but handing the keys over delivers a pang to make it all so clear just how romantic a road can be. Dripping in history we pierced the tourist shield and got deeper into a culture than we otherwise could and all the while the road was ours. But now the boys are no longer ours, nor is the road, and immediately we miss them, we miss this road trip and the memories that are fixed like a barnacle to an unscraped hull. But it’s for the best, it was an affair that could never last. And so the affair ends but the memories don’t fade; we left Ho Chi Minh city on a wrong turn and wobbly wheels to end it all now with a bagful of memories and an adventure within this adventure that just might top the lot. Farewell Rob and Greg, you won’t be forgotten.

August 10, 2015

Gluttony Expedition – A Light and a Tunnel, Hanoi, Vietnam

Six weeks or close enough not to matter is how long it’s been, six weeks of small red plastic chairs and random guesses at what we were about to eat. We sauntered into Vietnam knowing that the food would be good and that street food was a juggernaut that shouted on the world stage, and so we dictated that we could only eat on the street or in small local places. It’s in times of fatigue that the comfortable fit-out with an English menu seems so attractive but proudly we have stayed strong and it’s been local all the way; we now have an unnatural love affair with tiny red plastic chairs that possibly needs therapy. Surprised looks from locals, giggles at our attempted Viet language and not even needing to order to have food put in front of us has become the norm, how life is. But that’s not always how life is, we left behind many certainties on this trip and tonight we’re about to embrace one of those abandoned certainties all over again. A fancy restaurant; with a menu in English and everything.

Of course a bit of local food preceded at lunchtime, not street food exactly but no rules were broken as we stepped into a local restaurant for a different version of fresh spring rolls. Fresh spring rolls turned into pork sausage spring rolls, crap soup, noodles and rice in the type of smorgasbord I wonder how we’re ever going to do without. After farewelling Tung for the day we hole up in the hotel room after a few chores; this road trip, this binge, this adventure has been the definition of the broader escape from our regular lives as well as thoroughly exhausting. The last week in Hanoi has been little other than a slow stumble from meal to meal with the occasional coffee or beer in between sugar fixes in this slow farewell we’re not yet ready to make.

Street vendor selling fish, Nha Trang, Vietnam.

But all this is about to change, six weeks of conditioning, both mental and physical, are dashed against the rocks to shatter into uncountable glitters like a great waves final hurrah. Floor to ceiling glass doors with elaborate gilded handles are pulled inward at our approach, the posh interior a slap in the face as we surface from a food immersion we have taken on so diligently, possibly too diligently. We’re even wearing jeans. Fine tasselled material waves from the bottom of too impeccable off white lamp shades when the raucous street slips into silence as the big glass door flops closed hushing us into a calm world of ambient solemnity. I wonder who died.

The marginally warm paintwork cutting into crisp white details is safe but elegant, the bar has the muted joviality of contrived mirth that could be patronising but it escapes with a certain charm. The world here seems close but maybe not quite on the money as the cheery waiter jokes with us as we sit. This is a posh restaurant, our typical sign off to any country; but more so than any other time it’s an occasion, a deviation, a treat that takes us far from our regular travel time here. As our bums collide with the plush padding that seems to occur to high yet sinks forever, a flashing lament for our little red plastic chairs tells us the truth of this world we feel so alien within. The door opens for another guest and on the waft of a social clamour it’s clear; the place is perfect, it’s us who have changed.

Like a surprise visit from an old friend the good times rush back through the curtain of fleeting uncertainty to nestle quickly in the groove they always belonged. A few dollars for a gin seems perfectly fine and a days food budget for red wine we haven’t tasted in months calls forth a shameful degree of Pavlovian response. We rush back into regular life budgets and expectations so quickly after six weeks of immersion like no other. In a way this is a sad farewell, the first sip of crisp gin with just the right amount of lime is the beginning of our long walk from this immense country.

Royal rice cakes (not as we know them), Hué, Vietnam.

Like a ghost story of a near death experience we’re racing up a tunnel that no longer seems like just more tunnel toward the light at the end of it, this tunnel of Viet street food is not something we’re keen to escape at all. The street food world that has been like a maternal breast rages on the other side of those big glass doors. A blessedly good Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon calls us beckoningly to the light and washes away the tints of guilt that threatened us in this place of jarring opulence. Foix gras leads to spinach ravioli which is replaced by mushroom soup and a green bean soup that wins the night making us the regular critics we always were. Duck breast with orange glaze is tender and even though the rib eye is overdone we don’t really care at all. The light at the end of the tunnel is worth going to, even if this tunnel is not a tunnel we necessarily want to escape from.

It’s been hard to imagine anything better than Viet street food while we’ve been here but the world is a big place in terms of food and each subsequent plate that is placed and expertly whisked away fills our departure with excitement instead of despair. This dinner date is a regular tradition for us but never before has it transported us so far from the nation we are having it in. Vietnam, more than any other country we’ve ever travelled in is defined by its food; little red plastic chairs, how are we ever going to do without you?

August 9, 2015

While you were working – Grand Shadows, Hanoi, Vietnam

As the last few intense days settle into some form of normality we are off into Hanoi for a more regular tourist look into the sights, sounds and smells of this crazy town. Through the washing machine of seeing a young life take steps towards forgiving himself, hearing of a heart wrenching past and feeling a loving family kept adrift by social demands we now see Hanoi with clear vision again. Clearer at least. We’re thankful for the precious gift that has been given to us, the insight into a life, a family and a culture that has left us spent and a little dizzy. The precursor to all this drama is really the culture we’ve been lapping up all this time, a culture ingenious, industrious, resilient and full of life. The strength behind culture that could never be defeated comes at a price though; the steel that forged a nation doesn’t bend so easily, that steel was forged in that name of one man above all others; Ho Chi Minh.

We’ve soaked in the upsides of this cultures strength and in the last few days we’ve seen the balance to all the fanfare, the only part missing is the man himself. He’s long since dead but we can go and see the great man, the name that rallied a nation as his body lies in state: well the mannequin replica of his body at least. To much protocol and security we enter the immense grounds of Ho Chi Minh’s mausoleum amused at how chaos reigns unabated in this city yet as we step through the gates formality presides as if we’re entering a Swiss bank vault. I assume everyone knows it’s a dummy, or maybe they don’t; either way the ruse is upheld with much vigour, we could nearly be in China for all the pretentious formality that surrounds us.

Main gate to the Temple of Literature, Hanoi, Vietnam.

On the strict pathway to the crypt Charlie makes a good point: “It’s communist countries that put their heads of state on display, but they’re meant to be all about the people”. But history does tell us that communism is really a dictatorship with a better PR department; brand maintenance is vital. In truth Vietnam is far from a communist culture; laws prevail granting the state great control and power but on street level it’s capitalism all the way, currency rules as the Dong is king. Although the elections are routinely spoken of as a comical sham they have them none the less in what can only be thought of as a precursor to a more positive future. Surely watered down communism is better than a strictly held ideal? History would say yes.

Dummy or not the charade persists and I confess to being somewhat dragged in, statue still guards in perfect white uniforms line the path into the crypt creating a sense of fanfare and solemnity with great effect. This is where communism comes into practical effect, there’s a red pathway and you follow the pathway, you don’t talk, you don’t stop, you don’t touch anything; you follow the path and when you’re done you say ‘thank you’. After our lap we’re spat back out into the heat and sunshine a little excited, there’s absolutely none of the reverence that a great name of history deserves but it’s a stage managed thrill none the less. Great names cast a shadow through history and that shadow we’ve been living in for about six weeks or so now has a face. The short man that blocked the sun has a shadow as unavoidable in Vietnam as it is conflicted with good and bad outcomes; to be fair, more good than bad for the Vietnamese.

Tung and Steve passing into the second courtyard of the Temple of Literature, Hanoi, Vietnam.

Saigon, the great capital of the south might be named Ho Chi Minh city now but the power of this nation originates from and lies still in the north. Tung the tour guide is back in full swing as we walk through the elaborate gates of the Temple of literature, Vietnams first university. Established in 1070 the temple drips with Chinese symbolism as befits the ethnic layout of the era with a series of courtyards leading a bullet straight line into the heart of the university. The outer courtyard features lotus pools flanking elaborate gardens, the lotus that grow in muddy water a lesson to those that from the humblest beginnings anyone can grow tall and beautiful with the right application. How the first students must have been inspired on this procession.

At the passing of each courtyard steps raise us up before lowering us down again to teach the proud that there is always a return to earth regardless of any height you soar to. Symbolism drips from every feature of this aged beauty, window frames carved as the Mandarin character for happiness offer views inside while clams and fish scales adorn roof tiles to keep away the rain. The stork representing nobility stands on top of a turtle representing the common people, a tale of the symbiotic need of both for each other: the stork for somewhere to perch in a flood and the turtle for an airborn lift to water in drought. Each story is elegant and powerful, it’s also just a story and conflictingly the prelude to the type of blind belief that really crawls up my nose sometimes. The story is pretty but the symbolism is there; the stork sits proudly on top of the turtle. How things should be?

Temple on Hoan Kiem lake, Hanoi, Vietnam.

As conflicting as old stories can be, the grace of this place can’t be denied and indeed it feels wrong to think so cynically. Where much of this country was bombed heavily in the American war, this university remains intact, one step inside these walls shouts at any visitor telling stories of hope, integrity and learning. The stories and symbolism add layers to the story here but they’re only really the icing on the cake; just being in here fills us with all of the messages even if we might not put them in the same concise words. Possibly the greatest of the long list of great achievements this place boasts is it’s mere survival; so rarely do great buildings survive the changing of dynasties, wars and national identities but here it stands intact, its integrity overpowering turmoil and change.

Leaving on a cloud of enchanted thought we graduate from the temple of literature with more lessons than we are able to identify. It’s time for food. Around the posh west lake area of Hanoi we pull up to spring rolls in another of Tung’s little secret finds. Silky spring rolls pile high on a plate stuffed with herbs and beef to be troweled through our little bowls of fish sauce, delicious. As is the norm, this very Viet day finishes on a procession of food and drink even though we need no food after the binge that was Tung’s mum’s onslaught. We’ve spent so much time seeing the outcomes of powerful cultural shadows cast and today we have the chance to see some up close. Be they institutions or people, time turns them all into thoughts and thoughts can cast grand shadows indeed.

August 9, 2015

While you were working – A Kick in the Ass, Hanoi, Vietnam

Kicked in the ass by a donkey, that’s a little how we feel today. We ask the travel gods all the time for insights close to real life, the local view into worlds we have traveled the world to see. Sometimes we get close, sometimes we look from afar and just like a farm animal you get a little too close to, we get a swift kick in the ass occasionally. Banh Cuon is one of our favourite Vietnamese foods and we’re off to the market for the best Banh Cuon before it runs out, but we never make it. In true Viet style, Tung’s parents knew it would run out and bought enough Banh Cuon to feed an army back for us along with more of the family home made pork sausage. Argentina, beyond occasional frustration was generous and hospitable but nothing touches Vietnamese hospitality.

Tung’s mum has been up since 3am buying freshly butchered pork from the market to make the home made sausage from pork flesh and fat still warm before taking it back to morning market. Who could think that a wrapped sausage was a living animal just six or so hours earlier, this is freshness on another level. Tung’s mum tucks a wad of cash in his pocket along with the tray of food she insists he take back to the city and his dad has skipped away from work to share tea with us all and send us on our way as custom dictates. He even stops in at the cafe on our way out to pay for our coffee in a show of generosity and hospitality that can’t be overdone by local standards. It’s a show, a bit of a charade of course, but such a lovely one; Tung’s family share with us an inside view like we’ve rarely ever seen before, close enough to get that swift kick in the ass.

Temple dedicated to Ho Chi Minh, Ba Vi national park, Vietnam.

Just like a donkey the kick comes from out of sight. The hospitality is lavish, the generosity is abundant and it’s in this close up view of a culture of giving that we also receive our kick from getting too close to the donkey. The social etiquette that demands this hospitality works for us, it works for anyone who fits within the rules that it caters for: we are guests, this is how you treat guests; simple. In holding tight to these rules it goes without saying that if there’s no rules written for a circumstance it makes for an awkward loose end, panic caused by the abandonment of all the rules that so often hold your life together. So often fear ensues and we retreat back to the rules that make life so simple.

Where’s the kick in the ass among all this generosity and hospitality, I hear you ask. The kick in the ass is hearing the story of Tung, and being so close to it that we can’t write it off as a story from a distant land, it’s too close. The twist is that with all these social rules alienating Tung to horrific consequence there’s no avenue for these proud parents to bridge the gap to a son who didn’t need generosity or hospitality, he needed parents. We have no doubt that the love from Tung’s parents is unconditional, but they never had a chance. The hurt, the turmoil that has driven Tung to extreme actions is not known to them, he’s kept his side of the social rules bargain and walked through life alone for fear of shaming his family. There’s love oozing out of everywhere but those rules that everyone finds such comfort in forces everyone to walk alone.

Tending the gardens next to Dà river, northern Vietnam.

At 16 years of age Tung left to travel Vietnam against his parents wishes, he just got on a bus and left, such was his need to see the world, to break out. He plans to travel the world, there’s no future in Vietnam for people like him in his mind. No place in Vietnam for smart, caring, ambitious people; if they’re gay. And so Tung has walked life alone, there’s love pouring from all sides but those rules so strictly clung to act like walls to pen in the love and keep people at a safe distance if the rulebook doesn’t have a chapter written for them yet.

So the travel gods granted a wish, not only did we get close to a culture for the inside view, we leave rocked to the bone for what we’ve seen. Sadly it’s a story we know, it happens at home but no padding prepares you for the kick in the ass when it comes. We ride back to Hanoi and hang out with Tung in another day that seems so normal, so standard except for that it’s not. We’re all a little exhausted from the high octane emotional kick in the ass of the last few days, we’re sure Tung most of all needs a come down, time to get an ice cream and walk around the lake as he has done so many times before.

The Dà river, which runs next to Tung’s home town of La Phù, Vietnam.

We’ll recover from our kick in the ass, we’ll move on and carry on our lives anything but alone as we leave Tung to carry on his life. Tung has a passport coming, the world to see, a degree he’s about to finish and just maybe this week has shuffled him a few steps further along a path toward a life a little less lonely. It boggles our minds to think that this immense story is happening all around us all the time with barriers of propriety keeping people alone even in relatively liberal Australia. There’s a better future not just for Tung but the millions just like him walking alone; as we recover from a kick in the ass we asked for there’s a rulebook with new chapters being written all the time for the people it forgot to mention.

August 8, 2015

While you were working – Inconvenient, La Phu, Vietnam

Just when we thought Rob and Greg were comfortable settling down to retirement it’s on the road again, this time just a short trip out of town to see where Tung grew up, a town called La Phu. With the rainy season dousing our hopes for a venture into the northern wilderness of Vietnam this escape from the chaos of Hanoi is equal parts adventure, new experience, travel opportunity and hanging out with a new friend. The road feels so familiar so quickly, the only time in this trip we have a Vietnamese speaker with us and there’s no need to chat to a mechanic as the boys behave beautifully. I’m just a little disappointed there’s no breakdown.

First stop is the Ba Vi national park, a mountainous stronghold for French forces during their occupation of Vietnam. Up into the clouds we go, literally; fog closes in around us we slow our progress to a polite crawl into the next few metres we can see, and then the next. Stone lamps line the road surrounded by trees that allow a view little more than twenty or so metres into the eerie forest and whatever lies beyond the blanket of fog too thick to pierce. Up and up we go, three peaks is the local name of this area owing to the three aggressive spires that reach for the sky, only visible on the rare occasions that clouds don’t shroud them in secrecy.

An essential stop on this journey up to the peaks is apparently the church, a mere rubble shell nowadays but ripe fodder for the superstitious Vietnamese who apparently love a ghost story. The heavy mist washing in on waves of cloud combines with a jungle overgrowing this ruin that still reaches for the sky in that very religious manner to gift us a scene tailor made for spooky stories. Of course we stage a few ghost pictures for fun before heading up to the temple peak. The stairs are punishing, the view is captivating and the atmosphere sends shivers but most of all it’s striking mainly for its discordance with the surrounding environment and climate. So close below is humid heat, tropical vegetation and flat plains but just a few minutes ride into the clouds and we’re not only into another climate or place, it’s a different imagination.

Church ruin in Ba Vi national park, Vietnam.

Tung is pulling out all the stops; from a chilly visit to the clouds we’re stripped nearly naked and soaking in natural thermal baths allowing the mineral rich waters to carry our worries away. After the visit to the pub on Saturday night, Tung seems a bit more comfortable with us, possibly even with himself as he opens up to a life that has remained bottled for too long. Shocking revelations are so much more jarring when delivered with indifference. Tung so casually opens up to us about his life, struggles and the challenges of being different in a society that demands community and conformity. Who ever though that community could be so destructive.

The hot water laps at his skin that seems to repel it, forcing beads of water to sit prominently on his shoulders; not much gets past this skin so accustomed to keeping the world outside. With casual indifference Tung tells us of his suicide attempts with sleeping pills and being molested when he was 14. Such huge bombs to drop, trapped for so long inside this skin that allows little to pass out as well as in. “I just have to learn to deal with it” he casually declares. It appears casual, his posture is relaxed and his tone is level but it’s a charade, a well rehearsed charade from a life muffled by a world that finds it inconvenient to listen. There’s a lifetime bottled up here and we’re hearing it, how many people have heard these stories before? In his stoic way Tung seeks no refuge or escape, constantly reaffirming that he’s not a victim; but he is. He’s brave, he’s looking to a life that lies ahead, he’s carrying a world on his shoulders and living inside a skin that holds the world out and him in. This could be the definition of loneliness, loneliness in a crowded world.

We want to give him a hug, we want to tell him life will be better one day, we want to say a million things but a life lived muffled into silence needs to learn how to speak, it’s a slow process. These words we’ve just heard stab our hearts but for him this is life, a life worth living; as he puts it: “If I die the people that made me do it are still here and my family will be so hurt and won’t have me”. He showers with a smile on his face apologising that the water isn’t hot enough today, so easily moving on from a topic he’s become too familiar with holding in. I can’t help but think that his casual demeanour belies a certain liberation in the news he’s just delivered, he’s trying not to be dramatic, to be a victim but I think there’s more to his words than his impenetrable skin suggests. We might be seeing the first cracks.

The ghost of Steve in the haunted church, Ba Vi national park, Vietnam.

How do you carry news like we’ve just heard through a day and pretend that the world is ok? We live none of it personally, we have just heard the words so for a short time we adopt a tiny fraction of Tung’s life and ‘just learn to deal with it’. I feel so conflicted, so much of Viet society seems so true, genuine and endearing to us but this gross negligence of a child who is now a young man is unforgivable. In Tung’s house his parents fuss and display hospitality beyond the sour taste in our mouths; these people seem so in line with the admirable nature of the Vietnamese as we have seen, yet this home has presided over a tragedy that should never happen. Anywhere. To anyone. We wanted a view into real Vietnam, a home environment and we are getting more than we bargained for, how do we mesh together this admirable, loving home with the tragic story that Tung so stoically carries trapped inside that skin as if it’s just how life has to be?

Over two BBQ ducks, a chicken, vegetables, rice and home made pork sausage we see a family as in any other place. Dad wants more conversation from his son than he gets but he’s mostly just happy he’s visiting. Mum is shy and wants to make sure we all eat enough as the house beams with a life that we guess is not usually here to this extent; their son is home and the mini festival for us is not only for us; there’s love here that can’t be denied. There’s love and there’s a changing of the guard, Tung’s father is vice president of the local community (part of the Communist party) and I get the idea that this means he’s pretty successful nowadays. Father has forged a life within a system that his son needs escape from; like Tung’s skin that system prevents them from sharing or connecting like they need to. If only the father understood how this culture turns the skin of his son to stone that even he cannot penetrate.

Tung and Steve in front of the church, Ba Vi national park, Vietnam.

There’s no accusation towards Tung’s parents, just loving and proud parents like anywhere else in the world. We settle to sleep in Tung’s sisters room as dad offers up more blankets to ensure our comfort; we’re struggling to put together pieces of the story we have heard with the picture’s we see. This town is idyllic, picturesque, the definition simple life purity; darker secrets are well hidden. Sadly this story is not uncommon, it’s everywhere, in every country. Even in relatively progressive Australia young people end their lives seeing no option for them in a world that finds it inconvenient to look and think. Here’s something inconvenient: in Australia, LGBTI youth are 14 times more likely to attempt suicide than their heterosexual peers. Imagine how inconvenient the rates are in more conservative countries.

We hear it all the time, terms like eroding tradition, opening the flood gates to this, destroying the sanctity of that; clinging to simplicity because opening our eyes is too challenging, thinking is just too hard. Simple traditions offer solitude to those that fit in but some people don’t fit in and ask us all to challenge, to think. How horrid to think that it’s easier to let people like Tung just not wake up from the sleeping pills, easier if they just stop being so inconvenient. Accepting new things can be hard, better if people like Tung just die is the covert statement buried in denial; ignoring inconvenience is one or two steps removed from tragic outcomes but not so distant we can’t see it, shouldn’t be able to see it. It’s a big world with blood on so many hands.

August 7, 2015

While you were working – Great Things, Hanoi, Vietnam

Yesterday we went to the pub with Tung and today he read my writings about that night. His English isn’t polished but at times correctness is not necessary when creating a writing voice or impact. Coming out was a long time ago for us and although we remember the time it’s impact has been dulled by the years; we sometimes forget that this story is happening every day all around us. So when you see someone withdrawn or shy, take a moment to think of what might be going on beneath the calm waters and see if they need more than the world is giving them right now. They could just need you. This is Tung’s letter to us.

“This is way much more than I expect. I know you through your writings. But I don’t know you got me this deep. That night I kept you walking around cause you asked for the pride party but I tried to ignore it. Even recommend something else. You asked for it again. I tried to distract you with the night market but I guess maybe God wanted me to go to the pride. And I wasn’t sure and kept you guys walking with me. Even till we’re standing at the crossroad where I had to make a decision to go or not. I faced the crossroad as usual. And I asked myself: what are keeping you here?

I saw different taxies keeping saying hello to me. Which one should i choose? The one I used to call? Or just took a random one? I still waited. Still questioned. Till a moment I looked back and saw you and Charlie seem to be tired of waiting. I realised I was a stone that blocks the stream of my life. And people around me might be tired. They might be waiting for me. Then I decided: ok just go to see. If the bar had been GC, I would have never gone. But it’s a different one. It’s like a new experience that I didn’t know which way it could lead me: good or bad? I didn’t know. And you will never know if you never ask. Then I just caught the one coming to me that moment. As I had been taking any opportunities coming on my way.

We came there. But you guys will never know how nervous I was. My hands were shaking. And you should put this in your writing: vietnamese pride staff didn’t give me welcome gift but you guys had. As you were foreigners. Why? The reason that holds me till now is the racism among Viet gays. It’s always a big deal to me. But I just need time, motivation and inspiration. I need someone to wrap my hands, hug me and tell me: I love you with who you are, I will be the first and the last staying with you. I saw you guys together and it’s a huge inspiration for me. Dramatically, you guys are like jesus, buddha to me. You guys have everything that I doubt a gay couple can have. And all you have is what I have been dreaming to have.

When we were at the bar, there were some people I recognised from Grindr. Many of them ignored me. And many I ignored. I was, am and maybe will always be alone here. When you told me Charlie ignored the Aussie guy I was freaking happy. I realised: hey, there’re some guys seem to be fancy here, actually they could be so pathetic. Who knows why they moved here. For new life? Yes. But the life they can be a picker instead of being picked. You guys stayed around me whole night instead of hanging out with others. That’s enough. It’s a gay bar. It’s a gay pride. It’s a place for me. It’s a place I was covered with people like me and support me. If I had kept faking myself, where could I have been myself?

Then I met Kyle. I met people that ignored me. And out of the app, the life that they’re a super star, many of them were alone at the bar seeking for a partner, a friend, an attention and not-being-alone-among-people. The last question in my mind was: what could happen tomorrow after this night? I don’t know. And no one could tell me. Like the bar, I came, I got bad treatment right at the door, but I crossed it. I still got some sad moments inside a place known to be the fun. But look at me, I’m happy. I have friends here. Just 2. But they’re protecting me. They were with me and for me. I cried. I came to the toilet to cry. So embarrassed and dramatic.

I still talked and smiled to Kyle because I know the reason. He’s tired of me hiding myself. He’s tired of being not able to come to places for him, for me with me. All because of me. I came back home. I couldn’t sleep. Because I kept thinking about the past, present and my future. I looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t know who I was anymore.

I have been writing myself but in Vietnamese about my journey, like a diary. I want to make it one day an inspiration or just a material for maybe a young guy got the same problems like me, a way out.
I feel so relieved that I can say, share and be shared with these things. Thank you so much. And don’t feel bad when I keep paying you stuff. People pay a lot to pray for gods, buddhas. And here, right now, I have real people that made my wishes come true. I don’t see how I can pay you enough for this. Seriously. I’m literally crying now, lol (Thanks mom. Your DNA is amazing) See? Who needs god while normal people can be this amazing and important to others.”

We always say that we want the real experience, the genuine window into a place, a country, a culture. We look into windows all the time, we see and we learn but so rarely do those windows into a culture talk back. It seems that we don’t have to be great to do great things, and most of the time we don’t even know you’re doing them.

August 6, 2015

While you were working – A Look in a Mirror, Hanoi, Vietnam

Wandering these streets seems too familiar too quickly in the storm of chaos that describes them. Yet familiar they seem more than they ought, a travellers adaptability or maybe a human resilience we all have but so rarely grant an opportunity to shine? Tung is leading the way as he tends to do; being a tour guide of sorts is in his blood with an urge to please like many Vietnamese seem to have. The BBQ goes down well along with the swathes of butter, oil, fat and salt required to make it memorable, again Tung seems to omit his needs from manning the small hot-plate with near maternal fervour for our eating. In this respect, Tung represents his nation so succinctly, an empathetic desire to please belies the confident boldness stored within him somewhere that only rarely escapes. So often we see a need to please connected firmly to submission or meekness; what do we call it when it’s delivered not from supplication but empathy?

As fate has it, this weekend in Hanoi is Vietnam pride, the ritual celebration of gay rights held in nearly every major city not attempting to exist in the 18th century or earlier. In conservative Vietnam still calling this very capitalist society communist, a pride weekend is not only a triumph but a curiosity we can’t ignore, it’s off to the pub. In just a few days we’ve gotten to know Tung relatively well but his sexuality isn’t a huge topic, he’s gay and even to gay strangers that are in his country for a short time there’s no outpouring of the conversation we might expect, no faux coming-out. He walks us through these familiar streets to call down a cab with a smile or a giggle just occasionally letting on an excitement years of rationale are telling him to suppress. I wonder why he wants to hold it in but a fleeting though to my younger years brings admonishment of my stupidity for even wondering why, it’s what we all do. In the face of acknowledging a frightening realisation don’t we all seek comfort in a bit of denial?

We walk into a bar that’s suitably cheesy, playing suitably cheesy music with a suitably cheesy crowd. How did gays get such a reputation for style? We’ve said it a million times that gay bars are the same the world over and while this one isn’t a great deviator it does have a festivity, a life that seems to take the place of the usual sleaziness. Maybe being in a conservative country gives credence to these bars as we don’t appreciate at home; in my lifetime the sanctuary of a place not to be afraid has been a noble yet distant ideal to me, something theoretical that other people might need at some time. The older I get the luckier I realise I was. We order a gin and say a cheers to Charlie’s dad, Phil, who passed away a few years ago; today is his birthday. A life spent towing his family to frontier countries imbued a reputation of fearless adventure to Phil, the location here might be an oddity but we have no doubts that he’d approve of this great adventure all the same. Cheers Phil.

Street fruit seller, Old Quarter, Hanoi, Vietnam.

Retro disco jerks to underground soul that crashes into saccharine pop, the DJ is atrocious but beyond the jarring shifts the music is fun enough , it’s a gay bar after all. Charlie has been accosted by a couple of guys who are young enough to be his children in another life as Tung decides that Charlie just about defines the gay Viet ideal. Tung so unwittingly declared earlier that Charlie is the very Viet type: “Local guys will like you, you’re white, hairy…. and chubby” Lets just say that Charlie wasn’t keen on being declared chubby but Tung seemed confused about the reaction to his dubious compliment. With my fat hairy husband being drooled over I sit with Tung at the bar as we both ignore his pensive restraint that seems comfortable to him as these streets do to us, like it shouldn’t be comfortable at all.

Vietnam’s favourite new plus-size model returns and we get a round of beers as we drape our arms around Tung telling him he can’t go and get the last bus much to the countless sets of eyes that catch the moment. Apparent’y according to Tung having foreigner friends is somewhat of a status symbol here which means we simply have to make the most of the red herring we represent. In no time the ice is melting, on pride weekend Tung is up and having a tentative dance to fuel the gossip. He didn’t choose this weekend for a statement but Hanoi is taking notice of Tung and it seems like he’s loosening his restraints as he lets them look, lets them talk and laughs at it all instead of shrinking back in fear like he usually might. to us it seems like a light bulb moment, he leans in and says “everyone will think we’re having a threesome’.

We aren’t sure if this is ok, half expecting him to shrink in and go back to the bar leaving those words as a reason for his departure. But no, a smile, a straighter back greets us “fuck them, I don’t care anymore” as he breaks into a small dance that means more than the careful movements suggest. Let them look indeed, we count to three and plant a kiss on each cheek; what a scandal. And so the night goes, we dance and laugh at the prudish liberation so hard won in a country not yet ready to let go of traditions so much simpler. The symbolism of Vietnams youth facing fear and letting go of it against the backdrop of a country that isn’t yet ready to do the same is ripe. For now traditions feel comfortable to Vietnam like the streets to us and fear to Tung, but for how long.

Tung guiding us around his city, Hanoi, Vietnam.

To fuel the fire we all leave together and get in the same cab; who knew grabbing a few beers with a friend could be so scandalous. Our cab pulls up to our hotel and we leave Tung to carry on to his house thinking little of a night out that we believe means more to him than just what it was, a night out. Coming out is an interesting process, rather akin to an emotional reset button that all gay people must press at some stage. Staring in a mirror and realising you aren’t who you believed you were sends questioning ripples to the darkest corners of your world, nothing escapes a fresh new look and no belief is blindly left to assumption. It’s not a one-night process, it takes a long time to tear down a life of things you know and assess every speck all over again but a big moment in the process for everyone comes before reassessing your entire world, you have to reassess yourself first.

It’s impossible to say from the outside, possibly even rudely presumptuous but maybe tonight was the night that Tung decided he was better not hiding from himself. In a culture that so nobly decries selfishness for empathy, it’s just possible that the necessary step was taken on those words screamed to a chubby strangers ear on a dance floor: Fuck them, I don’t care anymore. Far from not caring, far from giving up, Tung indeed might have just decided to care for the first time, to care for himself. Just maybe on the night of Vietnam pride there’s one Vietnamese guy who found what the word means and decided that having another look at the world is a process he should start, with pride.

August 5, 2015

Gluttony Expedition – Perfectly Imperfect, Hanoi, Vietnam

In the rainy pen of Hanoi we settle and slow our pace in contradiction to this city that is anything but slow of pace, we’re seeing the sights before the food storm descends upon our lives, a calm before the storm. The Ngoc Son temple sits in a lake near our hotel, this gracious setting a place where the lifestyle of Vietnam switches from simple life to show off the fastest growing middle class in Asia; more than just a place of worship. Beautiful architecture hosts elegantly dressed people to represent what centuries of struggle have been for; how we take for granted the simple idea of a beautiful place to visit and enjoy for what it is. For a tourist it’s a place to slow your pace but we can imagine that for a Vietnamese person it could be a place to relish the fruits of a seemingly endless fight for liberation. Just a pretty place or so much more?

The women’s museum also facilitates a slower pace, a chance to take in the place of women in this rapidly changing society. We’ve noticed clear gender roles in Vietnam where women do the cooking, men fix the bikes and so on, with exceptions so rare. Where definition so often means discrimination, we notice a lack of overt inequality making us wonder if it’s just definition or if there’s discrimination more than we’re seeing. The role of women in Vietnam is not a meek one, women and men may have clear roles but women hold high ranks in the military as well as civic life; it seems that if you’re good enough, you’re good enough. We can’t see all facets of private life but just maybe definition might not mean discrimination to a people not used to taking shit from anyone.

Bamboo delivery man calling that he has arrived, Don Xuan market, Hanoi, Vietnam.

From one window into a society to another and now another; it’s cooking school time again. First step is the famous pho and preparing the broth before we head out to market. After boiling beef and pork bones in water to clean them off they’re rubbed bare and plonked into our big pot to start the process of turning water to broth; like water into wine and just as miraculous. Ginger and an onion are scorched black on a flame before being similarly rubbed bare to add to the broth. Cardamon, cinnamon and anise are dry toasted in a pan and added along with fish sauce before the surprises begin. Into the large pot goes a ladle full of chicken stock powder, yes basically powdered chicken soup mix and sugar of all things. We’re blown away by this development, we consider this sacrilege but I guess it’s representative of the Viet view of constantly evolving rather than sitting still on tradition. It seems this is how it’s truly made rather than how we romantically view the process so I guess we’re getting the authentic view if not the romantic one.

The market trip is more a procession of gawking at food rather than an educational as we give the pho broth time to simmer away. Returning to school it’s a wall of cinnamon smell we walk into as the broth takes steps towards its biblical transformation. We mix pork with noodles, vegetables and herbs for spring rolls as we get surprise number two, the dipping sauce. fish sauce goes with vinegar and water which we knew, it also goes with sugar; this we know also. What we didn’t know was the amount of sugar; a small bowl soaks up four huge tablespoons of sugar, it’s delicious but; wow. Again the message rises to the surface, it’s about the result and little else leaving a staggering chink in the armour of what we think to be perfect food. Could we have been totally wrong?

Fruit seller pedling her wares , enroute to the Don Xuan market, Hanoi, Vietnam.

We know many of the aspects of this food but it’s the secret tricks that we’re learning here that astound us. The next cab off the rank is my favourite, Bun Cha. It seems simple, little pork patties and BBQ pork pieces in the sugar laden dipping sauce along with herbs and noodles, simple and delicious. The trick here is a small amount of sugar, yes more sugar, turned to a deep caramel in a pan and mixed into the pork, as if the sauce isn’t sweet enough already. Sharing a plate, Charlie mashes up the mince while I massage the pork pieces getting the caramel evenly spread. Charlie keeps sticking his pork into my bun cha but we avoid a sticky moment along with the bad pun; it’s time for the grill. Again this is very authentic, a little box is on the balcony and we hold the meat over the coals just like we see the street vendors doing, it’s not glamorous or pretty, again we trade romance for reality to do it the Viet way.

The spring rolls are fried to soak up as much oil as possible as we sit down to as much sugar, oil and salt as we’d expect from many fast food meals. With herbs, green vegetables and soups dominating this cuisine it’s not easy to perceive the diet traps in Viet food but it seems it’s maybe not quite as healthy as we thought. Health can be an issue for another day, it’s delicious and we scoff it all to set ourselves out into the Hanoi streets loaded with a diet disaster we are completely unashamed about for today’s next slow paced indulgence. Time for more food of course. We catch up with Tung again and to his frustration we’ve been to the few places he wanted to show us, apparently we’re a tour guides nightmare.

Countryside cooking school outcome: fried spring rolls (nems), pho bò (beef pho) and bun chá. Hanoi, Vietnam.

Just like his inventive nation, Tung doesn’t give up as we’re joined by Fawzy, another traveller from Morocco we met by chance at a street stall to find something we haven’t tried yet. Sitting down to salty rice cooked in hot pots we enjoy a cross between Spanish paella, Chinese fried rice and a dry Italian Risotto. Our multi-national rice is topped with decadent meats in a typically simple and inventive Vietnamese triumph; sweet of course. We didn’t need any more salt, sugar or fat but who’s really counting.

Fawzy is leaving Hanoi tomorrow and as we prepare to part for the night we’re rocked by some sad news; Fawzy has not tried egg coffee. We don’t take no for an answer as we wrestle the informal tour guide mantle from Tung and basically frog march him to coffee street for the essential Hanoi education. We’re slowly learning more about Tung along with his city as Charlie nerds out over Fawzy’s retro film camera while three pots of egg coffee and rum sit before us, full for now. Its not just that egg coffee with rum is delicious, it’s beyond decadence in a day of food defined by going beyond any sense of decency and restraint. Maybe there’s something of a message for us when Tung opts for tea instead of the coffee but there’s no stopping us, it’s a dieting fat-day and we’re cashing in. Gluttony has a new definition as we trade off some romance for authenticity and wrestle with having to make the trade at all; Viet food was perfect but doesn’t perfection depend on just the right type of imperfection?

August 4, 2015

While you were working – From the Fire, Hanoi, Vietnam

Rain rain go away, come again another day; as the saying goes for children wanting to play outside, so it does for us: children wanting to play outside. It is the rainy season so there’s little to complain about really but our planned ride to the scenic highlands north of Hanoi is all but washed away down the gutters of this city that lives on the street, rain or shine. And the city does carry on, under poncho’s, umbrellas and canvas awnings it’s life as usual leaving us to turn our attention to this city rather than the countryside we’d hoped for. We’re two kids staring at a window pane specked with a million orbs of raindrops making the outside world a kaleidoscope of opportunity we can’t reach.

So with Rob and Greg given a dubiously earned rest we turn our focus away from the window pane of opportunities to search this city for interest we’d stopped looking for. First stop, Hao Lo prison, which translates to something like ‘Hells Hole’ or ‘Fiery Furnace’. Visions of torture and woe emanate from this name alone but the name in truth originates from its location on Pho Hao Lo street. Hao Lo also means stove and it was the wood and coal stoves sold on this street that lend this prison its red herring name. Contradiction drips from the elegant French architecture all the way to the arched entrance; hell’s hole looks so gracious from the outside.

Guillotine: pride of place, next to the cells holding those on death row. Hao Lo prison, Hanoi.

The building was finished in 1889 by the French and named the Maison Centrale to house political prisoners of the local Viet resistance. Typical of the time, prisoners were kept in appalling conditions aimed at destroying their will to fight more than simply housing or punishing them; this grand estate neatly wraps brutality in beauty. So French. Elegant corridors and stately courtyards abut rooms of cold, inhumane indifference, a guillotine standing pride of place beside tiny cramped cells with shackles embedded into the floor. We see some signs of overt torture and brutality but for the most part it’s a sterile environment compared to similar places elsewhere, all around us exists a denial to its purpose, a pretty face to mask the degradation of humanity denied the gore to make it easily defined.

And so the irony and contradiction continues in this place that doesn’t seem to really know what it’s supposed to be; torture facility, prison, grand manor, national emblem? The pen of history is often severe and so it is in the Maison Centrale as the Vietnamese forces eventually claimed their nation and Hao Lo was born. The captives became the captors, the subjected became the subjectors but this building with an identity crisis persisted only to pick up another personality to add to the mix. Hao Lo may have many personalities but it’s purpose remains, The Viet army used this purpose built facility to hold US fighters through the American war in a twist of ironic justice. Words scratched into walls of the Viet struggle tormented US fighters as a mocking reminder of not only their place but who’s nation it is and who it’s being liberated from. And by whom.

Cell B, Hao Lo prison, Hanoi, Vietnam.

Images line rooms of US soldiers being treated humanely, enjoying sports and games of chess. It appears that the Viet army took a more humane approach to imprisonment leading to the common name for this place, the Hanoi Hilton. Far from the French brutality US soldiers were kept in healthy conditions as this building took on another slant to its personality. This is at least what the walls say, more probably the old adage persists that history is not what happened, rather what’s been written. And in this sense the writers are the victors, a Vietnamese pen scribing history on French walls telling stories of US defeat. What truth must lie within these walls to contradict what’s written upon them leaving the name Hanoi Hilton aptly loaded with contradiction.

From Hao Lo it’s off into the wild mess of Hanoi traffic to see Tung, our friend and tour guide in his home town of Hanoi. We’ve never met Tung but after weeks of chatting after being introduced by a mutual friend we feel like we’ve known each other for ages. We’re standing on a street corner at a cafe, ‘Cong Ca Phe’, named after the Viet Cong forces that liberated this country in an elegant shift from the prison that represents their struggle so aptly. The identity of this nation sits so linked to the Viet Cong and outside a cafe that bares the name a perfect representative of the nation the Viet Cong fought for comes smiling at us. Riding his scooter on the wrong side of the road, without an indicator wearing a helmet about as protective as a cotton cap comes Tung to meet us. Yes, he represents this nation perfectly.

Bonsai , Ngoc Son temple, Hanoi, Vietnam.

We sit down for coffee and turn weeks of on line faux dating into something more human as a national identity slowly becomes a person while Tung sips his coconut coffee. Wrestling in this skin of a young man of 23 is a world of opportunity; just like his nation he is only recently able to imagine possibilities not afforded his parents generation. We didn’t make it outside to play in the northern countryside as we’d hoped but inside this rainy city we find that possibly the best representation of this nation was our friend in waiting all along. We’ve barely met Tung, but in this next week stuck in rain trapped Hanoi the ideals of this nation might just become a person, the new generation of a people that made it out of a fiery furnace.