VN pic Lua 082813

I am told the drying of rice is called lua. The process seemed to occupy a lot of roadway as smaller farms had little room to place the drying tarps in front of their homes and elsewhere. In addition to rice grasses that might have been hay were also aired out on tarps and in many cases on the roads. I don't recall riding over rice but it was necessary to drive over straw often. 

Soc Trang

VN note Finding Alternatives [n.d.]

While riding through the Delta on the Yamaha I met many people who tried to say a few words more than hi. Nearly all had as little command of English as I have of Vietnamese. In Soc Trang I met a high school English teacher who gave me a thought about learning a second language after realizing that her tongue, pallet, mouth or all inoperative together are unable to pronounce certain foreign words. A pretty common problem. 

I thought then that second language classroom instruction should include synonyms and antonyms in addition to teaching definition, pronunciation, etc. to encourage fledgling learners obtain a wide range of words to consider when expressing an idea. Where the tongue can't curve for clarity the brain might strain for a similar meaning more pronounceable. 

But in Bac Lieu I ran into a different challenge, one that in spirit spoils my theory. The Vietnamese pronounce "tr" so it sounds like "j" to my ears. Checking out on on the sixth day I mentioned to the receptionist at the King Diamond hotel I was traveling to Soc Trang and she replied something to the effect of: "oh, sep jen". I thought a road had been washed out so I pressed her for clarification. We tried for ten minutes before it became clear that "sep jen" is Soc Trang. However useful a thesaurus would be alongside a dictionary in a language course, there simply isn't a comparable word for a city name. This brought about the challenge that the problem is not with the Vietnamese speaker but with the non-native listener. Whether I accept their speech or insist my hearing predominate displays only pretension if not arrogance. 

Soc Trang, the province and city, are located in the south central Delta and however many times I told people I was going to Phoung Hiep or Phoung Loc, cities in the province, people said seemingly with pride, "sep jan". Elsewhere, such as in Ben Tre or Saigon, people pronounced Soc Trang with slight variations such as "sept jen" or "soc jane". By that time I was ready for it and heard the distinction. I heard the tongue and anticipated the inflection or accentuation; I let my listening ears and literate third eye disengage. 

So to get along it became necessary to find alternative ways of thinking about language in its communicable role. Even now, back with the cat in Brooklyn I realize there's learning gained in the self-reflection that helps me to tell these travel stories with honesty. 

VN note River of Dreams [n.d.]

For thirty years and for personal reasons I had imagined myself on a voyage by boat from Saigon up the Mekong River to Phenom Penh. Imagining boats on the river, I had envisioned arranging passage then exploring the fantastic world the river might have been with green foliage on the banks and photograpic fields beyond. I dreamt myself into such a  voyage, or series of voyages and I was lost in the dream. Lost to realities I was unprepared to accept. 

Naive of me but I carried that vision around with me in a bankers box stuffed between the sheaths of a mental manila file folder. To say I should have known better is hindsighted, but time's learning had no effect on that memory of a spectacular voyage. When a recent event altered my life I resolved to live out the dream. I had no idea that my preconception would be turned on its head. 

As for what I thought Vietnam and the Mekong Delta would be like the  battery of Hollywood war films did little to prepare me for what I would encounter. Very  few times did I witness little brown people in dark cloth garments beneath triangular hats stooped low in the fields. As for violence once I felt slightly threatened while outside of Saigon and I believe that was more circumstantial than a reflection of the people involved. 

While my assumptions were formed in the early eighties, back then I was trailing in the wake of a sea story decades old.  Fifty years is a long time for any locale without war and economic boom to in their own rights dramatically alter what once was. 

Times have changed. The government restructuring of the transportation system includes the construction of significant bridges over two wide branches of the river, at My Tho and at Can Tho. What formerly added hours of travel to transport harvests from the Delta to markets in Saigon and beyond are now subtracted from shipping times. I'm told this has resulted in the loss of need for boat travel. 

A decline in the need for ferries has, I assume, effected all water travel in the Delta. On the rivers I saw coconut and rice on boats and small ships but the boat I traveled on from Ben Tre to Tra Vinh, withs its small hauling capacity, is likely to be replaced soon by trucks. Perhaps the reason the Hiep Loi remains in business to this day is for the remote area it covers and across bodies of water unrealistic to expect any commercial trucking company to service as affordable. Again, just an uneducated guess. I know that the cargo boats that once departed from the foot of Saigon's Nghi Dam street are indefinitely suspended because, as I was informed by the dock master of sorts, the combined need for water transportation and adventure tourism didn't warrant continued use- that's the way I'm interpreting "no more".

Water travel is one of many changes made to my prior notions of what I would find in Vietnam. It might not have been the most significant but it was something of a threshold that once crossed, when I came to realize the fact that river travel was not going to be a viable means of travel, I was forced to alter my plans. 

The short ride through Saigon on the xe om really put the hook in me and in Ben Tre I found myself with an opportunity to rent a moto and explore the country. Abandoning the riverboat plan made possible many more experiences, or different experiences. I rode that moto for six hundred kilometers in twelve days across the lower provinces of the Delta and have the stories and photos to prove it was in many ways an important journey. 

VN pic Rice Field Cultivation 082813

There are two tractor in this field. The third shot in sequence caught my interest and I either did a quick downshift or more likely doubled back to stop by side of road. Olympus in right pocket; phone in left I reached for phone while farmer in red cap actually paused before pulling out of the  field's corner. I noticed his stall and waved just prior to snapping the first frame. 

Again, the frequency of Anglo tourists venturing into these provinces and onto the small routes I made would put this interaction between farmer and the moto traveler a couple times a decade. I'm confident in claiming that regardless of what the future holds. 

He paused for the photo, for my benefit, smiled big at my wave of gratitude, and pressed on with his fieldwork. 

Soc Trang

VN note The Next Day 082713

Waking up on Tuesday and hitting the road I stopped a short distance from the gate of the resort at a ca phe. I took off my helmet and sat at one of the plastic tables with tiny chairs definitely not suited for my five-ten frame. I asked for ca phe sua nong but at that point I blumbled cafe sir nam at which I wasn't paid the slightest attention. I waited a while and a woman came out from behind a counter. I fumbled through the botched refrain and she brought out the usual glass with condensed milk and a short layer of coffee dripping from the tin filtering reservoir. 

When I got up to leave she came over and I gave her a five thousand dong note. She indicated that wasn't enough. I questioned how much more she wanted and she leaned over the brim of my wallet and pointed to a fifty thousand note or about two-fifty USD. While I broke out into a sudden belly laugh I didn't give anymore money. I found another place that charge five later that day but the standard price is six to ten thousand (1USD = 20,000 VND). I admit I rode the rest of the morning looking over my shoulder wondering if a cop or army battalion were going to arrest me and take me back to that woman's roadside ca phe to pay a few more dong. 

I've mentioned before that my map is very detailed and has those graded road indications: thick red, narrow red, narrow grey and finally no road just the names of a few towns randomly scattered in the remaining geography. That's the case in the lower end of the Tra Vinh province. If I'm going to find myself at Ba Dong, I thought back in Brooklyn anticipating the trip, then I'd like to check out the various random dots disconnected. Again the bike made the dream come true and for the next three hours I covered a geographical area on the map that was about the size of the tip on my pinky finger. 

I was lost trying to get off the southern end of the province. The map didn't show a bridge or ferry to cross a straight blue line bisecting the region. The road that appeared a main roadway showed no sign of ending as I rode around in one large circle past farmers and fishermen and women with children watching me pass by repeatedly. I stopped at the same ca phe three times to clarify directions. Each time they same four men pointed to the road in the same direction and I repeatedly thought of the woman at the ca phe earlier that morning. 

Finally I realized that the other motos I passed had all ducked onto and off of the paved road via a narrow little ramp where pavement met a red dirt pathway. 

I asked at a bike shop if I was heading in the northerly direction and a woman picking up her repaired bike indicated I should follow her. Another five km later we were at a ferry landing featuring an impossibly rickety pier of coarse cut wood slats and a ramp about the width of those plastic chairs in ca phes that catch my butt when I stand up. There were about ten bikes cued up and the coolest set of eyes I'd see the rest of the trip. I impressed nobody but myself at that moment but the impression of wonderment - shit, how did I find such an amazing place- was trumped by the sort of uncertainty that teeters on panic staring back and forth between riverscape and boat ramp. 

When the ferry arrived thankfully one of the two operators rode each bike down the ramp saving me from a certain soaking shame. The ferry crossing cost four thousand VND or twenty cents USD. I'lI try to calculate the numbers: ten bikes times four - forty - and another ten pedestrian at about two each - twenty - that's sixty and gas at about forty a liter which probably gets three round trip crossings at twenty minutes of motoring per leg so sixty times six is six forty minus sixty for fuel is five eighty profit per liter for two hours of crossing times five for a ten hour day equals around two hundredand ninety thousand per day in gross after gas divided by two or about one hundred fifty thousand divided by twenty to the USD and for their labors the two man crew working sunup to sundown earn about seven USD if their ferry has ten bike and ten passengers each trip.

For comparison Vu on the Hiep Loi earns one hundred thousand per two day round trip from Ben Tre to Tra Vinh to Ben Tre, and one million a month net per his claim. A couple poverty experts who stayed at the Oasis informed me that the poverty line in Vietnam is five hundred thousand per month or twenty five USD. At poverty the state provides basic assistance. 

Once across the river I remained lost through the rest of the morning trying to find a special location called Loo Cu among more disconnected dots. Everyone I met pointed in different directions and tepeatedly thought about a scene in a movie where Dogtown surfers and beat up non-locals who ride their turf. Perhaps I was projecting a bit when I met a crew if laborers loading a truck with perhaps hundred pound rice bags. I confidently stopped the bike and inconsiderately interrupted their work to produce my excellent map and humiliating speech with the usual inquiry.  Such cultural relevancy cost the crew about five minutes of deliberation.  It wasn't but a couple minutes after leaving the crew that one of them rode up beside me with his cell phone to his ear speaking broken English asking if I wanted him to call ahead and have someone meet me there. At the same time one of the other crewmen rode like hell past us. The guy with the phone broke off when I told him thanks but no thanks and when I got past the tree line and could see the horizon there appeared to be only a massive decaying factory about a mile toward the river.  Another film, Matt Dillon in Cambodia, came to mind as i became concerned about the guy on the bike who would up there somewhere. at that time a bridge appeared to my right leading north and i abandoned my quest Loo Cu. 

The bridge took me north along the coast toward Cau Quan and through more small towns where people were very nonchalant about seeing me. I'll say it again I'm sure but there's something to be said about entire communities who, upon meeting an outsider, uniformly pay no mind. Saigon at a hundred and fifty kilometers away might as well be Hanoi for most of these people in small towns but a tall westerner does phase them. One of the things that can be said for that is that possibly they're not very interested in talking with outsiders; distrustful, embarrassed, angry, hateful, or simply peaceful to the point of appearing passive up front. 

About anger, I sometimes get that way when encountering people treating others without apparent respect. In such cases I tell myself I'm not like that. I I justified my actions when comparing to others' actions by replaying scenes whete i thank busboys for water or hold doors for strangers. im the guy who helped Vu take on cargo loaded onto the Hiep Loi. As I recall these small acts however frequent and unconscious, I also think about the simple encounter that a laborer has with a tourist from America with a massive western frame and a shiny moto, how just having a map with all the disconnected dots doesn't make me geographically sensitive or culturally aware. 

I'm not proud to be an outsider who rides the surf of locals but I'm uncertain how to reconcile my desire - to find Loo Cu or to connect the dots or to cross an open ferry - within the context of this chasm of economic and social and cultural differences between our cultures. 

I think what I wanted to find out there in the outlying regions of the province far from the thick red lines was a citizenry of people like Vu. He initiated a six hour conversation with me in order to share our differences - establishing inequalities, gifting each other with small things. It's in that realm of exchange - intellectual, emotional, humane - that I am comfortable and collected. I'm not cool anywhere else and when my moto failed or I became seriously lost or mumbled through conversations with people who spoke some English I may have been a fool but I tried to make good and present myself with as much humility and humanity as possible. I wonder how much this sort of interaction plays into my desire to travel; I've only once gone anywhere for the beach. 

Back on the main road I crossed another ferry and its twin between Tra Vinh and Soc Trang provinces from Cau Quan. The ferries stop at either side of an island and yhrough traffic races like hell to the other boat. In Soc Trang I rode through a rain storm for some eighty kilometers right up to dark when I arrived in the coastal city of Bac Lieu. I had ridden for eleven hours almost non-stop on pavement, dirt, concrete, gravel, on narrow paths and major highways, off the map lost in the space between dots and circling around boulevards searching for a place to sleep at the end of the day.

Of those eleven hours and unrecorded number of kilometers my mood fluctuated between speed and serenity. The longing for flight was soothed by a hammock - almost every roadside venue be they a ca phe or a pho shop has hammocks for patrons to lounge. When the rain stopped or tea leaves dried out I pushed off with a kick to swing back on the road. Another reason I like to travel is for the motion. 

Later that night in Bac Lieu I began to reflect on the trip. I had begun this blog with pre-trip postings that anticipated an experience I projected from a stressed mind in Brooklyn. A week into it, with the main premise for being in Vietnam no longer possible there came time to confront that big question that was the final New York anticipation worth holding onto: why am I here. I might have thought river, jungle, crowds, rest, weather, but it was existential inquiry I knew for certain I would face. 

I recognize in me a distinction between traveling and being on a journey. when I take a road trip in February to Montreal the border crossings are to be expected; yes sir, no sir, some people just like the cold. And even I questioned why I wanted to travel to S.E. Asia in monsoon season of late August. But travel for me takes on more import when I can get thoughtful of the experience and my part in it. That night I opened up a copy of Michel Montaigne's essays. Never having read the 16c. Frenchman I was relieved to find someone else self-reflect. 

VN pic ca phe 082613

Typical roadside stops where ca phe or pho is served among other food and beverages. The Vietnamese are very proud of their coffee an I took on a real liking to ca phe sua nong, or transliterally coffee milk hot. And the soup is served with vermicelli rice noodle a a big slice of pork among some basil and other greens I immediately soak in the water while its still piping hot. I ate a lot of greens after a  few days so long as I could dunk them in hot water to give at least an allusion of disinfection. While greens grown close to the ground are subjected to unclean water my practice seemed to work as I never had any of that uncomfortable stomach bug or worse. 

The tall stainless cylinder is for chopsticks that also get soaked in steaming soup broth. There are lots of parents taking care of kids not exclusively their own (as kids would run from one house to the next as if the whole block were open to their curiosity). The ornament is a disco ball of sorts or a lamp made with primary significance of plastic cups. 

VN note Ba Dong 082713

Following the six hour transit on the Hiep Loi from Ben Tre to Tra Vinh I rode that afternoon to a point at the southern end of the province. I had seen a blog posting about Ba Dong where a couple of touring cyclists had visited the seaside resort a few years back. I don't remember if that post or the tiny umbrella marking on the map got my curiosity first but I set my mind to going there if means were available. Ken at the Oasis recommended the place so with access by bike I set that as a destination to close out the fifth day in Vietnam.

The coastal community of Ba Dong features a state run resort and nearby some type of old French hotel i didn't find. This was where holidays were had during the French colonial era and now where Vietnamese go for holiday. 

There is a wood and palm covered patio as an outside dining area to a kitchen that made a couple items on a seafood menu that might have been bilingual VN/English. Two of the guys working there wanted to pose with me for photos if that's any indication of Anglo-American frequency to the resort. I was there on a Monday evening and rented a bungalow with an ac and tv. Paint peeled off the walls while I stared at them as i dont find television entertaining even if Vietnamese might be novel and worth reporting in. 

A spider built a web in the bathroom doorframe overnight. The lizards played their radio next door loud all night as I saw no other guests and all the keys were on the attendant's pegboard when I checked out at six the next morning. 

David Lynch affectionados might like the place if it hasn't washed away before you read this. The dark brown seawater turned five colors into the horizon as a rainbow arched the sky. Shoreside brown the color of rivers changed with a clear band about a mile out to sea (going on assumption horizon at sea level is seven miles out) into a soft tan suede tone. Beyond that the colors in the evening light with a setting sun to my back eastward reflecting off distant storm clouds pulled through a sobering spectrum shades of turquoise to grey. The beach is practically nonexistent as the cyclists' blog shots imagined.Large imported rocks at waters edge; a short stacked fence of sand bags inland about three meters is bordered by floatsam debris of plastic and paper; a broken slabbed concrete path sunken into the loamy soil leads from restaurant to bungalows. The ground is like that where tree lines approach waterfront giving a sandy consistency to decomposing layers if fallen leaves and needles. For some reason I recall evergreen trees at Ba Dong. 

Any number of other idealistic cinematic scenarios might give me reason to return to the place if I'm back in Tra Vinh province. Funky, trashed, decayed but also subject to government funding, high salt content; intense rains and humidity; the occasional typhoon and frequent South Sea storm; and the bungalow-thrashing gingko bands that disrespect Yankee acoustic sensibilities.  It's been said that Vietnamese like their music loud and ill have more to say about that after about three hundred kilometers. 

VN pic Heip Loi 082613

The pilot house is really just a seat where the pilot's feet are in the far right of the horn shot. The chain is the steering or throttle linkage I caught the shot while pushing the bike up out of the hold of the boat. That's the Yamaha I road around after having it hauled on the transit to Tra Vinh. The narrow plank is the way the bike got onto the street from the boat. 

VN pic scenes from the Heip Loi 082613

The transit between the cities of Ben Tre and Tra Vinh was the first of four crossings of rivers I made during the trip. I took a lot of photos with an Olympus Stylus I've had for years since its a quick tool for capturing scenes and has a good Zeiss lens. With less regularity I used the iPhone to capture scenes specially for this blog. I don't have many shots of the water and river scrapes to share immediately and will likely create a tumbler page to share those hundreds of shots. Meanwhile here are scenes common to all the branches of the rivers I crossed. These were all taken on that passage with the Heip Loi. 

VN pic taking on cargo 082613

I never did follow through with intentions to learn the name of this wax like foodstuff. It tasted like unrefined honey or beeswax. Not too sweet. 

VN pic Vu's flower 082613

VN pic Vu 082613

Vu is one of the two operators of the Heip Loi. Since he handled the cargo taken on and delivered off he is the first mate to the captain. He was exempt from driving that day so he could talk with me; it was an arrangement he made with the skipper. I post a note describing his salary and living conditions so more there. In this shot he holds an NYC Metro card, the type you purchase from a kiosk at the subway station or bodega. In another shot taken a couple hours earlier Vu made a small flower out of foil paper to give me as a present. I have him this metro card and he couldn't comprehend what it meant. I've communicated with people before where we spoke maybe one word in common and up to this point Vu and I got some real interesting facts from each other using hand gestures and drawings on torn pieces of cardboard box paper but this subway pass was like Nic Roeg's coke bottle dropped from a plane into the aboriginal desert. Vu had no way to approach the meaning of it.after a long thirty minutes of literally knocking heads together we were able to shift positions from basically function to form. The card became less of a tool or a symbol and took on the role of a gift. Vu actually got me to realize what I took for granted how something simple like a token of friendship is sometimes really only that and needs no other meaning. 

VN pic more transferring of nuts 082613

Mekong delta

VN pic Coconut cargo 082613

These smaller boats appeared to be transferring local coconuts from the surrounding islands and shores to the larger boat that will take them to yet a larger site. This area of the Delta, the provinces of Ben Tre and to some extent Tra Vinh, are major coconut growing regions. As I mention in the note from 082513 I wanted nothing to do with visiting a coconut farm to watch natives make sweets; I had no idea how many nuts I would see being harvested, transferred, and shipped in this general area. Since seldom do any tourists get onto the water or off the tour these might be some of the few pics you'll see outside of an agricultural brochure. 

VN pic Muddy Waters 082613

About thirty minutes into the trip the Heip Loi left a tributary and entered a larger branch of the river. In the middle of the shot are fishing claims with netting posts and spanning wires with a small wodden one man boat about every fifty yards and about seven of those. there larger boats that appeared to be trolling but i think they were overseeing the catch within this larger system. my interpretation on the fly was that the small boats were for maintenance stability and the bigger boat for hauling in the catch. The waterway at Ben Tre is narrow at about 100 yards; this part is much larger maybe eight time as wide. It isn't the widest either. Mekong Delta

VN pic Two Baskets 082613

I wanted to identify the cargo boat 'two baskets' until I found the official name near the pilot house. Mekong Delta

VN pic GE shrine 082613

The motor of the Heip Loi is a General Electric diesel. It didn't fail to miss a stroke. Mekong Delta

VN pic cargo boat Heip Loi 082613

Interior shot of cargo boat en route Ben Tre to Tra Vinh. My bike is slightly visible behind the cases of beer in the middle of the pic. Mekong Delta. 

VN note August 30, 2013

Change of plans. No Cambodia this trip. Found a small town in Soc Trang province where five rivers meet and some very nice people, Khmer. 

VN note August 25, 2013

Xe om 

Reluctantly Saturday Kim persuaded me to travel with tour bus to Ben Tre.

The convincing brochure omitted any mention of visiting a coconut farm to watch the manufacturing of candy. Driving south, the Saigon river to our left, the guide picked up a karaoke mic and shared the itinerary for the day. I would miss only the final lunch event when I ditched the company in Ben Tre after some water travel out of My Tho with visits to a honey farm - the guide Hum likes honey - a trip in a big boat - Hum in means tiger in Vietnamese - transfer to a small boat sized for no more than five - if you are a pretty girl Tiger will share a boat alone with you and take special care of you because trust me Tiger does not lie - and a coconut farm where we'll watch local people make delicious coconut candy - yes you Westerners who like sweet things are not alone we Vietnamese like coconut candy yes yum.

The bus stopped forty minutes outside of District 1 near Ben Luc, a third of the way to My Tho. WC (water closet, toilet, narrow little thing) and coffee carts. Six buses. I'd rather roast in the sun than listen to Tiger tell more stories. 

To make matters worse just as soon as he had the chance Hum picked up the mic and began a thirty minute lecture in botched English that sounds like a pinball hitting rubber bumpers how VN relies on the Delta for its food, how of the 88 million population 22 million live down here and other statistics that bear mentioning until he started in like a teen sports fan with statistics on rice production capacity and export markets in competition globally. Fine again though no mention of the actual agrarian issues such as sowing, harvesting schedules though there might be three per year bc the delta rains are normal and unaffected by typhoons like north in the country. Hum was fine again I was holding out patiently. Then he turned back into Tiger. Thailand is number one and India is never two and Vietnam is number three and always will be the third largest rice producer because India and Vietnam cannot compete with Thailand and they never will and .... Tiger does not lie. No you can trust me Thailand will always be number one and ... Tiger does not lie. 

Dear reader, if you feel a loss of altitude we have just descended to sea level. 

Fourteen minutes and thirteen seconds after the microphone off button barely made an aural snap the bus pulled into a My Tho parking lot to become totally randomly normalized among no less than twenty other buses. We were disembarked en masse along side a large tourism building that I'm sure is the only industry in Vietnam that competes with rice production - the stats on that economic race were apparently saved for the return trip. Two hundred people stood around looking at the alluvial wash of a milk chocolate colored river where some boats of various sizes would take us somewhere and perhaps separate from the love boat Tiger had arranged with a lucky pinball playa. 

The phrase for get me the fuck out of here is spelled like this: toi muon bat xe di ta Ben Tre bang xe bus. 

Actually try it and there will be great uncertainty among groups of three or more working people sitting along a roadside who either have no formal education or can actually read and write better than a couple of tourism agents in an ac office buttoned down in polyester. The term bat is outdated; nobody uses this word thing I've written a ta which might actually be meaningless; and the word for bus is buyt. 

About seven thousand tourists take the same pre packaged trips a day mostly from Saigon where the stay in guesthouses or upscale hotels like Kim or the Caravelle. Where mat weaving demonstrations take place the weavers only look busy when groups pass by and at night they undo the weaving and recycle the materials the next day. 

It was about 80/80 in the partial sun for a three kilometer walk in a general direct the polyester duo set me on. 

Of the fifteout hello with a twist of outstretched handlebar hands the last one was the best. All got a subtle smile, more that you get from me in Saigon, which probably added to the gloom of the past couple days. This guy asked where I wanted to go and I said Ben Tre (pronounced them as bun tree) and with a small laugh and an offer on his moto; when I declined and walked five fucking feet he shouted then that the bus station was directly on my left. 

of the people standing around no one knew where i wanted to go. didn't know where ban tray was either and being tourism illiterate my note made no sense so a couple pointed to the list of destinations and the very bottom was where I was going; the only bus without need for a ticket; the passengers were infected with laughter and my banshee destination and when I mumbled can mon instead of cam on for thank you two women rocked on their torn vinyl seats. A large Buddha of gold and a stand of burnt incense stick stubs was on the dashboard. 

The ride for an hour cost fourteen thousand or seventy three cents US. The clutch to the bus also warrants an expletive so take your pick. At one point the kid collecting money and closing the door almost shut with his foot took a very large spanner wrench and screwdriver to the underside of the buyt beneath the driver. This mechanical adjustment was necessitated following his check in the engine from a trap door below the deity. The women never stopped smiling when our eyes met and I haven't so non-cruised in a long spell. 

The bus dropped me off at just the right place though I didn't know it. Going to the Oasis hotel without an address meant finding wifi. Wifi meant finding someone young to point out a router friendly place. That was going to be the Vut Uc hotel according to eye glass vendors in a cute shop that could have been on Court Street. Walk that way turn right then left. And the first hotel I came to I met Tam (pronounced Tom) who gave simple directions across the river to Ken's place. I tried to thank him and walked off then paused, turned around and went back to his small tourist agency determined not to let bad experiences get me down again. By this time I had become obsessed with xe om bikes and since talking to a Canadian economist in Saigon who bought one for two fifty US in Hanoi and sold it in Saigon for one fifty I was salivating but hesitant when I asked Tam two things: how to pronounce Ben Tre and it was possible to buy a moto. his suggestion to rent one sounded great. and why not rent. Of course he knows someone who rents motos and looking at my excellent map (International Travel Map by ITMB Publishing, Vancouver) settled with her on four days. Six hundred thousand or thirty USD and I bought a new helmet for five hundred thousand or twenty five US and I rode over the bridge to Oasis where I met Ken as he was rebuilding a pump he designed and built, I shook his greasy hands without pause. He likes the map too and turned me on to a trip south in the afternoon to Ba Tri in the southern Ben Tre provence. Down there, there he said, thirty km away they don't know what to do with whites because they never see them and if the police stop you they'll think the worst because what else would you be doing there. Kens from New Zealand his wife Hien is Vietnamese. Nice guy and warrants the praise you'll find on his website.

It's Monday morning at seven and the ferry to Tra Vinh I've wanted to take leaves at nine ish. Ill take the moto on the cargo boat that stops at the oasis pier. They'll load it I to the boat and unload at Tra Vihn. The plan is to drive south to Ba Dong where there's an old French hotel on a beach. Tuesday I ride to Cau Quan and catch the ferry over the river to see Kymer temples in Soc Trang on the way to Bac Lieu where ill stay tuesday then Wednesday morning ill ride to Nga Nam, where Nam means five and Nga means a meeting place and floating markets begin early. 

Lots of driving but the distances are all kind if short at forty or sixty km. 

oh and Ba Tri was amazing but I took no photos. 

Ben Tre

VN note August 24, 2013

The streets are crowded: Bui Vien in particular. Somehow I landed in the pulse and from my closed off room the heart beats regularly. 

But when I walk in this quadrant around Pham Ngu Lao and Nguyen Thai Hoc there seem to be fewer people than can make so much racket. 

Photogenic in a gritty way, dirty way. Shoe shine men, thin slung straps supporting boxes browned wood pass by time and again after replying no with their appeal pointing toward my canvas shoes, "hello my friend". 

Noon: plans to travel with someone I met south about forty km to mangrove swamp of Can Gio by public bus caught near Ben Tranh Market cancelled - no show and didn't want to travel solo today. I wandered into Quan (District) 3 beyond War Remnants Museum. Didn't have the heart to venture past gate beyond a couple posing before a US tank. I understand from a coconut seller whose name is also Tom the museum is very popular with Americans. As he was gouging me for a fresh cut nut. 

 Walked past the women's museum of southern women they were closed.

A copy if French language Lonely Planet at Kim's wrote up a pho shop where the blurb mentioned vietcong ... Kim circled the block on my map. 

During the walk I took lots of pictures with the Olympus and a few with the phone to post later. Never found the sympathetic noodle rollers though I tried, there was a new car lot on the block which made me think about the construction cranes around town. I stopped into a clean and popular chain noodle shop with soup that's spicy and has shrimp balls flattened into the shapes of skipping stones. In restaurants are small wastebaskets beneath tables. Here they are yellow with green plastic liners, the effect is the color of limes. I put my paper chopstick wrap and membrane bottle seal on top of napkins and an empty cigarette box.

Without pen I am lonely; without paper I am in solitude. I am in a crowded soup shop and I can say thank you - cam on - yet still I often botch that and say can am which could mean anything as I get downcast looks with small nods of heads. I am also afraid for the first time traveling. I dont know why. maybe its the city. just as despair rises As I leave the waiter opens and holds the door with the humblest of smiles, his lips only slightly turned and his eyes expressive of sentiment. 

There are storm clouds and the breeze is gusting. Cooling off is refreshing. I remove my cap and leaves blow on the walkway. 

The sky breaks. Suddenly ponchos appear on all motos. Vendors lower umbrellas to provide tighter shields for their customers to sit beneath. A trinket seller adjusts her pant leg before donning clear plastic as a woman carrying limes skips pace between awnings. 

A motoist waits for light beneath a tree just as it turns from drizzle to downpour. Her tan shirt turns a shade of brown. A spout creates a fall in puddle along curb a truck drives through and kicks up a spray soaking my pant legs a drop falls on my book and I retreat and stash the journal

Back at Kim's I'm drained from walk and heat and likely dehydrated. Ill need to watch for that sensation of fatigue apart from the lethargic emotion described earlier over soup. 

I've arranged through Kim to travel by tour group in the morning to My Tho and Ben Tre. Ill jump off the bus at the second city and stay with Ken at the Oasis. He has info on transit by boat to Tra Vinh. Meanwhile Kim recommends the tour rather than a regular bus bc ill get to take a short ride along canals or something. I just hope there's no visits to coconut farms for ice cream. We are not visiting the Cho Chi [sp.] Tunnels. 

VN pic Standing beneath an awning 082413

The median has small versions of the sort of French signs that read arret or do not pass. That might be wrong translation or spelling but the signs in this instance brought French influence to mind.

VN pic Still raining 082313

I like the strip of light in these two photos thought I'd share them both. 

VN pic Then it rained. 082313

A main artery in Quan 3. Duang Cach Mang Thang Tam (I think) 

VN pic Average architecture 082313

There are many average streetscapes. This is one taken randomly I suppose for the composition of what's under the awnings and the sky. I like the windows also. 

VN pic Shrine like 082313

There's beauty in the placement of tools. The broom leans up against a tree. The tree has peculiar growth - odd formed bumps and large thistles. These scenes harken to scenes of homeless shrines where a person would return to regularly and therefore maintain some simple obscured planted pot or stack of rocks with some plastic flowers. To the left of this shot is the street and between tree and traffic is a vendor's cart peddling bottles of sweet juices like Fanta. A moto stopped to buy one as I passed by. Depicting the use of tools interests me. 

VN pic And then she smiled 082413

VN pic Occupational Safety and Health 082313

Note the crooked sign. Saigon