Bun Bo Hue

Bun Bo Hue is a noodle soup from the region of Hue, the old imperial capital of Viet Nam. When in Hue with my sisters, we completely forgot to order any Bun Bo Hue from anywhere to eat. We were much too excited by the vegetarian banquet put out before us, and at another restaurant, distracted by the flags that they gave to each table of Viet Kieu. They gave us the Stars and Stripes of the US, before we had even said anything. I looked at it for awhile wonderingly, and then, while the waitress was out of the room, got up and went over to the display of flags and exchanged the Stars and Stripes for the Australian Union Jack and Southern Cross combo. I plonked that flag down on our table , and my sisters affectionately shook their heads at me. Another table watched my progress and then did the same: exchanging their Stars and Strips for the red and white maple leaf affair of the Canadian flag. We all giggled conspiratorially together when the waitress came back and looked from our table, to their table, and then over to the flag table. But she neither frowned nor smiled, so what we had done must have been a neutral act.

It also rained the entire couple of days that we were in Hue, so we did not wander the streets very much; we were chaperoned by our grumpy tour guide from monument, to temple, to imperial palace grounds, to hotel, to market, to restaurant. I found our tour guide extremely difficult to understand: the Hue accent is mellifluous, gentle and musical; the words flow together. I need sharp distinctions in my Viet words to know what is being said. After all, my family speak Viet in sharp ringing tones, like the fishwives they all once were, or were descended from. Initially, I frowned at our tour guide, listening as hard as I could, and then I would look over at my eldest sister, who also looked like she was struggling to understand. If she was struggling, I had no chance. Eventually, I gave up. I wandered away from our guide a number of times to read signs in English, and I don't think she liked that very much. I also had my lovely red raincoat, so the rain was but minor hindrance to my explorations. She did not like the rain, and she would rush us from one shelter under turned up eaves to another, or from the van door to the inside of temple grounds. I wanted to wander and explore the grounds themselves, not merely the inside of buildings. So I did. My sisters tried to tell her to leave me be, but she would try to call me in to listen to her guiding. I told her that I was happy exploring on my own and that I had trouble understanding her because my Vietnamese was very poor. It was easiest for me to surreptitiously tell my sisters that I would see them shortly and wander away, into the rain, where she would not follow.

As we drove away from Hue, shortly after lunch, I cried out, "Oh no! We did not eat Bun Bo Hue in Hue!" My eldest sister said, "We can stop." I replied that I was much too full. Her response? "Eat it in Sai Gon, it will probably be better anyway." And we all chuckled, suspecting this to be true. I was not overly impressed by Hue, but I think that was the fault of our guide, and not of the town, which has much crumbling imperial and colonial granduer to recommend it. Another time, I will visit and I will not be shackled by no grumpy tour guide!

I decided to try to cook Bun Bo Hue recently. So, it being roughly three weeks since the last time I had spoken to my parents, I telephoned my mother. I informed her of my intention to cook Bun Bo Hue and asked her what the ingredients were. I had done a brief internet search to try to locate a recipe, but failed.

I did find some interesting information, however. A number of sites (don't ask, when I google, I open loads of links and then close them again. I only remember the ones that were useful, and sometimes, not even them) referred to Bun Bo Hue as 'spicy pho'. I thought this was odd, and much pleased when I read Wandering Chopsticks' comment that Bun Bo Hue is not pho. I like her comment a lot:-

Mini-rant here. No it is NOT pho. Calling bun bo Hue a variation of pho is like saying fettucine alfredo is a version of spaghetti. Sure it's easy to reference a more popular dish when trying to describe it, but in both cases: different noodles + different flavors = different dishes entirely. OK?

Tangentially, I also found this and this. The first is a recipe from Khmer Krom Recipes for a soup remarkably like Bun Bo Hue, but of Cambodian origin, and the second is an interview with the author of the website, Mylinh Nakry, by another blogger on Cambodian food, Phonmenon. I am probably going to get myself into trouble here. Oh well.

Mylinh Nakry, of Khmer Krom Recipes, says:

Vietnamese people loves this Khmer Krom soup so much that they changed Khmer Krom recipe name to Vietnamese name *Bun bo Hue*, and never gives us any credit which is no surprise to me since they also took our land. On 6-4-1949, French government illegally gave *Kampuchea Krom*( now know as South Vietnam) to Viet Nam. Hue (now know as Central Vietnam)was part of Champa that Khmer Empire was once ruled Champa and most of South East Asia.

She also makes this claim of Bun Rieu and pho, and probably some other dishes as well, except that I don't know; I was looking, and then started to feel a bit silly. I cannot speak to her claim about the origin of Bun Bo Hue, or Bun Rieu, or pho. I do not know enough about the history of food and politics in Viet Nam and Cambodia / Kampuchea. I am prepared to accept that the borders of the region of what is now known as Viet Nam that borders what is now known as Cambodia were porous, and that cultural exchange, including inter-marriage, linguistic exchange and food exchange would have occurred. Perhaps one cuisine influenced another; more likely, the exchange was both ways. I am not prepared to accept that when Kampuchea Krom and Champa existed, one culture and one people and one food type existed and then continued, unchanged, to now, or to 1949. Nor am I prepared to accept that the Vietnamese people who first made Bun Bo Hue appropriated a Khmer Krom dish, and renamed it, in the same way they appropriated the land. It's just not that simple.

Maybe they made something like it. Maybe the Cambodians used a spice, or herb, that the Vietnamese had not before and they thought, "Gosh, that's tasty. Why don't I chuck me some of that into this here soup I be making?" (Although perhaps not in a fake Aussie/Irish brogue.) Probably, the people who lived in the Champa kingdom are the ancestors of the people who live there now and their diaspora. As now, there were some indigenous and some not. But eventually, if you just keep living there, you belong there. Who were they? Cambodian? Viet? It would be fiendishly difficult to disentangle what 'belongs' to one culture / ethnic group or another. And for what? A claim to authenticity? Nationalism? Parochialism? To what end?

I'm very pleased that Mylinh Nakry feels strongly about her cultural / ethnic identity (however she would describe it) and applaud her attempt, via her website, to bring some attention to how Cambodian cuisine has languished in the shadows of its neighbours. But not in this simplistic way, that is so potentially damaging. I also don't condone the hateful, and hate-mongering, and indeed contemptuously ridiculing, comments posted to Phnomenon's site about Mylinh Nakry either. I got myself kind of lost in it. First I was mildly amused, and then outraged, and then, just saddened.

Whatever its origin, it's a delicious dish. And I, because of my ethnic background, know it as Bun Bo Hue.

Back to my story.

When I spoke to my mother, to ask her the ingredients of Bun Bo Hue, she asked me if the local Asian grocery store stocked stock cubes. Perplexed, I said that I thought they did. She told me to find the one for Bun Bo Hue, and to use pork feet instead of beef bones in my stock. I said, "But don't you make it from, you know, lemongrass and chilli and other things?" She replied, "No. I never cooked you Bun Bo Hue. Or if I did, I probably made it from the stock cube. Ask your brother-in-law. He knows how to cook it." I was flummoxed. Had I never had Um-cooked Bun Bo Hue? I wracked my memory, and decided it was probably true. I had eaten Bun Bo Hue with my family, but rarely. More likely, we would have had Bun Rieu (which is on my list of things to work out how to cook). If we wanted to eat Bun Bo Hue, we would ask my sister in law to cook it. After further miscellaneous chit-chat with my mother, I rung off.

I then telephoned my brother in law, to ask him. I did not telephone my sister in law because she is more difficult to track down. After a chat with my sister, and telling her the true reason for why I had called, I spoke to my brother in law. He is the pho cook in the family. He also used to work in restaurants and can roll spring rolls at an alarming speed. We competed once (I'm a mean spring-roll-er myself, from way back) and he won easily; he rolled four for every one of mine. "So you want to cook Bun Bo Hue?" he started. "Yep", said I. "With pork or with beef?" "With beef!" It is, Bun Bo Hue after all (bo means beef). "Okay. Well make sure you have oxtail then. That's the best meat. Nothing from the shoulder, okay?" I made agreeing sounds although I was already going to disobey him. "Next, if you go to the Asian supermarket, you can buy stock cubes. You can get Bun Bo Hue stock cubes." "What?" I burst out. "That's what Um told me to do! I don't want stock cubes. I want the ingredients!" "Oh, okay," he conceded, "I just wanted to make it easier for you."

Stock cubes! I can't believe my family use stock cubes.

And on that note, this post is long enough already. Next post will be the recipe. Promise.

Made in Viet Nam

Today I am wearing all clothes made in Viet Nam (with the exception of underwear, socks and shoes). My t-shirt, which I've decided is fancy enough for work, is a turquoise North Face t-shirt and it has a label "Made in Viet Nam." My suit was tailor made for me in Hoi An.

I and my sisters had a ball getting clothes tailor made for us. The lovely tailor was surprised to discover we were sisters; the three of us are a sample of the different-ness of the girls in my family. Though I am youngest and brought up on nutritious Aussie food (har har), I am also shortest, and darkest, with a mop of unstyled long black hair usually pulled back and away from my face in a pony tail, although wisps escape to pester me and dismay my otherwise tidy appearance. My eldest sister is willowy slender with lustrous black hair cut in a becomingly jagged way. My other traveling sister has quite pale skin and light brown hair, also layer-cut as is the fashion.

I am a bit casual about my appearance, and even more so when traveling. My two sisters are much more coiffed and presented. It took us a couple of hours to get ready in the morning: I showered first and was ready in about 15 minutes: I put on one of the three quick-dry trousers I had packed and whichever t-shirt came to hand. Each of my sisters spent what felt like a lifetime getting ready, while I itched to go exploring. I found myself doing stretches and exercises to kill the time while I listened to the shower, then the hair-dryer, then each of my sisters crossing the other's path back and forth from bed to bathroom.

It was quite a revelation for me. I am separated from my sisters in the family by a brother. Until we were teenagers, I shared a bedroom with my brother. Until my brother got embarrassed by his younger sister hanging around, I spent most of my play-time with him. I briefly shared a bedroom with my sister but she could not stand my untidiness and sleep-talking. One of my elder siblings (I can't remember which) saved her by marrying and moving out: then she and I got our own bedrooms. I was about 12, my sister about 15.

Our travel photos are perfectly illustrative of our differing styles. Like good Viet-Kieu tourists, we took a photo of all of us outside every monument we visited. In most of the photos, I am in exactly the same outfit (especially in Ha Noi, where it was cold, so I am in jeans and the one jumper that I brought with me; and in Hue, where it was raining, so I am in jeans and my red raincoat). Each of my sisters, however, were in different outfits, in different pictures. I trawled the thousands of pictures we three had taken: only rarely are my sisters wearing the same clothes twice. Although, one of my sisters took greatly to an outfit made for her in Hoi An and wore it quite a few times.

When we got to Hoi An, we went hunting for a good tailor. The decision of which tailor was made randomly, I think, and based upon who was nicest to us. The tailor we chose was so nice that her brother drove us to a restaurant for dinner, where I forgot that I was not supposed to give money away and promptly gave some to a young girl who asked and we were then accosted by a whole bunch of kids, one of whom became tearful when I said I had run out of coins (it was true, I had no more coins). The restaurant proprietor shooed the kids away, and my sisters and the proprietor looked at me very disapprovingly. I looked ashamed, and felt a bit silly, and then secretly pleased because I'd fallen for a trick that was written in the Lonely Planet Guide! I'm a sucker like so many other people, which makes me kinda in a book!

We spent about three hours at the tailors, getting measured up and choosing fabrics. I was a great disappointment to the tailor. I wanted three trouser suits in conservative fabrics (black pinstripe, navy-ish and beige-ish) with conservative cuts. I wanted one matching conservative dress and one matching conservative, slightly above-the-knee skirt.

The tailor kept trying to persuade me towards a more fashionable cut, a more revealing skirt, or another item that was funky and young. In the end, she chose to cut my clothes rather tightly, and slit the dress either side so that it was halfway up my thighs. I asked her to let out one of the trousers, and had every intention of asking her to let out the others as well, but her brother rushed my trousers to their factory out of town, and rushed it back again in minutes. I felt bad so I just took the other trousers as they were. I'm yet to wear the dress, although the suits are worn in random rotation every day of the working week.

Que Nha

This incomplete bridge is one of the reasons my family left Viet Nam. My father's land, and my father's family's land, was taken by the government for reasons that included the building of this bridge. Twenty something years on, and this is the bridge. It sticks out no more than 10 metres from the river bank - indeed it is not even joined to the river bank, just a random structure of concrete and steel, jutting out of the Mekong, without purpose and abandoned. It makes a joke of our leaving for a new life.


These neat rows of well-tended vegetable garden is where my family home was.


I am pleased that my father's home is now a thriving garden of watermelon, herbs and 'rau cai' (a medley term for an assortment of green vegetables necessary for all meals). Ba is an excellent gardener, and it is appropriate that the home he built should birth meals for his younger brother's family.

***

This is my uncle's home, which is directly behind the garden above. It is made of concrete and corrugated iron; inside it is tiled and cool. It is a rich man's home for the region.

On one side of my uncle's house lives another aunt - older than him, but younger than my father - one the other side is another uncle. Their houses are built of palm and patted clay.


My father is sitting in the left corner - the guest's place where he sits and is served tea, coffee and food, where brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces and nephews come by to meet him. One of my female cousins leans against the door, taking a break from her daily work, or calling a child home. A cousin's husband is carrying around his son, stooping to pick up something. A visiting uncle perches on the banister, chatting with my father; and the uncle whose house it is, is gathering the tea things - to make more tea, so the decade of catching up is lubricated well into the late afternoon.

***

This is one of my younger male cousins, resting from his work. He is perched on the fishing net that delineates where this place is. It is an unamed place, except for the number of the fishing net (9). This is Hang Day Chin - fishing bay no. 9 - where my family hail from.

Hoi An

Hoi An is a beautiful town.



We sat in this cafe staring out as the river rose and rose even though the rain had stopped hours ago.



And then men on hondas, with women clutching their waists, whizzed past. I wondered how high the water would come. My answer was - so high that we had to exit the cafe through the back door. The poor street seller who had his wares laid out on the footpath - had to pack up and move elsewhere.

Anonynmity in Hoi An

This is one of my favourite photos of me. Mostly because I don't really look like that. And it's such a well composed picture, don't you think?


Taken at the delightful Mango Cafe in Hoi An town. There are chyrsanthemums in the foreground, the window is painted in bright blue, a palm tree and Hoi An's main river just outside.

I had a splitting headache but loved the town. My sisters wanted to do more shopping but I wanted to watch the world go by. I'm just not into haggling when a little woodpecker is jabbering away behind my right ear.

I sat outside for a bit and chatted to three male tourists at the opposite table. The Accountant took this photo while I wasn't paying any attention.

I smile a lot - happens when you grow up and your mother is telling you always to smile. The three men were nice enough and I told them a little of my history. They were a ragtag bunch of travellers - little in common except that they were on the same tour. The youngest was Greek and had been in Australia a few months prior, the two older were from the UK and America. They were intrigued by the fact that my sisters and I spoke a mish-mash of English and Vietnamese.

After I told them we had been Viet refugees and were now Australians, the American delighted in wanting to know if I was going to visit My Lai.

I was short with my response. No, I said. Why not? He said.

I stared at him.

I don't think it is appropriate, I said primly.

He stared at me. It's your history, he said.

I looked at him quizzically, my ire growing. I could not really articulate why I did not want to see, and that it had never occurred to me to visit, My Lai. I had been shocked by his asking. Although an important part of the American War, and an iconic turning point in the rest of the world's understanding of who was really being hurt in that war, I could not bring myself to contemplate visiting a place where so much horror and agony had occurred. I can't imagine making it a place to visit, on a tour of a country. Just like, though it is not part of my culture's pain, I would never vist Auschwitz.

It was difficult enough to contemplate reconciling myself to the Viet Nam of today, let alone the Viet Nam of 1976. And what about my history beyond the war that got Viet Nam to the notice of the rest of the world? Just because the Viet Nam / American war and the My Lai massacre might be part of this man's guilt and understanding of Viet Nam - it wasn't mine. I didn't quite know, and don't know still, what is my understanding of Viet Nam. (My guilt is more explicable.) But there's more to it than the War.

I don't recall my answer after that. Some muttered politeness and we left.

Beautiful Bonsais and Gargantuan Gates

Bonsais at Thien Mu pagoda, Hue:-



One day, when I am old person with two much time on my hands, my own home and control of the weather (ie no drought), I will have bonsais. And they will be as mesmerising as these - even if it is only because I am competitive. Throughout Viet Nam's temples and pagodas were numerous delicately crafted bonsais (large and small). They are such meditative plants.

***

Something that is not meditative are these incredibly ornate gates in the imperial citadel. The splotch is a rain-drop - not me being a terrible photographer.



If only I were still an ancient historian - I could turn my hand to archaeology and assist the Vietnamese to restore their tourist attractions and historical monuments. Some gates were well-kept.

Others were not:-




There were also ancient paintings hailing from the 14th century that were just happily on display, close enough to be touched by all and sundry (except for the sundry short people) and photographed by everyone - except me. It was my ethical stance - my camera flash was not going to contribute to the further deterioration of the imperial paintings. It is not worship of material items - merely recognition of historical value. In the same way that we should tread softly in rainforests and areas that retain their pre-human beauty, so too should we preserve the precious endeavours of our forebears.

Of course, it all comes down to money - the tourists bring in the bucks but they also contribute to the destruction of the things they have come to see. Vicious, vicious cycle.

Communist Propaganda

I think that I shall let these speak for themselves. Why get myself into more trouble?

Temple of Literature

The imposing entrance gates to Viet Nam's first university:-


As you enter, this vista of peacefulness greets you:-


The accountant's reflection in the honour roll:-


I loved the Temple of Literature. I wished I was on my own and I would have sat myself down on the inviting grass, opened up whatever book I had at the time and whiled the rest of the day in the complex.

I would also have loved to have been a student of the Temple of Literature. I can picture myself, nose buried in book, mind half composing poetry and hoping to become a public servant (har har). Oh, except that I would have to have been a man. No, thank you!

Blue Dragon Children's Foundation

This post is in honour of this worthy site. Work be warned: I have an organisation to donate our next casual Friday coffers to.

I met these gorgeous kids at Thien Mu pagoda in Hue. The rain steadily drizzled and most of the tourists were huddled under the eaves of one of the pagodas. I did not go in. I left my sisters and the tour guide and wandered around the serene grounds of the pagoda where beautiful bonsais were artfully displayed. I was warmly protected from the rain in my bright red raincoat.

These children - the eldest's name was Hieu - fell about laughing whenever I opened my mouth. In English they said:"Where you from?" and in Viet, I responded: "nguoi Viet o Uc" (I am a Vietnamese person living in Australia). Oh, how they laughed. First, a nervous giggle. But then I said: "What are your names?" (in Viet) and they started to double up. The eldest responded, nudging the littlest at the same time who was hopping from foot to foot. When I asked if they lived near the temple, they almost fell into the pond laughing at me. We shared some sugar cane lollies I had in my bag, I took this photograph and they laughed as I and my red raincoat continued to meander about the pagoda grounds. I have never been so funny in my life.

Ha Noi Traffic

Welcome to Ha Noi! Land of communist propaganda posters and young Vietnamese on Hondas!



I loved the street sellers - especially early in the morning. Rows of women with baskets full of roses, marigolds and carnations lined up alongside Ho Hoan Kiem (lake) to sell their wares. Each one had only one colour and type of flower in her basket. If I lived in Ha Noi, I would wake every morning to buy flowers.



And some Ha Noi folk are just plain crazy.


The best part, however, is crossing the street.

It is an unusal sight to see Ha Noi traffic stopped at a stop light. Most drive blissfully through, horns honking away. Only outside the Presidential Palace and the Parliament building are the traffic lights obeyed - and that's probably because there are guards/police loitering nearby.

So crossing the street requires a hardy constitution. The old people do it best - by taking their time and stopping for no one. One takes a deep breath and places an exploratory foot onto the road, withdrawing quickly as another Honda goes past. But waiting for a break in the traffic is futile. One must step onto the road when at least there is enough room for a body and begin a steady and slow saunter across the road. Do not - I repeat do not - stop suddenly for anything other than a bus honking its horn urgently. The Hondas flow around you as you edge across the road and you must have faith in their ability to see you and dodge you. You do not dodge them.

I perversely enjoyed crossing the road in Ha Noi, horrifying my sisters when I crossed diagonally across a five way intersection because a gallery over there caught my eye. There must be a kernel of crossing crazy Viet traffic in my blood, because I have always been a somewhat absent minded road crosser and, though dangerous in Australia, am rather suited to Vietnamese city traffic. With your mind on other things (like the brilliant red oil painting you can only just glean the corner of or what you will have for dinner that night) the incessant horn-honking morphs into a pleasant, chatty background noise; everyone is saying "Hi!", "Hey There!", "Nice Coat", rather than "Get out of my way!" or "Idiot! Trying to kill yourself?"

Ha Long Bay

The sky, a deep blue sea

A golden boat,

wind-driven, lists and tilts -

unmoored, it sinks.

And coldly, time flows on.

~ Tran Gia Thoai

A poem actually about a falling leaf, but I hijack it here to capture the ephemeral beauty of visiting Ha Long Bay. These pictures don't really do Ha Long any justice.

We were so lucky - it was just my sisters and I (and our tour guide and the boat crew) on our Halong boat. Such a delight to have the entire boat to ourselves, and hence, the entire Bay too. Miles, acres, gallons of water and grey overcast sky were ours alone to meditate on and enjoy. It was the most thoroughly peaceful experience, siting at the end of the boat and just widely arcing the bay, watching the sea eagles dip and soar overhead, and marvelling at the limestone cliffs in all directions.


I loved the looming limestone cliffs, wild and untrammelled by tourists' feet, who must admire from afar. I took these because I hope to head back one day and explore the cliffs more intimately and directly - to climb all over them with the backdrop of the deep blue-green sea and the overwhelming serenity of the place.



I watched this woman and her child - or grandchild - row almost a kilometre at a measured pace. I could not help but covet the peacefulness of the journey, although I do not actually know for what reason they were rowing.

The child looks to me like he is being berated, head hung in shame.


I wish to live in this house - I came home and told my partner we were moving to Ha Long.

I am sure that there will be satellite facilities and my workplace will be more than happy to accomodate me working from home, from the China Sea. And then I wake up from my dream. I am not a very strong swimmer, and nor is my partner, and living in one of these houses is clearly asking for trouble!

But still, I have long dreamed of my own home.

I used to be an insomniac and my trick to get myself to fall asleep was to picture a home; I visualise and decorate it thoroughly. I usually fall asleep by the time I get into the backyard. I still use this trick when I am having trouble sleeping. The house I imagine changes; sometimes I am so familiar with the home that I merely have to start and the rest of it fills itself in for me.

The houses have changed as I and my desires change. When I was in high school and desperately wanted more privacy than my large family could give, I visualised a large warehouse, the edges filled with book-shelves from floor to ceiling (a recurring decoration in all my homes), and my bedroom and bathroom in a loft, in one corner of the high-ceiling warehouse. I don't recall installing a kitchen. Currently, the home I picture is environmentally sound - using it's natural surrounds (it's built on the side of a cliff) for light, heating and cooling. It has solar power, and water tanks. The kitchen is large, full of shelves for my many herbs and spices, and hanging space for my cooking utensils. This is my current phase in life - attempting to live more consciously of my impact on my environment.

Ha Long is a 360 degree experience, inside and out.

Take them off!

This sign made me laugh and laugh and laugh. Lucky for me, I was wearing long trousers so I didn't have to walk into the pagoda pant-less. Nevertheless, many people stood and stared at me laughing at the sign. I was quite a tourist attraction - I'm surprised no one took a photograph of me. No one else laughed. Well, that's not entirely true. When I explained the sign to my sister (whom I've taken to calling the Accountant) what was so hysterically hilarious about the sign, she also joined me in a stomach enhancing chuckle.

I am sure the good folk at One Pillar Pagoda did not intend the meaning I took. But if you are vsiting Ha Noi, heed my advice: don't wear shorts - you may be asked to take them off!



This is not One Pillar Pagoda. One Pillar Pagoda has many many pictures of it, and when I was there it was surrounded by tourists (me & my two sisters being more culprits) and the beauty of the place was lost. This was a pagoda we visited at almost dawn one morning - Chua Tran Quoc. (Chua is the Viet word for pagoda, so this is Tran Quoc pagoda) The pagoda is on the edge of a Ho Tay ( West lake). To maximise the little time we had in Ha Noi, we got up at the wee hours - the first morning to see all the folks doing Tai Chi and other exercises beside Hoan Kiem lake. Our last morning in Ha Noi we rushed out to Ho Tay as my eldest sister (the Vegetarian) wanted to go to a pagoda that she could actually pray at. The Vegetarian prayed while the Accountant and I wandered around the grounds - empty of all people except for a young woman ineffectually sweeping the path.

Viet Nam Airlines

Viet Nam airlines were not the terrible airline that most people suggested to me they were. We flew internally twice and both times the flights were delayed with little explanation - but a delay is not a hiccup that makes me consider an airline to be avoided at all costs. Efficiency, though worthwhile, is not the highest value that I can attribute to airlines.

I'm undecided about what is. It probably depends upon the reason I am flying. The ability to stay up, without too much rocking about, seems like a pretty good start. Cleanliness and friendly staff are also up there.

But I was amused by the food.

My sister took these photos, with her eensy teensy camera. I don't think 'amused' described my sister's reaction to the food. Sure, there was a level of humour. But the way she picked up this poor roll, doing it's best to be appetising, turned it over and put it down again could be better described as disdain. I ate the roll. It filled a roll-sized hole in my belly.

What I did not find amusing was the mid-teen caucasian North American girl who said to her father, loudly and in disgust - "Tell them to move their feet. They stink." Her father, obligingly, did not tell 'them' anything. He called a hostess over and told her to tell them to move their feet. The offending feet belonged to locals travelling. I wondered whether it was just too much for the mid-teen to turn around and attempt to communicate that she did not want the feet on her arm-rest. I'm sure there are appropriate gestures. She could have even indicated that the smell was not to her liking - surely pinching the nose is a universal gesture? Who knows, the locals may have spoken English.

Coffee

Coffee in Viet Nam was fantastic. It very rarely looked like this:

Really, it only looked like ludicrously dark coffee in a pristine white cup in the hotels.

In street cafes, a metal filter sits atop an itsy bitsy glass half filled with sugar and your highly caffeinated tar drips steadily down. As soon as you were ready, you discarded the filter with aplomb and downed your coffee in one (or two) gulps. I take my coffee strong, black and without any sugar. Unfortunately for me, I kept forgetting to ask for coffee without sugar and felt restrained by politeness to return my coffees once I got them. I had enough nous to ask for "ca phe phim" to ensure I did not get awful instant stuff but only once managed to ask for coffee with no sugar.

Ice coffee is also better in Viet Nam because there's no milk, ice cream or cream! Heaven for we lactose reluctant types. Ice coffee is "ca phe da den" - which is literally coffee ice black. Again, you have to ask for no sugar which most people interpret as "a little sugar". My Viet language skills are wanting but I thought I go "no sugar" correct and polite; and yet the waiter responded with "a bit of sugar?" I was flabberghasted. My politeness overwhelmed so I just smiled and nodded.

I did not take a photo of ca phe phim. And I did not buy a Vietnamese filter either.

Looks like that's two more reasons to return.