Hue, the Nguyen dynasty capital

Hue was the capital of the Nguyen dynasty that ruled Vietnam from 1802 until 1945. The complex of monuments in Hue from the Nguyen dynasty and before are now a UNESCO world heritage site. Built in 1687, Phu Xuan, a citadel city, highlights the Hue sites. The outer walls of the citadel are 2.5 kilometers each and a moat surrounds the walls.

Ngo Mon gate is the primary entrance in the imperial enclosure, which is a citadel within a citadel. The gate faces a plaza where the tallest flagpole in Vietnam flew the country's communist colors.

The emperor was the only person allowed to enter Ngo Mon gate and from its second level, he would present himself during important public occasions.

The architecture of the imperial enclosure was unlike any we have seen previously. The yellow tiled roofs with decorative circular endcaps were gorgeous.

Ceramic-tiled dragons adorned the center or edges of roofs (perhaps the source of inspiration for Spain's Antoni Gaudi).

Well manicured gardens could be found throughout the grounds.

Building interiors contained pillars and were decorated using red and gold, colors I associate more with Chinese decor.

The most stunning artifacts on the grounds were massive ironcast urns with detailed engravings.

The site is currently undergoing a major restoration project that is about 50 percent complete. The main gate, palace, and one temple complex are completely restored while other temples and residences are undergoing restoration or are in ruins. The site will be incredible at the project's completion.

Hue was the location of the bloodiest Tet Offensive battles. The Viet Cong fooled American command into concentrating its forces in Khe Sanh, another town in central Vietnam, and the VC captured Hue. They held the city for nearly a month and carried out a deathly plan to destroy uncooperative citizens. Over 2,500 government officials, monks, priests, and intellectuals were killed during this time. Eventually, American military command retook the city and massive bombing and fighting battered the citadel. Americans were successful but only after more than 10,000 people died, most of them civilians.

One of the things we can thank the Nguyen dynasty for is the culinary adventure in Hue. There are many delicacies specific to the city thanks to the fussy eater, Emperor Tu Duc. Laura and I went the whole nine yards and splurged for a late lunch at Y Thao Garden. The restaurant serves an eight course Imperial cuisine meal with all of the elaborate decoration included. Spring roll decorated on formed peacock,

vegetable soup,

steamed shrimp,

Hue pancake (YUMMY!),

mixed fig salad,

fried fish with tomato sauce (ECCKK!), mixed steamed lotus rice,

and green bean cake formed fruit.

Those Nguyen emperors knew how to do it right!

Being further North than our previous stops, Hue is in its rainy season in contrast to Dalat and Ho Chi Minh City, which are in their dry season. It rained all day for nearly all three days we were there. After being stuck in the bottom of our backpacks for months, our raincoats finally had a use, not that we were particularly thrilled about it. One day, we rented bicycles to visit the Royal Tomb of Minh Mang about 12 kilometers from the city. We rode through drizzling rain and deep puddles when a woman on a motorbike pulled up alongside Laura. She started an innocent conversation asking about us and eventually inviting us to her home for tea. We were a bit hesitant, but we felt compelled to accept the friendly invitation. At her home, she shared some Vietnamese tea and told us her story. She was a local farmer and mother of two teenage children. She had learned English from the tourists on the riverboat tours to the royal tombs around her town. After the tea, she offered to take Laura on her motorbike to the tomb while I followed them. She mentioned she just wanted to practice English with us. This was great since we weren't sure how to find the tomb in the first place. We accepted the offer and she led us to the tomb one kilometer away. At the tomb entrance, she wasn't allowed in. This was odd. She obviously knew she wouldn't be able to get in. Why would she wait one hour for us to visit the tomb just to practice English? Something was up. The tomb had beautiful architecture similar to that of Hue's imperial enclosure,

but our minds were completely lost on what this woman was up to. After much discussion, we felt it best to cut ties with her ASAP, or we'd get ourselves deep into something bad. She had offered to lead us to another royal tomb, but once we rejoined her outside of the tomb, we asked her to take us back to her home where Laura's bike was left. The bike was still there and we thanked her for her generosity. Then, just before we left on our bikes, she asked for a book for her children. A book? This didn't seem so bad. We searched our backpacks but neither of us were carrying our reading books.

"Sorry, we don't have our books."

"Well, I just want English-Vietnamese dictionary for my children."

"Oh, we don't have one of those."

"Maybe you give me money for book... for my children."

So, her ploy was revealed. At her home, we had never seen any indication of children or a husband. There were two rooms and only one room that had one double bed. Was everybody sleeping in that one bed? We've seen worse in Southeast Asia but not from people cruising around on nice Honda motorbikes. After she asked us for 200,000 dong for the dictionary, we had told her we had had enough and that she obviously was not a friend of ours. We've been duped occasionally on these sob stories and this was just another attempt at our wallets. It is frustrating to be seen as a walking dollar bill and unfortunately, once one person has treated you this way, you are guarded with everybody. This feeling has surely made us miss out on some truly unique experiences with honest locals. That's why getting off the beaten tourist trail is refreshing. You can let down your guard because there aren't enough tourists for touts to survive. Some may judge us to be too harsh in a situation like this but from these months of traveling, we've developed a strong contempt for behavior like that of this woman. They often ruin what would be a wonderful, adventurous day.

We are off to the once-great seaport of Hoi An for Vietnamese tailoring at its finest.

Now, a break from the travel blog to discuss market bargaining. From every small town to every large city, there is a market. It is typically a conglomeration of stalls under a solid roof that sell everything from motorbike parts to fruits and vegetables. It is like one-stop shopping at Super Target except not a single item in the entire market has a labeled price. To get the price, you must ask the stall operator. Once you've shown interest in a product, it is bagged and ready for the taking before one even knows the price. Then, if he or she can indentify you as foreign (I don't disguise well as Asian), you can expect a price at least double, usually triple or quadruple, the actual local price. From one kilo of mangos to a marble chess set, you must get your bargaining shoes on. This can get terribly tiring and you're at a tremendous disadvantage not knowing the average price of anything. Sometimes, you walk away proud to have gotten something at half the originally offered price only to find out later from another traveler that they got the same thing for half of your payed price. We've found the best approach is to come up with the fair price in your head, offer much lower, and slowly come up but don't exceed your price. Often, the vendor will refuse you, but once you take steps to leave the stall, they chase after you to accept your offer. Then, the question you must ignore in your head is, "How much did I overpay?" This question will torture you. At the end of a tiring day of haggling for souvenirs, I stopped at a roadside vendor for a 1.5L bottle of the provider of life on Earth, water. The standard price in Vietnam for this bottle is 5,000 dong; it is one of the few items where price is posted outside shops, probably to get customers in the door. The vendor I visited insisted on 10,000 dong for the water; I couldn't believe I was having to bargain for water! Not until I walked away from her stand did she finally accept my maximum offer of 5,000 dong. So, if you end up with a souvenir from me, realize there's a lot of headache, mental torture, and dickering behind that object.

Off the Beaten Tourist Trail...

In the previous post, I described our harrowing journey to Quy Nhon. Upon finding a place to stay, we walked the beautiful beachfront of the town where the wind was blowing fiercely inland and the ocean waves were massive. After an entire day in buses, it felt fantastic to stretch our legs at such a beautiful stop. We eventually worked our way towards the town center, and on our way, we saw numerous locals partying at a restaurant. Our stomachs grumbled so we decided to see what the locals were excited about. We walked into the full restaurant and a young lady ran to collect a folded table with two plastic chairs. As we sat, she handed us an untranslated menu. Laura and I scanned the menu with our "Lonely Planet Vietnam Food Conversation Essentials" open wide. Having spent some days in Ho Chi Minh City and Dalat, we had picked up basics like fried noodles, soup, and rice; the issue was what they were coming with. We placed an order or two fried noodles with squid/shrimp and one rice porridge with shrimp. The great thing about the entire experience was the anxiety of the family running the restaurant. As soon as we walked in, they all watched our every move. The slightest eye contact and smile from us sparked exciting conversation amongst themselves. After our order, the son, about 10 years old, had the unfortunate luck to walk in while we were there. The mother ever so proudly dragged his butt over to our table and repeatedly demanded something from him. Seeing the poor, tortured soul suffer, I decided to initiate simpled conversation with the child. A simple "Hello, how are you?" calmed him and raised his confidence to carry on with "What is your name?" and "How old are you?". The mother beamed with joy at hearing her child converse with farang and once he was done, he was grilled thoroughly regarding the information he had received. That evening, we enjoyed a tremendous meal with beers for five dollars and all the while, we felt like rockstars. The family monitored our every move and reaction. Other clientele visited our table to shake our hands or test their minimal English skills. This was the start of "off the beaten tourist trail".

The previous evening sparked an early morning start. We walked the amazing two kilometer stretch of coconut grove parks along municipal beach.

We had missed numerous details on our evening walk such as a hilltop statue giving China the finger, hundreds of fishing boats anchored in the ocean, and locals fishing nets waiting to be dropped.

The park ended with a war memorial plaza.

Uncle Ho's victory is used relentlessly to gain government support.

As we moved from the beachfront to the town center, we passed an elementary school that had just rang the recess bell. Children aged 5 to 10 bursted through a thin door into the streets. Screaming, yelling, and running, their wild energy was a joy to watch until suddenly, one of them saw us. "Hello...Hello...Hello..." The wave of children took a sudden turn towards us and before we could save our lives from the munchkin mob, we were engulfed by the wave. We shook hands, responded to "Hellos" and "What's your name?", and questioned them in English. Everything went cordially with the munchkin mod until I* suggested to Laura that we pull the camera from the backpack to take some photographs. As soon as she tried to open her pack, the mob moved in for the attack. Surely hoping to quell their sugar addiction, the mob separated Laura and I as she was forced against a wall and I was pushed further down the sidewalk. Laura quickly realized she needed to change plans; she closed the pack and began to distract the mob with English questions. Her plan worked perfectly and after a few hundred more handshakes and questions, we were able to free ourselves as the mob dispersed to their homes.

Looking for peace and quiet, we decided to visit the unique Tam An Buddhist pagoda in Quy Nhon's center. The pagoda is run completely by female monks. Vietnam's Buddhism is different from its neighboring countries; female monk orders either don't exist or are very rare in Thailand, Laos, and Cambodia. As we entered the pagoda, a lobby had two large tables set with food and dinnerware. At least twenty people moved about the lobby until they noticed the two farang. For a split second, movement in the lobby came to an abrupt halt as everybody's eyes met ours. Feeling like we had intruded on an important occasion, I pointed upstairs with an inquisitive look. A woman I had made eye contact with nodded yes and as we walked towards the stairway, a man shockingly asked "What would you like to visit?" We explained that we had just come to visit and photograph the pagoda. He translated to the woman who had nodded yes and proceeded to lead us on a tour of the pagoda. The man was from Singapore, spoke English well, and was visiting his uncle who was a worshiper at the pagoda. In a few moments, the worshipers were joining together for their biweekly luncheon in the lobby; the luncheon is what had brought the 24 year old Singaporean to the pagoda. Feeling a bit awkward, we visited briefly and returned to the lobby to leave. As we put our shoes back on, the worshipers invited us to join them for their luncheon. We ended up gorging ourselves on a vegetarian feast at the male worshipers' table.

Via our Singaporean friend, we were able to ask questions about Quy Nhon life, temple life, and Buddhism. Each of them came to us with questions or to touch us or just to make eye contact and smile. It was extremely inviting! Like all good hosts, they forced us to try all the foods and made sure our plates were always full. At times, new foods were placed on our plates just to see how we'd handle the food with chopsticks; often, it was a daunting task but it made for great laughs. At the completion of the luncheon, we were invited back to photograph the worship ceremony at 2 pm. We left elated from the experience.

As we walked through Quy Nhon, everybody wanted to greet us. It almost felt as though we were being challenged as to how many times we could say "Hello." That's why one encounter with a local as we returned to the pagoda was strange. I made eye contact with the stoic-faced man from about five meters away. Our stares locked and feeling uncomfortable, I grinned and nodded as if to say hello. After that, the man briskly pointed at me, then waved as if to say "GO AWAY", all with a stern look of anger on his face. We passed by each other without further incident. Perhaps a former North Vietnamese soldier or the son of one?

Back at Tam An pagoda, we weren't greeted by anybody until we arrived to the worship room.

We were in full traveler gear: camera around neck, 1.5L water bottle in hand, backpacks, etc. We planned to photograph the worship for some minutes and then leave them in peace. The plan changed as once at the doorway, a woman took Laura by the hand, removed her backpack and camera, and had her stand on a bamboo mat; I followed suit. At least twenty others were already on their mats chanting while a speaker blasted the chant of the ceremony leader. For the next hour and a half, we stood, bowed, chanted, meditated, etc. in full participation of a Buddhist worship session. The worship ended with a group march to another worship room and was our only opportunity for a photograph.

Afterwards, we thanked everyone profusely and they did the same to us. It is a highlight of this trip.

After the worship, our English was once again well-exercised on the Quy Nhon streets.

"Hello, How are you?"

"Hello. What is your name?"

Giggles and hysterical laughter often followed our responses. We made our way to two 12th century Cham towers in a small garden on the outskirts of town. While we examined the tower architecture, a 50 to 60 year old man came in on his scooter and approached us. In heavily accented English, he introduced himself. He had come to the US as a South Vietnamese war refugee and had made his home in Tacoma, Washington. He proudly showed us his drivers license and later, he lifted his pant leg thigh high to reveal a scar from a bullet he received during the Vietnam war (known in Vietnam as the "American Aggresion War"). He had served in the South Vietnamese army fighting at the side of American GIs. He asked, "Today, I watch news and see Obama, Clinton, and McCain. Who do you like?"

"We both like Obama very much."

"US President very important. Obama very young. McCain lot of experience and former soldier. I like American GI, very good men. Believe in freedom. I support war in Vietnam, Gulf war, Iraq war... good for freedom. McCain good because former soldier, understand war."

This was an interesting approach to 2008's election. I believe this man was thinking about how hard life became in Vietnam after Americans abandoned the war and before the communist regime opened the country to foreigners. He seemed concerned that the same would happen in Iraq if US soldiers were pulled out; to him, McCain was the leader that wouldn't let that happen again. It was a differing opinion than my own but a fresh perspective on the approaching election. Better than the opinions offered by the FOX and CNN talking heads...

This next story requires a bit of backstory. When I was in high school, the two nextdoor neighbors, my brother, and myself would often play basketball in my parents' driveway. At times, a curious 8-year old neighborhood youngster named Alfred would come by to annoy us. Just his presence and girly voice were enough to rile my brother and on this day, Alfred was taunting my brother from a distance, yelling "You can't hit me. You can't hit me." After missing with the basketball, my brother resorted to the driveway rocks and hurled one in Alfred's direction. DIRECT HIT!!! Alfred fell stunned, then sprinted home crying for mommy. Shocked by the fact my brother actually hit him from 20 meters away, we all went into hiding in my parents' home. Surely, Alfred's parents would be out soon to confront us. Nothing more ever came of the events but I knew karma had to come into play someday. We were returning to the guesthouse along the Quy Nhon beachfront. We passed by a group of teenagers who were playfully pushing around an 8 year old boy. The boy was tormenting another youngster and the teenagers would chase him away. As we approached, the boy yelled "Hello!" We responded with a smile on our faces. He then stuck his hand out, yelled something in Vietnamese, and followed us with sorrowful eyes. My guess was a request for candy or money. We ignored him and walked on. He shouted a rude comment at us as we walked away. We were twenty or more meters away when something smashed the back of my skull. After the painful impact, I glimpsed the culprit, a rolling rock on the sidewalk. Laura and I stopped and looked back where the entire group was facing the opposite direction. Surely, the 8 year old bastard had hurled the rock and amazingly, he actually hit me in the back of the head. Karma has a strange way of working things out; shouldn't that have happened to my brother?

The following day we woke at 6 AM to cover the 400+ km distance to Hue. For 15,000 dong/person, we got a moto ride to the bus station. When we arrived, a 14-passenger van was exiting the station and one of its operators ran to us.

"Where you go? Where you go?"

"Quong Ngai...Quong Ngai..."

Before we could even react, he had our backpacks in the back of the van. One lesson we've learned in the third world is that you must agree to a price before getting into any form of transport. I went to the back of the moving van and attempted to retrieve our packs when the operator blocked me at the door.

"How much? How much?"

"You get in. You get in."

"No. How much?"

I forced my hand by him to a backpack and pulled. The operator didn't know how to say any numbers so he pointed his index finger to indicate a one (100,000 dong). That was an extortionate fee! I put up five fingers (50,000 dong). He shook his head No and showed me seven fingers. This time I yanked hard on the backpack and pulled it to the door; I was determined to get the packs and find out the posted price at the station. Then, to my surprise, he said "OK. OK." and showed me five fingers. We got in and we were off.

Never once did Laura or I pull out our reading books. This wasn't due to them being uninteresting; it was due to the insane driving methods of our driver. Only in my confrontation with a Yosemite black bear did I feel so close to death. We passed everything on the road and picked up anybody who needed a ride. The van was packed like an African dala-dala, 24 people for a 14-person van. Along the way, we passed an accident where a bus had smashed into an old US military jeep. The bus was off the road and had bashed in a concrete wall of a house. The military jeep's front end was crushed and a lifeless human body was crushed between the driver's seat and the steering wheel. After getting through the accident onlookers, the driver was unaffected by the accident and raced insanely northward. The Quong Ngai disembarkment point was a refreshing place to have lived to see.

Quong Ngai was the jumping off point to see the Son My Memorial (aka Memorial for the My Lai massacre). The memorial is often visited via tours from the tourist cities; however, we had gotten our driver to drop us off since he was going through. Upon exiting the bus, the motobike wolves engulfed us; none of them spoke a work of English. We easily got them to understand we wanted to go to My Lai; the problem was the price. Our guidebook had suggested the price for a ride to and from the memorial should not exceed 50,000 dong. Unfortunately, once a price is published in Lonely Planet, inflation hits it immediately so most won't agree to the book price. They raised their index finger indicating 1. This seemed to mean 100,000 dong but was it for both of us and was it to and from the memorial. We came up with a signal that everyone could understand meaning to go and come back so that was clear. The price quoted, however, was for one person, not for two. So, the initial price was double the guidebook price; this was definitely not a fair price. We walked away hoping they would budge, but they didn't. We decided to grab a bite at a local restaurant. The motobike wolves kept their watchful eyes on us from a distance, and I could see they were interested in what we were going to do. When we got up to leave the restaurant, two wolves rode over and re-quoted the same price. We had had enough of these guys and were heading to the town center where the price would hopefully be more fair. This was a pain because we had heavy backpacks plus we still wanted to catch another bus to Hue as soon as possible. As we walked, finally, one of the wolves signaled 7... we negotiated further and although I thought he would budge to 60,000, we accepted his deal of 70,000 dong/person. We were off to the Son My Memorial.

The memorial isn't a popular tourist stop, but I was compelled as an American to pay my respects here. On March 16, 1968, American soldiers invaded the village of Tinh Khe (aka Son My or My Lai). Their orders were to shoot to kill anything that moved. The result was 504 villagers killed, most of them elderly, women, and children. Nothing was spared as even pregnant women and livestock were killed. The massacre was photographed by an American and his photographs along with others fill the museum where the story is told. A plaque listing the victims is at the entrance of the museum.

The most moving section of the memorial is the central statue of a woman holding her dead child with lifeless villagers at her feet.

The rest of the memorial is left over to foundation with placards describing what family lived there and the names and ages of the household members that died that day.

One of the foundations had been set up as to how it looked before the massacre

and another was shown as after.

American GIs burned all the homes. The military bulldozed the site in hopes of covering up evidence. The story wasn't all bad for Americans. One soldier shot himself in the foot to avoid participating. One helicopter pilot saved some villagers being chased by GIs. Eventually, the ground commander of the military operation was court martialed and became the figurehead of blame for My Lai. Needless to say, this wasn't a site I felt proud to be an American.

We asked the motobike wolves to drop us off at the bus station and they ended up taking us to the roadside where we were dropped off. Guess this is the bus station. As buses stopped, we shouted "Hue" to the operators and within 10 minutes, we were discussing price once again, using fingers of course. This bus was an empty 14-person van and the operator wouldn't budge from a 70,000 dong/person price. We were determined to get a 60,000 dong/person price and Laura wasn't too keen on getting in another van deathtrap. No deal! As we waited, a young lady who spoke English told us the bus price to Hue was indeed 70,000 dong/person so we should have taken the van. It didn't matter as a large passenger bus arrived and using fingers, we arrived at 50,000 dong/person. We knew it was possible!

We sat at the back of the well-used bus where the operator eventually came back to collect the money. He showed us seven fingers; we showed five. We finally determined to relieve ourselves of the headache and pay 70,000 dong/person without much of a fight. So much for the bargain!

We relaxed in the back of the bus even though this driver was driving as insanely as the previous one. At least it was a big vehicle. Everything was fine until a loud metal clank and the bus swerved into the opposing lane. Instead of swerving back and causing the bus to rock uncontrollably, the driver swerved off the opposite side of the road onto a walking path. We came to a stop on the side of the road facing opposing traffic. What the hell happened? The operators got out of the bus with wrenches and bamboo mats and after ten minutes, we were rolling again. This happened once again during our trip and it seemed to have something to do with the brakes. It seemed that maybe brake pads on one side of the bus would stop working. If the driver broke hard, something on the right side of the bus would break causing the brakes not to work on that side. I'm not sure but it threw us briefly out of control each time. To have survived this journey, God must be on our side.

We reached a point where it got rainy and of course, the operator came back to tell us this was our dropoff point. There, via hand motions and numbers, the operator seemed to indicate that Hue was not right there and we would need to take motorbikes. WHAT?!? Would this day ever end? He described a fork in the road where Hue was one way and the bus route was the other. Normally, one would argue they had paid to be taken to Hue, but with the language barrier, what was the point? We looked at each other with disappointment and then, as we exited the bus, we let it pass. Let the adventure continue!

We were let off at a small restaurant stand where we started negotiating with local men to get to Hue. The prices seemed extortionate, 200,000+ dong/person, and we weren't sure how far the town was. Negotiations weren't going well and there wasn't much else to choose from. We discussed walking in the rain towards Hue thinking a bus would surely pass by on the road. Suddenly, like an angel from heaven, a woman who spoke decent English came up to us to help. She explained that Hue was 24 km away. She interpreted negotiations with the motorbike drivers and we arrived at a 60,000 dong/person price. We blazed away on the motorbikes in the pouring rain towards Hue. Both drivers went so fast, noone ever passed us and this was in a strong rainstorm. We survived all those harrowing busrides to die on the final motorbike ride to Hue. At one point, crossing traffic entered our lane and my motorbike skidded a good 20 meters before stopping. When we finally set foot on the sidewalks of Hue, we had reached the tourist trail once again. The adrenaline rush was cut off and we crashed at a nearby hotel.

Had we taken a tourist bus from Nha Trang to Hue, we would have missed everything written in this post. We would have been charged 128,000 dong/person to make the journey. Instead, we payed:

Two people to Nha Trang bus station: 30,000 dong

14-person van for two to Quy Nhon: 130,000 dong

Motorides to Quy Nhon from bus station: 36,000 dong

Motorides to bus station from Quy Nhon: 30,000 dong

14-person van for two to Quong Ngai: 100,000 dong

Motorides to and from Son My memorial: 140,000 dong

Bus for two to outskirts of Hue: 140,000 dong

Motorides to Hue city: 120,000 dong

Total travel expense from Nha Trang to Hue: 726,000 dong

Two days traveling off the Vietnamese tourist trail: PRICELESS!

Sorry, no break from the travel blog today... my hands hurt!

Dalat, a mountain getaway

We stopped in Ho Chi Minh City for a couple days but knowing we'd be returning, we moved on to Dalat. Dalat is about 1,500 meters above sea level in the central highlands of Vietnam. For the first time in months, we had to dig deep into the backpacks to pull out our fleece jackets; we were dealing with a frigid wind chill of 50 degrees fahrenheit! The altitude, pine forests, and cool weather make Dalat very different from the rest of Vietnam. Fruits such as avocados and strawberries and flowers such as orchids and hydrangeas are major business in town. The biggest business is tourism as Dalat has become the Vietnamese people's honeymoon central. In the center of town is Xuon Huong lake. A boardwalk surrounds the lake along with numerous attractions such as a flower garden, golf course, and parks.

At one side of the lake is central market where warm clothing, dried fruits, rare equator fruits, and flowers were in deep contrast to all of the previously visited markets in Southeast Asia.

On the opposite side of the lake is the Dalat Flower Gardens.

The gardens are well-maintained and home to orchids, hydrangeas, fuchsias, and much more.

Numerous greenhouses took advantage of the garden's affect and sold gorgeous potted flowers and plants from the garden's hillside.

Within the town, it was obvious that the architecture was heavily influenced by the French. The radio station tower was shaped as the Eiffel Tower.

Nearly every hilltop was laden with French villas. One hilltop that was not was home to a pine grove surrounding Bao Dai's summer palace.

Bao Dai was the last emperor of the Nguyen dynasty in Vietnam and actually had three palaces in the Dalat area. The beautiful palace has been maintained as it was since Bao Dai left the country.

Down the road from Bao Dai's palace is Hang Nga Crazy House.

The house was designed by the daughter of the second president of the Vietnamese socialist republic; a tribute to the president is in the guesthouse lobby. The crazy house moniker is warranted as stairways lead in all directions, fake cobwebs dangle above the garden, and guestrooms each have a nature theme (e.g., kangaroo room, eagles nest, ant hill, etc.).

The smooth, wavy walls seem to have been influenced by Antoni Gaudi.

Maybe the most striking attraction of Dalat was its clean streets. Trash cans were placed throughout the town and the sidewalks, lakeside, and streets were free of aluminum cans and plastic bags. This seems like a simple thing, but it has been difficult to come by in Southeast Asia. Dalat was also spared from war. Southern Vietnamese, Northern Vietnamese, Americans, and French forces agreed to avoid fighting in the pine forests of the area so it was completely spared during the Vietnam war.

We rented a scooter to tour attractions outside the town. The view of the outskirts of town showed where all the beautiful flowers were coming from.

The central highlands are home to lots of waterfalls and we visited Tiger Falls.

Legend has it that a cave at the top of the falls was once home to a tiger that was wounded by a local hill tribe villager. Now, plaster tiger models are throughout the park at the top of the falls, including one large enough you can crawl inside!

When we left Tiger Falls, it was a steep ascent over a gravel road. Not having a lot of experience on scooters, I shifted to second gear and determined I'd crawl up the hill slowly. This plan nearly succeeded until we reached a very steep hill that our motorbike was puttering up. Guess I'd have to downshift to first. As I did so, my uncoordinated motorbike control came to light. I shifted to first but I kept the bike throttle at its max. Suddenly, the front tire reared up and I was pulling a wheelie! That lasted only a second as the bike went out from under both Laura and I and reared up completely vertical. Laura managed to land on her feet as did I. I held the bike upright as Laura held my shirt so as to prevent me falling down the hill. I couldn't get my hand loose off of the throttle because I needed it to hold up the bike. Eventually, the bike's weight got out of my control and it plummeted into some bushes on the hillside. We bursted into laughter as a Vietnamese crew of three motorbikes passed by staring at the crazy, hysterical farangs with their moto thrown into the bushes. We pulled the moto out and it was unscathed. Laura and I left the scene without even a bruise. We sure were lucky those bushes were there because had they not been, we would be proud owners of a totaled Yamaha Sirius scooter.

Highlighting the honeymooners' trail is the valley of love. This place just gets to a girl's heart.

At the center of the valley is a small lake that is surrounded by objects one can associate with honeymooners: swan pedal boats, horse rides, lakeside love seats, even a replica of Venus of Milo! As we strolled hand-in-hand along the lakeside, a Vietnamese couple was ending their around-the-lake horseback ride. Just before they dismounted, a large USSR military transport truck came charging down the lakeside road (Don't ask me what it was doing in the valley of love. I couldn't make that up if I tried.). The Vietnamese cowboy guide led the horses off road but one of them, thankfully mounted by the male, got startled by the speeding truck. Before the Vietnamese cowboy could react, the horse reared up and threw the male rider to the ground. Something like the motorbike in the previous story but from much higher. After impact, the man was able to roll away from the horse as it reared up a couple more times. I could hardly hold in my laughter as the man got back to his feet with the aid of the apologetic cowboy. Ahh, now that is a honeymoon memory!

After getting burned out by equator heat, eating fried noodles daily, and bartering at Asian markets, Dalat was a refreshing break from Asia. It had the feeling of being in the Swiss Alps with great food to back it up. We travel to Quy Nhon next for a taste of Vietnamese coastal living.

Now, a break from the travel blog to discuss how Laura and I became unwilling accomplices to the escape of a murderer. First, I am compelled to give the reader the indisputable facts of this case, so they may come to their own conclusions. We arrived in Nha Trang from Dalat via a tourist bus. The six hour bus ride went by quickly as I was engulfed in the adventurous prison escapes of Henri Charrier, aka Papillon. From Nha Trang, we wished to travel to Quy Nhon, a small coastal town off of the tourist trail. You see, Vietnam's tourist trail is well-defined; the country has a tourist bus system that stops in the following cities: Ho Chi Minh City, Dalat, Nha Trang, Hoi An, Hue, and Hanoi. The tourist buses are always full of westerners and most don't seem to stray far from this path.

We got to Nha Trang bus station via moto taxi and got really lucky to catch the last bus to Quy Nhon. It's a bit generous to call it a bus; it really was an uber-comfortable fourteen person van. As we exited the bus station, we were two of three passengers. Leaving Nha Trang, we proceeded very slowly along the main highway out of the city. We never exceeded 40km/h and with a 200+ kilometer trip ahead of us, it looked to be a long ride. The non-driving bus operator, whom I will call Thomas, wsa yelling out the window attempting to attract more passengers for the journey. We continued like this for over an hour when of the many vehicles that passed us, one was an ambulance with its lights flashing (no siren). Minutes after the ambulance, a cell phone call came to Thomas. The call didn't seem any different from previous ones he had received until the call was over. A conversation between the driver and Thomas ensued and sunddenly, we were off!

The van, which had been cruising at 40km/h, was now speeding through traffic at 100km/h. Laura put her book down as her eyes widened with concern. I tried to keep my heart from bursting out of my chest as we weaved through passenger buses, big rigs, and scooters. We were traveling at double the average speed of the busiest North-South two-lane highway in Vietnam. I've not seen the Mercedes symbol from a car windshield so closely so many times as I did on this day. I felt like I was watching somebody play a video game in which my life depended on the outcome.

We flew by everything on the road including the ambulance that had passed us earlier. A woman waving from the roadside was finally what stopped us. Finally, a chance to catch my breath. Was this just a passenger pickup? Was the rest of the bus ride going to be like this? Once the bus stopped, the waving woman ran to a crowd of people that sat under a tent in front of a home. Thomas jumped out of the van and followed her. Quickly, a man ran into the van from either the house or the crowd of people. I'm not sure because I was distracted by a mob of people about 25 meters in front of our van along the roadside. Our newest passenger was a 40+ year old Asian man who wore a white French beret, black leather coat, and carried a briefcase. Our van left so quickly that Thomas followed the new passenger into the passenger area and sat next to me.

Our driver proceeded slowly through the roadside mob which had to be the scene of an accident. Laura nor I could see much due to the number of people surrounding the scene. As we passed through the mob, Thomas and the new passenger ducked into the van so as not to be seen by the mob. Once we were past the mob, our driver continued at the suicidal spped we were previously driving at; both men sat up normally. We survived 20 km more when finally, our van slowed to the pace of the rest of traffic. For the rest of the trip, our van proceeded as a normal bus making pickups and dropoffs. Our new passenger was let off at a small village home probably 100+ kilometers from his pickup point.

So, those are the facts. This is the story I fabricated as the events were occurring. I submit that Henri Charriere probably has great influence on my fabricated story.

The passenger was a friend and work colleague of Thomas and our driver. Minutes before our arrival, he was the driver or operator of a van that had a terrible, fatal accident with a motorbike. His fellow van operator was killed or unconcious from the impact; however, he had survived it. Knowing he would face public justice or manslaughter charges, he fled to a nearby home where customers of his lived. They sheltered him as a crowd formed around the accident. Police and ambulances were dispatched to the scene as he made phone calls to co-workers he knew would be traveling North. He finally contacted our van which was the closest Northbound van to the scene of the accident. We had to perform the pickup before police arrived to avoid any governmental encounters. We succeeded and dropped off our passenger at his home where te story was that he had fallen sick in his Southbound bus and the driver dropped him off there to recover.

As for Laura and I, if the police get as far as us, we need to keep the story straight that we just drove by the accident. We don't recall seeing a middle-aged man wearing a white beret and leather jacket with a briefcase. Oh, please god, let me keep the story straight. Don't let the Vietnamese mafia get their hands on me!

Food of Cambodia

Cambodia had a large variety of food. The country is influenced by the Chinese, Indians, and Westerners. Along with Khmer food, these cultural delicacies sometimes get blended together for a unique treat. Khmer restaurants offer similar staples to Laos and Thailand, dishes like fried rice with vegetable. Chinese restaurants offer everything from sweet and sour pork to grilled frogs (the frogs aren't in season so haven't tried them). Indian restaurants offer chicken or vegetable curry, and the curries can be ordered as part of a thali(a set dinner). Western restaurants focus on burgers, pasta, and pizza with an occasional Mexican burrito tossed in. So, what has been unique in Cambodia?

In the Ratanakiri province, we found venison jerky.

The meat was put into the sun to dry from morning until evening. Families will typically buy kilos of the jerky, but we were looking for just a taste. It is a bit difficult to order as an enormous crowd of flies dominate the drying meat. Risking all kinds of diseases, I purchased a few slabs for trial. The taste was gamey and the texture was softer than jerky. My slab could have used more time in the sun. The jerky was flavored with a potent chili sauce which potentially killed off any disease, but fearing the possibility of worms in my stomach, I finished only one venison slab.

Also in Ratanakiri, we found a restaurant serving grilled beef and vegetables. A gas stove topped with a slab of pork or beef grissel was brought to us. Then, we each got a dish of raw meat with a bowl of raw veggies. Rub the melting grissel on the grill and toss on the meat or veggies of your choice.

The Cambodian fondue was a highlight of Southeast Asian cooking. A similar option is a boiling soup and the meat and veggies are boiled in the broth.

Another meal specific to Cambodia was fish paste. It is a mixture of eggs, spices, rice, and prahok.

Prahok is a fermented fish sauce seen in all the Cambodian food markets. It has a horrid scent and a similarly horrid taste (I don't like fish much). Luckily, it is not an ingredient used heavily in any dish; it is just to add a slight flavor. I have really enjoyed Asian food, but fish paste won't be a meal I'll be ordering soon.

Sometimes, we crave foods from home. I most often crave pizza while Laura craves pasta. In Cambodia, even these Western foods come with a twist. One evening in Siem Reap, we treated ourselves to a dinner at Ecstatic Pizza. I ordered a "Happy" pepperoni pizza, and Laura ordered a "Happy" spinach and ham pizza. The keyword that will kill me in a run for public office or in my upcoming job search is "Happy". Acting as oregano seasoning, marijuana is spread over the pizza. The pizza tasted great and the buzz from it was equally incredible.

The snacks in Cambodia are extremely unique. What do you think of when I mention an ice cream sandwich? I bet you don't think of a footlong baguette filled with scoops of ice cream.

The ice cream sandwich was available everywhere and made for a meal in itself.

All the Southeast Asian countries have their banana leaf snacks. Banana with sticky rice is still a favorite in Cambodia. They also had tiny packets of fish wrapped up in a strange edible leaf.

These came spicy or plain and the spicy always surprised me. It was SPICY!!! They are very tasty treats.

If you've read previous posts, you've heard about the duck embryo.

Throughout Cambodia, stalls specialized in duck embryo eggs with a fruit shake; both for around $1. Cambodians flock to these stalls every evening.

Regarding the rarest of the rare, deep-fried spiders are served by the platter in Skuon.

Children of Skuon capture the spiders in the town's surrounding hills. They clip off the spider's teeth to remove the threat of their venom. The spiders remain alive until they hit the frying oil. The delicacy tastes much like the oil it is fried in; the texture is stiff and crunchy. Most locals break off the legs one by one and eat them first. Then, they chew up the head and abdomen where the most meat is.

Cambodia has had the largest variety of fruit. One of the best renewers of energy on hot days is sugarcane juice.

We first had this in Zanzibar, Tanzania and we were happy to find it again. It is easy to identify as large machines grind fresh sugarcane typically with another fruit. In Zanzibar, they grinded it with limes but in Cambodia, it's grinded with oranges. Regardless, the cold, refreshing drink is amazing!

Finally, we first discovered bubble tea in Thailand. It was by accident when I though I ordered a fruit shake from a street vendor. Bubble tea comes in many artificial flavors (blueberry, strawberry, chocolate, etc.) An ovaltine-like powder is blended with ice to form the liquid portion of the tea. What makes bubble tea bubbly are the black pearls that settle to the bottom of the drink.

Using a wide straw, the pearls come shooting into your mouth with each sip. It's like chewing on jelly beans while drinking chocolate milk; what could be better than that? In Cambodia, there are popular teenage restaurants that specialize in bubble tea.

Soon, we are off to Vietnam for more Asian culinary discoveries.

Now, a break from the travel blog to discuss our own tea invention. Since we prefer walking around the cities, we often buy a large bottle of water early in the day. The bottle is lugged around to all the locations that we visit. It is shaken, dropped, and spilled throughout the day. Unfortunately, with the blistering heat of midday, it is also heated. As it is heated and shaken, the water, now tea, picks up the flavor of the plastic container, thus producing our newfound delicacy, plastic tea. It's not very tasty, and if I die from cancer in my future, I'll know how I got it.