Chasing Amy-Lou

Somewhere between Ho Chi Minh and Hoi An, Vietnam:

The sleeper train to Da Nang wasn’t half as bad as I imagined it to be. Ok, so it wasn’t the ritz; the mattress was hard and the bed clothes a little musty; and because my backpack had taken up half the space of the bed, there was little room to move about, scratch, or stretch; but I didn’t mind so much. The cost of the journey had set me back around AUD40 or GBP20, and for 18 hours on an overnight train, passing through miles and miles of countryside and getting to spend time in close proximity with Vietnamese people, I did not begrudge it one cent. Plus, I still had an hour by local bus from Da Nang to Hoi An to take, and had no clue what to expect from that, so the relative comfort and space I had on the train was much appreciated.

Sleep itself was sporadic. My lower back is not in the best shape of its life and as I’m a fidgeter by nature, I found it quite difficult not being able to toss and turn and spray my legs and arms out in varying directions. In saying that though, I probably attempted sleep at around 8pm and between then and 5am must’ve got at least six hours decent rest. Not ideal but definitely better than nothing, and certainly better than the four hours I’d been getting on previous nights.

Morning peered in through the window of my cabin and I woke to find the train trundling through rolling hills and rice paddies; and could see farmers sowing their crops in the new light of day, some using water buffalo to aid them; the houses an array of colour and texture; the roads dusty and long; the fields green for as far as the eye could see; women on bicycles carrying who knows what; and trees, millions of trees. It was a magnificent sight to behold and I admired and watched through awe-inspired eyes, praying, hoping and wishing, that this kind of living, this simplistic apparent ideal, that it should be something to preserve, forever.

A young Vietnamese lady came over to talk to me as I was busy taking photos from the train window. She was an English teacher to high school kids in a place just north of Ho Chi Minh and wanted to speak English with me and find out what I was doing, as apparently, I was the only westerner on this train. Being ignorant to the fact I obviously stood out a lot, I engaged her in conversation while other passengers looked on in bemusement. We exchanged pleasantries and her 12 year old son soon joined us, his English good, and we spoke about football and school.

In the back of my mind I remained streetwise and cautious, keeping an eye on my belongings – not because I didn’t feel safe or I didn’t trust my fellow passengers, it’s because of the tales you hear about pickpockets and thieves; the ones that make you paranoid and keep you on edge and make you aware of your surroundings in situations like this. I didn’t stray too far from the cabin and kept my wits about me, just in case, but all I wanted to do was trust these people – be in their company and trust that nothing suspicious would happen.

The train rolled on and it was almost time to disembark; but not before I had a cheeky selfie with the little boy from the family in my cabin. I even got a little peck on the cheek too. Meeting such wonderful people truly filled me with joy, love and hope for mankind.

At Da Nang I heaved my backpack from the train and set about trying to find the bus stop. I’d been using a website called seat61.com for all my SE Asia needs and so far it hadn’t done me a bad turn. And maps.me had also been very handy (save for the ‘pervert incident’). Using the advice from the website and using maps.me to navigate I located the stop with no trouble at all and before I knew it I was boarding a rickety old bus full of locals.

Again, I was the only European looking person aboard. What tickled me most about this journey was not the absolute disregard for safety (the driver honking his horn every two seconds and people jumping on and off while the bus was still in motion) but the way in which the locals trusted the conductor. Let me explain – at various stops along the route, the doors would open, a package would be thrown on (or in one case, a full roll of carpet), a hasty exchange of words would occur between the person who was getting rid of the package and the conductor, and off the bus would go again. Now, I’m not sure whether a bus that delivers parcels (and carpets) is the norm in these parts of the world – and I’m not sure whether the conductor even knew what she was doing – but, being Vietnam, it sure as hell felt it.

Arriving at my homestay (I’d foregone the hostelling for a few days in favour of relaxation and a typical Vietnamese family experience) sweaty and tired, I was greeted by two mischievous children, a smiling grandpa with one leg, and a genuinely attentive mother who checked me in and made me feel welcome and relaxed. The place was a breath of fresh air – stunning, secluded, quiet and homely – just what I wanted. So relaxing in fact that I didn’t even really want to venture into Hoi An itself. I could’ve easily hung about and played with the two cute dogs, and had fun teasing the kids about the poor choice of football shirts they were wearing (Liverpool and Real Madrid for your information; I told them they needed to get a Man City one. They just giggled).

After a quick power nap though I showered and took a bicycle to Hoi An centre. The New Town was to be as expected – busy. Clothes shops and coffee shops and tailors dotted along every street; and it was teaming with scooters too, but nowhere near as busy as Ho Chi Minh.

And the Old Town? Well, I’d heard so many good things about Hoi An’s heritage area; how the buildings were neatly preserved, and the narrow streets cute and quaint in their nature; how the river was teaming with tiny boats not unlike those in Suzhou near Shanghai. How at night, the lanterns that draped between buildings, adorning the city’s sky line, would light up and create a perfectly romantic atmosphere. And it was all there, in brilliant technicolor.

The problem? So. Many. Tourists. And there was a general hum about the place that not only screamed ‘tourism’ but screamed ‘typical tourist hotspot’ too. There were the fake leather shops and the shops selling knock off Nikes. There were the happy hour bars and westernised restaurants that attracted those seeking home comforts. And then there were the touts: “You want boat ride? You want happy hour? You want lantern? Boat ride, boat ride, boat ride?” They were everywhere. And they were relentless.

I’d been looking forward to Hoi An ever so much – especially the beach – but something about the facade of it all really put me off. I felt like I could’ve been in central Benidorm and if I’d wanted could’ve been drinking pints of Guinness in a stereotypical Irish bar within seconds; or somewhere in Turkey that catered to foreigners wanting steak and schnitzel. It was not what I was expecting at all. And definitely not what I wanted.

Saying that though, it was early evening and I assumed a lot more people came out at that time in order to take a look at the lanterns and browse the night markets. I vowed not to write it off and made plans to visit the beach and come back to the town another day in the hope it would be slightly quieter. For the moment though, I tried to enjoy a (bad) glass of wine and a couple of beers, and then made my way back to my homestay, a little tipsy, with no lights on my bike, and praying I wouldn’t get knocked out by an oncoming scooter.