Hello dear readers, and welcome back.
Sorry about the lack of writing on Vietnam, I am just taking a little break and trying to spend less time on my devices.
That being said, Vietnam is amazing. The food is great, the scenery is ridiculous, but the best, are the Vietnamese people. They are absolutely warm, nice and welcoming.
And gents, if you have a thing for legs, thin waists, long black hair and ridiculously beautiful smiles, it is a feast for the eyes here.
But no sex before marriage, so don't get any funny ideas m'kay?
I promise I will talk about Vietnam in more details soon, but now I must be that guy, the one who writes a travel guide.
I have traveled 9 months in South-East Asia, seen 5 different countries. I have walked, cycled, bussed, motorbiked and boated my way around. I have not been mugged nor pick-pocketed, and only sustained minor scratches as injuries.
Also, because I'm spending lots of time on a motorbike these days, my mind wanders, and today the brain thought about a travel guide.
Unfortunately, the people who will read this are usually not the ones who should be reading this. Like when you post an article about your profession on Facebook, hoping someone will "get you" more... only your co-workers will read it, not your targeted audience of friends who treat waiters like shit, for instance.
(I don't want to use rules, so these are suggestions only)
The most important, IMHO:
Don't be arrogant.
(That's why the people that should be reading this aren't. They probably think they are the illest and don't need suggestions)
Yes, don't be arrogant. Stay humble. You will understand as you read on.
The dorm is not your house.
You've been partying in Hanoi for a week. The dorm stinks. There's a pile of clothes in the corner. It's yours: bingo! You're an asshole. Maybe you have a messy bedroom at home, and that's fine. Now's the time for mutual respect, however. Nobody wants to walk 20 minutes with 13 kg on their backs after a 16-hour train ride just to get to sleep somewhere that reminds them of a gym locker room.
Your freedom ends where someone else's begins.
(Arrogance)
You did not grow up in this country.
Yes, it looks chaotic. No, we don't know why we're waiting for an hour inside the bus in 40c weather and they won't turn on the A/C. Yes, it's annoying and even insulting to be scammed, to have to haggle, to pay 4 times what the locals pay. But things are different here, and we have no clue, no right to expect things to work the way we are used to back home. If you're not ready for the mindfuck that's coming, stay home. Our brains are probably patterned differently, being exposed to such different lifestyles. Don't lose your shit over the little lady that doesn't understand your embarrassing mime for sunscreen, your movements mean nothing to her.
(Arrogance)
Keep smiling, no matter what.
I have tattoos. On my arms, on my legs. I have been told numerous times that here, they are reserved for gangster, so people might be worried when they see me. But I am absolutely convinced that just because I smile a lot, people are still drawn to me. Even when being scammed or in a heated argument about the fact that I was misled an hour out of town, or when I'm mimicking shaving my head because I'm shopping for a razor, I still smile. The other party never feels threatened or ridiculed and when an agreement is reached, you have made a new friend. Yelling and waving your arms around rarely works.
When in doubt, watch a local.
Uncertain about what part of that meat you're supposed to eat? Ask. A little uncomfortable on the motorbike? Follow someone. Don't make it up as you go out try to emulate what you've seen in the movies, you might just end up offending sometimes.
On riding a motorbike.
You are not an expert. As a matter of fact, you don't know shiiiit. Even if you own a bike back home. Actually, especially if you own a bike at home. The rules that you follow are unheard of here. Here's what I have learned in the last week:
There's no left and right lane for each direction. The side of the street is a kind of buffer zone, where old people walk, kids cycle back from school, people eat snacks, motorists merge from side streets or simply text, dogs sleep, chicken roam, cows and water buffalos pass the time, and sometimes goats too. It's better to stay near the middle of the road and move to your right only when you hear a truck honking or see one coming.
Honking doesn't mean "Suck a bag of dicks" like it does at home. Here, you honk in a tight curve to warn unseen oncoming traffic of your presence. You honk when you're about to pass someone, especially if they are about to make a turn. You honk when coming from a side street.
Respect the road. Signs will warn you of heavy curves (but not all the time). There are also signs that announce villages and towns, it's a very good idea to slow down. If you see cow dung, there's usually a few of them around the corner, sometimes sitting right in your path. Be aware of your surroundings.
I made a list of dangers, in progressive order, for fun.
Bugs.
Cracks.
Holes.
Water.
Gravel.
Sand.
People.
Other tourists.
Dogs.
Chicken.
Cows.
Curves.
Trucks.
It's not much of a travel guide, just some pointers, hoping it will save someone a trip to the hospital, or make somebody laugh. The most important thing of course, is to keep an open mind about everything and everyone.
And sometimes, you just need to say "Fuck it, why not".
Peace
Showing posts with label tourist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tourist. Show all posts
Wednesday, 5 November 2014
Thursday, 23 October 2014
Beijing markets, night train to Pingyao
23/09/14
After a nice day spent wandering around the Beijing weekend market laid out in a huge open area covered by a giant roof, under which are stalls are thrown together in long lines offering every kind of goods. The first end of the market seems to deal more in bracelets and necklaces, huge and ridiculously long, sold directly on a carpet thrown on the floor. People are haggling while smoking cigarettes, squatting comfortably inches from the floor. Again, like every place in China, there are almost no western tourists.
After a few rows of these the stalls change into huge piles of what looks like infinitely precious china - porcelain - all arranged neatly, waiting for a bidder. There are way less people in these rows and the stall owners are playing games on their phones or catching a quick nap on a tiny chair, head laid back, mouth wide open.
Following this rising trend, the last stalls are small rectangular affairs, more high than wide and my personal favorites: they deal in folk paintings of tigers or rice fields, mountainous landscapes or huge characters of Chinese alphabet, an awesome display of calligraphy.
When I even just ask to look at a tiny necklace of a Buddha sculpted in jade I am rudely waved off by an aged Chinese woman, her eyes closed to emphasize the gesture.
When you reach the outskirts of this mass (mess?) of people you run into these old, small stone buildings that look like something directly out of a Kung-Fu movie. The jewelers occupy these squat houses.
I soon realize that behind those buildings there is another, smaller market where they sell books, old vinyls and even propaganda art. I think about getting a booklet of fragile paper full of drawings against Japanese soldiers. I only know they are Japanese because of the flag insignia they are wearing - they are drawn resembling dogs or rats, stabbing farmers or common folk with bayonets! I know my friend Angus would go nuts for it but I'm afraid to destroy it if I take it with me on my travels. I settle on a classic small Chairman Mao red book written in french, from 1966. Easier to carry.
That night, in my little room consisting of a rock-hard double bed, a tiny desk and a toiler/shower, I read about leaving Beijing.
From the tiny bathroom window seeps in sounds from the street below. The incessant honking that was breaking the silence of day is replaced by chatter, laughs, spitting and burping as people eat their meals on tiny plastic furniture laid out in front of the restaurants. Classic Chinese music (it's exactly what you're picturing) provides a soundtrack to this social life buzz.
I am a little nervous as I read online that apparently it is nigh impossible to get a seat on a train on the same day. I set my alarm for 6 am and try to relax, reading a book in bed while the street noise slowly dissolves and all that is left is the man in the next room snoring peacefully.
After a short 3-hour night (time difference, a ridiculously hard bed and an even harder snorer team up to keep me awake) I take a cold shower to wake up, pack my bags and make my way to the train station.
I get there fairly easily - the subway system is efficient and there are plenty of directions in English - and I all but stop dead in my tracks, gazing at the scene unfolding in front of me.
First of all, the train station is intimidating. Huge, with no English signs at first glance.
Second, there's hundreds of humans moving about like ants working around their fortress. A policeman with machine gun, all dressed in bad ass black, is standing on a podium like a statue.
Not too far from him, kneeling on the hard ground, a lady of about 70 years is begging. I notice that she is not wearing a shirt... but you cannot see her breasts. They are completely engulfed by giant tumors flowering out of her chest. Several people are eyeing me down and pointing at my tattoos without shame.
After a few minutes of aimless walking around with my 15 kilos on my back I finally find the ticket office.
Judging from the giant light sign displaying trains, departure times, seat availability and prices on the far wall, there's a few seats left for the sleeper train that I need. Several minutes later and I have a spot thanks to the fact that there is one window at the ticket booth reserved for English speakers. The train leaves at 5 pm and it's not even 10 am yet so I find the place labeled "Baggage Let" and drop off my temporary home. The man at the booth tries to joke with me in his language and ends his sentence making a gun with his hands and pretending to shoot me.
We both laugh at the awkwardness that ensues.
A quick look at my map, there's still time to squeeze in a last sight! Temple of Summer it is.
Perched on top of a stony hill, overlooking a big lake crowded with small boats, sits a temple built right in the middle of jagged rocks. The climb is quick and easy and the view well worth it. During my walk I try some street food, this type of Pogo... a sausage wrapped in a gauffre, on a stick. Delicious!
Walking back from the Temple of Summer (it was, as you may have guessed, the summer residence of the emperor in ole days) I try more street food that I have been shying away from. All great, all cheap. I try this giant spring roll that turns out is packed tight with rice. I also get 2 types of pancakes, folder onto each other several times to become compact little squares packed with vegetable goodies. I feel that my grace period of adaptation is coming to an end: no more expensive hotels or fancy food or falling for scams, I tell myself!
That night, as a kind of confirmation, I climb into my hard mattress, 3rd bunk from the floor on a rocky sleeper train. There's small handles you can unfold from the wall to help you climb up since it's 7-feet high. I am the only whithey in the wagon. I keep waking up all night, afraid to miss my stop. I am scheduled to arrive at 5 am and I set my alarm for 4:30 but all the announcements are in Chinese and they have a very different way to pronounce city names.
At 4 am however, I am woken up by a train officer, this lady in blue uniform armed with a flashlight aimed directly in my face. When I first got on the train she came to take my ticket and exchange it for a small color card, big like a business card. She is now handing back the ticket to me as I return the color-coded card, I guess it's their little system to make sure people get off at the right place. She tells me to get ready with gestures. 40 minutes later and I arrive in Pingyao.
It's 5 am, it's pitch black, and it's cold.
After a nice day spent wandering around the Beijing weekend market laid out in a huge open area covered by a giant roof, under which are stalls are thrown together in long lines offering every kind of goods. The first end of the market seems to deal more in bracelets and necklaces, huge and ridiculously long, sold directly on a carpet thrown on the floor. People are haggling while smoking cigarettes, squatting comfortably inches from the floor. Again, like every place in China, there are almost no western tourists.
After a few rows of these the stalls change into huge piles of what looks like infinitely precious china - porcelain - all arranged neatly, waiting for a bidder. There are way less people in these rows and the stall owners are playing games on their phones or catching a quick nap on a tiny chair, head laid back, mouth wide open.
Following this rising trend, the last stalls are small rectangular affairs, more high than wide and my personal favorites: they deal in folk paintings of tigers or rice fields, mountainous landscapes or huge characters of Chinese alphabet, an awesome display of calligraphy.
When I even just ask to look at a tiny necklace of a Buddha sculpted in jade I am rudely waved off by an aged Chinese woman, her eyes closed to emphasize the gesture.
When you reach the outskirts of this mass (mess?) of people you run into these old, small stone buildings that look like something directly out of a Kung-Fu movie. The jewelers occupy these squat houses.
I soon realize that behind those buildings there is another, smaller market where they sell books, old vinyls and even propaganda art. I think about getting a booklet of fragile paper full of drawings against Japanese soldiers. I only know they are Japanese because of the flag insignia they are wearing - they are drawn resembling dogs or rats, stabbing farmers or common folk with bayonets! I know my friend Angus would go nuts for it but I'm afraid to destroy it if I take it with me on my travels. I settle on a classic small Chairman Mao red book written in french, from 1966. Easier to carry.
That night, in my little room consisting of a rock-hard double bed, a tiny desk and a toiler/shower, I read about leaving Beijing.
From the tiny bathroom window seeps in sounds from the street below. The incessant honking that was breaking the silence of day is replaced by chatter, laughs, spitting and burping as people eat their meals on tiny plastic furniture laid out in front of the restaurants. Classic Chinese music (it's exactly what you're picturing) provides a soundtrack to this social life buzz.
I am a little nervous as I read online that apparently it is nigh impossible to get a seat on a train on the same day. I set my alarm for 6 am and try to relax, reading a book in bed while the street noise slowly dissolves and all that is left is the man in the next room snoring peacefully.
After a short 3-hour night (time difference, a ridiculously hard bed and an even harder snorer team up to keep me awake) I take a cold shower to wake up, pack my bags and make my way to the train station.
I get there fairly easily - the subway system is efficient and there are plenty of directions in English - and I all but stop dead in my tracks, gazing at the scene unfolding in front of me.
First of all, the train station is intimidating. Huge, with no English signs at first glance.
Second, there's hundreds of humans moving about like ants working around their fortress. A policeman with machine gun, all dressed in bad ass black, is standing on a podium like a statue.
Not too far from him, kneeling on the hard ground, a lady of about 70 years is begging. I notice that she is not wearing a shirt... but you cannot see her breasts. They are completely engulfed by giant tumors flowering out of her chest. Several people are eyeing me down and pointing at my tattoos without shame.
After a few minutes of aimless walking around with my 15 kilos on my back I finally find the ticket office.
Judging from the giant light sign displaying trains, departure times, seat availability and prices on the far wall, there's a few seats left for the sleeper train that I need. Several minutes later and I have a spot thanks to the fact that there is one window at the ticket booth reserved for English speakers. The train leaves at 5 pm and it's not even 10 am yet so I find the place labeled "Baggage Let" and drop off my temporary home. The man at the booth tries to joke with me in his language and ends his sentence making a gun with his hands and pretending to shoot me.
We both laugh at the awkwardness that ensues.
A quick look at my map, there's still time to squeeze in a last sight! Temple of Summer it is.
Perched on top of a stony hill, overlooking a big lake crowded with small boats, sits a temple built right in the middle of jagged rocks. The climb is quick and easy and the view well worth it. During my walk I try some street food, this type of Pogo... a sausage wrapped in a gauffre, on a stick. Delicious!
Walking back from the Temple of Summer (it was, as you may have guessed, the summer residence of the emperor in ole days) I try more street food that I have been shying away from. All great, all cheap. I try this giant spring roll that turns out is packed tight with rice. I also get 2 types of pancakes, folder onto each other several times to become compact little squares packed with vegetable goodies. I feel that my grace period of adaptation is coming to an end: no more expensive hotels or fancy food or falling for scams, I tell myself!
That night, as a kind of confirmation, I climb into my hard mattress, 3rd bunk from the floor on a rocky sleeper train. There's small handles you can unfold from the wall to help you climb up since it's 7-feet high. I am the only whithey in the wagon. I keep waking up all night, afraid to miss my stop. I am scheduled to arrive at 5 am and I set my alarm for 4:30 but all the announcements are in Chinese and they have a very different way to pronounce city names.
At 4 am however, I am woken up by a train officer, this lady in blue uniform armed with a flashlight aimed directly in my face. When I first got on the train she came to take my ticket and exchange it for a small color card, big like a business card. She is now handing back the ticket to me as I return the color-coded card, I guess it's their little system to make sure people get off at the right place. She tells me to get ready with gestures. 40 minutes later and I arrive in Pingyao.
It's 5 am, it's pitch black, and it's cold.
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