Colonel Mustard visits imperial Ha Noi

I can't tell if this post is a love song to my dear friend Tobias (alias: Colonel Mustard) or to what appears to be the official colour of the Vietnamese state.

Either way, it is embarrassing. 

Looking dapper in the dapple

My favourite cafe is near my house on Yen Hoa (a lane which winds around grand old Tay Ho/ lake). The gentleman who runs it is pictured below, in the fatigues, with his vast and impressive stereo collection, from which he plays the greatest hits of the 20s, 30s and 40s. 

We also had the good fortune to luncheon with David McCaskey (I want to say 'esquire') at one of the best (and, incidentally, well known) pho places in Hanoi. Pho is usually served for breakfast and dinner, and not lunch, but no one tells us what to do. Also, David is a man who literally wears sock garters on a normal office day. Inspirational. 

Before Tobias arrived in Hanoi I described him to my local friends as 'Colonel Mustard' - given his dual qualities of wearing a lot of mustard coloured clothing and his general Colonel-like demeanor (this really came through on our rural island adventure, featured next). In any case, on this particular day he was wearing my favourite of his shirts so I made him stand in front of various government buildings/ the Presidential Palace. The end.

The Ha My TT Limited

by night

and by day

After our aforementioned dream train trip, we arrived to our beauteous guest house on the coast near Hoi An. That sentence hides how frustrating the experience was, given we had potentially the world's most incompetent taxi driver (bless him), but the end result is what I've chosen to focus on here. Hoi An. It's one of those towns that backpackers swarm to, it's on every Vietnam itinerary (along with Halong bay) and it's recently been the centre of controversy, as the local council has begun charging people entry into the old quarter (this happened the week after Elizabeth and I visited, so our timing was charmed).

Some people are put off by 'over touristed' places, and I do understand that. I've certainly gone through phases like that and I've enjoyed places in a particularly special way because I was the only guest there. I know how my own loneliness seems to magnify when I'm surrounded by other tourists who look like me, come from the same country, or type of country, as me - and who I have next to nothing in common in. However, the old 'sometimes something is a cliché because it's so good' theory applies very strongly to Hoi An. Yes, there are tourists. Yes, you might get ripped off. But you'll also be wandering around the streets pictured above, you'll be eating some of the most famous Vietnamese cuisine and you'll be surrounded by products you want to buy (anti-consumerist tendencies notwithstanding); tailored clothing, handmade leather bags and straw hats to name a few. 

with my new straw hat

dream house!

oh, a whole street of them

background and foreground = super beautiful

That's all good and well. You've read one of the many write ups on the special 'Disneyland' magic and ease of Hoi An. Hell, you've probably been to Hoi An. Where you almost definitely haven't been is Ha My TT Guesthouse. Ha My TT Guesthouse is a singular place I will remember, and hopefully return to, for the remainder of my days. Hien, the host, is a jocular Vietnamese man who speaks fluent French and almost no English. He lived in France for ten years and has awfully gallic mannerisms and style. Or maybe he's seen a few Wes Anderson films. 

The ocean is wild and large, and the sand isn't white. Fishermen go out in the morning in these dinky little boats shaped like a spherical bowl; they tip quite dramatically side to side in the waves, but always seem to find their equilibrium. During the hot part of the day the workers rest and the boats are left on the sand, upside down, drying out. 

looking back at Ha My TT

On the final morning, Hien played his usual game of solitaire and took the only picture Elizabeth and I have of us both together. We took a taxi to Danang airport, where Elizabeth had a flight at 9:15am to Ho Chi Minh City (en route to Bangkok, London, Glasgow) and I had a flight, also at 9:15am, back home to Hanoi. We drank some Vietnamese coffee, with condensed milk, and hugged very fast before Elizabeth darted off to her gate (almost late). 

Train travel for Romantics

“You think of travelers as bold, but our guilty secret is that travel is one of the laziest ways on earth of passing the time. Travel is not merely the business of being bone-idle, but also an elaborate bumming evasion, allowing us to call attention to ourselves with our conspicuous absence while we intrude upon other people’s privacy — being actively offensive as fugitive freeloaders. The traveler is the greediest kind of romantic voyeur, and in some well-hidden part of the traveler’s personality is an unpickable knot of vanity, presumption, and mythomania bordering on the pathological. This is why a traveler’s worst nightmare is not the secret police or the witch doctors or malaria, but rather the prospect of meeting another traveler."  - Paul Theroux 

Five years ago I took the train from Hanoi to Saigon with two American friends. We each turned up prepared with copious booze and cigarettes, each assuming that the other two would be sensible and bring snacks and hydration. Nope. The train had no restaurant car, so we spent the next two days buying all the chicken and sticky rice, whenever an old lady came by selling it, and feeling like survivalist vagabonds. 

I don't know if I'm older or if things have changed, but this time felt a lot less vagabond and a lot more luxe. Liz and I had the entire cabin to ourselves for the larger part of the 15-hour journey, and we spent it reading, drawing, peering out the window and eating nut mix. I read aloud from A Handful of Dust by Evelyn Waugh and we drank several cups of coffee with sweetened condensed milk. 

Some creatures say HI 

Cuc Phuong: Kathmandu Explorers

Not too far from Hanoi (about three hours by bus) is the oldest national park in Vietnam - it was established in 1962 and it is adorable. As a New Zealander, it isn't what I think of when I think 'national park' (I think: wild, untamed, a place where I need skills and supplies), but it is truly a lovely spot and it's hyper-accessibility doesn't usually impede on the natural beauty loafing about for all to see. Refer to the swan boat on stilts above, for example. 

There are paved roads, which you can motorbike or cycle or walk on (Elizabeth and I opted for the latter two options, but I imagine moto-ing around would be bliss too), there is copious accommodation at various places and there is a restaurant serving vegetarian dishes (not many, but still - imagine asking for tofu and garlic fried spinach in a national park restaurant in New Zealand? Just kidding, there isn't a restaurant and all restaurants that do exist within a 100km radius of a park entrance would give you a pineapple and cheese sandwich and send you on your merry way). There are a million times a million mosquitos, and I didn't bring 1. a pair of long trousers, or 2. repellant. I actually have photographs of my legs where it looks like I have some medieval version of the pox, but I have chosen not to put them on my blog; my self-respect and pride have, for once, impeded me. 

Picnic - gouda, cherry tomatoes, gherkins and tea

Tea in the Jungle

Warning: I'm going to keep talking about New Zealand. I'm not homesick or anything, but National Parks just bring that in me. 

So, in New Zealand, there is a famous outdoor supplies brand called Kathmandu. When I was a teenager, I thought it was the best shop ever and would drag my mother there come birthdays and Christmases. She's German, so she had no problem forking out for goose down sleeping bags, sensible socks and other such highly practical, survivalist items. I liked the idea of being the kind of lady who would use such things (now I am such a lady, but I take perverse pride in fashioning my own survival kits from cheap hunting gear shops instead). 

In any case, after we cycled a full seven kilometres and looked at one famous 'Cave of the Prehistoric Man' (actually, Cave of the Man of 700 Years Ago, so: not very prehistoric guys) we sat down for our luxe picnic and tea and made a list of all the things we would not achieve on this trip. Here is a sample:

* Go into the interior of the park 

* Cycle further than 14 kilometres 

* Go see the langurs at the wildlife rescue centre

* Kayak on the lake 

* Go to the other cave

* Go to this extremely old tree 

In any case, those are all options for you should you wish to visit Cuc Phuong National Parks and, by all accounts, you'd have a lovely time. Us, we mostly like drinking tea and reading 1920s British satire aloud. We are not very effective, as we have come to call it, Kathmandu Explorers. 

I take not being a Kathmandu Explorer to ridiculous heights and even lived in Israel for four months without going to the Dead Sea. That was actually stupid, and I regret it. (I was hideously broke at the time, but really: I should have walked). 

To cheer you up after that utterly hopeless thought, here is Elizabeth modeling the wonderful grounds at Headquarters, Cuc Phuong: 

And here are some parting shots from the bus trip home, including one of a dream cottage; a place I imagine I could wile time away drinking tea and pottering about on small projects, where I could take several hours to do the laundry and consider that to be my day, spent.*

* NB: Pretty sure the people who actually live there work harder than I care to imagine, judging by the meticulous garden out front and the verdant grounds.  

One human-sized Red Fox in Hanoi

I wasn't going to include this particular post, since I did other, more exciting things with old firecracker Liz than wander around the sprawling streets of Hanoi. However, I realised I haven't ever - in my life - posted any photographs set in actual Hanoi. So here it is, the dust, the electrical wiring, the traffic and the dreamy architecture (hidden behind the concrete boxes). 

Here is my disclaimer: I really love Hanoi. 

Here is my rant: many of my pals and I agree that as creatures, as little*, soft mammals, with lungs and other organs and pores, Hanoi doesn't feel good. As an animal, you instinctively know you should be getting out as fast as your paws can carry you. The trees do exist, but they are old survivors, trees who have learned to grow around things and through things. The grass is covered with a light film of dust, and you're not allowed on it anyway. The lake is beautiful, but the fish in it are floating, dead and stuffed to the gills with mercury. The air sometimes brings me to sudden and involuntary tears.

* Quite large mammals really, on a size chart of mammals, or perhaps average sized (somewhere between a marmoset and a humpback whale).

So, as much as my intellectual self, disconnected from my body, loves this city and the weird, organic urban sprawl; the people who work in and through the cracks in the system, new neighbours who greet me every time they see me, the rat who shrieks when my bicycle comes around the corner and proceeds to promptly scamper down my alleyway at top-speed (there but for the grace of God go I). I love the way humans have found ways to exist around and on top of each other, and how carefully they manage that space. How conscious they are and how little they intrude on each other. It is seriously an art and it is one which is distinctly foreign for a girl from small-town New Zealand. 

As much as I love all of those things, and know I will always be drawn back to old Hanoi, I'm also sure I would never stay here forever. Carcinogens notwithstanding, the way I felt in the ocean on the coast near Hoi An reminded me that I am not a brain on a stick. I am a mammal, not even always that sentient, and I'd like to frolic. 

Liz dreams of gluten-free trees and crashing waves

The Brighton of New Zealand

Pierre looks out to Stewart Island, which cannot be photographed

Ignoring the fact New Zealand features several places actually named 'Brighton' (British colonialists are not famous for their creativity), I'm going to go right ahead and bestow the honour of being Brighton-like on the small, extremely-southern town of Riverton.  

I drove to Riverton on this balmy day, from Invercargill, with my brother, his girlfriend and my friend G, and her boyfriend. So, two couples plus me.

G told me, with her trademark optimism, that Riverton was pretty much exactly like Brighton, mostly due to the colourful changing booths on the beach. 

I haven't actually been to Brighton, but I know enough liberal, creative types to know that it's the kind of place I would enjoy. However, I also knew that G liked to over-play the positive in any situation, and that she had been suspiciously positive about everything in and around Invercargill; not a town famous for it's charms. 

A Church Flirts

Double date + 1 (behind the lens)

To my pleasant surprise, G wasn't wrong. Riverton is charming, and plenty of people with excess money and real estate sense have been buying up large. There seems to be an average of one yoga and massage studio per 5 people and the cafe serves fair trade coffee and nostalgic, 'rustic' treats like cheese rolls. In this respect, it reminds me of Motueka.

Except with an aesthetically-pleasing scattering of bleakness, 

rescuing it from bobo overload.

After a wonderful day being blasted by the wind and (rarer, in these parts) sun, we headed back to Invercargill, where we purchased fish and chips from the place opposite North Hall.

Once, while our friend Anh was driving past, G had said: "I love that building!" (referring to North Hall), and Anh exclaimed: "No wonder you and Lei are friends, she 

always really loves ugly buildings too!"

It is basically the very foundation of our decade-long friendship. Look:

Anyway. Then we took our fish and chips and headed to the fair, where I confirmed and G discovered a fear of heights on the ferris wheel.  

The Royal Family

So there you have it, evidence you can too have an absolutely wonderful day in Invercargill, markedly so if you drive the extra 30-odd kilometres to Riverton.

Double points if you're lucky enough to be visiting this local idiot: