29 posts from 2002

The Last Plane out of Saigon

Today is my last in Saigon. The heat starts early and grows until noon when I am sweating from every pore. To avoid the heat as much as possible, I plan to spend the day in museums. The first museum I plan to visit is the Reunification palace.

This palace was where the French and Vietnamese presidents and governers of South Vietnam lived. This is where, on April 30th 1975, the North Vietnamese Liberation Army crashed through the front gates in tanks and took control of South Vietnam.

I walk into the building and I'm surprised at how narrow the front gate. I walk up the big double staircase leading to the second floor and notice that the rooms upstairs are both in use. There seems to be a court session in both, with people standing in front of the judge dressed up in black and white striped prisoner clothing. What was going on here?

This question was answered for me by a few armed guards when I began to fiddle with my camera and point it towards the court room. We discussed this while walking fthrough the large echoing hall to the grand pillared half circle terrace that look out onto the front gates of the building. There was some language difficulty, and first thing I understood was 'no picutres' and the second was that this place was being used as a courthouse.

The guards looked so well placed in their green uniforms, against the yellow plaster walls of the terrarce, with the hot morning sun cutting bleached stripes acrossed it all, that I had to ask for a picture. They smiled and I could tell they wouldn't have minded, but they felt a little bit nervous about it. One seemed to indicated that the other would be more willing to have his picture taken, but then the other would shy out of the shot when my camera came up. After talking with them a little more about the palace and what was going on I again pushed for one tiny little shot. With enough friendly persistance I managed to get one photo of them both, both on opposite edges of the frame, edging slowly away from center. A little more chatting and I said goodbye.

After talking with the guards I walked towards another wing of the building that the guard indicated was open to me, when another guard at a desk in the hallway motioned for me to leave.. Intent on seeing this palace I walked back downstairs and entered the wing from the first floor which was open to the main courtyard. From there I climbed some stairs and got back to the second floor. There were more armed guards here sitting on a bench outside another courtroom containing convicts in stripped suits. I knelt down next to the guards and asked them if I could take a picture.

Its an age old trick, asking for what you want until you get it. If dad said no, ask mom; if the phone rep for your credit card won't do what you ask, call back and ask a different one. Unfortunately, these guards were also unwilling to have their picture taken. While I was talking to them, a voice behind me said in english "You cannot take any pictures here, this is the high court."

I turned around and there was a man about my age dressed in a light blue shirt and straight cut pants. His name was Cuong and he was a legal aide here. Aparently, this is not Reunification Palace, but an active courthouse, the High Court. I talked to him a while, asking what he did and telling about my travels.

Feeling the need to get one good picture here, I asked one more time. He agreed, but said that we had to go to the terrace, where I was originally. Only there he said, could I take any pictures, and only from the inside looking out.. On the way there we ran into a lawyer friend of his and so I got my picture of a lawyer and a lawyer's aide.

I said goodbye, and armed with directions to the real unification palace, I struck off down the street. When I got there, I could tell this was the real thing. Whereas the previous building was hemmed in by several other boxy buildings, this building was set amid a huge open space of trees and paths.. The Palace, in my opinion however, was not as beautiful a building as the French built courthouse.

The original Palace was built by the french, but in the early 60's it was bombed by a North Vietnamese jet. The new Palace was rebuilt in 1965 by a Vietnamese architect who I think was too influenced by the western styles of the time. The building was unmistakably from the 60's. If upon closer inspection I found platforms built into the facade for go-go dancers, I would have been unsurprised.

Unlike the High Court, the front gates here were large enough to accomodate tank passage. Indeed, just off the main circular road that lead up to the Palace, on display were the two tanks that broke through these gates in 1975. The inside of the Palace felt a lot more like a palace than the High Court did. Huge columns, a big carpeted staircase leading to the second floor, marble floors, exotic wood, velvet; all markings of a place meant to house presidents and impress foriegn visitors.

I was told there would be an english tour of the Palace in 10 minutes so I waited in an uncomfortable plastic chair in the lobby and watched a T.V. show where a group of enthusiastic Vietnamese danced and lipsinced to Christmas songs. It was a good thing I had found a book to read back at the hotel.

Finally the tour guide came. The first floor was filled with large meeting halls and dinning rooms. On the second floor there must have been at least 5 different reception rooms. A reception room for government officials. A reception room for foreign officials. A reception room for signing papers. A reception room for the vice president. A reception room for the presidents wife. This was all a little confusing to me. After breaking through the gate, the Liberation army marched into the Palace and into one of these reception rooms where famously, the President said 'I have been waiting since early this morning to transfer power to you.' To which the VC officer replied 'There is no question of your transfering power. You cannot give up what you do not have.'

"So, did the Liberation Army have to look through each room to find the president?" I asked our tour guide. As with most of my attempts at verbal humor with the Vietnamese, our guide took my question at face value. "Of course not." she said.

On the 3rd floor is where the president and his family lived. There is a small garden here with a pond and some large rocks that look like a small mountain, topped by a miniature pagoda. We were told this was meant to give the impression that one is on the ground rather than two stories up. There was also a casio here for the president which struck me as a bit strange. How could you let the president lose in his own palace?

Finally there was a small movie theater here. "Do they still show movies here?" I asked our guide, in a last attempt at humor.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."
"You know, can I watch a movie in this theater? Is 'Lord of the Rings' playing?"
"There will be a one hour movie you can watch downstairs after the tour."
"Um, okay, thanks"

Oh well.

We walked through the top floor and saw the ballroom and then downstairs to see the kitchen, the bomb shelter and the radio rooms. There were several radio rooms actually, each with several tons of ancient equipment, full of dials and knobs and push buttons. Additionally there were several extremely boring looking boxy rooms. "This is the presidents war room" said our guide leading us through a small room with blank walls containing only a desk witha black phone on top. For a moment I considered asking her if the president ordered a pizza down here if the pizza man would know where to deliver it. But by now I think I already knew the answer.

After visiting the palace I walked to the U.S. embassey with hopes of seeing the helipad where the last helicopter left Saigon. When I got there however, I was disappointed to see that, like all U.S. embasseys I've seen, it was a fortress. At the main gate, I asked the guard if I could go inside. "What do you need?" he asked. I didn't really need anything. I just wanted to see. "Uh, I just wanted to get some information." I said. He pointed me to a plexiglass covered buliten board near the door with announcements pinned on it.

As a U.S. citizen, do I need a reason to visit my embassey? Isn't the embassey offically U.S. soil? The U.S. seems to have constructed many little fortresses all over the world. If this is how the U.S. offers itself to other countries, and its citizens in those contries, why even bother building the embassy in the first place?

I tried asking another guard. "I want to see the helicopter pad where the last helicopter out of Saigon took off" I told him. He shook his head, "There's nothing to see. This isn't even the same building anymore. They've rebuilt it since then" I talked to him a little more convincing myself that really wasn't anything to see. Feeling a bit hungry I asked him if there was anywhere around where I could get some lunch. This question threw him. He was obviously not used to people asking his opinion on local cafes. I was directed to a cafe that was in his line of sight. I thanked him and walked to the cafe.

After lunch I made a visit to the Ho Chi Min Museum. The mid-day sun beat down on me and I could hardly escape in the museum. There was no airconditioning and the fans placed throughout the museum couldn't penetrate the thick air. On my way out I bought a Coke in an old style glass bottle and drank it in two gulps.

On my way back to the hotel I ran into a cyclo driver that wouldn't leave me be. After telling him several times that I didn't need a ride or a tour of the city he tried to sell me other things. "My sister has a DVD and CD shop over there" he said pointing, "only $2 for a DVD! It is a very good shop". I told him I didn't need any CDs or DVDs. "I can show you a place to get a good massage" he said, winking to indicate this would not be a legitimate massage, "very pretty girls....boys?" I declined all offers and finally shed myself of the man.

That evening I called a cab to take me to the airport. As night fell the foot and motorbike traffic increased outside. People came into the hotel sweaty and in shorts and left with nice clothes and no backpack. All were gearing up for a big party tonight, for Christmas eve. I was happy to be comming back home, but I was a little sad too. I would be on a plane soon, eating what would turn out to be the worst airplane food I've ever eaten, while these people would be eating delicious food, drinking beer and having a grand time.

When my taxi came I recieved a better view of the festivites outside. The streets were more crowded than I'd seen them since arriving. Motorbikes clogged the streets; boys driving their girlfriends on the back of their bikes to parties or just cruising. They were all dressed up, the girls wearing dresses or skirts riding sidesaddle on the back of the motorbikes.

My taxi had difficulty getting through this mess. Without the nimble mobility of a motorbike all we could do was creep along. I had plenty of time to get to the airport however, so I wasn't worried. I felt a confusing mix of sadness and relief. I was ready to return home, but I felt a tug in me that wanted to stay and join the party. But I knew I couldn't join, it wasn't my party. I didn't have a motorbike. I didn't have a smartly dressed girlfriend in Saigon to ride sidesaddle on the back\. I didn't have friends to ride through the streets with, to park my bike on the sidewalk with and talk while watching the parade of other motorbikes roll by.

The airport was empty except for the waiting area where people waited for the last flights of the evening to take off, the last flights out of Saigon.

Mekong Delta

I woke up this morning and bounded down the 15 flights of stairs to the ground floor. My room is on the 3rd floor and they way they have them numbered is ground floor, 0th, 1st, etc.., so I'm actually on the 5 floor. The staircase circles up and each floor is separated by three flights of stairs. In the open middle area of the stairs is a braided steel cable with a large hook on the end. Heavy bags can be hooked onto this cable and winched up to the correct floor. Its quite ingenious.

For breakfast I have the standard coffee, baguette with jelly/butter/cheese and bananas. At 7:40 our bus comes and we board only to disembark several blocks further to board a bigger bus. Now we are on the road. After an hour and a half we stop for 15 minutes to stretch and go to the bathroom and then we are on the road again for another hour and half. Finally we get to our port and we all get off. There is the obligitory water and drink consession here and some bathrooms. Its a bit frantic as the 50 or so tourists here are all on slightly different tours. Some of us are on the 1 day trip, some are 2 day trips and other will be here for 3 days. The many guides shout out instructions and eventually we are all led on to the correct boats and push out into the river.

Once on the river, things are more calm. There are only 10 people in our boat. I am amused to see that the captin of our boat steers and controls the speed with the front section of a motorbike that he has somehow installed on the boat. Twisting the motorbike's handle increases the speed and turning the handle bar affects the boats rudder. Our boat's engine is below deck, but almost every other boat on the water has a big, simple 1 cylinder, 2 stroke engine that sits on one end of a long arm. At the other end connected by a long shaft is the propeller. The whole assembly piviots at a point near the engine so that the propeller can be lowered into the water. Another interesting thing about this engine is that there is a long metal tube that runs from the engine, down the shaft past the propeller and then twists back to point a funnel shape back at the propeller. I realize that the engine has no water pump and that some of the water flow that the propeller generates is used to force water into this pipe and back up to the engine. A short flexible rubber tube runs out from the engine delivering hot water back to the river.

Our first stop along the river is a small rice paper factory. Here two old woman workin a dark thickly thatched structure around a stove and some drying racks making rice paper suitable meant for spring rolls. Using the husks of rice as fuel, they pour a small amount of a white ricey slurry on to a hot plate, smooth it out, then cover it with a domed reed cover. After 30 seconds, the woman slides a thin flat wooden stick benheath the rice pancake that has formed and lifts it off the griddle. The pancake is thin enough to see through, but is strong and elastic. She lays it on a round stand where it dries. The other woman picks off paper that has dried for a few minutes and places them on a larger drying rack where they dry for longer.

From here we walk along a narrow dirt road along the river while our guide point out some of the plant life around the village and some of the building techniques and practices of the villagers. We then enter a second factory, one that makes puffed rice cakes. We watch a man stoke a fire with lychee husks heating a large wok-like pan containing black sand from the river. When the sand is hot enough, he toses in the rice and begins to stir the mixture constantly. Within a few seconds, little white puffs appear in the black and brown mixture. After a minute more, the whole pan is fluffy and white. He scoops out the puffed rice and dumps it into a box with a mesh bottom. The puffed rice is thus separated from the sand, and then conveyed to the next room.

In the next room a man with another wok heats up chunks of sugar cane goo, some coconut juice and some malt and carmelizes it all. The wok is removed from the fire and the puffed rice is added. Two men work the rice sugar mixture with two wooden paddles in each hand, mixing it all to a uniform goey consistancy. It is then poured on onto a large rectangular wooden table with 4 inch sides where two other men with large rollers press it down. After the mixture has been compacted and has filled the entire volume of the table top, they take what look like butchers cleavers and using a long metal guide, cut several times along the length of the table, the several times along the width.

Afterwards we get to sample the rice crispy treats. They aren't as sweet as what we make with marshmellos and cereal, but they're good. They also have samples of corn based treats and a few that have nuts inside.

From here we board the boat and go for a longer ride down the river which eventually leads out to an open lake like area and then back to a small river. Along these rivers are houses with narrow concrete boat docks jutting out into the river with no aparent support. There are several tributaries to the rivers we travel and at each one we can see a small concrete bridge connecting the path that runs along side our river.

We arrive at a final factory, one that makes coconut candy. This factory is far simpler than the others. Coconut flesh is pressed for juice and some is shredded. Its all combined with sugar and malt and cooked for 30 minutes until it thickens. Its poured onto a table where it dries into a chewy taffy like candy. Its cut into squares and wrapped in very thin rice paper and then wrapped in a wax paper wrapper. The thin rice paper is edible and keeps the candy from sticking to the wrapper. Our guide tells us that the rice paper used for this is too thin to be made by the women we saw earlier in the day, and must be made by machine. Because the machine is relatively high technology and expensive, the paper is imported from China, the only non-Vietnamese ingredient in the candy.

We get back on the boat and travel a bit further to a small house next to an orchard that has several tables. Here we have lunch. A lady comes to our table and shows us how to construct spring rolls using the ingredients on the table, including rice paper made by the women we saw earlier. We are also brough soup as well as a plate of pork. I suspect that the soup had very small amounts of chicken in it, but I was hungry and I decided to halt all investigation and just eat.

After lunch we could ride bikes, walk around or lay in some nearby hammocks. Two Canadian girls and I decided to ride bikes. While they were in the bathroom, I rummaged through the pile of bikes looking for one that had a seat of a reasonable height. I just wanted to ride a bike in asia and not look like I was practicing for the circus for a change. Unfortunately, all the bikes and unadjustable low seats.

As it turns out when we got on the road, all our bikes were circus bikes. We suffered from pedals that bent down when you pedaled them, seats that tilted back if you sat on them wrong and brakes that might as well have been made of felt. On the plus side, the tires were well inflated.

Still, it was a great ride. We road along a narrow path along side one of the smaller rivers. We soon realized that the whole area is a maze of rivers crossing rivers and paths along each one, bounding across smaller rivers with a concrete bridge. At the top of one bridge I looked down in horror to see a large hole with a pattern of wear suggesting that the concrete was very thin at this point and could crack in half at any moment. I pulsed my felt brakes momentarily but decided it was best to roll quickly over.

After 45 minutes we returned and spent another 30 minutes in the hammocks before getting back on the boat and heading home. Our river trip lasted another hour. We got in our bus and travelled a short way to a market that, again, sold everything, except this time we were promised live rats. We never saw any rats, but we did see live snakes, toads and frogs for sale, along with some standard fare like geese, chickens and ducks. Near the market there was an interesting nativity scene on display. Jesus and his manger were set inside a large black rock like cavity with sparkily bits all along the inside. From the looks of it you'd think that Jesus was born in a Geode. We got back on the bus, and travelled 3 hours back to Saigon. During this drive we learned that, while officially the whole area is called "Ho Chi Min City" now, that the center section of town is still refered to as Saigon.

Back at the hotel, the canadian girls and I made plans to have dinner and went up to our rooms to wash the sunscreen and sweat off our faces. We met up a bit later and ate a little place around the corner. Afterwards, since it was my last night in Saigon, I coaxed them into having some drinks someplace. So we went a bit further and sat in a bar drinking white russians, black russians, japanese dreams, and some sort of orangey concoction. Tired and hot (the heat is on in Saigon, da da da!) we called it a night and, after a short shopping detour, walked back to the hotel.

Photo Realistic

This is my last day in Nha Trang and I'm at a bit of a loss for something to do. I spend some time at the beach, have some fish and chips at Shorty's, next door to my hotel ("Real English Breakfast!", "Tidbits, Toasties and more!"), and chat to some of the people that work for the hotel, mostly to the too silly girl who tells me all about her sister and the Dutch guy she's marrying in the spring and about what classes she's taking in high school. Her little 7 year old brother makes a paper boat for me. Outside while we talk, a garbage truck backs up. Instead of beeping it plays "Santa Clause is Comming to Town"

One notable thing I did do, however, was talk to Long Thanh, a famous Vietnamese photographer (see: www.elephantguide.com/photographer/longthanh.htm). He's self taught and has been taking black and white photographs and developing them himself for almost 40 years. In the past 15 years he's been winning awards like crazy, but still, I was able to rent a bicycle, ride out to his studio/home in Nha Trang and talk to him about cameras, photographic paper and how to make people feel good about having their picture taken.

When I get to his studio, all I see is a bit empty white room, open to the street. I park my bicycle just inside and behind the metal gate that has been pushed to one side of the opening and walk carefully towards the back where there seems to be an office or something. "Hello?" There is a rustle, then a light turns on. Its 11:30, and it looks like the young girl who was in the office was taking a nap out of the hot sun. "Long?" she asks. I nod. She invites me into the office which is full of framed photographs. They are hung from the wall, stacked on top of each other on the floor and on tables. The girl runs up a set of stairs and I'm left alone to browse.

I saw some of Long's photos in the Sailing Club and read a little bit about him in my guidebook, but its much different to actually see all these photos in person. And there are a lot of photos. All of them are excellent. I had my favorites of course, but I didn't see any that I thought were marginal or uninspired. Through a door I see the next room has more photos, plus a clothsline densely packed with large prints hanging by clips.

Long comes down the stairs and shakes my hand. I feel a little nervous. I suddently wonder what I am doing here and what I expect to learn from this man. But then I remember that I like taking photographs as well and the questions I had in my mind on my ride over popped back into my head.

He only takes black and white photographs. He only uses old camera, no new automatic ones. He shows me several heavy well made German cameras that he uses, all are from the 50s or 60s. He detests zoom lenses and lenses that give optical effects. He doesn't use filters or flashes. His cameras all have light gauges, but he says he uses his eye. "How?" I ask. "You know how after so many pictures" he says.

He lets me look through some of his cameras and see what effects different settings have. He shows me different photographic paper. He tells me that all of his prints are on plastic paper now (a high quality version of what you get from walgreens), but he's working to reprint them all on fiber paper which he says gives the photos a more natural look. Everything he does is to give the photograph the most natural look possible. Anything that could possible comprimize the light, the contrast, the mood of a photo is thrown out.

Sheepishly I pull out my Cannon Rebel XL. I tell him its served me well and point out the taped down battery door as evidence of its high usage. I ask him what kind of camera would be good to get if automatic and zeom lenses are not as good. He suggests I get a Nikon F-3 body and Optica or Cannon L lenses in 105mm (F25) and 24mm (F28). He says that I should look for these in pawn shops. If I buy them new they will cost a fortune.

He takes me to the front room, the one that's all white and empty. He tells me his plans of renovating it into a gallery. Black glass for a wall on the street side, where currently there isn't one. The rest of the walls painted a uniform white (they are currently mixed shades of white) and a splash of color on the sloping wall where the stairs lead up. There will be spot lights. There will be a new floor. There will be a lot more room to show his pictures than the cramped office and the kitchen behind.

Its almost 1pm and I say goodbye. Before I go I ask Long if I can take his picture, to which he agrees. He then asks the shoe shine boy who's just come in to take our picture together. I toss my backpack in the front basket of my bicycle and wave goodbye. Aparently he's going to be in San Francisco in a month or so to talk to gallaries and to put some photos up in Ana Mandera, the Vietnamese restaurant down by Ghiradelli Square, so maybe I'll see him again soon.

Spaaaaaaaah

I rented a bicycle this morning. The peddles are wobbly and the tires are a little low, but I find that it doesn't really matter. I ride leisurely along the beach. At this speed, it doesn't matter how clunky the bicycle is. My daypack sits in the basket mounted on my handlebars leaving my back free and unencumbered for the first outing in days. I'm riding to the Cham Towers which are on the other side of the river that runs along Nha Trang and into the ocean.

The towers are clay red and sit on top a mount of granite. The tops of the towards are highly erroded, but there is still a lot of detail left. The towers themselves contain small shines that are still in use. Insence drifts out from them and inside people kneel in front of the alter. Leading down from the main tower is a staircase that ends in a stand of columns. The staircase is steep. You must climb down sideways, as the width of each stair is about the width of ones foot. Each stair lowers you almost a foot and from the top, it almost looks like a straight drop down. At the bottom there used to be some sort of structure, but now all that remains are the pillars.

Afterwards I continue to ride away from the city. I turn down a dirt road and ride through small houses and shops. This path follows the river inland and into the country side. About 3km in I get to the Hot Springs. This is a new complex, built recently. For $12 I get 20 minutes in a mud bath, 40 minutes in a mineral bath, an hour massage and free time to swim in the bathwater hot pools.

I change into a supplied bathing suit and walk up the stepped hill to several wooden tubs. A man fills one up with a wide hose that oozes dark brown mud. When the tub is full, I sink in. Its hot. Its got a soupy consistancy, almost like cream of potato soap. I submerge a bit and realize how bouyant I am in the mud. I have to force myself down against the side of the tub. After about 15 minutes I begin feeling too hot. I am under a canopy, out of the sun, but the air is hot. The mud is hot and I don't have any water. When my 20 minutes are up I climb out and lie down on the sun chairs where you're supposed to let the mud dry. A worker walks by, "water?" I croak. He comes back with a case of 'Joy!' mineral water, which I must say, brought me plenty of joy.

After 10 minutes in the sun, I am mostly dry and I wash off under a mineral shower. I then walk down to the mineral baths. A boy takes me to one of a few empty tubs nestled into the hillside. He takes a faucet handle out of his pocket and uses it to turn a valve. Water gushes into the tub and soon it is full.

Slowly, I sink into the tub. It is hot, hotter than the mud bath. I completely submerge, full of mineral water, and surrounded by mineral water. My muscles are so relaxed I feel almost incontinent. So much so, that for one startling moment I feel I might be urinating. But I am still in control and I have not sullied my pool.

Its difficult to actually stay in the water for the full 40 minutes. I have to alternately get out and re-submerge to keep my core temperature from rising to high. Around me are croatans and tall tropical trees. I see a few thick lizards crawl by, butterflys flutter through the air and even a baby praying mantis that I let crawl on to my finger. Its idylic, but I wish there was a cool pool I could hop into for a moment.

After the mineral bath I get my massage. I am compressed, kneeded, twisted, pulled and bent. I know some people come away from massages bruised and sore, but I suffered no harm. The rest of the afternoon I spend swimming in the pools with two girls from the U.K. that I met when I was leaving the mineral bath.

When the sun starts to set, say goodbye to Caroline and Sarah and we make plans to meet for dinner. On the bike ride home, everyone is out on the road. Almost every little boy and girl and many that are older wave and say "hello!" as I ride by. I say hello to some first and they usually smile and say hello back. When I get closer to town, I continue being called out to, but now its people hanging out of bus windows. I'm not sure what they say to me, but I just wave and smile. They are probably cracked up to see a white guy riding a bicycle through the city.

Later on I meet Caroline and Sarah for dinner at an indian restaurant. Its good and, as always with indian food, I stuff myself. I want to go back to the Sailing Club tonight because I like the music they play and I like being next to the beach. I thought we agreed to that, but when we leave the indian place we head directly into a place called 'Jacks' which is a few doors down. Jack's is completely empty. We are the only ones around. From the 4th floor bar we can see the beach and the ocean, but we are too removed. Still, I think, we have the pool table to ourselves and we can walk over to the Sailing Club later.

After our second game of pool, a guy comes upstairs. He's got that aimless walk that suggests he wants to join in on our group, but is trying to find the right angle of attack. I don't really want to pick up another person here, I want to leave. But, he finds his in and starts talking. Turns out that he's Jack. He talks about the bar and where he's from (UK) and this and that. There's nothing particularly wrong with Jack, but I'm find myself annoyed with him because he's now trapped us. We are the only customers here and he's got us pinned.

Or maybe its just me thats pinned. Caroline seems to be having a grand time and has slowed her drinking down to sipping of the vodka seven-up which when empty I had planned to suggest a jump. So carefully is she nursing her drink that I'm sure it will make a complete recovery and be returned to the bottle where it can be served once again. I'm incredibly bored and getting tired quickly. I sit and watch Caroline's drink vanish by evaporation alone while thinking of ways to politely excuse myself so I can continue on my own. Finally Sarah notes that I look a bit sleepy and I use the opportunity to suggest that I am tired and I am going to go back to my hotel. We exhange email addresses and goodbyes and I leave.

By the time I get to it, my secret plan of going to the Sailing Club is squashed by then false but now entirely true story of being to tired to stay out. I keep walking, letting thoughts of the Sailing Club sail away.

Summer Days

Dark Brooding clouds. The horizon a thick smear of black grease. Luckily for me, the sky above Nha Trang seems to never have been introduced to this dishevelment, has never been debased so wholely. In Nha Trang the sky is a deep bright blue the few clouds in the sky are pure white, the kind on which angels sleep. The sun is bright and hot but it is hardly a bother. If I feel too hot, its a 100 meter dash to the ocean, my shoes and shirt falling off like seeds from a dandilion in a soft breeze. My hotel bathroom has no bathtub, but the ocean here is a better substitute. Its a beautiful day.

I'm supposed to meet Marty for lunch at noon. I was up until 2am last night, but I can't sleep past 9am, so I go downstairs and across the street for a potato omellete and some coffee. I let the morning pass checking email and chatting with the people that work at my hotel. At noon Marty comes and we walk down the streets looking for something good.

"Been there", "there", "there". This is Marty's 4th day here and he's already eaten at quite a few places. We find someplace that looks good and have a seat. As we look through the menu I notice a man sitting inside smoking a cigarette. He's a big man and his well fed beach belly hangs out from his unbuttoned shirt. If he is comletely relaxed, I am a little nervous. He seems to be the owner of this cafe, and I'm a little worried about this unsavory looking character being responisble for the food I'll soon eat.

He walks over to the table, and I get a closer look at the tatoos that adorn his body. There are quite a few and they all seem to be buxom women having sex with demons. I remember in the Buddist temples in China I saw quite a few figurines depicting a multi-armed demon-like character having sex with a woman. Maybe he's Buddist.

He sits down at our table and for a minute, just smokes his cigarette while Marty and I finish what we were talking about. We ask him if he's the owner of the cafe. He says he is. His accent sounds vaugely French but with a lazy Mexican drawl. He looks like he could be Malaysian, but he says he's from Belgium. Several years ago he came here to visit and decided to come back and open up his cafe.

We ask about this fish on the menu. Marty tells us about getting sick on fish two days ago. He bought a red snapper from a street vendor who fried it up for him on the spot. Shortly thereafter he had diarrhea and was sick for the rest of the day. "Red snapper is a good fish" the cafe owner says, "but it must be fresh". "You can't catch it and leave it out in the sun or throw it in the freezer. You have to catch it and then eat it" He tells us that he gets his fish fresh from the market every morning. "You must have fresh fish and vegetables. You can't have your customers getting sick. They don't come back and maybe they tell others not to come." I start to feel better about the food.

We talk while we wait for the food and while we eat. He is a very straighforward man. His physical presence is a little imposing but, talking to him I felt, not threatening. He listened as much as he talked and seemed to enjoy relaxing with his two customers.

He also added to my growing aprehension about Saigon. "Saigon is terrible" he said. "The streets are so packed with motorbikes, there is no space. Its not like this" he says casting a half glance over his shoulder and sweeping his hand behind his head to indicate the street behind. "Its hot there too, hotter than here". Its about 35C now (95F) and I think about the crowded streets in 100F weather. Most other reports are the same. Big city. Too many bikes. Too hot. Too busy. I think maybe I should push back my departure one day.

After finishing lunch and our conversation we say goodbye to the owner and walk back towards his hotel. He checks out and we decide to go to the beach. Marty sits in the sand and I run around in the water. There is lots of stuff washing up onto the shore hear. I find a smooth block of wood that I skip back into the ocean, and Marty finds a cuttlefish (a squid-like fish) that looks like its still alive. He picks it up in the dried husk of a coconut and toses it back into the ocean.

While we sit on the beach, we are approached by approximately 1 vendor every 10 minutes. Old ladies come by with a box full of cigarettes, gum, candy and chips. Young boys heft box full of books; guidebooks for Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia, fiction and non-fiction about Vietnam, and some general fiction novels. It usually takes two "No thank you"s to get the cigarette ladies to go away and three to get the book sellers to go away.

The rest of the day we spend on the beach or walking around town. That night we have a few drinks at a bar next to my hotel called "Shorty's." I duck out to check my email at a nearby email cafe which is packed. The connection speed is horrendous. I load my main yahoo mail page, but I cannot load any of my messages. Everytime I try the connection times out. Too many people are using the internet I think.

I keep on, trying to at least read the two messages I have. The owner comes over, seeing that I am reloading my "connection failed" page for the 3rd time. "Back button, back button" he says. I'm a little confused. I've already seen the main page, its the messages I'm interested in. I keep reloading. He comes back 5 minutes later, takes my mouse saying "Back button" and clicks back four pages to my main page. "But I've already seen this" I say. "You read your messages, here" he says sweeping his index finger up and down my screen. "No, I've already seen this, this is old." I'm becomming annoyed. "You read your messages, right there" he repeats voice raised slightly, almost forbidding me to load a new page. This is too much for me. "Don't tell me how to read my mail." Apparently this is too much for him as well and he storms over to my computer and stabs the power button with this finger "You go! Yaah, go!" he shouts. I am appalled.

I get up, give him a few short words and leave. I feel so unsatisfied though. Even if I made a huge fuss in there, and the 15 people at the computers understood what a jerk this guy was, they will all be gone within a few days and new fresh travellers will walk into his cafe. There is no chance for reputation here. If you have an internet cafe in this section of town, it will be visited.

Instead I walk back to the cafe. I stand right in front where he can clearly see me writting down name, address and phone number information for his cafe. Writing to Lonely Planet guidebooks can influence business in the long term, but they would probably never cover such a small business. This is more for show, to leave him wondering what I will do with this information. The only parting shot available to me.

The Long Day

I woke up early this morning and finish "The Amazing Adventures of Kavelier and Clay". Shortly afterwards I finished my last book, "The Quiet American." I now had nothing more to read and 8 hours left on the train. I hung out of the window and watched the country roll by.

The day was beautiful. As we traveled further south, the rice paddies grew bigger and bigger and increasing numbers of them were grouped together. The paddies are a bright lime green, and almost look like minature golf greens or putting greens. Every so often a flock of pure white cranes standing in the fields take off all at once. Their outstretched white wings create such a sharp contrast against the green that it almost hurts to watch.

We roll through tunnels, along the sea and through towns. In the country side we sometimes pass through small villages and I get a peak into several backyards. There is a path along the tracks and occasionally I see someone walking or carrying a basket as the train rumbles by them several inches away. In the fields I see ox pulling plows and women bent over pulling up rice.

There is only one track that leads from Hanoi down to Saigon for either direction. This means that we must periodically pull off onto a side track and wait there until another train rattles by us. Since I am on one of the faster trains however, it is usually our train that is passing another.

By the time my train pulls into Nha Trang it is dark outside. I hire a taxi (a car taxi) to take me to my hotel, the "Blue Star". I check into my room and walk over to a bar I read about called the 'Sailing Club'. This is where a famous Vietnamese photographer is supposed to have several photographs on display. If you ask there, I've read, the Sailing club can put you in touch with him to talk shop.

The bar itself is hidden behind two other restuarants and at first I can't figure out where to go. I keep walking back and find it right along the beach. The bar is open, under a wooden structure. Nearer the beach, the roof become thatched. There are soft chairs and tables for lounging and larger tables near the beach for drinking. The music is hip western beats and its the first time I've heard decent American and British music since I left.

I meet a guy named Marty and we talk about music and watch the crowd. There are several attractive Vietnamese women dancing who are certainly prostitutes. One is dancing with this really sleazy older guy who looks like a throwback from the 70's. He's got big handlebar mustache, and his already too exposed chest becomes more exposed as he unbuttons one more button, revealing yet more chest hair and his chains. I am both horrified and amused.

After several rounds and a few games of pool I notice that the crowd is breaking up. I look at my watch and its 2am, far later than I've been used to staying up. One of the remaining girls who hasn't left yet makes a hasty effort to chat me up, until finally laying it down "do you want me to come back with you?" I decline her offer and Marty is upset because this is the second girl that's propositioned me while he's had none. He isn't interested he says, but why doesn't he get any attention.

Its too late for me to still be up. I make plans to have lunch with Marty and then say goodbye. One the way home I keep my eyes open for the roving prostitutes that are said to sweep the beach side for unsuspecting men. They appear suddenly, run their hands all over you and then suddenly they're gone and so is your wallet. Lukily, I make it home with out problem.

Uncle Ho

On my last day in Hanoi, Hai Anh came to my hotel at 7:30 am bringing some bananas and bread for breakfast. We had to eat soming fast so we could get to Ho Chi Min's Tomb by 8 to beat the crowds. She a rice ball for herself since she doesn't like bananas, and she certainly didn't like my method of consumption. With the peanut butter I bought several days ago, I made a peanut butter and banana sandwich. While eating her rice she watched, with a small amount of suspicion, as I spread the peanut butter on both halves of the bread and then let small slices of the banana I cut fall into the sticky mire.

With the sandwich safely consumed we started our walk to see Ho Chi Min, or as many of the Vietnamese call him, Uncle Ho. It takes us about 20 minutes to get there, and when we're a block away I see the solid line of people. "Oh no" I say. We walk along an ajacent street and at the next block the line still persists. After another block we reach the end.

There is a little builing here where I checked my bag and we got in line. Though it was long, the line moved quickly and soon we were in front of Uncle Ho's mausoleum. A large marble building with a single door, it looks almost like a classy bank. There are two guards on either side of the line that make sure nobody has their hands crossed or in their pockets (these are no-no's in Uncle Ho's dead presence). Two more guards stand directly in front of the door with bayonette riffles. Inside the mausoleum it is cool and clean. The line travels in several feet then turns to the left and goes up some stairs. Along the entire pathway we walk along a plastic mat that protects the marble floors from our shuffling feet. After the left, some stairs, we make a right and walk up more stairs. There are guards at the top and the bottom of the stairs. At the top we turn right again. Almost immediately we turn right once more and we are in the amber colored solemn resting place of Uncle Ho.

Ho Chi Min sits within a glass coffin in the center of the room. The walkway is separated from his coffin by several feet of open space, a sort of moat of open air. Uncle Ho is illuminated by a single reddish light that makes his face and exposed skin look somewhat waxy and unreal. He wears a simple green shirt and slacks. His head is propped up on a pillow and it looks like he might be have been watching a T.V. mounted in the top of the coffin and has just fallen asleep.

I am walking too slowly now and suddenly a hand grabs my arm and pulls me forward several steps. The four guards in this inner sactum must keep the line moving. All of us file along three sides of his body before exiting. We follow a similar but mirror image route of how we got in and emerge once more into the bright light of the early morning. "I think they should pick another color" says Hai Anh, "That red does not make him look so good."

We are close, so we visit the Ho Chi Min museum, which is a confusing collection of historical documents, photographs, reconstructions and for some reason, abstract art. One thing I've noticed about the museums (at least in Hanoi) is that they show you everything. No stone is left unturned. The first floor of the Ho Chi Min museum was rooms and rooms of photos and documents in glass cases. This floor was mostly devoid of people.

The second floor was livelier and had an almost science museum feel about it. Kids were running around screaming and yelling. The exhibits were large and colorful. However I was never sure what I was looking at or why. There was a small fake fire between some fake rocks with an iron pot on top, and then placard described it as "so-and-so's rock stove". There were a few more rock things like this. Close by, an old 50's era car seemed to be bursting through the wall. One room had nothing but a large white round structure with square holes in it. I went inside and looked out of the holes. I went outside and looked in the holes.

Near an exhibit that looked like some sort of machinery to balance and roll along a taught cable, some Vietnamese girls ran up to me and said "Picture?". I agreed and moments later I was posed in front of some bizzare art peice with a girl under each arm wearing a big cheesy smile. Snap! "Thank you!" they said and ran off.

Soon we left the museum. We had some coffee, I picked up my train ticket for this evening, and then Hai Anh walked me back to my Hotel. We said goodbye and I thanked her for all the time she spent with me, translating, figuring out busses, finding things to do, making sure I didn't eat bad food and being a good friend.

That afternoon I walked to the Japan Airline office to see if I could change my flight from the 25th to the 24th. It was a long shot, but I was willing to pay a little more to get my ticket changed than the cost of extending my visa to sooth my nerves. I found the office and explained what I wanted. Amazingly, it would cost me nothing to change the ticket. I didn't see how this was possible since domestic U.S. flights I've changed have always cost me at least $70. I didn't question it though and with my new ticket in my hot little hands I left the building and took one last walk around Hanoi.

That evening at 6 a motobike came to pick me up. This time I was saddled with my huge backpack and I wasn't sure if this ride was such a wise idea. The rider seemed to have no problem keeping the balance however, and the train station was not very far away. At the station I found my coach, cabin, berth and settled in for my 25 hour journey. As far as I could tell, I was the only one in this car.

About 20 minutes before the train was scheduled to leave, the germans came. They were a large tour group led by a young Vietnamese man. One by one I saw them through the door of my cabin file down the corridor, led and instructed by their guide. At one point a large (not fat, just big) woman was led to my cabin. She looked at the three empty births and then looked at me in the fourth. She then turned to the guide with slight incrediluity. "We are four girls together" she said, shooting a daggered glance in my direction "we should be four girls together"

My blood pumping, I readied myself to defend my berth, but the guide said, "Let me see what I can do" led them further down the corridor. One by one the other three large women walked past the door. As a single person traveling, I've found myself bullied by people in groups before. On Cat Ba island a couple in my group thought I should switch rooms with them because I had one big bed when, because they were two, they were given two single beds. Nevermind that there were other open rooms and they could have asked for a different one.

So when the couple who were finally assigned to my cabin began giving quick looks at me while talking to each other in German, I dug myself deeper into my book, pretending like they weren't there. I could tell they wanted to ask if I would take the top bunk so that they could be opposite each other on the bottom two bunks. Whether it was just paranoia or not, they never asked and the night slid by smoothly.

Warm Welcome

Today I came back to Hanoi. A bumpy bus takes us back to the boat dock. The dock is not very large, but there are quite a few boats jockying for position. Our boat is late in comming, but when it does we must use one boat as a gangway to ours, a small hop over its slighly pitching side to our bow. On the trip back we are boarded again by fish pirates. This time is a man a woman and small child. We buy more tiger prawns and some blue crab, which the crew cooks. At the Ha Long City dock we must cross over two boats to get off. I find fun, but I can't skip from boat to boat quite how I'd like since there the people ahead of me all have big suitcases with wheels they must manuever from boat to boat.

When I get back that evening I returned to the Dragon Hotel. When I enter the man at the front desk looks up, sees me, and like I had just stepped out, pulls out a room key. "#202. Same room. We kept it for you." I don't even have to sign in. I leave the lobby and walk back towards the stairs when I see another hotel staffer. This kid is probably 19 and he's alwasy been very friendly to me, though we've never spoken a word. When he sees me, his smile is huge and he puts out his long skinny arms and gives me a hug in a gesture that is unmistakeably "Welcome back!" Its nice to be welcome!

Later that evening I met Hai Ahn to eat at Le Tonkin again. The food once, once again, was great and this time there were three musicians playing traditional Vietnamese music. There was a long single stringed instrument, a many stringed instrument played with two mallots and another many stringed instrument plucked with fingers. Near the end of their set, they broke into 'Silent Night'. There was a large christmas tree outside where we were sitting, lit up with kalidescopic lights, the colors shifting and rippling with the music, and all was calm, all was bright.

Monkey Island

Last night I mistakenly told one of the little girls selling postcards that I would buy from her today. Technically, I didn't actually suggest this. The exchange went like this:

"You buy from me later?"
"uh"
"You buy from me later!"
"uh, ok"

I planned to ignore this contract as I'm sure most people do who are coerced into deals, however Warren, an older Australian man I met on the boat ride over, told me the girl seemed very excited and that I ought to honor my promise, no matter how unintentionally I made it. He said that the postcards they had to sell should only be 5,000 dong, about 33 cents.

So, before I went downstairs, I decided that to try to pacify some of the children I didn't buy from, I'd hand out two colorful pens that I'd brought along, explicitly for this purpose. When I got downstairs, I could see them outside selling to tourists already. I waited until they finished with a man and a woman and then went outside.

I caught the one girls attention -- the one wearing the blue shirt with the thickly sewn duck on the front and wearing the winter cap that had two tassles hanging from the top -- and motioned for her to come over. With a furrowed scornful brow that seemed now permanent, she accused "You said you would buy from me today!" I sat down at the table outside, "Ok, ok, lets see what you have." When I sat down one of the little boys that had come over to watch this sale noticed the pens in my pocket and immediately grabbed one. Quickly, my girl grabbed the other one. Now there were more kids. "Where is my pen?" one asked. "I'm sorry I don't have anymore."

I had her lay her card packets out on the table so I could see them all. There were scenes from Ha Long bay, from Hanoi and other parts of Vietnam. They all seemed like variations on the same thing. "Which one is your favorite?" I asked. Her brow still creased she pushed a through a few of the packets and brought forward one of Ha Long bay. I said I would take it and offered her 5,000 dong. "15,000" she said. "No, no, I'll give you 5,000". "2 for 20,000". "5,000". "10,000". She would go no lower than 10,000. Though I knew that Warren bought some for 5,000 I threw in the towel and bought them for 10,000.

With the sale over she turned her attention to the pen. She drew on her hand, pleased to see that the transluscent blue pen also drew a baby blue line of ink on her palm. The boy with the red pen drew a rosy red line on the arm of another girl. This girl turned to me, "where's my pen?" she asked. "I don't have anymore" I said. I did, but they were back in Hanoi. Telling her this would be of no use since she would only hear the "I have more" part of what I said. "I know you have more" she said, "where's my pen?" I assured her that I would try to find more pens and went inside.

After having a light breakfast of bread with jelly and butter and two bananas we got on a bus that took us in to the national park in the center of the island for a short hike. The park was half jungle half forest and the path marched up the side of a steep rocky mountain. At a fork in the road I and 3 others took a path that promised a steeper, but shorter climb while the others opted for the longer more gradual path. We were rewarded with a rocky muddy slope which required some climbing over a tumble of sharp pockmarked boulders. I really enjoyed this path. Soon we reached the top of the mountain. As we approached the top I began to see more and more water bottles on the ground. Near the top they littered the path like empty oxygen tanks near the summit of Everest. It was irritating to see that so many people decided that they could carry a heavy, full water bottle all the way to the top of this trail, yet could not be bothered to carry a light empty plastic bottle back down to throw it away.

On the way back down I saw a tree that looked like the 'sensitive plants' you sometimes see at nursuries. A 'sensitive plant' has small leaves that alternate on either side of a straight hairy stem. When touched by a finger or even a puff of air, the leaves magically fold up against each other. If the touch is heavy, all the leaves on one stem will fold up and the stem itself will fall low against the main stem of the plant. Our guide informed me that this was not the same plant, but set his eyes on the ground and after only 6 feet of searching found a small grouping of real sensitive plants along the path. After that I looked and found that there were many of these plants along the path.

After our hike we drove back and had lunch. Some people had the afternoon to themselves, but the guide, a couple and I were going kayaking. I helped the guide haul out two kayaks from a nearby hotel and set them into the water. We paddled the kayaks to the stairs descending into the water in front of our hotel and picked up the couple. We then paddled out to a small boat and loaded the kayaks on board. The boat ferried us to a location away and to cleaner, calmer parts of the bay. We were deposited into the water near an interesteing collection of small limestone islands.

We paddled through a narrow gap between two islands to find a small sheltered area that bounced our voices around in echo. Re-emmerging, our guide lead us towards one beach, but then spotted another far off across a wide expanse of unbroken water and said that beach was better. As we paddled our guide pointed out an island he said was called "Monkey Island". I suppose I should have jumped at the opportunity to visit every single monkey habitat, but it was far away and I really just wanted to explore a beach.

We got out into the open and the waves grew larger. The beach that did not seem too far away took longer to reach than we expected and I began to experience steering difficulties. The guide was rowing in the front of my two person kayak and he was not very good at keeping our heading stable. There is only so much I can do from the rear and when our heading began to fly off by 90 degrees, I'd put the paddle in the water like a rudder to quickly and forcibly correct our direction. The problem with this however, is that it bleeds off almost all the boats foward momentum. I think I would rather have paddled alone.

We finally did reach the beach however, and it was worth it. It was just a little strip between two large rocky islands with the bay lapping at both sides. From bay to bay, it was maybe 10 meters or less. From island to island it was longer, maybe 100 meters. I immediately found a dead horseshoe crab on its back in the middle of the beach. It was still pretty fresh and had most of its body. I flipped it over. Its brown shell was still shiny and its spikey tail stood up off the sand. It looked like it could take off at any minute. But it was dead. The flies did not lie about this.

Where the beach met each island there were large towers of rock that piled on top of each other reaching up to the top of the island. I tried to climb up but there was really nowhere to go. The black/brown rock was sharp and where it wasn't vertical the very small horizonal space had some sort of palm or plant growing from it. Between the piles of rock were deep grooves dug into the side of each island. Some of these grooves led into short caves lined with fine smooth sand. A few caves went far enough that the light from outside could not penetrate their depths. Unwilling to feel around with my hands I peered into the darkness trying to aborb the stray photons that managed to find their way in and bounce out again.

In tight spaces between the rock there was usually a large collection of shells. Most were broken and close to the water, these thousands of broken shells seemed to replace the sand. As the waves washed over them rolling them against each other, they made a soft pleasant tinkling sound. These shells had the same appeal for me as the big barrels of dried beans sometimes at organic food markets; a compelling urge to push my hands into them and pull out handfulls, relaxing my fingers and letting them pour out slowly. Though the water was certainly warm enough I was content to simply wade in just past my knees rather than swim. I was wearing pants unzipped mid leg to make shorts and I hadn't brought any extra.

After climbing around on the rocks, exploring caves, skipping stones and collecting two big handfulls of colorful shells (including a big conical shell that I was very proud to have found) we got back into the kayaks and paddled back to the boat. On the way back to our hotel, straddling the front of the boat, arms outstretched titanic style, it occured to me that little kids like shells, and maybe I could pass out my shells instead of pens when I got back. A bit later I realized that they probably have seen quite few shells in their short days, but I resolved myself to the enchantment of little kids for colorful shells.

Back at the hotel I washed off my shells in the bathroom sink in my room, the water pouring out onto the floor. One of the shells stank. One by one, I washed each shell, removed any stray pebbles that got stuck in the opening and took a whiff to see if I'd found the culprit. They were all clean and stench free, except one. The big conical shell I was so proud of. Something was still in there. If I was home, I could just put it on the roof under a cut up can to protect it from the sun and let nature run its course. But I wasn't home, and I wasn't about to cart this foul smelling, if beautiful shell in my bag for two weeks. With regret I moved this shell out of the small collection of interesting shells I would keep for myself.

Night was falling and outside the postcard children were with the vegetable lady, aparently waiting for dinner. I sat at a table outside and arranged my shells on the table and waited for them to finish. The couple I kayaked with sat down with me and I lamented the smellyness of the big shell and they examined the remaining shells. I saw the girl that told me I'd better find more pens looking idle, caught her attention and waved her over.

"Hi! I didn't get any more pens, but I found these shells. Would you like some?"

Her eyes flicked up to register the shells on the table then back again. "No." She was definately not fascinated with the shells. She asked me if I went to Monkey Island. I told her no and describe our kayak trip a little bit. Then she asked if I wanted to buy a clay whistle I just noticed in her hand. I said no, and she gave a few toots and then picked up one of the shells and tried to make me eat it.

Now the girl I bought postcards from, with tassles and duck, came over to see what was going on. She had a little clay whistle, simliar to the girl I had been talking to. She was also uninterested in the shells, and also tried to sell me her whistle. I noticed that most of the little postcard kids had whistles and when Warren came back from where ever he had spent his afternoon, he told us that he bought 10 whistles for 10,000 dong in a city in south Vietnam and had handed them out to the kids.

In the end, I threw my remaining shells back into the sea. The only joy they gave to any of the postcard kids was to one who wanted to help me throw them into the water. Oh well.

Later that night three fights broke out. One at the vegetable ladies spot over a wallet said to have been stolen but which was really taken out, placed on the table there, then secretly put back into the pocket. The two main contenders spent time shouting at each other while the old vegetable lady shouted and pushed both of them back away from each other. At one point the smaller of the two let loose a few whacks of some thick sugar cane. When the vegetable lady pulled those out of his hands he managed to push around her and deliver two wild round house kicks. As the shouting and the arguing continued, I saw two little 6 year old kids re-enacting the action in the street, giving a near flawless immitation of the minor scuffle, then laughing and chasing each other.

The next fight was more argument. A rental company wanted to charge some japanese tourists $135 for repairs to a damaged wheel, a ridiculously high price for the damage and value of the bike. In the end they managed to get off with $60 and some heated words.

The last happened at 1am, when I was woken up by loud drunken shouting and the sound of bricks shattering. I got up and walk to the balcony of the second floor, crouching near the ground and peering over the railing. Outside I saw te\he man ambling around the empty street, pulling bricks up off the sidewalk and throwing them against the street and some of the buildings. He kept shouting the same thing over and over. He seemed pretty worked up and at one point some friends of his looked like they were trying to drag him away. He broke free and ran back to the area near the front of my hotel, to continue shouting and smashing bricks.

Annoyed, I though to myself that that he either needs so pass out on his own or someone needs to do it for him. That came shortly after when I heard the sound of bricks hitting something that wasn't pavement two doors down. There were shouts and then the sound of the scuffle. The man had been solidly pummled and his friends came back to drag him away.

The next day I talked to someone else who had also seen the fight and who had been with a native speaker. Aparently the man claimed his brother had stolen all his savings and ruined him. Aparently his daughter had just become a prostitute at the brothal run two doors down. The man was attacking this and shouting "I don't care if I die" over and over. Tourism has only been known to this island for a few years now, maybe 8 at the most. It promises a marked increase in income for the people here, but as events have shown, the edges are rough and for everyone that benifits, just as many will find themselves washed away.