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Vietnamese girl Tam Coc is a little south of Hanoi, near the town of Nin Binh.  This town is dusty and unremarkable but for the limestone hills that burst vertically out of the surrounding rice paddies.  Halong Bay has the same features but surrounded by water.  It is a toss up which is more scenic, but as I mentioned, we had not gone to Halong Bay.  We came here to see the nearby caves and waterways, but the countryside was so striking that we decided to walk the six kilometres to Banh Long Pagoda using a rough map that our hotel had given us. On the way we passed several mounds of black stones with red heat glowing through spaces between them.  We were mystified.  The mounds were 10 metres across, round, and 2 to 3 metres high.  They had apparently been labouriously built by hand then something ignited inside.  What could they be?  Eventually we came to a group of men who were building one.  They were dirty, with poor teeth, and no doubt had very little education or income.  More than once on my I travels was painfully aware, and more than a little embarrassed, by my wealth and soft life compared to these people.  I had been reduced to bankruptcy in Canada, yet I was still far better off and had many more opportunities than these labourers.  They were cutting irregular chunks of red clay from the ground with their shovels and stacking them piece by piece, bucket by bucket, onto the circle.  What they put inside to fire the clay was not clear.  They noticed us and waved, making jokes that may or may not have been polite.  One of them approached us and made motions to ask if we had cigarettes.  He was disappointed that we didn't, and I felt badly that we had none since cigarettes are friendship tokens among males everywhere we travelled.  There are no anti-smoking campaigns in any of these countries, so Big Tobacco is having a field day.  About this time we noticed many grey rocks lying about also, rocks the same size and odd shapes as the clay chunks, so we finally knew they were making rocks, but for what purpose we never found out.  Further down the road were a few meager shops and homes.  I purchased four packs of local cigarettes and said I would walk back to give one of them to the workers, wanting to be friendly but feeling a little hypocritical.  Ruth sensed this, and we had a strange argument about her not wanting to backtrack with the smokes and me arguing that the men might not be there when we returned.  In retrospect, I think it was really about giving a harmful "gift".  The poor of Asia routinely do horrible, back-breaking work for incredibly long hours and very little pay.  Small wonder the spoiled Western soldiers were driven out, and it's too bad these people don't also perceive B.T. as their enemy.  I have found out since that the cigarette packages in some countries do in fact contain printed warnings about the dangers of smoking, but that cannot be much of a deterrent to an illiterate worker. Another oddity, more easily explained however, was the mounds of wet mud on the streets and sidewalks and in peoples' yards, about 10 centimetres deep, a metre wide and several metres long usually, covered with plastic sheets, and full of what looked like grass growing but was really rice shoots.  This was preparation for the planting season coming up, and these shoots would be taken handful by handful to the fields and painstakingly separated and planted one at a time.  We had to step around them often, and sometimes there were large areas with many rows of these.  This is the traditional life of these people, and always in the back of my mind was the thought that it could all be made so much easier if only the world cared.  It was at the grocery story where we made our first real contact with rural Vietnamese. Wonderfully friendly and warm, the children squealed with delight as they saw their pictures on the camera screen, and the adults conveyed that they would like to have prints - perhaps they had never seen photographs of themselves.  A couple of men wrote their addresses in Ruth's notebook, but is was apparent from the scrawl that one of them was illiterate.  Someone finally wrote a clear address and later we had copies made and duly sent them.  Having no return address however, we don't know if they ever arrived. Onward past the last buildings, we got a clearer view of farmers behind water buffalo (some prosperous ones had a machine, probably shared, that resembled a roto-tiller but we never saw one of these close up) in the flooded paddies, with the amazing high hills rising so abruptly.  With palm trees in the foreground, Ruth got some lovely photos, and I had never felt myself to be in a more exotic place. A white, feminine-looking statue signalled that we had reached the pagoda, but we didn't recognize it as such.  It could have been a farmhouse.  Some brown robes were hanging to dry, but shouldn't they have been saffron?  We walked on a little, not sure what to do or even if this was the temple.  Finally we turned back, the road remaining spectacular but not showing much by way of temples or habitations.  Seeing some people leaving and a brown-robed lady waving goodbye to them, we walked along the path to the plain looking building.  The same lady greeted us; a nun, friendly but unsmiling.  She bade us sit, poured tea and peeled oranges for us.  We decided we should make a donation, so I placed a 20000 Dong note (a little over a dollar, and a day's pay for the rock-workers) under the teapot when she wasn't looking.  She motioned us into a shabby side building and inside was our first real

Vietnamese Fishing Boats . .. Parts I & II of A Ramble in SE Asia A Ramble in South East Asia Ron Hannah, a Canadian who 'came of age' in the 1960s, the 'Vietnam War' era, takes a ramble around 21st century Vietnam. This is the first of six 'musings'.....more to follow in the coming months..... The motorcycles of Hanoi - ah, who would have thought, in the let's-bomb-them-back to-the-stone-age sixties, that Hanoi would ever again have streets, let alone vehicles? But vehicles it has "by the glory" (Ruth's favourite phrase), and the two-wheeled motorized variety predominates by far. A Ramble in South East Asia - Continuing Ron Hannah's observational and perceptive ramble...."We were interested in the villages around Sapa and I wanted to see Dien Bien Phu where the French were defeated in 1954.  We heard from returning travellers that it was below freezing up there, and that travel was difficult.  The spectre of a very large Australian tourist at a streetside shop trying to buy a sweater that would fit him in this land of small people, was what finally scrubbed those plans, I think." Running Through Battlefields On the outdoor veranda of our hotel, a 9 year-old Vietnamese girl wanted desperately to unload her supply of Tiger Balm into our hands. She was playful and cute, calling us diarrhea and then laughing girlishly into her balled up fists. The slang she had picked up on the balconies of these hotels added flare to her sales routine, but in the last week we had seen a hundred other charming children trying to pawn their commodities. On this hot summer evening near the Gulf of Tonkin, our beers provided all the entertainment we needed. Travel To Vietnam It’s 9AM, and we have just left Nha Trang after stopping at every bus stop/tourist cafe that exists in town. In between stops, we have also re-fuelled, broken down and crossed a bridge that was still under construction. After over an hour of circling and zigzagging, I had became fearful that I would never reach Saigon by 7PM. But fortunately, it seems that we are now well under way. My attention is currently focused on the fact that the bus driver is seated across from me; he started taking the air-conditioning unit apart while we were re-fuelling, and another man nonchalantly replaced him. .

The little I have read about Buddhism has resonated with me for many years.  Its logic has always seemed clear and irrefutable, for it aims at nothing beyond the simple realization of one's own potential.  "To live is to suffer", the Buddha's opening gambit, immediately grabs one with its simple truth.  He then goes on:  "Suffering is caused by attachment and unfulfilled desire", and "To remove suffering it is necessary to become unattached".  This kind of reasoning, in addition to simply ringing true, in the West is called a syllogism, and I think it cannot have been accidental that the Buddha and Aristotle, the originator of the syllogism, lived at approximately the same time.  In the last few centuries B.C., humanity had finally evolved to the point at which this kind of logic, or at least its articulation, became possible.  Like any idea whose time has come, it appeared in both East and West and it led to two distinct social explosions.  In the West it became known as Science, the art of harnessing the forces of the outer world; in the East, Buddhism, the art of harnessing one's own inner drives, detaching from them, and finding peace.  I have studied the former in some depth, indeed I hold a degree in Chemistry and now, observing the power of deductive reasoning in the hands of those leaders and businessmen who know no peace, I feel the need to seek balance in the latter.  It is this classic manifestation of the mind/matter, head/heart, Apollonian/Dionysian, left-brain/right-brain division of the human psyche that has been the cause of so much history.  In myself, it can also be no accident that I also hold degrees in music, for it was in the observation of the lengths of vibrating strings and the tones they produce that the mathematics of ratios originated, and science began.  It is not by chance either that the words "tone" and "tonic" are common to music and medicine, for music was rightly believed to have healing powers.  All of this was in my mind as I stood with Ruth before the Buddha image and his goofy-looking acolytes, though I had not truly articulated it all until now, while writing, and I'm still not sure I have got it right. In retrospect, it probably wasn't the Banh Long Pagoda at all, and on the walk back, with the daylight failing, we saw the rock makers still at work.

At Tam Coc, not far away, we got our first introduction to the way in which tourism spoils the local people.  In this area one sees the jutting hills close up and even from beneath as one's small boat passes through long caves in the limestone.  The word breathtaking is entirely inadequate to describe this place.  You float placidly among flooded rice paddies trying to burn each vista, each cliff face into your memory knowing you are unlikely to return, lost in soft contemplation while local farmers labour in the water, no doubt being preyed upon by leeches.  On the shore a man with a camera was pedaling fast to keep up, and he arrived at a small lock before us, snapping a picture of us snapping a picture of him.  Later he tried to sell it to us.  We continued on with our friendly guide and our rower smiling and conversing in their limited English.  The guide was an affable woman who showed us letters of thanks from previous visitors, including a German lady who had come to her home and purchased some pieces of embroidery.  We were also being invited to her home, and it all seemed most hospitable.  At one point she took over the rowing, leaning back and holding the oars with her prehensile toes, just as the guidebook said she would - an extra bit of local colour.  Even though we were there early in the morning there were already rowboats returning the other way, powered by toe-rowers looking odd and unnatural.

When we reached the end, a delightful grotto following yet another of the mysterious caves, the hard sell began.  A boat laden with food and drinks pulled alongside and the lady offered me hot coffee.  She knew her clientele.  The cost was one US dollar, exorbitant but I was enraptured.  She then requested another dollar "so my child can go to school" and suggested I buy drinks for the hard-working rowers.  It finally cost me $5 and Ruth and I both realized the cans of pop were going to be returned later and the purchase price shared among the three of them.  The drinks remained unopened all the way back.  It was a smooth scam and I went along with it knowingly.  But it was on the trip back that things turned mildly ugly.  She pulled out a bag of embroidery, not very good or very beautiful in my opinion and when we repeatedly refused to buy she became much less friendly and sulked the rest of the way.  Ruth took two photos of her sitting in the boat when we returned, and in both her eyes were closed.  That was our punishment.  Friendliness and hospitality now have a pricetag.

 We followed a road after this that we hoped would take us back to the highway and Ninh Binh.  It was mid-day, hot, and as we passed increasingly sparse homes and more and more open paddies, a few schoolchildren joined us and quickly used up their English vocabulary:  "Hello".  They joked and laughed and we were bemused and waiting for the begging to begin.  In fact, it had been going on all along, with the kids making motions as if writing in a notebook.  We could not fathom what this meant, surely it was an odd way to ask for money.  But it seemed they did not want money, and we parted company gradually with a few of them turning off at each intersection, about every half kilometre.  It was not until much later, in another country, that we came to understand that the children were indeed asking for pens and notebooks - school supplies.  We had no idea!
At last we were on our own again, on the elevated roadway between rice paddies.  Ahead was one of the intriguing high hills, so at last we were going to see one close-up and on foot, though it was also apparent that this was not the direction to the highway.  A few vendors' stalls lined the approach to a stone gate leading into the shaded grounds of a lovely treed temple whose name I read but have now forgotten.  Too bad, for it was a tranquil and beautiful place with a cave entrance high above.  This was pointed out by a silent old man in street clothes who could have been a priest, I suppose.  I went with him up the many steps while Ruth waited below to get a dramatic photo of us.  There was a large Buddha with disciples inside the cave, but to my surprise he showed me another staircase inside, at the top of which was a large suspended bronze bell which I was shown I should strike three times with a stone for luck.  Ruth had to see this:  the cave went on and on.  I motioned for him to wait and descended to the cave mouth as quickly as uneven stone steps and poor lighting would allow, and soon the three of us were proceeding through, past several smaller shrines and out the back into a large fissure in the hillside, inaccessible by any other route, and offering an amazing blue-green view of the countryside below, the countryside we had just walked and had now to traverse again since the road ended at this place.  We did a lot of walking on this trip and it was probably the healthiest time of my life.

 At the bottom once more, past a few temple-style buildings which we had originally assumed constituted the complete temple, and back through the stone gateway, we indulged in a fresh coconut - my first.  They were piled in a heap, large, heavy and green.  These were not the coconuts I was used to buying in Safeway.  Why were they so large, and where was the brown, hairy covering?  These were smooth and mottled, but I did notice when the lady hacked off the top of one of them with a machete, that the inner layers were dark and fibrous, so I suppose the outer portion is pulled away for export.  We sat with two straws and drank the warm and sweet/salty milk.  It was thin and watery, again not like coconut milk I had seen in cans.  Ruth When we reached the end, a delightful grotto following yet another of the mysterious caves, the hard sell began.  A boat laden with food and drinks pulled alongside and the lady offered me hot coffee.  She knew her clientele.  The cost was one US dollar, exorbitant but I was enraptured.  She then requested another dollar "so my child can go to school" and suggested I buy drinks for the hard-working rowers.  It finally cost me $5 and Ruth and I both realized the cans of pop were going to be returned later and the purchase price shared among the three of them.  The drinks remained unopened all the way back.  It was a smooth scam and I went along with it knowingly.  But it was on the trip back that things turned mildly ugly.  She pulled out a bag of embroidery, not very good or very beautiful in my opinion and when we repeatedly refused to buy she became much less friendly and sulked the rest of the way.  Ruth took two photos of her sitting in the boat when we returned, and in both her eyes were closed.  That was our punishment.  Friendliness and hospitality now have a pricetag.

 We followed a road after this that we hoped would take us back to the highway and Ninh Binh.  It was mid-day, hot, and as we passed increasingly sparse homes and more and more open paddies, a few schoolchildren joined us and quickly used up their English vocabulary:  "Hello".  They joked and laughed and we were bemused and waiting for the begging to begin.  In fact, it had been going on all along, with the kids making motions as if writing in a notebook.  We could not fathom what this meant, surely it was an odd way to ask for money.  But it seemed they did not want money, and we parted company gradually with a few of them turning off at each intersection, about every half kilometre.  It was not until much later, in another country, that we came to understand that the children were indeed asking for pens and notebooks - school supplies.  We had no idea!
At last we were on our own again, on the elevated roadway between rice paddies.  Ahead was one of the intriguing high hills, so at last we were going to see one close-up and on foot, though it was also apparent that this was not the direction to the highway.  A few vendors' stalls lined the approach to a stone gate leading into the shaded grounds of a lovely treed temple whose name I read but have now forgotten.  Too bad, for it was a tranquil and beautiful place with a cave entrance high above.  This was pointed out by a silent old man in street clothes who could have been a priest, I suppose.  I went with him up the many steps while Ruth waited below to get a dramatic photo of us.  There was a large Buddha with disciples inside the cave, but to my surprise he showed me another staircase inside, at the top of which was a large suspended bronze bell which I was shown I should strike three times with a stone for luck.  Ruth had to see this:  the cave went on and on.  I motioned for him to wait and descended to the cave mouth as quickly as uneven stone steps and poor lighting would allow, and soon the three of us were proceeding through, past several smaller shrines and out the back into a large fissure in the hillside, inaccessible by any other route, and offering an amazing blue-green view of the countryside below, the countryside we had just walked and had now to traverse again since the road ended at this place.  We did a lot of walking on this trip and it was probably the healthiest time of my life.

 At the bottom once more, past a few temple-style buildings which we had originally assumed constituted the complete temple, and back through the stone gateway, we indulged in a fresh coconut - my first.  They were piled in a heap, large, heavy and green.  These were not the coconuts I was used to buying in Safeway.  Why were they so large, and where was the brown, hairy covering?  These were smooth and mottled, but I did notice when the lady hacked off the top of one of them with a machete, that the inner layers were dark and fibrous, so I suppose the outer portion is pulled away for export.  We sat with two straws and drank the warm and sweet/salty milk.  It was thin and watery, again not like coconut milk I had seen in cans.  Ruth When we reached the end, a delightful grotto following yet another of the mysterious caves, the hard sell began.  A boat laden with food and drinks pulled alongside and the lady offered me hot coffee.  She knew her clientele.  The cost was one US dollar, exorbitant but I was enraptured.  She then requested another dollar "so my child can go to school" and suggested I buy drinks for the hard-working rowers.  It finally cost me $5 and Ruth and I both realized the cans of pop were going to be returned later and the purchase price shared among the three of them.  The drinks remained unopened all the way back.  It was a smooth scam and I went along with it knowingly.  But it was on the trip back that things turned mildly ugly.  She pulled out a bag of embroidery, not very good or very beautiful in my opinion and when we repeatedly refused to buy she became much less friendly and sulked the rest of the way.  Ruth took two photos of her sitting in the boat when we returned, and in both her eyes were closed.  That was our punishment.  Friendliness and hospitality now have a pricetag.

 We followed a road after this that we hoped would take us back to the highway and Ninh Binh.  It was mid-day, hot, and as we passed increasingly sparse homes and more and more open paddies, a few schoolchildren joined us and quickly used up their English vocabulary:  "Hello".  They joked and laughed and we were bemused and waiting for the begging to begin.  In fact, it had been going on all along, with the kids making motions as if writing in a notebook.  We could not fathom what this meant, surely it was an odd way to ask for money.  But it seemed they did not want money, and we parted company gradually with a few of them turning off at each intersection, about every half kilometre.  It was not until much later, in another country, that we came to understand that the children were indeed asking for pens and notebooks - school supplies.  We had no idea!
At last we were on our own again, on the elevated roadway between rice paddies.  Ahead was one of the intriguing high hills, so at last we were going to see one close-up and on foot, though it was also apparent that this was not the direction to the highway.  A few vendors' stalls lined the approach to a stone gate leading into the shaded grounds of a lovely treed temple whose name I read but have now forgotten.  Too bad, for it was a tranquil and beautiful place with a cave entrance high above.  This was pointed out by a silent old man in street clothes who could have been a priest, I suppose.  I went with him up the many steps while Ruth waited below to get a dramatic photo of us.  There was a large Buddha with disciples inside the cave, but to my surprise he showed me another staircase inside, at the top of which was a large suspended bronze bell which I was shown I should strike three times with a stone for luck.  Ruth had to see this:  the cave went on and on.  I motioned for him to wait and descended to the cave mouth as quickly as uneven stone steps and poor lighting would allow, and soon the three of us were proceeding through, past several smaller shrines and out the back into a large fissure in the hillside, inaccessible by any other route, and offering an amazing blue-green view of the countryside below, the countryside we had just walked and had now to traverse again since the road ended at this place.  We did a lot of walking on this trip and it was probably the healthiest time of my life.

 At the bottom once more, past a few temple-style buildings which we had originally assumed constituted the complete temple, and back through the stone gateway, we indulged in a fresh coconut - my first.  They were piled in a heap, large, heavy and green.  These were not the coconuts I was used to buying in Safeway.  Why were they so large, and where was the brown, hairy covering?  These were smooth and mottled, but I did notice when the lady hacked off the top of one of them with a machete, that the inner layers were dark and fibrous, so I suppose the outer portion is pulled away for export.  We sat with two straws and drank the warm and sweet/salty milk.  It was thin and watery, again not like coconut milk I had seen in cans.  Ruth explained that the milk gradually dries up as the white meat inside gets thicker.  I can't say it is my favourite beverage, but it was refreshing enough on a hot day and there was a surprising quantity of it, too.  The cost turned out to be ridiculously low but I was not prepared for the look of gratitude on the proprietor's face or the heartfelt "merci", when I gave her double the price she asked.

 The walk back to the boat landing was less enjoyable than at first because of the growing heat and because Ruth hates to backtrack.  Nevertheless, there were no vehicles on the road spewing their black smoke and the walking was healthy.  If it was hot for us, I kept thinking, how much more so for those workers in the fields on both sides of us who smiled and waved?  We may have been driven out of the West by high prices and lack of opportunity, but we were still embarrassingly better off than these.

 Past the boat landing, an enormous set of concrete steps that curved widely around a bay or lagoon (I couldn't decide which), we found the road out at last.  Three ladies along the way, young and pretty for a while, were just leaving the fields and they mimed that they were thirsty, so we gave them our water bottle while Ruth took pictures.  She usually asks permission and feels slightly awkward doing so, but I have also seen her sneak photos of unsuspecting subjects who sometimes do not remain unsuspecting, but have rarely objected.  It is a good idea to carry water at all times in these countries, bottled water since tap water is unsafe and must be boiled before drinking.  One of the ladies was quite fastidious in wiping the lip of the water bottle - you never know what these foreigners might be carrying!  A short while later, after watching a farmer chase a kid which had gotten separated from the flock and was running every direction but the right one, I saw a pile of women's underclothes, those of two individuals, small and dainty by the side of the road.  Alongside them was a half-used card of contraceptive pills and a bent syringe.  This was not the only time we were to come upon evidence of a sad, possibly violent, encounter.  The conflict of traditional modesty with Western anything-goes (dare I say it?) morality, is obviously having a dislocating effect, and I wondered in what state those two young girls must now be, or even if they were alive.

Ninh Binh is hot and dusty, heavily trafficked and polluted, and lacking any of the charm of old Hanoi.  It is in fact typical of contemporary Asian towns, with shabby looking wooden or concrete buildings put up strictly to be functional for commerce.  Often they have been so extensively altered over time as businesses come and go that one runs into another in haphazard fashion; walls added or knocked out, or doors and windows punched through them - or bricked in - so that the route from the front to the rear of a building can be tortuous indeed.  One wonders often when the whole will finally collapse.  Not far from this depressing place however, is Cuc Phuong National Park.

 This was the off-season, February, and we had to pay a good deal of money to hire a car and driver to take us there.  After the big city of Hanoi and this little dust bowl, we felt the need for the cooling welcome of a natural setting.  We arrived next morning and visited first the Endangered Primate Rescue Centre just outside the park gate.  Quiet and verdant paths lead between large cages containing some of the rare gibbons and langurs whose homes are slowly being destroyed by the activity of humans.  I reminded myself that nature's way is to eliminate species that cannot adapt to change and that all species, including my own, eventually disappear, also that we are the first on the planet to be aware, if imperfectly, of the effects of our actions.  The place struck me more with its graveyard solemnity than with joy and hope for the creatures within.  Some were truly beautiful with rich grey or brown fur and long, luxurious tails.  They paid us no heed, generally, and seemed to be sitting on their perches contemplating their fate.  I was glad to leave, especially after we bought a few pictorial postcards from staff that seemed as indifferent as their wards.  The guidebook calls the place "laid back".  I felt ignored by all.

 The living compound inside the park consisted of a few buildings surrounding a grassy square, and off to one side an out-of-place Olympic sized swimming pool - stream-fed I read.  On all sides the rain forest loomed, climbing the hills with exuberance.  Whitman talks of his live-oak "uttering leaves of dark green", but this canopy fairly shouted its joy in being alive.  In one spot, a huge spreading tree made even more full by a monster vine that completely enclosed its trunk and blended above with its foliage, resembled a mushroom cloud, a veritable explosion of life!  We were the only guests and had our choice of rustic rooms with a shared balcony overlooking the  square.  We wanted to walk and found a trail that we hoped would take us to a cave and an ancient tree that were on the park map.  Asian maps tend to be vague and one is never quite sure about them.  We started out, marveling everywhere at the cycle of life:  the smell of growth and decay, mighty trees and graceful ferns, butterflies that we loved and gnats and mosquitoes that we didn't.  Ruth became fascinated with the colourful, sometimes geometric, patterns on tree bark and took several photos.  One kind of tree was new, at least to me.  Otherwise a regular tree with smooth grey bark and very straight trunk, its base looked as if a giant hand had pinched it into three or four "wings" which fanned out in all directions at ground level.  At the 1000 year old tree, these wings were almost large enough to spread a tarpaulin over and make a dwelling.  I set the camera on 10-second delay and nearly tripped over tangled roots trying to get back beside Ruth in time for this picture.  There is more drama in it than there may appear.  The Princess Cave was little more than a rough hole in the ground, tricky to climb in and out, but I suppose it has a lot of history to tell.  At the summit of the walk we stopped for a small picnic.  In the silence I constantly heard and saw falling leaves, some quite large.  I began to wonder how many tonnes of leaves might fall in a day in the Vietnamese jungle and how many watts of power that action might generate.  Any way you think about it, aesthetically and with poetic appreciation or mathematically and with scientific detachment, the rain forest is an awesome place.  Its balance is precise, nothing is wasted, and we mess with it at our peril.

The staff at the park was strangely invisible except for the two young men playing baseball in the square with an American couple and their two boys.  They had been here for several days and the Vietnamese were eager to learn the game from them.  So we weren't the only guests, but they were not staying in the same building so we could pretend that night that we were alone.  The noises of the rain forest seem to enhance its silence, and I have rarely slept so peacefully.
 

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