Crawling Whistler|19th August 2006
..................................He's off..
................
...........................The Whistler Delights

Contrary to evidence presented in a shamelessly posed photo exhibited on these pages recently, Harry has only just started eating meat.
and he’s very fond of it.
“Oh he’ll love his meat!” said my mum who of course raised me and can recognize a budding flesh addict when she sees one.
We had been warned what might occur in his nappy as a result of all this but it hasn’t turned his poo’s into it’s own horror story.
(“The Arse that could Kill “)
His sh*t literally doesn’t stink.
If I was asked to describe it, I would say it’s like the No 3 dish at the Vegetarian Curry Restaurant in K Road (boiled egg on the side).

The meat food he eats is prime beef, mushed with potato and kumara. It’s yummy too, So, he’s lucky he get so much of it.
AND …This just in!
He has just meandered awkwardly past another milestone.
Arse wiggling ominously in the air, he has set off down the carpet of life, heading with naughty purpose towards the great unknown.
Yes, he’s crawling.
At the moment it is with a jerky, haphazard motion. But I am not too sure I am in a hurry to see him straighten up and perfect his style.
That just means more trouble for us.
Like most kids he knows instinctively where danger and trouble can be found, and as soon as you avert your gaze away from him, he’s off towards it.
I put him on the ground and set a toy in front of him. I turn away for less time than it would take for Ben Johnson to run 100 Metres (off to the drug store). When I glance back he has spun around and has grabbed the electrical multibox.
How did he even know it was there?
I am sure if I wanted to be guaranteed he would crawl for someone the best way would be to place a loaded gun and a cut throat razor on the ground and turn away.
He would be on them in seconds.

The lovely plunket lady came the other day and said the words covetous people in the ‘parenting competition’ long to hear;
“He’s very advanced.”
I am like;….. for gods sake….
he’s amused for hours by a set of keys, he vomits on himself continuously, he laughs hysterically when I drop a cloth giraffe on his nose.. yes very advanced, very impressive.
At the end of the day (or the prime of his life) will it make any difference? If he walks or talks a couple of months before anyone else will it change his life? Will he get a better job in the long run? Because he can’t really use those things in his CV, or bring them up at a job interview;
’Did I mention I was talking at 10 months?’

The whole “Make my child a genius” industry annoys me, and I am really not keen on trying to make him freakishly clever. Why? You ask citing the Tall Poppy Syndrome etc..
I suppose it’s just that that over zealous parents grate and all that Baby Einstein crap at the toy shop irritates me.
Preying on parents, the parents desire to live vicariously through their kid, to make the kid to be everything they weren’t. Although not entirely, the real thing they want is to have version of themselves without flaws...to create the SUPER ME.. SOmething I am happy to live without.. and if I was to take all of my flaws out of my personality I am not sure how much would be left.

Recently, National Radio had a feature on a woman who studied genius children.
She gushed;
” A kid visit me the other day, 6 years old, he spoke 4 languages and when he came into my office he said;
’The room next to yours is the square root of 14!”
How f*cking annoying. That bl**dy kid is already a pain in the arse and it’s only going to get worse. A virtual freak show exhibit.

I look after Harry by myself on Saturday mornings and I think I offer him an essential alternative to any hyper pushy parenting and some grounding, on those occasions.
The most recent Saturday morning was preceded by a band practice with his Daddy’s old(est) band on Friday night. It was excellent. Many aspects of it were more like a party than a band rehearsal. A guy was recording it so we kicked the boat out a bit (that’s my current excuse anyway).
As consequence Daddy was a bit under the weather when handed his son in bed to take the parental helm in the morning.
”Nurofen Plus and coffee for breakfast boy” I explained on my way down the hallway to the kitchen.
With me showered, him bathed, and my coffee ready we sat down to read the newspaper together.
’Daddy’s a bit seedy this morning mate, shabby…’
Harry dribbles cleverly to make me feel better.
’SO . . . we’ll go straight to the sports section and the articles about rugby.’

The articles are boring so I tell Harry about the front row in the scrum.
’You can’t win without a good one of those.’
’People in front rows used to be thought of as stupid but now we even have a guy called Anton Oliver who studies fine arts, up there at hooker.’
”Mind you, he can’t throw the damn ball in to save himself.’
Harry looks around at me.
’Thinking about art I expect.’
’Personally I’d rather have someone stupid…’
’Who can throw the bloody ball in…’
I swear at that point and he looked up at me, laughed and threw his arms down..
What a precious moment. He understood;
’ Keep intelligence out of sport!’

My hangover was gone. The competition from Harry, the rugby stuff and laughter proved too much opposition to it. Either that or the nurofen had started to work it’s chemical magic.

Harry’s other current trick is whistling.
I have asked a few parents if they have a had a 'baby encounter of the whistling kind' and from their responses it would seem this behavour doesn't fit seemlessly into a slot with other milestones.
A conversation about it can go like this;
Me –‘ she’s gorgeous.’
..’how old?’
Parent – ‘8 months..’
Me – ‘lovely. on solids?’
Parent – ‘ yeah. she’s so into it.’
me –‘meat?’
Parent – ‘No thanks I’ve just eaten..’
Me – ‘No. Is your baby on meat..’
Parent – ‘organic veges.’
Me – ‘of course. teething?’
Parent – ‘ two front teeth.’
Me- ‘cool.’
…’whistling yet?’
Parent –‘sorry.. ‘
At this point eyes gazing downwards on their child with the benign doting smile look up and the expression is replaced by the confused, quizzical frown.
Me- ‘is she whistling yet?’
‘No.’
Says the parent, the emphasis emphatic. The hasty departure from our conversation will follow in short order, with a poor excuse.
’Excuse me. I need to go and watch the kettle boil somewhere else…’

He does it so seriously. Harry, the whistling.. it cracks me up.
And it’s great, cause it’s his thing. It’s not anyone else’s, certainly not mine. I harboured no great whistling aspirations.
And that's the thing, as long as it's his gig. Not something I am imposing on him for whatever reason and the truth is, in the future, if he starts to misspend his time on the things I wasted my time doing I will probably actively discourage him.
"Put that bl**dy guitar down and do some algebra!!"

The Strokes |9th Auust 2006
...............Once more into the breech..
................
....................................Tutt....Tutt

My career as a band roadie had appeared to be over, especially because I blogged about my experiences with the 3D’s and Nirvana and U2, and didn’t come over as a spectacular asset for the band to have around, before a gig.
Even during the gig.
In fact the only time I was useful, was after the gig when they needed someone to talk cr*p, laugh, and drink their rider.
So a phone call on the way home from work recently came as a surprise..
I was on the North Western Motorway contemplating an uneventful night…
’What shall I do tonight ??’ I mused.
’Nothing, or absolutely nothing..?’
Then the phone rang.
It was Matt, the guy who met Keith Richards, the star of my blog here.
The line was bad but eventually ….
’We’ve got the support for the Strokes. They are playing tonight. DO you want to be our guitar tech?’
Wow!
a. Wow. I am going to the Strokes
b. Wow. The Tutts have got the support.
c. ‘What’s a guitar tech?’

They only found out at 11 in the morning, and The Tutts are THE No 1 Strokes fans.. When I talked to Matt’s dad Mark, later he said the Strokes were the reason they formed the band in the first place.
So I could imagine how they felt.
Stoked.
The Strokes!

I realized a new strategy was required from the 3d’s one..
Hanging around deliberately making the band MORE nervous would not be on.
I would have to be good, professional even. A soothing presence..
‘Nothing’s too hard mate’..
’Can I help you with that?’
‘I have a carrot in my pocket if you need it.’
.. that sort of thing.

Most of my friends have been in bands or at least associated with music and Matt’s band, The Tutts represent the new generation of the band tradition.
They have a couple of songs that are hits on radio B and they are a good band. Excellent rhythm section and really danceable, catchy tunes. They sound like a lot of bands from the 80’s. I don’t think it’s too deliberate, I can’t imagine them sitting around listening, with wistful devotion, to Depeche Mode albums, it’s just what has currently descended from the collective unconscious..
Singer Scotty’s style, in particular, has elusively reminded me of something. But what.. ?
Halfway through the gig.. my mate Steve said ..’Duran Duran.’
Yes.. maybe …I thought, but not quite..
To cut a long story short, I know it reminded me a bit of Spandau Ballet… OR that Human League guy..Phil Oakley…

Flock off! Seagulls

Yes, the 80’s are back. Which for someone who was there the first time, is surprising. Mind you, not all of the 80’s are back and if someone turns up with leg warmers, padded shoulders and suit jacket with it’s sleeves rolled up you will known things have gone way too far.
Luckily, the kids have carefully avoided the hair styles from the era, because many haircuts that had seemed to be cool then, when you look back on them now, were just mullets.
ergghh.
Mullets everywhere.
Even Chris Knox had one.

Good Lord No.

My own hair suffered every indignity I could think of. The abuse was rampant, on my head at least. I did all sorts of awful things to my hair..Every sort of awful thing. Once in Sydney, I tried to bleach my hair totally white. Instead it went the colour of orange ice cream and looked so ridiculous that people, total strangers, stopped to laugh at me on the street.

Once, I even got a hair cut similar to the one championed by Phil Oakley, seen above, from Human League.
His was a somewhat rather lurid style that was long on one side, short on the other, I think it may have even had a name.

Not that I particularly wanted to be like him, I was just a victim of that thing that will often cause hair to be abused… boredom.

To get this particular cut, I went to an old fashioned barber shop in ‘Deep West’ Auckland, Henderson.
With me was Bon vivant, raconteur and wine snob, the wicked Little Ross Hollands..
The barber was a towering figure of a man, rugby stalwart and ex All Black Prop, Wally Jellicich.
Once I knew it was him I was a bit nervous but I thought f*ck it, I’m here.
I sat down on the chair and he placed the cape on me then said in a large booming, bloke voice;
’What’ll it be?’
’Ahh.. Short back and.. half a side.’ I said trying to keep a straight face.
’eh… What do you bl**dy want?’ he said in the accent of the RSA.
’Short back… and half a side.’
I demonstrated with my hands.
Wally never said another word.
..and once he finished he powdered my neck like they do and held the mirror up so I could see the back, to get see if I was happy..
Talk about laugh…

Anyway, excuse me, while I drag myself back to 2006, where my hair has been in relative safety for years…. I have a concert to attend.
I arrive at 7pm, one hour before the Tutts are to play. They haven’t had a soundcheck, neither have the Strokes.
We sort out the guitars and hang out drinking cheap wine. Matt seems pretty relaxed, either that or drunk.
Soon some guys wander in and say hi.
Hang on….
Fine cheek bones, slim frames that love clothes that love them back; the tight jeans, the sneakers.. the essence of New York cool…
Yes, it’s The Strokes.
They are very friendly and well, kinda normal. They’re good boys.
Their crew are nice too, it’s gonna be sweet.
Their ‘sound check’ consists of going through a piece of a song with keyboards and a guitar with the lead singer Julian Casablanca’s fiddling about with effects peddles for about half an hour.

Strokes soundcheck.

It was strange and eccentric. I was liking them more and more.
With it over they lurk off stage apologizing goofily to the Tutts, whose sound check has all but gone.

The Tutts gig goes well. They play well, but more important they engage the audience. By the time the play they are so relaxed they take to swigging from a bottle of wine while they play, setting a fine example to the teenagers up front.
More than one of them up the front will will be saying, or at least thinking;
'When I grow up I will swig like a Tutt!!'
The unfeasibly cool american band watch most of the performance from the side of the stage, looking so cute I could almost stroke them..

My own performance is almost faultless. I stand on the side with my arms folded in the perfect pose for a roadie. I am always at the ready. Poised, efficient, a machine. I scan the stage constantly for the sign of trouble. There is none. In fact, like every other time I have done this I don’t have to anything, not one string changed, no equipment rectified, no teenager dragged to the side of the stage to be liberated from the burden of their drugs.

.. and it occurs to me that if your inclined that way it’s not a bad vocation;
Hang about with famous people doing nothing in a black T-Shirt.

I go out front for the Strokes. They really are a great band.
Sure, if someone had asked me which skinny good looking indie band I would like to see this week I would have said The Arctic Monkeys but I was pretty damn happy to check them out.
In the middle of their set Casablanca’s stops and has this to say;
’Big up’s to the Tutts… local boys do good… eh…..'
yeah... Damn Straight.

Finally, the news that Christchurch Police will be riding around in buses to overhear conversations between burglers has to be a joke. Cos it sure made me laugh ( I had to pull over my car). Is there a less efficient way to deploy our police force? I mean, what are the chances that at the particular time the next great train robbery is being discussed. PC plod (Bus Thief Division) will be sitting on the right bus, in the right seat.
and.. wont the fact they have publicised the initiative mean the burglars will shut up OR stop catching the bus.
Hilarious. and next time you are being beaten up in the Christchurch square, take heart from the fact that the bus that is passing you, as you lie in the gutter, will have an officer on board, all ears, trying to prevent your house from being broken into as well...

................
..... I stopped to fill up my bike and the whole family came out to see me.

The wedding over, it was now time relax and get to know Vietnam. I have visited a few South East Asian destinations and outwardly Vietnam looked a lot like the others, but as I mentioned in a pre-trip blog, Vietnam’s reputation has preceded it, in the form of movies and propaganda in many forms, about the war from the 60’s/70’s. The American war.
I had intended to avoid all emphasis on the war, but on my way back to Saigon found myself accidentally underground with a bat in the famous Cu Chi tunnels.

During the extensive tour and video presentation that the Cu Chi visit involved, all that stuff I knew about the war came rushing back. Nam stuff. Napalm stuff. Mao!
We were told of the extent of the tunnel network. We marveled at the resourcefulness of ‘Charlie’.
I wondered if I would be allowed to meet him.
Finally, someone who was, just the day before, the best man around, found himself in a tunnel feeling claustrophobic. What had happened to the oxygen?
Presently, one of those bats that are more like a figment of your imagination than a flying mammal, flashed past my face.
Don’t they have rabies ? I pondered, frothing lightly at the mouth.
My rising panic was averted briefly as I dressed myself down as a weak minded.
Imagine, I asked myself, what it would to be like for some poor 18 year old kid down here in 69’ on the strongest LSD the worlds ever known?
That thought didn’t help at all. I was soon out of the tunnel.

One of the most remarkable aspects of the tour was how unrelentingly Anti-American it was. It was fantastic. Everything I have ever read about the war tells me the US deserves everything it gets, but the commentary must make Americans who take the tour squirm.
My only regret was there were none on the tour with us to glower at, or shake my head at, slowly and sadly..
After the tour, there was a shop selling souvenirs. This is the sort of thing you find in America, some commercial outlet selling rubbish to capitalize on the misery of others.
Still..
.... seeing it was here..

I decided to buy a lighter and asked if it was possible to buy the black pyjamas outfit. A woman barked something coolly in Vienamese, which I interpreted as a definite “No”.

After, we continued onwards to Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon).
My travel companions are Gary’s brothers George and David, and David’s partner Denyse.
They are from Christchurch.
I say that, because they are from Christchurch and also because it may give you an indication that they will be fragile, conservative folk. Which is fine, they are very nice people, but my concern is that they seem hell bent on getting to Saigon to make the flight to Danang, on the coast.
It is only a domestic flight and if we go there now we will be more than unfashionably early.
I start to panic, like I did in the tunnel, but without the bats..
’We wouldn’t want to arrive too early and spend all that time in the airport would we?’
There is a pregnant silence.
’Shall we do a tiki tour of the city?
more silence.
Our driver, who senses change is afoot, asks where we want to go when we get to the city.
All three of them speak up;
”to the airport.”
They say firmly.
”We don’t want to miss our plane do we?
No chance of that. The plane probably hasn’t been built yet.
I realize I am with people who are not easily given over to flights of fancy.
In fact, when they have a flight, they fancy arriving very, very, very early, just to be sure.

We arrive at the airport, 5 1/2 hours before departure time.

In my work-in-progress, that essential guidebook for the discerning traveller -
Kumara’s ‘Art of Travel’ - it is suggested that the best time to arrive for a domestic flight is just before the announcements at the airport start addressing you on a first name basis.
”Paging Jimi Kumara..”
Having experienced first hand the feeling of running through the airport, late for a plane, I know that it can be very embarrassing and there is a degree of rudeness about the situation.
I mean, the way people scowl at you as you board the plane when you have held them up is outrageous, awfully impolite.

At the Ho Chi Minh Airport Gary calls on his cellphone. He agrees with my assertion that spending so much of my precious time in Vietnam at the airport is ‘clazy’.
Kumara’s ‘Art of Travel.’ In fact contains a superb dissitation on the exponential acceleration of boredom within the confines of the common airport, which, coupled with accompanying expansion of time makes a frightening combination.
I have once spent a ‘4 hour lifetime’ at the Christchurch Airport where I swear time almost stood still.
I agree to meet Gary and Nhung at their hotel to kill some time.

The assassination begins at a large, busy market.

Being fresh to the hectic, Asian market situation I am an easy mark for the many hawkers.
I smile at people, stop when they yell at me and pick up clothes to examine them.
Hopeless.
Before long, two petite Vietnamese women perform a pincer movement and with a delicate ‘herding’ manouvre, soon I am trapped inside their stall.
They are very nice, but it’s clear I won’t get out without buying something.
I love the bartering for stuff anyway. It’s fun, and at the end of the day even if you are ripped off, it’s like your paying $3 dollars instead of $2, so who cares, right?
I buy some T-Shirts with a star on them and am on my way..
We go out onto the road and take refreshments, sitting on street side in the city bedlam.
Bl**dy great.
I love Asia.

We arrive for the flight in perfect time to swan casually on to the plane, and after a ham-sandwich-length-flight, arrive at Danang, just as the sun goes down.
Danang is on the coast and the airport was the arrival point from many of the troops that came to fight in the war. The concrete hangars they built are still there, weird.
In my own personal un-Christchurch like way I have not booked a hotel but Gary, his bride and Gary’s family are staying at a flash resort, so I plan hang out with them for dinner and football and then find a hotel later.
The placeis very, very nice and 4 stars, so with the extra star on my T-shirt it is a first class resort.
I am offered a room for only $50 but I am unconvinced.
Kumara’s ‘Art of Travel’ offers a theory ( ‘the inversely proportionate fiscal cuture dilemma’) that suggests the more you pay for your accommodation the less you experience of the culture and society.
Five stars hotels are expected to offer a uniform level of service, and that means that they are the same around the world.
‘Is that daiquiri in the pool any different in Cape Town. Fiji, Marseillles?’ Asks the book with a certain piquant cheek..
Besides, (the real reason? Ed) I can’t afford it and that money can be better deployed elsewhere.
In fact I discover later that $50US, will buy: 5 nights accommodation at my eventual abode, 16 days bike hire or 32 meals at a roadside stall.

The world cup match featuring the hapless English is on at 10pm and then I can go to a hotel around the corner. The resort management have phoned ahead and say they will drop me off there, just to get rid of me.
We watch the game at a place in the resort called the ‘China Beach Bar’.
There is pizza, beer and a large telly, it is by the pool, beachside..
What more could I want?
Well, I would have liked someone to score a goal..and with it being now after 11pm I decide to leave and secure my hotel room.
So, I say my goodbyes and accompany my porter to the resort foyer where my van would be waiting.
Except, (surely not!), there was just a bike. SO me my four bags and the rider were to go on a bike. Ok. I didn’t fancy our chances but then again I once had three of us on a bike in Thailand, heavily intoxicated, and I am still here.
In Danang the rider knew what he was doing. . .
…trying to make some money.
We go to the hotel and things don’t look good. The lights were out and the gates at the entrance were shut. We rang the bell, but to no avail.
”There’s no avail” I say strangely.
He says something in Vietnamese which probably means ‘man you speak a lot of crap’

”No worrries mate” I say without betraying the rising panic.
“We go City” I offer.
“NO”
“Yes”
”No”
uh oh.
I was worried, it was late and though I have slept on the beach, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

We drove down the small dark lane and there appeared to be some action ahead.
We pulled up at a sort of restaurant thingy.
There were people watching the soccer. They were drinking beer and arguing about how crap England were.
Not whether they were crap, but more the degree to which they were rubbish. As it turned out whoever was saying “They are fucking shit mate. Always are”
was on the money.
It was a chaotic, noisy hectic scene, with beer and sport.
It felt like home.
The sign above the door said it was “HOA’S PLACE” which I recalled vaguely from the ‘Lonely Planet’.
Unfortunately my driver guy was arguing with the owner.
It was rapid fire and slightly heated.
When I got a chance I would say;
“I don’t care how much. I want to stay here.”
I was desperate to stay here. It was cool and otherwise I was sleeping on the beach.
Hoa interrupted his protestations, looked calmly into my eyes, touched my arm and said;
“Don’t worry. It will be cool.”
When the driver left Hoa told me the rider was haggling to get the price of me room UP.
Something to do with his commission.
Hoa said he told him to;
”Fuck off with his resort bullshit.”
YAY! I loved it.

Hoa gave me a cold beer and I sat down at the large, long table that ran down the middle of the room. A Norwegian couple and a group of Americans immediately made me welcome by including me in a shambolic debate about the relative alcoholism of various countries. At the same time an Irish guy was explaining the situation in Nothern Ireland.
I have never had it set out so plainly, or so eloquently. (and FYI, I think it was decided the inhabitants of Iceland drank an icelandish amount of booze).
Later on, while Englishmen retire to lick their wounds, someone pulls out Hoa's guitar and says 'Can anyone play this?'.
' well, seeing you asked..'

Even though I had intended to move on to Hoi An, I would stay at Hoa’s place for the remainder of my stay in Vietnam.

Hoa and his wife, Giao

Like countless travelers before me I was seduced quickly by the environment and culture Hoa and his family have established here.
The mood is easily defined by the mantras Hoa repeats often.
”It’s cool”
”No Bullsh*t”
“Just relax”
He has some books in which people write down their experiences of the place. As Hoa says;
”Open any page it’s all good.”
And he’s right. Page after page of travelers who call it; ‘a home away from home’ or ‘the best place on their visit’, 'I never want to leave'.
Voyagers from South Sydney to Turkey extolling the virtues of Hoa’s spring rolls and Hamburgers – ‘the Best in the World’.
Many, many stories of people who come to stay for two days and stay for a month.
AND
. . . he’s on to his SIXTEENTH book.

Hoa’s is the sort of place that exists in the backpacker mind as a kind of mythical nirvana or a sort of fiction. This is the sort of guesthouse you always dream about discovering but never really find.
Well, here it is.

The traditions they have include, a sit down family meal they put on every night to which all are invited. The food changes every night so it’s kind of a mystery but it is always good. Like a good dinner tradition everywhere the setting makes for a good opportunity to get to know the other guests, and most nights evolve into some sort of post dinner gathering. Cards, backgammon or just crapping on, occurs on a nightly basis and often the problems of the world are solved over a cleansing ale (beer is only $1.50 so resistance is futile).
It’s just a damn shame the George W Bush hasn’t stayed there, cos the world would be a much better place for it.

Kumara’s “the Art of Travel” has identified this sort of place with it's ‘backpacker network’ as the ultimate source for certain travel information. Because while I am only here for 10 days, some of my fellow guests have been in South East Asia for 5 months. They know where to go, and how to do it.
This sort of thing;

- “This island is THE PLACE, undiscovered, paradise, go at this time of year, and stay here.” (I can’t reveal it to you, I would have to kill you, which could prove tricky as I don’t know who you are..)

- “Don’t go to Nha Trang it’s filled with wankers…” . . etc

Apart from the obvious social and culinary charms, Hoa’s place is only 50 metres from China Beach, on what seems to be the only access road and you can hire surfboardsf him too....

The day after I arrive Hoa gets me a bike.
A rather poor, shaky specimen of one arrives while I am eating breakfast with him.
Hoa talks to the guy in Vietnamese.
”I told him to f*ck off and get you a decent bike.”
That's Hoa. Straight Up.

There is something exhilarating about riding a bike in SE Asia.
For a start, before you actually get on one and do it, it seems so freakin’ dangerous.
But somehow when you get on one and enter the fray, the perception changes. It’s like repeated listenings to a Captain Beefheart record.
Soon, what seemed to be absolute chaos starts to make perfect sense.

Kumara’s “the Art of Travel” has a section on the subject titled ‘Just go with the flow.’
The key is to hold your line and never waver. If you get all European/anal and slam you brakes on and stop you could start a chain reaction/ accident that would stretch from Hanoi to Saigon.
I was on the fairly slim road to Hoi An one day with heaps of bikes and cars going in each direction when a truck came in the other direction with a shipping container on it.
My first reaction was to fill my undies and then fly off the road into to bush OR fly off the road into the bush and then fill my undies,.(why can't you fly off the road into the bush and do your filling there? save you undies.? -Ed)
BUT… I held my nerve and saved money on my laundry bill, then the line of cars and bikes parted and a way through revealed itself. Sure, a kilometre up the road I would stop for an emergency beer and to increase my dose of valium, but I had survived.

The speed of sensory input while traveling on a bike is the perfect way to experience a country.
It is not too fast or, too slow like walking can be and you can, whether good or bad, take in all the smells as well. There are often feelings of total exhilaration where you feel incredibly lucky to be alive.
Especially considering how everyone drives.
It was like that on my bike that first day. I wanted to scream (in a very good way)

The motorbike is like an “Access All Areas” pass. You can scratch away at the veneer of a place, look behind 'the ‘Tourist Façade' and get to eat and shop where the real inhabitants of a country do. There is an incredible freedom about it all.

Later on, Gary and Nhung got a bike too and we went into Hoi An town for dinner.

Hoi An is an excellent town with a vibrant history stretching back to the time when it was a virtual Venice of the Orient, a centre for trade between east and west. There are fantastic examples of architecture both Chinese and French and the town has a wonderful old world charm. There are speciality clothes shop that can produce a hand made suit made-to-measure overnight ($80). My personal booty from the trip includes a lined woolen jacket, a dress and top for the missus, all for less than $100.

The following day Gary has hired a car, a driver and a interpretor/ guide/historian and is driving to Hue to the north. Against his better judgement he asks me along for the ride.
Hue is the old imperial capital and a town that was recaptured during the American war. First we visit a famous Buddhist temple. It is undergoing a bit of, rebuilding and renovation, that is, until I arrive.
Tripping the light fantastic has never been my style and I stand stupidly on a hose on the way in, it immediately bursts and starts spraying water everywhere. From behind the wall, there is an exclamation from the workman we have just passed, the sound of swearing in any dialect is unmistakable…
Instincts developed from a lifetime of destroying everything I touch means when a worker comes running I have quickly jumped back and assumed the pose of a distracted tourist. But, Nhung tells him what has happened. Bugger.
I apologise profusely while sweating with embarrassment (or the other way around).

smoko time

By the time we reach the famous Imperial Citadel my sightseeing gland has started to swell. There is only so much culture and history I can take.
It’s hot, and when we arrive at a model of the entire citadel complex I realize how large it is and that we are barely into it at all..
I am impress but horrified;
”we are not going to see the whole thing are we?”
Is say, insulting hundreds of years of imperial traditition.
”is there an imperial bar..?”
It is not like I don’t care about what I am seeing it is just that after a while I start to develop what Kumara’s “The Art of Travel” has called ‘amazement fatigue’. To begin with I am like;
”Wow. Four hundred years old you say?”
In the end I’m like;
”That f*ckin old thing.”

The Imperial Tardis

The final visit is to some cool poet leader guy’s tomb thing.
He has this amazing pagoda-ish building overlooking a lake of lotus plants where he would write poetry and “entertain the ladies”.

Cool. Way to go Tu Duc.

On our final night we dine at a famous restaurant in Hoi An. The signature dish is snapper barbequed in banana leaves and some squid beaten within an inch of it's life. The restaurant overlooks the canal and someone has cleverly booked balcony table.
With the golden sun reflecting off the water and boats plying their trade in the waterways this part of Hoi An looks like Venice too.. As some uber kiwi would say;
"Bloody Gorgeous!"

The streets at night are lit by hundreds of paper lanterns and after dinner we take a stroll, swaggering about, imitating overweight tourists.
I come over all romantic and terrify locals by sharing my emotions.
"I feel romantic !" I enthuse.
Starting a lemming like stampede into the canal.

Later on, back at my home away from home, Hoa has oragnised a bonfire on the beach.
We sing, we drink cognac, we laugh and all the stars come out to join us. It's truly amazing.
"What next?"I ponder to someone whose nationality is a blur.
"YOu have to go home."
I do, but I have no regrets, I have had a fantastic time but I am missing my little family. It seems like an age since the wedding, let alone since I left.
Besides, to borrow a phrase from the govenor of California;
"I'll be back."
(an brilliant plan is already forming for a motorbike tour from Hanoi..)

Finally. . A good mate Andy has a screening of his film "No More Heroes" at the Film Festival this weekend. details here. I am so very excited about it. When people say someone made a film for nothing they usually mean like $100,000 dollars or something. But he made this for the actual 'nothing'. And I know it will be great. Fantastic. I'm choked up already..