Inner City Life

We have really enjoyed our time in the countryside of Dalat. It was made even more special by our friendly and attentive hosts at the homestay and the interesting fellow travellers we met.

After the usual breakfast of omelette, bread and some of the delicious jam made yesterday, we hopped on the bus back to Saigon for the big city experience.

We stopped at a picturesque service station looking out at green hills and lunched on rice and vegetables and a wheat noodle soup with vegetables and tofu.

Back in the heat of the city, we expertly dodged the xe ôm drivers and walked to District 3.

Chiba the cat welcomed us home, but our host was still in Hanoi for work, so we rustled up some dinner for ourselves. We pulled together fried tofu in a tomato sauce (đậu phụ sốt cà chua), pomelo salad with vegan squid meat (gỏi bưởi mực), and a tin of vegan pork and bean ragu (lagu sườn) with rice and some spring rolls.

Easy Riding

I was awoken early this morning by the sound of rain. Fortunately, this had given way to a beautiful morning by the time we were up for breakfast.

The first meal of the day was a repeat of yesterday's omelette, although with less of the delicious strawberry jam, as we had greedily polished off most of it the day before.

We needed nourishment for the epic journey that lay ahead. Our hosts took us out on their motorbikes for a tour of the countryside surrounding Dalat. The day was 130km of sights, smells and tastes of life in Lâm Đồng province.

The two 'hogs' had "Schmerz macht schön" (pain makes beautiful) plastered on their petrol tanks. I hoped this wasn't an indication of the ride ahead. On the back of the bikes with the 'easy riders', we set off and wound our way leisurely through the hills with views of Lang Biang mountain.

With our guides, we surged along the roads roughly hewn in the side of the mountain's red rock. The trees either side stood tall and proud like the bristles of a brush. There were many opportunities to stop at beauty spots looking out over the valleys below.

Our first stop was at a flower farm. The one we visited grows gerbera, which are bought domestically and are often used in decoration of Buddhist shrines. They fetch a high price in places such as Saigon but the capital investment in such a farm is high, especially in the greenhouses required to shelter the nascent blooms. Many farmers are turning to growing flowers over vegetables as they are a more lucrative crop per hectare. K asked whether a cooperative model had been considered, in which the local community shared the cost and profits. The response was that since the government allowed people to own land, it is kept within the family and improvements made gradually over generations.

The biking duo took us further out into the countryside, past workers stooped in the fields tilling the brick-red soil. We were joined on the roads by agricultural traffic, including a vehicle comprising an engine on two wheels coupled via a flexible link to a cart. The driver, sat in the cart, held a tiller with which he steered the motor, as though it were a horse pulling him along.

Weasel-poo coffee

Suddenly, it became apparent that the hills were covered in coffee plants as far as the eye could see. We stopped at Mê Linh, where they produce the (in)famous 'weasel coffee', which is made from beans that have been processed by enzymes in the animal's gut. I was initially skeptical about this point on our itinerary, as I was unsure of a weasel's natural predilection for coffee beans. The weasels, or civet cats, being nocturnal creatures, were asleep as we arrived. They were caged, but their living area seemed clean and large and their diet included fruit alongside the beans.

Out of curiosity, we sampled the weasel coffee. We looked out over the plantation where they grow different kinds of beans: mocha, arabica, robusta and cherry. K took a coffee made from cherry beans, which tasted rich and slightly sour, but we had no baseline against which to gauge the weasel's influence on the flavour. I opted for mocha, which tasted smooth, but I couldn't reliably discern the contribution of the extra step in the process. I don't think any improvement in flavour is worth the premium price or the need to keep the animals in captivity.

Having tried some Vang Dalat wine last week, I was under the impression that the temperate climate on the hillsides of Dalat is the perfect environment for growing grapevines. It made perfect sense, especially knowing that the French were especially fond of the area. Sadly, I was mistaken, as the eponymous wine is only processed and bottled here, while the grapes are grown elsewhere.

Wine doesn't seem to have great popularity in Vietnam, so when not drinking coffee, the tipple of choice in Dalat (besides beer) is rượu đế (rice wine). We paused briefly at a small producer of the 'Vietnamese vodka' and saw barrels of fermenting rice. (Bear in mind that, like the weasel coffee, alcohol is also excreted by an organism - in this case yeast). Our guide fished out small shots of the 70-75% ABV booze fresh from the still. It burned (quite literally - he set it alight) but had a distinctly rice-like flavour. This is diluted to a saleable level for the market. As in the Mekong Delta, a portion is steeped with serpents and geckos to produce 'medicine'. Our guide seemed convinced of the efficacy of this. Me, I thought it was snake oil.

Next up on the trail of small industries dotting the hills and vales was a small noodle factory. Specialising in rice noodles, the factory had some light automation in comparison to the manually intensive production we had seen so far. Two machines were fed with a dough of pounded rice, producing bún (thin soup noodles) and incredibly thin continuous sheets of rice paper, respectively. Even here, though, a jerry-rigged pendulum made from pieces of pipe and an up-turned bottle of oil swinging back and forth ensured that the folded noodle sheets wouldn't stick together.

Outside the noodle factory, one of the drivers broke open a passion fruit he had plucked from a tree. Tasting the tart seeds inside, it was a reminder of the fertility of this land in contrast to the wasted soil of regions further north that still suffer the toxic effects of the American war.

Revealing just how naive I am as a consumer, I made some discoveries about the production of silk at our next stop. While there are no illusions in my mind about the leather tanning process, I had a vague idea that silk is harvested from the silkworms as one might collect a spider's web. Our guide showed us how the larvae are raised into silkworms on a diet of mulberry leaves, producing silk with which to cocoon themselves. However, the process of metamorphosis into a moth is arrested after 4 or 5 days and the cocoon is soaked in warm water and unspun by machine. Needless to say, the silkwo.rm does not survive this process and is instead fried and eaten as a snack. I admire the spirit of 'let nothing go to waste', but I will look differently at silk goods from now on.

Fortunately, our next stop was Thúc Voi (Elephant waterfall) - a large, naturally occurring phenomenon among many such features in the area. This was a tall and powerful waterfall, the rocks at the bottom of which are said to resemble an elephant's head. We clambered down the slippery stones and underneath the cascade. The terrific force of the water pushed us back and soaked us from head to foot before we knew it. We soon dried off on the bikes, though.

After a brief pause at the serene hill-top An Linh pagoda, we broke for lunch. We refuelled on noodle broth (pho) for the relatively long trip to Pongour Falls.

Taking off on the bikes, we sped farther out into the countryside, where the traffic thinned further still, until it was just us and the odd herd of water buffalo being driven down the road. The road surface was surprisingly good, except in patches where nature refused to be contained and grass erupted through the tarmac.

Pongour Falls is also called the Seven Step Falls, as the rock face forms a staircase over which the water flows. It is a beautiful setting and we climbed up onto the rocks to let the foamy water cascade over our feet.

On the return leg, we made a couple of stops. One was for 'mushroom village', so called because many of the residents have tents set up in the gardens under which Chinese ear fungus grows in the dark from hanging stalactites of substrate. The other stop was called 'chicken village', not because chickens are kept there, but in honour of the giant concrete statue of a chicken that looms over the houses. The locals are Koho people. With darker complexions and wavy black hair, they are one of the ethnic groups in Vietnam.

From Paradise lake - built by the French to supply water to the area - we took a cable car over the valley for a splendid view over all Dalat.

We raced the sun home - the air at this altitude cooling rapidly - via the French quarter's typical cottages (now operating as hotels), and arrived to the smell of strawberry jam cooking. To complement this, we were served a strawberry smoothie from today's haul.

Dinner was a big communal affair beloved of the Vietnamese: lau (hot-pot). We were joined by two more guests from England and tucked into the boiling pot. The stock was flavoured with tomatoes, pineapple and lemongrass, in which mushrooms, tofu and daikon radish, as well as Chinese cabbage and other greens, were cooked. Strawberries, of course, were served for dessert.

Country Life

Our breakfast this morning was prepared by the family in our Dalat homestay. We had omelette and bread with a superb home-made strawberry jam. The jam, made from fruit grown on the family's farm, was dark in colour and so rich as to be mistaken for fig jam.

Seeing the outside of the house in the daylight for the first time, I appreciated that we were on top of a hill looking out over the town and the farmlands that surround it. As well as running a guesthouse and tours, the family owns and works some of the land, growing fruit, vegetables and flowers in the temperate climate and striking red soil of the region. The hills are a patchwork of different crops and greenhouses.

The temperature in Dalat is much cooler than in Saigon and remains similar the year round. Our host, wearing a jumper, told us that today was around 20°C and that in winter it can drop as low as 15°C(!). Brrr.

Our hosts took us on the back of their motorbikes the short distance into town. On the way, we passed many people dressed up in warm clothes, jackets and woolly hats. The weather was like a warm summer's day in England.

Our first port of call is the so-called 'Crazy House'. The architecture calls to mind a film set and involves winding staircases which crawl over the roofs of the buildings. Around and between the buildings is a network of passageways, containing nooks with tables and chairs here and there. The effect is as though one had entered a dream and the walls are morphing and warping around you. Every now and then, we passed a locked door, which gave us the clue that it is also possible to stay there. Indeed, when we happened upon the breakfast room, the dishes were just being cleared away, although I'm not sure how the guests managed to navigate their way to breakfast.

We met up with a German couple also staying at the homestay and together walked around Xuan Huong Lake.

Couples and groups of friends - naturally dressed in jackets and jumpers - were picnicking on the side of the lake. With the backdrop of the mountains over the lake, the cool air and the gabled roofs of the colourful houses, we almost thought we were in an Alpine village.

We did a full tour of the lake's 6km circumference, taking in the flower garden. This was more along the lines I had expected from the botanical garden in Saigon, but was not as impressive as some European efforts. We ended our walk in the central market, where the local produce is sold, including fresh and dried or candied fruit, as well as wine.

Back at the homestay, we refreshed ourselves with slices of persimmon and dragon fruit. After this, our host took us, shod in wellies, to walk among the abundant crops on the hillside. It was at times tricky to clamber after our host, who made his way nimbly between the rows of brassicas and strawberries.

We made our way to the family's coffee plantation and tasted the ripe red beans from the bush. Removing the skin, there is a sweet layer covering the green beans underneath, which have a raw taste only vaguely reminiscent of the deep roast they will become.

Work in the fields is backbreaking manual labour, only minimally aided though mechanisation - a diesel-powered push-along plough, water pipes for irrigation. Harvesting is done entirely by hand. Alongside the crops, the odd guava and papaya tree grows, which the family uses for their own meals. The crops of fruit, vegetables, coffee and flowers are sold across Vietnam.

At the house, we prepared the evening meal as a group - slicing pumpkin, stringing beans and chopping cauliflower. The diet here is naturally high in vegetables.

Preparations went more smoothly than yesterday and we feasted on cauliflower tempura, the freshest-tasting green beans with spring onions, fried aubergine, and pumpkin in a clear soup - and, of course, rice. All of the natural flavours of the vegetables were allowed to stand alone and made for a most satisfying meal.

We repaired to the living room for tea and fruit (pineapple), and chatted about our experiences travelling.

Đà Lạt

With our host away, breakfast wasn't going to be as inventive as her usual creations. Thoughtfully, she had left us cornflakes and milk, but we challenged ourselves to come up with something a little more varied. Eventually, we settled on yoghurt with puffed rice, half a pomelo and pieces of unidentifiable, but delicious, cake containing coconut and fruit set with agar-agar. Pomelo is like a less tart grapefruit. It is often used in Vietnam in savoury dishes, such as salads.

Last night, we decided to bring forward our trip to Dalat and leave on the first bus we could get after breakfast. The journey took about 8 hours by bus. The distance is just 300km, so this means we averaged less than 40kph. Given the roads, I'm not surprised.

We stopped briefly just outside Biên Hòa and ate the lunch we had packed comprising a bánh mì baguette of xíu mại vegan meatballs and a chè sweetened bean soup.

The coach wound its way slowly up into the verdant mountains of the Central Highlands. We arrived at Dalat bus station, a few kilometres south of the town, shortly after the sun had set over the lakes and peaks.

Swiftly evading the skillful sales tactics of a couple of 'Easy Riders' waiting as the bus pulled in, we caught a transfer that took us directly to the door of the homestay we had booked.

Waiting for us as we arrived were the beaming faces of the family we were to stay with. Three generations live under one roof and the family has extended the house to cater for a few guests at a time. We met some of the other travellers as they had started preparations for dinner. We inexpertly fried some spring rolls and mostly stood around talking to the family and swapping stories with the other guests.

Dinner was a communal affair, with all of us tucking into the spring rolls, rice, salad, fried vegetables and soup. The region is known for growing a wide range of vegetables and they are shipped throughout Vietnam.

Virtue and Sin

This morning began with a Chinese-style clear soup flavoured with pak choi, spring onions, black pepper and containing 'money bag' dumplings. This was followed by a sweetened mung bean soup (chè đậu xanh). It certainly beats cornflakes for a nourishing and inventive start to the day.

We had intended to get up early and join the ranks of Vietnamese exercising in the park before breakfast, but while the spirit was willing the flesh was most decidedly weak. By 10am, when we made it to Tao Dan park, the outdoor exercise machines were largely unoccupied but the hot sun was already high in the sky. Fortunately, the clever park designers situated the equipment under a cluster of trees where it was cool.

After our workout, we chilled out in nearby café Da Lat Pho, where I, fittingly, attempted to organise our travel to the town of Da Lat later this week.

During this time, K worked on her novel and, at the end of this stint, we decided to visit the bia hoi on Thi Sach street for what will probably be the last time in HCMC.

Unlike the previous, and first, visit, we were presented with a foaming bottle of bia hoi and a dish of peanuts in their shell as soon as we sat down. This presumption was spot on and we enjoyed the fresh local beer with a few quail's eggs that were sold by a woman offering snacks to other drinkers.

Our British compulsion caused us unwittingly to gather the egg and peanut shells neatly back into the dish in which they were served. I noted this as the waitress swept the discarded detritus from beneath the vacated table opposite.
It was a fortuitously timed visit, as the heavens opened as we entered the bar. Needless to say, this prolonged our stay somewhat. I amused myself by visiting the 'gents toilet' - more a narrow disused corridor along one side of the building where menfolk could relieve themselves against the wall.

On returning home, we discovered that our host had left on an urgent business trip to Hanoi. Fortunately, she had laid in some supplies for us, so we set to making a quick dinner.

We were hungry and needed food quickly, so we dashed off a mushroom noodle soup, a mock chicken salad, kimchi, and (the horror) a curry rice ready-meal, which we augmented with a fried egg.

We had fresh fruit for afters, including green oranges (called cam sành), custard apples, and small bananas. Apparently all oranges are green but in Vietnam the chlorophyll remains in the skin owing to the high temperatures. The custard apples were bought today on a whim, and are a sweet grainy texture but have a large number of shiny black seeds, so there's not much eating on one.

Lazy Sunday

Sunday is a day when the (relatively) well-heeled of Saigon repair to cool, airy (and often quirky) coffee shops to chat, work at laptops and partake of café food and drink.

The internet at home had gone down this morning, so we found ourselves in i.d. café's main branch in District 1 with a perfect excuse to have breakfast. Our host had to submit a review of the show we had seen last night.

I opted for the xôi bắp (sticky rice served with sugar and sesame seeds). Not to be mean to the café, but our host's version of this Vietnamese breakfast staple is far superior.

My camera had been acting up and giving the notoriously vague Canon Err99 message when using the lens at anything between the two extreme focal lengths (25 and 200). This was most frustrating and I resolved to get it sorted while in the technological metropolis of HCMC and before we move to Siem Reap and the photogenic Angkor Wat.

On a street just south of Le Loi, which was fortuitously replete with camera repair shops, I found a place that was willing to take a look at the apparatus. Having made sure I got a receipt, I left the camera lens and body with the shop for a worrying few hours. Happily, my fears were unfounded and I gratefully picked up a fully functioning camera, paying (I suspect) a tiny fraction of the cost of repair in the UK. The language barrier did not allow me to understand what the fault had been but I was happy that it had been fixed so quickly.

I returned to the café, where the morning stretched into afternoon and K, our host and her friend fuelled our talk on coffee and juice.

Our host's friend is a TV producer, speaks excellent English (having taught it for a while) and has worked on a number of documentaries and films in Vietnam. We spoke about languages, the joy of travel, and a domestic martial art (Bình Định) practised by Vietnamese monks. These two women are the modern face of Vietnam - focused, determined, successful, internationally conversant (with both languages and cultures) and undeterred by a traditional patriarchal society.

In the evening, we had another deceptively simple yet satisfying home-cooked meal.

We enjoyed water spinach fried with garlic, faux pork cooked in a sticky sweet shallot-based sauce, a courgette and mushroom soup (called canh mướp), kimchi and lotus seed rice. Actually, what I took to be a paler, more watery, earthy-tasting courgette is in fact loofah/luffa (mướp), which is porous when dried and can be used as the eponymous sponge.

The lotus seeds had been steamed to a soft chickpea consistency, and the vegan pork sauce was moreish, although the 'meat' was not as convincing as the beef we had tried last week.

As my camera was in the shop for some of the day, this entry has been a little weak on photographs. To make up for that, here is a picture of a cat, because the Internet doesn't have enough of those.

Con mèo

District 7

Yoga this morning was the last of the taught beginner's course at the Sivananda centre. Our regular instructor had gone to Thailand, so we had a Vietnamese teacher. She ran us through 10 of the 12 basic asana that we have learned - the remainder involving headstands and other advanced moves. We were the only two in the class, so it was a relatively intense session in the heat.

Our host had invited us out for post-yoga breakfast which, given the time, turned into brunch.

It turns out that many of the nicest cafés are down unassuming side alleys in District 3. Our host led us to one of her favourites, i.d. café, only a few streets away from her apartment. Even when almost on top of it, I could barely see the concealed entrance.

Inside was an air-conditioned haven, serving imaginative drinks and freshly prepared food. Both K and I chose the vegetarian set, which consisted of mushroom and tofu in a sauce made intensely savoury with soy sauce, plus rice and a simple soup of morning glory. I ordered an iced peanut coffee concoction, which tasted as though someone had blended a Snickers into a caffè latte.

Having been recommended dessert, we couldn't decline. I ordered a sweet iced lotus seed soup, which was refreshing and, in addition to the nutty lotus seeds, contained sweetened seaweed, longan and jujube (táo tàu) - the latter tasting just like a tiny baked apple.

K had a very moreish hot dessert of purple and yellow sweet potato balls stuffed with some kind of fruit, in a warm coconut and ginger sauce.

In the afternoon, our host took us to District 7, one of the more recently planned areas of HCMC, to experience a different side of Saigon.

Aptly, for this modern area of the city, we reached it by means of a car dialled up using Uber, which has apparently only become active in Vietnam in the last few months. As we passed into the district, the low-rise buildings gave way to tall white apartments and office blocks, and the hubbub of Saigon melted away.

We exited the car and walked around hồ Bán Nguyệt (Lake Crescent) and over a curved chrome bridge into a park where many couples were having wedding photographs taken against the sculpted and sanitised backdrop.

Between the buildings are wide, mostly empty boulevards. There is a preponderance of cars (especially large Hyundais and Toyotas) over the motorbikes that dominate the city centre.

The area gives the impression of Singapore, as it has been described to me: clean and well regulated. I saw a man in uniform caution a couple for walking on the grass. Even the cyclos are freshly painted and adorned with flowers, in anticipation of being hired by romantic young couples for photo opportunities.

There are many expats in District 7 and the shops and restaurants cater for their international tastes. Starbucks stands proudly looking out onto rạch Đĩa (Dia canal). This institution is far from a unique sight for HCMC but, in contrast to District 1, it does not rub shoulders with small makeshift stands comprising a tarp pulled over the pavement, a few plastic chairs and a plastic beaker of cà phê đá.

Away from the shops, gated French villas are the dominant style of residence - their white picket fences the loudest thing in the eery suburban silence.

We stopped at Swensen's ice cream parlour to take on some delicious calories, as this seemed in keeping with the area. Hedonism is a nutty, crunchy, mocha, macadamia and banana sundae.

We stood at a crossroads, looking in four directions and attempting to hail a taxi. On each corner of the roads was a purveyor of food: Carl's Jr (charbroiled burgers), Texas Chicken (fried chicken), Cơm Tấm Mộc (Vietnamese broken rice), Ân Nam Gourmet Market (featuring Jordan's Crunch, Doritos and Old El Paso products).

In the taxi, we rounded the corner and the spell was broken. Vietnamese life came pouring back in and we found ourselves jostling for rank with packs of motorcycle riders zipping past makeshift stands selling cơm tấm, bún bò huế, bánh tráng trộn... The quiet streets of District 7 seemed like a dream evaporating. We were back on the crazy helter skelter.

To nourish our souls as well as our stomachs, we had booked tickets to a performance in the evening that was to be covered for the paper by our journalist host.

The James Cousins company has brought a contemporary dance piece inspired by Haruki Murakami's novel Norwegian Wood to SE Asia.

The performance was a double-bill. The first piece, Without Stars, was an intricate, controlled and fluid display by four dancers, which was at times beautiful and at others impressively kinetic. Given knowledge of the novel, I was able to infer meaning in the performance, although the choreographer has made a Matthew Bourne/Swan Lake-style gender reversal of the Midori character. Alongside Watanabe and Naoko, there is a fourth, shadowy figure that starts out as their mutual friend, Kizuki, but after his suicide could also be seen as the spectre of Naoko's spiralling depression.

The second (but earlier) piece is a sinuous dance between a couple (Naoko and Kizuki?) in which the woman's feet never touch the ground. It was an astonishing display of prowess and partnership, but my ability to intuit greater meaning in such performances is weak.

After the show (10pm), it was late to get food as the Vietnamese typically eat much earlier. Our host led us to an empty restaurant, outside of which were tables full of people eating and drinking. With no space available outside and sitting inside an apparent taboo, the waiters conjured three small chairs and a table for us on the bustle of the open street.

A series of dishes appeared, bearing rice noodles, fried tofu, greens cooked with garlic, and fried sticky cake (made from rice and mung beans). Hawkers came by approximately every 30 seconds to sell us lottery tickets, cigarettes, snacks, fruit, and tissues. With a bottle of Saigon Premium, this is how many people outside of District 7 enjoy a Saturday evening. It was a pleasure to be a part of it. This was all that remained when I remembered to get the camera out:

Fine Art and Hot Pot

This morning began with traditional Vietnamese breakfast fare: sticky rice, made savoury with mung beans and spring onions, salad and spring rolls, followed by a dessert using sweet potato and tapioca.

Back in the city, we took advantage of what it has to offer and set out for the Ho Chi Minh Museum of Fine Arts.

On our way, we began our art appreciation by walking through the Tau Dan park sculptures. These are an eclectic collection, including a bust of Beethoven, a soldier, what appears to be a monkey riding a buffalo and various abstract female forms.

We also dropped into the Mariamman Hindu temple. This temple is dedicated to the goddess of rain and her many forms surround the inside of the central sanctuary. The temple had some information about its construction and meaning, but the stories surrounding this one deity alone left us feeling as though we could only scratch the surface of the Hindu beliefs. Further study could take several lifetimes.

Before we reached the gallery, we paused briefly for a completely unnecessary Cornetto with tiny cubes of red velvet cake on top - because novelty. While eating the ice cream in the park, an enterprising young shoe-shine boy attempted to polish the tiny piece of leather that adorns my flip-flops. I managed to convince him that the dusty, beat-up sandals would not benefit greatly from his attention.

The Fine Arts Museum is housed in a beautiful yellow and white building which simultaneously invokes French colonial architecture and Chinese influences, principally the ornate ceramic features on its roof.

Inside is a three-floor collection of mostly Vietnamese, largely modern (post 1975) artwork. The collections seem to be principally grouped by medium (watercolour, oil, lacquer engraving, Chinese brush), rather than theme. Occasional rooms are dedicated to particularly fêted artists.

The inside of the gallery is bright and airy, with art nouveau stained-glass windows and a decidedly vintage lift cage in the central stairwell.

The collections range from depictions of idyllic country life, the beloved and brave soldiers liberating the South, and the recurring theme of the oppressed women and children.

The artwork is presented without comment, giving only title, year, artist and medium. As a result, there are some images that I did not feel qualified to interpret without greater knowledge of cultural references. One painting shows girls surrounding a flower, one opens a letter, another looks at the viewer, while a Lynchian red curtain is drawn back to reveal a Dalì-esque white door opening onto a blue sky. In another image a girl is wooed by a man riding a black horse. The man wears a distinctive uniform and peacocks dance at the girl's feet. It is entitled "Black Horse Song", but there is no context to help understand the image.

On the third floor, we were greeted by a piece of driftwood, in which we were asked to see the image of Buddha. I did not and wondered whether this part of the museum would test my faculty of imagination. We then came upon a series of Oc Eo artefacts from an early period in the Funan Kingdom in the Mekong Delta region. These were presented barely, the accompanying notes being a repetition of pot, vase, vessel, which, as with many archaeological collections, left me uninspired.

The artefacts are again grouped chiefly by material: wood, stone, ceramic, bronze. A particularly fine terracotta artefact caught my eye, bearing an intricately glazed design of an advancing army on foot, elephant- and horseback, the leader's sword drawn and raised. I wondered about the history behind it. A glance at the information card told me prosaically: Lamp, 18-19th century, height 20.5cm, diameter 12.5cm. This terse description of age, dimensions and function barely fulfilled my desire to understand the piece.

At that moment, an ear-splitting clap of thunder sounded overhead and the rain started to fall outside. An alert attendant hurried to close the French shutters. Albeit highly localised, we knew that the thunderstorm would take about an hour to pass overhead, so we slowed our pace.

The second, newer building contains more contemporary, 21st century work. Sadly much of the description is in Vietnamese and we thirsted to know more about the art on display. The work seemed to be wholly of Vietnamese origin and was excellent. This arresting Guernica-like painting captured my attention and I itched to understand it.

We could have spent many hours more in the galleries, but our critical faculties were fatigued and the rain had abated.

To satisfy my beer nerd curiosity, we stopped by an intriguing place we had seen from the bus window called Beer Plaza.

This had an impressive selection of imported Belgian and German beers displayed in the window. Inside, it proved to be a drinking establishment rather than the shop I had expected. Sadly, there were no craft Vietnamese beers in evidence. Prices, especially given import costs, seemed reasonable but (horror) we did not stay for a drink. A Belgian triple in this humidity didn't seem right and the atmosphere was a little sterile in comparison to the bia hoi bars.

Instead, we stopped for a smoothie at a place whose walls were decorated with aphorisms, including this, a reminder not to take our good fortune for granted (click to enlarge):

Our host recommended that we prepare Vietnamese hotpot (lẩu) for a Friday evening, as this is a typical communal family meal.

She prepared a simple stock with straw mushrooms, carrots and tomatoes, which was decanted into an electric table-top wok, which we gathered around. Into this, we placed a mixture of mushrooms, water spinach, pak choi, noodles and sliced silken tofu. As the pot boiled, the meal was ready to eat, meaning that the vegetables maintained their colour and crunch. With soy sauce on which to dip the vegetables, this was a quick, satisfying and healthy meal that we all enjoyed.

R&R

It was time to leave Mui Ne. We had a brief reprieve, as our scheduled bus back to Saigon was delayed by an hour, so we relaxed looking out to sea.

It was said by our yoga teacher that there is greater 'prana' (life force) in the countryside than in towns and cities, which invigorates oneself. Whatever it might be about these environments that is restorative, the powerful natural forces are certainly more evident outside of built-up areas. The wind that shapes the dunes, the water that hews the rocks into complex shapes at the Fairy Stream, the lightning that illuminate the clouds, and the tidal forces that cause the waves to beat upon the shore: All are evident in this place where they can be viewed without significant human intervention. It is from this that we renew and refresh ourselves.

Sat in the shade, an arch framed perfectly the view I will see as I close my eyes in years to come and think of here. A small wispy cloud hangs, top centre of frame, over a wash of pale blue sky, which fades to white at the horizon. This contrasts starkly with the deep blue of the sea, which graduates through teal to a light turquoise. Far-distant ships rest on the horizon and their closer cousins trawl the waters while, closer still, the translucent bodies of floating jellyfish are underscored by a slash of yellow sand.

I had finished The Art of Travel and so reflected on its contents.

De Botton writes well for those who feel the need to intellectualise travel rather than just doing it because it is fun. His summary of the anxieties of travel, the impetus to travel, as well as the imperative to do so, reflects well my own thoughts on the matter.

Travel, if done well, is a way to internalise the external world and thereby to enrich and improve one's own life. Towards the end of the book, De Botton quotes John Ruskin, who succinctly sums up the approach to travel we hope to approximate on this trip:

"No changing of place at a hundred miles an hour will make us one whit stronger, or happier, or wiser. There was always more in the world than man could see, walked they ever so slowly; they will see it no better for going fast. The really precious things are thought and sight, not pace. It does a bullet no good to go fast; and a man, if he be truly a man, no harm to go slow; for his glory is not at all in going, but in being."

And so, we travelled at a stately pace back to Saigon by bus. Using a different operator (Tam Hanh), we had similarly comfortable reclining bed seats. Foolishly, we had not breakfasted on anything more substantial than a couple of bananas.

For want of anything more substantial, we bought a bag of cốm dẻo (literally 'soft rice') at the first rest stop, which looked and tasted like blocks of sweetened compressed popcorn flavoured with ginger. This is apparently a specialty of Phan Thiet and was tasty but about as satisfying a meal as a bag of popcorn.

Fortunately, at the second stop the ubiquitous bánh mì stall was selling bánh mì ốp la (fried egg baguette, from the French "oeufs au plat"). Without the usual pâté, but with the crunchy cucumber, carrot-daikon pickle, coriander and a squirt of soy sauce, this was just what the hungry traveller needed. It disappeared too quickly to get a photo.

We arrived back in Saigon after sunset, where it had been raining. We had not experienced any rain in Mui Ne, lending credibility to the assertion that it has its own microclimate.

Back at home, our host welcomed us by preparing bún riêu ốc - a tomato-based soup with snails (vegetarian ones made from taro) and vermicelli rice noodles. The soup was intense and flavoursome from the tomatoes, with crunchy fried tofu and straw mushrooms rounding it out. Lettuce and a lemony mint-like herb were served to garnish the soup. Afterwards we had one of my favourite tiny fruit - rambutan.

Dune

We resolved this morning to hire a small moped and make like the locals, whom we have seen driving up and down the quiet coastal road.

We were furnished with two helmets and a mostly empty tank of petrol. K climbed on the back and we set off down what I believe is called 'Route 1' in the direction of Mui Ne.

We made a brief stop to fuel up at the tiniest of roadside petrol stations - the solitary fuel pump seemed to contained 2 of a maximum 5 litres, which the attendant syphoned into the tank.

With the needle marginally out of the red zone, we cruised along with the sea breeze in our faces as far as the fishing village at Mui Ne.

It was still early in the morning and the bay was replete with boats of all sizes. Local people gathered eagerly around those landing with nets full of the morning's catch.

We had intended to visit the sand dunes, for which the area is famous. However, while trundling along at 25kph on a modified hairdryer was fun for a while, we calculated the round-trip time to reach the white sand dunes, 36km away, and resolved to let a jeep take the strain.

We buzzed our way back to the hotel, booked a tour for the afternoon and fuelled ourselves on frittata and breakfast burrito.

In the meantime, we took advantage of the opportunity to admire the seascape. The sand is strewn with coconuts and razor-sharp shells. I took a brief walk along the beach in the surf, allowing the foamy waves alternately to crash into my legs and to draw the sand out from under my feet, such that I sank a little with each step.

Out at sea, the fishermen continued to work busily in their one-man coracles. On land, the neighbouring hotels entertained a smattering of tourists who appeared comically obese next to the lean frames of their Vietnamese hosts.

Part way along the beach, the sand gives way to a regular pattern of triangular stones, giving the impression of the scales of a giant, partially buried creature. It is upon this surface that the industrious fishermen land their boats. I wondered what they thought of the apparent lassitude of the land-bound visitors to this beach.

In the afternoon, a 10-person open-top jeep arrived and we were crammed into the back like pigs being taken to market.

The afternoon tour briefly took in the Fairy Stream we had seen under our own steam yesterday. We entered by an alternative route, unsignposted, between two buildings, which brought us out farther up the stream away from the rubbish-strewn bridge we had used the day before. An enterprising young man had erected a sign at the water's edge asking for an admission fee. I almost gave him the money for his guile.

The sandstone rocks gave a convincing impression of a partially terraformed Martian surface. Albeit with more tourists.

The colours ran and mixed like paint on a wet canvas. My feet sank therapeutically into the red mud. White sand oozed into the red river like fresh cement. The contrast between the primary red of the sand and the lush green of the vegetation was striking.

The tour continued with visits to other natural phenomena in the area - the red and white sand dunes.

As mentioned, the white sand dunes are more than 20 miles out of town. The journey by jeep took around 45 minutes and I imagined the test of endurance to travel the same route by moped.

We gripped securely onto the jeep's rollcage as the scenery whipped by us. The buildings are sparser this far from town - mainly shacks interspersed with a few luxurious-looking resorts and, exceptionally, a six-storey slate-grey monolith, its unfinished surfaces casting a shadow of what is to come for the development of the Mui Ne coastline.

Along with cows, dogs and cockerels, we also passed the occasional intrepid traveller making the journey by motorised hairdryer. The last few miles to the dunes are a bumpy dirt track. One moped driver, his face a mask of gritted determination, span hopelessly on a small incline. I didn't see them again.

White sand dunes

Despite their name, the white sands are a very pale yellow and give the effect of being a diminutive desert. The dunes are smooth rolling curves, whose surface bears small rippling undulations sculpted by the wind. The same wind draws the loose grains of sand over the surface, such that the round edges of the dunes look slightly out of focus, and the sand whips around one's ankles like tiny pieces of glass.

This would be a peaceful place, were it not for the quad bikes tearing up and down the dunes. Although, I must admit it looked fun.

Red sand dunes

On the way back, the jeep driver brought us to the complementary red sand dunes. Similarly, its eponymous sands are not so much red as a deep orangey yellow. I wondered whether the scarlet sands at the Fairy Stream had their colour intensified by the moisture there.

The entrepreneurial spirit starts young here. As the jeep pulled in, we were followed by a crowd of young boys carrying long flat pieces of shiny plastic and exhorting us to sled down the dunes.

By this time, the sun was setting over the dunes. Unfortunately, it was largely obscured by a bank of cloud that had rolled in during the afternoon.

Having been deposited back at the hotel, we repaired to Sindbad's for stuffed pita bread, fresh fruit and some more delectably rich coffee.

Kingdom of the Fairies

We awoke this morning to perfectly blue sky and descended to the open-air restaurant for breakfast. This wasn't quite as idyllic as it sounds, as there was a television showing cartoons blaring in the corner.

The menu included cháo, the Vietnamese rice porridge we had been meaning to try. The waitress assured us that the cháo trứng did not contain any meat or seafood, so we ordered two bowls. Having eaten something similar in Thailand, we knew what to expect, but the thin rice soup, laced with egg, was not entirely suited to the hot environment. It was a heavy meal, when what I desired was a light fruit platter. I suspect curiosity won out over sense on this occasion.

The accommodation is basic but affordable and we imagined the opulence of the other higher priced neighboring resorts we had passed. However, they all share the same aspect over the sea, which is simultaneously free and priceless.

The beach is a working beach, from which fishermen launch their tiny round vessels and cast nets. While the resorts line the main road along the coast, they are all relatively small and respectful. There are no ghastly high-rise blocks blighting the landscape (yet).

We spent the morning happily resting and reading, looking out to sea. A number of small fishing coracles were drawn out in a line being towed by a powered boat. Silhouettes of people paragliding off the coast could be seen further to the west.

I ventured into the sea. The water was warm! Not 'warm' in the sense of the Mediterranean or the Aegean at the end of a long summer, when the sea temperature should be at its highest, but when the muscles involuntarily contract on entering the water - positively warm, like a tepid bath. I had never experienced anything like this. I had thought it physically impossible to heat such a large body of water.

I did not venture much further than my waist, as I was surrounded by a number of small jellyfish. Other bathers did not seem bothered by their presence, but I was feeling less certain.

In a fit of originality, we swapped our loungers for upright chairs at Pogo's next door and resumed our viewing of the water lapping languidly at the shore, over a milkshake and a smoothie.

One of the features of Mui Ne is the so-called Fairy Stream (Suối Tiên), which lies not far from our hotel. We broke our lazy afternoon and walked along the dusty road parallel to the shore until we came upon a sign for the stream near a bridge.

Following the sign down a set of steps led us to the rather unprepossessing sight of the underside of the bridge. A shallow current of water flowed past accompanied by a few carrier bags and other miscellaneous detritus. Our only options were to ascend to the other side of the bridge or to return whence we came. Having done the latter, a man arrived and gestured for us to follow him back down the steps and to step into running water and follow it upstream.

Feeling rather suspiciously that this was some kind of elaborate ruse set up to catch unwary travellers, we nevertheless followed his instructions. Padding wetly through barely half an inch of water, our progress was slow, as my foot had been bitten by ants under the bridge and I was leery of other creatures that might make a meal of my lower half, so I wore my flip-flops as a protective guard.

The feeling of having been duped grew inexorably as we made our way up the ravine, which allowed no dry passage owing to the steep inclines on either side. The outlook was pretty but unremarkable.

Just as we were about to turn back, we rounded a corner onto a magnificent scene.

The white rock formations were dripping with sand as red as brick, just as icing on a cake. The red and white sands mingled in an explosion of colour that ran into the stream below. It was as though we had found water on Mars.

The ravine continued for quite a way before coming to an abrupt halt at the source of the water, which springs forth from the ground.

Amazed by the landscape, we returned to the hotel in search of food. There was sadly little choice unless we were prepared to nominate a fish or crustacean to perish for our evening meal. We relented in our insistence on eating only domestic cuisine and stopped at Sindbad's. There we dined on a selection of foods until we were as stuffed as a Persian prince: pita with tzaziki and hummus, salad with feta and olives, tomato and mozzarella with pesto, and bruschetta pomodoro.

Although completely inauthentic fare for the locale, the Vietnamese chefs brought their obvious competency in flavour to these Mediterranean specialties. A glass or two of Vang Da Lat red wine set this off nicely. Decadently, we finished with a sublimely rich Vietnamese coffee (hot) that verged on cocoa.

The Art of Travel

We got up early again this morning for another change of scene. We had a bus booked to take us to Mũi Né, a few hours east of HCMC on the coast of the South China Sea.

Our travel was booked with Futa Bus Lines (Phuong Trang), whose distinctive orange buses we had seen around town. Stepping into the vehicle, we couldn't believe how luxuriously we were to travel. Many of the fleet are fitted with near fully reclining seats, comfortably upholstered. We were provided with a blanket, water, air conditioning and WiFi, and could relax almost horizontally for the journey without crashing the seat into the knees of the passenger behind, owing to the ingenious way the seats are tesselated.

When booking, the assistant asked whether we wanted a seat upstairs or downstairs. Imagining a double-decker bus, I opted for 'upstairs'. This turned out to be the top bunk of the seating arrangement, accessed by a small stepladder. The coach has three rows of seats across the two levels, making space for 45 passengers in total. A regular bus of similar size has an occupancy of around 53, but in much less comfort. National Express take note!

At 145k dong (£4.40) for a one-way ticket, we were travelling in very affordable style. We breakfasted on some pastries we had bought from a Japanese-inspired bakery (Breadtalk) - the kind where you walk around with a tray and a pair of tongs, choosing from the soft and sweet baked goods.

On entering the bus, we were asked to remove our shoes and put them in a small plastic bag. This commitment to cleanliness was remarkable and made me a little furtive in pulling out our food and openly tearing chunks of bread, lest we be reprimanded for contaminating the coach with crumbs. Pulling in for a rest stop, we were given green flip-flops to use when outside the bus.

On the bus, I began Alain de Botton's The Art of Travel, which is written with an enviable articulacy, and echoes well the anxieties of journeying abroad. In the first chapter, he references a misanthropic character from literature, Jean des Esseintes, who finds the chasm between his imagination of a place and the vulgar reality of actual experience so disappointing that he resolves never to go anywhere again. This, De Botton explains, is due to the simplification of both anticipation and memory, in which the mundane aspects of travel are glossed over, either in the planning or in the retelling. However, it is just the everyday aspects of the journey - having breakfast, getting from A to B, negotiating a price - that make the trip special. The 'standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon' moments are few and far between, so the art of travel is in savouring the interstitial moments.

In the afternoon, the bus pulled up at our hotel in Ham Tien, a few miles outside of the Mũi Né peninsula. We checked in at Hai Yen and were shown to our room.

Vowing to go straight to the beach, we slathered ourselves in sun cream. It seemed to take forever apply the lotion, followed by dithering over what to take and what to leave behind. K asked me to rub some cream onto her back only after I had cleaned my hands.  I protested and found myself silently agreeing with Des Esseintes - perhaps it would have been better to stay at home. However, having walked to the pool, which is directly on the sea front, my curmudgeonly grumblings were cast into faintly ridiculous relief in the presence of the vista before us.

The beach is a strip stretching to Mũi Né in one direction and to Phan Thiết in the other, with a gently lapping sea extending as far as the horizon, where it slices the otherwise unbroken pale blue sky.

We furnished ourselves rapidly with cold water and a beer and seated ourselves for a ringside view of the sea. I took a photo of the beer bottle glinting in the sunlight; it looks like an advert.

After cramped city life, this setting was paradise. The hotel was sparsely occupied. As far as we could tell, we had the place to ourselves, as this is, laughably, 'low season'.

The sea had a few heads bobbing up and down and a number of fishing boats. One fisherman cast his net from a perfectly hemispherical vessel, which he had propelled out to sea by stirring a single oar in the water.

Inevitably, one cannot enjoy the present for long without unconscious thoughts blundering in unbidden. Just as De Botton describes, my mind started to wander to booking the bus back to HCMC, where we will find dinner this evening, whether the price for a motorbike we had been quoted is fair, as well as the usual slight feeling of guilt at such opulence in contrast to the perceived notion of 'proper travelling' (see K's blog for a more thorough and perceptive handling of this issue). These were trivial matters indeed, but indicate how challenging it is to remain mindful of the current moment.

In the dwindling sunlight, we took a stroll along the beach. Palm trees leaned up and out over the beach, craning towards the setting sun, which cast the fishing boats in striking silhouette. On the horizon, a towering thundercloud lit up orange like a jellyfish, but advances no further.

For dinner, we ventured only a few steps to a most agreeable beach-front bar and restaurant called Pogo's. Being essentially a holiday destination, mainly European/Mediterranean food seems to be available locally, which baffled us given the taste and quality of Vietnamese fare. Thankfully we found a coconut soup on the menu that came in a bowl the size of one of the round fishing boats and contained a frankly obscene amount of lemongrass and tofu. Accompanying this was a chilled glass of white wine from Đà Lạt, whichfar surpassed my expectations, tasting aptly of longan and dragonfruit (a similar, but more prosaic description of its flavour would be melon and kiwi fruit).

By this time, the sea had turned a  dark void, absent of all light save for a string of twinkling pearls across the horizon, courtesy of the ships out at sea, balanced precariously on the knife-edge between sea and sky.