Slept well. The beds melded around our bodies and because we dressed in our fleece, we were toasty. This morning, I smelled something funky in my daypack. Yesterday, I thought it was my musty clothes. As it turns out, the shell I picked up the other day in Nha Trang still had the purple and gooey remains of some sort of life form. Reeking residue wreaked havoc and I launched the presumed D.O.A gastropod out the bathroom window.

Alison is now teasing me about my morning "bingo hall voice" complete with a Dunhill hanging out of my yap. (B-32…that’s B-32). On the motorcycle trip to our hiking destination, I’ll just give her a friendly smile and a shove… Well, shite, plans change and we’re taking a bus (can I bring my lucky trolls??) This tank portends the ominous tale of quiet doom á la carbon monoxide poisoning (you are aware of the cynic inside I presume?)

A brief stop on our long jungle trek, we’ve weaved our way through a lush canopy and gouging rocks. Halfway we’ve stopped in a pristine valley bowl where songbirds can be heard over the multitude of hardcore hikers. Indeed the climb up was difficult, my bronchial tubes screaming all the while. I didn’t hear the boom of any leftover landmines, but I did hear a pop. I believe it was my right lung.

We visited a cave formerly used as a U.S. Army hospital during the war. We were greeted and guided by an old fellow who sang Viet Cong war songs to us. His voice was so powerful and echoed beneath the mountain caverns in perfect tune and time. The most remarkable live show I’ve seen yet.

After a brief banana and baguette break, we did more rock climbing than hiking. A few people turned back and for damned good reason. The jagged rocks we clung to were covered in green moss, red slime and grey matter likely left behind from some misfortunate adventure seeker’s cranium. Plenty of vines to grip although not helpful on downturns…my knees are starting that snap I used to get descending the blocks for a new bag of trees.

Now we bask in another mountain bowl listening to the hum of bees doing business as we wait for stragglers, and quite possibly, the wounded. Luckily, I’ve only sustained the odd bruise. Luck indeed as this trek requires my Solomons, safely locked in storage 15,000 km away on Wolfe Island. Here I am in a pair of tread-less Airwalks. Yes, lounging idly in a hammock, we get the word someone ripped their hand open about a mile back. One of the Kiwis I guess. I’ll sit back and watch this French woman complain over the price of a Coca Cola sold by the beekeeper. D10k…so about $0.65. Gimme a break, they cost more than that back home.

After a lunch of ramyon and coke, we walked through a watery field contemplating the water buffalo. A small launch met us to take the wounded and weary to the big boat. I along with the other diehards walked nimbly on the shores blistered with sadistic, razor sharp mussels and equally menacing rock. I eventually sustained a nice inch long, stitch worthy gash on my thumb. Haven’t been able to wash it out as of yet (this part is hard to read…blood spots) I’ll have the fun task of picking shell pieces out later.

Fortunately, the launch came back and we were escorted to the motorboat and greeted with cold beers and cigarettes. The boat ride so far is nothing short of pure majesty. 1,969 rocky islands litter Ha Long Bay, and every one of them retaining their own markedly secretive beauty. There were several floating villages along the way. Wow, what a lifestyle, one I could relish indefinitely.

We’re back at the hotel after a ride under the pale pink sky. Established an Ozzie contact, and a few Kiwi comrades heading to Korea in February. I’ve got a desperate need for a shower and some tiger balm. My thumb is ok, but the blisters on my heels are bordering on Jungle Rot. Need some food, then to bed. We take the ferry to Halong City in the a.m. Good photo ops and a chance to knock off a few pages in this Maxim Gorky book I picked up for Nolan. I finished the de Beauvoir last night.

The evening begins by stopping off at our Korean friend’s room for some cognac. It seems they bought this $400 bottle at the Incheon duty free. How funny to watch them nickel and diming their way about cooking rice on the floor of their hotel room while each sip costs them roughly 5 dollars.

Now we’re at the hotel restaurant where I’m about to try a cheap glass of Ruou Trang or Vietnamese moonshine. Frankly, I’m scared, but you can’t go wrong for 10 cents…or can you? Liquid death it is. If I finish this, I’m sure kidney failure will be soon to follow. I’m got the throat water after burn and smoking is an obvious danger….definitely 180 proof. Damn, shoulda bought a Tiger.

Again, I wake up with my liver in my lap. I open my eyes to an unfinished glass of cognac. My companion toys with my cotton filled cranium and says it’ll be a sunny day. I don’t know how much sauce she dipped into but here at street level, it’s drizzle as I wait for my banana pancake and tea. She’s regailing me about her dreams of construction work and roaches of unusual size. "What can it mean?" she asks. Ho ho! What can it mean? That’s for me to know and her to find out.

My thumb is infected and may find perilous ends like an Everest climber’s nose. We made our way to the ferry port. This boat is along the lines of modern and is much quieter and more comfortable than the first. Now to enjoy the cool sea breeze and myriad of unmolested islands while tailed by coastal ravens. Somehow we’ve come to discussing overdue salad dressing. Ahhh, 1000 islands from the Joe Clark administration and President’s Choice "Memories of Mulroney" flavoured with "Meech Lake Accord." A dash of NDP for preservation and the Shawinigate croutons. (God, we are weird).

An interesting turn of events. We met a cool chick from Tel Aviv and sat for a few hours discussing American influence on Israeli-Palestine negotiations and the lack thereof. U.S. foreign policy domination, Western/Middle Eastern education, Afghanistan, Communism and North Korea. Of course this woman had many tales to tell and with her email addy in hand, I hope to engage in many more.

We are now lounging at the Hoa Binh Hotel in Halong City. A relief after about a 2km hike with my bag weighing about 25 kilos at least. My shoulders hurt, my foot is bugging me again, my knees are snapping, and my thumb is held on only by a single, filthy band-aid. Only vittles and coffee can help my weary soul now….and Maxim Gorky.

Grilled fish for lunch then an email check. We’ve come to a coffee shop where I decided to use the toilet. The one I was directed to had only a urinal. I asked the waiter for a toilet, he looked at me as if I were insane. Realizing the futility of trying to explain the impossible physics of women and urinals, I was pointed to the neighbouring watering hole where I was greeted by (shudder) the vilest W.C. in Indochina. Worse than Trainspotting and that ferry head I used the other day is just an afterthought now. The squat was covered by ceramic tile, which I kicked with my shoe only to watch it sink slowly into the cesspool of disease (remembered as Satan’s Cesspool) about ½ a centimetre below. No matter how many times I keep scrubbing my hands after racing out of that quarantine waiting to happen, I still feel dirty and violated. I’ll never complain about the Soul Trane squat in Pusan again.

Well, after that terrible coffee adventure, we bivouacked ourselves in the hotel room for an evening of reading and word games. The "Planet" was right, do not come to Halong City. There is nothing to see or do in this desolate town. We were awakened at 5 am by jackhammers at the construction site across the road, and some street crazy banging a gong around 5:30. Soon, we’ll head to the bus station and hightail outta this hole for Hanoi. Plenty to look forward to there at least. I say to Ali this town definitely sucks. She says, "Well, maybe it’s just the weather." "No," I say, " I think it blows everyday." She relents and nods her head in full agreement.

A bus to Hanoi stopped and picked us up on the road for d35k’s. We are shaking our heads with regret now. It has seats for about 20 people but at one point we had about 35 on board, along with boxes of food, luggage and engine parts. My personal bubble has been penetrated more times than I can bear today. One man scolded me because I had my feet up over my pack with dirty shoes. It was futile to argue the point that there was nowhere I could put my feet, unless I hang them out the window. I liken this ride to a journey down the river Styx on the way to purgatory.

We stopped about 60 km from Hanoi. Lucky too, as my patience was long gone, as were my cigarettes. One more person sticks their ass in my face today; they’ll learn my wrath…they’ll learn. Alison too is at wits end. One more day to go, and just in time. We are ready to go home.

Another day of careless consumerism in Hanoi after a harrowing bus ride. We’re enjoying a dinner at Café 135. The Bia Hanoi is a bitter pale ale with a clean aftertaste. Looking forward to crostada and penne for dinner. Tonight, I splurge. I want flavour dammit, no more baguette and water for me.

Ahhh, dinner was awesome, although the crepes for dessert were a pale comparison to my aunt’s back home. A quick email check, and back at the hotel for a little R&R. We’ll meet our Korean friends tomorrow for breakfast and then hopefully a trek to the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum and Lenin Monument. We’ve got plenty of time to kill however; our plane doesn’t leave until 11 at night. Can’t wait to see my gang back home and call Canada with all the details of my adventure.

Being a huge tourist Mecca, the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum was a bittersweet pilgrimage. Tourists who complained about surrendering daypacks and cameras annoyed me immediately. Read you guidebooks for chrissakes, and show a little respect for the rules. (What? Dinah said that??) Of course we had to wait and go with a giant group where we were constantly frisked and directed to and fro. The enclosure housing Uncle Ho’s embalmed corpse was dripping with sombre Socialist emblems, the atmosphere was as chilling as the stiff in the glass case. Unfortunately, we were whisked and frisked through in a matter of 30 seconds, giving no time to pay the revolutionary icon the homage he deserved. He looked as most dead guys do, at peace. I wonder about his soul. As a last request the man asked for cremation. I wonder if I indeed have disrespected his soul because I, along with millions of other gawking, clueless tourists came to do nothing but catch a glimpse of his sorely exploited afterlife. I said hello and goodbye quickly and fled to the exit teeming with dollar grabbing souvenir shops.

I separated from my comrades to walk alone to the Lenin monument to greet the man who started it all by following the wisdom of one Karl Marx. Alison later asked me if I was a Communist. No, I tell her, though I may harbour some leftist ideology, I could never fully embrace Socialism. Western capitalism and all out greed have polluted any romanticizing I’ve held towards true Socialist indoctrination. Though I feel all people should be equal and that we should all have opportunities to work and thrive for a common goal, history has proven that those who preach don’t really practice. (Except Ho and Che Guevara) A moot point indeed, and one I will investigate further, believe me.

Now I’ve parked myself on a bench by the lake. An old French speaking man twittering away though I can only pick out a few words. He draws me a picture of Uncle Ho, I’ll now return the favour.

He seems delighted and now we’ve traded pens. He also likes my Dunhills. It seems I’ve made a new friend. Now we shall smoke and speak of simple pleasures, although I realize how atrocious my French really is. Oh, happy day. The man speaks a little Japanese, so now we were able to hold down some conversation. I explained my Korean situation, my dreams of writing a book, and commented on the beauty of his country, the friendliness of its people. He said a little about the hardships of war, but how he was proud of Uncle Ho, and being a Communist. Then he gave me his drawing, procured another Dunhill, gave me a toothy kiss on my forehead and walked away with the tallest, proudest stride any 82-year-old man with a cane could muster. His name..Xuan Truang.

Our vacation has wound down to precarious ends. Like a welfare mom, Alison is counting every last available monetary resource. Between us, we’ve just enough to take a taxi to the airport. Satisfied we are at the blatant feeding frenzy of materialism we capitalized on these past few weeks.

Back in familiar territory, Noi Bai International Airport. Our shuttle was smooth and uneventful. A most interesting exchange occurred on the toll road. Our driver plied the toll keeper with a package of cigarettes and we carried on our way. Yes, I do get a little enjoyment, although slight discomfort knowing the long arm of the law can be bought with a single pack of tailor-mades.

The 45-minute ride was $8 and we arrived to an empty and echoing hangar of tile and halogen hell. Yes, the sky lounge, and a sleepless wait. At least I have books, liquor and cigarettes á la duty free to look forward to. Aside from the "sanitized for your protection" atmosphere in this palatial penitentiary of glass and stone, all was going well until we visited the sorriest excuse for duty free I’ve seen on this planet. The first shop had my smokes and Bailey’s, but didn’t accept Visa, although they advertised as such. The next had only the Dunhills, which was ok until I laid down the plastic. The woman argued about me changing her numbers. When Vietnamese write $10, it looks a hell of a lot like $70. So I tore up the paper, made out another and then she complained about my signature. I said it’s the same as on the card, and then she filled in another $70 charge. Let’s just say I had to swallow the feeling of swift and blinding violence, tear up slip 2 and manually charge my own credit card. I signed it, grabbed to dragsticks and headed immediately to the smoking lounge to soothe the savage soul. 20 minutes until boarding and dammit, it better not be delayed. I can’t see it, it’s a graveyard out there, and so I imagine a quick taxi on the tarmac. Looking forward to the free Guinness…

Well, after a long wait and 1 ½ hour delay, we’ve taken off. Heading for Seoul and the shivery weather. Caught up with the Afghan situation and depressing details of Kashmir. Yes, I’ve been out of the loop, but I’ll be back in the world of media swamp soon enough.

Back in Pusan, and what a busy, non-stop day. I’m running out of energy reserves, but I’m up a bit later than anticipated as my companion prepares to leave for Canada tomorrow. It’s the end of an era for me, although not the end of a remarkable friendship. I’ll miss the rat killing Dengue woman. Hoping she finds that house, that job, that guy…Waking up at 5 am to see her off at the airport, then off to Haeundae, back to Nampo Dong, and then Daeyon for a meeting. Must pick up my Sydney tickets, and then head out to meet Jess and Nolan at the Beer Draft Master. Need sleep…

Next chapter…Debauchery Down Under.