Symphony of Chaos

Borders are strange things, and never before has an imaginary line made its intangible divisiveness more clear than between the two worlds of Laos and Vietnam. I was in the middle of the ultimate daydream, a dream within itself, when I was rudely woken by a blaring screech, something so much more irritating and aggressive than the combined efforts the letters "h-o-n-k" can elicit. Not only was it accompanied by a brother honk, but a sister too, and a cousin, a third cousin (his dog and cat as well), the enteire family tree bearing down upon me swiftly and abrasively, with the intent of tearing out the mellowed roots of my mood, and leaving me for dead, exposed from the comfort of my soil. The culprit behind my wakeup call apparently wanted me dead too, as the moped zipped past, fractionally missing my person. Zoom out: this particular succession of beeps from my gardener was just one in the sea of a million, as mopeds crisscrossed in front of me in the most spectacular display of chaos, grace, noise, and some odd beauty that I've ever witnessed. The only way to cross the street is to literally shut your eyes and deliberately strut into the middle of the madness. Either someone wayyy up top is on your side, or these people are very, very good. I nominate a crazy combination of the two. Good Morning Vietnam! Love you to, Hanoi. Now let me go back to sleep.

No, as weird as it sounds, I really dig this place. Bangkok was crazy, sure, but there's something so deeply intense about Vietnam that I just cant quite dig up. There's grit here, it's raw, not in a dirty way, but it's in the eyes of the people, in the omnipresent crew cut of mist that the city's streets touts, and yes, definetaly in the traffic. I'm getting that buzz again, the city thing, creeping up on me and jumping me by surprise, wrapping me in its neverending cocoon of energy.

As a Christmas present to myself, I splurged on a cruise of Halong Bay, which entailed three days of stunning beauty, a well-needed dose of interaction with people of my generation, and a beautifully timed coal in my stocking in the form of diarrhea. No worries though, as much of my time was spent feeling like an extra on the Asian version of Pirates of the Carribbean, as our ship tip-toed through eery fog, past stark karst formations jutting from the water.



Saw Avatar in 3-D. The crowd reactions were as good as the movie, as chorused 'oooohhs' and 'aaahhhss' rose behind my front row seat at every mind-blowing visual.

Back to the school of haggling I trudge, where I've had to re-learn previous lessons from Thailand. From the front row. From a very anal substitute. I didn't have to barter in Laos because not a soul was out to to rip you off, but in congruent form with previous observations, Nam is yet again the antithesis of Laos. Previously, people just wanted my time and attention, now, they just want my money. And man, they WANT it. Sometimes starting at ten times the accepted value, you have to barter down everything - every transaction is a battle, and even though the thin front line of my money belt has taken serious casualties due to the unintelligent tactics of a rusty commander, my troops are determined to win the war, as a few recent prisoners of conflict can attest. I guess it's not too smart to use war analogies here...which is another thing: I've been working real hard on my Canadian accent, as I've experienced the overpriced barbs of animosity pointed sharply at my nationality (aside from a few spiteful experiences, I've had only positive experiences with the locals, although I do have to note that the general frame of countenance is that of a sour, puckered demeanor that only a mouthful of War Heads could produce). I even learned some of the Canadian national anthem, and everything was fine and dandy, until I had an ugly interaction with history, discovering that the French occupied Vietnam for a bit, leading to a decent amount of french speaking Vietnamese...and also leading to awkward conversations with the only Canadian they've ever met who doesn't relate in that tongue.



I've thoroughly enjoyed romps through the Old Quarter, which houses a dynamic blend of old school French architecture and new school industrial smoke from the pulsating furnace owned by the on-the-rise Vietnamese economy. Every moment holds something new, something bizarre, and quite frankly, I love it. The bleating horns are reminiscent of some spoiled group of trust-fund goats, which bodes ill for the slightest hangover - and herein lies the shrillest irony of all...15 cents. For what? A pint of the most refreshing Bia Hoi Hanoi you could dream of. It's here, on these little plastic seats, that were definetaly manufactured with the smurfs in mind, where I have fallen asleep yet again, except this time, my head lols to the amped up throb of the heart of the city.