"Vietnam Madame.......

....is what the motorbike driver sang to me as he sexually harrassed me whilst driving recklessly around Hanoi. Fearing for my life in the heavy traffic I wasn't at liberty to stop him. What a start to the trip. Everybody was quite amused.

Funny things that happened.

Climbing the mountain. That was funny in itself. Especially as me and Daryl came down pretty sick; his started at the base of the mountain, mine started at the top. Neither was pleasant. Mount Fansipan lies at the top of what is called the Vietnamese Alps, at the very North of Vietnam near Sapa, on the border of China. Realising a few months ago that I would be traveling Vietnam by myself, I typed in mountain, Vietnam, search, and up came Fansipan, 3,143m, the highest mountain in Indochina. Well hello! Seriously pleased to have found another mountain to vanquish, I set the itinerary for the climb, to reach the summit on Christmas Eve. And then something magic happened, and Phoebe, Mitch and Daryl, three very lovely scallywags, decided to join me. And so we became the Fansipan Four.

I found Fansipan to be waaaay harder than Kinabalu, despite being shorter. At base camp (2,200m) we met Gerard, a dutch man, a very fit Dutch man i'll add with absolutely gorgeous eyes, which were quite distracting....er, anyway, so we met Gerard, who had to come down at 2,800m because the guide was pushing him and his friend too hard and he got dizzy with altitude sickness so had to return to base camp, despite telling us just how fit he was and how much squash he played. Bless. That is because he and Maarten, his mate, were trying to complete it in two days. We were a little more liberated doing it over three days. Gerard filled us with fear as he talked about the treacherous rocks, the thinning air, the challenging climb.... I looked to my little mountain virgins with trepidation, but hurrah for Phoebe and Mitch, who, whilst I was absorbed in Gerard's eyes, were making a pact that they were going to "Fie in the face of the sporty Dutchman!" and not be defeated. In the literature about climbing Fansipan, it says: The summit of Fansipan is 19 km from Sapa and can only be reached on foot. The terrain is rough and and adverse weather is frequent. Despite the short distance, the round trip usually takes three to four days: some very fit and experienced hikers have made it in two days, but this is rare. I think Phoebe and Mitch were wondering what the hell i'd dragged them into.... mwah ha ha. As we got to base camp fairly early, we had the afternoon to play cards with Hais, our guide, and teach him some important British colloquialisms, like "'ave it!!!" and "Get outta my face bitch". He took to them brilliantly, and it was all we heard up the mountain. AVE IT! The night approached and we camped down, feeling rather ridiculous in bed at 8.30pm, waiting for the next day to approach bringing with it the ascent. We also happened to camp with about FIFTY loud and excited Vietnamese, also climbing at the same time, who certainly weren't bothered about being in bed for 8.30. No, instead Karaoke was their domain, acapella d'accord, and they subjected us to shockingly awful renditions of whatever bad song you care to think of.

Christmas Eve, the day of the climb came, we woke up at about 5am, because that is what time the Vietnamese got up to climb. Hais, our guide, wanted us to start last, because he had the wonderfully romantic idea of us getting to the top, it being all quiet, ambient, peaceful and serene, the best way to take in the summit of a mountain. More on that later. We also awoke to Daryl informing us he had spent all night in the bushes due to food poisoning, vomiting and you can imagine what else. Which is quite incredible, because even that wasn't going to stop him from climbing that mountain. We had a big breakfast, made for us by Hais and our porter, I played with the dog who would one day end up on somebody's plate, and at 7am, we set off. The mountain itself, please excuse the language, was a BITCH to climb. Kinabalu was pretty much ok, because it was straight up. Bob's your uncle. This badger was a different kettle of fish altogether. Up-across-down-up-up-up-across-down-up-down-down-up-up-up! It was misty, treacherous at times with the damp leaves and mud, and what made it harder was that you couldn't ever actually see the top so you couldn't gauge when you would reach it. But, we took a celebratory photo at 2,800m where Gerard had had to come down, and from there we knew we would make it. And make it we did; Daryl had beaten me to the top, damn him, and as I was approaching I could hear shouting, whooping, screaming, laughing, jeering, and all manner of loud unwanted noise on the top of a mountain. Sigh, the Vietnamese group. They were spraying champagne when I got up there, and littering everywhere. Most unlike the Japanese on top of a mountain! We waited for them to leave, to allow peace to return, and shivered as we ate our lunch, surrounded by mist, not being able to see ANYTHING. And that is when I began to feel nauseous, and the approaching sickness. Bugger. The descent was tough. Mainly thanks to me, we were very late getting down the mountain, and base camp sent out some porters with torches to help us down. I ran into the tent and didn't move for the next 12 hours, except to run to the toilet. What a wonderful way to see in Christmas, accompanied by more extremely bad acapella renditions from the Vietnamese group. Sigh. It was a long night.

We awoke on Christmas Day with me still sick but Phoebe and Mitch showing the Vietnamese how singing is really done, and I was priviledged to have my ears blessed with some rather nostalgic carols. Impressed the Vietnamese were, and even congratulated them both on their singing voices. We carried on our descent, and finally returned to Sapa, to a big beautiful hotel room with no hot water and no heating. I climbed into bed and dozed the afternoon away. I was very happy to find a note from Gerard and Maarten asking us if we wanted to meet up for Christmas Drinks, it being Christmas Day (but really to see if Fattie and Rodders - that being Mitch and Phoebe - had beated Gerard to the top). I whisked off a note back telling them we would love to meet up for a drink, and also added, for Gerard`s benefit, that although vanquishing Fansipan, it had very nearly finished us off. (I found it very amusing to later see that statement appear on his blog, as he tried to justify just how very difficult it was!). Christmas drinks we had, and I got to fall into Gerard's eyes some more, and it turned out to be a lovely christmas evening.

Returning back to Sapa, Mitch also came down sick, and whilst we were asleep on the train, Mitch, bless him, was in the toilet vomiting every last morsel up. So far, three of the Fansipan Four down..... When would it be Phoebe's turn....?!

We lost Mitch after Hanoi, not by accident, as he had to fly back to Tokyo for New Year. And so we became three, but picked up many more randoms along the way. We caught a 14hr sleeper train down to Hoi An, the middle of Vietnam, which turned into a 21hr train journey because it broke down for 7 hours and they locked all the doors and kept us caged in like animals with the water having run out and the toilet blocked. I got a case of cabin fever and stomped up and down the train trying to encourage a revolt. I nearly succeeded. (My hatred of this journey makes me feel slightly anxious about the 7 day Trans-Siberian express! I just tell myself that as long as the train is moving, i'm ok.) It was at this point we found Yvonne, who in another carriage, had been asking the all the dirty old men staring at her "what the fuck are you looking at" but getting no response. Another employee took pity on her and so brought her into our carriage to give her a bed. We decided to keep her and took her down to Hoi An with us, and so she stayed with us until New Year's Day.

Saigon. Saigon wasn't very funny. I wasn't all that keen. The further down Vietnam we got, the less beautiful it got, the denser the tourists, and the more aggressive the people. Here we spent New Year's Eve in the seedy part of town. So seedy, that boys on bicycles would cycle round with tin clappers, drawing everybody's attention to the fact they had whores to sell. We found ourselves in a bar that seemed to be owned and patronised by French Expats, with their trophy Vietnamese girls and children, at about 1am little girls no more than 6 or 7 were dancing on the bar with the old bastards putting money in their hands clearly thinking it was a joke. I was not amused. I also got Phoebe and Daryl away from the free punch and managed to escape. Shudder.

Saigon is the city of motorbikes, over 4 million. We were told "No motorbike, No girlfriend!!!" The better the motorbike, the better the girlfriend it seemed. Japanese bikes are lusted after, Chinese bikes are the substitute. Daryl got hit by a motorbike. The guy just kind of laughed a nervous laughter, muttered an apology, and sped off. Daryl was ok, but he went flying all the same. It was like Russian Roulette every time we tried to cross the road. A serious shock to the system after Japan! If I never see another motorbike again I'll be very happy.

I don't think i'll go back to Saigon. I would happily go and explore more of the North however. But next in South East Asia will be Laos and Cambodia, which I will try to see after I do my Thai massage course in Bangkok, before starting on the Trans-Siberian Express. I'm trying to convince Rob to join me. I want us to have one last adventure together before I leave him here in Japan. I'm trying very hard not to think about that day. In fact, i'm trying very hard not to think about leaving at all. That I will have to do so quite soon is something I am in denial about!

And once again, I am ridiculously happy to be back in Japan. You know you are back when an old guy on the train thrusts a handfull of oranges into your hands seemingly just for being foreign.