As I’ve mentioned before, Swarana and I are not very good at backpacking. No more evident is that fact than in our laborious exploration of Vietnam.
Most people pick a route: north to south or south to north. We essentially did laps.
We had pals to meet, you see; friends were coming over from the US, the UK and South Korea, not to mention a mate who actually lives in Vietnam. And in our endeavour to see them all, we went to Hue twice, Hoi An twice, Saigon twice and Hanoi THREE TIMES.
This makes a mockery of chronological blog-mongering.
So, in an effort to retain some semblance of form in this account, I’ll be merging all three visits to Hanoi in one post, despite many of the events book-ending either side our 45 days in the country.
We left Koh Libong the way we had come, on a longtail with the locals, one of whom was having her scooter shipped over with us. It wobbled precariously on the deck in front of us, threatening to crash into my knees as the boat’s hull was thumped by each wave, in what might have been the world’s oddest traffic accident.
Thankfully, my shins remained unscathed and, with a belly-full of Imodium leading some guttural rebellion in my intestines, I was semi-confident our trip to Koh Lipe would be squit-free. Continue reading Quantum Lipe→
All this rushing, all the flights and buses and boats to get to Koh Phangan, we were rushing to get there for New Year’s Eve.
I thought it was going to be all trance and tripped out twats, throwing shapes at the moon and dribbling on about cosmic energy. I thought it would feature teenagers rampantly forcing themselves upon each other under a deluge of alcohol and mushrooms. I’d been told about buckets – they hardly sounded appealing.