Have you ever watched an episode of a travel or cooking show when the TV host is a guest of honor at a local celebration or family party in some out-of-the-way village? You know what I mean. There’s always huge tables of food and extended family dancing in the street and some bottle of mystery homebrew passed around. And right there from your seat on the couch, you’re ready to plan a trip and join in on the fun… but you know that even if you did get on a plane, you don’t have an in with someone’s grandma (or a team of fixers). Well, we DID have an in with a grandma on our trip to southern Vietnam, which would have made Bourdain green with envy.
Our friend Wen had invited us to a family party at her grandmother’s house in southern Vietnam before I had even left the states, but it seemed like forces were always conspiring against this trip. Airfare jumped up. Andrew’s work travel schedule kept changing. Then visa requirements for US citizens entering Vietnam suddenly hiked by hundreds of dollars, and websites to get online visas inexplicably suspended service, seemingly to see if the new laws would actually go into effect (welcome to Southeast Asia!). I was in the middle of planning a trip with my parents to Cambodia in November and our nine-day trek to Myanmar in December. We were still very new to this part of the world and generally feeling overwhelmed with so much travel ahead. But then: a break. A company based in Ho Chi Minh City invited Andrew to give a presentation to their employees in October. With half the travel and visa costs thus covered, we quickly booked the rest, and I touched down in Ho Chi Minh City/Saigon in late October.
HO CHI MINH CITY
So: Ho Chi Minh City or Saigon? Both names were used frequently and interchangeably by locals, though we learned that Saigon often refers to the central downtown area of the city. The one thing you should not call the city is just “Ho Chi Minh,” since that refers to the person, and risks offence.
Now a pro at solo international arrivals, I arrived to the hotel in downtown HCMC that Andrew was staying in for work, prepared to venture out alone. Unexpectedly, Andrew made it back at an early hour so we hit the town together. We walked across the enormous central plaza that looks like the set of a communist movie to a large outdoor Vietnamese restaurant, Nhà hàng Ngon, where we feasted on familiar favorites like summer rolls, pho, and bahn mi. It was the first of many, many, many soup-based meals (in 95 degree heat).
The next morning, while Andrew headed off for another day of meetings, I was picked up by my motorbike tour guide for the day, a petite university student named Thao. I’d read that it was difficult to get around the city without a motorbike, and I knew that renting my own in Vietnam would be a frightening prospect. (Here’s why.) The solution was Back of the Bike tours, one of a few companies in HCMC offering the best of both worlds.
Thao and I met up with two other driver-tourist duos at a coffeeshop to take on Saigon. (Sidebar: the Vietnamese iced coffee! Swoon. Worth the trip.) Though it was a comparatively expensive tour at around $50 USD (this in a city when the average meal is two dollars), it ended up being a perfect way to see the sights in a day including things I never, ever would have gotten to otherwise. We not only hit the major tourist sights like the Notre Dame Cathedral and the Central Post Office, but also ate breakfast and lunch at local places, zoomed down tiny, narrow alleyways to local wet markets, and went to outer areas of the city. Better yet, I spent the whole day talking to Thao, who pointed out everything of interest we passed on the bike and patiently answered my questions about local life.
That afternoon I was tired and dusty from the tour, but I pushed myself to leave the hotel and walk to the War Remnants Museum. You know, a relaxing way to wind down! It was a difficult visit, though I recommend making time for it. It’s fascinating to see exhibits from the Vietnamese perspective on the history of the Resistance War Against America, and they do an excellent job of putting the war in the context of Vietnam’s history with the French and the rest of Asia. It is also outrageously and unsparingly graphic by American museum standards, so consider yourself warned…
On the way back, I passed by the striking Independence Palace, though I skipped the tour. Time for a drink. Luckily, HCMC is an excellent place to eat and drink. It has an almost hipster vibe with hole-in-the-wall noodle shops next to upscale craft beer bars. I met Andrew in time for happy hour at the excellent cocktail bar Racha Room. If it hadn’t been for people smoking inside, I would have thought we were back in Brooklyn. Singapore has incredibly high prices for alcohol, so it was a treat just to relax and not worry about blowing my latest freelance check on the bill.
From Racha, we hopped in a cab and met up with the rest of the weekend gang at a nearby AirBnB. The cast of characters included four Fordham grads (Andrew, Wen, recent Singapore arrival Erica, and Nick, based in Spain and currently backpacking around Asia), Wen’s boyfriend Tai, Nick’s Spanish girlfriend Ainhoa, and Tai’s Canadian colleague Ken. Got it? Like most of our expat gatherings out here, we were basically a mini UN. Our flight to the small city where Wen’s family is from, Rach Gia, left at 6 AM the next morning. Some of the aforementioned stayed out all night… other less ambitious folks (myself included, sorry) helped to hold the plane while we all reunited on the tarmac before a quick hop over the Mekong Delta.
I could probably write a full novel about the 24 hours we spent in Rach Gia (pronounced Yit Yah!! as best I can tell), a port town on the southern coast of Vietnam. Suffice to say it was one memorable days I’ve ever had, with every moment filled to the brim with new experiences. Wen grew up in Philly but her extended family is still in Rach Gia, and her mom owns a home there. This palatial but oddly empty house was our fist stop, where we were greeted by Wen’s nearly identical mom and aunt, who had prepared enormous communal urns of Vietnamese iced coffee for our arrival. Soon, a restaurant across the street delivered steaming bowls of “sweet shrimp” noodle soup for our breakfast. I have eaten many delicious things in my life, but that soup makes me want to cry thinking about it. By the time I reached the bottom of my bowl, I understood the genius of soup for breakfast: light yet filling, flavourful, and cozy. With that, we headed off to various corners of the house for a long nap.
That evening, after some exploring around town and an absolutely torrential downpour that seemed to phase the locals on motorbikes not at all, we made our way to Wen’s grandmother’s house. It was sensory overload from the moment we stepped out of our cab. I’d been imagining a “large family party” to mean… maybe twenty people? Try two hundred. The entire house was filled with people, and the party spilled into the street and well down the block, with a huge series of tarps covering large round tables crowded with stools. We were quickly ushered to a table of honor in the front, already piled, and I mean piled, with food. One roast chicken, one roast duck, two baskets of fried spring rolls, and a hot pot tureen with platters of add-ins… to start.
Dozens of uncles and cousins gathered to initiate us into the celebration by pouring mugs of Tiger Beer on ice, and teaching us how to chant “Mot, Hai, Ba, Vo!” This translates to One, Two, Three, In! and must be said before every toast. There were many toasts. For entertainment, there was a full karaoke stage set up in the front yard, complete with a deafeningly loud wall of speakers, fog machine, and disco lights. Nearly every adult got up to sing (!), and then the mic was passed onto our table. We represented America proudly with crowd-pleasing renditions of Journey, 4 Non Blondes, and Bon Jovi. One of my favorite moments of the night was talking a quick break from the chaos of the party with Wen and Ainhoa and walking around the neighborhood, peeking in on houses and the families who seemed completely unperturbed by the unbelievable din down the street.
The night ended at a bizarre local nightclub with Wen’s cousins, where I lost all of my hearing while being surrounded by an army of identically dressed, bored female hostesses. We made it back to the house just a few hours before the daily 5AM wakeup music and propaganda announcements blasted through the town’s loudspeakers. What a place.
PHU QUOC
The next morning, we all rushed to make our ferry to Phú Quốc, an island a couple of hours off the coast, right on the borderline between Vietnam and Cambodia. The two countries have fought over the large island for years, and it also has a dark past as the site of some of the most infamous prisons during the Vietnam War. Today, in a theme familiar across Southeast Asia, it is in the early stages of redevelopment for tourism. But while Phú Quốc recently opened a shiny new international airport, there’s still little outside influence and basic amenities like ATMs are scarce. Given the rapid pace of modernization in Vietnam that Wen has witnessed firsthand during trips to visit family, it’s safe to say that Phú Quốc will be changing VERY quickly. But for now, it is a sleepy locals and backpackers scene, and home to the gold standard of places we’ve stayed during our travels: Daisy Resort.
“Let’s find another Daisy” is now a common refrain in our travel planning. This place was outrageously beautiful but not fancy, perched in the hills overlooking the ocean, with colorful gardens surrounding an enormous pool. $30 USD a night gets you a simple, private villa. Breakfast (included!) was a feast of local food, with platters of fresh fruit and bowls of noodles, and made-to-order Vietnamese coffees. I never really understood travelers who write about accidentally staying somewhere for an extra week until Daisy. Best of all, the young staff was friendly and accommodating, eager to practice English and organize activities for our group. They were led by an earnest local guy named Billy.
After checking in at Daisy, we piled into two cabs and made our way to the beach, which was lovely and completely empty, save for some cattle. As Wen reminded us: locals don’t go to the beach or anywhere near the sun. A typical motorbike outfit on a blazing hot day in Vietnam includes head-to-toe coverage, including a face mask, gloves, and toe socks with flip-flops.
After an afternoon of swimming, we made our way to Rory’s, a legendary backpacker beach bar with a giant bonfire. The thought of another Tiger beer was not so appealing after the previous night’s festivities, so in a moment of weakness that has since been repeated on many of our trips, I broke down and ordered a regrettable glass of wine. I say with no pride that I have sampled the finest box wine in many Asian countries.
It had been raining on and off throughout the trip, but the last day dawned sunny and bright– just in time for us to bid farewell to Andrew, who very reluctantly flew back to Singapore for work. Despite our promises that we wouldn’t have any fun without him, we immediately made our way down to the marina and chartered a very affordable boat and crew for the day. Nope, no fun at all. We made stops in the Gulf of Thailand for fishing, swimming, and snorkeling. While the water wasn’t too clear after the week’s storms, the corals were some of the best I’ve ever seen. The highlight was the lunchtime feast prepared by the crew, including a giant pile of fresh sea urchins and a fish stew that included our catches, including my one tiny fish.
We had plans to check out the local night market that evening, but after returning to Daisy, we found the staff rushing around with bedsheets, paint, streamers, and buckets of red watermellon juice. Family members of staff were pulling into the resort with their children in tow. With an extremely serious air, Billy approached us and explained that in honor of our group staying there, they were going to have a Halloween party that night. He was apologetic that it wasn’t actually Halloween (it was the next night, but we’d be gone by then). Did we want to attend the party anyway?
Well, we knew by now that when a group of Vietnamese locals throws you and your friends a party, you do not say no. The staff had transformed the restaurant into a Halloween wonderland, with handmade decorations of ghosts, spiderwebs, and bats. The price of admission? Having your face painted with paint that was almost certainly not intended for that purpose. A Halloween buffet of snacks that would have made Pinterest proud was set out, and of course, a giant karaoke set-up loomed large. But before karaoke could begin, there were games including blindfolded face painting and relays. Billy acted as emcee, welcoming the assorted guests and staff (including some very confused looking Chinese tourists) and making a speech into an echoing mic about Halloween. “Tonight we celebrate with our American friends. Halloween is a holiday in the west that we have enjoyed for a few years in Vietnam. On Halloween you paint your face and eat snacks and sing.” Well, close enough.
Later, faces scrubbed but not entirely pigment-free, we still made it to the night market for some shopping, ice cream, and gawking at sea creatures.
The next morning during check-out, I thanked Billy for everything and told him genuinely that last night was not just the best Halloween party, but one of the best parties I had ever been to. I said I hoped to be back soon. He looked mildly horrified and said, “No! You must promise to not come back here until you have been everywhere else in the world. Only then may you return.”
Andrew and I joked we’ve unintentionally planned more and more adventurous and challenging trips this fall, culminating in our backpacking trip to Myanmar over the holidays. By Myanmar we’d be such hardened travelers that we would just start our own commune in the wilderness rather than return to our old lives, á la The Beach. Southern Vietnam fell somewhere in the middle of this spectrum: it was a surprising mix of being more Westernized than I expected in Ho Chi Min City (fluent English heard everywhere, swanky cafes served lattes and craft beer) and less Westernized that I imagined in Rạch Giá and Phú Quốc (locals attired in conical palm hats and silk pajama suits, no chain stores).
This trip was a lulu, and it was important for me to get the telling of it right. Our visas last for a year, so this won’t be our final trip to this beautiful country. A good thing, too: it’s enormous with many varied regions that merit a visit. And best of all, we now have local family and friends to visit in the south. So with apologies to Billy, I hope to see him again soon.
one degree north 