Dalat

Oh, blog readers!  I know, I know!  The rumours are true!  I have been on an adventure of epic proportions to a region intrepid travelers know as The Central Highlands, specifically to a remote town surrounded by hilly willy-derness called 'Dalat'.  The observant amongst you may have heard this rumour and found yourself confused at the lack of blog-with-amazing-photos that has failed to materialise, but you see, the intention of this blog is to document my awesome travelly-ness, and not to encourage me to mistakenly commit libel and inadvertently betray the confidences of my students, colleagues, superiors and school.  Sadly, I have found the damage limitation associated with blogging about a trip that revolved entirely around spending 16 hours a day with 117 excited and articulate 12-13-year-old students difficult to negotiate.

Instead, let's have some photos of scenery, and me being adventurous in Risk or Death's line of Outdoor Gear.

I did Practice Abseiling, which looked a little like this:

Top by RoD (£gratitude); gloves, rope and harness by Adventure Company (400,000 VND); trees by Nature (£Religious-service-attendance-since-14)

Zoom in to facial expression: worried!

I did 25m Sheer Rock Face Abseiling, also, but the photos were taken on someone else's camera.  I'll see if I can get them to you.

I did Taking Photos of Scenery:

I like how the distant mountains look like waves. *Fluffy artistic comment* 

Miss Sheppard: name those plants, child.
Child: ...?
Miss Sheppard: we eat them a lot in the UK.
Child: Tea?
Miss Sheppard: ...?

Children the world over do not know where their food comes from.  Grow Your Own, people!  For the sake of the children!

I did Posing Whilst Waiting for Team Organisation in Car Park:

(I did Photoshop at home.)

I Made New Friends:

I did Vegetable Appreciation at the local (enormous) market:

(I did Photoshop at home.)

Frenchie bought me these:

And these:

Frenchie, stop!

Save your money for important things!  Like jewelry!

Not really, I also did Florist Appreciation.

So Dalat was fun!  Alpine, but like... Alpine in the summer, y'know?

Culinary Culture

Even though I was more than reasonably excited to find a set of pink silicon egg poachers (not testicle holders, as I tried to convince the Frenchie) as well as a potato masher in an obscure and tacky-looking store today, I had a sudden sense of guilt at the metaphorical 'vs' my kitchen cupboard now seems to be flashing at the cuisine of my host country:

Yes, shockingly, I'm missing the tonic.  This would never have happened in the Clay-Sheppard household, but don't worry, Sheppards, the bacon arrives after trips week (I have a butcher that delivers), and I shall soon be sourcing acceptably-priced Stilton.

Then, I will set up an immigration desk at my front door, and yea verily, it will be like I never moved to a foreign and interesting country at all.

Cao Dai Country

So (how many of these blog entries start with 'so'?  I am getting samey in my written expression), whilst it turns out that crunch time at a School of Perfection means pretty much the same thing as crunch time at the Monkey Hunter Banana Academy, except with more people telling you 'you can do it', and fewer people telling you that you're not doing a good enough job, (Ahaha.  Libel.) there has still been time for an adventure of epic and Li Hi proportions.

For some time I have been fascinated, nay, obsessed, by a magical place introduced to me by Graham Greene in an obscure chapter of 'The Quiet American' that spoke of a strange and wondrous religion called Caodaism.  Like Buddhism or Taoism, but not.  However, the 'not' - the differences - are so beautifully and insanely impressive, that I began to Google images of an apparent temple some three hours away by bus from Ho Chi Minh.  On the internet, I was met with images such as this:


WOW, you guys.  Right?  Have you ever, in your entire, spiritual lives, seen anything as horrifically, tackily exciting as that?  It gets better, but let's not jump straight to the finale, let's build up some tension first.

Using my trusty navigation tool, Google Maps, I figured out that it would take me around 4.5 hours to get to the Chief Temple of the Saigon area on Little Moto.  Now that's quite a long time to spend hanging out on your own, even when there are PINK DRAGONS at the end of the ride, and as my Li Hi nature is also balanced out by Captain Safety since the Frightening River Experience, the thought of breaking down surrounded by rice paddies without a friend to lift my spirits was also unattractive.  But who could I ask to accompany me on an expedition with such an offensively colourful outcome?  To sit for 4.5 hours on a hard moped seat that would render even the most padded of arse-cheeks aching wrecks?  To agree to be coated in a film of road-dust and sweat and sunburn and lorry fumes a centimetre thick?

Hmmm...

Hmmm...

Well, Risk or Death, of course!  Now, I appreciate that she looks more sane than me in this photo, but when I visited her, in her boredom, she was about to abseil down the side of our 28 story apartment block before dinnertime.  Y'know, just for shits and giggles.  I asked her to hold on a second, and suggested my proposition, and she put her bee-line on hold to check her diary.  Luckily, in between 'Friday: skydive' and 'Sunday: lion taming', was a free spot.  Great news!

So, after double checking we were both awake at 6:30am on a Saturday morning through a series of can-we-get-out-of-it-now texts, we set off.  Here follows a pictoral account of some highlights of the journey out (name that novel):

Vietnamese coffee at a local cafe in District 1.  Gross, but we are so Vietnam right now.

Sticky rice parcels at a roadside market.

Me: I have rules about eating food I can't see the inside of.
RoD: Why?
Me: Once, Lizzie ate a dim sum that had rotten egg in it.  You never know when there's going to be egg.
RoD: Well... this is just rice and beans.  Like rice pud- oh.  There's egg.

RoD: Do you have one with coconut?  Coconut?  (more emphasised upward inflection) Coconut?  (making 'coconut' shape with hands) Coconut?
Vietnamese market shopper: Ah... no, it banana!
RoD: Oh.  Well, banana will do... (some three minutes later).  What is this?
Me: Egg?
RoD: Oh!  It is coconut!

Let's be honest.  It looks like egg.  But we are so Vietnam.

Endless expanses of big, flat, green rice fields.  They look way greener when you're driving past them.  Just trust me.

Now, this was amazing.  How friendly do these guys look?  Pretty friendly, right?  Well, you're right, they were pretty friendly.  On the road to Tay Ninh (expertly navigated by Risk or Death's Google Maps App - but I still hate Apple), we suddenly discovered that Caodaism wasn't just a one-off, unique massive temple, thing.  There was, in fact a whole Cao Dai Country filled with little Cao Dai templettes!  Wow!  I mean, really, wow!  Call me slightly naive in the way I am impressed by most things, but this was really, really cool!  I'd like to put a double exclamation mark, but my Father's Grammar Voice and Detestation of J.K. Rowling just won't let me.

But wow!  This religion literally only exists in small parts of Vietnam, but they love it.  And it's mental!  Not that I would ever be disrespectful of other peoples' faiths, but just WAIT until the end of this blog! !! ! !!  Sorry.  Uncontrollable excitement.

But anyway, I pulled up and said, 'Risk or Death, this is it.  I'm 99% sure this is it.'  Turns out it wasn't 'It' - resonance of Jack Kerouac here.  Gosh, this is a literary blog.  However, these ladies were the Mrs. Louise Clay church wardens of the Cao Dai world, and absolutely invited us to eat with them, and they gave us rice and let us hang out with them, and we took pictures, and they pointed at things in the temple and spoke Vietnamese to us and we nodded in appreciation and I even had a full on conversation:

Cao Dai Lady: (in Vietnamese) where have you come from?
Me: ...?
CDL: come from, idiot English girl, come from?
Me: oh!  Come from?  Saigon!
CDL: (nodding) Ah... Saigon.

Fluent in Vietnamese.  Yes.

Anyway, after some hammock resting:

And some hill-posing:

We finally (we got lost) arrived at our destination:

The biggest Caodaist temple in the Saigon area.  Somebody actually spent the money and time to build this place!  I mean, come on!  If there are wackier or more awesome places in the world, with more insane logic behind them, I would like you to find them for me.

Our reaction:

No way.

So we took a look inside.  The wardens here, by the way, were nowhere near as nice as Mrs. Louise Clay or the nice ladies we'd spoken to at the previous templette, but all was forgiven when we saw this:

...

Literally, no words.  This was my Holy Grail.  I'd seen it on the internet, but I wanted to see it, in all it's plaster of paris glory.  O. M. G.  The All-Seeing-Eye, guys!  This religion has a pretty significant following!  Makes you genuinely question the logic behind your own religious beliefs, right?  One man's All-Seeing-Eye is probably just another man's crucifix...  and this is a devout, if slightly sloppy Protestant talking.

My favourite bit was this:

Can you see the trap door?  That means someone is living in there, maybe Cao Dai himself?  And they feed him on fruit offerings that he comes out at night to gorge himself on.

Second favourite:

For those who can't see, we've got Abraham at the bottom (I think), Jesus second, some dude with a beard and then Buddha.  Caodaism is the most inclusive religion ever.  These guys want to please everyone!  I'd like to make a political joke about the Lib Dems here, but I don't feel politically qualified enough to do so.  If I did, the general gist would be that Lib Dems aren't assertive, they just agree with other parties to avoid criticism, but then get criticism anyway, so it's ironic.

...I've ruined the joke, right?

And maybe exposed my utter ignorance of politics.

Back to where I do feel qualified, which is round about here:

Hahaha.  Phallic.  Dr. Zeus willies in temples - what's not to love?

So.  All in all, a pretty amazeballs adventure, filled with the politically incorrect defaming of a religion alternative to, but not exclusive of my own.  For any offense I may have caused, I am truly sorry.  Especially to this lady here, who looks genuinely at peace, and in a state of zen in her candyfloss, unicorn temple of dragons and powder puffs:

Small Note

Just an amusing observation from when I was leaving school this evening...

If you invade a tiny gecko's space by following it intimidatingly down the stairs as it scurries along, above the banister, it throws itself off the wall, recklessly, and flies through the air like a kamikaze lizard, and lands, splat, on the floor.

Luckily, its bones are made of rubber, and it wiggles off again to somewhere it feels less claustrophobic.

Passportly Impaired

Whoa, guys!  Don't panic!  I'm back.  It's okay.  Resume tea/coffee break, blog-reading routine.

Good news: this entry will be nice and short because I've only been back a few days.  Those few days have, however, been days of great joy and reunion and tactile expressions of oneness from the staff and friends at the Big International School.  Everyone seems pleased to see each other and be back from the grey and rain of England/Ireland/Scotland/Australia.  This feeling will be short-lived, though, because rainy season is almost upon us (give or take a few months) and this morning as I swam in my apartment pool (oh, now I remember why I moved to Vietnam) it actually rained.  Shocker.  Who forgot to tell the weather that it was the dry season?  You just can't get the staff.

There have been a few amusing moments since The Return, including the discovery that it is not just I who is a stupid stupid head when it comes to airports and passports.  When I was casually peeing in the Gatwick Airport North Terminal toilets, the tannoy man piped up asking for a certain Aw Pet to return to security.  "I know an 'Aw Pet', I thought to myself."  Then the tannoy man repeated his plea, asking for the Aw Pet flying to Hanoi.  "That is Aw Pet!" I thought to myself and then, of course, washed my hands.  Turns out that Aw Pet - in his debilitated, bin-puking New Year's Day state - had left his passport either in a restaurant or a shop.  What an idiot, right?  When I saw him, I reassured him that I had done the same thing in Toulouse airport this Christmas, bringing my number of Idiot Passport Incidents up to an impressive four, including the great Canada sprint to London - remember that one, Laura/parents?

I then discovered that my Shining Shamrock had attempted to return to the green fields of her homeland over Christmas by rocking up to the airport without her residency card, and only an expired tourist visa to show meekly to the immigration officials.  They were not convinced by her lilting Irish charm, however, and dragged her into a small room, shouted at her in Vietnamese until she cried (I don't think she cried - she's not the crying type; she's hard as nails) before finding an air hostess who spoke passable English who gave her permission to phone a friend and beg her to bring the residency card to the airport, with something like 20 minutes left before her plane home to the warm glow of Christmas took off.

I imagine the final scene to be something akin to the 1998 Renault Clio advert with Vic Reeves (don't know what I'm talking about?  Check it out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DwqEpwO-5PE).

Shining Shamrock was released, pushing the guards aside in her haste, from the tiny room.  She was wearing a hat, which fell off, and her hair blew out behind her in a thick and glossy wave.  She grabbed the balcony rail with both hands and, panting, scanned the heaving crowd in the airport below her.  Suddenly, she saw a blonde head moving erratically through the crowd.  "Saviour!" she shouted, as loud as she could.  The blonde head looked up, saw her standing on the balcony.  "Shamrock!" the Saviour returned, and in slow motion, with a heart-racing soundtrack, the two ran towards each other, Shamrock taking two stairs at a time.  They embraced, briefly, but only long enough for Shamrock to whisper, "Thanks, you legend," and then she returned to the guards, waving the residency card triumphantly and jumped on her plane (which was waiting just outside the guard room), complained about the fact that the food on Vietnam Airlines is awful, and then jetted off to her family in Ireland humming The Pogues' 'Fairytale of New York' to herself and directing all the insults at the Vietnamese airport security staff... you scumbag, you maggot, you cheap, lousy faggot...

Phew!

So it's not just me who is Passportly Impaired (or musically abusive to others).  You see: not such a special case, after all!