by Anne Harrison
I stood in the silence, trying to decide where the dragon had plunged into the sea. Dawn had barely touched the sky. No other boats were about in the morning mist as mine drifted past islands and craggy cliffs straight from mythology. These came into being when the dragon of the gods, after gouging the mountains with his tail, plummeted into the sea. The foaming waves rushed in to flood the devastation, and when they settled, Halong Bay had been born.
Now the limestone islands and impossible peaks float in a sea of emerald. Later that day I would find a floating village (complete with a school and a bar) hidden among the 3000 islands (or maybe 1500 islands, depending upon your sources). Elsewhere there are forgotten grottos perfect for swimming and snorkeling. Simply cruising past in a small boat is spectacular. Passing the night under the stars is magical.
For a little while I enjoyed having the waters to myself. As we neared the town, however, any sense of the mystical evaporated. Halong Bay is a major tourist hub, filled with a frenzy of people either visiting or making a living from a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
The area down by the pier is a typical tourist trap where the usual touts and scam artists compete with over-priced markets for those in a hurry to buy presents for home and give proof of their stay. As all tour boats congregate here, the place is perennially crowded. Even the hotels look dubious, and the restaurants not at all promising.
Yet to discover the true town, I had to be brave and run the gauntlet. Passing through the chaos I wondered if this was where the belly of the dragon had scalded the land. It certainly seems so. Or perhaps his fiery breath so scorched the earth nothing of beauty could grow.
Within some five minutes of walking uphill I came across parts of the town tourists rarely go. Away from the gaudy neon lights and dubious massage parlors the atmosphere rapidly changes. School children rushed by on their way home for lunch while old men sat in cafes, smoking. Bicycles were everywhere, with shops opening straight onto the street. Tiny lanes hid between buildings. Grandmothers sat on their doorstep nursing a baby or two while watching the world pass by. Hairdressers plied their trade on the street, while a few doors away builders were busy at work, hauling bricks and cement to the second floor with an intricate system of ropes, pulleys and buckets (which look remarkably like a stack of flowerpots). Amidst the chaos were small vegetable gardens and rows of herbs growing in pots.
Further up the hill, some half hour from the port, a tiny laneway opened onto the local market, which had been somehow hidden from view despite its size. Once inside it felt totally chaotic, but with a mood completely opposite to the turmoil down by the water. With the stalls run largely by women (for the men are down by the port, scamming tourists), the place is roughly divided into sections: clothes, hardware, household items, fresh fruit and vegetables, then a wet market which stretches forever. The range of seafood is incredible – and largely unrecognizable.
A pair of policemen strolled past; this is, after all a communist country, and their presence is everywhere, always in impeccable uniforms. They chatted to various women at their stalls, and one had a play with my camera, experimenting with all the dials and settings. After taking our photo they vanished among the stalls.
A large covered area served as a food hall – large enough, it seemed, to feed the whole town. With nothing more than a small cooker over a gas burner, and her hair in curlers, a lady deftly prepared some pho (complete with the tiniest, and juiciest limes). Next came some thinly sliced beef stir-fired in a highly spiced sauce. The aromas were simply amazing. While we ate her mother came to visit, bringing the baby. As I nursed the baby the lady in the stall next door made coffee. I was at first dubious when, after making the brew in a small percolator which sat directly above the cup, she thickened the coffee with a dollop of condensed milk. My fears proved ill founded. Perhaps it was the setting, perhaps it was because I hadn’t found a decent coffee since leaving Saigon, but this java proved one of the best I have drunk outside of Italy (or Melbourne). The meal and coffee (for two) cost less than five Aussie dollars.
Nourished and refreshed, we headed back to the water. After all, this is why people come to Halong Bay. The afternoon began in a whirl of noise exploring the islands on a boat about the size of the African Queen, and about as sea-worthy. A trip amongst the islands is a rather crowded affair, but by now I had adapted to the chaos. Standing on the bow, I enjoyed the spectacle as our boat assumed ramming speed to gain prime position at any mooring. With all the boats covered with old tires, the moorings resound to the thuds of collisions, and the creak of wood as the boats jostled among themselves.
The first stop was Thien Cung Grotto – or Palace of Heaven. After climbing some 100 steps, a crowd of us went along a dark tunnel to the cave proper. Some hold this is the actual cave where the dragon sought refuge. It was simply huge. Neon lights of all colors highlighted the various formations: a dragon with a small man riding his back, elsewhere a pair of angel wings. Small rivulets ran down the stones and into vast chasms of nothingness. A dragon could easily live here – as could dwarves or a horde of orcs. There was a perfect cave for Gollum.
Only a few of the islands are habitable, but most are laced with caves and grottos, the result of the limestone slowly leeching away with time. Some are deemed dead, but others are still living – that is, the caves are still evolving as the limestone is eaten away, and stalagmites and stalactites are formed.
I sat in the bow of our boat as it potted among the islands. Each one, it seems, has a name such as Island of The Two Hens or Tea Pot Island. Many caves open straight onto the water as the islands rise straight form the sea to tower over everything, their tops covered with lush vegetation. The Surprise Cave was not discovered until 1901, and was used by the Viet Cong as a hide-out. At Ba Hung Cave, featured in the movie Indochine, a small grotto opens onto a lagoon inside the island, surrounded by walls of steep jungle.
As the sun fell a cool breeze came over the water, and I had the front of the boat to myself. Slowly the protective cocoon I had hid in for the day fell away, and I discovered the true beauty of Halong Bay. The crowds had been left behind, and before me stretched the still waters, empty of everything save the islands. They swirled about me in the rising mist, as if I was slowly traveling back to when the dragon had plunged into the sea, and both myself and Halong Bay were new born.
5 Days 4 Nights Hanoi – Halong Bay – Peaceful Halong Bay Cruise, one of 7 world Wonders
If You Go:
Halong Bay Travel website
Vietnam Tourism
Discover Halong Bay tour operators
Halong Bay Travel
♦ Tours can also be organized from either Saigon or Hanoi.
♦ If staying overnight, chose one of the many boat stays rather than within the town itself.
2 day private guided tour famous Ninh Binh – Halong Bay UNESCO sites
About the author:
Anne Harrison lives with her husband, two children and numerous pets on the Central Coast, NSW. Her jobs include wife, mother, doctor, farmer and local witch doctor – covering anything from delivering alpacas to treating kids who have fallen head first into the washing machine. Her fiction has been published in Australian literary magazines, and has been placed in regional literary competitions. Her non-fiction has been published in medical and travel journals. Her ambition is to be 80 and happy. Her writings are available at anneharrison.com.au and anneharrison.hubpages.com.
All photos are by Anne Harrison.
To help my travels go smoothly, I invited my hotel assistant manager as a guide for fourteen of those days. She met up with us in 
Fog obscured the sunlight, making it hard to understand where the boundaries of the dead calm lake met the surrounding shoreline. Our first stop along the way was to observe the local fisherman. The men stand at the back of their shallow skiffs and use one leg and foot to paddle the boat while balancing on the other. Setting their unique horn style fluted woven nets – they wait patiently for lake carp to fill them. It was fascinating to watch them – so incredibly agile. As we headed further down the lake, the grey wall of fog started to glow a beautiful golden color. The sun had risen above the mountains and was spreading its warmth across the lake. By late morning we had arrived at the far end of the lake where the market was being held in Palaung Village. Boats, similar to ours, lined the shore and spread out ten deep into the channel. To get to the shore we had to jump from one teetering boat to another, with the feeling at any moment they would capsize and throw us into the murky water.
The market was a combination of local food and crafts. We stayed for lunch, eating a local gourmet treat from the lake. The popular fish dish, htamin gyin, is incredibly tasty. After finishing the first plate all too soon, I had to order another helping. With our appetites satisfied, we located our captain in the quagmire of boats and headed off towards the west side of the lake. We were searching for the high-light of the day long trip.
Mid-afternoon we approached a waterway full of small huts. Our captain pulled over to one of the stilted huts, suspended above the water and my guide indicated we had arrived. A little stunned from the intense mid-afternoon sun – I was not sure where we had arrived, until I lifted my head and saw the ladies above us. Looking out of a bamboo framed window, two Long Neck women waved at me. Not believing my eyes, I wondered for a brief moment if this was a dream? This was why I had traveled half way around the world! The women were friendly and proud of their brass rings that appeared to elongate their necks high above their shoulders. They were selling crafts and doing traditional weaving inside the hut. Full of smiles and agreeing to pose for photographs, it was the best outcome I could have hoped for.
After our visit we had just enough time to visit an ancient site of stupas, dating back to 13th and 14th centuries, on the west side of the lake near Inndain Kone Village. The sun was setting as we reached the top of the hill to see the crumbling stupas bathed in warm evening light. This had been a day with as many rewards as I had hoped for in a whole trip. The air rapidly cooled, as we sat huddled in our boat, racing back in the dwindling twilight, towards the town where we had started from early that morning. As we headed up the canal in almost complete darkness the motor on our boat sputtered. Our speed dropped immediately and the captain steered towards the thick reed lined shore. We had run out of gas. Boats raced past us at full speed up the channel. I was relieved we were not a sitting duck out in the middle in the inky darkness. After 20 minutes the captain successfully signal to a passing boat for help. Throwing a rope to our rescuers, we were towed back home. Exhausted, but at the same time elated, I treated everyone to a beer at the local bar to celebrate a wonderful day of success!
by Lawrence Hamilton
Leaving Australia and returning to China meant being away from the allures of Chimay Blue and the latest in Pacific Northwest IPA’s, I guessed that being force fed the Chinese equivalent of Budweiser for 2 1/2 months would at least force me into some sort of limited sobriety. The only thing worse than being sober, is being drunk on Chinese alcohol, or so I thought.
A small shopping centre near the ‘ghost city’ of Zhengdong introduced me to the family of Big Bear beers. Ranging from 4.7% to 12%, these beers could keep Siberia chugging through an Artic winter. I drank a can on the train back to my Kaifeng. The flavour was dark and intense. It would be best described has having the malty backbone of a brown bear and the hoppy skeletal system of a field mouse.
Once the trapdoor of Chinese beer is opened, turning back becomes impossible.
by Brian K. Smith
In modern times part of that history still lives on Xi’an. Over the last decade the ancient city wall has been restored back to its splendor of over 600 years ago. Within the city walls lives a large population of Muslim descendants of the Silk Road days of trade. Along with their unique customs also comes their unique food.
There is something about comfort food that is immediately recognizable – and this dish hit the spot. Made from pita bread, sweet potato noodles, mutton, and broth – rich with flavour and creamy in texture, it instantly makes you feel cozy and warm. Add some pickled garlic and pepper to your taste. The dish goes back to the days of the West Market at the terminus of the Silk Road. Hungry and exhausted traders arriving after months of travel could enjoy this dish in celebration of a long journey’s completion. Today a short bus ride from anywhere within the city walls will deliver you to this treat of the past. Add a local beer as your companion to this dish to complete the experience.
Fushimi Inari is a shine dedicated to Inari, the god of rice and his messenger the kitsune or fox. Fox demons are good omens in Japan, charged with warding off evil. These ethereal foxes can have multiple tails. More tails mean an older fox of greater power. Along with being messengers for Inari, who is often depicted as a large white fox, fox demons are tricksters. According to legend, foxes take humans forms for deceitful purposes. The cruel, proud and greedy were all targets. Often these crafty spirits became beautiful women. They would win the hearts of men and lure them from their families. Foxes were even known to bewitch humans, entering women under their fingernails or through their breasts.
I stepped into the courtyard at the base of the temple. My friend was not wrong. The place was completely empty. Or was it? Like many holy places, the shrine had a feeling of presence, eyes watching. There was nothing malevolent. I felt curious and excited. It was like entering another world, a very orange world. Fushimi Inari has thousands of orange torii gates. The sea of orange gates seemed to glow in the last light. Two fox guardians stood at either side of the entrance. It was hard to believe they were not watching.
The whole shrine smelt of the evening and incense. I poured cold water from the small water basin onto my hands and into mouth. This is a Japanese ritual of purity, and I hoped that I was doing it correctly. I looked around. Hanging on lines, carefully folded, were the paper fortunes of hundreds of worshippers. Folding and hanging a paper fortune means you want it to come true.
I felt uneasy when I heard the screeches in the dark. Something rustled in the bushes. Could it be foxes? Fox demons? I know now that it must have been monkeys, but things seem different in the dark. Paranoid, I started thinking about Japanese mythology. Crazy thoughts sprang up before my logical brain could dismiss them. What if the fox spirits possess me?
