The Little Trouble Maker

    Yesterday, even the indomitable Pollyanna, Rick, was not smiling. At least not the whole day.
    It started out OK. We had not slept too well, worrying, correctly as it turned out, that we might not be able to depend on the little hotel for a 6am wakeup call. No big deal. Rick had rubbed the fat tummy of his little jade pocket happy-Buddha. We had an elaborate breakfast that came with the hotel room. It included a spectacular variety of fresh fruit, excellent French bread - that is one of the French influences that really stuck here - and several American breakfast staples. Our car to the bus station, arranged by our cordial hotel host, was close enough to on time. We arrived at the station to find that we really did have reserved seats on a huge, safe looking, clean bus. Things started downhill from there, and not just because we were leaving what may be the highest altitude city in Vietnam.
    Having lived and traveled a significant part of my life in underdeveloped countries, I have a pretty high tolerance for horn noise. This driver took it to a new level. Warning or punishing all the smaller buses, cars, motorbikes, trucks, bicycles or pedestrians that might even think of intruding on our space, his hand never seemed to leave the horn. Even with my good earplugs in place, that horn was loud! And I had a mild headache. I came to relish the time he spent with his cell phone occupying his horn hand. At least until we almost had a head-on with an eighteen wheeler on a blind curve, screeching to a stop within five feet of impact. The waste basket full of used sick sacks kept its thirty mile per hour forward momentum half way up the aisle before turning over and - need I describe further? Earlier, when the bus purser handed out the first plastic sack - they were an appropriate green color - I knew the trouble was about to start.
    Our destination, Buon Ma Thuot, is definitely not one of the normal tourist destinations. It is where, in March 1975, the North Vietnamese Army launched the huge main force offensive that culminated in the total collapse of South Vietnam by the end of April.
    We were warned by locals in Dalat that our trip there would bring us into more contact and control by the communist authorities.
    The atmosphere upon arrival was palpably different from our previous locations. Happy to have made it in one piece and armed with our slightly out-of-date Lonely Planet Vietnam travel guide, we caught a taxi to the White Horse Hotel. The French colonial architecture was superb. The price was a little higher than we have been spoiled with but not too bad. The first clue that maybe we should have a more up-to-date travel guide was when the two attractive, by no means traditionally garbed ladies got into the elevator with us. They respected our attempt at ignoring them and Rick and I proceeded to our room. It looked OK, we were hungry and we needed to let the jackhammers outside our window view of the building five feet away get closer to quitting time so we dropped our bags and headed to the hotel restaurant. The chicken was definitely not the factory-raised U.S. kind. In fact, except for some that Chris, Jeff and I shared from a highway stand in Niger, it was the chewiest I have ever had. No sweat, I have been short of exercise this trip.
    The cute little waitresses wore skirts that Rick mistook for short shorts. By the time a big new SUV pulled up outside the hotel entrance and disgorged its load of well fed and dressed middle-aged men, the picture was becoming clear. Later, finding more up-to-date travel advice online, we read “If you want to see the local party officials meeting up with their ladies of the evening, stay at the White Horse Hotel.” Ooops.
    We did not want to hassle with changing hotels; we just needed a good night’s sleep. First, although we did not really feel like it, we thought we ought to walk around a few blocks of Buon Ma Thuot to give the place a chance to change our impression. It didn’t.
    Back at our room, a closer inspection revealed no sheets on the bed nor pillowcases. Oh well, I have slept soundly in worse places. In fact we both slept soundly, lulled to sleep in the vibrating beds, powered by the disco below us. There was no hot water, so this morning’s shower provided an invigorating wakeup. I guess that was the last suggestion that we capitalists stay out of town.
    Not sure about Rick’s happy-Buddha. Rubbing his chubby belly is supposed to bring luck. Maybe we should not have given up so quickly on our early goal of following the Noble Eightfold Path. This morning I did not let Rick rub the little guy’s stomach and I did so instead. Things went much better.
TR

Have returned to the Central Highlands for the first time in 42 years. Arrived in Dalat after a 5 hour bus ride. Lots of rough, curvy roads, but worth the trip upon arrival. Had a great visit there, meeting a wonderful Vietnamese hotel owner, that even though she had no room for us, took us under her wing, feeding us breakfast and doing our laundry and finding us lodging. If you are ever in Dalat, check out the Dreams Hotel. Spent two nights, then caught an Express bus to Buon Ma Thout, coffee capital of Vietnam. Horrible trip, roughest mountain roads yet. Barf bags were included at no extra charge and used extensively by many passengers. It has become painfully obvious that a requirement to drive a vehicle here is to continuously blow your horn. Some of the scariest drivers I have ever seen. After the grueling 7 hour ride, we arrived in Buon Ma Thout and checked into the White Horse Hotel. Had great reviews in the guidebook, but turned out to be the hangout for the local party members and their prostitutes. Had a jack-hammer working outside our room until late afternoon, then the disco in the basement kicked in. Left us both in a pretty bleak mood. Upon arriving at the bus station, we met a former South Vietnamese Lieutenant, who had spent 2 ½ years in re-education prison after the war. He spoke very good English and was retired from coffee farming. He indicated that there was no animosity between the former opponents and that everyone is now just Vietnamese. Caught a van bus, 13 passenger capacity with 23 on board at 8AM for Kon Tum. As packed as it was, had a pleasant 4 ½ hour trip. Only one sick passenger, too bad she was seated immediately behind us. Terry attempted to doctor her with some Pepto Bismal, but to no avail. During my days as a participant in the Southeastern Asian War Games, (2^nd place), I spent 8 months in the mountains West of Kon Tum and Pleiku. Nothing is recognizable. In the passing years, coffee has become a major crop, streets are paved and full of scooters, medians are landscaped with beautiful flowers and have the Vietnamese flag or hammer and sickle on every lamp post. Kon Tum is a very pleasant experience, especially after Buon Ma Thout. Clean, not too busy, great river front, where we sat and enjoyed $.50 Siagon Lager and gazed at the mountains. We found lodging in an excellent, quiet family-run hotel, $14 per night for a double. This could be my favorite place so far.Rick