Hue, with a Y

So the Perfume River of Hue, Vietnam, technically, and sadly relevantly, pronounced huey, is just that little bit less perfumed today.

Timed, flawlessly, just as our dragon boat begun one of those alarmingly clangy parking manoeuvres which make you realise why they have tires on the side (and wish they had a few more), Z embarked on a, well, huey, that made Linda Blair in The Exorcist seem quite the dilettante.

It is certainly the first time I have hauled a vomiting child in to a vehicle.

Although it’s not often you find a situation which so aptly demonstrates the truth of the warning, “Don’t stick your head out of the window. You could get it taken off.”

Hey-ho.

Anywise, we are safely back at the pool, with squeals of delight punctuating the splashing, and the exorcist routine fully exorcised by exercise, even if I still can’t get the colour out of my head.

We are also cocooned from persons endeavouring to sell us fans, conical hats, cold drinks, pineapples, bananas, coconuts, 200-metre motorbike taxi rides, cyclo rides, silk paintings, rice paper paintings, cigarettes (“I have cigarettes already, as you can see from the one I am smoking.” “You buy more for later.”), trips to the market, trips to the Citadel, fake sunglasses, cod-US military lighters, silk tunics, slippers, guides to the Citadel, delete as appropriate.

It’s all rather reminiscent of Poland, just as Communism gave way to capitalism, crossed with the Gambia, or one of those Tunisian or Moroccan package resorts, yet with an entrepreneurial, err, drive and vigour, particularly on the upsell, that is uniquely Vietnam.

And Z’s getting quite frustrated with it. Or, more strictly, with me, and the inbuilt English politeness which has me repeating, “No, thank you. No, thank you,” as he mutters darkly, “Just ignore them, mum, you’re only encouraging them.”

After all, one of the first rules of sales is that once you start a dialogue, you’re in.

Essentially, today is one of those days that should have been a fairly amazing day. Dragon boat all to ourselves, dad steering with his feet, mum putting anchor and cooking, complete with the family’s nine-year-old daughter, touring ye legendary Perfume River.

Megalomaniac tombs with gorgeous lakeside pavilions where the Nguyen emperors’ concubines, eunuchs and other servants were immured to entertain their deceased masters with endless adoration — I wonder how it felt to grow old there? To be the last one of the harem left alive, hobbling one’s way to the lakeside, waiting for death?

Pagodas. Dredgers (by far the highlight of Z’s trip) weighed down to within an inch of the water with sand for building, fields of maize, bananas, morning glory flourishing on island floodplains. Women on houseboats pounding washing.

God knows, incidentally, why one expects children to play together just because they happen to be both kids. “Z! She’s nine!” I say.

So what, his face says back to me.

Which is, to be honest, almost exactly how I would react if he said to me, “Mum! She’s thirty-five!” and then expected me to talk to some random person.

They passed the journey perfectly happily, and completely separately. She preening in her mirror. He, at least until the spectacular liquid denouement, sitting proudly upfront in the prow.

But the Communist element comes through very strongly in the tourist experience in Hue, even when one has ducked out of the group tour with guide, by way of a rigorous adherence to a schedule imposed I know not how.

“How long you take?”

“I don’t know.” (How long does it take to wander through a shady garden, round a lotus-strewn lake, under pine trees, past pavilions, up to temples with dazzling views? Pass.)

“Fifty minutes.”

Couple that with the entrepreneurialism which leaves one fending off sundry tourist wares at every step, even on the boat, and it’s a recipe for, well, disenchantment.

Plus Z, who has a limited tolerance for temples, was looking forward to seeing some incense sticks made. This magically dropped off the schedule as if it had never existed, with that very special routine where a loss of the command of English prevents any potential loss of face.

Though, to be fair, their daughter had a friend to meet in the park (although it might have been nice had the playdate been scheduled for after our trip was supposed to finish), it was their Sunday, and I can understand the desire to get the job done and chip, particularly as she’s the youngest (by far) of six, the baby who will fly the nest all too soon, and, hell, why should we matter?

Essentially, I feel really conflicted about Vietnam. We met some lovely, warm people in Saigon — as with any big city, you can just blend in, meet people, get talking. Z is starring in a surprising selection of holiday snaps: grabbed bodily at waterparks, or out of frangipani trees, to pose. In Mui Ne, too.

And I feel that we could be having better experiences here than we are, if we had more time.

I think the problem is that in Hue and Hoi An, tourists are neither enough of a novelty to be interesting, nor sufficiently routine to be anonymous, and because these are cities, not countryside, the pace of life is faster.

You come in. You do your tours. You buy your souvenirs, enjoy the “surprizing gifts from the ice bucket” at Ladies Night. You ship out to the next stop on the circuit, repeat ad lib, and post the pictures.

Or, I guess, you settle in for a while, really get to grips with stuff, haul in connections, couch surf, even. But we don’t have the time, at least on this leg.

So tomorrow we are doing school: swimming, a trip to the Citadel, some descriptive writing.

Then on Tuesday we head to Laos, make our way down to Si Phan Don (Four Thousand Islands), hire a kayak for a few days and pootle around the islands, stopping where we like and seeing how it goes.