Anyway, the Bay was recognized as a world heritage site by UNESCO on the 17th of December 1994. Ha Long Bay is located at Quang Ninh province in the north eastern part of Vietnam. It is bordered in the east by CAI Bau Island and Cua Ong port [if that will mean anything to you] and in the west by the resort island of Tuan Chau, which I visited by default [will tell you how]. Its southern side is populated by a line of islands that are just too difficult to pronounce, so I won’t bother you with the names. The area of Ha Long Bay is about 1490 km2, with more than—wait for this—1700 islands, out of which only 980 have been named. It is an archipelago of stony islands, some grouped together in arrangements that will definitely inspire the imagination of any visitor. Going around the Bay and looking at the amazing rock formations left me with a feeling of being in a far away fairy tale land—which it is, in a way. Some of the naturally created stony islands have caves that are popular must-stops for tourists. The Bay has a diversity of about 1000 fish specie, out of which 730 have also been named. Ha Long Bay is an indescribable spot of natural beauty that no description on these pages will do justice to, and is a natural port, or shelter for ships. Google it and you will fully understand what I mean. Now that I have told you what and where Ha Long Bay is, you may likely be wondering at how I got myself there. Well, let’s just say, I wished it. This is what happened. I was watching television sometime early in September when a documentary on Ha Long Bay came on Al-Jazeera. The natural beauty of the place so fascinated me that I didn’t know when the words ‘Allah ka nuna min wajen nan’ [may the Almighty show me this place] blurted out of my mouth aloud. And believe me, not quite a week after, I got a call from a friend [Abdulaziz Muhammad] requesting for assistance with Vietnamese visas for himself and Alhaji Ado Muhammad. I asked him, ‘what are you going to Vietnam for’ and he said ‘we are going for a trade fair that’s coming up in about two weeks, and I know you can help us get these visas quick through your contacts in the diplomatic cycle’. I told him to send the data pages of their passports and dropped the line, telling myself ‘this might be a God-sent opportunity for you to go see the Bay’. And it indeed turned out to be so.
Well, he was right, for I did get the visas [mine inclusive] in time—with the help of a friend stationed there. But they never quite made it, and as God would have it. I did. His call was just the trigger needed to cause my wish to be fulfilled, as sanctioned by the Almighty, I thought to myself. All thanks are to Allah SWT. See why I said there is no need being careful with what you wish for, as long as it is good and wouldn’t cause anybody any harm. Anyway, armed with my visa, I purchased an Egypt air ticket to Kuala Lumpur via Hanoi. I like to fly Egypt Air for two reasons only: (1) they fly out of Abuja airport, so won’t have to go through Lagos, and (2) their pilots land planes better than most (that’s my opinion). How I wish their landings can be stocked and dished out to other airline pilots, especially American Airlines [had a nasty experience with them] and be told, ‘please land us this way’. Apart from that, nothing, the staff, especially those at base, are something else.
On the day I left, my friend, Abdullahi Attah, along with his wife, Binta, who were incidentally taking the same flight, passed by the house and gave me a ride to the airport. For some reasons the flight came in earlier than it was scheduled to, so we had an early boarding. I was given a seat next to a gentleman from Kontagora named Abdurrahman Buhari, going to Dubai. I gained a lot from our discussions and interaction both in-flight and at the airport before his connecting flight was called. This proves to me that travel is indeed the best way to know people, even those that you already know.
As soon as he left I moved to the lounge on which side my departure gate was. I chose a seat close to the TV, and shortly after a friendly American couple from Denver, Colorado, going on vacation to South Africa joined me. We picked conversation not long after, mostly on the then upcoming American elections, before their flight was also called. I figured they were blue (Democrats) before they left. Another American, who had earlier volunteered his phone charger after seeing me frantically looking for one at the front desk, dropped in to keep me company in my little corner thereafter. I figured he was red (Republican). My transit was longer than his, so at the end I was left alone. I busied myself with the TV and fruits, until mine was eventually called close to midnight.
The flight to Bangkok was almost nine hours, and I luckily fell asleep almost immediately after the take off. By the time I woke up, asked for and finished my dinner, we were barely two hours to that fantastic Egypt Air soft landing in Bangkok. Now, because Egypt Air doesn’t fly into Vietnam, I disembarked in order to connect to Hanoi with a Vietnamese airline, which was to be at about 7 pm, which gave me a five-hour layover.
I went to the mosque to pray, after which I walked over to the Vietnamese airline counter only to find out they hadn’t started checking. I located only one available empty seat opposite the counter, rushed and slumped into the seat, which happened to be next to an elderly Aussie lady. Soon after, we picked conversation. It started with the usual questions—where I was from and where she was headed etc, etc, and before long I knew the story of her life. Her late husband and how they met, her two daughters and where they are, her grand children… We discussed for over an hour on a wide and diverse array of topics ranging from her family, crocodile Dundee and Australian politics. It’s good to always have something to talk about, in order to kick-start a conversation in such situations. Aside from killing boredom, it helps in easily making you new friends. I have made quite a handful this way.
That wait gave me an opportunity to survey the Bangkok airport well, and I must say I was quite impressed with what I saw. The airport is entirely made of concrete/ steel, and every other thing that is not, has been made to look so. It’s completely maintenance-free and very functional. About three hours to departure, the counter opened. I bid the Aussie lady farewell and went over to check in, after which I called Mr Nuruddeen [the friend who helped me with the visas in Vietnam] to tell him I had checked in, and proceeded to my gate.
The flight to Hanoi was about one hour 30 minutes, and the cabin attendants were really very nice. On arrival, I was pleasantly surprised and at the same time delighted to see Nuruddeen and another staff of the embassy named Mr Abuwa waiting for me before immigration. I was a bit apprehensive on disembarkation because of one experience we had at the airport in Romania about four years ago. The Romanian immigration wasted a lot of time trying to authenticate our visa [whatever that means] before letting us in, all just because they weren’t used to seeing people from my part of the globe, other than diplomats, going into their country. What impressed me most at the airport in Vietnam was the fact that visitors are not required to fill any landing cards on arrival. One just presents his/her passport and they stamp you in. That makes a lot of sense to me, because all information about where one is going to stay and what one is going into a country for ought to have been captured at the point of visa issuance.
Out of the airport, Nuruddeen said we were going to his house for dinner. I said ‘OK’. Unknown to me, a place had already been prepared for me to stay in, at the house, which by the way, was well finished and exquisitely furnished. But unknown to them, I had already booked and pre-paid for a room at Hilton Hanoi. I told him so after a very sumptuous dinner of swallow and orishirishi. How very generous of them, considering they were meeting me for the first time. Dinner done and my prayers said, I was taken to the Hilton, where we agreed that: (1) he would pick me on his way to the office the following day at about 8.30 am and (2) he would ask his secretary, Miss Linh, to arrange a taxi that would take and bring me back from the Ha Long Bay.
I collapsed into bed immediately on entry into my room. I didn’t even do the required but not mandatory [unless if you are a spy] surveillance of the environment before sleeping off—what with the 17-hour flight, nine-hour layover between airports, and swallow in my system. It was in the morning I took notice that the room, which was even too big for me, had an excellent view of a garden at a roundabout in the street below. Mr Nuruddeen came just at about the time I finished a very good and satisfying breakfast that was sure to last me the whole day. It did. The Vietnamese are very good cooks. I only have one advice for you, though, ‘stay with the fish’—if you know what I mean.
On reaching the office, we passed by the ambassador for a quick introduction before settling down in Nuru’s office. A cup of coffee after, we went down to meet the taxi driver arranged to ferry me down to Ha Long. I was told he couldn’t speak or understand a word of English before we zoomed off, or something to that effect [he started moving from the second transmission]. What I did with him was this; anytime I wanted to get a message across and he couldn’t understand my sign language we would call Miss Linh to translate, and vice versa.
We manoeuvred our way out of town through an old metal bridge and plenty of motorcycles. The rice fields began to reveal themselves the moment we reached the outskirts of town, and what a view they presented. I saw many farmers adorned with those their cone shaped hats working the fields. It took us over three hours to get to the Ha Long Bay Marina, for a journey that wouldn’t take more than an hour and half by our dare devil or crazy drivers here. Everybody drives at not more than 70 km per hour. I was restless at the beginning of the journey. I even toyed with the idea of dropping along the road to switch taxis. I thought it was only my driver that was slow, but on realizing that everybody drove like that, and that I couldn’t play the Molue passenger with him, I gave up, relaxed and began to enjoy the gentle Vietnamese music filtering from the speakers. The music was so soothing; the guitar so like George Benson’s that it put me to sleep.
Talking about Molue passengers in Lagos—you know, a driver never wins with them. If he drives slowly, they would say he wants them to be late; and if he increases speed, they say he wants them to be referred as ‘the late’. Thanks to Governor Babatunde Raji Fashola, the Molues are beginning to be confined to the dustbins of history, that’s if they haven’t been already. Can’t remember the last time I saw one on the streets of Lagos. On arrival, I told, or signalled, to the driver to go and park the car and follow me out to the sea. Looking out to the vast ocean adorned with colourfully decorated boats of all shapes and sizes, meandering their way around the scattered stony islands left me transfixed in one spot. I was deeply in thought at that same spot when someone who claimed to be a supervisor at the Marina jolted me back into consciousness. He spoke fast, in somewhat peculiar English, flashing an ID in the way Eddie Murphy does in the movie ‘Beverly Hills Cop’, slapping a paper that spells options available for a tour of the Bay in my palms. I chose the option of a three-hour tour and tried to bargain on the price, but on looking at the time, and at the same time noticing that his sights were already fixed on some new arrivals heading our way—meaning, he had already concluded we were game, I buckled and gave in. He signalled to a lady immediately I paid and moved on, and I never saw him again. The lady handed us over to someone and disappeared too. I never saw her again. The guy turned out to be our captain. He led us to an old and rickety boat which contained only five of us: the captain and his assistant, me and my driver as well as a young lady selling souvenir items to tourists. With some experience in my hands now, I now know how to handle any smart aleck that comes my way in the Marina again, that’s assuming destiny will take me back there—hopefully with the family. I figured the young girl had to accompany us and display her wares as a requirement, so ended up buying a few items that were sure to cost less on land just to please her, in addition to making her coming out to sea not be in vain.
Unlike me, they all seemed very comfortable out at sea, judging from their banter and loud bouts of laughter. There wasn’t much I could add to their conversation [only the captain could mumble a few words of English], so I busied myself with taking in the beauty of the Bay, snapping pictures and thanking the Almighty for answering my prayers of coming to see these wonders of his creation. Their language sounded so different from even the Chinese we are somewhat familiar with. Whenever they burst into another round of laughter, my mind would drift to the thought of how funny it would be if laughter were to come out according to how people talk. Don’t mind my crazy thoughts please.
I must say touring the Bay is one of the most exhilarating and in some way dangerous experiences I have ever had. I later reprimanded myself for venturing out that far into sea without a life jacket, knowing fully well I can’t swim. It wasn’t long after leaving Vietnam I learnt a boat had capsized with lots of casualties in the same South China Sea. My driver was clearly elated by the experience, so he offered to take me to the island of Tuan Chau, a resort for the high and mighty, which wasn’t part of our contract. Thinking that I didn’t quite get it, he kept on trying to tell me in sign language that ‘this resort is for the privileged in society’. I made signs which communicated to him that I understood what he meant, after which he relaxed and let out a hearty laughter, almost in Vietnamese.
The resort has very nice hotels, parks, a golf club with the sportiest cars [Bentleys, Mercedes] parked in front, and even a paradise cruise ship anchored at bay. By the time we got back to Nuruddeen’s house it was already dark. We met him outside the house worried, and about to place a call to Linh. How nice of him to be so concerned. Dinner that day was, again something else, really nice. Nuruddeen took the trouble of seeing me back to the hotel in a taxi, promising to pick me up same time the following day. What more could one ask of from a host that barely knows you? That night, sitting at the lobby of the hotel checking my mail, a happy go lucky, casually dressed African that seemed to be familiar with many of the staff, walked in. I immediately reached out to him by throwing a warm and broad smile in his direction. Something like, ‘Ali yaga Ali’. He responded and came to sit across the table. You know what followed of course—the normal enquiries. He turned out to be a Rwandan, and goes by the name Tite Habiyakare, working for the UN in Bangkok, in Hanoi for an official assignment. We talked for well over an hour on topics ranging from the genocide and current Rwandan politics, finally exchanging contacts before parting in the lift. I said to myself, ‘this may be my path to Rwanda, who knows’?
True to type, Mr Nuru came on time in the morning. At the office, he told Miss Linh to arrange a one way Malaysian airline ticket for me to Kuala Lumpur, and asked his driver [who speaks English we can communicate with] named Tung, to give me a quick tour of the city. Tung, like the true patriot they almost all are, took me first to—you guessed right—Ho Chi Minh mausoleum. Everything in Nam [as the Americans would call it] is about Ho Chi Minh, from their programmes on TV to their currency. His face is the only one on all denominations. But then, he deserves to be; after all, he led them to victory over the Americans. We passed by the defence ministry so he could show me its sheer size, as if trying to make a statement. When asked if he had ventured out of the country before, he implied that there is no need to, because they have everything. Can anyone be more mistaken and patriotic at the same time?
I noticed their buildings are tall and narrow, so I asked Tung why, and he said, almost two thirds of our country is mountainous, so available land suitable for building is very limited. People build up and narrow, with very strong foundations, and add floors when there are additions to the family. This makes a lot of sense to me, something like cutting your coat according to your cloth. We continued driving around the city, ending up in a crowded but well organized market. I told him I wanted to buy a souvenir, and he took me to Hang Bo, the street in which all kinds of antique souvenirs are sold. All streets in the market are named so, differing only according to what is sold. For example, if you are looking for antique souvenirs, you go to Hang Bo; for textiles, go to Hang Qui; for electronics, you go to Hang—like that. This also makes sense.
Tung said Vietnam has a population of about 120 million people, and is home to about 54 ethnic groups, including around 100,000 Cham people who are Muslims [knowing that I am one] who live in south and central Vietnam. I was told Cham children use their mothers’ last name, and the men live with their in-laws until death, after which their remains are returned to their original family at birth. Don’t think English men can survive this—there would have been a lot of pre-mature deaths [if there is anything like that], were this culture to be enforced in the UK. Which brings me to the question: ‘What is the point of that long war with the Americans?’ After all the pain and loss of countless lives, the people are still Communists, and judging from what I saw, are quite happy living their lives that way. People should be allowed lo live the way they want, most especially in conformity with their culture and tradition [if they want]. After all, there are people in the United States who prefer living a 17th century lifestyle, and nobody so much as quarrels with that.
After about two hours or so we were back in the office, whose gate incidentally opens electronically at similar speed limit to the cars. I brought this to the notice of Tung, and it fetched me a loud Vietnamese laughter. I bid farewell to Mr Nuru and co, collected my ticket and sped off with Tung to the Airport to catch my flight to Kuala Lumpur, where unknown to this Vietnam peace Veteran [if I can refer to myself as such], another of his wishes was about to be fulfilled. All thanks to Allah SWT. Watch out for it in my next piece.
