It didn’t start well. The bus was crowded and I ended up with an aisle seat, which meant the fantastic scenery I’d been promised was replaced by someone’s head and not even a pretty head. Still it was a quicker journey than I had anticipated and at the toilet stop – just over half way – I got the view of the valley I’d been looking for.
My accommodation in Da Lat was fairly central and an easy walk from the bus station. Like in Phan Thiet (see my last post here) it was a small house in a local area but close to a row of street food stands and not far from the Xuân Hương Lake – one of the main attractions in the town. It seemed fine at first. The ‘aunty’ opposite was frying banh trang me, sesame covered rice cakes on a little griddle outside her house. I waved and said ‘xin chao’ but got no response.
My ‘house’ was an interesting build. The front room was a single storey, but at the back, where the bedroom was, another building occupied two or three upper floors. This is because Da Lat, up in the hills, is itself a very hilly place. I didn’t know when I moved in, but I was soon to find out, that the upper floors were occupied by a café with its entrance two storeys up on a parallel street.
I settled in, found I could walk 20 minutes to the nearest supermarket to get what I need but would need to take a Grab (the ride hailing app) to get home with heavy shopping.
That evening I walked uphill to a restaurant had possibly the tastiest Indian meal I have had in months. It all looked good.
The following morning I woke up, early. Too early. It took a while to work out what the noise was, but eventually I concluded it was footsteps and the sound of something heavy being dragged across a floor. It was 5.30 am.
I thought it would just last a few minutes and I could get back to sleep, instead I found myself joining the locals at 6.30 for early morning pho. It was good enough, but not as good as in Phan Thiet. Note to self – I must learn not to compare everywhere else in Vietnam with that place.
The noise had stopped when I got back, so I grabbed a nap, only to be woken by the same racket an hour or so later, but at least I got some sleep.
This happened each day. I messaged the host of the apartment who explained that the building above me had their storage cellar directly above me. The café opened at 6am. So before they had customers they were getting provisions ready for sale. And I thought the Vietnamese wore sandals, not hobnailed boots.
Constantly tired, I tried to get on with life. I took a short walk to the night market in search for a light rain jacket. I had to fend off multiple menus that were thrust into my hand by the café owners on the edge of the place. Inside there was the bargaining (not my forte) and after buying the coat at probably too high a price, other stall holders decided I needed trousers to go with it.
I got home safely and went to bed early, but at around midnight I was woken up by an argument in the street that went on and on. As I lay there wondering what the Vietnamese swear words would be in English, it began to dawn on me that maybe I am not meant to be here.
But I did stick it out. I found a nice vegan café, some distance away but on the flat. I enjoyed watching people in swan boats on the lake. I found an Aussie bar and had a short chat with a guy who had moved to Da Lat because he felt London had become too multicultural. Apart from the barman, we were the only westerners there.
Then the kicker came … I got ill. I’m not sure how the food poisoning happened (do you ever know?) What I do know is that it was bad. Multiple trips to the bathroom and losing my appetite. It felt like Hat Yai all over again. Not wanting to do anything between bathroom visits but rest, except every morning the occupants upstairs reminded me I couldn’t do that.
Trying to think things through became difficult. Indeed trying to think became difficult, all I wanted to do was rest and sleep but it kept being interrupted. Never have I hated creaky stairs so much.
I hoped the illness would pass and I would get better in a few days, but after nearly a week had gone by, I knew I had to do something. I felt well enough to walk to the road (my house faced an alleyway only wide enough for bikes) to get a Grab to the hospital.
Once there, I had to wait as they were closed for lunch. I sat with George, a young Australian backpacker who was there for the same reason as me and we compared notes. He’d only got ill the day before – I’d waited almost a week. He was leaving the next day, annoyed that being crook had stopped him getting to Da Nang earlier. I had over two weeks to go. We were both prescribed the same antibiotics. I guess he was in his 20s – he would be knocking back those Da Nang beers in a few days. I’m nearly 70. Getting old sucks.
I don’t know if it was meeting George that gave me the sign to be released from what felt like my Da Lat prison, but it was that evening when I started looking for a new place to stay in Da Lat. After about an hour of research I gave up. My heart wasn’t in it and my body wasn’t yet ready for the hassle of moving.
The next morning after the 5.30 am tap dance I made a decision. I would not only leave the apartment, I would leave Da Lat. Not immediately, I didn’t feel well enough for the journey yet, but in a few days’ time.
I checked with my apartment host in Phan Rang my next destination, only to receive bad news, not only could I not arrive early, I could not arrive at all. There had been a major bathroom leak from the flat upstairs and the repairs would not be done in time, so I would have to find somewhere else. At short notice, it was difficult and I was tempted to just stay in Da Lat at one point, but no. I booked a more luxurious place than I would normally go to. Never mind the expense, my health was more important. Another expensive decision was to get a private transfer, rather than a bus, which I just couldn’t face. Does illness sharpen the mind. I know I was no longer hesitating, I was getting out of there whatever it took to do so.
I let my Da Lat hosts know I was leaving early. They kindly refunded me for the nights I didn’t stay so I wasn’t paying for accommodation twice and I shortened my Da Lat experience by ten days. It was the best healthcare decision I made for myself. I was in the front seat of a private car, not on a bus or in an ambulance and as I journeyed out of town, down through the incredible scenery, I wondered what my rehabilitation would be like back in the heat. I didn’t have to wait long. Travelling by car is quicker than by bus and I got taken directly to my bright new apartment block. I had to wait at the staffed reception to be taken up to my bright, clean apartment on the 6th floor. Once the host left and the door closed I lay on the bed and listened … to my heartbeat, all I could hear. At last QUIET.
