| Saville Row, only cheap cheap Posted Tuesday, 20 June 2006 | ||
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| Hoi An should be on the top of anyone's to-do list for Vietnam if, like me, you're a bit of a sucker for crumbling colonial architecture and quaint harbours. Pastel coloured buildings with wooden shutters jostle for space in the town centre with intricately designed black Chinese temples complete with carved dragons and the smell of incense. Hoi An is, surely, the very essence of Indochina where a European power just landed in the middle of a country whose culture was already just as old and established. And, of course, it's the place in South East Asia to get clothes made. More of that later tho. Our first impression of Hoi An was our bus journey from Hue - at just six hours one of the shortest we've made. Me and Wend have an 'open bus ticket' - you pay all of $22 and you can travel between Hanoi and Saigon, passing all the main tourist bits, getting off and on as you please. The only catch with this bargain value is that, one, you don't really get off the beaten track and, two, the reason its so cheap is because of the kickbacks they get from hotels and restaurants on the way. So, as we arrived in Hoi An the usual rigmarole took place of us stopping not at somewhere in the town centre, but actually a guesthouse a mile or two out. Cue a bustle of hotel staff jumping on the bus waving laminated cards in your face extolling the virtues of their inn: "Very cheap, very good for you," they say, "Is it near the town centre?" we say, "Oh yes, only 5 minutes walk," they reply, "But according to this map it's on the wrong end of town and I'd rather stay in town if that's OK" "Oh no, is very good here. You like it. Good price for you. Just come see. Not have to stay. Just look. You like. CNN and breakfast included." You get the drift. Not that the hotels are bad mind you - we've stayed in the nice ones but this one was way too far out. So we stood our ground. And the good thing is that if you say no long enough they'll just drive you somewhere else. And so we ended up the Thien Tien hotel. The immaculately dressed receptionist led us past the indoor waterfall and internet station and up through the atrium to a beautiful room with a balcony and orchids flung on the bedsheets. "Yer," we thought, "you must have mistaken us for business travellers despite our filthy rucksacks. Can we see something with more dirt and cockroaches and less flowers please?" So we saw another room which was $18 or so. But it was still to much, so with much apology and as we hassled on our backpacks we decided to leave. "Oh no, how much can you pay?" she says. And this is the thing about haggling. When you actually want something you don't get a massive discount because they can see you really want it. But as we were genuinely leaving because it was all too posh we were actually playing the haggling game perfectly. "Perhaps you can pay $14?", "No." we say. "We were paying $10 elsewhere and that's our limit so we'll just go and won't sully your indoor waterfall with our crusty flip flops a second longer," "OK, OK, I give it to you for $10 but no air con." "But we really like air con," we whined in unison. "OK, how long you stay?" "Four nights?" "OK, OK, $10 with air con." And that was how we managed to do our best bit of haggling by genuinely trying to leave. And so, for the next four days, flowers were strewn daily over our bed sheets, we had crystal clear movie channels, a bar, a bath (much needed) and an atrium. When we left they even gave Wendy a make up bag as a souvenir. We were the poshest backpackers in Asia. So, we stepped out of the Hilton Hoi An Metropole and into the sea of tailors. Every where you turn there are tailors shops by the dozen. They know you have the cash and the race is on as to who gets it. One sales assistant told us to under no circumstances speak to the female tailors who ride bicycles and skillfully take you to the market for they will rob you. We were forewarned. And yet, within three hours, we were in the cloth market directed there by a lady on a bike. Wendy dived straight into the madness of it all, the noise, the mountains of silk and linens, the women rushing about, the whirring of ancient Singer sewing machines. And amidst it all slightly freaked-out tourists sitting with Next catalogues and FHM flicking through to see what designer they'd like an imitation of. I was reticent, what of they rob us like the lady said? But that was obviously a fob off - they just wanted our business elsewhere. But here was in the heart of things. I capitulated and soon I was in a sea of materials, choosing buttons and pinstripes. I bought a brown woollen suit, three ties and two shirts. It came to 40 quid. The next afternoon is was already to try on and a few adjustments here and there it was done. Meanwhile my shoes were ready - a pair of fake Campers and some sensible work shoes. The way they measure them is quite ingenious. You put your foot on a piece of A4 paper, they drawn round it with a biro, a couple of measurements and it's done. The next day two pairs of shoes are sitting there which feel like I've worn them for years. No chaffing, no breaking in, just perfect. Loaded down with suits, jackets, shoes, dresses, skirts and shirts Wendy and I waddled away from Saville Row Market to our hotel. Knowing we would soon send most of it off in the post we decided to do a fashion show on the posh hotel's terrace. Posh hotel staff thought it was hilarious we were dressing up in thick hot clothes in the middle of summer but nevertheless set dressed a table for us to make it look as similar to the Next catalogue as possible as a prop for our shoot. Elsewhere, Wendy and I continued our quest to try as many local beers as possible and ran into Brain and Liz, an extremely amusing Irish couple. They hated most travellers they met and took great pleasure in bitching about all of them in the crushing yet fucking funny infective only Irish people seem to have mastered which involved describing how they would kill most of them slowly and painfully usually involving their head and bollocks deposited somewhere near their intestines. We all went out to a somewhat dodgy bar outside of town. Wendy met a different hairy Irish man whose accent she could barely understand. I met a wannabe music producer from Preston called Darren. The hotel up to that point had thought Wendy and I were a couple. That night they gotthe picture. Ben and Wendy's word of the week: Pig-on-a-stick - a particular form of roadside delicacy. Either recognisable pieces of meat skewerd in a kebab fashion, or rather less identifiable red or cream perfectly ball shaped chunks of meat. All cooked and served with hot chilli sauce. | ||
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