Dalat

A six hour bus ride turned into an eight hour journey over an extraordinarily potholed highway. We arrived in Dalat after midnight the night before last, and although the bus company provided a free taxi to our final destination, the hotel gates were closed and lights were off at the two places where we'd requested rooms. Finally the taxi driver suggested his friend's place, and we settled into the sorta clean twin beds of a pretty sparse, relatively overpriced ($10!) room. It was clean enough. Never mind the peephole in the bathroom door. I was tired, limping and bleeding enough that I would have slept on a comfortable moss patch.

In the morning we set out to find better housing, and under the influence of several Panadol, I felt competent to tackle the adventure. Dalat is a hill station, initially established by the French as a cooler respite from the heat of Saigon. Back alleys evolve into narrow stairways winding from road to higher road. There's a large dammed lake in the center of town, which was probably quite pretty when it had water it. This year it is a mud pit because they opened the dam to facilitate a bridge expansion project. All over are signs of an eclectic local spirit. There is a huge radio tower that has been lighted and outfitted with a ball to resemble the Eiffel Tower. Cafes cater to artsy tourists, and adventure companies offer rock climbing, hiking, and abseiling trips. I was looking forward to a bike ride to a trail head to hike 5 dormant volcanic peaks. By the end of the afternoon, it was clear I would be doing no such trekking.

We did manage to crawl and climb all over the "Crazy House," built beginning in 1990 by a Vietnamese architect who wanted to bring her people back to nature. The house is a 30,000 square foot exploding plaster tree, with branches and limbs providing the stairways and overpasses that allow you to navigate from pod to pod. Rooms (which you can book for $35 a night) are about as kitchy as can be. There are mirrors on all surfaces, ceilings especially, and creepy plaster animals with glowing red eyes serve as chimneys. I've attached a picture to jog your imagination, and I encourage a Google-image search to get a better of idea of just how nuts this place is.

We found ourselves fantastically clean and modern accommodations in the Dream Hotel, aptly named. The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Dung, are wonderful people who run a tight operation. I was happy to hobble home to clean sheets and a well-appointed bathroom. I was even comfortable enough to make the dreaded call home: "Mom, don't worry, but I got hit by a motorcycle."

When I woke up the next morning I learned that my resourceful mother, had used scanty information to track down contact information and email Mrs. Dung. After breakfast, she instructed me to go get dressed; we were going to the hospital. The government-run hospital here in Dalat is tidy and bright, full of locals, many minorities hill tribes, all wide-eyed and strained-looking. They appraised my situation and couldn't figure out what was so dire about my situation that I was dragging my leg around like a ghoul. Mrs. Dung is an absolute saint. Without her translating, the whole attempt at medical aid would have been crazy. The doctors spoke little English, and the system for triage and patient handling seems as random as the use of accent marks in Vietnamese writing. I got an x-ray to verify the patella is intact (it is!), and then they ushered me into a little room for stitches. I've watched people get stitches in American emergency rooms. They don't look happy. I watched the clouds pass in the window as the doctor stuck me with the lidocaine syringe and I thought, "Well. Now I've really done it."

If there's one medical procedure I might trust in the developing world, stitches are it. Doctors see a lot of lacerated skin, and this particular man made quick work of the four stitches binding my knee back together. He iodined the wound, and sent me on my way with gauze and a prescription for painkillers, antibiotics, and anti-inflammatory drugs. And, I was surprised to learn, the whole experience was free, paid for by the Vietnamese government. I'm still limping pitifully, because the knee joint is swollen and bruised, but a few more days of sending Andrew on all my errands, and I should be functional again (thank you, Rew!).