Sand in the Sandwiches

And in between my toes, and ears, and even in my asthma inhaler (and therefore my lungs). But when you wake up, the only people on a huge white crescent of a beach, that itchy scratchy feeling just fades away.

All day I had been asking myself why we hadn't taken a tour. Was it because I was too snobbish to join with the fat Americans ("I live here you know")? Or was it because I was scared of not being in control of my own time, or not getting the trip I wanted? We had waited for two and a half hours on the dock, haggling for a boat trip through the maze of jagged karsts that is Halong Bay. We had eaten in a little restaurant by the sea, idyllic until the rats came out. But it was when the people on the tour were piled into an overpriced characterless hotel in Cat Ba Town, while we set off over the hills to the beach that I knew we had won.

We were the only ones braving the beach campsite, sleeping in a little tent, raised from the ground to protect us from snakes; and the only ones eating at the beach restaurant, piles of fresh seafood as the sun set.

Ok, it was cold and damp and sandy, but it was ours.

Nowhere in Hanoi is more symbolic of historical change in Vietnam than the Hoa Lo Prison. Nicknamed the Hanoi Hilton by the POWs kept there during the American War, it was built as a prison for nationalist natives by the French colonisers. Now all that remains is a small museum, overshadowed by Hanoi Towers, where expats can have a serviced appartment, office and a western supermarket under one roof. In short, never be confronted by Vietnam.

Having tea in a cafe by the Cathedral today, I overheard Mr "I used to work for the World Bank", ranting about the need to educate the Vietnamese in jazz. This caught my attention as I, in fact, went to a Jazz bar last night. I had asked a Vietnamese friend to take us to see jazz, and she took us to Minhs - where she was the only Vietnamese person apart from the waiters. We had all wanted to experience Vietnamese jazz, of which there is apparently, a lively scene. But like all the Vietnamese I have met, she thought, thanks to the inhabitants of Hanoi Towers and the like, that foreigners want to stick together.

This makes me appreciate teaching even more. I spend all day every day with Vietnamese people, and I never come home without learning something, however small. This week I have learnt among other things, that there is a Ho Chi Minh youth organisation that all teenagers must join at 14, that they are celebrating there 75th anniversary on Sunday which is why I was subjected to three hours of my students singing and dancing with kids from "the Vietnamese version of the Mickey Mouse club", and most importantly that if the lights don't work in the classroom try the switch next door...

"Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away..." Well, except that that was me crankily crooning after having the mike thrust in my face by class C02. Yes, we were at kareoke, and up to that point I had cunningly managed not to sing. But "Yesterday" is a Vietnamese favourite, and what better than having an English voice to sing it, especially if she is your very embarrased teacher.

So that was how my Women's Day continued. I went back to class, and was then cajoled to kareoke with whatever English they had. In England, they would have used a few beers to prepare me for such an ordeal, in Vietnam I had a fizzy orange. Not really the same I feel...

In fact I was fizzy oranged out by the end of the night as after kareoke I went dancing with Phuong Anh and her colleagues. So I proved that I could neither dance or sing, but I did find out why her colleague's English is so good - they translate HBO and the Disney Channel into Vietnamese.

Apparently sometimes they are not given scripts and they cannot work out what people are saying so "I think maybe you can help...?"

I can just see me trying to explain steamy scenes in Sex in the City and Desperate Housewives...

The streets are lined with flowers. Big gaudy bouquets wrapped in shiny foil and brightly coloured crepe paper, with the occassional sparkly twig florish. Today is International Women's Day, and while it may only get a mention in a girl's school assembly at home, here it is big business.

I say big business because, perhaps not surprisingly, it is not used for the Vietnamese "communists" to talk about equality of women, but for the Vietnamese capitalists to make money out of selling flowers, cards and even underwear. It is like a second Valentine's day, and mother's day rolled into one, and I am surprised Clinton cards hasn't thought of this in Britain.

However I am doing quite well out of it. I have had flowers from my classes, big lilies and pink roses, vibrant gerberas and purple carnations, heather and dainty daisies. I have also had a present from the university - a small bag in a (ahem) "Gucci" box.

Across the hallway from where I sit in the university, the office staff have downed work and are putting make up on each other for Women's Day. Its like those twelve year olds' sleepovers all over again.

The Women's Day party that I have just got back from (where I was the special guest of class B02) was not unlike a children's party either. Except the only thing that looked like jelly was the bowls, and the food was a decidedly grown up hot pot of beef and tofu, vegetables, and for some unknown reason liquorice. Mm. We all sat on the floor of my student Hien's living room, looked down upon by a Buddha wrapped in cellophane to stop it getting dirty, and listening to dodgy English pop music. And, somehow, I couldn't stop smiling.

"Vietnam..Ho Chi Minh.. Mu Nam Mu Nam."
(Vietnam..Ho Chi Minh..Viva, Viva)

There had to come a day when we would pay homage to "Uncle Ho" who peers down from above our blackboard, paying more attention than most of our students.

So we rose early, as Ho, being Vietnamese, keeps early hours. In fact, last entry to the mausoleum is at an ungodly 10.15 am. We cycled like mad to the other side of the city, and so concerned were we about being too late for Ho, we stumbled across the path in front of the mausoleum. Two steps later the whistle was blown and we were confronted with one of the stormtrooper like guards that protect their father Ho.

Luckily once we had been shunted round the corner, and had all our bags, mobiles, cameras and other new fangled things that Ho might not have approved of removed we were allowed into the line. Most of the people who go are Vietnamese, and it is a very somber occassion as you march up into the marble hallway, reminiscent of many a five star hotel, hands out of pockets, eerily silent and feeling you have stumbled upon a cult.

Ho had been well and truly tangoed. The Russians, whom he goes to for repairs three months of the year, had not done a very good job. He did not look human, and while perhaps that was the aim, as he now has a God like status, I am pretty sure they didn't want him to turn into the God of orange fizzy drinks.

Five go to Ninh Binh.

The students had exams and for once that didn't mean us. So we packed up and left Hanoi for Ninh Binh, two hours south. Three weeks ago I hadn't ridden a bike since I was a child, but soon, like a scene from Enid Blyton in the rice paddies; only without the ginger beer, we were cycling 46 km a day.

We went to Kenh Ga Floating village, where children as young as three seem to row their own boats, with their feet, of course, like everyone in Kenh Ga. We went to the Tam Coc caves (yes we basically choose these places for their funny names) and the Cuc Phuong National Park, where we trekked through the forest, our guide's Westlife songs blaring from his mobile phone, disturbing the monkeys for miles around. Call the R.S.P.C.A, I say.