Dena Taylor’s Musings

The train from Lao Cai arrived in Hanoi sometime between 4am and 5am. We had called the Amazing Hotel in the Old Quarter to see if we could get a room. As accommodating as always, they had a vacancy. After the taxi dropped us off, we searched for the night bell but we didn’t have to search for long as Hue, one of the Amazing’s amazing staff members opened the night gate, waving hello from the dark lobby. He and two other staff members had been sleeping on cots in the lobby, in their full work attire. He shuffled us to our room before saying goodnight.

A few hours later we were up, out and shopping for silk on Hang Gai (silk street). We found the somewhat hidden Cafe Pho Co with the great city view mentioned in Lonely Planet. We climbed the spiral stairs and took in the overcast view of the lake and buzz of motorbikes on the streets below. After lunch at Little Hanoi, and more walking and shopping, we spotted an open balcony table along no-idea street and stopped for an afternoon refreshment. I’m allergic to the snach but cashewsnot sounded interesting. And who doesn’t want to have good meal!

The next day was to be my last in Vietnam. HK had to catch the 11-something bus to start her journey back to Cat Ba. But neither one of us could leave town without seeing some Ho. I am of course referring to Uncle Ho or Ho Chi Minh, “Bringer of Light”–founder of the Vietnamese Communist Party and former president of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam. Ho’s embalmed body lies inside a glass sarcophagus in a guarded mausoleum. He looks very peaceful in there. The queue is long but moves quickly. As HK pointed out, it was the most orderly experience she has had during her time here. People observed the rules, which included appropriate dress and respectful behavior, no hands in pockets, and no talking. It didn’t specifically say no Daisy Dukes but I decided it was probably not a good idea. (Ho queue.)

After Ho, I bid HK farewell as she headed for the bus station. With hours until my 11:30pm flight, I got out the map and hoofed it to the “Hanoi Hilton,” or Hoa Lo Prison Museum.

Built by the French in 1896, the prison was used by French colonists to house political prisoners. It was later used to house prisoners of the Vietnam War. It is where Senator John McCain was held for 5 1/2 years. Most of the exhibits related to those incarcerated by the French and some of it is really eerie and gruesome (e.g. guillotine and basket, and torture items including an oil drum–don’t ask).

(Prisoner tags)

I found the Cause of Death chart particularly fascinating in a devastating sort of way.

As one does after visiting prison, I stopped for some seafood fried rice. Then, tired of walking in sticky drizzle, I holed up in the hotel for the remaining  five hours before a taxi would take me to the airport. I spent that time making a list of observations and came up with this:

-Throw your lime wedge and napkins on the floor at the outdoor cafes. The restaurant will sweep them into a pile on the street for later pick up by the garbage pick up person, which may consist of an old two-wheel cart pushed by a woman in conical hat.

-There were friendly dogs and cats. We played with a few and washed up afterward, just in case.

-Most people had a ready smile and many a ready laugh (probably at my butchering of their language).

-Thinking I had asked for hotel staff to turn on the hot water in Sapa, they promptly brought us a thermos of hot water.

-In Cat Ba there is one ATM that works much of the time. In Hanoi there seemed to be one on every other block.

-At one of the Sapa markets, I watched a vendor tell an American tourist that a pair of flip flops were $10. Upon the American’s dramatic scoffing at the price, the vendor took the shoes out of the tourist’s hands, tossed them back on the table and rejoined her friends for a game of cards.

-Shop around for bottled water. On a tour boat it was 20,000d, at the store below the guest house in Cat Ba it was 10,000d and at the store in town it was 6,000d.

-I didn’t take any malaria prophylaxis as the travel clinic provided documentation that the places I was going were not malaria risks. I received maybe eight mosquito bites the whole trip. I did not get malaria.

-A doctor in Hanoi said that chances of getting dengue fever (virus spread by mosquitoes) is greater in a city like Hanoi vs. Cat Ba because of the number of people an infected mosquito can feast on in one place, spreading the love. The doctor and her 5 year-old son had it but both are fine now. Dengue hemorrhagic fever is a different type of dengue virus that one can get after they’ve had another dengue virus before. The latter can be bad as in fatal.

- Just because the shop says massage doesn’t mean they don’t offer more.

-Around dinner time, I saw many vendor families gather around pots of food on the floor of their shops.

-Babies and kids were played with and loved. And as HK pointed out, chill. We considered the possibilities for the lack of tantrums: nutrition, constant stimulation and attention from their parents came to mind.

-If you come here, expect honking. It is a constant form of communication. If I honk at someone in Austin it is likely to be perceived as negative shouting and I run the risk of road rage.

-There isn’t always toilet paper. Doesn’t hurt to have some napkins handy. There isn’t always a place to sit, either.

-When it’s humid, clothes and bedding feel constantly damp.

-Don’t assume it’s okay to snap photos of people. Plenty shook their heads no. Best to ask.

-In general, no tipping but if there’s a little extra it’s appreciated. I didn’t experience anyone assuming that even the smallest of change was theirs.

-Faces like these stay with me. It was an amazing trip—to have seen a little of what’s going on on the other side of the planet.

If anyone can get away with high-waisted pants, she can.

On Friday we were back on the bus to the airport, which would take us back to Hanoi. We would then taxi to the Back Packers Hotel to pick up our overnight train tickets to Lao Cai and from there we would catch a minibus to Sapa, a mountain town near the Chinese border. All went according to plan. We vowed, however, to upgrade our train tickets for the ride home as the car we were in, which sleeps four, was a bit too governmental and the bathroom a tad too revolting. However, both of our cabin mates were immediate heavy sleepers (instead of hackers, snorers or talkers) and for that we were grateful. The train departed at 9:15 and arrived in Lao Cai sometime around 6:30am. (HK settling in.)

We arrived in Lao Cai and joined throngs of tourists in search for the reasonably priced ride to Sapa. We found one that had a price similar to that mentioned in Lonely Planet and climbed aboard. I knew Sapa was a mountain town but I had no idea what it would be like getting there. Think zigzagging cartoon mountain with bulging taxi vans careening along the edge of a steep ravine to pass like taxi vans, trucks, buses, motorbikes, villagers, cows and water buffalo. Add driving in the middle lane and fervent honking as said taxi van approaches sharp curve around which an oncoming taxi van, truck, bus or motorbike is fast approaching forcing said taxi to hit the brakes and jerk back into its proper right lane until the next sharp curve, which seems to come in 3 minute intervals. At some point an awkward retching sound bellowed from the front row. HK and I looked at each other in a bemused horror until we realized that all the careening was making one of the lady passengers throw up. She had a unique way of throwing up, too. It started with a low uncertain growl, like an injured wolf in the wild, before turning into a kind of gypsy wail before culminating into a final gasping ejection. This happened 3 or 4 times before we arrived in town. The lady must have been relieved to get on solid ground. I know we were. (Road to Sapa.)

One of HK’s Vietnamese colleagues has a friend in Sapa who owns a hotel and urged her to contact him for our accommodations. It would be rude not to accept this offer so we gave this man a call from the church where we were dropped off. He didn’t show up so HK called her colleague who called the man then called us back to say he was on his way. In about 2 minutes the Vietnamese version of Mick Jagger pulled up on a motorbike and one at a time, he drove us to his safe and clean if somewhat shabby older hotel behind the open market in town. We were treated very kindly and relieved to see other travelers staying there as well. (View from behind nearby construction.)

We walked around the small, hilly town bustling with tourists, tour buses, motorbikes, dump trucks and various locals selling fruits and vegetables and Montagnard vendors (people from mountain villages) selling goods like earrings to embroidered bags. Sapa was established as a French Hill Station in 1922. The town reminded me a little of Whistler in that it with the variety of shops and restaurants at the center. Sapa is of course far less expensive. Surrounded by towering mountains it can be socked in with fog but we were lucky to have unabashed sunshine the entire time we were there.

These two Black Hmong girls followed us down the street with a “Hello. Where you from?” The one on the right had a command of English and our attention with her clever personality. “How much is that?” we would ask pointing to a small handmade instrument that made a quivering musical sound. “80,000 dong,” she would say (roughly $4 and too much), followed by something like, “Now you make price lower and then I do, then you buy.” And we did.

HK attempted to take a hot shower that evening but there wasn’t any hot water. She went downstairs to ask about it but since no one speaks English she wasn’t sure they understood. She came back to the room and waited for the light to go on on the water heater but nothing happened. I resigned myself to a cold rinse and we decided to move to another hotel the next day. But HK didn’t want to offend her colleague’s friend so she called the colleague to explain why we would be leaving. He said he would call his friend and see what the deal was. I was laying in my bed when I heard all kinds of commotion in the hall. It sounded like a Vietnamese village was moving into the room next door. Then HK’s colleague called back to say that he spoke with his friend and the hotel did in fact have hot water that would be turned on at any moment. In seconds there was a knock on the door followed by the hasty entrance of the friend who said “sorry” when he saw me in bed before marching into the bathroom. He confirmed it was on and left. We each had a shower and were in bed by 9:30pm. Thankfully, the neighbors had conked out, too.

The next day we took a tour bus to the weekly Bac Ha market about 2 1/2 hours away. Armed with charged iPods and water, we tumbled down the mountain to Lao Cai then up another winding stretch into Bac Ha, a small town whose surrounding area is home to some 10 different Montagnard groups. After a delicious Vietnamese coffee, we made the plunge, captivated by stall after stall of embroidered bags, colorful scarves, jewelry, apparel, toys and much more. Frequenting the market are members of the Flower Hmong in their distinctive garb.

I’ve never been comfortable with the whole haggling deal but someone said no one will sell something if they aren’t making some sort of profit. I hoped this was true and went about buying a few things including a lovely embroidered bag in which to carry home my expanding Vietnam purchases. Other parts of the market catered to the needs of local people, which included sundries, fruits and vegetables, apparel, kitchen goods and the live animal section, which we purposefully avoided. We skipped the tour to the neighboring village and had a leisurely lunch. All in all we were there for about 4 hours before the 2 1/2 hr ride back to Sapa. I’m not mentioning the food in Sapa as what we had was wasn’t all that good. It seemed watered down for the tourists. I missed the morning pho in Cat Ba.

On Monday morning we went for a 12 km trek lead by a 20-something year old girl from a nearby Dzao village. She handed us plastic bags with makings for our lunch and lead us out of town onto a path where you were more likely to encounter water buffalo than motorbikes.

Within minutes we were getting the DL on her culture.

• Girls get married as young as 14-16.
• The groom’s family pays the girl’s family for her hand.
• Marriages aren’t based on love or even friendship. And for the most part they don’t end up in friendships. They are partnerships in which to create a home and raise a family.
• The girl moves into the man’s parents’ home. They consummate the marriage with the family only a few feet away. This can take “about 10 minutes, sometimes 5.” It is not for pleasure. It is for making babies.
• Her best friend, notably beautiful, is married to a man in the village whose is not her aesthetic equivalent. Our guide made a scary face to convey what he looked like. We asked if they like him as a person. She said “No.”
• Our guide has some schooling and Western culture exposure behind her. She speaks English well. We asked if she would be looking to marry someone in her village. This wasn’t an option as the men in her village wanted to marry virgins. We understood.
• We told her she was lovely and would have many suitors where we come from. She doubted this. She felt that she hadn’t protected her skin like she should and looked much older than other women her age. Plus she had short hair. We stood firm and she said she would be interested in meeting a Vietnamese or Western man. She had a “friend” who was Western but he was 65 and she wasn’t interested in someone that age. We couldn’t have agreed more and encouraged her to stick with 30 and under.
• She has four other siblings, two just starting school and two that are married and work the land around the village.
• The younger generations are having fewer children.
• Her mother didn’t tell her about sex but her sister did.
• Her mother is okay with the fact that she left the village and will not live in the traditional way. In fact, many are glad if daughters marry Westerners as they are perceived to have more money and offer a better way of life. However, many that have done so have ended up getting divorced.
• The men in the village do get irked when a girl marries a Westerner.
• There’s a nurse in the village who educates the men about condom use. Demonstrations are made on a cucumber.
• There are rumors that some of the men have intercourse with water buffalo.
• The average person in Sapa makes about $150 a month. You can make more if you work a lot of tours.
• They do eat dog. She tried it once and was sick for a week. Large dogs are usually kept as pets and protectors of the home. Smaller dogs are not so lucky with their time being up at about one year.
• They do eat cat. She really likes cat.
• Cow, pig, buffalo, chicken and other birds are eaten but none are her favorite.
• But horse is! Horse and cat were her favorite meats. They also use horses for work. Here’s one of four we saw tied in the terraces.

Along the way we picked up four Dzao women with baskets full of goods to sell. They wait along various paths for trekking tourists offering to carry water bottles and shielding them from the sun with umbrellas. They use the little English they know to ask you where you come from, your age, if you are married and how many children you have.

We knew this would culminate in a hard sell later but it’s part of the experience so you roll with it. Our guide lead us from the road into a shortcut through the cascading rice terraces. We balanced on rocky borders except for the one time I slipped and sunk my foot and lower pant leg into the wet mud. It was 80-something and dried quickly. I scraped the mud off with a rock.

(Black Hmong and kids along the trek.)

(Baby on board.)

(Children at one of the neighboring village schools.)

We stopped for lunch at someone’s home/cafe in our guide’s village. Lunch consisted of a hard boiled egg, triangle of soft cheese, tomato and cucumber, all of which was crammed into individual baguettes. We bought soda water from the owners. Dessert consisted of bananas and apple. Then the hard sell began with our Dzao escorts unloading their wares with the “You buy from me, I give good price.” Our original 4 had dwindled to 3. Two focused on HK and this woman focused on me.

Everything started looking the same but I was committed to buying at least one thing and settled on what looked like a table runner. Negotiations began with “Very expensive, handmay…” “You made this?” I asked. “Yes, handmay, too expensive.” I asked how much. She said something around 400,000d (appx. $20). Our guide did her best to convey that I could get it for half but she had to be careful because they get angry with her if she interferes.  I offered 250,000d and ended up paying 310,000 (appx. $15), which is still too much but I figured I was paying for the entire experience. In the meantime HK was asking if I’d be interested in one of the many cell phone holders being thrust her way.

Then up pulled a motorbike with a man and the Dzao woman that left us early in the trek. She came straight to my side and said, “‘member me? Buy from me?” I repeated over and over that I only had 10,000d left (appx 50 cents). “You buy from her. You buy from me,” she said until she realized I wasn’t buying anything more and walked away in a huff only to come back with one of her friends, a fresh new smile and offer to sell me a cell phone holder for 10,000d. Sadly, I had just given HK my last 10,000d so she could buy a cell phone holder from another vendor. The woman was none too happy and we signaled to our guide that we would like to get going–the pressure was getting annoying. She told us later that while some women still do make items by hand, many have become lazy, buying up goods for cheap in the Sapa market and selling them for profit along the trail. Chances are, what I bought wasn’t made by her at all and I could have bought it in Sapa for about $5. But I don’t feel had. That $10 would go a long way for that woman and that was fine by me.

After the high-pressure sale-a-thon, we trekked up the hill to a cave. It cost to go beyond the cold mouth and we declined.  I’d seen enough caves on this trip. But we did see this young man bounding down the hill and he was kind enough to strike a pose that I likened to Lil Dzao the gangster rapper or Neo in the Dzao version of The Matrix. Either way, he wasn’t to be messed with.

We took motorbike taxis back to Sapa where an extremely kind woman from the U.S. named Kim let us use her hotel shower to clean up before we headed back to Lao Cai to catch the overnight train. Once there, we went to the tourist office to exchange our voucher for upgraded train tickets and yet when we located car No. 7, it was the same kind of crappy-ass governmental car we had the first time. We had been screwed but with only 15 minutes or so before departure there wasn’t a lot we could do. Thankfully, we had two more cabin mates who slept quietly through the night. It was sticky warm but I managed to catch a few winks this time, dreaming of the clean hotel bed waiting for me in Hanoi, where we would arrive sometime around 5am.

After a week in Cat Ba, the last few days of which were overcast and misty (reminding me of the Pacific Northwest), it was time to head south to Dalat in the central highlands. To get there we took a bus, a ferry and two more buses to Hanoi, a plane to the Lien Khuong Airport (modern with two Christmas trees out front, tinsel swaying in the wind, in April), another bus to Dalat and a taxi to our hotel. I was saved by iPod.

There’s not a lot to Dalat but we had heard it was quaint, surrounded by tall pine trees and waterfalls and hill tribes, and near coffee plantations, and we wanted to buy some delicious Vietnamese coffee and quality filters to take home. But there is more to Dalat. It’s like a mountain resort town with French-colonial influence. It’s drier than the north and hilly. It is known for surrounding coffee, tea and strawberry crops. The name means “river of the Lat tribe.” It was spared in the American war, easily falling to the north.

We stayed at the Pink House Hotel (it is in fact pink) where we were welcomed by Rot (rote), a member of one of the Montagnard (hill-tribe) villages who was adopted by the owners of the hotel. He speaks excellent English, Vietnamese and the language of his village, which made the tour he was offering extra special; he could provide an insider perspective other tours couldn’t. Rot also likes to joke with his guests and sing very passionately, dare I say flamboyantly. If he were in the States I’d cast him in a Broadway musical. He was jazz hands and then some. We were given the option of riding on the back of a motorbike with a skilled driver or driving on our own. With only 20 minutes of motorbike driving experience under my belt, I decided to drive myself.

Up at the buttcrack, I had about six minutes to practice driving the semi-automatic motorbike around the block. Our group of eight plus Rot and two other drivers gassed up at the local petrol station then headed for the hills. Our itinerary consisted of: cricket farm, silk factory, waterfall, coffee plantation, Rot’s village and family home and a mushroom farm. Guiding me along the way was a simple mantra that went something like: Brake is on the right. Left forward to go fast. Left heel to go slow. Don’t look around. Don’t hit any cows.

(Above: Rot tempts us with a live scorpion.)

“Don’t eat things that are still moving, quivering, have hair on them or are wearing shoes.” Solid advice from Dad and I took it to heart. These crickets were very dead and covered in batter.

And you know what? That’s what they tasted like…batter. Nothing gross nothing delicious. For the record, I was the first to try them (having seen other tourists do it on Youtube), and I ate two. And Rot? After all of us tried one he confessed that he won’t eat them. What a tease. A tease with jazz hands.

After our bucket of DFC (Dalat Fried Cricket), we motored to a silk factory where we learned about the process and watched the employees wash the cocoons, gather the silk and make custom patterned fabrics. (I may have bought a scarf for those nights at the Alamo Drafthouse when the A/C is really high.) From there we wound our way to a waterfall where we hiked down to a viewpoint and the spray soaked our pants. But it was 80-something so they dried quickly. After a quick stop at a coffee plantation to see cherries on a tree, we stopped in Rot’s village where we sat inside the house of an old friend of his from school. She has four or five children, only one of which was born at the hospital, an experience she never hopes to repeat. In fact, she tried to leave the hospital early with her baby but they caught her and made her stay. She’d much rather give birth on her own as she had done before with no problems. She had a husband but because her family couldn’t afford to pay his family for him (as is the custom), he was taken away and married to a woman from a family that could. Thus, she is without a husband. When asked if she would marry again, she conveyed through Rot that her experience was too sad for her to go through again. There is no divorce in this village. She hadn’t seen her husband in some four years. Her surroundings were simple: various containers of food, a giant pot full of herbal tea, leftover fried jackfruit in a pan and these gourd-type containers full of bloated rice that they take into the fields for easy eating. Her mother came in and demonstrated how to yield cotton from the cotton tree the old fashioned way. No Jo-Ann Fabrics here.

(Above: Children in Rot’s village.)

We then went to Rot’s sister’s house for lunch, which consisted of a giant wok full of noodles and cabbage, and a sampling of six different kinds of fruits. It was delicious. Rot then gave us the low-down on his culture. Highlights include:

-Weddings are HUGE affairs.

-The bride lives with the groom’s family afterward.

-Virgins are optimal.

-The man can work and go out with his friends or bring them to the house and the wife takes care of the house but rarely goes out. She is content managing the home and raising her kids and enjoys friendships with other village women.

-Vietnamese love pale skin and go to great lengths to keep it pale including floppy hats, sunglasses, face masks, long sleeves, gloves and socks with sandals–even when it’s 85 degrees. Some go to Bangkok for bleaching. Tanned skin = labor and is not considered attractive.

-Many also have cosmetic surgery to the eyes and nose. Large noses are coveted.

-Weight is also a sign of someone who lives well and is perceived positively by many.

If you’re pudgy, pale and protuberant this is the place for you. But really, how come we can’t be happy just looking like ourselves?

Our tour also consisted of a trip to an open market where the women above were selling fresh fruits, vegetables and various wares.

After a quick stop at a mushroom farm, we headed back. Somewhere along the 50-ish minute trip back I realized I was tightly fixed in a forward-leaning position, gripping the handles for dear life. I didn’t notice the scenery because I dared not take my eyes off the road. It was fun but there were moments where I had to slow down and maneuver around dump trucks, buses and cattle. I actually looked forward to getting back to Dalat where the heavy traffic would force a slower pace.

Our remaining time in Dalat (Tue-Fri total) was spent walking around a lake without water, sauntering through the flower gardens, making the long hot haul to the tram for a fun ride over the tops of pine trees and touring the Crazy House—an in-progress, Gaudi-esque structure created by the architect Mrs. Dang Viet Nga, whose father was Ho Chi Minh’s successor. She apparently wants to entice people back to nature. You can book rooms here but I’m not sure how comfortably I could sleep with Damien the Kangaroo and baby demon Roo watching over me.

I have no desire to inflict pain on myself. When I get a bruise or cut it’s unintentional and often followed by a string of mother-effers and other colorful expletives. When I was a kid I enjoyed climbing trees and riding bikes and chasing the dog through the yard, and with such play came various cuts and scrapes–it wasn’t fun but it was expected (except for the nail in the plywood that went straight through my tennis shoe and into my foot). But save for the occasional bruise from a furniture scuffle or blister from a new pair of shoes, the older I get, the fewer minor injuries I get and I like it that way. So why I agreed to plaster my body against a hard, edgy limestone rock is curious but I did it.

It was about 60-something and overcast when I joined the Slo Pony tour group for a day of kayaking and rock climbing in HaLong Bay. Our group consisted of a solo South African, an Australian family of three, a couple of young German men, two young Canadian couples, and a couple from the faraway land of Noidea, and me. We boarded the tour junk and positioned ourselves on bean bags on the upper deck as our Vietnamese captain took us into the Bay dotted with natural karst sculptures and floating fishing villages.

Each village has at least two dogs that bark with attitude when anyone gets close to their floating turf.  Families out here earn their living catching fish and other sea critters. They go to town for groceries, supplies and the like, they just drive boats instead of cars.

The junk pulled up to a single fishing post (e.g. just one house structure surrounded by a framework of nets) and the non-English speaking crew waved us below, pointing to a collection of two-person kayaks. As it goes when you are solo, I was matched up with the only other solo, the overly jaunty South African.  We convoyed with a young couple from Vancouver Island tooling around the bay in search of a cave we heard we could sail through. The scenery was sublime and I got quite a workout as Jaunty’s and my oars were never in sync, and as the rear steer, I always seemed to be righting our course. (Maybe I was paddling wrong but let’s blame him.) I was also baptized at least eight times with the contents of HaLong Bay flung willy-nilly from his oars and my own. May pant legs were soaked. We never did find that cave but we did find a gorgeous cul-de-sac in which we lingered before heading back to the junk for lunch.

After lunch we took a basket boat to Moody Beach to climb rock. (Think of your most beat up bread basket, punch a hole or two in it and then cover the holes with popsicle sticks and tar, add a motor and voila, basket boat!)

Except for associating it with young, crunchy outdoorsy types who eat gorp and wear embroidered bracelets, I knew next to nothing about rock climbing. When I agreed to go I figured I’d get some brief instruction, climb an easy beginner’s wall and call it a day. I didn’t think about height or difficulty or skill. I was unprepared and a tad self-conscious, which is probably why I was last to climb the first wall. Having watched eight others with varying skill levels go before me, I was able to climb it with little trouble.

Back on the ground, I watched a more experienced 20-something woman scale the way taller, flatter and more difficult neighboring face like an effing spider. With blond hair and no body fat. I assumed she was on the advanced climber wall until she came down and one of the other newbies gave it a go. No fucking way I’m climbing that nonsense, I thought. I would enjoy climbing back on the boat and having a cold beer, though. But I was in this rock climbing mecca with a patient and encouraging guide to help me along. When would I have this opportunity again?

Determined not to be last, I hovered like a mineral groupie until Newbers came down and it was my turn. While he didn’t have any trouble with the first step up, I needed a push and with that came the first flicker of doubt that I would make it to the top. But with the guide’s encouragement, dressed in a fantastically persuasive English accent, I kept going. The first two-thirds were doable—lots of places for my hands and feet. Then it was time to get past a small cavity over which remained the last third and hardest part of the climb because there was nothing to hold on to, just a long crevice to wedge myself into. Somehow I made it through the cavity but I was tired, feeling clunky and awkward—more sloth-like than spider—and my heart was pounding. Funny thing is I thought I was pretty fit what with the Pilates classes, walking, weights and elliptical workouts I had been doing the past few months. English could tell I was getting tired and frustrated and told me to take a break. I wasn’t afraid of the height as I completely trusted his belaying abilities. I was, however, succumbing to impatience, self-consciousness and frustration. After a few weak attempts to elevate myself, English pointed out that I needed to use my hips to push myself up. But I wasn’t having any of it. I considered my now bleeding finger, shin and forearms and forced a laughing, I don’t think I’m going to make it this time, code for, Bring me the fuck down already! But English said, “No” and then one of the more experienced climbers hollered, “But you’re so close!” I wanted to thank her and smack her. She wasn’t the one feeling like a panting elephant dangling from a cliff. I tried another move but to no avail and offered a more firm, Yeah, I don’t think I can make it. I should probably come down now. English said I could make it if I just did this and that but if I really wanted him to lower me, he would. Fucker. I couldn’t give up now.

I tried a little of the hip action he was referring to and couldn’t believe it when I saw my hand touch the top of the rings. The other climbers clapped and cheered. I was embarrassed and uttered something about not wanting to be the example, which I felt immediately guilty about. Why couldn’t I be more gracious and maybe even proud of myself? With all this yo-yo mind drama you’d think I’d be content sitting my ass on the beach waiting for the rickety basket boat to take me away but I didn’t want to make my fumbled climb into a thing so I wandered over to the third wall and climbed that, too.

Back on the junk, I surveyed my newly scraped and bruised limbs and had a whole new appreciation for devoted climbers around the world—their tenacity is admirable. And I guess I’m pretty keen on the fact that I completed my first three climbs. I can’t say I’ll be hitting the stone again any time soon but you never know. Time heals bruised egos, too.

Hey, Cat Ba! (At least that’s what I think it means.) The largest island in Halong Bay, Cat Ba has a total area of 354 square kilometers (I’ve seen other estimates but you get the idea), about half of which makes up Cat Ba National Park. The island, park and surrounding area were recognized as a UNESCO Man and Biosphere Reserve in 2004. For more information on conservation efforts check out www.catbalangur.org

While I was only there for a week, I quickly fell into a routine. It went a little something like this: Wake up and pull out ear plugs to hear the boats in the bay scoot to and from Ben Beo Pier with motors rivaling the loudest of old school Harleys. Some are driven by parents dropping their kids off for school while others are coming from the many fishing villages in the bay to shop and run errands, and then there are the tour boats loading up passengers for tours of the bay, kayaking and rock climbing. We then make our filter coffee and join HK’s coworker/neighbors on the balcony for a morning chat. (Below: HK’s guest house and view)

After coffee, it’s time to head down the block for a delicious bowl of morning pho (usually with egg and goat but two eggs when no goat), fresh herbs, ginger and lime, or into town for a scrumptious mango pancake with honey and more Vietnamese coffee.

(Below, morning pho kitchen. No granite counter tops or Sur La Table gadgets necessary.)

If HK has to work, I would hit one of two Internet cafes and camp out for a few hours drinking more coffee or a club soda. Or I might drop off the laundry (pay by the kilo) or see if the lone ATM was working. If I wanted to spice things up I could get a storefront pedicure (literally on the steps in front of a shop) for $1 or get a chair massage and by chair massage I mean literally sitting in the chair at the cafe table where I was writing while the happy hands man who walks up and down the waterfront giving 20 minute massages for $2.50 did his thing. Having been tipped off that he was the real deal, I imbibed and was thoroughly pleased although I’m not sure he was when he was balancing my way larger frame on his back.

On the day HK wasn’t working we headed out toward the national park on her motorbike stopping in at Hospital Cave, which served the northern army’s wounded during the war. The cave has 17 chambers including a former kitchen and operating room. According to our guide the original electrical wiring is still in tact. One chamber had a small pool into which officials from the third floor could fall into as part of an escape route. I couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to live inside a cave with a war going on around me. Cat Ba was indeed targeted. We were charged about $1 for the tour. Seems like they could charge a lot more. (Below, Hospital Cave corridor and view from the exit.)

In the evenings we met up with friends to eat dinner at either the Bamboo or Green Mango and would close out the night with a rousing game of poker. 50,000d to get in.