Ilrok, Andrew and I were en route to a mountain village called “Tam Dao”. It was a spontaneous decision as per usual and we set off within hours of making up our minds. It was not a far-flung journey, but as always, it started in the psychotic vehicular swarm of Hanoi, leading onto the less dense highways and finally; into the pristine countryside. We putted along the rural roads that were shouldered by bountiful rice paddies. Due to our late departure, the sun was setting... The world outside of Hanoi is an oasis to those who stay there long enough. The first thing that is evident is the air – the freshness has a noticeable flavour, the flavour being something other than that of intoxicating carbon monoxide. You miss clean air in the labyrinth of South East Asian cities, clean air that is filtered by nature itself. The rice paddies are factories in their own respect, the by-product however, is something quite different. I had a peculiar feeling as we navigated the rice paddies; it held likeness to the feeling of Sa Pa. A smile that crept up the side of my mouth broke into more of a grin, I felt as if my fortune had elevated. Splashes of sapphire and ruby darkened the heavens in a fixed gradient and mirrored off the stagnant wetness that lay between the luminous emeralds of vegetation. I found myself letting free a howl of elation and gazed around to see my companions doing the same. Our eyes met and we suddenly, truly existed...

The mountains drew nearer against the backdrop that had been granted to the residents of the area. The plane of the road slowly began to rise as the vegetation thickened around us, if we picked up our pace – we would find accommodation by nightfall. Dotted trees turned to dense forest as we wound our way up the mountain pass and the air chilled on our ascent. 

We pulled over to don our jackets, before completing the last 8 kilometres to Tam Dao village. The road broke free from the tangle of trees - and with the impression of a match head partially glowing; the settlement at the summit came into view as the last light of the day faded. Nightfall brought with it the rows of multicoloured fairy-lights that would welcome and guide us into the village. They were strung about over the decrepit roads and pathways of the village, allowing us a shimmering cartographic view of the Vietnamese hamlet. Our first goal was to find a place to spend the hours of darkness. We steered slowly through the night market as we became engulfed in the constant hums and bellows of marketplace chatter. The aromas invaded our senses with equal triumph. Meat was being barbequed in all directions and it did a fine job of stirring our appetites. Our presence was noticed and dollar signs became visible on the sheen of the vendors’ eyes. We broke away from the pleas for trade to seek out lodging. Noticing a few hotels above a cliff, we quickly decided that that would be our haven for the night. The hotel was of a reasonable price, so the staff ushered us up to our room. The space was a six-year-old girl’s absolute fantasy. Frills flowed from bed posts that reached the ceiling, and red lighting brought shape to the... wait, was it a “love motel”? – It was. Despite the sinister and mildly disgusting happenings that may have transpired within the walls, the “love motel” had a great view of the valley below - morning would bring an unparalleled image.

After settling in and washing the grit (that we had acquired on the long ride) off our faces, we strolled back down to the barbeque stands that had long been our article of necessity. Chunks of beef that had been skewered with bamboo, along with a few fire-grilled eggs made up the protein portion of our meal. On the side, we had selected a variety of vegetables including sweet potato and corn. We made sure not to miss out on the rice that was cooked in the segments of a bamboo stick. After a wholesome meal and much needed rejuvenation, we ordered a few beers and unwound into conversation. 

We decided that we needed to stretch our legs and lazily meandered along the quieter side of the neighbourhood. A soft glow and a dull reverberation of noise washed along the tranquil street, growing brighter and louder as we grew nearer. By the time we reached the source of the festivities, we could feel the music in our chests. Familiar tunes of salsa and dance channelled the bodies of the town elders into sprightly performance as onlookers cheered in admiration. We had somehow left Vietnam and stood before a vibrant venue whose patrons were dressed to the teeth in highly reflective sequins of every colour. The sequins bounced beams of light around small hall and the added to the intoxicating flutter of motion. We silently took place at the back of the hall and allowed ourselves to enjoy the experience.

A while later, our presence had been noticed, we exchanged smiles and nods with members of the audience. An aged man from the crowd narrowed in on us with a toothy grin and began gesturing that we should follow him. The quiet of the night again surrounded us as we walked in silence with our new acquaintance. He suddenly stopped and lifted his arm before extending his index finger, we followed his finger with our gaze and our eyes met yet another ominous glow in the distance. He gave us a cheerful wave and retraced his steps back into the darkness. We looked back until we could no longer see him, and with a shrug we set off to investigate the hazy orange glow.

We intercepted the scent of smoke long before we saw the fire; this time, I felt the thump of club music in my torso. A roar ascended from the crowd as we walked down the embankment in the direction of a large bonfire. Broad flames flecked toward the sky and the blaze hissed and popped, propelling fiery missiles into the mob. A brave stupid man thought it a good idea to crawl as close to the inferno as possible to eternalise the moment with a photograph. Irreversibly singed, he darted back into the swarm. We settled in at the back to smoke a cigarette and observe the trance-like abstraction before us. The celebration reached its absolute climax as Psy’s “Gangnam Style” began to blare - the sound system suffered the burden of distortion and the locals assumed the horse riding stance, crossed their wrists and pranced away in the all too familiar dance.

It was time to head back to the “love hotel”. As we made our way back, we were called over by a group of young Vietnamese and invited to share their company. We exchanged warm greetings and took our place on small plastic chairs, under a tin roof. They had seized the only westerners in the village and relished in the novelty of the situation. I took great delight in accommodating their hospitality - the beer and rice wine flowed free and a new exotic snack was brought out as soon as the previous one was eaten. Again we found ourselves communicating through gestures and very basic Vietnamese. We found out that the group was made up of taxi drivers and that they were visiting Tam Dao for the weekend. The early hours of the morning approached and we collectively decided that sleep was needed. When you share time with people of a different language, laughter translates to any tongue. Once you have laughed enough, you share a bond. And that bond makes for a sad goodbye. We embarked in separate directions with the understanding that we would not cross paths again. A sense of gratitude for the encounter followed us all the way back to our beds.

I awoke feeling refreshed, despite the late night. We quickly packed and set out to find some coffee and breakfast. Our stomachs growled as we watched the rich ebony liquid percolate into a generous dollop of condensed milk. We mused over the previous night as our food arrived. Normally, Pho’ consists of a wholesome broth that has been stewing for days. A precise recipe of bones, meat, herbs and spices are used to create the soup. It should be flavourful yet delicate to the pallet. Great attention is paid to each element of the dish. Spring onion is added, along with flat noodles and your choice of slithered meat. The meal is a cornerstone of Vietnamese culture. The Pho’ that was served to us however, was nothing short of a disgrace. It was more comparable to 2 minute noodles, without the flavouring. We forced it down and far less than satisfied, the three of us strapped our bags to our bikes and made our descent down the mountain.

About half way down the mountain, we noticed a sign of high intrigue. It read “Bear Sanctuary”. Not to miss the opportunity, we took a quick left and ventured on. After a few kilometers along the dirt road, we bumped into a Vietnamese woman in khaki uniform. She showed us to a makeshift educational area where we learnt that it was sun and moon bears that were being rehabilitated. It is believed by people of an archaic mindset that the bile of the bears has aphrodisiac and health properties. They soon learned that killing a bear for its bile would only produce a once off yield, so black market milking farms were established. The bears are sedated and tubes are thrust into their stomachs to harvest the bile. Forced to spend their lives in minute cages, many of the bears never regain their mental stability. We had just finished reading about the bears and watching a video as a western woman entered the room. She explained that only booked group tours were available at the refuge, schools and universities were their most common guests. Noticing our disappointment, she said that she had half an hour before her next duty and told us that she would give us a quick private tour and a chance to meet some of the bears. We walked along with her as we inquired as to how she ended up at the sanctuary. She is an Australian veterinarian who was placed there through an international volunteering program. My attention began to wander as I noticed the multiple, large, well kept enclosures. Everything that could possibly stimulate the bears was provided for them. We got closer and started spotting the bears, although they were physically healthy after spending long months and years at the sanctuary, their emotional damage was evident. A large sun bear paced back and forth in a spell over a two meter stretch along the fence. The grass where the bear had paced had been worn away and replaced by a shallow trench. Our host explained that the bear was rescued from a cage that was the size of the trench. The bear, in its mind, was still in that tiny cage. We scanned the area, noticing bears with missing limbs. A few bears did seem happy and responded to their caretaker’s calls. 

Again, we mounted our bikes and set off down the serpentine road to the foot of the mountain. We passed through the endless fields and rice paddies, entered the hazardous highways and journeyed on, revitalised, back into the labyrinth of Hanoi.

Our planet has made almost two orbits since my last entry - I have some work to do. Time left my journal behind as it trickled along. The people, the places, the experiences and the difficulties have engraved themselves into the foundation of character that lies within each and every one of us. I may have to abandon the idea of a chronological order and instead share tales as one would do in the quiet corner of a bar. I have my photos to act as memory, memory that mind has forgotten - so here we go! I think I’ll start by squeezing it into a nutshell – I have traveled most of North Vietnam and have been to Thailand twice as well as Laos. Instead of jet-setting, I figured it best to take the time to get to know each region in depth before moving on. A handful of my childhood/post-childhood friends from South Africa are now living with/near me in Hanoi and others have visited. I have a large group of Korean private students that I teach individually and my friend group is mainly made up of South Africans, spare a few extras. That’s enough outlining for now; it’s time for some details.

Ilrok and I sat in silence, with a looming sense of anxiety clawing away at us. My phone rang and I couldn’t hide my excitement. I forced words through my grin - and into the receiver. Our friends had arrived! It had been almost four months since we had seen anyone from our home and now they were here. We ran downstairs to find a travel-weary couple and gave Jason and Angela a vigorous welcome. I have been close friends with Jason for over a decade, so you can imagine the delight. We had only known Angela for a few months prior; however, she was anything but a stranger. I was excited for them. They – like many others, were about to discover Hanoi in the same way that we had. Their baggage was hauled up the three flights of stairs to our studio apartment and we allowed them to settle in. The cushion from our couch, along with our neighbours' would make for a bed. After catching up, we strolled up the road to Madake - one of the expat bars - we rejected the urge to go into tour guide mode, and instead chatted away as we always had. 

The four of us ventured in and around the city for a few days, it gave our friends the chance to take it all in. People need to acclimatise to the beat of the city – walking down an arbitrary side road is a feat in itself. The eroded path is patched and laid down in such a way that it prompts vehicles to swerve from side to side (not unlike the digital green fleck of a heart-rate monitor) to avoid serious injury. A mysterious force compels Honda Wave drivers to terminal velocity, while transporting four family members and luggage on the back. Like a professional athlete you side-step through the traffic to the shop that you have spotted on the other side of the street. The area that you are in dictates how the locals will treat you - the further away you are from the tourist area, the less tolerant they are of you, the exception being beyond that of the borders of Hanoi. Countryside folk do not hold the same vindictive nature toward westerners. Foreigners are blamed for all of the problems that the Vietnamese face and it is understandable considering their war-ridden past. We take great delight in telling locals that we are from “Nam Fi” which of course signifies that we are not of American descent and are in fact South African. This triggers their brain cells to swell, vigorously trying to stretch their minds around the mystery that we are not black. Standard procedure, preceding this event is the customary rubbing of the skin on our arms and informing us that we are white and therefore, cannot be from South Africa. The Vietnamese population, for the most part, is the only child of a fundamentally religious family. The majority know only what they have been taught, which is ironically similar to their American counterparts. Life really takes its role as educator when you are somewhat of an outcast. It teaches you to not care what people think. In an ideal world, I would be the relentless ambassador of the western world – marrying our cultures and betraying preconceptions on either side of the spectrum. But I am instead a simple onlooker of their existence, being the talk of the neighbourhood whenever I make trivial and very human mistakes (such as leaving a terrace light on in daylight). It takes me back to the countryside folk and a dilemma that was cleared up by a friend of mine. I will get you there soon enough.

We boarded the overnight train and found our cabin. I was pleased to find that it was spacious and clean, it was first class after all. We settled in well and after a few too many beers, the rhythmic motion of the train rocked me to sleep. We were crudely awakened at 5am by a crew member banging on the door, signalling to us that our stop was coming up. We departed the train and found a mini bus that would take us up the winding mountain pass to Sa Pa. It was still dark at this stage but as dawn broke we had our first taste of the sheer beauty that the location had in store for us. Driving above the clouds, we looked down as the morning sun reflected off the haze, illuminating the surrounding mountains. It highlighted the many shades of green that would otherwise go unnoticed. No wonder the people of Sa Pa had a glowing happiness about them – they were poor in terms of money but their wealth and greatest asset lay within the area that they call home. Like a stairway down the mountain, rice paddies lined the slopes, shimmering with golden radiance.

The fresh mountain air did well for my hangover. After the hour drive, we finally arrived at our destination. Now it was time to find a hotel. We found a suitable place for $15 and Yvette, Ilrok and I made ourselves at home.

We had a quick breakfast at the hotel, hired a pair of motorbikes and set out to explore. We had no particular direction in mind but nonetheless followed the road wherever it would take us, turning left and right only on impulse. After a good half hour a local urged us to ascend a steep, semi-hidden road that did not seem the least bit suitable for our poor old mopeds.

We shrugged off the notion and putted along up the rocky dirt road. Before we knew it, we were engulfed in mist and focused on the technical driving that would prevent us from falling to our deaths. The road was two metres wide at best. On the side adjacent to the mountain, treacherous cliffs were a bit too close for comfort. The overhang to the left slowly began to level out and it became obvious that we had discovered a village. The first clue was the livestock, roaming freely on the slopes. Secondly, we encountered children playing and running to see who had arrived at their village. Lastly, through the mist, we began to see shapes forming that resembled huts.

 

We continued our impromptu tour through the settlement and greeted smiling faces as we ventured deeper. The road became too hazardous and we thought it best to turn around.

We headed back through the village and found the main road. It was a good time to break out the map and look for other attractions that may spike our curiosity. We noticed a waterfall that was only 25-30km from where we were. “Fantastic”, we collectively thought and with that we were off on our next undertaking. The drive was beyond explanation; we whizzed through the mountain pass and stopped only to take photographs.

We arrived at the waterfall and parked our bikes. It felt good to go on foot for a change. We paid a woman at the bottom and set out to hike the trail up to the waterfall. It was then that we realised that we had been scammed. We encountered the official ticket office to the waterfall and turned on our heel to go and exchange figurative blows with the horrible wench that had pulled the wool over our eyes. After much hostility, we got our money back and attempted a round two up the path.

We paid our fee at the legitimate ticket office and cringed at the sign that announced the 12km hike. We would find this too, to be a hoax. After walking roughly a kilometre, I spotted the point at which we would have to cross the river and descend the mountain. My body seemed to miraculously recharge at this point, I had all the energy in the world knowing that I wouldn’t have to make the 12km hike afflicted with the “vineyard flu”.

The rest of the day was spent patrolling the mountain passes of Sa Pa, giving us vantage to the view of the valley below. That evening we thought it a good idea to try some traditional cuisine and took seat at a street vendor’s make-shift restaurant. We ordered our beers and began selecting various raw eatables for the “chef” to braai (barbeque) for us. During our meal a brightly clad, pesky local that had been hounding us all day and popping up at various points had again found us. With a shrill voice she bombarded us again “you buy for me!” Her English was above par so we invited her to sit with us so that we could learn more about her culture. I bought her a beer and the girls bought a trinket or two to loosen her tongue. She turned out to be an interesting character. Her name is Yuli and although she is very old, she could not remember her age. We became well acquainted with her culture and customs and bought her supper. The bountiful rice paddies were a poor reflection of the wealth of these people. She was dirt poor and hungry but remained happy and full of expression throughout our many conversations. Her eyes almost popped out of her head when the bill arrived (which was of course still very cheap to us). “Too much!” She shrieked and a wave of guilt overcame her for having us spend so much money on her. “You come to my village tomorrow, I make you food for free” she said and we quickly agreed. I will never forget old Yuli, she is one of those people who leaves a lasting impression. I don’t know whether it was her wry toothy grin that bore a top row of chompers at a 45 degree angle or her untainted charisma. I still hear her hearty cackle if I think about it long enough. We agreed on a time and went back to the hotel for an early(ish) night.

We awoke at the crack of dawn and geared up to meet Yuli. We arrived at the centre of town and there she was, waiting for us as promised after spending a night sleeping on the streets. Yvette loaded her on to her bike and took the lead, as she was in possession of our navigator. We took an equally perilous route as the day before and drove until our bikes could no longer battle the terrain. We parked them at the house of a slightly annoyed local and took off once more on foot. It was a pleasant hike to Yuli’s house. We began to envision what living on those slopes really meant. I now have a deeper understanding of rural life. We encountered a sense of happiness and hardship that we had never contemplated before. Yuli was the epitome of resourceful on the slopes, she had lived her whole life there. She kept feeding us information about the plants and animals that were native to the area. She scampered up a hill and returned with a few lashes from a type of fern. She stripped the leaves away as we watched with curiosity. She quickly fashioned 3 horses from the fern stems and handed them to us with a smile. We still hold on to them as priceless souvenirs. At last we walked down a slope and Yuli exclaimed “there, there is my house!” She looked around disappointed at the fact that we could not see the landscape in its full beauty and let out a shout to banish the mist “go away! Go away Hoge, they cannot see!” We all chuckled at the outburst and made the descent to her house.

We were met by three grubby little kids that she identified as her grandchildren. They stuck out their mud-covered hands demanding a gift. Yuli skipped ahead and gave them a few sweets that we had earlier given to her. In this area, nothing is taken for granted. I stepped inside the damp, gloomy residence and felt as if I had time travelled back to a previous era. The floor was made from packed mud and the house was divided into 3 sections. The first was the living area, it comprised of a few makeshift seats and a wooden cabinet that must have taken some time to make. A few pictures hung in the room and one in particular caught my attention. It was a picture of her son’s wedding, the photo was that of a beautiful couple in a picturesque setting with the faces of her son and daughter in law crudely photoshopped on. Secondly was the sleeping area. A few sheets of material made a sleeping area for Yuli and the grandchildren and a loft was constructed above it for her son and his wife. Lastly was the kitchen. There was a water tank and a fire pit with slaughtered pig hanging from the roof above the fire pit. It had been divided into many portions and dangled there above the smoke to cure. A kitten stirred next to the fire. It had no mother or family, they had all run away or died – well, so we were told. We chatted to Yuli as she selected a few cuts off the smoking rack and began to prepare them along with the many types of vegetables and tofu. It was a good idea to explore the village as Yuli made our meal.

We strolled along with the grandkids and as if by some miracle the mist lifted for a moment. The vista of the entire village was now before our eyes. It was unforgettable, no matter how I try, I do not believe that I can put it into words. We felt a rare happiness that day, I will make it my goal to find it again.

It was about then that we headed back to the house to see what Yuli had prepared for us. We were greeted by shot upon shot of rice wine and were swiftly ushered to our seats. Rice, pork, tofu, vegetables and a noodle broth was on the menu. The portions were massive, there was no way that we could finish it all. Although having so little, she treated us to the best that she had to offer and we ate as much as we could. After washing it down with all the rice wine we were not as lucid as we should have been.

We had no time to be lazy though, the day was coming to an end and we had to take the hike back to our bikes, board the bus and then finally the train. We decided to take Yuli to the local photo shop (upon her request) and developed a few photos to commemorate our exceptional time. We said our goodbyes and were all left with a wet kiss on the neck.

Packing our bags at the hotel was not a happy affair, it meant that we would soon be leaving. We were about to board the bus when we heard a familiar yell. It was Yuli - “I was looking everywhere for you, I even ask my friends to help!” We had shared such an intimate experience with Yuli that she took it upon herself to track us down and give us one last gift. “This for you” she said as she handed us each a little handmade bag. I will never forget old Yuli – her youth and charisma are unlike anything I have ever seen. I said a very solemn good bye to Sa Pa as we wound our way down the mountain, looking back would do no good. I will once again gaze upon Sa Pa in the future.