Two months

Travelling creates many differing perspectives on life, the universe and everything. Some days are abysmal; where a chain of events causes a cataclysm of negative emotion and the whole world seems populated with detritus. Others are seemingly uplifting, demonstrating beauty, friendship and acts of kindness that right the wrongs of everything that’s gone before; making you smile as you fall to sleep with great fondness for those around you.

Today was another of the latter, beginning with a complete overhaul of travel plans and ending in a tremendously enjoyable evening spent with the two girls working at the Riverside Hostel I’m staying at. Lulu and Shan Shan have known each other since being bunk-buddies at College four years ago, studying Practical English. In a country where very little is spoken and symbols are indecipherable, it’s delightful to meet fluent speakers. Much like their Western counterparts, they long to travel the world and broaden their knowledge. Presently the bookies wouldn’t offer them favourable odds, however, I do not doubt their resolve and wish them the best of luck.

Having collected enough tat and random memorabilia (paper, receipts and the like), to fill a small parcel, Shan Shan has located the Post Office on my map for me. Sending a box from mainland China is certainly not easy and I’m glad to have both the assistance of Sister’s Cantonese (success rate of around 10% thus far), and my Mandarin dictionary app. To say communication is strained without mediation is an enormous understatement. There are no queues here, it’s every citizen for themselves; so get up to the front and don’t be fearful of barging as it’s not rude. Once at the desk I am ready and armed with iPhone in hand, pre-prepared with “Parcel” in Mandarin (邮包). There’s little point speaking, so I point and in return receive one flat-pack box. Do I pay now or once I have packed it ready for shipping? Rubbing thumb and forefinger are universal and after some exchanged words I decipher it’s 9 Yuan (90 pence), for the cardboard.

Red tape flows in China like the sweat on the brows of the overworked and underpaid sweatshop workers, and this is no different. Having my contents inspected and completing a form in sextuplicate, I return to the postal window to have each of my forms stamped in turn by three differing designs. Almost eighteen pounds gets me an overland service, 9,674 Kilometres back to London and as I press the phrase on my app for “When will it arrive?”, my Mandarin voice by proxy causes everyone around me to giggle (thankfully it’s male). A few words are exchanged with a nearby female co-worker and as she turns to me says; “Two months”.

Back to the Hostel and my ticket to Guangzhou is booked; this time tomorrow and I’ll be en route to Hong Kong in T-Train style. Being only a few years old, I’m looking forward to some railway luxury, especially after Vietnam. Lulu has arrived for work and she seems keen to join me for a run – she’s dressed in jeans so after a quick change in to Sister’s borrowed running shorts, we head off for what ends up as roughly 3K jogging and the remainder walking. I’m happy for the company and as we discuss her life ambitions of travel and backpacking, it’s easy to see just how stifled and restricted she is. Her dreams are to visit Turkey, Australia and London and she works incredibly hard to achieve her goal, as all women in Asia seem to. When asked about men she responds “Chinese men are lazy and stupid, very dishonest, I prefer Western men”. Freakonomics aside, there is no suggestive tone to our conversation and I am glad for her honesty.



Changing at the Hostel and heading out to dinner, it’s like having two new best friends taking care of us. Whilst in Vietnam I was certain of an undertone to instant friendship with women – here I feel it’s genuine and out of kindness that they order for us and act as our translators for the remainder of the evening. The cheapest meal in the whole of my travels in China; the evening surely wouldn’t be complete without a traditional massage found in a random back street, costing £2.50 for an hour and ensuring I hobble back to the Hostel. It’s deep tissue work, not unlike Thai massage minus the wooden stick and knuckle kneading. My guy works his thumbs in to my back, head, feet and legs untangling every knot with brute force – it’s excruciating but I’m determined to see it through without flinching. The girls giggle at the noises I make and as the hour is up I’m too agonised to stand and dazed from being pinched, pulled and compressed in to a relaxed pile of muscle and blubber.

As we all conclude, I offer to pay for everyone – it’s just a tenner afterall. There’s no tip culture here and neither Lulu nor Chan Chan expected payment for anything all evening, but I’m glad to show some financial generosity in return for their unquestioning thoughtfulness all day.

Bones and Cartilage

I understand that most animals farmed for their flesh are treated badly, but in all honesty how else can so many mouths be fed with only a finite amount of land and resources. I like meat, and I’m not afraid to say it. Give me a cleaver and a chicken and I’d be more than happy to carve it up for dinner. And in any case, why should fish be seen as half way between meat and vegetables; as if it’s perfectly acceptable to suffocate the thing before shoving it on some ice and selling it to Mrs. James for Sunday brunch – she read in the Telegraph supplement that Red Snapper is good eatin’ after all.

Perhaps the difference is in the noises animals make – fish are quiet when they pass on to the great deep blue sea in the sky, whereas a cow will moo-scream and kick until it’s reached the purley gates to the great Welsh green fields. That is, especially if it’s throat is slit and some dude chants over it’s blood-drained carcass. Of course that meat tastes different, how can you ask such a ridiculous question?

Chowing down on my wonton dry noodles, I’m making lots of noises too. I’ve ordered “Curried Beef Flank” and although meat-like in appearance, the fate of these cuttings would normally be destined for a donar kebab joint. Or perhaps a can of pedigree chum; dogs love bones and cartilage after all. Being human and lacking in the carnivorous nashers necessary to crunch through these lips, earlobes and knee joints; I’m either forced to swallow whole and hope my gut is in an accepting mood, or pick through in a desperate – and as it turns out – futile attempt to scavenge actual meat.

It’s not just the wonton, I’ve sampled a range of dishes in China; from “Meat Lovers Pizza” (topped with skin and blubber salami, hip joint ham flavoured ham and cow feet and teeth beef), to “Pork Noodle Soup” (made with enough MSG to cause insta-dehydration and bits from a pig that you’d feel guilty feeding, well, a pig), to name but a few. One point three billion; that’s a sizable number, significant when there’s three meals a day and an insatiable hunger by some locals eating everything in sight – a veritable feeding frenzy making piranhas look tidy and docile. There’s hence a dramatic increase in the frequency of fei laos and moys to see. Yes that’s right; when compared to the rest of South East Asia, the Chinese are a bunch of fat bastards. Nice friendly and charming ones, but phat nonetheless. In fact the common old chubby lady walking at snail’s pace, hands behind her back and leaning forward is strangely cute; almost like a large wrinkled baby.

So vegetables it is then – they’re easy to guarantee quality, being almost 90% tasteless and having no protein content. Not the kind my stomach is used to in any case. Hardly a runner’s diet, but maybe I’ll sneak a KFC in every now and then – at least it’s closer to the battery source here. And plus they have pictures.

If you do not take tour guide, your soul will be empty

Literal Mandarin doesn’t translate all that well, so my first day in the Khaosan Road of China will be soulless as I head off for a run. Transit along the River Li passes some interesting rock formations; some of which have been named for the semblance to things. Personally, I can’t perceive the nine Horses on the Karst our English-speaking guide is getting excited about, or the two birds back to back, let alone the scull everyone is point-and-clicking over. And in any case, these are very similar to Ha Long Bay and South Thailand, so I’m struggling to get worked up about them. “It’s the same old shit, dude”, says my Sister filling her bowl with rice and veg – and I’m fairly tempted to agree.


Much like my rants of blogs past, this conveyor belt differs only in sheer numbers; with 15 million visiting each year, but all looking to fill their soul with telescopic-flag equipped guides whisking them around the many attractions on offer. Calculate that as a daily rate and I’m fairly certain the guide is at least one order of magnitude out though cynicism aside, I’m most looking forward to the expected ease at which I can order food and get some exercise in.

Sadly, fate has a way of massacring your hopes and with three fifths of the stay a heavy downpour, I’m glad to have run and toured by bike on the days I did. Take that Sod’s Law, in your face. As tourist hotspots go, this one is same same to everwhere else on the planet; hiked prices, densely packed souvenir shops and best of all – rip-off clothing and jewellery for the punters. Scanning West Street (the main walking and shopping street), I see every Westerner adorned in the same mock North Face or Columbia clothing and shoes; from Father to little boy, all of which clearly completely unprepared for the weather and changeable climate of the Guangxi region of China.


I hate being the same as everyone else, though sadly my bag consists purely of a selection of shorts, T-Shirts and running apparel; so I’m in dire need of some warm winter clothes. Bartering Sister in tow, we manage to secure a waterproof (-ish), double coat that seems of good quality for only £35. In Thailand I was used to starting the bidding at half the asking price; here it’s a quarter. Nearly twenty quid for a necklace and two bangles; you must be kidding love – threaten to walk away and hold your ground and it’s easy to strike a deal, mine being £7 for the lot. Check the quality though, for one shop had to find a belt for the trousers I was keen on, and then tried to sow the drawstring back together as it disintegrated just by looking at it. The Chinese are incredibly talented copiers, though sadly much like Italian design; it only has the appearance of quality as under the shell it’s complete rubbish.


The following day and having secured an average-quality bike for a deposit of £30 and a rental of £5, a four-foot tour guide offers to take us around for the same price as the latter. Cynicism immediately sets in and as both me and my Sister bombard the poor soul with questions and lower prices, he succumbs to the Gweilo and Scot and we debark.

It’s a worthwhile investment, Daniel is our guide for the day and having taken us 30 Kilometres, explaining all manner of tradition, symbolism and culture, he’s earned his four quid admirably for the 7 hours of work. I take a shine to him so buy him lunch and tip him a pound at the end of the day; it’s not even minimum wage for one hour at home and he’s pushed hard to keep up with me racing ahead, on his single-speed women’s touring bike.



Without the sun to create contrast, photography becomes more memorable than interesting and the highlight of the day is a self-powered pump, raising water on a 45° incline 10 metres up in order to supply the nearby fields. I’m still waiting patiently for an engineer to indulge me in the knowledge of the science behind it.

Having filled belly in the evening, and with soul equally as full with interesting sights and experiences, a woodfired Pizza is in order; shared with some friends that we had previously travelled with.

Idiots with box cameras

Most own Nikons, some have Sony Digicams; occasionally you may find one with a Panasonic point-and-shoot, but they're all equally as clueless.

Photography requires some basic knowledge of Maths, Physics and an understanding of how an image is formed. You know, from those photon things and that CCD contraption that collects them and interprets it all into that DMC00194.jpg file you're currently uploading to facebook. It's all made far worse by mass production of electronics; you can pick up a Nikon DSLR for around £300 now, a few hundred more and you'll be able to generate some penis envy with a 28-element Telephoto lens; hold it up like a cocked weapon ready to fire.

But without even the faintest idea of what you're doing – or worse still simply taking pictures of "this is me infront of" – 99% of what that Sandisk 16GB card holds will be utter rubbish. Point in case; the inverse square rule. Ever heard of that? It applies to all sorts of things, though here I’m referring to flash gun illumination, so go read about that before setting your Nikon cock substitute to auto and firing the tiny flash off at a subject 50 Metres away. It might be worth opening the window too – maybe you’ve heard of that fundamental property of light called reflection? Clearly not, so go ahead and fill your memory card with pictures of white over-exposed glass.

Talk to one of these plastic made-in-a-sausage-factory wielding idiots and they may become roused; comparing lens sizes in the same way wild Stags might size up competition, unaware that one of your lenses is worth more than their whole outfit. They'll also probably have the volume set to highest on the camera – just to ensure the whole world knows that the frame is in focus. Click and the resulting completely unnecessary digitised noise chimes, for announcement of the capture. And we need to know – clearly – as their desperate need to be the centre of attention surfaces once more.

Focal length is just a number that they know means something to do with W or T, unaware what the letters stand for, let alone what a standard, macro or fisheye lens may be. Converging verticals on a wide angle lens; what the hell is that, they won’t know why his face looks stretched at a short focal length; it's just cool and that's as far as it goes.

At night time it's even worse, or at a theatre pathetic; flash guns going off in pandemonium and scores of faces with confused looks, as they press play to look at the resulting picture; person in front's head and surrounding blackness. Why didn't it come out?

For those kind of shots you will need a high ISO, isn’t that something to do with standards? Grain size and hence sensitivity to light increased; back in the good old days of film. Now it's gain increased to the sensor, introducing noise as the amplitude causes interference. No, a low ISO will not work at night, unless you have a tripod, a remote control (cable release), and some patience. Ever wonder why a picture at low ISO looks better - now you know!

Worse still is the size of pictures and memory cards – with thousands now able to be stored on just one. Thousands of the same turgid stock shots that you, your mate and his entire facebook friend list takes that is; it’s not worth the 0s and 1s they consume. Need a shot of some action; easy stick it on high speed and just hold down the button; it’s as easy as fishing with dynamite. Later you can pick the one you want. No need to have any timing or an eye for things, like a sense of anticipation. No, just fire them off verbatim and check through later.

In this age of cheap electronics, everyone is a master photographer; the bigger the lens, the better the end result. Never mind all those elements in the lens reducing the light, refracting, causing internal reflections and only focusing a single wavelength to the focal plane. Or the f-stop being 8 at a minimum and wondering why all the shots are hence blurry. The higher the megapixel, the better: I’ve got 15 million of them, so watch out girls as mine is swinging at my knees.

It's a shame then that everywhere I look I see dunces with piss for a brain, so stupid an ignorant that their whole life will be spent in perpetual competition with other humans. Put the Nikon down and step away. Let someone who knows something benefit from some nice kit and use it, whilst you go read wikipedia or buy a book on photography.

Some things translate easily, others so not making the cross of the bridges

I’m bloody starving. I should have grabbed something last night from the market and stowed it away in my bag. No breakfast at my hotel. Need nourishment. Brain stops to function properly when depraved of food. Reverting to caveman hunter gatherer. Instinct to locate meat in full effect. Grunt. Give food to caveman. Grunt. Rice, noodles, caveman eat any bloody thing. Just give now. Food yes, now. Ugh.

I suggest you invest wisely in a book called Point it. My sister was gifted a copy by a friend of hers; I downloaded the app. If you want something to eat, you can simply say Nǐ hǎo and point to the desired dish. I’ve somehow managed to take a path to the Beautiful Peak that misses every sodding eaterie in Guilin, which is an achievement as they’re dotted everywhere.

Aha, I’ve found one; with pictures too. Approaching with trepidation, the owner takes one look at me and says “It’s ok you can speak English slowly and I understand”. Phew “Xièxiè!”, I say to her and she offers me a seat. It’s a small restaurant with around a score of seats dotted around half a dozen tables. To my left there are two elderly gentry sipping rice wine and I’m instantly offered one. For once the usual “Where you from?”, is skipped and it’s straight to the good stuff. The two men are brothers and the woman with them one of their wives; “Ganbei!” they shout as we chink glasses and see it off. I think I’m immune to this stuff, or at least until the count runs in to double figures.

Having firmly filled belly, I’m off to the University and it’s an expensive 70 Yuan to enter. There’s very little in English so instead I sneakily tack on to a Chinese tour group, allowing me entry to places that I would otherwise be denied. To the top and it’s disappointingly adorned with costume photos for sale, some vaguely interesting views and an ice cream shop. Back down again then and in to the Confucious Museum, where a worker takes pity and guides me through; speaking what little English he knows. It’s a nice gesture and I’m grateful to him.





The evening is a boat ride around the lakes and river that surround the centre of Guilin. I’ve already run around them and having found that no level of ISO increase or f-stop opening can facilitate anything but a blur, I head back for dinner and some night shots with tripod in tow.

Guilin, China (11K)

Do you have any pictures?

From 07 Apr 2010

It’s no good; try as I might I’ve resigned myself to the fact that any Asian language is far beyond my comprehension or understanding. I’m currently on the coach headed to some caves (I think), with a train ride (I believe), later on and a drop off or end at 6.30pm (I’m fairly certain). I’m the only gweilo on the coach and as the tour guide picks up the mic, the best I can do is listen for words that sound like English. Mandarin is an incredibly complex language – made far worse by the convolution of the written form; it’s the Cockney Rhyming slang of Asia.

From 07 Apr 2010

It’s a new white noise that I must learn to switch off to, but as she speaks I’m instinctively drawn to listen – there’s plenty of “sh” and “ch” sounds to go along with “eue-uure” and thus far I’ve ascertained the following: Temperature, Pluto, yeah shit, sunning, power pull, chicken, tomato and hello. Rearrange to form an interesting sentence. Either way it’s not what the tour itinerary said; but the broken English in to which it was translated was equally as incomprehensible. Pictorial representation is needed every step of the way; I think I’m going to starve here.

I’m glad I have two girls to take care of me for the day; one an ERP developer and the other her closest friend, both of which as considerate and warm as any I’ve met. Throughout the day Coco and Tracey ensure I get on the bus on time, am fed, go the right way through the caves and call “Louis!” when attention is needed. Sometimes in synchrony.

From 08 Apr 2010

Piracy is an awesome thing, and without it I would have struggled to communicate even the basics; but with two apps for my iPhone assisting with translation, we three facilitate talk all day. And it’s good fun; Tracey’s mother offers me dried Shrimp and cakes, so in return I share my Strawberries, purchased from a stall. They retort by defending me from the most aggressive selling old lady in the solar system, who is mystified why it is I don’t speak Mandarin and won’t buy her small orange-looking things. And here was me thinking shaking the head was universal language for “no”.

From 08 Apr 2010

Our first stop is a religious building of some kind – I’m not permitted to photograph so I put the lens cap on. After a briefing – where I kick my feet until she’s finished – we are led to the rear, where a ceremony – of some kind – is put on for us and I am expected to kneel, clasp hands and close eyes whilst a prayer – of some sort – is said. Three bongs later and some are chosen to speak with the monks – of a type – and then donate money. I’m not chosen – funnily enough – so I head out and wander around before Coco runs up to fetch me, takes a snap and leads me briskly back to the bus. And good thing too; the little English she speaks is a blessing, for no one else can converse with me. It’s taken three months but finally; I now genuinely feel like a tourist.

From 08 Apr 2010

Departing, we head to the caves, where a mass of underground formations and flowing water have been garlanded with multi-coloured lighting and rides that rival Thorpe Park. I later discover that it is called the “flute caves”, where we have an electric car ride, boat through the caverns, train between a long crevice and final trip along the River Li back. The formations inside are interesting, but more of the day’s fun is had struggling to communicate, rather than taking self-portraits of me in front of something every 5 minutes. These sea turtles are kept solely for punters; pay 5 Yuan to enter and stroke for luck. I feel like stealing them and running back to the River to release them; they’re most likely eaten when large enough.

From 08 Apr 2010

From 08 Apr 2010

After lunch, where I watch Coco’s mother suck every scrap of edible material from a Cat fish and hack up the bones on to the pre-fitted plastic table-cloth (for the expected mess), we head on from the caves to a “7-star waterfall”. It has again been kitted out for children and adults, making the natural beauty seem worlds apart from the national parks of Thailand. “Sing a song”, Coco says as we pull in to the car park and wondering what she means, I press the phrase on my phone that says “I don’t understand” and a prerecorded male voice speaks for me. The tour guide leads us by carrying a flag on a telescopic pole and speaks only in Mandarin through her personal PA speaker; I think I’m beginning to filter it out. As the group begins to sing at the first sign post (presumably these being the lyrics), they turn and look at me inviting me to join in; bemused at my ignorance of the song and why I don’t know it by heart. The next stop and we are greeted by a woman stood on a small island in the middle of the stream, who throws a bouquet back to us after we have exchanged songs. I’m confounded, but it’s something to fire off shots at I guess.

From 08 Apr 2010

Throughout the day, Tracey insists on taking photographs of me in front of waterfalls, shrines, buildings and other places of significance. I can only assume she thinks I must want these kind of pictures and though I am grateful for the gesture; I can’t find a phrase on my phone to click that says; “I don’t want cheesy shots, but thank you for offering anyway”. So I relent and say thank you all day instead – it’s sweet of her and will make for facebook profile pictures should the need arise.

As we climb the various levels, some waterfalls are decked with Chinese symbols; others with games for children and adults – balance on a seesaw to check your weight or try to lift the heavy bamboo sticks. The locals are drenched in their own sweat and struggling by the halfway mark and just as unfit as their SE Asian counterparts. By the time the top has been reached, some are panting and stopping every few steps, while others have given up altogether. I guess from their tone of voice the Mandarin translates in to “how many more of these bloody steps are there” or similar. An expensive rollercoaster ride to the bottom and it’s 30 Yuan I’d rather have not parted with.

From Video - click to watch

Back to Guilin (which if pronounced a slightly different way means something altogether different and rude), and a convenient stop by a tea house offering various beverages, which we are treated to sample. These things are magical, some offering the properties that medical scientists have been struggling to find for decades: Osmanthus flower will “beautify the appearance and fade the freckles”, whilst Wild gynostemma Pentaphyllum will “prevent hepatitis B and reduce the bad cholesterol” and The tea of prostate “obviously relieves the prostate inflammation”. I’d like to see the scientific proof for that please.

From 08 Apr 2010

From 08 Apr 2010

From 08 Apr 2010

Almost a half

I knew she’d do that; head off in the opposing direction to me that is. As I start my 10 laps of the lake in Hanoi, it’s obvious she 1) doesn’t want me lapping her, 2) likes to be difficult (that runs in the family for sure) and 3) is deliberately running against the flow of fellow ground pounders. Either way, after passing her three times I reckon she’s doing around two thirds of my pace – it’s a pain how quickly running fitness is lost when out of practice.

Three more laps and I’d have managed half marathon distance, though after ten laps of complete monotony I’m happy to call it a day and head back for a shower. I enjoyed that.

Hanoi 16K

Su May 2

Both have the same name, but are not at all similar; save for their remarkable wit, charm and intelligence. Su May one and Su May two are cousins; working as tour guides when the work is available, in their parent’s fields otherwise, or selling goods to punters should the need arise. Su May two is my guide for almost three days trekking to Cat Cat (south of Sa Pa), and then as my chef, translator, comedy and ambassador to her village Taphin; one of the seven tribes located in the region.

From 01 Apr 2010

The first hike to Cat Cat is downhill and more of a stroll – only a brief three kilometre stint; so it’s easy work. The Black Hmong have scented us and moved in for the kill; we’ve been tagged for the first twenty minutes, but number two informs us to simply say no – anything else and they’ll return later. Make no mistake, these women are as sharp as a razor – they’ll remember your face and exactly what you said, so ensure you’re polite and it’ll be fine. Learn something like Đi Đi and they’ll take an instant dislike to you; considering you rude and ugly as you shout Go Away!

“You buy from me?”
“I’m not so sure I want anything”
“Very cheap, you buy”
“Well I think –“
“Where you from?”
“London”
“London. How old are you?”
“31”
“Same as my daughter. You have wife, girlfriend?”
“No, I’m single”
“Ah, maybe you marry my daughter and be my son in law! [laughs]”

From 01 Apr 2010

Don’t feel threatened or overwhelmed; whilst some women will seem to push for a sale, they’re nothing like the Vietnamese. The local tribal women who come to sell their handicraft are equally happy to simply converse; and their banter is excellent – stand up comedians would be proud. Take the time and spend thirty minutes to talk to them; most learn English through tourists and yet have a command far better than the Vietnamese.

From 01 Apr 2010

It’s a myriad of photo opportunities here; village women are dressed traditionally and whilst there is no religious connotation, it’s adorned in the villages also; making any cynicism fade away. There’s no affectation here, it’s not for the punters; simply part of their culture and worn proudly. Children and babies as cute, well behaved and happy as any you’ll find, seemingly reach adulthood in a matter of a decade; working from then and some even younger.

From 01 Apr 2010

I’m grateful for good weather – Sa Pa is high enough to touch the first layer of clouds, causing weather changes in a matter of seconds. It’s not like anything I’ve seen before and even in heavy mist, the whole region fills me with excitement and adventure like nothing has since buckling up at Heathrow.

From 01 Apr 2010

Along the 10K trek following trails, through rice fields and small villages, Su May and I discuss all manner of things as the hours pass. I’m enchanted by her and admit to having somewhat of a crush; she exudes femininity combined with a fierce intellect that has potential far beyond her station in life. Given the opportunity, the world would be her oyster. Walking by some local Vietnamese and hearing one of them speak to her, taking a dislike to his tone I ask her what he said; “Nothing, it’s OK”, she replies. Pressing the subject she finally admits that it was a racist remark and I turn to approach him, but she stops me; “It’s OK, that’s just how they are”, I’m told. Jealousy is no excuse for racism.

Her mother tongue is not Vietnamese, but she learns it at childhood as a second and also English as a third; whilst working in the fields, making handicraft, cooking, cleaning, carrying heavy weights and somehow finding time to sleep. It’s the kind of life you’d expect short life expectancies from, but the women (doing around 90% of all work in the communities), live till at least 80; one still living at the grand age of 107.

From 02 Apr 2010

From 02 Apr 2010

The handicrafts aren’t the kind you find in Thailand or the large cities of Vietnam; they’re made with care and attention to detail – some tapestries taking well over a year to sow by hand. Stopping for lunch, Su May’s mother happens by us and stops to talk to her – she’s en route to Sa Pa to sell goods and as they sit, Su May takes her tapestry and begins to work on it herself. This one has been eight months in the making.

From 02 Apr 2010

Arriving at Taphin village, I’m taken to my room and choose a bed from the four available. I’m here alone so I’ve my pick of the bunch, but they’re identical and all constructed from solid wood – a comfortable Vi Spring they are most certainly not. Dropping my bag and taking a stroll around, it’s pretty good going when compared to their counterparts in north Laos. Electricity pylons were constructed seven years ago, laying the infrastructure for internet access in the future. There’s half a dozen Televisions here, one with a satellite dish, mobile phones for the majority of women and to my surprise – Amoxycyline for Su May’s Auntie, whose house it is.

From 02 Apr 2010

From 02 Apr 2010

From 02 Apr 2010

After a few hours playing shuttlecock keepy-uppy, Su May’s husband arrives on his moped with a box of ingredients for dinner. As she begins to prepare, I ask to help and she refuses. Turning to her husband and asking for a colander, he returns with a dirty red one. It’s definitely true that the majority of communication is not in the words; shouting at him it’s clear she’s not impressed and he walks off to fetch another, tail planted firmly between legs. It’s funny and I say under my breath “He’s definitely under the thumb then”, but Su May doesn’t miss a thing and laughs; “What, you know the phrase?” I say, “Yes all men are under the thumb”, she says.

Her husband takes me pillion passenger through the village to a small tiled building at Su May’s suggestion. Having my blood pressure taken has always been something that I’m relatively comfortable with. The Red Dzao bathing barrels make for an interesting place for an electronic sphygmomanometer to be pulled out, but it’s all in the interest of science; the medical student strapping it to my arm is researching the effects of the mixture used here.

Colonel Sanders eat your heart out; this is made from 23 herbs and spices and stepping in, it’s red hot water with a distinctive medicinal odour, filling the room with steam as I immerse up to my neck. There’s a hollowed half-coconut shell to use for tipping over your head and a towel for drying off once you’re done. I’m not pitted against the clock, though twenty minutes is long enough and having cooled down for fifteen minutes, my pressure is taken again. Before: 139/80 79bpm. After: 141/63 80bpm. I can’t recommend this highly enough; in fact I want the recipe – I feel clean, renewed, calm and can feel the disinfecting qualities working as the wind dries me, driving back to the house.

From 02 Apr 2010

She’s an excellent cook; quite the chef in fact. I’m given a bowl of chips and offer them to my hosts who mostly refuse, with the exception of Su Mays Aunt’s daughter, who has befriended me as I sneak her chips when her mother’s not looking. Joining us for dinner are five men, none of whom speak English – except the owner’s husband – and several children making a party of twelve. Sadly his vocabulary consists of one word – hello – which he uses for everything; from offering more food, to signifying the next round of Rice Wine. It’s interesting that having worked hard all day, the women will also cook and serve their men whatever they ask for at dinner – subservience and breadwinning are surely incompatible, I was always sure.

Taking leave, the women and children sit around the fire and enjoy some green tea whilst we drink our way through eight rounds. “Hello”, he says and looking up all five are holding their cups ready to say cheers and sip. It’s nice stuff; similar to Tequila and after several they all seem to be able to understand my English as if I was a native Red Dzao. “Hello”, I hear and this time I’m shown a chilli inbetween his chopsticks. I know this game, and I’m well practised from Thai food; let’s play.

The bed is indeed hard, though enough rice wine ensures I sleep sound until the Cockerel begins to crow at 2am. It’s a surprisingly good night’s sleep and waking, there’s only 20 metres of visibility and heavy moisture in the air. I’m prepared a bowl of Pho (soup), for breakfast and Su May is summoned by her Auntie on her Nokia. “There’s no answer, it keeps going to voicemail. Her phone must be off”, she says to her husband – a few weeks living here and I think I could start to pick this language up.

From 03 Apr 2010

We motorbike back by road and stopping to purchase some fuel, Su May suggests a rain mack – effectively a shaped plastic bag. She pays and won’t let me refund her “It’s only 3000 Dong, it’s ok, don’t worry”, she says. On returning to the hotel, I offer a tip and she refuses no matter how persistent I am; she never fails to surprise me with her generosity and kindness. I’m truly humbled. This is stark contrast to the Vietnamese, who will take any and everything they can get.

In all of my planning and researching, this excursion was my driving factor for travelling; Sa Pa has been an amazing and enlightening experience and the highlight of my trip. I can perfectly understand why the hotel owner and organiser Pete was captivated by this area and works so hard to improve the lives of the local people.

From 02 Apr 2010