Thanks, sum. So am I.

After a lovely, filling and underpriced (free) breakfast, I layered up and doubletimed down to the motorcycle adventures shop which is happily right near the main marketplace. We signed me up for a half day for tomorrow, quite enough to allow me to finish all I want to do here and finish laundry and everything else. Including a broken watchband and other chores. I had slim hopes of finding something tribal in the shops and everyone told me it wasn’t likely. But hope springs eternal, even though what I’d seen so far wasn’t promising. Evening gowns, suits, tailoring services, and lots and lots of purses and shoes. I had on hiking boots, a fat wallet, and hope.

I did also find one of the two little dogs I loved on yesterday, and did my duties again today, which pleased him no end even if it did confuse him a bit. I reach out to many of them, and I often get a raised lip in return, but some respond well. Those I love on. They made my travels very happy. We dog lovers know just where to go, right above the tail, where they can’t possibly reach, and it usually elicits any one of a number of funny responses, including backing into you as a distinct indication of Dickens’ “More, please?” or their back legs giving out in pleasure. Either way it tickles me pink to do it even though I often end up with blackened fingertips.

Minutes into the market I quite literally stumbled into the single shop that sold tribal clothing. I mean the only one, which after marching the market for hours more, I found not a one which offered anything at all like this one. A petite shopgirl hurried to help me when I knelt to look at the Hmong jacket- which unfortunately is cut to accommodate a bun in the oven so they don’t work for me- but it was the glorious, explosive, brilliantly orange skirt that had caught my eye. It was all hand embroidered, a Flower Hmong piece, to the knee, and it would fit me.

That was not, however, the opinion of my shopgirt, who eyeballed my height and my layers ( I had on many) and she was thinking “Oh crap this tourist is gonna rip my expensive skirt” and she was doing her level best to talk me out of it. Well truth be told, many tourist have tried this skirt on and they ARE too big for it, and I don’t blame her one bit, but I already knew it would fit because under my twelve layers I’m skinny as the proverbial beanpole and I’m gonna buy it. I just want to see it on. So I ask for a try on and she’s following me like a clucking hen thinking about shrinkage and I hide behind a sheet hung on nails, strip down to all but socks and a shirt, wrap this magnificent piece of artwork on my person with much room to spare and come out.

Now ladies this skirt is the BOMB. This is why designers go to the ends of the earth for inspiration. Those great collections get their beginnings in out of the way places just like this. I have written on fashion for a number of years and you’d be amazed at where the real beginnings of a Stella McCartner three thousand dollar skirt comes from. This eyeball killer was utterly gorgeous, and for sixty dollars I would much rather wear this piece of real art, which was hand made by grandmothers in the mountains, rather than put three grand in the coffers of a top designer. This has memories and love sewn into it. This skirt has a story. Paired with a Thai bolero, what an outfit for a speech. You won’t see yourself coming or going in any city anywhere on earth, and I call that worth the money invested, and a heck of a lot more fun than shopping in Neimans (or as we all like to jibe, Needless Markup). I’ve always found women in their sixties who wear clothing of the world that they themselves have collected on their travels so elegant in their own way simply because they carve out their own look. Well, now that I’m firmly in my sixties, I figger it’s about time to add a few pieces to that collection. Because when you put those things on, you go back to the country where you bought them. Somehow you can’t do that with the Armani you got at the closeout sale at Nordstrom’s.

The rest of the market stretched block after block, with much of the kinds of goods repeated. At one point I stopped to inspect a pile of bracelets. With the exception of Tanzania, where I didn’t find any, I like to add to the growing number of small braided bracelets that accompany my watch on my left arm. Up in Sa pa, kids offered very cheap ones. I wear them till they give up the ghost, so I want something both feminine and hardy. Many shops have them, but this particular shop was kind enough to have one man simply give me the one dollar asking price at my request and let me sit and sort. I was able to find a thin, sturdy braid of New Orleans purple and green, which he tied to be permanent, and now I am further festooned.

As is my wont, at some point I noticed that my bright orange North Face ball cap was missing, so I began my Where the Hell Did I Leave My Hat search. I would need a hat for tomorrow’s adventure. I walked back to the adventure shop, but I had left there with it on. It wasn’t where I’d gotten my watch band repaired. So I ended up across the river where I walked up to where they were selling hats with a Columbia tag on it. I mean, you chortle, because no way would Columbia sell hats like these, with such poor dye jobs and terrible stitching, but I needed a hat, so the women and I negotiated, and I got one for a couple of bucks. Thus behatted, I walked back across the river but not without being accosted to eat here! Buy here! Hello! Madam! Madam! Madam! (I’ve always wondered when I crossed the line from a Miss to a Madam without getting married but there it is.)

I wound in and out of the streets again, found one that felt right, and walked up it until I saw the familiar jacket again. My orange crush skirt had been replaced by a purple passion version, and I had to walk by it very quickly before I bought that one, too. We found my orange hat back behind the sheet on the nails, so mission accomplished. By the way, this sweet shopgirl told me that I was her first customer who bought anything from her, and I was as delighted as she was. It’s interesting, as a side note, I have a very close friend in the consignment business. I have over the last five years moved many wardrobes of small sized designer goods to her manager’s stores. She has regaled me time and time again of having to rescue this or that skirt from a customer whose generous rear end would rip out the seams of one of my pieces, because this client has an unrealistic notion of their sizing. We women shop by size, which is one reason so many designers changed their sizing so that more of us could fit a size 2 or 4 or 6, although our proportions didn’t change. They were smart. Years ago I bought a size 2 skirt from Loehmann’s (remember them?) just because I could zip it up. I never wore it again. I nearly bronzed it after being heavy for so many years. Yeah. The designers were smart. They sure had my number! Truth be told I was probably a size 10, but the label said 2, and that's all I cared about. Silly me.


The other market, the local market, ran by the river, and it was as distinguishable by the smell as it was by location. Fish. Raw or rotten or cooking, and having already expressed a certain aversion to this smell, well. I sucked up a big breath and waded in. It’s just too interesting not to. The colors of the garden vegetables to the coagulation caused by the crowds-It is here that everyone comes. And there are few whites, who tend to stay safely in the well kept touristed areas.

But here, people are being pushed and shoved and carried and harried and motored and harassed and sold and bargained with, and everything from souvenirs to dried ginger to dead fish is on sale. The night’s vegetables are everywhere and the streets are so full of humanity that the motorcycles are moving very, very slowly, almost toppling over. Cyclists, too, although they keep upright, seemingly impossible to do. I tower over almost everyone which makes me an easy target. When I make the mistake of acknowledging someone like saying Chao ba to a grandmother, she assumes automatically that I want to buy something when I’m just being polite. Big mistake because now she’s mad at me for raising her hopes. Ah well. It’s all commerce down here. Shut up and keep walking if you ain’t buying.

I head around another corner to find three chestnut mutts on the steps in front of a store, and I’m in the mood to pet something friendly. They’re lying in front of a very old grandfather who is minding the store in his chair, and we nod to each other. I greet the dogs and two vacate the area. The third makes for my hands, checks me out and decides that things might be promising here. That decision got him ten minutes of solid omigod I can’t believe I lucked out loving. Lift a leg and shake all over and then back into the hand hard and look over your shoulder and beg yeah more more more right…THERE. Ungh. Belly rub. Omigod can you move in next door? How bout this side? Ten minutes at a squat is what I can manage with these thighs, and it’s also about what I consider polite with the owner sitting right there, so after taking that much time with his pup I stood. Something very nice passed between this very old man and me, and he smiled at me in the kindest way. You cannot get that kind of warmth from any other source. You're just uplifted.

I passed a group of people at one point who were clearly on a tour. The women were unsmiling, and the ones who caught my eye looked angry. I smiled at them, and they didn’t return it. There were many nationalities in the town, most of them clearly pleased to be there, having fun, but boy, not this group, these folks were grumpy, angry and something was not pleasing them at all. But then, last May, I was on a trip in Salta were I was paired with a couple- German man, American woman. German guy, in response to our charming guides’ enthusiasm about the grand and amazing landscape, “nothing much impresses me. I saw the Taj Mahal and it looked just like the photos. So what.” I have several very choice phrases for such a person and they are not to be voiced in polite company or on this forum. But use your imagination. Crellston might recall this as we were with Angie whom we both admire. But when you are that arrogant, just go in your cave and find a mirror and kiss your image until you expire.

The lanes of the market area that are for tourists are surprisingly clear of traffic, and they are kept very clean. You get a very nice impression, and there isn’t a great deal of the kind of full on salesmanship that I’ve seen in other places like Sa pa. There was some but not much invitation to come in but it was much more restrained. This allowed me to pick and choose and feel comfortable, and that made me a happier shopper.

The big heavy rains have subsided, we still have overcast skies, and the temps are still in the high sixties. A good brisk walk here will cause you to cast off a jacket. So far a couple of rest days here have been very productive, from long luxurious sleeps to good long exploratory hikes. It was so very fun to tumble into the one shop that featured tribal clothing, and to find a skirt that would work. It's funny, but the things that belong to you will find you, and those that don't will not. I really believe this. It's very Buddhist in its view.

Which reminds me. The night that Chi dropped me of in Hanoi, I spent at the Hanoi Hostel. I totally forgot to mention that above my bunk was a charming Thai woman who was utterly delighted that I could still remember some of my Thai from traveling there in 2011). She got hold of the book I carry with me (I carry a copy of my book WordFood) and read it while I showered and worked. She was a Buddhist,as most Thais are, and when I came back we had a wonderful, wide ranging and very deep discussion about her beliefs and mine. That sweet and meaningful conversation made up in spades for the previous unpleasantries with Chi, and reminded me of the constant flow of human gems that there are to find everywhere. Anywhere. I am indebted to her for making my heart sing. I love the Thai people, for very good reason.


This afternoon I am enjoying another quick break and considering laundry, and another exploratory hike. While I promised myself I wouldn’t, I checked the football scores anyway, and my beloved Broncos are moving forward ( I am a major Manning fan) and I also see that Russell Wilson has moved the Seahawks forward. I still think those are our Superbowl teams but you can never ever count the Patriots out, even with the Gronk gone and other factors at work. I miss the games but someone is taping them for me. So long as we beat Rivers, I was happy. Right now I have more strawberry yogurt in my fridge, a quiet room and some repacking to do to see if that skirt will fit….I hope……

JH, somehow i've missed your post updates, (until now) thanks for the very funny report.
I cracked up at the home stay property with the low beam and maniacal granny, don't worry, she'll be dead soon.

Loved the Masai market story too, we hope to go there in May. I'm gonna try the jumping thing if the occasion arises. And, glad you outran the guide uphill, sounds like she had a bit of "princess" going on.

We'd love to see some photos..........

Yes, photos please!

So I am sitting here at work waiting on a phone call, but without my laptop with my OWN report I am supposed to be working on, and instead am totally absorbed by JH's reports. Fantastic reading especially as we just returned in December from VN. And as our trip devolved into a mostly urban experience, I am so appreciating the parts we missed. We opted out of Sa Pa for some of the reasons that disappointed JH - overly tourist-filled being the biggest. Thanks so much for the wonderfully descriptions. Interesting too that some of her experiences don't match ours. The dogs we saw that were pets were very well treated, even spoiled. Perhaps it is different in the rural north. Even in the tiny hamlet where we stayed in the Delta, pet dogs were everywhere and as loved as any back home - which is Colorado for me too, btw. Can't wait to read more. Also wondering if JH is interested in contacting, or already knows, of a Vietnam vet living in Hanoi for the last 20 (?) years and still working to repair the damage done by the war.

Would also love to see pictures.

I have plenty of pics, will someone kindly inform me how to post? I honestly don't know how. Tons and tons of them, quite happy to share.

Maniacal granny aside- trust me- this has been a joy. Chi taught me some great lessons about how some people just are and I think this is a great word - princess- and are probably not suited for guiding. That's a service role. Not a good place for her talents, which in fact were there but she was very immature. I note that elsewhere in places like TA mention of immature guides for this outfit come up.

As for the dogs, I have seen many beloved pets too. I think Chi's comment about the cookpot was pointed at my heart more than anything else, although I do know they're on the menu in very rural and isolated places.

It's about 5 am here and I have an email from a client (god they can get you anywhere any more) that I have to respond to first. But if someone can give me instructions about how to post photos I most certainly will.

I am in Hoi An now, and am leaving tomorrow for Phong Nha caves for a five day adventure deep in their depths for my birthday celebration, so it might be tough trying to contact the guy up in Hanoi. I don't carry a phone with me on these trips. But I do appreciate the offer.

A note to sartoric who had written me earlier about fog and mist; if you are checking this thread out you saw that we did indeed hit fog and mist big time. Up in Sa pa we saw no views at all. The mists were so solid they were impenetrable up there. Basically Sa pa was a tourist trap, which had we been able to see some of the storied views might have been a bit more tolerable. And it was absolutely freezing. I'd taken layers, polypro and wool and down, but they didn't quite do the job, and what I'd needed was one more serious layer of long johns in a pro wool especially for that deep freeze hotel. Just a funny experience. Humidity adds an additional level of cold to the mountains, and in this case I just wasn't as prepared as I could have been. Brrrr.

Hi JH
A shame you didn't see the views in Sa Pa, they were truly inspiring. Yes, it was cold for us too, the first thing I did there was buy a knockoff K2 fleece for about $20. We were there in Oct 2009 and found the local ladies persistent but no way aggressive, really quite charming, I guess things have deteriorated.

I admire your roughing it with the local home stays, we're a bit too needy of creature comforts like hot water and heated rooms. Sorry I can't really help with the photos, most people seem to use Flickr or some other file sharing app.

Continue to enjoy the journey, and know that many people are reading your entertaining tale, even if not commenting.

What an interesting and entertaining TR. I almost missed reading it because it was not labelled a TR. Your report has brought back great memories of our 3 week trip to VN. Because it was Jan. we decided to skip going to Sapa because we were afraid of the fog, mist and cold. Seems like we made the right decision.

Enjoy the rest of your trip. I'm looking forward to reading about the rest of it. Thanks for posting.

.

Sartoric, I'll tell ya, at our final home stay we were followed all the way, and there were tribal women at the doors of our homestay who hovered and hovered for us come out, like vultures. It was just - come on man, what do you do or say? You're there to appreciate, and you really do get harrassed. From what you say it must have deteriorated. What saddens me is the apparent level of desperation, and the fact that kids aren't in school, so this is what they're learning. But I've already said what I'm gonna say on the subject.

This morning I was out at the markets again, this time to spend an hour or two wandering before going on an afternoon motorcycle ride with Hoi An Adventures. I ended up back in my favorite store where they got me for a pair of pajama pants.
Then I had another hour to waste which got me in trouble for $95 bucks. This very cool Aussie chick in her, say, sixties has this uber slick store where she has just nailed a particular clientele, and I wandered into it. Saw a very cool white blouse on the wall I'd never seen before, nothing like it around, so I nabbed it and snuck in back to try it on. No sooner did I do that than another Aussie chick snuck in back with me with an identical white shirt and we burst out laughing. She nailed a type. Of course we pranced out and preened and did our girlie thing and egged each other on like girls do and both of us plunked down our dong. Now where the hell I'm gonna fit all these goodies in my backpack I have no idea. But there it is.

At 12:25 I was ready to go at Hoi An Motorcycle Adventures, and off we went, we being two separate groups of Aussies, one group of males and a group of females. The minibus drove us off to their outfit out of Hoi An, carefully fitted us with proper helmets.waterproof gear and proper instruction. I had my own but the helmet and was riding in the back because you can't take photos when you're driving the vehicle. Off we went, on what was promised on the website by various tourists to be "The Adventure of a Lifetime." OK.

Well perhaps for someone it might be. My driver slowed down for every ant hill, every divot, every pebble. Come ON man, drive this thing...if an adventure of a lifetime means we're not going to rattle my molars then let me get off and walk fast so that I feel like I'm moving! Now I jest a little here but he and I were at the rear of the pack the whole way, and being somewhat, er, competitive, as all of you know by now, I'm champing at the bit for some wind in the face. However I did get some nice shots, and to a point it was kinda fun. Not, however, the adventure of a lifetime. We were promised a Western toilet. On someone else's adventure of a lifetime perhaps, but not ours. The English guy who runs this thing calls himself Hawk, and he's perfectly nice, but it's like some dude goes to another country and opens up a shop and calls himself Indiana Jones. It's just a little pretentious, you know, usually if you have a nickname like that it's either been bestowed on you because you did something to earn it or the guys you hang with had a really good reason for calling you that. This one, I think, came out of a need to seem adventurous and cool. I don't know this, it's my impression, because he gave us no reason for the name, and when that happens, I smell something hinky. The only Hawk I know was Hawkeye from Last of the Mohicans, and trust me, this guy ain't him.

So we spend three hours driving around some very poor villages past the trash and the Communist graveyards, past the other graveyards which were indeed impressive in their grandiosity. The spirits must be appeased, after all. I still wait to see the adventure part which I'm thinking is going to be in some hills. Maybe meet some tribal people. Closest thing we got to that was schoolkids who put their hands out to high five us as we went by. Got to see water buffalo actually submerged in the water, what a novelty.

Soon we were back at the shop, un-toiletted, although I'd found a few drop trou opportunities, and I never did see what the adventure part was. We got the buy the t-shirt speech, offers of beer and soft drinks (no water) and then a sales job for other tours they do. For the life of me after that trip I cannot envision anyone's wanting either to do it again or do it more.I just rated it on TA and gave it an average rating. Hey, I'm sure it appeals to many, they get lots of praise. But as an adrenaline addict, I was completely unimpzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz sorry I fell asleep there for a second. Look I realize my taste for adventure isn't everyone's but the way they sell this thing and what is pictured on all the posters and signage, folks, it does not live up to the hype. That's all I'm saying. For all the excitement I felt this afternoon I might as well have been cantering across a quiet meadow on an old mare. That, at least, would have required more effort on my part.

Yeah and for all my comments about paying too much for overpriced goods in the market place I sure as heck did a fine job of donating to the general economic wealth of the area. Heck, why not, it IS my birthday in a few hours. Even if I do end up carrying one more bag home (brought one for just that purpose), does it really matter? Every woman on here knows. Nah. You go girl. In our group today we had three January 17th birthdays. The stars were right for a splurge for us Caps.

Tonight I bought twelve (yes twelve) strawberry yogurts, and to the sound of Colorado Public Radio Classical streaming on my computer I am going to attempt to squeeze all my stuff into my backpack. This process would be a lot like my mother's attempting to squeeze her increasing bulk into her girdle, which she wore all her 91 years, the same size as the one she wore in her twenties as the one she wore in her sixties. Said girdle was under extreme duress, as will be my backpack, having ripped out one internal panel, like Mom's girdle, but that didn't stop her from wearing it. It just meant she listed to one side. She was ever the Depression girl, she kept that girdle repaired, with every color of thread imaginable, and safety pins, which caused runs, and that meant more thread, until it looked rather like some of the embroidered skits I've been peering at lately. But still she wore it. Parts of her squeezed out, as I expect will happen with my backpack. With my mother it was funnier, as lumps would appear here and there like small toadstools as flesh desperately seeking release from their colorful jail found a weak point and spilled out. After my mother died my brother was the one appointed to the task of taking care of her personal things. I'd given anything to have seen the look on his face when he first encountered that girdle.

Oh, I have to correct myself. I've just received an email from Hoi An Motorcycle Adventures and this guy calls himself "Hawksnow". This is even better. I'm just going to chalk this up to playing too many video games. And after I stop falling on the floor laughing I will eventually pack my bag. I am so easily entertained.Given the ridiculous things I do I am quite sure that I provide plenty of it myself.

You all are headed into your day. I am winding down into my evening and about to tackle that groaning backpack-that-needs-a-girdle. G'night all.

Enjoy the Birthday Caves.

It is about 7 am, HB to me, my rest in Hoi An is done and what a nice rest it has been even if my wallet did leak a bit. I do tip my hat again to the Sunflower, which did my laundry, exchanged my American dollars (for a small fee), fed me pho, and pretty much did absolutely everything you could possibly want on top of ensuring a quiet night's sleep on the top floor. One more trip this morning to that enormous, ridiculously wonderful wall to wall breakfast buffet after a hot shower and it is off to a REAL adventure with Oxalis for five days, no wifi, and I will be reduced to the writer's tools of pencil and paper for a while.

Yay, Happy Birthday JH

Enjoy your next episode, we'll wait to hear.....

Happy birthday jhubble. I'm so enjoying your report and will miss you during the next 5 no wifi days. Be back to us soon.

Have the best birthday!

Happy birthday JHubel & thanks for a fascinating read.

Well, pooh.
First thanks to all who wished me a happy birthday, very kind of you, I am currently sitting at the Pepperhouse which of course has no heat, it's about fifty degrees if it's that, and raining, and COLD thankyou very much,and my French press is dripping as I await its slow progress. The roosters are crowing and I just got my very rank body out of a rather cold shower (getting very used to those) and finally getting ready to tell some funny stories.

These rather fall into the category of shoulda coulda woulda, but what a fine, fine, fine lesson in doing one's due diligence beforehand. I took a long, dank and humid train ride from Da Nang to Hoi An where I was picked up and deposited at Pepperhouse quickly and kindly by the Oxalis group. There was no birthday party, somehow that got lost in translation. No matter, I was happy to be safely in the right place, and eager to get on with The Big Adventure. The Highlight of The Trip. The Grand Kaboo, or whatever.

Okay well you know when you build something up? Okay. So next morning guy picks me up at 8, I got all my gear, Goretex hiking boots, gaiters, everything for trekking, right? Wrong.I quickly find out that I have to give up that gear for a pair of utterly ridiculous cotton Army boots that have no insulation, are a full size too big, my feet slide around in them, they have no tread. I give them the beady eye. Hm. Just for going through a couple of rivers right? Okay. I'm thinking, I'll just change back. WRONG.

What I should have asked about, and come to understand,was that the trip I'd booked, we hiked through (magnificent, amazing, gorgeous, remarkable, steep, muddy,gooey, sucking mud) jungle and eighteen, maybe even twenty rivers and streams. You give up your good gear and your lower extremities are in freezing water. All.Day. Long.

Now hey. If you don't have what I have, no worries, mate. But I happen to have this thing called Reynaud's Syndrome, which means that when my extremities get cold, especially cold and wet, like feet, they turn fishbelly white as the blood rushes to my body core, leaving them floppy and nonfunctional appendages. So after the third stream, my feet are pretty much as effective as large blocks of ice, and we are clambering up but mostly straight down some pretty epic trail and my guide is moving at warp speed.

Well of course. The inevitable happens. Clown foot lands on a smooth, mudslop covered root and takes off for Cambodia and my right knee goes clobbering into the nearest rock surface. Another unfortunate medical fact is that I'm a bonafide hemopheliac, which means that at times like this, I provide huge entertainment for others who have never seen a bump get THAT big THAT fast. It was the size of a California navel orange and straining against my pant leg by the time we got going again, and I was roundly cursing the shoes, but icy water actually did it some good. Hey, you look for bright spot. On we went, more and more streams, until I lost all feeling in my lower extremities and did my best to concentrate on what was around us: mystical mountains disappearing off into the fog, wild banana trees and deep primitive forest, a very poor village with a pet owl, the swift moving clear streams with their tiny fish, the small but lovely waterfalls and moss covered rocks. The land was so isolated, so silent- and so perfect. Were it not for a knobby knee, what an experience. But no! We're not there yet!

Towards midafternoon we hit a series of small streams. Suddenly, like out of a movie set, a great yawn in the earth appeared in the mist, out of the limestone, that was so completely out of proportion to anything I'd ever seen before that it stopped me in my tracks for a moment. This was our cave, still a bit of a ways off, but of such a size that it boggled the mind. We wound our way towards it, through more streams (hey natch) and finally hiking our careful way to the entrance.

The only way to grasp the sheer enormity of the entrance of this Lord of the Rings monstrosity would be to put a person in the photo, which we did. They looked like Frodo in the caves, so tiny and insignificant. It's not in the scope of words to really express. We scrambled (I crawled) over the big scree and there, Lego sized, far in the middle of the cave, were our porters, our tents, and our campsite. We could barely make them out. They were ants, specks, in the middle of the biggest amphitheater I'd ever seen, imagined.

But they have wifi ??

We cross the cave streams to make our way to the campsite, and by this time the cave entrance was well above us, shining light deep into this enormous entrance like a cathedral. We could see the pines and a bit of the cloud cover, and there was a bit of a constant drip from the (ceiling? roof?). In some parts of the cave the floor is thick with bird guano. After putting our packs aside, we headed off into the deep dark ( you can almost hear the Grey Wizard say this,can't you?) of the caves with our helmet lights on.

Well, hell's bells. My hemmit doens't want to sit tight, the lid loves my nose, and so as I bumble and stumble along after my adventure mates I am also struggling with my noggin wear. Soon we are going over some unfortunately sharp post-volcanic upheaval rocks, down some (surprise!!!) muddy smooth stuff.Ggee whiz, wouldn'tcha know it, my Cotton No-tread Army special boots slide out from under me again and this time I not only wallop the knot on my knee but I also slam my shin, and my feminine delicate mouth lets loose a few indelicate comments to the Underground Gods which are sure to bring up something fiery and angry and bearing a whip.

Nothing untoward came bursting in a wave of lava out of the underworld but I can speak volumes about what the twice offended knee had to say about things. I'd twisted my back again, so my lumbar was using language that no polite body part was supposed to know. The second insult added to depth rather than height to the navel orange on my knee. I sat for a while thinking unpleasant thoughts until I found my funny. Then I went after the long disappeared headlamps. The conditions are the conditions and you deal with them, and you keep in mind that the end product is a good story.

We finally exited out another cave into postcard pretty landscape - with more streams. This time the stream had force, and we of course, had to cross it. I was the last, and I had my trekking poles to help keep me upright. Now a stout guy of 250 is going to have no worries crossing this stream. But a skinny chick of 115 is a weed in that rushing little current, so I set forth and shoved the tips in my poles into the rocky stream bed. Rock steady, taking my time, legs apart to brace. No problem. Making fine progress, just doing it slowly. Then one of the porters waded out to help. Help is a euphemism. He grabbed one of my arms, jerked up the pole and there went my anchor. I immediately was swept to my knees onto the hard rocks of the stream bed, soaked to the waist and this time came up bleeding. Help. Yep.

Okay so by this time my legs looked like Hollywood had made me up to be the broken slave in a torture movie, my butt was as frozen as my icebound feet, and my back was hurling expletives. It was a fine day in paradise indeed. And it was. Despite the various body insults we were in some of the most gorgeous country imaginable. In caves very few people will ever see. Breathing in air full of sweetness and mist. I'm sorry, life doesn't get better than this. Every bump and bruise was worth it. Every single bit. You pay for the right to see such remote things and the scars you bear are the price you pay. Some day big highways will be built out here. And it won't be an adventure any more.

So of course we trundled back the way we came, and I left sparkling little ruby drops to mark my path (hey let's get dramatic) and by the time we got back, it was determined that YES I could put on dry socks and my Goretex boots, and finally life was good. Omg. You have no idea. My poor tootsies finally began to thaw out, a fire was going, and there was a small private tent to set up.

And here comes the fun stuff. To set up a tent, you have to kneel. When you have damaged knees you can't kneel. Think of the options. It got done but not without a fair amount of creative movement, thank you all my yoga teachers, I'd like t thank the Academy....

I had to tuck together two very thin quilted sleeping bags, which I was sure I'd freeze in, but truth was I didn't. As long as you slept fully clothed and that included down jacket you were fine.

Dinner was a healthy, huge selection of dishes and a great deal of rice wine and very loud echoing toasts, the quantity of which were paid for the next morning by the porters. Ah. The next morning. Yeah right.

I stiff walked back to my tent after dinner, took about three minutes to find a way to a seated position, squirmed into bed and frankly remember nothing afterwards until twelve hours later.

Well, pooh.
First thanks to all who wished me a happy birthday, very kind of you, I am currently sitting at the Pepperhouse which of course has no heat, it's about fifty degrees if it's that, and raining, and COLD thankyou very much,and my French press is dripping as I await its slow progress. The roosters are crowing and I just got my very rank body out of a rather cold shower (getting very used to those) and finally getting ready to tell some funny stories.

These rather fall into the category of shoulda coulda woulda, but what a fine, fine, fine lesson in doing one's due diligence beforehand. I took a long, dank and humid train ride from Da Nang to Hoi An where I was picked up and deposited at Pepperhouse quickly and kindly by the Oxalis group. There was no birthday party, somehow that got lost in translation. No matter, I was happy to be safely in the right place, and eager to get on with The Big Adventure. The Highlight of The Trip. The Grand Kaboo, or whatever.

Okay well you know when you build something up? Okay. So next morning guy picks me up at 8, I got all my gear, Goretex hiking boots, gaiters, everything for trekking, right? Wrong.I quickly find out that I have to give up that gear for a pair of utterly ridiculous cotton Army boots that have no insulation, are a full size too big, my feet slide around in them, they have no tread. I give them the beady eye. Hm. Just for going through a couple of rivers right? Okay. I'm thinking, I'll just change back. WRONG.

What I should have asked about, and come to understand,was that the trip I'd booked, we hiked through (magnificent, amazing, gorgeous, remarkable, steep, muddy,gooey, sucking mud) jungle and eighteen, maybe even twenty rivers and streams. You give up your good gear and your lower extremities are in freezing water. All.Day. Long.

Now hey. If you don't have what I have, no worries, mate. But I happen to have this thing called Reynaud's Syndrome, which means that when my extremities get cold, especially cold and wet, like feet, they turn fishbelly white as the blood rushes to my body core, leaving them floppy and nonfunctional appendages. So after the third stream, my feet are pretty much as effective as large blocks of ice, and we are clambering up but mostly straight down some pretty epic trail and my guide is moving at warp speed.

Well of course. The inevitable happens. Clown foot lands on a smooth, mudslop covered root and takes off for Cambodia and my right knee goes clobbering into the nearest rock surface. Another unfortunate medical fact is that I'm a bonafide hemopheliac, which means that at times like this, I provide huge entertainment for others who have never seen a bump get THAT big THAT fast. It was the size of a California navel orange and straining against my pant leg by the time we got going again, and I was roundly cursing the shoes, but icy water actually did it some good. Hey, you look for bright spot. On we went, more and more streams, until I lost all feeling in my lower extremities and did my best to concentrate on what was around us: mystical mountains disappearing off into the fog, wild banana trees and deep primitive forest, a very poor village with a pet owl, the swift moving clear streams with their tiny fish, the small but lovely waterfalls and moss covered rocks. The land was so isolated, so silent- and so perfect. Were it not for a knobby knee, what an experience. But no! We're not there yet!

Towards midafternoon we hit a series of small streams. Suddenly, like out of a movie set, a great yawn in the earth appeared in the mist, out of the limestone, that was so completely out of proportion to anything I'd ever seen before that it stopped me in my tracks for a moment. This was our cave, still a bit of a ways off, but of such a size that it boggled the mind. We wound our way towards it, through more streams (hey natch) and finally hiking our careful way to the entrance.

The only way to grasp the sheer enormity of the entrance of this Lord of the Rings monstrosity would be to put a person in the photo, which we did. They looked like Frodo in the caves, so tiny and insignificant. It's not in the scope of words to really express. We scrambled (I crawled) over the big scree and there, Lego sized, far in the middle of the cave, were our porters, our tents, and our campsite. We could barely make them out. They were ants, specks, in the middle of the biggest amphitheater I'd ever seen, imagined.

We made our way down, across a sandbar- this time the water in the cave was a deep blue due to the depth of the pool so it served to step carefully- and we eventually made the campsite. Not time to change to boots yet, so we dropped off our packs, donned our cave helmets and lights, and headed off into the Deep Dark (and if you can't hear Gandalf shame on you).

The other couple was right on Vung's happy hurried heels, he was nothing if not speedy, and I did my best to keep up. There were razor sharp volcanic rock, fossils, fantastic formations, all manner of things to climb over and look at up close. My twisty back and club feet slowed me a bit, particulary down a section of (natch) smooth muddy rock where my left foot, insisting on its journey westward, took off again. This time navel orange landed first and then shin, and I muttered, rather loudly, some incantations that were likely to bring up Gods of the Underworld wielding whips of fire. Since none appeared, I made an attempt to rise, then realized that apparently that's precisely where the Gods of the Underworld were taking out their revenge by throwing whips of fire up my back.

Well hell Gandalf turned white for his efforts, I figured I'd at least stand up, so eventually I did, and now further festooned with purple and blue I followed after the disappeared headlamps. And found the silhouettes against the bright green of the postcard pretty landscape, just outside a different entrance, past another, ahem, stream.

We tramped around a bit here, and let me remind you we are really out in the hinterlands. There are very few people here,and it is simply gorgeous. Vung takes us across a quite busy stream, deeper and stronger than any of them. This one, a good stout 260 lb man would have no problem crossing. NO worries. A 115 lb skinny chick, I'm a weed. So I have my poles, I'm last across, and I plant them hard in the rocky stream bottom. Carefully cross a step at a time, plant the pole, take a step, doing great. Until the porter wades in to Help. Yeah right. He snatches my right arm and jerks my pole out of its anchor spot. Immediately I am swept under, smashing both knees (which are bare)on the river rocks, and my patootie gets soaked.Okay, now I come up bleeding, and I'm right pissed at this butthead, and I am soaking wet, and biting my tongue. The funny will come, it always does, but right now is a very good time to give me about a four foot berth. The funny eventually comes. The look I give the porter ensures I have my space. We have to recross the same stream. This time I forewent the poles and let another porter drag me across like a water buffalo. Got a lot wetter than if I'd just done it my way, but some things you cannot fight. Selah.

So I take a moment before being hustled back into the caves. Why is everyone in such a damn hurry here? The mountains surround us and are clothed in this soft mist and fog, their silhouettes layered and layered and layered. The temperature is somewhere in the fifties. The jungle surrounds us, the wild banana, the thick vines choking every tall living thing for access to the always hazy sunlight. Water sources everywhere running over smooth multicolored rocks, moving sand along quickly to some unnamed destination. For millions of years. It is unearthly quiet out here. How often do we get to enjoy that kind of peace? I don't WANT to hurry back to the cacophany of the campsite, the sound of people, the movements and noise and all the rest. This is perfect. For this kind of thing, we pay with our bruises and our bumps and our little complaints. Against this kind of experience there is no complaint that matters. Someday a highway may come directly to these caves. No adventure. Today, and my legs bear witness, I paid for the right to be here. See this. Smell this rain-sweetened air. How many such places are left before they are are marketable "products?" I would not have missed this for the world. Nor would I have avoided the damaged knees or annoyed the lumbar gods or anything else. We must pay for such things, and the price is worth it.



This time we go back through the caves and I am leaving a trail of little ruby droplets (you like that bit of drama) as I manage the rock formations. But what a treat on the other side. Someone has unpacked my TREASURE. My LIFESAVERS. My boots and socks, into which I immediately change, with a great sigh of relief, although bending over to do so put me in stitches, because it was almost impossible to accomplish.

As was the act of kneeling to set up my little tent. The tent, my tiny Taj Mahal, needed to have the sleeping bags set up. Bags: there were two thin quilted things that needed cocooning and my liner, so fine a companion on Kilimanjaro.

Okay, to set the tent you must kneel.I can't kneel, because I have brutalized my kneeling devices. I can't well lean over because the Gods of the Underworld have set up camp in my lumbar. Okay. So it takes about three minutes to find a way to sit down at the opening of my tent and I do this facing outward. Fifteen minutes later, I'm sweating, but I'd like to thank the Academy, my yoga instructors, my dance teachers who always taught me to stay limber.....now please,where the hell is my codeine medicine?

Dinner is set out, heaps of good food, and we all come round the campfire, where we are joined by another Oxalis crew. Dish after dish is laid out, and everyone heaves to. They also heave to the rice wine and with the exception of boring yours truly, they all engage in the Rice Wine Drinking Toast, which is otherwise known as the Rice Wine Drink til you Drop Toast, otherwise known as the Geez, what happened to my head this morning Toast. Ah, morning. We'll get to that.

I recall getting to my tent, taking a very long time to find a way to a lying down position, getting into my liner and twelve hours later it was about 7 am.

Morning came at 7 am, announced first by those body parts that have had liquid pooling in them for twelve hours and would like, please, to release them, as soon as humanly possible, which would, of course, be NOW please. As in RIGHT NOW.
Second, movement to accomplish such blessed relief was immediately met by answering lashes by the resident Gods of the Underworld who had been waiting for just such an impudent act on my part to attempt anything so ridiculous as to get out of the tent to relieve myself.

This set me to giggles again, which is the worst thing anyone with a full bladder can do, it's worse than going over a cobblestone road while looking for a loo, you start and you can't stop and now you have a SITUATION on your hands which is, really, just one of math and engineering to be cold about it.

To get up normally, body parts go here and here and there. To do that means ouch, ouch and now you die, Another route is here, there and now here, which entails scream in agony, and leave a puddle. You muddle such things.

I think that it took me about eight minutes to reach a relatively vertical position and from there to stiff walk to the loo. Poles were involved. They saved my life, and were laughed at yesterday. I was rarely so grateful for a piece of equipment.

The other couple watched me and decided immediately, we ain't letting that slow us down. So they went to Vung, and said, "oh yeah well but Courtney gets all cold when we walk slower and see yeah well, it's kinda tough so yeah well if you don't mind yeah well we're gonna, yeah, we're just gonna leave now."
They are in their thirties, and this decision had real consequences for us later. Hey what do you do. I know full well that what you feel in the first half hour after injuries in the morning feels very different after you starting exercising, but let 'em run. Fine by me. I liked them very much but they don't want to feel burdened and this I understand.

So of course we have to backtrack, same streams, but not quite. This not quite paid off handsomely in unexpected
ways. Vung veered me off into primitive jungle, and by primitive I mean primeval. This is the real thing, the kind of tropical jungle you just can't waltz through. If Vung hadn't been leading I'd not have seen the track. The sky was darkened by a thick overhead weaving of heavy cover. The ground was a mass of thick ropy vines and roots that I swear reached out to grab unwary feet. We walked on a six inch wide piece of clay - me with ruined knees and a ruined back- and I couldn't possibly have been happier. You don't get to see this on a tourist tour, folks. Had I not damaged myself, Vung would not have taken me into the jungle to avoid the streams. Now he's doing his best to keep my feet dry and I am getting a chance to experience jungle that is as wicked and raw as it gets. I go down a four foot drop of pure slippery mud, using vines on each side as my handrails. Life does not get any better than this. I duck, weave, slip, slide, and wonder at such a tangle of life. Deeply humbled.

But that's not the half of it.

In the middle of all this, I get a sudden burning imprint on my heart of what it must have been like to be a soldier in all this. To live in this, fight in this, struggle in this day and night. The leeches, the mossies, the cold, wet, impenetrable bush, the snakes, the enemy, either side. What awful, terrible, yet beautiful conditions. And for the first time I had the beginning of deep and powerful empathy for those of my brothers and sisters and arms who, unlike me, actually came to this country during the war. I did my time Stateside. They often suffered these conditions. And now I had some idea of what that must have been like. Sometimes you are shown a thing, and that thing gives you insight, and all you can do is be thankful. And believe me, I was.

At the first waterfall we'd crossed the previous day, it was our lunchbreak, and that also marked the point where I could bid forever goodbye to those lousy Army pieces of you know what that had adorned my dogs for two days. A bandana to dry off the pieces of pure white flesh that currently sat at the end of my pegs (is this mine? no feeling, no movement. SLAP,that stings. Mine.) In about half an hour the hard core uphill climb is going to hard charge blood and energy through my muscles and the Gods of the Underworld are going to the Fiery Depths of Hell Where They Belong (yeah yeah okay Gandalf quit grandstanding). Truth be told, that's what happened. Vung pointed uphill and I was right on his tail. The opportunity to work using proper footwear was, and I do not overstate, a joy. You don't have to be so tentative. We put on the afterburners, the porters quit complaining about the slow white woman and we cleared the jungle right on time for our pickup at 2:30 pickup. Only the pickup van wasn't there. Natch.

Remember the other couple who couldn't be bothered? Well yeah, they did bother to cop our ride.

So here we are in the middle of BFE, it's cold, windy, foggy, rainy, silent, the guys' feet are cold and wet, not much to eat. One porter points out it's Sunday and a big porter party is on back at the office. No more rides, everyone is drunk. Hm. Oh, and it's a five hour walk. Everyone gives me the goo goo eyes. I hoist my back pack and start walking. We all do.

So here is another wonderful lesson about if then, then what? In the next mile of Ho Chi Minh trail, I saw more wildlife- monkeys, birds- than I saw in eight hours of jungle trekking. In the sweet silence of our walk, we could hear the monkeys chatter, spot them on the trees and see them climb, play and watch us back. The birds swooped close, bright cherry red and brilliant yellow. Had the van been there, we'd not have seen these things. So I was happy to hike.

As we walked, the first motorcycle that rolled up, not running (saving fuel) took our first porter who was just freezing. Only right. The second, about a half hour later, took the second porter. Vung and I tramped along, enjoying one vista after another on the trail, which wound around the mountains, always down down down, our footsteps muffled by the mist. Our hair gathered millions of tiny droplets, our conversation ran the gamut. We'd walk in companionable silence. Another cycle came, a guy in a Communist uniform. He grinned and nodded at me, thinking payoff. I said no. We kept walking. For two hours.

Suddenly our van came careening around the corner at speed and screeched to a halt in front of us, tunes blaring at full voice. I winced, and seriously considered telling him to go on his way. He'd shattered a perfect reverie, the silence and peace of a quiet Sunday afternoon, broken only by sounds of nature and distant waterfalls. Who gets to hear this now? What lucky ears get such a treat except by purchasing white noise? You can't buy mountain silence. And our ride ruined it.

Well, I was rank. I stank. I hurt, I needed medicine. Sleep. Rest. I had to cancel trip #2 and sleep and write and eat. In all, time to head home. Vung was so worried that I held him responsible for my bumps and bruises. I disabused him of such a notion, and explained that this trip was worth every bit of discomfort. I learned a priceless lesson. Do your research. Understand the conditions. I hadn't done a good job of that. That is nobody's fault at all. The term "river boots" on their website should have been challenged. I trusted it and in the future I will always challenge a third world country's gear. And there is nothing like a lesson that cost you pain to imprint upon you the importance of being thorough, and then coming over-prepared.

Oxalis holds a grip on what I consider to be the best of all the cave trips to the area. I think that this is their strong point. Their weak point is the gear piece, and not being quite as clear as they could about the shortcomings of such gear. People who are adventurers, most of us have good gear, so it's not their fault if we don't ask enough good questions, or don't come adequately prepared because we have special conditions. So in no way do I hold them responsible for any of my bumps. Any adventure holds as an assumption that there are going to be potential injuries. What cranked me was that I probably could have prevented these with better gear of my own. And that includes those walking poles, without which my trip would have been much more difficult.

So if you've got a feeling about a piece of gear, bring it. I frankly don't give a damn if a local scuba instructor snorts at how many wetsuits I put on. He doesn't have Reynaud's. I do. When he snorts and says such a thing doesn't exist because he in his vast worldly experience has never heard of it, zip up your second 5mm and walk away from the jerk or find a better scuba outfit that is more concerned for your comfort and safety. Your safety, your comfort, your business.

So I was dropped off at Pepperhouse last night, and after sitting in the car too long the body parts lamed back up and I gimped back into my room. I got back online to do some work, and was so tired I literally just rolled under the covers fully dressed and slept another 12 hours, knowing that the AFC Championship was being played while I slept. When I woke up today you could have used my clothing for riot control.

So of course, first thing I checked when I got on line this morning MADE MY DAY. With apologies to all Patriots fans, what a sweet beginning to Super Bowl frenzy, and ending to our magnificent regular season, the first email I got was "we are going to the SB!!!!" Ah. Ah. Ah. All is right in my world. I can't walk, bend over, go down stairs, squat to use the pot, or sit long to write, but Manning did it. One more game to go.

Oxalis called early, while I was still comatose, and asked after my health. Bless them. It's raining, rained all day. I was scheduled to head out again today and thank heaven I didn't. It would have been miserable. I've been moved to a bunk, fine by me. I have spent this cold rainy day writing. Resting. Doing laundry. Eating. Resting. One thing injuries demand is rest. Rest. And more rest. Tomorrow, I am going to spend what promises to be a less rainy day visiting the Phong Nha cave system via the Park system, which allows me to continue exploring but not take any falls along the way.

I will write more about the charming Diem and her very interesting Aussie husband Multi (the name has a story, natch) who run this place later. Now I am going to go sit near the fire, warm my dry boots, pack away my no-longer-mud encrusted laundry.

Which brings me to a quick side story. When I gave Diem my laundry this morning she spotted the dirt, and the next thing I saw was her sister pounding away working on my laundry by hand. She has a washing machine. I asked Diem what was going on. She explained that the machine doesn't do that good a job, so everything has to be handwashed (hard by the look of it) before it's washed. Honestly, you have to ask, what's the point of a washing machine if it doesn't replace hand washing? Like washing your dishes before they go into the dishwasher. But then, you have to ask some women why they clean the house before the housekeeper comes over.

But some Universal questions are to be left to the gods, and I ain't them, so at 4 am Denver time in a very very happy town, and at 6 pm local time, I wish the bookmakers good luck. I have no idea who Denver is playing. But I will find out. G'night to all.

Hey sartoric, keep in mind the date line. I left on the 18th and came back on the 19th at about 7pm. I've spent the 20th- today- at home. It's about 7:50 pm here right now. So basically I was away two days, one overnight. And nah, no wifi. It looks like this system double printed my entry and it's confusing, too. I can't figure out what happened. I can't seem to cut the umbilical cord from the computer just yet.
Oh and btw I was recalling your funny story about "lady wants a blanket!" in Sa pa, and having been there, I have a hilarious picture of how that could have gone down. Feeding frenzy indeed!

Congratulations on making it through the cave trip and on Denver making it to the Super Bowl. Which made you happier? Signed: A Sad Patriots Fan

Aw Shellyk sorry. Truly am, but in truth this is Peyton's year. He won't be around much longer and I want him to get that gold ring.
As for which made me happier. well we're comparing camels to cobblestones here. They are two wholly different categories of experiences and there is no way to hold them in the same light or even in the same room. The cave trip left deep and enduring impressions which were earned by considerable effort. I learned some enduring lessons. Gained some valuable emotional and heart changing insight. I found reserves I appreciated for dealing with pain and adversity and finding funny things where I had some considerable discomfort. Those are all good things that gave me joy.

Peyton is a hero of mine in many ways. But football is just football, a passion that I walk away from when I travel, but I care enough about to check the scores. I am very happy about the SuperBowl. But hey, it doesn't fundamentally improve my life. So in that sense, I'll take the caves.

I was 99% sure of your answer before posting the question. The cave experience certainly sounded like a life changing experience.

Wow! What a story. Enjoying it immensely as well as your wonderful attitude and fortitude.

<i>I took a long, dank and humid train ride from Da Nang to Hoi An where I was picked up and deposited at Pepperhouse quickly and kindly by the Oxalis group. </i>

I'm confused. I don't think Hoi An has a train station and Hoi An is less than an hour by road from Da Nang.

Sorry, Marija, I meant Dong Hoi. This tells me that my codeine is working!

When I got up yesterday morning to start working on what turned out to be an entire day's worth of writing, I popped a Tylenol with codeine to deal with the various aches and pains. Fortunately, it helps. Unfortunately, there are side effects :-).

Thanks all for your kind comments. What I am so grateful for when it comes to travel and especially to adventure travel is the opportunity to face limitations. And there are many. The body sometimes just says NO. And while the ego wants to keep going out of nothing more than just that, ego, the rest of us just has to sit down for a while. Like all day yesterday, when getting up and moving around was downright painful. But today it's back off to the caves, not the full blown adventure stuff but the Paradise Caves, and apparently there is a five hundred step walk (my kinda staircase) and some other really nice caves that are not going to involve getting the dogs cold and wet. If I return to Vietnam I might consider Oxalis again but this time I'd take a wholly different kind of gear, being much the wiser for this experience. Boy, live and learn.

The Pepperhouse is a wonderful little place six km out of the town, which isn't a particularly exciting place, but is functional largely because of the cave system. Oxalis and the Farmstay and the Lake House all have popped up around here to provide competition to the National Park system to give all of us intrepids access to the caves, with Oxalis doing the true adventure stuff. Pepperhouse is owned by Diem, who married an Aussie, whose real name is unknown. His visa said Multi for number of entries, and somehow that became his first name, and no one ever asked him otherwise, which I find very funny. He's a garrulous guy whose busy wife keeps him in beer and cigarettes, and he helps with kids and the setups for incoming guests. Diem cooks a mean pho and provides plenty of great food any time of the day, and they do a wonderful job of ensuring you get where you need to go and when. I found out they can get me back to Dong Hoi for 17 bucks instead of Oxalis' 60, so I'm going to take them up on it.

One characteristic of their homestay is that everything is open, so that whatever the temperature is outside is what it is inside, so if it's cold, well then. And the shower system requires some patience. If you happen to be showering when everyone from the valley has just come in from working and the lights are greying out, so will your hot water. That can cause a case of that one legged Maasai stork dance. There is no tv here which I celebrate but as you can tell there is wifi, which I most assuredly appreciate. For some reason I can't update my Facebook, to thank everyone for the birthday wishes.

As I worked in bed yesterday morning I had to constantly remove tiny ants from my screen, which made me wonder how many of them had made a home of my face, hair and body the night before, a question that I chose not to explore. Some things you leave alone if you'd really not like to know. I didn't wanna know.

Diem is a very pretty woman, who also has a very pretty sister, and the family extends here to several other members who come and go so often it's hard to tell how many there are. There are a number of very attractive kids. Multi regales us all with stories of how when he goes to the town to get things like nails, he might get a handful, and that handful sits in the back of the house. When the village finds out that the nails are there, they disappear one by one to be used on projects long left undone, say for many years, until he goes back one day to do a project and ah! where are my nails? Meanwhile, the entire valley has successfully completed perhaps fifty or sixty longstanding projects for want of a single nail or two. They figure hey, he's an Aussie, he has money, while he actually doesn't, it's Diem who has the money. He's retired, basically a kept man. Last night we were chuckling about this idea, which he was doing his best to explain to an ancient rice farmer he sometimes smokes a pipe with up the valley. This man is and was and will always be a rice farmer, and when Multi tried to explain the concept of retirement to him he blew out his smoke in surprise. "What!" He blurted out." Now you just waiting to die?" He explained that he would be farming rice until he fell over in the fields. I love this story, because it speaks directly to the idea of retirement, and why so many people die right after it- and why it's so essential to stay active, purposeful and engaged. Multi, for his part, thought it was funny, but for my part, it was excellent wisdom.

My stomach informs me that it's time to beg Diem for yogurt and fruit, and a big bowl of pho, and a driver is going to take me around all day long for only fifty dollars, a real bargain. I'm jazzed. Again, thanks as always for such kind comments. Feeling much more mobile today.

http://sartoric.tumblr.com/post/7404...ants-a-blanket

JH, so good to hear you survived, it took me all day, but above should be photos of Sa Pa.

Classic classic classic. You look like you're being chomped alive!

It's 5:30 am, it's icy cold. Right now I'm lying in my bunk fully dressed including my down jacket, enclosed in mosquito netting, the roosters are crowing outside. The weather changed last night and for the first time since I got to this country we saw stars. That also means it's a lot colder so right now all we can do is bundle up. I figure it's in the thirties out there, really downright cold, and I don't have any more layers to put on. Tomorrow I head for Phu Quoc Island where, apparently there is some semblance of sunshine. Hallelujah. And warmth. Lordy lordy. I can't wait.

Yesterday I spent the day hiking around the local cave systems, one of which turned out to be a real gem and the other a more touristy endeavor. Diem had secured for me a terrific driver named Dat who adopted the habit of teaching me simple Vietnamese words and then checking to see if I remembered them when I came back to the car, something I actually did appreciate. Other drivers never invested that much interest. This one delivered me to the Paradise Cave, which entailed a nice long walk to the ticket booth and then another nice long walk, and a good long upward hike to the cave. Along the walk I adopted a Canadian and a Greek, both guys who'd apparently adopted each other along the way, and we spent the rest of the time in the caves together. We reached the top of the long walk and then it was time to hike down on the sturdy brown staircase. Here was where it got fun.

All the way down on either side of this remarkable journey were visions out of a Hollywood set. Nothing seemed real. Formations with teeth, formations with dripping faces, like flowers, some seeming to explode out of the walls, some with fleshlike flaps, everything you ever saw come out of a movie makers imagination was right here in real life, coming out of the ceiling, the walls, visions of the Alien movies blasting out of you in limestone. It really was fantastic. The lighting made it all the more eerie. Blue, yellow and green backlighting. As we strolled through this cave we consistently spoke of how disconnected we felt, how it felt so science fiction. Almost as though it was a movie set under construction. But it was completely real, and you could touch the cool rock in many places and feel the surfaces rough and smooth. I was very glad to have been able to see this particular cave, to climb down into its depths, and wonder at the first person's impressions upon discovering it. What their flashlight or fires must have revealed and what they must have felt in response. Terror? Delight? Wonder? or all three? Certainly we did, and here it was all lit up for us, with walkways and staircases. I'd have liked to have seen the look on that first person's face seeing these incredible sights.

Okay, so I finally got my carcass out of bed and it's 9:15. This is just FUNNY. I am sitting out in Pepperhouse's dining area, layered up in every single bit of clothing I own: wool t- neck, polypro, down jacket, rain jacket, long pants, rain pants, heavy socks, goretex boots. I have to be barehanded to write and my fingers are screeching at me. Folks I am so cold I feel like I'm at Lambeau on that very famous day in NFL history. Come ON man...It's overcast again but a front moved in last night and it was everything I could do to get out of bed. This morning I was whining at people to keep the bunk room door closed until I realized, hey, the window right in front of my bed didn't have any glass. It was wide open. I'm sorry you just have to laugh.

I was talking to two Canadian girls last night who are heading north, and this conversation has happened so many times that I've lost count. Every single one of us miscued for the weather. I packed for tropics. I have Ex Officio wicking tank tops and a bathing suit and tropical weight this and that and short cotton socks all with heat wave in mind. I have spent three weeks shivering in the warmest gear I've got. I just find this hilarious. I'm usually over prepared but this one I really got wrong. The good news is that with the constant hiking, walking, moving I can stay pretty warm, but last night I had to sleep fully clothed, including rain jacket, and I had to rub the poor tootsies and put the toes behind the knees in a move that produce a yelp that woke up a few bunkmates. I apologized this morning. These are the two Canadian intrepids who are off to do the Oxalis thing with their very thin jackets and no layers. They're philosophical about it. I'd rather be warm than philosophical, frankly. We've all found it amusing, and I think that this is where this fake North Face industry has cropped up. Dumb tourists show up thinking ah~! Vietnam! Hot country! No! Crap! Freezing country! Need jacket NOW! Look! North Face for cheep!!! I just wouldn't want to test any of those products to true specs in the high country.

I forgot to tell you a couple of funny stories about the train and landing at Dong Hoi, and they are both about the toilets, as things often are with me. First, the train ride from Hoi An to Dong Hoi is about five hours, give or take, and in our case it was take, as we had an accident on the road which cost us about forty minutes. On the way, inevitably, one has to take a trip down the aisle. That means finding your way to the loo which is situated at the back of your car, outside, between the cars. Here, the very nice thing is that you can actually breathe fresh air for a change and get out of that close, dense humanity that you've been subjected to for hours (including that foul smelling octopus that woman was selling and somebody bought two seats up, omg). So you clamber into the squatter, fumble with the door which you cannot figure out, so now you're squatted, and your naked butt is waving over a hole in the floor, and you're also trying to keep the damned door closed, and the train is heaving to and fro, and you'd really like NOT to decorate your clothing, but you're also hanging on for dear life to the hand hold on the side of the loo, and this goes on for some time because you also have to concentrate, so you think waterfall, waterfall, waterfall, and when all is said and done, by some miracle of physics everything has gone where it should. Whew. Besides the floor is soaking wet with whatever and you don't wanna know. Gingerly you get back up and well, let's not go back in right away. Let's just stand here and smell the air for a while, because it kinda smells in that car. The countryside trundles by and for a while you just watch Vietnam in the afternoon light, bicycles and motorcycles, rice paddies and hills, clay roads and dogs, geese and chickens. Village after village, moms and dads and kids and babies and a few cars, lots of big trucks, life going on, oblivious of you and your cares, or your curiosity. Finally you step back inside to the stomach curdling octopus, sweaty bodies, dank air and closeness of humanity, and take your seat again. The TV is on to a Candid Camera type program. It's amusing.

On arrival in Dong Hai, as soon as I stood up and wrestled all my gear in place to get off I realized that I'd need to hit the WC again. So when I spotted my Oxalis driver I requested one in Vietnamese and he pointed to a dark little corner of the parking lot that had a small sign, WC, so I headed towards it. Soon I was weaving in and out of an alley, through a garage, then across and open space, and totally lost for a moment. I finally found the WC and the squat toilet and did my thing. No one anywhere and I used my supply of Charmin. On my way out I was nearly out the alley when I heard "HELLO HELLO HELLO" called after me with great urgency. I kept walking. "HELLO HELLO HELLO!!!!" Oh damn, granny wants to get paid, all I have are 500,000 vnd bills. Not being willing to pay that much for a pee, I apologized in Vietnamese, didn't turn around and put on the afterburners. And yes I felt badly. But I thought it was a public toilet. I guess not. I scooted guiltily across the parking lot and leapt into the Oxalis car, fully expecting to feel a Vaudeville hook around my neck at any point for her 2000 vnd.

She apparently had given up the chase, however, and we made our way without incident to Pepperhouse, the rest of which you know by now.

Hi JH and thanks again for the entertainment.

For the photos, register with Flickr, they will email you a link to activate your account, then upload away !

I managed to do it with just an IPad, it worked a treat.

So loving your story and philosophy....

Okay so back to Dat, and the Day of the Local Caves. The Greek and the Canadian and I climbed the stairs back out again (I was told there were five hundred of them, trust me, there weren't five hundred. More like maybe two hundred. I train on that many at home and that felt about right. People LOVE to exaggerate). We got out at the top right as a very large tour group was arriving. Just in time, trust me, this would have been a totally different experience in the cave with fifty people talking shouting laughing smoking. We had a quiet, thoughtful, magnificent time. It serves, as other reviewers note, to get there early or late. And I am a BIG fan of doing the walk and skipping the buggy ride. Again, and this depends on your fitness level, it's a nice little workout because there's a nifty long uphill ramp that's a good demand on you (the boys complained, come on guys) and also, when walking to the cave, you see wildlife. If you're whizzing along in the golf cart you are whizzing past the wildlife. Honestly, like my guide, I've never seen a people in such a damned hurry, like there's always something better ahead, ahead, ahead. Well dammit, what about what's right here right NOW? That's what attracts me about the Thai Buddhist attitude about being in the moment. I slowed down my hike repeatedly by wanting to actually look at my surroundings, and soak up the grandeur of those misty mountains. Hey dunno about you guys but when we spend so much effort and cash to get to these remote places, kinda serves to take it all in, rather than marathon walk past places few folks get to see. What do I know? Just a dumb traveler here.


Anyway to wit, as we were walking back to the ticket booth and the exit, we were treated to some gorgeous birds, which the buggybabies did not see at all, and we got to photograph. When I leapt in my truck with Dat, he promptly tested my knowledge on the fruit he'd named for me and we took off.
The road we were on was narrow and twisty. Now here is where I got some of my education about the beep. Sitting in Dat's van I watched carefully when, where, how and why he used his horn. Also, what was coming and what the conditions were coming and going. Points to keep in mind. On the sides of any Vietnamese (very narrow road, also called euphemistically hahahahahahahahaha a highway) are people, bicycles, motorcycles, buffalo, usually in twos or fours, cows, babies, families, carts, the usual suspects. They do not stay to the right. Not on your life. They tend towards the middle of the road. There is a great and abiding love for the center of the road by all travelers of all kinds, which creates the challenge for those on wheels. Anyone coming up from behind must warn by horn blast "MOVE OVER", which they sometimes do, not with any particular hurry. Consider that there are large wheeled vehicles approaching you who are dealing with precisely the same problem on a road too narrow to accommodate one, much less two big lorries, or SUVS, or sedans, and you get my drift. Add to that a slew of impatient motorcycles moving in and out of said cars, this is what chokes the road. Dat would approach any turn and blast his horn, knowing that cars or motorcycles approaching from the other side would be riding the center line. Or passing on a blind turn. As they always were.


Coming through little Phong Nha, cyclists would weave out in front of us without checking if anyone was coming, people and animals cross the road without warning, motorcyclists shoot out into our path at speed with insouciance. I recall one particular offender who did just that, infuriating Dat who had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting the guy, who had that Angry Young Man expression on his face. Dat looked at me sheepishly and gestured at me to indicate the guy had been drinking. By this time I was so accustomed to seeing people drive the wrong way down a one way, hog the center line, play chicken until the last possible second that I was largely immured to it. There is a part of the brain that screams “Order! Rules! Regulations! AUGH!” But there is little more than a level of accepted mayhem on the roads of Vietnam, and everyone who rides them has a pretty clear idea of how it works. After not having any idea of how to walk a street in Saigon I quickly learned that the advice I got there- DON’T RUN- was accurate. Running turns you into one of those cute little yellow ducks in a shooting gallery. Just keep walking. These guys know how to flow around a pedestrian. It’s as natural as rain water. If you are dumb enough to run and mess up their judgment you’re gonna get bullseyed.


So Dat beeps and blows and hoots and hollers and in the process I finally learn the annoying, but helpful, Language of the Beep. Out in the really rural areas, vehicles are still pushing the envelope in some ways, as men in very old hats walk four buffalo down the road the same way they did centuries ago, and they see no reason to get out of the way for a tourist bus. The roads we traversed yesterday were narrowed by large piles of wicked rocks, deep holes and sharp curves, more suited to walking than driving. Hence, an SUV. To a degree, it’s almost as though people see, but don’t always want, the inevitable change they see coming. So they resist in the only way they can. They continue to move at their own leisurely pace, and get out of the way on their terms. Don’t blame them one bit. Time has moved at the same pace for them for a very, very long time.


We drive to the ticket office for Phong Nha caves, and I pay up for the boat ride. Here, Multi’s advice again holds true. He said to buy a boat all to myself. It isn’t any cheaper to get more folks on the boat but it is noisier and people talk and smoke and eat. And and and. So I request, and get, a man and his son to haul me away on their ancient, blue and yellow dragon painted boat on the quiet river. We push off, I put on my life vest and settle in for the put-putting of the motor to carry us to the caves.


The quiet ride took us past houses new and old, poor and prosperous along the river. A young girl was working the river in her own small boat, and the mists hid the mountains off in the distance. Many blue and yellow boats with variously painted dragons lined the shore. Eventually we reached a stopoff point, which was basically a place to get nabbed by people selling drinks and coffee while you tried to make your way to the loo. This time the loo had a donation box, and I was armed with small bills, and was happy to drop a few for what turned out to be a sparkling facility. No paper, but we carry.


Dad took over rowing duties and I sat on the bow, and we entered the dark cave. This time it was again lit, and you shot your photos from the boat. You’re supposed to be a good girl and sit your tush inside the safety of the covered area but it was far too much fun to sit right behind Dad and actually catch his silhouette in a few of my shots. He pointed out some great pictures of some of the alien-like flower arrangements coming out of the roof of the cave. This was something that Stephen King’s furtive, evil imagination might conjure up, beautiful and foul and almost alive in the shifting lights of the caves. We turned and Dad gave me a great shot of it from several angles. This cave was nowhere near as high, nor as wide, nor as spectacular as the others, but the novelty of going through it by boat was kinda cool.
Soon the cave is full of tourist boats with tourists stuffed like anchovies in their bellies, and I thanked my lucky stars for Multi’s advice. I’ve got this big boat all to myself, it’s quiet, calm and peaceful, and all I have to deal with is the operator’s jibes to each other, clearly teasing him about only one customer.


As we approached the entrance there was a small “beach” or step off point which Dad offered me, and I took. You walk up to see some pretty nice formations of ‘tites, but here is where every other tourist was, and the fun stopped. Lots and lots and lots and lots of people taking Hi Mom I was here photos in front of this one and that one and this one and oh honey this one too. I’m outta here. I can’t get a shot of anything without someone in it. Time to goooooo. So I make my way out, and here’s the front of the cave. Ah! Staircase.
Good. I start walking. These steps are double high, high for me, and I’ve got long pegs. They must be murder for the locals. Lots of them. I go up up up up. I’m trying to point for the beach head where I know my boat is. I wind around a few times and pass a coffee and cold drinks spot and then finally make my way to the same toilet area. I suspect this is a busy place in high season, and I am the only customer.


Of course that makes me a Very Big Target in my emerald green Marmot rain jacket so I bull rush the bathroom again, make my donations and run fast as I can for the boats. I get chased about halfway down by people offering cokes (this really was a slow day!) and I make it to the first of four tied together, and I walk across four moving bows ‘til I land on mine. We cast off for home, it is now getting really chilly.
Back on the bow, I pull the life jacket tight and watch the river life go by. There’s a motorcycle ferry operating, it takes about five at a time. Much clothes washing in the icy river. My hands sympathetically get cold watching these women work. The strangely formed mountains with their rich green cloaks of jungle rear up and slide by until the mists envelope them again. Always, the mists.


Dad had taken over engine and rudder duties so son was sitting behind me. He was wearing a pair of earphones and was belting out tunes at the top of his lungs. I swung around and got a shot of him as he sang with such abandon and he collapsed in giggles. Such sweetness. I swung back forward and the singing commenced again.


When we pull up, I pull out a 100,000 vnd for Dad and son for their willingness to take out mot tourist and they were most gracious. As I walked across the parking lot I could see my ride, and about four men around it. Dat popped out and opened the doors to let all the smoke out. He motioned “just a moment” as the cigarette smoke cleared, and then a minute more as he closed the doors and the Great Start the Engine Attempt began. Dat jumped in and the four guys took their positions and soon they were shoving the SUV with gusto backwards across the parking lot until it lurched into gear. Success!


When I got in the now happily chugging car I communicated to Dat that I wanted to go by Oxalis, and he indicated to me I’d have about 5 to 10 minutes only before the car would crap out again. Fine, and we pulled up for me to talk to Luke, the manager. Luke wasn’t there, and I got the standard “how can I help you” from one of the staff. I explained that he couldn’t, my conversation was with Luke, whom I’d like very much to speak with. He gave me that Yeah right who the hell are you look, took my name, walked to the back of the room and called Luke. Seconds later he’s hurrying back to the front to hand me the phone and Luke and I greet each other- Luke manages Oxalis and is my guide’s boss- like old friends.


It is my habit to debrief managers on my experiences, since one of my hats is management consultant, and I wanted to hear the story the guide had given him about our trip. If Luke knew anything of what had transpired. The lost van ride. The hike down the mountain. Many things, like Vung’s unfortunate habit of letting his little group get so strung out we all lost sight of each other (often with me limping along at the very back with the impatient porters way out front, something expressly forbidden by Oxalis' rules). Ah, well, no. Vung had come in hours late and told Luke that all had gone well, fine, perfect no problem. And that got up my nose. I asked Luke a few more questions to determine how much he knew and didn’t know- which was effectively nothing. Vung didn’t report the missing van or anything else. And when I told him that Vung had taken me off into the jungle he went ballistic. At this point I made it clear that this was actually a treat for me, and while it might have been off script and not very smart, for me it was a delight. So to take that into consideration in my case. I didn’t appreciate Vung’s lack of forthrightness, and since I want Oxalis to be successful with good trustworthy guides (and in this case he wasn’t being trustworthy) I wrote up my side of the trip, using plain reporting facts, and tempering Luke’s potential reaction because I really did have a gas. Luke reported that even he had admonished Vung for trekking far too fast so I felt vindicated somewhat. Now I do know that it is a habit of the Vietnamese to say very positive things, but in this case, you kind of do have to do an honest trip report, and not gloss over some of the more serious aspects of your trip, like a missing pick up van. Because if someone else got injured, and they don't happen to have similar attitude or sense of humor, they are going to have a very mad hen on their hands. We are going to stay in touch as I may well do this again with proper equipment- because the caves- and this expedition- is worth it. Luke did agree that the website could have a wee bit more complete information about seasonal temperatures and conditions, and gear ideas. Good idea mate.

Now that I've done all three cave activities, I am in a position to rate them in terms of their quality and which I'd say you gotta go do. Oxalis is, hands down, the best, no question. Yes, it's epic. And worth every bit of effort. This is indeed one of those once in a lifetime, must do if you're in country, do not miss this, adventures. No question. Glad I did it, even if I am still finding eggs on my shins (I kid you knot).

Paradise Cave, if you are only doing one, is far far better than Phong Nha, it offers some exercise, is far more gorgeous, if you plan well and go during the week when there are fewer tourists and early am or late pm, you will delight in the serenity of the place. Bring your own food. Take your time. This is a treat for the eyes. Lovely, fascinating, 120,000 vnd.

Phong Nha Cave at about 400,000 vnd is a distant third. A lot of dong for not a lot of cave and a whole lot more tourists. People get fooled into thinking that if they fill the boat with more tourists it's going to be cheaper. No. It's the same price for all of you no matter how many hapless folks they cram into this sardine can. Go to the local market, buy some fruit and water, cop a boat for yourself. Don't try to go cheap and really enjoy the journey if you do this tour. But frankly, having seen it, I'd easily have skipped this and spent more time in Paradise. Well heck, we'd all like to spend more time in Paradise. So do. Or sign up for one of Oxalis' treks and really do the caves, meet Luke, a very cool and committed Aussie, and have a right grand adventure.
And mind the rocks, please.

Thanks Sartoric. I may do the photograph thing at some point. Not at the moment. I have one afternoon left, it's very cold, and I am glad that our power finally just came back on after being off for many hours. My battery went down to 7% and my computer was blinking Danger Danger Danger!

I appreciate your kind words.I had such a laugh yesterday when I pulled up my pants leg and discovered yet another very large perhaps three inch high lump on my right shin. Well hello, where did you come from? I know damned well where, this beauty came from the cave walk, when I fell the second time, and I never checked that leg again. So Mr Egg here has been growing away in the dark environment of my pants leg and my ignorance for a while. I never even checked while I hurried through my icy shower. It's a beaut, too.

I don't mind being a little battered from an adventure. What has begun to annoy me is to be so constantly cold. The inability to take a hot shower- here it's nearly impossible. You turn this switch up, climb in, turn this little lever this way, ease this down, wait til that turns red, back it off a wee bit, then see if it turns hot. Not. Oh well then, you try turning it back a wee bit- oh but then it turns green and the water is now icy cold. Go back and start all over again. Meanwhile you are standing on river rocks (sound familiar?) and you are thrice layered with goosebumps. Your hands, pure white, feel a semblance of warmth, you duck under the water only to realize that what your ice cold hands registered as warmth was a few degrees above freezing. You jump back out of the stream and try again. And again. And then you curse like a drunk sailor, blaspheme his sainted mother and do what you've done this whole trip: the essential bits, and get out. You are largely still not really clean, but the parts that tend to smell the most have been scrubbed and toweled off. That's well enough. Until you get to some blessed Paradise (not the cave) which offers something that resembles a stream of consistently warm water that you can actually wash under. Ah. I dream. I daydream. I wish.

But then, as Diem hoes outside, and Multi cleans up the ground peanuts they were shelling and sets out the bikes that they both were cleaning with equally cold water, these are the conditions of this valley. This village. This life. The smell of the rich sweet earth that Diem is turning over with her hoe wafts up to my table. I grew up with that dense good smell. Ducks and chickens, most with their chicks cheeping in little troupes at their feet, wander the fields.

This is how it is here, people deal with the lack of heat, the greying power, intermittent electricity, open buildings, and it just is. And while I can grinch about not being able to take a warm/hot shower, the truth is that there are many Vietnamese for whom that's a very distant if not impossible notion. If anything that's for the tourists with their need for creature comforts. Yeah well. One of those creature comforts would be washing my hair in warm water, which, after the discovery of an infestation of ants in the double bed that I spent two nights in a wee while back, I would really, really like to take care of, but can't. And there's a story to this.


Back when I was a very active skydiver, in the late eighties, I was down in Coolidge Arizona which was, and may still be a hotspot for skydiving boogies. Boogies as they were called at the time were events which drew skydivers from all over the country to a place where very large old planes would cram a lot of us together and fly very high over the desert and we would merrily fling ourselves out with mad abandon and create stars and formations of great complexity. I was at one of those back about 1990 and I flew in a particular formation where I docked eighth on an eight man star. That earns you an award, the Bob Buquor Award, and for all such awards, cold beer is involved. In this particular case- the awardee has to strip to his or her underwear in the middle of a circle and be sprayed with said cold beer.

Okay so we're out in the desert, desert gets cold at night, remember what I said about Reynaud's? Yeah right. So there are two of us victims out there receiving this special treatment and someone shouts "HIT 'EM" and the next thing I know is I can't breathe. The beer onslaught goes on and on and on. My body and head are soaking with icy beer and I literally cannot take a breath. My chest has frozen and I am struggling. Everyone is busy opening up third and fourth cans and I am almost lights out with oxygen deprivation. The last thing I remember was that my beery head felt like a vice of ice and my lungs were on fire.Then, nothing. Some time later I woke up in my car still stinking of beer, but at least under a blanket, and close to my sleeping bag (which would never smell the same.) This was before I'd gotten diagnosed with Reynaud's. I was so white and shivering so hard that I was nervous that I might chip a tooth. That's when I realized that very cold and my head- hell, any part of me- were probably not a good match, and New Year's Eve celebrations that involved jumping into freezing water would not be in my immediate- or distant- future. So yeh, I can wait til I find hot water to scrub little critters out of my hair, and in the meantime, let 'em party if that is what they are doing.

So lucky me,I appealed to Diem's mercy late this afternoon, and she was kind enough to join me in the shower and see what was wrong, and marched me to shower #2, and fiddled and fiddled and fiddled with this that and the other until she triumphantly invited me to stick my hand under the water. Warm. To a point. Tolerable. She said, "wait." So we left it running, and I peeled off the seven or eight protective layers, and by the time I was down to bare skin I was ready to brave whatever was pouring out of the spout. Which was actually almost hot. Jesus Mary and Josephine, leap in and do yer best soapup before this goes the way of the dinosaur! I did just that, and got red with the effort. It was a puny little waterfall but it was hot, and that's all that mattered. Thus finally cleaned (not enough for hair however) I quick dried and re-layered, and we are now all sitting near the nightly fire which is gaining in force. Most of us are eyeing which way the wind is blowing to get a seat upwind. Diem, who has been moving banana trees all day, is taking a break before starting the dinner service. A while ago she was snockered out on the hammock in front of the big house, dead to the world. She works incredibly hard around here, with Multi doing bits and pieces. She lovingly calls him "hopeless" being the more competent of the two, leaving him to schmooze with the guests, which I have had three days to observe. It's good for business.


I leave tomorrow at 10 for flights through Saigon and on to Phu Quoc, so must dress for much hotter weather. Such a distant notion. But we all know the feeling of being layered to the gills for January and stepping off into the tropics. So some level of temporary discomfort tomorrow en route to the airport and then visions of palm trees, beaches, and an actual shining sun. Or something round and yellow behind the haze putting forth warmth. Heat. I have one week left and I will by damn wear my Ex Officio tank tops. Unless of course, it rains.