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.