Jules Atkins, Asia Writings

Cruisin' to Alaska

2010-09-09T11:14:00.000-07:00

When we called our pals to tell them our most recent travel plans, he expressed surprise. In the background she was laughing so hard she couldn’t talk. And she kept laughing for a good long while. “You guys!” she crowed.

“YOU GUYS! You never do things like that. A cruise?! A CRUISE?"

Ya see, it happened like this. We’ve been collecting air miles for over 10 years. Every time we go on a trip we try our best to use those air miles to buy our flights. But because we’re always going for such (relatively) long periods of time, to (relatively) exotic (ie. not the USA, Europe, the Caribbean or Mexico), and often want multiple stops, we have so far never been able to use our air miles. So they’ve been stacking up. And we haven’t been interested in the various knick-knacks and 3-day get-aways on offer.

Finally, in desperation, I looked on the air miles site at the ‘special deals.’ And there it was – an Alaskan cruise. One week. Up to Skagway – birth place of our favourite “I can’t believe she’s for real” politician, Sarah Palin (still going strong despite multiple bouts of foot-in-mouth and mis-speak).

The itinerary and map showed the boat going up through the ‘Inside Passage’ – a route that threads between the narrow passages and little islands between Vancouver Island and the mainland of British Columbia’s west coast. Having camped on numerous occasions on both sides of that coast-line, we were keen to see it from the decks of a ship. In fact, our very first sighting of a mega-cruise ship was from one such camping spot.

We were camped right on the beach at one of the narrowest spots in the passage. We were enjoying a before dinner drink and admiring the view when what looked like a giant cleaver came into view from behind a hilly rise. It didn’t take us long to realize whatever it was was in the water, was a boat, was a very big boat – an oil tanker? No, it was a massive cruise ship – at least 8 stories high. What amazed us most was that there was almost no one on deck. A beautiful sunny day, and no one out there enjoying it. Where were they all?

We know now where they were: at the trough. It seems that cruising is about consuming: non-stop eating and shopping. Oh – and gambling, when not in port and restricted by the laws of the land. The food was good – excellent quality and great variety. But within a very short time we felt so sickened by the sight of overweight Americans bellying their way up to the bar and coming back with two or more plates overflowing with dogs and fries, pizzas, Chinese food, mini-mountains of ice-cream, and one of every kind of dessert on the menu that we completely lost our appetites.

There were six or eight food stations in the main eating area – a buffet bonanza. By far the least busy station was the salad station. As Homer Simpson says: “You can’t make friends with salad.” Evidently Americans agree. But hey, I never had to wait in line! And the salads were sensational. Lots of combos I’d never had or even thought to make – and I’m a salad aficionada.

On a couple of occasions we did rough surveys – body counts if you will – of our cruise-mates. We calculated that around 75% of them were over-weight, and somewhere around 25-30% downright obese. This is unfortunately consistent with figures published regarding increasing waistlines in America, with Canada and Europe not too far behind. Indeed one of the saddest things we have noticed in some of the ‘less developed’ nations in which we have traveled is the trend towards more fast food outlets and the concomitant trend towards increasing obesity. It’s especially sad to see it in the kids – you know they’re going to be battling those bulges for the rest of their lives.

While the scenery inside the boat was at times sickening, the scenery outside was often spectacular. We were lucky to see several groups of humpback whales – a few breaching and slapping the water with their fins, several just gliding along, their humpy backs just barely breaking the surface of the water. And lots of ice-bergs. They are so blue! And all different, like snowflakes. One could imagine them with distinct personalities – fairy-tale princesses, bellicose leviathans, shy toddlers – but all hiding the bulk of their ‘real selves’ below the surface.

The Alaskan towns we visited – Skagway, Juneau and Ketchikan – were considerably less exciting. Basically excuses to shop. And most of the shops, especially the jewelry shops, of the seasonal variety, owned and run by out-of-state folks (from Ohio, Texas, Utah…) who cater exclusively to the cruise crowd. Skagway’s done a nice job of preserving and presenting its history as part of the Yukon gold rush. Several buildings have been restored, with great museum exhibitions.

But the best entertainment was on board. We saw three song and dance revues, all excellent with fantastic costumes. Reminiscent of Las Vegas style shows, or what we might imagine having seen at the Tropicana in Havana. Scantily clad showgirls wearing impossibly big head ornaments (‘hats’ just doesn’t do to describe them).

And the gym was good. Like the salad bar, usually empty. I went there pretty much daily and cycled off my salads. Had a couple of nice relaxing times in one of the many whirlpools. And did multiple laps of the promenade deck.

Our biggest disappointment, especially given our main reason for having chosen this particular cruise, was that the boat did not in fact go up the Inside Passage. It went instead on the west or outside side of Vancouver Island. So we were basically ‘at sea’ for several days, with nothing more interesting to see than fleeting glimpses of humpback whales. Our day of sitting on our ‘extended balcony with unobstructed view,’ for which we’d actually paid extra (in real cash dollars, not air miles), our day of sitting and enjoying the challenge of naming all of the various points of land we’ve actually been to or camped on, was not to be. When we asked the captain about it, he said “the outside course is shorter and cheaper.” And as far as Carnival Cruises is concerned, that’s what it’s all about.

So – if you’re planning on taking an Alaskan cruise, some words of advice:

Go between July and early September, when the weather is warmest and you’re more likely to get some sunny days.
Check the itinerary carefully and confirm it with your cruise line. You have a better chance of taking the Inside Passage between Vancouver Island and the BC Mainland (as opposed to the ‘Inside Passage’ of Alaska, which is different) if you depart from Vancouver BC rather than from Seattle.
Take warm clothes so you can spend as much time outside and on deck as possible.
If you want to do any of the excursions offered by the cruise line, remember that they will charge you a premium. If you make your arrangements directly with the company offering the excursion, once you get off the boat, you’ll get the same excursion but you’ll pay considerably less.
Don’t eat for a week before you go, and don’t plan to eat for a week when you get back. Or – enjoy the salad bar!

Eastern and Western Attitudes towards 'Moral' Behaviour

2009-06-11T21:53:00.000-07:00

For more photos of China, go to:
www.julesatkins.shutterfly.com
and click on the China page

Yangshuo, China
June 8, 2009

This morning we met a Japanese man at Mimosa, our favourite cafe in Yangshuo. He was sitting by himself at a table, busily writing something in English, and conferring with the waitress about translation into Chinese. We were having breakfast.

He was a typically neat and trim Japanese fellow, late middle-age, wearing a light blue tailored shirt and dark slacks. He looked like a professor or business man without a suit jacket.

At one point he looked up from his endeavours and said 'hello!' It was clear he wasn't Chinese, but not clear where he was from, so we asked him, and he answered, “Japan, from a city about half-way between Tokyo and the island of Hokkaido.”

In his own words, he's 'half-retired,' and has been coming to Yangshuo for a couple of months every few months to learn Chinese. He intends, once he learns it, to travel more widely in China.

He stood up and approached our table. “My wallet was stolen yesterday,” he said, patting his pants pocket and shaking his head. “So I am writing this message. Can I read it to you?”

Here's what it said:

“Please make China an even more fantastic country. If any of you friends are about to lose their conscience, then please tell them the story below for their own good. To steal something from others means to throw away your conscience which was given to you by your parents who wanted you to be happy. Happiness exists only in a sound mind.”

He wanted to know if the English was correct. Later that day I saw him again. He had a handful of printed papers. He gave me one. The word 'conscience' had been changed to 'morals.' As the saying here goes, 'same same but different.'

What intrigues me is the very different approach taken in the east towards 'bad behaviour.' Appealing to the higher moral being, making reference to parents, and the concept of happiness. Here in the East these things still appear to have some meaning, to exercise some influence on people's behaviour.

I mentioned this to him, and said, laughing, that in the West, our response to a stolen wallet would more likely go something like this: “if you're gonna steal stuff, you're gonna get caught, maybe by the police. And then you're gonna be sorry.” Crime and punishment.

Although I liked his approach I couldn't imagine it having any effect at all in the West, where morals seem to have gone awol, and parents are definitely passe. Where most people wouldn't have any idea what a 'sound mind' was, and would define 'happiness' quite differently.

And I wonder, given the rapid pace of Westernization in China (and other Asian countries), especially among the i-savvy, hip-hopped and hyped-up young, how much longer his approach, as high-minded as it is, will be effective here.... .

The 'real' China: I'm lovin' it!

2009-06-09T04:03:00.000-07:00

From Xi-Chang to Xi'an, Chengdu, and Kunming by bus and train
May 14-28, 2009

For more photos, please go to: www.julesatkins.shutterfly.com and go to the China page.
Click on the album entitled "The Real China."

Cigarettes and cell phones, the air thick with smoke and Chin-chat, loud. There is no other volume.
Cities redolent of urine, shit, vomit and garbage. Eau de Chine.
No fragrant incense here to mask the base odours of the great unwashed; the smoke from raw Chinese cigarettes a poor but sometimes almost welcome substitute.

So many people everywhere. And so noisy. Nonstop talking. Loud, shrill, insistent voices hammering home their points at one another.
The China din starts well before six am, and continues on, in one constant cacophony until well after midnight. When the dogs start barking.

Cities too full of people and things, too busy, too loud, too much.
And too Western. This could be Chicago, New York, Vancouver. No oriental flavour here to savour.
The language survives, thrives – no English here – hardly a word or sign: good luck to foreign travelers!
They have no need to cater to us. So many Chinese tourists, spending spending spending Big Yuan.

Communism well replaced (and replaced well?) with Consumerism, writ large.
Unbridled Capitalism. There are no regulations here, and even if there were, no one would heed them, no one enforce them. Anything and everything goes.
China, the counterfeit capital of the world: buyer beware!

All the big name brands – Nike Converse KFC Starbucks Hilton Holiday Inn Toyota Honda – are here.
And all the most exclusive, most expensive brands are here too – Mercedes BMW Gucci Hugo Boss Ralph Lauren Dior Dunhill Luis Vuitton – and doing well.

The Chinese who have money – and there are plenty who do – have lots of it.
And like to spend it. Like to buy things that make them look good.
It's all about face. Appearances. Superficiality.

China's about face: from stringent Communism to rampant Capitalism in just a few short years:
Where to next?

Women in cocktail dresses, baby-doll pajamas, poofy-hemmed curtain dresses, tight mini-skirts.
Like Disney dolls, in Minnie Mouse and Betty Boop outfits.
Big buttons and bows, knock-off Gucci purses, and always high heels, strappy high heels,
clattering down cobble-stone streets, tip-toeing through mud puddles and seas of litter.

Little girls in fairy dresses and party shoes, pink and white princesses.
Babies with great gaping holes in the bums of their pants – crotch coolers? - being held out over the sidewalk by squatting parents, whispering shh, shh, shh...
Puddles of piss, baby and otherwise, all along the street.

And globs of phlegmy goo. Hoiking and spitting a national pass-time.
More dangerous and disgusting than the globs underfoot the flying globs – spat out the windows of passing cars and buses.

China's finest, street-corner cops, sheltering under Coca-cola and Macdonald's umbrellas:
I'm lovin' it!
Particularly fitting as no one pays these, or any, authority figures the least attention:
regulations abound, enforcement's non-existent.

If you have a problem, don't call the police. They're busy drinking coffee, having a smoke, reading a paper, playing a game of checkers, sleeping, smiling.
Or riding around on their dinky blue and white scooters with their fellow police persons.
If I lived in China (perish the thought!), I'd like to be a police person: nice uniforms, cushy job and a free scooter! Yes!

We have yet to see a police person doing anything remotely like 'policing.' Perhaps there is no need here. Certainly we have seen no crime – no one even misbehaving.
No punks on the street, no graffiti, no reckless driving (well, that's relative...)

Walkers vie for space in the streets with buses, trucks and cars.
They stand, like rocks in a fast-flowing river, the stream of traffic momentarily separating to go around them, but never stopping – there is no stopping!

With luck, a critical mass of pedestrians builds up, enough to coax first one car, then another, to slow down or even – wow! - stop, for just a minute. The pedestrians dash across, watching out in all directions: nowhere is one completely safe, not even on the sidewalk.

Motorcycles in particular may come from anywhere – they obey no traffic rules at all – don't stop for red lights, ride on the sidewalk, sail the wrong way up one-way streets, and even highways... but then so do cars and buses.

On the bus, on the train, passing through mile after mile of agricultural mosaic – rice paddies, wheat fields, corn, garlic, tea, vegetables – carefully tended, all by hand.
In all our travels we've seen just a handful of tractors, one or two rototillers.

China's agricultural production is achieved, almost entirely, by peasants with shovels and hoes.
They are out there, from dawn until dusk, backs bent to their labour.
China is literally feeding herself on the backs of her peasants.

Crossing rivers long dry – dammed and damned.
And in the rocky river bed, back-hoes and trucks busy mining sand and gravel, digging great holes, making bit piles, hauling the rocks and sand away to build more roads, prepare new lands (most previously agricultural) for housing, factories... .
There must be no fish here – no water and nowhere to hide.

Winding through mountains scraped and scarred to make roads, grand double-lane highways, freeways.
But where are the cars?
We pass by miles and miles of new road with nary a vehicle. Who and what are these roads for?

Fields interspersed with drab, dingy towns; heavy, gray Soviet-style buildings and apartment blocks.
Piles of brick, rock, sand, dotted everywhere, blocking sidewalks, roadways – what are they all for?
Acres of rubble, covering up old farmland, old rice paddies – what are they going to do here?

Careening through these landscapes, no choice but to listen to endless dreadful screeching music, people screaming on their cell phones, or at one another, all talking at once, talking talking talking.
The Chinese do not know how to be quiet, do not know quiet.

Stopping for a 'nutrition' break – nothing to eat but watery noodle soup, a few green weeds masquerading as vegetables. Or a mountain of rice and a few pieces of pickled cucumber.
Stale popcorn, undercooked potatoes, tough corn on the cob, warm sodas and soft drinks.

In the bigger cities, where western tourists are more plentiful, a few restaurants produce somewhat better food. But still always too oily, and often too hot.
Coffee $3-5 a cup, and tea – Chinese tea! - not much cheaper.
We leave most restaurants disappointed, and often hungry.

We ask 'where's that great Chinese food we get in Vancouver (San Francisco, Singapore)?'
'Ah, that's not 'real' Chinese food! That's Americanized, westernized Chinese food!'
No chow mein or chop suey here. No sweet and sour spare ribs. No lettuce wraps.
Few vegetables or fruits. It's noodles and rice, rice and noodles.

We watch the Chinese chowing down on rice with soups of chicken heads and feet, pigs' livers, and unidentifiable innards.
More often it's just instant noodle soups, the Chinese staple food.
Or KFC or Dicos – its Chinese cousin.
I'm lovin' it!

Public toilets are despicable. We find the toilets by their stench: 'just follow your nose!'
Inside no separate cubicles: a long, open, cement or tile trough runs alongside the walls.
The stink inside is overpowering: you hold your breath.

You squat over the trough, in front of or behind someone else.
You do your business, trying not to look at anyone else, although they have no compunction about staring at you – do foreigner's shit like we do?
You avoid looking down into the trough, try not not to splash.

There's no water to flush. Of course no toilet paper.
No water either to wash your hands; maybe a hose outside where someone's doing their laundry, or washing a fish... . Maybe not.

In hotels and guest-houses we use clean toilets, gratefully. Still we cannot put the toilet paper in the toilet., only in the disgusting overflowing bin beside the toilet – or the floor if no bin's provided.
We note that the Chinese who use them with us leave them dirty – toss toilet paper everywhere, do not wash their hands. Western notions of 'hygiene' have not caught on yet... .

And this a nation where everyone has a cell-phone, where cells work everywhere, where high-speed internet access is accessible everywhere.
A nation proud of its space program, its medical advances, its advanced education.
So what's with their toilets? Why don't they get their shit together?

But wait! Here come the symbols of the real China!

A young man in pleated pants and a tailored shirt, holding a cell phone against his ear with one hand, and a cigarette with the other; weaving gaily through pedestrians and vehicles on his red motorcycle, helmetless and happy.

A young woman in rough peasant clothes, bent over double, a baby on her back, and up to her knees in the muddy water of the rice paddy, planting fistfuls of young rice as night falls, wondering what she will make for her family for dinner.

The 'real' China: I'm lovin' it!

Twenty-five Wonderful Things about China

2009-06-09T02:46:00.000-07:00

Note: For more photos to accompany this article, please go to: www.julesatkins.shutterfly.com and look, on the China page, for the album entitled "Twenty-five Wonderful Things about China"

Stately tree-lined country roads and urban streets. Especially the big old trees, green and graceful, offering shade and shelter, and reminders of the abiding beauty of the natural environment.
Tile roofs with upturned corners. So lyrical and light.
Free exercise equipment in many parks and playgournds. Sturdy, colourful machines for exercising legs, arms, torso and heart. Well-used, especially in the evenings, when many Chinese come out for their daily exercise.
Temples. Everywhere.
Women who still dress up in style and can go anywhere in high heels – down uneven cobblestone streets, through muddy paths and across narrow, broken wood-slat bridges.
People with lots of time to play mah jong, cards, Chinese checkers, and go, or just sit or stand around drinking tea and watching others play.
All things old and ancient.
Colourful, friendly minority ethnic groups, especially in Yunnan, where their numbers are plentiful. Especially the ones who still dress in traditional garb, not just for tourists, but for themselves. Who keep their culture alive despite pervasive attempts to Disneyfy.
Kites. Wonderful, complicated, colourful, fun and free.
Solar water heaters on almost every roof. Subsidized by the Chinese government. And they work like a hot ....!
Beautiful night lights. Flood-lit buildings, bridges and trees in warm golds and greens. Fancy street lamps in all colours of the rainbow. Huge neon signs with brilliant multi-coloured lights blinking, swirling, waving. Night symphonies of colour and light.
Manicured gardens everywhere. Everything in neat rows. No weeds.
Cobble-stone and flag-stone streets.
Hair cuts that come with a half-hour massage – head, neck, shoulders, back, arms and hands. Wonderful!
Children. Cute, curious and very friendly. “Hello!” “Hello!” As always the best ambassadors.
Trains that run absolutely on time. Absolutely. To the minute.
Electric motorcycles. So clean and quiet. What a difference from Vietnam!
Evening dancing in the park, square or street. In almost every city folks gather at night and dance together. In some places they do traditional dances in a big circle. In others, ballroom dancing. The music is canned, but lively. It's absolutely free, everyone is welcome, and everyone joins in. They have such fun!
Incredibly intricate and beautiful wood carvings, everywhere. Temples, houses, hotels, around windows, on doors. Birds, flowers, animals, Chinese symbols. Some painted gay colours, some 'au naturel.' Whichever, always a feast for the eyes.
Cheap buses. Just 20 cents will get you where you want to go.
Walking streets. Every city has a pedestrian area. No cars. No motorcycles, often not even any bicycles. Street and food vendors set up in them.
Beautiful mosaics created by patch-work rice paddies in the flat valley bottom, or by terraces cascading down the mountainsides. Flooded and shimmering, or glowing green with new growth. Often enhanced by the sight of peasants with hat and hoes and once in a while by water buffalos working the fields.
Bonsais and bamboo.
Cheap beer. Not too strong, but not too bad – and the price is right!
People's Parks in every town and city. All with lovely gardens, big old trees, bamboo stands, flowers and water features like lotus ponds, rivers with carved stone bridges or lakes with boats for rent (pedal, row and electric motor). Tea-houses or pavilions where you can play games – mah jong, cards, checkers – or do tai chi or yoga. And best of all, people playing music and dancing. Solitary musicians practicing their scales by the edge of the pond. Duets and groups plugging in their sound equipment and playing for whoever stops to listen. People clapping, people sing,ing people dancing to the music. And right beside them another group singing and dancing another tune, another drummer. And several dancercize groups where lithe young men and women lead participants in fast-paced but graceful dance-aerobic numbers. For me, the People's Parks, and what goes on within them, may be The Most Wonderful Thing about China.

Look Out World, Here Comes China

2009-05-11T21:44:00.000-07:00

Yunnan Province, Southwestern China, May 2009

It's a BIG country, with over a billion people, and it's changing, in some ways more rapidly than similar social and economic changes in the western world, and in some ways, hardly at all. So it's impossible to 'describe' China. Even more impossible for me, having been here only four weeks, and then only in a very small part of one province – which apparently is not at all 'representative' of China – and with the added disadvantage of not speaking the language, and there being very few Chinese who speak English. My China, then, will of necessity be limited to a collection of observations, impressions and reflections.

Perhaps the strongest and most striking impression I have of China, particularly having been in several tourist destinations – and by that I mean domestic, or Chinese, tourists, not foreigners, who are here in insignificant numbers, not even worth counting – is one of increasing economic prosperity and exuberant 'getting and spending.'

China is on a roll. Everywhere we have been we have noticed rampant new construction, mostly of homes and apartments, but also of shops and office complexes. We have also seen a lot of people upgrading and renovating their homes. And almost every home has a solar water heater on the roof, and either cable tv or a satellite dish.

Absolutely everyone, right down to the guy squatting on the pavement selling his few onions and potatoes, has a cell phone. One day we saw two guys in a primitive dugout canoe – called a 'pig trough' by locals – on Lugu Lake. One of them was talking on his cell phone. And in China, talk is cheap, so they're on their cells almost constantly. Walking down the road, riding on buses, shopping in the market – cell phone to their ear and talking, talking, talking- generally haute voix (there is not other).

Even more noticeable are the crowds of Chinese tourists, and locals, shopping and buying. Not cheap knock-off stuff, but REAL Gucci bags, Rolex watches, designer clothes and silver jewelry. More and more Chinese have money to burn. Burning fake paper money is an integral part of religious ritual here that is now finding its counterpart in real spending.

It is clear that the Chinese are enjoying their new wealth. They love to shop. They love to buy things. And, more than anything, they love to be seen with the things they have bought. It's all about status, about not only 'saving face,' by having the latest and the best, but also 'getting face,' by being the first to have them.

From what we can see, the western world can absolutely count on China to 'save' us from the economic mess we have created with our profligacy. It's their turn now. And there are so many of them that even if only a few of them have the money to spend, it's significant, in global terms.

The propensity of the newly rich Chinese to spend, spend, spend is also a phenomenon that is largely beyond the ability of the Chinese government, which controls the minutiae of its people's lives, to control, even if it wanted to. China is fast becoming 'the new America.'

And in a word, what I would say about this phenomenon, in terms of its social as well as economic impacts is: “look out world, here comes China!”

The burgeoning growth and development of China, the economic and social ascendancy of China in global terms, has profound implications for the west. The west is clearly not ready, mostly because it is so completely ignorant of Asian, and in particular Chinese, culture. Chinese culture, as western as it is becoming, is still vastly different from western. There are more differences than similarities, and some of the differences are going to be hard for westerners to accept.

For me one of the biggest differences is the Chinese attitude towards the natural environment. The most obvious manifestation of this is how the Chinese deal with their garbage. In the first instance, everyone simply throws whatever they don't want on the ground, in the ditch, out the window, or onto a growing pile in a vacant lot or by the roadside. There is no concept at all of 'littering.'

One morning we were sitting at a small table right on the edge of Lugu Lake – one of Ynnan's premier 'natural park reserves' that you pay 80 Yuan ($15) to enter. A man and his little girl were sitting nearby, slurping down their bowls of noodles. When they'd finished, man and girl wiped their hands on a half-dozen napkins and then pointedly threw them on the ground.

They could have left them on the table for the 'waiter' to collect. There was a garbage can not ten feet away. But they almost made a show of throwing them on the ground. Then the man called the 'waiter' (cafe owner and cook) over to pay. The waiter picked up all the napkins as the man and girl looked on. The man pointed to one of them that the waiter seemed in danger of missing. Perhaps this was some kind of power trip.

As they walked away, the little girl, skipping gaily and cute as a button, threw one last napkin insouciantly over her shoulder onto the ground. Either the waiter will pick that one up as well, or it will join the litter in the lake of this treasured provincial park.

Even in the 'countryside' the roads are lined with refuse – everything from old shoes and scraps of clothing to plastic bags and bottles and bits of metal. At intervals along every road is a mini-mountain or landslide of rotting, stinking garbage, all open (we have seen no 'garbage bags' in China), and all being liberally spread around by wind, birds and dogs.

We've seen several garbage trucks. The garbage workers go round, masked but bare-handed, sweeping and shoveling the loose garbage into buckets and baskets and tossing the contents up into the trucks. We presume there are even bigger piles of garbage somewhere outside the cities, although we haven't seen them – yet.

There are some wonderful small-scale and long-standing recycling practices in China. In the cities we've been in so far, we have seen men and women with bicycle-powered carts who go round collecting cardboard, paper and metal. They carry little scales, weigh the metal out, and pay the householder for it.

We've also seen people collecting slops from homes, businesses and restaurants. We don't know whether the collected slop is fed to pigs (presuming they like their food hot, as most of it is here) or used for compost. Either way, it's better than combining it with the garbage.

Even sadder than the garbage on the roads is the garbage tossed into China's streams and rivers. Additionaly, liquid waste is often dumped into rivers and streams. In cities, we watch people coming out of their homes with a pail of sudsy, greasy or dirty water and pouring it into the cement-lined gutter/stream that borders the sidewalk. Just 'downstream,' someone is washing their dishes or doing their laundry with that same water. Someone else is brushing their teeth or washing their hair.

The little streams that run through cities and towns often stink like sewers, although many support goldfish and carp, as well as healthy populations of plastic bottles and bags. In the countryside, the majority of the rivers we've seen have been dammed, with plans in the works to dam more, and bigger. We've seen many almost dry river beds downstream of these dams – trickes of water where there used to be torrents. We've seen no fish ladders.

China's demand for electricity, consistent with the new found wealth of its people, and their demand for all things electric, coupled with increasing demands from the rampant economic and industrial growth, is almost insatiable. China is also building dams in Laos, and buying power from Vietnam.

China is also cutting down its forests at an alarming rate. Here in Yunnan, many houses are constructed not just of wood, but of huge timbers. The biggest timbers, some two feet in diameter, support the two-story structure. More timbers are used for joists and flooring. And more wood is used for elaborate carved gates, doors, windows and decorations.

Both here and even more in the north of China, wood, and sometimes charcoal, is also used for cooking and heating. It's burned in open fires, either outside or inside the house, where holes in the roof are the only escape for the smoke. These fires are dreadfully inefficient, requiring large amounts of wood to produce sufficient heat for cooking.

We were quoted a horrific statistic about China's use of wood: 6 tons per person per year. At that rate, China's forests will be gone in no time. Furthermore, according to a young American we met who had been working in northern China for an environmental NGO, China has so far had little success with its re-forestation projects.

In his view, this is because the Chinese have insisted on planting trees that are not suited to the climate or conditions of the natural environment. They are more concerned with 'aesthetics,' wanting the trees all to be the same, and all in perfect rows – appealing to their sense of order – than with biology. Certainly we have seen many denuded hill-sides, and several areas where planted trees have not taken hold.

In terms of their cities, what we see is that the Chinese tend to favour 'pretty' and 'cute' built environments. Old houses and neighbourhoods give way to new boutiques and malls. Several of the cities we've been in have a sort of Disneyland feel – the new buildings are done in a 'traditional' style, but lack authenticity. Art installations, meticulous plantings of flowers and shrubs, old-timey light fixtures, and dramatic night lighting complete the effect.

In many cases, the Disneynification is completed by tourists having to pay an entrance fee to get into the city. In Li Jiang, the fee is 80 Yuan, or $15. Once that's paid, there are additional fees, usually around $5, for individual 'attractions' within the city – like viewpoints, lakes, parks and historic buildings. These fees appear to apply to Chinese tourists as well, although the Chinese tend to travel in large groups, getting similarly large discounts for such things as hotel accommodation and entrance fees. So where we pay $15, they may pay more like $5, or even less.

It's difficult to speculate whether Chinese attitudes towards the environment will change fast enough to prevent the complete devastation of the Chinese environment (and that of parts of Laos and Vietnam). Given the sheer numbers of Chinese (over a billion), I would doubt it. Rather I would see Chinese demand for raw materials and for consumer products continuing to grow at an increasingly rapid rate.

What this will mean, in global terms, is sobering, to say the least. It has made us wonder about the ongoing value of environmental regulations and restrictions in the western world. Compared to the damage that may be done satisfying the exponentially growing needs and wants of over a billion Chinese, what difference will our efforts make?

“Look out world, here comes China!”

Shangri La Shop Signs: Well beyond 'Hello Kitty'

2009-05-11T21:26:00.000-07:00

Shangri La Shop Signs: Well beyond 'Hello Kitty'

Almost all of these signs were seen on just a few blocks of one road in Shangri La (two were spotted in Li Jiang). They kept us laughing all the way to the much more serious Agricultural Bank of China, where we couldn't cash our travelers cheques (the hitch was that they're in Canadian funds – big mistake here in Asia) and the visa extension office, which is manned by the police (although the gal there was very friendly and helpful). Here they are:

Bring Health Back
Money processing shop (selling pop, candy and cigarettes)
Spouse health care Things shop
Auto Buddhism Thing
Gold the sun big pharmacy
Really guarantee Daily cosmetics
Castle of clothes
The dream like clothing
Magic power dress
Country Vein Communication
The Guang Hui Hides a Clan Clothing Store
Flower Fairy Hostel Repairing Watches
The Clean Race Trading Company
The Gui Qing Sound is like a Store
The Thousand Joy Supermarket
Good Woman of the Made-Up City (selling cosmetics, of course)
Satisfied Race Thing Store
Fashion Official Business
Natural Source Water Apartments
American Bull Fashion
Sincere Love Western Food Ceisure Bar
Kunming Handsome Thou Glad Clothing
Military Group Guest House
No. 4 Branch of Soil Pot Food
Cheap Trading Company
God of Wealth Inn
Features Hot Dish Floor
Silly Women Restaurant
China Fottball Lootery

...and our particular favourite,

pecker lie fallow shoes

Phu Quoc Island, Vietnam

2009-04-10T20:00:00.000-07:00

This is an older post, from January
To view more photos of Phu Quoc island, go to:

www.julesatkins.shutterfly.com/vietnamarticles

For the last two weeks we've been here on Phu Quoc Island, not far off the south-western shore of Vietnam. It's actually closer to Cambodia, and Cambodia does 'claim' it, but Vietnam's got the bigger army, so Vietnam's it is.

In a word, for us, it's perfect. A tropical island with golden sand, dark aquamarine waters, hot sunny days – but very little humidity, and almost always a freshening breeze. Graceful palms and thatch-topped palapas that look like toadstools line the beach. The nights are warm enough to be sleeveless for dinner, then just cool enough to sleep without a fan.

We are happily ensconced in a little bungalow about 100 yards from the beach. There's no development in front of us: we look out over a field of sedge grass and a placid lily pond to the open waters of the Gulf of Thailand. Most days a small herd of cows – two of whom have new-born calves – roam the grassy verge alongside the beach. A guy and his wife come with a net. He wades into the pond, splashing the water with a stick to scare the fish into his net. A few birds flit about over the pond, catching insects.

Our bungalow is basic, with no phone, no tv, and no hot water. But we set a jug and a pail of water in the sun around noon, and by late afternoon they're piping hot. “Give me the warm power of the sun!” We have a fan, which we hardly use, and a fridge, which we use a lot. Water and beer are icy cold. For all of this we pay just $15 a night.

We go to sleep to a chorus of frogs, and awake to the pre-dawn reveille of roosters. Just like home. We don't get up until a thermos of hot water is delivered to our door. Then we make tea and coffee, and sit out on our patio deck drinking copious cups. An hour or two later a breakfast of eggs and bread arrives.

We spend the morning sitting or laying in hammocks reading. We listen to the BBC World News on the radio. Fidel is dying, Hugo Chavez is making ridiculous remarks, Israel is bombing Gaza, and the economic situation everywhere just keeps getting worse. Doug sweeps yesterday's sand from the patio. I imagine the news going with it, over the edge. I write for hours, trying to make sense of the torrent of notes from previous trips.

Around mid-day, when the sun's too hot to sit in comfortably, we retreat inside and make ourselves some lunch. Before we came out to the beach we went to the market in town and bought oranges, tomatoes, cucumbers and bread. Then to a store for cheese, yogurt, and crackers. As my Aunt Syl used to say: “We just want a light lunch – nothing to fill us up!”

Then we head to the beach. There's seldom anyone on our stretch of beach, which is the least developed section. To our left there's almost nothing – one more small resort and cafe, and then just miles of beach. To the right, which is towards town, there's more development. Several hotels, resorts, cafes and restaurants.

So we are gloriously alone. We swim in water that is only just cool enough to be refreshing. We bob up and down in the waves. We loll. Then we sit and drip dry, looking out on an endless sea. We watch the waves. Each one is different, unique, like a snowflake, with its own personality – turbulent or tame, roaring or whispering.

The horizon before us is so wide that we can see the earth's curve – or we imagine we can, which is just as good. Way out there, a well-spaced line of little fishing boats reminds me of ants on a log. Just as insignificant, and vulnerable. They don't go out when it's windy, and there's no fish in the restaurants those days.

Sometimes we take a walk along the beach. If we scuff our feet when we walk in the dry sand, it makes a squeaking noise. Why is that we wonder? When we walk in the wet sand, it squelches. We leave deep, neat foot-prints that the waves wash away within seconds. Like the ants, we're insignificant, and hopelessly transient.

When the sun starts dropping towards the horizon, and it cools off a little, we head back up to our bungalow to have our bucket-baths. We sit on the deck again and count our blessings for having found this perfect place. Sometimes we visit with other travelers. There's a couple from Lasqueti Island in the bungalow behind us, and a lovely young German gal in the one beside us.

And then it's time for dinner. We walk barefoot along the beach to our favourite restaurant, the Nhat Lan. Most of its tables are right on the beach, and we always manage to get one up front, with an unimpeded view of the ocean, the bruised-purple sky, the fading light, and then the stars as they begin to pierce the darkness. The food is fabulous – especially of course, the fish, caught that day and cooked to perfection.

We walk back in the dark, our attention drawn up to the now bright stars, and then down to the equally tiny and bright – almost electric – blue lights of the plankton at the water's edge. Each wave casts a new pattern of lights on shore – magical like night-fairy dust.

The sound of the waves is drowned out by the raucous croaking of frogs and the shrill chirping of crickets as we cross the little bridge that leads from the beach to our bungalow. We lower our lovely lacy, lily-patterned mosquito net draped over the bed – protection from the odd mosquito – and read until we fall asleep.

We revel in the glorious emptiness of our days. We relish the quiet, the peace. We plan no activities. It is enough just to be here and enjoy this place.

If we could, we'd stay here for weeks, perhaps months. But our Vietnam visa expires on January 25, and we've already extended it once, which is all that's allowed. So we're off to Cambodia, with the hope that we might find something almost as perfect there.

Among the Hmong in Sa Pa, Vietnam

2009-04-09T23:45:00.000-07:00

To view more photos for this article go to:
www.julesatkins.shutterfly.com/vietnamarticles

Looking for Son

We came back to Sa Pa at the end of March, hoping it would be warmer than it was in mid-December, when we stayed only three bitterly cold days, made colder by the lack of central heating and the locals' insistence on keeping doors wide open. They're a hardy people, but they also wear ski jackets and scarves all the time, indoors and out.

We came back to Sa Pa partly because we were anyway on our way north to China, and it was only a minor diversion, but mostly to look for Son. Son is a petite Hmong woman with whom we'd become friends. We'd walked and talked with her, as much as her limited English would permit, and she'd given me a metal bracelet to remember her by – as if I could forget!

We arrived in Sa Pa in the early morning, exhausted from a sleepless night on the overnight train from Hanoi to Lao Cai. After a quick nap we headed to the market, and to the table in the corner where the women from Son's village eat their lunch. There were many of them there, in their distinctive indigo blue tunics with bright embroidered bands around the sleeves and on the collars, colourful scarf hats, big hoop earrings and distinctive silver chain necklaces.

We didn't see Son. But as we sat slurping our pho soup, I thought I recognized one of the younger women. She had a beautiful smile and a baby on her back. “I remember you!” she said. “You were here before, a few months ago.” She told me her name was Zee, her baby Van. We traded pleasantries for a while, and then I told her we were looking for Son.

“Son,” she repeated, sounding doubtful. “Do you have a photo of her?” I told her we didn't have one with us, but I could show her one later, at the hotel. I tried to describe Son, but realized my description matched several of the women who were sitting at the table.

Just then another Hmong woman came up behind me, put her hand on my shoulder, and beamed “hello!” I recognized her instantly and asked her too: “Have you seen Son?” She didn't seem to recognize the name. I tried several different pronunciations, in vain. Neither of them seemed to know who Son was.

The next morning Zee stopped by our hotel. I showed her a photo of Son. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “Shon! Not Son, Shon. Shon is my auntie! She's at the market. I'll tell her you're here!”
Around mid-day the sun burned through the morning fog and revealed the terraced valley below us. The flooded rice paddies, a cascade of gold and silver crescents reflecting the light of the sun, enticed us into a walk. We headed down the concrete lid of a sewage canal, a steep but easy path into the valley. And then across muddy trails through acres of rose gardens, corn fields, and sparse pine forests.

We sat for a while overlooking the valley – the rice paddies, the river and the roofs of village houses far below us – and snacked on cheese and crackers. Then we followed a narrow path along the edge of the valley to 'civilization' – a road down to the touristy Cat Cat village just minutes from Sa Pa.

We walked up the road and were almost back to Sa Pa when we saw Zee walking towards us – with Son, who now I must remember as Shon. It was quite a reunion: no hesitant shyness, no attempt at stilted conversation. We threw our arms around one another and laughed and hugged and said “my friend! So good to see you! My friend!”

Zee and Shon were heading down to Cat Cat to sell. We were heading up to town to rest. Zee asked us if we'd like to go to Hau Thao, the village where both she and Shon live. “Tourists don't go there,” she said. “I can take you there. We can have lunch.” Shon piped up, “I cook you lunch. You eat everything ok, no problem. I cook for you. Ok?”

It sounded great to us. We bought some oranges and cucumbers for lunch. We gathered up all of the complimentary toothbrushes we'd been getting at hotels in Vietnam. They make much better gifts for kids than pens and candies.

Walking to Hau Thao

That night a crashing lightening and thunder storm howled up the valley. Rain bucketed down from the roof onto our balcony. By the next morning the storm had abated, but a thick fog enveloped the town. We weren't certain this would be a good day for a walk. But as we were having an outdoor breakfast at a cafe near our hotel we saw Zee. who'd just walked the three hours into town to pick us up. How could we demur?

Zee went off to the market to buy noodles and look for Shon, who had also already walked in to town. A few minutes later we saw Shon, who'd missed Zee. We gave Shon 50,000 Dong (US$3) and asked her to go to the market and buy some beef for lunch. We had to 'moo' and stick our fingers like horns on our heads to get the message clear, but after some initial confusion Shon's eyes lit up and she said “I know, I know. I buy meat, I cook, you eat.”

When they came by our hotel Shon and Zee brought along two other women from the village – Mee, a mother of three, and Joo, a girl of thirteen with a sweet face and a beautiful smile. And so the six of us started off down the road to their village, Hau Thao. Zee said it would take us about three to three and a half hours to get there walking, like the Hmong, at a steady, but moderate, pace.

Sa Pa, also known as the 'Queen of the Mountains,' sits at 1650 meters, and is often enshrouded by clouds. Our walk took us higher up into the mountains. Within an hour we were above the clouds, looking down on the valley below, a beautiful mosaic of crescent-shaped rice paddies cascading down the mountain slopes to the Muong Hoa River. As the sun broke through the fog, the flooded rice paddies shimmered silver and gold in the reflected light.

We passed by a few isolated houses and one small village. We saw few people, but those we did see were very friendly, smiling, waving and calling out 'hellos!' As usual the kids were the most enthusiastic. At one point a group of young girls came running down the mountainside to see us. We stopped to chat, and Shon helped one of them strap a baby on her back with a long piece of fabric. The girl looked very young, and small. The baby looked heavy.

We asked Shon to ask the girl how old she was. The answer was 'ten.' And the baby almost two. It's not uncommon to see children much younger looking after and toting babies around. Kids grow up and assume responsibilities fast in these cultures – fetching wood, carrying water, working in the fields, and looking after younger children.

A little further along we stopped to watch a man and a boy ploughing a flooded rice paddy with two huge water buffalo. The buffalo were unwieldy, refusing to turn when they came to the edge of the paddy, and stumbling over the low mud dykes from one paddy to another. The man and boy shouted commands at them to no avail. They had to lift their heavy mud-laden ploughs up out of the water until they got the buffalos back on track. It looked like tremendously hard, cold and wet work. Both man and boy were up to their knees in water, their clothes soaked and covered in mud.
After a couple of hours walking mostly uphill our path diverged from the main track and we headed down a mud and stone path, and sometime stream. It was treacherous going – steep and slippery with no trees or shrubs for hand-holds. The Hmong women skipped down the trail, as sure-footed as mountain goats. We walked through several muddy patches and streams, balancing precariously on wiggly rocks. The Hmong women took our hands to steady us, but nonetheless our feet got wet.

After about an hour's walk on this smaller trail Zee pointed to a small collection of houses on the mountainside. “Shon's house is there.” We then departed from the trail onto an even smaller path, climbing over a rock wall and snaking along the mountainside, down and up through more streams until we came to Shon's house.

Lunch at Shon's House

Shon's house was similar to many we'd seen – wooden walls and an old corrugated metal roof. Inside was dark. There are no windows; the only light came from the open door. A child was sweeping up a collection of plastic and paper scraps on the dirt floor. There was no furniture, save for a couple of small, low wooden benches – just big enough for one person to squat on.

There were two smaller rooms off the main room. In one, Shon's husband, wearing the traditional Hmong man's black tunic top and shorts, was coaxing a small fire into life. There was a simple metal grate over the fire, and a blackened battered kettle in the corner. It was very dark in the room; here the little fire provided the only light.

Mee asked us to come to her house to see her children. It was just a few muddy, slippery steps from Shon's. Equally dark, but with slightly more furniture – a couple of chairs and a table – and some clothes hanging on a wire stretched in one corner. We sat down on a couple of low benches.

A woman arrived with Mee's two kids in tow – May, a four year old girl, and Kai, a ten month baby boy. Several other kids came in as well, curious to see the 'falangs' (foreigners) at Mee's house. Mee put Kai straight to her breast, where he nursed without stop for the next half hour. I wondered what he'd been fed while she'd been gone.

The other kids posed for photos: they love seeing themselves on the little screen of the camera. I promised Mee I'd get some prints made for her. Then, the baby fed, we headed back to Shon's for lunch.

Shon's husband was still at the fire, tending a large pot of rice. He cooked up the sliced beef in a greasy black skillet, then went out and poured the excess grease onto the ground and came back and cooked up some scrambled eggs. We peeled and sliced a couple of cucumbers.

The girls brought a small low table into the main room. Shon's husband covered it with an old bit of plastic. From the other room Shon and the girls brought out bowls for each of us, and several sets of chopsticks, and put them on the table. Then they brought out some slightly larger bowls filled with the meat, the eggs, some instant noodles and some sticky rice, an Asian staple. The cucumbers were nestled on a plastic bag. The big pot of rice sat on the floor beside the table. Lunch was ready.

Although by this time there were many people in Shon's house, including at least a dozen kids, all ragged and dirty and most with snotty noses, only Shon, Zee, Mee, Joo, Doug and I sat down at the table to eat. Truly the table was so small, there was hardly room for anyone else, and anyway there were no more benches.

Shon and Zee took our bowls and, using their chopsticks, filled them with rice, noodles and meat. I noted that none of them were helping themselves to the cucumbers so, following suit, I chopsticked slices of cuke into each of their bowls. There was apparently an etiquette here regarding food. Every time our bowls were almost empty, one of the girls would chopstick some noodles or meat and put them in our bowl. I did likewise with the cukes.

Shon's husband had put the frying pan on the floor near the table. There was still a bit of egg in it. Shon's two smallest kids squatted by the pan, scooping up the egg with their grubby little paws and stuffing it into their mouths. Then they circled round the table, pointing at what they wanted. Shon would chopstick them a piece of meat, a bit of sticky rice. I could see one of them eying the cucumber. It's possible he'd never seen it before. I grabbed a slice with my chopsticks and held it out to him. He looked tentative at first, but then took it with a big smile.

It was amazing to watch how the Hmong gals packed the food away. They ate with real gusto. This was clearly a special occasion. It's likely that their usual fare is rice, perhaps with some wild greens. The Hmongs do grow corn, squash, potatoes and green beans – but it was too early for any of these. The noodles, eggs and meat were a special treat.

After lunch it was Shon's turn to have photos taken with her kids. Her husband, as many Hmong men, was too shy to pose. We left the kids with a toothbrush each and some mandarin oranges. We could see they liked the oranges; we hope they'll use the toothbrushes.

Stopping at Zee's House

By the time we finished lunch it was three o'clock or so – time to be heading back to Sa Pa. Zee wanted us to go to her house, which was about 20 minutes' walk downhill from Shon's. Shon wanted to come with us, but Mee and Joo were home, so we said our good-byes to them, knowing we'd likely see them in Sa Pa over the next few days.

The path to Zee's was just a muddy stream bed, and very slippery in several places. Shon held my hand to make sure I didn't fall, although she was slipping too. I laughed and said, “You go down, I go down; I go down, you go down.” Shon thought that was great: we were friends.

I took the opportunity to give Shon and Zee a couple of friendship bracelets that I'd bought in Mexico – colourful woven bracelets unlike anything we've seen here. As we tied Shon's round her wrist she said again, “we friends.” And Zee said, “and every time we wash our hands or look at them, we'll think of you, and remember... .” Doug took the opportunity to give each of them each some cash as well – a more practical, if less sentimental, gift.

When we got to Zee's house, her husband appeared around the corner with their two kids – a four year old and a two year old. He'd been working in the rice paddy, and had just collected them from his mother. He looked young, even younger than Zee, who's twenty-five. And he was shy – just smiled and said “hello” before squatting down and tending to the fire.

Zee's house was smaller than Shon's, with walls of split bamboo that let both light, and cold winds, through. But there was more furniture – a table, an old treadle sewing machine practically buried under a mountain of ragged clothing, a tv, and a dvd player!

There was also a collage of family photos on one of the walls, and two posters about HIV/AIDS. Because Zee's husband can read and write Vietnamese, he does a little work for the local clinic. He translates information and dispenses medicines to Hmong villagers. For this he receives 40,000 Dong (about US$3) a month. That's his only cash income. Mostly he works in the rice paddies or their vegetable gardens, some of which are 30 to 40 minutes' walk from their house. And he is constantly collecting wood for their fire, over which all food is cooked.

Zee's mother arrived a few minutes' later, with several little kids in tow – Zee's brothers' children. It seems in many Hmong families, grandmothers tend to the kids while fathers and mothers work. Zee has chosen, like many Hmong women, to try her luck selling embroidered bags and pillow cases, bracelets and postcards, to tourists in Sa Pa. She gets up at five every morning, feeds her family, and then sets out to walk the three hours into town. Some days she sells nothing at all; other days she's lucky and makes US$5, or even $10. And then she walks home. It's a tough way to make a living.

Zee wanted some family photos too, but her husband was too shy to pose. He squatted by the fire, feeding it small sticks. I suggested she squat down beside him, and we managed to tease him into giving some beautiful big smiles for the camera.

Now it really was time to go. Zee and Shon insisted on walking us down to the road and helping us get some motorcycle guys to take us back to Sa Pa. “We can get a better price for you!” they said.

And so they came with us to the road, chose the 'best' moto drivers, and negotiated the 'best' price. We said our good-byes with big hugs and little kisses on the cheek, all thanking one another – for the walk, for the lunch, for sharing, and for being friends.

The next day we got the photos printed, and found some mini-albums that would protect the pictures, at least for a while, as they're passed from hand to hand to hand for all to admire – and remember. I wrote a short inscription in Shon's album: “To My Friend Shon, Best Wishes Always, From Jules and Doug.”

Coming Home to Hue, Vietnam

2009-03-30T21:39:00.000-07:00

To view more photos for this article, go to: www.julesatkins.shutterfly.com/vietnamarticles

The first rime we were in Hue it was December, and the weather was cloudy and cool. But it was great weather for walking. We visited the temples and gardens of the Imperial City, imagining the charmed and privileged lives of Hue's emperors and elite. We walked along the Perfume River, and watched the sampans and dragon boats as they drifted slowly by.

We frequented the markets – the big, dirty Dong Da market where you can buy anything from fresh fish to watches – and the little markets that spring up anywhere and any time there's a few hopeful sellers and at least one willing buyer.

One of our favourite markets was just around the corner from our hotel. In the midst of the fruit and vegetable vendors, there's a little food stall where Xinh (pronounced 'sin'!) cooks up some of the best 'street food' we've had. We'd stop by almost every day just to see her. We'd find her squatting on the dirt floor crushing ginger with a little mortar and pestle, or standing over one of her big steaming cook-pots, stirring, and smiling.

She'd serve us big bowls of pho and laugh at the pictures we took, the things that interested us – her cooking pots, her plates of food. She spoke not a word of English, and we no Vietnamese, but we became friends nonetheless. We gave her a booklet of photos before we left.

We sampled Vietnamese cuisine at many restaurants, all good, but settled on the clean green Sai Gon Pho as our favourite. During our ten days in Hue, we were 'regulars' there. We took photos of the cute waitresses in their matching t-shirts. We became friends with Hang (which means 'moon'), the owner. When we said good-bye to her, and told her we were on our way to Danang, she was ecstatic.

“Danang! I go Danang too! My son open new restaurant in Danang! You come to opening!” And she gave us his card: for the new Sai Gon Noodle in Danang. We promised we'd try, and managed to make good on our promise. The opening was wonderful – mostly friends and family. We were the only 'falangs,' attracting lots of smiles and thumbs-ups. The place was just like ma's, the menu was identical, and the food, of course, great.

But maybe the best thing about Hue was our hotel – the Binh Duong II – a family-run guest house just down the road from the Sai Gon Pho. We had a nice big room with a balcony and all the amenities, including in-room internet. But the reason we liked the place so much was the super attentive and friendly service. By the time we left we felt like part of the Binh Duong family.

So when we decided to go back to Vietnam in March, after a hot couple of months in Cambodia and southern Laos, we headed straight for Hue. We emailed the Binh Duong to let them know we were coming. They emailed back right away: “your room will be waiting for you!”

We got into Hue in the early evening, after a long bus-ride from Savannakhet in Laos. After the lackadaisical attitudes and general inefficiency we experienced in Laos, we were looking forward to Vietnam, and in particular to Hue: it felt like we were going home.

We weren't disappointed. Our friends at the Binh Duong hotel were all there and waiting to greet us when we arrived: “Welcome, welcome, welcome. We are so happy to see you!” Big smiles, warm hand shakes. Our bags were out of the taxi and up to our room before we could turn around. We were home!

We headed down to the Sai Gon Pho for dinner. When Hang saw us walk in she dropped what she was doing and rushed over to say 'hello.' I even got a hug – not a characteristically Vietnamese greeting, but she was so excited she forgot herself. Hang also speaks very little English, but she managed to get across the message that tonight's dinner was 'on the house.'

Not long after we sat down, Hang put a video on the restaurant tv. It was one she had taken at the opening of her son's restaurant. She sat down to watch it with us, and shrieked when we came on, pointing to the tv, and then to us. “There you are! There you are!”

When we said good-night to Hang, thanking her for the free dinner, she said: “You not just friends, you family.” We were home: it was a good feeling.

The next day we stopped in to see Xinh. She was even more amazed to see us than Hang. Her face lit up, she put her arms around me, and kissed my cheek. Then she led us to one of her little tables, insisting that we sit while she got us a glass of tea.

As we were drinking it, she went over to her glass-fronted cupboard, opened a drawer, and pulled out the little photo album we'd given her. She sat down and showed us the photos. She lingered over the photos of her with each of us, pointing at them, and then at us, and smiling. The album had been well-looked at: the pages were sticky.

She put the album away, then came back and sat beside me. She snuggled her shoulder up beside mine, held my hand and stroked my arm. She put her finger on the bridge of my nose and smiled. She likes my nose, so long and straight. She pointed to her nose, small and upturned, and laughed. But truly, she is so beautiful, with her high cheek-bones and fine chiseled features – and her nose is perfect. It's an Asian nose!

Xinh was so excited she couldn't sit still for too long. She jumped up and started plying us with special treats. She started with a plate full of little banana-leaf wrapped packages of sticky sweet coconut rice – a Vietnamese staple snack. A guy beside us was eating some whole jellied shrimps with hot chili sauce. We asked her what they were (using the old point and gesture sign language that works so well.) Her answer, of course, was to give us a plate of those.

As we were eating the jellied shrimps, Xinh sent her young helper, who had been making trays of stuffed dough-balls, out to get some sesame seeds from one of the market vendors. Xinh got an electric mini-blender(!) out of her store-all cupboard and poured the seeds into it. She put the blender on top of the tv – there are no 'counters' in her market 'kitchen' – and only one plug, dangling from a cord just above the tv. It's primitive, but it works.

Xinh popped several dough-balls into a bot of boiling water. Then she stirred the ground sesame seeds into a milky liquid that she'd been simmering over the charcoal fire. Once the dough-balls were done, she put a few of them into a couple of glasses and poured the milk over top.

Xinh watched me expectantly as I tried the 'dough-ball soup.' The milky liquid was sweet and coco-nutty. The balls were tender. I decided the stuffing was sweet yellow bean. I gave Xinh a big thumbs up, and said, 'coco-nut' and smiled.

She got the message, and went over to her display case and came back with a big plastic jar filled with toasted sweet coconut curls. She sprinkled some of them on top, and stirred them in. I happen to love coconut, so when I saw the jar I couldn't hide my enthusiasm: It was rewarded with a plastic baggie filled toasted coconut curls – a snack for later.

Once we'd finished the coconut milk soup Xinh came over with another sweet treat – a glass of sweet red beans. By now I was getting full – I'd already had lunch! But Xinh was having such a good time it was hard to say 'enough!'

When we finally left, sated, Xinh gave me another big hug and stroked my cheek. “I come back,” I said. “I come back.” She just smiled, and held my hand, and smiled again. We don't share a language, but in these situations, words are superfluous.

As we took our leave from Xinh I felt again that powerful sensation: We'd 'come home' to Hue. These people – my Binh Duong family, Hang and Xinh, especially Xinh – are my friends, all the more special and appreciated because we don't speak the same language. The 'language' we share is the language of the heart.

Angels in our Midst, Kratie Cambodia

2009-03-29T20:59:00.000-07:00

To view more photos for this article go to
www.julesatkins.shutterfly.com/cambodiaarticles

It's funny – and wonderful – how one sometimes gets the messages one needs most at the right time, but from the most unlikely sources. This is a story about angels.

I have recently been through yet another difficult time with my family of origin. It's a large family, dominated by my eldest brother, who consistently ridicules and bullies other members of the family – particularly the females.

This behaviour has been going on for so long unchallenged that it has become accepted as 'normal.' As I'm the only one who doesn't accept it, I'm frequently identified as the disruptive and unwelcome element.

On this occasion, my brother has decided to ostracize me from a family discussion. (I had the audacity to ask some questions about his points of view.) The rest of the family has decided, as usual, not to say or do anything about this discriminatory behaviour. They don't want to 'get involved.'

But as I am smarting from this latest family sting, two angels bearing messages of love and appreciation came my way. Just when I needed them, there they were.

The first is an old friend 'back home' who I haven't heard from in months, but who has been reading my posts from Asia. She wrote:

“I've just read all of your letters (some for the second time) in one go tonight. Jules, you are a marvellous writer All of your pieces have been so interesting and elucidating. I have laughed and sighed, and definitely been envy-green of your Phu Quoc beach days (daze). But the little girl, Alberta, touched me the most. ...I just saw the movie, "Slum Dog Millionaire" last night, and your "Alberta" could have been in some of those scenes. I hope she writes her way out of poverty. How does it feel for you to have to walk away from her, and others like her, how do you get past what I imagine would be a deep sense of powerlessness and frustration, to say nothing of sorrow....aaah, that old wheel of life, it just keeps turnin' around.”

I am elated. How wonderful to hear that someone thinks I'm 'a marvellous writer,' and that my scribblings have moved them to laughter and sighs. And how wonderful that she understands and appreciates the sentiments that underly my writings.

My second angel was someone I'd never met. We were checking out a different hotel, looking for one with hot water which ours claimed to have when we took the room, but admitted they didn't have when we pointed out that the water heater in our bathroom didn't seem to be working... .

She came bounding up the stairs – young, fresh, attractive – and full of energy. We struck up a conversation right away. As she was clearly Asian, but spoke impeccable English, I wondered where she was from. Singapore? Hong Kong?

“China,” she said. “I'm from Shenzhen, a city in Guangdong province, in the southeast of China.” She's here in Kratie, like us and most of the other tourists, to see the rare Irriwaddy dolphin. (There are apparently only about 100 left, so their days are numbered.) We agreed we'd all go together a little later that afternoon.

The trip to see the dolphins involved a half-hour ride in a tuk-tuk, and then an hour in a little wooden boat drifting about in the middle of the Mekong River watching for dolpins. We saw lots of them – likely the same ones numerous times. There's a resident 'school' of around 16 of them in this area.

The outing gave us a chance to get to know Hebe (pronounced Heebee) a little better. The first thing she said, when she got into the tuk-tuk with us, was: “When I saw you I thought you must be a movie star. You are so beautiful and you have that, what is the word, that air of elegance about you that movie stars have.”

Now, for a 58 year old woman with white hair who wears no make up and definitely does not consider themselves even remotely beautiful, let alone like a 'movie star,' these were more than just 'encouraging words. This was downright dazzling!

“Elephant,” I said. “You think I'm elephant!” Her English is good enough that she got the play on words right away, and laughed. She gave me a hug. “Yes really, I think you're very elephant!”

She is not only really (and truly) beautiful herself, but clearly has a winning way with people. Unfortunately she had managed to hit her head that morning, opening up a gash on her forehead which she'd covered with a large bandage. I asked her about it. She said she'd walked right into a metal pipe that was sticking out into a sidewalk area from a construction site.

“Was it dirty and rusty?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, “it was.” “Do you know about tetanus?” “Yes, but I don't have to worry, I'm from China.”

I told her why, even if the cut was small, she did need to worry – especially here, in a country like Cambodia, where medical facilities and resources are, to say the least, very limited. I told her I'd take a look at the cut for her after dinner.

Meanwhile, as luck would have it, I saw another young woman at the restaurant we were having dinner at. She looked like she might be working here in Cambodia, and I decided to ask her if she knew anything about health care facilities here in Kratie, and specifically about the availability of tetanus vaccine.

As luck would also have it, she was a health care worker, and she knew a lot about the facilities and resources here. Furthermore, she volunteered to ride her bicycle up the road to see if the doctor's clinic was still open, as that's who had the tetanus vaccine. She came back to say that the clinic was open, but the doctor was not there. However the midwife who worked with him was, and she had agreed to administer the tetanus vaccine.

When Hebe came to meet us at the restaurant she had barely sat down and ordered her drink before I'd convinced her that she should go and get the tetanus shot. The health care worker got a waiter at the restaurant, who was a friend of hers as well, to take Hebe to the doctor on his motorcycle. Meanwhile I went across the road to a clinic and asked the doctor's assistant there if he would look at the cut and put some antiseptic on it. He said he would.

Hebe came back about ten minutes later, and I didn't even let her sit down before I shepherded her across the road to the clinic. There the doctor's assistant, likely feeling somewhat intimidated by a white woman who he thought was a health worker (me), suggested that I look at the wound and apply the antiseptic. He would watch.

As it turned out the gash, though long, was fairly superficial. I dabbed it with povidone, which stings, and the doctor's assistant and I agreed it would be better left to the open air. We thanked him profusely, all bowing to one another in the charming Asian way, and then Hebe and I went back to join our men at the restaurant.

At the restaurant we talked about China, and Hebe and her man invited us to visit them there so they could cook us up some 'real' Chinese food with fresh fresh vegetables and seafood.

When we parted company for the evening, I told Hebe I was sorry if she felt that I had pushed her to do something she wasn't sure she wanted to do, but I cared about her and knew she had only a limited time to get the tetanus short. “And now,” my husband added, “you can step on all the rusty nails you want to and you won't have to worry!”

Hebe put her arms around me and said: “No, I don't feel bad at all! I am so glad that you helped me. Thank you for looking after me. You are a good friend. I love you.”

The next morning we met with Hebe for breakfast. I told her I had written this story, and that she was one of my angels. She gave me a big smile and said “You are my angel too.”

And when she wrote her address for me in my book, she added the note: “You're the sunshine in the day that brings a lot of happiness. You make my days in Kratie enjoyable. Please come to visit!”

Hey, what more positive messages could I have received at a time when I was feeling unloved and unappreciated? Here's to the angels in our midst – may we all have many, especially when we need them!

Post script: My third angel appeared the day after I posted 'Angels in our Midst.' This angel is someone I don't know, and will likely never meet – an online reader who, after reading some of my scribbles, took the time to send me a message. Here's what it said:

Hi,
I just wanted to say how impressed I am of the journey that you and your husband are on. The fact that you left everyday life as you used to know it, to seek adventure is so fascinating. You're proving that nothing matters; your age, jobs or living situation; you're always able to explore the world. It's nice to know that one don't have to see everything there is to see before settling down..
I hope you have a fantastic time during your trips!

Bamboo Trains and Pigs on Pot: Battambang, Cambodia

2009-03-29T20:23:00.001-07:00

To view other photos for this article go to:
www.julesatkins.shutterfly.com/cambodiaarticles

Battambang is about half-way between Siem Reap and Phnom Penh – a good place to break an otherwise rather long bus trip. It's a pleasant city, with wide tree-lined boulevards, and a nice walkway along the river. And, compared to many Cambodian cities, it's relatively clean. There are garbage cans on the street, and people actually use them. Battambang is also a cultured sort of place, with a number of universities, schools and colleges. You see people reading. Many of the townspeople speak English.

We were taking an evening stroll when we came upon several groups of people – all women – doing dance aerobics to disco music in the park. It was so great. They were having such a good time, dancing in long lines, following a male(!) leader. Some of them were singing along to the lyrics as they pumped their arms and kicked their feet.

Other people were getting their exercise by walking with gusto, playing badminton, or playing a kind of hacky-sack game with a shuttle-cock. Other people just sat in the park watching the action, talking, or eating food from the many stalls set up along the road. Corn on the cob, sandwiches, fruit, drinks. It was like a fair. And... it happens every evening! What a great thing!

While we were in Battambang we hired a couple of guys to drive us round the countryside. Our first 'stop' was the 'bamboo train.' This is an ingenious idea – a low-tech way of using the railroad tracks for small scale transportation. Here's how it works. The 'train' is just a single 'car,' which consists of a small wooden platform (about 4'x6') covered with a bamboo mat. The platform sits on the track atop a couple of sets of miniature train wheels. An engine about the size of a lawn-mower engine is perched on the platform over the rear set of wheels. And a belt attached to the engine and the rear set of wheels provides the power that scoots the 'bamboo train' along the tracks. Simple, cheap and very effective.

Once our train was set up on the track, we piled on with our drivers and their two motorbikes. We were given pillows, and sat at the front of the platform. Our drivers sat on their bikes. The 'engineer,' who looked like he was about twelve years old, filled the engine with gas, then started it up and off we went.

We had to stop a couple of times and unload everything when we met up with another 'bamboo train' coming towards us that was more heavily loaded, and therefore had the 'right of way.' One was carrying a big load of wood with a small woman on top. Our train was speedily unloaded, the engine, platform and wheels removed from the tracks, and the woman and her wood carried on. Then our train was reassembled, and we were on our way again. Fantastic!

Apparently the 'bamboo trains' will soon be a thing of the past, as the governments of Cambodia, Thailand and Vietnam have plans to use the line for a new train that will go from Bangkok to Saigon. It's a great idea, but it will require all new track. The tracks we were on were as wavy as a couple of wet noodles – it was a very bumpy ride! So, in terms of the new international train, we'll believe it when we see it.

Back on our bikes, we puttered through the rice-paddied country-side and a few small villages with no electricity or running water. There were hug cement urns outside every house. They get filled with water every week or so – more often in rainy season, when its so much easier to collect. The houses were mostly made of wood and up on stilts. Some had palm thatch rooves, others corrugated iron. They appeared fairly neat and clean, and the people looked well fed. Kids had clothes and shoes.

We saw several groups of school kids riding bikes. All had white shirts or blouses and dark pants or skirts. All also had big smiles and yelled happy “hellos” at us. They see very few tourists, and seemed truly thrilled – almost awed – to see us.

Given what we've heard about the rural poverty here in Cambodia we were fairly favourably impressed. Our driver said that the rice crop had been good this year, so the villagers were well fed. His family, like other families, owns a two hectare plot of land on which they grow rice. It yields around 700 kilos of rice a year. He comes from a family of nine children. The rice they grow is enough to feed them all with just a little extra that they can sell. They all do something else to make money. He's a motorcycle taxi man.

At one point we saw a great big pig happily sleeping in the shade of a tree. “They feed them marijuana!” my driver yelled. “What?” I called back over the roar of the motorcycle engine. “What did you say?”

"They feed them marijuana to make them eat more and sleep a lot. So they get very fat very fast.”

"Do they smoke it themselves?” I asked. “What?” “The marijuana. DO THEY SMOKE IT?” I yelled, going through the motions of holding an imaginary joint to my mouth and inhaling.

"He laughed, and yelled back, “No, they don't smoke it, they eat it. You know, like 'happy pizzas.'”

But the people, unlike the pigs, are neither fat nor sleepy. They don't get enough to eat to get fat, and anyway they work too hard.

If I lived in Cambodia, I'd like to be a pig.

Motorcycle Madness in Vietnam

2009-03-24T07:43:00.000-07:00

To view more photos for this article go to: www.julesatkins.shutterfly/vietnamarticles

Today we watched two motorcycles collide in the chaotic cross-fire of a relatively speaking fairly minor Saigon intersection. The driver of one of the motorcycles was a middle-aged bloke, surprisingly big for a Vietnamese, but otherwise unremarkable. His passenger, a somewhat younger flamboyant-looking woman, was carrying a brand new pink child's bicycle – likely a gift for Tet, Vietnamese New Year. She was balancing it at the end of her arm, well out from the right side of the motorcycle.

The driver of the other motorcycle was a middle-aged matronly woman with unruly wavy black hair and smudged red lipstick. Her passenger was a young girl, maybe eight or ten years old, and obviously her daughter.

The woman and her daughter were making a right turn into the intersection. There were no traffic lights, and under normal conditions no one stops at intersections in Saigon – or anywhere else in Vietnam. Everyone just keeps rolling at a steady pace. They expect other drivers to read their intent, and to speed up, slow down, weave or dodge in order to avoid smacking into them. Timing is routinely split-second.

In this case one or both of the drivers miscalculated – misjudged the direction, speed, or intent of the other driver. They crashed, and both motorcycles and all four riders went down. The little girl's helmet flew off. It was obviously too big for her, and its strap had been only loosely done up under her chin – no more than a token gesture. The strap was still done up as the empty helmet rolled across the road.

The rest of the traffic on the road continued with hardly a moment's interruption. Motorcycles, cars and bicycles streamed around the 'scene of the accident,' as a river separating and flows around a rock or small island.

We had been waiting to cross the road. I had just remarked to my travelling companion how amazing I thought it was that we had not seen more motorcycle accidents in Saigon. We have in fact seen several, but not more than one a day, and so far not too serious. And we've seen countless near misses – countless in number, and countless because they don't really 'count' with that many motorcycles on the road, and so few rules, 'close encounters' are part of the minute-by-minute experience.

There are five million people in Saigon – and three million motorcycles. Almost no one walks or rides a bicycle anymore. The people have become motorcycle dependent, motorcycle bound. It's well-nigh impossible to separate them from their cycles. They go nowhere without them. And they ride them anywhere and everywhere.

Motorcycles surge through the streets like massive schools of fish swimming in a river too small and too shallow to carry them all. Their drivers weave like barrel-racers through an oncoming tide of traffic, up a one way street or into an oncoming lane. They sail nonchalantly through intersections, directly across the flow of traffic, stopping only when confronted by a much bigger vehicle – say a car, bus or truck.

They ride up over the curb and onto the sidewalk, dodging and threatening pedestrians in equal measure, and with equal insouciance. They careen down narrow alleys crowded with people,with street sellers balancing bamboo poles or pushing large carts, with people drinking tea or beer, cleaning vegetables, cooking meals, doing dishes, and with children playing. Make way for the motorcycle! Step aside pedestrian peasant!

Intrepid urban warriors, motorcycles invade even the most challenging environments: the confined aisles of covered markets, the inside of a mall, a store, a bank. We had to almost climb over one to get to an ATM machine in one of the largest banks in Saigon. Nowhere is 'out of bounds' for the Vietnamese motorcycle.

And when they're not in use they're parked everywhere. Sidewalks have become motorbike parkades. Lowly pedestrians must sidestep their way through a sea of cycles – or walk on the streets. Doorways are made impassible, lobbies and entrance halls jammed with sleeping cycles. In their somnolent state they become chairs, couches, even beds. Or just decorations. Many of them are quite beautiful. They come in rich glossy colours like cherry, lime and aqua, often with fiery or floral decals adorning the front and sides. Even the saddles are custom-upholstered to match.

Motorcycle drivers come in all ages – some no more than children. They may be cautious and careful, or free-wheeling and reckless. Some are focused on what they're doing, watching the road ahead, trying to anticipate what the other guy is about to do. But many seem to be paying almost no attention at all – talking on their cell phone, looking for an address, yelling to a friend across the road, or picking their nose.

Motorcycle passengers are equally nonchalant. Most ride with their arms dangling at their sides, or crossed in front of them. No hugging the driver or holding on to the bar at the back of the seat. Even children, tiny tots, sit passively like little sacks in front of the driver. A few put their hands on the handlebars, more for fun than stability – practicing up for when they will really be in the driver's seat.

Motorcycles may be carrying anything from two or three or four passengers to a pyramid of boxes, a couple of funeral wreaths, several baskets of fruit and vegetables, a floating bouquet of balloons – or, or as in the case of our accidental friends, a child's bicycle. They may be pulling a wagon loaded with furniture or long lengths of rebar, or pushing a food-vendor's cart filled with hot dumplings. Motorcycles are the passenger vehicles, taxis, trucks and buses for millions of Vietnamese people.

Almost all of the adults on motorcycles – drivers and passengers – wear helmets, most with the chin straps securely fashioned. The ones who don't, the reckless young bucks, immune and immortal, risk cracked heads to maintain their cool. Children are seldom helmeted. It's a curious phenomenon, understandable only from the most brutal of Darwinian perspectives: you can't make another father or mother, but you can make another kid. And anyway, they bounce, don't they?

The woman and her daughter looked stunned, but only momentarily. The mother picked herself up, glanced at her daughter, who had managed to right herself and stood, shocked into stillness, in the middle of the road. Seeing that she was alright, the mother tended to the downed motorcycle. She picked it up and examined the broken rear-view mirror, scratches on the body of the bike. It would still run.

Meanwhile the woman from the other motorcycle came marching over, brandishing the pink bicycle like a weapon. It was damaged – not greatly – just scratched and maybe bent out of shape a little. But it was no longer perfect, and she was angry. Predictably the other woman responded with equal anger, pointing at the damaged parts of her motorcycle. It looked like an even draw.

The middle-aged man stood quietly with his motorbike, assessing its wounds. The little girl continued to stand like a statue, eyes wide, bewildered, disoriented. Neither of them were going to join the women's squabble.

A few pedestrians and shop-keepers stood on the sidewalks watching the action. None of us were willing to jump into the fray – especially as it would have meant wading into the still streaming traffic. I overheard a Vietnamese fellow explain to some hapless tourists: “This is nothing. Sometimes when there is an accident there is also a big fight. The people get into a big fight. This is nothing. It doesn't matter.”

And luckily it seemed like it didn't matter – this time. Even the two women, having exchanged a few choice words, backed off. Within a few minutes everyone was back on their motorcycles and on their way.

A short time later, as we were leaving Saigon, safely inside a bus, we passed the scene of a more serious motorcycle accident. A couple of motorbikes and their associated parts were strewn across the road. A small crowd was hovering over an inert body at the side of the road. Hopefully an ambulance was on the way.

More people die in traffic accidents in Vietnam per capita than almost anywhere else in the world: well over 13,000 a year. Hardly surprising, but definitely alarming.

Vietnam's motorcycle madness reminds me of the old Arlo Guthrie song: “I don't want a pickle; I just want to ride on my motor-sickle. And I don't want to die, I just want to ride on my motor cy-y-y-ycle!”

PS: Since writing this article I have come across almost a dozen tourists who have been injured in motorcycle accidents. One of them got hurt in a remote area of Laos, where there were no doctors, so I 'treated' her by cleaning her scrapes, applying antibacterial ointment, and giving her lots of reassurance that she would heal - she was badlly shaken up. The worst victim was a guy in Hanoi who'd had all his front teeth knocked out and badly mangled his hand. He'd already had several surgeries by the time we saw him, a month after his accident, but his hand was still swollen and sore. Ouch!

The Banana Daiquiri Express: By Bus from Tadlo to Savannakhet, Laos

2009-03-21T07:04:00.000-07:00

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www.julesatkins.shutterfly.com/laosarticles

We were waiting there at the bus stop, looking up the road and hoping we'd see not a small overcrowded and uncomfortable local bus but a larger relatively more luxurious long-distance one – one with guaranteed seats and air-conditioning that worked... . We were going from the little town of Tadlo in southern Laos right through Pakse, just a couple of hours away, and on up to Savannakhet – about a third of the way to Vientiane, and an additional two or three hours from Pakse.

So when the big bus rolled around the corner, we were chuffed. We had a good chance of getting to Savannakhet – today. As it came closer we could see that the roof of the bus was already fairly heavily loaded. There was a motorcycle, standing upright, up front, and a big blue tarp covering a mini-mountain of goods right behind it. All that was pretty commonplace.

The odd thing was at the back: two goats, also standing upright, with nothing more than ropes around their necks. Other large animals we've seen on bus-tops have been hog-tied and strapped securely on the roof. These goats were bracing their legs, trying to keep their balance as the bus swayed, stopped and started. Lucky for them their balance is so good. If they lost it, and toppled over the edge, it would be sudden death by hanging.

Six 'falangs' (foreigners) got on the bus. Two couples from Canada and one from Sweden. Four of us were headed for Savannakhet; two for Pakse. Just before we got to Pakse we stopped to let the goats off: They were lowered by their hind legs, and appeared none the worse for wear when they got down. Just headed for the nearest patch of grass and started eating.

By the time we got to Pakse we'd convinced the other Canadian couple to carry on with us to Savannakhet. We were all on our way to see a famous landmark in southern Laos – the Thom Konglor cave – a seven kilometer cave with a river running throughout its length, and reputedly beautiful limestone formations. It was billed as a 'must see,' and we were in the vicinity.

After an hour's wait in Pakse all six of us boarded a new bus. It was much like the first one, but had windows that opened, which was great as the air-con, as usual, wasn't working. I noted that the motorcycle had been transferred onto the roof at the front of this bus. There was the ubiquitous blue tarp covering another small mountain of goods behind it – possibly the same goods that were on the first bus, possibly some that had been picked up, along with lots of new passengers, in Pakse.

No sooner had we taken our seats than we heard a rooster crowing – right behind us. We turned to look: there was a handsome rooster and a couple of hens standing loose on the floor. Their owner smiled up at us as he gave the rooster a reassuring pat on the head. The rooster crowed and the hens clucked at intervals throughout the journey, likely making wisecracks about the ride.

We left the bus station on time, but as usual stopped almost immediately, just outside the gates to the bus terminal, to pick up more passengers – and their bags, boxes and baskets full of goods. Then we made the obligatory stop for diesel fuel. After that, we hoped we'd be on our way. But a few minutes later, just on the outskirts of town we stopped at another bus terminal where we sat for well over half an hour waiting for who knows what.

A few more people boarded. Vendor ladies with flattened grilled chickens, pop, gum and sticky rice in bamboo tubes surrounded the bus, persistently waving their offerings under our noses, trying to tempt us, or just wear us down, into buying. Finally we rolled out of the terminal. It was by this time a full hour since we'd left the first bus terminal.

We hadn't gone more than 100 feet along the road when a tuk-tuk loaded with people and cargo pulled up alongside the bus, its driver honking and gesticulating for us to stop. It seemed that the folks inside hadn't managed to get to the bus terminal in time... . So again we sat while a woman and her bags of rice and produce, and a few boxes with contents unknown, were loaded onto the bus.

Then we were on our way, albeit slowly, with the driver honking at every intersection, looking for more potential passengers. We stopped a few more times to let more aboard. By now the ticket-taker had started putting plastic stools in the aisle for people to sit on. On Lao buses, there's always room for one – or a dozen – more.

Once we were well on our way the ticket-taker came around to check everyone's ticket. We and the Swedes had bought through tickets to Savannakhet on the first bus. The destination and the price – 60,000 kip – were clearly written on the tickets. The other Canadians, Terry and Nancy, had bought tickets just to Pakse, for 25,000 kip.

The first ticket taker, a woman who checked our tickets shortly after we boarded the new bus in Pakse, hadn't noticed. But this guy appeared to be studying them more closely. Either he couldn't read (many Laos can't), or he figured these foreigners had paid the Lao price, rather than the tourist price, which is always significantly higher, or he didn't care. Whatever the reason, he just gave them back their tickets and carried on down the line. We all laughed – drinks would be on them tonight!

We travelled through mostly farming country, lots of rice paddies and a few villages, for about an hour when we made our next stop. This was at a town where they make the famous 'Lao Lao' – a potent whisky made from rice. There were around 25-30 seven-gallon plastic containers of Lao Lao by the side of the road.

The swampers (every bus has a couple) pulled back the tarp on the top of the bus to reveal several big bunches of bananas. They tossed them back towards the middle of the bus to clear a space for the Lao Lao. As we watched them lifting the containers of Lao Lao up the ladder onto the roof of the bus Terry waxed rhapsodic: 'Lao Lao and bananas – this could be the Banana Daiquiri Express!'

There was too much Lao Lao to get it all on the roof of the bus, so they started filling up the aisles and the back of the bus. There was Lao Lao everywhere. Despite the heat, the swampers worked quickly; their shirts were soaked with sweat by the time they were finished. Once we took off, they sat on the big jugs of Lao Lao with their shirts up, cooling their chests.

We managed to travel for a little over an hour, and well beyond the time when we ought to have reached our destination, when we made our next stop. This time it was to pick up 40-50 piglets. The piglets were stuffed into four loosely woven baskets – two smallish ones, around two and a half feet in diameter, and two larger ones, around four feet in diameter.

The pig loading process was managed like a bucket brigade. Two guys stood at the ready on the roof of the bus, one guy positioned himself on the bus' ladder. Several young boys on the ground grabbed the little piggies out of the baskets by one hind leg and passed them to a guy at the foot of the ladder. From there they went hand to hand up onto the roof, where they were tossed, rather unceremoniously, into a nylon mesh bag.

Once one of the baskets was empty, it was lifted onto the roof, and the piggies in the bag were thrown – literally – into the basket. This process was repeated until all of the baskets, and all of the pigs, were on the roof of the bus. The men worked quickly and quietly; the pigs squealed bloody murder as they were hoisted up by their legs, but settled down once they were back in their baskets.

Now we had the makings of a great party on the roof of the bus: barbecued pork and banana daiquiris, with perhaps a couple of roasted chickens and maybe a coq-au-vin to boot.

Somewhere in the middle of the journey yet another ticket-taker appeared on the bus. This one was the most impressive of the lot – a clean white shirt and pressed pants. And he seemed the most efficient, taking tickets from all of the passengers and studying them carefully before giving them back.

But when he came to the 'other Canadians' with their 25,000 riel tickets he made no comment at all, just handed them back their tickets and carried on down the line. Sometimes the low literacy rate in Laos works to the advantage of the 'falangs.' Not only did they get a cheap ride, but they, and we, also got a good deal on free entertainment. This ranks as one of our 'best bus rides' yet in Southeast Asia. Truly a trip to remember.

Getting to Na Hin, Laos

2009-03-21T06:47:00.000-07:00

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www.julesatkins.shutterfly.com/laosarticles

Our trusty Lonely Planet guidebook was rather vague about how to get to Konglor Cave in southern Laos. The four of us had gotten as far as Tha Khaek, the nearest large city, where we hoped to get more information. The receptionist at our guest house in Tha Khaek was very helpful: she told us we could hire a minibus to take us to the cave, and bring us back, all in one day, for a mere US$400.

“Just $100 each she beamed. Or only $50 each if there are eight of you.” We looked around, but there were no prospects in sight. And even $50 a piece was too pricey for us, so we demurred, stating that anyway we wanted to spend a few days near the cave. “Oh well, then you can take a bus to Na Hin. Na Hin is just 40 km from the cave. You can hire a sawngthaew from there. The bus to Na Hin leaves from the station down the road – at 7:30 in the morning. You should be there by 7.”

So early the next morning, down the road we went. When we got to the station, it was a sea of sawngthaews (song-taos) – small pick-up trucks with bench seats down the long sides of the box and a canopy over top – the most common 'buses' in Laos. We must have looked like a bunch of deer in the headlights. A waiting baguette-seller asked “Na Hin?” and we all nodded and enthusiastic “yes!”

She lead us to one of the sawngthaews and motioned for us to get in. We asked the driver how much he wanted to take us to Na Hin. “Forty thousand kip (around $8)” he said. “Forty thousand, forty thousand, forty thousand, forty thousand,” he repeated, pointing at each of us in turn.

We reacted with astonishment. 'Forty thousand kip! We can get a bus to Savannakhet for forty thousand!' We made our counter offer: 'Forty thousand for all of us: ten, ten, ten, ten.'

'No no!' he laughed. 'Forty thousand each person. Forty, forty, forty, forty!'

In truth, we weren't sure where exactly we were going, or how far it was. So we pulled out our travellers' bible, the Lonely Planet guidebook for Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam, and looked once again at the directions for getting to Na Hin?

And I pulled out my spiral notebook, in which I'd written a few a few notes from other travellers. My husband and I poured over these two references, pointing at specific words and kibitzing with one another. The sawngthaew driver peered over our shoulders the whole time, not able to understand what we were reading or saying, but clearly anxious of the outcome.

I decided to try our best negotiating gambit. I got out a 50,000 kip note and held it out towards him, pointing to Doug, and then myself. “Him and me, two persons,” I added. He took the 50,000, then rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. Then he handed me back a 20,000 kip note! He did likewise with the other couple of 'falangs' (foreigners).

So in the end we all paid 15,000 apiece – a long way from 40,000! Presumably the driver thought we'd consulted some sort of 'official reference; and decided he'd better give us the 'right' price – or at least the 'right' price for 'falangs.' We piled into the sawngthaew along with too many Laotians and too much cargo, all squished together. But it was a congenial ride. They were a friendly lot, who enjoyed our photos of the crammed sawngthaew, pointing and laughing when we showed them the photos on the LCD screen, especially the ones that included them.

About half-way through the trip I broke open a bag of watermelon I'd sliced that morning, and passed the wedges round to the group sitting closest to us – an old woman, a handsome man in a jaunty cap, and a couple of children. Eating it was a messy business, but I happened to have several plastic-wrapped and scented wipes in my purse, so I handed them out as well. The old woman was even more enthusiastic about the wipe than the watermelon – she was still clutching it when we got out of the sawngthaew an hour and a half later.

Vongsamay: Dreams and Determination, Na Hin, Laos

2009-03-21T06:38:00.000-07:00

To view more photos for this article, go to: www.julesatkins.shutterfly.com/laosarticles

Vongsamay stood in the vast expanse of his western-style log and plank lodge, proudly explaining to us how it had all been built. “The materials are all local. I made the wall and the tables and benches from slabs (the outside cuts of wood from trees, one side of which are rounded). People here just leave them in the woods; they don't used them. But I thought 'I can use them.'”

And he has, with visually stunning effects. Everything is made of wood; the tables and benches highly polished. The shake roof soars above the restaurant area, and the sides are open to the view: the Namhai River in the foreground, and the two landmark mountains in the background: Phoumon and Phousakheuk. Phoumon is particularly remarkable, shaped like a breast with a nipple, from which it gets its name.

Vongsamay showed us the big, bright, well-organized kitchen and the meeting room, complete with projection screen for presentations. We walked over to a part of the restaurant where we could see the foundations of the building. Like most buildings in Laos, it sits on tall cement stilts. “There I will build a store, a laundry, and living quarters for my staff.” As we peered over the edge of the railing, we could see workers putting the final layer of fine crushed rock on the boules pitch they were building.

Other workers were watering recently planted trees, shrubs and flowers: the area around the restaurant and the bungalows is beautifully landscaped. Vongsamay's creation, the 'Sainamhai Resort,' embodies his guiding principles: traditional Lao-style buildings made with local materials, a peaceful natural environment, and a place that invites complete relaxation and enjoyment.

But the Sainamhai Resort is not in a well established tourist area – yet. It is four kilometres from the little town of Na Hin, and 40 kilometres from the Konglor Cave. Vongsamay has a vision. He believes that the new road out to the Konglor Cave will bring many more tourists to the area. The Konglor Cave is renowned not only for its limestone formations but perhaps more for the fact that its seven kilometre length can be navigated by boat.

He also believes the new 'friendship bridge' from Tha Khaek, just 140 kilometres south of Na Hin, to Thailand, will also bring increased tourism to the area. And that traffic on the road to Vietnam will continue to increase, bringing tourists almost to his doorstep.

Vongsamay's vision is already paying off: there's a steady stream of tourists showing up at his resort, planning to stay one night, and like us, staying three or four. It's just that kind of place.

We sat down to tea, and Vongsamay told me a little more about his story, and how he came to build the 'Sainamhai Resort.' Vongsamay was born in Savannakhet, and spent his early childhood there. He came from poor family. His father died when he was just 3 years old, leaving his mother to raise him and his seven brothers. They moved to mother's village – poor village in the countryside near Savannakhet.

In 1971 one of his brothers who had gone to school in Vientiane invited his mother and brothers to come there and live with him. So at age 13, Vongsamay started secondary school in Vientiane. His brother, who was now working as a math teacher, supported the family while he and several other brothers all went to school.

Vongsamay finished high school in 1980. The Lao government offered him the opportunity to go to Cuba for advanced training. It gave him the choice of several areas of study. Vongsamay selected architecture. He went to Cuba, all expenses paid, and lived and studied there for six years from 1982-1987 – the 'best years' in Cuba, according to Vongsamay. To its credit, the Cuban government paid everything: accommodation, food, clothes, medicine – even vacations in Cuba. Vongsamay studied with Cubans and with other international students from Cambodia, Chile, Ghana, Yemen, and Mexico. The language of instruction, and the language all around him, was Spanish. So – Vongsamay became fluent in Spanish.

When Vongsamay came back to Laos he worked as an architect, designing and overseeing the construction of hydro-electric plants and workers' accommodation at sites all over Laos. Because these projects are funded by international organizations, Vongsamay has worked with professionals (engineers, architects, construction people, environmentalists) from all over the world, and the lingua franca is English. So – Vongsamay has become fluent in English as well.

Vongsamay is now the Site Facilities Manager, at the nearby Theun-Hinboun Power Company. He works full time, and is particularly busy now because the capacity of the dam is about to be doubled. This is a huge project, which will require the hiring of two to three thousand additional workers, and accommodation for all of them. But despite being fully employed, Vongsamay has already started looking to the future.

And the future, for him and his family, is the Sainamhai Resort. Vongsamay plans to continue to develop the resort, from its present 12 2-unit bungalows to perhaps 30. He would like to expand his services to offer tubing, kayaking, canoing, camping and motorbike rental; to buy a minibus to take tourists to the Konglor Cave; and to hire local guides to take tourists on treks through the forest, to waterfalls, and for picnics and camping on the two local mountains.

The resort already accommodates parties, weddings, conferences, and meetings, and Vongsamay plans to increase this side of his business as well.

In all of his business dealings, Vongsamay is thinking not just of himself, but of the benefits that his and other tourist developments can offer to the local people. Vongsamay hires locals to work in all aspects of the resort. His aim is not just to give them jobs and income, but more importantly to give them the experience of working.

But perhaps the most important thing that Vongsamay is doing is providing others with an example of what can be achieved with vision and initiative. Vongsamay told us that when he first started his project, many people in area didn't support him; they didn't think the resort was a good idea. It was too far from main centres; it wouldn't be successful. But Vongsamay had vision and he was determined, so he wasn't discouraged by their concerns. Now that people can see the success of his resort, Vongsamay hopes that they will be encouraged to pursue their own dreams.

“Step by step,” he says. “I will continue to make it better, to build more, step by step.”

Pov the Cyclo Driver goes to the Lake, Siem Reap, Cambodia

2009-03-21T06:36:00.000-07:00

To view more photos for this article go to: www.julesatkins.shutterfly.com/cambodiaarticles

When we were in Siem Reap we splurged and bought one week passes to 'Angkor Wat.' We didn't spend all day tramping around temples, but started late, around 10:30, when the large groups of tourists were already leaving to go to fancy restaurants for lunch, and ended most days by 3:30 or 4. We took our time, as long as we wanted, looking at the awesome stonework, the beautiful and intricate sculptures. We just sat in the midst of the ruins and imagined the spectacular ceremonies that might have occurred there.

We hired a great cyclo driver named Pov (pronounced 'Bo'), who drove us from temple to temple, waiting for us as we explored. He was lovely. Careful, considerate, and always ready with a wonderful warm smile. Once our week of temple-hopping was done, we asked Pov to take us out to the biggest lake in Cambodia. It's a lake fed by the mighty Mekong, and it's level changes dramatically depending on the season. There are a number of famous 'floating villages' on the lake that tourists go out to see, generally in large groups on special 'tourist boats.'

We dislike tours, and had decided we didn't want to be part of that scene, but just wanted to take a drive in the country and see the lake. We'd been advised by several travellers, and by the blurb in our guidebook, that we would not be able to get anywhere near the lake unless we went on a tour, but we decided to give it a try anyway. We're intrepid that way... .

We drove out through paddy fields and small villages, following the course of a stinking polluted 'river' into which poured all the sewage and garbage from houses and shops all along it. We saw kids swimming in it and women bathing in it. It's all they've got.

As we neared the lake a couple of guys on motorcycles came up beside us and motioned for us to stop. Pov finally did, although he knew we were not going to want to talk to these guys. They were trying to sell us $15 tickets (each) for a boat ride on the lake. We just kept repeating “no boat, no boat,” and finally they gave up with us. Pov got quite a kick out of all this, and although his English was very limited, he was clear about one thing: we did not want to take a boat out onto the lake.

A little further on down the road, now almost at the lake, we were motioned to stop at the 'Boat Tour Operators Committee' centre. The guy who motioned us over looked almost like a police man. Pov stopped; he seemed a little anxious. The guy started in on us about how we had to buy tickets for a boat trip and how we couldn't go any further down the road. I was having none of it. I just repeated my mantra, “no boat,” and added “now going, now going down road.” And motioned for Pov to go.

The official looking guy gave up, and off went Pov, at this point almost delirious with his association with people with such power. He was grinning from ear to ear.

Then we got to 'the lake.' But of course it wasn't the lake at all. It was what looked like a land-fill – a vast expanse of bare dirt covered in litter and bisected by a muddy river lined with....more litter and a gaggle of tour boats! There was a kiosk and a barrier across the road. But now Pov was feeling empowered. He barely slowed down as he yelled to the two guards that his passengers were just going to take a look at the lake, not ride in a boat, and we sailed right around the kiosk. I loved it! Good for Pov!

Then there we were, looking down on the pathetic sight of a muddy litter-filled river and a lake nowhere in sight. A young fellow came up and asked if we'd like to go out to the lake in his boat. “Where is it?” I asked. He pointed down the river. It was a small boat, with maybe a dozen seats. “How much?” I asked. “Thirty dollars.” “Twenty,” we countered. “O.K.” he agreed, without a moment's hesitation, “twenty.” “And,” I added, “our driver comes with us.” The guy looked dubious. “Twenty-five,” he said. You have to pay for the driver. “He's Cambodian!” I exclaimed. “He shouldn't have to pay. And he has to come,” I added, darkly, “he's our body-guard.” The guy laughed and said “o.k., $23.”

Pov was thrilled. This was the first time he'd been out to the lake, and definitely his first time in a 'tourist boat.' He stretched out in one of the seats at the back and drank everything in.

It took around 10 minutes to motor down the river and get to the lake. The floating village was right there. It was pretty interesting – quite a large and very permanent collection of buildings – houses, stores, schools, restaurants – all loosely grouped together. Some were on stilts, some were more like barges. Many were colourfully painted; some were pretty dilapidated. It was a real community, interestingly of mostly Vietnamese (not Cambodian) fishermen.

We stopped at a restaurant and tourist trap store that had a cage filled with crocodiles. There was also an enclosure filled with big flapping fish. Pov enjoyed hob-nobbing with the tourists, looking at the crocodiles, laughing at the fish. When we got back to the boat there he was, sitting in the driver's seat pretending to drive the boat, a huge smile on his face. Just that image alone – of Pov lost in childlike glee at the wheel of that boat – was worth the entire trip to me. There was no time for a photo – it's a memory I'll have to keep in my mind.

Alberta at Ankor Wat February 2009

2009-03-15T17:09:00.000-07:00

“If I tell you the capital of your province, the capital of your country, the population of your country and the name of your prime minister, then will you buy the postcards?” She was maybe nine or ten years old, no less ragged than the rest of the Wat kids who roam the temple grounds trying to sell postcards and trinkets to tourists, but she was different.

When she came up to us, postcards in hand, we were 'sitting ducks,' eating soup at one of the food stalls in the Angkor Thom site. She opened a pack of ten postcards of Ankor Wat and shuffled through them distractedly, looking neither at them nor at us. Her eyes were already scanning the food stalls, searching for other potential customers. She started out asking for $2 for the lot. I said “I thought they were a dollar...,” and thus began our unusual 'negotiation.'

“What country are you from?” she asked. Her English was perfect – no missing articles or prepositions, no 'accent.' And I knew she must speak also French, German and possibly several other languages – whatever language tourists speak.

“Canada” we said. By this time I was looking at the postcards.

“What province?” she asked. “British Columbia,” I responded, mildly surprised that she knew that Canada was divided into provinces rather than states. She could see I was hooked, and she pounced with her question. Would I buy the cards if she could tell us all those facts about our country. I might have bought them anyway, but I would certainly buy them if only to reward her remarkable initiative.

“The capital of Canada is Ottawa. The capital of British Columbia is Victoria. The population of Canada is 34 million. [I didn't know that!] And the Prime Minister of Canada is Stephen Harper.” [I wish I didn't know that.]

But she wasn't finished yet. “And the capital of Ontario is Toronto, and the capital of Quebec is Quebec City.” All in perfect English.

Then she asked, “what is the capital of Alberta?”

Was this a trick question? Was she testing me? I hesitated. Was it Calgary or Edmonton? “Edmonton,” Doug responded. He knew.

That little wisp of a girl then spirited a notebook and pen out of the folds of her skirt. She quickly leafed through its pages, all of which were filled with lists in neat Khmer writing. She found the one she was looking for – the one about Canada. She asked me to repeat the words “Alberta” and “Edmonton” so she could get them right. I broke them down into syllables, repeating “Al-ber-ta” and “Ed-mon-ton” several times as she wrote.

We went on to Sa-skat-chew-an and Re-gi-na and Man-it-o-ba and Win-ni-peg. She repeated the sounds after me, determined to get them right, and was thoughtful as she wrote each one of them down, in Khmer, in her little notebook.

I gave her the dollar, but what I really wanted was to give her an opportunity she will likely never have – an opportunity to have a house and three square meals, to play with other kids, to go to school, and probably university. Such a bright and motivated child, she could do anything. And yet here she is at the Wat, another ragged urchin, selling postcards – but with a decidedly unique pitch.

Cambodia must be full of kids like this. Certainly there's no shortage of street kids, selling and begging. Most of what they get goes to their adult 'handlers,' sitting somewhere just out of sight. The kids are cute, as all kids are, motivated and controlled by poverty and hunger.

The magnitude of the problem of poverty and hunger in Cambodia competes for ascendency and indelible memories, in tourists' minds, with the awesome magnitude and wonder of the mother of all temples, Angkor Wat. Such terrible destitution, such awesome splendour.

I will remember Angkor Wat. I'll file it along with cherished memories of other massive and remarkable archaeological sites – Macchu Picchu, Palenque and Hampi.

But I will also remember that little girl, whose name I did not ask. I'll remember her as 'Alberta.'

My Friend Son, Sa Pa, Vietnam December 2008

2009-03-15T16:54:00.000-07:00

To view more photos of this article go to: www.julesatkins.shutterfly.com/vietnamarticles

Every once in a while, when you're on the road, you meet someone with whom, despite the vast differences in your backgrounds, cultures, and lives, and the lack of a shared language, you connect on a level that transcends all of these superficialities: heart to heart.

So it was with Son, a wiry little Black Hmong woman in Sa Pa, northern Vietnam, who I met in the typical way that most foreigners meet the Hmong – she was one of several Hmong women tagging along after us as we walked through the Sa Pa market, trying to sell us handcrafts.

The Hmong are excellent business people who have adapted well to foreign tourism. It was Hmong women who were smuggling the Thai rice and Red Bull drinks on our bus ride from Laos into Vietnam. They are everywhere in Sa Pa, the tourist mecca of northern Vietnam. No tourist there walks alone; they are always accompanied by a gaggle of Hmong women, sometimes literally hanging off their coat tails, pleading: “Buy from me! Buy from me!”

We always respond in the same way: “Not buying; no buy!” We don't want to increase the bulk or weight of what we're carrying with us and, equally importantly, we don't want them to get their hopes up thinking that, if they persist long enough, we will buy. After all, most of the tourists here, and elsewhere, are here to buy – and they are desperate.

We carried on walking through the market, Son and the others doggedly traipsing after us – “buy this purse, buy from me, very nice, you like...” We didn't really know where we were going; we were just out for a ramble to 'see the sights,' whatever they were. We intended to stop only one night in Sa Pa – it was too cold to stay any longer, and the town was too 'touristy.'

Son was holding two little tubes covered in brightly-coloured fabrics. I'd seen several of the women carrying these, trying to sell them to tourists, and I wondered what they were. I threw caution to the wind and asked Son to show me what they were.

Her face was bright and her fingers nimble as she unwrapped a string from around one end of the tube, and then tipped it on end to allow a little brass mouth-harp to fall into her hand. She put it to her lips and made an impressive array of sounds – clearly she was an expert at one-minute mouth-harp demonstrations – finishing with “You buy one? Buy two!”

By this time all of the other women had their mouth-harps out at well, keen to get in on whatever sale might be about to happen: “By from me, buy from me!” The competition was fierce, but friendly.

I said again, “No buy, no buy; very nice but no buy. Now going for walk; now walking.” Son put the harp back in its little bamboo sheath, carefully re-wrapped the string, and said: “Maybe later you buy, after you walk.”

I hesitated just a moment – there was something about her – and the harps were cute, and small – good gifts for children we might meet on our travels... . In that moment's hesitation Son saw her opportunity to get me more securely on the hook: she told me her name, Son, and asked me my name. The Hmong are excellent mimics, and they find the English language particularly easy to learn: she repeated my name perfectly.

Since being in Vietnam I have attracted quite a lot of attention because of my white hair. White hair is extremely uncommon here. Many people have pointed to it, and then pointed to their own black hair, shaking their heads and smiling; a few have even reached out and touched it to see if it's real. Now Son looked at it and asked: “How old you?” I showed her five fingers, and then eight: fifty-eight.

“How old you?” I asked. “Forty-five,” she answered without any hesitation. “You speak good English” I said. She smiled. “Where you from?” “Canada,” I said, “very cold, like here; here very cold!” She laughed as I hugged myself and shivered. (It really is cold in Sa Pa, which is at very high elevation and now definitely into it's winter weather.)

“You have children?” she asked. I said “yes, two, one girl, one boy, now big. One of our children, our boy, now has children – two small, one just a baby. You have children?” She surprised me a little when she said “three,” as many tribal women have large families – too large.

I asked if her children were back at home. “No, in school. All in school.” I said “Good, good they are in school; more chance to make good business. Where is school?” She said one was in school here in Sa Pa, and the other two, presumably the older ones, were in school in a more distant city. As Sa Pa is large enough to have more than one high school, I took that to mean that her older children might actually be at a college or university – at least pursuing some form of higher education.

We were later told, by a young Vietnamese tour and travel agent, that the Vietnamese government has recently made a decision to fund education for ethnic minorities, including paying for their books. Other Vietnamese must pay to go to school, a significant hardship for many families. And despite the fact that Son's family doesn't have to pay to send her kids to school, her family still suffers a significant financial loss: while they're in school, the kids are not available to work to help support the family.

I wanted to let Son know that I understood what it meant for her to send her kids to school – not only that she valued education, and wanted to give them that gift, those future opportunities, but that she herself was willing to work and to sacrifice that much more to make it happen. Her children are fortunate. In a country this poor, and among a people who themselves are just barely eking out a living, the concept of education as something of value is rare.

I put my hand on Son's arm, and looked into her eyes: “Good for you, Son. Good for you to send your kids to school.” That's when we made the connection. She realized that I understood – if only just a little – how hard it was for her, and that I validated her decision, and honoured her for making it.

In addition to their brightly coloured costumes, I had noticed that many Hmong women wore one or more unusual silver 'necklaces.' The back of the necklace was solid, encircling their neck and ending in a couple of flattened and elongated hooks that were carved with delicate swirling motifs. From these hooks hung a length of simple silver chain, completing the circle.

Son wore one such necklace. It looked older and more finely worked than the necklaces the other girls were wearing. I asked her about it. “My mother's,” she said. “It was my mother's.” Seeing my interest, a couple of the other girls offered to sell their necklaces to me. One asked if my little turtle earrings were silver – maybe I would like to trade...? I said no, they weren't silver, just cheap metal, but cute. And no, I didn't want to buy a necklace, but liked the way they looked on them.

The young women were particularly beautiful, with even, strong white teeth, lovely smiles that lit up their healthy glowing faces. I could see the round of “Buy from me” was about to start again, so I said “now we walk.”

Son touched my arm and said, “I wait here. You come back from walk, you remember me.” I turned to face her, looked into her eyes and said: “I remember you. I remember your necklace; I remember your face; I remember the mark upon your forehead; I remember you.” She smiled again. “I see you when you come back.” And I knew, whenever we got back, she would find us.

As it turned out, we were on the road that lead down – way down – to Cat Cat village, one of the many Hmong villages near Sa Pa. It is also the closest one, within an hour's walking distance, so it's one many tourists visit. Although we're not keen on traipsing through ethnic villages – it can feel a little like visiting a zoo to look at all the weird and wonderful animals – “Oh look, there's a little Hmong baby!” - we decided to go anyway, if only just for the exercise.

As it turned out, it was a beautiful walk, down a narrow set of stone stairs, through terraced gardens planted with rice and all sorts of different vegetables, past rude houses made of wood, bamboo and palm thatch. There were the usual assortment of bare-footed, bare-bottomed kids with red cheeks and snotty noses, playing in the dirt. A few had plastic sandals, one or two were sporting real rubber boots.

At every house there was at least one table set up out front with purses, earrings, little dolls, shirts, shawls and cold drinks for sale. A few of the locals called out to us to “buy from me,” but on the whole it was pretty low key. These people were accustomed to foreigners traipsing through, and paid us little attention. Friendly enough, but busy with their own affairs.

At the bottom of the valley we came to the river and a set of waterfalls where we stopped and had a couple of cold drinks. It was well after noon, and the sun had finally burned off the heavy morning mist, providing just enough warmth that we were able to remove one layer. We started on the long climb back up the other side of the valley, again on a stone path with several sets of stairs. After a while the path leveled out and we came to a suspension bridge, old and worn but newly painted, which at least made it look more reliable.

On the other side we were met by a young fellow with a motorbike helmet. He offered to take us back up the hill. We saw only one bike. We decided we'd keep walking.

We hadn't gone far when two other motorbikes came down the hill towards us. We recognized them both as fellows we'd seen when we'd started up top – Sonny and Kuhn. They'd offered us rides down, and when we said “no thanks, we'll walk,” they said “o.k., but maybe you ride back up. Remember me,” Sonny had said, pointing to his pink helmet. “My name Sonny!” I said “I'll remember you – pink helmet!”

I laughed when I saw him, and said “Pink helmet! How much for ride back up?” After a bit of haggling we agreed on a price. Knowing my abject fear of motorbikes (a legacy of my accident in Cuba) Doug reminded me to hold on to the bar behind the seat, not to Sonny. Sonny passed me his pink helmet. I put it on, only later thinking of the lice that might be lurking within. I took a deep breath, exhaled my fear, and mounted the bike, gripping the bar behind me with both hands.

Sonny was a good driver. The road was only roughly paved, and very steep, with several switch-backs. He took those slowly. Although I never let go of the bars at the back, and can't say that I relaxed, I did manage to enjoy the ride, and even looked around a little, watching the valley as it sank further and further below us. It was great not to have had to walk all the way back up – worth facing my fears for.

We were dropped off at the market, and were hungry by the time we got to the top. I didn't see Son, but that was hardly surprising. She undoubtedly had other fish to hook, and fry. We debated whether we'd have a bowl of soup at the market, or go on up to town and eat in a restaurant.

As we were lingering over that decision, Son came up behind us and said “Hello! I find you! I saw you on motorbike. You tired?” I said no, not tired, but hungry, and patted my stomach. “You eat at market?” she asked. “Maybe,” I said. “We see.”

She came along with us to the centre of the market, where an orderly collection of wooden tables and benches were permanently assembled. For every four or so tables there's a crude 'kitchen' where a mum and pop, or a couple of sisters or friends, cook up soups, rice, various meats (dog?) and vegetables – the precursor of the modern food court.

We looked it over. At this point, a little after one pm, it wasn't too busy. The gal at the first set of tables called for us to come eat at her 'restaurant.' I turned to Son, “This one good?” I asked. She just smiled, but I saw her eyes were focused on another set of tables where several Hmong women were eating.

“Over there,” I said. “That one looks good. Many people eating. Food must be good.” Generally speaking, we eat at places where we see the locals eating. They know where the food is good.

We walked over to the line of tables where a half dozen Hmong women were sitting. They looked up at us and smiled. The proprietress motioned for us to sit down, and handed us some menus. She cleared a few dishes away, and wiped the table off. Both it and the various things on it looked pretty clean. The company looked even more inviting. So we sat down.

I asked Son if she was hungry, but she said “I finish, you eat.” I showed her the menu, written in Vietnamese and English, and pointed to 'noodle soup with vegetables' and 'noodle soup with chicken.' She put her finger beside mine and said “yes.” Again I said “you hungry? Sit down, eat soup.” She remained standing.

One of the young girls across the table said: “She can't read. None of us can read. Only her,” and she nodded in the direction of the Vietnamese proprietress. “She hungry, but she shy.”

I asked the young girl if she thought that Son would like to have a bowl of soup. “Yes, she like, but she too shy.” So I turned to Son and said “Son, sit down. We buy you soup. You like chicken soup? Sit down!” She sat down beside me. Our shoulders were touching; I could feel her happiness.

Over noodle soups we chatted with the Hmong girls and Son. Several other women joined us, eager to be a part of the discussion, even if they could only understand bits and pieces of it. The young women spoke very good English. They said they had learned it from talking to foreigners. They could repeat any word or phrase I said flawlessly, whether they knew what it meant or not.

They said that they spoke more English than Vietnamese. “Vietnamese is very difficult to learn. English easy.” English is also much more useful to them, from a business perspective, than Vietnamese, so they are motivated.

As usual they all wanted to know where we came from, if we had children, and what we did at home. The two young women both had two children. One of them said she was twenty-five. She had a five-year old and a three-year old child. I asked when she would have her next baby.

“Maybe no more,” she said. “Two enough.” I said “Yes, two enough. Sometimes two too many! Hard work!” and asked her where her children were. “At home with grandmother.”

Likely she is one of the major income earners for the family. Doug asked her how business was. “Not so good today, but o.k.”

I asked if they lived in the village we had just visited. They laughed. “No, we live far away, in other village. Three hours. One and one half hours walking, one and one half hours bus.” And they come to Sa Pa every day, carrying their goods, and little babies, if they have them, on their backs.

Doug asked if he could take some photos, and they agreed without hesitation. I remembered that I had my computer with me. I don't generally carry it around, but we'd been using it that morning, and I hadn't taken it back up to the room before we went off walking. So after he took the photos I took the memory card out of his camera and put it into the computer.

First I showed them the few photos I had of our grandchildren – the petite and blond-haired little Amelia, and a chubby baby Ben. They loved them both. To them, fairness is goodness, almost godliness. The fact that, in the photo, Amelia was wearing a sparkly white fairy dress with a full skirt just added to the princess effect.

Then I showed them the photos Doug had just taken, of them and me, eating our bowls of soup. “Magic,” I said, pointing to the computer. “Magic,” they agreed. And of course, it is, for both them and me.

Everyone around us wanted to have a look, and there was a fair crowd behind me by the time I figured we could either go on for hours, looking at photos of Laos, Malaysia, India, and even B.C., or I could close the cover and say so long.

I closed the cover; it was time to go. Doug paid for the soups. Son asked if we had paid for her soup. When I assured her that we had, she again glowed with pleasure: these foreigners had invited her for lunch!

We were about to take our leave when Son pulled out the little coloured tubes. “You buy from me?” She was laughing even as she said it. I'd already decided I would, so we began the process of bargaining. She wanted 40,000 dong, which is the equivalent of $3 Canadian. I offered her 35,000. “No, no, 40,000!” she said. We haggled back and forth just for the fun of it. We both knew that I would give her 40,000. I knew I would like to give her so much more... .

So in the end I gave her 40,000 dong and she gave me the little tubes. It was time to say 'good-bye.' Again I looked right into her eyes and said “We go to our hotel now Son. We say good-bye.” She started to raise her hand to shake mine, but instead I reached out and gave her a hug: “My sister Son,” I said, “good luck with your business. I will remember you.”

There were tears in her eyes. “I remember too.” As we walked away I felt happy that we had lunched with Son and her friends, been able to share the photos with them, and happy that we had made a more meaningful connection than just buying some trinkets from the natives. But sad, heavy of heart, at the circumstances beyond either of our control, that make my life so easy, and hers so terribly hard.

We weren't more than a couple of blocks from the market when I felt a tugging at my sleeve. I turned, and there was Son. She was holding out a little silver bracelet. “For you,” she said. I thought she wanted me to buy it, so I said “No thank-you Son, I cannot buy.” But she said “No buy. I give to you. I give. You keep. Remember me.”

Now there were tears in both our eyes. She said to Doug “I cry again!” I hugged her again, good-bye, good luck, and she was gone.

The next day, as we were driving out of Sa Pa, along the road that I thought likely passed her village, I looked for her. I had a little woven bracelet from Mexico that I wanted to give her. But we didn't see her. Still I think she will remember me. I know that I will remember her.

The Delightful Mr. Cu, Hue Vietnam

2009-03-15T07:23:00.000-07:00

To view more photos for this article go to:
www.julesatkins.shutterfly/vietnamarticles

He was standing in the broad open doorway of his restaurant, at the top of a short flight of stairs. As we walked towards the stairs, he opened his arms in welcome, smiled, and said: “come in, come in please!” As we mounted the stairs, I asked “Are you Mr. Cu?” He admitted that he was, and I said “We've been looking for you!”

We shook hands – he exuded unusual warmth and grace even in this simplest of gestures. He cut an elegant figure – a little taller than most Vietnamese, slim, and well-dressed in a nicely tailored dark suit. He had a handsome face with strong chiseled features – softened by the wrinkles of age, and warmed by his lively thoughtful eyes.

Mr. Cu came from a poor family – his father worked as a cyclo (bicycle taxi) driver in Hue. The family lived in a sampan on the Perfume River, a broad river that separates the modern business centre of Hue from the old city. Mr Cu, the second of six children, was born in the spring of 1945, on the sampan. Mr. Cu's mother was particularly anxious around the time of his birth: the Americans were bombing a bridge on the river not far from where they lived. Thankfully he arrived without incident.

Mr. Cu went to school, completed grade twelve and went to work as a bus driver. Then came the Vietnam War. Hue is located on the coast of Vietnam, almost precisely in the middle, between what was North and South Vietnam. It lies just south of the DMZ or 'Demilitarized Zone.' The Americans had a base here, and recruited locals for a variety of jobs.

Mr. Cu was keen to work for the Americans – they paid well. He applied for a job as a driver. Apart from his experience, Mr. Cu had the right credentials: his family was 'clean' – no connections to the Hanoi government. He was hired by a US Army contractor to drive a stand-by fire truck at Hue's airport. But the job lasted only two years: in 1971 the U.S. began their withdrawal from Vietnam. Mr. Cu was let go.

However he was soon re-hired by another US Army contractor, this time driving 'big trucks.' The U.S. Army's withdrawal from Vietnam meant that its equipment, furniture and the personal effects of its service men and women had to be transported to depots for shipment back home. But by 1973 the troops and their paraphernalia were gone, and Mr. Cu was again without work.

There was little work in Hue, so Mr. Cu went south to Qui Nhon, a larger city on the coast, about half-way between Hue and Saigon. He looked up one of his old bosses, a Vietnamese woman who had managed the transport of goods for the U.S. Army in Hue. Now she was supplying rice and vegetables to the Korean Army, which had a base in Qui Nhon. Mr. Cu became her chauffeur.

In 1974 Mr. Cu met and married his wife in Qui Nhon. After the American withdrawal, the Hanoi government had difficulty controlling the population. There was widespread violence and looting. It was a 'crazy time.' Mr. Cu decided that he and his wife would be safer in Hue, closer to his family.

They arrived in Hue on May 15th, 1975, the day before their first baby was born. Mr. Cu took his labouring wife to the hospital, but there were no doctors or nurses available. Mr. Cu looked after his wife himself, washing her sheets and bringing her food. Their next child, another daughter, was born two years later, in 1977.

From 1975 to 1990 Vietnam was ruled by a communist government located in Hanoi. During this period Vietnam was almost entirely dependent on Russian aid. There was no private enterprise: the Hanoi government owned everything. Mr. Cu, having worked for the Americans, was unable to get work. For him, this as a 'very difficult time.' But when he spoke of how he got through it, he laughed a lot.

“The North Vietnamese were very poor. They had three dreams: to own a watch, a radio and a bicycle. They particularly wanted self-winding watches, the ones where you can just wave your hand: you don't have to wind it. Many South Vietnamese had been given such watches as presents by U.S. Army personnel. Some of them were broken, but I learned how to fix them.”

“I would fix them so they worked. Sometimes they would only work for a few seconds – just long enough for me to sell the watch. But I had no shop. I just sold on the street. So when the watch stopped, they would have no way of finding me! Radios I knew nothing about. I couldn't fix a radio. But my brother-in-law could. So he fixed the radios, and I sold them too. And I learned how to repair bicycles.”

In 1990, when Russia felt apart, aid to Vietnam was abruptly cut off. The situation became desperate. The Hanoi government decided to not only allow, but to encourage private enterprise. Tourists were allowed to visit Vietnam for the first time since before the war. This was the dawning of a new era for Vietnam – an era which has seen an incredible growth in development and in opportunities, and prosperity, for the Vietnamese people.

Mr. Cu's ability to seize an opportunity when he saw it again came to the fore: he opened a small cafe in the government owned 'Hotel #2 Le Loi,' one of only four hotels at that time in Hue, all government owned, but the 'Le Loi' was the best and most popular of the lot.

During his first year of business, Mr. Cu's customers were largely Vietnamese. They'd come for a coffee, and to watch t.v. and videos. By 1991 tourists started coming in larger numbers, and Mr. Cu's cafe became 'the place' to go, recommended in guide books not only for its food, but also for Mr. Cu's ability to speak English, and his willingness to provide information.

Mr. Cu' made friends with many tourists who helped him to steadily improve his service – and his food. An American taught him how to make banana pancakes. These pancakes won his restaurant a special mention in a 1993 New York Times article on Vietnam. Other friends helped Mr. Cu by writing and designing menus for his restaurant and advising him on good business practices.

The popularity of Mr. Cu's cafe was a sore point for the hotel, whose restaurant was almost always empty. In 1994 the hotel manageme decided to terminate his lease. In his typical indomitable style, Mr. Cu relocated just a few doors away, at #8 Le Loi. He leased a building owned by a French organization that had been running a school and social development centre for Vietnamese children. The building was run down and dirty, but Mr. Cu fixed it up and opened his new restaurant, which he called 'The Mandarin.'

We asked Mr. Cu how his restaurant got its name. “Ah,” he laughed, “that's a good story!” When Mr. Cu was forced to relocate from #2 to #8 Le Loi, an American friend said: “you're new restaurant has to have a name!” He suggested 'The Mandarin.' because, said Mr. Cu, “my friend said 'your restaurant is located in Hue, which is famous for the imperial city and the old emperors of Vietnam. But you are not an emperor. You are just a mandarin!'”

Mr. Cu's tenure at #8 Le Loi lasted only 18 months before the French organization decided they wanted the building back. So he was forced to move again, this time into the huge 'Army Hotel.' Over the next six years, the hotel managers made him move his restaurant three more times – to different locations within the hotel. And then they too kicked him out.

In 2000 Mr. Cu leased another building on one of the main streets in Hue. Again he was wildly successful. And again his lease was terminated, although this time he'd managed to last for five years – the longest period yet.

But this move proved one move too many for the indomitable Mr. Cu. He said he felt “old and tired.' He suffered a debilitating depression. “For eight months I did not leave my room. I didn't care about anything. An American friend was very worried about me. He would come almost every day to visit me. Sometimes he slept in my room. He made me go to a doctor for treatment. I got medication, and started to get better.”

During the eight months of his debilitating depression it was Mr. Cu's wife – his partner and still the cook at the restaurant – who took on the responsibility for moving the restaurant one more time. It was her decision to buy a piece of land and build their own restaurant. To this day Mr. Cu doesn't know how she did it.

Now Mr. Cu sits, or rather perches, on a chair just inside the new 'Mandarin' restaurant. He turns in his chair to face the street, watching for tourists. When he sees them, he jumps up, and walks down the stairs to the sidewalk to greet them. “Please come inside, I have a table for you!” His manner is more charming than pleading, and genuinely friendly. Mr. Cu likes people. And people like him.

In addition to his other accomplishments, Mr. Cu is a well-known photographer. His many framed photographs – all taken in and around Hue – are hung on every available bit of wall space in 'The Mandarin.' He has a wonderful eye. He started taking pictures in 1994, when he moved from #2 to #8 Le Loi. Business was slow, so he borrowed his brother-in-law's camera and started taking photos. He learned as he went. In 1997 Mr. Cu's photos were shown at an exhibition in Italy; in 1999 in France.

My favourites are his photos of ordinary Vietnamese people engaged in everyday activities: a barber cutting a child's hair, two children playing with a cat, a group of women sitting on a bench in a park, kids eating ice-cream, and a classic of a couple of very old women, twins, squatting in the dust, their ancient lined faces set in looks of grim determination: what are they thinking?

Mr. Cu is not only a delightful, but also an amazing man. He epitomizes the resilience, resourcefulness and industriousness of the Vietnamese people. He believes, despite all of his hardships, and despite the current economic downturn, that “Things will change. Things will get better.”