Another sound sleep was cut short by a loud rumbling below. I wondered, do they get earthquakes in Vietnam? I need not have concerned myself with that, for the epicentre was much closer to home. There was no time to lose, the rumbling growing louder, I made a dash for the toilet in time for a spectacular bowel explosion – it was my turn. I half expected it, after that dodgy meal last night.
I showered and pumped a few pills, and announced to Dan my intention to hit the road. He was sleeping in a little longer, so we agreed to meet at the half waypoint to Son La, by the 60km marker. We have found these useful markers every few kilometres almost all the way so far. Occasionally they are the wrong way around, throwing our calculations into chaos, but mostly they are accurate and much appreciated. (Comforting to know you are actually on the correct road).
I did a few laps of the town, Moc Chau, in a fruitless attempt at finding a way to call my sister and wish her a happy birthday, before taking the road west. Putting on an extra layer against the early morning chill, I rode hard uphill through misty forest, keen to break out into the open to feel the warmth of a rising sun on my back. The next few hours of road conveyed me up and down mountainsides, along river valleys and through remote minority villages. Though of course far from the first foreigner to travel this route, you are guaranteed plenty of attention when people spot you. It is perfectly normal for fellow riders to come alongside for a good look and to say hi. This morning, one young man coasted downhill with me, side by side, for perhaps ten kilometres or more. He did not say anything, just looked with big round eyes and an undeviating grin. To break the monotony, I occasionally passed him a boiled sweet and pointed at the scenery and exclaimed”beautiful”! This pleased him enormously.
I stopped to try a tentative nibble at my supplies by a fast-flowing river, near the road. I was well ahead, so took a few moments to read, during which time I was greeted by women coming to wash their laundry and men bringing their Oxon to bathe. As I packed up, a white and red blur rushed by that could only be Dan. I was slightly off the road and he had not spotted me, he could not have lain in bed much longer after all. With ten kilometres to the meet point, I relished the challenge of catching him up.
Dan, usually more easily distracted than I, must have been thrashing the Minsk, for it was some time after before I pulled level with him. Clearing a small town, name unknown, we climbed a steep hill and stopped for a break at a small isolated restaurant. We were quickly invited to join a large group of men, and immediately I feared another groping experience as on the first night. I need not have worried; they were teachers of varying age, celebrating their annual “teacher’s day”, whatever that is. Nonetheless, they insisted we help. A nice friendly bunch, and importantly, sober. We shared bitter tea, strong enough to strip the enamel off your teeth, and communicated best we could, through the only man who had some grasp of English. Together with Dan’s phrasebook, we managed.
Keen to complete our journey for the day, we made efforts to leave. As I suspected, they were about to eat and of course they would like us to join them. It was a difficult one; still another 40km to cover, but really, this is why we travel. What is the point in coming to such places if you turn down the opportunity to spend time with local people when invited?
So we settled inside, on the floor. Shoes and hats off, the feast was laid before us. I had read that Goat meat is the speciality around here, and it seemed the spread before me was in honour of it. I hadn’t heard anything from my stomach in a while; this could prove to be a defining moment. Then came out the unlabelled bottles; the misty opaque contents could only be rice wine. Shot glasses are filled, the toasting begins, resistance is futile, we are going nowhere for the time being.
You must understand that eating in other countries does not always follow the same routine you have at home. It is mostly a chaotic affair, and half the fun is working out what is happening. There is around fifteen of us in all, and at one point or another someone is always getting up and wondering off. Sometimes they go to play cards, or to chat with someone else. They stop to smoke, then eat some more. There is no hurry. Food is put into our bowl and pushed toward us, and we are keenly watched as we eat. I feel quite ridiculous, tentatively nibbling at the more palatable bits, as they bolt theirs down with much lip slapping. I am always open-minded when it comes to food, but this just isn’t very nice, and I am wondering what it is going to do to my addled insides. I muddle through, more is heaped in my bowl, and the rice wine keeps coming with it.
Just as I think we are through the worst of it, much excitement heralds the arrival of the piece de resistance. The small rice bowls were passed around, one each, and contained a type of jelly of the brightest red. On top were sprinkled, I think, ground peanut. This is a speciality of nearby Son La, Goat’s blood curd. I know what you are thinking, and I was thinking the same.
As a gesture of respect to their hospitality, there is only one course of action. I smiled, doing my best to look thrilled at the very sight of it, and tucked in. The jelly-like tiet canh, as it is known, wobbled on my spoon as I lifted it to my mouth. As far as taste goes, it was not so bad. Not particularly strong in flavour, rather like eating uncooked port fat. I found its cold slimy texture the hardest part to swallow, making me urge once or twice. Below was a mixture of blood, and what I can only imagine to be ground goat meat. In all, the vivid red dish was beautifully presented, and the ground peanuts on top really saved the day.
Our hosts had been incredibly friendly and much fun. We exchanged contact details, and we promised to send photo’s of today and our homes for their pupils. They begged us to return and give a class at their school, something on this trip unfortunately not possible this time around. Just when I wondered whether this might turn into a day and night celebration, our new friends wished us a hearty farewell and hopped on their bikes to continue their day in town. When offered, they refused any payment for food or drinks. Dan and I quietly sat and drank a pot of tea, to dilute the rice wine.
We covered the final 40km together in high spirits. Days like this are what it is all about. We arrived in Son La with just enough time to spare, as I had planned to visit a bombed out French prison. Riding through town, through our helmets we hurled muffled abuse at each other, disagreeing over which direction to take. Of course, we are both right. At length, we found the site of the old French penal colony. On top of a steep hill overlooking town, this is where all anticolonial revolutionaries were incarcerated. During the American War, the entire site was flattened as US bombers dropped unused ammunitions when returning to base. Amid the debris, today stands a lone surviving peach tree that was planted by former inmate To Hieu in the 1940’s.
It was an interesting enough diversion for an hour, but there is only a certain amount of interest one can show in piles of rubble. I was dizzy with tiredness after a long day’s ride, but an early evening power-kip got me straightened up before dinner. At night, we had much fun around a packed market, with many colourful minorities including Black Thai, Meo, Muong and White Thai.
Sleep comes easy, looking forward to tomorrow’s route, much of which is mountainous dirt road. I believe I have taken too many Stoppers, as I have been nibbling all day and have heard not a rumble from below. |
