The Ma Pi Leng Pass was a slight disappointment
the following morning. The proprietor of my hotel had told me to go there after
nine o’clock, when the fog had normally cleared, but, arriving at around
nine-thirty, the fog was still around. Despite this, a few glimpses of the
pass’ splendour were possible: I recommend making this trip in the afternoon,
when all will be visible.
The target today, perhaps ambitiously, was the
Ba Be National Park, some one hundred and fifty miles to the south. The first
task of the day was to have Chairman Mao examined by a mechanic, for the bike
now needed the gear lever to be kicked hard to get into second gear. The
mechanic claimed that nothing was wrong and I left after the customary pointing
and ruefully mocking cries of, “China! China! Trung Quoc! No good!” Bao Lac was
the first target of the day, though the road map was a tad unclear. The police
were checking vehicles outside the town and I was ready to brandish my permit
but was waved through with a smile from the officers. The permit, whilst I see
why it was required, was largely redundant, since I only met one police patrol
(this one) and was not asked for it. I would not, however, recommend chancing
your arm without it!
The road gains altitude from Meo Vac and was
extremely cold, with mist blowing in frequently and drizzle soaking me. It was
so cold, in fact, that four layers were needed. I followed the road, unsure as
to whether I was going the right way, asking locals at regular intervals by
pointing down the road and saying, “Bao Lac? Bao Lac?” They looked confused,
probably by Vietnamese words coming out with a northern English twang, and
nodded, so I continued. The road was relatively slow but the weather soon
cleared up as I dropped into a valley, where rural scenes were frequent;
cowherds waved as they led their animals down the road, women carried baskets
of wood and leaves and children played in the road. I still had a nagging
feeling that I was going the wrong way, so I stopped outside a bamboo hut to
ask for directions. The inhabitants were outside but, on seeing me, quickly
scarpered inside the door, peering out at the strange man on the motorcycle.
There were three young women, two holding babies, and a teenage boy. I said
“Bao Lac,” a few times, but they didn’t reply, cowering behind the door.
Eventually I pulled out the map and asked them to come to look at it and, again
seemingly afraid, they nudged each other to come to see, until the boy was shoved
out of the door to come to speak to me. He looked at the map blankly, seemingly
unaware of what it was, and was joined gradually by the three women. None had a
clue what I wanted or where Bao Lac was, so I thanked them and rode off,
getting a similar response from a cowherd down the road.
With hindsight, the group at the hut were
probably the worst people to ask. I surmised afterwards that the women had
probably never left the village (except, perhaps, if they originated from
another), staying at home to look after their children, while the boy would
have been similarly likely to have never been away from his village. In this
age of global travel, it is very easy to forget that scenarios like this must
exist all over the world, and it led me to be a lot more patient and less
expectant when asking for directions…
Eventually I reached a village and filled up on
petrol, being informed by the shopkeeper that I should go towards Cao Bang to
reach Ba Be. I was making good time and confident of making it to the national
park. Of course, my confidence was misplaced, for climbing towards Cao Bang
Province, the road became extremely cold, wet and foggy again, and I was soon
shivering uncontrollably despite my four layers and gloves. My mood was not
lifted when my chain flew off the bike as I came down a hill, requiring a
passer-by to help me put it back on before I moved on. He told me that it was
five o’clock and I began to despair of my prospects, thinking that I wouldn’t
reach Ba Be and even worrying that I would have nowhere to sleep.
I came to the town of Tinh Tuc, needing fuel
again. I was bitterly cold, and shivered as the man filled the tank. Noticing
this, he made a shivering gesture inquiringly, and I nodded to indicate that I
was cold. He beckoned me into his house, where he told me to sit while he
prepared a pot of hot tea, a perfect remedy for my impending cryo-stasis.
We were soon joined by the shopkeeper’s
friends, who, for the umpteenth time on this trip, suggested that I might like
to marry the woman who was accompanying them. After toasting each other with
tea, they left, leaving the shopkeeper (whose name was Sàu, it turned out) and
me to continue drinking tea. We chatted, in a manner, about football and Vietnam,
though I understood little. Before long, his son arrived with two friends, none
of whom spoke any English, and, after a few teas, the son (name Ang) was sent
away with some money, returning with rice wine. The five of us, joined by Sàu’s friend, Bao, a weathered-looking man, toasted and drank the wine; as Sàu became more lubricated, he would shake my hand, holding onto it and
saying, “Anh! Anh! [the word for British in Vietnamese] Number one! Number
one!” He would then gesture exploding bombs and I guessed that he was praising
Britain for not being involved in the Second Indochina War (or Vietnam/American
War, depending on whether you come from America or Vietnam). I reciprocated,
giving Vietnam an emphatic thumbs up.
Of course, we were not joined by the women of
the household; Sàu’s daughter pottered about in the kitchen, while his wife
soon came back from the fields and lay behind a curtain on the bed before
attending to some other jobs. I had by now realised that I had been misinformed
with regard to the time; it was now about five o’clock and I wanted to make
tracks. I communicated this to Sàu but he was having none of it. Making a
third pot of tea, he disappeared for twenty minutes, returning with a tray of
food (pork, fish, vegetables and rice) and telling me to eat. We were now joined
by his daughter but no others (Bao had excused himself); she then cleared the
table and washed up while we drank yet more tea.
It was now six-thirty and nightfall. I
indicated to Sàu that I really ought to leave, but he again rebuffed me,
walking outside and wheeling my motorbike into his house before indicating that
I was to sleep there that night. I protested to no avail; he was, in hindsight,
right to stop me from riding such a distance in the dark. We settled to watch
some more football before I was sent away with Ang. We walked to his flat
(about ten minutes away), which contained only a bed, a table and three
chairs in the first room and his bed in the bedroom. It was now around eight o’clock, so I began
to prepare for bed; we were, however, soon joined by Nam, Ang’s friend, who
spoke English and was bearing a large bottle of rice wine and some oranges. The
rice wine warmed me ahead of what followed: Ang received a ‘phone call and soon
afterwards the three of us were on his scooter heading uphill. We came to a café
which was booming with music; it was a karaoke bar! We walked in to find a
large group of Ang’s friends present; we joined them, drank lots of rice wine
and had a lot of fun, so much so that going home was a hazy memory!
I was woken the next morning by Ang exhorting
me to get up, my head extremely thick from the night before. He tried to feed
me some Fanta before we hopped onto his scooter and went to his father’s house.
The tea was already ready and Sàu greeted me, telling to sit. We drank the pot
and it was time for me to go; he had things to attend to and simply said,
“Bye-bye,” as he walked off down the street, leaving me beside my motorcycle.
I came away from Tinh Tuc feeling completely
humbled and reflecting on an episode which could have come straight from the
ancient Mediterranean. I have experienced similar things in eastern Syria but
even those events were not on this scale. This was xenia, the Greek worl for guest-friendship, the central theme of
Homer’s Odyssey, in which the hero
Odysseus journeys around the Mediterranean, experiencing different kinds of
hospitality. Xenia was compulsory for
the classical Greek, with divine retribution to be expected if he failed to
meet this cultural and moral obligation. I am not a hero, nor is this the
Mediterranean, but the guiding principle seems to be the same: Sàu saw a
traveller shivering and believed him to be far from his destination, so he fed,
watered and accommodated him, all in the name of friendship and hospitality,
the former of which he kept emphasising over the rice wine. He’ll probably
never read this, but I thank him whole-heartedly: such generosity will never be
forgotten and is sadly all too absent in Western culture.
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| Sàu, posing before a plaque outside his home. |
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