Grey skies - literally and figuratively - clear up

As Paul mentioned in the previous blog, I found travelling in Vietnam more difficult than I expected. Vietnam's picturesque countryside has undeniable appeal, 

but the signs of environmental degradation are also hard to ignore

(though Canadians produce twice as much per capita waste than Vietnamese).

Life in a developing nation is so different than in the industrialized West, which of course was one of the reasons we went there. We wanted to expose ourselves and our kids to a different way of life, as well as to step outside of our comfort zone. Doing so made me realize I was less of an intrepid and adaptable traveller than I thought.

I found the different standards of safety and sanitation concerning at times. Some things were comical, like the lack of adherence to electrical codes (what few there were) - this was the wiring in one hotel, inspired by "Christmas Vacation", 

And while there were some terrific bridges for pedestrians and mopeds, 

others were more worrisome, like the nearly falling down bridge in Sapa that we had to cross twice (I held my breath both times). The surface was a thin layer of rusty metal with holes all the way along, 

including a person sized one right in the middle over the highest point in the bridge (a drop through would have meant a 30 metre fall down to the rocks below) and the whole thing felt as if it would give way at any second. 

Road conditions that would make us at home blanche proved no problem to our taxi driver who zoomed blithely through dense fog.

Our concerns over safety (for the kids primarily) meant that we were less adventurous and chose to forego some of the independence that characterized our travel on the rest of our year abroad. In New Zealand and Australia we were able to go hiking for a days at a time without needing a guide, we slept in our tent, and we could always buy and prepare our own food. In Europe we had our own bikes and felt comfortable navigating independently everywhere. In contrast, in Vietnam we needed hotels, so couldn't cook for ourselves. Long distance hiking required a guide due to the remoteness, the possibility of land mines, and language barriers - we wanted to make sure we had someone with us who could speak the language should anything go wrong. And to cycle we were dependent on beaten down rental bikes - though they worked surprisingly well - and between cities were long unsafe stretches of highway. This meant we limited ourselves to bicycle day trips and did only one multiday trek. 

I grumbled over these restrictions, but the exchange of independence for reliance on others had its own not inconsiderable benefits, especially during our time in north-west Vietnam.

We arrived in the town of Sapa on a cold February evening, and were greeted by more grey skies and a chill not only in the air but also in our hotel room, where we huddled under as many blankets as the staff would give us along with our long johns and sleeping bags too. Our beds were as hard as rocks but we slept well once we warmed up under our layers.

Sapa was once a tiny village before the flood of trekking tourists, drawn by the mountainous beauty of the region. Now it bustles with trade but still has a village flavour, with women and children wandering the streets in traditional clothing. 

The stunning mountain views we were hoping to see were obscured by the mist our first evening,

then cleared the next day.

The mists returned periodically,

but the colourful garb of the women and children made up for the grey in the skies,

and the sun did show its face from time to time.

For four days we trekked through small villages with our guide Sue, 

a H'mong woman whose family had been in the region for generations. She was very sweet and so helpful, 

and took us occasionally on the main tracking routes, with other tourists and villagers selling handicrafts accompanying us, 

but more often she led us up and down quiet roads,

dirt paths, 

through small patches of bamboo forest, 

and above, 

or sometimes through

terraced rice paddies.

As we trekked the local children would call after us with enthusiastic cries of "hello" and "what is your name", 

while younger ones quietly watched us, 

and others passed by on stilts, 

walking more confidently and faster than we did.

Many of the women and some of the men and children seemed to have a baby on their backs, carried in beautifully coloured and bedecked wraps that made me wish my kids were still that small so I could carry them in such a gorgeous contraption myself.

The ground was often slippery and muddy, making us grateful for our hiking boots.

and rain pants.

Though much of the wildlife in Vietnam has been recently hunted to extinction (somehow seems more depressing than the extinctions in Canada in the more distant past), there was no lack of domestic animals. Water buffaloes grazed on or near the paths, 

Sue cautioned us to make no sudden movements when passing close by them

Tiny piglets made our children squeal with delight

and chickens and ducks were everywhere.

Along with tending to rice paddies, dormant during the winter,

and growing vegetable and flower gardens, 

some villagers also practice small scale pisciculture, and Sue took us past several tanks of fish, raised for external markets rather than local consumption.

It was too cold to swim in the waterfalls on our first day

but Jacob and Paul braved the waters on our third.

Having a guide meant we saw things we would have missed, ate the local specialties (we especially loved the fresh sugarcane and the garlic fried potatoes, served traditionally at weddings and new year's) and lived, temporarily, with locals. Our first evening we stayed in Sue's home, keeping warm by a pot of burning coals, and eating dinner with her husband and four children.

Spring rolls, rice, egg and pork graced the table in abundance, as did Sue's family's warmth and generosity. The kids played cards and other games together - they had no common spoken language, but they didn't need it to share the joys of wrestling 

and Uno. 

Sue taught Kyra to embroider, 

and delighted in clothing our kids in traditional outfits, 

even giving us hand me downs that no longer fit her own children.

During the days we ate veggies and noodles at small open huts along the ways,

some of which doubled as stores and bedrooms.

Subsequent evenings we stayed with other hosts and ate with their families as well. 

On our last night Sue took us to the market to buy buffalo 

and sugarcane

and the kids acted as sous chefs to prepare dinner. 

The small homes were completely open to the elements - the common areas were outdoor - so our evenings were cold, though we were warm in our beds - mattresses on the floor - snuggled under multiple layers of blankets. 

Despite the minor discomforts I treasured the time we spent in Sue and the other villagers' homes, as it helped ameliorate how keenly I felt our outsider status during our time in Vietnam. In the rest of the country I was too daunted by the vast differences in pronunciation and vocabulary to make a good effort to learn the language. Even thank you was challenging, because if pronounced incorrectly it means "shut-up", and using the wrong accent when asking where to find a bowl of "pho" could be misunderstood as looking for a prostitute. Paul nevertheless learned a few words and was diligent about using them, and received positive responses for his efforts. 

I was less bothered by our struggles with the language than the cultural differences, particularly around bartering. We never knew how much anything cost, and though I know some people find bargaining fun for us it wasn't. We didn't want to offend anyone, or pay too little - after all the inequity between us as purchaser and them as seller was vast - but we also didn't enjoy the feeling of being taken advantage of. It turned a basic transaction over getting a mango or baguette sandwich into something more emotionally complex and further reduced our independence. 

Some of my mood in Vietnam was likely due to the weather. We went in February, knowing (and warned by many other travellers) that the weather was likely to be cold and rainy, but our luck with weather on the rest of this trip had been so great that we hoped our winning streak would continue. We did end up being lucky in that we didn't have to endure pouring rain, but the uniformly grey colour of the sky ended up getting to me. Still, the temperature was great for walking in, there were almost no mosquitoes so we didn't need to take the malaria medication, and when the sun did make an appearance we were really grateful for it! In fact the weather turned wonderful a few days before the end of the trip, and we were ideally positioned to enjoy it. 

We stayed five nights in Cat Ba Island, and spent our days rock climbing, trekking and kayaking in gorgeous Lan Ha Bay - less famous than Halong Bay but far less crowded as a result. What makes the area so renowned is its karst geology, with hundreds of islands of limestone cliffs jutting out of the water. We decided to experience it up close and personal by climbing straight up one of the cliff faces, securely harnessed in by our guides. Kyra didn't hesitate to scramble up as high as possible,

and Tom went up smiling, though inevitably reached a point at which he felt too high 

and tears accompanied his descent. It didn't daunt him from doing two subsequent climbs up different rock faces. Jacob and Paul ascended the highest of us all.

We came back down to earth on a couple of treks, one where we were taken by a local guide on a trek through a nearby forest, and one on our own through the national park, which was one of the quietest and wildest hikes we did in Vietnam. It began on wide jungle path,

that became narrower and overgrown in patches.

We saw very few people along the tracks and had a peaceful lunch on a rock at Frog Lake

and emerged at the end into a path cut into the base of the limestone cliffs.

On the guided trek we climbed over the rocks to a viewpoint over the trees. 

The many nooks and crannies in the karst geology that had made our rock climbing so great was a little trickier to walk on, 

so our pace was slower than normal, but the guide was patient, and afterwards led us on a quiet walk in the valley.

Next on the agenda was kayaking. Paddling between the limestone islands was spectacular.

We went out first with a group.

Kyra and Tom took turns in the kayak with the guide, 

and the rest of us piled into two double kayaks. 

For our final night in Cat Ba we treated ourselves to one night at a resort on tiny Monkey Island, reached by a small boat.

The resort had kayaks (of dubious quality - we kept an eye out for leaks as we paddled) that we used to go around on our own in the bay. Paul and Kyra went out in the morning while Jacob, Tom and I stayed on the beach to relax,

then we all ventured out together in the afternoon.

It was so lovely to paddle in the late afternoon sun,

but we made sure to have the boats back and ourselves safely on the beach at sunset.

In the morning we clambered to the top of one the island's two peaks, 

then went down the other side to see the somewhat feral monkeys (pictured - barely - at the edge of the shade). 

After one of them inexplicably launched itself at Kyra, hissing at her and landing on her shoulders before leaping away, we kept our distance (arming ourselves just in case).

The warm weather and sun stayed with us as we went to Hanoi for our final night in Vietnam. It erased the grey skies of our arrival, and instead of being scared I enjoyed the chaos and noise of the intersections,

accepted the reality of the air pollution, 

and embraced the vibrancy of the streets, appreciating the bicycle vendors

and sidewalk sellers

so much more than the I had when we first arrived.

I will happily remember Hanoi at its best, the sun shining on the lake in the middle of the city,

and, even amongst the challenges in a developing nation of more than 90 million people, there exists a peace and tranquility to Vietnam that will remain with all of us.