The Right Way to Halong Bay

Guest blog from daughter Genevieve who has just 'experienced' Halong Bay.

As the sun rises, we are finishing our breakfast on Cat Ba island - omelettes 

served with a fresh baguette on the side and strong black filtered coffee. Our 

hotel on the harbour front grants us views of the limestone karsts emerging in 

the horizon. Fishing boats are just sailing out - round coracles with flat bottoms 

made of bamboo and the carvel style junk boats which are usually used to ferry 

around tourists making a short trip of Halong Bay.

We opted to do something different with the famed Halong Bay - which was to 

linger longer than the standard dash-in-and-out tours arranged in Hanoi but 

the cost of cruising around on a boat for more than 24 hours was 

substantially higher than our £30 a day budget. Like most backpackers and 

tourists, we conferred to the same old cliche -  wanting to find ourselves 'off 

the beaten path'. We also grappled with the mixed reviews of Halong Bay - 

the scams, constant traffic of likeminded others and the environmental 

problems - pollution of the waters from the rubbish thrown out at sea. And so 

we faced the other direction - towards the smaller and lesser frequented 

sibling - Lan Ha Bay. We stayed for four days, under budget, on the largest of 

366 islands in the archipelago - Cat Ba island.

Cat Ba means 'Sandy Women' - and the tale goes that three women of the 

Tran Dynasty were killed with each of the bodies washing up on three different 

beaches. Fishermen built temples on each beach in honour of them and so is 

how the island thus became named. It is preserved by UNESCO, largely for the 

national park that protects one of the most endangered primate species in the 

world - the langur monkeys. There are only 68 left in the world and all of them 

reside here with us on Cat Ba.

The town itself is not pretty, captivating, bustling but its lack of pretence holds 

a charm in itself. The locals do not overexert themselves in plying for trade, the 

buildings are hacked and modern. There is a plentitude of beauty to be 

admired about the island but it is not thrown in your face. A quiet place, to come 

and go as one pleases, enjoy what one will - just what we needed and glorious 

warm weather after the constant chill of Sapa.

We hired a motorbike (that I am alive and kicking, Mum, should reassure you 

that Alex can handle one pretty well) and explored every road on the island. 

Butterflies float everywhere and in all colours, goats with bells round their 

necks skirt nervously past, a rocky path takes us between mangrove trees 

hovering just above the sea level. A smell of pine as we dip beneath trees, 

a bend of awesome valleys and limestone cliffs around every corner. Holding 

on to the man I love as the wind rushes through and everywhere.

        

Cat Ba Island is also steeped in a little history, heavily influenced by both the 

French Indochina and Vietnam Wars. As a bombing hotspot, there are caves 

dug into hills that acted as hideouts for the locals and for the Viet Cong soldiers 

stationed here. We stopped by the Hospital Cave, used all the way up to 1975 - 

reaching it by climbing a steep ladder made of bamboo and welcomed by large 

cavernous spaces. Rooms have been carved into the rocks and I was 

entertained by its echoed recantation of my singing the Who, much to the 

puzzlement of a couple of German tourists who were also having a look around.

           

Cannon Fort - a strategic look out point with bunkers and yes, cannons, was 

where we watched the sunset. This granted us a panorama of the karsts 

around us and with use of binoculars, a giggle at a few fat nudists on beaches 

miles away.

                              

      

      

The unmissable part of visiting this part of Vietnam is, of course, going out on the 

water and seeing the limestone karsts up close. With Asia Outdoors, for £16 each, 

we booked a day's kayaking trip. A pickup by minibus and a motley crew of tourists, 

mostly ignoring one another, climbed on the boat at the harbour and onto the 

upper deck to lounge on cushions as the boat weaved around hundreds of little 

islands dotting Lan Ha Bay.

           

Around one corner, we were greeted with the sight of floating fishing villages, 

one of which held the kayaks we were to use. Half of the group separated to go 

'deep water soloing' - the term describing one who rock climbs as high as they 

can go and then, being able to go no further, throwing themselves into the sea. 

This had looked like fun, but we were being frugal, happy to enjoy ourselves at 

lower levels.

              

Alex and I, being as competitive as we are and not at all sportsmanlike (with each 

other), did not make an agreeable coxless pair on the tandem kayak. This is 

especially as I, without my hearing aids, had opted to go up front at first and 

was unable to have any two-way conversation for all of three hours. Grumpy 

and inhospitable to his attempts to steer, we made way through tunnels, caves 

and explored lagoons in a dogged effort at a straight line weaving through the 

water. The American guide with the big beard laboriously showed us how to climb 

in and out of the kayaks safely in order to swim in the lagoon and Alex managed 

to capsize it. Twice. He takes the prize for being the only one to do it unaided, but 

as he says "if you aren't capsizing you aren't trying hard enough." It was slow 

working back to the boat, with a kayak mostly submerged in water.

After lunch, the groups reversed except for us, choosing to stay on the 

kayaks. This meant that I was granted with the company of tall, toned and 

topless men from Bulgaria, Australia, Canada, Italy. And one fat American. 

Oh, and Alex.

                                          

The kayaking was more successful this time around, with my black mood 

having dissipated and with our tandem now much more in sync with me at 

the back. We all stilled to watch monkeys chattering on a cliff, rattling trees 

to send down a scatter of leaves from hundreds of metres high. We climbed 

out of our kayaks to wade through 'Spider Forest' (thankfully we did not see 

any) and to climb through sea grass back around the other side to our 

kayaks. By the time the sun was getting mellow, we were diving off the boat 

and clunking beers with our newfound friends on the upper deck.

As the sun sets, and the boat sailed back to Cat Ba, conversation stilled as 

everyone sunk in the majestic sights under the glow of the horizon. We were 

gloriously stiff, with sore arms and limbs, cheeks red from the warmth, hugging 

our damp knees in the breeze with one hand clasped onto a beer. Following the 

same route we had taken that morning, the length of the day and the sights we 

had seen stretched before us and we sat contented, people from near every 

continent, knowing that the money spent had been worth every single penny and 

more for the unforgettable Lan Ha Bay.

Sapa's Hills Through the Eyes of Me

Another fabulous blog from globe-trotting number 1 child...light relief from
the cancer stuff from me!

As we fell asleep on the rocking train, Summer quickly moved to Winter, 

marching past Autumn in a huff. To fall asleep in a tangible, humming humidity 

and wake up in a blanket of heavy fog and swirling mists by the highest peak 

in Vietnam, was like setting ourselves as characters in a time-travelling 

fantastical adventure, and remaining perpetually dazed by the experiences 

before us.

The town, Sapa itself, is akin to a ski resort but without the snow. Hotels and 

Northface shops sit cosily on hills set in every direction, though one cannot see 

further than a few metres ahead to know that this is the case. Restaurants 

proclaim the promise of a woodburning fire, few actually delivering, and the 

Hmong tribespeople in their wellies shout 'Where you from' loudly as we pass 

by. Hot chocolate is the drink of choice, usually served with the sugary 

condensed tinned milk favoured by Vietnamese over that of the cow.

One afternoon, a Mancunian and a Scouser sat at a sofa, blowing hot air into 

their hands and shrugging off the fierce cold.

One imagines the sharing of backgrounds could mean a shaky start, for the 

famed rivalry between the two cities is second to none. Both would also insist 

that this history of animosity runs deeper than the Battle of the Reds. When 

away from home, however, whether in London, Sapa or Timbuktu, Northerners 

are a tight clan, who put local grievances aside and claim one other as brethren, 

bantering ruthlessly against the South. Such solidarity is only tossed off in a pub 

on Saturday afternoon.

Northerners being a rare breed amongst the Hmong tribe village of Sapa, we 

agreed to catch up that evening with Phil and Hoa, the Mancunian-Vietnamese 

couple who run Ethos Travel, somehow finding ourselves in an Egyptian Shisha 

Bar decorated as a Bedouin tent with a full-on decor of Valentine's Day. The 

world around us was pink and red, with rose petals scattered everywhere 

including in the toilet bowl.

The main attraction of Sapa is the trekking and for that reason, the very 

next day I found myself in a brand new hot pink Northface jacket and some 

snug fleece-lined black leggings ready to strut up a mountainside or two. On

 a serious note, this was one of the best experiences I have had and the 

highlight of our trip to Vietnam.

My (pronounced "Me") was our guide for the trek, a thirty year old woman with 

a gold front tooth dressed in the distinctive colours that the Black Hmong wear. 

Black baggy velvet shorts that reach to the knees, black linen cloths are wrapped 

around the calves with colourful ribbons strapping them on followed by sturdy 

walking boots. T-shirts and hoodies are covered by a dark blue overgarment with 

hand-stitched fluorescent strips of swirling shapes and flowers adorn the arms, 

shoulders and collar. A similarly decorated sash wraps the coat and a blue, green, 

pink and purple checked scarf is wrapped bandana style around the head. My has 

black hair reaching close to the floor which she has not cut for over 20 years. She 

wraps this round her head like a halo and affixes it with a comb at the front. The 

Hmong wear massive chains round their necks and two or three dangly earrings 

to a lobe, the more you wear - I'm told, the more beautiful you are supposed to be.

When I was seventeen, I cut a knee length checked skirt into a minuscule skirt 

and a boob tube. I also once tried to go clubbing with a pashmina wrapped around 

me instead of a dress. My sister would tell me now that with such similar fashion 

sense, I must have been a Hmong orphan cast away from the tribe.

A trip into the local market, where buffalo legs, chicken feet, pig oesophagus 

and dried squid are delicacies hotly contested over, found us laden with meat 

(normal), rice paper, coriander, carrots, spring onions, eggs and bananas. My 

holds my hand on a regular basis already and laughs loudly and jostles us 

along, much to the amusement of the numerous family members we pass.

An hour's climb up hill and we can still see no more than our breath 

evaporating in front of us and hemp and indigo growing beside our feet. 

The fog is never ending. We hear a bell and some kettle drums and a 

school comes into sight. Young children are dancing in rows, synchronised 

claps above and below whilst old women watch, wrapping hemp around 

their hands, fingers stained blue and green.

My's house is humble, walls of bamboo and a corrugated iron roof.  There 

is no electricity, nor light. The home is split into three rooms, and the eaves 

hold corn to feed the animals, rice to feed the family. Traditional marriages 

mean that the wife will live with the husband's family - so before long, mother

-in-law, sisters-in-law, cousins and children flock into the house to eat with 

us. For with the exception of when trekkers come to visit, they all eat plain 

boiled rice three times a day, every day. It is a celebration, a feast when we 

come and I am so glad that we provide the opportunity to feed so much of 

the family a hearty meal.

                                


The fire sits in one of the rooms, smoke blowing everywhere and low 

wobbly stools sit close to the floor. The food is prepared on the mud 

floor or in metal bowls. Nothing is spared and the fat of the meat is melted 

down to use as oil. Everybody sits close by as the fire is the only source 

of heating and it is effing cold. We are served stir-fried chicken with carrot 

and onions, pork and greens with rice. Rice wine is poured out into shot 

glasses out of a plastic water bottle. This was to be consumed in large 

quantities over the next three days. No English is spoken, but the 

constant chatter of the females around us is captivating.

Another five kilometres we walked that afternoon which was all downhill. 

The mud was wet and there were few footholds to stop the ungraceful 

slithering and sliding act which was our only way to climb down the hill. A 

child ran down the hill past us in a pair of sandals, putting us to extreme 

shame. Terror creeps up on you slightly when you peer over the edge 

and see how far you could fall if the mud sent you flying in that direction. 

Mist everywhere meant that one would suddenly find themselves staring 

into the black beady eyes of a buffalo with no prior warning.

                                

A night at My's sister's house led to much merriment and a few sore 

heads the next morning after several litres of rice wine was consumed. 

Much the same as lunch, we ended up eating with around 10 relative

-in-laws and children and watching some bizarre Korean vampire show 

on television under the single lightbulb that was in the house. We slept 

in the open, on a low bed under a mosquito net, with a thick blanket.




Twelve kilometres the next day, mainly by road, took us down the 

valley and as we climbed the mist slowly rose giving us the famed 

view of rice paddies that Sapa is known for.

My has never been to the city. Nor has she seen the sea. This is the case 

for the majority of people that surround us in the hill tribes. It's curious. 

How can one imagine a world, a life, having not seen a sprawling 

metropolis in glinting sunlight, the ferocious blaring of horns in deadlock 

traffic, the concerted faces as swarms of people walk to their offices, the 

gym, meetings, restaurants, cafes, shops? The observation of urban 

culture as it passes you by? Or the expanse of an ocean, where your eyes 

search the horizon for where the sky meets the sea? The vivid colours of 

the sunset - gold vermillion, shades of fuchsia, violet and periwinkle 

dancing with the clouds? The salt spray, the roar and ebb of a tide, grains 

of sand between your toes as you sink beneath the surface? The joy to see 

fish and coral beneath pellucid waters.

But My has seen the changing seasons over the hills of Sapa. The ornate 

finery in the rice paddies as they dip down the valley. They look like steps 

for God to ascend down from heaven. My has seen children chasing their 

father's bike with glee across a corrugated iron bridge, with no hesitation 

at the cracks that reveal the gushing river below. The breaking backs of 

men building the foundations of a house, together and with no payment 

except a hearty meal. A family of twenty sitting together round a fire with a 

simple spread. Buffalo, pigs, chickens, goats, dogs and cats roaming 

together and doing their bit.

Whilst we sit humbly, at times abhorrent at the poverty that many of them live 

with, respectful of the endless toil we see around us, sorrowful that most children 

may never see the sea, develop a love/hate relationship for the city and all of its 

meddlesome quirks, may never go to university and see a full education, will 

marry and stay in the village they grew up in, next door to the house they were 

born in. They will face most, if not all, of the hardships of the earlier generation 

for whilst the tourist trade in Sapa has reaped benefits, it is part of their culture to 

live exactly the way they are and always have been. It takes reminding that the 

lessons in life taught here are no better nor worse than the ones taught of the 

children who see the city and the sea. Like us. My does not miss what she has 

never known and we are not right to perceive the quality or the richness of life as 

poorer than what we have. She certainly doesn't think that way. And I have learnt 

to believe her.

My's biggest challenge at the moment is saving money for a chimney. Her 

children suffer from the cold, smoke inhalation. She worries for a bad harvest 

which will mean that there is not enough rice for the family. Sapa's rice paddies 

have been exhausted and there are few minerals left in the soil, which means 

that they can only harvest once a year. Her husband works in the summer in the 

fields, for no pay, simply for the food that they can bring to the family table. Any 

excess is traded in the village for other basic necessities. My does not have a 

bank account where she stashes her earnings from the treks. She has never 

learnt the concept of saving nor is quite bought into the long-term benefits of an 

expensive chimney. One day she came across a glimmering rainbow trout in the 

market, and in her delight - having never seen or eaten one before, spent a lot 

of her cash to be able to carry the rainbow trout proudly 5km uphill to her family 

to feed them for one night. That is My. She has the biggest heart.

Heavy breathing, slipping and sliding up and down muddy tracks, stopping 

to enjoy the views, staying in local villages with families suckling their babies, 

fetching water from bamboo poles that run down the mountain, poking the 

fire, preparing simple yet delicious food for the people who come to stay and 

themselves. Learning from the generosity of My and others who, in English 

oftentimes broken, share pictures of their rituals, routines and culture. All in 

a glorious landscape surrounding us, unbroken beauty and the never-ending 

horizons of green hills.

Keep Buggering on...

With apologies to Sir Winston Churchill for the title but rather than feeling in a celebratory mood, as folks think I should be, I am actually in rather somber mode. My heart wants to celebrate all six rounds of the Chemothon completed but my body and my mind are most definitely not in that place yet.

First and most important of all, I want to say a massive thank you to the amazing team of chemo nurses at York District Hospital. I won't be able to remember all their names but these ladies are angels and whatever they are paid, it is not enough. So thank you Wei, whose son went to university in Edinburgh on the same day as number 4 child and who is the most gentle of souls. Thank you to Chateau Shirley who told me I absolutely could drink alcohol throughout the whole process. Thanks and congratulations too to Jo, who administered the first round and in the meantime has had a baby; Cheryl who gave me the  'man up' lecture on the phone when I was at my lowest ebb; Laura who is apparently going to Verona to the opera with my beloved (!) and Jenny who gave me my last round on Friday. Thank you with all my heart - you may have saved my life.

Also a massive thank you to Julie Crossman at the Robert Ogden Centre in Harrogate for giving me reflexology (don't understand how it works but it does), kindness and great wisdom. She has made the task seem less daunting - even on days when I was at a very low ebb.

So this has been the end of a number of things. Chemotherapy (unutterably horrid), reflexology (the best hour of my week for some time) and my hair (although I do still have eye brows but I am told they will be gone before Christmas.) On Thursday evening, my beloved and I had one of those intimate moments that I never imagined thirty years ago when we pledged to each other in marriage. "Please will you shave my head?" I had lost most of my hair but still had a few wispy bits and the new hair, when it hopefully makes an appearance next year, will not look like my old hair so what was left had to go.  My beloved practised on his armpits and then announced himself ready for the task ahead. He did a good job and I now look like Kojak - or Yul Brynner in The King and I .

Actually on a serious note, I understand now very clearly why, when the powers-that-be want to institutionalise a person, they shave their heads. The essence of myself, which I have fought so hard to retain, is now gone from the mirror. I am still trying to be me on the inside but the sight of myself in the mirror pulls me up short. The children asked me what I wanted for Christmas - definitely nothing to eat (because food tastes of very little) and nothing to wear because I can scarcely bear to look at myself.

On a positive note, the way ahead is clearer and it goes like this: lumpectomy - tick, 6 rounds of chemotherapy - tick, 2 out of 18 intramuscular injections of herceptin - tick, the other 16 will be done at home by a herceptin nurse every three weeks until the end of August. (Cue: filling in the potholes in the lane!). Radiotherapy - appointment at Leeds booked to tattoo me (I thought I could have Newcastle Falcons tattooed under my left armpit but apparently it is three tiny but indelible dots). Then come January, I will be milking my friendships to the limit when I have to go to Leeds every day for three weeks, Monday to Friday for radiotherapy and I will need lifts - pretty please! And once that starts, I will also be taking another drug which will be daily for the next five years. I've read about the side effects and all you need to know is that if I appear to be steaming hotter than a pressure cooker - I am!

And finally, I am so proud that my youngest daughter has chosen nursing as a career. There can be no more honourable profession.

My beautiful number 4, all grown up now.