What Would Your Mother Think?

After three months of slow-paced living through Laos, Cambodia, and Thailand, Vietnam comes like a soccer ball to the face. The horns are aggressive tools of war, the pace of traffic is furious, and the touts are out for blood. This morning I was mobbed at the bus station by a cloud of mini-van assistants, pulling me first one way, then the other, shouting at each other that they'd seen me first. The policeman on the corner whacked my bag with his baton to get me out of the way. During the ride the attendant got into a yelling match with a passenger over who-knows-what, although it settled down after a couple minutes. I haven't heard voices raised in anger since the traffic snarls of Delhi.

I arrived in Hanoi only yesterday morning but I motored to Ninh Binh today, leaving the big city to be explored with my mother. I haven't even seen the town because I rented a bike and pedaled 9 km in the rain with some French kids to a little place called Tam Coc. Along the way we stopped for some drinking water (as if the stuff dripping from our faces wasn't enough), and the elderly lady working the stall was horrified that I was biking through that weather without a rain poncho. She was joined by a handful of people sitting nearby, and to appease the mob I bought one for 20 cents. With decisive movements she tore open the package, unfolded the thing, scrunched it up so I could get my head through, and then proceeded to dress me in my new waterproof apparel. She wasn't satisfied until I was safely enclosed in clear blue plastic, and even then everyone insisted that I get another one (I'm unsure if this was out of concern for my well-being or simply to make a sale). I kindly declined and we continued down the road.

Tam Coc is a landscape reminiscent of northern Laos with sheer stone hills rising straight from rice paddies and flat water, all enveloped by mist. In this case, however, there is a waiting army of Vietnamese women in conical bamboo hats waiting to row you across the water. The river twists through some narrow spots and then seems to end entirely, until you get close enough to the rock face to realize that there's a low tunnel stretching all the way through the mountain. One the other side yet another panorama of green and grey unfolds before you, and this repeats itself four times until it's time to turn back the way you came.

Our guides chattered amiabley to each other the whole while, rowing steadily as other boats bearing other rain-ponchoed tourists floated by. A handful of people, including our ladies, used the familiar method of hands and arms to move the oars through the water. Everyone else looked just as comfortable using their feet. Somehow their roughened soles moved precisely to turn the oar flat against the water, and then back to slice through the air. One smiley old woman, anywhere from 45 to 85, accompanied us on the way back, talking with our guides as her feet cycled through the air.