Day 5 - Sapa - 11th September 2014
Sapa Day 5 – 11th September 2014
I have slept like a log in the huge bed, and found it difficult to locate Gerald at the other side for our morning meditation. We arrive late to breakfast and soon the herd leave and we have some quiet Japanese people as follow diners. More Pho Bo, I am in culinary heaven, sitting opposite a glorious view, alone with my Beloved and clear that ‘group travel’ is not something we are good at.
We leave at 9.30 am for another village to visit a small school, also high in the mountains. The journey is magnificent, terrifying as the roads are narrow and motor bikes and buses and trucks traverse a road alongside the mountain, large boulders fall regularly, and we have to carefully drive around one, our tyres perilously close to the edge of the cliff. Squeals. The driver is a local, and confident, we close our eyes a lot – last night, without the herd, a motor bike ran into the back of the bus, and he cannot open the engine, but he is uninjured. At one point we stop for ‘happy photos’, and I leap on to a rock and sit cross legged overlooking a green valley swathed in mist, dotted with small bamboo houses, and Gerald lines up the camera for a shot which looks as if we are here entirely alone, and people are laughing about pretending we are isolated. One of the women wanders into the shot, and Gerald waits, then politely calls out, ‘Trish, would you mind moving whilst I take this shot?’. She doesn’t hear, and he waits again, and asks again. Nothing, and her husband has joined her. I call out, and she moves away, Gerald thanks her and clicks the shot. I jump up and move off, calling ‘Who is next?’ The whole incident takes perhaps two minutes. But there is dissension in the ranks. Betty says loudly ‘It’s all about Sandra. This tour is all about her.’ People have heard this nasty comment, and look uncomfortable and I choose to ignore it, but her husband is embarrassed and sidles up saying ‘Did they intimidate you off that rock?’, to which I reply ‘No, I am not easily intimidated’. But I’m reminded of Cynthia Morton’s post on FB this morning, ‘Who does she think she is?’ where women prey on other women, particularly those who are tender and juicy (or happy, successful, slim, funny, intelligent, athletic, etc) and put them down, something she likens to lions stalking zebras in the bush. And I shake it off.
On arrival at the school, there is a large construction happening – a new school – and men are performing miracles, standing on top of what appear to be flimsy bamboo structures above the partly built school, tools are rudimentary and concrete is being pullied up via ropes, being poured into supporting posts, and stuffed down with bamboo rods. They live in a tarpaulin covered large hut for the duration of the build, as it is too far to head back down the mountain each night. Another tarpaulin is stretched out, like a small swimming pool, and we are uncertain if this is water for the concrete or their personal bathtub.
The school, a small white building, has a swept courtyard with a verandah running its length and five small classrooms with a collection of the teachers motor bikes lined up at one end. We are invited into the youngest children’s classroom, around six years of age, and as I walk in I experience a sharp pain in my heart. These little children and this tiny teacher take me straight back to ‘our’ World Youth School in Gorkarna, the school I helped create, the children I helped give an education and whom I loved. My eyes flood with tears, I am having trouble looking at them, and then the pain recedes. This is not World Youth International, this is not ‘our school’ and a sense of peace and gratitude descends. In the words of the wise Wendy Moscovis, who once said to me ‘Sandra, if you never do another thing for humanity, you have earned your place in heaven, and I thank you’. Regrettably, that part of my life is over, I made a difference, and I loved every moment. We leave our gifts and I ask the teacher Ly, (Lee) if she would like my jacket, she is half my size, and for those of you who do not know know me, I am a small woman – her eyes expand to the size of saucers, and she puts it on, the sleeves four inches too long, and the faux fur hood collapsed around her small, sweet face. Her gratitude is humbling and I once again feel my eyes filling, she throws her arms around me and squeezes the breath out of me with a surprisingly strong hug.
On our trip down the mountain to Lao Cai (pronounced Lao rhymes with ‘how’ and Cai rhymes with ‘sky’) in the gloom we see a motor bike in front of the bus carrying a bamboo basket with a fairly large pig in it, just one of the many large and unusual articles being transported all over the country.
Back at Sapa, we lunch with the group in the Red Dao restaurant, several courses of delicious food, and I buy a few gifts – salt and pepper cellars, which are actually couples in a loving embrace. Betty and I try apple wine, highly alcoholic, made on the premises, and one is more than enough! I am starting to enjoy Steve and Carol and feel happy to be sat close to them, with Cath at the head of the table, red faced and breathless in the heat, she did not accompany us today, but has taken a taxi to the restaurant to join us. I think their travel agent did this sweet elderly couple a disservice selling them this tour, which is too strenuous and too hot for them, I worry for their health, there are days they look seriously ill.
Lunch done, we walk back to the hotel and haggle and eventuallly buy two shower jackets for $50. I find the process exhausting and confronting. You cannot say no, every objection is countered, and they rush to other shops to find larger/smaller/different colours and fabrics, you are obligagted the moment you step in the door. That the sleeves are four inches too long and the velcro doesn’t meet as my wrists are too small is neither here nor there. I cannot find the long puffy jacket I want, these shops sell clothes for trekking, and I am disappointed. Gerald is happy with a khaki fishing shirt for $25, his are good purchases, my jacket is a question mark, but they have earned $25 in sales techniques and persuation I reckon. I have an hour and a half massage for $10 with a young lady who arrives quite breathless after the owner has made several phone calls to locate someone to come to her empty salon, and I sit naked but for my knickers, awaiting my masseur. She is a rubber, not a masseur – but willing – and I choose to overlook the grubby looking towel I lie on, lay my loved Nepali cotton dress underneath my face, and submit to being rubbed.
We just have time to shower and pack, drink tea, and meet in the foyer at 5.30 pm for our trip back to Lao Cai to catch the train. It is twilight as we head down the mountain and once again, I marvel at the skill of the driver, my eyes drinking in these final mountain views and the green beauty and rushing streams which accompany us. Lao Cai is a different place at night, bright lights, tooting scooters, and we stop at a gaudy restaurant La Bordeaux, where Tea herds his charges in with the persistence of a cattle dog and with some relief I imagine, as the train station is two minute walk away. People buy their own meals and Gerald and I share chicken with citronella and chili and mixed fried rice. Having only ever known citronella as a mosquito repellent, this is a novelty and surprisingly delicious.
The walk to the bus across busy streets and poor lighting is nerve wracking as I am assisting Cath, whose husband Ashley is struggling himself. The walkway to the train is across broken concrete and railway tracks and in crowds of travellers both local and tourists laden with luggage, and Cath is struggling despite my support, with Betty bringing up the rear. She has a good heart, but a mouth that can be nasty, as my mother would say. Getting Cath on to the train is a feat, as the first metal step is a good metre off the ground, but with our men up high on the train pulling, and Betty and I pushing, she accomplishes the task without too much difficulty, it is us who are knackered. She tells me she has several medical issues including very high blood pressure, and cannot take the heat. I don’t ask about the other issues, I am already worried, as I said. This kind lady is only 73, eight years older than I am, and I am shocked at the difference in our fitness and health and mobility.
The train leaves miraculously once more right on time at 8 pm and miraculously once more we have the same cabin! With the TV ‘just for decoration’ and a dodgy lamp which Gerald manages to get working. Geoff and Ashley stand in our doorway once more and talk sharing a few beers, whilst I try to write, and at 9.30 pm I give up, and brush my teeth in the communal bathroom, where two days ago I watched a smart official brush his teeth and shave, his uniform covered in stars and brass buttons. He may be the Prime Minister for all I know. Armed with prior knowledge from our last trip on this train, I remove one of the unused doonas from the top bunk, and lay it down to soften the hard seat which is my narrow bed, and sleep surprisingly well, even managing to negotiate the combination tricky door lock, and get up to wee twice in the night without incident.