Poor old pig

Thursday 5 December

Having investigated the options of going to Ta Phim for another walk, I succumbed to a motorbike taxi who promised he was the number one safe driver who would go slowly. We set

off with him trying to extend the deal beyond a drop off to a full blown tour and me reminding him of the slow and safe clause in our contract. 

He dropped me off at the entry to Ta Phim where a group of ladies took me in hand for a tour of their village. This included meeting one of the grannies and going into her house. It was very basic, like a barn really, with open fires on the floor for heating and for cooking. There was electricity with a TV as one of the items it powered together with what seemed a single bulb. It’s a strange collision between these people with their highly circumscribed lives and the tourists who jet in from half way across the world. At the end of the half-hour tour the ladies got their wares out. They seemed to want to be treated as individuals – buy something from each – rather than a team. So I’m afraid I gave up the idea of buying a hat from one of them and decided instead to give them each an equal tip. I’m not sure if this was suitably generous but there we are.

The walk back to Sapa via Ma Tra was pretty easy and undemanding along a concrete path. At the outset, I needed a bit of reassurance I was on the right path but quickened my pace once I felt certain I wasn’t striding in the wrong direction. I got to the main road a bit further from Sapa than I’d meant to but maybe the path leading back into the town was less developed and obvious.

That evening I had planned to go to a reasonably authentic looking restaurant (Viet Discovery) but when I arrived the only people there were the staff sitting around the fire in the middle. One of them attended to me but everything I wanted on the menu was unavailable and I’m afraid I gave up and decided to leave. I went instead to a restaurant I’d noticed on my way back in the afternoon. This turned out also to be very local. They had no menu in English or pictures but the restaurant’s accountant (a grand term for such a small place and probably more a bookkeeper) told me the possibilities in his so so English. He then decided to join me while I eat alongside the very shy receptionist who was planning to go to Sydney in a few months. Her English seemed pretty much non-existent so goodness knows how she’ll get on.

It was a nice meal, brought down to earth somewhat by the arrival of a pig that was ushered into the front room which seemed to be the kitchen. It was maneuvered like a wheelbarrow with the man holding its back legs and it squealing walking on its front legs. In reality, I guess a visit to a UK factory farm and abattoir combo would be worse but I suppose I prefer to hide my eyes from the horrid truth.