Am I in Vietnam? Or Switzerland? Or perhaps the Lake District? It is cold. When I wake I see the delicately arched windows are a misted blank. I know that beyond the pines there is something huge, massed that I cannot see.
I remember
Scrunching myself up to avoid the bed’s cold corners
Damp french Limousin hotels in winter
Feeling my way back home from school along rough walls, my calling voice swallowed in the fog.
The stillness and excitement before Christmas
The low mountain cloud drifts and clears to reveal not holly berries but women and children with high scarlet headdresses and turquoise, green and fuschia pink full woollen skirts. They are walking down the hillside towards our guest-house-bakery, on their backs large bamboo baskets. This is Sapa and for us a dizzying four day break from teaching. Jazz plays downstairs. For breakfast we have filtered coffee, local honey and fruits, chocolate croissants and home made yoghurt. In our damp room with gracious balcony there is an electric blanket. The cost is 7GBD for bed and breakfast.
We trip out North East to BacHa market; on the left bank of the river is China. Bleakness and beauty; rice terraces, concrete dust on the palm trees lining the roads. Elderly tribal women breaking up hard clods of red earth to sow fruit, their clothing explosions of colour.
Tomorrow we travel to stay with a hilltop tribe at Ban Ho for two weeks. They have requested support for their English in setting up a co-operative. This feels very unknown territory and I don’t expect to be in communication during our stay.