The Catholic Church
Above Ping’s house is a Catholic church. In the courtyard there is a statue of Our Lady of Poverty and Minority Hill Tribes, or so it appears to me. Catholicism, is alive and well and living in a remote village in Northern Vietnam, a legacy of the French occupation. There are about 6 million Catholics in Vietnam.
As we leave Ping’s house, her youngest son has a tantrum, he is four years old. To placate him she gives him some money. “Why does he want money?” I ask. “For candy.” she replies. The “why else?” hangs in the air unspoken.
We trundle off to the village of Te Van. It is here where we will catch a jeep or a motorbike back up to Sapa.
Ping negotiates a price with the motorbike riders. It is 70,000 dong each. She asks if we will pay for her ride back to Sapa too. Her ride costs 50,000 dong. 190,000 dong is around $10 for the three of us.
Stan hasn’t really ridden pillion before. We ask for helmets. Stan’s helmet has a broken clip. He just holds onto it with one hand. We should insist on one that works. Instead, we climb on our respective bikes and head on up the hill. Stan gallantly takes the camera bag which holds both cameras and 5 lenses. My camera bag still holds two bananas and the uneaten coconut bread.
I am aware that I am much heavier than the slim young man I am hanging on to. I rest my hands on his hips and lean my body close to his, so he knows exactly where my weight is. We negotiate the river crossing and I close my eyes as we ascend the steep dirt road. I don’t open them until we are on the comparative safety of the bitumen. I try and reassure myself that he knows this road like the back of his hand and is used to carrying cargo on the back. My driver accelerates passed Ping, and we have left Stan a long way behind. I worry about his faulty helmet. And I am angry with myself that we didn’t insist on a replacement. I close my eyes again as we overtake a van that is overtaking another van on a blind bend. We are back in the thick of the mountain fog again. Visibility is down to a few metres. The road is wet and in places it has washed away by landslides. I hold on tight as we navigate a couple of creek crossings and try not to bounce off the back of the bike.
Back in Sapa, Stan puts a wad of notes into Ping’s hands. “This is for you and your family” he says, looking deeply into her dark eyes. She thanks him quietly and I notice she has the good grace to put the money straight into her bag without looking at it or counting it. I marvel at her maturity, serenity and strength. She is a remarkable young woman. We embrace, say our farewells and Ping disappears off into the mist. I wonder if I will ever see her again. It is New Year’s Day.
The Catholic Church
Above Ping’s house is a Catholic church. In the courtyard there is a statue of Our Lady of Poverty and Minority Hill Tribes, or so it appears to me. Catholicism, is alive and well and living in a remote village in Northern Vietnam, a legacy of the French occupation. There are about 6 million Catholics in Vietnam.
As we leave Ping’s house, her youngest son has a tantrum, he is four years old. To placate him she gives him some money. “Why does he want money?” I ask. “For candy.” she replies. The “why else?” hangs in the air unspoken.
We trundle off to the village of Te Van. It is here where we will catch a jeep or a motorbike back up to Sapa.
Ping negotiates a price with the motorbike riders. It is 70,000 dong each. She asks if we will pay for her ride back to Sapa too. Her ride costs 50,000 dong. 190,000 dong is around $10 for the three of us.
Stan hasn’t really ridden pillion before. We ask for helmets. Stan’s helmet has a broken clip. He just holds onto it with one hand. We should insist on one that works. Instead, we climb on our respective bikes and head on up the hill. Stan gallantly takes the camera bag which holds both cameras and 5 lenses. My camera bag still holds two bananas and the uneaten coconut bread.
I am aware that I am much heavier than the slim young man I am hanging on to. I rest my hands on his hips and lean my body close to his, so he knows exactly where my weight is. We negotiate the river crossing and I close my eyes as we ascend the steep dirt road. I don’t open them until we are on the comparative safety of the bitumen. I try and reassure myself that he knows this road like the back of his hand and is used to carrying cargo on the back. My driver accelerates passed Ping, and we have left Stan a long way behind. I worry about his faulty helmet. And I am angry with myself that we didn’t insist on a replacement. I close my eyes again as we overtake a van that is overtaking another van on a blind bend. We are back in the thick of the mountain fog again. Visibility is down to a few metres. The road is wet and in places it has washed away by landslides. I hold on tight as we navigate a couple of creek crossings and try not to bounce off the back of the bike.
Back in Sapa, Stan puts a wad of notes into Ping’s hands. “This is for you and your family” he says, looking deeply into her dark eyes. She thanks him quietly and I notice she has the good grace to put the money straight into her bag without looking at it or counting it. I marvel at her maturity, serenity and strength. She is a remarkable young woman. We embrace, say our farewells and Ping disappears off into the mist. I wonder if I will ever see her again. It is New Year’s Day.