The abyss of proximity

Quaint little town of Arzo

As my job search proceeds, for the first time since middle school I have the time to truly live the small Swiss village life experiences all over again. The difference this time, however, is that I am now an adult that has lived, studied and worked in numerous other countries outside the small Italian-speaking Canton of Switzerland: Ticino.

Many positive memories are relived such as the comfort of being in quaint and green surroundings where the elderly walk to the local grocer and don’t hesitate to say “Buongiorno” to you as you cross their path. Or the incredible smells that are released by the fertile soil while the winter snow gradually disappears, filling your lungs with prospects of an early spring. These are things that immediately flood my thoughts back to images of carefree youthfulness where we played hide-and-go-seek in the tight, meandering alleyways of Stabio’s Old Town nucleus or when we raced on our bicycles down the steep hill of Rancate challenging who would be the first to cool off from the summer heat in the soothing waters of Lake Lugano. 

Many such comforting scenarios reappear when I set foot in this charming and frequently sunny part of the Helvetian territory, but the differences in perspective with those that have lived many of those youthful moments with me are what quickly bring me back to the current realities of our time.

The Canton of Ticino is literally dipped into the Italian boot as would be a chocolate-chip cookie in a large glass of milk. It is therefore not only geographically glued to its Italian-speaking neighbour, but it is also heavily influenced both historically and presently by the Italian culture. Ticino and the surrounding border regions of Italy share culture, religion, history, architecture and language as well as surnames, lakes, rivers and culinary delights. Despite the long list of similarities, an abyss between them is expanding, something that until this past weekend I never fully grasped.

The occasion was the birthday of a friend of a friend’s; an Italian, to be precise. In fact, most of my friends from childhood are of Italian heritage. However, in this case, it was a non-immigrant Italian friend’s party in Italy. Until here it might seem irrelevant considering that, when I’m in the region, I probably set foot in Italy at least twice a day (even getting to certain Swiss villages from my own town is quicker via Italy!). Therefore, in my head, the distinction between Swiss vs. Italians never went beyond the obvious: a real border, a different political system and a sharp contrast in the quality of public infrastructure.

As we entered the party hall, we took our seats at the large table. To my left, an old friend of mine: a Swiss woman. Diagonal from me, her financé: an Italian. Across from me, an Italian couple I hadn’t met before: both Italians. As we indulged in our food I heard the man across from me ask my friend’s fiancé “How is life in Switzerland?” I almost choked on my food. I thought: “Are we talking about the Switzerland that’s only 15km (less than 10 miles) away from here?”

Arzo bell tower

For a moment I felt utterly out of place. Having only recently returned from South-East Asia, such a question about the difference between two culturally similar and economically intertwined nations made me wonder if I had maybe misunderstood something all along. I just couldn’t believe that someone living 15km away from the border (and enjoying the freedom to enter and exit Switzerland as they please) would ask such a question. Of course, in recent years, there have been increasingly aggressive campaigns undertaken by the populist Swiss parties, the Union of Christian-Democrats (UDC) and the Lega Ticinese, condemning the large number of border-workers “stealing” Swiss jobs in addition to souring relationships between the two countries regarding fiscal evasion of Italian nationals with Swiss bank accounts. I have nevertheless always considered such topics irrelevant when engaging in relations at the human level. What I was experiencing was a rudimentary bashing session about the Swiss lifestyle, law enforcement, driving capabilities… you name it. I felt like we were talking about the differences between the moon and planet Earth which became more and more puzzling as the conversations unfolded. “I’m glad I’ve tried the experience of living in Switzerland for some time, but I will now be returning back to Italy”. What the speaker failed to mention was that his soon-to-be wife is Swiss, that his job will remain in Switzerland (including a Swiss salary) but that they will move to a more affordable home and living conditions on the Italian side of the border.

The advantages for living in Italy and working in Switzerland are great and I can fully comprehend anybody’s decision to choose such an arrangement. What I fail to understand is this verbal bashing that occurs from either side of the border when both parties are clearly in a win-win situation, with very few exceptions. I was asked multiple times by the couple across from me which side I was on: which side am I on? There are no sides to take in such a visibly positive dynamic. If only everybody could live in Vietnam or elsewhere for a year, they would quickly realize what it means to live in a completely different world from one’s own. In that case the despised similarities of their neighbours might actually begin to shrink the abyss and bring relations to a renewed proximity.

The Way Forward

My Vietnam experience concluded in December 2011. Since then, I’ve been rummaging over how to proceed with this Blog given that its original function was to act as a testimonial of my professional and personal experiences in South-East Asia. I must admit that I have yet to attain that desperately sought out enlightenment or moment of clarity, while nevertheless still convinced about my desire to proceed with the upkeep. Maybe, in time, a more pronounced theme will resurface or maybe it will wander without a North Star for months to come, but, at least for now, I will carry on this challenge in hopes of finding a muse or an inspiration in my current and future surroundings.

I have also decided to stick to the title “Viktoria’s Waters” because I find the ever-present and all-encompassing role of water a perfect metaphor for what surrounds and intrigues me while also concerning or affecting others.

Stay tuned.

Corporeal Commotion

Vietnam versus the world

There are certain things about a culture foreign to one’s own that can be quite difficult to  adapt to. Certainly, one can try to understand and, over time, the initial perplexity or uneasiness will eventually abate leaving more a feeling of indifference than irritation. However, it also depends what the culprit of unease is. I find that over the past ten months my attitude has slowly metamorphosed into an increasingly inexpressive demeanor as I try to abide by the “losing face” rules. These rules are so adamantly adhered to by the grand majority of the population and it has turned out to be one of the biggest challenges for my naturally hot-blooded Mediterranean persona to not allow even the slightest negative emotion, from anger, to irritation or frustration escape my expressive features. I admit that certain overtly suicidal behavior during the busy rush-hour traffic can still sometimes induce a series of indecent Italian imprecations from my part, but as a rule of thumb I try to keep my cool and avoid any visible reaction to unacceptable behavior.

There remains however, something that I still can’t seem to avoid causing a reaction. It is difficult to categorize the cause of my unease, but I would generally call it “corporeal commotion”. Let me be more specific. Imagine going for your usual morning run, half-asleep but pleased to have, once again, proven your strength to defy the perennial battle of the extra hour under the warm sheets versus the abrupt awakening to a new day in the noisy and lively Hanoi park saturated with overwhelming beats of 1990s techno. The pleasure of physical activity usually quickly overcomes my drowsiness, and I go on my way. However, the feeling of bliss is quickly struck down as soon as, while approaching morning walkers, I hear that horrifying guttural sound, the corporeal commotion. The “grrchthcgrtchtthhhchchhhrrrrrrrr!” The violent preparation for what will soon result in a large, sticky mass of mucus splattered on the concrete. I have become an expert in avoiding such disgorging of bodily fluids as I can hear it coming before it’s too late. Despite this, I still cringe at the noise and cannot seem to hide the slight twitch of my lips that would, in other circumstances, alter into a grimace of disgust.  

One of the favorite stops for young married couple's photos

I guess one could say that such actions, although disconcerting, can be considered acceptable outdoors. But the other day I was put through a difficult test that I believe, looking back, I gracefully passed. I took part in a workshop for one of the projects I’m managing. There were two senior officials chairing the meeting, one to my right and the other directly across the way. From the beginning, I started to wonder why the official in front of me had been invited to such an event as he was obviously not too engaged or concerned about what was being said during the presentations. His phone was constantly ringing (the “silent” option in Vietnamese phones must have been abolished nationwide as it seems to be an unknown practice to mobile users) and, of course he would answer, whispering in the phone from his seated position whilst the presenter went on with the speech.

The worst occurred just after the tea break. Maybe the digestive machinery was finally initiated after the ingestion of meagerly presented fruits and pieces of industrial-looking cream cake. Mr. across-the-way began emanating some odd sounds. The first were simply explosive sneezes that could wake anybody up from a snooze. These were systematically followed by a chorus of guzzling sopranos of inhaled nostril mucus. At one point I almost wanted to make a scene and hand him a tissue, but I chose to ignore the orchestra Vietnamese-style. Unfortunately it wasn’t over. The first time I heard it, I was hoping I was simply imagining things, but my greatest fear was soon confirmed. What I was hearing were deep, almost baritone-like vibrations coming from the man’s darkest depths of the abdomen: he was burping. Not once. Not twice. Not thrice. At the fourth belch I almost sprung from my chair and applauded to the guy’s nerve and indiscreetness. But once again I managed to sit stoically, as if nothing had ever occurred. If it weren’t for my agitated glances, nobody would have even thought I heard anything.

Local motorbike parking

Unfortunately, such concertos are more the norm than an exception. And if you thought that the practice is reserved for the masculine gender, think again. It seems to have become an enjoyable practice for many women to demonstratively clear anything that might be blocking their respiratory tract with screeching sounds followed by splotches of colorful liquid on the ground. Merci Madame! Bonjour l’élégance!  

Maybe the only way to overcome my unease and disgust would be to jump into a passionate and devoted use of corporeal commotion? I might need to think this one over a little longer. In the meantime, I will stick to my now mastered grace and impassivity which I almost have down to a science.  

A glimpse into the colorful North

Mao our Hmong tour guide

I finally found an occasion to venture up to the Northern mountainous region of Vietnam. It's one of the areas I've most wanted to explore but somehow never managed to find the right time or occasion. The photos I had seen before embarking in the trip would certainly be enough to intrigue anybody: steep lush mountains with softly rounded tops, vertiginous rice terraces built at the highest altitudes and gentle streams of fresh water flowing down the valleys breathing life into other varieties of crops.

Given that two friends of mine came to Vietnam, it seemed like the perfect occasion to share new horizons. Six of us entered the night train departing from Hanoi to Lao Cai at 9:50 pm. Estimated time of travel: approximately 8 hours. We were all so excited about the obvious adventure ahead of us that we didn't seem to pay too much attention to the restricted size of the sleeping compartments and the less than desirable bedding.

The trip went well despite the obvious lack of sleep. It sometimes felt like we were traveling in a rudimentary human-sized jack-in-the-box, bouncing incessantly on an all too efficient hydraulics system topped off by abrupt breaking practices and pendulum movements that made me wonder if the old French colonial railways were finally succumbing to old age.

After an early arrival into Lai Cai station, we negotiated the price of the minibus for the six of us and proceeded up the steep curvy road for a 50 minute drive to the city of Sa Pa. The view that was unfolding before us was simply breathtaking. The silence that reigned in the minibus was undoubtedly partly due to the apparent lack of sleep of all its passengers, but I could also sense that everybody was trying to absorb the magnificent view as much as their sleepless eyes could handle. I started to imagine how the panorama must be like during the summer months at the height of the rice season, painting the soft curves of the mountains with bright shades of green only seen in Vietnam. Unfortunately, the harvesting season was long over and the once fertile fields were now only muddy leftovers of the chopped-off rice stems. But it didn't matter; we were all looking forward to exploring the area regardless of the season.

Hmong kids playing

After finding a quaint little hotel at the outskirts of town, we decided it was best to go for a trek that same day. We contacted a local tour guide that had been recommended to us and we agreed to meet an hour later at the bottom of the church steps hovering over the city's central plaza. It was the first time I saw so many of the well-known Vietnamese ethnic minorities all in one place. The variety of colors of their clothing and the spectacular hair attire gave life to the fairly grey surroundings of the Plaza.

Our tour guide found us first. She introduced herself as Mao from the Hmong ethnic minority. She had graceful facial traits and her entire constitution made her seem petite and frail under her traditional Hmong clothing. We would soon find out that her physical strength and agility would greatly surpass that of all of these giant-looking Western tourists.

Cat Cat Village

She took us through steep slippery clay hills and rice paddies. We walked past traditional wooden Hmong homes with children running around naked from the waist down and all sorts of farm animals making their way to the next best grazing area. Some of the paths were physically demanding causing a few of us to make their way down with their bottoms instead of their feet. It made me smile as I looked onto Mao. This little woman armed with miniature rubber boots and a North Face lookalike backpack in stark contrast to her colorful gown, bouncing like a cat from one spot to the next, unbothered by the slippery slopes and uneven stones. I wondered what she must think about these clumsy Westerners equipped with all the most expensive specialized gear but still unable to even cross a stream without asking for her to give them her miniature but sturdy helping hand.

What intrigued me the most about Mao is that she’s a 28 year-old mother of two children. She’s never been to school and she speaks perfect English, Vietnamese and Hmong. She can’t write but she is capable of making her way through any terrain with the elegance and agility of the most beautiful mountain cat. She plants rice, sweet potatoes and other crops while taking care of her children, weaving traditional clothes dyed with homemade indigo coloring and working as a tour guide. When I asked her if her husband helps her out, she turned around to me with genuine laugh, her nose slightly wrinkling as she smiled: “My husband? He decided to go back to school since they’ve opened one next to our home!” Her village still lacks electricity but she owns a motorbike and her children will have the advantage of learning to read and write when they reach school-age.



Beautiful young Hmong woman

Although the contact with the local minorities can be somewhat overwhelming, especially when you’re constantly haggled to purchase something, hearing their stories and the sacrifices they make to move ahead instantly put things back into perspective. Tourism is a major and increasingly important source of income and the locals have quickly learned that, by properly learning English, the financial advantages can be great. The amount of poverty is still apparent, but things seem to be changing at incredible speed. A new road is being built to connect the most remote villages and, in Mao’s opinion, it’s a great improvement because her people will have the opportunity to transport their goods quicker. Schools are popping up in every corner to provide the local children with more future opportunities and more and more people are radically changing their clothing habits. From our perspective, such mutations might be a source of nostalgia, a loss of the “authentic” and the “ethnic", but for them it means emancipation, progress and prosperity.

I’m sure that not long ago Mao wouldn’t have had the opportunity to mingle with foreigners. But now things are changing and the women are taking much of it into their own hands. When I asked Mao why she wasn’t wearing her tribe’s traditional hat, she looked at me straight in the eyes and solemnly said: “I left it at home. It’s too heavy for me so, if I have to walk all day, I leave it at home.”

Anything goes!

Despite the natural course of adaptation to a country, there are still many things that continue to surprise me.

Street Karaoke

This is one of Asia's favourite entertainment activities (I say "Asia's" because it seems to be a national sport in most of the countries I've visited so far). There are many levels of karaoke, from the little hole in the wall where they have an outdated television and lulling Vietnamese songs, to the classy and luxurious ones like the Jaguarudi next to my house exposing flashy and tacky LED lights scattered all over its 4-storey facade. The young and the wealthy go to this particular spot: young ladies in their vertiginously high heels and shockingly short mini skirts escorted by young men in fancy cars groomed to envy Diesel's latest photoshoot.

View of Lake Truc Bach

But there are some that have brought karaoke to a whole new level: street karaoke. The men (I have yet to see a woman doing this) work either alone on in pairs and are equipped with two to three speakers set on wheels. Tugging along their homemade device with one arm and armed with a microphone in the other, these young men wander around Hanoi's neighbourhoods "offering" sad Vietnamese love songs at an extremely high… volume. This could remain a simply comical occurrence did they not have the tendency to practice this activity at hours which should be devoid of any disturbing noise. Their favourite days to exercise their dissonant falsetto appear to be exactly synchronized with my desire to sleep-in on Saturday and Sunday mornings. In fact, now that the construction next door is seemingly approaching its final touches, I am still awoken at 7am weekends but this time by a wannabe virtuoso singer strolling the neighbourhood seeking fame.

Street anarchy

One might think that after living 8 months in this traffic stricken country, nothing would surprise me anymore. Unfortunately that's not the case. It's funny because to this day, my Vietnamese colleagues and counterparts frequently tell me how "courageous" I am to drive a motorbike.

Forget about rules. Of course they have them, but they are never enforced. Even the policemen that stand on the side of the road (and that only seem to stop women) issue tickets to their victims for the most far-fetched violations. Thankfully they never stop foreigners since policemen's English skills are non-existent and therefore, to avoid losing face, they much rather prefer stopping people who understand the charges, or least act like they do, and pay the price (on the spot, of course).  

There is one rule that I have learned: the law of the biggest. It is extremely important to follow this rule unless you want to risk your life. Pedestrians are the lowest caste in this pyramidal scale, meaning that basically everything roaming the streets and sidewalks (even sidewalks are far from being a safe haven) can be a threat to one's safety. Second to last on the scale are bicycles followed by motorbikes. When it comes to cars, it is not only size that counts, but what type of car you own. A Mercedes is more dangerous than a Toyota and a Bentley more than a Range Rover. You therefore need to know your cars. Now, you might be wondering who the real cowboys are. Well, believe it or not: public buses! The most dangerously life-threatening vehicles let loose and impossible to tame are the red and yellow, toxically asphyxiating city buses. Just this morning I saw a young woman one-third of the way to crossing the street (and mind you, it was green for pedestrians) that suddenly a bus turned right and blasted his deafening honk warning her to get out of his way if she cared for her life. The poor woman, staggered, clumsily bounced back avoiding instant death by miracle.   

The city creeping into the countryside

Another very important rule is: look in all directions before acting, but once you've chosen to act, never hesitate. Ignore anything that might look like a red light, one-way street, sidewalk or a pedestrian. When you're out in the open, you're automatically at risk, no matter what. Forget any common sense or good-street-etiquette rules because you will not survive. First of all, you must always look in all directions when crossing the street or even going through a green light on a motorbike: you never know when a bus might speed through a street signal.  If you've decided to go ahead and defy oncoming traffic on a one-way street (which has seemingly becoming one of my newest nasty habits), just push-on as if you're an indestructible superhuman. Magically, the road ahead of you clears and you feel like Moses parting the waters of the Red Sea.

It will be difficult to go back to Europe and abide by traffic regulations. In the past 8 months I have proven my disregard for authority and rule of law by swiftly embracing anarchic behaviour as my only form of survival. The apogee was reached a couple of months ago when, coming from a friend's dinner party, I volunteered to take my partner and a friend back home. On a motorbike?! Yes, on a motorbike. Helmets off, hop on, here we go! We drew curious looks from all that came across our path: three large Westerners on one puny little motorbike.

But we rushed into the night, not a policeman in sight; hair free-flowing in the wind ready to take flight…

A test of humility

During National Holidays it is highly discouraged to engage in any form of travel within Vietnam for 80 million people all pack their bags and peregrinate around the country cramming all possible modes of transport like cans of sardines. Thus, we opted to leave Ho Chi Minh's stronghold and escape to its more modest neighbour: Lao People’s Democratic Republic (PDR).

Luang Prabang is a sleepy little town comfortably huddled at the foot of lush, tropical hills and enveloped by the Mekong and Nam Khan rivers. The city is best known for its high volume of beautifully decorated Buddhist Temples and their young monks wandering the French colonial streets in bright orange habits. The rhythm of life goes with the pace of the heat - everything moves in slow motion from the waitresses in the charming little cafés, to the schoolchildren exiting their classrooms. The thing that struck us the most was that none of the drivers, be it a taxi, a tuc-tuc or a motorbike, made use of their horns. Unlike Vietnam, where honking is a national sport practiced regularly and unemotionally in all custom-made sounds and volumes, Laotian streets are reigned by silence and a heightened sense of orderliness.

Little Hmong children in first village

Aside from enjoying the pace, the silence, the fresh air and the abundance of greenery all around town, we were all set on truly exploring the surrounding natural landscapes. Thus, after spending the first day kayaking down the Nam Khan River, splashing around the refreshing sequence of natural pools replenished by crisp sparkling waterfalls and riding imposing Asian elephants at the speed of the Laotian lifestyle we decided to continue the adventure hiring the same guide for a two-day trek in the jungle.

Departing at 9:00 in an old Hyundai van we were dropped-off on a little dirt road 1.5 hours from Luang Prabang. The air was hot and muggy, but thankfully not too sunny for our Western skin. After four hours of making our way through dirt trails over rivers and streams, through leech infested mud and beautiful rice paddy terraces, we reached the first minority village: a true introduction to utmost poverty. What lie before us were shabby little mud houses protected by dried palm leaf roofs. We proceeded to the central plaza equipped with a few wooden benches and a tree to give us shade. Kids slowly but shyly began to approach us with inquisitive looks. They were followed by some women, but mostly very young or very old ones. We were told that all the adult men and women were out in the fields, and that the kids were left with the elderly and some younger ladies responsible for the children during their parents' absence. The kids were poorly dressed, most of them minimally covered by ripped t-shirts with no undergarments or trousers to cover the lower portion of their fragile bodies. Little girls under ten years of age were carrying their younger brothers or sisters tightly wrapped on their backs. What struck me the most was their visible dirtiness, rotting teeth and a number of easily curable eye infections.

Young Hmong girl carrying her sister

After a final hike up a steep hill, we reached our "home" for the night. We were to stay in the biggest of the three minority villages which housed two ethnicities, the Khmu and the Hmong. The villagers were slightly better off than the first, made visible by a number of scattered tin roofs, two public showers (that had been built just three months before) and a sufficiently well equipped shop. The house we were to sleep in (a large room for the six of us with thin cotton mattresses neatly laid on the floor and protected by huge mosquito nets) was elevated on hardwood stilts to avoid unwanted creatures from entering it. We had to take turns to shower with the villagers fully dressed as the facility was devoid of any structure for privacy. At nightfall, the town was swallowed by a thick cover of darkness abruptly reminding us about the lack of electricity. Obscurity brought all sorts of unimaginable sounds: some familiar like chickens, pigs and frogs but others were to remain a mystery to our untrained ears.

In the depths of the night heavy rains prevailed over the swines' screeches and the mystifying chorus' lullabies, waking me multiple times not only for the force with which the weighty clouds expelled the raindrops, but also because of the irregular escape of a few of them ending their journey down my cheeks like teardrops.

Young Hmong girl carrying her brother

The sight of the village after such forceful rains infected our spirits with a deep feeling of sorrow. Everything was transformed into a large, mushy mud box oppressed by intimidating clouds. At this point it was useless trying to identify mud from feces as it all displayed the same brownish taint. Getting to the shower or to the bathroom was an incredible test of balance and grace as the sludgy mix was not only gluey but slippery. The situation didn't improve on our return route. The expectant skies didn't hesitate to discharge their heavy loads at the most crucial moments of our hike: slippery slopes galore! The challenge of a clean and proper descent was so great that we even made a generous bet for whom would make it to our destination free of mud stains on his/her behind. It goes without saying that we all miserably failed. Half of us ultimately opted for an entirely barefoot hike, as the weight of the mud under our soles added an additional stress to our untrained thighs and a feeling of instability in our already goofy movements.

As soon as we reached the foot of the hill, the sun vigorously pressed its way out from behind the vaporous barrier and cast its warm rays on our shoulders: the worst was over and only a last flat path awaited our sore selves. We made a quick stop in the last village for a quick snack. Sitting at a rudimentary table. The villagers stood and stared from a distance at this group of muddy, sweaty and barefoot tourists and a thought crossed my mind: "they certainly look and smell better than we do".

Healthy men or healthy sleep?

With ongoing construction next door and the often unbearable Hanoian heat, we are frequently motivated by the idea of leaving the city for the weekend. The issue is finding a place that can provide fresh air, that is not too crowded, not too distant and peaceful enough to catch up on some sleepless nights.

One of the many colourful butterflies

One night, over dinner and a nice cold bottle of Bia Hanoi, we agreed to explore Tam Dao National Park, perched up on a mountaintop North-West of Hanoi. We were totally set on making it an adventurous weekend and, to make the most of it, we came to the conclusion that riding our motorbikes would be the perfect option. Like anything in Vietnam, the actual distance is never really exact. For this particular trip, different sources said different things. All we knew was that it it's between 67 and 87 km from Hanoi, translating into approximately a 2-hour drive. One thing was certain: going by two-wheeler is better than by four-wheeler. One of my colleagues went as far as describing the one-lane mountainous road as “frightening” and “treacherous" winding its way up nestled paths built over vertiginous cliffs. The perfect equation for a mix of discovery and adrenaline!

The single meagre planning attempt was when I contacted the cheapest of the three hotels listed in the Lonely Planet. After asking in Vietnamese whether the receptionist spoke English and getting an unhesitant “No” for an answer, I carried on with my limited conversational skills to request two rooms for four people. As we were making progress in mutual understanding, I was shocked to hear the final price. I proceeded to bargain a little with the sole result of getting a loud laugh followed by him hanging up in my face. From that point on it was going to be a completely unplanned weekend. No maps, no hotel and no clear indication of the actual distance to our destination.

After getting off the main road, the trip became increasingly more pleasant. Oppressing smog-ridden clouds were scarcer, rays of sunlight appeared playfully rolling over the ready-to-harvest rice paddies and houses became fewer and far between. Stinky trucks with ancient exhaust pipes made way to fewer motorbikes and more bicycles. The final 20 km were indeed up a winding mountain road, but far from being anything like those in the Swiss Alps. As the motorbike started coughing and straining itself under the weight of two well-fed Westerners, the soothing mountain breeze slowly invaded our nostrils seeping deeply into the remotest alveoli. Both our bodies and minds finally found a place to rest.

Spider hiding behind his x-shaped web

The highlight of the weekend was Saturday night's meal. Tam Dao is mostly a weekend getaway for Vietnamese tourists. This means that dinner is served earlier than by European standards if you want to ensure that there is still something left to order. The local specialties were a novelty to us, including exotic ones like porcupines and larvae. We were a bit unsure about the selection, and ended up picking a place that offered a larger choice of foods, including more conventional ones.

Once our meal was served, the owner of the restaurant wobblingly approached our table with a wide smile impressed on his face, a huge bottle of Vietnamese vodka in his right hand and shot glasses in his left. His eyes were glittering from the liquor ingested prior to our arrival and his speech uneven. He started expressing how honoured he was to have foreign tourists in his restaurant and native town of Tam Dao. He made sure we were enjoying our meal and called for a toast. After a couple more speeches, he vacillated his way back to his table. At which point another man from another table made his way to ours, also tightly holding onto a bottle of vodka. This time the man assured it was good Russian vodka, heavily emphasising the word RUS-SI-AN.

While serving us another round, he inquired whether anybody at our table spoke the language of Pushkin. I confirmed that I did and he excitedly poured another round. When I asked whether he learned Russian while working in the Soviet Union, he quickly corrected me and said he studied "v Institute".  At which point, to our surprise, he started singing a song in a language that sounded like Russian but was far from being intelligible. And, of course the performance required yet another toast.

View of tropical forest

We all started feeling warm and our faces were gently altering to different shades of pink. But we were naïve to think that it was over! Mr. Restaurant-Owner made sure to have his last word after Mr. Russian-Educated-Singer walked off. This time, however, he came over with a different bottle. It was a simple plastic bottle filled with liquid equalling the colour of our cheeks. He started illustrating the virtues of this secret drink, stressing the special health benefits it brought to males. "So why is it pink?" I asked, "Because it's made out of…" at which point he proceeded to mimic the movement of a snake with his left arm."Oh! Snake blood!" Well, not just any snake, but cobra's blood! Although I was a little put off by the idea of ingesting cobra blood, I was the first to volunteer for a shot. While my face seemed unable to rid itself of my initial disturbed grimace, I realized that the flavour wasn't as unpleasant as expected: it had a slight sweetness camouflaging the harshness of the cheap vodka.

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Restaurant-Owner staggered over to our table one last time, slurring his words into a "Goodnight and hope to see you again!" He hobbled down the steps, lit a cigarette and was gently taken under the arm by his wife in a failed attempt to lead him in a linear direction. At which point I began to wonder: were the extraordinary effects of cobra blood simply limited to guaranteeing a deeper and sounder sleep for men?