When it rains

We are in Franz Joseph for the third night in a row now.  The rain fell steadily all day yesterday, creating a lake outside our hostel.  Today, it brightened enough in the morning that we optimistically checked out, and got a few moments in with the glacier, but by noon, the rain was falling again and the forecast changed to suit the weather, so we checked back in. 

But sometimes, it's when you're forced to stop that you meet the most interesting people.  When I got a flat tire outside of Invercargill, we stayed the night with a dairy farmer turned adventure racer.  He had just completed a four-day non-stop hiking, mountain biking, orienteering and kayaking race and planned to move to Wanaka to begin training professionally, but when he told us about his parents' farm, how they had the best herd of dairy cows in the area and how people came all the time, asking to buy some of their stock, you could here the pride in his voice.  When we had to stop in Dunedin a few days to work on our grad applications, we stayed with Simon, from the Solomon Islands, and Ivica, from Croatia.  In keeping with the exuberance of Croatian hospitality, dinner was ready and waiting when we finally rolled in at 9:45pm, and Simon made us fried bananas with ice cream while telling us about his island.  We were so warmly welcomed, we stayed two more nights.  

Yesterday, we attended the little Anglican Church in town, built strategically to have a beautiful view of the glacier framed by trees, only now the glacier has retreated a good six kilometres at least and the river is threatening the bank.  There were four of us there for the service, Michael and myself, Mike, a Conservation warden turned plumber working at one of the hotels in town for the last six months, and Rowinia, the minister, a woman brimming with warmth and sincerity, who'd arrived in town just three months ago herself.  Rowinia is of Maori ancestry, and in Maori tradition, introductions don't tell what you do, but who you are and who your people are, so she told us who her parents were, where they were from, and who their people were, naming names and places on the North Island that were mysterious and impenetrable to us.  The opening greetings were given in Maori, and then after belting out "What a Friend we have in Jesus" with a slight country twang, we did the best we could with a reprise of the last verse in Maori, luckily a language that is pronounced mostly as it's written.  This is Rowinia's first posting.   She is, as she told us herself, fresh out of Bible college, despite being middle aged.  Before, she worked as a nurse, first at the women's prison in Auckland, and then in more of an office-type setting, but she got bored.  She is, she says, "a behind the bed kind of person".  She heard they were looking for a nurse on the Chatham Islands, a group of about 10 islands, 850km east of Christchurch, in the South Pacific Ocean, so she went.  Only two of the islands are inhabited, with about 600 people living on the larger one.  The rest are home to shorebirds.  The people are hardy and self-reliant, accustomed to living without a supermarket and hardware store.  They raise sheep and harvest freshwater crayfish from a lake that covers a third of the island.  It's "full of food, just full" Rowinia tells us.  It's obvious the island is a place she holds dear.  She says she'd like to retire there, or to its sister, Pitt Island, 25km to the southeast.  Thirty-eight people live there.  "Paradise," says Rowinia.  

A night in a tent

Last night, we stayed at Pleasant Flats, a Department of Conservation campsite just past the Haast pass, in the middle of mountains.  For $6/person, you get toilets, running water that "you may wish to treat," a picnic table, and a flat bit of grass.  Oh yeah, and sandflies.  These pesky creatures, unknown to North Americans, are smaller than a mosquito and easier to kill, but when they bite, they release a chemical that you may or may not react to.  Depending on your luck, you may or may not get a small red bump and a bit or a lot of swelling.  You may or may not experience infuriating itchiness two days later that keeps you up at night and makes you sleep with your feet and hands outside of the sleeping bag, to expose them to the cooling effects of the chilly air.  This may or may not last up to a week per bite, according to whether your body is capable of handling the coagulant they inject or not.  Michael has been annoyingly more capable than me in this regard.  

We had been warned that Pleasant Flats would be completely sandfly infested, being on the West Coast side of the mountains, but as it is a cool, foggy, rainy day, they are relatively minimal.  When there's a break in the rain and we dash to our tent, the nightly ritual of shining the headlamp against the inside tent wall and smooshing the bugs attracted to the light only results in five or six unsightly smears.  

We read a bit (Michael bicycle maintenance, Yvonne Silas Marner by George Eliot), and then around 9:30pm, call it a night (it gets dark early here!), and fall asleep with the sound of raindrops hitting our tent.  Michael goes to bed with his down jacket and long underwear on, so sometime in the middle of the night, he wakes up because he's too hot.  Then Yvonne wakes up - she'd drunk a cup of hot chocolate before dinner, so now it's on with the boots and the coat and out to pee.  Michael decides he needs to pee too.  Back in the tent, we're on the verge of sleep, when the animal noises begin.  A possum?  We shine a light.  We shake the tent walls.  We make aggressive noises.  We check the bags are closed securely and put away the cookies and chocolate.  We try to sleep, but we are on hyper alert.  Was that him again?  Michael pulls back on his coat and his boots, and stomps around the tent a bit.  Seems to have done the trick.  We've been up for at least an hour now.  Back to sleep.  

In the morning, we find small mouse droppings on our bags, and discover a corner of our 1kg block of cheese has been nibbled.  In some ways, we are looking forward to the end of our adventure.  It will be nice to sleep indoors.  

One day cycling in Tasmania: 30 pictures of life on the road as a cycle tourer

Our day's goal is the Baker's Beach camping in Narawntapu National Park, only about 38km away as the crow flies, according to MapOut.  

Unfortunately, crossing the Tamar River entails quite a lengthy detour down to the bridge, and our total daily mileage is more like 77km...

...with a mountain range to cross that includes a hill at 15%.  As you can see from the Mapmyride graph, we worked pretty hard.   

6:00am, woken up by a crow who has discovered our tent and is telling the world about it.  Michael opens the fly and stares hard at the bird, who flies away.  Back to sleep.  

8:30am, think about getting up, 

9:00am get up, have breakfast in the tent. 

Packing up the gear

Teeth-brushing

Water bottle filling.  In Tasmania, we've each been carrying between 4-6L extra, as water sources are few and far between. 

Contact inserting.

Good to go!  Time check: 11am.  Not our earliest start, but not our latest either!  But packing up and brekkie always seem to take us 2 full hours, no matter what we do.  

On the road.  This was a quiet country lane with a ferocious headwind.  Wish Mapmyride could graph that!

Stopping to knee tape.  We took too much time off in Thailand, and then started too strong in Tasmania, so for the past week or so, I've had to tape.  

Making friends along the way

Where the blacktop ends... most days in Tasmania, we've spent at least a few hours bumping along dirt or gravel.  

Pit stop, 1:45pm!  First public toilet of the day, a welcome sight.  

Making lunch in a park under the Batman Bridge

Visited by a kookaburra

Crossing the very windy bridge - not a pleasant experience.  Happy to have a separated walkway, but the cables of the bridge supports are attached to the sidewalk, making it too narrow to pass with a loaded bicycle (or a wheelchair, or a stroller, or a cargo bike). 

The Tamar River

Checking directions

Buying apples from a roadside stand.  The owner came out and talked with us, an 81 year-old woman whose father planted the orchards in 1912.  

Biking past vineyards

Stopping in Beaconsfield to buy groceries, and of course, chocolate! (Notice that Michael has a chocolate bar in his hand, as well as a tray of chocolate cookies on the bike behind him). 

Time check: 6:30pm.  Somehow that took all day, and we are still 21km from our destination, over a mountain range, quite possibly entirely on a gravel road signposted "Only maintained for fire access".  This sort of thing seems to happen to us with alarming frequency.  

At the top, after climbing a hill with an over 15% grade (see elevation chart above). 

And heading down the other side, time check: 8:15pm

Beautiful sunset by bike.

Arrived in Narawntapu National Park, where four kinds of kangaroos abound.  Coincidentally, dusk is the best time for viewing them.  We couldn't go 100m without seeing at least one, usually two or three.  There's one hopping towards me right now.  

This is the only day of our whole trip where we actually set up the tent in the dark.  

Making dinner

Calling it a night.  Time check: 10:55pm.  Exhausted!

The woes of the bicycle traveller

As anyone who has spent hours scanning airlines' Excess and Oversized Baggage policies knows, it is a pain to fly with a bicycle.  

Here's our schedule for the next few days:

Tomorrow, Jan. 2nd : Take the train back to Chiang Mai.  When we tried to book this yesterday, the overnight sleeper was full except for the ladies-only car.  Michael refused to dress as a woman, so we are going during the day, 2nd class seats with air con, leaving at 8:30 in the morning, and arriving at 8:30 at night, 12 hours for a journey of 600km.  Thus, on tap for today: download e-books, podcasts, music, html and Greek lessons to keep us entertained on the train.

Jan. 3rd or 4th : Pick up bicycles.  In the month of December, we had the pleasure of being visited by friends and family (thank you Jenna, Ruston, Sharon and Cynthia! we had so much fun with you!), so we left our bicycles and our camping gear with a colleague of a friend of ours who lives in Chiang Mai (thank you thank you Derryl!).  Definitely a relief to have a place to leave them where we knew they'd be safe.  Looking forward to being reunited.  

Jan. 5th-6th :  Take the train back to Bangkok, this time with our bicycles!  It is possible, and in fact quite easy, to take your bike on the long haul trians in Thailand.  You need to arrive a bit early and buy a cargo ticket (cannot be bought in advance), and then your bicycle travels in the cargo carriage with the motorbikes.   Check out more details here:  http://www.seat61.com/Thailand.htm

Unfortunately, the sleeper berths for this train were also full when we tried to book yesterday, but since we definitely wanted to arrive in Bangkok with our bicycles in the morning to avoid the hassel of storing them at the hotel, we booked the night train anyways!  Third class benches with fans.  The lady at the desk at first wouldn't even sell us these tickets.  "Third class!"  she kept insisting, so we'll see what that means.  We leave at 5:30 pm, and arrive at 8:30am, 15 hours for the same 600km journey.  

Jan. 6th : Drop off bicycles at BikeZone, an Ecuadorian-owned Bangkok bike shop, where they will be disassembled and packed into boxes, 1000 baht ($35 CAD) for the pair - not bad!  

Jan. 7th : Arrange for a airport limo to meet us at the bike shop and take us and our trusty steeds to the airport (another 1000 baht as opposed to the 100 baht it would cost for both of us on public transit).  Check in at Scoot Airlines with all our gear - a little bit worried about this.  The Scoot baggage policy states that sports equipment is accepted as long as it does not exceed your purchased baggage allowance, but it is a budget Singaporean airline that no one we talk to has ever heard of before.  They make you pay for your food, drinks (it is prohibited to bring your own), entertainment, seat selection, luggage transfer, credit card use, and anything else you can think of.  But the flight was cheap!

Jan. 8th : Arrive in Sydney, after a 2 hour stopover in Singapore, hopefully with our bicycles intact!

Jan. 9th : Fly to Hobart, the capital of Tasmania.  The only reasonably priced flight was with Virgin Australia, and it leaves at 7:30am.   Of course, we miss it by a couple of hours on the 8th, and have to wait nearly 24 hours for the next one on the 9th.  We could make the most of it and go out to see the Sydney skyline, BUT we will have two large boxes with us, each about the size of a kitchen table and weighing about 25kgs (bike plus gear).  So, unless they have amazing, closet-sized storage lockers or we can sweettalk someone at the airline into keeping them for us, we will just hang out with our boxes at the airport.  Luckily, we found this website, and know that it's possible: www.sleepinginairports.net

In conclusion, it will take an entire week, and three near-sleepless nights, to get us and our bicycles to Tasmania.  The moral of the story?  Don't fly.  Just bike.  : )

Postcard from Laos: Hotel in a bath tub

Our hotel in Muang Mai was down a narrow dirt alley. It didn't even look like a road as much as a space between houses, but there was a sign saying guesthouse with an arrow clearly indicating this path and a woman in a little shop across the street made what must be the international symbol for sleep and waved us down the little lane, so with some trepidation, we went. Chickens scattered, dogs barked, and people stared as we bumped our way over the potholes for 200 m before the road ended at a river. Beside it was the most wonderful covered patio with polished wood tree trunks as the tables and chairs, and beside that was a guesthouse. This was our first accommodation experience in Laos, so we weren't sure what to expect. What we got was a slightly musty smelling room with dirty walls that needed painting, a hard bed, a ceiling fan, windows with shutters and screens (yay, no mosquitoes!), and a bathroom with a gecko, a broken water heater, and a toilet that was a porcelain hole in the floor (we were provided with a large bucket of water and a ladle for flushing purposes).  For this, we paid 60,000 Lao Kip, or $8.44 Canadian, but I felt like I was really paying for the privilege of sitting by the river outside.  The peaceful sound of the water, the golden afternoon light, the sweet taste of fresh, ripe mango, and David Copperfield on the iPhone – perfect! 

 Looking out over the low wall, I observed the river activity.  There was a Jeep parked in the middle of the river, and a motorbike too, the water barely making it halfway up their tires. There were old people and young people in the river, men and women. What were they doing? The washing, it seemed. Doing their laundry by beating their clothes against the rocks, and giving the Jeep a bath for good measure. But also, I realized with growing embarrassment, washing themselves. Teenage boys stripped to their underwear before getting all soaped up. Women wiggled out of their bras and panties, a sarong tied tightly around themselves to preserve decency. They splashed water on their faces, brushed their teeth, and washed their long hair, submerging themselves in the deeper parts of the river. As it got later and later, more and more people came, each with a small plastic basket holding their shampoo and soap. It seemed like the whole town was taking a bath in front of my hotel.  I alternated between gazing determinedly at my book or just as determinedly at the closest bit of shoreline, where a woman, fully clothed, was building a fence. What must these people think of me, sitting here watching them bathe? 

Along the road the next few days, I saw more people bathing than I think I'd ever seen before. Women wrapped in sarongs stood in the ditch by the roadside and washed themselves from tiny streams coming off the mountainside. An old woman in a village came out of a makeshift shower hut with just her skirt around her waist, not bothering with the delicacy of a sarong.  Across the street from our roadside food stand, a woman slipped gracefully out of her wet sarong and into a towel.  A man or boy in briefs was not such an unusual sight.  In every village we passed through, the communal tap was busy with someone washing themselves or their clothes. Some had a screen around them and some did not.  Habituated as I am to shower curtains that hide me from empty and locked bathrooms as I wash, it was a bit jarring to see bathing be so open and communal. 

When we arrived in Luang Prabang, the city known as the jewel of northern Laos, I went to a popular restaurant called the Big Tree Cafe. There, on the wall amongst photographs of elephants and Lao landscapes, were three women, wrapped in sarongs, standing in a river with soap in their hair. One of them was bent over, but looking up, directly at the camera. "Excuse me," she seemed to be saying, "we're in the bathroom here. Please leave and close the door behind you."

Postcard from Laos: Early morning

It's quarter to six, and outside is still night.  Only the grandmother is awake.  She moves about slowly, preparing herself.  She has  a low stool and a square, faded, red pillow.  She puts a white sash over her one shoulder and across her chest.  She stations herself on the sidewalk, in front of her daughter's little craft shop and guest house.  She sits there as the light turns grey, waiting.  At her side is a round wicker container of  rice.  

The young monks turn the corner.    They are all dressed in identical marigold orange, their robes draped over one shoulder and belted at the waist.  They are bare-footed and bare-headed, their hair shaved off.  And they are young.  There can't be many among them that are more than 20 years old.  They pass by silently, single file down the street.  When they reach the grandmother, they each pause a moment and open their satchels.  Into each one, she deposits one small, sticky clump of rice.  Twenty, thirty times she does this, and then the monks are gone, passing around the next corner.  

The ritual is not over yet, though.  She goes inside to a shelf high up on the wall, behind the desk.  She says a few words as she lights two sticks of incense and places another small clump of sticky rice on the altar.  Satisfied, she takes off her white sash and gives a small smile.  "Sabaidee!" she says to me.  The day can start!

Trip Report: Sapa to Dien Bien Phu

I decided to write a traditional trip report because, for all my searching on the web, I could not find any overviews of this route, and certainly nothing recent.  One of the only things I had to go off of was a motorcycle blog from 10 years ago, and it made me very nervous.  In fact, this is the reason why we took the night train out of Hanoi instead of biking it.  I think now, having biked even just a week in Asia, I wouldn't hesitate to do that route, but as a newbie, there were too many unknowns, and I chickened out.  

Day 1: (Lao Cai to Sapa)

We arrived in Lao Cai at 9:30am, having taken the overnight train from Hanoi.  As everyone else herded onto their waiting vans and buses for the 30-minute ride up the mountain, we collected our bicycles from the railway car where they'd spent the night with the motorbikes, and went for breakfast. We were amazed at how cheap our pho was, after having paid Hanoi tourist prices for the past week.  We asked our restauranteur the way out of town, and he helpfully showed us on his smartphone.  Once we were on the main road, the route was clearly signposted and marked every kilometer.  The traffic consisted of motorbikes, 12-seater vans carrying tourists, and the occassional lorry full of gravel or pigs.  All of them honked to let us know they were coming, and then politely went around us.  The road started out as gently rolling, but soon started to climb, climb, climb, climb.  By noon, we'd made it to about the halfway point, and hadn't really seen a spot to eat for the last 10 km.  Needless to say, I was very happy to come across a woman cooking corn on the cob in a large cauldron over some glowing embers, and a few kilometers further on, a restaurant!  

The restaurant was built into a hillside beside a waterfall, with steps cut into the rock that lead you up to the second storey eating area, partially hidden in the tree canopy.  They had chickens running everywhere, a squirrel in a makeshift cage, and no menu.  One member of the family knew three words of English:  chicken, rice, and vegetables, so we ordered chicken, rice and vegetables. Little did we know we'd ordered the whole chicken!  A lot of extra food, and a hefty bill later, we departed, a little bit wiser, and practicing the phrase "Bao nieu tien?" (How much?).  

Michael, staring with trepidation at three huge plates of chicken 

The road climbed and climbed. At one point, it got so steep we seriously considered trying to take the bus.    But take heart!  It doesn't last!  We rolled into Sapa as nighttime was falling, and were immediately pounced upon by hoteliers wondering if we needed a place to spend the night.  As we had already booked a place, we declined, and they helpfully pointed the way to our hotel.  

(Note: we took the night train from Hanoi, but we did speak with a cyclist who did the whole route by bicycle.  He said the new highway Hanoi-Lao Cai is closed to cyclists, but consequently, the old road is very nice and quiet, and he enjoyed the ride.)

Day 2: Sapa to Tam Duong

This was my favourite day.  The climb to the top of the Tam Trong pass is not that bad - you're most of the way there already!  And you can stop at two waterfallls along the way, both of which have eating options (although prepare to bargain for your bbq!).  The road up to the second waterfall is very, very steep, but then you're very nearly at the top of the pass, and after passing another row of food stall shacks, you go down, down, down, down, down, the entire way through beautiful mountains to Tam Duong.  The road is much quieter, and the scenery is magnificient!

The last few kilometers into Tam Duong have construction, but nothing unmanageable.  When you arrive in town, the road suddenly becomes six lanes wide, with a median, street lights, and the whole bit.  It's also entirely deserted.  The real town is off to your left - you'll notice that everyone is making a left hand turn down a small side street.   This road is full of open front shops and restaurants and people selling vegetables, meat and fruit, but unlike in Sapa, no one will try to beckon to you.  Around a bend, about halfway down, you'll come to a hotel (khach san), the only one in town, I believe.  It's on top of a resturant that can easily seat 50, and around back, they have a banquet hall that can seat 250 more.  If you ask to use the restaurant WC, you'll be shown through the kitchen, which is immense, and has its own cages housing chickens, rabbits, and two mostly de-quilled porcupines.  Who needs large-scale refrigeration if your food is still alive?     

Day 3: Tam Duong to Lai Chau

The distance is not far, but it's a good idea to start early, especially if the forecast is good.  This was our first day biking in the sun, and it was unbelievably hot.  We started late because Michael, who was battling a cold, had hardly slept a wink, but by 11am, the sun was beating down on us from a clear blue sky, and we were regretting not rising at 5am, like the rest of the town.  We stopped for a break any time we saw some shade.  The road climbed gently out of Tam Duong, and then we hit the mountain pass, and started doing switchbacks.  By the afternoon, clouds had started to gather, and we were able to wait out the sunny periods, and bike only when the sun was hidden behind them.  We stopped for a drink at a small house/bar/karaoke/cell phone shop which had a pool table out front.  This was the third pool table we'd seen out front since starting this morning - billiards seem to be a popular pastime with the rural Vietnamese.  

As luck would have it, our pool-side rest stop was at the top of the pass.  We rounded the corner and started heading downhill.  10km of twisty, turny bliss!  And sore hands from so much braking.  Arriving in Lai Chau, the street once again becomes monstrously wide.  We passed a number of guest houses (nha nghi) first coming into town, but continued on past the hospital, and the bank towers, before turning left up another quiet six lane road, and picking a place there.  For dinner, we walked around the lake in the center of town to the glitzy side, with neon Karaoke signs and a radio tower that looked like a replica Tour Eiffel.  There we ordered a pancake-type thing, stuffed with meat and tiny shrimps, and proceeded to eat it entirely the wrong way until someone kindly showed us that you're supposed to wrap it in rice paper with cilantro and eat it like a spring roll.  Of course!

Day 4: Lai Chau to Pa So (Phong Tho)

This was our most ridiculous day.  We got up early (or at least earlier), and were on the road by 8am.  After leaving town, we had a short climb, followed by a long flat along a ridge, and then a longer downhill into Paso.  We arrived at our hotel before 11am.  We decided to call it a day regardless, which turned out to be the right decision, as it rained steadily all afternoon and into the evening.  A book-reading, internet-surfing, napping sort of day.  

A note about names and hotels:  As far as I can tell, the town of Pa So has been re-named Phong Tho.    Leaving Lai Chau, the kilometer markers count down to Phong Tho (which was the name on my map), but then just before you arrive, they start referring to Pa So instead.  Same place, I think, just a different name.  

In Pa So, there is a hotel called the Lan Anh II, claiming to be the only hotel serving Westerners in the district.  We stayed, even though it was twice the price we usually paid, and though the hotel itself was beautiful, I found the upkeep wanting.  The white canopy over our bed clearly had dead bugs in it, the curtains were not well-attached to their rings, and were home to spiders and slug-like things, I mixed some ice tea in a waterbottle, and in the morning it was ant-infested, and when we lay down on the bed to sleep at night, a distinct click-click-clicking could be heard coming from the corner.  Upon closer examination, the wood of the corner bedpost and the window frame beside it were discovered to be completely deterioated - termites!  I moved our pillows to the foot of the bed instead.  There is another guest house in town that from the outside looked very decent - I would stay there instead.

Day 5: Pa So to Chieng Chan

At the time of writing (October 2014), this section of road was under construction.  15 km out of Pa So, we hit dirt, and gravel, and large rocks, and more dirt, and puddles, and mud.  Average speed :10km/hr, 15 on the smoother bits, 4 or 5km/hr in the mud.  It continued this way for a good 30km, until just before the #128 splits off towards Sin Ho, and then the road re-appeared.  We had planned to make it all the way to Muong Lay, 67 km away, but when we finally staggered into a small place called Chieng Chan, and saw that there was a guest house (there's at least three), we called it quits about 20km short of our destination.  

    Where did the road go?

    Dirty

Note: According to a Dutch couple we met, it is possible to put your bike on the bus and skip this section.  A Belgian pair of cyclists opted instead for the higher road, that takes you up into the mountains to Sin Ho, and brings you back down again at Lai Chau, missing Pa So entirely.  They sent us a message from Sin Ho, and said they were enjoying themselves immensely.  

Day 6: Chieng Chan to Muong Lay

Exhausted from our travails and from the incessant barking of the 15 dogs belonging to our guesthouse proprietor, we decided just to complete the previous day's route, and go a paltry 20km into Muong Lay.  But twenty km turned into 30km because the town is so stretched out, it's hard to know when you have actually arrived.  When we got to a section that looked like the center, we went up and down the main streets on both sides of the bridge, trying to find a guesthouse or hotel that did not have karaoke on the fourth floor and was not on the busy road.  No luck, but we managed to stay on the second floor, and the pounding beat was fairly faint.  

The best part of Muong Lay ended up being dinner.  We went out fairly late, and were a bit concerned because the town seemed shut up.  But a young guy in the street saw us wandering aimlessly, figured out from our miming that we wanted to eat, and beckoned us to follow him.  We did, a bit doubtfully, (we'd had a dubious experience a few hours earlier at lunch), but he took us to his friend's restaurant, a small place, half eatery, half living quarters, hidden back around a corner.  His friend was thrilled to have us, showed us a plate of tofu and a tomato, some eggs, and lifted the lid of his rice cooker.  Bao nieu tien?  100,000 VND, great!  We knew what we were eating and we knew the price, we really couldn't ask for more, but our host outdid himself, emptying the kitchen, and bringing us new things to try.  We got our own personal stack of pho noodle sheets and ginger dipping sauce, which we had no idea what to do with, but he showed us that you roll them (of course!), and then dip.  Through hand gestures, we understood that they were meant for later, for us to eat before we went to bed.  We were so pleased with our spread that we asked him to take a picture.  He took about 10, arranging the dishes on the table attractively and trying to get the best lighting conditions for our iphone camera.  And then, when we thought the meal was over, cookies and watermelon appeared to finish it off.      

  

Day 7: Muong Lay to Muong Cha

A little ways out of Muong Lay, we met a Belgian living in Ho Chi Minh coming the other direction who told us the road climbs to 800 m, drops to 700m, and then climbs to 1000m before descending to the town.  We have to take his word for it on the elevations because we have nothing that tells us our denivlee, but that's pretty much exactly what we did.  Muong Cha is a one-street town with a small but interesting market, and a sky-blue guest house at the river bridge.  

Day 8: Muong Cha to Dien Bien Phu

We had been told this section was flat, and we were a bit disappointed.  It starts out flat-ish, along the river,  but then you have a least two good climbs up and down again.  After the last climb, you will start to see locals on bicycles, carrying the most ingeniously balanced piles of sticks, and that will be the sign - it's flat from here on out to Dien Bien Phu!  (no way would the locals bike up those hills!  Are you crazy?  Take a motorbike!)  Arriving in DBP, you'll have the airport on your right along one of these wide roads (it's the road to take you to the Lao border, if you're headed that way). You'll come to a major T intersection, turn left into town.  The first right after the bridge is the street with the most guest houses, but there are lots of options.