It's Only the Himalayas by S. Bedford

Author:S. Bedford
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781927366486
Publisher: Brindle & Glass
Published: 2016-04-05T00:00:00+00:00

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Piratical Magic

JUNE–AUGUST: VIETNAM, THE PHILIPPINES

Kyle: I always wanted to become a pirate when I grew up. So I did.

IF GOING FROM Zimbabwe to Kathmandu was like doing a line of cocaine and being hit with a frying pan, then going from Kolkata to Hanoi was like taking a shot of gasoline and getting a pony for Christmas. As we made our way from Arrivals to Baggage, Sara and I squealed over the small luxuries we had once taken for granted.

“Check out the bathrooms! There’s actually soap!”

“This floor is so clean I can look up my own shorts!”

“Holy crap, is that a garbage can? I haven’t seen one of those in months! Let’s hug it.”

During our flight, we had sat next to Mike—a Canadian in his mid-twenties who had recently moved to the Philippines. He laughed at our unbridled enthusiasm toward Southeast Asia (“Oh my god! The airplane meal is noodles!”), although he was appalled that his new homeland wasn’t on our itinerary. Determined to change our minds, he raved about the powdery beaches, flourishing sea life, and friendly locals.

“I’m telling you, it’s the best-kept secret of backpacking,” he insisted. “Everybody does the mainland circuit, and then hits Bali for a week or two. In a few years, the Philippines are going to be on that route too—it’s too beautiful not to be—so you had better go now before it’s completely ruined by commercialization.” He added that while Boracay wasn’t exactly a hidden paradise anymore, regions like Palawan remained unspoiled by excessive tourism.

“We’ll pencil it in,” said Sara as Noi Bai International Airport popped into view and the landing gear clunked into place.

Vietnam turned out to be a whirlwind of quintessential Asia—or at least what I imagined quintessential Asia to be. We began in the old quarter of the city where the buildings were adorned with antiquated teak balconies and the streets hummed with motorcycle traffic. Scramblers taxied us to our guesthouse—Sara balancing with casual grace and me clinging to my driver in fear of toppling off the back with my bag and landing in the road like an upturned beetle. On the sidewalks, locals gathered around food stalls on child-sized plastic furniture to dine on pho and steamed snails. Old ladies in conical hats carried bamboo poles across their shoulders with produce-filled baskets hanging from each end. The city felt safe and clean, and we explored with a carefree confidence that we hadn’t felt back in India.

From Hanoi we journeyed to the mountain town of Sa Pa, where fog meandered down the alleyways like a lost tourist, and the valley walls were ribbed with rice paddies. The moment we got off the train, we were besieged by teenaged girls from the neighboring Black H’Mong and Red Dzao hill tribes. Dressed in black hats and embroidered skirts, they hawked postcards and bracelets with brassy ferocity. We soon discovered that not a single Westerner went anywhere in town without a handful of these giggling escorts, all crooning, “You buy from meeeee! You

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