Hang Mua Central Homestay

by Robert Tones (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Vietnam

We tumbled out of the minibus onto an unlikely road junction, concerned that our sat navs still had us over a kilometre away from our internet booked Homestay. Our driver had lit a cigarette and was happily chatting with a youngish couple of locals, all was smiles and non-comprehension, quite normal for our self-organised trip around Vietnam. My wife with great trepidation climbed behind what was presumably our host’s moped. He was a short stubby man most reminiscent of “Nick Nack” from the James bond movies. I was left with an attractive young woman who’s 45 KG barely kept her Honda upright. She motioned for me to join her in the saddle. I, a ponderous 115 KG, swung a leg over and gently lowered myself onto the seat. The moped wobbled, the lady laughed and the front wheel arose into the air like a spooked stallion, whilst the engine over-revved violently. My dismount was less than dignified, and a cause of much joviality to the group of Vietnamese children who had come to witness the funny foreigners. As with everything I have encountered in Vietnam, there is no malice, simply a sense of fun and wonder. Nick Nack came to the rescue, his moped was considerably more sturdy and his extra mass compensated for mine. It was still a wobbly ride until we got moving. He obviously thought that speed was the solution to our stability issues, and we whizzed down the concrete path, down past glimmering paddy fields and shoddy houses. The Homestay was a typical village house, which had been built by adding rubble onto the muddy earth and then laying a slab of concrete on top. Mine host explained he had built the 3 story edifice himself, with help from his friends. Like all modern houses, it was a concrete frame filled with Breeze block walls. All this was communicated via Google translate. He carried his massive black Huawei phone around, barking incomprehensible noises in, then giving us the phone to read and speak into in return. As the other guests in the house were French, he often mixed up our languages so I needed to us my language skills to answer him. Before we could take our bags to the room, three floors up and no lift, we were inundated by the family children. They all wanted to practise their two words of English and then have their photos taken. With the number of pictures I have of partially clad young children on my phone, I fear I will be sited as a paedophile. Their enthusiasm for life is so infectious. I needn’t have worried about the luggage; the owner had run up the marble stairs and left it in our room. Our view was pure Far East, the square fields of rice scintillating in the setting sun. We had the added benefit of the framing rock formations which we would be climbing in the morning. Six hundred steps up to the Hang Mua viewpoint, then on to the Bich Dong Pagoda. It had been a long day and bed would beckon soon, as I knew we would be awoken at 5 AM by the government loudspeakers calling the workers to action, but I hadn’t reckoned on football. At supper I had been asked my opinion on the Vietnamese football team, I had said I had never seen them play, but would be delighted to do so. ‘Fantastic’ the Huawei exclaimed in English. ‘Tonight we play Thailand.’ A large flat-screen television was brought up to the patio and after a convoluted set up of the aerial we all sat down to watch the worst game of football I have ever seen. I had my Ha Noi Red beer, a hundred different brown fried crispy things to eat and two young Pyjama clad children. The crowd both on and off-screen roared as the players clustered around the ball like Carshalton under 12’s. Both sides scored, more by chance than planning. And much beer was drunk. Our bill for three nights including meals and beer was 1,000,000 Dong, about £20. The memory of the shared sporting occasion with the family? Priceless.