By now we had dispelled any illusions about the accuracy of the three day tour itinerary sold to us in Chau Doc.
Did we travel along an idyllic river in a picturesque traditional boat, rowed by a beautiful Vietnamese woman, wearing a pristine starched blue cotton coat and immaculate white trousers?
No.
But we did motor along a muddy tributary, clinging to our luggage and laughing like drains as water cascaded over the sides. We did punt across a wide, torpid stream in a Sampan fit for retirement, wobbling and giggling as we went, trying to keep our bottoms low but not so low as the water sloshing about where the seats might once have been.
.
Did we ride through verdant rain forest alongside the banks of a mighty river, stopping to hear bucolic rural tales from rosy cheeked, cone hatted paddy field workers?
No, again.
But we did hire snazzy, shiny, Chinese bicycles for buttons, with a kaleidoscope of colourful spokes. And we did cycle though the local villages in the rain, chased by small children with big, beautiful brown eyes and an inexhaustible supply of happy chatter.
Did we experience the authentic homestay experience with a Vietnamese family, sharing their small home, eating with them at their table and learning from the family elders of rituals and traditions practiced for a dozen generations?
No, once again.
But we did stay with the vibrant family of Mr Hung, a clearly well to do small time hotelier with purpose built holiday apartments on the banks of a muddy river, plagued by mosquitoes. We did see the reality of Hung life, with the family dog graciously accepting a regular cuff across the ear from the youngest and patiently tolerating the persistent pulling of its tail. The middle one taunted the youngest with his new bicycle. The oldest was engrossed in computer games.
And what about crazy, disorganised and chain smoking, Mr Hung, always juggling far more than he can manage. He was forever extracting rolls of cash from his pocket, changing his plans, making calls and sweeping up his smallest boy into his arms. Smiling, waving his arms, using salt and pepper pots to illustrate metaphors that his English could not quite encapsulate.
We certainly did not get what we paid for.
We got so much more.
Did we travel along an idyllic river in a picturesque traditional boat, rowed by a beautiful Vietnamese woman, wearing a pristine starched blue cotton coat and immaculate white trousers?
No.
But we did motor along a muddy tributary, clinging to our luggage and laughing like drains as water cascaded over the sides. We did punt across a wide, torpid stream in a Sampan fit for retirement, wobbling and giggling as we went, trying to keep our bottoms low but not so low as the water sloshing about where the seats might once have been.
.
Did we ride through verdant rain forest alongside the banks of a mighty river, stopping to hear bucolic rural tales from rosy cheeked, cone hatted paddy field workers?
No, again.
But we did hire snazzy, shiny, Chinese bicycles for buttons, with a kaleidoscope of colourful spokes. And we did cycle though the local villages in the rain, chased by small children with big, beautiful brown eyes and an inexhaustible supply of happy chatter.
Did we experience the authentic homestay experience with a Vietnamese family, sharing their small home, eating with them at their table and learning from the family elders of rituals and traditions practiced for a dozen generations?
No, once again.
But we did stay with the vibrant family of Mr Hung, a clearly well to do small time hotelier with purpose built holiday apartments on the banks of a muddy river, plagued by mosquitoes. We did see the reality of Hung life, with the family dog graciously accepting a regular cuff across the ear from the youngest and patiently tolerating the persistent pulling of its tail. The middle one taunted the youngest with his new bicycle. The oldest was engrossed in computer games.
And what about crazy, disorganised and chain smoking, Mr Hung, always juggling far more than he can manage. He was forever extracting rolls of cash from his pocket, changing his plans, making calls and sweeping up his smallest boy into his arms. Smiling, waving his arms, using salt and pepper pots to illustrate metaphors that his English could not quite encapsulate.
We certainly did not get what we paid for.
We got so much more.
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