Northern Vietnam was cold. Arriving at night, people were bundled up in winter clothing, coats buttoned up to the throat, hats pulled down snug over ears. By our standards it was an overreaction, but all over Hanoi, on motorbikes and on sidewalks, seated on tiny plastic chairs, clothing was layered to fend off the chill. The sky was grey, ominous, the sun rare. It wasn’t bitter winter cold, more like fall crisp, but the change was dramatic. Even we put on jeans and long sleeves.
Whether it was the weather, or simply a regional disposition, the chill seemed to be in the personalities as well. The people were aggressive. Smiles seemed rare. A foggy trip to Halong Bay ended in a yelling match – tourists vs. tour guide, 18 to 1 – after he kept us waiting on a street corner for over an hour and then tried to leave some people behind. We hadn’t seen the sun in days; dealing with people was tiresome. We decided to cut our losses, make one more stop, and head the 800 km down the coast to central Vietnam.
Before leaving we stopped in Ninh Binh, more commonly known as ‘the Halong Bay of the rice fields’. It was yet another rainy day, preventing us from renting bikes (read: saving money) and biking around in comfort. But by the time we arrived at the tourist dock, the temperature was rising, leaving only a thick fog around in its wake.
As we left the dock, a hush seemed to settle over the landscape, interrupted only by the steady sound of the oars. Immense limestone cliffs towered above us, layered over one another like construction paper cutouts. On either side of the waterway, villagers tended to their rice paddies, boats tied up nearby. We drifted leisurely down the river, through natural tunnels in the cliffs, past vendors and homes.
It was a tiny, but much-needed, spoonful of tranquility in our stressed-out North Vietnam soup.
