Postcard from Abroad
by
Margaret Cracknell
January 1966. SaPa, Vietnam
This hotel was once a private home. In the French Colonial days officials built villas in the mountains to escape the summer heat. The French left forty years ago, and I don't think this villa has seen a coat of paint since.
It's a cold night. Very cold. Cold enough to bring in the cage of large snakes that sits on the steps of the hotel. They are dossed down in a corner of the room with a little spirit lamp beside them to keep them warm. The hotel menu is meagre but it does list seven different snake dishes. Yesterday a brave Australian ordered snake balls. Do snakes have them? you might ask. If they do, I have eaten one. Very small and slightly gritty.
It is so cold that I haven't taken off my clothes in four days. I'm wearing three shirts, two pullovers and several layers of underclothing. At night I take off my shoes, my earrings and my watch (I don't want it to rust), and climb into bed between two damp felt quilts.
SaPa is high in the Vietnamese Alps that border on China. When the cloud comes down you can't see into the valley. You can't even see fifty feet in front of you. Out of the fog emerges a little Granny whispering, "Look, look," as she thrusts a match box under your nose. It contains pellets of opium, home grown. Opium is the cottage industry around here. Shop keepers pluck at your sleeve and invite you into the back of the stall to smoke a pipe. We find solace elsewhere.
For thirty cents the desk clerk will take a fresh lemon and make you a tumblerful of hot lemonade. We take them back to our room and add generous splashes of gin. Goes down as a treat and warms your hands at the same time!
Margaret Cracknell