Primates and Cetaceans

The island has emptied out over the last week as residents return home to the mainland in preparation for Tet- the highly family-oriented, Vietnamese celebration of the Lunar New Year and the nation’s largest holiday.

It also means fewer companies are running trips this week- We’re the only group in sight in our usual morning kayak spot. The absence of locals allows us to explore a bit more than usual—we paddle north through a tunnel to duck into the national park before swinging back around the island risking the ire of local rangers–– they guard the fjord in front of us from a floating ranger station.

They have good reason to be concerned—Ba Trai Dao, the area in northern Lan Ha Bay where we’re kayaking, is home to around 20 Cat Ba Langurs – a species endemic to Cat Ba, of which only 65 or so individuals remain. More importantly, Ba Trai Dao forms the tip of a highly intricate peninsula extending down from the main island by the tiniest, most delicate spit of land, almost totally isolating these family groups from those on the island proper. Although the park’s goal is to promote population growth to the point were the langurs will begin expanding back onto the main island, their slow birth rate (two babies this year were reason to celebrate) and lack of local understanding prove challenging to that endgame.

 And so we swing back, weaving along the shoreline, low tide prompting me to paddle around a point rather than squeaking though a tiny, oyster-lined passage into a yawning cavern dripping with bulbous, swirling tufas. Instead, we pull kayaks up to a sweeping orange beach. A bright patch of jungle shields a small, blue and orange temple, above which an open cave extends thirty meters up into the rock. A short scramble over scattered blocks and copious orange dust to ledges covered in langur poop provide a view back out into the bay over the karst islands we’ve just kayaked around.  

I decide on a whim to paddle across our small channel and explore the coastline of an island still fairly new to me. Low tide has brought the water’s surface to within a half meter of the coral shelves extending from the island’s beach, and we chase schools of fish over the edge into deeper water. As we move along the rock one of my customers asks about larger fish in the area. “Nope,” I answer, “Not really any big fish left in the bay… oh hey, there’s a huge-ass DEAD fish, though!” I pull a sharp right to where the dark gray lump floats, and catch sight of its oddly-shaped head as I pull closer. “Hey, I didn’t know we had parrot fish in the bay!” Another two strokes and I’ve managed to discern skin and a fluked tail. “…..awwww shit, that is most definitely NOT a fish.”

(This slight episode hereafter will be referred to as “Gavi’s Guiding Brilliance, Exhibition A.”)

We circle our kayaks around a tiny porpoise, less than a meter long and very very dead. Honestly, it resembles one of the embryos you’d see in a bottle of alcohol in a science museum, titled “the progression of a fetal whale.” Smooth skin still carries evenly-spaced vertical indentations, perhaps from its mother’s ribs; blood leaks from a tiny blow hole.

I give it a ride to a nearby beach on the back of my kayak before spending the next hour playing cat and mouse with phone service in the bay, notifying our Western conservationist and our Vietnamese head ranger of its location. Later in the evening, Neahga informs me that the Finless Porpoise, almost certainly stillborn the night before, is the first he's seen in Lan Ha Bay.

The next day, four of us charter a basket boat to head up into Ha Long Bay on our day off. Chu Bien, our primary basket boat driver and the oldest member of our crew, mans the rudder with his ever-present gentle smile. Islands appear shrouded in morning mist ahead of us as we move forward over the bay’s perfectly glassy surface, sun beginning to glint through the clouds as we near a smaller channel dividing the cluster of landforms.

Our destination, The Face, soars proudly from the channel’s center. Massive blocks spill haphazardly into the water, heaped at the base of its diamond wall. The cliff itself is the most beautiful piece of rock I’ve ever seen, curving gradually into a gentle overhang forty meters in the sky. Minerals coating the wall have left an impression of deep yellows, oranges and black caught mid-flow, strewn with delicate pockets, tufas, flowing rods and the occasional mineral crystal.

We’re completely isolated from traffic, surrounded by islands in our little channel as Chu Bien anchors and curls up to nap while he waits for us. We spend the day on the most technically challenging and inspiring sport route I’ve ever been climbed, testing delicate holds on rarely-climbed rock and ducking loose chunks (this is why we wear helmets, kids!) as occasional pieces break and tumble into the sea below. In the evening, we curl up to sleep on the boards hiding the basket boat’s engine as chase the sun home to Cat Ba over a windless sea.

Settling In

I’ve been on Cat Ba for a little over a month now. The overpowering in-your-face effect of the island’s larger aspects (the pho, the constant– and fairly terrible– karaoke, the swarming motorbikes) have become less overwhelming, allowing me to notice smaller nuances of the culture I’ve set myself into.

I know now to allow three days for my laundry to dry, strung on lines on the roof in our perpetually humid environment. I structure grocery runs to the mini mart (and lunch breaks) around the Vietnamese version of Siesta, from noon-2:30. Stalls at the market will let me barter; streetside shops carry set prices. The 8:00 am siren no longer brings tornados to mind, instead signaling the ferry’s arrival from Hai Phong and our own call to work. The green on our rickety pool table moves slightly every time a hand adjusts when lining up a shot, using either the sticky cue or the crooked cue to wage war against our perpetually chalked and battered cue ball. Alongside free pool the bar above Asia Outdoors sells laughing gas, sheesha and weed over the counter.

I’ve begun to carry a clearer notion of what I most definitely cannot get my hands on here–– proper hair ties don’t exist. Neither do flash drives compatible with Macs (I’m pretty sure I own the only apple computer on Cat Ba), duct tape or lip balm. Unless I’m keen on slathering myself with whitening agent, I won’t be buying moisturizer or sunscreen any time soon.

I’m also catching onto customs that tend to be different here- subtle things that vary from culture to culture, that I begin to understand and integrate with tips from friends and coworkers.

We eat family-style on the boat; that I understood and have appreciated from the start. We lay dishes loaded with food in the middle of our circle, piling our preference onto rice in our little individual bowls. At some point Ross, a coworker, mentioned a hierarchy amongst our crew and staff (however laxly the boat crew themselves hold to it). The next time we ate on the bay I noticed clearly that at the head of the circle sits Chu Bien, our basket boat driver and oldest member. Ages range downward toward the foot of the circle, where the youngest person sits and dishes rice as needed. We wait until the oldest person has begun to eat before helping ourselves.

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When in the city for lunch I often wander toward the market, avoiding sidewalks (with their crowds and incessant restaurant hawkers) for the relatively open waterfront boulevard. A family of black dogs with stubby legs rules this territory: I imagine there’s some shepherd somewhere in their ancestry, but at the moment they roam and sprawl across the road together as a pack of overly happy sausage dogs. The island contains an abnormally large percentage of short-legged dogs. I’m told that, in the west, sausage dogs were originally bred to go down badger holes. I feel like their prominence on the island is more a result of an obscene amount of inbreeding.

Somehow I don’t expect to see them around much longer; I’m told that the island’s population of dogs decreases to almost nothing through the course of Tet- our upcoming Vietnamese holidays.

Motorbikes honk as I continue down the street, alerting me to their presence. We play a silly form of dance as we weave between each other, avoiding larger cars and busses carrying tourists toward the western harbor. Younger men roast clams over coals over buckets on the curb. Beside them guys on motorbikes offer rides or rentals from bays of scooters and far jankier manual machines. As I near the market I begin passing streetside shops: some hawk cell phones, rice cookers, puffy jackets or metal fittings. Rarely does a shop sell more than one or two categories of items; shopping requires a jaunt into several different stalls. Mini Marts, carrying snacks, toiletries and liquor, prove the exception.

The market in itself contains an entirely different culture, much of which I’m still woefully unfamiliar. Aisles criss-cross through the area within a giant, low- ceilinged covered building. At the back entrance, just off the street, dozens of ladies sell fruit piled high on tarps in front of them through the morning. By evening, this area transforms into a street food plaza of sorts. Tables and low stools sit in front of ladies selling soup, noodles, greens and various forms of meat, added in without regards to separating flesh from bone.

The back entrance leads into housewares territory: stalls brim with dishes, chopsticks, blankets and rice cookers. One or two ladies run sewing shops while others try to charge me obscene prices for weak, rusted needles. Further in, stalls sell crackers, pringles and cookies. A turn toward the far end of the market brings me into restaurants serving phó and other unfamiliar dishes. Encountering large groups of men downing bottle after bottle of rice whiskey or vodka over lunch proves fairly common– the midday meal is that in which most drinking is taken part.

If not serving food, the population shuts down for a solid two hours during midday. Further through the market women doze behind tables laden with greens, noodles and individual veggies, providing opportunities to walk through and buy separate ingredients to piece meals together. Other tables left unattended hold pig legs, belly and other body parts, while a man in the next aisle takes a meat cleaver to a roast dog (identified by the skin' distinctive smoky-scorched texture).

I bypass the dog and a room of fresh fish and bins swarming with seafood, stopping in front of a lady sitting behind a pile of springrolls. 20,000VND later I continue on with a baggie of four spring rolls a side of fish sauce. Toward the market’s front entrance, past several rows of rice whiskey sold out of vessels full of dead lizards and sea stars (good for your health), I find the fruit ladies. They man stalls full of mangos, dragonfruit, lychee, melon, bananas, some giant form of Asian pear and tiny Vietnamese apples (that have a tendency to go bad within a couple days). They also happen to be some of the cattiest ladies I’ve ever met, and bring into glaring light the difference between customer loyalty in the West and that in Vietnam: whereas we tend to give people discounts in order to court customer loyalty, these ladies will wait until customer loyalty is firmly established before beginning to offer reasonable prices. Now that I’ve returned to the same lady several times in a row she’s begun charging me fairly, although as I walk away I draw sullen glares from the other women flanking the aisle.

I walk back toward the office having traded 70,000 VND ($3.50) for 15 bananas, a mango, springrolls and fish sauce. A bench full of bean bags, an open-air balcony and a janky pool table are waiting for me.