Bound for Vietnam by Lydia Laube

dirty grey haze of pollution hung between the nearby mountain peaks and sat low on the village. But it was nowhere near as bad as that of the cities and the temperature was just right. The rainy season had just finished and the cold would come next.
    In the morning I had an interesting ‘American breakfast’ outside on the pavement. It was alleged to consist of ‘ham, sausages, eggs fired’. I got two very runny duck eggs that had been barely ‘fired’ and were sliding around a huge plate that had been decorated with a few microscopic bits of tinned, processed ham and a couple of slices of those awful red sausages, also ‘fired’. Rock-hard toast kept this lot company. There was as much butter as you wanted (which was indeed a change, everywhere else it had been rationed like gold) and the coffee was good and strong, but I still decided that from then on it would be Chinese breakfast for me.
    Then, as this was Sunday, I declared it to be a day of rest and did nothing except clean myself and my belongings. But there was no rest for my ears. A hideous noise assaulted me. Alternating Oriental music and political harangue blared from a loudspeaker on one side of the next building and across the road the drivers and touts at the bus station yahooed as they competed for custom.
    In the evening I went for a walk. Yanshu was small enough to ramble all around and today was market day. From a large, under-cover market-place near the main street, stalls overflowed and spread out in lines that wound through the surrounding alleys and lanes. Most stalls sold clothing, fabrics and food. The lanes were lined with weathered grey or brown stone and mud-brick houses, many of them extremely old and tiny. Most of the houses were built around courtyards paved with ancient stones that had been polished smooth by hundreds of years of feet, or of earth packed to such a hard surface that it resembled terrazzo.
    The traffic on the streets of Yanshu was sparse and mostly bike, motor-bike or converted tractor. Several forms of transport were available for those not inclined to walk. The most common was a push-bike affair with a contraption like a miniature covered wagon on the back. Or there was motor-bike transport on which you either rode pillion, or sat in a two seater side-car topped by a canvas awning. Many of the pedi-cab and motor-bike transport riders were young slim females; I had not seen this elsewhere in China. The alternative to all the above was to hire a bike and pedal yourself around.
    The work-horses in the transport field were the modified tractors. They had a board at the front for the driver to sit on, another for his feet, and either half a van or a utility tray stuck on the back. A cross between the vehicles of Fred Flintstone and the Beverly Hill Billies, with a bit of lawn mower thrown in for good measure, they made more noise than the lot combined.
    In the main street I was thrilled to discover an optician and a film processor (although the latter’s produce proved dismal). A tourist inspired hair-dressing shop offered ‘Head and Face washing and Blow to Head!’ I hadn’t had my face washed in years and didn’t think I’d enjoy it any more now than I ever had. And as for the ‘Blow to Head’, they could forget that. What an offer. They wanted to scrub my face and then give me a clip over the ear to send me on my way. No thanks.
    There was a music shop that would obligingly copy cassette tapes for you. Here there were no worries about copyright like there are in Hong Kong, where I got the fish eye and a disapproving glare when I asked for this service. There were also several dressmakers and, as my favourite pair of pants were about to give up the ghost I arranged for one establishment to make a copy of them. Other attractions of the street were old men with air guns who let you shoot half-blown-up balloons off a wall and itinerant sugar-cane sellers who would hack off the amount of cane you wanted on the spot. A