I have curly hair, my hair is curly

by Laura

I love getting my hair cut.

Seriously, love it. But I’m a hairdresser’s dream and worst nightmare.

I tend to walk into my hairdresser’s and say something like “I want to look glamorous, but not too serious.” I’ll let Sam know if I’m wearing it straight more often or curly, and if I’m feeling long or short. It’s rare I bring a picture and, if I do, it’s normally to let her know that I like something similar. I trust hairdressers and, for the most part, give them carte blanche.

All in all, I’m a pretty good candidate for a haircut in a country where I don’t speak the language, they don’t speak much of mine, and where the potential for an incurable hair disaster is high.

Hence, I was nervous but not terrified when I walked into the ‘salon’ in Dalat, Vietnam.

You may be asking yourself, or me, this question about now: “Laura D’Angelo, what the hell is wrong with you?! Your hair is curly…you’re going to look like a freaking gerbil!” It’s probably a question I should have asked myself.

What can I say folks, all the water snakes and panic attacks have made me brave.

As I saw it, these were the potential results:

1) An afro. Plain and simple, a crazy, frizzy, white-girl fro.
2) A Christmas tree. A blunt, bottom-heavy cut where my own curls weigh down my hair giving me a triangular do.
3) Stregga hair. One of my dad’s charming nicknames for me, meaning witch. My bedhead makes me look like I’m going to hex you.
4) Good. By some twist of fate my head could be spared and I could look normal.

I weighed the pros and cons but after six and a half months of growing, five and a half of which involved spending a lot of time in the sun, my hair was fried. Dry enough to be a broom. There wasn’t much of an option.

Matt was more afraid than I was, but mostly because he knew if it was terrible he would be hearing about it every day until it grew out and got a new cut (i.e. – months).

The first thing I did was ask if they had ever cut curly hair. “I have curly hair, my hair is curly. Have you ever cut that? Do you know curly hair.”

“Yes. You want haircut?”

“Yes, just one or two centimetres. It’s curly, very curly.” I felt like a recording.

Matt asked me if I felt okay, if they understood. I didn’t know, but they seemed sort of confident.

One person in the place spoke English. Her job was hair washing. In retrospect, this should have been a warning sign.

When the actual hair dresser came over I, again, tried to explain curly hair. My hair had been up all day and wasn’t very curly, just messy.

She just nodded, “one or two centimetres?”

I nodded, “just a little”.

I wish that I could give a description of the actual process but my glasses were off and I decided it would be less traumatic if I didn’t watch. At some point she used what sounded like those craft scissors that make the edges of paper all jagged and fancy, but who knows.

I realized very quickly that she hadn’t mangled my hair. In fact, there were decent layers, it wasn’t too short, and it would probably curl okay.

But she still had to style it, and that’s when I realized just how lucky I’d gotten.

Every time I said “I have curly hair, my hair is curly,” they heard “Please, when you’re done cutting my hair, make my hair curly.”

At first, when I realized what was about to happen, I panicked, “if they try to perm my hair” I thought “I’m making a break for it and whoever I take down in the process is collateral damage.”

But they didn’t. Instead two people attacked my head with hair straighteners, while one other employee watched, to give me a 1950s short curly bob.

Seriously, I looked like Betty Draper with curls. Except that the haircut didn’t result in me magically getting January Jones’s body.

After my Betty Draper do had flattened

And the back

All in all, it was hilarious. We couldn’t communicate, I looked like a 1950s housewife, and I’ve never had so many people touch my hair in one salon.

The post-first-wash world isn’t terrible either (trust me boys, it’s a thing). My hair is curly with a vengeance, the layers worked, and I don’t look like a total freak.

The downside? It’s pretty similar to the short haircuts I had in high school: BIG. Huge, in fact. And mega-curly.

Not the worst, but let’s be honest, who wants the hair that they had in high school?

You buy from me

by mattchesser

I’ve spent half my time in Asia feeling like an asshole.

“You buy from me?” is an intercontinental refrain, heard dozens of times per day by the Western traveller. Hawkers approach you everywhere: in the streets, at the beach, even at your table inside a restaurant. “No” becomes the most overused word in your vocabulary.

It was worst in a small H’mong village in Northern Vietnam. Laura and I parked our motorbike by the side of the road and were met immediately by three young girls, who walked us to their village. As we walked, our group grew, one woman joining us at a time.

Pretty soon we were leading a Pied Piper procession of nine women down the muddy roads.

We knew it was coming. The hard sell. We were surrounded.

We were happy to buy from some: the girls we met originally, the woman who talked to us about life in the village as we walked. But there were several conversations with women who hadn’t previously said a word that went something like this:

“I gave you tour, you buy from me.”

“No thanks,” I responded, hesitant.

“Yes thanks,” insistent.

These women had babies strapped to their backs. They live in a village where a nice toilet is a shack built over a river in which the centre floorboard has been removed (kind of awesome to use just once, actually). They’re married to men who do little other than drink and smoke. My guilt was overwhelming.

But you can’t buy from everyone. You make your excuses and head for the motorbike, weighed down by five or six useless trinkets, feeling like an asshole.

I spend the other half of my time feeling like I’ve been taken advantage of.

I’m awful at bargaining. “White person prices” are everywhere – most stores, stalls, and many restaurants don’t list prices anywhere, so you know you’re being charged twice as much as the Vietnamese guy next to you. Despite how cheap everything is relative to Canada, it’s hard not to feel like I’m getting a raw deal when the salesperson is doubling her usual profit.

I love Asia. I’ve gotten used to most of the above. But when I get homesick it’s not for Western food or culture, it’s for the civility of telemarketers and the predictability of used car salesmen.

It’s for knowing when I’m getting ripped off and when I’m actually being an asshole.

Suit up

by Laura

Whoever said that getting custom clothes made is easier than buying off the rack has never had it done in Vietnam.

Hoi An is the custom everything capital of Vietnam. They’re most famous for suits, dresses, and coats. But you can also get custom jewelry, custom purses and leather bags, and custom shoes. Yes, shoes.

Sales girls and tailors yell at you to ‘buy from me’ from their store fronts, if you touch fabric or one of the samples you’ve as good as bought it, and once you finally decide to get something made then the real fun begins.

They rush you, they try to convince you that the only fabric they have is the most expensive, they push you to buy more, and if you’re worried that something might not turn out right they don’t say “if it isn’t right we’ll go from there”. No, they say “well, maybe you order another one” with a little smirk.

That said, you also get amazing clothes and the women know exactly what will work for your body and which fabrics look the best. They cut deals and give you free items to get you to make purchases, and they are really friendly.

Teaching the sales girls how to french braid

Matt and I blew wayyyy too much money in Hoi An at just one of these shops.

We spent an exhausting three hours with our sales girls on the first day choosing styles, fabric, and saying no to more clothing.

All in an effort to turn Matt into Don Draper and me into Jenna Lyons.

Within four hours of ordering half of our clothing was done.

Matt would only need one more fitting, jerkface has the perfect body for suits. But I’d need two, the little vietnamese aren’t used to sewing for someone with t and a.

Within 72 hours Matt and I had new work wardrobes.

Here’s just a sampling of it all…

Matt’s sexy new peacoat

My J.Crew inspired schoolboy blazer

Matt trying to look like a baller in his new sport coat. The swim trunks aren’t really helping…

I think I’m going to go as a highlighter next Halloween, no American Apparel required

…seriously, that’s only a fraction of our order.

It was an absolutely exhausting few days. Back and forth to the tailor, arguing and convincing them that we really did want the alterations we were requesting, worrying that things wouldn’t turn out the way we wanted them to, and then realizing that it would cost close to the price of our clothes to send them by airmail.

Let’s all hope that the pirates don’t decide to raid the mail ship that our clothes are on…

Sitting on a boat by the bay

by Laura

Matt and I spent three days on board a gorgeous five-star floating hotel. I swear, we’re sticking to our budget!

There aren’t really any words to Halong Bay, so we’ll just leave you with this…

View from our cabin

Halong Bay at sunset

Hooked on Hanoi

by mattchesser

Hanoi is nuts.

The streets are overflowing with life. Sidewalks are used for every purpose except walking: restaurants, bars, shopping, parking. Thousands of motorbikes weave through narrow streets, miraculously avoiding death while texting.

After sleepy Laos, its energy was invigorating. I’ve never been in a city that felt so alive; Hanoi is New York after an eight ball. It’s the Asia of my dreams and my nightmares, so big, so busy, so brilliant.

I was overwhelmed at times, particularly during rush hour, when it felt like every cubic centimeter of the city was occupied. But I loved it. Sitting on a tiny plastic stool on a sidewalk, drinking a 25-cent Bia Hoi (draft beer) and watching the night fly by. Walking around Hoan Kiem, the lake that sits at the heart of downtown Hanoi, at night or early in the morning when the locals exercise on the shore: tai chi, ballroom dancing, or a brisk pajama-clad speedwalk. Eating incomparable street food for less than the price of a bag of chips. It was never dull.

Sure, Hanoi has its issues. Taxis with meters that accelerate upwards at warp speed. Bizarre water puppet shows that begin with a dragon impregnating a phoenix and only get creepier from there. Motorbike drivers that make you legitimately fear for your life when crossing the street.

But once you embrace the insanity, you’ll be hooked.

The most beautiful place

by Laura

Up until the last few days I couldn’t have named the most beautiful place I’d ever been.

I could give you a list of some of the lovely places, ones that I would love to see again, but to confidently say that one was better than another? No, that would have been too hard.

Until now.

When we started planning our trip we hadn’t really considered northern Vietnam. North of Hanoi, that is. But after reading more travel articles than I ever thought possible, I was convinced. We had to go to Sapa.

I’d like to say it took a lot to convince Matt, but let’s be honest I have that boy wrapped around my little finger.

We arrived in Sapa only to find ourselves inside a cloud. Literally. You couldn’t see any of the scenery.

So, naturally, Matt and I decided that it was the perfect time for a trip through the mountains.

There are three ways to see northern Vietnam: an on-the-bus-off-the-bus tour, trekking, or motorbiking.

Considering that I’ve recently become allergic to too much physical activity (its a real thing, look it up) we opted for a motorbike.

In a bid to save some money so that we could each have a chocolate tart later, sharing was not going to happen, we rented only one bike.

Matt is an awesome motorbike driver. A true natural. Not once did we even come close to wiping out.

Being a passenger is awesome. When it rains you have a human shield, you get to enjoy the scenery, and you get to wave at all the cute little kids jumping up and down on the side of the road.

All of a sudden we rounded a curve, and there it was, lush green mountains rising up past the clouds. Below were a few rice steps and and a valley covered in a blanket of clouds. We rode to the Silver Waterfall and stood in awe looking it out.

It couldn’t get any better.

On our second day, the plan was to head out of Sapa in the opposite direction, down into the valley. This is where most of the ethnic minorities live and where they grow rice on soil stairs cut into the sides of the mountain. (Rice paddies.)

I was wrong. It got better.

This landscape, the mountains and rice fields with a river running through and waterfalls pouring down, this was better.

The whole day was surreal. We saw Vietnamese children playing with toys we’re only used to seeing in movies. Spinning tops and ropes (the goal is to knock the other person’s top off its spin with your rope), marbles, and hoops and sticks.

The biggest obstacles were he herds of buffalo walking the roads.

It was amazing.

Northern Vietnam is, unequivocally, the most beautiful place I’ve ever been.

The main attraction

by Laura

Matt and I have done so much during our three and a half weeks in Laos.

We’ve avoided seeing too many gross spiders (this was essential to Matt’s mental health), had a panic attack, lost our camera case, and slept in beds wayyy too small for us.

It’s been absolutely incredible.

Today is our last day in this small sliver of land between three better-known countries: Thailand, Vietnam, and Cambodia. I couldn’t be sadder.

Laos is an incredible country.

Generally when people travel here they start in Luang Prabang and head south. Matt and I did the opposite.

To generalize, this means we started in the poorer, dirtier, less tourist friendly part of the country. (Except, of course, the far north which has been ignored until recently by all but the most intrepid travellers.)

Most of the very people we’ve met over the last few days have been picking our brains about Laos. ‘What was your favourite place? The best thing you did? The best food?’ Basically everyone wants to know what the best part of Laos is.

There are so many acceptable answers.

The incredible, largely unspoilt nature and wildlife, the simple but delicious food, the lack of scams and pushy salespeople that are so prevalent in other countries.

But, for us, the answer is simple: the people.

The Laos people have are joyful. They love a good party. They love to eat. They love their children, but they love to laugh at them more.

Matt and I were in a tuk tuk a few days ago and the couple with which we were sharing the vehicle mentioned that they didn’t like the Lao people.

We were shocked. Needless to say, we didn’t become friends.

I honestly couldn’t imagine someone not liking the people here. But Matt pointed out that if you weren’t willing to get to know Laos, you could be easily misled. The Lao in the main tourist area are not smiley, they aren’t running over to ask where you’re from, if you like Laos, and if you need anything.

But what busy, underpaid service industry worker is smiley and friendly when constantly bombarded with customers who don’t speak their language? Or when faced with customers who are constantly trying to negotiate a better price when you make roughly $2000/year.

Certainly not the ones in Europe, in fact they are often downright rude. Or the ones in North America where passive aggression is paramount.

The difference is that in Laos all it takes is a smile. A simple, genuine smile and the people open up.

In the course of our time here, I have sat down and talked with every guesthouse manager we’ve had. I could tell you where they’re from, how many siblings they have, all about their children. I could tell you the things that they find hilariously strange about Westerners (there is a lot!).

I’m not trying to boast, I just smiled as we passed each other in the hall or when we were in the same room. I would ask a question or they would ask me something and, the next thing you knew, we both had a new friend.

The children are always playing and laughing, utterly unselfconcious. They smile and wave at us weird looking falangs. They giggle. They wait by the side of the road to high-five as you ride past on your bicycles.

The people are the main attraction. The chance to talk to them, to learn from them, and to share their amazing outlook on life: if it isn’t fun, don’t do it, or find the quickest way to have fun.

Matt and I made an effort to learn the two most basic words when we got here: hello and thank you. We use them everywhere. I don’t think I’ve uttered them in English in three and half weeks. But we often find Laos people are surprised and ask us “you speak Laos?!”

Thank you, other travellers for keeping the bar low, thus allowing us to look awesome, and make friends with the wonderful people of this amazing country.

If you travel to Laos you will get the chance to do amazing things and see incredible sites. But don’t forget to smile, because you just might miss the best part.

Shop til you drop

by Laura

Hand woven silk scarves

Up until a few days ago Matt and I had only bought necessities.

Some t-shirts and a cheap purse at the Chatuchak Market in Bangkok, shampoo and other toiletries, and flipflops.

To be honest there hasn’t been much to buy. Southern Laos had the generic logo shirts that you find everywhere (Beerlao, Same Same, etc), some traditional skirts, and lots of cheap clothing but nothing that you would bring home as a souvenir.

Then we got to Luang Prabang.

Firstly, this city is gorgeous. It was the French colonial capital of Laos and has since been designated a Unesco World Heritage City. With the help of the French government, Luang Prabang has been able to restore many of its original buildings.

The city is like Southern France in Southeast Asia.

The doors and windows of beautiful cafes open onto the street. There are gardens and greenery everywhere. And, giving the whole city a fairy-like quality, there are colourful paper lanterns lighting up the streets.

One of the things that Luang Prabang is famous for is the Handicraft Night Market.

This is not a typical market. There are no stalls selling cheap flip-flops, none selling poor quality clothing, and none trying to get you to buy ‘antiques’.

Instead there are rows of handwoven scarves in every colour and pattern imaginable. Homemade stuffed animals. Beautiful embroidery. Colourful purses for little girls. Dresses. Lanterns. Paintings. Jewellery.

Owl purses

It’s amazing.

Matt and I only went four times. Four. I can’t believe it. I could have gone every night. Every night just to stare at the stunning silk scarves that I couldn’t afford.

We did make a couple of purchases though…

…matching bracelets!

Note: two of the four visits to the market were accidental. I’m not the worst girlfriend in the world.

We also did other things.

At the Kuang Si waterfall outside of Luang Prabang

The New Vang Vieng

by mattchesser

The view from happy hour

Vang Vieng feels empty.

The Lao town on the banks of the Nam Song between Vientiane and Luang Prabang used to be the debauchery capital of the country – overrun with dumbass 20-somethings getting hammered during the day at tubing bars that lined the river and then partying into the wee hours of the night. 

Unfortunately, the bros and biddies kept dying.

According to local gossip, about a person per month would either drown, overdose, fall victim to awful bar owners that laced cocktails with toxic substances, or break their neck on a zipline and die in the river. Pretty awful stuff, which led to the Lao government burning and bulldozing the tubing bars a few months ago (apparently there were over 30 of them).

Now Vang Vieng is peaceful, gorgeous, and one of my favourite places in Laos. We kept hearing from other travellers that we had to come – and boy were they right. The scenery is stunning: surreal limestone karsts that rise out of nowhere. The town is half-deserted (sad for local businesses but wonderful for us). And there are a bunch of fun outdoorsy things to do in the surrounding area.

I would have hated the old Vang Vieng. I’m a grouchy old man at heart – I stopped clubbing years ago in order to avoid the type of person that Vang Vieng used to attract. But the disappearance of the party crowd has devastated local businesses. Our hotel manager estimated that tourism has dropped by about 70 percent versus the same period last year. Anecdotal evidence confirms this claim, as cavernous bars on the main street sometimes have more televisions playing episodes of Friends than they do customers.

Selfishly, I appreciated the change. Laura and I spent a relaxing afternoon slowly drifting down the river with hardly a person in sight. The three-hour float amidst spectacular scenery was made even better by the Lao grandmother who sold us cans of beer from a hammock on the riverbank.

We rented bicycles and cycled 7km to the beautiful Blue Lagoon – a lovely swimming hole in which to cool the posterior bruises inflicted by the bumpy Laos “road” down which we rode. Spelunking the following day was even better. Laura and I each rented a motorbike (really a scooter) and drove the winding road to the “cave loop” 13km out of town. The bikes were liberating. After being stuck on buses, minivans, and tuk-tuks, there is nothing more gratifying than hitting the open road at your own pace.

An old Lao local led us deep into the expanse of Cave Loup and Cave Hoi, each with odd assortments of stalagmites and stalactites. They were no match for the “water cave” (Tham Nam) though – which one traverses by lying on an inner tube and pulling oneself along the ropes that lie on the surface of the water. The top of the cave sits only a few feet above the top of the tube, making for a surreal and claustrophobic experience.

I’m happy to report that I did not see a single spider in any of the caves.

We didn’t plan on visiting Vang Vieng. It wasn’t on our itinerary until a few days before we left Southern Laos. But given its (forced) change of heart, I’m so glad that we did.

Trip mishap number two

by Laura

Note to self: if you’re sleeping in the jungle you will, inevitably, hear monkeys playing in the tree next to your treehouse. The treehouse will probably have tarps attached to the outside that are rolled up like blinds. You’ll be afraid that the monkeys will come into the treehouse at night to pull your hair and bite your red toenails (because they think that they’re berries) giving you rabies. Your boyfriend will think that closing the tarps will protect you (read: make you stop talking and go to sleep). He will chivalrously get out of bed, untie the tarp, and it will come tumbling down. Except, instead of protecting you from monkeys it will send the ants who were living in the rolled up tarp through the air. They will be all over your boyfriend and they will bite. The ants will also be so small that they will be able to get inside your bug net. The two of you will end up looking like you’re doing the most ridiculous dance in the world while you try to get all of the ants off. Finally, you will let the ants have your bed while you and your 6’2″ boyfriend share the other bed. Well, share a child’s summer camp cot.