by Zoë Folbigg
‘Sorry!’ says a tall man with thick ginger stubble wielding a packet of organic brown rice, as he deftly slides back into his place in front. ‘Almost forgot this!’ he says, shaking it with glee like a child with a box of Tic Tacs. Strapped to his chest is a young baby, clinging like a koala in deep sleep, its tiny fingers splaying out against the man’s proud chest.
Sandra smiles as if to say ‘Don’t you worry at all’, because Sandra is more tolerant than Nena and Sandra loves babies, although she failed to coo at Ava in her buggy.
The man proceeds to put his groceries into his mustard-coloured Fjällräven backpack, as if he is stacking building blocks neatly into place. He is obviously a very efficient packer as well as a wholesome eater.
Surely he’s not feeding the baby all that yet?
‘How old?’ asks Sandra, gender non-committal, as she swipes the barcode on a box of puy lentils.
‘She’s five weeks,’ says the man, in an unnecessarily loud voice, as he packs with a flourish.
No, she’s definitely not eating polenta and puy lentils. I bet he’s going to rustle up something nutritious for his tired wife for dinner. Wanker.
Ava gurgles and Nena tends to her, propping her seat up a little so she can see and straightening her blanket.
‘Shhhh, shhhh,’ she soothes, hoping Ava isn’t so hungry that she creates a scene. ‘Nearly there.’
The man pays for his shopping, slings his backpack onto his broad back, gives Sandra a wink and Nena a nod, and saunters out, without his baby even flinching.
Nena wheels the pram forward.
‘Awww, what a good dad…’ says Sandra, favourably, with knitted eyebrows and glassy eyes.
Nena can’t even think of a response as she puts her four items in the shopping basket under her pram.
A good dad?
Nena wants to ask Sandra what she has to do to be deemed a good mum? No one calls her a good mum when she does the shopping with Ava in a sling. Does Nena have to have nailed sleep, weaning, potty training, walking, bed-wetting and GCSEs by six months to be deemed a good mum?
‘Yeah, great,’ Nena replies, trying to bury her sarcasm into her leather jacket as she rolls her pram away, feeling even more unremarkable.
What do I have to do to be remarkable?
37
‘Backpackers in the Vietnamese city of Hanoi are claiming to have spotted missing 28-year-old French scientist, Manon Junot. 19-year-old Elleke Sloof and her 20-year-old boyfriend Jaap Melis, who are students from the Netherlands, believe they spotted Ms Junot by the lake in the heart of the city in a confused state. Ms Junot has been missing since New Year’s Day when she didn’t board a flight homebound for Paris.
‘Our Asia correspondent Heidi Adler has been following the story and is live in Hanoi. Heidi, what credibility do these claims have?’
SCREEN CUTS TO A BLONDE WOMAN STANDING IN FRONT OF A LAKE LIT AT NIGHT AS SHE FACES THE CAMERA.
‘Well, Rita, Elleke Sloof and Jaap Melis aren’t the first people to claim to have sighted Ms Junot since she was last recorded on that CCTV footage from Chiang Rai, Thailand, in mid-December. But this couple are being listened to, and their account is enough for the Vietnamese authorities to have said they will open enquiries into it. Why? They’re keeping tight-lipped at the moment, but this sighting took place before the family released further details of Ms Junot’s mental health, so parts of their description of Ms Junot’s behaviour might concur with what the family have experienced in the past.
‘Ms Junot’s father, Andre Junot, released more details this week of his daughter’s mental-health history, including an episode of paranoid schizophrenia while she was studying at the Université Sorbonne in Paris in 2010.
‘Here’s what Miss Sloof and Mr Melis said at a press conference back in Amsterdam today.’
SCREEN CUTS TO DUTCH BACKPACKERS IN A PRESS CONFERENCE AT AN AIRPORT. THE YOUNG FEMALE SPEAKS.
‘We were just taking a stroll around the lake when we saw a woman matching Manon Junot’s description – she had the same clothes even: the blue shorts and the white vest; they looked dirty, as if they were her only clothes. She even had an ankle chain on her foot. We couldn’t believe it. She was walking with a local man, he kept putting his arm around her. We walked behind them for a while, trying to keep up, and it was only when Jaap called out her name – he shouted “Manon!” and she looked around – that we thought, “That’s it, it’s her!”’
THE MALE BACKPACKER SPEAKS:
‘That’s when she started behaving erratically. She looked panicked, and was breaking into a run, looking back at us. The man was struggling to keep up with her. Shouting things at her as he tried to stay with her. She looked pretty savage, wild in the eyes. We didn’t want to alarm her further, so we went straight to the police.’
SCENE CUTS BACK TO HEIDI ADLER, STANDING IN CENTRAL HANOI.
‘So, Rita, police here in Hanoi are now going through CCTV footage from the central district of the city, and following up with hospitals and asking questions to see if it was indeed Manon Junot, and if so, who she was with. We know from the 2010 incident that Ms Junot was reported missing by her friends but was found in hospital two days later. It’s now been 100 days, and the family say they’re heartbroken. Perhaps this sighting will give them fresh hope. Rita, back to you.’
SCREEN CUTS BACK TO THE STUDIO.
‘Thanks, Heidi. That’s Heidi Adler, in Hanoi with the latest.’
38
April 2016, Northern Vietnam
‘Maya. Maya. MAYA! Wake up! You’re falling off!’ James’ cries are frantic and frightened – and barely audible above the throaty chug of a Soviet Minsk motorcycle, brown and dirty with splats of mud. But the sudden twist in James’ body and the panic in his voice startles Maya enough for her to open her droopy eyes. She sees a man and a woman overtake on a moped with a pig bound in netting, strapped horizontally on a little shelf above the back wheel, and wonders if the pig is dead or alive. Or if, indeed, she’s dreaming.
The pig must be dead or it would put up a fight.
The soporific pull of the engine lulls her under again, and her body starts to slide away from James.
‘MAYA!’
Just as she’s perilously close to that last release of her hand around James’ waist, close to coming nose-to-tarmac with the potholed road, Maya jolts. The slip was enough to scare her awake. She sits upright and tightens her grip on James’ middle as she watches the pig weave in and out of traffic and accelerate off ahead.
‘Honey, you have to stay awake!’ James shouts at the top of his voice, but so much of it is lost in traffic. ‘Hold on! You’re falling asleep and slipping off! I can’t drive and hold you up!’
Trucks, vans, motorbikes and cars fly in and out of undesignated lanes on the broken highway. The lush valleys, mossy karsts and wavy green rice terraces have given way to flat lands peppered by thin grey concrete buildings, and Maya realises they are nearly back to base.
For the past three days and nights, Maya, James and an Irish couple called Dee and Lenny have been navigating Vietnam’s northern countryside, stopping at markets and monkey sanctuaries along the way; sleeping under mosquito nets on the creaky wooden floors of high, stilted houses; welcomed into the homes of hill-tribe families.
As the group loaded up their panniers and set off from tour leader Cuong’s workshop in Hanoi, Lenny, a tall but stout man with silvery blond hair, pink cheeks and mischievous eyes, introduced himself to James, while Maya wriggled uncomfortably in the waterproof trousers she’d just been given by Cuong. An old army helmet, thick sweatshirt, charcoal waterproof overtrousers and biker boots was not her go-to outfit.
‘Lenny. Good to meet you, pal,’ he said, as he extended a large hand. As James shook it, Lenny’s girlfriend marvelled at the motorcycles, all propped up on their stands in a line.
‘Things of beauty!’ she said, stroking the curved body of the fuel tank, black and shiny like a beetle. ‘They call them “iron bu
ffaloes”. Difficult to start, but once you do, they can run and run. Such strength!’
James, Maya and Lenny all looked at Dee, marvelling at her beauty, her strength, more than the Minsk motorbikes – her enthusiasm was intoxicating.
‘They wouldn’t pass emissions tests back home, but jaysus, they are a-mazin’!’ Dee said, caressing the seat of the one she hoped would be hers. She walked over to Maya and James, raised a hand and smiled. ‘I’m Dee.’
Maya and James already felt ashamedly English for not having made any friends on their trip (Jon definitely didn’t count), so they were relieved, on the first evening, 150km out of Hanoi, at a rustic dinner table, to hear Dee and Lenny hadn’t made any friends either, and they’d been travelling for a month longer.
‘But you’re Irish. You make friends wherever you go!’ said Maya in surprise.
‘It’s all kids getting pissed up and jumping into each other’s bunks after a foam party, isn’t it, Dee?’ said Lenny, with a roll of his eyes as he watched James, Maya, Dee and Cuong sprinkle dried snake bile into some rice wine.
‘We’ve kept ourselves to ourselves too,’ replied Maya, as if to make Lenny feel better, although it was actually true.
The Dao hill tribe they were staying with brought out fish, soups and spring rolls that left a lingering taste of mint and holy basil that was so pure and sensational, Maya said she would happily survive on them for the rest of her life. Lenny asked the proud cook if he had any chicken wings he could rustle up, but he settled for fish when the answer was no, as long as Dee took out all the bones for him first.
On the second day, they stopped at a village to watch silk weavers at their looms and then sat by a river while Cuong poured boiling water into four bowls of pho, made by one weaver’s mother. As Maya, James, Dee and Lenny sat watching their noodles come to life, Cuong unwrapped a foil parcel with a baguette inside.
‘What are you having?’ asked James, bewildered as to why their guide wasn’t tucking in to a pho of his own.
‘Sandwich,’ smiled Cuong, carefully straightening the foil out as he opened his lunch.
James craned his head to ask what culinary combination was inside the colourful baton.
‘Peanut butter, salami, honey, tomatoes, cucumber, Laughing Cow…’ Cuong answered, taking a hearty bite.
James laughed.
‘I like Western food,’ Cuong added with a shrug.
On the second night, Lenny dared to try the dried snake bile sprinkled in rice wine, and it made him relax a bit more about there not being chicken wings on any of the menus among the cornfields and karsts of the verdant Vietnamese countryside, where there always seemed to be life burgeoning from out of the rich soil. The drink made Maya lean into James, kiss his neck and wish she could grow something inside of her.
Now, with the loud throaty chug of the Minsk motorcycle making Maya yearn for bed, she’s ready to get back to Hanoi – find a hotel with a decent mattress and a proper shower, clean some of the mud off her – although, boy, were those waterproof trousers a lifesaver! Maybe she’ll take a run around the centre of Hanoi. She’s looked on Google Maps and there’s a path you can run, all the way around Hoan Kiem Lake, that’s about a kilometre long and looks safe enough, being slap bang in the middle of the historic centre.
A truck weighed down under a mountain of grey slate toots its horn as it overtakes the three Minsk motorcycles; the loud blood-curdling beep making Maya jump and scream. She’s certainly awake now. James doesn’t hear her scream among the rattle and din, even though her chin is resting on his shoulder and her mouth is just behind his ear. She cowers and buries her face into James’ back, to protect herself from flying debris.
‘You awake?!’ James shouts again, urging Maya not to be asleep.
‘Yes. Yes, sorry!’ Maya yawns.
The motorbike tour, the peace of the countryside, making new friends – it’s tiring, but it all feels so new. So liberating. This is what Maya had in mind when she pictured her and James travelling. Not crying in a coffin on a night bus in India, or comparing their poo or arguing about bumping into an ex.
This is what it’s all about, Maya thinks, as she dodges a shard of slate and is grateful for the helmet that she knows her brothers would say makes her look like ‘a total helmet’. If only they could see her now.
The group has listened to the wisdom of tribal elders while hugging their great-grandchildren – chubby babies with smooth faces and gleeful eyes – shared anecdotes under the stars, eaten the most delicious, nurturing and tasty food of their lives, and cut through devastatingly beautiful countryside. Maya hasn’t even missed chocolate. This is the happiest she has been on the trip so far.
I am so very lucky.
The only downside is that the chug of the engine, and the comfort of clinging on to James’ waist, means Maya finds being a passenger on a Minsk motorcycle very hypnotic. She’d never even been on a moped before, and thought she’d be terrified to be so vulnerable on the open road. Turns out the biggest danger to Maya is herself and her sleepy head.
Now, Cuong, quiet and knowledgeable, is guiding them back into the traffic fumes and the multi-lane chaos of the outskirts of Hanoi.
‘Please don’t fall asleep again,’ James pleads, khaki green helmet tilted wonkily on his head.
‘It’s OK, baby. I’m awake now.’
Maya squeezes James’ stomach to reassure him. Despite the danger, the horrors of the overloaded trucks flying past so close, riding on the back of James’ motorcycle feels like the safest place in the world.
Cuong speeds on up ahead and indicates with his arm to turn off. James, steady and reliable, follows suit. Dee and Lenny follow behind, Dee driving at the front, while her boyfriend sits, bolt upright, his white knuckles and terrified teeth visible every time Maya turns around to check they’re still there.
James and then Dee indicate off, following Cuong into the outskirts of Hanoi as the light starts to fade. Down a few quieter roads to an industrial area, Cuong pulls up outside what looks like a Chinese restaurant.
‘Dinner,’ he says, with a faint smirk on his face.
James kicks down the stand on his bike and removes his helmet, his brow furrowed, his mind troubled. Maya almost melts off.
‘Honey, it’s so dangerous, you falling asleep like that.’
‘I know, I can’t help it. You’re just so… cosy.’
‘If you slump off the back at 50mph on the motorway you’d be flattened by a lorry. It’s chaos!’
Maya plants a kiss on James’ lips. Even in panic mode he has an air of calm.
‘Well, dinner will wake me up, I’m sure.’
‘Hmmm,’ says James doubtfully.
The third motorcycle pulls up and quietens the deep rumble of the engine. Dee pulls off her helmet with a satisfied smile, letting her thick black curls spring out, tall and proud.
‘Which way round is it again?’ James whispers to Maya under his breath.
James can’t get his head around which name belongs to which person, despite three days of conversation and confessionals. He thinks both Dee and Lenny are names that would suit either a man or a woman, and both work in a spoonerism, which adds to his confusion. He looks at Maya with his baffled, handsome face.
‘She’s Dee, he’s Lenny. And neither of them are called Lee or Denny.’
James nods compliantly.
But he could be a Lee.
It didn’t take long after getting together for James to find out about Maya’s Special Memory skill. She knows the digits of every car number plate her parents have ever owned; that the capital of Honduras is Tegucigalpa; that she can recall every meal of their trip so far, where they were when they ate it, and what rating out of ten she would give it. She also remembers which way around Dee and Lenny’s names go, and for all of this, James is in awe.
They only met Dee and Lenny three days ago in the workshop in Hanoi, but the long drives and shared experience – plus the laughs over rice wine at night – make
it feel like longer. Dee and Lenny are good company: Dee is brave and bold and her loud punchy laugh is contagious; Lenny is an endearing rounded teddy bear, who always looks to Dee to concur with him after every sentence.
‘Wasn’t our scene, was it, Dee?’
‘I don’t really like fish, do I, Dee?’
‘She’s the better driver, aren’t you, Dee?’
Dee, with far-apart eyes and a gap between her two front teeth, just nods a ‘Yes, dear’ and Lenny, with sparkles in his besotted eyes, is content knowing that Dee is in agreement, even if she might not have been listening.
Maya and James are heartened by how different they are, yet how well they work. They’re not as tactile as Maya and James – not as tactile as Maya anyway – but they seem completely unified, as if one couldn’t survive without the other to look after. Well, Lenny definitely wouldn’t survive without Dee to remove his fish bones.
They’ve got along so well, they’ve decided to carry on travelling together down to Hoi An. But James does need to get their names right first.
‘Well, that was amazin’!’ Dee says with glee, as she kicks out the stand and jumps off the muddy Minsk. She walks around, stretching out her legs, a jubilant sparkle in her eyes.
‘No no no no no!’ laments Lenny. ‘Please, Dee, please tell me that’s the last of it; we don’t have to get back on.’
Dee looks to Cuong, who’s patiently waiting, as he has done for much of the trip.
‘Just a little ride back into Hanoi.’
‘Oh no!’ Lenny clasps his face.
‘Relax!’ Cuong says. ‘First, dinner…’
James pats Lenny on the back and Cuong extends his thin arm towards the dark wood, red and gold restaurant, and slings his leather jacket over the seat of his motorcycle. He wears a black T-shirt with ‘In Minsk We Trust’ emblazoned in red across his heart in a chû nôm script. Maya is delighted to jump out of her overtrousers, and the hungry, weary travellers walk in.
