Lanscape, Nature, Journey - Danh lam thắng cảnh, hồi ký

[Lazy cat]

Bac Ha

By Samantha Coomber

The gateway to the mountains and hill tribes of North-east Vietnam begins with the inconspicuous Tran Quy Cap Station in Hanoi. Waiting for the night train, the cramped city terminal is standing room only, packed with Vietnamese families armed with mountains of bags and international backpackers resembling turtles. They are all heading for Lao Cai, the last stop in Vietnam before the Chinese border. For many, their final destination is the former French hill-station Sapa, a pretty mountain town with stunning overviews of sweeping valleys and the mysterious Mount Fanzipan. Having previously experienced the joys of Sapa, this time however I am en-route for its' relatively quieter neighbour, the sleepy Bac Ha - located on the other side of the mountains.

The overnight train journey is always a bit of an adventure and this time is no exception. I am squashed in a six-berth rail carriage with an over-enthusiastic Vietnamese family. They unravel bags of fresh fruit -plums, oranges and jackfruit, which they kindly offer me. I notice that they have managed to smuggle in two live chickens in a plastic basket, which the ticket inspector fails to see. Feeling worse for wear the following morning after sleeping on wooden slats (which is why the carriage is termed "hard sleeper") we sit dazed and look out through the iron bars across the train window. It is nearly 6am and as the train approaches Lao Cai, it passes a swollen river lined with coconut palms and water buffalo. As the sun makes its' first appearance, the mist slowly rises off the surrounding paddy fields. We are now only a few kilometres from the Chinese border.

The chilly, early morning temperature hits me as I stumble out of the train. A mass of passengers make their way through to waiting minibuses to whisk them up to Sapa, two hours away. I seem to be the only one travelling on to Bac Ha, apart from one German tourist. As I frantically look around for transportation, I quickly realize that this is fruitless. An enterprising local motorbike guide comes to my assistance. In faultless English he explains,

"There aren't any buses up today. You could hire a jeep together with the other boy to get to Bac Ha...."
He tells me the price. I nearly pass out.
"Or I can give you a lift up there..."
"What on?" I innocently ask. Although I know the answer, I am somehow in denial.
"Well you can ride on the back of my motorbike...it will take us about two hours and I can quote a reasonable price...."

With a choice of being stranded in dreary Lao Cai, taking out a second mortgage on a jeep ride or risking my life for a cheaper alternative, I wisely choose the third option. The negotiated price isn't bad and at least he can lend me a crash helmet - a rarity in Vietnam. My main concern is the horrendously large backpack (I never travel light) but this canny guide obviously has experience of this and straps it firmly to the front of the motorbike. There isn't much room on the pillion seat, so I keep sliding forward, a bit too close for comfort to the driver. And I don't even know his name.

After initial wobbles and heart seizure, I actually begin to enjoy the journey. Thankfully, it isn't raining, the skies are a clear light blue and the sun shines brilliantly. The road leaving Lao Cai gradually elevates up to the peace and serenity of the mountains. Some of the local minority hill-tribes, - the Flower Hmong people - so named because of their distinctive traditional costumes of embroidered flowers -wave us through with broad smiles. Snaking its' way up the mountainside, the route becomes increasingly steep with breathtaking views across terraced rice fields and smatterings of hillside communities. There isn't a problem with traffic because there isn't any - we have complete free reign of the roads.

At long last, we arrive at Bac Ha - surprisingly in one piece. Surrounded by distant mountains, Bac Ha is refreshingly timeless and seems to have escaped the onslaught of tourism as witnessed by Sapa. An unassuming agricultural community, its delightful rustic charm is still intact. The smell of musk wood fire permeates the morning air and chickens and pigs run amok along the dusty main street. During the day, all and sundry head out to the neighboring fields to work. Tourists are hardly catered for here - English is little spoken and there are no tourist agencies. There are only a few guesthouses and one or two simple pho restaurants. In mid-week- when I arrive - the place resembles a ghost town. At the weekend however when Bac Ha's Sunday market is underway, the town brims to capacity with tourists and many of the hill-tribe groups arriving in from outlying areas. But by Sunday evening, a mass exodus takes place and Bac Ha returns once more to its old deserted self.

[Lazy cat]

Thanks to my friendly guide, I find a delightful family-run guesthouse away from the centre- not that there is a great deal of noise to avoid. The room has simple wooden shutters and a shared balcony with excellent views across town. Thick bedding quilts and open fires indicate the drop in night-time temperatures. Each morning I am handed a thermos of hot water for concocting fragrant Chinese tea.

There are some interesting little hikes around Bac Ha that can keep you entertained for days. Some of the fourteen hill-tribes in the vicinity can be visited; as well as the Hmong, these also include the Tay and Dao. The circuitous, narrow paths from town lead up to their remote bamboo thatched huts and deep-inclining cultivated land. Farmers and bell-clad cows sidle past regularly. Every so often there are large, dilapidated barns crammed to the rafters with harvested gourds, sweetcorn and grain. On one of several forays with a local guide, we arrive at a remote hamlet. Friends of the guide invite us inside their simple abode; dirt poor, their hospitality is overwhelming. We sit on the bare floor and they encourage me to partake in the ritual of smoking on the family's pipe. The inhalation of the purest tobacco takes my breath away- literally -and we spend a few idle moments chatting and smoking.

It is the markets however that are the greatest attraction here. Whilst the most convenient and well known is the market held in the town centre, there are also a couple of markets located outside Bac Ha. Although quite difficult to get to, they are well worth the effort. I am particularly keen to visit Can Cau Market: held each Saturday morning this ties in perfectly with a weekend of market therapy. Although only 18kms north of Bac Ha, it is however a treacherous journey, especially if it's undertaken during the rainy season. Travelling independently again means that I must hire a motorbike guide. This time round though, my guide hardly speaks a word of English: he is just instructed to get me from A to B. This is probably not a wise arrangement if anything unfortunate should happen en-route. But setting off early, it is thankfully another gloriously beautiful day. Although a relatively short distance as the crow flies, it takes us over an hour to reach our destination on a hazardous tough track littered with stones. The route is extremely precarious, crossing fords and with the risk of sporadic landslides. The wide track hugs the side of the mountain and from its subsequent dizzy heights offers panoramic views across everlasting plains. After climbing high for some time, the final leg of the journey descends dramatically down into a secluded wooded valley.

Sprawling near the banks of a river, Can Cau Market is a clearly defined shantytown, packed with crude stalls covered with thatched roofs. The start of a few simple settlements can be seen high above, many of whose residents now make their weekly pilgrimage to the market. We are only 9kms from the Chinese border and some traders make the journey across from China on horseback. Unfortunately foreigners are not allowed to reciprocate this set-up, however tempting it may seem.

By 9 am, the market is crammed to capacity. It's lively and surprisingly fun. The locals are mostly of the Flower Hmong minority group. You can't miss them -their traditional costume of green checked headdress and multi-colored, meticiculosly stitched and layered garments are simply stunning. Few foreigners make it to Can Cau; those that do brave the journey come either with a small tour group in four-wheel drives, or - if half-mad and on a tight budget like me -on the back of a motorbike. The handful of Westerners here this morning are the object of intense - though friendly- scrutiny. There is much laughter as we try to make basic conversation. Although the majority are painfully shy and not accustomed to seeing foreigners, some cheerfully allow photographs to be taken.

Can Cau is predominately a livestock market and not the sort of place to buy some choice gifts for the folks back home. Beyond the fenced-in perimeter, pot-bellied pigs, chickens and water buffalo wait patiently by the river to be sold. They rub shoulders with magnificent wild horses, some of whom will be transporting their masters back over to China. But the market also sells the basics: traditional clothing, sacks of rice, bundles of coarse, raw wool and ironware. Some stalls sell fresh tobacco and a rather sad array of root vegetables. Many women sell their wares from large, wicker baskets and sit weaving whilst waiting for a sale. I note that there are many giant plastic containers lying around with attached tubes. I mistakenly think this is gasoline, but it is in fact the omni-present rice wine and some folk are spotted wisely filling up their water bottles for the long ride home. Food stalls serve bowls of steaming fat noodles in broth and indescribable plates of what I can only assume are some sort of animal innards. It is almost like being transported back in time. There are few traces of the outside world, save the occasional soccer tee-shirt cast off and digital watch. As I observe the incredible costumes, deep shyness and the dark, weather-beaten skins, it is hard to imagine that this is the same country as freewheeling Saigon City in the south. It might as well have been on another planet.

In the mood for more markets, I am in luck. Bac Ha's main draw - the town market - is held Sunday morning in the centre of town. Many tour buses direct from Sapa arrive especially for this event. They and the many hill-tribe groups arriving from out of town help swell the throngs and by midday, the large patch of cleared land is packed to capacity. Whilst somewhat more commercial than Can Cau, Bac Ha Market is still mesmerizing. This is a colorful and animated occasion; full of gaily-clad locals who gather each week for gossip, bartering and stocking up on goods. An indistinguishable riot of vivid designs from the hill-tribes' attire blurs with faded red umbrellas, used as a welcome relief from the scorching sun.

Like the previous market, hours are spent wandering around watching engaged sales and chatter. On the ground, piles of embroidered garments and bags, basic household goods and antiquated farming implements are neatly laid out. There are curious things to eat, such as honeyed rice cakes, unrecognizable fruits and a great line in fresh offal. At the side of the market, there are plenty of makeshift food stalls and interestingly a few rice wine outlets, where many of the men seemed to have congregated. Some who appear to have enjoyed one too many, gesture for me to come over and join them. Easily persuaded, I perch on wooden benches and am surrounded by an inquisitive crowd of males. They immediately hand me a chipped china cup that has seen better days. It overflows with rice wine, although it seems more like rocket fuel as it burns the back of my throat. The men giggle at my screwed up nose and after three glasses I have to make my excuses. I seem to float back to my guesthouse with not a care in the world. As I recover later on my balcony, sipping hot tea and watching the orange sun sink slowly behind faraway hills, I guess I haven't.

[Lazy cat]

Da-Lat

By MyLien Nguyen

Da-Lat.... a little, tucked away, mountainous town of Viet Nam. It is the place where I always long to go back. After the fall of Saigon into the Communists' hands, things became different. I visited Da-Lat for a week during my memorable and emotional trip back home last December. Still the same scenery but the atmosphere had changed. It was not quite like in the days of my youth. It was not quite like the picture that I had in my dream. The dream that I had recently in a happy moment of my life.

We are at the Valley of Love. We find ourselves lost in the thick of the hilly slopes covered with thousands of slender pine trees. The breeze from a bordering lake sweeps the sweet pine scent through each and every crack and crevice of our lungs. The trees with their long leafy stems swaying rhythmically in the howling wind like bows sliding up and down the violin strings, serenading our hearts. The sun is setting in the far west. Long wavy orange strips of sunlight weave to the movement of the water on the clear quiet lake adding beauty to the vision. The brisk cold evening air feels like it's cutting my blushy warm face. We silently meander through the forest, hand in hand, feeling the warmth radiating from each other's body and heart. Words are simply unnecessary. Silence is our accomplice. Explicit verbal exchange is reflected in our starry eyes and through our intense sensation of unity and harmony.

Wings of my dream carry me to the Romance Garden and gently lay me down in an embellished meadow of sunflowers. I lie there comfortably in my misty state of mind. The multitude of tall, straight-stalked sunflowers with their large leaves and perching heads surrounding me gives the comfort of a safe sanctuary. In the midst of the misty twilight of the day, a little jolly girl aimlessly and mindlessly hops on one flower then another, her transparent white frilly long dress floating in the west wind. Behind her, a handsome young man frantically follows her path, his arms waving to get her attention. He finally catches up to her. The crickets and the birds stop their chirping and lend their ears to the couple's giggling that echoes in the tranquillity of the late evening.

Dim vision of various familiar, spectacular, scenic settings flash by in the subconcious zone. Too quickly for the mind to register or be aware of the physical and emotional details of the events. The Lamenting Lake with its sadly ended and brokenhearted legend forever wears a mysterious and eerie expression, even more so on rainy days or in the foggy dawn or dusk of the day. Secretly tucked in the neck of the faraway woods, the foamy white Bridal Veil Waterfall, as always overpowering, energetic and aloof, stands up high as a monument of beauty and wonder. With its small population, primitive amongst others, the town has always been a center of tourist attraction. The hilly, shaded, deserted streets with the well-manicured lawns and patches of vibrantly colored exotic flowers bordering the villas give the town a classy character. It is not a ski resort but it resembles one. The refreshing mountain air and the ambiance of a small close-knit community remind me of Aspen, Colorado. The uniqueness of the town stems from the mixed traits of an urban district nestled in the wilderness where lifestyles reflect the dichotomy and the ambivalence between civilization and the old traditions.

We sit in a cozy little cafe' overlooking a thick green valley of pines. The me'lange of the sweet pine scent and the warm coffee aroma offers an exotic and tantalizing treat to the senses. The view, though blocked by the surrounding soft hills, seems to plunge into the limitless horizon. The romantic and melancholic sound of the music is therapeutic and soothing even to the most troubled minds.
Deeply moved by the surroundings, I blurt out a few poem verses in my native language, simple yet revealing. They come from the bottom of my racing heart. He smiles. A smile that is imbued with a touch of admiration, understanding and contentment. We talk for a long time. Things of the past, the present and the future. The meeting of the minds is so powerful that unspoken words and subtle expressions come to be revealing still. Time comes to an absolute standstill. We both plunge into the serene silence of the night.

The soft voice of the waitress suddenly brings me back to reality. To my dazzlement and disappointment, I find myself thousands of miles away from my most favorite place, alone in my half-lit bedroom. The morning sunshine diffusing into my room prepares me for a new day. Another day in the life of a single parent, alone on her way to the discovery of her own identity and the fulfillment of her dream.

Fallen leaves of '98

[Lazy cat]

at Ba Island

By Jeff Greenwald

29 March 2006, Cat Ba Island, Vietnam

What's an endangered monkey worth?

If it's a Golden-Maned Langur - found only on Cat Ba Island, off the coast of North Vietnam, a few hours' drive from Hanoi - the answer is, about a hundred bucks.

The Cat Ba langur is one of the world's most endangered primate (second only to China's Hainan Gibbon). There are only 64 Cat Ba langurs left - but that fact doesn't mean much to poachers.

Before coming to Vietnam, I'd had the impression the monkeys were hunted for their meat; the Vietnamese eat just about everything, including dogs, cats, and porcupines. I was mistaken. Since the langurs eat very tannic leaves, their meat is bitter; it's usually just thrown away.

The profit is in their bones, which are boiled down to a paste-like consistency, then steeped in rice brandy to make a medicinal tonic called "monkey balm wine."

"It's part of the belief that eating jungle creatures will make you powerful," says Rosie Stenke - a wiry and intense woman who supervises a German project, funded in part by Seacology, to save the langurs. "Especially black creatures. And the Cat Ba langur, though it has golden hair, is mostly black." A single monkey, she tells me, can net a hunter 1.5 million Vietnam dong: close to $100 U.S. dollars.

Trapping a langur takes luck - and commitment. They're rare and elusive. A poacher has to be ready to spend days in the jungle, climbing over jagged rocks and fending off snakes, mosquitoes, bees, and centipedes.

It's illegal to hunt langurs, of course, but enforcement is sketchy: Dr. Stenke and her project serve as the eyes and arms of the law.

Since Rosie is thin and dresses in black I expect her to be manic and cynical, but she's neither (not to excess, at least). She has been on Cat Ba island for more than five years, and has learned to be a politician as well as a conservationist. This means threading her way through the serpentine bureaucracy and iron-clad customs - many of which involve ritual toasts and drinking - of Vietnam.

Cat Ba is actually an archipelago, consisting of 366 islands. Many are tiny, and very close to the main island. In days past, huge mangrove swamps connected big Cat Ba with its satellites. When the mangroves were cut to build shrimp farms, a handful of langurs ended up marooned on separate isles. At present, the langur population on Cat Ba itself has 60 primates. There is a group of three females on an adjacent island, and one lone female on another. (Eventually, these females will be repatriated to the main group - although exactly how this will be accomplished is not yet clear.)

* * *

My first afternoon on Cat Ba island Rosie and I sit at the Nam Phuong Café, enjoying a lunch of noodles, spring rolls, and strong Vietnamese coffee. I learn a bit of her history. Rosie began her career studying primate behavior, "but once I understood the real issues, I switched to conservation." She spent 20 months in the Australian outback working with endangered wombats - the world's largest marsupial - before moving to Vietnam in October 2000 to run the Cat Ba langur conservation project for Germany's Zoological Society for the Conservation of Species and Populations (ZGAP).

Though Cat Ba is a pretty island, Cat Ba is not an attractive town. There's a utilitarian feel to the tourism industry, a display of hospitality with little real warmth.

"Two kinds of tourists come here," says Rosie. "For Asians, it's all about karaoke, seafood, and, for some, prostitution. For westerners, there's even less." The first part of the only hiking trail in the national park was recently paved by the park department, in a misguided attempt to promote tourism. Kayaking has been introduced, but it's sketchy, as the tides can be extremely low.

One attraction, for visitors like me, is boating between the hundreds of limestone islets, which tower out of the misty bay like tree-shrouded skyscrapers. On good days, it's like sailing into a traditional Chinese landscape paintings, gliding amidst a panorama of high karst cliffs.

But tourism development, Rosie tells me, affects conservation dramatically. "We have loss of habitat, and habitat fragmentation. Tour guides who have no education take tourists wherever they want; we even had people rock-climbing next to the caves where the langurs sleep. We're trying to reach an agreement now not to do such tours. That's why you don't see much advertising for langurs here. Luckily it's not easy to see them, either, so tour operators can't guarantee a sighting."

Some of the worst impacts on the natural environment have come from infrastructure for tourism - roads and hotels - and fish farms. Though Cat Ba is a UNESCO World Biosphere Reserve, Vietnam's deputy Prime Minster declared in 2001 that Cat Ba was to be turned into a center for tourism and agriculture. Here, that means seafood farming.

Dividing the primate populations with such activities - road construction, new settlements, dikes and dams for shrimp and fish farms, even a proposed golf course - means cutting off communication between langur groups. This, needless to say, impacts reproductive activity. The situation is made even worse by the fact that the lead males are often the ones who get killed.

When trouble arrives, explains Rosie, "the lead male sits exposed, protecting his harem with obvious display behavior: a very loud call that can be heard for miles, as well as running, jumping and calling. So it's very easy to shoot them."

* * *

Cat Ba National Park Headquarters is located 8 miles north of Cat Ba town. The langur project's offices are housed in a typical "modern" Vietnamese building, built in the French Colonial in style. Rosie introduces me to her assistants. These are two enthusiastic young men - Hung, 25, and Tuyen, 24 - and a willowy British primate conservationist named Sally.

Rosie and I leave her office, and walk along the newly-paved trail leading from park headquarters into the jungle. Bauhinia trees - a favorite of langurs - flower with white blossoms, and tiny frogs hop across the bitumen roadway. Limestone cliffs surround us, vanishing into the fog. These are the flanks of ancient coral reefs, uplifted over the eons and smothered with vegetation.

A self-guided nature loop describes some of the jungle's greatest hits. I'm especially fascinated by the fish-tail palm, a tree that saved the lives of Cat Ba's residents during the American War. Haiphong harbor was under siege, and no food was getting to the locals. The palm's pith has a dough-like consistency, which the islanders used to make breads and cakes.

We talk as we walk. When Rosie arrived on Cat Ba Island, she tells me, there were 52 langurs in existence. Today, there are 64. The increase in numbers is due to an ingenious strategy that involves enlisting high-level commune members and leaders - some former poachers themselves - to serve as guardians for the primates.

"We needed to find people we could trust," says Rosie. "This means people who have a stable income from a business other than forest exploitation or hunting. Otherwise you put the hawk to guard the chicken house! They also needed to have influence in their community - you can't take the lowest community member, and put them into a position to protect langurs. So we ended up with people who, in the past, were among the most famous langur hunters. They had incredible knowledge about these animals, as well as a knowledge of the forest.

"The selection process took more than a year," she sighs, "but now we have three families who are direct langur bodyguards. They keep areas clean of hunters, and patrol jungles outside of the national park. These are our core langur bodyguards."

These individuals are certified law enforcement agents. They can confiscate boats, destroy hunting equipment, and expel or arrest poachers.

"Isn't that a bit dangerous?"

"Yes, it is. It's not often we are successful arresting people - but we do confiscate boats. You see a boat tied to a rock in an area that's clearly marked as a protected langur area. Depending on what you find in the boat, you can figure out what they're doing. If they are hunting, our men take the boats while they are still in the forest, so they can't escape."

* * *

[Lazy cat]

The Cat Ba langurs are protected on three fronts. The three "first rank" langur guards that Rosie described monitor the steep, slippery jungle trails beyond the reach of the National Park rangers.

Other families, inside the park itself, are more passive; they supplement the rangers' vigilance, in exchange for floating houses and limited fishing rights. These families are just observers, notifying the rangers when they see something suspicious.

Filling the middle ground between the agents and observers, two teams of forest patrol groups - each with six members - search the jungles for traps and poachers. They don't have law enforcement permits, but can report illegal activities and confiscate traps.

"The first man we'll meet," says Rosie, "is supervisor of one such group."

A short but thrilling scooter ride between precipitous karst cliffs brings us to the home of Mr. Tinh, a lean, dignified-looking man of fifty-nine. Tinh served in the war - for the North Vietnamese army - and pictures of Ho Chi Minh hang on the walls beside images of Bruce Lee, local starlets, and Cat Ba langurs.

We sit in blue plastic chairs, around a small wooden table. Hung - a cheerful, earnest young conservationist who looks like he could star in a Vietnamese version of Friends - serves as our translator.

Tinh was a hunter for many years, he admits, responsible for the death of dozens of Cat Ba langurs. He'd used "monkey balm wine," the liquor made with langur bones. "It made me feel much stronger," he says, flexing his biceps to illustrate the point. "I could work, and walk, for a long time."

Clearly, Tinh believes the bones have some medicinal powers. What turned him around, from a poacher into a guardian?

"After the project started," he says, "I realized that the Cat Ba langur is endemic and very rare. Cat Ba is a tourism island, so the langur should be protected for the benefit of tourist activity. I also want to protect them for the next generation, so my grandson will have the chance to see a langur.

"That's why I go on patrol in the protected areas, to stop violators in their damaging activity. And if I meet a trap, or hunting equipment, I destroy or confiscate it."

"What if you run into the violators themselves?"

"I visit their families, talk to them, and try to educate them about the need for conservation. If they violate the law again, I inform the forest protection agency."

Tinh enters the forest twice a week, alone, carrying no weapons save a forest knife. His job is to supervise, quietly, the work being done by his commune's forest patrol. If he finds evidence of trapping in their survey areas, he knows they've been slacking off.

Before we leave, Tinh shows us a recently confiscated trap, an ingenious contraption made of cord and a few slivers of bamboo. He slides his hand through the dangling noose, and it tightens around his wrist. Much as I deplore hunting, I have to admire the simple, effective device.

As a traditional sign of respect, Mr. Tinh pours us each a drink, which he decants from a clear plastic container with a blue screw-on lid. This is "bee's nest wine," rice brandy in which a honeycomb has been marinating for a full month - along with the bees.

He fills our glasses again, and again. We can't refuse, even though the fact that the hive has been harvested from the wild - also an illegal hunting activity - makes de facto poachers of us all.

"Chuc suc khoe!" he cries, as we tip back the honey-sweet elixir. To your health!

I empty my shotglass, pluck a bee from my mouth, and put it in the growing pile next to my notebook.

* * *

At the south end of 20-mile-long Cat Ba island, only 100 yards from the Gia Luan (sha-lun) pier, we board a green motorboat which heads toward a small group of houses rocking on the water. These floating homes are family fish farms: attempts to eke out a bit of income from Cat Ba's wasp-waist thin economy.

The motorboat (provided, I might add, by Seacology) pulls up along one of the houses - woven rattan walls supporting a blue tin roof. Inside the modest dwelling we meet Mr. Chau, one of Rosie's three official patrol officers.

Chau, 45, was the very first langur guard hired by Rosie. He knows the animals well; he and his family were professional langur hunters until recently. He became interested in protecting them soon after the project started, he says, and invited Rosie to his home in Gia Luan village. During the meeting, Chau himself proposed the idea of becoming a langur guardian.

"At the beginning of the project, these first rank guardians were required to perform 20 patrols a month," Rosie recalls. "That's a lot of time. We couldn't say, 'Hey guys, go run through the forest and forget your other income.' So we use the Seacology funding to pay for boat fuel, for materials to mark the area they protect, and for a small allowance - $50 to $80 a month - to compensate for their loss of income."

Even in Vietnam, this amounts to a dramatic salary cut. I wonder why people agree to do it in the first place.

"Because they've become dedicated conservationists," Rosie says. "It's not for money. They do it because they are convinced that the loss of the langur would be a loss to the world."

Clearly, Chau's admiration for the primates is genuine. As his brothers prepare lunch - scooping a big silver fish out of the net next to his bedroom - Chau shares a bit of his langur intelligence. The male, he says, often keeps watch on a rock or hilltop, and alerts his harem to any sign of danger. Langurs can also, he assures us, "foresee the weather. If a storm is coming, they sense its arrival well in advance, and move their families into nearby caves and out of danger."

The concept of "animal rights" is still an abstraction in Vietnam. Chau's motivation for langur protection is an echo of Tinh's - preservation for the benefit of human visitors - but he adds an acclamation.

"The most successful protection," he says, nodding to the project director as she smokes a cigarette in the open doorway, "is from Rosie. She is becoming a Vietnam hero, transferring her awareness to the Vietnamese people. She is an example for them to follow. And she arrived just in time. If the project hadn't started when it did -- five years ago - all the langurs would already be dead."

Rosie is touched, but she shrugs off the praise. "All we're doing," she says, "is opening a window to the future. With a lot of hard work, we'll manage to keep these langurs alive. What happens afterwards is for the next generation to decide."