IN-SCENSE MAKING

It’s a very rural village, dirty and dominated by small‑scale manufacturing. Discarded plastic, tarps, rubble, and all manner of waste pollute the waterways around the edges of the commune. It feels a little depressing as we are guided down an alleyway, hurried along because we are late. To the left and right are courtyards and garage‑like homes, all full of industrious women working with what looks like wood.

We are introduced to a young woman who, at the front of her home, is working with a sharp hatchet‑type axe. The guide explains that she is splitting bamboo into very small strips for a rattan mat being woven by an older lady. The straighter, stronger parts of the bamboo are split into thin lengths for incense sticks. Someone from the group asks about her wage.

It turns out she works ten to twelve hours a day and earns between $4 and $8, depending on how much she splits. It’s easy to read about low wages in countries like Vietnam, but when confronted with it in person, it is still shocking. The ladies smile and seem kind—and maybe, when you have to work every daylight hour, you’re not going to be too bothered about cleaning up the village.

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We saw the machinery and learned how incense sticks are made. We even had a go at making our own. But to be honest, as with everyone else, the highlight was the drying yards, where bundles are neatly placed to dry in the sun. They make a beautiful sight and a fantastic photo opportunity. On the whole, it was an enlightening and thoroughly good trip.
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MAKING HATS

It was another surreal experience, sitting in a Vietnamese family’s front room painting a traditional conical hat. We were taught how they are made and how, even today, they are produced in large numbers by multiple families in this village. And now it was time to decorate ours.

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I am no artist, but through more luck than judgement I ended up with a quite pretty hat—or at least I think it’s pretty! Wendy was ashamed of hers and claimed it looked like a child had done it, but to be honest, I’m not sure hers was that good.

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The highlight for me came when I had a quick look around the village alone. Down a little dirt‑floored alley, a girl of about seven rode up to me on her bike. She stopped in front of me, looked up with the most beautiful smile, and said “Hi” before high‑fiving me and giggling as she rode off. I miss my kids and my seven‑year‑old granddaughter, but that moment made me smile inside for ages—and even now, when I think about it.

SOME PHOTOS FROM THE TRIPS

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