Turmeric Fish and Belly-Flopping from a Limestone Cliff
Photos and artworks by Hayley Biddolph.
words by Hayley Biddulph.
I was deep-water soloing in northern Vietnam, weaving through three hundred and sixty seven limestone islands of the Cat Ba Archipelago on a little fishing boat, trying not to belly-flop into the sea or slice my feet open on the rocks below. Normal stuff, you know?
There’s not much room for overthinking when you’re in a turquoise bikini, hanging from a small crevice in a rock you’ve never seen before, in a place named after a Cat, while a local Vietnamese man points a laser pointer above your fingers to show you ‘the next move.’ Sharing stories over sunflower seeds and pork skewers with locals in Vietnam has led me to partake in some unique activities.
Free solo climbing over deep-water can be scary if you’re afraid of heights (which I am), but in my counterintuitive approach to life – one that seems to get more stubborn the more I travel – I’ll keep facing my fear of heights until I’m no longer afraid of it. I think that's what Vietnam has taught me: that I want to live fully; that I want to let go of my limitations.
In a place far from your home, you can’t lean on your traditions – the things you know, the things you’re good at and understand simply because you’ve done them a thousand times. No more sourdough from your favourite bakery, baked by that guy who knows your name. No washing machine settings already dialled exactly the way you like it. No small neighbourhood dog you nearly run over every time you leave the house. Out in the world, far from home, away from language and understanding, you're in the deep end. You’re forced to start again – new place, new people – and in return, you get to be yourself, or whoever you wanted to be from the start.
Late one afternoon, I found myself sitting idly at a seafood restaurant waiting for a turmeric-marinated fish with dill to get to my table, opposite a twenty-something Austrian chain-smoker who was bikepacking through South-East Asia with a UE Boom speaker, a shitty tent, and a deep reverence for tomato soup. Between spoonfuls of soup, and excusing himself to the gutter every ten minutes for ‘another cigarette – I’m so sorry – what can I say – I’m addicted,’ we watched a very talented Vietnamese musician belt out cover songs. He was the restaurant’s entertainment for the night. Until moments later, I was.
‘You can sing!’ The musician called, looking at me over his microphone as I sang along.
‘Come up here, and sing a song.’
I like singing, but I’ve always been too nervous to sing in front of people. Suddenly, in a remote Vietnamese village full of strangers eating turmeric-marinated fish with dill, that fear became harder to justify. I just gave in. ‘OK,’ I said, and got up onto the stage.
My cheeks felt like they were going to rip off my face, and even though I knew the lyrics to‘Riptide’by Vance Joy, the words suddenly fumbled around in the air like I’d never seen them before. After a while, things just fell into place. I found a rhythm and felt good–confident, even. After the song finished, I felt a smile across my face that actually hurt. I don’t think I’d ever smiled that hard.
Everyone clapped, and I went back to sitting opposite the chain-smoker with tomato soup down his face, and the night went on like everything was normal. Not a single person came up to me and said I sounded good, or that I sounded terrible, or that I was brave, or that I was an idiot. It was a strange feeling, like I was at the top of the world, but no one really cared. Weirdly, that was freeing. I stopped waiting to feel ‘ready’. Turns out, I was ready. And even if I wasn’t, at least I thought I was. Maybe all we need to be is ourselves.
I was meant to be in Vietnam for a few days, but then I started counting weeks. By the time it became a month, I realised this place was far more than perfect spring rolls, nice people singing karaoke next to recently chopped pig’s heads, endless rice terraces and barefoot kids trading lollies for Pokémon cards.
This place stripped everything back, but it was still chaotic; it was slow-paced but things were always vibrant. I never wanted to take my eyes away from my surroundings in case I missed something extraordinary – like the annual tug-of-war competition between two remote villages, or the chickens being weighed on a set of scales on the street, or the laughing teenagers on make-shift bamboo see-saws. There was a rawness that left me staggered.
“I want to be a cat,” my motorbike driver told me on day two of the Cao Bang loop. We were turning a dusty corner past rice fields, dodging several stray buffalo and listening to his terrible playlist, which replayed ‘Love Story’ by Taylor Swift more times than necessary.
‘Why is that?’ I asked, over the sound of the wind.
‘Just laze around. Not have to work,’ he said. ‘A lot of Vietnamese people just want to be a cat.’
He started meowing. I nearly choked on my green tea.
‘What animal did I want to be?’ I thought.
Definitely not a buffalo. They’re always stuck in mud or carrying a bird on their backs.
Maybe one of those half-dead roadside cats sprawled across cobalt blue plastic stools outside the local button and sewing accessory shop on Hang Bo Street – unbothered by high-decibel engine revs, rain, or the world and everything in it.
I spent most of the trip anticipating disaster – belly-flopping from a limestone cliff, flying off mountain roads to the soundtrack of 2008 Taylor Swift – only for none of those things to happen.
By day three of the Cao Bang loop, after fifteen hours on a motorbike and approximately too many listens to ‘Love Story’, I realised, the most important thing I did was order turmeric-marinated fish with dill and get up and sing to a bunch of strangers.
Long after I left, Vietnam was still there – stuck in my head like a song I couldn’t stop playing. It’s hard to think about anywhere else. I’d go back today without even thinking twice.
