One for the Road – Ha Giang Hoop

I have been sitting in this chair no longer than the time it takes to enter a password and open a blank document, but already I am getting it tight.

Now, I know what you are thinking: ‘McElhatton’s lost it! Ha! Doubt he’d a touch of the Samsons about him, the baldy wee boor.’

But to make such a comparison would be as wrong as it would be rude.

See, the truth is that, notwithstanding the number, variety and downright weirdness of the stories contained in the old testament, there is no biblical analogue for the affliction with which I am currently encumbered.

Perhaps I am wrong and one of our local clerics or learned lay people will write a letter to the Editor next week directing us all to a parable that perfectly parallels my current condition. But I doubt it.

(Don’t worry, all will soon become clear.)

For the last four days, perched precariously on the back of a young fella’s motorbike, I have been bounced viciously around the narrow, cliff-hugging roads that twist through the northernmost mountains of Vietnam.

With my hands wrapped around the waist of Thai, the baby-faced assassin who was my designated driver and bootlegged liquor supplier for the trip, we traversed dusty trails that looked like the most unmaintained backroad you have ever driven, after that road was hit by a meteor shower.

Anyway, during this time, it may not shock you to hear that I acquired what Dr Billy Connolly would diagnose as a ‘broken arse’.

Since then, sitting, standing, walking, and just about every other basic activity that cannot be performed lying down, has been a test of my physical and mental fortitude.

The circuit, which is 250 miles long and goes from the heart of Ha Giang province right up to the Chinese border, is called (surprise, surprise) the Ha Giang Loop.

The loop experience, as the brochures describe it, hinges heavily on the weather.

If the sun is out and the skies stay clear, you will see mountains that make Mount Doom look like Mullaghcarn.

If, however, the clouds roll in and the rain takes out, the views can be engulfed by a hungry grey abyss, leaving the sights no more spectacular than the fog in front of your face.

Lucky for us, the conditions were crystalline for almost the entire time we were up there.

Now, as you know yourself, neither pictures nor words can really come close to conveying that which the naked eye gleans in the unmediated appreciation of nature.

All I will say is this: Even with my excruciatingly fragile fundament, I was still blown away by what I saw.

It was like being in a place of proportions previously unencountered.

The roads we rid were one lane wide. To one side was sheer cliff that seemed to have to no upper limit.

To the other was a precipice, a gaping void plunged into nothingness, the crossing of which would have spelled certain death.

The defining feature of the place was its scale; everything was monumentally massive.

And it was not only the magnitude of all of that which could be beheld in a single moment; but, adding to the sense of enormity, was the knowledge that everything which could not be observed, the world beyond the horizon, the scenes yet unseen, were just as expansive and epic as all of that which lay in view.

If you were one of those people who were disposed to spiritual experiences, you could definitely have felt the arms of the Almighty wrap themselves around you.

Even I, an unbeliever with a shattered butt, temporarily forgot my earthly woes.

Unfortunately, the relief did not last.

So, as I squirm around this wooden chair, which is causing my tender rump serious gyp, I will end with one final appeal: If there are any locals reading this who know of a parable relevant to my plight, please send it to:
emcelhatton03@qub.ac.uk.

Lord knows my soul, and something that rhymes with it, are in need of comfort now more than ever.