As the bus from Yuanyang wound its way down from the astounding rice terraces and then along the spectacular Red River towards Vietnam, I took a deep breath of acrid passive cigarette smoke from the guy smoking behind, dodged the phlegm from the woman spitting in the aisle and then chuckled as a baby vomited all over Sophie's bag. I looked up out of the window and saw bridge after amazing bridge, impossibly clinging to the sheer edge of the river valley. I then sighed, wondering why we were bouncing along on the unsealed track underneath the bridge supports. I was then gleefully handed half a pomelo, and encouraged to try the delicious fruit by the Han bus conductor as she ignored the dishevelled, and frankly hungry looking hill tribe folk sitting behind me. We then
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