A Year In Indochina: Full moon- full hearts- full stomachs

I had a great time on Saturday night for my Zumba teacher Kate's hen night. As Kate was once a flight attendant and is marrying a pilot, the dress code for the night was air hostesses. Fifteen of us dressed up in a shamble of different types of blue dresses and were issued with uniform blue caps and hideous patterned neck ties. It was all a good laugh. Kate has gone home to Hungary for the wedding now and won't return until after I've gone. She gave me a box of chocolates with pictures of her country on the front as a parting gift. The following few days have been very quiet, very boring. On both Sunday and Tuesday we have had downpours, complete with thunder and lightening. The rainy season is rearing its head again and I have been warned that, contrary to my expectations, it won't make the temperature any cooler; it will get more humid. To add to my homesick, certain factors have been making me feel as though I will be driven out of this country by insanity. Besides the heat, my biggest problem is insects. I hate insects. The other day, the enormous cockroach that sometimes frequents our house (Thuy's 'friend') returned to my bathroom after many months of courteous absence, scaring the life out of me as it scuttled into a hiding place at lightening pace, its horrible long antennae twitching. There are ants everywhere, no matter how clean the house, and a swarm of mosquitoes has recently taken to inhabiting my running trainers.

But just as I have been starting to go out of my mind, I have had, today, a wonderful day that has made me feel overjoyed to be here. Last week I wrote about helping my friend Huyen to prepare spring rolls to give to the poor; today I helped her friend to distribute them. Huyen gave my number to Hang, who told me to come to her house in district three, due north-west of the city centre, between seven or eight in the morning. She told me that she would be up at five or six o'clock, but that I didn't have to get up so early. My taxi driver was very efficient and after only one glance at the address I had written down, took me to exactly the right house number down a small shaded alley. I was welcomed by Hang, who was standing beside a group of friends and neighbours assembled outside the house, either sat on an outdoor bed or on little metal stools. They were working on a production line, filling white polystyrene takeaway boxes with vermicelli, shredded vegetables, slices of tofu and the deep-fried spring rolls prepared by Huyen with help from me and other friends. Each box was a meal in itself, and it was not going to be a bland one. No box was complete without a spoonful of diced red chilli and a portion of sauce served in a ballooned-up little plastic bag. I loved the fact that care was taken to ensure that the free meal was not just nutritious but flavourful, a far sight better than the average school dinner in the UK.

The ingredients were placed in huge plastic buckets on the floor. The scale of the operation was unbelievable; Hang said that her family had been up until 2am preparing the ingredients. They caught a few hours of sleep before beginning the assembly of the boxes at 4am. Friends and neighbours have all chipped in with money, resources or labour. You couldn't tell that many of them had been working for three hours by the time I arrived; everybody was merry, smiling and laughing. I joined the production line at the end- initially, my job was to wrap elastic bands around the boxes and slip a pair of disposable chopsticks under the band; then I went on to tightly packing the bags with twenty boxes. It was fast work and the result at times was drips of oil and chilli burning my bare legs. But the suffering was worth it for the cause. At 9.30 we took a break and all the workers could pick up a box. It was very tasty and kept me going for the morning ahead. Next, we hopped onto motorbikes in pairs to deliver, in turns, the seven hundred meals. I rode on the back of Hang's bike, holding two bags of twenty boxes between my knees. We visited two hospitals; the first was Benh Vien An Binh in district five; the second, Benh Vien Binh Dan in district three. Only yesterday I had come across a Vietnamese proverb quoted in the foreword to the book I am reading- the startling phrase, 'a morsel of food is like a morsel of shame'- an indicator of the complicated hierarchical associations with giving and receiving food. Reading this had made me feel a bit apprehensive, but there was no need. The recipients of our food parcels, the sick and their relatives and some staff at the two hospitals, were patient and courteous.

At the first, we arrived in a courtyard where the buildings had mint coloured outer walls and offered the packages to those who approached us. I took a look into the wards on the ground floor- each small room had three occupied beds as well as an assortment of visitors. At the second hospital there was a little more urgency to get the food, a bit more desperation. We had only arrived near at the waiting area next to the pharmacist before we were closed in by hungry people hoping to be given a meal. Within minutes the last of many hours of labour had been dispersed; 700 mouths fed in a city of over ten million- a drop in the ocean.

Hang astounded me when she told me that she does this every month on the full moon. It costs around ten million dong (£330) for all of the ingredients. Her brother is a monk and they began to do this charity work on the request of his pagoda. She told me that she had done this "many times" already. Hang took me to the city centre on her motorbike so I could catch a bus home. She told me she was so thankful for my help, but in fact I was more thankful to her for allowing me to be a part of this incredibly rewarding activity. Next month they will go to Vung Tau on the coast, and perhaps I will join them if the timing is right. Today has been an eye-opening experience for me- into the depths of hunger and poverty in this city, and into the kindness of ordinary members of society such as Hang and her family.