The train to Lao Cai, a town bordering China in northwest Vietnam, lurched violently and often broke so suddenly one was liable to think that it had slipped off the rails. More than once the cast iron bed-rail kept me from falling from the bunk. And the facilities were a stark reminder that I was in Vietnam: a sign nailed to the door of the bathroom proudly read WESTERN TOILET which meant a lawn chair with a hole in it placed over a reeking squat toilet.
The train ride from Hanoi took around ten hours and we arrived in Lao Cai at six in the morning. But our destination was nearby Sapa, a French hill station turned market town where villagers from divergent hill tribes go to sell their wares and where tourists go to experience the fine views of hills cloaked in mist and rice paddies terraced into steep slopes.
The train ride from Hanoi took around ten hours and we arrived in Lao Cai at six in the morning. But our destination was nearby Sapa, a French hill station turned market town where villagers from divergent hill tribes go to sell their wares and where tourists go to experience the fine views of hills cloaked in mist and rice paddies terraced into steep slopes.
Overall it was an impressive piece of driving and he did it all while watching a Vietnamese comedy duo on a portable television set attached to the dashboard.
At Lao Cai train station our group – six of us altogether – boarded a minibus which took us along a narrow winding road up to Sapa. The ride is not for the faint hearted. Our driver – slightly more timid and cautious than most – rarely shied from overtaking blindly and we had numerous close shaves with buffalo, pigs and other livestock. Overall it was an impressive piece of driving and he did it all while watching a Vietnamese comedy duo on a portable television set attached to the dashboard.
Upon arriving in Sapa our minibus was mobbed by a group of local girls. They were dressed in the brightly embroidered attire of the H'mong tribe and they quickly went to work on the female members of our group.
‘Hello. Where you from? You want something - you buy from me...See you later, OK?’ They pushed everything from bracelets and scarves to cushion covers and blankets and for the rest of the day clung to our heels until they squeezed some kind of promise of purchase from us.
After checking into our hotel we had breakfast on the balcony which lent great views of the countryside. Clouds hovered darkly around the highest peeks in the Hoang Lien mountain range, most prominent of which was Fansipan at 3143 metres, the highest mountain in Indochina. The clouds simply rolled over everything, including us, as we sat and ate.
The three day hiking trip began early the next morning. We met Yem, our guide from the H’mong tribe, and set out for the six hour hike to Than Phu. Passing through downtown Sapa we seemed to pick up a few local girls and women on the way. Two older ladies wore the bright red turban-like head gear of the Red Dao. Most, however, were H’mong with their bright blue or black dresses with patches of colorful embroidery. Once Sapa was behind us we descended along a narrow path to the valley below, passing by muddy rice paddies where buffaloes wallowed with their muscular masses gleaming in the sunlight.
We continued down hill for nearly two hours and came to a river that wound its way through the valley. From here, all around us and as far as the eye could see, were lush green hills and giant stairways of rice paddy. From a distance the paddies looked so meticulously formed that it made you doubt the fact that it was all done by hand. Only the very high or very steep slopes were spared of this agricultural feat. We continued along the river and stopped for lunch at the home of an H'mong family.
A sickening incident occurred while we ate lunch. First we heard screaming and yelling coming from a nearby bridge. Our guide informed us that a girl had been playing on the bridge with her friends when she stepped backwards through a gap in the bridge. She had fallen about 30-feet onto the rocks below.
The subsequent rescue effort was primitive. A man waded across the river, picked her up and piggybacked her to a motorbike. He rode off with her limp body on his back. Later, our guide informed us that the girl was OK, just ‘tired.’ But after lunch the motorbike-cum-ambulance came back, beeping and swerving down the track. The girl was motionless and bleeding from a head wound.
‘Oh,’ said Yem, ‘Now she will go to hospital.’
‘Where’s the hospital?’ someone asked.
‘About 40 minutes away.’
I looked up the steep hill. The narrow trail wound its way up for miles before linking up with the main road to Sapa. As we continued along to Than Phu a somber mood took over our group while we pondered the little girl’s chances.
That night we stayed at the home of a family in the village. We were served a delicious spread of local dishes before our host brought out a large plastic bottle of locally brewed rice wine and poured it out into shot glasses. It was a clear substance but tasted awful.
Our host led the way: ‘mot, hai, ba, zo!’ one, two, three, drink, she yelled.
After four rounds of the crude brew we took turns singing songs and around midnight after two bottles of wine had been downed I crawled into bed with the wooden slats of the hut’s ceiling spinning above me.
The next morning we woke to a cacophony of cock-a-doodle-dos from the village roosters and after eating breakfast in a groggy daze we set off for another day’s hiking. Our second day – a little more arduous than the first – took us through dense bamboo forests and down a steep, slippery gully to the village of Ban Ho where we were to spend the night.
Once we had checked into our sleeping quarters our guide led us down to the river to an outdoor hot spring bath. The bath sat at the bottom of a dormant volcano. After two full days of hiking the warm mineral water was the perfect answer to our aching muscles and we sat there, taking in the vistas, until the sun slipped behind the mountains. Nightfall revealed a thunderstorm in the distance and the lightning made silhouettes of the mountains.
It wasn't roosters that woke us up the next morning but the all-pervading Voice of Vietnam – a mixture of dramatic martial songs and high-pitched communist rant – booming from loudspeakers all around the village. The thunderstorms we had seen the night before had now advanced upon Ban Ho and it was raining steadily.
The clouds parted slightly and it stopped raining as we set off up the hill. But about half-way up Yem stopped and suggested we put on our raincoats.
'Do you think it will rain?' I asked.
'Yeah,' she replied, as though it were plainly obvious.
Within a few minutes the clouds gathered and it began to rain heavily. Torrents of rain and mud slipped down the track, slowing our ascent.
A jeep was waiting at the top of the hill to take us back into Sapa. The forty minute ride made the earlier Lao Cai to Sapa one seem like a breeze. The road was not much more than a goat track and the rain made it slick with mud. As the jeep skidded along, dodging farm animals, I remembered something Paul Theroux had written after finding himself in the midst of a soccer riot in El Salvador: 'Travel is pointless without certain risks.' But I couldn't watch; I had had enough. I sat crouched in the back, averting my eyes from the thousand feet escarpments.
Upon arriving in Sapa our minibus was mobbed by a group of local girls. They were dressed in the brightly embroidered attire of the H'mong tribe and they quickly went to work on the female members of our group.
‘Hello. Where you from? You want something - you buy from me...See you later, OK?’ They pushed everything from bracelets and scarves to cushion covers and blankets and for the rest of the day clung to our heels until they squeezed some kind of promise of purchase from us.
After checking into our hotel we had breakfast on the balcony which lent great views of the countryside. Clouds hovered darkly around the highest peeks in the Hoang Lien mountain range, most prominent of which was Fansipan at 3143 metres, the highest mountain in Indochina. The clouds simply rolled over everything, including us, as we sat and ate.
The three day hiking trip began early the next morning. We met Yem, our guide from the H’mong tribe, and set out for the six hour hike to Than Phu. Passing through downtown Sapa we seemed to pick up a few local girls and women on the way. Two older ladies wore the bright red turban-like head gear of the Red Dao. Most, however, were H’mong with their bright blue or black dresses with patches of colorful embroidery. Once Sapa was behind us we descended along a narrow path to the valley below, passing by muddy rice paddies where buffaloes wallowed with their muscular masses gleaming in the sunlight.
We continued down hill for nearly two hours and came to a river that wound its way through the valley. From here, all around us and as far as the eye could see, were lush green hills and giant stairways of rice paddy. From a distance the paddies looked so meticulously formed that it made you doubt the fact that it was all done by hand. Only the very high or very steep slopes were spared of this agricultural feat. We continued along the river and stopped for lunch at the home of an H'mong family.
A sickening incident occurred while we ate lunch. First we heard screaming and yelling coming from a nearby bridge. Our guide informed us that a girl had been playing on the bridge with her friends when she stepped backwards through a gap in the bridge. She had fallen about 30-feet onto the rocks below.
The subsequent rescue effort was primitive. A man waded across the river, picked her up and piggybacked her to a motorbike. He rode off with her limp body on his back. Later, our guide informed us that the girl was OK, just ‘tired.’ But after lunch the motorbike-cum-ambulance came back, beeping and swerving down the track. The girl was motionless and bleeding from a head wound.
‘Oh,’ said Yem, ‘Now she will go to hospital.’
‘Where’s the hospital?’ someone asked.
‘About 40 minutes away.’
I looked up the steep hill. The narrow trail wound its way up for miles before linking up with the main road to Sapa. As we continued along to Than Phu a somber mood took over our group while we pondered the little girl’s chances.
That night we stayed at the home of a family in the village. We were served a delicious spread of local dishes before our host brought out a large plastic bottle of locally brewed rice wine and poured it out into shot glasses. It was a clear substance but tasted awful.
Our host led the way: ‘mot, hai, ba, zo!’ one, two, three, drink, she yelled.
After four rounds of the crude brew we took turns singing songs and around midnight after two bottles of wine had been downed I crawled into bed with the wooden slats of the hut’s ceiling spinning above me.
The next morning we woke to a cacophony of cock-a-doodle-dos from the village roosters and after eating breakfast in a groggy daze we set off for another day’s hiking. Our second day – a little more arduous than the first – took us through dense bamboo forests and down a steep, slippery gully to the village of Ban Ho where we were to spend the night.
Once we had checked into our sleeping quarters our guide led us down to the river to an outdoor hot spring bath. The bath sat at the bottom of a dormant volcano. After two full days of hiking the warm mineral water was the perfect answer to our aching muscles and we sat there, taking in the vistas, until the sun slipped behind the mountains. Nightfall revealed a thunderstorm in the distance and the lightning made silhouettes of the mountains.
It wasn't roosters that woke us up the next morning but the all-pervading Voice of Vietnam – a mixture of dramatic martial songs and high-pitched communist rant – booming from loudspeakers all around the village. The thunderstorms we had seen the night before had now advanced upon Ban Ho and it was raining steadily.
The clouds parted slightly and it stopped raining as we set off up the hill. But about half-way up Yem stopped and suggested we put on our raincoats.
'Do you think it will rain?' I asked.
'Yeah,' she replied, as though it were plainly obvious.
Within a few minutes the clouds gathered and it began to rain heavily. Torrents of rain and mud slipped down the track, slowing our ascent.
A jeep was waiting at the top of the hill to take us back into Sapa. The forty minute ride made the earlier Lao Cai to Sapa one seem like a breeze. The road was not much more than a goat track and the rain made it slick with mud. As the jeep skidded along, dodging farm animals, I remembered something Paul Theroux had written after finding himself in the midst of a soccer riot in El Salvador: 'Travel is pointless without certain risks.' But I couldn't watch; I had had enough. I sat crouched in the back, averting my eyes from the thousand feet escarpments.
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