The morning bus to Sapa was scheduled to leave at 6am, which meant I would miss out on the hotel's free breakfast. Alas! When I went downstairs to wait, Mr. Tong had a little bag of toast and bananas for me. Also coffee. So nice!
Bag of toast!
Sapa is in the mountainous northwest of the country near the border with Laos and China. It's where the "ethnic" tribes live, the Hmong, the Red Dao and others. It's the "other" 12% or so of Vietnam's makeup.
Their lives are hard, since they are often pushed out of their historic lands to make room for dams and hydroelectric power stations and stuff to help out the populated parts of the country. In Sapa, however, they appear to be doing quite well for themselves.
He wanted me to be very clear that he was from South Korea, held out both palms to me and said "South! South!"
The driver's hype man, the Lics of this tour, was mercifully silent. His name was also Tung, and he was a Tung that did not speak. I was able to read and nap.
We stopped at a little roadside thing, and I bought one of everything in a dude's pot. A bready dumpling, the sort I'm familiar with from Chinatown dim sums, and something in a banana leaf tightly bound with rubber bands.
It took a long time to get it open. Layer upon layer, and then, at the center, a weird compressed lump of... meat. Grey. Tough. All that unwrapping and mystery led to Vietnamese... bologna? A hot dog?
I put a lot of hot sauce on it.
Otherwise uneventful ramble up and up into the hills. They would open suddenly into valleys of shocking green. Water buffaloes watched us go by, wet grass dripping from their mouths, just like in my dreams. Fascinating terraced rice fields of light green and pale gold.
Spent some time looking at the map the Canadians had given me in Ha Long. There's lots to do around here. If you're the sporting sort, you can hike forever. I was going to be content to try some foods and see a few villages.
After a semi-sick-making corkscrew of a final stretch, we all seeped out of the bus at the mountain station. We were immediately surrounded by local craftswomen. They are merciless in their requests for you to buy change purses and bolts of cloth from the baskets they carry on their backs. An organized gang of about seven of them competed for our attention, followed us all the way to the hotel and stayed in front the entire time we were there.
They had imprinted on us like ducklings.
The older ones just say, "You buy something me?" but the younger ones have conversational English and German. They ask you where you are from and about your family. It's the equivalent of taking a date out to dinner first. "Ok, ok, you have nice name. USA very good. You buy something me?"
Later, a local guide told me they used to ask female travelers, "How many children you have?" assuming they have at least three. For many reasons, the question can trigger sadness or anger. And when you say "No children," the natives think there's something medically wrong with you.
The awkward feeling is bad for business. So, they quickly adapted to ask, "You have brother or sister? How many?"
A woman with a baby was able to exact many promises from the Indianans. They told her she could be their local guide and their official change-purse supplier.
I was mostly left alone. I didn't make eye contact and it was an otherwise target-rich environment, so they would move on after their cheery, "Buy something for you wife, you sister, you mother?" went unanswered. I'm sympathetic, and I would buy many things later, but right off the bus I wanted some coffee.
Like a person.
Charming, cool-aired little mountain town. Lots of sporting equipment for sale and lots of restaurants and rustic hotels. Also a large, sunken soccer field with kids running around. I watched two boys play a game where they threw bottle caps at a wall. I guess it was like "penny pitching," but they don't have coins here.
At the hotel, we were fed buffet style. I sat with Kim and he did a funny thing where he would take a single grain of rice or a tiny bean off of my plate. He was showing off his chopstick dexterity, I guess. I kept laughing, so he kept doing it.
I work(ed) with a Korean American back in Seattle and I told Kim that my coworker says the game Starcraft is very popular in Korea. Kim lit up and said yes yes, Starcraft. Then he said, "We call it... ah, finger sports."
Video games are finger sports. I liked that. I also liked that my coworker's story had been true and useful.
Then we checked in and I took a long, hot shower. It was hard to tell which container held which cleansing liquid. There was some trial and error.
Then we all met again in the lobby for a late-afternoon visit to Cat Cat village. Our assigned beggars were laughing together outside. I loved their colorful headscarves and sturdy baskets. As we exited the lobby they sprang to life. It was money time. "Remember you promise buy something? You need guide now?"
Heartbreaking.
It was like we were the hotdog at the center of the banana leaf. They kept unwrapping our resolve layer by little until they could get that lump of grey meat. The Indianans made more promises as we were whisked away in a mini-bus.
The local guide was named Nye. She was a Hmong lady who spoke very good English. She told us not to buy anything in Cat Cat because she could get us a better price in her village tomorrow. That's what it all boils down to. Which tribe would win the Yankee gold?
We were let out at a scenic spot, and I took a lot of pictures. The farms and fields and foggy mountaintops were very beautiful. Locals laughed to see us pointing our cameras at chickens and pigs. Babies ran around with sticks in their mouths. Boys played King of the Mountain.
A nice little hike over a rocky path. We were followed by some older women, but they had a more dignified sales pitch. Houses and strange birds. Buffaloes and shedshacks. We got to a little organized market area. I defied Nye's advice and bought a little handmade rag buffalo toy.
As I was paying I noticed it had a tear in the horn. Some stuffing was coming out. It was the only buffalo, and that was what I wanted. Everything else was elephants and dogs and chickens. I showed the lady and she called out to one of the other market women.
I thought she was asking her if she had a buffalo in her pile, but the woman came over with needle and thread. While I watched, she patched up the horn. Fixed it. I loved watching her work. She bit the thread when she was done. I was sorry that my first thought was, "Just get another one." This one is just fine. It took her maybe three minutes. I love him more for his stitches. He'll have a name by the end of the trip.
Probably Snitchy, since snitches get stitches.
Then, a scenic waterfall! Folks competed for pictures in front of it. The Japanese girl put them all to shame with her selfie stick. Some live music started playing, and I made myself laugh thinking about old jungle movie lines like, "When you hear the drums, it means you're already dead."
Some dancing folks were folk dancing in a little shed. They did the thing were you hop and try not to get your ankles chopped by bamboo sticks, and they did they thing were you find a girl and high five her. They danced on a little stage, and the back wall was painted to look like a cavern. When they exited, it was like they were going back inside the mountain.
Cute little show. Then a longer walk. We passed some concrete posts in the ground and I said, "Behold, an ancient clock!" but nobody laughed, so I repeated "When you hear the drums, it means you're already dead" to myself until we were back at the mini-bus.
Some dudes had a pig tied to a motorcycle. I guess that's how you get pigs up and down there. It was sad to see. While I watched, they took it down by means of the enormous wooden pole it was tied to. The pig shrieked as it was suspended in the air, and there was a terrible cracking sound.
I hated hearing that shriek and that crack. I was filled with rage and grief at once, a processed bologna of emotions.
The pig calmed down when it was safe on the ground, so I figured it was the pole that had made the sound and not the pig's hoof or leg. I'm glad, ultimately, that I saw it. I mean, it would be ridiculous to leave feeling like, "Ah, the people and the animals, they live here in perfect peace and harmony. Pets and their vegetarian friends."
I'm not articulating this very well. I guess what I mean is, as is often noted, we live far away from our food sources. It's very easy for me to feel like a package of pork chops is a completely separate thing from a sweet pig nosing through the brush and grunting.
I hope that the pity I felt for the pig will stay with me, but it's so hard to change my habits. I am certain I'll eat bacon again. I just wish it were more possible to retain the idea that I'm making a conscious choice to have something killed for my consumption. Our diets are dishonest. Southeast Asia has turned me into Lisa Simpson.
We mini-bused back to the mega-hotel and most of us went shopping in town for North Face jackets. The factory is local, and the goods are impossibly cheap. Without shipping and labor in the equation, these things are $15 - $20. At home, they're $300.
I sure bought one. A giant down-stuffed winter coat with a hood for $15. Made in Vietnam!
The Indianans were true to the oaths they'd sworn to the ducklings, and they went off on a little walking tour with them. How did they have the energy? And where would they go, the Fabulous Alley of Cloth Bracelets? I went to sleep like a person. I held Snitchy in the crook of my elbow, and we dreamed together as we lay on the soft jacket.
Let's hope Snitchy doesn't qualify as a refugee! You'll never get him into the country!
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