April 16, 2006
We woke up early on Easter Sunday to eat a quick breakfast and walk down to the Royal hotel where we planned to meet Chris and Margaret. Our group assembled quickly, but due to some confusion with our tour guide about transportation, it was nearly an hour before everything was settled for our departure. The day began quite stormy with the same layers of thick pea soup that seemed to characterize every hour we were in Sapa. Our guide, Jai, led us out into the dense fog and towards a large olive jeep – a rickety Russian import from the war with no shocks and a leaky gasoline smell that permeated the interior.
As we drove down the mountain, Jai filling up the trunk space, we talked to Chris and Margaret and got to learn of their travels and a bit about their background. In Canada some organizations allow their employees to bank sabbatical time by subtracting a percentage of their paycheck each month. Chris and Margaret had made out well with their 8-months of time off and had traveled all over Asia doing things I could only dream of. The jeep twisted back and forth around the switchbacks and in and out of the clouds and I began to daydream of traveling for a few months, post fellowship – nothing like what our new friends were doing, but something a bit longer than my record of 2-weeks.
Bac Ha market is about a three-hour drive from Sapa town, yet tourists flock their every Sunday in order to see the famous market. (I think it helps that once again, the road-systems in Vietnam are far superior to any of its Asian neighbors). Hill-tribes from all over the surrounding areas make their way to Bac Ha each weekend in order to sell their wares, buy food and clothes, catch up with friends and family, and celebrate. It isn’t uncommon to find men drunk and unconscious at the end of the day, after a few hours of knocking back a few with their buddies. Everyone we had met so far in our journey had commented about how great Bac Ha was, and we weren’t disappointed.
The way there was colorful and interesting to say the least. There were the zooming colors of Montagnards on the back of motobikes , while Vietnamese tourism posters jutting out from the green-splashed skyline. We passed through small towns and large towns, mostly driving through mountains of rice paddies, terrace farms, and electric wires that canvassed the area.
The weather began to improve as we neared Bac Ha town, and by the time we parked the car in the center of town, the rain had stopped and the sun was fighting its way through the haze. I was surprised at how much warmer it was as well.
Bac Ha market is definitely not subtle. Within moments of stepping out of the car we were surrounded by at least 5 different hill-tribes, each looking more elegant and decorated than the previous. I have a feeling that people put on their best and most bejeweled garments for the market each week. Parents show off their beautiful children, young girls meet their future husbands, and everyone generally dresses up for the occasion. This practice has nothing to do with the elegance of Bac Ha market itself.
The market trickles up the side-streets, but mostly lies in a muddy center with barns and stalls, and wide-open areas where livestock and farming tools are strewn. Dog, cat, pig, horse – anything you can imagine is for sale (and for eating). Pigs are locked up in huge baskets, bodies squirming and flailing out the lattice openings. Chickens wander everywhere, or are claimed in the baskets of people’s bicycles or on their backs. Everyone walks through mud, yet the colors of their clothes glow. Some of the groups we saw were the Black H’mong, the Flower H’mong, the Red Dzao, Nung, Phu La, and the Ta. As I mentioned in a prior post, my favorite traditional costume is worn by the flower H’mong, with their colorful beaded shirts and wide pleated skirts. They looked like dancing flowers prancing through the mud, laughing, grinning, sharing stories, and enjoying a day of relaxation. Despite the number of tourists, foreigners were still the minority market demographic.
They weren’t inconspicuous, however, and I was amazed at how many monster-sized camera lenses amateur photographers were hoisting up to their eyes and rudely shoving in the face of the locals. I actually began to feel very uncomfortable with my own camera and mostly focused on details of the market, rather than the people. Mostly I just watched everything that was happening, the variety of what was being sold, the dynamics between the seller and his customer, and the happy exchanges between everyone.
After we made our way through most of the main market area, we explored some of the side-streets containing more tourist-type souvenirs. The same embroidered bags, blankets, hats, and clothes were displayed everywhere. Mothers walked down the street with their friends, their babies swaddled in neat little flowered packages, loose arms draping from their sides. Some were selling their goods from elaborate shop stalls, still minding their children in the wings. We had a quick lunch of pho in a little dingy noodle shop. The bowls were brimming with steaming broth and Jai brought us shots of corn wine after we finished. That stuff was terribly strong and pungent.
After lunch we continued to walk around the town. Margaret and I began searching for the perfect H’mong quilt (I had given into my desire to take home some of the fabulous embroidery), and as we passed stall after stall, we had women physically dragging me into their shops, praising their work, and asking more and more for each quilt as the day wore on. We watched local flower H’mong children posing for pictures beneath a surreal and plastic backdrop of shiny flowers (irony?), their faces painted with light powder and their curiosities brimming with what a photograph of themselves might look like. Tourist children danced down the streets, spinning in H’mong skirts. The whole scene was magical.
On our way to the car I managed to pick up a quilt, a H’mong hat, and another embroidered bag. Conversely, Chris was “accosted” by drunken local men, shaking him during their silly street antics.
The ride back was fairly uneventful. The same landscape that had been cloaked in fog before emerged a bit in the hazy sun. We got some amazing glimpses of terraced valleys, the intricate designs and construction looked like something out of another planet. I am continually amazed at how all the world’s people live on the earth in such different ways. Terraces are some of the most beautiful structural designs ever.
We stopped outside of Lao Cai to see the China-Vietnamese border along the Red River. It was amazing how very different each side looked – China was much more developed with more sophisticated buildings and shops. However, the Vietnam side had just recently built a large modern supermarket with flashy Chinese letterings – I’m assuming to compete. If you’re a Vietnamese you’re allowed to cross the border for the day and do business in China without a visa. I’m not sure what the Chinese are permitted to do.
In Lao Cai we gave hugs and goodbyes to Chris and Margaret and left them at a restaurant [we'd soon be frequenting] across from the train station. They were returning to Hanoi that evening. As we climbed back into the mountains leading to Sapa, the clouds returned and even though we stopped once to try to capture some of the gorgeous landscape, the dense mist provided little visibility.
Back in Sapa I went back to the Royal Hotel area (the main part of downtown) to set up a one-day trek the next morning for myself. After discovering I could just show up the next morning and make arrangements then, I decided to check my email instead. However, outside the hotel I was surrounded by young black H’mong girls. At first they tried to sell me metal bracelets and earrings, but after realizing there was no way I was going to make any purchases that afternoon, they started asking me hundreds of questions in English about my life in the US, if I had a boyfriend, and how long I was staying in Sapa. They clinged to my arms as much for warmth as for the softness of the fabric on my fleece. They touched my cheeks, we laughed, and we learned about one another. Most of them no longer go to school, even girls as young as 12. They spend their days helping their parents, raising their brothers and sisters, sewing handicrafts, leading treks, and selling things in the market. They travel from the nearest black H’mong village in Lao Chai in a large group leaving their family behind and hoping to raise enough sales to make their parents proud. Some are married at 16, and many of these are arranged marriages.
In the blur of all this conversation and interaction, my brain zoned out to the shapes and colors of these sweet girls. Beautiful earrings and embroidered flaps of fabric everywhere. Arms covered in green-dyed bangles from local beads to Live Strong plastic bands tinted blue from the Indigo dye they are so famous for. So eager to ask questions and learn.
They hugged me goodbye, hoped that they’d see me again, and looked longingly at me as I walked away; I know they wanted to follow me away…
