The train arrived in the wee hours of the morning, as all trains in Vietnam seem to do. (There are four daily trains from Sapa to Hanoi. They all arrive between 4:30 and 5:30 am. Seriously, what the hell?)
I arrived in Sapa just after daybreak in fog so thick I couldn't see the other side of the street. I was trying to get my bearings using the tiny map in my guidebook, but I couldn't find the church or even the town square, which is about the size of a squared city block. I couldn't see this:
I was wondering if going to Sapa was a mistake after I found a room in what turned out to a fairly bizarre hotel and saw the early morning 'view' from my balcony.
The hotel owner allowed me to switch rooms after I convinced him that 'hot shower' implied the presence of a shower head, and not just a stream of hot water running down the wall. I took a nap and awoke to see the fingers of God massaging the scalp of the earth.
It was as if someone had hung a giant Thomas Cole painting on my balcony. I was officially glad to be in Sapa. In better light you can see villages and rice terraces clinging to the steep mountain slopes.
The only time it was clearer than this, of course, was the afternoon I took the shuttle from Sapa to Lao Cai to catch the train back to Hanoi.
There's nothing particularly Vietnamese about the town itself. The view from my balcony looks like any mountain town you might find in the Rockies or Alps.
The people in this area are, for the most part, not ethnic Vietnamese. They are members of various ethnic minorities, primarily Black Hmong and Red Dzao. The streets are full of women in traditional garb selling handstitched blankets, tapestries, etc. You know the stuff is authentic because you can see them sewing. The women's hands are blue from winding hemp fibers into twine.
These women, working on the sidewalk in front of a tourist steakhouse, are Red Dzao. The red headgear that looks like a pillow is an easy giveaway.
Obviously a lot of this is for show. Women dress like this in part because that's what tourists want to see. I was having a bowl of noodles in the market when I saw this woman in Flower Hmong garb engaging in a timeless local ritual, which translates roughly into English as "talking on a celphone".
I enjoyed a few days there despite really lousy weather. I wanted to climb Fansipan, the highest mountain in Indochina, but slogging through the rain and mud for three days didn't appeal to me much. And I must admit I just wanted an excuse to say 'Fansipan' in conversation. That's the Anglicized version of the Vietnamese name, Phan Xi Pang. No matter how you spell it, though, it still rhymes with 'fancypants', and who wouldn't want to say he climbed that.The countryside around Sapa is a spectacular. It reminded me, strangely enough, of Peru. In both places farmers raise crops on terraces built on impossibly steep mountainsides, all the way to the summit. Both places are inhabited by people who are short in stature but incredibly tough. The altitude here isn't nearly as high, though. Fansipan, the highest point in Indochina, is 3,143 meters, which is lower than the city of Cuzco, Peru.
Tourism has not necessarily been a good influence on Sapa. When I arrived after daybreak there were already Hmong women wandering around selling local handicrafts. They know when tourists from the trains arrive and they're ready and waiting when we arrive. The stuff is beautiful and cheap, but there's far too many people selling far too much similar stuff.
I am sitting in the the H'mong Sisters Bar & Restaurant as I write this. The only other people here are young Hmong girls in traditional garb, none of whom is over five feet tall. I just finished reading "Gulliver's Travels" so I'm wondering if this is a weird Lilliputian dream induced by the awful local wine. (The label says it's "fruit wine", but I can't imagine what kind of fruit could produce the flavor, unless dirty gym socks grow on trees around here.)
Even though it's dark and rainy, there are still women in the street peddling to tourists. The truly sad part is they're the same women I saw at the crack of dawn. The come up from the villages in the early morning, wander the main street all day and all night, then return to the home. Or not.
Sitting at next to me are my two new best friends. My best stab at the spelling of their names is Mai (12, front, in Black Hmong clothing) and Ha (15, back, Flower Hmong).
After peddling souvenirs all day they come to the bar to play games and talk to tourists. Their English is fantastic, which is incredible since they learned it all talking to tourists. When it comes time for them to go to bed they walk to a friend's house in town. Their village is a two-hour walk or 30-minute moto ride.They're both exceptionally bright but Ha strikes me as something as a prodigy. She was visibly enjoying herself as she made me squirm, using her ruthless intelligence to demolish every argument I put forth as to why I wouldn't buy anything from her. Her potential would be limitless in the US, but I fear there's only so far a girl can go in Sapa.
I did stump her. I wanted to buy some of the gorgeous blankets. She said she had a cousin who had them so I told her to bring some to me at the hotel.
She brought four. I had found out what a fair price would be for one. I told her I'd buy all four at that price. By this time of course a huge crowd of women had gathered, shoving blankets in my face, saying "You buy one from me".
Ha was speechless for once. It may have been the biggest deal she had ever done. She talked in Hmong with the women for about a minute before she finally realized this was a deal she definitely wanted to make. I'm sure I paid a little too much. I don't care.
As much as I love the beauty of the town, and (mostly) enjoy my interactions with the locals, it makes me terribly, inexpressibly sad. These women spend virtually every waking hour chasing tourists through the streets. If you stop to talk to one or, heaven forbid, start looking at what they're selling, they turn into sharks with blood in the water.
Perhaps that metaphor is a bit harsh, because I am humbled by how genuinely friendly and cheerful they are. Don't get me wrong, they are persistent, and it is frustrating smiling and saying "No thank you" a thousand times a day, but if I spent every day being continually rebuffed by tourists, often rudely, I would lose my sense of humor in approximately eight seconds.
The poor tourist trapped against the wall here laughed, threw up his hands and jokingly yelled "Help!" as I walked past. Sorry, pal, I paid my dues...
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