Trip Plans

I have one more week of work, then a week off. I have been planning on going to the north of the country for some time, but am just now looking into how to do it.

You can put me on a plane with a suitcase and $100, fly me to any far-off corner in the world where I don’t know a soul and don’t speak the language, dump me on the tarmac, and I will be happy. And not just happy; thrilled. Within a week I will have a place to live and a job. But once I am there, I never seem to travel much.

All of a sudden, getting on a bus alone and going out on tour just seems too problematic. It has nothing to do with being alone, but everything to do with practicality. I mean, who watches your bag when you need to use the bus station bathroom, or when you dive into the surf at that beautiful beach? That being my general mindset, along with preferring to stay home and do all the things I never seem to get done when I am working, I don’t ever take full advantage of the places I have lived. Or haven’t until I came here.

Now, every break I’ve had, I’ve gone somewhere. Once I am on the road I love it and wonder why I’d spent time debating whether or not to travel. In the past week I have, once again, been thinking about not traveling during my break. Should I go, should I stay, should I get a tour, should I go it alone, should I book with this travel company or that? It seems so overwhelming that giving up on the idea presents a fairly nice alternative. Making all those choices and decisions alone, when one has limited information, sucks.

One of the reasons I like to live around the world is so that I can experience the local culture, especially that of indigenous peoples. I am entranced by their lives and clothing and artwork. In Vietnam, the remaining ethnic minority groups, as they are referred to here, live in and around the city of Sapa, way up north. I knew I wanted to go there, but didn’t, and don’t, know very much about them and the area in which they live. This last week of trip planning has proved educational.

First of all, I found out that I can fly to Hanoi, but then must take a 12 hour train ride up to Sapa. (again, who watches your bags on a 12 hour trip when you go to the head?) Staritng to think twice about it all, friends reassured me that the train ride is at night, in a sleeper car, and is very comfortable. Ok, so I guess I can manage that, but then I had to get some sort of tour because you just can’t hike around the hills looking for villages.

Following the suggestions of various colleagues, I went online and checked out what was available. Unfortunately, it seemed all the trips were designed for people coming from outside of the country. I was looking for a 3 or 4 day thing, and the ones listed were a minimum of ten days. The prices were ok, but not cheap, especially considering I would have to pay for the airfare and train trip.
I then remembered Sinh Café Tours. They run those $8 day trips to the Mekong Delta and other places. I hadn’t used them before, but remember running into an older couple who swore by them and who had had a fantastic time in Sapa with one of Sinh’s tours.

I got to their web site and was very happy to see that they had three day trips, starting from Hanoi where you get the night train, and the price was at least two-thirds less than the other companies. However, I then went on to read the details of the trip which included the word trekking. Right. I should have done better research, because I was sort of surprised to find out that one had to walk lots of kilometers to actually get into the village areas.

Once again I thought of not going. I am a walker and can walk and walk for hours. But trekking sounded scary. I walk on my own time at my own pace and a forced march is not my idea of a vacation. Did that also mean I had to be a backpacker? What was I to do but to put it off until a later date and maybe find someone who knew more about traveling in the north and might even go with me? I thought about it. If I don’t go in April, I won’t have a chance until the fall, and by then it would be the rainy season. Trekking down mountain slopes in the cold and rain is simply not an option for me. Besides, I reasoned, I was being very silly to not go to the one area I most wanted to see simply because of the word trekking.

That settled, I went into town to do some power shopping before hitting Sinh Café’s office. And since it was 200 degrees at 2pm, I stopped off for a cold drink where I ran into two friends. Both of the guys had been to Sapa, so I pumped them for info. Tell me about this trekking, I asked. My friend laughed. It’s an easy walk. The jeep drops you off at the top of a mountain; you leave your bags with the driver, who later hooks up with you at the bottom. The other friend went on to tell me that it was lucky there was only on Sinh Café in HCMC. In the land of no copyright laws it seems that numerous industrious individuals in Hanoi have ripped off their good name and ideas to get a piece of the action.

Once at the Sinh office, I requested information about the three day trip. The man at the counter got out a travel itinerary brochure and pointed it out. But this is different form the on listed online, I said. He just looked at me. I tried thumbing through the pamphlet, but couldn’t find what I had seen. I told him I would print out the online one and be back.

At home, I got on the computer and found the trip, then matched it word for word with the brochure I had been given. Well, it was almost the same. I looked at the logo. It was the same. Then I looked at the website listed on the brochure and it was not the same. Similar, but slightly altered. I remembered what my friend had said about the copycats. When I finally got the real Sinh Café online I saw hat they had included a notice about other companies that had stolen their name, logo, and trip description. And people wonder why I opt to vegetate at home.

I really think I might now have the right information. I will check with a few other people on Monday to make sure the local Sinh Café is the outfit to go with. I then have to get a plane ticket, then go book the tour. Which brings up another problem. I either take a morning flight and hang out in Hanoi all day, (who watches my bag?), or take the night flight which doesn’t give you enough time to make it to the train station so you have to stay in a hotel, and then you still have to do Hanoi all day. So why don’t I just stay a day or two and check out Hanoi? Because I choose to do one thing at a time and this time it is Sapa.

I need to buy some warm clothes.
Kate

Vallarta Botanical Gardens

The Vallarta Botanical Gardens sit a 20-peso bus ride south of the city; maybe 35 minutes away. The trip took me past the two beaches I had visited and on up into the Sierra Madre Mountains.
I dressed in jungle trekking gear; long skirt, tank-top, and scarf. The first thing I noticed when I got off the bus at around 10 in the morning is that it was a bit more chilly than down by the bay. Knowing that I would be sweating within the hour, I ignored the minor discomfort.

Several other visitors were on the same bus and we headed to the entry gate where Rodolfo explained the rules and regulations, took our entry fee, and suggested we put on bug repellant.

I never carry the stuff for several reasons, one being that the stench of repellants always gives me a headache. Then there are minor annoyances such as Cutter Bug Wipes which remove the nail polish you had so carefully applied, and leave you with a sticky mess. (although my nails are not painted on this trip). Additionally, not only have I not been bitten by anything here, I haven’t seen any skeeters. I looked around as the other tourists slathered on gunk and Rodolfo explained that we were in the jungle, not in the city, and because of the rains we’ve had, the critters were out and looking for easy prey and one wouldn’t want to catch Dengue Fever. Conveniently, they had anti-bug gel for sale. I took a sniff; not bad. So I bought the rather costly tube that holds enough goop for my next 5 years in any jungle terrain.

The Gardens, a non-profit organization, opened in 2005 and are totally funded by donations. They “…are in a unique tropical dry forest ecosystem at 1,300 feet above sea level.” http://www.vallartabotanicalgardensac.org
They cover 20 acres starting at the top of a hill and running down to a small river. I’d planned on walking around for several hours but the gardens are a work in progress and at this time there seemed to be only three, smallish trails to hike on. There are, however, lovely rose gardens and agave gardens, a small orchid house and this incredible, bougainvillea covered Visitor’s Center that houses a gift shop and restaurant.

The most incredible piece of information I learned was that vanilla plant is an orchid! It is “the most labor intensive food crop in the world”, and “the world’s second most expensive spice.” (I am assuming that saffron takes first place).

the long pieces sticking out are vanilla beans

Early on in my adventure, I made friends with Domino the Dog, a young, part Sheppard female. She seemed content to follow me around. I lost track of her somewhere as I headed down the river trail. Nearing the bottom, I saw that she was now with a group of four other visitors, leading the way. We tagged along behind our tour guide who would wait patiently for us to catch up.

The river had areas deep enough to swim in, and it looked quite tame and small. I am sure that in the rainy season it gets much more powerful. Looking at the rock formations in the river I was reminded of the Sierra Nevada’s. This particular trail did not loop around so that once you reached the end, you had to double back. The last part was a bit too much slippery-rock trekking for me, so I headed back to the main Garden area.

An older gardener was working the areas along the main, wide path. I stopped to talk to him and then another two other times before I left. He told me how the small, blooming roses had been planted only six weeks ago and that they were native to Mexico. He pulled up a wee little plant and said that in six weeks it would bloom. Ah, the wonders of a tropical climate on plant growth! We talked about plant pests and in Mexico it seems to be the ants. He asked me if I had a garden and I told him I was new to the practice but thoroughly enjoyed it. I asked where there was another trail and he said I should go back to the main entrance, then up the trail that runs along a little ridge. At that point Domino the Dog showed up. The gardener told me that she just loves to walk with the visitors around the gardens.

So off I went with Domino at my side. At the entrance, I asked Rodolfo to point out the trail. From where I stood it looked like it was a five inch wide goat path. He assured me it was an easy trail and that Domino would show me the way.

A short while later I was back at the Visitor’s Center. I decided to take a peek at the gift shop and head on up to the restaurant, with its sweeping views, to have a cup of coffee.

Sitting on the outer veranda, looking out onto the gardens, the river far below, and the surrounding mountains, I figured I could live there for awhile. Absolutely breathtaking. I thought that I would have to come back at a later date and eat a meal there.

When I got back home I didn’t have any insect bites and I wasn’t sticky from DDT, and I couldn’t smell any harsh chemicals. Maybe the stuff works, or maybe there were no bugs. But at least I have a repellant that I won’t react to as if I were a mosquito.

Kate

Winding Down

Two more days until the end of the term. One more day of finals, and all the reading of essays, marking, recording scores, and handing in paperwork. Then one day of teaching, although I doubt more than a few will turn up, if that. And on Sunday I leave for my trip up north.

After I finished marking about as many exams as I could for the day, and knowing I had to be home before 5 for my acupuncture doctor, I grabbed a taxi for the Sinh Café tourist office to purchase my train ticket/tour. I had only ever been to their office in the backpacker’s section of HCMC, but saw that there was a second one not far away.

I pretty much detest the backpacker area. It is jammed with cheap guesthouses, travel agents, low-priced cafes, somewhat costly boutiques, drinking establishments, and hookers. Quite a lot of people from work live in, and/or hang out there. I have no idea why. It’s quite the seedy locale. The Sinh office, right in the middle of it all, is a ghastly, hole-in-the-wall, with over-worked, under-paid, rather unpleasant staff. I was hoping that their sister office was better, and I was not disappointed.

Although it is walking distance from the nasty branch, it is a different world. I only saw a couple of foreigners on the street. The office actually looked like a tour office, and the ladies there were helpful and pleasant. Well, as helpful as they could be with limited English and my zero Vietnamese. (my language classes have again been put on hold because the teacher is out of town, but that is a whole, other, boring story.)

I pulled out the information I had picked up over the weekend and asked about other Sapa tours they might have. It all got very confusing. Mostly because a 4-day, 3-night trip, includes 2 nights on the train, and only one night in Sapa. I just can’t seem to get my head around flying up to Hanoi, a 2 hour flight, on Sunday, then boarding the train at 9:30pm, and arriving in Sapa at 7am. I think I am then taken to a hotel and either go village trekking right then, or after lunch. I finally decided to just pay for it and if I want to stay a day or two more, I’ll deal with it when I am there.

The whole idea of a 12-hour, overnight train ride, in a “soft-sleeper”, (which is a cabin with two bunk-beds), with three people I have never met in my life, sort of makes me itch. My worst case scenario is being stuck with a bunch of drinking, smoking, 20-somethings, or a local family who have brought on pots of fish and rice and screaming kids. I know I will never be able to sleep, and what do I do when I have to walk to the end of the car to pee? Will my clothing be safe? I can’t very well take a travel bag into the loo. I tried to see if I could pay extra for my own “room”, but was told I couldn’t. I felt totally trashed when I left the ticket office, but told myself this is how it always feels, and once I am on my way it will work out.

I really should stay either a few more days in Sapa, or take a few days in Hanoi. It’s just that I don’t like to do more than one thing a trip. And then there is the problem of taking cold weather, trekking clothes to Sapa, which will not be appropriate for Hanoi. Once again, the whole by-yourself-luggage hassle. Not to mention the freeze factor.

Lately, in HCMC, it has been 100ºF, (37ºC), and it stays toasty all night. Sapa might get up to 60ºF, (16ºC), during the day, and around 53ºF, (12ºC), or lower at night. That is a drastic climate change. And I do believe that it is 6000 ft elevation, so not only will I be experiencing hypothermia, but I will get altitude sickness. And no, I do not have the right clothing, but will make due. One friend told me not to worry, that they had the fireplaces roaring in the hotel. I simply can not, as I sit here drenched in sweat at 10pm, even imagine being cold, let alone cold enough for a fireplace.

But look on the bright side, I say to myself. I think there is still a bit left of that solar eclipse going on, somewhere in the world. Mercury is out of retrograde. I will pull out my tarot cards to make sure all the forces are in alignment, and if I had any incense, I’d burn it.

Best reason of all that I have to go is that I need new photographs. I have been reduced to this latest, which is another neighborhood shot. I refer to it as the Wisteria Lane/Stepford/Hollywood- back-lot, section of the burb.

If I don’t find anything to write about before I take off, you’ll hear from me in about a week.
Kate

Botanical Gardens pt 2

The first thing I did upon my return to the Jardínes Botínicos de Vallarta was to ask at the entrance if Domino the Dog was still there. She had been my hiking partner on my last visit and I was looking forward to getting reacquainted. Hearing that she most certainly was, I took off down the road that lead into the gardens.


Along the way I stopped to talk to the gardener tending the thriving rose bed. When I had last spoken to him in November, he had just started planting them and here they were, bushy and blooming.

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Walking towards the main building, (restaurant, gift shop, lounge area), I kept a sharp eye out for Domino. Before I knew it, she was at my side wagging her tail and leaning into me. I know she greets all dog-friendly visitors in the same manner, but I was sure she had remembered me. We were just set to take off together when a car pulled into a parking space and Domino went over to say hello. I thought she would probably come back over to me, but when another dog jumped out of the car I knew I had lost out for the day.

The first trail I took drops at a fairly steep incline through lush vegetation, crosses a little stream, then winds its way back up the mountain. It’s not what you call major jungle trekking but it could be dangerous for people like me were it not for the handrails along the entire route. All I needed was for my knee to go wonky on me and end up at the bottom of a gorge. And since I seemed to be the only one in this part of the Gardens, it seemed prudent to be cautious.

I was immediately struck by the number of birds talking as I headed into the thick vegetation. I swear they weren’t this many and at this volume the last time I was here. I would certainly have remembered the feeling of being in a jungle movie. I didn’t spot any of the birds but was content to just let their voices carry me along.

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Near the top of the trail I came upon a gardener watering the plants. We talked about the names of the trees and other flora in the area. I knew coffee, orchids, bromeliads, (basically the same names as in English), but was clueless about some other tree with a name that didn’t sound like anything I knew and a shape which I can only describe as “tree like”.

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A little further up, the narrow trail began its descent back to the bottom. I continued on down, (with a two-handed death-grip on that rail), until I reached the bottom and found myself surrounded by beautiful flowering bananas and tropical plants.

It was then that I noticed that my knee was no longer cooperating. Damn! Stuck at the bottom of the jungle never to be seen again. At least the bananas would soon be ripe. Eventually the knee decided to work and I climbed a short path which took me back to where I had started.

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The path leading to the River Walk has no railing. However, there are proper, wide stairs so if one goes down one step at a time, there is no fear of careening head over heels to the bottom. (I was pleased on the return to be able to stride uphill, normally and at a regular pace).

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Down at the river’s edge I thought how I’d like to camp there for a good long while. As it was, I just sat down on sand or rocks and let the positive ions flush through my body, mesmerized by the water lilies and the reflections on the clear water.

Back up at the orchid conservatory, I paid special attention to soil and planting, trying to pick up some pointers on cultivation. In this climate, there probably isn’t much you need to do to get them to bloom, but I did notice that the soil mixture had several ingredients more than I have in mine at home.

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The upstairs restaurant was totally deserted. I sat on the veranda, looking out over the valley and river below, slowly sipping a cold drink.

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When I walked downstairs, Domino was taking a nap on the cool tile floor. I bent down to say good bye and told her I would be back again for a walk with her.

Kate

The Hot & Dusty Trail

I awoke to a cold, grey, rainy morning. I had forgotten what it was like to get stripped and into a shower in such weather. Maybe today wouldn’t be as warm as yesterday, and I only hoped the rain would stop. Climbing down sides of mountains, in the rain, on an all day trek was not a challenge I needed.

At 7am, the rain had stopped and I walked over to the hotel for breakfast. I had hoped to start the walk at 8:00, but Diem had informed me that the guide would meet me at 9:30 and I didn’t think to question the late start. Eating breakfast, I glanced over to see Diem walk in with a young woman in jeans. I was to find out at 9:00 that her name was Mang and that she would be my personal guide on the day’s excursion, although when she met me she had changed into traditional Black Hmong clothing.

Mang, just 16 years old, had a great command of English and, like the girls I had met the day before, had learned it from tourists. In fact, she told me, her English was better than her Vietnamese. I was curious as to how her family felt about her spending days away in Sapa, guiding tourists to local villages. She said her mother worried a bit, but was ok with the situation.

The first part of our trip took us through town, then down into another area that had a guard gate at the top. This part of the walk was on a paved road. The weather was warming up, and so was I. As we walked I asked about life in among her people. Girls are married at between 14 and 16, although her mother did not want Mang to marry so young. Some marriages were arranged, others not. She mentioned a young woman from her village who was not married but had a baby. Again, sometimes this was a problem, sometimes not. Mang had been a tour guide for a year and loved her work. What she hated was going back to the village to work in the rice paddies which she did when there weren’t any tours to conduct.

We wound down the road looking out upon incredible vistas of mountains and farms. The paved road eventually turned into a dirt one, but the going was easy. Along the way we ran into a couple from Switzerland and their guide, a friend of Mang’s, who was 18 years old. The young ladies talked together and I talked to the Swiss woman, both of us starting to roast in the sun.

I asked Mang about her Hmong clothing and the fabric it was made of. Some of it was sewn from purchased cotton, but the main jacket was made from hand woven, hemp fabric. Whenever you see a Black Hmong woman, who is not otherwise engaged, she can be seen rolling and twisting long pieces of hemp, taken from a sort of skein that is wrapped around her waste. These threads are rolled until thin, then washed, and finally died with indigo. I found out that indigo is grown in these mountains and is very cheap. When I told Mang that indigo is one of the most expensive dies in the world, she was astounded.



Mang pointed out the indigo fields a little farther down the trail. We carried on, the trail now having been cut into the side of the mountain, with a ten foot bank on the right. I was walking close to the embankment, preferring not too get close to the other side with its sheer drop. All of a sudden I heard noise from above me. I stopped, looked up, and jumped about three feet back. The sound was that of a water buffalo munching on grass, directly over my head.




A short while later, we were passed by a Hmong gentlemen with a walking stick, moving much faster than us. He rounded another bend, then turned to his right and took off straight down the mountain, still at a fast clip. I kept checking on his progress, not believing he wouldn’t tumble and die. Mang said he would walk to the bottom and then head straight up the other side.

Along the route, we passed other small tour groups going down the hill. The guides all new each other. Some were Vietnamese; some were from the ethnic groups. All were pleasant and joyful. I kept thinking we would come across some sort of village or house or a rest stop. I had only brought one small bottle of water assuming, as with yesterdays hike, that there would be at least a few huts in which to purchase some more. I was getting a little concerned.


Lack of water was only a minor part compared to the trail which had now turned into a steep, ill-defined, treacherous path, with rocks and holes and nothing to grab onto should you stumble. I was wearing a long sleeved t-shirt and finally had had enough. I was either going to get down to the immodest tank-top and look like all the other tourists, or I was going to get heat stroke. About this time I asked Mang when we would get to that illusive village and water. Another hour and a half, she said. Crap. I never go without gallons of water and the one time I slip up, it is on a forced march from hell, and there is no turning back, no rescue team in sight. We were still with the Swiss group and they offered me water, should I feel the need.

Finally, we reached the bottom of the valley and there was a definite drop in temperature. I was also glad because I felt like my toes were about to drop off. Although wearing sturdy running shoes, the trail had been so steep that my toes had been jammed to the front of my shoes and it felt like my toenails had been driven backwards about two inches.



My elation soon ebbed as I looked upon the stretch ahead of us. We were to walk along the rock borders of a terraced field. I fell inline behind bunches of other groups. These were rather small rocks, of varying height, half-submerged in water and mud. One slip and you are in mud and rice paddy up to your ankles. I had never been so grateful for my evening walks at the manmade stream in my neighborhood. Along the route there, I cross over several stone bridges, made up of vastly different sized rocks, and requiring a fair amount of skill and balance to navigate. It did help, but not when you step in mud and slide into the water with your left foot, as I did. Luckily, my quick reactions kept me from going all the way in. But now my muddy, wet foot did not allow for any traction. This torment continued for a good thirty minutes before we were finally through and at a small pond.

My Swiss friend had also just about had it. I held up my shirt so that she could change out of her hot jeans into cooler pants. But the end was in sight. We had only a short, uphill walk to the lunch break area. First, we had to cross another of those suspended, rocking bridges. Just as I was about to go across, I looked down to my right and saw a huge, suspicious looking green plant. Hey, I whispered to the Swiss woman, What does that look like to you? She came over, and before she had a chance to answer, Mang piped in with, “Yes, it’s hemp”. I had briefly forgotten that hemp and marijuana are one in the same. Intrigued by our conversation, the Swiss gal’s husband sauntered over. I pointed out the weed, then continued to cross the bridge. When I looked back, he was still at the plant’s side.

The lunching area consisted of a concrete platform covered with a thatched roof. There were at least forty people seated in low chairs around tables. They were either eating or being served lunch. I thought this odd, as when I met Mang that morning, she’d asked if I had packed a lunch. I’d gone back to my room to grab a bag of nuts and raisins. And now she was asking if I wanted lunch. I was only thirsty, not hungry, so got a 7-Up and a bottle of water. The Swiss couple, (the husband of which had a handful of hemp leaves clutched in his hand), were served lunch by their guide. I wouldn’t have eaten the food there anyway. No refrigeration and no running water other than the stream, equals instant stomach ailments. It was obvious that I was the only person there to feel this way. I was also the only person who, after three hours of walking in the blazing sun, with barely any water, still needed to pee.

The ‘toilet’ stood across the dirt road; four wooden poles, with blue plastic tarps wrapped around it. I opened the door to see five, thick poles balanced across the stream. I looked down and wondered how I was to do this. There were spaces between the poles, but it would still result in pissing all over them and most assuredly my shoes and ankles. I ended up balancing between the poles and a rock, and I must say it was a pleasant experience; rather freeing with all that water rushing beneath you and the breeze blowing through. Thinking about taking a leak in the main water supply only served to strengthen my beliefs about eating any food prepared there.



Back at the lunch room, I noticed that people were calling across tables to say hello to other people they had met in town at a restaurant, or the hotel. I looked over and saw the four Israeli, 23 year old, just-out-of-the army boys I’d met on the train. I said hello and then noticed their feet. They were shod in thread bare, broken down, Teva’s, Birkenstocks, and flip-flops. How did you manage that hike in those shoes? I asked. They all answered that it was an easy walk and their shoes were the best for trekking. I guess there is something to be said about being young and just out of the army. At that point, all I wanted to do was grab a taxi and get the hell back to the hotel.

Still sitting around and chatting with various people, Mang came over and said it was time to go, that the final point of our trip was only forty-five minutes away. The whole time we were there, we had been surrounded by women trying to sell us things. Most of us looked the other way. But when I got up, I saw that Lili, who had sold be a blanket the day before, was one of the ladies. She and Mang knew each other, of course, and the three of us set out.

Soon, the Israelis were walking with us, and this is where Mang turned into a sixteen year old, and the guys turned into adolescents. I was happy to just watch all the playful flirtations and concentrate on visualizing the end of the trail. We actually did pass through the village center, with its run down school buildings and a few simple, but lovely thatched roofed homes. It is just that I didn’t have any more concentration abilities left. The paddy-ridge walking had taken the last bit of higher cognitive function I had been allotted for the day.

At 2:00, we reached the end of the road, and our motorbike was waiting. There were supposed to be two of them, but somehow we only had one. Mang determined that I was to ride in the middle for balance purposes. I didn’t even think twice about the option of walking up the mountain. We climbed on, and drove off.

On the way up we were confronted by monster trucks barreling down the road, herded water buffalo, insane motorbike drivers, and road crews. Our driver never even slowed down even when we came within a foot of machine, man, or animal.
Finally at the hotel, it took me a second to get off the damn thing, what with the downhill walking muscles protesting, and the rest of my legs in grip-the-bike position for the past twenty minutes.

Mang and I went into the hotel where I bought cold drinks and relaxed. I looked at my watch. I needed to get a shower and back into town if I were to meet the girls before 4:00, as I had promised.

To be continued.
Kate

Trekking & Buying

I am still not clear about the connection between the Hmong of Vietnam and the Hmong that now live in California, who I believe were from Laos. I can say that the reverse appliqué textile work that I have always associated with the groups in California, was not to be seen on my trip. What I did know was that there are several different Hmong groups; Black Hmong and Red Hmong among them.

Diem, the guy who had shown me my room, was also a tour guide. He had told me to meet him back at the main hotel entrance at 2pm for our short walk down to Cat Cat village, home of the Black Hmong. When I had asked about the tour group members, I got the usual, “I am not sure”. I soon found out it was the Vietnamese equivalent of an Elderhostel trip. I joined a group of twelve men and women, all of whom were in their 70’s and spoke no English.

The entrance to Cat Cat was only a two minute walk down the road from the hotel. Before entering, you must pay a fee. Then you start to walk down into the valley on a winding road. Diem would stop to explain things to the group, and then translate for me. The walk was easy enough for someone fairly fit but not something one would recommend for senior citizens. Or at least not the majority of seniors in the US. However, this group of Vietnamese folks walked with as much ease and energy as I did.

I wasn’t at all sure what we would encounter. Would there be a village at the bottom? Could one buy things on the trail? I had planned to buy up as much ethnic arts and crafts as I could carry and wanted to make sure that I was able to buy directly from the people and not from a middle man at a shop.

We meandered down through terraced farm plots that grow rice once a year, then are used for corn and other vegetables. I couldn’t imagine working that land for even one hour, let alone a life time. Not far down the road, we were surrounded by tiny children selling fabric, woven bracelets. At the time, I still wasn’t sure what the protocol was for buying. It was time to invest in the community, so I bought a few. Later I was told that it wasn’t a good idea to buy from the little ones as it encouraged them to skip school in order to make money.

We passed several small structures where handicrafts were being sold. Nothing was of real interest until I saw a beautiful jacket with extensive embroidery. I stopped, as the rest of the group continued. Bao, a teenage girl, came out to me. With limited English, I ascertained that the jacket had been made by her mother. I asked the price, and it seemed more than reasonable. I ended up with it and a pair of earrings.


BAO

I should mention that we had been walking for over an hour and it was now quite hot and I was boiling in my two layers of shirts. Unfortunately, taking off the outer layer to reveal a tiny tank-top would not have been appropriate, especially since I was walking with a group of older Vietnamese who were totally covered against the sun. I carried on to the bottom of the hill, where we crossed a small river by way of a hanging bridge. Water buffalos, who knew what to do in the hot sun, were taking a mud bath and looking up at us with big, round, water buffalo eyes, aware of our every move.



From there, it was a short walk uphill to where the motorbikes awaited us. As everyone knows, I do not do two-wheeled, motor vehicles. The tour brochure had promised transport by either jeep or motorbike. There was no jeep in sight. My options: walk straight up the 4K route back, or take a motorbike. Everyone also knows that I do not do uphill walks. With promises that my driver would go slowly and carefully, I got on. I would have preferred not to look but figured I needed to be aware of oncoming trucks or pits in the roads. I made it to the top without any trouble and only a modicum of anxiety.

Once off the motorbike, I was approached by a Hmong woman selling various items. From what I had observed, the women usually walk in groups and congregate around the tourists. When my bus first arrived in Sapa, we were beset upon by droves of young girls and women, all waving blankets and scarves and calling out for us to buy. I had already noticed that if you even took a slight interest, you were immediately surrounded by as many as ten other sellers. This woman was alone, which would allow me to really get a good look at her blankets.

I think blanket might not be the correct term. Maybe a bedspread, or a quilt top. Each piece is made of several pieces of cloth sewn together in strips with an outside border. All are different, with varying amounts of needlework, and a variety of colors. There is also some amount of machine appliqué. The woman pulled out several that she had made. All were beautiful. As I decided on which one I should get, we spoke a little. Her name was Lili, she was 30 years old and had five children. She was from the village that I would be visiting the next day. I finally decided on one with a predominately green color scheme. We thanked each other and I went to my room to take a shower before setting off to see the town.


LILI

I walked up the hill towards the center of town where things flatten out for a few blocks. Stopping at the top end of an open square, I gazed out over the town to the spectacular Hoang Lien Mountain range, and Fan Si Pan Mountain, the tallest in Indochina at over 3000 meters. The top was covered in mist and I had been warned that it may remain that way my entire time in Sapa. I was told that just a few days before I arrived, the entire mountain range could not been seen because of the fog. I felt very lucky to be seeing it now with the sun slowly sinking creating a dark, jagged outline against the sky.



My ambling took me past another open square with stalls of venders. From a distance I could see that they were run by indigenous people and so decided to see what was on offer. I stopped at the first stall and was immediately surrounded by four beautiful girls. The first one said, “Where are you from, California?” I assumed that they, like others I have run into on this journey, had memorized a few needed sentences. But then I started talking and they answered and I realized these little ladies really did speak English.

I was quickly introduced to Ker, Zen, Lam, and Bamboo, (the translation of her name), who ranged from 12 years old to 16. They, like the other Black Hmong people I had seen, were beautiful. And Zen, at 16, was stunningly beautiful with golden brown eyes. The stall belonged to Bamboo’s mother but all the girls had things to sell. They told me they slept there at night and would return to their village every few days. I was worried that it might not be safe, but they assured me it was. Their stall was only separated by a blanket from the next one, and all the others, where adults were present, so they weren’t really alone.

Amazed at their proficiency in English, I asked them how they had learned it. From tourists, was the answer, not in school. I had already learned that all the children from the ethnic minority groups have free schooling from Vietnamese teachers. Most don’t have a written language, but they are taught Vietnamese. I never did get clear conformation as to whether or not they were taught all subjects in Vietnamese, but I believe that is the case. The girls assured me that they were still in school. It was getting dark and I wanted to take a look at the other stalls, so said I would come back a little later.


Bamboo, Lam, Ker, Zen

The girls followed me to a stall near the end where I spent a lot of time deciding on another blanket. We all walked back to their place and they asked when I would buy something from them. I said I would come back the next day when the light was better. Then Bamboo asked if I would email her. You have an email address? I asked, more than a little surprised. They all did, and went to the internet café just down the street to read their mail. Or rather to look at it. It turned out they couldn’t really read English, and when they wrote out their emails for me, in very juvenile writing, I understood why. Although they said they could read Vietnamese, I rather doubt they can do it well. Then they asked if I would go to the internet café and read their emails to them. So off we went.

None of them had any trouble navigating to either Yahoo or Hotmail. I circulated among the four, reading emails from other enamored tourists who had written how much they missed the girls and had sent pictures. They then dictated replies for me to write. When all emails had been read an answered, I paid for their time and we parted for the night, with hugs and promises to meet the next day at 4, when I should be back from the day trek.

I walked down the hill to the hotel through the clear mountain air that was a little cool, but not at all cold. Back in my room at the hotel I noticed that there were no other people there. It seemed I had Goldsea number 2, to myself. I opened the balcony and looked up at the stars and listened to the quiet. When I climbed into bed, huddled under a thick comforter, I was happy and content. The chill in the room actually felt good. Tomorrow would be a full day of trekking, although this time I would either be by myself with a guide, or with other English speakers.

My picture of the girls doesn’t do them justice, but you get the idea.
Kate

Night Train

My journey to Sapa began at 2pm on Sunday when I got in the taxi headed for the airport to catch my 4:30, two-hour flight to Hanoi. From Hanoi, I was to go to the Sinh Café travel office, arriving by 8pm in order to catch the 12-hour night train to Lao Cai. From there it is an hour bus trip up the mountain.

I had decided to fly with Pacific Air rather than Vietnam Air because it was $30 cheaper and I figured nothing could be much worse than Vietnam Air. I had wanted to get the earlier flight at 11:30am just to make sure I had enough time in case there were any delays, but that flight was sold out. When they announced that there would be a slight delay for the 4:30 flight, I started to get nervous.

At 4:45, every seat of the beat-up, old airplane was filled. This aircraft had been a former member of a Spanish speaking country, with bilingual cabin signs like occupied/occupado. The interior boasted its original everything, and I only hoped that they had spent any revenues on engine maintenance, since it obviously hadn’t been used on anything that I could see. Glancing at my watch, I willed them to shut the doors and take off. And just at that moment, I heard a thunder clap and the rain started to pour. Now I hoped that the pilot would do the smart thing and delay take-off. He didn’t, and we were soon in the air, cramped and uncomfortable. For the first time in my air flight life, I realized why those seats feel much worse than they probably are: it’s the seat in front of you. It invades your personal space and one is constantly trying to mentally push back from it.

Flight over, and at the baggage carousel, I met a woman from Zimbabwe who worked in Hanoi. We shared a taxi into town, which is an hour drive. She had recently been to Sapa so gave me a few tips. It was almost 8pm when I finally got to the tiny Sinh office. I had made it in time!

Shouldn’t we leave for the train station? I asked. “No”, the young office agent said, “there is plenty of time”. While I sat there I asked about who I would be sharing a room with, each berth having four beds. “We don’t know”. I asked about how many people would be on the trekking tours. “We don’t know, but not more than five”. At 8:15, I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut and asked, aren’t we going to miss the train? “No,” she said, “the train doesn’t leave until 10pm”. Well at least I was glad I hadn’t taken the 11:30 flight. But something didn’t make sense. If we left at 10, and it was a 12-hour trip, how was I to make the 8am breakfast and 9pm short trek? I asked. “The train arrives at 6am”, I was told. Things were looking a little better; it was only an eight hour trip.

At 8:30 the agent called a taxi over and we were off. A short drive later we picked up three other tour people, a Vietnamese woman in her 30’s and her parents. Arriving at the station I was once again glad I was not doing this alone. The streets were dark and teeming with people and taxis and motorbikes all making their way to the entrance. I secured my belongings with an iron grip and trailed closely behind the travel agent.

After passing through the ticket gate, we walked over to a poorly lit platform, squeezing through the crowds of loud people. One train had just arrived, the passengers moving towards us, making maneuvering even more difficult. We rounded the end of one train, then crossed over several tracks to another platform and waiting train, then down to the very last car.

When I got to my berth, I realized that the three people we had picked up were to be my cabin mates. Somehow, three of us walked into our tiny room at the same time and I had a near claustrophobic attack. Since two of our party were rather old, I said I would take a top bunk, dropped my bag, and went out of the train to clam down. I didn’t know how I was going to survive all night in such a tomb-like enclosure. I stayed out until it was time to take off.

Passing the other berths on the way to mine, I saw they were filled mostly with groups of foreign tourists, who seemed to be having a good-old time. Once inside mine, I climbed up to my perch, which didn’t even have enough space to sit up in. Surprisingly, once I lay down, the claustrophobia somewhat disappeared, even after the door was slid shut. I pulled out my book and proceeded to read. The cabin had a small table and lamp between the bottom bunks, and a small light over the door.

Around eleven, I looked down to see that my roommates were asleep, but had left the light on for me. I gingerly climbed down managing not to step on anyone, and made my way towards the bathroom at the end of the car. As much as I enjoyed the rocking of the train, I knew that taking a pee would be a challenge. The toilet was a squatter with hand rails on two sides, and as much as I did not want to grab on, there really was no choice. Squatting there, I thought of my friend who had done the trip while she was six months pregnant, getting up every two hours to use the facilities. I don’t know how she managed.

Back in the berth, I turned off the table lamp and tried to get comfortable. The bed was narrow, and I sort of wondered how many people had been railroad-rocked off the top. I moved closer to the wall. I tried everything I could do, but just couldn’t sleep, mainly because that damn night light over the door shone directly into my eyes. I fell asleep for thirty minutes and woke up with a headache, swallowed a pill and tried again. This basically went on all night, but I have to say it still beat the crap out of the same amount of time squeezed into an airplane seat. It didn’t seem to affect my roommates who were out cold all night. Finally, at 5:30 in the morning, with daylight breaking, I got up and went out to stand at the end of the car and look at the scenery through the cloudy glass and bars. I noticed that every exit from the car was either paddle locked or barred and tried not to think of cabin fires.

I figured we only had a short while to go when I met another passenger in the hall who said that the train was supposed to have arrived at 5:30am, but that the conductor kept adding hours. It was now due at 8:30. I was feeling rather rotten, so didn’t care that I might miss early morning activities in Sapa. Getting closer to our final destination, I put my hand to the glass window expecting it to be ice cold, but it wasn’t. I noticed the people we passed were not bundled up against the chill. I began to think about the clothing I had packed, and when I finally stepped off the train I said, Damn! Foiled again! It was pleasant and warm and I had all the wrong clothes.

Everyone I had spoken to who had taken the same trip had warned me that the bus up the hill from Lao Cai to Sapa was horrible simply because it was after such an exhausting train trip. I didn’t see it that way, even though I was sardined into a tiny fold down seat in a mini-van packed with twenty people. It was such different, beautiful scenery. I started to see people dressed in ethnic clothes which seemed odd and I couldn’t exactly explain to myself why I had this reaction. Maybe it was the sight of such completely different dress alongside western wear. Or possibly that they wore clothing one sees in postcards and books, but not walking around unless they are at some sort of multi-cultural festival.

We passed groups of water buffalo being herded up the main road along with people in various local dress with baskets on their backs; some filled with wood, others with vegetables, and some of them on motorbikes. As we climbed higher, I looked down the mountain to see hundreds of terraced farms, seemingly encompassing the entire valley.

Sapa is a small town, originally built as a “hill-station”, not that I am exactly sure what that is, other than a retreat for the Europeans wanting to escape the heat. Even with all the building that has gone on in recent years, it still feels quaint and peaceful. It was certainly evident that a booming tourist industry has taken hold. There are lots and lots of small hotels and café’s and gift shops. There are hundreds of tourists walking around and equally as many of the indigenous peoples either going about their daily business or trying to sell their wares.

I was the last person to be dropped off at my hotel, the Golden Sea. (I have no idea about the name.) It stood at the end of a road, with nothing around it but mountains. A young man from the office came out to tell me that I wouldn’t be in the main building, but next door in the Golden Sea 2, because they had a group of fifty arrive the day before. I followed him over to the other building and up to my room on the second floor. I walked in and noted that it was clean and new and completely adequate. The hotel guy opened up the balcony doors, and started to tell me about the plans for the day.

At this point I was feeling like total crap. Too many hours traveling, not eating, and then there was that altitude thing. I started to say something then stopped mid-sentence because I had just bothered to take a look out of the balcony and onto an unobstructed view of the mountains. It was absolutely breathtaking, and I was later to learn that I probably had the best view of any hotel room in town. Not only was there nothing to see but nature in every direction, there was no noise, only the sounds of people walking up and down the trail that lead to one of the villages.

I showered, unpacked, went to the main hotel to eat some very unimaginative food, then back to lie down. I really hoped I would feel up to the 2pm mini-trek.
And I was, but that will be told in the next chapter.

Kate

Shoes, Books, & #19

I have really, really have been searching for shoes for the past several days, and it seems I am on a mission to frustration.

I know exactly what I want, having seen a young woman wearing them last week. OK, I know that sounds idiotic, but I figured I could get something similar. And actually, there are about two other styles I would bow to. And within those three major categories, I could really be flexible. However, so far I have been astonishingly unsuccessful.

Several problems exist. The first is the shoe size. Size 8 American doesn’t seem to be very popular here. In fact, no sizes other than the shoes you happen to be looking at, at any given time, seem to be available. I’ve seen plausible choices in a number of different stores, but when I ask for a different size, I am led to believe that the pair in my hand is the only pair available in that style, and wouldn’t I care for the three inch heeled ones that look the same? Don’t even try asking about a different color.

After searching through the local neighborhood shops, a colleague wrote out directions to the Shoe Plaza, which houses about twenty different stores inside one building. Mostly, there were stiletto heeled sandals or pointy-toed slip-ons. (where the point extends an extra two inches beyond the end of ones foot.)

I walked on to another shopping area I had passed in the taxi last week. In one store and out the other. Either totally nonfunctional shoes, or flip-flops, or trekking sandals; not something I could wear to work. And once again, only in the size displayed. I’ve given up for this week, but will venture out again in the near future.

As long as I was, by now, back in Tourist Central, District 1, I thought I should pay a visit to the Continental hotel, where it is said that Graham Green hung out to write the book “The Quiet American”. Unfortunately, the veranda restaurant he frequented is now enclosed. I looked in the window to see fancy tables with tablecloths and stemmed water glasses filled with folded napkins. Not my kind of place to eat. I peeked at the menu at the door. Not my kind of price range.

Still, I wanted a copy of his book. I already knew that there weren’t any bookstores with English language fiction in town, and was debating having a copy sent from the US. I then remembered all the street vendors and their cut-rate copies of Lonely Planet and other guide books. (after that trip to the school book store, I knew the score). Hey, I bet they’d have a copy!

The first purveyor I came across had his stand set up in front of an expensive store. I bent down and said, Graham Greene? He reached over and pulled out a copy of "The Quiet American". I sat down on the steps to look at what else was available. A few Gabriel Garcia Marquez-es, “Geisha”, lots of Vietnam War stuff, and an excellent selection of books by various Vietnamese authors who had fled the country and were now in the US. Of those I bought three. I now have enough depressing literature for the next five years.

There was still one other Place of Interest to visit, and that was a restaurant called, “# 19”. During those conflict years, it had been the UPI news bureau, or at least that is what I read. I have no way of verifying this info, but it came from a credible source, namely PBS. Then again, another place they’d mentioned does not exist, so who knows? I went into the small restaurant, packed with the local lunch crowd. I was the only foreigner. I ordered soup and tried to tune into the war correspondent vibes. I guess it was too noisy. I couldn’t pick up on anything.
The food at the surrounding tables looked quite tasty. My soup was not good at all. The MSG hit me even before I left; numb tongue and light-headed. So much for unearthing the ghosts of the past. Perhaps if I make an appearance at a more quiet time, the spirits will speak to me.

I have a book to read,
Kate