Sa Pa, day II
Hitting at a theme, we continued to enjoy the company of our two Spanish friends, whose stories we were beginning to know over a dinner of bamboo chutes, fried pork, rice, spring rolls, and shots of “happy water” rice wine; a Vietnamese custom drink. However, as we continued our conversation with them, learning about their experiences in other parts of the world, their work, perceptions of Americans, how bad Italians drive when they come to Spain due to the lax driving regulations – we still had not exchanged names.
As I began to nod off that first night after going to our net-covered bed, as the mosquitoes moved in, Rebecca and our new friends continued talking.
The next morning, I arose first at around 5:30. Sore legs. Sore back, but heart full of joy, I didn’t need to convince myself that being a little tired the next night wouldn’t be worth seeing the sunrise through the valley. Seeing the smoke rising with the sun light beginning to pour in through the mist of the Muong Hoa (valley) reminding of the night before came to mind; watching the sun set while fireplaces burned at dinner time – the rural Vietnamese splendor, even at rest does not disappoint.
We entered the bamboo forest at around 9 a.m.; the magnificence of the jade-coloured, soft lift, filtered through the perfectly symmetrical plants. Reminiscent to the backdrop to any serene spa, or restaurant, but it’s reality and smell as rich and as organic as any forest hugging to the senses, to the body; to the soul.
However, in what started to begin feeling like escaping from danger each clomp over bamboo stumps and boulders, our (very) sore legs were aided again by the strong hands of the black Hmong women; one of whom carried her very young son on her back. Often, as we paused to either gasp for air, or to take a sip of our water, he’d be nearly upside-down on her back peering at us, and sometimes smiling.
“We have up and down this morning…but all flat and down hill after lunch,” Lan told us before the trek on Day 2.
If you’ve every hiked or trekked you’ll note that the downhill is often much more painful on “out-of-shape” legs. After we rest at a waterfall, and I finally catch a glimpse of Lan taking a sip of water, we descend the boulders to the side of the cliff falls, to pay (in what begins to feel obligatory, at this point) for a few itesm from our Hmong helpers. However, this is met with contention for the first time as the red scarfed-dao women also pine for our business.
“Why you no buy from Dao?”
“You pay more with Hmong…they different, buy from us too.”
Unfortunately, what the lady now chasing me to the next bridge, at this point, is attempting to sell to me is more attractive, but I have no small bills and I sense from Lan that we need to continue. I begin to reflect on several things as legs ache when there’s need to divert thoughts, on some level; that I’d wished we’d waiting to buy more from people like her than from the boutique owner in Hanoi.
We snake our way up. Moving slowly past farm houses, utilizing every square inch (or centimeter) of ground they have; pigs living near vegetables, rice, and the hens burrowing with their chicks trailing behind. Heading up on thin, ancient-boulder lined walk ways flanked by ferns, and mugwort; reaching for some and noting its curious smell, spelling irony to a vastly different place, but a familiar smell, we trudge left and right, walking on the edge of the rice field plots. Up. Up. Up, until, with our thighs burning and seemingly not one ounce left of energy for upward movement, we finally level off to a flat road.
A dog growls as we pass, and I note how small and pregnant or close-to-post-partum they all look. Puppies, like chicks, and piglets scurry every which way across the villages, and country-side, leaving one to wonder who they belong to, and how the natives keep tabs on their individual animals without tags, or branding – my curious ignorance, I suppose.
We pass a child wearing an Atlético de Madrid* shirt, and our Spanish friend (Javier; whose name we learned, finally), tells Lan:
“Tell him…this is my team.”
And then pointing to the team logo on the boy’s dirty kit top, Javier states:
“They are number one…they are the best team!”
The child looks at all of us, one by one, puzzled, then down at his shirt, looks up at Javier and then turns intentionally, and continues on his way with no reaction.
The funeral/party
Not long after, we note a few black Hmong-dressed youth sitting on a motor-bike, looking none-too-pleased, and uncomfortable in their clothes.
Lan tells us exactly to what we will soon discover; each year following the harvest season, families get together to celebrate the dead of the past 10 years. They often eat buffalo; slaughtering the largest one of the family’s patriarch (often an expensive ordeal in that a healthy water buffalo can cost 40-50 million Vietnamese Dong = $1,800-2,240), or pigs, depending on the wealth of the family. But they always, spend at least one afternoon in the boiling (rather than blazing due to the humidity) heat getting really drunk on absurd amounts of homemade rice wine.
Sure enough, as we made our way closer to the “party” teenagers leaning, sitting on or stumbling by their motorbikes were taking shot after shot of the “happy water”. Laughing hysterically, and pouring shot after shot in tiny ceramic cups, and dressed uncomfortably in their traditional garb (that Lan told us they rarely wear regularly), the party rages, and thoughts of Animal House come to mind, except showcased in the Vietnamese country-side, and with a lot less John Belushi.
We pass thought the crowd lining the road and many of them call to us, raising drinks they’ve poured, half in the glass/half on the ground. We nod and move along, only to soon realize that Lan has been trapped and is now also laughing hysterically, surround and is now taking drinks with a few of the teenage boys; the blue striped umbrella she holds highlighting her difference in the crowd of black dressed kids. And then, we are cornered by one boy who insists, stumbles a bit, and pours a drink for me, to which I nod “no”. HE persists and persists to which I let the opportunity to take shots with a Hmong teenager override my fear of getting sick on something I have no confidence in, quality-control wise. It’s strong but pleasant. In that moment he then pours a shot for Rebecca who drinks half – he finishes the rest.
Now, I’m instantly hooked. I want to stay, and I tell Rebecca that it would be fun; changing 180 degrees from my viewpoint one shot ago. She rolls her eyes, and I look back to notice a small delivery truck attempting to make the sharp turn, to pass the band of drunken crowd. Now trapped in, one of then climb aboard the truck and begin handing the driver shots. He drinks. Then another climbs in. Another drink. Then another. The “authentically dressed” and stumbling teens swarm the driver until his jovial state allows him to press on, laughing and smiling at us as he passes.
Clearly a highlight of the trip, up to that point, we talk little for the next hour or so as Lan talks about the culture around rice wine, celebrating the art of harvest, the importance of the animals, and then on to expectations of marriage, family life, and the as a part of the greater community.
Finally, we arrive to our homestay for the night following the post-lunch descent (the trickiest one yet/ and warmest). Arriving in Ban Ho, we settle, shower, and again tell stories with the Spaniards. We enjoy another dinner of rice, and fried spring rolls that we helped to roll in the vast and ancient-looking kitchen. For a westerner the cooking space lacks the modern feels, but you quickly get drawn back to the essence of cooking of what works, and the way it used to be for all of us. And maybe, a bit about how it should still be. The tiny stools we sit on are perfectly built for the work, and you get the sense that begrudging cooking never happens in this space.
Before bed, Lan tells us a story about a frog turned suitor, and a snake who lost me with the bird in the cage eaten by the old woman. I say ‘good night’, and not long after the resident children have already gone, as the family lingers but is soon to follow my cue; awaiting all of us to crash, so they can button up to host another tired group like ours, again tomorrow.
