Huddled in a frozen mass on the mattress, I peeled the woolly throw from my face just long enough to ask Amanda how her current fire-building attempt was going.
“Well, the wood is damp, there’s a draft from the flue that keeps blowing out the flame, and I’ve lost all feeling in my fingertips. Otherwise, it’s awesome,” she said, readjusting her ski cap to fit more snugly over her ears.
“All right, we just need something dry to use as kindling,” I replied, gathering up my cocoon of blankets and trudging out the door and back to the front desk to collect a pile of hotel literature. Catching my reflection in a hallway mirror, I groaned at the sad girl who looked like death not at all warmed over.
It’s not that I wasn’t thrilled to be in Vietnam, but between the flurry of overland bus trips and whirlwind tours Amanda, Holly, and I had packed into the past few weeks, we’d neglected to do our homework. So we were in complete and utter shock to encounter hearty gusts of wind and fleece-worthy temperatures when we stepped off the plane in Hanoi. Apparently, unlike our first stop in Vietnam, Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon) in the south, the northern part of the country actually gets cold during the winter months. We’d gotten so spoiled by the seemingly endless summers that we’d chased thus far across the globe that the girls and I were ill prepared to handle even the tiniest bit of Jack Frost.
But after spending a couple days pounding the pavements looking for essential cold-weather attire in Hanoi’s bustling Old Quarter and resting our travel-weary bones in a cozy B & B, we were eager to take one of the excursions that had drawn us to this region of Vietnam in the first place: a spectacular trek through the misty mountains of Sapa, a quaint frontier town near the border of China. So we booked a four-day trip offered through Kangaroo Café, one of Hanoi’s most reputable tour operators and, incidentally, one of the few places in the city that serves huge mugs of coffee (as opposed to the thimble-sized teacups that are the local standard). Not only would we squeeze in some hard-core hiking, we would also have the unique opportunity to stay with a local Hmong family in one of the tribal villages along the trail.
Happy to trade the city smog for country fresh air, we packed small weekend bags, stashed our big backpacks in our guesthouse storage area, and boarded an eight-hour train to Lao Cai, where we’d catch a van transfer to Sapa.
Compared with many of our previous rail trips, the ride through northern Vietnam was a breeze. Our cozy little sleeper car came equipped with real pillows, fluffy blankets, lamps with actual shades on them, complimentary bottles of water, and, most important, no cockroaches. Although we arrived at the station at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m., we felt surprisingly well rested and ready to explore the local village. Well, this was until we actually stepped foot outside and realized that the “slightly cooler climate” we’d been told to expect was actually closer to that of a postapocalyptic Antarctica.
Melodramatic, maybe, but anyone who’s known me for more than five seconds can attest to the fact that when the temperature drops below freezing (which in my opinion occurs at 55 degrees), I transform to “Pure-evil Jen” faster than Carrie on prom night. And after spending the past seven months in countries where eggs could legitimately fry on the sidewalks, who could blame me for being a bit wimpy? But my thin skin would probably toughen up again after a day or so in our new environment. And even if it didn’t, our hotel was sure to have a roaring fireplace and cozy heated rooms, right?
Unfortunately, the only source of (supposed) warmth in our double was a miniature wood-burning fire pit in the corner, covered in cobwebs thick enough to trap a small cat. Sprinting back to the room, I used one of five remaining matches to light the edge of a brochure that depicted an attractive couple drinking wine by a blazing hearth in our very same lodge. As their smiling faces went up in flames, I was hopeful. But the wood still failed to ignite.
“I’ve lit massive bonfires in torrential downpours at campsites up and down the Appalachian Trail and never had this much trouble,” I wailed.
“Oh, yeah, well I used to walk a hundred miles barefoot through the snow to get to school,” Holly said, appearing in the doorway. “So I finally got a fire going in my room, but unless you’re sitting directly on the coals, it’s not that warm. I figure the only way to avoid becoming a block of ice is to get out of here and move our bodies.”
“Do you mean, you actually want to exercise right now? It’s barely 8 a.m.,” I protested.
“I guess it’s better than turning into Popsicles here in the room,” Amanda said.
“Definitely. Why don’t we hike to the Cat Cat waterfall, which is only about three kilometers away. And then we can grab a huge breakfast. Pancakes, eggs—anything you want,” Holly said.
Although I was still grumpy, the thought of food perked me up enough to agree.
“All right, as long as I get first dibs on the coffee, I’m in,” I said before all three of us bundled up and headed outside.
Just after dawn the next morning, we were wrenched out of sleep by a sharp rapping on the door. The small fire we’d managed to build before falling asleep had long since crumbled to a pile of cold ash. Unwillingly cracking the shell of my cryogenic chamber with my two-ply wool feet, I stumbled across the room to see who was knocking.
“Morning! Hello! You to have your breakfast now. Then meet guide for hike, okay,” sang the cheerful owner, whom we’d met yesterday at check-in.
“Oh, okay. Thank you. Uhh…cam on,” I stammered in Vietnamese, but he’d already proceeded to Holly’s room next door.
Quickly stuffing the few items we didn’t already have on our bodies into our small daypacks, the three of us then climbed a long set of stone steps up to the lodge café. Although a few sheets of Sapa’s dense signature fog had burned off at daybreak, an ominous rumble rippled across the charcoal sky and freshly squeezed raindrops were starting to form puddles in the outdoor stairwells. Snagging the wooden bench closest to the potbellied stove in the dining area, Amanda, Holly, and I sat sleepily clutching tin mugs of hot cocoa. We stared out the panoramic windows, searching the hazy skyline in vain for Fan Si Pan, the country’s highest mountain and last major peak in the Himalayan chain.
“Are you Jennifer, Amanda, and Holly?” a bubbly voice called across the room.
Simultaneously turning, we were greeted by a young local woman with a petite but sturdy-looking five-foot frame and striking facial features. She was dressed in a raven-dyed wrap dress, apron, and leg warmers, with silver bangles dangling from her wrists and colorful scarves and ribbons tied around her neck, her waist, and the top of her socks.
“I’m Tsu,” she said. “I will be leading you on your trip.”
With a near-flawless English accent, Tsu (pronounced Sue) gave us a quick briefing on herself. She’d been working as a guide for nearly three years, had grown up in a neighboring village, where she still lived with her family, had taken classes in hospitality and tourism at a city school, was presently single—but looking—and loved American movies and music. As her attire suggested, Tsu was a member of the Black Hmong, the Sapa region’s most prominent tribal subgroup (there are also White, Green, Red, and Striped Hmong). One of the largest ethnic minorities in the nation, the Hmong are believed to have descended from the people of southern China who settled in the bordering regions of Vietnam, Laos, and Myanmar. In striking contrast to the Hmong villagers Amanda and I had encountered during a tour in Laos, Tsu had been around Westerners most of her life, and with her easygoing nature and wry wit, she was a favorite among the Kangaroo Café–sanctioned leaders.
After shoveling a few bites of omelet and bread into our mouths, we hit the now-rain-soaked streets and joined up with several other tour groups all prepped and ready to start the trek. Examining our clothing, Tsu suggested we make a quick pit stop at her friend’s store to pick up some cheap rain gear, which turned out to be our saving grace. Our small daypacks stuffed beneath yellow plastic ponchos with only our heads peeking out from the hoods, Amanda, Holly, and I looked like a strange breed of mutant turtle as we splashed through puddles and slowly navigated the first of many steep climbs.
It didn’t take us long to discover that a tortoiselike pace was in fact a necessary survival tactic if we didn’t want to pitch right over the edge of the path. After several steady hours of drizzle, the hillsides were frosted in thick, gooey layers of mud and the trail had been transformed into an obstacle course worthy of a Real World/Road Rules Challenge Gauntlet round.
A few wild arm flails, awkward hip shakes, and nosedives later, Amanda, Holly, and I had unintentionally invented a brand-new dance: the Sapa Slide. Unlike its cheesy predecessors, such as the Electric Slide, the Macarena, or Mambo No. 5, the Sapa Slide didn’t require any lame music scores, choreography skills, or even hand/eye coordination. Success was measured purely on one’s ability to (a) make a complete fool of oneself, (b) avoid sudden death or dismemberment, and (c) keep inevitable swearing under control, particularly considering the large number of impressionable youths who had latched onto our group.
“Now, remember, kids, we are trained professionals, so please don’t try to re-create our moves at home without…adult…super…vision,” I managed to utter before the root I was clutching snapped and I sailed three feet back down the trail.
Despite our best efforts to popularize our illustrious new dance moves, they didn’t seem to be catching on with the locals. Everyone—from Tsu to the hordes of resident schoolchildren to the shrunken old grandmothers who’d joined our caravan—was able to work the trail like supermodels at fashion week. Strutting gracefully to the end of the path, they’d turn to offer words and gestures of encouragement, while politely attempting to stifle their giggles at our spastic attempts. As they effortlessly strolled along, some of the older girls even wove small toys and intricate crowns of freshly picked grass and thistles, without so much as breaking a sweat. But despite the obvious discrepancies in skill level, together we formed the perfect team: they helped us successfully navigate the slippery slopes, and we kept them entertained.
After an hour or so, Holly, Amanda, and I found our groove and were eventually even able to carry on a conversation with our new Hmong friends and look up from time to time. With the rain finally tapering off and the gray clouds moving on to reveal bluer skies, the girls and I reached the top of one particularly slippery rise and surveyed the scene that had finally become visible before us. Vertical rice terraces rose skyward while vast paddy fields blanketed the lower slopes of the Hoang Lien Mountains. Scenery befitting a Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale stretched endlessly across the rolling hillsides. A powerful nostalgia sparked within me for a time when my banana seat bicycle could fly me anywhere, couch cushions were the building blocks of castles, and giants roamed freely in the backyard. Even at my present “adult” age, I half expected to see strange woodland creatures emerging from the mist or one of the many pigs indulging in an afternoon mud bath to sit up and start talking to us.
Blame it on a temporary midtrip slump, but in recent weeks, I’d become exhausted—and a bit jaded by backpacker life and the incessant claims of “once in a lifetime” adventures. But I was happily surprised, in that instant, to find myself feeling invigorated and appreciative again. Road weariness notwithstanding, this hike truly was a remarkable experience, one that I would undoubtedly long for after returning home. But as intuitive as it may seem, I had to remind myself to savor these ever-fleeting moments. Making a conscious effort to bask in my fantasy-inducing surroundings, I (for once) maintained relative silence throughout the duration of our journey.
A few hours later, the path leveled out and Tsu directed us to a small wooden farmhouse that would serve as our digs for the evening. Clearly accustomed to having Westerners tromp through their home on a daily basis, the host family barely flinched as we piled into the entryway, our boots tracking mud and water droplets spilling off our ponchos, forming puddles on the dirt floor. Assorted garden tools, baskets of plants and vegetables, and oversized burlap sacks filled with rice, corn, and grain lined the perimeter of the main room. Nestled in the rafters above was a large platform accessible by a ladder. Near the back wall, five young children and an elderly woman sat squished together on a threadbare sofa, their eyes glued to an incongruous satellite television set. Welcoming us in, the mother directed us into an adjacent shed, where the father and possibly an uncle or grandfather sat in the corner chatting with each other while chopping and preparing food.
After we settled down on three-legged stools around a small fire pit carved out of the earthen ground, Tsu introduced us to Hai, a young male guide, and his two charges, an Australian couple, Karen and David, who were on an extended honeymoon. I’ll admit that my ideal postwedding getaway did not include barnyard animals of any kind, but I was envious of their ability to take a full month off work and awed by their knowledge of the local culture and the tenets of responsible tourism.
Ever since Amanda, Holly, and I had touched down in Peru, and encountered hundreds of tiny children hawking Chiclets and cigarettes, we’d wrestled with issues of social responsibility on the part of tourists. While it was a bit disconcerting watching my dollars spawn future MTV generations among ancient tribal Hmong children, according to David and Karen, the alternative was often much worse. In the absence of income from hosting homestay tours, many minority people relied solely on the corn and rice they harvested for food. And since rice is a labor-intensive crop with a single annual yield, residents of many communities were malnourished. Tsu agreed but also pointed out that many children were dropping out of school altogether to sell trinkets on the trails.
“It is fortunate that some tour companies create education programs to address this problem. And it really is much better that people like you come to villages like this,” she added.
Supporting organizations that gave back to the local community and volunteering our time and money certainly was a start, but it didn’t change the fact that at the end of the day, we got to return to our cushy middle-class existence, with its infinite opportunities, when most of the world’s population didn’t have ample food, clothing, or shelter. As I looked across the room, one of the kids got up off the couch and shuffled barefoot across the dirt floor to change the television channel.
Watching him, I remembered one particularly sweet little boy in the Hmong village Amanda and I had visited in Laos. He had been fully dressed on top with a long-sleeved shirt, sweater vest, and suit jacket, but no clothing to speak of on the bottom. Our guide had explained that because there were no viable diaper options, it was easier for parents to let their offspring go half naked so they could use the bathroom without having to be cleaned up afterward.
At first I’d been heartbroken and slightly baffled by the notion, but in reality, it seemed their solution was the most practical. And after spending the afternoon playing with the kids, I noticed that each and every one of them smiled and laughed and skipped around as if they didn’t have any concerns at all. They happily played with sticks and rubber balls, and instead of rocking horses, they rode around on live turkeys, lifting them up and stretching their necks like Play-Doh with barely a gobble from the birds in protest. And though their parents and grandparents might have struggled to feed them, there was no shortage of love or hugs. Of course, my first instinct had been to immediately head back to town and organize a food and clothing drive to benefit the families. But the experience did make me question whether our Western ideals really were superior to the values they’d already learned.
In fact, traveling in developing nations often raised questions such as this one in my mind, especially in places like Sapa, where tourists breezed through for a few nights, rarely staying long enough to see the fruits, or potential damage, of their travels. But as I watched our host family enjoy the same ample portions of fried potatoes, sliced beef with ginger, and a medley of garden vegetables as we did—rather than a small amount of rice or corn for dinner—it did seem that our presence had an effect that was more positive than negative.
After the residents had retired to their own quarters in a different part of the farmhouse, Amanda, Holly, and I lingered around the fire with David, Karen, Tsu, and Hai. The consummate cultural anthropologist, Holly peppered them with questions about their heritage, where they had grown up, how they had gotten started as tour guides, their families, and their criteria for marriage.
“We are allowed to date anyone that we would like and choose our own husband or wife. Mostly we meet people at the market, and then we go out to get a meal after. But I am usually with my friends only because there are not very many good men in my village,” Tsu said.
“Tsu, we totally understand that,” Amanda replied. “There aren’t a lot of good men in our village either.”
“That is why Hai and I love to give tours, because we meet so many other people that way. And now we must all have a special dessert,” Tsu added, pulling a bottle out of her bag. Describing it as homemade rice wine, she and Hai poured us all shots and instructed us to gulp them down in one swift swallow. One part lighter fluid, two parts rubbing alcohol—so it seemed to our throats and stomachs, anyway—this popular local liquor burned away any residual chill left in our bones and probably put hair in places we didn’t want it.
“Come on, you have to have more,” Hai prompted, topping off our glasses. Good God, I was going to die right here, wasn’t I?
Luckily, after several more polite acceptances of this seemingly lethal libation, our entire group was still alive and laughing up a storm. And the more we chatted with Tsu, the more she reminded us of our girlfriends back home. With her feisty disposition, razor-sharp sense of humor, and remarkable ability to throw back booze, she could have fit effortlessly into New York City life. In fact, her facial features and mannerisms were practically identical to those of my favorite producer from my past television life.
This wasn’t the first time this sort of comparative recognition had happened to me on the road. But it never ceased to amaze me that no matter how far we were from home or how isolated the pocket of the planet we were exploring, people were inherently the same.
After a thoroughly satisfying home-cooked breakfast of high-altitude pancakes, which, though flatter than their sea-level counterparts, tasted just as delicious, we got an early start for what Tsu warned us would be a rigorous five-hour hike. No problem. The weather was clear, and we had the Sapa Slide down to a science anyway. Unfortunately, we couldn’t have predicted the challenge that lay before us.
The previous day’s storm had done serious damage to the trails, which were now a complete disaster. Broken tree branches, slippery stones, and even thicker layers of sludge stretched for miles. Even the locals were taking baby steps to get down some of the more treacherous inclines, many of them adopting the Sapa Slide as they tried to carry baskets of sticks on their backs. Just when I thought the worst was behind us—or rather, caked on our butts—we reached a sprawling rice paddy. Stepping onto the thin grass strip that was our only means across, Tsu motioned for us to follow. Perched precariously on the leafy ledge, Holly, Amanda, and I had only six inches of space to play with before we would become “one” with the watery crop below. Performing a delicate balancing act worthy of a circus tent, we stutter-stepped slowly along the makeshift bridge, lending a saving hand to one another during a few close calls. At one point Amanda and I slid into each other, nearly sending her camera to a watery death. Eyes fixed firmly on our soggy feet for the duration of the hundred-yard shimmy to safety, we finally reached the path that continued on the other side.
From that point on, we finally got the authentic trekking experience we’d been craving. The trail now wound around a series of steep but thankfully dry hills, through lush forests packed with bamboo, and over jagged rock formations. Despite our slippery start, we managed to finish the hike almost an hour ahead of schedule. Along with dozens of other hikers, our group settled around one of several small plastic tables set up in the middle of a field to dine on jumbo bowls of noodle soup and hot tea. Since Tsu and Hai were going to be continuing on foot to another village, we had to get all our hugs and tipping ceremonies in before our assigned van arrived.
“All right, my crazy girls. You enjoy your night in Sapa, and you should visit the market tomorrow. Maybe you will like the men there better than I do,” Tsu said with a wink before jumping in with another group heading down the hill. A quick pit stop at the ladies’ bush and we were ready to brave the bumpy two-hour ride back to town. Unfortunately, we still hadn’t prepared ourselves for the arctic accommodations we knew were awaiting us in Sapa.
Unable to bear another night of subzero sleep in our guesthouse, we made a collective decision to sell out. We forfeited the few Vietnamese dong we’d spent on our current room and moved to one of the other cheap hotels on the block that provided their guests with space heaters. We’d already proven we could tough it out on the trail. Plus, Holly and Amanda wisely realized that it was in their best interest to take all precautions necessary against the emergence of pure-evil Jen.
After waking up in a warm, toasty room the next morning, the three of us practically skipped through the cobblestone streets, well rested and motivated to pack in as much as we could before nightfall. Entering the city center, we were swept into a bustling bazaar that stretched down the sloping street. The lifeblood of the local trade industry, the market was flooded with hundreds of Hmong, who milled around selling everything from traditional clothing and handicrafts to livestock and heaping baskets of plums and cabbages.
After browsing numerous craft stalls and making a few requisite jewelry purchases, we made our way up Thac Bac Road to find Baguette & Chocolat, a French-style villa that doubled as a boutique hotel and café, rumored to have the best bakery in town. Settling into a white leather sofa lined with plush pillows, we spent more than twenty minutes perusing the extensive menu before settling on a decadent order of iron-pressed paninis, gourmet salads, a chocolate raspberry soufflé to share, and a round of the signature homemade hot cocoa.
“Have you ever had this drink before?” inquired a quirky-looking young Frenchman with a shock of charcoal curls who sat alone at the table next to ours. “It is absolutely exquisite. My favorite in all of Sapa,” he added, his accent confirming his nationality.
Seemingly plucked from the screen of an art house film, Emanuel was a fascinating character who soon became our fourth dining companion. Immediately after graduation two years earlier, he’d accepted a position as a junior curator at an impressionist gallery in Hanoi, where he currently shared a house with five other expats. He was on a brief holiday to Sapa to visit some friends but was returning to Hanoi that night on the same train we were taking. Since our van was picking us up in an hour at our hotel, we offered to give him a ride to the station. While he dashed off to grab his bags from his hotel, we settled the bill. As it turned out, Baguette & Chocolat was founded as a vocational school to train disadvantaged youths and local hill tribe minorities in hotel and restaurant services. So, as we’d always done in the past, Holly, Amanda, and I made sure to drop a few extra notes on the table before we left.
Although I hadn’t initially warmed to Sapa, as we made our way across the town square, which was now bathed in a soft gas-lantern glow, I couldn’t help but feel an unexpected tug of affection for this frosty mountain town. It certainly hadn’t been the luxurious escape I’d hoped it would be, but it had temporarily pulled Amanda, Holly, and me out of the mini-funk that had settled over us during our first few days in Hanoi. And though we still couldn’t quite shake the weariness in our vagabonding bones, there was a reprieve in sight. In less than two weeks, the three of us would head back to Bangkok and then go our separate ways for a little while—Amanda and Holly jetting off to Myanmar to vacation with Amanda’s family and me journeying across the Atlantic to visit my parents in their new Florida abode. It was a much-needed break that I knew would be good for us, but until then, Amanda, Holly, and I were going to lace up our muddy boots, hoist on our backpacks, and keep on trekking.