Easy Rider Meets Vietnam

(Early morning train arrival in Lao Cai.)

Just after sunrise, before the birds finished their morning song, our train pulled into Lao Cai, a few kilometers south of the Chinese border. For 6:30 a.m., the station was alive and kicking with buses, vans and taxis in the lurch ready to whisk tourists away to the town of Sapa, 45 kilometers into the nearby mountains. Ten years ago, before satellite television and tourists, Lao Cai was a sleepy border town still recovering from a Chinese invasion in 1979. Today, it is a boomtown supported by the regular influx of tourists and trade with the Chinese.

A bit dazed and tired from our ten hour train ride, we searched for a sign with our names from that mandatory reception crowd at all third world points of tourist transit. No such luck, we resorted to our back up plan, find a bus headed in our direction. We located a mid-size bus already packed full of glassy eyed tourists heading to Sapa. The driver and helpers were eager to load us aboard, but we stalled thinking that maybe our van was running late. No van in site, we boarded the bus to Sapa on two “jump” seats folding out into the middle isle. These were the seats occupying the entrance and exit aisle of the bus, no one would exit or enter without going through us and about ten bags leaned against the bus door.

The bus ride began like any other, soft rumbling of discussion amongst different groups in varied languages and everyone peering around to guess from what countries others were visiting. I was in the mix with a group from France and Jason was blocking the exit for some Aussies. Climbing out of the valley several thousand feet, the bus raced around hairpin curves passing the occasional slow poke truck blowing black smoke from its tail pipe. Seated in the middle of the sizeable bus, I relaxed into my chair and reached for the non-existent handles to keep from bumping into those seated next to me as we rounded the curves.

Unfortunately as the bus climbed and gripped the curves, some passengers began to reach a low point in any traveler’s experience, vomiting into bags two rows ahead and two rows behind me. Their low point was quickly becoming mine. As I searched for an escape, Jason continued to focus his concentration on the Aussie with whom he was speaking to take his mind off of the unsightly moment. The bus stopped and one of the sick passenger’s boyfriend pleaded with the luggage man seated near the door to open the door and let her off. He refused, instead offering to let her sit in the front seat. The girl was a trooper and the bus continued onward for another thirty long minutes to our final destination, but not without the man seated next to Jason first opening a can of tuna and eating it during the remainder of the ride, apparently unphased by the displaced stomach contents sitting in bags on the floor.

If nothing else happened that day, getting off the bus would be a highlight. We checked into our hotel on the outskirts of town and met our guide, “Dan”. Thirty years old and eight days away from an official “Catholic church engagement” to his twenty-one year old girlfriend, Dan was a quippy jokester with very good English and six other languages under his belt. The plan sketched in Hanoi was to trek and visit a few of the tribes located in the hills surrounding Sapa. When we discovered “trekking” really meant visiting the tribal peoples that received tourists on a daily basis, the “trek” lost its charm and we fished for alternatives.

Always appreciative of our freedom to go anywhere, anytime, when mention of motor bikes fell on our ears, a deal was in the making. We could cover more ground, see less touristy areas and stop and go whenever we wanted. Within an hour, Dan had three motorbikes in front of our hotel. One quick lesson on shifting the four geared engine later, and we were footloose and fancy free, free birds on the open roads of the Lao Cai Province.


Wind at my face, sun beaming on my shades and terraced mountain and valley panoramas around every corner, I repeatedly blinked, seizing and savoring each passing moment. Motorbike is the way to go in Vietnam, provided you are ok with the occasional confrontation with the grill of a large oncoming Russian or Chinese made cargo truck. Dan brought along his girlfriend and the four of us wound our way out of Sapa to visit three different tribes, stopping to have lunch with one of them.

The H’Mong tribe was first on our list and in retrospect, retained the most native means of life and dress. The two tribes we visited later, the Zay and Zao, were already fitted with satellite dishes on some of the homes and electricity. The Vietnamese government, tourist dollars or both, had brought the window to the world to the hill tribes. In fact, while we had lunch at the Zao tribe village, kids and adults were glued to a television with what appeared to be a Vietnamese soap opera. I couldn’t help but think, as the world turns, it is getting smaller day by day.

Tribal Fact of the Day: The H’Mong have a unique twist to courtship, or as the FBI calls it, kidnapping. At the age of 12 or 14, H’Mong girls go to town for Saturday night markets. If a boy sees her at the market and wishes to pursue her, he must follow her home without her knowing. Assuming he accomplishes that mission successfully, he will then tell his family that he wants to marry her. If they approve, his family then plots and participates in a matrimonial abduction. The family then goes with the boy to lie in wait outside the girl’s house where they hide waiting for her to come out. When she leaves the nest to do chores, go to town or work, the boy jumps out from behind a tree or a rock and grabs onto her wrist professing his intentions. If the girl hocks a loogie, the harsh sound of rejection, he must let her go.

(H'Mong women weaving clothes on hilltop.)

However, no loogie flung, the family will assist him in getting her out of the village back to his room where he will feed her for three days. If she eats the food for three days, then they will be married, if not, then she will be returned to her village. When her family discovers she has been taken, they may attempt to rescue her, especially if her father does not approve. Ultimately, if the girl stays with the boy, she has agreed to marry him and the boy’s family will then approach her family to discuss payment, MasterCard and personal checks not accepted. The girl’s father will set a price and the boy’s father will try to negotiate him down in price. When and if the price is agreed upon, the wedding is set.

And don’t worry about finding a priest, rabbi, minister or preacher, the village witch doctor will marry the kids. To signify the beginning of holy matrimony, the good doctor will smear goat’s blood on the girl’s back, basically symbolizing that the girl now belongs to the boy, like he would own a goat. Who says we have nothing to learn from the hill tribes in Vietnam? Think of the savings on the big day, no Vera Wang, no 2 carat platinum ice rings, no church fees, no overpriced photographer and no wilting flowers. Makes a lot of sense, dollars and cents.

Walking through the H’Mong village, the kids would approach within ten feet of us, but when the camera was pointed at them, they ran for the hills. I’m not sure if they were shy or if they were expecting money from previous encounters with tourists. The kids were sweet to each other and they played the simplest of games with rocks and lines drawn in the cement porch of their homes, climbed trees and helped carry on daily chores for the household.

In one home, we found two women weaving hemp fabric for clothing while the children looked on as understudies. The three room home was constructed of a thatch roof, a hard mud floor and basket woven like bamboo walls. One room served as a kitchen, one for sleeping and one general purpose room, i.e., dining, working and living. By most western standards, the home was basic, but the people seemed just as happy if not happier than many people I have known with greater material resources.

When the sun neared the mountain tops in the West, we headed back to Sapa on our motorbikes. There were many good reasons to return before dark, we didn’t know if our headlights worked, there were no street lights, it was difficult to see vehicles moving ahead on the road and it was difficult to even see each other. Sapa often experiences dense fog similar to San Francisco minus the cold temperatures. We rolled into town, like Peter and Dennis (minus the American flagged leather jacket), just as the sun set.


P.S. The next three days I will be unbable to post as we are heading out to Ha Long Bay on a Chinese junk it boat, doubt they have internet access. Back at the blog on Monday. Have a great weekend!