Post from Michelle:
5:30 a.m., Hanoi:
It is still dark outside. The street is quiet and peaceful, no hints of the frantic energy that will consume it shortly.
Tim and I sit on the steps outside of our hotel. Like the city, we are just waking up. Across the street an old man emerges. He vigorously swings his arms, squats a few times and then begins a brisk walk. A lone cyclo driver passes, hoping for an early morning customer. A figure burns trash on the corner and the fire's orange light jumps and dances. A woman with a large basket on her head stops to sell us bread still warm from the oven.
We hear the sound of an engine. Bright headlights swing around the corner and blind us for a second. Our mini-van has arrived. We board and start our journey to Sapa.
5:30 p.m., Sapa:
Twelve hours later we spill out of the bus, our legs cramped and necks stiff from the long, bumpy journey. Although uncomfortable, the ride treated us to rich views of the Vietnamese countryside and scenic vistas: rice terraced hills, windy rivers, and water buffalo tilling the fields.
Sapa is a hill station in north-west Vietnam built by the French almost 80 years ago. It sits on the border of China, high in the mountains surrounded by mountain peaks and swirling mist. The cool temperature and thin air remind me of how high up we are. The land is rich with green and yellow farmland and rice terraces. The streets are dusty, but rich with blue, red and black of the minority hill tribe people who live around Sapa.
We have come here to see these people who have changed little from their ancestors. We plan to trek to the surrounding villages, wander the lively town market, and admire the hill tribe handicrafts.
It is still dark outside. The street is quiet and peaceful, no hints of the frantic energy that will consume it shortly.
Tim and I sit on the steps outside of our hotel. Like the city, we are just waking up. Across the street an old man emerges. He vigorously swings his arms, squats a few times and then begins a brisk walk. A lone cyclo driver passes, hoping for an early morning customer. A figure burns trash on the corner and the fire's orange light jumps and dances. A woman with a large basket on her head stops to sell us bread still warm from the oven.
We hear the sound of an engine. Bright headlights swing around the corner and blind us for a second. Our mini-van has arrived. We board and start our journey to Sapa.
5:30 p.m., Sapa:
Twelve hours later we spill out of the bus, our legs cramped and necks stiff from the long, bumpy journey. Although uncomfortable, the ride treated us to rich views of the Vietnamese countryside and scenic vistas: rice terraced hills, windy rivers, and water buffalo tilling the fields.
Sapa is a hill station in north-west Vietnam built by the French almost 80 years ago. It sits on the border of China, high in the mountains surrounded by mountain peaks and swirling mist. The cool temperature and thin air remind me of how high up we are. The land is rich with green and yellow farmland and rice terraces. The streets are dusty, but rich with blue, red and black of the minority hill tribe people who live around Sapa.We have come here to see these people who have changed little from their ancestors. We plan to trek to the surrounding villages, wander the lively town market, and admire the hill tribe handicrafts.