Day 185: Sapa Adventure

Sapa is a strange and unique place û so different from my Western world. It is dusty remote roads and colorful people make it the most exotic place I've ever visited.

This morning our small tour group clambered back onto our minibus to head out of town and to trek among the near-by hill tribe villages.

As our bus reached the edge of town, out the window something white caught the corner of my eye. Looking closer, with a mixture of shock and surprise, I realized it was the carcass of a large dog. Most of its fur was gone and its white body stood out glaringly against the dusty grey sidewalk. Squatting next to it was an old woman carefully pulling out the little remaining fur. I knew the Vietnamese ate dog but this was the first time I had seen anyone preparing one for consumption. While traveling I struggle to keep an open mind to cultural differences. If the old woman had been plucking feathers from a chicken I probably wouldn't have given it a second thought. Meat is meat, right? Still, the sight left me feeling queasy and a little uneasy.

The bus continued to rumble along windy roads and the views were breathtaking. We were greeted by rice terraces carved into the steep hills, basic wooden houses with small children peering out of doorways and hill tribe women carrying large baskets on their backs as they walked along the road. Deep in the valley below a river ran, stumbling and tripping over rocks.

I was still recovering from seeing the dog carcass when I spotted a group of women on the side of the road gathered around a man and his motorcycle. A large pink pig hung over the back of the motorcycle. It was so big the head and tail almost touched the ground. On closer inspection I realized the middle of the pig was missing - almost in the perfect shape of a square. Confused, I looked at our guide for an explanation. He said the man was a local butcher. He traveled to the houses with the dead pig and the women ordered pieces, which he cut right there. Door to door service! Later, in a cloud of dust, he passed our bus on his motorcycle with the pig still draped on the back, innards hanging out.

A few kilometers out of town our minibus stopped by an old abandoned church the French had built long ago. Now all that remained was its stone shell. We continued down the red clay road by foot. As we arrived at the first village, Dao women and girls surrounded us to sell their wares. I was enveloped in a sea of red turbans, mud-caked feet and hands shoving jewellery and embroidered purses in my face. At first I declined to buy from them, but they persisted and my defenses broke down. The older women's grins, with only a couple yellow teeth remaining, were hard to resist. Two bracelets and one purse later I walked on.

The village consisted of a couple stores, a small health clinic, a post office and a school. With no trees, sparse vegetation and dirt roads it had the feel of a ghost town.

We continued up a small dirt path, through rice paddies, toward an even more basic village. Thirty wooden houses sat perches on a steep hill. As we approached I heard children yelling and caught glimpses of black forms scrambling down the hill. When we arrived at a small wooden gate, marking the entrance to the village, we were greeted by a dozen children dressed in indigo blue (the H'mong tribe). They stared at us, their eyes reflecting caution as much as curiosity. I am sure we were a strange sight - tall giants dressed in hiking boots and fleece jackets, interrupting their daily lives.

As we climbed up the hill, more and more children emerged. Most were very young and shy, all were covered with dust and dirt. Any awkwardness soon melted though as the older boys demonstrated their skills at shooting wooden arrows from a crossbow. They use the crossbow to kill birds, rats and an occasional rabbit, for food.

We were then ushered into a small house consisting of two smoky dark rooms with dirt floors. It was lunch time so several woman were dishing out vegetable and rice to about ten children. While the men work in the forest and fields, the women stay home and care for the children. Over thirty people live in this particular house. At night, they sleep on the floor wherever there is space.

One of the more interesting sights I saw was when we first approached the village. In a small stream a wooden contraption was built. It was a hydroelectric generator - on a Gilligan's Island scale. Thin wires hung from the generator to each house allowing enough electricity for each house to have one light bulb.