Franks in Sa Pa

After the painful “tour” of Ha Long Bay, Claire and I were a little apprehensive about booking our next tour to Sa Pa, a series of ethnic minority farming communities about 9 hours from Hanoi. Generally, we try to stay away from organized tours, but in Vietnam it’s very difficult to view these sights without a guide and reliable means of non-motorbike(!!!) transportation. We’d heard great things about the trek through Sa Pa, so we decided to risk it and booked through a different agency. The trip we booked included an overnight train to Sa Pa, two days of guided trekking with a home stay night in between, and an overnight train back to Hanoi. We selected a more reputable travel agency this time, which was vouched for by a customer we met outside (traveler recommendation is truly the best way to shop in Asia).

What a difference. Our guide Maya was a sweetheart, spoke English quite well and doubled as Claire’s hair stylist. Our tour ended up being private; just me, Claire, Maya and a herd of local women following us trying to sell us trinkets. They wound up disappointed. The trek was very muddy (more Claire Mishaps to follow in an additional post) and difficult; lots more uphill slogging over squelchy terrain. Of course, Maya jumped the stones and hopped down the steep muddy cliffs like a rabbit, presumably so that she could turn around and enjoy the two of us meticulously picking our way down, looking like weebles that occasionally do fall down (Hooray! Bad Analogies tag!).

The scenery was worth it. The people of Sa Pa have been farming the mountainous region for centuries, and it shows in the bounty they can get out of such inhospitable terrain. The rice terraces are a marvel, and turn the mountains into a lovely green patchwork of waving green reeds. Possibly the highlight, however, was our home stay. We were a bit afraid that it would be cheesy, or (worse yet) impersonal. It was anything but. The family we stayed with was fun and open, and we were able to communicate despite the language barrier (with Maya sometimes translating). The mother cooked one of the best meals we’ve had, which we enjoyed over two raucous hours at the dinner table, where the beer flowed freely into and around our mouths.

Early in the dinner the father pulled out a plastic Aquafina bottle and poured each of us a small gulp of the clear liquid in a shot glass. We thought this custom was a bit odd, as water is generally something we’re used to enjoying in larger quantities, but we toasted nonetheless. Upon throwing back the shot, our mouths were instead greeted by strong rice wine, which put everything back in its proper context. Every 5 or 10 minutes the shot glasses were refilled, and we toasted in various languages before tossing back another. After 5 or so, we started to get concerned about the rest of our trek the next day, especially since we were working with beer chasers. Our alarmed faces didn’t stop the rice wine river, though, and we continued to ride until we couldn’t anymore. The last thing I expected during my home stay was to get toasted, but unexpected things often happen when you’re traveling.

The next morning we said goodbye to our friendly enablers (sorry about the blurry image) and hit the trail once again, for a shorter trek that ended up in the hotel we had started from the day before. There, we bid farewell to Maya, and caught a bus to a train back to Hanoi, with muddy clothes and virtually unrecognizable shoes (they still haven’t fully recovered). Thankfully, our shoes have received a nice two-week break in Thailand, but that’s another post.