Trekking Sapa

Now we cross the river," she says, stealing a glance to gauge my reaction. My guides are a pair of Hmong youths, 13-year-old Chi and 11-year-old Sue. We're en route to Chi's home in the Hmong village of Y Linh Ho. At first I'm confused why we're not embarking by motorized transport, as most trekkers do. That is until we turn off the road and begin descending a steep, rocky cow path descending straight to the bottom of the valley, some 500 meters (1,650 feet) below.

Despite the 90-degree heat of what is surely the hottest day of the year in Sapa, my sure-footed companions zigzag down the steep mountain terrain like mountain goats. I struggle to keep up, occasionally pausing to snap a quick photo of the stunning terraced mountain scenery before continuing the descent.

"Don't forget, I'm an old man," I shout ahead.

They giggle.

"Really, I'm probably your father's age!"

They don't believe me.

"Nooo, you're like our brother. We're your sisters," they tell me. Later, when I meet Chi's mother I'll understand why. For now I let it lie, happy to pass for younger than my 40 years.

I stop and gaze wistfully at the rushing river below. As if reading my mind, Chi calls back, "you can swim in the river if you like," confirming my worst fears: we're really going all the way to the bottom of the valley.

Sapa trecking

That was an hour ago. Now at the river there are indeed children swimming naked in the cool, clear water, without a trace of modesty or self-consciousness. On the bank a handful of Hmong women decked out in indigo tunics and black leggings stare at me with curiosity, apparently they don't get a lot of visitors this far up the valley.

"Go ahead and swim if you want," insists Chi as she and Sue begin unwrapping their leggings from around their calves. Unsure of the local etiquette I'm hesitant to strip down to my BVDs and dive in. The girls settle for removing their leggings and simply wading into the water. I roll up my jeans and follow suit, splashing my face with the cool water.

That's when Chi informs me we have to ford the river. I follow them into the swift current. It's only thigh deep, but the current is strong and the loose rocky bottom makes for difficult footing. Chi instinctively reaches for my hand, her grip firm, hands rough, undoubtedly the result of working the rice paddies.

Safely on the far side of the river we continue our trek along the valley floor in the shadow of Mount Phan Si Pan,

Vietnam buffalo

Vietnam's highest peak. Balancing stone to stone, passing within arm's reach of curious water buffalo, the girls sing a folk song in their native tongue.

Both girls speak surprisingly good English in addition to Vietnamese and their native Hmong. They explain they grow up speaking Hmong at home, learn Vietnamese in school, and later English selling homemade wares to tourists in town. Both girls are charming, funny and very bright, not to mention tireless!

I ask if any of the local Hmong attend university. They both look at me as if I had suggested they become NASA astronauts.

"No," replies Chi definitively.

"Really, nobody in the valley has ever attended university?"

"Well maybe the rich people, like the Dao" she concedes, referring to a neighboring minority tribe, "but the Hmong are dirt poor."

Home stay

As if to prove her point we soon arrive at her house, a three room wooden structure with a thatched roof and earthen floor. About a dozen kids, as many chickens and a pair of scrawny dogs greet us. One of Chi's sisters, no older than 8, carries her youngest sibling on her back. Chi invites me inside where she introduces me to her mother, a woman of 45, who easily could pass for my grandmother. Now I understand why Chi and Sue call me their brother.

The crude structure has a setting to die for, but no electricity or plumbing. Glowing embers of a fire burn in one room. The gurgling of the creek is only a few feet outside the open window. I try to imagine the family huddling together for warmth on the cold, snowy nights of winter.

I show pictures of snow-capped peaks of my home state of Colorado and my four-year-old daughter, who must appear to them to be the princess she thinks she is. After visiting for a while, we say our goodbyes and continue down the valley.

A few kilometers later we arrive at a small bridge spanning the river. A small house serves as a makeshift restaurant. Here there is motorized access and seated at the handful of tables are a smattering of tour groups. There is no menu. Fare is limited to loaves of French bread, hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes, cucumbers, local bacon and ham and canned soft drinks. We make a feast of it.

After lunch the girls encounter a neighbor, Chun. Eighteen, recently married and 7 months pregnant, Chun carries a traditional basket on her back filled with embroidered pillowcases and blankets. The girls chatter for a few minutes then inform me Chun will join us for the last leg of our trek into the village of Ta Van, about 30 minutes further. Our foursome continues down the valley, now on a hard packed dirt path.

I inquire how Chun is enjoying married life. She pauses before answering, perhaps deciding how candid to be with a stranger.

"It's harder than I thought," she explains, "I work hard selling to tourists all day. Then I get home and have to make dinner, clean and wash clothes. I'm very tired and my husband is jealous of the foreigners I meet."

"Sounds a lot like where I live," I tell her. We both laugh.

We soon arrive in the village of Ta Van, civilization in these parts. Close to the main road, Ta Van is trekking central, a jumping off point for the nearby Sacred Stones and Hmong village of Lao Chai. Makeshift shops hawk everything from bottled water to handicrafts. Jeeps and minibuses unload tourists by the dozen.

By far the biggest buildings in the village are the school and adjacent People's Committee headquarters where several Hmong and Dao women are gathered selling handicrafts. Chan decides to set-up shop in the schoolyard with the others. I buy a couple pillowcases before bidding her farewell and wishing her good health for her baby.

Nearly 6 hours and 12 kilometers since departing Sapa we reach the edge of the village and the end of our trek, hot, weary and thirsty. A pair of motorbike drivers calls to us. Chi and Sue look at me expectantly. They're crazy if they think I'm going back the way we came, this time uphill. I hire the men to whisk us out of the valley back to Sapa where a cool shower and cold beer await. 

Author's Note: Most first time visitors to Sapa trek as part of an organized tour; however, it is easy (albeit discouraged by the local authorities!) to trek on your own with a local as your guide. Inquire at your hotel or among the Hmong selling goods in town.

Source: Vietnamadventures