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COME ALOOONG SAPA

Day one of trekking in Sapa. After breakfast, we make our way downstairs to the lobby, ready to leave. Outside, the ladies of the Black H'Mong are already waiting for us. We were warned about this, so it's not too much of a shock. The women will follow us throughout our trek, offering assistance, making conversation, and then when we reach the end, several hours later, they will try to sell us everything they've got. Still, I wonder how exactly they know that we're scheduled for a trek. I guess somebody involved in our home stay gives them the inside track.

I look around at all the others, kitted out in their gear. I feel a little unprepared. I have a waterproof jacket, sure, but one of the most important details is missing. Looking down at my white Lonsdale running shoes (17.99 from Debenhams), I wonder if it might have been wise to invest in proper walking boots. Fuck it. At worst my feet will get wet, and I will get a dangerous fungal disease. I will receive good medical treatment well
H'Mong, H'Mong before it has the time to spread upwards, to regions of more importance.

We set off. A swarm of minority women descend, dressed in their tribal black and green. They latch onto us in two's and three's. I'm careful not to get too close. Sure, I'll talk with them a little; make a few jokes, have a little banter - but I know not to form that tight a bond. The majority seem like warm, friendly people, but at the end of the day they are here to make money. If I spend the whole time getting to know them, accepting their every offer of help, and then, as I intend, buy nothing from them once the trek is over, they will be pissed off. It's always good fun to mess with the natives a little, but when faced with such overwhelming numbers, not a risk worth taking today.

We turn left out of our hotel and head down the road. After maybe half a mile, we leave the tarmac behind, and the trek proper starts. Conditions are treacherous. Sapa has obviously enjoyed a fair amount of rain prior to our arrival. The ground underfoot is wet and sloppy, Annabel Chong after another bad day at the office. Soon, it doesn't matter whether I'm wearing shitty trainers, or expense boots. It's all the same once the mud attaches itself to the souls of your feet - everybody is slipping and sliding, bobbing and weaving, hanging on for dear life. Every step in a fight for survival - one wrong move, game over sucker, you out.

In contrast, the H'Mong are having no such problems. They do this shit everyday, and to them it's no big deal. One young girl in particular bounds and bounces like a mountain goat. With her pole in hand, she skips down slopes in seconds, whilst the rest of us crawl flat footed, gimp-like. I feel kinda stupid, a dumb phalang fool, out of his depth, always one step away from falling flat on his face in the sludge.

Trek, trek, trek. I love to trek. The landscape of Sapa snakes and curls, like lips on a helter-skelter. Rice fields lie in neat layers, stacked up tall, and the fog ebbs and flows, sweeping in and out of valleys, hugging the shoulders of the mountains like silk shawls.

I love to drink and I love to smoke, but there's no drug safer or better for the soul than the natural beauty of the countryside. Crack it open, tip it back and drink it in. Sapa is a dope fiend's paradise. Just drop purple hill after purple hill; instant come ups, limitless refills, no cold turkey or dirty sweats. I could stay forever.

The only thing that gets in the way of the view is the mud. Walking has become an extreme sport, and I have to give the ground at my feet more attention than I'd like. Eyes scan the earth, looking for that sure footing. Focus in macro on rocks, check for that whoops-there-it-is sensation as your feet fly from under you. I'm not going down today, not all the way. I'll put a hand down here and there, like it's all part of the plan, but the rest of my body will not make contact with the turf. Walking on the balls of my feet is the best tactic, - quick, short steps - the less time you spend in touch with the ground, the less time the mud has to drag you down to its level.

Some of us are not so lucky. Zoe takes a tumble onto her backside. The mud clings to her and smiles- another one bites the dust. Even one of the H'Mong falls victim to the soil. At the steepest point of the trek, we come across a sheer, muddy bank that leads us down to the river bed. As two H'Mung women try to offer me hands, one loses her footing, and hits the deck. I try not to laugh, but it's not so easy. Later, we are walking down by the river. Trung, who was proud to tell me earlier that he has never fallen, decides to climb onto the rocks sticking up out of the water. He looks back at me, and encourages me to follow. I shake my head, beginning to make my excuses, when his feet loose touch with the rest of him, and he goes down. Desperation flashes across his face, and then he is submerged to the waist. He climbs out, dripping in silence. A few of us offer some words of consolation, but there is nothing you can say to a man who's just watched his pride strip
off and leave itself exposed and naked. I just turn away, and pretend I didn't see a thing.

Shortly after Trung's baptism, we cross a bridge and make pause for lunch at a rest stop. Here, the selling frenzy begins. "You buy for me?" No, don't think I will. Bags, bracelets, purses, flutes and cushion covers - I have no need for such things. Show me something I need, something that I want, and I will be your best customer. Other's in the group take time to chat and banter with H'Mong - I can't really be bothered. I don't want to make them think I'm interested in buying what they've got, so I just smile politely and walk on whenever one approaches me, holding up her wares.

After lunch, we begin the final part of our trek, up through the H'Mong village. We pass a few roadside stalls and shops, and in one, I spot a bright blue hat sitting on a shelf. I like this hat, so I decide to buy it. The starting price is 80,000 dong, so as usual I offer half. The lady isn't going for it, so between us Gregg and I get her down to 60,000. Sold. I love my new hat. It's handmade, and Tick, who's been to Sapa four or five times, tells me he's never seen one like it. I'm sure there must be a few others knocking about Sapa, but I doubt there's anywhere else in the world you'd find one. In English money, it cost less than two pound.

As the light starts to fade, we reach our homestay. Boots and clothes are shed, and we sit outside on the doorstep, drying out like alcoholics. The ladies in black haven't given up yet. Their numbers had appeared to thin, but now they are back, in full force, selling like motherfuckers. The main focus of their attention is Marianne, who instigates a bidding war as she buys bracelet after bracelet. It's like watching sharks at feeding time, as the waters muddy with red.

As the evening wears on, the H'Mong slowly melt away. Only one, the Funny Lady, is left. She has struck up a rapport with Craig. She doesn't seem to care if whether we buy for her or not - she just enjoys the back and forth of conversation.
Is that a Bong Between Your Legs ,or are you just Pleased to See Me?
Fair play to you, Funny Lady. We like you. We like you a lot. Eventually, she follows her kin into nightfall, and we are in a shop-free zone. We enter the house, a large, two-floored wooden construction. Girls are situated on mattresses on the bottom floor, and the guys have the top.

We eat dinner, and drink the rice wine offered by our hosts. Most of the family keep to themselves, and we quickly begin to feel as though this is our home. We sit around a fire with Trung and our local guide, a giant of a man - easily the biggest Vietnamese I have seen so far. The giant and Trung are arm wrestling. Trung is badly beaten - the giant has huge fucking hands. I'm called upon to take him on, and step up reluctantly, ready to be crushed. We link arms, and brace. We begin, and as predicted I start to go down quickly. However, to my surprise, it doesn't end. The giant has me on the ropes, but he can't finish me off, and I manage to struggle back to a position of parity. We strain for a bit more, then, realising neither is going to budge, we call it a draw. We swap hands and try the left side. History repeats itself, only in reverse. Either I'm stronger on the left, or more likely, the giant is weaker. I get the upper hand, but can't pin him. Another draw. I get up and leave the table, feeling like a man.

We drink a couple of beers, and smoke a joint outside, and then make our final trek of the day, up the stairs and into bed...
 

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