I don’t know about you but I get restless if a couple of months go by and I’m not on a plane going somewhere I’ve never been. It’s been almost 3 months since I’ve had to use my passport and the urge to roam is building. But I’ve a couple of big deadlines and so have grounded myself till the summer–if I can’t reach a destination by car I’m not allowed to go there. And the whole being sickly thing since January makes the idea of 10+ hours on a plane not terribly attractive right about now.
So how to fight this very bad case of roaminitis? Well, I review the tons of travel pics on my computer. I’m also in the process of archiving my travel destinations here at this blog in case the data can be an useful reference tool for any of you readers. While doing this, I came across photos of the Topas Ecolodge I stayed at in Sapa, Vietnam. I’d started talking about it in this blog entry and for some reason (well, we all know it’s my A.D.D. acting up) I didn’t continue the story. Or if I did, I can’t seem to find that entry. So today, let’s pick up where I left off…
I did cross the threshold and followed the men carrying my luggage on their shoulders:
The entire mountainside was swallowed in mist, and just as you would inhale then exhale a ring of smoke when you step out into the cold anywhere, Sapa did the same with me. It sucked me into its untamed beauty then spat me back out into a bitter cold reality of haze and fog…
If I had wanted to see what isolation was like, I found it here. The grounds had been respectfully built onto the mountainside in a way that Frank Lloyd Wright would have appreciated, and the cabanas were sturdily constructed in every way with green technology…made me wonder how many men and women it took to even build the stone paths by hand…
By dinnertime, the path to the main clubhouse…
would only be lit by the moon on a clear night and a few random lanterns most nights:
The food was beyond exemplary and I looked forward to each meal. I don’t recall if the weather and elevation had anything to do with my appetite. Maybe it was the stunning view, and maybe it was because the dining hall was really the only place where I saw other signs of human life besides, once, at this picnic table where some hardy souls dared to share wine al fresco:
The resort was quite empty during my stay, but it was a nice juxtaposition to my previous days in a crowded Hanoi.
I was born in Saigon, a big and noisy city in the south, and now consider myself an LA girl. But my heart is so homesick for Sapa.
Tags: Sapa, Topas Ecolodge, Vietnam
Have you ever been on a flight where even your amateur eyes tell you the rickety plane’s propellers shouldn’t look bent? But you get on anyway, trembling, because if you didn’t, you might not find a way out of the jungle for another 2 weeks?
What about hopping on a crowded dinghy manned by 8 very drunk people on open seas with no life vest when the best swimming you can do is the backstroke from one side of the pool to the other at the shallow end?
Or, I know! What about having to hitch a ride back from the Blue Mountains on an ice cream truck because you wandered off from your tour group and they decided not to wait for you?
If you’ve not had such charming experiences, it’s probably because you haven’t traveled with me. Those who have had the misfortune of traipsing around the planet with me have crowned me the unlucky charm.
Floods, rabies, frostbite, false imprisonment and other such silliness seem to dog me at least once on each trip. But the truth is, I think mishaps are part of the anecdote–my travel vernacular, as it were.
But when, after a particularly challenging trip, I wake up in my own bed with all body parts intact and a lucid mind, I tell myself those things can happen to anyone. Maybe not in one lifetime to one single person, but sure, they happen.
Besides, if I hadn’t gotten on those planes or boats or ox cart (don’t ask), I never would have had the experience of scouring for the opium pipes you see above, or the calfhair and snakeskin babouches, or carnevale masks, or Moroccan wool felt tote:
Most of all, I would have missed out on one of my treasured finds, a guitar hand made of deerskin and intricately carved wood that I bought from a very cross-eyed Berber shepherd who tried to out-math me by speaking French. In my defense, the desert sun was frying my brain, I didn’t know where I was, and I generally find it very hard to count in any language other than Vietnamese, especially while having a fierce haggling session. If my house were on fire, this would be one of the items I’d cry over losing. I bet you thought I was going to say I’d rush in to save it, but what am I crazy? I don’t even know how to play the guitar.
Musical instruments and large art are two of the primary things I collect on my travels. Yes, I’m that annoying person who now hovers around the overhead bin to make sure other travelers don’t cram their oversized bags against my yueqin or dan nhi or art tubes. Because the one time when I didn’t do that, this poorly constructed and extremely heavy cedar guitar from Sapa arrived in LA with broken strings.
Granted, it’s most likely the ugliest guitar ever made but I know somewhere, somehow, some poor soul had lovingly made it and now I was its steward.
So if you don’t mind encountering some Act of God or putting up with my paranoia over my fragile luggage on every trip, pack your bags and come on the road with me. On second thought, maybe it’s safer to virtual-travel with me from your computer.
Tags: Berber, Blue Mountains, dan nhi, Sapa, yueqin
The day gets greyer and greyer as we leave Bac Ha Market. I still have to journey another couple of hours to reach my destination, a reportedly upscale eco paradise/lodge (operated by a Danish hotelier keen on preservation projects around the globe) that relies completely on solar technology for energy and hot water. As we climb the mountain, the clouds knit themselves into a thick blanket overhead. I wonder whether there will be any hot water tonight for a long overdue shower.
It’s now around 4pm and I’m deposited at the lobby of a grand hotel in the middle of downtown Sapa (translation: the two-lane main street that cuts through town). There’s supposed to be a driver from the Lodge waiting for me at this drop-off point, but the shuttle is an hour late so I grab my purse and camera and double back from whence we came. On our way into Sapa I’d spied a bunch of stores and stalls full of curiosities so I’m now definitely happy my ride is late. I want to see the blankets hanging on the walls up close as well.
I get maybe 15 yards out of the hotel lobby when these women appear out of nowhere and swarm around me. They shout “konichiwa” to me, thinking I’m Japanese. When I reply in Vietnamese they break out in a fit of giggles and demand to know how I learned Vietnamese in Japan. After assurances on my part that I’m not Japanese, they proceed to touch my clothes, my hair, my face. I’m starting to feel like a Martian. Personal space doesn’t seem to carry the same meaning in this part of the world. Then they enthusiastically interrogate me about my life in the US. I reply in kind with questions about their daily lives and their traditional dresses. I, too, want to touch their clothes and jewelry but stop myself. There is so much easy laughter here.
When the questioning stops, madcap capitalism kicks in. From the straw baskets on their backs they pull out colorful hemp-dyed blankets and a million other accessories with beautiful embroideries and patterns. I’m overwhelmed. Color me Sapa!
They shout out prices at me, all the while trying to undercut their competitors’ offers. There are two sisters who tell me that if I buy something from one sister, I’d also have to buy something else from the other. Or else they’d be doomed to great disharmony in their family. One young woman keeps showing me her newborn baby. She tells me it was born early and is malnourished. But it looks very chubby and cherubic to me. When I don’t offer to hold the baby, she shows me her other daughter:
I buy. Guilt based marketing works. Gotta love it.
Sadly for me, yours truly who walks around with the word SUCKA tattooed on her forehead, the blanket that I want is in the hands of a very little, old lady. I make the fatal mistake of lingering on her blanket five seconds longer than the others. Worse, we make eye contact. I’ve just violated the number 1 rule in cutthroat haggling: never show you are interested. I am now putty in her hands. She gives me one price and one price only. I cajole and tease her, all in the fun of bargaining, but she sticks to her guns. She walks deliberately slowly behind the other gals who are now drastically reducing their prices and waiving stuff in my face to get my attention. She stays in the background, and each time I look at a new item, she slyly holds up her blanket and flashes me a devious smile. I see her grin every time I look at her blanket that now sits in my home office.
Here’s a clip of the shopping frenzy–push the play button to start the video:
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An hour after this impromptu shopping in Sapa, I collapse in the shuttle out of sheer exhaustion from the sensory overload thus far. But 40 minutes later as we arrive at the main gate of the Lodge, I literally jump out of my seat and scramble for my camera. The view that greets me now is too rich to not be captured forever on film:
At the main gate, there is a small waiting room for guests. The stone path from this point to the Lodge is not accessible by car (or anything motorized actually) so my luggage is dropped off here, and the staff, which consists of people from the local tribes, carries the heavy suitcases on their backs or heads. The staff is primarily male. Their female counterparts are these women that I see here at the gate. I find out from the driver that they are allowed to come up to the waiting room to try to sell you their wares, but they may not cross the threshold. It is literally a piece of wood that separates the have from the have not. So they may talk to you through the windows or doors to push their sales but they cannot come inside. I can’t tell you the mixed emotions I feel here in this very moment at the gate…joy troubled by guilt, anger, discrimination, sadness, and compassion. Every paradise has a price. Do I dare cross the threshold?
Tags: Bac Ha Market, blankets, Sapa, shopping
Let’s take a break from Europe and gab about textiles today. Late last year I was in Asia for a few weeks. One of the highlights of this trip was trekking through North Vietnam. In this mountainous area near the Chinese border, there are numerous ethnic minority tribes (the H’mong, Tay, Thai, Hoa, and Dao to name a few) identifiable from afar by their distinct colorful traditional dresses, headgear, hairstyle, and jewelry. Up close you can also see some slight physical differences in their faces from tribe to tribe.
I took a midnight train from Hanoi to Lao Cai, arriving around 6am the next day. There I was met by my personal guide, a local 23 year old kid who aspired to move to the big city (Hanoi). Every time he mentioned Hanoi his eyes lit up; it was his El Dorado. His English was good and he told me he was learning French on the side in order to get more tour guide gigs, but by the end of the morning he said it was just better to speak Vietnamese! In my sleep deprived state, I thought his driver did a pretty formidable job on those narrow, winding, hilly roads. Had I been more conscious I suppose I would have been frightened out of my mind. There were hardly any signs and the only road rule was to not run into pedestrians or oncoming cars. How he could see anything through the dense fog was beyond me.
But if you are a textile enthusiast like me, you would risk life and limb to arrive at the Bac Ha Market and indulge your senses in all of this…
Yesss, I shopped:
Bac Ha is a huge open-air market (though parts of the market have a corrugated tin roof over them) that’s held every Sunday. You can find just about anything that you need there, from clothes to dry goods to livestock. It’s a shame that this market has become so commercialized from increased tourism, so as you enter the market you feel like you are at a tourist trap with so many stalls hawking souvenirs. Little kids will come up and enunciate crisply in their best English: “You buy from me?” After buying the same bracelet from the fifth kid, you may get weary. But you have to keep walking, dodging and pressing through the crowds toward the center and back of the market where all the local action happens, and watch life unfold…
Tomorrow, I’ll see you in Sapa.
Tags: Bac Ha Market H'mong, ethnic tribes, Lao Cai, Sapa, textiles, Vietnam
