It’s 380km from Hanoi to Sa Pa near the Chinese border. The trains are as slow as trams making it an overnight trip in a sleeper to possibly the cloudiest place in Vietnam. We arrive in driving rain and hail. One travel guide tells us that the sun shines fro 60 days a year here. That’s right, for the remaining 300 odd days it’s cloudy.
Somehow in six years this town has grown from only eight hotels to 233. There’s not much to do here apart from trek the hills, visit the market (or ones in surrounding villages), warm yourself in front of log fires and fend off the aggressively sales focused Black H’mong women, a local hill tribe.
The tribes don’t like photos (unless you pay them) and the women are beautiful with high cheek bones. Up until their mid twenties they look as young as the mid teens. Over the next ten years they age faster than Australian sun damaged skin and their toothy smiles go black. Eventually they become toothless old crones.
What I found sexy was the black leg wraps the H’mong women wore. It was that chink of flesh at the back of the knee that did it for me.
Although poor, the H’mong are becoming westernised. The young speak good English. At the local bar a group of young H’Mong women dominate the pool table, no doubt fleecing tourists. The leader is an impressive sight in her traditional dress, gold teeth and cowboy hat.
I’m followed to my hotel by a women. Refusing a shirt, I’m pushed weed and then opium. Later she follows me back up to the town again and for a few dollars I can’t resist.
The stepped rice paddies are a dramatic backdrop when you descent into the valleys below the clouds. On a trek you can stay overnight in a native home or just eat there for lunch during the day.
I think this was my best Pho ever. The stock was excellent and pineapple and tomatoes (I suspect from Hanoi) were added together with freshly soaked bamboo shoots.
Or could it have been that glass of rice wine – more like vodka – that was poured – out of an eight gallon container, the sort petrol should really be kept in.
Sa Pa is one of those places where it doesn’t really matter where you eat. Every restaurant has the same choice of French or Vietnamese dishes and they appear to cook the local fare well. We find ourselves drawn into becoming restaurant consultants. Should it be deer or venison with lemongrass? Is the lighting too bright?
What was brilliant was the log fire made in a giant local wok affair, the same sort of thing is used for fires in local native homes. Two pups play and roast themselves under it.
“What are they called?” I ask. “BBQ dogs” is the answer.
Was that a joke or a bad translation? I know that it is lucky in the second half of the lunar month to eat dogs. There are many bitches with stretched teats around and the occasional puppy. Where have the boy dogs gone?
I’m told dogs for consumption are farmed and they don’t eat pets. But down in the villages lone chickens and pigs peck and snuffle around. Have all the dogs joined the rest of the tourists and gone to the market?
7 Comments