Days 39-40: Eating in Japan. Or Not.

I knew that navigating Japan would be difficult - an extremely stylized, ritual filled and insular culture.  But navigating the culinary landscape has been next to impossible.  Not only am I squeamish about any sort of sushi that doesn't include crab, avocado or cream cheese; but I have also picked up a handful of fellow travelers with even more particular tastes than mine.   You see, my brother and my sister, along with her boyfriend, have joined us for a week in Japan.  Thankfully, we have made some progress on this front in the past two days, including:

1) I now eat slabs of squishy tuna with impunity.  With or without rice.  I can shabu shabu with the best of them.  Beancurd and tofu are also within the realm of impossibility.  My "off-limits" list has now narrowed down to: strange shellfish, anything with a suction cup that may adhere to my esophagus on the way down (this includes sea cucumber, as I include any sort of sea-foot or leg in the suction cup category).

2) My husband is truly omnivorous.  There is nothing that his all-eating-stomach can't handle, and which he doesn't handle with some aplomb.

3) The willingness of a picky eater to try new foods is inversely related to how hungry they are. This is a bit of a tricky situation because over time, this seems to become an geometric, rather than arithematic function.

4) As such, it usually makes sense to have "safe" food early in the morning.  This serves as a stable "western" foundation, upon which to build for the rest of the day's culinary adventures. I'll give you two ends of the spectrum: For my brother, this includes two pieces of toast, orange juice mixed from a power, Starbucks double cream cheese danish and Java Mocha Chip Frappe. For my husband, this includes double decker bento box of bbq eel, anything with suction cups, and tuna, followed by Sbux Americano for good measure.

Tonight we are really going all out - a 12 course, "omakase" style dinner.  Omakase means something like "chef's choice."  I personally found out on a gruesome dinner double date several months back, when I embarrassed myself with extremely limited chopstick skilz; the result was miso glazed sashimi, sushi, rolls being dropped in my soy sauce bowl, on the table, falling apart all over my plate, with a little sticky rice trail connecting all three.  This of course, only happened to the pieces that I actually made a go at.  And there were plenty of pieces I didn't make a go at at all.

So I have got my game face on. Ryan has already scoped out an acceptable pre-meal at Subway, just to make sure the belly is good and settled.  Before this Battle Royale, two western-style 

foundations may be better than one.  I'll let you know how it goes...

Days 36 - 37: Shanghai

We'd been walking for an hour in the wrong direction, with the unfortunate circumstance being that we didn't know it was wrong, but had a sneaking suspicion for all sixty of those minutes. I guess that is always the case?  And each minute felt like it was taking longer to pass, as we were harassed about every 50 meters with:

"Bag. Purse. Sungrasses.  Gucciprada.....Where you from?"

I am wearing completely impractical shoes and jeans that, all of a sudden, feel like they were cut from a flak jacket.  

Once we figure out that we were actually walking the wrong way down Nanjing road - towards the People's Square instead of the Bund - we put our game faces on and decided to flip flop the days itinerary and do the Shanghai Art Museum first, lunch and putzing around the Bund afterwards. 

Signs here occasionally have English-characters on them, but even these seem to be hard to remember. You forget what you are looking for between the road sign and finding the place on the map.  Did I want Fengxian Lu or Fuxing Xi Lu?  So even once we decided to head to the museum, it still took another 30 minutes to figure out practical things like how to cross the road, which of the giant, official looking buildings in the square was the right museum, and even - silly as this sounds - the museum entrance.  And unlike everywhere we've been before, the Shanghainese seem to know as much English as I know of their language - namely Ni Hao/Hello and Xie Xie/Thank You. 

I am happy to report that this hour and a half represented the nadir of our experience in Shanghai.  In fact, China is quite the surprise.

I expected a big Hanoi - in part because I think of China as a developing country, and in part because many people told us we wouldn't care for Shanghai.  People told us it was dirty, lacked culture.  And for some reason, people who have been to China always recount their personal experience with others spitting, throwing trash out and pooping on the street.  

So two things about this preconceived bit of cultural chauvinism are somewhat right: this city is damn big and this city is light on cultural landmarks.  But I was overwhelmed by what I got wrong.  Where are all the people on bikes? Where is the culture of bureaucracy? 

This is a wealthy city.  A pretty efficient city.  I was struck time and again, by a feeling that this place could even be an American city.  I know this is a weird thing to say, for a lot of reasons, but I just couldn't shake it.  I submit the following as evidence:

• A neat, orderly customs process.  The officer greeted us with a smile; it took no time to swipe our passports at the counter; there was even a little device where I could rate my experience: Satisfied!  This made the Chinese Embassy in NYC look like a dump.
• The free, interesting, bite-sized Shanghai Art museum.  A very clear reminder of a distinct aesthetic culture that consistently emphasizes tradition over innovation.

 

• A terrific and diverse restaurant scene. This includes deliciously civil Fu 1039 dishing up Shanghainese fare; Lost Heaven, a mod "sip and sup" joint that would have been just as fitting in the West Village; and various upscale eateries with fabulous views along the Bund
  
• Overtly restored and/or hyper groomed neighborhoods.  For example - People's Square, the Bund, the Covent Garden-like Xintiandi or the new artsy M50 collective of galleries and working artists' lofts (see below).  All I could think of, is "this shit takes money."

Of course this almost-an-America feeling is my poor shorthand for something else.  I mean to say that Shanghai is a sophisticated place.  Its a wealthy place.  Its a very developed part of a country that is rapidly on the rise.  

We almost missed the other part of the city, and surely would have, had we not decided to walk back to our hotel having just finished our afternoon of gallery hopping. We walked for an hour, somewhat southwesterly past giant open lots, waiting for the next condominium to be put up, past already condominiumed lots, with private gates and guards outside.  These gave way to 1920s era row houses, with old men squatting outside them, and younger men inside piling up scrap metal, repairing old bikes, or sorting through collected demolition scraps.  We passed a woman carrying a too-heavy baby what looked like a long way.  And a mo-ped that seemed to have been armored with computers and printer parts circa 1982.  

Ducking under clothing put out to dry, or under bamboo scaffolds latticing up the side of a new project, it was a long walk. But one that showed me another very real side of Shanghai.  

And still, not the one I had expected.

    

Day 34 - Going Native

Okay.  So this city is slightly better than I expected.  Its flashy.  It's polished.  It is all so new.  And the skyline is lovely - imagine a taller, more dense version of New York, set against a mountainside.  

This being said, I also feel like this city is almost overstimulating.  Or indigestible.  Its a bit too, too.  Do you know what I mean?  Its the type of place where I feel like you walk around in a daze; unless, you have gone native.  In that case, you are in a fully established routine of bulldozing people like me as you walk from bank, to mall, to home on your walking bridge of choice.

Speaking of going native.  As we were packing before we left, T and I were sure to leave room so that we could buy things along the way.  I made a pact with myself: I would only buy things that I could not buy at home.  Now it's bit of a stretch since almost anything can be had in New York; but by and large, I've been able to do just that by picking up things that are locally made, or a specialty of the area.  

For example, T bought me a jade bead necklace and an embroidered silk jacket in Thailand.  I got an ao dai-style shirt in Ho Chi Minh, modeled after the traditional dress of that country. Plus some lovely indigo belts made by Ye in Sapa. 

In HK, though, brands are king. For example, there is an entire mall that is dedicated to Armani (Armani men, women, sport, home, flowers, tea, etc...).  And all this Armani doesn't preclude the next mall complex, literally attached to this one, from having a sprinkling of Armani for good measure.  Every major posh brand you can think of can be found several times over within the same square kilometer.  And every single version of that store seems to be curated slightly differently.  There really isn't a "flagship," for example, which includes all the main styles, cuts or colors.  Nope, these are like branded boutiques suffering from gigantism, where mostly the impractical is on display.  And forget trying to find any shoes over 39.5.  I've tried.  They just don't grow 'em that big here....

Then again, the bane of having large feet in a country that doesn't has saved me from myself, has kept me to my word.  

So in HK, I have gone native -- insofar as it exists in this most global of cities. I am having a cheongsam dress made.  These are traditional, Chinese style women's dress, typically made of silk, lace or cut velvet.  They have a mandarin collar and "frog" style button closures.  They are cut very close to the body, typically floor-length as well, with a slit up the sides.    

Only once before - for my First Holy Communion - have I ever had a dress made from scratch.   I guess my wedding dress was made for me; but here you had the safety of someone's aesthetic making all the decisions on the details for you.  And now I was in the drivers seat. In this case, every decision is literally mine.  Long or short?  Sleeveless? Cap sleeves? The fabric?  The color?  The color of the dress lining? The color of the piping?  The style of the buttons? Even the color and accent color of the buttons! Its crazy!

I got as far as picking out fabric and color (a lovely navy silk with silver dragon and chrysanthemum flower embroidery).  I thought I wanted cap sleeves and a shorter cocktail length.  The piping - maybe aqua blue?  Or maybe go traditional with red?

That is when good ole Mama Tang came in.  Mama knew a deer-in-the headlights when she saw one, and she swooped in to lead this doe across to the other side.  No aqua lining.  With a tut, she says -- too much.  Silver is nicer.  No cap sleeves - why cover your nice shoulders? I'll make one sleeve each way.  When you try on, you'll see.  Oh! You want long!  You are having a dress made just for you--why wouldn't you want it long?

All this expert coaching came in very handy after the niceties, measurements and decisions were done, and I returned the next day to try on my dress.   You see, this is when I realized what I had gotten myself into.

As I was delicately re-assembling it around me with a complicated series of buttons, collar detachments and re-attachments - it occurred to me that a cheongsam almost has to be custom made.  Without an ounce of give, long, lean and shiny - its has just about all the features that a woman fears when pulling anything off a rack.  One inch higher, lower, or wider and you could look misshapen, uneven, or undefined. One inch tighter and you become a human seam ripper.  And yet, as Mama and the tailor pinned things here, adjusted things there, cut out the other cap sleeve so I could appreciate the full effect, the fearsomeness of what I had undertaken seemed to be worth it.  It really looks special I think.  And a man who has been tailoring cheongsams for over 60 years will have spent the time to consider me, to make me a dress that sets me off to my best advantage - at least that is the idea anyway?

And consider me he did.  My favorite part is when he suggested that I adjust my bosoms.  Yep. I guess they were sitting a bit low today, or maybe they were just perkier the day before, but when I tried the dress on, the front of it was a bit rumply.  The darts were too high on the bodice.  After pinning and re-pinning for 5 minutes or so, Mama took me into a back room.  I guess there is a golden mean of sorts here - apparently 10 inches from shoulder to um, well you get the point.  And if I could adjust myself just so, the dress and the rest of the world would thank me for it.  

There was a time when we would have all had this type of advice when clothing ourselves.  And this type of advice is still sought out by men like my husband, when having shirts or suits made. Even basic suits bought at a department store will typically come with a serious round of chalk, measuring tape and pins.  I think for some reason, over the last 40 years, us women have chosen fashion over fit. Or at the very least, fashions that we can fit into.  And as a result, we have an over-branded consumer experience, where price is the main point of differentiation.

Okay, I am off my high horse.  I love LV too. Even more if its been graffitied in hot pink. But I am really, really excited to see how this bad boy turns out.  

 

Day 31 - Farewell Dong, We're in Hong Kong

T here acting as guest blogger: Pressure is on to match L's wonderful descriptions of our trek thru Asia.  Will have to exhume the writing skills that have dissipated after the last 9 years on Wall Street... here goes:

So Hong Kong was going to be my city on this trip.  This is the one place that I was most excited to visit.  I have tried (in the past) to convince L that it was time to pack up shop and move over here and give it a go.  (To our families: she has always been the great voice of reason.)  Hong Kong being the city to inhabit - the financial capital of Asia.  I believed when we planned this voyage that Asia was the place to be in our generation. After being here now for over a month am more convinced of that then ever. 

But Hong Kong got off to a really bad start... 

Despite the advice of one friend who lived here and one acquaintance who is living here, we made the erroneous decision to follow the opinion of our travel agent and stay in Kowloon.  Said travel agent applauded the incredible views of Hong Kong's skyline, emphasized his ins with the hotel and his ability to get us a number of upgrades and amenities, and equated the ferry that crosses Victoria Harbor as being as easy as taking a taxi.  Immediately, I sensed something was off here; but, not knowing much about the lay-out of the city, I agreed and booked his hotel.    When we asked our friend what he thought of staying in Kowloon he eloquently replied: "Would you stay in Hoboken for views of New York City?"  Right-0.  Our other acquaintance - not even asked for advice, volunteered- "Don't stay in Kowloon."  

So when we arrived at the hotel last night, after a long day that began at 3 AM with a voice (who I mistook as God) over the loud speaker informing us we needed to evacuate our hotel in Saigon due to "an emergency" (i.e. a small fire), I immediately sensed that our friend's sage words were not simply accurate, they may have been politely generous. This was not like staying in Hoboken, this was gritty Jersey City, with the urban wasteland of Port Elizabeth adjacent.

We made the immediate decision to remove ourselves from Kowloon.  45 minutes later we were in a new hotel in Hong Kong Island, at a cheaper rate, and getting the fourth night free.  Better hotel, bigger room, beautiful view (of the financial landscape of HK and the mountains in the background), cheaper price... fourth night free.  I wish I could chalk up this coup to negotiation skills, but I think it's a sign of the economy.

Hong Kong has gotten better from there...

Hong Kong is a city of glam and wealth.  Cocktails at the bar, overlooking Victoria Harbor, with a jazz band from St. Louis - pretty difficult to beat.  Consumerism is in full effect here.  Parts of the city remind me of NYC when I moved there in 2000.  We've seen a lot of Masseratis and Ferraris; a lot of LV bags; a lot of wealth on display.  Having been turned over to China in 1997, it may appear beyond comprehension that this island is now part of the largest communist country on earth - but what I am learning as we travel thru Asia is that the Chinese are single-handledly the most capitalistic minded group of people I have come across, and Chinese Communism smells a little fishy.  We shall see what the mainland is like, Shanghai and Beijing loom in the near future.     

So today we woke up and did what every tourist in Hong Kong does and set out to shop.  Versed in the ways of Asian cities and having built up an immunity to Mall Eye and its other vertiginous symptoms, we ventured thru the labyrinth of raised sidewalks into the lair of consumerism.  

These malls dwarf those in Singapore and KL.  They are also interconnected thru covered bridges, lacing across Connaught Street and Queens Road. On the walk home we were able to pass thru five malls (a few kilometers and at least five separate buildings) without ever leaving the confines of air conditioned space.  I don't know what to infer from a culture that has built a city to avoid being en plein air - only that the troglodytic eye and shuffle is frequently observed.

  

Day 29 - Ho Chi Minh City

Also known, maybe even better known, as Saigon.  That's what most of the locals call it at least.

Well, this place is not what I expected.  I expected bigger.  Grander.  More imperial glory.  But I guess it makes sense, since the empire fell 60 years ago.  And of course, there is no sense in preserving a history that isn't yours.

Our hotel is nice and feels brand spanking new.  Its right in the center of the first district, one of the 24 that makes up the city.  All the main sights, which we plan on seeing tomorrow, are here - the art deco post office, the Notre Dame, the Independence Palace, the War Remnants Museum.  

Today we spent the morning in the gym (working off my pain au chocolate--a new daily habit I must break), and the rest of the day shopping.  I think some of the best shopping we've come across is in Vietnam - cute little clothing stores, oodles of "traditional" embroidered silk and linens, lacquered everything.  And I found an awesome exotic leathers store and scored myself a little tan croc belt for $75!  Makes the stuff in Barneys seem like highway robbery.  Now I just need to hope they let me back in the country with it.  (P.S.  if you want me to bring you croc or snake anything--belts, bags, wallets--speak now or forever hold your peace.  Or at least speak up before COB tomorrow).

That being said, our bout of shopping was bookended with two very yummy culinary experiences: Pho and Vietnamese coffee.

Before we started our adventure, I had it from someone on good authority that Pho (something I would pronounce like Fo), as in fact pronounced something like Fuer.  He really did it justice I think and in gearing up for our trip, we've been practicing ever since.  You have to make the R sound back in your throat, and making a real funny face as you do it.  And I must say, this gentlemen - sage in all things related to decorum and Asian culinary delights - he did not lead us astray.  I even got a compliment from the waiter as I ordered my first bowl of Pho.  He said I had good pronunciation--no joke!

For lunch, we walked into Pho 24.  This was a real local, fast food type place.  Not street food. It was very clean, came with a bathroom, and didn't take to preparing said food in the hallway and/or sidewalk.  Instead, this was the Vietnamese version of Panera.

I ordered Pho Ga, or pho noodles with chicken.  Pho, like most noodles, are traditionally considered a breakfast dish in Vietnam.  The bowl arrives with fettuccine-shaped rice noodles and chunks of the protein of your choice (typically chicken or beef).  These are sloshing around in a clearish broth that also includes thinly shaved white onions and scallions.  Along side this are condiments, including: crunchy bean sprouts --I really like those guys -- some good spicy basil, and something that tastes like a more vegetal version of cilantro.  Also on the plate are a couple slices of Thai red pepper and pungent little Kalamansi limes.  This being a pho joint, each table has its own two little pots containing chili sauce in one, and black bean in the other.  

There are certain things in the cannon of western culinary etiquette that do not seem to apply here.  Like seasoning for example.  Good breeding would have it that your food arrives seasoned to the chef's taste.  You should taste it before adding salt or pepper.  If you are paying more than $250 for your meal, these guys aren't even on the table.  Here however, its quite the opposite.  I realized this about half way through eating a rather bland bowl.  In goes the chili and bean sauce.  Now we are talking.  The broth turns a proper brothy brown.  Your nose starts to run.  You bite into a chili.  You take a big swig of your watermelon juice after that!  Mmm.  This is good....

Other notes on etiquette.  You gotta get down - real good-into your bowl.  And you have to use your chopsticks, plus a spoon, to make a little package worth shoveling in.  I am really struggling with this, as my shirt-front can attest.  It seems like there are just one too many implements to deal with at once.  

Also, no napkins.  This place has a wet nap, but there aren't any dry variety.  This becomes an issue especially as the nose starts to run.

This delicious lunch for two runs us a cool $7.  

Now on to the coffee.  I had no idea, but I guess Vietnam is somewhat famous for its coffee.  Coffee is not an indigenous plant here, but was introduced to Vietnam in the mid-1800s by the French.  From what I can tell, the technique is similar to a french press, individually-brewed serving approach.  Next comes the good part.  This coffee is served either mixed with/along side sweetened condensed milk, in a ratio anywhere between 2 to 4 parts coffee for one part of condensed milk.  I cannot explain the goodness of this drink.  

How, as a nation, did we overlook such pleasures in favor of the frappechino?  Mon dieu!  I mean, Oh Ho!

I love this country.  And I hope to come back.  And I think you should come here too.

Day 27 - Chau's Story

Being over ambitious maybe, I signed us up for two full days of touring. Our last day in Sapa included a 2.5 hour drive to the Coc Ly market, just south of the Chinese boarder, plus a boat ride and picnic lunch, followed by a 2 hour return to Sapa. I am a sucker for markets, but even for me, taking 2.5 hour to get to one seemed a stretch. On top of it, we awoke to pouring rain and thunderstorms outside.

We made it to the Coc Ly market to find that it was raining there too. There were some interesting bits, like seeing some of the Flower Hmong people, so named because they wear these fantastically bright clothes - beautiful pleated skirts, embroidered shirts and leg wraps. And there were other realizations too. For instance, when your market serves a population of subsistence farmers, it doesn't contain rows and rows of lovely veg. Instead it contains mostly stuff of which it may be hard to grow or make-like the footwear of choice-clear shower sandals made in China.  There most of been 5 stalls dedicated to this product alone.  There was medicine too, tabacco, rice wine and cleavered pig parts too.  There was also a lot where you could go and buy yourself a water buffalo.  Buffalo aside, all these wares were mounded up on top of blue tarps, which lined a very muddy and getting even muddier path.  Top that off with some tarps over head, or more precisely for me, at shoulder height.  And there you have it. 

After the market, we made the decision to pass on the 1.5 hour boat trip down the river, again under the shelter would be shelter of a green tarp. I am sure it would have been nice on a sunny, warm day.  But T has a new theory he's working on along the lines of avoiding any intinerary that includes a boat excursion; today I was very happy to oblige him!

The true highlight was having the chance to talk with our guide, Chau. Since most of our trek yesterday involved me focusing on the ground in front of me, lest I tumble into another paddy or to a craggy rivine along the way, I really didn't get to pepper her with my now adroit tour guide interview routine. Today, however, she told us many interesting things about the minority hill tribes. For example, the people here live in Vietnam, but would never consider themselves Vietnamese. They call their countrymen "Vietnamese" much as they call their trading partners across the Red River "Chinese."  Couples are married through arranged marriages, sometimes as young as 15, and typically start having kids around 16 or 17.  In contrast to Cambodia, for example, the farmers all own their land.  Most of them have water buffalo, 5-10 pigs and innumerable chickens.  They eat a fair amount of meat.

She told us more about the Flower Hmong minority we met at the market.  The land in this area is along a river valley.  Warm enough for two crops a year.  Apparently they grew some rice, but the soil in this area tends to drain more quickly, therefore growing corn was much more common.  Many of them spoke Chinese and intermarried with Chinese. 

Chau spoke the Flower Hmong language had a few friends at Coc Ly market, but generally didn't like the Flower Hmong tribe. Over the past several years, the Flower Hmong had begun to take young women from Sapa, selling them to the Chinese. Young beautiful women would be sold as prostitutes.  Older ones - like 25 or so - already were married and had children, so these women would be sold as wives to old, "rich" men.  

How could they be taken from their village, I asked?  Mostly through deception, it seemed. Impressionable women would meet a nicely dressed "office man" who would buy her something at the market or who would offer to take her to dinner. Or they would simply offer a young woman a ride back from the market.  Chau told us that over 25 women had been taken from Sapa thus over the past 2 years, including one of her friends. And that these women never return.

Chau also told us a bit of her story. She is 25.  Chau grew up in a traditional minority tribe family as a middle child with 11 other brothers and sisters. Her older brothers and sisters are married and work their rice fields, like their family does. Her younger brothers and sisters were in school. Chau's father has not spoken to her in four years, since she became a tour guide.

How did you become a tour guide, I asked?  When she was younger, her mother had a small stand in the village (population 800), where she would sell drinks and food to tourists. Chau told us about how she cried the first time one of the tourists took her picture.  Over time, she made friends with a woman from Hanoi.  The woman would come every week with a group of 10 or 20 people.  She would bring her groups to Chau's mother's stand to buy refreshments.  Chau was fasciated that this small woman, not much bigger than herself, could command the attention of such a large group of people.  That she could hold their interest and make them happy.  And so she asked the woman from Hanoi how she could become a tour guide like herself.

The woman told her she musn't be afraid of having her pictures taken.  She should also try and learn English.  So once Chau became a teenager, she began to go to the markets and learn English from the tourists.  Slowly she learned to speak fairly well.  After 2 years of practice in this way, she also began learning language of the other minority tribe people as well.  She told us about her first tour - two "fat old British ladies."  Being fat, she said, they couldn't take a hard trek.  She figured they probably would enjoy seeing village life.  For an entire afternoon, therefore, she took these two women from house to house, to sit around a fire or to introduce them to friends of her family.  The women raved about her tour, sent her photographs, recommended her to many people.  And the rest is history.

But I guess that is not right to say; its a glib phrase for the challenge that Chau has seemed to face.  

Her family did not understand.  She has had to move out of her home.  Since she cannot work in the rice patties, she hires workers to help her family with the harvest.  She buys them coats when it gets too cold.  Her father will wear them, but still will not speak to her.

From her father's perspective, however, she is disobidient.  He has raised her.  Now she is lazy. He gets no work from her.  He thinks no one will marry her, and therefore, he has lost a dowry. And she encourages her younger brothers and sisters to stay in school and to study hard.  Now they are lazy too. 

Chau loves her job though, and wants to learn how to read and write English too.  She told us how last year, she asked her family's permission to go to school to study English.  She posed the question to her father, through her mother.  As a response, her father slapped her mother.  He said if she goes to school, she will owe him her dowry.

Chau told me how it will be different for her children - how she will have only one or two, how they will go to school.  Hearing this all, I remembered a study two or three years ago.  The study found that educating women in underdeveloped countries is one of the most efficient forms of philathropy/investment, per dollar spent.  Public health improves, infant mortality rate declines, literacy rates improve, and eventually per capita GDP improves, etc.  This makes sense to me, but I now keep thinking that there is another side of this study? That there are hidden costs, if you will?  These are the costs borne by women like Chau, who with or without aid of charity, are challenging what is expected of them.  Brave, smart Chau pays a very dear price indeed.

Day 26 - Hill Tribe Trek in Sapa

I am wiped out.  T spent his childhood growing up doing stuff like this - trekking up hill sides, crossing streams, following narrow water buffalo paths along ravines.  Or almost stuff like this. He is cut from a more hardy cloth than I.  And he's wiped out too.

That is because we've just taken the night train from Hanoi to Lo Cai, another hour transfer by car after our 6 am arrival, and then hiked through 4 different villages over the course of the past 5 hours. 

I don't think I've ever walked 5 hours anywhere.  Seriously.  I am thinking about it right now.....mmm.  Nope, don't think so.  But this has been fantastic, rewarding and maybe the highlight of the trip thus far.

But first lets say a couple words about the night train.  I can hardly leave you to think that this was hard core in any sense.  They pulled out a red little mat before you boarded the train, had lots of liveried gents to help you with your bags, we had gotten a private cabin for us two, and it was trimmed out in dark wood and fluffy blankets.  

Somehow this was not what T was expecting though.  Included in his vision was a sitting room and at least a mini-fridge from which you could mix yourself a respectable martini.  No matter, because we were cosy enough.  And we were tired enough.  And as we pulled out of the station, we had the luxury of falling asleep to an older form of entertainment - the cityscape turning to countryside outside our train car window.  The train rocked back and forth.  It took a while to fall asleep.  We tossed and turned.  And before we knew it, we pulled into our stop.  

Finally, it was cool!  And it got cooler and foggier the closer we got to Sapa, which was only 35 km away but took over an hour to drive.  We cut back and forth across a large mountain, part of the Tonkanese Alps.  

From what I can tell thus far, Sapa is a backpackers' town.  For some reason, tourists began coming here 15 years ago.  Now there is a bit of an infrastructure to support it.  A nice hotel, with a hot tea to greet you on arrival, a lovely big breakfast, handsome fireplaces, free wifi in your hotel room.  Most restaurants advertise things like "Western-Style!" "Hot Coffee!" "Ice Cream!" in the windows.  

And yet it still feels real too.  Its still a very small town (only 3000 people).  The people still wear their native dress as part of their everyday custom.  Some of the Hill Tribe people speak English, which they've learned from tourists, but it's not to harangue you all day long to buy postcards or visit their shop.   And after spending the day hiking with four women from the Black Hmong tribe, I can honestly say that they are kind, funny, garrulous - wonderful people to be around.

So, our itinerary was described thus: 

You first sneak through the Sapa market and leave the busy town behind. After a couple of minutes, you follow a road going downhill to Cat Cat village. You will stop by a waterfall and a hydroelectric station for a while before continuing the trek on a dirt trail through rice paddy terraces. You also will enjoy spectacular scenery while walking along a narrow river. You eventually arrive in Y Linh Ho village of Black Hmong minority, where you can take a rest while you are served lunch nearby the river. After lunch, you head toward Muong Hoa valley. You will pass through Lao Chai village of Black Hmong minority and then Tavan village of Giay minority by following a very popular trekking route.

I envision maybe a couple towns, a bucolic little stroll through a rice paddy-- that's about it. But before long, we set off from the cobblestone steps in Cat Cat Village and started a proper trek.  It was breathtaking.  It is a world a way from any place I have ever been, and probably any place I will ever be.

Within the first half an hour, three women joined us from the Black Hmong Minority.  These three women where friends, the eldest one of which was Ye.  Our guide Cho told us that some time in the past 3 or 4 years, women from the tribes left their villages and started following tourists as a way of hopefully selling them some of their goods.

Now I don't know about you, but being jaded, this didn't sound very promising.  Thus far, having people follow you around trying to sell you stuff has proved to be a bit miserable.  Now, consider what Cho told us next.  These women will follow us on our trek today.  They know that tourists wont by anything from them at the beginning of their trek, because they won't want to carry it.  On the other hand, if they wait too long, someone else will come and start to follow you.  So it's bound to happen - if you walk around here, you'll always be followed by a small group.  And if other Hill Tribe women notice that you are "taken," they won't attempt to join the group, or to sell you anything.  They figure that if you won't buy from women who have followed you for 4 hours, you certainly won't by from them.

The women will follow us all day?? My skepticism faded quickly as we got along.  They talked among themselves.  Our guide, who spoke the language of the Black Hmong, translated certain things for us.  We met one of their son's in a village we walked though.  And as the terrain got more difficult and slippery, they were quick to help me out - even to help T out.

And we needed help indeed.  T was the first man down, but only because I had the help of three women clucking over me, holding my hand as we walked down a steep, sandy incline to the river bank.  We arrived at the river basin.  It being not yet rainy season, there was a promising enough looking path we could make, hopping from stone to stone.  Suffice to say, T slipped off one stone into the water and managed to wade several feet with water up to his ankles, swamping his shoes, his socks, his pants and all! Here comes Ye to the rescue!

We are all laughing.  T is making comments about being the only man and yet being the only one to end up in the drink.  But I think that was preferable to what happened next to me.  Just 15 minutes later, we are walking along the border of a rice paddy when I manage to plunge most of one foot into a very muddy mess.  Another one of our friends to the rescue, making some sort of comment about me being muddy like the water buffalo. 

Over the course of the next 4 hours, the road gets steep, gets narrow, follows along paddy embankments, through stands of bamboo, over little bridges.  We see water buffalo, we see lots of pigs, piglets, pregnant pigs, ducks, chickens, chicks, dogs, puppies.  Little cats sitting on the occasional roof.  

We see people weeding the paddies, sowing the rice seeds, building up the paddy embankment, creating bamboo fences to protect the rice shoots from the free ranging buffalo and pigs. Paddies! Terrace after terrace, steep and narrow on land that hardly looks like its worth the time to cultivate, and wide and sloping, down closer to the river bank.  For these families, none of the rice will be sold.  It is their one crop of the year and will all be used to feed their families.

And at the end, I was very happy indeed to buy some of the things these women had made.  It was the exact opposite of all the disappointing tourist trap floating markets, walking markets, night markets we had yet seen.  Unlike the undistinguished faff at those places, these women had made the little things they had carried all along in their bamboo baskets.  All day long today, they would prepare the hemp, stripping the fiber with their nails, splitting the fiber, twisting it with another strand, and wrapping the growing ball of hemp in their hand.  They did this all as we walked.  They would then boil for 3 days, make soft and pliable with wax, weave and dye.  So it was personal - these women had prepared the hemp, woven the fabric, made the indigo dye, embroidered their designs.  I was only too thankful for their company.  And to have something to remember them by.