It’s another beautiful sunrise in the Mekong Delta. I know because we have agreed to get up early and watch the sun rise over the floating market here in Vinh Long from our hotel balconies.

When I open the door to my balcony, I’m immediately struck by the difference in temperature and humidity. The air conditioning was set quite a bit cooler than I was used to, and this morning, because I have left my camera and video gear in the room overnight, the heat and humidity are going to slow my picture taking.

So for the first few minutes, I sit with a few friends and listen to the sounds of the Mekong river market. Two-cycle engines with long shafts connecting the motor to the propeller power the riverboats. The hacking cough of a two-cycle engine is distinctive and the combined noise of the many boats creates a chorus of commerce outside our hotel.

These river boats appear to be about five to seven meters long, although there are a few that reach close to eight meters. Most are simple and are covered with make-shift fabric tops. Others are more elaborate in their shelter. It becomes obvious that some of the larger boats are home for the families aboard. As the sun climbs higher and my camera lenses are no longer fogged, I set up and begin to shoot video of the morning activity. Several boats move back and forth across the viewfinder, leaving and entering the small inlet of the river near the hotel and heading either to the market or to the larger Mekong. One boat, in particular, catches my eye. It is not much larger than the typical boat. Perhaps two meters wide, and seven meters long. It has a wood cabin. What catches my eye is a chicken, pecking on a fabric top. As I slowly pan across the length of the boat, I see three small children aged about 5, 3 and 1, playing in the open aft section of the boat. The two oldest children are exchanging sibling punches. A dog hops up on the stern and looks around at the activity in the market this morning. The mother of the children casts a watchful eye over the two older siblings who have lost interest in their battle and are now looking over the market, too.

Moored next to the family boat is another boat, of similar size, but configured for tourism. The aft section has a tarp covered hammock. The remainder of the boat has two rows of seats, facing the centerline of the boat with seating for about 14 people. This means that it may be possible to contract with private boat operators for river tours, however, as in My Tho and Can Tho, it is best to make local inquiries.

As activity on the river begins to slow, I walk to the street market with one of my travel companions, Deb Holbrook. The market is very busy as we walk through the stalls. I notice the contrast and variety of products for sale and look over the abundant produce of the delta.

Outside the main building, the stalls have fresh and dried fish. Dried shrimp are piled high on trays. We see other dried flat fish and a vendor selling dried starfish. Two women are busy slicing vegetables into a barrel of water. Their slices are almost paper thin.

Inside the building, the smells of the market again wake up my senses. Rice, in various colors and shapes, is offered at many stalls. Salt(in large rock form), spices, beans and packaged foods are available. There are mounds of fresh garlic and rice noodles. Here, too, are stalls selling china and tea sets, cooking utensils, and clothes.

In one of them, a shopkeeper carefully shapes dry rice into mounds in the display sacks. Mounds of each variety look attractive and invite buyers to scoop the rice they need. She reaches into a second container with her hands, cups the rice, and carefully mounds it again in the display container. Much like the process of “facing the shelves” in a grocery store to make the canned and bottled products look better, this shopkeeper knows what it takes to sell her product quickly.

Across the aisle, an artist works on a photo realistic painting of an older woman. He is working from a photograph, and in his stall are dozens of paintings, all with the realism of a photograph and the nuance of a hand-made illustration. I later learned that these photos are often used to remember the dead. It is also common for the portraits to be of the person at a young age.

The Mekong river has nine branches as it runs through the delta. Vinh Long is on a branch with Phnom Penh, Cambodia to the west and Tra Vinh to the east just before it empties into the South China Sea. Vinh Long and Tra Vinh are the largest towns in their respective provinces. What makes Tra Vinh province special is that it is approximately 70% Khmer and Tra Vinh City is home to about 300,000 Khmer.

Viewing the sunrise, market and enjoying a breakfast at the nearby Phuong Thuy restaurant, we decided to hire a car and visit Tra Vinh. We decided it would be a good way to explore parts of the Mekong many people overlook. Based on our previous luck of finding great photo opportunities and nice views, I am surprised to find Deb at the hotel counter looking over some postcards. She picks a set with some delta scenes and rice harvesting.

We meet the transportation captain affiliated with Cuu Long Tourist in the lobby of the hotel. We outline our need for a car and driver for the day. As we want to be back in My Tho for a late dinner, we negotiate a three-legged trip from Vinh Long to Tra Vinh and to My Tho. Our negotiated fee is 600,000 dong, a bit high, but still reasonable. We pay the captain and confirm that tipping the driver is up to us.

Before we leave the lobby, I look out once more at the river. The lobby is very close to the bank and low to the water. It wouldn’t take more than a two or three meter rise in the river to put it under water.

Driving along the highway southwest of Vinh Long, the rice farmers are working their harvest by the side of the road. Each morning, sacks of rice are spread along the side of the road to dry them in the sun. At the end of the day, the rice is picked up and re-bagged for storage. It’s an interesting sight and attracts our attention. We see a group working near the side of the road and we ask our driver in our best broken Vietnamese, to stop the car.

Being courteous, or not understanding what we are saying, he drives safely past the group of workers and continues for nearly half a kilometer before stopping. With the photo opportunity now clearly in our rear view mirror, Deb and I get out, snap a few pictures and climb slowly back into the car. Then we remember the postcards. One of them includes a scene of exactly the image we want to photograph. We pull it out and show our driver and explain, again in Vietnamese, that we want to take pictures. He smiles. We drive off, and when we find the next group by the side of the road, he stops without being asked.

It is this kind of cooperation that makes traveling in Vietnam much easier than I expected. Keeping a phrase book close and being patient to work through sign language or multi-cultural charades, you can explain almost anything.

Further down the highway, just outside of Tra Vinh, our driver pulls to the side of the road and takes a smaller dirt road away from the highway. We stop and park in front of a temple. It has been explained to me that in Vietnam, the difference between a temple and a pagoda is whether or not there are monks who reside there. This temple has resident monks and is called Chau Anh, originally built in 642.

We walk down a tree-lined path. The traffic noise from the highway is just as strong, but with each step, we walk further into the lush tropical jungle that surrounds the temple. Some of the guidebooks suggest there are as many as 140 Khmer temples and pagodas in Tra Vinh province with perhaps fifty Vietnamese and five Chinese pagodas. This is an area of the Mekong that is rich with religious history. As we reach the midpoint of the path I recognize that, instead of talking, Deb and I are now whispering to each other. I also notice the steady hum of traffic is replaced by the gentle, rhythmic raking of rice, laid out to dry on the steps and walkways of the temple. The young man raking the rice looks up to acknowledge us, but continues his chore. The compound has several shrine structures around the main temple building.

My curiosity is answered when a young monk, dressed in saffron colored robes, approaches and asks where we are from. Then, silently, he leads us behind the large sanctuary. The drone of traffic quiets and suddenly we hear the chanting of a priest through an amplifier system. While it is usually acceptable to take pictures, use a flash, make video or audio recordings of these ceremonies, we always ask permission before doing so. Our guide leads us to the back of this second sanctuary and, after we take off our shoes, he encourages us to step in and videotape the ceremony.

Although each temple is different, the typical Buddhist temple has three main areas: the altar, the side altar and the meditation area. The altar is at the head of the sanctuary and contains the primary statue of Buddha. Each temple can be dedicated to one of many Buddhas. The side altar will contain pictures or statues of the founder as well as the lineage of the temple. The lineage is the students who have followed the teachings of the founder. The third area contains the pews or meditation cushions used by the congregation for worship.

During my taping, I see two rows of young monks sitting listening to the priest. At the end of the rows, near the altar, a priest leads the chant which the congregation answers. Many in the congregation offer incense during the ceremony while a young couple walks to the altar to make an offering to Buddha.

As I finish taping, the young monk leads us back outside to a courtyard. Here, we see a statue of the reclining Buddha which is not a common image of Buddha in Vietnam. The statue is engraved, in Vietnamese and English with a description of the Buddha’s life that includes the words “the Buddha entered into nirvana in 543 BC after preaching for the welfare of the peoples for 45 years.”

He then leads us into the main sanctuary and while showing us around, tells us the story of the temple in broken English. Prior to letting us take pictures, the young monk turns on the electric blinking lights around the altar and behind the Buddha’s statue. As we finish our discussions and picture taking, the raking sound from the rice filled courtyard stops and is replaced by a gentle shuffling as the man working the rice begins shuffling his feet through the rice in a back and forth dance, sifting the grains between his feet. We climb into the car for the rest of our journey.

Our arrival at our second temple, Chau Hang, is near noon. The temple has a large retaining wall around it with a gate. Following a drive down a short lane, we entered a dirt courtyard. A large sanctuary building, painted bright white is in front of us. Opposite it is a two-story dormitory style building and flanking each side are one- story structures. A few young monks are enjoying the shade they have found. Midday is not the best time to visit here. Many tourists come to this area and visit Chau Hang and Chau Co (about 45 km away) for the bird sanctuary. Many storks nest here and are often seen in great number at sunrise and sunset. Other travelers have suggested the best way to see the area is to wander on our own but we are quickly greeted by a young monk whose English is as strong as his desire to practice with us. In the main courtyard, he offers a history of the temple and monastery, telling us that 28 monks and 25 nuns made their residence here. “Nuns” he describes are seminarians or monks newer to their learning. As he leads us into the sanctuary, he too turns on the flashing lights behind Buddha’s head before we take pictures. As he tells the stories I walk around. On the walls, there were several posed photographs that look like class pictures of groups of monks. Some have dated captions, others are not dated but the fading of the colors in the prints gave some clue to their ages.

Back on the road and after a brief look around Tra Vinh, we head for My Tho. We are just outside of Tra Vinh when I see, what I think is a casket on a small boat in a small stream near the road. There is a group of about 100 people standing around the road, so I ask the driver to stop. As we approach a group, I recognize that it is, indeed, a casket being loaded from the boat to a small blue pickup truck parked on the opposite side of the road. As we watch, people climb on top of the pickup and into the back with the casket.

Sitting in the front seat are two boys; one of them is holding a painting of an older woman. The woman in the painting is sitting at a table and looks to be his grandmother’s age. The painting was very similar in style to the ones I saw in the market in Vinh Long. The boys in the truck and several of the mourners are dressed in white. A bundle of incense is burning on the dashboard and several people hold incense. As many as 15 people have now climbed in and on top of the truck with the casket. In a wagon pulled behind a honda om, a group of musicians sits waiting to play. As the other mourners mount bicycles, hondas or get in line to walk in the procession, traffic, still trying to move along this stretch of highway, slows to let them cross the street. A young photographer snaps the scene and, as the procession is ready to move, he hops on the back of a honda, facing backward, clicking his shutter.

The musicians begin to play, a cymbal beat and drums keep time. And while the music is definitely eastern, it sounds similar to a Scottish pipe and drum corps. My office, in the United States, is across from a cemetery and I see dozens of funeral processions a week. This one, even though so far from home and certainly a long way from my Presbyterian upbringing, reminds me of the similarities of each of us in the world.

The procession moves on and so do we.

This would be my third attempt to go to an island called Phu Quoc located southwest of Ho Chi Minh City between

Vietnam and Cambodia. Its mystery and the challenge of getting there had kept me at bay for three years. On my first try, the flight was canceled due to weather conditions. My second attempt to get there was by boat from Rach Gia, however this voyage was also canceled due to bad weather.

Finally, on my third approach, the weather was perfect. The plane left on time and after 50 minutes, I was surprised to see a relatively small, but modern airport with one runway. Entering the terminal, I looked through the glass windows into the local crowd waiting outside for new arrivals. It seemed that everyone who owned a motorbike had come to meet the plane and hoped to be chosen as a taxi driver to ferry the visitors to their island destination. Luckily, I saw a man holding a sign with my name on it! I did not have to go through the selection or negotiating process. With my duffel bag balanced on the front of the motorbike and me on the back, we were off to my pre-booked hotel. Our trip took about fifteen minutes and the cost of the ride was 20,000 dong (US$2) (twice the normal price as it had been reserved). The convenience was well worth the additional price.

The Kim Linh Hotel had both old and new sections and was located on a nice clean quiet beach. I checked into my room in the old section and stood looking at the view from my window; a bay surrounded by mountains, a white sand beach and crystal blue water. The coastline was dotted with both the traditional fishing boats and the round basket boats unique to Vietnam.

When I arrive at a new place, my routine is always the same–to check in and get a good overview of the area. My goal for the balance of that day was to make an orientation tour of the entire island by motorbike. I had not had anything to eat so I decided to stop for lunch before I set out exploring.

Walking down the hill from my hotel room, I came to a fork in the path that directed me from the hotel to the beach. There were two thatched roof bungalows in front of me–one to the right, one to the left. For some reason, I decided to turn left–a decision I would be happy about for the rest of my trip. The one I chose turned out to be the older of the two restaurants and was without electricity. I found out later that the other bungalow had a noisy generator that was used for television and lights. The noise created by the generator, as well as the television, were just what I wanted to escape. In my favor, the TV was quite a treat for the locals and many of the motorbike drivers mingled at that restaurant.

That first afternoon, I never ventured beyond the hammock strung between two palm trees under the thatched roof of the bungalow. I ordered a Tiger beer and fresh shrimp for lunch and before I knew it, I had spent the entire afternoon in my newly found ‘home away from home’ talking to the children, reading my book, playing with the local dogs, swimming and moving from one hammock to another as the sun moved in the sky. After being in Saigon, this was paradise!

Not only did I eat lunch on the beach that afternoon, but I also watched the stars come out and enjoyed dinner by the light of the evening sky and the kerosene lantern wondering where the day had gone. Oh well, I would do the orientation tomorrow.

As I fell asleep that night, I couldn’t help thinking about the truth in the statement that the more difficult a place is to get to, the more magical it is likely to be. It was certainly becoming true about Phu Quoc.

During my stay, I became a fixture at my new ‘home’–Bungalow #1. The restaurant was not associated with the hotel. It had no electricity, was quiet, comfortable and family-run. The owner and his wife had three children. The two daughters, 15 and 17, both spoke some English. The mother ran the restaurant and the father and son were fishermen who left every day between 4:00 and 6:00 pm to spend the night in their traditional boat hoping for a bountiful catch.

I awoke at sunrise the next morning. As I ate breakfast, I realized that a pair of fellow visitors was leaving. I decided that even though the view from my window was exquisite, I wanted to try one of the newer rooms located directly on the beach. I asked the management if I could change and moments later, my duffel was being transferred to my new room. I was delighted–the bathroom was new and the price was the same ($16/night). With that accomplished, I was ready for my day of exploration. I hired a motorbike and the same driver from the day before. Fortunately I had asked my bungalow host family what I should expect to pay him for the day. Their answer was between 80,000-100,000 dong. My driver’s first asking price was 150,000 and my first counter was 80,000. We finally agreed to 100,000, jumped on the bike and off we went down the bumpy red dirt ‘road’. I was to learn the hard way throughout the day that there was no pavement in Phu Quoc! Initially we went toward town to visit the other two hotels on the island. The Sea Fragrant Hotel is in the process of building a new annex which should open soon. Although located in Duong Dong town, the beach in front of the hotel was not nearly as clean as the one in front of mine. The second (Hotel Van Nguyen) I visited was the one in which I was originally supposed to stay but couldn’t because it was sold out. It was a family-run mini-hotel (seven rooms) located on a waterway but had no beach. I had ended up at the best possible place.

Traveling north, we reached a point on the island where we could go no further. This is because a dispute remains between the Vietnamese and the Cambodians as to who owns the island. The jungle had become increasingly dense, the smells of the flora sweeter and the sound of the birds clearer. The ride was beautiful and the area truly seemed untouched by mankind. We stopped and started to walk into the jungle. It was quickly apparent that if one were to proceed too far, there might be some difficulty in finding a way out. There were no paths–so we got back on our bike and headed toward the center of the island. As tired as I was, I wanted to continue the trip to the southern part of the island. I knew that if I stopped for lunch (at “my bungalow”), it was not likely that I would get back on the bike to go south.

Reaching the center of the island, we continued our journey south toward Kem Beach, located in the same area as “Coconut Jail” that was built in the French Colonial era and was famous as a prisoner of war camp. Both were on my list of things to see on Phu Quoc. We finally arrived at the old jail. It was hard to visualize what it must have looked like. Nothing remains of the prison except for some remnants of the original concrete foundations. New construction has taken place near the former prison location and appears to be occupied by the Phu Quoc Navy.

As we veered onto an even smaller bumpier road, I noticed a sign in English that said “No Trespassing”. Hung, my driver, who was unable to read English, just ignored it and kept going. I realized that if I had rented a motorbike on my own, I would have been stopped by the sign and would have missed the most beautiful beach I have ever seen in Vietnam. What I grasped at that point was that the signs apply only to those who can read them (i.e. foreigners). Fortunately we kept going and soon in front of me was the beach named Kem (‘ice cream’). The bay had a white powder sand beach and crystal clear water with waves that lazily rolled onto the shore. I closed my eyes and listened to the melodically quiet sounds of the waves and the birds. I don’t know how long I just stood there in thought–it seemed just seconds–yet when I refocused I sensed that Hung was irritated with me. The heat of the day was intense; the only thing lacking in this beautiful spot was shade. Yes, it was time to return to the hotel and my hammock under the thatched roof where I could contemplate life in the shade. I can only hope to return to Kem Beach again before it is discovered and/or developed by the outside world. So once again, off we went on our motorbike to navigate the potholes back to the hotel.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in the hammock discussing what life in America was like with my hosts’ two daughters. Later, I watched their father and brother ready the boat for their nightly fishing trip. I wondered what their life was like. Each day they left in the late afternoon in their traditional boat, sailing for two or more hours into the open waters. They fish until dawn, returning home with their catch in time to make the early morning market for sale. I asked if either of the girls had ever gone with them and was told that having a woman in a boat was bad luck, so, no, they had never gone with them.

That night, having a greater appreciation for the “catch of the day”, I ate fresh fish and watched the stars appear. Looking up and trying to remember the names of at least some of the stars, I was delighted to recognize Hale-Bopp. I will never forget Hale-Bopp nor where I was when I spotted it that night. I tried futilely to explain the concept of a comet to my adopted family. By the time I left for the night, I had convinced myself that I had done a halfway decent job in the definition–or at least pointed it out so that maybe the next night they could spot it themselves and tell any story they wanted to as to what it was! It sure would be fun to know what was said.

As 9:00 pm arrived, I couldn’t keep my eyes open and headed back to my room. During the night, I was awakened by the sounds of a thunderstorm. I wondered about the man and his son out in the open water and hoped they were okay. The next thought was about my scheduled fishing trip for the next day–would this mean it was canceled? What was it that the fishermen said? Was rain a good omen or a bad one? I fell back into a sound sleep and awoke refreshed and ready for my next day’s adventure.

When I opened my door I wasn’t sure if I had dreamt about the rain or if it had happened. As I walked out into the morning light, my driver was waiting for me. I realized that it had rained but it must not be a bad omen because my driver was ready to go. Arriving at the docks an hour later, Hung began to negotiate for a boat while I drank Vietnamese coffee at a local stand.

Finally, Hung proudly announced that the cost would be 200,000 dong for the day. He pointed to two Japanese men and said that I would be sharing the boat with them. We were an odd group–two Japanese men and their Vietnamese guide, our Vietnamese captain and crew of two, myself and my guide. No one spoke a common language–this could be interesting! We sailed into the open seas for the next couple of hours and after reaching a protected area, we slowed down. The Japanese gentlemen were getting their gear ready and I began to wonder (looking around and not seeing any fishing poles) just what I was to use. Soon enough, a plastic spool wound with fishing line was handed to me. I was shown how to use my finger as the tension lever and with the help of the captain, I was soon all set up and waiting for a bite. About half an hour passed by when suddenly one of my fishing partners landed our first catch–a seven kilo barracuda. Now I was determined not to be outdone. The same gentleman caught his second one before I finally felt a bite and pulled in a six kilo barracuda. I was so proud! So this is why fishermen get so excited–the wait–the bite–the catch–the struggle and finally the fish hitting the deck of the boat. What a thrill! Soon three more fish were caught before we paused for lunch. One of the barracudas was cut up and cooked and another fish was cut up and marinated in lime to be eaten raw.

Arriving back at the docks, I wasn’t quite sure what was going to happen to our catch. Hung began bagging our fish–I got the impression that for whatever reason, he was the big winner of the day’s catch. We said goodbye to the captain and his crew with our fish bagged and propped on the front of the motorbike. Back at the hotel, Hung was taking great pride in showing off “his” catch. Eventually, the fish ended up on the local catch of the day dinner menu with the proceeds being split between the restaurant and the driver.

I was content to go back to my hammock for the balance of the afternoon. That night the stars were brighter than the previous evenings. I began to think about my return to Saigon the next day and a real sadness came over me. Over the past five years, I have traveled all through this country watching it transform from a place when Saigon and Hanoi could be called quaint to the present day overpopulated, over-motorized, noisy metropolises. The feelings I had during my visit to this little island of Phu Quoc reminded me of the ones I had had five years earlier when I had fallen in love with the peacefulness of the country, the friendliness of its people and their eagerness to learn about the outside world. Smiling faces, no beggars, reasonable prices, basic but clean accommodations. Simplicity and innocence. I began to wonder, thinking of Saigon, and hope this place will last. I reminded myself of how lucky I had been to have witnessed the changes in Vietnam and how once again I had discovered another part of the country that was like a flower ready to bloom. Most people never get to see one flower blossom–I have been able to witness a first, and I’m convinced, a second one in Phu Quoc.

The next morning I awoke to the sound of motorbikes and discovered that I was not the only one leaving that day. Enjoying my fresh morning coffee, I wondered where the time had gone. Beach vacations are not my first choice for a holiday, however I loved my weekend at Phu Quoc. I had come mainly to broaden my knowledge of tourism in Vietnam and went away having had one of the best weekends ever.

All too soon, I knew it was time to go, so I paid my final bill at the restaurant and then at the hotel. Hung had been waiting since early morning for the opportunity to take me back to the airport. Off we drove on the red dirt road to the airport where I bid him farewell. As I waited inside the terminal, I looked outside to see the cycle begin again. Hung was outside in the middle of the crowd (this time with no name sign) trying to convince the new arrivals to choose him as their driver.

During my return flight to Saigon, I realized that I wanted a subtler transition back into modern times. I decided to spend one night at the Omni Saigon where I could ease myself back into the daily pace of the city. I checked in and enjoyed a massage and a swim in its beautiful rooftop pool–yes, this, too, is Vietnam–this is the country after the influences of the western world. I couldn’t help wondering where else I had traveled that allowed me to experience so much diversity in such a small area. As many changes as I have witnessed here over these past years, one thing has stayed constant no matter where I traveled–be it the cities, the highlands or even the tiny island of Phu Quoc–it’s the warmth and hospitality of all Vietnamese peoples.

That night as I lay in my queen-sized bed with fresh linens and no mosquito net, I realized just how wonderfully complex this country was and how much it has to offer the traveler. Fishing, scuba diving, golf, hiking, luxury resorts and yes, even beach vacations that rival Bali, are all here. Falling asleep in my luxurious accommodations, I began to dream about my beach bungalow, boat basket and barracuda, already missing them but loving the comfort of my room. The next morning I woke well-rested and ready to face the sounds, sights, smells and challenges of Saigon.

Travel Tips: Round-trip flight from HCMC to Phu Quoc: 140,000 dong. Flight time in each direction: 50 minutes. Best time to go: November through May, and best of all is December, January, February. Worst time to go: June through August because of the rains. Hotel accommodations: Kim Linh Hotel, Hotel Van Nguyen, Sea Fragrant Hotel: all under $20/night. Cost of a local guide and motorbike for the day: 80,000-150,000 dong.

Things to do: Jungle to the north. Coconut Jail. Sau and Kem Beach. Da Ngon and Da Ban Streams. Gia Long Emperors Well. An Thoi Fishing port to the south. Nuoc mam (fish sauce) factory. Pepper farm. Squid fishing by basket boat. Deep Sea Fishing by boat from An Thoi.

I had had my eye on inland Buon Ma Thuot for a while, mostly because of its strange schizophrenic name. Sometimes called Buon Ma Thuot, sometimes Ban Me Thuot. No one I asked in Ho Chi Minh City could explain why. They just told me of the elephants and coffee I’d find there. And the hill tribes. When I got a week off not long ago, I decided to solve the mystery for myself.

Buon Ma Thuot, the capital of Dak Lak Province, lies on a plateau in the Central Highlands north of Dalat. BMT has always been famous for its coffee and the aroma greets you on the streets. The orange-brown dirt everywhere adds to the illusion that the sky had just opened up and rained freshly ground coffee all over the quiet town.

Few tourists have made it here yet, but the French did long ago. Taking over coffee and rubber plantations in 1880, they soon transformed an unknown backward village into a somewhat prosperous “city.” Even today the spread-out town of about 130,000 seems better off than others of its size in Vietnam.

The Americans were the next noteworthy visitors, followed, of course, by the North Vietnamese Army, who came in on March 10, 1975. The first Russian-made T-34 tank to arrive that day had stood for years at the start of Nguyen Chi Thanh Street, as a sense of pride for the city. Or, at least a source of income for the many photographers nearby-snapping shot after shot of teens in “California” t-shirts. Sadly, the real tank-and BMT’s only real landmark-was hauled off to the Army Museum in Hanoi last January (but wasn’t on display there when I visited in May). The photo business still booms, though, with a new fake tank in its place.

Just across the street is the other popular posing spot, the new and typically modern, Thang Loi Hotel, with characterless rooms starting at $45. Buon Ma Thuotniks swear its restaurant serves “the best food in town,” a sad statement for Dak Lak cuisine. I chose to stay two blocks away, and for $25 less, at the silent disco/karaoke Cao Nguyen Hotel at 57 Phan Chu Trinh. The large and youthful staff, surprised to see a guest, left their parking-lot volleyball game behind to watch me check in.

Back toward the tank, the wooden lodge at 3 Phan Chu Trinh-more Rocky Mountain than Central Highland-houses the unusually helpful Dak Lak Tourist Office. Speaking English and welcoming me with smiles and a free map, Mr. An actually suggested that I don’t hire their tour guide because it’s “much cheaper” without one. (Definitely not Ho Chi Minh City!) But a guide would be your best bet if you’re traveling in BMT with a group.

For over an hour, I spoke with him, one of the trip’s highlights, listening eagerly as he unraveled the history of the town and, more importantly, its name. It seemed simple enough. He told me the Ede and M’Nong people had lived in the area for centuries. Buon Ma Thuot means “Thuot’s father’s village” in the Ede language. And Ban Me Thuot, means the same in M’Nong. In their languages, a father is renamed after a son is born. So, for example, if I were Ede and I had a son named Benny, I’d be called Benny’s Father. And because Mr. Thuot’s dad was an Ede, Buon Ma Thuot is, as I see it, the right name. (No offense to any M’Nong readers.)

With that mystery solved, I was ready to explore. The big attractions of Buon’s Father’s Village are at least an hour out of town-like the popular $40 elephant rides or an overnighter in a M’Nong longhouse at Lak Lake. (Both no longer require tricky travel permits, just ticket fees.) For the first day, I decided to stay in town.

A ride on a bicycle borrowed from a hotel employee quickly proved BMT isn’t as flat as it looks. I puffed my way around a central market, bought a “Buon Ma Thuot” hat and was offered a fruit gift from a crew of teenage boys walking down the middle of the street. Then I wove my way through a crowd outside the concrete church opposite the “fake tank” returning many “hellos” and smiles. Nearby, The Revolutionary Museum was inexplicably closed–and stayed that way during my visit. So I stopped for coffee and a lonely small talk or two. A peaceful town, yes. But pretty boring. Laughter-joyful and taunting-seemed to be coming from over the hills in Nha Trang.
But I bounced back with a real highlight: a French prison! Tucked away and hard to find on a dirt alley at 18 Tan Thuat, the prison was built in 1930 for Viet Minh prisoners, then later for the NVA and Viet Cong captured by the Americans. These days, mostly weeds occupy it, although a gardener’s family was replacing them with new plants and unusual wood sculptures. Three schoolgirls, who lived nearby, volunteered as guides, cheerfully showing me where Vietnamese were once stuffed into hot-box cells to suffer BMT’s surprising heat. Then they posed for photos with the old ball-and-chain lying freely in the courtyard, the broken shackle around one of their ankles.

The next morning, I awoke to learn that three guys of the hotel staff typically wanted “to practice English with a foreigner” and were taking me 15 1/2 miles to Dray Sap Falls. An hour later, my guides pointed at the “famous” falls named after smoke, but all I saw were the piles of abandoned picnic garbage and empty pop bottles and beer cans. Trash was everywhere. A couple garbage cans-and a little cooperation-could do a world of good in Dak Lak Province.

More enjoyable was a quick stop at a random Ede village on the way back. Naked children cannonballed into the chocolate-colored swimming hole, as an elder shyly introduced himself in French, then in English. The backdrop: rows of flowered coffee trees, traditional wooden longhouses and just a hint of pig dung.

If you can’t get your fill of Ede or M’Nong traditional clothing or tools at a village-and most were wearing t-shirts and jeans, I’ll admit-pay the buck to see the Hill Tribe Museum on Nguyen Du Street, housed in the old Summer Palace of Vietnam’s last emperor, Bao Dai. A guide there knows a little English, but there’s not a lot to see…a model of a longhouse, some clothing. A worker there had some “vintage” blouses that she was willing to sell for about $30 to $50. They looked like they were straight out of the exhibits. I went with the ugly Dak Lak postcards, just $2.50.

After two days, it was clear that “roughing it” had its price. Despite the generosity of my tireless guides, my money supply was nearly exhausted. And the costs for meals (often at the same noodle shops) were, strangely, rising. Forty-dollar elephant rides were out. So, I decided to spend my last night 37 miles closer to Dalat at the M’Nong village at Lak Lake for $5. The two-hour ride through hill tribe villages on hilly, gravel roads was a real treat-until my rented Honda had the characteristic breakdown in the middle of nowhere; a real scare for about 30 minutes. When I pulled into the M’Nong village an hour later-covered in dust, sweat and dead bugs-I was thinking more of Saigon comfort. But not for long.

The M’Nong-refreshingly incurious-let me be. I spent the afternoon wandering the village and shores of Lak Lake, peeking into their daily lives. Surely the same as the day before when the foreigner wasn’t there. At last, a few teen boys–who had been shyly showing off their fish catch of the day–took me by hand to a small rowboat for a sunset cruise on the still water, the most memorable image of the trip.

Their wooden longhouses, standing on short stilts, are well named-kind of like New York City railroad apartments, but with a room for each generation of the family. I got one for myself to share with a M’Nong man and his Dr. Zhivago mustache. We smiled and then he turned out the gas-lantern. Wide-awake, I stared into the dark as TVs blared in surrounding homes and pigs goofed off underneath us. It was 7:30pm. The M’Nong retire early.

I beat them waking up though-rather concerned about making my noon flight-and drove back to BMT semi-leisurely, stopping to see the sunrise over the lake as Dak Lak-ers (and the bugs) made their first stir in the cool morning.

Back in BMT, I was touristed out. And dirty. I got to the airport nearly three hours early and with 25,000 dong (about two bucks) in my pocket. I had mentioned to my newly made friends, including the guy I rented the bike from who took me to the airport, that I’d be back again in a “few months.” But would I? My thoughts were elsewhere. When that plane came in from Danang I’d be the first one on.

* * * * *

Fact File:

If you go, by all means contact the tourist office for a list of tours and packages. Or just drop by for some Dak Lak gossip: (50) 52108, 52324. Thang Loi Hotel: (50) 52322. Cao Nguyen Hotel: (50) 85193. Vietnam Airlines flies twice daily into BMT from HCM City, and now from Danang and Hanoi as well. If you take a bus, the least-evil road is Highway 26 from Nha Trang. But it’s also possible to come in from Dalat, though Highway 27 is really rough, and service may not be frequent. The bus station is 1 1/4 miles from the center of town. Motorcycle drivers (Honda om) will be waiting to take you.

My colleagues and I had a lot to do in three days of field trips. We were touching base with officials we had worked with over several years and bringing several of our projects to an official close. Being new with the organization, I looked forward to the time on the road. Close quarter traveling is one of the best ways to get to know people. With a lot to accomplish, we had decided to travel to Phuoc Son and back to Danang in the same day. Hence the early start. We set off at 5:00 AM, stopping on the way out of the city for “op-la” (for the uninitiated, that’s steak and eggs cooked “camp ground style” in a small metal pan). Suitably fortified for what was to come, we left Danang and headed for Phuoc Son. When my wife and I moved from Hanoi to Danang, we had been told that we would need a four-wheel drive vehicle for our work. At the time I thought that a two-wheel drive ought to be OK for anything we would be doing. I secretly thought the people insisting on the need for a four-wheel drive vehicle were wimps. That was before the drive to Phuoc Son.

It took most of an hour to leave all traces of Danang City behind. By this time we were driving along the most beautiful river I have ever seen (as a fisherman I have seen quite a few). The peace and quiet felt so good. There is something wonderfully soothing in the combination of green forest and rushing water. The road was a kind of cobblestone and people were actually laying it as we went. I had never seen anything like the miles and miles of this cobblestone road we traveled over. We reached a point where normally we would have taken the high water bridge, but it was under construction, so we used a low-water bridge instead. Our driver was familiar with the route so it didn’t take long to reach the alternate bridge. Across the river the scenery was even more spectacular. We were driving along a steep valley with the river rushing hundreds of feet below. As we progressed upriver, the road climbed and the valley became steeper and steeper. In places the road was actually falling away into the river and at this point, the road was turning to mud and ruts. We were scraping the underside of the vehicle and I was especially grateful at this point to be in a four-wheel drive!

On the far side of the river where they hadn’t logged yet, were some of the biggest trees I have seen in Vietnam. Many of them were in full bloom with a profusion of yellow and white flowers–so many that the trees seemed to be solid flowers. (Later we received a gift of wild honey that the bees had collected from some of these trees and an orchid plant to remind me of the exotic flowers of this area.) In the river below were unique rock formations and a lot of white water. The formations that looked like teeth sticking up out of the water were most likely the result of erosion. Still, in the U.S. I have done a lot of canoeing and I have never seen rock formations exactly like these–so sharp and jagged. In other places were giant boulders the size of small houses. By a 70-foot waterfall, we passed another four-wheel drive vehicle that had broken down. Some of the occupants seemed to be Japanese. This was the only other vehicle we saw on our four-hour drive. Unfortunately we couldn’t help them because we didn’t have any tools or parts with us. We figured someone would come along.

It was hard to believe when we came to the end of the road that there was a town there with a guesthouse, government offices, a school and some shops. We had lunch with the town officials. One of them mentioned that the soup had fish in it. At the mention of fish, I was all ears. I asked if the fish came out of the river and was hoping the answer would be yes as I had dreams of coming back to kayak and fish. He said yes. I asked him if he fished and he replied yes with a big smile. I asked him how big the fish in the river were and he held his hands out over a meter apart. (Fishermen are notoriously spatially challenged). He said the fish in the river have very big teeth (those are usually the best to eat). I knew I would be back. Our country director, Bob Huff, asked, “How did they ever get all this stuff in here?” We never got an answer. Perhaps the road in from the other side of the town is better. We didn’t know. In any event, we did know that the other road would be a lot longer for us and with business to do, we couldn’t be particularly adventurous, so after our pleasant time with the officials and the very nice meal, we went back out the same way we had come. Most visitors stay over at least one night in the guesthouse, but we still had a lot to do. Our driver said this was the first time he had ever gone in and out the same day.

This mountainous area is home to several minorities–one of them the Ktu. A German company has just recently started mining gold here but we saw no one panning for it on the way in or out. We did see people on the river along the way out. They had on blue clothing similar to the Blue Hmong. They were canoeing down a flatter stretch of the river in a woven canoe about fourteen feet long. On the way out we stopped for a break at the waterfall which dropped down off the cliff above and went under the road. The vehicle we passed on the way in was still broken down near the waterfall. No one had come along to give them a hand. We did see two logging trucks on a side road back in the woods. The trees they had cut were about four feet in diameter at the stump. If it weren’t for the steepness of the bank on the other side, it would probably be logged as well. I hope they never get over there.

On the way in I had sat on the left of the vehicle and the left-hand side of my head had taken a beating. On the way out I sat on the right and the right side of my head was beginning to match the left, so after our break at the waterfall, I decided to walk and jog for a while. I made just as good time as the vehicle. There was a footpath along the side of the road that was in better shape than the road. When I finally tired of walking and jogging, I had to wait for the vehicle to catch up. It wasn’t that I was so fast (those days are long gone); the vehicle was just going very, very slowly, negotiating the ruts and boulders. A little further along I saw a blur of color go across the road in front of us. I said “what was that!!!?” I thought I was the only one who had seen it (the driver seemed to be asleep), but one of our staff members [Dr. Tue] said he had seen it too. I was glad of that–I thought perhaps I had bumped my head one time too many. Then we saw two more of these colorful things. They hesitated long enough before going into the woods so we were able to get a better look. They were rooster-like birds but prettier than any show pheasant or bird of any kind I had seen before. The colors–red, yellow, gold, white and blue (almost indigo)–were almost fluorescent like the colors of a tropical fish. They were the brightest colors I had ever seen on anything moving that fast. By the time we reached the low-water bridge, it was late in the day. The sun was low and there were five or six children swimming in the river. They seemed to be having such fun in their magnificent environment–diving off the rocks and swimming in the pools. The people seemed so much at peace; I wondered why anyone would ever want to leave for the city.

The beauty of the river and the valley could not be captured on film or in words. I was sorry to leave it behind so soon. I look forward to going back and finding our host official in the hope he will take me fishing. I’d like to spend a week or two canoeing or kayaking the river and trying to find fish with big teeth over a meter long.

We whizzed past bleached-out flat lands interspersed with murky, rectangle pools and coconut trees.

“They’re shrimp farms” answered my guide. He then added, ” I have some friends who live on one of them, maybe we should visit?”

We were motorbiking through the little known and little frequented Cam Ranh Bay. For many, it was just a stepping stone en-route to the beach resort of Nha Trang – our final destination. Having just clocked up several hours travelling and hot and tired from our journey, we decided not to stop. But the young man – a resident of Nha Trang City – vowed to bring me back sometime.

Keeping to his promise, we returned again a few days later to the beautiful Cam Ranh Bay. Armed with backpacks on the same motorbike, we decided to chance it and call in unannounced to his friends.

I knew that we had arrived back in the same area again, when we drove past the same stretches of shrimp pools and the sweeping azure bay dotted with colourful fishing boats. Veering suddenly off the main road, we turned rally-drivers and negotiated the dusty, pot-holed track that lead down to the coast and the small fishing community. Small thatched houses and casuarina trees lined the route as well as the usual hotchpotch of toddlers, chickens and wobbly bicycles.

Totally unannounced, we swept into a grand one-storey residence near to the bay, complete with large front yard. A handful of women wearing the ubitiquos conical hats sat under shady trees darning piles of fishing nets. Taking up most of the yard, we practically ran over them as we pulled up at the steps to the house. The owners – the friends of my guide – had prospered well from the local fishing and shrimp farming. Sitting aimlessly on the verandah after the mornings’ catch, the extended family looked surprised to see us but upon our arrival greeted us warmly.

After consuming fruit and coconut juice and catching up on news with the family, it was time for a stroll down towards the bay. We stumbled along elevated pathways that circumnavigated rows of identical shrimp pools and the odd bamboo huts. The land was salty and stony and was used for little else but shrimp farming. I did however discover later that the area also doubled up as the communal bathroom.

The voluptuous wife of the master of the house, whom I will refer to as Madam, seemed to run the show. When we enquired if we could possibly stay the night after driving all the way from Nha Trang, she quickly replied that all her rooms were occupied. This was disappointing. She then had an idea. They owned a large shrimp pool, backing on to the grounds of their home. Increasing shrimp thieving under the cloak of darkness had become a big problem in these parts. Tonight it was her turn for nighttime guard duty, so she suggested that we all camp out overnight in the little shack at the top of the pool to keep watch.

Always one to try something new and ever the adventurer, I embraced the idea and got quite excited. Besides, this would make great copy. Its not every day you get to camp out on a shrimp farm.

My enthusiasm sharply waned however when this idea was put into practice. The shack was open plan with only two walls, giving the term air-conditioning a whole new meaning. Although sultry hot during the day, at night the air was decidedly chilly. Madam sat sprawled in a deckchair facing the pool and fell asleep promptly. My guide hung out on a hammock that had seen better days. I was given the honour of sleeping on the only bed, albeit planks of wood on bricks. However, I did have a mosquito net; an invaluable item as we were not only in the tropics but also near stagnant water with no protection. I didn’t share the same fate of dozing off quickly and spent an uncomfortable night tossing and turning. Madam was not much of a guardsperson snoring away, but I suspected that she always had one ear cocked up. The next morning the shrimps might still have been intact, but the three of us looked decidedly worse for wear as we stumbled back to the house.

Being friends with a fisherman’s family does have its perks, however. The master of the house owned a fishing trawler and saw me as a highly lucrative business investment. Thinking I was made of dollars, he suggested I take the boat out for the day. The price bartered down was fairly reasonable – $25 USD for its’ sole use, complete with Captain and mate; food and drink was extra.

It was up to me to plan the day’s routes, but this was fairly easy in Cam Ranh Bay, full of isolated islands and stunning coves with enticing crystal clear water. So mid-morning, armed with French baguettes, bananas and the local “Dragon Fruit” thanh long, we first had to walk across mudflats to get to our thung chai. This was a 2m-wide precarious basket boat made of woven strips of bamboo and pitch, the only way to access the trawler.

Its’ navigation required great skill; four of us had to stand in equal symmetry whilst paddling out to sea. One wrong move and the whole thing could turn upside down. At last we reached our boat – a pretty wooden trawler painted bright blue and red. My Captain for the day was the fisherman’s elder son, painfully young and – I naively assumed – frightfully inexperienced. However, this is the land of fishermen and he proved himself pretty adept at steering a boat through the swells of Cam Ranh Bay.

We sailed from pristine coves to secluded islands on the most sparkling of days. Hardly touched upon in the guidebooks, there was not a tourist to be seen – only fishing boats and a few frigates from the surrounding military base. The Captain and his mate boiled up some mandatory rice, while we busied ourselves with swimming to shore and walking along silky-soft white sand. It was a perfect day and as I sat up in the cramped upper helm with the three young men, the power almost went to my head. I was Queen for the day and just for once in my life felt like the idle rich. After all that excitement, I was ready for a good nights’ sleep. We understandably gave nighttime guard duty a miss: I wisely opted instead for the comfort of my firm mattress and artificial air-conditioning of my hotel back in Nha Trang.

After the fall of Saigon into the Communists’ hands, things became different. I visited Da-Lat for a week during my memorable and emotional trip back home last December. Still the same scenery but the atmosphere had changed. It was not quite like in the days of my youth. It was not quite like the picture that I had in my dream. The dream that I had recently in a happy moment of my life.

We are at the Valley of Love. We find ourselves lost in the thick of the hilly slopes covered with thousands of slender pine trees. The breeze from a bordering lake sweeps the sweet pine scent through each and every crack and crevice of our lungs. The trees with their long leafy stems swaying rhythmically in the howling wind like bows sliding up and down the violin strings, serenading our hearts. The sun is setting in the far west. Long wavy orange strips of sunlight weave to the movement of the water on the clear quiet lake adding beauty to the vision. The brisk cold evening air feels like it’s cutting my blushy warm face. We silently meander through the forest, hand in hand, feeling the warmth radiating from each other’s body and heart. Words are simply unnecessary. Silence is our accomplice. Explicit verbal exchange is reflected in our starry eyes and through our intense sensation of unity and harmony.

Wings of my dream carry me to the Romance Garden and gently lay me down in an embellished meadow of sunflowers. I lie there comfortably in my misty state of mind. The multitude of tall, straight-stalked sunflowers with their large leaves and perching heads surrounding me gives the comfort of a safe sanctuary. In the midst of the misty twilight of the day, a little jolly girl aimlessly and mindlessly hops on one flower then another, her transparent white frilly long dress floating in the west wind. Behind her, a handsome young man frantically follows her path, his arms waving to get her attention. He finally catches up to her. The crickets and the birds stop their chirping and lend their ears to the couple’s giggling that echoes in the tranquillity of the late evening.

Dim vision of various familiar, spectacular, scenic settings flash by in the subconcious zone. Too quickly for the mind to register or be aware of the physical and emotional details of the events. The Lamenting Lake with its sadly ended and brokenhearted legend forever wears a mysterious and eerie expression, even more so on rainy days or in the foggy dawn or dusk of the day. Secretly tucked in the neck of the faraway woods, the foamy white Bridal Veil Waterfall, as always overpowering, energetic and aloof, stands up high as a monument of beauty and wonder. With its small population, primitive amongst others, the town has always been a center of tourist attraction. The hilly, shaded, deserted streets with the well-manicured lawns and patches of vibrantly colored exotic flowers bordering the villas give the town a classy character. It is not a ski resort but it resembles one. The refreshing mountain air and the ambiance of a small close-knit community remind me of Aspen, Colorado. The uniqueness of the town stems from the mixed traits of an urban district nestled in the wilderness where lifestyles reflect the dichotomy and the ambivalence between civilization and the old traditions.

We sit in a cozy little cafe’ overlooking a thick green valley of pines. The me’lange of the sweet pine scent and the warm coffee aroma offers an exotic and tantalizing treat to the senses. The view, though blocked by the surrounding soft hills, seems to plunge into the limitless horizon. The romantic and melancholic sound of the music is therapeutic and soothing even to the most troubled minds.
Deeply moved by the surroundings, I blurt out a few poem verses in my native language, simple yet revealing. They come from the bottom of my racing heart. He smiles. A smile that is imbued with a touch of admiration, understanding and contentment. We talk for a long time. Things of the past, the present and the future. The meeting of the minds is so powerful that unspoken words and subtle expressions come to be revealing still. Time comes to an absolute standstill. We both plunge into the serene silence of the night.

The soft voice of the waitress suddenly brings me back to reality. To my dazzlement and disappointment, I find myself thousands of miles away from my most favorite place, alone in my half-lit bedroom. The morning sunshine diffusing into my room prepares me for a new day. Another day in the life of a single parent, alone on her way to the discovery of her own identity and the fulfillment of her dream.

Fallen leaves of ’98

By the time the Nguyen lords wrested this patch of the country from the Champa in the mid-seventeenth century, the intriguing Po Ngar Cham towers had already stood, stacked impressively on a hillside above the Cai, for over 700 years. They remain Nha Trang’s most famous image, yet it’s the coastline that brings tourists flocking.

Boasting the finest municipal beach in Vietnam, Nha Trang offers splendid scope for mellowing out on the sand, with hawkers on hand to supply paperbacks, fresh pineapple and massage. Scuba-diving classes are available here and several local companies offer popular day-trips to Nha Trang’s outlying islands that combine island visits and snorkeling with an onboard feast of seafood.

Nha Trang is much more that a dozy backwater, however. The downtown area, which swirls around Cho Dam (“central market”), its colorful epicenter heaves with life; while the route up to the Po Nagar towers escorts you past the city’s huge and photogenic fishing fleet. These, and other lesser sites around the city, are best seen by renting a bicycle for a day.

Should none of this appeal, Nha Trang is still a convenient stopover on the long haul between Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh, and blessed with a crop of decent restaurants and hotels.

By Ian Stuart
Hmong, Tai and Red Zhao have lived in Vietnam’s North West since the 1700′s, when the nomads began arriving from China.

Todays trekkers, marvelling at the lush Hoang Liem valley vistas, a tail end of the Himalayas, share in the diversity of village life and the customs when growing up and romancing here.

Fog and rain smother treks for almost half the year, but the curtain of fog parted at the start of this June four day trek.

Mr.Lan at the Sapa Heritage Centre directed me to a local Black Hmong guide.

Twenty kilometers from Sapa Miss Chang and I were dropped off. Way across the range, triangular firs forest the granite pyramids that jaw the upper valley. Vase shaped terraces slice the hills, pinned with lime green rice stalks. Arched backs plant rice for the annual harvest or press bullocks to plough on. Rooves lapel the hills down to the river.

But even forest habitats above 1,500 metres are being eroded and hunted in this nature reserve.

Hopscotching stones on slithery clay we pass an American woman blanching:

“Does it get any easier?”

Naively nonchalant, soon it’s my feet sinking in three feet high mud ridges. Miss Chang’s helping hand and broad valley smile see me through. She’s pursuing her guide career, though illiterate. Hmong treasure their oral stories and musical heritage, especially for spring romancing.

Orange beak geese snap ochre butterflies whilst we picnic, steamed bamboo and rice, at the waterfall of Giang Ta Chai village.

Twenty three up and down kilometers later, fleeing a darkening sky, we reach our Tai guesthouse in Ban Den village. It straddles the Ta Van river, by a tower of greened limestone.

As the dawn sun curves, the Dad plays with his doting daughter on his lap.

‘Here I can do what I like, in the fields and store,’ he smiles.

His parents emigrated from Southern China thirty years ago to join the 1,200,000 Thais in Vietnam, her largest ethnic group.

Bright rice bundles are dropped by our stilt ‘villa’, built communally -and nailessly- in two days.

But getting drinking water had taken twelve hours. Setting out, dehydration collapses me under the shady stilts of a bemused local’s home. Fortunately, Yoga postures-the headstand and plough – cools and cures.

We walk through scents of evaporating greenery to bird trills and paper trumpet melodies.

After a few hours the path smooths, legs relax, and the sky blossoms blue and white. Miss Chang, sweating, insists she wear the full Black Hmong dress. Her hair is rolled in a headband above heavy silvered earrings. The split fronted, indigo dyed hemp blouse undergarments a long shiny waistcoat which becomes an apron below an embroidered belt. Flower Hmong rainbow embroider entire outfits. Red, Blue and White Hmong colour code accordingly.

Crossing the sunset river leads up to Muong Bo village. Horses amble by as pillars of sunlight beam around the valley vista where shrikes, finch and barbet fly. Homes ring the rice fields.

The guest house is again Tai. A family altar photo shows valley fruits: papaya, guava, banana and mango. Outside, nusing near night shadowed corn, girls run and scream past me!

Perplexed, back on our rattan balcony, I ask Miss.Chang about Black Hmong courtship.

Suddenly, thunder pounds the sky, ziggurat lightening flares through clouds as an electric monsoon sieves the sky. She says friendlily:

‘If a boy sees a girl he likes, then he asks friends about her. At Tet, the lunar New Year festival, he may serenade her with bamboo pan pipes, musical leaves, the Jew’s harp and song:

‘I’m a songbird with no branches
to perch on
You exude perfume like wild flowers
Come here if you’ve affection for me!’

He’s dancing in waves around her, coaxing her to join in:

‘You have heard wrong about me,
I’m as ugly as a flower
the bees dare not visit
If you are not teasing me then
Meet me at the next market day!
Village celebrations go on for months after a wedding.’

Lightning necklaces the sky; as green fire flies drift by, her lilting voice confides:

‘If you want to marry a Hmong girl, I will tell you how she is, and how to play the pan pipes ! ‘

But beware: sociologists claim forced kidnap marriages of the girl are still common practise, causing unhappiness. Guides talk of feigned kidnappings of lovers.

By morning the rice trays brim over. All around the valley, bamboo age aquaducts chute water to u indented rice steppes and levers of rice husker arms. Water gurgles down into our bamboo kitchen’ washing bowls and even the outdoor loo.

Sunlight spreads out of the grey. The river below churns white water past masses of red and orange mossed boulders.

Miss Chang considerately says the Red Zhao village is just a few kilometers up hill; it’s ten. Nearing Sin Chai A, farming women chewing betel nut walk by. Ornate silver, French colonial coins, pom poms and tassels sway from their red cushion shaped turbans.

The cooling air tastes of the valley. Tall,broad thatched homes space forty degree clay paths between fowl ponds and allotments in which medicinal ginger grows. Doors are open and a family lets me in.

While the husband smokes from a broad bamboo tube, popular in Vietnam, his wife embroiders white geometric motifs of people, animals, trees and abstracts on black leggings. Their children look at me wistfully, shoulder length hair around oval faces, eyes warm and thoughtful like the villagers’.

By the fifteenth year they’ll have full names, until then a guardian genie name. Genies are common in Vietnam. When Ho Chi Minh died, it is said, he transformed into the Vietminh’s Guru genie. After three days a name to tell ancestors is given. Ancestor veneration is akin to religion in Vietnam. The Taoist baptism -Cap sac- bestows the full name: family lineage sequences the particles.

All approve as I try on a home spun long coat and baggy leggings,from their cupboard. It feels comfortable and roomy.

Chinese script between paper patterns festoon the living room wall. Zhao Shamans still recite from Zhao pronounced Chinese texts.

Their altar faces the entrance.That’s in line with feng shui, harmonising living space with the elements. Its shelf under side is decorated with purple paper pitchers. A tassel of corn hangs on either side.

On the kitchen hearth sits a four by four foot wok. Dying and corn barrels line the room.

After photos, I walk up past the village square where Miss Chang is chatting in the café next to the school. TheGovernment encourages education and settled communities.

Above, in the shade of a long house, fifteen year old girlfriends embroider.

For the female cap sac, at age 13, mothers shave eyebrows and forehead before pouring hot wax on braided hair. It’s then rolled into the dazzling turban. This epitomizes beauty for Zhao suitors.

Beetles zingywhirr from the forested path side is dusk’s alarm clock: time to go home.

Field workers are returning, wooden ploughs and hoes over shoulders.

To the pulse of childhood, boys saunter on slopes that ring their rice basin, calling to friends and striding across ridges.

Wrinkly eyed bulls and calves scrutinize me.

It’s day four and my lingering return to Sapa, via Supan. Exchanging ” Go bo Chi” greetings, locals whoop and cheer us en route. We pass Danish trekkers, blue eyes bulging at panoramic views of the horse shoe valley vista we’ve been traversing.

Next morning, the Sapa sun genie vanished in a surge of fog and drizzle. Miss Chang returned to her family of twelve siblings. Her neighbourliness had attuned our trek to Mr. Lan’s remark:

“The people love the land here so much.”

* * * * *

Fact File

Best time to visit: October to December when it’s cool and least rainy.

How to get there: The overnight train is clean and comfortable.

Guides: Ask at the Heritage museum about where to find a local guide. Miss Chang can be contacted via the Cat Cat guest house. Do say ‘Goyongshizhou’from Ian!

Many tour agencies from Hanoi will organise your trip, such as Footprint, Handspan and Kim’s Cafe.

Tips: Local guides care about the valley and so may give you more ‘space’ to appreciate the trek. Check and write out the route before starting. You may want to minimise the steep up and down trails.

Allow for rainy day activities in Sapa before the trek- such as visiting Dragon jaw park, the Art galleries, Cat Cat waterfall and chilling out. Books and C.D’s aren’t available in Sapa.

The gateway to the mountains and hill tribes of North-east Vietnam begins with the inconspicuous Tran Quy Cap Station in Hanoi. Waiting for the night train, the cramped city terminal is standing room only, packed with Vietnamese families armed with mountains of bags and international backpackers resembling turtles.

They are all heading for Lao Cai, the last stop in Vietnam before the Chinese border. For many, their final destination is the former French hill-station Sapa, a pretty mountain town with stunning overviews of sweeping valleys and the mysterious Mount Fanzipan. Having previously experienced the joys of Sapa, this time however I am en-route for its’ relatively quieter neighbour, the sleepy Bac Ha – located on the other side of the mountains.

The overnight train journey is always a bit of an adventure and this time is no exception. I am squashed in a six-berth rail carriage with an over-enthusiastic Vietnamese family. They unravel bags of fresh fruit -plums, oranges and jackfruit, which they kindly offer me. I notice that they have managed to smuggle in two live chickens in a plastic basket, which the ticket inspector fails to see. Feeling worse for wear the following morning after sleeping on wooden slats (which is why the carriage is termed “hard sleeper”) we sit dazed and look out through the iron bars across the train window. It is nearly 6am and as the train approaches Lao Cai, it passes a swollen river lined with coconut palms and water buffalo. As the sun makes its’ first appearance, the mist slowly rises off the surrounding paddy fields. We are now only a few kilometres from the Chinese border.

The chilly, early morning temperature hits me as I stumble out of the train. A mass of passengers make their way through to waiting minibuses to whisk them up to Sapa, two hours away. I seem to be the only one travelling on to Bac Ha, apart from one German tourist. As I frantically look around for transportation, I quickly realize that this is fruitless. An enterprising local motorbike guide comes to my assistance. In faultless English he explains,

“There aren’t any buses up today. You could hire a jeep together with the other boy to get to Bac Ha….”
He tells me the price. I nearly pass out.
“Or I can give you a lift up there…”
“What on?” I innocently ask. Although I know the answer, I am somehow in denial.
“Well you can ride on the back of my motorbike…it will take us about two hours and I can quote a reasonable price….”

With a choice of being stranded in dreary Lao Cai, taking out a second mortgage on a jeep ride or risking my life for a cheaper alternative, I wisely choose the third option. The negotiated price isn’t bad and at least he can lend me a crash helmet – a rarity in Vietnam. My main concern is the horrendously large backpack (I never travel light) but this canny guide obviously has experience of this and straps it firmly to the front of the motorbike. There isn’t much room on the pillion seat, so I keep sliding forward, a bit too close for comfort to the driver. And I don’t even know his name.

After initial wobbles and heart seizure, I actually begin to enjoy the journey. Thankfully, it isn’t raining, the skies are a clear light blue and the sun shines brilliantly. The road leaving Lao Cai gradually elevates up to the peace and serenity of the mountains. Some of the local minority hill-tribes, – the Flower Hmong people – so named because of their distinctive traditional costumes of embroidered flowers -wave us through with broad smiles. Snaking its’ way up the mountainside, the route becomes increasingly steep with breathtaking views across terraced rice fields and smatterings of hillside communities. There isn’t a problem with traffic because there isn’t any – we have complete free reign of the roads.

At long last, we arrive at Bac Ha – surprisingly in one piece. Surrounded by distant mountains, Bac Ha is refreshingly timeless and seems to have escaped the onslaught of tourism as witnessed by Sapa. An unassuming agricultural community, its delightful rustic charm is still intact. The smell of musk wood fire permeates the morning air and chickens and pigs run amok along the dusty main street. During the day, all and sundry head out to the neighboring fields to work. Tourists are hardly catered for here – English is little spoken and there are no tourist agencies. There are only a few guesthouses and one or two simple pho restaurants. In mid-week- when I arrive – the place resembles a ghost town. At the weekend however when Bac Ha’s Sunday market is underway, the town brims to capacity with tourists and many of the hill-tribe groups arriving in from outlying areas. But by Sunday evening, a mass exodus takes place and Bac Ha returns once more to its old deserted self.

Thanks to my friendly guide, I find a delightful family-run guesthouse away from the centre- not that there is a great deal of noise to avoid. The room has simple wooden shutters and a shared balcony with excellent views across town. Thick bedding quilts and open fires indicate the drop in night-time temperatures. Each morning I am handed a thermos of hot water for concocting fragrant Chinese tea.

There are some interesting little hikes around Bac Ha that can keep you entertained for days. Some of the fourteen hill-tribes in the vicinity can be visited; as well as the Hmong, these also include the Tay and Dao. The circuitous, narrow paths from town lead up to their remote bamboo thatched huts and deep-inclining cultivated land. Farmers and bell-clad cows sidle past regularly. Every so often there are large, dilapidated barns crammed to the rafters with harvested gourds, sweetcorn and grain. On one of several forays with a local guide, we arrive at a remote hamlet. Friends of the guide invite us inside their simple abode; dirt poor, their hospitality is overwhelming. We sit on the bare floor and they encourage me to partake in the ritual of smoking on the family’s pipe. The inhalation of the purest tobacco takes my breath away- literally -and we spend a few idle moments chatting and smoking.

It is the markets however that are the greatest attraction here. Whilst the most convenient and well known is the market held in the town centre, there are also a couple of markets located outside Bac Ha. Although quite difficult to get to, they are well worth the effort. I am particularly keen to visit Can Cau Market: held each Saturday morning this ties in perfectly with a weekend of market therapy. Although only 18kms north of Bac Ha, it is however a treacherous journey, especially if it’s undertaken during the rainy season. Travelling independently again means that I must hire a motorbike guide. This time round though, my guide hardly speaks a word of English: he is just instructed to get me from A to B. This is probably not a wise arrangement if anything unfortunate should happen en-route. But setting off early, it is thankfully another gloriously beautiful day. Although a relatively short distance as the crow flies, it takes us over an hour to reach our destination on a hazardous tough track littered with stones. The route is extremely precarious, crossing fords and with the risk of sporadic landslides. The wide track hugs the side of the mountain and from its subsequent dizzy heights offers panoramic views across everlasting plains. After climbing high for some time, the final leg of the journey descends dramatically down into a secluded wooded valley.

Sprawling near the banks of a river, Can Cau Market is a clearly defined shantytown, packed with crude stalls covered with thatched roofs. The start of a few simple settlements can be seen high above, many of whose residents now make their weekly pilgrimage to the market. We are only 9kms from the Chinese border and some traders make the journey across from China on horseback. Unfortunately foreigners are not allowed to reciprocate this set-up, however tempting it may seem.

By 9 am, the market is crammed to capacity. It’s lively and surprisingly fun. The locals are mostly of the Flower Hmong minority group. You can’t miss them -their traditional costume of green checked headdress and multi-colored, meticiculosly stitched and layered garments are simply stunning. Few foreigners make it to Can Cau; those that do brave the journey come either with a small tour group in four-wheel drives, or – if half-mad and on a tight budget like me -on the back of a motorbike. The handful of Westerners here this morning are the object of intense – though friendly- scrutiny. There is much laughter as we try to make basic conversation. Although the majority are painfully shy and not accustomed to seeing foreigners, some cheerfully allow photographs to be taken.

Can Cau is predominately a livestock market and not the sort of place to buy some choice gifts for the folks back home. Beyond the fenced-in perimeter, pot-bellied pigs, chickens and water buffalo wait patiently by the river to be sold. They rub shoulders with magnificent wild horses, some of whom will be transporting their masters back over to China. But the market also sells the basics: traditional clothing, sacks of rice, bundles of coarse, raw wool and ironware. Some stalls sell fresh tobacco and a rather sad array of root vegetables. Many women sell their wares from large, wicker baskets and sit weaving whilst waiting for a sale. I note that there are many giant plastic containers lying around with attached tubes. I mistakenly think this is gasoline, but it is in fact the omni-present rice wine and some folk are spotted wisely filling up their water bottles for the long ride home. Food stalls serve bowls of steaming fat noodles in broth and indescribable plates of what I can only assume are some sort of animal innards. It is almost like being transported back in time. There are few traces of the outside world, save the occasional soccer tee-shirt cast off and digital watch. As I observe the incredible costumes, deep shyness and the dark, weather-beaten skins, it is hard to imagine that this is the same country as freewheeling Saigon City in the south. It might as well have been on another planet.

In the mood for more markets, I am in luck. Bac Ha’s main draw – the town market – is held Sunday morning in the centre of town. Many tour buses direct from Sapa arrive especially for this event. They and the many hill-tribe groups arriving from out of town help swell the throngs and by midday, the large patch of cleared land is packed to capacity. Whilst somewhat more commercial than Can Cau, Bac Ha Market is still mesmerizing. This is a colorful and animated occasion; full of gaily-clad locals who gather each week for gossip, bartering and stocking up on goods. An indistinguishable riot of vivid designs from the hill-tribes’ attire blurs with faded red umbrellas, used as a welcome relief from the scorching sun.

Like the previous market, hours are spent wandering around watching engaged sales and chatter. On the ground, piles of embroidered garments and bags, basic household goods and antiquated farming implements are neatly laid out. There are curious things to eat, such as honeyed rice cakes, unrecognizable fruits and a great line in fresh offal. At the side of the market, there are plenty of makeshift food stalls and interestingly a few rice wine outlets, where many of the men seemed to have congregated. Some who appear to have enjoyed one too many, gesture for me to come over and join them. Easily persuaded, I perch on wooden benches and am surrounded by an inquisitive crowd of males. They immediately hand me a chipped china cup that has seen better days. It overflows with rice wine, although it seems more like rocket fuel as it burns the back of my throat. The men giggle at my screwed up nose and after three glasses I have to make my excuses. I seem to float back to my guesthouse with not a care in the world. As I recover later on my balcony, sipping hot tea and watching the orange sun sink slowly behind faraway hills, I guess I haven’t.

There is also a local legend, which has been handed down, relating to the name Ha Long Bay, which tells the following tale:

Long ago, in the first founding days, the Viet people were attacked by foreign aggressors. The Jade Emperor sent the Mother Dragon and her band of Child Dragons to help the Viet people fight the invaders. While the enemy vessels were launching massive attacks against the mainland, the dragons descended in flocks from the sky. They spat out innumerable pearls which changed into jade stone islands the moment they touched the water. These islands linked together to form firm citadels that checked the enemy’s advance and smashed their vessels to pieces.

After the invaders were driven out, Mother Dragon and her Child Dragons did not return to Heaven but stayed on earth, right at the place where the battle occurred. The spot where the Mother Dragon landed was Ha Long, and where the Child Dragons came down was Bai Tu Long. The place where their tails violently wagged was called Long Vi, the present-day Tra Co Peninsula with its soft sandy beach stretching many kilometers.