SANSAHO
22° 19' 42'' N 103° 49' 40'' E
The honking never stops. Hoping to take a nap, I've been looking for 1/2 hour for a melody, something regular to lull me to sleep. But to no avail. It's just anarchy, and I must admit I'm longing for a bit of calm. I push aside the sun-bleached floral fabric, just tied in a few stitches to an old rod. My little balcony overlooks part of the city. A trickle of water runs down the window. It's coming from the air-conditioning units, which are running non-stop.
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The last rays skim a few buildings, while the scooters are still buzzing. Pierre hasn't been able to put me up, having moved in a few months ago near Hoan Kiem Lake. He lives in what in Paris would be called a broom closet. Here in Vietnam, a family and all its descendants could fit into it. So I preferred to rent a room in a typical guesthouse where they don't even speak English. "Tạm biệt Miss Dang!" The little lady replies with a wide, toothless smile as she hurries over to open the door for me. On the landing, I hear the nightly din of Hanoi like a violent slap. |
Pierre is waiting for me at the café across the street, and he gives me a friendly wave. But crossing the street is a real ordeal, and I'm a long way from understanding how to survive the messy comings and goings of two wheels. The other night, one of Pierre's friends told me that when you're going fast, you mustn't change pace
or turn around. "It's not up to you to avoid the scooters, they're the ones going around you." Frozen on the sidewalk, I give myself a few seconds' thought before entrusting my life to complete strangers. In a few minutes, we'll be aboard the outdated train to the Sapa region. Pierre gives me a mischievous look: "Adventure awaits!
And it's no understatement to say that our night train has no sleeping car. I begin to bitterly miss Madame Dang's ageing bedding, banging my bruised shoulder on the wooden benches with every jolt. Every time my body relaxes a little, it's another stop to let passengers on. And then the stationmaster thinks he's a virtuoso, ringing his bell at every turn.
6am: deliverance arrives at Vietnamese breakfast time, the Pho soup to be enjoyed on the floor without any restraint, happy to no longer be tossed about in all directions. As day breaks over the green mountains, we're high above the Muong Hoa valley. Tourists come here for long hikes amidst unspoilt landscapes. We're not here to outdo ourselves; we leave the summits to others. We just want a break from the hysteria of Hanoi.
Men and women in colorful traditional dress bustle around their stalls. Our contact in Sa Pa comes over to us looking jovial. We're the only Europeans at the market, so it's not hard to find our way around. He's a young man in his twenties, with a pronounced muscular build. His hands are unmistakable: rough and large, Quyen works the land with his family on the San Sa Ho side.
A few hours later, we discover the small farming village perched high above the rice paddies. In the midst of all this green, the large thatched huts cluster together like a bunch of mushrooms. This man-made nature leaves no room for imperfections. The curves of the fields follow one another with surreal regularity.
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Suddenly, the smell of roasting wakes up my stomach. Smoke billows from all sides of one of the wooden huts. As is often the case in remote ethnic groups, the hearth has no flue and the meat is cooked by asphyxiation. It's a festive meal to mark our arrival, and I'm delighted to honor the invitation.
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Pierre has all the makings of a city dweller and finds it somewhat difficult to enjoy the company of the pigs around the mat that serves as our table. But they are soon dispersed by the intrusion of half the village who come to greet us. Or rather, to observe us: the children spy on us, laughing and heckling. We're fairground animals, and we play along, grimacing and exaggerating our gestures in an attempt to communicate.
