SANSAHO
22° 19' 42'' N 103° 49' 40'' E
The honking never stops. Hoping to take a nap, I've been searching for a melody for half an hour, something regular that would lull me to sleep. In vain. It's just chaotic, and I admit I'm dreaming of a little peace and quiet. I pull aside the sun-bleached floral fabric, tied in a few knots to an old rod. My small balcony overlooks part of the city. A stream of water runs relentlessly down the windowpane. It comes from the air conditioners running relentlessly.
|
|
The last rays of sunlight brush against a few buildings while the scooters are still buzzing. Pierre couldn't put me up; he 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 their descendants could fit in there. So, I preferred to rent a room in a very typical guesthouse where they don't even speak English. "Tạm biệt Miss Dang!" The little lady answers me with a wide, toothless smile as she rushes to open the door for me. On the landing, I hear a violent slap of the night-time din of Hanoi. |
Pierre is waiting for me at the café just across the street, he gives me a friendly wave. But crossing the street is a real ordeal, I have no idea how to survive the chaotic coming and going of two wheels. The other evening, a friend of Pierre's told me that when you set off, you should definitely not change your 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 to think before entrusting my life to complete strangers. In a few minutes, we'll be on board the ancient train that connects the Sapa region. Pierre gives me a mischievous look, "Adventure awaits!"
And that's saying something, our night train doesn't have a sleeper car. I'm starting to bitterly miss Madame Dang's aging bedding, banging my bruised shoulder against the wood of the seats at the slightest jolt. Every time my body relaxes a bit, there's another stop to let passengers board. And then, the stationmaster fancies himself a virtuoso and rings his bell at every turn.
6 a.m.: Deliverance arrives at Vietnamese breakfast time. Pho soup is eaten on the floor without restraint, happy to no longer be tossed around. Day breaks over the green mountains; we are above the Muong Hoa Valley. Tourists come here for long hikes amidst unspoiled landscapes. We don't come to excel; we leave the summits to others. We just want to break away from the hysteria of Hanoi.
Men and women in colorful traditional clothing bustle around their stalls. Our contact in Sa Pa approaches us with a jovial air. We're the only Europeans at the market, so it's not hard to spot us. He's a young man in his twenties with well-defined muscles. His hands are unmistakable, rough and large. Quyen works the land with his family near San Sa Ho.
A few hours later, we discover the small farming village perched above the rice paddies. Amid all this greenery, the large thatched-roof huts cluster together like a cluster of mushrooms. This man-made nature leaves no room for imperfections. The curves of the fields follow one another with surreal regularity.
 |
 |
Suddenly, the smell of roasting stirs my stomach. Smoke rises from all sides of one of the wooden huts. As is often the case among remote ethnic groups, the hearth has no vent, and the meat is cooked to the point of suffocation. It's a festive meal given to mark our arrival, and I'm happy to honor the invitation.
 |
|
Pierre is a city dweller and has some difficulty enjoying the company of the pigs around the mat that serves as our table. But they are quickly dispersed by the intrusion of half the village who come to greet us. Or rather, observe us; the children spy on us, laughing and teasing each other. We are like freaks at a fair, and we play along, grimacing and exaggerating our gestures in an attempt to communicate.
