A Sleeper to Sapa
There’s something impossibly romantic about traveling by sleeper train. I hadn’t been on one since I was 15 years old in France, so I was charmed into taking the sleeper to Sapa, a trekking base about 7 hours from Hanoi, just on the border with China. However, I was slightly apprehensive: it’s anybody’s guess who I’d share my four-bed berth with, and keeping myself and my stuff safe is always on the forefront of my mind. But as soon as I walked into my compartment, my fears were assuaged. Two young German girls chirped hello at me while a Vietnamese guy was already sleeping on one of the top bunks. I immediately felt safe with them and we all settled in.
The beds were hard but the comforters were soft, and four bottles of water and some packaged snacks were left on a small table with flowers and a lamp in between the bunks. It was barebones but atmospheric. The girls and I chatted for a bit as the train got off to a bumpy start, a ramshackle communist train groaning out of the dirty city. Ready for bed, I put on my headphones, listened to a podcast, and fell into a deep sleep, which was punctuated only by the occasional announcements throughout the night in Vietnamese.
A rap on the door from the train conductor meant it was time to disembark at Lao Cai. The train only goes as far as this border town, where you must catch a minibus to Sapa. I haggled with a minibus driver and got my desired price, then held on for dear life as we careened around winding, steep mountains of terraced rice fields. My mouth was agape and the hills were alive with the sound of water buffalo.
Once I arrived in Sapa, I had one more connection to make. I had arranged to stay at a homestay in a Hmong village a few kilometers outside of Sapa. The Sapa area is famous for being home to many ethnic minority villages and the Hmong are among them. When I rolled up to the homestay, I was greeted with a cup of green tea and this view.
I shivered a bit and pulled out my puffer. Sapa is quite chilly in the early mornings and evenings; it was the first time I had felt a chill since summiting Mt. Ijen in Java. A really nice change of pace from sweltering Hanoi!
Pretty beat from the short night’s sleep on the train, I took a quick nap and then went for a walk around the village with Mary, a sweet young girl in charge of managing guests at the homestay. She introduced me to some villagers who were incredibly friendly. The first man I met grasped my hand and eagerly smiled at me, all while holding a pig’s head in a plastic bag. Eek. Mary showed us vats of indigo dye and the indigo plants that the Hmong use to create their crafts. Then it was back to the homestay, where I met a German couple, Max and Sarah, who were also staying the night. Mary told us that the entire village was coming over for dinner that evening to celebrate the rice harvest, and we were invited if we wanted to join.
Yes, please!
Mary and her homestay compatriots prepared the dinner while Max, Sarah and I enjoyed beers and talked politics on the terrace. I have met a ton of Germans on this trip and it is always interesting to compare our experiences as Germany and America are facing a lot of similar sociopolitical problems at the moment. A conversation about citizenship led to the three of us taking a sample American citizenship test on my phone. I surprised myself by getting 100% and Max got 70%, which is about 70% more than I would get on a German citizenship test.
Around 5 pm the villagers, Vietnamese and Hmong alike, started to trickle in. The Vietnamese were mostly local government workers, their office casual attire in stark contrast to the Hmong indigos and intricate, bright embroidery. We all sat down at low tables and began to dig in. Sticky rice, stirfried morning glory, and an absolutely incredible tofu in tomato sauce were available, so I felt more than satisfied, and anytime someone eagerly plonked a piece of pork or chicken in my bowl, I surreptitiously slipped it to the stray dog sitting at my feet.
The locals were incredibly welcoming and we had a grand time, even though hardly any English was spoken. ”Happy water,” or homemade rice wine, was flowing freely and by the end of the night Sarah, Max and I found ourselves playing a drinking game with the Hmong that may or may not have involved a chicken beak. They say English is the universal language but I think it might actually be alcohol…
