2005

Upon buying our flight tickets, arriving in Hanoi and departing through Saigon, I must admit to a certain sense of guilt. Though I didn't live through the Vietnam War, the scars of it have made their impression on my generation. When I mentioned our plans to my father, his knee-jerk reaction was, "People vacation there?!"

As it turns out, people do. In its first decade and a half at peace since World War II, tourism in Vietnam has become considerably easier, and with 3,451 kilometers of coastline, there is no dearth of diversity in people, customs and natural beauty.

Aron and I had three weeks to see as much of the country as possible. Having read through a Lonely Planet guidebook beforehand, we had a good sense of what highlights we wanted to touch upon, but also wanted to remain flexible in our choices. The best way to do this was by backpacking – an immensely popular mode of travel in Southeast Asia, and not only for the stereotypical unbathed teenager in dreadlocks. We met people from all walks of life, from middle-aged couples looking for a break from the rat race to young professionals looking to broaden their horizons.

We packed a minimal amount of clothing, a first-aid kit, bug spray, a small flashlight, and one book each; enough to sustain us for the journey and light enough to avoid being a hindrance on trains, buses and, as we would discover, motorcycles.

Our first stop was Hanoi, the capital of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. The scent of the city was the first and most overpowering sensation. Leftover fish guts, chicken hearts, livers, cow intestines and noodles were scattered throughout the street gutters. It was dark and the sidewalks were still busy, bicycles and motorcycles whizzing by, oblivious to one another and most certainly to pedestrians.

Hotels Hanoi

Sunway Hotel Hanoi **** The Sunway Hotel in Hanoi provides a special welcome to all guests. Traditional Vietnamese hospitality will make your stay a wonderful experience. The Sunway Hotel is situated on Pham Dinh Ho Street and enjoys a quiet location at the fringe of Hanoi's famous old district, within convenient accessibility to downtown commercial houses. A variety of entertainment, shopping opportunities and some of the renowned tourist attractions are close by.

The malodorous introduction we had to the city turned out to be a combination of timing and culture shock. But with such an anticlimactic start, we decided not to spend our first day in Hanoi. (We would later be quite happy we returned, taking the time to find the charming aspects of the city).

For the time being, we would head north to the less-inhabited hill-tribe region on the Chinese border. This still untouched piece of paradise left an even more powerful impression than the chaos of Hanoi – and was by far our most memorable stop in Vietnam.

ENSCONCED IN a beautiful valley, Sapa is the starting point for most treks into the hills of northwestern Vietnam. Getting there, however, entails a 10-hour, overnight train journey to the town of Lao Cai, followed by an hour-and-a-half, 38-km. drive straight uphill into the mountains.

We bought our train tickets at a small travel agency in Hanoi, which fortunately provided us with an escort to our train. We were unlikely to find it otherwise.

The train station was overrun with waiting passengers, and without English (banned in certain circumstances by the government), there was little indication of which train would take us to Sapa. The train journey itself was a little precarious, too. Having booked a slightly more expensive sleeper ticket, we were taken to a small closet of a cabin with two bunk beds on either side. I was randomly assigned to a bottom bunk and my husband, Aron, to the top. When our roommates entered, I quickly offered up my bed and moved to the top so as to avoid sleeping next to a stranger.

Our roommates, a Vietnamese man and three women, were all part of the same family. Aron and I looked at each other in silence as they settled in, both wondering if these four people were planning on crowding into our small cabin. Evidently, they were.

Having bought two sleeper tickets, they intended to make the most of their money, sleeping head to toe on each narrow, inch-thick mattress. If only they had slept!

As our luck would have it, they stayed up all night chatting. The fan above our heads then proceeded to come to an abrupt and sputtering halt as they train began to move, and the window of our claustrophobic prison was jammed shut.

Add to that the fact that the man below us was drinking Tiger beer, belching after each gulp (though kind enough to offer us a sip at every opportunity) and would have been smoking as well had my husband not begged him not to, and it was a less than a restful night.

Happily, the night's miseries quickly dissipated upon our arrival in Sapa. It is one of the few places in the more capitalistic Vietnam where tourism has yet to make a significant impression, and not in the least because of its remote location. In fact, the Vietnamese government only recently lifted restrictions barring US tourists from visiting hill-tribe areas out of paranoia that the CIA could still be trying to recruit locals.

It was exactly what we were looking for; a far-flung place with fewer tourists and authentic culture.

AT DAWN, we hailed a small van at the train station, and began our long and slightly nerve-racking drive up the steep mountain road. Despite my nagging concern we might topple off the mountain, the beauty of the lush green mountains shrouded by mist was enchanting.

Though we had a rough night and the air was thin, we decided to start trekking that very morning rather than waste any time. It was warm – a rarity in the Sapa area, one of the coldest places in the country.

We booked a trekking guide at a local hostel, expecting to be met by several other tourists and perhaps an urban Vietnamese man with knowledge of the area. Instead, we were thrilled to find we'd be on this tour alone, guided by a H'mong tribe girl named Dondee from the village of Cat Cat. She would spend the next two days with us, walking through neighboring villages, rice paddies and local markets.

At the age of 18, she was a veteran guide, and considered quite lucky among her friends and family to have landed the gig (though she was considered pitiable for being unmarried). Her English was minimal, but strong enough to converse. Dressed from head to toe in the traditional H'mong garb, the only things that gave away her contact with the Vietnamese mainstream were the hair scrunchy holding her ponytail and the printed umbrella she carried to protect her skin from the sun (an obsession among all Vietnamese women, as beauty is equated with light skin).

Like many other H'mong we would meet, she wore an indigo blue linen tunic embroidered with intricate designs, silver hoop earrings, an apron and wrap-around leggings.

Since migrating from China in the 19th century, the H'mong have grown to become one of the largest (and most underprivileged) of the ethnic groups in Vietnam. They mainly cultivate rice, literally stamping it dry by foot in the sun and grinding it into flour in the primitive water mills that dot the landscape.

There are several groups within the H'mong, including Black, White, Red, Green and Flower, each bearing its own subtle variation. And as Dondee explained to us, there is no marriage between tribes.

For an outsider, it is nearly impossible to tell the difference between the various offshoots, but Dondee knew their names, their province of origin and the location of their villages simply from looking at a pattern on their skirts.

THE TREK turned out to be more arduous than I expected. The weather was unusually hot, the journey often steep and the distance great. Balancing on the rocky terrain and maintaining traction on the dirt slopes often sent me sliding down a hill on my behind. I certainly didn't think I would have any issues walking along the edges of the rice paddies, which at this time of year were mostly water and mud. Yet, somehow, I managed to end up squishing along a good portion of the time in soaked socks and shoes.

Aron was always by my side to pick me up and remind me that "it's not a race." But I couldn't help feeling a bit ridiculous as Dondee looked back on me incredulously. As she skipped along in virtual flip flops, carrying our food on her back as well as an umbrella, she must have wondered why this everyday jaunt for her was so fraught with complications for me.

Despite my clumsiness, I remained in awe as we continued on our seven-hour trek. Rice paddies were carved into nearly every hillside. Water buffalo and horses roamed freely through the paddies, while black boar-like pigs suckled their piglets in the shade.

Small children would occasionally pass us, often half-dressed and always barefoot. Others washed their hair in glorified puddles to cool off. One pair of small boys whispered to each other before touching Aron with a fingertip, running off to giggle at having made contact with the tall, white Westerner.

Children often followed us, staring up at us not unlike one would stare at fish in a tank, perhaps hoping to provoke some kind of reaction.

The fascination of the children was equally fascinating to us. They were all prepared with the same stock questions, possibly picked up from some of the adults who now hock their wares in Sapa proper: "What's your name? Where you from? How old are you?"

We would always respond and ask them where they were from. "Lau Cai!" they would squeal, if they were from the Lau Cai province, or "Sapa!"

It was certainly obvious to us that they were from the area, but they were thrilled by the opportunity to respond. We never quite determined why they wanted to know how old we were, but the reaction was always the same: When they discovered Aron was a year younger than me, they burst into laughter.

The children were nearly always unaccompanied, some as young as three scurrying through endless acres of land, splashing in the rivers and running through the hills. One child chased a water buffalo, jumping on its back in an effort to ride it. Miles away, a group of small boys played feverishly in a watery ditch, endlessly delighted by a hardened Frisbee-sized piece of buffalo feces they found in the muddy water.

But not all the children were quite so carefree. Many of the young girls, some no older than six, were charged with looking after their younger siblings all day. They toted the infants on their backs in slings made of blankets, while their parents were off cultivating crops.

We saw the occasional school as we walked – long houses that were almost always empty. We asked Dondee if the children ever attended lessons. She insisted that they did, though only for a few hours in the morning.

THE MINORITIES of the north have substantial autonomy in this still very Socialist-minded country – so while Vietnamese is the official language, the children of each tribe continue to learn their local language. While taxes, for instance, are supposed to be paid, Hanoi is far away, and it's doubtful if any of these tribes living in shanty huts would be able to muster up enough to pay them. And after running into a few of Dondee's siblings as we walked, I realized that the two-child limit imposed in the rest of the country had little enforcement here.

We were lucky enough to be in hills at the end of Tet, a week-long celebration announcing the lunar year (as well as being everyone's birthday), when hundreds of hill tribes were returning from distant celebrations in villages that were days away by foot.

As they crossed the major footbridge on their way home, many of the women and children approached us, trying to sell little pouches, silver bracelets and opium stashed away in matchboxes.

We couldn't help but buy one or two things, but were warned to avoid the clothing, as the natural dyes were not set and would quickly turn hands (and luggage) into the same dark blue/green color that so many of the villagers have stained into their arms and hands.

Seeing this tremendous influx of people in such an isolated and seemingly uninhabited area was simply awe-inspiring. We couldn't help but try to capture it all on film, feeling as though we were the first to witness such a rare event. As we snapped away, a small group of children gnawing on sugar-cane and spitting out the bark approached us, smiling.

"Where you from?" they asked, using the familiar one-liner we were used to from other encounters in the hills.

"Israel," we answered, fairly certain that the seven year olds would return a blank stare.

"Shalom," one responded.

Aron and I froze for a moment, looking at each other in shock.

"Lakova sheli shalosh pinot," they began to chant, quoting an Israeli children's song.

We were dumbfounded. Having felt incredibly intrepid trekking through these seemingly remote hills, a day away from any roads and without a fellow tourist in sight, the world suddenly began to feel much smaller, and the far-flung corners of the earth that much further away.

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