I’ve come here to Sapa to view mountains and ethnic minorities. I loathe the term “ethnic minorities,” which is the bland catch-all used to describe the numerous hill tribes populating Vietnam’s highlands. Can you imagine using this phrase in America? “You really must come visit me in San Francisco. We can tour the Mission District and Chinatown to see all the local ethnic minorities.”
Nevertheless, this is the parlance. They even sell postcards of villagers with the words “ETHNIC MINORITY” written in cartoonish letters across the front. Since I can’t rightly tell a H’mong from a Sedang, this is the phrase I’m stuck with.
The French called this region the Tonkinese Alps, but in truth it is a dead ringer for portions of the Andes. If I cross my eyes a little, I can easily imagine I’m near Quilotoa in central Ecuador. The mountains here are terraced with rice paddies rather than wheat, and the altitude is mercifully lower, but neverthless the similarities are striking.
Sapa is lovely. I must leave double quick. Sapa is as far as most tourists make it into the mountains of the northwest, and consequently the vendors are rapacious. I enjoy watching Westerners stroll down the boulevards with a small mob of local ethnic minorities in tow. The tourists’ heads bob with that reflexive shake of refusal acquired by anyone who spends enough time in Vietnam. With the perpetual headshaking and grinning, the tourists look like day release patients.
Minority ethnic grannies lurk at the end of every block. When I approach, they snap open their embroidered wares with a motion that makes me giggle, because it is the same motion used by trenchcoat-wearing exhibition artists. The grannies are stained blue with the natural dyes they use in their fabrics. It took me a while to realize that the blue grannies are speaking to me in French. “Jolie!” and “Chapeau!” are the only phrases I’ve been able to decipher.
I have made a fateful decision. I am going to bike a circuit through the mountains of the northwest.
Before I left America, I had intended to bike this loop, likely the hardest ride in Vietnam. I figured that after making my way up the coast, I would be properly conditioned. Then I thought better of this plan (came to my senses, you might say) and decided to take the train to Sapa and just do some trekking. Recently I re-read my cycling guide and succumbed to its liberal use of the word “spectacular.” So I’ve come to a compromise: I will bike the loop, but I will creatively use the local bus system to mitigate some of the more painful elevation changes.
Lest you think I am defanging the ride, it will still be brutally hard. The ride crosses over the Fansipan range, and every day will bring intimidating climbs and descents, all significantly larger than the Hai Van Pass. Worse, the road in this region of the country is only intermittently paved. I met a Dutch cyclist who completed the loop, but had to walk his bike over portions of it. Only later did I realize that, for him, this confession was the equivalent of announcing his battle with erectile dysfunction to an auditorium packed with coworkers and former lovers.
I hope not to walk my bike. I hope not to blow out another ass muscle. I hope my guidebook wasn’t being indiscriminate in its praise. But let’s face it, we all know how much I love a painful travel experience.
Tomorrow I climb a 1900-meter pass, the highest road in Vietnam. I’d be lying if I said I weren’t scared.
See you in six days or so.
