By all accounts, Sapa is one beautiful place. Five thousand feet above sea level, tucked into a spectacular high-mountain valley below Mt. Fansipan, rice terraces that "spill down the surrounding mountainsides like a patchwork quilt." Of course, coasting into town from the pass above, I wouldn't have known any of that except for my guidebook. Clouds were hanging heavy over Sapa, completely obscuring any view of the surrounding peaks and valleys. Ever the optimist, however, I quickly checked into the "Mountain View Hotel" whose reputation for...well, moutain views won me over - that and the $7 a night room I scored.
Sapa is "THE" travel destination in the northwest and for good reason. It's an old French hill station that, having been abandonded for decades, is currently in the middle of a tourist boom thanks in large part to its mountain setting, tolerable climate, and most importantly, the colorful hill tribes that make up the population of the area.
After dropping my bags and finding a spot for the bike, I took a quick walk through the misty streets. One look around and I knew that I would be living large for a few days. This was most certainly NOT the Vietnam I had been experiencing on the other side of the pass. Pubs, cafes, and high-end souvenir shops lined the narrrow, steep roads. Local women and girls, decked out from head to toe in traditional garb, prowled the streets looking to pounce (politely) upon anyone who so much as glanced at their goods - and by "goods" I mean embroidered handbags, hats, jewelry, and other village knicknacks.
I also found out pretty quickly that the women were dealing in more than just the traditional souvenirs. "Marijuanaopiumhashish" became a pretty common greeting so long as no one else was standing within earshot. After turning down an elderly H'mong woman's offer to sell a braclet, she pulled out all the stops and slapped a big, gooey ball of hash into my hand. "Good hashish! Good price!" Quickly realizing that bribing my way out of a rural Vietnamese jail fit into neither my travel schedule, nor budget, I politely declined. She smiled, shrugged, and went back to describing the virtues of a pair of rusty earrings.
Even though being in Sapa feels like I'm somehow cheating (or being cheated of) the "real" traveling experience, I've got to admit that I'm enjoying myself. Good food on every corner, pleasant weather, spectacular scenery (yep, the clouds finally lifted), reliable internet, hot showers - better yet, the need for hot showers - and the kindest local people I've yet met. And, in all honesty, the prevelance of spoken english doesn't hurt either. In fact, the only downsides are the soft middle I'm developing from the deep-fried deserts, the screeching throngs of Chinese package-tourists, a localized rash I've developed on my arm (the $7 room's bed linen looked a little suspicious), and the fact that one of the mirrors on my motorbike was stolen last night. Hmmm....if it wasn't for the few bits of trouble in paradise, I'd probably try and find myself a cute young H'mong or Dzao girl to settle down with, open a roadside cafe, and call Sapa home forever.
Now it's all downhill to Hanoi.
Sapa is "THE" travel destination in the northwest and for good reason. It's an old French hill station that, having been abandonded for decades, is currently in the middle of a tourist boom thanks in large part to its mountain setting, tolerable climate, and most importantly, the colorful hill tribes that make up the population of the area.
After dropping my bags and finding a spot for the bike, I took a quick walk through the misty streets. One look around and I knew that I would be living large for a few days. This was most certainly NOT the Vietnam I had been experiencing on the other side of the pass. Pubs, cafes, and high-end souvenir shops lined the narrrow, steep roads. Local women and girls, decked out from head to toe in traditional garb, prowled the streets looking to pounce (politely) upon anyone who so much as glanced at their goods - and by "goods" I mean embroidered handbags, hats, jewelry, and other village knicknacks.
I also found out pretty quickly that the women were dealing in more than just the traditional souvenirs. "Marijuanaopiumhashish" became a pretty common greeting so long as no one else was standing within earshot. After turning down an elderly H'mong woman's offer to sell a braclet, she pulled out all the stops and slapped a big, gooey ball of hash into my hand. "Good hashish! Good price!" Quickly realizing that bribing my way out of a rural Vietnamese jail fit into neither my travel schedule, nor budget, I politely declined. She smiled, shrugged, and went back to describing the virtues of a pair of rusty earrings.
Even though being in Sapa feels like I'm somehow cheating (or being cheated of) the "real" traveling experience, I've got to admit that I'm enjoying myself. Good food on every corner, pleasant weather, spectacular scenery (yep, the clouds finally lifted), reliable internet, hot showers - better yet, the need for hot showers - and the kindest local people I've yet met. And, in all honesty, the prevelance of spoken english doesn't hurt either. In fact, the only downsides are the soft middle I'm developing from the deep-fried deserts, the screeching throngs of Chinese package-tourists, a localized rash I've developed on my arm (the $7 room's bed linen looked a little suspicious), and the fact that one of the mirrors on my motorbike was stolen last night. Hmmm....if it wasn't for the few bits of trouble in paradise, I'd probably try and find myself a cute young H'mong or Dzao girl to settle down with, open a roadside cafe, and call Sapa home forever.
Now it's all downhill to Hanoi.
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