Day 9: “Just call me Little Miss Poopy Sore Calves.”

I woke up, and as I limped around the home-stay house, I confirmed that breaking in a pair of barefoot running shoes (that I thought would also make great wet trekking shoes) was the worst idea ever. I scraped the last of my Tiger Balm out of the jar and gently massaged it into my calves while we waited for breakfast. Our itinerary said we’d enjoy breakfast with our host family “after sunrise” and I thanked the Sapa stars their definition of sunrise ended at 9:30 AM. We were served, but didn’t eat with our host family (the family we still weren’t exactly certain who they were) and then we took off through terraces, bamboo forests, Giang Ta Chai village, a waterfall, and a suspension bridge.

This day of trekking was my favorite. I still wasn’t feeling so hot, but the trekking through terraces and jumping over streams, and sitting with my feet in the water (Genius idea, Tony and Raquel!) felt the most like what I had enjoyed four years ago.

It was a little muddy, a little exhausting, and reminded me of being ten and going out exploring in the woods behind my childhood home.

After lunch, we were picked up by a bus pumping some electronic dance beats and headed back to Sapa’s city center for showers, and last minute minority tribe wears. This got me in trouble. I saw a bag our first day in Cat Cat, but was feeling too badly to bargain it down to a reasonable price. I didn’t even stop to ask how much it was, just looked long enough to know it was just different enough from all of the other bags that I liked it a lot. Because I didn’t get it our first day, I was on a mission to find one similar on our last day.

This didn’t happen. My next (not so) brilliant idea was to get another style (with the embroidery and colors I wanted) and take it to a tailor in Hoi An and have them turn it into the style of bag I wanted. Perfect? Right? Until I worried that maybe I didn’t have enough material for the style of bag I liked, and continued with (not so) brilliant ideas to buy a pillowcase (with the embroidery and colors I wanted) and even a belt (with the embroidery and colors I wanted) to ensure that I would have enough fabric for a bag. I spent $12.00 on this mess and later found a different bag entirely (of better quality for $15.00) I simply HAD to have in Hanoi. GAH!

Lesson #5 learned from traveling around the world: Seriously. Don’t buy it unless it’s exactly what you want. Seriously. You’ll find another bag you love soon, I promise.

After I spent too much on things I wasn’t going to want in the end, we got some Tiger Balm, showers, dinner, and hopped on the shuttle bus to catch our overnight bus back to Hanoi. Our bus driver hit a motorcyclist. We waited on the bus uneasily as we watched the poor driver try to call for help while not moving in the middle of the road, our driver busy picking up pieces of the bus that broke off upon contact. Fifteen minutes or so later, the motorcyclist got up (or more accurately, he was pulled to his feet by our bus driver) everyone cleared out of the intersection, we waited a bit longer, and then we were on the road again. On average, something like 30 people die daily in traffic related accidents in Vietnam. Not halfway through our trip here, it’s easy to see why.

As if that wasn’t enough fun for one bus ride, I started feeling poorly again. Mostly, I think due to the anxiety of being on a bus with a crazy driver and 11 more hours to go. I was relieved when we pulled into a rest stop, hoping a trip to the bathroom would help. It didn’t. The “bathroom” consisted of a concrete wall separating the men from the women. A trough sat a little deeper closer to the wall, behind a row of bricks that were lined up for women to stand on as they (we) squat down to take care of business. side by side.

Modesty is simply something you have to forget about in situations such as these. At least I wasn’t wearing a romper (without a bra) so I wasn’t completely vulnerable. (When attempting to poop in public, it’s better not to be naked.) I gritted my teeth, nodded to the Vietnamese woman next to me, and marched up to the bricks and squatted. Like a boss. Only not really, because of the two numbers that I needed to take care of to make my stomach feel better, I simply couldn’t attend to both with an audience. I climbed back on the bus and immediately into a fetal position for the remaining six or so hours before again, sprinting to a bathroom while Andrew checked us into a room in Hanoi.

Day 8: “What do they expect when they give me two sticks to eat with?”

I assured Andrew I would be ok and I didn’t need to spend another afternoon in bed, “I mean, the worst that can happen is I have to poop in a rice paddy. or my pants. I guess pooping my pants would be worse.” Andrew seemed to think I would make it to a rice paddy. And off we went. First, to ask our adorable guide, May, if I could stop at a pharmacy at the beginning of our 15K trek. And then, down the mountain.

With about thirty other tourists, and what felt like an equivalent of Black Hmong women, we began our trek down into the valleys, walking between rice paddies, and through the villages. The scenery was beautiful, my stomach was (for the most part) staying in check, and the women gamely answered my questions about life in a Black Hmong Tribe, even when I asked bluntly “So, do you like being married?” They gaped at me, as if I were the first one to ever ask. Maybe I was, but from what they answered “liking” or “disliking” being married isn’t really an option. They just are. married.

Andrew accuses me of having a certain, shall we say opinionated tone when I discuss women’s roles in different cultures. He’s right. I do. But, I’m working on it. I’m going for that “Oh, what’s that like? Women not being equal in your culture?” curious tone instead of my “Oh no you didn’t just tell me women are lower than men!” sassy tone that usually comes across. It’s hard for me not to get a little feministy when I’m speaking to a Muslim tour guide in South East Asia’s largest mosque and he tells me “Women don’t ask such questions!” or in this case, when I’m chatting with a 17 year old girl who is married, 5 months pregnant with her first child, and leading a 15 K trek.

In my head I thought back to when I was 17 and what I was doing. Graduating high-school and moving away to go to college. How fortunate I was, right? But then I gently remind myself that her life is different than mine, her culture is different than mine, and I should not judge. And when I do judge anyway, I try to re-channel the judging into gratefulness. It makes me really glad I’m an American girl (although we do have a long way to go) and really glad I’m no longer an employee of a South Korean company (school).

So, I chatted with May, our tour guide, about life. She said she enjoyed answering questions much more than leading a tour with people who didn’t talk. It gives her a chance to practice her English, learn new words, and likewise learn about different cultures. She was (is) awesome, and it was super interesting to chat with her. I learned that girls typically marry between ages 15-20. While their parents sometimes arrange their marriages, they are also allowed (in some instances) to say “no” and she readily acknowledged that women do much more work than men. Men’s duties revolve around the farming and only the farming. Women’s duties sometimes include farming, childcare, cooking, cleaning, and even selling goods to tourists or leading tours around Sapa. May also divulged that she doesn’t like “happy water” as it hurts her head the next day. “Happy Water” is what everyone in or around Sapa called rice wine. Think of it as bootlegged soju, if you will. Made in the homes, a Kiwi living in Sapa told us there’s no way to know the exact proof of the liquor.

Throughout our chat, as we descended the mountain, Black Hmong women walked with and around us, helping us cross streams, making straw animals for us, and generally asking us the same three questions over and over and over again.

1. What’s your name? or Where you from?

2. How old are you?

3. Married?

Obviously I fell into the old maid category. Almost 30 and unmarried. (Oh the shame!) “But you are from a different culture!” The sweet 17 year old pregnant one responded. I was struck by her open-mindedness after five years of being asked “When are you getting married?” in Korea.

As we sat down to eat lunch, we were surrounded. The same sweet Black Hmong women turned into aggressive vendors pulling miscellaneous handmade wares out of their bags. It was frustrating, yet heartbreaking at the same time, especially when their children would come out of the woodwork trying to sell what their mothers undoubtedly shoved in their hands, pushing them towards us. It also became quite the bonding experience for everyone on the tour. We traded stories with the South African/Portugese couple, the French couple, and the Brit who was chopstick challenged.

After lunch, we walked first to a school in the village, and then just a few kilometers more to the village where our home-stay was located.

With a few hours of free time, we entertained ourselves by chasing down missing shoes the home-stay dog would steal, and giving some curious children some of our trail mix. They weren’t exactly expecting the “soy wasabi” flavored almonds, but then greedily stole and practically licked the inside of the bag. Later, these same ruffians surrounded us on a rice paddy wall and flung dirt on us until we fled for the safety of our cameras and clothing that we had to wear the next day.

Now, sorry to compare, yet again, but four years ago the home-stay was with a family of three generations. The grandmother sorted seeds, while the mother made dinner, while the two Aussies and myself played with the children. Today’s home-stay experience felt more like a hostel conveniently located in the loft of a barn. We weren’t entirely sure who lived in the home, who was visiting, who was leading tours, but the food was good, even if Michael (the Brit) had an entertainingly difficult time eating with chopsticks. And we all fell into fits of laughter when he made the comment about eating “with sticks” as we took note of the rice scattered around his bowl on the table. The “happy water” a bit too strong for the majority of us, we took turns slinking off to the loft to sleep on dirty (mine was quite smelly) mattresses.

Lesson #3 learned from traveling around the world: Maybe it’s not such a good idea to buy and wear barefoot shoes for the first time when going on a 15K trek. Oh for the love of calf muscles! 

Lesson #4 learned from traveling around the world: Don’t pick the mattress closest to the stairs after a 15K trek. The one in the back, the furthest one away is bound to be less used, therefore, less smelly.

Day 7: Sick in Sapa

Four years ago, I decided on a whim in Hanoi to tag along with two sweet Aussie boys to trek through Sapa for two days, and one night. It was the muddiest, messiest, most fabulous part of my two month solo stint through S.E. Asia. I’ve been ecstatic about going back, and sharing what I expected to be another wonderful experience with Andrew. That is, until we got off the bus and I had to sprint (er, walk quickly enough to make sure I was first, yet slow enough not to alarm the front desk at the hotel) to the bathroom. Of course I got sick in Sapa. I was sick, but stubborn enough to attempt the 6K trek to Cat Cat Village.

I survived half of the 6K trek. The down-the-mountain part of the trek, even though I was rather weak in the knees, suffering from the cold sweats, and requesting Andrew either hold my hand to help keep my balance or walk in front of me in case I fainted. Which, at the time, seemed likely. In short, I was a mess. Once we started ascending the mountain, my body shut down, and I caved. I wimped out. I gave up. I climbed on the back of a motorbike up the hill and promptly crawled into my hotel bed where I lay for the next 4 hours.

When I woke up, in need of some fresh mountain air, Andrew and I walked through town, the market, and the town square before trying to convince my body that a bowl of chicken pho was the same as a bowl of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup. It didn’t work. But the ice-cream cone Andrew tracked down tasted good, even if it didn’t cure my stomach bug.

Lesson #2 learned from traveling around the world: Don’t assume the meds you need are in your daypack without checking. Otherwise you’ll end up with an abundance of Claritin when what you really need is the Imodium you left in your bigger backpack. In a different city.