Four days in Sapa, Vietnam - an unforgetable trip

To end our time in Vietnam, we booked a four-day tour into the north of the country, to see how the country's ethnic minorities live. We booked with an adventure company called Handspan, and they place an emphasis on cultural and outdoorsy activities. The trip was a-maz-ing for many reasons, but the fact that we were the only two on the tour really made it "special". 

Day One: Hanoi to Lao Cai to Bac Ha

We took an overnight train from Hanoi to Lao Cai on July 30th and hit the highland ground running. Bleary-eyed, we were picked up at the Lao Cai train station by our guide, Quy (pronounced k-way). He explained that we were heading straight to the exotic Bac Ha Sunday Market after breakfast, and that we should get ready to see some weird stuff, such as Hmông Offal Soup, bunches of hanging kittens for sale, and bright purple rice. We were quickly jolted out of our sleepy states as the Handspan minivan began climbing hundreds and hundreds of feet into the lush, wild mountains of north Vietnam. With rice terraces covering all surfaces of the steep hillsides and water buffalo creating tense obstacles on the single-lane highway up to Bac Ha, the trip was (literally) breathtaking in and of itself. We arrived into Bac Ha very early, at 8AM, and the market had barely started up...so we checked into our small hotel and had a shower. 

After some much needed refreshing, our guide took us around the large market and explained some of the more unusual sites and products. He was also really helpful in describing the hilltribe groups that were selling at the market: the Hmông, the Tay, and the Dao. Kate bought some engraved Hmông earrings. Nice! After lunch, we went for a trek into the surrounding hills, and we were invited into a Hmông family's house. This was one of the highlights of the tour: we were invited to sit with the family's grandmother, we sampled some of their household corn wine (every family makes this sweet moonshine, to both drink themselves and sell at the market), and we bought a small purse that Granny had embroidered. Soooooo different from the rest of Vietnam.

Day Two: Bac Ha to Muong Khuong to Cao Son  

We began our second day mountain biking down the Hmon-gous road that we had driven up the day before. Have you ever driven up/down a road and thought to yourself "Man...this would be so so so much fun to bike or skateboard or go-kart down!" Well, this was one of those roads. The bike ride not only allowed us to soak-up the scenery, it also enabled us to glide for 40 minutes without peddling once. The minivan was waiting for us at the bottom, and we headed for the town of Muong Khuong for lunch. We only stopped here briefly, but is was memorable because Kate asked to buy some of the house "happy water" from the proprietor. Our guide thought this request was pretty funny, but it was no problem for him to snag an Aquafina waterbottle full of the restaurant's own corn wine. After lunch we headed to the remote village of Cao Son, population 2,000. Surrounded by tiny hills covered in corn and rice, our lodging was a simple bamboo house, complete with dirt floor, Hmong hosts, and stone fireplace. 

After dropping our bags, we went for a two-hour trek...or what we thought would be a two-hour trek. The hike began well, on a dirt road with blue skies, but the dirt road quickly turned into a narrow path, and the blue skies disappeared behind dark rain clouds. We brought ponchos with us, but the torrential rains that developed an hour into the trek were just too much for these thin plastic body condoms. The heavy rain and the first few slips onto our butts were funny and exciting at first, but we both began to worry after our guide stated that he was having trouble finding the last part of the path back home. With the sun beginning to set, the rain continuing to fall, and our guide frantically calling people for directions, we began to wonder whether we would be spending the night in a water buffalo shack in the mountains. Eventually, Quy came to the conclusion that it would be best to just return the way we came, thus turning our light two-hour trek into a crazy, wet, four-hour adventure. Hot showers never felt so good!   

Day Three: Cao Son to Coc Ly Market to Sa Pa 

We woke up again at 7am after a sketchy sleep in our little hut to begin our bikeride down Cao Son mountain. This time the bike trail was a bit narrower, a tad bumpier and alot more adventurous (yes, this is a list but no, Alex is not writing this section). The sun soon turned into cloud and we were quickly descending into what seemed to be white oblivion for a matter of miles before we reached half way down the summit and took a break so I could pet a brand new baby horse and Al could take off his sweaty shirt. It took us about 3 hours but we reached Coc Ly at about mid-day after a sweat filled, uphill battle beside the Coc Ly Dam. Coc Ly was nice but not even close to the size of Bac Ha market and I managed to pick up an authentic Black Hmong scarf for my travels. 

After the short visit it was back in the van and heading to Sa Pa, our final, most relaxing stop yet. Our view from the hotel was killer! Surrounded by mountains and villages, it was by far the nicest place we've stayed on our travels so far. Even though it was a bit more touristy than we were used to in the Hills, it was still absolutely beautiful. We wandered down the 5km Sa Pa mountain to the cute village of Cat Cat and took some pictures of the waterfall and corn fields and gave two Hmong children our recently purchased plastic ball. They were totally obsessing over it. After a walk and a beer by the lake, it was time to depart from the Hill Tribes and head back into Hanoi for a much needed shower and laundry sesh.

Source: dawksabroad2011.blogspot.com

The Hmong Tribe in Sapa

As we were de-boarding our Halong Bay cruise, I struck up a conversation with a couple of Spaniards that had just come from Sa Pa (read more here) and highly recommended we call “Pen” for a private trek through the fields and Black Hmong village – so we did. And despite some communication difficulties via the phone, Danny coordinated a meet-up for the upcoming Sunday… Easter Sunday. (In all honesty, we probably wouldn’t have realized it was Easter Sunday without our Instagram feeds being dominated by babies, eggs and mimosas).

At 9am we arrived in our hotel lobby and expected to be picked up by a tour guide. Well, we were, but it was a little more authentic than we were bargaining for. Waiting for us in The Sapa House Hotel lobby was a shy threesome of Hmong Tribe girls who said they were sent by Pen who was temporarily stuck in another town (more about the Hmong Tribe in this post). Alrighty, then. Just going with the flow we set off on foot with Mang, Meh and Mehn and our six-hour, 25 kilometer authentic adventure began.

Everyone in the tribe is so tiny! i look like a giant compared to the girls – even the men. in fact, we saw some hmong tribe women innocently giggling when they saw an (extremely) overweight western man in Sa Pa town. they were all patting their bellies and said they’d never seen a buddha belly so big!

i couldn’t believe how many hillsides were terraced for crops – it feels endless.

The day was wonderful. The girls were sweet as pie, funny and excited to share about their culture and in-turn learn about ours.

Mehn was pregnant so I congratulated her and asked her when she was due. You could tell this caught her off guard a little and she replied with, “in two or three months.” Of course she don’t have an exact due date – duh. She’s 19 and was recently married (via arrangement). She’s hoping for a girl.

Mang, who’s 25, been married for 4 months and is 3 months preggo, was the most talkative of the bunch and explained arranged marriages between tribes is now okay. She told us about the roles of men and woman among the villages and how times are changing with family sizes (getting smaller).

Pen later joined the group and all the woman agreed that they have such easy births because of their work in the rice fields throughout pregnancy. Hospitals aren’t used. All are natural home births in the squatting position and yes, the baby sometimes gets some dirt on his/her face when it plops down onto the floor upon arrival.

We also talked about the importance of families have both boys and girls – and therefore, baby sales take place. Have too many girls and need a boy? Welp, there’s one for sale (and vice versa) at the market rate of about $200USD.

They all asked about, “our tribe” back at home. Do we all live together? Our families? How many childrens? (always plural).  What about school? Work?

a group of kids playing a game with rocks & sticks. they were all hysterically laughing.

We’ve been around plenty of different minority tribes and ethnicities throughout the tribe. Sometimes, you wonder if a bit of it’s for the tourists. And even as we walked miles and miles through the fields with these women, their way of life didn’t become super real until we were invited into Pen’s home for lunch. She said she was a little embarrassed by the small size of her home and had only invited two other couples, but would like to extend the invite. We happily accepted.

Her home was small… about 15’ x 15’ with really low ceilings. Pretty much four walls made of bamboo with hard-packed dirt floors and a small fire burning on the floor – the stove – with some bowls and pots stacked up next to it. Her two children shared a “twin bed” in the corner with a sack of rice as pillows, while Pen and her husband had a wooden bed and blankets opposite the kids. The dining table was only inches off the ground with corresponding tiny stools.

While Pen made us lunch, Mang proudly asked if we wanted to see her house since it had a fan and Pen’s house would get very warm while cooking lunch (open flame in the house without a chimney or windows = hot).

We sat in Mang’s similar home and watched random animals come in to sniff around, wondered how long the spiderwebs would be there and learned about the importance of the attic for dry food storage. Bags and bags of rice and other veggies kept up high to avoid getting wet and moldy.

We returned to Pen’s home for lunch: noodle soup with egg, cabbage, carrots and rice. A splurge for people who typically just eat rice, cabbage and eggs three meals a day (meats and noodles are an expensive luxury). As we were chowing down on our soup, we asked what types of seasoning she used to make such a tasty flavor. In the most matter of fact way, Pen replied with, “MSG” – and that’s about when we were done with our soup.

After watermelon for dessert, we headed back out for the rest of our trek before a motorbike ride for the long 20+ kilometers back up the hill into Sa Pa town. Pen saw us off and waved goodbye before she headed back into the rice fields for work.

Throughout the day we learned a lot about the Hmong Village way of life. We saw the cumbersome and intense process of cloth being made from hemp and then dyed using natural indigo. We saw little ones caring for other little ones. We were once again reminded of how basic life really could be…. and equally reminded of just how fortunate we are to have the resources and lives we have.

Source: thetaleoftwotings.com

The beauty of Sapa in autumn

It is autumn. I sit back on a boulder, looking down and realize the meaning of the name locals gave the current: the watering flowing through the iron-ore plated rocks looks like Sows of melting gold. Crossing the stream, I am lost in the realm of ancient trees. I look up at the top of the Fokienia hodginsii and polains, but they are higher than I can see. On a tree whose name I don’t know all the leaves have turned yellow. Grasping at a vine which grows along.

October, I trekked toward the south-east of Sapa town, to the ethnic villages that have become popular communal tours to Sapa: Ban Ho, Ta Va, Lao Chai. I found myself in Midas’s kingdom. The paddy fields had turned successive golden waves that kept expanding forever down from the mountaintops, likening valleys to huge melting gold spots.

By the muddy paths, which are ploughed up by the bare feet of human beings and animals during the rainy days, farmers are harvesting their rice. The conical hats on their heads and the basket on their backs are undulating in line. Mist is melting on the grass. The sunshine dyes the thatched roofs golden.

Leaving the western tourists, and H’mong tour guides, I traversed the harvested field, climbing up and down the hillside, jumping across the streams by myself. Chrysopogon wove into my clothes and the grass bristles pricked my palm, itching and hurting. I walked through the rice the H’mong people had cut down, leaving it on the field to dry. Rain the previous week had ruined it all. H’mong people don’t take the rice home until it is dry enough to put in the store. I met a couple plucking off their rice from the ear right in the field. They worked in such a harmony. The husband prepares the rice in bunches, the wife puts them into the wooden rice- plucking machine. Stepping her foot on the treadle, she pivots the axis, beating the rice off the ears.

In front of a H’mong house, a middle-aged man is winnowing his rice on a tall frame. I watch him working and realize that he is taller than the mountains; each yellow grain of rice is dropping down against the azure background of the autumnal sky.

Back to Sapa town, taking a motorbike trip westward, I am on an ecological tour. The National Highway 4D takes us among H’mong house. Hiding themselves in the ever serenity of the northern west, the shanties cling to the roadsides, crouching under the eternal cold and dust of the highland arid season. Posing above the dells, pines are like dutiful sentries.

The pear season is over in Sapa town. Left here on the skinny twigs are withering leaves, which shrivel at each gust of northern wind. Sapa pears distinguish themselves from the fruit from Cao Bang province, Lai Chau province or China, with their tartish taste will turn an abiding sweetness after swallowing.

Cabbages have grown green in the valleys down on my left. On my right, chayote trellises crawl from the roadside up to the mountaintops, making a jade blanker all over the cordillera. From the delicate vines hang down millions of fruit. The organic soil and the temperate climate in Sa Pa have attracted at least four Taiwanese companies here to invest in producing more than 1,000 tonnes of organic vegetables for the Taiwanese market each year.

In the further distance, I can still see the white spots of paper farmers to cap their roses. In the yards, plump trees are releasing the first yellow leaves, preparing for the blossoming season in the early spring.

I am in Sapa in autumnThac Bac, the Silvery Waterfall, appears like white hair linking with the milky clouds above. Falling down from 200 metres, the waterfall composes a piece of music which for always plays to the jungles and the mountains.

It turns from cool to frigid when we reach Hoang Lien Pass, about 18 kilometres from Sa Pa town. On the highest point on Hoang Lien Pass, about 18 kilometres above the sea level, looking down toward Lai Chau province, I see National Highway 4D swimming through the mountains like a giant white eel with die head hidden behind the forest. I have heard xe om drivers say that from where I am standing, the bike can coast for another 40 kilometres.

Along the path leading into the virgin forest, hydrangeaceae blossom white along the path, adorning the purple tomentose rose myrtles. From 1,000 to 3,000 metres above the sea, Hoang Lien National Park, named after the goldthread plants found in the region, is the habitat for many rare and endemic species.

While I am walking in the forest, I cannot avoid stepping on the hypoxidaceae, which grow everywhere under the wood trees. I have read about precious medical herbs in this area like ginseng, ash weed, rhododendron …

A snake is sunbathing on my way, with the tail still disguised in the rotten leaves. With thousands of species of vertebrates and insects, Hoang Lien National Park makes up almost half of the total floral and fauna species of the whole country.

Among the shrieks of the insects in the foliages, the rattling of the leaves under my steps, I hear the sound of running water, melodiously and tenderly.

I walk on the nearest boulders in the Golden Stream; through the brushwood, a cool and crystal flow of water immediately rushes on, leaking inside my shoes.

I sit back on a boulder, looking down and realize the meaning of the name locals gave the current: the watering flowing through the iron-ore plated rocks looks like Sows of melting gold. Crossing the stream, I am lost in the realm of ancient trees. I look up at the top of the Fokienia hodginsii and polains, but they are higher than I can see. On a tree whose name I don’t know all the leaves have turned yellow. Grasping at a vine which grows along it and shaking it, I get thousands of golden sheets dropping down ail over my head and my shoulders. Mistletoes and moss has put a thick green coat around the trunk, smooth and soft like velvet. Fallen across the stream, huge trees make me perfect bridges. On the rotten wood, grass, wood-ear mushrooms are sprouting — life always carries on here, in this jungle, as it has always been since the creation of the world.

Then I find myself wandering among the interminability of cardamoms. The plants jostle with one another and reach out, encroaching on my way. It is the harvesting season, from die foot of the plants grow out the brown fruit. Sold at about $5/kg, this medicinal fruit has turned many local farmers into millionaires in die recent, years.

There was one time the ethnic people destroyed the forests for cardamom crops but it turned out that the plants could not live without the shade and the humidity. I walk on until 1 realise I am besieged by the boundlessness of water-rails. Some are still showing red blossoms though not until spring is it their blossoming season.

The walk leads me through the different latitudes,water-rails grow more and more thickly. Following the path for about eight kilometres, I know I would be on FansipanMountain, the roof of Indochina. Some sunbeams are trying to pierce the foliages. Around me, bamboos are hissing, casting little yellow leaves about in the wind.

So it is autumn.

Source: the guide

Vietnam in Dutch poet's heart

For Dutch poet Dick Gebuys, his first impression of Vietnam was that it was a small, brave Asian country involved in a war with the US, nothing more.

After more than 10 years visiting and working in Vietnam, his mind has changed dramatically.

Gebuys, who is also a historian and playwright, now considers Vietnam as his second home – a place where he fell in love with food, people and poetry.

Recently he translated Thi Thanh Ky (Chronicles of a City Dweller) by writer Di Li (Nguyen Dieu Linh) into Dutch. The book will be introduced and sold in the Netherlands in November.

Gebuys first heard about Vietnam at a camping site where he met a young man who said his name was Steve from New York. Steve had been to Vietnam as a soldier. Steve told him many personal stories about the war. It was the first time Gebuys heard about Vietnam beyond what he heard on television and newspapers.

Gebuys was young but he knew, one day, he would go to see the little brave country with his own eyes.

He finally went to HCM City in 2004.

"We were in a bus in crazy traffic, thousands of motorbikes, we also lost our way back to the hotel, that was terrible" said Gebuys.

"I was happy to leave the city after three days, but after more than a week touring through the country, I knew I would be back again. No matter HCM City or Ha Noi, it began feeling like home."

Gebuys has now returned to Vietnam too many times to count and has made friends with people from all parts of society and all over the country.

As for work, Gebuys writes.

"I write poems about what I see, listen and notice.

"I am also working on a big book about Vietnam and another one about movie director Dang Nhat Minh," he said.

By chance, while roaming a bookshop in Ha Noi, Gebuys stumbled upon and read The Black Diamond, an English version of Di Li's book. He was impressed by how the stories highlight Vietnamese people's characteristics and habits in modern life.

Gebuys said he loves Li's writing style.

"She has a very nice way of writing about important issues in society," he remarked, adding, "She writes with irony and humour, and with a great feeling for words."

Feeling very vexed, Li responded saying that she didn't want to meet a strange person that she knows nothing about.He tried to contact the female author and sent her an email with a few words: "Hello, my name's Dick Gebuys. I have read your book and I want to meet you."

Gebuys immediately wrote a long email to introduce himself. Finally, Li agreed to meet Gebuys and now has respect for the Dutch poet.

"He's a perfect translator, frankly," she said.

"The first time we met, he showed me the torn book, The Black Diamond. Each page was full with his notes and remarks," said Li, "I was so moved that he seriously enjoyed the book."

He released a poetry book about Vietnam, It Just Looks Like You Touch Things Now, including Red River and American War poems. Writer Di Li translated the book into Vietnamese and it will soon appear in bookshops.

Gebuys said the Red River in Hanoi is a source of inspiration and it made him feel at home because he was born in the harbour city of Rotterdam.

"My ultimate wish in this life is to live in a house on the waterside," he said.

"Any time I pass by the Red River, I think back to the trip I often made with my parents and grandparents, crossing the Hollands Diep. The child I once was comes back to me."

Another favourite place is Tao Dan Park in HCM City.

"This park emits a spirit of freedom, in every sense of this word," he said, "It is great to walk there, either in the early morning or when the sun is setting to capture the lovely, fleeting twilight."

For Gebuys, Vietnam is a country that inspires him in a multitude of ways. It is a place where he always has a reason to write.

Source: VOV

A trip in Ha Giang - Visiting mountains and markets

Since making my decision to leave Vietnam I have decided it is also time to cross a few things off my Vietnam bucket list. On top of that list was to visit the northern province of Ha Giang, where the stunning landscapes and ethnic traditions are unrivaled by any other place in the country. There are 22 ethnic minority groups in Ha Giang, mainly the H’Mông, Tày, Dao, Nùng, and Lô Lô and I had been wanting to visit this area for several years now, but had just never got around to it. Luckily for me a friend had arranged a quick weekend up there and invited me to tag along, so last weekend off we went to explore the mountains.

After skipping out of work a couple of hours early we flew from Saigon to Hanoi and headed straight to My Dinh bus station. We had pre-arranged tickets on an overnight bus to the provincial capital (also called Ha Giang) and leaving Hanoi we travelled the 320 kilometres north on the sleeper bus. There is no luxury here and it’s not exactly comfortable since they cram in as many people as possible – so much so that people were sleeping in the aisles. Despite this I managed to get a couple of hours sleep (my friends were not so lucky).

Arriving in Ha Giang before 4am we hung out until our driver Tuyen dragged himself out of bed and met us at the station, and then we started our little road trip. As the sun came up the landscapes came into focus and we started to pass through little villages. We arrived just in time for some early morning markets.

Once the early morning mist lifted we were rewarded with stunning views. We stopped in Đồng Văn for lunch, which is only 3 kilometres from the Chinese border, before continuing on along one of the most amazing roads I have been on.

It was eventually time to leave Mèo Vạc as we had to head back to Ha Giang in order to catch our overnight bus back to Hanoi. The drive back was spectacular and one of the advantages of having our own car is that we were able to take every opportunity to stop along the way.

Most tourists to Vietnam think of Sapa when thinking about the Vietnamese highlands and to be honest, that is fine with me, let them go there. Ha Giang is relatively untouched and the traditions of the ethnic minorities remain largely intact and it would be a shame to turn it into another Sapa, which has been over-run (and ruined?) by the tourism industry. Travel to Ha Giang is not exactly easy – there is very little English spoken, limited transport infrastructure/options and only a few hotels are allowed to take foreigners. Even the overnight buses to and from Hanoi needed to be booked in advance and if you can’t speak Vietnamese this could be very difficult. But what these difficulties mean is that maybe, just maybe, Ha Giang will remain off the main tourist path for a little while yet.

Source: travellingamandablog.wordpress.com

My first Đêm Giao Thừa

The Lunar New Year (Tết) holiday can be a reality check for longer term foreign residents in Vietnam like me.

No one enjoys donning the tourist label indefinitely. Make an effort at learning the language, adapt to the pace and rhythms of a city, become a recognisable face to some of your favourite vendors and at some of your favourite haunts…it starts becoming possible to convince yourself you’re different.

The mania of pre-Tết preparations encourages this. Everyone is too busy with their own obligations and commitments to pay much attention to the visitors in their midst.

But then the morning of Ngày Tất Niên—the 30th day of the 12th lunar month—arrives. The plunge from the preceding week’s frenetic energy is startling. Many if not most shopfronts are shuttered, and the masses once clogging every street corner and alleyway are replaced by the trickle of last minute purchasers amongst a steady stream of kumquat trees and peach blossom branches being ferried to their reserved prides of place in households across Hanoi.

Distinctions between “outsiders” are immediately erased—you’re all spectators. There’s nothing like watching a nation’s most important cultural and social event unfolding around and apart from you to deflate any pretensions you feel you might’ve earned.

Which only made me even more appreciative when a friend asked if I would join his family in marking the last night of the year. The Vietnamese lessons before my university break for the holiday had covered the significance of Đêm Giao Thừa, the crossover from the old lunar year to the new. There was some trepidation.

I desperately wanted to avoid marring 2013’s beginnings through ignorance or awkward breaches of etiquette. Carrying gifts I’d chosen following the carefully considered advice of my teacher, and the red envelopes of lucky money I was sure I’d need later, I joined the traffic en route to their own special gatherings and reunions. Anticipation hummed.

I arrived as my friend’s wife and his daughters were moving the bữa cơm tất niên (year-end party) downstairs from where it once sat at the centre of the house’s altar. The various elements comprising 2012’s final meal had already been offered to the gods and family ancestors. A beautifully framed calligraphy scroll hung from the wall of the room where I was welcomed.

An ode to patience, written in classical Chinese, by a master whose skills were always in demand but particularly during Tết. We admired it while I tried my best to stay out of the way. The clatter of chopsticks signalled everything was ready.

A feast. Spring rolls, both pork and seafood, green papaya salad with dried beef, sliced smoked pork, the absolutely essential bánh chưng (square cake made from sticky rice, green beans and prok), fried dumplings crusted in young rice flakes with taro and whole egg fillings, poached chicken, canh măng (braised bamboo shoots), heaped bowls of greens, an assortment of tailored dipping sauces and matching herbs.

The centrepiece was canh bóng bì lợn, a soup I hadn’t tasted before, made from dehydrated fried pork skin soaked in a broth sweetened by dried mushrooms, prawns, and fresh vegetables. I didn’t know where to begin. The plenty was more than a little overwhelming.

Under repeated urgings of cứ tự nhiên như ở nhà (loosely make yourself at home) I indulged in my friend’s family’s generosity. There was no stopping his mother’s expert selections of the best of the bounty from ending up in my bowl.

The eating never really ended. It just gradually slowed down. While we waited for midnight’s approach, the family enjoyed parts of VTV’s comedy broadcast. The humour appeared cathartic. My friend mentioned his business hadn’t escaped the repercussions of the trying economic year. Joking about such difficulties both acknowledged and swept them aside, clearing their taint from the first moments of 2013.  

I watched as my friend’s wife and mother arranged the night’s second tray of offerings. There was a solemnity to the preparations that humbled my normally cynical self. Traditional items—chicken, fruit, rice, salt, water, alcohol, flowers—were crossed off a mental checklist with evident care.

His mother noted her household altar’s offerings would be burned at a later date, the third day of Tết calculated as the most propitious. Sticks of incense were ignited and we departed the house, leaving the Year of the Dragon behind.

The street outside was the busiest it had been all day. Cars and motorcycles secured prime viewing positions. Children were shouting across the throng, recognising friends and relatives and ushering them over to better vantages. The first bursts of fireworks met collective cries of delight that only grew in time with the spectacle’s crescendo. Each new colourful explosion added a celebratory exclamation point.

My friend explained his youngest daughter’s birth year made her the most suitable choice for người xông nhà, the first person to cross the household’s threshold in the new year. We entered behind her to a cavalcade of chúc mừng năm mớis, good lucks, and other well-wishes.

Lì xì (A red envelope with lucky money inside) was distributed to the obvious excitement of its recipients and a platter of candied nuts, fruit, and seeds was opened to share. Relatives ducked in, contributing their own red envelopes and greetings. A bottle was opened for yet another round of small New Year’s toasts. Just being there to witness such genuine happiness felt like an honour.

The night (now morning) wrapped up with heartfelt thanks and I cycled home along La Thành Road. Its edges were defined like an airport’s runway—the houses and businesses abutting both sides of the road were burning their own offerings to the returning Kitchen Gods. Small stalls sold willowy spears of sugarcane and massive red balloons emblazoned with golden New Year’s greetings and icons of luck and good health.

Groups of friends laughed together over the year’s first bowls of phở (rice noodle) and bún (rice vermicelli noodle) and servings of xôi (sticky rice) or steaming sheets of bánh cuốn (steamed rice rolls). I balked at the thought of more food, but the atmosphere of optimism and good cheer remained infectious.  

As a guest—a privileged observer— a better start to the Year of the Snake seemed unimaginable.

Source: VOV