It felt weird to be wearing long sleeves and closed-toed shoes as we walked through the swirling mists of Sapa. The mountain town is so far north that it's almost China, and it's the coldest spot in Vietnam. They even had snow this year, the first time since 2000. There was no snow during our brief visit but my thinned blood and light clothing ensured that I had goosebumps for the first time since that snowstorm in Kyrgyzstan.
We arrived off the night train just as it was getting light (the thick clouds assured that there was no sunrise). Our room had an amazing view of verdant mountains and tiered fields, but after snoozing for a couple hours the scenery had disappeared entirely, replaced by a thick bank of fog. The mountain tops never returned.
One of the things Sapa is famous for, besides its miserable weather and luscious scenery, is the various hill tribes that live in the surrounding area. In all actuality you can't avoid them because in the short span of time that Sapa has been a tourist destination the locals have become well-versed in the industry. As soon as you step out of your hotel, groggy from the turbulent overnight train, you are surrounded by a flock of shoulder-high women and girls, decked out in their traditional costumes of indigo fabric and intricate embroidery, and pushing more of the same in your face. For all their miniature stature they possess the tenacity of a pit-bull, and you have to wade your way up the street to a chorus of "You buy from me? You buy from me?". They can all ask your name, your age, how many children you have, and refuse to take "no" for an answer.
Mother's hands are still blue from from the leaves of an indigo plant we were shown while walking through a village, and her bag is about 20 pounds heavier from her new collection of fabrics. We both survived the hectic bus ride back down the hill to the train station, and we continue our southward migration today.
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