Searching for Shon in Sa Pa, Vietnam

April 9, 2009

Searching for Son

We came back to Sa Pa at the end of March, hoping it would be warmer than it was in mid-December, when we stayed only three bitterly cold days, made colder by the lack of central heating and the locals' insistence on keeping doors wide open. They're a hardy people, but they also wear ski jackets and scarves all the time, indoors and out.

We came back to Sa Pa partly because we were anyway on our way north to China, and it was only a minor diversion, but mostly to look for Son. Son is a petite Hmong woman with whom we'd become friends. We'd walked and talked with her, as much as her limited English would permit, and she'd given me a metal bracelet to remember her by – as if I could forget!

We arrived in Sa Pa in the early morning, exhausted from a sleepless night on the overnight train from Hanoi to Lao Cai. After a quick nap we headed to the market, and to the table in the corner where the women from Son's village eat their lunch. There were many of them there, in their distinctive indigo blue tunics with bright embroidered bands around the sleeves and on the collars, colourful scarf hats, big hoop earrings and distinctive silver chain necklaces.

We didn't see Son. But as we sat slurping our pho soup, I thought I recognized one of the younger women. She had a beautiful smile and a baby on her back. “I remember you!” she said. “You were here before, a few months ago.” She told me her name was Zee, her baby Van. We traded pleasantries for a while, and then I told her we were looking for Son.

“Son,” she repeated, sounding doubtful. “Do you have a photo of her?” I told her we didn't have one with us, but I could show her one later, at the hotel. I tried to describe Son, but realized my description matched several of the women who were sitting at the table.

Just then another Hmong woman came up behind me, put her hand on my shoulder, and beamed “hello!” I recognized her instantly and asked her too: “Have you seen Son?” She didn't seem to recognize the name. I tried several different pronunciations, in vain. Neither of them seemed to know who Son was.

The next morning Zee stopped by our hotel. I showed her a photo of Son. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “Shon! Not Son, Shon. Shon is my auntie! She's at the market. I'll tell her you're here!”
Around mid-day the sun burned through the morning fog and revealed the terraced valley below us. The flooded rice paddies, a cascade of gold and silver crescents reflecting the light of the sun, enticed us into a walk. We headed down the concrete lid of a sewage canal, a steep but easy path into the valley. And then across muddy trails through acres of rose gardens, corn fields, and sparse pine forests.

We sat for a while overlooking the valley – the rice paddies, the river and the roofs of village houses far below us – and snacked on cheese and crackers. Then we followed a narrow path along the edge of the valley to 'civilization' – a road down to the touristy Cat Cat village just minutes from Sa Pa.

We walked up the road and were almost back to Sa Pa when we saw Zee walking towards us – with Son, who now I must remember as Shon. It was quite a reunion: no hesitant shyness, no attempt at stilted conversation. We threw our arms around one another and laughed and hugged and said “my friend! So good to see you! My friend!”

Zee and Shon were heading down to Cat Cat to sell. We were heading up to town to rest. Zee asked us if we'd like to go to Hau Thao, the village where both she and Shon live. “Tourists don't go there,” she said. “I can take you there. We can have lunch.” Shon piped up, “I cook you lunch. You eat everything ok, no problem. I cook for you. Ok?”

It sounded great to us. We bought some oranges and cucumbers for lunch. We gathered up all of the complimentary toothbrushes we'd been getting at hotels in Vietnam. They make much better gifts for kids than pens and candies.


Walking to Hau Thao

That night a crashing lightening and thunder storm howled up the valley. Rain bucketed down from the roof onto our balcony. By the next morning the storm had abated, but a thick fog enveloped the town. We weren't certain this would be a good day for a walk. But as we were having an outdoor breakfast at a cafe near our hotel we saw Zee. who'd just walked the three hours into town to pick us up. How could we demur?

Zee went off to the market to buy noodles and look for Shon, who had also already walked in to town. A few minutes later we saw Shon, who'd missed Zee. We gave Shon 50,000 Dong (US$3) and asked her to go to the market and buy some beef for lunch. We had to 'moo' and stick our fingers like horns on our heads to get the message clear, but after some initial confusion Shon's eyes lit up and she said “I know, I know. I buy meat, I cook, you eat.”

When they came by our hotel Shon and Zee brought along two other women from the village – Mee, a mother of three, and Joo, a girl of thirteen with a sweet face and a beautiful smile. And so the six of us started off down the road to their village, Hau Thao. Zee said it would take us about three to three and a half hours to get there walking, like the Hmong, at a steady, but moderate, pace.

Sa Pa, also known as the 'Queen of the Mountains,' sits at 1650 meters, and is often enshrouded by clouds. Our walk took us higher up into the mountains. Within an hour we were above the clouds, looking down on the valley below, a beautiful mosaic of crescent-shaped rice paddies cascading down the mountain slopes to the Muong Hoa River. As the sun broke through the fog, the flooded rice paddies shimmered silver and gold in the reflected light.

We passed by a few isolated houses and one small village. We saw few people, but those we did see were very friendly, smiling, waving and calling out 'hellos!' As usual the kids were the most enthusiastic. At one point a group of young girls came running down the mountainside to see us. We stopped to chat, and Shon helped one of them strap a baby on her back with a long piece of fabric. The girl looked very young, and small. The baby looked heavy.

We asked Shon to ask the girl how old she was. The answer was 'ten.' And the baby almost two. It's not uncommon to see children much younger looking after and toting babies around. Kids grow up and assume responsibilities fast in these cultures – fetching wood, carrying water, working in the fields, and looking after younger children.

A little further along we stopped to watch a man and a boy ploughing a flooded rice paddy with two huge water buffalo. The buffalo were unwieldy, refusing to turn when they came to the edge of the paddy, and stumbling over the low mud dykes from one paddy to another. The man and boy shouted commands at them to no avail. They had to lift their heavy mud-laden ploughs up out of the water until they got the buffalos back on track. It looked like tremendously hard, cold and wet work. Both man and boy were up to their knees in water, their clothes soaked and covered in mud.

After a couple of hours walking mostly uphill our path diverged from the main track and we headed down a mud and stone path, and sometime stream. It was treacherous going – steep and slippery with no trees or shrubs for hand-holds. The Hmong women skipped down the trail, as sure-footed as mountain goats. We walked through several muddy patches and streams, balancing precariously on wiggly rocks. The Hmong women took our hands to steady us, but nonetheless our feet got wet.

After about an hour's walk on this smaller trail Zee pointed to a small collection of houses on the mountainside. “Shon's house is there.” We then departed from the trail onto an even smaller path, climbing over a rock wall and snaking along the mountainside, down and up through more streams until we came to Shon's house.


Lunch at Shon's House

Shon's house was similar to many we'd seen – wooden walls and an old corrugated metal roof. Inside was dark. There are no windows; the only light came from the open door. A child was sweeping up a collection of plastic and paper scraps on the dirt floor. There was no furniture, save for a couple of small, low wooden benches – just big enough for one person to squat on.

There were two smaller rooms off the main room. In one, Shon's husband, wearing the traditional Hmong man's black tunic top and shorts, was coaxing a small fire into life. There was a simple metal grate over the fire, and a blackened battered kettle in the corner. It was very dark in the room; here the little fire provided the only light.

Mee asked us to come to her house to see her children. It was just a few muddy, slippery steps from Shon's. Equally dark, but with slightly more furniture – a couple of chairs and a table – and some clothes hanging on a wire stretched in one corner. We sat down on a couple of low benches.

A woman arrived with Mee's two kids in tow – May, a four year old girl, and Kai, a ten month baby boy. Several other kids came in as well, curious to see the 'falangs' (foreigners) at Mee's house. Mee put Kai straight to her breast, where he nursed without stop for the next half hour. I wondered what he'd been fed while she'd been gone. 

The other kids posed for photos: they love seeing themselves on the little screen of the camera. I promised Mee I'd get some prints made for her. Then, the baby fed, we headed back to Shon's for lunch.

Shon's husband was still at the fire, tending a large pot of rice. He cooked up the sliced beef in a greasy black skillet, then went out and poured the excess grease onto the ground and came back and cooked up some scrambled eggs. We peeled and sliced a couple of cucumbers.

The girls brought a small low table into the main room. Shon's husband covered it with an old bit of plastic. From the other room Shon and the girls brought out bowls for each of us, and several sets of chopsticks, and put them on the table. Then they brought out some slightly larger bowls filled with the meat, the eggs, some instant noodles and some sticky rice, an Asian staple. The cucumbers were nestled on a plastic bag. The big pot of rice sat on the floor beside the table. Lunch was ready.

Although by this time there were many people in Shon's house, including at least a dozen kids, all ragged and dirty and most with snotty noses, only Shon, Zee, Mee, Joo, Doug and I sat down at the table to eat. Truly the table was so small, there was hardly room for anyone else, and anyway there were no more benches.

Shon and Zee took our bowls and, using their chopsticks, filled them with rice, noodles and meat. I noted that none of them were helping themselves to the cucumbers so, following suit, I chopsticked slices of cuke into each of their bowls. There was apparently an etiquette here regarding food. Every time our bowls were almost empty, one of the girls would chopstick some noodles or meat and put them in our bowl. I did likewise with the cukes.

Shon's husband had put the frying pan on the floor near the table. There was still a bit of egg in it. Shon's two smallest kids squatted by the pan, scooping up the egg with their grubby little paws and stuffing it into their mouths. Then they circled round the table, pointing at what they wanted. Shon would chopstick them a piece of meat, a bit of sticky rice. I could see one of them eying the cucumber. It's possible he'd never seen it before. I grabbed a slice with my chopsticks and held it out to him. He looked tentative at first, but then took it with a big smile.

It was amazing to watch how the Hmong gals packed the food away. They ate with real gusto. This was clearly a special occasion. It's likely that their usual fare is rice, perhaps with some wild greens. The Hmongs do grow corn, squash, potatoes and green beans – but it was too early for any of these. The noodles, eggs and meat were a special treat.

After lunch it was Shon's turn to have photos taken with her kids. Her husband, as many Hmong men, was too shy to pose. We left the kids with a toothbrush each and some mandarin oranges. We could see they liked the oranges; we hope they'll use the toothbrushes.

Stopping at Zee's House

By the time we finished lunch it was three o'clock or so – time to be heading back to Sa Pa. Zee wanted us to go to her house, which was about 20 minutes' walk downhill from Shon's. Shon wanted to come with us, but Mee and Joo were home, so we said our good-byes to them, knowing we'd likely see them in Sa Pa over the next few days.

The path to Zee's was just a muddy stream bed, and very slippery in several places. Shon held my hand to make sure I didn't fall, although she was slipping too. I laughed and said, “You go down, I go down; I go down, you go down.” Shon thought that was great: we were friends.

I took the opportunity to give Shon and Zee a couple of friendship bracelets that I'd bought in Mexico – colourful woven bracelets unlike anything we've seen here. As we tied Shon's round her wrist she said again, “we friends.” And Zee said, “and every time we wash our hands or look at them, we'll think of you, and remember... .” Doug took the opportunity to give each of them each some cash as well – a more practical, if less sentimental, gift.

When we got to Zee's house, her husband appeared around the corner with their two kids – a four year old and a two year old. He'd been working in the rice paddy, and had just collected them from his mother. He looked young, even younger than Zee, who's twenty-five. And he was shy – just smiled and said “hello” before squatting down and tending to the fire.

Zee's house was smaller than Shon's, with walls of split bamboo that let both light, and cold winds, through. But there was more furniture – a table, an old treadle sewing machine practically buried under a mountain of ragged clothing, a tv, and a dvd player!

There was also a collage of family photos on one of the walls, and two posters about HIV/AIDS. Because Zee's husband can read and write Vietnamese, he does a little work for the local clinic. He translates information and dispenses medicines to Hmong villagers. For this he receives 40,000 Dong (about US$3) a month. That's his only cash income. Mostly he works in the rice paddies or their vegetable gardens, some of which are 30 to 40 minutes' walk from their house. And he is constantly collecting wood for their fire, over which all food is cooked.

Zee's mother arrived a few minutes' later, with several little kids in tow – Zee's brothers' children. It seems in many Hmong families, grandmothers tend to the kids while fathers and mothers work. Zee has chosen, like many Hmong women, to try her luck selling embroidered bags and pillow cases, bracelets and postcards, to tourists in Sa Pa. She gets up at five every morning, feeds her family, and then sets out to walk the three hours into town. Some days she sells nothing at all; other days she's lucky and makes US$5, or even $10. And then she walks home. It's a tough way to make a living.

Zee wanted some family photos too, but her husband was too shy to pose. He squatted by the fire, feeding it small sticks. I suggested she squat down beside him, and we managed to tease him into giving some beautiful big smiles for the camera.

Now it really was time to go. Zee and Shon insisted on walking us down to the road and helping us get some motorcycle guys to take us back to Sa Pa. “We can get a better price for you!” they said.

And so they came with us to the road, chose the 'best' moto drivers, and negotiated the 'best' price. We said our good-byes with big hugs and little kisses on the cheek, all thanking one another – for the walk, for the lunch, for sharing, and for being friends.

The next day we got the photos printed, and found some mini-albums that would protect the pictures, at least for a while, as they're passed from hand to hand to hand for all to admire – and remember. I wrote a short inscription in Shon's album: “To My Friend Shon, Best Wishes Always, From Jules and Doug.”