My Friend Son, Sa Pa, Vietnam December 2008

Dec. 28, 2007

Every once in a while, when you're on the road, you meet someone with whom, despite the vast differences in your backgrounds, cultures, and lives, and the lack of a shared language, you connect on a level that transcends all of these superficialities: heart to heart.

So it was with Son, a wiry little Black Hmong woman in Sa Pa, northern Vietnam, who I met in the typical way that most foreigners meet the Hmong – she was one of several Hmong women tagging along after us as we walked through the Sa Pa market, trying to sell us handcrafts.

The Hmong are excellent business people who have adapted well to foreign tourism. It was Hmong women who were smuggling the Thai rice and Red Bull drinks on our bus ride from Laos into Vietnam. They are everywhere in Sa Pa, the tourist mecca of northern Vietnam. No tourist there walks alone; they are always accompanied by a gaggle of Hmong women, sometimes literally hanging off their coat tails, pleading: “Buy from me! Buy from me!”

We always respond in the same way: “Not buying; no buy!” We don't want to increase the bulk or weight of what we're carrying with us and, equally importantly, we don't want them to get their hopes up thinking that, if they persist long enough, we will buy. After all, most of the tourists here, and elsewhere, are here to buy – and they are desperate.

We carried on walking through the market, Son and the others doggedly traipsing after us – “buy this purse, buy from me, very nice, you like...” We didn't really know where we were going; we were just out for a ramble to 'see the sights,' whatever they were. We intended to stop only one night in Sa Pa – it was too cold to stay any longer, and the town was too 'touristy.'

Son was holding two little tubes covered in brightly-coloured fabrics. I'd seen several of the women carrying these, trying to sell them to tourists, and I wondered what they were. I threw caution to the wind and asked Son to show me what they were.

Her face was bright and her fingers nimble as she unwrapped a string from around one end of the tube, and then tipped it on end to allow a little brass mouth-harp to fall into her hand. She put it to her lips and made an impressive array of sounds – clearly she was an expert at one-minute mouth-harp demonstrations – finishing with “You buy one? Buy two!”

By this time all of the other women had their mouth-harps out at well, keen to get in on whatever sale might be about to happen: “By from me, buy from me!” The competition was fierce, but friendly.

I said again, “No buy, no buy; very nice but no buy. Now going for walk; now walking.” Son put the harp back in its little bamboo sheath, carefully re-wrapped the string, and said: “Maybe later you buy, after you walk.”

I hesitated just a moment – there was something about her – and the harps were cute, and small – good gifts for children we might meet on our travels... . In that moment's hesitation Son saw her opportunity to get me more securely on the hook: she told me her name, Son, and asked me my name. The Hmong are excellent mimics, and they find the English language particularly easy to learn: she repeated my name perfectly.

Since being in Vietnam I have attracted quite a lot of attention because of my white hair. White hair is extremely uncommon here. Many people have pointed to it, and then pointed to their own black hair, shaking their heads and smiling; a few have even reached out and touched it to see if it's real. Now Son looked at it and asked: “How old you?” I showed her five fingers, and then eight: fifty-eight.

“How old you?” I asked. “Forty-five,” she answered without any hesitation. “You speak good English” I said. She smiled. “Where you from?” “Canada,” I said, “very cold, like here; here very cold!” She laughed as I hugged myself and shivered. (It really is cold in Sa Pa, which is at very high elevation and now definitely into it's winter weather.)

“You have children?” she asked. I said “yes, two, one girl, one boy, now big. One of our children, our boy, now has children – two small, one just a baby. You have children?” She surprised me a little when she said “three,” as many tribal women have large families – too large.

I asked if her children were back at home. “No, in school. All in school.” I said “Good, good they are in school; more chance to make good business. Where is school?” She said one was in school here in Sa Pa, and the other two, presumably the older ones, were in school in a more distant city. As Sa Pa is large enough to have more than one high school, I took that to mean that her older children might actually be at a college or university – at least pursuing some form of higher education.

We were later told, by a young Vietnamese tour and travel agent, that the Vietnamese government has recently made a decision to fund education for ethnic minorities, including paying for their books. Other Vietnamese must pay to go to school, a significant hardship for many families. And despite the fact that Son's family doesn't have to pay to send her kids to school, her family still suffers a significant financial loss: while they're in school, the kids are not available to work to help support the family.

I wanted to let Son know that I understood what it meant for her to send her kids to school – not only that she valued education, and wanted to give them that gift, those future opportunities, but that she herself was willing to work and to sacrifice that much more to make it happen. Her children are fortunate. In a country this poor, and among a people who themselves are just barely eking out a living, the concept of education as something of value is rare.

I put my hand on Son's arm, and looked into her eyes: “Good for you, Son. Good for you to send your kids to school.” That's when we made the connection. She realized that I understood – if only just a little – how hard it was for her, and that I validated her decision, and honoured her for making it.

In addition to their brightly coloured costumes, I had noticed that many Hmong women wore one or more unusual silver 'necklaces.' The back of the necklace was solid, encircling their neck and ending in a couple of flattened and elongated hooks that were carved with delicate swirling motifs. From these hooks hung a length of simple silver chain, completing the circle.

Son wore one such necklace. It looked older and more finely worked than the necklaces the other girls were wearing. I asked her about it. “My mother's,” she said. “It was my mother's.” Seeing my interest, a couple of the other girls offered to sell their necklaces to me. One asked if my little turtle earrings were silver – maybe I would like to trade...? I said no, they weren't silver, just cheap metal, but cute. And no, I didn't want to buy a necklace, but liked the way they looked on them.

The young women were particularly beautiful, with even, strong white teeth, lovely smiles that lit up their healthy glowing faces. I could see the round of “Buy from me” was about to start again, so I said “now we walk.”

Son touched my arm and said, “I wait here. You come back from walk, you remember me.” I turned to face her, looked into her eyes and said: “I remember you. I remember your necklace; I remember your face; I remember the mark upon your forehead; I remember you.” She smiled again. “I see you when you come back.” And I knew, whenever we got back, she would find us.

As it turned out, we were on the road that lead down – way down – to Cat Cat village, one of the many Hmong villages near Sa Pa. It is also the closest one, within an hour's walking distance, so it's one many tourists visit. Although we're not keen on traipsing through ethnic villages – it can feel a little like visiting a zoo to look at all the weird and wonderful animals – “Oh look, there's a little Hmong baby!” - we decided to go anyway, if only just for the exercise.

As it turned out, it was a beautiful walk, down a narrow set of stone stairs, through terraced gardens planted with rice and all sorts of different vegetables, past rude houses made of wood, bamboo and palm thatch. There were the usual assortment of bare-footed, bare-bottomed kids with red cheeks and snotty noses, playing in the dirt. A few had plastic sandals, one or two were sporting real rubber boots.

At every house there was at least one table set up out front with purses, earrings, little dolls, shirts, shawls and cold drinks for sale. A few of the locals called out to us to “buy from me,” but on the whole it was pretty low key. These people were accustomed to foreigners traipsing through, and paid us little attention. Friendly enough, but busy with their own affairs.

At the bottom of the valley we came to the river and a set of waterfalls where we stopped and had a couple of cold drinks. It was well after noon, and the sun had finally burned off the heavy morning mist, providing just enough warmth that we were able to remove one layer. We started on the long climb back up the other side of the valley, again on a stone path with several sets of stairs. After a while the path leveled out and we came to a suspension bridge, old and worn but newly painted, which at least made it look more reliable.

On the other side we were met by a young fellow with a motorbike helmet. He offered to take us back up the hill. We saw only one bike. We decided we'd keep walking.

We hadn't gone far when two other motorbikes came down the hill towards us. We recognized them both as fellows we'd seen when we'd started up top – Sonny and Kuhn. They'd offered us rides down, and when we said “no thanks, we'll walk,” they said “o.k., but maybe you ride back up. Remember me,” Sonny had said, pointing to his pink helmet. “My name Sonny!” I said “I'll remember you – pink helmet!”

I laughed when I saw him, and said “Pink helmet! How much for ride back up?” After a bit of haggling we agreed on a price. Knowing my abject fear of motorbikes (a legacy of my accident in Cuba) Doug reminded me to hold on to the bar behind the seat, not to Sonny. Sonny passed me his pink helmet. I put it on, only later thinking of the lice that might be lurking within. I took a deep breath, exhaled my fear, and mounted the bike, gripping the bar behind me with both hands.

Sonny was a good driver. The road was only roughly paved, and very steep, with several switch-backs. He took those slowly. Although I never let go of the bars at the back, and can't say that I relaxed, I did manage to enjoy the ride, and even looked around a little, watching the valley as it sank further and further below us. It was great not to have had to walk all the way back up – worth facing my fears for.

We were dropped off at the market, and were hungry by the time we got to the top. I didn't see Son, but that was hardly surprising. She undoubtedly had other fish to hook, and fry. We debated whether we'd have a bowl of soup at the market, or go on up to town and eat in a restaurant.

As we were lingering over that decision, Son came up behind us and said “Hello! I find you! I saw you on motorbike. You tired?” I said no, not tired, but hungry, and patted my stomach. “You eat at market?” she asked. “Maybe,” I said. “We see.”

She came along with us to the centre of the market, where an orderly collection of wooden tables and benches were permanently assembled. For every four or so tables there's a crude 'kitchen' where a mum and pop, or a couple of sisters or friends, cook up soups, rice, various meats (dog?) and vegetables – the precursor of the modern food court.

We looked it over. At this point, a little after one pm, it wasn't too busy. The gal at the first set of tables called for us to come eat at her 'restaurant.' I turned to Son, “This one good?” I asked. She just smiled, but I saw her eyes were focused on another set of tables where several Hmong women were eating.

“Over there,” I said. “That one looks good. Many people eating. Food must be good.” Generally speaking, we eat at places where we see the locals eating. They know where the food is good.

We walked over to the line of tables where a half dozen Hmong women were sitting. They looked up at us and smiled. The proprietress motioned for us to sit down, and handed us some menus. She cleared a few dishes away, and wiped the table off. Both it and the various things on it looked pretty clean. The company looked even more inviting. So we sat down.

I asked Son if she was hungry, but she said “I finish, you eat.” I showed her the menu, written in Vietnamese and English, and pointed to 'noodle soup with vegetables' and 'noodle soup with chicken.' She put her finger beside mine and said “yes.” Again I said “you hungry? Sit down, eat soup.” She remained standing.

One of the young girls across the table said: “She can't read. None of us can read. Only her,” and she nodded in the direction of the Vietnamese proprietress. “She hungry, but she shy.”

I asked the young girl if she thought that Son would like to have a bowl of soup. “Yes, she like, but she too shy.” So I turned to Son and said “Son, sit down. We buy you soup. You like chicken soup? Sit down!” She sat down beside me. Our shoulders were touching; I could feel her happiness.

Over noodle soups we chatted with the Hmong girls and Son. Several other women joined us, eager to be a part of the discussion, even if they could only understand bits and pieces of it. The young women spoke very good English. They said they had learned it from talking to foreigners. They could repeat any word or phrase I said flawlessly, whether they knew what it meant or not.

They said that they spoke more English than Vietnamese. “Vietnamese is very difficult to learn. English easy.” English is also much more useful to them, from a business perspective, than Vietnamese, so they are motivated.

As usual they all wanted to know where we came from, if we had children, and what we did at home. The two young women both had two children. One of them said she was twenty-five. She had a five-year old and a three-year old child. I asked when she would have her next baby.

“Maybe no more,” she said. “Two enough.” I said “Yes, two enough. Sometimes two too many! Hard work!” and asked her where her children were. “At home with grandmother.”

Likely she is one of the major income earners for the family. Doug asked her how business was. “Not so good today, but o.k.”

I asked if they lived in the village we had just visited. They laughed. “No, we live far away, in other village. Three hours. One and one half hours walking, one and one half hours bus.” And they come to Sa Pa every day, carrying their goods, and little babies, if they have them, on their backs.

Doug asked if he could take some photos, and they agreed without hesitation. I remembered that I had my computer with me. I don't generally carry it around, but we'd been using it that morning, and I hadn't taken it back up to the room before we went off walking. So after he took the photos I took the memory card out of his camera and put it into the computer.

First I showed them the few photos I had of our grandchildren – the petite and blond-haired little Amelia, and a chubby baby Ben. They loved them both. To them, fairness is goodness, almost godliness. The fact that, in the photo, Amelia was wearing a sparkly white fairy dress with a full skirt just added to the princess effect.

Then I showed them the photos Doug had just taken, of them and me, eating our bowls of soup. “Magic,” I said, pointing to the computer. “Magic,” they agreed. And of course, it is, for both them and me.

Everyone around us wanted to have a look, and there was a fair crowd behind me by the time I figured we could either go on for hours, looking at photos of Laos, Malaysia, India, and even B.C., or I could close the cover and say so long.

I closed the cover; it was time to go. Doug paid for the soups. Son asked if we had paid for her soup. When I assured her that we had, she again glowed with pleasure: these foreigners had invited her for lunch!

We were about to take our leave when Son pulled out the little coloured tubes. “You buy from me?” She was laughing even as she said it. I'd already decided I would, so we began the process of bargaining. She wanted 40,000 dong, which is the equivalent of $3 Canadian. I offered her 35,000. “No, no, 40,000!” she said. We haggled back and forth just for the fun of it. We both knew that I would give her 40,000. I knew I would like to give her so much more... .
So in the end I gave her 40,000 dong and she gave me the little tubes. It was time to say 'good-bye.' Again I looked right into her eyes and said “We go to our hotel now Son. We say good-bye.” 

She started to raise her hand to shake mine, but instead I reached out and gave her a hug: “My sister Son,” I said, “good luck with your business. I will remember you.”

There were tears in her eyes. “I remember too.” 

As we walked away I felt happy that we had lunched with Son and her friends, been able to share the photos with them, and happy that we had made a more meaningful connection than just buying some trinkets from the natives. But sad, heavy of heart, at the circumstances beyond either of our control, that make my life so easy, and hers so terribly hard.

We weren't more than a couple of blocks from the market when I felt a tugging at my sleeve. I turned, and there was Son. She was holding out a little silver bracelet. “For you,” she said. I thought she wanted me to buy it, so I said “No thank-you Son, I cannot buy.” But she said “No buy. I give to you. I give. You keep. Remember me.”

Now there were tears in both our eyes. She said to Doug “I cry again!” I hugged her again, good-bye, good luck, and she was gone.

The next day, as we were driving out of Sa Pa, along the road that I thought likely passed her village, I looked for her. I had a little woven bracelet from Mexico that I wanted to give her. But we didn't see her. Still I think she will remember me. I know that I will remember her.