Bac Ha

By Samantha Coomber

The gateway to the mountains and hill tribes of North-east Vietnam begins with the inconspicuous Tran Quy Cap Station in Hanoi. Waiting for the night train, the cramped city terminal is standing room only, packed with Vietnamese families armed with mountains of bags and international backpackers resembling turtles. They are all heading for Lao Cai, the last stop in Vietnam before the Chinese border. For many, their final destination is the former French hill-station Sapa, a pretty mountain town with stunning overviews of sweeping valleys and the mysterious Mount Fanzipan. Having previously experienced the joys of Sapa, this time however I am en-route for its' relatively quieter neighbour, the sleepy Bac Ha - located on the other side of the mountains.

The overnight train journey is always a bit of an adventure and this time is no exception. I am squashed in a six-berth rail carriage with an over-enthusiastic Vietnamese family. They unravel bags of fresh fruit -plums, oranges and jackfruit, which they kindly offer me. I notice that they have managed to smuggle in two live chickens in a plastic basket, which the ticket inspector fails to see. Feeling worse for wear the following morning after sleeping on wooden slats (which is why the carriage is termed "hard sleeper") we sit dazed and look out through the iron bars across the train window. It is nearly 6am and as the train approaches Lao Cai, it passes a swollen river lined with coconut palms and water buffalo. As the sun makes its' first appearance, the mist slowly rises off the surrounding paddy fields. We are now only a few kilometres from the Chinese border.

The chilly, early morning temperature hits me as I stumble out of the train. A mass of passengers make their way through to waiting minibuses to whisk them up to Sapa, two hours away. I seem to be the only one travelling on to Bac Ha, apart from one German tourist. As I frantically look around for transportation, I quickly realize that this is fruitless. An enterprising local motorbike guide comes to my assistance. In faultless English he explains,

"There aren't any buses up today. You could hire a jeep together with the other boy to get to Bac Ha...."
He tells me the price. I nearly pass out.
"Or I can give you a lift up there..."
"What on?" I innocently ask. Although I know the answer, I am somehow in denial.
"Well you can ride on the back of my motorbike...it will take us about two hours and I can quote a reasonable price...."

With a choice of being stranded in dreary Lao Cai, taking out a second mortgage on a jeep ride or risking my life for a cheaper alternative, I wisely choose the third option. The negotiated price isn't bad and at least he can lend me a crash helmet - a rarity in Vietnam. My main concern is the horrendously large backpack (I never travel light) but this canny guide obviously has experience of this and straps it firmly to the front of the motorbike. There isn't much room on the pillion seat, so I keep sliding forward, a bit too close for comfort to the driver. And I don't even know his name.

After initial wobbles and heart seizure, I actually begin to enjoy the journey. Thankfully, it isn't raining, the skies are a clear light blue and the sun shines brilliantly. The road leaving Lao Cai gradually elevates up to the peace and serenity of the mountains. Some of the local minority hill-tribes, - the Flower Hmong people - so named because of their distinctive traditional costumes of embroidered flowers -wave us through with broad smiles. Snaking its' way up the mountainside, the route becomes increasingly steep with breathtaking views across terraced rice fields and smatterings of hillside communities. There isn't a problem with traffic because there isn't any - we have complete free reign of the roads.

At long last, we arrive at Bac Ha - surprisingly in one piece. Surrounded by distant mountains, Bac Ha is refreshingly timeless and seems to have escaped the onslaught of tourism as witnessed by Sapa. An unassuming agricultural community, its delightful rustic charm is still intact. The smell of musk wood fire permeates the morning air and chickens and pigs run amok along the dusty main street. During the day, all and sundry head out to the neighboring fields to work. Tourists are hardly catered for here - English is little spoken and there are no tourist agencies. There are only a few guesthouses and one or two simple pho restaurants. In mid-week- when I arrive - the place resembles a ghost town. At the weekend however when Bac Ha's Sunday market is underway, the town brims to capacity with tourists and many of the hill-tribe groups arriving in from outlying areas. But by Sunday evening, a mass exodus takes place and Bac Ha returns once more to its old deserted self.