This is a feature from the San Antonio Express-News that appeared in Jan. 08

The Price of Travel

The pitfalls and payoffs of mountainous Vietnam.

Dane Phillips

SAPA, VIETNAM – I am accustomed to transportation in the developing world. I have been on buses in which poultry outnumbered humans 2 to 1. Overcrowding has forced me into intimate, Kama Sutra-like embraces with strangers. I have seen people and bags of rice stacked like Tetris blocks so the smallest space is not wasted. Still, this ride was uncomfortable. And what made it almost unbearable is that it could have been completely avoided for just $20.

Sapa, my destination in northern Vietnam near the Chinese border, is most easily reached by overnight train. But in an effort to avoid the price gouging practiced by travel agencies in Hanoi, I bought my ticket at the train station. Unfortunately, the aforementioned travel agents buy all the sleeper tickets 10 days in advance. So I was relegated to a seat similar in composition to that of a pliable, woven plastic lawn chair. This would not have been a problem, but the food tray for the seat behind me was pushed deep into my spine, sawing between my 5th and 6th vertebrae as the train jostled along the tracks.

I was on the local train, so the night was punctuated by numerous stops, several smoke breaks that were all taken adjacent to my seat, and the steady flow of individuals who searched the oversold train for a tiny piece of floor to call their own. I was being punished for my frugality. I seethed, hating no one on the train more than myself.

The price we pay for travel often has little to do with dollars. It is the work that piles up on our desks while we are away. It is the loss of structure that we have come to depend upon. It is those we leave behind, or those we are forced to bring with us. It is jet lag and the International Date Line. It is first plane seats then train seats, buses then rickshaws. For me, it was this train.

Vietnam poses all of these challenges and more, and they all greet travelers upon arrival in the capital. Hanoi breeds the chaos that comes with commerce and manufacture. There are millions of motorbikes pouring through streets with little adherence to traffic laws or public safety. Two-wheeled vehicles outnumber automobiles 20 to 1, but cars and buses dominate the roads, because they know, as do the bike and motorcycle riders, that paper beats rock, rock beats scissors, and metal beats flesh. So SUVs part the sea of traffic in Moses like fashion, miracle workers interested in only their own salvation. It seems that at the bottom of the hierarchy are pedestrians, who are forced into an adrenaline high each time they choose to change sidewalks.

Hanoi has a few sights worth seeing, but it is best utilized as a jumping-off point. There is the stunning HalongBay to the east, almost the whole of Vietnam to the south, and the mountains to the north. Sapa is a former French outpost nestled in these highlands, built as an escape from the heat when the rest of the country is baking, and it provides a beautiful respite from the incessant clamor of the city.

I arrived in Sapa sleep-deprived and in dire need of a bed. This is a dangerous situation for a traveler because hotel proprietors can sense this desperation and are often willing to prey upon it. I was pleasantly surprised when I was approached and offered a room for $5 a night. At this point I could have been shown to an old bomb shelter lined with fetid bathmats, and I would have accepted. I was quite pleased when I was given a room with a soft bed, private hot water bath, and a view of the valley.

I would have liked to sleep until hunger forced me into consciousness, but it was a Sunday and the town is famous for its weekend market. So I dropped my bags and headed out.

The Epicenter of the Regional Web

Sapa is the epicenter of a region dotted with villages in every direction and at varying elevations. On weekends people climb up out of the valley and pour down from the peaks. They gather to socialize, buy their provisions for the week, sell their goods, and now, to hawk their wares to tourists. I cynically assumed that the activities would be dominated by the latter, but this was fortunately not the case.

The hill-tribe people are of such interest because they are ornately and colorfully dressed. Vietnam's population is dominated by the ethnic Viets, but the mountains are home to a diverse array of ethnic minorities: the H'mong, Dao, and Tay, to name a few. This congregation of people means that this location is unique in the world. And the extravagant clothing specifically identifies each person as belonging to one of these tribes, each with their own language and culture. So in addition to the normal Vietnamese, English, French and German, half a dozen exotic tongues echo from the colonial facades.

Sapa is strikingly different from the modern cities of Southeast Asia. There is an endless parade of anachronisms pouring through its streets: rice-laden pull carts trailing behind men with faces painted mahogany by the sun, water buffalo lumbering up the hills, women with children tied to their backs with handmade blankets, and weavers with their goods balanced delicately on their heads.

Exploration by Foot

The best part about a region where most people use their feet for transportation is that everything is a walking path. You don't need a trail map because there are hundreds of pathways branching out across the landscape, spreading out into remote villages like the roots of a bodhi tree crawling through the earth. There are dozens of local H'mong women who speak quite impressive English and offer tours of the valley. These often include visits to homes and access to areas one could never enter without the aid of a local.

Sapa is an ideal location for trekking. The landscape has been transformed by human ingenuity and labor. The mountainsides have been cut into shelves to accommodate farming, and they are more heavily terraced than the Peruvian Andes or the AmalfiCoast. These terraces turn the mountains and valleys into a labyrinth of vibrant green that spreads circuitously in every direction, from the riverbed to the peaks almost a mile up. It looked like one of those mazes on a restaurant placemat. My eyes just followed the lines, trying to find a way out. But I was lost in them. It is one of those images that sits on the back of your eyelids long after you've closed them.

I followed one footpath to another, hugging the edge of the upper terraces and watching the river valley flow below me. The serpentine path wound by bamboo homes with thatched roofs, water buffalo grazing in harvested rice paddies, children on stilts navigating flooded terraces, ducks and pigs at play, and laughing toddlers trotting in and out of open doorways. Despite the children's dilapidated clothing and their faces coated with dirt and mucus, they all seemed healthy and cheerful. This served to reinforce something I've found the world over – that affluence does not necessarily lead to happiness, and poverty does not extinguish it.

Late in the afternoon, I encountered a young H'mong girl, perhaps six or seven years old, who ran toward me with a smile stretching her face, screaming, “Hello! Hello!” One of the greatest benefits of the road less traveled is that the people we encounter are often as fascinated with us as we are with them. We are a novelty.

Eventually I was surrounded by half a dozen children from ages two to ten. They all had beautiful names like Shol, Blah, Bai, and Tao. Soon we hit on the most wonderful game in the world: the children seeing themselves on my digital camera.

I have rarely seen such unrestrained elation. Giggles rolled through the hills - that unbridled laughter that only children and the inebriated are capable of. They were drunk with pleasure and were a joy to watch. I then decided to record a video of their amusement. When they saw and heard themselves, they erupted in glee and disbelief. They ran in circles, returned to watch again, screamed, laughed, and then hid behind trees.

I was thrilled that I was able to bring them such happiness. It is a wonderful feeling to have some exchange with the people of another country, instead of feeling that I, the traveler, am the only one benefiting from my visit. When out in nature, the backpackers' creed is “Leave no trace.” When dealing with people, we always hope we do. The laughter that followed me as I continued down the path was proof that I had.

As evening approached, I found my way back up to a precipice overlooking almost the entirety of the SapaValley. The clouds were rushing in and out of view, above, below, and around me. A wall of white would approach from the side, then cascade down the mountain like an avalanche, flooding the valley beneath. I've never seen clouds look like such living things. They seemed to move with purpose. As I was lost in the show, a hill-tribe woman in full traditional dress appeared on an unseen path. She moved on quickly and drifted into the clouds, making her way down the mountain. She was on her way home. And while it was not an easy path, her evening commute looked infinitely more pleasurable than a drive on any interstate in America.

I had paid my price for that moment, not on a plane ticket, but by enduring a train ride. And my dividends were paid not in souvenirs or photos, but in something as simple yet intimate as watching a woman make her way home.

Dane Phillips, dane.phillips@gmail.com, grew up in El Paso and is a recent TexasStateUniversity graduate. He's worked as a chef in England, done archaeology in Belize, explored the Americas, hitchhiked across the U.S., and has spent the last year traveling in Southeast Asia. He currently works in Bangkok as an editor and writing instructor.