Faces of Vietnam

As the sunlight gleamed across the water of the rice terraces and a cool breeze hit my neck, tears slid down my face as I sat dangling my feet off of the bungalow porch. I stared at the luminous mountains in front of me. The buffalo that was hard at work with his farmer plowing the rice terrace went about following its orders. I came to Sapa expecting the incredible scenery but it was hard to expect its charm to tell tales of darkness.

A few day before, I had trekked around the steep and muddy mountains with a cheerful Hmong girl named Chi. She wore an indigo embroidered outfit. A bond formed as we shared life stories, loss and dreams. We laughed and joked as friends do. Chi invited me to trek off the beaten path to visit her family. The trek was tough and we made our way slowly along the thin rims of the green, lush rice paddies until we arrived.

The stick house was situated next to the paddies. It was dark inside except for the tiny glimmer of a small camp fire on the dirt floor where Chi’s skinny mother sat cooking rice. She didn’t speak english but her crooked smile told me I was welcome. A flock of yellow chicks ran through the house.

A teary-eyed Chi told me that she grew up with many siblings, eating only rice and cabbage. When there was a rice famine, they survived on cornflour and water. A larger worry involving Chinese men stealing women from Hmong families in order to sell them was ever present. Chi told me that her sister had been taken. I was shocked to see this bubbly girl cry and it broke my heart. She said that she rarely cries, wiped her tears and smiled again.

This is what I thought about as I watched the farmer smile at me. I realised I was crying because the biggest thing that Chi and I shared in common was that we are only human. Despite our cultural differences, there was no difference in the emotions we felt. Chi taught me that if nothing else, we all deserve happiness. Good spirits allow the villages of Sapa to shine through the dark.