Chasing Amy-Lou

Sapa, Vietnam:

On booking my two day-one night tour to Sapa, I had been told by my agent that the night bus would leave at 7:30pm, getting me in to Sapa at 6am ready to begin the trek at 8:30. It actually left Hanoi at 9:30pm. And it’s a good job too, as the driver who picked me up from my hostel was late, looked younger than my five year old nephew, and appeared to not really know where he was going – taking me up and down the same slip road about five times, in the rain, before he eventually located the run-down bus depot which was literally just a dingy office on the side of a road.

On arrival nobody seemed to have a clue what was going on – one Vietnamese tour agent on his phone the whole time, the other taking selfies in a new oversized pair of jeans he’d just bought; and for the next hour or so I sat in bewildered silence in a small office wondering if I’d ever get on the bus, wondering if my trip had even been booked, and wondering if I’d ever actually make it to Sapa before my visa ran out.

The confusion surrounding the bus trip was just the beginning, for what transpired was an hilarious two-day trek through the Sapa and surrounding village region, with no-one really having any idea about what was happening, no-one really knowing where we were or where we were going, soaked to the bone because of the torrential rain, and all of us just hopelessly following the English speaking tour guide, praying and trusting that she’d keep us all in one piece. If there was ever to be a comedic running theme of cluelessness, bewilderment and confusion then the following two days would’ve epitomised it perfectly.

But as I’ve said before, and as I found out back on my very first day here – in Ho Chi Minh City – being in Vietnam, you soon discover that people do things differently here; most of the time they’re on the ball, most of the time they’re actually ahead of the ball; you’ve just got to trust they know what they’re doing and go with it.

The night bus was as to be expected – bumpy, not very comfortable, but satisfactory in its own ‘fit for purpose’ kind of way. And it did have wifi which is always a bonus. I arrived in a misty, damp, drizzly Sapa town at 5am. Cold. Sleep deprived. Hungry. And not the foggiest idea what was going on.

Panicking (as I usually do when the organisation of a seemingly pre-planned day goes to pot), I borrowed the phone of a nearby hotelier and called my tour rep (let’s call him Tony). “Yes miss Amy, someone be there in a few minutes. At 6:30 they come (it was 5am) You wait at bus. Then go to hotel. Have breakfast and you can wash face. Then go trek and go to homestay. Someone be there. Few minutes. 6:30.”
I gave the phone back to the hotelier and decided I should probably just trust Tony.

Rightly so, a few minutes later, at 6:30am, a pissed-off looking bus driver arrived with a sheet of paper that he began brandishing in front of everyone’s face, pointing at a name to try and find out who he was supposed to be picking up. Turns out the name he was so ferociously pointing at was mine, so I hurriedly grabbed my belongings and followed him to the mini bus which, to my delight, was full of people just like me – all with bewildered, tired-looking looks on their faces.

Once at the hotel, things did pan out in the way Tony had explained – I, along with my other tour companions, had breakfast and washed our faces. So far, so good. And then the real fun began.

A tiny little Vietnamese lady called Zo arrived at the hotel and rounded us all up, explaining that she would be our guide for the next two days, and along with her cohort of trekking experts (mainly older women and pre-pubescent girls) would be leading us through rice paddies and along mountain sides, up hills and across rivers, through three villages inhabited by ethnic Vietnamese, and finally to the homestay where we would spend the night before setting off on a shorter trek the next day. Sounded organised. Kind of.

Taking a look at our attire which mostly consisted of shorts, trainers and light waterproofs, Zo and her buddies chuckled amongst themselves and then suggested we might want to hire a pair of wellies each. Laughing at their sheer audacity in thinking that we were underprepared, the majority of our group politely refused to part with 40,000 dong and rested on our laurels – wearing our trainers and repeating the phrase: “It’ll be ok, it won’t be that muddy”. Boy, were we mistaken.

And so, as the rain battered onto the uneven roads, our group, clad in gear that was probably only fit for a warm summers day in Britain, commenced our trek. And what an incredible journey it was. For around five hours we walked, stumbled, slid, fell, hopped, trudged and squelched over a distance of approximately 12kms, from Sapa town to Lao Chai village, and from there on to Ta Van where we bedded down for the evening in a lovely homestay inhabited by the Zay people.

We hiked over fields and through crop lands; we traversed rice paddies and rivers; we laughed hysterically as one by one, like a line of unstable dominoes, we slid down mountainsides in quick succession; we dirtied our bottoms and grazed our hands; we got stuck in mud and submerged our feet in murky puddles; we saw water buffalo obeying farmers; we saw the clouds rise above us; we spied far-off villages through the descending mist; we we ate fresh cucumber at the top of steep hills; we watched as the rivers began to rise due to the heavy rain: and we relished the help of the Vietnamese ladies, especially when our trainers almost got left behind in the mud, or when they saved our asses and prevented us from slipping and creating a mass landslide with our constant falling due to our inept ability to prepare for the wet season in the mountains.

Emotions peaked and troughed throughout the day – ranging from fascination to awe, from delight to terror, and from frustration to elation as we tried to overcome the weather and the obvious language barriers. There were times when we didn’t understand what was going on or where we were headed; and there were times when Zo’s explanations were completely lost on us. Yet despite the rain and despite the mud, we made it. We made it across the treacherous terrain and the breathtakingly beautiful landscapes; we made it through the amazingly patterned and perfectly formed rice paddies; and even though it would’ve been 100 times more beautiful had it been dry and sunny, we did it as a team – a group of strangers all out for the same experience, every one of us loving every single minute.

That night we were treated to a home cooked meal and hot showers, and we all shared the roofspace of a magnificent homestay, where mattresses lined the floors and mozzie nets hung from the ceiling. And as we sipped on 30,000 dong Tiger beers and ate Pringles from a box, we laughed and chatted about the ridiculous events of the day, shared stories from our previous travel journeys, and fell sound asleep in preparation for the final trek tomorrow.

The new morning brought with it positive mental attitudes and refreshing smiles, but unfortunately for our shoes and clothes (which were still damp), more rain. After a hearty breakfast of banana pancakes and coffee, we set off again, this time in search of waterfalls and a village called Ban Den.

Less strenuous than the previous day, this morning’s trek provided us with a pleasant amble along actual roads, and significantly less mud. We took off in an easterly direction (I might’ve made that bit up as I literally had no idea in which direction we were going) and within an hour and a half, Zo had led us to a magnificent waterfall. I want to say it was called Quy Khach Waterfall, but as I mentioned at the start, the theme of the weekend was confusion and the unknown, so I’ll be damned if that was the correct name of it. Anyway, it was stunning – the water rapid and violent in its flow; and I could only imagine what it would’ve looked like in better weather conditions. Probably even more beautiful.

We took the obligatory selfies, and climbed a few slippery rocks to get better views, and then we headed back towards the village for lunch, passing over rope bridges and power-lunging up steep hills, making way for scooters and water buffalo as we went.

Considering the rain was unrelenting in its persistence, our clothes and belongings still damp and our bodies a little tired, we were all pretty relieved that the morning’s trek only covered around 5kms. And when the minibus arrived to take us back to Sapa, despite our hearts urging us to explore the area more, our heads told us to be relieved, for what awaited us were dry clothes and hot showers and a bus ride back to Hanoi.

Sapa had been everything I hoped it would be, and more. Yes, it would’ve been significantly more enjoyable had a tidal wave of monsoonal rain not followed our every move; and yes, the views and scenery would’ve been more impressive, more colourful and ever so much brighter had it been dry season; but it didn’t matter. The group I had trekked with was great – the camaraderie and team spirit on point; and when you’re thrust into a situation that’s unfamiliar, having decent people around you makes you feel like half the battle has already been won.

Reflecting on the last two days as the bus weaved its way down through the northern Vietnamese mountains on its way back to Hanoi, a wave of genuine satisfaction washed over me. I was glad I’d chosen to invest more in the Sapa tour than I had in Ha Long Bay. And the memories I had made here, well, I hoped they would last a lifetime.