sd’s world tour

February 2

The day began, or did last night end?, with the overnight train from Hanoi to Sapa. We were doing the “luxury” tour of Sapa, and thank God, because otherwise we never would have been able to figure out which train to get on. Anywhose, there was some mix up about when we were getting picked up, so we arrived at our old hotel and, eep, we had 30 minutes to make our train. So rush rush rush to the station, and then to the train, with Maura and me jointly carrying my bag while running to keep up with our guide. It certainly was not Grand Central with orderly doors leading to orderly trains. Instead we were running up and down tracks, crossing over railroad ties, and dashing down the length of our train to get to our car. Once there, things settled down considerable. We were thrilled to discover that our berth wasn’t freezing and that we had big blankets to cover up with. We had splurged an extra $15 each to have our own berth, which we promptly locked. I still managed to spend most of my mostly sleepless night convinced that highwaymen were trying to break in and steal Maura, or, worse, my camera.Of course, none of the getting to/on the train would have been possible without our excellent guide for the trip. His name was something like Co Gau, but he declared it was too hard to say and told us to call him by his nickname, U.K. Easy enough.We were heading, as I said before, to Sapa, a mountain town in North Western Vietnam, originally established by the French as a vacation spot for their soldiers. It was supposed to mirror the temperature of Europe [yes, perhaps Hamburg in February]. It is the center of tourism for “visiting” (really more like viewing or harassing) the nomadic hill tribes that have wandered between Thailand, Laos, China and Vietnam for centuries. We were actually dreading the weather even before we go there because it is much higher in elevation than Hanoi (about a mile above sea level).We arrived in Lao Cai — the town with the train station that is about an hour from Sapa and 4 km from China (China!) — at 6 am. When we got off the train, we were again glad to have a guide, because we were immediately accosted by touts offering “Sapa tour.” After a few minutes (okay, seconds), we reconnected with U,K, who led us through the morass of touts. When we walked out of the station, there was literally a wall of drivers, each hoping to find a fare to Sapa. U.K. spotted out guy and away we went. As we drove to Sapa, it was clear that the weather would be dreaded “bean soup,” with all the beautiful views obscured by a dense, gray fog. Bean soup. Bean soup. We heard so much about bean soup that we started craving the stuff. I wanted some Black Bean Soup with a dollop of sour cream, while Maura opted for the pasta fagioli. But we only got the abstract variety, which kept us for seeing any spectacular views, or really much of anything.We also stayed in the cooooldest hotel outside of those hotels made of ice in Norway. We had two beds, but stripped one of all the sheets and blankets and huddled together in one bed. There was perhaps some little cuddling involved. Mind you, we had splurged on the “luxury” tour, and paid a pretty penny to stay in a hotel room so cold we couldn’t even shower. Especially since there was no hot water. I took a quick bird bath before retreating back to the bed and it was really more of a punishment than a cleaning. [Compare someone else's pic of what it should look like with my picture.]

Our first activity was to hike down to Cat Cat village, a Black H’Mong village. The different tribes are distinguished by there ethnic group and/or what they wear — Black H’Mong, Flower H’Mong, Red Dao. Unfortunately, [as you will see at some later date when I can upload some pics, grr], most of my good pics are of the Flower H’Mong because I was able to snap them mostly unaware in the Sunday market.

Then, because it was cloudy and bleak, U.K offered to take us up to the top of the mountain above Sapa. Even though I had barely made it down to Cat Cat (and we had our mini van bring us back up), we agreed. We were joined by Erin, an American traveling solo for 6 months throughout Asia. What a rock star, no? She had done India and Nepal for two months without problems, but was finding Vietnam harder to navigate. After so many frustrations in the South, she decided to do tours of the North. Unfortunately for her, her tour of Sapa mysteriously fell apart when she arrived and she was stuck for 4 days with nothing to do. Hmm, maybe that’s why we paid for the luxury tour. So she ended up joining us for the aforementioned hike, as well as our trip to the Sunday market and will be sharing our train berth with us back to Hanoi. You just got to help a sister out.

So the mountain was a lovely botanical garden type thing, with a walkway that winded to the top. It would have been really amazing had we been able to see something, but I digress. It was here that U.K. told us about dead people rice. Here is his story:

My father was in the Vietnamese army and was stationed in Laos for 22 years. Sometimes he would get stranded in the jungle and have to eat the bark of this tree, which is like sugar cane. He was a missile expert [Query why a missile expert was trolling around the Laotian jungle].

My father was stationed for several months in a small village in Northern Laos. When I was a little boy I would come visit him. The villagers liked him very much and liked me too. One time I went and it was a very unfortunate time. A man had died and, when that happens, they tie the dead person to on a tree and everyone comes to see the person. All of the family members put rice in his mouth. At the end of three days, they take the rice out of his mouth, mix it with other rice and cook and eat it. My father said they would hate me because I refused to eat it, so he said I should sleep on the bank of the stream for a night and I would be accepted again.

[Wait . . . it gets worse.]

They also put a pot under the man in the tree to collect the juices that came out of his body. After several days, they burnt some bamboo and mixed it with the juices, and cooked meat in it. Then they eat the whole thing.

And I thought pig’s feet were gross.

After the walk, we went to a restaurant that U.K. either part owns or gets a kick back from for bringing tourists. Such things are frowned on in the West, but seem de rigeur for the East. All day, he had been talking about how we had to try hot pot (and dog, turtle, and cobra heart, but that clearly wasn’t happening). Hot pot is a traditional Vietnamese dish that is perfect for the cold weather. We had heard almost as much about the &%@ hot pot as we had the ^*%& bean soup. It soon became apparent that we hadto go to Red Dzao and have black chicken hot pot. Now, I thought “black chicken”" meant blackenedchicken. No, turns out the chicken in fact has black skin. Well, greyish really. And bumpy. (You understand where the phrase goose pimples comes from.) And it comes to the table raw.

Hot pot is a bowl of seasoned broth with baby bamboo, parsnips (not potatoes as promised), carrots (which for some reason we were never offered. I think U.K. didn’t like them.) heated by a steno oven. Then you throw in the raw chicken and let it simmer. There was some concern on our part that the chicken wasn’t going to get fully cooked. I even asked my personal public health expert (aka Maura) how she felt about the chicken cooking issue. She chose to remain silent. Turns out the chicken cooked about 45 minutes before we ate it. In the meantime, U.K. kept feeding greens into the hot soup. They would cook for a few minutes and then we would serve them to us with the baby bamboo. It was really quite good — the broth had a strong taste of ginger. And it was wonderfully warm. The black chicken was . . . good. It tasted like . . . well, chicken. But after my 15th piece, my enthusiasm for the chicken started to wane . Did I mention the skin was grey? Plus, it was really, really bony. So each piece of chicken was approx. 70% bone. And 15% grey skin.

The idea of the hot pot (and the flavor) is a great one for a cold soggy night. Your bowl is constantly being refilled with really hot vegetables, meat and soup. U.K. did most of the cooking for us, and kept plying us with “baaby baamboo”and “blaaack chicken.” Then, out of nowhere, he offered us each some pork. Surprised, I asked where the pork came from; was it already in the soup? “From the powder.” Reconstituted pork? I gotta guess not and that this was another lost in translation moment. At the very end, U.K. threw in some delicious shrimp-flavored ramen noodles. No kidding, delicious. Top it off with some rice wine (think pink tequila) and you have a great cold weather treat.

During dinner, we talked with U.K. and the hotel owner about (what else) the American primaries [a conversation we have had numerous times since]. They loooved Bill Clinton (he lifted the trade embargo against Vietnam), hate Bush (ahem), and have a strange fascination with McCain. It doesn’t seem like they fear, hate, or like him, they just have a curiosity about him. In fact, several Vietnamese people have reminded us that he spent five years in the Hoa Lo Prison (Hanoi Hilton — which we didn’t go see). (U.K.’s favorite joke, aside from bean soup, was “There are two Hiltons in Hanoi. One is prison. The other is 5 star hotel.”

Then we walked from the cold restaurant, through the cold, wet streets, to our frigid hotel room. There was some more lite-cuddling, followed by the best sleep I have had in a week. I even got somewhat warm from the neck down after about three hours.