Sapa

I arrived back to Hanoi early this morning. 5am the night train pulled into the station and we jumped in a cab over to our travel agency that doubles as a hotel. A room was promised to us, but upon our arrival we found the staff asleep on ma tresses in the lobby and no room available. They generously offered to hold our bags before sending us back onto the street and going back to bed themselves. It was still just 5:30am and Hanoi was slowly waking up, however you know it's early - or late - when there's no pho cooking; just a few man out for their morning jog and a lone woman hoola-hooping about a half block down - "good for the abs," Nigel said. With the town still dark and asleep for the most part, Nigel and I decided to kick on the stoop and watch the sunrise. Around 6 was when the first metal grate went up. At home you would usually see someone walk up and unlock the bars from the outside, but in Hanoi the shops and restaurants become bedrooms, living rooms, kitchens, and dining rooms after closing, so grates are unlocked from the inside and thrown up to let in the morning light.

By 8 Hanoi was wide awake, but still no room available. It was time for pho anyhow, so we sat on pre-school sized stools at the corner and slurped our noodles and soup with the rest of the morning pho rush.

Hanoi is a world away from the quiet mountain town of Saba where I spent the last two days trekking through the Tonkinese Alps visiting villages of minority tribes, and where it seems that time just stopped 30 years ago. The mountains surrounding Saba are home to a handful of tribes, all with different dialects and traditions. The common denominator here is rice, and every tribe grows it. The sides of the mountains are chiseled, step-like, with cascading rice terraces; after the rain fall it looked as if the hills were lined with glass shelves.

Back on the night train, we shared a cabin with a French Canadian who told us his story, in graphic detail, of how he had spent the day in the home of some villagers, killing a pig for the Tet celebrations this week. After a few cans of Tiger he was reenacting the battle with the pig, showing us how he held the animal's back legs and wrestled it to the ground; he included the squeals and all. Once dead, the pig was cooked, apparently with no part going to waste, and evidently delicious by the toothy grin on the French Canadian's face, "Also lots of rice wine, I'll be sure to wake up with a hangover, eh?"

Tonight we're back on the train, heading south to Hue.