Vietnam Part 2: Sapa

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It was in a place called Sapa, about 400km north of Hanoi, where I got my first taste of motorbike action. Before we get into that though, there was the small matter of the journey to Sapa. For two of our number, namely myself and an English guy called Steve Whittaker, this involved a leisurely train ride to Lao Cai, followed by a short bus ride to Sapa town centre. For the other two nutters, namely Neil Watters and a southerner called James Gilsenen, it involved a four day 600km ride on mopeds. It is a trip that might have interested me, however, I was indisposed when Neil tried to wake me on the morning of their departure. By indisposed I mean unconscious, having only been in bed for an hour after the previous nights rip. The reports from the fields were that they were having a great adventure and experiencing the 'real' Vietnam. I regret nothing. For in those four days I managed to have some amazing nights, met some legendary people, and even managed to squeeze in a smattering of culture to boot!

I managed only an hour or so on a bike in Sapa, and it was pretty hairy at times! The only rule of the road seems to be 'might is right', so for a moped virgin such as myself, the chaotic back roads of Vietnam were a daunting prospect. Especially given the fact that I had learned that there were an average of 10'000 fatalities on Vietnamese roads every year, a figure which didn't paint the whole picture because, apparently, if you die in hospital rather than at the roadside it doesn't count towards the death toll for the road fatalities!

Steve and I met up with the easy riders when we arrived in Sapa, and the four of us checked into an excellent joint called the Lotus Hotel, which had been recommended by the Lonely Planet and other backpackers who had visited. Excellent that was apart from the cowboy with whom we arranged our subsequent bike ride and trek with. 'Chum' was his name, although I can think of a more appropriate four letter word for him.

To be fair, 'Chum' seemed like a decent sort of spud during our motorbike trip to a waterfall outside of town. He led the way with Steve Whittaker on the back while Neil, James and I followed behind. My inexperience on a bike was almost my undoing, when after ten minutes I hit the front brake and almost went straight over the handlebars. The rest of the journey was nerve-wracking, with many articulated lorry's deciding to pass a little too close for comfort. The journey proved worthwhile though, as the Thac Bac Waterfall was fairly impressive, and as the only Caucasians around for miles we had the privilege of being the only ones the locals attempted to sell their shite ethnic apparel to.

Since 'Chum' had prove to be fairly reliable during our waterfall excursion, we decided to employ his services as our guide for the village trek we planned to do. Keen to get us on board 'Chum' made the bold statement that if we weren't entirely satisfied with our trip, we wouldn't have to pay. We negotiated a price of $20 per person for a trip that would include visiting three native tribes, a home stay with one of these tribes and all meals over two days of trekking. The trek was to take in such sights as a bamboo forest and much more cultural creaminess and picturesque landscapes to appreciate.

A tribe of people known as the Black Mongs have made themselves a fixture around Sapa town. They can be recognised from the black traditional outfits they wear. Natives or not, these fuckers were a pain in the tits. They see foreigners in the street and proceed to torture the life out of them until they buy some of the locally made rubbish. We were surrounded by a group of Black Mong tribes-people for almost the entire duration of our trek. They followed us all the way from Sapa town, and at every given opportunity these jokers tried to hock their wares. The trek on the first day lasted about three and a half hours, and took in some impressive scenery. Our luck being as it was, it rained for the duration. The upside to the weather conditions was that it gave the mountains a lush, mystical appearance as wisps of mist cascaded from above.

When we arrived at our home-stay accommodation, I mush admit I was disappointed; it was not the rustic, thatched roofed, bamboo hut I had been expecting, but rather a purpose built concrete shed. Clearly this ugly bastard of a thing had been constructed specially to keep fat tourists in the molly-coddled fashion they had become accustomed to. Fuck that! If I had wanted comfort I could have stayed at home eating creme brule. I was looking for a real fucking experience here! Not only were we not sleeping in the same conditions as the locals, we weren't eating the same food either. When dinner time came around, the eight tourists sat outside eating an Asian spread tailor made for western palettes, while the locals sat inside eating some weird and wonderful Vietnamese muck. I'm sure it tasted fucking awful, but that's besides the point! After dinner though, the rice wine and some foul smelling (and tasting) wheat brew were whipped out and our gripes and braincells were momentarily washed away.

At this stage of the trek we were already pretty pissed off with our guide. After leading us to the village he promptly fucked off for hours, and when we went to look for him we found the shitehawk playing pool with his mistress. Apparently there was nothing else planned for the day, so we had to dick about for six hours until it was time to eat. The feeling amongst our group was that he had better pull something good out of his ass for the next day to warrant the trip being worthy of $20. Perhaps some strippers with machine guns.

The following day proved to be more of what we had expected of our trip. We walked a precarious trail out of the village along the rice terraces until we reached the bamboo forest. The Black Mongs (they are still following us by the way) made the big hairy Westerners every step of the way; dancing over every slippery foothold with ease. And in fucking flip flops as well! Our boys on the other hand were as sure-footed as drunk rhinos on roller skates, and went arse-over-tit more times than enough before reaching the waterfall.

It was at this point that our guide delivered his nugget of information for the day; namely that twelve people, on average, die from falling off this waterfall every year. I didn't really believe him though. I reckon he just made that shit up on the spot. To be honest, his credibility had plunged following the outrageous claim that he could tell the difference between butter and 'I Cant Believe It's Not Butter'. Alright, I may have made that last part up, but he was still a world-class fucking bullshitter.

It was an enjoyable few hours trek on our second day in the wilderness, and the four of us decided amongst ourselves that after visiting the next village and getting some lunch, our trip would be worth the twenty buck we had agreed upon. However, it was not to be. The next village never materialised, and our bellies remained empty. Heading back to Sapa prematurely in a former US Army jeep, a collective decision was made to deny him his entire fee and pay what we thought the trip was worth.

As you might imagine, 'Chum' didn't take this very well, to the point of almost starting a brawl in the street. Cockbag dug his heels in and demanded the full $80 for his services. Our logic was concise, and we presented our case eloquently. 'Chum', on the other hand, acted like an eight year old who had just been told he couldn't have the GI Joe with the kung Fu grip.

We said that we were prepared to pay $16 for the trip. Upon hearing this, 'Chum' went ballistic; shouting, swearing, pushing and shoving. I was prepared to negotiate, and upped the offer to $18. A fair price I thought as we were going to have to pay at least $2 for the lunch we never got. Motherfucker wouldn't budge. After half an hour of a mostly one-sided debate, 'Chum' said he was tired, and didn't want to listen to us any longer. However, he vowed to call his four strong friends who would be more than happy to enter into a debate with us. Dick.

Steve Whittaker and I were slightly concerned that 'Chum', made guy that he was in this town, could have some influence on the bus driver who was to take us to the train station later that day. It was largely for this reason that we caved first, and gave nutsack his money. The rest of the team followed suit, and we promptly tore off in the direction of the town, cursing him and the lady-boy he rode in on all the way back to The Lotus Hotel.

Looking back on it now it seems ridiculous that we argued in the street for nearly an hour over the equivalent of about 2 pounds each. But it was the principle of the thing. Fucking principles. They always fuck things up! I found that you can lose perspective pretty quickly when everything is so cheap, and every trip to the bank machine makes you a millionaire.

If you have read 'Vietnam Part 1', you may recall I mentioned that Neil and James managed to make the journey all the way from Hanoi to Sapa relatively unscathed. It was typical shitty fucking luck then that on the brief journey from Sapa to the train station at Lao Cai, James managed to collide with a rock in the road, and stack it into a ditch.

He wasn't so badly hurt that it required hospital treatment (which was probably a good thing based on some of the stories I had been told about Vietnamese hospitals, I'll get into that in a moment though), but having just done some extreme street luge 100 yards on his arse, he was less than pretty.

I met at least half a dozen people who had sustained bad injuries as a result of negligent driving. One such individual who sticks in my mind was a Scottish bloke we ran into in Hoi An. He was hit by a plant pot which was part of an arrangement which was at least the width of a car, sitting on the back of a moped. The joker who hit him was doing fifty on the wrong side of the road. Our Scottish friend ended up in a ditch, and in a pretty bad way. His foot took the brunt of it. It was, what we in medical circles refer to, as fucked. At the hospital, Dr Balloonhead took one look at it and recommended amputation. No joke. Foot: off! Our Scottish chum was quite attached to his foot (by his ankle mainly), and declined, as he felt that after a patch-up and a brief lay-up it would be fine. He was right too.

This was no isolated incident; it was one of three such instances I was made aware of during my time in Vietnam. None of the individuals involved actually needed amputation. Case in point; when we the Scottish bloke, all extremities intact, his foot was well on the way to recovery. How fucking nuts is that?! Cowboys Ted.

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Photos

Sapa Landscape
The Black Mongs followed us for another three hours before they left us alone when they realised we weren't going to buy anything.

Trees, House, Rocks, Me. Class.
In the village where we spent the night.

Water Torture
James gets tortured by the locals at the waterfall to buy some more of their traditional rubbish.

Top of the Waterfall
It looked more impressive from the bottom!

Starting Early
'Wow, great photo opportunity! Hey wee lad, hold my sack of spuds while I take a picture of you...

Give Him A Roundhouse Steve!
From Left to right: Steve Whittaker, 'Chum' (professional bastard), James Gilsenen and Neil Watters.

Hero Shot
Steve strikes a pose in front of some attractive Sapa scenery.

The Lads at the Edge of a Cliff
Back a bit Chum...little more...little moooore...