The streets of Hanoi were filled with motorbikes.  Every few seconds a vehicle horn would sound from an indeterminate direction, and everyone on the streets followed his own rules. Those traffic lights were but a weak assurance of order to those unaccustomed – every foray into the river of steel was a test of faith.  “Walk slowly,” our guide told us on the bus, “do not run, just walk.”

When we arrived at Sapa, all that was on my mind was the trek and the homestay in the Sapa countryside.  The roads of Sapa were narrower but no simpler than Hanoi’s – a truck or fleet of motorbikes would regularly push through a narrow lane lined with cosy cafes and massage parlours, and at the sound of a horn we had to press up against the sides of the street. Construction noise was the tone of the town, and its dust the colour of our soles.  Here was a town in the mountains and valleys of northern Vietnam, a budding oasis of civilisation away from civilisation.  To consider this was slightly perplexing: that a town at the gateway to the untainted natural environs of Sapa was not spared from urbanisation, yet one from the first world would not be quick to denounce such developments, having recognised and acknowledged them as a sign of growth and prosperity – or so we think.

In Sapa, women and children in ethnic costumes would frequently approach us to sell their embroidery.  Their faces were ruddy and bore the light of defiance: not of mischief or rebellion, but one that grew out of a desire to survive and seek a better life, one that was pit against their poverty.  They would follow us persistently, and when one of us bought something from one of them, their compatriots would box us in, repeating the broken phrase, “You buy for me also [sic].” Their persistence repulsed many of us.  Yet in their one-lined persuasion I saw their heart: when we bought these little wares, we were helping them and not ourselves. We were doing it for them after all. To them we will always be the ones whose lifting of a finger equalled their months of toil under the sun.  And can we blame them for feeling unfairness when we favour one of them over the others? Even in our sheltered lives we are pricked with jealousy when we see our peers land a job that we spent equally long preparing for, or ace an exam we burnt as many nights for.  Back in their villages everything is shared – everyone who worked hard got an equal share of the harvest, why not now? Perhaps they do not yet recognise this world where everyone is defender and disposer of his own possessions. Or perhaps we are ignorant of theirs, and choose not to recognise it in the world we have always known.

Even as we trekked into the Sapa valley and attempted the mountain paths, these resilient ones followed.  Years of living in the countryside had blessed them with a natural agility; our expensive trekking shoes and boots compensated for naught against their sure footing and strong arms.  Sporting only worn-out slippers, they helped us across slippery rocks and gaps with an outstretched arm, themselves leaning over a pernicious drop.  At the end of the trek this help was not intended to be unrewarded – they would pull out their merchandise and try to sell to us.  In the absence of a binding contract, they were believing in the gratitude of our heart, and some of them walked away empty handed.  Even though I did not accept their help (for fear of injuring them – most who offered me a hand across tricky terrain were children shorter and lighter than me), I could not walk away thinking I was free from the guilt of unreciprocated kindness. I had benefited from the silent assurance that they were by my side and willing to help.  That alone was worth a lot to me.

At the homestay, our hosts greeted us with warm smiles and hearty food.  Our sprightly Black H’mong guide, Zer, followed us around, acting as our interpreter for our interviews with the locals.  What they told us had this singular, common message, and Zer opened up to me in a casual chat thereafter, condensing this message into a single statement, “As long as we have food and comfortable life, we happy [sic].” Anything that led or could lead to that outcome was welcome, even if the simple agrarian life they had always known was being eroded in ways they do not yet know of. One of our interviewees was regularly distracted by a TV screen while speaking to us, a parallel of what we call in Mandarin, the “generation of bowed heads”, describing our attachment to our smartphones.  Economic progress brings change, which sometimes supplants the values that we once held dear.  One of our hosts was perhaps aware of this erosion of culture, choosing not to outright admit its arrival, but expressing her uncertainty as to whether it would happen in the future.

The end of the USP TOP was not the end of my thoughts about this trip. I recalled the advice of our Hanoi guide at the start of the trip: “Don’t run, just walk.” Many of us speed through life and our ambitions, hardly stopping to consider a different perspective.  The mountains of Sapa were beautiful in their glory, and the valleys refreshed the with cold mists of the morning, but the greatest story was told in the ruddy and smiling faces of those who call the mountains and valleys their home.  I will always remember them. Perhaps they know more than us, for while they have not ventured out of the land they know, we have not ventured out of the life we know.  They have seen our lives, tasted of them, and perhaps have started to live in them. But will we ever know theirs?