SA PA SOJOURN
escape persecution by the Manchu overlords of the Qing Dynasty, who branded the Hmong and other minorities as Miao, a term synonymous with “barbarians.” They have been self-sufficient outliers for the last 300 years, their historic semi-nomadism perhaps driven by their refugee status and the fact that they have long lived hardscrabble lives confined to mountain backwaters with low agricultural productivity.
Their outsider status in Vietnam was not helped by the fact that the CIA recruited Hmong in neighboring Laos to help fight their covert war against the Viet Cong, as they attempted to prevent the transfer of troops and arms along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Tens of thousands of Hmong sought asylum in the United States after the war and today there are Hmong communities scattered across the country, from California to Kansas to—as anyone who’s seen the Clint Eastwood film Gran Torino knows—Michigan.
As James and I head back to the hotel, I notice how many restaurants, shops, and homestays reference Hmong culture in some way or another—in their name, decor, food, or entertainment. “All the businesses in Sa Pa are owned by Kinh,” Hoolihan had told us, referring to the lowland people who comprise more than 85 percent of Vietnam’s population. “But they almost never employ Hmong workers.” Sa Pa, like all boomtowns, appears to have its winners and its losers.
WE JOIN KER EARLY THE NEXT MORNING and walk over to Sa Pa’s central market for provisions, taking a quick detour to check out the textile stalls on the building’s second floor. Following Ker upstairs, we find a corner of the market that is exclusive to ethnic crafts, filled with cushion covers and wall hangings and rolls of cloth whose motifs all carry meanings specific to a given tribe. “We make all of our clothes by hand from hemp and indigo plants that we grow ourselves,” says Ker, gesturing at the textiles surrounding us. They’re the color of a clear sky at dusk.
Back downstairs, we pick up ingredients for the lunch we’ll have in the hills: chicken and eggs to make Hmong spring rolls, and organic vegetables that include familiar things like broccoli and garlic but also endemic greens such as su su— a sort of creeper with spiraling shoots—and spinach-like cai meo. Rounding a corner, I’m suddenly greeted by a severed dog’s head, its jaws set theatrically in a rictus snarl and its paws laid out carefully to the side. It’s an unwelcome reminder that dog meat is popular in Vietnam, especially in the north where it is served on special occasions. When Ker’s basket backpack is full to the brim, we take a taxi out of town to begin the trek.
Our leisurely route through a valley takes us past terraced rice paddies, fields of corn and cassava, rustling stands of bamboo, and the odd huddle of houses. In one dirt yard a sow lies on her side, her litter of piglets frantic for her teats. The local dogs eye us with suspicion—understandably, perhaps. Along the way, Ker points out the plant from which indigo dye is derived, Indigofera tinctoria. She instructs me to rub a leaf between my hands, which acquire a greenish-blue hue. The stains wash off, but for Hmong women who work with the dye all their lives, their palms are permanently tattooed.
There are more than 90 villages and hamlets in the Sa Pa District, but only five or so of them are on the tourist radar. That’s a mixed blessing for the Hmong, says Ker—they don’t want hordes of tourists flocking to their communities, but they are interested in the kind of small-scale “cultural” tourism that gives them some agency. When we arrive at Ker’s own home in the village of Sa Sinh, her husband Hong and daughter Za come out to greet us. James and I help prepare lunch, cutting vegetables and filling the spring rolls.
It’s the best meal I’ve had so far this trip—fresh country fare accompanied by fragrant and punchy chili sauce and shots of heady rice wine that Hong dispenses every five minutes. We’re more than a little merry by the time we say our goodbyes.
On the walk back to town, we visit a friend of Ker’s who demonstrates how the Hmong weave their clothes. She shows us not only her handloom but also the stiff hemp stems that are softened and stripped to make thread, as well as a barrel of fermenting indigo that must be tended just like sourdough starter. “The whole process takes 12 months, from the growing and harvesting to the dyeing and weaving,” Ker explains. “The garments are completed in time for the lunar New Year celebrations.”
Back in my deluxe room at Hôtel de la Coupole, I resist the urge to sink into the cumulonimbus comforts of my bed, opting instead to do a few laps of the hotel’s heated indoor swimming pool. Dubbed Le Grand Bassin, it’s another hymn to art nouveau elegance, complete with marble pillars, chandeliers, mosaic tiling, plush daybeds, viewing balconies, and floor-to-ceiling windows. Enormous faux-bronze statues of Olympian figures in swimsuits preside over the pool. It should feel kitsch, but after a day of sensory overload, the fantasy elements strike a perfect balance.
THE NEXT MORNING we opt for the complete Fansipan cable car experience, which starts by taking a train from the station housed in the same building as La Coupole. Sun Group, the conglomerate behind all of this, is one of Vietnam’s biggest real estate developers and is playing a major role in laying down leisure infrastructure through its Sun World subsidiary in secondary cities like Danang on the central coast, where it has built a sprawling, Disneyland-esque theme park.
James and I scramble onto the old-fashioned carriage, avoiding selfie sticks wielded like pikes as the little train sets off on the two-kilometer ride up the mountain to the gondola base station. An elderly lady points at me and laughs, apparently at my improbable height, before instructing her friends to take photos as she stands next to me by way of comparison.
There is no denying the spectacle of the cable car ride. We sail high over rice terraces and evergreen forests and steep mountain ridges before pulling into a white dome that serves as the upper station. There is another cable car that takes passengers all the way to the peak of Fansipan, but we decide to walk the last section.
The first thing we see as we emerge is an enormous Buddha meditating on a lotus flower, apparently the largest statue of its kind in Vietnam. Dancers in Hmong outfits are performing for the tourists that pour out of the station every few minutes. We clamber up the 600 steps that lead to the peak, passing bodhisattva statues, pagodas, and restaurants en route.
The top of the mountain has effectively been transformed into a theme park, but it is also a working monastery, with monks’ quarters and a temple. The whole thing is a strange mix of sacred and profane—thousands of us glued to cell phones and cameras, intent on capturing the moment, while the bodhisattvas offer a silent invitation to simply be in it.
CONTRARY TO MY EXPECTATIONS, foreigners make up a tiny proportion of the guests at Hôtel de la Coupole. “The vast majority of our guests at the moment are Vietnamese,” confirms general manager John-Pierre Joncas. “It really reflects the economic boom that’s happening here at the moment.”
A Canadian from Montreal, Joncas has a penchant for fine art and design that makes him a perfect fit for the hotel. “The inspiration here is Indochine meets haute couture meets hill-tribe culture,” he explains. Many of the artifacts in the 249-room hotel are originals garnered from Bill Bensley’s personal collection. The walls are adorned with hand-painted pages of La Mode Illustrée, the 19th-century precursor to Vogue or today’s fashion catalogues. Each floor of the hotel features unique artworks and antiques.
Joncas takes us up to the roof, where a narrow bridge connects the two wings of the hotel and the twin galleries that house the on-site restaurant Chic and the burlesque environs of Absinthe, the hotel bar. The divans and Roman statuary and handdrawn graffiti of naked showgirls all suggest wicked decadence, though the place is decidedly sedate when we visit and I settle for a classic Old Fashioned instead of unleashing the green fairy.
At Chic, Indian chef Shaik Basha serves what he calls classic French comfort food with some nods to Vietnamese cuisine. “We always use local ingredients,” he explains. “Our tartare, for example, uses dill because there is no parsley here, but the flavors and cooking techniques are still classically French.” And so is the presentation. Food arrives on white plates stamped with the hotel emblem: a tartare of locally farmed rainbow trout; Hmong-style air-dried beef and mango salad; a hearty pot-au-feu beef shank; and finally, Vietnamese coffee crème brûlée.
The next day, stretched out in the airconditioned comfort of a minibus that will bring us to Hanoi in about six hours, I spot a couple of Hmong women with their children striding toward town. Hoolihan told me they often walk for hours to come and sell their wares. A tough, resourceful, and creative people habituated to living on the fringes. And yet they are in many ways the beating heart of Sa Pa’s identity—a fact that shouldn’t be forgotten amid Hôtel de la Coupole’s bid to revive the elegance and indulgence of bygone times.