We’re winding down to the final days of the trip, and although we were there a couple of weeks ago for the day, we decide to return to the small town of Bac Ha—best known for its colorful Sunday market. We leave a wet and misty Sapa early Friday morning—once again to the transportation hub of Lao Cai, where we catch the local bus to Bac Ha. The bus is loaded with a refrigerator, machine parts, bags of fertilizer and who knows what else—all delivered along the route. This time there aren’t many passengers, and we arrive in Bac Ha by about noon. We move in to the hotel and begin our inquiries about visiting nearby Can Cau’s Saturday market. It’s the usual run around and we can’t make head or tail of most of the information, but finally decide not to rent motorbikes as the lone soul at the tourist office tells us we’ll arrive wearing a different color as the road is “very bad”. It’s only 20 km, but he says it takes at least an hour and that almost half the road is under construction. Not wanting to stretch our luck in the motorbike department, we finally find someone to drive us, but within the hour our reception guy, Than, says he’s found another couple who are interested in sharing the price of a car. We undo one deal and set up the new one with a retired couple of Chileans who live in Vancouver, Canada.
In the afternoon we wander the quiet town, and drawn by the raucous noise from the temple down the road, head in for a visual feast. There are musicians on one side, a sort of audience on the other, and in the middle of the temple four women with emerald green tunics are dressing and fastening head gear to an older woman’s head. She is kneeling, facing a mirror, and seems demure until they’re done with the wardrobe change. Then she’s up and dancing in a sort of trance, first with fire sticks in her hands, then with fans of actual money which she throws into the air. She then individually passes out yet more money to each individual in the crowd and then turns, smokes, drinks, kneels and is changed into another tunic and headdress. No-one can tell us what’s going on, but they are delighted to have us take pictures and grab the camera to see the pictures we’re taking, all the while nodding approvingly and chatting incomprehensibly. Than later tells us that this is some sort of ancestor worship ceremony, but I suppose we’ll never know.
On Saturday the weather is still a bit overcast and drizzly, but we’re excited about the market. Than is bustling around and comes to tell us that he has managed to get a jeep to get us through to Can Cau. The two Chilenos arrive and we pile into the jeep, a vintage machine probably close to 50 years old, with a serious looking driver. It has just begun drizzling, and the road out of town quickly deteriorate into a mosaic of potholes, but it’s still paved. As we climb higher into the mountains, it becomes evident just how much it has been raining, and the road quickly dissolves into a muddy mess. But when we reach the area under construction all of us gasp at the mudbath we’ll have to traverse. Motorcycles are literally slipping and sliding through a good foot of wet mud, and the drivers have to push through the mud using their feet as the bikes have insufficient traction to move forward any other way. Motorbike passengers are walking alongside with cargo in their arms. It’s a surreal scene, and we begin to doubt the wisdom of the outing. The driver moves us through the terrain, but not without coming perilously close to the steep sides of the mountain, all the while zigzagging, slipping and sliding through the still uphill road. It’s a relief to see the market on a distant hillside, and especially to note that the mud and water begin to diminish as we arrive.
The market itself is bustling and in full swing. It’s a rainbow of ethnic peoples in beautiful colors, bright scarves, and the completely out of place plastic sandals or today, plastic rain boots. There is eating, and livestock, clothing, chile braids, endless snacking on raw sugar cane and socializing. There are virtually no foreigners, and after the harrowing return to Bac Ha we see that most of the few tourists who venture this way have had to turn back as the road is simply impassable. Our driver maneuvers through the thick mud, narrowly missing motorbikes as he slips and slides through the mountains back to the “good” part of the road. Back in Bac Ha, Than comes out to the jeep beaming, saying we’re about the only people who got through that day—“that’s why I get you jeep”. In retrospect, we are once again unbelievably fortunate—although we’d probably have foregone the trip had we known how dangerous it would be.
On Sunday we join significantly more tourists to wander the Bac Ha market, clearly much more firmly established on the tourist route. We enjoy watching the trading, the negotiations and money handling involved in the buying/selling of a water buffalo, and watching the crowds mingle, try on clothes, eat cakes, get their hair cut and once again, delight in the social highlight of the week.
Check out the pictures of the markets. Wonderful faces and colors. From here it’s on to Hanoi and back home.
