A Month in Ha Giang
Hello dearest friends and family! Sorry for the prolonged blog post. I try to keep up with these but sometimes I fall short…
Last time you heard from me I was one sad lady because my dad had just left — but I’m happy to inform you that I am back to my spunky self and I believe a lot of that had to do with our month in Ha Giang (and Mark and Lisa visiting, of course!)
We knew we had a month in between Mark & Lisa coming and my Mom and Phil coming so we tried to be very intentional with how we spent that time.
I had been surfing Workaway.org and found a very fun looking opportunity in one of the most remote places in Vietnam — a little town called Ha Giang.
Now, I hadn’t really heard much about the town, or the Ha Giang loop before coming to Vietnam, but I eventually heard about a thousand times “oh you haaaaave to do it!” and “you didn’t really even visit Vietnam if you didn’t do the loop” (which I have many qualms about but that’s for another bottle of wine…)
So, the position was helping at a hostel in the town of Ha Giang and to aid in people that were about to go on “the loop”. This obviously required us to complete it ourselves so we could adequately describe what they were about to experience.
The first day on the loop was a relatively easy ride and we left with a good group of people that we befriended along the way. We thankfully had incredible weather and could see breathtaking views at every turn. When we finally arrived at our first destination, an even smaller town called Yen Minh, we tried to find some Pho(Ben’s new favorite food).
Now, we went just days before Tet, the Chinese New Year that is celebrated in Vietnam, so many stores were closed for the celebration. We finally found a local joint open and walked in with our big stupid American smiles and a “xin chào!” in which we received many cold stares in return. We sat ourselves and waited to be greeted by the people working there. After about ten minutes Ben went to grab a menu so we could look at it. We sat there for another ten minutes and had watched food come out for Vietnamese customers that had arrived after we had.
It was the first experience I had in all of our travels that I truly felt like we weren’t wanted there.
I don’t know if they were intimated, if they somehow knew we were American and didn’t like that, or if they just didn’t want to deal with foreigners but it made me quite sad and I wish I could have helped bridge that very obvious gap or misunderstanding that was taking place.
We went to another local shop that the owners were also very hesitant to serve us but with Ben’s very limited but semi-accurate Vietnamese we got our Pho and it was just what we needed.
The following day was a bit drizzly but it was still a lot of fun to be riding around. I was getting quite comfortable riding the bike and enjoyed the fact that I was successfully managing a semi-automatic. Driving a semi you have much more control of going up and down the hills. We had just left Lung Cu (the most northern city in Vietnam) and I was on a roll. I had the lead and was trying to keep up with this Vietnamese car going downhill. In hindsight… it was an awful game I was playing.
One moment I was having the time of my life and literally the next second my eye sight was parallel to the ground.
I wiped out.
I had slipped out taking a turn too quickly and my back tire gave out under me and I slid for about 30 feet. Afraid and confused, I stumbled to get up, wondering where Ben was to rescue me.
I looked behind me and he was getting up himself, covered in dirt, lifting his bike up from the ground.
He fell, too.
We dragged out bikes to the side of the road, shaken up, and hugged each other.
Ben fell because he saw me go down and slammed on his front break so his bike slid out from under him as well.
Now thinking back on it, we were extremely lucky with how we fell. There was no oncoming traffic, I slid toward the mountain rather than off a cliff, and we didn’t collide with one another — a common occurrence when driving two bikes.
We were only about a half hour from our destination for night two but it took twice as long because of how slow I was going. I was totally freaked out and wasn’t sure if I wanted to continue with the loop.
But, like all good things, you must not quit when you fail. Only learn from why you failed.
As we sat around a much needed fire pit at the hostel we were staying at that night we learned that about 60% of our group fell that day. I think it had to do with the slickness of the roads, the confidence we had gained we on the bikes, and maybe just a little too much adrenaline.
We all had a few too many beers at the fire but we met a lot of really cool people and it was a super fun night.
So, the next few days I slowed down (well, until the fourth day) and the whole trip was incredible. I realized the slower you went the more you could soak in all the beauty that was around me.
The loop is almost untouched with tourism and is incredibly authentic compared to many of the major cities in Vietnam. No pizza places, no highland coffee, no scooter dealerships…
We passed through many little villages that belonged to traditional Hmong people. It was remarkable to pass by them as they simply lived their lives. The little children noticed foreigners right away and would run out to the street and yell HELLOOOO! while their mothers would roll their eyes and continue with their work. I think the older villagers knew that their way of life was soon coming to an end with the increasing number of tourists driving by each day on their motorbikes. I felt guilty to be infiltrating on their very sacred way of life, yet honored to witness it for myself.
What’s crazy about this loop was that it was only built in 1960. So up until then, if the Hmong people needed to go to another village to trade for food, clothing, medicine, etc they would need to walk 60+ kilometers in the mountains to the neighboring village. This “highway” was able to provide a safe way where they could trade and unite with their fellow neighbors.
The last day on the loop was absolutely stunning. It was warm and we didn’t need to wear our jackets. The wind and the sun, the breeze, the mountain air, it was heaven.
We eventually got back to the hostel and I took the world’s most satisfying nap.
The following day, the day we were expected to start working, was the day that all the Vietnamese staff left for Tet. A little about Tet — The Vietnamese work no less than 6 days a week all year long. They do not take vacation and, to my knowledge, don’t really take sick days. They are incredibly hard working (in their own sort of way), so, when Tet rolls around, the whole country shuts down. The Vietnamese will go back to their home villages, often in the mountains, not in the major cities. No restaurants are open. No buses ran. No shops open to get shampoo. No laundry service available.
So with very little to no training we started basically running the hostel. Luckily, the part owner from England showed back up after going on vacation with his lady friend (it was supposed to be a two day trip, turned into a 10 day trip) so we had some backup. Workaway is tricky because you are not paid for your work. Yes you get free accommodation and food, but staying in a dorm room that cost guests $4 per night and free meals that would be around $3, it is hard to tell if your work is balanced with your cost of being there.
And now, without the Vietnamese staff, there was no one to cook for us, one of the guaranteed perks of taking this volunteer job. The manager, Ann (who I absolutely loved) bought us 100 eggs and 4 bags of bread (that went bad within a day and a half) and said we could eat that for a week. Ha!
During that time, Ben and I were putting in 14 hour days.
We would be responsible for checking guests in, signing bike contracts, explaining the loop every night to groups of people, cleaning the bathrooms/showers, mopping the floor, flipping the beds, and bringing the bikes to the mechanic once they were returned.
I know this seems like almost abuse, but I’ve got to honest here — I absolutely loved it.
I cleaned that whole damn hostel for two days straight. I dusted the tops of shelves that had not been touched in years. I organized the kitchen. I washed walls. I cleaned light bulbs. I even organized that cleaning closet.
I realized then that I hadn’t had the opportunity to clean like this in nearly 6 months.
And if you know anything about me — I love to clean.
The part owner, Josh (the English guy) told me over and over that I didn’t need to be cleaning so much. That it wasn’t expected of me. I tried to get him to understand that I sincerely enjoyed spending my time this way. I get energy from seeing a clean, organized room. I did it not out of duty- I did it out of desire.
The only hard part was that there was little to no food (besides eggs) in the hostel, so we would need to go out to eat for dinner (which would be around 10 pm after Ben had given his speech about the loop). The only place that was open was a little plastic chair “barbecue” on the side of the street about 100 meters from our hostel. The owner, in whom we called Chioi (this is an endearing term you use for older women in Vietnamese) welcomed us every night with more eggs dipped in straight MSG (it’s so delicious, I understand why it’s illegal) and chicken feet. On top of that, Josh LOVED to drink and would buy a water bottle of rice wine each night.
When I think about how I spend Tet I think of dust, chicken feet, plastic chairs, and rice wine.
It was wonderfully…Vietnam.
Eventually, after Tet came and went, the Vietnamese came back and things started to become routine. We would wake up to help send off the groups of bikers on their loop, strapping them in, finding them helmets, helping them learn how to drive semi-automatics. After they would leave I would help flip beds and then we were free until about 4 pm when we would need to help welcome guests/check them in, talk about the loop, etc.
So I had to figure out how to fill this time to the best of my ability. I walked and wandered the streets of Ha Giang enough, I had hiked up the mountain and few times, I wrote in my journal, played my ukulele every day, painted the scene out my window…
One day I looked in the mirror and decided I was going to get my roots touched up.
I hadn’t dyed my hair since our wedding, which had been about 10 months, so my roots were pretty gnarly. I researched some salons in the area, took screen shots of what I wanted, and went on my mission.
The first salon I went to they basically just shooed my out. They didn’t want anything to do with me.
The next one I went in all of the stylists were sitting in the salon chairs on their phones. They popped up when I entered. I showed them pictures of what I wanted. I put the ends of my hair to the top of my roots and tried to mime what I desired. I thought they understood…
Now, I don’t know much about hair. Nothing really, especially when it comes to coloring it. But I could tell pretty quickly that this was not going to end well.
They dyed just my roots and the color they put on was a completely different color than what I currently had on my ends. I sat with this color in for nearly 40 minutes and then was moved to this contraption that looked like something out of a sci-fi movie that applied to heat to the what seemed to be bleach…
They took off the plastic wrap (yes, plastic wrap, not foils) and started yelling at each other in Vietnamese. They washed my hair and then applied a second layer of bleach infused dye to all my hair. I sat again for about 35 minutes with the plastic wrap. By this time other people had come into the salon and couldn’t help themselves but stare at me. You’ve got to remember Ha Giang is a small town and has just become brushed with tourism. You don’t see a lot of white people, let alone in your local salon. I could tell they were talking about me, but I never felt uncomfortable.
Eventually it was time to wash out again, and when I returned to the chair after my shampoo, they removed the the towel and there I was. Sitting in a small village in Vietnam. In a salon.
With orange hair.
They again started yelling at each other in Vietnamese. All the stylists came over and picked at my hair like we were apes grooming one another.
At first I was angry. But honestly that didn’t last long. I’m sure these stylists have done their fair share of dying hair, but I bet I was the first to come in with fair hair. Vietnamese hair is dark and thick and I’m sure would take nearly 40 minutes for the bleach to take. My hair on the other hand, probably needs only about 15 minutes. I couldn’t help but laugh.
It’s only hair, right?
I was almost getting used to the fact that I had orange hair when they started to dye my hair AGAIN.
This time, they put foiled highlights in. Intrigued, I just sat back and watched. After all, it wasn’t like I could do anything about it now.
I was shuffled around to different chairs so other customers could be serviced. I eventually ended up in the waiting room chair with foils in.
After about an hour I was shampooed for the third time, and brought back to my original chair. They apprehensively took off the towel and although my hair was no longer orange, it was straight yellow. Satisfied enough, the main stylists came over and started to blow dry and curl my hair. It honestly wasn’t terrible. It was intense, but it wasn’t that bad. Just a very different type of blonde than I was going for…
By the time he was done styling my hair I had been in the salon for seven hours. Seven hours.
As if that wasn’t enough time spent there, he took pictures of me, my hair, and selfies of the two of us for another 20 minutes or so. He seemed to be very proud of his end product.
When I was finally let free I ran back to the hostel, late for work, and worried Ben thought I had fallen into a ditch somewhere.
He wasn’t worried as he was enthralled in his computer work but when he looked up, he just smiled, and chuckled.
A few days had passed and I was just trying to rock the hair but every time I washed it the orange color came back more and more.
It’s just hair, yes, but it’s MY hair!
I decided to give it another try.
I had done some research and the reason it turned out orange is because they put too many warm tones into the dye. All I needed was toner to cool it down. The whole process shouldn’t take more than an hour, and every salon should have toner, the website said.
I made sure I was super prepared this time. I had pictures of warm tones vs cool tones and a screenshot of google translate of exactly what I wanted.
“There are too many warm tones in my hair. I just need some toner to take the orange out. Do you have toner?”
I went to a different salon as not to ruffle the feathers of the proud stylist from the first salon.
Luckily this guy spoke more English than the first, and seemed to understand what I wanted. He asked where I got it done and shook his head and muttered something in Vietnamese to his coworkers.
He began to mix dye and when I reiterated about the toner he kind of ignored me. With the first stroke of dye I could tell I was in for another experience. The dye was dark. Like, super dark.
Luckily, I had completely lost any hopes or desires for what I initially wanted. I knew I was going to get whatever I was going to get and it was kind of silly to try to do this task in such a small town. In Vietnam.
I knew it would make for a good blog post, though.
Anyway — long story short — I walked out of the salon with grey hair.
When I returned to the hostel all the staff were there to greet me, including my dearest husband, and they all laughed.
Actually, we all laughed together.
I surprisingly wasn’t mad. I wasn’t embarrassed. I wasn’t frustrated with the money I had basically wasted. I felt honored to have been able to spend two full quality days watching the daily lives of the Ha Giang residents doing simple things like getting their hair done.
That evening at “family dinner” as they call it, we all laughed, had some rice wine, and joked about how I looked like an old lady.
Each evening, and most afternoons for lunch, the volunteers and Vietnamese staff stopped what they were doing and all ate together. They would prepare multiple dishes of fish, chicken, tofu, morning glory, bamboo (which you can eat! I didn’t know that!) soup, peanuts and rice. You would have your own little bowl that you would put what you wanted into said bowl. It was a humbling and connecting experience and even though they all chewed VERY loudly with their mouths opened, I loved and appreciated every moment of it.
About a week before we were scheduled to leave a few other volunteers showed up. Susan, from Ireland, and Jake from England. They were in their young 20s and had been backpacking for a couple of months. Susan reminded me a lot of myself- very sassy, opinionated, hard working, and funny. We enjoyed each other’s company and I hope to see her again someday.
On the last evening that Ben and I were at the hostel we all went to celebrate at the local BBQ and say goodbye to Chioi.
As the rice wine flowed Susan admitted to me that she honestly didn’t really enjoy her time doing the loop. She says that she often is told by other backpackers to do these things, see these places, and her expectations have never once been met.
We started talking about backpackers and where their sense of endless adventure comes from. She told me that she thinks backpackers are full of shit. Even though she was one herself, she knew she wasn’t being honest with why she was traveling and how unhappy she truly was. No one wants to admit that world traveling is not the key to happiness.
And I found that conversation to be an incredibly real way to end my time in Ha Giang.
