Sapa love

Today the light washes over Sapa at daybreak, sun burning fierce and bright as if in apology for its absence the past three days. It is blinding, this sun, and powerful, transforming the cheekbones of street vendors into burgundy apples.

On my trek the clouds bunched in dizzyingly tall dark indigo pillars. Rain unloaded intermittently, as if the skies were unable to make up their mind to rain or clear. The red clay trails turned into slippery ski slopes; any steps worn into the path from weeks of travel were eroded. Even with the help of bamboo walking sticks, the trek was perilous, turning attention from the landscape to the feet. When we finished, I sat outside our homestay, witness to a shadowplay of cloud on light.

Today the Cat Cat hotel's Hmong guides, mere shadows of women at 16, 17, 18, walk into the hotel in what look to be clubbing clothes. I had no idea they even owned anything other than their traditional clothes. Za, my guide, walks up to slap me a high-five; I notice her eyelids are cooled a deep blue, and her slips shine with pink gloss. Talk about staged authenticity! Now, she's wearing a pink denim miniskirt; her underwear burn an outline through the skintight fabric.