As our bus pulled into Ta Phinh village, we found ourselves besieged on all sides by dozens of Red Dzao women, all dressed in traditional hand-made Dzao clothing and carrying large baskets filled to the top with their wares or small children tied tightly to their backs.
Our class was staying in Sapa for several days during our week-long trip around northern Vietnam; we’d arrived the day before after spending the night on a train. Since then, we had seen a performance of traditional Sapa music and dance and visited another ethnic minority village, called Cat Cat, specializing in indigo-dyed fabrics.
From inside the bus, we could see the women talking and pointing at each of us enthusiastically, but only after we got off and began our 20-minute walk to the village head’s house did we figure out why. We were each approached by one or two women, who for the rest of the walk—speaking very good English—proceeded to ask us where we were from, the schools we went to, and our families in America, as well as what we were doing in Viet Nam and how long we would be staying. The saleswomen seemed much less interested in talking about themselves; instead, it was if they were trying to learn as much about us as they could. I found myself automatically saying words in Vietnamese to them, none of which they understood—it felt a little strange to speak Vietnamese better than they did. When we got to the village head’s house, they departed with insistences that we find them later.
For more than an hour, they all waited outside the house while we ate lunch; as soon as we came out, however, phase two of their strategy had begun. This time, we were assailed incessantly with demands to purchase their—beautiful, it must be said—bags, shawls, and wallets. We hurriedly excused ourselves to harvest rice from one of the rice paddies about a mile away. About an hour later, exhausted, we began to walk back down to our bus—again, closely followed by the saleswomen.
There were two women in particular (I never learned their names) who kept on saying “come to me, come to me.” At first, thinking that they were working together, I just nodded vaguely and promised that yes, I would later buy from them. When they really started to fight with each other, though, I realized that they were actually competing for my business; now it was as if I were the goods being bargained over, rather than what they carried in their baskets. Their argument continued all the way back to the bus, while I awkwardly and uncomfortably walked in front of them. When we finally reached the bus, I did, in fact, end up buying several bags from both of them, all of which were outrageously overpriced (at that point, I just wanted to get back onto the bus as soon as possible).
At the time, I felt as though most of the beauty and culture of Ta Phinh was overshadowed by the constant haranguing and bargaining of the saleswomen. However, after visiting Hoan Kiem in Ha Noi, and seeing the multitudes of tourists—who I’m afraid I’ve now begun to view with a certain amount of aloofness—I admire the women for not being openly disgusted with us and our lavish consumption. Without a doubt, if I were in their place I’m sure I would find it difficult not to see all tourists as obnoxious, ignorant money-bags.
Anna Oakes
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