Magic does exist. At least, there are still people who believe in it.
Vietnam is home to a surprising amount of ethnic minority hill tribes. In Vietnam, it’s still ok to call them tribes. And many of these tribes are – you guessed it – up in the hills, many of which are in the North of the country. For your information, the biggest group is the H’mong tribe, although the White Thai are also pretty populous. When most people head up to the North, they head to Sa Pa, where the resident H’mong are used to tourists and play up to them a bit. But I was headed to Mai Chau, which, despite getting more popular, was still pretty unspoilt. Furthermore, I headed up there for a few days at a time, and instead of staying in one village I hiked from one to another, staying with various host families among the tribes along the way. I’d done this several times, and although it was a bit of a rough way to travel (comfort wasn’t really a factor), it was so beautiful trekking through the countryside that I just didn’t care.
I picked up my group in Hanoi, and off we went, up into the hills. Mai Chau is almost due west of Hanoi, maybe slightly north, and the drive out there gets more and more beautiful as you go. After a while you start travelling through countryside with big, craggy limestone rocks, almost mini-mountains in their own right, jutting straight up out of the otherwise pretty flat landscape. The first time we drove through there I pointed out to my Vietnamese guide that they were a rock-climber’s dream, and I asked why they hadn’t been touched for commercial purposes. He looked a bit bewildered at this – I suppose it wouldn’t occur to the average Vietnamese to climb a rock unless there was something useful at the top or it was in his way – but after conferring in rapid Vietnamese with our bus driver he explained. The limestone sculptures were very fragile, having acquired their beautiful shapes through thousands of years of gentle erosion, and people climbing all over would certainly destroy them.
The road we travelled started to dwindle down to a less-worn track, and we started winding up into the mountains. Suddenly I was tapped on the back. It was Kathy, one of the group.
“Sophie, um, can we stop the bus a second? Kevin’s being sick.”
My glance travelled behind her to her boyfriend, who was vomiting weakly into a plastic bag, as discreetly as possible. I’ll never understand why people can’t ask to stop before the event. I quickly waved the bus driver over and jumped out, pulling the door of the minibus open. Kevin half-fell out and collapsed to his knees, the better to turn his stomach inside out. I patiently patted him on the back and fed him some water. Presently, he pulled himself back to his feet, and smiled weakly.
“Better?” I asked.
“Yeah, a bit.”
“Is it travel sickness?” I asked, with real sympathy, because pointless nausea is somehow worse than if there were a decent reason. It’s more aggravating.
“No, I’m never travel sick. I got ill yesterday, I was sick all last night,” he answered, sheepishly.
I concealed my apprehension. “Really? But you felt well enough to go hiking for three days?”
“Well, I didn’t want to miss out,” he explained.
Argh. Not good, really. People often get dodgy stomachs when they first come to South East Asia, and it’s not that big a deal, but you can still feel weak, shaky and rubbish, and when you have to stop every hour to be sick, it really doesn’t make you want to trek. And do you think there are public toilets out in the Vietnamese mountains? Do you think that hill tribes have the toilets we’re used to in the west?
“Ok... well, we’ll see how you feel when we get to the village. If you need to stop again, just give me a shout, ok?”
We headed off on our way, and entered the first village in time for lunch. As this one was on the outskirts of the mountains, it was used to visitors and had fairly good toilets. By SE Asian standards, anyway, although it didn’t stop a few people muttering comments and throwing horrified looks towards them. We ate some traditional hill tribe grub. I noticed that Kevin had about a mouthful of rice, turned green and headed straight for the bathroom. I wondered if he was going to be able to manage an afternoon’s hike. I asked him quietly if he could cope with several days hiking, or if he wanted to stay in the village and we’d come for him in a few days. He very determinedly said he would go.
After lunch, off we went, and we spent a very pleasant few hours walking the mountain trails and admiring the incredible views. The sun was just starting to set when we arrived at our H’mong village in the valley. Maybe I should point out that the only electric lights in the village are within certain houses, and run off generators. When the sun sets, it’s pitch black. We were exhausted, and happy to have arrived. Our guide went up to the Patriarch of the house, who had come out as we neared the dwelling. The tribes have their own languages, which they speak amongst themselves, but most of them speak Vietnamese too. No English, of course, so we always brought along a Vietnamese guide to translate for us. I watched as they exchanged greetings, and the Patriarch glanced at me. I smiled. He looked worried. I stopped smiling. The two talked for a while, and then our guide came back to. He looked sheepish, and wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“We cannot stay here,” he said, finally.
I stared at him. “What? What do you mean?” I asked, remembering to keep my tone neutral.
“There is a...ceremony here tonight in this house.”
The last thing I wanted was to get in the way of a tribal ceremony. My whole ethos of travelling revolved around not getting in the way of local culture. Nevertheless –
“What kind a ceremony?” I asked.
“The grandson of the Patriarch is sick. He has been sick for a long time. So tonight they will have ceremony. They will have a... sorcerer.”
“A sorcerer?” I was fascinated. “What kind of sorcerer?”
Our guide looked uncomfortable. “The village sorcerer. He will come, and they will kill an animal.”
Oh, wow. Animal sacrifice. This was crazy. “And where are they having this ceremony? Because, you know, we can keep out of the way.”
He shook his head, firmly. “We cannot stay here. They will have the ceremony late at night, inside the house by the family alter.”
That did complicate things a bit. “Ok... well, where can we stay instead? Because these guys really can’t hike any further, you know.”
“We can stay in one of the other village houses.”
“You’ll have to show me,” I said, firmly. I turned to the group.
“Guys, we’re just having a chat about which village house we’ll be staying in tonight. If you want to splash yourselves with water, the well’s just over there. I’ll be back in a sec.”
The guide and the Patriarch walked me over to a nearby house. I peered inside. I knew in a second that we couldn’t stay there. For a start it was too small, and apart from that, there was nothing in there. I was used to a very basic and Spartan stay in this village, but this house honestly just featured an earthen floor. I couldn’t make people sleep on an earthen floor. Not good. Keeping my expression blank, I turned to my guide.
“We can’t stay here. I’m pretty sure that this man’s house is the only one in the village that is appropriate for us to stay in, as he is used to travellers. We will do whatever we can to stay out of the way, but we really do need to stay there.”
The guide chatted a bit more to the Patriarch, and it was resolved that we would stay there, and that the ceremony and sacrifice would take place outside, rather than on the family alter. I smiled my thanks at the Patriarch, and went to find my group, who were clustered around the well. I went over to see what was so interesting, and saw, to my horror, that they were clustered around a piglet, trussed up and lying on the floor, regarding us with panicked eyes. Well, that answered the obvious question about the animal sacrifice.
“Sophie, look! What are they doing with this pig?” One of them, probably a vegetarian, exclaimed.
I forced a smile. “Ok, everyone, I need to explain about tonight...”
They stared at me.
I shrugged. “So that’s about the shape of it. It won’t be happening until after we’ve gone to bed, and it’ll be outside, so it probably shouldn’t affect us.” I smiled encouragingly.
“They’re going to kill that poor little pig?!”
“Yes. But this is their culture, and it’s important to respect that,” I warned anyone who had vigilante thoughts of setting the pig free when no one was looking.
I studied the group and saw that the girls looked mildly troubled by the moral aspect of the situation, and the blokes looked pretty impressed. It was going to be fine.
“So, does anyone have any questions?”
Kevin spoke. “Um... where’s the toilet?”
Ah, yes. The toilet.
The toilet was essentially a hole in the ground in a little wooden hut, with a pail of water outside and a scoop for you to dip into the water and use to “flush” the loo. This little hut was a little walk away through what I can only describe as a jungle. Frondy plants towered over your head as you threaded your way through on the narrow muddy path that led from the house out to the hut. This was actually kind of cool during the day, but at night, in the pitch black, with only the meagre light of a torch, it really wasn’t a pleasant experience. Ever tried using a squat toilet while holding a torch? Not easy, you’ll agree, but far better than doing it in the pitch black, with possible giant spiders dangling overhead. Very scary. But sometimes, when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go.
We had more hill tribe food, played a few games of cards, then called it a night. We climbed into our sleeping bags spread out over thin futons on wooden pallets, and tucked our mosquito nets in around us. When the locals do it, you know you should be, too. Maybe ten minutes after we had hit the lights, the drum beat began. It was a slow, deliberate bass sound that echoed over and over again in the silent valley. A few of us shifted uneasily. I heard one person mutter “Bloody hell”. And then the chanting began. To match the beat of the drum, it was slow and deliberate. The occasional chime of bells punctuated the relentless rhythm. The apparent sleep of my group was belied by the stirring and almost silent breathing – a sign of people holding their breath in their anxiety. I was held almost in a trance by this, until we were suddenly startled by a harsh, high-pitched noise piercing the night. It was the squeal of a pig having its throat cut. There was a collective gasp, and the oh-so-loud silence of a roomful of people in shock. The breathing of the group evened out again and, eventually, I fell into a restless sleep.
I awoke in pitch darkness to feel a hand on my ankle. My heart leaped in fright and I jumped about a mile. The drum still echoed through the night, the voices kept up their steady drone. I sat bolt upright and scrambled to my knees.
“Sophie!” The hoarse, urgent whisper came from a shadowy form in front of me.
“Yeah?” I gasped, trying to get my heart rate down to normal.
“Can I borrow your torch?”
Oh God, it was Kevin. And he was heading out into the jungle. I felt around for my torch and passed it out to him, then quickly tucked my mosquito net back in. For a second I contemplated going with him – I couldn’t imagine how scary it would be pushing your way through the wildlife all alone towards a dark hut in the pitch black while all around you voices and drumbeats rang out – personally, I’d probably want some company. It was practically my duty. But ultimately I am too much of a wuss, and Kevin left alone.
In the morning, no one looked particularly refreshed after the night’s drama. Some strong, tar-like Vietnamese coffee helped, and I hoped that the ceremony would accomplish its purpose, or at least ease the family’s worries. We bid goodbye to the family and set off on our next leg of the journey – a five hour stretch that would take us to the village of the White Thai tribe. As we trundled off over hill and dale, I found myself walking next to Kevin’s girlfriend, Kathy.
“How’s Kevin doing this morning?” I asked, still feeling a bit guilty about not accompanying through the undergrowth, but relieved to see he was present at breakfast and so had at least made it back alive.
“Oh, he’s still pretty weak, but he’s pushing on through,” she answered. “The poor boy had to get up in the middle of the night and make it all the way out to the toilet. I feel pretty guilty because I couldn’t bring myself to go with him. Not with all that going on out there.”
How reassuring to know that it wasn’t just me.