By Samantha Coomber

The gateway to the mountains and hill tribes of North-east Vietnam begins with the inconspicuous Tran Quy Cap Station in Hanoi. Waiting for the night train, the cramped city terminal is standing room only, packed with Vietnamese families armed with mountains of bags and international backpackers resembling turtles. They are all heading for Lao Cai, the last stop in Vietnam before the Chinese border. For many, their final destination is the former French hill-station Sapa, a pretty mountain town with stunning overviews of sweeping valleys and the mysterious Mount Fanzipan. Having previously experienced the joys of Sapa, this time however I am en-route for its' relatively quieter neighbour, the sleepy Bac Ha - located on the other side of the mountains.

The overnight train journey is always a bit of an adventure and this time is no exception. I am squashed in a six-berth rail carriage with an over-enthusiastic Vietnamese family. They unravel bags of fresh fruit -plums, oranges and jackfruit, which they kindly offer me. I notice that they have managed to smuggle in two live chickens in a plastic basket, which the ticket inspector fails to see. Feeling worse for wear the following morning after sleeping on wooden slats (which is why the carriage is termed "hard sleeper") we sit dazed and look out through the iron bars across the train window. It is nearly 6am and as the train approaches Lao Cai, it passes a swollen river lined with coconut palms and water buffalo. As the sun makes its' first appearance, the mist slowly rises off the surrounding paddy fields. We are now only a few kilometres from the Chinese border.

The chilly, early morning temperature hits me as I stumble out of the train. A mass of passengers make their way through to waiting minibuses to whisk them up to Sapa, two hours away. I seem to be the only one travelling on to Bac Ha, apart from one German tourist. As I frantically look around for transportation, I quickly realize that this is fruitless. An enterprising local motorbike guide comes to my assistance. In faultless English he explains,

"There aren't any buses up today. You could hire a jeep together with the other boy to get to Bac Ha...."
He tells me the price. I nearly pass out.
"Or I can give you a lift up there..."
"What on?" I innocently ask. Although I know the answer, I am somehow in denial.
"Well you can ride on the back of my motorbike...it will take us about two hours and I can quote a reasonable price...."

With a choice of being stranded in dreary Lao Cai, taking out a second mortgage on a jeep ride or risking my life for a cheaper alternative, I wisely choose the third option. The negotiated price isn't bad and at least he can lend me a crash helmet - a rarity in Vietnam. My main concern is the horrendously large backpack (I never travel light) but this canny guide obviously has experience of this and straps it firmly to the front of the motorbike. There isn't much room on the pillion seat, so I keep sliding forward, a bit too close for comfort to the driver. And I don't even know his name.

After initial wobbles and heart seizure, I actually begin to enjoy the journey. Thankfully, it isn't raining, the skies are a clear light blue and the sun shines brilliantly. The road leaving Lao Cai gradually elevates up to the peace and serenity of the mountains. Some of the local minority hill-tribes, - the Flower Hmong people - so named because of their distinctive traditional costumes of embroidered flowers -wave us through with broad smiles. Snaking its' way up the mountainside, the route becomes increasingly steep with breathtaking views across terraced rice fields and smatterings of hillside communities. There isn't a problem with traffic because there isn't any - we have complete free reign of the roads.

At long last, we arrive at Bac Ha - surprisingly in one piece. Surrounded by distant mountains, Bac Ha is refreshingly timeless and seems to have escaped the onslaught of tourism as witnessed by Sapa. An unassuming agricultural community, its delightful rustic charm is still intact. The smell of musk wood fire permeates the morning air and chickens and pigs run amok along the dusty main street. During the day, all and sundry head out to the neighboring fields to work. Tourists are hardly catered for here - English is little spoken and there are no tourist agencies. There are only a few guesthouses and one or two simple pho restaurants. In mid-week- when I arrive - the place resembles a ghost town. At the weekend however when Bac Ha's Sunday market is underway, the town brims to capacity with tourists and many of the hill-tribe groups arriving in from outlying areas. But by Sunday evening, a mass exodus takes place and Bac Ha returns once more to its old deserted self.

Thanks to my friendly guide, I find a delightful family-run guesthouse away from the centre- not that there is a great deal of noise to avoid. The room has simple wooden shutters and a shared balcony with excellent views across town. Thick bedding quilts and open fires indicate the drop in night-time temperatures. Each morning I am handed a thermos of hot water for concocting fragrant Chinese tea.

There are some interesting little hikes around Bac Ha that can keep you entertained for days. Some of the fourteen hill-tribes in the vicinity can be visited; as well as the Hmong, these also include the Tay and Dao. The circuitous, narrow paths from town lead up to their remote bamboo thatched huts and deep-inclining cultivated land. Farmers and bell-clad cows sidle past regularly. Every so often there are large, dilapidated barns crammed to the rafters with harvested gourds, sweetcorn and grain. On one of several forays with a local guide, we arrive at a remote hamlet. Friends of the guide invite us inside their simple abode; dirt poor, their hospitality is overwhelming. We sit on the bare floor and they encourage me to partake in the ritual of smoking on the family's pipe. The inhalation of the purest tobacco takes my breath away- literally -and we spend a few idle moments chatting and smoking.

It is the markets however that are the greatest attraction here. Whilst the most convenient and well known is the market held in the town centre, there are also a couple of markets located outside Bac Ha. Although quite difficult to get to, they are well worth the effort. I am particularly keen to visit Can Cau Market: held each Saturday morning this ties in perfectly with a weekend of market therapy. Although only 18kms north of Bac Ha, it is however a treacherous journey, especially if it's undertaken during the rainy season. Travelling independently again means that I must hire a motorbike guide. This time round though, my guide hardly speaks a word of English: he is just instructed to get me from A to B. This is probably not a wise arrangement if anything unfortunate should happen en-route. But setting off early, it is thankfully another gloriously beautiful day. Although a relatively short distance as the crow flies, it takes us over an hour to reach our destination on a hazardous tough track littered with stones. The route is extremely precarious, crossing fords and with the risk of sporadic landslides. The wide track hugs the side of the mountain and from its subsequent dizzy heights offers panoramic views across everlasting plains. After climbing high for some time, the final leg of the journey descends dramatically down into a secluded wooded valley.

Sprawling near the banks of a river, Can Cau Market is a clearly defined shantytown, packed with crude stalls covered with thatched roofs. The start of a few simple settlements can be seen high above, many of whose residents now make their weekly pilgrimage to the market. We are only 9kms from the Chinese border and some traders make the journey across from China on horseback. Unfortunately foreigners are not allowed to reciprocate this set-up, however tempting it may seem.

By 9 am, the market is crammed to capacity. It's lively and surprisingly fun. The locals are mostly of the Flower Hmong minority group. You can't miss them -their traditional costume of green checked headdress and multi-colored, meticiculosly stitched and layered garments are simply stunning. Few foreigners make it to Can Cau; those that do brave the journey come either with a small tour group in four-wheel drives, or - if half-mad and on a tight budget like me -on the back of a motorbike. The handful of Westerners here this morning are the object of intense - though friendly- scrutiny. There is much laughter as we try to make basic conversation. Although the majority are painfully shy and not accustomed to seeing foreigners, some cheerfully allow photographs to be taken.

Can Cau is predominately a livestock market and not the sort of place to buy some choice gifts for the folks back home. Beyond the fenced-in perimeter, pot-bellied pigs, chickens and water buffalo wait patiently by the river to be sold. They rub shoulders with magnificent wild horses, some of whom will be transporting their masters back over to China. But the market also sells the basics: traditional clothing, sacks of rice, bundles of coarse, raw wool and ironware. Some stalls sell fresh tobacco and a rather sad array of root vegetables. Many women sell their wares from large, wicker baskets and sit weaving whilst waiting for a sale. I note that there are many giant plastic containers lying around with attached tubes. I mistakenly think this is gasoline, but it is in fact the omni-present rice wine and some folk are spotted wisely filling up their water bottles for the long ride home. Food stalls serve bowls of steaming fat noodles in broth and indescribable plates of what I can only assume are some sort of animal innards. It is almost like being transported back in time. There are few traces of the outside world, save the occasional soccer tee-shirt cast off and digital watch. As I observe the incredible costumes, deep shyness and the dark, weather-beaten skins, it is hard to imagine that this is the same country as freewheeling Saigon City in the south. It might as well have been on another planet.

In the mood for more markets, I am in luck. Bac Ha's main draw - the town market - is held Sunday morning in the centre of town. Many tour buses direct from Sapa arrive especially for this event. They and the many hill-tribe groups arriving from out of town help swell the throngs and by midday, the large patch of cleared land is packed to capacity. Whilst somewhat more commercial than Can Cau, Bac Ha Market is still mesmerizing. This is a colorful and animated occasion; full of gaily-clad locals who gather each week for gossip, bartering and stocking up on goods. An indistinguishable riot of vivid designs from the hill-tribes' attire blurs with faded red umbrellas, used as a welcome relief from the scorching sun.

Like the previous market, hours are spent wandering around watching engaged sales and chatter. On the ground, piles of embroidered garments and bags, basic household goods and antiquated farming implements are neatly laid out. There are curious things to eat, such as honeyed rice cakes, unrecognizable fruits and a great line in fresh offal. At the side of the market, there are plenty of makeshift food stalls and interestingly a few rice wine outlets, where many of the men seemed to have congregated. Some who appear to have enjoyed one too many, gesture for me to come over and join them. Easily persuaded, I perch on wooden benches and am surrounded by an inquisitive crowd of males. They immediately hand me a chipped china cup that has seen better days. It overflows with rice wine, although it seems more like rocket fuel as it burns the back of my throat. The men giggle at my screwed up nose and after three glasses I have to make my excuses. I seem to float back to my guesthouse with not a care in the world. As I recover later on my balcony, sipping hot tea and watching the orange sun sink slowly behind faraway hills, I guess I haven't.