Story: Battling Ethics in the Vietnamese Highlands

“My name is Coo. I will see you later, friend!” Since tolerating a sleepless night aboard the rickety train from Hanoi, without my morning coffee, I was in no mood for this enthusiasm. I entered the lobby of the hotel to check in and grab some long overdue breakfast.

I uninhibitedly slurped up each of the Pho noodles, the breakfast of champions in this part of the world, before my day long trek through the villages of Northern Vietnam. In my revelry, I didn’t expect to hear a soft voice over my shoulder, “excuse me, are you Jon? I am Ly, I will be your tour guide for the next two days. It’s nice to meet you.”

I turned to see a confident, young face. The crude indigo fabric of her outfit was accentuated by the morning sun shining upon the delicate orange designs on her sleeves. Eight silver bracelets chimed when she offered me a hand shake.

“Oh, excellent.” Setting down my bowl and chopsticks, “It’s great to meet you too. I’m excited about our trip.”

As she stands and I sit, we are nearly eye to eye. Ly is a tiny person, no more than five feet tall, making me feel like a giant in contrast. She recently turned eighteen years old, and unlike the other villagers her age, hadn’t married or started a family, yet.

As if to justify her choices, she explained, “I think I have a more exciting life, meeting people on our treks through the villages.”

Several of her friends, identical in everything but face, were outside the hotel. As we left, Coo and the others rejoined the group, and quickly buddied up to me. With her age wrinkles framing a large smile, she asked, “do you remember my name?”

“Of course I do. How can I forget you, Coo?”

We felt like rock stars with hordes of adoring fans hanging on every word we had to say. They asked us simple questions and seemingly cherished what we thought were mundane answers about our home and families. For it was they with the interesting stories, not us.

At our first break, underneath Vietnam’s tallest peak, the ladies exhausted their arsenal of questions, and I was finally able to retort. Without immediately realizing it, I had turned the tables. I found myself asking the same questions they posed only moments ago, with the same wide eyed enthusiasm I had just received.

Along the trail, I split my time and questions between my newfound friends, Coo and Ly. They described life in their rural Vietnamese mountain village of Lao Chai. How their ancestors, the Black Hmong, fled China and settled the valley, the difficulties of harvesting rice from terraces balancing delicately on the sides of the surrounding mountains, and the yearlong process of weaving, dyeing, and detailing a single outfit.

Every step she took, Ly wound a raw, natural string around in a figure eight around her dyed fingers. She explained this was the first step of the process in making her next outfit. When finished “spinning” the fibers, it would get woven into long pieces of cloth. The village elders and available helping hands would dye the cloth with indigo they harvested, hang to dry, then sewn into clothing. Throughout the process, the women are painstakingly creating the intricate details to be attached later. Each stop along the trail, our women guides would pull out their creations to work on. No pattern, no machines, all skill.

“Jon, I made this for you,” I heard over my left shoulder. Coo had somehow fashioned together a small pony from some roadside plants. It came complete with a mane and tail that was waving in the breeze as she shuffled to catch up to me. The appreciation of their hospitality, generosity, and wonder despite their difficult life was welling up in my heart.

It was approaching lunch time. Sitting at the head of the lush, broad valley, Lao Chai was nestled next to a tributary of the Red River, which rambles across northern Vietnam, and through Hanoi, before emptying into the ocean. The dramatic landscape was home to both my new friends, and is where we would eat. Leading to the small cluster of village, is a rusty bridge. The opposite side of the river was bustling with people. A welcome committee of people was standing on the opposite side of the bridge, with similar smiles that greeted us earlier in the day.

Concentrating on each step on the bridge, I hadn’t noticed Coo rushing ahead of me.
She stopped at the end of the bridge, physically cutting off my passage. I stopped.

“Jon, I followed you all morning. You must buy from me,” she declared, thrusting a pillowcase in my face. The relaxing stroll through the mountains snapped quicker than a broken bone. Her elbows were now keeping other determined salesmen at bay, “I’ll give you a good price.”

Similarly decorated bags and wall hangings were appearing from all directions, competing for the limited space in front of me. Unsuspecting as I was, I could see what just happened. I tried buying some time, but the talk of sales quickly escalated to shouts and demands.

I caught a glimpse of Ly, meters away, watching with indifference. I pieced together, as she is the head guide, she may not be allowed to sell her goods.

Shouts of “you buy from me and not from her,” jolted back to the present, that question will go unanswered for now. Coo’s eyes were getting angry. Mine must have been also. Disturbed by the instant aggressiveness of my ‘friends,’ I tried to politely say no. My backpack was already too full, and hauling around pillowcases wasn’t really what I wanted to be doing.

“No, no. Sorry, I don’t want any pillow cases. They’re beautiful, though.” I tried to cut through the crowd, but was cut off by angry faces.

“But I follow you all morning! You must buy from me, now. Do you want a bracelet?” The incessant calling from the crowd I was unable to get through made it apparent that I would not get to lunch without a purchase.

“Ok. How much are these metal bracelets? I will buy a bracelet from you, Coo.”

I opened my wallet. As I reached for the Vietnamese Dong, I hesitated. Thoughts began to swirl in my head, “is this the right thing?”

I looked at their faces and their indigo stained hands. What I had interpreted as genuine interest now turned into need; into greed. In the middle of this oppressive crowd, I felt outstandingly alone. Never before had I become little more than a dollar sign, and it was disheartening.

Guilt washed over me. I want to help, to somehow make their difficult life a bit easier. Buying something may do just that. It can help Coo buy food she needs or a hat for daughter without painstakingly making it from earthen fibers. I had a tool in my wallet that could alleviate, if only a little, of their hardship.

Screaming at me wasn’t this crowd; it was the downward cycle unraveling before me. The purchasing of these crafts is the very thing leading to this ugly culture of begging and forced purchases. Echoing in my mind as I fingered the money, “these two bracelets are perpetuating the cycle, and I am responsible.”

I handed the money to Coo in exchange for the bracelets. Roughly ten U.S. dollars could buy many things for her the next time she visited town. That was my consolation as the crowd dispersed, seeing I had committed my funds elsewhere.

Through the next hours, I scoured my memory in search of those guidelines of ethical tourism, in an attempt to justify what had transpired. The village guides had put in a morning of work rather than asking for handouts. The goods I bought were local, all natural, locally made and I paid a fair price. I knew my money was staying in the village helping the Coo, as well as, her family. Everything I had read, learned, and made a point to strive for, was considered ethical practices.

Despite the vain attempt at comforting thoughts, I continued to have a void in the pit of my stomach. The trek finished uneventfully. My mind was elsewhere. The rice terraces clinging to the mountainsides, the serenity of the river water, and the strength of the mountains just didn’t seem to have the striking beauty they had in the morning. I began to wonder if the contentment which comes through doing the right and ethical thing, may even trump awe inspiring worldly beauty. It seems as though it would.

Back at the hotel, I asked, “Ly, do you ever sell your goods to the tourists?”

Taking a seat after the many kilometers walked, she pulled out her sewing, “sometimes, but I don’t like to ask more than one time. I think, maybe, little rude.”

With that insightful comment, speaking well beyond her eighteen years, Ly seemingly gave back something that may have been taken, or broken, on the bridge. Trust? Honesty? Goodness? I’m not quite sure.

“I want to genuinely thank you, Ly, for showing us this beautiful valley and opening up your life to us. I feel fortunate to have experienced this with you.” I reached into my wallet, this time with no trepidation, “I want to give this to you, as a tip. You worked hard today, and you deserve more than I can give you.”

Unsure of what to do, she looked at me and smiled. “Jon, you are so kind. I will love to tell people of my new friends. I hope we see each other again.”

For the first time since buying the bracelets, I hadn’t noticed the void in my stomach any longer.