“Hi, I’m Mimi.”
The woman before me was just over 5 feet tall. She was wearing traditional H’Mong attire—a bright tunic, black capri-length pants, and two large silver hoops per ear. A neon green plastic comb kept her hair at bay, and a patterned hemp bag was strewn around her shoulder. Nothing but plastic slide-on sandals graced her feet. She looked youthful with a strong and sturdy yet petite build, but had a “this isn’t my first rodeo” weathered energy with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes.
Her attention was directed towards the hemp strands she was furiously separating through her fingers as she asked, “You ready for trek?”
Jeremy and I introduced ourselves, buzzing with energy for the adventure ahead: a 13 km trek through the rice terraces and hills of Sapa, Vietnam. It included what ended up being one of most unique foodie experiences I’ve had—a traditional lunch made by Mimi in her home.
The Journey to Our H’Mong Lunch
9am hit, and we were off. Mimi gave us some background information as we walked through Ta Van Village. She has four children, all grown, and she has lived in the region her whole life. We asked her if she had ever been to Hanoi. But based on her reaction, we might as well have asked if she’d ever been to the moon.
Her and her husband have a house on the mountain and own buffalo, chickens, and a couple pigs. But neither have steady jobs. There are four main ethnic groups in the region. Each have their own languages, traditions, clothing styles, and subgroups, but all live off the land.
We passed by women selling handicrafts on the side of the road and chickens dodged about every which way. Fellow travelers being led by H’mong women passed by. We exchanged obligatory smiles and waves with the trekkers while the local guides mostly exchanged stone cold stares. Interesting.
As we made our way out of Ta Van village, there were fewer and fewer rustic-chic homestays*, and more and more traditional wooden homes. Some on stilts, some with tarps for walls. Water buffalo grazed along the side of the streets. I stopped and watched a man cleaning a dead chicken in a plastic tub full of brown water with his toddler playing off to the side.
*A homestay is a style of accommodation that was originally just as it sounds: you staying in a local home. In Vietnam, it’s become type of accommodation somewhere in between a hotel, AirBnB, and hostel. The owners live in the complex, and are usually hands-on with your experience, providing some meals and local knowledge. And there’s always a communal area where everyone can gather to chat, eat, and relax. Westerns like comfort in the form of well-manicured bathrooms and comfortable beds. And I suspect very few locals actually live in homes similar to the various homestays of Ta Van.
The Journey Up
Two women tacked onto our trio, and they chatted away in their local dialect as Jeremy and I took in the sights. The dirt path transformed into a slippery, muddy incline of doom. Mimi gracefully floated up in her slides. Her hands continued to separate her hemp strands when they weren’t being used to help Jeremy and I stay vertical.
Once we reached a paved road, the two women who I thought were just Mimi’s gal pals made the reason of their presence known. “You buy bag or pillow case?” I had read about this online– the women will follow you and “help” with the hopes you will buy something in exchange. We genuinely didn’t want anything, but gave them each some Dong out of sheer guilt.
Lunch at Mimi’s Home
We arrived at Mimi’s home and were greeted by 2 dogs and 2 puppies yipping away. One building of her home was for sleeping. Another was for living. Both had dirt floors, no windows, and a couple light bulbs hanging from electrical wires. We headed into the living one which had a fire pit in the floor, small table in the middle, and food prep area. There was no refrigerator, stove, or oven, let alone coffee maker, microwave, toaster, or other appliances we consider essential for a western kitchen. Up in the rafters sat dozens of massive bags of harvested rice.
She hacked at a log for tinder, and a fire blazed up from the ashes in no time. “Mimi would do great on Survivor…” The thought felt silly and privileged. Every day of Mimi’s life is like Survivor, minus the million dollar prize on the line.
First on the fire was a pot of rice. Mimi explained that rice harvest season is late August-September, and that she and her husband sow and reap the land in hopes of having enough rice to last them the year.
Next up was a big pot of cabbage. Mimi stirred and flipped the greenery around. I asked her around local customs and traditions–“Do you have big meals and celebrations?” Her family slaughters a pig for the new year and eats the preserved parts until the following year. But there aren’t big community gatherings around a fire for song and dance.
Perhaps all those treks on offer that include “traditional H’mong dance” aren’t so authentic…
Finally, she prepared the eggs. She first heated up an absurd amount of oil. I suppose you need the calories if you’re trekking up and down mountains all day. Then poured in a whisked mixture of eggs with ginger. Mimi scrambled, mixed, and flipped them around until thoroughly cooked through.
Time to Dig in!
Mimi put the rice, cabbage, and eggs in plastic containers and set them on the table in the middle of the room. It was far more food than three people could eat. But I’d bet all my dollars that nothing would go to waste. She asked if we liked spicy food, and our nods were her go signal to run out to her garden to grab chilis. Mimi crushed them in a bowl, added hot water with a pinch of salt, and voila! Chili oil!
The food was perfectly fine and tasted just like you’d expect rice, cabbage, and eggs to taste like. But what was amazing was that every single component of the meal came from Mimi’s land and from her own labor. She repeatedly said, “I have no job.” Yet, she grows, raises, and sells her own food, weaves hemp, and takes tourists like us on treks. (Sounds like a gig worker, if you ask me…)
And there we were. Two millennials from developed countries who live in New York City, work on cruise ships, and galavant around the world. The guilt of privilege is an ailment that deserves no sympathy. (Get more of my thoughts on it HERE).
We finished eating and continued the trek across her rice paddies, down muddy hills, through a couple small villages, and along a stretch of highway before returning to our accommodation.
The experience was remarkably raw.
So many guided travel experiences are curated to show off the best side of a culture. Mimi didn’t color the trek with tales of lore and she made no attempts to embellish her day-to-day existence. The message was loud and clear: life is hard.
Getting a look into Mimi’s life without any bells and whistles was a unique experience that gave me both food for my belly, and plenty of food for thought.
Cheers to another experience for the books!
