| Muller | Hitchhiking Vietnam
Page 182 |
Sapa had changed. In eight short weeks it had given birth to two hotels, three Western cafes and a guesthouse that now accepted both travelers' checks and foreign currency. An itinerant government official with an all-important visa extension stamp arrived each week to set up shop in one corner of the post office. The original pair of Honda-for-hires that had once spent their day lounging on the street corner had multiplied into a good-sized flock and had acquired a grizzled old whisky peddler who shuffled through their midst at intervals to service their needs. Foreigners were arriving in lemming-like hoards and Fridays were conspicuous for the nose-to-tail buses that lined the market street. The backpackers clothed in Grunge and sporting three-day shadows had begun to give way to Impractical Shoes and Matching Pocketbooks as the Sunday market became "A Primitive and Exotic Weekend Getaway!" at the more avant-guarde Hanoi hotels.
The introduction of haute-couture had not been lost on the ever-observant Hmong. Shoes were now In among the minorities, except for the most stubborn old men. Cracked and callused rhino feet were giving way to softer edges and less dramatic toes.
Skyrocketing demand, a dwindling supply; capitalism had done well by the Hmong and Zao. The price for their embroidery had doubled, then doubled again. The wholesalers were mobbed, their ragged second-hands becoming even more ragged jackets. The traders had responded to the influx of wealth with a deluge of trinkets that no self-respecting Hmong household should be without.
Hard on the heels of the first truckload of Classic Coke to reach Sapa, the Hmong had introduced their own new brand of native wear. Gone were their intricate embroidery and appliqué collars, stitched with the finest thread. A monstrous impostor had taken over like a weed among roses. Yarn. No longer willing to spend long hours making tiny stitches by candle light, the Hmong had substituted lumpy strands of store-bought acrylic for their delicate thread. And not just any yarn, but skeins of glowing neon reds and greens. With thicker stitches and fewer layers, the women could now produce an armband or collar in record time, and the tourists seemed to prefer the eye-stopping colors. The children too, had developed a much more sophisticated attitude towards foreigners, cutting short their games to tag along and mime an empty stomach, a pen, a dollar bill.
But I didn't really understand what was coming until I heard a cassette deck making its way through the market, sawing out a scratchy Christmas tune. The crowd parted before the approaching ditty and I was treated to the utterly incongruous sight of a Hmong boy, his head completely shaved and his eyes obscured behind wraparound reflective sunglasses, swinging along with his ear to a boom box cranked to full volume.
