The first truck went by, causing barely a ripple among the torpid would-be travelers. Another thundered past, then another. No one even looked up. I watched six, then eight potential rides slip past before standing and waving my arms when number nine appeared. This did nothing but rouse the persistent swarm of Honda owners to another round of lobbying. By mid-afternoon the warm sun, the drone of grasshoppers and the dust had conspired to end such foolish antics and Jay and I were as prone as the rest . Another truck, identical to all its predecessors, appeared in the distance and there was an instant flurry of activity. Bags were packed and duffels stuffed. By the time the truck rumbled to a stop we were all standing in line, ready to board. I threw my pack into the wrought iron bucket above the cabin and climbed up after it. The driver's concerns about my safety were soon eased when so many Hmong men climbed up after me that I was wedged solidly in place by friendly, smoky bodies. We lurched off and quickly picked up speed, the heavy truck swaying dangerously on the steep mountain switchbacks. When I stood to film I was instantly supported by a scaffolding of muscular arms. The Hmong were as worried about my falling off as the driver had been, and after a short conference one of them bribed me with a dirty white radish to sit back down and enjoy the ride. Even then I occasionally felt a callused hand push my head down from behind, to protect me from the overhanging bamboo groves with their lethal, three-inch spikes.

I passed around some peanuts and a bottle of Pepsi, and everyone added what they had in their pockets for an impromptu picnic of wilted cabbage leaves, butterball candies and a well-kneaded ball of cement-colored rice with bits of lint in it. They drank the coke with gusto and snorted in surprise at the unaccustomed carbonation. When it was gone one of the men asked to keep the plastic bottle for hauling water, and tucked it carefully into his backpack.

I eventually fell into conversation with the only man who spoke Vietnamese, an apple farmer from the tiny township of Bac Ha. We was visiting his brother in Sapa to help plan an elaborate funeral for their father. The old man, far from dead, was playing a vital role in the upcoming affair and would be arriving within the week to check on the arrangements.

I had yet to see an apple for sale in Vietnam and although the farmer had none with him, he proudly showed me several blurry photos of his orchards. He was convinced that he would recognize one of his apples in any fruit stand in the world, and asked me to send him photos of an American market day so that he would know if they were still in good condition when they arrived. In return he offered to tie a bit of string around the stalks so that I would recognize them as his. I took a second look at his photos. The apples were round and red, and not entirely un-American. For the price of a piece of string and a stamp I could make him a happy man, so I took down his address and promised to do as he asked. He in turn invited me to his robust father's funeral.