Mr. Phuong looked ready to expire in his heavy wool suit and tie. He had just come from a wedding, he explained, where he had been asked to give a speech. He fingered the knot of his tie, obviously wishing he had taken it off before he let me in. He encouraged me to visit the local hot springs, assumed I was in Son La only as a stopover on my way to historical Dien Bien Phu, and in the end admitted that he was so unused to issuing extensions to foreigners that he had no idea what price to charge. We agreed on two dollars and an English lesson upon my return. I left him with my passport and hurried back to my village family.

The next morning I explored the village, built along the steep hillside above the river. Several bridges spanned the waters below it and silver-green paddy stretched to the horizon. I was captivated by the rhythm of the water buffaloes dragging wooden plows in ever-tightening spirals around the fields and the creaking of the water-wheels, raising buckets of muddy river to run along bamboo aqueducts that fed the village. I returned to the hut in a peaceful daze, and ran smack into five policemen sitting in the living room with Lu's father. He looked up and for the first time did not smile at me.

My passport was still at the Extension office, along with all the other paperwork the grim-faced men in uniform were sure to ask for. I ducked out without a word and started back for town.

Mr. Phuong was still at his desk. He greeted me pleasantly and invited me to take a seat before pulling out his briefcase with my paperwork. I relaxed. Once I had my extension in hand there was little real damage the police could do to me for another month.

He paused in the act of opening the case, reconsidered, and folded his hands across the top. "We have..." he searched for the word, "information concerning your stay in Son La last night."

I wilted. I pleaded ignorance. I begged for clemency. The briefcase remained firmly shut. How on earth had he figured it out so fast? I had entered the hut at dusk and not left until morning.

"I received a call from Central Command telling me there was a foreigner staying in a village under my jurisdiction," he told me with obvious pride. Apparently the local police had seen me arrive with my pack last night and reported the matter to the Son La police station, who sent the information on to Hanoi, who got in touch with the Son La extension agency for conformation of my identity.

"Perhaps," I suggested cautiously, "they were referring to someone else."

He opened his briefcase and took out a note. "White woman, American, long blond hair, tall, speaks Vietnamese," he read. Not bad for fourth-hand information. I complimented him on the efficiency of his police system, and privately wished that the government would put a little more effort into its roads and a little less into its spying. Then, hopelessly, I began to bargain.

My punishment was far lighter than I had any right to hope for. My visa extension was reissued for the full thirty days. I was made to write out my day-to-day itinerary for the next month in painstaking detail, complete with the names and addresses of hotels where I intended to stay and the sights I planned to see. I left with my passport firmly in hand and the assurances of Mr. Phuong that my lovely host family would be in no way held accountable for my misdeeds.

I waited until dark, hiked back out to the village and snuck up the stairs to the terrace. I was surprised at their joyous greetings. They wondered where I had been, insisted that I once again stay the night and dismissed my questions about their morning's visitors with assurances of powerful family ties within the village. Tonight they had planned a real feast and both sets of venerable grandparents were invited. No one would dare interfere.

Relieved and childishly happy to be allowed another evening with my new family, I gathered up my clothes and set off for the river to bathe and make myself presentable to the elders. A dozen children followed me and immediately stripped, to splash and play in the milky brown water and watch with fascination as I shaved the stubble from my legs. It was half an hour before I made my way, dripping wet, back to the hut. I found Lu's mother in tears and Lu looking bewildered. "You can't stay," her mother told me. "The police came again while you were swimming." She begged me to at least share their meal before I left. Even her husband wept in shame at the right of hospitality that had been taken from him. The elders arrived and we had a sad supper, which gradually turned merry over promises of letters and toast after toast to the wonders of Vietnamese-American friendship. My unborn children's children were blessed with a dozen offspring apiece and I with a wedding that boasted six fat pigs and a hundred-kilo sack of rice.

They walked me to the edge of the village and I continued on alone to Son La. They waved frantic good-byes and I promised insincerely to return, for I couldn't risk the trouble they might face if they saw me again.