Sapa Theatre

Greetings,

 All the tears, rivers of loss. Introspection.

 Now here below mist mountain market. Java. The Vietnamese tourists pulling around their weekend rolling suitcase carts. They are here to eat, gamble, sing, dance with  strangers, and buy cheap Chinese plastic products. 

They are an army in high heels, floppy hats, sunglasses, shiny belts, and lost eyes.

They run to stand in front of the Catholic Church to have their photo snapped off. Most ignore the local girls. A woman slows down in her long march toward consumerism to look at a H’mong girl’s offerings; a handmade belt, a think colorful wrist wearable, a thin wallet. The wallet is thinner than the girl.

Once the the woman slows down she is surrounded.

A chorus of voices, “Buy From Me! Buy From Me!”

The woman faints. Another buyer takes her place near blue tarp patchwork junk dealers. Watches, cheap imitations, pants, shirts, knickknacks. 

The eyes of youth scanning 6:05 a.m. Elements - elaborate colors and fabrics. Threads. Threads.

Street theatre.

Red tied school kids in uniformed mass hysteria, deprived of sleep stagger uphill to a bright yellow school building where a young boy pounds out a rhythm on a ceremonial drum. Come all yea faithful, joyful and trumpet.

Two big brown dogs dogs hump on the street in front of the stoned church where tourists gather for a photo shoot. Local Vietnamese women selling this market are armed with camera bags poke and prod the women, husbands, boys and girls, lost and found into manageable groups for the moment. The moment they will remember forever. The moment framed on their family alternative votive candle flaming, this moment. Caught in time. Frozen alive! 

Here we are, she said to her friends later. Look. A church. I am in front of it.

A blond European tourist wearing rubber flip flops walks past the scene. Her t-shirt says, “Love My Bones.” I wonder if she is a specialist in marrow transplants.

I am smiling at every stranger along life’s magical story time inside the heavy forested, along steep stone trails. Yellow wildflowers fill the fields where water buffalo graze.

So there I was at 6:16 a.m. as the V tourists poured into Sapa. They poured off the bus, wearing red cotton baseball hats designed for the Great Union Hotel. It sprawls across green hills above the church. A fore lorn bunch of exotic creatures. They travel in bunches, like bananas. 

The economy class of style, luxury, and pizzazz-a-lama and the H’mong were already hard at work - pushing their handicrafts. These ebony, black spinning colors, all the hand made rainbows, skirts, aprons, blue-black tribes, flowering ethnology. Derivations. 

Metta.