Wise words, spoken on a trail in Vietnam
We were already hiking for a few days among the villages of the Sapa region in northern Vietnam, and, by then, the tranquillity of the rice fields and the cheeky nature of the muddy trails had become a familiar and beloved companion. Still, as we exited the area of the Black Hmong tribe, leaving their cute yet relentless sales stalkers behind, and we entered into the more fertile and slightly more affluent area of the Tay and the Red Dzao tribes, we were overwhelmed by new levels of serenity. Our trekking almost turned into a walking meditation, intertwined with brief exchanges of pleasantries with the occasional villagers or silent hellos with the buffalos that lingered, half-dipped, into the rice terraces’ ponds, surrounded by playful ducks and noisy chicken.
We rested on a lonely bridge for a while, our feet dangling carelessly over the stream, munching on luscious tomatoes and sandwiches before continuing along the river and exploring a new trail. The water was giggling by our side, and the energy of the land had grown so much on me that the discomfort from the destitution encountered in the previous villages faded away, leaving only warmth and peace.
As we reconnected with the main path leading to the next hamlet – our destination for the night – we were welcomed by the thundering roar of a waterfall. We eagerly searched through the thick foliage, trying to determine the direction of the noise and the location of the cascading waters, which, judging by the echoing rumble, sounded spectacular. Yet, the forest insisted on concealing the site, like a sanctuary that the uninitiated ones are not allowed to access.
We pouted with disappointment as we were forced to continue our way, denied the privilege of the discovery, our cameras, unused and discontented, sliding back into our bags. Our young Vietnamese guide, Khang, observed the unfolding of our emotions with the typical detachment of his race and the comfort installed by his familiarity with the path. “There are some corners in the world,” he finally spoke softly, “which are not meant to be seen by many, nor are they destined to become the theme of a photo. Their gift is their mystery and not their beauty, as we learn to experience them mostly with our heart.”
These were wise words coming from a young man who had seen nothing but his rural town and a cluster of nearby villages. They lingered with us as we spent the rest of the day in casual exploration and, at night, as we turned to sleep in yet another attic of a local house, we confessed that that moment by the turn of the trail, with our eyes condemned to “blindness” and our hearts forced to receiving, was possibly the highlight of our trip.
Photo credits: © Konstantina Sakellariou
