by Justine Southwick

Created on: October 28, 2008   Last Updated: November 24, 2008

Cows with vicious-looking horns munch contentedly on grass in their owners' tiny yards, children wearing the traditional clothing of their hill tribes run laughing in our wake, and a haze lingers over the rice paddies in the valley, lending the area a mysterious air. I'm in Sapa (Sa Pa to the locals), a chilly, French-influenced town nestled in the highlands of north Vietnam. The mountainous region is known for its excellent trekking, and I'm here for a two-day hike into the valley to one of the local villages.

A local driver drops us at the head of a steep track leading into the valley, and as soon as we step out we're surrounded by more Black H'Mong women. These women accompany us for an hour along the track, so anxious are they to sell their goods jewellery and items of clothing they've made themselves. They speak excellent English and are clearly used to tourists.

We're walking 15km today; our goal is a homestay in the small village of Ban Tho at the bottom of the valley. The track starts downhill but has us fooled; shortly into the hike the track rises steeply over a ridge, the dust turns to mud and despite the cold, we're soon all sweating and desperately sucking at our water bottles. I and the other Westerners stumble and slip along the trail, but Ha, our local guide and the H'Mong women are nimble as mountain goats in comparison. They leap gracefully from rock to rock down the hillside, stopping only to spit in the dust or wipe their noses on their hands. One of them appoints herself my guardian angel, looking back when we cross streams to ensure I don't fall in, and holding out a work-roughened hand to help me down the muddy parts, of which there are several. She peppers me with questions all the while: "Where are you from? What is your name? Do you have a husband? How many brothers do you have? Do you want to buy something? We're special friends, you buy from me."

In the hope that I will, she proudly places a woven grass crown on my head and presents me with a flax horse. Just then, the Australian girl walking in front of me screams and clutches her arm, but and before I can register what's happened my guardian, panicked, grabs my arm and pulls me back the way we've come. She and her two friends drag me and a couple of other hikers uphill through a bamboo stand. We have no choice but to trust them. Squeezing through tiny gaps in the bamboo, we emerge at the top of a hill and splash down through muddy rice paddies to rejoin the group. When I find out

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