AMONG THE HMONG

I had heard that the Hmong are snappy dressers, but my jaw still dropped at the sight of them when we pulled in to Sapa, a former hill station in northwestern Vietnam. Decked out in colorful embroidery, shiny jewelry, and velvety black legwarmers, they cut a regal form against the backdrop of terraced green rice fields. We hired one of them, a young woman named So, to guide us on a trek to the surrounding villages.

As we wove our way past water buffalos and bubbling mountain streams, we acquired a small following of women—one with deep wrinkles etched across her face, another with a gold tooth and a baby—until there were seven of us slipping along the muddy path. While Joe and I panted to match their pace, the Hmong kept their hands busy splitting and wrapping hemp fibers for the traditional clothes they make.

When we reached our destination five hours later, I collapsed in a heap. No one else seemed to have broken a sweat; the old woman was casually smoking tobacco from an enormous bamboo pipe. Turns out they had walked with us for half the day simply to sell us two dollars worth of hemp bracelets.