Buy Something From ME?

After recovering from intestinal woes, I booked a tour (oy, but what's a tourist to do?) for a two-day trek and overnight village homestay in Sapa, that former French hill station in the Tonkinese Alps. It is a pretty fascinating place; you'd almost think you were in Europe, wandering through a colorful mist-shrouded town of cobblestone steps and moldering turrets, except for the hundreds of local tribeswomen in indigo and crimson relentlessly (and I mean RELENTLESSLY) hawking their wares. You also notice, if the mist clears for a moment, the dizzying view of the rice terraces below (plus, of course, things like roast dog on a spit and people dragging bamboo logs behind their motorbikes).

This "trek" into the valley below Sapa was hardly a trek by my standards; mostly a stroll down some muddy trails along muddy rice paddies to several different farming villages intertwined with well-beaten tourist paths. Especially after hiking the Kalalau trail alone in the rain with a huge pack, I was amused and at first rather insulted by the tiny Hmong grandma offering to hold my hand... until of course that hand came in handy on a few occasions.

Overall, it was beautiful, and fun, particularly because the two French and British couples I'd been randomly grouped with were all sweet, hilarious, liberal. Getting out of the city was also superb. We had delicious, fresh meals, went swimming near a thundering waterfall, watched ducks and kittens and water buffaloes, slept under mosquito nets on bamboo thatch floors, drank rice wine with our Hmong guide ("wine," that is, if by wine you mean moonshine), and saw plenty of rice cultivation up close. I love villages, what can I say. Strangely enough (or perhaps not so strangely?), a huge part of the reason I like to do things like village treks and homestays is because I covet the lifestyle. This is ironic, at least in Sapa, because the whole ethos of the homestay thing seems to be a mix of ignorance, curiosity, and something akin to pity. The villagers who follow you for miles and eventually demand that you buy something from them seem to solicit it, at any rate. That's the frustrating, annoying, sad, relentless card they play, making it seem more and more wrong that you're even there. It's the whole system, of course, that I find the most troubling, pitting tourist against local in a voyeuristic, guilt-driven, manipulative power play, a wad of cash the only thing bridging the chasm between them. As our guide, a vivacious and giggly eighteen-year-old named Chi, told us, "The people used to be afraid of the tourists. Now, the tourists are afraid of the people."

Although I had a good time in Sapa, this dynamic is very, very uncomfortable, especially for a softie like me. I am, despite all the thorns I've grown in India and Vietnam, easily swindled. Despite my instinct that it's all a lie, I find myself cornered; the white man's burden surfaces, along with the much stronger desire to avoid confrontation and to please others, and I collapse under the pressure of their three-pronged attacks. I guess this really happened only once in Sapa, this prying the dong out of me though I didn't want a thing they were selling. It's that stupid voice that says, "Well, that IS a traditional Hmong purse, and this IS a tiny, ancient woman who shouldn't be working anymore, and maybe SOMEONE would appreciate it as a gift, and it IS only two dollars..." that does me in in the end. The merest sliver of hesitation, and you're cooked. As Rob, one of the Brits in our group and the most gregarious, told me, "Y'see, it's like this: Lions hunt in packs, see, and they prey on the littlest, weakest ones...." Totally accurate.

(After that last defeat, I simply repeated NO NO NO NO NO NO NO in a constant hum, avoiding eye contact at all costs; wish I could have worn some kind of a NO VACANCY sign round my neck. Very few times have I had a stronger desire to scream LEAVE ME ALONE at the top of my lungs.)

What fascinates me most about the vending culture in Sapa is that every single woman and child selling something, from the heavily touristed villages to Sapa town, uses the same ubiquitous phrase in English: "Buy something from ME?" with a huge leap in pitch and volume at the end. This emphasis is so extreme that you begin have the distinct impression that everyone sidling up to you is crooning, "ME? ME? ME?"

I don't know why they all say this. The vast majority never went to school beyond the primary grades; even Chi, who spoke English incredibly well, said she learned it from the tourists. So... who taught these ladies to chant ME, ME, ME? Did they come up with this formula, this specific lilt and tone? Is it a translation, an imitation, a Darwinian evolution? I'm intrigued because it makes perfect sense. Every single thing these women are selling is identical. The same earrings, the same purses, the same pants, shawls, hats, pillow cases. The same Hmong embroidery (there were other tribes: the Red Tzay, the Dao, but they weren't nearly as prevalent, nor as loud), the same "Sapa Silver," same, same, same. Even the fruit stands and pho noodle restaurants in the markets are the same. In fact, this is the case throughout Vietnam and most of the developing world. Surely there is some difference in quality among all these identical products, but how can the customer be expected to know? The only way to differentiate is to make it personal. It's psychological warfare, and it works.

For example, a horde of women started on our trek in Sapa town and came all the way down into the valley with us, holding our hands, keeping us from slipping in the mud, asking us questions and handing us these incredible braided grass creations (I was offered a flower wreath and a heart-shaped wand). One of the women, tiny and grizzled, chose me as her charge, and asked me the usual where was I from and so on. Then: How old is your mama? That was unexpected. Where is your mama? She shook her head and cooed as I described how far away my mother was.

Naturally, then, by lunchtime, when we were suddenly bombarded with dozens of women chorusing ME ME ME and battling each other to get to us in an absurd cacophony, the woman who held my hand gave me a pout and said, "But ME? You should buy from ME!" I caved and bought some earrings (which I do love, actually) and then the chanting grew louder: surely, if you bought one thing, that means you can buy everything, if not for any other reason than "You buy from her. You don't buy from ME?"

This is how they make a living: Forming these mini-relationships, guilt-tripping the cornered tourist into a purchase she had no intention of making, because, in the end, it has nothing to do with the product itself. It's only about the favor that you're doing the woman who's selling it. The time of my great defeat occurred because an ancient great-grandma silently took my hand as we walked along, not to help me through the mud since it was a flat, easy path, but just because.... because.... um, actually, why is this little old lady holding my hand? But what was I going to do about it? Throw her hand away in disgust? Say something she couldn't understand? She didn't speak a word, just walked calmly along, holding my hand in her small, dry one, until about fifteen minutes later she slyly unsheathed her embroidery, making sounds and gestures to suggest that of course, now that we were friends, I'd buy something from her.

It sounds silly, but in the moment, believe me, it's infuriating -- and heartbreaking.