I lost Stan at Bac Ha. Or perhaps he lost me...
The Buffalo markets are in full swing. Large doe-eyed beasts with threatening
horns, mill around the hilltop, not appreciating the view of the tableau of
stalls and produce in the marketplace below.
A steep flight of stone stairs had drawn us up to the mound, muddy and smelling unmistakably of bovine. I can’t tell if my boots are sticking to mud or to manure. Here, sage men, with noncommittal hands thrust deep in their pockets, nod to one another, knowingly. It is the domain of the menfolk. Behind the valley is a sleepy, hazy watercolour-backdrop of rural tribal life. The colours are desaturated and seem to melt into each other, as if the clouds in the valley have diluted all that they’ve touched.
A Hmong woman gives her baby a “horsey” ride on the back of a supine buffalo. It seems not to care at all. A pair of rival buffalo lock their gnarly horns, snorting menacingly, as they settle a territorial dispute. Each one tethered loosely to a rock by a ragged piece of rope. A man sits on his haunches nearby, a cigarette in hand, unperturbed. Stan is no-where to be seen.
I assume he has continued on without me.
Below me, the Sunday markets are a swirling palette of colour. A wagon train of red-roofed buildings encircle the blue tarps of the produce stalls. I negotiate stone stairs down to the dog market. I am at once fascinated and abhorred by what I see. I squeeze off a few frames, wondering if they will ever see the light of day. A puppy urinates as his new owner drags him along by a string tied to his collar. Dressed in black leathers, helmet perched on the back of his head, a man laughs to a friend, as he cradles a fluffy brown pup in his arms. I put my judgement aside, as I stumble over a basket of chickens. Village life can be harsh.
Every step presents another photo, and I am drawn into a massive tide of people rolling through the narrow aisles of the markets. I stop to photograph the meat stalls, bloodied carcasses and legs with the furry fetlocks and hooves still attached. I observe the fresh faces of the Hmong girls, with their apple-cheeked babies swaddled on their backs. Mountains of fiery chillies spill across blankets of tangerines, colours of eye-piercing brilliance. Piles of tobacco look like wood shavings. Men squat and feathers of blue smoke curl skyward from their ancient bamboo pipes.
Through a chink in a blue tarpaulin I can see back across the markets to the hilltop Buffalo yard. At the top of the stairs I can just make out a tiny silhouette of Stan. I zoom in with my lens, but he has gone. Could he have been there all the time? If so, he will not be impressed that I left him long ago, without communicating.
I swim against the tide of people streaming through the markets. I am pushed and pummelled as I duck and weave between baskets and babies, retracing my steps, past the smelly soup kitchens, the ground awash with offal. The Hmong people are here to barter, and I am just in their way.
Stan never left the Buffalo market. Waiting frustratingly for me with a lot less than patience. He tries to be angry, but it dissipates as quickly as the mountain mists.