Leaving the Ha Giang Loop region to head toward Sapa is another full transition in northern Vietnam. The journey is usually done in several steps: a night bus back to Hanoi, then another transfer to Sapa. It’s long, often tiring, but it’s part of the trip. Little by little, the landscapes change, the mountains become softer, the valleys widen, and the air becomes cooler, almost more humid.

Sa Pa is a mountain town located near the Chinese border. Historically, it was a former French colonial hill station, which still explains some buildings and architectural influences today. But what truly defines Sapa is its spectacular scenery: terraced rice fields clinging to the mountains, deep valleys often covered in mist, and an almost unreal atmosphere. The region is also home to several ethnic minority groups, especially the Hmong and Dao people, which makes the local culture very rich, with agricultural traditions, colorful clothing, and a still very present rural way of life.

To book my 4-day trek, I once again went through a hostel. Over time, I’ve noticed that booking through hostels is often cheaper and still very accessible. You still need to take the time to check reviews and compare a bit, but in Sapa, there are plenty of options. Everything is quite organized for travelers, so even without a fixed plan, it’s easy to find something on the spot.

For this 4-day trek, I paid around 150 CAD, all included except tips. This covered meals, water, local guides, and very simple accommodation in villages, often basic homes or small shelters. It was in a group, and our dynamic was already quite unique from the start. There were five girls, including two who looked like they had stepped out of a New York fashion show, with outfits completely unsuited for the mountains. Let’s just say the mud and rain quickly brought everyone back to the same reality. Between slippery paths and once-immaculate clothes turning brown within hours, there was a lot of laughter. One of them even fell straight into the mud, which pretty quickly marked the end of the “fashion trek” vibe. After the first day, they all went to buy more suitable clothes and shoes, which made the rest of the trek much more realistic.

And then the trek really began.

For 4 days, we walked through landscapes that constantly changed depending on altitude and light. We often started from higher ground, with completely open views over entire valleys of terraced rice fields. These rice terraces formed waves carved into the mountains, sometimes a very vivid green, sometimes more golden depending on the fields and the season. As we went down, the trails became narrower, sometimes slippery with rain, lined with bamboo, small wild plants, and dense forest areas where light barely passed through.

We crossed several Hmong and Dao villages, each with its own very distinct identity, and that was part of what made trekking in Sa Pa so rich.

The Hmong villages, often located higher up or on fairly steep slopes, had something very deeply rooted in the mountains. The houses were generally made of dark wood, sometimes reinforced with bamboo or stone, built to withstand wind, rain, and the terrain. We saw many everyday scenes outside: women weaving or embroidering, children playing in the dirt, animals moving freely between homes. Traditional clothing, often very detailed and colorful, stood out strongly against the green rice field landscape. There were also local markets in some villages, where people sold agricultural products, textiles, or handmade items, in a simple but very lively atmosphere.

The Dao villages, on the other hand, had a slightly different atmosphere, sometimes more spread out, often located closer to forested areas or waterways. The houses were also made of wood, but with different architectural details, sometimes with wider roofs or slightly raised structures. Dao women are very recognizable in the region with their traditional red, black, or embroidered outfits, often accompanied by very elaborate headpieces or scarves. There was something very powerful in the way culture was still so visible in daily life, not just for ceremonies, but in everyday gestures.

In both cases, what stood out the most was the direct connection to the land. The fields were everywhere around the houses, buffaloes were part of the daily landscape, and agricultural activities shaped the rhythm of life. Nothing was separate: home, work, animals, and nature were all part of the same space.

As we passed through these villages, it often felt like entering places where time doesn’t move at the same pace as what we know elsewhere. Everything felt slower, simpler, but also very organized around survival and the seasons. And even though we were only passing through, a quiet sense of respect naturally settled in, as if we were entering a world that had been continuing for a long time without needing explanation.

Children were everywhere in the villages. They often appeared out of nowhere, barefoot, smiling, running through the fields or along the paths just to follow us for a few minutes. They said “hello” while laughing, sometimes trying a few words in different languages, with a very natural curiosity and no hesitation.

Each day ended in a new village where we stayed in homestays. We usually arrived in the late afternoon, when the light started to fade over the mountains and the mist slowly returned to the valleys. The families welcomed us directly into their homes, very simple but warm houses. Sometimes it was one large shared room with mattresses on the floor, sometimes separate rooms but always very basic. Electricity was irregular in some places, sometimes limited to a few hours in the evening, and there was no heating despite the humidity and mountain chill.

The bathrooms were also very simple, sometimes outside, with cold water. But in that context, everything felt normal. You adapt to the rhythm of the place without really thinking about it.

In the evenings, we often gathered around large tables with the families or other travelers. We ate homemade local dishes: rice, sautéed vegetables, soups, tofu, sometimes meat or dishes slowly cooked over fire. I even joined a family in making spring rolls. The meals were simple but incredibly comforting after full days of walking. There were always laughs, exchanged glances, attempts at communication through gestures, mixed words, imperfect translations that made everything even more alive.

And then there was the fatigue. A very physical but pleasant kind of tiredness. Heavy legs, slightly stiff shoulders, clothes sometimes still damp from rain or mud. We fell asleep early, often in near-complete silence, broken only by the sounds of nature outside: rain on the roof, wind in the trees, animals in the distance.

We also woke up early. Often with soft light entering the room, or the sound of the village slowly coming back to life. Sometimes we would step outside and already see the mountains wrapped in mist, as if nothing had moved overnight except us.

This trek in Sa Pa was not just about walking through beautiful landscapes. It was about passing through real, inhabited, active places. Seeing how people live with the mountain, not just in it. And over the days, we were no longer just “passing through” villages: we were briefly part of the rhythm.