An alternative to hiking Sapa: try this hill-tribe trek in Vietnam instead

This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK).

In the mountainous jungles of Hoa Binh province, a dark leaf glistens on a pale tree. “Heartbreak grass. Touch it, and you could die,” says hiking guide Manh Tan, with alarming insouciance. “Keep an eye out for snakes, too. King cobras, pit vipers — it pays to watch your step around here.”

Our surroundings, in the remote valley of Mai Chau some 80 miles southwest of Hanoi in northern Vietnam, are so serenely beautiful that it’s hard to believe they harbour such dangers. The forests of fig and alder trees are still but for the rustling of our boots on the leaf-strewn floor. Occasionally the trees clear to reveal sweeping panoramas of the valley, where the Ma River winds through orchards of dragon fruit and mango trees, and jagged fingers of karst erupt like stalagmites from flooded rice paddies.

“There were tigers here, too, as recently as the war,” Tan goes on. “But we haven’t seen one for a while.” More common — for now, at least — are pangolins, which local people still hunt to sell their scales for use in traditional medicine. “This is why we need tourism,” says Tan. “To show the people there’s another way to earn money.” Tan is leading me to the village of Pu Bin, where an embryonic community tourism programme is transforming the lives of the local White Thai people. These are the region’s predominant ethnic group, named for the white tunics of their traditional dress, who originated in the same area of southern China as the Thai peoples of Thailand and Laos.

Quite suddenly, the thick jungle thins out and we emerge into a clearing where a tiny wooden stilt house, creaking under its own weight, has all the essentials of rural Mai Chau life: a rice paddy, a plodding water buffalo and a satellite dish. A cheery “Xin chao!” (‘Hello!’) drifts from the upstairs window, where a man appears, clutching a wooden flute on which he blows a jolly tune. Unprompted, he invites us inside and, leaving our shoes at the bottom of a wooden ladder, we climb into the house. It’s dark but cosy and warm, the ceiling blackened by wood smoke rising from the kitchen stove. Bundles of herbs and dried mushrooms are hanging on the wall.

“Medicinal,” explains the homeowner, a spry, rosy-cheeked man who introduces himself as Ha Luong. “We don’t have much here, but we live long lives.” His stilt house, Luong explains, is typical of this region — a hangover from the time when tigers needed to be kept from entering houses at night while people slept. Luong picks up his flute again and plays a lilting tune, interspersed with simple, sung verses in Tai Khao, the language of the White Thai. “Kids only learn Vietnamese in school; our own language isn’t valued. But it’s important we speak it,” he says quietly. “Or we will forget.”

We say goodbye to Luong and walk through the jungle again before emerging, having hiked for three hours in total, at Pu Bin, a cluster of wooden stilt houses, bordered by cabbage patches and rice fields, clinging scenically to a mist-wreathed mountainside. We’re met by Cao Thi Hong Nhung, the young woman in charge of the project to bring community tourism to Pu Bin. Tourism has barely reached Mai Chau, making it a much quieter and more peaceful alternative to Sapa. The former French colonial hill station has become the hub for hill-trekking tourism in Vietnam, complete with casinos, cable-cars — and crowds. “Until we built the guesthouse 10 years ago, there was no electricity or paved roads here,” Hong Nhung says. “We only get one rice harvest per year — down in the Mekong Delta they have three — so we needed a new source of income. That’s where tourism comes in.”

Walking through the village, we pass women standing in a paddy field, knee-deep in water, planting tiny green rice shoots. A man emerges from the fields holding a net on a long stick, which he’s been using to catch golden apple snails — an invasive species that eats rice plants, but is cooked locally with chilli and lemongrass. He introduces himself as Ha Heung. Like many of the men I see working the fields, he’s wearing a rounded Vietnamese army helmet, which looks far too new to be 50-year-old war surplus. Heung explains that the helmets are still made across northern Vietnam, the heartland of communist resistance against the US during the war in the 1950s to 70s, and have become a must-have civilian accessory. “We’re proud of the war,” he says. “We beat the US Army. Not many people can say that.”

Heung leads us into a simple, open-sided house, where an old man — Heung’s uncle, Ha Teung — is bent over a pile of bamboo strips, weaving them into baskets traditionally used by villagers and now also sold to travellers as handicrafts. He invites me to try my hand at it and after barely five minutes, my soft fingers are shredded and splintered from the sharp wood. Deciding he’s seen enough, Teung stands up and disappears to find us a drink.

He re-emerges with an unlabelled green glass bottle of the ubiquitous local tipple: home-brewed rice wine. Teung pours the wine into shot glasses and motions for us to knock the drink back in one. I oblige, but wince as the strong spirit hits the back of my throat, and hesitate when Teung immediately pours out another shot. Teung is in his seventies and having travellers here is a big change for him, but one that he welcomes. “Tourism is good,” he says. “Visitors respect our culture and we learn about theirs. It gives us a new source of income, but also more to do when we’re not farming — making handicrafts, making wine.”

It’s nearly time for lunch. Hong Nhung leads me to another wooden stilt house and introduces me to its owner, Ha Thi Hong, an elderly woman in a purple velvet shirt and a checked headscarf. She offers a handshake and beams, revealing shiny, obsidian-coloured teeth — the result of a blackening tradition once considered a sign of great beauty among White Thai women. Hong is 82 years old and still the leader of the village Keeng Long dancing team — an ancient folk routine that mirrors the movements of rice production. I’m handed a giant pestle and mortar and entrusted to pound some peanuts, while Hong wraps packets of sticky rice in banana leaves.

I’ve heard a group of local women are preparing a traditional bamboo dance to welcome us to the village. “All the old people come out to see it, not just the tourists. It’s wonderful,” says Hong. Sure enough, after lunch I find a growing crowd of spectators in the courtyard. Bamboo poles are laid in a grid-like formation on the floor and the dance team file out, dressed in brocade skirts and colourful batik scarves. Hong explains the arrival of travellers is helping to preserve authentic cultural traditions like this, which she remembers from her youth and were in danger of dying out. “We almost lost the bamboo dance, but tourism has brought it back,” she says with a smile.

Published in the July/August 2025 issue of National Geographic Traveller (UK).

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