Vietnam
The old train strained as it pulled away from Hanoi into the humid night, slow and steady as we headed north, departing from the old French-colonial train station that echoed the elegance of past decades.
I’d booked the overnight train to Lào Cai with the goal to reach the Hmong villages near the border with Laos.By dawn, we rolled into Lào Cai. Fog clung to the station like smoke, and I spotted a man holding a bent cardboard sign with my name on it.
His name was Bao—thin and soft-spoken. He was someone who'd spent his life in the highlands and knew it well. We threw my gear into his Land Cruiser and headed into the hills.
As we climbed into the mountains, the road narrowed and twisted through thick clouds. We passed through small villages where children ran barefoot on damp ground, their laughter filling the air.
I spent nearly two weeks in the north—sleeping in small guesthouses, eating meals of all kinds cooked over open fires. The longer I stayed, people stopped looking at me like a foreigner and I stopped needing to explain why I was there. My presence became part of the scenery. Everything settled into something slow and deliberate.
In a village near the Laos border, I found incredible beauty and hospitality. The mist hung low in the mornings, curling over the hills. I photographed without rush, every frame held stillness. Every click felt like a small act of gratitude.
The drive back south unfolded like slowly with fog and rain—through valleys, then foothills, and finally the flat sprawl of the Red River Delta. We passed towns where dog meat was displayed openly on street stalls, roasted whole beside smoky grills. Bao explained the cultural roots, and I listened. I didn’t photograph it. Some things I could witness, but not preserve.
And then, Hanoi emerged from the haze—loud, fast, endless. The Land Cruiser pulled up to the front of the Metropole Hotel, and I stepped out like someone returning from a different world. My boots were caked with mountain dust, my bag heavier than before.
The hotel’s grandeur was classic colonial—French shutters, white columns, dark woods, the kind of quiet wealth that feels completely removed from the road I’d just traveled. I checked in and made my way to the wood paneled room where the sheets were crisp and the ceiling fans rotated slowly above.
That night, I sat in the Bamboo Bar with a cocktail in hand, reviewing two weeks of images under the soft clink of ice and jazz. I had gone to photograph life at the edge of the map, and returned with something more than photographs. I returned with the knowledge that the world still had special cultures and people whose experiences are so different than others and yet share so many of the same human traits and values.
