My wrist is adorned with bright ribbons and bracelets from Mu and Shu. Those girls like little sprites in their dark linen costumes, their hair swept up in black headpieces, bangles stacked practically to the elbow. They acted as my guardian angels, magically appearing on my path or coming up behind me, wrapping their tiny arms around me, clasping their small hands over mine, calling my name in a sing-song voice that reminded me of my youngest sister when she was a girl.

“Good morning Ayoung. Ayoung, how did you sleep? Ayoung, you have freckles. Ayoung, you have nice teeth.”

It’s incomprehensible to me that they can be so happy, that after waking at 5:30 a.m. and hoofing it all day on their feet, trying to sell bracelets or pillowcases, a mouth-piece instrument, a shawl, a purse—that after a full day of this, they see me and smile and chatter in a manner that suggests they are just warming up.

“Hello Ayoung. I remember you. You are from America. You have two brothers and two sisters.”

How can they be so smart? Answers I mumbled to them in the dark night, just off a ten-hour bus ride, feeling grumpy and disoriented. I pushed past a sea of little bodies and left them huddled in the street while I went up and took a hot shower, changed into clean clothes, and slept on a soft bed.

The next morning, Mu spots me and stakes me out with her stream of chatter.

“Good morning, Ayoung. Do you remember me? I remember you. You live in America. Do you live in California? California is very beautiful.”

I stop in my tracks. How does this ten year old girl, born and raised in a remote village in Northern Vietnam, know about California?

“How do you know it’s beautiful?” I ask her.

“I saw a postcard,” she responds.

Ah. “Where did you learn English?”

“From the tourists.”

“You’re very smart Mu.”

“Thank you.” She smiles, then, “Where are you going?”

“To buy some film. Where are you going?” I ask, knowing she’s going wherever I’m going.

She smiles shyly, “I’m walking around.”

She waits outside the film store. When I come out, I meet her cousin who stands next to her and they are so darling with their arms around each other.

“This is Shu,” Mu tells me.

“Hello Shu.”

“Hello Ayoung.” Shu’s smile lights up her face, literally, a glowing glittery face. It’s wonderful to look at. Shu says, “Ayoung, you are very beautiful.”

Oh, she got me. Not only would I buy a purse, shawl, and several bracelets from her, I would fall in love with her.

I will stop here and explain some things: Mu and Shu don’t go to school, but they speak three languages fluently: Hmong, Vietnamese, and English. They’re incredibly smart and clever. These are cultivated traits in order to sell their products—in order to survive. From the very beginning it was clear that while the girls liked me, there were to be some business transactions and that I was to buy exclusively from them. 

However, they were never impolite about it. In the Asian tradition, the business of business should be pleasant and conducted in such a way that both parties retain their “face.” And then there was the reality that I was being inducted into the business practice of the girls, which included a lot of hugging, at times with both of them attached to each hip, making me feel not so much like a client but a mother figure.

The following morning I make a slip of the tongue.

“Did you sleep well Shu?”

“Yes,” she nods.

“Did you eat breakfast?”

“No,” she says, still smiling. Her nose is running and she uses her sleeve to wipe it.

My heart sinks. Of course not. I remembered what my Vietnamese guide had said the day before, that their tribe only lives about 60 years because there literally isn’t enough food. There isn’t enough food. They’re starving.

I could hardly bargain with the girls. This lump in my throat—I wanted to stuff all my money in their pockets, I wanted to bring them home with me and put them in school where they’d be the smartest girls in class. Instead, they gave me too good a price on a blanket. Just over $2.00.

Jesus, $2.00 for a hand-dyed, hand-woven blanket, and they don’t eat enough. After I bought it, they each gave me bracelets from their bags—”souvenirs”, they told me. The bright red and green one is from Mu; the black, red, and white from Shu.

I can’t just give them money; I can’t just take them out of their environment. It’s bigger than that, these bandaid measures. We need to feed each other.

I hadn’t wanted to come to Sapa. I had heard enough stories of tourists Going to See the Hill Tribes as if Going to See the Gibbons. I hadn’t wanted to add to the destruction of their culture by bringing my money, I didn’t want to see these people debased and desperate. And yet, those girls healed me. It isn’t one way, this exchange of grand benevolence. It’s easy for me, even thoughtless, base, obscene. For me, I pull out the money. 

For them, it takes their whole heart, their razor memory, their smiling faces, their swallowing of defeat when there isn’t much else to swallow. They are the ones who, with their ten year old souls, set me whole again on my path.

The bracelets they continually tied on my arm represent more than I could ever give them. With each bangle, my heart was healed. I knew I was loved in a simple way. Maybe it had to do with the money I spent, my status as tourist, the postcard of California and the natural ache for things beautiful, but it didn’t matter to me.

In the big picture, I will outlive them simply because I happened to be born where I was born. They will marry in five to six years, have children and grandchildren. They will spend their lives selling their wares and charming tourists. They will become addicted to opium and they will die with bracelets on their wrists. As for me, perhaps I will eat too much and live too long. It seems arbitrary the way these things work out.

On my last night I painted cards for the girls and wrote on the backs: You are a sweet girl, and I know you’ll grow up to be a very smart and beautiful woman and everyone will be so proud of you. They made me read it to them, since they are unable. I gave them some cheap blue-beaded bracelets I happened to have in my bag. Then it was my turn to initiate some business.

“All right, I need two bracelets for my sisters.” I started with Shu. “How much do you want for this Shu?”

She shook her head. “You start.” She would never start the bargaining with me.

I pulled out 30,000 dong and showed it to her. “Okay?”

She smiled, embarrassed, then after awhile, nodded and put it in her pocket. She knew I had broken the rule—I hadn’t bargained, and overpaid by a lot. She put the money away, then pulled off a delicately woven bracelet from her small wrist and tightened it around mine.

“I’ll never forget you Ayoung,” she said, and wrapped her arms around me.

The morning I left they sat, waiting by the door of the guesthouse at 6:00 a.m. like little ants. We said our goodbyes and again Mu and Shu each tied another bracelet on my arm.

As I stepped onto the bus Shu called out, “See you later alligator!”

“Yes,” I nodded. In awhile, crocodile.