Old Stories of Bac Ha Market
In the writer’s memory, the old Bac Ha was wrapped in morning mist. After a long, rough journey from Xin Man, he would wake up in a tent pitched on a hill overlooking the quiet town below. From there, he would wander down into the market, drawn by the sounds of trading and the smell of food cooking — in search of a warm breakfast and a glimpse of local life.
A Highland Breakfast
That morning’s meal was a bowl of red rice noodle soup, made from a unique local grain found only in Bac Ha. Unlike the silky, delicate pho served elsewhere, this version was rustic and nutty, its hand-rolled noodles firm and flavorful. Breakfast here was never complete without a small glass of corn liquor, casually poured from a bottle waiting on the table. One couldn’t help but wonder, if mornings started like this, how lively must the nights be?
A Vibrant Weekend Market
By the time he reached the market square, it was already teeming with people. The weekend market in Bac Ha is a world of colors, scents, and sounds - fruits and spices, meats and herbs, familiar yet strangely different. What sets it apart is not just the goods on display, but the language of the Hmong traders calling out to one another, the unfamiliar produce, and the atmosphere where almost everything seems to be for sale.
He wandered from stall to stall, pausing to watch playful Bac Ha puppies, farmers haggling over buffalo, and bird sellers negotiating with animated gestures. Though he didn’t understand their words, he could read their expressions - joy, satisfaction, and the simple pleasure of a good bargain. And then, as noon approached, men would drift toward the shade, bottles half-empty beside them, resting in the soft sunlight with contented smiles.
Moments of Stillness
Later, the writer stopped by a small tea stall. The woman running it greeted him with a cheerful smile. He ordered coffee out of habit, not expecting much in such a remote place. Yet, to his surprise, she served him a phin-style coffee, thin, mild, but somehow comforting. Sitting there, sipping the faintly aromatic brew, he watched the lively market scene unfold and thought to himself: there’s something special about enjoying coffee in the middle of a mountain market like this.
Before heading to visit the Hoang A Tuong Palace, a relic of Bac Ha’s past, he couldn’t resist buying a small can of corn liquor to take home. Laughing, he called out to the vendor, “Fill it up for me, sister!” It was the perfect souvenir from a market that, despite all its changes, still carries the warmth, simplicity, and human connection that make Bac Ha forever timeless.
