Aboard a night bus from Hanoi towards the town of Sapa located on the Chinese border, I realised I was alone for the first time during my travels after leaving my friend behind in India last week. Silence enwrapped us as everyone around me slept soundly. The thick darkness outside embraced a full iridescent moon- the sole witness to my current thoughts. Thoughts of excruciating loneliness and hopes that this trip would change that all. We arrived at the crack of dawn. I stepped off the vehicle to be greeted by crisp fresh air. Majestic mountain peaks cascading with greenery engulfed my surroundings. The sounds of a river-flowing nearby filled my ears. My group scuttled around, drinking in the vast views when a small crowd of local women approached us. They were dressed in beautiful garments; each carefully handwoven with intricate designs. Some wore straw hats that hid their coy smiles upon seeing us. I gathered they spoke only Vietnamese as through meticulous translation, our bus driver explained that they were our home-stay mothers for the following 3 days. A petite middle-aged woman then stepped forward and pointed to herself saying: ‘Name, Shu’. She beamed buoyantly and pulled me in for a hug. I felt welcome already. The quaint town was populated by various tribal groups and I was staying with the Black Hmong people who lived in the furthest valley. We began an extraneous 6-hour trek towards it led by Shu, a trek I was told they completed every day. The morning sun was beating heavily upon us as we attempted to climb steep hills and avoid slippery boulders obstructing our route. I almost fell when I felt a firm hand grab my arm. It was a young Vietnamese girl, with rich almond coloured skin and thick black hair tied back into a neat plait. ‘Are you okay?!’ she asked enthusiastically. I noticed she was bravely walking barefoot. ‘Yes! Thanks to you!’ ‘I am Kee, Shu’s granddaughter.’ Kee quickly became my loyal accomplice during the trek. With her great English, she described the lifestyle of local tribes, answering all my burning inquisitions. Her carefree and confident nature complimented by smart puns quickly brought the group together in great spirit. ‘Kee, why can I only see tribal women present? Where are all the men?’ ‘Sapa women are strong women!’ she laughed, ‘the men stay at home grazing animals while we leave every day to trade and gather groceries. Some women even bring their babies with them!’ she exclaimed, as she pointed to our group guides. Sure enough, all the women including the old and young were either carrying heavy baskets or had young children tied upon their backs. Slender and delicate women yet they trekked effortlessly, showcasing hidden incredible stamina. Conversation with Kee made our trek pleasant and reflective as we laughed and bonded over our contrasting lifestyles. I was enjoying my university summer-break while Kee was newly married. She explained that women in Sapa normally married before 16 and the youngest grandmother in her village was 32! She’d married ‘late’ at 19, giggling as we snaked through the Dao rice fields, ‘This is my husband’s village, that’s his father’s shop over there’. We arrived before sundown. That evening, I sat with sore feet bundling dozens of rice paper rolls and stewing rice milk with Shu upon their candle-lit veranda as Kee marvelled over my iPhone. There was no electricity nor gas this deep into the mountains. I had showered earlier for 2 minutes in cold water. I’d napped on a hard floor mattress nestled in mosquito nets in a room shared by 16 others. I’d played board games with Kee and her grandfather in the absence of Wifi. Yet I felt immensely content. It seemed this small community tucked away in these vast mountaintops and protected by star-studded skies thrived off of simplicity, resilience and nature. Shu and Kee knew little of life beyond their own routines, yet their happiness remained unmatched. My morning unease had transformed into tranquillity as I’d found a belonging. I’d found companionship in nature. In silence. In Kee. Lost in my thoughts, I hear a voice: ‘Hey Hanifa, your phone says - enter password. What is that?’