Can Cau Market, or Where to Sell Your Buffalo

At Can Cau market in the mountains of northern Vietnam, members of the Flower Hmong and other ethnic communities gather to trade textiles, food and livestock. Brightly coloured clothing fills one part of the market; hundreds of water buffaloes occupy another. Regarded as one of the largest buffalo markets in the north-west, it brings together animals, owners and prospective buyers. It is a place of hard bargaining, strong corn wine and the occasional reminder that standing behind two argumentative buffaloes is poor photographic planning.

“Be careful!” A smiling young man pointed behind me. I turned to see two buffaloes charging at each other through a cloud of dust, their horns locked and their owners shouting. I had been at Can Cau market only a short time and had already chosen what was clearly the least sensible place for a photographer to stand.

Northern Vietnam’s rugged mountains separate communities by distances that may look short on a map but feel considerably longer from a motorbike. Weekly markets bring people from scattered villages together to trade, meet and exchange news. At Can Cau, cultural traditions are not arranged for visitors: they are worn, traded, eaten and lived.

The morning had begun in darkness. At six o’clock, I rode a motorbike along the winding road from Si Ma Cai while fog covered the mountains and rice terraces. The road emerged and disappeared in the headlight, and the cold found every gap in my clothing. Somewhere ahead, people were already walking towards the market, some after journeys of several hours from surrounding villages.

At first light, Can Cau began to fill. Located in the mountains near the Chinese border in Lao Cai Province, Can Cau market brings together several ethnic communities, including the Flower Hmong, Blue Hmong, Giay – pronounced “Zay”, Black Dao and Nung to trade and meet. Fruit, vegetables, tools, fabric, clothing, rice and corn wine spread across the stalls. Then came the livestock, which appeared less enthusiastic about the weekly social occasion.

The Flower Hmong women were immediately recognisable in richly patterned clothing: embroidered blouses, pleated skirts, bright headscarves and bands of fabric wrapped around the calves. Red, orange, yellow, green and blue met in combinations that would have terrified a cautious fashion designer and delighted my camera. I was particularly fascinated by the skirts, made from metres of pleated fabric and worn with an ease I could not have managed. Some women crossed the muddy market in heeled shoes while I negotiated the same ground in my fancy Gore-Tex boots, yet somehow, they still had the advantage.

Clothing was not merely displayed; it was examined, compared, and bought. Women studied embroidered collars, sleeves, skirts, bags and jewellery with serious attention. Beside handmade pieces were increasing numbers of cheaper machine-made garments. Traditional skirts require considerable time, material, and skill, and synthetic alternatives offered convenience at a price difficult to ignore. Cultural change, I realised, does not always arrive dramatically. Sometimes it hangs quietly from the next stall.

Most people were absorbed in their own business and paid little attention to me. A few enterprising vendors selling embroidered bags were more alert to my presence. They recognised in me not an observer of cultural life, but a woman who clearly needed another bag. Their commercial judgement was not entirely wrong.

Beyond the textiles lay the part of Can Cau for which the market is famous: the buffalo trade. By early morning, the enclosure was crowded with animals, owners and buyers. A buffalo represents serious value, and every animal received a slow inspection. Buyers examined its build, legs and condition while attempting to look only mildly interested. The buffaloes managed indifference far more convincingly.

A buffalo represented serious money. At the time of my visit, prices commonly ranged from VND 10 million to VND 20 million, sometimes more, which explained why every leg and horn received such careful inspection. Some buyers waited until the market was ending, hoping to purchase unsold buffaloes at a lower price. Thin or undernourished animals could be fed and cared for at home, then returned to market later and sold for a profit.

Hmong and other local languages mingled with Vietnamese and occasional Chinese. So close to the border, Can Cau was not only a local gathering place but also part of a wider cross-border trade. I was told that some dealers came from Yunnan to buy buffaloes for meat, while Vietnamese farmers generally looked for strong animals to work in the rice fields.

Suddenly, the two males behind me locked horns. The crowd shifted instantly, finding good positions at a distance that suggested considerable local experience. I, possessing none, was already much closer. A man explained that such clashes could reveal an animal’s strength to prospective buyers. They also revealed how quickly I could move while holding two cameras.

The contest ended almost as abruptly as it had begun, and trading resumed. When a buyer found a promising animal, the carefully maintained expression of disinterest disappeared and bargaining began. Voices rose, hands moved, and prices bounced back and forth until a handshake settled the matter. Eventually, money changed hands, and the buffalo set off with a new owner, having contributed very little to the negotiations.

By mid-morning, smoke from the food stalls drifted across the market. Pots of noodles simmered beside grills, and I followed the smoke with the reliable instinct. I tried one local speciality: a sour noodle soup from nearby Bac Ha, immediately recognisable by its distinctive pink noodles. Then I tried another – thang co, a traditional Hmong stew simmered in a large pot from meat, bones, fat and offal, often from horse, buffalo or cattle. People’s commitment to using every part of the animal was admirable; my commitment to finishing the bowl proved less complete. The sour noodle soup and I established a much easier relationship.

The moment I sat down, a glass of corn wine appeared in front of me. Toasts began, and conversation continued through smiles, gestures and the few words available to me. An empty glass was treated as a problem requiring immediate correction. After several toasts, I began thinking about the mountain road ahead.

As the market began to thin, people left with vegetables, fabric, tools, livestock and news from neighbouring villages. Can Cau was clearly more than a place of commerce. It was where scattered communities met, inspected one another’s purchases, exchanged stories and returned home carrying whatever the week required.

I left with photographs, the lingering taste of corn wine and one useful lesson in buffalo etiquette: admire them from a respectful distance.