My first meal in Sa Pa was accidentally earned. After a few hours of uneven rest in a sleeper bus and a short ride from Sa Pa city center to the village, I finally arrived, along with two other indigo enthusiasts, at a small hill in bản Cát Cát. A few modest houses framed a quiet courtyard where indigo vats rested, and long strips of dyed fabric hung on bamboo poles, drying in the morning air.
Lush scenery of Bản Cát Cát.
Shortly after arriving, we met Mi in the courtyard. She led us into her grandmother’s house, where she was splitting corn kernels from the cob while her grandmother worked the stove. We each took a small stool and joined her by the fire. When breakfast came, we were handed bowls and chopsticks, despite our minimal help and last-minute arrival. Sautéed bamboo shoots, simmered pork, and plenty of rice: simple, filling, and comforting. That meal set the tone for the days ahead: we would be mildly useful, gently active, and always rewarded with food made with care.
After breakfast, we met the remaining students, and Nhái and Nủ, the couple who ran the four-day indigo class we had come for. It covers the main stages of the process: harvesting the plant, fermenting it using an anaerobic method (traditional to the Hmong community of the area), making indigo paste, and learning a selection of dye techniques. I joined after having seen scenes from one of their classes pop up on my social media feed last year. Small groups of people sat around a log of coal used to melt the beeswax needed to create patterns on fabric before dyeing. Another picture showed them in the woods, listening to Nủ explain something. Then there was a graduation shot, where everyone is showing their final dyed product. And all of it with Sa Pa’s greenery and wooden houses in the backdrop. Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ felt unassuming, yet their classes seemed inviting and fun.
When asked why she didn’t offer shorter, workshop-style classes, Nhái explained how she wanted students to experience the dye’s rhythm and living nature. The vats required care: we took turns, during our sojourn, stirring them to incorporate oxygen and keep the extract from settling, covering them from rain, and regularly checking and testing them for alkalinity and dye strength, especially after each use. The dye also needed warmth and time to ferment. We learned to read the signs of a healthy vat and to recognize when one was falling short.
The indigo dye process with bubbles visible due to fermentation.
From curiosity to Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ
Originally hailing from Hải Phòng, Nhái moved to Hanoi for university. With a keen interest in all things DIY and handicraft, she taught herself how to sew, to embroider, to bake, and to bind books. Certain that office life was not for her, she began making and selling handmade work while finishing her studies.
She first experimented with heat dye processes, using natural dye materials such as lá bàng, onion peels, and avocado pitt, before eventually learning about indigo dye. During this early period, Nhái partnered with a friend to learn and experiment with indigo dye together, selling their work under the same brand. In 2016, as their needs and directions diverged, they went their separate ways: Nhái continued with Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ, while her friend founded Đu Đủ, which now focuses on indigo dye in interior design.
As her focus deepened on indigo dye, her curiosity shifted towards the plant itself, sparking an interest in cultivation and farming. She began paying closer attention to the food she ate and the plants around her. Nhái then felt the need for more space to dye and grow, something Hanoi could not offer.
Preperation of simple, healthy meals is shared by attendees of the Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ indigo dye class.
In 2018, Nhái moved to a small farm in Lạng Sơn, staying for a year before planning to relocate to the Ngọc Linh Mountains to set up a new workspace with a friend and business partner. While waiting, Nhái went to Cát Cát to help Nủ, a recently made friend at the time, to build what is now their current house, all while continuing to deepen her knowledge of indigo dye through local practices. When the farm in Ngọc Linh did not turn out as expected, and the move was no longer possible, Nhái decided to stay in Cát Cát. She and Nủ would later get married and have Mì, their daughter, in 2023.
After settling in Cát Cát, Nhái began teaching classes and continued to grow Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ, all while consigning her work at friends’ shops in Hanoi. When she became pregnant with Mì, Nủ stepped in to help with the business. Despite coming from different cultures, the two grew into a seamless partnership, balancing work and family life. Nủ would lead our group into the forest to harvest indigo, while Nhái guided textile choices and dyeing techniques, and ensured Mì gets her daily naps.
Before the class began, we were told to be mindful of the inorganic waste we brought with us and to take it back for disposal after our stay. Upon arrival, it became clear that while their environmental practices are not perfect, they are intentional and grounded in the realities of their surroundings. Plastic bags are kept and reused; milk cartons are washed, cut, and kept to bring back to Hanoi for recycling, if not already repurposed. Solid soap is bought by the kilo for all purpose use. In the kitchen, an informal compost bucket collects organic scraps for later use in gardening. Most importantly, no pesticides are used — not on the garden greens cooked for meals, nor on the hill where indigo is grown.
Dying the fabric (left) and Nủ melting beeswax to reveal the final product (right).
Currently, the indigo they can grow is not sufficient for their needs. This meant needing to buy indigo paste from other farmers, who are not always willing to forego pesticides, even when offered higher prices. Life in the mountains is harsh; using pesticides and chemical fertilizers has become common practice, as they speed up growth, reducing time and labor. They were often introduced as a miracle solution, without any acknowledgement of their toxic properties that degrade soil health, harm biodiversity, and pollute water and air. Persuading more indigo farmers to lessen or eliminate these chemicals remains an active effort.
A successful team harvest for indigo.
Adding to this, the growing interest in indigo dye in Vietnam has led to more places offering similar products. For Nhái, it’s an ongoing internal negotiation to put out work that meets her standards yet remains appealing and accessible. Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ relies largely on collaboration with small local brands who seek her out for hand-dyed fabrics with specific pattern designs. For example, here is an Áo Tấc from the brand Đông Phong, made with fabric dyed by Nhái.
Any profit from the class is reinvested in their infrastructure, improving living and communal spaces for students to learn and cook during our stay. With Sa Pa’s high altitude making construction materials costly to transport, progress is gradual. In the long run, Nhái also hopes to invest in herself, to further her education in indigo dye, and learn new techniques from other parts of the world.
Outside of work, Nhái and Nủ envision developing more social projects for local youth. Nhái sees a great value in indigo dye as a craft, but local youth seem less and less interested. Today, many are encouraged after ninth grade to learn a trade and/or work in the service sector, as tourism in the region continues to grow and demand more labor. The couple hopes to preserve their cultural practices, as well as expose younger generations to more creative paths.
When asked about what she considers her proudest achievement, Nhái frankly shared, “In truth, I feel a bit self-conscious for not coming from a creative background. Because of it, I always feel that I’m not skilled enough, that my work could always be better. Of course, after some time thinking this way, looking back, I realize that I actually did well. I tried and did my best at the time, so it’ll be ok.”
How to dye using indigo, the four-day teaser
Time spent in Cát Cát held more depth than expected. We moved slowly and followed the curriculum flexibly, yet time never felt ill spent. After our first day, we took a spontaneous hike to the river with Nhái and Nủ’s nieces, bathing in the fresh water of the falls.
On our third day, we spent hours by a small fire that kept our beeswax melted, as we drew and sewed, helping one another through projects that were sometimes more ambitiously time-consuming. My fellow course-mates all opted for a bigger rectangular hand-woven fabric (180cm x 40cm), which can be used as a scarf, tablecloth, or turned into an ornamental piece. I chose the other option, a square linen piece (70cm x 70cm), that I intended to use as a headscarf or a neckerchief. At the beginning of the course, we were shown different pieces from Nhái and Nủ’s collection, finished and ongoing projects, as well as pieces made by Nủ’s family, for their own use.
They very kindly let me buy one of Nủ’s old jackets, dyed and sewn by his mom when he was still a boy. Their clothing has a distinctive shoulder built, that drops well into the sleeves, almost reaching one’s elbows. This simple structure removes all sharpness, giving the jacket a softer overall look. The fabric has seen many dye vats throughout the years, retaining its dark and vibrant blue. The garment is completed with dangling small metallic bell-shaped buttons and has white stains on the left sleeve, remnants of renovation work done by Nủ recently, when he decided to throw on his old jacket for added warmth. When they sold me the jacket, they considerately tried to remove the stains. I thought about embroidering over it, but have since decided against it, as it gave me yet another excuse to share anecdotes about my time in Cát Cát and the people behind Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ.
Through their collection, we were able to better understand the rendering of different techniques, aiding our own design process. My project combined beeswax use, which protects the fabric against dye, creating negative space, with layering dye to get different indigo shades, and shibori stitching. The result is a patchwork composition. Others had a more defined vision, opting to focus on one technique only to create a cohesive design.
Nủ shifted between guiding us and grilling chicken over that same fire meant for the beeswax, meat he had marinated that morning, while we studied with Nhái. Many meals were prepared in slight confusion and not without tension, as our little group was only getting to know one another in an unfamiliar setting. Still, we always came together whenever Nhái brought out baked goods. Shokupan for breakfast on our second day, cream puffs to celebrate our graduation, and milk bread that was meant to last a couple of days, but was quickly devoured on our fourth-day hike to Tả Vân, while we waited for our dye vats to ferment.
Graduation cream puffs that Mì eyes with anticipation.
I left Cát Cát with a deeper appreciation for indigo dye as a craft and its deep roots in Hmong culture. Since then, I try to incorporate the same focused intention and active curiosity in my daily life that came so naturally during my stay. On my phone now sits our own graduation photo and an ongoing group chat, where our cohort continues to share tips, discoveries, and reflections on indigo dye.
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