It’s 80 Degrees, Freezing, and I Almost Hit a Boy with my Motorbike!
The Delta gets weird. Read on if you dare.
Part I
The shock of silence woke me from a light sleep. The electricity went dead and the violent whirl of fans ceased. I glanced sideways at my phone screen which snootily flashed 8:00 AM. I grumbled, trying to turn away from time and heat, hopelessly searching for peace on the flip side. Instead, I rolled reluctantly between the mosquito net opening, out of my bed, and straight for the back door. Unhinging the lock, I opened the green metal door and a simple breeze blew in. I was in luck. The morning was cooler outside than inside the room — perfect for a jog. I jumped into the shower afterwards, soaking my body in the pleasant stream of cool water. I wanted it to be freezing, but cool would have to do the trick. It didn’t. My air conditioner was broken, my fans weren’t working and post shower sweat seeped down my back. My only hope was the office. I downed a few cups of water and journeyed out in search of comfort and Internet. I walked in to find a sweltering room, with Trinh hidden behind heaps of blue folders.
“How are you, Cone-y.”
“Hot!” was all I could muster. The electricity was out at the office too. Eager to forget, I began the first of my Vietnamese lessons with Trinh. For two hours, we labored over the 11 vowels and a couple consonants, I contorting my mouth in a variety of ways to try to match Trinh’s sounds. Sometimes I tried speaking from my stomach, and other times I tried speaking from the side of my throat. Every effort ended in incessant giggling from the office-mates until they left for lunchtime — the hour where Vietnam disappears. Mr. Bai never lets me forget why.
“I go now, Kahni. When I take nap, I work much betta in the afternoo.”
“Afternooonnn, Mr. Bai. Don’t forget the last consonant,” I corrected.
Trinh and I are the only ones left but before we know it, the MSG riddled soup knocks both of us out and I’m leaning back, mouth-trapping god knows how many bugs. I drink a few more glasses of water but the splitting headache returns.
With my poetry lesson plan complete, I pace briskly back to my room, sidestepping light raindrops. The coolness of rain would soon wash away the scorching sun. Somehow the rain was less forgiving than the sun. It didn’t come down hard, but it didn’t stop. The streets hoarded the water, letting none of it drain. The plastic pink polka-dot poncho with a hole would have to do. Maybe it was “không sao, không sao,” when the lady sold it to me. But the “no problem” hole grew until it wrapped around my neck and left a gaping welcome sign for the rain. Atty, the motorbike sunk low into the slight flood, spraying a curtain of water outwards as she trudged forward. She tilted heavily to one side so I decided it best to park her on a little island where the waters would lap at but never dare sink her. I waited for the office-mates to pack up, staring beyond the college at the carefree children who rode their bicycles back and forth through the slight flood, crying out in excitement.
“I’m sorry, Con-y. But Mr. Bai wants you to join the rector and the government’s Radio and Television Committee for dinner.”
So much for the office dinner party. Without question, I follow Trinh out of town, towards Can Tho highway. After a wet and blinding ride, we pull into a little seafood restaurant. 15 people are seated on plastic tiny stools, hovering over empty crab shells. They watched me suck at the meat between the shells. Hungry and hopeless, I clumsily crack the crab legs, spraying juice all over the company to my right and left. To my right is the young and beautiful anchorwoman of Hậu Giang province. It’s a mess but I was too hungry to be ashamed of my poor technique. With the last leg sucked clean, the men rose and bolted back to the radio and television studio. “We drink beer now!”
I shoved what little peanuts were left on the table into my mouth; I was desperate to fill the last of my hunger pains, not realizing that ahead lay a rich banquet.
The banquet was filled with spices from India, baguettes from France, and half-hatched eggs from down the street. The flavors were amazing, but the company was foreign. Trinh and Mr. Bai left me with my new acquaintances. The setup was reminiscent of last week’s luncheon but also completely different. The nostalgic fear lingered as I watched the men slowly seep into drunken cheer, confidently wooing the ladies across the table. Fortunately, I was between the young anchorwoman of 23, and an older lady of 30. They made sure my bowl was never empty of soup and vegetables. God bless. The young woman pauses and stares. Here it comes again.
“I have a test soon. Help, come with me to class?”
Before I write about how I rejected the girl. Let me explain how even with three official classes a week, I have a full schedule of free private English sessions with multiple Vị Thanh friends. I’m here for Vị Thanh but there are limits to charity for strangers.
I slithered my way out. “I will be in Ho Chi Minh. I’m sorry.”
She somberly looked away. I sip my beer slowly as everyone cheers, “100%!” and throws back their glasses. As a nameless familiar face stands to leave, I slip away, chasing him home on my motorbike. I knew the way, but he insisted on guiding me, hand gently rising, motioning me to slow down, though I was only mirroring his speed. The sprinkle of rain forced a shiver down my body. I was actually cold. The unfamiliar tingle of coldness was washed aside when a bright white owl glided above. My wanderlust eyes traced the magnificent creature as it pulled up and away, revealing the plenty stars above. The night was beautifully mystic. For the first time yet, I turned on my shower heater and soaked in the warm water, wishing that it could heat me up. I laughed. Just a few hours earlier I prayed for colder water, and now I wanted nothing more but to be burned to the core. I checked the temperature. It was 80 degrees outside and I was freezing. The delta gets weird.
Part II
I was more excited for poetry class than my students. The whole rhythm, rhyme and stress thing didn’t excite them.
“Rewrite the first stanza of this poem by changing the stressed words,” I moaned in frustration. I’ll try again tomorrow.
The bike ride was more fulfilling than my half excited class. I rode past a water buffalo, peddled back and snapped dozens of photos of him. He turned and stared right into the lens so naturally I asked, “what’s up?” All he could muster was a deep stare and majestic glance away.
My next encounter was with a man upon a pontoon bridge. He signaled for me to get on. “Không biết tiếng việt,” I offered, revealing that, “I don’t know Vietnamese.” Using the phrase in Vietnamese only confused him more. I smile and say to him, “See you later,” he smiles back not believing so.
Miss Tuuy (Water) invited me to coffee with her class that evening. I decided dinner beforehand would do. As I motored into downtown Vị Thanh, I thought of the endless paddy fields on my serene bike ride. Suddenly there he was, a little boy on his bike losing balance in my path. I slam the breaks, crashing the bike. Moments after I wrote.
I almost hit a boy today. He was dicking around on the side of the road going nowhere when he suddenly lost control and leaned left. I panicked and couldn’t hit my horn in time so I slammed on my brakes and dropped the bike right in front of the boy. I lept out from under the bike and somehow my right shoe flew off as the bike collapsed to the left. I ignored the boy’s plea of what I could only imagine was a sorry. Or maybe, he was mad at me for almost hitting him. I annoyingly heaved the bike off the pavement, avoiding the stares of others, revved the engine and sped off. I circled Vi Thanh a few times, bought bánh mỉ ốp-la (4 inch egg sub) and coffee. This was only the appetizer. I needed more food. Stress eating? I drove to the front of the learning center, parked across the street and ordered a bowl of wonton soup. I’m not hungry or stressed anymore. Maybe.
But WTF? Delta.
The bike never touched the boy. The only pain was in my little right toe and a slight soreness in the ankle. Miss Tuuy guided us to the coffee shop where she had booked an air-conditioned room. There were 20 students of all ages and levels. One boy talked my ear off, while another girl seemed to experience a lobotomy with each glance. A man in his 50’s sat quietly in the far corner. As the two-hour period begin to wrap up, the man pipes in. “I am curious about what you have to say about the Vietnam American War.”
I hesitated, took in a deep breathe, and stumbled over my unkempt thoughts. This was the first person to strike upon the unspoken.
Mr. Bai offered, “Let bygones be bygones.”
I spent a few minutes teetering around the subject, certain that whatever was said would offend the elderly students. Both sides committed atrocities and both sides suffered. The Việt Cộng were territorially victorious, but there was no winner. The Americans, sadly, were instigators and facilitators of the Vietnamese war for independence. But let’s cover this topic in a later blog.
I finally pulled it together and replied.
“I was not alive during the war and have no direct relationship to anyone in the war. I have no experience to share. I would be more interested in hearing what you think about the war.”
However, no one wanted to continue this dialogue, at least not in front of the youngsters hypnotized by their iPhones.
He replied, “I only ask this because I want you to be prepared when others ask you.”
Well, thanks. I guess. But I preferred to have this heart wrenching and serious conversation in a small private setting. After all, the communists still ruled, and I can’t leave Hậu Giang province without the rector’s permission.
I tried to drive back home but the engine didn’t start. The tank had a leak. Perfect. We left it at a shop whose owner drunkenly told us it was a minor issue he could easily repair. Miss Tuuy returned me to the college. Star-shaped lanterns with Uncle Ho’s face littered the front of the school’s auditorium. Students clasped hands, circling the lanterns. It was the beginning of the harvest festival. All week the sky was dark and hazy with smoke rising from the burned rice fields. This signaled the end of a rice harvest and the beginning of a new crop season. The actual festival will begin on the 15th day of the 8th month on the lunar calendar (Sept 27th for those of us who don’t keep track) so I wasn’t quite sure why this was happening today. After watching a crowd of kids sing, I strolled back to my dorm. Next to me was a Vietnamese girl so tall she almost reached my height. We chatted, each in our own language, understanding everything and nothing about each other. Life is crazy and life is sweet.
Epilogue:
I drove to Cần Thơ the next day with my leaky motorbike thinking it was fixed. It wasn’t. Hopefully the Cần Thơ mechanic will actually fix it, while I take on Ho Chi Minh City.
And a successful follow up poetry day with the cutest of students! https://vid.me/QRu6
