A 3-part retrospective on my experiences and thoughts during my month in Vietnam.
Within a week of being here, I got heatstroke visiting my uncle's ocean farm over in Cam Ranh. The sun rays were kissing me up, and the salty ocean breeze distracted me from the 40 degree heat seeping into my skin as we cruised past the mountain range into open waters.
I sat and watched as my uncle and cousins went to work; wearing wetsuits and oxygen tubes that fed into the boat, they dove into the tens of shrimp cages to feed them in the early hours of the day. The minutes bled into hours, and I sat on the boat, fishing for squid to pass the time as my mind brings me to places I haven't visited in months.
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I'm reminded of the word “nhớ" every time I'm visiting my relatives again in Vietnam - “Lâm có nhớ [relative] không?". Its English counterpart means “do you miss me?", which I grapple with because it's a beautiful Vietnamese word meaning both remember and miss. As Ocean Vuong puts, "I miss you more than I remember you", or as I think of it, "I remembered to miss you".
With the sun reaching its peak, I'm in a puddle of sweat with a heat haze clouding my mind. Finally finished for the day, we head back to shore, excited for the night of celebration and beer for a job well done.
Experiencing the daily life and routine of my relatives felt like an important excursion for me during this trip to Vietnam: by understanding what it means to just be, I can better learn to value my sense of self and break out of my inner monologue influenced by like-minded people. Everyone is a slave to something, and I've come to realize that the lâng lâng (tipsy - more commonly referred to as the numbing of the head) has had a grasp on me too.
The headlights coming from the motorcycle beam the raindrop outlines falling onto the road. I'm trying to listen to the conversation between my cousin's friends about their day but the stampede of raindrops hitting the concrete deafen my ears.
I ate so much food and drank so much beer... the empty cans litter the bottom of the small, round table occupied by six drunk 19-25 year olds drinking their nights away. As the parade of rain starts to simmer down, I'm hearing through the slurred words their daily struggles.
I asked my cousin about what drove him towards this path of being an ocean farmer for a living, and he said that higher education wasn't really entertained in his mind because of the quicker returns of money and helping his dad. Add in his nightly routine of drinking until he's drunk with his friends - it's enough a source for liveliness for him.
Hearing those words strike a pensive note in me - the youth of Vietnam are aging beyond their years. These cycles are the comfortable norm in the smaller cities of Vietnam, and breaking out of it takes outside intervention that is generally unwanted. It's a sin to be born average in these times, because being a cog in the machine is the hand you're dealt the moment your eyes open.
"I wanted to make it this way" ... "it should have turned out like this."
By the time you realize it, 30, 40 years pass by, without a result that you're happy with. Saying this and that, while never reaching your ideal, and by the time you're 70, your body is unable to keep up. What an ironic way to live, only to be hit with the realization in the last moments of your once seemingly endless pile of time.
One blink later, I‘m sitting in an air-conditioned cafe room with windows overlooking a river that flows in the same direction as the clouds reflecting on its surface. The Saigon heat is sticking to my skin, and I’m chugging my second caffeinated drink at 10am as I attempt to fight away the lack of sleep taunting my eyelids to shut.
It's suddenly been a month, and on my last day in Vietnam, I'm talking to one of my cousins studying in the big city. We chat about his schooling and what directions of life he's considering as he nears the end of his program.
I tell him about how I'm happy for him. How he's pursuing his studies and interests outside of our family's hometown because most people raised in Cam Ranh tend to stay in Cam Ranh.
He mentioned that he's glad as well - if it wasn't for meeting his now girlfriend of 3 years that's from Saigon, he would've been married with kids on the way by now in Cam Ranh. At the age of 20.
In contrast, my grandma is ~96 years old. My mom was saying to her to stay healthy for us so that we can visit her next year, and it made me realize that at the twilight of her years, it's just 99% willpower to keep going on and moving forward. You can choose death if you so seek, but having something to look forward to is important for longevity. I know my grandma came to this realization already, but I can only hope that my cousins back in Cam Ranh can, a few blinks earlier.
With the sunset outlining the top of the mountain range, I'm saying goodbye to my cousin and his girlfriend at the airport. He mentions to me before I walk into the departure doors that once he figures out what path he wants to move forward with, he'll be joining me on a flight back to Canada. I tell him, “I'll be waiting” as the sliding doors shut behind me.
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The privileged are fortunate enough to think (and overthink) about issues surrounding themselves and their introspection, whereas the less fortunate are bounded by the daily necessities of day by day life. Poverty of the mind is, in a way, a benefit to avoid the internal turmoil that someone deals with mentally.
Maybe I'm self-inflicting my own daily struggles, but I'm glad to have had experienced life in Vietnam with a fresher pair of eyes compared to last year. I'll remember to miss my relatives, and I hope Father Time is merciful and kind to those that I love.
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