One Zuhause in Hon Chong

After my overnight in Chau Doc, I took a local bus to Hòn Chông, a small fishing village on the western Vietnamese south coast. The bus ride itself was an adventure. I was picked up at 6:00 a.m., just as I was about to drink my morning coffee… I’d had a terrible night’s sleep due to the annoying mosquitoes and the suffocating heat—drinking a strong Vietnamese coffee in the morning was all I could hope for. Just as I was about to take my first sip, I was pulled from my table by a tough-looking Vietnamese man. He spoke loud and clear, but I didn’t understand a word. He had a cigarette hanging from the left corner of his mouth and a big scar running from the top left of his forehead down to his chin—the kind of villain who would play a bad guy in a Chuck Norris film.

Sleepy as I was, I didn’t offer much resistance. I entered the bus and took the window seat in the last row. I propped my backpack against the window and sat beside it. I took a look around. It was a small local bus, no more than 30 seats. Besides me, there were seven other passengers, all in the front rows, plus the driver and the villain. I laid my head on the backpack and adjusted my body to its curves. I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

I woke up to a soft touch on my right shoulder. An old man was gesturing for me to sit properly. The bus was full. Well… saying the bus was full is probably an understatement—it was completely overcrowded. Not only were all seats taken, but the central aisle was filled as well: six people were sitting one behind the other on tiny plastic stools. The five-seat back row now had eight passengers, and my legs would have to support the weight of my backpack for another three hours…

I knew I had arrived in Hòn Chông when I caught my first glimpse of the sea. I couldn’t have been happier to jump out of the bus and stretch my legs. It was past eleven in the morning and the temperature was already above 30 degrees. The coastline was stunning. Rock formations à la Hạ Long Bay spread along the ocean. Rows of palm trees cast enough shade to protect me from the burning sun. There was no sign of human life.

I took off my flip-flops and felt the white sand crawling over my feet. Waves kissed my toes as I walked north in search of a guest house. I passed a big pig eating flotsam and jetsam washed ashore by the tide. The amount of plastic and garbage had multiplied exponentially. I decided to switch to the road. In the far distance I saw the silhouette of a woman. Sitting on her motorbike, she stared at me as I walked by. “Would you like a room? I have a room by the sea,” she said. I nodded and followed her.

She took me to her house. A baby and two other young girls turned their heads from the TV toward me as I crossed the porch. The house, like many others I’d seen, was unfinished: the walls were made of orange bricks and the ceiling of metal sheets. There were no divisions except for her room, which would soon be mine. She opened the door and a large wedding poster of her and her husband was proudly displayed against a pale yellow wall. The only piece of furniture was a dresser filled with women’s clothes. A mattress covered in flowery sheets rested on the concrete floor, and an oxygenated lamp lay next to a pink fan—home sweet home. I turned to her. She was smiling, but her eyes were imploring me to take the room. The sound of the sea was so loud that for a moment I imagined the whole house being washed away by the tide. “I’ll take it.”

Her name was Deh. She was married to a Scottish man who lived and worked in Edinburgh. “This house was built with the money he sends me every month,” she said proudly. They had a chubby seven-month-old baby who delighted the neighbors. When Deh had to go to work, she left the baby under the care of two young girls, Linh and Chae. It took a while until the girls grew used to my presence. They were extremely shy, and for the first few days they avoided any eye contact.

Next door lived Deh’s sister and brother-in-law. They had a small boy, two or three years old. He was the cutest kid I’d seen in four months in Southeast Asia. He shouted “Hellao!” whenever his big black eyes spotted me. He never cried, ran barefoot everywhere, sat on my lap, pulled my long hair and beard, and laughed whenever I tickled him.

The days passed at a very slow pace. I spent four days there. In the mornings, I walked along the beach to the rock formations. I would sit and read until lunchtime. I always ate with the family. Deh cooked delicious vegetarian dishes for me. After lunch, I lay on the sand under a big coconut tree and waited for sleep to come while feeling the waves run from my ankles to the backs of my knees.

Around 3 p.m., school ended and other neighborhood kids gathered around the TV to watch Cartoon Network. Night arrived without warning, giving me just enough time for a cold bucket shower before dinner was served. I returned to my room to read, turned off the light, and fell asleep.

I said goodbye to Deh at 4:00 a.m. Her brother-in-law drove me on his motorbike to the next village with a bus station, where I would catch a 5:30 a.m. bus to Cần Thơ. We reached the station with enough time for a coffee. He spoke only a few English words, but I could tell he knew I would miss them all. We waited in silence.