Where is Wally or the spellbound curiosity

Four days after the celebration of the Vietnamese Lunar New Year, commonly known as Tết, I found myself in the Central Highlands. I diverted my route from the coast to the mountains not only to escape the beaten track, but also in search of cooler weather. Temperatures here oscillate between 10 and 25 degrees, which saves me a lot of washing—especially T-shirts, since I only have three.

During Tết, the Vietnamese take a week off to gather with their families and travel around the country. Prices double, hotels are fully booked, and most convenience shops are closed. On one hand, this can be quite annoying for tourists (it becomes extremely hard to find vacant seats on buses, making it nearly impossible to move around); on the other hand, it is a delight for the Vietnamese, who become tourists in their own homeland.

In Đà Lạt, my first stop in the Central Highlands, I experienced once again what I had been experiencing since I first arrived in Vietnam: an overwhelming, often claustrophobic curiosity and warmth. As a city, Đà Lạt offers many attractions, and during Tết each major sight is filled with Vietnamese tourists and very few foreigners—I was one of them. Arguably, being a foreigner in Vietnam during Tết makes you an attraction; and the more “exotic” you look, the more relevant you become. Well… I know I can sometimes look unusual, but I still consider myself relatively boring in terms of Western eccentricity. I have no piercings, no tattoos, no dreadlocks, no special haircut; I have black hair, brown eyes, brown skin; I’m thin as a stick; and if it weren’t for my height and long nose, I could easily pass as Vietnamese. Still, I seem to attract a surprising amount of attention. I wouldn’t call it unpleasant—far from it—but it is undeniably odd.

I lost count of the pictures I took with entire families and groups of friends. I stopped having meals in restaurants and markets; instead, I simply wandered through busy tourist areas. As I walked, I passed groups of Vietnamese picnicking under trees with their families and friends. As soon as one of them noticed me, a couple of words were enough for the others to turn their heads in my direction. Shouts and welcoming gestures followed, and in the blink of an eye, I was sitting with them. Beer usually came first, followed by the standard questions: “What’s your name?”, “Where are you from?”, “How old are you?”, “Are you married?”, “Why aren’t you married?”, “Are you gay?” I ate, drank, shook hands, memorized names, and took dozens of pictures. Everyone seemed delighted to have a photo with me. “Now me!” The picture was taken; we looked at it together: “Oh! Very nice, very nice. Thank you, thank you, very nice.” We shook hands, he or she left, and I stood still, waiting for the next family member.

Everyone was happy and cheerful, and in my ignorance I smiled back and soaked in all the infectious warmth and enthusiasm. After ten or fifteen minutes, I stood up and resumed my stroll. As you can imagine, I didn’t take more than three steps before being seated again—this time for some shots of Vietnamese rice whiskey. Please, let them come!