Sitting in bed writing a long overdue journal while my handsome lynny sleeps some of his illness off. The trip has been changing for me. Little by little it has become less about discovering the world and its people, and more about finding my deepest roots- what I call home. My journey through the southeast asian countries has brought me closer to home. It started in Vietnam. I had known that Vietnam would be a powerful part of this trip. I wanted to know what did America mean to the Vietnamese? Have they found peace with our legacy here? What had really happened. Some of the answers came from a biographical bike journey I was reading throughout our stay called the Madala and the Catfish, but most of the answers came from silence.
We met up with some friends in Hoi An, which happens a lot to travelers in Vietnam due to the geography of the country, you can really go up or down and often you meet several places along the way. There we were- the Brits and Americans and a few Aussies. We were drinking the happy hour beers and chumming it up in a bar devoted to Che on a dark dusty road in the World Heritage town of Hoi An. Hoi An is unique to Vietnam. It has these beautiful French colonial style homes lining the murky brown riverfront whose faces have turned black and mossy with all the years.
The wet season has created a giant flood of water that creeps slowly further onto the roads. The older generations use this new found river to get around, pushing their wooden leaky canoes down the 3 foot deep waters.
Old women chewing their beetle root which has turned their mouths red and stripped them of all their teeth. The lazy dogs roam the streets biting itchy patches with their canines so fiercely that the hair is missing in patches. The disabled old and young wander the roads hoping for a few dong. They sell everything, whistles, papers, toothpicks, peanuts, pineapple candies. No matter where you are you cannot escape the tragedy that besets the injured or disfigured, they find you in the restaurants and cafes, jump off their wheel chair, or use their crutches to hobble to your table and peddle their goods. They continue to stay after you have politely turned down the 8 home made whistles they sell for 1 dollar. It leaves you feeling rather nauseated, at yourself and your good fortune, at the government here that leaves this population to fend for themselves. Occasionally you see the disabled offered jobs creating crafts at fair trade, or massages which is uplifting- but this is rare.
to be continued...
No comments:
Post a Comment