Mekong Delta

We boarded a public bus, massive backpacks and all, and were ushered to seats by our fellow passengers who in return may have received some undeserved slaps from pack straps. It rumbled toward a small bus station outside of Saigon through a tangle of traffic. Once at the station, we pretty easily found tickets to Vinh Long, the major town in the Mekong delta. We climbed aboard a rusty mini-bus and after shoving the packs into a very small space behind the back seat we were ready to go. The driver and the 'contactor' the guy who shouts, cajoles and convinces people standing alongside the road to get on-board, had to make some minor repairs first. One of them poured a bottle of greasy looking breakfluid into a hole next to the steering wheel, and pumped the brakes. The other shoved himself under the chassy and shouted things. It wasn't a good sign, but I argued to myself that we'd get there faster if we couldn't slow down.

The ride was very hot and cramped. They were able to stop and did for every loitering pedestrian to convince them to board. Some of them did and soon the bus was well cramped. At a rest stop, the contactor hand signaled to me that we'd have to pay extra for our bags since they were taking up valuable space. I just told him no. There was an awkward silence. I then proceeded to worry that he was going to chuck them out when we weren't looking. In order to make room for more people he shoved my bag into the space at our feet in lieu of extra payment.

After many hours we reached the outskirts of Vinh Long. The contactor asked me (I was sitting right next to him) where we wanted to be dropped off with a series of clever hand gestures. We pointed to the center of town on the map. He couldn't read maps. He gave the Lonely Planet to the driver who tried to decifer while weaving between oncoming scooters. Finally they plopped us down by the side of the road and before we had a chance to ask where we were, they sped off.

We walked through the thick air and midday sun towards where we thought we should go. Thankfully the roads in Vietnam are fairly well marked and we finally reached the center of town, overlooking our old friend the Mekong. After some searching we figured out how to book a night on the lush islands that dot the delta like clumps of river weed. This involved speaking some French to a very old lady, wandering from hotel to hotel and finally negotiating with a tour agent who turned out to one of the most trustworthy people we'd met in the country so far. She reminded me a bit of Pabitra, our friend and advisor in Nepal.

Soon, for what seemed a very good price, the four of us had a boat to ourselves and we were headed down the river. Ola sat on the bow of the ship like a mermaid, soaking up the sun and the silence of our solitude. We were reunited with the brawny brown waterway that we'd first met in Thailand when it was just a teenager. It had matured to a massive expanse of powerfully moving current, able to support freighters, its shores were lined with the equipment of heavy commerce. We stopped at one of the huge kilns that convert river mud into all manner of pottery and brick. Our captain and guide spoke no English at all, so we wandered the factory, guideless, figuring out for ourselves the workings of the temple-like kilns. They were massive brick domes, with perfect holes puncturing the tops like the Pantheon in Rome. They could be filled to the ceiling with pottery equal to several tons. The kilns are heated with rice husk, tons of it left over from the huge rice production in the region. It was a cheap and extremely green solution to a scarcity of wood to burn, though I doubt they thought of it like that.

We entered the islands via a wide, well used channel lined with wood and brick houses and a failing sea wall. In parts, the wall had collapsed and the rich island earth was spilling into the water. We passed beneath tall spidery bridges made of concrete or wood, both looking equally insubstantial. Other boats threw their wake into our path, which didn't disturb our decent sized craft but sent the many women in conical hats rowing sampans rocking furiously back and forth. They steadied the tiny wooden shells with their feet and legs like acrobats, heads only moving slightly as they continued to stand and row. The island was cut through with a thousand smaller channels and canals that serve as roads and driveways to the island dwellers. We turned into one these small canals and chugged to a rest stop where tropical gardens grew and a hot heavy air lulled and tried to convince us to take up in one of the many hammocks strung up to wait out the heat.

But it was time to ride bikes. Our captain set us up with some rickety bicycles that ill fit my long legs. We rode out of the little compound onto a narrow paved street running between banana palms and other huge leafy plants. Wood and thatched houses on stilts resided above ponds filled with big lilly pads. Newer houses, in the Yugo-Riche style I've described, were thankfully hidden by foliage and didn't distract too much. But even their garish colors helped touch off the vibrant green of the tropical leaves. We biked along, passed by other bikers, scooters and the occasional car, everyone happy to see us and waving hello. Over picturesque bridges and through tiny settlements we rode, finally stopped by the afternoon heat and forced to return. Magda and I searched for a cold beer on the way back and had some funny pantomimed conversations with delighted cafe owners who inevitably only served coffee. We finally managed to buy a wonderful cold can and drink it outside of the little store, where a small crowd gathered to observe.

Returning with the bikes, they guided the four of us into one of the leaky wooden sampans we'd seen, rowed by a frisky old lady who playfully ordered is to sit down. She then distributed conical hats like her own and we all floated down the canal, looking hopelessly touristic. She started by using long oars that crossed at her middle, enabling her to push the them strongly outwards. Passing beneath low bridges or branches, she'd shout "Macho! Macho!" which must mean, look out. We all took up the cry, and she would duck in a graceful pliet as we glided beneath obstacles. As the little passages grew narrower, and the jungle got thicker she'd pluck fruit off the limbs and distribute it. Children swimming in the shallows cheered us on, waving and splashing like mad.

We found our boat parked along the river in what must have been a prearranged meeting place. Our rower ungracefully asked for a dollar tip, which we could see coming (macho! Macho!) and already planned to give. We forgave her bluntness and handed over a few thousand dong. She indicated that she had a long way home and I felt a tiny ember of pity for her. After we were back safely aboard our boat, she whipped off a dingy piece of fabric that had been hiding a small long-tail outboard motor, fired it up with a powerful rip on the cord, and buzzed away down the canal.

We reached our guesthouse at sundown. It was an old collection of stilted buildings and porches painted a stately blue. We had discussed giving our boat captain a good tip since he had guided us expertly and without fuss the whole afternoon. There was some confusion as we unloaded the bags and suddenly he was pulling away from the dock before we could give the tip. Maciej, perhaps inspired by the fact he'd never asked for one, lept from the dock to the bow like a buccaneer. The captain received the money with surprise and delight, and thanked Maciej enthusiastically before returning him to shore.

We were alone too in the guesthouse. Our host greeted us with his one, well practiced word of English, "Hello!", showed us our quarters, a row of mosquito net covered cots, and then retreated to prepare us dinner. We had the place to ourselves. Magda found a wide open porch with rows of hammocks hanging just next to the now dark river. Soon the rest of us is were napping (or writing this Blog) to the croaking of frogs, the rustling of small creatures in weeds and the shimmering full moon dancing in the passing current. All the added uncertainty of getting ourselves to the delta and arranging our own way to the islands was worth it if just for that moment. I was amazed that we had left Saigon only that morning and not a week before.