Like an Albatross

I wear Vietnam around my neck; an amber-coloured hexagon with the image of an ox on one side, and Vietnamese writing on the other. A souvenir of a broken promise, made a long time ago.

From Hanoi to Hội An, my trip throughVietnam was a journey which

left its mark. Daily life in the French Quarter, full of human moments so often captured in the pages of National Geographic happened within the snap of a camera lens while I, the observer, tried to keep up but couldn't. No matter; I quickly realized no photo could ever do justice to what I observed, what I felt. Simply crossing the street proved an adventure. As motorbikes holding families of six sped by in one direction, delivery men careened in the other, balancing anything from tissue boxes piled sky high to a giant wood armoire strapped to the front with thin rope. Women, hunched and weathered yet strong and bold pushed us aside, hurrying as they shouldered baskets made from dried plant leaves that swayed at either end of a huge branch with each step. Others sat crouched in shop entrances shading themselves from the sun. Light skin, I was told, is preferable to dark so women will do anything to keep their skin out of the sun, including covering their face with a cloth or handkerchief. The benefits of their coverings are two-fold; they serve as a barrier from tourists. They stared at us at a distance, their eyes suspicious and ready to turn their heads, or shield their faces at the slightest sound of a camera click. An old man swept his part of the dusty path in front of his shop with tree branches tied together into a makeshift broom. Meanwhile, the café in the nearby park was serving addictively good Vietnamese-style coffee and people on bicycles rode by selling baguettes from baskets, warm and crunchy.

Years pass and details fade but there are things I will always remember. Like the night we sat in the middle of the road and drank vodka with a group of Vietnamese twenty-somethings while one of them played acoustic guitar. Communication was a no go until suddenly Thomas recognized the melody as he played, so we sang the chorus, and for a moment all spoke the same language. Never underestimate the power of ‘Hello’ by Lionel Ritchie.

But it was at the beach where we found our best friends.There were three of them: gangly and gawky, yet curious and adventurous. Everything 14 year old boys usually are. Hard to say exactly who spoke to whom first or even why we befriended each other. But there we were, at the beach meeting daily by coincidence.

Thomas, built like an American football player, would pick one of the guys up, then toss him further out into the sea, like an Olympian practicing the

discus. They seemed to get a kick out of that. We would teach them a few English words, and they returned the favour with some Vietnamese. Swimming close to pretty girls, and shouting Anh yêu em! (I love you) before laughing and swimming away, another one of our games. Who needed to understand each other completely? We were having fun.

Sadly, our fun, like our trip had to come to an end. We managed to make it clear to our new friends we were leaving, and through hand gestures agreed to meet back at the same spot on the beach the next day around 1 o’clock for the last time.

When Thomas and I returned, our little buddies were there, but they weren’t alone. Other kids had tagged along to our beach meet up. It had now grown into a small group. Still, I reserved most of my time for the original 3 amigos. They were the ones that welcomed us first, and made the biggest impression. Two of them joined us in the water, splashing around as usual, while the third boy, so happy a few days ago now sat propped up against a tree, strangely distant and sullen. Whether it was because of his foot mysteriously swollen since the previous day or some other reason, I couldn't tell. Yet I knew his sad face had nothing to do with our leaving and his friends brushed it off as an accident when I inquired.

All too soon, it was time for us to go. Thomas was headed for Hue, and I was going to Da Nang. As we we’re gathering our things to leave, the designated ring leader stopped me. Removing a chain I had never noticed before from around his neck, he placed it around mine.“For Rick” he said smiling as he tied it. A simple gesture, but a meaningful one nonetheless. Touched, I hurriedly got the three boys to scribble their names and addresses on a piece of paper, and promised to send them copies of the photos I’d taken.

For years afterward I wore my souvenir, never taking it off, not wanting to forget those kids. Then years pass, and memories fade. Life gets busy, and things get misplaced. You travel again, meet more people who become new memories. Until one spring day, when cleaning your room you stumble upon a box with a crumpled piece of paper with strange writing. You wonder what it is at first, but then it all comes rushing back, sun, sand, sea, and a promise. Followed by an ounce of guilt. "I’m going to send those kids the pictures and a letter” you tell yourself and wonder who they are and what they look like today, and if you've faded from their memories.

I wore Vietnam around my neck. Years later, I still hold it in my heart.