It rains in patches
August comes as prickly as it could, in the form of torrential pre-typhoon downpours. As a relief from the dog days in July, the first hints of monsoon season have already lingered around Saigon. Many the afternoons lately, I have been turning on the lights above my desk to better see the words amid the darkening clouds outside and the naughty mosquitoes lingering near the bookshelf, while the strong breezes dangle the fragile petunias baskets on the balcony. Saigon downpours are noted for their spontaneity: one second, you are perspiring profusely under the blinding sun and the other second, your ears are filled in the rumbles of thunder beyond the resin trees. If you happen to ride on a moped, then be prepared to find an eave as a shelter to put on your poncho along with many other riders huddling close by. The sight of colorful ponchos flapping by the sidewalk always reminds me of an aquatic carnival, where processions of motorcycles, trucks, and rickshaws advance under the electric cables entangled on the power lines towering above the cacophony. Just around five or six years ago, I was a daily participant in those processions, nestled in a mini school bus crisscrossing districts to get from home. Sitting by the window when the bus passed Nhieu Loc Canal, ears filled with the upbeat rhythms of the latest EDM songs my friends were playing from the speakers and the tipping of the rain echoed from the bus roof, I couldn't enjoy the rain better.
Yet, only when it rains do I come to appreciate the warm rays of sunshine that Vietnam always has abundant in her blessings to this expatriate shuddering from the Canadian cold. In the last week of July, making use of the bright weather, I ventured back to Qui Nhon in Binh Dinh Province, my father's hometown, to visit my relatives and reconnect with my wanderlust sense. We first landed in Tuy Hoa, which greeted us with the rugged coastal lines and arid dunes dotted by flourishing prickly cacti. The golden patches of rice paddies undulated below the cumulous cloud fields, bordered by the lush balustrades of mountain ranges that I often likened to Mother Earth's wrinkles. Down further, I could see the gigantic domes that serve to cover the airplanes, a vestige from the days when the airport was in use by the Army of the Republic of Vietnam. After visiting my dear grandmother by the Ba river, we drove to a restaurant clinging to a cliff where a vine-covered ancient Hindu temple stood, many of which are still scattered around the narrow stretch of Central provinces, marking the vanished kingdom of Champa. We enjoyed the restaurant's signature grilled chicken seasoned with lemon basil while looking over the vermillion sun setting behind the violet tapestry of the sky.
After a many recalls of fond memories of my grandmother's hometown, the pungent petrichor from the rice paddy fields was seeping in, so we bade adieu to the sleepy Phu Yen and hastened to our car to reach Qui Nhon before night would fall. As we were reaching O Loan Estuary, on one of the many passes on our way to Binh Dinh, it dropped dark and began to bucket down waterfalls. We were trapped in this deluge, which was so heavy that the only sign we would see around was the flashing neon lights of the loading container ahead. To raise everyone's spirits, the sunburned driver peppered the whole family with tales of his days as a foreign worker in the Czech Republic. The driver's gruff sense of humor, accompanied by fresh slices of pineapple dipped in shrimp salt brought from Saigon, strengthened our mood until the shimmering lights of Qui Nhon began to appear at the end of the passes. Now, I would dedicate an entire blog narrating my Qui Nhon adventures, but we'll come back to those stories to quench my longing for the sunshine under the upcoming miserable rainy days in Vancouver. Regardless, I have a wonderful time in the hometown of Emperor Quang Trung, lolling by the glistening midday sea and counting the raindrops falling on the roof of our ancient two-story.
The horizon stretching like an infinite blue thread at Trung Luong Beach
The river flowing past my paternal ancestor's village in Chanh Lac
Our trip to Qui Nhon kickstarted the best August I have had in quite a while. After over two years, no word could express the joy I had upon seeing the familiar dear faces that brightened my school days in Vietnam. During the last few weeks of my Saigon days, I caught up with my friends from middle school, who now attend prestigious high schools all over the city but still bring the ever-lasting quirkiness and thirst for knowledge gained from the days under the golden facades of Tran Dai Nghia. Over sushi and soft serves, we poured our thoughts on the most infinitesimal and grandiose of matters - from the infinite voids of our current high schools to the latest version of Rickroll - only to circle back to the reminiscences of middle school days, where we sang on the top of our voices to Last Christmas or savor the saccharine aftertaste of dry bananas sneaked from my backpack. As the leaden clouds outside gather, our conversations flowed along with the wind and rain, carrying us all to the misty pathways ahead filled with exciting future plans. That is to say, our train hasn't been long past the station of childhood, as shown by the arrays of entertainment we enjoyed during that wonderful Friday - arcade, horse race Parcheesi, and photo booth filters, you name it.
As the scorching heat abates, giving way to the cooler weather that harkens monsoon season, I took time to reflect on all of the unforgettable adventures taken so far. This summer was a million times better than expected, marked by the mornings strolling under the shades of resin trees with an iced tea on hand, the afternoons crisscrossing the districts under the rain to buy a steaming box of bánh xèo, and endless nights listening to the city's pulse until midnight. But what I still hold dear the most is the familiar loving faces of those I have known all my life or who spent one of the most beautiful chapters of childhood, their eyes beaming more than the summer sun and their laughter chiming further than the drizzles. Now, as, the stuffed blue suitcase in the corner of my room stands as a firm reminder of another round of goodbye, the initially suffocating cacophony of Saigon embraces me more than ever. It was here where the first memories formed, the first lullabies whispered, and the first heartbreak scarred. Somewhere in a small corner of the humming city, I let the words flow like the rain and the wind that infuse into the bustling avenues, the cozy alleys, and the crimson pots of petunias yonder.
Farewell Saigon, under the first cicada symphonies or blown by the first breezes of monsoon, may we meet again.
"For we could not forget love... we could not forget home, and we could not forget Saigon..."
-Viet Thanh Nguyen, "The Sympathizer"
Comments
Post a Comment