We walked through the wonder garden full of poignant green nuances. We were like those 2 kids in the school trip venturing off the beaten track, making our own personalized itinerary, just for the sake of invalidating all the plans our teacher had carefully and meticulously prepared for us. We were the rebels, the troublemakers, the naughty kids giving our teacher a hard time simply because we dared to go our own way. We were the fools on the hill, looking for the hidden house perched on it.
A wooden cabin showed itself behind the trees and bushes. A small dog with a big bark came sprinting at our feet, cussing us in its dog tongue. The canine protective instinct was strong with that one.
All the racket and uproar made by the little barking warrior resulted in someone coming out of the wooden cabin. That time it was someone we knew. Hung showed his face and was jolly glad to see us.
“You made it!” He greeted us as if we had just completed a tricky quest that was not meant for everyone’s kind. He looked as if he was proud of us. He must’ve been thinking something like, “These lads proved themselves worthy of my estate. I shall treat them accordingly, for they’ve just shown me what they’re made of.”
“We didn’t expect this to be so hidden, man.” I told Hung, just to have a bit of banter.
“Yeah, dude. We asked 3 people about you. We even thought this whole thing was a prank.” Phuc Duy added, still fascinated by the man’s sanctuary.
“Oops! I forgot to mention that. Anyway, you guys passed the challenge.” Hung giggled. “Now, come on in. Food is almost ready.”
When we entered the abode, we were greeted by a wooden interior that displayed the countenance of a hunter’s or fisherman’s lodge. I couldn’t think about any other description, and it would be difficult to go on mentioning what I saw inside. It had a cozy, picturesque minimalism, yet at the same time style and comfort were both intertwined there. Once stepping inside, one would say that the place resembles either Bilbo’s hole in the ground from the Shire, Hagrid’s hut from the backyard of Hogwarts, or Shrek’s premium swamp cabin.
However, Hung was neither a hunter nor a fisherman. He was a freelancer who got lucky with an enchanting opportunity. And Hung didn’t think twice and took it, just like any man of reason would. So, there he was, waking up every day to the glamour of a blooming garden, enjoying the view of neighboring hills observed from the window by his bed. He was undisturbed, and at the same time he disturbed no one. What else could a man wish for?
Steaming rice was soon spawned on the little table, together with boiled pork meat and cabbage. The more we made the food disappear, the more we heard of Hung’s little tale of how he’d ended in that tranquil little garden haven.
Once upon a time, the property had belonged to some guy who was growing food on that turf. But at some point the fella decided to change his deeds and move elsewhere, leaving that whole spot behind. So, the man wanted to get rid of the place in the shortest time possible and demanded some dirt cheap price for the whole thing. And it so happened that Hung was around at the right moment to see that announcement on a housing platform, and there is no way in that life that he’d let such a bargain pass through his fingers.
We soon noticed that there was another little cabin on the other end of the garden. It was a bit rundown, but with a few adjustments, the whole thing could be up and running. Apparently, Hung had no use whatsoever for that tiny lodge, so his 2 curious guests took their time to explore that little man-made structure too. We became once again the unruly kids from the school trip who were on their way to discover another spot that didn’t feature on the pre-arranged itinerary.
Once inside, we fantasized about how we would decorate that place—should we turn it into a little artistic den of our own? We thought about putting a guitar and a cajon in one corner, hanging a mandala on one of the small walls, bringing a disco globe, and putting an old typewriter somewhere next to the sink. We would also make a little reading corner with an armchair to sink in while diving into any preferred piece of literature found behind the hardcover of one of the many books found on the wooden shelf lying next to it. We would pay someone to make a fitting porch, blending in with the dense greenery from the garden, featuring a hammock and tiny wooden chairs and a round table where people could smoke anything deemed smokable.
The more we talked about our decorations, the more we considered the idea of chilling there with Hung as often as we could. He was one of us.
“I don’t really need that thing. It’s just lying there all empty. If any of you want to visit me some other time or even move here, just tell me and we’ll get it fixed. I sure wouldn’t mind some company, especially the likes of you guys.” Hung said casually.
Phuc Duy and I pondered for a little bit. Hung’s generosity and coolness about life matters in general weren’t something to be stumbling upon at every corner. “Would you like some food? How about some beer? Would that cabin over yonder suit you for a fine living up here on the hill?” That’s what the guy was saying more or less. The man was nothing short but a free spirit, and we could sense that energy. The problem with the free spirits in that day and age was that they were a dying breed. One could only hope that the likes of those rare souls would somehow spread around our sphere again at some point and swing the pendulum back to a different time. The era of the post-industrial renaissance was awaiting. Nobody could really tell for how long, though.
Phuc Duy and I praised that little corner so much that Hung felt compelled to tell us that there was a dark side too. There were always two sides to each story.
“You know, the problem with Đà Lạt is that it’s really easy to get depressed in it.” He began saying, making me raise an eyebrow. “As unique and inviting as it is, it rains way too often here, especially now in summer. I sometimes sit here a few days straight, watching nothing but the endless rain and the heavy clouds. There’s simply nothing to do but to keep yourself busy while inside. But it doesn’t always work. Sooner or later, this shitty weather gets you and makes you wanna pack everything and leave these highlands.” Hung was giggling.
We all looked outside and agreed with him. It was that moment when I realized that ever since I’d arrived in the city’s area the night before, there had been nothing but some sort of rain. There were always at least a few itsy bitsy tiny scattered drops coming from above, making sure nothing ever stayed dried in the outdoors.
Hours later, after some intricate discussions concerning writers, movies, and other related pop culture elements, Phuc Duy and I left Hung’s magic hill and found our way back through the rain. We had some rest in my friend’s abode, and later on Phuc Duy insisted that I ought to try some rice dish unbeknownst to me, more prevalent in the southern half of good old Vietnam. And that dish was cơm tấm, which literally translates as “broken rice,” reflecting the nature of the rice involved, which was fractured instead of whole. That was because once a time the farmers in the Mekong Delta had had some pretty awful rice seasons, forcing them to tap into their household reserves of broken rice, considered inferior to normal rice, in order to survive. Thus, Cơm tấm had been born, and everyone down south loved that, including Phuc Duy.
Phuc Duy was such a big cơm tấm fan that he insisted we drive to one joint in particular where he claimed there would be the number one, unmatched, and unrivaled cơm tấm one could possibly find. Despite the rain that was gaining more momentum, passing two other cơm tấm food stalls, we carried on to the location Phuc Duy was looking for.
“Why the hell didn’t we stop at any of the other cơm tấm spots? Any of those would’ve been fine.” I told my fella in distress. “You dern moron had to drive all this way in this joke of a weather.”
“My man, you’ll be saying nicer words once you taste what these people do here.” He said, almost in a mocking way. “I brought you all this way because this is the best damn cơm tấm place I know. It’s hella worth it; you gotta trust me on this one.” He sure believed every word he said. And there was only one way I’d believe those words myself. Never before in my life had I seen such devotion for the sake of some broken rice dish.
The food arrived, and my verdict followed soon thereafter. And I had to give it to my buddy, whom I had been cussing not so long before. It was indeed worth all the hustle to make me want to lick that plate. Basically, it all consisted of a marinated grilled pork steak, some local sausages, a fried egg, some salad, and tomato, all topped with fish sauce and spring onions, and of course accompanied by the famous broken rice itself. It was glorious. It was that moment when I became a fan of cơm tấm too, adding that to the massive list of Viet foods that made me love life and have more faith in the amazing things that humans could do.
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Phuc Duy was determined to show me how fascinating Đà Lạt could be. Visually, it had already gotten me. But the man insisted on bringing me to this one bar, which he was so keen to show, just as he was with the cơm tấm. His inner sense of being a guide for that city was tremendous. He had never done the same in all those days when we were both in Hanoi.
After the cơm tấm experience we ventured through the even more powerful rain. Everyone on those Đà Lạt roads was technically a rider in the storm. We reached some less populated zone, and when we were really close, we had to make a turn on an insanely abrupt road that sent shivers down my spine. The area overall was also really dodgy looking. There was something really eerie, bleak, and unwelcoming about all the houses over there. The whole place looked like one of those no-go areas that the internet warns you about when you plan to travel to another city. At first sight, any rational human being would confidently agree that there was nothing to see on the other side of that treacherous road, and one would simply carry on driving on the main road, forgetting altogether about seeing that path in the first place. Phuc Duy confirmed that there was no other way, so down we went. I prayed to all the divine entities to have us in their protection, considering the darkness and chaotic rain all over us.
The steep path amounted to around 100 meters, and those had to be arguably the longest 100 meters of my life. Yet we survived, and our reward for making it down unhurt and unspoiled was the actual bar awaiting right on the other side once the road was flat.
As I walked inside that establishment, I could tell right away it was my kind of bar. “Phuc Duy, brother, you still haven’t let me down.” I thought to myself. Wherever I looked in that dim, hollow space, there was something to be seen.
There were few people inside the place due to the rain. Phuc Duy introduced me to the bar owners, a stylish couple that could speak flawless English. They both looked fitting to be cast in a Tarantino movie. The girl looked like the Asian version of Mia Wallace from Pulp Fiction, and the guy reminded me somehow of Rick Dalton from Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. These two fellas knew Phuc Duy quite well, judging by their easygoing interaction. The dude had already had some history with the place, and I could see why he would keep on going there as I got to discover the bar a little better myself.
I grabbed a beer and took a stroll through the entire joint, going up and down wooden stairs, alternating between the two floors. And I was alternating between the floors and areas of the good old boozer. I also found myself alternating between different eras and timelines, reeling traveling from one pop genre to another. One segment was like a disco lounge with red leather sofas and a disco globe dangling from the ceiling, while on the upper floor, right above it, there was a dark gothic room where any dirty business could’ve probably been carried unnoticed and undisturbed. The area around the bar was looking like a complete freakshow, displaying a woman’s mannequin dressed in leather, having a vinyl record taking place of its head, and next to it was a spring rider in the shape of a white rabbit. A few steps away was a spot with posters, a whole array of colors and oriental patterns, lamps in flower shapes, and other psychedelic decorations that would create the ideal 60s corner where Jimi Hendrix himself would take a dab of LSD. It all felt like a trip. And from the bar area, some narrow stairway would take you to a fully wooden cover chamber that would easily convince you that you were in Switzerland or even up in Alaska, sick on the gold rush dream.
As I was trying to make sense of that whole bar thing, Phuc Duy called me to join him at the bar area with the owners and take a seat next to the unicorn spring rider. The thing looked as if it was eyeing me. I almost felt like having a chat with it, but the actual humans made the first move.
“Can you believe this son of a bitch drove his motorbike here all the way from Hanoi?” Phuc Duy told the fella.
“Oh, is that so?” The guy was surprised. “That sure is a long ride, man.” He went on.
“I had nothing better to do.” I told him with a grin. “Summer in Hanoi is a no-go for me.”
“I can imagine. Things are cooled down here. How do you find Đà Lạt so far?” The Asian Mia Wallace inquired.
“I dig it, man. It’s something of its own. I wish it wouldn’t rain so much, though. It’s a bit of a bummer, really.” I said.
“Oh yeah, that’s the downside here. And you came exactly when the rainy season peaks. Summer is always like this.” She told me.
“When does it stop raining?” I asked.
“Around November it’s getting pretty dry.” The man answered.
“Dude, that sounds bloody awful. I can’t be leaving in a place like this without sunshine for months in a row.”
“Brother, imagine all the things you would write while sitting inside in a place like this, drinking liquer or herbal tea or both, while listening to the raindrops! Writers love Đà Lạt because of this.” Phuc Duy went on.
“Yeah, sure. I’d write some of the darkest and most macabre lines with this weather pounding every day. I would be the new Edgar Allan Poe, that’s for sure.” I told the guys, and we all started laughing.
After a bit of chitchat, Phuc Duy remembered the reason why he’d come there, which was the screening of a movie starring Bill Murray. In a matter of seconds, the two of us switched to the wooden cabin place upstairs, where he connected his laptop to a projector, and the one and only bright and barren wall became the cinema screen.
Once the movie started rolling, other people began showing up, as if by magic. One by one, each of them picked a spot to sit in the cozy chamber. And one by one, each of them had their own character.Everybody had a distinctive outlook. Everyone shined in their own way. They were either wearing stylish boots or glistening leather shoes, colorful trousers, baggy linen clothes, leather jackets that also glistened, denim, or intricate hairstyles. Everyone had at least a little dose of hip aura going about. Phuc Duy was no exception, wearing his signature cherry-read leather jacket, which I had seen on so many occasions, combined with a stripped shirt, retro jeans, and shiny black shoes designed to get one’s attention on the dance floor.
The more I watched all these people, the more I felt out of place. I didn’t have anything that glistened, and there was no poignant color on any of my garments. Compared to those lads, I looked like an utter hillbilly lacking every bit of style. I was wearing shorts and flip-flops, a bland gray sweater, and a denim jacket. My clothing options had been very limited, considering that my jeans, shirt, and sneakers were still drying up after the long and windy rainy drive from the night before. But at the end of it, none of that mattered, as Bill Murray’s excellent acting made me forget about all about those differences. And the rest also couldn’t care less.
The movie went through, and soon enough, after a bit of chitchat, guitar tunes, beers, and smokes, the company was split and everyone went their own way. The rain was less frantic, diminished to a mere drizzle. On the other hand, it got colder.
The clouds were low again, so the way back to Phuc Duy’s abode was misty, offering an outlandish sensation. We got the creeps, as the cold and the drizzle intensified on the motorbike. Besides that, the city had the appearance of a barren, ghost town, which made us think about a place filled with radiators, pillows, blankets, and plenty of grub. Those elements were dancing in my mind. It was the kind of situation when you just want to come back home to your mother, where you would eat one of your favorite childhood sandwiches that she’d made for you so many times and that you couldn’t forget in a million years. Eventually, a warm bed welcomed me that night too, where I closed my eyes just once, and that was it.
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My third and final day in Đà Lạt didn’t have any significant encounters. It was a day reduced to fulfilling solely the most basic of needs. Apart from going out to fill our guts, my buddy and I just stayed home. Considering the rain that was constantly alternating its frequency, we both agreed that it was a perfect day to just slack off. With that being said, Phuc Duy did some work-related things on his laptop while I was reading, resting, or fooling around with the cats outside that were always up to something.
On the day that followed, I witnessed a miracle. There was barely any rain. A casual minuscule drop coming from the same bleak clouds covering the whole area like a blanket could be felt every now and then. It was as good as it could get, and to me, that meant I could hop on Greeny and shoot myself out of Đà Lạt like a rocket man.
I put my clothes on, and to my surprise, 3 days were not enough to get the Converse sneakers dry. It was the only pair of footwear I had, and driving all the way to the ocean in flip-flops was not an option, so I had to accept the idea of driving with soaked feet. As a matter of fact, it didn’t bother me as much as it used to. I had become indifferent to it.
Once I was all geared up, I woke up Phuc Duy, who was still asleep, as pretty much everyone else seemed to be at 7am. I told him the weather was alright and I was on my way further south. Saigon was awaiting. He opened the gate for me, and before I took off, he told me that in a few days he’d take a bus to Saigon to check a concert from one of his friends who was in a band and to crash for a while to his aunt who was living there. I thanked him for all the hospitality and promised him we would have a few hangouts in the big metropolis.
Phuc Duy seemed to be really glad about his move to Đà Lạt. He was keen on staying there for a long time, and he didn’t seem to plan to go again up North anytime soon. He wanted to just make his living there working and focus more on his writing whenever he felt like it. And my guess was that he’d be sure writing plenty with all the bleak sky in the region crying almost every day and every night. There was no other way for him than to just get all snug as a bug in a rug, hold a cup of hot herbal beverage, let his imagination break free, and put every word of it on paper, be it through a keyboard or the good old pen.
We embraced, and I took off, and further south I ventured, through the will of Greeny, who seemed to purr with excitement after sitting idle in the garage for all those days. As I got out Đà Lạt, the serpentines were back on the menu.
After driving through a few provincial settlements, I found myself once again in the mountains’ wilderness, where the road was the sole footprint of the intricate human race. That lonesome road segment triggered a quick retrospection of the Đà Lạt experience, which I had just left behind. That settlement was not really a city now that I thought about the quick 3 days, which had vanished almost in an instant. It didn’t strike me as one. It was way closer to the concept of a huge mountain farm full of bars, cafés, and cozy little restaurants and food spots. Each of those joints was owned and frequented by artists, freaks, intellectuals, and eccentric figures whose appearances matched the places’ interiors entirely.
Every writer, painter, musician, philosopher, lonely weirdo, and misfit recluse that couldn’t really adapt anywhere else or who simply had enough of any other more conventional and conformist corner of Vietnam would one day go up one of the windy roads splitting the high lands of the South. At some point, the way would bring them into the magic valley, where the realm of Đà Lạt would open its arms and welcome all those characters, inviting and caressing them. Thus, they came in contact with the town’s fairy dust and all its quirks found nowhere else across the country, leaving everything behind and starting life anew. That was, of course, if they didn’t mind the rainy season.
My stream of consciousness ended violently when the road quality transformed into a vicious path full of potholes. And they were not tiny, shallow pits that one would easily avoid with a casual swerve. They were legit craters, and that road had more of them than the damn moon.
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When I left behind the crescents with their serpentines, the road became decent once more. That was the perfect moment to have some good old rain pouring down on me, because why the hell not? After getting caught by surprise like that for quite a few times, one learns to be indifferent to the brutal rain. As the Dutch said it themselves, “Ik ben niet van suiker” (I am not made of sugar).
The terrain flattened as I was approaching Mũi Né. For some reason, the whole landscape looked like some countryside from Italy. I felt that I was in Tuscany. I looked at grassy fields with patches of light brown soil which sometimes even had an orange tint. Trees that had a very Mediterranean shape where scattered on those fields and they looked as if they were the ones bearing olives. I know they weren’t olive trees but I wanted them to be. And the power of my imagination made them so, just as it was already doing its spells to put me in Italy, even though I was in a land with way fewer Italian restaurants.
A bunch of wind turbines also started popping out on the horizon. It was the first time I’d ever seen wind turbines in the whole vast Vietnamese turf. It had been years since I’d seen wind turbines at all, as a matter of fact. It felt eerie. Yet there I found myself, pretending I was on my home continent.
Pavarotti’s voice was singing in my head as the diminished rain kept washing my face. One by one, I passed plenty of wind turbines, and many more were showing up as the landscape was shifting. I began seeing dunes. The Mũi Né dunes were greeting me as I was about to see again my good old friend, the ocean. What an intriguing place I found myself to be. From wild mountains in and out of clouds to plains resembling Tuscany to a miniature of the Sahara desert that was making way for the Pacific.
It was about that moment when I thought about my current circumstances, as I reeled quickly through the thin timeline of my young existence. 3 years ago, fate had decided that I ought to come to Vietnam and play the English teacher. More than a thousand days went by, and I was still living there, roaming the whole country with my motorbike which was still loyal to my ambition of going down to good old Saigon. Greeny didn’t let me down yet, and it showed no signs of doing so. Even after 1500 km and still counting, the engine was still revving and pushing.
I was in a foreign land, enjoying a completely free summer, just like back in high school, but the difference was that I had a full stash of money that enabled me to do whatever the hell I wanted. I had been traveling for two months without any care whatsoever, and I could do that for at least two more months, based on my finances. It felt unreal. I wanted to give a buzz to all my buddies back in Europe working all summer and invite them over. We’d all sit together on plastic stools, drinking from cold coconuts while facing the breeze. Nothing would matter. It was as if I was cheating my way through life. Some were toiling for a slice of cheese while others were cruising in Asia, through mountains, temples, dunes, and rice fields. Yet, the pendulum would eventually swing back on the other side, and I would find myself toiling once more, just until the point when I could do another trip like that and then repeat the cycle until hell knows when. It was the best I could think of concerning the foreseeable future. As long as I got Greeny, a sturdy mind, and all my senses working, there was nothing else I would’ve rather done.
I made a little stop in Mũi Né to get a better look of the dunes. I climbed them, went in the middle of those sands, and stared into the ocean. Behind me, the wind turbines were still spinning like records. As bits of dusty orange matter were dancing on my bare feet, guided by the ocean’s wind, I forgot about everything. I forgot about myself, Greeny, and why was I even doing that whole crusade. I lit a cigarette and pretended I was a statue made by the dunes themselves, sitting there watching the distant waves long before any other civilization took notice of that orange sandy stretch.