Down on the Mekong for Tet

Can Tho

View Photos (9) Image © 2000 Mike Blackwell

"Ah, the Delta," he said, "the Delta is my heart." His English was perfect, the meaning clear. One of Ho Chi Minh City's top officials leaned back in his chair, peered at the large wall map of the Mekong Delta and smiled, "the delta is beautiful, you will have an interesting trip." It was a statement of fact, rather than a hope.

"My work is in the city and there is much to do; I seldom have an opportunity to go back," he thought for a moment and his face grew longer, "we have made progress, but people are still poor, there are many things they do not have..." The afternoon sun filtered through the momentary silence. "I'd like to be going with you," the smile was back; "have a good visit. Please tell me what you observe and how the people are, when you return."

My old friend Martin Dockery and I were back in Vietnam to once again travel the delta roads and be among the people we knew in the "old days." During the war we had been military advisors in various parts of these lush and fertile provinces of the delta and this was Martin's first trip back since the 60s. I had returned once before, in 1995, on business in Ho Chi Minh City (nee Saigon and still called that by almost all non-official Saigonese) but had limited time to spend outside the sprawling metropolis now home to over seven million people. Finally, we were going back to the countryside.

The delta can be roughly divided into 'upper' and 'lower.' We planned to traverse the upper delta making a long loop from Saigon to the towns of My Tho, Can Tho, Rach Gia, Ha Tien, Chau Doc, Sa Dec then tack back up the main north-south route past My Tho and into Saigon through the teeming Vietnamese-Chinese city of Cholon; a city within a city.

Tet, the Vietnamese lunar new year was approaching and we looked forward to becoming part of the vast ebb and flow of people traveling back to their hometowns and villages for the holiday. Our goal was to arrive back in Saigon on the eve of Tet itself to observe and participate in the festivities in that bustling and curious city. There was also a practical reason. In Vietnam, the whole country virtually closes down on the eve of Tet and many offices and stores do not reopen for a week or longer.

In Saigon, we stayed in a Vietnamese style hotel, the Mai Lan, close to the city center and within walking distance of the old American Embassy; the famous Caravelle Hotel where a generation of American war correspondents traded stories, rumors and dispatched their copy; and the former Presidential Palace, now restored as a National Museum. The Mai Lan is a friendly and comfortable family-run establishment and in spite of being physically close to it, is far from the "beaten track" of tourists and other foreign travelers. Ideal for us--it was an appropriate starting place. The track we were taking into the delta is still relatively untouched by western feet, as well.

I had stayed at the Mai Lan in 1995 and had looked forward to coming back. The proprietor and his family welcomed me back as if a prodigal son had returned and indeed, treated both Martin and I with the utmost warmth and friendliness for our entire stay. He and his family were entirely reliable, trustworthy and helpful. Although both of us had forgotten most of our Vietnamese and the people at the Mai Lan spoke very limited English we had lengthy, friendly, laughing conversations with all of them. We even conducted ad hoc language classes with the younger ones in the evenings while we sipped Vietnamese coffee or tea and watched the passing street scene from folding chairs on the sidewalk in front of the hotel.

Though modest by five-star standards, the Mai Lan is a delightful place to meet Vietnam. The rooms are large with high, airy ceilings, equipped with both fan and air-conditioning (if you want to shut out the world), a television and phone. It has large tiled bathrooms with all the usual amenities except a tub. Showers are taken in the bathroom rather than a shower stall and the water drains off the slightly sloped floor.

You could order a western style wake-up call or do as I do. With windows open and a hazy blue-gray sky emerging from the dark, you can wake to the sounds and smells of cooking and the strident call of the rooster in the courtyard below. He rouses his brood and the neighborhood at an early hour every morning and has apparently held the job for a long time. He was there when I was in 1995 and his voice has not weakened.

Vietnam rises early and works early before the tropical heat of afternoon slows the pace and invites siesta. By the time it is full light, a food market has sprung to life across Nguyen Cong Tru, the busy street in front of the hotel. The women hawkers arrange meat, poultry, fish, vegetables and fruit of wild variety and assortment on trays and mats in tiers. Passersby--on foot, cyclo, motorbike and the occasional car--bargain gently. The women chop and weigh and talk among themselves, sometimes raucously, and laughter mingles with babies and commerce. It is an overflowing fifty yards of living market sprung full-bodied on the opposite sidewalk come each dawn, which bewilderingly disappears without a trace, as if by magic wand, in the early afternoon.

A drive in the country takes some advance planning and forethought. We had tried to anticipate necessities without diminishing the sense of freedom of adventure and discovery that we sought. We had no interest in an organized tour and in fact there were none available.

With the help of Vietnamese-American friends in Honolulu, we had arranged for a van and driver for our delta sojourn. Although vans and cars, with drivers, guides, interpreters and even companions are easily obtainable in the city, their reliability and trustworthiness are unknown factors to a newcomer. It was not only a comfort to have a family-connected and recommended driver but also, because of his reliability, enthusiasm and knowledge, he proved to be the singularly most advantageous arrangement that we made.

Hom, our driver, spoke little English but he knew the van and he knew the delta. He was serious and attentive while driving but quickly and naturally fell into the camaraderie of the adventure. Martin and I experienced deja vu often during this trip and certainly on those occasions when, after we had haltingly explained something in our very rusty Vietnamese to Hom, he would turn around and "translate" for the hotel manager or storekeeper. Hom was a great asset, and in this case, three was not a crowd.

On the Delta Road

"Don't drink the water" is a tired old line, but good advice. Use ice to chill bottles and cans, but not in the glass. The hotel furnished us with a large cooler that we stocked with orange juice, bottled water and soft drinks. With handshakes, well wishing and a gift of fresh papaya and melon from the hotel owner, we set off to see our delta, the timeless delta, in peace for the first time.

There are few route signs along the roads of Vietnam; for that matter, few routes as we know them, and with the problem of language always a consideration it is practical to simply give the driver a place name to head for. We made sure that Hom understood that we would want to stop occasionally to buy something, take a picture or just orient ourselves on the map. A few simple prearranged and understandable words in almost any place in the world such as "Stop as soon as you can, please" was effective and safe. Hom didn't have to figure out what we wanted at the same time he was negotiating traffic. After we stopped safely by the side of the road we could convey our intentions leisurely and in good humor. Most Vietnamese are polite and wish to accommodate, so it is both unfair and dangerous to give quick gesturing instructions while driving. Also, they know the rules of their roads far better than we ever could--there are places where they are not allowed to stop (police or security areas, for example) that we would not recognize. In these cases, Hom would just shake his head, wave his right hand and say "No, no, no stop." Good enough for us--he would pull over as soon as he could after that.

The van was a late model and commodious with windows on all sides. In addition to the cooler, maps and cameras, we brought only overnight bags with light traveling clothes and toiletries. For backup we also carried a flashlight, water-purification tablets, diarrhea medicine and mosquito repellent. In fact, we used none of these things in the four nights and five days of our trip. We also took a reasonable amount of Vietnamese money and our passports. The passport is important. Hotels are required by law to hold them while any foreigner is a guest. We had also been advised to carry copies of our visas and plane ticket itineraries and, even though we were never once asked for papers or questioned by any authority, nor stopped at any checkpoint, that remains a prudent precaution.

The Vietnamese drive by horn. This is not the blaring, cacophonous din of impatient western drivers, but a gentle beep-beep designed to alert another other of one's presence. The roads are crowded with an amazing variety of vans and trucks of all nationalities--motorized cyclos, scooters, motorbikes, buses, jitneys, pedal bikes and even homemade contraptions that appear to be of extremely mixed breed--cannibalizations from various discarded vehicles. In fact, the Vietnamese discard very little. They are master recyclers. Replacement parts are crafted from used materials at hand. Tin, in sheets and pieces, often with beer can logos and from who knows where, becomes sides of houses, buckets, toys (including very detailed and authentic looking American helicopters), household utensils and art.

When the traffic is congested and crawling, which is often on the narrow delta roads, it is not uncommon for women and children with baskets of fruit, food, cigarettes and sundries, to walk into and with the moving traffic. They often approached our van, alternately curious and intending to sell their wares if we stopped momentarily in traffic. I was tempted, on occasion to buy some of the delicacies, especially the very tasty bang chung, small rectangular bundles of rice, meat (usually pork) and spices wrapped in banana leaf, but I was determined not to risk intestinal distress on the long ride and let prudence prevail.

We did stop at roadside markets and in small towns, however, for bread and fruit that was readily available and delicious. The bread, freshly baked French-style long loaves, was sold from woven baskets that were sometimes perched on makeshift tables or alternately carried at the end of long poles on women's shoulders. Watermelon, honeydew, papaya, mango, bananas and apples, incredibly, seemed to be available everywhere along with a dazzling array of fruits and vegetables unfamiliar to me but including longan (nhan) which is sweet and delicious and rambutan (chom chom) a small reddish and somewhat hairy fruit with tart, milky flesh. The Vietnamese love chom chom and consider it a delicacy but it is a taste that takes some getting used to for Americans.

The delta is known as Vietnam's rice bowl but it is so fertile that it's astonishing to see what grows in the rich, black soil. We passed small orchards of fruit, nuts and berries, fields of vegetables and spices, and plot after plot after plot of flowers. Yellow and orange chrysanthemums abounded in the fields and in the markets--cut in bundles or still growing in pots, some on long stems that brought the flowers waist high. These are the flowers of Tet nurtured with the ancient knowledge of the delta farmers for the altars, doorways and shrines on this most festive and yet, august and religious of holidays.

Living the Life

Although there are no checkpoints, there are numerous stops along the way. Traffic moves swiftly, with buses and trucks passing each other and reinserting themselves back into line in a hair-raising ballet for a few kilometers along a straightaway and then all stop in a steaming, hissing wait at a bridge construction site or an inexplicable one-lane section. At some of these stops, I got out of the van and walked along the road, struck up conversations, gently fended off the ubiquitous sellers of foods, candy and cigarettes, and took pictures. People took pictures of me taking pictures. At these stops, the drivers who, only moments before impatiently wove and passed and beeped their way in and out of line, waited patiently, smoking, sometimes dozing, seemingly at ease until, without warning, the traffic began to move once again. Suddenly, from a dead stop, they started beeping, pulling in and out of line, eager for even a one vehicle advantage.

Martin and I had made no appointments, not even reservations; we simply pinpointed a certain town as the day's goal. The first day's objective was the city of Can Tho about 190 kilometers and two major branches of the Mekong away. The delta itself is crisscrossed with innumerable canals and rivers, interconnected and flowing, eventually, from the great Mekong, known in Vietnamese as Cuu Long, "The River of Nine Dragons". The river divides and subdivides into countless branches and tributaries as it traverses Vietnam and ends its long journey from Tibet in the South China Sea.

The ride from Saigon to My Tho is easy and uneventful except for the amazing traffic and the welcome stops for bread and fruit. It quickly became obvious that no matter what the item, Hom could buy it cheaper than we could and, if we got out of the van with him the price was still higher than if he was alone, so we accepted the reality and let him do the buying. In My Tho, which is sometimes visited by tourist buses from Saigon, we heard some English and a few cries from the vendors of "Hey, hey...American, you buy, you buy..." and we both wanted to move on across the river. It was the last time in the entire trip that we saw any vestige of crude western tourist solicitation. In actuality, from then on we did not meet or see another American nor hear any English spoken except when we gently prodded in conversation.

After a quick ride around My Tho and a fleeting look at the "Seminary", long-ago home to American advisors and my sometime refuge, we were anxious to arrive at the Cai Be ferry and make the first of our two major river crossings of the day. We had no idea how long we'd have to wait before loading on the ferry but more importantly, crossing the Mekong was filled with symbolism for us. Until we had crossed its waters, the delta was still a shimmering oasis in the distance.

From My Tho, the Cai Be road veers almost due west, paralleling the river, and at Cai Be, dips south straight to the Mekong and the ferry crossing across the river from the city of Vinh Long. This was the slowest stretch of road in the entire trip. It is a single lane in each direction except when it becomes a single lane, period. Many small bridges were under repair or total reconstruction; local traffic, especially trucks, often stopped all other traffic in both directions, as they backed and turned at their destinations, and the stops were frequent and lengthy. The van provided relief from the heat, our supply of bread, fresh fruit and cold drinks was plentiful and the scenes in all directions were fascinating and exotic. We were neither bored nor uncomfortable. Nor were we anxious. There was nothing to fear, no danger this time, in our delta.

There was another wait at the river crossing. Five large, white and red ferries, each capable of transporting numerous vehicles of all sizes, including buses, trucks and a mass of pedestrian and motorbike traffic, continuously ply back and forth across the great river. The procedure is orderly, efficient and safe. Traffic approaching the ferry landing bunches up and begins to look chaotic as drivers jump out, dodge through halted and halting vehicles and run to the tollmaster for their tickets. Near the loading ramp, one-lane traffic balloons to five. But when the ferry drops its ramp and the iron gate opens, the five lanes slim down to one and loading is fast and quiet. There are no horns or beeps here and no arguments. People, bikes and vehicles flow onto the ferry and move to the front without incident. As on the road, the sellers of sundries and food walk aboard and continue their trade. People engaged in other commerce carry trussed live animals, freshly slaughtered meat in sacks and baskets, fruit, vegetables and rice in various, and sometimes bizarre, containers. Everybody seems to be transporting food and almost everyone seems to be eating it, as well. For most travelers the boat crossing is a welcome break and they enjoy fruit, bang chung, small talk and the cooler air on the river. The ferry was smooth and quiet. I climbed topside to take pictures and, as I approached the prow of the ferry, I could see Martin on the lower level and an ancient woman with two basket trays on a long pole. The trays contained cut and wrapped fish for sale. Martin and the fishmonger were eyeing each other curiously.

The crossing takes about ten minutes and off-loading is quick and efficient. The entire lapsed time at the river seemed very short once we arrived at the tolltaker. It was probably no more than a half-hour total, certainly much quicker and more refreshing than many of the stops along the road. The cost, at least from an American perspective, is negligible. Hom bought the ticket, of course.

At the open market in Vinh Long it was like the days before Christmas at home. The Vietnamese buy trees as well as flowers for Tet. Not the long needle balsam or pine we cut as Christmas trees but living, four to five foot high lemon and lime trees in baskets which decorate their home shrines. These trees are loaded with small green fruit and signify hopes for good luck and prosperity in the year to come. When the tree is brought home, it is carefully trimmed usually by the lady of the house and the branches and fruit are carefully and artistically arranged for the maximum effects of bounty and fertility.

Traffic around the market was snarled. People were loading vehicles, even taxis, with trees and chrysanthemums and food of every description. There was a happy air of people in a holiday mood and an easy and patient jostling to extricate themselves, motorbikes and loaded vehicles from the crowd. Martin and I walked among the food stalls and plants, returning the smiling "Ho-lo, ho-los" with nodding "Chao Anh, Chao Ba, Chao Em" as the case dictated. It was mid-afternoon and we still had kilometers to go and another branch of the great river to cross before arriving in Can Tho so we joined the outward throng and headed for the main road.

The delta began to stretch out in long green waving fields of rice as we left Vinh Long on the road south to the next ferry crossing at Cai Von. Traffic moved well, with few backups, and we stopped casually along the way for pictures. In time, we were startled by an apparition before us in the sky. After traveling miles through flat rice paddy, interrupted by villages and small towns with buildings no more than two stories high, and few of them at that; we could suddenly see a glistening curved arc of steel rising futuristically into the sky and ending abruptly in space. It soared majestically, high into the sky and was quite identifiable from many kilometers away as the beginning superstructure of a great bridge. A towering crane with a spider arm rose nearby and both were framed against an unbroken blue background. The structures were on the far side of the Mekong and represented only a tiny bit of what will be. If the eventual bridge could be thought of as one foot, we were looking at only the first inch. But this inch was a surreal finger, rising from thatched roofed houses and rice paddies, pointed at the 21st century. It grew taller and taller as we neared Cai Von until at the crossing we could see the true nature of this amazing enterprise. The opposite bank was crowded with construction equipment, steel, cement pilings, construction shacks and all the paraphernalia associated with a major building project. The completed bridge would be colossal, arcing for more than a kilometer, in single span, high over the boats and barges on the busy river.

Predictably, traffic was congested. As soon as practicable, Hom left the van and dodged through to the ticket booth and purchased our boarding passes for the ferry. One could dream about the modern bridge, but a ferry crossing is the reality in 1999. Hawkers of foods and wares crowded our van as before and laughed and giggled at my fractured Vietnamese when I attempted small talk while we waited.

The river town around us seemed unusual and invited investigation but the resonant hoot-hoot of the ferry reminding us of our destination across the river, kept us in line. We could see TV antennas on a number of roofs, even thatched roofs, and a variety of small shops, displaying goods ranging from food and woven baskets to clothes and live animals and exotic birds in small bamboo cages. Little restaurants that, no doubt, served a variety of delectable fish entrees lined the quay. Sampans and boats of all sizes jammed around the docks and piers. This was a busy river town where urban and rural and the river people met and it was Vietnamese in every aspect, unaffected by western influence.

While a delight for us, the absence of westerners does have its downside. In the cities where the population is relatively urbane and in the true countryside where people tend to be diffident and yet curious with restraint, we could walk and shop with ease. Whenever we walked in these middle grounds, however, we would draw a crowd. People of all ages, especially the children, would close in and watch our every move with undisguised curiosity. Children would often run up to touch our arms and even, as in the old days, pull at the hairs on our arms. The Vietnamese have little if any body hair and they find hairy arms endlessly fascinating. All of this is usually friendly and humorous, sometimes a little annoying, but always impedes leisurely strolling and looking and the lookers themselves, become the curios.

We crossed the river uneventfully on one of the large ferries, mesmerized by the ever-growing bridge structure before us, and somewhat rueful at not having had the opportunity to explore the river town. We could have easily spent half a day there. The far bank was Can Tho and we were immediately in city streets filled with noise, traffic lights and throngs of people on their way home from work. We had left Saigon that morning at 8:30. It was now five o'clock. We looked for a hotel.

Festival!

Can Tho is the de facto capital of the agricultural delta. It is the furthest major Vietnamese city from central control in Hanoi and both prides itself on, and chafes at, this distinction. It is a major, deepwater port, open to seagoing vessels on the Hau Giang, the branch of the Mekong we crossed by ferry. It has an international airport and a university of some renown; hotels and restaurants abound. We had a list of hotels and consulted it, but preferred to follow our and, importantly, Hom's instincts. We stopped at a couple of places, and for one reason or another--location, price, our 'feel' for the place, we rejected them until finally arriving at the riverfront near the Central Market. We chose a somewhat dilapidated old colonial building, obviously built in the days of the French, that faced a "People's Park" and the river less than 100 yards beyond. It was a good choice, although, as it transpired, it was the poorest quality hotel we encountered. Nevertheless, the location was perfect and the view and circumstance from the second floor balcony were to be remembered. French doors from the rooms opened on wrought iron railed balconies reminiscent of New Orleans and the proximity to the festivities and human flow on the street below gave us box seats at a theater of festival.

Warranted or not, we felt a kinship with the people of the delta and yet we realized from experience that everything for sale has three or four different prices and the initial offering to us would be the highest one. We determined that, as old Delta Foxes, we should not have to pay the top price reserved for American and other "wealthy" tourists and we knew that bargaining is not only accepted but also expected. Martin and I realized we'd never get the lowest price the locals paid, but aimed for a middle ground that felt reasonably just to both sides. We usually achieved it with humor, patience and, of course, compromise.

Bargaining in Vietnam, as in all of Asia, is a respected art form. It can be spirited but never mean, and neither party should ever be made to lose face or be boxed into a corner. Ultimatums like "Take it or leave it" are not only rude, but will usually result in even the neediest of people leaving it. The outcome of a good bargain is when both parties feel that not only they, but the other, have made a good deal. This is an honorable, win-win result. Propriety, respect and trade are maintained. In this environment, language difficulties, per se, are almost never a major factor.

The street below our balconies had been blocked off to vehicular traffic for Tet and was packed with rows and rows of flowers and trees on sale for the holidays. Here were not only the yellow and orange chrysanthemums but also the rarer, ruby-red mums along with trees and cut branches sprouting bright yellow and pink blossoms. Lemon and lime trees and bushes and plants in flower, some recognizable as hyacinth or jacinth and frangipani stretched the entire block as an extension of the labyrinthine food market down the street. The flower sellers had strung Christmas lights over the frames of their display booths. Across this makeshift "street of flowers" was the park that ran a quarter of a mile along the waterfront.

There were no other westerners at the Kien Vien, a restaurant located at the end of the People's Park by the river, but numerous Vietnamese groups and families, happily reunited for the holidays, filled the establishment with animated cheer. We sat outside on the deck and drank cold beer while perusing the menu--we felt quite splendid. Hanging overhead, lanterns swung in the breeze; sounds of laughter and excited talk from inside the restaurant drifted out and silent barges with flickering running lights floated slowly past us. No ghosts from the past rose to disturb the air of this festive evening, only the aura of holiday excitement. We had both spent hundreds of nights in Vietnam's delta but this evening and this meal, by the old Cuu Long as it wandered to the sea, marked the first night there without anxiety. We were back and it was very fine.

As was the food. We ordered recklessly. Shrimp on a bed of rice and vegetables; tender strips of beef, marinated in nuoc mom and barbecued; fish baked and tender white flesh laid out artistically on a bed of green with garnishes; chicken chopped and topped with tangy dark sauce and served with sliced tomatoes and cucumber, all on large platters; and soups, bowls of steaming chowders swimming with fish and greens and spices; with rice, heaping bowls of steamed white rice, the staple of Asia. Our chopsticks flew in the style we remembered.

Admittedly, we ate a lot. We had had a long day on the road and were hungry. The restaurant was attractive, festive and by the river. The food aromas had been tantalizing. Boats were passing, the cooler air stimulated our appetites and the menu selections were varied, delicious and numerous. Portions were large. But the bill at 85,000 dong apiece was a quiet shocker. Unrocked and feeling expansive, we ordered more cafe dien-viet, the strong, black, robusta grown in Vietnam and served much like espresso, and did the calculations. Legal exchange pegged the dollar at about 13,000 dong, the basic Vietnamese unit of currency. Martin and I agreed that the tip should be reasonable and based on the same principles as at home; good service, good food and the amount of the bill. The Kien Vien was five-star by those criteria. The total cost of the meal including tip was less than $7.50 each. The ambiance was free!

We walked back through the softly lighted park. There are no commercial activities in the People's Park, which is for strolling, reflection and quiet conversation. The area is landscaped with trees and flower beds, wide curving pathways and occasional, enormous terra cotta vessels containing exotic trees painstakingly trimmed and sculpted with great artistry. Young couples walked hand in hand or sat closely on the many benches spaced along the pathways. Families, small children respectfully in tow, meandered comfortably. Many of the women wore the very alluring and colorful ao dai, the traditional dress. The ao dai has a tight fitting bodice with high collar and long skirt slit to the waist on both sides. It's worn over ankle-length, silk pantaloons. Although this costume covers virtually the entire body and sleeves are to the wrist, it is singularly beguiling and provocative. Young women, schoolgirls and maidens usually wear an all white ao dai with white trousers, often with the ubiquitous conical straw hat tied under the chin with a colorful ribbon. The Vietnamese are almost universally slender and in this dress, willowy and graceful. A few women wore western style jeans and blouses on this holiday evening in the park, but there were no shorts, tank tops, thinly disguised bras or crass tee shirts. Nor was there graffiti or trash. I sensed that the common people not only felt secure and relaxed in this serene and gentle oasis, but also felt a proprietary pride in their park and would not defile it.

Outside the park, in front of our hotel, the tone was far more boisterous. Even at this late hour the flower market was crowded. Most people were on foot but there were some on pedal and motor bikes and now and then a taxi, which had slipped through the barricades at the top of the street, would dislodge party and restaurant goers. Immediately, a hue and cry rose from the street level establishments along the row of buildings, of which our hotel was one. Young men, two or three from each restaurant, would run into the street shouting in Vietnamese "My restaurant, my restaurant...best food, you come here." If they could, they would take the newly arrived by the arm, talking and gesturing all the while, trying to lead them inside. Some went and some resisted and veered off to an adjoining place. As the excitement subsided the restaurant barkers would retreat to their places or wander up the street looking for other customers and the next taxi.

Then, three or four men, with a number of small boys running around in great excitement, began man-handling a large tree with great burlap-wrapped root ball four or more feet in diameter, from one of the stalls and into a motorized tricycle wagon they had brought alongside. To Martin and I, it seemed to be a futile task. The root ball was so big and so heavy that it threatened to unbalance the wagon and raise the front driver section up off of the ground. Indeed, it did, but they shifted the weight and moved it, ever aware of the uppermost branches and their proximity to electrical and telephone wires overhead. You could see the great care being taken to avoid breaking any branches or knocking off any of the abundant shiny green fruit. This tree was destined to be a centerpiece in a large house or important building during the weeks of Tet and respect for it was obvious. Passersby stopped and offered encouragement. Advice was called out from the circle of people gathering and although we couldn't follow the words, the meanings were clear. "Take care, take care...that branch, there..." and a woman's voice, "Mind the fruit...over there, you're going to lose it..." After a time they settled the tree and tied it; the driver mounted up and one man climbed into the back to hold the branches. The crowd parted, all the while calling further advice and waving happily, as if after family members who were off to a picnic.

Loudspeakers set up in the telephone poles along the street blared intermittently with holiday news, music and good wishes from notables and the government. Busy with their own activities, people paid us little heed as we mingled with the crowd and walked and rubbernecked by the various stalls. A few street urchins and children selling gum, cigarettes and various knickknacks approached and hung on for awhile, but were dissuaded after steadfast refusals by both Martin and I. It is difficult to refuse them but it is necessary. Show money, especially charity, in that circumstance, you will be deluged and maybe even forced to retreat to your hotel.

It was also necessary to decline the much more indirect and demur approaches, by fleeting yet meaningful eye contact from the occasional ladies who silently materialized from the crowd in front of us and smiled their availability. Young and pretty, discreet, fetchingly feminine in soft and colorful ao dais, they responded to our equally silent but appreciative smiles of "nice of you to ask, but no thank you" with sidelong looks, widened eyes and teeth in parting smiles that said in universal language "Ah, too bad...and thank you, too." A wink in time. The crowd moved. Martin and I moved with it, feeling good.

Finally we left the milling crowd for our hotel. From the balcony, just above where we had been, the scene appeared bucolic, less frenetic. Indeed, it had begun to quiet. The crowd had thinned, fewer strollers were in the park and the loudspeakers were silent. Beyond the park there was the river, always the river, flowing silently. Mute, vague barges and sampans with flickering night-lights crossed before us. The mighty and muddy Mekong, lifegiver and mother of the delta, never sleeps. In the morning we would leave her for a few days and head west to the Gulf of Siam, but she would find us again. The Mekong spreads her arms wide across the delta and will not be denied.

Published on 1/1/00