All That Bobble
[cafe on General Uprising in Vung Tau on 5/18/24]
I once owned George Harrison’s All Things Must Pass, believe it or not. Bought it as a cassette. Sitting at the cafe on General Uprising, I thought of that purchase. For the first time in two weeks, I didn’t swim in ocean or pool before setting out. All that bobble must be flushed. I don’t remember a single image or thought from All Things, not even “nothing in life can surpass the art of dying.”
At Lami’s in Tirana, I liked to claim the first table inside the door, for its view of the street and each lovely person walking in. I’m doing the same in Vung Tau. To my left, a man is checking car prices on his phone. A Wuling Honggyang Mini EV can be had for less than $10,000. He’s fantasizing about its lithium-ion battery before that flaming finale. Notice his wooden bead bracelet and swastika faced thumb ring. These Buddhist ornaments beckon luck and peace.
There’s a beefy man who’s always in a tanktop. His uproarious laughs are slightly maniacal. There’s rage or hurt behind them. Today, he’s going on about his divorce.
“They’d go, ‘I gave you my entire life, and what did I get?’ But had they been eating shit every day?!” Eyes bulging, he roars. “They’d go, ‘My parents raised me so many years, just for this?!’ My parents raised me too!”
Enjoying this, even those not at his table are smiling slightly.
“You yield and shut up, but it’s not over. You go away for a few hours. When you come back, they start it all over again! Women are like that!”
When that chubby seller of lottery tickets objects, he backs off, “I don’t need anyone. All I care about is my son. When I hold him, I’m happy.”
“How old is he?”
“Five,” he smiles.
“When did your wife leave?”
“Three years ago.”
“When he was only two!”
“We weren’t even married. We had no engagement or wedding, but a child must have a mother and a father. That’s why we were together.”
Leaving, I wander to a park between Trưng Trắc and Trưng Nhị Streets. These sisters led an uprising against the Chinese in 41BC. Since Cóc Cóc Coffee won’t be open for half an hour, I relax on the stone edge of a fountain. This proves fortuitous.
Interrupting his morning hobble, a white haired man addresses me, “Are you a journalist?” He’s seen me before, obviously. All over, I can be spotted with my laptop or bulky camera.
“I write articles. I used to write books. I lived in the US. I can’t publish there any more. They also censor!”
Forty-nine years after the Vietnam War, divisions persist, but look at how Americans treat each other 159 years after their civil war. Having some sense of who I am, he says he was a captain in the South Vietnamese Army. After 3 1/2 years in a reeducation camp, he applied to emigrate to the US. By the time they said yes, he had changed his mind.
“How old are you, brother?” I ask.
“Seventy-eight.”
“I’m only 60! I’m like your son.”
Before 1975, all the houses behind him were owned by Indians, but rented to Chinese. Since one was haunted, his parents could move in for cheap.
“These ghosts didn’t like Chinese?”
“They didn’t like anyone but my parents.”
“What do you mean?”
“After they had moved in, seven spirits appeared to tell them they were welcomed. My mother was a Caodaist, you see. There was no Cao Dai temple in Vung Tau. My parents understood it’s their job to build one. You know the one on Trương Công Định?”
“I’ve walked by there.”
“My parents built that!”
Looking down, I notice his ankles are bluish and swollen. He’s not worried about the end, however, “I’ve never craved anything. I never lusted after money, cars or women. I never wanted to go anywhere. My father had a car, so wanted me to drive, but I was embarrassed. I didn’t want to drive by old men pumping tires on sidewalks. I’m a vegetarian.”
Though he has a brother in the US, they’re not in touch.
Nodding slightly, he announces, “Now, I must go have breakfast!”
His three story house has a swimwear store with a yellow sign in Vietnamese, English and Russian. The building’s pediment boasts a steel lotus. Rising from mud, it’s clean, thus symbolizing purity of mind and spirit. Here for young, desperate bushes, sex tourists couldn’t care less for such iconography.
Since it’s been hotter than usual for a month, I overhear chatters of ruined crops and absurdly high electricity bills. Folks are also cringing at prices for gasoline, rice, sugar and coffee, all basic stuff. Some evenings in Cóc Cóc, I sit alone.
Not yet flushed, I will join other transients to bobble in the ocean. Though dying also, it seems immortal. Floating on my back, I’ll stare at the grayish sky. Adrift, I’ll feel unsnagged by time.
[Vung Tau, 5/14/24]
[Vung Tau, 5/16/24]
[Vung Tau, 5/17/24]
[Vung Tau, 5/18/24]
Floating in the ocean, walking barefoot on sand supposedly bring one in contact with Earth's Schumann Resonance, a low frequency electromagnetic "balancing act" within the planet. Synthetic materials like the rubberized soles of modern shoes remove us with contact from the ground and break the connection . Doing things as simple as walking barefoot on damp ground/grass, sticking your feet in mud or swimming are supposed to have regenerative, balancing effects on the mind and body. Who knows, the water and sky alone are sure to soothe. Keep bobbling and healing Linh.
Wonderful essay, Linh. I loved "floating on my back I feel unsnagged by time". Great photos, too. I especially loved the beautiful woman sleeping in the hammock. She looks so peaceful. Thanks so much!