VI
EN
We arrived in Muong La as the sun was setting behind the mountains. Initially, our friends said we'd only go to Yen Bai, but we planned to travel from Hanoi to Yen Bai City, wander around Suoi Giang to drink Shan Tuyet tea and pick chestnuts, go to Van Chan to bathe in hot springs, then to Nghia Lo, and then drive into the Tu Le valley, crossing the Khau Pha pass to see La Pan Tan (Mu Cang Chai) to admire the golden rice fields. However, at the Kim junction, we realized we didn't have enough time, and besides, Bien said the rice fields were very crowded at this time of year – everyone was afraid of the crowds – so after lunch, we continued our journey, crossing the pass and winding through the Northwest to get back to Ngoc Chien (Muong La).
Just keep going, and it will become a journey.
Just keep going, and it will become a journey. My friends are all experienced "party-goers," so they just guide me around; if they told me the details of the trip, I'd probably hesitate and wouldn't dare go. It was my first time driving a low-slung white hatchback, looking like a princess, covering 700 km in 4 days. It was my first time driving myself over the Khau Pha Pass – one of the four great mountain passes of the treacherous Northwest region. It was my first time traveling from Hanoi through Yen Bai to Son La. It was my first time wandering up Nam Nghiep – a village known as the highest in Vietnam (approximately 2,500 meters above sea level). And it was my first time visiting Vi An… (Vi An is the name of a homestay located in Dong Xuong village, Ngoc Chien commune, Muong La district, Son La province).
Next to it is a model of a double window with a playful inscription from the homestay owner: "Turn around and you'll see NYC Corporation."
Many days have passed since I left Ngoc Chien for Hanoi, yet I still miss Vi An. I remember the long wooden table, like a tree trunk split lengthwise, covered with a Northwest brocade cloth, next to a model of a window with the playful inscription by the homestay owner: "Look back and you'll see NYC Corporation" (probably "ex-lover"). Sitting on the bench, a steaming cup of coffee in front of me, I gazed out at the vast, misty sky of the Northwest. The Nam Chien stream, noisy day and night during the rainy season, looked like a slow-moving silver stream from above, but when I followed Thanh and the children wading in, I saw the water's power, like a strong, beautiful, vibrant highland girl, rushing and roaring with inner strength.
I remember that first evening, when we were all happily enjoying a feast of delicious wine, fatty meat, fragrant fresh fish, wild vegetables in soup, and boiled bamboo shoots that everyone was raving about. After a long journey, we were all hugging and toasting each other when suddenly someone brought out some pieces of wood and started burning them in the fire in the courtyard. In the vast, misty Northwest night, amidst the murmuring streams, rice paddies, and lingering mountain mist, the smell of burning wood was intoxicating, like the scent of pine resin turning into amber. It suddenly brought back memories of distant European Christmases. I put down my glass of strong apple wine and asked who was burning such fragrant wood. My friends said they were burning Pơ-mu wood to roast sticky corn.
Highland feasts stimulate the taste buds.
I remember that morning, still curled up in bed, peaceful after a good night's drink and the long holidays ahead, startled by the birds chirping overhead, the rooster crowing on the porch, the pigs grunting at the end of the yard, and the clatter of buffalo hooves across the road. Awakened by these genuine, pure, peaceful sounds, imbued with the feeling of contentment and warmth, I wondered how many times a year I got to start my day so pleasantly.
I remember the dark green meadows during the rainy season, bobbing beside the vast rice paddies turning a warm, golden yellow. I remember the towering, strikingly green mountains painting majestic, decisive strokes against the clear sky, as if they were meant to be magnificent, soaring, challenging, and proud—nothing else could be. I remember the small, muddy paths after a night's rain, flanked by ripe rice stalks, a mesmerizing sight; walking through them felt like "walking through a sea of gold."
The vast rice fields are turning a rich, warm golden color.
I remember the suspension bridge over the stream that I had to painstakingly search for on a misty, drizzly morning, so I could sit, stand, turn left and right, stretch, kick my legs, and breathe in the pure, clear morning air.
It was on this same bridge, when I first arrived in Vi An and went with the children to find a place to bathe in the stream, that I stood on the bridge looking down at the flowing water as the sun was setting. The setting sun cast its rays upwards, illuminating the entire stream with a brilliant color like molten gold, shimmering on the rushing water. The rocks in the streambed divided the water into small, interwoven streams, reflecting a magnificent, mesmerizing scene. I stood there in a daze, gazing at it, then turned to Ngoc and said, "If we stood here on a full moon night, with its soft, enchanting light, the same moon, the same stream, the same trees, the same flowers, and those endless golden fields, imagine how beautiful it would be?"
The suspension bridge spans the stream.
Life is short, so why do we spend all day staring into the flickering black screens filled with numbers, our eyes glued to soulless, flashing advertising billboards, instead of venturing out into the vast, beautiful world around us?
