#breeeyenthoughts

The morning sky, painted with a

Familiar hue,

Reminds me that I am in fact

Home.

But the city calls me a stranger,

Because I speak a different tongue.

 

Neighbours as much as we are,

Oddly,

We fit in like a big bus on a road

Congested with small motorcycles.

Riding down the tarmac streets

Riding on an air of, OSTENTATION

Announcing our arrival onto their land:

“We have come to visit you.”

 

From the comforts of our four wheels, we

Peered down on them

Observing,

And they looked up to us

From their tiny seats on two wheels

Wondering.

But some chose to level their eyes

On the road, ahead.

 

What a sight it was.

Gathered outside a “Vietnamese” restaurant

After our first meal,

Boisterous, oblivious, that we might be

Standing in their paths,

Disrupting the daily flow of life.

Yet comforted I was,

Stoic in a corner away and witnessing,

A Vietnamese toddler playing

With another on a pram, as their mothers chatted.

Raw as heck it was;

What a sight it was.

 

Greeted immediately the moment

We sauntered in, to

Eager faces across the auditorium

Like us, students, but so damn humble

They speak of how fine we are,

They speak of learning from us,

Funny-

They speak our tongue.

The visitors have brought seemingly nothing for the hosts,

Other than a bunch of questions; and I am

Ashamed

Because a sneak peak of their school life it was supposed,

But the visitors only cared about whipping out cameras

For their own purposes; and I am

Guilty

For treating them like hosts,

Like parasites to a host, leeching.

The visitors have eyes to see, but they’re not looking

The visitors have ears to hear, but they’re not listening

Genuine conversations? Not really.

More like:

“Can we just find a place to sit down for interview?”

“Can you ask your friends to join us?”

They embarrassed us, really.

 

We’re on the bus again

Rolling down the streets

Drowned in urban lights

I could recall how the headlamps from vehicles

Looked like eyes peering out from a mist of darkness

Blaring their horns at us, as if asking us

Who are we, what are we here for.

Again, I glanced out and I see

Street side food stalls on carts, people,

That is the life right there.

Then I realised we’re on our way

Back to the amazing hotel

For dinner.

 

Who are we, what are we here for, what have we done to deserve this?

This treatment, so damn luxurious

Grateful I was, extremely,

Yet undeserving.

Privileged I was, awfully,

To dine in such a fine place

Yet part of me wants to eat

Like a local.

 

Road to rail,

Off we go, into better days

 

Into valleys as deep as cleavages!

Those paddy fields, those terraces,

Surrounded by mountains as high as my GPA!

The trek was hard, many times I fell on my butt

Ginger steps we took,

But uncontrollably we still shook.

I would die, but they wouldn’t let me.

Held on, hung on

Till we reached the “10-star Riverside Restaurant”

Boulders as chairs, stream running beneath our feet,

In our hands, a sandwich fresher than Subway’s.

It was a feast. A feast for the

Eyes, Nose, Ears. And Mind.

Thankful I am.

 

Swan, she’s not our guide, but teacher.

No need for a whiteboard, she took us;

To the waterfalls, to the fields, through the mountains

For geography. She brought us;

To the villages, where the Red Dao and Hmong and many other tribes

Reside

I learnt not just tolerance, but harmony.

I do not speak, but I see, I watched

Their creased weathered hands go to work as

Their fingers danced upon the handicraft.

And then I realised, with those hands, they are

Preserving their culture. She led us;

To a house with a courtyard of chickens and a sleeping dog.

The family, they do not speak, but their eyes, their smiles, made us feel

Home. And in the night, She told us;

Her stories, of courage, perseverance. Her dreams, of improvement for her community.

I learnt to be

Human.

 

I didn’t meet the minister, but I talked to

The coffeeshop boy. And Egg Coffee is delicious.

I didn’t live like a Vietnamese, but I learnt

How life in Vietnam is like:

Eating Pho, Bánh Mì, Bún chả

Wearing the Nón Lá, that can also be used for drinking

Playing chess on the sidewalk

Riding motorcycles everywhere, literally

The children of Sapa instead of looking down on smartphone screens,

Walked on stilts in the fields,

Carried goods for sale in town squares

And I feel bad for every rejection

Because I could not help.

But a prof told me:

“Don’t feel guilty, be grateful.”

Grateful for what I have that they didn’t have

Thankful for being in a more privileged position

Help if you can, and if you can’t, cherish

I recognised and learnt about Vietnam.

I learnt to be a

Global citizen.

 

So much could haves, though.

Could have talked to the Hmong tribeswoman about her embroidery

Could have spoken to the children of Sapa about their childhood

Could have chatted with the stall owner about her bowl of Pho

Those unheard stories, those unlocked tales,

It’s a pity, a pity indeed.

All because I do not speak their tongue.

I could only be a bystander, not a participant

In their conversations, in their activities

If only I had put in more effort.

In this regard, I am merely by name a

Scholar.

 

The words might be different

But the smiles are the same.

I feel rich, fulfilled

As I recall the handshake with a local;

The grin of the Red Dao lady;

And the embrace from Mother Nature.

 

The city calls me a stranger,

Because I speak a different tongue;

Yet the morning sky, painted with a

Familiar hue,

Reminds me that I am in fact

Home.