A Fat Purple Fig

It can be satisfying to be wronged, to stand on the side of the right and rally those around you to sympathy. The truth is, difficulties of life aside, the late visas were entirely my fault. When they arrived, however, the greater problem was that I didn’t in fact have my ‘hopes up’ after all. In fact, I was quite enjoying the idea of staying at home, topped off with the added martyrdom of having missed out.

Vietnam bound, but in the spirit of a chore. I’m embarrassed.

*

We download podcasts and games at the airport. Eva is whisked away for additional security screening, as always, her forearm showing up as bright red on an electronic, shadow-block outline. She holds it up for the officer, unadorned, with an expression that is equal parts trepidation and disdain. ‘It’s my lesbian-esque aura,‘ she remarks, dryly. Mary chats to us on Facetime as we wait to board, describing the hand-written name sign that was there to greet her on arrival in Egypt. I’m not sure I like the idea, but I do like the non-thinking of it, so I book a last-minute car to pick us up.

I listen to six hours of podcasts and watch two hours of television. I scold myself for not being better, this time for not reading books.

Vietnam wraps us in a steamy embrace from the second we emerge from the airport sliders. Our pilot announced the 27 degrees and raining but, by the time it greeted us, the rain was instead clinging in limbo to the air. We set up the e-sim and discover the driver isn’t coming. ‘I just need a minute, I just need a minute,’ I say to Eva, in what seems to have become a mantra in recent months to my decreasing ability to process life. We sit on plastic stools, and I use fingers slick with sweat to scroll through Airbnb messages from our host, Vo.

‘Just choose two brands of taxi: Mai Linh (green colour) or Vinasun (white colour)…180-230 VND, don’t pay over that price.’

I am apparently easily impressed by ID cards.

We are soon whisked away from those pesky taxi lines and I am planted into the front, beaded seat of a black taxi, with a driver who seems exceptionally concerned about note denominations. He soon grows frustrated with my inability to produce the exact versions he requires (despite assisting me by rifling through them), and drives instead to a small underpass, where he tags in another driver, who has been sitting patiently on his small, fold-out canvas stool, waiting for such an opportunity. I choose not to guess at the interpretation of his handover remark.

Eva describes such situations best. ‘This is shady,’ she messages Mary, ‘I think we’re getting taxi scammed, but the driver got so annoyed at mum, we got unscammed.’

And so, it begins.

Driving for the first time in Ho Chi Minh City doesn’t feel so much a journey, as an initiation. It is rush hour, so the streets are filled with motorbikes and scooters, ducking and weaving through the cars, which they far outnumber. I experience, repeatedly, what would stand in Sydney as ‘a close shave’. You know, the kind you would tell the story of, in days to come, to audiences that make comments like, ‘…whoa, you got lucky!’

We got lucky, indeed.

Our driver is initially silent, but soon begins to communicate through the translation app on his phone. He begins with simple questions (‘You like pancakes?’), then follows them up with city suggestions. We fall into a rhythm. He speaks into the phone, then hands it to me, as a stilted, American, female voice announces his words, for Eva’s benefit. I then take a photo, for future reference, and hand it back.

It’s busy work for the senses. Our driver dictates, horn blasts, and lane-drifts with ease, as I take stock of the city streets, in the gloaming. I fight back tears of existential wonder. One-sided suggestions soon become a translated conversation. Our driver was birthed in Ho Chi Minh City and his favourite foods are broken rice and beef vermicelli noodles. He laughs heartily when I comment, ‘Every man for himself’ in response to his suggestions for pedestrian safety. His pet hate is the unwillingness of regional visitors to the city, which swell its numbers from 3 million to 10 million, to obey the road rules. I detect no irony.

When we arrive, I thank him for being our first conversation in Vietnam, for his suggestions, his kindness, and tip well.

Final cost? 670 VND. Worth every penny.

Our Airbnb is better in every way than anticipated. The air-conditioning is cold and Eva has a green bar on her PS5 game screen for the first time. I love the exposed brick and industrial-chic light fittings, metal shelves, and lockers. The bed is hard and clean, just the way I like them. Amongst the books is Papillon, which makes me keenly aware of loss.

I want to go out, but I don’t want to go out. We are hungry, however, so the former wins and I head for a convenience store only one street-crossing away. Every man for himself. The footpaths are filled with scooters, leaning, waiting, and being pushed up steep ramps into dark hallways. They idle while pillion passengers slip into shopfronts that look part shop, part home, where shirtless men eat at worn tables and children dance for TikTok on propped-up phones. I enjoy feeling seen, yet unseen.

At the store, I fill my arms with choices…looks-like-a-pork-bun, looks-like-a-Bread-Top-roll, coffee sachets, looks-like-hard-mango, onigiri with Korean fillings, purple-fruit pudding, and the jewel in the crown…flan (Eva’s favourite). I say, ‘cảm ơn’ when I take the plastic bag from the attendant (after practicing and trying to detect the difference between these two), and he replies, tongue in cheek, ‘ooh, your Vietnamese is so gooood!’ We laugh.

Eva and I lay out our spread and dine together at the table, marvelling at the tiny egg that falls out of the not-pork-bun, and trying to describe how this (purple) banana is not, in fact, banana as we know it. Eva correctly guesses ‘Yellow Tail’ when I ask which wine has pride of place in the store’s alcohol corner. It is a stand-out moment.

In 2010, I sat in a movie theatre with one of my favourite people. We made it a short way into Eat, Pray, Love before he leaned over and whispered, ‘I think that’s more than enough of that, darling…shall we?’, and we walked out of the cinema with aplomb, en route to an animated discussion of the film’s failings. JM later called it ‘White Woman Whines’, now a term-in-residence that pipes up occasionally to remind me that what I have to say isn’t important.

I have whined aplenty of late. This morning, I am grateful for family, friends, for the steamy air that is floating through the sliding doors to herald a new day, and for the outdoor bath that I shall bathe in (likely uncomfortably) later. I am grateful for the losses that help me to remember what is important.

It’s all about the moments.