So we have come to the end of three years’ worth of dispatches from Danang, and I’m still not sure how I made it. It may be due to copious amounts of coffee; likely it is the assortment of strangers who were curious, helpful, kind or all of the above. Here are a few stories:
The Uncle at The End of The Beach
It was Easter weekend, and we were about to be locked down. I was in town that gloomy afternoon picking up supplies – a cardboard box that clinked conspiratorially with bottles of chardonnay and Prosecco – and didn’t think getting a ride back up the lone road to the mountain villas would be a problem. Surprise, it was, and to compound my difficulties, it started to rain. I took shelter under the roof of The End of the Beach, thinking the blue-and-white building deserted, until a dog yipped forcefully and someone came out to investigate.
Xin chào, xin lỗi, I said in a rush to explain my trespassing, không taxi.
Google Translate had to complete the rest. I live up there, can I wait here until the rain stops?
The man displayed his own phone. I will help you. He stepped away, and returned with a raincoat, one of those ubiquitous plastic polka-dot kinds. Xin cảm ơn, anh, I said gratefully, but that was not all I had to thank him for – he had managed to call a Grab motorbike.
I remember arriving in Danang late one December evening, peering out dark windows as the car sloshed though flooded city streets that reflected all the incongruous glittering lights of my first Christmas with Uncle Ho.
Most of the year the city lies in perfect sunshine; but the wet season lashes the central coast with torrential downpours while the gray seas churn and the skies turn sullen, and the typhoons whirl in across the sea from (where else) the Philippines.
And when the evening storm clouds gather round the mountaintops, the walk home from work could be a damp, miserable slog. Sometimes though the cab drivers dawdling in the parking lot would drop me home for free. No, no, they shook their heads at me. Okay. You no pay. And off they would go, taillights glowing red in the glistening dark.
Monkey Mountain
Two girls, wrapped up against the heat in proper Vietnamese fashion, slowed down as they approached me, sitting calmly in the shade with a helmet on but no bike of my own in evidence that dazzling morning. You okay? Help? Ride bike?
The peninsula in high summer was spectacular. The road cut a swath through densely wooded, forest-green slopes on one side and the deep blue sea curving away on the other, underneath the relentlessly bright blue sky.
You were never really by yourself up there, for the resident wildlife was of a neighbourly disposition – red-shanked douc langurs liked to pay afternoon visits, sitting on my balcony or peering back at me from the treetops. Sometimes too neighbourly; the macaques were very territorial and I learned early on not to make eye contact, or show my teeth when I walked past them.
We lived on the edge of a nature reserve, after all, and there were always butterflies and sea birds overhead, and large geckos splayed out on the glass windows. Once or twice I even saw wild boars.
There were plenty of humans about, too. Picnicking families, and wedding couples in full array. There were bikers and hikers, and there were lovers, bikes against the red-and-white barriers, each couple spaced evenly apart.
Gosh I wonder where they’re headed, I said one evening, craning my neck over the edge to watch a pair disappear into the bushes almost at water’s edge.
Probably going to make out, my friend said.
It better be more than a makeout session for them to climb all the way down there, I sniffed.
If you preferred other exertions, you could jog in the afternoons and watch the clouds turn fairy-floss pink. You could scramble down to quiet beaches, or go fishing until sunset (and wave hi to bemused fishermen who puttered past). You could sit in picturesque contemplation on the rocks, or you could seek a spiritual time out in the serene courtyards of the Lady Buddha that towered benevolently over the bay.
You could also, as I was that morning, appear to be… lost. The two ladies certainly thought so.
No, cảm ơn chị, I said with a laugh, I’m fine. My friend is coming to pick me up here.
They gave me quizzical looks. Sure? they trilled.
Yes, it’s okay, I smiled. A few minutes later we caught up to them and they gave me a little wave. Female solidarity is a wonderful thing.
The Oppa at Golden Pine
Vietnamese techno was pounding and strobe lights cast writhing partygoers in lurid neon colours. I was really quite trashed on questionable alcohol and fumes, and now this unsteady Korean stranger was telling me… something. It seemed important. He’d been our best friend earlier, part of the crew we had been hollering một – hai – ba – dzô! with. (This is basically the third phrase you learn in this country.)
I’m sorry, what? I said.
YOUR FRIEND, he repeated laboriously, gesturing around the pulsating space. IS NOT HERE.
I glanced around in panic. It was true. My messy friend had disappeared, and stayed that way even though I’d gone looking for them around the block. You know what else we realized had gone missing, the next afternoon? A diamond earring and a bank card.
That was not our sole disreputable foray into the city’s nightlife but this is the only anecdote harmless enough to share. 🙂
The Five-Star Grab Driver
Fancy not knowing how to bike and then moving to a country where motorbikes are the main mode of transportation. So I learned to get around with Grab, and even more importantly, how to say things like rẽ trái, rẽ phải, di thẳng, ngừng lại.
This afternoon, on the eve of the Tet holidays, I asked to be taken to Fahasa.
Concealed within a nondescript building was a floor of all English-language books; a tiny coffee shop was perched on the topmost level. Bookstores always make me happy, and this one was special. It was also, alas, closed.
Oh, ffs, I grumbled.
Mr. Bike Driver waved his phone in my face – it was an address. We go here. He was suggesting a second bookstore that I hadn’t known about, and so now we were on a quest.
The second bookstore was also closed, but this did not deter my new friend, because he showed me a third address. It was more of a stationery store, but props for the effort! And so there was nothing for it but to return home.
Maybe you order Lazada or Shopee? he suggested.
Maybe, I said, and tipped him generously for his trouble.
The Wrong Bus
It was barely a week into my new job and I had gotten on the wrong bus. I was supposed to be on the one that went up the coast and across the provincial border back to Danang; instead I was on the one that was headed west into the interior.
And you know what the ladies on that bus did? Told me where to get off, and called a car. Good price, they said, not spend so much. It was a long, dark drive to the city, but they called every now and then to make sure we were on track.
I lost my previous job when the pandemic began, and so I’d had to wait out the first lockdown, sign the lease on a new flat, extend my visa and find another job quickly in order to avoid becoming homeless and illegal. Still, it was a blessing, for that unfortunate termination brought me to a great workplace, with colleagues who would sneak you a bánh mì and Coke when your shoot went overtime and you forgot to eat; or come by with jam and tea; and stroll companionably home with you from the bus stop at the end of the day.
The Social Network
The anh who had been helping me get whatever supplies the ward leader could procure during this lockdown was at the door early today.
Last time it had been a box of veg, a tray of eggs, and a bottle of soy sauce. Aubergines and oatmeal, I discovered that week, could go a very, very long way, and I amused myself with Main Character Energy, pretending these were wartime rations and / or the Hunger Games.
This morning, though, he had a package from a bakery! Fresh bánh mì, crisp outside and fluffy, buttery-soft inside, a real breakfast miracle. Thank you, I said. How much?
Free, he said. Bye bye.
Being alone in a foreign country during a global pandemic is not for the fainthearted, but Vietnam had managed its first year quite well, and while it was having a rougher go of it this time, the neighbourhood support was a lifeline. There was a women’s group on Facebook that had all the tips on which minimarts could deliver. There was an uncle across the street who took me past three police checkpoints to the post office so I could mail my passport to my embassy, on the last day before movement was completely shut down.
Our ward ‘sheriff’ ran a Zalo group for the anxious foreigners under his jurisdiction. In August 2020 the city had rounded up all the expats for mass testing and I’d gotten the proverbial late-night visit from the cops, politely asking to see my papers. A year on, they had gotten the national vaccination program underway and were briskly efficient about getting first shots in arms – appointment documents were delivered to each one of us with updates from our ward every step of the way, and on vaccination day I went from the 7 a.m. queue to the post-monitoring area in around 20 minutes.
The health apps were trickier to navigate, and it took days for my vaccination status to be updated, but finally (and again, via our Zalo group), I got hold of both a random doctor and IT tech from the health department who helpfully solved my problem over the weekend.
Tl;dr: People can be nice
As someone who comes from a country that prides itself on being Very Friendly, I was surprised to be treated (mostly) with the same kind of care and hospitality here on the mainland, and even more surprised to be on the receiving end of random kindness from strangers.
Up next: notes on life in town.
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