How to be alone 7,000 miles from home

These cows live on a farm on the way to the airport, an area that will likely be developed in the coming years.

I was prepared for the loneliness of traveling by myself. No one around to marvel at new foods with me, to lend courage when taking a new route back to the hotel, to just be there as an anchor through all of these new experiences. I expected that. But I did not expect the freedom that came with it.

Being alone has been the ultimate improvisation practice; I have been able to say “yes” to any opportunities coming my way. And I believe that may save me when it comes to my thesis.

***

Phuc is 18. Her name means "Happy". And it's very fitting.

Wednesday afternoon, I spent five hours with an energetic 18-year-old, clinging to the back of her motorbike while she showed me farms in a rapidly developing area of her province. She was extremely candid as she spoke about growing up in a tightly controlled society. She shared her thoughts about the future of the Mekong Delta, where her power to change things is rising in tandem with the sea. She told me about her desire to work in an environmental field and her parents’ worries for her.

Work for the government, they tell her, or in science or business. Work somewhere stable, that isn’t so hard.

“I’m stubborn,” she said. “I’m going to do it anyway.”

The more I listened to that ever-smiling teen, the more I thought, “I’m on the back of the bike of a change maker.”

On Thursday, I met a woman for the first time at 9:30 am. That afternoon I spent six hours with her, visiting farmers outside of the city, seeing the intense contrast between the haves and have-nots in Can Tho. Her only condition for taking me: Be a tourist. Not a researcher.

Farmers rely heavily on pesticides all over Vietnam.

Saturday night, I spent three hours having dinner across the table from a man who worked at an air force base during the war, alongside American forces. He was forced to fall back on farming, after spending two years in prison, following reunification in 1975.

Next to him at the table, sat a young German researcher, here for six months to study aquaculture. He was sweating from the heat of the chilly sauce in our soup; he wiped his brow with a paper napkin and added another spoonful of the delicious paste. The taste was worth the pain.

Granddaughters Quy and Tran pose with their 101-year-old
grandmother. I was never able to get a strait answer as to what
their grandmother's name is. But I know she was the second child in her
family.

Sitting beside me, with her soup untouched, was a drunk 5-year-old. The following day, I would share a car with her for 7+ hours. She would have a rough trip, throwing up at least twice. But Saturday night, she was all class, pouring her beer into a tiny, china tea cup and sipping daintily as she swayed, propping herself against the table to stay upright. She eventually fell asleep, lying on the counter, tea cup drained.

Sunday morning, I was introduced to the oldest person I’ve ever met—a 101-year-old great-grandmother. She’s lived in the same house for the past 80 years and is as sharp as ever. When she looked at me, I felt as if she was peering into my soul. Really. I’m not just saying that for dramatic effect. She told me she can’t see well (via translation). Her eyes are barely visible underneath deeply wrinkled lids. But when I smiled at her from across the room later, she instantly reciprocated.

Perhaps she has mastered a different way of seeing.

Ngah is working to transition his chili fields to mangoes. The 
hot weather is increasing disease among his pepper plants.

That afternoon, I found myself on the back of a motorbike with a mango farmer, riding over deeply pocketed dirt paths barely wide enough for the bike. I had to keep ducking as low hanging branches whacked the top of my helmet.

Staring at a post card of Montana.

We arrived at an expansive field of squash—one of the only fields on the island not devoted to mango farming. (I was on an island near the border of Cambodia, home of the oldest Christian church in South Vietnam, and about 12km long and 7km wide). We disembarked and suddenly I was surrounded by six other farmers, staring intensely at me. We discussed the ever warming climate, pesticides and trade with China.

That evening, I visited an orchard where five children kept staring at me, laughing, running in and out of mango trees, peering at me, running away, darting back again. I learned I was the first foreigner they’d seen (at least in real life). I also learned they are studying English in hopes of going to America someday.

I’ve learned a lot in the past five days.

***

The women here have done more for me than I'll
ever be able to repay.

When I arrived January 1st, I had no idea what I was going to do. All my plans had fallen through. But since then, I have found myself busy from 7:00 am until midnight almost every day. Even half a world away, I’m the queen of filling a schedule. But I haven’t done it alone.

Since I have been here, the people who have made things happen for me are the women and the youth. Maybe that’s because, in a confusion-rooted society, women and youth often have to ignore the rules in order to get anything done. Whatever the reason, I have found that they are not a disempowered group, but rather a group with a subtler power—a resilient power that refuses to be denied.

They are water, constantly in motion, finding any outlet they can, and pushing ever forward. For whatever reason, they have offered me a life raft while I am here, gently keeping me afloat as they show me how to change courses fluidly.

I may have come here as a solo traveler; but I do not feel alone. I feel free.