Postcards I forgot to send: Dalat, 2002
Dear mum,
Tết (Lunar New Year) has begun. I survived riding through the Central Highlands. Landslides had washed away portions of some unsealed roads and I got stuck in the mud. Over and over and over again. The Minsk motorcycle I was riding broke down most days. And so did I. But at least no one saw me cry.
In every town, after watching a local mechanic calmly patch up my creaking bike (their silence always seemed to ask the same question: why can’t this guy do this really basic maintenance himself?), and finding a guesthouse to crash, I’d go in search of a square meal (rice, eggs, pork, water spinach). Delighted to see a foreigner, and especially eager to show their hospitality at this time of year, the local men would all take turns to fill my glass with beer then enthusiastically shout: “Tết rồi‘! Trăm phần trăm”, which means ‘It’s Tết already, down it in one!’
My ‘I’ll take the lot of yiz on’ attitude soon became a regret. I would end up so drunk, and felt so tired, I slept in my clothes most nights. And there was me thinking this trip would help me ‘recharge the batteries’.
Inevitably, one day the Minsk and I broke down in the middle of nowhere. Well, more accurately, somewhere south of Buon Ma Thuot City, where I was haplessly searching for a waterfall without the aid of a map, a compass or a clue. I managed to flag down a mini-bus bound for the former hill station of Dalat, where, the guidebook (that I have now lost) had promisingly informed me, “ailing French emigres once came to convalesce in the cooler mountain climes.”
The driver and his diminutive sidekick shoved both the bike and me in the back of the van where my gangly frame was hunched up beside some old biddies, who fed me quail eggs and nuts, as though I were a sick bird that needed nursing.
In Dalat, I discovered all the bike mechanics had stopped working for Tết. So I pushed the bike up a hill and around a corner until I came across a glimmer of hope: another Minsk (all shiny and clearly cared for) parked outside a house. Hoping someone inside could help, I knocked on the door. After a quick garbled explanation from me, the owner didn’t hesitate to usher me indoors. His friend, who owned the other Minsk, spoke decent English. They were journalists. At last, I thought. Men of letters! They told me I would have to stay in Dalat for at least a week. But they would arrange for the mechanic to collect the bike and fix it when it was possible. Later they would take me to a nearby hotel. In the meantime, I would be welcome to celebrate Tết with them every day. The house owner then reached for his ‘top shelf’ and poured three brandies as if to toast this happy union. Feeling like I had finally fallen on my feet, I envisaged us all sipping on this refined snifter, smoking cigarettes and speaking of Russian writers and Vietnamese revolutionaries. But then the host stood up, held his glass aloft and shouted: “Tết rồi‘! Trăm phần trăm!”
Love,
Connla