Arrival in Vĩnh Long

On Friday, we took a trip to Vĩnh Long to pay a visit with Lữ's aunt and cousins. The ride into the Mekong Delta took four hours, but went by quickly, in part because we transferred from mode to mode of transportation. We started off in a taxi, which scuttled through Saigon's crowded streets to the bus ticket office. Our $4.50 tickets in hand, we boarded a mini-bus headed for the Saigon bus station, waited a while, then hopped on a touring bus.

The view through the bus window presented images of tin-roof shacks built side by side along the banks of malted milk-colored rivers, thatch-roof cafes with woven hammocks swinging in the shade, fruit stands with cultivated varietals of bananas and coconuts, as well as rice paddies, lotus ponds, and miles of flat land. I said it looked as flat as Kansas, and Mike said there's nothing in the universe that's that flat. 

We got to Vĩnh Long after dark, with a final transfer to a shuttle bus that whisked us through the darkness along a narrow two-lane road, past silhouettes of palm trees, gated walls, and houses with vast front doors opening into living rooms with brightly lit, incense-smoky altars facing the entrances. Our shuttle stopped and unloaded us into the heavy tropical night air. Travel-weary and loaded down with gifts, we trudged along the road's shoulder, lit by pools of light that splashed from headlamps of scooters and trucks that honked and whooshed past. 

We got to the locked iron gate in front of the house. Lữ's aunt, Dì Tư, is the third child; her short name means fourth aunt on her mom's side. Lữ called through the gate and her aunt rushed from the house so excited to see us that she forgot her slippers and ran barefoot across the courtyard to unlock the gate. She whisked us out of the dark and into her one story concrete house.

The home was light and airy. All the doors and windows were open, including a metal door the length of the living room wall, where geckos stalked moths drawn to the fluorescent light on the wall. Pencil-scrawled artwork by Dì Tư's grandchildren adorned the yellow-painted walls at waist height. Dì Tư's husband sat on the patio beyond the giant metal door, smoked cigarettes, and talked in a husky voice about how he helped prepare funeral honors for U.S. soldiers killed in the war. Dì Tư talked with Lữ, who told me that her aunt's heart was heavy because I'm so skinny. She added that we would be eating dinner soon, and that Dì Tư had saved some coconuts from her tree because she heard I love them. Outside, fireflies blinked in the darkness, and the full moon crawled into view through coconut palm leaves.

On full moons and new moons, many Buddhist Vietnamese avoid eating meat all day. Lữ had called ahead and asked Dì Tư if she would prepare us a chay meal. We sat down at a metal table in the kitchen, and pushed aside an enormous basket brimming with mangosteen and rambutan to the edge of the table. Dì Tư placed three whole green coconuts pierced with straws on the table, followed by plate after plate of food: chewy mushroom jerky strips, stewed bitter melon, pickled mustard greens, mushrooms and root vegetables in gravy, grilled tofu, and shredded papaya and pomelo rind wrapped and cooked in a banana leaf. We tucked in for a marathon of eating.

As we feasted, Dì Tư, Mike and Lữ chattered in Vietnamese. Dì Tư sat across from me, and occasionally made a gesture in my direction or patted the table in front of me. Mike or Lữ responded and then translated. "She says you have a kind appearance." I nodded deeply and gratefully, my mouth full of rice and chay. Dì Tư continued, pointing at Mike and then back at me. "She says you look more kind than your brother." I looked over at Mike, whose smile made him seem all the more mature and reserved. "She says Mike looks intelligent, and you look kind." Well, you can't have everything. That was one of those moments when I wished I was better at laughing at myself.

Having never met me before, Dì Tư barraged me with questions. Through the family grapevine, she knew I wasn't married, and wanted to know if I had a girlfriend. My translators said "no." She said, that's why he's so skinny. Why doesn't he have a girlfriend? I couldn't answer. "He's always been passive when it comes to girls," Mike suggested. Does he want a Vietnamese wife? "He says no."

Dì Tư leaned toward me, swatted at me with her fingertips, pointed at me and spoke at length. You need to find a wife, because she will feed you and make sure you get a haircut and a shave. I asked, "why do people think that men are so in need of girlfriends?" Because men can't take care of themselves, was her response.

I, the skinny, shaggy-haired, and scruffy-faced one, sat on her kitchen chair and looked at the bowl in my hands. I had already refilled it twice and filled it another two times before dinner was over. I was still shoveling food into my face long after Mike and Lữ had moved on to the mangosteens and rambutan. I realized that if I ever had a Vietnamese wife, my rapid metabolism would commit her to a lifetime of scrutiny by people who doubt her ability to cook.

Yet Dì Tư looked happy as a cat as I methodically and rhythmically teased bite after bite of delicious chay cooking into my mouth. She said, he is an easy eater. "It means you'll eat anything," Lữ said. To which she added, "it'd be nice if you would actually gain some weight. She's saying it's my fault you're so skinny."

I appreciated the fact that no one was trying to get me married off, but felt a little sorry for my unkempt and malnourished appearance. We followed up dinner with sugary-sweet longyans, gigantic rambutans, and many mangosteens. After dinner, we took bucket showers and dropped mosquito nets over our beds. Dì Tư and her husband laid out a mattress in the kitchen so I could have my own room. I made plans with Mike to drop by the market for a haircut and a shave in the morning before we went off to meet Lữ's cousins on the other side of Vĩnh Long. And, silently, I pledged a belly-building diet of bacon and steroids.