#kinhbachotel

[lookatthedawn]

A.k.a Paradise on Earth

People ask me if I'd want to come to Vietnam again.  In a heartbeat, I answer!  And I'm not even talking about Phu Quoc Island, I'm talking about Hanoi, my job here and the Vietnamese people.  I like it all.  I like the solitude, I find that I'm rather good at being alone.  But Phu Quoc Island is something else.  It's not a place to work, or at least I don't see it as a place to work.  It's a great place to take a respite from life.  

The hotel has a main building with a beautiful foyer and a gazebo-style dining room where there's a constant ocean breeze.  Stretching toward the back are all the bungalows between patches of green grass and vibrant flowers.  I have reserved a room, not a bungalow.  As I go upstairs to the second floor, I realize that I'm their only guest at the moment.  I wonder why since the place is clean and gorgeous if only a little bit isolated.  There's a gym, though, located on the right side of the hotel, which plays non-stop electronic music.  I'm prejudiced against the genre.  In fact, I've always thought that if hell has a soundtrack, this is it.  

My room is spacious, with all the usual appliances.  I'm happy to be properly installed, but I want to explore.  After refreshing myself and resting for a bit, I take a walk along the main road, looking for the beach.  I have often compared Vietnam to Brazil, and I'll do it again here.  Vietnam is probably like a hundred other countries, but you can only compare with what you know, and I do know the rural roads of Brazil.  They are my crib, actually.  I remember when my parents took my four siblings and me to Euxenita village, how the dusty road stretched ahead of us and seemed long compared to my short legs.  Those early memories are so deeply engraved in my mind that any similar place or people throw me right back there.  At this roadside, there are little rustic shops selling mainly food but other things as well.  I stop at a store and buy a small pack of Oreos.  At home I don't like Oreos, find them too sweet, but since I arrived in Vietnam I can't have enough of them, possibly because I'm not having my regular sugar-fix in processed foods.  Vietnamese people don't eat as much sugar as Americans or Brazilians. Their breakfast is often rice, noodles, eggs, and vegetables.  For dessert, they eat fruits with the same gusto my fellow Westerns eat chocolate.   I walk while listening to The Creative Penn podcast, coincidentally, one episode in which the host mentions my name.  After walking for perhaps ten minutes, I find a little passage that might be the one the hotel owner said would take me to the beach.  It doesn't.  Instead, it takes me to a muddy strip of land with a few shanties.  People dressed in worn-out Bermuda shorts and t-shirts come out and stare at me, some of them say hello, the children smile and hide behind adults.  Thin dogs watch me while lying by the hut's door.  Some wag their tails, others are either too bored or too weak to wag or bark.  Children and adults alike are stepping on the mud, busy with cooking, washing, and fixing things.  The place is quiet, so quiet, in fact, that you can hear a fly buzzing around.  The people go about their business peacefully.  In their eyes, you can see ten years gone without changes.  Far away a radio plays pop music.  

I turn around and walk back to the main road.  I feel a thousand eyes watching me, but in fact, I'm alone.  Just another Western lost in these parts.  They'll forget me by the time the sun sets over the Gulf of Thailand.   The rain comes without warning.  It comes fast and strong, so I enter the first covered place, which happens to be a house/business, selling blocks of ice.  A lady greets me with a smile.  She doesn't speak English, and neither do the men in their late twenties, early thirties, busy cutting and packing ice.   They see that I need a place to wait for the rain to pass, they greet me warmly and the lady of the house brings me a chair.  Other people arrive in motorcycles, covered in plastic from head to toe, and they too greet me with a nod and a brief smile.  They know I don't speak Vietnamese.  They are familiar with Westerns like me, who can hardly say 'thank you' in their tongue.  So they do their best to communicate with me and act as though not knowing my language is their personal failure.   As sudden as the rain came it goes. I thank them and continue on my way, looking for the beach.  I know I'm close to the sea.  It's just a question of finding the passage.  I stop at a snack bar and ask for directions.  I have a hard time making myself understood, but then they nod and repeat bai a lot.  A gentleman, probably in his seventies, tells me to get on his motorcycle, he'll take me there.  That's the Vietnamese approach, that's how they help you.  In the U.S. this would sound strange, but not in Phu Quoc Island.  Sure, I get on his motorbike and we go to the beach, but when we get there I'm disappointed, as this is not a leisure beach but a place for fishermen and boat owners to fix their gear.  I don't need to say anything, he can see that this is not what I was looking for.  We head back to the main road, where he stops and discuss with another local, trying to decide where I want to go and the best way to get there.  I watch them, getting hints of their meaning by the way they point their fingers towards the beach and gesture about directions.  Finally, they agree on the best course of action.  But this is almost 6 p.m. and I decide to go back to the hotel and get some rest and dinner.   Of course, I find the Bai Sao the next day.  Following the hotel's owner's suggestion, I borrow a book from his library and take a cab to the beach. Maybe I should have rented one of the motorcycles they have available at the hotel but the cab was inexpensive and quick.  

I'm fully aware that this moment, swimming in the crystalline water and reading Engleby under the hot Vietnamese sun is one of the best moments I have in Southeast Asia.  I bask in the sun, enjoying each minute.  I don't have suntan lotion, didn't even think of that, to be perfectly honest, but I'm enjoying myself too much to care. There are a few Westerns at the restaurant, but most are Vietnamese from other parts of the country.  Two young women, one from Belgium and the other from England are swimming next to me and we chat briefly.  Then I explore.  Another part of the beach is completely desert.  I've got my books, my music, the ocean and a gorgeous day ahead of me.  Color me happy! The problem with being the sole guest at the hotel is that I have a small staff working for me alone.  I'm the one who interrupts their leisure and requires that they work.  I don't like that.  On my last night in Phu Quoc Island, I come down to chat with the hotel owner.  We talk about books, about the island, and about Vietnam.  He's very interested in Brazil, which he plans to visit one day.  The conversation turns to politics and corruption in both Brazil and Vietnam.  I tell him that I've always thought that criminality in Brazil is the result of governmental corruption, but knowing that in Vietnam also there is corruption in the government and yet criminality is very low has cracked my logic.  I ask him why he thinks that's the case and his answer surprises me.  He credits the police for being tough and effective.  He is not the first or the only one to tell me that the Vietnamese police is fast, tough and efficient.  But I know Rio de Janeiro.  I know that if the carioca police gets tough, the slum kings get tougher, madder and more effective.  I wonder if things would have been different had the Brazilian police taken serious and proactive action thirty or forty years ago when criminality was more manageable and gangs didn't possess military warfare.  My host's theory is plausible but does not satisfy me.  I believe crime in Brazil is deeply rooted in the population's mindset.  Crime is allowed.  It's a culture where small infractions are expected and often encouraged by people who consider themselves above reproach.  "But everyone does it," they say.  Or even, "there's no way to live honestly in Brazil".  My Brazilian family and friends tell me they can no longer leave the house after dark.  The freedom I enjoyed in my youth is denied to this generation.  The situation is sad and frustrating.  And I think the necessary measures go beyond police efficacy.  

As I get up to go back to my room my host asks me when and what I want for dinner.  I tell him that I'll be happy with the same I had the night before, rice and steamed vegetables, and would like to eat in about an hour. He nods.  "Will you have a glass of wine with me?" "Sure," I say. I'm not much of a drinker and I haven't eaten much all day, so, an hour later, when he pours the red drink into a glass, I know that I should take it easy.   "Cheers!" He says as we bump glasses.  He downs his wine and gestures for me to do the same.  I do.  He refills my glass.  "This is a very special wine," he tells me.  "You won't find it anywhere else but here on the island.  Sim wine.  Will you remember the name?" "Sim wine," I repeat.  "Yes, I will." "It's from the myrtle fruit.  It's only produced in Phu Quoc Island." He raises his glass.  "Your dinner is coming soon. Drink up!" I see that the bottle is almost empty and that's a good thing.  I really shouldn't be drinking on an empty stomach.  I'm alone on this island and the hotel is deserted, so I figure I should have my wits about me the whole time.   "Do you like the wine?" "Yes, it's very good." "Well, that's it for this bottle," he says.  "But I have another." He brings the second bottle, fills our glasses and we drink.  Then he refills our glasses again.  "This is for drinking with the food," he says and leaves with his glass to bring me the food.  Is it my impression or is he a little tipsy? I open my laptop as I wait for dinner.  I'm in the circular gazebo-style dining room. There's only one wall in the back, where the bar is located, behind which is the kitchen.  Plants hang all around the room, swaying gently in the night breeze.  I can smell the food being cooked in the kitchen and subtler than that, the salty scent of the ocean, not far away.  My host places a steaming plate before me, then brings me napkins, salt, pepper, and sauces.  He goes to the other table and clicks the TV on, leaving to my dinner.   After a while, I walk upstairs to my room where I call my best friend in Brazil and we talk for a long time.  For some silly reason, we start laughing and can not stop.  She blames it on the wine, I blame it on being in this amazing place, having just a grand ol' time.  Phu Quoc Island is a crowning moment of my stay in Southeast Asia, one that will stay with me for years to come. As I talk to Nara and brush away laughing tears, I'm aware of that.