So much of movement, of relocating from A to B, in transit, en route and in the hasty retreat from work is done by taxi. Our metered chauffeurs are usually silent, the language barrier scuppering clichés of chatty cabbies or grumpy road experts. But not always silent. In the throb of Ho Chi Minh traffic, many a driver ( man and woman) seems capable of haughing up a steady stream of flem to be spat out the hastily rolled down window or indulge themselves liberally in neck twisting and knuckle crunching to be accompanied by self-congratulatory sighs while a few mad and fairly scary times, a driver has sung airily into the vanity mirror while swigging from a bottle of rice wine.
In the Mekong, a few hours ( sober) ride from the city we had come to a homestay, where a Vietnamese family give up a portion of their house and play host to sweaty foreigners who pay a small amount USD for an incredible experience. Within half an hour of arriving we are sharing a beer while losing balance in hammocks stretched across the wooden balconies that overlook a slow-moving and tiny tributary of this huge array of water.
Our water-taxi, a pleasure boat with eight itsy bitsy chairs phfut phfuts along the canals allowing us to breathe in green scent and then travel on further and apparently deeper into foliage, where we can see trees gracefully holding fruits; green upward-pointing bananas, balanced like clustered dancers on their points; and stranger fruits hanging like swollen red lips, the Nah,whose flesh is very sweet and disturbingly warm. A fond kiss. Aye.
Our water taxi driver silently, perhaps deafened by the ceaseless chug of the boat’s engine , takes us as far as he can into smaller and smaller canals. There is no moan from him, no capitalising on our apparent riches, no anger or frustration when other boats come near or when knotweed threatens to engulf us all. Instead, he takes us serenely into the lightness of being, the ease of sightseeing, of gliding on silk water. Of course, I trailed my fingers in the water. Of course, we saw Vietnamese half-immersed in the water we dallied in, their hands lifting carefully arranged nets and cages, hoping that they had trapped some useful life.
Later, the noise of boats fades into the dark and our homestay hosts having been warned of our vegetarian status lay a table in the middle of the wooden platform and put on a Blyton-esque spread of wonderful food including green aubergines we had seen growing along the river bank and now fried in garlic and lemongrass and we smile when we see our tofu. Half an hour earlier a canoe paddled by a woman, swaddled against the burn of the dying sun, bumped against the wooden jetty and she held up a bag of tofu, fresh from the market. The process to this food was a privilige to witness. This was far away from a supermarketed life. We knew exactly where our food had come from.
Follow the 'Mekong' link for a little Quicktime movie and see what you make of this somewhat large spider.
