Chapter 2.2

We set off with full stomachs and the moments spent in those rocky dwellings etched in our eyes and souls. Our hearts were filled with joy, and our movements seemed to sense it: they felt, so to speak, lighter, and they could perceive the absence of fear in guiding them. We tackled the mountain curves with our hands firmly on the handlebars: we let them lead us. Even in the blindest turns, there was mutual trust.

The rain, still pouring at the time of our departure, seemed to no longer touch us. The struggles that had been unbearable until then had vanished. We had shed our Western prejudices to truly connect with those people and their pure way of being. It was then that I reflected on all the moments lived during those days: the football match, the audience, the genuineness of people like Stephan or Thien, who initially confused me, revealed themselves as a trust in others. I, too, began to reciprocate the trust towards that noisy and unique people.

For the first time, I truly immersed myself in Mirko's words and emulated him: I learned to implement his famous “mental clicks,” not just photographic but also emotional, and I began to do this with all my senses. We had been on the road for about half an hour when I gathered courage and passed my friend for the first time. My eye, unconsciously, fell on the rearview mirror, as if I were aware that there was something to be seen behind me. Indeed, I saw a smile on my travel companion's lips. It was then that I noticed the involuntary expression of joy on my face. I sensed something different in that grin, as if it were new, as if it were the first time I saw myself smile. We were happy, one of those happinesses that you can’t forget because it marks you deeply. We still didn’t know what awaited us, nor that we would give up everything to stay in Asia, but that was the first true realization that our journey could not remain just a simple adventure.

Upon arriving in Mộc Châu, soaked and heavy with the water that soaked our clothes, we still had that smile etched on our lips. I called my mother for the first time and told her, with still confused words, about that unique experience. Even today, a month after that September 11, I find it very difficult to process the emotions of that day: gratification, satisfaction, happiness, contentment, joy, cheerfulness—these are all usable terms, but they don’t truly encapsulate those moments. They will always be stored within my soul, those twenty-one chemically inexplicable grams that make up the most irrational and emotional part of being human. Those memories that, in times of difficulty, I can always recall to give me comfort and strength in overcoming the dark moments of life, lighting my path. On our journey together, there will be more moments like these to share.

Mộc Châu is a small town in the Son La province, nestled in a valley and surrounded by mountains. The few stretches of jasmine and lotus that remained after the typhoon, from which the local tea (Trà) is produced, intoxicated our nasal passages. It almost felt as if the rain was rewarding us for our efforts: it highlighted those captivating fragrances that quickly made us forget the urban miasmas. I thought back to home and that mid-June day when Mirko and I decided to travel to Vietnam: that delightful aroma, which suddenly reminded me of my beloved home, felt new that day. I immediately realized that the novelty did not come from the scent, but from within me: my nose, like my smile, had truly changed, as my soul had changed. This moment also fully qualifies as one of those “mental clicks” so dear to my friend, untraceable by a camera but only resurfacing from memory and writing, indelible traces of those profound sensory sensations.

The fatigue of the journey became apparent after the shower, strictly cold, that Mirko and I took. We were tired, but our spirits and minds were too curious to discover those wonderful places. Thus, we ventured into Mộc Châu, accompanied by our faithful companion, the rain, inexhaustible and tireless, like the inhabitants of that mountain town. We immediately noticed the strength of the river, already swift on its own, exacerbated by the large amount of water. We pointed out that, despite the fury of the waters, the banks were holding thanks to immediate human intervention. We laughed, seeing that the natural disaster was still present but was not dampening the spirits of the diligent Vietnamese workers, already at work to rebuild and reinforce the riverbanks that flow into the famous waterfalls of Mộc Châu. The green of the fields of Trà xanh (green tea) accompanied our steps, and the order of the bushes had given way to the chaos created by nature.

We continued our path, marked by the road, until we arrived in town: we were alone, the only two Westerners in the entire valley. The first human encounter happened after about fifteen minutes of walking: we saw in the distance an older woman, wrapped in a red cotton sweater and holding a rope, leading a dairy cow, animals very common in that area. Following her, but not tied, was a dozen cows that, orderly and in single file, followed the bamboo conical hat that marked their path. With a nod of her head and a slight smile, she welcomed us into the town.

The astonished eyes of the locals were fixed on us, and we could feel their gaze. Like George Clooney and Brad Pitt on the red carpet, we walked in flip-flops and tank tops, surrounded by the general dismay at the tattoos that marked our arms and the caps worn backward on our heads. We felt observed and noticed several times that some young people rode their scooters back along our path, trying to catch our eyes. Like Hollywood actors, we greeted our paparazzi with calmness and joy, continuing our determined walk.

At one point, however, as we approached a building adorned with the now-classic red and yellow flags, the tranquility of the town was disrupted: a long line of cars blocked the road, and it felt like we were back in the city. They were all stopped, waiting for something. We didn’t understand what, until a group of children in uniforms emerged from the gate of the building, and together, Mirko and I exclaimed, “It’s a school!” We rejoiced at the sight of those youngsters, no older than twelve, coming out of school, knowing they would do everything to greet us. It was thrilling to see the excitement on their faces as they met our gaze. Mirko regretted not having his camera with him. They were all eager to be photographed, and anyone would have paid to be featured in the photos of those two strange Westerners who had braved a real storm to reach them. Again, like in Hanoi, we simply lived the experience without probing too much into why they were so curious and enchanted by our presence. We discovered the reason later, during our first volunteering experience.

We returned to the hotel cheerful, and after a hearty dinner of salmon, we fell asleep in the blink of an eye on the uncomfortably hard Vietnamese mattresses. Before drifting off, Mirko turned to me and said, “You know, I’ve never seen you smile like that before.” I turned, smiled, and closed my eyes thinking, “Neither have I.” The next day awaited us with another journey, another adventure toward Ninh Binh, the first tourist city we would visit.

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