In Ninh Bình, we added mental strength to our backpack, already heavy with clothes. But unlike our garments, this lightened our journey, making it easier.
We set our sights on Hội An, to be reached by September sixteenth, for the lantern and dragon festival that celebrates the full moon every month. There, we would spend a few days with some Italian friends who were waiting for us: Jodie and Lele, accompanied by Lele’s parents, Lalla and Holly.
We had a couple of days to cover the seven hundred kilometers that separate Ninh Bình from Hội An, so on the fourteenth, we climbed back on our motorcycles headed for Vinh, the capital of Nghệ An province. This area is known for producing some of the most important and influential figures in Vietnamese history, including the famous Ho Chi Minh. The city pulsates with the same revolutionary spirit and has distinguished itself for courage and patriotism during the military campaigns against the Westerners: it was an important site of clashes, and to this day, almost nothing remains of ancient Vinh. Everything has been destroyed by war.
Vinh also has a very charming port area: Cửa Lò.
The name intrigued us, and the idea of enjoying the sea after the first few very rainy days delighted both me and my travel companion. However, it was an event that brought us both to the destination: another one of those Signs that the Universe continued to send us.
At Quảng Lợi, we stopped for a cigarette break and a refreshing energy drink, the only remedies for the hellish QL1A. The asphalt was scorching, and the multitude of trucks and lorries stirred up dust and gravel, which, along with the corrugated roofs of the roadside houses, obscured our view of one of the richest areas of flora and fauna that this Earth has to offer: the Annamite Range.
We pulled over to the right, at one of the many Vietnamese houses that, facing a very busy road, occasionally become shops selling drinks and snacks, catering to the many hungry and thirsty travelers. Fate led us to choose the home of a lady in her seventies, with trembling hands, white hair, and eyes closed by the wrinkles of age, bearing the unmistakable features of those populations. She didn’t speak a word of English, but after we gestured to buy two Red Bulls from her, she sat down at the outdoor table with us, as if to appreciate our company. She had a genuine smile, a reflection of the simplicity of her home: a hammock for resting, a modest television, a few jugs of water, and an old photo hanging on the wall depicting her with her children and husband, taken at least thirty years earlier. Judging by the white background, it was one of those photos taken on a special day, now outdated due to phones and their speed of capture, where people would dress up to go to the photographer and immortalize their family. The modesty of that home and the face of that Bà reminded me of the many questions I had as a boy, including what the true meaning of happiness was. I realized that those questions I considered youthful had not received an answer. I had simply gotten used to not thinking about them anymore.
We were so intrigued by that serene face that we tried to communicate using our phone’s translator and asked her some standard questions, like "What is your name?". Her smile remained unchanged as she raised her eyes from the phone to look at us. It didn’t take long to realize she was illiterate and that there was no means of communication other than verbal. Then, a simple and direct question came from Mirko’s mouth: "Vinh or Cửa Lò?". The lady, after a brief pause for thought, answered firmly, "Cửa Lò!".
At the moment of our arrival, that beautiful and wonderful seaside location was completely deserted. Situated by the sea and facing Hainan Island in China, it was among the first victims of Typhoon Yagi. It felt as if we had entered a ghost town, made even more eerie by the destruction around us. Shoes, dolls, slippers, plastic panels, ropes, nets, seaweed, branches, and scattered pieces of beach structures dotted the shore like shooting stars on San Lorenzo. The water was murky, restless, and tumultuous, still shocked by the winds of over two hundred kilometers per hour that had ravaged the area just a few days before.
We walked across that expanse of debris and desolation for about four kilometers, then... to our right appeared a majestic prefabricated structure, a "Disneyland" made of drywall. The sign at the entrance read "Vinwonder Park," but its appearance suggested more a place of catastrophe than a water park. The silence was broken only by the haunting and melodic sounds of the children's rides. "It feels like Silent Hill," Mirko said. I nodded in agreement, but my attention was drawn to the incredulous eyes of the local vendors who were gradually finding their courage and beginning to emerge from their shops and restaurants, fascinated by the two unexpected tourists.
The people were so happy to see us; merchants and restaurant owners invited us into their establishments, returning our greetings with wonderful, shy, and embarrassed smiles typical of various Asian cultures. All the park attendants smiled at us and watched our movements attentively, and someone playfully came over to ask if we wanted to enter the park. I looked at Mirko, and we understood immediately. He didn’t have to repeat it twice; he could tell from our smiles that we wanted to dive into the water. After all, we were looking for the sea to escape the sweltering heat of those September days, and a water park would do just fine.
After spending a few hours enjoying the slides of that enchanting park on our own, we stepped out in search of food. We were also intrigued by a huge cable car that connects Cửa Lò to a nearby island, Hòn Ngư.
We decided to take the cable car to peek at that mysterious little island, still part of the water park, and discover what other attractions it might offer. But, as usual, Fate manifests in strange ways and at the most unexpected moments.
As we ascended the structure, we reflected on how it was a shame that this area had become a tourist trap. The local culture, in our eyes, had been displaced by the new trends of globalization. Everything seemed to be made less Vietnamese and more Western.
Indeed, the island, so small and simple, reflected our expectations: shops selling clothes with famous international brands, bars, viewpoints, restaurants, and plans for a roller coaster. Not exactly the adventure we were seeking.
We noticed a dense almond grove that concealed a structure off to the side of the park, appearing ancient, as if it had come from a bygone era: the play of light and shadow invited us in, the rays passing through the leaves reflecting like gold off the teak wood of the walls, now faded from sun exposure. As we approached, we noticed an effigy outlining the history of the place, depicted with images and ideograms. With the help of a translator, we discovered the name, 'Pagoda Bai,' and the century, the 13th. We were astounded by the date, and with our hearts in our throats, we climbed the three steps that separated the flora from the temple. There, we began to see the beautiful handrails engraved with sacred animals of Buddhism. Dragons, phoenixes, turtles, and more: a large ancient bronze gong with its fabric mallet welcomed our arrival. To the left of the entrance, there was a wooden structure, a shaded porch where one could rest. To its right, however, a corridor led to a small clearing, connected to a secondary entrance in the heart of the temple.
We could perceive the rich aura of the place; the air and atmosphere were different. This feeling settled firmly in our minds, like the tinkling of a drop in the sink.
To the right of the temple, we noticed a monk sweeping. It was a surprise for us, as in Vietnam, unlike many other Asian countries, faith is not widely practiced, and those few who do practice lack cohesion among religions. The State offers great freedom and does not impose any cults, even though it is a country with a strong Buddhist tradition. Catholicism is also widely professed, a remnant of the former French colonization. However, they all share a very strong reverence for their ancestors: they venerate and give thanks to the men and women who came before them, preferring to beautify cemeteries rather than ancient temples. Especially in cities, these are tourist sites, and seeing monks inside them is truly unusual.
We were curious and captivated by the gestures of that young man, around twenty years old, who moved the broom sinuously, as if his entire body, not just his arms, were directing it. His eyes never lifted from the ground, but we felt as if he were watching us. His spiritual strength made us feel like two Gullivers among the Brobdingnags.
Indeed, our first step inside the pagoda was quite hesitant: the creaking of the wood beneath our feet amplified our trepidation. As soon as we entered, we realized the wonder of that sanctuary and its age: the dark, damp teak of the roof was now rotten, a prison for heat and a sweet cradle for insects and mold. A golden statue of Buddha dominated the main hall, which opened on either side into two small arches.
Nonetheless, we sat down to meditate, facing the suffocating heat and the persistent feeling of being surrounded. With my eyes closed, I took a deep breath and synchronized my breathing with the sound of the broom behind me. That calm and perfectly timed sound accompanied my most hidden thoughts.
When I awoke and reopened my eyes, only a moment had passed for me, but the external time was not of the same opinion. I felt free, emptied, like a new person. I sensed something different in Mirko as well, as if he were stronger.
We didn't speak for a moment, thanking the spirit of that place before stepping out, chatting about the wonderful meditation we had shared, accompanied by the solitary rustle of the broom. The sun illuminated my face upon exiting, and I had to shield my eyes to see. By chance, I crossed the monk's gaze: he no longer held the broom and, with a relaxed expression, beckoned me over, gently indicating Mirko and making a peace sign with his fingers, as if to say for us to follow him together. He sat down under the small porch, waiting for us. Our hearts raced, and our knees trembled as we descended the steps. We knew something was about to happen, and our minds wandered with the thousands of questions we wanted to ask him: questions about life, happiness, forgiveness, faith, and hope—a whirlwind of queries that, however, vanished as soon as we sat down in front of him.
Before we could ask anything, he pulled out wooden beads, two silk threads, and some copper. For thirty minutes, he composed two Tibetan malas, simple rosaries belonging to these traditions, very useful in meditation. That strange feeling of being surrounded transformed into an embrace, as if that place were cradling us, and during those thirty minutes, silence was the only interlocutor of the wind among the leaves. Our thoughts soared away in the freshness of the air beneath that shaded porch, and we were immensely grateful and happy for that small yet significant gesture, a breach in our monotonous apathy. We bid farewell with a shy greeting, embarrassed by the power of such a free heart, accompanied by a considerable reverential fear.
Since then, I have wondered whether the monk sensed something in us and what motivated him to perform that simple, and I suppose daily, gesture. It doesn’t matter much, because that small gift changed my life.
Even before the monk left, Mirko and I were in a river of tears. We embraced and spent our last hours watching the sunset. I reflected on the entire day we had spent—the Bà, my thoughts, the water park, and that strange island, which had unexpectedly given us the key to happiness: simplicity. I like to think that it is like that ancient pagoda, hidden yet visible to the eyes of those who are truly searching for it.
There, in tears of joy, we shared our first words about traveling not only in Vietnam but throughout Southeast Asia.
That’s where we decided to listen to the Signs and follow Fate.
And then, from there on...
Comments