The choice to undertake a first educational volunteer experience was particularly fitting. Children have a very special trait that is missing in adults: sincerity.
They seem detached from social criticism, still far from the hypocrisy of adults in masking their opinions. They have not yet developed that mask that, inevitably and with time, becomes part of us. They therefore express their opinions without environmental constraints and without falling into the trap of judgment. It’s no coincidence that this ability is granted to both children and the elderly, as both tend to be removed from social life and thus immune to the complexity of words and excessive thoughts. Those who live in society, on the other hand, find it hard to grasp the subjectivity of an opinion, ending up considering it, in any way, a criticism, born from the insecurities that social life itself imposes. Subjectivity also allows for the possibility of changing one’s opinion, and children are not afraid that their point of view will be misconstrued as a judgment.
I particularly appreciated their frankness—the fact that they had no trouble admitting their likes or dislikes about someone, the courage to know that they cannot please everyone and vice versa.
Moreover, in this first volunteering experience, I especially appreciated Mirko. He has this innate ability to connect with the kids: perhaps because he has never really grown up, or perhaps because of the power of the camera, which has become an extension of his arms—an instrument capable of stopping time and keeping alive in us the memory of a day, a smile, a loved one.
Furthermore, in this first experience of volunteering, I particularly appreciated Mirko. He has this engaging, innate ability to connect with the kids: perhaps because he has never really grown up, perhaps because of the power of the camera, now an extension of his arms, a tool capable of stopping time and keeping alive the memory of a day, a smile, a loved one. The camera captures the moments of the life of those in front of the lens, but what is the fate of those behind it? They, too, fall victim to the same wonderful curse.
The photographer stops, like the film, at the moment the photo is taken, adapting to the person who requests it: in order for a photo to capture the best smile, it must be asked for in the right way. One must know how to adapt to the situation and take on the role of the person in front of them. This is an innate ability, which not everyone possesses. It is the ultimate manifestation of empathy and respect.
What results could one expect by asking an elderly lady sitting on a bench for a photo and making a funny face before taking it, or by chasing after a rare bird instead of hiding in the bushes and waiting for its passage? In most cases, the result would likely be disappointing. Knowing how to make anyone feel comfortable, in any situation, is a prerogative of the photographer.
Unfortunately, the kids spoke very limited English, and the camera served as a meeting point between us and them, a source of interest that intrigued them and encouraged them to make an effort to communicate. Most of the time, however, a digital translator was needed to communicate with them. Unlike neighboring Thailand, in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia, it is rare to find ordinary people who speak English. The reasons are various, first and foremost the social aversion of previous generations due to the wars. Moreover, Austroasiatic languages are based on sound extensions, tones that change the meaning of a word. Therefore, these languages rely on the use of the throat as a communicative tool. As the sound intensity changes, so does the meaning of the word itself. This is why, to the delicate ears of a Latin speaker, Asian people often use incomprehensible sounds and tones that are too high. Indo-European languages, on the other hand, are based on rich vocabularies and more restrained sounds due to the extensive use of the mouth as a communication tool. This creates great difficulties for young people, who are unable to express themselves or study so many different words to convey a single concept, even though they are very fascinated by the Western world. Outside of tourist areas, it is very difficult to find consistency in the practice of the language.
Centers like the one we relied on usually welcome volunteers precisely to provide consistency in language practice, as even the managers themselves often struggle to speak English fluently.
Hong Ngu is prosaic and flat. Like many small towns in Vietnam, the days are slow and repetitive. Life is monotonous six days a week, and Sunday is that fleeting moment of escape from the long work hours, spent with family. The Vietnamese people are very fond of karaoke, and on Sundays it is customary to see them singing at the top of their lungs in the middle of the street with small stereos blasting melodic Eastern music, drinking beer and "happy water," a homemade distilled drink usually made from rice.
Nothing ever happens in Hong Ngu, and when something does happen, it is on everyone's lips. It reminded me a lot of those small towns scattered across Italy, where even today, elderly ladies peek out of their windows to see what’s happening on the street. After all, the world is all the same, and gossip is the foundation of social relationships.
Our days were simple and repetitive, yet at the same time, very fulfilling. We woke up at 7:30 AM, had breakfast consisting of Ban Mih, a typical Vietnamese sandwich. It was a simple baguette with raw vegetables, eggs, or marinated pork, and too much, excessively, cilantro. Every morning we found ourselves picking out the stems and leaves of that spice, so flavorful yet so poorly balanced. It was all served with a classic Vietnamese coffee, strictly accompanied by an oversized glass full, alas, of ice! A blow to the heart for two Italians. But we had gotten used to it, like with the sugar. The Vietnamese love sweet flavors and tend to overdo it; it is even a tradition to sweeten the coffee beans during roasting with butter and sugar.
Coffee holds great value in Vietnamese society. Its plantations are spread all over the country, and the Buon Ma Thuot highlands are famous for the quality of its beans. Not by chance, Vietnam is the second-largest coffee producer in the world, after Brazil. Its preparation, in small roadside vendors, as well as the self-producers who sell it, has a ritual similar to our Italian moka: they use a special steel filter, called the "Phin," into which they place the ground coffee and then pour boiling water over it, which slowly, drop by drop, drips into the cup. Customers must patiently wait for the brewing process; any attempt to speed it up would ruin it. The so-called "Coffee Shops," quite different from those in neighboring Thailand, also serve as social gathering places, especially for young people. Teenagers love to spend their evenings joking or doing homework with friends at their favorite spots, drinking coffee or the usual teas with gelatin bubbles inside.
The volunteering involved being with the kids, aged between three and twenty-five, from eight in the morning to eight in the evening, at a small training center for learning English. It was an old building overlooking a street lined with communist flags and Vietnamese flags, alternated at each lamp post with manicured care. On the ground floor, there was a large classroom where lessons took place, stairs, a bathroom, and the bedroom of the owner, Mr. T.
On the upper floor, instead, there were outdated classrooms, complete with bells in the hallway. Given the influx of volunteers and the limited finances for the center, these rooms were converted into guest accommodations.
They were all abandoned, with dust and rat droppings, dormitories for spiders and cockroaches. The smell of mold was overpowering, and the only window that could open was broken and had limited movement. The curtain, which was supposed to protect us from the morning sun, was just a simple beach towel depicting Star Wars heroes. Our bed was a thin mattress placed on the floor and against the wall, from which we could hear the squeaking of mice behind us.
The perfect place for us, there was even no hot water. We were searching for ourselves, and putting ourselves in difficulty was necessary. We wanted to learn from these cultures the art of making do, the joy in simplicity. I only remember so many dazzling smiles in that makeshift camp and the time spent sharing with the students. We couldn’t have ended our experience in Vietnam in a better way, experiencing firsthand the daily habits of these people.
We spent fifty wonderful days in this extraordinary country, and it was here that we changed our lives. A simple thank you will never be enough.
Vietnam will always be home to us.
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