Hearts of Trang An

by Sandra Gonza (Netherlands)

Making a local connection Vietnam

The oars carving the water was the one constant. The only break from the haunting stillness surrounding us. Each stroke rhythmic reassurance as we glided along the Red River Delta. Suddenly a growl from my stomach snatched me out of my floating trance. My oarsman chuckled as he said “ten minutes,” an estimate given at least an hour ago. Determined to go off the beaten path, I was bound for Trang An – an inland alternative to the famed Hạ Long Bay. My journey started at the crack of dawn, pelting through the maze that is Hanoi’s bus station. I had slept through my alarm and barely had time to grab my belongings let alone a bite to eat. I bobbed along in the bus convincing myself that surely, I’d find something along the way. This is Vietnam after all; the home of street food. Four hours later and still nothing to eat, cradled in this twelve-foot orange paddleboat. Slowly drifting along the river, allowing it to guide us through crevices and into caves draped with otherworldly networks of speleothems. Weaving in and out of karst mountains, thick forests reaching for the skies. Our destination: the heart of Trang An – a mystical viewpoint within the limestone complex, where according to my oarsman, the ancient knights of the ruling dynasties watched over the lands. “Those were the king’s strongholds” he nodded towards the monoliths, as we glided past the jagged outcroppings of this wetland. I smiled politely but my head was preoccupied. My eyes glazed over. My mouth salivating as I thought of food. My stomach growled louder. I squirmed, trying to silence the rumble with my hands. Only one other boat was docking as we pulled up to the island. The men that disembarked raced towards a red cart on the sands. “Please let it be food!” I thought to myself. My oarsman pointed towards the shaggy path leading up the mountain, but I was set on that red cart. The vendor held out a bottle of water as I approached. “You coming up?” the guys shouted, heading up the footpath. “Just go ahead thank you. I’ll catch up,” I responded, now staring into this tiny cart filled with tinier bottles of water looking back at me. “Any food?” I asked. The woman held up another bottle, puzzled. My stomach sunk deeper. She didn’t understand. In a moment of desperation, the words on last night’s menu came to mind. “Bo,” I blurted, raising my hand towards my mouth, mimicking eating. She paused, then burst out laughing. Still laughing, she proceeded to grab my hand and pulled me to a shelter behind the cart where another woman was seated. ‘Bo,’ she chuckled, the other woman joining her in laughter. I was confused. Had I butchered the word? The woman patted the ground next to her, gesturing for me to sit. To my surprise, she grabbed her woven basket and pulled out metal lunchboxes. What have I done? Were they about to share their packed lunch with me? I was mortified, but as the all too familiar piquant scent of Vietnamese cuisine filled the air, my stomach overrode my brain. She handed me a bowl and chopsticks; still smiling. I didn’t think twice – said thank you – and dug in! The ladies chatted amongst themselves, paying me little to no attention, apart from occasionally glancing over and giggling as I fumbled with the chopsticks and dropped my food. As I ate, I reflected on the power of food and how it transcended language. Here we were with no way of communicating, yet this meal had brought us together. I thought of my mother, “a full belly is a happy heart” she would always say. I looked up at the women, we exchanged knowing smiles. Upon finishing, I thanked them in my subpar Vietnamese. They laughed as they shooed me back to the paddleboat. I never made it up to the viewpoint. I didn’t need to, because, in that meal, I knew I had encountered the true hearts of Trang An. To my embarrassment, I would later find out that ‘Bo’ in fact meant cow, and I’d been calling the lady ‘cow’ the whole time.