Slumped onto the dusty floor, sinking into a worn, yellowing mattress, I picked at the dried mud caked to my feet. Gingerly, I attempted to clean the sores that formed during the day’s off-trail trek to the Ta Van Hill Tribe Village. Moaning softly, my aches went unnoticed by the flurry of American and Canadian women admiring the view from our loft’s window- sunset skimmed the jagged mountains we became acquainted with only hours before. “Girls, please come downstairs,” our tour guide’s Vietmanese accent fluttered up to the group. Excited feet scurried past my outstretched legs, also stained from the six hour hike. Huffing, I forced myself up and sauntered down the creaking stairwell to be greeted by anxious chatter and smiling faces in the homestead below. “Come sit, come sit,” the tour guide rushed me into a chair. “I have an exciting announcement! Tonight, we will get to see a very sacred ceremony for our hosts. They are husband and wife, expecting a baby.” Curious, the group’s silence clung onto the air’s thick humidity, waiting for more. He continued in choppy English. “It is tradition in this village that a fortune teller will visit the family's home and tell them the gender and future of their baby.” Gasps of pleasure echoed from the group of women as members of the host’s family responded with broad smiles and welcoming nods. They could not speak English, nor could we speak Vietmanese, but their expressions of elation and acceptance were communicated without words. Their eyes spoke, giving us permission to be a part of their family, and a part of their village, for this special occasion. “Here she is!” Our guide motioned to the petite, rotund woman waddling confidently into the crowded room. Wearing a hot pink t-shirt and fuzzy sweatpants, her relaxed look was the epitome of pregnancy I had always known. Her clear warmth and eagerness for motherhood transcended cultural and language barriers. Intrigued, we sat quietly, ready to find out how we were going to be a part of her special day. “So who wants to help kill the chicken?” Snatching back our attention, our tour guide explained that a celebratory feast would be prepared for the fortune teller as an act of gratitude from the family. The delicacy to be served? Blood soup, drained from one lucky bird of choice. “Oh, aye will!” Bellowed a girl from the group with a thick Philadelphian accent. As a few of the women followed, I watched the frenzy unfold. In and out, in and out. Hands and legs moved furiously from the outdoor patio to the kitchen table. The expectant mother toddled from room to room with handfuls of plates, utensils and ornate tableware. Anxious chaos ensued as our group watched this carefully planned and practiced village tradition unfold. In each moment, we were unsure of what would happen next. Almost as sudden as preparations commenced, the fortune teller arrived. The chicken’s last squak pierced the air. And the ceremony had officially begun. Wearing a similar, stringent expression to a priest and a thick, black suit, the fortune teller’s presence hushed the room. The task that burdened the man would change the young couple’s lives, for better or for worse. Attempting to lighten the party’s nerves, the hostess and her husband sweetly coaxed the fortune teller into a private room. The news of their growing family would be shared intimately with the couple alone. All other guests were left to sit, and wait. Holding our breath, intently listening and silently praying for the future of this couple and their baby. Within minutes, a jovial commotion emerged from the private room. The previously somber fortune teller approached the readied, home cooked feast, his cheeks flushed with joy. The young couple stumbled into the room closely behind, cheerfully nodding and gushing in conversation with their family. Turning to my tour guide I asked, “so what was the fortune? Will the baby be a girl or a boy?” “Oh no,” he responded with an empathetic smile. “It is bad luck for anyone but the husband and wife to know. But, it seems a very happy future it will be.”