The Happiness Road

by Chloe-Louise Saunders (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Vietnam

Identical twinkling orbs watch me from a shrouded doorstep. The boy is maybe six, his arm frozen in mid-air, clutching a little red car as if the wind could knock it out of his hand at any second. His cheeks are rosy. His legs are not quite crossed, haphazardly splayed on his stone step, creasing the denim of his trousers. A scrawl of little red numbers are visible on the open page of a textbook lying abandoned on the gravel. I am frozen, too. The realisation that I may have inadvertently trespassed sits in my gut. We are locked in a staring contest. A gust of wind creates ripples on the patterned surface of a blanket hanging outside the boy’s doorway. Our stillness is shattered. The boy blinks. “Hellow.” He lifts the car above his head and his face breaks into a wide grin, and then a giggle. My smile mirrors his and I crouch down. “Hello”. The orbs look up at the car, away from me. For the past three days, a group of us had been motor biking Northern Vietnam’s Ha Giang Loop, a series of mountain roads which connect Ha Giang town to a multitude of smaller settlements up in the Northern regions. The route - crucial for healthcare, education and trade - had existed for fifty years before the first few rumbles of travellers’ motor bikes had entered the scene, like groups of mask-wearing ants swarming across a soaring emerald oil painting. The day before arriving in Dong Van, Vietnam’s northernmost town, we had pulled up at a towering white statue. Figures of young bodies against the rolling backdrop; close-knit, upstanding, proud. “The Youth Monument”, our guide had announced as we’d gathered to read out the sign. 'The "Happiness Road" was built by the shedding of sweat and blood of 1,200 local people and more than 1,000 youth volunteers from 16 ethnic groups in the North… When it was cleared there were 14 youth volunteers sacrificed–' “Sacrificed is a mistranslation,” our guide had cut in. “They mean that children were assigned to help build the roads and they died trying.” “How?” My brow had furrowed. “Steep drops, loose rocks. Imagine what this would have been like before the roads were carved into the mountain.” In Dong Van the following evening, the sky had deepened into darkness. The centre had been vibrant, thriving with small businesses and bright lights. After a hike, I had ventured back to our homestay alone, the streets becoming quiet, and the air - before full of smells and steam - now clean and harsh. Turning a corner, I’d found a dead end. A stillness covered the small houses like a perfect dusting of snow. Muffled, calm. And then he had seen me. “What’s yournem.” I tell him my name and ask for his. He giggles, untangles his legs and pushes his car along the street, its wheels encountering sharp dips and rolling pebbles. “What’s yournem.” he repeats. They arrive in front of me, the little boy and his red car, and he mimes a big explosion. He jettisons the car into the air and it lands with a dull clatter of plastic at my feet. Another stillness. He picks it up and pushes it into my hands. 'When it was cleared there were 14 youth volunteers sacrificed, forever staying in the UNESCO Geopark.' I put the car down and start to push it along, picking it up to bridge gaps in the stone. He follows it and takes it back, making car engine noises. His hands are enclosed in mittens, and I realise the end of his nose is as rosy as his cheeks. Under cover of night in northern Vietnam, the cold bites. I know he won’t understand but I ask him how long he has had his car and what his name is. I tell him he reminds me of my small cousin, that my cousin is six. “How old are you?” He replies with car noises and an expectant grin. 'The Youth Monument has been constructed representing the youth volunteer forces of the eight provinces, who proudly conquered nature, opening the road to happiness.'