“Don’t stop walking,” they told the twelve of us as we got off the plane in Ho Chi Minh City. “The motorbikes judge where to drive, depending on how fast you are walking.”
Dr. Vernon, Rev. Clark, the other nine Hendrix students and I all accepted this rule without argument. Perhaps I should have taken it as a warning about the traffic conditions of the city, but I waved it off and attributed it to overly cautious leadership; that is, until I was actually faced with the monumental task of crossing the road.
Imagine yourself back in high school, trying to walk down the crowded hallways, only this time all the other students are riding motorcycles. Horns are also utilized to a greater extent in Vietnam than they are in smaller American cities like Conway. Keep this in mind while envisioning the buzzing horde of bikes; they let you know where they want to go!
Now, hundreds of fast and noisy motorbikes swarming down the road is an intimidating sight in itself, but think of the nerve it takes to step into the road in the middle of all that commotion: one missed step and that’s not all you’ll be missing. On at least one occasion, I found myself all too close to these ubiquitous bikes. Afterwards, Dr. Vernon, with the profound astuteness that only a professor could muster, remarked, “You almost got run over!”
Aside from the dangers of the road, our group persevered. We partnered with a non-profit group, Peaceworks, and intended to build two houses in the Mekong Delta for impoverished people. So along with six Vietnamese students and our leader, Thai, we set out on bus towards the city of Rach Gia: location of our village and of the most delicious bananas I’ve ever eaten.
The city is located in the southern part of the country, about 120 miles south of the capital, a mere 6-hour bus ride. It was a small town, close to the ocean, and it allowed us easy access to the village where we would be working. The weather is warm and humid, a lot like Arkansas, although there is one major difference. Since Vietnam is so close to the equator, the sun is much crueler than it is back home. If I had the misfortunate of working without shade, I could feel the sun crushing me and sucking out part of the lake I had to drink to stay hydrated. Needless to say, we all returned with marvelous tans. For most of us, though, this was our least valuable souvenir.
Before leaving for Vietnam, each of us was told to bring gifts for the community and our hosts. Since Vietnam has a culture of gift-giving, this would be the respectful and responsible. We all brought various trinkets to represent our country: hats, pictures, and postcards; somewhere across the ocean a man is wearing a bright red “Toad Suck Daze” shirt. In return, we got similar culturally relevant gifts, but what we most treasure, would be the memories and the stories we gained from the trip. For a group of college students from Arkansas, Vietnam offered a new world of experiences different from anything we had ever seen.
I cannot say what I was expecting to find there. My mother was worried that I would step on a land mine. I guess that is as far as most people’s knowledge of the country goes—it is where we fought a war against the communists. Thankfully, I did not step on any land mines, but I did meet some communists. The first day in the village, I found myself being welcomed into the meeting hall, which was furnished with red banners, hammers and sickles, and a portrait of Marx and Lenin. The chairman of the committee thanked us for coming to help and he informed us that the people of the village had voted on whom should receive the new houses. The community voted in order to prevent favoritism in the government. How democratic, I thought. Afterwards, we got on a boat and floated to the worksite on the outskirts of the village.
The nice houses had tin roofs. The really fancy ones had doors. Children came in and out of the yellow school building and ran past the water buffalo to see the Americans. Miles and miles of ripe, green rice fields covered the area behind the village. One kid walked by pulling a brick on a string. I was busy working for the majority of my time in the village, but this is eclipsed by the time I spent interacting with the people. I remember the generosity of the couple that lent out their house to feed us every day. I remember the laughter of the policeman as I gently refused his cigarette. I remember the joy in the eyes of the mother as we finished unloading the bricks for her house. I remember the smiles of the kids as we sang and danced together.
In the end, I can say that I worked a lot on building houses, but that is not really the important part of the trip; I barely remember that part, but I do remember the people. I did not meet any poor people; though some of them might not have had much in their houses, they made more than enough room for us in their hearts. And while staying in the Mekong Delta, I did not just see an old battlefield; rather I found a community full of people that took pride in taking care of one another.