Hitchhiking
Vietnam
By
Karin Muller
THE
HAZARDS OF HIRING A HORSE
Northwest of Hanoi, Vietnam
Just beyond the edge of town, a mere five minutes'
walk from the busy marketplace, the rugged mountain landscape
took root. It was a land of fluted bamboo groves, where the gentle
breeze coaxed an elfin tune from the willowy stalks and sinuous
terraces girdled the mountainside, their careful geometry cut
by tiny, tumbling streams.
As twilight fell I reluctantly retraced my steps
to town and intercepted the first likely-looking man I found,
to see if I could hire one of those scrawny horses for a month-long
trek into the mountains. His name was Cham, and he immediately
squatted down into a comfortable, long-term bargaining position
and arranged his face into an expressionless mask. He motioned
for a suitable prop, a cigarette. I didn't have one. The corners
of his mouth sank half an inch, and he fell into a moody silence.
The horses, he said after considerable thought,
were far too delicate to carry a big-boned foreigner.
I had seen them plodding into town with several hundred pounds
of rice lashed to their wooden saddles. I hastened to reassure
him that I had no intention of riding the wretched beasts. I wanted
one to carry my pack, a trivial item to say the least, a veritable
feather on the back of these fine steeds.
He plucked a piece of grass and chewed it thoughtfully.
How were they to know that I wouldn't just steal it, and disappear
over the nearby border into China?
I imagined myself wandering about the Chinese hinterlands
with nothing but a bony stallion. No currency, no language skills,
no visa. I pointed out that a foreigner with a horse would leave
behind a superhighway of gossip, and that I couldn't "disappear"
if my life depended on it.
He thought some more, his eyelids drooping in an
effort to focus his concentration. I suspected, uncharitably,
that he might be dozing off, if that were physically possible
while bent into such an unstable, tendon-snapping squat.
His eyes popped open. Perhaps, he said, he should
accompany me as interpreter and guide, as the Hmong horse owner
would almost certainly speak no English and would insist on chaperoning
his stead on such a hellish trek.
I studied Cham's face. His features were pure lowland
Vietnamese, and he wore not a shred of native garb. I was willing
to wager he spoke no Hmong, nor any other ethnic dialect. Since
we were conducting the conversation in Vietnamese, I knew his
English was nothing to boast about.
A man wearing such fine clothes, I exclaimed, indicating his wilted
T-shirt and tattered shorts, shouldn't stoop to sleeping in mud
huts and washing in the river. As much as I aspired to his services
as guide and mentor, perhaps he would content himself with a hefty
finder's fee and my eternal gratitude.
"You know check?" he asked with unexpected
abruptness.
Check. Traveler's check. Chekov. Checkers. Checkmate.
I had no idea.
"Check language," he said impatiently.
"No, I don't," I said, feeling a little
ashamed of myself.
He had apparently spent five years in Czechoslovakia,
studying construction and women. He had managed to acquire no
less than three girlfriends, all tall, plump and European. They
had convinced him that Asians would someday rule the world because,
try as he might, he failed to impregnate a single one of them,
despite fathering six spanking infants by his Vietnamese wife
in as many years. The Western world was dying out, he told me.
Their women were barren. In a few generations it would all be
over, empty houses and fancy cars with the keys still in the ignition,
and the sturdier Asians would simply move in and take up where
they left off. He himself had his eye on a fine three-story house
in Brno, if all went according to plan, for his grandchildren.
He looked at me with pity, and seemed surprised
at my lack of concern.
"Fine," I said, "but what about the
horse?"
___________
To purchase the one-hour PBS special Hitchhiking Vietnam ($12.95), please visit Japanlandonline.com
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