My Favorite Guitar Player in Vietnam

The alarm clock in the hotel room is ringing. It's 5:30am on the Laos side of the Laos/Vietnam border and I'm more awake than I would have expected. We're supposed to board our bus in 30 minutes and I'm excited to see Vietnam for the first time.




The sun has already ushered in the day and monks in orange robes are saying prayers in the streets. In every house people are gathered in their doorways to observe and greet the monks as they walk along the street to accept the offerings of food and tea to bring back to the temple. Mary stands watching the monks while Kelvin speaks with the owner of the guest house, who is confirming what our day's trip will look like - a long bus ride followed by a long minivan ride ending at the coast. I watch the monks for a moment, but feel a sense of voyeurism that doesn't sit well and I go back to listen to the plans.

The empty bus is a few minutes early but doesn't wait for anyone else to arrive. The three of us sit separately in different rows near the front to spread out with our gear. I have my guitar on the seat next to me. It doesn't fit below with my bag. I smile and think of Ore, the Israeli who gave me the guitar when we met him at a street-side restaurant a week before. He said he was tired of carrying it with him on his travels. We met him on the trip coming from the caves of Konglor to 4000 Islands, and the truck we were on had tried to rip us off by stopping halfway to our destination to renegotiate the price. We told them to go on without us and had lunch at the roadside restaurant. They left, I got a guitar, and they came back with the truck and we agreed upon a better, though still shady, deal to get to where we were going.

Back on the bus my thoughts of Ore are interrupted by an unexpected tap on the shoulder. I look around to see the bus has filled up substantially and a kind looking older gentleman is motioning he'd like to sit next to me. I put the guitar between my legs in the seat and he sits down gingerly. Lucky for me he is not a large man, as I am cramped as it is with the guitar and the Asian-sized seats. He smiles and says something in Vietnamese and I smile and nod and he laughs and I laugh. He has a kind, old face and dark, young eyes and he carries with him a small white satchel. He points at my guitar and begins mimicking playing and singing. I chuckle and he laughs and I laugh and he pats me on the shoulder and turns to face forward.

The trip is fairly standard for a southeast Asian bus ride, with many sharp turns taken at speed, and passing cars with oncoming traffic approaching so quickly that your mind flashes with "what will my last thoughts be of? my mother?" but you can't actually picture your mother because you're too focused on the oncoming cars and your mortality and it's happening so fast. This repeats at least a half-dozen times each bus ride, and after awhile you become accustomed to feeling near death, though your mind doesn't slow down in these moments of panic. We don't wreck and eventually go through customs without issue and are back on the bus. Vietnam! I am thrilled to be here and excited to see the ocean tonight and eat the food. I'm hungry. We still have quite a long trip ahead of us, but with the border behind us it is smooth sailing from now on.

The road levels off, and we are able to relax a little in our seats. My elder seat-mate takes advantage of this by resting his head on my shoulder. I sit, amused and for a moment unsure of what to do. Before I have time to do anything the old Asian man lifts up his head and smiles at me and we both laugh loudly. We pat each other's backs and he repeats his earlier joke of air guitar, I join in with an air solo as he plays the rhythm and we continue to laugh for minutes. We both speak to the other in our native tongue and make wild hand gestures and no words are understood, though the meanings are. Eventually we both  sigh and face forward again with a grin. About ten minutes later he gets up to leave at a stop in the middle of nowhere, Vietnam. He doesn't say anything when he leaves his seat and as I watch him get off I am a little sad. Before he reaches the front of the bus he turns around, gives me a big smile and waves. I wave and we both give each other a little air guitar. The small old man steps gingerly off and the bus lurches forward again and we're driving. I place my guitar on the vacated seat and lay my head back and smile, ready to live the next story.