Buzz
It's been a long time, and still, I don't have enough time to know if the hasty lunch by the wood stove in a house at the crossroads of Pho Cao on that rainy day was real or a dream?
I found myself stuck in Pho Cao (Dong Van, Ha Giang) due to a traffic jam.
On those days, whenever the mountain demolition team planted mines to build roads, the passenger car had to wait for over half an hour to pass. Uphill and downhill, we exchanged glances. My friend stood on the rocky slope, talking on the phone, asking if I could cut through the mountains and join him here.
Greetings to the fellow travelers I just got acquainted with on the worn-out yellow bus covered in dust. I moved on.
1. Backpack slung over my shoulder, the camera dangling. Separated by a hill, a curve, a mountain slope. My friend's shadow is like a tiny dot against the sky. Cars, motorcycles, everyone patiently waiting at both ends of the hill for the mine to explode and clear the way. Only I took short and tall steps, climbing over the rock wall, clinging to the forest trees. Heading towards him.
Meeting again wasn't the first encounter, yet why does the heart beat lively in the chest? A faint smile, eyes gently glancing. It's as if I fear the sun will flicker away, clouds will hastily depart, the wind will cease to blow, and the early morning rooster's crow will fade into silence.
Pho Cao, where our hearts first met, how effortlessly enchanting it is!
Leaving behind the bustling laughter of the construction crew, the grumbling of a few impatient guests, Pho Cao stretches its arms wide to welcome me with a vast valley, the sky's refreshing breeze, mountain ranges standing tall, and a winding road deserted by any passing vehicles.
Through silent house gates, stone fences shimmering in the sunlight, branches intricately casting shadows on window frames. Suddenly startled by the figure passing through the field, unexpectedly alarmed by the cry of a child from a dark corner of the house, filled with the scent of old, musty blankets.
Immersed in the scent of fresh sunshine, the cold wind lingering on the rooftop.
A tranquil Pho Cao captivates my footsteps.
2. We returned to Pho Cao on a day when the mist blanketed everything in a mysterious rain. The sky and earth swayed in a sea of mist, mountains blurred in the distance, fields hazy with flowers, houses along the wall submerged in illusion. Cornfields swelled with water, rows of mustard greens shivering in yellow blooms.
Hastily parking at the crossroads, we quickly entered the warmth of the familiar kitchen that had welcomed us countless times over the distant years.
Next to the large oven, the fire blazed, likely used for distilling spirits, popping corn, and dyeing fabric. Perhaps a kitchen that often cooked meals for livestock, with a large iron pan lying obediently. The Mông boy from back then is now the father of two, adding more corn cobs to the fire, leaning down to blow a long breath.
The flames leaped up, glowing in shades of pink, warm and cheerful, chasing away the drizzle and damp wind, dispelling the chill as we crossed the tall threshold into the house.
Sitting by the doorsteps, you absentmindedly smoke, gazing at the Pho Cao intersection being engulfed in mist. Inside the small house, two girls are taking off their shoes, warming their hands while the mother moves the little one from bed closer to the fireplace.
The mother of the kids holds the little one, transferred from the bed to near the fireplace, while the husband inspects the corn liquor in the corner, bringing out a few cups. The corn liquor is clear, spicy, burning the throat and warming the stomach clenched from the cold.
We took out the handful of sticky rice from the backpack, bought fresh in the Dong Van market in the morning, now chilling. But what does the cold matter when we gather around the wood stove, sharing each grain of rice, in the hospitality of the host family and the confident travelers who act like they are the masters themselves.
We've had quite a bit of wine, maybe toasting, maybe not, in fragmented stories and in the silent moments each person chooses for themselves. The warmth of the fire is like the orange Mông scarf on my shoulders. The eyes gaze warmly as if we've been familiar for ages.
3. I don't recall how many times I've walked through Pho Cao. Haunted by the sound of children's laughter echoing in the pure air, the modified car engines humming on the long road, the vibrant Mông dress in the green fields, the red flag with a yellow star fluttering against the sky.
Haunted by sorrows, fingers trembling in the winter, the scorching sun turning red and dry in the summer, stone fences, fiery wine, wild love affairs...
And I know that the warm afternoon, as if not real back then, will never return. The golden moments follow the footsteps of our companion, heading towards oblivion...
According to Tuoitre.vn
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Source: Travel guide from Mytour
MytourOctober 19, 2016
