Fragments of memories

I don't like the rain, but I especially enjoy the feeling of drinking coffee in a warm room, looking out at the dampness outside. I often feel deeply reflective in those moments. The cup of coffee, with all its blended aromas of earth, leather, decaying wood, ripe fruit… envelops me in a gentle, warm, and peaceful fragrance. It soothes the turmoil in my heart. It calms some restless thoughts. It evokes distant fragments of memories. Like today, the aroma of coffee in this warm cafe makes me think of another cup of coffee I drank while sitting precariously on a rocky outcrop overlooking the sea at Kê Gà, with two women from the fishing village who opened their hearts to me and let me stay for two weeks while I was wandering.

It was 2008. A flight from Hue to Ho Chi Minh City cost over 600,000 dong per ticket. I did a rough calculation of my expenses for a month, then packed my bags and left. The best thing about youth is that you can do whatever you want without thinking too much. As a result, something far away, or even close by, isn't so scary. I stayed in the bustling city for only a week before getting bored, so I grabbed a flyer from a travel agency on the street that advertised Ke Ga: a century-old lighthouse, fascinating ancient rock formations, a small fishing village… So I went!

From Ho Chi Minh City, I took a train to Phan Thiet; the ticket for a wooden seat was only a few tens of thousands of dong. The commuter train rattled along, dragging a dozen carriages on the old railway line. The scenery was beautiful; the stained train windows didn't diminish the green of the trees, the rolling hills, and the vibrant red of the dragon fruit orchards stretching as far as the eye could see. I didn't take pictures; I don't like taking pictures. I believe that a person's attentive gaze is more powerful than any lens in the world. I did jot down some notes, a few fragmented lines that have since been lost somewhere during my travels. Nothing important, even though decades later I know I can't recall the details of that spontaneous morning, I will always remember that a few beautiful things came and stayed with me, even if only for a brief moment—that's enough.

After getting off the boat, I looked up the bus number – the cheapest mode of transportation within my budget. Bus number 6 took me to Ke Ga around noon. “Not as beautiful as I imagined!” I thought. The small fishing village had only about a hundred households, with dilapidated houses featuring characteristic corrugated iron roofs and wooden doors painted in all sorts of colors. Boats were stranded on the sand. A pungent, fishy smell was ever-present. The sea shimmered like millions of other seas on this earth. Waves lapped against the sand, then faded into other rhythmic waves, endlessly regenerating themselves in an endless cycle. I sat on the sand, counting the waves crashing against the shore. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7… In the blink of an eye, I felt as if I were counting my joys and sorrows, my confusion, my brokenness, and miraculously, that gentle rhythm soothed me in the quiet stillness of transformation.

I remember spending two weeks in a small house – a place where only two women lived – a mother-in-law and her daughter-in-law, both widows. Their husbands had both perished at sea. I stayed with them mornings, afternoons, and nights. It was mostly quiet and melancholic. There were a few moments of joy, though, like when the daughter-in-law tore open three packets of instant coffee, poured them into three porcelain cups meant for tea, and then invited me to sit on a rock to enjoy the breeze. Honestly, what was there to enjoy about the breeze? Perhaps she was enjoying something else, enjoying a person, enjoying a lifetime…

The wonderful thing about this fishing village is that people welcome visitors with equanimity. I stayed here for two weeks, and the two women only asked me where I was from, what I was studying, or what I was doing, and that was it. They weren't afraid of theft, robbery, or deception. They were genuine and thought everyone was the same as themselves. They lived off the bounty of nature and the sea, and generously shared with everyone in need. They simply lived their own lives well, without being preoccupied with the curiosity of others. They had no prejudices or judgments. Here, I felt like myself. Neither light nor darkness changed me. Neither the color of the sea nor the color of the sky bothered me. I could think clearly about many things, or not think at all. I even managed to shrink my terrible sadness, finding my previous suffering rather strange. Back then, the term "healing" wasn't popular, but looking back now, it seems I was fortunate to have been healed, to have received gentle patching during my time there.

For two weeks, the quiet routine was so profound that at times I felt like I was born and raised here. Luckily, the aroma of coffee held me back, reminding me that I belonged somewhere else, that I had to return. Coffee here was also a luxury; it wasn't bought in boxes but individually in packets. Before my last day, she slipped two packets of coffee into my bag, then rowed me in her small boat to the Kê Gà lighthouse, "entrusting" me to a lighthouse keeper named Dũng. "Brother Dũng, take her up to the lighthouse and see how beautiful Kê Gà is!" she shouted as she turned her boat around to return.

Dũng guarded the lighthouse alone, only changing shifts with someone else once a week. Living a simple, makeshift life, he searched the entire room but couldn't find a cup, so he brewed his coffee in a bowl. He carried the bowl and led me up the 183 steps to the top of the century-old lighthouse, where we gazed into the distance, down to the land, and straight out at the sea. From this high vantage point, I was no longer afraid to look at the sea; the shimmering light didn't blind my eyes, and my fear of the mysteries of the open ocean lessened considerably. The sea was as blue as the sky, as blue as an emerald, as blue as the bluest thing I could imagine. I took a sip of coffee, letting the familiar taste spread through my mouth, and I was so moved I wanted to cry. Something welled up with my tears. At that moment, I knew I had been liberated, completely.