The last bus ride of the year

- Essays -

(Baonghean)I've always believed that, at the stroke of midnight on the thirtieth day of the Lunar New Year, we all share a common feeling: hurry home, return quickly to family reunions, to our roots, to a moment that can only be experienced at home.

This unique and sacred quality is also something shared by the entire nation for millennia, becoming an instinct and a conscious awareness for everyone.

Yes, let's begin with a very specific journey: from our workplaces, units, villages, schools, from the familiar homes of each person, towards our ancestral homeland. A year spent far from home, preoccupied with making a living, the ups and downs of the harvest in the Central Highlands coffee forests, or grappling with national and social issues in the capital, venturing into the deep forests of the border, or pouring our hearts into profound writings, worrying about an immediate program or silently planning for a bold future… All of it, all of it, pauses, listening to the ticking of time as the year draws to a close, sacred and warm. That's when the buses, laden with hopes and expectations, depart excitedly in the cold wind. The sounds of laughter and chatter, the hands clutching gifts, the carefully saved presents… roll along with the rolling wheels, reflecting the anticipation from home. But I know that amidst the hustle and bustle of these journeys, there are always unspoken feelings, things that are not easily known or expressed. I once heard a colleague tell me about a trip he took through the jungle at the end of the year to wish the people, officials, and soldiers in the Vietnam-Laos border region a Happy New Year. Up there, some soldiers had gone home before Tet, celebrating the holiday early with their parents, wives, children, and loved ones, and then returned to this mountain pass to set up their posts, silently longing for Tet. No one said anything significant because it was a normal part of life for soldiers in border areas.

A soldier asked someone to take a branch of wild peach blossoms back to his hometown. People in the lowlands, especially in the cities, have long disliked branches of peach blossoms that are overly carefully cultivated and flamboyant. Conversely, many are willing to spend millions of dong to buy a branch with gnarled, mossy trunks and branches; the more rustic, the more vibrant the newly opened buds. But the soldier didn't think that way. He simply considered it a gift from the mountains, a flower from a distant mountain region sent to the lowlands to contribute to the spring reunion. Everyone carefully protected and preserved the wild peach blossom branch, delivering it to the border guard's family on the afternoon of the thirtieth day of the Lunar New Year, filled with mixed emotions…

…That same time, on the way back from the Vietnam-Laos Friendship Cemetery, my colleague and the delegation didn't forget to stop and light incense to pay respects to the martyrs resting there. On the afternoon of the thirtieth day of the Lunar New Year, rows of tombstones, some with names and some without, stood solemnly and straight. Incense smoke rose in thick plumes, drifting far away and settling in the fragrant breeze. Not all graves had relatives visiting, but all were respectfully lit with incense. Everyone knew for sure that those who came to visit were praying for the souls of the deceased to return and reunite with their parents, wives, children, and relatives on that thirtieth day of the lunar year. Everyone believed that on that journey on the thirtieth day of the lunar year, there were many hopes, dreams, and heartfelt wishes of the living and the deceased, silently and trustingly converging together…

Yes, it's me, the same person, but every year, on the afternoon of the thirtieth day of the Lunar New Year, I often feel like... I'm not myself anymore, and there are things that are not easy to say. In childhood, I lived a life of hardship, and the constant longing of many people was for new clothes, new shoes, a feast, a trip far away... Then came the dreamy eyes, the pages of a book opening to a new horizon, and life as it was, with its hardships, joys, and sorrows. People often describe a person's life through the quiet but visible changes in hair color. A person's success or failure can easily be seen through their clothes, new car, modern house, title, or gifts and New Year's lucky money... But surely, I, you, or I, on the afternoon of the thirtieth day of the Lunar New Year, can confidently cast aside everything that needs to be cast aside from the old year, finding joy in the new year from the good fortune of having a kind person come to be the first visitor on the first day of the new year, the incense burning brightly and beautifully, the peach blossoms in the house blooming with countless pink buds, a daughter who is studious and well-behaved, a small newspaper article bringing a countable ray of light to the street singer couple... It's still me, still on the afternoon of the thirtieth day of the Lunar New Year with a light drizzle, but this year I have added joy from the messages of a new acquaintance, the steadfast wishes of an old friend, the silent understanding and trust that cannot be fully expressed in words...

Yes, every day, every thirtieth day of the lunar month, the kapok tree at the edge of the village would wave its gnarled branches, waiting to welcome the villagers back. From afar, I could clearly see the tall kapok tree amidst the newly planted rice field. The mud and straw still clung to its trunk, giving off a pungent smell. Villagers would meet hastily on the thirtieth day of the lunar month, but they still managed to ask each other if the planting was finished, how the firewood and straw were, when the rice cakes would be made, and if all the children had returned home… On that country road, I had traveled, been embraced, supported, welcomed, and trusted.

Is it because of things like that that the last bus ride of the year seems longer, slower, and heavier with each step? Is it because of that that the last bus ride of the year always makes me think, ponder, and feel different from the countless journeys I've taken in my life? I've always carried the feeling of a wanderer, a traveler, sometimes sleepless, sometimes immersed in the rumbling of long-distance buses on National Highway 1A passing by my house. These buses, full of dust and wind, travel through many lands, carrying countless destinies and emotions of those far from home. There's the young girl, a factory worker at a leather shoe factory in Binh Duong, returning home with her boyfriend, a worker from a nearby garment factory, to introduce him to her parents. They temporarily forget the hardships of the year, returning home in warmth and bright hope. Then they will build that hope in a cramped rented room, where their children will be born one after another, and each year, the grandmothers from both sides of the family will take turns bringing packed lunches to look after the children. Ten years have passed since the two sisters first arrived in the red soil region, toiling and saving every day. Hearing that their mother was seriously ill, they hastily sold several hundred kilograms of cashew nuts to return home in time. They hurried, taking their old bicycle with them, calculating the distance they would travel at night on the remote country road filled with memories. A pensive old man sat near the bus window, smoking continuously. This year, many storms had swept away his shrimp ponds, the fruits of his labor. But these setbacks did not discourage this former soldier of Uncle Ho. Returning home, he lit incense for his ancestors, seeking strength from the land where he was born and raised, to find confidence to set out again… On those buses, how many people, who had been lost for many years, are now returning with gray hair? How many have buried their pain and bitterness deep within their hearts? How many are filled with excitement and joy? Beckoning them ahead is the village road, crisscrossed with buffalo footprints from their childhood, the murmur of white-capped waves, or the pensive silhouette of cloud-shrouded mountains. It's where dreams are born, fly away, and one day return. They understand why many villagers, who have never left their bamboo groves, worry about falling coffee prices, anxiously look towards distant lands during storms, and watch news reports about shrimp exports to America. They understand why, at times, their hearts are restless, and they silently gaze into the distance at the sound of a cuckoo bird.

I watched for a long time as those noisy vehicles passed by, the faces fading behind the windows. I longed for peace, warmth, and togetherness. I longed for hands to be clasped in this sacred moment. I longed for the warm red incense sticks on the ancestral altar, filled with reverence. And for everyone, like me, to be embraced, supported, welcomed, and relied upon on their journey home…

Pham Thuy Vinh