Vietnam Part III. Da Lat, or Le Petit Paris

This leg of our journey started on the bumpy bus ride from Saigon to the beautiful Da Lat, in the central highlands of Viet Nam. The road was narrow and a little scary at times, the driver continually maneuvering into the lane reserved for oncoming traffic, blindly accelerating as he slammed on the horn and passed a semi truck or a cluster of motorbikes. It was really incredible how narrow that road was, and the stunts he was pulling with this giant bus, well I had to turn my eyes to not focus on the road. The people here have such a different reality, it is common occurrences like this: the way the roads are run, and a thousand other small things that make it impossible to forget how far away from home we were. That keeps the adventure alive! Every experience unknown and usually rewarding.

From my bus window I could see the Vietnamese countryside pass by with patches of village or small town. From my window their way of life seemed slow and peaceful; families ate together outside, two men hunched over a game board below a big shade tree, some teenagers and an old lady were fixing their bicycles and a farmer slowly and carefully drove his rickety and dirty tractor the wrong way on the side of the road. Lush vegetation surrounded a colorful one-story schoolhouse, closed for the day or maybe had been closed for three years… hard to tell.

The towns quickly flashed and then disappeared again returning my view to the lush vegetation, thick underbrush, dense and tall wrapped around the trunks of evenly lined, yet crowded deciduous trees-tall and stately. Occasional bright red or dark pink flowers stood out against the dozens of shades of green in that mountainous jungle. As the road became more treacherous, bumpy, winding, steep, and poorly paved, the view became more expansive. We were surely climbing. The rolling hills showed no signs of human life, just trees beyond trees, most likely bearing fruit that helps the people in each small town survive; be it from sustenance or income. I was happy to be there, that bus ride- long and bumpy as it was.

We arrived in Da Lat, what a place! It is a high mountain town (city really) with a big lake in the center. It has been dubbed Le Petit Paris for it was built by the French, was the capital of Indochina and well, it even has a miniature Eiffel Tower! It seems so out of place, this whole town. They have delicious bakeries and European architecture and French is widely spoken! Yet it is still so Vietnam, with it’s slow charm. The air was crisp and perfect for a midsummer trip. We walked and took in the amazing sights, things were just falling into place for us and we talked a lot about the ease of the trip, and how happy we all were.

We rented motorbikes and cruised the winding mountain roads that led us through the thick forest. We saw a waterfall cascade down smooth rocks and ate lunch at an outdoor shack next to the two-lane highway. The views from the road we traveled were stellar. We loved the road we found by accident, minimal traffic, lots of potholes to swerve to miss and the occasional stretch of unpaved road to keep us on our toes.

We went to the home of a French/Vietnamese Poet, a sweet old man who gave me flowers and played guitar for us. We walked down the narrow overgrown driveway that led us to the secret garden he had cultivated for what seemed to be his lifetime. Flowers and plants of all stages and colors and kinds littered every open space. We slowly walked onto his property, unsure what to expect, when he greeted us from behind tall flowers, busy picking a fresh bouquet. What a sight! His long beard and smiling eyes were welcoming and warm. He emerged from where he was in the garden to put a flower in my hair and led us inside. We sat in his home and drank tea and beer and ate cakes, looking through his poetry and admiring his living room while he continued about his business, trimming plants and doing dishes, occasionally stopping in to chat with us or play the guitar with Ryan. What a guy! He seemed really happy, and his poetry honest and raw. We all became overwhelmed by his presence and were inspired to write more and be good.

We stayed quite high from the experience as we bummed around Da Lat late into the evening, stumbling upon markets in a crumbling part of town, a canal that looked like something in the Nederland’s, and a sweet little girl, maybe four years old. She was the daughter of one of the outdoor food spots we had posted up at to do some writing. She loved us, and we her. She kissed our cheeks and gave us hugs, we drew her pictures and let her play with our cameras. That night we drank wine from Da Lat on our balcony overlooking the now quiet street below, excited for the next leg of the journey. 

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