Vietnam is a fertile rock upon which I think just about anything could grow.
We are on a twisty mountain road from the mountain town of Da Lat, heading back to Nha Trang. Spectacular views of jungle-covered mountains, far as the eye can see. The road cuts through steep rock slides, with waterfalls gushing, pouring, seeping down under the road. Clouds of steam rise up here and there in the rain-dampened trees. Rolling hills, sharp mountain peaks, blended together everywhere, forever. The soil on the valley paths is a vibrant orange-red, the color of clean rust, of a corroded metal pipe that is always damp, seeping water. Water is never far off here, in the rain, the clouds, the waterfalls, in all the green plant life growing in the earth.
|Nice and comfy in my bus berth bed.|
There aren’t quite worlds to describe the beauty out the window in the view, or how calm I feel sitting here in my slightly cramped bunk on an overnight bus making its way down through the mountains. Pooja sleeps in the berth next to me. We slow and jostle through short bits of road where the water has washed out the pavement, through construction areas. Mostly the road is smooth, winding, but the way is easy. Or it is for me, sitting here watching out the window, waiting, thinking, writing. I cannot think of any place I could be right now but here. This is where I am, and this is an amazing, life-shaping experience. I’m glad I came. I like it here. That phrase is sewn on to a bag I have at home, ‘I like it here.’ It should be true no matter where you go– I like it here.
|It’s always best to let sleeping Pooja’s lie.|