Floating markets, language barriers, and words on self-compassion

Rain is coming down in sheets, torrents, thunderous momentous clattering on concrete, bike seats, and thin plastic ponchos. The water falls onto itself in puddles. Rivers rise and creep up embankments. 

Monsoon season is the loudest kind of quiet.

It has been a loud day. It has also been a quiet day. Allow me to explain.

Every city in Vietnam falls somewhere far along the scale of boisterously chaotic. Streets are packed with motorbikes weaving around cars, there is incessant honking, and families are on every sidewalk selling bao buns and grilled corn from carts.

Men talk loudly in cafes between puffs on their cigarettes, music blares from bars, have I already mentioned the honking?

Loud is an understatement. The noise in the cities is of the eye-widening, mind-boggling, smile-inducing variety.

But while I can appreciate the hubbub, I sometimes feel disjointed from it. Here’s the thing– I don’t speak Vietnamese.

In the past month, I’ve only learned a few basic phrases and I can't seem to figure out the tonal nature of the language. So, I often can’t communicate with words.

I point, smile, mimic motions, shrug my shoulders and try to find ways to connect with the sweet ladies in the markets and the men directing me to the bus.

I rely on others to know English. When this doesn’t pan out, my role in all this noise is to listen.

Sometimes this is endearing, to just witness everything. Sometimes though it is isolating.

In rural areas I can go days only having full conversations with a few other travelers, maybe a tour guide. Sometimes this makes me long for ease, comfort, home.

But for as many moments I struggle to communicate, there are also plenty of times when a smile exchanged at a cafe or a wave on my walk fills me with joy. Maybe I can’t talk about all my thoughts or ask locals everything I’d love to know about their lives, but emotions often still transcend words.

Back to today. I’m now at the tail end of my time in Vietnam, having bussed from city to city down the country’s length over 30 days. For my final stop, I'm here in the Mekong Delta to explore its famous floating markets.

This morning I woke up at 5:25 hopped on a a grab (uber in Asia) at 5:30 and arrived at the riverside where someone quickly offered for me to hop on their boat. I agreed, not knowing what to expect, and hoping the tiny boat they pointed to was safe.

For two hours I sat on that rickety boat, unable to say a single word to the man who steered us around the market. So, instead of talking, I watched and listened.

I saw women chopping off the heads of pineapples and lofting them into the river. Plastic tossed in too. Tourists saddled up to a floating pho eatery and slurped bowls of the warm broth. There were dozens of boats with a covered living area and a back deck where families sold leafy greens, watermelons and fish.

This market in the city of Can Tho was fascinating.

Not being able to communicate wasn't fun.

Two simultaneous truths. 

Over the last month, I’ve experienced incredible joy, homesickness, stress, peace, love, deep appreciation, and a whole slew of other feelings. Traveling, I’m learning, doesn’t make me exempt from the full range of human emotions. 

I’m also learning to appreciate what these feelings teach me. To sit with hard feelings and look tenderly within to remind myself that it is all okay.

And when the joy and awe and I-can’t-belive-my-life-is-so-damn-magical moments arise I hold those feelings lovingly too. I look tenderly within myself and remind myself I deserve to live in joy. We all do.

The heart is capable of holding the whole range of feelings. 

This is our magic.

Let’s do bold, beautiful things

And hold our hearts gently in our palms.

Thanks for being here friends. Please reach out with any thoughts or reflections on loneliness, foreign experiences you've had... anything! I'd love to make this a space where we can all feel a bit more seen and held in this big ol world.

Love,

Ava//

Rewilding Child