I have been in Southeast Asia since early December—first Vietnam, then Cambodia, Thailand, and Laos. I came from Japan, with its silence and polite order, and was overwhelmed as soon as I stepped off the plane in Hanoi.
It was chaos just getting out of the airport; every family seemed to be traveling with all their belongings piled high onto a luggage cart.
Then there was the traffic: streets and sidewalks teeming with motorbikes, every one going in a different direction, without stop signs, crosswalks, or any apparent rules.
It took me a few days to adapt—to stop waiting for a gap in traffic that would never come, and to walk slowly and steadily through the onslaught of bikes.
It required a type of trust that felt foreign and thrilling: to rely on drivers not to hit me, and to become part of an organism I did not understand.
No matter where you go, traveling requires that you rely on the kindness of strangers. But that reliance has felt particularly dramatic in this part of the world.
In most places, Tucker and I have been able to navigate with a combination of basic phrases and hand signals. In Japan, I avoided asking locals for help; I wanted to prove I could speak the language and understand the customs; I wanted, for some reason, not to be a burden.
But in countries like Vietnam and Laos, there is no faking it. There is no blending in. Most of the time, I have no idea what is happening. Even if I did, I would still need help.
I have tried to embrace my bewilderment, to climb onto a fishing boat, tuk-tuk, or makeshift sidecar with a stance of “Jesus, take the wheel.” Sometimes it has gone horribly and comically wrong, but mostly, it has been a delight. There is relief in surrender; there is joy in placing yourself in a stranger's hands.
Southeast Asia is a good place to practice surrender.
I have found the pervading mindset to be equal parts "Fuck it" and "We'll make it work." It is an attitude of improvisation, one that embraces reality and accepts imperfection.
Every bus ride has offered an example; on the way from Phong Nha to Da Nang, the driver packed five uncles into the back of our already full sleeper bus; the five of them laughed as they climbed aboard and squished themselves into the aisles. On the ride from Hanoi to Ha Giang, we were dropped off on the side of the highway and scooped up by a different driver, who took us an hour out of the way to pick up three guys from the airport. (They immediately asked that we pull over so they could buy grilled corn for everyone.)
I learned to stop asking questions when we picked up boxes of baby formula, rice, or other, unidentified freight; I learned not to question the 30-minute smoke breaks or detours to visit souvenir shops. I learned to trust that we would end up where we need to be.
Tucker and I spent New Year’s Eve in Saigon with a couple of friends from New York. Adrienne is Vietnamese-American; her family is from Saigon and she is living there for a year, doing Ph.D research.
We talked, of course, about motorbikes and strategies for weaving through traffic; we also talked about the blurring of boundaries between people. As an example, she mentioned that parents tend to oversee the finances for an entire family, which means adult children often hand over their salaries to their parents.
We talked about the shell that grows around you in New York, and how it is unnecessary here, even though Saigon is a city with just as many people, all living on top of each other. Somehow, you don't feel like you are competing with those nine million people. Even the honking sounds friendly—more like echo-location than aggression.
I reflected on public life in Vietnam, which I saw spilling into every sidewalk and alley: old men smoking bamboo pipes, families drinking beer and singing karaoke, women in matching t-shirts dancing around the lake at sunset. Every guesthouse and hostel seemed to have a baby who hung out in the lobby with whoever happened to be on shift
I am struck by the contrast with the American ideal of the nuclear family. I think about the membrane between people, which is so thick, and I wonder what it would feel like to dissolve it.
I grew up in Hawai'i, which retains many of the collectivist values of Hawaiian, Polynesian and Asian cultures. It is a place where many generations live under one roof. It is a place where every party is a potluck, and there is no such thing as a private beach.
Despite my upbringing, I was conditioned to navigate the western world and the white workplace. I learned to advocate for myself and put my needs first. I learned to project hardness to avoid harassment. I learned that giving up control is perceived as weakness. I learned that communal living and mutual aid are unrealistic ideals.
I wonder what it would feel like to stop believing in the myth of self-sufficiency. What would it feel like to be powered by trust instead of control?
I will not try to reduce what I've observed in Southeast Asia to the binaries of collectivism vs. individualism, communism/socialism vs. capitalism, or Buddhism vs. Christianity. Still, I am curious why life looks and feels so different here than it does in the West.
The influence of Buddhism is ubiquitous in this part of the world, especially in Cambodia and Laos. A peaceful, detached energy seems to transcend everything, even in the most disorderly, touristy areas. I find myself compelled to be still, if only for a second.
One definition of mindfulness is "the practice of trusting the eternal now." I picture letting go of a security blanket, one that is woven from familiar stories about the past and future. Without it, there is only this moment.
Traveling for the past nine months has been a slow process of softening, unfolding, and letting go. I am learning to trust that I can survive discomfort, that I can navigate unexpected problems, that I can be both flawed and loved.
It takes a lot of work. But it helps to be here, in a place where I am forced to face the limits of my competence, and where I must ask, again and again, for help.
It helps to be in a place where I must walk into the onslaught of traffic, slowly and steadily, with faith that I will reach the other side.
You pay attention, feel astonished, and then tell about it so well. Your sense and sensibility are gifts. Stay blessed. Much Love !!
Beautiful. This one had me in tears. It spoke to my soul. Thank you, friend for sharing your "right now" with all of us.