Sunny, with a Chance…

Written and photographed by Amy Braaf

A journey to Vietnam can leave one’s senses fulfilled, their hearts warmed, and their minds opened. Exploring Ho Chi Minh City was an adventure I had planned very well; however, I did not anticipate that which would follow. The only way I could truly appreciate the magical occurrences that happened after I had arrived was to see it all as if it were happening to somebody else. I had met a hostel receptionist called “Sunny” in Ho Chi Minh City, and he decided to help me out and take me on the back of his motorbike for a seven-hour journey to stay with his family in an isolated village along the Mekong Delta River – this is our story.

Sunny’s eyes locked onto her face as she brushed a stray strand of her curly, brown hair behind her ear, an ear that sort of resembled a dried apricot that his father used to give him back by the village after supper every night to help with digestion. She bit into an incredibly juicy pear that gave birth to a droplet that descended contently down her chin. Wiping it off exasperatedly, she bit into the fruit once more – not even taking a breath.

Sunny felt both in awe and irritated by the rawness of her actions, but like most of the backpackers who arrived there daily, they were all raw. Deliriously liberated they were. Solo female travelers often kept to themselves after retrieving their hostel keys; often they would shower and descend the stairs shyly, accompanied with a book or a prop of sorts to keep themselves company in their new environment for the day. Lounging on the couches were normally the local travelers, the ones who found homes in hostels that housed them biannually. Sunny found these particular travelers to be the most arrogant – he did not enjoy tending to them and avoided the chance whenever he could.

More often than not, one of these young men in their late 20s would run down the stairs around 1 a.m., when Sunny’s shift was about to end, and would ask for favors, condoms, or stored beers because the convenience store had closed an hour before, and they hadn’t earlier contemplated needing to go out. But Sunny needed to smile. He had to act like one of them and chuckle at their charming abrasiveness as if they should be rewarded for it.

Working in the hostel was a decision that he had made about three years ago, before he even moved into the city. Ho Chi Minh City was a distant dream he had as a child; he had hoped to be a trader in the markets when he was first told about it. The Mekong Delta had been his home for his whole adolescence, and now he felt like an imposter in his own country. He worked alongside two women, Lee and Fiona. They had been there for far longer than he had, and with his 25th birthday approaching, they agreed to let him go back home for three days, to Cai Rang to see his family.

The hostel was a seven-hour motorbike ride away, and he normally stopped five hours in on the highway by a hammock stop. An elderly woman cooked meals there for passersby and truck drivers who needed a quick pick-me-up. When he arrived home, his two grandmothers would shuffle out, slippers on and arms entwined, to greet him with their dog Pipi, who at this point would be running around hysterically partly wetting herself. Their village was quite isolated and the locals almost never saw foreigners. Sunny’s parents keep a spare guest room open in case family members needed to stay over after events, but it was normally left empty.

The young backpacker got up from her hostel seat. She had not eaten much of her breakfast; besides nibbling on the fried mushrooms and bacon, she had left her eggs, bread, and tomatoes. Her coffee was finished, and with interrogating eyes she scanned Sunny, as he realized that he was staring at her. He noticed a scar on her right eyebrow. It had whitened and so must have been a couple of months old. Fiona sat up at the same time and nodded to Sunny to pick up her plate and take it to the kitchen.

“Hi, do you know where these floating markets are?” The girl asks. Sunny looks down and picks up her unfinished breakfast. “Yes, ma’am,” Fiona replies, “there is a five-hour bus that can take you to Can Tho, and then you would have to hire a taxi to drive you to the market for 19 miles.” Fiona always exaggerated her pronunciation when she spoke to foreigners. She nodded at every word they would respond back with as if their words were delicacies and she had not eaten in a week. The girl stared blankly at Fiona and nodded, prodding her along to give her more options. Fiona picked up on this quickly.

“Or you can take a tour bus to Cai Bai, which is a market in Tieng Gang Province – very nice and close, also.” The girl’s mouth contorted and curled upwards like a live coconut worm. She glanced at Sunny for a moment, looking slightly displeased at the suggestions – she did not seem rude but rather exhausted, as if she had endured something traumatic. All of a sudden her mouth seemed far more pleasant than before. In fact, she was quite beautiful – Sunny felt a shift within himself.

“Thank you,” she said with a strained smile, “but I was robbed yesterday on a boat by the taxi driver guide. He also dropped me off six districts away in the rain, and I had to walk until late last night. I also don’t like tour guides or sitting on a boat with a whole bunch of tourists. I came here to see Vietnam as authentically as possible, but I realize that I can’t just demand special treatment. You see, I’m a photographer…” Here she paused and looked down, gently pressed her lips together and smiled. As if her previous self had returned to her tattered body, she was suddenly filled with a radiant aura – as if she were somebody completely new. “…but thank you – I really appreciate this.”

Turning to get the bag that she had left hanging on her chair, the backpacker headed towards the door. Fiona looked displeased. “Wait!” The girl turned with hopeful eyes darting between the two receptionists. “You can go with Sunny – he’s planning on going that way tomorrow. He can take you!” Fiona nodded at Sunny, who at this point was worrying that all this might trigger heart palpitations.

The girl’s face relaxed, “Okay, great! When should we go? Thank you. That’s amazing, really.”

“His family lives along the Mekong Delta, and he was given time off to go for his birthday. It’s a seven-hour motorbike ride there. Sunny, what time were you going to leave?”

“Around 3 a.m.,” he managed to say, the words barely escaping his mouth. The girl smiled at him and tilted her head to the right. For the first time she looked relieved – more natural color seemed to return to her face.

“At 3 a.m. – Alright, I’ll meet you outside then with my bags.” The girl put her hand on his arm and gave it a light squeeze before she turned around to walk back upstairs. Fiona and Lee continued going about, attending to their duties; Sunny’s feet were locked to the floor.

His face felt warm, and the coming of tomorrow, somehow, was not such a somber thought any longer.

The Author
Amy Braaf is a writer, photographer, and teacher currently living in South Korea after having freelanced in Cape Town, South Africa. She has a BA specializing in film production and English literature. She hopes to open up a cafe in a few years where artists and travelers can connect.