April 9th, 2024.

They think I’m a spy. Came all the way from Colombia to steal their coffee secrets. I’m in a coffee farm in the outskirts of Buôn Ma Thuột. I jokingly say, I am doing research, but they don’t understand it’s a joke? It doesn’t help that I’m taking notes in my little notebook. Tuan, my tour guide, asks me if my family has a coffee farm in Colombia. When he talks with his colleges in Vietnamese, I always hear the word Colombia. Well, maybe I will steal their methods, sell Cà Phê Sữa Đá (iced coffee with condensed milk) in Colombia.

After a one-and-a-half hour tour, I’m still confused between arabica and robusta beans. Not a good spy I guess. I ask Tuan for the main differences. In my little notebook I write:

Robusta: 95% of Vietnamese production. Stronger. More caffeine. Bitter. Asians prefer it.

Arabica: 5% of Vietnamese production. Softer. Altitude in Vietnam not enough. Europeans prefer it.

I finish the tour, thank Tuan, and start a 12 km walk back to Buôn Ma Thuột. As I walk through dirt roads and countryside, a white SUV stops next to me. Xin chào (hello), says the driver. He points to the co-pilot seat, signaling if I want a ride. “Thank you, I like walking” and I motion walking with my fingers. He gets the message, I think, drives away smiling.

I walk on a red dirt road. The ground is dry. It’s also full of yellow butterflies, flying everywhere along the path. Waves of yellow butterflies. Where are they coming from? How long do they live anyway? I check later, they live a couple of weeks on average. As I am surrounded by butterflies, I think, am I a butterfly? Moving from place to place, traveling light, living as if I could die at any moment. I don’t think so, butterflies seem more carefree.

A second driver stops, this time, on a motorbike. We don’t understand each other. He, Vietnam. Me, Colombia. That’s as far as we get. He drives away and turns back, says something in Vietnamese with the word “Colombia” in it. He drives off.

It’s great to have these interactions, even if we don’t understand each other. I think about the rules I want for my trip:

  1. Just say hi to people. Interact. Don’t be shy. Smile and say hi.
  2. No obvious tourist spots. If you go to one, make sure you enjoy the journey there, the final destination is secondary.

So it’s as much xin chàos as I can. I say both, hello and xin chào for good measure, make sure they understand what I’m trying to say in Vietnamese.

A third driver pass by. “Xin chào!”. Stops 10 meters in front of me. He is on a motorcycle, signals to the back seat. I gallop towards him, hop on the back seat. I say xin chào and cảm ơn (thank you). He starts driving. After a while, I feel shame. What can I give him in return for his kindness? Money? Noo, that seems inappropriate. This is kindness. It need not be remunerated every time. Why is it hard for me to accept it? Not everything is a transaction.

The butterflies disappear as we get closer to town. The driver drops me off at the main road. I bow, even though that’s not common here. I thank him and he drives away. Some streets still have pockets of butterflies, I try to follow them on the way back.

People greet me on as I get closer to town. Children, motorcyclist, old ladies. Hellos and xin chàos. I pass by a school and children greet me. I pass by a barber shop and a father stops me. His 10-year-old son is having a haircut, and he wants me to speak in English with him.

I feel tired as I arrive to town. Each new hello and xin chào a little harder to summon. “Please, keep the xin chào coming” I think to myself.

There’s a fish and noodle soup shop close by, Bánh Canh Cá Dằm Hương. I tried it yesterday and liked it. There was a good amount of locals eating there. It passes my “is it poppin’?” test for restaurants. If it’s popular, then most likely it’s safe (product rotation, people) and delicious.

I eat my fish and noodles soup. In Dalat, I told a girl from Hong Kong I loved Vietnamese food. “It’s just noodles”, she said. You can reduce all cuisines in that way. It’s just pasta, it’s just raw fish, its just tortillas.

I spend the afternoon at Arul House, a café and restaurant inside an Ede house, a minority ethnic group of the central highlights in Vietnam. The house and installations are beautiful, full of wood carving and details that show care for the space. I have a wonderful time here, reading their books about Vietnamese coffee and the Ede culture.

At 4:30 pm, the streets fill up with motorcycles. Moms and dads on scooters, taking their kids back home. Kids having lollipops on scooters. A kid with a Pikachu helmet passes by. They pass by, saying their hellos and xin chàos. It’s a magical hour to be walking the streets. People are smiling, grateful, happy, tired. 4:30 pm energy. More hellos and xin chàos.

To say hello and thank you in another language is all you really need to communicate. That, and a smile. I’m going home now. I pass by an older lady. She looks at me. I say xin chào. She? “Chaau!”.