February 25, 2024
We headed to the farm today. Our guide, Quang, and driver, 15 year old Thanh, met us in the lobby of Mai Hotel at 8 AM sharp. Quang, dressed sharply in brown traditional farmer’s clothing, led us to the parked SUV and told us that our destination was Cai Be, a city on the Mekong River two hours west of Saigon. From there, we would board a boat and head to an island where his friend, Mr. Chow, had a farm.
Thahn expertly maneuvered his large SUV through the hectic Sunday morning traffic. Patiently passing by the Presidential Palace, a scene recognizable from 60s era newscasts, Thanh turned right on the freeway ramp and cautiously merged with the sea of traffic. With five years experience as a limo driver, Thanh is an expert driver and now that he can see over the steering wheel, he no longer needs that Saigon telephone book.
We left Saigon and entered the delta area, an endless flat sea of rice fields and banana groves. It looked like a cross between the Florida Everglades and the Louisiana bayous.
In two hours we pulled up to the river docks (“docks” being a Vietnamese word for wooden planks floating on seaweed) and boarded our boat, the “Mekong Queen”. Once seated, we were served papaya fruit and miniature bananas with coffee. We slowly motored out to the calm wide river. Teresa did her best imitation of Katharine Hepburn and stretched out on a cushion laying on the shaded floor of the river boat. A cool breeze provided relief from the hot humid air.
Quang pointed out natural features on our brief boat ride, narrating in his soft heavily accented voice. When asked about how the war affected the people in this area of the Mekong Delta, Quang said that the American PT boats patrolling the river were so loud that they could be heard coming from miles away, affording all the locals, and VC troops, time to hide.
In an hour we pulled up to some concrete steps that descended into the Mekong River water. We had arrived at Mr. Chow’s farm.
Climbing on shore, Mr. Chow gregariously met us and shook our hands. He guided us over a levee and proudly showed us a wide range of plants, flowers and fruits that he grew on his farm. Some of it was recognizable and some of it was completely alien. He pulled leaves off of several plants for us to smell and taste.
Mr. Chow led us back to his house where we sat down at a table and began asking questions and telling us about himself with Quang providing the translation. Born in 1952, Mr. Chow was a military policeman in Saigon during the war and started making animated gestures about chopping off arms and legs. I don’t know what he was trying to tell us and I didn’t quite understand Quang’s translation. Probably better that I didn’t.
Smiling, he got up and went to the back of his house and brought back four blue ceramic shot glasses and a bottle of “Mr. Chow’s Happytime Joyjuice”.
He poured four shots and started shouting. Stopping, he realized that I didn’t understand the traditional Vietnamese toasting ritual. He started signaling with his hand in gestures that indicated he was counting. One, two, three, four. He yelled again and stuck out one finger. Then again with two. Then three. Then four and we all downed our shots and tilted our heads back.
This apparently was the opening shot of the Olympics Drinking Game. Mr. Chow poured another shot with Teresa strongly indicating her lack of interest. But, with America’s reputation on the line, I soldiered on alone. I had to defend our honor.
After recovering from our visit with Mr. Chow, we wandered the streets of his farming community on the island of Tân Phong and met his neighbors and local crafters. The Mekong Queen was waiting nearby on another channel of the river and, after finishing our island visit, we headed back to Cai Be where we toured a local market.
Never one to miss a meal, we had lunch at the historic “Mr. Kiet’s”, a house built in 1838 on a canal of Cai Be. It somehow remained undamaged from the invasions and wars all this time.
