Flower Village

On Sunday, my family and I biked to the flower villages a few kilometers from our house. With my mother and sister on one motorcycle, my two cousins on another, and I on a bike, we headed out. The path was bumpy, with puddles and rocks, dips and curves. It took my complete concentration to avoid falling off and severely injuring myself. Up the road, there was a short, older woman burning something (God knows what) in the middle of the road, and the smoke filled my nostrils, reminding me of summer campfires. Not too many smells in Viet Nam remind me of America, but for some strange reason, this did.

             After biking a little ways, green fields began to fill in on either side. Cone shaped rice hats stuck out from the plants, small patches of palm trees sprouted, little dirt paths were to the left and right. It was beautiful. Life looked so simple out in this flower village. Every person had their own duty, whether to water the plants or tend to the flowers. It was a completely different world. My mother kept on shouting back at me “Looook! How beautiful are the flowers, yes?” Our first stop was at a little plot of land growing the most beautiful crimson and pink roses. We walked along a narrow, muddy path, hop-scotching to avoid puddles, observing each bud and bloom we passed.

            After another kilometer or so, we got off at a larger plot of land. The first thing I noticed was the water. Everywhere, it was shooting out of hoses, watering cans, and sprinklers, quenching the plants’ thirst. One man in particular stood out in my mind. He was carrying a long, wood stick over his shoulders with one watering can hung over each end. This, I thought, would never be seen in the U.S. Nowadays, nobody waters plants by hand. An automatic sprinkler, or maybe even a hose would be common, but watering cans? I felt as though I had stepped back in time about two hundred years or so. The sinking sun cast a sepia glow over the fields. For about twenty minutes, the sun was in this perfect position, and it msade everything look beautiful. As opposed to Ha Noi's noise and dust, the air was clear and it was quiet enough that I could hear myself think. This was the first time I saw the natural beauty of the country I am in. Previously, I had found beauty in the people, the culture, and the language, but that day, I saw beauty in the land.