The owner of the house came out to greet us, jovially waving, and embraced the guide, uttering a colloquial Vietnamese greeting.
Tall, dense rice stalks rose up on either side of me as I peddled down a narrow dirt pathway. Outside the noisy bustle of Hanoi, the sound of the warm Vietnamese breeze gently rustling the stalks was pleasantly audible, and the sun, without the thick layer of pollution that hangs over the city to block it, beat down clear and hot. I followed the guide, a knowledgeable local with a witty sense of humor, farther down the path until we emerged from the stalks at the edge of the field to find a small clay house, resting in the shade of a tree, with open windows and doors and smoke trailing lazily out its stone chimney; the guide had arranged for a local family to prepare an authentic Vietnamese meal for us.
The owner of the house came out to greet us, jovially waving, and embraced the guide, uttering a colloquial Vietnamese greeting. He proceeded to give us a tour of the house grounds and the garden our meal would come from. The home was charming and secluded, situated at the edge of an immense rice field that provided the local family a decent living. As we rounded the side of the house, the owner pointed out the muddy garden. Our meal would come from and the small, murky pond used for drinking water and irrigating the vegetable garden. My stomach turned. I had been warned about consuming any fresh vegetables, ice or other potentially harmful foods in restaurants in Hanoi, and I writhed at the thought of eating or drinking anything originating from this local well, clouded with unknown sludge.
I headed back to the house and stepped up through the front door into a cool, dark room. We sat on plastic chairs around a wooden table and two of the women in the house offered us tea made with a gnarled brownish-green root from the garden. I gave my brother a concerned look and he nudged me, whispering out of the side of his mouth the water was safely boiled. The two women who offered the tea stared at me from across the table, smiling and nodding; they would be offended if I refused to drink it. Feeling trapped and extremely apprehensive, I picked up my cup of tea, brought it to my lips, and took one minuscule sip. A strong, sticky, sweet, earthy taste slipped across my tongue and down my throat. Intrigued, I took another sip, larger this time. The taste was delightful, and despite the heat drifting in from outside, the tea was surprisingly refreshing and left me feeling rejuvenated.
My fears somewhat settled, we headed outside for the remainder of the meal. The table was placed on a platform raised 6 feet above the ground, shaded by a peaked roof and protected from insects by a sheer net. Hammocks, where the family slept on intolerably hot nights, hung around the edge of the platform. I took a seat and gazed across the vast field of rice, an immense ocean of vivid green stalks gently rolling in the wind. Sharp, narrow mountains rose in the background, enclosing the field in a secluded valley. A soft thud shook the table, as the women from inside placed a giant, round tray with numerous authentic dishes on it, in the center of the table. The various foods were brightly colored and exuded a mix of rich and exotic scents. Throwing all of my fear behind me, I helped myself to a little of everything (except the dishes containing meat, as I was an avid vegetarian). A strongly seasoned tofu covered in reddish-brown spices excited my senses, sending waves of delight and shock through my taste buds and down my throat as the initial salty flavor developed into a fiery burning. Long, green vegetables, sautéed in a thick, savory sauce scattered with sesame seeds, cooled my mouth. Next, I sunk my teeth into an exotic yellow fruit, cut in thin slices and lightly grilled over and open fire; an intensely sweet flavor, reminiscent of a cross between a pineapple, mango and sweet potato, exploded in my mouth, and the warm juice trickled down my throat, soothing and invigorating my toasted taste buds. The best part of the meal, however, was the rice, sowed from the fields surrounding us. The boiled grains were large, succulent, pure white and cloud-like. As I dipped my chopsticks into the bowl and took my first bite, free of soy sauce or any of the other condiments typically used on rice, a warm sensation filled my mouth. A soft inkling of faintly sweet, fresh earthiness spread over my taste buds, and as I swallowed the rice the warmth spread down through my stomach and expanded in shoots throughout my body. I looked out over the waving field, a calm sense of peace, warmth and light filling my being, convinced I was in paradise.
I started out fearing the meal and the questionable environment it came from, set on feigning illness to escape having to take a single bite. By the end of the meal, my fear and apprehension were dispelled, and I possessed a strong sense of enriched contentment I never would have experienced had I not taken the plunge and let that first drop of tea slip through my lips. Traveling is like enhanced life; it forces you to face the unknown and respond; it is about taking risks, forgetting conventions and common rules, and sometimes common sense, and opening yourself to that which you fear; it is about thriving in the wild recklessness of doing things that go against your “basic” instincts, enlivening your senses to the feelings of risk and chance, essential to discovering your own enlightened and fulfilled existence, and transforming your life into a unique and daring adventure.
