The night passed quickly and was filled with warm dreams. Our alarm, set for 4:30 AM, pulled us back to the damp reality: the road ahead was long, and we were exhausted. After a breakfast of M&M's, chocolate, and the inevitable tea, we laced up our soaked boots and dragged ourselves down the stairs of the Golden Hotel with our heavy backpacks. Our shoes were so wet that we left footprints with every step; our clothes smelled like a dog's fur during a storm; our backs ached and were tense; our eyes, still heavy with sleep, betrayed our fatigue. But neither Mirko nor I could stop smiling that morning. We were tired, yet eager to learn more about those wonderful people and the incredible landscapes.
We retraced the winding CT02, the twisting road that had brought us to higher altitudes. It was 5 AM, and our bikes pierced through the blanket of clouds that hovered close to the mountains, occasionally hiding the breathtaking view from us. We felt ready to take on the world, and this time my hands didn't shake in front of the first customs checkpoint between Son La province and Hoa Binh.
With a right turn, at the height of Xom Chieng, we entered the QL12B, a straight highway that cuts through the region known as the Red River Delta, an area of about fifteen thousand square kilometers with a population density of one thousand five hundred people per square kilometer. To put it in perspective, the Italian region with the highest population density, Lombardy, has four hundred twenty people per square kilometer over approximately twenty-four thousand square kilometers. These are staggering numbers, and the primary source of income for the people there is rice cultivation.
The landscape had radically changed before our eyes: from the colorful jungle rich in vegetation, we returned to urban settings, but very different from the outskirts of Hanoi. No longer slum-like houses, but more rustic and rural dwellings. Industries were mainly concentrated in the urban area of the capital; here, however, vast plains prevailed, where herds could graze, and rice paddies alternated with small, poor villages surrounded by large green mountains. Seeing these places reminded me of the landscapes of Piedmont near the Po River, with the snow-capped peaks of the Alps in the background. The rich subsoil of these areas makes aquaculture possible, so the frequent rains greatly assist farmers and their production, making the Red River Delta the second-largest rice-producing region in Vietnam. It is also a region rich in tradition, where time seems to have stood still. This is where the famous Vietnamese puppet theater shows originated, a legacy of the strong Chinese influence that still persists in this country today.
Seasonal storms, like Yagi, bring a fearsome destruction to the area and often disrupt the peaceful life of such villages. Mirko and I discovered this the hard way when, near Nho Quan, we found ourselves having to cross a flood that left the water at knee level. The dams in the area, overwhelmed by the heavy and continuous rain, failed and ended up flooding the city. After passing through that massive amount of water and debris, we looked at each other and decided to turn back. Our trust led us to leave our bikes in the middle of the road, with our backpacks still attached and the keys inside. We were sure no one would turn the ignition and run off with our belongings. Within a few days, we had blindly trusted those people.
With water up to our knees, we ventured into the village and, once again, we were astonished by the physically small people there. Everyone was working hard to improve the situation in the struggling village, inspired by a cheerful elderly man, likely the leader of the relief effort, who brought smiles to everyone’s faces. Influenced by that unexpected positivity, we smiled and joked with each other. It didn’t take long before we started asking the villagers for photos. Once again, their enthusiastic responses left us speechless: not only were they eager to take pictures, but they also insisted that we photograph their family members, friends, and neighbors. Everyone was happy and carefree.
Everyone, except for one child. He looked to be about eight years old and, unlike the others, he was isolated, crouched in a small canoe, using a paddle to navigate through the bushes that blocked the now-unrecognizable road. His eyes were filled with sorrow, and he hid from our smiles and snapshots. The school behind him was closed due to the natural disaster, and he was completely alone. His body language hinted at the sadness in his soul. He made simple movements that I would describe as playful, typical for his age, but they also revealed a hidden desire to ignore the surrounding situation, as if trying to isolate himself from a place, a time, a moment that he already knew he would never forget.
We never discovered what troubled that child, the gravity of his loss; his expression was another one of those famous "mental clicks" that pierced my soul, sending a shiver of compassion through me. I felt fortunate: I had the chance to witness the devastation of such calamities without them occurring in my home or suffering their consequences in any way. I’m sure Mirko felt the same; I could sense it from his gaze and the silence that fell between us. Our smiles had transformed into somber, empathetic expressions towards that little boy who silenced the surrounding scene. We followed his movements with our eyes, mesmerized by the brutality of the moment: it was the calm in the storm, the eye of the cyclone manifesting its malevolent illusion. While the adults around him consciously faced the aftermath of the natural atrocities, the child seemed to have been thrust into that context for the first time, in that lowly situation, and had lost the innocence of the best years of his life. Even we, until then so bold and smiling, caught up in the enthusiasm of the surrounding population, realized the profound interplay of reflections within that tragedy. In that moment, we were powerless against the cruelty of the instant, truly becoming aware of the malice hidden behind the smiles of those fortunate enough to recount it.
We emerged from that catastrophe with the images of what we had just experienced etched in our memories. The shock was so great that the recollection of those moments resurfaced in my mind with every blink. Mentally, I still felt the water up to my knees and the gentle gaze of that child, who had become a man too soon, before my eyes. An irrational and spontaneous urge was born within me: to write. It was like an inner push, a fixed thought that needed to be satisfied, an intimate and persistent desire that I embraced and fulfilled as soon as we finished the remaining thirty kilometers to Ninh Binh, our destination. I wrote just a few lines, a note on my phone to remind me of those thoughts. That note is still alive and intact on my device, a reminder of when it all began. I took a shower, but it couldn’t cleanse me of the memory of those moments, as if they were now branded into my soul.
We decided to enjoy those days a bit more as tourists, especially in the wonderful area of Tam Coc, a small corner of paradise hidden from the city of Ninh Binh.
We spent a few days in that beautiful place, appreciating the uniqueness of the Vietnamese landscapes. We were surrounded by rice paddies, lakes, and plateaus. In that bucolic setting, dotted with lotus flowers, a plant so dear to this country and a symbol of its purity, we reconnected with our deeper, more spiritual side for the first time on this journey.
Just a few kilometers from Ninh Binh is the Chùa (pagoda) Bái Đính, the largest Buddhist temple complex in Southeast Asia, with boundless beauty: its tower, twenty-two meters high, rises majestically over the idyllic landscape and the rice paddies. I sensed from the journey that the Universe was about to tell us something. As we approached the sacred place, we once again enjoyed a memorable sight involving children. Just a few minutes from our destination, a dozen kids were playing in the middle of the road, oblivious to traffic and the dangers it posed. They were all barefoot and shirtless, chasing each other and splashing water from a puddle, still fresh from the storm that had just passed through the area. They were young, roughly the same age as the boy we had met in Nho Quan. The joy on their faces was unstoppable, and as soon as Mirko took his camera out of his backpack, they raced to get a photo.
Watching those kids made me feel like a child again, and I reflected on the difference between them and that boy: they were similar in age and nationality, but different in experience. They had lived through the same storm, albeit with different consequences. The harshness of life and its random manifestations stirred our spirits, creating a whirlwind of conflicting emotions that were difficult to decipher. We had witnessed two opposites in such a short time, and at times we found it frightening.
We left that large group behind and continued on to the Pagoda. The spiritual energy of the place and its tranquility invited us to spend a few moments in meditation. After settling cross-legged in front of a majestic golden statue of Buddha and expressing our gratitude to the host, we closed our eyes to connect with the deepest part of our minds. We spent twenty minutes in complete silence before looking at each other and smiling. Both of us had managed to dispel the unease within our souls. The chaos that had preceded this moment, stemming from the rush to reach our destination, gave way to the serenity of the journey: for the first time, in unison, our thoughts focused more on where we were than on where we needed to go. We savored the moment, as if time around us had suddenly stopped.
We savored every moment of the wonderful sunset that was casting a bright red, almost violet hue over our faces and the surrounding plains. The reflections on the water seemed to double the vital star, as if a new sun were rising from the ground. It was then, with serenity and joy, that I gathered the courage to tell my travel companion that I wanted to write a book about these places and the emotions we were sharing. I was no longer worried about being judged or receiving negative comments; after that meditative moment, I knew I would continue with my idea regardless of what others might say. The colors of that sunset illuminated Mirko's smile, as if he already knew what I wanted to tell him. His serene and happy gaze convinced me it was the right path to take, even before he gave me a verbal confirmation. I felt kissed by the Earth and its light, another sign of that strange language of our Universe that I had struggled so hard to learn. “I’m convinced it’s the right thing to do,” he said. Those words echoed in my mind and further strengthened my confidence. We silently enjoyed the last moments of that warm sunset and I silently thanked the palpable soul of that place. We got back on our bikes and set off again. There were still many places to discover and countless moments to savor, and we couldn’t keep them waiting.
Did you really read everything? Take a look at the PHOTOS
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