"Everybody got land. There was nothing here. If you were willing to clear the land, the government would give you a plot. I got extra land, though, because I had an uncle who was a colonel."
Injuns vanquished, Cuc stumbles towards the grave in a place boasting nothing more than a dozen forlorn eateries and a newly opened plastic recycling plant. Three times a day, he sneaks into his funky bathroom to down quick shots of rice wine, away from his wife's frown.
Sick of this no-horse town, his three kids have moved far away, and only return during Tet. In Cuc's living room, their wedding photos angle down, crowding a framed, yellowing proverb, "A father's labor is mountain sized, a mother's love an endless stream."
Ten years ago, Cuc parceled off two lots from his land, sold them to newcomers, but now knows he has jumped the gun. "Timing is everything," Cuc rues, "and each man has his fate." Long past his days of cradling an AK-47, pop popping away, Cuc stoops a little as he hauls bag after bag of plastic garbage.
Three years younger than Cuc, I look ancient enough, at least to the young, pretty women at our recycling plant. The current Miss Vietnam hails from a village just 20 miles away, and I can certainly attest that this area teems with lookers. Surrounded by plastic trash, one asked, "How old are you, uncle?"
"Fifty five."
"But your eyesight is pretty bad, right?" They have all seen me squint at just about everything.
"Bad enough."
"My father is three years younger than you, but he's in great shape. It's because he worked in the field all his life."
Thinking too much doesn't just wear down the mind, but body, soul and wallet, especially if done in 1984 America.
It takes centuries for a place to accrue gravity and resonance, where every stone remembers and every brick speaks, so Ea Kly is still very much an improvised frontier, but as new as this Vietnamese hamlet is, and it doesn't get any newer, Ea Kly already feels more grounded than any American neighborhood I lived in, whether in Tacoma, Salem, San Jose, Annandale or even South Philadelphia, where I spent nearly three decades. One can easily spend a decade or two in an American place and not know anything about its past characters and anecdotes, so the only shared history one has is made up mostly of tales of exploits by corporate sport stars and favorite scenes from TV shows. Born into alienation, many Americans have never experienced anything but, so they bristle at mere suggestions that life can possibly be less virtual.
Instead of living locked-in lives drip-fed mostly by distant, brainwashing media, people in Ea Kly are constantly intertwined, whether at home, work or play, so all day long they rub against each other, and stories flow from each. Just parachuted in, I've heard confessions from the high school principal, a teacher, a driver, a cafe owner who used to sell insecticides and fertilizers, a wine distiller, a couple with a drink stand and a tiny tailor shop, and a bumbling plumber who's just as inept at raising cows, etc. Thanks to the last, I was suddenly invited to a beef feast yesterday, for a calf of his had slipped down an embankment and choked on its own rope.
Each day, about five of us usually have lunch and dinner at the back of the recycling plant. Sitting on the floor, we share pork, fish and vegetable dishes, though last night, it was rice gruel with boiled chicken. After eating, I'd try to quickly sneak away, so I can type out my frazzled thoughts, such as made up this article, while everyone else watch television. If it's a foreign movie, then they're treated to fabulous scenes of wealth and glamor, such as, last night, dashingly beautiful people gambling in a San Francisco casino. (Never mind the fact that there are no casinos in San Francisco.) Next, the flick shifted to equally stunning Tokyo, where a man's suit costs a year's wage in dusty Ea Kly.
People here don't know that folks in these advanced, slicked up places are more addicted to screens, gadgets, thumping noises, porn, pills, binge drinking and dope, and are actually more prone to suicide, for given a chance, many in Ea Kly would jump at a chance to be a manicurist in East St. Louis, or an old farts' diaper changer in Nagoya. How can a much higher income go wrong?
Injuns vanquished, Cuc stumbles towards the grave in a place boasting nothing more than a dozen forlorn eateries and a newly opened plastic recycling plant. Three times a day, he sneaks into his funky bathroom to down quick shots of rice wine, away from his wife's frown.
Sick of this no-horse town, his three kids have moved far away, and only return during Tet. In Cuc's living room, their wedding photos angle down, crowding a framed, yellowing proverb, "A father's labor is mountain sized, a mother's love an endless stream."
Ten years ago, Cuc parceled off two lots from his land, sold them to newcomers, but now knows he has jumped the gun. "Timing is everything," Cuc rues, "and each man has his fate." Long past his days of cradling an AK-47, pop popping away, Cuc stoops a little as he hauls bag after bag of plastic garbage.
"Fifty five."
"But your eyesight is pretty bad, right?" They have all seen me squint at just about everything.
"Bad enough."
"My father is three years younger than you, but he's in great shape. It's because he worked in the field all his life."
Thinking too much doesn't just wear down the mind, but body, soul and wallet, especially if done in 1984 America.
It takes centuries for a place to accrue gravity and resonance, where every stone remembers and every brick speaks, so Ea Kly is still very much an improvised frontier, but as new as this Vietnamese hamlet is, and it doesn't get any newer, Ea Kly already feels more grounded than any American neighborhood I lived in, whether in Tacoma, Salem, San Jose, Annandale or even South Philadelphia, where I spent nearly three decades. One can easily spend a decade or two in an American place and not know anything about its past characters and anecdotes, so the only shared history one has is made up mostly of tales of exploits by corporate sport stars and favorite scenes from TV shows. Born into alienation, many Americans have never experienced anything but, so they bristle at mere suggestions that life can possibly be less virtual.
Instead of living locked-in lives drip-fed mostly by distant, brainwashing media, people in Ea Kly are constantly intertwined, whether at home, work or play, so all day long they rub against each other, and stories flow from each. Just parachuted in, I've heard confessions from the high school principal, a teacher, a driver, a cafe owner who used to sell insecticides and fertilizers, a wine distiller, a couple with a drink stand and a tiny tailor shop, and a bumbling plumber who's just as inept at raising cows, etc. Thanks to the last, I was suddenly invited to a beef feast yesterday, for a calf of his had slipped down an embankment and choked on its own rope.
Each day, about five of us usually have lunch and dinner at the back of the recycling plant. Sitting on the floor, we share pork, fish and vegetable dishes, though last night, it was rice gruel with boiled chicken. After eating, I'd try to quickly sneak away, so I can type out my frazzled thoughts, such as made up this article, while everyone else watch television. If it's a foreign movie, then they're treated to fabulous scenes of wealth and glamor, such as, last night, dashingly beautiful people gambling in a San Francisco casino. (Never mind the fact that there are no casinos in San Francisco.) Next, the flick shifted to equally stunning Tokyo, where a man's suit costs a year's wage in dusty Ea Kly.
People here don't know that folks in these advanced, slicked up places are more addicted to screens, gadgets, thumping noises, porn, pills, binge drinking and dope, and are actually more prone to suicide, for given a chance, many in Ea Kly would jump at a chance to be a manicurist in East St. Louis, or an old farts' diaper changer in Nagoya. How can a much higher income go wrong?
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