An early morning drive from Ho Chi Minh City brought us to the banks of the Mekong River Delta. Our colorful wooden skiff, cobbled by hand and held together by collective hope and hundreds of layers of paint, traversed the river’s wide water, past hundreds of floating villages, home to tens of thousands of people who cannot afford to live on land or who simply prefer the ebb and flow of life on the river. As the mercury teetered on the verge of oppressive, we breathed deeply in gratitude when our boat changed course, steering directly into the blessing of a breeze.
We hopped ashore on the other side of the river and quickly boarded another smaller vessel, bound inland on one of the Mekong’s many tributaries. Our driver clipped along unflinchingly, careening around corners, hugging the shoreline, navigating this tropical inland estuary, sensing every curve, anticipating every change as only one who knows, can.
We arrived at our riverside lunch spot, a table set for two with enough food to feed a small tribe. We ate and watched life on the river unfold around us.
With the memory of lunch still fresh in our minds, we stepped into a river canoe and journeyed further into this tropical curiosity, watching in wonder, silent in disbelief that this moment was unfolding.
Like any good story, it’s the characters you meet along the way that define the narrative. Rugged, sun lashed and deeply lined faces, smiled at us from near and far, from across the table and from across the water. Wide, unapologetically toothless smiles, perfect in their imperfection, remain etched in our memories.
Here we were, strangers in a strange land. People who were a mystery to us the night before, welcomed us in the morning light and made us feel at home when we couldn’t have been further from it.
By leaving, by journeying, we discover that home isn’t a place. Home is the feeling we give each other when we open our hearts and minds wide enough to make each other feel welcome as we truly are.
