Rain came and went, but in the bursts of its lifespan, it would chuck it down. Slamming pellets of water on the bus, making it seem all to many times, that none of us, the lot of American students and three Vietnamese advisors would actually make it to our destination, a beach town hours away.
As a teenager, I saw a woman die on a plane. I was too young to fathom her death. All I saw was an older woman stand up, walk to the bathroom and shut the door. She never came out. Eventually the young woman, who I later learned was her niece got up and knocked on the door. She became frantic when there was no answer, just the hum of the engine keeping us in the air. When several attendants came to her side, the force opened the door and out slumped her body, plopping to the ground, her head making a thump and it was the last to land on the matted carpet. Doctors were called, she was dragged into a galley away from the rest of the plane to save us the drama. All things said and done, six doctors tried to revive her, but it was no use, she had come down to Florida to die, we were all later told. Her niece sobbed, but somehow managed to recognize that she was taken at a ripe old age. The plane had landed, and so, My parents, myself and the rest of the plane were held up for thirty minutes while the paramedics removed her body. I remember the white blanket placed over her body. The authorities removing her and letting the niece follow with her. People spoke and chewed bits of pieces of what they knew. The story I had heard mulled over and over in my head, but by the baggage claim I had seemed to have forgotten everything.
Flash forward quite a few years, and here I am sitting on a bus, in the rain, in Vietnam with the battery moments away from running out, the music getting ready to leave me. Even without the soundtrack I glued my face the window, blocks of glass, the moisture of my breath slapping and sticking me, transfixed at the landscape. We turned a corner and the bus slowed down, it didn't stopped but it changed to a snail's pace. It was over on my left, a large group of people. Their were several police officers on the scene and bystanders had encircled the object of fascination in a crescent formation, leaving a whole area of viewing for those of us on the bus. The speed picked up and as we went by what everyone was staring at, we were not crawling, certainly not speeding but moving. On the ground lay a human being, a young man. His age I could not guess. His body was tan, he had a dark shirt on and what looked to be shorts. His eyes were closed and his mouth open, blood around his head. His leg was twisted almost the point were it was resting on his face, and he was clearly dead. No one touched him, and the police seemed to be surmising what could have happened to this person. I didn't know either, I was just a fool on the bus, surrounded by a lot more metal than he must have been. His moped was feet away from him, also a spectacle that was gathering onlookers. Its smashed headlight and oil also signifying that it to died along with its driver. The blood was so dark. The faces of the officers were so serious, and yet this moment seemed to just pass. On the bus their was the silences stifled by the occasional, "oh my god, that's terrible", all in all the silence seemed to be the option that most went for, including myself. I was so many seats behind everyone else, in the back of the bus, we were all resting, and a dead man had just come into our midst and escaped like that, I am sure that hours from them he was the last person I was thinking about.
Nha Trang was a beautiful place. The beaches were splendor. The water was crystal clear and the restaurants were abundant with delicious fare that all could enjoy. It was a vacation spot for the rich and the Austrailians, Swedes, and other foreigners who like to see Vietnam. We spent nights at the bars, our days on the beach and long spans of time for us to do whatever we wanted. Some of these activities included massages, all kosher I assure you. Taking a mud bath with two friends, not as nice as I thought it would be, but still a good time. The last time I had taken a mud bath was when I was close to the age of ten.
With flimsy helmets, we rented mopeds and set off, stopping and taking pictures, eating delicious soups with hundreds of different parts of the pig shoved in them. We would look in music shops, stop at cafes, and point out things we should do later. I even remember stopping at an abandoned fort, and taking a picture, one of my close friends looking like Hunter S. Thompson. I felt like a rogue journalist, with my photographer and international wise guy. I think we were all stealing that dream from one another's heads. The truth of the matter that we were only catering ourselves to the usual tourist attractions, a mudbath, massages, and then restaurants, were we dined upon international cuisine.
However, we did make one trip out of the way. It was the side area, were much of the population of the city actually resided. It was past the old airport, and it roads became slick with mud. The houses grew closer together and people seemed a little more surprised for three Americans to be walking around in an area like this. We took a lot of pictures, smiled at alot of children. The faces of so many beautiful people hit in an SD frame, digital, or the classic snap camera, thirty two shots, one of which might look decent.
We came back out and finally hit the asphalt again. As we passed the bus station, we were stopped by a crowd. A large group of people gathering on the road can mean only one thing, an accident. As we slowly eased our moped to the scene, all that was left on the road, was a large, thick pool of bright red blood and a small rubber shoe. A child had been hit, her body dragged over to the side of the road. It was lifeless in a blue dress. I did not see anyone crying, it was till just at the moment were people couldn't believe that someone was alive, and then the next moment that simply ceased to be. I could see that the automobile that did it, did not stay around, as the police were en route to find whoever hit the small child. We drove our mopeds away, the pool of blood lingering behind, I could only be left to wonder how long they waited until it would be cleaned up, and the population could continue with the rest of our day.
All in all the time taken away from my life must have equalled around five minutes of delay. Yet these two people, these beings had all their time taken away. What it means to be a glimpse to someone you don't know when you are dying. If perhaps the young man was at his last breath and the bus drove by, would he have wished that he were on it, safe, or to have been in the safety of the crowd, or just dreamed that his bike was still moving, miles ahead of any bus, glass no longer shattered.
The young girl, I can't imagine what it must have been like for her parents. To be told through the grapevine, eventually reaching their home, that a large vehicle has collided with such a sweet beauty and now she was permanently asleep. If they arrived shortly after I had left to see the pool of blood, and the shoe, the only indications that she once stood, trying to cross the street.
I am brought back to this day quite often. I went back to Nha Trang once after that, and nobody died. I do remember sitting on a large bus once again, looking at the window, and reminiscing to my friend about the horrible memory. I can imagine the other interior monologues, seeing the sweet child and the kind young man passed away, the bodies mutated by extreme physical forces, viscera that should have stayed inside. I even rode a moped past it once again, and counted my blessings as I am sure everyone else did. I wonder though, if it has been me, would my blood have formed a pool as large, would I have been dragged away, and would anyone from my group have cried? I have to make myself snap out of selfish moments like that. I was not dead, I was and am very much alive. I just try to remember them, try to see those pools and pretend that now, they see the landscape, that they are in my shoes.
