Can Giuoc

Chu Nhan rented a minivan for us to go and visit my Bac 3 in Can Giuoc in the city of Long An. Bac 3 is my dad's other brother, the first male born in his family, which by tradition makes him "truong nam," the oldest son usually held responsible for caring for his elderly parents, upholding the ancestral altar in his house, and conducting ceremonies by making the first speech during formal events. My youngest uncle, Chu Ut, looks uncannily like him. The whole family was supposed to go, but Tung's maternal grandma had to visit her relatives in Saigon, so only Tung and I made the journey down the rocky, pot-holed road (the same which caused my mom to have a miscarriage before she was pregnant with me) to my uncle's house. We met my uncle at the big post office in Can Giouc, and he took us to a house with a shop on the main floor where the family sold fishnets, lady's shoes, and other general goods.


The second floor was where my Thiem 7 (my 7th uncle's wife) lived with her 1.5-year-old daughter.


Can Giuoc is a village with few visitors. Everyone eyed the minivan taxi that pulled into town, and as my uncle took me to meet some relations, the merchants squatting in front of their stores whispered that "Ba Lai's" niece had come to visit. The fruit markets carried fewer things than in Saigon, and the merchants half-heartedly hawked their goods.


Thiem 7 went to the market to prepare lunch for us and also bought some dragon fruits and "vu sua" for refreshment. I bought her daughter a doll and a cell phone toy ('cause hey, I'm in the wireless telecom business after all).


Bac 3 ordered us a breakfast of "mi trieu chau" (egg noodles with sliced pork). When I was young, I requested that my nanny buy me this breakfast every morning. She would curl the long noodle strands around the pair of chopsticks, blow away the steam, and feed it to me before leading me by the hand to visit my parents' general store.


Bac 3 sat on the second floor guest room, telling stories of my parents' immigration, what became of our family dog, and how he had to take care of the paperwork for the rest of my family to go to America. I haven't seen my uncle in 24 years, but as he told stories and made outrageous jokes, and as we shared laughter over quirky familial habits that we have both become familiar with, I felt a sense of closeness to him. My mother's side of the family welcomed me with open arms and greeted me warmly, but I had never met most of them before this trip. Reuniting with my Bac 3, I felt as though I had finally come home to family.


Thiem 7 prepared a lot of dishes for our lunch: "lau canh chua" (sour soup hot-pot), "banh hoi" (angel-hair rice noodles), boiled crab, barbecued duck and pork, and some other containers that we didn't even get around to opening.


From the top story of the house, we could look to the distance and see Song Can Giuoc--the Can Giuoc River. My dad, in his younger days, actually swam to the other side of the river for no more a reward for his efforts than the fruits that grew there--which he picked and ate before swimming back. A soft breeze blew in from the river to the house so it was all I could do to stay awake as I lazily swung from the green hammock on the second floor.



After I left my uncle's house, I asked our driver to drop by Chua Vinh Long, a two-story Buddhist temple, to pay my respects.


There was a statue of Quang Am (Quan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy and my mother's protectress) to the right of the temple. I lit incense and prayed to her to bless us with a safe stay and a safe journey back.


A little distance from Vinh Long temple was a smaller one, with tiny alleys overgrown with wild grass. Over 24 years ago, Bac 3 took my mom through the alley for my family's attempted immigration by boat. In her haste, she fell and tore the hem of her pants. It was after this walk, squeezed between building walls and stepping on dry grass and weeds that crunched beneath our feet, that we came to a little fishing boat. The fisherman we bribed beforehand with money rowed us to our escape ship further out to sea. Halfway out, we were detained by patrolmen who asked the fisherman what he was doing out so late. He responded, "Just taking the wife out for a late-night row to see the moon" and miraculously was waved on. This was how I started my journey to America all those years ago. This is why I came back to pray, to thank the gods for allowing my family a life in the new land.