Buôn Ma Thuột – The Coffee Capital of Vietnam

Not an old city by any standards, but steeped in ancient history nonetheless. Founded by the French in 1904 as the capital of the newly established province of Đắk Lắk. A city and region that still bear those names today. Originally the secluded mountain home of the Êđê, (Vietnamese), Rhade (French identifier), or as they call themselves the Ānāk Dāgār. An Austronesian ethnic group and branch of the Cham peoples that once dominated the region in Antiquity. An unfortunate casualty from the fall of the Cham Empire that once dominated trade from Indonesia to the Persian Gulf.

In the aftermath of the Empire’s collapse, the Cham scattered to the wind, becoming some of the many ethnic minorities spread across Southeast Asia. However, the Ānāk Dāgār and other Montagnard tribes would remain mostly the majority of the region high in the central highlands. A Montagnard is a generic term for a mountain dweller. French in origin and a carryover from colonial times. Though in recent years, the word has lost sway and been replaced with the modern Vietnamese Người dân tộc thiểu số, or simply minority people.

War Brings Change

As the war for independence from the French and eventual American involvement developed, a mass migration began into the valley. By the war’s end, it would become a strategic South Vietnam stronghold. A stronghold on the path for the PAVN, Peoples Army of North Vietnam’s road to Saigon. One hundred sixty miles Northeast of Saigon, the Dak Lak valley would be overrun by the Northern Army in the Battle of Ban Me Thuot in March of 1975. At 11 AM on March 11th, the Northern Army took control of the capital at Buon Ma Thuot. Less than two months later, Saigon would fall, bringing the Vietnamese civil war to a close.

In the wake of the war and the newly unified Vietnam’s total control of the valley, further migration would lead to the once tribal majority making up only about 15 % of today’s modern population. And though I always search for adventure, I most always find incredible stories along the way. Accounts that are often amazing and more compelling than fiction. So before we get into the experience of our time in both Buon Ma Thuot and the Dak Lak Valley, let me tell you a fantastic story of perseverance, abandonment, loyalty, and a little luck.

The Montagnards of North Carolina

During the Vietnamese conflict, US forces knew at some point the predominantly tribal mountain region of the central highlands would become a strategic part of any effort to win. Particularly the Dak Lak Valley of the Central Highlands, the mountain path to Saigon. Long before US forces withdrew in ’73, a special unit of Green Berets was sent into the region. Their objective was to befriend and train the Montagnards. An effort meant to prevent the area from becoming a Vietcong stronghold, training the men and women of the villages, arming them, and establishing CIDG’s or Civilian Irregular Defense Groups. Charged with protecting their villages, often targets of Vietcong harassment in remote regions.

The mission worked, and the valley never fell victim to the Vietcong. However, it would fall to the PAVN in March of ’75. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. The aftermath of the war was horrible and brutal for many, including my wife’s family—re-education camps, executions, and a general post-war period that was brutal and swift. Ho Chi Minh always said when the war was over. He would embrace his South Vietnamese counterparts as though the war had never happened. But he died in 1969 and could do nothing to thwart the coming retribution. Legend says that he only wanted news of his brothers in the south, even on his death bed. He never blamed America for the war. I believe that speaks heavily to the relationship between the two countries today.

A few Quotes From Uncle Ho.

“Everything depends on the Americans. If they want to make war for 20 years then we shall make war for 20 years. If they want to make peace, we shall make peace and invite them to tea afterwards.”

– Hồ Chí Minh

Below is probably my favorite quote from uncle Ho, as he is affectionately known in Vietnam. Many don’t know that he was an American ally post World War II. He even used part of Thomas Jefferson’s speech to declare a free and democratic Vietnam after the Japanese occupation. And in the presence of American and allied forces, no doubt. But America reneged on the deal as they are so often to do. America’s allegiance to France was more important than its promise to Vietnam’s sovereignty. So, communist China, at first, and then the USSR later were the only ally they had to turn to as America tried to help re-establish French colonial Indochina and later wage war against the communist north. It was a corner into which the US themselves forced Ho Chi Minh.

“It was patriotism, not communism, that inspired me.”

– Hồ Chí Minh

Abandoned in the mountains

Be that as it may, after Ho Chi Minh’s death, the war carried on. When the North overran the valley in the Spring of ’75, the CIDG had two options. Flee, or face the coming onslaught of reunification. The post-war Communists were ruthless. It was not the democratic socialist state the country has evolved into in the decades that followed. And so, people already displaced into the mountains from wars fought centuries ago were displaced yet again. Most of the Montagnard stayed behind. Most had no genuine concern for the war. But, those who helped were aided by and trained by the Green Berets had targets on their backs. A small quiet migration occurred out of Dak Lak, across the Cambodian border and deeper into the Jungles of Southeast Asia.

Nowhere to hide

The remnants of the CIDG and some of their families made it into Cambodia. But amnesty was not to be had. Instead, within three years of the fall of Saigon, the newly unified Vietnam initiated an all-out invasion of Cambodia and occupied the country for more than a decade. An attack spawned by the ruthless communist dictator of Cambodia, Pol Pot’s, constant harassment and border incursions into what he saw as a weak unified Vietnam. The invasion of Cambodia pushed many fleeing the aftermath further west. Where they ultimately found refuge in Thailand.

In 1986, an American organization known as Save the Montagnard People or SMTP was founded. Begun by the former Green Berets who befriended, trained, and aided the Montagnard fighters deep in the central highlands. Through this and other relief groups, the Montagnard, who spent almost a decade on the run and in refugee camps, were brought to America for a second chance at a peaceful life.

A new home

The Green Berets, who abandoned them in the mountains because of political reasons beyond their control, found a way to rescue their former friends and allies after all. A rare case where a little bit of justice was served. Upon their arrival in the US, they were offered two options, California or North Carolina. North Carolina is home to the Green Beret division that fought alongside the Montagnard, and many still live there.

So, the Montagnard chose North Carolina. Today the largest population of Montagnard’s outside of Vietnam live in Greensboro, North Carolina. There is even a Montagnard village outside Asheboro, North Carolina. Where those that have not assimilated to the American culture still live their traditional lives. The land is nicknamed the New Central Highlands. It is complete with traditional longhouses, crafts, art and is one of the few places left to experience the rich culture of the disappearing tribes of the Central Highlands. Tucked away on a 100-acre plot, the Montagnard that survived the war, displacement, and sacrifice most can not imagine, live a peaceful pastoral life today—tucked quietly away in the Appalachian mountains of North Carolina.

A little geography

Buôn Ma Thuột is one of those cities that I put in a particular group of cities I like to call “remote.” I put cities like Manaus, Brazil, Yakutsk, Russia, Ittoqqortoormiit, Greenland, or Adamstown in the Pitcairn Islands. Places you can effortlessly fly to but are treks to get to any other way. Buôn Ma Thuột wouldn’t top any remote city lists, but at only 78 miles from the closest beach as the crow flies, that drive is over 4 hours long. It took us over 10 hours to get there from An Lao. A distance of only 144 miles. Almost the same distance from Atlanta to Birmingham. A space that you can travel in a couple of hours. Thirty miles from the Cambodian border, but over 4 hours to the nearest border crossing.

There is just no easy way into the valley. Except for a few winding and long mountain passes that meander in and out of the valley. It’s no wonder the city wasn’t founded until the 20th century. Before that, it was just a wilderness of scattered tribes and villages. Some were not experiencing anything close to the modern world until the French arrived in the late 19th century. But now, Buôn Ma Thuột is not only a city of over half a million people, but it and the valley it sits in has become the second-largest Coffee exporter in the world.

Coffee in Vietnam

Coffee, of course, was introduced by the French to the then Nguyen Dynastic Empire in 1857 by missionaries. The French would later establish their first coffee plantation in what had become French Indochina in 1888. Coffee is a fickle plant and only grows between the tropics of Cancer and Capricorn. Thus, this region is known to the coffee community as the bean belt. Additionally, the higher quality of the bean, the higher elevation needed. This made the mountainous highland regions of Vietnam an ideal place to grow the bean.

During most of the nineteenth century, Britain and the newly independent Brazil controlled the global coffee market. The latter becoming the number one exporter of coffee in the world in 1852. A title it has never relinquished. And the former controlling shipping. This almost absolute monopoly on the coffee market throughout the nineteenth century, combined with a failed embargo decades earlier of all British goods to continental Europe by Napoleon in 1806, led to the French seeking a place to cultivate their own coffee. The French found that place in the central highlands of French Indochina.

The City

The city itself, as I stated earlier, is today home to over 500,000 people. More extensive than the population of Atlanta proper. Though, unlike Atlanta, it has no metropolitan area to speak of. Once you leave the city limits, and frankly, before that, the scene quickly fills with coffee and rubber plantations. The city sits in the Dak Lak valley deep in the once Jungle highlands. Now mainly farms with very little jungle remaining. The tropical mountain valley maintains a relatively consistent climate at an elevation of 1,759 feet above sea level. With annual average highs of 85.5 degrees and annual lows of 68.5, it’s the perfect climate for year-round farming. But like any Indochina mountain valley, the humidity remains relatively high, with a yearly average of 81.4 %.

A non-international airport services the city, Buon Ma Thuot Airport. Which has daily commercial flights to the other major cities in Vietnam. There are three state highways and one branch of the massive Asia Highway network. The Asia Highway runs from (partly by car fairy) Tokyo, Japan in the east, Jakarta, Indonesia in the south, Istanbul, Turkey in the West, and the border of Finland near St. Petersburg in Russia as its most northern point. An awe-inspiring highway system. The AH17 section of the highway that runs through Buon Ma Thuot is the same section that runs through Da Nang, a quarter-mile from our apartment.

Rising early in the mountain city

Diem and I woke relatively early. The rest of the family would be arriving soon, and I knew it would be off to the races. The decision to travel to Dak Lak for the wedding was a bit short notice. My tailor had no time to make a white dress shirt for me. But Diem had purchased one from Saigon that was to my measurements. Our nephew was to bring it with him. He arrived empty-handed. He had left it at his home in Saigon. Diem was not pleased. So after coffee and a light breakfast, it would be shirt shopping.

The World Coffee Museum Part 1

As the capital city of a region and country that is the second-largest producer of coffee in the world behind Brazil, coffee culture is deep here. So it was no surprise that as the family arrived, the first order of business was, well, coffee. As is often the case, I rarely know where we are headed, but that is part of the fun. So we all climbed into a large SUV taxi and ran out into the city. It was a short drive across town, barely ten minutes, and we arrived at the best place to get a cup of coffee—the World Coffee Museum.

Opened to the public in 2018, the Museum is a unique place to visit and far more than a museum. Most of the land the museum sits on is still under development. Luxury apartments currently under construction and retail stores will provide a multi-structure mix-use development. Now, the site contains a movie theater, Zen botanical gardens, Gym, Indoor golfing facility similar to Top Golf in the US. Upon its completion, it will be a city within a city, Coffee city, Buon Ma Thuot city, Vietnam. It may very well be the global center for coffee. It’s an ambitious project that will help to put Buon Ma Thuot on the world stage.

The coffee shop

The Museum structure itself is a modern design meant to conjure images of the traditional tribal longhouses of the indigenous tribes of the region. Tall A-shaped structures, the Museum consists of five buildings connected by large open corridors. The main entrance opens into a coffee shop where there is a ticket booth to purchase tickets into the Museum on the right and a guest book on the left. I couldn’t help but browse the guest book. With the Museum opening in 2018, and border closings happening in early 2020, non-Vietnamese names were non-existent. At least not in the short time I flipped through the pages. But there was one after I walked away. The first building, part of the adjacent building, and an outdoor courtyard services the coffee shop.

Diem waited in line to order for everyone, and I wandered the building. It was an interesting design. Poured concrete, typical modern Vietnamese construction, with the Apex of the roof a skylight the entire length. I walked out onto the courtyard to explore further. An incredible view of the Tịnh Xá Ngọc Quang Pagoda across a gorge from the museum made for a beautiful landscape to enjoy a cup of coffee. I recognized the impressively tall pagoda instantly. Only I had seen it in darkness. We ate dinner beneath its lit silhouette the previous night. I looked down into the gorge, and sure enough, there sat the restaurant we had a wonderfully romantic meal at the last evening.

Interior design

The design of the coffee shop section of the building was unique. The ticket stand was flanked on the back wall by bronze busts of Napoleon Bonaparte and Ludwig Von Beethoven. An interesting combination. Diem purchased tickets for the museum itself, which were good indefinitely, as we would not have time to visit it today. As I walked past the ticket booth and visitors book, origami swans, and what seemed to represent the pages of books hanging from the ceiling in shades of white and gold.

Just past the Museum entrance sat a souvenir stand selling retail coffee. I know that was a surprise, and books on the history of Vietnamese coffee. Classic Vietnamese Phin filter kits adorned with famous coffee drinkers throughout the ages, and various other marketable goods were on display. Above the seating area hung opened umbrellas, also adorned with historical figures known for their love of coffee. One would assume quotes were of the individuals who decorated the umbrella. It was, again, a bizarre mix. George Washington, Beethoven, and Earnest Hemingway mainly.

A funny flaw

After some major reconnaissance and intel, I found a table in the packed coffee shop and pounced on it. The rest of the family joined me, and Diem came to the table with a buzzer for when our order would be ready. The place was packed. There wasn’t an empty seat, and I had to thwart off several attempts at others trying to take Diem’s chair before she arrived. I stared at the umbrellas before our buzzer vibrated, trying to get a read on the quotes. The umbrellas hung relatively high, and in case you were wondering, were available at the gift shop.

I took a few zoomed-in shots to get a better read. And I couldn’t help but notice something was a miss. I had heard of the Beethoven 60 bean legend, so his quote, “I usually choose 60 coffee beans to make a cup of coffee,” seemed plausible. And Hemingway’s quote, “There is no friend as loyal as a book,” I was sure I had heard before. But George Washington’s seemed off. “99% of failures come from people who have the habit of making excuses”. Anyone who went to public school in the US knows every phrase, legend, folktale, and quotes associated with George Washington. Then it hit me, and I laughed. It was a George Washington quote. George Washington Carver.

A fruitless pursuit

We finished our coffee and slice of mango cake Diem, and I shared, and we had to go. The museum would have to wait. I needed a shirt. We called a cab and headed to the one place in every city in Vietnam, Vincom Plaza. As far as indoor malls go, Vietnam is in its golden age. Where America was in the ’90s. And Vincom plaza is the Simon mall of Vietnam. Food court, multiple floors, and retail shops of every kind. A palace to commerce. But, I knew before we ever stepped inside, it was a hopeless pursuit. I’ve been in almost every Vincom mall between Hanoi and Saigon, and I’ve never found an article of clothing that fits.

But Diem wanted to match, and she had brought one of her favorite beautiful white dresses. So we went from floor to floor, boutique shops, to department stores. And, of course, we came up empty-handed at every turn. I have my clothes hand-made in Da Nang by my Tailor Huan, excellent work if you are ever in town, but this time I’m afraid we were out of time. Most of my shirts are button-up short sleeves. So the best I could do was find a matching tie for one and listen to Diem say God knows what to our nephew for leaving the shirt behind. The hour had come, we had to get back to the hotel and get ready we had a wedding to get to.

The Wedding

We arrived at the wedding around noon at a place called Thanh Lịch. It is a classic colonial-style building that served as an all-around event spot specializing in weddings. There were four entrances open, and each entrance had a table with a gold caged chest. Beside each chest was a stack of envelopes with pictures of the bride and groom. It’s very Vietnamese to take your wedding pictures days before the wedding for several reasons. One, so they can fill the event space with wedding pictures. Two, you don’t get married at the wedding.

Vietnamese marriage

In Vietnam, you traditionally don’t get married in public like in the states. Marriage is strictly bureaucratic or even business in nature. The event is just a party to introduce the married couple to the world. Only your local party official can marry you in Vietnam, so it is done quietly in an office, very formally and without any fanfare. Diem and I married in Vietnam, and it was extremely bureaucratic. No witnesses other than the official and, in our case, his secretary. But in a full Vietnamese affair, the betrothal ceremony may be held at the bride’s house with only family present.

Arranged marriages still occur in Vietnam, but outside the villages, in particular, this practice is fading. However, it is still prevalent that negotiations between the families often determine the viability of any potential marriage once a couple has made their intentions known. Vietnamese seldom go against their family’s wishes, so if you wish to marry a Vietnamese woman, expect to win over her family as much as her. In some cases, dowry’s are still issued, but that practice is fading for more modern marriages. But overall, in Vietnam, weddings are secular, concerns of the state, and except for a minority population of Roman Catholics, are absent of any religious significance.

Our example

When Diem and I got married, I thought it would never finalize. And not that there was a reason for it not to. It is just that the wheels of bureaucracy in Vietnam spin at a snail’s pace. By the time we sat in front of the local party official’s office to sign the wedding ledger, a massive book containing the local records of every marriage in the ward that year, we had already turned in enough paperwork for several mortgages. There were mandatory waiting periods, mental health evaluations, notarized reports from every zip code checking for any outstanding marriage licenses or criminal records of any kind. Proof that our previous marriages had been properly dissolved. What phase the moon was when I was born? Had I ever played chess at noon during the spring equinox while standing on one foot, and on, and on.

When everything was said and done, our information was written into the ledger, and we signed below our names handwritten in by the secretary. There were no vows, no I do’s, no pomp and circumstance. It was just us, a ledger, and a congratulatory handshake from the local party official. We were given two original copies of our marriage certificate in a golden frame, and that was it. A few days before we were officially married, we went to a bridal shop. Most people don’t buy their wedding clothes in Vietnam. They rent them. I had brought my suit, and Diem had the shop run, and we took wedding pictures with Diem in multiple dresses after a full salon treatment. After the official signing, a few days later, we had a dinner reception with family and friends, much like the one we were entering now.

The party

I’m going to call this a party because technically, it isn’t a wedding. At least not in the western sense of the word. The bride and groom are already officially married. We are friends with the bride, she is from An Lao, and today was her day. The wedding party, reception, whatever you want to call it, would be a full two-day affair—the first day for the bride, the second day for the groom. Since we were friends with the bride, naturally, we would only participate in today’s events. It is traditional only to give the bride and groom money in Vietnam, so we filled a few envelopes with cash and stuffed them in the gold caged chests at the entrance.

As we made our way into the event space, photo op spots were scattered around for everyone to get their Instagram and Facebook pictures in. A truly Vietnamese cultural phenomenon. Props, settings, scenery, all for your clicking pleasure. As we walked down the hallway to find our table, we passed the bridesmaids to the right, sitting under one of the photo displays waiting for their time to announce the family. Adorned in the traditional and formal áo dài dress and khan dong bridal hats. Colored in a deep pink hue.

The table

An usher escorted us to our table to be seated. The tables were already set with plate ware, glasses, spoons, and chopsticks. A case of beer sat next to the table, as well as a bucket of ice. Things quickly became chaotic as both the foodservice and wedding show began simultaneously. Couples who I thought were the bride and groom. I hadn’t met either yet. Were onstage giving speeches. The first course hit the table as they did so—a soup of chicken, shrimp, chili, green onion, and vegetables. I want to be clear here that I have no idea what is happening. I don’t know if this is the first and only course. A snack to enjoy while the newly married couple is introduced, perhaps.

The introduction

When I placed the first bite in my mouth, everyone in the room turned quickly in unison. I whipped my head around with a five-second delay like I was communicating with Houston from orbit with a mouthful of shrimp and chicken. Everyone was prompted by whatever was being said on stage—something I didn’t understand. As I turned to look, the bride and groom made their entrance. I’m going to assume the couple already on stage were the Vietnamese equivalent of the best man and maid of honor.

The newly married couple made their way towards the stage, followed by the bridesmaids, as a video of the actual private family ceremony played on a large screen to the side of the stage. The bridesmaids returned to the back of the hall and escorted the mother and father of the bride first, and then the groom, one bridesmaid for each. Finally, their parents took the bride and groom’s sides, respectively, and the newly married couple was announced to the crowd. Everyone cheered.

Lunch continues

The courses continued to flow. A foil pouch of roasted marinated beef with wild banana, starfruit, green onions, and chili. A grilled prawn salad with tamarind, herbs, and prawn rice crackers. Small buns with minced seasoned pork. A whole roasted chicken with sticky rice and dipping sauce of garlic and nuoc mum. And finally, a light curry stew of meatballs, braised beef, carrots, onions, and banh mi for sopping up the hearty liquid. It was an impressive spread, and everything was wonderful. I did not leave hungry.

While we continued to gorge ourselves, well, at least I did, the bride and groom performed some not unfamiliar rituals. A pyramid of margarita-shaped glasses was stacked next to the cake. I assume the glasses were filled with dry ice because as the bride and groom poured a red liquid from a bottle each into the top glass, it began to smoke and cascade into the lower glasses. Again, signifying their unity and the family that would flow from them into future generations. A typical cake cutting took place immediately following, and then the bride, groom, and the bride’s parents visited each table for pictures and thanked everyone for coming. It was, after all, the bride’s ceremony. Tomorrow would be the groom’s turn.

Winding down

As the food disappeared and the newlyweds made their way around the room, the event began to come to an end, and people began to trickle out of the event. We stuck around in true Vietnamese fashion to take full advantage of the space and props for our photo fun. For whatever reason, we were some of the last to leave. I think everyone was just having so much fun taking pictures. It was about 1:30 when we finally climbed into our cab, and it was back to the hotel.

Till the break of dawn

It was time for a nap to digest the lunch feast, and I didn’t know it yet, but the day was just getting going. We had been invited to a post-ceremony party at the groom’s house, a rare honor. But, being the only American, much less westerner for lord knows how many miles, I get not just invited, but bordering forced to attend everything. But, I can’t complain. I appreciate the hospitality. And everyone is always so happy to see me—a true testament to how the war years were just a necessary means to a modern end. No hard feelings everywhere I go—only smiles and grace.

After a shower and a nap, we all loaded into a taxi and made our way to the edge of the city, a district known as Thành Nhất. A neighborhood on the very edge of the city limits. It felt far from the city and was under development. So much so that the roads hadn’t even been paved yet. But the sidewalks and drainage system were partially complete. The taxi stopped at the entrance of a street roped off because it was a construction zone. But that wouldn’t stop the party.

The accommodations

There perhaps may be nothing as amusing and simultaneously impressive, at least that I’ve seen, as a group of well-dressed and proper Vietnamese clambering through a construction zone in nice clothes, dresses, and inappropriate footwear for the occasion. Or that the miraculous thing about it was, as it usually is for Vietnamese, insignificant, unimportant, and no one cared. The pragmatic way the Vietnamese live has been a source of inspiration, admiration, and sometimes bewilderment. Things happen in life. They just do. Sometimes they are good, sometimes they are difficult, and sometimes just an inconvenience. But that is how it is, and that is just that.

And so, we clambered along the half-finished sidewalks with its storm drainage lids partially in place, placement rebar’s curving from the top, and down to the party tent that was neatly assembled on the unpaved roads sub-grade. We reached the entrance, and a green turf flooring had been laid down under the tent. We waited our turn to be greeted by the family as we made our way inside. The An Lao crowd had a designated table, and we made our way to it. A kitschy pink and white table cloth covered each table, with appetizer platters, wrapped plates of chilled rice noodles, a platter of sticky rice with fermented pork sausage with fried shallots, glasses, and beverages already laid out for our leisure.

Two large speakers and a microphone

A stage was set at the far end of the tent. Complete with large speakers, a large flat screen, and of course, it could only mean one thing. Karaoke. An uncle made his way to the stage as everyone settled in and gave a short speech before running around handing out slips of paper for starting the queue for the microphone. I knew at once. I would not make it out without stepping onto that stage. And being the only foreigner in a multiple-kilometer radius, I would be allowed to do so whenever I wished to. However, it would require a few beers first.

As the party got going and the karaoke started to flow, the feast began in earnest. The appetizer platter contained quail eggs wrapped in sticky rice cooked in green tea. Mini-fried spring rolls wrapped in rice paper. Fermented pork packets. More of that marinated chilled beef salad the region was known for: sliced roasted pork and chicken roll. Rolls in Vietnam would be best described texturally as similar to bologna. Only obviously not identical in flavor. Pureed seasoned meat, pork, chicken, or beef, wrapped and rolled in banana leaf and steamed. Slices of roll often accompany noodle dishes or appetizer platters, and the type and flavor are often regional.

Round two

As the platter began to dwindle, a stainless steel hot plate of braised pork and fresh bamboo shoots with baguette was laid on the table, followed shortly by a hot pot of braised beef and a platter of watercress. The cold noodles sitting on the table suddenly became purposeful, and our waiter placed the watercress into the hot pot. So essentially, you make yourself a bowl with the hot pot, noodles, braised pork, and quite frankly, whatever else you desire to put in from the table.

I ate quite my fill, and maybe even beyond. We had been eating some delicious regional food since we arrived in the valley. And I was enjoying experiencing a different side of Vietnamese cuisine. The seafood-heavy, light yet spicy flavors and vibrant noodle dishes of Da Nang had been replaced with braised, hearty dishes and lots and lots of meat. Rich, a bit heavier, and wonderfully filling. It reminded me more of winter foods from home. Pot roasts, roasted meats, and the like. It was an interesting contrast from the coastal regions and river delta’s that make up much of the rest of Vietnam.

The nudges increase

After a few beers and a well-serviced belly, the nudges to hit the stage began to increase. I had come to realize over the years that it was expected for an American participating in Karaoke to sing some 60’s or 70’s song famous during and around the war years. Songs most Vietnamese know. Creedence Clearwater, The Eagles, Buffalo Springfield, The Animals, or Peter, Paul, and Mary, perhaps. But it would not be. I had no plans of being a cliche this evening. My opportunity to both embarrass myself immensely and possibly, maybe even impressively, bring a crowd to silence at first, then singing along a minute later was just too much to pass up.

I gave my song choice to the DJ, and he looked at me in quiet disbelief. His facial expression asked a question he could not, and I simply nodded in affirmation and took the stage. Lạ Lùng, a popular modern Vietnamese love song by the artist known as Vũ, began to fill the air slowly. And so it began. Phones started to take videos. Eventually, I was joined in song, and some even joined me on stage to support my attempts at not entirely butchering it. But in the end, I think they all enjoyed the gesture. So that I had, over time, learned the song as best, I could, for the sole purpose of singing it to Diem in front of a shocked crowd one day. Mission accomplished.

The night isn’t over just yet

The dinner party was winding down, and it was getting late. I was quite frankly getting a little tired myself, and the crowd slowly began to head for the exits. It was pretty dark beyond the light of the tent and a bit difficult navigating back to the fresh row of taxis that had begun to line up at the entrance to the partially completed street. Well into the night at this point, I assumed we would be going to the hotel to call it a night. But it would not be so. However, it wouldn’t be the expected continuation of the party mode as I would have thought when I realized we were not retiring for the evening.

We made our way back into the city and past the typical sidewalk scene, one sees in Vietnam on a Friday night. Sidewalks filled with small plastic tables and chairs. Street restaurants filled with couples on dates, families, and friends enjoying some local delicacies around every corner. I was surprised to see so many out as the evening was drawing late. And though the capital of coffee, I would soon learn, does indeed have a nightlife. However, it was not the nightlife I had envisioned in my mind.

Đương Sách Cá Phê

I wasn’t entirely sure where or what we were about to do. Nor did I understand, once realizing what it was, why it had come as such a surprise. What would one do in a coffee capital on Saturday night? The taxi pulled slowly to a stop in front of a crowded pedestrian street overflowing with people coming and going. Đương Sách Cá Phê, or roughly translated, coffee book street. At the entrance to the street sat a live band performing for the street filled with coffee shops and book stores. It was electric and wonderful and made absolute sense. But still seemed an odd sight for a remote mountain city.

We made our way past the band, and the crowd gathered at the entrance of the street. Crowded together on small foldable chairs and tables, enjoying the live performance and an assortment of coffee beverages. We perused some tables set up in the middle of the street piled with books. Almost exclusively in Vietnamese, I found quite a several Western classics translated into English. Everything from Homer to Hemingway, Virgil to Twain. I was rather surprised and rather impressed with the abundance of titles translated for the modern Vietnamese reader.

A cup of coffee

We eventually made our way to an open coffee shop that resembled traditional and ancient construction styles—wood and bamboo with thatch roofing. We sat around a couple of tables crafted from cross-sections of a local hardwood tree. I ordered a coconut iced coffee that was calling my name, and we sat around talking while we waited for our caffeinated beverages. Like everywhere else in Vietnam, the street was filled with props and paintings for photo ops, and after we received our drinks, we made the rounds. By now, it was getting incredibly late for my taste, meaning not yet near midnight, and slowly we made our way to the entrance and called a cab. I was feeling fatigued, and it was time to call it a night.

A difficult Saturday

We had another busy day ahead of us and woke just before 7. As is the case everywhere in Vietnam, the sun had been up quite some time already as we began to get ready for another whirlwind day. The family assembled in the lobby around 7:30, and after a short discussion with the concierge, we walked a few doors down for breakfast. A typical family establishment. The lady of the house cooked from her corner in the restaurant entrance, her husband taking and delivering orders to the tables. In short order, he set a beautiful bowl of bún heo in front of me.

Rice vermicelli, a rich broth, slices of pork, green onion, basil, and a pile of watercress on the side. I built my bowl with the watercress, fish sauce, and chili paste that sat in a condiment caddy on the table and jumped into the delicious breakfast. As I slurped up every drop from my bowl, the haze of fatigue and mild illness seemed not to fade as the morning pressed on. I had consumed a few beers the previous day, stayed up much later than normal, and assumed with re-hydration and time that the funk I seemed to be in would fade into lunch. It was not so.

The World Coffee Museum Part 2

After breakfast, we made our way across the city back to the coffee museum to use the tickets we had purchased the day before. We arrived as the previous day and made our way in. We only had an hour or so to enjoy the museum, which would turn out to be enough. Museums typically tend to be one of my favorite places to visit, but I just was not into it this time. The unwell feeling I had in the morning, and as I realized even in the previous evening, was growing rather rapidly. Nevertheless, I did my best to maintain my composure as we explored the artifacts and displays of coffee equipment and devices since the dawn of coffee discovery in the 15th century or possibly earlier.

As time advanced, I began spending more time leaning against the wall in an attempt to abate my overwhelming fatigue than enjoy the museum. I made a rude quip at Diem, which I immediately regretted when she asked me to take pictures of her around the museum. My condition was just deteriorating quickly. Nevertheless, I sucked it up as best I could and made my way around while taking breaks as much as I could. There were some fascinating exhibits around the museum, and I did get enough photographs to share the extent of the museum. But it was a great effort and with rapidly declining energy.

Artifacts

Vietnam’s Administrative Organization

After an hour or so of wandering the museum, I was told it was time to leave. Thank goodness. I couldn’t wait to sit in air conditioning, and lay my head against the window, and maybe even nap. So we made our way west out of the main city to a rural ward known as Khánh Xuân. In my time in Vietnam, I have finally begun to understand the country’s administrative structure fully. I’m sure this will probably be a snooze fest for many, but I found it fascinating. Vietnam is first and foremost a sovereign nation. Broken up into 63 first-tier administrative zones that would look much like a state in the US. The first tier can be either a province or a municipality.

There are currently 58 Provinces and 5 Municipalities. A Municipality is essentially a city that has become larger than the province it is in and therefore becoming ungovernable by its province. It is then split from its province into its administrative entity. For example, Da Nang, the city we live in, was split from its province of Quảng Nam in 1997. Thus, becoming Vietnam’s fourth Class-1 city or Municipality. Today there are five Class-1 cities. Hanoi, HCMC or Saigon, Da Nang, Can Tho, and Haiphong. Class-1 cities have equal political standing as provinces and are separated from provinces to balance political power. Something I think makes perfect sense.

Why it makes sense

The age-old American gripe. A state’s politics are often dictated by its most populous cities—Atlanta and Georgia, for instance. Imagine if Atlanta were a separate political entity from the state. It had its senators, representation, maybe even electors. It may give rural areas, or the bulk of states, more say in government, versus their concerns often getting swallowed up by city politics and control. As with the case of Da Nang, when Da Nang was removed from the province administratively, a new provincial capital was established in its absence. Thus, shifting the seat of power in the province while giving Da Nang an equal seat at the table.

So Provinces and Municipalities make up the 63 equal provincial-level divisions of Vietnam. Below that exist the district-level tiers. For Provinces, those would be District level towns, Districts, and Provincial cities. Municipalities could be Municipal cities, Urban Districts, District level towns, and simply Districts. I know it’s getting a little confusing. But keep in mind that municipalities in Vietnam can be massive geographically, so they could technically contain smaller cities within their borders. Finally, we get to the Commune level, a Ward, Commune, or Commune level town. As an example, we live in the Mỹ An ward of the Ngũ Hành Sơn District, in the Municipality of Da Nang city.

Off to the Bride’s family farm

I fell asleep in the car as we made our way towards the western edge of the Buon Ma Thuot. The air conditioning was welcomed, but something wasn’t right. We eventually pulled down this long dirt road, and Diem gently shook my knee to pull me from whatever wasteland my mind had evaporated to. We exited the taxi, and I stood at the entrance to the fenced-in yard that made up the Bride’s parent’s house. There was so much activity and many things to pull my attention, but it was becoming more and more to stave off the sickness that was ever-increasing in severity.

A few squirrels were laid out on a chopping block being for lunch. Durian and other fruit had been laid out to begin the feast. But even these tantalizing delicacies weren’t enough to fill my desires with anything other than the overwhelming need to lay down and sleep in the overwhelming heat. So Diem procured a hammock from a couple of kids in the family, and I laid down, covered my eyes with a wet dishtowel, and fell into a sweaty listless, dreamy state somewhere between the living and the dead.

The show must go on

One of the wonderful things about being sick and sleep in a foreign land is that there is never a conversation around you understandable enough to catch your mind’s attention or draw you from your sleepy haze. So it was through lunch and several hours of fellowship with the family that Diem finally nudged me ever so slightly to inform me that a taxi had been called and it would soon be time to go. I made my way to the bathroom in the house to splash some cold water on my face and try to get at least some of my faculties together.

An interesting observation

I had been rather surprised in my time in the remote mountain city at the prominence of Christianity. Typically hidden from view and not displayed in any way in most places I’d visited in Vietnam. Here in the mountain city, it seemed to be the dominant religion. Something I had not come across in my exploration of the country. Usually, Buddhism dominates, and in remote villages, a form of ancient Animism and Ancestral worship prove the norm. But here, as I walked out of the bathroom, a little more together and lucid, I noticed the house filled with Catholic imagery. Our taxi driver on the way in even had a small Virgin Mary statue on his dashboard.

The home here was open, with no air conditioning, and on a dirt road. Two rather substantial-sized statues of Mary, hands folded in prayer, and Joseph, the accomplished carpenter adopted father holding a wooden square, still sealed in plastic shrink wrap. No doubt to keep the figures clean and tidy. They were joined by a crucifix and altar-like display that separated the main living area from the kitchen. I wish I had been in a better state to communicate. But our time here in the home had come to an end. I took the few minutes before the taxi arrived to explore the farm just outside the yard. Tamarind, mango, lychee, coconut, and jackfruit orchards, fields recently prepared from harvest. An opportunity of fellowship and exploration had slipped through my hands.

Another visit

Our SUV arrived, and Diem and our family piled on, and we made our way out of the rural ward of western Buon Ma Thuot and headed south out of the city and deeper into the rural valley of Dak Lak province. We had some friends from An Lao who had moved to the area and headed to pay a visit and break bread again. I spent most of the ride in and out of sleep, as it was quite a drive. About an hour, if I had to guess. The AC had given a bit of life back to me, and I even seemed to perk up to some degree when we arrived at the dusty outpost just south of the small rural neighborhood of Mơ B’Lot.

Perched next to a cluster of gas stations, an old family friend had married and moved out here to operate a machine shop. The last chance settlement to service local farming equipment and long haul trucks supplying the valley with goods from Saigon and Can Tho in the south and shipping coffee and other crops out. It was a bit Mad Max meets route 66. Chickens running around the heavy machinery, massive piles of steel shaving from lave work, a dirt floor, haphazard wiring, it was awesome. Their house sat at the back of the shop, and we headed in for a late lunch.

A late lunch

We made our way through the shop and into the kitchen of their home. We sat around a large wooden table as the food was being set out for a traditional Vietnamese eat and great—conversation, food, laughter, and catching up on old times. I missed the first lunch, and I did have a bit of an appetite but was still feeling well under the weather. Our snack consisted of razor clams, grilled sliced pork, shrimp sauteed with water spinach, stewed vegetables, fresh fruit, and beverages. Beer was offered, but I couldn’t do it. I asked for a coke instead, hoping the caffeine may perk me up a bit. As we ate and everyone fell into conversation that I couldn’t join, I made my way out of the kitchen to explore the shop.

It was just fascinating to me. They were doing some serious work here. Crane system, massive laves, large engine projects underway, it was an impressive operation, to say the least. But as is usually the case in Vietnam, it was also their home. I explored the grounds as the chickens followed me around to investigate my happenings. A rather large facility sat across the street. It looked like giant drying houses. I would later find out it was coffee. It didn’t take long before the heat of the compound sapped what energy I had mustered away, and I made my way back to the kitchen. Again I found a hammock in the corner, and as everyone enjoyed their time together, I again fell out of this realm and into another.

Their Home

I just want to say that even though I was feeling very unwell. I was and am always grateful to anyone who opens their home to me and breaks bread. Even if I can’t eat much, I will at least taste everything and thank them. I always put great trust in everyone who invites me into their home. It is always an honor and a privilege to be a guest.

Day turns to an awful night

At some point, I was awakened to a whispering Diem telling me that our taxi would be there soon. I would find to the great joy that our next destination would be the hotel—incredibly welcome words. I barely remember staring out the window as the water buffalo and farmland rolled by on our way back to the city. It was long before nightfall when we arrived, and Diem was an antiparasitic for me. I usually take one every few months. We spend quite a large amount of time in some pretty remote places in our travels. One can never be too careful. It wasn’t long before things came to a head, and I don’t want to get too graphic here, but the next few hours before I could lay down in comfort and piece were awful.

A great purge had crashed inside my body like a tsunami ravaging an unprepared coast. I had spent enough time in food biology classes and continuing education courses on food-borne illness from my Chef days in the states to know the time frame for when I picked whatever it was up. All indicators, time in particular, and the onset of symptoms pointed to the dusty roadside eatery we stopped in for an early lunch deep in the mountain pass on the ride in days before. Improperly washed raw vegetables or hands, who knows. But the Fugacar did its job. I have rarely had issues in Vietnam, far less than I typically have at home, but this one was a doozy.

The Road To Yok Dôn

We slept in relatively late for our routine. A fact I was not entirely upset about. The massive amount of water Diem forced in me over the evening, the great purge, and the early bedtime combined to awakening and feeling of wellness I hadn’t had in several days. So we set out around 8:30 northwest, deeper into the jungle mountains, towards the land of the Montagnard. About an hour out of the city, we stopped in a small town known as Tân Hòa. Stomach rumblings were increasing, and we headed out of the city in a bit of a hurry, not taking the time for breakfast. Which was perfectly fine, as the brief layover proved to be a wonderful stop.

We pulled up in front of a small typical restaurant in the center of the quaint little town: a Bun, Mi Quang restaurant run by a husband and wife in typical Vietnamese fashion. We stepped in, inspected the offerings, and made our selection. I ordered the Bún bò, rice vermicelli, and beef, and the lady of the house was kind enough to let me film her making my bowl. We sat down at the stainless tables as the husband brought our bowls. I seasoned mine with the chili and fish sauce sitting in the condiment caddy and slurped down the delicious bowl. No matter where you are in Vietnam, you can always count on a delicious steaming bowl of noodles.

The unfamiliar familiar

I was the first to finish, and as is typically the case, I took the time to stroll the small town while everyone else finished up. I was stricken almost immediately by the truly familiar small-town feel the remote settlement had. A couple of doors down, a hardware store with fencing rolled up out front, with stacked wheelbarrows and propane tanks. The local bank branch sat across the street, the largest and most decorated building around. A branch of the Vietnamese post office across the side street from that. Across the street from the post office sat a rustic flea market like a strip mall complete with tea and barbershop, spa, general store, and various other vendors. A central park with a playground, a fire department with its bright red trucks, and even a small motorbike dealership.

I was on the other side of the world from home. Yet, on some primal level, it felt fundamentally domestic and recognizable. Strip away the strange language, different architecture, and not entirely unfamiliar cuisine, and you could be in any small town in America. A mom-and-pop “diner” to get some breakfast, the town bank with the same teller you see every day, your regular postman that delivers your daily mail, your barber, or your wife’s hairdresser. I occasionally have these insane revelations. Suddenly I was not a stranger in a strange land. I was standing in the Vietnamese version of Mayberry.

Deeper still

After breakfast, we made our way out of Tân Hòa towards Cambodia and the border settlement of Ban Dôn. It became increasingly clear that though we were still in Vietnam and would remain so, we entered territory far from what one would classify as Vietnamese. Typical Vietnamese rural construction was slowly replaced by traditional wooden longhouses on stilts, rustic fenced-in wooded grazing pads and pastures of water buffalo, and lots and lots of coffee. A scene that lacked a conspicuous nature. The villages and settlements more and more began to blend in and fill the landscape as if they belonged there. Made out of natural surroundings, not made in it.

It conjured a quote from one of my favorite authors Bill Bryson and one of his early books, “Neither Here, Nor There.” He speaks of the pastoral rolling hills and beautiful windmills one finds in Holland and how they seem to belong in their environment and how rare humanity’s reality has become. Rolling medieval stone bridges over creeks, the Pyramids of Giza, and Chichén Itzá. He goes on to say one of my favorite quotes and concepts of any of his books. “We used to build civilizations. Now we build shopping malls.” Here I was stumbling unknowingly into an environment that could so easily be compared to some of the first stationary settlements of the region from thousands of years ago.

Bon Dôn

After about two hours, breakfast included, our driver came to a stop at the entrance to a village known as Bon Don, deep in the Yok Don National Park. A carved-out autonomous zone inside a massive protected national park. Within the borders of Vietnam, the park spans two provinces and over 700 square miles of wildlife habitat. Connected additionally to four other preserves in Cambodia. The total wildlife-protected region spans over an impressive 3,000 plus miles. Making the region the largest protected wildlife complex in all of Southeast Asia. The region is a rare place where one can still find Asian Elephants, Reticulated Pythons, Indochinese Leopards, Gaur, Banteng, Tigers, and Giant Muntjac roaming free. If you are persistent, incredibly wanting, and lucky, of course.

Though some, including the leopards, have only been seen across the border in Cambodia in recent years. The region and park’s missions are to help bring many of these species back from the edge of extinction. The Bon Don village we were visiting now was purposed in a twofold effort to educate the public on the endangered wildlife of the region and the endangered tribal peoples that have made up these remote lands for centuries. The village and forest sit just over the Annamite mountain range that is the backbone of Vietnam. At a small highland valley that flows down into the alluvial plains of Cambodia.

Yok Dôn National Park

Mostly made of dry broadleaf deciduous dipterocarp, I know, that’s a mouthful. These forests are the opposite of rainforests. Though Dipterocarpaceae trees are in the numbers of around 695 known species and are the dominant tree species of evergreen tropical rainforest around the world, here, the species are exclusively deciduous. Wild and tropical tracts of forest that cycle through dry and wet seasons. From what I saw, I would best describe it as a forested Serengeti. The region goes through an extended dry season where the trees shed their leaves, and the wildlife goes through a lean period. This is followed by a short yet robust wet season that rushes in a time of abundance and lushness that revives the ancient forests—the only forest of its kind in all of Vietnam. A country that is known for its lush impenetrable jungle mountains.

Yok Dôn, interestingly enough, means mountain Island. Though only the Dak Krong river flows through the park, a body of water does not exists in the region large enough to host an island mountain. The name refers to a mountain in the park named Yok Don, which climbs rapidly from the dry deciduous, relatively flat forests. This rapid elevation contrast creates orographic lift and causes abundant rainfall on the mountain slopes. The mountain is covered in an evergreen rainforest in stark contrast to the deciduous tropical forest surrounding it—a wet tropical rainforest mountain in a sea of drier lowlands.

The Village

We arrived in the village at a place half in the past and half in the present. The village homes were still relatively traditional construct, though many roofs had been replaced with tin from their traditional thatch. A large “town hall,” however, sat at its main entrance with what must be a well-preserved replica of the village buildings when new in their original construction. Typically constructed of wood framing and bamboo finishing. The massive structure seemed to me to be an oversized model. Many times larger than the actual structures we passed on the way in where the tribe lived.

The ancient and rustic feel of the village was slightly tainted to me by the need to still fill the spaces with modern luxuries for those that have come to visit and see the village in its ancient way of life. A retail ice cream freezer, plastic banners explaining village life, and of course, the modern vines of electricity that threaded the view about 15 feet overhead. But what else was I to expect? Though the village, particularly those areas just out of sight, still seemed old and traditional, the signs of modernization were all around us. But one can’t help but appreciate their desire to survive. I mean, the native Americans have their casinos.

Ethnic highland tribes

Though there are 54 ethnic tribes in Vietnam, I’ve written extensively over the years on some of the tribes, their plights, and the ancient history of the ethnic tribes of Vietnam and Southeast Asia in general. You can find one of my most poignant articles about the dark side of tribal life below. I would highly recommend reading it before continuing. It may put some of what we are about to explore into perspective.

The Ānāk Dāgār

The Anak Dagar or the Ede, was known in Vietnamese, is a remnant of the Cham empire of Southeast Asian Antiquity. The beautiful brick city ruins we have explored across Vietnam. Once the city-making empire of the region, now a scattered collection of peoples across Asia and the pacific. A classic case that seems inevitable everywhere. Civilization, rise, empire, always followed by a rapid collapse. The Inca, Mayans, Romans, Carthaginians, Persians, Hans, and Khans. A vast history of a perpetual rise and fall. The Cham were that very thing in Southeast Asia. Where once they built beautiful brick cities, now they build bamboo bridges and houses.

Their culture is now noticeable by incredible bamboo work and the ancient practice of Elephant husbandry. A practice mostly outlawed across the continent but preserved for cultural reasons for a few indigenous tribes across the region. Remnants of an ancient empire, the Ede even have a series of spoken epic poems. The most famous is known as “The Great Epic of Sir Dam San.” The tribe lives in long bamboo and wooden houses. Their culture, a rare case of matrilineal descent, the groom moves in with the wife’s family. An additional section is added to the house for each newly married daughter. This practice gives their homes the visual appearance and common name of “longhouse.”

The Longhouse

The longhouse of the Anak Dagar has changed little into modern times. Thatched roofing replaced with tin is about the only truly noticeable distinction. The houses are all set at a specific width, but the length is only constrained to how many daughters and granddaughters, or even great-granddaughters are born into the family and married. Typically the matriarch is the most powerful in the home. However, if still alive, her husband runs the affairs of the home, such as managing the fields, organizing hunts, and general husbandry. The local power structure is typically oligarchic, with the seats of power going to the families with the largest houses and thus the largest numbers.

The houses are exclusively stilted to protect from flash flooding that occurs in the robust rainy season. As well as to ward off predators and provide a shaded workspace or lounging area for livestock and the family during the hot, dry periods. Every house has two sets of stairs, always with odd-numbered steps, and whose uses are designated by sex. Wealth in former times was measured by possessions such as ancient gongs and beautifully crafted jars. Some spanning centuries. Though through necessity, money has infiltrated their ancient way of life as money is wanting to do. With the basis of the Anak Dagar laid down, let us now wander ourselves into the tribal village of Bon Don.

The island village

We made our way from the main road to an area of open-front shops and restaurants. Selling everything from local hand-woven brocade fabric to, unfortunately, tacky cheap toys bought in wholesale. And no doubt trucked in from some importer back in Buon Ma Thuot. The village itself nestled on a couple of islands in the Dak Krong river, and to my great delight, could only be reached through a labyrinth-like crisscrossing of traditional bamboo swinging bridges. Sometimes in and around trees jutting out from the river banks seeking direct sunshine. How joyful. It gave the entering of the village an Ewok-like adventurous giddiness. Whatever unfortunate contamination of the modern world had consumed the area outside the village, it all evaporated as I made my way across the very unstable and deliciously edgy bamboo bridge that was the entrance onto the village’s islands.

After wandering around the bridges and islands, we eventually found our way to the large main island that made up the center of the village. A thatched roof pavilion sat at the edge of a mini-amphitheater on the far side of the island. We made our way to the seats, and quickly the area began to fill with families clambering around to post up for something yet to come. Of what, I knew not. Slowly a group of Rade villagers, the nomenclature used during the French colonial period, assembled in traditional attire and full orchestra. Only all of the instruments were crafted of bamboo, rudimentarily forged iron, wood, and leather. They did have a modern speaker system to amplify their beautiful music. But for that, I think the Ede can be forgiven.

Elephants of the Ānāk Dāgār

We sat for some time and enjoyed the concert while a group of young ladies performed a traditional dance on a large clay tile pad in front of the musicians. It was not unnoticeable in any way that in the distance behind the concert trekked a parade of Elephants. Meandering around the sporadically covered river bed to the west of the island. It was currently the dry season. The river’s low levels were apparent in both the height of the bamboo bridges from the water and the sporadic rock outcroppings across the river smoothed over time. As the concert wound down, some of the family went off to do some Elephant trekking. But Diem and I decided to pass on the opportunity.

The tribe was skilled in hunting the Elephant for taming and use, though the practice is now outlawed. Only stocks from domesticated herds are allowed to remain as property of the tribes. An endangered species, the Asian Elephant’s wild stocks across Asia are believed to be combined and approximate 50,000 individuals. Separated in pockets across vast distances in India, China, mainland Southeast Asia, Indonesia, and Malaysia. Further adding to gene pool straining and additional peril to the overall species’ future viability. Diem and I visited an Elephant sanctuary a couple of years ago in the mountains of Thailand. You can find that article below if you are interested more in the Elephant, its conservation, and the unknown plight of its handlers, the Mahout.

The Elephant hunt

I spent some time around the Mahouts learning about the tribe’s customs of Elephant husbandry while the family perused shops filled with local fabric to ivory jewelry. The ivory being something I found great interest in but would not allow any of my money to go into. It was labeled as sustainable, meaning the ivory was harvested in a “humane” manner. I.e., the trimming of their domestic stock trunks or from animals who died of natural causes. But I know, like anything else, money corrupts, and no one can prove to me otherwise.

If I can say anything about the ancient hunting methods of the Ede is that they were respectful as one can be in hunting an intelligent animal of such large size and self awareness. Hunted sustainably, never pulling more Elephants than needed to maintain the workload of the village. And something that struck me as a bit strange, but not unusual when one speaks of native peoples who respect and care for their environment, they give the Elephant far more than a fighting chance. Quite frankly stacking the deck against themselves and wrapping it in a part of their ritual and coming-of-age traditions.

Reconaisance

To initiate a hunt, the tribal Chief firsts sends a party into the forest to locate an Elephant herd. The herd is observed to determine if any Elephants currently reside in the herd of hunting age. An Elephant that is to be captured must be weaned from its mother and typically around 7 feet in height. If the Elephant is too young, it can not be nurtured in the village and will more than likely die. If too old, it becomes impossible to tame, and will possibly die as well. Once the Elephant of perfect age and size is chosen, the party marks the Elephant for capture and returns to the village.

Upon arrival back at the village, a ceremony is performed, including sacrificial offerings to the hunting gods and an assortment of other rituals that, depending on the family, can last between three to seven days. After all rites are observed, Gru, the hunting leader, heads out with his hunting party on Elephantback. Trekking in haste to the marked region, the Elephant to be hunted was last seen. Only a select group of the local tribe are raised to hunt Elephants, and it comes with great responsibility and is steeped deeply in tradition.

The tools and the rules

An Elephant can only be hunted with a rope threaded from leather harvested from 7 adult male water buffaloes. The rope must have a final length between 100 to 120 meters or approximately 330 to 400 feet. The leather additionally must be cured in the sun for six months, followed by curing in the rain for six months before braiding. Along with ear loops, shackles, water kits to keep the newly captured Elephant hydrated, and a long bamboo pole used to aid in the “roping” of the Elephant, the hunters make their way into the forest. Once the herd is located, the call is made, and the hunt begins. The hunters break off into two groups. Group one will refrain from the hunt this round and is tasked with herding the Elephants strategically to separate the bulk of the parade from the younger Elephants.

Once the herd is separated, the hunting division makes its move. But it is not just as simple as a coordinated effort to rope the young Elephant target. Capturing an Elephant raises your social status with each successful capture, and your first is a declaration of manhood. An Elephant, per tribal rules, can only be captured by being roped around the right hind leg. The first to do so is victorious. If an individual breaks this rule, his family and the head hunter, the Gru, must offer “many” buffaloes as sacrifices. A hefty forfeit, thus seldom broken. The hunt is performed by a pair working in coordination on Elephantback, making any legal capture earns a score for both riders. The captured Elephant is then climbed upon by its new owners and forced to carry the victorious hunting pair back to the village, where domestication proceeds immediately.

Other Laws of the Hunt

In addition to the basic rules of the hunt, the family must also make additional sacrifices and accommodations. The hunting pair must reside with the newly captured Elephant for seven days outside the village. Not to enter the village or interact with anyone from the village for the duration. The hunters are not even allowed to touch the cloth of their spouses or families. I assume, and this is an assumption only, that this practice develops a bond between the Elephant and its new family. During the seven days, the family of the victorious hunters must also observe a period of sacrifice.

The wife and family of the hunters in isolation are not to interact with neighbors. Avoid any work, including the processing or pounding of rice and sewing. They must fast and not bathe. Special leaves are even hung around the doorways to discourage neighbors from inadvertently coming by to say hello. I can only imagine this to be an homage to the Elephant. It is a tribute to its isolation as it is slowly incorporated into its new family—universal isolation and sacrifice before a new unity. Finally, after seven days, the Elephant is given a name from the family and introduced into the village.

Clothing and social status

He who enters into his first hunt must do so with only a loincloth. After five successful hunts, you can hunt with a shirt. After 20, you rise in status to the rank of Mandarin within the village hierarchy. 50 Elephants, and you become a tribal leader. 100 and you are entitled as an Elephant King. No one needs 100 Elephants. But, this is over a lifetime. Excess Elephants were traded as money in pre-modern times, often sold to other longhouses without hunters. But, whoever becomes the Elephants master, or Mahout, will do so for the length of either of their lives. Without Oxen and Horses, the elephants in Southeast Asia plowed fields, pulled timber. They helped build the wooden bamboo civilizations from the Jungle mountains to the Alluvial planes of the region.

Heading out of the village

After spending some time learning about the history and culture of the Elephants of Yok Don, we made our way towards the backside of the village. It what unsurprising that the way out of the village was lined with open-air restaurants. Shops filled with countless local and some not-so-local items for sale. It was sweltering, and we sat in the shade for a while while the rest of the family made their way towards us.

We ordered a few Nước Mía, or freshly squeezed sugarcaneaide as I can best describe it. An incredibly refreshing beverage made straight from pressed sugar cane and water. You see the stalls all over Vietnam, not just here. Sometimes the grinders are automated, sometimes hand-cranked. The color of lemonade, the beverage is sweet, but not as sweet as one would assume straight sugar cane would be, with slightly floral and herbaceous notes.

An Insane observation

The heat was mounting, and even the Elephants were called in out of the baking sun. Finally, it was time for us to make our way back to the city. As we stumbled through the village bazaar, we made our way past an abundance of vendors lined up on both sides of a steep hill. Local remedies filled with bark, dried mushrooms, berries, and other ancient natural goods for the things that ail you. Clothing and toys are both locally handmade and plastic prizes of capitalism. It was a strange juxtaposition. Diem and her sisters perused the mountain specialties, buying wild honey, children’s toys, and hand-ground cocoa powder. A recently introduced cash crop to the region. Like Coffee, it is expected that Vietnam will become the new chocolate exporter in the coming decades. A fact I had never even considered until I saw it for myself.

The Bazaar

Te Elephants on a lunch break

Amazing progress

It seems to me sometimes that there is nothing the Vietnamese can’t do and do incredibly well. The fifth-largest exporter of rice. The second of coffee, the largest producer of cashews, 6th of coconut, 3rd of natural rubber, the 6th largest producer of tea. And most impressively, Vietnam is now the number one producer and exporter of the most sought-after spice in all of human history, black pepper. It’s safe to say that you could not possibly go a day without interacting with a product produced, at least in part, in Vietnam. In manufacturing, the stats are just as impressive. One-third of all Samsung products are produced in Vietnam. The second-largest garment exporter to the US behind China. Smartphones, televisions, car batteries. It’s a country moving into its golden age, and they know it. The optimism for the future in Vietnam is simply infectious.

The real Village

As I left the bazaar and made my way to the main road, I knew Diem and her sisters would be a while. So I set out on my own. In search of something more real and less artificial. Not that what we had seen was not authentic. It was. But, in my experience, the genuine reality is usually hidden just over the hill or behind a thick but not very deep strip of woodland. I walked up the road and came to the official town hall, still in a kind of traditional construction, stilted with a steeply pitched roof. It stood higher than the surrounding buildings and of modern wooden construction. The local headquarters for the party. Imposing, overpowering all the buildings around it, complete with the bright red banner with the golden hammer and sickle. A clear message of who was really in charge here.

Town hall

I walked past and noticed some local villagers taking a break in the midday heat underneath the townhall. Just past, I came to a graveyard and knew I was heading in the right direction. The mausoleums and above-ground graves were an interesting mix of Vietnamese countryside sensibilities and flashy Thai Buddhist Wats. The gold symmetrical shapes that topped many of the graves screamed Khmer Kampuchea, or as we would say in the west Cambodian. I continued and came to a paved road that was lined with longhouses. No doubt the homes of many of the people we had interacted with on our day’s adventures. The dancers, musicians, mahouts, merchants, it was the reality of what lay beyond the Sugar cane water, chocolate, and ivory jewelry.

A captivating sight

As I continued my solitary exploration, I came across an older woman who sat in incredibly focused work. She was making a local dish, cơm lam, cooked sticky rice stuffed in young bamboo. She sat in a methodic meditation and glanced up at me briefly. I just watched in captivated curiosity. She stuffed the bamboo with rice and then used a traditional and rather large blade to trim the bamboo to almost a translucent thickness and laid them in a plastic basket. There was no one around but me and a few villagers moving product back and forth from where we were now to the restaurants firing up lunch for the masses that had come to see the glamorous side of the village.

She was in traditional dress from head to toe in 90-degree heat. A headwrap kept her hair out of the way, and the two ends laid down her back and front like a scarf. A large pile of bamboo shavings that would no doubt be used as fuel lay before her. Her work completely enthralled me. I have broken down whole chicken cases and fabricated beef boxes, but this woman had likely been doing this task for a lifetime. Sitting in the background of an ancient tribe trying to hang on to an almost lost way of life slowly consumed by progress. Yet, here she shaved and stuffed bamboo—day in and day out. I sat and watched her in deep admiration for some time. I eventually sensed that I had been gone from the group long enough, and I headed back to find Diem.

An unexpected detour

We made our way to the SUV we had procured for the day, and the driver was waiting with the air conditioner already at full blast. I really liked this guy. We made our way down the dusty road back to the main highway and towards Buon Ma Thuot. I looked at some of the videos and pictures I had taken of the village and realized we had only been about 30 miles from our hotel. But, holy crap, it took us almost two hours to get to the park. The sloth-like movement one must endure when traveling around the countryside sans plane never ceases to baffle me. That’s a twenty-minute ride back home. Here it’s an eternity.

In the rural district of Ea Nuôl, just north of the city, we again pulled off the main highway and down a long dusty road. Flanked on both sides by fenced-in coffee plantations, the driver pulled up to a booth at an entrance to a rather nondescript location, and everyone began to exit the car. Nothing was in English, nothing had been for some time, and we were in a tribal country still. So what little Vietnamese I did know was unhelpful now. We paid admission for exactly what I still wasn’t sure about and made our way through a large wooden gate bathed in red.

Vườn Muôn hoa – Trohbu Botanical Garden

Through the gate lay a wooded path lined sporadically with benches, displays, and additional paths leading off to what I did not know. Many things were written with Ede in them, and as we passed a replica longhouse, I was beginning to think this may be another tribal village. It was, in a sense, but not a real one. I discovered it to be a botanical garden north of the city in the design of an Ede, Rade, or Anak Dagar village, depending on who you are asking. But only in appearance, not in function.

We took a left turn a few yards down the path, and a rather large restaurant serving traditional local fare and a children’s playground appeared through the thick foliage. Diem and one of our friends from An Lao made their way to the restaurant to order lunch, I was definitely hungry, and I made my way down to the playground. It was awesome. It reminded me of something from the U.S. in the ’80s. Dangerous, unsupervised, tacky, dangerous, did I say dangerous? Just making sure. It was like a mini R.O.P.E.S. course. Only it was playing at your own peril. Definitely, grounds that would be deemed uninsurable back home. We suck the fun out of everything I said to no one in particular as I moved on to procure us a table.

Lunch

I found us a nice large round wooden table large enough to host the entire group and claimed in the name of the Nguyen clan, which isn’t terribly exclusive. Nguyen makes up almost 40% of surnames in Vietnam. A little cultural fact for you. In short order, everyone gathered around the table, and our waiter set up a large fan to give us adequate airflow in the large open, thatched-roof dining area. I sat in my red metal-framed chair reminiscent of 70’s America and tucked in for what I hoped to be a wonderful late lunch. Our driver, who had also been invited to lunch, quickly joined us after finding a nice shaded place to park the car.

As we assembled around the table, our waiter delivered an assortment of canned sodas, beer, and a bucket of ice. In restaurants across Vietnam, beverages are almost exclusively served warm with ice, including beer, and a variety is typically brought to the table when in large groups. This is done to prevent the waiter from running around. Then, when you finish dining, the unused cans are removed, and the opened beverages are added to the bill. It’s a relatively efficient practice.

The food

A few minutes later, chopsticks, plate ware, spoons, condiments, bowls of rice, and all the accouterments one would need to dine began to arrive. One of the first things to arrive after the rice was a plate of French Fries, and I chuckled. I don’t know why everyone assumes I can’t eat a meal without some sort of American fare. Diem knows this is not true, but we were with many friends, and I appreciated the gesture. Shortly after, two bowls with different types of fish stew arrived, along with sauteed water spinach and a whole roasted chicken. Finally, it was time to dive in.

Everything was wonderful as usual. The stew of what appeared to be catfish, with celery, fresh herbs, tomato, and an apple-like savory vegetable, was quite delicious over a scoop of rice. But the star of the show was a sauce that I ate almost all of. As best I could tell, a dip for the chicken was a freshly pounded concoction of fermented whole anchovies, fish sauce, chili, honey, and bacon-like bits of smoked pork. It was incredible. I ate it with the fries, chicken, rice and asked for more. A bowl of my own was going to be needed. We sat in the cool breeze and ate until everyone was satisfied.

The gardens

We made our way through the death trap playground to a path that led off into a row of replica longhouse-style pavilions—private dining venues for extra-large parties. A large group of diners had just left one of the pavilions and was still in a tornado aftermath-like state that accompanies a great meal in Vietnam. We continued to find a deteriorating obstacle course for adults. A strange sight, completely unsupervised deep in the forest. Now, mind you, though I have stated what the place we were currently in is, at the moment in time, I was still trying to comprehend the facility’s purpose beyond feeding people and calling ambulances. We bounded over and under the death traps that scattered the wooded area before popping onto a paved path circling a small pond.

The paved road was lined with replicas of tribal artwork, both interesting and at times mildly inappropriate. Several more pavilions in traditional design stretched out above the water. Again, areas for families to gather or maybe enjoy a few snacks from the concession stand sat in the center of the trail. Further up the trail, we came to a stone and brick building that seemed more medieval Chinese than Vietnamese and wholly out of place. Inside was a shop that rented traditional clothing and accessories for a few dollars. Diem and her sisters couldn’t resist. It was time to get into photographer mode.

Photo shoot

Diem and her sisters chose their clothes, I suggested green, and after a quick change, they made their way out and into the grounds to get as many pictures for their social accounts as possible. I, as is usually the case, would become the personal photographer for the group. A scenario that is not uncommon. As I’ve mentioned before, the burgeoning middle class loves to strut their stuff on social media as much as anyone. So, in typical Vietnamese fashion, sets and props were arranged across the property to get in those wonderful, where did you take those at, photos to share with friends who just had to be next to visit.

We spent well over an hour wandering the gardens taking pictures, trying to get the right lighting, and discovering every nook and cranny there was to capture the perfect image. A giant bird’s nest, painted walls, replicas of canoes and tribal architecture, rock formations, a circular chair like vined wreaths, stranger still, lots of fake trees with foliage in different colors to get those perfect fall pictures no matter what time of year. It was interesting, but in many ways, a very odd place. It had been a scorching day, and we were all getting a bit tired and parched. We purchased several bottles of ice-cold water and made our way back to the hotel.

A Farewell Dinner

We arrived back at the hotel in time for a much-needed shower and a little rest. But we had one last obligation to fulfill. Around 6:30 in the evening, we received a call that the family would be dining out. Everyone but Diem and I would be heading home in the morning. Diem and I had no itinerary at the moment for a departure. Only that our next destination would be Saigon. I still wished to trek out on a safari to observe wild Elephants, visit a coffee and rubber plantation, as well as a handful of temples and stupas. But tonight would be dinner at a famous seafood restaurant. I was excited to see what the offerings of the sea would be like in the mountain highlands.

A restaurant called Ác Ốc that was so famous and highly recommended that both or taxi driver and Google maps had never heard of it. I would soon find out that its actual appeal was due more to its proximity to the rest of the family’s hotel than any culinary accolades. This isn’t to say the food was bad in any way. Most of what I had was quite enjoyable, actually. If only exorbitantly priced, as Diem and everyone else were both quick, and often to point out. We were in the land of beef and wild boar. This was not the coast, and it was a long drive to the sea.

Ordering dinner

Diem gave the menu a quick look over and again commented vehemently on the price. We live in Da Nang, where we can literally buy shrimp as they are being hauled fresh from boats in the morning for pennies. Here a single squid was five dollars. It was a bit of sticker shock coming from a city of incredibly cheap seafood, but in the gran scheme of things it wasn’t outpriced, so we ordered a handful of dishes. We actually sat across the street from the restaurant. There wasn’t a table large enough in the restaurant for our party, so the wait staff set up tables along the sidewalk. It was dinner time in Vietnam, and more came to the restaurant, and more tables were lined up on the sidewalk around us.

Watching our servers navigate traffic to deliver drinks and dishes as they become ready was rather humorous. I walked across the street to see the offerings. Unlike Da Nang, where most seafood in restaurants is held live, it was probably a day old and packed in a traditional canoe with ice. Still incredibly fresh. I have become used to picking out my seafood live from aquariums and bubbly baskets filled with bivalves and shellfish submerged in crystal clear waters. I inspected the crabs, clams, and other delights laying in the iced canoe then made my way back to the table as some dishes arrived.

Dinner is served

One by one, the dishes began to arrive. A stuffed sliced squid with chili tomato sauce, razor clams, sauteed scallops still in the shell with chili green onion and peanuts. Turmeric fried rice, oysters, broiled with a slightly sweet and very rich bechamel. Steamed clams, squid hot plate cooked on the table, and a shrimp hot pot. As usual, it was family style, and we all dug in. In what I thought was funny, the first thing to hit the table, the stuffed squid, was the last thing anyone touched. It was the most expensive thing on the table and typically one of the cheapest coastal regions. So I took the initiative and snatched the first slice.

Everything was good. But nothing particularly stood out. Nothing had really stood out in our time in the mountain highlands except for the wild boar in bamboo we had our first night, the noodle breakfast this morning, and the deliciously addictive sauce served at lunch. Beyond that, the food here we found to be much tamer than its coastal counterparts. Chili seemed to be replaced with pepper, and flavors weren’t as bright. It was good, but it may just be a bias from living so long in Da Nang. The food is vibrant, spicy, funky, packed with fresh herbs, and the very definition of fresh. I think Diem agreed with my analysis. Most of the food we had eaten in the region was good. But I would be hard-pressed to point out a specific item that was amazing.

A quiet day

We had said farewell the evening before as dinner on the sidewalk came to an end. We had all intentions of seeing our brother, nephew, and sisters in Saigon soon. Before bed, Diem and I had closed the curtains tight and slept well into the mid-morning when I finally rolled out of bed. We were both exhausted and decided to take an easy day. I booted up my computer and got a few hours of work in while Diem ordered lunch, and we just kind of lounged around. It was a well-deserved break. We had been constantly on the move for days, and I was a bit tired. Eventually, the day began to fade into the night, and we decided to get ready and explore the city in the cooler hours after sundown.

We made our way to the lobby and called a taxi. We had him drop us off downtown so we could walk around. It was around six, and the city was all but dead. It was Monday night, but days of the week don’t typically mean the same as in the western world. School is often held on the weekends. Religion doesn’t dictate the significance of days as it does elsewhere. Maybe it’s just a quiet city. We were dropped off in front of the Buon Ma Thuot Cathedral that sits at the crossroads of two of the three main roads as they dump into the central roundabout.

Downtown Buon Ma Thuot

Across from the cathedral at the roundabout’s center sits a famous sculpture and monument, the Buon Ma Thuot Victory Monument. A commemorative socialist-realist sculpture. The monument commemorates the liberation of Buon Ma Thuot by the North Vietnamese Army on March 10, 1975. Less than two months before Saigon fell on April 30th the same year. The monument consists of a tank under a “rainbow” archway. Behind the tank sits a squared column with soldiers on top holding the Vietnamese flag. A small park surrounds the monument in the central roundabout, complete with ponds and beautiful fountains.

We made our way off the central plaza to what looked to be a promising direction. Some street vendors lined the sidewalk. A fact that typically leads to a possible night market. I was searching for a dish I wanted to try before we left, and tonight seemed a good a time as any to seek it out with a busy schedule ahead. Who knows if we would have the chance to wander the city again. We were here now. There was no better time than the present. I was looking for a famous red noodle bowl known as Bún đỏ, and I had no intention of leaving before finding it. You have to try the local noodle dish wherever you go in Asia. It’s just something one must do.

Bún đỏ

A Buon Ma Thuot exclusive, the dish simply means red vermicelli. The vermicelli is a thick version and is said to be the width of a chopstick. The broth, which gives the noodles their red color, is made from crab bricks. First, pounded whole cooked crabs pulverized into a brick, adding fresh cashew skins or cashew oil. The noodles are cooked in a fragrant and flavorful broth made from crab, cashews, and pork bone to pull in some red colors. Other ingredients include quail eggs, dried shrimp, pork belly, slices of minced crab cakes, or crab balls, shallots, and of course, lots of fresh herbs and greens.

We turned a corner and saw a sign for the very dish in front of a small storage unit-sized kitchen with a few tables set up out front. What we found were two old sisters who ran the restaurant. One was mute, giving the situation a feeling that the other sister seemed to always be looking out for her. The space was rustic, simple, and probably wouldn’t pass a health inspection back home. It was perfect. We sat down and placed our order for two bowls, and the ladies whipped up their magic and laid the bowls down in short order.

The verdict

This particular incarnation contained a quail egg, a large chunk of minced pork and crab, a half a tomato, a chunk of fish cake, green onions, sprouts, fried shallots, a dollop of chili paste, a delicious and very flavorful broth, and of course some fat rice vermicelli noodles. The bowl never had a chance, and I devoured the bowl with all speed. It was wonderful. Definitely the best dish I had eaten so far in the region. Diem was a bit slower in getting hers down, and she was full before it was empty. So I finished hers too. What do you want me to say? It was delicious, yes it was.

A walk in the city

After paying the exorbitant $2.50 for dinner, we headed down the streets to just check things out. Street vendors were posted up everywhere, selling everything from belts to other noodle dishes. Cooked chickens hung from carts above piles of unlaid eggs, shredded chicken, pork belly, knuckles, and bread. I immediately grew another appetite. But knew that I had already gorged myself on the day and perhaps should slow things down a bit. We decided to get some coffee and maybe a small dessert. However, another bowl of noodles sounded quite appealing. As we walked around a few blocks to survey our options, we came across a bewildering sight.

In the middle of a row of shops across the street were not one but two stores with substantial displays of beach toys. Buckets, shovels, plastic inflatable water toys. Now mind you, we are in the central highlands. Closer to Cambodia than the beach, some four-plus hours away. The closest body of water was the river we visited earlier today that crosses the Cambodian border. And I assure you no one was swimming in that toxic flow. Quite a number of some of the largest mammals on earth use it for their bathroom. But here in the highland city was everything one would possibly need to frolic in the surf. An interesting observation, to say the least.

Coffee and a wave of sadness

We eventually made our way to a regional coffee chain called Ben’s Coffee and Bread. A hip little spot just past the liquor vendor selling shots of ginseng wine and Cobra liquor. It was filled with young Vietnamese hanging out playing on their laptops or talking with friends. Not unlike something you would see back home, only without the jars of fermenting king Cobras next door. We sat with our drinks and mini mango cakes and discussed the next move in the coming days. There was so much we had yet to accomplish in the highlands. But we both sensed almost simultaneously that it was not to be.

As we discussed the future, the conversation quickly changed from what we may do to what must be done. An announcement had come across the network of friends back in Da Nang and family in Saigon. We hadn’t watched the news in days. But it wasn’t good. We decided to get back to the hotel as quickly as possible and assess the situation. A new outbreak had sprung up in the south—the fourth wave. Da Nang was affected as well. Da Nang had announced it would be locking down in 48 hours. We had no time to get through An Lao to get Xu. Our only option was to take the next available flight out. We have a dear friend who works for one of the national carriers to procure us two tickets on the only daily flight to Da Nang the following morning.

Into the unknown

We had been here before. It wasn’t uncommon. We get an outbreak, we lockdown for a few weeks, we went on with our lives. But this time, it would be different. We only had around 3500 cases and 36 deaths nationwide since the pandemic began when we got up in the morning and, without haste, had breakfast in the hotel restaurant. The airport seemed not too crazy either, just people trying to get home. As I write these words to finish this post now, how were we to know that 3 months later, we would have half a million infected and over 13,000 dead? It would become our somber reality. The Delta Variant had arrived, and it is vicious and ruthless in its absoluteness.

Extras

As a nod to the Ede tribe, we visited in the article, the representative from Vietnam in the 2018 Miss Universe Pageant was H’Hen Niê, a member of the tribe. The first ethnic minority to ever represent Vietnam, and a top five finalist in the international competition. For more on her incredible story of overcoming centuries of minority supression and segregation to help bring her people into the global spotlight click here.

In addition to our travel tales, we also do a series called the Dragon Diaries, where we talk about dealing with the not-so-fun parts of life on the road. From dealing with the pandemic to typhoon season. Below is the Dragon Diaries article of our return to Da Nang from Buon Ma Thuot. Essentially where this article ends.

For the entire Dragon Diaries series, you can click here. The articles are from newest to oldest, so scroll through for some crazy stories of hunkering down through major Typhoons in an Apartment near the beach, to our many struggles with the pandemic.

Click Here for an article about the Montagnard of North Carolina.

Click Here for the home page of the SMTP, or Save the Montagnard People. I want to preface this article by saying that the landing page is not fully accurate though their mission is noble. And thus, I wish to make a statement as to that. The landing page states that the Montagnard peoples of Vietnam are being eradicated through “long-term ethnic cleansing.” This statement was true in the aftermath of the war. But, as the nation has progressed into a Socialist Democracy, these peoples are currently a protected group. Great damage was indeed done to their numbers in the post-war years. However, there are now great efforts to preserve their culture and protect their ancient way of life.

Or click here for the Yok Don park homepage.