We had breakfast in the morning with Bao, his wife, and their son. The little fellow of 5 sat at the end of the table next to me. The restaurant was decorated for the new year and was a beautiful place. We ate more in restaurants in Da Nang. I could only guess it was because this was where Diễm lived and worked. She knew where to go and where not to go. We had a magnificent breakfast, broth rice noodles with minced fish and casaba. I had two cups of coffee, of course, and we sat chatting about our time in Hanoi. If you remember, Bào’s wife spoke English, and as I was surprised to discover, so did their son. 
I sat beside the boy, and we talked about Spider-Man and his favorite color red. Like Western children, he was not interested in the vegetables in his morning soup. His noodles, broth, and bits of beef were placed in a small bowl without anything green, as he made clear, and he slurped away. I imagined this must have been the Vietnamese counterpart of the ever-popular Mac and cheese back home. Simple and kid-friendly. Bào was a smoker, and his pack of cigarettes gave me a giggle. I think you’ll see why. We finished breakfast, paid the tab, and said our farewells. I told them I hoped to see them again before I went home and I meant it. 
We climbed into a cab with our luggage and headed for the makeshift transport stop. climbed into the “Limousine” shuttle bus and settled in. I sat in the front seat. I never knew why I was afforded that luxury, probably because I was the biggest person on board, and no one wanted to be crammed next to me. There was a small woman with her baby between me and the driver. We stopped a few times as we headed out of Da Nang to pick up more passengers, and the lady and her baby were the unfortunate souls to be the last boarded. I tried my best to give them room but feared if I pressed myself against the door any harder, the mechanism might give way, and I would go tumbling into the dusty country road. It was around 11 a.m. when we finally got moving consistently. I guess I wasn’t paying much attention to time these days and often didn’t even know what day of the week it was without having to check, and we were headed 4 or 5 hours (this number was never evident) into the jungle towards Cambodia to see the homestead. 
I was very excited about this part of my journey as I had an idea it might be special. We packed more people than seats and more items than space. It was an efficiency I could not have duplicated. Except for my suitcases, my computer and other belongings were piled high in my lap. The belongings of others stuffed under my legs. It was cramped, it was noisy, and off we went. For a very long time, the scene was unchanged, rice patties dotted the landscape, and towns came and went. Here, at least, the raised dirt causeways that are conjured up of images from the war were replaced by wide asphalt highways and gas stations. It was very different from home, don’t misunderstand, but you could sense its underlying commonality of, say, driving through the southeastern United States with the corn fields and cow pastures just off the road. This rolling scene continued for several hours. We stopped for breaks a few times, and sometime in the afternoon, a hand reached over my head. Diễm was handing me a banh mi in a long paper sleeve and water. The sandwich was just in time and delicious. The water is much needed. We continued slowly but steadily for what seemed like hours.
We finally turned west for a while before heading north into the mountains. We had been traveling south-southwest for over 3 hours. As we started into the mountains, the scene changed rapidly. Lazy mountain rivers, terraced patty fields, coconut trees everywhere. Cows wandering the roads, misty jungle mountains looming all around. This was the jungle scene my mind was looking for. Time seemed to go in reverse as we headed farther, higher, deeper into the jungle. The road became less managed, and the homes and businesses became visually more necessitated. It was evolving in front of me into a world my mind was telling me could not exist. Motorbikes were becoming more antiquated, and the husbandry here had no fences. Chickens in the streets, dogs patrolling the trash piles. I could see the kilometers ticking down on the inconspicuous little blue and white concrete markers that popped up every few kilometers. An Lao was finally within reach. We made a few stops to let people out. As the shuttle began to empty, Diễm moved into the front with me. I was happy to see her. The lady and the child had not been the greatest of co-passengers. Every hour or so, the woman, I guess from car sickness, would lean forward and vomit in a bag. She would tie it off and hand it to the driver. No matter where we were, he just tossed it out the window.
At one point, we stopped in front of a Salon to let passengers out, and it was quite the scene. Open air, ladies chatting away as hair was cut and nails were done. Close your eyes, and it will sound the same as anywhere else. Visually, it was very interesting. Finally, the bus came to a stop, and Diễm gave me a nod. We got off the bus and retrieved our luggage. As the bus pulled away, an armada of motorbikes descended upon us. It was quick, and I wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. They balanced our belongings and us on the backs of their two-wheeled transports, and away we went down a narrow path deep into the jungle. 
