Twenty Something, Somewhere

When you go on a fishing trip along Vietnam’s Mekong River, you may as well get started by literally plunging in headfirst and embracing the experience.

The deep, murky water laps up the edge of our boat as we drift downstream, gently tipping from side to side. A one legged Vietnamese man propels us through the currents, his bamboo oars reaching down into clearer water. Not unlike the Yarra River back in Melbourne, the Mekong‘s surface is dappled with mud and debris; just like the Yarra, you wouldn't want to swim in it.

The boat sways, and I look over my shoulder towards one of the many cameras. Larger boats pass alongside us, creating ripples that dislodge us from our place in the stream towards the little jetty made of broken branches and stones. The momentum lifts the boat to meet air between short, choppy waves, and without warning I found myself tumbling almost gracefully out of the safety of our canoe.

Twirling around and down into the humid embrace of the river, my eyes tightly shut but my mouth open in shock. While outstretched hands of my fellow passengers reach to save me, it is the slimy embrace of the river I find myself in. My landing is soft, squelching into the drifting sludge, and fingers of mud wrap themselves around me. Warm soup like water, smelling deeply of plants floods into my mouth as I splutter and struggle upwards.

I am dirty and disoriented but unharmed, and on the surface grins bloom on the faces of everyone around. Laughter rings out across the water, defying all of our language barriers.

Already dressed for the occasion, I led the plunge into the muddy banks of the Delta in search of a lunch we had to earn. The guide uses my unplanned swim as a marker and pulls into the mangroves, and my friends wade out to join me. Cold and squirming, elusive and slimy, mud drips through my fingers as I struggle to hold my fish long enough to smile for the camera. Snatched up by my bare hands on the thousandth try, the fish has whiskers and dull drab scales, camouflaging into dirty surroundings. The squeals of new friends around me as fish darted past them, brushing and bumping their legs unseen in the mud.

With that quick weekend trip to celebrate our new life living in Ho Chi Minh City, I was christened in mud and bathed in humidity on a day warmer and stickier than Melbourne could ever dream of being. It was a swim to remember, where I’ll never forget the taste of the Vietnamese country side.