Da Nang Human Connections

At Con Market on Tuesday morning a woman and a man were negotiating over a bucket of crabs, fast, with hand gestures that grew bigger by the minute. Then a crab left the bucket. Everybody froze. Then a man in a green shirt ran after it. It ended with applause. I never found out who won the deal. I do know the crab reached the corner before they caught it, and I would like it known that I was rooting for the crab. The seller looked at me and said, you too?

I am looking at flats near My Khe Beach, and my favourites are on very different floors. The first is on the ground with a small yard, the other is high up with a view. Typhoon season runs from September to November, and I know what the listings say, but I do not know what residents actually decide. Do long-time locals avoid the lower floors near the beach, or is that something only newcomers worry about?

The dragon on the Dragon Bridge breathed water instead of fire and caught us both from the side, a perfect soaking, you and me at the rail with our mouths open. We looked at each other, dripping. You said, it is an honour. I said, it is an honour. We stood there another full minute because leaving seemed rude. Then we walked off in different directions, squelching in step. I am told the fire is on Saturdays and the water is also on Saturdays. I have been back three times and been wet twice.

At Han Market on Tuesday morning I was staring at a jackfruit like it was a maths problem. The seller, in a conical hat, took it from me, rubbed her knife with a little cooking oil, and opened it in four quick moves. She fed me the first piece off the tip of the knife. It was warm, sticky and tasted like candy. I bought two. I took them home and could not open either. I have a knife and a bottle of oil now. I have not told her.

At sunset my motorbike ran out of fuel at the top of a hill on the Son Tra Peninsula road. A family on a scooter, a plastic bottle of petrol tied to the back, stopped, filled my tank halfway and would not take money. They told me where the next station was and rode off with the empty bottle bumping against the frame. I did not catch their names. I keep a bottle under my seat now. I have not needed it. I think of it as a debt.

The night before a job interview I sat on a bench on the Han River promenade at 8pm, practising my answers out loud in bad Vietnamese. An old man two benches down corrected my tones without being asked and then pretended to be the interviewer for twenty minutes. He asked three questions. He was tougher than the real one. I got the job. I walk past that bench every evening and he nods like it is nothing. It is not nothing. It is a very large nod.

Did anyone find a dark green canvas tote on a bench along the Han River promenade on Saturday evening? It has a small yellow fish stitched near the handle, and the zip pull has been replaced with a bit of red string. Inside is a plain notebook full of pressed leaves and sketches for a friend's wedding gift. If it was handed to a cafe or a guard post nearby, that works too, or left on a wall somewhere. I will check this board again on Sunday.

dananglinh

Early one morning on My Khe Beach I lost a sandal in the waves and was hopping along the sand looking for it. You were riding a pink bicycle along the water's edge, stopped, picked up a sandal that was not mine, then another one that was, and handed it over with a very serious face. Then you rode on. I put it on. It was wet. It was the best wet sandal. I have never been so grateful to a stranger on a bicycle. I have looked for the pink one every morning.