On a quiet beach in Hoi An, Vietnam, a traveller befriends a local vendor, overcoming language barriers and bonding over their shared human concept of happiness.
A serene beach in central Vietnam. Two lives. Pearls. The encounter. Souvenir of the soul.
During my trip to Vietnam, I spent a week in An Bang Beach. Just a short bicycle ride from the centre of Hoi An–across one major intersection and then along a multitude of rice paddies–it felt like a world away from the crowds and the cross-pollination of tailor shops and the picture-perfect silk lanterns of the old town. Its beauty was unpretentious.
When I arrived at the beach early in the mornings, no one else was around. On a clear day, only the Cham Islands lay before me, greeting xin chào from the opposite shore, only about 15 kilometres away. This is the same group of islands where divers harvest pearls for local vendors, who then craft them into jewellery to sell at An Bang.
One of those clear, bright days, with the Cham Islands in the backdrop, I met one of these vendors.
She was carrying a large ring around her arm, with her handmade pearl bracelets and necklaces hanging from it. Several sizes and shapes. Cream, pink, charcoal. All shimmering in the morning sun. I couldn’t see much of the person hidden behind an oversized brown hoodie that nearly reached her knees, black leggings, socks with sliders, a nón lá (Vietnamese conical hat), and a face mask. But she was definitely there. In fact, we had been exchanging faint smiles and little nods, although the conversation had never really blossomed between us. Until that day.
That day, I must have been gazing at her pearls more intensely than usual. Her silhouette approached me with the same rehearsed drill she used with all other foreigners who eventually came down to the beach by 10 am.
“Hellooo! How are youuu?”
As we started chatting, she asked about my nationality, my personal and professional life, and my impressions of Vietnam. She was eager to practice her English–or to sell me something. Or both. What she probably didn’t expect was to be asked the same questions in return. And a few more, too.
“Where are you from?”
She told me she’d lived there all her life, pointing to the village just north of the beach. She’d never been anywhere else. She’d like to.
Her family was very poor, and she had to drop out of school in grade five. That’s why she could read–she said, indicating her eyes–but was not proficient at writing–now moving an imaginary pen with her fingers. However, she had a “long career” in jewellery-making and she’d learned some English “thanks to you guys”.
“Are you married? With kids?”
Counting on her fingers, I understood she was 35 years old, and her husband was two years older. He’s a cleaner in a nearby hotel. They met when she was 15, married three years later, and by the time she was 21, they had their first child. Then a second one, a little later. In rural Vietnam, it’s apparently not uncommon to get married at a young age. When I revealed I didn’t have any kids, she joked: “Goood! Too busy! Too much money!”
With the basics covered, next came the quiz about the location and Vietnamese cuisine, which I kept reciprocating. Glancing at the basket boats by the shore, I admitted I hadn’t been in one. I could only share the story I had read: that bowl-shaped ‘boats’ were engineered by Vietnamese fishermen who couldn’t afford the taxes the French had imposed on boat ownership during the colonial period.
Those basket boats, called thung chai in the vernacular, weren’t the only peculiarity on the beach. I was curious to know more about the post-apocalyptic abandoned castle nearby–already imagining that it was likely to be another (more contemporary and less successful) story of financial hardship. She confirmed so.
“I quite like bánh xèo; I had it with prawns. What’s your favourite food?”
Hers was a regional delicacy of Hoi An: cao lầu, or noodles with pork and greens. She often ate at the sidewalk food stalls and offered to take me to the one with the tastiest recipes.
Enough with the small talk, I resolved after buying a small pearl bracelet. “What makes you happy?”
This was beyond her sales pitch. I sensed things were getting serious when she fished for her phone from her cross-body bag and opened Google Translate. She went on and on, recording what felt like an unnecessarily long message, then fiddled with it a bit more on her app. Time seemed to stand still for several breaths, building anticipation. If someone had asked me, I’d probably say that travelling makes me happy. The sunshine. Spending time with loved ones.
What would make her happy? Would she want to share that with me? Would the concept even be translatable?
Finally, she handed me her Android. The recorded message was now transcribed in Vietnamese, in black; its English translation was below, in blue. It read: “Meeting people who are nice and friendly.” I paused, caught off guard–then couldn’t resist a smile. What a reminder of our common humanity and the universal need for human connection.
“You have good energy; that’s why people are nice to you. I’ll go for a dip now. Today’s my last day here. Let’s say goodbye before leaving.”
Within a few hours, she circled back by my sunbed. The wind had risen, the sea dotted with kite surfers, and the Cham Islands appeared closer than ever. I explained I was headed to Hanoi the following day, for the last leg of my Vietnamese trip. She asked to exchange our WhatsApp contacts so we could keep communicating in English. I agreed and typed my number into her phone.
She shared hers by starting a new chat: an emoji with three love hearts floating around it.
“Can you spell your name in the chat, so I’ll save your number?”
“Vui vẻ.”
I wrote mine next. It auto-corrected to Lâura. With this diacritic, it looked like I was also wearing a conical hat.
“What does your name mean in English?”
“Happy.”
She gave me a tight hug, and we parted ways forever, while I kept thinking about what made Happy happy. And how happiness was, to a certain extent, already ingrained in her identity.
Melancholy. National pride. A free spirit.
On 30 April 2025, Vietnam celebrated 50 years since the end of the war and the ensuing reunification of North and South Vietnam. When I was still travelling, I witnessed how the entire country was preparing to celebrate this anniversary. At Hanoi airport, Vietnamese veterans on their way to the parades in Saigon were asked to remove their green pith helmets to pass through security. In Ho Chi Minh City, schoolchildren on an excursion to the War Remnants Museum were learning about the past, sporting full military gear themselves. I could only imagine what being in Vietnam must have felt like on such a historic occasion.
With the holiday blues, I jumped on Google Translate.
“Happy Reunification Day, Vui vẻ! Hope you have a great celebration.” I took a screenshot of the English text, together with the Vietnamese translation. Acute accents, circumflex, breve, hooks above, dot below; this language is seriously decorative. Sent. I knew Happy would be walking in the mid-afternoon sun or resting in the shade. But would the Cham Islands be visible on the horizon?
A heart reaction appeared within a few minutes.
I dug deeper. “What are your hopes and dreams for the next 50 years of reunification?” “Bạn có hy vọng và ước mơ gì cho 50 năm thống nhất tiếp theo?”
“I wish to be free.”
“I love you.”
Echo.
To this day, Happy and I are still in touch. One day, she recounts how her An Bang days are going; another, I show her some pictures of the Sydney Harbour. Translation software, photo sharing, and (yes, mostly heart-based) emojis enable our mutual curiosity and desire for connection–across borders, languages, and cultures.
