No Likes Needed

Wandering through the damp alleys of Hoi An in Vietnam one cannot avoid having their senses flooded by the vibrant swaying lanterns, the cacophony of food smells, the hum of mopeds swarming the streets. And still, amid this ruckus of sensuality I notice the draw. The technological tether. The craving, the bent, the social media monkey clawing at my back. The monkey chatters, “post this, post that, like, like, like!”

In dreaming of travels to Vietnam I had hoped to escape to an ancient land where both my cravings and the wifi were weakened. Turns out, this mesmeric country offers three bars of cell reception wherever you roam, and wherever I go, so too goes my social media sweet tooth.

As I think about my phone purposely out of reach stuffed deep in the bowels of my backpack beneath foul damp socks and underwear that will be disposed of at trip's end, something catches my eye.

She catches my eye, the monkey goes quiet with curiosity about this woman whose face is soft brown wrinkled leather. I know better than to believe it is just an aesthetic appeal that draws me to her.

My spirit grabs the nape of my neck and says, “watch this one, she has something for you.”

Two bags swing at her sides, their contents hazed by pale yellow plastic and I feel that natural-born curiosity simmering as I trail her through a courtyard, down another alley. Her pace is slow, hindered by stooped back, rusty knees. Horns call from the street like mechanical parrots. Tassels dangling from brightly colored silk lanterns brush the peak of her hat and I wonder how long. How long has she walked this path? How long has she listened to the babble of these streets? How long will she be here? How long will I follow?

“Watch this one, she has something for you,” my curious spirit whispers again.

Emerging from the alley, she steps up onto the curb, not without some effort. I want to take her sharp elbow and help her navigate but I fear my presence would change the course of history, create a butterfly effect in some ancient daily ritual.

From the dim entrance of a modest home, a much younger woman appears with boxes and two shallow baskets — a storefront materializes in an instant. The old woman lowers her thin frame onto a stool, only inches off the wet sidewalk—a feat impossible to most North American arthritic knees and decommissioned backs.

“Watch this one, she has something for you,” I hear again.

First from one plastic bag then the next tumble a herd of miniature glistening red elephants. They roll into the baskets but are not quite ready to be seen. I study her wrinkled hands as she adjusts the baskets, turns the boxes underneath to face the right direction, sets each ruby elephant to sit just-so. I watch her fingers touch everything in her sidewalk store. Somehow I know she has made each of these porcelain pachyderms. It’s in the touch. It’s in the love.

“Watch this one, she has something for you.” I hear it one final time, knowing the moment—the window—of learning is coming to a close.

She leans back, surveys her two shallow pools of red elephants, leans forward one last time to turn one basket an inch to the left, the other an inch to the right. Bringing her hands together in her lap, she experiences something that is a fleeting wisp in my own life.

She settles into satisfaction. And beyond that, she is proud.

It is not a marathon or a climb to Everest she has completed, or a surgery she has performed, or a life she has saved. She has done no ‘thing’ that will garner thousands or hundreds, not even a single like on social media. No one will notice the love she has put into her work. No one but her. And by the look of dignity on her mocha face, the way her hands sit as quiet as two weathered birds in her lap, as people pass by the herd of pint-sized crimson elephants, her own approval is all she needs.

As I kneel, pick out, and pay for my favourite pachyderm, I say “cảm ơn.” I say thank you for the tiny treasure, and more importantly, for the freedom I will have for the rest of that day, my cell phone remaining in its gamy hiding spot in the bottom of a backpack.