It was Thanksgiving Day and we arrived at Hoa’s place to find him sitting with two other backpackers at a long wooden table with a growing collection of empty beer bottles. We set our packs down and asked about a room. “Don’t woooorry. We’ll work it out…” Hoa said. He looked at each of us with raised eyebrows, “Beer? Beer?”
The guy couldn’t have been friendlier. He pulled two beers for us, asked
our names and welcomed us to his place. Hoa assured us we could attend to the details of our arrival later, but now we should just relax. So leaving our bags sitting on the curb we sat down and he resumed his earlier conversation.
Hoa is a rather small man, even by Vietnamese standards. He speaks in a quiet voice but with an air of importance that had us all leaning in to hear what he was saying. There was also a slight slur to his speech and I was trying to figure out if this was his accent, an impediment or the result of entertaining the others well before we arrived.
It was really more of a one-way conversation because every time one of us began a story, he’d hold up his hand and say “Wait a minute… wait a minute…
We learned a few things about Hoa right away. 1) He’s been running this place with his wife for about fourteen years and 2) He drinks like a Marine but has the build of an eleven-year old and 3) Hoa can’t really hold his liquor very well.
As the afternoon progressed, other travelers wandered in and joined our gathering. Hoa continued to try to tell everyone the same story he had been trying to work through since we arrived hours earlier, but never seemed to be able to make it past the first two sentences before being distracted and feeling the need for a toast. By now Hoa’s speech was barely understandable and the toasts were becoming more exuberant.
By about six o’clock, Hoa’s particular phrase of endearment became “Fuck you man! No-no-no wait… fuck YOU, man!” This was inevitably followed by grin that turned into a belly laugh, a round of toasting, hugs around the table and for the lucky, a kiss.
This ritual went on for the next few hours. And then the head slapping started.
Like I said, Hoa’s not a big guy, so when he slaps your head it’s not so much that it hurts, but it’s more of a signal that it’s Hoa’s bedtime. And so his shy nephew – who had been silently monitoring the situation as he set the table for dinner - demurely grabbed a guy named Ben by the arm, took him behind a wall for a second and whispered something. Ben came back with a cheery smile and in his Liverpool accent beckoned Hoa for something really important. “Hoa! Over here. There’s something I need to show you!” Well, what Hoa needed to be shown was a bed.
Hoa was led to his room multiple times only to reemerge like a restless two-year old wanting to make sure he didn’t miss anything. After about twenty minutes of back-and-forth, Hoa passed out for real.
Hoa’s wife and nephew served a tableful of Westerners a feast of rice noodles, fried fish and spring rolls with spicy sauce. We clinked our beer bottles together and wished each other a Happy Thanksgiving.
And as Hoa says himself, “If I’m not here, I’m somewhere else.”
215 Huyen Tran Cong Chua Street
Ngu Hanh Son, Danang
hoasplace@gmail.com
tel: 0511 3969216
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