Summertime Storms

Vietnamese Summer Holiday kicks in at the beginning of June, and with it come hoards upon hoards of local tourists. Although our trips remain largely unaffected by the influx, the number of junk boats on the bay increases drastically. It’s always easy to spot those carrying Chinese and Vietnamese tourists– they’re marked by dozens of girls in strapless sundresses, wide straw hats and jeweled stilettos posing with selfie sticks while men wear swim shorts revealing way more upper leg than I ever wanted to see.

The entire atmosphere of the islands has changed. Motorbikes swarm the streets and propaganda blares from loudspeakers. Christmas music covered by children screams on repeat from mini-marts while carousels add ABC’s to the cacophony. Electric tour carts weave through crowds, carrying people who’ve elected not to walk home. Dozens of little plastic chairs pop up around tables filled with tacky U-paint plaster tigers and fire trucks. Ladies post up on corners with scales and massive baskets, selling lychees by the kilo.

The noise never stops.

Although the main influx of island tourists is Vietnamese, we also see a rise in Westerners. Many of them bring confirmation to the idea that travelers are, in essence, ambassadors for their countries. Although by working in the tourism industry I interact with a miniscule portion of a nation’s citizens, those individuals form my overall perception and opinion of their countrymen. Undoubtedly they influence my initial judgment and behavior toward those I work with in the future.

They teach me that people from some countries will generally be happy to hang out and talk, interested in why I’m here and what my passions are, treating me with respect for my abilities as a guide and my knowledge of the area where I live and work. These are the nationalities I enjoy seeing on my register when I enter the shop before a morning trip.

They teach me that people from one country will come off as self-entitled and arrogant, while those of another nation will without fail be high-maintenance and stingy. These are the people for whom I put up mental shields as soon as they walk into the office; who I expect to treat me as though I’m below them.

The atmosphere can be utterly overwhelming for an introvert like myself after a long day working around people. The refuge of home, just across the peninsula in Ben Beo Harbor, has become crucial. Here, I can lay back atop the roof on a slackline as generators shut down for the night in the bay, watching lightning flash overhead… and what a show it is.

Electric storms come two or three times a week now, preceded by choppy seas, massive swell, soaring temperatures and air so thick it feels like I breathe more water than oxygen. Thunderheads blot out stars, heralded by furious wind and blinding sheets of water. Lightning blazes through the sky every second or two for hours on end. Thunder peals and cracks, reverberating amongst islands, shaking buildings and shattering the world around me.

Late in July, the weather turns weird. Strong gusting wind one afternoon on the bay signals the arrival of a storm and we wrap the trip early. The boat crew cuts our engine every few meters as we top massive choppy swell after swell through the channel leading back to harbor. We ferry customers, guides and gear to land on basket boats through deepening dusk and rain so our big boat doesn’t crash and break against the pier.

For the next week life on the island comes to a standstill. The sea churns, water colored deep brown with sand and silt. Swell crashes into small islands, sending spray hundreds of feet into the sky to soar over jungle cliffs. Wind whips as rain batters trees and windows. Water cascades down hillsides, sweeping rocks and mud into gutters and overflowing into streets to obliterate new-laid pavement. Hillsides collapse, sloughing truck-size rocks into roads. Signs rip from trees and posts, branches sprawl across the waterfront and downed power lines lie coiled in puddles.

Transport to and from the island halts and the island empties of Vietnamese tourists as news comes of villages flooding, fishing boats flipping and people dying. As cranky Westerners come into the shop to gripe about delayed travel plans, statistics name the present storm as the heaviest rain in a condensed period in over forty years. Apparently, compared to the next province north, Cat Ba has had it easy.

When storms break, the bay calms once more. Sun shines and water settles, the sea’s surface turning glossy smooth. Waterfalls of runoff and seepage form veils amongst mineral tufas, tumbling from overhung rock into the sea. Wildlife re-emerges. In the cathedral of my favorite hidden lagoon up north, langurs appear to lounge amongst shrubbery and trees as they cling to plunging circular walls. Giant black and white owls swoop around us in circles before disappearing in the jungle and squirrels race down rock streaked black with moisture to feed on fresh vegetation as once again, new life begins emerges in the wake of sustained chaos.