My visit to Ha Long Bay
On a cool morning, I boarded a boat at Ha Long Bay for a two-day, one-night trip, eager to take in the breathtaking scenery. The water shimmered under the rising sun, casting reflections of the towering limestone karsts that surrounded us. As I settled into my seat, I noticed another tour group — French speakers, mostly elderly, chatting among themselves.
A petite elderly lady, wearing a gentle smile, approached me hesitantly. She spoke to me in Mandarin, which caught me by surprise. Her words were soft, as if she wasn’t sure if I would understand.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
I smiled, answering her question. She told me that she had thought I might speak Mandarin because, being Asian, it was more likely. I nodded and asked where she was from.
She was originally from Laos, but her story was far more layered. She had fled Laos as a refugee over 40 years ago, settling in France, where she built a new life. She had married, raised a family, and spent four decades in the foreign but welcoming land that became her home. This trip to Vietnam, however, she was taking alone, part of a tour group that spoke only French.
Her face lit up as she shared her story, but her expression softened as she asked for a small favor. She wanted some help taking photos. She didn’t have her phone with her — it was in another bag — and she had no email address, so I couldn’t send the pictures to here electronically. Her request was simple: for me to help take a few photos for her and print them out for her later.
She handed me a slip of paper with her address written in delicate, old-fashioned cursive. The handwriting was a little hard to read, and I wasn’t entirely sure if I could decipher it correctly. Still, I wanted to help.
We spent the day touring several locations within Ha Long Bay, at times sharing quiet moments between the vibrant landscape and peaceful waters. I helped to snap a few photos of her, capturing her serene expression as she smiled for the camera, her hands resting gently on the railing. These were not just photos; they were her memories.
Before we parted ways, I promised to print the pictures and send them to her in France. She offered to pay for the printing and postage, but I declined. It was only a few photos, after all.
Once back in Singapore, I thought about heading to a local print shop to print the photos and send them by post. But then, I remembered that there were online services that could print and deliver photos worldwide. I thought this would be more reliable, especially with an address in France, so I searched for a service that catered specifically to French addresses. After carefully entering her details — cross-referencing with Google Maps to make sure I had the right location — I placed the order.
Days later, I reflected on this small but significant encounter. Technology makes things like sharing photos effortless for most of us. We take hundreds, maybe thousands, on our trips, and many times we never even look back at them once we’re home. But for this elderly woman, those few photos represented her only tangible memories of this trip — a snapshot of joy and tranquility, perhaps a connection to something deeper.
Though I’m not sure if she ever received the photos, and I don’t know if she could contact me to let me know, the experience reminded me of the power of small gestures. Sometimes, the simplest act can mean the world to someone else. These moments, captured in a few images, have the power to transport us back to the joy, excitement, or nostalgia of days gone by. In helping her, I too gained a memory that will stay with me for years to come.
