Island Christmas

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The people of Quan Lan Island don't know how difficult they are to reach. They don't know, that even if Hanoi is only 100 miles away, I still had to take a bus, walk 1.5 miles to an unmarked pier, compete for a seat with two dozen other people on a twice-daily speed boat run, be sure not to get off at the first stop (wrong island), and then take a 10-mile ride in a three-wheeled mini-truck whose bounce was surely reminiscent of rides in a stagecoach. They don't know any of that.

They have miles of wide windswept whitesand beaches, almost completely untouched by humans, except for the detritus of the sea that lines any corners. Though ancient sandbars connect the hills to form a long, thin island that I easily explored on a rusty bicycle much too short for me, the villagers are quick to point out they are separate and distinct from the other parts of the island, with their own schools, piers, beaches, and turquoise waters.



Almost every house on the island is new or being renovated with income from tourism or remittances, and children are ubiquitous -- hunting for frogs in the marshes, catching eels for dinner, chasing dogs, or climbing trees. There was no trace of Hanoi's honking traffic or the island's summer crowds, just me and two miles of beach in either direction.