I MUST HAVE FALLEN into a deep sleep—so deep
that I didn’t notice when a heavy rainstorm
broke in the wee hours and dumped a bulge of
water onto the blue tarp above our heads. By the
time I bolted awake around 4 a.m., the campsite
was in a panicked frenzy.
Cho’s 350-kilogram cardamom harvest was
on track to be worth nearly $2,000 at then
current prices, almost as much as Vietnam’s
annual median wage. But the bulge, with
enough water to fill a Jacuzzi, was sagging
directly above the campfire. We worried that
the tarp would rip under pressure, flooding the
pods beyond repair.
Shouting ensued. Pots and pans clanked.
Flashlight beams canvassed the darkness. Cho
scrambled up and leaped over the fire, flames
licking at his heels, and tried to retie a ripped tarp
flap to the tent poles. But the rain kept coming.
By the time the storm tapered off, nearly an
hour later, it was almost daylight. The tarp had
been further battered and ripped, and many
of the people underneath, including me, had
been half-soaked in the process. Miraculously,
though, the thao qua was dry.
As the sun rose, Duong donned his camou-
flage jacket and poured out two mugs of coffee.
My muscles ached from the hiking and scram-
bling, and my head was throbbing with a ruou
hangover. On our way up this mountain, Duong
had been full of energy and bravado. Now he
looked chastened.142 NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC