Small Bamboo Read online

  TRACY VO

  small bamboo

  First published in 2014

  Copyright © Tracy Vo

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available

  from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74331 615 3

  eISBN 978 1 74343 758 2

  Typeset by Post Pre-press Group, Australia

  To Duong Nam, my Uncle Five, who gave up everything,

  to give us everything.

  And to Peter Harvey, my dear friend and colleague,

  who taught me humility and to stay young at heart.

  We will always have Coldplay, Harves.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1 The Vo clan

  2 War

  3 After the war

  4 Saigon changed forever

  5 Another day, another dollar

  6 The escape

  7 Rising sun

  8 Island home

  9 Just a plane ride away

  10 The new life

  11 Entering the real world

  12 The Aussie way

  13 Vietnam down under

  14 Ugly skin

  15 Hollywood High

  16 The journo

  17 Sydney-town

  18 The Nine family

  19 Signing off

  20 Home

  Acknowledgements

  PROLOGUE

  I was on a plane from Sydney to Perth to see my parents, but it was much more than just a flight west. It would eventually take me back more than thirty years, all the way to Vietnam, back to a time when my parents were young and brave and desperate.

  Desperate enough to get on a leaky boat.

  In 2012 I had my first Easter break from work in about nine years. I usually spent my holidays on a big overseas trip but that year I decided to head home to Perth for a mini-break, my first trip home in four years, as my parents usually visited me in Sydney. While I was home I planned to treat my folks to a couple of days in the Margaret River region. Mum and Dad hadn’t had a holiday for many years and, in the thirty-four years they had lived in Australia, it was their first visit to the vineyards.

  We stayed at my favourite spot, Bunker Bay, where they relaxed, swimming and lying by the pool. I also took them on a wine tour. They loved it so much; Mum and Dad love their wine and champagne. It was nice to enjoy these moments together. On the last night Dad and I had dinner on our own, as Mum wanted to rest her aching knees after all the walking we’d done on the tour. It was wonderful to spend some time with my father. We had a lot to catch up on.

  In February that year Dad had been diagnosed with a rare autoimmune disease called Morvan’s syndrome. The disease is so rare that my father is sometimes used as a case study for medical students. Before he was diagnosed Dad suffered for years. One of the worst symptoms was that he sweated all the time. On one holiday to Melbourne, during winter, he couldn’t wear a coat; it just made him too hot. He’d sweat when he was eating dinner and even when he’d just finished having a cool shower. In the middle of the night, Dad would have to get out of bed and crawl on the floor to get rid of a cramp in his left leg. He would be in agony, trying to massage his leg, but nothing worked. When he had a cold or the flu, it would take him months to recover. For a couple of years he was very uncomfortable but never let on how bad it was. Dad had dozens of tests but it took about three years for the doctors to finally work out what was wrong with him. My father was so relieved when they diagnosed Morvan’s syndrome and could treat it.

  During our Margaret River dinner, Dad revealed he was worried about Mum and how bad her knees were getting. My mother has osteoarthritis and struggles to move around. Some days are tougher than others. Walking around the shopping centre to buy groceries can be a challenge—we can only go out for about an hour, and even then I’m always trying to find a chair for her. Mum loves to cook, and spends hours on her feet in the kitchen, cooking up a feast, but by the end she is spent. I tell her to take it easy but she doesn’t listen. Mum wants everyone to enjoy her food, and loves to make sure her guests are well fed and looked after. She never expects anyone to look after her.

  After our trip to Margaret River, I caught up with my cousins in Perth. They aren’t actually my blood relations, but very close family friends who share the same surname, Vo, and I’ve called them my cousins since I was a toddler. There are three sisters in that Vo family—the youngest Trinh, who is closest to me in age; the middle sister, Trang; and the eldest, Diem. Trinh and I are extremely close.

  My parents and I had been invited to Diem’s house for lunch. It was so lovely to catch up with the family. Trinh and their parents were there. I saw Diem’s two-year-old daughter Amberley for only the second time since she was born, and I also met Ava, Trang’s six-month-old daughter, for the first time. I sat next to Diem, having a girly chat, while my folks gossiped with her parents, who were helping to look after the youngsters.

  Little Amberley cracked us all up. She already prefers the company of men. She absolutely adores her grandfather and would rather be with him than her grandmother which, I think, offended her quite a bit. It was the first time Amberley had met my father but straight away she wanted him to hold her and carry her around. She didn’t even notice my mum. It was very heartwarming for me. I thought to myself, It would be great if my parents could have that experience, watching their grandchildren grow up, babysitting and helping to take care of them. Mum’s been waiting for grandchildren of her own for a while now, and she drops hints all the time, like, ‘Now we have time, we can look after your children when you eventually have them.’

  Catching up with my extended family, I had forgotten how much I had missed my cousins and their kids. I also appreciated how nothing in our friendship had changed, even though so much time had passed by.

  While I was in Perth I also caught up with a fellow journalist, an old friend from my university days, over dinner. Ebbeny moved to Sydney in 2003, six months before me. Three years later she returned to Perth. When I asked her whether she missed Sydney, she described how Perth was home for both her and her husband, and how she was able to pop round to see her parents and sister whenever she liked. I never thought I would envy something so simple so much. I didn’t have that luxury of dropping by my parents’ house for dinner, even for a little catch-up.

  I came home from dinner with Ebbeny to find Dad still awake. I’ve rarely seen him go to bed early; his insomnia is a symptom of Morvan’s syndrome. He certainly utilises his late nights—by eating! Dad eats an astonishing amount but he’s just skin and bones and never puts on weight. He eats all day and at night, when everyone else is in bed, he’s either making toast or cooking up two-minute noodles, which was what he was doing when I walked through the door that night.

  ‘How was dinner?’ he asked.

  ‘It was great seeing Ebbeny,’ I replied a little automatically while I tried to muster th
e courage to tell him about our conversation. Dad stirred his noodles and glanced up at me but said nothing. I made myself a tea and waited until he finished cooking. We both sat at the dinner table.

  ‘So,’ I finally said, ‘I had a chat to her about why she decided to move home, and she told me that it was because she’d had enough of Sydney and wanted to be with her family.’ Then I added, ‘It got me thinking . . .’

  I waited for his reaction—expecting, and hoping for, ‘That’s great she wanted to be with her family, and how about you, do you think you’ll come home soon too?’—but instead Dad said, ‘Well, you’re so successful in your career in Sydney. You don’t want to leave that behind.’

  It wasn’t really what I wanted to hear and I went to bed wondering how on earth I was going to tell my parents that I was, in fact, thinking of leaving my job in Sydney and moving home to Perth.

  For those two and a half weeks, I watched my parents closely. Heading into their sixties, they certainly weren’t as spritely and energetic as they had been before I left Perth. But despite their illnesses, they still worked themselves to the point of exhaustion, which really upset me. In the past I often tried to lecture them about taking it easy, but it never worked, and still doesn’t. I had always wished I could just provide for them, so they wouldn’t have to work anymore, but that’s not how my parents would want it. Mum and Dad are both work horses; always have been and unfortunately always will be.

  When it was time to say goodbye at the airport, I was sadder than on other occasions when I’d left Perth, and as soon as I took my seat on the plane, I burst into tears. I had no idea what had come over me but something was missing as I boarded that plane. Something really hurt. I didn’t want to go back to Sydney. I wanted to spend more time with my family and friends in my hometown. I felt like I had reconnected with everything that I had left behind almost ten years before.

  My life in Sydney was fabulous. I had a great job at Channel Nine, working as a journalist with excellent colleagues. I travelled the world. I had a lovely home in Lane Cove on the lower North Shore, and wonderful friends who had become my second family. I had built a whole new life in Sydney, with such a strong support network that I did feel like I belonged there. But within two weeks I knew in my heart I wanted to go back to the West, to my real home. I thought about it long and hard. It was one of the toughest decisions I have ever had to make. I also knew it was a decision that I had to make alone, so I didn’t really consult too many people about it. When I told some of my closest friends what was on my mind, they said they would be devastated to see me leave, but if that was what I wanted they would support me. I can’t remember exactly when I made up my mind but it was all locked in the moment I walked into my boss’s office at Channel Nine to tell him. It was a complete shock to him.

  I had told my folks first about my decision. Mum was really supportive, but Dad still wanted to make sure I was doing the right thing, for me and my career. ‘Why would you leave? You have a great job and you’re building on it,’ he said.

  I guess my career was taking off but I felt I had achieved so much already, and I was more than satisfied with that. I knew I could have achieved a lot more in Sydney but there were also many opportunities in Perth. Eventually I convinced my dad it was the right move, and he was, of course, happy that his daughter was heading home. In fact he was so excited he told all his friends and the ‘Other Vo’ family straight away; my uncle and aunt and my cousins were ecstatic about the news.

  Telling my parents was much easier than telling my friends and colleagues in Sydney. I had become so attached to them. Seeing the same faces at work was comforting and familiar. Now I was leaving my security blanket in the big city, coming out from beneath the covers to a new world that was in some ways familiar, but in others not. For me, nine years away was a long time, and I’d missed out on a lot in my Perth life. I was only twenty when I moved to Sydney, so I’d missed my mates’ journeys through their twenties. I had missed my cousins’ children being born and growing up. I’d missed lovely dinners with my folks, and great chats over a glass of wine. It was during those chats with my parents that I learnt so much about my family—about their lives before they came to Australia, what they did to get here, their sacrifices and their motivation. My life could have taken another path, a very different path, if they hadn’t taken the risks they did. Their strength, courage, determination and, most importantly, their compassion have made me the person I am today, and the person I hope to be. Mum and Dad have hearts of gold.

  That Easter holiday changed everything—my priorities, my goals, my needs and my family’s needs. My parents never stopped me pursuing what I wanted to do in life. Every opportunity that came my way, they would encourage me to go for it. I had the freedom to enjoy the life they could never have experienced in Vietnam. Now it was time for me to go home.

  1

  THE VO CLAN

  People hear about big Asian families consisting of eight or more children. Well, my father is one of twenty-four kids. Yes, that’s right—twenty-four. He is number eighteen, the second youngest of the twelve who are still alive today. It’s a huge family, full of so much joy and laughter, but also so much heartache.

  Tragedy struck Dad’s family very early. It was 1947.

  My Uncle Two, the oldest son in my father’s family, was born in 1932. He was much loved, as he was the firstborn. In Vietnamese culture we use numbers to describe who is where in the family tree. My grandfather is number one so his firstborn is number two, and so on. How far you go with numbers really depends on the family. I call my younger uncles and aunties by name, not by their number. Some families even go by nicknames rather than real names. It can all be quite confusing.

  Uncle Two was extremely intelligent. As a teenager he loved school and was always at the top of the class. My grandmother was obsessed with going to psychics and fortune tellers, and one day a fortune teller told her that Uncle Two would become leader of Vietnam when he grew up. She was very proud. Her son was just fifteen years old when he was offered a scholarship to finish his studies at a prestigious French school in Saigon. Uncle Two was so happy, he couldn’t wait to get home to tell his parents. All his school friends congratulated him, telling him how proud and excited they were.

  As he walked home among the hustle and bustle of honking scooters and ringing bicycle bells, Uncle Two couldn’t contain his excitement. He had the biggest grin on his face. Suddenly rain started bucketing down, but he didn’t care. He just laughed and enjoyed it. He thought to himself, I’m off to a great school and this will bring so many opportunities for the future. I will get a good job and help provide for my parents and the rest of my family. When Uncle Two told his parents the news, they were thrilled. The family celebrated with a huge feast, inviting relatives, friends and even the neighbours to join them.

  The next day Uncle Two wasn’t feeling well. His whole body ached. He struggled to get out of bed but didn’t think much of it. He thought he’d just caught the flu in the rain the day before and would be fine in a few days. But he didn’t get better and in fact his condition worsened. My grandparents weren’t sure what was wrong with their son and took him to the doctor, who gave him some medication—back then it was mainly basic prescription drugs from France, or Chinese medicine. There wasn’t much available. The doctor said Uncle Two should recover in a couple of days. But the medicine didn’t help.

  Grandma then mixed up some Chinese herbs, all kinds of concoctions, but they didn’t work either. My grandparents watched as Uncle Two, their eldest boy, became sicker and sicker. He fought for weeks but eventually he died of pneumonia. The sudden loss of their firstborn broke my grandparents’ hearts. They had experienced two emotional extremes in just a few weeks—the joy of their son’s educational achievement, and then his sudden death.

  A dark cloud shrouded their home for months. My grandfather took it very hard. He found day-to-day life difficult. Their other children were also devastated, and tried to comf
ort their parents. My grandmother, pregnant with her tenth child, my Uncle Eleven, tried desperately to keep it together. That year Grandma experienced four deaths on her side of the family, so she shed a lot of tears while she was pregnant with Uncle Eleven. Grandma thinks that emotional toll had an effect, as Uncle Eleven has a constant slight frown on his face, even when he’s not upset. My Grandma would always say in Vietnamese, ‘Mat No Buon’, which translates to ‘His face is always sad’.

  Over the next two decades my grandparents lost twelve children, mostly through sickness, when many of them were young. My Aunt Nine passed away from a virus when she was only nine years old. But the lives of my grandparents were always enriched by the love and support of their surviving children.

  All my aunties and uncles were well educated. That was the main priority for my grandfather, who had learnt from his own childhood that without a proper education, life would be tough. Grandpa had such a wonderful soul. I loved him dearly. He had a creative mind and was constantly reading books. Dad believes my love of books is due to my grandfather’s influence. Grandpa worked as a draughtsman for a French company in Saigon until his retirement. He has had a huge influence on all the male members of the Vo clan, and my father and uncles have very kind words to say about Grandpa. Uncle Seven wrote to me from Canada about him:

  Your grandfather, Tracy, I would describe him as an ordinary man, but humanly gifted. He’s a man with a lot of simplicity and a man of discretion. At all times, facing all situations whether good or bad, joyful or sad, he possessed a quality that everybody wished to have, and this quality is tremendous calmness. He always had the right words that one should say in whatever situation. In many conversations between the two of us, he often answered my questions (especially when I was a child or a teenager) first with a smile that says it all, a loving smile and an understanding smile. I have to mention here that my wife often tells my two sons that: ‘Your Grandpa had the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen, the smile of generosity, the smile of forgiveness. I wish to see this smile as often as possible on your faces. And on your father’s face too.’ Then she laughed and continued: ‘I think it’s too much to ask, but just try.’