I’m the foul one? Everything here is contrary to everything I know. From traffic to farming, to the way one moves one’s body, to the most minute bodily function, everything is backwards, and I’m the foul one? As we continue driving along the banks of the Perfume River, I realize the murky color is probably due to sediment run-off, but for now, all I can imagine is the runs.

Once we board the ferry and the minivan door opens, we happily stretch our legs. We find a spot at the front of the boat and I help my mom tie the ribbon on her sun hat. Near us a gathering of viet kieu men are snapping photos of each other. They are techies from Silicon Valley. They stand at the tip of the bow, their backs to the water, an arm casually draping the rail. The other popular pose is to put one foot on the platform while looking out to the horizon. It makes for a good profile shot. We all know the poses. We learned them from watching the Titanic. Meanwhile, the local men still sheltered from Hollywood, squat on the lower deck with their knees drawn up to their armpits. They’re playing cards. Our driver is dealer.

When our driver pulls up to my uncle’s house, I see a sinewy brown leg hanging from the hammock that reminds me of the roast duck hanging from my hand. It’s as idyllic as I’ve always imagined the Vietnamese countryside to be. Paradise green patches of rice fields surround a little but charming cream-colored house. A wide porch is shaded by a mango tree. The tree is dotted by fruit the color of a sunset under which a dusty dog naps on red soil. Slowly, the dog stirs awake. When it unwinds itself, it turns out to be a woman in faded gray pajamas.

The driver slams the door of the minivan and jolts the woman to turn. She rubs her eyes. Even from our distance I see tears sliding down her cherub cheeks. She asks, “Sister Number Five? Is that you Huong?” Then she screams, “My lord, Heaven and Earth have collided!”

The man in the hammock lifts his head. He turns first to the left and then to the right. I don’t see him face on yet, but I know he’s the uncle we’ve come for with his nose like a sail. He steps out of the hammock and unfolds his long thin legs. My mom sees him and breaks into a sprint. She is weeping when they embrace. It’s all so sweet and sentimental I cry too but can’t participate because I’ve got a pig torso hanging from my right hand and a pink plastic bag full of fowl hanging from my left.