A sweet dream, fragrant with cinnamon.

Tra My is shrouded in mist. Photo: MAI THANH CHUONG

A sturdy, quick-witted local young man led us deep into the village. The area was sparsely populated, and the roads were terrible. We had to leave our motorbikes behind and walk. "Never mind, just lead us to the most difficult place and see what it's like."

Scenery in the evening mist

We struggled through mud, climbed rocks, and at times had to use ropes to cross streams. Reaching the remotest parts of the mountains revealed a hardship far beyond our imagination. Growing corn and beans wasn't very profitable; most people relied entirely on cinnamon cultivation.

But cinnamon grows very slowly and yields negligible income. Although cinnamon is grown everywhere here, it still hasn't solved the economic problem for the people.

As someone who has come from afar to do charity work, I also feel a pang of sadness when I think about the plight of those who are isolated at the foot of the mountain here.

I asked myself: what joy and beauty do they get to enjoy when they spend their whole lives confined to small houses nestled beside towering mountains?

We were arranged to stay with a local family in the village. This house had the best living conditions. A great spiritual gift unfolded when I was fortunate enough to stay here: a simple wooden house nestled gracefully on the high mountainside.

Imagine this: the sun has just set, the last rays of sunlight fading, and I walk into the yard. Here, cinnamon sticks are spread out to dry, covering the entire yard. I sink into a chair on the porch, my eyes half-closed, inhaling the gentle, pungent aroma emanating from the dried cinnamon bark, in the sweet coolness that slowly seeps into my thin clothes.

Almost every household here grows cinnamon. They harvest the bark, cut it into small pieces, and neatly dry them in front of their houses. While admiring each piece of cinnamon, I was pleasantly startled by the sound of dew pattering on the eaves.

I could clearly hear the sound of the falling mist, a sound perhaps only heard in the late afternoon on such a high mountain peak. And the image I had imagined many times in my mind now appeared before my eyes: in the enchanting evening mist, the woodcutter and his wife, carrying bundles of dry firewood on their backs, leisurely descended the mountain.

They walked along, speaking very slowly about something, which I guessed was a very sentimental story. Then the mist obscured their figures. All the details before my eyes faded into darkness, leaving only the strong scent of cinnamon, which became more noticeable as the weather grew colder.

Sweet sleep

We had a very warm dinner with our hosts, even though they didn't know anything about us beforehand. At that moment, I was very grateful and thought that perhaps the most beautiful thing that is always present in the people here is hospitality.

Mountain girls and cinnamon trees of Tra My. Photo: MAI THANH CHUONG

It's hard to find anything more beautiful than the interaction between strangers. When hospitality takes place in a house so far away in the mountains like this, it's especially touching for travelers.

The host offered me a comfortable bed in the living room. Once settled on the bed, I listened quietly to everything, as if afraid of missing out on such memorable moments. Such experiences are rare in life.

The desolate mountain air made my feet a little numb. But something warm and comforting gradually spread, becoming clearer and clearer. Why was there such a strong scent of cinnamon in the bed?

In the flickering light of the oil lamp, I looked around the bed, but couldn't find any cinnamon. Yet, why was the scent of "high mountain jade cinnamon" so strong here? Taking another deep breath, I discovered the cinnamon scent right under my back. Reaching under, I was astonished to find a thick pile of dried cinnamon under the bed. It turned out I was lucky enough to be sleeping on a fragrant pile of cinnamon.

- Having trouble sleeping in an unfamiliar bed?

The homeowner came in from the yard, saw me bustling about, and called out to me. I sat up, turned up the lamp wick, and chatted with the homeowner.

Sitting on a bed fragrant with cinnamon, I listened as the host told me about the ancient cinnamon trees in Tra Van. There are currently about 100 ancient cinnamon trees here, some over 100 years old. The Ca Dong people, and even the Kinh people here, greatly respect these trees, considering them forest spirits that protect the village.

"April is the peak cinnamon harvest season every year. In the 1980s, one kilogram of old cinnamon was worth the equivalent of one tael of gold. But now, most of it is new, low-value varieties, leaving cinnamon growers in a precarious situation," the old farmer recounted sadly.
The arduous yet beautiful story of cinnamon lulled me into an unparalleled, sweet sleep.

The next morning, before bidding farewell to my host and descending the mountain, I slowly looked back at the bamboo bed crammed with cinnamon beneath. I recalled the feeling of having slept a fragrant sleep there.

I will forever remember the sweet fragrance in the cool air of the Nam Tra My mountains. And I know that the people living on those mountaintops are not entirely disadvantaged. They have things that are impossible to find in the lowlands.

Source: https://baoquangnam.vn/giac-mong-dep-thom-huong-que-3142178.html