To the highlands

Da Lat gives me a strange feeling, both familiar and distant at the same time. It feels familiar because I live in a land where pine trees rustle in the wind, and I drink the cool, refreshing water flowing from the Lang Biang mountain range, perpetually shrouded in clouds. Yet, it feels elusive because this land is so new to me; I only moved here to become a resident of this mountain town when the city was bustling with its 130th anniversary celebrations in 2023. Every landscape, every color, every sound, every story of this highland city evokes so many emotions in me.

Da Lat, a different perspective. Photo: Vo Trang

I don't know when it started, but the name "Da Lat" has been deeply ingrained in my subconscious, even before I knew what it looked like. Perhaps it was from when my mother told me about the mountainous region, perpetually cold, where women had fair skin and rosy cheeks, where people always wore sweaters, trench coats, scarves, and hats when going out. Or when I saw the black and white photos of my mother gracefully wearing an ao dai by Cam Ly waterfall, by Xuan Huong lake with its pine trees casting their shadows. Or when I heard stories about the tragic love affair at the Two Graves Pine Hill, the legend of Than Tho Lake, Lang Biang mountain peak, and heard mention of landmarks like Dream Hill, Love Valley, and Prenn waterfall. Or perhaps it's when I'm moved by the melodies of love songs, by poems shrouded in the misty haze of a dreamlike land... I don't know, and I'm not searching for the answer, I only know that Da Lat has always been somewhere in my mind, a longing to visit someday, an answer I gave back when I was still in school and someone asked where I wanted to live. Later, after meeting and talking with many people, I realized that I wasn't the only one who yearned for this misty land, even before knowing much about it.

I still remember the excitement of my first trip to Da Lat on a short business trip. It was so different from the coastal region where I was born, and even more unlike the riverside city of the South where I spent my youth. I gazed at the city with the eyes of a curious child exploring everything around me. Subsequent visits have retained that same feeling. Every house perched precariously on the slopes, every winding road, every luscious strawberry garden, every cluster of flowers by the roadside evoked so many strange and wonderful things in me. I silently watched the ancient pine trees, imagining them as fortresses protecting the life of the land day and night. I stood on the "roof of the Central Highlands," gazing at the sky divided in two: one side swirling with heavy gray clouds pouring down into the valleys, the other bathed in brilliant golden sunlight. I drove, chasing after the rain, gazing up at the mountain peaks shrouded in a thick white blanket of rain. When I arrived, the sky had cleared, the clouds had dispersed, only the lingering moisture remained, forming thin white wisps of mist clinging to the waterlogged pine trees. I immersed myself in the highland chill on the Cam Ly slope, watching the city at night. The night was clear, peaceful, and silent. It erased all the noise of the day; the streets shimmered with a hazy glow, mist danced under the lights, the grass and trees were drenched in dew, and even my hair was numb with cold. I wandered through the seemingly endless alleyways and undulating roads, listening to the stillness of the night. Occasionally, a few flashes of car headlights pierced the silent night, a sound echoing from somewhere, stirring up a brief commotion before returning the night to its enveloping silence. I reminded myself to wake up before sunrise to witness the beauty of the plateau while everything was still drowsy and sleepy, the rolling hills, the jumbled houses, the silent gardens all shrouded in a flowing, shimmering river of mist. Then, as dawn broke, I could enjoy a feast of sparkling mist dancing in the first rays of sunlight before it vanished into thin air.

Even now, having chosen this place as my home and settling into daily life, I still reserve moments of quiet reflection to observe the city through the eyes of a leisurely traveler.

I retraced the route Alexandre Yersin used to discover the plateau, visiting the area around the square where his statue stands, gazing towards the mist-shrouded Lang Biang mountain. I envisioned the landscape of Da Lat when the explorer first arrived, with its houses and rice paddies of the ethnic minorities, people born in the mountains and whose lives are intertwined with the forest. I went to the Dan Kia area to admire the lush green pine hills stretching along the Da Dang River as it flows into Suoi Vang Lake and the vast, misty Dan Kia Lake. I gazed at the Ankroet Hydroelectric Power Plant, a beautiful villa nestled amidst the verdant pine forest, beside the waterfall that roars day and night. I visited the time-worn mansions, the residences of kings and queens, to feel the presence of every pebble, every branch, every blade of grass, every moss-covered wall still faintly reflecting the golden hues of a bygone era. I lingered for a long time before the dilapidated villas, filled with sorrow and regret, wondering if the former owners were still alive or gone. If they knew that these once charming homes, filled with laughter, were now nothing but ruins, how heartbroken they would be.

I strolled leisurely around the tranquil Xuan Huong Lake amidst the bustling city streets, watching kingfishers soaring and gliding, wondering how many memories, how many ups and downs, were hidden beneath the deep waters, marked by the passage of time. I admired the buildings stretching along the crystal-clear lake. There's the elegant white Thuy Ta pavilion by the lake. There's the magnificent Dalat Palace Hotel, weaving the love story of the last emperor and empress of the country, a place that also witnessed the upheavals of the times in each period of the past. There's the pen-shaped tower of the old Lycee Yersin school, dimly visible in the morning mist, proudly reaching towards the horizon, carrying the aspirations of knowledge. There's the lush green Cu Hill, with the verdant mountain range in the distance. There's the once imposing Dalat market, now humbly standing amidst the surrounding buildings. There's Lam Vien Square, prominently featuring two characteristic flowers of the mountain town, bustling with visitors. And there's the Thanh Thuy café, its purple hues shimmering by the lake. The rhythmic clatter of the horse-drawn cart sounds like an echo from a distant land.

I am fascinated by the villages within the city, the vibrant gardens of flowers and fruits, and the stories of their journey from the time of pioneering and settlement, to the creation of villages like Ha Dong, Van Thanh, Thai Phien, Da Thien, Da Phu, Truong Xuan... contributing to the reputation of this region for its vegetables and flowers. Each flower and each vegetable variety comes alive with its story, from its introduction to becoming a specialty that has spread far and wide over the years.

I observed the land horizontally to see the distinct features compared to places I had visited before, but I was also curious to look vertically, to understand the journey of development, to know the depths and nuances of each scenic spot. The Da Lat I first saw fifteen years ago was already a modern city blended with ancient Western charm. I don't have any nostalgia for the Da Lat of the past; I only hope to understand a little more about the place I live in, through the stories of the past and the faded pages of books.

It's strange, but Da Lat, a relatively young city compared to the length of the country, holds within it so many traces of history, the vicissitudes of time, the memories of many generations, the brilliance and the fading. Every inch of land and every road in this land carries its own layer of sediment. There are so many things I want to explore, and yet I choose the simplest way: to love this land, to maintain the same eagerness as in the beginning, to want to breathe the city's rhythm, to feel the joys and sorrows in the stirrings of this highland region.

Source: https://baolamdong.vn/van-hoa-nghe-thuat/202504/ve-chon-cao-nguyen-9100206/