Anyway, so somewhere while I was ruminating on this ancient history, I stubbed my big toe, bang on. It hurt, but I it shook off and didn’t think much of it. During the bus ride back to Hoi An, a quintessential Asian town where we have been hanging out the last few days, my toe continued to throb and, when I stood up to leave the bus my ability to walk normally had drastically diminshed.

I decided it would be a good idea to ice my toe and elevate my foot while jft fetched us some lunch because the pain in my toe by this point, wow, it was bad. And I didn’t want to think too much about the fact that perhaps I had either sprained or fractured my toe. The ice was good for numbing the pain and that sort of thinking.

We had some things to do after we ate, including a fitting for a coat being made for me by one of the dozens of local and inexpensive tailors, a trade Hoi An is known for. We also wanted to head to a lithe and easy going seamstress who had caught our attention to look into getting some things made for jft, including dress shirts and perhaps a suit.

Since I was still hobbling about and in great pain whenever my toe was even remotely flexed, I decided the only way I was going to be able to walk was to immobolise my foot by taping my big toe to my second toe, then wrapping my whole foot with a tensor bandage. Nothing extraordinary really, a lot like what you would do in North America if you had sprained an ankle. Once this was accomplished with jft’s help, I wedged my well-wrapped foot into my croc and we set off, sort of.

While jft made good time, I hobbled several metres behind him. Locals passing by on bicycles and motorbikes started noticing my slow, hobbled progress, as well as my overbandaged foot, and several stared with mouths gaping. As I passed people whiling away the heat in the shade of their storefronts and homes, some asked me what was wrong with my foot.

A little surprised by their vocal curiousity and what appeared to be genuine concern, I simply just said, “I’m ok. I just hurt my foot. I will be better soon.”

When the seamstress we stopped to see noticed my foot, she insisted I come into her shop without taking off my shoes ( it is custom to take off your shoes before entering many Asian establishments, especially a home). The concern I saw in her face as I explained my injury reminded me very much of the reaction I’d see on my own mother’s face if she could have seen my bandaged foot right then.

When we left the seamstress, a woman at the shop two doors down from her cradled her face as her eyes bulged and she asked me about my foot. The HORROR and PAIN of my predicament continued in the eyes and exclamations of locals until we reached the tailor shop where I was going to try on the coat being made for me. As we entered, the woman working there noticed my bandaged foot, pointed and exclaimed, “WHY?”

Taken aback by her loud and somewhat odd question, I simply told her what I had told the others.

After this point, the pointed cries of “WHY?” followed me through the afternoon and early evening, as we sought out a place for dinner and then made our way slowly back to our hotel.

The final “WHY?” came as I looked to soothe my chocolate craving at a convenience store across the street from our hotel. As I approached the store, the young men seated in front began staring, gesturing and talking amongst themselves. As I turned into the store, the woman working there pointed at my still-bandaged foot and with great force and alarm she cried “WHY?”

Although her initial cry startled me, I explained calmly that I had hurt my foot but that I would be ok.

Today my big toe is much better, thank you, and I have not needed to bandage it or immbolise it any way. Fears of a sprain or fracture were, it would seem, unfounded.

I still can’t figure out why exclaiming “WHY?” has become the English way for local Vietnamese we encountered to express what appeared to be genuine concern and curiousity about my predicament. I am curious to know if the Vietnamese equivalent of asking someone “What happened to you?” literally translates to “WHY?” in English. Even more startling, I suppose, is the fact that everyone who saw me seemed concerned about my injury, and perhaps by extension, me. Although the attention was startling, I can admit their concern was just a little bit flattering, especially since every where we go being a Westerner — a white person to be specific — often means haggling me to buy a t-shirt, a book, a motorcycle ride to my hotel, dinner at a restaurant.

I will say, although jarring, the “WHY?” moments are a great way to meet and strike up a conversation with locals, even if the horrified crying of “WHY?” follows you into your slumber.