Renee's Weblog

The Long Way Home

As quoted by the immortal Porky Pig, that’s all folks! This is so corny and typical but true: I can’t believe it’s really over.

Here I am on US soil after traveling for over 2 weeks since leaving VN. I was in Europe visiting friends and family. It was fun, wonderful, but COLD. I just couldn’t get warm. Has living in VN changed my body chemistry, I mean really how will I deal with winter in Colorado?

I am not there yet - Colorado. I leave on Friday. Right now I am in Maryland at my parents. (They of course can’t understand why I don’t consider Maryland home.) I still feel like I am on vacation and will be returning to VN any day now. It’s like I am dense and the reality will not sink in.

In addition to being dense, I have become (and this is really embarrassing)…a bit sentimental. I am hoping this is part of the reverse culture shock process and that it will end soon. So, danger: sentimentality ahead.

I am in a strange place – on my way home, but not there yet, visiting people I know and love but not quite comfy in my own bed. This going home in stages is wearing on me, and, I believe, exacerbating my sentimentality. I’ve been thinking – musing, ruminating – about Colorado. And also about Vietnam. I am sooooo looking forward to some things, and so longing for others. What is happening here?

Of course I hit a wall of reality when I went shopping the other day. Gasoline is over 3 bucks a gallon! I hair band was $3.50. And coffee …. my god I almost passed out at Starbucks. That place is a rip off. And iced coffee is just not as delicious unless you are drinking it while sitting in a tiny red plastic chair in 95 degree weather and sweltering humidity.

So, at the risk of making a complete fool of myself here are my musings from the past few weeks.
…………..
I can’t wait to see the Rocky Mountains again, gorgeous and serene.
I missed the wide, empty prairie sunrise.
Not that I saw it much, but the ones I did see I remember clearly.

And that point heading west on I-70 soon after the turnoff for Buffalo Bill’s grave where you drive over a rise in the road, and suddenly the continental divide explodes in front of you.

I missed the fluffy snow and how clean it feels to breathe in ice cold air, and the bright blue winter skies of Denver; wearing a coat, hat and gloves – bundling up to go out. But I also missed the Colorado summer because, you know, it’s not that bad cause it’s a dry heat. And I missed burritos from a local joint and parks in the city and dogs on leashes.

I even missed the brown cloud, and moronic Bronco fans, and the Purina Factory on I70.

I missed knowing that I am home.

For a while, all I could only think of was what I would not miss of VN: the traffic, the noise, the pollution, the diarrhea. The always sticking out, being stared at, the inability to be anonymous.

But oh there are other things that, already, I long for…sumptuous fruit that I don’t even know the names of; tacky, girlie sandals; impressing people with my mere presence and feeble language skills, and then being humbled mute by their gratitude.

And Gary the Gecko who lived in my bedroom and the eerie hiccup-like noise he would make at a certain time in the dark night just as I was falling asleep. I miss those LOUD and sometimes whiney kids in my alley who greeted me with echoing enthusiastic hellos as I opened my gate. The ridiculously difficult-to-open padlock on that gate, I might add, I do not miss. I don’t miss the food quite yet, but I can tell that is coming.

And then I remember, riding my motorbike through the crazy streets of Saigon on a breezy, sunny day and saying to myself not quite believing it: this is me, I am here…

OK, I gotta stop before I get stupid.

But you get the picture. Speaking of which, I have a few photos from my last days I Vietnam. There are also pics of my short trip to Europe, but not many and in all I look like I am freezing my ass off, which I was.

I fear that this blog will hold no interest, now that I have left Vietnam. Obviously it will not be the same. I am thinking about what to do next, blogingly speaking. I have a few ideas but need to work it out more and need to get settled first. So, perhaps you will hear from me, in a different context, in a few months.

Please let me thank you all for reading this blog the past two years, and for emailing and supporting me with your words and your friendship. It’s kept me going in low times, and made me excited in the good times because I knew I’d have someone tell the story to. Really – it’s meant the world to me. So, let’s stay connected.

Always, r

Lallygagging in Lao

I spent the Tet (Chinese lunar new year) Holiday in Lao (its correct name)– about 10 days. It was "lovely", as my co-traveler, Laura, would say. Yes, Laura is yet another - but hopefully the last - of my VN housemates. We flew to Luang Prabang, traveled by minivan to Vang Vieng and on to Vientiane, then flew back to HCMC. The minivan rides are an adventure all their own, but more about that in a bit.

Luang Prabang, in the northern part of the country, is surrounded by hills and bordered by the wide Mekong River. The weather was warm, sunny and dry as it was the middle of the dry season. I think it would be even prettier in the rainy season because it would be more lush and green. In size it was somewhere between a large town and a small city, with quaint alleyways, hints of French colonial architecture, and dotted with pagodas. It seemed artsy and had a wonderful café culture. It was also quiet (aside from rather insistent roosters), and, to my wired and weary Saigon temperament, soooooo laid back. Laura and I thought we were in paradise.

The city and the people were so mellow it cast a spell on us. The Laotians are known to be quite superstitious so the idea fits. We seemed to have difficulty getting motivated and making decisions; we were in bed by 10pm at the latest every night.

However, we did manage a day of hiking in the beautiful hills around Luang Prabang and visited some ethnic villages of Hmong and Ede?? people. These villages were quite simple, thatch huts and dirt floors, but the most unusual thing was they seemed to be populated almost entirely by children. The parents were working in town on in the fields. But in truth the whole country seemed to be “run” by children – they were working in guest houses, restaurants, everywhere. Every so often you’d see an adult, and rarely an old person. Then I read that the life expectancy was 55 years. Yikes. I also read that Lao is the most bombed country on earth. That put things in perspective.

But really, to experience it first hand, it didn’t feel sad or depressed or demoralized. (And, much like Vietnam, it did not feel particularly communist.) It felt easy and open and friendly, and very laid back. So much so that you couldn’t really make reservations at a hotel, let alone actual plans. But that is part of its charm, so we went with it. Oh, and did I mention that LaoBeer is famous for being the best tasting beer in SE Asia?

In Vang Vieng there was even less impetus to do anything – other than stare at the stunning karst scenery (from an inner tube in the river, especially) and wander around the country side on a bicycle. We managed to visit a cave hidden up one of the jutting karst (limestone) mountains – it was huge, like being inside a cathedral, and pitch dark with no lights, signs or guides. At the base of the mountain was a sort of oasis, with cold, translucent-green water surrounded by cool trees.

And, now, the mini van rides. The first ride was eventful only for its winding path through the mountains and brake fluid problems. Ho hum. The second ride was eventful for the other passengers – a cast of characters befitting some sort of reality survival TV show. It was Laura who referred to it as a perfect depiction of the fine line between hilarity and violence.

There were: myself (meditating in the front seat to stave off impending motion sickness), Laura (a soft spoken Scot with a gentle demeanor), an Australian biologist (quiet but somewhat vague and suspicious), 2 elderly Japanese men (at least 75 and fragile, one with a mouthful of sticky rice residue – of course sitting next to nauseous me), a young Japanese man on his own (apparently at the end of his rope of bad experiences with fellow international travelers), 2 thick necked men from Manchester, England (if you know anything about “Mancunians” you won’t be surprised to read they had tattoos, crew cuts, and missing teeth. They also stank of alcohol at 9am), a middle aged German nurse (with a utilitarian haircut, sensible shoes, and a clear cut idea of what constitutes appropriate behavior), and finally, a gregarious and beefy 60-some year old German (with a handle bar mustache and a ribald sense of humor) and his 30-some year old wife from St Petersburg (a reubenesque blond with fake braided hair extensions, even faker lips, and the thickest Russian accent that sounded fake but wasn’t), and the driver, (a Laotian with a predilection for answering his mobile phone while taking curves when there was on-coming traffic).

Suffice it to say that the ride was memorable. There were a few…commotions. One started when the German nurse wagged her finger at and scolded the Mancunians for being too loud. Another started when the Russian Bo Derek wanted to move to a different seat displacing the young Japanese kid. All of this having overtones related to previous world wars, I believe. Then the Russian began to discuss with our sweet Scotts her secret to marital bliss – an S&M love life. This entranced the Mancunians and enraged the German nurse. I’ve no guess as to what the 75 year olds were making of it all as they sat stoic and unflinching through the whole trip. And the driver was to busy taking calls to comment.

But this was the most stressful part of the entire vacation in Lao, and well worth it in entertainment value alone. After all, it helped to break up all the lallygagging. (yes, I know this is the British spelling, but it works better in this context).

Please see my photos of Lao in the albums to your left.

Priceless Advertising

In January I participated in the engagement ceremony (see photos) of my work colleague, Nhu, who you may have seen on this blog before. It necessitated my wearing an Au Dai (traditional VN outfit than looks beautiful if you weigh 80 pounds). During the ceremony, as one of 7 attendants to Nhu, we received traditional gifts from her fiancée – including cakes, liquor and jewelry. Oh, and a suckling pig – which is what I got to carry, of course. A biracial Latina in an Au Dai carrying a suckling pig – I felt the universe laughing.

In the first week of February I conducted my last training in Vietnam, in the province of Dak Lak in the central highlands. This province is home to the Hmong and Ede “ethnic minority” peoples, as well as the Kinh (VNese). On my day off, I did a little touring with my translator Hoa. We visited a local minority village (see photos). On our way out of the village Hoa told the driver she would like to buy some Tron, the special plant used to season the local rice wine, for which this province is well known. The driver says he knows the man to see, and it’s on the way….

The old man said his name was Ama Cong and that he was 94 years old. He is famous throughout the province for two things. First, as an elephant hunter - reportedly he has captured more than 200 elephants over his lifetime. Second, for his Tron - it is believed his seasonings hold medicinal value. The old guy is the best advertisement for this.

Ama Cong sits on a straw mat on the floor of his wooden home on stilts just off the main road. He is very thin, clear thinking though perhaps a bit hard of hearing, and looks about 75 years old. Also in the room is a young girl about 10 years old, she looks at me with a faint smile but doesn’t speak to anyone. We are invited to sit down on the mat. Hoa begins asking about the seasonings with the driver acting as interpreter because Ama Cong didn’t speak much Vnese.

There was a commotion and in walk 2 women, one about 60 and the other about 30, and they are both wearing the traditional long, wrap skirt. They are loud, blurry eyed and unsteady on their feet. They seem like they are high on narcotics. I suppose they were drunk, although perhaps there is a little more to those seasoning plants than flavoring (more advertising for the Tron.) My instincts as a social worker kick in – I edge my back towards the doorway (though to be honest I did not feel at all threatened) and looked around to see where the little girl had gone.

The conversation continued as Hoa attempted to negotiate a price for the Tron. But the old guy was asking a huge sum – 10 times the norm. The women interrupted the conversation at one point. The driver spoke to Hoa, and Hoa got my attention and said that woman is his wife – she was looking at the younger one. Her? I asked incredulous. Yep, Hoa said with her eyebrows raised and her lips tight. Wow, even better advertising for the Tron. The little girl looked just like the young woman, so I suppose she is his daughter too. If true, that’s worth more than a super bowl commercial. I mean, you can’t buy that kind of PR.

Still, it wasn’t the kind of PR that impressed Hoa. The price of the Tron was too much. The mood of the room got a little weird, and Hoa said let’s go, so we did. When we got back to the hotel Hoa looked at the Trong sold in the store there. It was the same exorbitant price as what the old guy asked. She talked to the clerk about it. Yep, they get it from the ol guy Ama Cong. Seems no one is beyond the reach of good advertising.

Vanessa’s Vietnam Tour or How to Create a Café-Sua-Da Addict

As many of you know, my sister was here for the holidays. She tore herself away from husband and kids to come be with me – just us, first time in years we sisters had such a long block of time together. It was wonderful. We travelled up and down the length of VN and had some neat adventures.

Vanessa also discovered one of Vietnam’s greatest treasures – Café Sua Da – or Iced Coffee w/sweetened condensed milk. Yes, it’s what the angels in heaven drink. Once you have a perfect one, you are on a search for the next perfect one. And so on, and so on. After more than 1 ½ years of living here I knew how the addiction develops, and yet I still exposed my sister to it…..mea culpa. Needless to say, Vanessa learned about the nuances between coffee served in Saigon, Hue, Hanoi, and beyond.

We spent Christmas in Saigon, going for Christmas Eve brunch to the Sheraton Hotel with my housemates…it was quite a treat for us. I think Vanessa was amused by our childlike excitement about all that delicious western & VN food, and by our endless conversations regarding what was on the menu and in exactly what order we would eat it. Did I mention it was All You Can Eat and that we are Volunteers and English Teachers? Did I mention that between us we've probably lost over 50 lbs and dealt with Dengue Fever, Amoebic Dysentery and multiple cases of the big D?

After a few days recovery from the post Xmas Eve brunch self-induced food coma we took a 1-hr plane ride to Quy Nhon, on the central coast. We stayed at the gorgeous Life Resort, a so called getaway health spa. At this time of year the weather was cool; the scenery was stunning. Quy Nhon is up and coming, still a bit of a secret and not bombarded yet by tourist. Here we indulged ourselves in yoga overlooking the beach and a massage in the spa surrounded by ocean breezes and pretty gardens. We took a bicycle ride on the road that ran through the hills overlooking the ocean, and stopped for café sua da at a local café-hut. Of course.

From Quy Nhon we took a train north up the coast to Hue. After my last train ride I swore off VN trains, but Vanessa really wanted to give it a try, and since I am responsible for her new addiction I thought it only fair. Actually the train ride was amazing. It seemed the tracks were set on a sliver of earth between the mountainous jungle and the ocean. The weather was a bit stormy and created this silver haze, sometimes making it hard to tell water from sky.

We arrived in Hue during a downpour. Well, to be honest, I don’t think it stopped raining the whole time we were in Hue. Of course, Vanessa was pleased because it gave her an opportunity to stop for coffee. At one point the streets were flooded by a foot of water, and everybody just stopped what they were doing and sat in the open store fronts waiting for it to recede.

We spent a quiet New Year’s in Hue drinking the French champagne Vanessa brought me with the hotel owner, whose face turned a festive shade of red (common in VNese men when they drink). We walked around Hue’s beautiful Citadel (fashioned after China’s forbidden city), and took a day’s boat ride up the Perfume River to see gorgeous mausoleums of former kings.

From Hue we took a flight to Hanoi. I’ve been to Hanoi several times now for work and pleasure but it was a chance for Vanessa to see the capitol city, the seat of the indefatigable Viet Cong, the home of Ho Chi Minh. Vanessa was astounded at how the coffee in Hanoi was served in a completely different, though equally delicious, style from the coffee in Saigon. Of course.

From Hanoi we took the night train to Sa Pa, way up in the northern mountains close to the Chinese border. Starting in Hue I began to complain about the cold weather, so by the time I got to Sa Pa I was inconsolable. It was the first time I wore socks in Vietnam – big, thick, wool socks with sport clogs, because I forgot I had boots stored under my bed in HCMC. The train ride to Sa Pa was long and dark, the train creaked and groaned as it climbed up to 12,000 (?) feet. When we crawled out of our sleepers in the morning we were in a different world. Of course, there was coffee so for Vanessa it was not too different.

It was mountainous, and there was a thick, wet, heavy fog over everything. It never lifted for the 2 days we were there. It completely obscured the view, but was somehow beautiful, serene and mysterious, adding to the town’s character. We had a wonderful adventure there.

We hired a local guide to take us on a half-day trek to the surrounding villages of the local “ethnic minorities” (local indigenous tribes). Our guide was Ban, a twenty-two year old Black Hmong woman who spoke English with an Aussie accent learned from tourist. Her favorite phrase was "No Wa-aay". She was a gem – friendly and bright, spoke 3 languages wonderfully but wasn’t literate in any; a fabulous guide who talked to us about her life, her marriage, her family, her people. We had such a special time with her. She took us to her village, and her home and her mother’s home (a local “shaman”), and to a village of the Red Zao people. We bought lots of kool things in Sa Pa and the nearby villages. And we left with warm memories and a terrible cold.

After travelling for 2 weeks, Vanessa and I were a bit worn down but she still had a week left in VN. I had to do another social work training in Ben Tre so she came along. Of course, I think she heard that the coffee was good there, and also that it was in this interesting place called the Mekong Delta. And there we had another real VNese adventure.

I had a day off of training so my sis and I, with my interpreter Hoa, rented a small boat for a day. We went deep into the delta, into small canals. It was beautiful, but also strangely reminiscent of all those VN war movies. We stopped and walked around on land for a bit at a small group of houses. People came out to greet the foreigners. One woman, silver haired and almost regal, invited us for coconut juice at her home down the path. Of course we went. Thatch roof, dirt floor, but spotless, and a lot of land filled with fruit trees and a tiny island-plot with goats. She invited us "inside" and poured us fresh coco juice. Her husband was there. At first we chatted about the weather, the land. Then based on a few comments the old guy made the wife stated that her husband was well known in the community because he was a war hero. A Viet Cong war hero.

Gulp - but they knew we were American before we knew he was a war hero, and they openly invited us to their home, so friendly and generous. The old guy started telling a few war stories; and, the wife too. Eventually I raised the nerve to ask him how he felt about Americans. Oh, he said, I hold no grudge; we were all just common folk, all following orders, doing what our leaders told us. He was so -I know this sounds corny- magnanimous and also un-dramatic. Really, I don't think he held any grudges, or even dislike, let alone mistrust.

Vanessa, of course, was a bit disappointed that they offered her coconut juice instead of Café Sua Da. But still, she enjoyed the visit. And when we returned to HCMC before her flight home she managed to get in one, final, perfect glass of Café Sua Da. Or two.

Please see the photos in the file “Vanessa’s Tour”, I believe they illustrate all points made in the previous paragraphs. Also, new photos in La Familia show nieces in the items bought in VN.

Ain't Life Grande?

“I wake up in the morning torn between the desire to save the world and to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day. ~E.B. White

This could be my mantra as an overseas volunteer. There’s so much to see and do while I am in this part of the world, oh yeah….and there’s my job too. I have been thinking a lot lately about what I want to do and see while I am here as my time is approaching its end (my job is set to end in March). But really I have been quite busy with work.

The Social Work skills trainings in the provinces of Ben Tre and Dak Lak have continued, and I have been holding monthly Social Work discussion groups, and I did a talk on Family Therapy at the Open University in HCMC (which has the longest standing social work “program” in Vietnam). I also visited one of the three Mental Hospitals in HCMC (which sees 10,000 patients a year!!). They asked me if I could help get them a VSO volunteer. So I am earning my keep.

One of the things about traveling to the provinces is I spend most of my “down time” with my interpreter, Ms Hoa, and other VNese colleagues. We have some interesting and fun discussions…often about culture. And religion. And sometimes about sex. I get to learn about Buddhism, and some of its teachings. Frankly, I am not much of a believer in the Buddha or anyone else but the conversations are intriguing.

Ms Hoa was talking about the notion of “doing good”, the idea that if you put it out there you will get it back. Got me to thinking about what I am doing here in VN. Am I here because I want to have fun or am I here to work? Really, I can’t say what good I am doing. I actually have a fear that I am spawning what might be thought of as a little dangerous knowledge. You know the saying? And then that got me to wonder what I might get back. Yikes.

Then there’s the Buddhist idea that if you are having a tough life it is because you are paying for some very bad thing you did in your last life. Hm. There are moments here when things are just not going well that I think I must have been a Nazi or an Indian-killer or something the last time around. Sometimes when someone asks me why I am here volunteering or why I became a social worker I resort to a Catholic word….penance. Strangely, it seems connected to the Buddhist last life thing. Do you think the Buddha and Jesus Christ might have made good drinking buddies?

The other thing about traveling to the provinces is that I have no internet access at the hotel, so I must venture to an internet café. They are usually sweaty little rooms jammed packed with 15 year old boys and literally humming with the strain of all that electricity (photo). Recently I found a less sweaty than normal internet cafe in the cool highlands of Dak Lak. The boy next to me was chatting in VNese with someone whose picture was of a blonde busty playboy-type model. Wait, I thought to myself, that is Pamela Anderson! How about that! The teenybopper boy sitting right next to me is chatting with Pamela in VNese. I wonder where Pamela learned VNese, and even more impressively how she learned to TYPE with all those VN tonal symbols. Wow, I guess she is a lot smarter than she looks. You just can’t judge a book by its’, er, cover…..OK, now are you getting why I think I may have been a war criminal in my last life?

Of course, it’s not that the scene above was so horrible for me. But it exemplifies the cultural divide I face all the time. How would you explain to that little VNese teenager that he is not really talking to the person in the picture, that there are people, yes even Westerners, who would lie and take advantage of him? And then apply that to bigger concepts – like how the WTO isn’t necessarily such a fantastic thing for your family, or how all that industrial progress is poisoning your air and water, or that those technological advances are chipping away at your culture and traditions. The other day I made a comment about not wanting to use the mosquito repellent because the chemicals may not be healthy. My VNese friend said but Johnson & Johnson makes it and they wouldn’t sell anything that might harm people. Tears nearly came to my eyes. Sometimes the people here are so naïve, I feel scared for them.

Then there are other moments. Some of them sublime, some funny, and some a little bit of both.

One evening I was hanging out with Ms Hoa in her hotel room talking. She asks me if I want something to drink and opens the little fridge (it is, after all, the best hotel in town – a government “party” hotel…no, not that kind of party the other kind of party). She lists out my choices: water, Red Bull, Winter Melon Juice, and Bird’s Nest Soda. What on earth is birds nest soda I scream? She laughs, calling me culturally limited, and then explains that it’s not actually made with a bird’s nest, it's made with bird saliva. Like that is going to expand my cultural horizons any.

Another time we went out to have dinner at a local eating joint - very basic but tasty food, grilled pork with rice and a tangy-spicy fish sauce. We are sitting on tiny child-sized red plastic chairs (ubiquitous on VN sidewalks for eating and drinking). Yes, it is warm and yes there are flies. It is also dark. There is an almost musical hum of a generator. But why is it dark if I hear the generator? I don’t know. Some things have no clear answer. This is why you need the Buddha, I think to myself.

Nonetheless, I am also enjoying the world here too. I spent my birthday weekend on the lovely island of Phu Quoc (see photos in album labeled Dec06). Before I left I had dinner with my 3 house mates (of course, photo). I am currently living with three 20-some year old boy-men; a Frenchy, a Spaniard, and an American. Who wudda thunk I could make that claim on my 44th birthday? As you may have guessed it is far less exotic than it sounds…actually, I feel like a den mother.

Even more exciting news (for me at least) is – my sister Vanessa is coming to visit me for almost 3 weeks (sans kids & husband). We will be traveling up and down the country – reminiscent of our European backpacker days oh so many years ago. Only back then we did not actually backpack together. Who wudda thunk 20 years hence we’d be doing so in SE Asia? Again, ain’t life grande!?
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Where's Nguyen Van Troi When You Need Him?

OK, it’s a bad joke but under the circumstances I just couldn’t help myself.

In case you don’t understand, I will explain. Actually, I only just learned it the other week myself. The same week, in fact, that another US Secretary of Defense was “sacked”.

Nguyen Van Troi is the name of the large boulevard that I live just off. It is the main road to Tan Son Nhat airport. My street, Truong Quoc Dung, intersects NVT Boulevard, and my house is down the first alley on the right. So from my roof terrace I can see NVT Boulevard. WHAT – you maybe be wondering – does this have to do with anything!

Well, it seems that Nguyen Van Troi was a young Viet Cong soldier/sympathizer who lived in Saigon during the American War (as they call it here). He is famous – and had a major Boulevard named after him - because of what he did during one of the official visits of then Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara. He attempted to assassinate the good Mr. McNamara in his motorcade by blowing up the bridge over the canal that is part of NVT Boulevard. Alas, he did not succeed in killing anyone but himself, albeit indirectly by firing squad. But no matter, because today he is considered a hero and martyr of the American war.

And so, in another time and error (oops I mean era) though, oddly, the same place…I am thinking of Nguyen Van Troi as George Dubya Bush attends the APEC conference here in Vietnam. The APEC conference is being held in Hanoi, but Dubya is coming to my fair city in the south to visit for a few hours. At least that’s the scuttlebutt.

If he does, I imagine he will land at Tan Son Nhat airport and ride in his motorcade straight down NVT Boulevard and over the aforementioned bridge. In fact, that bridge is being repaired and so is currently under construction…raising the image of what happened there 30 some years ago, and thus creating the temptation to make the joke almost unbearable.

If you have been following Dubya’s visit to Vietnam in the news at all perhaps you have gleaned some information about the social, political, and economic changes going on here. It is truly amazing. It is also inescapable, meaning one cannot escape witnessing and experiencing the evidence of the changes. Perhaps the most obvious of which is the boom boom construction. Everywhere…including NVT Boulevard, my street, and my very own alley. In point of fact I am writing this early on Saturday morning because that is when they start working on the house 25 feet from my balcony. Ah Progress!

Oh yes indeedy, I have pictures. All of the photos of construction sites were taken along a 3 mile stretch of NVT Blvd, and there were several more but I just couldn’t be bothered to stop and get off my motorbike to take pictures. See photo album called The Boulevard. I also have some new photos of recent travels, see Halong Bay and Ben Tre Market photo albums.

The Small Things

The past month has been a whirlwind, which seems apropos as this is Typhoon Season. And there is one brewing outside my door even now. Well not really outside my door, more like off the coast of VN coming in from the Philippines. It’s supposed to hit somewhere around Da Nang, like 500 miles from HCMC, but the weather system has been big enough to effect weather here. It has been pouring rain and windy all week. This provided me an opportunity to teach my VN colleagues the strategic technical phrase: It’s raining cats and dogs. They tend to say it as “It’s raining cat and dog” and this makes me chuckle. At this point it’s the small things that bring me joy.

The worst thing about cat and dog type rain is riding in it on a motorbike. It really is impossible not to arrive at your destination soaking wet from the knees down even if you wear a long poncho. The drainage system in HCMC is not so well developed, one might say. So when it rains hard you are riding in the street through inches of water…it’s what I call rat water. Sorry, but I can’t help but think of it that way given the number of rats I have seen and the effect a hard rain has on the rat population. So I have developed the ability to drive my motorbike in a hard rain with my feet either up in the air or perched on the middle section instead of on the pedals. This makes it difficult to stop, but there’s no problem moving as the accelerator is the left-hand thingamabob. (Note to self: ask VN teacher how to say thingamabob in ‘tieng Viet’. Yes my VN is good enough now that I can make partial sentences in the language. How proud am I?)

Anyway, maybe since it’s raining cats and dogs that will help with the rat water population - one can only hope.

So…yeah, I am back to taking VNese lessons. I had them for a few months when I first arrived. And then I stopped because, well, frankly, I SUCK at languages. And this one in particular. But I swallowed my pride and decided to start up lessons again because if you can’t speak the language poorly of a country you lived in for two years then, then….then what the hell are you doing? So I take lessons twice a week. If it’s a form of torture for me, I can’t imagine what it is for my teachers (yes, I have two, I think to dilute the misery for them). But it does give me – and them – a chuckle sometimes. Which, as I said previously, is all I can ask for these days. And occasionally I get a little insight into the culture through my teachers’ explanations of things usually totally unrelated to grammar, vocabulary, or pronunciation (the latter being the MOST DIFFICULT aspect of this 6-tone language).

Take for example a conversation we had the other day – which started in VNese and quickly turned to EG. It started because I had just returned from a vacation in Bali where I sat at the beach a lot of the time and got one of my café-con-leche, genetically-induced tans. Which the VN generally consider, um, ugly. Really ugly. Remember this is Asia where pure white ivory colored skin means leisure and wealth, and browned, tanned skin means poverty and manual labor. And black skin means sub-human. Really. I am not kidding.

Of course it’s the inverse in the West where we are so much more developed and pasty white skin means working-poor McDonalds labor or office-cubicle bad lighting labor, and brown skin means lap-of-luxury I don’t even have to go to work everyday so I spend most of my time poolside. Um, unless you have an accent and then you’re not tan you really are brown so it doesn’t count. And if your skin is black, well, you probably don’t have a job anyway.

OK, so I hope you are getting a whiff of anger and sarcasm here. Yeah, I got that going on everyone once in a while, and Asia is not helping the chip on my shoulder get any smaller. I have been told on occasion that I should cover up my arms with long sleeves or long gloves, or someone has tried to sell/give me “whitening” cream. Sometimes children or old women touch my skin nervously. But usually people are not so overt, they are polite but when I see the women riding around town in 95-degree heat and humidity wearing long sleeves, hats, and face covers, actions speak louder than words. And when I see the aisles of skin lightening ‘beauty’ products and the ubiquitous billboards and posters selling these products with pale faced models…well, I start to get my back up. And of course all this applies only to the women, not to men. And of course this is in a country where a lot of folks have creamy-brown skin but are made to feel ashamed of it.

This is combined with another peculiarity in my VN experience. I have had numerous encounters where VNese will ask me where I am from – which they excitedly ask all foreigners. I got in the habit of asking them to guess…and they will NEVER guess that I am American. They will say a country like Sweden before America! And when I finally do say America they look a me incredulously and say, “But your hair is black like VNese and your skin is dark.” One time someone said “yes, but where are you from originally?” Do they say that to white Anglo Americans?

I know that I am becoming overly sensitive about it all because I am angered by what I feel is an underlying racism. Perhaps it’s not intentional racism (it rarely is) but more a matter of ignorance and an insular education. Nonetheless it is beginning to really bug me. I brought it up to my VN teacher when she remarked on my tan (she said she liked it and acknowledged that was very rare for a VNese). Her explanation was interesting. She said that VNese are aware that some Americans are black and some are white, but that it is being BROWN that is confusing because it’s in-between and similar to many VNese people and VNese, no matter if they were born in America, are still, first, VNese.

I try to educate folks here on the long history of immigration to America from all around the world (not just Europe), on the fact that it is our foundation as a country, but it seems like they don’t quite get it. Or maybe they don’t understand why it is so important to me. Hence, they don’t understand why it bugs me so much.

So I try, trrrryyyy, to smile through it. And the other day I did get a chuckle. As I was riding my motorbike along a busy street in the rain - with my poncho and helmet on (visor up so my face could be seen) – someone pulled up next to me at a red light and asked directions. Asked ME directions. Wow, is my motorbike driving getting that good, I wondered? And then I realized, no, it’s just that my skin is that brown, and the helmet covers my curly hair. And they really don’t expect to come across a foreign woman riding a motorbike. And so I chuckled and said “Sin loi, khong biet.” I am sorry, I don’t know - in very badly spoken Vietnamese.

But I’ll take what I can get.

PS – See new photos of my travels to Bali and to the Mekong Delta in “Tours Sep 06”.

Hitting the Wall

I have been busy lately with social work trainings for local staff working in the provinces of Ben Tre (in the Mekong Delta) and Dak Lak (near the Central Highlands). Training with a translator in such a culturally different context is fascinating and challenging.

For example, there are the role plays I employ in trainings to practice social work skills and methods, but of course we must come up with an issue, a topic. When I ask participants to make up a role play it seems like half the plays are about some young woman who had sex with her boyfriend, and then later he leaves her and so she is left a tainted woman. I want to vomit. They are not tainted they are experienced, vibrant, invincible. I want to channel Helen Reddy and start singing that song…I want to scream at the top of my lungs: this is the 20th…er wait, 21st Century!

Actually, initially I was slightly confused about what the issue was in these role plays, “I don’t understand…” I whispered to Ms Hoa, my translator, “…is she pregnant? “No, no” Ms Hoa said to me, “She is not a virgin anymore. No one will marry her.” Ms Hoa later explained to me the importance of such a thing in Vietnamese culture. OH MY GODESS, what is going on here?? Subsequent conversations with others has made me realize that the virginity thing is tied to several issues related to gender equality, self-awareness, and sex education. No duh. But you can’t keep a good woman down. Well, actually you can, if you don’t let her get down.

Of course, I suppose at least half the world is obsessed by the sexual status of its’ young, unmarried women (though not its men). What the hell is that about? Really, I have to work so hard trying not to be judgmental of a culture that has this as part of their value system. I take a breath. OK, next role play. Yes, for god’s sake, let’s move on to the issue of the one-legged 9 year-old orphan who works 14 hours a day.

During 4 months of training and a myriad of role plays (always at least one on my favorite subject), we eventually did a role play where I acted the client and Ms Hoa sat next to me translating to a participant who played the social worker. I love to do this, reminds me of my high school acting days – and because it’s being translated I MUST overact to get my point across. Well, the most amazing thing happened. Tuyen, one of the participants, leaned in, put her hand on my arm, nodded solemnly and said, “Yes, I see.” No advice!!! No cures!! No prescriptive interventions….just listening. Oh yeah, maybe this translation stuff is working?!

It is very difficult, in this Confucian based culture, to move people away from advice giving and towards listening and exploring feelings. Likewise, the stress is on the family and community versus the individual. I’ve read this, been told this by VNese colleagues, and have seen clear evidence of it in everyday examples. It’s interesting to think how different this is from the tenets of psychotherapy and the personal growth movement.

I’m not saying the two are mutually exclusive, I’m just saying it’s gonna take a bit of axel grease (or WD40 – you’ll understand this reference later) to get them to work together – if one is not better than, or meant to dominate the other. I don’t know, this is just me thinking out loud. This is also me hitting a wall. I’m not going to change a 1000 year old tradition with a few months of social work trainings, nor should I. I’m introducing a few ideas, some new methods. The Vietnamese are going to have to figure out what fits, what works in their culture, make adjustments and throw out the rest.

But…if I could just do a little something about this virginity fixation. I joked to my friend the other day that I know how to make a million bucks in Vietnam. And it’s just in time for the upcoming APEC conference when Vietnam will officially join the WTO. Are you ready? So I think there are 3 commodities that a person could make millions selling here: WD40 (the humidity makes everything rust), window and door screens (for some unknown reason they are unheard of in the land of Dengue Fever), and vibrators (I shouldn’t have to explain that one).

And speaking of friends, yes I do have a few left. Though not many! I have said goodbye to no less than 7 housemates over the past 14 months. It is getting tiring. To be honest, it is the most difficult thing about expat life here in HCMC – the turnover. But, the flip side of the coin is that you’re always meeting new people. And I have some new homeys – Kevin, a young American English teacher who spent time teaching in Korea before coming here, and Annaleen, an even younger Belgian gal will be arriving soon to volunteer where I work at EFD.

They keep getting younger and younger. But it kind of makes me self conscious. Now I ask only one, key question at our prospective housemate interviews: How old is your mother?

Is that vain? That’s vain isn’t it, I know it’s vain. What the hell. At least I’m not a virgin.

(see the new pics in July&Aug)

Same Same But Different

The Vnese have a common saying, always spoken in English of all things, hence the title of this blog entry. What does it mean you ask. Well, it either means that everything’s basically the same except it’s a little different, or, things are different but have a lot of similarities. Yeah…I don’t know either, even after a year of living here.

So I found myself in the middle of the Mekong Delta during the finals of the World Cup. The two don’t seem to have much in common I know, but it’s funny how things collide in this world. Funny peculiar, not funny ha-ha.

I was there giving a one-week training to staff of various social service agencies in the province of Ben Tre. I was not alone - with me were a translator (Ms Hoa) and a co-trainer (Ms. Phuong). Ben Tre is about 3 hours southwestish of HCMC. This is where the Mekong River makes a great split and heads out toward the China Sea. Many of Vietnam’s boat people departed from here when they left Vietnam in the great exodus of the 1970’s.

July 9th was the night before the start of the weeklong training so getting sleep was essential as I was a bit nervous. It was also the soccer final between France and Italy. You wouldn’t think there’d be much interest given that the countries involved were both European and considering that the game started at 2am. You would be wrong. I also failed to realize that my room was above the bar/restaurant and this being the best hotel in town made it a popular spot. At 2am.

Apparently it was a good first half. Have you ever LISTENED to a soccer game? There are lots of false starts…you know, that sound a crowd makes that starts with a circle-mouthed oooooooooooo and rises in pitch to just before a scream where it stops short and becomes an oh-that-was-close “ah”. There’s a lot of that in soccer.

Which explains why, when I finally couldn’t stand it anymore and just HAD to get up and turn on the TV to see what was so exciting, the score was…1 to 1. What the hell?! Only 1 to 1 and all the yelling. I was so pissed. By then I was awake, and besides that Italian goalie guy is a hottie, and then some French dude head butted someone, and something interesting was bound to happen, right? WRONG. As you probably know (well, maybe not as most of you readers are Americans) the game was decided by a series of free kicks.

I later suggested to my international friends in a real now-here’s-what-you-otta-do American voice that they should make the goal BIGGER in order to help make it a higher scoring game. They were not amused.

But I digress. The training, yes, it went pretty well. There was certainly a different feel to the group in the provinces. They are friendly, but more shy. They are less vocal then their big city counterparts in HCMC. At first it was a struggle to get a reaction out of them, but they warmed up over the week. Or maybe it’s me who warmed up. Thank goodness for the translator and co-trainer.

Ms Phuong is part of the second generation of VNese social workers. She has worked as a social worker type for thirty years, though she does not have a degree in social work (impressively she does have a PhD in Anthropology from the Philippines).

The history of social work here is interesting, if a bit convoluted. The French ran a social work vocational school (not a university program) called CARITAS. There is a generation of mostly women (including several catholic nuns) who are essentially the social work “old guard” – many were educated in the US or France, returned to VN and were trained by the French in social work. Over the past few months I have met two venerable women from this group who are famous in VN for their role in establishing social work and psychotherapy here. They both went to university in the US in the 50s and early 60s. One even trained with Carl Rogers at the Univ of Calif. This is incredible for two reasons – that they came from a developing country AND that they were women.

After 1975 the profession stalled, though many continued to work within the system somehow. After Doi Moi (the economic opening of Vietnam) began in 1990s the government recognized that there were social problems that needed attending to, and social work training began again.

Social Work is still not a govt recognized job classification (with commensurate salary) so the development of social work as a profession continues. Hence my role here training people who are DOING social work, but for the most part have no degree or formal training.

I spent a lot of time with Ms. Hoa the translator obsessing about words in the curriculum. There seems to be a lack of vocabulary in VNese that can capture the meaning of many words, especially psychological terms. Take for instance “psychosocial task” which initially was translated as psychosocial duty or responsibility, or “empathy” which was called sympathy.

I don’t want to just give in to the simpler word. The distinction of these ideas is so important. How picky should I be about this? I realized, though, that it’s so easy to get bogged down in the words and miss the concept, lose the chance to discuss the idea behind the word. Sometimes it’s better to accept a translation and say, “Same same but different”.

Don't forget to see photos from my trainings & from Ben Tre (the fruit basket of VN).

Losing & Lipton Iced Tea

I am sitting in the Da Nang airport waiting for my return flight to HCMC eating granola bars and drinking Lipton Iced Tea when I hear a familiar song. Looking up I catch a glimpse of a familiar face with a pipe sticking out of his mouth. It’s Popeye the Sailor Man. I kid you not, the old original cartoon is playing on the big screen TV in the airport waiting area. I glance around; they are selling Oreo cookies, Ritz crackers and Pepsi. And I thought we lost the war.

I suppose it depends on what your definition of lost is. They are also selling Trung Nguyen coffee using marketing techniques beautifully ripped off from Starbucks (the VNese make the best damn iced coffee in the world). There are also adverts for cell phones and Dai Viet beer.

The driver who brought me to the airport pointed out the former US Air Force base here in Da Nang. He also pointed down one road to where the famous China Beach was. Is. It’s now a thriving hangout for backpackers.

The driver was a hoot. He told me how his father was a driver for the Americans during the war and his mother was “VC” (Viet Cong - a North VNmese soldier). He actually used the term VC – first time I’d heard it here. Being an Army Brat in the US in the 70's I had heard it a lot growing up. He said his mother waited 10 years and bore 4 of their 7 children before she told his father that she was VC. The driver laughed viciously hard at that. But he said he “hates” Hanoi and loves Saigon, stating the he does not call it Ho Chi Minh City on purpose.

I’ve never held such a conversation with anyone here before and I’m not sure how many others share his view. But I am sure that there is losing and there is winning, and then there is something in between.

P.S. - While on this subject, I have included pictures of what my former housemate Toni called "Losers Corner". It just so happens that the French & US consulates sit next door to each other on a prominent avenue in downtown Saigon. Of course, I use the term loosely.

Tidbits

I was in Da Nang (Hoi An, actually) for the Annual VSO Volunteer Conference. Hoi An is a small, pretty town a short distance from Da Nang where the train or plane takes you. The train ride from HCMC is like 16 hours long. I took the train there, swore I would never do it again, and traded my return train ticket in for a plane ticket. The need to be a suffering volunteer has long worn off. In the volunteer world I am an old-timer (yes, in more ways than one) and I am happy to take advantage of that fact.

Some of you might remember I attended my first conference the first month I arrived in VN - over one year ago. As always, it was fun and informative. I don't have any photos from the actual conference, just from the night out. I have blogged before about my difficulties keeping up socially with my fellow Aussie and English Vols. Well, now I have discovered the Irish. Pictures speak a thousand words.