Sai Gon. May 27, 2001
So like I said to Kaly, just write to me about anything you might think is so very mundane; you have no idea how interesting garage door problems and other news can be. After all, VN doesn’t have garage doors, and things like that bring me home, if only for a few minutes.
Rained all day today. Yesterday, Linh came over and we watched a movie in Di 10’s room. Then stayed up till 3 a.m. talking. We got up relatively late (before 10), had lunch, and headed back up to Di 10’s room for 2 more movies, and then ate again. Linh went to meet friends in town and I stayed for our Sunday family gatherings. Three cousins, two nieces, 5 aunts and uncles and a lot of food. Just got a printer hooked up here for aunt 10. Plan on printing stuff for the restaurant.
All’s well. People around me are getting sick because of the weather changes but I feel like it’s just as hot now as it was when I got home. I go to Buon Me Thout with Linh next weekend. It’s famous for its coffee and lies somewhere in the highlands, about an 8 hour bus ride away. I can’t complain. The trip is only 500.000 VND for travel, food, and lodging for 3 days. Somewhere around $33 USD. I’ll take more pictures then and send them your way (I haven’t taken any new pictures in a while). Looking forward to some traveling.
May 27, 2001
May 26, 2001
Sai Gon, May 26, 2001
Just ate a bowl of homemade mac & cheese with chopsticks. Grammy had been craving it for weeks and Di 10 finally remembered to get the ingredients to make it for her today. For all you dedicated lurkers, blogspot was down for several days because of their T1 service provider. Nothing political, you imaginative worriers.
On Wednesday of last week, I took my ticket back from the agency where I left it (a “branch” of the office in Virginia). The guy had it for 11 days and after 2 reminder calls, hadn’t done anything with it. So I made him give it back and went directly to ANA (my airline) to get my ticket confirmed. Thursday morning I stopped in their office and spoke only English, and the girl behind the counter punched in my seat request for early July. All seats on all flights to Washington are booked through August. My ticket expires on August first, so I asked for a flight to Tokyo and then I can wait for the Tokyo-DC leg of the trip. I have to go the roundabout way from Saigon to Singapore to Tokyo to DC since I got my ticket before ANA received permission for direct flights from Tokyo. Anyhow, after sending in my seat requests, I left ANA’s office and went to work. Only 3 hours later, I got a call that my seats are confirmed (through Tokyo). I love Japanese efficiency.
Today I wandered around town with a couple of my aunt’s friends, Cammy and Lieu. Walked all around town, and then we met with Di 10 to get foot massages. Very interesting kind of pain.
Rain is in full swing. When it storms like this, it’s called “bao” and it goes on all day long. Huge pellets of rain drum loudly against the rooftops. The kind of rain that takes only about four seconds to get completely soaked. I have no idea how people manage to get around on motorbikes (I saw one today carrying a refrigerator on the back seat, no strings attached!).
I’m so looking forward to being home, I wonder if I really want to come back. Though there is still much for me to discover (and a lot of traveling to do while in Asia), I really miss NY and the States and of course, family. When I get back, I want to eat a steak and cheese sandwich from Two Chefs and then the corn-on-the-cob from Havana in NY. Mmmm. I’m watching a cooking channel with my aunt and it’s dubbed in Vietnamese. They’re making white-chocolate rice krispie treats. I think I want a rice krispie treat when I get back, too. I don’t even like marshmallows!
Anyway, I’ll know when I get back, I suppose. A presto.
Just ate a bowl of homemade mac & cheese with chopsticks. Grammy had been craving it for weeks and Di 10 finally remembered to get the ingredients to make it for her today. For all you dedicated lurkers, blogspot was down for several days because of their T1 service provider. Nothing political, you imaginative worriers.
On Wednesday of last week, I took my ticket back from the agency where I left it (a “branch” of the office in Virginia). The guy had it for 11 days and after 2 reminder calls, hadn’t done anything with it. So I made him give it back and went directly to ANA (my airline) to get my ticket confirmed. Thursday morning I stopped in their office and spoke only English, and the girl behind the counter punched in my seat request for early July. All seats on all flights to Washington are booked through August. My ticket expires on August first, so I asked for a flight to Tokyo and then I can wait for the Tokyo-DC leg of the trip. I have to go the roundabout way from Saigon to Singapore to Tokyo to DC since I got my ticket before ANA received permission for direct flights from Tokyo. Anyhow, after sending in my seat requests, I left ANA’s office and went to work. Only 3 hours later, I got a call that my seats are confirmed (through Tokyo). I love Japanese efficiency.
Today I wandered around town with a couple of my aunt’s friends, Cammy and Lieu. Walked all around town, and then we met with Di 10 to get foot massages. Very interesting kind of pain.
Rain is in full swing. When it storms like this, it’s called “bao” and it goes on all day long. Huge pellets of rain drum loudly against the rooftops. The kind of rain that takes only about four seconds to get completely soaked. I have no idea how people manage to get around on motorbikes (I saw one today carrying a refrigerator on the back seat, no strings attached!).
I’m so looking forward to being home, I wonder if I really want to come back. Though there is still much for me to discover (and a lot of traveling to do while in Asia), I really miss NY and the States and of course, family. When I get back, I want to eat a steak and cheese sandwich from Two Chefs and then the corn-on-the-cob from Havana in NY. Mmmm. I’m watching a cooking channel with my aunt and it’s dubbed in Vietnamese. They’re making white-chocolate rice krispie treats. I think I want a rice krispie treat when I get back, too. I don’t even like marshmallows!
Anyway, I’ll know when I get back, I suppose. A presto.
May 20, 2001
Sai Gon, May 20, 2001.
After going to bed at 3 a.m., I was awakened at 8:30 this morning to a phone call. Three more phone calls for the household followed mine. Wanting to roll over and steal a few more minutes of rest, I then encountered a knock at my door just minutes later. The curtain people were here, and they needed to measure my bay window for my new curtains. Defeated, I got out of bed, and snuck away into Ba Ngoai’s room (grammy) and then joined her at the breakfast table and watched her eat heartily away. It’s nice to know that Ngoai has such a good appetite, and that she can still be such a picky eater at 93 (tastebuds still work!). If I had my choice, I’d say take the eyes and ears, just let me taste my food. It’s a good thing.
I’m looking forward to getting my plane ticket home confirmed. It’s been over a week since I left it with the “agency” that’s supposed to change my ticket for me. Inefficiency and incompetence are commonly practiced in business here and everyone tells me to just “get used to it.” I won’t get used to it, but I’ll just have to deal with it while I’m here. What else can I do, right? I just smile and say “thank you” and “please” a lot like I was taught to do in the U.S. and hope that people show a little grace.
I don’t want to get used to things that I don’t like. For example, littering. I think littering is a criminal offense, anywhere. Vietnamese people act as if it’s a national pasttime. Particularly on travel. Eat your meals on board your vehicle and empty your trash in your beautiful homeland. Plastic bags especially. Vietnamese people are fond of plastic bags. You get a plastic bag for everything you buy. Cards? Wrap ‘em in plastic first. Clothes? Fit neatly into plastic sleeves before being placed into plastic shopping bags. Food? Each portion of each morsel comes in plastic bags. Soup and sauces come in their separate bags. Drinks even come in plastic bags and so do jellied desserts. Our highway is littered with them, our fields, and our streets. It’s disgusting. It makes what is beautiful ugly. I mean, defecating and urinating are also commonly seen on the streets – thought not sanitary, it’s nature! I don’t have a problem with that. But the trash thing I can’t stand. And the most pathetic excuse is “well, everybody does it.” I think my blood pressure goes up 30% when I hear that. And I try to nicely explain that just because a lot of people do something does not make it okay, and most of all, if nobody did it, imagine how beautiful your country could be. And what a beautiful country you have, I say. But I am preaching to deaf ears, because there is no respect for the environment. They take what they can from the earth, because they are POOR and it is what they’ve been forced to do. And ingrained in that way of thinking, is that people come first, and the environment second. Survival is more important than natural resource, historical treasure, or preservation of any kind. And so, littering is as common and as eventful to the Vietnamese as brushing your teeth. Nothing to it.
Today the wind howled and blew and the knocking of bamboo reeds on Di 10’s balcony echoed in the wind. I ran over to the window to watch the effects on the SaiGon River, palm trees and tall bamboo swaying overhead. A cool sight to see, although it vanished nearly as quickly as it came. The sky is a bit temperamental of late. Rainy season is on it’s start. Every day for the last week and a half we’ve had thunderstorms in the middle of the day. A couple of days were actually grey all day entirely, which is not yet so common. Generally you get a storm, then some sunshine, and then a shower, and it checks and passes like that. There are two seasons in Vietnam – rainy season and sunny season. All year round it’s hot in the south. In the northern mountains, you get “VERY cold” weather – as low as about 40F in the winter months. Temperatures do drop a bit when it rains, which makes for many pleasant outings in the city.
Auntie is out now, and it’s Sunday evening so the other aunts and uncles will be coming over for dinner with Ngoai. Banh xeo – delicious hot mung bean “sizzle” cakes, made on a hot griddle and sprinkled with bean sprouts, veggies, and whole shrimps, and dipped in nuoc mam (if you’re southern) or peanut sauce (if you’re northern). It’s sooo good.
After going to bed at 3 a.m., I was awakened at 8:30 this morning to a phone call. Three more phone calls for the household followed mine. Wanting to roll over and steal a few more minutes of rest, I then encountered a knock at my door just minutes later. The curtain people were here, and they needed to measure my bay window for my new curtains. Defeated, I got out of bed, and snuck away into Ba Ngoai’s room (grammy) and then joined her at the breakfast table and watched her eat heartily away. It’s nice to know that Ngoai has such a good appetite, and that she can still be such a picky eater at 93 (tastebuds still work!). If I had my choice, I’d say take the eyes and ears, just let me taste my food. It’s a good thing.
I’m looking forward to getting my plane ticket home confirmed. It’s been over a week since I left it with the “agency” that’s supposed to change my ticket for me. Inefficiency and incompetence are commonly practiced in business here and everyone tells me to just “get used to it.” I won’t get used to it, but I’ll just have to deal with it while I’m here. What else can I do, right? I just smile and say “thank you” and “please” a lot like I was taught to do in the U.S. and hope that people show a little grace.
I don’t want to get used to things that I don’t like. For example, littering. I think littering is a criminal offense, anywhere. Vietnamese people act as if it’s a national pasttime. Particularly on travel. Eat your meals on board your vehicle and empty your trash in your beautiful homeland. Plastic bags especially. Vietnamese people are fond of plastic bags. You get a plastic bag for everything you buy. Cards? Wrap ‘em in plastic first. Clothes? Fit neatly into plastic sleeves before being placed into plastic shopping bags. Food? Each portion of each morsel comes in plastic bags. Soup and sauces come in their separate bags. Drinks even come in plastic bags and so do jellied desserts. Our highway is littered with them, our fields, and our streets. It’s disgusting. It makes what is beautiful ugly. I mean, defecating and urinating are also commonly seen on the streets – thought not sanitary, it’s nature! I don’t have a problem with that. But the trash thing I can’t stand. And the most pathetic excuse is “well, everybody does it.” I think my blood pressure goes up 30% when I hear that. And I try to nicely explain that just because a lot of people do something does not make it okay, and most of all, if nobody did it, imagine how beautiful your country could be. And what a beautiful country you have, I say. But I am preaching to deaf ears, because there is no respect for the environment. They take what they can from the earth, because they are POOR and it is what they’ve been forced to do. And ingrained in that way of thinking, is that people come first, and the environment second. Survival is more important than natural resource, historical treasure, or preservation of any kind. And so, littering is as common and as eventful to the Vietnamese as brushing your teeth. Nothing to it.
Today the wind howled and blew and the knocking of bamboo reeds on Di 10’s balcony echoed in the wind. I ran over to the window to watch the effects on the SaiGon River, palm trees and tall bamboo swaying overhead. A cool sight to see, although it vanished nearly as quickly as it came. The sky is a bit temperamental of late. Rainy season is on it’s start. Every day for the last week and a half we’ve had thunderstorms in the middle of the day. A couple of days were actually grey all day entirely, which is not yet so common. Generally you get a storm, then some sunshine, and then a shower, and it checks and passes like that. There are two seasons in Vietnam – rainy season and sunny season. All year round it’s hot in the south. In the northern mountains, you get “VERY cold” weather – as low as about 40F in the winter months. Temperatures do drop a bit when it rains, which makes for many pleasant outings in the city.
Auntie is out now, and it’s Sunday evening so the other aunts and uncles will be coming over for dinner with Ngoai. Banh xeo – delicious hot mung bean “sizzle” cakes, made on a hot griddle and sprinkled with bean sprouts, veggies, and whole shrimps, and dipped in nuoc mam (if you’re southern) or peanut sauce (if you’re northern). It’s sooo good.
May 19, 2001
Sai Gon. May 17, 2001
Mike,
I think you're the only person who still reads the blogspot, as you're the only one who replies to any of it, and so, I will write them for you, and all other readers will plunge to from their receiver status to mere eavesdropper status. I've noticed lots of interesting things lately, but haven't had the time to organize my thoughts, so I will just haphazardly write about them here.
For one thing, there are vietnamese people who use a cart to wheel around a scale (the kind Americans usually keep in their bathrooms) with a little sign that says "health meter" and they go on pushing their scale through the streets wearing their conical hats of palm, and collecting a few hundred VND for every person they weigh. It's
May 19, 2001
That's as far as I got on the last blogspot message, and didn't even manage to send it. It's not that I'm bored of blogspot, but I am wondering if everyone else is.
I've also been really busy. Haven't had a day off for too long. Worked seven days last week (spent my weekend at the printer's, which is useless, by the way, since they print however they feel like printing after I sign off on a proof, which is why we have books with different colored covers), and then I spent all day today working on Di 10's menus for Dong Du Cafe. Menus, specials, signage, bags, the whole works (even though I know that printing any of it is ultimately going to be a chore, and the quality of printing will be the same as getting it done at Matrix, New York's Chinatown's worst printer).
Right now Di 10 is watching a Korean TV movie, dubbed in Vietnamese. Everyone in town earlier was talking about it. The funny thing about dubbing is that all characters have the same voice of one person. She is the voiceover for father, mother, child, friend, adultress, big boss, and whomever else is on the show. It's more like listening to a UN simultaneuos translator since you only get one voice and the sound from the original show is still heard. Not UN material, I don't think.
This morning we brought 200 cream puffs shaped into swans to Ba Tam's (great-aunt Tam) house for Trinh Cong Son's That Tuan commemoration. That Tuan (pronounced like "tuk twun") means "Seven Weeks" using the word that's borrowed from the Chinese language (rather than "bay" -- 7 in Vietnamese). It is the Buddhist ceremony that follows the death of a family member after 49 days. Trinh Cong Son is the famous Vietnamese composer that passed away on April 1. His younger sister is married to my paternal grandmother's cousin (though they are all younger than my parents), and I first heard of him when I went to his birthday party back in late February. The family members wear white gowns and have white cloth bands tied around their heads. Those who choose to, eat vegetarian during these 49 days because it is believed that the soul of your loved one is searching for its peace and berth in "heaven" and that during this period of time, you should not eat meat (killing animals and souls), and you should lead a most altruistic life (in helping your loved one find a good place with the gods). In the meantime, you say your Buddhist chant (of which I only remember the first line of "nam mo a di dai phat") daily. Mom says about 25 times a day should do it, minimum. You have to say the name of the person so that the spirits know which soul they're supposed to guide.
Most Vietnamese people think it is VERY VERY challenging to eat vegetarian and that you are making SUCH a sacrifice when you do it, and that you must REALLY have loved the person you lost to have done it. This is what I'm told when people find out I did it for my grandfather. I think it's a lot harder to do it in Vietnam because we eat nearly everything with fish sauce, and without fish sauce, who can eat vegetarian? And frankly, couscous and tabouleh are not widely available here.
The commemorative event basically entails a lot of people assembling at the home of the deceased where the family members are distinguished in white, and then each person present lights a stick of incense (one for the Buddha who gets 4 bows at his altar, and one for the deceased, who gets 3 bows at his altar), and then there's a lot of eating and socializing, and then everyone goes home. There was a professional team of 2 videotaping the event.
Now I've lost my train of thought; I'm watching "A Perferct Murder" bootlegged and sold with Vietnamese subtitles, so I'll send this and continue later.
H.
Mike,
I think you're the only person who still reads the blogspot, as you're the only one who replies to any of it, and so, I will write them for you, and all other readers will plunge to from their receiver status to mere eavesdropper status. I've noticed lots of interesting things lately, but haven't had the time to organize my thoughts, so I will just haphazardly write about them here.
For one thing, there are vietnamese people who use a cart to wheel around a scale (the kind Americans usually keep in their bathrooms) with a little sign that says "health meter" and they go on pushing their scale through the streets wearing their conical hats of palm, and collecting a few hundred VND for every person they weigh. It's
May 19, 2001
That's as far as I got on the last blogspot message, and didn't even manage to send it. It's not that I'm bored of blogspot, but I am wondering if everyone else is.
I've also been really busy. Haven't had a day off for too long. Worked seven days last week (spent my weekend at the printer's, which is useless, by the way, since they print however they feel like printing after I sign off on a proof, which is why we have books with different colored covers), and then I spent all day today working on Di 10's menus for Dong Du Cafe. Menus, specials, signage, bags, the whole works (even though I know that printing any of it is ultimately going to be a chore, and the quality of printing will be the same as getting it done at Matrix, New York's Chinatown's worst printer).
Right now Di 10 is watching a Korean TV movie, dubbed in Vietnamese. Everyone in town earlier was talking about it. The funny thing about dubbing is that all characters have the same voice of one person. She is the voiceover for father, mother, child, friend, adultress, big boss, and whomever else is on the show. It's more like listening to a UN simultaneuos translator since you only get one voice and the sound from the original show is still heard. Not UN material, I don't think.
This morning we brought 200 cream puffs shaped into swans to Ba Tam's (great-aunt Tam) house for Trinh Cong Son's That Tuan commemoration. That Tuan (pronounced like "tuk twun") means "Seven Weeks" using the word that's borrowed from the Chinese language (rather than "bay" -- 7 in Vietnamese). It is the Buddhist ceremony that follows the death of a family member after 49 days. Trinh Cong Son is the famous Vietnamese composer that passed away on April 1. His younger sister is married to my paternal grandmother's cousin (though they are all younger than my parents), and I first heard of him when I went to his birthday party back in late February. The family members wear white gowns and have white cloth bands tied around their heads. Those who choose to, eat vegetarian during these 49 days because it is believed that the soul of your loved one is searching for its peace and berth in "heaven" and that during this period of time, you should not eat meat (killing animals and souls), and you should lead a most altruistic life (in helping your loved one find a good place with the gods). In the meantime, you say your Buddhist chant (of which I only remember the first line of "nam mo a di dai phat") daily. Mom says about 25 times a day should do it, minimum. You have to say the name of the person so that the spirits know which soul they're supposed to guide.
Most Vietnamese people think it is VERY VERY challenging to eat vegetarian and that you are making SUCH a sacrifice when you do it, and that you must REALLY have loved the person you lost to have done it. This is what I'm told when people find out I did it for my grandfather. I think it's a lot harder to do it in Vietnam because we eat nearly everything with fish sauce, and without fish sauce, who can eat vegetarian? And frankly, couscous and tabouleh are not widely available here.
The commemorative event basically entails a lot of people assembling at the home of the deceased where the family members are distinguished in white, and then each person present lights a stick of incense (one for the Buddha who gets 4 bows at his altar, and one for the deceased, who gets 3 bows at his altar), and then there's a lot of eating and socializing, and then everyone goes home. There was a professional team of 2 videotaping the event.
Now I've lost my train of thought; I'm watching "A Perferct Murder" bootlegged and sold with Vietnamese subtitles, so I'll send this and continue later.
H.
May 11, 2001
Sai Gon. May 11, 2001
Last night, I saw a man, who must’ve been no older than 35, perhaps only 30, who moved me more than almost any poor, disadvantaged, disabled person I’ve seen since being here. He travelled quietly down the street, not in rags, with a cane in his right hand, and a defining limp in both his legs. He faced forward, head up, eyes directed ahead, seemingly blind, and he moved in exact motions, step by step, inching towards his destination, if there was one. I don’t know what it was, but my eyes welled up. I couldn’t bear seeing him, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. I’ve seen, at the very least, hundreds of Vietnamese with a foot missing, a leg, sometimes both, an arm, sometimes two. I’ve seen the now-adult children who were born into wretched deformity from the chemical poisins that destroyed so many lives nearly three decades before. I have seen so very many poor, poor, poor people. And though I feel for all of them (which makes Vietnam a very difficult place for me to be), this man I saw made me want to know him, and I have no idea why.
Living where I live, and doing what I do, and eating the way I eat, it is sometimes a rude awakening as I think about how good I’ve got it. Ten fingers. Ten toes. Good health. Longevity. Heat. Air. People who bring me great joy. Food on the table and a roof over my head. I’ve always thought it so selfish of Americans who can’t seem to find a single good thing in their good life, and dredge on in their misery instead. How bad can it get, when you KNOW that someone out there has it far worse? I think, even as I lay dying on my deathbed, I’ll be having a good day. Why waste my last hours in sadness when I could be sharing jokes with friends over my last gin and tonic?
-----
May 11, 2001
While in Phan Thiet a couple of weeks ago, Linh (Chu Ngoc’s daughter) made an observation I don’t think I ever would have associated had she not said it. A German couple at the resort brought an assortment of mechanical puzzles. One was the size of Panang’s matchbook (about 1 cm square, 2 inches long, solid wood, with a small hole drilled down the center, parallel to the long side). A long tube that fit inside the hole drilled in the wooden block was attached to a triangular top. At the other end of the block, a portion of a rubberband stuck out of the bottom. The trick was to get the small notch at the end of the tube to hook with the rubberband that was inside the hole and to make the triangular tip snap back onto the block. I watched Chu Ngoc do it a few times. I took my turn. Couldn’t get it to work. Chu Thuong (Chu Ngoc’s associate) told me he fiddled for an hour before giving in to the Germans for the secret which he later passed on to Ngoc. Chu Ngoc’s wife, Co Oanh, took a stab. Then Linh took a turn. No avail. Chu Ngoc showed his wife how to line up the markings on the top and block, and to latch the rubberband by twisting and turning the triangle till it caught and then, fwwwing! I watched carefully. She tried again. Still, no elastic action. I took a turn. I had a revelation. Fwwwing! I cracked up, because the deception was a good one. I could barely re-demonstrate ‘cause my entire body was shaking with laughter. Linh and her mom kept trying, but gave in to share in the secret. See, there isn’t a rubberband at the bottom of the tube, even if they tell you there IS one and you can see with your own eyes that the other half of it is sticking out the bottom. It’s for show, as is the notch on the tube and the markings on the block. The TRICK is to pull the tube out of its home, pinch the triangle so it slides out of your fingers, and the top pops back into place, with all appearances of having been jerked back in by the unattainable rubberband.
Later in our room, Linh said to me, “you know, at first, I never did well in school because I always wanted to come up with my own answers for everything. If our teacher put a picture of a dog on the board, and showed us how to draw it, and then told our class to draw a dog, everyone would have to draw THAT dog. I would want to draw my own dog. You can’t draw another dog, because if you draw another dog, you get low marks. Your answer has to be the same as everyone elses and you have to learn to think like everybody or you won’t succeed in school. And everyone’s answer has to be the same as your teacher’s. So if my dad says that there is a rubberband at the bottom of the block, I have to believe it. It’s the way I’ve been taught to think.”
I think, “But that’s Vietnam’s communism rippling through your school system. It’s not what true communism is supposed to be about, but it’s the communism of this country.” I can’t say that, of course. It’s probably illegal, and besides, her family, all of whom I adore, were never Nationalists. So instead I say, “I see what you mean. In America, we’re encouraged to think for ourselves. [At least we were in the schools my friends and I attended and I unfortunately don’t think this is true of the entire U.S.] Independence and individuality are valued and prized in the States where in Vietnam, unity and harmony are more precious.”
I realized this years ago when dad told me how the French Catholic nuns in his prestigious school used to whack the back of his hands with a ruler when his handwriting differed from the other students. It still blows me away when I see people forcing VyVy (my boss’s 27 month-old) to use her right hand when she puts something into her left. I asked someone why Vietnamese still force southpaws to become right-dominated. She answered that it makes eating around the table more comfortable for everyone so no one knocks elbows. So I said “well, if that’s the reason, why don’t they just make everyone use their left hands?” Her eyes grew round like she’d never heard such an absurd thing and then laughed without an answer.
I continued with Linh that neither Individuality nor Unity is better or worse – that both have their virtues and both have their shortcomings. Our five day trip to Phan Thiet included a conversation about politics, which is very hard when my Vietnamese is only conversational, and Linh’s English long out of practice. We managed with two dictionaries by our side. It’s remarkable how politics develop inside people, how it grows in us. In the end, good people really just want what’s good for the most number of people, but everyone has their own idea about how to go about it.
Last night, I saw a man, who must’ve been no older than 35, perhaps only 30, who moved me more than almost any poor, disadvantaged, disabled person I’ve seen since being here. He travelled quietly down the street, not in rags, with a cane in his right hand, and a defining limp in both his legs. He faced forward, head up, eyes directed ahead, seemingly blind, and he moved in exact motions, step by step, inching towards his destination, if there was one. I don’t know what it was, but my eyes welled up. I couldn’t bear seeing him, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. I’ve seen, at the very least, hundreds of Vietnamese with a foot missing, a leg, sometimes both, an arm, sometimes two. I’ve seen the now-adult children who were born into wretched deformity from the chemical poisins that destroyed so many lives nearly three decades before. I have seen so very many poor, poor, poor people. And though I feel for all of them (which makes Vietnam a very difficult place for me to be), this man I saw made me want to know him, and I have no idea why.
Living where I live, and doing what I do, and eating the way I eat, it is sometimes a rude awakening as I think about how good I’ve got it. Ten fingers. Ten toes. Good health. Longevity. Heat. Air. People who bring me great joy. Food on the table and a roof over my head. I’ve always thought it so selfish of Americans who can’t seem to find a single good thing in their good life, and dredge on in their misery instead. How bad can it get, when you KNOW that someone out there has it far worse? I think, even as I lay dying on my deathbed, I’ll be having a good day. Why waste my last hours in sadness when I could be sharing jokes with friends over my last gin and tonic?
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May 11, 2001
While in Phan Thiet a couple of weeks ago, Linh (Chu Ngoc’s daughter) made an observation I don’t think I ever would have associated had she not said it. A German couple at the resort brought an assortment of mechanical puzzles. One was the size of Panang’s matchbook (about 1 cm square, 2 inches long, solid wood, with a small hole drilled down the center, parallel to the long side). A long tube that fit inside the hole drilled in the wooden block was attached to a triangular top. At the other end of the block, a portion of a rubberband stuck out of the bottom. The trick was to get the small notch at the end of the tube to hook with the rubberband that was inside the hole and to make the triangular tip snap back onto the block. I watched Chu Ngoc do it a few times. I took my turn. Couldn’t get it to work. Chu Thuong (Chu Ngoc’s associate) told me he fiddled for an hour before giving in to the Germans for the secret which he later passed on to Ngoc. Chu Ngoc’s wife, Co Oanh, took a stab. Then Linh took a turn. No avail. Chu Ngoc showed his wife how to line up the markings on the top and block, and to latch the rubberband by twisting and turning the triangle till it caught and then, fwwwing! I watched carefully. She tried again. Still, no elastic action. I took a turn. I had a revelation. Fwwwing! I cracked up, because the deception was a good one. I could barely re-demonstrate ‘cause my entire body was shaking with laughter. Linh and her mom kept trying, but gave in to share in the secret. See, there isn’t a rubberband at the bottom of the tube, even if they tell you there IS one and you can see with your own eyes that the other half of it is sticking out the bottom. It’s for show, as is the notch on the tube and the markings on the block. The TRICK is to pull the tube out of its home, pinch the triangle so it slides out of your fingers, and the top pops back into place, with all appearances of having been jerked back in by the unattainable rubberband.
Later in our room, Linh said to me, “you know, at first, I never did well in school because I always wanted to come up with my own answers for everything. If our teacher put a picture of a dog on the board, and showed us how to draw it, and then told our class to draw a dog, everyone would have to draw THAT dog. I would want to draw my own dog. You can’t draw another dog, because if you draw another dog, you get low marks. Your answer has to be the same as everyone elses and you have to learn to think like everybody or you won’t succeed in school. And everyone’s answer has to be the same as your teacher’s. So if my dad says that there is a rubberband at the bottom of the block, I have to believe it. It’s the way I’ve been taught to think.”
I think, “But that’s Vietnam’s communism rippling through your school system. It’s not what true communism is supposed to be about, but it’s the communism of this country.” I can’t say that, of course. It’s probably illegal, and besides, her family, all of whom I adore, were never Nationalists. So instead I say, “I see what you mean. In America, we’re encouraged to think for ourselves. [At least we were in the schools my friends and I attended and I unfortunately don’t think this is true of the entire U.S.] Independence and individuality are valued and prized in the States where in Vietnam, unity and harmony are more precious.”
I realized this years ago when dad told me how the French Catholic nuns in his prestigious school used to whack the back of his hands with a ruler when his handwriting differed from the other students. It still blows me away when I see people forcing VyVy (my boss’s 27 month-old) to use her right hand when she puts something into her left. I asked someone why Vietnamese still force southpaws to become right-dominated. She answered that it makes eating around the table more comfortable for everyone so no one knocks elbows. So I said “well, if that’s the reason, why don’t they just make everyone use their left hands?” Her eyes grew round like she’d never heard such an absurd thing and then laughed without an answer.
I continued with Linh that neither Individuality nor Unity is better or worse – that both have their virtues and both have their shortcomings. Our five day trip to Phan Thiet included a conversation about politics, which is very hard when my Vietnamese is only conversational, and Linh’s English long out of practice. We managed with two dictionaries by our side. It’s remarkable how politics develop inside people, how it grows in us. In the end, good people really just want what’s good for the most number of people, but everyone has their own idea about how to go about it.
May 06, 2001
Sai Gon. May 6, 2001
Phan Thiet was great; I met lots of people who are friends of Chu Ngoc, and we ate well, slept well, and had a beautiful view of the Pacific Ocean (have you ever seen the sun RISE on the Pacific?) from our third story (fourth by American standards) balcony. While at the beach, Linh (Chu Ngoc’s daughter) and I went for a walk on the beach where I explained how the world is turned around about 75 degrees. I showed her the big dipper, one of 2 constellations I can find with confidence. In Vietnam, it’s called “Bac Dau” which means in ancient Hoa language, “Northern Chair.” Why? Because it doesn’t look like a dipper from here, it looks like a chair! Tonight, Linh, her mom, and her brother came over to eat Banh Cang which is a specialty of Phan Thiet. Then we watched “The Saint,” candy for my American ears, and good for all in the room for learning English (watched it with American subtitles). Chu Ngoc called us from Phan Thiet (as manager of the Muine resort out there, he is out of town most of the week) to greet us while having dinner. I adore this family.
The other day I went to the post office to mail Mike a letter and met a most interesting and sweet italian family. The woman I met, Alexa, is Italian and just moved back to Rome to be with her parents. The gentleman I met with her lived on Sycamore in Arlington! Imagine, we’re all the way in Vietnam and he lives two miles away from mom and dad. Maybe he once went through dad’s grocery line even. Alexa seemed like someone I would have met before, and she reminded me of Lori (Nafshun). It’s too bad they were leaving Vietnam that day.
Last night Thanh and I went into town on the Honda and he drove me all through Sai Gon. There was a special concert commemorating Trinh Con Son (who passed away a few weeks ago, whose sister is married to my father’s uncle). The street in front of it was packed with Hondas, all there to freeload from the concert inside the chain link fence. Further ahead, Thanh drove me to another park where there was a play going on, again with a street full of Hondas viewing the comedy for free. We drove around and around for about an two hours before going home to get a good night’s sleep (so I could wake up in order to go get a facial with my aunts).
Summer is always here, but the flowers in front of Di 10’s house are now in full bloom, and even though I’m still always hot, I think I’m adjusting to the weather (in time to enjoy New York’s summer in July). It’s too bad I couldn’t find some nice guy to come explore Vietnam with me. I’m dying to go for a proper bike ride, and drafting behind some speedster would be fun for a change. Any takers? My palm reading aunt says I’ll make the man in my life rich. Cheers.
H.
Phan Thiet was great; I met lots of people who are friends of Chu Ngoc, and we ate well, slept well, and had a beautiful view of the Pacific Ocean (have you ever seen the sun RISE on the Pacific?) from our third story (fourth by American standards) balcony. While at the beach, Linh (Chu Ngoc’s daughter) and I went for a walk on the beach where I explained how the world is turned around about 75 degrees. I showed her the big dipper, one of 2 constellations I can find with confidence. In Vietnam, it’s called “Bac Dau” which means in ancient Hoa language, “Northern Chair.” Why? Because it doesn’t look like a dipper from here, it looks like a chair! Tonight, Linh, her mom, and her brother came over to eat Banh Cang which is a specialty of Phan Thiet. Then we watched “The Saint,” candy for my American ears, and good for all in the room for learning English (watched it with American subtitles). Chu Ngoc called us from Phan Thiet (as manager of the Muine resort out there, he is out of town most of the week) to greet us while having dinner. I adore this family.
The other day I went to the post office to mail Mike a letter and met a most interesting and sweet italian family. The woman I met, Alexa, is Italian and just moved back to Rome to be with her parents. The gentleman I met with her lived on Sycamore in Arlington! Imagine, we’re all the way in Vietnam and he lives two miles away from mom and dad. Maybe he once went through dad’s grocery line even. Alexa seemed like someone I would have met before, and she reminded me of Lori (Nafshun). It’s too bad they were leaving Vietnam that day.
Last night Thanh and I went into town on the Honda and he drove me all through Sai Gon. There was a special concert commemorating Trinh Con Son (who passed away a few weeks ago, whose sister is married to my father’s uncle). The street in front of it was packed with Hondas, all there to freeload from the concert inside the chain link fence. Further ahead, Thanh drove me to another park where there was a play going on, again with a street full of Hondas viewing the comedy for free. We drove around and around for about an two hours before going home to get a good night’s sleep (so I could wake up in order to go get a facial with my aunts).
Summer is always here, but the flowers in front of Di 10’s house are now in full bloom, and even though I’m still always hot, I think I’m adjusting to the weather (in time to enjoy New York’s summer in July). It’s too bad I couldn’t find some nice guy to come explore Vietnam with me. I’m dying to go for a proper bike ride, and drafting behind some speedster would be fun for a change. Any takers? My palm reading aunt says I’ll make the man in my life rich. Cheers.
H.
May 01, 2001
Sai Gon, May 1, 2001
I’m back from a spontaneous five day trip to Phan Thiet so let me rewind a few days…
First message I want to deliver – Ki, DO NOT SEND THE GATORADE.
My dear thoughtful friend Mike sent me a package three weeks ago and was told it would arrive in VN in six days. It probably did. But I wasn’t notified until nearly 20 days later by a slip left at our house. All packages, large or small, must be picked up at the package office in the city. Thanh told me to be sure I bring my passport and proof of identity and the slip with me to pick up the package.
I arrived at the office where the officer at the door told me to go to desk #2. I get to desk #2 where I show my slip and am told to give it to the woman behind the other counter. She takes my slip, looks at my passport, asks me if I’m picking up the package for someone else. I tell her that I’m Hani and the name on my passport is my given name, so I pull out my Visa card which has my full Vietnamese name prefaced by “Hani”. She tells me to go to the the counter down that way, and buy a form. I buy a form for 3000 VND, which is in Vietnamese, go over to the tables where there is a sample filled out, copy the sample with my own information (who am I, where am I staying, what is my passport number, who and where is the package from, etc.). I fill it out, go back to the third person I had talked to. She takes my form, tells me to sit down and wait till my name is called. My name gets called, my package comes out, I sign a log book. I go back to desk #2 where there is a man sitting there with an exacto knife in hand. After asking me if I’m picking up the package for someone else (and I explain I’m really Hani), he rips open my package, empties it and finds: a two-page typed letter, a roll of double stick squares for photos, and a book. A BOOK! So he scribbles something on my form, signs it, gives it back to me, and tells me to take the book over to yet another counter. This is the CENSORING counter. All CDs, books, and other such items are censored here. The girl behind the counter picks up my new book, flips through the pages, browses the back, scribbles something new on my form, signs it, and tells me to go wait at the end of the room (this one actually speaks to me in English), and wait (while my passport and form are passed on to another desk). My passport and form are then signed by the man sitting behind that desk, he gives it to the desk next to him, the woman behind that desk stamps the form, and then lets it sit on her desk for 10 minutes. While I wait.
A stack of forms make it to the end of the room where a woman who stands in a plexiglass room announces the names on the forms on a microphone. Mine’s on top of the stack. She looks at the passport, moves it to the bottom, calls everybody else, and then I come up to get my passport and forms. As I leave the building, I am required to give the form to one more person sitting at the door who signs it, stamps it, and hands it back to me.
I walk out with my photo stickers and copy of Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet translated by Stephen Mitchell (whose Tao te Ching translation was gifted to me by Lisa). The book is moving, and I was first introduced to Rilke while reading Jack Kerouac’s letters. For Mike’s sake and mine, I’m glad the book is a great one because I don’t know if I want to go through all that again!
More about Phan Thiet later.
I’ve got some writing to do.
I’m back from a spontaneous five day trip to Phan Thiet so let me rewind a few days…
First message I want to deliver – Ki, DO NOT SEND THE GATORADE.
My dear thoughtful friend Mike sent me a package three weeks ago and was told it would arrive in VN in six days. It probably did. But I wasn’t notified until nearly 20 days later by a slip left at our house. All packages, large or small, must be picked up at the package office in the city. Thanh told me to be sure I bring my passport and proof of identity and the slip with me to pick up the package.
I arrived at the office where the officer at the door told me to go to desk #2. I get to desk #2 where I show my slip and am told to give it to the woman behind the other counter. She takes my slip, looks at my passport, asks me if I’m picking up the package for someone else. I tell her that I’m Hani and the name on my passport is my given name, so I pull out my Visa card which has my full Vietnamese name prefaced by “Hani”. She tells me to go to the the counter down that way, and buy a form. I buy a form for 3000 VND, which is in Vietnamese, go over to the tables where there is a sample filled out, copy the sample with my own information (who am I, where am I staying, what is my passport number, who and where is the package from, etc.). I fill it out, go back to the third person I had talked to. She takes my form, tells me to sit down and wait till my name is called. My name gets called, my package comes out, I sign a log book. I go back to desk #2 where there is a man sitting there with an exacto knife in hand. After asking me if I’m picking up the package for someone else (and I explain I’m really Hani), he rips open my package, empties it and finds: a two-page typed letter, a roll of double stick squares for photos, and a book. A BOOK! So he scribbles something on my form, signs it, gives it back to me, and tells me to take the book over to yet another counter. This is the CENSORING counter. All CDs, books, and other such items are censored here. The girl behind the counter picks up my new book, flips through the pages, browses the back, scribbles something new on my form, signs it, and tells me to go wait at the end of the room (this one actually speaks to me in English), and wait (while my passport and form are passed on to another desk). My passport and form are then signed by the man sitting behind that desk, he gives it to the desk next to him, the woman behind that desk stamps the form, and then lets it sit on her desk for 10 minutes. While I wait.
A stack of forms make it to the end of the room where a woman who stands in a plexiglass room announces the names on the forms on a microphone. Mine’s on top of the stack. She looks at the passport, moves it to the bottom, calls everybody else, and then I come up to get my passport and forms. As I leave the building, I am required to give the form to one more person sitting at the door who signs it, stamps it, and hands it back to me.
I walk out with my photo stickers and copy of Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet translated by Stephen Mitchell (whose Tao te Ching translation was gifted to me by Lisa). The book is moving, and I was first introduced to Rilke while reading Jack Kerouac’s letters. For Mike’s sake and mine, I’m glad the book is a great one because I don’t know if I want to go through all that again!
More about Phan Thiet later.
I’ve got some writing to do.
