A haphazard chronicle of my inevitable misadventures during a year in Vietnam and points east.

p.s. I'll be pitifully grateful if you send me email during my exile: TravelerKaty@hotmail.com

October 2002 November 2002 December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 February 2006 March 2006 May 2006

 
I dove briefly into the pool of Vietnamese bureaucracy yesterday. After doing a little shopping around, I found a travel agency that would renew my visa for about half the price that the agencies in my neighborhood were quoting. Unfortunately, they could only renew it for a month, and I would really like to figure out how to get a reasonably priced 3-6 month multiple entry visa. So this time when I went up there I talked to the travel agency owner about it, who recommended that I go to the immigration department and hash it out with them directly. In retrospect, I suspect he did this to make the one-month thing look better to me and/or to convince me to pay him an arm and a leg for the 6 month visa.

It was a long walk in the sweltering early afternoon sun. When I arrived there were only a handful of people in the waiting area, a large, very depressing, dingy institutional space. There were no officials whatsoever at the six windows, though I could spy some sitting on the floor.

After reading all the signs (helpfully supplied in both Vietnamese and English), I determined that they were on their 11:30 am - 1:30 pm lunch break. This does seem a bit odd by our standards, but the Vietnamese do work crazy long hours with no weekends off in most cases so a 2 hour break for lunch may save their sanity. On the other hand, I very much doubt that these Immigration officials were really working the kind of hours that would justify the practice. In any event, despite the fact that the building was weakly air conditioned, I decided I couldn't take too much of that room without wanting to slit my wrists, so I headed out into the hot sun again to find a cafe to sit in for a while, preferably one in which I could sit under a fan. One great benefit of Saigon's restaurants and cafes is that they never, ever pressure you to leave, no matter how little you're spending.

The place had really filled up when I returned an hour later, with maybe 120 people there sitting patiently. When new ones arrived, they would head up to Window #1, the only one with a human presence upon my arrival at the designated hour. Unfortunately, this window was clearly described in the lengthy posted rules/regulations/instructions as being for Vietnamese only. I was to wait for Window #6, along with a bunch of Chinese girls and a couple Europeans. I amused myself by reading the rules and regulations -- no drunkenness, no belligerence, no impolite behavior, and many other specifically listed Sins Against Immigration Officials.

Window #6 was not manned at 1:30 as advertised. Nor was it manned at 1:40 or 1:50. At 2:05, a man came in, sat down, and began to actively ignore everyone in the room, emitting powerful "stay away from my window" vibrations to the patiently waiting foreigners. Since I'm pretty much immune to such unspoken messages, I caught his attention after some effort, but after about 2 seconds of looking at my current visa he told me to go see a travel agent about it. His English was not such that I could easily negotiate, and Arguing with the Official was clearly forbidden in the posted rules.

So after all that I ended up going back to the travel agent to get the one month tourist visa extension. I don't have time to deal with the complexities of changing my visa status at the moment as I need my passport back before my plane trip next week, but next month I'm definitely going to work this a little harder. Although I know I cannot defeat the Vietnamese bureaucracy, I'm very hopeful that I can finagle a way through it given enough time and determination.

© 2002 Katy Warren
posted by Katy at 3:40 AM

 
My Wednesday morning class is going to be a real struggle. The students are adults in the "elementary" program, meaning that regardless of how much English they have had (and many have taken it for years), they tested low and have had just a couple of 8 week terms at my school. The upshot of this is that I have a class full of adults with very little English, who seem to have rarely heard English spoken, and who are very unenthusiastic about speaking. Very very quiet, with somewhat confused and/or disinterested looks on their faces every once in a while. This is in sharp contrast to my other classes, by the way, who are perfectly willing to chatter in English when prodded, regardless of their level of expertise.

I teach 2-hour classes with a 10-15 minute break in the middle. After the break, two students in this class had disappeared. This is a bad sign, right? So I discussed this with a couple people in the Teacher Room later. A British teacher laughed and said she always loses students, and a Vietnamese teacher assured me that many students will quit when the teacher requires them to actually speak. Excuse me? Isn't that the whole point they are taking the class? Anyway, I've decided not to worry about it, since all the other classes are going well. It's not like I can stop making them speak English in English conversation class.

© 2002 Katy Warren
posted by Katy at 3:05 AM

 
Since I'm doing so much walking, I figured it would be a good time to test the popular Vietnamese foot massage. All over the city there are colorful lighted signs that look like a map of a huge foot, with every important pressure point or area identified by shape and color. Who knew there was a link between your right foot and your spleen?

So it sounded like a bang-up idea. How relaxing! How invigorating! What could possibly go wrong?

Well, did anyone see that episode of "Friends" in which Monica is described as the absolute worst, most painful masseuse in the whole wide world? I have determined that Monica was unjustly maligned -- she was simply employing traditional Vietnamese-style massage techniques.

The foot massage begins delightfully, as the massage girl led me to a huge comfortable yellow armchair, quite the largest chair I've seen in Saigon, City of Tiny Furniture. Flanked by two pillows, I lounged in cool, dim comfort with a cup of tea at one hand and feet soaking in a vibrating bath. This is the point of the process in which the cute little Vietnamese girls lull you into a false sense of security.

Next one foot is dried and wrapped in a towel and rested on a matching stool, while the other foot is placed on a towel in the lap of the massage girl, who is dressed in what resembles a tennis outfit and brutally high-heeled shoes. My massage girl was named Hieu. I will henceforth associate that name with sweetly delivered torture and pain.

The actual foot massage consisted of three main parts. First was the deep rubbing of feet and calves with oil. This was acceptable in the beginning, but became increasingly painful as Hieu dug her freakishly strong hands into my various muscles and other foot and calf-related parts. She was delighted to locate a spot on my right calf that, if gouged in a very special way, would make my toes involuntarily curl under. Ha ha ha. Good one, Hieu. Let's see that for the 15th time.

Part Two was what I refer to as The Assault. With her sharp little fists, Hieu would pound my calves and feet like they were made of particularly annoying bread dough. Honest to God, I checked for bruises when I got home.

Part Three: The Pencil. This stage involved a devise other than the freakishly strong hands -- a piece of wood shaped like a fat pencil with a rounded, lead-free tip. This, as you might imagine, was used to poke me. As I followed along on the helpful diagram posted to my left, Hieu proceeded to prod, for 10-20 seconds at a time, each of the various pressure points advertised on the sign outside. She was not gentle, and frankly my spleen could have lived without the stimulation.

After a couple reprises of Parts One and Two, the right foot was complete. The worst part? Knowing that the left was yet to come. Poor left foot -- so innocent, so naive, so unknowing of the horrors that this adorable girl was about to perpetrate.

Once both feet had received equal treatment, I was instructed to shift positions, and a mini-version of the foot massage technique was conducted on my legs, shoulders, back, arms, hands and head, with the added excitment of some nutty thing she did that involved cupping her hands together as if in prayer and slapping the hell out of various body parts. This made quite a bit of noise, and was decidedly alarming when done on my head. Whew, all finished!

Now I don't want to sound incredibly cheap, but I'm really trying to economize since so far I'm only working 10 hours a week and my wage is not exactly professional-level. That was one of the reasons, in addition to location, that I selected this particular foot massage place -- it was only $3.25, as opposed to $7 elsewhere. Turns out it was a bit of a bait-and-switch involved. Once I got outside to pay, I was told that a 40-60% tip was appropriate. I conceded gracefully, given that I had made it out alive and still had the use of all my limbs, and it was only another 2 dollars.

As I was leaving Hieu asked me when I would be back. Naturally, I lied and said maybe in a few weeks. But right here and now I would like to publicly set the record straight: I will never, ever, get a Vietnamese foot massage again.

© 2002 Katy Warren

posted by Katy at 6:32 PM

 
In Saigon, there are three major ways to get from Point A to Point B if it is too far to walk, or if it's hotter than hell and you want to get to Point B as fast as humanly possible. You can take a taxi -- that's the most expensive way, but it seems so very safe on the road to be inside that car; you can take a cyclo, which is a pedal-powered chair that is usually operated by a political casualty of the Vietnam War and is fairly safe due to its size and the fact that they can't go on many of the busier thoroughfares; or you can take a "Honda Om", which means you hop onto the back of some stranger's motorbike (after negotiating for price) and hold on for dear life. Naturally, when I'm not walking, I generally go by Honda Om, because even at age 35 its enjoyable to give my parents more gray hairs.

Today I selected a little old guy to drive me who was, in contrast to 99.9% of the other drivers on the road, wearing a helmet. Admittedly it was kind of a half-helmet and was held on with one of those baby safety pins, but I still took it as a general statement of his commitment to safety.

To my chagrin, after our one and only stop at an enormous intersection on Le Loi, a major commercial street, we barely paused during the remainder of the ride. He beeped his horn almost constantly, swerved around cars, buses, and other motorbikes, and ran every red light between downtown and Cholon, a 20 minute ride.

My lesson for the day: Helmet usage does not mean "safety conscious". It is more likely to mean "death wish" or "previous head injury."



By the way, I know that "Chinesier" is not a real word (see below), but I liked the sound of it.

© 2002 Katy Warren
posted by Katy at 5:40 AM

 
While lost in Cholon, a Chinesier area of Saigon, I happened upon the most remarkable street. Just one short block long, this street appeared to function as some kind of poultry clearing house. Sort of like a market, but more like a place where restaurants would call and order up 50 chickens and they would gather them together and send them over. The aroma was farm-like, and not in a good way.

There were thousands of chickens, ducks, and other birds, mostly lying on the ground with their legs tied together in long rows that appeared to be arranged by size. They were all still alive but making no attempt to move, perhaps resigned to the fruitlessness of the effort. It was a madhouse, with people carrying around 20-30 chickens at a time, all strung together by their feet. Some basket cages had so many ducks or chickens crammed inside that half of them couldn't touch the ground. It wasn't exactly "free range", if you get my drift.

But the most amazing thing about it was the transportation method used to ferry the live chickens around town. The Vietnamese have convinced me that the motorbike is the most versatile mode of transportation on earth. There were bikes leaving chickenville with 50-75 live chickens tied together by the feet and draped over the handlbars, over the "backseat", and crammed into the space between the driver's legs. The ducks got more deluxe treatment -- they were stuffed into big woven plastic shopping bags which were lashed to the sides of the motorbike like multi-headed quacking saddlebags. Really, it makes taking your wife and 3 kids on on your Honda look like childs play.

© 2002 Katy Warren



posted by Katy at 5:24 AM

 
Went shopping for shoes this weekend. Since I'm now living in a Vietnamese home and must take my shoes off every time I enter (which really keeps things clean, incidentally -- that place is spotless), my Tevas are becoming increasingly annoying and the velcro is really getting more of a workout than it deserves. So flip-flops or slip-ons seem to be in order.

I headed down the shoe aisle at the Ben Thanh Market, the huge indoor market that sells everything from Frosted Flakes to electronics to yards of silk. Basically anything you can imagine needing. Mind you, by "aisle" I mean the 2 1/4 feet between the stalls, populated by vendors, children eating, other shoppers, and some of the more intrusive displays.

After a thorough study of the offerings, I decided that the reason why pedicures and foot massages are so popular here is that every woman's shoes are unspeakably uncomfortable. Little cushioning if any, no arch support, and high heels. Many of the shoes had designer labels -- lots of Tevas even, which resembled absolutely nothing in the official Teva product line. I watched one vendor actually crafting a Gucci shoe, complete with "Made in Italy" label, by hammering a synthetic "upper" to the sole with little metal studs. I also spotted the most uncomfortable looking pair of "Aerosoles" you could possibly imagine -- open-toed slip-ons made with plastic upper and some kind of black shiny composite 4-inch heel. No padding, no arch support, as usual.

I eventually bought some red leather-like flip flops which are half a size too big but it was such a miracle that she had anything close to my size that I felt compelled to buy them. They have some padding (miracle!) but they really aren't that comfortable. I'll limit them to trips to the internet cafe (50 yards) and to school (3 blocks), and hope the velcro holds out for all my other outings with the Tevas.

© 2002 Katy Warren
posted by Katy at 5:07 AM

 
Today I decided to eat at the sidewalk "restaurant" that I've been drooling over for the last week. Every day they start cooking up things on little grills right on the sidewalk at 10:30 or 11am -- stuff that smells delicious, with different meats, marinades, and mysterious barbecue sauces. Then they pile all the dishes on a table with several levels and patrons choose which stuff they want along with rice, soup, fish sauce, mystery sauce, and tiny bananas (about 3 inches long!).

I chose a grilled fish with some kind of red barbecue sauce, a stir-fried beef and bean thing, and an absolutely unidentifiable cone-shaped item that proved to be some kind of processed spicy pork stuffed into a chile (or something like a chile -- it didn't look like one, but sure tasted like it. Whew! I could only eat half). At this point, let me just apologize that in all cases of food description my powers are very limited. They seem to have many times the number of fruits and vegetables than are commonly available in the US, and most of them are unfamiliar to me, possibly because I've been known to avoid the produce section of the supermarket. Here, however, I'm all about the veggies.

I was guided to one of those teensy weensy tiny miniscule plastic stools (imagine your child's beach pail turned upside down) in front of a teensy weensy tiny miniscule plastic table (imagine one quarter of your coffee table) thankfully located under a big umbrella. I regret to say that the size of those stools and tables is not really suited to the size of my hind end or to my person in general, but I managed to avoid drawing too much attention by knocking anything over (one near miss, actually) or falling off the stool (constant vigilance).

As they don't debone anything, I made a concerted effort to subtly remove fish bones from my mouth to my plate. Upon more careful observation, however, I realized that the guy sitting next to me was just spitting things on the ground, which the restaurant ladies would sweep up after he left. That would certainly be a more efficient method, but somehow it just doesn't seem ladylike, and I feel my mother would frown on spitting in public. Clearly this issue requires further study.

© 2002 Katy Warren
posted by Katy at 5:59 AM

 
After my many household-building errands today (moved into a new place -- not a hotel), I headed to Mary Lu's favorite coffee shop, Trung Nguyen Coffee, to try an iced coffee and rest and write after my arduous labor.

Turns out I don't altogether care for iced coffee, though it could very well be that I had no idea what I was doing during the mixing process. It was served in several parts: one little metal Vietnamese coffee dripping thing that drips very dense hot coffee into what resembles a double shot glass; one large glass of ice with long spoon; one large metal cup; and one sugar bowl with small spoon.

Being the analytical genius that I am, I figured out by the time the coffee was finished percolating that I should transfer the dripper over to the metal cup. I then poured the coffee into the ice. Should I have done the sugar first? No clue. I added two spoonfuls of sugar and just about hit the ceiling when I took the first sip. REALLY strong and REALLY bitter.

Many spoonfuls later it was still strong but palatable, though I could feel my teeth disintegrating as I sipped. I'm thinking I'd rather stick to rotting my teeth with Coca Cola and chocolate. Unless of course my heart stops unexpectedly, in which case I believe Vietnamese coffee to be a medically sanctioned alternative to the Pulp Fiction-style adrenaline shot.

© 2002 Katy Warren
posted by Katy at 5:36 AM

 
Nobody can say I can't learn from my mistakes -- today it started pouring rain and I immediately ducked into the first restaurant I saw. Here are some of the items on the menu:

- Boiled Cow Legs
- Boiled Pig Legs
- Grilled Duck w/ Pickled Bean Curd
- Parched Shrimps w/ Tamarind
- Boiled Corn Beans
- Grilled Blood Ark-Shell (who knows what that is)
- Hot Pot with Snakehead
- Grilled Deer
- Steamed Wild Boar
- Fried Squid in Paste

These selections are not, however, the strangest menu items I have seen this week. I have also been able to resist "Stew Testicles Chicken Garlic", Fried Pork Uterus, and Fallopian Tubes from some unnamed animal.

I'm starting slow, but maybe I'll give those Fallopian Tubes a shot next week.

© 2002 Katy Warren

posted by Katy at 2:51 AM

 
To preface this entry, I want to state for the record that I am a bona fide graduate of the College of William and Mary, Class of 1989. I received a perfectly legitimate leather-bound diploma at a ceremony witnessed by my parents and featuring a commencement speech by Glenn Close, W&M Alumna and midget in real life. My treasured diploma is currently safely enclosed in an unmarked box, cleverly concealed among dozens of other unmarked boxes, and stacked behind a couch, eight chairs, three end tables, television, computer, two floor lamps, microwave, turkish carpet, two table lamps, and assorted art and unboxed items, all sandwiched into an 8' by 10' storage unit in Tukwila.

Imagine my surprise, then, when told I would need a copy of my diploma to attach to any and all job applications here in Saigon.

Consequently, I spent much of yesterday afternoon forging my credentials.

At first I naively thought I could get a template off the web like I did with the resume I had written that morning. Turns out that diploma templates are treated more as illegal I.D. than regular documents, and are priced accordingly. In addition, many of the outfits doing fake diplomas (and there are an alarming number of these) want you to send them the information so they can make a fancy paper version that they will send you in 10 days. Not very workable, since I had a job interview the following morning.

So I decided to make my own. First I went to a site which featured a Novelty Diploma Generator -- meet the most recent graduate of Our Lady of the Britney Spears University. Then I cribbed all the old timey language from my newly minted A.U. degree and replaced all the Britney references to William and Mary. I then faced the daunting task of finding a university seal or crest to make it look fancy and legitimate. Unfortunately, William and Mary's website is excessively modern and functional, and I was unable to find a single copy-and-paste-able version of the university seal.

My next idea was to hunt for a convincing family crest, preferably with an incomprehensible Latin motto on it. As the internet gods were punishing me yesterday, something happened to some kind of important machines I think in the US, which slowed things to a glacial pace. Each page would take between 4 and 10 minutes to load, and since I was there without a book (I know, I can't believe it either), I was forced to annoy all of the other patrons with constantly tapping fingernails and heavy sighs.

The family crest route proved fruitless, as they included the family names themselves. I could use one as a last resort, but I really felt that my prospective employers might notice of the William and Mary crest had a big "O'Shaunessey" at the bottom of it. After hours of internet frustration, I located a very attractive and wordless Portuguese coat of arms that fit very nicely into the space between "College of William and Mary" and my name in an archaic and virtually unreadable font. After Harrison Ford (President) and Louis Pinella (Chairman, Board of Regents) affixed their (my) signatures and I copied it a couple times on a bad copier so it would look suitably parchment-like, I was good to go.

The good news is that the document passed muster and I am now officially employed. The bad news is that after seeing Mr. Nam's casual treatment of my new diploma, I think that nice O'Shaunessey crest might have worked out fine and saved me 3 hours. Live and learn.

© 2002 Katy Warren

posted by Katy at 2:44 AM

 
In a sanity preserving move, I got a haircut yesterday. Because I'm such a big spender, I opted to upgrade from the Cut/Blowdry ($3.75) to the Shampoo/Cut/Blowdry ($6), which proved to be an inspired upgrade. "Shampoo" doesn't even begin to describe the process that followed.

I began in the barber chair, sitting upright with no sink in sight. The shampoo girl squeezed a big glob of shampoo and a bit of water on my dry head, and started working it through with her fingernails, adding water and shampoo as needed. Felt terrific, and no drips!

The next phase was a full scalp and neck massage, 3-product conditioning process and 4 rinses in varying water temperatures, all conducted while I lay on a padded table in a cool, dim room with my eyes closed and shoes off. My neck was supported by another rolled up towel, and my head rested on an extension of the padded table -- no neck-killing porcelain sink business going on here. Twenty minutes of blissful relaxation later I was back in the chair where the shampoo girl massaged my shoulders, arms and hands.

For the actual haircut, I was asked to choose a photo from old American hairstyling magazines. I opted to attempt the very cute 'do possessed by Shawn Batten, star of the now defunct soap Sunset Strip, circa Spring 2000.

I pointed, the master haircutter nodded and said "cool, yes?" and we were underway as the MH dramatically whipped a pair of scissors out of his scissors and comb shoulder holster. After 15 minutes of Bugs Bunny-style fast-motion and seemingly haphazard snipping, three quarters of my hair was on the floor and the two-man blowdrying event began. A shampoo girl would hold the huge blowdryer in the air pointing at the ceiling, and the master haircutter would work the round brush and guide the barrel of the dryer into place. A few more minutes of random clipping, a bit of gel and teasing, and Voila!

I now look exactly as much like Shawn Batten circa Spring 2000 as I did before we started (read: not one little bit), but my hair now bears a striking resemblance to Dorothy Hamill's circa 1976 Olympics. Totally worth it, though. It's actually kind of a shame it's so short -- I'd love to go back every week to get shampooed and another inch off.

© 2002 Katy Warren


posted by Katy at 7:08 PM

 
I am a Vietnamese radio star! Or maybe a Vietnamese brief radio presence. Whatever. I spent yesterday morning at the HCM Department of Education recording facility, which was set up with a $10,000 grant from the Canadian Friendship Committee. If that seems like an inadequate amount of money with which to establish a full professional recording studio, I can assure you that it looks it, though they clearly got the most out of their 10 grand. To give a sense of the modernity of the technology and techniques we're dealing with here, the book they were using to guide their efforts, "Radio Programming -- A Basic Training Manual", was published in 1968 and features some classic photos of men in front of old timey microphones wearing what look to be my father's 1966 black-framed army-issue eyeglasses. (Not that there's anything wrong with those glasses. I mean, Dad wore them into the 80's, if I recall correctly, just before they became stylish again.)

My role in this scenario was to read one part of a series of dialogues/conversations, which would be put on cassette tapes for personal use and broadcast to the countryside on Vietnamese educational radio. From what I'm told by Mr. Lanh, the government airs educational broadcasts in all subjects, mostly from Hanoi, but this studio is the only one from which English lessons are created.

I was placed in a chair in the barely sound-proofed studio in front it its single microphone, which appeared to possess a crocheted cover. I was given a script in which the lines were highlighted or circled in different colors depending on which native-speaking guinea pig (I am Volunteer #38) had been assigned. It was a bit odd. Because they don't have the capacity to record more than one person at a time, I was asked to read a line, pause, then read the next line and so on. Since I did a series of scripts for both Mr. Lanh and his assistant Mr. Tien separately, I actually ended up reading both ends of the dialogue in some cases. I can only imagine how strange and stilted it sounds once it's all spliced together, particular if my voice is both asking the questions and answering them. The dialogues were of very mixed quality as it was -- mostly grammatical, but very formal and not always closely related to the actual rhythms of American speech. It must be very overwhelming for a Vietnamese person who learns English from this system to hear the real thing for the first time, though at least they will have had the incomparable pleasure of learning from my mellifluous tones.

© 2002 Katy Warren

posted by Katy at 7:12 PM

 
On a lighter note, I ordered a new dish for breakfast this morning. My general modus operandi is to point at things at Rang Dong, the restaurant across the street from my hotel, then they serve it over a bed of rice with fish sauce. Strange breakfast, but I'm getting used to it.

This morning I decided to get the roasted chicken thigh, which they grill on a little mini-kitchen they have out on the sidewalk (right next to where they wash the dishes in dirty water). Imagine my surprise when it was served in pieces over the rice, but pieces in which they had cut right through the bone with a very sharp knive, rather than pieces in which they cut the meat off the bone. A new challenge to pick the meat off the little pieces of bone using chopsticks and a spoon.

That crunchy sound you hear? Missed one.

© 2002 Katy Warren
posted by Katy at 7:41 PM

 
I figured out where the other tourists are in Saigon -- they're visiting the War Remnants Museum, formerly known as the War Crimes Museum before the name was changed to protect the squeamish. It was the first museum I've been to that was packed with people -- Americans, Brits, Aussies, Chinese, Japanese and a couple Spaniards (very interesting to hear the guide's Vietnamese-accented Spanish).

It really speaks to the ghoulish and voyeuristic nature of humans that this museum is so popular -- it is chock full of horrifying photos of the war, including sections devoted to photojournalists who were killed in action, torture and imprisonment (truly awful -- I had to skip part of this exhibit), assorted war crimes (including a big spread on the My Lai massacre using mostly photos from U.S. sources), the physical, environmental and reproductive effects of Agent Orange, phosphorous bombs and other chemicals used on military and civilian targets. A big display of severely deformed children, the second generation of chemical warfare, was particularly heartrending and included a March of Dimes poster girl with stunted limbs and crutches, daughter of a war vet who had been assigned the task of dropping thousands of tons of A.O. from planes.

The museum is quite one-sided -- for example, the torture/imprisonment exhibit focuses exclusively on the atrocities committed by the Southern Vietnamese "puppets" on captured Northern Vietnamese "patriots". Not a word is mentioned about the treatment of American and South Vietnamese soldiers by the Viet cong. History is written by the victors, as they say. But despite the strong bias, the museum is a powerful photographic testament to the horrors of warfare, how it degrades one's humanity, and the devastation it causes to the civilian population and the environment.

© 2002 Katy Warren

posted by Katy at 7:36 PM

 
A Word to the Wise:

If you think there is a possibility of ending up riding on the metal cargo carrying platform on the back of a cheap minibike during the course of an evening, do not wear a straight skirt.

© 2002 Katy Warren

posted by Katy at 7:35 PM

 
I was a bit of an idiot yesterday (no commentary from the peanut gallery, please.) After pissing away an hour at an expensive internet cafe (2 1/2 cents a minute -- information highway robbery), I decided I didn't have it in me to see the War Crimes Museum on the same day as I had been steeped in American War (their name for it) info and photos at the Reunification Palace. Lunch, I thought, then a return to the air conditioned spendor of my hotel room to shower and write before the school event with Mr. Lanh.

I got it in my head that I would walk to the central market for lunch, a healthy and interesting walk which would make it less lame that I was planning to spend 2 1/2 hours in my hotel room in the middle of the day.

First, I went the wrong way. I hadn't checked a map, really believing that I had a good sense of where I was. I didn't.

Then it started raining. At first, I smugly congratulated myself on remembering to bring my umbrella (which I had forgotten the day before, naturally), and marvelling that I was the only person around who had one. But after a few minutes, it really started to pour.

At that point, most sane people had pulled back under awnings or had found a handy restaurant or cafe in which to spend a rainy half hour. Not me, though -- somehow that market plan was tattooed on my cerebral cortex, and there was no deterring me from my half-assed objective. Soon the situation deteriorated from Pouring Rain to Biblical Deluge, and I was forced to make concessions, purchasing a plastic poncho from a sidewalk vendor. Understandably, I was pretty much the only pedestrian out there, and the letup in the river of motorbikes made crossing the street substantially easier than usual. The downside was that I was walking through ankle-deep puddles and my shorts were soaked along with much of my shirt.

Upon arrival at the market, I went inside and ripped off the poncho and started stuffing it into its plastic bag (harder than it sounds). It wasn't until a couple minutes passed that I realized I was attempting this task while standing under a leak in the ceiling, which was dripping on my already wet back. The girls at the nearby purse and textile stand had been trying to tell me about it, but I didn't spot the problem until a little late in the game.

Thing is, the noodle soup I got there was good, but really no better than every other restaurant I rejected on the way. What the hell was I thinking?

© 2002 Katy Warren

posted by Katy at 7:33 PM

 
I had dinner Friday with the relentless crusader for English education, Mr. Lanh. Mr. Lanh is a very nice official from the Department of Education for HCM City, and has a way of getting you to do things you never expected (case in point -- yesterday, though I was under the impression that I was just going to observe, I ended up sitting at the head table, followed by handing out certificates of achievement to excellent students at a huge ceremony, followed by photos with each, followed by my teaching a class). But I digress, as usual.

The Friday dinner was at Mr. Lanh's house with his wife (very sweet -- looks kind of like my mother if my mother were Vietnamese) and Mr. Tien, Mr. Lanh's assistant who have already met on several occasions, since he is generally tasked with taxiing me around by motorbike when I see Mr. Lanh.

During dinner we waged a silent battle of Politeness (them) vs. Extreme Ignorance (me). As each dish was served, Mr. Lanh and Mr. Tien would look at me expectantly as if waiting for me to try it first, while I was fully committed to waiting to see how the hell these mysterious things were supposed to be eaten. After the 3rd dish, I broke, and told the two of them that I wasn't eating one more bite until I saw how it was done correctly. Naturally, they both found this hilarious, though based on his perpetual grin in my presence, I think Mr. Tien finds everything about me hilarious. Each dish thereafter was prefaced by an elaborate demonstration and a laughing "Now you copy!"

Mrs. Lanh was a bit more sympathetic, actually dredging up a plastic fork at one point. A sorry commentary on my chopsticks skills!

© 2002 Katy Warren

posted by Katy at 7:19 PM

 
Yesterday I set out to find a place to live in "the ghetto", which is a block not too far from the city center with teeny tiny streets (big enough for motorbikes but not cars) filled with tall narrow houses. It's like someplace James Bond might motorcycle through to escape auto-bound pursuers, knocking over orange carts and shoe vendors along the way.

I headed for Thuy's grocery, a diminutive corner shop that sells a wide variety of merchandise. Thuy (pronounce "Twee", as far as I can tell, but don't hold me to it) appears to be quite the entrepreneur, with his sign advertising the store, fax services, room and house rentals, visa and passport arrangements, air ticket booking, hotel reservations, motorbike rentals, and wholesale frozen and canned food delivery. He wasn't there, so I called him and made arrangement to meet him this morning to look at rooms. As I was leaving I wandered through looking at houses sporting Room for Rent signs, and was greeted at the door of one of them by a very nice Vietnamese girl of indeterminate age (I can't tell how old anyone is here, but they very sweetly guess on the low side when estimating my age in conversation. Liars.). This girl, whose name I never quite mastered, took me to three houses, all of which had basically the same setup, same furniture, etc., owned by various members of her family. I looked at all of them and told her I would get back to her (or hand motions to that effect).

So this morning when I went to Thuy's, I ended up with another guy (not Thuy, very little English), who took me to see Hue, another gorgeous Vietnamese girl, who would show me some places. It took me a minute at the first stop before I realized that I had been in exactly the same house the day before. My attempt to explain this was in vain, so I ended up seeing all three again today. They must think I'm insane. I actually saw the girl who took me around yesterday at the second house and tried to explain to her too, but really I should have just given in at the outset. I was no match for these girls determined to show me every house, and clearly my Vietnamese is not up to the challenge, being basically limited to "please" and "thank you" at this point.

So basically I've been at this house hunt for two days and have seen 4 places, though 3 of them I saw twice. I think I'm just going to bow to the inevitable and take one of them for a month. I'll definitely be improving my Vietnamese by living there!

© 2002 Katy Warren

posted by Katy at 10:01 PM

 
I am getting somewhat accustomed to the heat here due to my new showering schedule: Wake up, shower. Go out for morning, return to shower. Go out for afternoon, return to shower. Go out to dinner, return to shower. Repeat.

So far today I have only taken the wake-up shower, so I'm a bit behind schedule, but these things can be made up with showers in bulk later.

© 2002 Katy Warren
posted by Katy at 9:39 PM

 
Most of my first day here in Saigon was spent wandering around town trying to track down a "sim card" for my fancy new phone (thanks, Mom and Dad!) During my hours of streetwalking (no, not that kind) I learned a few things:

1. It's damned hot here. I'm praying that I get used to it soon so my accursed Beucler face isn't flushed for six months.

2. It'll be a flipping miracle if I don't get run down by a motorbike during my stay. Stoplights are underused here, and even when they exist they appear to be taken more as helpful hints than actual legal requirements. Cars do stop for lights at least 80% of the time, but to my unpracticed eye, there appear to be approximately 27,000 motorbikes for each auto on the road, none of which pay the slightest bit of attention to the lights or crosswalks. Crosswalks -- ha! It is to laugh. Not once did anyone stop for me. Instead of obeying traffic signals and signs, the Vietnamese have adopted a technique of honking the horn before approaching an intersection, and either the larger vehicle or the first beeper gets the right of way, though mostly they just weave among eachother in a death defying way. And did I mention the "one way street" conundrum? Although some streets are one-way, which is also regarded as more of a recommendation than a requirement by minibike drivers. Actually, upon reflection, it is quite possible that none of these streets are one-way, but I was fooled by the the fact that they drive on both sides of the road. In any event, looking both ways is truly an imperative -- Mom will be relieved that I quit the walking-while-reading habit cold turkey today. Which brings me to my third lesson of the day:

3. Crossing the street is more difficult than it looks. Really, "weaving the street" might be a more accurate description of the process, due the perils described above. After waiting 15 minutes to cross one busy thoroughfare (I opted to wait for a brave/insane Vietnamese person to provide cover), I began to curse my love of Ms. Pacman when I was a teen. Frogger would have been better choice - far more useful in the real world.
posted by Katy at 3:20 AM

 
American airline companies would do well to adopt my favorite element of my flight to Vietnam: Stretching with Asiana.

With about a half hour to go before arriving in the Incheon Korea airport (a gorgeous place, by the way -- WAY better than Seatac), they turned off the headphones and turned up the sound in the whole plane. On our video screen we watched as a male and female Asiana flight attendant sat down in two linked airplane seats in the middle of a huge grassy field surrounded by trees, on a lovely summer day. They proceeded to lead us all in a seat-bound exercise routine, that had most of the passengers stretching their arms up, twisting around, bending over, turning their necks from side to side, and clapping periodically. It wasn't in English, so I couldn't exactly follow the ongoing patter, but they also did some inexplicable circular rubbing of the temples and lymph nodes.

It looked hilarious to see the whole plane doing this, but most of us really got into it, and I for one felt loads better when it was over. Bring on the exercises, United!
posted by Katy at 3:08 AM

 
How is it that I inherited the "sobbing while saying goodbye" gene from my mother? Today, T minus one day and counting, was a personal sobfest of Italian funeral proportions, and let me just say that I do NOT look good while crying. Something about the puffy eyes, red face and strangely contorted mouth are truly frightening to innocent onlookers.

Anyway, I cried after getting off the phone with my parents, after getting off the phone with family friend Don, and while hugging each and every friend and family member at my fabulous goodbye pseudo-Thanksgiving going-away party (thanks, Helen and Phil!) plus the subsequent 10 minutes of the ride back home. I'm a complete wreck right now, but at least I'm packed. For the next two hours, I'm going to listen to Vietnamese language tapes so I can pretend I'm actually prepared to be dropped into a foreign city at 1:00 in the morning. I'll pay special attention to the section on transportation and the numbers from one to ten.

Next time I write I'll be in Ho Chi Minh City/Saigon. Hopefully by then I'll know what the locals really call it, and I can really feel like an expert compared to all of you.


posted by Katy at 8:26 PM

 
Move along, people, nothing to see here.

I'm not touching down in the Mysterious East until next Tuesday (or maybe it's Wednesday? Damn, I should look at my ticket) so don't be expecting any exciting Asia Adventures before I have time to figure out what the heck I'm doing over in Saigon.

Stop being so impatient!

posted by Katy at 2:08 PM