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 really suck at writing with my left hand. In fact, it looks much like what you would imagine a drunk six-year-old's handwriting to be.

Wanna know why I reached this epiphany today, of all days? Well, today was the first day of 4-6 weeks of personal lefthandedness, due to this annoying cast on my right arm. Yes, predictably perhaps, I was plowed into by a speeding motorbike last night, and now I closely resemble that revolutionary fife player, complete with a bloodstained fraying piece of gauze acting as a sling.

I'm fine, really, but I may not be posting quite so often over the next month -- typing with one hand is a time-consuming pain in the ass.

Look both ways!

posted by Katy at 3:12 AM

 
Christmas in Saigon is a strange animal. The country is basically Buddhist, but the whole of Saigon is littered with the kind of Christmas decorations you would see in the 50% Off section at Walmart. In other words, tacky. I have never seen so many multicolored "Merry Christmas" signs, variable speed blinking lights, fake greenery, tinsel, and enough sparkly gold ornaments to give Fort Knox a run for its money in the Excessive Amount of Gold stakes. The order of the day is clearly "shiny", and many of the more awful decorations look like they may have been left behind by US troops in 1973.

Trees and inflatable Santas abound, and many stores are playing painfully awful renditions of Christmas songs in an endless loop. They really seem to like medleys, for example, and pretty much every tune has a disco dance mix flavor to it. You just haven't lived until you've heard the extended dance version of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing."

I have three favorite Santas around town The first sits in a big sparkly sleigh in the Nokia store, being pulled by two reindeer. Looks like all the good little girls and boys are going to get giant cell phones for Christmas, since Santa's sleigh is so loaded with then that they're spilling out onto the fake snow. My second favorite is the showroom window painting of santa delivering gifts from his brand new Daewoo subcompact. No need for reindeer with that one! But my all-time favorite Santa is right in my neighborhood, at a cantina-style outdoor grilled meat restaurant. On the big wall next to the kitchen they have installed a huge wooden painted Santa, somewhat disgruntled-looking, actually, whose bag contains only beer, liquor, and glasses. Now that's a Santa that adults can rally around.

© 2002 Katy Warren

posted by Katy at 2:46 AM

 
I caused a minor traffic accident yesterday. Well actually Phuc, my motorbike driver, was the real cause of the accident, but I was along for the ride.

It started raining on our way home from my kindergarten teaching job, so after a couple of minutes Phuc decided to pull over and put on his plastic poncho. They sell millions of these plastic ponchos in Saigon, for just this purpose -- when it rains, it really rains, and driving a motorbike is virtually impossible. Plus the fact that there are only two seasons here, which are universally referred to as "Rainy" and "Hot". Since Rainy was an inferno, I'm really not looking forward to "Hot".

But I digress.

As Phuc pulled over to the side of the road to perform the poncho maneuver, he managed to cut another motorbike driver right off. Behind me I could hear that horrible skidding, screeching sound you hear when metal meets pavement unexpectedly at speed.

The funny thing was that though I myself was a tad perturbed by the whole situation, and stood by the road casting mildly concerned glances at the victim as he calmly investigated his limbs for injuries or clothing tears, neither the victim nor my driver showed the least surprise or annoyance at the situation. Phuc merely made some tut-tutting noises, as though the poor bastard shouldn't have been in that location in the first place. Never once did he look at the other driver or vice versa, and no words were exchanged. Certainly no exchange of insurance information was expected.

I suppose it's a good thing that these little fender-benders don't result in massive road rage, but I must admit it's a bit alarming to live in a city in which a motor vehicle accident is taken so lightly. Makes me think they've all seen much, much worse.

© 2002 Katy Warren

posted by Katy at 6:36 PM

 
During our trip to Dam Sen Park Ninh and I also took a ride on the park's monorail, which could best be described as rickety. In fact, if I weren't such a generous person, I might call it a death trap. Those who have experience the Seattle Monorail may recall seeing massive pylons supporting a steel-reinforced concrete track along which the rail runs. One can feel confident that that structure isn't going anywhere. After the apocalypse I fully expect that monorail to be the last thing standing in Seattle.

The Dam Sen Monorail does not inspire that sort of confidence. To be honest, it inspires the fear that every bump, creak and groan will be its last, and that it's determined to take you down with it. Rather than a sturdy concrete-style operation the Vietnamese have gone with a flimsy metal version, which looks to be welded together with a blow dryer. The little track along with the electrical cord runs I swear is held on with twist-ties and chewing gum. Just looking at it from the ground you can imagine the headlines: Not Amused in Saigon -- Amusement Park Tragedy Leaves 10 Dead, 30 Maimed. Left alone, I would not have set foot on the Monorail of Inevitable Destruction, but Ninh seemed determined to give me this treat, so once again I was a victim of my own politeness.

Of course, you must know by now that I made it through alive, but my fingers are still a bit sore from clutching the bars of the train in the hope I could avoid breaking my neck when the thing made its final groan, tipped over and unceremoniously dropped us all to the ground.

© 2002 Katy Warren





posted by Katy at 7:39 PM

 
I realize I vowed just weeks ago that I would never again visit a Third World zoo, but this time I was tricked into it. Really, it wasn't my idea at all!

Ninh, Mr. Lanh's adorable wife, took me to Dam Sen Park, a truly amazing Fun for the Whole Family type amusement facility in Ho Chi Minh City. We were walking along the path, having already seen the lake, water park, roller coaster, botanical gardens and ice sculpture museum (don't ask), when all of a sudden we were there. It isn't a full fledged zoo by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, their choice of animals is decidedly quixotic -- lots of lethargic snakes (the best kind, in my opinion), one goat positioned immediately behind the cage of the Articulated Python (I fear for his future), two eel-like monster fish, thousands of oysters, and 25 monkeys scrambling over fake rock formations in what looks to be a Gibraltar-esque monkey habitat, a real departure from the usual jungle theme. But the piece de resistance is the crocodile exhibit.

There are over 30 crocodiles strewn about the banks of a large greenish pond and another 70 or more lounging around in the water , many in the traditional crocodile manner -- eyes and snout showing. The crocodile exhibit features what I like to think of as the Death Wish Follies, or Biting the Hand That Feeds. For a mere 15 cents you will be issued a dead fish with a heavy string or rope tied around its midsection, which is in turn tied to a disturbingly short stick.

The wielders of these modified fishing poles then proceed to lean over the chain link fence on the jetty and unmercifully tease the 50 or so crocodiles milling about below. A typical fisherperson will lower the fish to a level just above where the crocs can reach, then pull it out of the way whenever one of them actually jumps up and makes a grab for it. This technique is very similar to the one I used to yank the fake mouse toy away from Pepper when she was a kitten, except that Pepper didn't have 3-foot jaws of death and a 4-foot vertical leap out of water.

The taunting continues until a particularly agile and pissed off crocodile successfully snaps his jaws shut on the fish and a few inches of rope, at which time he or she makes a concerted effort to drag the fish, rope, pole and its attached human into the water. There was no blood shed nor fishing poles lost while we watched, but I eventually expect some Darwin Awards to come out of this setup.

© 2002 Katy Warren


posted by Katy at 3:28 AM

 
This morning I got picked up at the crack of dawn (7:00am -- I have a very low tolerance for early) by Mr. Lanh's motorbike driver in order to volunteer at his weekend English school for poor kids.

It was during this morning drive that I learned that speaking Vietnamese can lead a person into Actual Physical Danger. After a few quiet blocks just sitting on the back of the bike, I decided to try out a few phrases I've learned over the past 2 weeks of classes, as I do with pretty much every driver, waiter or salesperson I encounter.

Big mistake.

By speaking in Vietnamese (a very simple and no doubt poorly pronounced "what is your name"), you would have thought I breached the Grand Coulee Dam of Small Talk. For the next 40 blocks the comments and questions just poured out of my driver, generally offered while craning his neck around to look me in the face while addressing me. Let's just think about that for a moment -- he felt compelled to make eye contact with me while we were on a motorbike at 25 mph threading our way through hundreds of other motorbikes.

I, meanwhile, cannot understand a single word he is saying, and between involuntary gasps of terror I am trotting out my most useful phrases: "once more slower please," I don't understand yet," and "I study Vietnamese but I only understand a little". He was so intent on asking me elaborate questions and gesturing wildly that I began to wonder if he even knew where we were headed. Was he asking my advice?

Thankfully, he eventually wrote me off as a motorbike conversationalist, and we completed the remainder of our journey in blissful silence. Whew.

?2002 Katy Warren
posted by Katy at 3:38 AM

 
You may recall my first experience at eating at a sidewalk restaurant in my neighborhood (teeny tiny weensy miniscule tables and stools). I have actually eaten at this establishment fairly frequently over the last two months, and recently they have renovated. Well, maybe renovated isn't the exact word -- moved might be more accurate, or maybe expanded.

Originally all the tables, stools, food selections, charcoal grills, etc, were located on the sidewalk. But right next door pile of rubble that used to be Sheridan's Pub (you really can't escape Irish bars anywhere in the world) was just sitting there unused! Clearly this was a perfect spot for restaurant expansion.

I'm not really sure if Sheridan's burned down or if they just razed the building and couldn't figure out what to do next. The space, which is on a corner, currently features one exterior wall (emerald green, as befits an Irish Pub), with a gaping hole where the doors used to be. The other exterior wall is half demolished, so that even the parts that are still standing have holes you can peek through. The teensy tables and miniscule stools (or maybe we should call them "wee" tables and stools given their new location) are situated in what used to be the tiled entryway to the bar. It's not completely tiled anymore, and of course there's no roof, so I tend to choose other restaurants when it rains. Surrounding the eating area are large piles of rubble from the former building -- partial bricks, lumber, chunks of plaster, and lots of unclassifiable dirt. Have you ever seen Mad Max or any of those other post-apocalyptic movies? I would imagine that if Mel Gibson had decided to set up a nice rice and barbecued meat restaurant instead of kicking ass across Australia, it would look very much like this one.

I have learned that it is illegal in Saigon to operate these sidewalk restaurants, food carts, and mini-cafes (more bureaucratic idiocy). Every few months the cops do a raid on a street and although they don't generally issue citations per se, they confiscate these poor vendors' carts, tables, and other accoutrements of business. This morning, as a matter of fact, I was eating Pho for breakfast at a sidewalk restaurant when we heard a police siren. I've never seen people move so fast -- the stools and tables were being picked up and moved to a narrow stairwell within seconds. False alarm, fortunately.

The point is that most of these people only operate on the sidewalk -- they don't have a permanent business site at all, but set up in pretty much the same place every day. I applaud this particular restaurant for craftily getting around the Ho Chi Minh City cops, and look forward to many more meals in post-apocalyptic splendor.

?2002 Katy Warren
posted by Katy at 4:43 AM

 
I learned soon after my arrival in Saigon that the Vietnamese are enthusiastic and unabashed imitators of all things popular or name brand. Designer labels are ubiquitous here, and it is not uncommon to see street or market vendors constructing Gucci shoes or sewing on DKNY labels while you watch.

Art is another area ripe for imitation. The tourist areas of Saigon bloom with virtually identical art galleries, all featuring excellent copies of old Masters as well as portraits made from photographs and an enormous volume of tourist-style water colors and pen-and-ink drawings of street scenes, rice paddy workers, and water buffalo. I spent 15 minutes not long ago watching a local artist paint ain impressive version of a Botticelli Madonna and child from a magazine photo.

The concept of copyright is cheerfully ignored as well. On any street corner you can find knock-off versions of Bridget Jones, the latest John Grisham, any book ever written about Vietnam, and all the Asian Lonely Planet guides for just a few dollars apiece. Can't find that DVD of the new Harry Potter on opening day in the USA? Just go to one of the other ten bootleg DVD/CD stores on the same block. Even my school, a quasi-governmental outfit, gleefully violates copyright laws -- all of the texts from which I teach are photocopied and bound right here in Saigon.

And the Vietnamese don't just copy Western art and culture -- their own neighbors get the same treatment. If a duck soup restaurant sees a boom in business, a second will open right next door with virtually the same menu and decor. If the vegetarian Bhodi Tree Restaurant in the backpacker district becomes famous, why not open another right down the block? There are now two restaurants named "The Original Bhodi Tree" within four doors of eachother, serving the same clientele with identical menus. Same goes for any kind of store, really. If your cell phone store or motorbike repair shop or plastic basket outlet starts to take off, you can be assured that within months a raft of cell phone stores, motorbike repair shops or plastic basket outlets will pop up like zits on a teenager.

All this exposition is really just to set the scene for the most amazing example of this copycat phenomenon that I have yet witnessed. Every Monday and Friday I walk home from my kindergarten teaching job. It's an hour walk, and I take a different route each day so as to constantly expand my horizons, or at least to personally view the various weirdnesses of the city.

Yesterday I headed down Nguyen Thong Street, and was quite taken aback by the first shop I came to. Outside, piled in stairstep fashion awning high, were hundreds of cans of baby formula. Apparently they're not completely sold on breastfeeding here in Vietnam. And as I looked just behind the baby formula, I could see why -- the mothers must all be blind drunk. Because this shop sold just two commodities, formula and alcohol. Mostly wine and hard liquor, but I did note some Fosters Lager for those parents who are beer afficionados.

This shop would have been strange enough as a solo effort, but clearly this had proved to be a lucrative prospect to the original progenitor of the Baby Booze scheme, as it had spawned not just one or two copycat stores, but sixteen in a two block stretch. Some, I must concede, did not adhere strictly to the two-commodity business plan, having added a third element to the mix -- Pringles. Hundreds of cans of Pringles and their salty/fatty snack brethren provide a way for tea-totaling moms and dads to accelerate the disintegration of their own health just like their neighbors. The next block down features seven aquarium accessories stores, so I like to imagine these drunk parents at home eating Pringles, feeding the baby, and watching fish.

On a busy corner near my house a family owns an air conditioner repair shop out of which they operate a very popular sidewalk steak and eggs restaurant. I fully expect to see all four corners of that intersection selling greasy semi-cooked fried eggs on sizzling cow-shaped cast-iron plates within the next few months. That will be great, but my life will truly not be complete until I can also purchase some baby formula and a fifth of Johnny Walker Red right next door.

© 2002 Katy Warren


posted by Katy at 8:08 PM

 
Have I mentioned I'm teaching English to kindergarteners three days a week? After two weeks of it, I have come to the realization that I must have been clinically insane (self diagnosed) to accept this position, but the kids are adorable and fun. However, as a consequence of this new employment I suspect I may be gaining a reputation on the streets of Saigon as some sort of foreign nutjob.

During my long walks back from Lan Anh I tend to sing to myself, testing various songs from childhood and campfire girl camp that I think might work with the kindergartners. My singing habit probably wouldn't be so conspicuous if I weren't simultaneously attempting to devise hand and body motions to lend visual interest. Yesterday, in fact, a sidewalk vendor pointed at me, laughed, and proceeded to perfectly mimic my hand motions. Guess I wasn't being as subtle as I had thought.

Fortunately I have a very high threshhold for embarassment, honed by years of rolling my eyeballs at my mother as she sang show tunes at the top of her lungs while whizzing down the ski slopes at Mission Ridge in her all-orange outfit. And I'm not talking a subtle burnt orange either -- this is the kind of orange that a concerned, color-blind husband would buy from a crafty salesclerk to ensure that his wife is never lost in the snow. Rescue helicopter pilots nationwide would applaud his selection. Really, most every potentially embarassing situation has been child's play after enduring the humiliation of my teenage friends witnessing my mother's Bette Midler-esque downhill skiing style. Thanks, Mom!

© 2002 Katy Warren



posted by Katy at 3:17 AM

 
22 Things the Average Vietnamese Man Can Carry on his Motorbike:

1. 2 air conditioners
2. 1 bicycle
3. 1 wife, 2 children and 1 baby
4. 30 ducks in saddlebag baskets
5. 150 plastic pails
6. Kentucky Derby-style flowers for his daughter's formal wedding
7. 1 friend carrying 1 used television
8. 65 live chickens
9. 1 twin mattress
10. 2 boxes of Washington apples (!!!)
11. 100 pairs of shoes
12. 1 sq. yd. box of cookware
13. 6 20 lb blocks of ice
14. 1 keg draft beer
15. 30 2 lb bags of rice noodles
16. 1 large plastic box of live fish in water
17. 56 smallish watermelons
18. 1 pregnant wife sitting sidesaddle
19. 120 rolls of toilet paper
20. Me and my groceries
21. 3 15 ft. metal poles
22. 1 tree


© 2002 Katy Warren

posted by Katy at 3:51 AM

 
Now that I have been taking Vietnamese classes for four whole days, I can state with authority that it is a VERY DIFFICULT LANGUAGE for anyone who doesn't have a serious sinus problem. For those of you who are unfamiliar with what it looks like, Vietnamese does not use the Chinese characters (thank God) but rather a modified version of the Roman alphabet. The problem, of course, is the "modified" part. They have decorated all of their vowels with an alarmingly large number of doohickies, dots, doodads, squiggles, and variously angled accent marks. They have six different "tones" that they apply to 12 different vowels. Yes indeed, six tones, twelve vowels. Just imagine the math involved with that -- there are hundreds of combinations! Honestly, doesn't this seem excessive to you? And I haven't even gone into the bizarre combinations of consonants that these folks use.

An additional level of complexity is caused by the dialect differences between regions of Vietnam. It turns out the split between Hanoi and Saigon is not just historical and political -- it's cultural and linguistic as well. Many words are completely different between North and South, and pronunciation is different for several letters. This annoying fact would explain, in part, why those language cassettes I listened to before I arrived have been virtually useless. These people don't sound anything like those guys on the tape.

Because this whole vowel and consonant-combo situation in Vietnamese is such a nightmare for foreigners, we generally spend an hour of our two-hour daily classes on pronunciation alone. Today horror was the "ng" combination, which is like absolutely nothing in English. Judging from the universal lack of success on this point by all members of my class, it is like absolutely nothing in Swedish, Japanese and Chinese as well. The "ng" kind of sounds like you're trying to swallow too big of a bite, and are forced to do so with your mouth wide open. Now imagine trying to put that sound at the beginning of a word, and you begin to feel my pain.

As one might expect, hilarity ensued as we each tried in vain to replicate this semi-choking maneuver. Our teacher, who we cleverly call "teacher" in Vietnamese (I now know why all my Vietnamese students call me "teacher" rather than by name) could barely contain his laughter after a few minutes of this. On the plus side, however, I believe I have mostly mastered the very common "kh" sound, which closely resembles the sound your cat makes when he is hacking up a hairball. Clearly I am on the road to fluency.

© 2002 Katy Warren



posted by Katy at 4:13 AM

 
I arranged with Mr. Lanh, the Relentless Crusader for English Education, to do some recording a few days ago for his radio teaching program and language tapes. The way it was put to me was that he had forgotten to highlight a couple of the lines I was supposed to read when I recorded a few weeks ago, so my voice was briefly needed to make the cassette complete. So when I arrived at the "studio" I wasn't surprised when he gave me a sheet that only had two out-of-context sentences of dialogue. It was a long way to come for two sentences, but I didn't have anything else to do that day.

After I quickly skimmed the sheet and declared myself ready, Mr. Lanh, in his typical sneaky way, handed me a book and asked if I had time to read a couple things in there. A "couple things" turned out to be two full pages of expository text ("how to learn vocabulary" and a primer on first aid) as well as the chapter headings and subheadings for the entire book. Now you can imagine me intoning "Reading and Listening . . . . Page 49."

Then the other shoe dropped. He handed me my final script, which proved to be basically the same script I did during my first session, one half of maybe 20 dialogues for the English 8 course. My protestation that I had already done these was met with this pronouncement: "This time you're on VIDEO!!"

Holy crap. Believe me, if the concept of video had ever been broached with me I definitely would have worn makeup to the taping, not to mention I wouldn't have worn that shirt with the indelible Pho stains across the chest.

They switched the room around so I was sitting alone at a table at one end of the room with an old timey microphone and makeshift studio lights blazing at me. A tiny video camera on a tripod was in the middle of the room and behind it was an overhead projector upon which Mr. Lanh and his assistant put transparencies of my script. It all went fine, really, though I shudder to think how they will splice these dialogues together. It's got to look and sound even weirder than the cassettes do. A male, 50ish, American friend here in Saigon says he's on Mr. Lanh's video saying "Hi, I'm Nam. I'm 15 years old," so you can only imagine what these students must think when they watch.

The good (and unexpected) news was that they paid me 250,000 dong for this recording session, which is about $16.50, two days food and transportation in my fairly frugal existence. I only got 150,000 last time -- did they give me a raise because I'm a TV star now?

© 2002 Katy Warren



posted by Katy at 6:58 PM

 
I learned a valuable lesson yesterday at a neighborhood restaurant -- ask questions before you order, even if it takes 20 minutes of hand gestures and drawing.

I took an all-too quick glance at the menu and decided to order Stewing Chicken's Legs in Chinese Medicine. Now, I know this might sound kind of strange to you. I thought it sounded odd also, which was one of the reasons I was ordering it. I pictured some aromatic soup with chicken leg meat and herbs or something.

I should have remembered, however, that the day before I had ordered "Chicken Arm Fried" and had received a leg and wing of chicken fried in a way not seen outside of the deep south these days. Mmmm, remember how great fried chicken with the skin on was? Anyway, the fact that "chicken arm" was actually the leg should have tipped me off that I might not be ordering what I intended this time.

What they brought me was impressive -- a big lidded clay pot sitting in a moat of liquid gas, which they promptly lit causing blue flames to shoot out over the top of the pot on all sides. In my extreme ignorance, I thought maybe this was maybe just some elaborate way to keep rice warm or something. Plus there was no way I was going to touch that thing, so I kept reading my book waiting for my real food to come and periodically casting alternatively alarmed and skeptical eyes at my flaming pot. Eventually the waiter figured out that I was a complete idiot and came over and put the fire out, managing to set a small rag on fire in the process.

Turns out it wasn't rice at all, alas. It was a boiling pot of chicken feet and figs. Yes, you read correctly -- I ordered chicken feet and fig soup.

I gave it the old college try, but eating chicken feet just isn't that easy -- there's very little meat on them so you have to nibble it off like baby corn. But the real problem with chicken feet is that they look just like chicken feet. They're kind of wrinkled and yellow and you can actually see something at the end of each toe that looks like a toenail. And they don't taste like anything -- not even chicken. The whole experience was a complete waste of time food-wise unless I got some medicinal value from the fig/feet combo that only the Chinese know about. I ended up eating maybe 7 or 8 feet, 2 figs, most of the broth, and cheese and crackers when I got home.

Let my experience be a lesson to you: take ordering food seriously.

© 2002 Katy Warren
posted by Katy at 8:02 PM

 
I forgot to mention when I wrote about our Trip to the Countryside that I noticed an emerging trend in burial customs. There are quite a few above-ground tombs in Vietnam. Most are Catholic, if I understand correctly, as Buddhists cremate their dead relatives. They are generally not large family tombs as you might see in American cemeteries, but rather more like the stone sarcophogus you might find inside one of those family tombs. So they're somewhat reminiscient a twin bed, really, but coffin-shaped with a large carved stone headboard. And they're not located in cemeteries for the most part -- they are clustered in pairs and trios all across the countryside. I even saw a few of them atop a tiny raised island in the middle of a rice paddy, which seemed a seriously odd place to plant your relatives permanently. Totally in the way, for one thing, though I guess it gives you a decent place to picnic during the workday.

The new trend I spotted is that at many of the roadside tomb stores (surprisingly common, actually) they are now selling tombs with roofs. A pillar rose from each corner of the stone casket, and a sloped roof, complete with scallopped red tile shingles and decorative accents, would be placed on top.

A roof on a stone casket would seem to me to be the very definition of superfluous. What could possibly be the point of it? I can only assume that my picnicking theory is correct, and folks in the rice paddies want to get out of the sun for a few minutes at noontime. Unfortunately it's kind of hard to picture anyone perching on Grandma's last resting place munching on bananas and rice. I've yet to see one of these newfangled roofed tombs in actual use -- I guess I'll have to wait to see if there is any lunching involved.

© 2002 Katy Warren




posted by Katy at 1:28 AM