Katy's Asia Adventures (plus Mexico!)

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

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Friday, January 31, 2003
 
I cut the bike ride a bit short due to butt pain. Sorry I can't be more delicate. Instead off taking off in the other direction from Hoi An by bike, I wandered around town taking more pictures.

I have a friend and frequent traveling companion, Heike, who takes very well-conceived artistic shots of interesting doors and windows all over the world. Hoi An is a veritable buffet of great photo opportunities. Every 20 feet you see another delicious door, window or gate. And though most of the new residential construction in Vietnam is rather boxlike and uninspired, most owners try to overcome these design deficiencies with colorful paint in contrasting pastels, detailed carved vents, and decorative iron work on windows, fences and gates.

So yesterday in Heike's honor I took a bunch of door/window photos. Were she here to do this herself they would all turn out to be displayable works of art. I, on the other hand, have no earthly idea what constitutes a good photo. How should it be framed and balanced? What's the best light? How far away should I be? All complete mysteries to me. You'd think I would have taken the time to benefit from Heike's expertise at least once during our travels. It's not like we didn't have time to talk, given that we probably have spent 100 hours on "20 questions" just to kill bus time. As it is I am forced to take pictures in bulk, with the faint hope that one in ten will be decent.

© 2003 Katy Warren



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I finally got a full night's sleep! The room I switched into is smaller and has no windows, but that's all to the good as far as I'm concerned considering the rooster problem. The new room doesn't smell funny either, and has decent water pressure and a remote for the TV. I'm living in the lap of luxury!

After doing more wandering, art viewing, and coffee sipping during the morning, I decided to rent a bike for a half day. Bicycles in Vietnam tend to be rusty, heavy, poorly maintained and minimalist. It would be quite generous to describe my rental as a one-speed. Really, it was more like a half or quarter-speed. First of all, it was too small and too big at the same time. The seat was too high, so I kind of fell over upon stopping. Yet the frame was so short that my knees practically hit the handlebars when I pedalled. There were two other minor problem. The brakes were practically non-existent, which made it especially unfortunate that the seat was too high for me to stop Fred Flintstone style. Good thing it's flat around here. The other challenge was that there was some critical mechanical problem with the bike. When I started to pedal it would take a couple of seconds to catch, so about a quarter of the time I was pedaling with no corresponding forward movement. Oh, and don't get me started on that torture device known as a "seat". I'm still feeling it today. You know that scene from the Wizard of Oz where the Wicked Witch is flying around bolt upright on an old timey basketed bicycle, pedaling too fast for the speed she's going? If I had had her costume designer, that's about what I would have looked like yesterday. Once again, you get what you pay for -- it cost me 33 cents for my half day on the bike. This time it wasn't because I'm cheap, however. All the rental bikes in town suck in similar ways.

Despite the drawbacks, I'm glad I rented it. It was nice to take a leisurely, if moderately painful, ride through the countryside, and I ended up at Cua Dai, a lovely beach on the S. China Sea. You can picture me sitting under a thatched beach umbrella drinking pineapple juice and eating fresh crab while watching the surf come in. How's that weather in Seattle these days? There was only one surfer, though, a foreign tourist from the look of him. Looks like that sport hasn't taken off around here, despite its promotion in Apocalypse Now. Charlie still don't surf, I guess, to paraphrase Robert Duvall. And that guy at at Cua Dai wasn't so hot at it either.

© 2003 Katy Warren


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I picked up my new shirts last night, and while they're not exactly what I would have purchased in a store, they're both perfectly serviceable. The sleeves are a bit too wide and the 3/4 cuff isn't obvious enough so it looks kind of funny, but both are comfortable and dark enough to conceal Pho stains. Though now that I look at it in full light I can easily spot the vestiges of my cau lau from last night's dinner. Dammit.

© 2003 Katy Warren




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Since yesterday was a day of leisure, today I went a-touristing in the classic manner -- Tour Bus. Through my hotel I arranged to go on a daylong trip that would include bus ride to My Son, a natural heritage site with cool ruins, and a boat trip back to Hoi An. You should know that I opted for the expensive tour, so I don't always take the low road. Taking the boat trip added an extra $2 to the $1.50 My Son tour. I paid more than double!

Since I harbor an unnatural love of ruins, My Son, an ancient Champa religious site, was my primary interest. The Cham ruled central Vietnam from about the 2nd to the 14th centuries, and were originally from Java. Their script was Sanskrit and they worshipped Shiva and other Hindu gods. Because of this, these ruins are unlike any other in Vietnam, but resemble Angkor Wat in some ways.

A 900 year series of successful kings built My Son in stages, in a large densely forested valley. Each area has slightly different architecture and was used for religious worship and as a burial place for the constructing kings. They stood relatively untouched (apart from the usual looters) and overgrown until French archeologists began excavating around the turn of the 20th century. Sadly, US warplanes bombed the bejesus (or would that be the "beshiva"?) out of the area in 1968-69 when the Vietnam was using the valley as a major staging ground. Most structures were reduced to rubble, though some remain relatively intact. I had a delightful time wandering through the jungle from ruin to ruin, and I even got someone to take a picture of me -- a special gift for Mom and Dad since I have very few pictures of myself in the umpteen rolls of film I'm sending back.

It's a good thing I had low expectations for the river trip, because it barely managed to meet even those. We drove almost the whole way back to Hoi An before boarding the boat. At the time this was annoying, but considering the tedium of the scenery on the boat trip it was actually a blessing in disguise.

The river was wide and the weather was overcast, so there wasn't even a view of distant mountains. Not much activity on the river apart from some unmanned fishing contraptions and some local ferries. Though I hesitate to call them that given the picture that comes to mind with the word "ferry", at least among northwesterners. These wooden boats were maybe 40 feet long, with half the deck covered with a low roof. All were crammed with Vietnamese, and the roof was generally full of motorbikes, bicycles and other cargo. And did I mention that the ferries have eyes painted on the front? Actually, all the boats in this area, regardless of size or purpose, have long sideways teardrop shaped eyes painted on either side of the hull.

The tour company served us a minimal styrofoam takeaway lunch of sticky rice and four greasy cold fried springrolls. Not good, but since I didn't know my $3.50 even included lunch, I didn't really mind. We made two stops along the way. The first was at a traditional pottery village called Thanh Ha, at which I believe very little pottery is made nowadays. All they had on offer were piercing little clay whistles shaped like animals, and Tet money pots, which are basically piggy banks with a slit for families to insert money all year long. At Tet (lunar new year - Feb 1st in 2003) the pot is broken and the lucky money is used to celebrate.

I never know quite what to do in these weird villages. I feel bad for just looking and taking pictures, but then again the stuff they sell is useless to me. I had already turned down little boys selling those stupid whistles at least 15 times on the streets of Hoi An. Our second stop was a woodcarving/furniture making village, at which none of the craftsmen were at work due to Tet. So it was basically a browsing/shopping visit, and heavy wooden carvings are pretty much the last thing I need at this point in my trip.

Anyway, despite the minor boat ride disappointment, it was an excellent touristy day.

© 2003 Katy Warren





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Thursday, January 30, 2003
 
My first day in Hoi an was all about ME ME ME! After suffering through that 24 hours on the bus from hell, I definitely deserved some relaxation and shopping. Major tourist activity could wait until later in the week.

So I slept in, though not as late as I would have liked. Turns out my hotel room is rather too close to the town fresh fowl market. Consequently, the roosters made their presence painfully and loudly known from about 3:30 am onward. Surprisingly, this didn't really bother me that much -- a testament to how exhausted I was. In any event, I plan to switch rooms.

After a late breakfast involuntarily shared with a 16-year-old Vietnamese girl who wanted me to teach her english and/or purchase tailored clothing from her aunt's store. As I am still wearing a brace, I was able to teach her "broken arm" and "I had an accident", and was firm in my refusal to commit to tutoring strangers on my vacation, no matter how relentlessly she pressed the issue. English is a ticket up the economic ladder here in Vietnam, and its more ambitious residents will go to great lengths for free lessons.

The rest of the morning I spent wandering around town. Hoi An is a very well-preserved (read: not bombed in the war) small city on the banks of the Thu Bon River, about 3 miles from the South China Sea. Over the centuries the city has served as a major Asian port, bringing sizable communities of Japanese and Chinese tradesman into the area. As a result the architecture here is fascinating, strongly influenced by Chinese, Japanese and French settlers. Elaborate columned and balconied French style buildings from the 1800s stand alongside centuries old homes, businesses, temples and assembly halls built by foreign traders. Apart from the temples, the architecture is not in the red and gold dragon-centric Chinese design mode, of which I am not at all fond. Most of the buildings here combine Japanese and Chinese elements, and are more along the lines of what you would see in Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon -- shell-shaped bi-angled tile roofs, high ceilings, courtyards, heavy dark timbers, front porches, and windows that are closed for the day with removable wooden planks. The huge amount of wood construction in this unusual style here in Hoi An gives the town a sort of weird Asian Old West kind of vibe.

Though I haven't gone through any of the officially designated historic buildings, one of the great things about Hoi An is that it's overflowing with art galleries and seafood restaurants, many of which are situated inside these gorgeous ancient houses. Honestly, this is a paradise for the art lover. It was a piece of cake to blow 3 hours exploring Vietnamese paintings while drinking in the beautiful timeless design all around.

After sampling the local specialty of Fried Wontons for lunch, I continued All About ME day by ordering two custom-tailored shirts and having a manicure and pedicure. The manicurist and her aged mother/grandmother/whatever worked the "you want fries with that" selling angle with great enthusiasm. While I was imprisoned in the chair with one arm and one leg in the air, the toothless elderly lady gave me a sample of a massage while the manicurist made a surprise move up my leg to remove my leg stubble by hanking them out indifidually with a crossed piece of string. Yeeeouch! The whole time I was making mewling noises, squirming and telling her to stop she kept saying it didn't hurt. Liar! Man, these Vietnamese have cornered the market on painful personal care activities.

The remainder of the day was spent sipping iced coffee and writing at a riverside cafe, and having dinner with a slightly insane Australian couple. Now if only I could catch up on my sleep!

© 2003 Katy Warren


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Wednesday, January 29, 2003
 
It's been a while since I took a really long bus ride. Bus is hardly my preferred mode of travel, but flights are expensive, trains are packed with Tet travellers, and I've got plenty of time. This bus, a regular service organized by a travel company in Saigon rather than an insanely slow and packed Vietnamese bus, seemed like the best option under those circumstances.

After 24 hours of tailbone torture in an upright and locked position, I now remember clearly how much I loathe long bus journeys. The first 10 hours, Saigon to Nha Trang, wasn't so bad. We were in a big bus with lots of leg room, reclinable seats, and decent air conditioning. Admittedly the seats were vinyl and made for the comfort of Lilliputians, but by practicing my killing stare at the outset I was able to get two seats to myself for the night. This is pretty much the minimum number of seats I require to get a single minute of sleep on a night bus.

Unfortunately, for the 14 hour second leg of the trip the bus company pulled a bus switcheroo. Forty-five minutes into our journey (another in which I had managed to ward off all potential seatmates with my aloof and chilling manner), the driver pulled over and announced we were exchanging buses with a group heading to Saigon. So as we watched our beloved bus head off with its new undeserving passengers, we piled into a significantly smaller vehicle, with narrower seats (if that is even possible) and aisles, no reclining, seriously inferior suspension, and little if any insulation from noise. As there were no window seats by the time I boarded, I elected to sit next to what I judged to be the scrawniest passenger I saw, a 16 year old Vietnamese boy with whom I exchanged not a single word over the subsequent 13 hours.

Apart from being endless, uncomfortable, and endlessly uncomfortable, the drive did have its good points. The scenery was lovely as we meandered in and out of the lush hills along the coastline. Unlike the delta and flatlands areas to the south, the central Vietnamese coast features lovely beaches and dramatic vistas with the mountains coming right down to the edge of the South China Sea.

Villages and towns are literally few and far between, and I was intrigued by the tradition in one province of inscribing the construction date above the door of even the most modest of homes. And they're all modest. Most of the dates are attached to one-story boxlike houses made with cement over brick, colorfully painted in pastel aquas, pinks, yellows and greens, but only on the side facing the road. Painting the cement on the other three sides would just be a waste of scarce resources. I learned by looking out my bus window that 1974 and 1994 were surprisingly good years for residential cement pourers in Binh Dinh province.

The study of awful architecture can only take up so much time, of course. Besides the strange smell, poor suspension, road noise and the miniature unreclinable seats I really only had one complaint: that godawful supercharged horn, and the driver who wielded it like a weapon against any potentially drowsy highway users or passengers.

It is customary in Vietnam for drivers, particularly those in large vehicles, to lightly tap the horn to warn motorbikes of their approach from behind or to warn other buses and trucks of the intention to pass. During our drive we passed hundreds, maybe thousands of other vehicles. Our driver was, shall we say, conscientious about notifying others of our presence. When you add this enthusiasm to the aforementioned issues of shock absorption and insulation, passengers generally thanked their lucky stars that this was a day bus. There was absolutely no possibility of sleep, even though I experimented for the first time with earplugs.

At several points along the road, in an effort to pass the time, I attempted to calculate the longest period of time that our driver allowed to elapse without a blast or series of beeps from the horn. One minute six seconds. Yes, that's right, 66 measily seconds of relative peace. And the second longest time elapsed was 34 seconds -- mostly he hit it every 4-12 seconds. Just imagine that -- 13 hours in a bus with the horn going off an average of six times a minute. That's roughly 4700 periods of honking, sometimes in a sustained tinnitus inducing blast, sometimes in a series of brief beeps, and occasionally a short musical/rhythmic ditty for our listening pleasure.

The final annoyance occured when instead of dropping us off in the thick of town where the tour office company was located, the bus continued on to a hotel that had clearly paid them off, 25 minutes walk away from the main tourist action of Hoi An. By that time we were all so exhausted that most people just stayed there. With no taxis available and a 5 minute debate required with the tour operator, it was a real act of will and painful effort to find another hotel. I'm definitely getting rid of some of my stuff.

All's well that ends well, though, and I'm now firmly situated in the lovely historic town of Hoi An for several days of relaxation and exploration. My goal during that time is to block from my mind the appalling prospect of my return bus journey.

© 2003 Katy Warren


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Tuesday, January 28, 2003
 
Looking back, I have to wonder what the hell I was thinking moving out of my house for one day before I left on vacation.

At the time it seemed perfectly logical. My one month's rent was up on the 26th, and I was leaving the city the next day. Moving out would serve multiple purposes. I wouldn't have to bargain with my landlords for a daily rate, I would get moving a day earlier on the packing (see below), and I would be able to see if living in Pham Ngu Lao, the backpacker area of town, would be tolerable for the month following my return. At that point I will only have a month left in Saigon and I've been thinking about finding a cheaper place in order to save money for travelling.

After living in Pham Ngu Lao for 24 hours, I am prepared to admit that no price is too high to keep me from spending another night in that budget hellhole. I'm sure it's partly due to my advanced age, but I definitely have a lower tolerance for living in relative squalor than I did 10 years ago. Another element may be that I'm alone -- it's easier to put up with certain things when you have someone to laugh about it with. In any case, while I enjoy the company of backpackers individually and in small groups, backpackers en masse are just scary. Not to mention the corresponding horror of the thousands of avaricious Vietnamese who service/prey upon these travelers in their unnatural ghetto.

Part of my problem was that I made a poor choice of hotel. I figured that since the primary objective of this idiotic exercise was to find a cheaper place to live, I had better justify the inconvenience by spending as little as possible. Some New Zealand friends assured me that they had lived for four months in a perfectly fine little hotel for $4 a night. They, however, are very frugal and have rather low standards for lodging. I require airconditioning or else I'm in danger of going on a killing spree.

So the cheapest place I could find that met the minimum requirements was $6 a night. Had I been willing to stay down an alley in a dirty fan-cooled room at the top of a ladder in someone's house I could have knocked five bucks off that, but just looking at that room terrified me. My six dollars bought me a room with my own bathroom with hot and cold water, air conditioning, and a TV that got two fuzzy Vietnamese channels.

But that wasn't really the problem. I don't need more than the basics, really, though I'm really going to want cable TV when I return. The problem was that after about 2 and a half minutes the room itself became incredibly oppressive. Sure, it was clean, but apparently Katy cannot live on cleanliness alone.

Let's start with the ceilings. As I walked in the door of this room, I actually went up two steps from the mini-foyer to get to the bedroom itself. If you are just checking out a room from the door, you might not get the full effect of what it will feel like once you're standing on the raised floor (no idea what they might have put underneath there) and your head is six inches from the ceiling. Apparently the Kim Hotel does not cater to the Big and Tall among us.

Walking through the room had its own perils. Every time I took a step on the cigarette-scarred linoleum all the furniture shook in a Fi-Fi-Fo-Fum sort of manner. Not the sturdiest floor in the world.

So laying down seemed like the best plan. Looking out the window was impossible. I had an excellent view of a line of laundry in the narrow space between my windows and the back of the huge Kim Hotel sigh. But when your lying down and there's nothing but laundry and Vietnamese-dubbed Chinese soaps to watch, you're forced to look around the room. The bed is covered with a red and aqua sheet featuring alternating teddy bears and the colorfully patchworky word "VIGITEXCO". No, I have no idea either. The blanket is a flowered 70's orange that would clash with any color scheme. There is no scheme going on here, however, so this is not a problem.

The mental institution green walls are lit up by fluorescent tube lighting, which unfortunately calls attention to their many mysterious holes. A single mosquito, destined to have a hearty meal of me, buzzes around while I ponder the possible uses for the large metal hook permanently installed in the plaster ceiling above the center of the bed.

Leaving the room was no better. I've been in Saigon for 3 1/2 months and have never been among so many foreigners at one time, yet it was the first time I felt seriously homesick and fed up with living in Vietnam. Everything in Pham Ngu Lao is brighter, louder, busier, and more about the dollar than the rest of the city. Not that separating foreigners from their money isn't the primary objective of much of Saigon, but the activity is far more cutthroat and relentless here where budget travelers can choose among hundreds of cheap hotels, restaurants, tours, motorbike drivers, and souveniers. Walking a two block stretch in this neighborhood you will be subjected to a barrage of "suggestions" from restaurant and tour touts, as well as an endless repetition of "Where you from? Where you go?" from motorbike and cyclo drivers.

So I've changed my mind, but hopefully not my address, as I am calling Linh the minute I return to see if my old room is still available. I just didn't know how good I had it!
© 2003 Katy Warren




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Monday, January 27, 2003
 
I moved out of my house on Sunday, in preparation for going on Vacation for a couple of weeks (too cheap to pay rent and hotels simultaneously), and the experience brought a very serious issue to light -- I have too much crap.

I've been here in Vietnam for less than 4 months, and yet one backpack, two daypacks, and a flight attendant-style rolling suitcase are not enough to hold my expanding belongings. Since I was determined to fit everything in the bags I had, I was forced to leave behind various food items, a ripped pair of pants, my irretreivably bloodstained favorite short, a knockoff copy of the Lonely Planet Laos Guide (I have another), and a bag of marbles given to me by a student who clearly doesn't know me very well.

Were I remaining in Saigon, this would not be such a problem -- in the abstract, this is not that much stuff. Unfortunately, in six weeks or so I won't be looking at the abstract. I'll be looking at hauling all this stuff on planes, trains, buses, taxis and motorbikes all over southeast Asia. So by mid-March I need to get down to the backpack and one daypack if I want to retain any sanity while traveling.

This 12-day trip was, then, in the nature of a trial run. What items do I really need? Already I made one critical error. In the interest of taking more books (a perennial problem, of course) I foolishly decided I could leave my umbrella and rain slicker behind. I mean, it's the dry/hot season and I'm going to the coast, for crying out loud. Who's going to need an umbrella?

Naturally, it was pouring down rain when we arrived in Nha Trang, a seaside resort city where I was going to spend a day or two to break up the bus ride. Beaches aren't much fun in the rain, particularly without rain gear, so I opted to get right back on the bus, thus sentencing myself to nearly 24 straight hours of sitting upright. This is how packing choices can ruin your day!

Upon my arrival in Hoi An, my packing challenges have actually increased. This lovely little town is extraordinarily overrepresented by tailors, who will sew you up a dress, shirt, suit, or whatever in 24 hours for little more than the cost of the material. Since much of my clothing is stained due to my tragic inability to eat noodle soup without getting little drops of it all over my chest, I'm now considering the purchase of more clothes.

I guess I have to go now, since I'm going to have to read a few novels to make space for my new shirts.

© 2003 Katy Warren


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Tuesday, January 21, 2003
 
I'm becoming just a leetle bit annoyed with some of the expatriate men living here in Saigon.

For western women, pretty much all but the young and beautiful among us are screwed in the romantic life department. Vietnamese women are tiny and gorgeous, and many are perfectly willing to go out with western men, even though it completely torpedoes any chance of their ever marrying a Vietnamese man. Of course, there's tons of prostitution too, and for men there's considerably less stigma attached to their participation than there would be in the USA.

I find myself getting very cynical about this. When a guy at a bar told me his sob story about his Vietnamese girlfriend (who "looks like a Cosmopolitan model") dumping him for someone richer, it was all I could do to keep from saying "serves you right for being so damned shallow". This guy was average looking, but a bit overweight in his mid thirties -- did he really believe a "cosmopolitan model" would give him the time of day if he weren't paying all the bills? This poor sap honestly thought he had found True Love, and had been discussing marriage with her.

The only reassuring element of the whole situation is that most of the older expats I meet here are extremely clear-eyed about their prospects for True Love with a gorgeous girl 30 years their junior, and most have at least one "learn the hard way" kind of story to relate. They still won't date American women, but at least they know what they're paying for.

© 2003 Katy Warren


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Friday, January 17, 2003
 
Hey, my cast came off yesterday!

I am now the proud owner of a lovely light olive green splint held together with velcro, which I can take off to exercise my wrist for the next couple of weeks. At the moment I have so little mobility that my arm/wrist/hand combo looks more like a flipper than anything, but hopefully that will improve.



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Thursday, January 16, 2003
 
Those who know me in my normal life are aware that I've always been a magnet for weirdos, the mentally ill, and chatty drunks. I have been blessed (or cursed) with a face that exudes good nature and all-around harmlessness. In some cases this is a good thing -- I have never had my bags searched at a border crossing, for example. However, in day to day urban life it can create a problem, as in general I don't want to talk to strangers, but strangers often want to talk to me. And I want to emphasize the word "strange". During my regular commute in Seattle I experimented with an unapproachable demeanor, simultaneously listening to my Walkman, reading a book, and avoiding any and all eye contact. My attempts were in vain, however, as homeless nutcases, religious fanatics, and government employees would sit down next to me and begin to speak loud enough to be heard over my headphones.

Things on that front have slowed down but not stopped altogether here in Saigon. People still talk to me all the time, but mostly to sell me something or ask about my arm. The language challenge is a very effective deterrent for most crazies, apparently, or maybe there's some sort of cultural barrier to sharing your life story with a stranger. But every once in a while one will sneak through.

Last week I was wandering around town trying to get lost on my day off, when a young Vietnamese approached and spoke to me in English. Let me just say at the outset that he was one of those sneaky weirdos, who seem perfectly normal at first glance and then gradually descend into insanity during the course of a conversation. This particular guy was dressed quite respectably, though a bit too much like a Mormon missionary, which should have been a tipoff for me. He explained to me that he was applying to university in the US, and implied that he had written a letter that he wanted a native speaker to take a look at. Since I had nothing planned for the rest of the day (ah, the life of leisure!), I agreed to go get coffee and share my language and cultural expertise.

At first all was well -- the usual chitchat about my job, origin, length of stay in Saigon, etc. But then we started a farcical dialogue that went something like this:

Weird Vietnamese Guy: How long have you been a teacher?
Innocent Victim Me: 3 months.
WVG: How long have you been a teacher?
IVM: 3 months.
WVG: No, how long have you been a teacher?
IVM: 3 months -- only since I arrived in HCMC.
WVG: No! Do you know Jesus?
IVM: Oh crap, you meant "How long have you been a Christian", didn't you?
WVG: Have you accepted Jesus Christ into your life?
IVM: I'm not religious and I don't want to talk about it.

What proceeded was a 30 minute discussion in which it turns out I wasn't there to proofread a letter, but to give tips on how to beg/persuade/strongarm a visiting president of some podunk southern California pentacostal bible college to give him a scholarship and free trip to the USA. His Poor Pitiful Me lament was interspersed with religious pronouncements and self-serving interpretations of various bible stories I remember from childhood. He was unable to understand why, since he was so teeming with love for God, his fellow man and his relentless persecutors, people weren't falling over themselves to help him out. Why don't women want to marry him? Why won't this stranger give him a scholarship? Why won't I, a person he has known 15 minutes, go speak to the bible college president on his behalf?

At first I was fairly quiet, making thoughtful suggestions about what to say in a meeting or what to write in a follow-up letter. But after he wore me down with the endless carping and belief that everyone owes him a living, I switched to my own family's time-honored philosophy: Stop Whining and Buck Up. I proceeded to explain the "God helps those who help themselves" concept and informed him that there was no rational reason that any woman would marry a man with no job, no prospects, and an obsession with talking about Jesus.

OK, so maybe I'm not the most compassionate person in the world, but if he would follow my advice I'm sure things would get better for him. Next time I think I'll work on softening the wording a bit, though.

© 2003 Katy Warren


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I realized this week that I have lost my perspective when it comes to prices. If you thought I was frugal (some uncharitable people might say "cheap") before, I have definitely raised the bar in that area after 3 months in Vietnam.

One of the unfortunate consequences of being hit by a motorbike in the backside is the irreparable damage it causes to pants. I'm not traveling with a huge wardrobe here. I brought two pairs of pants, and since I ripped the other ones the first week I was here, these black pants were pretty much the only respectable pair I had left. This wouldn't be a huge problem if I weren't tooling around on the back of a motorbike every day -- my two skirts just aren't as convenient in this scenario, and I feel a bit, ahem, exposed when swinging my leg over, no matter how careful I try to be.

So the upshot of all this is that I clearly needed new pants, but in the land of teensy underfed women in skintight clothing, there is no way on earth I could find my size in a regular store. Even my size 6 American friend had a rough time finding anything big enough. Fortunately, there are tailors all over the place. Many of them (at least, the English speaking ones) specialize in making silk dresses, skirts, and ao dais (traditional outfit) for tourists, but all are capable of making a pair of pants.

So I went on a hunt for suitable tailor, and it was after I completed this process that I realized that I have lost my perspective by living in a country where I feel robbed if I have to pay more than $7 for dinner and drinks. The first tailor, right across from my house, couldn't understand a single word I was saying, even when I gave Vietnamese a shot. The second, on the ritzy tourist street nearby, wanted to charge me $20 per pair. I ask you! Am I made of money? The third quoted me $14/pair, which I still balked at. I finally ended up getting two pairs for $24, and actually I still kind of feel taken advantage of. Next time I'm defininitely taking along a Vietnamese translator to help with negotiations.

© 2003 Katy Warren





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Monday, January 13, 2003
 
I received an unexpected proposal of marriage today -- my first since two separate Colombians tried to convince me that they were hopelessly devoted after a 30 minute bus conversation. Steve, a Vietnamese acquaintance I met while sitting around the pool at the Lan Anh Club, e-mailed me two days ago to say that I had given him the wrong phone number and to ask me to get in touch. Steve is his self-adopted name -- his real one is one of those Vietnamese names that is unpronounceable in polite company, so he switched to "Steve" shortly after his arrival in Seattle for a year of study at the University of Washington.

I was surprised to hear from him, actually. I had been weeks since we casually met, and I had never really expected him to call. I never have a whole lot to say to 20 year old men anyway -- they really seem like they live on a different planet, one that specializes in binge drinking and banal conversation about video games. The intensity of his desire to suddenly speak to me again took me aback as well. After I replied to his email, he tried three times to reach me the following day (I accidentally left my phone at home) and then sent another plaintive message requesting that I answer my phone. And though I replied yesterday evening with an apology and suggestion that he call me today, he obviously couldn't wait that long, as he managed to wake me from a sound sleep at 11:50 pm. Clearly 20 year olds don't need as much sleep as I do, nor do they respect basic phone etiquette.

He wanted to meet at 8 AM. Please!! I am a woman of determined leisure here in Saigon, and there's very little reason to be out and about at 8 AM on my day off, particularly when I have been rudely awoken at midnight. So we met at the civilized hour of 9:30 to get coffee, and after a mere 5 minutes of pleasantries, he hit his main point -- he wanted to live in the US, he couldn't get any visa without paying a fortune for school. Could I see my way clear to marrying him for an unnamed generous cash payment? Looking back, I rather wish I had entertained the idea for a few minutes and begun preliminary negotiations, as I am quite curious what the going rate is for this type of agreement.

After that was out of the way, we spent a delightful hour discussing the complexity and general illegality of the marrying-for-green-card plan, the reaction of his girlfriend to his efforts, and his utter lack of opportunity in Vietnam. I have a feeling I may see Steve hanging around foreigner neighborhoods trolling for prospects soon, despite my cautionary advice.

© 2003 Katy Warren



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Saturday, January 11, 2003
 
I have been trying for three days to pick up a much-anticipated package from the USA.

On Wednesday I received a notice that something was waiting for me at the main post office. While the packages that my family sent me for Christmas sailed through the Vietnamese Cultural Censorship and Foreigner Harassment Department without a hitch, I now suspect that that was due to their small size and the high volume of Christmas mail. The envelope from Amanda and Geoff didn't even look like it had been opened, though I hear they are very crafty about making your letters look like they've arrived unmolested by bureaucratic fingers.

Apparently, however, my aunt Carolyn (I'm assuming) must have enclosed those secret State Department documents on the future overthrow of the Hanoi government, because they're making me jump through hoops for this one. Either that or they found some books they want to copy and use for their own nefarious copyright-infringing purposes. Friends here have told me that if someone sends you a compact disk, the post office police will make a copy, then give you the copy and keep the original. Then they charge you for the privilege of having had your mail read and your items confiscated. After all, it takes a lot of expensive man-hours to maintain this level of ridiculousness.

Anyway, on Thursday I headed over to the Post Office to pay for my package and see if they swiped anything. Naturally I went to the wrong Post Office, as they were not kind enough to include an address on the notice. After finding the correct location and passing by the "Cultural Item's Censorship" desk, I was informed that in order to pick it up I would need my passport. I'm starting to get a bit concerned about how big my official file must be getting at Bureaucratic HQ after only 3 months in the country, since the cops kept my passport for a day after the accident and they know the web address now.

When I returned at 4:10 pm, passport in hand, it was to find the lights off and nobody home, despite the posted 7am - 7pm working hours. Aaurgh. I really want that package -- I'm complete out of mystery novels, and Carolyn is my only hope for the next few weeks!

Since I spent all day Friday on a field trip with 150 Vietnamese public school teachers, my next attempt was yesterday. I was helpfully informed at the information desk that the Department of Annoying Me and Taking My Money has its own schedule, designed, I suspect, to be as inconvenient as possible for its "customers" -- open 8-11am and 1-4pm. Man, Hanoi bureaucrats piss me off. So I have to wait until tomorrow to get my stuff. Carolyn, those books better be good!

© 2003 Katy Warren


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I'm back! And I want to thank all the people who wrote to see how things were going and pester me to get started again.

Upon further investigation, my current handwriting looks more like that of a senile nursing home escapee on a bus without shock absorbers than a drunken six-year-old. Six-year-olds have far more fine motor skills than I have in that accursed left hand.

But the important thing is that I can now use a couple fingers on my right hand to help with the typing, so I'm back in the saddle here at Katy's Asia Adventures.

Just to reassure everyone at the outset, I am just fine and, God or Buddha willing, I should get this crumbling eyesore of a cast off in 2 weeks, just in time to go on vacation for Tet, the Vietnamese New Year insanity. Actually, having a cast on my arm has some advantages. First, it has helped me improve my Vietnamese. Everyone talks to me now, and shares their own stories of past motorbike wrecks. The kindergartners I teach are absolutely fascinated by the whole thing, and show me their various scars, scabs and bruises every time I come to class. If I wasn't well known in my neighborhood before for being a palefaced American giantess, I am certainly recognized by all and sundry now, and strangers frequently ask how things are going with the arm.

The other benefit is that the cast clearly marks me as an untrustworthy pedestrian, so many motorbikes give me wide berth while I'm crossing the street, due to the very real possibility that I will do something unexpected and/or stupid. I'm actually far more of a road hazard now than I was pre-accident, since I've lost my rhythm and am now paranoid and hesitant about the whole process. I think it'll take me a while to get back in the swing of things.

Oh, and before I go, I just want to make it clear that this accident was Not My Fault. I was in the blasted crosswalk, and this driver was just driving dangerously fast and weaving. At least he didn't drive off and leave me bleeding all over the sidewalk, as I have been assured that most drivers do here.

© 2003 Katy Warren


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