No Power

Before going to bed last night, I managed to wash the fish out of my travel bag and get a load of damp, dank, smelly clothes into the machine and then hung on the drying rack, which I had to put inside because of the continuing rains. I’d gotten my Monday lesson plans together, and picked out what I would wear the next day. All I had to do was to go to sleep.

When I awoke, it was still grey, gloomy, and a little chilly. I walked into the kitchen to put the water on and realized I had no electricity. I checked all the switches, and nothing worked. This meant I was going to get a cold shower.

Once that little torture episode was over, I walked over to the breaker box and saw a main switch was down. I put my hand on the wall next to the box and almost screamed out loud from the fright of touching a very hot wall. Panic set it. I sniffed around for fire and smelled nothing. I have now learned that a phone call to management, especially at 6am, is useless. I quickly dressed and rode the elevator down to the ground floor and ran to find the security guard.

Between my limited Vietnamese, borderline ranting and mime, I conveyed my situation to the concerned security man. He radioed someone else and told me it would just be a minute. I may have been jumping up and down by this time.

Soon, the fix-it security man rode up on his bike and I tried to explain things as I nearly pulled him to the elevator and then up to my floor. He was very shocked by the heated wall and went into the hall to cut the power. He assured me there was no chance of a fire. I had already been figuring just how much of my valuables I could take into work. I told him that two electricians had worked on the breaker box the afternoon before. He told me he could have someone there by 8am. Since I had to go to work, we arranged for a 1:30 appointment, but not before I made him tell me at least three more times that nothing would ignite in my absence.

When I came home from work I was happy to see everything was still intact. The new electrician arrived, but no one had told him anything other than I was without power. Again, my attempt at conversation was pitiful, but he understood. I was truly impressed by the first thing he did which was to make sure the power was off. Every other time, including yesterday, the workers can’t be bothered to do so and say, “no problem”. I’m sorry, but 220V is a huge problem. Every time someone comes in to do a repair, I mentally rehearse my lapsed CPR training.

In no time, the electrician had the breaker box apart and the problem solved. One of the wires was not attached to where it should have been screwed in. I told him, or at least tried to, about the two men who were here yesterday and had taken everything apart but had somehow failed to notice a big fat wire sticking straight out. I guess I really am lucky they didn’t get fried in my apartment.

I am really happy that it was such a simple cure and not a major re-wiring issue. It also explains all those lights that fade in and out, which I had assumed was due to fluctuating currents. And now maybe my internet connection will not flick on and off at all the wrong times.

Maybe tonight I will sleep well.
Kate

Stormy Weather

Seriously needing a break from life in the teaching mines, I went back to Phu Quoc, the island I had visited last May. Granted, it is still the rainy season, but that usually means a few hours of rain and then back to hot and muggy. And since for the past few weeks it has been quite stormy, some times all day long, I reasoned that this weekend would be calmer. I was wrong.

I flew out at 6:30 Friday morning, which meant that I needed to leave my house by 5am. Not wanting to take the chance that it would be too early for the usual clump of taxis parked outside the apartment complex, and not trusting a 5am call to the taxi company, I arranged with my Thursday morning taxista to pick me up the following morning. I had done this all in Vietnamese, and he was there when I walked out at 4:50am.

At that time in the morning, it only took thirty minutes to get to the airport, so I was in plenty of time to catch the one hour flight to my island paradise, where I would again stay at Bo Resort. I already knew that the owners were still away on vacation in Europe, and that there probably wouldn’t be many people there. It turned out that there was only one other guest.

By the time I had arrived in Phu Quoc, got my bag, and walked to the taxi, it had started to drizzle. My driver on that end moved slowly through the dirt roads that had seen a full season of rain. As we plowed along, the rain increased. Half an hour later, I was at Bo Resort, and it was really coming down. Someone grabbed my bag and took off down the hill towards the bungalows. Not about to start running downhill on stone and dirt paths, I meandered along, loosing sight of the man with my belongings. One of the gardeners pointed to my bungalow, and in I went.

Last time, I was given the only bungalow available. This time I had my choice of any and boy, did I get a good one. They are all lovely, but this had a far better view of the beach below than my last stay. Best of all, I could actually hear the sounds of the sea. Farther up the hill, one can’t hear the waves crashing. I stopped in long enough to realize that the weather was continuing to worsen, and if I wanted to make it down to the restaurant at the bottom of the hill, I needed to boogie. Umbrella unfurled, I gingerly walked down the last section of the path on stone steps, now somewhat cascading with water, wishing there were a hand rail.

At the restaurant, which is an open air, thatched roof building, I noted that the storm curtains were down. Large pieces of plastic; attached to think bamboo poles, top and bottom, kept the rain out. I admired the extension to the dining area that they had been assembling last time I was there. I was greeted by the same young man who I had met last May. He seems to run everything. I got a cup of coffee and looked out at the weather. It did not look promising for a sun tan, but all the same, it was beautiful. And I was cold! Yes, yet again, I had brought all the wrong clothes. If the weather were to stay the same, I would be wearing the same two pieces of clothing for the next three days.

The friend of the owners, who was managing things in there absence, showed up just as the full-blown storm hit. Had I taken a later flight, I would still be in HCMC. Not much I could do but appreciate the natural forces around me, eat breakfast, and hope it would let up at least enough so that I could get back up to my bungalow without getting drenched. It was too cold to get wet and only have a bikini to change into.

The weather spirits were with me at around 1pm. The rain stopped, the skies cleared, and although it wasn’t perfect-perfect beach weather, it was more than adequate to take a stroll and start collecting shells. As it does, the stress and tension drains out of my body with each step along the beach. I walked and walked; the beach all to myself. I passed the jellyfish graveyard. I suppose the storm was just too much for the poor guys. The largest was over a foot in diameter, and although I sort of wanted to play with him and turn him over, I figured it would not be a prudent move.

Two hours later, a new storm front arrived and I went back to my bungalow to take a cold shower, (no sun = no hot water), and changed back into my layers of clothing that really were not sufficient. Then back to the restaurant for cups and cups of hot tea. The last time I was there, the restaurant always had people coming and going and it was quite a different feeling to be the only one there most of the time. The other lone traveler showed up, but she was hanging with the friend of the owners. I actually enjoyed the solitude and could just walk back to the kitchen should I need more hot water or if I wanted something to eat. Part of that is also the laid-back ambience of The Bo. Even when the place is full, I bus dishes, or grab an extra plate.

I awoke to a grey Saturday morning, but it wasn’t blowing or raining. By the time I had finished breakfast, the sun was out, and I hurried to get into beach wear. I might only have a few hours of tanning time, and I was so pale that I scared myself. I tried to remember the last time I had had a decent tan, and it must have been about four years ago. To hell with sunscreen; I’d made that mistake in the past. You slather it on, get two hours of sun, the rains come, and that is it for the rest of your vacation. You are left with no color whatsoever. If I only had limited tanning time, I was going to make the most of it.

Two hours later the sun was still out, so I took a walk up the beach and collected more shells. I got some exceptional specimens to use in any of a number of my various art projects. I got to see a beautiful rainbow. I passed some graves a short ways back from the shore. People are buried where it is auspicious, and I couldn’t think of a more auspicious location. Eventually I walked back, and took a break out of the sun.

I went out for a little more sun that afternoon, but could tell that I was mildly fired, so packed it in for the day and spent the next few hours reading in my bungalow. The skies remained clear, and I hoped for a beautiful sunset.

The sun sinking into the sea started out with your basic golds and yellows. Not postcard spectacular, but lovely all the same. I sat on the shore and watched as with each minute, the intensity of the sky became increasingly more magnificent. Bit by bit, moving from the center outwards, more of the horizon filled with color, now ranging into pinks and deeper yellows. The formations and backlighting gave it an other-worldly effect; like I was watching a sunset on Vulcan. The air was warm; there was no one but me and the sea. I sat transfixed by the sky, and alternately, the tide flowing in and out at my feet. It seemed to last forever, changing with every breath. When darkness finally fell, I walked back to my table at the restaurant and looked out over the beautiful sea with lights from fishing boats in the far distance, listening to the waves and the peace.

I shut off my lights at ten, but couldn’t seem to fall asleep. A few hours later, storm number four hit with unbelievable power. Lighting was striking down all around me and I really hoped it wouldn’t hit my thatched roof. My little bungalow shook with every thunder clap. The winds were stronger sounding than I had ever heard, and the rain was ferocious. Possibly it would be interesting to watch, but I might die in the process, so stayed in bed listening. Every time I thought the worst had passed us by, another wave of ferocity hit. I started to wonder how strong the foundation was and imagined my shack sliding down the hill. I was glad for my semi-fried body as I knew there probably would be little chance of sunshine in the morning.

The storm eventually did stop, but Sunday morning was grey and foreboding. Out at sea, one could only see dark grey skies, indicating the incoming weather front. I had to leave at 10:30 to get to the airport in time which meant that the next few hours would be spent in the restaurant and not on the beach as I had hoped. There, I started to get nervous that if the weather did not clear, as it hadn’t on Friday, I would be stuck in Phu Quoc. I couldn’t deal with the guilt of calling work to say I was stuck out at sea. When my taxi arrived, I still doubted that any airplanes would be taking off any time soon, but went ahead to the airport.

At the ticket counter, I was told that my flight was delayed. It looked as if the weather was clearing, so I hoped it wouldn’t be too long. An hour later, they announced that we could check in. Unfortunately, the check-in was for the people who were supposed to be on the 9am flight. My plane was still in HCMC. I went up to the counter and asked if there might be a seat on the flight due to leave in thirty minutes. The counter agent took my ticket and handed it to the guy at the computer, so I had hope. At that point, a young American woman walked up. She was in the same predicament. I told her they were trying to get me on the flight and she just dropped her ticket in front of the man on the computer.

Eventually, they let us both on and we went running to the gate, assuming that the plane was in the final boarding stages. The plane hadn’t even arrived yet, so we sat down and waited. Talking with someone certainly made the wait and the flight go very quickly.

At the luggage carousel in HCMC, I saw my bag rolling towards me and also noticed that it had wet patches all over it. Maybe it was just condensation. My friend, being young and healthy, grabbed it off for me and I leaned over to take a whiff. GAG! It was covered in fish water! Obviously, my bag had been next to the fresh fish box, which had leaked all over it. I sounded irate and was making all the Vietnam air people bend over for a smell, but then realized, what could they do? Hopefully, it hadn’t leaked or fumed through to my belongings.

When I got home, I opened my bag and dumped it all on the floor. Thank goodness, nothing seemed too fishy. I went to turn on the light, (those dark storm clouds cutting out the sun again), and found I only had electricity in part of the house. I don’t get this travel, come home to no utilities, thing. Last time I had no water. I called the management company, and two electricians came over.

Of course, when they tried it, the lights went on. I was really starting to feel stupid, but then the lights dimmed, glowed, and went off. The men took apart switches and looked at the fuse box, tightened some screws and everything seems to be working. All I really understood form one of them was that I should not be using anything over a 40 watt bulb, because of course either a 60 watt or 100 watt would cause these problems. Or maybe that is not what he said.

My little vacation wasn’t quite long enough or warm enough, but I cannot complain. I got out of the city and away from work. I will go back in two months, and I have already booked my special bungalow for four nights. I will take jeans and sweatshirts and bikinis and sarongs. There might still be some rain, but nowhere what I experienced this weekend.

Time to get the fish bag out of the washing machine.
Kate

Salsa Lessons

Needing to maybe get a social life after a year in Vietnam, I decided to try a night spot called “La Havana”. Several months ago I had read that they had Tuesday night salsa lessons. Dance classes are always a good way to meet folks, so a friend and I cruised on over there last Tuesday at 7pm.

La Havana is quite the cute little place that definitely had that south of the border, Spanish décor flavor. You enter into a small front room/bar, then head back to another dining-drinking area, through a small courtyard, and into the back dance hall. Rather small, it was, but since there were only about five people waiting for the class to start, it was doable.

I asked one of the waitresses who the teacher was and she pointed to a short, goateed man walking towards us. I walked over and introduced myself and said we were there for the class. He gave me an exasperated look, thought a minute, than said, “This is the beginning class, but it is not really beginning. This is the sixth class.” He paused, and when I didn’t respond, he continued, giving me a very suspicious glare, “Have you ever done salsa before?” I said that I had. “But what salsa do you do?” Stumped by this question, I sort of shrugged my shoulders and asked what type he did.

“There is New York salsa, Puerto Rican salsa, Cuban salsa.” I asked where he was from. “Spain”. I asked what type of salsa we were supposed to know to be able to participate in week six of the beginner class. He commenced to squiggle around the floor in front of me, demonstrating his brand of salsa. He didn’t say which type it was. He stopped, sighed and asked if I could do that. I said I would be ok. He huffed, turned, and walked away.

I dance to dance. I turn on the music and move. I don’t actually believe that dancing for sheer pleasure is something that needs to be taught, and that as long as you are having fun, who cares what you look like? Apparently our teacher did not have the same life view.

The room soon filled up with about twenty people, mostly young western women, and a few couples. The instructor, who had some weird name I never could decipher, told us to get into lines. The class began, with no music, just him counting 1, 2, 3-4-5, over and over, while doing Salsa Basic; which style, I have no clue. I had it down, and just wished he would turn on the tunes. No such luck. We then preceded to Salsa Basic with a Turn, still in lines, still no musica.

Eventually, he did see fit for us to boogie with rhythms and sound. We partnered up and moved around the floor. El instructor mostly walked around glowering. After half a song, he stopped the music and we went back to the lines, practicing Salsa Basic with Suzie-Que step, and on to Partner Spins.

Exasperated with our apparent lack of finesses, El professor called up a six foot tall gal to help demonstrate. We watched. Then the music started and we got to dance again. Soon, the tall lady walked over and stared at my friend and I for a moment before stopping and saying we were not doing it right. I leaned against the wall until it was my turn to be instructed. Tall lady and I got to one, two, three, four, five, turn – and she abruptly halted. “You are doing it wrong!” she scolded in a strong German accent. “You must spin on 7!” This went on a little longer until I was able to spin as the robot dancer had instructed.

After and hour and a half, we never really go to dance, and definitely never worked up a sweat, which is one of the reasons one takes a dance class. Senor Dancer, who had yet to crack a smile, then gave his End of Beginning Salsa speech, informing us that in the future, we would not be able to pay for only one class, but would have to pay for six at a time. He further noted that although most of the students had been there for all six classes, a good many of them were not ready to go onto Salsa Intermediate, and should repeat beginning. “I am not going to say who. But I know”.

Needless to say, I will not be back. However, I will continue my search for a place to shake my booty, and where there is no one to tell me I am not dancing right.
Uno, dos, tres!
Kate

The First Amendment

I work with students who come from an educational background that does not encourage independent thinking. Schools use a state wide, teacher-centered, curriculum where students sit at desks all day and write down what the teacher says. Pair work, or group projects are not part of regular school learning. Knowing this, I am quite often surprised by the range of profound responses and expressions of deep understanding that I hear from some of my students. However, last week, while working on group opinions of various contentious statements, I was taken aback by the entire classes’ thinking.

One group of four students was given the topic, “it is sometimes all right for the government to censor newspapers, literature, and movies.” The assignment was to discuss their level of agreement or disagreement and then to present this to the class. The group concluded that they agreed one hundred percent with the statement. When we polled the rest of the class, their opinions were the same.

They backed up their point with arguments such as people could be negatively influenced by something that was written and therefore the government needed to protect the populace. An example was given about an erroneous newspaper article stating that gold prices would soon dramatically increase, resulting in people buying gold. Another example was that naked bodies and sex in cinema was offensive to Asian cultures.

Stepping lightly, I put forward the question that if censorship is justifiable, who would be the judge of what should or shouldn’t be allowed into the public domain? The government. I attempted a few more probing-thought questions, but got the same answers. Finally, I decided to simply tell them why the freedom of speech was one of my, if not the most, valued rights. What did I expect, a resounding, “Hey, we never thought of it that way! You have a point!”? No one jumped on my bandwagon.

I don’t think if I have ever before been so absolutely, totally, struck in the face with such an extreme case of cultural difference that I had not expected. I have always taken it for granted that everyone in the world believes in freedom of speech, and I was proven; resoundingly, I might add, wrong.

The insane amount of work I have been doing since getting back from my trip to the US, will no longer be, starting tomorrow. I will be working a four day week, having Wednesdays off. Not quite as spectacular as a three day weekend, but I really have no complaints. The two classes I have will require lots of extra hours, but hopefully it won’t feel like I am never able to catch my breath. And maybe I will stop using all that work as an excuse to not study my Vietnamese enough.

My language teacher still comes to my house twice a week, and we still have a lovely time, but I know I should be using the language more outside of class and doing a lot more homework. Having said that, I was in the HR office at work the other day, and understood almost the entirety of a phone conversation about what time the woman I needed to see was to return. It was simple, and I knew the purpose to the conversation before it was made, but still was pleased.

I blew off a lot of things this afternoon so that I could get a pedicure. I didn’t realize it would take about two hours, or I might not have gone. There are nail places on every block in the city, and even ladies with stools who will do your nails on the sidewalk. Unfortunately, even the ‘top’ salons are not to the standards I want. Mostly because nothing is sterilized and they don’t do your heals. But a new place opened up just down the street, so I thought I would give it a try.

Right away you know it is different because it has the ultra-modern, pedicure massage chairs. Even though I was there for all that time, I could never get the control panel to do the massaging I wanted. One has a choice of about seven different rubs and kneads and manipulations. Every time I tried to change it, I either ended up having the back recline like in a dentists’ chair, or moving the whole seat back so far that the woman working on my feet had to stop. I stopped messing with it and just leaned forward when the nerve-pinching part rolled over my back.

The biggest thrill, aside from getting my entire foot worked on, was that they had the cuticle/dead skin clippers stored in a jar of disinfectant. This is the first time I have seen that anywhere. They always tell you everything is disinfected in the US, but I never really see it done.

The actual pedicure was not top rate, but everything considered, they will have my business from now on.

It is now almost 8pm, Sunday evening, and I can no longer put off getting my class together for tomorrow. It is a new class, but I have done it so many times, that I shouldn’t need to spend much time.
Kate

The People's Committee

After a year in Vietnam, I have now been approved by the People’s Committee, and have been issued a work permit. Hearing the news, in my mind I pictured a scenario of a group of battle weary, fatigued-clad men, sitting around a table, smoking cigars.

Before I was issued the permit, I had to get another physical. For a health certificate to be valid for the Peoples Committee, it must be less than six months old, and I had gotten my first one ten months before. My job would pay for the exam at a Vietnamese hospital. Remembering the last, bizarre, germ-ridden exam, I opted to go to the expensive clinic, even though I would have to pay for about fifty percent of the cost.

The SOS clinic apparently deals mostly with medical evacuations. It is centrally located, spotlessly clean, and everyone speaks English. The entire process took less than an hour. I can’t say that it was really more than a blood test and a chest x-ray, which I boldly protested. I asked the doctor if the x-ray was a TB screening. When he said yes, I asked about a skin test. According to the doc, in Vietnam they only do the skin test if the x-ray is positive. When I said that I didn’t want the radiation, he asked where I had heard that x-rays were bad and further went on to tell me that I could only be harmed by the radiation if I were to have three or four x-rays a month, over a year period. Then again, this was the man who, as part of the exam, asked me to touch my toes.

Now that everything is in order, I am really hoping work slows down. It feels as if I have been running a non-stop marathon since returning. What with doing half of a course with one class, then being thrown into another that was half-way through, in addition to the short course I teach, I have been working way too many hours for my comfort. I suppose I am partly to blame, assigning multiple essays for all my students then having to correct and critique forty a week. Worse, out of the twenty-one students in the class I took over, only six passed the final. I am trying not to take it to heart, as it was probably one of the two worst classes I have ever had in my life. Half the class never came, and the group dynamics were appalling. Maybe if I had gotten the class week one, it could have made a difference.

However, no need to despair, I tell myself. First of all, this is a three day weekend, which means a four day week, and I will only be teaching one level. After that, I think I am going to a four day work week, having Wednesdays off. Maybe somewhere down the road, I could manage a three day week. This full time work does not leave me any time to do any of the things that make life enjoyable. My not being able to write, being the principle drawback.

Of course, there still are occasional bits of pleasure here. Last week my cousin and some friends came to Vietnam. I was only able to hang with them for a few hours on their way to, and way back from a sailing trip they took up north. It was great. We had dinner and talked, and occasionally just stopped to realize how bizarre it was that the cousins were actually sitting in a restaurant in Ho Chi Minh City.

Their last night here we ate at a small restaurant, The Black Cat, a place my friend had turned me on to. The owner had been a chef in Oakland, California for twenty years. The Cat is his third restaurant in the city. Food is a mixture of Vietnamese, American, and several others. They even make their own bagels. Everything is fresh, and every meal I have had has been excellent. The prices are completely reasonable. Talking to him a few weeks ago, I learned about his food philosophy. He is out to educate the HCMC public on the virtues of healthy eating. I was thrilled to hear that he is preaching the hazards of MSG and the benefits of fresh food. Best of all, the restaurant is centrally located which means I can stop in for a bite when in town. Everything else I had tried in the past was overpriced and sucked.

Actually, there is another place that I ate at last weekend with some other friends. Café Latin is a sports bar. I have no idea why they have that name since it caters to portly, middle-aged, foreign men, who come in to watch the football and rugby, drink beer, and eat. I do like the fact that the entire front is open to the sidewalk, so that sitting inside is like sitting outside. You are out of the heat, but not in refrigerated air. The menu reflects the clientele; lots of deep-fried dishes and red meat. I ordered the “Captain’s Basket”, an immense pile of beer battered, deep-fried calamari, fish, and shrimp. It took two days to finish it. I certainly got my monies worth.

I have also been able to keep up with some of my shopping outings. Just yesterday I popped into town to go to Ben Thanh Market. That’s the place where they sell everything and anything, for both tourists and locals. I detest the place, what with its throngs of tourists, small aisles, and surly stall attendants. But there are a few places inside that have what I need, and I needed new bed linins.

Bracing for the onslaught, it was, after all, a holiday weekend, I managed to get in and out in record time. This time I actually took my camera and took a few pictures. I never have done this before simply because it is too crowded and too easy to “loose” things. I only took shots of the main aisles. I did walk through the spice and food section, which were great photo ops, but I was carrying packages, it was crowded, and managing a camera, all the while on the look-out for possible camera-snatchers, changed my mind. I will have to go in one day for the sole purpose of photography. Or at least take pictures first, make purchases second.

Time to upload those pics to my laptop.
It certainly feels wonderful to write again!
Kate

Paint/Pictures/Sign Language

You can’t simply bang a nail into the wall and hang a picture in Vietnam, or in about any other country I have lived in. I can’t remember where I was living when I found this out for the first time. Hammer and nails waiting, I carefully tapped my knuckles on the wall searching for a stud. Tap, tap; nothing. Tap, tap, tap; nothing. It finally dawned on me that there were no studs. They were cinder block walls. Great, in terms of soundproof apartments, but hell for hanging pictures easily. On many occasions I have tried the hammer and nail method, only to chip off large amounts of plaster and break the nail.

The few things I had had in my apartment here were light enough, and unbreakable enough, to use those sticky-backed hangers. However, I brought back glass framed pictures from California, and framed a few other things here, so was in need of real picture hangers. I was a bit unsure of calling my realtors, who send out the service men when needed. These guys are lovely, and usually get things sorted on the second service call, but I was concerned about them drilling into my walls. I couldn’t remember who it was who drilled the wall to hang my extremely heavy, full-length mirror when I moved in, but they managed to leave a fairly large hole and used an old screw that was probably scavenged form a building site. Granted, it does the job, but is not very pretty.

I did call the realtors but stated that I wanted someone who could do the job well. My regular electrician/plumber showed up with a helper. There were already two, expertly done hooks in the apartment when I moved in. I showed them and hoped they understood that that was what I wanted. When worker number two pulled out a drill with a half-inch bit, I started to worry. I tried to explain that it was too big. He pulled out a plastic anchor and demonstrated how the drill bit needed to be that size. I was doubtful, but waved him on. Thirty seconds later I was all but yelling, looking at the giant hole and chipped plaster.

The boss guy came over and pulled out his box of recycled, rusty screws, saying that these were what they needed. Not on my walls. Again, I pointed to the ones already in place. He finally understood and went out to buy some new fixtures. The drilling continued, with a smaller bit, but with chips and trashed-up walls. He kept saying it was no problem, and would grab a picture to show me that once it was hung, you wouldn’t see the mess. I tried to explain that I didn’t care if it was going to be covered, and in some cases, it wouldn’t be. I finally gave up and let them put in ten hooks, all the while calculating how much of my deposit was being lost.

When they left, I set about doing repairs. I had tried to ask if they might have spackle, but that conversation got nowhere. Not wanting to go out and try to find some, I used the old college apartment/get the deposit back trick: toothpaste. After that dried, I brought out the acrylic paints and tried to mix a color that would match the walls. It looks ok, if you don’t get too close. When I finally finished doing damage control and hung my things, I was very pleased.

But there was a problem; I had one, big, empty wall that needed something large. I have fabric hangings and photos on all the other walls, and this wall needed a painting. I paint a lot of things, but they are never on flat surfaces. I do designs, not proper paintings. Also, I don’t think I have ever done anything two-dimensional. Now was the time to try.

Vietnam is known for its copy artists. You can buy first rate, original reproductions of just about anything. There is also original work and portraits from photos. Several of these stores are on the main tourist street in town and I thought they would be the place to buy a canvas on a stretcher board.

I’d never before even walked into any of them, but remembered one huge place in the bottom level of an old building. So today, I went in. The cavernous ground floor had ceilings that appeared about two stories high. It looked like nothing had been done to the place for one hundred years other than to have paintings displayed on all the wall space and stacks of pictures leaning against the walls.

I walked in and towards the back where the sales people sat around on low stools. Off to the left, three young men were busy painting large pictures, occasionally glancing at small pictures from an art catalogue or postcard. At least one man looked to be doing an O’Keefe, although I am not certain. Another was reproducing a postcard picture of a young Vietnamese woman in traditional dress, leaning on a cart. I glanced at his sample then back to the picture. It was the same except that in the painting, her dress bodice was transparent and she had a set of giant boobs in all their glory, jutting out at you.

I asked the sales ladies if I could purchase a blank canvas. It took a few minutes before I was understood. I had a choice of three sizes, and took the 80cm x 80cm. They cut the canvas and stretched and stapled it for me, wrapped it in paper and made a string handle. Total cost; $7. Leaving, I was getting really excited about going home and getting out my paints and playing. Then I realized that I only own small bottles of acrylic paint and this was a large hunk of canvas. I needed paint.

Le Loi street, a few blocks away, is lined with little stationary and art supply stores. I looked at the sky, knew it would soon start raining, but another trip into town to get paint when I was so close didn’t seem like the smart thing to do. So, with canvas slung from my shoulder, umbrella held up, I went in and out of shops, searching for paint. Everyone had oil, but no acrylic, and I was starting to get soggy. I finally found my paints, purchased about 5 tubes, and flagged a taxi before really getting drenched. My blank canvas is now on the wall while I get inspiration about just what to do with it.

Once home, I remembered the linen pants I had had made and needed to pick up. This is also the country of inexpensive tailors but all the ones that had been recommended where very far from where I live. Going in for a fitting or two would cost more in taxi fares than it would in clothing. But a few months ago I met a neighbor who has a store on the back side of my building. She employs deaf seamstresses, gives them good working conditions, so is making enough to get by, and also providing employment for people who might not find work as easily as others.

The pants I had designed were perfect and the construction excellent. I took in more linen for two more pair and designed a top that they could make out of the left over fabric. As I was explaining what I wanted to one young lady who spoke limited English, and another who spoke well, they called down two seamstresses. The ladies signed between themselves, and a little to the one young woman who did not speak English very well. When things got confusing in the ensuing translation to me, or vice versa, the deaf women wrote in Vietnamese and then it was translated for me. I did a drawing and pantomime of what I wanted and the seamstress understood immediately, but then needed to assure the sales lady that she really did understand.

After all the measuring was done, the seamstresses mimed rocking a baby. (did I have children?) I shook my head and then mimed the same question to her. She nodded, held up one finger, then did the American Sign Language sign for boy. I about fell off the chair. It has been twenty year since I took sign language, but some things you just don’t forget. For the next twenty minutes, the group of us either signed, spoke English, or Vietnamese. It was incredible. Sometimes I signed to the deaf women and then said it in English. Or they would write a word in Vietnamese, which was translated to English, and I would remember the sign, which was the same in Vietnamese Sign.

Sign language is different in different countries so I was really surprised. But then I remembered that ASL is based on French Sign Language, and of course the Vietnamese version must have been brought over by the French. When I signed a question regarding this, the deaf ladies said that there were some similarities, but I that it was a different language, and that indeed, it was based on French Sign. Holy Crap! I had the most extensive conversation I have ever had with non-English speakers in Vietnam, and it was in sign! Every time we found a mutual sign, all of us would hoot with laughter and disbelief that we were communicating. God, if only everyone else in this country could sign, I could get along really well. I have a very limited sign vocabulary, but if I get stuck, I just keep gesturing, and deaf people seem to pick up on gestures with much more ease. Also, I didn’t feel hesitant at all about trying out signs, where as I am really bad at even trying to use Vietnamese in public. I am really eager to get back and sign some more.

Kate

Back In Town

I have been back in Vietnam for three weeks, and I think I may just be back to normal. The plane flight isn’t so bad; it’s that time difference of 14 hours. Doing that twice, in three weeks, is brutal on the body. And then there’s the bizarre situation of leaving California at midnight on Tuesday, and arriving in Vietnam Thursday morning. I lost a day somewhere along the route.

I had the weekend to recover, then was thrown into two classes that were already halfway through, and was about the third teacher the students had had. After those classes finished, I was transferred to another class that had already seen five different teachers. I will continue with them three days a week, but on Monday will also get a new group. Damn, I’m tired just writing about it!

I must say that when I arrived in HCMC, it was like starting a whole new adventure, even though I was coming back to the place I had lived for a year. On the taxi ride back, I couldn’t quite believe the excitement I felt at being in an exotic country once again. It is always strange when I go from one country to the other. When in Vietnam, the US doesn’t really exist, and when in the US, no other country exists. It is the only way I can deal with the absolute differences. After a week or two in the US, it begins to feel, ‘normal’, and then it is time to go back, which is probably why it felt so exhilarating in the taxi ride to my apartment.

It was especially exciting to unpack the things I had brought back from the US. Mostly it was a lot of items that had been in storage for a few years, along with around sixty books. I now have a few shelves of books, and lots of artwork up. The homestead looks much more comfortable.

I have returned to my language studies, and even though I didn’t look at my Vietnamese language books while in California, my teacher was impressed that I hadn’t forgotten everything. I think she is just being nice. As always, I do fine in class but am still to hesitant to try out much of the language when out and about, and if I don’t start doing that, I am not going to progress past book one.

When my teacher was here the other day, she mentioned another of her students who was having difficulty writing one of the Vietnamese letters. The alphabet is the same except for the ‘d’, which can be written like we do, or with a cross through the stem, like you would cross a ‘t’. Crossed ‘d’, is pronounced ‘yah’, uncrossed, it is like ours. Apparently, this man told my teacher that he ‘feels sad’ when he has to cross a d, and so was refusing to do so. She tried to explain that he had to do it. They reached a compromise and now he only draws the cross until it intersects, but does not cross the letter. I figure he is crazy.

On to good news, it seems that all my documents have been accepted by the labor department and I will have a work permit in about a month. I duly filled out and handed in the reimbursement form, with all requisite receipts, to the HR people. The total, which included my friend’s paperwork, was over $400. I just got an email that said that they would have to do a direct deposit into my bank account, and could I please send them the information, and also please get an approval signature. I was, and am, confused. They have my bank info, as that is how I get paid every month. And why did I need an approval signature from a different department when it was HR that requested the documents? I have to go in Monday and sort it out.

I almost forgot to mention that before they sent the paperwork in, I had to get yet another health check. The last one I had was almost a year ago, and they are only valid for six months. After my last experience at a Vietnamese hospital, I opted to go to an expensive clinic, even though work will only pay for about half of it. I guess they think sending us to a germ infested, filthy, questionable results, local hospital is all we deserve. The fancy clinic, which caters to the foreign crowd, had me in and out in less than an hour. I pleaded with the Doc not to give me a chest x-ray, as I have already had enough in the past year. He asked where I had heard that x-rays were bad for you, and went on to say that if you got three or four a month for a year, maybe it could harm you. I asked if they were checking for TB, and he said yes. I asked why they didn’t do a skin test and was told that was reserved for people who have a positive x-ray. It was either submit myself to radiation, or no work permit. At least at this place they had me remove my clothing first before the x-ray.

Mostly, it has been work, sleep, clean the house and, of course, read. Those of you who have never been in a country where you can’t get books, have no idea how wonderful it is to come home and be able to choose a book from a big pile of good ones. So there I was last week, listening to the pouring rain, fully entrenched in a good read, when I glanced up at the wall by my front door. On the wall by the light, there must have been a thousand, tiny, gnat like insects! I had some windows open, but they are screened. The little things had gotten in under the door. As much as I hated to do it, I got out the Raid, which I keep for dire emergencies only, this being one. I really didn’t want to spray it indoors, but it was 11pm, and there seemed to be no other choice. Fortunately, I have lavender Raid, so it is not quite as noxious as the original scent. Still, I had to cover my nose and mouth, then lock myself in my room with the A/C blasting as well as the fan. The next night I made sure I stuffed towels at the bottom of the door. I found out later that they fly in from the rice fields during the rainy season to attack light bulbs in the city. They seem to have departed after a three day rampage, although I am still blocking the bottom of the door and constantly checking for intruders.

I have no new pictures to go with this writing, except one from a restaurant that I have recently found in town. One would think you were in some California, Mediterranean establishment. The food is pretty darn good, considering we are quite a ways from the Med. The décor and ambiance is exceptional. They have another room that looks like you are in a harem, but I didn’t take a picture.
I am going to check for insects and get back to my book.
Kate

State Capitol

I grew up about an hours drive from Sacramento, the capitol of California, yet I had never been there until a few days ago. Why had I never gone there on a school field trip or as a Saturday outing? It was not something I had ever wondered about until I was there, getting my documents authenticated.

The capitol building and surrounding area is beautiful. When I think of a seat of power, I imagine a lot of hustle and bustle. I was surprised at the relaxed and slow-paced feel of it all as I walked around in the warm weather, under the shade of some very old, large trees.

Getting letters of authentication for my four documents took less than ten minutes. I spent the next hour on a mini-tour of the Capitol building. It is sort of like a functioning museum. Several of the rooms on the bottom floor have been turned into dioramas of times past. There is the Governor’s office, and various meeting rooms. Up the ornate stairways, the dioramas are actually functioning spaces. The Senate room, in red and antiques would look very museum quality were it not for the flashing welcome message and laptops. Talking to a Capitol Building Information Person, I found out that had I been a few hours earlier, I could have witnessed the Governator signing the budget.

Leaving Sacramento, I drove through some of our beautiful California farmland. It was hot, but I left the windows down so that I could breathe in that rural air, possibly tainted with a few pesticides since my eyes were soon itching and watering. The two-lane highways, (probably more dangerous than the eight-lane ones), were a delight. I passed fields of various crops and giant windmills. I eventually had to return to the big freeways, but even those wind through beautiful rolling hills. I had driven a lot that day, odd when you think that I hadn’t been driving at all for the past year, but it had been quite an enjoyable road trip.

Kate

Paper Trails

I believe one of my earliest postings concerned my getting a criminal check to prove to the Vietnamese government that I had no background in illicit affairs. After I had received the letter of clearance, I had it notarized. It was then sent to Sacramento where the Sate notarized my notary, after which it was sent to the Vietnamese Consulate in San Francisco, where they notarized it. Apparently, the labor department in Vietnam decided that it was not valid because my name appeared on the initial notary form.

It has taken from then until now to figure out just exactly what is required for me to get my work permit. It turns out that the six or seven documents that I had notarized before leaving for Vietnam a year ago, are all null and void. All I ever needed was a letter stating that I had graduated from a university, and a letter of clearance from some sort of police bureau. The catch is that each of those letters must be signed by an official, and then that person’s signature must be notarized by a notary at the place of signing.

One of my universities’s flat out refused to do it. The other one complied. But then there was the problem of getting the criminal check notarized. After several phone calls and a hunt through the yellow pages, I found out that for a fee, a notary will come to any location and do the paper work required. I really wish I had known all of this a year ago. Or even six months ago.

Not that this is the end of it all. I now have to drive to the State capitol and have the Sate Notary authenticate my notaries. Then it is back to the Vietnamese Consulate in San Francisco to get their seal. And if all this turns out to be for naught, there is not much more I can do.

Other than that, I must say that the weather is pretty much behaving itself. To date, there has only been one day of total fog and cold. True, the nights are down in the low 50’s F (12 c), and that nasty fog is drifting in as I write, but all and all it seems global warming has arrived in the SF Bay Area. Great! I am also happy that it stays light until around 9:30pm, whereas in HCMC it is dark by 7pm.

We are coming up on the 4th of July weekend, a time to stay in and avoid the freeways. Maybe this year we will be able to see fireworks. Generally, it is a 50/50 chance that they will be fogged out.

I need to put on another sweatshirt.
Kate

California

It’s been four days since I arrived back in California. As always, the first day or two feels extremely odd. There is no way I can ever explain the strange sensation between living abroad and then coming back to the US. They are such entirely different places, and entirely different lives. When I am in California, it is as if Vietnam doesn’t exist, and when I am in California, it is as if Vietnam doesn’t exist. Trying to understand and evaluate my feelings and reactions to this situation confuses me for about two days, and then I give up and forget that I really was living in another country just a week ago.

I must say that the flight over was the most comfortable, long trip flight I have ever taken. I flew Economy Deluxe, on Eva Air. The seat cost a mere $100 more than the cheap seats, and you get a business class chair, with tons of leg room and seats that really recline. I barely felt the need to get up and walk around the cabin, which is how I usually spend the entire time I am on a transatlantic flight.

In addition to a fantastic flight, I arrived in San Francisco to hot weather. For those of you who do not know, it is rarely hot in San Francisco, no matter the season. Only tonight has the dreaded fog rolled in and I am starting to freeze. I must brace myself for the fact that I may never see the sun again before I head back to HCMC.

Today I spent part of the morning taking my mother’s car in to the mechanics. It is rarely driven, less than six years old, yet the air conditioning was not functioning. As the mechanic looked under the hood, he pointed to the part of the a/c unit that was not engaging. As he was saying this, I noticed a bunch of plastic bags stuffed in a corner of the engine block. I started to reach for the bags asking myself, out loud, why anyone would do something so dumb. Millimeters from actually grabbing the garbage, the mechanic said, “you know, that looks like a rats nest”. My hand was out of there in a micro-second. It turned out that a mommy rat had built a nest inside the engine, using plastic bags and anything she could chew off from inside the engine, including the wire that goes to the a/c unit. Since the nest had long since been vacated, I am assuming that mother and babies are all well and thriving.

It is time to put on another sweat shirt.
Remember to check under your car hood for nesting critters.
Kate

World Cup Heaven

The World Cup started last Friday, and to date I have watched about twelve games. I had been hoping to find a cool hang-out in which to watch the matches. It is so much more fun with a crowd of football-crazy enthusiasts. So far, no real luck.

Opening game night, I went to the local pub out here in the burbs, where I met two friends. I was worried that it would be crowded and there would be no place to sit. The game started at 11pm, so I arrived at 10:30 to find an empty bar, save for my friends and a table of young kids and their father. It was nice, I enjoyed the game, but there was none of the party atmosphere that I had been waiting four years for.

The next night, a bunch of us went into town to a “sports bar”. I’d been told that it was a kick-back, unpretentious spot, in contrast to the other available venues. What it was, was icky. The place was nothing more than a medium sized, concrete cavern, set up in a theater arrangement. A giant screen hung above the small stage at the front. The seating area in front of the screen contained a total of six tables with comfortable chairs. Behind the tables there were a few, small, tall tables with bar stools. Behind that was the other half of the bar, the floor being about two feet higher than the loge seats. A counter ran along the divide between the two, and my friends and I were able to grab three stools.

It was crowded and noisy and I noticed that there was not nearly enough seating. The owner had obviously not spent any money on decoration. Concrete floor, concrete walls, a few bar stools and a lot of empty space, now being filled with bodies. The noise level without people would have been in the upper 200 decibels, what with the TV sound turned all the way up and the economy, concrete acoustics. Worse, the reception on the big screen sucked. It looked like you were watching old newsreel footage. It only improved after the match had ended.

As with all Saigon nighttime establishments, the waitresses were all young things in the requisite uniform; skin-tight jeans, cut so low that in any position other than standing straight up, you have butt-crack hanging out. On top, they all wear teeny, form fitting tank tops, sort of a Hooters-of-the-East concept. That doesn’t bother me. I am, however, less than pleased with the service which is pretty much non-existent even though there are ample amounts of servers. And I don’t blame the young women. They obviously have never been trained. They tend to follow each other around, looking lost, and occasionally try to grab your half-full glass. They have no idea about how to take orders, clean tables, or what to do with themselves.

It really was hard to get into the game, what with the poor television reception, the uncomfortable seating arrangement, and the noise, not to mention the loud group of Afrikaners to our left watching the rugby match on a small TV on the wall.

The saving grace of the evening was coming home and watching Trinidad and Tobago-Sweden play a fantastic game, in the comfort of my living room. Although I had wanted to watch with a crowd, personal viewing was preferable to what I had found so far in the city. Really, I just should have gone to an outdoor Vietnamese coffee house. The atmosphere would have been much better, I think.

Games are on at 8 and 11pm, and at 2am, so I have been forced to watch the weekday games at home instead of searching for a better place. On Tuesday night, I was just settling down to watch the 8pm South Korea-Togo game when I noticed that there was a whole lot of noise coming from outside. Drums were pounding, people were singing, and a voice over a loudspeaker was yelling something. I listen and realized it wasn’t Vietnamese. Oh yeah, it was Korean! I had forgotten that more than half the people living in my area are Korean. They kept up the festivities for the entire game. I found out later that they had all congregated at a Korean bar/restaurant that it just two blocks from my house. Now that was the atmosphere I had been hoping for. South Korea plays again tomorrow night, and the plan is to go and watch it there.

Between games, I have been busy packing and cleaning and working, getting ready for my Monday departure to California. It is all rather daunting for no reason other than that I find big trips daunting. I never feel like I can breathe until I am seated on the plane.

Must get back to the Ghana-Czech game.
GOOOOOOOL!
Kate

Tourist Shopping

In a two weeks I will be jetting back to California, where I will spend almost a month freezing in the fog and feeling bummed in the gloomy, grey skies. I got a taste of those skies yesterday.

Now that the rainy season has returned in earnest, one must be sure to get to ones destination before 3 or 4 in the afternoon. Otherwise you will get drenched, not be able to find a taxi, and be stuck in a location you would prefer not to be. The rains usually pass through in an hour or two, enabling you to get to the supermarket or take a walk.

Yesterday was different. I awoke to a grey, moderately cool morning, all things being relative. By 9am, it was back to just plain hot and humid, and the skies hadn’t cleared. By 10, the rains had started and continued all day, although they were fairly light. However, the ugly skies stayed ugly all day. I do not do well without sunlight. I feel horrible and tired and can’t think of one positive reason to do anything. Give me sunlight, and I can conquer the world. I have so many things to do before leaving, that loosing a day to despair is not what I needed.

Lucky for me that today, at 5am, the sun was blinding me and has continued to do so all day. I still had more Vietnamese souvenir shopping to do, so it was in to town a few hours later.

I went back to Ben Thanh Market, the place where everything is sold. I pretty much dislike the place because even though there are items you might want to purchase, the sales pitches and arm grabbing by vendors is quite off-putting. I have a few stalls that I frequent where they don’t harass you. After walking the gauntlet of young women throwing scarves on my shoulders while yelling, “Madam, buy scarves from me”, I got to where I was headed.

Since I had been there the week before I already knew what I wanted. And like the week before, as soon as I stopped at the stall, my olfactory senses were assaulted by the reek of durian. Durian is a fruit that is very popular in Asia. It also produces the most hideous odor know to mankind. Skunk takes a distant third to durian. Not only does it stink, but it gives me an instant headache.

I tried not to breathe through my mouth, but wasn’t completely successful. I bought a few things and really wanted to get away from the smell and the heat and the florescent lights, but I knew I had to persevere with my shopping trek.
An hour later, head exploding, eyes watering, I emerged into the lovely air of downtown Ho Chi Minh City.

I stopped at a café to relax, re-group, (still had more purchases to make), and take in fluids. Sitting there I realized that I had made about half of my purchases using Vietnamese! I snuck in a little English, but with the older Vietnamese woman in one tiny stall, it was all in the local language. I was very pleased. Although I do well with my teacher, in our classes, at my house, I had yet to actually use Vietnamese in a situation other than giving taxi directions. When I get to California, I am going to have to get my toes done every week, just so that I can practice.

Hopefully, I will not have to return to Ben Thanh Market for quite some time. Although on the way out, thorough the food section, I passed a stall where they sell every spice in the world. Why hadn’t any of the people who have lived here for years known about this stall? I filed the shops card for future use.

As I look out my window, I can see the skies darkening. The rains should start in about an hour, which will be 4pm. I can handle that, especially after such a sunny day.

If you really want to get a whiff of durian, they usually sell it in Chinatown, at least in California.
Kate

What To Do On Wed/Thurs Night?

And another season of American Idol is over. That had been my entertainment, as well as the entertainment for many of my colleagues, for the past several months. And the grand finale was almost destroyed by Star Network, the folks who broadcast the show.

There I was, an hour and a half into the two hour final show, when a Star News update comes on, and the talking head announces, “and there is a new American Idol”, I quickly turned my head as they flashed a clip of the winner being announced. I thought I saw too much, but I hadn’t. However, what were they thinking, to break in with breaking news about the results of a show everyone is watching? Apparently, Star has a reputation for doing this with sporting events they are rebroadcasting.

My next big television concern is the World Cup. I only really watch football/soccer once every four years, and then I turn into a football-psycho. I watch as many games as I possibly can, getting more wrapped up in it as the days go by. It is truly the best sporting event in the known world.

Four years ago, when I was living in Malaysia, I really lucked out. The games were held in Japan and Korea, so that put it in almost the same time zone. I believe that there was an hour in time difference. Added to that, I had the teaching schedule from hell, both mornings and evenings which, fortunately, worked out perfectly for World Cup viewing. While friends in the US had to get up at 2am to watch a match, I did it in real time. I think I watched at least 90% of the games.

Now that I am in Vietnam, and the games are being played in Germany, there will be a time problem. But that is not the worst of my worries. I am going to the States in mid-June, which means I will have to watch hideous American commentators destroy the games.

When I have watched the World Cup overseas, I usually get European broadcasts, which are far superior to American attempts at covering a football game. The announcers actually know the players names and are well versed in the ins and outs of football. The last time I saw the World Cup in the , the US, the announcers would say things like, “That was a good kick by the guy in blue,” then segue into “say, did I tell you about that fishing hole I found up in Alaska?” Or they would start in with the nasty, belittling remarks that one never hears from the European broadcasters. Hopefully, I will be able to watch Telemundo, and their commentator Andres Cantor. Even if you can’t understand Spanish, he is the man to listen to.

So, as you can see, life is fine and well in Vietnam.
I’ll be rooting for Brazil!
Kate

Pictures

OK, it seems I can post pictures,
but cannot do so after I write a blog
which is how I usually do it.
Will work on solutions.
Kate

Work Permit Update

And the saga of securing a work permit continues. For those who do not remember, and for those who just might care, here is the story until now.

Before leaving California, I duly had all my university degrees and teaching credentials notarized. I got a certificate of clearance form the county sheriff’s department. I sent all these to my first employer, who forwarded them the Vietnamese consulate in San Francisco. There, they were translated into English. They also obtained a beautiful, official, State of California letter, with a big gold seal, stating that the notary who notarized my documents was really a notary licensed by the state.

Once in Vietnam, I also had to get a medical check and a Vietnamese police check. One would think that that about covered it. Not so. The HR office at work keeps telling me I need other documents, and I am not really sure what they want. In all fairness, it is not the HR people; it is the Ministry of Work Permits.

From what I understand, I need a dean of admissions from one of my universities to write and sign a letter stating that I graduated. That letter must then be notarized. And that notarized letter must then be sent to the State of California’s notary office to verify the authenticity of the notary. Said letter must then go to a federal office for the final stamp and seal of approval.

The woman in HR tells me that the notarized diplomas I have submitted are not valid because my name appears on the notary cover letter. You know, that part that says, “I_______ swear that the attached document….”. She tells me that someone other than myself, like the Dean of admissions, has to fill it out. It does no good in trying to explain that no one, at any institution I have attended, will undertake such an insane request.

I even pulled up the State of California Commission on Teacher Credentialing, where I, along with valid credentials, am listed. No, that is not good enough. No embossed, gold seal.

My almost last resort was to head on down to the US Consulate to see if they could help me out. I already knew that they would not notarize, or help in any way with obtaining work permits. But I heard that for $35, they would attach an affidavit. Since I actually have my original teaching credential with me, I thought I would give it a try.

I really had to psych myself up before going down there. All Official Government offices make me itch. I especially didn’t want to see a portrait of a smiling “W” looking down on me. But I persevered.

Once there, I went through the requisite search, and handed over my cell phone. They tore my purse apart, but did not ask me to drink from my water bottle as all other consulates/embassies I have been in do. As I proceeded through the bomb-proof doors to counselor services, I looked forward to waving to the cute Marines who I knew would be on duty in their glassed in control room. Oh no! I had forgotten! The Marines no longer guard diplomatic posts. Instead there were Vietnamese guards. It was very strange.

I took my number and waited for half an hour either reading or doing waiting room surveillance. Weird – no picture of W. But there was a tacky tin cabinet with consulate paraphernalia for sale. One could by a mug, or cap or bag, all with “the handsome Sate Department seal”.

Eventually, number 15 was called and I proceeded to the triple-glass, speak-through-a-microphone, window. I have no idea how people work in such a tomb. I explained what I wanted, and was told to pay my $35 at the window on the right. I asked about paying in Vietnam dong. It wasn’t allowed. Where was I to get dollars? The clerk suggested I ask the other people waiting if I could buy dollars from them. Right. She then said I could walk one block down to the bank. So off I went.

Three banks later, and 2 taxi rides, I was till unable to exchange money. I ended up at one of those seedy looking, money changers. It was located on a main tourist street, but I have my suspicions about them. Not to mention the exchange rate was higher than at a bank, not that a bank would sell me dollars. I took one more taxi back to the consulate.

This time, knowing the drill, I picked up my bag from the x-ray machine, walked over to the inspection table, unzipped it and pulled out my cell phone. They took my phone but said they didn’t need to check my bag. Why, because I had been there an hour before? The Marines would never have been so lax with security.

Another twenty minute wait and the clerk takes my form and credential and tells me to pay my $30 at the window. I guess I had heard her incorrectly the first time, and had bought an extra $5 at way too high a rate.

Once I paid, I sat back down and waited to be called. At window number three, an actual American state department person had me raise my right hand, swear that this was me, and sign the affidavit, which she also signed. I all but begged her to put a fancy gold seal directly on my credential, but that is not allowed. The seal I did get, on really cheap consulate paper, was pretty lame looking. I am sure that the labor ministry people prefer ostentatious seals as I seem to be questioned about the authenticity of low-budget seals like the one I had just received, for $30.

Tomorrow I will submit the new documentation and hopefully get reimbursed. I have no idea if it will fly with the powers that be or not. I certainly hope so.

Question Authority
Kate
ps: Apparenly, the Blog site folks agreed that I wasn't a spam blog, but they are still blocking me from attaching pics. I HATE my blog without photos, but this is a free service, so I can't complain.
Sorry about the boring layou.

Rainy Season Begins

Monday, 4am, I am sound asleep. I start to notice the sounds from outside. Something in my unconscious tells me to JUMP. It is a torrential rain storm, I have windows open and the clothes are on the balcony.

First, I vault out of bed to the living room and shut windows. Then into my other small room. Last it is back to the bedroom, as it opens on to my small balcony and it takes awhile longer for the rain to enter. I look at my clothes, which really were dry enough the night before, but I thought I’d give them a little longer. They are about 50% drenched. Just as I am thinking of dragging them inside, lightening strikes a few blocks away. I decide that getting fried in an effort to get the laundry in is not a noble way to die.

Once I close the balcony door I realize that the sheet I had kicked off in an effort to save the apartment is on the floor, mopping up rain water. Considering my past experiences with rain in this place, it wasn’t too bad.

For the next two hours, I watched as the intensity increased, sure that my undergarments would, at any moment, fly off into the surrounding building sites. By the time the storm had passed through, it was time to get ready for work.

And so it begins; the rainy season. It does cool things down, but now it is always the rush to get out of work and get errands done before I get trapped in a downpour. I am constantly on the lookout for dark, menacing clouds and the first hint of strong winds. Two days ago at work I managed to avoid the worst storm of the season so far, only because I decided to sit and have some tea before going home.

Sitting out under the awning of the outdoor university cafeteria, I could feel the winds pick up and saw the skies darkening. The tables and chairs we use are made of the heaviest wood I know, and are a real pain to move. Last fall, during another storm, I finally understood why they were so weighty and difficult to rearrange. They stood their ground when all else was flying. But not this time.

The first indication that this was not going to be a normal storm was that the chairs began to move around. The cafeteria area is open, but built under the second floor so is well protected, and normally only the outer edges get wet. Within one minute, students were scrambling to get away from the wind-swept rain that lashed through the entire place. When I saw the first table flip onto its side, I decided it would be a good time to get up and go into the building. Again, being wiped out in one’s prime by flying patio furniture, does not a good obit make.

I watched from relative safety as the gale intensified, now accompanied by thunder and lightening. Tree branches came flying by along with the tables. I was really glad that the taxi I had called was late. I hoped everyone had pulled off the road. It would have been impossible for motorbikes to function under these conditions. And then, after about thirty minutes, it stopped. I have never experienced anything as violent as our mini-hurricane. In total, three tables were broken, numerous chairs and branches lost, and ten trees knocked over. I think they were able to save the trees.

The following day I asked my Vietnamese teacher if she had been caught in the storm. She said that she had lived here her whole life and never experienced a storm. Huh? After a few questions it got cleared up. I learned that in Vietnamese there are only two words for such weather: rain and typhoon. I still think it was a typhoon.

Now it is back to only being able to hang clothes on the line when I am home, and the constant worry that the balcony will again flood into my bedroom.

On constant storm alert,
Kate

ps: it seems my blog has been identified by the cybers as a spam blog, so until they verify that i am in fact, not a robot, i can't post pics, and possibly can't post this.

Surreal HCMC

It is after midnight and I am trying to process the evening’s activities. I was invited to three different establishments I had never been to, not a difficult task since I have only been out on the town three times in the past nine months.

Dinner at a French restaurant was the first stop. I walked in off the streets of Saigon, and into a different country. It could have been France, it could have been California. The initial oddity was hearing only English as soon as I passed through the front door. And then, being a French restaurant, the Vietnamese staff great you with bonjour. Pretentiousness aside, the place was cute. Mediterranean looking décor with lots of little bateaus on shelves next to French books, and sailor hats hanging from hooks. The waiters wore jaunty, nautical motif uniforms. The actual seating arrangement left a lot to be desired but, fortunately, it wasn’t crowded so the rows of tables lined against the wall, and touching each other, didn’t matter.

The food was nice and I might have stayed for cake if it were not for the loud Americans at the small bar at the front of the restaurant. Why is it that western foreigners, and especially Americans, are always so loud and obnoxious when in other people’s countries? As I was pondering on this after leaving the restaurant, I got dragged into the Irish pub down the street.

Now things truly got bizarre. It was your basic, small bar, packed to the rafters with white people, a good part of them Americans. This was the ex-pat life that I had heard about and known about but have always chosen to avoid. Crowds of drunks are not pleasant at any time, but crowds of drunken foreigners pretending that they are not in Vietnam, is so amazingly strange. I really wanted to leave as soon as I entered, but had been promised Irish music.

Seated in a corner table where the air conditioning and fan didn’t reach, surrounded by boisterous, drunken conversations about the most mundane topics, I started to sweat and could feel the room closing in one me. The musicians sat down at their chairs along wall across from me and I thought that if I could just hear some good tunes, I would be ok.

The first few bars from the band of three had me shaking my head in despair. It turned out it was blues night/open mike night. One after another, really lousy amateur instrument players got up to ‘jam’. It was painful at times. In fact it was never even moderately tolerable. At long last I got out of there.

The final stop was a Vietnamese cabaret where they sing in French. It was the complete opposite of the Irish place. The clientele were all Vietnamese, seated at small tables in front of a low stage. I immediately became aware of the calm, quiet atmosphere. As I looked over the room I took in couples sitting silently drinking coffee, or maybe a cocktail. I sat at a table just as the band took the stage. There was a guitar, piano, violin and bass. A young woman singer came out and addressed the audience in French. It appeared that everyone understood. And then they began to play and she began to sing. It was phenomenal! Every one of the musicians were pros. The singer was incredible. The audience just sort of sat there and slightly applauded at the end of each number.

After the first singer did three numbers, she was replaced by another, excellent chanteuse, and then another. Sometimes there was only one guitar as accompaniment; other songs used all the musicians. At about 10:45 I noticed that people were leaving. At 11:00, it was obvious that the cabaret was closing, for which I was eternally grateful having about as much noise and commotion as a woman can stand in one night.

I have never noticed the serenity and dead silence of where I live as much as when I got home tonight. The juxtaposition between the intensity of the downtown nightlife and the tranquility of the midnight burbs is astonishing. There was also the feeling that I had been in some sort of weird, alternate universe, and had returned to sanity.

Although I had taken my camera, I took no photos of tonight’s outing. I’ll put up more beach photos, which are infinitely more appealing than the strange scenes of tonight’s adventure.

Give me crickets over electric guitars any day.
Kate

Phu Quoc

A four day weekend and where does one go? To the beach, of course! And not just any old beach, but to the island of Phu Quoc, a short, fifty-minute plane flight from HCMC.

The island has yet to be trashed by tourism, so maintains a rustic feel. A large part of it is national forest, and another part an army base. The major industry is fishing, but you can see that in the future tourism will probably take over, even though the government says it wants to keep it as an eco-tourism haven.

My flight left Saturday morning at eight. I was lucky to even get a seat as it was a holiday weekend and the four, daily flights on a small, seventy-odd seater, had been sold out. I found a local travel agent who swore she could get me on a plane, and she delivered.

I had booked a bungalow at the Bo Resort, which had been highly recommended by a colleague. I was to be met at the airport by someone from the “Resort”. I do want to clarify the term resort does not have the same meaning in Vietnam as it does in other parts of the world. I would never go to a real resort. It simply means that it is accommodation on the beach with a restaurant.

As I walked off the plane and into the small airport in Phu Quoc, I looked around for a sign with my name, but saw nothing. Soon a man approached and asked if I was Kate, going to the Bo resort. Odd, I thought, but he spoke no English other than that I couldn’t ask how he knew. I had noticed a women holding up a sign with some other peoples names and ‘Bo Resort’, but assumed it was probably a group with no room for an extra passenger.

My driver grabbed my bag and we headed outside. As we walked, I noticed he was going away from the few cars and towards the motorbikes. When he told me to wait while he got the bike, I made it very clear that I needed a taxi. So he put down my bag and went in search of one. It was obvious that everyone knew each other as he asked one person, who called out to another, and so on until I remembered the woman with the sign who was now loading bags into her car.

Bo resort? I called out. Then I noticed that she was loading the luggage of the family of five that had been on the plane with me. There was no way I would fit in. But she grabbed my bag and said to come along. I tried to find the family to ask if this was all right, but they were headed off to a row of motorbikes, leaving the taxi driver to deliver their bags. I didn’t see them until much later, so I guess they went on an island bike tour.

Once on the way, I was really glad that taxis were an option in Phu Quoc. All the roads we went on were bumpity, red dirt. Not my idea of what a fun bike ride would be. As we drove I looked out onto lush, greenery, interspersed with occasional small buildings or houses, and cows in the road. I also thought that having a women taxi driver must be a true rarity on the island. I have only seen a few of them in HCMC. She did quite well maneuvering around livestock and motorbikes, up and over potholes, and through places where even the word ‘road’ was questionable.

Thirty minuets later, I was dropped at a gate. A woman came over and welcomed me to the Bo resort, while a staff member took my bag. She told me to follow him. We walked along a narrow path through beautifully landscaped flowering trees and plants, passing a few bungalows that stood well apart from each other.
I was taken to bungalow number 2.

And what a bungalow it was. Perched on a hill overlooking that beautiful garden, and on down to the beach and the sea. A lovely porch with two lounging beach chairs served as the entrance. Inside was a large room with wooden floors and two beds. The roof of the building was made of palm leaves, separated from the top of the walls. The bathroom at the back was simple and clean and made of tile. Shutter windows opened out to the garden on the side and front walls.
The bungalows were spaced so that you felt total privacy.

After I had dumped my bags, I waited for someone to come and tell me about check-in procedures. No one arrived. Then I thought about getting something to eat, but had no idea where the restaurant was. I looked out at the winding paths and decided to head down the short hill to the beach where I assumed it would be.

The restaurant was a raised terracotta platform with a thatched roof, looking onto the beach and the beautiful coastline. This also served as the ‘check-in’ desk, tour booking desk, and anything else you might need. Like that shelf of books actually packed with items I would read. I got something to eat, grabbed a book, and went back to my bungalow to get into beach gear.

About to unlock my door, I heard a meow. I called out, got a response, but no kitty showed up. We talked back and forth until I entered my bungalow and looked up to see a young cat walking across the rafters. She finally did come down, and hung out with me for the entire stay. She was a beautiful, young cat, very intent on talking and being held, but I couldn’t get a picture of her. You try to get that sort of cat to pose.

That first day I thought about going down to work on my tan, or take a walk, but just couldn’t get it together. I kept thinking I had to do something until I realized that no, I didn’t. I was on vacation. I did go back down to the restaurant where I met Marie and Regis, the owners.

She is Vietnamese/French, and he is French. They met in California, and opened the Bo about three years ago. Again, as in Cambodia, these people are what made my stay so special. You immediately feel part of the family. They sit and have a meal with you, arrange sightseeing trips, talk to you about anything. There business is doing quite well, and it is all by word of mouth.
By the time I was ready to retire, it was dark. Walking back to my bungalow was a bit of a challenge. Motion sensor path lights came on as I went up the main walk, but then I couldn’t see the small trail that went to my place. I found one bungalow, but realized in time that it wasn’t mine. For a minute there, I was sure I was going to get lost. But I found it, and from then on when I went down in the late afternoon I left the porch light on.

Although the Bo has electricity, it has no TV, A/C, or business center, but it does have a fan. However, once the skeeter net was down, I couldn’t feel the fan, so rolled it back up. I never did get one bite the whole time I was there.
I fell asleep and slept better than ever.

I awoke in the morning to find that my kitty was waiting for me. Such a nice amenity at no additional cost. I could already see that a storm was rolling in. I made sure I got down the hill before it broke. Having coffee as the storm raged through, I talked with several other guests. One guy had been there for a few months on a break from making a documentary film in Cambodia. Others were from various countries, or working in Vietnam. All of us seemed to share the same desire for the serenity and low-tech life that the Bo offered. The rain eventually stopped, and it was perfectly good tanning weather, or trip weather, but I still had no desire to do anything other than veg-out and read.

The next day I got up and went for an early morning walk along the beach. Four kilometers with not a soul in sight, although there was enough trash on the beach that you had to be very aware that you didn’t step on glass. I think the trash may have been from all the fishing boats that comb the seas. At night you can see them, way out in the water, seemingly all in a row. They are hunting for calamari, going out in the evening and staying all night. And the oddest sight on the shore was all the lost flip-flops, but never a pair. I kept thinking I should take a bag and collect them all. But I only ended up collecting shells, and I got some beauties.

When I got back, I saw that they were making great progress on the addition to the dining area. Basically, there was one man doing most of the work. I watched as he built the entire frame with only a tape measure, small ruler, and string for measurements. He had started the day before I got there and it was almost finished when I left. Once the frame was up, with the help of three other men, I watched as they did acrobatics to attach roof beans and other things. To get up, they would shimmy up the round corner posts, just like you see when people climb coconut trees. Then they would walk around and use toes and feet and both hands seemingly at the same time. The most remarkable part was when the attached the palm leaf roof.

I had always wondered how this was done. The dried palm leaves are cut down the center leaving two pieces with leaves on just on side. They are then laid on top of bamboo poles that have been hammered into the roof beams. Each palm branch is then tied down using other plant vines. The whole thing is rain resistant.

Although the weather was quite warm, it was no where as hot as HCMC, and there was always that lovely breeze off the water. The clouds came and went and it was only really bright and sunny for an hour here and there. The first two nights the high cloud cover prevented star gazing. But on my last night, the stars came out. I lay on a bench by the waters edge, gazing up at the heavens, trying to memorize the sight. How I wish one could see stars in the city. Perhaps if that were true you would get complacent about the wonderment of it all and no longer feel the power of the universe, the way I do on star-filled nights.

My last day was spent getting a few more shells and rocks, walking on the beach, and reading. I was glad that I had gotten the 4pm flight, giving me the best part of the day to enjoy it all. I reluctantly left, but know I will be back in the not too distant future.

Wishing on a star.
Kate