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

Language Lessons & A Field Trip

I have just completed my second week of Vietnamese lessons and love it! My teacher, an ex-high school literature and language teacher, comes to my house three times a week for an hour and a half. It seems all my active listening to the language has really helped. All of the words and tones are familiar, and I do fairly well at reproducing them. And even the impossible ng is now somewhat within my grasp.

We pronounce it all wrong. I had many Vietnamese students in the US with the last name Nguyen, which was always pronounced new-yen. Sorry, that is so far off the mark that I doubt any Vietnamese would recognize it. It sounds more like wing to my ears. The language books all say that the ng in Vietnamese is the same sound as the final ng in sing. Ha! It is not. And even if it were, it is not possible to do at the front of a word. But the good news is that I am actually making progress. Or at least when I speak very slowly.

Another problem is the accent. There are three different accents here; the one from Hanoi in the north, a central one, and the southern, HCMC accent. Seeing that I live here, it would make sense to learn that accent. However, it seems that the Hanoi accent is the ‘correct’ one and that is what my instructor is teaching me. This did concern me a bit until I thought about all those students that I have taught who have to learn my American accent on Monday, and an Australian accent on Wednesday, followed by an Irish one on Friday. I have no cause for complaint.

Many people have told me that it took them forever to hear the tones in the language. I, fortunately, have never had that problem. I could differentiate between them from day one in the country. That does not mean that I can remember which words go which way at all times if I am not reading it. I have found that it is like singing, and that I remember sentences as a melody in a song. Class is like singing a call-and-respond song. Tons of fun.

I am trying not to get too cocky about it all. After all, I can only say ‘my name is’, where do you work?’, ‘where do you live?’, and a few other basics. Nevertheless, I am finding that I can pick words out of conversations. Also, I have finally learned to count. I am very embarrassed that it has taken me eight months to get around to learning the numbers, yet I got them all after one lesson. I still think the reason that it was so easy is that every time I am in a taxi I listen to the dispatch chatter which is mostly street numbers.

My teacher is from a school that runs both small classes and privates. They teach a lot of the diplomatic corps and business people. Last Saturday, they arranged a field trip for all interested students. It meant getting out of the house at 7am, but I was up for another adventure.

Our group consisted of about fifteen students and four teachers, including mine.
We went to a place called Can Gio. You get there by driving for thirty minutes, then board a car ferry to take you across the river. On the trip, we were scheduled to visit shrimp farmers and a mangrove forest.

My teacher explained that the people who lived in Can Gio were the poorest in the HCMC region. You could only reach it by ferry, even though it wasn’t an island. I am not exactly sure of its geography, but know there are rivers running through it and one side there is the beach.

After we crossed the river and once more boarded the bus, we set out on a very long drive over poorly paved roads, through sparsely populated areas, and with rather bleak scenery for a good pat of the way. As we drove I asked about the shrimp business. It only started five years ago, and this year was not good because of ‘the weather’. It wasn’t until I later looked it up that I found out that the whole shrimp business was a gigantic failure.

Apparently, a few people found out that you could make big bucks with shrimp, and for a year or two were quite prosperous. Others came and began to rip out the mangrove forests, which are needed to sustain the region, to build shrimp ponds. The problem was that no one really had the know-how or equipment to ensure productivity. What I saw was a denuded forest with lots of shrimp ponds, many of them empty. It was very depressing, especially after almost two hours in a bus. We did get out and visit a pond, then back on the bus, headed for the beach, and another hour or so of driving.

The next stop was at a beach resort restaurant, for lunch. It was pleasant to sit at the outdoor, covered restaurant, where we all ate and talked. The weather had greatly improved from the blistering heat of the non-producing shrimp farms, principally because of the ocean breeze. We were allowed to rest after lunch, and then it was on to the mangrove forest/monkey biosphere reserve.

It was another hour on the bus, and even though there was A/C, it still was hot and sweaty and I was wondering about why I had come. We finally started to drive past the mangroves, and they didn’t appear old, not that I knew what they should look like. I asked my teacher about it. It turns out the entire area had been a victim of Agent Orange during the war. My heart sank. How could she even talk to me, knowing my country had destroyed this ancient wilderness area? It became very hard to look out the window and not see the ghosts of war. She went on to tell me that her husband had been one of the young volunteers who came there after the war to replant the mangroves. What we were seeing was only thirty years old.

The preserve itself was just a small road off the main one. We walked in, and immediately were surrounded by cute little monkeys looking for a handout. One of the teachers warned us to be careful with anything in our hands; water bottles, cameras, etc., as the monkeys would snatch them from you. Over the next hour I would hear countless screams as people lost water bottles or had monkeys come to close for their comfort. Every park official carried a sling shot and a pocketful of rocks in case the boys got too out of hand. All the critters looked a little forlorn and lost, but I could be wrong. I was feeling none to comfortable with the stalking creatures and had visions of the Winged Monkeys of Oz.

We then filed over to the boat ramp for the ‘high speed boat ride’ through the mangroves. I certainly did not want anything high speed, and was assured they cruised at a slow pace. In groups of six, we piled into the long, low boats and took off. In an out of narrow waterways under the canopy of the trees, we rode. When a monkey started to come towards us, the boat driver shot off a rock in his direction.

A ways into this lovely forest, we docked at another park feature, a rebuilt, war era, military jungle camp. Walkways built above the water connected small huts that had been used as sleeping quarters, dining area, and other such things. It was impressive and I have no idea how anyone could ever find there way in and out of there. Had I been told to take a boat and go back to point A, I would have been lost. After a brief visit, we boarded the boats and this time it was a high speed ride, but quite fun.

On the way back to the bus I briefly walked into the museum and didn’t stay long. It was filled with examples of flora and fauna that used to live there and, presumably, where napalmed off the face of the earth.

It was almost another two hours before I got home. I suppose I should say it was not the most enjoyable trip I had ever taken, but had I not gone, I would never have known. And I suppose it doesn’t hurt to gain more knowledge about the destruction of natural habitats, both past and present. At least I had a nice time taking to my teacher and some of my fellow travelers.

Kate

Journey Back To HCMC

While I was packing, I kept hearing lots of voices and noises outside my window. I finally looked out to see a throng of Hmong men standing amongst large bags of an unknown substance that was being off-loaded from a massive, flatbed truck. Finally, I thought. I would be able to get pictures of the men.

I checked a few camera angles and could see that I was too far away to get a decent shot, so proceeded throwing items into the extra bag I had to buy to accommodate all my purchases. As I hoisted said bags onto shoulders, I wondered how I was ever going to carry all of it. Being in the abandoned section of the hotel, it was not like there was anyone to help.

Stumbling down the stairs and trying to push open doors with no free hands, I eventually made it outside where I had a closer look at the goings on. This was obviously the distribution point for the bags, which were now stacked on both sides of the narrow road. I saw that a few men were tallying and allotting sacks, while others stood around getting ready to take their portions. A fair number of motorbikes had arrived, ready to transport the supplies down the hill.

Once inside the main hotel, I asked what was going on. The sacks were filled with grain to grow rice. Since I had still had time before the van picked me up, I asked if there would be any problem in taking pictures of the goings on. I was told that it would be fine.

I started down the stairs and out the front door, then had to go back in. The monster delivery semi was attempting to turn around on a narrow dirt road that had the hotel on one side and a sheer, 3000 foot drop on the other. I couldn’t watch. Either he was going to back off the cliff, or ram into the hotel. The driver, with the help of his partner, somehow managed to back up, drive forward, back up drive forward, over and over again, until they finally made it out intact.

I went out and sat unobtrusively, I hoped, on the edge of a planter box, watched the action, and started to shoot pictures. I listened to the conversations in Hmong all around me and tried to identify its sounds. Directly across from me, a few women stood, rolling hemp into twine, waiting to help with the motorbike loading.

One woman in particular, was the group clown. Obviously, I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but could tell that she was cracking everyone up. She had this essence of fun that translated across language lines. When it was time to load sacks on bikes, she’d tuck her hemp back into her waist band, lift her half of the sack onto the bike, all the while cutting up. I was trying not to laugh, imagining what she was saying. Everyone around her was laughing and smiling.

I watched as two sacks at a time were loaded onto a motorbike, sometimes with another person on back, for the perilous ride down the mountain. One industrious crew bound two sacks to the sides, secured them with rubber bindings, then loaded a third onto the back seat. I wondered how he would make it down without either dropping a sack, or having it burn up on the exhaust pipes. I figured they had probably been doing this for years, so I shouldn’t worry.

I would have preferred to get closer shots but, as I have said, felt that it would be too intrusive. At one point, an ancient man bent over to see the picture I had just taken of his grandson. He smiled when I showed it to him. I must have sat there, feeling invisible, for at least thirty minutes. It was one of the most interesting, enlightening, segments of time I had had on my trip. It ended when my van showed up.

My original trip back to Hanoi was supposed to have been on the day before, but I had extended a day. I had called the gal at Sinh Tours in Hanoi, who’d told me that she would send a new train ticket up for me. By the time my pick-up had arrived, the ticket was not there. I was assured that I would get it in Lao Cai, at the restaurant where I would wait for the 9:00 train. An hour down the mountain, and our group was deposited at a tiny restaurant that stood next to other restaurants, around the square in front of the train station. I sat at an outdoor table and looked at my watch. I had three hours to wait.

Lao Cai, at least from the few blocks around the train station, resembled any interior town in any country I have ever been. Kind of grimy and dilapidated. The restaurant staff and the people in the streets had the same type of appearance. All, that is, except for the owner, Ms Phuc.

Ms Phuc, model thin, looked like a high class madam. She wore a tiny, black, satiny top, with a matching, clingy, three-quarter length skirt, slit up the back. She wore black open-toed heels, and clutched a cell phone. Her long black hair was tied in a pony-tail, and she wore beautifully applied make-up. She did not look cheap; just totally out of place. When things got busy at the restaurant, she’d bark orders to get people moving. I’d asked about my ticket and she said it would be there by 8:00. The people at the table next to me were also waiting for tickets.

Somewhere, during the past few days, I had found out that Lao Cai was only 3k from the Chinese border. I had planned on grabbing a taxi to drive over there just to say that I had seen China, but no longer had the energy. I also realized that I should eat something, so ordered rice and tofu. As I sat, more and more travelers arrived and were dropped off at my restaurant or a neighboring one. A young Korean woman joined my table. We started to talk and I found out that she had also been in Sapa alone, at the same hotel, and that we’d both spent the previous night alone in our rooms. I wish someone at the hotel had thought to introduce us.

I talked with other people around me and found out that the train left at 8:30. I had thought it left at 9:15. Apparently, there were several different trains leaving at various times, both coming and going. So how was it I managed to get the latest one in both directions? I asked Ms Phuc and she said she would get me on the 8:30 departure.

It was now dark, and although not brutally hot, I was already sweaty and grimy and I had a whole night ahead of me to just get more gross feeling. At 8:00, people started to leave for the station a block away. I again asked Ms Phuc about my ticket that hadn’t shown up. A few minutes later, I heard her yelling into her cell phone, then rushing over to my table and the one next to me saying it was time to move. She took off at a fast clip. I went to retrieve my bags and realized I would never be able to carry it all and make it onto the train in time. I had lots of tipping cash, so looked around and asked one of the staff for a hand. Even with one of them hauling my heaviest bag, I was still weighted down, and trying to keep up.

We rushed to the station, falling in behind Ms Phuc and assorted travelers, pushing through crowds and finally to the ticket entrance, where we met up with the lady who had our tickets. I got mine, and followed my porter out on to the tracks, the straps of my bag digging into my shoulder.

Luckily, my car was very close. As the conductor took my ticket, he said something to my helper, and we set off in the other direction. It was the wrong train. We carried on until the end of that train, crossed the tracks, then walked to the end of the cars, finally arriving at the correct one. We were really rushing, seeing that the train was to leave in about ten minutes.

I got help getting to my berth, but thought it was odd that no one, other than two western women, was on the train. Not that I would argue about a cabin to myself on the ride back. Really drenched and miserable at this point, I dug into my bag to get some money for my bag-carrier. I was worried the train would take off with him onboard. Then I looked at my ticket and saw that I had a top bunk. There was no way I was going to do that again, so went to look for train personnel.

On my way down the deserted car, I stuck my head into the room with the women. I asked if they knew why the train was empty. Simple answer: it didn’t leave until 9:15. All that running and sweating for naught. I continued down to the end of the car and leaned out to where the conductor was having a smoke. I did my song and dance routine to try and explain that I could not be on a top bunk. I think he said that it wouldn’t be a problem. Back at my room, I liberated a bottom bunk, piled all my junk on it, and lay down to read. I was not moving off it until Hanoi.

Eventually, the car did fill up. My roommates were three young Vietnamese women who had no problem with sleeping on the top. The rest of the car was filled with Chinese men. I really hoped I would be able to sleep this time.

As I lay on my bunk, I started to think about some of the other things I had noticed on my trip and all the information I would need to understand it. Like the green pith helmets that I’d seen on lots of men both in Sapa and Lao Cai, but never in HCMC. And then there were the woman with the black teeth. I am not even sure which minority group they belonged to. I actually don’t think their teeth were black; it looked more like they had black mouth guards over their teeth. Also, the Red Zao women either had shaved hairlines or it was genetic. It was hard to tell because of their head scarves.

Between reflecting on my trip and reading a book, it was soon 11pm, and my roommates were sound asleep. It was time to turn off the light. Even though it was much more comfortable on the bottom, and I didn’t get a headache, I couldn’t sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time. Knowing that the train should arrive around 5:30am, I got up at five to go to the bathroom, wash m face and brush my teeth. Then I sat on a stool at the end of the car and tried to look out the grimy window.

This was the part of a trip that I hated. You feel so totally alone in the world. I was tired and filthy and probably hungry and thirsty, and it would be hours until I got home. I pulled out my cell phone and sent a text message to the one person in the US who not only knows how to message people, but answers me. So here I was, in the back waters of Vietnam, at five in the morning, feeling pretty down, sending a message to a friend in California. Within a minute I got a reply, and the gloom lifted.

Soon, all the Chinese men were coming out to use the toilet, and in no time there was a line. The conductor came by, saw the men waiting, and unlocked a small hatch at the bottom of the exit door, indicating that the man could pee out of it. I went back to my berth.

Twenty minutes later we arrived in Hanoi. I loaded up, and waited until the car was empty to make my exit. I had to walk through fresh pee on the stairs out. Still in pretty much of a daze, a man came up and asked if I needed a taxi. I hesitated only a few short seconds before saying yes. He grabbed my bags and flew off. I had to nearly run to keep up. He took me outside of the station and handed me off to a friend with a taxi. I had no change, so he got a serious tip. However, I think he may have said something to the taxi driver as the trip to the airport was over double what it was coming in.

I got there at 6:30, and had a plane reservation for 10:30. The first thing I did was to see if there was an earlier flight. There were three, but all with Vietnam Air, and I was on Pacific. I did manage to leave my bags at a check-in counter so I could go to the bathroom, change clothes and kind of clean up. That left another three hours to check in.

I didn’t have any luck finding food, so settled for coffee knowing there would be a meal on the flight. It took all my powers of concentration to stay awake until the 10:15 boarding. By that time I was really looking forward to getting some nutrition in my body, but I was tricked again when I found out that the menu only contained foods which I do not eat. I got two dinner rolls.

I eventually made it home, threw clothes in the laundry, took a shower, and ate. I also realized that although I had thought it was hot in Sapa, I had been mistaken. Compared to HCMC, it was only mild. Not that I minded at all. It is nice to get back to your own bed and shower, especially after such a whirlwind adventure.

I have already received emails from the girls, always with the same three sentences they know – “How are you? I hope you are fine. I miss you.” I continue to reply in similarly simple language and hope that maybe they will start to improve their reading skills.

I still have stuff to unpack and put away.
Kate

Shopping Overload

Getting out of the shower, I looked in the mirror and saw that I had a hideous tank-top/bra strap tan. It was fortunate that I didn’t have any evening gown functions in the near future, where such tan lines might look a bit white trashy.

I trudged up the short hill to where the girls were supposed to be waiting. Only Bamboo and Ker were there. They said that Zen and Lam had already left, thinking that I wouldn’t show. I checked my watch and it was not yet 4:00, so I actually had made it in time. I had promised to purchase something from all of them and felt badly that I may not be able to do so. Bamboo assured me that they had recently left to go to the market and would return before setting off for their village.

My first purchase was to be a jacket that Bamboo’s mother had made and worn. She had several to sell, and my favorite was simply too small. The one I ended up with was also a little small, but I doubted I would be able to find a larger size from anywhere else. These people are small.

While I was comparing jackets, the other girls came back. It was then time to buy a blanket from Zen, a pillowcase from Lam, and a bracelet from Ker. What I really wanted was one of the woven backpack baskets that they all used. Ker said that her grandfather made them and that she would bring me one from the village the following day.

By this time I was being mobbed by lots of ladies who had seen that I was in buying mode. They had great stuff, and from a different ethnic group. I bought on embroidered sarong-type skirt, and would like to have gotten more, but I could no longer stand the crowd of women saying, “Buy from me, you bought from her, why don’t you buy from me?” I completely understand their need to sell, and I wish I could have bought something from all of them. However, it was all getting too overwhelming and I knew I could not possibly purchase one item from every woman on the streets of Sapa.

Telling the girls I would be back the next day for the basket, I headed off. The temperature at 5:00 was still lovely and I had no desire to go back to the hotel. It was then that I realized that I hadn’t eaten since 7am, save for a few handful of nuts, and eating might be a prudent move. I walked into a restaurant that was upstairs, overlooking one of the small streets.

Being so early in the evening, the large room with low, comfortable tables, was empty. At first I sat at a window seat until I realized the noise from below was not conducive to relaxation. I crossed to the far side of the room and sat at an open window overlooking backs of houses and the mountains.

The restaurant was done in dark woods, with a high, wood ceiling. It had that primitive, jungle look. The tables on the sides were coffee table height, with rattan sofas and pillows instead of chairs. It was lovely and peaceful. I ordered, ate, and relaxed. It wasn’t that I wanted to go back to the hotel, but it was starting to get dark and I had run out of things to do.

Cutting through the food market, I again ran into Zen and Ker buying sweets to take to their families. More hugs, more good-byes, and I was soon on the road- with-no-noise that lead to my hotel. I passed the main hotel and walked on to mine. It was now almost twilight and not a single light was on. I walked in and called out. No answer. I searched around until I found light switches. It was sort of spooky. But when I got to my room and opened the balcony doors, all scary thoughts were vanquished. I could actually see the top of Fan Xi Pan Mountain, the tallest in Indochina! I knew I had been awarded a rare sight.

After I got to my room, I looked at what I had bought. Maybe it wasn’t the most beautiful work that I could have bought in Sapa, but knowing who had done the work, made it special. The blanket will always be from Zen’s mom, and the jacket from Bamboo’s mom, and the pillow from Lam’s mom. And tomorrow I would have a basket that Ker’s grandfather made. When I unpacked these back in HCMC, everything smelled strongly of the wood fires that the stall venders use to cook and heat. Another connecting memory.


The next day was my last and there were no marches scheduled. I was going to walk and buy. Although I live in Vietnam, and always think, oh, I can come back, the reality is that I probably will not, so I had to go out with the attitude that this would be my last chance to get ethnic art from the source.

Central Sapa is small, and I pretty much already knew my way around. I strolled a while, stopped for coffee and water buffalo viewing, then headed back towards the market. On my way, I bought pillow cases from more beautiful young women. The men were also beautiful, but I didn’t feel right snapping their pictures. With the women, I bought first then asked if I could take a photo.


Walking along, I was approached by an elderly woman; she looked ninety, but kept right up with me. I think she was asking for money. I kept walking and she kept saying something to me. Then she did a mime of smoking a cigarette. Could she want money for smokes? I’d yet to see a woman smoke here, so was confused. I kept her in my peripheral vision and nearly stumbled when she brought out a small, clear plastic bag, of something I assume someone could smoke. Granny drug dealer. She finally gave up.

I walked for about an hour before I went to the market where I had been briefly the in the days before. Most of the stall owners were not from the ethnic groups, and I really wanted to maintain my dedication to buying from the people. What I saw inside wasn’t what I wanted anyway, although I did up with two, very small, fishing baskets, and a necklace. As I wandered through, I saw many ethnic group ladies trying to sell their work to the shop owners. I calculated that they must sell them for almost nothing.

At some point, I decided I may not have enough money with me since I had opted to stay for another night. Or rather I had enough for the hotel, but maybe not enough to spend on another jacket or two. It took a lot of walking and misinformation until I was directed to a five-star hotel that was only too happy to give me a cash advance.



A loom was set up in the lobby and a woman from an ethnic group that was new to me, sat weaving blue and pink fabric. Since she spoke no English, I asked the guy who was helping me, which group she was from. (Stupidly, I but didn’t write it down and can’t seem to find the name in the info I have.) Beside her sat a basket of finished scarves of the same colors. I asked if I could buy one. I was told they weren’t finished because they had yet to be washed. I said I didn’t care, so a manager was called over to tell me the price. They again emphasized that I must wash it in order for the fabric to soften.

Since my first day in Sapa, I had seen the same woman, time and again, with a very unique headdress. It looked like black-coiled snakes with a silver top ornament. It didn’t aesthetically appeal to me, but thought it might belong with my growing collection of Vietnamese hats. I had seen her carrying them in a basket and went in search. She had always been at one entrance to the market, but I couldn’t find her. I walked around and up and down the neighboring streets until I finally spotted her. She, and at least ten other women, surrounded a tourist who was either browsing or buying. I hung around for a few minutes debating whether or not to approach her and finally realized I couldn’t deal with it. Time to go back to the hotel.

That’s when I noticed that there was a second floor to the market. I went up, turned left, and entered a large room filled with booths of ethnic clothing, each manned by representatives of at least four different peoples. It was what I had hoped to find, yet I knew it would take all my energy to deal with the onslaught of salespeople.

In particular, I wanted a Red Zao jacket. From what I had seen, their needlework was the smallest and most intricate. Some pieces I would not have believed were
done by hand had I not seen samples of it being made. I went through mental hell in there. Once I started looking at one seller’s, another would grab me and take me to hers, or shove clothing in my face. I stayed calm, and just nodded my head, or spoke softly. At one point, feeling I was going to explode, I walked out. I really would have liked to have been able to buy from everyone. And that was one of the reasons I felt so stressed. Who do I buy from? How can I spend all this time looking at this persons work, then buy from another?



In the end, I bought a jacket from the bossy lady. She explained the stitch work, pointing out the symbols for children and parents and health. When I asked to take she picture, she adjusted all her layers and struck a happy pose. I also got a baby hat from another woman, and a small, fabric neck piece from a third. At that point, I really did have to leave. At least now, if I ever go back, I will know exactly where to go to get what I want.

There were still several hours before my 4:30 bus departure. I went to my room to read, pack, and shower, which would be my last chance to wash for the next 24 hours.

Kate

The Hot & Dusty Trail

I awoke to a cold, grey, rainy morning. I had forgotten what it was like to get stripped and into a shower in such weather. Maybe today wouldn’t be as warm as yesterday, and I only hoped the rain would stop. Climbing down sides of mountains, in the rain, on an all day trek was not a challenge I needed.

At 7am, the rain had stopped and I walked over to the hotel for breakfast. I had hoped to start the walk at 8:00, but Diem had informed me that the guide would meet me at 9:30 and I didn’t think to question the late start. Eating breakfast, I glanced over to see Diem walk in with a young woman in jeans. I was to find out at 9:00 that her name was Mang and that she would be my personal guide on the day’s excursion, although when she met me she had changed into traditional Black Hmong clothing.

Mang, just 16 years old, had a great command of English and, like the girls I had met the day before, had learned it from tourists. In fact, she told me, her English was better than her Vietnamese. I was curious as to how her family felt about her spending days away in Sapa, guiding tourists to local villages. She said her mother worried a bit, but was ok with the situation.

The first part of our trip took us through town, then down into another area that had a guard gate at the top. This part of the walk was on a paved road. The weather was warming up, and so was I. As we walked I asked about life in among her people. Girls are married at between 14 and 16, although her mother did not want Mang to marry so young. Some marriages were arranged, others not. She mentioned a young woman from her village who was not married but had a baby. Again, sometimes this was a problem, sometimes not. Mang had been a tour guide for a year and loved her work. What she hated was going back to the village to work in the rice paddies which she did when there weren’t any tours to conduct.

We wound down the road looking out upon incredible vistas of mountains and farms. The paved road eventually turned into a dirt one, but the going was easy. Along the way we ran into a couple from Switzerland and their guide, a friend of Mang’s, who was 18 years old. The young ladies talked together and I talked to the Swiss woman, both of us starting to roast in the sun.

I asked Mang about her Hmong clothing and the fabric it was made of. Some of it was sewn from purchased cotton, but the main jacket was made from hand woven, hemp fabric. Whenever you see a Black Hmong woman, who is not otherwise engaged, she can be seen rolling and twisting long pieces of hemp, taken from a sort of skein that is wrapped around her waste. These threads are rolled until thin, then washed, and finally died with indigo. I found out that indigo is grown in these mountains and is very cheap. When I told Mang that indigo is one of the most expensive dies in the world, she was astounded.



Mang pointed out the indigo fields a little farther down the trail. We carried on, the trail now having been cut into the side of the mountain, with a ten foot bank on the right. I was walking close to the embankment, preferring not too get close to the other side with its sheer drop. All of a sudden I heard noise from above me. I stopped, looked up, and jumped about three feet back. The sound was that of a water buffalo munching on grass, directly over my head.




A short while later, we were passed by a Hmong gentlemen with a walking stick, moving much faster than us. He rounded another bend, then turned to his right and took off straight down the mountain, still at a fast clip. I kept checking on his progress, not believing he wouldn’t tumble and die. Mang said he would walk to the bottom and then head straight up the other side.

Along the route, we passed other small tour groups going down the hill. The guides all new each other. Some were Vietnamese; some were from the ethnic groups. All were pleasant and joyful. I kept thinking we would come across some sort of village or house or a rest stop. I had only brought one small bottle of water assuming, as with yesterdays hike, that there would be at least a few huts in which to purchase some more. I was getting a little concerned.


Lack of water was only a minor part compared to the trail which had now turned into a steep, ill-defined, treacherous path, with rocks and holes and nothing to grab onto should you stumble. I was wearing a long sleeved t-shirt and finally had had enough. I was either going to get down to the immodest tank-top and look like all the other tourists, or I was going to get heat stroke. About this time I asked Mang when we would get to that illusive village and water. Another hour and a half, she said. Crap. I never go without gallons of water and the one time I slip up, it is on a forced march from hell, and there is no turning back, no rescue team in sight. We were still with the Swiss group and they offered me water, should I feel the need.

Finally, we reached the bottom of the valley and there was a definite drop in temperature. I was also glad because I felt like my toes were about to drop off. Although wearing sturdy running shoes, the trail had been so steep that my toes had been jammed to the front of my shoes and it felt like my toenails had been driven backwards about two inches.



My elation soon ebbed as I looked upon the stretch ahead of us. We were to walk along the rock borders of a terraced field. I fell inline behind bunches of other groups. These were rather small rocks, of varying height, half-submerged in water and mud. One slip and you are in mud and rice paddy up to your ankles. I had never been so grateful for my evening walks at the manmade stream in my neighborhood. Along the route there, I cross over several stone bridges, made up of vastly different sized rocks, and requiring a fair amount of skill and balance to navigate. It did help, but not when you step in mud and slide into the water with your left foot, as I did. Luckily, my quick reactions kept me from going all the way in. But now my muddy, wet foot did not allow for any traction. This torment continued for a good thirty minutes before we were finally through and at a small pond.

My Swiss friend had also just about had it. I held up my shirt so that she could change out of her hot jeans into cooler pants. But the end was in sight. We had only a short, uphill walk to the lunch break area. First, we had to cross another of those suspended, rocking bridges. Just as I was about to go across, I looked down to my right and saw a huge, suspicious looking green plant. Hey, I whispered to the Swiss woman, What does that look like to you? She came over, and before she had a chance to answer, Mang piped in with, “Yes, it’s hemp”. I had briefly forgotten that hemp and marijuana are one in the same. Intrigued by our conversation, the Swiss gal’s husband sauntered over. I pointed out the weed, then continued to cross the bridge. When I looked back, he was still at the plant’s side.

The lunching area consisted of a concrete platform covered with a thatched roof. There were at least forty people seated in low chairs around tables. They were either eating or being served lunch. I thought this odd, as when I met Mang that morning, she’d asked if I had packed a lunch. I’d gone back to my room to grab a bag of nuts and raisins. And now she was asking if I wanted lunch. I was only thirsty, not hungry, so got a 7-Up and a bottle of water. The Swiss couple, (the husband of which had a handful of hemp leaves clutched in his hand), were served lunch by their guide. I wouldn’t have eaten the food there anyway. No refrigeration and no running water other than the stream, equals instant stomach ailments. It was obvious that I was the only person there to feel this way. I was also the only person who, after three hours of walking in the blazing sun, with barely any water, still needed to pee.

The ‘toilet’ stood across the dirt road; four wooden poles, with blue plastic tarps wrapped around it. I opened the door to see five, thick poles balanced across the stream. I looked down and wondered how I was to do this. There were spaces between the poles, but it would still result in pissing all over them and most assuredly my shoes and ankles. I ended up balancing between the poles and a rock, and I must say it was a pleasant experience; rather freeing with all that water rushing beneath you and the breeze blowing through. Thinking about taking a leak in the main water supply only served to strengthen my beliefs about eating any food prepared there.



Back at the lunch room, I noticed that people were calling across tables to say hello to other people they had met in town at a restaurant, or the hotel. I looked over and saw the four Israeli, 23 year old, just-out-of-the army boys I’d met on the train. I said hello and then noticed their feet. They were shod in thread bare, broken down, Teva’s, Birkenstocks, and flip-flops. How did you manage that hike in those shoes? I asked. They all answered that it was an easy walk and their shoes were the best for trekking. I guess there is something to be said about being young and just out of the army. At that point, all I wanted to do was grab a taxi and get the hell back to the hotel.

Still sitting around and chatting with various people, Mang came over and said it was time to go, that the final point of our trip was only forty-five minutes away. The whole time we were there, we had been surrounded by women trying to sell us things. Most of us looked the other way. But when I got up, I saw that Lili, who had sold be a blanket the day before, was one of the ladies. She and Mang knew each other, of course, and the three of us set out.

Soon, the Israelis were walking with us, and this is where Mang turned into a sixteen year old, and the guys turned into adolescents. I was happy to just watch all the playful flirtations and concentrate on visualizing the end of the trail. We actually did pass through the village center, with its run down school buildings and a few simple, but lovely thatched roofed homes. It is just that I didn’t have any more concentration abilities left. The paddy-ridge walking had taken the last bit of higher cognitive function I had been allotted for the day.

At 2:00, we reached the end of the road, and our motorbike was waiting. There were supposed to be two of them, but somehow we only had one. Mang determined that I was to ride in the middle for balance purposes. I didn’t even think twice about the option of walking up the mountain. We climbed on, and drove off.

On the way up we were confronted by monster trucks barreling down the road, herded water buffalo, insane motorbike drivers, and road crews. Our driver never even slowed down even when we came within a foot of machine, man, or animal.
Finally at the hotel, it took me a second to get off the damn thing, what with the downhill walking muscles protesting, and the rest of my legs in grip-the-bike position for the past twenty minutes.

Mang and I went into the hotel where I bought cold drinks and relaxed. I looked at my watch. I needed to get a shower and back into town if I were to meet the girls before 4:00, as I had promised.

To be continued.
Kate

Trekking & Buying

I am still not clear about the connection between the Hmong of Vietnam and the Hmong that now live in California, who I believe were from Laos. I can say that the reverse appliqué textile work that I have always associated with the groups in California, was not to be seen on my trip. What I did know was that there are several different Hmong groups; Black Hmong and Red Hmong among them.

Diem, the guy who had shown me my room, was also a tour guide. He had told me to meet him back at the main hotel entrance at 2pm for our short walk down to Cat Cat village, home of the Black Hmong. When I had asked about the tour group members, I got the usual, “I am not sure”. I soon found out it was the Vietnamese equivalent of an Elderhostel trip. I joined a group of twelve men and women, all of whom were in their 70’s and spoke no English.

The entrance to Cat Cat was only a two minute walk down the road from the hotel. Before entering, you must pay a fee. Then you start to walk down into the valley on a winding road. Diem would stop to explain things to the group, and then translate for me. The walk was easy enough for someone fairly fit but not something one would recommend for senior citizens. Or at least not the majority of seniors in the US. However, this group of Vietnamese folks walked with as much ease and energy as I did.

I wasn’t at all sure what we would encounter. Would there be a village at the bottom? Could one buy things on the trail? I had planned to buy up as much ethnic arts and crafts as I could carry and wanted to make sure that I was able to buy directly from the people and not from a middle man at a shop.

We meandered down through terraced farm plots that grow rice once a year, then are used for corn and other vegetables. I couldn’t imagine working that land for even one hour, let alone a life time. Not far down the road, we were surrounded by tiny children selling fabric, woven bracelets. At the time, I still wasn’t sure what the protocol was for buying. It was time to invest in the community, so I bought a few. Later I was told that it wasn’t a good idea to buy from the little ones as it encouraged them to skip school in order to make money.

We passed several small structures where handicrafts were being sold. Nothing was of real interest until I saw a beautiful jacket with extensive embroidery. I stopped, as the rest of the group continued. Bao, a teenage girl, came out to me. With limited English, I ascertained that the jacket had been made by her mother. I asked the price, and it seemed more than reasonable. I ended up with it and a pair of earrings.


BAO

I should mention that we had been walking for over an hour and it was now quite hot and I was boiling in my two layers of shirts. Unfortunately, taking off the outer layer to reveal a tiny tank-top would not have been appropriate, especially since I was walking with a group of older Vietnamese who were totally covered against the sun. I carried on to the bottom of the hill, where we crossed a small river by way of a hanging bridge. Water buffalos, who knew what to do in the hot sun, were taking a mud bath and looking up at us with big, round, water buffalo eyes, aware of our every move.



From there, it was a short walk uphill to where the motorbikes awaited us. As everyone knows, I do not do two-wheeled, motor vehicles. The tour brochure had promised transport by either jeep or motorbike. There was no jeep in sight. My options: walk straight up the 4K route back, or take a motorbike. Everyone also knows that I do not do uphill walks. With promises that my driver would go slowly and carefully, I got on. I would have preferred not to look but figured I needed to be aware of oncoming trucks or pits in the roads. I made it to the top without any trouble and only a modicum of anxiety.

Once off the motorbike, I was approached by a Hmong woman selling various items. From what I had observed, the women usually walk in groups and congregate around the tourists. When my bus first arrived in Sapa, we were beset upon by droves of young girls and women, all waving blankets and scarves and calling out for us to buy. I had already noticed that if you even took a slight interest, you were immediately surrounded by as many as ten other sellers. This woman was alone, which would allow me to really get a good look at her blankets.

I think blanket might not be the correct term. Maybe a bedspread, or a quilt top. Each piece is made of several pieces of cloth sewn together in strips with an outside border. All are different, with varying amounts of needlework, and a variety of colors. There is also some amount of machine appliqué. The woman pulled out several that she had made. All were beautiful. As I decided on which one I should get, we spoke a little. Her name was Lili, she was 30 years old and had five children. She was from the village that I would be visiting the next day. I finally decided on one with a predominately green color scheme. We thanked each other and I went to my room to take a shower before setting off to see the town.


LILI

I walked up the hill towards the center of town where things flatten out for a few blocks. Stopping at the top end of an open square, I gazed out over the town to the spectacular Hoang Lien Mountain range, and Fan Si Pan Mountain, the tallest in Indochina at over 3000 meters. The top was covered in mist and I had been warned that it may remain that way my entire time in Sapa. I was told that just a few days before I arrived, the entire mountain range could not been seen because of the fog. I felt very lucky to be seeing it now with the sun slowly sinking creating a dark, jagged outline against the sky.



My ambling took me past another open square with stalls of venders. From a distance I could see that they were run by indigenous people and so decided to see what was on offer. I stopped at the first stall and was immediately surrounded by four beautiful girls. The first one said, “Where are you from, California?” I assumed that they, like others I have run into on this journey, had memorized a few needed sentences. But then I started talking and they answered and I realized these little ladies really did speak English.

I was quickly introduced to Ker, Zen, Lam, and Bamboo, (the translation of her name), who ranged from 12 years old to 16. They, like the other Black Hmong people I had seen, were beautiful. And Zen, at 16, was stunningly beautiful with golden brown eyes. The stall belonged to Bamboo’s mother but all the girls had things to sell. They told me they slept there at night and would return to their village every few days. I was worried that it might not be safe, but they assured me it was. Their stall was only separated by a blanket from the next one, and all the others, where adults were present, so they weren’t really alone.

Amazed at their proficiency in English, I asked them how they had learned it. From tourists, was the answer, not in school. I had already learned that all the children from the ethnic minority groups have free schooling from Vietnamese teachers. Most don’t have a written language, but they are taught Vietnamese. I never did get clear conformation as to whether or not they were taught all subjects in Vietnamese, but I believe that is the case. The girls assured me that they were still in school. It was getting dark and I wanted to take a look at the other stalls, so said I would come back a little later.


Bamboo, Lam, Ker, Zen

The girls followed me to a stall near the end where I spent a lot of time deciding on another blanket. We all walked back to their place and they asked when I would buy something from them. I said I would come back the next day when the light was better. Then Bamboo asked if I would email her. You have an email address? I asked, more than a little surprised. They all did, and went to the internet café just down the street to read their mail. Or rather to look at it. It turned out they couldn’t really read English, and when they wrote out their emails for me, in very juvenile writing, I understood why. Although they said they could read Vietnamese, I rather doubt they can do it well. Then they asked if I would go to the internet café and read their emails to them. So off we went.

None of them had any trouble navigating to either Yahoo or Hotmail. I circulated among the four, reading emails from other enamored tourists who had written how much they missed the girls and had sent pictures. They then dictated replies for me to write. When all emails had been read an answered, I paid for their time and we parted for the night, with hugs and promises to meet the next day at 4, when I should be back from the day trek.

I walked down the hill to the hotel through the clear mountain air that was a little cool, but not at all cold. Back in my room at the hotel I noticed that there were no other people there. It seemed I had Goldsea number 2, to myself. I opened the balcony and looked up at the stars and listened to the quiet. When I climbed into bed, huddled under a thick comforter, I was happy and content. The chill in the room actually felt good. Tomorrow would be a full day of trekking, although this time I would either be by myself with a guide, or with other English speakers.

My picture of the girls doesn’t do them justice, but you get the idea.
Kate