I have had almost ten years to prepare for my passport renewal, which expires March 2nd. So, of course, I have left it until now. What with work, and the odd hours I can actually go to the consulate to get it done, time just sort of slipped away. However, the most important reason I haven’t gotten it done yet is that of the Passport Picture.
Any ID photo of importance must be worthy. I even make DMV re-take my picture if don’t think it will look good on my drivers license. One time, because I kept getting automatic extensions on my license, and the photo was so out of date, I ‘lost’ it and had a lovely new one made up. However, misplacing a passport because it has a dog-ugly photo is something not even I would do. And folks, you have to show that baby for ten whole years, crossing all sorts of international borders, and using it regularly when living overseas. It must be a work of art.
The last time a got a passport I sat through, and paid for, three different shoots. That was before the glorious age of digital cameras. Now, you can not only instantly check and re-shoot, but digitally enhance said photo. Nevertheless, one must be well prepared.
Last week I got up early so that I could do my hair and put on tons of make-up, and make it to the photo shop before it got too hot and sweaty. There is only one option out in my neighborhood, and I have never liked the quality of their work, but figured I would just have them re-shoot it as many times as necessary. I knew they didn’t digitize photos but decided if I painted my face really well, it would be ok.
As I expected, the surly “photographer”, really just a 5th rate technician, huffed when I tried to fix my hair in the mirror. The ten minute walk to the photo store had done serious damage to my do, not to mention I was dripping with sweat. The guy took a picture; I looked at it and made him take another, and then a third. He was of no help at all in trying to get a good shot. I finally decided to just pay for them and if, when printed up, they were really bad, I’d go into town for more. Nothing could have prepared me for how terrible the pictures looked when they were printed. White trash is about the only description I can give. I had thought the top I wore would look good but it did not. I actually had sweat beaded on my lip. I pocketed the pics and left.
The next day at work I was relating the story to a friend who said I needed to go into town where there was store after store of places that enhanced photos. I was worried that changing a passport photo might be slightly illegal. My friend assured me that all they do is erase dark circles under your eyes, maybe add a little rouge to your cheeks, lop off stray hair, and only slightly soften facial lines.
I later took one more look at the tired-whore photos and knew I had to go for digital improvement. But first, I would have to get my hair done. It was time for cut and color anyway, so I planned the day starting with a careful decision of choice of clothing. Then I applied massive make-up, and grabbed a taxi to Toni’s salon.
As soon as I arrived, I explained my need for extra special attention as I was headed off to get pictures after he finished. We decided to change my cut and this time I said I wanted red streaks on the burgundy hair instead of the blonde he keeps giving me. That took over two hours and then it was time for the styling.
Toni is forever trying to get me to let him put crap in my hair for a more stylish look. In point of fact, I do like how it looks, but simply cannot stand the feel of stiff, gooey, hair. However, this time I told him to go wild. First, my hair was dried using a round brush. Then came the flat iron to up-turn the back. This was followed by the goop and at least ten minutes of scrunching and twisting and pushing around. After that was the hair spray. I looked good.
It turned out there was a photo shop next door. Toni took me over and we talked about the pictures. We found out they didn’t do touch-ups, but it was so convenient that I went ahead. After I sat in the chair I noticed it wasn’t a digital camera, so I would not be able to check the picture. What the hell, it cost very little. They took the shot, and twenty minutes later brought it back to the salon where I was waiting. Another no go. Toni said he would take me to the digital shops, but not before he re-did the styling, which he didn’t like in the picture.
He started by combing down all the poof he had given me, then plugged in the curling iron. He was in his element. After all the times I have told him to leave my hair alone, I had given him carte blanche. He rolled and fried about eight curls on the top of my head amidst my constant screeches that he was pulling my hair. Then he got out the comb and started to separate and tease my hair. Damn, I was never going to be able to brush it out. He rubbed in more guck, twirled, pulled, and placed strands at appropriate angles. Then he handed me a plastic face shield to hold in place as he sprayed on toxic amounts of hairspray. There were several more minutes of final touches before we got a taxi to the photography shop.
Turned out Toni new all the guys there. He explained what I needed and we walked up stairs to take the pictures. Like all the stores on that street, this was once a French something-or-other. Very possibly a villa. Not much has been done to the majority of these places in a hundred years, and it was fun to look at the old tile floors and wooden doors, and wonder who had walked these halls in a bygone era.
Once I was seated, I had Toni adjust my hair. We took three pictures and they both agreed that they were good. Back downstairs, the shots were up-loaded on to the computer and it was easy to choose which was the best one. Mr. Digital sat at the computer, me next to him, and Toni on my right. Then the ‘improvement’ process started. You have no idea how many little errors there are on your face until it is blown up large enough to fill a computer screen. I knew then and there I never wanted to be in the movies. I said what I did and didn’t want done, and Toni translated. But I don’t think the magic man really listened and I don’t think he needed to.
I watched as his left hand flew over the keyboard and his right hand marked, and or circled, bits of my face. Some sort of color scale would spring up onto the screen and then this graph-like thing, which the tech adjusted with such speed that I could never quite catch on to what he was doing. He lightened up the raccoon eyes, slightly smoothed out a few lines, erased unsightly freckles, and gave me the whitest damn teeth I have ever seen. I kept worrying that he was going to turn me into a twenty-year-old. But actually, when the pictures were printed in three different sizes; US passport being the largest and Vietnamese work permit being the smallest, one really couldn’t tell that all the digital stuff had been done. I certainly would be nice if that computer program would work with such ease on my living face.
It had been a very long day, but well worth it. It is now my firm belief that one must have a personal stylist to escort one through the entire process of identification photos.
Here’s hoping they don’t stop me at the border for traveling with fake ID.
Kate
In Vietnam, we don’t have gas lines into houses or apartments, or I guess into much of anything else. To wash dishes, I boil water. The shower has an electric water heater, and the gas for the stove comes from a small tank.
When I moved into my apartment in October, 2005, the gas tank was empty. The landlord called the shop, and a new one was delivered. At the time, I told her it would last me a year and she laughed. She said I would need a new one in three months.
Having used such tanks in other countries, I knew my consumption rate. Although I cook every day, it is quick cooking; no pots of beans and rice simmering away. But half-way through the pasta last night, the last drop of gas finally ran out. I let the linguini sit in the hot water another five minutes and although a bit sticky, was edible.
When I got home from work today I called the number on the empty tank and, pretty much ordering in Vietnamese, had a new tank delivered fifteen minutes later. Some sorts of services here are far superior to anywhere else in the world. And you can’t beat the price. One tank, that lasts me nearly fifteen months, is only $10.
The rose next to the tank is for perspective, not aesthetics.
Time to cook.
Kate
One of the few irreplaceable American services is the dentist. I just don’t trust them anywhere else. If one gets sick anywhere in the world, one knows what to do. With teeth, it is another matter. You just don’t want anyone messing around with power tools inside your mouth. This is one of the reasons I try to practice good oral hygiene. And even though my teeth and gums are in excellent health, I still need to get them cleaned occasionally.
Shortly after I moved to my apartment, a new dental clinic opened up. I talked to a few people who had gone, and they seemed impressed. Of course, they had pretty nasty looking teeth, so I wasn’t yet convinced. I then went in and grilled the receptionist about the dentists. It turned out that one of them had done post-graduate dental training in the US. The office was spotlessly clean, and they seemed to have all the most modern equipment. I let them do my teeth.
I went in again today for a cleaning. In Vietnam, and in every other country I have lived in outside the US, the dental hygienist does not exist. Dentists do the dirty work. I am not quite sure how they squeeze in all those years of hygienist training along with their teeth drilling studies. Actually, I know they don’t. They do an adequate job, but it is not up to what I would get in California. I always forget about the experience in a foreign dental office until I am in the chair.
As I said, the office was a five-star deal with bright, shiny equipment and top-of-the-line dental chairs, so I was comfortable. The dentist and her helper, (I have no idea what the helpers training was), donned gloves and masks and eye-shields, as I lay in a prone position. The first segment of the cleaning was with the ultrasonic thingy. The helper put the suction in my mouth, and the dentist went to work.
Immediately, water from the sonic gun started to splash all over my face. Then it started to drip down my throat. The tool was positioned such that I started to drool. The helper held a washcloth over my lower lip, alternately sponging off my face. By the time the water started to hit my shoulder, I was having the hardest time trying not to laugh at this Three Stooges Cleaning, and began to choke on the water. They let me up. Then it was back to it. It really was good I wasn’t wearing make-up, as by the end of it all, my face was soaked and my shirt rather damp. However, my teeth are darn clean, and the price was only about $25, so I am happy.
I will forgo pictures of my sparkling teeth, and instead attach pictures of dragon fruit. I can’t believe I had never tried it until a few weeks ago. I just assumed that anything that looked that bizarre most likely had a nasty flavor. I was wrong. It has a delicate, slightly tangy taste, and a soft-crunchy texture. But the most amazing part is its physical beauty. They are bright pink, even if the picture doesn’t exactly show it. The skin is so hard it looks and feels like plastic. In fact I bought a plastic one as a souvenir, and it is hard to tell the difference between it and the real thing. The first time I cut one open I just started in awe. How in the world did such an extraordinary fruit come into being? It’s like someone’s dream of what fruit would look like on Planet X-153. I am definitely hooked on these babies.
Time to check out my clean teeth again, and eat more dragon fruit.
Kate
I do not know what it is about my tiny balcony and the injured and dying creatures that seem to seek it out. A few weeks ago, it was a gecko.
I have the little guys all over my apartment. They come out at night to chow down on the bugs and other insects that are about. I have daddies and mommies and right now one or two babies. I talk to them on a nightly basis and they seem to respond to my voice.
Generally, they are on the ceilings or walls and stay off of the floor. Sometimes they cling to the outside of the living room screen window, but I had never before seen one on the floor of the balcony. Actually, I think the one I found was napping on the underside of the bottom of the balcony door, and when I opened it, he fell out.
At that point I was sure I had just startled him, as he didn’t dash off. I tried to get closer to see if he was all right, but decided that would only stress him out more, so went back to other parts of my apartment. When I went back later, he was still in the same spot. Maybe he was confused; it was still a few hours before dusk, and the geckos are nocturnal. When I next checked, I didn’t see him.
Relived, I stopped worrying about him and went on with life. But the next morning I saw that he was still there, although he had moved up to the inside of the door frame. This was not good. What do geckos eat? I couldn’t really catch a fly for him, although I guess I could have nabbed one of the spiders that also share my house. My only hope was a piece of lettuce.
I hoped he was just tired. I didn’t see any injuries, he was breathing, and his eyes were moving, but he certainly wasn’t going any where quick. I worried that he was in discomfort, but could not even contemplate stamping on him to end it all. After all, he might just get more chipper in a few hours.
For the next 24 hours, I kept a watchful eye. His location was never more than a foot from where I first found him. At this point, I knew he was a goner, but just couldn’t think of how to end it all for him. When the ants finally started to gnaw at his still living body, I knew it was time for Euthanasia by Freezer. I loaded him into a small plastic container and popped in the deep freeze.
And then there are the beautiful scarabs that fly in at night if I don’t have the screens closed. They are the most incredible, iridescent green, about an inch long. I often find them in the hall outside my apartment, dazed and confused, and hunkered down on the floor. It is easy enough to pick them up and toss them back out into the night. Or sometimes I find them dead inside my apartment, not really sure how they ended up there. I tried to preserve one with a craft varnish, but the ants started to eat right through it.
I had hung my clothes up to dry the other day, and noticed a scarab plastered to a t-shirt. Again, being day time, I figured he was snoozing. I completely forgot about him until many hours later when I brought in the laundry and threw it on the bed. Oh no! The scarab! I checked the shirt he had been on and saw nothing. I then checked the balcony, and he was lying on his back on the floor.
Gently, I picked him up and put him on top of the washing machine. He was alive, but certainly not flight worthy. Once again, I went for the lettuce, and laid a few pieces out in front of him. When I went back some time later, I was truly surprised to find that he was actually munching on the lettuce. Finally, a creature was responding to my attempts at first aid.
I left him there overnight, and he happily ate his way through a ton of lettuce and pooped all over the washing machine. But I could see he was never going to get airborne again. I had to freezer him. I knew that the ant invaders were lurking just around the corner, ready for a feast.
So now I have three, cryogenically preserved beings in the ice box. The praying mantis is still there. I want to dispose of them properly. Maybe wrap them together in little critter shrouds. But people go through the garbage here, separating out recyclables. Either my little buddies would be desecrated, or the cleaners will think I’m a witch. I should probably just go bury them in an empty lot. Whatever I do, I should do it soon. I would hate for anyone to go into my freezer looking for ice cubes, and end up with a mini-coffin instead. Kate
When I first lived overseas, computers were very large items that lived in very large rooms, and things like laptops and cell phones were gadgets of science fiction. Telephone service was available, but overseas calls were not always easy and exorbitantly expensive. Correspondence was by mail. I would write a letter that could take anywhere from 7 days to three weeks to get to it’s desired location. The recipient usually kept said letter for several weeks before replying. Then it was another three to four weeks to get the reply, providing it wasn’t sent to the wrong country first. In other words, several months usually went by before someone said, “I’m fine”, to my question of, “How are you?”
But that has all changed. Less than ten years ago I swore I would never use email. Now you couldn’t pay me to write a letter. I can instantly know what is going on in the world and keep in contact with family and friends on a daily basis. In fact it is hard to imagine that I actually once lived a life without the internet.
So just think about what it was like the other day to try and get internet access, and to be denied.
They had an earthquake in Taiwan which severed several underwater fiber optic cables. Most of us in the Asian area were affected. My ADSL was totally down, so I tried a dial-up connection. It also didn’t work, but came operable sooner than the ADSL, but with limited access. I could get Google, and CNN, but not Hotmail. I started to feel panicky when it had been about twelve hours of no email. I started to check the connections every thirty minutes, if not sooner, before I realized I was being a little insane.
I tried to get news coverage about the whole situation, but really couldn’t find anything. Then I searched blogs and came up with a few irate bloggers who were ranting and raving about not being able to get into their accounts. I certainly didn’t like “being cut off”, but hey, cables under the ocean are not a quick fix and for most of us, it wasn’t exactly life threatening.
Eventually, things started to work. More than 24 hours without email and guess what? I hadn’t missed anything of importance. It took about a day or two more to get back to more or less normal, although at times things seem a little sluggish. Not that I really care considering the original estimates were saying that if might take three weeks to repair.
And in a few hours it will be 2007. I will stay home and look out over Ho Chi Minh City to see the fireworks, or I might just go to sleep before midnight. Or maybe I can even get a live firework broadcast over the internet from some other place in the world.
With wishes that the New Year be filled with Peace,
Kate
Christmas day, and I’d been sitting in the apartment trying to figure out what to do. All day I had been playing Latin and world music – appropriate for the day, I thought. But while searching through the CD’s for my next choice I stopped and said to myself, “I need me some James Brown.” I hadn’t played him in probably two months, if not more.
As the first song blasted out my body twitched. The adrenaline started to pump. My heart started to smile. I danced around the floor grinning and grooving. That’s what James does to me. I eventually stopped boogie-ing, and went about other more mundane tasks like washing the dishes. Somewhere on about song eight I decided I should pop down to the corner store to get a few things.
I returned, threw my grocery bag on the floor, opened the windows and turned on BBC. As I sat eating ice cream, staring at the screen but not really listening, I saw “…..Godfather of soul dead…..” scroll across the bottom of the screen. I froze, and waited another ten minutes, hoping they would run the story. Finally I gave up and went on the internet.
It seems at about the exact moment I had put on my James Brown CD, Mr. Brown was moving on to that ultimate Funky Town on some other plane.
I put the CD back on, lit a candle, (sorry James, all I had was a very un-soulful, vanilla scented one), sat down, communed with his spirit for a second, thanked him, shed a tear, then got right on up and got down with the beat and celebrated his life. As James’ says, “Get up off a that thing and dance until you feel better”.
Years and years of listening to his music means that my body has memorized every beat, every sax blast, every drum slap, of every song, and I never get tired of it. You can’t sit still when you hear James Brown. You can’t stay sad. You can be dead tired, sure you don’t have even one mega-ounce of energy left, and James proves you wrong.
Thank you James for everything you have given me thorough out my life. You have always been there for me; when I am happy, when I am sad, when I need motivation, when I need my spirit moved. You and your glorious music will always live inside me.
I Feel Good, thanks to you.Kate
And yet another bizarre “Christmas” is all around, although this year I have a bit more insight into the why of it all.
Every business in HCMC is bedecked with garlands, wreaths, candy canes, fake snow, and the ever-present miles of tin foil covering trees, awnings and rocks. Last year I thought this was for the benefit of tourists, but it turns out that is not the only reason. In fact, Christmas is a half-day holiday for all workers in the country. It is a day to enjoy, and unless you are Catholic or Christian, has no religious significance.
I dread going into even the little corner market because I am assaulted with the worst of Christmas music; novelty tunes set to a disco beat. Were it traditional carols, or the Hallelujah Chorus, I would really enjoy it. But this stuff is like fingernails on a chalkboard.
Everyone assumes that if you are foreign you are Christian and that you go “home” for the holidays. They are either shocked or worried when I say I am staying right here in town. Even when I explain that I only actually get the 25th off of work, they seem to think I should be spending a small fortune to travel half way around the world, to suffer in the cold for a day or two.
My apartment complex, I must say, is the King of Decorated Buildings out here in the burbs. We have flickering lights adorning palm trees, wreaths on entrances to the different blocks, and three, large deer lounging in the garden. It looks kind of cool at night. In addition to the holiday adornment, in the past two months, the whole place has gone through a major face-lift.
A new management team took over and immediately took to redoing the grounds. The gardens were replanted and landscaped. New guard houses went up. Playground equipment was installed for all the kids. Just yesterday they finished the new name sign at the front of our complex. Although there are two other, similar buildings just across the street, we are looking far the best in the neighborhood.
All would be perfect if it were not for the penthouse above me that is still under construction after four months, and my insane neighbors with anger management issues. Last night their daily shouting match was augmented throwing bags of garbage at each other in the hall.
Peace on Earth
Kate
What were they thinking, naming a typhoon after the most vile-smelling fruit known to man: Durian? (think ‘skunk’ x 1000) What did they expect would happen? Had they named it Typhoon Peach, or Typhoon Plum, or even Typhoon Banana, I am sure it would not have turned into the monster it was. Definitely a Self-Fulfilling Typhoon Prophecy.
Watching CNN, I’d observed its steady path through the Pacific, into the Philippines, and then on towards Vietnam. Living in Ho Chi Minh City, one does not usually have to worry about typhoons. (Which, by the way, are called hurricanes on the other side of the world.) I was told that they never hit the city.
Central Vietnam is another story. They take the brunt of storms that roll in off the Pacific and there is often major destruction and loss of life, much of it from flooding.
Monday morning I noticed how lovely the weather was; on the cooler side, with this great, fairly strong breeze. And then I started hearing that this pleasant weather was from the typhoon, which was due to possibly hit HCMC later that day. Oh. We even got an email at work advising to evacuate low-lying areas and keep or passports close at hand.
I live on the 7th floor, and really doubt these buildings are hurricane proof, as there is no need to build them for that. I kept close watch of the news and saw that the storm had been down-graded to a Tropical Storm, so stopped worrying about being blown over. Obviously, flooding would not affect me.
I made sure that everything was off my balcony so as to avoid a clogged drain and rain water seepage into my apartment. Still, I saw no sign of storm clouds, though the mild, windy conditions continued. But it did not feel right. The birds were not out, no bats cruised by my windows at dusk, and I didn’t even need to close the screens as it seemed all the flying insects had holed up somewhere.
I went to bed after 10:00, bolting all the windows and mapping out where to sit in my apartment should windows start breaking. And then nothing. At 4am the rain started but it never got strong. It continued for several hours and stopped. I found out later that at the time we were getting mild rain, the typhoon was trashing costal areas about 100 kilometers from HCMC.
The weather may have been fine, but my students were not. Everyone was slightly spaced out, not doing their work, and not really able to concentrate. Typhoon fever, I suppose. I talked with other teachers and it was the same in all the classes. Usually my classes fly by, but not that day. It felt like I had been teaching for ten hours.
I cannot add “typhoon” to my list of adventures, and I’m good with that. Kate
Work can really piss me off at times. Not the teaching, which I love, but all inefficiency, insanity, and ineptitude of everything else. However, unlike my counterparts in, say, California, I am able to hop on a plane and in less than an hour find myself in a tropical island paradise.
I spent four days back at Phu Quoc and this time the rains had stopped and the weather was perfect. My plan was to chill, read, and get a tan. I managed two out of three and still can’t figure out why I do not have that beautiful golden glow I should have after more than enough hours in the sun.
I have spent a lifetime not using sun block. I have no desire to spend fifteen hours in the sun, so what is the point of SPF 15? I do, however, know that the sun is quite strong here and I am never really exposed to direct sun, so decided to practice caution. There is nothing more stupid than getting a sun burn on day one of your vacation, thereby wiping out any chance for further sun exposure. With that in mind, I diligently slathered my body with Hawaiian Tropic SPF 4, and sauntered on down to the beach at 9am.
As much as I do love the sun, lying in it and succumbing to heat exhaustion is a different story. I can stand about twenty minutes, max, then have to get wet, cool down, and then sit in the shade and read. I repeat this routine for two hours at the most. When I get to the point of looking at my watch every few minutes, telling myself “I only need 15 more minutes”, I know it is time to head in. Weather and temperament permitting, I might repeat this at two or three in the afternoon. This was my tanning ritual for day one and day two.
Scrutinizing tan lines after my second day of disciplined sun exposure, I was seriously disappointed to see almost no change. I grabbed the bottle of Hawaiian Tropic to make sure it wasn’t SPF 14, and not SPF 4. The bottle clearly said “4”. Possibly there was a mix up at the factory. What was I to do? Write them and complain that I was still white after using their sun block product? My mind was made up; day three was not going to involve any thing that would keep out UV rays. End result was that I never did get a decent tan, even with no sun block.
My other beach ritual is morning and afternoon walks along the deserted beach. I had been in Phu Quoc two previous times and never saw a soul as I trekked up the beach. This time the fishing fleet had moved in. Several families of homesteaders had set up camp along the beach. Their shelters consisted of tarps suspended from poles. Four small boats were anchored directly in front of the camp.
Walking closer, I could see they had nets out, but instead of people lining up to haul it in, they had this wooden contraption that did the job. A small platform held a spindle with handles attached, by which the fisherman could draw in the line. One man sat on it and, hand over hand, grabbed the handles, pulling them towards himself. On his left sat another person who carefully coiled the collected line, then placed it in a basket. I remember that the guy turning also did something with his left foot, possibly to assist in the pull. I never feel comfortable getting close-up shots of people, feeling it is too intrusive, so have no documentation to refresh my memory.
On another morning walk, I arrived just as they were at the last stages of hauling in their catch. Knowing I wanted pictures of the event, and wanting to test out my Vietnamese, I remembered my basic plan for assuaging the feeling of intrusion. Take photos, talk with the people, then make a donation.
I was able to communicate with them, but more through sign language than verbal communication. I found out that their daily haul was not sufficient, and that the entire process had taken four hours. That meant that the nets were set out at four or five in the morning. What always strikes me about the fishermen, or workers in general here, is the camaraderie and ability to do tasks with such precision and timing, yet with very little need to speak. There is a closeness and warmth that radiates out, weather they are hauling in a net, or sitting around the cooking fire.
Evenings at the beach are always lovely, especially now that the rainy season is all but gone. Every night, around 6pm, I sat, camera at the ready, to get those fantastic sunset pictures that I so adore. Saturday night the sun went down and it didn’t look very promising. But I remembered that the last time I was there it had started out the same, only to be followed by an ever increasing, colorful display. I waited. And waited. I didn’t give up until it was pitch black and the moon was up. And that is the way it was on this trip. Three nights in Phu Quoc, and not one decent sunset.
One of the many joys on the island are the dogs. I had assumed that the free roamers, that all sort of looked related, were unique to where I was staying. Apparently not. The Vietnam Airlines flight magazine had several articles about Phu Quoc, and one mentioned the Phu Quoc Dog. There are various theories about how and when they got there. The 100% PQ dogs have a ridgeback, but are smaller that Rhodesian Ridgebacks. Even without that unusual trait, they are very cute. Medium, to small-medium in size, short-haired, and most that I have seen are tan, although there are black ones. They all have the most wonderful temperament and seem to always be happy. In the early mornings I would watch a group playing tag on the beach. Later they’d hunker down in the sand for a nap. And although they are not raised by people, you’d never know it. They love human companionship and always walk over for a pet.
My last evening there, I set out on my stroll. I travel alone, I live alone, and most of the time am happy with it. For some reason this evening I felt so terribly alone in the world. Sometimes one just wants to share the beauty and serenity of a place with another soul, which is something I rarely get. And then, all of a sudden, the big male, Phu Quoc dog was at my side. I had spent a lot of time talking to one of the small females, but this guy I hadn’t really known. I looked down at him and asked if he wanted to go for a walk with me. He healed as if he had been trained. I would stop to look at something and he would stop. It was incredibly wonderful. The only time he veered off the path, so to speak, was when he decided to practice his cattle herding skills. And yes, there are always cattle around, and I have never been sure who they belong to.
The doggie ran over to where the cows sat in the sand, and crouched down. The one cow closet to the dog was not impressed and stood up. I called out to my friend telling him he was no match for a large animal that was on the defensive, although cows aren’t exactly hostile creatures. When I yelled at him to get back to where I was, he promptly obeyed and we continued with our walk.
Back at the resort restaurant, I sat down and my dog-buddy went sniffing around. A few minutes later, I saw another couple take off down the beach, dog guide in tow.
Later that evening, I had dinner with four other people. We then went a short ways down the beach where they had set up a pile of wood for a bonfire, our dog joining in the fun. He sat with us as people took turns petting him and talking to him in whatever their native language happened to be. He understood every word. At one point, two of my group decided they wanted to play in the water to experience the phosphorescent algae. Up until then, I hadn’t even heard him bark, but as the people walked down to the sea, the dog started to whimper. He was worried. We tried to reassure him, but he did not calm down until all had returned.
When all of us decided to call it a night, we walked back to our bungalows in a group, guided by one flashlight. I was the first shack, so bid adieu. My doggie followed me to the door and would not leave until I had unlocked it and walked in.
I think I miss my doggies more that I miss the beach.
Kate
Teacher’s Day is a big deal in Vietnam. Last year I got bunches of flowers, presents, and cards. This year I got a CD and a card. But this year I also participated in a Teacher’s Day program arranged by my Vietnamese language school.
The event was held last Sunday evening at a hotel in town. Two and a half weeks ago was the first I heard about it. My teacher arrived for our lesson with a sign-up sheet. It seemed that the students would be putting on a show for our teachers and we were to choose an event in which to participate.
I glanced through the choices; sing a Vietnamese song, do a traditional dance, participate in a play. I told my teacher I would go for the dance, wondering how they were going to get it all together in less than three weeks. She said no, I shouldn’t do the dance, but enter the Ao Dai Fashion Show. I looked down the page to see this event that I had apparently missed.
Ao Dais (ow yai) are those beautiful, long tunics and pants that they actually still wear here, when not in jeans or mini-skirts. They are lovely, but look a bit like bondage, what with a no-breathing-room, fitted bodice, and made of polyester, unless you can afford silk. Not really practical for this climate. Nevertheless, I knew I wanted to get an ao gai at some point, so why not now? The deal was further sweetened by the fact that a silk company was donating the silk and I would only have to pay for the tailor, a mere $18. My only concern was there would not be enough time to get them sewn, but this is the land of 24 hour tailoring, and my teacher assured me it would not be a problem.
There were a total of ten of us, and the following Saturday we converged at the language school to get measured and to choose fabric. Two woman tailors set about measuring; rather one took measurements while the other transcribed. I did like the fact that it was in centimeters so I had no idea just how big or small I really was. These women did not speak English, but I did get it across to them that I did not want the traditional, mandarin, high-neck style. I do have limitations.
When I finished up there, I went back to the outer room where some of the other women were looking over sketches of very non-traditional ao dais. What was up? Turned out we had our own private designer. I choose one with a V-neck that buttoned down the front. I added sleeves to the sleeveless sketch. But where was the fabric? I really am a fiend about choosing the fabric I will wear.
We were not going to be able to choose. The designer said she would write down our color choices and then she would go to the factory to pick it up. Then began the insanity of ten women trying to describe the hues they wanted. One lady wanted the color of my tank-top, which she had seen while I was getting measured. Another wanted the green in a postcard on the wall. I wanted a magenta – just try saying that in Vietnamese. We all did the best we could, the designer took photos of us, and we were finished. The products were to be completed in a week, we would come in for final fittings, and it would all be done before the big event.
What with working and living on one side of town, and going to the other for fittings, I was getting a bit worried that this just wasn’t going to work. Not that it mattered since they weren’t finished last Thursday, with the party being just three days away. This was getting nerve wracking. I finally got the OK to go in Friday at 5pm. Even if it didn’t fit, I could do any adjustments myself.
I arrived at the language school to find that only the tunic was there – no pants, no tailor, and two buttons were still missing on my pink outfit. Not a color I would have chosen, which was actually more of a dusty rose, so not a bad choice by someone else. It was explained that the pants would be done by the next day, Saturday at 4pm, when I could pick it up. Obviously, I couldn’t even take the tunic home.
I called the following day, ready to pick up my outfit and was told it wouldn’t be done until the next day, Sunday, and that the tailor would bring it to the hotel where the function was being held. Sorry, that just wouldn’t do. These are form fitting numbers, made of sheer fabric, and one must get the right bra. After a bit of negotiation and several back and forth phone calls, we arranged for a delivery guy to bring my ao dai to my house on Sunday morning at eleven.
At twelve noon the next day, Sunday, I get a call from the tailor, in Vietnamese, saying it would be delivered at 4pm. Or at least I thought that is what she said. That would give me about an hour before I had to leave for the hotel. Fortunately, I then got a text message in English confirming the time.
When my ao dai arrived, the first thing I noticed was how damn delicate the fabric was. I was sure to trash it within minutes of putting it on. I also needed to iron it, which I managed without burning the super-fine silk. Then I tried it on. An amazing fit for never doing anything other than taking my measurements. However, ao dais are designed to be worn with a bullet bra, which I don’t think have been on the market since the 50’s. I came up with something, and was pleased with the classy look. I need more of these, albeit in something other than fragile silk. By the end of the evening, I didn’t have any food stains, but it was quite wrinkled, even though I did my best not to move too much. I was sure it would rip apart.
As noted in my last blog, the ride into town took forever because of Bush Security. But arrive I did, and rode the elevator to the fifth floor, and walked outside to the pool, where it was being held. I had expected some rather informal affair. I walked out into a scene of lights and cameras and balloons and buffet tables. It was a clear, warm, perfect evening. Waiters walked around with trays of drinks. I mingled and talked to several people I knew, and met many others.
The song and dance numbers went well, and then it was time for our fashion show. We had been given instructions about walking slowly around the pool and pausing at certain points, where we were to “turn around charmingly”. That over, I went back to eating. We had a massive array of fantastic food.
It was a lovely evening, and a wonderful way to honor our teachers. And now I have real ao dai. (which needs to go to the dry cleaners.)
The pictures included here having nothing to do with the event. They are of the street where I buy fabric.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Kate
For about six months now, I have been waiting for Bush’s visit to Vietnam. As soon as I heard that he would be here for the APEC meeting, I knew I had to do some sort of subtle protest. I decided that I would wear a CODEPINK t-shirt and just sort of stroll by wherever it was he was staying. A friend even made me pink earrings to go with the outfit. All I could hope for was that some of his homies would take note; just as a reminder that even on the other side of the world, we haven’t forgotten about him.
As it turned out, he came into town on Sunday and there was no way I could partake in my mini-street theatre plan. I was booked for a Teacher’s Day reception in the evening and it would have been too much to make the trip into town twice in one day.
At 6pm, I got into a taxi wearing my brand new, pink silk, Vietnamese outfit. (more info to follow in a later posting). We drove over the bridge to District 4, and then the traffic all but stopped. I was sort of daydreaming and didn’t notice the delay for quite some time. I don’t remember ever going out on a Sunday evening, so assumed it might be the norm.
Eventually, we got through District four and into District 1, heading for District 3. As our speed increased, we zoomed by the New World Hotel, and my driver mumbled something and pointed. Half asleep, I grunted and turned my head to see if I could figure out what he had said. Oh! He had said “Bush”. Now I noticed that the streets were lined with police in flack jackets and helmets, toting weaponry. I glared at the hotel and mentally transmitted feelings of ill regard. I was glad I was wearing pink.
Turning the corner I saw that all the streets around the hotel were blockaded. I wondered why he would stay in that particular hotel. 5-star; it is not. Later that evening someone pointed out that hotels like the Hyatt and Sheraton are jammed together like sardines in the center of town, making it pretty much impossible to cordon off the area. So the big brass, for the sake of security, had to slum it, I guess.
Mental telepathy might not be the best form of protest, but it did feel good. Kate
Kem Chuoi, (chewy), literally means ice cream/banana, although it really is just frozen banana, coated in coconut milk and peanuts. I first had it soon after arriving in Vietnam. It was when I was with one of the young women from my first job, and she had the driver stop at a little shop on the side of the road to buy kem choui. I instantly loved it.
It is not something that is commercially produced. People make it at home and sell it in their shops; hence, I hadn’t had another for over a year. (my neighborhood has none of these family stores.) And then two weeks ago, my Vietnamese teacher arrived with three that her daughter had made. She wasn’t sure if I liked them, so apologized for not bringing more. When she found out I truly adored kem choui, she said that our following class would be a course in making them. I tried to give her money for the ingredients, but she wrote down the necessary items, totaled them up, and showed me that it only cost about one dollar to make 24 frozen bananas. Two days later, she arrived with everything.
One starts with making coconut milk. The canned stuff I already had wouldn’t do, explained my teacher, it simply doesn’t taste right. That morning she had gone to the market, (where she goes every morning at 6:00am.) She bought a fresh coconut and had the seller shred it using some sort of machine. We put the coconut in a saucepan, then added about half a cup of boiling water, and stirred it until it had absorbed the water. Then, over a strainer, we squished handfuls of coconut meat into a bowl, removing the milk. The leftover shredded bits can be used in other things, but we tossed them.
We added a little salt and some sugar, (I opted for less sugar), and about three tablespoons of cornstarch. The milk then goes back in the pot, this time over a low flame. While this is cooking into a thick paste, you slice the bananas in half.
I must explain that not Just any old banana will do. Of all the types available, only one is suitable. It’s a short, fat nanner. All the others contain too much water and when frozen, turn to ice. As I sliced, my teacher laid out the cellophane pieces in which we would wrap our frozen desserts. These were actually small bags that are cut open.
The banana half is placed on the cellophane then flattened with the side of a large knife. Onto this, you ladle the thickened coconut concoction, sprinkle it with roasted peanut pieces, wrap it up, and put it in a plastic container. 24 pieces later, it was done, the kem chuoi’s placed in the freezer, where they would need several hours to freeze.
My teacher told me that you can basically put a coat of anything on top of the coconut milk, like chocolate or fruit. She said that on special occasions she layers all the ingredients in little molds and puts fruit on top. I am hooked on this simple, yet incredibly tasty treat. I still have over half of them left in the freezer. Usually after class, we sit down to eat them as we gaze out over the darkening skies of Ho Chi Minh City.
I feel the need for one now.
Kate
I have walked past the Opera House at least once a week since I arrived in Ho Chi Minh City, but had never been inside. On one hand, I am suitably impressed by French colonial architecture, on the other; it is a blatant reminder of colonialism. Hence, I had never had the desire to explore the inside. There are always performances going on but I never seem to know about them until after they occur. But when I heard about “A one act opera in which Italian music meets Vietnamese Romance”, I made sure I got the dates right.
My friend and I arrived at the Opera House at 4:30 for the 5pm performance. We climbed up the grand front entrance stairs, went to the ticket booth and asked for two seats. The woman picked up about seven tickets, thumbed through them and said they were sold out. I asked about the tickets in her hand. “No more”, she said. I pointed to the ones in her hand and asked again. I think the problem was that there were not two seats together and she assumed that is what I wanted. Eventually, I got to aisle seats on the main floor.
I didn’t know what to expect when I walked in, other than colonial grandeur. Right away I could see that it was a bit shabby, but not bad for a hundred year old building. I don’t know the exact date of construction, but had heard that it was a replica of some opera house somewhere in France. Before looking for my seat, I went in search of the restrooms, which were located downstairs.
Since the main entrance is actually second floor level, ‘downstairs’ takes you to street level. And there, at the bottom, right next to the restrooms, is where all the motorbikes were parked. Not much fazes me when it comes to gasoline powered transport inside houses anymore, and I didn’t even think it odd until later that evening.
Back up at the main level, we walked into the theater to find our seats. I was surprised, yet pleased at how small it seemed. From the outside, I had envisioned a massive venue and had thought that my seat in row ‘L’ would be in the nether regions. I was remarkably close. I looked at my watch; ten minutes until curtain, and the theater was not even half filled.
As the minutes ticked down, I kept my eyes on all the empty seats and told my friend, in row ‘D’, that we could probably move in a few minutes. Five minutes to go, some orchestra members were tuning up, while others causally walked down the aisles having just arrived. As the curtain time warning lights flashed, more musicians and patrons arrived. The two seats beside me remained empty. Five o’clock arrived, the house lights dimmed and I was just about to go get my friend when two women walked in sat next to me, yapping away.
About this time the orchestra started playing, and one of the ladies kept telling her friend that she couldn’t see. Then she started leaning half way into my territory to try and see down into the orchestra pit, all the time complaining. In addition, new people kept coming in. it seemed obvious that they were not going to shut the doors to latecomers, who continued to arrive for the next thirty minutes. 
When the curtain went up, the lady next to me finally shut up. The stage itself was high enough to easily see the singers and the set was constructed of tiers that rose to a scary height, considering there were no safety handrails on any of them, and the performers stood right at their edge. The chorus consisted of something like thirty men and women, mostly Vietnamese, but with a few western folks thrown in, towering over their choir mates.
I was just settling into it, trying to ignore the stragglers arriving, when the woman next to me picked up her cell phone and started to text message someone. I leaned over and said, excuse me?, in a low, commanding voice. She huffed and put the phone away. I was later to learn that she had it on vibrate, and when it buzzed her, she picked it up and walked out of the theater to chat. From then on, the only distraction was some large man who kept pacing up and down the center aisle throughout the entire performance.
“Chao Bella”, incorporated the music of Rossini, Verdi, Puccini, and others, into a tale of love on the Mekong Delta. Your basic love story: boy meets girl - girl’s father disapproves – boy wins approval of father – all live happily ever after. And it was wonderful! They sang in Vietnamese and Italian, and I think I understood about two words in Italian, but it didn’t matter. At one point in the story, a group performed for the main characters. They juggled, did flips, balanced and rolled around on giant balls, walked on stilts. I was later to learn that they were from the Ho Chi Minh City Circus. I hadn’t even known there was such a thing. There was another section with a beautiful pas de deux with wonderful ballet dancers.
After the performance, we walked across the street to the Continental Hotel, famous as the spot where the writer Graham Greene wrote “The Quiet American”. I had always wanted to go, but had thought the veranda had been glassed in and I hate sidewalk cafes that are enclosed. It turned out that one section is still open-air in the evenings. The place has quite a pretentious feel to it, and was almost empty. Surprisingly, the prices were quite reasonable and it was a lovely place to sit and watch the people go by.
In the future I hope to go to more performances. I believe there is a city symphony orchestra, ballet, and opera, as well as visiting performers. Now I just have to find out where to get a season schedule.
Kate
This year I participated in the October 6th Mid-Autumn Festival/ Moon Cake Festival/ Tet Trung Thu. The school where my Vietnamese teacher is employed had a party for the students. I arrived at the school, after a scenic tour of downtown by the taxi driver, to find the hallways and the large classroom decorated with candles glowing out of small, hand-made, paper holders. Students and teachers with families in tow, mingled and introduced themselves, and munched on the snacks that lined two tables. I knew a few of the people from my trip with them to the shrimp farm.
There were about thirty people in the room when we sat down to hear about the Mid-Autumn festival and listen to a story. One young American woman was asked to translate. When I spoke to her later and found out that she had only been in Vietnam for one year, I was shocked at her proficiency. She then explained that her entire year had been spent studying Vietnamese. She was working for some sort of charitable organization that had allotted her two years to learn the language before starting some sort of project for street children. I drooled. That has been one of those life dreams that never came true; to have someone pay for you to learn a foreign language in a foreign country, for a year or two. Hell, the Peace Corps gave me two months.
Essentially being a children’s festival, we did kid things. The first was to break into groups and try to put the story we had just heard into order, from cut up sentences. Yes, it is a language school, and this is a language school activity. Fortunately for us, it was in English, which did not mean that you could do it without really reading the cut up sections. My group rushed through but kept getting it wrong.
Next, we had a choice: learn a song or make a lantern. I gathered five people, sat on the floor with a packet of materials, and cut and glued. All very fun, and we ended up with a nice piece of work.
Then it was off to Cho Lon, the Chinatown of Ho Chi Minh City. This is where all the action really happens. I had wanted to go last year, but not alone. This year my teacher said she would take me. We jumped in a taxi for the twenty minute ride, streets becoming increasingly crowded as we neared “Lantern Street”.
A festival ritual is that children are given a lantern in which they can put a candle or just carry around. The night before, our apartment complex had organized a celebration for the little ones. There must have been at least fifty kids running around with lanterns of all sizes and shapes, while two adults in traditional costume lead them in song and games. I was really glad that there weren’t burning candles inside.
And now I could see where lots of those lanterns came from. We got out of the taxi at an intersection branching off onto a street lined with sidewalk shops filled with lanterns. There were paper fish, lotus flowers, and happy faces; cellophane boats and animals; high tech plastic things that moved and beeped with flashing lights. There were also some other kid toys. My favorite was a small lion dancer mask and cape that was fitted on top of an electronic toy so that it danced and shook. Upon closer inspection I saw the moving part was actually a T Rex. The streets were jammed with parents walking with kids and picking out lanterns. An equal number were on motorbikes, driving up to a stall and letting their child pick out something. It was a madhouse.
We then walked for another twenty minutes back to the community center where lion dancers and dragon dancers were performing. They had already finished the show by the time we arrived, but it was fun to walk amongst the joyous kids running around and laughing.
I never did eat any moon cakes, but there is always next year.
Kate
A slight break in the rain on Sunday meant I could do that last bit of wash left over from my beach trip. The washing machine sits on my little, 4 by 8 foot balcony. It’s good for doing laundry but not much else. I dumped my clothes in the machine, threw in the soap, then bent down to adjust the drainage hose before turning it on. This required some maneuvering as the washing machine is in a corner and the hose is between it and the wall. Strange, I thought when I saw a large, black spot, what is that on the hose? I walked around and peered down. Oh my god! It was a bat! He was sprawled on top of the hose, sort of the way a squirrel lies on a tree branch. This couldn’t be good. Bats do not sprawl.
I leaned in as far as I could and saw that one of his little bat legs was outstretched. Was it broken? Was he dead? But then the other little bat leg twitched, so I knew he was alive, perhaps dying. I sat down to think. It was mid-morning, and all good bats are asleep. Maybe he was just waiting for the night shift. Whatever his state of health, I certainly couldn’t do a wash. I would have to let him sleep, hope he survived the day, then flew off in the evening.
All day long, I went to check on him. I worried that it would start storming and he would get wet. Or maybe too much light was disturbing his rest. I rigged my umbrella to afford a darker alcove and protect him from any stray rain drops that might appear. On one of my checks, I noticed that he had moved a bit, and what I thought had been an injured leg had now changed position.
Mostly, I just sent mental encouragement to him, but at one point I bent over and whispered, just keep resting, little bat, you’ll be ok. His ears started to twitch and I jumped back realizing that a whisper to a sleeping bat was equivalent to a megaphone in a human ear.
Right around 5pm is when all the bat brethren take to the skies to feed. There is still plenty of light in the air, so as soon as I saw them flying I went out to once more check on the patient. He was moving! I think I remember that bats have to pump blood into their wings before taking off. And since this guy had been sleeping at the wrong angle all day, I assumed it might take him longer. I waited about five minutes and went back.
Carefully, I opened the glass door to the balcony and froze when I saw that my bat was at the edge of the door and I had nearly squished him. He obviously wasn’t quite fit to fly. He was also in the way and I needed to close the door. The last thing he needed was to fly into my apartment. I looked around for something to nudge him with. I grabbed a towel, and gently gave him a scoot. He turned on me, threw a wing out to the left, bared his teeth and hissed. But he did back up enough for me to close the door.
I was getting really worried, because he should have flown off. I peered through the door and watched helplessly as he ran around on his little feet and front claws. He’d try to take flight, but couldn’t get any height. He ran around the balcony with amazing speed, bumping into walls and trying to scale them. His little claws simply couldn’t attach to the concrete.
What could I do? If I tried to pick him up, I’d give him a coronary. And then what would I do? Dump him on the ledge where he would plunge to his death? Maybe he needed nutrition. All I had was a banana, and although I was fairly sure he wasn’t a fruit bat, I put a piece out for him. He ran into it a few times and gave it no notice. I sat down again and watched him and willed him to take off but finally, I couldn’t stand it any more, so went into the other room.
That’s when I decided to build him a ramp to the ledge. I was not sure that that would help, but he was going to kill himself trying to get to higher ground. I took a large basket and turned it upside down, then leaned the ironing board next to it. If he could scale the basket, then hop on to the ironing board, he could climb up to the balcony ledge. I returned to the living room and turned on the TV. I now worried that if he did try the basket escape route, he might get a foot caught.
I took one last check that night. It was dark, but I didn’t see my bat, or hear him scampering around. I brought the basket and ironing board back inside, and checked to make sure he wasn’t stuck to either of them. I would do a more thorough check in the light of day.
The next morning I searched my balcony at least ten times, but there was no sign of him, so I assume he made it out alive. The thought did occur that maybe he had died under the washing machine. But he couldn’t really fit under there and I would have smelled something by now. I still can’t figure out how he ended up where he did. There is nothing on my balcony that is bat-hanging material. Possibly, he was a little slow on the uptake and tried to hang from the electrical outlet, fell asleep, then plopped onto the hose. Whatever the case may be, I am so grateful I did not have to do a bat burial.
Kate
