Marimba Magic

A few Friday nights ago, I just happened to see a small flyer advertising a concert by an Israeli marimba-ist for the following evening at the Conservatory of Music. I had never heard of Asaf Roth, but do love live music and marimbas, and he looked kinda cute. I assumed it would be good, but never imagined that it would turn out to be one of the most incredible concerts I have ever been to.

I’d been to the conservatory once before. It’s a small venue; sort of long-in-the-tooth, but with that old-world French charm and decent acoustics. The concert was free-of-charge, and open seating. I settled into the perfect spot to see and hear.

Asaf started with a few lovely, mellow pieces, and all the stress in my body started to drift away as I was caressed by the music. As the concert progressed, his selections built in intensity.

‘Remembering’ is one of the most remarkable musical pieces I have ever experienced. Before he began, Asaf explained that, since he was only one person, he was going to use an electronic loop pedal to stand in for additional musicians. Then he demonstrated. He tapped a switch with his foot, and into a microphone said “come”. Instantly, the word was repeated, "come, come, come", in a steady 4/4 beat. Then he tapped the switch again and added “on” Now we heard, “come on, come on, come on.” Then, “shush”; “shush come on, shush come on, shush come on”. Demo over; he began to play.

The piece starts with a simple, slow, melodic line, of about 12 measures. Then he abruptly stops, slowly moves to his left and picks up maracas. Another pause, he taps the electronic loop switch, which replays the 12 measures, on top of which he shakes the maracas. Again, an abrupt halt, then over to a xylophone, and another dimension is added to the piece. I think this is where he goes back to the marimba and we now hear what sounds like a mini-orchestra playing the most beautiful, somewhat haunting, music.

Marimba Spiritual, was even more mesmerizing. This piece started slowly and built in speed and complexity, once more utilizing the music loop. The rhythms sink inside you and at one point I flashed back to a Sufi performance I had seen in Cairo; it had that same feel of grabbing your soul and nearly putting you into a trance-like state. I gave up trying to figure out how many layers he had put together or understand how he could keep track of it all. This man is not only a seriously talented musician, but a master of multi-tasking.

At this point I should mention that I have never been able to sit still when I hear music, and simply do not understand how others do so. Especially when beautiful melodies and intoxicating beats are coursing through your body. I hate having to be consciously aware of restraining my normal physical reaction, which would be to really sway and move along with the music. Mostly, I was transfixed by Asaf’s performance, but a few times I peeked at the people around me and they were like rocks in the ground, not a foot tapping, nor a head bobbing.

The next delight was “Peter and the Wolf.” A Vietnamese woman, who had introduced Asaf before the concert, walked onto the stage. She sat down at a chair to his right, adjusted the music stand which held her script and, ever so slightly, nodded to Asaf, who started to play. Let me tell you, I may have only understood a few words of the language, but it didn’t matter. Between the excitement, wonder, and joy in her reading, added with that marvelous “Peter” score and Asaf’s variations, the entire audience was swept away on a magical journey. What was truly amazing is that our narrator did not speak marimba, and Asaf did not speak Vietnamese, yet they functioned as one, never missing a beat or a word. Even more phenomenal, as I learned after the concert, was that they had only practiced together one time. Granted, the woman was a conductor and performing arts teacher, which I found out later, but it still was a remarkable feat.

Another piece included students form the Conservatory. I had been wondering about all the percussion instruments sitting on the left; bass drum, a snare or two, some cymbals or bells, and I think a timbale. This piece was all percussion and Brazilian beats. Anyone who knows me will understand that it was close to pure hell for the Samba Queen to remain seated. Asaf was more of a conductor this time, using that traditional Carnaval instrument, the whistle. Truly awesome. And, as with “Peter”, they had only rehearsed together once.

Aside from the instruments I knew, Asaf had this electronic thing that I could not see. I sounded like it was a keyboard, but then sounded like percussion. He did this very bizarre thing where he sang and played the keyboard together, but it all meshed together to produce what sounded like a choir. I simply have no way of describing what the heck it was, but it was cool.

I was buzzing by the time the music stopped. I was still buzzing when I got home. Since I don’t have any way to get his CD, I am now forced to listen to snippets off his website. How is it that I had never heard of him? And what if I hadn’t been in the right place at the right time to find out about the concert? No matter; it was meant to be.

Do give his music a listen http://www.asafroth.com/
Kate

Nha Trang

I’d been planning my annual birthday trip for months. All I wanted was a few days of sun on a secluded beach where I could get a tan and collect sea shells. I figured I’d go to Nha Trang, an hour’s flight north of HCMC. Everyone who has been there has brought back good reports, but no one could recommend a hotel, so I was off internet hunting.

Unfortunately, all I seemed to find were ugly hotels, not even on the beach, but across a huge main boulevard. That was not what I had had in mind. Upon further research, I found a place called Paradise Resort, that had beautiful bungalows on a long stretch of beach. The price was a mere $18 a day, which included three meals a day. It also was 33 kilometers north of town. After not too much thought, I decided that it really wasn’t that far to travel and it was exactly what I wanted. I booked my ticket and Paradise.

A few days before my trip, a nasty typhoon was moving in towards the Philippines, with a good chance that it would continue on to Vietnam and hit Nha Trang. I kept up with reports, right up until 4am Thursday morning, an hour before I needed to leave for the airport. The forecast was grim. I thought maybe I should cancel but knew if I did, the typhoon would dissipate and I would be stuck in HCMC. I should have cancelled.

My flight left at 7am. I was not pleased to see that it would be on one of Vietnam Air’s little prop jets. They give these runs to the new guys and they have always been rather bumpy flights and landings. I was also thinking about the typhoon. And then there was the fact that Paradise was in fact a 2 hour taxi ride from the airport. Nha Trang flights, up until a year ago, landed in the downtown airport. They have since moved to Cam Ranh airport, 45 minutes away from downtown. Buckled in, it was too late to change my mind.

I sat next to an American doctor who was in Vietnam overseeing an international medical training project. He told me that he had been in Vietnam in the mid 60’s as a USAID worker. We were having a pleasant conversation when the turbulence started. It was fairly horrific, went on entirely too long, but I managed not to loose my breakfast. The lady across from me kept yelling with every bump. She later apologized and I answered that that is how we all felt, but had persevered to not scream.

Coming into Can Ranh, my seatmate told me that it had been built as an airbase by the US military during the war. It is a massive, basically deserted airfield. Besides worn out tarmac there didn’t seem to be much other than sand and some green ground cover. The landing was a few bounces short of a text-book maneuver, and I was really happy to de-plane.

Waiting to get our bags, the doc asked if I’d brought my skeeter repellent. Damn! Once again I had forgotten. He said he had an extra bottle, and handed me a container of Cutter Bug wipes, to which I said, “I went to school with Tommy Cutter!” I really wonder what ever happened to Tommy.

After collecting my bag, I walked outside to the grey, drizzling day, and found my taxi driver waiting. I don’t remember much of the ride into town; I was whipped, having had little sleep, it was a grey day, and the raindrops impaired my vision. As we got into town and started to pass some of the hotels I had seen on-line, I was truly grateful I hadn’t booked any. There was the beach bordered by a lovely promenade, then that double wide boulevard, and then the hotels. At one point we pulled over, and my driver told me his brother and his brother’s taxi would take me the rest of the way.

For the next hour I did notice the beautiful scenery. We drove over a river and I saw that all the fishing boats were painted a bight, royal blue. They reminded me of Portuguese fishing boats. And they didn’t have any eyes! They are the first sightless boats I have seen in Vietnam. When we went through small villages, their houses were also blue. Very lovely.

We arrived at Paradise and I was really looking forward to meeting the owner, “Mr. Cheri. A Frenchman”. That is what it said on the website and how I addressed him on the phone, but his email address said “Vladimir.” He came out to great me and I guessed his age as late 60’s even though he walked and moved like a 30 year-old. I later learned he was 80! Throughout my stay there I would ask about his life and got bits and pieces, but mostly that he had lived here and there and done this and that. I did ascertain that he was Croatian. Then again, maybe not. He had been in Vietnam for eleven years, had a 32 year old wife and two young boys.

Paradise resort really was nice, although the weather pretty much made it impossible to get a good look at things. There were basic beach bungalows and beautiful apartments and higher quality bungalows, a huge eating area, patio/lounge space and, of course, the sea. Only one other guest was there at the time, so I had my pick of accommodation. I chose the high-grade bungalow right at the water’s edge. A two meter wall protected me from the surf, which seemed to be getting quite wild, especially since the water there is supposed to be fairly flat.

I unpacked my bag cursing myself for the 300th time about the fact that I, yet again, did not bring enough warm clothes. I had the sweatpants out the night before, but decided they would be too warm. I spent the next 4 days in my one pair of grubby jeans and one long-sleeved t-shirt, sweatshirt and scarf.

My days were spent reading, eating, and sleeping, as the weather got worse. I enjoyed talking to the one other guest, a retired guy from Sweden, bumming around Vietnam for six months. I kept bugging Mr. Cheri about the weather forecast. Although there was no wind, the waves were getting scary, especially since my bungalow was right there in the front of it all. At one point he told us we were on alert for evacuation. Great.

The first night I was on my bed reading, doors open, listening to the waves crashing. I kept getting up to check how close they were to my room. At this point, they were about two meters high and seemed to be breaking just a few feet in front of me. I kept envisioning tsunami scenarios. Around 9pm, totally freaked, I packed my bag, left it in my room, and high-tailed it up to the dining area, which was farther up the hill, to see what the situation was. No one was around. Fine with me, I was prepared to sleep at the table. About 10:30 Mr. Cheri came down, asking what I was doing. I explained that I was about to be swept away by waves and he started to laugh. “No problem”. Finally convinced he knew what he was talking about, I went back to my bungalow.

The next night I was up every hour to check on the waves and kept my bag packed for a hasty retreat. At least I finally remembered to use the bug wipes so that when I was sitting outside before crawling under the mosquito net, I wouldn’t be chomped on. Reading, I looked down and noticed my bright red nail polish was on a page of the book. Oh crap! Cutter bug wipes take of nail polish! I quickly ran in to wash off my hands. My nails remained sticky. Wonderful, stuck in the middle of a typhoon, no nail polish remover to get the rest off, and gummy nails. I washed my hands again, then tried to forget about it. Eventually they did dry and I was saved from any embarrassing nail situations. Add that to your list of nail polish removers, along with brake fluid. (don’t ask)

The rain never stopped until Sunday morning. And although it wasn’t sunny, at least then I could do one walk on the beach and collect shells. I was glad that this trip had come to an end and I could go home. On the drive to the airport I was able to get a better look at the area. The road to Can Rahn is brand new and beautiful. But when we got to the airport, it was a different story. Because I had been talking to people and in a hurry to get into the taxi when I had arrived, I hadn’t paid attention to my surroundings.

Can Rahn airport is haunted. I felt it as soon as we drove in. When I first came to Vietnam, the war was always in my mind; in the names of places, in the people I saw. But it was always an intellectual connection, not something I physically felt. Vietnam to me has become just the country where I live and work. It has lost its edge as the place of such useless death and destruction. It is not that I have ever forgotten that, but that those sentiments had been pushed into the backdrop of my life. Looking out at the vast expanse of Can Rahn, now only a tiny air terminal and a few abandoned buildings, I said to myself, this is why I have come here.

I walked around outside and could feel the ghosts and sadness in every step I took, and in every place I looked. Inside, on the second floor, I gazed out onto what I estimate would be miles of paved ground, now barren but for two planes.
I found I could not sit down. The building itself was oppressive.

We were loaded into the bus and driven out to our plane. I stepped out onto the tarmac and was wracked by an overwhelming sense of sorrow. While the others moved quickly to board the plane, I stood back and tried to concentrate on what I was feeling. What could I do? Someone needs to heal this landing strip, and I am just little me. Maybe just being aware, just being receptive to the grief reaching out and enveloping me was what I was supposed to do.

I’d spent most of my vacation pretty much just wanting to leave and feeling anxious. Getting onto the plane, I felt much calmer. Some purpose had been served, although it was not the one I had planned.

Kate

Changes

When I first moved into my neighborhood two years ago, there wasn’t much here other than apartments and houses and lots of construction. The one supermarket was housed in a small building, with crowded aisles and sloping, cracked floors. You could never let go of your shopping cart because it would take off and either run into another customer or smash into the tomatoes. Restaurants were few, overpriced and served questionable fare. There were a few little shops that were combinations of real estate agents and something else, like a dry cleaners or lamp shades. They generally disappeared after a few months. The part I really did like was walking up to the river and along the beautiful landscaped walkway, where It was like being in the country.

All that has now changed; some for the better, some for the worse. The bitty supermarket turned into a massive place. Originally, the stock was about the same, just more of each item and spread out. I am not really sure if the stock has, in fact, increased, or if it is just that I have gotten used to what is an is not available in Vietnam. In addition, another big supermarket opened, and a connivance store sprung up right in front of my apartment building. Do keep in mind that “big” supermarket is relative. It is large for Vietnam, where the majority of folks still go to the fresh markets every morning at the crack of dawn.

The first month or so that I was here, I also went to the market on Saturday morning. But it became too much of a hassle. It really isn’t within walking distance, and I no longer had the desire to make the sojourn on my weekend mornings. I can get produce in the supermarkets, but it is no where near the quality or selection that one gets at the fresh markets.

Of the other shops that open and close, not much is of interest. There are now about four flower shops selling both fake and real flowers. Their selection is limited and two to three times the price of flowers in town. I still haven’t figured out who shops at the clothing boutiques. Weird clothes, usually one of each item and outrageously priced. I prefer my supermarket which has really good buys on tops and pants.

There was a stationary store at one point, but it disappeared. What I really want is someplace I can buy light bulbs. The dry cleaner cum hardware store, (actually just a few odd items), closed eight months ago. Eventually, as the area grows, all these things will become available but, for now, it is hit or miss for what is on sale on any particular day.

Several weeks ago I was riding my bike up by the river. All the monster buildings that were either in foundation stage, or still empty lots two years ago, now tower over the area, blocking sun and air. The beautiful landscaped walkway is now hemmed in by hideous, fifteen story, apartment buildings. I can never walk there again.

Fortunately, the area right along the river is still the way it always was. It is the nursery for the gardens in this area. I ride my bike along the gravel paths, through rows of baby plants and gardeners, and I am transported into a different world. There are always a bunch of gardeners who are generally surprised to see me bumping along on the red bike, but who always wave back and smile.

However, there is one good addition to the nasty buildings. Along the bottom of one of them, directly across from the river, there are now six or seven new restaurants. They are all branches of well known establishments in town.

One day, after my tour through the river gardens, I was in need of refreshment. I noticed, for the first time, that these restaurants were being installed and that one was already opened. It looked lovely, with outside tables, under umbrellas. I parked and went up the stairs and sat in a big, cushiony sofa-thing. I spoke to the owner who explained that this was the first of the restaurants to open, and that the others were soon to follow. I only wanted to drink something cold, but took a look at the menu and was pleased to see that the prices were quite reasonable. I commented on the beautiful view of the river and that I was worried that it would suffer the fate of everything else around and be turned into a concrete jungle. He assured me that the river would stay and that on the other side of said river, they were building a golf course.

In the coming weeks, I was back there several times to either eat or drink coffee. A few weeks ago, the rest of the places opened. There is a lovely chain coffee shop which has fantastic seating, but the coffee is shockingly priced and sucks. Vietnam has the best coffee, especially the ice coffee, which one can’t really mess up. But this place, Gloria Jean’s does. I knew from my experience with them in Malaysia, that they were not good. Even worse than Starbucks coffee. But I thought I would give them a try. My Ice coffee was at least three times the average price, and it was horrid! Unfortunately, I doubt I will ever go back, even if they do have the most comfortable chairs.

Last week, while stopping off with my bike, I saw that they were setting up huge banquet tables all along the front of four restaurants, getting ready for a big event. I talked to a man who looked to be in charge, and he said that that evening was the grand opening. He invited me and said that it was open, and free, to all. So at 7pm that evening, all dressed up for the grand affair, I arrived. One of the managers and the owner I had spoken to several times, came rushing over to greet me, looking quite surprised at my attire and commenting on how nice I looked. Later I realized that I had only ever spoken to them after jumping off the bike, sweaty and bedraggled.

It was quite the event. I wandered from place to place, walking in a looking at the décor of each eating establishment. They are all beautiful. The free food was good, and the live jazz band was great. The rain held off, it was a full moon, and I felt like I was on vacation in a new city.

So finally, after two years of no options other than cooking for myself, I now have quite a few choices. I am quite pleased. Little pleasures are these.

(the pretty pictures are from Hoi An)

Kate

Hoi An

I know I have been in Vietnam two years when the city of Da Nang evokes no other feeling than that of a place an hour’s flight north of Ho Chi Minh City. When I first arrived, all those Vietnam War place-names caused a gut-wrenching reaction, accompanied by mental TV footage of battles, bodies, and protests.

My trip was actually to Hoi An, but one flies into Da Nang. From there, it is a 45 minute taxi ride to the beautiful town Hoi An, which sits along the banks of the Thu Bon River. It was a major South East Asian port from the 17th to the 19th century. I read somewhere that it was not bombed during the war by agreement of all sides, so as to preserve its historical heritage.

The first thing that strikes you, coming from HCMC, is how small, and cute, and quiet it is. One strolls along the narrow winding, tree-lined streets, past two-story, Chinese style houses. The center area is blocked to cars and motorbikes, but even on the streets, it is not busy. Or at least in comparison to the non-stop traffic congestion of HCMC.

And that’s another thing: Ho Chi Minh City. Before I arrived in Vietnam, I read in the Lonely Planet guide that most people in HCMC still refer to it as Saigon. I soon found out that was not the case; both young and old assured me that they generally call it HCMC. However, in Hoi An, it was a different story. Every time I told someone I was from HCMC, (and I told them this in Vietnamese!), they would reply with, “Oh, Saigon.” I soon started telling people I was from Saigon.

Although it is still the rainy season, and I had read that there were often floods this time of year, my friend and I arrived at 8am at the Blue Sky Hotel, to find clear skies and slightly cooler weather than in HCMC. I had found the hotel on the internet, liked the pictures, and called the proprietress. They only had the “Superior Deluxe” room available for $35, which was more than I had planned to spend, but it looked so beautiful on their web page, that I booked it. And I was not disappointed. It was the nicest room I have stayed in, in all of my travels. Large, new, spotless, tasteful décor and a balcony that looked out over a water- spinach lagoon. (sort of looks like a flooded rice paddy).

We had breakfast on the back deck, drinking in the peace and quiet, while they made-up the rooms. Then it was off to meander amongst the charm and beauty of historical Hoi An. I thought I might do some shopping, Hoi An being know for its fabric lanterns, but all I wanted to do was walk and soak in the sights. As it started to heat up, we stopped off for a drink at a café along the river.

Learning from my previous experiences traveling outside of HCMC, I’d packed enough clothing to suit all weather possibilities. I was happy to see that, if the heat continued, I would be able to wear the dresses I had brought, and maybe the jeans and other warmer items could be worn in the evening.

The Mango Room Café was one of the many quaint eating establishments lining the small road that ran next to the river. The owner, although Vietnamese, had lived in the US, South America, and Australia, which was reflected in the decoration and menu. Green and blue walls, red trimming, and platform beds with mats and pillows filled the downstairs. I kicked off my shows, climbed up on the bed/table, sat looking out the window, and drank an ice coffee. I watched the small boats going up and down the river, and at the moored fishing boats parked out front. I noted that the eyes on the boats were white, as opposed to red, in HCMC. It was magical.

We cruised about a bit more, then headed back to the hotel for a snooze. (I had been up at 3am to get the taxi at 4, to get to the airport at 5, for the flight at 6am.)
I lay down on the bed with a book, balcony door and windows open, a soft breeze blowing through the room. I wondered what the hell I was doing living in the insanity of Saigon.

That evening, we walked through the streets, down to the river, then crossed the bridge. The other side of the river didn’t have any of the small shops and cute streets – or at least not that I noticed, but it did have a row of restaurants. We picked the pretty blue one, and walked upstairs to the large, open dining area. There, we sat at a table next to the railing, gazing down upon the river, boats, and people.

I have never been a person driven by food, and every time that I have eaten in restaurants in HCMC, it has been a disappointing experience. Usually sub-standard. Or, if you get a decent meal one time, you won’t the second. Having no idea what to expect in Hoi An, we ordered grilled shrimp and calamari. I had never had such delicious food! Simple, clean, fresh, and unbelievable. And this was to be the norm for the rest of the trip. Every single place we ate, (except for the hotel, where it was limited to breakfast), was exceptional. I was finding that I was looking forward to the next culinary stop, which is usually at the bottom of my list when I travel. Actually, there was one good thing about the hotel food; the bread. Hoi An has its own mini-baguette specialty. Hard crust, oven fresh, individual little loaves. I rarely eat bread, but if I lived in Hoi An, I would eat it with every meal.

Hoi An is experiencing a tourism boom. All the travel books will tell you that in addition to its charm, it is the place to purchase tailored clothing and hand made shoes. Now, when someone tells me you can get an entire new wardrobe made in just two days, I have to ask; what’s wrong with this picture? Apparently, they can do it, but the quality is really poor. There are hundreds of dress shops and shoe stores, and all the samples look like everyone else’s, and of dime-store quality. I can’t understand why anyone would buy anything there, but they do.

Day two started out rather grey, but with no rain. We hopped a taxi to the beach in search of a cute restaurant for breakfast. I’d read that the beaches were beautiful, but I wouldn’t agree. They reminded me of the scrubby, northern California coastline, especially the old Fort Ord area. Give me palm trees and lots of green, and I will say it is a beautiful beach. All the same, I do love the sound of the surf and the fresh air.

The beach was lined with restaurants of the concrete floor, bamboo roof, no wall, variety. And they all were empty, even though this is supposed to be the high season. I think things will get busier in a month. The young woman, who served us at the place we chose, told us it gets packed on weekends. After we ate, we decided to walk back to town which, on the map, was listed as a 4K walk.

The road to town ran along a river. About half-way back we stopped off at a restaurant that was perched over the river. Made of dark wood, and open on all sides, it was filled with white rattan tables and chairs. No other customers were there that early in the day, but the staff was about, setting up. We parked ourselves on one end and ordered ice cream coffee. It was heaven. The river under us, no voices other than our own, and coffee with strawberry ice cream which, by the way, is quite tasty.

Once back in the center of town, we stopped off for another delicious snack, with another spectacular view, all the while scoping out restaurants for dinner. Walking in and out of all the shops, I realized there really wasn’t anything to buy. Other than cheaply manufactured cloths and shoes, I found mostly the same things one can buy in HCMC. Even the fabric lanterns were not a better buy, so why bother buying and lugging them back?

By early afternoon, the rains had started, and just got stronger. Holed up in the hotel, I read and rested. The rains let up in time to head out for dinner. This time we chose a place that advertised cooking classes, which is something else one can do in Hoi An.

As with most of the restaurants along the river, this one was small, with tables right at the front, and no walls to block the view. I looked out and noticed that the river was rising and had actually gone over the bank onto the sidewalk. But then the first dish arrived, sweet and sour fish, and I got too involved with eating. Next thing I noticed was that the river was now flowing right up to the stairs of the restaurant, which was built about a meter above the street.

Soon kids on bicycles were driving through the water, laughing and splashing. The water under the bridge was now almost even with the bridge. The part of the bridge which dipped down towards the street was under water. I watched as Vietnamese didn’t even hesitate, but simply rode their bikes or motorbikes through the water, up to the bridge, and continued on their way. Not so the tourists, who would walk from the other side and come to a dead stop when the reached the water obstacle. Eventually, they would carefully wade through the water, or flag down a motorbike to drive them through, or even carry their girlfriend across. And still, the water rose, even though it was only drizzling.

The final course for dinner was shrimp cooked in coconut milk that was served in a hollowed-out coconut that had been put on the fire to heat. Indescribably delicious! By the time we were finished, there seemed no way to leave the restaurant. Fortunately, there was a side door so we avoided the flood.

Although it was a fun experience, I knew that this amount of water meant that there was serious flooding in rural areas all around us. And those floods are still continuing.

Another reason I had wanted to go to Hoi An was to see the Cham ruins outside if town. The Cham are an ethnic minority group and up until my trip, I hadn’t realized that they are related to the people who built Angkor, in Cambodia. Although the temples are ruins, the Cham people are still around. I had hoped to find some ethnic art in town, but that was not to be the case. And what with all the rain and grey skies, I decided to put of ruins-traipsing for another trip.

The next day out walking, I saw a silk tapestry ‘factory’. I had seen many of the silk embroidery pictures that the tour books rave about, but had never been impressed. Or at least not until I saw the ones that the women were producing in this shop. They looked like photos. All were quite large with scenes of Vietnam, portraits of people, or flowers. Too big and too expensive for my tastes, I looked at the smaller scale, which didn’t have the same quality. They all looked ‘embroidered’. The sales woman explained that that was because of the thickness of the embroidery thread. Apparently, small-scale pictures are all made with thicker thread. I wasn’t allowed to take pictures of finished products, but if I had, you would swear they were photographs.

They weather continued to be dismal the next day, our last in town. I had booked a 7pm flight, but my friend and I decided to try and get on the 1:30pm flight. The flight was sold out, but we were sure we could get on stand-by, so went to the airport at 10am. On the ride to the airport, our driver pointed out China Beach. Nothing to write home about. Across the road were the remnants of US military hangers. We also passed by the Marble Mountains, which have their own story and which I will visit on my next trip.

Lovely Da Nang International Airport is about the size of a small Safeway. It was totally deserted when we arrived. The security guy said no one would be there until 12 noon. Across from the airport was a row of dingy restaurants were we went and ordered coffee. I then called Vietnam Airlines and was told I was on the waiting list, but that I would have to get on another waiting list at the airport since they didn’t share information. We talked to several locals and drank coffee until people started to arrive and it looked like the tiny Vietnam Air office was about to open. I put up a valiant effort, getting first on the waiting list and bugging the crap out of any official looking person I could find, but it was not to be. The flight was booked solid.

So we had five hours to kill before check-in time. This time, my valiant effort paid off and they let us check in our suitcases. I actually think they finally acquiesced to get rid of me. I am becoming quite the pushy lady as I get older. Once free of suitcases, we grabbed a taxi to take us to the Cham museum.

The museum was in this gigantic, probably French, building next to the river. It really didn’t contain much, but I was drooling over the thought of going back to the Cham ruins on my next trip. This was when I found out about the connection between the Cham Kingdom and Angkor. The pieces they had, looked like they had been taken from Cambodia.

Outside the museum, I stopped a guide and asked where the tourist section of town was. There is none. So my friend asked the lady at the ticket booth about shopping areas. She directed us down a main street.

I am sure there must be some nice sections of the city, but what we saw was dead ugly. Sort of a 1960’s industrial steel and concrete urban zone. I did notice that there seemed to be no traffic. Obviously, there was, but it was so civilized. One could actually cross the street with out fearing for life or limb. It had crossed my mind more than once since arriving – Wouldn’t it be nice to live in Hoi An? Which would probably mean working and living in Da Nang. I don’t think so.

At least we found yet another beautiful restaurant with great food. Then we went over to the massive riverboat restaurant that was setting up for the nightly dinner cruise. They kindly let us come aboard and get some hot tea. Finally, it was back to Da Nang International.

We boarded a brand new 777. (I think). Shortly before take-off my friend pointed to the movie screen, where all I could make out was some gritty grey with odd lights. She informed me that it was a live picture out the cockpit, or possibly from under the plane. No matter, the purpose of it was so that passengers could watch the take off and landing, just as the pilot sees it. And, oh my god!, was it ever something! I was very loud with all my “Wow’s!” and “Amazing’s!”, and laughing with excitement. It is very strange to look at the screen, then look out the window; a real thrill ride.

I am already looking forward to my next rip to Hoi An, although next time it will be in the totally dry season, which is coming up on us any week now. Until then, I will just have to look at my pictures to relive the feeling of tranquility I experienced in Hoi An.

Kate

Toad Rock Beach

In need of a short beach trip, with limited funds, I had almost given in to the realization that I would have to go back to Mui Ne, where I had gone a few months after arriving in Vietnam. It was not really what I wanted to do.

The bus trip to Mui Ne is only $8, and “only 4 hours.” But you have to add in the hour I allow to get to the departure location, and then the hour waiting for the 8am bus which leaves at closer to 9am. Then there are all the stops it makes before dropping me at my hotel. So, six hours is closer to the time it really takes.

The hotel was another problem. Mui Ne is growing by the day. I hear that four years ago it was a cute little fishing village. When I went, it was wall-to-wall accommodation, ranging from cheap bungalows to costly resorts. I had stayed in a nice enough place, down the beach from the center. But that had been a year and a half ago, and there was a good chance it was no longer an isolated venue.

Add to that ,that I would have to leave Monday morning, and return Wednesday morning, and I had pretty much decided to call it all off. Then I remembered Binh Chau. I was told that it was only two hours from HCMC, and had a beach, hot springs, and wide open nature areas. Most of foreigners I talked to hadn’t even heard of it, which was a good sign. It might be sort of quiet and not over-priced. I had actually thought about going there over the May Day holiday, but everything had been booked, and prices tripled.

After finding the website, I called the Binh Chau Eco-resort. It is run by Saigon Tourist, a government organization that seems to own about half the hotels and tourist industry related businesses in Vietnam. I was thrilled to discover that although the resort was costly, the beach bungalows at Ho Coc Beach were only $8 a night. I booked a room.

Now the problem was how to get there. If one goes to any of the tourist places, anywhere in the country, you grab a bus down in the backpacker section. Not so for my destination. I was told to go to the main bus station, and to buy a ticket for Binh Chau, and given instructions where to get off. I was assured it was only a two hour ride.

Again, I asked friends about this bus station, and no one had ever heard of it. I then knew what I was in for; a giant bus terminal, with long rows of ticket windows, and a fair amount of chaos. I’ve been there-done that, too many times to count, although never in Vietnam. I kept asking the guy from the resort, as well as Vietnamese friends, for specifics. They kept saying it wouldn’t be a problem. I asked when the bus left. I was told “all day”, and to get the 7am bus.

Completely leery about the whole prospect I, nevertheless, caught a taxi at 5:45, so as to avoid morning traffic, and arrived about an hour later. And yes, it was my semi-nightmare come true.

There wasn’t one foreigner within 5 miles. This was going to put my Vietnamese to the test. I stared at the long row of ticket counters, one on either side of the main entrance, and tried to find something that said “Binh Chau”. Finally, I just walked up to a counter and asked. They pointed to an agent two windows down. I asked for a ticket and was told the bus left at 8:30am. It was only 7am. I tried to ask if there was an earlier bus, but got nowhere. I paid for the ticket and decided to first find the point of departure before trying to figure out what I would do for an hour and a half.

I walked out into the rows of buses and milling crowds, asking where to get on the bus. I young woman with an official looking “employee” tag around her neck, took me by the arm and led me away. Soon, I was surrounded by people wanting to know where I was going. They pointed to a filled mini-bus and said that was the one, and that I could get on.

I mentioned that it didn’t leave for over an hour, so I was in no rush to board. More people appeared, some of them drivers from other buses, my appointed guardian explaining where I wanted to go. A lot of commotion ensued, and a driver told me that his bus was leaving in ten minutes. I sold my ticket back to one man, (I assumed he went and got a refund). I was wondering if I was supposed to tip my personal travel agent, when she held up a bag of water bottles to sell me. I finally understood that all these people with tags around their necks were vendors. I bought some water, thanked her, then boarded the bus. At least I know that if I ever use that station again, I should simply walk out to the buses as ask who is leaving next.

I can’t say that I was really surprised to see that the 18 seat mini-bus was already filled, and the fold down seats between the rows, (2 seats on one side, one on the other), were already in use. This was the people’s transport, not for tourists. I wasn’t sure where I was supposed to sit, but the driver came in and made the people in one row move over to let me in. There were now five people squished into three full seats and one fold down seat. I perched on the edge, and could not sit back. I also had my carry-on bag in my lap, which was banging into the people on either side of me. I haven’t yet learned how to say, “Is there a luggage section under the bus?”

After a lot of sign language and a few words, the driver’s helper took my bag and shoved it somewhere up front. They loaded on two more people before we finally took off. I had directions written out, and several people assured me that they knew where I needed to get off. Oh well, it was only for two hours.

Getting out of the city was slow and sweaty. I was glad it was early in the morning. I was stuck in the middle and there was no air conditioning. Once we were out into the rural areas, I tried to appreciate the scenery. But the bus kept stopping and piling on more people, until there were 35 of us. I looked at my watch and asked the lady next to me how long it would take. Her answer; three to three and a half hours.

We finally arrived at the corner where I had been told to get off. I walked under the awning of a little store to get out of the heat and to call the hotel for my driver. But no one answered. And then this guy showed up and asked if I was going to Ho Coc beach, and that he and his motorbike were for hire. I do not do motorbikes. I had been told I could get a taxi. But I was out of energy for anything, and it was a quiet road, and only 6 kilometers. I told the man at least six times that I was scared to death of motorbikes, and he had to drive slowly. I inspected his bike; it was new and shiny. He was in his late thirties, and I was very impressed that he put on glasses before we took off. (as opposed to a crappy bike, a 19 year old, and someone too vain to wear corrective lenses.)

We drove slowly and I tried to concentrate on fresh air and almost no traffic. I arrived in one piece at Ho Coc beach, and was met by the manager who spoke perfect English. There was a lot of construction going on around the enormous, open-air dining room. I was told that it had just been completed the week before. He later told me that it seated 400. No one was there.

We then went out to the bungalows. I didn’t see anyone other than workers. It was gorgeous. There were only 18 large bungalows arranged in three rows. The front three were built on raised platforms that had been made to look like tree trunks. Behind them, but still right on the beach front, were the second row, and behind that, the third set. All were positioned so that you could see the beach. It was then that I found out that I was the only guest. I choose a bungalow away from the workers, in the second row. The tree house ones were more expensive and unnecessary.

My bungalow was beautiful, except that I was concerned with the floor boards which were made of split bamboo that sagged when I walked on them. If you weighed any more than me, I am sure you would have broken them and fallen through to the sand, three feet below. Aside from that, it was equal to the one in Phu Quoc, which cost nearly five times the price. I settled in, looking forward to a very quiet stay.

When I opened my front door to the beach, (there was also a back entrance off the main walk), a saw a family of around twelve people rollicking on the beach, right in front of the bungalows. It was good that all I wanted to do was lie on the bed and look out at the beach. I would not have felt comfortable as the only foreign-bikini-clad-tourist, which would have caused a stir. I was hoping that they wouldn’t stay all day; I wasn’t quite sure if they had paid a “day fee,” or if maybe they were staying at the resort. They left at dusk.

Ho Coc means ‘Toad Rock’. It is named for a giant rock that looks like a turtle gazing out to sea. This is the legend of Ho Coc, which I am copying from the resort brochure:

One year there was a strange drought. All the rivers and springs dried up to such an extent that everything lacked water, and the plants and trees were withered. The Tribe of the Toads decided to sue the King of Heaven for rain to rescue all the creatures. To go up to heaven, though, all the toads had to swim through the vast sea, so they plodded away day and night, plunging and emerging from the water. They tried relentlessly, but they could not pass the great sea. The Toads’ leader was so sad that he decided to never move again and to stare at the sea forever without a motion.

From the Heaven’s Court, the King of Heaven was moved and impressed by the toad’s strong will and effort, so he ordered his ambassador to make rain on the earth. And then it was raining and all creatures shouted with joy and came in crowds to two hilltops close to the sea for singing and dancing. A strange thing happened - the toads saw their leader, who was still looking at the sea, turn into rock, his eyes fixed at the vast ocean facing the eastern direction. Today, that rock remains unchanged and named “Toad Piece”. The two hilltops now are “Tam Bo” and “Ho Linh” and the seashore is called Ho Coc.



In the evening, I walked over to the massive dining area for dinner. Other than the kitchen staff, I was the only person there. I ordered some calamari, talked a bit to the staff, and went back to my shack.

It always surprises me how much cooler it is in the evening at the beach as compared to HCMC. I almost felt chilled. I went to sleep on a truly comfortable bed, dreaming about the next day, and lying in the sun.

I woke up at 4am, and walked outside to sit on the bench in front of my bungalow. Way out at sea, I could see the lights of the fishing boats lined up along the horizon. I looked up to night sky and the millions upon millions of stars. Far off in the distance a storm was brewing. Lightening bolts lit up the skies in silence, being too far away for thunder to be heard. For an instant, the entire scene in front of me would be illuminated, then plunged back into darkness. I’d catch glimpses of the calm sea lapping on the rock-lined shore, and the silhouettes of the fishing boats. Every time the sky lit up, I tried to register how much I could see. Slowly, the storm clouds moved towards me, and soon soft, quiet rain began to pelt the sand in front of me, as I was sheltered by the overhang of the bungalow roof. I stayed there until I started to get wet.

The next morning, I was disappointed to see that it was grey and overcast. Plenty warm enough to lie on the beach, but I craved brilliant sun. About an hour later, I started to notice groups of mostly teenage boys, with a few girls mixed in, coming down to the beach. They were wearing jeans and t-shirts, carrying bags of food and drink. At first I thought they were just strolling down the beach, but then they sat down, right in front of my little house. And within an hour, there were hoards of loud kids, eating and dumping their garbage on the beach, then running into the water. This was not at all what I had expected, being at a ‘private’ resort, and they only registered guest.


I went to see the manager to find out what was up. Turned out that it was a school holiday and, apparently, every teenager in the area had come to the beach. I tried to ask why they were allowed on the resort, but no one seemed to understand. So it turns out that this perfect little ‘gem’ I had found, really was not. I was not going to get any tanning hours in.

The following day, I steeled myself for the trip home. The same man who had taken me on the motorbike was going to pick me up and drive me a little farther down the road from where he had picked me up when I arrived. This way, I was assured, I would get a good seat.

Once on the motorbike, I tried to look out upon the beautiful scenery to keep my mind off any possible peril. It didn’t work; I kept getting flashes of being road-kill. So I shut my mind off and thought about other things.

When we turned left onto the main road, I really started to feel uneasy. Only two kilometers, I kept repeating to myself. But then we kept driving, and driving. Yes, he was a good driver, but we were on the big road, and there were trucks, and we were going at a good clip. And still we kept driving. Forty minutes later we arrived at a real bus station. At least there were only two other passengers on the min-bus, and it was to leave in ten minutes. I got on and leaned back in the seat.

We were off to a good start. I had a window seat and the air rushing in felt good. The driver would slow down when we passed any place that seemed to have people waiting for a bus, and his ticket-collector would hang half-way out the open door and call out to people. We gradually filled all the seats and I was beginning to get the feeling that that had nothing to do with not taking on any more passengers. A few times we came to a complete stop and the ticket guy got off and physically steered people onto the bus. We were soon up to over thirty passengers but at least this time I had a prime, if squished, seat.

About two hours into the trip, when there really was not even one inch to spare, the bus came to a halt and everyone started getting off. I soon realized that we were being shifted to a different bus. This time, being one of the last on, I got caught in the middle again. And then the new ticket man started asking everyone to pay up, even though we had already paid on the last bus. Needless to say, my fellow passengers were having none of it, and the guy finally relented and left us alone. I was never so happy to get back to HCMC and hail a taxi. It was another hour before I got home, but I was cool and comfortable.

All in all, it was one of those experiences that builds character. If one subtracts all the noise and distraction at the beach, it really was a beautiful spot, with a wonderful story about its creation. Mom, you would have loved it.

Kate

Day of Culture

I had gone to the HCMC Fine Arts Museum shortly after arriving in Vietnam. Last week I finally got around to a second visit. I had no idea what was on, but a friend and I had decided to do something soul-enriching and the museum was our choice for the day.

Walking into through the grand entrance of this former colonial-era mansion, I stared at two massive paintings that hung on the opposite wall. I had never seen them, but they certainly looked familiar. Walking closer, I noticed the signature. Ah-ha! This was the same artist who had done the paintings on the calendar I’d received from my bank. And there was a whole museum of his stuff.

Mr. Pham Luc, although he signs his name “F.Luc” is a very prolific artist indeed. There were over a hundred of his recent works in the museum, as well as a few older paintings. He started out as an artist in the People’s Army, went on to study at the college of Fine Arts in Hanoi, and has been exhibited all over the world. Yet up until I went into the museum, he had just been the picture above the calendar on the wall.

The majority of the hung works were massive; around 4ft x 5ft. (please note that I am very bad at estimating size. They were large). Many were oils, but a large number were done with lacquer and broken egg shells, although from a distance you wouldn’t know this.

Vietnam has a long tradition with lacquer ware and the use of broken eggshells in the design. Again, unless someone tells you, you would never guess that eggs are involved. The shells are broken into tiny pieces and glued on to the work, be it a painting or bowl or jewelry box. Some are of the shell are slightly burnt with a flame, to give varying degrees of color. The finished egg shell area has the effect of a mosaic.

The colors and composition of F. Luc’s work were mesmerizing. He paints large, outlined figures, with little detail. Yet the entire picture is filled with incredibly detailed background areas. And, naturally, they loose so much when the image is transferred to a photo. Even in the book of his work available at the museum, you cannot get anywhere near the full effect. It is the type of art you would love to have in your house, provided you lived in a very large mansion with tall ceilings and immense wall space.

After the museum, we walked a few blocks over to “Antique Street.” I have read about this street, and it is included on all tourist maps, but had never been. It’s a very narrow, block-long side street, lined with little shops that sell, what looks to be, left over junk from someone’s backyard. There was a lot of non-interesting pottery, some old cabinets, and just plain junk. I wondered how anyone ever sold anything. We were there on a Sunday afternoon, and were about the only customers on the street.

By then, it was time for ice-coffee, and then back home before the rains hit. It was a lovely day, and I had gotten my art-fix.

Interested parties can look at Mr. Luc’s website: http://www.phamluc.com/

Enjoy!
Kate

Fine Porcelain

Thursday was a public holiday, King’s Day, and we also got Friday off. Then next week it’s May Day, so we get both Monday and Tuesday off. I thought about going to the beach too late to get a room at a reasonable price. I thought about flying up north but was too late to get plane tickets. So it’s a stay at home long weekend.

Aside from paying bills, cleaning the house, and catching up on way too many things to even list, I did want to at least take one little trip. Today, with the help of my Vietnamese teacher and her husband’s work car and driver, I was finally able to go to the Minh Long porcelain factory.

I’ve been admiring their products since arriving here. They make beautiful plates and dishes and teapots and bowls. Some are reasonably priced and some are seriously expensive. I generally don’t spend much time looking at the costly items because they are made of very thin, delicate porcelain, and decorated with either dark blues or red, bordered with a lot of real gold. The type of china you’d find at a presidential dinner, or maybe Buckingham palace. I prefer their sturdy dinnerware, the kind you can sometimes drop on the floor without breaking or, if it does smash, you don’t worry about the cost.

Many of their design motifs are based on traditional Vietnamese symbols. Others are quite modern; today I saw green polka-dot dishes. They also have plain white, or white with a tiny line of color around the rim. All of it is beautiful.

It takes about an hour to drive there from where I live, mostly because you have to wade through parts of town that are always jammed with traffic. The main reason for going was because of their stock of seconds. Naturally, I expected a big, dusty room with dim lighting.

I was totally surprised to walk into this incredible palace of a building, with a four story atrium and showrooms on either side of the main entrance. We meandered around the displays, admiring the beauty and craftsmanship. Then it was on to the second floor for the discounted items. I bought a few bowls and plates and tea cups. The fancy gold stuff would be nice as a souvenir, but even at a discounted price, it was too much to spend on something so impractical.

Back on the ground floor, there is a large studio where you can watch a few craftsmen working on wheels or painting vases with glaze. You can also buy unfinished items, paint on glaze, then pick it up the following week after it has been fired in one of the massive kilns that are also in the room.

I wasn’t allowed to take pictures of the items, but if you are really curious, you can go to their website and see some of them: minhlong.com.

I generally eat out of bowls, and since I didn’t own a plate before today it might be a novel experience to try them out. I have a funny feeling they’ll just sit in the cupboard, or maybe I will leave them out as decoration.

Happy May Day
Kate

Back in KL

With new passport and residence permit in hand, I finally made it back to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, after an absence of almost four years. The flight itself is only about an hour and forty minutes, but there is the hour drive to the airport, where you have to be two hours before departure, and then another hour drive from the KL airport into town.

I was coming back to a place where I had lived for two years, so was surprised that I was in a state of semi-shock on the drive in from the airport. We were on a modern, divided highway, with exit ramps clearly marked by giant, green signs. I could have been on any highway in the US. It wasn’t so much that it was all so 21st century, but that it was such a radical change from Vietnam, a mere short flight away.

Once again I felt exactly as I had the first time I had arrived in Malaysia; awe at the beautiful, tropical landscape that stretched on forever, only diminishing once we got to the outskirts of KL.

I had booked a room at the YWCA which, after days and days on the internet searching every site available, seemed like a really good deal. Although centrally located in Chinatown, an area I knew well, and built in 1923, neither I nor any of my friends had ever heard of it. I was happy to see that it stood in an area that actually had more trees than buildings.

At the office, I was told the price of the room and almost fainted. It was close to the price of one of the hotels I could have booked on-line. After some clarification, it seemed all the normal rooms with bathrooms had been booked and that all that was available was an air-conditioned room. I don’t use A/C, so they knocked off a few Ringgit and said that since I was staying for a week, the rate would be further reduced. But it was still more than I had anticipated. I paid for one night and went up to my room where I realized why it was the price it was. It was a studio apartment, complete with a kitchen. (but no stove or refrigerator.) I didn’t do much more than dump my bags and head out to Bukit Bintang, the area where the more reasonable hotels are located, and a fifteen minute walk away.

I never had spent much time in the area, only going there to get my hair cut. It was always a fairly busy place but now, on Friday, late afternoon, it was jammed with locals and tourists and cars. I wandered in and out of hotels checking availability and prices. Most were disgusting, tiny rooms, with just enough room for a bed. One new place looked ok but, again, it was super tiny and still more than the Y. When I started seeing hotels that rented rooms by the hour, I knew it was time to give up. The Y would have to do.

It was starting to get darker when I remembered that there was one insurmountable problem with the Y room; it was all florescent lighting. Either I was to spend the night in the dark, or I needed to buy a lamp. My first stop was Low Yet Plaza, the place where I’d had my hair done when living in KL. The last time I was there, it was a fairly new, four-story, small mall, with not many businesses. I walked in to see that it now had shops on every level, in every available space. But it was mostly computer stuff and no lamps.

A block over was another mall which contained a Metrojaya department store. I found the household section, but they only had a small, clip-on lamp, which could only use a 40 watt bulb. When I asked about other places to buy a lamp, I was given the answer I did not want to hear: go next door to Sungei Wang shopping center.

I have always referred to Sungei Wang as “Dante’s Inferno”. It is a multi-storied, low-ceilinged mall that takes up a square block. There are hundreds of little shops aligned along hundreds of rows. Once in there, there is no easy way out. But I had no choice and figured this time I would be very aware of which way I turned and what floor I was on. I asked around at several places, was directed to others, but still couldn’t find a small desk lamp. It was time to go back to the one I had seen at Metrojaya. It was twenty minutes before I was able to locate the escape route.

Once I got my lamp, I stopped to get a bite to eat. By then it was dark, and although it was only about a 30 minute walk balk to the Y, I was whipped. Three hours of dealing with hotels and stores and thousands of people, in sweltering heat, had done me in. I went to the taxi stand.

Taxis had never been a problem in KL. On crowded nights you sometimes had to wait in a long line, but the drivers were always pleasant. It has changed. I told the driver where I wanted to go, and he quoted a price three times the normal fare. I walked off to another street, but the answer was the same. Flat rate, no negotiations, surly drivers. I got in and after a few minutes realized from whence the nastiness came. Traffic did not move. I was to find out over the next week that there no longer seems to be bad traffic times. Streets are giant parking lots from early morning to late at night. And this being a Friday night, it was at its all time worst.

Eventually, I did arrive at the Y, bedraggled, sticky, and not at all pleased about being in KL. Then I went up to my room and looked out the windows. I had the most amazing view of the Twin Towers and the KL Tower. I opened all the windows, threw on the ceiling fans, and plugged in my little lamp. I looked around my huge room, and listened to the quiet of the night. Why had I even bothered to look at all those other hotels? I should have known after the first two, that nothing would have been this nice. True, they don’t have maid service at the Y, and they don’t serve breakfast, and if I had been a little more persistent, I could have moved to a room with a refrigerator. (I still regret not insisting on the last item.) But it was spotless, safe, quiet, and as centrally located as one could wish. It wasn’t as cheap as I had thought, but still cheaper than the hotels. If I ever go to KL again, it is where I will stay.

The next morning I got up with first light, which is 7am. I never did like that about Malaysia. In Vietnam, there is light in the sky at 5:20am. It stays lighter much longer in Malaysia, but I prefer the morning sun. I also remembered that nothing gets going very early in KL. Stores do not open until 10, 10:30, or even 11:00. I don’t understand this. By that time, it is too hot to be out, especially in Chinatown where there is a lot of good shopping to be done, but not in the middle of the day with 3000 people cramming the tiny streets. I had hoped things had changed.

Wandering around Chinatown at 9am was rather useless, unless you wanted to eat. I did enjoy passing by some of the old buildings I remembered that were still standing. The whole area was in the midst of renovation when I left, and it is now completed. It looks nice, but when it is crowded, you can’t really notice the change. I walked past other buildings that were either not there when I left, or had been completely refurbished.

One of the reasons I came to KL was to get glasses made. I hoped that the store I had gone to four years ago was still in service. And I hoped I remembered where it was. I certainly didn’t remember the name. I took a taxi to yet another shopping center and found the store. But it was only 10am and they were closed.

By 10:30 they had opened and I walked in to see that the woman who had made my glasses all those years ago was still there. She not only remembered me, but still had my card on file! I pulled out the five pairs of frames I had bought in Vietnam, and she said she could have everything done in five days.

This bumping into shop owners I hadn’t seen in years continued throughout the week. I went to the place where I used to buy a bottle of water on my way home from work. I recognized the man at the cash register, but didn’t say anything. Then he said, “I haven’t seen you in a long time.” When I was at another place that sold DVD’s, it was the same thing. I was really touched that these people had remembered me, a simple customer who had never done more than exchange short conversations with them.

I spent time with friends visiting some of the places I use to enjoy and eating great food. While I was having dinner with a Chinese friend, I started to listen in on the conversation she was having with the owner. I was absolutely astounded to realize that I could hear all the separate words! Prior to studying Vietnamese, all Chinese languages sort of sounded like hetjrkeisjnfhrkslejjkeshugowk – one long string of incomprehensible sounds. I still don’t understand a word, but it “makes sense”. I also had fun checking which of the words I knew in Vietnamese were close to Chinese, since the languages are related. I don’t ever intend to study Chinese, but it no longer seems an impossibility to learn to speak.

I spent a lot of time walking around town amazed at all the building that has been done. I don’t think I have ever seen a city with more shopping malls. Mammoth to reasonably sized, outrageously priced to slightly tolerable. I was astonished at how expensive things have become. I had hoped to buy more batik fabric but the prices were triple what they had been. In fact all the reasonably priced craft items were too expensive for me. Food prices have also gone way up.

The whole city felt very westernized, especially coming from another South East Asian country that still feels like you are in South East Asia. I am not quite sure who has the money to live the lifestyle that KL seems to offer. Certainly not the average Malaysian.

The weather also surprised me. April in Vietnam is basically hot 24 hours a day. But in KL, it cooled down quite a bit at night. In fact, one day it rained all day and I was cold! It was also very humid, not that I mind it. One stays perpetually soaked, which doesn’t happen in Vietnam very often. The plus side is that you never get dry skin.

Despite traffic jams and high prices, I was really happy to visit KL. The people are lovely, the weather is nice, and when you get out of the city, the scenery is breathtaking. Maybe I won’t wait another four years before I return.
Kate

Construction Begins

I had six weeks of total quiet at my house, which was sheer heaven. The last house across the street was finished six months ago, but the crazy neighbor in the penthouse above me kept his renovations going until mid-February. Two weeks ago, they started a new house.

Compared to jackhammers above your head for six to eight hours a day, the building being done outside is nothing. And the only really bad part is when they bring in the tile cutter and you have to shut the windows and crank up the music to block the high-pitched, ear-shattering whine. Everything else requires mostly manual labor so the noise is livable.

I have always been fascinated with the way in which they build houses in Vietnam, and this time I am photo-documenting the entire process. I get up every morning, lean out the window, check out the progress and snap pictures. This is the fourth house I have watched go up and is by far the most professional job I have seen.

A few months ago, a crew came in to build the piers which are later sunk into the earth. The frames are built from steel wire that is hand made. There must be wood involved, but I can’t seem to remember how they do it. Once the forms are laid out side by side, the concrete is poured. You see rows of these piers on empty lots all over my neighborhood.

Two days before they sunk the piers, a pile driver and truck with a collapsible arm were brought in, along with about fifteen immense blocks of concrete. Then at 6am, they day construction started, I looked out my window to see two small tables set up with offerings to the god that the land belongs to. There were flowers, and rice and what looked like a grilled chicken. I counted about seven people milling about. Of all the houses I have seen go up, I had never witnessed this before. I quickly took pictures, then took a shower, and rushed back to the window to see if there was going to be some sort of religious ceremony. Much to my surprise, the tables were empty, and the grilled chicken was being taken away by a man driving a motorbike; right hand driving, left hand grasping a greasy chicken. I thought maybe this was a service that you could hire to set up a blessing ceremony, and as soon as they finished, they gathered the supplies and rode on to the next house.

I watched for two or three days as the truck with the crane arm lifted these multi-ton blocks onto either side of the pile driver. It would then swing around and someone would attach one of the piers. The pier is then placed inside the metal frame and pounded into the earth. It is really scary to watch these men hanging off equipment three stories above the ground, and ducking out of the way of the stabilizing blocks.

The next day started with the crew digging out around the piers, probably about three or four feet deep. Then, with sledge hammers, the knocked off the concrete that was exposed. It was at this point that I realized that this was to be a double wide house.

While this was going on, they had also started to build the shack that the crew will live in. Even though this is a very professional crew, larger than most, and all with uniform shirts, their hut is not very good. I have seen everything from a lean-to, to something close to a mobile home. This is somewhere in between.

Phase four was digging the foundation, six feet down, with only shovels, about two days of work. The holes were lined with bricks then filled with concrete. I didn’t see them pour the concrete so don’t know if it was from a truck, which it usually is with large patches. Smaller areas are down by hand mixing the concrete.

This is the dry season so drying concrete is usually in no danger. Except that this year, the weather seems a little off. Just a few hours after the concrete had been poured the rains started. The crew ran about covering over the fresh pour. And it was pouring, for four hours straight.

Today they are busy hand building more steel concrete frames and placing them in various spots on the foundation. They are working at a rapid pace, so they should be done in four or five months.

I wonder how they will ever build the houses that are to go on either side of this one. With this house, they used five empty lots to maneuver the cranes and trucks. They will have zero space to do that with the other houses.

Updates to follow.
Kate