Angkor

Before doing a bit of research on the temples of Angkor, I had thought that all I would need to do is get out there and wander around. Not so. The Angkor Archeological Park is 400 square kilometers, and there are at least forty different temples listed on my tour map. You have a few choices: Hire a car and driver, go on the back of a motorbike, rent a bicycle, or hire a tuk-tuk. I chose the last option.

A tuk-tuk is a covered cart/carriage, attached by a trailer hitch to a motorcycle. The bench seat accommodates two and a half people comfortably, and there is a place to sit directly opposite the bench, with your back to the driver. I would say three people should be the maximum, but I did see a tuk-tuk with at least five, saffron-robed monks, cruising along the road. On my first day out I also decided to get a guide. Generally, I like to explore on my own, but I simply didn’t know enough and Angkor is too big to just ramble through with no real idea of where you are headed.

Another reason for having a guide is to know when to go to which temple to avoid the onslaught of tour buses. Even though I was there at the height of tourist season, I was able to visit most of the sites when there were very few other tourists.

Not having a clue as to where to go/what to see, I left it up to the pros. At 7:15, we jumped in the tuk-tuk, and took off on a rather bumpity, cold, fifteen minute jaunt through the streets of Siem Reap and out to the park. Stopping at the massive entrance facility, I handed over my cash and a photo to my guide who took care of purchasing my three day pass. (One side note about the cost: A one day pass is $20, a three day, $40. That is not cheap, but it supports the preservation of the park. Or so I thought. It turns out that almost all the money goes to a private company that “administers” the site.) My guide returned in a few minutes with a laminated, photo ID, pass.



Our first stop was to be Angkor Thom, a walled, moated city with lots of temples inside. My guide said that it would be better to drive past Angkor Wat, and go straight to Angkor Thom, so as to avoid the morning crowds at the former. As I think I have already said, I had only known the very basics about Angkor before going there. (and that still is fairly true). I am just not good at reading about a place and retaining any of the information prior to actually seeing it. The fact that I did know that Angkor Wat was surrounded by a moat did not prepare me for the majestic sight of it in the early morning, sitting smack dab in the middle of a lake.
You can call it a moat, but at 570 feet wide, and four miles long, I’m calling it a lake.





But back to Angkor Thom. Five causeways lead into the city that is laid out in a square, each side being about three kilometers long. I think we entered by the south gate, and went straight to Bayon, which turned out to be my favorite of all the temples I was to explore. It is the one with 216 faces carved into 54 towers.

As I walked up onto the various levels, I got closer and closer to the faces, until some of them were right in front of me. Each giant face was much taller then me, maybe around eight feet high. Every which way I turned, there was another smiling face. Totally mesmerizing.

From there, we went to several other temples within Angkor Thom. My guide was very knowledgeable and helpful, but if you asked which sites we visited, and in which order, I couldn’t tell you with certainty. Day one was fantastic, but it did become a blur in my mind. Not only was it sensory overload, but a real physical workout, that one doesn’t notice until the early afternoon.




Inside, the temples are constructed with long corridors that are broken about every two or three meters, by a foot high ledge, breaking the halls into separate, yet connected, vaults. They are too high and too wide to step over. So as you walk along it is a repetitious up, down, step, step, step, up, down, and so forth in a seemingly never ending trek around the temple.

As far as going up the 85 degree angle of five inch wide steps to reach some of the top towers, I opted out. And it has nothing to do with the physicality of the task. I simply do not like heights, and once up there would never again make it back down.

Finishing the rounds of Angkor Thom, we jumped in the tuk-tuk and headed back to Angkor Wat. It was a good time to visit, being around noon and all the tour buses had taken their flocks back to the hotels for lunch. By then, the chill had been replaced by hot sun, for which I was grateful. It was kind of tough walking through areas without any cover from the sun, but once inside a temple, it was pleasantly cool.



We did a quick tour of Angkor Wat, then decided to break for lunch. Next to, or across from all of the sites, there are dozens of souvenir shops and food stalls and open-air restaurants. There are also hundreds of kids hawking their wares. They have learned all the usual English sentences: “Are you thirsty, do you want water?” Or, in the morning when it is chilly: “It’s cold today. Do you want coffee?” “Buy some postcards; buy some bracelets; how about a t-shirt?” And if you engage them with anything more than a pleasant “No, thank you”, you will be immediately swamped by ten other kids with items for sale. My favorite was “Where are you from?” to which I answered, California, to which the little girl said, “I’m from Sacramento.” Talking to the folks back at the Banana, it turns out that most of them have memorized the capitals of all the fifty states and all major countries. Jeeze, I don’t even know all the capitols!



My driver and guide took me to one of the very large restaurants. It stood under a grove of trees and was built of a concrete floor with a thatched roof and a bamboo wall on one side, the other wall was open, making it cool and breezy. There must have been a hundred tables in neat rows, but only a few patrons, being past the lunch hour. Even though I told the guys that I would buy their lunch, they chose to eat with some of the other drivers at the back of the restaurant. I got a sort of curried vegetable dish that was quite good.

After we ate, we drove out to Ta Prohm, the temple I have always envisioned when Angkor is mentioned. It’s the one that the jungle got to. The trees are on a quest to take back their territory, and grow in and out, over and around, the stone walls and rooms and everything in its way. I was surprised at the size. It was smaller than I had thought but nonetheless fascinating and beautiful.



There were still more hours of daylight, but my brain was on temple overload and just wouldn’t take in any more, so we headed home in our lovely tuk-tuk, the warm air blowing over me, the dust blowing up my nose and into my mouth. As we drove on the small road past fields and trees and open spaces, I tired to recall the day’s events, but everything was jumbled up in my head. I knew I hadn’t spent enough time at Angkor Wat. I decided that I would go out the next day with just my driver. I was really glad for the guide, but also knew I preferred to walk alone amongst the ancient spirits.

Back at the Banana, I showered off the sweat and dust, then went out to the courtyard. I sat at a table, ordered a drink, and talked to some of the staff about my day. Soon other explorers returned, or new guests arrived. We exchanged stories, I asked for more Temple Touring Tips, as well as info on where to shop. We talked about where we were from, what we did, where we’d traveled. One conversation with one person would end when they left for the shower or a rest, and another would begin. I couldn’t believe it was already after 7pm, and people were making plans to go into town for dinner. Not being a big dinner person, and being tired, and noticing that my throat was starting to hurt, I declined their offers. This really was the best place I had ever stayed. The temples were spectacular, but to come home to the camaraderie of fun, interesting people, made it so much more worth while.



When I had first looked up the Banana on the web, I knew immediately that I wanted to stay there just because it was so cute. (also right price, right location). I am used to reading websites produced in countries where English is not their first language, and always get a giggle out of the cute mistakes. When describing the hotel, I had thought they had meant to say “A happy and friendly place”, but because of that language thing, had inadvertently written, “A gay friendly place”. I laughed and wondered if anyone had pointed out their error in language usage. But then I kept reading and noticed that there were absolutely no errors in the rest of the text. (hey, don’t blame me, I do this for a living) I looked again at the first line, and then down to the “Guest Comments” and, whoops, I was the one who had made the language error.

Having stayed there, I can attest to the fact that it is a happy and friendly place that also happens to be gay friendly. And if this is the norm for such travelers, in my future journeys I will definitely be logging onto gay travel sites to search for accommodation.

More to follow,
Kate

Siem Reap

I’m screwed!, I said to myself as I stepped off the plane in Siem Reap, Cambodia. It was overcast and cold, at least compared to the 98 degrees it was the day before in Ho Chi Minh City. And it was certainly not the 88 degrees CNN weather had predicted. It was in the low-seventy’s, which was not hot enough for the dresses I had planned to wear.

I cruised swiftly through customs, walked out of the tiny airport, which was about the size and noise level of a rural bus stop, and started to search for my ride among the six people holding up signs. I didn’t see either my name or my hotel, The Golden Banana. I talked to a few of the taxi drivers and after twenty minutes, hired one of them to take me into town.

Driving along the road, I started to notice rain drops appearing on the windshield. I tried not to freak and asked the driver, is it raining? “No,” he said, “this isn’t rain.” OK, so it really was just a few sprinkles that soon stopped.

We continued along a two-lane road, past pretty, rural landscapes with oxen and chickens and small houses. A few minutes after that we began to pass enormous, five-star resort hotels that seemed very out of place in this bucolic setting. Along the river we rode, crossing over a bridge, then onto an unpaved road, and left into a narrow, dirt alley.

The B&B was even cuter than the pictures on their website. One enters into a nice sized, tiled patio with a few round, wooden tables and chairs, all engulfed in tropical foliage; bougainvillea, banana tress, orchids, and more. Individual bungalows branch off to the right and towards the back. The reception desk/food order station sits at the far end of the courtyard. I walked over, introduced myself to the young men standing there, told the tale of no airport pick-up, and assured them I did have a reservation.

Pulling out a large ledger, they checked my name and said that I wasn’t due until the next day. Before I had a chance to panic, (I had been told by email that I had booked the last room available), they said that room 14 just happened to also be available that day. They invited me to sit down while they got the paperwork together.

The guy who seemed to be in charge, sat down next to me with the registration forms. The other one brought me an iced tea. A few other young lads appeared. All wore traditional clothing of loose, brightly colored cotton pants and light blue cotton shirts. They were all very cute and very charming. I pulled out my passport and handed it over. “Is this you?” asked the young man. Yes, I said. “But you were so young and beautiful”, he continued, staring at the passport photo and then back to me. Well, that picture is nine years old, I replied. You don’t think it looks like me? He gave it one more look and said, “No.”

Number 14, which I had been forewarned by the owner as being the least desirable of his 17 rooms, wasn’t bad at all except for the thick layer of Raid fog that enveloped the place, and the circulating sub-zero air. I started to choke, located the A/C switch, turned it off, and cranked up the ceiling fan. I quickly noticed that the only windows were tiny slits at the top of the back wall, so thought I would just leave the door open to air it out until I noticed the swarm of skeeters pouring in, and a sign on the wall asking to keep everything shut because of the little varmints. (Malaria/dengue fever/sleepless nights, being three reasons to comply).

In the coming days, I would notice one of the guys entering all the rooms to give them a good dousing of Raid at least once a day. I was eventually able to get them to not spray in my room, or so I thought, even though the room stunk like insecticide the entire time I was there. Back in HCMC, I have had to throw every article of clothing that I took into the washing machine and dump my bag on the balcony as it still reeks of toxins!

I wasn’t planning on hitting Angkor until the next day, so after I left my room, (rather rapidly, I must say), I got a map and walked the short distance to the center of town. I savored walking down dirt roads and paved streets that were incredibly quiet and slow compared to what I had just left. One barely needs to stop before crossing the street. I looked forward to the “quaint French colonial architecture” noted in the guide books. Unfortunately, that entire, five-square block area is currently being refitted with new sewers.

Both sides of most of the central streets had gaping holes where backhoes had dug deep into the earth. The dirt that had been dumped onto the streets turned to mud as a result of the sewer water that now leaked out. I slogged through inches deep sewer mud trying to ignore it and get a sense of the town. I think it really must be cute in an un-dug-up state.

Restaurants, catering to tourists, line the streets, most with wide verandas filled with comfortable chairs and tables. I eventually stumbled on The Red Piano and decided I might as well get something to eat even though the sewer renovation project was in full swing less than half a block away.

Looking at the menu, which had almost every kind of food available save the local fare, I wondered if I had made a mistake. Then I spotted a Cambodian fish soup and ordered it. It arrived with a plate of dried cold rice. I dipped my spoon in, took a sip, and, damn, I had forgotten too ask for no MSG. I went about removing the chunks of fish and put them on the dried out rice. I took a bite. It tasted like soggy styrofoam. I managed to get down two pieces before I had to stop.

With a full bowl of soup sitting in front of me, I asked for the check. It was only $3, so no great loss, but I would never recommend that place, even if it is where Ms.Tomb Raider hung.

I never go to a place for food, but I do go to find local handicrafts, so I walked a block to the Old Market hoping to get a heads up on the arts and crafts available. There didn’t seem to be much. Most of it I had already seen in Vietnam and the prices were crazy-expensive. This was not proving to be a very interesting outing, so I trucked on back to the hotel.

I sat at a table and some of the staff joined me. I enquired about the best way to do the Temples and decided on hiring a tuk-tuk, (pronounced like ‘2’, with a ‘k’ at the end), and a guide for the next day. I had already decided on purchasing a three-day pass. That settled, I ordered a bottle of water and sat there enjoying the calming, peaceful surroundings.

Staff members came and went, joining me at the table to talk. I got a short Khmer lesson from one of them. It turns out the alphabet has something like 33 consonants and 22 vowels. There numbers go 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 5+1, 5+2, etc. Only later did another guest point out that it was exactly like roman numerals and that really helped to organize it in my brain, not that I really remember any of the numbers I had so diligently repeated and transliterated into my notebook.

After the language teacher left, I noticed another staff member transforming lotus flower buds into decorative objects. I beckoned him over. He showed me how you gently peel back a petal, fold it in half, then bend it at an angle to the right, repeat to the left, again to the right, then tuck it into the base of the bud. You continue doing that to all the petals until you end up with a rose-like creation. I worked on a few of them. Some of my petals kept unfurling, but with enough practice I think I could master it.

By early evening I had also talked to several of the other guests who came to relax in the courtyard, most ordering something to drink or eat. It is the friendliest place I have ever stayed. People who had been there a few days were happy to give recommendations about where to go and what to see; how to avoid the hoards of tour buses; the best times to see which temples; where to buy souvenirs. I felt as though I were among old friends.

I think I finally went to my room around 9pm. I would have to be ready and waiting for my guide and driver at 7am. The room still smelled pretty bad, but I wasn’t too concerned. It had been a good day.

Kate

Preparing For Ruins

I fly to Siem Reap, and the temples of Angkor, in about 15 hours. I have spent the day sorting out clothing for the week and packing. As long as I have been traveling around, I still cannot ever manage to take the right things, even though I spend hours planning and packing. Or rather, I take a bunch of stuff and then wear the same two items.

The morning was filled with trying on outfits, deciding which would be the most comfortable as well as fashionable. I ironed everything, then laid it out according to the day it would be worn. I was quite impressed with my systematic approach to travel preparedness, and even more thrilled that I had accomplished it all before noon.

I needed some last minute things from the supermarket, so wandered out at 1:00. It started to dawn on me, as I walked home in the 98 degree heat, that the pants and t-shirt items I had so carefully chosen would kill me if I hiked around jungle and ruins all day. Back in the house, I quickly went about replacing almost all the clothes I had previously decided upon with skirts and jungle dresses. (not to be confused with Saturday Night/Office dresses.)

Even though I had checked the weather in Siem Reap, I started to get worried that maybe I would end up freezing, as I had done in Bali a few years ago. So, back in went a few pairs of pants. I think I now have a proper assortment of garments to accommodate any possible climate.

I also have every possible personal care item that one may need for a five day trip. This time I am bringing my own pillow and sheet. The sheet is because it seems that people in every country outside of the US do not use top sheets. And the places I stay in do not wash the top sheet cum blanket between guests. Yuck! If that isn’t enough to stave off sleep, there is always the 15 year old, rock hard pillow.

Yesterday I ran into town to buy a small backpack, film, and a few other things. I got a pack that I had assumed was a North Face forgery because it only cost $10. But when I got it home I looked at it more carefully. I think it is the real deal. I am not quite sure how that is possible. It is an uninteresting grey, but that was my color choice and I was in a hurry to get out of the center of the city.

Tet is less than a week away and everything is pretty crazy. Lots of shopping going on and lots of people everywhere. One of the major streets is blocked off and they are turning it into some sort of pedestrian garden, complete with little ponds. I only saw the beginnings but hope to see it next weekend. There is also something going on just around the corner from my house. I am not sure what it is, but it looks like vender stands have been erected on both sides of a side street next to my building, extending at least a kilometer. I thought it wouldn’t be ready until next week, but I just looked out my window, and they have turned the street out back into a motorbike parking lot. I suppose I should go out and see what is going on. Guess not. I looked outside again, and now about 100 motorbikes are lined up and revving their engines, waiting to pay the parking fee and get back on the road.

Just think, this time tomorrow I will be communing with the spirits of Angkor!
Kate

Grasshoppers

I have another week to teach, and then I’ll get two weeks off for Tet. (Lunar New Year). The University takes such a long break because no one would come to class if they did anything less. Everyone travels to their town of origin, (or their parent’s, or grandparent’s hometown). It’s not a paid break, but that’s life in the world of teaching English.

Since I don’t intend to re-visit the land of any of my ancestors, I am going to Cambodia for about five days. Specifically, Siem Reap, gateway to Angkor. After beaches, old ruins are my favorite destination for travel. I’ve been busy reading up on the place, which one needs to do. I had no idea that the temples spread out over 40 miles. And I had thought the whole thing was called Angkor Wat, when, in reality, that is the name of just one temple.

I have also made reservations for a nice, budget hotel, on recommendation from some folks at work. I had been told to try and get something at the Red Piano Hotel and Restaurant. When I went on-line, I found that this popular abode has become even more so, ever since the cast and crew of Laura Croft, Tomb Raider, hung out at the restaurant between shots. (Although I have no doubt that they stayed at a 5 star hotel to sleep).

I was going to buy my ticket at Siem Reap Airlines. I walked the few blocks from the bus stop to their offices, to find an empty shop, the innards being torn out. Back across the street to a travel agent to ask where Siem had moved to. Address in hand, I set out.

A few blocks up the street I saw a man sitting on a small, plastic stool, with a makeshift table in front of him. I could see he was making something out of green bamboo leaves. I walked closer and saw the most incredible grasshoppers made entirely of cut and bent leaves that had been woven together. They were about eight inches long, and suspended from a long stick of cut bamboo leaf. Or maybe it was some other type of leaf.

I really wanted to talk to the man and find out where he learned how to make them. I think I remember hearing that grasshoppers brought good luck. But all I could do was ooh and aah, and buy two of them. He smiled at his grasshoppers and, before giving them to me, he kissed the tips of two fingers then waved them towards the critters. I was so excited about my purchases that I barely noticed the heat and noise of the city.

Arriving at the Siem Reap new offices, I found out that they no longer fly directly to Cambodia, and I had to return to the place where I had gotten the directions. Although in between I ran a couple of errands and almost got on the bus home before realizing I had yet to buy the plane ticket.

Back home, I got on the bike to ride to the supermarket. Once again, the tires were flat. This seems to happen every time I take it out for a spin. It’s not a problem, as I just pushed it a few blocks until I found a repairman. Usually you find them near a main intersection, sitting on a stool with a beat up bag of worn tools and findings.

This time, it was a pair of men, listening to a taped-together radio with really bad reception. They pumped up my tires, and the back one went flat immediately. Several other people, (they all appeared to know each other), came by and offered help and suggestions. When nothing worked, I understood that one would go and buy an inner tube. I sat on a stool, the younger guy took off on his motor bike, and more people joined our group.

Returning with the inner tube they, non-too-gently, threw my bike on the ground, then upside down to get the rear tire off. Then again, this a Vietnamese bike and built like a tank. It would take a lot more than that to damage it. By the time all was said and done, six people were observing and commenting on the progress of it all. I asked if they were there everyday, as I am sure the front tire also needs a new inner tube. I think they understood and I think that that is their corner. I’m sure I will find out soon enough.

The other exciting news is that I can finally see in my kitchen, which runs along a wall with no windows. When I moved in, this apartment was full of either florescent lights or 60 watt bulbs, and I have been slowly replacing them. The problem has been that it is very difficult to find 100 watt bulbs where I live and then once I do, I am not tall enough to change them.

Climbing on chairs and counters this afternoon, I managed to get the mini, 60 watt bulb out of the hanging light fixture. But when I tried to put in the new one, the whole socket came off and I could see it was corroded.

What was I going to do? It was Sunday. Then I remembered where I live and that anything can be done at any time. I sent a text message to my realtor friends and they had the electricians over in ten minutes. It did take another hour before they got back with supplies, but they fixed it in no time.

And I do believe that the dry season has finally arrived. The last rain was New Years Eve, and not a drop since then.

Kate

Academia Ain't My Thing

I think I can write, and I know I can teach, but I am feeling extremely challenged teaching students to write academic papers. This term, I was “awarded” the highest level class, the one students take before being admitted into the degree programs. It is only a four week course, and if they fail, they do not pass GO and do not collect $200.

This week I am supposed to teach them how to write a “critical review”. If someone told me to sit down and write such a paper in response to a given article, I am sure I could do it. Teaching it is another thing, especially since neither the student’s book nor the teacher’s book actually tells you what is required. I have been doing cartwheels and back-flips trying to get lessons together that might actually teach the students what they need to know.

Tomorrow I am supposed to introduce Oral Presentations, which they will be required to do in four weeks. Is there any real information about exactly what is required? Not to my understanding of the book. And how are they supposed to choose a subject? From my umpteenth reading of the text, I assume it has to be on something related to English as a Global Language, but it all seems very vague. (By the way, please note the two examples of rhetorical questions in this paragraph. At least I was able to explain that one today.)

Most maddening about it all is that I am required to teach a bunch of extra hours which I did not want, especially after last terms crazy schedule. However, it will only be for four weeks, and there is a two week break in the middle, so it is not the end of the world. (Although yesterday morning’s class had me really wondering about it.)

I guess it all really boils down to the fact that I don’t like anything even vaguely academic. I am trying my darnedest to make the class entertaining, as it is my solemn belief that if people are laughing, they are learning. But god, how can you make note-taking on a lecture about making processed bread in Australia fun?

It isn’t all bad. I do enjoy the students and I still like teaching. I just don’t like feeling that I am not giving them enough of what they will need to pass the course. Who knows, maybe we will all land on Marvin Gardens and life will be bliss.

Kate

Mui Ne pics (cont)

Mui Ne

My favorite place in the whole world is a beach. Preferably a tropical beach, on a hot sunny day. And that’s where I went for a few days. I set out for Mui Ne, 200K south of Ho Chi Minh City, on Tuesday morning, and got back Thursday night.

As usual, with Delta Adventures, and I think with any tour bus company in Vietnam, the 7:15am bus left at 8:15, and the four hour trip was close to six hours. But it was worth it.

Mui Ne may not be the closest beach, but it is the one everyone recommends. I tried to find out about accommodations from people at work, who did give me a few tips on budget places, but most said to “Just get off the bus and look for a place”. Fortunately, I did not listen to their advice. There is nothing worse than hauling your crap around in the noon-day sun as you go in and out of hotels trying to find a reasonable place at a reasonable price that has vacancies. When I booked the ticket, I was handed a brochure for a “resort” that cost $15 a night, was on the beach, had a pool, and looked decent. I ended up calling the owner and booking a room.

The beach front hotels run along a twenty kilometer strip, the center of which is Kilometer 12. I was told that I should look for lodging in that area so that I could wander out at night to the various restaurants. I wasn’t sure how far my hotel was from the center, but figured it couldn’t be that far away. I thought about this as the bus rolled on and on before it dropped me at the Minh Tam resort, at kilometer 15.

The young woman at reception came out to greet me. I must say that I was not in the best of moods; it had been close to seven hours since I’d left my house, I was dehydrated and probably in need of food. Still, the place looked lovely. Small structures, with rooms on two floors, surrounded a courtyard and pool. To the left was a thatch-covered, open-aired, restaurant. All was quite simple, but clean and inviting. Best of all, was the sound of the surf and ocean breeze.

I got into my room, changed into beach attire, and headed for the pool. There were six beach lounges, all taken. But then I noticed a walkway on the far side of the pool that ran along the short sea-wall. It was filled with lots of comfy chairs and little thatched-roof tables. I threw my towel down, got out the Harry Potter, and baked in the sun. Sitting there, despite the tranquility, fantastic weather, and good book, I couldn’t help thinking I had made a mistake and that I should have taken a hotel 3 kilometers down the road. I just wasn’t feeling relaxed or happy.

After my hour in the sun and a shower, I decided to take a walk to see what was available down at kilometer 12. I walked along the narrow two-lane road, past abandoned buildings, buildings in progress, fishermen’s houses and shacks, an occasional hotel, and crews putting in an expansive, multi-colored, tiled sidewlk. Palm trees sprung up out of it every ten feet. Some parts were completed, others not even started. Often, I had to walk in the street and watch out for the speeding buses, although traffic was not that bad. I passed Kilometer marker 14, then 13, and was starting to think that this was not at all fun and maybe I should just take the bus back the next day.

As I walked on, and as the hotels began to become linked at the seams, I noticed that you could walk into any of them and go straight through to their beach restaurant and then the beach. I entered a surf shop and ended up at a kite-surfing operation.

I had heard this was all the rage in Mui Ne, and could now understand why. There weren’t any real waves to speak of, but a good amount of wind. I had never before seen this sport except on TV. Basically, you strap on a harness, slip your feet into straps on a short board, and hang on to a crescent moon-shaped kite. (don’t know the dimensions, but it is huge). And then you let the wind carry you away. I had no desire to try it, but it seemed hundreds of people, at several different shops, were very eager to do so. I continued my walk, this time on the beach, still feeling like maybe this was a mistake.

But then I looked down and saw seashells. Seashells! Oh, I had forgotten about one of the best reasons for walking on a beach! I immediately started picking them up and tossing them in my bag, deciding if this one would be good for earrings, of if that one would do better on a collage. And just about then, the beach took hold. Hey, I thought, this is where I derive life force, this is the place that brings me inner peace, this is why I came here. And just like that, I was cured of any desire to leave.

I also realized that this section of Mui Ne sucked, and I was ever so grateful that I hadn’t gotten off the bus here. It was packed with mostly western tourists, being loud and guzzling beer. At the time it really bothered me, but later I thought, well, what did you expect? People come to the beach to drink, surf, and party. I come to mellow out, which is what I could do back at my little resort.

As I walked the 3K back, the sun began to set behind me. The sky filled with bright pinks and a sliver of moon glowed over it all. I made it back before it was completely dark, and went into the restaurant area to see what was available to eat. I’d seen them grilling some calamari earlier, and it had smelled awfully good.

A was a bit taken aback by the prices on the menu. The place may be called a “resort”, but it was just a simple place, yet prices were as high as some of the really fancy places down the road. All things being relative, it really wasn’t that expensive. I got the grilled calamari and a cold bowl of rice. I soon learned that the restaurant part of the hotel needed some serious work. One can’t blame the help, though. They simply didn’t know how a restaurant works and obviously the owner wasn’t interested in showing them.

After eating, I again went out to the sea-wall chairs. A few other guests were out, either quietly talking or just watching and listening to the sea as it rolled in a few feet below us. I glanced up to look at the moon and was greeted by the sight of millions of stars. I gazed up in amazement. I can’t even remember the last time I have seen that many stars. No longer was the sky spotted with an occasional cluster of blinking lights, but was blanketed with twinkles. There aren’t any blank spaces. I knew this, but had forgotten. How was I ever going to live with the meager sight I have to look up at every night in the city?

I got up early the next morning determined to get a pool chair. I’d noticed that the couple who had snagged the best seats when I’d arrived had not vacated them until after the sun went down. First, though, I sat down to drink some tea.

From where I sat, I had a good view of the small fishing boats anchored within swimming distance of the shore. Then I saw a group of ten people, in single file, hauling in a net. I got up and walked down to the beach. Slowly and methodically, the eight women and two men hung on to a rope and walked backwards. They had a rope belt around their waists with a cord attached that, in turn, wrapped around the line they pulled. As one of them reached the wall, he would unfasten his cord, walk into the water at the front of the line, reattach himself, and continue to pull. There was a definite, hypnotic type rhythm to the process.



I glanced out onto the sea and saw that two men in two boats were directing those on the beach. Occasionally, the people pulling moved to their left a few paces, without breaking stride. It was around that time that I noticed a second group of ten, hauling in the other side of the net. It must have been close to an hour before the net started to emerge from the water.

Now, when a person went to the front of the line, she scooped the net, twisted it over the line, and reattached her belt cord around it. Other people started to appear on the beach with baskets and buckets. When the entire net was on the shore, the process of opening it and extracting fish began. I walked down to take a closer look, along with several other tourists.

One Canadian-Vietnamese man was asking questions and translating for me and another man. Out of all that work, there seemed to be about three large baskets of small fish. Some would be to eat, some to sell. He talked to the women in charge who told us that the share for each of the workers would be 2000 VND, about 20 cents. A young boy was rewarded two, good-sized fish for helping with the hauling in.




I started to talk to another, middle-aged couple, also Canadian-Vietnamese. I asked when they had last been back. It was their first trip in thirty-five years. I made some comment that it must be wonderful, to which they replied that they had very mixed feelings. They seemed to be most bothered by the poverty. They had been in Vietnam a few weeks, and would soon be joined by their sons, one of whom was about to get his PhD from MIT.

The head women came over to us and again I heard a bit more about their lives. I was curious to know if they lived behind us, next to my hotel. She said some did, while others lived farther away. My translator said he was very surprised to see people still engaged in this type of work, and figured it would be a matter of only a few years before tourism replaced fishing.



Eventually, all the fishermen went home, and I went back up to the pool, to find that yesterdays couple was eating breakfast, but had all their stuff covering the only two pool chairs that had sun. I knew they would be in for the long haul.

I picked out one of the remaining two lounge chairs, and tried to move it to a better position. There was not a whole lot of room in which to do this, and the chair was made of something equivalent to solid oak. So as I pulled it, the back rest collapsed on to my forearms. Fortunately, they had ice that day, so the swelling was kept to a minimum, and it is still not bruised, but for about an hour there I thought I had cracked a bone.

This time, I cooked for a little less than two hours, went back in to hose off and get ready for the shoreline walk. Now that I was thoroughly into the beach lifestyle, I could start to dress properly. I threw on a sarong and tank top and took off down the beach, plastic shell-collecting bag in hand.

As I walked, I passed a group of giant, woven, tub-like baskets that the fishermen use as row boats to get out to their fishing boats. From what I saw, only one or two people ride in them, but they look like they could easily hold five people. They row with a paddle that is attached to the front of the basket, while standing up, and using a motion that looks like they are stirring a cauldron in front of them. They push the oar out and bring it round in a half circle until it meets the boat, then do the same in reverse. I have no idea how in the world that could make you move forward in a straight line.




On the way back, I stopped at a little shack to get a drink. Out in front were various family members including the cutest one-year-old boy. I had said hello, and had started to go towards the drinks when I felt little arms latch onto my leg. I looked down to see the cute kid hanging on, and everyone laughing. I reached down and he took hold of my finger and was not about to let go, as he stared straight into me. I then realized that I was wearing a shocking pink, patterned sarong, and the kid was going nuts for the color. When I tried to walk away, he began to cry. I had to hang with him a few minutes before I left.

It was close to five when I got back. I thought I could jump in the shower before I took sunset pictures. But the electricity was still off as it had been since noon. (no electricity = no water pump to the upstairs rooms). It didn’t matter, the sun goes down early here and sitting outside to watch all of it was better then going inside for any reason.



I watched and listened to the day end on the beach in Mui Ne. I spent more time fixated with the heavens. I realized, once again, that I wanted to live at the beach. There really is no better place that I know of.

Sporting quite a tan,
Kate

2005/2006

Six hours until 2006. It never feels like a year has come and gone, but it especially doesn’t feel real this year. Maybe it is because I have lived in quite a number of places in the past year, and now am in a really different spot.

The other night I was trying to remember in how many different countries I had spent New Years Eve: Mexico, Brazil, Israel, Egypt, Malaysia, and now Vietnam. (Brazil was the best.) I went to sleep thinking about all of them. When the alarm awakened me the next morning, for a nano-second I didn’t know where I was. I was sure I wasn’t in “my bed” and that didn’t bother me. But I had to run through that list of countries before I remembered.

***********************************************************
One hour to go. Between those last paragraphs and this one, I went out for a while. I had received an invitation to a concert by some local choir, to be held at the Ferris wheel next door. The program listed traditional music as well, so I thought it might be nice.

All the rides at the park were lit up, and some were running. I think I explained before that this amusement park is on the scale of a small carnival, situated amongst palm trees and greenery. They had erected a large stage and assembled plastic chairs just to the left of the swinging pirate ship, which screeched and groaned with every sway. Having recently rained, (although this is supposed to be the dry season), the chairs were wet. I perched on the edge of one.

As the choir started, I had to plug my ears. They were backed by taped music and the volume was turned up loud enough to fill a 700,000 seat arena. Whether they were good or not was hard to tell. However, what I could hear was not exactly easy listening music. When they started in on some Christmas type songs, I got up to walk around.

Families and couples milled about and some kids were on a few rides. I walked over to the jittery-looking carousel. I heard the ring-ring announcing the start of the ride. All of a sudden, the merry-go-round lurched forward and started moving way to quickly. I thought I was about to witness toddlers being hurled through the air. Fortunately, it slowed down almost immediately. I watched as it creaked around and around.

I then returned the few steps to the stage area, hoping to see some of the traditional music. I watched as a group of youngsters, dressed in Santa suits and carrying violins, marched on stage with their teacher. They had to cover their eyes as they were being blinded by stadium lights. Eventually, the light situation was sorted, and the music began, again at 3000 decibels. It was the Glo-ooo-oo-o-oooo--oo-oo-o-ria, en excelsis deo, backed by a disco track. It was time to head out into the night.

And what a night it was. About 8:30 and 80 degrees, and I had dressed for the chilly night air. As I walked down the street I passed a few people doing the same. This isn’t what you’d call a rocking suburb, but it was New Years Eve, so I walked the three blocks to the local pub.

I have been there before, but only in the day to sit at an outside table and drink ice tea. That’s what I did for a short while tonight. Almost no one was there. I am sure the hard core boozers were in town, although I have heard it is a madhouse in the center. Apparently, thousands and thousands of people fill the streets and just stroll and talk.

I finished my night by dropping into Lotteria, a Korean fast food joint. The only thing I ever have bought there is ice cream, and that was what I wanted. I got a sundae to go, which consisted of a tiny blob of soft ice cream, drizzled with some imitation strawberry gook. The counter person slapped on a lid, dropped it in a plastic bag, then scooped ice on top. I had been wondering how it would survive the trip home.

It is now 12:05 am, 2006. I just was out on my bitty balcony, camera in hand, set on night mode, and NOTHING! No fireworks, no neighbors hooting it up, no car horns, (not that there are any chairs on the streets I look on to), nothing but still air! I thought there must be something on TV, but all they had was very embarrassing footage from a club in Hanoi, where some really horrid band dressed in red satin Cossack shirts, was signing Santana music, while the lead singer, (American) kept looking at his watch. There looked to be 20 people n the club, seated quietly at tables, while a few hoochy-coochy gals with the band tried their best to wiggle. (You do realize this does mean there still is hope for me as a bar chanteuse). They cut back to the news room when the guy said, “30 seconds till midnight”.

I have lasted to see in the New Year, while many of you are still waking up in 2005. Do go out and have more fun than I did.

Auld Lang Syne
Kate

Mekong Delta

The Mekong Delta. If you are American, and of my generation or older, there is only one thing that comes to mind when you hear those words: war. Hearing the country name, “Vietnam”, often evokes the same thoughts, but since I have been here, those connections are less frequent. Yet I had not been able to escape the visceral response to Mekong Delta; images from the nightly news, stories from survivors on both sides, sections from movies. But I also knew that it was a beautiful area with a unique way of life and I wanted to see it. So yesterday I took another day trip, this time to the Mekong Delta.

“The bus leaves at 7:30”, I was told by the woman at the tour office. The bus from where I live to the center of town takes 20 minutes at that time of the morning, then it’s a short taxi ride over to where I’d get the tour bus. There should be enough time, especially considering that my last trip with these people left 40 minutes later than we had been told. But I knew I would freak the whole way there thinking that I might miss the tour, so I took a taxi and got there at 7:20am. We finally left around 8:00.

Our mid-sized bus had 30 people fully packed in. We were an international group; Australians, Koreans, Vietnamese, New Zealanders, British, Taiwanese. I sat next to a young Vietnamese woman who was home on holiday from studying in Australia. Like we do in our own countries, she had never been to the Delta region.

Our guide was a jovial man in his mid-30’s. As we headed out of town, he told us about the various produce grown in the Mekong. Pineapples, he assured us, “are very good for your health”. They cure skin problems, help you loose weight, help you sleep, and make you strong. Watermelons from the Mekong are also very good for your health. Eating three of the small ones is better than Viagra, he told us. As the day wore on, we were to hear that anything and everything in the Mekong, is “very good for your health”. By the end of the trip, most of the group would fill in those words before he had a chance to say them.

Looking out the bus window, I noticed we were heading back towards my apartment. You could actually see my building as we turned left onto the highway. I checked my watch; 8:15. Damn, I hadn’t needed to get up at 5:30; I could have just walked out and flagged down the bus at 8:00! I would remember this for trips in the future. Oh well, it was only an hour and a half to the Delta and out boat tour. I had chosen this trip over the three hour bus ride of the other option. However, I had been given misinformation. We wouldn’t reach the Delta and our boat until almost 11:00. If this was the ‘shorter’ trip, I didn’t want to think about the other trip I hadn’t chosen. One thing I can say about Vietnam, nothing goes for more than an hour and a half without a break. When I teach, we have to take a break every hour. On a bus, it stops every hour or hour and a half, relieving me of one of my greatest fears: the 3 hour trip with no bathroom stop.

Our guide assailed us with stories and songs and information about the areas we passed and the history of the Mekong. He had graduated form the university, but his father was still a rice farmer and he would go home to help harvest and drain rice paddies. I had noticed on my last trip that there seemed to be graves standing in the middle of the rice fields; one here, on there. He explained that in the countryside, people were buried where ever the geomancer tells them is a good spot. He further explained that in the north of the country, three years after a person is buried, they are exhumed, their remains but into a jar, which is then taken to the temple.

We passed through little towns and over cannels, and eventually arrived at the dock for the river boat we would board and tour in. It was a long, low slung affair, allowing you to ride right on the water. We sat on two-seated benches. A wooden roof covered our heads, but the rest was open-air. The day was rather grey, but that was probably preferable to insufferable jungle heat and humidity, and/or rain.

As we wound our way up the river we passed boats moving in both directions. Some were public transport, others carried produce from the Delta to Ho Chi Minh City. The boats were of the same basic design as ours; long and narrow, but in varying sizes. Some had only the pilot, others had up to five people either engaged in an activity or lying in hammocks. I was very pleased to see at least one boat with a lone woman at the helm. Our guide explained that most of the boat owners sometimes lived on the boats but also had a house on the land. The majority of work done by the boats in this region had to do with transporting produce and materials produced there. Fishing boats were in other areas.

Our first stop was at the coconut candy factory. We filed out of the boat and into an area that really was producing candy, but also arranged so that tourists could watch the process. I saw them make flat, paper-thin rice pancakes that you use as tortillas. (and when filled, they are delicious!) I watched the process for making coconut taffy. Every part of the coconut is used for one thing or another; the husk, the oil, the milk, the pulp, the shell. I skipped the sampling of cobra wine, (very good for your health), and will not even describe it to you. There were tables set up with piles of various candies to buy, as well as handicrafts. I knew we would only be there a short while, so went in search of purchases.

These trips are so cheap that I don’t know how they run them. The least I could do is to throw some money into the local economy. I ended up with wooden cooking spoons made from coconut shells, a purse made of a shell, (lined and with a zipper), and about one kilo of candy including taffy and crystallized ginger.
Again, I don’t know how the venders make much money as we are rushed through it all.

Walking further, we were taken to the puffed rice area. A giant cauldron hung over a fire. Inside were several pounds of blacked sand. Rice, still in its husk, is dumped into the burning hot sand, while the rice-tender quickly stirs it with a long pole. Within less than a minute, all the rice is puffed. He then dumps it into a sieve to separate the puffed rice from the husks. The husks are used in animal feed.

The rice is then mixed with caramelized sugar. Two men stand on either side of a giant vat, meter long mixing spatulas in each hand. With astounding grace and precision, they mix the concoction as if performing a ritual dance, moving in a slow circle around the pot, as they dig, scoop, pull there sticks up and shove them down again. It really was memorizing. Once they finished, the mixture is dumped onto a rectangular table with three in sides. It is rolled and flattened before being cut into squares.

Back on the boat, we soon reached what looked like the open sea. Getting back to that mental connection I have with the Mekong, I was surprised to see how wide it was. The guide said over one and a half kilometers. I keep thinking about the small canals I had always seen on the news or in movies. And wasn’t that John Kerry swift-boat film from the Mekong? Obviously, there was way more to this river than I had known. And it was also then that I realized I hadn’t been thinking WAR for over an hour. As the day passed, visions and thoughts of conflict drifted further and further from my mind, not by any conscious effort, but by the people and lives I saw around me.



Up another narrow waterway, we docked at the lunch restaurant. I sat at what we dubbed the International Table. Me, a Korean couple, two ladies from Taiwan who had been in Vietnam on business, and to Vietnamese men. We ate fresh elephant ear fish that had been deep fried, (but not at all greasy), served standing on its side in a little stand. We ate it with those rice paper pancakes which you fill with mint, lettuce, noodles and vegetables, and dip in fish sauce. Fish sauce is on every table with every meal. It is made of sugar, lime, chilly, and something else. I love it. I threw MSG-caution to the wind, and dug in. twenty minutes later, I was stuffed and had a splitting headache, but it was worth it. I have never had such excellent fish.

We had another half hour before leaving, and were encouraged to grab a bike and take a turn around the neighborhood. I needed water and a seat. Our lunch had been included in the $7 tour and, again, I couldn’t understand how anyone could profit from this. I looked around for things to buy and only water was available. I did manage to take a short walk, while most of my fellow travelers hopped on bikes. I figured after all those hours of sitting on a bus, then in a boat, then eating, why spoil it with actually getting the blood moving?

We had one more stop on our trip and that was to the ceramics factory, where they make bricks and garden pots for both the local market and export. The factory is inside a building, but it’s a very simple structure, with openings in the roof to let in light. About eight, immense brick ovens lined the walls. After they are cut from clay, they are fired for three weeks.



Walking on, we went into a giant warehouse of drying pottery. Only two people were working, making large planter pots in the shape of a cat. The clay, which is from the banks of the river, is sliced from a huge block. One person pounds and kneads it, rolls it out, and then it is pressed into a two-side mold. The team of two can make about ten of these large pots a day, working a ten hour day. They are quick and efficient, and are paid by the number of items produced. They are paid about 2 or 3 dollars a day. Keep that in mind the next time you buy are large, earthenware garden pot that is made in Vietnam.

We boarded the boat for the last time. Before taking off, we were each given a fresh coconut to drink. From a branch of coconuts, the boat pilot chopped off the bottom and top, stuck in a straw, and we drank as we cruised back up the delta.

It was 4:00, and I was not looking forward to another bus ride, but was happy to be heading back. This time, our bus was even smaller and I was wedged in over a wheel well. “OK”, said our guide, “We will be in Ho Chi Minh City in three hours”. What? I called out. It’s supposed to be an hour and a half! It turned out to be quite enjoyable. Across from me was a mother and daughter from New Zealand. Behind them, a father and daughter from Australia. Next to them, a couple also from Australia. We started pulling out the various snacks we had bought or brought with us, and passed them around. We exchanged stories, got travel tips from those who had been here a while, and later heard more stories from our guide.

Nearing the city, I realized I would not have to go back into town if they could just let me off at the turn off the freeway. I called out to our guide, who talked to the driver, and it was arranged. When the bus pulled over to let me off, I was a little sad to leave my new friends, and felt rushed giving my thanks to our charming guide who had put up will all my extra questions. Once out in the open air, I decided to walk home, even though it was pitch black. Everyone assures me it is safe and it was. The twenty minute walk really helped after that last, squished bus ride.

A long day, but a good one. Now, when I hear ‘The Mekong Delta,’ I may still have the old memories, but I will also have new, positive ones. And isn’t that what it is all about?

Happy Holidays to all
Kate

Day Trip

After four and a half months, I finally got out of the city on a day trip to the Cao Dai Temple and the Cu Chi tunnels. I met up with a friend at the travel office at 8 in the morning, having bought the $5 ticket the day before. Our tour group of about 20 consisted mostly of young couples from assorted countries. We piled into the mid sized bus and after a mere 45 minutes we had left the noise and stop-and-go traffic of the city behind.

I kept staring out the window as we drove along the road lined with what one imagines Vietnam to look like. I almost yelped out loud when I saw my first water buffalo plowing through rice paddies. Having looked at the same scene in numerous photos or on TV you’d think it wouldn’t look so brand new and exciting, but it did.

It took about two and a half hours to get to our first stop, the Cao Dai Temple. Caodaism was founded around 1920, and incorporates aspects of many different religions. They use mediums and conduct séances. And anything else you want to know about it, you will have to look up for yourself. It is a popular tourist stop mainly because of the large, rainbow colored main temple that looks like nothing you have ever seen, yet has familiar features.

The interior of the Temple reminded me of a mosque with its cavernous, high-vaulted hall, and floor to ceiling pillars, except that the pillars have Chinese dragons wrapped around them. Then there is the Eye that stares out at you from inside a triangle, amongst floral designs, evoking thoughts of Egyptian gods. The ceiling is painted the blue of a sunny day in the summer, and dotted with little silver stars and wispy clouds. The symbolism is endless but we really didn’t have time to explore it for more than twenty minutes before being lead to the upstairs mezzanine. From the narrow walkways encircling the interior, we were able to watch the daily, noon-time ceremony.

Again, I don’t know what exactly was going on other than it was a religious ceremony. With men and women separated on either side of the hall, they walked slowly up towards the main alter. (Which, by the way, includes a gigantic globe surrounded by dragons, burning incense, wooden tables, and a lot of gold decorations.) Musicians and singers accompanied the devotees who, upon arriving at the designated prayer area, sat on the floor. The majority of the men and women wore white, while some of the officials wore bright red, blue, or orange.

Although we were told that it was all right to take photographs, even during the ceremony, it felt quite intrusive to do so, especially with the flashes going off. We were allowed to take pictures of the followers, but when a tourist attempted to take a picture of another tourist inside the temple, we were gently told not to do so. I really would like to have taken more time there, but the bus was about to leave. Part and parcel of a day trip.

Next, we were off to the restaurant for lunch. It was just a small, side-of-the-road, open-aired affair, but they managed to serve all of us our various orders in no time at all. Before heading out, I availed myself of the facilities. I followed other tour members out to the back where a row of doors led to the toilets.

One door was open so I walked over and looked in. Obviously, it was some sort of wash room. It had a slightly sloped floor with a bucket of water and a mouse hole in the corner leading to the outside. I waited until a vacancy came up and walked in, only to see the same type of room. I called out to the women who had just walked out of it. So we just pee on the floor? I asked. “Yes, and wash it down with water.” And I thought that I had seen every type of restroom that existed. It was way weird! And yes, you get pee in all the places you don’t want it. And what was I supposed to do with the toilet paper?

It was another hour on the bus to the Cu Chi Tunnels. At this point, I would have really questioned the point of a trip like this had it not been for our tour guide. He was incredibly knowledgeable and articulate about where we were going and what we were seeing, about the war years and where he had been and what he had done. I was surprised at his candor – there are some things that are just not cool to talk about if you were working for the wrong side in that war.

Originally, I had not wanted to go see the tunnels that were used during the war. I have met people in my life whose job in the army was to work those holes in the ground, and I had seen what it had done to them. However, I am glad I went. I really had no idea that these were more than just escape and attack tunnels. The people of the area lived underground, cooked underground and carried on everyday life there for years. The ingenuity of their construction is amazing.

It was upsetting, yet surreal to walk around an area had been repeatedly bombed and napalmed. Coming upon a US Army tank that lies in the exact spot where it had been disabled gave me the shivers. Others clamored to take photos seemingly unaware of what that dead tank signified, and what had taken place on the ground where we now stood. Several times I walked away from the group and peered out into the now, re-vegetated landscape. As our guide had repeatedly told us during the day, war is terrible.

With hopes that all those spirits are now at rest,
Kate

Orchids part 2

I couldn't get these on the orchid story yesterday.

Kate

The Frustrating & The Magnificent

Getting money is not always that easy here. There is an ATM machine at work, and it even is from my bank. The problem is that it is often out of order or out of money. Today being Saturday, I figured I’d clean the house and loll around in the early morning, then head to the supermarket where another ATM machine is located.

I hopped on the bike around 11 o’clock and after only 2 blocks my thighs ached. (Terribly out of biking-shape, I am.) There are parts of this suburb that are pretty much empty, but one still has to keep a keen eye out for drivers who just don’t really stay in lanes and start turning left the block before they need to, veering dangerously into the wrong lane.

And then there is the main street, which is really a four lane, divided highway. Even with the stop light, you have to be really careful, because the motorbikes will not stop, and the monster trucks; only if really necessary. Once you cross that, and get on to the parallel back streets, it is ok. Ok, that is, until you hit the speed bumps. I walked my bike over one last week and ended up on the pavement. I probably wouldn’t have if the bike hadn’t weighed 40 pounds. This time, I got off the bike every time and walked it over the bumps. That was far less embarrassing than landing on the street.

Arriving at the supermarket parking lot, I locked up the bike and went in to the ATM machine. It was out of order. Crap. Well, my bank was just two blocks away. As I started to walk back to my bike I remembered that there was about a 10 cent parking charge and I had left all my change at home. All I had was a few big bills. I knew saying I would pay another day wouldn’t work.

Back I walked into the supermarket to get change, which I almost didn’t get. The week before I had misplaced my parking ticket but had paid the guy and was about to ride off. “No ticket, no bike”. I tried to argue, but the only thing he knew in English was “no ticket, no bike.” I had to go back into the store but luckily found my ticket by the checkout stand.

I walked my bike down to the bank but, oh dear, even though they were still open, they had stopped handing out cash at 11:00 and it was now half past.
“You can go to the supermarket”, the bank lady said. I said I had already tried that. “Well then go to the university”. I explained that I worked there and that the machine had been out all week. There was one other ATM, way down the road, but my standards, and it would entail driving on that freeway with all the semi’s and crazy drivers. And who was to say if when I got there, the ATM would actually work? I rode back to the supermarket just to check if maybe the machine was now functioning. This had worked in the past, but not this time.

Now I will backtrack and explain why getting to the bank was all that important. I mean I still had a few Dong left and wasn’t yet totally destitute. My urgent need for cash had to do with the opening of a new supermarket in town that I hadn’t even known about until yesterday.

I believe I have mentioned the only, woefully inadequate supermarket that exists in this suburb of foreigners, where a big supermarket would do a booming business. True, they are building a massive new building next door, but I guessed it would take at least another six months until it was completed. “Oh no”, said a colleague, who lives out here, “It’s bad luck not to have things completed before Tet, (Lunar New Year), so it will be done by the end of January.” It didn’t seem possible, but gave me hope.

And then yesterday, another co-worker said, “That new supermarket looks great.” I asked what he was talking about. “The one they have been working on for months. It’s just down the road from your apartment. Haven’t you seen it or the signs advertising the grand opening today?” Ok, so it is just down the road, but that side of the road is across the mini-river/slough, and five freeway lanes away from where I pass it every morning on the way to work. It’s just another min-mart, right? I asked. “No, it’s a real supermarket.” And that is the reason I wanted more than a few Dong to go shopping with. On the way home in the taxi yesterday, I spotted it. This was miraculous! One day there is nowhere to shop and the next day there is a brand-new supermarket!

I would at least go check it out, and be able to buy soy milk and juice. But as I got closer to my house, I noticed my bike acting strangely. I got off. Two, almost flat tires. I pushed it across the big street, looking for the pump & tire change/oil guys who hang out on the divide across the “river”. No one was there. I walked back to the entrance to my apartment complex and managed to convey to the guards what I needed. One hopped on his bike and told me to follow. We had gone only a short way when he spotted a fix-it man, and flagged him over.

An ancient gentleman, on an even more ancient bike, pulled out his very old pump and put air in both tires. I paid him, got on the red-devil bike, and zoomed down to the new supermarket.

The front of the supermarket was lined with around 20 floral displays. They were the types that are on a stand, and brimming with orchids, lilies, roses, mums, and greenery. They do that here when any new business opens. I am not sure who sends them, but possibly other businesses, family and friends. Parking my bike in the dirt, I saw that two or three of these huge arrangements had already been dumped. I could see perfectly good sprays of orchids sticking out all over the place. I would have to deal with that when I finished shopping.

I was very impressed with the new market. It is two floors with food downstairs and house wares upstairs. It is well laid out, and a cursory tour through the aisles proved that it had many items that are unavailable in the other market, and at better prices. The produce didn’t even look too bad. I would prefer to go to the outdoor market for fruits and vegetables, but it is a hassle to get there and I can only do it on weekend mornings. I will still go every few weeks, but at least now there seems to be a reasonable option.

Once outside with my few purchases, I laid my pack down so I could dig through the garbage dump of flowers. I simply couldn’t believe that they had been discarded after less than 24 hours. True, the brutal sun had done a number on them, but they were far from the throw-away stage. I already had an enormous armful of orchids when I noticed one of the guards taking a cigarette break and watching me. I asked if it was ok to take them. He seemed to understand. I kept going on about how beautiful they were and how I couldn’t understand why they had been 86-ed. (does anyone still use that term?) He was soon joined by a colleague, who beckoned me over to the 18 displays still standing. They told me to take whatever I wanted. I wasn’t sure I had understood, but then they started pulling out orchids and handing them to me. I took a few more, but began to feel funny. Also, I had so many, and no vases at home, that it was getting ridiculous.
The guys helped me tie them together and put them in the basket of the bike.

Then I had to hoist my pack onto my back. It was when I grabbed the handlebars that I realized I should never leave the Red-Devil out in the open sun. Somehow I managed to get on the bike without loosing my balance from the weight on my back, lay the flowers in the front basket, and while toasting my hands and butt, drive precariously home.

My flowers are displayed in plastic bottles and I am thinking of going back later to buy a vase and get more. I know that the others will be thrown away at the end of the day and the thought sends chills down my spine. Just one more cultural difference to get used to. Hopefully, I will again be in the neighborhood of a new business just when they throw away the orchids.

Flower arranging time.
Kate

Acupuncture House Call

After two colds in four months, I could feel my ear starting to go again. I’ve had the dizzies for a few weeks now and thought it best I find a Chinese doctor before things got out of hand. It’s not like I have been loosing my balance or anything, but things in the inner ear just aren’t right. Fortunately for me, I was given the name of a local Chinese doctor last week.

I called Dr Trung on Monday. The first thing I asked was if he read Chinese. The reason being that Doctor Leung, (who had treated me in California and spoke no English), had given me a medical letter written in Chinese. Dr Trung assured me that he did and that he could see me Wednesday afternoon. I asked for directions to his office. No need for that, he said, he would come to my house. I did think this was odd, but when I checked with the woman who had given me his name, she said that was how he worked.

At 3:30 he knocked at my door. He sat down and I handed him the letter from California. He read it and asked me some questions about my health. He also wanted to make sure that I wanted the needle treatment and if I’d had it done before. I explained that I was nearly a professional pin cushion. Then I lay down on the couch.

He sat down on a stool, opened his briefcase, took out supplies, and put them on the chair next to me. Then he unwrapped one of those disposable wet towel things and wiped his hands carefully. I watched as he opened a metal tray containing a ton of carefully ordered needles. He assured me they were sterile.

I’d only ever had one other doctor stick me, so was interested I experiencing the difference or similarities in technique. Even before the treatment began, there were differences. Dr Leung always first took my pulse, on both wrists, then checked my blood pressure. Dr Trung did neither. The sticking-in was also a little different and felt a little different but, with both doctors, it never hurts.

Almost immediately one can start to feel little electrical tingles coursing between the needles. I got a needle in the temple region, behind the ear, between the eyes, on the top of my head, on the feet and legs. (equally distributed on both sides of my body.) Then he hooked me up to the electric pulse machine, but only for the temple and ear points. In California, every needle got plugged in. It is then you really start to buzz and it is very relaxing. My eyes were already closed and it would be 20 minutes before I opened them again.

I must admit that lying in your own house to get a treatment is quite decadent and so much easier that going to the doctor’s office. But all the sensations took me right back to the little office in Oakland’s Chinatown where I had had my last treatment. I missed the conversations going on in Chinese between the doctor and other patients. I missed the smiling faces of the elderly clients, waiting for treatment or herbal medicine. And most of all, I missed the smell. I adore the aroma of Chinese herbs. You just want to dive into to all of them and roll around. It was always so soothing and calming. I really hoped this doctor would leave me with a batch, but my nose didn’t pick up any of the scents.

Lying there and dreaming of the office in Chinatown, I did what I always do in such situations; fall into a deep REM state, only to be awoken by Dr Trung telling me he would now remove the needles.

After quickly pulling them out, he immediately put pressure on the spot with an alcohol soaked piece of cotton. And as with all my prior experiences, after 5 minutes, it is impossible to tell where the needle had entered.

I asked about any herbs I might need and the doctor told me I didn’t need them. Or maybe he will bring some next time. Although he does speak English, it is still limited. I did find out that he studied in China and that the needles are made in Vietnam. Next time I will ask more questions. He seems to think 7 treatments should have me right back on track. After only one, I feel better. And the cost? About US$4. I simply couldn’t pay that little even if that is more than some people earn in a day. After all, I am not some people.

My next treatment is on Friday, and I am sure he has time for anyone else who would like to come over and get cured. Such a sensible way to treat the infirm!

Maybe this weekend I will go to an herbal shop to gets bags of scents to freshen my house.
Kate

Odd Time Of The Year

When in tropical climes, in non-Christian countries, one doesn’t notice the months changing or the advent of The Holiday Season. So why is the local supermarket decked out with a giant, fake Christmas tree; a mechanical, laughing, anorexic Santa; and why does it have carols blasting from the sound system? Or why where they putting up ornaments and green tinsel in the telephone company store? And then there is downtown, where one of the 5-star hotels has plaster snow and trees with big red balls all along the side of the building. It is all so strange.

Usually, it simply seems bizarre and very out of place. But I was in the supermarket two days ago, having just run in from a rain storm. The sky through the front windows was grey, and the air conditioner was on high. As I wheeled past the MSG lane, I heard “Oh Come All Yee Faithful” resonating throughout the store. The weather and the music must have sparked some primal memory, because my whole being felt the touch of the holidays. And I am talking about the good feeling, not the commercialized insanity it has become. I caught myself quietly singing along to “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem”. I must admit that I love the traditional carols, probably because I hear them so rarely, and I enjoyed the few minutes of musical escapism.

I can’t say the same for the CD my hair stylist opted to play when I was in there last week. It was all that horrid, kitschy, crap, like “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa”, sung by children, in Vietnamese.

Along with all the out-of-place symbolism, it has been an odd month paying, or trying to pay the bills. For some reason the electric bill, in my small apartment where I never turn on the A/C, was outrageously high. Higher than my friends in a 4 story house. My phone bill was also another shocker, 95% of which was for internet use. The damn dial-up is not a flat rate. I pay for it by the minute, and since it is so slow, I probably spend double the time I would spend if I had DSL. Which, by the way, I hope to get before January, but that is a whole different story.

I give up trying to pay the rent. Last month, I had to call the landlord six times before they finally came and got the money. So far this month, I have only called once, and am now leaving it up to them. I don’t particularly like having the rent money sitting in my apartment, but it really is safe here. I tried to get a bank check but it isn’t possible. The only people who can get checks are business owners. Everything is done in cash. I think the worst part is having to keep my house spotless because I never know when the owners will call and come over. Or maybe it’s worse thinking that they’ll come over on the weekend, which is scared time to me.

Then there is the opera singer who takes early morning and evening walks. I can’t quite tell if it is just a good voice, or a very good voice. Definitely, it carries. I can hear him blocks away. Today it was at 6 in the morning. I looked out the window to watch him as he strolled and belted out tunes. Again, I can’t tell what language it is, but I don’t think it is English. This time, however, I noticed that he was stopping at the house builders shacks. I ran to another window to get a better view. He was singing and had his hand extended to them. It was then that I spied what I believe to be a bible in his hand. Of course, I am on the 8th floor, so I could be wrong, but it did seem to make sense. I will have to further investigate this one.

I plan to take the bike out for its maiden voyage this weekend to explore the backwaters of the neighborhood. I am sure I will find more oddities, which is a major reason for living the life I do.

Peace on earth, good will towards men and women.
Kate

Blonde Once More

After my last hair experience, I had to find another salon. I kept passing an interesting place that was a block from my house. A few weeks ago, in desperation, I walked in to talk to the owner. I was happily surprised to learn that he had gone to the US as a teenager, where he had studied and worked in the hair business for 17 years. He returned to Vietnam five years ago and opened two salons.The cut was superior, so I went back today for the highlights.

The first step had his two assistants, one on each side of me, painting in a base coat to the roots of my hair. They lowered the chair all the may, and then asked me to scoot down even more because they couldn’t reach the top of my head. By the time they finished, it was time to shampoo it out.

After one of them dried my hair, the foil process began. I was already sweating from the various layers of protective towels and capes. I steeled myself for the upcoming LONG procedure.

I don’t think I have ever had as many highlights put in at one time. I knew that more foils meant better highlights, but I had almost fallen asleep by the time we were only two thirds of the way through. It did eventually get done, but then I had to sit under a hot hair dryer for twenty minutes. I actually did nod off, I think, with rivulets of sweat dripping down my back.

But it was all worth it. I am, once again, really blonde. And although it was expensive, it was still way less than they last guy who gave me dark hair.

Now, to do something exciting with my new image!
Kate

PS: the photo is the Kite Master who didn’t make it on to the last posting. I swear I will get DSL in a few weeks so that I can actually get pictures to upload in less than 40 minutes.

Kite Making

During Tuesday’s class, I noticed that there was a lot of activity going on in the large center room of the third floor. At the break, I wandered over to see what was happening. It was a kite making class, organized by the student activities office.

About thirty students were busily constructing kites. I asked who was in charge, and someone led me to the front where a man in his 50’s was helping students to make kites. It turned out he was one of the top kite makers in the city, if not the country. He not only designs and makes kites, but is a champion kite flyer.

This was really exciting, and I expressed my interest in learning how to make a kite. I was invited to join in, but explained that I still had several hours of teaching left. No problem, there would be a second class on Thursday afternoon, after class.

So today, at 3:30, I set out to discover the world of kite construction. I knew that kite flying was a traditional, Vietnamese sport, and I often see kites flying in the distance when I look out my living room window. But that is about all I really know.

As soon as the Kite Master came in, we all got down to business. I watched as he carefully measured out the pattern on a sheet of large paper, and then cut it out. Next, he grabbed a thin strip of bamboo, about 2 feet long and, using a knife, quickly split it exactly down the center. After that, he rapidly whittled the stick to smooth it out. When I had watched a room of students doing the same on Tuesday, I also noted the first aid bag on the center table and more than a few bandaged fingers.

While I grabbed paper and bamboo sticks along with everyone else, a student drew the pattern on the whiteboard. Now, if I only had a ruler. At that moment, another student approached and just started helping me and another teacher. This guy was from a part of Vietnam where they make kites all the time and he seemed to enjoy helping us rather than making his own.

Once the kite was cut out, it was time to glue on the bamboo. I sat down on the floor. I stuck my fingers in a pot of solidified, jello-ish, gluing material. It turned out to be made from rice, I think with the starch stuff that washes off dry rice. This stuff really worked. After securing the strips, I used small pieces of paper to brace the sticks in place. I was having the best time, covered in glue and scooting around the floor to hold sticks and grab glue and paper. The next step was to tie strings to the bamboo strips. Actually, that was the step that should have been before the gluing, but I made due.

My kite was now done and I took it over the instructor for his approval. He tied the side strings together and gave it toss to check the aerodynamics. He nodded his approval. There was no way I was ready to stop, so I decided to attempt a second, different style kite.

My helper was still with me when I got up to get more supplies. It was then that I noticed three students from one of my classes, busily constructing kites. They looked quite adept at the process. When I asked them, they said that they had been making kites all their lives. I know had three more assistants.

By the time I finished number two, my hands were caked in glue, but I didn’t want to stop and go wash them. Anyway, as the stuff dried, it kind of rubbed off easily. I Iooked around the room to see what the others were up to. Groups of three or four students were busy painting their kites, on top of tables, or on the floor, with no paper underneath. The room was a mess. And I had assured the student activities coordinator that I would make sure all the tables were back in rows because 80 students would be testing in there the next morning.

Garbage can in hand, I went around picking up paper and bamboo and glue and string. The other teacher went in search of a broom. Students were leaving, obviously with no intention of picking up. So we swept and mopped and I told the painters to take their brushes to the bathroom and wash them off. I can’t say the room was spotless, but at least it wasn’t a disaster.

Walking down the hall on the way out of the building, I looked through the windows into the second, large activities room and saw one of my students practicing for a fashion show. I opened the door, because I am very nosey, and saw another of my students seated on the side, obviously bored because he was playing games on his cell phone. He looked at my kites and asked what they were. I told him about the kite class down the hall. He seemed sad that he hadn’t known about it. But I told you and the whole class, I said. “We thought you said it was a ‘cake making’ class. Hey, I am sure I wrote it on the board.

It now seems there is a keen interest in making kites and flying them and there is talk of more classes and kite flying contests. I can’t wait!

I’m going to fly a kite!
Kate

27 November 2005

Last week was mid-term week. It was brutal. By Friday, the students were burnt, the teachers were burnt, and thank god I don’t have to be involved with that for another five weeks.

I tested and scored on Monday and Wednesday; taught the other three days. Rather, I tired to teach. Seems my students were either too exhausted to come to class, or behaved like rambunctious 12 year olds. Even my best, loud, admonishing teacher voice had no more than a 5 minute effect on any of them. I certainly hope everyone will have recovered by tomorrow, Monday. Meanwhile, I had a weekend ahead of me.

Friday evening I went into town to meet up with a group from work for dinner and beer. After four months here, I finally made it into the backpackers area, the place where most budget travelers start their journey. It was just what I expected; lots of young scruffy tourists, packed into restaurants and cafés, or wandering up and down the streets. When I first arrived in Vietnam, I spent weeks without seeing other foreigners because they all hung out in this part of town.

I did learn that this area was where you could get really inexpensive meals that had NO MSG! (It is mostly because of msg that I never eat out.)

My weekend of exploring new places that most tourists visit on Day One, continued on Saturday when I went to Ben Than Market. This is the giant, indoor souk that sells everything from kitchen utensils to fruit and vegetables to tourist items. It is both a market for the Vietnamese and the tourists. The structure is massive. I think it must be at least a square block, with a cavernous ceiling. Inside is packed with aisle after aisle of small stalls, each crammed to bursting with consumer goods.

The taxi let me out at the main entrance, and I braced myself before entering. I knew it would be crowed and hot and claustrophobic, even at 9 in the morning. I started down the wide, main aisle, and was immediately greeted by stall owners beckoning me over to look at their wares. I really had no idea what I wanted to buy, and mostly just wanted to get my bearings and see what was available.

To the left and right, row after of narrow aisles lead off the main drag. I saw shoes and clothes and glasses and plates. Halfway down the main corridor, I took a deep breath and turned right into a row of t-shirts. The women manning the stalls immediately stood up, grabbed items out of their stalls, shoved them in my face, grabbed my arms, and asked what I was looking for, and told me that they had the best prices. It really was unnerving, but I know they are just doing their job, so I smiled, said hello, and tried to keep walking.

I stopped to look at a few bags and ended up buying two. I walked around a bit more, but the place was really getting to me and I decided that once I was able to find a way out of the maze that I seemed to be stuck in, I was out of there.

It was then that I happened upon a stall that was a little larger than the others. You could actually walk inside. The good part was that unlike the other stalls, it was not blasted with long tubes of florescent lights. The downside was that it was a tad hard to see things clearly. But the more I looked the more I saw that this was the kind of shop I was looking for. It was loaded with ethnic goodies.

Almost immediately, my eyes locked onto an elaborate headdress, adorned with beads and shells and hammered tin. I picked it up and knew I had to have it. I should say at this point, that I hate to bargain. What I did at this stall is what I do everywhere I go in the world; I asked the price, was told something I couldn’t afford, then asked if that was the best price. Without even entering into the undignified act of the bargain, I soon had the headpiece for less than half of what was written on the price tag. And most importantly, it was a price I deemed very reasonable and one I could afford.

Then I saw the second headdress. It was very different from the first, but equally fantastic. Without even asking, the price tag was cut in half. However, that didn’t do me much good because I didn’t have enough money left to buy it. I told the folks at the shop that I would come back the following day. That would also give me a chance to decide if I really needed the second one. And then I really did leave the market.

Once I got home, I took out my new purchase and beamed. It was even more incredible under good light. I was definitely going back to get the other, which is how I spent the morning today.

My second time in the market I felt much better. I really didn’t know all the sections, but at least some things looked familiar. I had been worried about ever finding the same stall, even with the address written down. Once inside, I looked around for some indication of where I would find store “888”. To my surprise, stall numbers were displayed at the top of every aisle. I found my shop in no time. I chatted with the family that ran the place, bought my headdress and some other little things, then walked towards an exit.

Along the way, I passed a bed linins stall. (I need another sheet so I can convert my extra bed into a couch. I will then replace it with the tiny loveseat I now have in the living room that is totally useless to lie down on to read or watch TV.) A young couple ran the place. He stood in front while she was inside on top of stacks of packaged sheet sets. Then began the interchange of three people who don’t speak the same language.

At least I was able to write out the dimensions I needed. Trying to tell them that I wanted a solid, dark color was another story. Most of the sheets here are ghastly plaids or prints. But eventually, I ended up with a solid, greenish-blue fitted sheet and two pillow cases. This had required a whole lot of digging into stacks and throwing packages of sheets in all directions. I am really glad I found something I wanted, because after all the effort, I could not have left without buying from them. Ok, no I really was going.

But directly across from the sheets, and we are talking a distance of less than 5 feet, there was an Indian shirt stall. And right in front were piles of a type of shirt I had been searching for, for over five years. I ended up with two shirts, and I think I may have paid too much for them, but it didn’t matter. I really did leave then.

Back on the street, it was getting hot. I had already planned to walk back to the backpackers area to eat a real meal with no msg. It wasn’t far away, but entailed crossing several, six lane, extremely wide boulevards, and there are no lights. Or if there are, not everyone adheres to the color of the light displayed. My reasoning was that if it got really scary, I would flag a taxi to go the final few blocks.

I found the place I had been on Friday night and ordered ginger shrimp with vegetables, and a glass of lime juice. Delicious! I guess I will have to come to this area more often if I want to eat out.

For the next few hours I strolled around the streets, stopped for a soda, bought some vitamins, then grabbed the bus back home.

I thought I might go for a walk in my neighborhood, but the thunder and lightning decided to appear. A bolt struck just struck within spitting distance of my apartment, causing me to jump out of my chair and yell. I’ve already looked out to see if there were any dead bodies on the street, but things appear to be ok.

I’m going to see if any good movies are on TV.
Kate