Shopping Overload

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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



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

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

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

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



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

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

Kate

The Hot & Dusty Trail

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

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

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

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

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

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



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




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

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


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

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



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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued.
Kate

Trekking & Buying

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

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

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

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

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

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


BAO

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



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

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

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


LILI

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



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

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

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


Bamboo, Lam, Ker, Zen

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

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

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

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

Night Train

My journey to Sapa began at 2pm on Sunday when I got in the taxi headed for the airport to catch my 4:30, two-hour flight to Hanoi. From Hanoi, I was to go to the Sinh Café travel office, arriving by 8pm in order to catch the 12-hour night train to Lao Cai. From there it is an hour bus trip up the mountain.

I had decided to fly with Pacific Air rather than Vietnam Air because it was $30 cheaper and I figured nothing could be much worse than Vietnam Air. I had wanted to get the earlier flight at 11:30am just to make sure I had enough time in case there were any delays, but that flight was sold out. When they announced that there would be a slight delay for the 4:30 flight, I started to get nervous.

At 4:45, every seat of the beat-up, old airplane was filled. This aircraft had been a former member of a Spanish speaking country, with bilingual cabin signs like occupied/occupado. The interior boasted its original everything, and I only hoped that they had spent any revenues on engine maintenance, since it obviously hadn’t been used on anything that I could see. Glancing at my watch, I willed them to shut the doors and take off. And just at that moment, I heard a thunder clap and the rain started to pour. Now I hoped that the pilot would do the smart thing and delay take-off. He didn’t, and we were soon in the air, cramped and uncomfortable. For the first time in my air flight life, I realized why those seats feel much worse than they probably are: it’s the seat in front of you. It invades your personal space and one is constantly trying to mentally push back from it.

Flight over, and at the baggage carousel, I met a woman from Zimbabwe who worked in Hanoi. We shared a taxi into town, which is an hour drive. She had recently been to Sapa so gave me a few tips. It was almost 8pm when I finally got to the tiny Sinh office. I had made it in time!

Shouldn’t we leave for the train station? I asked. “No”, the young office agent said, “there is plenty of time”. While I sat there I asked about who I would be sharing a room with, each berth having four beds. “We don’t know”. I asked about how many people would be on the trekking tours. “We don’t know, but not more than five”. At 8:15, I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut and asked, aren’t we going to miss the train? “No,” she said, “the train doesn’t leave until 10pm”. Well at least I was glad I hadn’t taken the 11:30 flight. But something didn’t make sense. If we left at 10, and it was a 12-hour trip, how was I to make the 8am breakfast and 9pm short trek? I asked. “The train arrives at 6am”, I was told. Things were looking a little better; it was only an eight hour trip.

At 8:30 the agent called a taxi over and we were off. A short drive later we picked up three other tour people, a Vietnamese woman in her 30’s and her parents. Arriving at the station I was once again glad I was not doing this alone. The streets were dark and teeming with people and taxis and motorbikes all making their way to the entrance. I secured my belongings with an iron grip and trailed closely behind the travel agent.

After passing through the ticket gate, we walked over to a poorly lit platform, squeezing through the crowds of loud people. One train had just arrived, the passengers moving towards us, making maneuvering even more difficult. We rounded the end of one train, then crossed over several tracks to another platform and waiting train, then down to the very last car.

When I got to my berth, I realized that the three people we had picked up were to be my cabin mates. Somehow, three of us walked into our tiny room at the same time and I had a near claustrophobic attack. Since two of our party were rather old, I said I would take a top bunk, dropped my bag, and went out of the train to clam down. I didn’t know how I was going to survive all night in such a tomb-like enclosure. I stayed out until it was time to take off.

Passing the other berths on the way to mine, I saw they were filled mostly with groups of foreign tourists, who seemed to be having a good-old time. Once inside mine, I climbed up to my perch, which didn’t even have enough space to sit up in. Surprisingly, once I lay down, the claustrophobia somewhat disappeared, even after the door was slid shut. I pulled out my book and proceeded to read. The cabin had a small table and lamp between the bottom bunks, and a small light over the door.

Around eleven, I looked down to see that my roommates were asleep, but had left the light on for me. I gingerly climbed down managing not to step on anyone, and made my way towards the bathroom at the end of the car. As much as I enjoyed the rocking of the train, I knew that taking a pee would be a challenge. The toilet was a squatter with hand rails on two sides, and as much as I did not want to grab on, there really was no choice. Squatting there, I thought of my friend who had done the trip while she was six months pregnant, getting up every two hours to use the facilities. I don’t know how she managed.

Back in the berth, I turned off the table lamp and tried to get comfortable. The bed was narrow, and I sort of wondered how many people had been railroad-rocked off the top. I moved closer to the wall. I tried everything I could do, but just couldn’t sleep, mainly because that damn night light over the door shone directly into my eyes. I fell asleep for thirty minutes and woke up with a headache, swallowed a pill and tried again. This basically went on all night, but I have to say it still beat the crap out of the same amount of time squeezed into an airplane seat. It didn’t seem to affect my roommates who were out cold all night. Finally, at 5:30 in the morning, with daylight breaking, I got up and went out to stand at the end of the car and look at the scenery through the cloudy glass and bars. I noticed that every exit from the car was either paddle locked or barred and tried not to think of cabin fires.

I figured we only had a short while to go when I met another passenger in the hall who said that the train was supposed to have arrived at 5:30am, but that the conductor kept adding hours. It was now due at 8:30. I was feeling rather rotten, so didn’t care that I might miss early morning activities in Sapa. Getting closer to our final destination, I put my hand to the glass window expecting it to be ice cold, but it wasn’t. I noticed the people we passed were not bundled up against the chill. I began to think about the clothing I had packed, and when I finally stepped off the train I said, Damn! Foiled again! It was pleasant and warm and I had all the wrong clothes.

Everyone I had spoken to who had taken the same trip had warned me that the bus up the hill from Lao Cai to Sapa was horrible simply because it was after such an exhausting train trip. I didn’t see it that way, even though I was sardined into a tiny fold down seat in a mini-van packed with twenty people. It was such different, beautiful scenery. I started to see people dressed in ethnic clothes which seemed odd and I couldn’t exactly explain to myself why I had this reaction. Maybe it was the sight of such completely different dress alongside western wear. Or possibly that they wore clothing one sees in postcards and books, but not walking around unless they are at some sort of multi-cultural festival.

We passed groups of water buffalo being herded up the main road along with people in various local dress with baskets on their backs; some filled with wood, others with vegetables, and some of them on motorbikes. As we climbed higher, I looked down the mountain to see hundreds of terraced farms, seemingly encompassing the entire valley.

Sapa is a small town, originally built as a “hill-station”, not that I am exactly sure what that is, other than a retreat for the Europeans wanting to escape the heat. Even with all the building that has gone on in recent years, it still feels quaint and peaceful. It was certainly evident that a booming tourist industry has taken hold. There are lots and lots of small hotels and café’s and gift shops. There are hundreds of tourists walking around and equally as many of the indigenous peoples either going about their daily business or trying to sell their wares.

I was the last person to be dropped off at my hotel, the Golden Sea. (I have no idea about the name.) It stood at the end of a road, with nothing around it but mountains. A young man from the office came out to tell me that I wouldn’t be in the main building, but next door in the Golden Sea 2, because they had a group of fifty arrive the day before. I followed him over to the other building and up to my room on the second floor. I walked in and noted that it was clean and new and completely adequate. The hotel guy opened up the balcony doors, and started to tell me about the plans for the day.

At this point I was feeling like total crap. Too many hours traveling, not eating, and then there was that altitude thing. I started to say something then stopped mid-sentence because I had just bothered to take a look out of the balcony and onto an unobstructed view of the mountains. It was absolutely breathtaking, and I was later to learn that I probably had the best view of any hotel room in town. Not only was there nothing to see but nature in every direction, there was no noise, only the sounds of people walking up and down the trail that lead to one of the villages.

I showered, unpacked, went to the main hotel to eat some very unimaginative food, then back to lie down. I really hoped I would feel up to the 2pm mini-trek.
And I was, but that will be told in the next chapter.

Kate

Sunrise

I saw the sunrise from my apartment today for the first time. My place faces due west and the sun’s journey across the heavens is just out of my buildings peripheral range. I had been hoping for this since the day I moved in, exactly six months ago. It would seem that this is to be an auspicious day to travel.

There is still another six hours before I have to get a taxi for the airport and I am in my usual, pre-travel, stress-state. I have organized all my clothing into days and just hope the layers of tropical togs will suffice for the chill mountain air. I really do need gloves but think I should be able to pick up a pair when I arrive. After I had laid out the outfits I realized that I’d only packed for the walking part of the trip and had nothing to wear in the evening should I need to look cute. It had happened to me in Cambodia; in the cool evenings and mornings I looked like a street person with layers of mismatched, ill-fitting items, thrown on in an attempt to keep warm, with no thought towards fashion. Remembering that, I threw in a few garments that may or may not make me look respectable. That aging hippie look is not an attractive one.

Although I am not looking forward to freezing, clean air will be a welcome change. The sighting of the morning sun only slightly made up for the thick smoke that is now permeating HCMC. Someone, somewhere, is burning the jungle.

I need to make one more trip to the supermarket, cram all my things in my bag, and I will be ready to go.
Kate

Winding Down

Two more days until the end of the term. One more day of finals, and all the reading of essays, marking, recording scores, and handing in paperwork. Then one day of teaching, although I doubt more than a few will turn up, if that. And on Sunday I leave for my trip up north.

After I finished marking about as many exams as I could for the day, and knowing I had to be home before 5 for my acupuncture doctor, I grabbed a taxi for the Sinh Café tourist office to purchase my train ticket/tour. I had only ever been to their office in the backpacker’s section of HCMC, but saw that there was a second one not far away.

I pretty much detest the backpacker area. It is jammed with cheap guesthouses, travel agents, low-priced cafes, somewhat costly boutiques, drinking establishments, and hookers. Quite a lot of people from work live in, and/or hang out there. I have no idea why. It’s quite the seedy locale. The Sinh office, right in the middle of it all, is a ghastly, hole-in-the-wall, with over-worked, under-paid, rather unpleasant staff. I was hoping that their sister office was better, and I was not disappointed.

Although it is walking distance from the nasty branch, it is a different world. I only saw a couple of foreigners on the street. The office actually looked like a tour office, and the ladies there were helpful and pleasant. Well, as helpful as they could be with limited English and my zero Vietnamese. (my language classes have again been put on hold because the teacher is out of town, but that is a whole, other, boring story.)

I pulled out the information I had picked up over the weekend and asked about other Sapa tours they might have. It all got very confusing. Mostly because a 4-day, 3-night trip, includes 2 nights on the train, and only one night in Sapa. I just can’t seem to get my head around flying up to Hanoi, a 2 hour flight, on Sunday, then boarding the train at 9:30pm, and arriving in Sapa at 7am. I think I am then taken to a hotel and either go village trekking right then, or after lunch. I finally decided to just pay for it and if I want to stay a day or two more, I’ll deal with it when I am there.

The whole idea of a 12-hour, overnight train ride, in a “soft-sleeper”, (which is a cabin with two bunk-beds), with three people I have never met in my life, sort of makes me itch. My worst case scenario is being stuck with a bunch of drinking, smoking, 20-somethings, or a local family who have brought on pots of fish and rice and screaming kids. I know I will never be able to sleep, and what do I do when I have to walk to the end of the car to pee? Will my clothing be safe? I can’t very well take a travel bag into the loo. I tried to see if I could pay extra for my own “room”, but was told I couldn’t. I felt totally trashed when I left the ticket office, but told myself this is how it always feels, and once I am on my way it will work out.

I really should stay either a few more days in Sapa, or take a few days in Hanoi. It’s just that I don’t like to do more than one thing a trip. And then there is the problem of taking cold weather, trekking clothes to Sapa, which will not be appropriate for Hanoi. Once again, the whole by-yourself-luggage hassle. Not to mention the freeze factor.

Lately, in HCMC, it has been 100ºF, (37ºC), and it stays toasty all night. Sapa might get up to 60ºF, (16ºC), during the day, and around 53ºF, (12ºC), or lower at night. That is a drastic climate change. And I do believe that it is 6000 ft elevation, so not only will I be experiencing hypothermia, but I will get altitude sickness. And no, I do not have the right clothing, but will make due. One friend told me not to worry, that they had the fireplaces roaring in the hotel. I simply can not, as I sit here drenched in sweat at 10pm, even imagine being cold, let alone cold enough for a fireplace.

But look on the bright side, I say to myself. I think there is still a bit left of that solar eclipse going on, somewhere in the world. Mercury is out of retrograde. I will pull out my tarot cards to make sure all the forces are in alignment, and if I had any incense, I’d burn it.

Best reason of all that I have to go is that I need new photographs. I have been reduced to this latest, which is another neighborhood shot. I refer to it as the Wisteria Lane/Stepford/Hollywood- back-lot, section of the burb.

If I don’t find anything to write about before I take off, you’ll hear from me in about a week.
Kate

Trip Plans

I have one more week of work, then a week off. I have been planning on going to the north of the country for some time, but am just now looking into how to do it.

You can put me on a plane with a suitcase and $100, fly me to any far-off corner in the world where I don’t know a soul and don’t speak the language, dump me on the tarmac, and I will be happy. And not just happy; thrilled. Within a week I will have a place to live and a job. But once I am there, I never seem to travel much.

All of a sudden, getting on a bus alone and going out on tour just seems too problematic. It has nothing to do with being alone, but everything to do with practicality. I mean, who watches your bag when you need to use the bus station bathroom, or when you dive into the surf at that beautiful beach? That being my general mindset, along with preferring to stay home and do all the things I never seem to get done when I am working, I don’t ever take full advantage of the places I have lived. Or haven’t until I came here.

Now, every break I’ve had, I’ve gone somewhere. Once I am on the road I love it and wonder why I’d spent time debating whether or not to travel. In the past week I have, once again, been thinking about not traveling during my break. Should I go, should I stay, should I get a tour, should I go it alone, should I book with this travel company or that? It seems so overwhelming that giving up on the idea presents a fairly nice alternative. Making all those choices and decisions alone, when one has limited information, sucks.

One of the reasons I like to live around the world is so that I can experience the local culture, especially that of indigenous peoples. I am entranced by their lives and clothing and artwork. In Vietnam, the remaining ethnic minority groups, as they are referred to here, live in and around the city of Sapa, way up north. I knew I wanted to go there, but didn’t, and don’t, know very much about them and the area in which they live. This last week of trip planning has proved educational.

First of all, I found out that I can fly to Hanoi, but then must take a 12 hour train ride up to Sapa. (again, who watches your bags on a 12 hour trip when you go to the head?) Staritng to think twice about it all, friends reassured me that the train ride is at night, in a sleeper car, and is very comfortable. Ok, so I guess I can manage that, but then I had to get some sort of tour because you just can’t hike around the hills looking for villages.

Following the suggestions of various colleagues, I went online and checked out what was available. Unfortunately, it seemed all the trips were designed for people coming from outside of the country. I was looking for a 3 or 4 day thing, and the ones listed were a minimum of ten days. The prices were ok, but not cheap, especially considering I would have to pay for the airfare and train trip.
I then remembered Sinh Café Tours. They run those $8 day trips to the Mekong Delta and other places. I hadn’t used them before, but remember running into an older couple who swore by them and who had had a fantastic time in Sapa with one of Sinh’s tours.

I got to their web site and was very happy to see that they had three day trips, starting from Hanoi where you get the night train, and the price was at least two-thirds less than the other companies. However, I then went on to read the details of the trip which included the word trekking. Right. I should have done better research, because I was sort of surprised to find out that one had to walk lots of kilometers to actually get into the village areas.

Once again I thought of not going. I am a walker and can walk and walk for hours. But trekking sounded scary. I walk on my own time at my own pace and a forced march is not my idea of a vacation. Did that also mean I had to be a backpacker? What was I to do but to put it off until a later date and maybe find someone who knew more about traveling in the north and might even go with me? I thought about it. If I don’t go in April, I won’t have a chance until the fall, and by then it would be the rainy season. Trekking down mountain slopes in the cold and rain is simply not an option for me. Besides, I reasoned, I was being very silly to not go to the one area I most wanted to see simply because of the word trekking.

That settled, I went into town to do some power shopping before hitting Sinh Café’s office. And since it was 200 degrees at 2pm, I stopped off for a cold drink where I ran into two friends. Both of the guys had been to Sapa, so I pumped them for info. Tell me about this trekking, I asked. My friend laughed. It’s an easy walk. The jeep drops you off at the top of a mountain; you leave your bags with the driver, who later hooks up with you at the bottom. The other friend went on to tell me that it was lucky there was only on Sinh Café in HCMC. In the land of no copyright laws it seems that numerous industrious individuals in Hanoi have ripped off their good name and ideas to get a piece of the action.

Once at the Sinh office, I requested information about the three day trip. The man at the counter got out a travel itinerary brochure and pointed it out. But this is different form the on listed online, I said. He just looked at me. I tried thumbing through the pamphlet, but couldn’t find what I had seen. I told him I would print out the online one and be back.

At home, I got on the computer and found the trip, then matched it word for word with the brochure I had been given. Well, it was almost the same. I looked at the logo. It was the same. Then I looked at the website listed on the brochure and it was not the same. Similar, but slightly altered. I remembered what my friend had said about the copycats. When I finally got the real Sinh Café online I saw hat they had included a notice about other companies that had stolen their name, logo, and trip description. And people wonder why I opt to vegetate at home.

I really think I might now have the right information. I will check with a few other people on Monday to make sure the local Sinh Café is the outfit to go with. I then have to get a plane ticket, then go book the tour. Which brings up another problem. I either take a morning flight and hang out in Hanoi all day, (who watches my bag?), or take the night flight which doesn’t give you enough time to make it to the train station so you have to stay in a hotel, and then you still have to do Hanoi all day. So why don’t I just stay a day or two and check out Hanoi? Because I choose to do one thing at a time and this time it is Sapa.

I need to buy some warm clothes.
Kate

Vernal Equinox

Today is the vernal equinox. I believe one is supposed to dance naked in the moonlight. Or possibly that is for the summer solstice. I may try it anyway and see if it leads to enlightenment. I might just be happy with not being a day behind, as I have for the past week or so.

I never forget St. Patrick’s Day, but did so last week for the first time in my life. It wasn’t until a colleague wished me shamrock greetings that I realized it was the 17th of March. In previous years, I have always brought in Irish music to class and done a mini, St. Patrick’s Day lesson. And since it fell on a Friday, by Monday it was just too far past the date to bother.

Not to worry, I had my Vernal Equinox lesson all set up. I decided not to print it out on Sunday night since I didn’t need it until Tuesday, the 20th of March. In class this morning, I casually asked what the date was. The 20th. This was getting too weird. Why was I a day off on everything? I decided to check with the astrology sages.

Just as I’d thought: not only is Mercury in retrograde from 2 – 25 March, it is doing so in my astrological house. Major bummer. Fortunately, we all have the total solar eclipse on 29 March to look forward to, with the promise of an exciting end-of-month for me. Let’s hope so.

Off to howl at the moon.
Kate

The Praying Mantis Story

Several months back, I came upon a praying mantis taking a nap on a fence at work. I tired, not to successfully, to get pictures of him. (see blog: 8 Nov). Since that time, I have been on the look-out for another. Then, on Friday, I saw one, on the same fencing material, but across the way from my first sighting.

I had no camera with me this time, but went over and talked to him. He totally ignored me and continued to rest. I was very pleased.

That next day at home, as I was opening curtains, I was surprised to see yet another praying mantis right on the bedroom window screen. When I leaned over to say hello, I realized that he was in fact on the inside of the screen, trapped in my apartment. I quickly opened the screen and tapped it hoping he would fly away. He didn’t. I tired a few other tactics, but he remained glued in place. I then went and got a plastic container and tried to coax him in. He still wouldn’t move. Carefully, I laid my hand next to him until he had no choice but to hop on board.

I was surprised at how sticky his little mantis feet felt as I slowly got him off my hand and into the container. Next, I gently deposited him on the windowsill and closed the screen. I had assumed that he would immediately fly away. But he just sat there and I started to get worried. I asked him if he was all right, but he didn’t answer.

I left him there for a few minutes and when I went back to check, he hadn’t moved. Had I inadvertently brought him home from work and trapped him in my house and now he was dying? Or had he flown in the night before and now was weak from lack of food? I went to the refrigerator and got some green leafy vegetables for nourishment although, I thought, maybe he eats little insects. Again, I left him hoping he would eat and fly away. He didn’t.

The next time I looked, he was on his side, roasting in the heat. Quickly, I picked him up, brought him inside, and placed him on the cool tiles by the balcony door. He was alive, but weak and I hoped it was just shock. Then I got a little plastic lid and put water in it. Do these creatures drink water from troughs? I bent down to talk to him and pet him. I told him to relax on the tiles, and that I would leave the door open so that he could fly away when he was ready. I also closed the curtains part way to keep it cooler.

An hour later, I needed to leave. My praying mantis was now on his side again. I moved him against the wall and propped him up. I thought about leaving him on the balcony just incase he did revive and could fly off while I was away. But I decided he wasn’t long for the world and he would feel safer inside. I entertained the thought of putting him out of his misery, but simply couldn’t do it. I really hoped that insects didn’t have a complex neural system and that he wasn’t in pain. I explained to him that I was going out and that he should rest.

When I got back home several hours later, he was again on his side, and I assumed he was dead. I carefully picked him up so that I could look closely at his amazing structure. He was so beautiful. And then a front leg slightly moved. My poor little mantis was still struggling, and I was still unable to end it all for him under the weight of a shoe. I remembered hearing about the painless, freezer technique for euthanizing goldfish. I put him in a tiny Tupperware, gave him a last pet, and into the freezer he went.

He is still there. I am not sure what to do with him. I suppose I should hone up on insect rescue techniques incase it ever happens again.
Kate

A Desk of One's Own

My dining room table, like all dining room tables in every place I have ever lived, has never once been used for a meal. I usually eat sitting in a chair, towel on my lap, bowl in my hand. The theory behind this is; why mess up a good work space with plates and utensils, when it can be better used as an ironing board, desk, bookshelf, sewing center, and crafts table? Anyway, I would feel totally ridiculous sitting down by myself in front of a placemat, water glass, and cutlery.

Writing is one of my most favorite activities. In fact if I could do nothing else all day, I would be very happy. Since I still have to work for a living, my hours spent at the lap-top on the dining room table are less than I would like, but still add up. And this has created a bit of a problem. It is a lovely table, but because of the design, I can’t scoot the chair in. Or rather I can’t do that and still be able to cross my legs, (a totally necessary action if I am to be comfortable). I have been meaning to get some sort of small desk for several months now, but things just take longer in foreign countries. However, today I persevered and will have my new writing station in two days.

Last week I talked to the guy in charge of facilities at work and asked where I could get a desk. He drew a map and wrote down the names of the streets. At noon today, when it was around 300 degrees, I just about blew it off. But then I sat down to write emails and immediately remembered why I desperately needed a proper place to write, not to mention work on art projects. (My current crafts table is the ironing board.)

The taxi dropped me at the corner of the furniture street and I went in to the first, small shop. I was in a part of town where I assumed no one would speak English, and I was right. I was able to point to a normal sized desk and explain I wanted the same thing but smaller, which they didn’t have. I then went into a tiny place that had tiny kid’s furniture. I looked at a school desk and thought it might work. But the shop owner was a taste surly, so I continued on down the road.

Two more stores and I found my place. It was larger than the others and a lovely, middle-aged woman came out to help me. She did speak a little English, which proved quite helpful. I found something close to what I wanted, but asked if they could make it without the drawers. This, I had to mime, but was understood. We finally got the right size and color, and instructions to assemble it without the foot rest and drawers. It will be delivered on Monday, at a very reasonable price.

That finished, I pulled out the other scrap of paper that had the street-of-cheap- shoes. This had been supplied by some of my students. Earlier I had checked the map and seen that it was only a few blocks from where I was. I think I have written about the impossibility of shoes here in sizes larger than teeny, and styles other than hooker. Hence, I was overjoyed to walk into the first store and see all sorts of doable footwear in larger sizes. I had been looking for sport shoes that could pass for work shoes, but ended up with funk-o-la Birkenstock style sandals, made of a pearlized blue.

Further down the street I walked into a fair sized shoe store with rack upon rack of all sorts of shoes. I was immediately drawn to the row of Doc Martins. Oohhhh, more totally un-university-instructor, happening shoes! At first I had assumed they were copies, but once again I was proven wrong. Guess Doc M also manufactures in Vietnam. And boy, have the styles changed since I had last tried on a pair. More importantly, those thick soles on some of the styles are now made with light-weight material, making them comfy and easy to walk in. I got two pair, at a total cost of about $17. I started to look at the sneaks, but I had already spent enough money and time shopping for one day.

I will now have feet and a back that won’t hurt. I am only worried about getting frostbite at work while wearing sandals.
Kate


Find the Frog

Trash Cans

I live on the 7th floor, with four other apartments opening off a small, rectangular area. Garbage pick-up here is done by throwing your trash out into the stairwell and waiting for the cleaners to pick it up, twice a day. Most of the people in my building, on all floors, don’t bother to double bag, tie the top closed, or even use a trash bag. It is nasty, especially when fish innards are involved. A while back, the management put up a notice asking people to take more care with their refuse and to possibly purchase a trash can.

Two or three weeks ago, I bought a lovely red, plastic bin with a top. I was very proud of my neatness and hoped the neighbors would follow suit. Instead, they started dumping things in my bin, like orange peels and cigarette butts, and open bags of trash. I would remove them on a daily basis. I thought maybe they didn’t realize it was my personal can, so wrote my apartment number on the lid.

Things were fine for awhile, until one morning I woke up to find my trash can had been stolen! It happened between 11PM and 6AM, so had to be a neighbor. The next Saturday, I bought another red bin for my apartment, and a large blue one for the neighbors. I wrote my apartment number all over mine, and the floor number all over the other. I thought the neighbors would be pleased. All that day, I peered through the peephole every time I heard someone coming or going. The trash bins were still there. Or at least until the 9:30PM check. Both had been taken!

After the first theft, I debated about how I would notify management or ask the cleaning staff if they had seen it. On my way out to work, I drew a quick sketch of the item in question, and wrote my apartment number below it. Upon meeting the ladies downstairs, I did a mime/drawing re-enactment of the crime. I think they understood. One of them mimed back how she removed my garbage every day and then replaced the lid. We looked at each other, shrugged our collective shoulders, and went off to our daily jobs.

I also tried calling the management office, which sent over a representative who spoke no English. Again, I drew a picture and did an impressive imitation of someone stealing my garbage cans. I think the guy nodded his head in agreement just so that he could get away.

My next step was to make a trip down the road to the management office. I finally found someone who spoke English well enough to understand the problem. She said to go back to my place and the building manager would come by. He did, and had been briefed on the situation, but had a very limited English vocabulary. I thought he said he would call the owners of the other apartments on my floor.

I have since called him, and I think he said he talked to the owners but that no one has seen my trash bins. I figure it has to be a neighbor because at 9 or 10pm, they, or their friends are the only ones on this floor. I walk down the stairs, but everyone else takes the elevator, so it couldn’t have been someone from another floor. Anyway, it is maddening, and worse, the trash situation is back to what it was, piles of rotting garbage in the hall.

I am starting Vietnamese classes next week.
Kate

Sisters Unite

International Women’s Day, 8 March. I should have joined in some sort of antiwar protest, or women’s rights march, but there aren’t any that I know of here. CODEPINK - Women Say No To War, had events all around the world, except here. I was ready and willing to march on down to the US Consulate and turn in a petition protesting the war. But I would have been alone. Maybe I should have done it anyway. I guess I will just have to send another email to the Whitehouse voicing my thoughts.

There didn’t seem to be any organized programs of a political bent here in HCMC. There was, however, lots of cards and flowers to be bought. I first noticed this over the weekend when I found a coupon in my mailbox offering a free treatment at a new hair salon in the neighborhood. The accompanying card said Congratulations on Women’s Day!

Yesterday at work, two of my students gave me a beautiful Happy Women’s Day card. One of the guards asked what I was going to do for Women’s Day. It seemed that it was to be celebrated like Mother’s Day or Valentines Day, which upset me. Last night I got on the internet and searched around for some pertinent reading material. I found it on the UNESCO student activities site. I dutifully printed it out, and used it for my morning class.

I was very pleased to find out that at least half of my class did know about the history of Women’s Day and what it represented. Those that didn’t, learned. After that, I didn’t mind the bouquets of flowers in staff offices, or the roses that were passed out. It was all a bit hokey, but as long as the real message was somewhere among all the gifts and orchids, I could live with it.

I’m off to write that email to Mr. Bush. Join me, won’t you?
Kate


[I went back to the river by my house and got better shots]

Herbs & Tahina

On the bus back from town today, a man sat behind me. Voice and physical appearance revealed that he was in his late 50’s, from Scotland, and fat. During the short, 20 minute ride, this is what I learned about him, mostly from his cell phone conversations. He had had breakfast in town, and was now returning to relax for the afternoon at the pub with a bottle of wine, followed by lunch. He has a friend and colleague named Chris who went to a big party on Saturday afternoon and got very drunk. He’ll see him at the office tomorrow morning at 8:00. They are to finalize the plans for the project and make sure the others have work to do for the entire week because, after all, they are paying the lads and they want to get their money’s worth. Mike will be at a different meeting tomorrow morning and will cover for this guy who doesn’t want to be there.

His loud voice was still ringing in my ears after he had exited the bus. Lucky for me, I was able to finally return my thoughts to the bag full of special items purchased at a store called Veggies.

I had heard of the place, but had thought it was an over-priced, small produce market that sold to the rich ex-pats; which it is. I had also heard it had imported processed overpriced garbage food; which it does. And these are the reasons that I had never shopped there. But after searching for popping corn for weeks, and asking everyone I ran across if they knew where I could get it, a friend said that Veggies was the place.

As I walked in, the first thing I noticed was the bulk bins of beans and grains. I found the pop corn right away. They had all sorts of beans and rice that you can buy anywhere, so I almost walked past the garbanzo beans. I had never seen them here. My next product search was for oregano and any other spices that I might be needing and had yet to find in HCMC.

I seem to be only foreigner in Vietnam who does not eat out. No inexpensive restaurants in my neighborhood and I don’t like the large amounts one gets in a restaurant are two of the reasons. But even if I wanted to not cook for a day, I can’t because of all the MSG that goes into every dish in any restaurant.

At first I was just cooking bland beans and rich and vegetables. Then I got into experimenting with coconut milk and invented some really tasty meals. But then I started to think about Italian food but I just couldn’t find the herbs and spices. In fact all that I had been using for flavor was garlic, onions, chili sauce, salt and pepper. I did find powered curry, but it has an odd taste. The supermarkets have lots of pre-mixed packages of spices. I have no idea what is in them other than MSG. People kept telling me that spices were available here, but I could never find them.

Veggies had a few shelves of imported, very costly herbs and spices. I would have been willing to pay top dollar for oregano, but just couldn’t seem to find it on the shelf. I was about to give up when I decided to ask one of the sales ladies.
“It’s in the cooler room”, she said. You mean it’s fresh? I asked? I followed her into the walk-in and almost fainted when I saw bags of fresh herbs. I got oregano, sage, rosemary, and thyme. (but no parsley). Some of it is grown here, and some imported. I bought a handful of each, so the cost was very reasonable.

Up at the cashiers, I looked at my items trying to think if I had forgotten anything.
Then I remembered that I was buying garbanzos to make humus, and therefore would need Tahina. I just knew they wouldn’t have it, but asked anyway. And they did! I even had a choice of two different types. The price was more than the total of all the other items and I almost put it back. Fortunately, I came to my senses and bought it. For someone who doesn’t really get excited about food, I was on a buzzing with cooking anticipation when I left the shop.

Once home, I put a small amount of each herb in the refrigerator, and laid the rest out on the counter to dry. Tonight I cooked up my first pot of pasta sauce. Mexican food is next on the agenda.

There is pop corn to pop
Kate
(the river pictured runs just to the right of the manicured garden walk, and this shot does not do it justice.))

Russian Olympics

The Torino Olympics have come and gone and although I didn’t see oodles of events, I was able to get my fill of skating. I had assumed, correctly, that the winter Olympics would not be broadcast on any Vietnamese channel or on ESPN, but continued to channel surf until I hit upon Orbita, the Russian satellite channel. It took me a few days, but I was finally able to pretty much figure out the broadcast times. (I did try to get the TV schedule on the internet, but unless you can Google in Ruskie, it is not to be found.)

I found myself glued to the commentary team, a man and a women in horribly tacky, red warm-up jackets, who showed excerpts from all the events and didn’t spoil it with too much talk.

Their coverage of the ice skating was far superior to any American broadcast, not that that is hard to do. I was able to watch skaters other than the top three, and enjoy their performances without all that babbling, interrupting the performances. When they did speak, they lacked the judgmental commentary that rules all US coverage. Or so it seemed to me.

I got to see the Russian athletes in their home towns and training venues. It is always enlightening to see what fantastic athletes have been produced from bare bones training facilities. The highlight, however, was the in-depth, hour-long story about Irina Slutskya, one of the world’s top women’s skaters.

First let me point out that we have all been mispronouncing her name all these years. The accent is on the first syllable, SLUTS-kee-a, not, sluts-SKY-ya. I have been watching her since she was about 15 so am well acquainted with her life story. I sat mesmerized as they interviewed her at home, interspersed with footage and re-enactments of her skating career. At times I actually thought I understood Russian, but it was really only that I knew what they were referring to. The re-enactment of the hospital scene needed no translation. Similarly for The World Championships and Olympics. But I did finally get to see her mom and husband, although I must say I really wanted to know what was said about him since I knew/know nothing. Irina has always come across as a lovely thing, and even more so in the interview. Why is it they don’t subtitle these sorts of programs and broadcast them around the world? I am sure many of us would love to get an insight into elite athletes from other countries.

I was sort of rooting for her in the finals even though I knew she was really too old to be in the Olympics. I checked all the internet sources I could, figured that Orbita would be broadcasting live, converted to Vietnam time, then set the clock for 5AM. I turned on the TV just in time to catch the awards ceremony and get the best news of the day that the Japanese woman had won. I always like it when a person that no one expects to take gold, wins.

The other big thrill was seeing the Israeli ice dancing team of Sergai and Galit. It is the opinion of those in the know, and not just mine, that Sergai is the best male ice dancer ever to have graced the rink. Usually, ones eyes focus on the gals, but not when he is performing. He is an utterly beautiful, dead-sexy skater, who I would pay big bucks to skate in my living room. Even more fortunate, I got to see a second, rebroadcast of one of their routines.

So, it wasn’t the entire Olympics, but I am fairly sure the coverage I saw was better than anything people saw in the US.

Off to dream about ice dancers.
Kate

Garden Walk

Walking in my neighborhood is generally a quiet experience, if not spectacularly beautiful. After 5PM, the workers stop the drilling and tile cutting and all the other bothersome noises. I used to walk out of my building and head off down the street, walking about three blocks before it dead ends.

It is a gravel street and there are streetlamps, but the completed houses are very sparsely placed. One is going up directly across the street from me, and about six others within sight of my apartment. But mostly, it is deserted streets and frogs and crickets make the only real noise.

When I get to the dead end, I turn left and can walk another five blocks. If I turn right at the third block, I enter what can only be described as a Hollywood set, or maybe Disneyland, or possibly the Stepford neighborhood. It is a gated community of attached, row houses, running along narrow streets. By the extent of the growth of the gardens, I am assuming it was completed at least five years ago. The houses are three levels, half of the top floor taken up by a spacious balcony. The entrances of many of the homes are a veritable jungle of flowering vines and well-groomed gardens. It is all very pretty and very safe feeling, yet quite odd. The first time I walked through I got the chills. It was just to ‘perfect’. But by the second or third trip I was hooked. I could picture living there. Maybe.

The only problem with that walk is that it wasn’t long enough so I would head out onto the main street where it gets very noisy and rather ugly. I live on the left side of the giant street/freeway that barrels through town. The other side of the road has many more completed houses and they are of a different nature. After the few, 15 story, dog-ugly apartment blocks, there are mostly gargantuan houses, or very large, side-by-side duplexes. I had thought I had explored it all but the other day I found out that I hadn’t. I came upon the most incredible man-made stream.

It is a kilometer long stream built down the middle of a road. It must be about five meters wide, (but never trust my area calculations). Suffice to say that it is wide enough to have a curving stream run down the middle, flanked by incredible landscaping. The banks of the stream are built with round stones. A path winds up one side, then crosses over to the other, then farther up it returns to the other side, and continues this weaving back and forth the entire way. Sometimes a wooden bridge takes you across; sometimes it is giant stepping stones. Along the way you pass trees and flowers all meticulously and aesthetically arranged. Lilly pads and lotus flowers float on the water. There is even a mini waterfall where the stream crashes over a stone ledge.

You can walk along it at night because there are lights. You can take a rest on one of the benches. And even though there is street on either side, there is very little traffic, although this will probably change as the area is built up. For now, one side is all open land, lying along the banks of a river tributary.

In the evenings, you can see families with kids seated on a bench, munching on snacks. There are also a lot of young couples who park their motorbikes on the side, then side on a bridge or a bench or on the grass. It is a most pleasant place to wander.

Regrettably, I can’t simply walk away from the stream and into my house. There is the short walk back to the main road, past massive construction sites engaged in erecting a block long structure. And then I have to risk life and limb getting across the street/freeway. There is a stoplight, but it doesn’t mean much, especially to the semi drivers who race through red lights while blowing their horns. In fact, the thought of that part of the walk has kept me in at times.

Time for my walk.
Kate

Rain/Post Office/Work Permit

The rainy season, I was told, would end in November and then there would not be a drop for six months. It rained right up until New Years Eve. Then yesterday, there were some sprinkles. And this afternoon, there was a veritable downpour for over an hour! I had to ford the rapidly filling balcony, to take out the drain filter before I got internal flooding. We even had lightening. It does clean the air, but if it isn’t supposed to happen, it is a little worrisome.

This first week back, after the two week break, felt like three weeks. Aside from the work schedule, I was supposed to deal with bank, work permit stuff, as well as international post issues. Of the three items on my list, none has been resolved.

Way back in July, about two weeks before I left for Vietnam, I was informed by my first employer that I would need notarized copies of all my teaching credentials and diplomas, and a letter stating I was not a criminal. I then had to send said documents to the employer’s office in Los Angeles, and he contacted the Vietnamese consulate in San Francisco. Or something like that. I then had to go to the consulate and get my visa. I assumed that since I was given the visa, all was in order.

When I arrived, there was other paperwork to be done, like registering my residence with the police and getting the health check. All that paperwork was done by others, so I assumed I was in the clear.

Back in October, before I even started working at the new job, I went to HR to ask what I needed to do about working papers. “You don’t need to do anything for a year,” I was explicitly told. That sounded odd, but easy.

Then, right before the Tet break, I received an urgent email from HR telling me I needed to get my work permit papers in NOW. I went to talk to the women in charge and asked why, if she hadn’t wanted any documents in October, that it was now urgent. I didn’t get an answer. So, I brought in all of my paperwork that had been sufficient for the first job. She went through them and asked for my passport. I couldn’t give it to her because I needed to go to the bank, then go to Cambodia. I was about to leave when she asked for my “blue book”. Huh? Turned out to be a little blue notebook that is supposed to be in my possession at all times, documenting that I am registered with the police. My realtor was supposed to have given it to me within a week of moving in. The HR lady was quite alarmed that I didn’t have it.

After work, I went by the realtors and asked about the blue book. Apparently, a gal they had working there when I moved in had neglected to get it done and they weren’t even aware of it. However, within two days I got the book.

This Monday, armed with my blue book and passport, I went back to HR. When the woman checked my blue book, she saw that the date listed for my move to my apartment was Oct 2006, not 2005. I suggested she take white-out, and fix the date. No go. Before I could leave to take my book back to the realtors to have them take it back to the police, she said I was missing a document. Huh? Yes, I needed a document from the State of California stating that the notary, who notarized my documents, is registered with the State. I really tried not to scream. I think she mentioned something about a letter from Washington DC stating I was not a criminal, but I pretended not to hear. How could I need more documentation than what I had already given to the first job?

She did say that it all would have to be sent to the US to be translated and verified. I said that this had already happened, and couldn’t she just email the consulate in SF? No.

The situation to date: I still don’t have the blue book because the police are on vacation this week. When I went into HR yesterday, nothing was mentioned about the Notarization of the Notary, so I didn’t ask. Push comes to shove, I can renew my visa on my own in March, but would really like to avoid any government offices. The post office is already more than I can handle.

Every single item sent from outside the country, other than a letter, is opened and thoroughly searched. My bag of candy corn took three months to arrive, and then I got a notice to go to the PO to pick it up. Since the address was in the same district that I live in, I figured it would be a short taxi ride away. 30 minutes later, taxi meter running, I was at the PO, where I had to present my passport and pay a dollar in customs to get my melted candy corn. At least they hadn’t opened the bag of candy. Once I got home and dug in to my treats, I realized it had all been worth it, but was worried about the other three packages containing books that were due to arrive shortly.

At work the next day, I asked around for any post office tips. I turns out that most people get things sent to a Vietnamese friend, and they pay no customs. Or if it gets sent to the main PO, there is no problem. But if you live where I do, it goes to the PO in the South Forty and you get charged as high as they can get away with. This was becoming a nightmare.

But when I got home that day, I found two mailer-bags with my books form the US, waiting at my door! They were worth more than the candy corn, but I guess the post office didn’t see it hat way.

I probably shouldn’t even mention the nasty work schedule that I was given, (like it was a reward, or something), because I was one of the few teachers qualified to take that particular class. The hours are foul, the workload way more than any other class. But it I was assured that when it was over, in just 4 weeks, I would be back to a normal schedule. I am now not so sure of that. The icky class finishes next Friday, yet the boss lady tells me she will “try” to get me a class, but won’t know until next week. I have had one long headache all week.

But, hey, it’s Friday and I am hoping against hope that I will be able to get some Olympic coverage here. I am doubtful. Winter sports are not high on the agenda of tropical nations. Thank god for American Idol!
Kate

Last Angkor Note / TET

There was one truly upsetting sight in the temples; that of the decapitated statues. One after one, outside and inside the temples, nearly all their heads had been sheared off and taken as booty. It was most unsettling. I tried to imagine how the looters could have defiled the figures in such a way, and not felt like they had just maimed someone.

I then started to notice the replicated Buddha heads used as decoration or sold as souvenirs and felt ill. These are the same heads we have all seen printed on t-shirts or sitting in restaurants, but never before had I realized that they were representations of temple robbers.

Back in Vietnam, 28 January was the first day of Tet/Chinese New Year/Lunar New Year. I was able to see the midnight fireworks from my apartment. In fact I could see three different displays. I liked the fact that I was very far away. (fireworks scare me).

That morning, I’d run to the supermarket to stock up, knowing that stores and businesses would be closed for the three days of Tet. Having forgotten juice, I managed to make it to my local corner shop just as they were rolling down the metal gate at noon. It wasn’t until later that evening that I realized I had forgotten to ask them to deliver my 20 liter bottle of water. I had visions of boiling gallons of water for the next few days.

It turned out that there were a few of the Korean owned, mini-marts open, so I was able to purchase as many 2 liter bottles of water as I wanted, and paid three times the price of my big bottle.

I had missed a lot of the festivities leading up to Tet, but thought I could get into town on the second or third day to see things. It was not to be. The shuttle bus I take was off for the holidays, and I didn’t feel like forking out all that money for a taxi in two directions. However, I must say that life at the homestead has been very nice indeed.

My whole neighborhood has turned into a ghost town, the best part being that there is no construction going on. So far, it has been five days of silence. I had thought everything would be closed for three days, but now I’m not so sure. The post office was open today, but the bank was not. The supermarket opened for half a day, but had no produce. I still have an apple left, but have had no veggies since returning from Cambodia. So it’s tofu and rice for another day.

Hundreds of potted plants and trees adorn all the entrances to the apartment complexes here, as well as in front of all businesses. Lots of flowering yellow trees and chrysanthemums, and other plants I recognize but don’t know their names. Some trees have red money envelopes attached to their branches, and lots of houses have hung red lanterns out front. It would have been nice to go to the Chinese areas in town to see the lion and dragon dancers and all the decorations, but I just wasn’t able to do it.

The house across the street was finished in time for Tet and the family, with the minimal of household effects, moved in Saturday morning. The main workers had finished a few weeks ago. I have been following their progress since I moved here, and was dismayed to see that not only had they moved on, but their entire, makeshift housing complex had been completely dismantled and removed in a matter of hours. I didn’t even see them do it which, for some reason, bothered me. I had been following their lives from afar for over three months. Then, for a period of about three hours I didn’t look out the window, and when I did, there was no trace that they had ever even been there. It was a very strange feeling.

All and all, it seems that the Year of the Dog is getting off to an auspicious start.
Prosperity and health for all.
Kate