Confessions of an Alleged Traveler

Ben & Huyen are getting MARRIED!

2010-05-07T10:48:00.012-06:00

Congratulations Ben and Huyen! I'm so excited for you guys and I wish you all the best.

This is one of the first photos I have of Ben and Huyen together. It was right after we played badminton in the park.

I met Ben on my first full day in in Ho Chi Minh City. We both ended up moving to Hanoi, where we became roommates after a band of ninjas scared Ben from his previous house.

You can basically follow their entire relationship on Ben's blog. Ben met Huyen right before we moved in together and their love caused us to get evicted (ok, it was my fault too). But we found a new place where Huyen and Jessica were welcome all the time.

Ben and Huyen just celebrated their two year anniversary and Ben popped the question on the beach. There's a video of it, but the audio is horrible (on purpose -- Ben didn't want anyone to hear the gushy details).

Ben's first blog about Huyen ends with this sentence:

"If it does turn into marriage, I expect everyone to fly out for the wedding."

I guess that means Jessica and I had better find a way back to Hanoi.

The wedding is set for December 19, 2010 outside of Hanoi. Congratulations again Ben and Huyen!

Vermont Snow Storm

2010-04-06T15:12:00.005-06:00

It's well into spring now and the weather's fine, but I'm sharing a video from late February of a snow storm in Brattleboro. Jessica thought it was a good idea to bring an umbrella out in a snow storm.

Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream

2010-02-28T07:00:00.004-07:00

Jessica had a reading week in February. Jessica is in the middle of her master's degree at the School for International Training. But instead of reading, she insisted we take a Vermonty vacation and go to Burlington. It's not a long way away, roughly 2.5 hours, and Ben & Jerry's Homemade Ice Cream just happened to be on the way. Of course we stopped for a visit. We took a tour of the factory, sampled some Hanna Teeter's Maple Blondie ice cream, and got some ice cream cones. The best part of the tour was the flavor graveyard, where discontinued flavors are laid to rest.

(Click on the picture above to see the whole thing. I guess it's too big for the space here.)

Brattleboro Ski Jump Competition

2010-02-19T17:13:00.003-07:00

I've been living with Jessica in Brattleboro, Vermont since October. I recently decided that I should start contributing to the internet again, so I took my camera to the 86th Annual Harris Hill Ski Jump Competition in Brattleboro. The ski jump is basically in Brattleboro. Jessica and I live near the corner of Main Street and High Street and it took us about 15 or 20 minutes to walk to the Harris Hill Ski Jump.

Snake Eating a Chipmonk

2009-08-23T09:06:00.008-06:00

Jessica came out to Colorado after my Colorado Trail trip. One of the first things we did in Boulder was to take a hike in Chautauqua to the Royal Arch. The highlight:

Colorado Trail Part 2

2009-07-13T17:22:00.009-06:00

I didn't finish the Colorado Trail. From June 28 to July 9, I hiked from Breckenridge to Twin Lakes.

After I hurt my foot, I knew I didn't have time to finish the trail. So instead of pushing miles, I brought a fly rod and decided to spend some time fly fishing and climbing mountains.

I fished the East Fork of the Eagle River near Camp Hale and caught a bunch of brook trout. All of them were small. I kept 4 fish and roasted them over a fire.

A few days later I fished a set of beaver ponds near the point where the Mount Elbert trail diverges from the Colorado Trail near Twin Lakes. Here I caught a lot of 8 to 10 inch brook trout and some 10-16 inch cutthroat trout.

I also climbed a minor peak between Breckenridge and Copper Mountain and Mount Ebert near Leadville. Mount Elbert is 14,443 feet above sea level and the highest peak in Colorado.

Colorado Trail Part 1

2009-06-24T18:03:00.009-06:00

So I made it to Breckenridge before I hurt my right heel. Nothing serious, thankfully, but I wanted to give myself a few days before moving on. My right heel is a little swollen and it hurts to walk in boots with a pack. Other than that, I've perfectly fine (but a little sore). I'm headed back out by Sunday, June 28th.

Colorado Trail

2009-06-13T17:03:00.001-06:00

I’ve been home in Boulder for 3 months. I’m ready to leave again.

Iain and Mikka, two friends from Hanoi, recently came out to visit me in Colorado. Iain and Mikka are leaving for China at the end of June. Mikka’s got a great photoblog, complete with a post about Colorado.

Instead of going abroad, tomorrow I’m off to solo hike the Colorado Trail.

The Colorado Trail starts outside of Denver and winds through the Colorado Rockies for 500 miles to the town of Durango in the southwest of the state. I’ve spent a considerable amount of time planning and preparing. I estimate that the whole thing will take 28 days.

My Dad is meeting me a few times on the trail to resupply me with food, which is fantastic because it means I don’t have to carry 28 days of food, I only have to carry a week’s worth. 28 days of food is about 55 pounds.

Right now, with a full week’s worth of food, my pack weighs about 45 pounds. I’m pretty sure I over packed, but at this point it’s hard to say what I won’t need. Next weekend, when I meet my Dad outside Breckenridge to resupply, I’ll send any unnecessary gear back with him to lighten my pack.

Being alone for a month is what worries me the most. I’ve spent plenty of time in the backcountry, but never this much time alone in the backcountry.

Also, it’s been an incredibly wet spring / early summer in Colorado. Every day for the past few weeks it’s rained. I don’t mind backpacking the rain, but I hope I get some good weather too.

Interesting fact: the average elevation of the Colorado Trail is over 10,000 feet. The low point is outside of Denver at approximately 6,000 feet and the high point is well over 13,000 feet.

I'm bringing a camera, so I'll post some photos when I finish.

Homeward Bound

2009-03-17T16:21:00.004-06:00

Currently I am sitting in the airport in Saigon waiting for my flight to Hong Kong to board: with one year in Vietnam under my belt, I’m headed for America. I bought my ticket three or four weeks ago and now I have mixed feelings about returning.

Tuesday I flew from Hanoi to Saigon. Leaving was difficult. I said goodbye to Ben and Huyen outside our house — it was very sad. Jessica took a cab with me to the airport and we said goodbye (hopefully more like see you later, in four or five or six months) at security. (See Ben's blog and Jessica's blog)

Ben found two couples to move into our house, meaning Ben’s going from 1 roommate to 4 roommates, but it’s only for six weeks because after that Ben’s returning to the States, but unfortunately he’s going alone because Huyen didn’t get her visa. Ben’s planning on returning to Huyen and Vietnam next winter sometime, after traveling for a bit and maybe teaching in Japan or Russia.

In Saigon, Hien, Linh, and Au took me out to dinner. My last meal in Vietnam was a selection of different types of spring rolls (nem). Then we went for beers with Zach, a guy who’s teaching in Saigon. Zach grew up in south Denver, less than an hour from where I grew up, and graduated from the same university in the same year as me. We never met until last December in Phnom Penh, Cambodia.

There are positives and negatives to leaving Vietnam. I’ve met a lot of great people here and the country is amazing and offers a lifestyle that I can’t replicate at home.

Positives:

I get to see my friends and family back home, which I’m really excited about.
Skiing/mountains/other fun.
I have some trips roughly sketched out:

I am going to visit my grandparents in Arizona in April and maybe going to Las Vegas and Salt Lake City also.
Iain and Mikka, two friends/co-workers from Hanoi, are going to California in April. Iain’s Scottish and has never been to America and Mikka grew up in San Francisco. They’re planning on spending a few months traveling around America before going to teach in Japan. We’re hoping to rendezvous in Colorado or elsewhere.
I’ve been talking to my friend Dave about flying to DC in May when his finals are finished, help him pack and drive to Chicago, then fly home from Chicago. We discussed touring bourbon country in Kentucky on the way. Airfare for such a trip was absurdly cheap when I priced it a few weeks ago.
Ben and Jessica will both be in New Jersey next summer, plus Steve will be in New York after he finishes his escapades in Israel. I have never been to New York.
Jessica got accepted to a masters degree program in international education in Vermont, which she’ll start in September. I have never been to Vermont.

Negatives:

I’m leaving the people I’ve met in Vietnam over the past year.
I’m going from a country where I can easily get a job because my primary qualification is that I’ve spoken English all my life to a country where I may not be able to get a job at all.
I’m going from living in a five-story house with one roommate to living with my parents.
I’m trading in my motorbike for whatever car my parents aren’t driving at the time.
I’m going from a place where a beer costs $1.25 and a nice meal at a restaurant costs $6.00 to a place where a beer costs $4.00 and a nice meal at a restaurant costs $15.00.
I’m going from a place where I can walk into a DVD shop and buy most any movie for $1.00 to a place where a DVD rental costs a few dollars.
I’m going from a place where a bowl of pho costs $1.00 to a place where a bowl of pho costs $6.00 or $7.00.

The plan right now is to return to the States and start looking for a job in the environmental/experiential/outdoor education field. That sort of work would take me through the summer, but it wouldn’t start until May-ish. I’m returning now because most of those jobs require training in wilderness medicine. The most convenient course starts next Saturday in Boulder. After next summer, I have no idea what I’ll do. The preliminary options are return to Asia to teach or work at a ski area, but I don’t like to plan more than six months at a time: too restrictive.

On the up side, I have an interview scheduled for Thursday when I get home. And my mom is cooking French toast tomorrow morning.

One of the big jokes around the school I taught at is that everyone comes back to Hanoi. It’s not hard to see why.

Tam Đảo

2009-03-15T05:20:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, Jessica and I took an overnight trip to Tam Đảo, aka the Đà Lạt of the North. While I’ve never been to Đà Lạt (located north of Sài Gòn in the central highlands), I can say that Tam Đảo is a great place for a weekend retreat from Hanoi.

Tam Đảo is a French Hill station from back when the French built hill stations. It’s 60 km outside of Hà Nội in the mountains. Since it is March, Tam Đảo was considerably colder than the lowlands. The forests are beautiful and as soon as you start driving up the mountain you can feel the air become cleaner and sweeter, not to mention cooler. In addition to the forest, there are a few nice waterfalls near the town.

Vietnamese Motorbike License

2009-03-14T07:04:00.005-06:00

I finally got a motorbike license. After many delays, I was able to take the motorbike driving test. I got to skip the written test because I already have a Vietnamese driver's license, which I had transferred from my Colorado driver's license.

The first time I tried to take the motorbike driving test, I didn't bring a critical document, meaning I couldn't take the test. Luckily Huyen had come with me, otherwise there is no way I would have known what I was missing — no one spoke English.

I rescheduled for another day, but I couldn't find a time that worked for me until two months later. This time I was on my own. When the day finally came, I went to the licensing office and was told to sit in a room with some other Vietnamese people. Finally, after 30 minutes, my name was called by a woman who lead me and some others into another room with desks. In that room I waited for 20 minutes before a man told the group I was sitting with to go upstairs. I was instructed via hand gestures to remain behind.

As I waited, the next group came in and sat down. One of them spoke enough English to tell me what was going on. You do not speak Vietnamese. You cannot take the test without a translator. With the help of my friend, I explained to the man that I didn't have to take the test and showed him my driving license. Another 20 minutes went by.

I was allowed upstairs to the testing room with the next group. They took one look at my driving license and immediately gave me a paper and sent me downstairs where I was directed across the large parking lot to a small table with an older Vietnamese man sitting with a stack of papers. He was watching people take the driving test in front of him and marking scores on their paper. I handed my paperwork to him and took a seat.

20 minutes later my name was called. I walked to the start of the course and got on the provided motorbike. The provided helmet was huge and lacked a chin strap — not exactly safe. The driving test was basically an obstacle course. First there was a giant figure eight which I had to follow three times around, then out of the figure eight and onto a narrow line which I had to stay on, then a U turn followed by a series of zigs and zags while avoiding the lines, then a U turn and a series of small speed bumps. The whole test took 4 minutes, but the entire time a crowd of Vietnamese people were watching me. They normally watch each other anyway, but I think they were especially interested in the foreigner taking the test.

I did very well on my motorbike test and I passed on the first try. The older man doing the grading spoke some English and he proceeded to tell me how handsome I was and how well I drove a motorbike, then asked me what I though of the Vietnamese girls. He gave me a paper and told me to come back in three or four weeks to pick up the motorbike license.

I was a process for sure, but it's a good souvenir. The motorbike license and the car license look identical, but a different box is checked on the back. You think they could just check both boxes on one license, but no, that's not the way Vietnam works.

NASA Technology

2009-03-13T06:54:00.006-06:00

Does it seem like NASA's heyday is long in the past? Maybe that's because they haven't been focusing just on space.

Ben, Huyen, Jessica and I went to a chicken restaurant a week ago to eat fried chicken. Turns out that the table we were eating on was made with NASA Technology. Not only has NASA been developing tables, it's been selling them to restaurants in Vietnam — no wonder the Chinese are catching up!

Batu Caves

2009-03-09T05:26:00.004-06:00

We spent our last day in Malaysia at the Batu Caves outside Kuala Lumpur. The caves themselves are not particularly impressive as far as caves go, but after they were “discovered” (by an American zoologist in 1878), an Indian trader decided that the caves would make a good place for worship. A Hindu temple (to Lord Muruga) was built and now the Batu Caves are one of the most popular places of Hindu worship outside India.

The caves have a set of stairs leading up to their entrance. Along the rail of the stairs a number of monkeys stood waiting for people to feed them fruit, which was encouraged by the many people selling fruit just for that purpose.

Jessica was really excited about the caves. She found out that there is a major festival at the temples, but it was scheduled for the following day, when we were flying back to Hanoi. We went anyway, hoping some were starting the festivities a day early. We weren’t disappointed. There were two highlights. At the top of the stairs there is a large open area back inside the cave that has a temple. We watched one girl lie down on the ground while and put her hands over her head like superman, with her head and hands pointing towards the temple. Then another girl rolled her over and over around the temple. The floor wasn’t what you’d call clean. There was standing water in many areas and trash everywhere, and when the girl was finished with her loop she was very dirty and wet.

After we left the cave itself, we walked the area outside and found a man sitting in a chair blindfolded while a group of men tied nail sandals to his feet. Imagine a bed of nails cut in the shape of a sandal. Then the man got up and took maybe ten steps towards the stairs to the cave, then sat down on the chair. Someone in the group of men following him brought the chair. We watched him for 20 minutes and he looked like he was in pain. We thought he had to walk all the way up the stairs, but that’s just a guess.

My favorite part of the caves was the monkeys. Near the temple inside the cave, where we saw the girl rolling on the ground, was a large group of monkeys that fought over bananas and coconuts that people were throwing to them. The cave at this point had a large opening that went up to the top of the mountain. It looked dangerous to try to climb up there, but I guess if you’re a monkey it’s fine.

There were also a number of cats in the area with the monkeys, which got my hopes up of a cat/monkey fight, but they generally ignored each other.

Melaka

2009-03-08T05:49:00.003-06:00

Over Christmas I spoke with my coworker Lars about my trip to Malaysia. Lars gave Malaysia glowing reviews, except for Melaka. He said he had spent one or two nights there and he couldn’t figure out why people liked that place so much.

I shared this information with Jessica and she promptly booked two nights there. Luckily we did end up staying (we went to Taman Negara instead). But when we got back to KL from Kota Bharu, we decided to take a day trip down and check it out.

It is a pretty neat town with a great history. The Portuguese took the city from the locals at some point in the 16th century, and since then the city has seen an assortment of Dutch, British, Japanese, and Malay rulers. The city is listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

While the city is worth a brief stop, my friend Lars was right on in his assessment. We walked around the old China Town, saw the old Catholic Church built by the Portuguese, and walked around rest of the city a bit, then made our way to the bus station and went back to KL.

The most interesting things in Melaka are the Portuguese and Dutch headstones in the old church, almost all from the 16th and 17th centuries.

A Night of Guesthouses

2009-03-07T04:50:00.006-07:00

After Kota Bharu, we took a night bus back to Kuala Lumpur. The ride was uneventful but we arrived in KL at 4 am. The hostel we had previously stayed at was booked, so Jessica made reservations at The Green Hut Lodge. We took a taxi to the guesthouse. At 4:30, we didn’t think they’d give us a room, but we were hoping to drop our bags off and wander the city. Fortunately for us, the receptionist let us have the room on the condition that we pay after 10 am. If we paid before 10 am, he explained, it would go on his register and we’d have to pay for the extra night. Great!

We found our room and we brushed our teeth, only to find that the room smelled like a high school locker room, plus it had no windows. I went to the front desk to ask if we could switch rooms. He gave me the keys to another room, which I checked out while Jessica waited in the stinky room. The new room also lacked a window, but it smelled fine. The problem: the room was tiny and shared an A/C with the adjoining room, and they had it turned up full blast. Too cold! I went back to the front desk and asked if they had a room with a window. They did, in fact, have a room with a window, but it cost 3 USD more. In all fairness, 3 USD added to a room that costs 6 USD is a 50% increase, but we’re still only talking $4.50 a night per person.

Jessica settled into the new room while I returned the key to the first room to the receptionist. When I got back to the new room, Jessica was sitting on the bed looking at the walls. “There’s bugs,” she said. I looked at the wall, and the floor, and the bed, and found bugs pretty much everywhere. “Ah, let’s go somewhere else,” I suggested. And we got dressed, repacked everything we’d unpacked, and went downstairs. I gave the key back to the receptionist. He must have been wondering about the people who came to his hostel, tried three different rooms, and left, all without ever paying.

We walked the few blocks back to Paradiso, the hostel we’d stayed at before and liked tremendously. By 6:00 the receptionist was awake preparing breakfast, so we asked if he had any rooms that had become available. He didn’t, but he called another hostel that they send guests to when their hostel is booked. We walked to the new hostel, which was very nice, and promptly feel asleep.

When we woke up we had a little of the day left. We walked around looking for something to do (no more shopping), and we decided on stopping for foot massages and this:

That’s right, we had a bunch of fish eat the dead skin off our feet. Once you get over the tickling, it really isn’t so bad.

Shopper's Paradise

2009-03-06T05:34:00.003-07:00

Steve S., you’ll be proud of me. I went shopping in Kuala Lumpur and bought five new shirts.

I’ve kept that blue one you like so much. I’ll wear it for you next time I see you. Below is a picture of me in Phu Quoc wearing the blue shirt, in case you forget what it looks like.

There is a lot of shopping to be had in Singapore and Kuala Lumpur. Singapore is 50+ giant shopping malls. Kuala Lumpur isn’t quite that bad, but it’s close. Both cities are shopper’s paradises.

Kuala Lumpur is best known for inexpensive clothes. This is where I bought my five new shirts.

Singapore is also known for clothes, but they’re more expensive than in KL. Singapore is best known for electronics and other similar items, which are cheaper than you can find almost anywhere else in the world. And it being Singapore, you’re not likely to find a cheap knock off, but the real thing.

Jessica, I came to find, loves to shop. I spent a significant amount of time browsing/waiting for her and keeping her away from stores. She wasn’t actually that bad, plus living in Hanoi can be difficult because sometimes it’s a search to buy find something that would take ten minutes to buy at home (or in Singapore or KL).

Night Train to Kota Bharu

2009-03-05T07:16:00.000-07:00

From Singapore, Jessica and I took a night train to Kota Bharu, a city in the northeast of Malaysia near the Thai boarder.

Kota Bharu is a poor town by Malaysian standards, but it's the capitol of Kelantan, the only Muslim-majority state in Malaysia. It was really interesting to see the town, which was definitely more traditional and conservative than Kuala Lumpur or Singapore. Many of the women in Kota Bharu wore hijabs (head scarfs) and almost all of them had their shoulders covered. The first day in town Jessica wore a tank top. No one said anything to her about it, but she felt like she stood out. Before dinner that night, she wrapped an thin scarf around her shoulders. The highlight of Kota Bharu was the night food market. Below Jessica is eating blue rice and fish while wearing her scarf. I am eating yellow rice and spicy chicken.

Singapore

2009-03-04T05:00:00.003-07:00

We left Taman Negara and headed back to Kuala Lumpur, where we promptly boarded a bus to Singapore. Singapore has a reputation for being clean, so I spent the first day paying attention to litter and trash. I found quite a bit actually, but much less than I would have found in another modern city of comparable size. Singapore is really clean. They don’t even sell gum there. You can bring gum in for person consumption, but not to sell.

The most amazing thing about Singapore is the public transportation. You can get anywhere in the city pretty quickly and cheaply using a combination of the subway and buses.

Everyone in Singpore speaks English, often as a first language. Everywhere we went people spoke to use in perfectly intelligible English. The food was also really good. There was excellent Indian, Chinese, and Singaporean dishes, plus a ton of Western options.

Unfortunately I don't have many good pictures of Singapore, but here are two. The first is of a float-thing in China Town. You can see how clean the city is; it looks practically new. The second is of the famous Merlion of Singapore, which is the city's symbol.

The worst part about Singapore is the price. While less expensive than the US, it’s tremendously more expensive than Vietnam or Malaysia.

Taman Negara

2009-03-03T03:57:00.014-07:00

After a few days in Kuala Lumpur, Jessica and I booked a trip to Taman Negara, which is claimed to be the oldest rainforest in the world. After a four-hour bus ride to get to the town on the edge of the jungle, our group loaded into a long, thin boat for the two-hour journey up the river to another small town that was the starting point for exploring the jungle. The little town had road access, but it was a little more fun to take a boat.

One of the coolest things we did was a canopy walk. A number or rope bridges were strung between the treetops with small platforms at the top of each tree. It was a good way to get above the forest floor and see the surrounding terrain. On one of the trees I saw what I think is a cicada shell

After the canopy walk we went on a hot, steamy jungle trek. It was late January and unbelievably hot. When we got to the top of the knoll the views were pretty amazing. The jungle is so thick you can’t really see anything, but at the top we got a sense of how large the jungle really is.

We also toured a village of one of the nomadic tribes that still lives in the village. To get to their village we had to take another small boat up the river and through some rapids. At the village they showed us how they made darts and how they started fires without matches. There were a bunch of children that sat in one of the huts and watched all the foreigners.

Other than a lot of bugs, the only wildlife we saw was a small flock of Crested Fireback Pheasants. The last morning I woke up about 7:00 and stepped out of the dormitory/hostel to find six of the rare birds foraging on the lawn. They were really beautiful birds. They were almost completely blue except for the top of their tail feathers, which were creamy white.

Snake Fruit

2009-02-28T03:33:00.005-07:00

It’s always fun to find new fruits. In a market in Kuala Lumpur, among the rows tropical fruits, Jessica and I found snake fruits, or salak in Malay. Snake fruit is about the size of a medium sized apple, but it had a rough, scaly skin that looks like it came from a snake. The skin is hard and crispy, so when you peel the fruit the skin breaks off. The fruit is native to Malaysia and Indonesia.

They’re not a bad fruit, but not my favorite either. There are certain fruits in southeast Asia that make your mouth feel dry after eating and snake fruit is one of them. We didn’t finish all four fruits that we bought, so we gave the rest to the hotel staff, who were happy to have them. One of them said that it’s one of his favorite fruits and it reminds him of growing up.

Porottas In The Rain

2009-02-22T17:08:00.003-07:00

Jessica booked us a few nights a really nice guesthouse right in the heart of Kuala Lumpur (Paradiso, in case anyone’s interested). From the common bathroom that overlooked the alley behind the building I could see an interesting looking street restaurant staffed by Indians.

When Jessica suggested we get something to eat, I knew just where to go. I mean, who wouldn’t want to eat in the alley restaurant that can be seen from the bathroom? I told her to follow me and I lead the way. I think she was a little confused when I turned down the alley, but she quickly figured out what was up. Better yet, she knew what kind of food they were serving – those three months she lived in India really paid off. So we sat down under an umbrella at a table in an alley and ordered onion and egg porottas and kopi.

Porottas are thin Indian and Pakistani breads. In Malaysia they’re slightly different than their Indian ancestors and they’re known as roti canai, but I most foreigners know them as porottas. The dough is stretched very thin and placed on a hot skillet with oil. Egg and other ingredients – onion is common – are added on top and the sides are folded over to create a thin bread envelope. The porottas is flipped and cooked, then served with curry.

Kopi is the Malay word for coffee. Kopi is served in small glasses (4-6 ounces I’d guess). It’s sweet and slightly spicy, and served piping hot.

As we sat enjoying our Indian food, it started to pour. What had been a nice slightly overcast day suddenly turned into a huge downpour. Without rain jackets or an umbrella, we sat under the large umbrella for 30 or 40 minutes until the rain stopped.

Kuala Lumpur & the Petronas Towers

2009-02-21T02:45:00.008-07:00

I’ve been back in Hanoi for almost two weeks and I haven’t updated my blog. Ben even asked if I had given up on it. No, I haven’t given up, but neither do I have a good excuse for ignore the blog, especially since I’m only teaching 6 hours a week. I digress.

Almost a month ago Jessica and I left Vietnam for Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. The trip was Jessica’s idea. I knew nothing about Malaysia and it wasn’t even on my travel radar, but when she suggested we go for two weeks over the Tet holiday in Vietnam, I couldn’t really turn her down. (Correction: Jessica suggested we go to Malaysia and Bali, but tickets from Malaysia to Bali were surprisingly expensive at the time.)

Arriving in Kuala Lumpur was a bit of a shock coming from Hanoi. Like I said above, I really didn’t know anything about Malaysia and due to my ignorance I was expecting something that was on par with Ho Chi Minh City. Kuala Lumpur reminded me more of Seattle than any Vietnamese city. It was incredibly well developed. The roads are built for cars. Sidewalks were built for pedestrians rather than for motorbikes. There were actual crosswalks, allowing you to cross the street without playing real-life Frogger and risking your life.

And the public transportation is great: there are a number of trains, subways, and busses that crisscross the city allowing you to get anywhere in a relatively short time. If you’re interested in walking, the city center is quite small and dense, allowing you to walk across the entire city in a relatively short time. What really put the city over the top, for Jessica at least, is that the city is a mecca for shopping – maybe not like Singapore, but definitely cheaper. Kuala Lumpur was a definite break from the developing, third world Asia that predominates in Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos.

Kuala Lumpur and all of Malaysia is also incredibly diverse. The three main ethnic groups are the Malays, the Chinese, and the Indians. It’s great: you can have three different types of street food in as many days. On top of it all, Kuala Lumpur is really inexpensive for a city that offers as much development and service.

The symbol of Kuala Lumpur is the Petronas Towers. We went to see the towers lit up at night.

Here's a picture of Bensa taking a photo of Jessica and Amalia. Bensa had to get down to get the tops of the towers.

The towers can be seen from many parts of town. Here Jessica and I took the train to a residential area and the towers were hiding behind this house.

Going to Malaysia & Singapore

2009-01-23T17:00:00.000-07:00

Jessica and I are leaving Vietnam for the Tet Holiday. We're off to Malaysia and Singapore for 15 days of exploring. I'm not bringing my computer but I'll post when I get the chance. And of course, I'll post all about the trip when we get back on February 8th.

Peanuts

2009-01-22T08:00:00.001-07:00

Peanuts are usually boiled in Vietnam. They're not roasted, not salted, not buttered, not brittled. Just boiled and served cold. Instead of cracking peanuts, in Vietnam it's more prying them apart. But they still taste good with beer.

Happy Birthday Huyen!!!

2009-01-19T09:29:00.007-07:00

Last week was Huyen's birthday. Huyen, for anyone who doesn't know, is Ben's girlfriend. Huyen turned 24 (USA age). Jessica and I attended a very nice hotpot dinner with Ben, Huyen, and Huyen's friends which was followed by karaoke.

Blogging Troubles

2009-01-19T09:22:00.002-07:00

Recently Vietnam has been blocking Blogger.com, the website that hosts this and many other blogs. It is very difficult to access my blog or post from Vietnam. Fortunately I have found a way to post, plus I'm leaving for Malaysia in less than a week, where I don't think they block websites.

Six Months of Jessica

2009-01-06T07:09:00.004-07:00

Swans

2008-12-30T06:32:00.000-07:00

There are many lakes in Hanoi and each lake has its on flock of swans. Jessica and I rented a swan and paddled around West Lake. The swans aren't actually birds, they're boats shaped like swans that you propel with your feet. It was a foggy day.

Vietnam Vo Dich!

2008-12-28T09:58:00.008-07:00

Sunday started out easy enough. I slept in late and then lazed around for a bit before meeting Jessica for lunch at the Uzbekistan Café. Neither Jessica nor I had eaten there before, and it turned out to be really good. Hanoi has been chilly and rainy for about a week, and a warm bowl of Uzbekistani soup was perfect. After lunch it stopped raining and Jessica and I explored the southwest portion of the city by motorbike. We came across the Air Force & Air Defense Museum, which was basically a junkyard full of bullet-ridden American warplanes, Migs flown by Vietnamese pilots, and Soviet air defense weapons. The picture below is of a Soviet surface to air missile.

Three items caught my attention. One was a F-4 (or what I think was an F-4, pictured above). The plane had been almost completely destroyed but by looking at it you could tell that it probably once flew. The two other items that caught my attention were two WWII era anti-aircraft guns, both of which were responsible for shooting down American planes in the Vietnam War. The first gun was a Nazi anti-aircraft gun captured by the Soviets, given to the Chinese after WWII, and finally given to the Vietnamese. The second was an American-made gun given to the Soviets to fight the Japanese, then given to the Chinese by the Soviets, then given to the Vietnamese.

Later that evening, Jessica and I decided to eat Thai food. We left my house and quickly realized something was going on. There were far too many motorbikes on the street for 8:30 pm on Sunday night. It turn out Vietnam was playing Thailand for the ASEAN Championship in soccer (that’s football to most). Vietnam traditionally has had a poor football team and Thailand is usually a regional powerhouse. But this year, after defeating Singapore (another regional powerhouse), Vietnam won the first match against Thailand in Bangkok 2-1. The second game was today in Hanoi and Vietnam pulled off a 1-1 tie. I don’t exactly understand how one win and one tie equates to winning the championship, but even ESPN is reporting it. I didn’t even know ESPN covered soccer.

After we finished eating Thai food, Jessica and I bought some Vietnamese flags and drove around the city with thousands of Vietnamese people chanting Vietnam vo dich!, meaning Vietnam victory!. Most of the Vietnamese out were excited to see two foreigners out waving Vietnamese flags. Most of them made a point of chanting Vietnam vo dich! Vietnam vo dich! with us. It was a crazy sight.

Hanoi, Hanoi

2008-12-24T00:33:00.006-07:00

I arrived back in Hanoi on my birthday (the 17th) and Jessica had arranged a little birthday celebration with friends and coworkers. Ben’s girlfriend Huyen even came, but Ben was in Thailand with his sister. I hadn’t shaved since I finished teaching — about one month — and Huyen bought me an electric razor for my birthday. But the coolest gift came from Jessica. It was a Vietnamese Obama tee shirt. Now Obama has to do a good job as president or I have a bad tee shirt.

The following night Jessica and I went out with Mikka and Iain to a swanky bar in the Sofitel Metropole, the hotel where Graham Greene stayed in the 1950s, for cocktails. Iain seems to have an issue with ordering feminine cocktails (see below).

The cocktails were good, but they were priced like cocktails at a swanky bar in the States. That disappointed me the next morning when Jessica and I went out for phở and I realized that I had spent enough on two cocktails to buy twenty bowls of pho. The four of us had spent enough on cocktails to buy eighty bowls of pho.

Luang Prabang, Laos

2008-12-21T05:00:00.011-07:00

The bus ride from Vientiane to Luang Prabang was a little longer than I expected at about 8 hours. What most surprised me were the mountains. I’d heard that Laos had mountains, but I didn’t expect them to be as rugged as they were. Combine the mountains with the less-than-stellar road and it makes for a less-than-pleasant bus ride.

I made it to Luang Prabang a little carsick but in one piece. It was already pretty late so I just found some dinner and went to sleep. The next morning I explored the city on foot. The city isn’t terribly big, but the tourist section is even smaller. It’s centered around the ancient town, which is situated on a strip of land at the confluence of the Mekong and Khan Rivers. (The photo below is of the Khan River as it joins the Mekong.)

There is no bridge over the Mekong near Luang Prabang, but there are two ferries and numerous smaller boats willing to take you across. The Khan River is much smaller than the Mekong. There are some permanent bridges over the Khan River which many people use, but there are also a number of bamboo bridges that cross the river and that must be rebuilt every year. I crossed one of these bridges and I saw some people building another. It’s also very interesting that between the water line and the high water mark of the rivers, people have large vegetable gardens. I guess that makes sense, you can’t rightly put your house there.

Luang Prabang also has a ton of Buddhist Wats (temples), some of which are very impressive.

In the center of Luang Prabang there is a large hill with a small Wat on top. It has a great view of the city. The hill is covered in trees, including a Bodhi Tree.

Vientiane, Laos

2008-12-20T05:00:00.011-07:00

Talk about a slow town. Most everything in town is finished by 10:30 pm and the bars are required by law to close at 11:30, however I read in the Vientiane Times that some bars stay open later and the police were considering closing those illicit night spots.

Vientiane doesn’t have much to attract anyone except its laid-back lifestyle. Many people — foreigners and locals alike — find themselves on the banks of the Mekong watching the sunset and drinking Beer Lao, which is a win-win situation as the sunset is beautiful and the Beer Lao is very good.

I spent most of my time in Vientiane exploring the city on foot. I found a huge concrete structure called Patuxay that was built in 1962 and inspired by the Arc de Triumph in Paris.
Here’s a picture of Patuaxy and of the sign hanging on the wall inside.

Here’s a picture of another famous landmark, That Dam, also known as Black Stupa.

I also saw some funny signs around the city.

Nong Khai & the Sala Kaew Ku Sculpture Garden

2008-12-19T05:00:00.008-07:00

Nong Khai is 22 km and across the Mekong River from Vientiane. Most people swing through here coming or going to Laos and that’s exactly how I ended up there. I arrived late in the evening and found the last room at Mut Mee Guesthouse. I was planning on heading to Vientiane the next day, but the guesthouse was so nice I decided to stay an extra night.

The next morning I rented a bicycle to ride to the Sala Kaew Ku Sculpture Garden, a huge collection of cement Hindu and Buddhist Gods. The tallest statue is 25 meters high.

At the sculpture garden, there were many chickens near the trashcans and huge fish in the ponds. For 10 baht I fed the fish.

To get to the sculpture garden, I rode along the Mekong River, through a market (no pictures of that), through a Wat (Buddhist sanctuary), and through a schoolyard.

Thai Elephant

2008-12-18T05:00:00.002-07:00

I was expecting elephants in Thailand, but that still didn’t prepare me for actually seeing one at the bus station. I was waiting at a bus station in Khon Kaen to make a connection to Nong Khai when this elephant approached me.

For 20 baht you can buy some sugar cane and feed the elephants. The money then goes toward feeding the elephants, who have a mighty appetite.

How Old Am I Again?

2008-12-17T05:00:00.002-07:00

It’s my birthday! In Asia! So how old am I? I was born in 1984. I’m turning 24/25!

In Vietnam, you’re a year older than you are in the States because the Vietnamese start at 1 (instead of 0). I’ve been using my Vietnamese age for the past nine months for two reasons. First, I’m in Vietnam. Second, when I’ve told my classes I’m 23, they’ve told me I am too young to teach. When I’ve told them I’m 24, they’re fine with it — and I’m not really lying because if I tell them my birthday, they tell me I’m 24.

So I’m going to use my Vietnamese age — 25 — until I return to the States, which is looking to be mid-March-ish sometime. Then I’ll be 24 again, if I can remember.

Practically speaking, this means that I’ll have said that I’m 24 from March 2008 to December 2009, almost two years, with a four-month break where I was 25.

Ben posted a happy birthday video entry on Ahoy Hanoi. You can check it out here. Thanks Ben!

(Today I'm also returning to Hanoi, but the blog is a few days behind reality.)

Pirom - Aree’s House

2008-12-16T05:00:00.000-07:00

There is a great guesthouse in Surin, Thailand: it’s called Pirom - Aree’s House. Pirom is a retired government employee (social services, I think) who now runs a guesthouse in order to have something to do and to keep his English up. Pirom and his wife Aree are both very nice. They immediately told me to make myself at home. They were great. They were like my Asian grandparents.

The rooms are clean and nice but basic, and for the price (I paid 120 baht per night for a single), you can’t really complain. The bathroom is shared. The only down side to the whole place is the lack of hot water. I would have paid an extra dollar or two for hot water.

The whole place is fantastic. The garden area is beautiful.

Plus, Pirom is the best source of local knowledge. He knows every local temple, wat, ruin and settlement that every major culture has left in the area. And he also knows the best way to get there. Tell him where you want to go or what you want to do and he’ll tell you how to get there and what else to see in the area.

Pirom also offers a number of half-day and full-day tours to the surrounding attractions, as well as three and five day tours in the northeast of Thailand. They aren’t exactly cheap if you’re on a budget, but if you get three other people to go it’s not so bad.

So if you’re ever in Surin, I’d recommend Pirom - Aree’s House. Paula (the German girl who was also staying at the guesthouse) and I agreed that it is one of the nicest guesthouses either of us has ever stayed in. To get there, just hope in a tuk-tuk in Surin (60 baht was the going rate) and say Pirom’s House. Every driver I took knew it. The place is listed in Lonely Planet, Rough Guides and Let’s Go, so you shouldn’t have too much trouble finding it.

Strange Statues

2008-12-15T05:00:00.003-07:00

At the Khmer temple/Buddhist sanctuary at Uthumphon Phisai, there are some strange statues. There was no explanation for their existence or for their meaning.

Khmer Ruins Around Surin

2008-12-14T05:00:00.012-07:00

I got back to the guesthouse after exploring Surin to find I had a fellow guest. Paula was a German girl who had been traveling for two and a half months through Napal, India, Cambodia and Thailand, and was on her way to Laos. I invited her to join me the next day. I had planned on seeing the local Khmer temples from the 11th or 13th century.

The next morning Paula and I caught the train east out of Surin to Uthumphon Phisai. It was a local train so it was slow, but there were many Thais on the train. We sat with two Thai girls who were both students at the university in Surin. Both of them spoke decent English so we chatted until they got off. There were many vendors on the train selling sweets and other food. Paula and I tried some doughy balls made from some sort of mashed root and then rolled in coconut, but we didn’t find them to be that good. (Umaphoon is on the left, Paula is in the middle, and Kannika is on the right.)

We arrived at Uthumphon Phisai not knowing exactly where the temple was located. We ended up hiring a guy to drive us to the temple, but it turned out to be a five-minute drive. We could have walked, but we didn’t know where to go. The driver turned out to be okay because he showed us around the temple. The temple was less than grand but sort of interesting. Around the Khmer temple, however, was a modern Buddhist sanctuary. So Paula and I got to check out two things at one place.

The site’s real claim to fame is the entombed body of a famous Buddhist monk. I can't remember what his name is, but I’ve seen his picture in quite a few towns across northeast Thailand.

We stopped at Si Khoraphum to see the temples on the way back to Surin. The temple itself was in better condition than the temple at Uthumphon Phisai and the setting was very nice with a large grassy park surrounded by a U-shaped pond.

The next morning Paula took off towards the Four Thousand Islands in the Mekong River on the Laos-Cambodian boarder. I had been planning on heading that way too, but when I sat down and looked at my schedule, I figured I'd better head north towards Laos or I'd spend all my time moving and no time enjoying where I was.

As it turns out, Paula is headed for Hanoi in January. She's doing an internship with a German engineering firm for a month, so we're planning on meeting again.

Surin, Thailand

2008-12-13T05:00:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Surin, Thailand ready to quit moving for a day or two. I’d gone from Saigon to Phnom Penh, where I spent two nights, and then to Samraong and on to Surin. In Surin I checked into a guesthouse on the outskirts of town. I was the only guest. Undeterred, I spoke to the owner of the guesthouse about local attractions and with a plan for the following day, I walked the 1.5 km into town to see what Surin had to offer. I didn’t find much in the way of attractions. There was a night market (imagine a Siamese Country Fair) with girls singing and dancing and a traditional musical playing.

The highlight of my night was ordering noodles at one of the street vendors. As I went to find a table I was invited to sit with a guy about my age and his parents. The parents spoke almost no English, but the son was able to communicate. They bought me a bottle of water for 6 baht and asked me how much a bottle of water was in America. When I told them that a bottle of water might cost a dollar or more they had a good laugh, but they really got a kick when I told them that a beer could cost upwards of 4 or 5 USD. I forgot to mention that in America you can drink the tap water, something you’d be foolish to do in Thailand.

I left my noodle friends to wander the streets a bit more, but not before coming across a women selling grilled bread with butter, sugar, and sweetened-condensed milk on top. She cut the bread into small pieces and put the pieces into a plastic bag and gave me a large toothpick to eat them with — quite delicious. As I understand it, Thais usually eat bread with sugar as desert.

A Small World

2008-12-12T05:00:00.010-07:00

Northwestern Cambodia is a bit dangerous. The people aren’t dangerous, in fact they are extremely nice, but the fields and forests are dangerous. My taxi driver from Siem Reip to Samraong specifically warned me not to stray off the roads. The reason: landmines. If anyone’s interested, there’s no trekking in northwestern Cambodia.

Northwestern Cambodia is also very remote. It’s about as remote as I’ve ever experienced. And it’s poor. In the city of Samraong the main street is paved, but beyond that every road is a fine reddish dust that I’m guessing is very messy in the wet season. For 10 USD I found a motorbike taxi willing to drive me the 45 km to the town of O Smach and the Thai boarder.

Here are some pictures of the drive from Samraong to O Smach.
About half way through the drive, the moto driver stopped to rest. He walked over to a small tree, picked a few fruits, and started eating them. He offered me a few, which I accepted. They weren't very sweet and they left that dry taste in your mouth, but I'm none the worse for eating them. I have no idea what they are.

And here are some pictures of Thailand, just inside the boarder and in Surin. Surin is a large town/small city in the southern part of the northeastern section of Thailand.

The difference between Thailand and Cambodia is huge. I though I was in the middle of nowhere in Cambodia, but it turns out I was about 90 minutes and one boarder crossing from hospitals, paved roads, and busses with A/C. And after another 90 minutes of travel in Thailand (on paved roads) there was a Mercedes dealership. I was in what I though was the middle of nowhere and I was only 3 hours from a Mercedes dealership. That’s a small world.

Dinner in Samraong

2008-12-11T05:00:00.003-07:00

After getting into Samraong (in northwestern Cambodia) I found a room at the only hotel in town. The room had A/C, hot water, and a TV for 7 USD a night — what a deal. As soon as I checked in and dropped off my bag I went poking around town. It was starting to get dark, but after spending six hours on the bus (Phnom Penh to Siem Reap) and three hours in a taxi (Siem Reap to Samraong) I felt like I needed to walk around. The market had closed for the day and I didn’t feel like wandering the back alleys, so I stayed close to the paved road. A little to my surprise, I found an internet café in town. (I don't have any pictures of Samraong because I forgot my camera in the hotel room.)

I checked my email and went to find a place to eat. They had lots of street food, but I opted for a little upscale dining and found my way to a small restaurant that I would bet is the only restaurant in town. A young guy, maybe a little younger than me, showed me to a table. I pointed to the Anchour beer poster on the wall and he brought me two glasses, six cans of beer, and a bucket of ice. Then he returned with two English textbooks and turned to the restaurant page. He tried for a few minutes to ask me what I wanted, but in the end he got frustrated and left to get the owner of the restaurant, a fat jolly Khmer woman who spoke some English. She told me the choices for dinner were chicken, pig, or cow. I chose pig. It was served with rice.

Khmer cooking is simple yet tasty. The flavors are straightforward. The pork was fried, sliced, and served on rice. On the side was sliced green tomatoes and slices cucumbers. The only seasoning was a small dish of salt, pepper, and lime juice, which the pork and vegetables were to be dipped in.

In addition to the food, I had Khmer guests for dinner. There were four or five young Khmer girls who worked at the restaurant and they would constantly walk past my table and glance at me and quickly smile and giggle. Finally two of them dragged each other to my table and sat down. What is your name? I asked one of them. I got giggles and shy smiles. One of them tried to leave but the other made her stay. Another girl came and sat down: What is your name? I tried again. This girl knew the answer: My name is De. De explained the question to her friends and they started telling me their names. How old are you? I asked. All I got was giggles, smiles, and Khmer chitchat. The extent of their spoken English was What is your name? My name is… The older woman explained to me that they all studied English in school but they never speak it.

A lonely dog walked up to our table: Hello, I said, much to the amusement of the girls. What is your name? One of the girls told me his name was Tony.

Overland in Cambodia

2008-12-10T05:00:00.001-07:00

Something’s changed.

When I first arrived in Cambodia back in March 2008, I was terrified of the driving: there didn’t seem to be any laws, much less any logic. But when I took the bus to Phnom Penh from Saigon, I found the driving to be relaxing. They didn’t do anything that I thought was particularly out of the ordinary. And then when I arrived in Phnom Penh and took motos and tuk-tuks around the city, I found the traffic to be lawful and rather orderly compared to Vietnam (but not orderly compared to the States).

I left Phnom Penh for Siem Reap by bus. Upon reaching Siem Reap, I quickly found a taxi to the town of Samraong. Samraong is 45 km from the Thai/Cambodian boarder crossing at O Smach — Chong Jom. I had to pay 20 USD for the three-hour drive, as there were no busses headed in that direction. Amazingly, I though the driver was safe.

Samraong isn’t much of a town. There is one hotel and one guesthouse. The main road through town is paved, which is a little astonishing being that at least 100 km of dirt road lead to the town. Even Lonely Planet Cambodia says, “There is nothing for foreigners to do or see up here.”

So in the eight months since I’ve been to Cambodia, either Cambodians began driving safely or I have become accustomed to Asian driving techniques. I'm guessing the latter.

Khmer Rouge

2008-12-09T05:00:00.012-07:00

This is a poem on display at the S.21 Museum in Phnom Penh about life with the Khmer Rouge.

The New Regime
Poem by Sarith Pou in Corpse Watching

No religious rituals.
No religious symbols.
No fortune tellers.
No traditional healers.
No paying respect to elders.
No social status. No titles.

No education. No training.
No school. No learning.
No books. No library.
No science. No technology.
No pens. No paper.

No currency. No bartering.
No buying. No selling.
No begging. No giving.
No purses. No wallets.

No human rights. No liberty.
No courts. No judges.
No laws. No attorneys.

No communications.
No public transportation.
No private transportation.
No traveling. No mailing.
No inviting. No visiting.
No faxes. No telephones.

No social gatherings.
No chitchatting.
No jokes. No laughter.
No music. No dancing.

No romance. No flirting.
No fornication. No dating.
No wet dreaming.
No masturbating.
No naked sleepers.
No bathers.
No nakedness in showers.
No love songs. No love letters.
No affection.

No marrying. No divorcing.
No marital conflicts. No fighting.
No profanity. No cursing.

No shoes. No sandals.
No toothbrushes. No razors.
No combs. No mirrors.
No lotion. No make up.
No long hair. No braids.
No jewelry.
No soap. No detergent. No shampoo.
No knitting. No embroidering.
No colored clothes, except black.
No styles, except pajamas.
No wine. No palm sap hooch.
No lighters. No cigarettes.
No morning coffee. No afternoon tea.
No snacks. No desserts.
No breakfast [sometimes no dinner].

No mercy. No forgiveness.
No regret. No remorse.
No second chances. No excuses.
No complaints. No grievances.
No help. No favors.
No eyeglasses. No dental treatment.
No vaccines. No medicines.
No disabilities. No social diseases.
No tuberculosis. No leprosy.

No kites. No marbles. No rubber bands.
No cookies. No popsicle. No candy.
No playing. No toys.
No lullabies.
No rest. No vacations.
No holidays. No weekends.
No games. No sports.
No staying up late.
No newspapers.

No radio. No TV.
No drawing. No painting.
No pets. No pictures.
No electricity. No lamp oil.
No clocks. No watches.

No hope. No life.
A third of the people didn’t survive.
The regime died.
---------------------

The Khmer Rouge were a nasty group of people. They killed tons of Cambodian people while trying to create an agrarian utopia. The last time I was in Phnom Penh, I visited the killing fields, where some 17,000 people were murdered between 1976 and 1980.

This time I visited S.21, basically a concentration camp for enemies of the state. You could be considered an enemy of the state for offenses as simple as not demonstrating enough revolutionary zeal while performing your new job or for wearing eyeglasses. S.21 was an urban high school until April 1975, when Pol Pot’s forces marched into Phnom Penh and ordered everyone to vacate the city and move into the countryside to grow rice. S.21 is now a museum.

Anyone the Khmer Rouge didn’t like they sent to S.21, where they were tortured, interrogated, treated brutally, and then murdered. One common technique of torture was to tie the victim’s hands together behind their back and hoist them into the air by their hands until they lost consciousness, then lower the victim and dunk them into a vat of human waste water until they regained consciousness, at which point they were interrogated. Many of the guards at S.21 were imprisoned there because Pol Pot was worried they had lost revolutionary zeal while working at the site.

Taking a page out of Hitler’s playbook, the prisoners were given numbers, their pictures were taken, and their life stories were recorded before they were tortured and murdered. The photos are shown as part of the exhibit. The people sent to S.21 surely knew what was going on, but few of them look scared in their photos. Most everyone is looking directly at the camera and directly at you; almost into you. Many of these people were killed at S.21, the rest were likely killed at the killing fields. Some are smiling; most have no emotion in their faces.

The prisoners of S.21 were men and women of all ages. The classrooms were adapted to house prisoners, some individually and some in a group. When the Vietnamese liberated Phnom Penh in 1980, they found fourteen bodies in fourteen different places. Some of the bodies were in rooms and some were scattered around the site in stairwells and hallways. In the rooms where bodies were found, there is now one black and white photograph of the body as it was found in 1980. The furniture in the picture, usually just a metal bed frame and maybe a chair, is still in the rooms. There are spooky spray-painted memorials on the walls for the people found in the hallways and stairwells. Those fourteen were buried in the center of the complex where teenagers used to chat before class, flirt, and do their morning exercises.

So I had a depressing 3 hours.

No smiling.

Bangkok? Nay. Phnom Penh? Yea!

2008-12-08T05:00:00.003-07:00

My flight to Bangkok was canceled. Instead I took a bus to Phnom Penh. There’s something I really like about Phnom Penh — it’s a small city by Asian city standards, but everywhere you go feels unique, very Phnom-Penh-y. The only thing I didn’t like was the Khmer karaoke the played almost the entire bus ride.

I found cheap sleeping arrangements (no TV, no hot water) near the lake and took a moto to the Language Corps house on the other side of town. Luckily there were some students at the house and after I knocked and yelled long enough from the gate on the street, one of them let me in. There I met five students, one of which grew up in south Denver. Turns out we both went to the same university and graduated in the same class, but we had never met (not an uncommon occurrence in a large state school).

The current students were about to head out to meet Virath, a Khmer-American from southern California who works for Language Corps and taught Ben and I when we were in the program. We met Virath for dinner and drinks then headed to a big expat party in a beautiful large garden. At the party we met up with two other Language Corps graduates, Heather and Mary, who now teach in Phnom Penh. Heather told me about her hatred of Vietnam that stems from a nightmare experience in Hanoi last spring, which disappointed me because I like Hanoi so much.

We left the garden party and went to the Heart of Darkness, a club with loud dance music, strobe lights, disco balls, and smiling Khmer girls trying to make some extra money to buy Christmas gifts. Ben and I had had experience with Khmer clubs when we were in Phnom Penh at Love Orange. Heart of Darkness was worse than Love Orange because there were more foreigners there, which somehow legitimized the place. At Love Orange, Ben and I were the only foreigners, meaning we could watch the spectacle unfold around us without feeling like we were really part of it.

I ended up leaving after half an hour and heading back to my guesthouse near the lake. This was late in the evening, but I found a group of 18-year-old Aussie guys playing pool, so I joined them for a few games before heading in for the night. They were on their gap year, meaning a year of whatever before university starts. They all worked for 8 months while living at home and saving to afford a trip through Europe, South America, and Southeast Asia.

Here are some pictures of Phnom Penh, some from this trip and some from last March. At least one and maybe two of these were taken by Ben. First off is the mosque in town.
Best gas station slogan ever (above).

Déjà vu

2008-12-07T05:00:00.004-07:00

After my parents left for Saigon, I wound up back at the Language Corps office where Asia started for me. Back at Language Corps I saw some familiar faces and hung out with Hien, Linh, and Hien's roommate Tuyen, but two days after my parents left I saw the most familiar face of all: Ben's. Ben came down to Saigon for a few days to visit Hien and Linh and it just so happened that I was still there. The primary reason I was still there was because my flight to Bangkok had been canceled due to the protests at the airport.

It was good to see Ben again after maybe a week of being away from him, but to see him in Saigon with the Language Corps crew was just like old times (hence the déjà vu), except somehow we both felt a little older.

Ben arrived on Wednesday and on Thursday we took a fishing trip to the outskirts of Saigon with the Hien, Linh, and some recent graduates of Language Corps that are teaching in Saigon. Many of the people in Saigon had been avid Ahoy Hanoi fans, so they were thoroughly up to date on Ben's life and, to a lesser extent, mine. They knew all about Ben's girlfriend, our moldy walls, and the great flood. They were relieved to finally meet the people they had been reading so much about.

They fishing was a good time but rather uneventful. No one caught any fish, but we did celebrate Katie's birthday and someone baked great brownies for the occasion.

Saigon

2008-12-06T05:00:00.001-07:00

My mom and step-dad were on a whirlwind tour of Vietnam. They spent less than a week in Hanoi and Ha Long Bay and only three nights in Saigon. Then they were off. But we hit the major tourist sights in Saigon before they had to leave. The first day we saw the War Remnants Museum and the Reunification Palace. I’d been to these places with Ben and Hien back in March or April, but I found the War Remnants Museum to be equally as engaging the second time.

That night we took Hien and Linh out to dinner. We tried to go to a popular Vietnamese restaurant, Ngon, but it was mobbed and the wait was too long. Linh suggested we eat ban xeo, a Vietnamese pancake/omelette stuffed with meat and vegetables, cut into slices, and wrapped in lettuce to eat. We taxied all the way out to a place that Linh suggested, only finding that they were closed due to construction. We ended up eating on of Hien’s favorite foods — Indian — which was fine because Saigon has fantastic Indian food.

The second day my parents took a tour of the Cu Chi tunnels. I had already seen the tunnels so I let them go without me. That night we made reservations at Ngon and got a table, which was good because it was mobbed again.

The next morning we said goodbye. My step-dad hadn’t told my mom where they were going for the last leg of their journey, but she knew it was a beach. I guess she probably figured it out when they checked in at the airport: they were going to Phu Quoc, where Jessica and I had visited a month prior.

Above is a photo of us enjoying lunch. Below is my parent's 2008 Christmas card picture.

Ha Long Bay

2008-12-05T05:00:00.001-07:00

My mother loves boats — a very natural thing for someone living in Colorado — so the thing to do while in Hanoi was to take an overnight trip to Ha Long Bay. The bus picked us up at the hotel at 8 am and after picking up a few other guests from other hotels, we set off for Ha Long. I slept most of the ride because I had stayed up much of the prior night watching Twin Peaks.

The boat was nice. There were private cabins, the food was decent (what it lacked in quality it made up for in quantity), and the drinks were over priced. The first stop was the cave that I’d heard so much about (“the Disney World of caves” — Jessica). It wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. It wasn’t natural, but it wasn’t super-tacky either.

Thao, the Vietnamese tour guide from our boat, told us the Vietnamese legend of how the islands of the bay were created (something to do with a dragon protecting the Vietnamese from the Chinese). Then she said, “Actually the islands and the cave were created by volcanoes 17 million years ago”. Little did Thao know, but in our group were a couple from Slovenia and they were both professors of geology. As she was saying this, the geologist woman had the most painful look on her face. She and her boyfriend then explained that the caves were made of limestone, which is sedimentary and therefore could not have been created by a volcano. They explained the process by which Ha Long Bay and the cave were created (marine deposits, compression, uplift, erosion), much to Thao’s embarrassment.

After the cave we headed for the kayaks. All the kayaks were tandems and I paddled with an engineer who worked for the University of Colorado. We kayaked for about an hour exploring the cliffs and bays of the island.

The second day on the boat was a little more relaxing. After breakfast we took a sightseeing cruise through the islands. We all hung out on the top of the boat. It was a little chilly and misty but very beautiful. The tour finished back at the main tourist port and we took the van back to Hanoi.

Haircut

2008-12-04T05:00:00.000-07:00

Jessica has been hinting for quite some time that I should get a hair cut. I hadn’t had a haircut in over six months and my hair was getting a bit long, but I usually either refused to cut it or couldn't be bothered.

But then my mother weighed in too and I was double-teamed. So I got a haircut, and now they both agree it looks much better.

My Mother in Hanoi — Day 2

2008-12-03T05:00:00.001-07:00

The second day we went to a Vietnamese café that does great French pastries. Afterwards, Jessica and my mother taxied to the fabric market. Jessica is a veteran of the Hanoi fabric markets and the Vietnamese tailors. Given my mother’s limited time schedule, however, they had to find a tailor that could make a dress in two or three days — not an impossible task, but a little difficult.

Len and I tried to visit the war museum in Hanoi with no success — they were closed for lunch. Instead, Len and I walked around the Old Quarter and saw the sights. The first picture below is of a woman removing the hair from the tail of some beast. My money's on a water buffalo.

My Mother in Hanoi — Day 1

2008-12-02T05:00:00.003-07:00

My mother — the worrywart that she is — decided to visit me for Thanksgiving!!!

Well, maybe that wasn’t the exact reason, but she and my step-dad did come to visit over Thanksgiving. They decided that since I was in Asia, now was a good time to do an Asia trip. First on the list of stops: Bangkok. They flew in, spent a few days exploring, and left for Hanoi just before anti-government protesters closed the airport. I met them at the airport in Hanoi and I spent a few days playing tourist/guide in Hanoi.

One the first day, we started the trip with pho for breakfast (above) and went to see the Ho Chi Minh Museum and Mausoleum. The Mausoleum was closed to visitors. After bumbling through a number of alleys, we found the B-52 bomber that crashed into a lake in the area north of Doi Can Street. I think they were impressed by the number of shops and people working in the back alleys. We met Jessica around 11:30 and walked through the botanical gardens to a café where we had Vietnamese coffee, and then for lunch we found a restaurant selling bun cha.

My teaching contract had finished and my classes were all over, but I had one last lesson with a group of intermediate students at 4:00. It was the last lesson where I handed out final grades. Usually on the last lesson we go out to a café and chat, so I thought it would be nice if my parents came along, especially since the students were pretty good English speakers. We had a great time.

Phu Quoc

2008-11-29T21:12:00.011-07:00

Jessica and I left in the middle of the flood of Hanoi. We caught a flight to Duong Dong via Saigon. Duong Dong is the major (and by major I mean small) tourist town in Phu Quoc. We booked a small bungalow on the beach for a week and spent our time lounging on the beach while Vietnamese woman tried to sell us fruit or give us massages and exploring the island by motorbike. That's not entirely true: we spent Wednesday, 5 November (which would have been Tuesday, 4 November in the States) obsessing over some things that were happening back home.

The highlights of the trip? We rented a motorbike (6 USD a day) and drove to Bai Thom on the north shore. It's a beautiful drive through the jungle to get there. We got lost a few times, but on a smallish island, how lost can you really get? We turned off the main road just past Bai Thom and drove down a small dirt road to a small hut that served food right on the rocky coast overlooking the Cambodian shore 4 km away. We ordered the fish cooked with salt and chili and found a seat in a shady spot right on the water. The fish, which was downright fabulous, and the setting combined to make it one of the finest dining experiences I've ever had.

Another great experience was visiting the small fishing village of Ganh Dau in the north west of the island. We watched the boats in the harbor and had Vietnamese soda in a small cafe in town. I had a very nice salted lime soda, which I think was better than the lychee soda that Jessica had.

Also worth mentioning is Bai Sao (on the south eastern shore just north of the main port of An Thoi), which is nothing more than sand, waves, pristine views, one restaurant that serves amazing seafood, and relatively few tourists due to the difficulty of reaching the beach (although we saw some tour buses headed there as we were leaving).

The waterfall in the center of the island is also kind of cool. It's an easy hike through the jungle to the waterfall and it's a nice break from the coast. The waterfall can be accessed off the road from Duong Dong to Ham Ninh, a fishing village on the east coast.

The only thing I would not recommend is doing a night time squid fishing trip, which are sold up and down Long Beach (where almost everyone stays). The food isn't that good and the squid aren't that fun to catch, if you catch any at all.

Jessica wrote a blow-by-blow account the the trip here.

Rain on Hanoi

2008-11-16T09:41:00.003-07:00

This site probably isn't the best place for up-to-date news about the world. About two weeks ago it rained in Hanoi and it didn't stop for a good long time.

Vietnamese Driving License

2008-11-11T23:00:00.000-07:00

I just received my Vietnamese driving license. It was easy to get — just a matter of transferring my Colorado car license to a Vietnamese car license. Houng over at HR helped me with all the paperwork. Thanks Houng!

I'd be reluctant to drive in Vietnam. The roads here have few rules. I got a car license because it's the first step in obtaining a motorbike license. You don't need a license to drive a motorbike in Vietnam (well, you need one to drive legally, but it hasn't stopped me yet). No foreigner I know has a Vietnamese motorbike license. I want to get one because...it's the best souvenir I can think of!

The Venice of Asia: Hanoi

2008-11-01T22:10:00.003-06:00

It rained for 48 hours straight. The power at my house went out. The roads and lakes flooded. I had to walk my motorbike home because the water was too deep to drive. School was canceled. We played Connect-4 and card games by candle light. Despite all this, everyone was in a good mood. Everyone was laughing about all the rain and floods.

This is the view from the second floor balcony of my house. There's a fish floating out there somewhere.

Jessica and I are in the Saigon airport waiting to board a plane to Phu Quoc. We left Hanoi early this morning. It wasn't raining when we left, but apparently it's raining there now. Hopefully when we return next weekend the rain will have stopped and the floods will have receded.

I have some good videos of the floods that I will post when I have time. But now I need to board a plane.

Vietnamese Wedding

2008-10-29T22:01:00.000-06:00

Last Sunday Jessica and I went to a Vietnamese wedding. Charles Whalen Rutherford the Second married Nugyen Thu Hien.

Guess where someone named Charles Whalen Rutherford the Second is from. No, he's not British aristocracy. He grew up in L.A. and he goes by Whalen. Whalen met Hien in L.A. where, so goes the rumor I heard, she was his Vietnamese teacher.

Vietnamese weddings are a little confusing to me and a few days or a week to complete. Over that period there are a few family functions and a big party to finish the wedding. I think I was at the big party at the end.

The big party was surprisingly short and easy for a wedding. A bus picked up all the invitees (most of the teachers who have Sunday off and some other guests) and drove us 90 minutes to a small village in the countryside. There were tables lined up in front of a little stage under a big tent. We sat and waited for something to happen. People brought us ice for the warm beer on the table. Whalen and Hien came out on stage. There was 15 or 20 minutes of speeches by her father and grandfather and by his father, then the bride and groom made rounds to the various tables as food was served (family style) and glasses for rice wine were passed out.

The rice wine was brewed by Hien's uncle at his house down the street and bottled in old PBR bottles. It was stiff foul stuff. After the fifth glass (to the bride and groom, Cheers, to Vietnam, mot hai ba YO!, to the drunk Vietnamese man who insists that we drink the entire glass with him), the stuff became tolerable.

Below is a picture of Gautier and I. Gautier teaches English with me.

Here's a picture of my boss, Kevin, singing You Are My Sunshine with Thuy. I know it looks like he's had a few too many rice wines, but the man hasn't had a drop of alcohol in over 10 years. He's just chronically disheveled.

One more picture of Hien and Whalen. Good luck you guys! Congratulations!

Learning The Language

2008-10-19T18:00:00.004-06:00

It's a difficult language to learn.
(from Ahoy Hanoi)

Colorado Buffalos in Vietnam

2008-10-16T19:33:00.000-06:00

I was leaving LanguageLink the other day when I ran into this student in the lobby. He was wearing a CU hat. I told him I went to the University of Colorado. He had no idea what I was talking about. "Your hat," I said. "I went to that university." He told me that when he bought the hat he didn't know what it meant.

The biggest mystery is where he found a CU hat in Hanoi.

Last Chapter in The Adventures In Sapa: Cooling Off

2008-10-14T07:31:00.001-06:00

Vietnam is HOT. We had been hiking through one of the villages and came across some beautiful waterfalls (see the second set of waterfalls below). This area a short distance from Sapa is popular with trekkers and there are many trails. I took off up one of the trails following a small creek into the mountains. About ten minutes up the trail I found this pool:

And of course I had to go swimming. The water was cool and felt great. Ben and Huyen joined me soon after I jumped in (Ben and Huyen in the photo):

Huyen isn’t traditionally much of a swimmer. Ben has offered to enroll her in swimming lessons at a Hanoi hotel, but she has always managed to escape. Besides the photos above, I have seen one picture of her swimming. The photo was taken at the beach and Huyen is lying on the sand while the surf wets the sand beneath her. Someone is standing next to her and you can see the boney knob of his ankles.

We weren't the only ones needing to cool off. Check out the minority children and water buffalo:

Chapter 5: Waterfalls of Sapa

2008-10-12T06:00:00.002-06:00

This is the most popular waterfall outside of Sapa because it's a short distance from the road.

In case you wanted to climb the waterfall:

Huyen preseting a Vietnamese waterfall:

Ben and Huyen:

Here's another popular waterfall outside of Sapa. This one requires a twenty or thirty minute walk to reach.

Chapter 4: Adventures near Bac Ha

2008-10-10T01:35:00.007-06:00

Getting to Bac Ca was an adventure in itself. The roads were filthy and full of potholes between Lau Cai and Bac Ha. Massive trucks kicked up tones of dust that got everywhere. The roads were so bad because they had been washed out a few weeks prior by flooding. Besides kicking up dust, the trucks were also dangerous, as Paul found out first hand. We were all driving behind one of the bug trucks—and sucking dust—when Ben decided to pass the truck. I followed soon after. Paul tried to pass the truck last, but as he was pulling even with the truck the truck began moving to the left, forcing Paul off the road. He crashed and sustained minor injuries to himself and his bike. Luckily he crashed in front of someone’s house. They were kind enough to bandage Paul’s arm and leg. They sold Ben and me ice cream as we watched. We then took his bike to a local repair shop: 90,000 VND and 15 minutes later, his bike was almost like new. Luckily for Paul, h stayed in the upright position on his bike for the rest of the trip.

After settling into Bac Ha, we visited the market and wound up at a bia hoi playing Vietnamese card games that Huyen taught us. Each province has their own bia hoi (“fresh beer”). Bia hoi is brewed and delivered to local bars daily. The Bac Ha beer we drank that evening was bottled in recycled plastic Sprite bottles, but properly sealed and pretty good.

The next morning we left Bac Ha for the town of Coc Ly. We had heard rumors that if you could get to Coc Ly, you could then take your motorbike downriver for two hours via boat to the highway. We spent the morning driving around the countryside looking to Coc Ly.

We saw Coc Ly (above), but we never did find the road that goes there. Even the people we asked—actually the people that Huyen asked, she was the official translator—had no idea how to get there. None of them had ever bothered to go there, despite being able to see the town. Regardless, the drive was amazing. The road was rough at times, but the scenery was fantastic.

We headed back to Bac Ha to hit the highway back to Sapa. We planned on taking a slightly different route back to Sapa to avoid the washed out dusty road. It turned out to be one of the best choices we made. I even met some local children on the new road who tried to talk to me in Vietnamese and wanted me to give them a lift down the road. I declined, but they were adorable.

We arrived that night in Sapa after dark. At the hotel Ben, Huyen, and I took special minority baths in huge wooden tubes (40,000 VND / 2.5 USD). The water was blazing hot and they poured a few liters of special minority extract/tea into the water—the extract is a traditional minority recipe, it’s not extracted from the minorities themselves. Very relaxing.

Chapter 3: H’Mong Market Of Bac Ha

2008-10-06T00:43:00.003-06:00

The H’Mong market is well known in Bac Ha. In fact, it’s one of the major tourist attractions or the area. We visited near closing, so things were starting to clear out and wind down.

But there were H’Mong men betting on cutting pork fat. There were two different contests going. The first contest was a huge pile of fat and the contestant got one chop to cut through all of it. The second contest was a very long (2.5 knife lengths), fairly thin (about the thickness of American bacon) piece of fat and the contestant got three chops to separate the fat from top to bottom.

Ben and I stood above the crowd.

Chapter 2: Tiny Birds

2008-10-03T07:53:00.007-06:00

After a day of visiting the sights of Sapa, we returned our bikes and began the search for food. Near the center of Sapa is a square surrounded by women selling various things. Some of them sat behind grills filled with sweet potatoes, the Vietnamese equivalent to chestnuts, eggs, and bamboo sticks filled with sticky rice. We chose a woman, sat down, and ordered some food. (Paul and Huyen sitting at the grill)

This wasn’t dinner, just a late afternoon snack. We all tried a bit of everything she had on the grill (a grilled egg tastes like a boiled egg). Then the woman rose and walked to her colleague. She returned with a long stick of small skinless, featherless birds — think shish-kabob with sparrows or some other bird about that size or smaller from the forest. Huyen asked if we wanted to try them. After some deliberation we agreed.

I had eaten this dish some three weeks prior. The birds take two bites to eat. First bite is the head and wings; second bite is the rest of the body and legs. While cooking, the woman smashed their heads to cook the brain. The trick to eating this food is the same trick I’ve used to eat Rocky Mountain oysters: don’t think about what you’re eating.

Chapter 1: Sa Pa Adventure

2008-09-30T06:00:00.005-06:00

Sapa is a pretty town in the mountains of northwestern Vietnam near the Chinese boarder. Originally built by the French as a medical outpost, the city is now full of minority people from the local mountains and one of the major tourist destinations of north Vietnam. On Friday, 19 September, Ben, his girlfriend Huyen, Ben’s college friend Paul, and I set out for Sapa. The first leg of the journey began on a night train to the boarder town of Lau Cai. We arrived in Lau Cai early Saturday morning and hired a shuttle to Sapa. Thanks to the infusion of tourist dollars and French planning, Sapa is a very pretty and well-designed town. The town sits on a saddle and overlooks two large valleys. Vietnam’s largest peaks surround the town, and these are rugged mountains with significant elevation changes. Vietnam’s tallest peak, Fansipan, is very close.

The first thing we did after checking into our hotel was rent motorbikes. We rented three Honda Waves: one for me, one for Paul, and one for Ben and Huyen. Paul, who’s an actor from LA, had never ridden a motorbike before. We weren’t on the bikes for even two minutes before Paul drove his motorbike directly into the largest curb in Sapa. Apparently he was having difficulty turning and braking. Luckily Paul wasn’t hurt, even though I was convinced that he was going to fly over the handlebars, across the sidewalk, and into the bushes. Ben and Huyen were already back at the hotel wondering were Paul and I were as 12 or 15 Vietnamese men surrounded us and shook their heads, saying to Paul, “you no drive motorbike good.” The damage: the front tire was bent pretty badly. The total cost of the damage: 400,000 VND, roughly 25 USD. While his bike was at the shop, Paul hopped on the back of my bike and we left Sapa to visit some of the minority villages nearby. And Paul and I discussed how to drive a motorbike, which lead him to some success later in the trip.

The first village we came to was remarkable only because a sixty-foot section of the road through the village was comprised of one continuous rock. We parked our motorbikes and started walking through the town, but quickly realized that we weren’t going to see much because each of us had three minority (H’mong, I think) women surrounding us saying, “You buy from me? Very cheap for you—good price.” We retreated to our motorbikes and did a bit of shopping for hand woven textiles and silver jewelry, then took the road through town to the cave in the mountain.

Outside the cave stood six young boys carrying flashlights. After haggling with the boys, we rented four flashlights for 10,000 VND each and hired one of them to guide us through the cave. We had been hiking into the cave for 20 or 30 minutes when we made a startling discovery: This was a cave to China. Our guide told us that if you knew the way and had two or three days, the cave would dump you out in China. Needless to say, Ben, Paul, and I were ecstatic. A real tunnel to China? Amazing.

We left the cave and returned to our motorbikes to find them flocked with more minority women, again trying to sell us things. One of them lived a short distance from the cave’s entrance and she invited us back to her house. We accepted. The house was a barn, except that people lived there too. She kept pigs just outside the back door. We asked to see them and she proceeded to feed them corn. There were 12 or 15 pigs, mostly piglets, a few medium sized pigs, and a few big mommas. I asked Huyen, our official interpreter, what a pig costs in the local market. A big pig, one used for breeding, cost 50,000 VND, or roughly 3 USD. A medium sized pig, the best for eating, cost 80,000 VND, or roughly 5 USD. I suggested we buy an eating pig and hire the women to cook us lunch, but between Paul’s protests and the realization that they wouldn’t cook for us, we headed back to Sapa pigless.

That afternoon we picked up Paul’s bike and headed into one of the valleys below Sapa. There we visited the ancient stone carvings. There not actually stone carvings, but some black rocks (basalt maybe) that poke up like sea monsters among the terraced rice fields. The scenery was beautiful. It was rice harvest time, so the rice field were light brown instead of rich green. To harvest rice, the locals cut the rice grass and lay it in bundles to dry. Once sufficiently dry, the bundles are beaten over bamboo baskets to knock the rice grains out. The rice grain is stuffed into huge sacks for transport to a machine that removes the husk from the grain. At this point the rice is ready for the market. The whole process relies heavily on manual labor, sickles, and water buffaloes.

An eight-year-old girl with her infant brother strapped to her back tried to sell us things. She was immensely cute and Ben bought a small wallet/pouch thingy.

What You Do

2008-09-28T01:12:00.005-06:00

If you’re a Vietnamese ethnic minority living in a small village in the mountains near the Chinese boarder, what do you do for fun?

You could do like these H’mong guys in Bac Ha and bet on cutting leftover pork fat. You get to keep what you cut. Just like gambling back home, alcohol is included.

That's Ben raising his arms in the background.

These guys aren't speaking Vietnamese. Each ethnic group has it's own language, but most everyone speaks some Vietnamese.

My New House May Be Haunted

2008-09-18T13:58:00.004-06:00

There are five floors in our house. Each floor has two rooms, a front room and a back room. The back rooms lack windows. On the first floor there is motorbike parking in front and the kitchen in back. The second floor has a living room in front and a guest bedroom in back.

Ben and I each have our own floor. I sleep on the third floor in the front room. The back room on the third floor is empty, but it has an air-conditioner in case someone ever wants to use the room.

Ben sleeps in the front room on the fourth floor. The fourth floor lacks a bathroom, so Ben uses the bathroom on the fifth floor. There isn’t much on the fifth floor: a bathroom, a washing machine, an outdoor area to dry clothes, and a room full of old dolls.

Strange occurrences I have encountered:

One night, around 12:30, I was in bed reading a book with the bedroom door shut. Without warning, the door popped open, swing about 10 inches, and stopped moving. I got out of bed and turned the hall light on, but found nothing that could have turned the doorknob or pushed the door open. It has never swung open before or since that time.

The back room on the third floor has an air-conditioning unit. There is an unplugged TV in that room, but other than that, there’s no furniture. Ben never goes into that room and I’ve only been in there a few times, but twice I have found the door open and the air-conditioning left on.

Personally, I chalk these things up to, well, drafts and whatnot. Maybe I turned the A/C on by accident.

But Ben thinks the place is haunted. And he’s convinced that the dolls on the fifth floor (and maybe the dead rat) have something to do with it.

Twice Ben’s had his door pop open and he reports a strange rattle from the fifth floor bathroom in the middle of the night.

But even if our house is haunted, I’m okay with it. Here’s what I’m not okay with (make sure the sound is turned on):

This starts by 7:30 every morning and will last about a month.

Mai Chau

2008-08-30T22:21:00.008-06:00

When someone in Hanoi speaks of going to Mai Chau, they don’t mean the city of Mai Chau proper. They mean the small ethnic village set among the rice paddies outside of town. The Mai Chau that everyone refers to—i.e. the village—is an idyllic setting for spending a quiet weekend exploring the countryside. And after three months in Hanoi, I was ready to get out of the city, so Jessica and I left for Mai Chau on the morning of Saturday, August 23rd.

Mai Chau is about 160 km west of Hanoi, about two-thirds of the way to the Lao border. High Way 6 runs all but the last 20 minutes from Hanoi to Mai Chau, so after packing and having breakfast, we embarked on the 4-5 hour dive (depending on weather, road conditions, and number of stops). The drive is one of the most fantastically scenic routes I’ve ever driven. The sheer and utter greenness of the countryside is shocking. So much greenness seems alien—maybe that has something to do with growing up in Colorado, where green is a color we see for a few weeks in the spring. But I expected green; Vietnam is tropical, after all. What I didn’t expect was rugged mountains, and these mountains were rugged. I guess it makes sense when you consider that the mountains of north Vietnam are really the foothills of Mount Everest and the Himalaya’s. We had to cross one pass. Jessica and I stopped at the top to take in the view. These mountains were steep and covered with thick forests. Between the mountains were wide valleys completely filled with rice paddies and the occasional small village. At the top of the pass I had to explain to Jessica what a pass was—I guess they don’t have them in New Jersey.

Set on a small hill in the middle of a mountain valley and surrounded by rice paddies, Mai Chau is stunningly beautiful. Mai Chau is starting to become a tourist destination and most houses in the village have been converted into guesthouses, i.e. bare-boned bed and breakfasts. For 120,000 VND per person per night, you get dinner, sleeping accommodations in a traditional stilt house, and breakfast. Mosquito net and overhead fan are included.

We arrived in Mai Chau around 4:00 and after checking into a guesthouse, Jessica and I explored the village and took a walk through in the rice paddies. The matron of the guesthouse had dinner prepared at 7:00. It was just the two of us for dinner, but she prepared six or seven dishes. After dinner we sat around drinking beer and watching the stars come out. The drive wore us out more than we had expected, so when the mosquitoes chased us inside we quickly went to bed.

The next morning, after a breakfast of fried eggs, baguettes, and coffee, Jessica and I took her bike and explored the countryside south of Mai Chau. We ended up finding a road that curls around to the backside of a national forest. The road started out paved, but as it began to climb into the mountains it turned first into a gravel road and then into a four-wheel drive road with mud pits and massive ruts. Jessica would get off the bike and walk up steep, rough sections of the road while I drove the bike up. We got to a particularly nasty section of road and decided to turn back. I think we’d have gone farther had we been on something other than a dated Honda Wave.

When we turned around it was close to 1:00 or 2:00 in the afternoon and hot. The creek we had been following looked inviting, so we stopped to cool ourselves off and to clean the mud from our shoes. But we weren’t the only ones down there:

We got back to Mai Chau a few hours later and did some shopping for embroidery and scarves, which the people of the village are known for, and saw a traditional dance.

Monday morning we drove back to Hanoi because Jessica and I had classes that afternoon. With one short bike trip under my belt, I’m ready for another and I already have one planned. In late September Ben and I are taking a five-day trip with a friend of his from the States.

I Have A Girlfriend & Something Bad Happened (No, Not That)

2008-08-13T13:58:00.001-06:00

First things first: I have a girlfriend. Her name is Jessica and she’s from New Jersey—now both my roommate and my girlfriend are from that state. Jessica is also an English teacher here in Hanoi, but we teach at different schools. I mentioned her on my blog about a month ago, but haven’t written about her since. I didn’t write more about her because I wanted to wait and see how things progressed. And things went really well. She’s a nice girl and I like spending time with her.

Ben has a girlfriend too. Her name is Huyen and she’s from a town outside of Hanoi.

Today marked the three-month anniversary of Ben and I moving in together. To celebrate this occasion, we had planned to pay rent for the next three months—a simple yet symbolic act that would demonstrate our desire to remain roommates for the next ninety days. We amassed our dong collection and at 9:30 pm we knocked on our landlady’s door. But instead of securing three months of living arrangements, we secured only two weeks, and we got those two weeks for free. The catch: after two weeks, Ben and I must move out.

The issue: our girlfriends stay over sometimes.
The problem: the landlady doesn’t approve.
The solution: get out.

There is an upside to all this. After three months at this location, Ben and I know the neighborhood fairly well. By moving, we’ll spend the rest of our time in Hanoi in a new part of the city—we’ll get to know twice as much of the city. Plus our landlady and her husband live next to us and they aren’t very friendly—leaving them behind is an added bonus. And it should be fairly easy to find another two bedroom house or apartment for Ben and I to share.

There is also a lesson to be learned here: I knew that having a girlfriend could lead to bad things: a broken heart, an STD, or an unwanted child. Now I can add something else to that list: an eviction.

Gone...

2008-08-11T00:26:00.002-06:00

The Russians Are Coming!—oh no, wait, it’s just me

2008-08-06T12:32:00.011-06:00

I took Russian lessons after school during third and fourth grades back at Lukas Elementary School (Home of the Sky Walkers). My primary motivation in learning Russian for two years was Amanda P., a blond girl in my grade who lived up the street from me. She took the class too and we walked home afterwords. That scheme didn’t pay off until senior year of high school when we had prom dinner together, but unfortunately Amanda and I had different dates. Sometime after prom we actually went on a date or two, the highlight being that we were served alcohol in Denver at 18 years old. And that was it—I haven’t seen her since.

Lately I’ve been wishing I’d had paid a little more attention to my Russian lessons, because then I could really trick people here in Vietnam.

You see, since arriving in Asia, many people have assumed I am Russian. In Nha Trang a bookseller approached me on the beach and started speaking Russian to me. This man’s Russian was nearly as good as mine (i.e., bad), so figuring I wouldn’t be able to understand him if I spoke fluent Russian, I gave him a puzzled look and kept quite. Ben was sitting next to me at the time, so Ben spoke to him in English and the bookseller asked if I was Russian. Ben played along. In Phnom Penh I was asked the question: are you Russian? And twice in Saigon. And in Hoi An. And multiple times in Hanoi. The thread that connected all of these encounters is the ethnicity of the questioner: they were always Asian. Assuming that Asians have the same difficulty discerning the nationality of white people as white people have discerning the nationality of Asians, I chalked my Russianness up as cultural misidentification. But events in the past few weeks have forced me to reexamine that conclusion.

Three weeks ago I spent an evening at Half-Man/Half-Noodle, an expatty bar that constantly plays Dire Straits, with my co-workers. That evening a pair of British co-workers asked me is I was…Russian. These were the first English speakers that had asked me if I was Russian. I asked them why I looked Russian—they were the first people who spoke English to ask me this—and one of them grabbed my shoulders and said “these look Russian.” I would assume that dirty blonde hair helps too.

Then just a few nights ago Ben and I were at Mao’s Red Lounge with Clint and Crissy, our Aussie friends who live in Phnom Penh, and a childhood friend of Ben’s who was in town. Along with some other friends from Hanoi, we were discussing sports. The topic shifted to Wayne Gretski, the famous hockey player, and Ben motioned towards me and said, “you kind of look like Wayne Gretzky.” The American sitting next to Ben corrected him, saying, “more like the Russian Wayne Gretzky.” Not only do I look like a Russian, but I look like the Russian Wayne Gretzky! So far in Asia I have been mistaken as mostly Russian, with a little Russian Wayne Gretzky and a little Leonardo DiCaprio.

To the best of my knowledge I am not Russian. When asked, “Where is your family from?,” I usually answer: Iowa, Minnesota, and Indiana—all my grandparents came from Iowa, Minnesota, and Indiana. Before that I’m not sure and I’ve heard many different things, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard Russian mentioned. I’ve primarily heard German, Scandinavian (Norwegian, Swedish, Finnish, etc), and British (English and Welsh, I think), but I have also heard Euro-mutt. So Grandmas, how do I answer the question, “Where is your family from?”

UPDATE:
I am 1/4 Norwegian, 1/4 German, 1/8 Welsh, and 1/8 English.
That only adds up to 3/4. 1/4 is currently unknown.

Way To Go Ben!

2008-07-19T06:31:00.004-06:00

Ben August is my roommate. He also writes a fine blog called Ahoy Hanoi, which was recently awarded the Blog Of The Month Award from Expat-Blog. To commemorate this event, Ben published a rambling acceptance speech.

Way to go Ben! Keep up the good work!

The Number Four

2008-07-10T23:54:00.005-06:00

Four is a good number.

There is the Fourth of July. The American Club hosted Fourth of July celebrations this year. After the price of admission, the food and drinks were first-come, first-serve, and they had plenty. The food was good but the beer was Budweiser in bottles—a very American beer even if Anheuser-Busch will soon be foreign owned. The most un-American part of the evening: no fireworks. Either Hanoi or Vietnam has had a ban on fireworks for a few years.

These pictures are of me with Amalia, a Hungarian woman who played dress-up American for the evening.

The second great thing about the number four: Connect-Four. It is not a very popular game in Vietnam, but Finnegan's Irish Pub has a set. Ben and I played a few games (he was up 3-1) and Ben spent a good deal of time beating anyone who wanted to play.

Ben and I have searched Hanoi top to bottom looking for a Connect-Four set, but nobody seems to sell them. If you read this, please send a Connect-Four set. Make that two sets. Thanks.

When David Sedaris Learns To Talk Pretty, I Won't Read About It...

2008-07-10T13:07:00.011-06:00

... unless it's in a greatest hits compilation.

This is not a place I usually review books, but tonight I finished an exceptional book: Me Talk Pretty One Day, by David Sedaris. The book is exceptional in its mediocrity. In the copy I read there were 272 pages. 75 pages were worth reading—I counted. That's a success rate of 27.6%. Before counting the pages I had guessed that the success rate would be between 7% and 10%—that’s the kind of impression the book left on me. I did not count the pages that were awful, but I’d guess there were around 50 pages that would qualify, leaving 147 driveling pages that were not awful but not good.

On the upside, the 75 pages that were worth reading were funny. Those 75 pages, which included the essay from which the book takes its name, are articulate, insightful, and humorous (and at times laugh-out-loud funny).

If I do not like a book, I usually put it down without finishing it. I finished Me Talk Pretty One Day, making it the worst book I have ever finished (I think). The book, despite being unusually dull and boring, was surprisingly easy to read, which is why I finished it: there were very few tedious sections.

If Mr. Sedaris's other books suffer from a similar issues (read: a few good pieces among a sea of mediocrity and burning ships), he desperately needs a greatest hits compilation.

The Dying Man-Child/Frog of Hanoi

2008-07-08T13:09:00.011-06:00

I’ve heard some strange folklore in Vietnam.

There was Lack-of-Men Disease. Lack-of-Men Disease is highly contagious among 15 to 25 year old females but it is not deadly. When a young woman contracts Lack-of-Men Disease, she immediately faints. If another young woman touches her, she too will immediately faint. There are two treatments: 1) wait six to eight hours until the young female patient regains consciousness; or 2) have a lot of males touch the unconscious female. Men are immune to the disease.

And there was the head/stomach combination that floats around and eats shit. In the countryside, if a husband does not feed his wife, his wife’s head will detach from the body and float around. The floating head drags the woman’s stomach out of the body and together, the head/stomach combination goes in search of poop: dog poop, people poop; any poop will do. After it has eaten it’s fill, the head and poop-filled stomach returns to the woman’s body. Then the woman feels sick and dies. I have a feeling this folktale got lost in translation as there seems to be some problem with the story, but maybe it’s just strange because I’m Western and don’t understand something about Vietnamese culture.

Then there was Pig-Bird. Pig-Bird is a nocturnal flying creature that makes the sound of a pig. It is only heard in the countryside and in hospitals. It has never been seen. Whoever hears pig-bird will die in two or three days.

I have not personally experienced any of the above things.

But I have experienced The Dying Man-Child/Frog of Hanoi. Every night for the past 10 days the Man-Child/Frog almost dies outside my window. Tonight is no exception. I can hear him right now, howling and squealing and generally making a ruckus. The sound he makes is best described by his name: half Man-Child, half frog, dying. So really, imagine a third man (I like to imagine Conan the Barbarian), a third baby, and a third giant frog. I believe that this creature is like Prometheus, except that he regenerates during the day so he can die again every night. If you’re having trouble imagining the sound, try this:
1. Imagine a cat.
2. Make the cat malnourished and mean.
3. Have the cat smoke cigarettes until its voice becomes gritty.
4. Shoot the cat in a non-vital place like its leg.
5. Imagine the sound this cat would make.

Obviously I have never seen the Man-Child/Frog of Hanoi, but I think it looks like a combination of these:

And The Man-Child/Frog dies outside my window every night.

Or it might just be a cat. Maybe even a whole chorus of cats. But I think it's The Dying Man-Child/Frog of Hanoi.

As Seen Through Vietnamese Eyes

2008-07-03T12:59:00.011-06:00

Thursday night I got a text message from Huyen—Ben’s girlfriend—asking if I would like to dinner with her and her new roommate. Huyen’s roommate is named Lee and she’s 22—same as Huyen. Lee’s English is passable but not nearly as good as Huyen. In the middle of dinner Lee said to me, “you look like…” and drifted off, searching for the right words. Ben and I both immediately thought she was going to say “Russian”. Since arriving in Asia, I have been asked several times if I was Russian. To the best of my knowledge, I am not Russian. But instead of “Russian,” Lee said, “Leonardo DiCaprio.”

To clarify, I don’t bear a strong resemblance to Mr. DiCaprio, but we are both of European descent. Maybe that had something to do with the confusion? And he's 10 years older than me. (In case there are any Vietnamese people reading this: that's me in Cambodia above Mr. DiCaprio.)

Also, on Thursday I talked to my class about their plans for the weekend. Someone asked me if I was going to hang out with my girlfriend this weekend. I have repeatedly told all my classes that I do not have a girlfriend, but they don’t seem to believe me. I told the class that I was going to spend some time with a girl I recently met. The class asked if she was my girlfriend—again they didn’t believe me—and I said no. Someone asked me if she was Vietnamese. No. Where is she from? America. What’s her name? Jess. (I know, I know: I go all the way to Vietnam and end up dating an American girl…) The oldest person in the class is a guy in his mid fifties. He asked me when I was leaving Vietnam. January ’09. He thought for a moment and said, “I think before you go you must try Vietnamese.”

It seems that every class I have really wants me to date a Vietnamese girl. I asked Ben about it. He said that when his classes found out he had a Vietnamese girlfriend, they cheered. Ben’s under the impression that Vietnamese people think Vietnam and Vietnamese things are better than anything else. I guess that includes their women.

There is a big party in Hanoi on Sunday (7/6/08—or as they write it in Vietnam: 6/7/08) for the Fourth of July. They are importing Budweiser. Party on, Wayne.

Advice From My Class: Marry A Vietnamese Woman

2008-06-30T13:00:00.004-06:00

Today I taught would like + infinitive to my students, so we were talking about things we would like to do. I mentioned to the class that I would like to learn to cook Vietnamese food. I asked if there was a school where I could take lessons. The students jabbered in Vietnamese for a moment. One man shot me a why bother look and asked me if I was sure. I was sure, I said. So they suggested I marry a Vietnamese woman and then she could teach me how to cook Vietnamese food. There is one problem with this, which I shall return to in a moment.

The subject of cooking, and me asking about learning to cook, brought up an interesting conversation. I asked the five men in the class, who were 18 – 24ish, if they knew how to cook. One knew how to boil an egg—that was the extent of their knowledge. I asked the ten women if they knew how to cook. They all gave me that that’s a dumb question look: of course, they said, they were women. Did they think it was right for women to do all the cooking? Yes, it was traditional. Then one woman said that Vietnamese men were very lazy: they do not help cook and after meals they watch television or read. This sparked a debate among the women about whether Vietnamese men were lazy—and the men just sat there. The women asked me who did the cooking in my country. I told them that, at least in my family, the women to the majority of the cooking. My Dad and Len do some, but my Mom and Bebo by far do the most. I then told them that in my family, the children cleaned up after meals. (I didn’t mention that that didn’t occur as often as it was designed to.) My class laughed at the notion of kids cleaning up. I couldn’t tell if they were laughing at it on principle (read: it’s bad to make kids work) or in practicality (read: good luck getting that done).

I asked the women if they thought that this was fair despite being traditional. A man said it was just the rules and it had been that way for four thousand years. A woman said that people wrote those rules long ago, so we could rewrite them now. Now we were getting somewhere: should men learn to cook? Yes, a woman said, in case their wife gets sick. We can eat at a restaurant until the wife gets better, said a man, so men don’t need to learn to cook. I asked if they thought in the future if men would do more cooking. I got some meager attempts at yes, a few headshakes of no, and mostly silence. The point was quite clear: men don’t cook and women do all the cooking and cleaning.

As to my students' suggestion that I marry a Vietnamese woman to teach me to cook: marrying a Vietnamese woman doesn’t seem like a good way to learn to cook because you’ll never need to cook another thing in your life. Ever. Like, forever. Instead of improving, a man’s cooking skills will go rusty with a Vietnamese wife.

Fighting Vermin in Vietnam

2008-06-25T00:31:00.004-06:00

Since Ben and I moved into our house, we’ve had a massive cockroach problem. It was a constant battle in the kitchen to destroy the bugs and our primary weapons were sandals. We finally got smart and bought a bottle of aerosol cockroach killer. One afternoon, before leaving for work, I sprayed behind the cabinets through the cracks next to the walls. Ten cockroaches swarmed out of the cabinets onto the kitchen floor, where I squashed them. I could hear others scratching behind the cabinets as they died. Then I sprayed outside. I found a small hole in the concrete wall and sprayed into it. Eight cockroaches came racing out and those I killed too. When I returned six hours later, I found more dead cockroaches outside and in the kitchen. Since that spraying, the cockroach problem has ceased to be a problem, but we are monitoring the situation.

It turns out that the cockroaches weren’t just grossing Ben and me out: they were grossing out our neighborhood rat too. As soon that the cockroaches were gone, a rat started making the rounds in our kitchen. Ben and I both had late night encounters with him, but we always lost him. Ben took the lead in dealing with the rat. First he cleaned out the area under the stairs where we knew he was hiding. The rat still came around. Next Ben bought a live trap. We suspect the rat got trapped twice and got out twice. Ben bought some sticky pads and places them around the trashcan. The rat didn’t stick. Finally a bit of luck: Ben came home after work and cornered the rat in the kitchen. The rat got away by running up the stairs. Ben followed but lost the rat on the second floor.

When I got home—maybe 10 minutes later—Ben was in the kitchen. We went upstairs. Ben’s bedroom and a small outdoor patio are on the second floor. There is a good-sized gap under the door to the patio, so we stepped outside. The rat was on the railing and he ran under some plants. Ben guarded the door lest the rat try to run inside while I found a bucket and filled it with water. I splashed water around to see if we could scare him out. The rat didn’t like getting wet and jumped off the patio onto the ground floor, which wasn’t our property. That night Ben fortified the patio door with towels and weights. We haven’t seen the rat since Ben did that, but we told the landlords anyway. They immediately had a team on Vietnamese people over to block any other possible entrances (and fix out leaky kitchen faucet).

Everything was good: no more rats, no more cockroaches. Unfortunately, we are just starting to learn about ecosystems: when you eradicate one species, it throws everything out of balance. Just as the disappearance of the cockroaches lead to the rat, the disappearance of the rat lead to giant orange and black spiders. Ben and I were watching a movie last night and out of the corner of my eye I saw movement—big movement. We flipped on the light and found this (Ben made a video of the spider hunt).

Bun Cha & Nem Ran

2008-06-24T01:39:00.008-06:00

Vietnamese “street” restaurants usually specialize in one type of food. The advantage of this strategy is that a vender selling pho, for instance, usually sells delicious pho. There is a new restaurant selling bun cha and nem ran—two types of food that typically go together—just down the street. Ben and I hit it maybe once a week for lunch. Bun cha is served like this:

1. A plate of greens (basil, mint, sprouts, unidentifiable others).
2. A plate of rice noodles.
3. The required plate of cucumbers.
4. A bowl of lukewarm broth with grilled pork and pork meatballs.

Add greens and rice noodles to the broth and enjoy. Possibly my favorite lunch food.

Ran means “fried”. Nem means “spring roll”. Nem ran comes cut into bit size pieces. It is standard to dip them into the bun cha broth before eating.

Bia Hoi means the restaurant serves beer.

Unidentifiable Foods

2008-06-22T23:49:00.007-06:00

If you happen to find yourself in a Vietnamese restaurant and the menu is only in Vietnamese, be very careful what you order. Last night Ben and I were in such a situation but we were not so careful. The menu was all in Vietnamese and we couldn’t identify any of the words—and we know the basic food groups pretty well. There were pictures of the food but they didn’t help identify the contents. We pointed to a dish and asked the waitress em tic? (you like?) No, no, she answered. She said no to every dish we pointed at.

We finally just pointed at a few and ordered. The first dish served were fried balls of sticky rice—not that bad but not that good either. The second dish was completely unidentifiable but smelled good. We poked at it with our spoons and figured, well, it’s food, and started eating. Ben got about half way through his—I was maybe a quarter way through—when he stopped eating and announced that he thought he knew what we were eating: duck embryos still in their eggs. I cracked mine open a little more and, sure enough, I found a tiny beak and some small, underdeveloped feathers.

Ben texted Linh—our former Vietnamese teacher in Saigon—asking her to translate the name of the food for us. She confirmed our suspicions and added that it was quite delicious. We paid the bill and bought ice cream cones on the walk home.

The Internet Was Down—That's Why I Haven't Been Updating

2008-06-22T00:12:00.018-06:00

The internet has been down for close to a week now. But this morning the internet was working so I figured it was time to update the blog.

Huyen is Ben’s girlfriend. Her and her sister moved into a new room two weeks ago. She invited Ben and I to their new “house” to celebrate. In Vietnamese culture, whenever you get something new (a motorbike, a house, a business, etc.) you must wash it, meaning you must throw a party at your expense for all of your friends. So Huyen and her sister invited Ben and me to their place to wash her house. They had also invited some of there Vietnamese friends. These are all young people in the final years of undergrad or working for the past few years—all between 22 and 26 (except Ben, who’s 29 in the states and 30 in Vietnam). Let me describe the new house: open the front door and walk into a normal bedroom size room. In this room there is a window with no screen, a fan, a desk with a computer on top, shelves full of books mounted on the wall above the desk, a queen or king bed without a mattress but covered with a woven bamboo mat (where both Huyen and her sister slept), and a door in the back of the room. The door leads to the bathroom, which only has a squat toilet—meaning you can’t sit on it and read. The cooking area was out front in the street/parking area. They had a few pots and a small portable stove that ran on propane canisters.

The dinner was actually quite nice. We sat on the bed and Huyen had all the food set out in front of us. It wasn’t what I would consider traditional Vietnamese food—it was a sandwich bar organized by people who lack a sandwich culture—but it was quite good. Plus Huyen made one of my favorite drinks: passion fruit mixed with water.

The experience made me realize that I love being a Westerner, particularly an American. Westerners, particularly Americans I think, need more space than Vietnamese people. We get claustrophobic when surrounded by people and Vietnamese people get lonely when they are not surrounded. For example, a few days after the washing party, Huyen’s sister left for a two-week trip to Hue, leaving Huyen alone in the room. Sounds nice right: the whole house to yourself, not to mention the whole bed? Huyen didn’t like it so. She’s been hanging out over here with Ben more than ever because she’s lonely without her sister.

Now another story: When I started at Language Link I took over two classes from someone who had finished his contract at Language Link. Both of those courses ended last week. At the end of a Language Link course there is an excursion for which the school gave me roughly 1 USD per student. We went to a café and ordered drinks and some food. The first excursion was with a group of pre-intermediate 3 students. They had become my favorite class—they were easy going, fun, sometimes silly, and generally good students. Plus there happened to be a few beautiful young women in the class—that never hurts. It was an easy excursion: we sat around and talked and laughed and had a good time.

I had to get back to the school to meet my pre-intermediate 1 class. This was not my favorite class. The class was not bad, but we just never seemed to click. At 9 pm, when the class and the excursion should have been over, the group announced they were taking me to karaoke. Also at 9 pm I got a text message from Ben asking if I wanted to meet him at Yesterday’s, the local pool hall. I tried to excuse myself from karaoke and my former students were having none of it. The worst thing about karaoke with a group of pre-int 1s is that they don’t know many English songs. They put on Let It Be for me to sing and then I sat through an hour of sappy Vietnamese songs. I requested they sing some English songs and they sang a selection of M2M, a modern version of ABBA that I did not need to know existed.

Both of these classes met on a Tuesday-Thursday-Saturday schedule, so the best part of these classes ending is that I have Saturday and Tuesday off until my next classes start on Thursday. I took full advantage of my Saturday by leaving the bar at 5:15 am on Saturday morning. I had not intended on staying out so late—it kind of just happened, but two good things came out of it. First, I walked home in the early morning light of Hanoi. Hanoi is particularly calm and beautiful in the early morning. Not many people were yet out and the light was fantastic—not bright, not dull, but full and encompassing. The French bakeries were just opening. I stopped at one and bought a fresh croissant. I’m not sure if fresh croissants on early Hanoian mornings make up for the evils of European colonialism, but it’s the little things that count, right?

On my walk home, which took about half an hour, I walked past Hoan Kiem Lake—now the second good thing—where some Vietnamese people were out doing exercises. Vietnamese people do the most hilarious exercises. Imagine a combination of the chicken dance and the hokey pokey. Now imagine a lot of Asian people of all different ages doing this hybrid dance together in public places. Now imagine all these Asian people wearing pajamas while they dance, which are to Vietnam as jeans and tee shirts are to America. Add to this the fact that they are all slowly walking in unison around the lake and you have a perverted version of the music video to Thriller. It was a surreal experience, part of which may have been because I was drunk and delirious. I couldn’t help but think I finally understood how Thomas De Quincey felt during his Easter Dream of the Orient. But instead of being afraid of the Orient, I found it strange and comical.

PS: I finished the fifth season of The Wire.

Goat Hot Pot

2008-06-05T23:10:00.015-06:00

I’ve decided to chronicle my Vietnamese culinary adventures. I have touched upon this subject—bats and frogs—before.

Hot pots are a fairly common food in Vietnam. Hot pots are basically a good broth that is cooked on the table. The customer adds ingredients—meat, veggies, noodles, and tofu—to the broth to cook and then the customer serves the food.

After teaching last night I met Ben on Kim Ma for goat hot pot. The meal normally starts with raw goat meat and skin that we grill over our in-table barbeque, but Ben kindly asked the wait staff to skip the skin. The Vietnamese way is to take the grilled goat, wrap it up with basil and cucumber in rice paper, and dip it in a mustard-like sauce. We skipped the wrapping stage and went from grill to sauce to mouth.

Next came the hot pot. In a goat hot pot the meat is already in the broth. The pot is placed on the coals in the center of the table to cook. We added the vegetables, which were all leafy varieties similar to spinach and lettuce, the rice noodles, and the tofu and waited a few minutes for it all to cook. The key to good hot pot cooking lies in adding the right amount of food at the right time: if you add more than can be eaten at once, the leftovers sit in the boiling broth and become mush. The waitress is handy with extra broth as it evaporates quickly.

I finally remembered to take my camera out—meaning I have lots of pictures of Ben.

Up To Date With A De Lorean Time Machine

2008-06-01T01:58:00.008-06:00

I am bringing this blog up to date with the help of a De Lorean time machine. As we skip a month in advance—from the first of May to the first of June—I will narrate the events you see through the windows. Please do not touch the flux capacitor. (Warning: these might not be in exact order—you know how time travel goes.)

Ben’s house is robbed and he decides to move out—this happens while I am in Saigon.
I land in Hanoi and stay with Ben and Steve.
I find a two-bedroom house listed on Craigslist Vietnam.
Steve goes on a journey through Lao and Cambodia.
Ben moves out of his old house and we move into the house. A Vietnamese woman comes once a week to clean and do laundry (read: iron our shirts—I can run the washing machine and hang wet clothes to dry, but damn if I can iron a shirt.)
Ben and I have interviews at Language Link—we were both offered jobs.
Ben accepts. I continue to look.
I get sick with a Vietnamese cold—it puts me out for almost five days and I spend those five days watching The Wire.
Ben gets himself a Vietnamese girlfriend. Western girls we meet—particularly American girls—are not impressed.
I have an interview with Apollo and am offered a job.
Steve returns from Lao and Cambodia.
Steve, Ben, and I drink cobra blood mixed with rice wine. Ben swallows a beating snake heart. We all eat snake.
Steve returns to NYC. I keep the shirt.
I take a job with Language Link but at a different campus than Ben.
I start working at Language Link. (I have four classes, all adult general English. I teach Monday through Saturday from 5:45-7:15 and 7:30-9:00. It takes me about 2.5 hours to prep for both classes. I teach Elementary English 3 and Pre-Intermediate English 1, 2, and 3. We play lots of games.)
I finish four seasons of The Wire. This is good—now I have my life back. Until season five is bootlegged.

And that’s it. We are up to date.

Back to Saigon & Apocalypse Now

2008-05-22T22:19:00.007-06:00

It was time for me to return to Saigon. I had a job starting soon in Saigon teaching at ILA. It was a bittersweet parting. Ben and Steve saw me to the street curb where a taxi took me to the airport. Something told me that Ben could not get Leaving On A Jet Plane out of his head. Steve and I made plans to meet in Saigon in about two week when he would be down there. And then that was it: Ben and I were no more, he in the north and I in the south.

The house I had arranged in Saigon had fallen through, so now I had a few days before I started teaching to find housing. Hien took me through a bunch of guesthouses where you can stay by the month—nothing was available. Hien let me stay at the LanguageCorp building, which was nice as it saved me 15 USD a night. The two of us spent a few days looking for housing. I scoured the likes of Craigslist Vietnam and SoSaigon.com and found little—but I did find housing in Hanoi listed on Craigslist. Hien offered to let me stay at LanguageCorp on the condition that I not tell anyone.

The whole time I was looking for a place to live, I could not get Hanoi out of my head. It was true I knew more people in Hanoi and I was a little lonely in Saigon, but Hanoi also has a certain charm that Saigon lacks. Hanoi has more trees, Hanoi is less crowded, Hanoi is not as grey as Saigon, and Hanoi feels more Vietnamese—more different. I was spending more and more time thinking about Hanoi. Hien even saw it. It was an easy decision: I didn’t have a place to live, I had not signed a teaching contract (although I had verbally committed to one—oh well), and I wanted to be in Hanoi: I was going back to Hanoi. I was in Saigon a total of six days before I packed up all my luggage and flew back to Hanoi. Ben said I could stay with him until I figured out what I was going to do.

During those six days in Saigon, there are a few stories worth telling. I got an email from Bobbi, Rett’s mother, who was in Saigon with her husband David. She invited me to dinner with them at an Indian restaurant named Tandoor. I have met Bobbi before in Boulder. David had business in Hong Kong and they had decided to take a quick vacation to Vietnam. Rett told Bobbi I was in Vietnam and supplied his mother with my email address. It was fun seeing Bobbi and meeting David and getting news about Rett and his sister in New York City (who I have never met, but I have heard lots about her via Rett). A week after we had dinner, Bobbi and David were headed to Boulder for Rett’s graduation party.

To thank Hien for her generosity in letting me stay at LanguageCorp, I wanted to take her out to dinner. I told her to pick any restaurant she wanted. She chose a good one: Tandoor, the restaurant I had eaten at the night before—which was fine, I love Indian food. We had a good and rather uneventful meal, but as we were sitting at the table, she remembered she had forgotten to call her friend Sharmin, a Bengali woman who was teaching in Saigon and had gone through LanguageCorp. After dinner, Hien called Sharmin and invited her out for drinks.

Despite the fact that Hien does not drink and she did not know that to invite someone for a drink invariably involves drinking alcohol, we ended up at a Latin themed bar in District 1 with a pair of Philippine guitarists/singers dressed as migrant Mexican farm workers and singing classic American rock and folk songs. Despite being Philippine, they were not particularly good. It took Sharmin over an hour to get to the bar, during which time I drank a few margaritas and Hien drank strawberry juice. Sharmin arrived hand in hand with a 55-ish Australian man named Peter, who came to Vietnam as a principal of an international school—he had been a principal in Australia too. Sharmin is a very attractive, very outgoing 27-year-old woman. We all sat at the bar for a few more drinks. Sharmin asked if we wanted to go dancing. Where? I asked. A club not far from here, she said. What is the name of the club? I asked. Apocalypse Now, she said. Great—I had been to this club with Ben and some other Saigon expats—it is not exactly a place I enjoyed the first time.

The first floor of Apocalypse Now is a huge dance floor with bars lining the outside walls. People dance to the right and stand around whispering sweet nothings—read: bargaining—to the left. The music is loud, thumping house. The first time I was here with Ben, I made the mistake of making eye contact with a Vietnamese woman who immediately zoomed in on me and asked me what I wanted. At least that was better than what happened to Ben, who happened to make eye contact with a Vietnamese man who from then on would not leave Ben alone, even after Ben said he was not interested. Out back is an outdoor patio that is tolerable with tables and football (soccer) games on the televisions. This is where the old white men and young, attractive Vietnamese women hang out. Upstairs is another dance floor with tables in the back. The music up there is better and the crowd is better too (no obvious prostitutes).

Hien, Sharmin, Peter and I left the Latin bar we were at and walked to Apocalypse Now. On the walk over Peter had is hands all over Sharmin. We immediately went to the outdoor patio out back and sat down. I did not really like the place and I could tell that Hien hated it. Hien and Sharmin had to step out front to call someone, so Peter and I sat around and shot the shit. Peter was a nice guy, and when I told him I was moving to Hanoi and looking for a job, he offered to forward my CV to their school in Hanoi and he gave me his business card. About that time, two Vietnamese working girls spotted us sitting alone at a table and immediately occupied the empty chairs across from us. I looked at them and smiled and continued my conversation with Peter. The girls sat there smiling and winking at us until Sharmin and Hien returned. The girls gave Sharmin and Hien dirty looks and left.

Hien and Sharmin sat between Peter and me. Peter had his hand on Sharmin and Sharmin was running her foot up and down my calf, which was rather impressive as Hien did not even notice and Hien was sitting between Sharmin and me. Hien was ready to go and so was I, so we took a cab back to LanguageCorp. Hopefully that is the end of my experiences with Apocalypse Now. Hien will never go there again.

That night I couldn’t help but notice that Sharmin wore a wedding ring. Hien later told me that Sharmin was neither married nor dating Peter—he was too old, she said. Two weeks later when Steve went to Saigon he met Sharmin without any old men present and they hit it off just fine.

That's Steve and Sharmin above. Go Steve go.

French Party

2008-05-18T01:02:00.004-06:00

A few days after the night at Mao’s Red Lounge, Ben’s roommates invited us to a party at the residence of some French expats. It was a small party with fifteen or twenty people of various nationalities drinking Hanoi Vodka on a rooftop terrace. The party ended around 12:30 with the decision to go to a bar on the other side of town. On the street, Canadian Christine and I were failing in our attempt to both ride her bicycle. Steve and Ben had found a cab, but there was not room enough for everyone in the cab, plus neither Steve nor Ben knew where the bar was. So Christine, one of two who knew the location of the bar, hopped in the cab and left me with the bicycle. Spanish Miriam, who also knew the location of the bar, was on a motorbike with instructions to lead me to the bar.

We left; then they left me. Apparently Miriam misunderstood the instructions, because as soon as the cab took off, Miriam passed the cab and was gone. By time I reached the end of the alley, I had lost both Miriam and the cab. As any American with a few Hanoi Vodkas in him would do, I decided to find the bar where my friends were no doubt enjoying themselves. I had been in Hanoi for all of four days at that point, I had no map, and I had not paid much attention to the layout of the city because I was headed back to Saigon in a few days, so how I figured I would find a bar I did not know the address to…let’s just chalk it up to Hanoi Vodka. At the end of the ally, I took a left. It started raining. Not monsoon downpour, but steady cool rain that invigorated me and reinforced the notion of finding the bar. I rode down the deserted street and my pocket started vibrating—Steve was calling. Where are you? Near the railroad tracks. Is there a street sign? No. Find a street sign and wait there. We’re coming to pick you up after we drop everyone else off. I took a right across the railroad tracks but instead of turning onto a street I turned into a school or church or mental hospital courtyard. The three guards, one man and two women, found my broken Vietnamese more amusing than intelligible. O Dau? (Where?) I kept asking while I pointed at the ground. A train came, locking me into the courtyard for fifteen minutes. Steve called, but with the train I could hear nothing. I sat on the bicycle out of the rain under the guard’s awning and practiced the little Vietnamese I knew. Ban den tu nuc nao? (What country are you from?) I asked the Vietnamese people. Toi den tu nuc My (pronounced mee) (I am from America) I told them. Ah, My they said and smiled—Vietnamese people don’t hold much against Americans. Then we all smiled and they rattled at me in Vietnamese and I continued smiling until the train left. I thanked my friends and turned back to the road.

I rode the bicycle to a huge six-way intersection and took the first side street with a street sign. I called Steve and gave him my address. The cab driver had never heard of it. A Vietnamese man approached me. I told Steve to put the cab driver on and I gave my phone to the man. They rattled for a few minutes and the man handed me my phone. Steve said they were on their way. It rained. I waited. Steve and Ben arrived in the cab. The driver would not let us put the bicycle on the roof, so I tried to lock it up but the cabbie thought that was a bad idea. He found a small shop that was somehow still open at 2:15. He offered them 20,000 VND to watch the bike until morning. They refused. There was a large hotel two or three minutes away. I rode the bike over there thinking they might watch the bike until morning. They would not take the bike. At this point I was drenched but still running strong on Hanoi Vodka from the French party.

I was sick of figuring this out. I wanted to go home, so I got the map from Ben and asked where we were. Ben showed me but I did not really understand. I too off toward home and stopped three blocks later to figure out my route. A cab pulled up with Ben and Steve inside. Lost already? they asked. I was not lost, I just didn’t know where I was—but I was figuring it out. After a brief discussion, we decided it would be wiser to let Ben ride the bike home, as he at least knew where we were. I got in the cab and Steve and I went home. Ben was ten minutes behind.

For Ben's account of this evening, go here.
For Steve's account, go here.

You will notice that Ben's and Steve's blogs about this incident occur in late April. Oh man, my blog is behind. I'm going to catch it up—maybe it's time for two-a-day posts and no more ten day breaks.

Mao and the Culture Police

2008-05-09T03:27:00.002-06:00

Ben moved into his new house and immediately had two guests: Steve and me. Two of his roommates were happy to have the extra guests, one was indifferent, and one was—shall we say—less than thrilled. Ben has a small room with an unusual bed. A sheet covers it and it has two pillows, but woe to him who tries to jump on it, for it is hard. I am convinced that it is a sheet of plywood covered with an eighth inch of foam: there is no falling into this bed without hurting yourself. Ben and I shared the bed and Steve slept on the tile floor on top of a yoga mat—I am not convinced that Ben and I had the better arrangement.

Our first night in Hanoi was marked with dinner at a restaurant called Highway 4 with some of Ben’s new roommates and then out to Mao’s Red Lounge, a small smoky expat/traveler bar in the Old Quarter. Mao is a nice Vietnamese guy whom Ben’s roommates have befriended and would later invite to their house party. Mao’s Red Lounge is a pretty standard dive bar with good rock ‘n’ roll (for SE Asia, at least) and cheap beer. It is a good place to meet young travelers and local expats. The only problem with Mao’s is the closing time, which occurs whenever the cultural police feel like shutting it down. The cultural police walked into the bar and calmly told everyone to leave. Apparently the cultural police do not take kindly to Mao. The word from Ben’s roommates is that Mao refuses to bribe the police.

Now the streets are full of half drunk foreigners and the police are yelling at us in a foreign language to move along. The travelers, who do not know the scene well, head back to their guesthouses and hotels. The expats, at least the ones who have been in Hanoi a while, walk about half a block up the street to another bar. This bar has its front door locked and the shutters closed, but the music is blearing inside and cigarette smoke is leaking out of the cracks in the shutters. The police were in front of us and were convinced—by money—that the establishment was not in violation of any cultural codes. One of Ben’s roommates lead us around the side of the building, up a staircase, through a door, down a long hallway lined with couches and foreigners, through another door, and down a spiral staircase into the bar. This bar closed at two or two-thirty and we flagged a cab. Ben’s roommates took us to the Lighthouse, an all night dance club built in an old lighthouse. What a lighthouse is doing in Hanoi is beyond me, but I was told in complete confidence that this building was once a lighthouse. We did not stay long at The Lighthouse.

One-Night Adventure: Hue to Hanoi

2008-05-05T02:52:00.002-06:00

Buses are popular among tourist-travelers in Vietnam—they are cheap and they often are full of like-minded travelers. Most of the buses are sleeping buses, meaning you get a bunk—top or bottom, three across—for an all-night drive from one stop to the next. By all-night drive, keep in mind that all travel in Vietnam except air travel takes two to three times as long as travel in a western country: a twelve hour bus ride in Vietnam should take four to six hours in the States.

And that is how we ended up in Hanoi at 6 am—we boarded an all-night bus in Hue at 6 pm for a long, bumpy, uncomfortable ride over semi-paved roads. The bus stops once for dinner en route to Hanoi. The tour companies that operate these buses have arrangements with local restaurants to stop and overcharge tourist for poor quality food. It is interesting to watch the bus drivers here: they are always served something that is not offered on the menu and they rarely pay for it. Then it’s back on the bus. The other stops—for people to relieve themselves—is dependent on the bus driver’s mood.

There was one toilet on the bus. The man who took our tickets told us not to use it—apparently if you opened the door the entire bus smelled like an outhouse—so we all held our bladders for the infrequent stops. But there was a Vietnamese mother with a small child on the bus. God Bless that mother, she did all she could to not open that door: she walked her small child to the back of the bus—where I just happened to be occupying a top bunk, thank God—and had her child urinate on the floor. He must not have had to go too badly as he stopped quickly once Steve and I began shouting at him and his mother. His mother did a passable job cleaning up his little puddle. The next time he had to go, his mother opened the door that was not to be opened and took him to the loo (a BrE term I picked up from the three Britts we had been traveling with). Instantly the entire bus smelled like shit. The only good thing I can say about the bus was that Ben, Steve, and I occupied the top bunks of the back row, meaning Ben and Steve—I was in the middle—had the only two opening widows on the bus, which they immediately opened.

The bunks were not exactly bunks—they could be more accurately described as narrow elongated-ish reclined sleeper seats. And they were terribly uncomfortable. Did you notice the use of elongated-ish? It is used to convey a specific meaning. elongated we all know the meaning of: stretched out. –ish means kind of, sort of, not quite. And that is exactly what these narrow elongated-ish reclined sleeper seats are: kind of, sort of stretched out, but not quite. I could not lie down completely. I had to bend my knees, but the narrow elongated-ish reclined sleepers were narrow, so if I bent my knees my shins were driven into the rail. Thankfully the seats are reclined—just to that infuriating level where you cannot quite sit up and cannot quite lie down.

Then there were the roads. The primary reason for the extended time of travel in Vietnam is their condition: they are neither paved nor dirt—they only exist-ish. The divers drive like the roads completely exist, but the frequent potholes, washboards, jerks, and screeching stops do not fool me: I know the roads only exist-ish, even despite the utter blackness outside the window suggesting they do not exist at all. The worst part of the entire all-night bus was the combination of the narrow elongated-ish reclined sleeper seats, the road that only existed-ish, and the drivers that drove like the roads exited. With my shins already driven into the rail, every screeching stop and sharp corner caused my shins considerable pain. Plus, I was on the top bunk, and the first screeching stop forced me to spring forward and hit my head on the ceiling (which I quickly learned to avoid).

A few days later, while flying back to Saigon, I happened to be seated across the aisle from a group of three Argentinean women who were traveling. I struck up a conversation with the one sitting nearest me. We had basically taken the same course from Saigon to Hanoi and we recounted our adventures. She asked me if I enjoyed the bus travel. I hesitated: “yeah,” I said, “but I would never do it again.” Exactly how she felt.

Ripped Off: A Study In Keeping Your Money

2008-05-01T22:41:00.005-06:00

Hue (pronounced H-way) is a small city north of Da Nang that has historically vied with Hanoi as the capitol of Vietnam. By historically I mean before the French were involved—like a thousandish years ago. The attraction of Hue is the old city and the ancient tombs. The old city is a walled fortress/city that is now a national park and a world heritage site. It is quite beautiful if you use your imagination—most of the city lies in ruin and there are few signs explaining the structures, nonetheless it is unique and once was very grand.

Ben, Steve, and I arrived in Hue on a tourist bus with three British girls we had befriended in Hoi An. Steve actually did most of the befriending—he is very outgoing—and our schedules to Hanoi coincided, so we traveled together. The six of us planned on staying in Hue overnight and catching the sleeper-bus to Hanoi the following evening. We ate dinner together that night and discussed how we were going to see Hue. The three Americans (us) were renting bicycles and riding around Hue, to the old city, and back to the hotel. The three Britts (them) were taking a boat tour on the river that stopped at the tombs, the old city, and cruised the river.

The American tour of Hue was pleasant and uneventful. We rented bikes from the hotel and made our way through traffic to the old city. After circling the outside perimeter, we found the entrance and discovered that only pedestrians are allowed in the old city. We parked our bikes, bought our tickets, and went in. Most of the old city is being restored—some of the buildings have already been restored: of those restored, some look professional; others look like a massive third-grade collaborative project. A few people still live within the walls of the old city—half of the time we could not tell if we had stumbled onto their property or we were in a construction site.

Back on the bikes we rode through Hue neighborhoods that surely saw few foreigners and circled back to a small street-food stall near our hotel. The rest of the day consisted of napping and emailing until the bus left.

The Britts’ tour was less than pleasant and very eventful. Cecilia, Rachel, and Hannah met the boat at 8:30 and started sailing towards the tombs. They had hired the boat for 200,000 VND—about 12.50 USD—and that was supposed to cover everything. The boat stopped at the tombs, but—unknown to the Britts—the tombs were a few kilometers inland. Sitting at the docks were three prearranged motorbike taxis waiting to drive the Britts to the tombs. The only problem was that the drivers wanted to be paid for their services and being that they were the only motorbike taxies there, they wanted to be paid very well. The Britts had to depart with another 50,000 VND each to see the tombs. Back on the boat, the Britts were then taken to lunch, which they paid too much for, and then to the old city where they had to buy tickets to enter. After all that, the boat dropped the off a long ways away from their starting point, which forced the Britts to take a cab back to the hotel.

All said and done, the three Britts spent around 600,000 VND. The three of us with lunch spent closer to 250,000 VND. The lesson here is simple: do not hire tours that are not affiliated with hotels or travel agents. The Britts had hired their tour from a guy hanging out in the park near the river. (I wonder if he lives in a van down by the river.) With a dude in the park, a reputation for poor quality means he moves to the next park until that batch of foreigners leaves. With a hotel or a travel agent, a reputation for poor quality could seriously jeopardize the business. In all fairness, the three Britts would have only paid a little less if they had booked with a hotel—however they would have felt better about the whole experience. Or, if a more laid back itinerary is in call, renting bicycles and riding around is nice too.

Da Nang for a Day

2008-04-27T21:59:00.005-06:00

My first experience with Mr. Steve Song was through text message: Test. Bens friend. Steve was a finance guy on Wall Street five months ago and decided that after crunching numbers for seven years the time had come to go abroad—whether the state of the market had any influence on his decision I do not know. But Steve quit his job, sublet his apartment in Manhattan, and bought a plane ticket. Steve meticulously planned his travels around worldwide acquaintances: to Paris, to India, to Vietnam to visit Ben. Ben and Steve go back to the forth grade. Steve is Korean-American. If he wears a hat, the Vietnamese think he is Vietnamese; if he does not wear a hat, the Vietnamese think he is Japanese.

Ben had arranged through a friend of a friend back in NJ to meet some local English teachers in Da Nang. Hien had to be back in Saigon—we saw her off to the bus station—and Ben, Steve, and I rented motorbikes and drove 30 km up the coast from Nha Trang to Da Nang. Ben, who never ceases to amaze me, amazed me by meeting two local girls while riding his motorbike on the highway. Where are you going? they asked. Ben told them we were in route to Da Nang. Are you stopping at Marble Mountain? they asked. Ben told them we were. Great! Follow us, we live near Marble Mountain they said. We followed them to their family’s marble sculpture shop at the foot of the mountain. They offered to watch our bikes and sent us off in the direction of the mountain. Marble Mountain was underwhelming. The view from the top was nice; the pagodas were pagodas. We descended Marble Mountain to find our motorbikes right where we left them. The girls who had been so gracious and friendly before were not how we left them: they had morphed into selling machines. You buy? You buy? Souvenir from Marble Mountain? I have not sold anything today. You buy just one thing? Good quality, cheap price. Steve gave in or found something he liked; Ben and I held strong. One of the girls had sold Steve his piece and the other girls changed their pitch: Only she sell something. I didn’t sell anything. She lucky. Buy something from me to make me lucky! It wasn’t until we were back on the road that we realized that it is not so impressive to meet these girls while driving: these girls—and nearly every other girl with nothing better to do in Marble Mountain—run a scheme of meeting tourists on the road and directing them back to their shops.

We arrived at the University of Da Nang just after four. The head of the English Language program met us and checked us into a hotel around the corner where we showered before returning to the university at 5:15. Ben told us we were going to be sitting in on some classes, talking to students, answering questions, and generally watching. Ben was wrong. The head of the English Language program introduced us to the English teachers—all very cute 22 to 25 year-old Vietnamese women. They liked practicing their English with us; we liked helping. Class was about to start. One of the teachers told me to follow and directed me to a classroom where she handed me a stack of papers and said I’ll see you in 40 minutes—turns out the three of us were each teaching a class. My class was Advanced English; the day’s lesson was on companies and business. Best of all, the lesson was in British English. 90 minutes later, the teacher came into the classroom to inform the students and me that class was over. She assigned some homework and the students left. She asked me how the class went. The class had gone well considering I had 15 seconds to prepare. I asked her why she did not come after 40 minutes, to which she answered that she had come: she had looked through the window to discover that I was doing a fine job teaching and she wanted to let me teach the whole class.

In the staff room Ben was sitting at the table with the same astonished look that I must have worn because we looked at each other, slightly smiled and nodded, and knew exactly what the other was thinking: how did we get involved in this? Steve, who has had no teaching experience ever, was the last to arrive. Five minutes later, we were in a new classroom teaching a new class. This time, for me at least, things did not go as smoothly. Instead of 10 advanced students, I had 35 beginner students who were incredibly shy. And instead of being handed the day’s lesson, my instructions were to talk to the students—the topic was up to me. The students were less than receptive. My name is Ryan. Blank stares. To one student: what is you name? Blank stares. To another student: what is your name? Blank stares. Who’s the youngest person here? Blank stares. Time to change strategy: what do you guys want to talk about? Do you want to ask me any questions? Blank stares. It was a long 40 minutes. I ran out of the classroom when the teacher returned.

Teaching incident complete, the young teachers and the department head invited us out to dinner. Our motorbikes were parked at the university but I had forgotten my key back in the hotel. I got on the back of one of the young teacher’s bikes and we spend off. At the restaurant, a quick head count—four teachers, one department head, Ben, me—found Steve to be missing. Steve did not have a cell phone, so the only hope was that he had returned to the university. Two teachers went to look for him. The rest of us found a table and waited. Fifteen minutes later Steve and the teachers arrived and we ate.

The teachers wanted to take us to karaoke after dinner. We had a private room with four teachers and the three of us. It was middle school all over again—girls together on one side, boys together on the other. The singing was fun. Ben, Steve, and I sang Hit the Road, Jack; Build Me Up Buttercup; We Will Rock You; and Old MacDonald. The teachers sang a selection of Vietnamese songs and bad ballads in English. Ben and I finished with the highest score—100. Luckly Born in the USA did not come on.

The next morning brought rain to Da Nang. We bought ponchos, filled our motorbikes with gas, and hit the road. The rain stopped as soon as we left the vicinity of Da Nang, and the ride back to Nha Trang was uneventful with the exception of the girls from Marble Mountain trying to befriend us.

Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner

2008-04-26T11:55:00.009-06:00

Ben left the day after TESOL training ended, headed north to Hanoi where he will work. Hien and I made arrangement to meet him in Nha Trang the following Thursday. We would all hang out together for a few days, then Hien would return to Saigon and Ben and I would take a week or so to reach Hanoi. I do not have to be back in Saigon until May 5th. Hien and I arrived in Nha Trang on Thursday morning after an overnight train ride from Saigon. Ben was not expected in until later in the day, so Hien and I signed up for a boat tour of the islands off the coast. There were 25 passengers, roughly half of which were Vietnamese on vacation. We did some snorkeling and cruising, but highlight of the day occurred at lunch, which was served family-style like all Vietnamese meals. Most of the foreigners sat on side of the boat, facing inward, and most of the Vietnamese sat on the other, facing the foreigners. I sat with Hien on the Vietnamese side. An old Vietnamese woman was sitting next to Hien and they were talking when Hien turned to me and said that the woman asked her if her husband could eat Vietnamese food. It turned out that every Vietnamese person assumed Hien and I were married. We shared a backpack, which Hien carried. My money was in Hien’s bag. At one point, I ordered us drinks and Hien used my money from her bag to pay. Afterwards, Hien laughed and told me that when a man and a woman are together, the woman always pays if they are married, the man pays when they are lovers.

That afternoon Ben arrived and we made plans for the next day—we were renting motorbikes and driving 40 km into the countryside to visit Hien’s Dad at his fish farm. The next morning, we took our bikes and headed into the countryside. Highway driving in Vietnam is not too bad, except for when the busses or trucks barreled by blowing their horns. After the highway—which was paved nicely—we turned onto a paved country road lined with rice paddies and sugar cane, onto a semi-paved paved country road, through a village where everyone stared, girls giggled, and school children said “hello,” onto a dirt road, and finally to the fish farm. Hien’s Dad opened the fish farm a few years ago as a way to retire and relax. He lives in a small bamboo shelter built half on land and half over the water. The floor is bamboo and you can see the water and the fish under you while you eat and sleep. The farm is located in a valley surrounded by mountains and jungle.

The plan was to stay for lunch and then ride back to Nha Trang. After lunch it rained for six hours and the river flooded, so there was no riding back to Nha Trang. We spend the night on the bamboo floor. The next morning, everyone was up by 5:00. We set off by 6:30 on a 1 km hike to a local waterfall in the mountains. There was a trail to the waterfall used by the local sugar cane farmers. Hien told us that the VC used to use the trail during the war and had hid in the mountains. Hien did not grow up there; they lived farther south in the highlands and Hien’s Dad was a soldier in the South Vietnamese Army during the war. The waterfall was very pretty and surrounded by the jungle.

The highlight of the trip was not the waterfall or the scenery—it was the food. For lunch the first day, Hien’s Dad barbequed four fish for us. We also had soup, barbequed beef, a vegetable, and rice. That afternoon, I said somewhat casually to Hien that we should eat one of the chickens hanging around the house. Hien though it was a great idea. That evening, her Dad caught one of his chickens, sliced its throat, and gave it to Hien. Hien put the chicken into a pot and poured boiling water on it, pulled out the feathers, and cooked it. But the best was yet to come. After dinner, Hien’s Dad and cousin disappeared into the darkness. An hour later they returned with a dozen frogs and a bat, which Hien’s cousin had killed with a sling shot. The next morning, after the hike to the waterfall, Hien cooked rice while Hien’s cousin cooked the frogs and bat. They were surprisingly delicious. The frogs were small enough to eat in two bites, bones, skull and all. The bat, despite being a little tough, was really good. We left for Nha Trang after breakfast, but not before stopping by Hien’s friends’ house in the village. Hien taught at the school in the village for five years and knew most people in the village. Her friends would not let us leave without first cooking us lunch. They killed another chicken and make a Vietnamese stir-fry than was quite good.

To The Mekong Delta, or One Nice Day and One Really Long Day

2008-04-26T05:06:00.007-06:00

On the weekend in the middle of our course, Ben, Hien, and I went to the Mekong Delta. Ashton, a friend of a friend of Ben’s, was in town so he came along too. The Mekong is a huge river that starts in Nepalese Himalayas, travels through China, Lao, Thailand, and Cambodia before entering into the South China Sea through Vietnam. It is the third most ecologically diverse river in the world behind the Amazon and the Congo. It was a four-hour bus ride from Saigon to the Mekong, and then we got on a boat and toured some of the villages. It was definitely a touristy thing. The villages we walked through purposefully did things in the traditional way so we could watch, but it was neat nonetheless. Then we had lunch and an interesting thing happened: we saw an ugly American that was not American. You could tell he was not an American because he spoke to his wife in German and his English had a thick German accent. Apparently there was a little mix up. The tour was $35 for two days and one night on a boat. As occurs in non-English speaking countries, when the brochures are translated into English they are often incorrect. Usually it is glairing grammatical mistakes; in this case, lunch was not paid for—it was “included” as in the tour stopped at a restaurant for lunch. Lunch for 4 was $12, expensive by Vietnamese standards, but still $12. This guy threw a fit. He was yelling and screaming and generally making a scene, and what was the tour guide to do? First off, Asian cultures do not yell. Secondly, $12 was probably more than the tour guide was going to make all day. Was the tour guide supposed to pay for the German’s lunch? The company would not have paid him back because lunch was not “included” in the sense we “include” lunch. The guy stormed off with his family and took a boat back to the dock. We never saw him again.

The ugly American as popularly constructed does not exist in my experiences in South East Asia. Americans that travel are so worried about being ugly that they become quite and reserved—at least that is what happens with the Americans worried about being ugly (maybe Americans that travel to places like SE Asia would not be ugly anyway). I am not sure becoming quiet and reserved is the appropriate response. Withdrawing yourself does not foster real connections between different cultures. Plus, I do not think Americans are ugly in general; usually they are friendly, and no uglier than other westerners. I understand how this ugly German felt—he probably felt that he was being taken advantage of, and that is not a good feeling, even for $12. The important thing to remember is that most people are not trying to rip you off. Maybe they are charging you a little more than the local price, and even then, so what? You are still getting a good deal. What’s an extra $3 per person when the entire two-day trip costs thirty-five bucks? If you truly get ripped off, it is fair game to get mad and make a scene.

And westerners really do make a lot more money than locals. As a 23-year-old English teacher less than one year out of college and with no real teaching experience, I will make $350 a week, give or take. A Vietnamese teacher with a degree from a Vietnamese university and 20 years experience would be lucky to make $250 a month; somewhere between $175 and $225 a month is more likely.

After the incident with the German, we visited a few more places and ended up on a large boat in the main channel. We had dinner on the boat (it was included); then everyone went to the rooftop lounge area to get drunk and enjoy the moon light river. The crew woke us the next morning to watch the sunrise. It was very beautiful and hazy. Apparently, the boat cruised all night up the river—we were half way to Phnom Penh—and now we had to cruise back down the river to catch the bus. There was nothing to do on the boat except nap, play cards, and eat lunch. We played cards, napped, ate lunch, and then repeated steps one and two. Then we were board for about two hours. Then we arrived. The boat trip took 8 hours to get back, from 8:00 in the morning to 4:00 in the afternoon. Then we got on the bus and drove for 5 hours back to Saigon (5 hours instead of 4 because we were not where we started, we were an hour farther away). We arrived tired in Saigon at 9:00 at night. I would rather fly from Denver to Saigon again than get back on that boat.

Finally Teachin’ English

2008-04-26T04:58:00.008-06:00

Afternoons were spent writing lesson plans and getting feedback from Hien. Ben taught a class of 8-12 students from 5:30 to 7:00. I taught a class of 12-18 from 7:15 to 8:45. The classes were really fun, but the lessons were sometimes less than desired. Since the students do not speak English, they cannot tell if the lesson is bad or good if you stick with it and stay confident. It was partly difficult because we had to design the lessons from scratch—no text book to guide us, no list of topics they have covered, no nothing. The first day of teaching was particularly bad: the students would not say hardly anything in English unless forced. By the end of my two weeks of student teaching, I could not get the students to stop speaking in English. There are two explanations: either I am an amazing teacher that taught my students English in nine 90 minute classes, or Vietnamese students are shy and as they warmed up to me they would not shut up. All evidence to the contrary, I am sticking with the first option. All Vietnamese students learn English in school, but they mainly learn written English and grammar. Write a word on the board and everyone knows it; say it out loud and they give you blank stares. Students know the “rules” and structure of English grammar as well as or better than I do—meaning I had to be really careful when writing on the board. My students had the biggest problem with pronunciation. Th sounds are near impossible; -dge, -d, -t, -s, -ld and -ch are difficult. It was hilarious trying to get them to make a th sound (lots of spit flying), but I could actually see a difference after working on making those sounds for a few days.

As part of the course, Ben and I each had to select one student to do two one-on-one classes. I chose a student named Long (ng at the end of a word is pronounced m), a Chinese students studying abroad in Vietnam. The first session was to determine something Long had trouble with and the following session was to fix that problem. As Long and I were talking, I asked him what his parent did. He said his father was a retired peasant. You learn new things all the time—I did not know peasants could retire. Long speaks really good English, he was probably the best in my class, so it was difficult to identify anything wrong. He did have trouble adding s to plurals and he sometimes left out prepositions, but other than that he was good. He wanted to work on vocabulary, so I figured for our second session I would let him dictate the topic of conversation and I would try to use words he did not know, plus work with him on plurals and prepositions. He wanted to discuss Chinese government and how it compares to American government. Long learned corruption, murder, brutal, mayor, death penalty, governor, party chair, and the like. After the session, Long wanted my cell phone number, which I gave to him. Later that evening I got a text message that read Nice you have known you,and ben.you and ben are the first American people I know.I like listening to you class.I hope you can injure yourself in vietnam.if there is any chance,I wish you can go to china,I can play with you.give my best wish to your friend:happy birthday! In Long’s defense, he sent me another text message reading Sorry!just enjoy yourself in vietnam!not injure!:-(

When the course was over, our students (many of the students in Ben’s class were in my class too) invited Ben and I to a picnic. Linh and Hien advised against it because the picnic was an hour outside the city and the students wanted to take us on their motorbikes. Instead we went to karaoke. In America, karaoke is a nighttime drinking activity. In Vietnam, karaoke is an anytime activity—we arranged to go karaoke-ing at 10 Saturday morning. It started off with a slew of Vietnamese songs until Ben and I belted out I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll by Joan Jett. Vietnamese karaoke gives you a score after you finish the song. Ben and I scored 100. We sat through a few more Vietnamese and English songs; then Ben and I lead the group through We Are The World. Ben and I were looking though the book of songs pointing out good songs. Ben loves Bruce Springsteen, so he pointed out a classic Springsteen song, which I programmed into the karaoke machine. A few songs later, the song came on. Ben and I began singing until a certain line came up. Can you guess the song or the lyric? In case you’re unfamiliar, here the lyrics in question:

Born down in a dead man's town
The first kick I took was when I hit the ground
You end up like a dog that's been beat too much
'Till you spend half your life just covering up

[chorus: x4]

I got in a little hometown jam
And so they put a rifle in my hands
Sent me off to Vietnam
To go and kill the yellow man

Fabulous. Ben and I went silent and stared at each other. The song (Born in the USA) played on about fighting the Viet Cong and loving a girl in Saigon. Exactly what we wanted to sing to our Vietnamese students.

Linguistically Inadequate: Adventures in Learning Vietnamese

2008-04-26T04:38:00.001-06:00

Monday started the second half of the TESOL program with LanguageCorps. For two weeks, every morning was devoted to making Ben and I feel linguistically inadequate by teaching us Vietnamese. Vietnamese is a tonal language, similar to Chinese (read: Vietnamese is to Chinese as Italian is to Spanish). Vietnamese syntax (word order) is fairly similar to English: both use subject-verb-object constructions, but Vietnamese puts adverbs, adjectives, and determiners behind their referents. In English you would say the big fish ate a little fish; in Vietnamese you would say fish the big ate fish a little. Easy once you get the hang of it. The difficult part is pronunciation and listening. Vietnamese has 12 vowels and six tones. The word ma (mid tone) means ghost; má (high-rising tone) means cheek; mà (low-falling tone) means but; ma (with a dot under the a; lowest tone) means rice seeding; ma (with a little question mark looking thing over the a; low-rising tone) means tomb; mã (broken, low-rising tone) means horse. I cannot pronounce the differences very well and I surely cannot tell them apart when a Vietnamese speakers uses them. The purpose of this torture was to 1) help us learn the language so we could become better acquainted with the culture, and 2) so we could feel what it’s like to learn a new language and understand what our students were going through. It is equally as hard for a Vietnamese speaker to learn English as it is for an English speaker to learn Vietnamese.

Linh was the Vietnamese teacher. She is a very nice person who is working on her master’s thesis in linguistics and teaching English to children and Vietnamese to LanguageCorps students on the side. She wants to go to America or Australia to do a PhD in linguistics. Some days, instead of being in the classroom, we would go into the city and practice our language. One day we went to the park to practice meeting people. Many young people sit in the park, so Ben and I would walk up to them with Hien in tow and ask them their names, what country they were from (which got us really dumb looks), how they were doing, and their age.

Vietnamese people are very shy. When the Australian expat in Phnom Penh said “the difference between Cambodia and Vietnam is that in Cambodia, they rip you off with a smile,” he was right, but only because many Vietnamese people are too shy to smile. I have found the Vietnamese people to be extremely friendly, overly friendly even, but at first they are standoffish and reserved. After you get to know them you cannot get then to stop talking. Some people we approached in the park to practice Vietnamese would just smile, obviously very embarrassed, giggle, and not say a word. Some would talk to us for a little while. But then we found two girls. At first, they were shy and could not figure out what we were doing, but after they helped us with our Vietnamese, they wanted help with their English. We obliged for a few minutes until Linh started getting antsy and shooing us along. The girls wanted our phone numbers so “we can teach you Vietnamese and you can teach us English.” Linh was having none of it. Instead of giving them our phone numbers, Linh gave the girls her phone number, so, as she explained later, if they were bad people she could screen them from us. A few minutes later, Linh started getting text messages from the girls. They really wanted to be friend with us. Linh ignored, and that was the end of that. Until about a week later, when Linh got another text message from the girls. They were over Ben and I—they realized that being friends with Linh was much more valuable: Linh had access to new foreigners every month. Linh deleted the message and never contacted them. As the course progressed, we learned how to bargain (with a practicum at the market) and how to order at a restaurant (with daily practicum at lunch), but nothing quite as interesting as those two girls happened.

One morning, Au invited us out to her Dad’s pho stand (pronounced pha; raise the tone at the end). For those of you who do not know what pho is, it is the best rice noodle and beef or chicken soup ever. And Au’s Dad makes the best pho I have had yet. The Vietnamese eat it for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, but usually for breakfast. Au’s Dad’s pho stand is open from about 6:30 am to 10:00 am, Thursday through Tuesday. We ended up there three different mornings.

This brings me to a big, deep observation about a difference between Cambodian culture and Vietnamese culture: Cambodians sit in bigger chairs. That’s right. Cambodians, despite being smaller than westerners, sit in normal sized chairs. The Vietnamese, God bless them, sit in miniature furniture. Every time I sit at a street side café in Vietnam, I feel that a four-year-old girl will be serving me tea after she finishes pouring a cup for her dolly. At the street café Ben, Hien, Linh, Au, and I eat lunch at, the stools are so small that I might be farther off the ground if I took my shoes off and sat on them—which, coincidentally, many Vietnamese people do. The tables at many street cafés are so small that my knees do not fit under them. Vietnamese legs fit under just fine.

Back To The Beginning: Vietnam!

2008-04-26T04:19:00.001-06:00

Our time in Cambodia finished, Ben and I boarded the bus and returned to Saigon. I was ready to return to Vietnam. I had been psyching myself up for Vietnam since January, and being in Cambodia just seemed like another waiting period before Vietnam. After being in Phnom Penh for two weeks, Saigon felt like returning to the real world. Hien picked us up from the bus station and took us to our hotel. It was Friday night. We were supposed to go to the Mekong Delta the next day, but Ben and I postponed the trip for a week to see some Saigon sights first. The next morning, Ben and I taxied to the LanguageCorps office where Hien, Linh, and Au were waiting on motorbikes. I jumped on Linh’s bike, Ben got on Hien’s, and off we went...to the post office! At the post office there is a giant picture of Uncle Ho Chi Minh. And nothing else. It’s a post office.

As we were walking out to the motorbikes, Au grabbed my arm and dragged me away from Ben and Hien. Ben and Hien had been emailing each other for months and I guess Au wanted to see if anything could click. Ben and I had spent two full weeks together at this point, and there was a running joke that we were a couple. We told Hien that she would be a third wheel, which she was very flattered by. She thought that meant she could join our team, like a tricycle or cyclo or some other clumsy three-wheeled contraption—I imagine those sidecars on a motorcycle that cops and mobsters drove in the 20s and 30s. She said we were the “Three Wheels;” she even bragged about it to others.

After some deliberation on what to do next, the girls took us to the Reunification Palace. You probably know the building—it was the American Embassy where American helicopters took off loaded with people as the NVA advanced into Saigon. It was a little more interesting than the Post Office, but only a little. It is primarily a monument to the North’s victory over the South/Americans. At this point, I began to feel sick. My stomach had been, well, a little strange for the past few days. I asked Au to take me back to the hotel, where all the street food in Cambodia finally caught up with me. That night I took some antibiotics and I was better the next morning. Ben did not escape the street food either; his turn just did not come for a few more days. [From left to right: Hien, Au, me, Linh]
That night, Hien and her roommate Tuyen cooked dinner for Ben and I. We helped rolling the pork spring rolls before Hien fried them. We also had steamed morning glory (a vegetable) and a beef dish with many small hard-boiled eggs. These were not chicken eggs; they were the size of a robin’s egg but hard-boiled and delicious.

Other Cambodian Notes

2008-04-26T03:36:00.001-06:00

Marriage in Cambodia is often an economic partnership. Most every Khmer girl dreams of marrying a forong, especially a white American forong--it is like winning the lottery. If someone can introduce a forong to a local girl and they end up getting married, it brings that person great respect in the community. Father, brothers, mothers, friends—anybody—will try to introduce you to any pretty local girl they know. They don’t do much more than make an introduction, but it can still make for some awkward situations.

All monetary transaction in Cambodia takes place in USD, with Cambodian Real taking the place of coins. The exchange rate is 4,000 CR per 1.00 USD. It is really very easy for Americans as even the ATMs dispense USD. The fall of the dollar has not affected the exchange rate in Cambodia, as the real is pegged to the dollar.

The largest building by area in Phnom Penh is the American Embassy. It is only four or five stories high, but it is massive. It is rumored around Phnom Penh that the building goes underground at least four or five stories. It is also rumored to the largest site for American intelligence (read: CIA, NSA, etc.) in Asia.

On Cambodian Driving, or A Popular Way To Die In South East Asia

2008-04-23T06:16:00.000-06:00

Diving in Cambodia, even sitting in the front seat of a moving vehicle, is not for the weak hearted or the weak stomached. I know this from sitting in the front seat of the hired Toyota Carola heading south from Siem Reap back to Phnom Penh on Route 6. Route 6 is a two-lane highway with no centerline, fruit sellers crowding the shoulder, bicycles and motorbikes cruising on the outside edge, cows, dogs, chickens, children, and adults crossing the road, and vehicles ranging in size from cars to trucks to buses barreling down the center of what is left. Our driver, a Khmer man in his fifties, was not the average Cambodian driver. He was a “professional” driver, and he drove in the rush-rush no-nonsense taxi style, the difference being that order has yet to extend to Cambodia roads, particularly highways. This combination of taxi style and organized chaos creates a scary new style: rush-rush-rush-rush all-nonsense. We flew by motorbikes crammed with families of four; we hardly braked for cows in the road—instead zigging and zagging around them; we whizzed past cars, whizzed past trucks, even whizzed past busses while oncoming traffic whizzed toward us. Passing on Cambodian highways is a game of chicken minus the machismo and silliness. Four cars are driving behind a truck filled with firewood fifteen feet over the top of the cab. What do you do? Pass all of them. A bus is a little far to the left, passing a congregation of motorbikes. What do you do? Pass the bus on the left if the cars in the opposing lane are not “too close”. Traffic is in gridlock; motorbikes are hurling between the cars and on the shoulder. What do you do? Drive on the shoulder and pass them! All the expats in Phnom Penh said that the traffic there is crazier than in Saigon. Although the drivers are crazier in Phnom Penh—they will drive on any side of the street—the traffic in Saigon is worst due to the volume of traffic. There are more motorbikes in Saigon than people in Phnom Penh. I would be much more comfortable about the prospect of driving in Phnom Penh than in Saigon, where I will be driving.

Cambodian driving seems dangerous and statistically it is. As of 2006, three people die daily in traffic accidents on Cambodian roads and 100 are permanently injured. Taken in terms of total population, Cambodia’s traffic fatality rate is lower than Thailand’s or Vietnam’s, but that is only because Cambodia has fewer cars and roads than Thailand or Vietnam, and less people in Cambodia can afford to drive. Taken in term of the total number of vehicles and the amount of paved roads, Cambodia’s traffic fatality rate is one of the highest in the world and considerably higher than Thailand’s or Vietnam’s. And it is only getting worse: fatalities have been rising at a rate of 15% per year.

Angkor Wat

2008-04-22T21:07:00.001-06:00

One of Trea’s jobs at LanguageCorps is to arrange and escort students on trips to Angkor Wat. Trea booked a guesthouse for us and hired a private car to drive us the six hours from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap. Ryan #2, a former LanguageCorps student who had yet visit Angkor Wat, was coming with Ben, me, and Trea. Trea hired a Toyota Carola and promptly jumped in the front seat, which left Ben, Ryan #2, and me to cram into the back seat. I was in the center—not a pleasant ride, but we got there in one piece (an amazing feat, actually, but more on that later).

Ben and I decided to see sunrise over the main temple complex the next day; Trea and Ryan #2 opted out. Trea told us to meet the driver and guide at 4:30, which we did, but the guide did not showed. The guide had told Trea that 5:30 would be a more appropriate time to leave, but Trea never passed that on to Ben, me, or the driver. So the three of us rushed off to Angkor Wat at 4:30 and we were the first people in line when the gated open at 5:00. It was pitch black—I could not see my hand in front of my face. We did not know where to go and spent the next 75 minutes stumbling and tripped over a UN World Heritage Site in the dark, often trying to use our cell phones to see the stairs. Finally, at about 6:15, dawn clearly showed us to be on the opposite side of the temple, so we hiked back to the reflecting pool to find 4,000 people in the grey light waiting for the sun to pop up. The morning we chose to view the sunrise was a morning chosen by a record number of visitors to Angkor Wat—apparently the solar calendar lined up just so to make that day the best day of the year to view the sunrise. We got some good pictures.

After sunrise, Ben and I found a small café to eat breakfast and wait for Trea, Ryan #2, and the tour guide. Little kids tried to sell us things. One girl told us that if we bought her bracelets (10 for a dollar) and gave them to our girlfriends or wives, they would fall in love with us. We did not buy. Another boy was selling postcards that we did not buy, but he knew every capitol of every state in America, plus the capitol of every European country, the capitol of most major countries around the world, and leaders of most of those countries too. Ben and I were very impressed.

The tour guide, Trea, and Ryan #2 arrived around 9:15. We piled into the car and off we went to see the sights. By piled in, I mean piled in—we were still in the Toyota Carola with five seatbelts but we had picked up an extra person. The tour guide rode up front so he could tell the driver where to go; that left four of us, three American dudes and one Khmer woman, to pile into the back seat. Fortunately the drive between sights was not long. The tour guide and the three of us explored the temples (Trea stayed in the car with the driver, she had seen Angkor Wat and it was too hot for her, she said). It was extremely hot and very cool. The tour guide, however, was one of the oddest people I have ever met. He could explain the sites well enough—at least as well as the signs explained them—but if you tried to ask a question he just retold the lines he had just said, word for word. He could speak English okay, but his English must not have been good enough to answer why/how questions. At one point a very attractive Khmer girl was handing out damp cloths wash you hands and face. The girl gave our guide a cloth, and for the next fifteen minutes the guy wouldn’t stop giggling. That was just the beginning. From then on, the guide pointed out every attractive woman we saw, forong or Khmer, and start giggling. Then we came across a common thing in Angkor Wat: a sculpted set of four or five half naked women. The tour guide reached up and started fondling the stone breasts.

After heading back to Siem Reap, Ben and I decided to watch the sun set: a full-circle complete-the-day type of thing. Trea and Ryan #2 didn’t want to come. So Ben and I headed off to the spot where tourists watch the sun set: the top of a hill where a large temple overlooks the jungle. It takes about a half an hour to walk to the top and there was a crowd at the top. All the temple stairs in Angkor Wat are extremely steep and narrow, so it was a bit harrowing climbing to the top of the temple. Those 4,000 folks that had come to watch the sun rise were there to watch the sun set too. Ben and I found a nice little spot away from everyone to watch the sun disappear into the mist and haze hovering above the jungle. We met two Americans from LA, a brother-sister travel team, on a three-month adventure through SE Asia. They were on their way to Phnom Penh soon, so we arranged to show them around. Then, while it was still completely light and the sun had just drifted into the mist and haze, a police officer told us in broken English that it was time to go. From where we were sitting it was difficult to see the rest of the temple, but as we looked around, the place was practically deserted. I do not know if they kicked us off because the sunset was not that great or because it would have been lethal to navigate those steep stairs in the dark, but off we went as the sun hovered in the haze.

Connect Four: The Cambodian Past Time

2008-04-22T09:35:00.001-06:00

By the time we swore off Love Orange, we started hanging out with Trea, her Irish husband Steve, and Vrath, a Khmer American and LanguageCorps Cambodia former-student. Before working for LanguageCorps, Trea was a Connect Four hustler at Howie Bar, so she took Ben, Vrath, and me to Howie Bar. Sporting dusty floors, two bars, lots of Connect Four sets, and girls to hustle you, Howie Bar is a Phnom Penh institution among expats. One of the great things about Howie Bar is that none of the girls working there will go home with the patrons. They make their money by getting customers to buy them drinks at $2.50 each, of which they get $1.00. Most patrons buy the girls drinks after betting on Connect Four and losing. Sit down at the bar, ask to play Connect Four with one of the girls, and you will win the first few games. Howie Bar is a late night spot—likely you have had a few drinks before heading in—so winning a few games gets you cocky, and when Lana (I was playing Lana) offers you 4-1 odds (she wins four before you win one) for a drink, you feel pretty good. And then Lana beats you in four swift, consecutive games. She smiles, takes your money, and you renegotiate the odds. Okay, this is not an invented situation—this happened to me. Luckily at this point Vrath spoke up and said the girls will play 10-1 odds, to which Lana shot a dirty look at Vrath. After losing the first six games, I won the seventh game and Lana bought me a drink. The down side to the whole deal is that when the girls lose, they have to buy drinks out of their own pockets for the customers. Lana did not want to play me any more—apparently it is rare for a new customer to beat one of the girls so soon. So I played a different girl: she won the first round, I won the second; I bought her a drink, she bought me a drink. Ben was doing much better than I was. The girl he was playing was very stubborn, and even though Ben had three beers on his side and he had yet to buy any, she would not quite playing nor would she renegotiate the odds.

The next morning Trea and her Irish husband had many angry text messages from the Howie Bar girls demonizing them for brining two forongs who beat them at Connect Four. Despite Ben and I making it look easy, those girls (so says those girls and Trea) rarely lose; to loose a few times in one night is nearly unheard of. Bolstered by this news, Ben and I planned a new assault on Howie Bar. Ben found a 25 page Connect Four analysis online, which we studied for the next two days. The two biggest things in Connect Four are 1) going first in D1 and 2) occupying spaces D3 and D5. The columns are labeled A-G from left to right, and the rows are labeled 1-6 from top to bottom. We decided that going first was so important that we needed to bargain for it—instead of playing 10-1 we would play 6-1 or 9-1 and go first every game. Then we memorized the best moved to make after we started in D1 and the girls went. We learned some strategy too: if you go first, try to occupy rows 3 and 5; if you go second, try to occupy rows two, four, and six; always try to build a “J” pattern. Ben and I quizzed each other on what we learned all the way to Howie Bar.

Many of the girls say that the best Connect Four player at Howie Bar was Trea, and that Annie, Trea’s little sister, was making a strong run as following in her sister’s footsteps. The girls immediately recognized Ben and I when we entered the bar. I sat down and Annie brought over a Connect Four set. We played a few games to warm up. She quickly beat me in all the games. We negotiated 6-1 odds with me going first every game. She won the first six games and I bought her a drink. We renegotiated to 9-1, still with me going first. After six games, Annie started joking about beating me so quickly: she took a napkin and patted her forehead and smiled—so, so hard to beat me, she said. I won after seven games; she bought me a drink; she wanted to play the same odds. I won again; she bought me a drink again—she got really angry, pulled my hair and pretended to choke me—but she wanted to play the same odds again. I won a third time; she was furious. I asked her to keep my extra drinks in the fridge so they would not get warm and Annie flipped. I bought her a drink just to make her calm down. I offered to renegotiate the odds. She refused. We played again. She won five and I told Annie that after this match I was done with Connect Four—she was getting to serious for me. I won two games later. I did not buy myself a single drink all night; I bought two for Annie.

A few weeks later, a few former LanguageCorps students from Vietnam went to Phnom Penh for a few days. They visited Vrath and Trea and wound up at Howie Bar. After returning to Vietnam, they reported that the girls still remembered Ben and me.