sapa, vietnam
same same, but different. the dates and people vary, but the allegory should by now be very familiar. an ethnic minority found itself in a kerfuffle with the chinese and were soon packing up the lanterns and crossing a border. whereas the tibetans are experiencing a bit of the plymouth-rock-landing-on-them experience w/r/t the chinese, the hmong landed in a postcard in northern vietnam.
that's not to say that it's all plum trees and foggy mountains. because there are cherry blossoms as well. there are moseying buffalo, wild horses, heatlhy and disgusting pigs. let's not forget the terraced rice paddies that make these three thousand-meter mountains look like side profiles of massive, corn-rowed chia pets.
the point you all eventually see me making is that just because the setting is picturesque does not mean that daily life is. my two days of touristic trekking provide little in accreditation. if i'm being honest, i spent a little less time asking the "hard questions" and a little more taking pictures or breathing in the ascending fog. such is tourism.
there were four of us at the beginning of the day, though only the guide and i were there for the homestay portion. seeing four foreigners in hiking gear, a group of hmong children joined us for the ten kilometers down to the village where we had lunch. before and after raising chopsticks, at least a dozen more hmong women stopped by our table. there were opportunities to buy bracelets, earrings, purses, and other knit goods. to drive the bargain, the ladies asked where we were from and used a lot of action verbs. the subconscious stimulus behind all of it was the traditional garb.
you could see a picture of the people and the valley and think this was peru or bolivia. the dress is very similar. the ladies wear a headband and a bandana, the color varying by group (there are various sub-tribes.) their clothes are dark and stained by indigo, almost a more ethnic and elaborate take on baseball uniforms from the turn of last century. they sport hooped earrings and chained necklaces and blah blah blah why the fuck are they wearing them?
the answer is obvious. we expect them to wear that so that we can feel like the experience is authentic. this is not a new observation. so it was a relief to arrive at my homestay, a concrete structure with a sign overhead advertising the concrete structure as a, well, homestay. there were two floors, one drab and practically windowless and the other filled with at least twenty thin mattresses. the owner of the home had three small children and showed little concern for the stranger staying with him. his wife prepared an extra plate, because there was an extra mouth to feed. they all wore their "civies," so to speak. there would be no theatrics; just dinner, a bed, breakfast. hope you enjoyed your stay.
of course, there was more to it than that. they spoke no english, though through my guide, we briefly played the table tennis of basic biographical conversation. they shared the rice wine and laughed at my affinity for the chili sauce despite my obvious panting. the five year-old seemed to dig that i would method act karate with such determination. i think they understood i was disappointed when the power came back on and we no longer needed the two flickering candles. for some reason i think they appreciated that.
which is all to say that the whole experience was pretty ordinary. you pay, you do what you paid for, you leave. it is so depressing to see the costumes and pageantry; it's just another instance of peope subjugating their daily behavior to the expectations of those with money. my homestay was, basically, the exact same thing, just with the one layer removed that makes it all the more genuine. we need money, you have money, why don't you spend it here? we can all wear our blue jeans and maybe at some point during this transaction, we can toast with tiny porcelain cups and find something worth agreeing about.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
splurge
hanoi, vietnam
traveling is hard work. the sunsets are fantastic and the beaches may be warm, but all those postcard moments and mango-flavored cocktails are earned, not given. we carry forty pound bags through vehicle- and pedestrian-saturated cities in search of dingy rooms that will save us $2. we sit on plastic stools in bus aisles for eight hours because the company that pawned us off on the other did not actually buy us a seat. we arrive after double-digit journeys to find a town with a welcome mat, but not an open restaurant.
i'm not complaining. truth be told, i have a sadistic penchant for discomfort that should probably have me committed. i know it's not the ideal way to treat one's mind or body. that's why, every now and again, the opportunity for self-pampering must be seized. that's why i shilled out $80 for a trip to halong bay.
instinct suggested that i should have hijacked a moto and kidnapped a water buffalo to take me to the water's edge where i could warm myself in mud before howling at the moon. instead, i joined thirteen others on the halong party boat for twenty-four hours of midrange luxury. i would have my own queen-size bed in my very own room (the bed came with sheets!) there was a hot water shower. the combination of buffet-sized meals and a comfortable toilet had me twiddling my fingers in giddy anticipation of the most soothing dumps i've taken in weeks. lounge chairs, leather sofa, foosball table. with the wood-stained so tactfully, it appeared so much nicer than the fraternity house i just described.
the afternoon and evening were lovely. the other thirteen were friendly-enough folk who seemed to also be spending a day above their pay-grade. we kayaked and took photos from the summit of one of the two-thousand limestone islands. we sat at tables and drank our complimentary wine and spoke in words and phrases to relate information to one another. for dinner, we had braised pork ribs and tender calamari. by evening, we let our hair down while the dude from oregon absolutely killed it at karaoke.
the next morning was different and for no real reason. there was the expedition to the cave that was impressive enough. we learned how to make spring rolls and ate our creation. inside, we were all a bit drowsy and sitting with genial expressions of the well-what-should-we-all-talk-about-next variety. outside our windows, the bay and its islands were quietly passing in a soupy fog and i was just tired of being entertained. i felt like going above deck to stare mindlessly at the surreal setting. i felt like going below deck to play cards with the kitchen staff that never surfaced. i wanted our tour guide to stop smiling so obsequiously. i wanted to be back in vietnam.
it was still worth both time and treasure and i would recommend the trip. i would even say it's a better experience to be out there in mystic winter than the bright beach days of local summer. as a bonus, it also gave me that proverbial "teaching moment," reinforcing where i belong. upon reaching hanoi, i felt an ethereal calm after stepping out of the minivan and firmly telling a few shoe-polishers to leave me alone. i was home at last.
traveling is hard work. the sunsets are fantastic and the beaches may be warm, but all those postcard moments and mango-flavored cocktails are earned, not given. we carry forty pound bags through vehicle- and pedestrian-saturated cities in search of dingy rooms that will save us $2. we sit on plastic stools in bus aisles for eight hours because the company that pawned us off on the other did not actually buy us a seat. we arrive after double-digit journeys to find a town with a welcome mat, but not an open restaurant.
i'm not complaining. truth be told, i have a sadistic penchant for discomfort that should probably have me committed. i know it's not the ideal way to treat one's mind or body. that's why, every now and again, the opportunity for self-pampering must be seized. that's why i shilled out $80 for a trip to halong bay.
instinct suggested that i should have hijacked a moto and kidnapped a water buffalo to take me to the water's edge where i could warm myself in mud before howling at the moon. instead, i joined thirteen others on the halong party boat for twenty-four hours of midrange luxury. i would have my own queen-size bed in my very own room (the bed came with sheets!) there was a hot water shower. the combination of buffet-sized meals and a comfortable toilet had me twiddling my fingers in giddy anticipation of the most soothing dumps i've taken in weeks. lounge chairs, leather sofa, foosball table. with the wood-stained so tactfully, it appeared so much nicer than the fraternity house i just described.
the afternoon and evening were lovely. the other thirteen were friendly-enough folk who seemed to also be spending a day above their pay-grade. we kayaked and took photos from the summit of one of the two-thousand limestone islands. we sat at tables and drank our complimentary wine and spoke in words and phrases to relate information to one another. for dinner, we had braised pork ribs and tender calamari. by evening, we let our hair down while the dude from oregon absolutely killed it at karaoke.
the next morning was different and for no real reason. there was the expedition to the cave that was impressive enough. we learned how to make spring rolls and ate our creation. inside, we were all a bit drowsy and sitting with genial expressions of the well-what-should-we-all-talk-about-next variety. outside our windows, the bay and its islands were quietly passing in a soupy fog and i was just tired of being entertained. i felt like going above deck to stare mindlessly at the surreal setting. i felt like going below deck to play cards with the kitchen staff that never surfaced. i wanted our tour guide to stop smiling so obsequiously. i wanted to be back in vietnam.
it was still worth both time and treasure and i would recommend the trip. i would even say it's a better experience to be out there in mystic winter than the bright beach days of local summer. as a bonus, it also gave me that proverbial "teaching moment," reinforcing where i belong. upon reaching hanoi, i felt an ethereal calm after stepping out of the minivan and firmly telling a few shoe-polishers to leave me alone. i was home at last.
Friday, February 10, 2012
south of hanoi, east of the sun
hanoi, vietnam
of the seven friends i made during five days at hoa's place, one was headed my direction. it was not easy leaving a place that swallowed us like a giant velvet beanbag chair, but such is life. we all have to leave at some point. it was not too long into our 15-hour train ride that the transition became comfortable. it seemed appropriate to strike out once again. we could sit on our comfortable bunks, close the cabin door, talk about everything in general and pause to watch the verdant coastline of central vietnam whirl by outside our window. the train oscillated soothingly below. clickety-clickety-clack. clickety-clickety-clack.
the train stopped briefly in dong ha and the two empty berths in our cabin were now occupied. or so we thought. these two gentlemen offered us the first sips from their bottle of scotch and invited us to their new room for a party. this is not the situation where one responds with "no."
a few doors down and we found the lower bunks filled with four vietnamese engineers, another sleeping on one of the bunks above. don't mind him. the original bottle of scotch sat atop the small table, a few boxes containing at least three more rested on the carriage floor. thirteen hours to hanoi. clickety-clickety-clack. clickety-clickety-clack.
we were taught the phrase for cheers (phonetically: yo) and drunk (again: sizeo). we shared what we knew about the others' countries initially; the two of us spoke about what we have seen of vietnam, while they shared their favorite hollywood films and international football stars. the conversation could have attenuated to silence at some point, but it never did. the scotch is only partially responsible.
the boss was the most generous. i assume that he was the one to purchase each of the bottles as well as the food that he did not touch. from my blurring vantage point, he also seemed to be in possession of the group's strongest wooden leg. he took to us in that intangible, indescribable way that locals take to foreigners. he took a keen interest in finding us a hotel and providing a car to show us around hanoi. the details could wait for later.
it would surprise me if the one nearest to the door knew more than twenty words in english. we got to know him nonetheless. he sat and nodded or smiled while the others translated and sat silently while we were told that he was the group's resident singer. early into bottle number two, he shared his gift. we all like superlatives, especially when providing description, but when i tell you that this man's voice was heaven-sent it is no exaggeration. i know more vietnamese pronouns than i know about opera, but i do know that his tenor or bass or whatever it is should be shedding tears in rome. first song, figaro. second song, i have no idea. we all just sat there stunned as he let his vocals shake the carriage. i encouraged him to sing con te partiro. neither of us knew the words, but he figured out what i wanted to hear and hit the melody perfectly. probably because we were finishing bottle number two, i encouraged him to continue. i was as dumbfounded with each note as i was when he began.
closest to the window, on the opposite bench, was a thirty year-old with the greatest grasp of english. his translations stirred the drink, one could say. if alcohol was the catalyst, then so be it, but we took it there. we talked about the war as the next generation is allowed. he told me that vietnam wants peace and wants to be america's friend. i told him that america has an incredible level of respect for the vietnamese people and that we want the same. when words could no longer suffice, we shook hands. our left hands were useless just sitting there, so we let them cover the handshake for another layer. if i could have the hands of vishnu, i would have added each one as we looked into each other's eyes and nodded and swore that our people and our countries wanted and deserved peace. if politicians would take these train rides, the world would be a much better place.
talk eventually turned to the two foreigners. why weren't we married? we make such a good couple, don't we? we had to explain that, for one, we were not from the same country and that in western culture, it is possible for boys and girls to just be friends. they didn't get it. we tried to explain, but some things they would just never be able to understand.
then we went back to our cabin and had sex.
this could be too much information, but this forum has served as host to so many superficial observations that it would be a shame if the most transcendent of human experiences could not receive mention. and it's not like it has changed my life. it didn't really change the next morning. we would blame it on the scotch if we felt like blaming something. that just doesn't seem appropriate.
well, perhaps we could blame the rude awakening at four in the morning on the scotch. it certainly would have been easier to deal with the abrupt arrival at hanoi's train station and the cabbies breaking through the cabin door to try and secure our fare had sobriety been in the cards the night before. but it wasn't. that doesn't mean it's not all clear.
because, if you'll pardon a foray into a personal experience that's publicly taboo, i could tell you about a special moment. when i was, you know, done with that, i incidentally looked outside a train window. streetlights were flying by like auntie em in a twister and the homes and rice paddies of some anonymous vietnamese town were blurring by through the curtain of a damp pre-dawn mist. and the only sound came from the bottom of the train's carriage.
clickety-clickety clack. clickety-clickety clack.
of the seven friends i made during five days at hoa's place, one was headed my direction. it was not easy leaving a place that swallowed us like a giant velvet beanbag chair, but such is life. we all have to leave at some point. it was not too long into our 15-hour train ride that the transition became comfortable. it seemed appropriate to strike out once again. we could sit on our comfortable bunks, close the cabin door, talk about everything in general and pause to watch the verdant coastline of central vietnam whirl by outside our window. the train oscillated soothingly below. clickety-clickety-clack. clickety-clickety-clack.
the train stopped briefly in dong ha and the two empty berths in our cabin were now occupied. or so we thought. these two gentlemen offered us the first sips from their bottle of scotch and invited us to their new room for a party. this is not the situation where one responds with "no."
a few doors down and we found the lower bunks filled with four vietnamese engineers, another sleeping on one of the bunks above. don't mind him. the original bottle of scotch sat atop the small table, a few boxes containing at least three more rested on the carriage floor. thirteen hours to hanoi. clickety-clickety-clack. clickety-clickety-clack.
we were taught the phrase for cheers (phonetically: yo) and drunk (again: sizeo). we shared what we knew about the others' countries initially; the two of us spoke about what we have seen of vietnam, while they shared their favorite hollywood films and international football stars. the conversation could have attenuated to silence at some point, but it never did. the scotch is only partially responsible.
the boss was the most generous. i assume that he was the one to purchase each of the bottles as well as the food that he did not touch. from my blurring vantage point, he also seemed to be in possession of the group's strongest wooden leg. he took to us in that intangible, indescribable way that locals take to foreigners. he took a keen interest in finding us a hotel and providing a car to show us around hanoi. the details could wait for later.
it would surprise me if the one nearest to the door knew more than twenty words in english. we got to know him nonetheless. he sat and nodded or smiled while the others translated and sat silently while we were told that he was the group's resident singer. early into bottle number two, he shared his gift. we all like superlatives, especially when providing description, but when i tell you that this man's voice was heaven-sent it is no exaggeration. i know more vietnamese pronouns than i know about opera, but i do know that his tenor or bass or whatever it is should be shedding tears in rome. first song, figaro. second song, i have no idea. we all just sat there stunned as he let his vocals shake the carriage. i encouraged him to sing con te partiro. neither of us knew the words, but he figured out what i wanted to hear and hit the melody perfectly. probably because we were finishing bottle number two, i encouraged him to continue. i was as dumbfounded with each note as i was when he began.
closest to the window, on the opposite bench, was a thirty year-old with the greatest grasp of english. his translations stirred the drink, one could say. if alcohol was the catalyst, then so be it, but we took it there. we talked about the war as the next generation is allowed. he told me that vietnam wants peace and wants to be america's friend. i told him that america has an incredible level of respect for the vietnamese people and that we want the same. when words could no longer suffice, we shook hands. our left hands were useless just sitting there, so we let them cover the handshake for another layer. if i could have the hands of vishnu, i would have added each one as we looked into each other's eyes and nodded and swore that our people and our countries wanted and deserved peace. if politicians would take these train rides, the world would be a much better place.
talk eventually turned to the two foreigners. why weren't we married? we make such a good couple, don't we? we had to explain that, for one, we were not from the same country and that in western culture, it is possible for boys and girls to just be friends. they didn't get it. we tried to explain, but some things they would just never be able to understand.
then we went back to our cabin and had sex.
this could be too much information, but this forum has served as host to so many superficial observations that it would be a shame if the most transcendent of human experiences could not receive mention. and it's not like it has changed my life. it didn't really change the next morning. we would blame it on the scotch if we felt like blaming something. that just doesn't seem appropriate.
well, perhaps we could blame the rude awakening at four in the morning on the scotch. it certainly would have been easier to deal with the abrupt arrival at hanoi's train station and the cabbies breaking through the cabin door to try and secure our fare had sobriety been in the cards the night before. but it wasn't. that doesn't mean it's not all clear.
because, if you'll pardon a foray into a personal experience that's publicly taboo, i could tell you about a special moment. when i was, you know, done with that, i incidentally looked outside a train window. streetlights were flying by like auntie em in a twister and the homes and rice paddies of some anonymous vietnamese town were blurring by through the curtain of a damp pre-dawn mist. and the only sound came from the bottom of the train's carriage.
clickety-clickety clack. clickety-clickety clack.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
hoa's place
china beach, vietnam
some places get it right. they get it so right that you backtrack via your mind's rearview mirror and find faults in that place in mui ne. you second guess the hostel in phnom penh. you downright dismiss that guest house in siem reap as a glorified hippie circus.
south of danang, a wiry gentleman with a mouse-like stare has been serving up magic for a couple decades now. i'd be surprised if he's still slinging it in another five. the story of hoa and his establishment is a tale as old as time with an ending straight out of ayn rand. boy is born in rural vietnamese village. boy befriends a platoon of american marines and assists them in translation and, occasionally, in providing fire support against nva or vietcong attacks. boy faces retaliation and constant threat of further punishment for his support of american forces when he was no more than nine years old.
that is all interesting and to hear it from the stallion's mouth is truly amazing, but it is all prologue and background to the experience of staying there. you do not have to know his story to have an amazing time at his guest house. in fact, hoa's place is a quintessential case study of the you-do-not-have-to variety because no more than an eyeball study reveals that it could be considered severely lacking. i'm pretty sure that the neighboring mega resorts have more than a trickle coming from their shower heads. they would also likely remove the crumbling american bunker in front of the beach, or at least remove some of the grass shards festooned around it. i probably do not need to mention the mice.
what he does have are the intangibles, and they come about through very tangible means. for one, family dinner. nearly all guest houses have a dining room where you can order your meal and, you know, eat food. at hoa's, dinner's at seven and you will sit at the long table next to that smiling dutch couple you may not otherwise meet. for another, he's got a notebook and a pen, you just take what you want, write it down, and pay when you leave. does it make you take that extra beer you might not otherwise? it does. do you feel less like a client and more like a guy visiting a close friend? that too.
of course, hoa's place will fall prey to the sands of time. and capitalism. that pristine beach and that adjacent empty property are just too nice a match to remain as they are. that backdrop for surfing and moonlit beach walks just makes so much more sense as the private possession of russian and chinese golfers for their biennial vacations. anyone who knows me knows the rant that follows, so i'll let you fill in the rest.
i, for one, will be back. empty promise, you say? nope. i've got someone to show this place to and that will be in about two weeks time. regardless of motive, it would only be right that i return before leaving vietnam. i still owe hoa about ten bucks.
some places get it right. they get it so right that you backtrack via your mind's rearview mirror and find faults in that place in mui ne. you second guess the hostel in phnom penh. you downright dismiss that guest house in siem reap as a glorified hippie circus.
south of danang, a wiry gentleman with a mouse-like stare has been serving up magic for a couple decades now. i'd be surprised if he's still slinging it in another five. the story of hoa and his establishment is a tale as old as time with an ending straight out of ayn rand. boy is born in rural vietnamese village. boy befriends a platoon of american marines and assists them in translation and, occasionally, in providing fire support against nva or vietcong attacks. boy faces retaliation and constant threat of further punishment for his support of american forces when he was no more than nine years old.
that is all interesting and to hear it from the stallion's mouth is truly amazing, but it is all prologue and background to the experience of staying there. you do not have to know his story to have an amazing time at his guest house. in fact, hoa's place is a quintessential case study of the you-do-not-have-to variety because no more than an eyeball study reveals that it could be considered severely lacking. i'm pretty sure that the neighboring mega resorts have more than a trickle coming from their shower heads. they would also likely remove the crumbling american bunker in front of the beach, or at least remove some of the grass shards festooned around it. i probably do not need to mention the mice.
what he does have are the intangibles, and they come about through very tangible means. for one, family dinner. nearly all guest houses have a dining room where you can order your meal and, you know, eat food. at hoa's, dinner's at seven and you will sit at the long table next to that smiling dutch couple you may not otherwise meet. for another, he's got a notebook and a pen, you just take what you want, write it down, and pay when you leave. does it make you take that extra beer you might not otherwise? it does. do you feel less like a client and more like a guy visiting a close friend? that too.
of course, hoa's place will fall prey to the sands of time. and capitalism. that pristine beach and that adjacent empty property are just too nice a match to remain as they are. that backdrop for surfing and moonlit beach walks just makes so much more sense as the private possession of russian and chinese golfers for their biennial vacations. anyone who knows me knows the rant that follows, so i'll let you fill in the rest.
i, for one, will be back. empty promise, you say? nope. i've got someone to show this place to and that will be in about two weeks time. regardless of motive, it would only be right that i return before leaving vietnam. i still owe hoa about ten bucks.
Monday, February 6, 2012
china beach
danang, vietnam
you really don't have to ask. assuming you understand that there was a war here, you would probably recognize why this not-massive city has so many used and unused airstrips, roadways, and bridges. if that conclusion proves elusive, maybe the sporadic and ubiquitous concrete bunkers falling prey to the overgrowth would be a dead giveaway. but really, if i'm truly being honest, the past of this city would not be found in the infrastructure or patsying around on some guided audio tour; it's in the molecules.
the feeling of danang/china beach is a distant relative of that which i've experienced at dachau or tuol sleng. let me further emphasize distant. even if their roots are all of or pertaining to conflict, that is not the connection. they each exude a sixth sensual sonar with a general transmission that seems to poke you in the soul and say, "hey, you, something happened here." in dachau or tuol sleng, it's an awe-inducing silent roar that comes from all around. here, it's more like stepping into an old ballroom from the roaring '20s that has not seen a gatsby in decades but still holds the echoes of their voices.
danang saw a lot of death, but i don't get the sense of tragedy from it (again, this is all from my reading the proverbial tea leaves and not from anything resembling investigative journalism.) danang is where the first grunts washed ashore when some suits in d.c. decided our interests in this country were worth american blood. it's about 200 km south of the demilitarized zone and a great port, making it more than suitable as a base for forward operations. the navy could set up shop in the deep waters to shell away at distant enemy positions. the air force could set up landing strips to launch bombing and recon missions (danang international (dad) was the busiest airport in the world from '67-'69 with aircraft taking off every twenty seconds.) the army could set up mess halls and barracks for young men recently returning from or soon slated to go into "the shit" to the north. i have no confirmation, but it's plausible that forrest gump was eating ice cream and learning ping pong here.
there were firefights and conflagrations here, though more of the insurgent variety. while it would be fair to label the whole city as a battle zone for historic purposes, it's not entirely accurate. in my few days here i've had the pleasure to look through old photos and hear a couple stories about the good ol' days. from vietnamese. i know that this outlook is not universal, but i have already met a few who formed genuine, long-lasting friendships with the american servicemen and-women here. i'm certain there are many more. the locals provided translation, the americans brought doctors and medicine to the countryside. they taught kids baseball and swear words. they behaved with that eye-rollingly inappropriate-yet-endearing charm with which americans seem to be uniquely graced.
in those photos, danang is portrayed not without its share of black smoke from anonymous vietcong explosions, though more present are smiling north american kids. smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. standing proud beside the entrance to their base. holding their rifles at the same temple on marble mountain where i was two days ago. lying shirtless on the beach and trying to forget the hell they inflicted and/or saw. north of here will be a different story. something just tells me that for this one place, those days or terror were not entirely bad. or so it reminds me.
if you're keeping score at home
you know a good book? like, a really good book? you know when you get to that point about a quarter of the way through when you just want to keep reading and immersing yourself in this fascinating world and dying to see how it all unfolds while, at the same time, the last thing you want is for that story to end? that's basically how i feel about this trip
you really don't have to ask. assuming you understand that there was a war here, you would probably recognize why this not-massive city has so many used and unused airstrips, roadways, and bridges. if that conclusion proves elusive, maybe the sporadic and ubiquitous concrete bunkers falling prey to the overgrowth would be a dead giveaway. but really, if i'm truly being honest, the past of this city would not be found in the infrastructure or patsying around on some guided audio tour; it's in the molecules.
the feeling of danang/china beach is a distant relative of that which i've experienced at dachau or tuol sleng. let me further emphasize distant. even if their roots are all of or pertaining to conflict, that is not the connection. they each exude a sixth sensual sonar with a general transmission that seems to poke you in the soul and say, "hey, you, something happened here." in dachau or tuol sleng, it's an awe-inducing silent roar that comes from all around. here, it's more like stepping into an old ballroom from the roaring '20s that has not seen a gatsby in decades but still holds the echoes of their voices.
danang saw a lot of death, but i don't get the sense of tragedy from it (again, this is all from my reading the proverbial tea leaves and not from anything resembling investigative journalism.) danang is where the first grunts washed ashore when some suits in d.c. decided our interests in this country were worth american blood. it's about 200 km south of the demilitarized zone and a great port, making it more than suitable as a base for forward operations. the navy could set up shop in the deep waters to shell away at distant enemy positions. the air force could set up landing strips to launch bombing and recon missions (danang international (dad) was the busiest airport in the world from '67-'69 with aircraft taking off every twenty seconds.) the army could set up mess halls and barracks for young men recently returning from or soon slated to go into "the shit" to the north. i have no confirmation, but it's plausible that forrest gump was eating ice cream and learning ping pong here.
there were firefights and conflagrations here, though more of the insurgent variety. while it would be fair to label the whole city as a battle zone for historic purposes, it's not entirely accurate. in my few days here i've had the pleasure to look through old photos and hear a couple stories about the good ol' days. from vietnamese. i know that this outlook is not universal, but i have already met a few who formed genuine, long-lasting friendships with the american servicemen and-women here. i'm certain there are many more. the locals provided translation, the americans brought doctors and medicine to the countryside. they taught kids baseball and swear words. they behaved with that eye-rollingly inappropriate-yet-endearing charm with which americans seem to be uniquely graced.
in those photos, danang is portrayed not without its share of black smoke from anonymous vietcong explosions, though more present are smiling north american kids. smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. standing proud beside the entrance to their base. holding their rifles at the same temple on marble mountain where i was two days ago. lying shirtless on the beach and trying to forget the hell they inflicted and/or saw. north of here will be a different story. something just tells me that for this one place, those days or terror were not entirely bad. or so it reminds me.
if you're keeping score at home
you know a good book? like, a really good book? you know when you get to that point about a quarter of the way through when you just want to keep reading and immersing yourself in this fascinating world and dying to see how it all unfolds while, at the same time, the last thing you want is for that story to end? that's basically how i feel about this trip
Friday, February 3, 2012
an american in vietnam
saigon, vietnam
before this country became the backdrop for several academy award-nominated and -winning films, there was a war here. it was the first to fall firmly in the age of television and its carnage helped showcase the absurdity of the cold war, if not war in general, even if most could not fully make that connection. while hollywood can be credited for stepping in and doing an excellent job of cinematographic representation (written by someone who was born years after the conflict and is, obviously, without proper reference), the translation is muddled. sure, we saw the bodies. the blood. those forlorn, dirty and sweat-stained faces leaning over rifles and weeping over dead patriots and the loss of innocence. many of the films portray this very well.
still, it's hollywood. i could personally go through the cerebral rolodex and tick off dozens of quotations and repartees from the boot camp sequence in full metal jacket. so could many others. but i rarely reflect on the end sequence featuring those eerie, metallic acoustics and the deep breaths of the marines as they stare at a young vietnamese girl begging for her coup de grace. so too apocalypse now. we can extend this to the mad, darkly humorous ramblings of walter sobchak from the big lebowski. sadly, our reference is also framed by john rambo and chuck norris and the hot shots! canon.
which is all to say that it's entertainment. even if you can look beyond the narrative arc of deer hunter and feel real human empathy for the situations that unfold, need i remind you of the perspective they show? even those select films that focus on the horrors done to the vietnamese people (i.e. casualties of war), it is overwhelmingly concentrated on the ensuing guilt of the americans for what they did. not the victims.
this is all very reasonable. these production companies spent millions on a product targeted to an american audience. if the audience cannot relate, they will not fork over the dough and buy the popcorn. i will stick up for hollywood and say that it is a good thing that our mass entertainment can have some instructional value.
but it's not vietnam. at least, the one that i presently find myself in. i'm not too focused on the 'nam of film or lore as i go through my day. the war piqued my interest in the country and greatly influences my travel route, but my day-to-day focus has been more about negotiating the rental price for motos and finding cheap pho. the major cities all have museums that i will visit and i plan on getting off the beaten track (not literally) near the dmz to see a bit more for myself. still, a large part of my calculus has not changed from cambodia: hold my camera tight, make sure the door locks, have toilet paper handy, and make sure i stay nowhere near those annoying british kids.
i wouldn't be thinking of this, and certainly wouldn't write about it, if i didn't feel that there was something more to this segment of the trip. i'd need several swings of the rope to find someone on the family tree who served here, so it's not like i have to pay my respects or atone for anything resembling sins-of-the-father. there is that nebulous american guilt thing, but then again i traveled all through the bush years and this is more like welcoming back an old snoring, bed-shitting travel companion. what does that mean? i didn't know when i crossed the border and i don't know now. i just decided to let the locals make the first move.
i have been recognized from afar as an american, both times at street food stalls. "are you american?" "yep" and what happened? well, the first man was with his family, enjoying the tet holiday, and told me about his life in albuquerque. ditto the second guy, only he lived in st. louis. we connected about life in america and they took an interest in my impressions of their country, just as i've experienced everywhere from cuzco to kampot. the new mexican even bought me sugarcane juice. others have asked where i'm from, waiters and hotel receptionists and such, and they usually give me a thumbs-up.
i know the time will come. i've heard that the north is different and there will likely be some reaction to my nationality. what can i do? it's really hard to fathom. it would be ideal to think that i could make such an impression as to leave somebody thinking, "his father could have decimated my ancestor's village, but he is so polite and even knows the word for four (bon) so we'll give 'em all a pass." i don't think that is quite in the cards.
what i can do is what only one man can do. i'll pay my respects for what was done in the past and try to pay some goodwill forward. i'll take each situation as it comes and let the golden rule be my guide. and when in doubt, i'll go for the cheap laughs on account of my height (cao lam). that seems to be working pretty well so far.
before this country became the backdrop for several academy award-nominated and -winning films, there was a war here. it was the first to fall firmly in the age of television and its carnage helped showcase the absurdity of the cold war, if not war in general, even if most could not fully make that connection. while hollywood can be credited for stepping in and doing an excellent job of cinematographic representation (written by someone who was born years after the conflict and is, obviously, without proper reference), the translation is muddled. sure, we saw the bodies. the blood. those forlorn, dirty and sweat-stained faces leaning over rifles and weeping over dead patriots and the loss of innocence. many of the films portray this very well.
still, it's hollywood. i could personally go through the cerebral rolodex and tick off dozens of quotations and repartees from the boot camp sequence in full metal jacket. so could many others. but i rarely reflect on the end sequence featuring those eerie, metallic acoustics and the deep breaths of the marines as they stare at a young vietnamese girl begging for her coup de grace. so too apocalypse now. we can extend this to the mad, darkly humorous ramblings of walter sobchak from the big lebowski. sadly, our reference is also framed by john rambo and chuck norris and the hot shots! canon.
which is all to say that it's entertainment. even if you can look beyond the narrative arc of deer hunter and feel real human empathy for the situations that unfold, need i remind you of the perspective they show? even those select films that focus on the horrors done to the vietnamese people (i.e. casualties of war), it is overwhelmingly concentrated on the ensuing guilt of the americans for what they did. not the victims.
this is all very reasonable. these production companies spent millions on a product targeted to an american audience. if the audience cannot relate, they will not fork over the dough and buy the popcorn. i will stick up for hollywood and say that it is a good thing that our mass entertainment can have some instructional value.
but it's not vietnam. at least, the one that i presently find myself in. i'm not too focused on the 'nam of film or lore as i go through my day. the war piqued my interest in the country and greatly influences my travel route, but my day-to-day focus has been more about negotiating the rental price for motos and finding cheap pho. the major cities all have museums that i will visit and i plan on getting off the beaten track (not literally) near the dmz to see a bit more for myself. still, a large part of my calculus has not changed from cambodia: hold my camera tight, make sure the door locks, have toilet paper handy, and make sure i stay nowhere near those annoying british kids.
i wouldn't be thinking of this, and certainly wouldn't write about it, if i didn't feel that there was something more to this segment of the trip. i'd need several swings of the rope to find someone on the family tree who served here, so it's not like i have to pay my respects or atone for anything resembling sins-of-the-father. there is that nebulous american guilt thing, but then again i traveled all through the bush years and this is more like welcoming back an old snoring, bed-shitting travel companion. what does that mean? i didn't know when i crossed the border and i don't know now. i just decided to let the locals make the first move.
i have been recognized from afar as an american, both times at street food stalls. "are you american?" "yep" and what happened? well, the first man was with his family, enjoying the tet holiday, and told me about his life in albuquerque. ditto the second guy, only he lived in st. louis. we connected about life in america and they took an interest in my impressions of their country, just as i've experienced everywhere from cuzco to kampot. the new mexican even bought me sugarcane juice. others have asked where i'm from, waiters and hotel receptionists and such, and they usually give me a thumbs-up.
i know the time will come. i've heard that the north is different and there will likely be some reaction to my nationality. what can i do? it's really hard to fathom. it would be ideal to think that i could make such an impression as to leave somebody thinking, "his father could have decimated my ancestor's village, but he is so polite and even knows the word for four (bon) so we'll give 'em all a pass." i don't think that is quite in the cards.
what i can do is what only one man can do. i'll pay my respects for what was done in the past and try to pay some goodwill forward. i'll take each situation as it comes and let the golden rule be my guide. and when in doubt, i'll go for the cheap laughs on account of my height (cao lam). that seems to be working pretty well so far.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
stereotypes
dalat, vietnam
we leave our homes with hobo sticks on our shoulders to give a picture to the world we've only imagined. we take basic spanish courses and put on a brave face while we wait for our first bites of mongolian food to arrive. we smile broadly for strangers and learn the history of that statue over there and try our damned best to not mock that vietnamese music coming through the speakers. in short, we travel so that we can familiarize ourselves with the foreign and seek explanations for why.
but what if i told you that, in some aspects at least, we were right from the beginning? that is not to say that travel does not provide valuable illumination so much as an admission that sometimes things turn out to be exactly as they first appeared. i am speaking of stereotypes.
part of the mysticism of travel is the quest to understand just why things are the way things are. i've found that this quest has often made me overlook what's been hidden in plain sight all along. this is not to say that people are all cut from the same cloth. this is saying that stereotypes exist for a reason and that is nearly as dangerous to pretend they are meaningless as it would be to only live according to their gospel.
the following should be a little bit offensive. i know i would be offended if someone heard i was american and assumed i spent my weekends drinking beer, eating buffalo wings, and screaming at some football game on the television screen. oh, wait....
regardless, the following is not meant to be comprehensive and include all. it is only meant as a rough summary of what i and i alone have observed as characteristics of travelers during my limited years of life. i have met anomalies and aberrations of many of these categories and would be disappointed were one of these kind souls (or not kind souls, case depending) to feel i was labeling them as such. maybe i am labeling them as such but love them anyway. anyway, whatever. make sure you spell my name correctly in your hate mail.
americans (white): kings of small talk. most likely to walk into a large, relaxed setting and say, "so, where is everybody from?!" most likely to be clueless about where they are and to not know they need a visa in advance for the border they're about to cross. most likely to violate every cultural faux pas and yet still be thoroughly embraced by the locals.
australians: big dumb animals who like to get really drunk.
belgians (wallonia): always down to have a good time.
black americans (male): wear glasses, t-shirts without words or designs that are tucked into their shorts. basically, they look like they're on leave from military service.
black americans (female): mama africa. long dreads with some colorful bandana or headpiece. long skirt, enough bracelets to suggest they mortgaged their house to acquire them. show little interest in interacting with white americans and cannot really be blamed for that.
brits: too many, too proper, or else way too drunk. often all of the above.
canadians: always wearing some article of clothing emblazoned with the maple leaf. they go to such an extreme to assure everyone that they are not american as to betray the fact that they are incredibly insecure (a slight orbiter dictum here: an identity as not being something is not an identity). i'm not done. peeved that they know the cities and states of the u.s. while americans do not know those of their country, yet oblivious that most places in their country are not worth knowing (olive branch: most places, not all)
canadians (alberta): texans without tact or culture (even by texas standards)
chinese: ready to buy everything, enslave everyone
dutch: all seem like they were the weird kid who kept some exotic reptile for a pet at tennis camp.
francophone lesbians: absolutely lovely people.
french: zis euh euh euh statue at ze far end of zis euh euh euh burning cigarette is euh euh beautiful.
germans: grandma cut their hair. their blind great aunt chose their clothing from a catalogue. they are wearing socks with sandals and a camera on their neck and are probably on their seventh consecutive day of tripping on lsd.
greeks: travel? how is their mom supposed to do their laundry or help them piss if they're out traveling?
israelis: love to go to new, exotic locales with their israeli friends and eat at israeli restaurants that play israeli techno or else foreign-owned places that serve israeli food and offer a great opportunity to meet new israelis.
irish: always down to have a good time.
italians: see greeks
japanese: smiling broadly beneath that paper surgical masks.
kiwis: they're basically that crazy kid from college that you love to party with but would never in a million years invite over to your home.
koreans: see japanese
mexicans: always down to have a good time.
northern californians: give you a hug and lay out the welcome mat, but you're not really invited.
russians: cyborgs wearing hot pants and huge sunglasses.
scandinavians: the fast-talkers of this subset clock in at a rapid three words-per-minute.
south africans (white): love the opportunity to travel and subjugate/belittle a subset of dark-skinned people different from the ones they have at home.
southern californians: the lava lamps are on, but nobody's home.
spanish: always down to have a good time.
beyond nationalities:
people with dreadlocks, tattoos, marley t-shirts: travel across the world to hang out with people who have dreadlocks, tattoos, and bob marley t-shirts.
people wearing athletic gear (i.e. a plain nike hat or t-shirt): go to nepal to climb a mountain and just wish there weren't so many brown people around. have traveled the world and not seen a thing (hell hath no punishment worse than dinner with this subset)
fat middle-aged men in short-sleeved dress shirts: hitting the massage parlors daily. always one misstep away from being discovered and appearing on dateline nbc.
skinny middle-aged men: depending on how many drugs they did back in the day, will either have riveting stories that capture you all night or else will be a rambling mess.
middle-aged women traveling solo: some of the finest folk on this green earth.
westerners wearing one piece of western clothing and one local textile: someone worth latching yourself onto for a time.
we leave our homes with hobo sticks on our shoulders to give a picture to the world we've only imagined. we take basic spanish courses and put on a brave face while we wait for our first bites of mongolian food to arrive. we smile broadly for strangers and learn the history of that statue over there and try our damned best to not mock that vietnamese music coming through the speakers. in short, we travel so that we can familiarize ourselves with the foreign and seek explanations for why.
but what if i told you that, in some aspects at least, we were right from the beginning? that is not to say that travel does not provide valuable illumination so much as an admission that sometimes things turn out to be exactly as they first appeared. i am speaking of stereotypes.
part of the mysticism of travel is the quest to understand just why things are the way things are. i've found that this quest has often made me overlook what's been hidden in plain sight all along. this is not to say that people are all cut from the same cloth. this is saying that stereotypes exist for a reason and that is nearly as dangerous to pretend they are meaningless as it would be to only live according to their gospel.
the following should be a little bit offensive. i know i would be offended if someone heard i was american and assumed i spent my weekends drinking beer, eating buffalo wings, and screaming at some football game on the television screen. oh, wait....
regardless, the following is not meant to be comprehensive and include all. it is only meant as a rough summary of what i and i alone have observed as characteristics of travelers during my limited years of life. i have met anomalies and aberrations of many of these categories and would be disappointed were one of these kind souls (or not kind souls, case depending) to feel i was labeling them as such. maybe i am labeling them as such but love them anyway. anyway, whatever. make sure you spell my name correctly in your hate mail.
americans (white): kings of small talk. most likely to walk into a large, relaxed setting and say, "so, where is everybody from?!" most likely to be clueless about where they are and to not know they need a visa in advance for the border they're about to cross. most likely to violate every cultural faux pas and yet still be thoroughly embraced by the locals.
australians: big dumb animals who like to get really drunk.
belgians (wallonia): always down to have a good time.
black americans (male): wear glasses, t-shirts without words or designs that are tucked into their shorts. basically, they look like they're on leave from military service.
black americans (female): mama africa. long dreads with some colorful bandana or headpiece. long skirt, enough bracelets to suggest they mortgaged their house to acquire them. show little interest in interacting with white americans and cannot really be blamed for that.
brits: too many, too proper, or else way too drunk. often all of the above.
canadians: always wearing some article of clothing emblazoned with the maple leaf. they go to such an extreme to assure everyone that they are not american as to betray the fact that they are incredibly insecure (a slight orbiter dictum here: an identity as not being something is not an identity). i'm not done. peeved that they know the cities and states of the u.s. while americans do not know those of their country, yet oblivious that most places in their country are not worth knowing (olive branch: most places, not all)
canadians (alberta): texans without tact or culture (even by texas standards)
chinese: ready to buy everything, enslave everyone
dutch: all seem like they were the weird kid who kept some exotic reptile for a pet at tennis camp.
francophone lesbians: absolutely lovely people.
french: zis euh euh euh statue at ze far end of zis euh euh euh burning cigarette is euh euh beautiful.
germans: grandma cut their hair. their blind great aunt chose their clothing from a catalogue. they are wearing socks with sandals and a camera on their neck and are probably on their seventh consecutive day of tripping on lsd.
greeks: travel? how is their mom supposed to do their laundry or help them piss if they're out traveling?
israelis: love to go to new, exotic locales with their israeli friends and eat at israeli restaurants that play israeli techno or else foreign-owned places that serve israeli food and offer a great opportunity to meet new israelis.
irish: always down to have a good time.
italians: see greeks
japanese: smiling broadly beneath that paper surgical masks.
kiwis: they're basically that crazy kid from college that you love to party with but would never in a million years invite over to your home.
koreans: see japanese
mexicans: always down to have a good time.
northern californians: give you a hug and lay out the welcome mat, but you're not really invited.
russians: cyborgs wearing hot pants and huge sunglasses.
scandinavians: the fast-talkers of this subset clock in at a rapid three words-per-minute.
south africans (white): love the opportunity to travel and subjugate/belittle a subset of dark-skinned people different from the ones they have at home.
southern californians: the lava lamps are on, but nobody's home.
spanish: always down to have a good time.
beyond nationalities:
people with dreadlocks, tattoos, marley t-shirts: travel across the world to hang out with people who have dreadlocks, tattoos, and bob marley t-shirts.
people wearing athletic gear (i.e. a plain nike hat or t-shirt): go to nepal to climb a mountain and just wish there weren't so many brown people around. have traveled the world and not seen a thing (hell hath no punishment worse than dinner with this subset)
fat middle-aged men in short-sleeved dress shirts: hitting the massage parlors daily. always one misstep away from being discovered and appearing on dateline nbc.
skinny middle-aged men: depending on how many drugs they did back in the day, will either have riveting stories that capture you all night or else will be a rambling mess.
middle-aged women traveling solo: some of the finest folk on this green earth.
westerners wearing one piece of western clothing and one local textile: someone worth latching yourself onto for a time.
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