Keanu Reeves

I've been catching up on my British comedy.

Enter Keanu Reeves, a creation of Steve Coogan who, if you don't know him, is worthy of some youtube investigation:




"He just don't look well."

Classic Conflicts

Thought I'd start out with a little music, since I've worked two hours in the past two days and am getting a little lonely for social contact.

I've got far too much free time.

At first, this wasn't a problem. In fact, it was downright luxurious--as one coworker put it, "an almost criminally easy lifestyle." I spent it wandering around the streets, practicing saying the two phrases in Vietnamese I am confident to enough to say to native speakers (Hello and Thank You), learning directions, getting the hang of crossing the busier streets to open up new neighborhoods to explore.

But this week, I encountered a conflict, one classically known as "Man vs. Nature." The daily downpours in Ho Chi Minh City have subsided, and--though I have no technical qualifications to back up this hypothesis--all the allergens multiplied in the air. And went straight into my respiratory system.  Like my allergies knew I'd been fine for two weeks, and decided this wasn't right. Oh, no. Sinus infection time!

Coming down with a sinus infection in the middle of 90-degree sunny humidity makes you particularly miserable. Luckily though, I don't have to walk far in any direction to find a decent bowl of Pho, which is a miracle for sinus infections. I was eating entire leaves of basil like a koala bear chomping on eucalyptus.

My condition wasn't lost on my students. "Teacher, you look like you are not well." They're smart kids.

They're also fun to challenge. My favorite class at the moment is one I teach two nights a week and is comprised mainly of adults. They are pre-intermediates, which means they spend most of their time learning how to develop their English fluency by practicing language surrounding specific topics. It's a good approach--in my opinion, the best in helping students overcome shyness or hesitancy by giving them some practical applications, a great deal more interesting than simply memorizing the lexicon.

The texts they follow, though, aren't always up to par. The topics are scattershot, can be confusing, and follow a liberal definition of "pre-intermediate." For example, last week we talked about nutrition. This week, we're talking about Psychology and Personality

My mental playground.

But a difficult concept to present to students who are all largely without any sort of education beyond Secondary School. The first lesson they listened to contained more words they would have no way of understanding, words like: environment, genetics, patterns, behavior, emotions, nature, nurture. So we talked about them. It was great.

It's always great, when you're teaching people who want to be taught. We ended up having a prolonged discussion about what "Nature Vs. Nurture" means, and I had the most mentally stimulating conversation in class so far, mucus-filled as my mental faculties were. At one point I had muddled my explanation so much that I no other recourse but to turn it over to another student, who explained things for me.

They're smart kids.

Not many people in the class understood, at first, that there was controversy surrounding human behavior. That there were differing opinions about what happens to make us who we are. So I took the liberty of separating science and culture for them, which maybe walks a line between what I am and am not qualified to teach. But--and I think this is important--I wasn't doing it to instill my principles in them, but because I was so seriously floored that they were using so much language to process the concept. They were starting to think in English.

Progress!

I suspect some would call it neo-colonial. Or, classically: Man. vs. Man.

But in all seriousness, I don't believe that what I'm doing is neo-colonialism. I'm not seeking to replace Vietnamese with English, I'm seeking to build fluency and understanding in the language that has, for better or worse, become the universal language of commerce. The motorbike driver that can speak three phrases in English-- namely, "Hello!" and "Motorbike?" and "Where do you go?" has just tripled the amount of business he can conduct each day.

The child that can say, "Buy something from me?" will help her mother make a few thousand dong for groceries. And they use those children strategically too. Some even know a few more manipulative phrases like, "Buy something from me?" (You refuse) "Do you want me to be hungry?" (You refuse, feel like trash)

And there are other influences that language brings along with it, for better or worse. For example, one of my landlady's daughters was walking around the other day in a bright-blue t-shirt that was peppered with two words in bright yellow bubble font. Those words were "fun" and "fuck." At the bottom of the T-Shirt was the line, "California! Fuck and Fun!."

I did multiple takes to make sure I was seeing this right, and then decided, in total American Puritanical fashion, that her mother should be notified. What followed was a terribly embarrassing attempt to convey what the word 'fuck' means to a pleasant and smiling woman who nodded enthusiastically despite an obvious lack of understanding. I eventually gave up, somewhat safe in the knowledge that even though her t-shirt said something totally inappropriate for an eight-year-old, most of the people she interacted with throughout the day would probably not register this.

Or if they did, they did so without having full understanding of what the word fuck actually means.

Which brings me to strangely worded t-shirts. The best thing about this is, that t-shirt isn't even the weirdest one I've seen here. There are several others, and if I can ever remember to bring my camera along my aimless walkabouts, I'll try to sniper some photos.

For now, think I'll stick to doing my job.

Hot with Five T's

My favorite comic is Wondermark. If you know me well, you will understand why.

This one is especially relevant today. Two days without rain in Ho Chi Minh City makes the whole place an absolute steambath.

On Trust

Earlier today, while I was a passenger on a motorbike passing through a particularly harrowing traffic circle, I looked down and noticed there were two flip-flop sandals more or less flattened into the pavement. One was adult-sized, one was child-sized. A few inches away, a broken off piece of motorbike handle.

Last night, while I was a passenger on a motorbike in the worst traffic jam I've ever seen, I thought about how much of a role trust plays in everyday life. Granted, you don't necessarily have to be on a motorbike here to be taking your life into your own hands--just google "crossing the street in Saigon" to see some videos of how it's done in a place where traffic is the perfect example of a free-for-all.

With confidence

At 6:45 AM, this can really get to you.

There seems to be a silent contract between drivers on the road here--don't do anything stupid, and I won't hit you. That being said, people do the stupidest things while on motorbikes, sometimes stacked four deep, with little Jimmy right up front in a kiddy lap chair. Or, Sparky the family dog. Or, a refrigeration unit. There's really nothing that can't be done on a motorbike, except the hauling of my luggage, which I had to demonstrate first-hand to a girl at my guest-house before she would call me a taxi.

At any rate, there's a lot of trust at work here. Bikes swish from every direction into traffic, trusting that the other drivers won't completely flatten them. Pedestrians step out into a never-ending stream of motorbikes and buses and taxis and bicycles, trusting that everyone will slow down, or at least go around them. I hop onto the back of a motorbike everyday trusting that a person I've had maybe two or three full conversations with will get me to my destination alive.

There's not much more you can do.

I liken it to getting on an airplane. One of life's grand illusions is the one that suggests we are in control, and though we are far more likely to die in traffic than fall out of the sky, flying frightens us because we are not in direct control. We have to trust a perfect stranger to negotiate the physics for us, and a handful of other people on the ground to guide us in.

So I trust my driver, and to some extent the others on the streets.

This isn't to say I haven't had some close calls. My knees have come disturbingly close to being tapped by several bumpers, and on at least one occasion, a mother-trucking bus. But I'm thanking my lucky stars that my flip-flops haven't flown off yet, because that can only mean one thing.

I used to marvel at this in the US--the concept of driving vehicles, or being in traffic. That is, I marveled at it before I allowed it to completely unravel my humanity. I remember a Jerry Seinfeld routine about cars, and our fascination with them, how we're "Outside, but still inside, moving, but sitting still." I wrote in one particularly bad poem that cars must "Move together, move in order, but we must never touch."

It's a shared experience, minus the intimacy such an experience might suggest.

In countries like the US, it's a shared experience that no one wants to share. It can introduce homicidal fantasies to the most mild-mannered American around--it's made me invent some particularly creative ways to use curse words at least, and probably spiked my blood pressure a few times.

In Vietnam, traffic is approached with pretty much the same attitude the Vietnamese approach everything: Meh. What're you gonna do?

Because you have to go to work, you have to make deliveries, you have to bring your kids to school, and you have to make that money. I'm just thankful everyone's on motorbikes. If they were in cars, I don't think they would be as forgiving.

For one, they certainly wouldn't be going anywhere.

Photos

I'm having good luck with the internet tonight, so here's a link:

https://picasaweb.google.com/amanda.biever/SaigonDayOne?authkey=Gv1sRgCKXZor3M8NTAkgE

Enjoy!

New Room, New View

Guys. I just had the most delicious sausage roll in the history of mankind. I'm not using hyperbole here. I may be sun-drunk and hungry, but damn do the Vietnamese have a way with the French rolls. It consisted of two mini rolls baked into one another, slices of sausage baked into the top, pieces of chives and garlic here and there, a generous sugar glaze, topped off with some stinky and delicious cheese.

It was nearly the size of a sandwich, and I paid about 43 cents for it.

Anyways, that's not why I'm here. I'm here to brag about my new digs, which I found on Craigslist. Yup. Craigslist. Compared to the tiny little room I was staying in initially, this is an absolute palace:

It's a little pricey, but cheaper than the guest-house I was staying at, and a couple of blocks removed from the tourist din of the area my guest-house was in. We'll see whether or not I can swing it in the long run, but for now it's some comfort. My fellow house-mates are a Vietnamese family, from what I can tell I am their only boarder. They are terrific people, very friendly and helpful. They noticed I had a lot of books from the school, so today while I was out they put a desk and chair in the room for me, a nice surprise.

Here's the view from the balcony:

If I crank my head over to the left, I get a good view of Bitexco Financial Tower at night, all cantilevered and glowing. My camera doesn't really get a good shot of it, but it's nice to look at.

Right now, it's a beautiful night. Nice and cool--actually turned the AC off for once and have the windows open. It's raining a little, and there's some wicked lightning in the distance. This is a welcome relief from earlier today, when I was out at 7 am--it was already tremendously muggy and very, very smoggy. I actually ducked into a pharmacy to get a couple of those cloth surgical masks to wear while walking around and riding the xe om (motorcycle taxi, pronounced kind of like zoom).  I felt like Michael Jackson for a moment, but after a while I didn't feel weird at all--I was breathing better, for one, and for two, everybody wears them for the same reasons--air through a cloth filter is better than air through an exhaust filter.

As for my activities today, they were nothing short of spectacularly bureaucratic. I was talking with an old friend who lives here on the phone last night, explaining my task-list, to which he replied, "Welcome to communism, Beev. Welcome to communism."  If there's one things I can say about the communists, it's that they can departmentalize like champs. And--they like stamping things.

So my training in Social Services has prepared me well.

The most interesting thing that happened to me today was having a health check-up for the purposes of securing a work permit. I paid $33 and got a tour of the hospital, meaning, went from department to department, having various parts of my body checked. In this room, somebody talked to me about the United States and then looked in my ears. In the next room, somebody complimented me on looking younger than my age and took my blood pressure. It wasn't altogether unpleasant, but enough to kind of turn me off from socialized medicine. I saw a lot of sick people, just waiting, in un air-conditioned hallways.

So I will end my day with a nice bottle of water and Emergen-C. Gotta fight the sickness.

Historic Truths

Day two, Saigon. After day one was spent being a tourist, paying through the nose for things like only a tourist does, I spent today lying low. Practicing my tasteful declinations, taking short walks, learning the streets, and learning to trust. Maybe not trust, but to decipher. Decipher the well-meaning individuals from the ones that are just being nice to you to get your money.

These are some of the things I am here to learn. I can tell already that this venture will hinge on my ability to develop some firm business skills. Everything here is business, and self-advocacy is second to none.

Here are some things I saw yesterday on my motorbike tour of several districts of HCMC:

Stop #1: War Remnants Museum. On my way to Saigon, a young Chinese woman's cell phone rang to Lady Gaga. I almost swelled with pride, feeling somehow connected to this person through the virtue of my own culture. Then I visited the War Remnants Museum, where any burgeoning American patriotism was quickly and ruthlessly crushed.

 "Tiger cages" Not for actual tigers.

Large portions of what is inside the Museum are collections donated by Western wartime correspondents and photographers, or in some cases donated by whoever earned the copyrights to their work after they died (which many correspondents did, in the bush). There is no censorship to what images are on display. You see some very disturbing things.

As I looked through these photographs, the thing that stood out to me the most was not necessarily the atrocities of war. The Vietnam War is well-documented (and well-fictionalized)—what I saw, in effect, I had seen in countless movies. I suppose that's the general problem of the desensitized American public.

The disturbing difference is that what you are looking at here was not simulated. American soldiers using water-torture or posing next to headless VietCong were not acting.

"The above picture shows exactly what the brass want you to do in the Nam. The reasons for printing this picture is not to put down G.I.'s but rather to illustrate the fact that the Army can really fuck over your mind if you let it.  //  It's up to you, you can put in your time just trying to make it back in one piece or you can become a psycho like the Lifer (K-6) in the picture who really digs this kind of shit. It's your choice." // (Only it kinda wasn't)--ab

Someone took that photograph, someone bore actual witness to this event, leaving its image as proof, no commentary. The most chilling photographs were taken of people who were about to be killed at the hands of GI's. If the photographer had survived the war, there would sometimes be captions:“These two boys popped out of a ditch, the GI's shot at them, and the bigger one fell on top of the smaller, as if to protect him. I took the picture and turned away. The GI's moved in to finish them.”

Blunt. Perhaps not without remorse, but you can never tell that from text alone.

I once saw an episode of This American Life that examined the humanistic integrity of candid photography. There was a video confessional of sorts from one photographer who was covering a hurricane off the Southeast coast in the 70's or 80's.  He saw a woman standing on this embankment not far from shore, just watching the storm, a beer in her hand. He was snapping pictures of the surf, trying to get coverage of the wind damage going along the shore. He took a picture of the woman standing there. He then said that in the next moment, a huge wave crashed into the embankment, sucking the land and woman into the sea. There were others along the shore that rushed to help her, she had her hands out, crying for help, trying to grasp the arms reaching out to her. Another enormous wave came up behind her, and her would-be rescuers had no choice but to retreat. She was lost. This man took pictures of the entire sequence. He said then that of all the people that rushed to help, he was the closest, but his mind was centered on taking the pictures. You could tell he was racked with guilt, thinking that if he had put the camera down and went to her aid, he may have been able to save her before the waves took over. But he had become an observer, an historian. He had removed himself from the immediacy of the moment in order to capture it.

I've managed to find a shortened video of his story:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IcGZhXAi9M8

I wonder if that's what the wartime photographers did. Of course they had no power to stop it, they were noncombatants. Documentarians. I'm fairly certain they were armed, but they would have most definitely been outnumbered in sentiment. All they could do was what they were there to do.

So their images survive for the unexposed generation to ponder.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Stop #2: Notre Dame Cathedral.

  

Now it was my turn to feel like a disconnected opportunist; it was a beautiful church, it the midst of conducting two or three beautiful weddings. Honestly. There was a couple taking wedding pictures outside, another couple just-wed getting into a vintage European-looking convertible on the other side, and a wedding in-progress inside. My guess is this place is hard to book.

Eh. It's a church. There's one in every town.

Stop #3: Central Post Office. The most interesting thing I saw here was a souvenir Titanic model, filled with colorful blinking lights for some reason. 

The architecture there was nice. And now I know where the Post Office is.

Stop #4: The History of Revolution Museum. Most of the placards were not translated into English. Except this one:

Then we were on a wild dash through the Central ward of District 1, past all the Embassies and Consulates. I saw the American Embassy, where it all went down in 1975. I saw the Chinese Embassy, heavily barricaded and with graffiti on the outside walls.

Then we got down to business: Pagodas. I saw four Pagodas. What the names of them are, I couldn't tell you. I have the hardest time remembering names of people, streets, and places, because they are all so named in a fashion that's utterly incomprehensible to me at this point. My system of recognition has not yet shifted to the written. Here are some pictures of the unguessable.

These are probably the most well-treated turtles in Vietnam.

And the Educatedly-guessable Chua Quan Am, thanks to a picture investigation:

Incense coils

 These girls followed me all around Chua Quan Am. They liked my camera.

Cholon (Chinatown), street.

After this, I found myself in Cholon, Chinatown. I also found myself a little apprehensive of my guide, who was taking me farther and farther away from the familiar. And also, seemingly taking the long route, this coming from someone who still doesn't know north from south (I'm getting better, to the point where I can give pointy directions to major landmarks). After a brief stop at Cholon's Binh Tay Market, where I discovered my lousy negotiating skills, I told my driver it was time to head back.  

An intense discussion ensued, wherein I discovered that his idea and my idea of our agreed-upon  fee were two entirely different things.

I was left to basically bluff my way back to someplace familiar-looking, throw him about three times more than what the tour was worth, and walk briskly towards a busy-looking restaurant. Not the best end to an otherwise lovely day.

Today I had a completed pleasant interaction with a different Cyclo driver, who insisted the room I wanted to rent was too expensive ($300mo. 4^th floor with balcony, private bathroom and service), and took me to several other places he knew of for no charge.

Gotta get back on the horse.

PS I will upload more photos to an online account as soon as I can. I'll thank you in advance for your patience. The internet is mercifully moving at a decent speed today; I'm sure the ladies that run my guest-house think that all I do is sit on the computer and drink beer, which is only somewhat accurate.

On Time Travel

Well--I'm here!

After 34 hours of waiting, sitting, sleeping, waiting, watching, standing, waiting, taking off and landing, I think it's pretty easy to assume that there's no going back now. It amazes me that such a journey can end on the other side of the world, where things are really sorta how they are everywhere.

Except with more motorbikes. Lord, the motorbikes.

And also: decent and free in-flight meals. Complimentary meals have been saving me these last couple of days, where I otherwise would have no other recourse but to submit to airport prices. In China, a 16 oz bottle of water calculates to roughly $5.25. I spent $19 earlier today on water and an iced latte. I wasn't even in a swanky joint--though I think there was a celebrity of sorts sitting at a table next to me, judging by the bashful approach of a waitress with a piece of paper followed by unabashed glee.

But, that's airports for you. Something about cornering a market?

Fundamentally, I am exhausted. But it's only 7:30 PM Saigon-time, and I am challenging myself to stay awake until a socially acceptable time to sleep, in the hopes that I can get myself on an adjusted schedule. I began this little experiment in beating jet-lag before it even began--on the red-eye from LA to Guangzhou. It was a 13.5 hour flight, and I slept/sat/watched Due Date for most of it. That is, the part that wasn't interrupted by a toddler screaming bloody murder, because of course there was a toddler screaming bloody murder. Poor guy. I'll bet he just wanted to go outside, hardly understanding what was happening to him.

The flight itself was interesting in as much as I set off at 11:30 Tues. evening, and when I landed, in was 4:55 Thursday morning. Wednesday never happened for me. I explained this to a colleague shortly after purchasing my ticket, to which she replied rather whimsically, "Where does that day go?"

I told her it was as close to time travel as we mortals get.

All of my emails sent today have had some sort of joke revolving around this. But I think it's an interesting concept. I mean, I didn't actually lose a day (it's all the same fucking day maaaaan), but it's a fun thing to think about. The International Date Line is the only thing reality has to a nuclear DeLorean or a magic phone booth.

So, we'll see whether or not these little plans for beating jet-lag work or not. For now, I think it's time to listen to the rain on the roof next door (there is literally a roof right outside my window) and wake up tomorrow with hopefully enough mental and physical wherewithal to, I dunno, buy a phone? Open a bank account? These sound like things responsible adults do.

I did however purchase a pack of cigarettes earlier this evening for about $1.26, which nicely offsets my $14 latte earlier, except for the health implications. There are always those.

And now for a bit of business: I'll be starting my observations with the school I'm working for, SEAMEO RETRAC this coming Monday. I don't know yet exactly what my classes will look like--that is, what age group I will be teaching. But I am looking forward to it nonetheless.

Here's to three-day weekends.