Teacher's Day

First off, let's just go ahead with the requisite apology for being a deadbeat blogger the past few months. There's been a lot going on. If we crossed paths in August or September, let me say I was very happy to have seen you. If we didn't, I'm very sorry indeed that we missed each other.

The long and short of it is that I've returned to Ho Chi Minh City for the foreseeable future, until I can decide what the next step is. Since my return two months ago, I've been hectically trying to re-assume the lifestyle here, while also starting a job with a new company whose presence in Saigon is much, much bigger than that of my last school. The sheer scope of this school's ambition was made well-evident by their Teacher's Day banquet. In some places, things like Teacher's Day would be an excuse to sell more Hallmark Cards, but in Vietnam it's an actual holiday. Though, when you work for The Man, it's not guaranteed you'll have the day off.

And VUS Teacher's Day is a big deal indeed. People wear evening gowns to this type of thing. In typical form, I showed up in the same foxes-in-a-wood patterned dress I had been wearing all day. With my hair all disheveled and tangly, smelling like crayons, coffee, and hand sanitizer.

The first thing that had to go was my hideously unpainted face. Weeks before, I got Shanghai'd into participating in my branch's contribution to the entertainment portion of the evening--"Shanghai'd" meaning that I was approached without having fully processed my morning coffee, which we all know makes me powerless to decline any and all requests. Like a Godfather on his daughter's wedding day.

Anyways, this meant I had to get all done-up, squeeze into various items of "traditional" clothing, dance around in them, and then (presumably) drink ALL the wine. Lucky for me, they were smart enough not to leave me to my own devices in the makeup department. Unlucky for me, this meant I had to go with whatever look they decided on, and this particular one meant fake eyelashes. One of my foreign-teacher-dancer cohorts was barely suppressing giggles as these eyelashes were being applied and finally asked me what they felt like (she was next, and had as much experience as me in advanced cosmetics). I replied that it felt like having an arm that was six inches longer than normal--awkward, and heavy.

But it was all great fun. There were awards I did not win and levels of distinction I did not rise to, but at least I got to prance around in ballet slippers that covered one-half the length of my feet in front of several dozens of colleagues who probably didn't even notice that my lashes were silken and voluptuous or that I teetered every so often when my skirt got stuck in between my foot and the flap of my unfastened slipper. So, all things considered, success!

Aaaaand, there's video! Thanks to my good buddy Steven Happel for capturing these magic moments.

The Power of Pronunciation

I've been going deeper down the YouTube rabbit hole lately, having exhausted my previous reserves of cute and/or absurd videos to pull up on a whim. In my travels, I've come across everything from the cleverly entertaining:

To the amusingly unfortunate:

And finally into full "......Um?" territory:

What's the strangest thing about this last one? Is it:

1) Women chanting disturbing phrases with cartoon-like smiles
2) Women chanting disturbing phrases while performing low-to-no impact aerobics
3) The exercise suits that are ostensibly required for this kind of language learning
4) Chest zooms
5) One of the male actors' weird (method?) interpretation of how to wear a face mask/bandanna, or
6) The Super Nintendo background music

I just can't put my finger on it.

By the way, if you liked that one, make sure you watch this:

Oh Rain

These days I've got a real Minnesota heartache. Nearly hitting that one-year mark, so I figure I'm allowed.

Reflections

It's almost eleven months to the day that I've been here in good ol' HCMC.

One residual effect of working in Mental Health for so long is the occasional sense that it's time to establish some personal goals. This probably would happen regardless of my professional background, but I give it credit all the same. 

The last few months have seen an almost hedonistic enjoyment of life, the kind that is satisfying in the short-term but isn't really propelling you to new heights of existence in the long run. Like everything else, it can become meaningless once you stop working at it.

The life of an expat in this country can be a blissfully ignorant one. Foreigners are largely kept away from the goings-on of daily life--there seems to be a built-in expectation that you don't care about these things, you're just here to work and get your money and then go home. But no man is an island, so you go out, you find little expat-pockets to hang out and get comfortable in. After nearly a year, your initial curiosity goes into hibernation--maybe you got lazy, or just plain tired from the extra effort put in to trying understand a new and chaotic place. After a while, it can start to congeal into a real malaise. 

I've been trying to tap into some sort of community involvement work to keep me busy in my spare time. That's nice, and it's constructive, but even that sort of keeps you at arm's length. The language barrier doesn't help. A lot of people doing volunteer or charity projects don't have the time or the money to learn English, so asking questions and learning more about their projects can be a hard thing to accomplish. Not to mention the fact that most of them are dumbstruck a white person turned up, willingly, to begin with. 

Goal #1: Keep with the community projects, however painfully awkward they can be at first.

I can recognize a variety of terms in written Vietnamese, but still have alot of trouble with listening, and I can't speak to save my life. It doesn't help that many people here just don't expect you to know Vietnamese, so when you try to say something, they have no idea what you're trying to say. All I can really say with good tonal pronunciation are numbers, and even that gets a wide-eyed response: "You speak Vietnamese?" Or a much more complicated answer involving language I can't hope to comprehend.

Trying to say anything other than numbers or common pleasantries brings more misses than hits. Example: the street that I used to live on was Cong Quynh. This is pronounced something like Kawm Gwin. Whenever I got into a taxi, I would say Kawm Gwin. Blank stare. Kawm gwin. Kawm gwin? Kawm? gwin. Kawm gwin! Finally, I'd have to get out a piece of paper or something and just write out the damn thing, to which the taxi driver would reply, Ah! Kawm gwin! 

It was like a bad Abbott and Costello routine (I don't know! That's what I said! Third base!). Maybe once, I got someone to understand me, and that was either because I had a moment of greatness, or the driver was the odd think-outside-the-box type, the kind that could infer probable phrases limited to a taxicab setting--he could at least guess that I meant a street, and not something nonsensical like My hovercraft is full of eels.

Goal #2: Renew effort to learn/use rudimentary Vietnamese.

My first few months in Saigon were devoted almost entirely to mastering my job and figuring out which street I was on. After that, I set to developing a social network. At first, I simply could not believe the characters that wandered in and out of my life every day. Now, of course, I am from a small town, spent most of my formative years in the country, am Midwestern, and have a track record working in a sort of sheltered, do-gooder community, but I'm no bumpkin. I've experienced some pretty intense things, the number of which has tripled since coming here.

The Vietnamese, or any other Asian non-American person, have been the least of my problems, socially. This country loves foreigners, even foreigners who come from a country that carpet-bombed the shit out of their countryside a generation ago. Of course there's crime and theft and corruption and drugs and prostitutes, but have you ever heard of a place called Las Vegas? All of that exists there too, only with more guns.

My point, and I am building to one, is expats here are nuts. Absolutely bonkers. This can be a good thing and bad thing. The good thing: There's never a dull moment. Never. There's always some character who's up to something, and whether it's good or ill-natured, it is rarely not hilarious. The bad thing: There's never a dull moment, even when you want one. There's always some character who's up to something, and it could be something you in no way want to associate yourself with.

There was a time when I thought I wouldn't be able to connect socially with anyone who wasn't acutely mentally ill. So, like any analytical being who uses experience to form applicable logic, I worked out two theories regarding people who live abroad: 1) They're crazy to begin with, and they've finally found a place that's accepted them; and 2) Spending a lot of time alone with fickle social connections in a place where the rules of polite society as you know them do not apply along with a lingual/cultural barrier that prohibits understanding of the nuances of personality allows you to take some liberties. But, what are you, a saint? You never take just some liberties. You take every liberty.

Imagine if you could get away with saying all those awful things that run through your head and indulge every fleeting and questionable impulse just because no one would be there to shun, shame, or humiliate you for being an idiot. You've lost the anchor, the grounding social concept that keeps the id in check. This is why you have all manner of gross old men running around thinking they're Casanova and avoiding the basic foundations of human decency. And I don't mean that in some sheltered puritanical way, either. I mean it in a way that's able to confirm the evolution of men from apes.

But I digress--My point is not to rant about gross old men in Saigon (as fun as that was)--I'm more concerned with this "loss of anchor" theory. I am ridiculously privileged here. I have a maid. This is a bewildering concept, so bewildering that I actually tidy up my room before the maid comes, thinking that it will somehow reinforce my reputation as a good person by doing so. What can I say? I was taught personal responsibility at a young age, and of course I'm not perfect, but the only people who've ever cleaned up after me were my parents. So this is an intimate sort of relationship. I've got a pile of underwear in the corner, what will she think of me?

I'm not the sort of self-congratulatory douchebag to say "Well, I am giving this person a job, good for me!" Especially considering what you pay for people to handle piles of your dirty laundry (Hint: it's nothing). But I won't lie, having that attitude from time to time does help mitigate the built-in guilt complex.

But again. The point is, cleaning up after yourself, cooking, working, buying household supplies, scheduling routine dental appointments and health check-ups, and generally being a level-headed and decent human being, this is what constitutes the world of an adult. This is what grounds you in everyday life. Take away these things and you're just a giant helpless child who somehow got a hold of some money to pay people to be your parents for you. Without the requisite unconditional love or concern for your overall well-being. In other words, these are not people who will drive you to the hospital if your appendix bursts. 

I do practically none of the above things, except the health stuff, because, duh. But I can't even tell you the last time I swept the floor or washed the dishes or cooked a meal that was not cereal in milk or hot water added to a bowl of instant noodles. By the way, our electric water jug makes the water hot. I literally haven't even microwave-boiled a bowl of water. It's a real blow to my well-crafted self-sufficiency. I mean, if the apocalypse happened tomorrow, I'd have a can of halved pears, some banana chips, a couple of beers and some orange juice to go on. Oh, and some ketchup and chili sauce packets (presumably, for the pears). I used to be to much more responsible for myself.

Goal #3: Do everyday normal stuff that you enjoy, just because you enjoy it. 

Sure, I don't have to cook, but I'd like to.

Mui Ne

A few weeks back saw another National Holiday in Vietnam: Unification (Liberation) Day + International Worker's Day.

April 30th celebrates the liberation of the Southern Vietnamese Republic from its evil capitalist overlords and its re-unification with the North. It actually works out quite well that May 1st is International Worker's Day, what with Labor rights being all socialist and everything. This year it worked out exceptionally well that these days fell on a Monday and Tuesday. This meant, through a series of emails and a reluctant resolution to sacrifice 12 working hours on Saturday and Sunday: FOUR DAY WEEKEND OMG Y'ALL.

So I went to Mui Ne.

If I had actually ever seen Apocalypse Now, which I haven't (But still try to justify in social circles by saying I've read Heart of Darkness), I might make some references about Robert Duvall and surfing and that "I love the smell of Napalm in the morning" quote that's famous or whatever. I made a movie too, with considerably less special effects. None, actually.

(For reasons known only to Google and people with more techno-savvy than myself, I can upload this to Google+ but cannot integrate it on Blogger. So please enjoy this moment of Zen here.)

The water's like that all the time. Maybe that doesn't seem very amazing to you, but for a landlocked flat-lander who routinely mistakes large-ish hills for parts of mountain ranges, this is really something--something enough that you could spend three days staring at, without ever really becoming bored or lethargic.

Although at some point you may want to do something else, just to, you know, do something else.

In this case, I went to a place called Tà Cú Mountain. I was traveling solo, which is really kind of a drag when trying to get in with a guide, meaning you generally have to pay wayyyyyy more than the big tour groups, which I wanted to avoid at all costs. They make you wear matching hats, you have to keep track of your group wherever you go, and your schedule is not your own. So I rented a motorbike and prepared to make the 60-km journey myself. This would require a map. I set off in the direction of the mountain, stopping at several travel agencies on my way out of Mui Ne, hoping that someone would have some sort of travel aide, however crude.


A helpful man at one of these places began to explain the way, but seemed to realize that I would forget everything once I got to Phan Tiet, a bigger town slightly south of Mui Ne, where I would have to make several turns to find the National Highway. He thought briefly about drawing a map, but eventually decided writing the following phrase on a piece of paper would be the best course of action:


Tôi Muốn Đi Nuí Tà Cú. Xin Chĩ Giúp Tôi Đi Đường Nào. 


It said: I want to go to Ta Cu Mountain. Please help me find the street. Very helpful of him, though it made me feel a bit like an unaccompanied minor on an international flight. Having this badge, like: I'm foreign! I don't know anything! Help! 


But this slip of paper was worth five times its weight in gold, because it gave me something I would have had to work very hard for under normal circumstances: Instant understanding. I dutifully showed this to no less than half a dozen people on my way to the mountain, and every single one of them was more than happy to give me directions (albeit in Vietnamese) and point in the general direction of  Tà Cú. Some other helpful travel agency people in Phan Tiet even attempted to draw me another map, a man and woman constantly arguing over the map's authenticity and, I can only assume, its lack of scale. This ended in the man leading me with his motorbike to the edge of town, pointing down the highway, and saying: "Tà Cú. Ba mươi kilomet." 30 km to go. 


I stopped a few more times along the highway, because I wasn't keeping track of km's traveled, and it was mad hot. 100+ and humid to boot. So it was a good idea to stop periodically for some water, and give the locals an anecdote for their next family gathering.


After a nice little motorbike cruise down the highway, I located the mountain and began the journey upward, enjoying some immense personal pride.

Large-ish hill = Mountain. Also, disappointing fountain.

Tà Cú Mountain is pretty famous, hence my initial interest. At the top of the mountain there is a temple, monastery, and a giant white-washed reclining Buddha. Turns out, this is a big draw for Vietnamese during National Holidays. The place was packed with people in different sets of matching hats, and my little travel detours had delayed me to the point that I arrived in tandem with every giant tour bus in a 100-km radius. It seemed.


So I hung back and had some lunch while the groups all cut in front of each other and sweat their lives out waiting for the tram that would take you to the top. Then it was my turn.

Temple time!

With cable! I bet they don't get premium channels, though.

And on to the Buddha. Still a little crowded when I arrived, and I was the only bona-fide Westerner on the mountain. This meant, inexplicably, that people intermittently approached me and wanted to take pictures of me holding their children. Not altogether unpleasant, I rather like children. A little bewildering. I'm not particularly glamorous-looking in general, let alone after 90 minutes of motorbike madness in the spring swelter, in my white nylon shirt and cutoffs ensemble that pretty much became a stinky April uniform. All things considered, they were nice interactions.

No craving the body of the Buddha.

Mui Ne side adventure accomplished! 

The entire day I had witnessed some wonderfully misaligned English language T-shirts, the noting of which has become one of my favorite people-watching pasttimes. I managed to sniper this interesting piece on the mountain.

Seems like the appropriate thing to wear to a holy site.

The Motorbike Diary

Well, friends I've finally done it-- I'm now a menace on two wheels.

My decision to get a motorbike was prompted by a move into a new apartment in District 5 of Ho Chi Minh City. Prior to this, I'd been on the outskirts of the backpacker ghetto, within easy walking distance of just about everything I could want. Granted, walking isn't always the best exercise--in many places, sidewalks are theoretical at best. But, if I needed to go farther afield, I wouldn't usually be out more than $2 for a taxi, less for a xe om. Things have changed here is District 5-land. Some places are within walking distance, like the grocery store, but it's quite the hike in the spring heat, especially when you're lugging your purchases. It's a taxi back to the backpacker area, it's a longer ride to school, it's a taxi to Yoga class, to friends' houses, blah blah. The amounts really add up.

So I made a sad goodbye to my motorbike driver, to whom I gifted a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black for good measure, and then got ready to lose my mind (hopefully only figuratively) on the streets of Saigon.

This has been nothing short of a grand adventure, resulting in as much bewilderment as knowledge gained.

It has added a new shade of function to my days, the most important of which is survival. I've been batting around some different ways I could blog about driving in Saigon (in fact, driving in Saigon could probably be a whole other blog in itself), but I'm just going to settle for a good old-fashioned journal-style layout which I hope shows the evolution of my on-road attitude this last month.


Week 1:

Whoo!

I end every ride with a newfound appreciation for life, shaky hands, and about five cigarettes. Being able to survive even a modest 1-mile drive to work is suddenly one of the greatest feats of my day. It's easy to get comfortable fairly quickly on the motorbike, and already I'm seeing the advantages of being able to get up and do whatever I like when the moment strikes me.

Parking is my nemesis, though. My bike is big and unwieldy.

I mean, look at what I'm working with here.

Parking, and turning left. Forget whatever I've said about turning left before. There's no philosophy, art, or even flow to it. It's essentially a game of chicken. It's best to pack with other left-turners, to make yourself more formidable to the enemy: those poor saps trying to go in a straight line without having to fight for their lives.

Week 2:


Erratic. That's the word I'm looking for. Drivers here are erratic. They swerve in front of you, cut you off, then slow down and weave all over the place because their cell-phones are ringing, or they're looking at something on the side of the street, or they're just happy they got in front of you and want to celebrate by slowing down again. These people also exist on freeways in the US, and they are equally annoying.

Although, it is rather difficult to stay in a straight line on a scooter. Any slight lean will make you trail off in whatever direction, and you're constantly swerving back and forth anyways to accommodate your instinctive need for a space cushion in traffic. Plus, there's potholes and huge storm drains or some other muck that maybe you don't want to run over.

I'm getting better at this though, it's even a little good for me. You've gotta have focus at all times, so whenever I'm on the street I'm totally in the moment.

And, I'm all over the place. Seeing parts of Ho Chi Minh hitherto unknown. The worst is driving to District 10 in the morning, though. There's no good route, and it's the mother of chaos--Every possible thing is happening all the time. People are swerving at you from the oncoming lane, people are driving on the wrong side of the road trying to get into the oncoming lane, someone's shooting out of an alley without a care in the world, a taxi's pulling a U-turn in the middle of a major thoroughfare while pedestrians waddle through the hoarde, and now there's an ambulance careening through the traffic circle sirens blaring and I'm pretty sure a car just knocked someone off their motorbike less than five feet away.

I call this place: Battledome.

Paying attention to all of this has just made you shoot through a red light, so you're pedaling through the intersection cross-traffic, there's a bicycle, a woman pushing a food-cart, now a taxi's pulling over for someone on the curb irregardless of your position in relation to its wheels, and holy crap watch out for that bus. It's turning left right in front of you whether you like it or not.

This level of awareness cannot be achieved without proper nutrition. Never drive on an empty stomach, and a little bit of coffee.

Week 3:


It helps to think of all the beeeeeep beepbeepbeep!'s as: meeeeeeeee! me me me meeee!'s. This makes them easier to decode.

beep! (short, once): Hello, me here, right beside you, don't swerve into me please!

beep! (short, once, to a pedestrian): Me first!

beep-beep! (short, twice): Me again! I'm passing you because you are driving erratically and it's starting to freak me out, so don't swerve into me please!


beep-beep! (short, twice, at a stoplight): Me again! Just wanted to let you know that the light's green, so now is not the best time to finish that text.

beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! (long, once): Allright. Now you done pissed me off.

beeeeeep beep-beep-beep-beep-beeeeeeeep (etc.): Hey there, it's your old pal me! I'm coming through and I don't give a fuck, so MOVE IT OR I WILL DESTROY YOU.

This last one I don't ever use. But I know it when I hear it.

Week 4:


I'm happy to report that I've found religion on the streets on Saigon. At least, you might think that if you went by how often I scream Jesus CHRIST! while driving.

It's another advantage of being in a place that doesn't speak my language--I can yell all sorts of obscenities when the craziness gets to me, made all the more cathartic by the fact that no one understands, cares about, or even hears what I'm saying.

I went to lunch with a Vietnamese friend yesterday. Having never been to this restaurant before, I had to follow him with my bike. I jokingly asked not to drive too fast, which he took to mean: drive as slow as possible without your motorbike falling over. It was a nice and considerate move on his part, but mind-boggling. I have very little patience on a bike. Going too slow, you feel like a sitting duck.

In other news, the multitasking required of both hands on a motorbike is now starting to aggravate my carpals.

The Travelogue, part two: Paradise Found

By the time we snaked our way through the Mekong, we were close enough to catch a boat from Rach Gia to Phu Quoc island. Phu Quoc means "Elephant Head," which I'm pretty sure comes from the island's actual shape.

www.teakdoor.com

Phu Quoc itself is actually closer to Cambodia than Vietnam. Like most of the Mekong Delta, it at one time belonged to Cambodia, lost in some political skirmish/agreement or another wherein countries lose valuable pieces of land. The island has a history of conflict of ownership, as no clear distinction was made after the French colonial era ended. It was briefly invaded during the Khmer Rouge regime, but that never really took hold. Today, it represents more of a cultural grudge between Vietnam and Cambodia, who has its own name of the island, much like the Cambodians still refer to the Mekong as "South Kompuchea." 

But for now, it was a welcome respite from the chaos of Saigon. We set up on a resort facing the western side of the island, the "Sunset Side," populated by mostly European clientele who moved rarely, if at all, during the day. After all, why would you have to? Massages, fresh fruit, snacks, pizza and beer were all within 50 yards of each other. The days went faster than you would expect.

This place was paradise, the kind of beautiful tropical island setting that's unsettling in the sense that its beauty has largely been stolen from the locals and put on sale for the foreigners. Still, the vibe was serene enough, if only for the realization that you have no obligation to do anything for the day. Maybe read a book. And go swimming. Then read some more, probably doze off, maybe eat?

The hardscrabble tourist life.

Despite the obvious economic gap between yourself and the average Phu Quoc local, it is still always possible to make some friends. Being the cultural diplomat that I at least labor under the delusion of being, this friendship policy was quickly implemented with (who else?) the beach bar staff, who I called Mr. Tam and Mr. Thanh. Jess and I have this habit of not moving once we find the perfect place to hang out, and not move we did.

I mean, this was our view.

Well. We got up once or twice to waddle over to the pool table, and eventually had the bartenders joining us in what was the most spirited game of pool I think I've ever had the pleasure of playing.

Mr. Tam

The next night, our new friends made a big deal of inviting us to the beach bar staff dinner and cheap beer party, part of a ritual that develops between workers of laidback, never-too-busy establishments--if there are no customers, it's dinner time. So we were introduced to the whole happy family of the beach bar (I never learned the actual name of the place).

Maybe it was the "Blackstump"?

Everyone loved Mom. Despite her insistence on being called Linda, they never really progressed from simply calling her "Mama."

If you should ever find yourself the guest at Vietnamese seaside dinner, there are some important things to remember:

1. You are never full
2. This goes double for beer
3. Even the most unexceptional moments deserve a group cheers
4. That cheers is preceded by the words, Mot, hai, ba, YO!!!!
5. This translates to: One, two, three, YO!!!!

After a breakneck-paced Mekong Tour, the lackadaisical island experience suited us just fine. One day, probably because we needed the exercise, Jess and I decided to venture out and do some river kayaking. What was hilarious about this is, apparently the guides don't kayak with you. The kayak is just a formality--something to offer those crazy foreigners who want to work extra-hard for something. Our guides were zipping along side us in a small motorized fishing boat, smiling and giving thumbs up signs as Jess and I labored against the current, made faster by the fact we were also going against a pretty heavy coastal wind. It was nice, especially the encouragement they gave--"Good job! Very strong!" Yes, yes, I am quite strong, thank you.

More interesting still were unexpected random things tucked away in the backwaters.

Above is a temple dedicated to Ho Chi Minh and another freedom fighter whose name I forget.  During the time of the French War, when Ho Chi Minh became a leader of the Viet Minh, he supposedly used a boat with another fighter to ambush/defeat a number of French soldiers on Phu Quoc. They preserved the boat, encased in glass only a few feet away from the temple (but in terrible light, hence no photo). I wish I had a better handle on the story, because our guides were quite proud of it. Unfortunately, the lead guide was very flustered and terribly shy in using her English, particularly after she learned we were American. So I don't know how much of the story actually translated. There was a lot of miming of machine guns though, so something noteworthy went down.

Then, justlikethat, four days were gone in this sunny, breeze-swept haven. I spent my last breakfast at the resort engaged in perhaps my most daunting mental task of the entire trip-- trying to make meaning from curiously-worded drinking glasses.

Bell orchid accompanied only spring open in May its Flower are happy again

Bell Orchid. Chun-chun of love, happiness will return

Life's hard sometimes, but we persevere. 

The Travelogue, part one

Hello!

I am forming a sort of first-quarter New Year's resolution, which involves getting it together to post more here. I've neglected to talk about most of my travels, in favor of complaining about the things that have gone wrong. But that's not really doing Vietnam, or especially Cambodia, much justice. So let me take you back several weeks.

In late December/January, I had the pleasure of hosting my mother and sister Jess in Ho Chi Minh, and as a nice side effect, ended up taking a tour of the Mekong which I've been meaning to do, but saving for some worthy travel companions.

But first, we got to celebrate New Year's Eve in Ho Chi Minh, an experience for everyone regardless of what calendar they adhere to or religion they practice. Being Saigon, alcohol is never in short supply. Nor are characters of every shade. Look at these weirdos:

They aren't even wearing the right hats.

Probably the most notable thing to tell you about New Year's is that I got sprayed in the face multiple times with Silly String, at least once by a small child who took great joy in hitting me in the eye, and introduced Mom and Jess to something called Snake Wine. Basically, it's rum with a giant dead cobra soaking in it. It'll bite ya.

A couple of days later we set off for the Mekong on a three-day tour. The Mekong Delta is known for being part of the "Rice Bowl," producing a large percentage of Vietnam's rice and more than doing its part to establish the country as the world's second-largest rice exporter, behind Thailand. Besides that, the region has piles and piles and piles of fresh tropical fruit, sweet as candy. Nature's candy. We stopped for a tea-and-fruit break, and took in some traditional Mekong singing, after which they let us fiddle around with their instruments. One is played with a toothpick. It's harder than you might imagine.

My album drops next summer.

After this we jumped back on the boat for a tour of a candy-making "factory" (a factory in the Mekong is basically just the locus where things are being made--most factories we saw were about the size of the average American living room). Then it was lunch time.

The afternoon was spent touring some of the back-waters by rowboat, where the VC were fond of setting up ambushes during the American War. Thankfully now, the route is much more relaxed, and beautiful.

These hats actually keep you quite cool.

The first day we ended up in the middle of the Delta, at a homestay in Ben Tre province. This was interesting--tour companies operating out of Ho Chi Minh go to the Delta and canvass for families willing to host tourists for one night--but, the families have to pass a fairly rigorous screening process. they have to have enough space, beds, facilities to cook for moderate-sized tours (usually about 8-10 people), and the general willingness to let tourists regularly upset their living schedule. This was a learning experience--while they family we stayed with were polite and hospitable, and they were willing to teach us how to cook some Vietnamese staples, I learned through questioning our guide that they send their children to live with other relatives, so they can earn extra income by hosting tourists. Sorta sad. Makes you feel a little like an intruder.

The next day was bike-tour time. This was a lot of fun--instead of cruising around on the water channels, we were biking down the "streets" of a Mekong village, occasionally being semi-run off the road by motorbikes, oversized motorcarts, or gangs of excited school-children. It didn't help that I had the world's wobbliest bike, which threatened to fall over at the slightest movement, tot he point where course-corrections looked like wild drunken zig-zagging. 

At any rate, going off the main roads has its advantages--you see lots of stuff you wouldn't have expected, like miniature Khmer temples. 

Likewise, the locals get an eyeful of the same--giant European people teetering this way and that, shouting Xin Chao at whoever catches their eye. That could have just been me.  

After everything, we were deposited back into the civilization--Can Tho, a moderate-sized city that I want to say is the Mekong's largest, though that could be wrong. We woke up to a lovely view, and then went back out on the river for more of the floating market.

Bye Bye, country.

Can Tho sunrise, on land.

Can Tho on water.

This concludes our tour of the Mekong. Next time, Paradise Found.