Good Morning, Vietnam
Strange. I am entering a country full of so many nightmares: Apocalypse Now, Kim Phuc, and my once-soldiered Uncle Fred. It's a place that I've learned about in my chaptered, high school history book, full of dated battles and mortality rates. This place gave America a political conscience and a precedented caution of morality. Now that the Red Scare is no longer terrifying the world, I fear how America has changed this once peaceful farmland.
I arrived in Ho Chi Min City (Saigon) in the afternoon and was relieved to notice how this highly populated and motorcycle polluting city breathed with life. Bus drivers abused their horns, pedestrians crossed without hesitation, and market vendors spread their fruits and vegetables on the sidewalk. Signs for restaurants and hotels, written in English and Vietnamese (also in latin letters), promise good food and clean accomodations. On a public bus from the airport, I headed to Pho Nam Pham, the backpacker-friendly area, where I planned to meet Jake at our designated hotel. Although a few worried hours late, I heard a knock on my door at midnight: "Open the door, you American!" Jake! Clean shaven and dressed in the standard black Northface fleece, we greeted each other with a bunch of bear hugs, breaking every few seconds to look at how our faces had changed since our 2000-summer in Israel. The excitement soon ended when he remembered that he had been traveling for almost a day. We grabbed a quick drink and caught up in the dark before quickly falling asleep.
The next day, we woke up with the dawn and caught a six hour bus to Dalat where we would meet up with Gil, Jake's Israeli cousin. I had also met him that summer, but so much time had past. Gil had since finished his army duty, and is now an accountant and law student. Jake is one semester short of graduation and already signed a two-year contract with a financial firm. Okay, so I knew these people back when, but our travel group is more like trustworthy strangers who need to be introduced and sorted out all over again. Still, when Gil welcomed us to the Pink Hotel in Dalat, the hugs were genuine and warm. He introduced us to the men of the hotel, brothers Han and Rot, gregarious and curiously animated Vietnamese. We hit some dinner: porcupine and wild boar. The hunt-of-the-day tasted like chicken. Jake retired to bed, but Rot insisted that Gil and I experience the local nightlife. Kareoke! Now we're talking! I am a theatre-obsessed girl from the Big Apple; you have "New York, New York" ? Rot walked into the Kareoke joint, and the single waitress served him his usual drink not a second after. Without even cracking the books of song selections, he scribbed down "Hotel California" and "Seasons in the Sun" and proceeded to sing every word with a curled Vietnamese accent. I had to hand it to him: practice does make perfect and he hit every note of the Eagle's high-pitched tune.
The next day, Han took us around the countryside on motorbikes. Shelled coffee beans dried in the sun on the sides of the road, and the rolling hills were like heaps green patchwork quilts of moss and grass. Squares of sown root onions and beets were even carved into the steepest parts of the concaves. Han showed us around a local minority village, where they grow all sorts of mushrooms and elderly women roll their own incense. The boys joined in on a soccer game with the youth, and we all visited the single-roomed school. We spent an hour at Tiger Falls, where mist rose from the white rapids and into the green hills. Han also took us to a Buddhist monastery, a passion fruit farm, and a silk factory. Basketed trays of white cocoons were stacked by the hundreds, youngsters cleaned the unprocessed silk, and the older ladies operated the electric loom. With violent clicking sounds, the machine followed the pattern that was indicated by holed cards. Each pull revealed another line of florals and asian symbols. As the sun drew to the horizon, we mounted the motorbikes and headed back to the hotel. Han and I sang Titanic's "My Heart Will Go On," with a similar pitifully adorable accent as his brother's kareoke. I even taught him Grease 2's "Cool Rider!" By the the time we returned, we are all walking like saddle-split cowboys, and took a rest before dinner and disco dancing.
Another eight hours of bus, and we were transported from Dalat's green farmland to Nha Trang's sandy palm trees. I insisted on a room with a view. From our bedroom balcony, we woke up with the sounds of crashing waves and sights of jagged hills that perimetered the China Sea beach. Oysters, mussels, soft-shell crab, lobster, tuna steaks, calamari and giant prawns were freshly set on ice from docked seaboats. Popcicles were sold at every kiosk and children conveniently peddled books, water, and snacks. Some peddlers became annoying, heckling us at dinner, but one stole my heart. Chili, ne Thuy, approached us on the beach, offering postcards and chewing gum. She had a soy sauce splotched birthmark on her upper lip and her clothes were stitched and pilled. We started chatting, and she handed me a shell she found on the beach. My immediate reaction: "How much?" She looked offended; it was a gift. She told me that her parents live in Hanoi with her two sisters, and she comes to Nha Trang for tourist season to sell post cards and attend school. Chili stays with the other Postcard Children under the supervision of a Room Mother. She never asked me for anything but to buy postcards. Later that day, she came to visit and shared her guava with me. I was so enamored by her gay spirit and abundant generosity. I asked her to have breakfast with me the next morning. I waited for her at my hotel lobby, uncertain if I would be stood up by a eleven-year-old Vietnamese girl. Sure enough, she ran over to me with a smile and gave me a hug: "What do you want to eat? Anything." She ordered mixed seafood and noodles: I'm not sure if that's a Vietnamese breakfast item or it was just her longed-for favorite. Regardless, she insistently offered me her best shrimp and biggest piece of calamari. We played tic tac toe and a connect-the-dots game; I caved and bought some postcards. For the next few days, I had a loyal friend and cuddle-buddy, who continued to amaze me by her spirit and loving nature. She warmed my heart and I couldn't help but buy her packs of gum and a small pair of earings. I asked for her address, so I could write her a postcard, but she only wrote her name and "Nha Trang."
Every morning, we locked our hotel room door and walked passed two other travelers who were just returning from the bars. Danish backpackers, Simon and Morten, ate breakfast at four in the afternoon, and gave daily recounts of crazy nightlife in scratchy voices. What were we missing? We all went to Blue's Bar that night, home of the famous egg burger and two-for-one drink prices. The Australian regular shouted to the group: "You like Sambuca?" I was instructed to hold the shot of licorice-flavored liquor in my mouth while he took a lighter to my mouth. Poof....Gulp! My mouth buzzed with warm licorice: lip smacking! Do I like Sambuca? Yes! We started a friendly game of poker, with bottlecap chips. Five of us joined in, throwing 10,000 Dong each into the pot ($6); but before long, the game grew to eight and we each grew greedy. Beginner's luck: I matched every raise and went all in with the bunch. I never even knew if I won until my opposer threw down the losing hand in disappointment; that was my cue to rake all the chips toward me. The pot kept doubling as players went bankrupt and soon, I owned every last chip. I handed my winnings to Gil, who had his wallet stolen the night before. With just a few shots of Sambuca and a game of poker, everyone was in high spirits: Jake was hitting it up with the ladies, I won my first game of poker, and Gil was able to forget about his misfortune.
The next day, the three of us headed off to the nearby hotsprings. We squirmishly sat in cold mud and then dried in the sun until we were mud-mummified. Next, we sprawled out the jacuzzi until our bodies shriveled like raisins. All in a good day's work. After, we returned to the hotel and popped into a nearby restaurant for dinner. We were talking about all the adventurous food that Vietnam has to offer; we already ate porcupine and frog legs. The Danes insisted that we try snake when we got to Hanoi. What else would be cool to eat? Tiger? Turtle? "Cockroach!" Jake looked at me in disgust: "I know they eat bugs in Bangkok, but I wouldn't want to eat a cockroach." No, there was a cockroach scurrying across the floor of this barbeque seafood restaurant; and in the spirit of adventurous cuisine, I was going to taste that little sucker! I ran after it and trapped it under a plate. I convinced the chef to prepare it for me, but even beyond the language barrier, he still couldn't understand why I would want to eat the insect. Still, he carefully lifted the plate and stabbed it with a sharp cooking tong. A few minutes later, a little crunchy insect was placed in front of me. With a squirt of fresh lemon and a sprinkle of salt, the cockroach went down easily with a pleasant crunch. I just had to tongue the antena out from between my teeth. Tastes like chicken!
I arrived in Ho Chi Min City (Saigon) in the afternoon and was relieved to notice how this highly populated and motorcycle polluting city breathed with life. Bus drivers abused their horns, pedestrians crossed without hesitation, and market vendors spread their fruits and vegetables on the sidewalk. Signs for restaurants and hotels, written in English and Vietnamese (also in latin letters), promise good food and clean accomodations. On a public bus from the airport, I headed to Pho Nam Pham, the backpacker-friendly area, where I planned to meet Jake at our designated hotel. Although a few worried hours late, I heard a knock on my door at midnight: "Open the door, you American!" Jake! Clean shaven and dressed in the standard black Northface fleece, we greeted each other with a bunch of bear hugs, breaking every few seconds to look at how our faces had changed since our 2000-summer in Israel. The excitement soon ended when he remembered that he had been traveling for almost a day. We grabbed a quick drink and caught up in the dark before quickly falling asleep.
The next day, we woke up with the dawn and caught a six hour bus to Dalat where we would meet up with Gil, Jake's Israeli cousin. I had also met him that summer, but so much time had past. Gil had since finished his army duty, and is now an accountant and law student. Jake is one semester short of graduation and already signed a two-year contract with a financial firm. Okay, so I knew these people back when, but our travel group is more like trustworthy strangers who need to be introduced and sorted out all over again. Still, when Gil welcomed us to the Pink Hotel in Dalat, the hugs were genuine and warm. He introduced us to the men of the hotel, brothers Han and Rot, gregarious and curiously animated Vietnamese. We hit some dinner: porcupine and wild boar. The hunt-of-the-day tasted like chicken. Jake retired to bed, but Rot insisted that Gil and I experience the local nightlife. Kareoke! Now we're talking! I am a theatre-obsessed girl from the Big Apple; you have "New York, New York" ? Rot walked into the Kareoke joint, and the single waitress served him his usual drink not a second after. Without even cracking the books of song selections, he scribbed down "Hotel California" and "Seasons in the Sun" and proceeded to sing every word with a curled Vietnamese accent. I had to hand it to him: practice does make perfect and he hit every note of the Eagle's high-pitched tune.
The next day, Han took us around the countryside on motorbikes. Shelled coffee beans dried in the sun on the sides of the road, and the rolling hills were like heaps green patchwork quilts of moss and grass. Squares of sown root onions and beets were even carved into the steepest parts of the concaves. Han showed us around a local minority village, where they grow all sorts of mushrooms and elderly women roll their own incense. The boys joined in on a soccer game with the youth, and we all visited the single-roomed school. We spent an hour at Tiger Falls, where mist rose from the white rapids and into the green hills. Han also took us to a Buddhist monastery, a passion fruit farm, and a silk factory. Basketed trays of white cocoons were stacked by the hundreds, youngsters cleaned the unprocessed silk, and the older ladies operated the electric loom. With violent clicking sounds, the machine followed the pattern that was indicated by holed cards. Each pull revealed another line of florals and asian symbols. As the sun drew to the horizon, we mounted the motorbikes and headed back to the hotel. Han and I sang Titanic's "My Heart Will Go On," with a similar pitifully adorable accent as his brother's kareoke. I even taught him Grease 2's "Cool Rider!" By the the time we returned, we are all walking like saddle-split cowboys, and took a rest before dinner and disco dancing.
Another eight hours of bus, and we were transported from Dalat's green farmland to Nha Trang's sandy palm trees. I insisted on a room with a view. From our bedroom balcony, we woke up with the sounds of crashing waves and sights of jagged hills that perimetered the China Sea beach. Oysters, mussels, soft-shell crab, lobster, tuna steaks, calamari and giant prawns were freshly set on ice from docked seaboats. Popcicles were sold at every kiosk and children conveniently peddled books, water, and snacks. Some peddlers became annoying, heckling us at dinner, but one stole my heart. Chili, ne Thuy, approached us on the beach, offering postcards and chewing gum. She had a soy sauce splotched birthmark on her upper lip and her clothes were stitched and pilled. We started chatting, and she handed me a shell she found on the beach. My immediate reaction: "How much?" She looked offended; it was a gift. She told me that her parents live in Hanoi with her two sisters, and she comes to Nha Trang for tourist season to sell post cards and attend school. Chili stays with the other Postcard Children under the supervision of a Room Mother. She never asked me for anything but to buy postcards. Later that day, she came to visit and shared her guava with me. I was so enamored by her gay spirit and abundant generosity. I asked her to have breakfast with me the next morning. I waited for her at my hotel lobby, uncertain if I would be stood up by a eleven-year-old Vietnamese girl. Sure enough, she ran over to me with a smile and gave me a hug: "What do you want to eat? Anything." She ordered mixed seafood and noodles: I'm not sure if that's a Vietnamese breakfast item or it was just her longed-for favorite. Regardless, she insistently offered me her best shrimp and biggest piece of calamari. We played tic tac toe and a connect-the-dots game; I caved and bought some postcards. For the next few days, I had a loyal friend and cuddle-buddy, who continued to amaze me by her spirit and loving nature. She warmed my heart and I couldn't help but buy her packs of gum and a small pair of earings. I asked for her address, so I could write her a postcard, but she only wrote her name and "Nha Trang."
Every morning, we locked our hotel room door and walked passed two other travelers who were just returning from the bars. Danish backpackers, Simon and Morten, ate breakfast at four in the afternoon, and gave daily recounts of crazy nightlife in scratchy voices. What were we missing? We all went to Blue's Bar that night, home of the famous egg burger and two-for-one drink prices. The Australian regular shouted to the group: "You like Sambuca?" I was instructed to hold the shot of licorice-flavored liquor in my mouth while he took a lighter to my mouth. Poof....Gulp! My mouth buzzed with warm licorice: lip smacking! Do I like Sambuca? Yes! We started a friendly game of poker, with bottlecap chips. Five of us joined in, throwing 10,000 Dong each into the pot ($6); but before long, the game grew to eight and we each grew greedy. Beginner's luck: I matched every raise and went all in with the bunch. I never even knew if I won until my opposer threw down the losing hand in disappointment; that was my cue to rake all the chips toward me. The pot kept doubling as players went bankrupt and soon, I owned every last chip. I handed my winnings to Gil, who had his wallet stolen the night before. With just a few shots of Sambuca and a game of poker, everyone was in high spirits: Jake was hitting it up with the ladies, I won my first game of poker, and Gil was able to forget about his misfortune.
The next day, the three of us headed off to the nearby hotsprings. We squirmishly sat in cold mud and then dried in the sun until we were mud-mummified. Next, we sprawled out the jacuzzi until our bodies shriveled like raisins. All in a good day's work. After, we returned to the hotel and popped into a nearby restaurant for dinner. We were talking about all the adventurous food that Vietnam has to offer; we already ate porcupine and frog legs. The Danes insisted that we try snake when we got to Hanoi. What else would be cool to eat? Tiger? Turtle? "Cockroach!" Jake looked at me in disgust: "I know they eat bugs in Bangkok, but I wouldn't want to eat a cockroach." No, there was a cockroach scurrying across the floor of this barbeque seafood restaurant; and in the spirit of adventurous cuisine, I was going to taste that little sucker! I ran after it and trapped it under a plate. I convinced the chef to prepare it for me, but even beyond the language barrier, he still couldn't understand why I would want to eat the insect. Still, he carefully lifted the plate and stabbed it with a sharp cooking tong. A few minutes later, a little crunchy insect was placed in front of me. With a squirt of fresh lemon and a sprinkle of salt, the cockroach went down easily with a pleasant crunch. I just had to tongue the antena out from between my teeth. Tastes like chicken!
posted by Jfefferman @ 6:01 AM
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