Friday, April 23, 2004
Traveling light
Holy Saint Anthony, come around, something's lost that can't be found!
I've got the clothes on my back, two books, my camera and not a whole lot else. My backpack never made it from Air Asia to Lao Air in Bangkok last night. I'm still crossing my fingers (and hoping St. Anthony will show how all-powerful he is again) that it'll surface somewhere. I shouldn't have even checked it; it was small enough to carry on. But, I was stupid. Then, I could have gone to collect my bag myself, but that would have meant going through customs, paying a $12 US departure tax, and after asking no less then four information desk people, thought it would be okay. The Lao Air people were supposed to go pick it up from the Air Asia unclaimed luggage room and send it on my flight. I'm not even sure if my bag made it to Bangkok, actually. But I almost believe that I jinxed myself because I was worried about it getting there; my mere entertainment of that possibility went out to the universe and made it happen.
In my bag are my favorite clothes, a pair of tennis shoes, all my best underwear, my swimsuit, my Lonely Planet (meaning I have nothing directing me in my hotel choices or wanderings--perhaps a blessing in disguise), my tolietries, towel, and not much else. The bag, actually, is probably the most expensive thing.
Today I bought a toothbrush, shampoo, sunscreen, deodorant, underwear, and a tank top. That'll get me to my next destination tomorrow...The shopping in this town (Vientianne, Laos, the capital) hasn't been so good--things are expensive-ish and weirdly the prices are in Thai baht.
Friendlier than Midwesterners
I've heard both Bridget and Keith describe Australians this way, but I'm gonna say that I think it applies to the Lao people as well.
From the get-go (the customs officier), everyone has been super duper nice. My taxi driver even open and closed the car door for me. Coupled with the old model of the car, I felt like I was in the 1950s or something. He also took me to three hotels until I found one cheap enough ($6).
After putting my stuff down, I decided to go for a wander. It was about 11 pm and the streets were pretty quiet, but some cafes were still open. I went a block down and hung a left, walking by two guys at a table near the sidewalk, who smiled. At the end of that block, I decided to turn back, not wanting to stray too far and because it didn't look to alive that way. On my way back, the two guys gestured to join them; what else did I have to do? Nuttin'.
Go and Mao poured me a glass of beer and we began the limited conversation of people who don't speak the same language. Mao has studied English and actually it was okay; turns out it was his 26th birthday. Go is a 24 year old construction worker, married with a 1 year and four month old son. I hung out with them for an hour and a half or so. And in reflecting, don't think I really learned anythign profound about Lao culture from them, but did cement my pronunciation of hello and thank you and wrote down the numbers 1-10.
Today, in my wanderings, I went to the market to see about buying clothes. People working didn't even acknowledge my presence really. Now, you might think that this is not a nice thing; but, in reality, it's a heaven-sent. Compared to Cambodia's shrill "Hey mister, you buy this," silence is golden.
I haven't seen any beggars yet. The place seems pretty clean and I haven't really noticed any severe poverty (though I'm not claiming that it doesn't exist). There were two or three cots on the sidewalks last night, but nothing compared to Cambodia.
I've seen two groups of men (one group was in uniform--traffic cops I think) playing chess with bottle caps and cards seem to be popular too. The traffic doesn't ever seem that heavy. I'm surprised to see a lot of double cab pickup trucks, jeeps, and SUVs (including a Landcrusier and a Lexus). Aren't those expensive? What are they doing here?
I had noodles on the street for a 50 cent breakfast and a $2 pork salad rice lunch. I leave tomorrow at about this time...I've already wandered much of the city--twice. I think tonight calls for nestling in at one of the restaurants that plays DVDs or perhaps a massage.
Holy Saint Anthony, come around, something's lost that can't be found!
I've got the clothes on my back, two books, my camera and not a whole lot else. My backpack never made it from Air Asia to Lao Air in Bangkok last night. I'm still crossing my fingers (and hoping St. Anthony will show how all-powerful he is again) that it'll surface somewhere. I shouldn't have even checked it; it was small enough to carry on. But, I was stupid. Then, I could have gone to collect my bag myself, but that would have meant going through customs, paying a $12 US departure tax, and after asking no less then four information desk people, thought it would be okay. The Lao Air people were supposed to go pick it up from the Air Asia unclaimed luggage room and send it on my flight. I'm not even sure if my bag made it to Bangkok, actually. But I almost believe that I jinxed myself because I was worried about it getting there; my mere entertainment of that possibility went out to the universe and made it happen.
In my bag are my favorite clothes, a pair of tennis shoes, all my best underwear, my swimsuit, my Lonely Planet (meaning I have nothing directing me in my hotel choices or wanderings--perhaps a blessing in disguise), my tolietries, towel, and not much else. The bag, actually, is probably the most expensive thing.
Today I bought a toothbrush, shampoo, sunscreen, deodorant, underwear, and a tank top. That'll get me to my next destination tomorrow...The shopping in this town (Vientianne, Laos, the capital) hasn't been so good--things are expensive-ish and weirdly the prices are in Thai baht.
Friendlier than Midwesterners
I've heard both Bridget and Keith describe Australians this way, but I'm gonna say that I think it applies to the Lao people as well.
From the get-go (the customs officier), everyone has been super duper nice. My taxi driver even open and closed the car door for me. Coupled with the old model of the car, I felt like I was in the 1950s or something. He also took me to three hotels until I found one cheap enough ($6).
After putting my stuff down, I decided to go for a wander. It was about 11 pm and the streets were pretty quiet, but some cafes were still open. I went a block down and hung a left, walking by two guys at a table near the sidewalk, who smiled. At the end of that block, I decided to turn back, not wanting to stray too far and because it didn't look to alive that way. On my way back, the two guys gestured to join them; what else did I have to do? Nuttin'.
Go and Mao poured me a glass of beer and we began the limited conversation of people who don't speak the same language. Mao has studied English and actually it was okay; turns out it was his 26th birthday. Go is a 24 year old construction worker, married with a 1 year and four month old son. I hung out with them for an hour and a half or so. And in reflecting, don't think I really learned anythign profound about Lao culture from them, but did cement my pronunciation of hello and thank you and wrote down the numbers 1-10.
Today, in my wanderings, I went to the market to see about buying clothes. People working didn't even acknowledge my presence really. Now, you might think that this is not a nice thing; but, in reality, it's a heaven-sent. Compared to Cambodia's shrill "Hey mister, you buy this," silence is golden.
I haven't seen any beggars yet. The place seems pretty clean and I haven't really noticed any severe poverty (though I'm not claiming that it doesn't exist). There were two or three cots on the sidewalks last night, but nothing compared to Cambodia.
I've seen two groups of men (one group was in uniform--traffic cops I think) playing chess with bottle caps and cards seem to be popular too. The traffic doesn't ever seem that heavy. I'm surprised to see a lot of double cab pickup trucks, jeeps, and SUVs (including a Landcrusier and a Lexus). Aren't those expensive? What are they doing here?
I had noodles on the street for a 50 cent breakfast and a $2 pork salad rice lunch. I leave tomorrow at about this time...I've already wandered much of the city--twice. I think tonight calls for nestling in at one of the restaurants that plays DVDs or perhaps a massage.
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
I've skipped Cambodia and written about Bangkok. I'll get to Cambodia...when I get to it. (No more promises I can't keep!) Off to Laos tomorrow!
Bangkok
Keith and I decided to take the ‘easy’ way to Bangkok—on a tourist bus, straight from our hostel door to the backpacker area of Bangkok. We had heard it would take longer, but were a bit unsure about dealing with service taxis since it was the day before New Year (Cambodia has their own Khmer New Year, with similar traditions of water-throwing and festivities). We were tightly squeezed in a minibus that had A/C problems, so that on the bumpy, dirt roads, we were flailing about and my nose was dying from the dust. I began to see why so many people covered their faces (especially if you were riding atop a truck, perched on odds and ends like many people do) and why cowboys wore bandanas. I rigged up my own, wetting it so that it would block more dust. It took us SIX hours to get to the border—we later learned that Bridget’s friends took a taxi to the border (just the two of them in the whole thing) for the same price our trip cost and they made it there in less than three hours, in much greater comfort. From the border, we switched to another SUV type van that was smooth sailing.
As soon as you pass out of Cambodia, in the netherworld before you reach Thailand, the beggars line the streets, jingling their cups and looking up, pleadingly. I’m not sure if they were Thai or Cambodian. Nor was the ownership of the Casino in the middle identifiable either.
Upon entering Backpacker Land, we were immediately christened, though thankfully just a bit of water, not a drenching. It was only the 11th, but the foreigners had begun their water fights earlier. I’m always conflicted about touristy areas—usually they’re centrally located and convenient to get to where everyone goes (that’s why they spring up), you have lots of options for hostels and restaurants, you can meet other people easily (though I’ve found more often than not that other backpackers kind of annoy me). At the same time, you see lots and lots of foreigners and don’t get a real taste for the city/country. The same goes for hostel-run trips (like that to the Cu Chi Tunnels in Vietnam)—you’re on board with other travelers, but it is just so much easier. It’s all also a product of the Lonely Planet cult; it’s every traveler’s bible. Which means that when you go to a place listed there, you’re gonna see others who found out about it in the same way as you. Avoiding this is one reason why I like living in a foreign country rather than just visiting—I don’t have to worry about hostelling and I can get insider’s information, a more authentic experience.
Tuktuk
A common mode of transport in Bangkok is the tuktuk—the closest thing I can compare it to is a golf cart. A driver stopped us to ask where we were going and offered to take us to see a few temples and then to the one we were headed to. He wrote out a list of places, including a visit to an export shop or something of the kind and quoted us a really low price, which we haggled down slightly (a little too easily in an element of foreshadowing) to about a dollar, I think. When we said we didn’t need to go to the export shop, he said that he’d get a free coupon (for gas?) and we’d just have to go look for a few minutes and wouldn’t have to buy. At this point, Keith and I both turned to each other and said, “Oh, I read about this in the Lonely Planet.” The LP had mentioned this as a gimmick of tuktuk drivers. We deliberated briefly and thought that we might as well go, since he claimed the temple we wanted to go to wouldn’t be open till the afternoon anyway.
The first place we went was closed that day to prepare for the New Year, but we met a nice man there who welcomed us to Bangkok. Then we went to the ‘export shop,’ which was a tailors. We looked through magazines at suits and examined the silk fabric. There was another white couple there when we arrived and another man came in while we were looking around; the tuktuk drivers hung out on the street outside.
We were then taken to the Standing Buddha. I was struck by the difference with this temple and others I’ve seen. Instead of the standard, uniform Buddha statute, there were pictures of real people and statutes with different faces and bodies than the typical one. I’m not sure who exactly these golden gods were supposed to be, but I think maybe they were respected monks. People were pouring water onto the statutes, which is where the whole water-New Year thing originates. You could even buy a bird and free it for good luck.
When we went back to where the driver had been waiting—he wasn’t there anymore! We wandered up and down the block, wondering where he could be. We hadn’t paid him yet, so were reluctant to just take off straightaway. Another tuktuk zoomed up, saying that our driver’s shift was over and so he’d left. Why would a driver leave without getting paid? Plus, he’d said he’d take us to the temple at 1 pm when it opened; it was only about noon at this point. The new driver tried to claim that he knew our old driver and that he’d take us, but I was skeptical of that. We think that the gimmick must have been to ditch us at the Standing Buddha temple because it wasn’t worth our driver’s time/money to take us to where we’d originally wanted to go; but he’d used us to get his free coupon. Aiya! Fortunately, after deciding to walk, our intuition led us to the river (no map) and we were able to take a river boat bus.
We went to Wat Pho, which was in full swing for the New Year. There were concession stands set up feet from the temples. There were palm readers and fortune tellers on temple grounds. Looks like the Christian religion isn’t the only one that commercializes religious holidays. Wat Pho has a School for Massage, so I went to do some research on behalf of my mom, massage therapist extraordinaire. The cost, about $4.50 US for half an hour. The room was set up with lots of beds; the one nearest to me was inches away. The massage student massages from the bed as well, not by walking around the table like in the US. At one point, she did this cool thing, using her feet to massage my legs. There was lots of pressure, not so much rubbing. And some weird angling and cracking, too. The woman that massaged me seemed bored out of her mind the whole time, staring into space or chatting up with the neighboring massage student.
At the National Palace, they’re really strict about the dress code. No flip flops, short pants, or tank tops (the official uniform of a backpacker, fyi) allowed, so they had a room of ‘borrowed clothes.’ The rest of the temples didn’t have any such restrictions, so I can only image it was out of respect for the King. We ended up not going because we didn’t want to wait in line and had seen enough temples lately! Plus, you couldn’t go inside and it was the heat of the day and we were hungry.
Muay Thai Kickboxing
We went to a Muay Thai kickboxing match one night. The tuktuk driver had taken us to a travel agent before he abandoned us, who informed us that we could only buy ringside tickets for the equivalent of $45 US. We knew (from the LP!) that there should be cheaper tickets for about $10, but she told us that they didn’t sell those anymore because lots of gambling happened at that seating level and it had caused problems. We didn’t really believe her, so made our way to the stadium ourselves. We bought the cheap tickets, which were bleacher seats instead of folding chairs, but there was plenty of room and no problems. The view was actually probably better, because we were higher up and not that far away. This section was full of Thai men, waving their hands in the air, some magic gambling signals we never figured out.
Coming into the ring with cloaks or capes on, they then did a little ritual Sumo-like (though these were skinny boys—100, 102, 110, and 126 lbs. were the weight classes). They’d bow their head to a corner post, then go to the next and do the same, till they covered all four. Then they would go to the middle, lunge onto one knee and rock back and forth, sometime rolling punches up in the air. They would do a little jump-dance from their knees, too. There were five rounds of three minutes each, with two minute rest periods between each. During the rest period, the kickboxer would sometimes get lifted up if the wind had been knocked out of him. Then he’d get a vigorous rubdown from two trainers, including sticking a hand down the front of their shorts!
People started to leave after the main event, but we discovered that the two women sitting nearest us were there because one of their sons was in the final fight, which was Queensbury style. Keith wanted to see what that meant, though he was practically falling asleep. Turns out it means normal boxing. By that time, the moms and us were the only ones left! We felt obliged to stay and were rewarded in the mom’s son knocked out the opponent in the second round, so we didn’t have to sit through the rest! Unfortunately, both of us missed the KO, since we were discussing whether or not we had to stay.
Odds 'n Ends
*Switching between currencies, I nearly took out $500 instead of $50, getting the conversion factor wrong in my head…
*I ate a fried catepillar from a street food cart. A Chilean guy was munching on them and I thought I might as well try…it wasn’t so bad, but not something I think I’ll ever have a craving for.
*From the river boat bus, the temples and traditional architecture give way to sky scrapers. I took it (and then the skytrain) to Siam Square, an area with lots of funky little shops, though most were closed since it was the first day of the New Year. I then wandered to where Bridget was staying nearby, away from all the backpackers. The hotel, The Atlanta, was at the end of a long, quiet street that dead ended at a church. I was planning to just leave her a postcard, but luckily she was there, chatting with two college friends pool-side. The place was great, with a quaint little café and the world’s cutest old waitress. I was happy to have spent my birthday hanging out there, talking politics, pop culture and books.
Highlight: Thai New Year
Saving the best for last (except in the case of birth order)
On our first full day (the 12th), we started to see pockets of people standing on streets, drenching people. Often a whole family was involved. There were also pickup trucks, their back ends full of water barrels and Thais toting water guns and buckets. These trucks just cruised around, throwing water on people, but especially on other similar trucks. They were like gangs, doing driveby splashings.
I immediately decided I wanted to ride around on one, to experience Pii Mai (New Year), Thai-style. I got my chance that afternoon. A truck was pulled over to the side (the driver was having his lunch) and when they poured water on us, I asked them if we could go with them! They didn’t speak THAT much English, but we got by. They were happy to have us join them and Keith went along with my crazy scheme. We drove around, throwing water on people and taking a few swigs of their whiskey as it made the rounds. (The driver wasn’t drinking, but open trucks, with drunk adults and slippery floors could be quite a dangerous combination!) The ringleader was a big-bellied man named Yung!!! (We took to shouting it with enthusiasm, just like he had when he introduced himself.) He was forever trying to say our names and getting them wrong, slurring words and letters because he didn’t know that much English (and was not entirely sober…). There were some women in the 20s, a kid or two, and a few guys. One, a kickboxer, was vigilant about getting down off the truck and putting a white-powder-paste on other people’s faces: people in tuktuks, passengers in buses, pedestrians. We cruised with them for not quite two hours. At one point we had to refill our barrels, stopping at a makeshift roadside store: a couple of people with buckets and a garden hose, selling water!
The roads closest to our hostel area had been blocked off, so we had to walk through Khao San Road and all its madness. The crowd was thick (and very, very wet) and I was surprised that most of them were Thai. Since that’s Backpacker Land, I’d assumed it would be mostly foreigners, but was happily mistaken. We were already completely soaked, so the water that was thrown was not that big a deal. (Except the water that was ice cold, froze your blood in your veins and sent you into shock.) The big thing here seemed to be smearing paste on other people. I usually offered my face, thrusting my neck forward, to indicate I didn’t mind. At the same time, I’d dip into their bowls of paste and smear them (pretty sneaky, eh?). The only problem was when the paste got into my eyes—one night my vision was blurry for quite awhile after making it back to the hotel.
The following is from an article in the Bangkok Post:
“Songkran revelers are ignoring pressure to wear safety helmets and avoid powder play and spaghetti-strap tops, insisting they deserve leniency during the Thai New Year Festival. Police have warned motorcyclists to wear crash helmets, and urged young men not to apply powder to girls’ faces and bodies, though both sights were still common on Bangkok streets yesterday.
‘I don’t care if police arrest me for not wearing a helmet…I don’t look cool in a helmet. Girls can’t see my face,’ said Nathawut Supalak, 15….
Traimas Kerdprawat, 16, said scantily-dressed girls gathered at RCA at night to throw water. ‘They play from 7 pm to 2 am. I was there last night and almost all the girls wee in spaghetti-strap tops. No one was denied entry. Dressing is an individual’s right,’ she said.
On the 14th, I wandered the streets not far from where Bridget was staying, getting splashed (or in some cases, hosed) at least twice a block. I’d usually try to fake them out and then steal the bucket or hose and aim it back at the attacker (which amused them). Some of the people would even throw water into buses (though by this time, windows were up, the doors tended to stay open). The only people off limits seemed to be the police. I remember a car rolling up, the back window goes down, and a kid pulls out his Super Soaker, then they speed off, safe behind their windows!
I ended up walking by some 40-some hairdressers, who had set up camp outside their salon (bucket, bowls, food, and…whiskey!). They said they wanted a new friend and made me join them. I hung out with them for about an hour, throwing water on the trucks roaring by (who were also throwing water on us). The people right next door got a big barrel and filled it with freezing cold water; one of the men there loved to get me, even though our groups had joined forces for the most part.
After that, a few blocks away, I jumped on board another truck, this one with six guys, who had run out of water (until we stopped and filled up). The guys were all visibly shivering—it actually was getting kind of cold (about 4 pm) and the ice water didn’t make it any better. Some trucks had music playing and a guy from one of them ran over to us (traffic was stopped at a light) and made me stand up and dance around, making all the people in the 4 or 5 trucks nearby cheer.
I had a really good time, playing in the water like a little kid and hanging out with the Thai people. Swati Pii Mai!!!! (Happy New Year!)
Bangkok
Keith and I decided to take the ‘easy’ way to Bangkok—on a tourist bus, straight from our hostel door to the backpacker area of Bangkok. We had heard it would take longer, but were a bit unsure about dealing with service taxis since it was the day before New Year (Cambodia has their own Khmer New Year, with similar traditions of water-throwing and festivities). We were tightly squeezed in a minibus that had A/C problems, so that on the bumpy, dirt roads, we were flailing about and my nose was dying from the dust. I began to see why so many people covered their faces (especially if you were riding atop a truck, perched on odds and ends like many people do) and why cowboys wore bandanas. I rigged up my own, wetting it so that it would block more dust. It took us SIX hours to get to the border—we later learned that Bridget’s friends took a taxi to the border (just the two of them in the whole thing) for the same price our trip cost and they made it there in less than three hours, in much greater comfort. From the border, we switched to another SUV type van that was smooth sailing.
As soon as you pass out of Cambodia, in the netherworld before you reach Thailand, the beggars line the streets, jingling their cups and looking up, pleadingly. I’m not sure if they were Thai or Cambodian. Nor was the ownership of the Casino in the middle identifiable either.
Upon entering Backpacker Land, we were immediately christened, though thankfully just a bit of water, not a drenching. It was only the 11th, but the foreigners had begun their water fights earlier. I’m always conflicted about touristy areas—usually they’re centrally located and convenient to get to where everyone goes (that’s why they spring up), you have lots of options for hostels and restaurants, you can meet other people easily (though I’ve found more often than not that other backpackers kind of annoy me). At the same time, you see lots and lots of foreigners and don’t get a real taste for the city/country. The same goes for hostel-run trips (like that to the Cu Chi Tunnels in Vietnam)—you’re on board with other travelers, but it is just so much easier. It’s all also a product of the Lonely Planet cult; it’s every traveler’s bible. Which means that when you go to a place listed there, you’re gonna see others who found out about it in the same way as you. Avoiding this is one reason why I like living in a foreign country rather than just visiting—I don’t have to worry about hostelling and I can get insider’s information, a more authentic experience.
Tuktuk
A common mode of transport in Bangkok is the tuktuk—the closest thing I can compare it to is a golf cart. A driver stopped us to ask where we were going and offered to take us to see a few temples and then to the one we were headed to. He wrote out a list of places, including a visit to an export shop or something of the kind and quoted us a really low price, which we haggled down slightly (a little too easily in an element of foreshadowing) to about a dollar, I think. When we said we didn’t need to go to the export shop, he said that he’d get a free coupon (for gas?) and we’d just have to go look for a few minutes and wouldn’t have to buy. At this point, Keith and I both turned to each other and said, “Oh, I read about this in the Lonely Planet.” The LP had mentioned this as a gimmick of tuktuk drivers. We deliberated briefly and thought that we might as well go, since he claimed the temple we wanted to go to wouldn’t be open till the afternoon anyway.
The first place we went was closed that day to prepare for the New Year, but we met a nice man there who welcomed us to Bangkok. Then we went to the ‘export shop,’ which was a tailors. We looked through magazines at suits and examined the silk fabric. There was another white couple there when we arrived and another man came in while we were looking around; the tuktuk drivers hung out on the street outside.
We were then taken to the Standing Buddha. I was struck by the difference with this temple and others I’ve seen. Instead of the standard, uniform Buddha statute, there were pictures of real people and statutes with different faces and bodies than the typical one. I’m not sure who exactly these golden gods were supposed to be, but I think maybe they were respected monks. People were pouring water onto the statutes, which is where the whole water-New Year thing originates. You could even buy a bird and free it for good luck.
When we went back to where the driver had been waiting—he wasn’t there anymore! We wandered up and down the block, wondering where he could be. We hadn’t paid him yet, so were reluctant to just take off straightaway. Another tuktuk zoomed up, saying that our driver’s shift was over and so he’d left. Why would a driver leave without getting paid? Plus, he’d said he’d take us to the temple at 1 pm when it opened; it was only about noon at this point. The new driver tried to claim that he knew our old driver and that he’d take us, but I was skeptical of that. We think that the gimmick must have been to ditch us at the Standing Buddha temple because it wasn’t worth our driver’s time/money to take us to where we’d originally wanted to go; but he’d used us to get his free coupon. Aiya! Fortunately, after deciding to walk, our intuition led us to the river (no map) and we were able to take a river boat bus.
We went to Wat Pho, which was in full swing for the New Year. There were concession stands set up feet from the temples. There were palm readers and fortune tellers on temple grounds. Looks like the Christian religion isn’t the only one that commercializes religious holidays. Wat Pho has a School for Massage, so I went to do some research on behalf of my mom, massage therapist extraordinaire. The cost, about $4.50 US for half an hour. The room was set up with lots of beds; the one nearest to me was inches away. The massage student massages from the bed as well, not by walking around the table like in the US. At one point, she did this cool thing, using her feet to massage my legs. There was lots of pressure, not so much rubbing. And some weird angling and cracking, too. The woman that massaged me seemed bored out of her mind the whole time, staring into space or chatting up with the neighboring massage student.
At the National Palace, they’re really strict about the dress code. No flip flops, short pants, or tank tops (the official uniform of a backpacker, fyi) allowed, so they had a room of ‘borrowed clothes.’ The rest of the temples didn’t have any such restrictions, so I can only image it was out of respect for the King. We ended up not going because we didn’t want to wait in line and had seen enough temples lately! Plus, you couldn’t go inside and it was the heat of the day and we were hungry.
Muay Thai Kickboxing
We went to a Muay Thai kickboxing match one night. The tuktuk driver had taken us to a travel agent before he abandoned us, who informed us that we could only buy ringside tickets for the equivalent of $45 US. We knew (from the LP!) that there should be cheaper tickets for about $10, but she told us that they didn’t sell those anymore because lots of gambling happened at that seating level and it had caused problems. We didn’t really believe her, so made our way to the stadium ourselves. We bought the cheap tickets, which were bleacher seats instead of folding chairs, but there was plenty of room and no problems. The view was actually probably better, because we were higher up and not that far away. This section was full of Thai men, waving their hands in the air, some magic gambling signals we never figured out.
Coming into the ring with cloaks or capes on, they then did a little ritual Sumo-like (though these were skinny boys—100, 102, 110, and 126 lbs. were the weight classes). They’d bow their head to a corner post, then go to the next and do the same, till they covered all four. Then they would go to the middle, lunge onto one knee and rock back and forth, sometime rolling punches up in the air. They would do a little jump-dance from their knees, too. There were five rounds of three minutes each, with two minute rest periods between each. During the rest period, the kickboxer would sometimes get lifted up if the wind had been knocked out of him. Then he’d get a vigorous rubdown from two trainers, including sticking a hand down the front of their shorts!
People started to leave after the main event, but we discovered that the two women sitting nearest us were there because one of their sons was in the final fight, which was Queensbury style. Keith wanted to see what that meant, though he was practically falling asleep. Turns out it means normal boxing. By that time, the moms and us were the only ones left! We felt obliged to stay and were rewarded in the mom’s son knocked out the opponent in the second round, so we didn’t have to sit through the rest! Unfortunately, both of us missed the KO, since we were discussing whether or not we had to stay.
Odds 'n Ends
*Switching between currencies, I nearly took out $500 instead of $50, getting the conversion factor wrong in my head…
*I ate a fried catepillar from a street food cart. A Chilean guy was munching on them and I thought I might as well try…it wasn’t so bad, but not something I think I’ll ever have a craving for.
*From the river boat bus, the temples and traditional architecture give way to sky scrapers. I took it (and then the skytrain) to Siam Square, an area with lots of funky little shops, though most were closed since it was the first day of the New Year. I then wandered to where Bridget was staying nearby, away from all the backpackers. The hotel, The Atlanta, was at the end of a long, quiet street that dead ended at a church. I was planning to just leave her a postcard, but luckily she was there, chatting with two college friends pool-side. The place was great, with a quaint little café and the world’s cutest old waitress. I was happy to have spent my birthday hanging out there, talking politics, pop culture and books.
Highlight: Thai New Year
Saving the best for last (except in the case of birth order)
On our first full day (the 12th), we started to see pockets of people standing on streets, drenching people. Often a whole family was involved. There were also pickup trucks, their back ends full of water barrels and Thais toting water guns and buckets. These trucks just cruised around, throwing water on people, but especially on other similar trucks. They were like gangs, doing driveby splashings.
I immediately decided I wanted to ride around on one, to experience Pii Mai (New Year), Thai-style. I got my chance that afternoon. A truck was pulled over to the side (the driver was having his lunch) and when they poured water on us, I asked them if we could go with them! They didn’t speak THAT much English, but we got by. They were happy to have us join them and Keith went along with my crazy scheme. We drove around, throwing water on people and taking a few swigs of their whiskey as it made the rounds. (The driver wasn’t drinking, but open trucks, with drunk adults and slippery floors could be quite a dangerous combination!) The ringleader was a big-bellied man named Yung!!! (We took to shouting it with enthusiasm, just like he had when he introduced himself.) He was forever trying to say our names and getting them wrong, slurring words and letters because he didn’t know that much English (and was not entirely sober…). There were some women in the 20s, a kid or two, and a few guys. One, a kickboxer, was vigilant about getting down off the truck and putting a white-powder-paste on other people’s faces: people in tuktuks, passengers in buses, pedestrians. We cruised with them for not quite two hours. At one point we had to refill our barrels, stopping at a makeshift roadside store: a couple of people with buckets and a garden hose, selling water!
The roads closest to our hostel area had been blocked off, so we had to walk through Khao San Road and all its madness. The crowd was thick (and very, very wet) and I was surprised that most of them were Thai. Since that’s Backpacker Land, I’d assumed it would be mostly foreigners, but was happily mistaken. We were already completely soaked, so the water that was thrown was not that big a deal. (Except the water that was ice cold, froze your blood in your veins and sent you into shock.) The big thing here seemed to be smearing paste on other people. I usually offered my face, thrusting my neck forward, to indicate I didn’t mind. At the same time, I’d dip into their bowls of paste and smear them (pretty sneaky, eh?). The only problem was when the paste got into my eyes—one night my vision was blurry for quite awhile after making it back to the hotel.
The following is from an article in the Bangkok Post:
“Songkran revelers are ignoring pressure to wear safety helmets and avoid powder play and spaghetti-strap tops, insisting they deserve leniency during the Thai New Year Festival. Police have warned motorcyclists to wear crash helmets, and urged young men not to apply powder to girls’ faces and bodies, though both sights were still common on Bangkok streets yesterday.
‘I don’t care if police arrest me for not wearing a helmet…I don’t look cool in a helmet. Girls can’t see my face,’ said Nathawut Supalak, 15….
Traimas Kerdprawat, 16, said scantily-dressed girls gathered at RCA at night to throw water. ‘They play from 7 pm to 2 am. I was there last night and almost all the girls wee in spaghetti-strap tops. No one was denied entry. Dressing is an individual’s right,’ she said.
On the 14th, I wandered the streets not far from where Bridget was staying, getting splashed (or in some cases, hosed) at least twice a block. I’d usually try to fake them out and then steal the bucket or hose and aim it back at the attacker (which amused them). Some of the people would even throw water into buses (though by this time, windows were up, the doors tended to stay open). The only people off limits seemed to be the police. I remember a car rolling up, the back window goes down, and a kid pulls out his Super Soaker, then they speed off, safe behind their windows!
I ended up walking by some 40-some hairdressers, who had set up camp outside their salon (bucket, bowls, food, and…whiskey!). They said they wanted a new friend and made me join them. I hung out with them for about an hour, throwing water on the trucks roaring by (who were also throwing water on us). The people right next door got a big barrel and filled it with freezing cold water; one of the men there loved to get me, even though our groups had joined forces for the most part.
After that, a few blocks away, I jumped on board another truck, this one with six guys, who had run out of water (until we stopped and filled up). The guys were all visibly shivering—it actually was getting kind of cold (about 4 pm) and the ice water didn’t make it any better. Some trucks had music playing and a guy from one of them ran over to us (traffic was stopped at a light) and made me stand up and dance around, making all the people in the 4 or 5 trucks nearby cheer.
I had a really good time, playing in the water like a little kid and hanging out with the Thai people. Swati Pii Mai!!!! (Happy New Year!)
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
Vietnam
I really don’t think it’s fair to judge a country when I’ve only visited one city—and that only for 3 full days. But that’s all the time I had for Vietnam…Ho Chi Minh City, aka Saigon. Some of you may remember ‘the fall of Saigon,’ April 30, 1975, the day the north Vietnamese rolled their tanks through the gates of Reunification Palace (obviously this is the new name, just as HCMC is the new name) and the Communists succeeded in ‘liberating’ the south. The Vietnam War is constantly painted as a war against foreign aggressors, but the fighting was happening before the US got involved and continued after as well.
Cu Chi Tunnels
We went on a trip to see the Cu Chi Tunnels, about two hours outside of Saigon. The Tunnels were used by the Vietcong so that they couldn’t be detected. The tunnels were very small, making it difficult for the ‘foreign-sized’ Americans to fit into them when they were discovered. Lim, our tour guide, had fought with the South Vietnamese army, then worked for the US after he was injured. I was seated next to him on the bus, so learned that two of his brothers left for the US right before the fall of Saigon and another went in the early 1990s after he was out of a reeducation camp (he’d been an officer). He also has a brother in Canada.
It was strange to hear this man speak of the ‘liberation’ of the south and the glory of the Vietcong when he himself had been fighting against it. Did he believe what he was saying? How did he reconcile himself to his past and his current job? Clearly, to keep the job, he had no choice but to follow the government line. But I wish I could have asked him more about this apparent paradox.
In the video before the tunnel tours, the picture was of a happy, peaceful, picnic-ing people who couldn’t understand why the Americans wanted to kill them. School girls and women took up arms against the foreigners and were treated with glory in the narration. The term “American-killing hero” was repeated countless times. I realized then the complications in a war like Vietnam, where typical non-combatants (children and women) fight, making them the enemy and, technically, targetable.
[An earlier visit to the Ho Chi Minh Museum showed pictures with captions like: “Guerilla girl forced at gun point the American pilot to put his hand up surrender” (insert punctuation so that the meaning is: girl makes pilot surrender). Or: “Responding to President Ho Chi Minh’s appeal Vietnamese women shoot down the American plane.” Or: “All citizens take part in defense of the motherland” against “American aggressors.”
A further sidenote from the HCM Museum: a picture of African slaves with caption: “Selling and buying slaves was one of the barbarous ways of exploitation acted by colonialists.” Under a picture of a lynching: “Death sentence carried out under lynch model—a savage trick to kill the Black applied by racial discrimination clique in first decades of the 20th century.” Both these photos had little to do with the subject matter, other than the fact that Uncle Ho had been in the US in late 1912 for few months.]
The tunnel tour ended in a surreal/tacky way. For a dollar a bullet, you could shoot a gun. There was a snack shop, so people bought ice cream cones. Two Canadian guys seemed the most excited about the gun-shooting thing (though I thought it was us Americans who were supposed to be all gun-happy) and one mentioned that in Cambodia, you can use an AK47, throw a hand grenade or even use a rocket launcher. It was disturbing.
We had met an American couple (teaching in Bangkok, Peter and Erin) at a restaurant the night before and had plans to get together that night for the woman’s birthday. They had gone on the same tour, but had a different guide, who was extremely anti-American and hostile, warning that “fat assed Americans” had gotten stuck in the tunnels last week. They mentioned some spoken word poetry by Jello Biafra (formerly of the Dead Presidents band) that the gun-ice cream bit of the tour reminded them of:
“Vietnam never happened! Vietnam never happened amusement park has pulled over our eyes with fun for the entire family. Thrill to Buddhist priest who set themselves on fire at noon. Be a part of the action at Kent state where you can show those demonstrators who's boss in our revolving Dirty Harry go-round. Then on to the defense industry kick back bumper cars go ahead blow-em up we'll just replace them at 20 times the price." ... "Our peace with honor roller coaster will destroy you in order to save you. The kids they'll love our petting zoo where you can feed overpriced McDonalds land cookies to our pen full of children deformed by Agent Orange."... "Vietman never happened."
War Remnants Museum
After leaving the tunnels, we went to the War Remnants Museum. The first exhibit we saw was of photographs taken by journalists who had been killed in the war. I was immediately reminded of Dan Eldon, a young journalist who was killed in Somalia and whose journals touched me deeply (his mother was from Cedar Rapids and he’d spend summers at Camp Wapsie, though he was raised in Kenya…he’s the kind of guy I could see myself marrying).
This was just a few days after the four contractors had been killed in Iraq, their bodies dragged through the street and mutilated. When I heard that, I immediately thought of the same thing happening to soldiers in Somalia in the early 1990s. Then, there on the wall, was a photo of a Vietcong solider being dragged behind a tank, 1966.
There was a picture of the Chinese Nung tribe, under the command of US Special Forces, hanging a Vietcong soldier upside down until he confessed that he’d fired into a church where refugees were seeking shelter (here, images of Rwanda, but also thoughts of how confessions coerced under physical torture are often untrue). Another photo showed US Allies interrogating a boy, pretending to shoot his father in the distance so that he will talk about local communist acts.
The images of one war tend to fade and blend into those images of any other war: bodies in the street, pooled blood, anguish on faces, warplanes, guns toted. It could have been countless wars—the same horror and tragedy. I remembered how I had once said—as a young, naïve, ambitious girl—that I wanted to end war everywhere, forever. I recently came upon the University for Peace, a UN sponsored university, where I am considering going to get a Master’s in International Law and Human Rights (one year, in Costa Rica).
A quote on the wall: “A war in which so many died for illusions, foolish causes, and mad dreams.”
We nearly left at this point, not realizing that there were two other exhibit halls. Now it became clear why this had been formerly called the War Crimes Museum. There were pictures of landmine victims, massacres, Agent Orange statistics, and most unsettling, two conjoined babies and a deformed third in a large jar with yellow liquid. The final hall had photos of anti-war demonstrations from around the world.
I was left wondering: will there be a museum like this in Iraq in 30 years? What would it take to mobilize Americans against the war in Iraq like they were for the Vietnam War?
Road Rules
In a city with 7 million people, there are 3 million motorbikes. I was impressed by the feats accomplished on a moto: carrying TVs, computers, mirrors taller than me, daring to carry newborn babies. The women often wore long gloves that came up to their biceps—protection from the sun. They had surgical-type face masks, but with decorations, to protect from the sun and smog.
In Cambodia, bikes were also popular, but the number couldn’t compare to HCMC. I think the difference is that there just isn’t as much disposable income in Cambodia yet. Those that managed to have a bike would squeeze their family of five on one!
In both countries, but especially Cambodia, women would wrap scarves over their faces. I couldn’t help but think of the Muslim niqab—where only the eyes are visible. The purpose here was practical, again protecting from dust and sun.
Traffic in Vietnam flowed on the right, like the US, though this wasn’t immediately clear to me. I kept getting confused and having to think about walking into our garage at home to realize that the steering wheel in US cars is on the left. (Am I right on that?!) In Cambodia, half the cars had steering wheels on the left, half on the right, and they drove on the…right…I think. (I just consulted this list to make sure!)
Cyclos
Keith and I had dinner with two of my Yale friends (Thanh-Tam and Marta) who happened to be visiting Vietnam at the same time we were there. It was good to see them, after losing touch for two years! They recommended a young, cute cyclo driver that had taken them around the day before (cyclos are bicycles with a little seat in the front of it, to carry passengers). Phoung and another driver took Keith and I to the Chinese Market the next day, stopping at a temple or two on the way. The trip was about 40 minutes. When we arrived, they said they could wait for us and take us back. We didn’t know how long we’d be and didn’t want to have to pay them for the whole day, so we said we’d just find our own way back.
We asked how much we should pay and Phoung said to pay what we wanted….which is annoying. We didn’t really know, though thought that TT and Marta had said something about 50000 dong. So that’s what we said…Phoung told us that wasn’t really enough, that they wanted 100,000 each. Now, if you’re gonna say we can pay what we want, why are you gonna then demand four times that amount?!?! We ended up giving them 50,000 each, double what we’d planned (that’s about $3.50 each). I was worried that we’d ripped them off, but was somehow simultaneously worried that we were being had. (I wasn’t worried about a few extra dollars that meant a lot more to them than to me, but I hate being a sucker…when you travel though, you kind of have to learn that you’re gonna get taken for a ride sometimes and just grin and bear it. There’s little use to getting an anxious or mad about it). My fears were allayed, however, when other cyclos started following us around, offering us rides back from where we came. Their starting price? 40,000.
We ended up walking back, wandering the city without a map, intuiting which way we’d come from. We ended up by the river—not the most direct path—but made it back to our hotel area eventually. Along the way, we stopped at a typical restaurant, with low plastic lawn chairs sitting on the sidewalk. Life here is certainly lived in the streets. A favorite pastime seems to be watching people walk by from the chairs. Many restaurants have short tables, so that when adults sit on the stools, their knees are higher than their waist and they look like they’re sitting in a kindergarten classroom. Storefronts lead back into living rooms. There isn’t much separation between public and private spheres. The architecture reminded me of San Francisco quite a bit, with a few colorful buildings here and there and narrow houses in connected rows (taxes were determined by the width of the house, so that it was economically smarter to make skinny, long houses).
By the time we got back, we were tired and hungry…and in need of an ATM. We were prime targets for a cyclo driver who had cheerfully greeted us that morning: an offer to take us to an ATM, both of us on one cyclo, for 15000 dong ($1US). I was not in the mood to traipse about, looking for an ATM and figured it was only a buck. Keith climbed in and I balanced on his lap as our cyclo driver pushed out into traffic. We were told, “People in Saigon are happy, people in the north are not.” We thought we’d give the driver 20,000, since he’d taken the both of us…when we handed it out to him, he laughed and said, no, no, no, fifty thousand, not fifteen! I believe that this was all a ploy, completely intentional, a way to mislead us to agree to go with him and then extract money under the guise of a communication misunderstanding. We aren’t the kind of travelers to yell and argue—we paid and then complained about it to ourselves. We didn’t take anymore cyclos after that.
Odds and Ends
*Considering the country’s Communist, I was surprised to see so much game-playing going on (the Communist image goes: lots of concrete and metal, huge buildings with no aesthetically-pleasing architecture…unhappy workers, toiling, never smiling…the sky is gray, matching the surroundings and the mood.) There was a hacky-sack type game, played with what looked like a badminton shuttle, called dakou. Jumping rope, dominoes, bingo. I watched one card game under way and determined that it was Revolution. There was another street-side game that I couldn’t liken to any game I knew.
*Funeral procession outside of our hostel at 7:15 am. A white van-hearse pulls up and stops right under our second story balcony. Inside, a gold-gilded coffin. Behind, a band playing, with a baton twirler even. People are throwing paper money, a platter with a photo and candles is carried forth and placed between two huge floral wreaths. Traffic continues to whiz by. Then, all of a sudden, the band is breaking up, the women are settling into jump seats on either side of the coffin. The band leader (in a white uniform, with blue stripes down the sides, a hate and whistle), puts the wreaths on the top of the van and it pulls out. A big greyhound type bus ahead carries more mourners. It’s over, all of a sudden, and we’re not really sure what we just saw (or even if we had dreamt it).
*Vietnamese food if fabulous. I’d only ever heard of pho before, but there is much, much more! Sometimes the meals ordered would turn out to just be a plate of meat. Maybe we were supposed to be ordering rice to eat with it, but how were we to know?
*I’m sitting in a restaurant my first day in Saigon, before Keith has arrived. People come in and out, selling photocopied books, Zippos, postcards. My back is to the door, but out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman coming into the restaurant, crawling on all fours. I’m always unsure what to do in situations like this—I tend to ignore, but then feel an awful sense of guilt (by ignoring, dehumanizing). This woman has wooden clog-type sandals on her hands and her legs don’t look like they work below her knees. She is selling postcards and, because I need postcards, I look. A pack of 10 is $1, she tells me (US dollars are used here as well as dong, but not as commonly as they will be in Cambodia). Her English is surprisingly good and she was very nice. As I’m looking through the options, a man at a nearby table says he doesn’t want any postcards, but tries to hand her money. She refuses, saying that she is working, not begging. That confirmed my decision to buy from her. (Later, in Cambodia, I would see a sign on a street stall that said, ‘I quit begging and started working.’ Such a statement makes me more compelled to buy.) I determined later that I could have bought the same postcards for a little less than half of what I paid, but I didn’t mind paying the extra to help the woman.
I really don’t think it’s fair to judge a country when I’ve only visited one city—and that only for 3 full days. But that’s all the time I had for Vietnam…Ho Chi Minh City, aka Saigon. Some of you may remember ‘the fall of Saigon,’ April 30, 1975, the day the north Vietnamese rolled their tanks through the gates of Reunification Palace (obviously this is the new name, just as HCMC is the new name) and the Communists succeeded in ‘liberating’ the south. The Vietnam War is constantly painted as a war against foreign aggressors, but the fighting was happening before the US got involved and continued after as well.
Cu Chi Tunnels
We went on a trip to see the Cu Chi Tunnels, about two hours outside of Saigon. The Tunnels were used by the Vietcong so that they couldn’t be detected. The tunnels were very small, making it difficult for the ‘foreign-sized’ Americans to fit into them when they were discovered. Lim, our tour guide, had fought with the South Vietnamese army, then worked for the US after he was injured. I was seated next to him on the bus, so learned that two of his brothers left for the US right before the fall of Saigon and another went in the early 1990s after he was out of a reeducation camp (he’d been an officer). He also has a brother in Canada.
It was strange to hear this man speak of the ‘liberation’ of the south and the glory of the Vietcong when he himself had been fighting against it. Did he believe what he was saying? How did he reconcile himself to his past and his current job? Clearly, to keep the job, he had no choice but to follow the government line. But I wish I could have asked him more about this apparent paradox.
In the video before the tunnel tours, the picture was of a happy, peaceful, picnic-ing people who couldn’t understand why the Americans wanted to kill them. School girls and women took up arms against the foreigners and were treated with glory in the narration. The term “American-killing hero” was repeated countless times. I realized then the complications in a war like Vietnam, where typical non-combatants (children and women) fight, making them the enemy and, technically, targetable.
[An earlier visit to the Ho Chi Minh Museum showed pictures with captions like: “Guerilla girl forced at gun point the American pilot to put his hand up surrender” (insert punctuation so that the meaning is: girl makes pilot surrender). Or: “Responding to President Ho Chi Minh’s appeal Vietnamese women shoot down the American plane.” Or: “All citizens take part in defense of the motherland” against “American aggressors.”
A further sidenote from the HCM Museum: a picture of African slaves with caption: “Selling and buying slaves was one of the barbarous ways of exploitation acted by colonialists.” Under a picture of a lynching: “Death sentence carried out under lynch model—a savage trick to kill the Black applied by racial discrimination clique in first decades of the 20th century.” Both these photos had little to do with the subject matter, other than the fact that Uncle Ho had been in the US in late 1912 for few months.]
The tunnel tour ended in a surreal/tacky way. For a dollar a bullet, you could shoot a gun. There was a snack shop, so people bought ice cream cones. Two Canadian guys seemed the most excited about the gun-shooting thing (though I thought it was us Americans who were supposed to be all gun-happy) and one mentioned that in Cambodia, you can use an AK47, throw a hand grenade or even use a rocket launcher. It was disturbing.
We had met an American couple (teaching in Bangkok, Peter and Erin) at a restaurant the night before and had plans to get together that night for the woman’s birthday. They had gone on the same tour, but had a different guide, who was extremely anti-American and hostile, warning that “fat assed Americans” had gotten stuck in the tunnels last week. They mentioned some spoken word poetry by Jello Biafra (formerly of the Dead Presidents band) that the gun-ice cream bit of the tour reminded them of:
“Vietnam never happened! Vietnam never happened amusement park has pulled over our eyes with fun for the entire family. Thrill to Buddhist priest who set themselves on fire at noon. Be a part of the action at Kent state where you can show those demonstrators who's boss in our revolving Dirty Harry go-round. Then on to the defense industry kick back bumper cars go ahead blow-em up we'll just replace them at 20 times the price." ... "Our peace with honor roller coaster will destroy you in order to save you. The kids they'll love our petting zoo where you can feed overpriced McDonalds land cookies to our pen full of children deformed by Agent Orange."... "Vietman never happened."
War Remnants Museum
After leaving the tunnels, we went to the War Remnants Museum. The first exhibit we saw was of photographs taken by journalists who had been killed in the war. I was immediately reminded of Dan Eldon, a young journalist who was killed in Somalia and whose journals touched me deeply (his mother was from Cedar Rapids and he’d spend summers at Camp Wapsie, though he was raised in Kenya…he’s the kind of guy I could see myself marrying).
This was just a few days after the four contractors had been killed in Iraq, their bodies dragged through the street and mutilated. When I heard that, I immediately thought of the same thing happening to soldiers in Somalia in the early 1990s. Then, there on the wall, was a photo of a Vietcong solider being dragged behind a tank, 1966.
There was a picture of the Chinese Nung tribe, under the command of US Special Forces, hanging a Vietcong soldier upside down until he confessed that he’d fired into a church where refugees were seeking shelter (here, images of Rwanda, but also thoughts of how confessions coerced under physical torture are often untrue). Another photo showed US Allies interrogating a boy, pretending to shoot his father in the distance so that he will talk about local communist acts.
The images of one war tend to fade and blend into those images of any other war: bodies in the street, pooled blood, anguish on faces, warplanes, guns toted. It could have been countless wars—the same horror and tragedy. I remembered how I had once said—as a young, naïve, ambitious girl—that I wanted to end war everywhere, forever. I recently came upon the University for Peace, a UN sponsored university, where I am considering going to get a Master’s in International Law and Human Rights (one year, in Costa Rica).
A quote on the wall: “A war in which so many died for illusions, foolish causes, and mad dreams.”
We nearly left at this point, not realizing that there were two other exhibit halls. Now it became clear why this had been formerly called the War Crimes Museum. There were pictures of landmine victims, massacres, Agent Orange statistics, and most unsettling, two conjoined babies and a deformed third in a large jar with yellow liquid. The final hall had photos of anti-war demonstrations from around the world.
I was left wondering: will there be a museum like this in Iraq in 30 years? What would it take to mobilize Americans against the war in Iraq like they were for the Vietnam War?
Road Rules
In a city with 7 million people, there are 3 million motorbikes. I was impressed by the feats accomplished on a moto: carrying TVs, computers, mirrors taller than me, daring to carry newborn babies. The women often wore long gloves that came up to their biceps—protection from the sun. They had surgical-type face masks, but with decorations, to protect from the sun and smog.
In Cambodia, bikes were also popular, but the number couldn’t compare to HCMC. I think the difference is that there just isn’t as much disposable income in Cambodia yet. Those that managed to have a bike would squeeze their family of five on one!
In both countries, but especially Cambodia, women would wrap scarves over their faces. I couldn’t help but think of the Muslim niqab—where only the eyes are visible. The purpose here was practical, again protecting from dust and sun.
Traffic in Vietnam flowed on the right, like the US, though this wasn’t immediately clear to me. I kept getting confused and having to think about walking into our garage at home to realize that the steering wheel in US cars is on the left. (Am I right on that?!) In Cambodia, half the cars had steering wheels on the left, half on the right, and they drove on the…right…I think. (I just consulted this list to make sure!)
Cyclos
Keith and I had dinner with two of my Yale friends (Thanh-Tam and Marta) who happened to be visiting Vietnam at the same time we were there. It was good to see them, after losing touch for two years! They recommended a young, cute cyclo driver that had taken them around the day before (cyclos are bicycles with a little seat in the front of it, to carry passengers). Phoung and another driver took Keith and I to the Chinese Market the next day, stopping at a temple or two on the way. The trip was about 40 minutes. When we arrived, they said they could wait for us and take us back. We didn’t know how long we’d be and didn’t want to have to pay them for the whole day, so we said we’d just find our own way back.
We asked how much we should pay and Phoung said to pay what we wanted….which is annoying. We didn’t really know, though thought that TT and Marta had said something about 50000 dong. So that’s what we said…Phoung told us that wasn’t really enough, that they wanted 100,000 each. Now, if you’re gonna say we can pay what we want, why are you gonna then demand four times that amount?!?! We ended up giving them 50,000 each, double what we’d planned (that’s about $3.50 each). I was worried that we’d ripped them off, but was somehow simultaneously worried that we were being had. (I wasn’t worried about a few extra dollars that meant a lot more to them than to me, but I hate being a sucker…when you travel though, you kind of have to learn that you’re gonna get taken for a ride sometimes and just grin and bear it. There’s little use to getting an anxious or mad about it). My fears were allayed, however, when other cyclos started following us around, offering us rides back from where we came. Their starting price? 40,000.
We ended up walking back, wandering the city without a map, intuiting which way we’d come from. We ended up by the river—not the most direct path—but made it back to our hotel area eventually. Along the way, we stopped at a typical restaurant, with low plastic lawn chairs sitting on the sidewalk. Life here is certainly lived in the streets. A favorite pastime seems to be watching people walk by from the chairs. Many restaurants have short tables, so that when adults sit on the stools, their knees are higher than their waist and they look like they’re sitting in a kindergarten classroom. Storefronts lead back into living rooms. There isn’t much separation between public and private spheres. The architecture reminded me of San Francisco quite a bit, with a few colorful buildings here and there and narrow houses in connected rows (taxes were determined by the width of the house, so that it was economically smarter to make skinny, long houses).
By the time we got back, we were tired and hungry…and in need of an ATM. We were prime targets for a cyclo driver who had cheerfully greeted us that morning: an offer to take us to an ATM, both of us on one cyclo, for 15000 dong ($1US). I was not in the mood to traipse about, looking for an ATM and figured it was only a buck. Keith climbed in and I balanced on his lap as our cyclo driver pushed out into traffic. We were told, “People in Saigon are happy, people in the north are not.” We thought we’d give the driver 20,000, since he’d taken the both of us…when we handed it out to him, he laughed and said, no, no, no, fifty thousand, not fifteen! I believe that this was all a ploy, completely intentional, a way to mislead us to agree to go with him and then extract money under the guise of a communication misunderstanding. We aren’t the kind of travelers to yell and argue—we paid and then complained about it to ourselves. We didn’t take anymore cyclos after that.
Odds and Ends
*Considering the country’s Communist, I was surprised to see so much game-playing going on (the Communist image goes: lots of concrete and metal, huge buildings with no aesthetically-pleasing architecture…unhappy workers, toiling, never smiling…the sky is gray, matching the surroundings and the mood.) There was a hacky-sack type game, played with what looked like a badminton shuttle, called dakou. Jumping rope, dominoes, bingo. I watched one card game under way and determined that it was Revolution. There was another street-side game that I couldn’t liken to any game I knew.
*Funeral procession outside of our hostel at 7:15 am. A white van-hearse pulls up and stops right under our second story balcony. Inside, a gold-gilded coffin. Behind, a band playing, with a baton twirler even. People are throwing paper money, a platter with a photo and candles is carried forth and placed between two huge floral wreaths. Traffic continues to whiz by. Then, all of a sudden, the band is breaking up, the women are settling into jump seats on either side of the coffin. The band leader (in a white uniform, with blue stripes down the sides, a hate and whistle), puts the wreaths on the top of the van and it pulls out. A big greyhound type bus ahead carries more mourners. It’s over, all of a sudden, and we’re not really sure what we just saw (or even if we had dreamt it).
*Vietnamese food if fabulous. I’d only ever heard of pho before, but there is much, much more! Sometimes the meals ordered would turn out to just be a plate of meat. Maybe we were supposed to be ordering rice to eat with it, but how were we to know?
*I’m sitting in a restaurant my first day in Saigon, before Keith has arrived. People come in and out, selling photocopied books, Zippos, postcards. My back is to the door, but out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman coming into the restaurant, crawling on all fours. I’m always unsure what to do in situations like this—I tend to ignore, but then feel an awful sense of guilt (by ignoring, dehumanizing). This woman has wooden clog-type sandals on her hands and her legs don’t look like they work below her knees. She is selling postcards and, because I need postcards, I look. A pack of 10 is $1, she tells me (US dollars are used here as well as dong, but not as commonly as they will be in Cambodia). Her English is surprisingly good and she was very nice. As I’m looking through the options, a man at a nearby table says he doesn’t want any postcards, but tries to hand her money. She refuses, saying that she is working, not begging. That confirmed my decision to buy from her. (Later, in Cambodia, I would see a sign on a street stall that said, ‘I quit begging and started working.’ Such a statement makes me more compelled to buy.) I determined later that I could have bought the same postcards for a little less than half of what I paid, but I didn’t mind paying the extra to help the woman.
Friday, April 16, 2004
Back in KL!
I last left you swooning about Phnom Penh...since then I went to see the ancient ruins of Angkor Wat and had a blast in Bangkok for Thai New Year. Details to follow soon! I swear!
For now: a few select photos to appease you HERE.
I last left you swooning about Phnom Penh...since then I went to see the ancient ruins of Angkor Wat and had a blast in Bangkok for Thai New Year. Details to follow soon! I swear!
For now: a few select photos to appease you HERE.
Saturday, April 03, 2004
Great 1st Impressions
I *heart* Cambodia!
I know I'm way behind on blogging and had intended to use tonight to catch up on Vietnam, now that I've crossed into Cambodia. But instead, I must tell you about my first impressions of Phnom Penh, while still fresh in my mind.
The bus ride took longer than expected. We left Saigon at about 9 am, got through customs at noon, waited there for two hours, arriving in PP at 6 pm. The second leg of the trip was a different bus---the A/C broke down and we were carrying huge jugs of petrol ON the bus, but it wasn't as bad as one could be reasonable to expect in a country such as this.
The land here is browner, since it is the end of the dry season and the rice had just been harvested. Even saw some corn. Women carried things on their heads, no hands, like I'm used to seeing in Egypt. They had shrimp cracker/pizza things, roasted duck, strange green fruits on platters atop their hatted-heads. Children and women clamored aboard the bus as we waited to board a ferry to cross a river, trying to see things or get money from us. Two blind people were lead to the windows, looking for some money (I don't think anyone gave.)
Once we got to PP, it turned out that Cindy, a Fulbright Scholar here, was waiting for us. Since we came a day earlier than expected, I wasn't sure she'd be there. With her was Paul, an university tourism student who is her driver on the side. They took us to find a hotel. First choice, full. Second choice, all good. Then Keith and I took Cindy out to dinner, to chat and I wanted to thank her for all her help. Great conversation, really interesting, friendly woman in her 40s. She's a psychologist, who is supposed to be here studying volunteerism, but isn't having much time/support to carry out her research (doing uni work mostly now).
We parted ways after dinner (I had a really good local fish curry called amock), walking along the river on our way back towards our hotel. There was a crowd of young people (teens-twenties) in the park area between the road and river, so we decided to go see what was going on. There was a circle of people, beyond them were spectators, and then a group of people forming within the circle.
It appeared that they were playing spin the bottle...but a milder version than in the US. There was only one bottle-spinner...if it landed on you, you had to go pick someone of the opposite sex as your partner, then join interior group, lining up girl-boy-girl-boy. When the bottle landed on a spot, everyone sort of inched away from it or sometimes, ran away to the edge of the group (generally out of mock shyness). When the selection was being made, the chooser would give a polite bow with hands joined together prayer-style, just below the mouth, and the chosen would return the bow.
Well, not long after we joined the outer-most group of spectators, we got chosen (as a pair). All smiles, we joined the group, having no idea what was going on. We got lots of applause. The bottle-spinner made Keith spin me, ball-room dance style (nobody else ever had to do that). Then we joined the line, squatting down as the rest of them were doing. After a few more couples joined, we all stood up and started to do a dance. Really, I was just clapping my hands and walking in a circle. People were singing, a few playing make-shift drums. After the song was over, the people returned to the circle and it started all over again.
The next time, a girl came and picked Keith (more applause). Then I got picked (and the guy spun me, the others would just do a promenade-type walk about the circle). Same song and dance. Then again. That boy wasn't going to spin me, so I spun myself as he was walking me to the group. Then while we watched, a man gave us some sugarcane to chew and suck on (I'd done this in Malaysia before and don't really like it, but you've got to accept it so as not to be rude!).
Then a man nearby asked us something and we realized he spoke English, so I began talking to him and then Keith got picked. The man is a university teacher, with a wife and a three-year old child. He explained that these were games that were happening because Khmer New Year is coming up next week and for about two weeks before, lots of games are played. But that this game was pretty new, not traditional. The boys and girls who picked each other often did not know each other, so it was a matter of flirting and checking others out (though he didn't say this).
One of the ring-leaders was this boy (maybe around 20?) who I was sure was gay...and a total ham. He was practically doing stand-up, making the crowd laugh. Doing little dances, saying things in voices, etc. The university professor made reference to him as "being not a man, not a woman" and then said he acted womanly. I asked if that was okay and he said yes.
Then HE got picked (probably because he was associating with ME!). Then the bottle landed on ME, so I had to pick someone. I sashayed to the interior and, with my hand rubbing my chin in a thoughtful gesture, surveyed the crowd jokingly. The current bottle-spinner lead me around and I got to the original gay bottle-spinner and decided to pick him (he was staying there as if praying I would). Cheers went up. And he spun me, around and around and around. I got dizzy and did a fake stumble out of the spin to ham it up myself.
The crowd had gotten bigger and I saw a few other foreigners about, but Keith and I were lucky because we were the first foreign spectators, so had gotten invited to join in. Once we'd proven to be good sports about it, it was easy for them to keep picking us.
I LOVE STUFF LIKE THIS! They were inviting and friendly and it was just so much fun! All the people seemed to be happy and having a good time. Granted, it could be that the festival is coming up, but I noticed something different in the air from Vietnam. (And we had even been in the south: A cyclo driver we had in Saigon had told us that people in the south were happy, but people in the north were not.) The people here have some vitality or vivaciousness that I didn't detect in Vietnam. I was practicing skipping once we left the crowd, I was so happy to have had that experience.
The buildings are spectacular, particularly with a lovely pink sunset as the backdrop. I'm glad we cut out of Vietnam a day earlier and can't wait to see more of the city and the country.
And maybe even try to line up a job for this fall here?! At least tell the people I'm connecting up with that I'd be interested if they know of any development jobs opening up...I didn't have that reaction to Saigon (though there wasn't anything particularly wrong with it, there also wasn't anything particularly wonderful).
More soon, I hope!
I *heart* Cambodia!
I know I'm way behind on blogging and had intended to use tonight to catch up on Vietnam, now that I've crossed into Cambodia. But instead, I must tell you about my first impressions of Phnom Penh, while still fresh in my mind.
The bus ride took longer than expected. We left Saigon at about 9 am, got through customs at noon, waited there for two hours, arriving in PP at 6 pm. The second leg of the trip was a different bus---the A/C broke down and we were carrying huge jugs of petrol ON the bus, but it wasn't as bad as one could be reasonable to expect in a country such as this.
The land here is browner, since it is the end of the dry season and the rice had just been harvested. Even saw some corn. Women carried things on their heads, no hands, like I'm used to seeing in Egypt. They had shrimp cracker/pizza things, roasted duck, strange green fruits on platters atop their hatted-heads. Children and women clamored aboard the bus as we waited to board a ferry to cross a river, trying to see things or get money from us. Two blind people were lead to the windows, looking for some money (I don't think anyone gave.)
Once we got to PP, it turned out that Cindy, a Fulbright Scholar here, was waiting for us. Since we came a day earlier than expected, I wasn't sure she'd be there. With her was Paul, an university tourism student who is her driver on the side. They took us to find a hotel. First choice, full. Second choice, all good. Then Keith and I took Cindy out to dinner, to chat and I wanted to thank her for all her help. Great conversation, really interesting, friendly woman in her 40s. She's a psychologist, who is supposed to be here studying volunteerism, but isn't having much time/support to carry out her research (doing uni work mostly now).
We parted ways after dinner (I had a really good local fish curry called amock), walking along the river on our way back towards our hotel. There was a crowd of young people (teens-twenties) in the park area between the road and river, so we decided to go see what was going on. There was a circle of people, beyond them were spectators, and then a group of people forming within the circle.
It appeared that they were playing spin the bottle...but a milder version than in the US. There was only one bottle-spinner...if it landed on you, you had to go pick someone of the opposite sex as your partner, then join interior group, lining up girl-boy-girl-boy. When the bottle landed on a spot, everyone sort of inched away from it or sometimes, ran away to the edge of the group (generally out of mock shyness). When the selection was being made, the chooser would give a polite bow with hands joined together prayer-style, just below the mouth, and the chosen would return the bow.
Well, not long after we joined the outer-most group of spectators, we got chosen (as a pair). All smiles, we joined the group, having no idea what was going on. We got lots of applause. The bottle-spinner made Keith spin me, ball-room dance style (nobody else ever had to do that). Then we joined the line, squatting down as the rest of them were doing. After a few more couples joined, we all stood up and started to do a dance. Really, I was just clapping my hands and walking in a circle. People were singing, a few playing make-shift drums. After the song was over, the people returned to the circle and it started all over again.
The next time, a girl came and picked Keith (more applause). Then I got picked (and the guy spun me, the others would just do a promenade-type walk about the circle). Same song and dance. Then again. That boy wasn't going to spin me, so I spun myself as he was walking me to the group. Then while we watched, a man gave us some sugarcane to chew and suck on (I'd done this in Malaysia before and don't really like it, but you've got to accept it so as not to be rude!).
Then a man nearby asked us something and we realized he spoke English, so I began talking to him and then Keith got picked. The man is a university teacher, with a wife and a three-year old child. He explained that these were games that were happening because Khmer New Year is coming up next week and for about two weeks before, lots of games are played. But that this game was pretty new, not traditional. The boys and girls who picked each other often did not know each other, so it was a matter of flirting and checking others out (though he didn't say this).
One of the ring-leaders was this boy (maybe around 20?) who I was sure was gay...and a total ham. He was practically doing stand-up, making the crowd laugh. Doing little dances, saying things in voices, etc. The university professor made reference to him as "being not a man, not a woman" and then said he acted womanly. I asked if that was okay and he said yes.
Then HE got picked (probably because he was associating with ME!). Then the bottle landed on ME, so I had to pick someone. I sashayed to the interior and, with my hand rubbing my chin in a thoughtful gesture, surveyed the crowd jokingly. The current bottle-spinner lead me around and I got to the original gay bottle-spinner and decided to pick him (he was staying there as if praying I would). Cheers went up. And he spun me, around and around and around. I got dizzy and did a fake stumble out of the spin to ham it up myself.
The crowd had gotten bigger and I saw a few other foreigners about, but Keith and I were lucky because we were the first foreign spectators, so had gotten invited to join in. Once we'd proven to be good sports about it, it was easy for them to keep picking us.
I LOVE STUFF LIKE THIS! They were inviting and friendly and it was just so much fun! All the people seemed to be happy and having a good time. Granted, it could be that the festival is coming up, but I noticed something different in the air from Vietnam. (And we had even been in the south: A cyclo driver we had in Saigon had told us that people in the south were happy, but people in the north were not.) The people here have some vitality or vivaciousness that I didn't detect in Vietnam. I was practicing skipping once we left the crowd, I was so happy to have had that experience.
The buildings are spectacular, particularly with a lovely pink sunset as the backdrop. I'm glad we cut out of Vietnam a day earlier and can't wait to see more of the city and the country.
And maybe even try to line up a job for this fall here?! At least tell the people I'm connecting up with that I'd be interested if they know of any development jobs opening up...I didn't have that reaction to Saigon (though there wasn't anything particularly wrong with it, there also wasn't anything particularly wonderful).
More soon, I hope!
