Seeing Rainbows

Being home brings old memories to life. People who were, now are. We meet again in the living room of our lives.

Perhaps it is because absence does, actually, make the heart grow fonder. Or, maybe because we have all been steadily growing up, that we can return with a renewed sense of unity. The years have passed, but the friendships do not.

Sometimes it is both a blessing and a curse. We are allowed to see who we are, as much as who we were. In certain instances we allow ourselves to revert back to old, to take a few steps backwards. No matter. This only serves to remind us how far we have traveled in the first place.

It is sad to think back over the years, and realize how many friendships have been won and then, ultimately, lost. In these memories we can find sadness, regret, and mourning. But this only makes those friends we do keep even dearer.

In the broad spectrum of life, love and friends, there is no black and white, only a cascade of colors to be celebrated. And all I see are rainbows.

Speaking of seeing rainbows, check out Sara B.

One Day

As I return from Vietnam, a lot of people have began to ask me 'how was it?'. This, if explained correctly, would take days.

Every time I go through this, to try to find the words to express my experience, I fail. Utterly, miserably, terribly. Perhaps because it is too soon, or maybe because there aren't enough words to accurately tell of my journey. For now, I will stick with the short answer, but one day…one day I hope to be able to share it with my friends and family.

A few things I have taken away:

• People are, generally, messed up inside, but they try their best
  
• Listening, perhaps, is the greatest gift you can give
  
• Family always plays a huge role in shaping us
  
• Poverty can mean nothing in the face of happiness
  
• Happiness can be nothing in the face of extreme poverty
  
• Friendships take work too
  
• Being honest, especially with yourself, can be the hardest
  
• Sometimes you aren't always rewarded for doing the right thing
  
• Sometimes you don't even feel good that you did the right thing
  
• Follow your heart, but temper expectations with your head
  

Anyway, more to come later.

Inebriated & In Love

As mentioned previously, it was hard to tell how much change occurs when you are surrounded by it. I'm on my way back home, currently laid over at LAX, and I already feel something pulling me at me. We will see where this goes.

It will take a long time to sort through the complexities and repercussions of Vietnam, but I figure now is as good a time as any for reflection.

For me, I don't think that anything encapsulates Vietnam more than my hat. Designed and created by my friend Loan, it is a frank expression of my time in Vietnam.

Vietnam was both beautiful and devastating. A temptress, her splendor could swallow you up, and take everything from you. She was at once organic, and increasingly artificial. Evident in only the most invisible ways, her touch was subtle, yet always bold. It is tempting to simplify her, to give her one dimension. She could be your ally in growth or your nemesis, oppressing you every step of the way. But she is more complex than either caricature.

I never understood why the French fell so hard for the romance of Vietnam. After living there, I now see why. Her beauty is exotic, her turmoil frustrating, and her contradictions mystifying. The intrigue is, at the very least, intoxicating. I'll admit it, I fell for her too. Punch-drunk love, indeed.

It’s Time to Say Goodbye

Rarely do we get the chance to savor a moment in our lives…

To drink up the Ha Noi sunset, an exploding orange steadily yielding to the purple haze of darkness. To smell the waves breaking on the sand past midnight, as the wind drifts in from Ha Long Bay. Ironically, it is only in the bittersweet knowledge of time's brevity in which we can enjoy the beauty of the present.

On the road of life, there are many people who will travel with us, and an equal number who will find their time to exit. I can only express my appreciation to all of those who have travelled Vietnam's Highway 1 with me for the last four months. From the black hole of Saigon to the crisp air of Hanoi, and everything in between. Romance, comedy, action, tragedy…all in a virtual spiral of drama which even MTV would be envious of. Not a dull moment to be had, our reality never needed a script.

What we have is beautiful, and like all truly beautiful things, it will soon be gone from us. But take heart, this is what made it special in the first place. So, let us keep our heads held high and take our pictures, memories, and, for those lucky enough, our scars with us. We will take these, and stitch them into the fabric of our lives. And years down the line, even if we never see each other again, we will always be able to look in the mirror and know that we shared something special, something life changing.

Arriving in Vietnam we were all searching for something. Escape, our past, ourselves…anything and everything. And in this moment of change, these moments of turbulence and chaos, we also found each other. I am proud to have shared these last four months with you all, it has been an honor.

And so, I move to say goodbye, I implore each of you to do one thing: remember. Remember this moment always, for when you return, a whole new world, a whole new you awaits. Remember these words that I hope to leave with you, words that I hope you carry on your life's journey:

Become a better person everyday, love those around you unconditionally. Trust your friends as if they're family, and always hold family close to your heart.

I will miss you all. Good luck, my friends, and goodbye.

Cheers.
 

Its better that we break

And so we come to the end. It is all too often that goodbyes are met with the emptiness of silence, and it is no different this time.

Four months of self discovery, friendship, romance, and Vietnam have come to an end. In the coming days I will try to find the words for a proper goodbye, but I doubt my efforts will suffice. Rarely do we go on such an adventure as studying abroad in Vietnam, an exercise in the permanence of change, however ironic that statement may seem.

We have shared this sojourn with many people, between ourselves and alone. Soon we will leave the comfort of Vietnam's obscurity and the familiarity of our group. It is this separation which will allow us to measure ourselves, redefined, from the people we were.

So, maybe it is better that we break apart. This is our chance to see the growth. To see what the dynamo of Vietnam has turned us into, throwing us into sharp relief against the dark backdrop of our static homes and our standstill friends. In return, we will leave behind our lives here and the beauty of Vietnam. It will cost us newly found families and friendships. But in the end, we will be that much better for it.

Sometimes life can't be all fairy tales and flowers. There will not always be a prince charming, nor there a dragon for him to slay. The truth is, life is somewhere in between. Romeo can't always have his Juliet, but we can still hope.

Nothing like a little Christmas Spirit

Unfortunately, Vietnam never really gets into the holiday spirit, despite the mini Christmas trees at Vincom mall. There's nothing like a little holiday cheer and the warm glow of a winter evening. Students here in Vietnam don't even get a Christmas break, excuse me, I meant 'Winter Break'. They do get a break for Tet, though: a two-week affair. I, on the other hand, am glad to be able to claim both holidays. Maybe it's a little homesickness, or the cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows I am sipping on, but I'm feeling like it is time to head back.

Since the holiday cheer hasn't been going around, it seems like the Grinch, having already been successful in stealing Christmas, has been making regular appearances just to cause trouble (sort of like Mickey, the rat who shares my dorm room). In a fashion that is just as detestable as my furry friend, fellow Viet Kieu have been ripe to bash me with a barrage of insults lately. They like to focus on my friends (not enough of them are Asian), where I was raised (white suburbs in Phoenix) and my proposed inability to understand minority issues (I can't know anything if I'm not active in race-based groups). Throw in a mix of insults ranging from the pejorative 'rich and privileged' (I go to UPenn) to 'elitest' (I believe in free markets) and you get the gist of their tirades.

It is not for me to judge how they came to these conclusions, and nor do I know them well enough to fully understand how these issues have impacted their lives. What I can express is disappointment. Disappointment that in our efforts to celebrate our heritage, many of us have been unable to shake a feeling of cultural superiority. They are right that race is not a color-blind issue; it is acceptance of all colors, including those having none at all. These pigmentation differences should only serve as a part of a fuller spectrum, one shape in a tapestry of personality, from which we see those around us. Unfortunately, for too many, it is the only picture they can perceive. This is a vicious cycle, one that mirrors the self-defeating spiral of depression, substance abuse, or racism. Self-segregation, even in the search for safety and identity, feeds into a system of bigotry and misunderstanding. All parties lose in this situation, yet everyone only becomes more adamant in their resolve. The Catch-22 is that we all become more divided than ever and the continuation of such group think will damage us all in the long run. We'll split along race, culture, region, politics and religion. If we are not careful, the same groups we use to pull us together can tear us apart.

So in this case, what do we do? When America, or your community, or your friends hail from every corner of the world or claim every different aspect of ideology, how do we come together? The first step must be civility. Without adequate forum for discussion, there can be no understanding. It is here which a few of my fellow Viet Kieu have lost themselves to their passion. Next, we must acknowledge our differences. Sweeping away race does nothing to foster acceptance. In order to move forward we must appreciate our own idiosyncrasies, both by accepting ourselves and those around us. In turn we should also carry ourselves with humility, and bring a measure of self-deprecating humor wherever we go, for our differences can often bring us together. Lastly, we must try to massage out intolerance. People do not become bigoted for no reason, and so we must work to address those experiences and shed positive light upon our distinctions. Such a task must be performed delicately, and may take extraordinary patience, but will be necessary to grease the wheels of dialogue. As emotional as such issues can get, and as insulated as we can become in the clusters of our own society, there must be a conscious movement to improve. Without such, like author Joseph Heller would have us believe, we can never escape the war.

Of Tribes and Tourists

Our trip to Sapa was an interesting exercise in modern tourism. The 'ethnic minority' that we went to see certainly presented a unique culture that exists nowhere else in Vietnam. However, the tourism industry subverts the presentation of such customs through the commercialization of their way of life, encroachment on their land, and imposition of infrastructure to support the industry.

The first and most apparent divesture of 'traditional' culture from the ethnic minorities appears upon arrival to Sapa. Like almost all others they come and hoard incoming buses to peddle their various wares. The influx of tourists into the area has created a market for 'traditional' items from the village people. Whether commercializing their culture is good for the tribes people themselves has yet to be seen, but the act of doing so definitively changes their lives. Instead of working in the villages or markets, they now peddle their blankets, shirts, and purses to tourists. What is seen by us as their culture is now pre-packaged and ready to export.

Tourism may have created new markets for the village people, but it has also taken away from their land. Hotels stretch the town to its limits, eventually siding next to the rice paddies themselves. Trails used by thousands of tourist to trek into Phan Xi Pan, sprawl out into the forests. And home stay guesthouses spring up in the midst of the bamboo. These are all necessary components to a burgeoning tourism industry; however they are also distorting the true culture of these ethnic minorities. Trails that used to be used for trade or travel now cater to trekkers and their tour guides. In addition to changing their environment, the myriad of parading foreigners will certainly bring about their own debris and waste, sparking pollution in a previously pristine forest.

In the race out of poverty, the ethnic minorities of Sapa will face increasing pressure from outside influences. In the coming years they must balance their need to maintain a unique and rich culture while continuing to reap the benefits from a world full of curious travelers. This will be no small task.

Hanoi Time

Few things are better than good weather, and fortunately, Hanoi has been providing for us in spades. During the last week we have been unleashed onto the cool streets of Hanoi, finding our freedom sparked by the motor of our bikes. The breezy days do little to wash away the pollution of a few million motorbikes, or the diesel and smog from dilapidated buses, but a little dirt in the face (and maybe some in the lungs) is small price to pay.

Since our move to Hanoi it has been a fresh start. With a new city to explore and new people to meet we have all been reinvigorated from our lethargy. The black hole of Saigon has supernova into the green of Hanoi. Gone are the bustling streets and silent desperation of Ho Chi Minh City's backpacker's district, replaced by the solitude of a college dorm and a city which closes its doors at midnight (at the very latest). If Saigon were America, Hanoi is Europe. Less ambitious, but more laid back, the city is pockmarked with parks and lakes, a testament to the lifestyle. In the early mornings, before the city is touched with light, a sprinkle of locals can be seen on the streets, jogging through the quiet darkness. Their breathing punctuates the air, and slowly opens the day. As their light footsteps tell, the city never roars to life, but rubs its eyes, takes a shower, and has a good breakfast first.

The air is cool, and a breeze whips through the streets. The sun rarely hides, and the blue of sky is actually visible here. The monsoon, that disastrously fickle fellow, has receded into memory. We enjoy our days around town, restrained only by the six hours of class we have each day. The Old Quarter, around Hoan Kiem Lake, serves as our rally point away from the dorm. The hive of streets, at all irregular angels, is nearly impossible to navigate. The little Vietnamese I have helps, but the Northern accent is hard. Almost daily we drive down to the Old Quarter for a meal, a walk, or just to get away from the university. Whether at Fanny's, Highland's, Little Hanoi or Gloria Jeans, there's no better place to whittle away an afternoon, coffee in one hand, laptop in the other, and the serenity of a verdant lake in the midst of a city before you. A little red bridge I have yet to cross spans a few dozen feet to an island in the lake. Perhaps I will go, one day soon.

Last Look at Laos

Danny, Jennie and I are set on renting some motorbikes. Nothing sounds better than to hit the open road and roar down the highways of Laos. We saw ourselves whipping through town after town, passing the chicken coop buses and broken down vans along the way on our purring Honda's. What a pipe dream.

We reach the motorbike shop. Danny and I try our hand at our newly acquired freedom. It's a manual bike, and the way we handle it, our freedom feels more like Gitmo. Unsteady and unconfident, we fail to pass the minimum standard, and the shop keep takes our bikes away from us. We walk away, heads bowed.

We settle on bikes and trek out to the local boonies. We greet temple after temple, enclaves of orange robed Buddhists monks. Passing by with a smile, we continue on our way. Penetrating deep into the rice fields, the breeze whips past our back and takes away our consciousness of time. Laotians are working the fields some fifty yards off, they glance at the tourists and continue their work. Pools of water are filled with murky water, supporting a smattering of lotus flowers. It is beautiful. We find our way through the fields, and Jennie soon finds her way into the muddy waters of a rice paddy. None the worse for wear, she handles her fall, an agonizingly slow tragedy, with the grace of a trooper. We peddle and peddle. Soon we come upon the most unusual of sights.

In the midst of all the fields and vegetation, through the denseness of the green lush, we spot a deserted driving range. Golf. Amazing.

We soon hit the main road again, and start to hand out some candy to the kids. They smile and wave. I am not sure whether it is an act of goodwill or just patronizing.

Lunch is on the Mekong, a few hundred miles up the same river we had been exploring not a week ago in southern Vietnam. I wonder what it would be like to take a boat from here to there. There certainly is a lot of change for one river to bear.

That night, we are looking for a place to eat near our hotel and we run into the most interesting character of the trip, Flaming Dealer. Flaming Dealer is the most flamboyant Laotian we have met. His personality, quality, and demeanor hints toward the notorious lady-boys of Thailand. He has a very, very nice Lexus and offers us a ride to the nearest ATM. We hop in, and test his English. To our satisfaction, it is fluent. Not wanting to beat around the bush, we ask him what he does for a living. The all too indistinct answer 'import-export' was his reply. We are sure he is the most flaming drug dealer we have ever met.

We buys some cheese and wine, finishing our night off right.

 

This is Lao. This is travelling.

The next morning we wake up to Jennie’s phone, and head on out. As usual, we board a decent looking bus which takes us north, up to Dong Ha. I immediately start hibernation and wake up an hour and a half later, being ushered out of the bus.

Barely conscious, I realize I am now inside a random building, looking out onto the familiar sight of a sudden downpour of Vietnamese rain. The overcast skies let loose, and the torrent begins. A tour operator looks at us, and asks ‘Lao?’. We nod along in consent, and he quickly pushes us into a van no larger than the one we took from the airport. This time, instead of Mockingbird’s careful construction, we have been thrown into a dilapidated vehicle straight from the 80’s. Perhaps Mr. Fox had accidentally taken this one back into the future, because it certainly looked like an experiment. We warily toss our bags into the back, and saddle up.

Not 20 meters later the van takes a hard right out onto highway 1. The poor Beast’s door violently flies open, and the nearest local scrambles to shut it before the rain soaks us all. We look at each other, half-amused and half-incredulous. The van continues to entertain. After a hiatus, the rain again begins in earnest. The roof of the vehicle, whether in an effort to provide us with an ‘authentic’ experience or from sheer laziness, leaks water into our cabin. The drip eventually becomes a steady flow, and I cannot imagine the audacity of someone to pass this thing off as a van, when it obviously was meant to be a convertible. I am saddened by our Beast’s unrealized dream, and return to my bootleg American Gangster DVD.

Sadly, before the movie finishes we reach the border. No less than 7 people must check our passports before we are allowed into Laos. Thankfully, there was neither rain nor corruption at this border crossing. Intriguingly, our Beast drives off as soon as we arrive on the Vietnamese side, on what I am sure would be his last journey. On the Laos side a Vietnamese woman tells us to take bikes to catch our bus to Savannakhet. I ask if she is going to pay for them, seeing as how it is part of the trip. She says no, and I immediately realize how much of a ride she is really taking us on.

We arrive at our bus, a large blue on white tin can which, amazingly, looked like it was born even before the Beast. The bare-bones bus was stuffed to its brim, and the additional luggage had to be stacked on top. The chicken coops, bags of rice, and boxes of guitars all piled upon each other in a disastrously-high fashion, seemingly defying even modern engineering achievements. We wait an hour before it decides to go. I hit the sleep button.

8 hours later, sore and uncomfortable I am fed up with infrastructure in Laos. Laotian urban planners must have taken their cue from the millions of bombs dropped on their country, because the road seemed to be pocketed with craters. I am amazed at either the indifference or the incompetence, but soon realize that all the complaining is just from my sore back and the vague grogginess of being comatose all day.

We reach the town of Savannakhet (finally). This little city has one main drag, and harkens a sort of Asian old-western feeling. The square in the middle of the city is deserted, with hardly anyone loitering about but one or two little kids trying to fly kites. I am sure though, that sooner or later, a shoot-out is bound to happen.

That night we decide to eat at the only place in town with tourists in it, an obnoxious red restaurant which plays Laotian Pop at ear-plugging decibels. The owner is an odd-looking Dutch fellow who ‘liked the peace of Laos’, but had no other reason to be there. I feel like one day not too long ago, he had a map, darts, too much LSD and a TV that would only play Iron Chef back in his ‘flat’ in Holland. Apparently, this leads to owning restaurants in out of the way Southeast Asian countries.

We finish our food and head to our hotel, Leena. Leena is in an alleyway not a block from the main thoroughfare. One of three respectable guesthouses we saw while we were there, it was cheap, if not lacking in beds. The three of us could hardly fit on the one full-sized mattress. I sleep on the floor.

This isn’t Lao? No, Hue!

Laos is a question mark of a country. With less people in the country than in the city of Saigon, Laos has become famous only for the amount of bombs dropped upon it (most ever in the history of the world) and its opium trade. Interestingly, both exploded during the Vietnam War.

For our extended weekend we decide to make our way up to Laos, without so much as a plan. We book a flight into and out of Hue, the closest large city to Laos, arriving Friday and leaving Wednesday. You would think this would give us plenty of time.

--

The hour-long flight to Hue would prove to be short indeed, as my habit of sleeping the moment I sit in a moving vehicle allows a kind of warp-speed. Something only found in Sci-Fi novels and, perhaps, the odd Star Wars movie. Emerging from my cryogenic state upon touchdown, I headed outside to the tarmac only to be greeted by a miraculous turn in weather. Gone was the weight of Saigon smog and humidity.

We leave the airport and search in the darkness for a respectable taxi driver. They crowd around us, wolves to deer, on the hunt for the next dong. The pack shouts out prices for a ride into town, some quite unreasonable, until we bargain down to six dollars. On our way to the taxi, Danny unwittingly provides comic relief:

Danny: Wow look at that executive decision, straight to a cab. Now he’s probably going to rip us all off and take all our stuff.

Taxi Driver : I understand English!

Red in the face, we pile into the van, and escape the desperate hounds behind us.

Only to be confronted by a virtual mockingbird of chatter. Our taxi driver, another in a series of short, hardened Vietnamese men, refuses to let a moment of silence pass between us as soon as I let slip that I can understand Vietnamese. By ‘understand’ Vietnamese I meant that I could decipher basic conversation. Mockingbird launches into a 15-minute tirade, of which I could understand one out of five sentences. Like any good Vietnamese, though, he doesn’t notice. I retreat into the corners of my mind and take a look around the van which speeds us through the Vietnamese night. Between monosyllabic Vietnamese answers, I realize that this van has a pop-up TV, a pioneer deck, two different side mirrors, and one windshield wiper. I interrupt his rant to ask about the vehicle. Apparently, correct parts are hard to come by in Vietnam, because by now this hackneyed van has become a melting-pot of Asian steel. Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese, and Thai parts have all been meticulously melded together under the care of Mockingbird. He shifts up and the van eases down a few thousand RPMs. Hey, if it works for him, it certainly works for me. Can’t say he isn’t resourceful.

Mockingbird, realizing we want to head to Laos, takes us to his own personal recommendation for a tourist agency, for which he probably receives kick-backs. We book our ticket to Laos on the earliest bus the next morning, a 10am affair through Dong Ha to Savannakhet. It costs us 25 dollars, but little do we know, included a few bus loads of agitation.

We end our day at a familiar spot in Hue, on the deck of a restaurant on the Perfume River. The beer sponsored neon signs across the Perfume blitz the night, crashing the glare of advertising onto the natural serenity of the river. The reflections on the water’s surface ensures that we double down on our neon exposure for the night. Despite the eye sore, we manage to enjoy dinner. Our day over, we head back to the hotel.

Laos!

We just came back from a trip to Laos. Luckily, I have come back with many great stories, and most importantly, my muse. I will be fleshing out the details soon, but we are also in the midst of packing for our move up to Hanoi.

No clothes, no problems

Happy Halloween everyone! For Halloween in Saigon we decided on a little party at the hotel, since there is no trick-or-treating here in Vietnam. Walk around in our costumes probably scared everyone enough anyway.

This year I went as the naked cowboy. It is not as freeing as you would think.

The election is coming up in a couple of days! I hope everyone will cast a vote and tune in. I know I'll be staying up all night for the results.

Happy? Happy.

The first full day in Phnom Penh proved to be a good one. We woke and decided to head to the local killing fields.

The Khmer Rouge, between 1975 and 1979, had massacred millions of Cambodians. In Phnom Penh, Danny and I first decided to visit S-21, a high-school turned torture center. Here, every educated person, every ex-government official, every person who was not for Pol Pot and his insanity came for reeducation. Unfortunately, not many survived. It is said that when the Vietnamese captured Phnom Penh (due, in part to the genocide and in part to a small-time war started on its borders) tortured and newly dead prisoners still laid with the fresh stink of death at this notorious site. Indeed, in every room there is a picture of its original state in 1979, bed, body, blood, and all. The 'museum' was insightful, unbiased, and unflinching. After a few hours, with a full sense of the gravity of the crimes, we head out to the killing fields.

It is about six dusty kilometers away from S-21 where the victims were killed. Finding it too expensive to use bullets, the Khmer Rouge simply used the shovels with which the prisoners had just dug their own graves with. Now, there remain only small watering holes and a littering of signs to mark the mass executions. That, and the three stories of skulls which were unearthed at the site. Piled on top of each other, the monument is a testament to how embarrassingly callous we have become to violence, a symptom of a hyper-stimulated culture. We stay for 15 minutes, and take not a second glance at the thousands of heads in a three-story glass case.

Of course, the next thing we decided to do was to go straight Duke Nukem. Cambodia, Vietnam, and SE Asia in general are pretty lax on rules governing fire arms. Taking full advantage of the situation, Danny and I make our way to the local Cambodian Special Forces Military Base. Here, for a small fee, we are able to take our turns with an AK-47 and an Uzi. Danny and I put on our headphones and walk into a small wooden shack that serves as the firing range for the AK. Our resident soldier, clad in all black fatigues, clicks in the magazine and thumbs the safety. Not wanting to lose a second, I step up to the gun and wrap myself around it. My first gun. An AK-47. Ridiculous. I line the sights. Slowly, I pull the trigger and the first bullet reaches out toward the target. I am blinded by the sheer violence. It is as if the anger and rage of humanity had been channeled through the muzzle, delivering their vengeance in 7.62mm fashion. The bullet finds its target at 2000 ft/s. I look over at Danny, and smile. We unload.

Finished shooting off our guns, we head toward the toxic lake in the middle of the city of lunch. Here, we find peace and the ceaseless waterfall of a construction pump emptying water into the murky pool. Whittling our lunch away while hiding from the sun was no small task, accomplished, alternatively, between mid-day beers and shakes. Eventually, we are fed up of moving to keep pace with our umbrella's shadow, and turn to leave. It is here where I spot a McCain supporter on television telling McCain in a hushed voice that Obama is a…a…'Arab'. I sigh, realize that this is the only picture some internationals will have of us Americans, and head out, nauseated from the filth.

We decide to walk our way back to the hotel. In the midst of being lost, we head to the top of a small hill, where it looks like there is a pagoda at the top. Upon reaching the summit, we encounter 7-8 men huddled around a small table and a case of beer. I buy something from the man's stand, and they invite us to sit down. Little do Danny and I know that our manhood was about to be challenged. The Cambodians, in their extremely gracious manner, decided it was time to get us drunk. Their tool, drinking competitions. In the span of the next few minutes we had drank 5 beers, and had left not more than 2 Cambodians puking in the bushes. The Shopowner, two cops on duty, Instigator, and a smattering of their friends had now become our comrades. I don't think we exchanged one complete sentence without misunderstanding. I did, however, come away with the knowledge of humanity's kindness and my own limits to beer consumption. We end our game, and they teach us only one word, to be repeated twice. Sab bay, sab bay. Happy, happy. Indeed.

 

Silence, Drop Out, and Big Baby

We wake up early the next day, eager to explore Angkor Watt. If this monument is the symbol of the country, the singular emblem emblazoned upon their flag, it must be a sight to behold.

Ravenously, we devour our omelets, bread, and fruit while my Ipod spews Jack Johnson over the speakers for the rest of the backpackers to listen to. A little Jack to start the day never hurt anyone. Downstairs in the courtyard we make fast friends with our Tuk-tuk driver, as only backpackers are keen to do. In a case rarely seen for Tuk-tuk drivers, he is the silent, but deep type. And soon enough Silence, Danny, and I were on the road, grit in our mouths and all.

The tour is to last all day. The site of Angkor Watt is enormous, with Angkor Watt being only one of the many temples. As we get closer, the canopy begins to grow thicker and the trees become denser. Silence drops us off at the causeway, a road quietly watched over by 57 stone gods and demons for the last thousand years or so. As we get down, an elephant walks by, straddled on its neck by a dark Cambodian cowboy. The small pen on its back hardly keeps the two tourists from spilling off. We make our way past the southern gate to meet Silence on the other side, careful to avoid the Japanese and Koreans busy with their photo shoots, an obstacle we contend with for the rest of the day. Through the massive gate, we again board our Tuk-tuk. Silence smiles and ignites the motor.

Our first stop was Angkor Thom, the last capital city of the Angkor Empire and right next to Angkor Watt. From the outside Bayon, the main temple, looks quite formidable. A vast array of crumbling rock, it is easy to see how it once was the heart of the city. Danny and I climb straight into it, not bothering to take pictures, whether for lack of effort or, more likely, for lack of camera. It was not until we reached the third and final level did the temple reveal itself. Tower upon tower of faces have been carved into the walls of stone. In every direction and every angle, the same face looks down upon you in this temple. The huge relief portraits surround and watch us as we stroll by in the midday heat. Each the same as the next, supposedly sculpted to immortalize an extremely arrogant king, the temple surely does its job well. Carefully, we climb down, amazed at the detail and architecture.

Next, we visit Ta Keo, another large temple, which, unfortunately, was left half constructed due to foreboding lightening strikes. Moving on, we hit Ta Prohm. This temple epitomizes the longstanding conflict of man vs. nature. Left mainly as it was discovered, it highlights the power of nature to reclaim. The Angkor Empire had carved out a large section of the forest to build this temple, which served as a university in its heyday. However, since it was left to ruin, nature has once again asserted itself. Gorgeous trees grow right on top of the carved stone, enormous roots forcing their way into the soil and retaking the land that was once theirs. A sinewy collection of vines, moss, and roots tangle to grope the stones back into the earth. In this battle, at least, it seems that nature has had the last word.

After a light lunch of beef with ginger and morning glory, we head toward Preah Kahn. This sprawling complex served as the residence of the king who built many of the Angkor temples. Needless to say, it was quite large. This structure, more than any of the others, highlighted one of the most distinct and fascinating features of Angkor architecture. They would separate every area of the house with rectangular portals. However, as you get closer to the center of the complex, the portals get larger and larger. As they were all in a straight line, the effect was something like looking in a mirror when there is another mirror directly behind you. Awesome and unnecessary.

It is these smaller temples which were much more rewarding in their own way. Because they were not as popular, it was easier to get lost and enjoy the serenity of living in an empire long past. The solitude became moving.

On our way out of Angkor Thom, we speed by a family of monkeys. Our driver stops so what we can get a closer look. I eagerly hop out of the carriage, and cautiously begin to approach one of the bigger ones. Step by step I get closer, hands out, ready to pet it. The nervous look on its face is palpable. Then, without warning, that nervousness changes into ferocity as the monkey heightens its eyebrows, widens its eyes and opens its mouth. I am terrified and promptly turn tail. Luckily, we are more successful with the smaller males, who are curious. They allow us to pet them, and even shake our hands. There's something gloriously hilarious about using the word monkey on an actual monkey you are petting.

Anyway. We saved the best for last. Sunset over Angkor Wat. Approaching Angkor Watt, one cannot help but to gape at its moat. A man-made lake over two miles long, this huge ditch would leave European castles with moat-envy. To me, it seems as if the king had asked the temple planners to draw up something ridiculously big and impossible to build. Then tripled it. Danny and I buy two beers to enjoy over sunset, and head off across the long land bridge. We pass through the large outer wall, and enter the gargantuan courtyard. I seemed at least 3/4 a kilometer just reach the temple. Angkor Wat itself towered like a school yard bully. The time, effort, skill, and money to build such a monument with such limited technology must have been substantial indeed. Danny and I take our time exploring the vast grounds of the temple. We exhaust it with still a couple hours still left to sunset, and so decide to find a shady spot on its back porch for a nap.

Waking up, we head back outside to the many stalls selling food nearby. Not hungry, we set up shop on a few steps close by. Throughout this trip, whether in Cambodia or Vietnam, we have been accosted by countless men, women, and children looking to sell us something, anything. The instant we sat down was no different. No less than 6 grubby little children surrounded us, 'You buy post card? 1 dollar!' 'You buy mango? 1 dollar!'

A snippet of conversation as we are outsmarted by a Cambodian salesboy:

'You buy book?' (He totes over his mountain of stacked photocopied guides to Cambodia.)

Danny: My friend doesn't speak English (he points at me), only Vietnamese.

'Then why he hold book?' (the boy points at my very english LonelyPlanet)

Danny: Touche, my friend.

We sit there for more than a few minutes, expressing our total disinterest in buying anything at all. Most of the kids walk away, but a little girl remains more persistent than most. Soon, she gets the message, but I manage to persuade her to sit next to me as I lay on my backpack. Apparently, as I learned through her friend Krazie, this little one had dropped out of school. 3^rd Grade Drop Out was cute as button, and it broke my heart to hear that she had stopped schooling. We made friends as she taught me Cambodian and I taught her how to fist-bump. Soon, we were surrounded by an entourage, which included Krazie, Drop Out, 17 going on 12, and Big Baby. Big baby was possibly the funniest little boy anyone has put on this earth. Round as a ball, with only pampers-like underwear to protect him, this 3-year-old looked like he belonged in the World's Largest Crib. 17 going on 12, as implied, looked like she was way too young to be graduating soon, but was doing a great job translating for us. She hopes to be fluent in English, Japanese, and Korean in addition to her Cambodian. I hope so too; she was surely well on her way. Looking up into the clear blue sky, we toiled away our day with our small clique without much drama. That is, of course, until the Japanese came.

A huge tour-group decided to roll by, which normally would have been fine with me, except this time, a young Japanese female had the audacity to be passing out candy to the little Cambodian children. Her skin was beautifully clean white, the kind most Asians would die for, and one could see her intentions were just as pure. She had no idea what a no-good immoral Vietnamese boy I am. Finished doling out her sweets, she began to move on. Infuriated that I had been passed over, I quickly yelled out after her for my piece of 'Candy?!'. As if anticipating my whim, Drop Out immediately places her piece into hand, apparently not a fan of toffee. Before I know it, the entire tour-group had turned around, witness to my 'demands' of candy from a poor Cambodian girl. I turn to them, with the realization of what this looks like only dawning on me. Once I do understand, I know that the language barrier is impregnable. The silence becomes tangible. Fair Skin comes back to see what has happened to her candy. I hold it up, look at her, and totally crack up, laughing until my stomach starts to cramp. I had no idea what else to do. Luckily, she finds the humor in the situation too, and the tour group smiles and moves on from this Vietnamese Candy Stealer. Danny sits there, red in the face, too embarrassed of me to say anything. I smile at Drop Out, use the one word she taught me, 'Ar Kun', thank you, and pop the candy into my mouth. She beams back with a smile of her own.

Sadly, we soon leave our friends to catch the last glimpse of sunset. The sun dips into the western horizon, hiding behind the gatehouse wall. Colors of purple, orange, and deep blue spill out into the sky. The clouds clear just in time to make room for the last rays of sun. Even Arizona could hardly come up with a better set. Danny and I crack our now warm beers in the shadow of a tree amidst the courtyard, just off the path to the temple. We watch as the fading colors drip down the stone monument. On the tree next to us, thousands of ants stream up and down, a running river of life. I wonder where they are going, what they are doing, and why they are doing it. We sit there, enjoying the freedom of no responsibilities, time on our side. As the temple closes around six, and a barrage of people begin to pass. A stream of life of their own, teaming outward, onward. They are going everywhere and nowhere, doing everything and nothing, for all reasons and with no reason. Just like us. Just like me.

Of Grease, Dirt, and Bastards

Cambodia. Home of Angkor Watt, Pol Pot, and 14 million Khmer. A frightening mix of abject poverty, immense historical beauty, and all-too-recent genocide. So, why not go?

This weekend, Danny, a senior from George Washington, and I packed our bags and headed west. What could there be to stop us? Well, government for one. On our way out of Vietnam, we had to pass through customs. Unfortunately, Danny had forgotten his exit papers for Vietnam. Our very own border agent was all too happy to help us. 'You have present for me?' she says, hoping for a little bonus. We duly grease the wheels of the government and continue on our way, incredulous at how blatant the system is worked.

The motorbike ride into Siem Reap, dusty and dry, proved to be a good indicator of things to come. Going anywhere over a kilometer was an invitation for dirt in the mouth and a lung full of exhaust. At least we were able to travel in style. Flocks of Tuk-tuk's line the streets in Cambodia, their drivers constantly crowing for business. These Tuk-tuks, mini-carriages hooked up to motocycles, clog the heart of Siem Reap, as motorbikes have been forbidden. Immensely gratifying and imperialistic, in a slightly troubling way, these Tuk-Tuk's hark back to the days of pure French Colonialism.

As we start into town we begin to pass the opulent hotels on the outskirts of the city and our driver starts to ask us questions from his limited repertoire of English. 'Where you from?', 'What your name?', 'Ahh, American?' For the first time, wholly unable to communicate in the native language, I realized I was limited to gestures and a wide range of guttural sounds. Stunningly, we were soon able to land at a café suggested by our guidebook after a series half-words, awkward glances, and more than one shrug.

Leaving the café, we meander the streets for an hour or so, taking care to get lost on as many occasions as possible, Danny and I finally decide on the Jasmine Guesthouse to settle down. Benefitting a Cambodian orphanage and staffed by the older adolescent orphans themselves, the hostel was clean, had hot water, and served a delicious breakfast every morning. A model of how businesses can positively affect the communities around them, each of the staff spoke excellent English and seemed well-educated. We checked it, and promptly headed back to Pub St.

Highway Run

With my tutor, Long, on the handlebars of the purring Honda, we rocket out of the Ho Chi Minh city center. District 1 passes by in a neon blitz. We roll through District 4, the local gangster’s paradise. Traffic starts to thin out, the night air begins to clear. Our precious little bike works hard and puts in its last bit of effort as Long applies the torque. We fly out onto the freeway just as the air begins to cool with the damp anticipation of rain. 50, 60, 70 kilometers per hour. The separation between the oncoming traffic wouldn’t stop a small car, much less the massive trucks which rumble by. When the divider ceases, Long uses the opposite lane to pass. I cringe, imagining the sight of us splattered across a truck’s window, then let go, knowing that it would probably be a quick death. Suddenly, the multi-story buildings end their reign, no longer looking over our shoulders as we stretch into the night. The dark sky opens to us, welcoming these two dragons with a sprinkle of rain. Lightning flashes and thunder erupts. The air twitches with the electricity of a newly born darkness. Defying death and flying down the Vietnamese highway on a rainy, clamorous night, I feel the exhilaration of life.

To know you are living is to be on life's edge. Whether the verge the death, or the verge of a broken heart. Without the passion and the adventure, life will pass us by in the dullness of grayscale. The highs and lows, the intoxications of happiness and the despair of depression flavor our lives. While we pursue our own inner-peace, it is easy to forget the joy of life, the adrenaline of extreme. It is ironic that even moderation must be moderated.

When Worlds Collide

The search for our home, for ourselves, often takes the course of our lives. The winds of our lives throw us in a myriad of directions. We grow up, indulge, rebel, run off, move, work, play, love, and hate in a heated soup of self-realization. As an inevitable part of my journey, a destination meant for me since birth, Vietnam has been able to yield many answers. Sometimes they are satisfying, more often, they are not.

Growing up secular and Asian in white Christian America can often prove to be a daunting task. In ways both explicit and self-determined, separation happens. To adapt, I had to wear many hats. At home, the Vietnamese way of life was to be respected. In society, American values were to be pioneered. The detachment to both would become at once natural, and defensive. Cling to Vietnamese tradition for too long, and risk being mocked. Embrace the American lifestyle too whole heartedly and lose your heritage. Find compromise and have the identity of neither culture.

Coming to Vietnam would be enlightening in two parts. One, was to see what being Vietnamese really meant. Who are these people? Of what stock am I pulled from? Secondly, to find and identify the heritage, the culture, and the history of the country. In finding these things I would and will be able to find more of myself, to know what to take and what to leave behind.

Of the people I have written some, but to paraphrase, I think it can be defined in a single word: survivors. The man with no legs, scooting his way across the road on his make-shift skate-board, hand on his wood block, his single method of propulsion. The woman selling gum, baby child in one hand and pack of sweets in the other, hawking her spearmint as the little malnourished boy grabs my shirt, tugging the fibers, and pulling at the strings of my heart. The street women hanging in the clubs, dressed in the skimpiest western clothes they could find, make-up piled on like icing over a beautiful cake. All their eyes look me straight on. The only shame is mine. This is their country, their lives, and they will survive. I am just a viet-kieu. A lost brother.

Let us pretend that I can stereotype, and that doing so is fair. The Vietnamese people are industrious, determined, studious, and intelligent. They will work till their fingers bleed or their minds melt. Shops stay open to ridiculous hours of the night, students refuse to go out, and you can feel the energy of an emerging, growing, bustling economy. The entrepreneurial spirit runs rampant, perhaps a token left by Americans, and it can be seen on every street corner, every food cart, every high-rise, and every new building under construction. However, the best in people can often, quickly, turn into our worst. The corruption, dishonesty, malevolence, and outright rudeness can often reach shocking levels. A few days ago an American friend and I went out for some sandwiches. As we leave our cook turns to me and yells in Vietnamese 'Your friend is too fat!'. I can understand the need for both diligence and vehemence in the war that is survival in an emerging country. Still, I can hardly believe, much less excuse, such crass behavior.

In no other country have they reclassified returning sons and daughters. But here we are, Viet-Kieu (VK). There is no mistaking us for locals. Look at our skin, usually light and pale. Our bones, gorged with the luxury that is calcium, fat, and protein. Our muscles are toned from vigorous exercise, a testament to the surplus of time, food, and energy we enjoy. We speak in broken, accented Vietnamese, letting slip the language of our heritage in the race to lose ourselves into the West. Arriving from America, Australia, and France we come back kings, no longer the scraping survivors of yesteryear, but the gluttons of success. Coming to this land, I am simply vacationing. Passing by to lament their troubles for a few months, knowing I will return to my gilded life. Even while I am here I seek escape the people will never have, I hole up in air-conditioned cafes, leave for trips to far-away beaches, and cruise the streets in taxis. I pretend to be accepting, to be an equal, as to ease my way into being Vietnamese. But I kid myself if I think that I do not look down on these people who, in turn, treat me like a foreigner, like an opportunity. Even in this land, we are separated.

I often find myself a chameleon. Adapter to all circumstances, I am the water which seeps from bowl to bowl, taking shape and color, and moving on. In the flow of life, it easy to run the shades together. The grays go rampant. Vietnam has provided a reprieve and adequate foil to America, painting clear the landscape of my heritage, of who I was, and of who I want to become.

I am Vietnamese-American. I will face the challenges of both cultures and will be stronger for it. I may have to forge a new identity, but this is not nearly a unique problem.

In the end, I hope to be the best of both worlds.

My Refrigerator Smells like…

Some people say that you can tell a lot by looking into someone's refrigerator. Well, I can give you a little sneak peek.

In there right now is a mound of grapes, seed in, that are, sadly, not very sweet. On the door sit 4 green plastic bottles of the sweetest tea every made, my roommates. Oh, did I forget to mention the acrid smell of cat urine mixed with something dead? No matter how many times I wipe it down, the smell persists like one of those roving Vietnamese street vendors. Baking soda seems a little luxurious, so it looks like I'm stuck. I doubt they have Arm and Hammer anyway, though Cycle and Hammer seems pretty popular around here. Anyway, things could be worse. My roommate could smell.

For some mysterious reason the hotel deemed it necessary to give me a queen sized-bed. Not one to complain, I kept my lips sealed. Though, sleeping in my bed the other night, I suddenly came to the realization that I now only have one pillow. Its twin must have been stolen. Tragedy! I have several culprits in mind, but I digress. This is simply too much real estate to be covered by one cushion. I feel like I just bought a bagel and only got one of those small cream cheese containers. Einstein's wouldn't stand for such shenanigans, and neither will I.

I run the air conditioning 24/7, which is probably tantamount to the destruction of 2 tons of ozone. Being as it is already hot enough outside, I'm not really helping my own cause. With my new haircut though, I'm not really too worried. I'll let those luckless enough to sport the locks to sweat it.

To the Docks!

It has been a few days since our tour through Central Vietnam, and still the jury remains out on the verdict. In the mad rush of Saigon, my mind has been anything but sequestered for deliberation.

The countryside, although lush in foliage, lacks the audacity of being a natural wonder. Visit any of the national parks in America, and Vietnam would pale in comparison. The land here is useful, and therefore utilized. Little remains of the natural beauty that once was; trees make way for roads and skies fill with power lines. Rice paddies stretch into the horizon, the mainstay of country life. Field hands tend to their crop, backs hunched, conical hats shading them from the sun. Everything is done by hand. John Deere would be a hero here.

In Vietnam excess has never been allowed to ferment, corked by the dam of discord. The remaining pagodas are small, and with the exception of a few Buddhist idols, things remain so. Perhaps it is most telling that one of Vietnam's most popular tourist attractions, the Cu Chi tunnels, cannot even be seen. 75 miles of 5 by 3 tunnels, dug one handful at a time, mirrors the country's long and dark history.

A succession of war and revolt, division and unification, spell out the country's existence. The nation's north-south conflict goes back hundreds of years, apparently an ongoing, generational conflict only recently resolved. Fortunately, countries need not live in the past. And it is the people which offer this country promise.

Industrious, the Vietnamese people can feel the growing pains of their country. As their economy grows, so too does their hope. Everyone wants to start a business, to join the emerging middle class, to make it rich. What was once unthinkable is now a dream, and excuse them for trying to cut their way in line to get there, but they will get there. Even with a 200% tax on imported cars, you can see the odd Mercedes or Lexus cruising the Saigon streets, parting the sea of motorbikes. A new generation of businessmen, learning the fine points of capital economics, will ensure the continued growth. Despite the ongoing piracy, the tide is coming in. But are there enough boats to go around?

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Change. Taxes. Death. Few other things remain inevitable.

In Saigon, down the street from our hotel lies a small, fluorescent-green juice shop. Squished between two multi-story restaurants, the little shop overflows with modern decor; tables and chairs spill out of the little store. Occasionally, when the police arrive, the lone woman who works there is forced to retreat her things, lest they be taken for 'obstructing' the sidewalk. She is young and beautiful. Her name is Mi. And most of all, she is honest and decent.

At first glance the lack of hair underneath her cap doesn't catch my eye. A few minutes later, half-way down my glass of guava juice, I am told that, in Buddhist tradition, she has shaved her hair in honor of her grandfather's health. He had been seriously ill for some time. Now, fortunately enough, he has taken a turn for the better.

Sometimes you must give up something, even if you know it might not matter. Just doing something, anything -- Exhausting all options. For my Grandma (who has recently developed lung cancer) I have kept her in my thoughts, prayed, wished, and cried. But until today, I have never actually sacrificed anything. Wholly unoriginal, I have followed Mi's path. I can only hope for the same results.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

We drop off our gear and board the bus, one by one; Ants marching in the Vietnamese sun. Hours, days fly as fast as the scenery. 8 hours…Nha Trang…4 hours…Da Nang…8hours…Hue…3 more…DMZ…the laundry list of dirty little semi-costal towns tumbles by. On to the next battlefield, to one more village destroyed, to another beautiful pagoda honoring an ancient king, to miles of underground tunnels protecting nothing from an enemy long ago exhausted. We hop out. We hop in. Our beautiful puke-green air conditioned haven protects us from the elements (it often rains) and shields us from the grotesquely bleak peasant-life that the faces beside the road play out. We joke about the life of pop stars, one up each other with wild tales of drunken adventure, trump each other in battles of geography, sleep in absolute boredom. Outside, dark sun-drenched heads turn, then shrink into the distance. We are cultured. We are wealthy. We are American apathy.

All Out

Our tour guide at Khe Sanh, amiable and filled with knowledge, pours out his 30 minute brief history of the base. He gives his own opinion at why the American base was doomed to failure: weather. In any case, after two years the Americans themselves felt they couldn’t have left this place soon enough. We appreciate his candid nature. As we patrol the concrete paths, between the charred remnants of a tank and the stacked leftovers of a Huey, we fly over countless beetles lying helpless on their backs. Their legs move aimlessly in the air, churning for something solid. Here, the Americans suffered. There, the Vietnamese. 40 years later, it is all for naught.

We prepare to board the bus. Our tour guide gives a warm goodbye. His inner-most thoughts seep out. “I wish I could come with you,” he says. No one wants to stay.

Morning Mourning

The early calm of a September morning in 1967 shatters as American helicopters descend upon the small town of My Lai. Blades whooping, their thrust separates the virgin forest and GI’s stream forth. The village is to be burned, the villagers to be eliminated. Thick smoke darkens the sky as the soldiers herd villagers into a ditch. Few, on either side, would survive intact.

This morning we visited the site of the My Lai massacre. Full of propaganda and heavily dramatized, our time spent there was still undoubtedly profound. The gilt museum features a monstrous black wall, confronting visitors with the 504 names of those who were systematically killed. The tale of horror and atrocity is told daily here. Pictures, terrible and tragic, line the walls. A woman wails on her knees, both beside herself and her executed family. A mockup of American soldiers blasting away Vietnamese civilians occupies another corner. Volumes of blank pages are turned into books by scores of visitors attempting to assuage guilt not wholly their own. A Canadian simply writes, “I am glad I am not an American.”

Outside, the heat and humidity swelters the day. We move on paths casted with concrete from re-creation to re-creation. Footprints and boot prints fill the walk, representing those who ran and those who killed. It is uncomfortable. We pass by a burnt out house, with only the foundations left to pay testimony to its existence. The ditch by the walk, filled with reeds, smells of rancid, stagnant water. The deathtrap must be a mosquito’s paradise. Inside, you can almost see the villagers huddled together forty years ago. I stay on the path, still uncomfortable. Later, in a solitary moment, I place my foot on one of the footprints. Cinderella would not have complained. Unsettled, I slowly turn to leave.

I'm Leeeavvinngg on a...bus

Hello everybody, I'd like to welcome you to CIEE 'Study' and Vacation Co. Today we'll be leaving on our 10-day tour of Central Vietnam. Stops include Hue, Hoi An, Nha Trang, and everything in between. Also, get your game face on because we will be celebrating the mid-autumn festival. Breakfast and dinner will be served daily. Now sit back and relax, this is gonna be a long haul. We thank you for choosing CIEE 'Study' and Vacation Co, because we know you could be at home actually going to classes instead.

Welcome, Well-Wasted Weekend

Tired of the constant two-step to avoid traffic, we decided to ditch the Saigon hustle for Independence weekend. No place is better to wash away your troubles than the beach, and so we rode off to Mui Ne.

Leaving at 8:30am, the bus ride I endured might have killed any ordinary human being. In addition to the long, hot, and sweaty (insert overused joke here) atmosphere inside the bus, I had food poisoning. Alas, such pain is common for us here in Vietnam. Luckily enough for me, everything cleared up by the time we reached the small town of Mui Ne.

This little fishing village held no more than a few thousand people living in shacks and boats. During the day one could see idle fishermen hanging their clothes out on their vessels or, in one case, even taking a shower. The shore was lined with little wooden circular boats no larger than six feet in diameter, which the fishermen would paddle out in the morning darkness to claim their share of the ocean's bounty. Some courageous souls even ventured out at least a couple of kilometers during the glassy morning waters only to be towed back mid-day by the myriad of colorful fishing boats filling the harbor. The village held only one new building, a relatively massive Catholic church adorned with dyed sea shells. The architecture harmoniously married modern design with the magnificent pagoda towers of old. It seemed that everything the townspeople had, they gave willingly to this building. Nothing attested more to the absolute poverty and relative happiness of such simplicity in life than the dichotomy which this church presented.

Our hotel was located about 7 kilometers outside the town of Mui Ne on a north-facing beach; A beach which was supposed to have white sand. Amazingly, even the sand had been able to tan in the Viet sun, at least since the brochures were written. I promised myself to follow suit in the next couple of days, and how I did.

The first few hours were spent jumping in and out of the beautiful pool, and trying to sink one of the circle boats (more like large floating baskets). Eventually we were successful in breaking it, simultaneously an accomplishment and an embarrassment. Tired of such frivolity, a few of the guys decided to try to climb across the horizontal palm trees which dared to hang directly over the ocean. Swinging like DK, we only made it about halfway across before the drop to the beach began to look too daunting. Soon, it was time for our first forays into the ocean water, which had finally cleared of the flotsam a few hours after we arrived. We just knew the water was going to be so nice and….warm? Surprisingly it didn't get very deep, even far out. A few hours of sun and fun, and a beautiful sunset later and we were ready to head off to the local bar to celebrate our first full week in Vietnam.

Mediocre food, bar food, was served for all as we gathered to listen to the eclectic taste of the local DJ. Lined with hammocks and only a step away from the sand, this was the epitome of beach bars. A midnight swim was decided upon and was not to let us down. We were treated to a brilliant showing by the stars and a surprising reaction by the water. Apparently, this water contained certain plankton which lit up as you moved. The effect was to produce a glowing energy from every appendage as we waded through the utter darkness of the ocean. The eerie silence coupled with the black water created a disturbingly peaceful environment. Lights from the countless fishing boats could be seen way out into the ocean, harkening the image of a vast invading fleet like those sailing Aegean a few thousand years ago. To us it almost seemed that at any moment our little game of Marco Polo was about to be interrupted by Achilles and Ajax landing, ready to make war. As restless as the night's water seemed, the morning would prove wholly different.

We awoke at 5 to catch sunrise. Beautiful and serene, the morning belayed the uneasiness of the night. The sand felt perfect for a jog, and so I managed to reach a resort which rented jet skis. Unable to resist blasting across the placid water, between the multitudes of fishing boats, I knew I had to rent one as soon as possible. A quick sprint back and forth to the hotel to grab my cash and soon I was cruising far out into the ocean at over 30mph. Picking up and dropping off a few friends along the way, I was able to eventually make it to extreme edge of the cove. There, we found an out cropping of rocks high enough to cliff-dive from. A few scrapes and bruises later, the adrenaline rushing through my veins, I was mid-air, thirty feet up, over the South China Sea just off the coast of Vietnam. Nothing ever felt so refreshing.

To cap the day off we decided to take a motorcycle ride through town and to the Red Sand Dunes. A risky, life endangering endeavor (motorcycle accidents are common) was nevertheless worth it. We were shown to the church, a local's only beach, and met some amazing children along the way. Talking to some of the kids proved to be the highlight of the trip. A snippet of conversation follows:

(discussing nicknames with Bom)

Me: My parents call me To Pho (Bowl of Soup)

Bom: Haha *points at me*, no! Your name is To (bowl)!!

Me: What…why?!

Bom: Because we know a girl named Pho (soup)!

Me: Haha, where can I find her?

Bom: Down at the school! Let's go!! :)

----

And, unfortunately, soon it was time to go.

Saigon Sounds Out Until You Must Come In

5am.

Dawn, the final sigh of night, breaks over Saigon. The last vestiges of darkness are swept away in the few minutes of calm remaining. The hustle of the city starts, aptly enough, with a few stretches, a game of badminton or the calm energy of Tai Chi. In the communal spirit, everyone comes out to the local park to join in the morning calisthenics. Old men practice their forms as their better halves keep to the beat of an exercise tape. Mot, hai, ba…mot, hai, ba…Younger folk keep to the birdies and hackey sacks. You can spot a few jogging, but exercise in the Western sense, the solitary sense, seems passé.

Warmed up, the city is now ready to come to full roar. Scooters, buses, and a smattering of taxis begin to clog her arteries. The odd rickshaw passes by ferrying khaki clad tourists, cameras strapped on and in hand. Once it begins, there is no slow down. The traffic worsens until the streets are packed. The scooters dart in and out, climbing the sidewalk when necessary. Lifeblood returned, preparations are finished to take on the sweltering day.

The heat, coupled with humidity, bogs it into a muggy affair. The few known places with air conditioning provide reprieve, but rolling blackouts temper expectations. Rainy season means that, although the sun is out, it has little staying power. A popular Vietnamese maxim: the weather is like a girl, unpredictable. And so, at any apparent moment, it will start raining. A light sprinkle for a few minutes, followed by a downpour quickly sidelines motorist to pull out their plastic rain coats. The cacophony of traffic, hilariously, stops simultaneously. Warm water falls, and the streets begin flow with a more liquid medium. The water gets ankle deep, and you can feel the grease on your body. It's time to get inside.

Hello, Better Business Bureau?

There are few things worse than the feeling after you've bought something, and somehow, in your gut, you know you've been ripped off. You go to a car dealership and you leave the lot with a brand-spanking new car; You've probably been taken for a ride. You pay list price for a house (especially in the market today); You know you paid too much. Well, if you're here in Vietnam, get used to it.

There are a couple new rules to deal with here. First off, most everything is negotiable. Secondly, everyone is poor. In combination these two create a dangerous maelstrom in terms of flexible pricing. Buyers beware indeed.

That’s a Gastronomical deal!

Its rainy season in Saigon and it's the humidity that gets to you. My guesthouse (i.e. hotel) is located in the backpacker district of the city. The shops here come in three flavors: travel agencies, replica art, and souvenirs. The most interesting aspect, so far, has to be the dining options.

Although there is a fair share of restaurants lining the street, all of these seem to be overpriced and disingenuous. To get the real deal, you have to head out onto the streets. Here you can find little stands selling Vietnamese food in its finest (if not always most sanitary) form. The portions are relatively small and the plastic seating even more so. Still, meals rarely cost over $1.50, which is tantamount to stealing food. Honestly, being criminal never tasted so sweet.

Flying Under the Weather

Only a few days ago did I arrive in Saigon on a bleak and rather humid day. Unfortunately, I caught the flu-bug during the last days of our little Rio excursion and have not been able to do much in the intervening days here in Vietnam. There's much here to witness and experience, and I look forward to sharing it soon.

More than a Picture, and even a Camera

Rio De Janeiro - August 14th, 2008

Sun! Our last full day in Rio and the sun finally was finally ready to come out to play, and so were we.

Lazily, we made our way out to the beach at around nine. The famed Ipanema beach was convienently located only a block away from our hostel. Named the sexiest beach in the world and birthplace of both the dental-floss bikini and, more unfortunately, the thong-inspired speedo for men, Ipanema is a beach of and for beauty. The Cariocas reflect such an attitude; it is rare to find a single Brazilian overweight, out of shape or without a tan. In the southern hemisphere it was winter, but you could have never guessed it. From early in the morning all the way until sunset, the beach was crowded with locals and tourists. Whether they were para-surfing, juggling the football, or playing the Brazilian version of volleyball (a mixture of football and volleyball) Brazilians have some serious skills. Too lazy (and lacking in talent) to join in, our little group from the hostel settled down at the infamous Post 9, or Posto Nove, and proceeded to waste our day away.

Little did I know that tragedy was about to strike. I had brought my camera out mid-day to capture some of this sunny splendor on the beach. By around three in the afternoon I was getting pretty tired from doing nothing, so I drifted off into sleep. Waking up I found that my camera, which had been right next to me, had been lifted! L

Well, to drown our sorrows and as a celebration of our collective last day as a group, we decided to go out to House, a club in Leblon (the rich neighborhood next to Ipanema). Nothing too spectacular, a small two-story house with modern deco and deep blue lighting, the club's only extraordinary point was the security, which unnecessarily took pictures of all the guests as we arrived. Needless to say, we were determined and succeeded in having a good time, even though a mix of techno and house blared from the second floor speakers all night. That night, I was fortunate enough to have collected a variety of dance moves from around the globe, including my favorite big fish-little fish-cardboard box (Australian), which, despite the name, is actually pretty straightforward. Dance moves aside, we all decided to make this the Greatest Night Ever, and so it was.

So great, in fact, that it wore itself out into the morning. Nothing, we deemed, would be a better way to cap off our holiday than to witness sunrise over Ipanema. At 5am House closed, and so Tim, Roxane, Carmen (Roxane's friend) and I headed out to our favorite late-night spot, Big Nectar. There we took down some of the world's best ham and cheese sandwiches, which are apparently all the rage in Rio. Soon we found ourselves racing our way to the beach to catch the first glimpse of the sun. And indeed, we were nearly alone along the miles of soft white sand. Sitting down, it was easy to get lost in the calm stillness of the morning air and the easy, rhythmic rolling of the waves. The first hints of light beginning a new day relaxed us from the hectic night out. Luckily, instances like these, of both extreme exhaustion and temporary rest, of leaving new friends and going home to family, of the beginning of a day and the end of a journey… are moments that need no camera.

Of Birds and Billiards

August 12th - Rio de Janeiro

It is precarious to think what might have not been invented if flying's most serious enthusiasts, the Wright brothers, had ever tried to hangliding. Our trip from the top of the mountain in Tijuca Forest to Peppino Beach lasted no longer than 15 minutes, but one could feel like they were flying all the same.

At about 11am our cabbie picked us up, and quickly drove us through leblon (the neighborhood next to Ipanema) to Peppino Beach. There, when looking into the sky, it is almost as if dozens of enormous peacocks had taken flight. Hangliders of all colors lazily patrolled the air, catching thermals, swooping low, and landing gracefully on the beach every few minutes. It was all I could do to not run up the mountain to immediately propel myself off of it. We would get our chance soon enough.

Boarding our Land Rover, we were soon humming our way up the mountain, eventually climbing some 1600 ft. Once we were at the launching ramp, the butterflies began to grow. Basically a wooden platform built off the side of the mountain, the overhang seemed to end in a definitively too abrupt manner. We were soon saddled into our harness, and after a few practice runs, we were ready to go. A few minutes later, Mario had already taken flight, and it was my turn. The butterflies came back in full force. My pilot, Marco, positioned the booming 30ft orange-tipped wing onto the launching ramp. With a few words he motioned me over next to him and began to clip me in. Finished, we started our own little count down. 3, 2, 1, GO!!! Five quick steps and we were airborne! Riding the buffets of wind which drafted up the sheer cliff of Pedra Bonita, our little tandem easily climbed into the sky. The view (of forest, ghettos, city, high-rises, beach and sea) was magnificent, but the silence was profound. My expectation was to be besieged by the howling of the wind. The air, however, provided a serenity which could only be experienced by un-powered flight. Alas, all things must end, and so too did my ride. Marco adroitly maneuvered our hanglider in one swooping turn onto the beach for a delicate, if not rather thrilling landing.

That night Tim and I put on our Sunday best and headed out to the local Irish Pub. There we met up with the gang from the Mango Tree. We soon found ourselves looking longingly at an occupied pool table, so Tim and I decide to ask for a match. The two Brazilian ladies at the table, each in their late twenties, were sporting enough to accommodate us. Surprisingly, they each had very good English. We got on well, even though Tim and I had managed to lose the first two out of three matches(yes, embarrassing). Well, that is, until they learned of our country of origin. Apparently, the US does not provide a good conversation piece for many foreigners. It got to the point where one of the girls refused to talk about anything related to our home country. Needless to say, I had better things to do than wait till the US-bashing began. We decided to take our losses and walk away from the table. There are few other countries which beget such a unique fusion of hate and envy as the US. On one hand, these Brazilian girls espouse cultural awareness and acceptance as virtues. On the other, they reject our culture completely. It seems that hypocrisy is not just an American institution.

A few good laughs with the Canadians, a bar or so later, and a 5am last-call sent us home.

Sir Phamalot in Rio

Rio De Janeiro - August 10 2008

The Mango Tree, ever since our arrival, has been filled to the brim with the British. A charismatic bunch, their humour (as they would spell it) could be best described as dry. Even so, in the last couple of days we were able to team up with a few of them, and its been quite deadly (i.e. cool).

One of our most outgoing friends, Paul, claims to be an Aussie (even tho he lives in England). The first night Paul arrived, we all decided to go out to Rio de Scenarium (a club in the neighborhood of Lapa). Our group of 15 or so rolled out to the street party. Apparently, Brazilians always know how to party, because the streets were filled not only with tourists, but a surprising number of Cariocas (native brazilians). Parts of Lapa can be dodgy (i.e. unsafe), so we decided to spend the duration of the night in the club. Three floors of music, dance, and drinks ensured a good time. That is until, of course, our friend Paul starts making trouble. Non-smoking signs, clearly evident, did not deter this badass Aussie from cranking one out and giving it puff. Bouncers were upon him immediately, and a scuffle ensued. When I asked him later if everything turned out okay, he replied 'Oh yeeaa, no worries. That wasn't a thing, I got into a little riff over some drugs later too' We had dinner with him the next night.

Before said dinner, though, we needed something to do. Well, when there's nothing better to do, there's always the national pastime. And when you're in Brazil, thats football (soccer to all us Americans). Our group from the scenarium, plus some newly acquired Englanders, set off at about 3 for Maracana Stadium. The stadium seats up up to 115,000 fans, and was once the largest stadium in the world. Football at Maracana is meant to be experienced, not watched. Although the crowd of 35,000 seems miniscule inside the monsterous stadium, their spirit more than made up. Drums, flares, and flags work together to create an electric atmosphere which is seldom ever felt at sporting events in the states. Fans sing, chant and scream from the first whistle to the last. Flamengo, Rio's most popular team, boasts over 33 million fans and, on this night, won 1-0 to break a 7 game skid. Needless to say, the crowd was giddy and the chants lasted long after the game was called.

Waking up relatively early the next morning, we found the weather to be more suitable for our English counterparts than for the beaches of Rio. Two of the English girls invited us to come with them on a self-tour of the city. Oblingingly we accepted, and were soon off on the bus to center city Rio. There, we were able to take the trolly around town. Not any ordinary trolly, this one seemed to be a discarded relic of former San Francisco glory. Undeterred, we boarded for what would prove to be a drenching ride (at least for me). Touring the city, the dichotomy is stark. Barely a few hundred feet seperate million dollar mansions from favela shacks. Crime and gang violence mar the city, while the beach we just left is a year-round tourist haven (although, as you will see later, crime does also make its way to the beaches). One can only pity the masses of those unfortunate enough to be living in the favelas.

For a little more research, that night we went to a favela funk party, essently a party in the ghetto. The music was tolerable, and the dance floor packed, although mostly with dudes. We stuck with the girls from our hostel, and I almost got into a fight for it. In brazil, the men are extremely confident in their approaches to women, to the point, one might say, of outright aggression. What would merit a slap in the face and a sexual assault lawsuit in the States is merely the norm. Needless to say, our girls, and one in particular, Roxane, had been getting hit on all night. However, one persistent fellow in particular would not take no for an answer. He kept up his advances in the face of some of Roxane's most vigerous defense, pushing included. Seeing her plight, I intervened to take the heat off. This did not go over well with this brazilian gentleman, and we soon began to exchange verbal insults in languages which we both did not understand. One can imagine the results. Fortunately, our hostel blonde, rachel, stepped in before things got out of hand. Quickly soothed by her presence, the young Brazilian was content to keep his peace. Truly, it seems that nothing can get you into or out of trouble faster than women.

It's Long, and exciting (thats what she said)

Family and Friends,

Since I have started an extensive journey which will, in no doubt, include many fantastic adventours I have decided to start a sort of travel blog. This blog will serve to inform you all about the continuing bedlam that serves as my life(as well as, hopefully, to entertain you). As each of you has been an indispensable part of my life experience, I hope that you enjoy sharing my travels. If not, just let me know to stop spamming your mailbox; I will not be too hurt, for I too detest the taste of meat made en mass and distributed in a can. So, sit back, and relax. Grab a cup of coffee or some tea and let me take you to wherever I might be. Now, let us be off!

Introductions...

Last Tuesday I set off for Brazil with my uncle, Tim. A man of whom is of average height and build, but which the mistress of fortune has been kind enough to smile upon. Financier of this week-long voyage, he is the reason for its inception. It seems that being a dentist working half-days for four-days a week is either quite tiring or quite boring, I am willing to venture that it is more of latter which compels us. In Dallas we were able to meet up with the third of our travelling triumvirate, Mario. Hispanic in descent and curious by nature, ironically enough more Mario than Luigi, our newest recruit rounds out our small posse.

August 7th, 2008 - Rio de Janeiro

House of Highlights

Fortunately, in Dallas we were able to meet up with Grant McGuire, a college friend of mine, during our four hour and some odd-minutes of layover. Not an exceptional event, for lunch rarely is, the rendezvous proved the power of having friends from afar, even if it is only to see a friendly face, stave off hunger and avoid a bout of serious boredom. Leaving Dallas, we arrived in Rio some 20 hours, three thousand miles (totally made up), and 400 pages of the The Three Musketeers later.

Immediately upon our arrival here in Rio (pronounced hee-oh) we were accosted by no less than three (again, an entirely fictional number) surly looking cab drivers. Picking out the least threatening of the pack, we politely ask for a map. Understanding his directions, rare enough in this former colony of Portugal, we head off to find our treasure. Unfortunately, like a stray dog who you have fed, our cabbie precedes us wherever we go. Eventually, we receive our directions, and, feeling sympathy, begin to negotiate a price to get to our hostel, the Mango Tree. We are due to arrive shortly, knuckles still white from the ride. If you have ever been to Rome or Paris, you will sympathize with this portion of our journey.

Walking up to the Mango Tree, we are politely buzzed in by the concierge. The building, seemingly a formidable house in its former lifetime, has been highlighted light blue, as if a math student who, upon just learning he has a test the next day, has decided to take note of every formula in his Calculus text. If this fails to spark an accurate picture, then let us imagine Bob Ross is painting, quite joyfully, an old Victorian amidst a cityscape. Now imagine he only had highlighters. You can see, then, how energetic such a house must be, and indeed it is.

Our first night we decided to head out and learn first-hand what we could of the culture and customs which make Rio such an extraordinary city. Beautiful, and yet at the same time unashamedly trashy, great bodies and dark tans...wait...I was talking about the city right? Haha. From a young Kansas-boy, who upon moving out to Brazil out of loyalty for his girlfriend had been rewarded with a cold shoulder and even icier stare, we learn of a club which is warmer than most. But, what can really be said of the clubs? For clubs are the same the world over: loud music, harsh drinks, and beautiful people. In Rio, and Ipanema in particular, the only exception is that the people here are more beautiful than most. Needless to say, we made easy friends and stayed out late into the night, returning only when sleep demanded us to.

Waking the next day, in the morning to my great disdain, I was allowed to grab some of the complimentary breakfast offered here at the Mango Tree. An assortment of fresh fruits, bread, and juice comprise a basic, yet not all together refreshing start to what promised (or at least felt like) the beginning of a terrible day. We were off on an ambitious itinerary: hiking to Perda Bonita (Beautiful Rock), seeing Corcovado (Jesus the Redeemer), and experiencing multitude of favelas (ghettos in and around Rio). Our guide, a winsome man of no more than thirty, picked us up in front of our hostel. Our group consisted of a us three, a Latvian couple, and an Argentine industrial engineer. Our first stop is Perda Bonita. Only, it is a hike, and as I soon discover, intelligent fellow that I am, I have only worn my flip-flops. Alas, the night has only waited till mid-morning to strike back. We reach the top without incident, although bitterly exhausted. However, the effort failed to rival the view with which it had purchased. Our two Latvian Lovers had deserted us to go hang-gliding, something which I am sure to be writing about shortly. At the top of the mountain we watch intently as we try to see our hangliders launch themselves into the wind, several hundred feet below us. I feel envious.

We then, in short, visit the statue of Christ the Redeemer (like most big things, built to establish the power of religion, Catholicism in this case) and tour the favelas. We visit the steps of Lapa, a large outdoor staircase adorned by tiles from around the world, managed and built by one man over the past two decades. Weary, we return home 6-7 hours later. Determined not to sight see only man-made beauty, Tim and Mario head to the beach for a more natural type. I, meanwhile, hastily make a retreat to my mattress.

Meals, usually, do not elicit much comment. However, ours tonight must be shared, if not for knowledge's sake, then at least for pride's. If you have ever been to a Brazilian meat house, you are probably well acquainted with the red light-green light system of endless meat. Here, it was not only started, but perfected. The cuts of beef, from sirloin, to flank, to fillet (covered in mouth-watering Parmesan) filled the stomach. If this was not enough to satisfy the darker side of our omnivorous nature, there was lamb, veal, chicken, and salmon. Soon after the wine and meat were finished, the desert cart was rolled out. Two slices of flan (which always reminds me of grandma), creme de la papaya, ice cream with cream puffs, and fried bananas ended the most excellent of meals. Such interesting and excellent deserts have rarely been tasted.

It is only the second day into what will prove to be a 4 and 1/2 month sojourn, yet the sights, sounds, and tastes have been more than memorable. Things have certainly been sweet, indeed.

Yours Truly,

Chris Pham