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