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.

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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!! :)

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And, unfortunately, soon it was time to go.