Saturday, July 21, 2007
Back to Texas
Got back home to Austin last night shortly after midnight. Will catch up on stories and pictures soon, but for now I need to lie on the couch and watch some golf.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Adventures in train travel
Took the night train back from Sapa to Hanoi last night and was so grateful to have kept my hotel room here while I was gone. While other people were staggering around tired and grimy waiting to be able to check-in somewhere, I went straight to my room where all my stuff was intact, opened a cold diet coke and drew a bath. Ahhh...
This relief was particularly sweet considering the adventure of the train. In Sapa I got on the train and claimed my expensive reserved sleeper berth, this time one of the lower ones, and waited to see who else would be sharing the compartment, expecting a similar group to the genial Finns and the woman from Singapore. This was not to be. First, a young (Vietnamese, I think) couple comes in and perches on the other lower bunk. They stow some luggage and then leave. Then only he comes back, followed by two grinning men in matching tan shirts and two tarted-up, gum-smacking, giggling apparent prostitutes -- oops, I mean sex workers. I'm completely claiming my space and lying down on my bed, but the men decide to sit on it anyway so they can face the girls and have a chat. I'm having none of this, and make an unmistakable "get off" gesture, which just makes them move to the opposite bunk, so that now four people are staring at me like I'm crashing the party. I'm thinking, yes, I am well aware of the legendary and often heroic patience and forbearance of the Vietnamese people, but y'all ain't winning this one. Eventually the tan-shirt dudes leave, and the girls ratchet-up the gum smacking and cell-phone yacking while I turn my back and pretend to try to sleep. After a while they start playing a game by clapping suddenly and giggling to see if I'm still awake, but I am in no mood to be mean-girled by a couple of seat-scamming sex workers. They're still sitting up and making a racket when it seems the right time to lock the compartment door for the night, which just escalates the battle, of course. I lock. One grabs my arm and shakes her head to say, no lock. I nod, point to my chest, glare, and lock. This happens a few more times. Then there comes a loud knock on the door and one of the girls opens it. Here we go, I think. But, no, it's the conductor. He looks at the two of them in one berth, says something, points, looks at their ticket (?), then just laughs and shuts the door. Thanks a heap. But I lock the door after him and put on the chain so that even he can't get in, flash another dirty look, turn on my side, wrap my arm around my bag, and actually go to sleep. Victorious.
This relief was particularly sweet considering the adventure of the train. In Sapa I got on the train and claimed my expensive reserved sleeper berth, this time one of the lower ones, and waited to see who else would be sharing the compartment, expecting a similar group to the genial Finns and the woman from Singapore. This was not to be. First, a young (Vietnamese, I think) couple comes in and perches on the other lower bunk. They stow some luggage and then leave. Then only he comes back, followed by two grinning men in matching tan shirts and two tarted-up, gum-smacking, giggling apparent prostitutes -- oops, I mean sex workers. I'm completely claiming my space and lying down on my bed, but the men decide to sit on it anyway so they can face the girls and have a chat. I'm having none of this, and make an unmistakable "get off" gesture, which just makes them move to the opposite bunk, so that now four people are staring at me like I'm crashing the party. I'm thinking, yes, I am well aware of the legendary and often heroic patience and forbearance of the Vietnamese people, but y'all ain't winning this one. Eventually the tan-shirt dudes leave, and the girls ratchet-up the gum smacking and cell-phone yacking while I turn my back and pretend to try to sleep. After a while they start playing a game by clapping suddenly and giggling to see if I'm still awake, but I am in no mood to be mean-girled by a couple of seat-scamming sex workers. They're still sitting up and making a racket when it seems the right time to lock the compartment door for the night, which just escalates the battle, of course. I lock. One grabs my arm and shakes her head to say, no lock. I nod, point to my chest, glare, and lock. This happens a few more times. Then there comes a loud knock on the door and one of the girls opens it. Here we go, I think. But, no, it's the conductor. He looks at the two of them in one berth, says something, points, looks at their ticket (?), then just laughs and shuts the door. Thanks a heap. But I lock the door after him and put on the chain so that even he can't get in, flash another dirty look, turn on my side, wrap my arm around my bag, and actually go to sleep. Victorious.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Sapa and Hill Tribe Villages, Day One
Arrived here in Sa Pa around 6:30 this morning by night train from Hanoi, and after breakfast I headed out into the steep, mist-covered hills terraced with rice fields in a steady rain with my guide. I am the only one on this particular tour, so it was just the two of us making our way along the muddy track among, meeting the occasional water buffalo and hill-tribe villager along the way. It was magical and wondrous -- and very, very wet, a welcome respite from Hanoi's heat, I might add. In an hour or so I'm going back out with my guide Thanh on his motorbike to go see some off-itinerary sights (we made a little side deal). We walked through villages of both the Black Hmong and Red Dzao people, both of whom dress in elaborately layered and embroidered outfits. I saw women hand dyeing the cloth from the indigo planted in their fields (Thanh thought the dye smelled worse than the water buffalo dung. I disagreed). I also saw two women spinning and weaving the cloth by hand and foot treadle. Will try to get some pictures up soon.
Hue to Hanoi & Hanoi to Sapa
Flew from Hue to Hanoi early this afternoon, and am resting for an hour or so before I leave on the night train to Sapa for a short trekking trip with Handspan Adventures. Don't think I'll have any access while up there among the hill tribes, but I'll post a note as soon as I get back very early Weds morning, which will be Tues evening in the US.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Hue to Hanoi
Now that I've left behind the CIEE group (with the exception of Tom Huminski of Portland Community College, who happens to be following a similar itinerary for a few days) I have a little bit of time to reflect and catch-up on the writing. It's about 3:30 on Saturday afternoon in Hue, and I'm taking a break to cool off and rest after walking around the citadel and other sights in this beautiful city.
There's so much to process even with almost a week to go in my trip, from the dusty, frontier feel of Siem Reap, to the seductive and faintly dangerous vibe of Phnom Penh, to HCMC's manic energy and profusion of stuff and people, to Hue's elegance (and heat!). I've been down the Mekong River and into the jungle to visit a former VC special forces camp in the jungle, to the floating villages on the largest lake in SE Asia, the Tonle Sap. I've taken my life in my hands (or found the zen of it, depending on your point of view) and crossed the street in Ho Chi Minh City, and learned to act cool on the back of a motorbike as it weaves through traffic, often by driving on the wrong side of the road or the sidewalk.
It's now Sunday morning in Hue, as I pick up where I left off yesterday. I leave in a few hours for Hanoi. One of the things that's been so striking about this trip is the contrasts between the two countries as well as among the places I've been with them. It was striking, for example, to see how much more wealth there is in the Vietnamese countryside around Hue between the coast and the Lao border than there is outside the cities in Cambodia. And wealth is a relative term here, of course, but I'm talking about houses with doors and windows. They're still one-room structures with a lot of people in them -- Vietnam has a lot of people -- but they are much better off than rural Cambodians. You'll see rows of these simple houses, often with stalls selling a jumble of wares spilling out the front of them, and then suddenly a huge Frenchified plaster monstrosity will hove into view. You don't really need your guide or driver to tell you it's the home of the local Party official. There were a number of houses like this in the town closest to the Lao border, where I suppose business is brisk in border management.
There are also big differences in the national narratives you hear from people, which I'll write more about after I am out of Vietnam, and it's often difficult to figure out how much they believe in the story they tell you or are aware of its contradictions. This interplay of narratives is especially evident at the official sites, though of course these are exactly the kind of places where the dominant discourse is intended to drown out the other voices and erase the contradictions. Here's a relatively benign example: At the Independence Palace, which was formerly known as the Presidential Palace, you are required to tour the place with an official guide, in our case, a polished multilingual young woman dressed in the traditional ao dai. Her explanations of the building were fluent and well-rehearsed, and she used the adjective "puppet" over and over in her characterization of the regime that once governed from the building and its relationship to the US. At the same time, however, she pointed out with apparent pride that luxurious furnishings favored by the puppets. She suggested we take photographs of the preposterous platformed, silk-uphosltered chair framed by six-foot tall elephant tusks in which the puppet would sit to receive official visitors. I accidentally stepped on the edge of a huge and elaborate rug in the atrium, and she reacted as if I'd trampled a holy relic. I suppose visitors would say the same thing about these types of ossified historical sites in the US. They might wonder, for example, why we revere Thomas Jefferson and dutifully haul school children to his home without seriously engaging his troubling and complicated relationship to slavery. They might also wonder about things like the Johnson Ranch and the Nixon Library.
Have to pack up my ever-expanding stuff and get to the airport. I should mention that for some reason I can't open my own blog, so I can see from the inside that someone's left a comment or two, but at least for now, I can't read them. So, I'm posting this anyway, but I can't see if or when it actually appears. Thanks for reading!
There's so much to process even with almost a week to go in my trip, from the dusty, frontier feel of Siem Reap, to the seductive and faintly dangerous vibe of Phnom Penh, to HCMC's manic energy and profusion of stuff and people, to Hue's elegance (and heat!). I've been down the Mekong River and into the jungle to visit a former VC special forces camp in the jungle, to the floating villages on the largest lake in SE Asia, the Tonle Sap. I've taken my life in my hands (or found the zen of it, depending on your point of view) and crossed the street in Ho Chi Minh City, and learned to act cool on the back of a motorbike as it weaves through traffic, often by driving on the wrong side of the road or the sidewalk.
It's now Sunday morning in Hue, as I pick up where I left off yesterday. I leave in a few hours for Hanoi. One of the things that's been so striking about this trip is the contrasts between the two countries as well as among the places I've been with them. It was striking, for example, to see how much more wealth there is in the Vietnamese countryside around Hue between the coast and the Lao border than there is outside the cities in Cambodia. And wealth is a relative term here, of course, but I'm talking about houses with doors and windows. They're still one-room structures with a lot of people in them -- Vietnam has a lot of people -- but they are much better off than rural Cambodians. You'll see rows of these simple houses, often with stalls selling a jumble of wares spilling out the front of them, and then suddenly a huge Frenchified plaster monstrosity will hove into view. You don't really need your guide or driver to tell you it's the home of the local Party official. There were a number of houses like this in the town closest to the Lao border, where I suppose business is brisk in border management.
There are also big differences in the national narratives you hear from people, which I'll write more about after I am out of Vietnam, and it's often difficult to figure out how much they believe in the story they tell you or are aware of its contradictions. This interplay of narratives is especially evident at the official sites, though of course these are exactly the kind of places where the dominant discourse is intended to drown out the other voices and erase the contradictions. Here's a relatively benign example: At the Independence Palace, which was formerly known as the Presidential Palace, you are required to tour the place with an official guide, in our case, a polished multilingual young woman dressed in the traditional ao dai. Her explanations of the building were fluent and well-rehearsed, and she used the adjective "puppet" over and over in her characterization of the regime that once governed from the building and its relationship to the US. At the same time, however, she pointed out with apparent pride that luxurious furnishings favored by the puppets. She suggested we take photographs of the preposterous platformed, silk-uphosltered chair framed by six-foot tall elephant tusks in which the puppet would sit to receive official visitors. I accidentally stepped on the edge of a huge and elaborate rug in the atrium, and she reacted as if I'd trampled a holy relic. I suppose visitors would say the same thing about these types of ossified historical sites in the US. They might wonder, for example, why we revere Thomas Jefferson and dutifully haul school children to his home without seriously engaging his troubling and complicated relationship to slavery. They might also wonder about things like the Johnson Ranch and the Nixon Library.
Have to pack up my ever-expanding stuff and get to the airport. I should mention that for some reason I can't open my own blog, so I can see from the inside that someone's left a comment or two, but at least for now, I can't read them. So, I'm posting this anyway, but I can't see if or when it actually appears. Thanks for reading!
Friday, July 13, 2007
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