Namaste Nepal

Namaste, a term which for me has always been associated with the slightly awkwardly-cheesy bow enforced by yoga instructors at the end of a class, is the hello and goodbye of Nepal, the aloha (minus the potential profession of love) spoken on entrance and exit of every home I visited in this compelling, gorgeous, dusty, infuriating country.  It’s the acknowledgement of the light or bit of God within everyone. 

More than a third of the country falls below the poverty line and it’s not uncommon to see the worst afflicted lying in the crowded sidewalks with a bowl set out for coins.  Many begging on the streets are kids– orphans and runaways, some addicted to inhalants, some whose parents put them to work begging.  Knowing the right approach to take or what’s appropriate when ‘helping’ is so difficult here, as it can be anywhere, I’m sure.  Even the slum where I’ve been working has elements of fraud and corruption where the ‘victims’ or ‘needy’ manipulate the system or outside generosity to get what they can.  It’s so tempting to get angry and then walk away– from the mothers who keep their infants out in the cold streets to beg for milk or food which they’ll sell the minute you’ve turned your back or from the caretakers at orphanages who would sell books and toys bought for kids if they knew no one was looking.  Kathmandu’s been a big dose of perspective.  While it makes a bit of sense to react angrily, it’s not fair and it’s short-sighted.  Working in places as poor as this one requires taking the long view, as well as a patient far-back look at the history of the place.  Layers and layers of social complexity and generations of poverty with few people interested to stick it out long enough to help, conspire to create real desperation.  And while it nears harassment and can really stress a body out, the constant hawking to and hounding from anybody with any little thing to sell, has to be understood as someone taking their chance, giving their best effort to climb out of desperation.  I admit to not being very patient about this.  Everyone works out their own philosophy about who to give to when and under what circumstances, but it’s all very very gray. 

Politically, Nepal is a fairly interesting case-study.  The monarchy is officially abolished as of week or so ago (they were pretty rotten at their god-bestowed duties anyway) and the Maoists, generally seen as insurgents and rebels, have agreed to participate in the government.  The Nepalis I’ve spoken to seem to have mixed feelings about the Maoists, who extort bribes from foreigners and tourists alike and are accused of killings, kidnappings, and general terrorism.  Still some support their socialist policies and goals, if not their tactics.

While it’s been declared unconstitutional, the caste system is still practiced, especially in rural areas.   It makes for fun reading in the personals section of the local paper where ads are organized according to caste to be even more practical about finding a partner (an already very pragmatic objective). Women are still second to men in encouragement in sports, but don’t seem barred from any profession or politics.  Dowry deaths (when a husband kills his wife out of frustration at a limited dowry from her parents) aren’t common, but they do happen, probably more often than reported. 

And all this in the only official Hindu nation, where the greeting is a response to the inner-Godness in everyone.  It’s a warm-hearted and friendly place with glaring social contradictions and complex problems.  I don’t have a final word or thought about Nepal except that  I’m happy I went there and got frustrated and learned a lot and found quiet in the midst of the dirt and poverty and crowds.  I’m headed home at this very moment with mixed feelings, but in general very pleased about all I’ve seen and done.  There’s a lot to think about.

Sagarmatha

Or what the rest of us call Mt. Everest. Peak trekking season was also picking up just as I arrived in Nepal. Because most everything slows down during the festivals it seemed a great idea to tag along on an excursion to Everest Base Camp with a group of other volunteers from my organization. 17 days of hiking, yak-dodging, and no in-door plumbing. But how gorgeous a time and how fantastic the views. Back in Kathmandu we can see the Himalayas quite clearly once the fog of morning burns off, but to be in them and among them is blessed and other-worldly.

Actual time at base camp is less than a few hours for most, but the journey is indeed more than equal to the destination. And scary and ungodly cold and exhausting. In good company, mild suffering is a little funny. Actually a strange little community of trekkers from all over the world (but mostly germany for some bizarre reason) develops as we all warm ourselves around lodge furnaces fueled by yak-chips. The tea room of the lodge is the only one that’s heated so when you’re not on the trail, you’re there playing cards or slurping sherpa stew with everyone else crammed ‘round you. Not a bad way to meet interesting people. Also, we six fresh young faces (in fact, among the very youngest on the trail as the Everest trek is dominated by mid-lifers) probably would have struggled a great deal more if not for our Nepali porters who carried some of our stuff and led the way. McGyver-meets-Paddington Bear, resourceful and adorable, they were younger than us all, but had already made the trek 17 times and could schmooze our large-ish party into any packed lodge. When we got sick (often) and when time was limited (often-er given that it was peak trekking and lodges fill quickly leaving little alternative for places to stay), they made sure we were sheltered and looked after. They even indulged us in a game of soccer (hey, I scored a goal!)

But for small clusters of lodges and a few scattered monasteries, the trail is mostly just that, trail. Steep and rugged with some blessed stretches of gentler, flatter bits, they hug the edge off mountains (scary when the yaks come) and cross surging mountain streams. Suspension bridges channel people and stock animals alike across gorges and crevasses. After 8 days on the trail I realized I hadn’t heard an engine since I’d started. No cars after weeks of congested and chaotic Kathmandu. Not much electricity either, but then no blaring radios and tvs and more conversation and quiet musings. Most days on the trail, conversation would be sporadic and hours of private contemplation were broken only by rushing water or the ethereal tinkling of yak-bells (think satin-y soft reindeer bells).

A personal test, physically, the time walking in the Himalayas was the unasked for opportunity to examine and put to bed plenty of anxieties of daily life that make no sense in the grander scheme of existence. We all made it up to base camp (not true for some 20-30% who take it on due to mountain sickness) and down relatively healthy and whole. After 17 days of dirt and bad food and physical trials and jokes and more drinking games than showers (2 total, showers that is) even the strangest strangers will be great friends at the end.

Some scenes from the trek:

Near the village of Gokyo, this lake is fed by glacial streams. Gokyo Ri is a climb we made to acclimate in preparation for getting to higher elevations closer to Everest.

On the toughest day of the hike, we began at our lodge (little blue roof mid picture) and trekked three hours through this steep valley to climb Cholo Pass, a sheer, vertical two hours of slag and ice-y trail in the snow covered range you see in the background (not the scary, pointy ones, sheesh). The climb was tougher because of the thinness of the air.

About 1.5 hours walk from base camp, this is the glacier the camp sits on. The Khumbu Icefall is to the right, and behind it, is Everest on the border with Tibet. The goofy thing is, you can’t see Everest from the camp because of the ice fall. But you can see it on the way and from different climbs like Kalapathar, 3 hours away by walking, where I took this shot . The bald hill in the middle is Everest and the field of white at the bottom is the freezing cloud I’d just climbed through to take the shot before the sun set. Alas, it’s not a brilliant picture.

The winding trail, a gentler one, just as the clouds began to roll in from the valley.

Stupa

Typical porter burden (not for our guys, though).

Forest trail 8 days from Everest.

Lodge/village cluster

 

In Nepal we are all brothers and sisters…

I had the mixed fortune of arriving in Nepal just as the “two greatest Nepali festivals” were beginning. Dashain, the first is celebrated by goat sacrifices and a mass exodus to the village of one’s forebearers. Tikka, the blessing offered with red powder dotted (or smeared, slathered, plastered) on the forehead and a bit of grass behind the ear and flower petals in the hair, if given from old to young with a little money and spoken blessings. I received tikka about four times in one day beginning with my Nepali family before moving onto the homes of friends’ families and the volunteer staff. For the most part I had no idea what blessings were being mumbled over my head but I surely had the feeling that they were spoken happily and from generous hearts. All together it felt to be a really intimate time between family members. As an older sister (didi) I gave tikka to my little Nepali sisters. Being in a position to offer, impromptu (and thus more heartfelt because they weren’t practiced or pre-conceived) wishes and blessings on younger siblings ceremonially wasn’t so shallow as an honor. More than being honored, I felt charged, vested somehow, as an honest-to-goodness concerned and accountable guardian for these kids in a sense that I’ve not felt before in my own knot of cousins and younger relatives.

To really celebrate big, families buy a goat and ceremonially sacrifice it by chopping off the head (after offering it tikka!). All week before the big day the main roads of Kathmandu were lined with hundreds of goats in a manner not unlike the Christmas tree stands in the US before Christmas. Horribly and somewhat ashamedly, I witnessed two goat decapitations. Really nothing prepares you for the sudden fall and the frantic tail wagging. Immediately after the head comes off, the blood is drained and the hair plucked and then everything, everything, is cooked up and eaten for days on end (kinda like thanksgiving turkeys).

Tihar, the second festival, is a week of special days of worship for different animal gods. Throughout the week cows and goats and dogs could be seen roaming our neighborhood wearing tikka and marigold garlands. Worship for Laxmi, the goddess represented by the cow, people crawl under cows, and in the evening paint a colorful pathway from their front gates, into the house and up to the family alter to lure in the goddess who will bless them with prosperity for the year. Tea candles and strings of electric lights are also used to get her attention. So many lights are on in the city that the power failed about every half hour. Bhaitikka, or brother worship, is celebrated on the last and happiest day of Tihar. Sisters offer tikka and blessings to their brothers in a sort of reenactment of a religious telling of how a sister saved her brother from a demon. Brothers are given garlands of purple and marigold flowers which are supposed to never dry out and sisters encircle their seated brothers with a protective barrier of some special oil. Lastly, a seven-colored tikka is marked on the brothers head and sweet foods and nuts are given to them. Brothers, in turn, offer presents and tikka to their sisters. Sounds like girls get the short end of the stick. As a sister though, I really enjoyed being the blessing-giver. In some bit of ceremony that still hasn’t been explained to me, I, as the oldest sister in my “generation” had to smash a walnut in the straw broom under the threshold (demonstration from my didi). Really fun, actually. Because of this special relationship played out in religion between brothers and sisters, Nepali’s in general regard everyone as a sibling and address each other as such. Yesterday, my taxi driver called me ‘mero didi’ or my sister, and as I’m working on health surveys I always thank my older brothers and sisters, dhai’s and didi’s, for their time. Dhanyabaad, didi. More to this sibling-ness, Nepali’s rarely express verbal thanks or apologies for things, because between brothers and sisters there’s no need; small bumps or accidents don’t require forgiveness and most anything is freely given.

Something like a stocking of goodies –traditional nuts and sweet foods given to brothers by sisters.

 

And now Nepal…

My initial plans would have seen me in India at this point, but that didn’t work out, so here I am in Kathmandu, capital city to yet another kingdom, Nepal. At the moment I’m working on a health survey in a slum along the Manohara River. Also very poor, in fact, probably worse off than Cambodia by the looks of it, Kathmandu lacks a lot of infrastructure and other perks of a more developed country, like steady electricity, safe roads (again the chaotic traffic), adequate public schools.

I’m living just on the edge of the city (our community is called Pepsicola after the soda factory nearby) with a family of two parents (a nepali language professor and his wife, a community health worker who, outside of home, sort of supervises me) and their three kids ages 12, 7, and 3. Their house is nice by local standards with simple, simple facilities. Clothes are washed by hand and laid out on the roof to dry, dishes are washed under a cold water tap with no soap and no cloth, and our drinking water comes from a hand-pumped well a 3 minute walk into the village. All the kids speak English, as do the parents to some degree. Twice a day I have dhalbaat (the general name for a meal referring to the dhal or lentil soup and rice served at every meal) with some vegetable which I’ve learned to eat with my hands, Nepali-style. About once or twice a week we have chicken. Eating with your hand –the right hand only—without smearing your face with dhal is a little tricky. All meals are taken with the family and if you’re late for dhalbaat the family will wait however long it takes, to your lasting shame. Our community is ringed by high hills and beyond them, on a clear day, the snow-capped Himalayas stand tall and pristine. Every time I see the white-chocolate-y peaks I make one of my bahinis look, but they’re blasé about living at the foot of so admired a world feature, as only locals can be. In fact, most Nepali’s I’ve met would never dream of going in the mountains. They see no sense in it.

The typical Nepali day begins before 6 am and ends about 9 pm. It’s unusual to be out late after dark. I’m usually asleep by 10pm so I’m up at 6 like most everybody else. I begin most days with early wake-up call of my little Nepali brother (little brothers are called bhai, pronounced ‘by’) beating on my door yelling ‘seesterrr, seesterrr.’ My first glimpse of the outside is the sun rising over the low mountain range that entirely circles this area. I spend a while outside on the rooftop watching the neighbors in small rice paddies or weeding their vegetable patches. One morning’s entertainment included watching several young men try to corale a cow out of the creek bed that runs alongside our house. It took two hours.

Funeral Pyres—This was taken at a sort of compound of temples alongside a holy river, the Bagmati. The burning piles are actually bodies being cremated. Family members of the dead take the ashes and throw them into the river believing this will send their loved one straight to Heaven instead of being reincarnated.

Holy Men sitting at the temple gates—These guys charge money, interestingly enough as they chose to live lives of poverty and survive on alms, for pictures so I took this shot from up high (rather than go down and pay them). If you can zoom in, you’ll see that each is holding about 6 ft. of dread locks.

Durbar Square—This place has the usual story of being built as palace grounds by a king and being surrounded by temples. Very old and bustling, this area is the labyrinth of narrow, shadowed streets with mangy dogs, vendors and brightly dressed ladies that came to mind when I first thought of Katmandu.

Cityscape–Katmandu at the best vantage point found thus far, Monkey Temple, where there are indeed many monkeys.

Thailand

over on the way to my final destination, Bangkok was the snooze button to my Cambodian wake-up call. A gorgeous airport and a down-right deliciously functional highway system illuminated by the glow of ostentatious billboards advertising needless services.  Ahhhh.  If it weren’t for the driver sitting on the right side of the car and all the Thai script on those billboards, I could pretend I was in New Orleans for a second or just up until we got into the mix of things down in the city. Khao San road, a quarter mile strip of the sinful side of Bourbon Street and the tacky, touristy side of Beale Street with a little carnival action thrown in, is notorious as a ‘backpacker ghetto,’ and there I slept. But, while daylight was burning I was out seeing Chinatown, an amulet market where the Thais buy their amulets with pictures of revered religious figures on them for protection, the Grand Palace (former home of the king…yep, Thailand is also a constitutional monarchy), a temple with the giant Reclining Buddha and the biggest dang outdoor market that could possibly be. In between all that, I ate squid on a stick and pad thai and other thai street food served with fresh pepper-corn pods and chilis. The street is really where it’s at for super cheap, super de-lish snacks or roving four-course meals. Overall, Bangkok was the most touristy bit of my travels thus far, a needed reprieve from work, close social examination, and the superficial struggles of a Westerner living in Eastern reality for the first time.

Here’s a slideshow:

Cambodia or where I once ate ants…

As a treat for getting a job and sticking out Hanoi, I traveled to Cambodia to be a tourist and a guest.

First Adventure: Angkor Wat

Built by ancient Khmer Kings about 1000 years ago, this temple and others built in the area are architectural and cultural wonders (world heritage sites exactly). Assembled in different styles and in varying degrees ornament, all the temples had something to offer. Most people have seen the sort of hauntingly romantic photos of the temples being clenched and swallowed by giant tree roots (strangler figs and silk cotton trees) in National Geographic. The walls of the temples are carved with reliefs of apsara dancers and buddhas or scenes from ancient texts. Outside the temples children beg or sell scarves and trinkets. If you can get them to forget for one second that you’re not a walking dollar sign, these adorable kids make really funny, practical little conversationalists.

Second Adventure: Phnom Penh

A former classmate works in the capital of Cambodia and hosted me for a brief two days. Seeing a familiar face and working with the same reference of experience and place and language was so good for my brain wearied by explaining my country or dropping articles from my syntax or being so careful to be considerate of another culture when expressing a viewpoint. Phnom Penh, next to Hanoi, was a bit tame. Smaller city with fewer people and less traffic, but chaotic nonetheless. Digging itself out of half a century of horrendous government, mass killings, and retarded economic and social growth, all the country is poor, and in Phnom Penh it shows.

Instead of the typical tourist experience of viewing palaces (Cambodia is a constitutional monarchy) and temples, I saw a bit of real life for some Cambodians. The price of economic development, which is finally coming along in the country, is often paid out by the poorest in society. In Phnom Penh hundreds of people are forced out of the tenement buildings they crowd into in the city and are relocated, in no organized fashion on the outskirts of town re-creating urban slums in a rural environment. I visited such a slum with health workers. Thus far, this was the worst living environment I’ve ever encountered. Homes were shacks of bamboo matting, tarp roofs, and sacks and sheets to filling in the gaps. Fetid drainage trenches overflowed with every kind of refuse. Children rarely wear shoes, even in the green-gray water of the gutters, and often they wore no clothes at all even at ages over 5. The water, which is purchased by the bucket from main stores that were delivered by NGOs, is unfit and must be boiled. However, boiling the water requires cooking fires fueled by either charcoal or scraps of firewood foraged in the nearby area, both sometimes too expensive leading the families to drinking un-boiled water. Families of this settlement have so few opportunities to work now that they are far removed from urban life. The whole village relies on charities and NGOs.**

As for the night life, we visited a few clubs, ate some Khmer food (one dish was stir-fried beef and lemon grass generously sprinkled with ants…not so bad, really) and observed another cost of economic development. We closed out the evening at a pick-up bar where foreigners and rich Cambodians go to find a lady (or lady-boy) for the evening. My party included two women and three men. The men were pounced upon almost immediately with neck and shoulder rubs from attentive and cooing girls. We women, especially me being a white woman, were almost completely ignored (which was a welcome change on the dance floor). Clearly some of, if not most, the guys were the typical sex-tourists, looking for young exotic beauties at a cheap price. Tragically, a high percentage of those girls were probably HIV-positive. They work as prostitutes because they can earn more this way in a week than they can in a month at another sort of job, and many have the pressure children to feed and put through school without the help of a family support system. Unfortunately, the culture and possibility for more money often mean they don’t have a lot of room to negotiate for safer sex.

Cambodia was, in a couple of ways, a much-needed touch with reality. Desperately poor, the country is a prime example of the kind situation I want to work to change. Social complexities and a good or bad economic situation combine to create inequalities (economic, social, health, etc.) borne up by the least able and most vulnerable.

** The purpose of this blog is to share my travels with those who brought me up, grew up with me and continue to grow along with me (you!)—not to solicit. However, if you’re at all interested in contributing to a reputable cause that will educate, feed and shelter kids in the slum described above in a way that supports the entire community, I have some information to offer. Just send an email to blythe.eden@gmail.com.

Leaving Vietnam

My time in Hanoi is over. In fact I’m long gone from there, but my last days were among the most interesting. Here are some bits of Vietnam as I last lived it.

Water puppetry

A traditional art form, water puppetry is still pretty popular today. It was developed by rice farmers when the paddies were flooded. Traditional stories are told in the figures of puppets (the Mother Fairy, Father Dragon story, the story of the Magic Turtle in Hoan Kiem Lake, etc). Here’s a clip

Flag Pole

By far one of the coolest and most culturally-telling (in the modern political sense) events I have observed in Vietnam has the lowering of the national flag. Every night the main flag pole standing in front of Ho Chi Minh’s mausoleum is surrounded by hundreds of Vietnamese, mostly from Hanoi, and just a very few tourists. About 10 minutes before nine impressively suited soldiers blow whistles and move the crowds a certain distance back from the flag leaving a football filed-sized area empty but for a few soldiers and the flag. Drums sound out dramatically and a recording of music plays, everyone is told to stand and a detail of soldiers with rifles marches swiftly in around the perimeter of the imaginary field and three guards proceed to lower the flag, bundle it up, place it one a red velvet cushion like a crown and then just as quickly march it out. The whole show lasts about 15 minutes during which time hundreds of little children bounce around the corners of the restricted area. Soldiers stand sentry along the perimeter, for no other reason, seemingly but to keep adults of the grass and round up renegade kids who are overcome with excitement. Just before the flag was marched out of the main scene a little boy wearing orange butterfly wings (apparently his mid-Autumn costume) made a snaking dash for the flag pole until one blank-faced soldier got him. Vietnam is a very proud country, with plenty of pomp and solemn respect for the party, Ho, and the nation.

Snake Village

I found a fellow traveler at my guest house interested in getting out of the city. We rented a motorbike and headed out for an afternoon to visit a place called Le Mat, the snake village. People there raise snakes and some rodents which they either bottle for medicines (see picture) or cook up for tourists ($40 a person!). Apparently the process is : tourist walks in, employee directs tourist to live snakes, tourist chooses one from the writhing heap, chosen snake is then decapitated, cooked and served up. Supposedly, you can even eat the still-beating heart. Men, mostly, are invited to do this.

Youth Union at Institute for Nutrition

Recently at the institute where I worked, the Youth Union there—a club for people under 35 referred to as the Right Hand of the Communist Party which puts on events for young people and, as far as I’ve been explained, does some philanthropic activities, held an even to honor Uncle Ho. A competition for the best story about Ho Chi Minh and songs about Vietnam and Ho made up the bulk of the event. The banners in the picture appeal to the young people to study hard and do their best work for Ho Chi Minh. I enjoyed watching everyone sing, clearly very happy and proud to honor their national father (although at times, it can seem kinda cult-ish). Note the bust of Ho in the corner under the hammer and sickle. The girls are wearing the Ao Dai the traditional dress of Vietnam. Girls in high school wear these in white and make a very pretty picture on the streets riding their bicycles in small groups.

Slide Show—Here are some clips, new and old of Ha Noi, some favorites and things I think are characteristic of Hanoi and my time there. I really enjoyed getting to know the city and people (after the first two weeks). I learned a lot professionally, changed my mind about so many life matters while dodging traffic on the sidewalks, and in the midst of all the chaos and potential frustration learned to deal and have a sense of humor through it.

Hard at work

There were at least 19 spiders in the bathroom as I showered tonight. I stopped counting at 19 because it was just too much to be creeped out by. I write this crouched on dirty sheets under a froufrou mosquito net avoiding the spiders and other insects in my hotel room. Earlier today I almost ate a chicken heart with an artery still attached. Betcha can’t guess what I’m up to…my first paid consultancy.

I’m back out in the field, among the villages I’ve visited before, only now, in the midst of the rainy season, it might as well be a different location altogether for all the difficulty of getting around. Instead of taking a ferry across the red river which was too high due to rains, our team parked and walked to a small happenstance crossing where a skinny boat with the most ridiculously small propeller picked us up and floated us across the swollen river. From there we hiked a bit to our destination, caught our breath and broke out into smaller teams to travel by motorbike to conduct interviews in several villages. Here’s some shaky video of the trip I made from the back of the bike (Sorry about the white shoulder in the middle of it, really, I had to hang on and lost focus a bit):If anyone has any advice for adjusting the quality, I’m open. Clearly I won’t be working for National Geographic anytime soon.

The roads are deeply rutted normally, but this day they were a rutted muddy viscous in many places. At one point, the wheels spun in the mud so badly, I had to jump off and give the motorbike a push to get us out. As we flew –in those dry places where we could indeed fly—down the road, we passed water buffalo with swishing tails, Hmong and Tay people in traditional clothes, and school kids on bikes headed home for lunch, leaving scattered yard chickens in our wake. Occasionally, I’d hear a belated “hello” hollered out from behind us, a clear signal that someone had noticed the white girl on the bike. Anyone riding behind the driver on such a trip must be entirely participant or else you’ll bounce right off. You have to anticipate the terrain and lean appropriately or else skid right into a gulley—which nearly happened, twice. Still, seeing only stretches of red-brown earth and the road-side surroundings similarly colored by years of dust and mud can dull the mind for a moment, until, suddenly, a curve is taken and brilliant, juicy, near-violent green life bursts out. Giving under the weight of heavy grains the rice has begun to yellow in perfect tiers tucked in the smallest crooks along the river and between hills. Palmettos fairly spring out and cassava patches creep up the hillside.

While carrying out our work, an interview subject was busy in the fields, but the opportunity to talk to someone else was offered, which we accepted. Our guide took us across a field and knee-high through more than a couple chilly stream beds. A steep climb up the next hill brought us right into a backyard barbeque and techno enhanced wedding reception. This kid stole my heart. He’s holding a ball of sticky rice, a ball he did not let out of his grubby hands for another 20 minutes while he followed us further into the village for an interview in the home of an ethnic Tay family. Mid-way through the talk a deliciously smoky cooking fire was lit in the hearth. Old women crouched and looked on while the younger one was interviewed. Their hair is worn up, covered in scarves, and their teeth are stained solid black from chewing betel which gives their lips a burnt-orange tinge. And there I sit among them in the faint smoke, feeling fortunate for once not to speak Vietnamese, off the hook and free to take it all in from my spot in a circle of simple women, feet muddied, jeans rolled to my thighs, the little boy with his sticky rice behind me.

Spiders included, this cannot be the worst way to begin a career.

Today, our prehistoric SUV broke down and this little man came, crawled inside and tinkered around for an hour to get it going. My co-worker, translator, and good friend, Duong, and I took the opportunity to eat custard apples (they look like green pine-cones).

For anyone tired of my karaoke picture featuring an *ahem* 4 yr. old’s grin, here’s the scene of a promise finally kept to a province official who invited me out to coffee over a month ago.

Breakfast pho. Rice noodles in chicken or beef broth (chicken here) served with lime juice, green onion, chilis, and sometimes lemongrass. It looks very pretty when first served, but I stirred it up before the picture, sorry. It’s eaten with a spoon and chopsticks.

Chicken with lemon leaf is a common dish. The head (see left of plate) and wing are generally reserved for the man of the house.

A whole, roasted bird that I did actually eat. Supposedly, the head’s the best part. I cannot verify that.

Lastly, a movie recommendation. Three Seasons. It’s about present day Vietnam and presents the meeting of modern and traditional Vietnamese ways of life. And it’s good.

Miscellany

I love beer, and so do the Vietnamese. Bia hoi (bia=beer, say it, sounds like how beer might have been heard through European accents) are establishments that brew beer every morning and sell it cheeeeeaaaaapppp (<20¢ a glass) until late at night when they toss it out and make more. Locals sit outside on the curbs for hours squatting in huddles on tiny plastic stools drinking this weak-ish pilsner type beer. Not fantastic, but not offensive either, it’s light and great for humid, sweaty nights. You can drink several glasses in one conversation and not get too fuzzy to argue a good point. Alas, Ha Noi keeps early hours, and shopkeepers generally kick you off your stool around 11pm. But taxi drivers looking for late-night fares from internationals are quick to offer a ride to one of the 3 or 4 late night clubs. After such a night, some friends and I recently ended up at a great place right on the Red River where the muddy water laps right in on the patio. Very atmospheric.

Here’s a snap of an outdoor spice and dry-goods market. The clear rope-y stuff is rice noodles, the red liquid in the bottles is chili sauce, and the different colored heaps in baskets are lentils, beans, nuts, spice, and dried shrimp. The dark flat stuff is dried bamboo, mushrooms and other fungus, roots and fish. Notice the couple in the background on the bike. People do their shopping by riding straight into the stall. That pisses me off exceedingly.

I’ve made a few claims about the disgusting state of streets. Here’s some proof. This is run off coming (not in picture) into the stream from stores, etc. to collect in the waterway, some of which is diverted beneath the roads, some continues on or pools up where it stagnates and sprouts stuff like the pink scum in this picture. This pisses me off, too. BUT on the sidewalk in the picture is a pail with a charcoal piece with a few holes punched in it. Lit with fire, this charcoal set-up is used to cook more than half the meals consumed in the city every day, even in ‘restaurants’.

Sour plums on the street—this makes a nice snack but comes with questionable cleanliness. I prefer the crispy green mango they sell sprinkled with cayenne.

1.5 minutes of typical Hanoi Traffic Imagine crossing this every day. Whole families of 5 often ride together on one motorbike in this traffic without helmets. That should change soon since the government just passed a law requiring helmets. Here’s a notice for the new law

 

 

 

A bit about the war

I avoid discussing it, but if someone else brings it up, I like to ask some questions since Magee High didn’t particularly stress this moment in history as important commit to memory. Here, it’s called the American War, since after all the Americans were the invaders. (All this causes me to doubt the Iraqis are calling the current conflict in the Middle East the Iraq War. How many “American Wars” do you think American high school students will learn about?) The general opinion is an amazing statement of this people’s resilience and optimism for a prosperous and happy future. “The war is over, that’s in the past. If we hated the Americans, we’d have to hate the whole world.” The US is not the only country Vietnam has had to run out of its borders. And with this attitude Vietnam was really set her sights on economic prosperity for her people, and the Vietnamese embrace any scrap of guidance and every coin that comes their way, regardless of country of origin. Their health goals–my interest– (including decreasing chronic malnutrition by 10% in under a decade, which is tough) are impressive and they mean to reach them, because they know that a healthy population is a economically prosperous and happy one. Still, I feel uneasy about the war when I think of the death tolls and bomb statistics or the reports of continued effects due to Agent Orange (sometimes I wonder if the handicapped person I see before me is a victim), and this makes it hard for me to look at co-workers when we discuss it.

There are monuments and memorials in nearly every commune (cluster of several villages) for fallen soldiers and veterans. Military exhibits can be found in Ha Noi. The Maison Centrale, or the Ha Noi Hilton as it was called by American POWs was a prison and holding location for POW’s (including John McCain who bailed out of his plane into one of the lakes in town), and is now a museum almost celebratory, by all reports of, of its past. The crashed remains of a couple of B-52 bombers were left where they landed in a few places around town as a remembrance. The Vietnamese take pride in the fact that their poor and undeveloped country outlasted and drove out the world’s most powerful army.

Ho Chi Minh, the father of the Vietnamese independence, is greatly revered. The whole country wakes up early and exercises because Uncle Ho said it was a good idea. I just had a great chat with an aspiring tour guide who positively glowed when he talked about Ho and his ideas. Uncle Ho–which is how the Vietnamese people refer to him–is laid in state in an imposing mausoleum where hundreds of people shuffle by all somber and gawky. I think it’s a bit creepy and downright irreverent, more so because Ho wouldn’t want it. Still, I went and shuffled and tried not gawk. No cameras were allowed in, but if you want to see Uncle Ho as he is now, visit the wikipedia article about him (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ho_Chi_Minh). However, nearly every house, business, and even somewhat governmental office has a picture or bust of him displayed, some with alters.

Sorry, no pictures of military stuff. I don’t really like war memorials. But here are some political items.

Propaganda is still plentiful. This picture features a quote Ho made about protecting the environment. A lot of messages and posters are made in soviet-style art with block-y people and symbols of industry and development.

Daily broadcasts from street-corner loudspeakers inform the people about Communist Party meetings, admonish them to work hard and keep their property clean, and, by one report, to be wary of what lies foreigners might tell about their countries. Also, ubiquitous red banners remind the people about important national and party holidays and other propaganda.

Ho Chi Minh’s Mausoleum