I think there's definitely something to be said for Fear of the Unknown, even though I think its losing the battle.
One week ago, which seems like an eternity in itself, I left Asia to embark on yet another unknown adventure. As I have done many times before, I left behind friends, family, and someone I love. My mother comforted me in saying that I had made this move before and that I was equipped with the physical and mental tools needed to take the next step. I'm not sure if that is a good or bad thing.
All of us nomads are well aware of our blessings and our curses. The blessings and oppurtunities to see what most people will never see, to experience daydreams and live out our life ambitions are at the top of my list for why I do what I do, why I am who I am. The top of my list of Traveling Curses would look something like this:
1. Being seperated for long periods of time from my friends, family and loved ones.
2. Living out of a small backpack with little or no privacy.
3. The almost impossibility of sustaining relationships due to frequent changing of countries.
4. Giving up material possesisons.
5. No hot showers.
Most of those I am fine with, or have learned to cope with, or have learned to cherish. Recently though, I've been wondering if human beings really can be equipped with the ability to leave a comfortable life passively, or if it's some sort of mental defect that was bestowed upon me at birth. Is it a good thing to not be afraid of the unknown? Or to pretend that I'm not even though I am petrified. I can honestly say that I have been afraid before every big move I have ever made. That means it's not Fear that keeps me home, but simply that my curiosity is stronger than my fear of the unknown.
Curiosity is a strange companion. It will find me when I am satisfied with life and pry me out of there as fast as it can. It is always near, always itching to move, learn, grow, push, run, jump, and crash into streetlights. It is addicted to adventure. Curiosity is selfish and will not compromise. It does not bind itself to people or places, it steers clear of love, it invites trouble to tea and its motives are unquestionable because there is no logical answer anyway.
I have leapt agian with Curiosity as my only guide. As I sit and reflect on my life and how I have come to be who I am, I look out the window to see the green hills, blue sky and leafless trees of Nelson, New Zealand. The crisp August chill catches me off guard when I venture out of my blankets, but the air is clean and my peace of mind spreads further with every hot cup of tea and friendly smile. My boyfriend Haydin's family has been so kind as to take me in and treat as one of their own, and for that I will be forever grateful. Curiosity has been forced into remission while I stay here and make some money to fuel my travel habits. Until then it will bide its time, it will be patient, it will wait.
But someday it will strike and at its mercy, I will uproot myself once again and the battle between Fear and Curiosity rages on. If your curiosity is screaming at you too, please feel free to join in.
My Curiosity and I welcome you.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Fear vs. Curiosity
I think there's definitely something to be said for Fear of the Unknown, even though I think its losing the battle.
One week ago, which seems like an eternity in itself, I left Asia to embark on yet another unknown adventure. As I have done many times before, I left behind friends, family, and someone I love. My mother comforted me in saying that I had made this move before and that I was equipped with the physical and mental tools needed to take the next step. I'm not sure if that is a good or bad thing.
All of us nomads are well aware of our blessings and our curses. The blessings and oppurtunities to see what most people will never see, to experience daydreams and live out our life ambitions are at the top of my list for why I do what I do, why I am who I am. The top of my list of Traveling Curses would look something like this:
1. Being seperated for long periods of time from my friends, family and loved ones.
2. Living out of a small backpack with little or no privacy.
3. The almost impossibility of sustaining relationships due to frequent changing of countries.
4. Giving up material possesisons.
5. No hot showers.
Most of those I am fine with, or have learned to cope with, or have learned to cherish. Recently though, I've been wondering if human beings really can be equipped with the ability to leave a comfortable life passively, or if it's some sort of mental defect that was bestowed upon me at birth. Is it a good thing to not be afraid of the unknown? Or to pretend that I'm not even though I am petrified. I can honestly say that I have been afraid before every big move I have ever made. That means it's not Fear that keeps me home, but simply that my curiosity is stronger than my fear of the unknown.
Curiosity is a strange companion. It will find me when I am satisfied with life and pry me out of there as fast as it can. It is always near, always itching to move, learn, grow, push, run, jump, and crash into streetlights. It is addicted to adventure. Curiosity is selfish and will not compromise. It does not bind itself to people or places, it steers clear of love, it invites trouble to tea and its motives are unquestionable because there is no logical answer anyway.
I have leapt agian with Curiosity as my only guide. As I sit and reflect on my life and how I have come to be who I am, I look out the window to see the green hills, blue sky and leafless trees of Nelson, New Zealand. The crisp August chill catches me off guard when I venture out of my blankets, but the air is clean and my peace of mind spreads further with every hot cup of tea and friendly smile. My boyfriend Haydin's family has been so kind as to take me in and treat as one of their own, and for that I will be forever grateful. Curiosity has been forced into remission while I stay here and make some money to fuel my travel habits. Until then it will bide its time, it will be patient, it will wait.
But someday it will strike and at its mercy, I will uproot myself once again and the battle between Fear and Curiosity rages on. If your curiosity is screaming at you too, please feel free to join in.
My Curiosity and I welcome you.
One week ago, which seems like an eternity in itself, I left Asia to embark on yet another unknown adventure. As I have done many times before, I left behind friends, family, and someone I love. My mother comforted me in saying that I had made this move before and that I was equipped with the physical and mental tools needed to take the next step. I'm not sure if that is a good or bad thing.
All of us nomads are well aware of our blessings and our curses. The blessings and oppurtunities to see what most people will never see, to experience daydreams and live out our life ambitions are at the top of my list for why I do what I do, why I am who I am. The top of my list of Traveling Curses would look something like this:
1. Being seperated for long periods of time from my friends, family and loved ones.
2. Living out of a small backpack with little or no privacy.
3. The almost impossibility of sustaining relationships due to frequent changing of countries.
4. Giving up material possesisons.
5. No hot showers.
Most of those I am fine with, or have learned to cope with, or have learned to cherish. Recently though, I've been wondering if human beings really can be equipped with the ability to leave a comfortable life passively, or if it's some sort of mental defect that was bestowed upon me at birth. Is it a good thing to not be afraid of the unknown? Or to pretend that I'm not even though I am petrified. I can honestly say that I have been afraid before every big move I have ever made. That means it's not Fear that keeps me home, but simply that my curiosity is stronger than my fear of the unknown.
Curiosity is a strange companion. It will find me when I am satisfied with life and pry me out of there as fast as it can. It is always near, always itching to move, learn, grow, push, run, jump, and crash into streetlights. It is addicted to adventure. Curiosity is selfish and will not compromise. It does not bind itself to people or places, it steers clear of love, it invites trouble to tea and its motives are unquestionable because there is no logical answer anyway.
I have leapt agian with Curiosity as my only guide. As I sit and reflect on my life and how I have come to be who I am, I look out the window to see the green hills, blue sky and leafless trees of Nelson, New Zealand. The crisp August chill catches me off guard when I venture out of my blankets, but the air is clean and my peace of mind spreads further with every hot cup of tea and friendly smile. My boyfriend Haydin's family has been so kind as to take me in and treat as one of their own, and for that I will be forever grateful. Curiosity has been forced into remission while I stay here and make some money to fuel my travel habits. Until then it will bide its time, it will be patient, it will wait.
But someday it will strike and at its mercy, I will uproot myself once again and the battle between Fear and Curiosity rages on. If your curiosity is screaming at you too, please feel free to join in.
My Curiosity and I welcome you.
Devastation and Hope
I have two stories to share: one is a story of devastation and one is of hope.
Today Haydin and I went to Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum and the Choeung Ek Killing Fields in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. As with my visit to the Auschwitz Concentration Camp in Poland, I find myself once again searching for words to describe the indescribable. Perhaps a little history to fill our heads and fuel our hearts is a good way to start...
In 1975, after a bloody, five-year long civil war between the Khmer Republic and the Kymer Rouge (the revolutionary faction), Pol Pot and the Kymer Rouge emerged victorious and "liberated" the Cambodian people. During the war, many people from villages had fled to the cities for protection from falling bombs and open warfare. Hours after their victory, the Kymer Rouge proceeded to start rounding up Republic officers, soldiers, officials, diplomats, and educated men, women and children who were either from the cities or had fled there during the war. The goal primarily being to wipe out humanity and start over again with poor, uneducated people who would not question the new regime.
The atrocities committed are astronomical. Tuol Sleng, formerly a school, turned into a prison for interrogation, torture, deprivation and death. There are pictures on the walls, hundreds of pictures, of the men, women and children who suffered beyond what I can even imagine. The look in their eyes tells the story of their plight: fear, anxiety, confusion, humiliation, pain, pride, defiance, strength, and even a few weak smiles. I like to think that the smiles were reflecting their spirit within.
There were seven survivors out of the 20,000 people taken from the prison to the Choeung Ek Killing Fields, fifteen kilometers outside the city. There, after weeks, months, or even years in the prisons, they were taken to the field and killed simply for being a doctor or born in the wrong city not in a Khmer Rouge province. After four years the genocide was stopped, mainly by the Vietnamese army, and the realities and truths surfaced. In those few years over three million people were executed, which is almost three hundred innocent deaths per day.
Today was a rollercoaster of emotions for me. I went through stages of anger and hatred to pure shock and deep saddness. I walked around with a numbness one can only feel when being truly overwhelmed. I was frustrated because I feel I should have learned something about this in school and felt very uneducated and ill-informed. I wanted to scream at the cruelty of the greedy few who destroy this beautiful world in their quest for power. I wanted to give everything to the families who suffered and lost. Every single Cambodian has a story to tell, thier wounds still healing from the horrors they endured. This tradgedy must never be lost or forgotten, and we must learn from the past so as not to repeat it in the future.
The hope I can offer comes in the ever-enduring spirit of the people of Cambodia. They are making their way back into the developing country it once was forty years ago. Our tuk-tuk driver, Softya, was a ray of light on such a dark, cloudy day. He is teaching himself English and his smiles and friendship were exactly what I needed to hold back the tears. On the way to the Fields he stopped at his house to introduce us to his wife and six year-old daughter, and beaming proudly, introduced us to them. He gives me hope for a prosperous Cambodian future, one of solidarity and of peace.
This day has forever changed me, and I will awaken each morning with a new appreciation for what I have been handed in life, and how lucky I truly, truly am.
***If you would like some more information and don't have time to visit Cambodia, I would highly suggest a few books:A Cambodian Prison Portrait. One Year in the Khmer Rouge's S-21 by Vann Nath, I have read this short book, and is written by one of the seven survivors of the Tuol Sleng Prison. First They Killed My Father: A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers by Loung Ung. I haven't had a chance to read this yet but it has come highly recommended by many friends.
Today Haydin and I went to Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum and the Choeung Ek Killing Fields in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. As with my visit to the Auschwitz Concentration Camp in Poland, I find myself once again searching for words to describe the indescribable. Perhaps a little history to fill our heads and fuel our hearts is a good way to start...
In 1975, after a bloody, five-year long civil war between the Khmer Republic and the Kymer Rouge (the revolutionary faction), Pol Pot and the Kymer Rouge emerged victorious and "liberated" the Cambodian people. During the war, many people from villages had fled to the cities for protection from falling bombs and open warfare. Hours after their victory, the Kymer Rouge proceeded to start rounding up Republic officers, soldiers, officials, diplomats, and educated men, women and children who were either from the cities or had fled there during the war. The goal primarily being to wipe out humanity and start over again with poor, uneducated people who would not question the new regime.
The atrocities committed are astronomical. Tuol Sleng, formerly a school, turned into a prison for interrogation, torture, deprivation and death. There are pictures on the walls, hundreds of pictures, of the men, women and children who suffered beyond what I can even imagine. The look in their eyes tells the story of their plight: fear, anxiety, confusion, humiliation, pain, pride, defiance, strength, and even a few weak smiles. I like to think that the smiles were reflecting their spirit within.
There were seven survivors out of the 20,000 people taken from the prison to the Choeung Ek Killing Fields, fifteen kilometers outside the city. There, after weeks, months, or even years in the prisons, they were taken to the field and killed simply for being a doctor or born in the wrong city not in a Khmer Rouge province. After four years the genocide was stopped, mainly by the Vietnamese army, and the realities and truths surfaced. In those few years over three million people were executed, which is almost three hundred innocent deaths per day.
Today was a rollercoaster of emotions for me. I went through stages of anger and hatred to pure shock and deep saddness. I walked around with a numbness one can only feel when being truly overwhelmed. I was frustrated because I feel I should have learned something about this in school and felt very uneducated and ill-informed. I wanted to scream at the cruelty of the greedy few who destroy this beautiful world in their quest for power. I wanted to give everything to the families who suffered and lost. Every single Cambodian has a story to tell, thier wounds still healing from the horrors they endured. This tradgedy must never be lost or forgotten, and we must learn from the past so as not to repeat it in the future.
The hope I can offer comes in the ever-enduring spirit of the people of Cambodia. They are making their way back into the developing country it once was forty years ago. Our tuk-tuk driver, Softya, was a ray of light on such a dark, cloudy day. He is teaching himself English and his smiles and friendship were exactly what I needed to hold back the tears. On the way to the Fields he stopped at his house to introduce us to his wife and six year-old daughter, and beaming proudly, introduced us to them. He gives me hope for a prosperous Cambodian future, one of solidarity and of peace.
This day has forever changed me, and I will awaken each morning with a new appreciation for what I have been handed in life, and how lucky I truly, truly am.
***If you would like some more information and don't have time to visit Cambodia, I would highly suggest a few books:A Cambodian Prison Portrait. One Year in the Khmer Rouge's S-21 by Vann Nath, I have read this short book, and is written by one of the seven survivors of the Tuol Sleng Prison. First They Killed My Father: A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers by Loung Ung. I haven't had a chance to read this yet but it has come highly recommended by many friends.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Northern Winds
I am surrounded by white people and it's freaking me out a bit.
I have left life as I know it.
My kids have new teachers.
My lovely apartment is empty.
My vegetable lady is wondering where the hell I am.
All I can say is that recently a strong wind has been blowing from the north, and I now find myself in Hoi An, a town quite a ways south of Hanoi. Back in the traveling circuit I am no longer the solo foreigner on the road and I am having trouble adjusting.
I miss Hanoi and my way of life for the last four and a half months. It's the longest I've stayed in one place in almost two years. I miss that it's close to impossible to get a decent cold shower because it's so hot outside that it heats up all the pipes. I miss the decrepit old lady who lives in our alley who always pinches my cheek and speaks to me in rapid Vietnamese when she knows she has to speak slowly for me to understand. I miss my tofu lady I see twice a week. I miss that our alley is not just an alley but a community. Viet Nam is a community. Viet Nam is a family.
What is really getting to me is how much I miss my kids. Those little bastards have sure learned how to tug on my heartstrings, which I wasn't aware I even had. I miss how they run screaming at my knee caps when I walk through the door in the mornings, how they hug me and show me toys they have brought from home, mostly of the McDonald's quality. I love watching them progress, the proud look of accomplishment on a four year old when he can count to ten and the mischievous grin of a six year of when she can make a joke with me that we both understand. I imagine that my kids will grow and continue to learn English, become educated young adults and lead Viet Nam into its already developing future. I feel blessed to be able to take part in that process, in a special part of their lives, which I will always remember. I hope they will remember me too.
To the teachers, students, families and friends who made my life so much easier in such a challenging country, I smile from my heart and say Thank You. I will continue heading south to Saigon, aka Ho Chi Minh City, and then into Cambodia for two weeks to conclude a nine month stint in South East Asia. As I said before, the northern winds have been very strong and are taking me from Bangkok to New Zealand on August 9th so that I will arrive in Christchurch on my 24th birthday, starting a new chapter in this crazy life of mine.
May the winds blow you along your paths as well.
I have left life as I know it.
My kids have new teachers.
My lovely apartment is empty.
My vegetable lady is wondering where the hell I am.
All I can say is that recently a strong wind has been blowing from the north, and I now find myself in Hoi An, a town quite a ways south of Hanoi. Back in the traveling circuit I am no longer the solo foreigner on the road and I am having trouble adjusting.
I miss Hanoi and my way of life for the last four and a half months. It's the longest I've stayed in one place in almost two years. I miss that it's close to impossible to get a decent cold shower because it's so hot outside that it heats up all the pipes. I miss the decrepit old lady who lives in our alley who always pinches my cheek and speaks to me in rapid Vietnamese when she knows she has to speak slowly for me to understand. I miss my tofu lady I see twice a week. I miss that our alley is not just an alley but a community. Viet Nam is a community. Viet Nam is a family.
What is really getting to me is how much I miss my kids. Those little bastards have sure learned how to tug on my heartstrings, which I wasn't aware I even had. I miss how they run screaming at my knee caps when I walk through the door in the mornings, how they hug me and show me toys they have brought from home, mostly of the McDonald's quality. I love watching them progress, the proud look of accomplishment on a four year old when he can count to ten and the mischievous grin of a six year of when she can make a joke with me that we both understand. I imagine that my kids will grow and continue to learn English, become educated young adults and lead Viet Nam into its already developing future. I feel blessed to be able to take part in that process, in a special part of their lives, which I will always remember. I hope they will remember me too.
To the teachers, students, families and friends who made my life so much easier in such a challenging country, I smile from my heart and say Thank You. I will continue heading south to Saigon, aka Ho Chi Minh City, and then into Cambodia for two weeks to conclude a nine month stint in South East Asia. As I said before, the northern winds have been very strong and are taking me from Bangkok to New Zealand on August 9th so that I will arrive in Christchurch on my 24th birthday, starting a new chapter in this crazy life of mine.
May the winds blow you along your paths as well.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
I swear I get more Vietnamese every day.
I think the reason I haven't written in a long time is not due to lack of weird things to write about, but that the oddities of a life in Viet Nam have just become the norm. Most mornings I wake up early and try to dress conservatively because showing any shoulders, stomach or knees is considered whore-ish. In one hand as I walk out the door is a green army helmet covered in mesh with a Viet Nam flag on the side.. A gift from my boyfriend Haydin, it is so I don't have to wear other peoples helmets on the multiple moto-taxis I take all the time. In the other hand is a pink and white flowery face mask with a filter in it.. The face mask is a common accessory here in Hanoi due to the raging polution problem. The first time a giant bus hacks up a cloud of black exhaust in your face, you will wear a filtered face mask too. If it's raining, which is often, a bubblegum pink rain coat keeps me and my school supplies somewhat dry. So with my helmet, face mask, rain coat and a pair of giant purple sunglasses I look like a smaller, more colorful version of Darth Vader. The funny thing is that I still look like everyone else.
I walk down my alley to the street where a couple of xe om (motorcycle taxi) drivers usually hang out. A quick conversation in Vietnamese as to where I need to go and how much I will pay and I'm on the back of the bike zooming towards 15-30 kids waiting for me to teach them English. It really makes my day when I can have a little joke with the xe om guys, because unless they know me, most of them aren't expecting Hanoi street slang from a big, tall, white girl. (Insert: ling ta ling ting.) My Vietnamese is coming along nicely, but it has been quite an interesting challenge. For example, there are six different tones, eight accents, eleven vowels, and nothing is said the way it is spelled. As you might imagine, I spend a lot of time trying to get the right pronounciation so that I can get simple messages across. I have a theory about the Vietnamese language: it is made of so many minute differences that any deviation of the exact pronounciation does not register at all. So if I'm trying to get to my street, Ngo Van So, I might have to say it seven different times in seven different ways before they understand.
I'm not giving myself much credit, but I do speak a little. I can hold small conversations, answer questions, haggle, and not get ripped off as much as other foreigners, which I'm actually quite proud of. There's a three-way tie for my favorite phrase:
Toi la giao vien, khong phai la hach du lich.
(I'm a teacher, not a stupid tourist.)
Ling ta ling ting.
(You're talking shit. (in a joking way))
Khong phai ga viet!
I am not a Vietnamese chicken!
Basically all my key phrases are in effort to save me money and not be pegged for some oblivious tourist that will pay triple the price because they just don't know better. I'm not shocked by it though, as nothing shocks me anymore. Twelve year olds driving mopeds through morning traffic with giant, slaughtered pigs strapped to the sides while chain smoking cigarretes no longer phases me. The roads of Hanoi no longer scare me, but kind of remind me of the Super Nintendo version of Super Mario Cart, complete with slippery banana peels laid out by giant Donkeys driving go-carts and explosive red turtle shells bopping across the lanes of traffic. I've stopped flinching at chicken heads and feet floating in bowls of soup, deep-fried whole baby ducklings, and dog-meat kebabs. Seventeen year olds weilding AK-47s at major tourist sites make me laugh, as do the great lengths the people here go through to remain as pasty white as possible, while I run around trying to soak up the sun for a better tan.
I'm also never shocked when a Vietnamese friend or acquaintance of mine will bend over backward to help me out. My favorite Vietnamese person is a woman named Huyen, a manager at one of the schools I teach at. She takes me to the outdoor market so I can buy fresh fruit and veg without being overcharged. She invited Haydin, Brittney and I for coffee on her one night off a week so I could meet her husband, son and mother. She has taken me to the Van Phuc Silk Village outside of the city twice so I can find some nice, affordable clothes. We swap teaching each other English and Vietnamese phrases and laugh at the beautiful differences between our two cultures.
The differences here are amazing, but we learn to live with it, laugh about it and love it, like when the government shuts off the power in different areas of Hanoi (including mine) a couple times a week to save energy. That's always fun.
I think the reason I haven't written in a long time is not due to lack of weird things to write about, but that the oddities of a life in Viet Nam have just become the norm. Most mornings I wake up early and try to dress conservatively because showing any shoulders, stomach or knees is considered whore-ish. In one hand as I walk out the door is a green army helmet covered in mesh with a Viet Nam flag on the side.. A gift from my boyfriend Haydin, it is so I don't have to wear other peoples helmets on the multiple moto-taxis I take all the time. In the other hand is a pink and white flowery face mask with a filter in it.. The face mask is a common accessory here in Hanoi due to the raging polution problem. The first time a giant bus hacks up a cloud of black exhaust in your face, you will wear a filtered face mask too. If it's raining, which is often, a bubblegum pink rain coat keeps me and my school supplies somewhat dry. So with my helmet, face mask, rain coat and a pair of giant purple sunglasses I look like a smaller, more colorful version of Darth Vader. The funny thing is that I still look like everyone else.
I walk down my alley to the street where a couple of xe om (motorcycle taxi) drivers usually hang out. A quick conversation in Vietnamese as to where I need to go and how much I will pay and I'm on the back of the bike zooming towards 15-30 kids waiting for me to teach them English. It really makes my day when I can have a little joke with the xe om guys, because unless they know me, most of them aren't expecting Hanoi street slang from a big, tall, white girl. (Insert: ling ta ling ting.) My Vietnamese is coming along nicely, but it has been quite an interesting challenge. For example, there are six different tones, eight accents, eleven vowels, and nothing is said the way it is spelled. As you might imagine, I spend a lot of time trying to get the right pronounciation so that I can get simple messages across. I have a theory about the Vietnamese language: it is made of so many minute differences that any deviation of the exact pronounciation does not register at all. So if I'm trying to get to my street, Ngo Van So, I might have to say it seven different times in seven different ways before they understand.
I'm not giving myself much credit, but I do speak a little. I can hold small conversations, answer questions, haggle, and not get ripped off as much as other foreigners, which I'm actually quite proud of. There's a three-way tie for my favorite phrase:
Toi la giao vien, khong phai la hach du lich.
(I'm a teacher, not a stupid tourist.)
Ling ta ling ting.
(You're talking shit. (in a joking way))
Khong phai ga viet!
I am not a Vietnamese chicken!
Basically all my key phrases are in effort to save me money and not be pegged for some oblivious tourist that will pay triple the price because they just don't know better. I'm not shocked by it though, as nothing shocks me anymore. Twelve year olds driving mopeds through morning traffic with giant, slaughtered pigs strapped to the sides while chain smoking cigarretes no longer phases me. The roads of Hanoi no longer scare me, but kind of remind me of the Super Nintendo version of Super Mario Cart, complete with slippery banana peels laid out by giant Donkeys driving go-carts and explosive red turtle shells bopping across the lanes of traffic. I've stopped flinching at chicken heads and feet floating in bowls of soup, deep-fried whole baby ducklings, and dog-meat kebabs. Seventeen year olds weilding AK-47s at major tourist sites make me laugh, as do the great lengths the people here go through to remain as pasty white as possible, while I run around trying to soak up the sun for a better tan.
I'm also never shocked when a Vietnamese friend or acquaintance of mine will bend over backward to help me out. My favorite Vietnamese person is a woman named Huyen, a manager at one of the schools I teach at. She takes me to the outdoor market so I can buy fresh fruit and veg without being overcharged. She invited Haydin, Brittney and I for coffee on her one night off a week so I could meet her husband, son and mother. She has taken me to the Van Phuc Silk Village outside of the city twice so I can find some nice, affordable clothes. We swap teaching each other English and Vietnamese phrases and laugh at the beautiful differences between our two cultures.
The differences here are amazing, but we learn to live with it, laugh about it and love it, like when the government shuts off the power in different areas of Hanoi (including mine) a couple times a week to save energy. That's always fun.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Bring it on.
When the other moped hit us it didn't hurt much.
Just a tap.
It was the shock more than anything.
As I yell out a loud obscenity I realize two things:
1. The small child on the back of that motorbike is in the class I just finished teaching.
2. It's a good thing I haven't taught my five-year old class English cuss words yet.
At that moment the words I had been searching for hit me like a ton of bricks. I have been looking for a description for the drivers in Hanoi, for their insanity and carelessness, for their disrespect for the rules of the road and of life. I have found them:
Reckless Indifference.
Yes. The pure illogical, maniacal sense of invincibility. It drives me crazy. The driver of the other motorbike, I'm assuming Phuong Thuy's father, for that is my student's name, did not even give a hint of remorse for bumping my xe om into another motorcycle in morning traffic in central Hanoi. Nor did he seem perturbed that his five year old daughter who got jostled on the back was not wearing a helmet!
Viet Nam Absurdity: It is a law that everyone must be wearing a helmet on a motorbike, and it is enforced most stringently, yet children are an exception!!! I have never seen a child wearing a helmet as their irresponsible parents weave in and out of thousands of other motorcycles in their hurry to get nowhere fast.
The only positive thing I can say about motorbike drivers in Hanoi is their creativity when it comes to strapping giant loads onto their bikes. So far I have witnessed some miracles, including a full-sized coffin lying horizontally and breezing through three lanes of full-stop traffic. Twice. I can only hope there wasn't a body inside, but I wouldn't put anything past the Vietnamese. I have seen a seven-foot tall tree, roots, soil and all tied and standing vertically to a man on a Vespa. I have seen five microwaves, out of their boxes and stacked three high and one on each side of a moped. I have seen five Vietnamese teenagers all on one two seater motorbike. All of this astounds yet no longer shocks me. After five months in southeast Asia, nothing does.
In response to this ridiculous driving, I am doing the only thing I can do in protest.
I'm learning how to drive a motorbike. Bring it on.
Just a tap.
It was the shock more than anything.
As I yell out a loud obscenity I realize two things:
1. The small child on the back of that motorbike is in the class I just finished teaching.
2. It's a good thing I haven't taught my five-year old class English cuss words yet.
At that moment the words I had been searching for hit me like a ton of bricks. I have been looking for a description for the drivers in Hanoi, for their insanity and carelessness, for their disrespect for the rules of the road and of life. I have found them:
Reckless Indifference.
Yes. The pure illogical, maniacal sense of invincibility. It drives me crazy. The driver of the other motorbike, I'm assuming Phuong Thuy's father, for that is my student's name, did not even give a hint of remorse for bumping my xe om into another motorcycle in morning traffic in central Hanoi. Nor did he seem perturbed that his five year old daughter who got jostled on the back was not wearing a helmet!
Viet Nam Absurdity: It is a law that everyone must be wearing a helmet on a motorbike, and it is enforced most stringently, yet children are an exception!!! I have never seen a child wearing a helmet as their irresponsible parents weave in and out of thousands of other motorcycles in their hurry to get nowhere fast.
The only positive thing I can say about motorbike drivers in Hanoi is their creativity when it comes to strapping giant loads onto their bikes. So far I have witnessed some miracles, including a full-sized coffin lying horizontally and breezing through three lanes of full-stop traffic. Twice. I can only hope there wasn't a body inside, but I wouldn't put anything past the Vietnamese. I have seen a seven-foot tall tree, roots, soil and all tied and standing vertically to a man on a Vespa. I have seen five microwaves, out of their boxes and stacked three high and one on each side of a moped. I have seen five Vietnamese teenagers all on one two seater motorbike. All of this astounds yet no longer shocks me. After five months in southeast Asia, nothing does.
In response to this ridiculous driving, I am doing the only thing I can do in protest.
I'm learning how to drive a motorbike. Bring it on.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
A Nice Welcome Home
I went for a run this morning through the surrounding neighborhoods, and on turning a corner I got chased half-way down the street by a tiny lady trying to sell me cigarettes. It's my own fault though, as I was jogging through the Cheap Cigarette District.
Oh how I love Hanoi.
Last week I was sitting at the Bia Hoi with my buddy Tony talking about life, and trying to put in words why we loved this crazy city so much. We look back to the street where a moped had just clipped a little old lady carrying about twenty kilos of oranges in baskets connected to a bamboo pole balanced over her shoulder. As her and her pointy grass hat goes flying, Tony looks over: "It's the chaos of it all. The beautiful chaos." I couldn't have said it better myself.
Getting settled is a lot harder than I imagined it might be. For example, I've been in my apartment almost a week and still don't know if I have an address and am not sure where to put my trash once the bin is full. Even though the apartment came "furnished" there are still a few crucial items I want, like a table. So the logical thing for me to do was go down to the Table District.
My friend Peter swears there's a Prosthetic Leg District, but I think he's lying...
I love that this city makes absolutely no sense, and still functions.
I love that I am daily surprised by cultural differences, which keeps me on my toes.
I love Welcome Mats.
What else could a girl want?
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