Alone in Chiang Mai

Today I parted with my EAP buddies in Chiang Mai. It was a rush, last minute parting so I didn't even have time to give everyone a hug. We're been doing the study abroad program for 4 months in Hanoi together and this feels like a goodbye. They are heading home, to Saigon, Taipei, the States, and I am here waiting for my morning bus to Huay Xei, northern Laos. This is the first time in my life where I actually travel by myself. In Hanoi, I remembered night cruising alone but this is completely different. I want to do this forever. I am so excited to see Laos tomorrow, despite the 5 hours bus ride.

My (very rough) map of the trip:



Saigon > Phnom Penh > Siem Reap > Bangkok > Chiang Mai > Huay Xai > Luang Prabang > Plain of Jars > Vietnamese border > Hung Yen > Ninh Binh > Da Lai > Saigon.

LEt's hope i can squeeze more places in...

Phnom Penh, Siem Reap, and Bangkok...so far

the trip from saigon to phnhom penh costs about 12 bucks, the bus was really nice. i visited all the temples and museums. then in two days, i headed for siem reap. such a charming little town, i absolutely love it. angkor wat...so amazing at sunset. right now im in Lub*d (sleep well in Thai) in Bangkok. So far, bangkok is amazing. at every corner there's a 7/11 and pink taxis. the night bazaar is so hip and trendy. there's literally hundreds of cute boutiques of clothes right next to each other. it will take days to see everything! this is got to be the best xmas yet! i am so excited for today! where's that muay tai boxing match? i will write more later, gtg now.

Adrift: my collection of translated poems

I will only post 3 out of the 6 poems from my collection.


First Translated Poem - a revision of...

shrapnel shards on blue water
"to my sister lê thi diem trinh"

everyday i beat a path to run to you
beaten into the melting snow/the telephone polls
which separate us like so many signals of slipping time
and signposts marked in another language
my path winds and unwinds, hurls itself toward you
until it unfurls before you
all my stories at your feet
rocking against each other like marbles
down a dirt incline
listen

ma took the train every morning
sunrise
from phan thiet to saigon
she arrived
carrying food to sell at the markets
past sunset
late every evening she carried her empty baskets
home
on the train which runs in the opposite direction
away from the capital
toward the still waters of the south china sea

once ba bought an inflatable raft
yellow and black
he pushed it out onto a restricted part of water
in southern california
after midnight
to catch fish in the dark
it crashed against the rocks
he dragged it back to the van
small and wet
he drove us home
our backs turned in shame
from the pacific ocean

our lives have been marked by the tide
everyday it surges forward
hits the rocks
strokes the sand
turns back into itself again
a fisted hand

know this about us
we have lived our lives
on the edge of oceans
in anticipation of
sailing into the sunrise

i tell you all this
to tear apart the silence
of our days and nights here

i tell you all this
to fill the void of absence
in our history here

we are fragmented shards
blown here by a war no one wants to remember
in a foreign land
with an achingly familiar wound
our survival is dependent upon
never forgetting that vietnam is not
a word
a world
a love
a family
a fear
to bury

let people know
VIETNAM IS NOT A WAR

let people know
VIETNAM IS NOT A WAR

let people know
VIETNAM IS NOT A WAR
but a piece
of
us,
sister
and
we are
so much
more


le thi diem thuy


mảnh vỏ trong biển xanh
tặng em tôi lê thị điễm trinh

mỗi ngày chị đập con đường để chạy tới em
đập trong tuyến tan/bên cột dây điện thoại
nó chia chúng ta như tiếng hiệu tan trong thời gian
như biển chỉ đường ghi bằng ngữ ngoại
đường chị quanh co uốn khúc, phóng tới em

khi nó mở ra trước em
tất cả chuyện của chị trên bàn chân em
rung chuyển nhau như những hòn bi
rơi xuống một đường đất dốc
nghe đi em

mẹ lên tầu mỗi sáng
trong bình minh
từ phan thiết tới sài gòn
mẹ tới
vác theo đồ ăn để bán trong chợ
hoàng hôn xuống
mỗi đêm khuya mẹ xách rổ không
về nhà
bằng xe lửa chạy ngược
hướng thủ đô
đến nước yên bình của biển đông

một lần ba mua phao thổi phồng
mầu vàng và đen
ba đẩy phao ra khu biễn cấm
ở nam cali
sau nửa đêm
để đánh cá trong mù tối

phao đâm vào đá
ba kéo nó vào xe
tong teo và ẩm ướt
ba đưa chúng mình về nhà
xoay lưng rời mối nhục
quay xa biển thái bình dương

cuộc sống chúng mình thủy triều đã vạch
hàng ngày sóng cồn than
đâm đá thạch
vuốt bãi cát
sóng vòng quay quay vòng sóng
một quả đấm

hãy biết điều này về chúng mình
chúng mình đã sống cả đời
giữa biên giới của biển
trong hy vọng được
kéo buồm vào ánh bình minh

chị nói những điều này
để xé nát ra sự lãng quên
cũa những ngày và đêm ở đây

chị nói những điều này
để lắp đầy sự lơ đãng
của lịch sử ở đây


chúng ta là mảnh vỏ
thổi đến đây bằng cuộc chiến tranh không ai muốn nhớ
ở một đất nước xa lạ
ôm vết thương đau quen thuộc
tồn tại dựa vào
không bao giờ quên việt nam chẳng là
một lời
một thế giới
một tình yêu
một gia dình
một sợ hãi
để chôn

Cho mọi người biết
VIỆT NAM CHẲNG LÀ CHIẾN TRANH

Cho mọi người biết
VIỆT NAM CHẲNG LÀ CHIẾN TRANH

Cho mọi người biết
VIỆT NAM CHẲNG LÀ CHIẾN TRANH
nhưng là một mảnh thịt
của
chúng mình,
em gái
và
chúng mình là
rất nhiều
hơn tấ cả

lê thị diễm thúy

Second poem:

MAIN STREET REVISITED
Our parents and grandparents, directors of the stage
They play their trumpets and drums a bit poorly
That’s to say it kindly
Before we can learn the four directions and how to count
They carry us on their backs south of the seventeenth parallel
Raise us up on sun-soaked boulevards
Under the shadows of ramrod-straight flaming trees
They, the directors of the stage
Of half of what no one could seriously call a country
They left behind the coins in their pockets
Boarded the helicopters that landed on the roofs
Steered their boats to the high sea
Now occasionally we return
Sing karaoke with girls half our age
Songs that our parents and grandparents, directors of the stage,
Worthless left behind

by Do Kh.

Thăm Lại Đường Xưa

Bố mẹ và ông bà chúng ta, đạo diễn của sân khấu
Chơi kèn và trống hơi tệ
Nói vậy là quá ân cần
Trước khi chúng ta biết về bốn phương trời và biết đếm
Họ cõng mình sau lưng, vược nam của vĩ tuyến mười bẩy
Nuôi dưỡng mình trên nẻo đường ngâm tràn nắng
Dưới bóng râm của cây rực cháy cao nghiêm
Ông bà là đạo diễn cũa sân khấu
Của một nửa đất nước không ai gọi là một
Ông bà bỏ lại những đồng xu trong túi
Trèo lên trược thăng trên trần sân

Nay chúng mình trở về
Để karaoke với mấy cô bằng nửa tuổi mình
Những bài hát ông bà, đạo diễn của sân khấu
Vô giá để lại

by Do Kh.

Last poem:

untitled #1
bài tặng ba, for all the things i cannot say


his frantic fingers strum symphonies
listen
here comes the bombing of operation rolling thunder
under those fingers

a cacaphony of strangled sorrows
under those calloused
cigarrette-tarred fingers
wishing to reverse the hands of time

what is he thinking
i can only wonder
even wrote an entire mental novel
the history of my father's fingers
part fictional
first chapter soap and cigarettes
last chapter blood and coffee
frozen rising action
resolution
resolution
resolution...
we rarely interact
just morning and dinner time
but some things I do know

his best friend is some guy named bud
some guy named heineken
he fathered more than one hundred and five children
i only know four since they are my siblings
humans
the rest lives in the backyard
chirping in cages visible unlike mine
a closet

his morning neccesity
one cup of vietnamese coffee
một ly càfê sữa đá
his after-dinner dessert
beer and a berlin-wall silence

his hobby
building cages all day under dim garage light
out of free wood scraps and barbeque sticks
i wonder why
he builds his own cages
his four walls are this strange land
even after fourteen years

some days I catch a glimse of his silhouette
through the autumn-lit windows
a Thái Sơn mountain in motion
a Thái Sơn load of secrets
crushing his small stature
but his footsteps whisper
and gentle hands
strumming another stanza

once by chance i stumble over his sketches
of American helicopters and battles of war
he draws nothing else

ba the would-be artist if the war didn't happen
but what will he draw about

ba the deliveryman in eastside oakland
manually dragging fridges on the eighth floor
free of charge

ba the sisyphus of stairways

ba who covers boxes of salonpas on his back
to ease the pain


ba who slammed my ps2 to metal scraps because i watched harry potter
oh i forbid that blasphemy
why why why
because the church said so


ba who unknowingly converted me to agnosticism


ba the black sheep of our family
because he skips sunday mass grandma said

ba the drunken man with blood-blue face
hugging his bottle to sleep when I just want to give him a hug
even if it is just an
awkward-turtle
hug

ba the caged bird who cannot sing
ba the caged bird who cannot sing

by hoàng kim anh

translated poem: shrapnel in blue water

i love this poem by lê thị điễm thúy, so im going to translate it in vietnamese

original version:

shrapnel shards on blue water
to my sister lê thi diem trinh

everyday i beat a path to run to you
beaten into the melting snow/the telephone polls
which separate us like so many signals of slipping time
and signposts marked in another language
my path winds and unwinds, hurls itself toward you
until it unfurls before you
all my stories at your feet
rocking against each other like marbles
down a dirt incline
listen

ma took the train every morning
sunrise
from phan thiet to saigon
she arrived
carrying food to sell at the markets
past sunset
late every evening she carried her empty baskets
home
on the train which runs in the opposite direction
away from the capital
toward the still waters of the south china sea

once ba bought an inflatable raft
yellow and black
he pushed it out onto a restricted part of water
in southern california
after midnight
to catch fish in the dark
it crashed against the rocks
he dragged it back to the van
small and wet
he drove us home
our backs turned in shame
from the pacific ocean

our lives have been marked by the tide
everyday it surges forward
hits the rocks
strokes the sand
turns back into itself again
a fisted hand

know this about us
we have lived our lives
on the edge of oceans
in anticipation of
sailing into the sunrise

i tell you all this
to tear apart the silence
of our days and nights here

i tell you all this
to fill the void of absence
in our history here

we are fragmented shards
blown here by a war no one wants to remember
in a foreign land
with an achingly familiar wound
our survival is dependent upon
never forgetting that vietnam is not
a word
a world
a love
a family
a fear
to bury

let people know
VIETNAM IS NOT A WAR

let people know
VIETNAM IS NOT A WAR

let people know
VIETNAM IS NOT A WAR
but a piece
of
us,
sister
and
we are
so much
more

my rough translation:

mảnh vỏ trong biễn sanh
bài tặng cho em tôi, lê thị điễm trinh

mỗi ngày chị đập con đường đễ chạy tới em
đập trong tuyến tan/trong cột đây điện thoại
nó chia chúng ta như tiếng hiệu tan trong thời dan
như biễn chỉ đường ghi trong văn ngữ ngoại
đường chị quanh co uốn thúc, nó phóng tới em

khi nó mỡ ra trước em
tất cả câu chuyện chị trên chân em
rung chuyễn nhau như những hòn bi
rơi xuống một đường đất dốc
hãy lắng nghe

Mẹ lên xe tầu mỗi sáng
trong bình minh
từ phan thiết tới sài gòn
mẹ tới
vác theo đồ ăn để bán trong chợ
hoàng hôn suống
mỗi đêm khuya mẹ chống rỗ không
về nhà
bằng xe lữa nhược chạy
hướng thủ đô
đến nước yên bình cũa biễn đông

một lần ba mua phao thổi phồng
mầu vàng và đen
ba đẫy phao ra khu biễn cấm
ở nam cali
sau nữa đêm
đễ đánh cá trong mù tối

phao đâm (sầm) vào đá
ba kéo nó vào xe lớn
teo tủi và ẫm ước
ba lái chúng mình về nhà
lưng (quy ly?) đến mối nhục
quay xa biễn thái bình dương

cuộc sống chúng mình thủy triều đã vạch
hàng ngày sóng cồn than
đâm đá thạch
vuốt bãi cát
sông vòng quay quay vòng sông
một quả đấm tay

hãy biết điều này về chúng mình
chúng mình đã sống cả đời
giữa biên giới của biễn
trong hy vọng được
kéo buồm vào bình minh

chị nói những điều này
đễ xé nát ra sự lãng quên
cũa những ngày và đêm ở đây

chị nói những điều này
đễ lắp đầy sự lơ đãng
cũa lịch sữ ở đây

chúng ta là mảnh vỏ
thổi đến đây bằng một chiến chanh không ai muốn nhớ
ở một đất ngoại
ôm vết thương đau đớn quen thuộc
sự tồn tại dựa vào
không bao giời quên việt nam chẳng là
một lời
một thế giới
một tình yêu
một gia dình
một sợ hãi
đễ chôn

Cho mọi người biết
VIỆT NAM CHẲNG LÀ CHIẾN CHANH

Cho mọi người biết
VIỆT NAM CHẲNG LÀ CHIẾN CHANH

Cho mọi người biết
VIỆT NAM CHẲNG LÀ CHIẾN CHANH
nhưng là một mảnh thịt
của
chúng ta,
em gái
và
chúng ta là
gấp hơn
nhiều

Journal Entries Part 3: SAPA, Revised Goals

Journal Entries Part 2: Da Nang, Hue, random sketches

Straight from my journal. Is this gutsy or just plain stupid? I'll figure out that later...

Journal Entries (Part 1: Quy Nhon, Kon Tum, Da Nang)

These entries are straight from my journal. I was a bit hesitant to post them up since they are a bit personal, not to mention a grammatical war zone. But someone, ahem ahem, complained about the lack of reflections among the UCHANU students, especially after the central trip. So I hope if y'all keep a written journal, whip it out and scan it at local print shops around our school. Not everybody like blogging. I think blogging is a bit impersonal and inorganic, not to mention inconvenient. What if the ah-ha moment is not while I'm writing this line, but one the train or after a hike? Ok ok, I'll stop blabbing if the damn internet connection moves with the speed of development. Here it is.

Tâm Sự with Bắc Nam, the fruit vendor in Hapro alley

I often purchase my fruits from Bác Nam and he's very chatty so I've decided to interview him. Bác Nam is in his fifties and he lives with his wife, son, and daughter in a compact housing unit nearby on Hapro alley allocated to him by the government. He mentioned casually that his old house was demolished in order to widen the road. I was surprised because there was no bitterness or blame in his tone.

I asked: “How do you feel about being relocated? Where you compensated fairly? How do you find the new place? Did the governement or any other group help you?” (Not all at once of course).

Bác Nam:“Chính phủ làm như vậy thì cũng đúng. Đường hồi trước rất chật. Còn tắt đường hơn hôm nay nữa!” I can't even imagine the roads being more chaotic then the bumper-to-bumper congestion of motorbikes and cars within my sight. JBác Nam seems satisfied with his relocation and compensation and he even mentioned the place he resides right now is organized by the government. Overall, he feels included in the spatial redevelopment.

“Bác ơi, bác có kiếm dủ tiền để sống không?” (Do you make enough to live?)

Bác Nam: Cũng làm cỡ 1,500,000 Đồng một tháng. Cộng trung với lương của vợ thì cũng giư một chút. Con trai bắc thì khỏi nói. Nó còn trẻm, làm đâu thì tiêu đó. Thanh niên mà cháu.

He seems more interested in my life in the US. He asked how's life and work there? I told him there's no such thing as ngủtrưa-ing. Most jobs are 9-to-5 with only a one hour lunch break and small 15 minutes break in between. He said he rather stay here because he is happy with his life. He just wishes to save enough money for his son and daughter. “I'm waiting for my son to get marry, so I can have a grandchild to play with.”

Overall, he doesn't feel excluded from society and he seems happy with his current condition. I think Vietnamese people don't look at development in individualistic terms of “what can I get out of it” or in “win/lose” situation in which one side benefits from the loss of another. Their hollistic viewpoint serves as a reminder that they live in network in which a temporary 'loss' (like bắc Nam's housing situation) is a permanent gain to the whole society. At the same time, the cynical side of me can't help but wonder if this collectivistic perspective also serve as a tool of the financially included in this society to maintain the social harmony, another euphemism for exclusion. Overall, bắc Nam is so happyhappyhappy and optimistic about the future, I don't think he feels excluded at all. I can't even translate 'exclusion' in Vietnamese.

My Two Months Anniversary

You know how couples have those cute-but-not-really one week or two months anniversary? Well, guess what this one will be about? Half of my days in Vietnam is gone so I'm a bit reflective about my goals and experiences now. Idk, i feel like my life did a 360 after i'm here. i thought my purpose was to teach english, but then i've been spending most of my time doing this LGBT documentary project and just eating. Just eating and going out all the time! I dont know what I try to find here anymore. before, it was just inspirations to start drawing and writing again, but i barely touch my sketchbook. okay, maybe once or twice. i can only write, draw, strum my guitar, or sing when i'm down. there's always things to do, people to meet, food to eat so it is impossible to have time to reflect. while typing this, i am cutting back on sleep. quiet space + depression + creativity = good shizzzz. everything is moving so fast that i feel like 4 months is too short to really enjoy and understand this country. someday, i just wish i have all the time in the world and hop on a motorbike, tour the countrysides, talk to people, and write a story about all my (mis)adventures. but i am here, in hanoi, in this room, in this constant state of "huh"ness as events pass by me like a milkyway shower of shoot stars. my relationship with my roommates is not going well. me and my short temper... someday i just dont want to deal with it. i can't really contact my ex because my phone was stolen in the night market. my reaction is close to aloofness. i feel kind of glad that my parents or my relatives cant call, but i want to visit my grandparent's village. somedays i feel like im on top of the world, then just on a wimp, or because of a sad song, or a word that reminds me of that certain person, I feel entrapped in the collapsing labyrinth of my own confusion and if i dont seek the exit soon, it will consume me. and idk if im making any sense anymore. half of the time, my sporatic stream of consciousness sounds like the very stuff i write--no endings, no logical direction, just solitary strands of . somedays it scared the shit out of me because it begins to sound like my own future. someday, the lethargic cement and eardrum-beating noises of vietnam feels like the reoccuring post-apocalyptic wasteland inside my head. someday, after all the city-exploring is done, i just want to sit inside my own little wasteland world, having a conversation with Ms. Kieu on my left and Ms. Hồ Xuân Hương on my right. and all we will talk about is feminism. crazy shit. someday, i try to find vietnam in between my history book, in the back-alleys coffee shops, in the converstations of the locals. i haven't found it yet. maybe im looking too hard. i walked close to it with an elderly man on his daily walk in a rice-farming village. his footsteps drop invisible bread crumbs but i dont have enough time to collect and follow. i almost feel it as i slashed though the rice stalks, expecting each golden rice grain to reconnect me to my ancestoral roots. but it's always this feeling of almost, but not really.

Rice Harvesting Time!

Yesterday (October 10th)we took a 1hr bus ride from Hanoi to a small village. The majority of the villagers own small plots of land to cultivate (mainly rice). Each family owns at least one suất (about 360 acres) of farmland, some own 2-3, depending on their household size. One family allow us to help them harvest two suất of rice land. We suck. Basically three of us equals one of the lady. She was slashing her sickle with a sense of urgency and efficiency--like one of sonic the hedgehog's maddening moves. Two hours of pure sweat and hard work never felt so good. While I was holding the sickle, I cannot help but think, this what my own grandparents did just fifty or sixty years ago. I'll never look at another bowl of rice the same. When my parents said don't waste even a single grain of rice, I didn't really understand. Now it makes so much sense and I have such an appreciation for it. I remember in high school, I got so sick of rice and I told my parand not the Rients "why can't we eat something else besides rice?" I was only defining rice in terms of taste. Rice is more than carbohydrates, it creates the identity of the Vietnamese culture. Hmnnn, maybe I should write a song on "Oh white complex sugar, I love you so."

After harvesting and spending lunch with the owner, I wander around the village and here comes this elderly man with his black umbrella and three grandchildren tagging behind him. But what I notice first is his glowing smile. He seems like the happiest man alive. I tag along with him on his daily walk (apparently, that's all there is to do in the village)and we chat about the village life. His son is in the city Hanoi, working, while the rest of the family farms. Apparently, all the villagers hire people to harvest the rice (the wage is about 30,000 or 40,000 Đồng, which is about $1.5 - 2 dollars per the morning of harvesting). The rice field provides enough to each family for a year so they actually eat what the harvest. Almost all the villagers diversify their industry besides farming, just to earn more money to live. I walked around and most men fix motorbikes and the womyn does some tailoring work. There's a pond for the locals to fish, if they pay the fishing price. The elderly man (Mr. Trân as in Mr. Leg)said one of his son is a barber. It is interesting to notice, most of the rice harvesters are womyns. Ông Trân jokingly said, "If you are a man, you gotta find yourself a girlfriend or a wife quick. Who else will do you see doing the farm work around here?" First thing in my mind: That's so sexist. Damn this patriarchal world. Most of the economic opportunities are reserved for men, since they are the ones who can go into the big city like Hanoi and earn some income for their family back home. I understand that but I'm beginning to feel tired of the "that's just the Vietnamese culture" excuse. I can't really blame the elder for working in this system, that's just how it was long time ago. Argggh, fuck patriarchy.

I walked with this elderly man until he reaches his son's barbershop/house. After his chat, I begin to get a better picture of this village in the last 10 years. He said, when he was growing up, only rich foreigners are allow to have two-story cement houses while the locals live in straw huts. And now if you did a 360 view of the village, all within site are newly constructed cement houses--all are built within the last 5-10 years. Where do they get this money from? Selling bananas, pigs, or extra vegetable aren't enough. He talked about being in three wars in his lifetime. First the Japanese when he was a kid, then the French, then the Americans. I wanted to ask him about the land reforms...but he kind of felt confused. He asked me which one. I think he didn't want to talk about it. I still want to know how can he be so content and at peace with just simple daily walks around the village? Holy crap, that's all there is to do around there. As he continued his walk, I can see the trail of unanswered questions behind his footsteps, questions that I won't have the chance ask.

A clip of the EAP crew harvesting some rice...


Ông Trân and his grandchildren

Vietnam Central Trip - Video Journal

Here are some videos of our trip to central Vietnam.

Enjoying some rambutans (chôm chôm) in Qui Nhơn, Central Vietnam.



Taking the ferry to reach the village across the river from Hội An.


Some videos on the biking trail in a village near Hội An.




Crossing the bridge with my bike.


Arrival at the village.


Our very own mperial runway show at the Huế museum...






Imperial dinner in Huế.

Week 1 - Scavenger Hunt Videos

These videos are from the scavenger hunt called "Survivor Hanoi" from the first week orientation at Vietnam. We only have around 2 hours to do everything on the list. The items range from duck-pedaling, to breakdancing, to driving a rickshaw, and even to say "I love Vietnam" with a police officer. What a blast!


One of the items requires a member to breakdance under the statue of Lenin.




Trying to earn a kiss from kids is not that easy. Some stalking was involved. Most of them just run away, one girl almost cry. I never thought I was that scary. But ah ha, success at last.



The officers are really friendly, he agrees to pose with us.



Duck pedaling...only for 30 seconds cuz of time constraints.

SO HANOiiNG!

today i remember one of the reasons why i don't wear dresses anymore. damn me for wearing a dress, the only thing left in the closet b/c im too lazy to do my laundry today. but fuck it, i'll wear whatever i feel like. but it's still very hanoiing...

very hanoiing (grrrrrrrrr)

• old vietnamese men who love to stare
• young vietnamese men who love to stare
• bank manager (read: men) who somehow magically manages to find my cell phone number--fuckkkkkk, tell me this shit is illegal here!
• security guard at the supermarket who keep gawking and not staying in their post (i.e. more men)
  

somewhat hanoiing ;P

• my second day of period --a great birthday present from my own body, naturally
• doing my own laundry
• no pencils to stretch or draw
• forgot the feminine mystique at home
• intense berkeley-sick (not homesick)
• insomnia (im writing this at 3am, which is quite early)
• midnite melancholy
• white bare walls of my room
• itchy clothes--did i wash it wrong? or is it the old closet? the bedsheet? no comprendo, i shower at least 2 times a day? why why?
• feels like a stranger with too many heavy secrets

But good things do happen :)

• im still alive
• no diarrhea today
• the internet is working! i guess miracles do happen
  
• NGO guess speakers, such nice n passionate people
  
• bia hoi afterwards
• hapro (a supermarket nearby) has KETCHUP! woooohooo!
• finally pick up my ATM card
• AIMed with steven
• bought cereal, real actual cereal
• finally feeling sleepy...
  

The Manor of Terror

A couple of days ago, we visited a developed site called "The Manor," one of the most upscale place in Hanoi. Everybody split up to explore the vicinity and here are some of our observations:

• this place is a prison in disguise of luxury
• there are too many rules, what the hell is this, 1984?
• no passing through the main gate, no camera, no sitting on the benches, no standing around--they might've put a sign that says "No breathing"
• you must ask permission to make friends--the renters or condo owners there cannot invite friends or relatives over without asking the management's permission. wtf wtf people? what a great way to destroy any sense of community.
• the place is clean...a bit too clean, almost sterile and lifeless expect for signs of security guards and maintance workers spraying pesticides around the grass
• the architecture: mostly a bunch of westernize skyscrapers, with echos of european designs
• the only vietnamese influence is this huge burning thing in the corner of the building, the Hanu student said it's for burning stuff, but it's never five meters in height. so the only thing that reflect the local culture has been devalued into a stone exhibit--useless and nonfunctional
• there are too many banks around and not enough restaurants, the nearest food place is Highland Coffee and a bunch of Korean restaurants down the street
• surrounding the manor are jewerly store, banks, more upscale shopping areas.
  
• there's a kmart nearby--K is for korean--the vietnamese receptionist speaks korean
• the feels like nordstrom, everything is overpriced
• there is a huge parking garage for cars, with one car
  

We chatted with the cleaning lady on her 15 mins break. the overall feeling i got from her is a sense of gratefulness for working there, even with the meager salary. It's about 1 million Dong or around 55 USD a month. When we were sneaking around the garden, we stumble across a posting on one of the room. It's a bill of about 2 million dollars ( a little over 100 USD) maintenance fees per month. That's ridiculous, considering the irregular service from the facilities. I heard there was a renters' protest here before. something about the crappy service and high service fees.

My overall feeling after visiting this place? I hate it. This is nothing like Vietnam. As crazy as this might sound, I rather would cross a street with motorbikes and cars than contain myself in that prison call "The Manor." At least there is authenticity and liveliness in the streets. I know my heart is still beating, everytime I cross the crazy traffic.

A 6th-story view of the manor. Yes, some James bond spying techniques was used to get up there. Pic from a fellow classmate.















The parking without cars...what a waste of space.















I have to sneak in the camera to catch this pic. Hehehe, breaking stupid rules feel sooo goood.

Vietnam After 3 Weeks

It's been 3 weeks since i've arrived in hanoi. if you take away the heat, the humidity, and the midnight stomachaches--it's not so bad. I'm just gonna make a quick list aboutVietnam so far.

Hits:

• 1700+ miles away from parents. wooooohooooo, hell yeah!
• cheap, amazing food and drinks --> hmmmm hoa qua dam
• most everything you want is within a walking distance
• so much movement and liveliness, you can just see it in the streets
• friendly people
• hanging out with fellow students
• visiting family in hanoi
• night markets
• I can find my SIZE, for everything! wooohoooo, definitely a major plus.
  
• killer massages, oh yeahhhhhh!
• karaoke bars
• more nap times
• fun classes at HANU, despite the limited offerings
• they have guitars here!
• cinema that actually reserved seats for you
  
• huge dorm room, cheap rent
  
• future class trips outside of hanoi
• skateboarders under the statue of lenin
• motorbikes are sooo fun to ride--ah hemmm on the back of course...
• relearning vietnamese
  
• Doremon mangas! still trying to find other mangas!

Misses:

• steven is not here
• dusts and blarring noises
• chaotic traffic system
• hard to find ketchup --> so far i cannot find it, expect in pizza hut
• smokers everywhere! especially in clubs. the whole dance floor looks foggy.
• annoying men who do not understand their male privilege!
• limmited classes to take --false advertisement: no vietnamese literature classes even if the program innitially proclaims it have them.
• maldevelopment --> aims to exclude huge percentage of the poor, widen the gap of poverty
  
• wayyyy too young Asian women with really old Caucasian men. creepy. am i the only one who thinks this is abnormal?
• rave or trance music
• too much hw
  

My 4-Months Plan

Academic:

• enlist in four classes at HANU
  
• maintain good grades
• video project

Extracurricular:

• volunteer/intern at an NGO, specifically to teach English
• enlist in traditional Vietnamese martial arts class at the Rec center

Personal:

• learn some vietnamese songs on the guitar--and sing it!
• practice better breakdancing moves
• compose a poem and translate it in vietnamese
• tour cambodia and thailand
• get lost in hanoi+saigon and loving every minute of it
• figuring out what to do after graduation

Autobiography

I have no idea where to start this autobiography business. I will say, I was one shy geeky kid from elementary to high school. Yes, I have the whole shebang: the rolling backpack, the infamous Vietnamese bowl haircut, braces, hand-me-down clothes that are always two sizes too big, and a funny accent. A perfect recipe for the “other.” People couldn't really figure me out since I wasn't quite Vietnamese, wasn't quite American. I didn't know what the hell I was.

I didn't start to identify myself as Vietnamese American until my late high school years, and I didn't even really understand the concept until college. Like the concept of Asian American, Vietnamese American means I am a being between both world. The Vietnamese identity alone fails to represent my experiences as a young womyn (note: never mind the grammar, I refuse to spell this any other way) acculturated to the United States culture and customs. And as for the American identity—there are so many definitions for this. Some might say you must be living in the United States for a certain years, some might say you must have citizenship, and some conservatives even insinuates that you must look a certain way (read: white). However, I live in California, specifically, the Bay Area where folks tend to be more liberal, therefore more welcoming of multiculturalism—even sometimes to the point of being an ethnoglobalist . I don't want to sugarcoat my experiences in America as completely tensionless, because there are some serious covert racism here. People won't say: “You are Vietnamese, go back to Vietnam or any of that silly sort of thing. But people will say: “You are Asian, you must be extremely smart, submissive, hardworking, and good at math. You speak English so well—like you are actually born here. Can you do any kung fu moves for me?” This Asian American minority myth that generalizes a continent of people as the homogenous, or that is culturally insensitive to the difference between “Asian” versus “Asian American.” Racism with a smile :)

I must apologize if my autobiography is making you feel uncomfortable, but these are valid experiences I must live and deal with as a generation 1.5 Vietnamese American every single day. It is simply inescapable. Being a person between two world, I continuingly struggle to balance preserving my Vietnamese heritage and retaining the Western culture that everyday feels more familiar to me. I don't want to succumb under the ethnocentric beliefs that Western culture are better, or more “superior,” but I cannot live without its materialistic comforts. I truly thought I would escape it, especially if I am on the other side of the globe. I was wrong. There is a wrenching spirit in the Hanoian air that tastes too familiar, too much like internalized oppression. Hmmm globalism, so delicious like a bowl of pho—all with the bitter aftertaste of MSG. The Vietnam I knew thirteen years ago as a seven years old is not the Vietnam today. That was simply a vanishing memory. Yes, the Doremon comics is still here, the locals are still here, and the food is still here. But something, something more than the surrounding skyscappers, more than the hypermarkets, more than the polluted pond, something has changed. Is it me? Am I the one that changed? Or is this strange spirit of Vietnam nation as a whole. This spirit of “It's time to catch up.”

It's so hard to reconstruct the memories of Vietnam as it were with what I have now. I remember dancing under the mid-afternoon rain of the summer monsoon, half naked. I remember the festivity of Vietnamese Tet, where hundreds of close and distance relatives gather under the same roof to feast and toast for the upcoming year. Most of all, I remember the loud, crackling laughter of the firecrackers, vibrating deep from my eardrums to every fiber of my body. Sounds of celebration and joy. I remember the red envelopes hehehe. I remember singing children nursery songs with my sister—until she bit me because I took her microphone. I remember my mother tailoring customers' clothes on the front of our house for a while, then my father switched the store into a motor bike repair shop. Now looking back, I think life is much better in Vietnam for them. Some days, they seem so depressed and isolated in the United States. The only thing they look forward to is church, the only major community hotspot for all the Vietnamese people. I still sleep at the church :). While my grandpa was there in the early 1990s, he had a barbershop for men and he would always gave me these bowl-cuts that he proudly said “It's cool”. Every late afternoon, he drove me around the neighborhood and bought me all sorts of treats. I'm so glad he is still alive.Now he drives my younger siblings and cousins around the block in America—still with a motor scooter.


I remember the dreadful hours falling asleep in Catholic mass, until those old men would come up to me and smack me in the head for being disrespectful to God. “God is watching you. He has eyes everywhere.” Yeah, like Big Brother. My grandma would tell all these scary scenes of hell that sounds eerily similar to Dante's inferno. Scared the shit out of me. I think that was the only reason I prayed and attended mass.

I didn't really appreciate my odd family until after I move out of the house to attend college. I've started to take interest in all the stories my dad tells me about our family in Vietnam on weekends car ride home. He would burst out all these stories dating back to the 1890s about my family in the north, and I was so shocked. I never knew my grandpa's 18 years old brother disappeared as a indentured servant for the French in the south. My family never know what happen—was he fighting their war, did he died from some freak accident from hard labor. Then I realize, I have to go back to Vietnam and find out. I need to return to my motherland, visit the graves of my great-great grandparents, and feel all the love and runs though me. I want to reconnect with my roots, to redefine my own personal geography—not the geography drawn by the hands of the conquerors, but by myself—my internal geography. Redefining the very definition of being a Vietnamese from the hyphenated Vn-Am identity. I want to walk the very earth that my family have walked and farmed and loved and lived—before the damn war that torn our family apart, our nation apart, and the very fabric our souls apart. No I never experienced the war, but I still feel its effect like the massive destruction of a tsunami. The pain that my grandparents and parents experienced affect me. What's left is animosity and misunderstanding between the Vietnamese people abroad and the ones still struggling here. A cultural gap much farther than the ocean, but only takes a crossing to bridge.

Let the bridging begins...

Assignment 1: The Obituary

A copy of the article:
Ian Hibell
Sep 11th 2008
From The Economist print edition
Ian Hibell, a long-distance cyclist, died on August 23rd, aged 74


IN A man’s life there comes a time when he must get out of Brixham. He must leave the boats bobbing in the harbour, the Devon cream teas, the holiday camp and the steam railway; he must bid farewell to the nine-to-five job at Standard Telephones and Cables, up the A379 in Paignton, and hit the more open road.
Some might get no farther than Bristol. But Ian Hibell went so far in one direction that his eyebrows crusted with frost and his hands froze; and so far in another that he lay down in the hot sand to die of dehydration (as he expected) under a thorn tree; and so far in another that the safest place to be, out of range of the mosquitoes, was to burrow like an alligator into black, viscous mud.
In the course of his 40-year travelling life he went the equivalent of ten times round the equator, covering 6,000 miles or so a year. He became the first man to cycle the Darien Gap in Panama, and the first to cycle from the top to the bottom of the American continent. He went from Norway to the Cape of Good Hope and from Bangkok to Vladivostok, wheeling or walking every inch of the way. Every so often he would come back, showing up at STC (from which he had taken, in the beginning, only a two-year leave of absence) with vague murmurings of an apology. But pretty soon the panniers would be packed, the brakes checked, the tyres pumped, and he would be off again.
His cycle, loaded with 60-80lb of clothes, tent, stove, biscuits, sardines and water, was sometimes a complication. In the Sahara it sank to its hubs in fine, talc-like sand. In the Amazonian jungle he could not squeeze it between the trees. Crossing the great Atrato swamp, where the track became a causeway over slimy logs and then a mat of floating grass, the bike would sometimes sink into nothingness. He became expert at feeling for it in the morass with his feet. Every tricky traverse in mountain, stream or forest needed doing twice over: once to find a way for himself, then to collect the steed, often carrying it shoulder-high through sharp palmetto, or water, or rocks.
Yet Mr Hibell’s love for his bikes was unconditional. He took them, muddy as they were, into hotels with him, and clung fiercely on to them whenever tribesmen robbed him of the rest of his things. His favourite had a Freddie Grubb frame of Reynolds 531 tubing on a 42-inch wheelbase, reinforced to take the extra weight of goatskins holding water; Campagnolo Nuevo Record gears front and rear; Robregal double-butted 14-16-gauge spokes; and Christophe pedal-straps. It was so lightweight, as touring bikes go, that a group of boys in Newfoundland mocked that it would soon break on their roads. Instead, it did 100,000 miles.
Bikes rarely let him down. Escaping once from spear-throwing Turkana in northern Kenya, he felt the chain come off, but managed to coast downhill to safety. He crossed China from north to south—in 2006, at 72—with just three brake-block changes, one jammed rear-brake cable and a change of tape on the handlebars. In his book, “Into the Remote Places” (1984), he described his bike as a companion, a crutch and a friend. Setting off in the morning light with “the quiet hum of the wheels, the creak of strap against load, the clink of something in the pannier”, was “delicious”. And more than that. Mr Hibell was a short, sinewy man, not particularly swift on his feet. But on a good smooth downhill run, the wind in his face, the landscape pelting past, he felt “oneness with everything”, like “a god almost”.
A teapot in the desert
Human company was less uplifting. His travelling companions usually proved selfish, violent and unreliable, unappreciative of Mr Hibell’s rather proper and methodical approach to putting up a tent or planning a route, leaving (sometimes with essential kit) to strike off by themselves. But there were exceptions. One was the beautiful Laura with whom, after years of shyness towards women, he found love as they skidded down rocky tracks in Peru. Others were the strangers whose kindness he encountered everywhere. Peasants in China shared their dumplings with him; Indians in Amazonia guided him through the jungle; and in a wilderness of sand a pair of Tuareg boys produced from their robes a bag of dates and a small blue teapot, which restored him.
In a career of hazards, from soldier ants to real soldiers to sleet that cut his face like steel, only motorists did him real damage. The drivers came too close, and passengers sometimes pelted him with bottles (in Nigeria), or with shovelfuls of gravel (in Brazil). In China in 2006 a van drove over his arm and hand. He recovered, but wondered whether his luck would last. It ran out on the road between Salonika and Athens this August, where he was knocked out of the way by a car that appeared to be chasing another.
At bad moments on his trips he had sometimes distracted himself by thinking of Devonian scenes: green fields, thatched cottages and daffodils. He would return to a nice house, a bit of garden, the job. But that thought could never hold him long. Although his body might long for the end of cycling—a flat seat, a straight back, unclenched hands—his mind was terrified of stopping. And in his mind, he never did.

Why I selected this obituary:

For me, Hibell was the ant that left the farm. There are so many lessons to unpack from Ian Hibell's life, I don't really know where to start. But first of all, I have to say, I dig his values. To escape the harbor of boats, the comfort of modernity, the seduction of materialism, requires a certain line of thinking that could be summed up as: fuck the mediocre. After all, how many people could actually declared on their deathbed, “I've spent the last 40 years of my life, bicycling the world at 6000 miles a year.” From the scorching heat of the Sahara, to the labyrinth of the Amazon, to the politically unstable terrain of Peru and Kenya, to the vassness of China, Mr. Ian Hibell, you schooled Marco Polo. Now I wouldn't want to follow exactly what he did, but if I could emulate a tenth of his energy and willpower, I will be extremely satisfied. Reading his life is like someone has strummed a personal heartstring—like hearing a forgotten song. Every adventurous soul harbors a silly dream of globe-trotting, in one form or another. Mine's always with a stretchbook. Because he have done it before, Hibell makes it seems so attainable, so financially feasible, so “Nothing is impossible.” I wonder what is on his mind as he pedal across the rough and desolate lands, the majestic mountains, the blistering coldness. I just want to capture beauty in the rough contours of everyday people, in the landscape, and not in all billboard advertisements of foundations and make-up. That's just psychological pollution. The incredible life of Hibell inspires me to start my own adventure in a far away land. However, I understand the limitations since as a womyn (and yes, this is the only way I want to spell this word), I must deal with challenges that Hibell had the white male privilege not to encounter. The Peace Corps definitely is a potential on my to-do list after graduation.

Field Trip to 36 Streets of Hanoi

This shoe store is in the 36 streets of Hanoi--a historical place of commerce where each street specializes in one type of product, in this case, shoes. What a sensible way to organize the market! If I want something, I don't have to waste time looking around, since every store in that street will sell the same thing. This system is a bit odd in the West (talk about intense competition for the sellers) but it benefits the consumer.



More pictures on other products...




What an interesting site: the French colonial architecture on the top floor while the bottom is an electronic store.


This is my first time trying "trai xấu" a really sour fruit flavored with spicy pepper. Tasted good.


Situated right in the middle of a busy street, this 1000 years old tree is considered sacred and spirited, however some tourists just casually past by it. I wonder what they are thinking? Is Vietnam a playground, a safari and they are the rangers goggling the exotic surroundings? There is a thin line between tourist and a another ethnoglobalist.




A temple. I heard the nice caretaker is 103. I hope she is alive so I can come back, have tea and chat with her.


This is one of the oldest cathedral in Hanoi. There is some tension between the Vietnamese government and the catholic church on the issue of privatization of public space, last year, I think. There were serious protests and such in the streets. Fortunately, the land now belongs to the public in the form of a library and park.




The waste system of Vietnam rests in the hands of these street sweepers. The government tried to implement a sort of recycling program but the Vietnamese people do not follow it. Maybe a more culturally sensitive approach might work. As for now, these underpaid ladies must scavenge though the waste of each house and street, organizing products of any value and by doing so they establish an efficient recycling system. Still, trash of no value still exists and currently, there is no effective and efficient method to solve the pollution problem.



While we were waiting for the bus, this lady approaches us and offer to sell some products. I took my first step at bargaining for a scissor. I know I still got overcharged but it was kind of fun. When asked to take a picture, she refuses, saying she is not beautiful. She is. Resilience is beautiful and admiring.

Vietnam: First Impressions

A musical side of globalization...


If there's one thing that gives me hope, it's got to be this. What a great juxtaposition--younger generations of Vietnamese skating and breakdancing under statue of Lenin. Children in bumper-car-like toys zigzagging each other, full of mirth and energy while their parents chat among themselves. Only certain county summer festivals in the states resemble interactions in the park here. But the locals utilize this space everyday because public parks are so rare.

The scene captures the state of transition, of the Vietnamese younger generation's Western influence, specifically the hip hop culture. It feels incredible to actually witness it. What really makes my day is catching a teenage girl doing an ollie. WHOAAA! My jaws dropped. That's the most bad-ass kodak moment of my day--I really hate that submissive-proper-Vietnamese-woman crap. For me the moment she pop that board, she slam a bit of herself into the walls of patriarchy. Walls that snakes further than the Great Wall or any other fucking wall til the end of time. Ancient walls that are much harder to penetrate and break. Walls to infinity. Walls of invisibility. Wall that seems to seeps under your skin like the constant scorching heat, always there, until one day you just accept it and you internalized it as a way of life. I begin to see the walls inside people and walls around people. Funny how the external world--buildings, public spaces or the lack of, seems to reflect so much of our internal world. The reason i bring my skateboard to vietnam is to preserve my sanity or of whatever is left. I refuse to fall under the traditional expectations of a womyn even if others might look at it as "you should appreciate or respect the culture" or "it's mess up but that's just the way it is". that is not going to cut it. It's tough being a womyn, especially here.

Bombarded with so much information, there are so many things i need to think over. Is this whole globalization business with its promise of wealth really healthy for the current state of vietnam? the people i see actually benefiting from this is the wealthy or the people in power. on second thought, foreign investment companies, and their whole chain of employees. or what seems to be everyone else but the marginalized. Is globalization another euphemism for neocolonialism? there are no guns, no soldiers, no fire, but there is so much casualty. in the ponds filled with trash, in the dusty air, in the displaced farmers from their land. i rather have the old colonization where the solutions are costly, but tangible. just revolt and kick them out. but this new globalization is psychological. so far i've seen so much cars in the street, and so much fashion boutiques with Western brand. I'm cautiously glad to enjoy Western influence in the development sector because it indicates the political transformation of the communist government. at the same time, it's a bit troubling to hear such revere for Western goods and people. it is almost de ja vu, with its hints of internalized oppression. how the hell are people going to decolonize themselves from something so closely tied with promises for modernization. the very idea that modernization is necessary is absurd. to declare modernization, you must have something to compare to. one country fits the standard therefore it is developed, cleaner, better--superior. one country falls out of this standard, so it is undeveloped--substandard. but who really gets a say in determining what is the "standard"? where is the human factor in this equation? maybe i am over-romanticizing the past, but there is something powerful in the simple ways of life. i need some reaffirmation from the countryside farmers or the locals that sometimes you don't need all this materials to be happy. will giant corporations swallow those mom-and-pop businesses? what interesting concepts: to live where you work, to stress more about enjoying life than profiting from your business. i shouldn't even say it's "business," that in itself suggests profit-over-people mentality. for them, i would imagine it as a way to past the times and put food on the table. but i don't know how this materialism malaise have spread. it's not like i can take a ruler and measure it. how do u measure greed? desire? hopelessness? the effects of poverty?

but i also see so much joy and resilience in the Vietnamese people. so much tình cảm. people here seems so much closer to each other than in the states. neighbors actually know each other. some people are extremely kind, while others will rip you off. but if i know if i come back as a regular and talk to them, things will change. i'm looking forward to knowing the locals and their stories. ah crap, my titles seems to never match what im thinking. oh well.

Arrival

I arrived at Hanoi airport at 9:30am but the luggage-pickup took another 45 minutes. Then Gerard, our program director gave us a quick 30 minutes tour from the airport to our dorm.

I was taken back by the sharp contrast between recently developed skyscrapers and the dying parches of farmland. From Canon to Mercedes Benz, you can have whatever you like if you have the means. but most people live in such poverty. I don't know how to feel at that moment when I heard about cooperation of investors and governmental gentrification of these farmer's lands. Where do these farmers go? to the canon factories? or are they the ones digging holes in scorching heat, men and women flowing the hard dirt in their conical hats, visible through the narrow windows of my recently-landed airplane. i did not expect to encounter poverty so soon. privilege seeps though my skin like the endless heat and humidity, a constant reminder despite my frequent whinny complains. today, privilege is like the aftertaste of MSG, bitter and omnipresent. you can't really tasted it when you eat, but afterward it stays with you--always. i realize i am so dependent on it that i cannot live without it.

so when i reached the "Guest House" student dormitory, i was pleasantly surprised at the luxurious accommodation. The spacious room contains a tv--with channels like HBO and ESPN--a fridge, beds, desks, and a balcony with such a beautiful view of the pond below. this is way better than the conditions i've lived in the states.

After unpacking, the rest of us meet up at a Hanoian bistro called "Chim Sơn" or L'Oiseau Siffleur. I love the blend between french-influence vibe and rustic look of the place. the boiled rau muong reminds me of my grandmother since she loves this simple peasant dish. i tried a shot of mien traditional liquor and it was strong. 50% alcohol i think. i like their other drink, the jujubes-herbal drink though. the food was simply AMAZING.

Crossing the streets of hanoi

The crosswalks and red lights exist, but most drivers ignore them. we were crossing the streets after dinner to chill at the cafe. their balcony points straight at the the lake.

Arrival - Day 1

I'm currently in my dorm right now, recovering all the memories of today. Haven't been sleeping for almost 24 hrs and I'm sooo tired. just took pictures and videos. hopefully i have more time later in the weekend. list of the things i've done today:

arrived at the airport at 9:20am
quick tour of the hanoi city from the airport to the dormitory 10:30-12pm
unpacked at the dorm from 1-4pm
pre-orientation
dinner at this one restaurant--first true taste of Hanoi cuisine (i dont remember the name)
crossed the street (check video)
watched ho kiem lake under sky of thunder on the balcony of a cafe shop 9-10:30pm
arrive home 11:00pm

i'll save the details for later.