Extracurricular Activities

Between time spent in the kitchen and aimlessly walking the city, I’ve been attending what I would consider some fairly uncommon events, at least by Vietnamese standards. A few weeks back I met a guy named Toan, a student at my English school. He saunters over my way and flat out asks (or, rather, claims) that I “look like a rocker”. This is maybe the best compliment I’ve ever received! We hit it off immediately and he tells me about a Vietnamese rock festival, called RockStorm, coming up the next weekend. As many of you may know, I seriously value a good dosage of live music in my life, especially that of the… “heavier” kind. He doesn’t need to ask twice and tells me he’ll locate me a ticket and pick me up the night of the show. Within 10 minutes Toan has the key to my heart.
We arrive at RockStorm 2010. It’s the only annual rock festival to grace the ears of many Vietnamese rock fans. And when I say MANY, I mean the attendance is estimated at 20,000 people. This is reassuring for the existence of heavy music in Vietnam, since the majority of tunes I hear wafting through the street is mostly pop. While the bands that played (5 total) might have fell short of the caliber of Western metal/rock, the fans were absolutely incredible. Instead of the claustrophobic “Dude, you’re sweaty and head banging into my face! Get off of me!!” that many of us have experienced at a rock show, it’s much more of a kumbaya-meets-the buddy system scene in Vietnam: Find a partner or two and see how long you can stay arm in arm while jumping up and down. Everyone has the biggest smile on their face. I look over to Toan and he throws me up a pair of ‘horns’. I believe this evening is just as special for him as it is for me. No matter the country, or even the band, music has found it’s way into my life. I wrap my arm around Toan’s neck and rock out to the next song like I’ve heard it 500 times before.

Some days later, after a satisfying round of pong, my Dutch friend Peter asks me if I’m a hasher. Not wanting to incriminate myself I answer his question with… well… another question. I’m totally off base in my assumptions and bashful by my unfounded paranoia. Apparently there’s this organization called the Hash House Harriers. The original HHH chapter began in the 1930s in Kuala Lumpur and has since spread across the globe. Originally, this club served to get expatriates together on the weekend for a bit of sightseeing by means of a lovely jog and to work up the thirst for few beers. Today, the HHH call themselves “drinkers with a running problem”; how could I not participate?

I arrive at the Hash bus stop at 2pm the next Saturday and am welcomed by a merry bunch of Hashers. This must be the place, everyone is wearing their running shoes. And many people are also wearing red dresses… My virgin run happens to be the famed “Red Dress Hash” where both men and women (mostly men) wear their favorite gown… for absolutely no reason whatsoever. I’m cool with it! Although, in my new green running shoes and white shirt, I feel like my outfit doesn’t impress. We drive out of the city for nearly an hour (in almost two months I haven’t been so far out of Hanoi as the airport). The bus pulls off into a field and the “runners” (almost 50 total) circle up. The rules are simple: run or walk you must follow the trails of flour, laid out previously with the aid of Google Maps and GPS. When you approach a marker you call out “ON-ON!” to signify you’re on the right trail. Sometimes you encounter a circle which signifies that the runners need to search the area for the next marker. It’s like a big silly treasure hunt. We run through farm lands, dodging water buffalos and their gigantic patties (seemed to be a popular spot to drop the flour). We cut through winding streets, children laughing and run alongside the 60-year-old cross dressed men. Residents peer from their doorways looking utterly confused. We maneuver through thick jungles of stinging grasses, hop over ditches, skip down wobbly stone steps. I’m so elated with the absurdity of the whole thing I almost forget how easy it would be to twist an ankle. The “run” goes for 8 km and finishes where we begin. The beer truck is waiting for us; sing-song and drinking pursue. The group is quite hilarious. It has the crassness of a fraternity, the ranting and singing of a beer garden, and the jolliness of just a group of good people. I am now a proud owner of the Hanoi chapter’s Hash patch.

It’s been just about 10 weeks since my arrival to Vietnam and so far it’s been incredible for me. While my culinary pursuits appear to be more recreational than professional, the foods the country has to offer have nonetheless been delicious. I’ve met some good people here, both local and expat, who have been extremely helpful in my initial adjustments and eternal pilgrimage. I’m excited for my future here in this part of the world and I am glad that I have friends and family (just all around “loved ones”) who care to tag along through my writings (yes that‘s YOU). I try to be an ambassador, your ambassador, fueled by all of your love and support. I will try to update this as often as possible and you should keep checking back for more pictures (a few more albums have gone up since my last posting). Speaking of pictures, here’s a real
doozie… photo courtesy of her previous owner Bernard....