"Every search begins with beginners luck and ends with the victor's being severely tested." - Paulo Coelho
Vietnam has been a dream come true. Sorry to sound cliche but....seriously, it has. I dreamt about coming for so long, I can barely remember when the idea first sparked. With a starry eyed stubbornness I made the dream a reality. This could be one of the greatest accomplishments of my life so far, mostly because of its revelations that I really do know so little. So little about the world and myself. This is an amazing gift because I will continue to ask questions and, in that pursuit, I'll find that many other "Vietnam's" that await me.
The biggest lesson I've learned here is that it's great to have dreams but it's even more important to know how to deal with them when they start to act unpredictably (you could call it "going with the pho"). For example, I came here hoping to get a job in a restaurant and this didn't really happen the way I'd planned. I was bummed, and I still am, but restaurant work was not what my Vietnam had in store for me. Instead it held experiences like going to hip hop shows, learning how to drive a motorbike (a beautiful one), writing for a magazine, communicating with people without language, etcetera etcetera.
For the first time in my life I'm not exactly sure what's next. Before it was always another a semester of school, or it was another 55 hour week of standing over a stove, or it was chasing the ever elusive "best bowl of noodles" through the bowels of a city on a bicycle in 80% humidity. I'm not sure what's next and I have to remind myself that, while it may be frightening, it's OK. And every time that my confidence begins to falter I think of what's most important to me: Family. I don't want to draw lines between friends and relatives, for everyone whom I hold close to my heart is Family. For all of you who stuck around and read my entries, thank you. For those who didn't get a chance to read but had me in your thoughts, thank you. The words of encouragement and silent messages of love that I have received really really made a difference in my 7 months here. I am so lucky to have people like you in my life. Thank you all so much for coming with me on this adventure.
LOVE, J
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
To Steve Franklin
As painful as it is I take my time looking at each photograph, silently thankful every time I glance downward and away to read the captions. This is no easier actually, as the descriptions just give a more concrete description to what could just be a group pose: This photo was shot 3 minutes before this GI battalion was shelled from the jungle in the background, it reads. The men look utterly unprepared for the immediate destiny that I desperately wish I could yell to them. It's like at any second the figures are going to start moving, they'll continue to lay down their rifles and helmets, thank the heavens for finally a break from the rain, light up cigarettes, pull out faded pictures of loved ones, make a pathetic camp for themselves. Eventually I snap out of it, swallowing the rock from my throat back down to my stomach. I shuffle to another set of pictures, seriously wondering if I should give myself a break, but I seem to be moving not on my own volition. Next are these two photographs taken from the same angle, maybe 2 seconds apart from each other. They both depict an wounded and smoking tank, caught in a mess of jungle, and a South Vietnamese solider running for cover from an invisible enemy. The second picture: the solider is replaced by an upward blast of rocks and dirty. It is uncertain the outcome of the soldiers well being, the caption below says. Next will be a wall devoted entirely to a single photographer. Some of the pictures are just gorgeous, those classic grainy black and white and greenish-grey images of tall grasses and banana trees, streams snaking into the background, so deep it forces the soldiers to hold their weapons high overhead. There are some closeups of American soldiers: boys' faces of stubble and dirt, dangling cigarettes from smirking grins. Next is a photo that made a double spread in Life magazine: the metal cubical inside of a helicopter. An army captain clutches his comrade in his lap, a tangle of limbs, torn clothing, smears of blood, a scream frozen on his lips for eternity, bullet shells covering the floor and roll out the exposed side of the aircraft as it dips and twists away from something unseen. At the end of this wall there's a caption next to a photograph of a few soldiers squatting behind a tank for cover: "This is the last picture to be taken with this camera, which was found damaged next to a crater left by a landmine. The photographer has not been seen since".
I quickly make for the exit, the lower window of my vision wavers, like shimmering heat waves emitting from hot pavement, as my world begins to flood from the bottom up. I cut straight through the new crowds of tourists getting off the bus, making my way for the exit 2 or 3 steps at a time, sunglasses over my eyes long before I make it out into the sunlight. My watering eyes and the mix of Saigon's humidity make my lenses fog, as I blindly push through the swarms of jabbering Korean's tour groups, twisting to avoid colliding with their protruding camera lenses, facing downwards as to not be caught on the film from the sparkly new camcorders. I find an empty bench at the far end of the courtyard. Motorbikes zoom by on the other side of the fence while I sit in the shade of some giant US military war vessel, cannons gleaming in the sun, camouflage paint fresh as if applied the week before. I glance at the plaque next to the tank, identified by some hyphenated stream of numbers and letters. Words like "rounds per minute", "157 mm", and "total tonnage" mean little to me, something that may have excited me when I was 8 years old or played war-themed video games.
This is the closest many will ever come to the horrors of the Vietnam/American war. I'm devastated with feelings of extreme sadness for the countless of Vietnamese who have suffered. I'm angry at the long reach of the American government to "fight" Communism, the impact of war on all those American soldiers and their families, the use of Chemical warfare, it's effects still felt by both the people, the wildlife, the soil, of Vietnam. I feel embarrassment at myself for feeling so attached to something I know so little about, for something that has never directly influenced my in any way. The War Remnants museum of Saigon is a powerful reminder of the tragedies felt by soldiers, civilians, and the Vietnamese landscape during the War.
When I first came to Vietnam I was prepared for the harassment I might encounter due to my nation's recent attack on the country. What was I to do if I encountered some veteran NLF (viet cong) solider on the streets of Hanoi? Would the friendly conversation quickly turn ugly if I admitted to being American? Is everyone with some sort of physically deformity a victim of Agent Orange? I prepared myself for the worst, for anger, for spit, for a "Fuck you, American!". We're not exactly the most loved country in the world and I was willing to submit to any hostility without a fight...
How wrong was I to be on my guard like that. I have not once been chastised for my nationality. NOT ONCE. It's interesting how the word "Vietnam" means something so different to American's than the word "American" means to a Vietnamese. I learned this quick, feeling foolish for having any sort of hesitation for my American presence in a country so devastated by America. The Vietnamese have not only forgiven the US but have almost completely forgotten the damage we inflicted less than 40 years ago. I was amazed, and while seeing little reminders of the War here and there, I more or less forgot about our country's horrific shared history.
Until the day I went to the museum. Never have I seen such beauty exemplifying such horror. The upstairs exhibit, Requiem, was a collection of maybe 200 photos taken by various international photojournalists from the years 1965-72. This is that cliched reminder that pictures capture an instant in time. But there was a difference here than any other photography exhibition I've seen before; these picture were capturing an instant, at times seconds, before the people in the photo's were either killed or maimed. I'm safe in the present, looking through a one way mirror into the past, knowing that their future is either bleak or brief. Although I found it nearly impossible to make it through the entire exhibition, I did, and I feel like it was one of the most important things I've done in Vietnam.
For as little as I was directly affected by the War, the images at the museum hugely haunt me. For years to come I will never forget this display. Although my family was relatively removed from the conflict, at a safe distance from any harm, I know that so many people throughout the US have been damaged by this War, mentally and physically. And, from my relative understanding, if it's any sort of comfort (and it is to me), the Vietnamese people have nothing but acceptance and respect for Americans. Maybe it's because they emerged victorious, as they have from each invasion over the last millennium. But I have sensed no chest thumping, no sideways looks, no sense that we're unwelcome. Quite the contrary, the Vietnamese are the nicest people I have ever met.
I quickly make for the exit, the lower window of my vision wavers, like shimmering heat waves emitting from hot pavement, as my world begins to flood from the bottom up. I cut straight through the new crowds of tourists getting off the bus, making my way for the exit 2 or 3 steps at a time, sunglasses over my eyes long before I make it out into the sunlight. My watering eyes and the mix of Saigon's humidity make my lenses fog, as I blindly push through the swarms of jabbering Korean's tour groups, twisting to avoid colliding with their protruding camera lenses, facing downwards as to not be caught on the film from the sparkly new camcorders. I find an empty bench at the far end of the courtyard. Motorbikes zoom by on the other side of the fence while I sit in the shade of some giant US military war vessel, cannons gleaming in the sun, camouflage paint fresh as if applied the week before. I glance at the plaque next to the tank, identified by some hyphenated stream of numbers and letters. Words like "rounds per minute", "157 mm", and "total tonnage" mean little to me, something that may have excited me when I was 8 years old or played war-themed video games.
This is the closest many will ever come to the horrors of the Vietnam/American war. I'm devastated with feelings of extreme sadness for the countless of Vietnamese who have suffered. I'm angry at the long reach of the American government to "fight" Communism, the impact of war on all those American soldiers and their families, the use of Chemical warfare, it's effects still felt by both the people, the wildlife, the soil, of Vietnam. I feel embarrassment at myself for feeling so attached to something I know so little about, for something that has never directly influenced my in any way. The War Remnants museum of Saigon is a powerful reminder of the tragedies felt by soldiers, civilians, and the Vietnamese landscape during the War.
When I first came to Vietnam I was prepared for the harassment I might encounter due to my nation's recent attack on the country. What was I to do if I encountered some veteran NLF (viet cong) solider on the streets of Hanoi? Would the friendly conversation quickly turn ugly if I admitted to being American? Is everyone with some sort of physically deformity a victim of Agent Orange? I prepared myself for the worst, for anger, for spit, for a "Fuck you, American!". We're not exactly the most loved country in the world and I was willing to submit to any hostility without a fight...
How wrong was I to be on my guard like that. I have not once been chastised for my nationality. NOT ONCE. It's interesting how the word "Vietnam" means something so different to American's than the word "American" means to a Vietnamese. I learned this quick, feeling foolish for having any sort of hesitation for my American presence in a country so devastated by America. The Vietnamese have not only forgiven the US but have almost completely forgotten the damage we inflicted less than 40 years ago. I was amazed, and while seeing little reminders of the War here and there, I more or less forgot about our country's horrific shared history.
Until the day I went to the museum. Never have I seen such beauty exemplifying such horror. The upstairs exhibit, Requiem, was a collection of maybe 200 photos taken by various international photojournalists from the years 1965-72. This is that cliched reminder that pictures capture an instant in time. But there was a difference here than any other photography exhibition I've seen before; these picture were capturing an instant, at times seconds, before the people in the photo's were either killed or maimed. I'm safe in the present, looking through a one way mirror into the past, knowing that their future is either bleak or brief. Although I found it nearly impossible to make it through the entire exhibition, I did, and I feel like it was one of the most important things I've done in Vietnam.
For as little as I was directly affected by the War, the images at the museum hugely haunt me. For years to come I will never forget this display. Although my family was relatively removed from the conflict, at a safe distance from any harm, I know that so many people throughout the US have been damaged by this War, mentally and physically. And, from my relative understanding, if it's any sort of comfort (and it is to me), the Vietnamese people have nothing but acceptance and respect for Americans. Maybe it's because they emerged victorious, as they have from each invasion over the last millennium. But I have sensed no chest thumping, no sideways looks, no sense that we're unwelcome. Quite the contrary, the Vietnamese are the nicest people I have ever met.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Slurp, smile, repeat.
It must be exhausting by now to hear all this food talk. Sorry. So here’s another entry on food. Food. I would be lying if it wasn’t one of the main reasons for coming here. Soup.I am a bad liar.
OK, so yes. You could say I left family and loved ones and simple conversations in English for soup. Soup. They say you are what you eat, and I sure am a) made with love and b) dirt cheap, so it must be true. I am estimating that, at the time of this publication, that I have eaten over 150 bowls of some sort of noodle-in-a-bowl-emerged-in-liquid dish. It’s an extremely agreeable task. It’s available day and night. I can eat it for breakfast most of the time, thus most of the time provide entertainment for the slurping and surrounding of curious cliente. Ever seen Discovery Channel footage of a gazelle drinking from a watering hole. Alone. Exposed. Easy meat. One eye always on the lookout. My face might be hidden in steam but I can see (and feel) them watching me.
At first I thought most pho places were very similar. This has to do with the fact that we are spoiled with variety in Vietnamese restaurants in the US. You don’t get fancy-shmancy with your giant prawn and scallop seafood smorgasbord hold the cilantro with a vegetarian broth obscenities here. NEVER. It’s either chicken or beef. And the pho vendors take great pride in their product (and even if it’s complete shit). I walk into one of my favored chicken pho places. It’s crowded and I’m awkwardly stepping over knees, around tiny scattered plastic stool, kicking through withered remains of lime quarters, fallen chopsticks, wads of napkin with who knows what sorta of buried treasure is inside. My crotch practically brushes up against the back of some little grandmothers white-haired head. I sit down, understanding immediately why maybe evolution told the gazelle to never sit down. Dragonlady’s driving the the noodle-train today and fastens her gaze upon me. She juts her chin forward and looks straight down her nose, what’ll it be. I wanna say something cleaver like “basted sunny side up”, but skipping straight to business it may come out more like “DERRRRRR, no MSG please?”. She still might throw in a few good tablespoons, even in plain sight, depending on if she thinks it’ll bring her family luck. Or something. And I hope it does, because her broth almost makes me shed a tear.
I know I have to learn how to make street pho while I’m here. Coincidentally, my friend/mother-figure/ex-landlady Nancy tells me that her mother is a pho-professional, with almost 20 years of the curbside business under her belt. So we thought it appropriate, me being a cook and Nancy finding most things I do quite humorous, that an apprenticeship must go underway. And it did, last Saturday at a reasonable 7AM. For the stock, like me, take’s time, love, and attention. Nancy’s momma is a 4-foot-10 bundle of love, and apparently knowledge, since during the 6 hours it takes to do the stock, she continued telling me her greatest secrets with every step of the way. Of course I pick up maybe like 1 one out of every 100 words she’s saying. Nonetheless, she’s happy to tell me. And apparently feed me. By 9:30AM, I for some reason continued to eat my way through 3 bananas and am about to dive into 2 servings of instant noodle (make that just over 200 bowls total). I follow her like a puppy dog back and forth between the kitchen and the front patio, where we’ve teetered a 15 liter stockpot ontop of a bucket-turned-brazier sort of stove device. Like I told you, I wanted to learn my pho street-style.
The Vietnamese start their pho like they start their morning exercise routine: excessive and repetitive. Submerge beef bones (preferably the ribs, hips, and upper leg,) in cold water for one hour. Drain and rinse off in more cold water. Put in stock pot and submerge again with cold water. Bring up to a near simmer and strain water. Fill with cold water again and this time add a good thumb sized crushed piece of ginger. Whatever you do don’t try to peel the ginger, for this may me met with a shameful shake of the head, a shove out of the way, and a prompt fist-smashing of the root instead. Cover the pot and bring to a simmer. The trick is to try to keep the stock from a rolling boil, for two reasons. First is will become cloudy, less attractive (less lucky). Second it will be a pain in the ass to skim. As we all know skimming is already a pain in the ass, so best to make it less difficult.
And this is the existence of your 6 hour life as a pho chef. There are many ways to spend this time, perhaps this master/student symbiosis could really turn a beautiful thing. Like an anemone and it’s clown fish they may talk to each other without either one to know the slightest what the other was saying. The Master and The Student could have made Banh Troi (for it seems that this would be the 4th snack before 1PM), which is boiled glutinous rice balls filled with a chunk of palm sugar and topped with sesame seeds. Maybe they would roast star anise, cinnamon sticks, and cardamom (specifically the amomum genera. But all cynicisms aside, this produced the most beautiful of smells), and proceed to sit on their heels on the kitchen floor to pulverize them into an aromatic blend using a mortar and pestle. A few times there could be a deep conversation concerning age, nationality, and marital status. Perhaps between long shifts of skim-watch one would let the other one nap on the ridiculously hard mattress upstairs. The two were as one,just by sitting, staring out the window, while the excitement builds for the feast to come. They each knew that a da
y spent in a kitchen is a day well spent.Skim buddies --->
<--- Banh Troi. Note that I (was forced to) finish my entire plate. Also note that the gentleman 2nd from right brought his surf board to Hanoi with him.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Caught in the Tet Net
I'd rather not follow a holiday that falls on this mysterious 14th day of February. I don't need a calendar to remind me to celebrate those whom I love, and I sure as hell don't like sharing a holiday at a sushi bar with the one person I want to be with and shoulder to shoulder with 200 strangers. Unless I'm packed into a blues club, or standing on the banks of an ancient lake with underneath the booming fireworks; and I don't even have to be that close because I can see over everybody! Imagine trying to order sushi through a bunch of giants!... OK, so maybe I'm heartbroken I can't give my girl flowers. Anyways, V-day and the first day of the Vietnamese lunar new year, the Tet, were on the same day this year. And as the days leading up to the moon coming 'round, the city becomes more frantic than ever. Most people prepare to leave to the country side, to the cities or villages that their elders reside in. A few will stay back in Hanoi. I was experiencing big transformations, usually in terms of uncomfortableness as everything that it already crazy in this city gets 10 times crazier. Time to prepare!
Amidst roadside trash, motorbike haze, ninja-esque face masked pedestrians walk not so ninja-esque down the middle of highways. Yet I can barely make out sprinkles of pinks and yellows can be seen dotting the distance. Motorbikes appear with two potted kumquat trees hanging over both sides of the seat, dwarfing the driver (who doesn't seems to be praying for his life as much as I am) focused on the road in front of him. Seriously, take some time to imagine that. I bike (bicycle this time!!!) through the standstill traffic, past a few fallen quat-pots and a nose-to-nose stare down between the drivers. Honestly, this is the worst traffic experience yet for me. I find my way to the giant flower market towards the northern part of Ha Noi. It sits below the main road and stretches on and back for hundreds of meters. The new year is marked as the welcoming of the spring time so what better to represent that with beautiful bouquets and potted peach blossoms (sorry, there's a lot more to describe but my botanical terminology is just about as advanced as my Vietnamese). I stand perched at the top of a slope and look down into the swarm. There must be some technique to shorting through all the selection. Thousands of people stick their faces into the pedals or grope at the quat fruits as though they were giving it a thorough medical exam (not sure why I chose that analogy, but it's what came to mind). They must pick the exact right offerings to their ancestors whom centuries before, in this very season, did the same for their ancestors. All for lucky, for prosperity, for family. I head into the throng. It's one the rare times that I walk into crowds relatively unnoticed and it's nice to not carry the novelty of a dancing monkey all the time (don't get me wrong, you all know how much I love monkeys). Just as well, what would I do with all of these beautiful yet mysterious items of offering? The last days before
Tet bring in a lot of money to shop owners. I learn this the hard way. DO NOT bargin with people on or near the Tet. And my barganing has gotten pretty good. I fire a charming half-Jewish-half-Han Solo style grin at a flower vendor, the smile that says: "hey look at me, I'm the monkey trying to speak Vietnamese. Laugh at me with your friends for only a 15% discount!". She give's me a fierce one, a look that could freeze me in carbonite (I had to!!!) and I quickly walk away, tail between my monkey legs.An then the day of Tet comes (the 14th) and like all those crappy science-fiction movies... the city completely shuts down. Now, were talking a city of maybe 8 million people. And most of my city dwelling remains towards the central areas, the heavily commercial districts. And even here it's still a ghost town. Dead, literally overnight... But I have no fear. I've gathered supplies. I prepared for my temporary extinction from all civilization...
and, as usual, go over the top:
10 lbs of produce
10 lbs of rice
5 cans of tuna fish
15 450ml bottles of local beer (it's only 4.2%!)
20 liters of water
1 bottle of fish sauce (just in case I run out of toothpaste)
300 grams of coffee
10 illegally (ehem) pirated DVDs
Enough money to get me through the fallout until the ATMs are restocked (this really dose happen)
Except for a sawed-off shot gun I'm ready for complete hibernation. While the spirits of my neighbors ancestors wander the desolate graveyard of the city above (OK, I'm not really underground...) I can stay warm with some homemade mexican food and a few seasons of Arrested Development. I hunker down by candlelight (I'm lying again) and make final preparations: soaking enough black beans for huevos ranceros for a week, check!. Note for my loved ones in case I fall into a timewarp. check! My cell phones rings... It could be a decoy, but I answer it anyways. It's my firend, Lien, and she wants to invite me over for a Tet dinner with her family. Looks like I got a bit too dramatic, but I pack some garlic and holy water just in case...
No joke, this city is really much more of a joy to drive in during the festival week. I get some long needed experience with my motorbike, and with only 10% of the usual traffic this is really enjoyable. I've done quite decently at navigating the city on my bicycle and have a pretty good mental-map of where I need to be going. I don't even really use a map anymore! I arrive at Lien's house at 6pm and offer them (and I presume their ancestors) a bottle of French wine. Just as I walk inside I see the the table is being set, sans the table, at my feet. It is customary to eat sitting cross legged on the floor so as to not be seated above anybody else. Whatever the reason, this will give my thighs some serious grief. I am introduced to Lien's mother and father and her sister and brother-in-law. Aside from numerous akward bows, a mumbled and mangled "happy new year" in Vietnamese, and maybe a monkey smile or two, there's not much more I can do to show the utmost appreciation for this unique experience. We sit to eat. My knees creak so loud I almost excuse myself. I check out the spread. Most of it looks very unfamiliar and this is really exciting for me. I'm thinking that I may never get to try some of these foods again, although there's a plate over there that looks an awful lot like just a heap of boiled chicken organs so I'll stay away from that. Lien explains to me (aside from her and two friend of ours, Minh and Hung, who have also joined the celebration, no one else speaks English) that it's polite to take morsels of food from the community plate with your own chopsticks and place them in the bowl of another. No problem, I give her a fried spring roll and Minh some pickled bok choy. Lien's mom, probably noticing my stare down with the chicken, gives me a kidney with only the sweetest of smiles. (Dance Monkey Dance!). Lien's father keeps pouring the men at the "table" little shots of Johnnie Walker and is always content in leading the cheers. As the feast commences, father starts telling stories, about political books he's written and his newspaper articles. About how he drove a jeep through a raining of bullets from an American aerial raid. He does this all the time, Lien tells me how proud her father is. Shit, I feel proud that I get to hear his stories too, and lucky that he's around to tell them. Oh wait, time for another cheers! Seriously we probably do this 15 times throughout the meal. Which means that I've butchered "Happy New Year" about 15 times as well. No matter, it's with laughs and smiles, two things that there never seems to be a shortage of around here.So days latter, the celebrations still rage on, although mostly unknown to tourists like me, whom either take advantage of the once in a year tranquility of a city or loose their minds in boredom (I've fallen victim to both). I cruise the city at night, drive by neon glistening lakes under the LED-lite inferno from the shoreline trees. I push through the hordes poeple gathered in the courtyards of the pagodas. I walk unnoticed up to the giant furnaces where hundreds of people take turns burning paper money and incense, creating a mixture of the most noxious fumes and sweetest smoke. Palms clasped up to their lips they rock with mini bows towards the flames and the Buddha statues, praying for the new year to bring them, well, goods things I'm guessing. I stroll freely along the grey curbs and sidewalks, once unworkable due to the endless lines of parked motorbikes, now strewn with wilting flowers and snapped cherry blossoms. Half burned monopoly sized Ben Franklin's sliding over the ground in the cold wind. I think about what the Tiger has in store for me this year, and what the Water Buffalo brought me last year. I think about how lonely I am in this city and I think about how lucky I am to have friends like Lien and Minh to create once-in-a-lifetime moments with... I reminisce about the past and wonder about the future...
I figure and good Tet holiday should be spent listening to some live rock and roll. I find out about a club called The Blues Society and go check out the scene. I push into the packed bar, the band in the middle of a solid rendition of "Susie Q". And get this: the drummer was only eight years old! There were also some veteran rockers there and supposedly I was witness to a set by an (if not THE) original Vietnamese
and now it's today...
In summery, I must say I drastically over preparred in terms of food; If anyone can find a bowl of pho it's gonna be me, and my keen senses have found a few stalls! I've steered a few Tet-eyed tourist their way, feeling everyday that I have become just a bit more apart of this beast of a city. They thank me and ask if I know anything about what this "celebration" is all about. I tell them I know that deep inside many local dwellings, the occult gathering of feasting and drinking is never very far away. And it's all about Zeppelin worship too.
Friday, January 29, 2010
"Oh, yea I drive a '73 Mekong Beauty" -
I wish I could say the journey continues from here on out on the back of an elephant. That would only be the half truth, since my dream of becoming a professional mahout only lasted only a few hours. But those few hours could have been one of the highlights of my entire life. I just can’t believed it ever happened. It’s like just waking up from a vivid dream, the memories of it are fresh and firework-ing and just as readily disintegrating into the blackness of your mind: pineapple fields, the Mekong river, golden Buddhas, fresh passion fruit, peptol-bismol, orange robed monks, curries. It’s like slipping out of a dream that surely was real, you flail and strain to return to the fairytale that is Laos, only to wind up tangled in the mosquito net shielding your bed.
But those elephants…
“Sai-ba-dee”. The master mahout bows towards me, in greeting, palms pressed together. The elephants swish their ears and roll their massive eyeballs in the direction of the gaping tour group. It’s me, my parents, four girls from Australia, and twelve elephants, each with their respective mahouts. We’re in one of the famed elephant “villages” in the jungles of Democratic People’s Republic of Laos (yet still communist…). These camps are designed to rescue retired elephants after they are too old to preform any manual labor required from their previous owners (ie: moving giant lumber and balancing on beach balls). Under the elephant-arian practices villages the elephants get to sleep alone in the jungles and enjoy about 200 kilos of sugar cane and pineapple a day. And now us curious humans can then rekindle with these special animals for no sooner than an hour after arriving at the camp, each human is riding bare-back on their new special friend.
We’ve learned some basic commands, the best is the call which gets the elephant to raise their leg allowing the mahout to scale up the side of the animal to it’s neck. For us “baby” mahouts its more like a nervous clawing up the side of a building. Really, pull yourself up by it’s ear? Am I going to hurt it? After some serious giggle fits as the local have to heave us up by our bottoms, we are atop our new buddies. Mine is a 37-year-old girl (all the elephants at this village are female) named Mae Kham. We form a single file line and make our way down to the river (I wish it were true but the elephants don’t hold onto each others’ tail as they walk. I guess I watched too much Jungle Book as a kid). But I was really feeling Mogli-like, wobbling and lurching while straddling Khamilla’s giant neck. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned about falling off; the riders are about 10 feet from the ground and after watching the elephants splinter through sugar cane trunks the thickness of my torso with those feet… well I don’t want to think about it. But I couldn’t help it! And endless stream of nervous laughter rises over and over again from the group as the processio
n makes sure to itch their pillowed bellies up against the walls of dirt and rock that line the bank of the river. And just like that we’re in the river, scrub brush in hand, bathing our very own personal elephant. Some sharp commands from the mahouts and our elephants dip forward into the water. My dad is up to his waist in the mossy water, his elephant’s trunk and butt stick up into the air. Another one is slapping its trunk over and over again on the rivers surface. Something bounces off my submerged knee. Oh sweet, it’s a giant floating elephant shit. We wash the heads and sides of our girls with industrial grade grout scrubs, although through the coarseness of hairs and tough flesh it’s hard to believe they felt anything. They don’t call it elephant skin for nothing!
The town of Luang Prabang is a peaceful little place. There’s very little traffic and honking. People probably wonder why we cross the street like we’re from Vietnam. The novelty of watching monks in everyday life never wears off. They walk under the shade of their umbrellas and are eager to flash a friendly smile your way. It shows what little I actually think I know about Buddhism: Monks have iPods? Hey, there’s some smoking cigarrettes! That’s not to say that the life of monkhood is a piece of cake. The monks spend most of their day in prayer and study at the monasteries, or wats, and are discouraged to touch women, even their own mothers. Every day they wake up at 3am for more prayer and then head to the streets at sunrise, where the locals (and now the growing tourist population) offer rice and other foods for alms. It’s quite a humbling experience. The procession begins at 6:30am as hundreds of orange-robed monks light up the white pavement in the early morning light, Although they take your offering in silence you know they are grateful.
The actual town of Siem Reap, Cambodia doesn’t do much for me, and I’m not sure if there would even be much there if it were for its proximity to the Angkor complex. As uninteresting as the city is (there’s actually a street called “Pub St.”, which may as well be in Cancun), the world heritage site is pretty much beyond words. We spend a total of 3 long days in the heart of the ancient Khmer empire. Sandstone is the median here, and through the artistic genius of pre-industrial sculptors and the brute strength of elephants, a small city became a architectural phenomena over the course of 600 years. Angkor Wat, the most famous temple in the area, is said to be the larges religious complex on Earth. It’s probably true, the place is huge. One inner wall may span a half of a kilometer and be completely covered in carvings depicting battles, kings, demons, and other Hindi mythologies (for extra credit check out the story of the “Churning of the Sea of Milk“). Asapara dancers are another common motif, something like 1,800 figures in just Angkor Wat, and our tour guide, Tara, seemed to take great interest in their slim and shapely topless bodies.
Another temple, Ta Prohm, is smaller than Angkor Wat and is known for it’s unique fusion to the jungle in which it sits. As birds would fed on fruits from neighboring trees, seeds would drop onto the roofs of the temple and germinate. Fastforward a few hundred years and the roots of the trees (called spung trees) have busted downward through the brickwork and shot hundreds of feet into the air. Roots creep out through the stone work and wind back into the cracks like some angry octopus. Upon arrival to this temple we learned that the first Tomb Raider movie was filmed here, which probably significantly contributes to the hordes of eager tourists: “Blah blah blah (insert language of your choice), Angelina Jolie!, blah blah blah…” and you get the point. A great counterpoint to Ta Prohm, Banteay Srei, is known for it’s amazing state of preservation and it’s absolutely fabulous sandstone carvings. Some of the bas-reliefs (I became an art history major in the course of 3 days!) looked to be up to 8 inches deep. I just can’t believe something like this could ever have been done without machines. Then again, how does laundry get done without drying machines? Ah, the beautiful mysteries of the ages!
Still I think the favorite might be Bayon. Maybe it was the fact that we got there at sunrise and had most of temple to ourselves. The structure has a steep pyramidal shape and comprised of many smaller towers all symmetrically positioned, and each tower has 4 huge stone faces watching out in every direction. As the sun spills down over the hundreds of giant faces my skin begins to prickle, as it is now thinking back to the experience, and I’m just floored by it’s magnificence. Everywhere I turn there’s 6 or so of these peaceful, yet proud, faces watching over me. I felt blessed on the spot.
And as soon as my parents arrived in Hanoi, they are off again, and the team goes their separate ways. But oh the memories that will live on! Together we have mastered the art of crossing the street, squatting on kindergarten stools while eating mysterious foods, butchering Vietnamese, and almost not going absolutely insane when we see a motorbike speeding by with three infants hanging off of it (that’s a tough on to get over). We survived crazy taxi drivers, bouts of food poisoning, motorbike spills (yes, me). We learned that the most special of experiences can happen just outside your front door with a fruit vendor or a haberdasher. They gave me the gift of permission to seek outwards and onwards and I must say that I would not be in Vietnam if it weren’t for them. Mom and Dad: Chuc suc khoe! And may there be many, many more. You’ve touched many more hearts here than just mine. Thank you for doing this with me, for listening, for speaking, for wisdom, and especially for reminding me that I really am young. You have been amazing.
-This is totally us!
I wish I could say the journey continues from here on out on the back of an elephant. That would only be the half truth, since my dream of becoming a professional mahout only lasted only a few hours. But those few hours could have been one of the highlights of my entire life. I just can’t believed it ever happened. It’s like just waking up from a vivid dream, the memories of it are fresh and firework-ing and just as readily disintegrating into the blackness of your mind: pineapple fields, the Mekong river, golden Buddhas, fresh passion fruit, peptol-bismol, orange robed monks, curries. It’s like slipping out of a dream that surely was real, you flail and strain to return to the fairytale that is Laos, only to wind up tangled in the mosquito net shielding your bed.
But those elephants…
“Sai-ba-dee”. The master mahout bows towards me, in greeting, palms pressed together. The elephants swish their ears and roll their massive eyeballs in the direction of the gaping tour group. It’s me, my parents, four girls from Australia, and twelve elephants, each with their respective mahouts. We’re in one of the famed elephant “villages” in the jungles of Democratic People’s Republic of Laos (yet still communist…). These camps are designed to rescue retired elephants after they are too old to preform any manual labor required from their previous owners (ie: moving giant lumber and balancing on beach balls). Under the elephant-arian practices villages the elephants get to sleep alone in the jungles and enjoy about 200 kilos of sugar cane and pineapple a day. And now us curious humans can then rekindle with these special animals for no sooner than an hour after arriving at the camp, each human is riding bare-back on their new special friend.
We’ve learned some basic commands, the best is the call which gets the elephant to raise their leg allowing the mahout to scale up the side of the animal to it’s neck. For us “baby” mahouts its more like a nervous clawing up the side of a building. Really, pull yourself up by it’s ear? Am I going to hurt it? After some serious giggle fits as the local have to heave us up by our bottoms, we are atop our new buddies. Mine is a 37-year-old girl (all the elephants at this village are female) named Mae Kham. We form a single file line and make our way down to the river (I wish it were true but the elephants don’t hold onto each others’ tail as they walk. I guess I watched too much Jungle Book as a kid). But I was really feeling Mogli-like, wobbling and lurching while straddling Khamilla’s giant neck. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned about falling off; the riders are about 10 feet from the ground and after watching the elephants splinter through sugar cane trunks the thickness of my torso with those feet… well I don’t want to think about it. But I couldn’t help it! And endless stream of nervous laughter rises over and over again from the group as the processio
n makes sure to itch their pillowed bellies up against the walls of dirt and rock that line the bank of the river. And just like that we’re in the river, scrub brush in hand, bathing our very own personal elephant. Some sharp commands from the mahouts and our elephants dip forward into the water. My dad is up to his waist in the mossy water, his elephant’s trunk and butt stick up into the air. Another one is slapping its trunk over and over again on the rivers surface. Something bounces off my submerged knee. Oh sweet, it’s a giant floating elephant shit. We wash the heads and sides of our girls with industrial grade grout scrubs, although through the coarseness of hairs and tough flesh it’s hard to believe they felt anything. They don’t call it elephant skin for nothing!The town of Luang Prabang is a peaceful little place. There’s very little traffic and honking. People probably wonder why we cross the street like we’re from Vietnam. The novelty of watching monks in everyday life never wears off. They walk under the shade of their umbrellas and are eager to flash a friendly smile your way. It shows what little I actually think I know about Buddhism: Monks have iPods? Hey, there’s some smoking cigarrettes! That’s not to say that the life of monkhood is a piece of cake. The monks spend most of their day in prayer and study at the monasteries, or wats, and are discouraged to touch women, even their own mothers. Every day they wake up at 3am for more prayer and then head to the streets at sunrise, where the locals (and now the growing tourist population) offer rice and other foods for alms. It’s quite a humbling experience. The procession begins at 6:30am as hundreds of orange-robed monks light up the white pavement in the early morning light, Although they take your offering in silence you know they are grateful.
The actual town of Siem Reap, Cambodia doesn’t do much for me, and I’m not sure if there would even be much there if it were for its proximity to the Angkor complex. As uninteresting as the city is (there’s actually a street called “Pub St.”, which may as well be in Cancun), the world heritage site is pretty much beyond words. We spend a total of 3 long days in the heart of the ancient Khmer empire. Sandstone is the median here, and through the artistic genius of pre-industrial sculptors and the brute strength of elephants, a small city became a architectural phenomena over the course of 600 years. Angkor Wat, the most famous temple in the area, is said to be the larges religious complex on Earth. It’s probably true, the place is huge. One inner wall may span a half of a kilometer and be completely covered in carvings depicting battles, kings, demons, and other Hindi mythologies (for extra credit check out the story of the “Churning of the Sea of Milk“). Asapara dancers are another common motif, something like 1,800 figures in just Angkor Wat, and our tour guide, Tara, seemed to take great interest in their slim and shapely topless bodies.
Another temple, Ta Prohm, is smaller than Angkor Wat and is known for it’s unique fusion to the jungle in which it sits. As birds would fed on fruits from neighboring trees, seeds would drop onto the roofs of the temple and germinate. Fastforward a few hundred years and the roots of the trees (called spung trees) have busted downward through the brickwork and shot hundreds of feet into the air. Roots creep out through the stone work and wind back into the cracks like some angry octopus. Upon arrival to this temple we learned that the first Tomb Raider movie was filmed here, which probably significantly contributes to the hordes of eager tourists: “Blah blah blah (insert language of your choice), Angelina Jolie!, blah blah blah…” and you get the point. A great counterpoint to Ta Prohm, Banteay Srei, is known for it’s amazing state of preservation and it’s absolutely fabulous sandstone carvings. Some of the bas-reliefs (I became an art history major in the course of 3 days!) looked to be up to 8 inches deep. I just can’t believe something like this could ever have been done without machines. Then again, how does laundry get done without drying machines? Ah, the beautiful mysteries of the ages!Still I think the favorite might be Bayon. Maybe it was the fact that we got there at sunrise and had most of temple to ourselves. The structure has a steep pyramidal shape and comprised of many smaller towers all symmetrically positioned, and each tower has 4 huge stone faces watching out in every direction. As the sun spills down over the hundreds of giant faces my skin begins to prickle, as it is now thinking back to the experience, and I’m just floored by it’s magnificence. Everywhere I turn there’s 6 or so of these peaceful, yet proud, faces watching over me. I felt blessed on the spot.
And as soon as my parents arrived in Hanoi, they are off again, and the team goes their separate ways. But oh the memories that will live on! Together we have mastered the art of crossing the street, squatting on kindergarten stools while eating mysterious foods, butchering Vietnamese, and almost not going absolutely insane when we see a motorbike speeding by with three infants hanging off of it (that’s a tough on to get over). We survived crazy taxi drivers, bouts of food poisoning, motorbike spills (yes, me). We learned that the most special of experiences can happen just outside your front door with a fruit vendor or a haberdasher. They gave me the gift of permission to seek outwards and onwards and I must say that I would not be in Vietnam if it weren’t for them. Mom and Dad: Chuc suc khoe! And may there be many, many more. You’ve touched many more hearts here than just mine. Thank you for doing this with me, for listening, for speaking, for wisdom, and especially for reminding me that I really am young. You have been amazing.
-This is totally us!Sunday, January 3, 2010
I picked my parents up from the airport and within 12 hours my mom is bleeding from the head on the side of the street. OK, so it's a hyperbolic welcome to Ha Noi, but it happens to the best of us... (Mine happened to be the 'Ha Noi Kiss' which is the giant scorch you get from brushing your calf against a hot motorbike muffler). No worries though, within fifteen minutes were back on track (nobody panic, it was just a flesh wound and slight bruise). So the Behr/Alpert gang hits the streets in typical fashion. My mom still taking her shopping very seriously, my dad always looking for a snickers bar, and I am always complaining about how hungry I am (as a chef I have to constantly be tasting, ya know?). But Ha Noi is only our base, sorta our "changing room" for the rock stars that we are. We've been hitting the road quite hard, via train, boat, plane, car. Even motorbike! Here's a taste of 4 course chef's special...
HA LONG
We hit the famous world heritage site within the first few days of my parents arrival. It's a 3 hour bu
s ride to the China Sea from Ha Noi and it's my first real view of the countryside. Well, the stereotypes are true: rice paddies, water buffalo, conical hats. A lot of it. As the geological phenomena looms in the distance the bus passengers become restless. Upon arrival we wade through a sea of tourists wearing sombreros, carrying guitars, ready for a real Luau. Other's wear the name tags of their tour group, dragging along huge pieces of luggage filled with who knows what (medication and life jackets?). I tense as I imagine what the next few days could be like stuck on a boat with both frat boys and 70 year-old French tour goups.We finally meet the captain of our boat who takes us to our anchored vessel which will be our home for the next 3 days. We meet the crew, I think seven in total, and sit down to enjoy a pre-voyage drink. The giant motor whirs to life, nobody else gets on the boat... We have an entire 20 meter long boat (that included the giant dragon head on our bow) all to ourselves! Unbelievable!
Life is simple when you are living on a boat, and the only important things we happen to have plentiful: scenery, books, weather, and a backgammon board. The landscape (or seascape?) is beyond words. Limestone ka
rsts ranging from just a few meters wide to full fledged islands dot the 1000 sq mile bay. Although this is pretty much the only scenery it never gets old. The jade colored water it totally swim worthy, even for December, and I take every advantage of this. One night we managed to sneak into the kitchen where the staff was enjoying a fresh meal of lemongrass steamed seas snails (plucked from the rocks only hours before). They were shocked that we wanted to participate and happily opened their circle to us. We squat down on our haunches and attempt to excavate the little morsels of meat ourselves. Eventually it just turned into the crew talking turns scooping out the meat themselves and handing it to us on a toothpick to be dipped in a mixture of salt, chili, and kumquat juice. We must’ve eaten 50 of those guys apiece! A day or so latter we anchor and take the small dingy attached to the back of our boat out to a floating village to buy fresh fish for dinner that night. Another time we spot monkeys on the cliffs, and while it was unfortunate that they only came towards us expecting their daily treat of human-fed white bread, it was still a beautiful sight.SA PA
The next stop is Sa Pa, located in the Northwestern corner of the country, maybe 50kms from the border of China. We get there by an overnight train (the ONLY way to travel) and arrive at the Lao Cai station just as the dawn breaks where a car is waiting to take us the rest of the way to Sa Pa. The rising sun doesn’t reveal much more than the night since the visibility is maybe 15 meters as we begin the hour long accent into the misty hills. I want to say that I was excited to get some cooler weather after being in the Ha Noi sauna for so long (although I can’t really complain, not yet having experienced the summer time…). But this was cold! Three-layers-and-a-scarf-and-a-beanie cold. Leaving Colorado I wouldn’t have expected this for some time, but I was wrong!
The town of Sa Pa was engulfed in grey clouds, but it still seemed quite active. We visit open air markets selling everything from dog meat to unidentifiable greens and fruits to tobacco pipes and live water buffalo (about 1,000 bucks apiece, or the price of your daughter). We stop at roadside barbeques, the smells of fresh roasted corn, sweet potatoes, chestnuts waft through the fog. Skewered meats drip and sizzle over tiny disposable charcoal stoves. Definitely a great spread of soul warming cuisine. And speaking of warming, our tour guide, Hoang, doesn’t miss a moment to bust out his personal homebrew of plum infused rice wine. The guy literally stores it in a Johnny Walker whiskey bottle and carries it around with him in his jacket pocket. By noon we’ll be 5 shots in (‘OK, time for happy water’, Hoang will say… three times a day).
Although the markets are always a highlight the real treat was seeing the daily life of the minority hill
people in the region. Flower Hmong, Black Hmong, and Red Dao are the three indigenous groups in this area. We get a chance to take several treks through their villages and sometimes have the honor of being invited into their houses. It has a very Disneyland feel to it for me… except it’s all real… like walking through a museum that happens to be someone’s home. Mud houses, dirt floors, the works. These people couldn’t be much friendlier, eager to pose for our cameras and show us the process of weaving and dying their colorful traditional garments. They ain’t called Flower Hmong for no reason! Indigo, baby blue, neon pinks and greens are all hand made into clothes, purses, blankets. They are then brought to the giant markets to be sold buy the women, while some garments are kept back home for family use. While the women play gentle hostess and mother in the village, they really 
turn into quite savage salespeople in the markets. “You buy from me!”, “Very cheap Madame!” “Hey Peter, look at my shop!” (They call every male who’s Western “Peter”). It takes some serious patience to navigate through these markets. My dad had this habit of buying only the used products off the sales women, who looked utterly confused as they handed over their personal tattered purses for the same price of a new one. Hoang is very patient with all of us taking pictures and bargaining for ages over mere pennies… just as long as we get to a place with some plastic seats and a few shot glasses.HUE
Next we board a plane and head to Central Vietnam. Hue is city with a ton of Vietnamese culture: ancient stone citadels, elaborate mausoleums, and jungly Buddhist temples. Sometimes it was hard to turn a corner and not see ceramic encrusted dragon. Ancestral alters are present in front of every house, offers of fruits, paper money, and shots of moonshine can be seen glowing under candlelight and incense smoke. The first night there we wander into Lac Thanh Restaurant where a deaf-mute man has been serving traditional Central Vietnamese cuisine for years. Mr. Lac, as we call him, could not be a more animated
and friendly guy. He brings us a round of beers to show off one of his signature creations: A bottle opener made out of a piece of wood with a bolt and screw, which when set up properly can open three brews with one swift swipe of the hand. We gorge on fried rice pancakes, speckled with bits of shrimp and bean sprouts then hand wrapped in rice paper with green figs and herbs to be finished in a spicy peanut dipping sauce (Banh khoai). There’s grilled mackerel steaks laden with stewed tomatoes, onions and fresh cracked peppercorn (Ca nuong) and the always favorite fresh spring roll (Pho cuon).The charisma flowing from Mr. Lac is just too much to handle and we are “forced” to plan a tour of the countryside with him the next day. Here’s the kicker: it’s via motorbike. I consider it more of a miracle that we got Mom on as a passenger than having Dad actually
be an operator. We awake the next morning to gloom and sporadic rain but we “hog it” nonetheless; Dad and I on our own bikes and my Mom doing her best not to constrict our young guide on another. We take to the countryside, making stops along the Perfume River at army bunkers (we’re not far from the DMZ), up slippery slopes to huge marble Buddha’s erected on hilltops, out across muddy rice paddies where I slip and skid off the “road” twice, and, of course, a stop for coffee. Oh and our guide is named Muoi, which means ten in Vietnamese because he is the tenth to be born in his family. Awesome.HOI AN
We take a car from Hue over a mountain pass and into the coastal town of Hoi An, where we will spend the remainder of 2009 doing what we do best: Shopping, eating, and walking (and more eating for me, I need 4 meals a day to keep up my figure). Hoi An is a beautiful town which unfortunately is too small for all the tourists it attracts, at least during the time when it’s not at 90% humidity and not flooded by seasonal typhoons. It’s known for it’s colorful lanterns which line the cafes and restaurants dotted along the banks of the river that splits the city into two parts. Seamstresses are to be found everywhere and I took the opportunity to get a few things custom tailored for me at an extremely reasonable price. The food there is quite differen
t than Ha Noi, a bit spicier too which was nice. Cao lao is the traditional noodle of the region, thicker with more texture than the common rice noodle, served with crunchy wonton chips, fresh herbs, and traditionally braised pork, all dressed in a soy-lime style sauce. We spend our days ambling through the streets, catching the shade whenever we can, either over a steamed fish wrapped in a banana leaf, a Campari and soda, or under a covered bridge. New Years Eve is spent over a bottle of wine, cheers-ing many of YOU, talking about life and other minor nonsensicalness.All in all these have been a fabulous few weeks; check out my newly posted photos! Oh and here's my address in Ha Noi:
Jake Alpert
so 6, ngo 109
Duong Xuan Dieu
Q. Tay Ho - Ha Noi
Vietnam
That should work although I have yet to receive anything besides hand delivered utility bills. So send me some tester postcards! Packages are also great! Please, be rational in your choice of contents, this IS Communism. I'm sure jars of pickles and fly flishing magazines will be just fine though!
LOVE-j
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