City of Contrasts

Gravest apologies for the ultra-cliché title, but it’s all I’ve been thinking about since we arrived. Having had the Peace Corps experience, and now living the ex-pat life, I am definitely noticing the divergent lifestyles here. Walking past such stores as L’Occitane and Lacoste, I’ve see a man with only the upper half of his body going past on a skateboard, begging for money, his “employer” (the one who actually gets most of the money he collects) not far behind. I’ve seen a monk weaving through traffic on his motorbike, while an elderly woman is fully relieving herself in plain view on the open sidewalk. And last Friday night, we enjoyed a fashion show given at our apartment complex, with an elegant catwalk built over the pool. It was hard to imagine that a few hours before, the pool employees were drilling old refrigerator doors together to make the catwalk, which was then covered with material to hide the unevenness of it. But everyone noticed the wires connected to the lights along the catwalk dipping into the pool and out to the power sources. It was a reminder that safety in this country is definitely not up to western standards. Overall, though, in a country where 2/3 of the population is under 30, this city is extremely vibrant.

Speaking of safety, I have one more analogy for crossing the street—I promise this is the last. On the days or at the intersections when I’m not in Tim Buck Adrenalitis mode, I feel like Eddie Murphy from Bowfinger. To give some quick background information, the premise of the movie is that a sleazy, no-talent director (played by Steve Martin) does not have enough money to actually hire the actors that he wants in his film. He manages to find Eddie Murphy’s “twin” brother and casts him in some scenes. In one of the scenes, Eddie Murphy has to cross a wide stretch of an insanely busy L.A. highway. As there is no budget for a fake set, let alone a stuntman, Murphy is forced to run across the actual highway. We see him screaming and flailing his arms like Ann Coulter trying to avoid being hit by a pie at the University of Arizona, as he plays a human game of Frogger across the road. After making it across, he begs not to have to do the scene again. So that is the other emotion I feel when crossing the street, only I’m a much easier target.

When I’m not out dodging traffic, I am finding out how well I can adapt to Viet Nam. Gastrointestinally speaking, I have not been so successful. I will spare you with other tales of my pathetic fight with the Ho Chi Minh Rumbles, but I’ll share one story with you. The Rumbles decided to say hello to my tennis instructor. The instructor, I must say, was running me pretty hard and since I haven't played in a year, it was tough keeping up with her. I kept asking her for a water break, and she kept talking in her crazy Vietnamese/English (which was a series of nonsensical, unconnected English words followed by a bunch of fast Vietnamese, ending with "you understand?" after every phrase). So, it would be something like, "wickety-wackety, glamour, consistency, Vietnamese word, bear, hot dog, cow, power, Vietnamese word, Vietnamese word, Vietnamese word, table, do you understand?" Unfortunately, her wild gesticulations and pantomimes were equally strange and of no help in comprehending her. She did, however, keep telling me how happy I looked and like I was having a good time. Oh, dear teacher, far from it. I was, of course, laughing at her and how she thought I was able to understand her. Telling her I understood made me laugh even harder.

Anyhoo, she wouldn't let me take a break. Finally, I started to feel dizzy and told her I had to sit down, but she kept talking, so I calmly walked over to the trash can and threw up several times. Continuing with her Englishnamese, she ignored me entirely, even though I told her I absolutely had to go, since The Rumbles don’t mess around. Her 15-year old son, who had been collecting the balls during the lesson, looked uncomfortable and was able to convince her that it was time to go. The lesson ended as such, and I’m hoping that I never have to take her again. Friends, I thought I wanted dengue fever to shed a few unwanted pounds and not feel like such a friggin’ Andre the Giant among the Vietnamese. I realize now that dengue fever would be like The Rumbles on steroids.

Speaking of steroids, I had the creepiest dream last night that orangutans with elephantiasis of the face were chasing me and a friend through the woods. They were actually trying to eat us. I guess I had monkeys on the brain since we live near that damn zoo and we hear the Screaming of the Monkeys all the time. I feel like Clarice. But thank god I’m not taking the anti-malaria medication, since that stuff gives you nightmares…if I were on that, I’d probably have dreamt about ME with elephantiasis of the face chasing the orangutans down and trying to eat them.

Sweet dreams, everyone.

Risking Life and Lung

Xin chao, everyone!

It’s about 5 a.m. now and I’ve been up for an hour. No matter, I have the news on and I’m comforted to see that news of Britney Spears’s pregnancy is still important here. Thanks, BBC World.

We arrived late Saturday night to a ground temperature of 86 degrees. We’ve been told that this is the hottest month before the rains arrive, which should last until about September. Once the rains come, though, they tend to cool things off, so we’re very much looking forward to that.

Our digs are quite nice—we have a three bedroom apartment with a balcony that overlooks a karaoke club, which we have discovered goes well into the night, even on Sundays, and emits a crazy kaleidoscope of lights that would test even the hardiest of epileptics. The staff here is wonderful, and our complex has a large pool, a jacuzzi, tennis courts and a gym. It doesn’t get much more colonial or bourgeois than that, does it, folks?

So, Duke and I woke up around 3:30 Monday morning. Yes, jetlag is a bitch. We headed out for a run when it became light at 5:30, thinking there wouldn’t be many people out. Oh, how wrong we were. The streets were full of drivers on mopeds, bikes, cars and monkeys (just kidding) and sellers had already set up shop on the sidewalks. The zoo, which is near our house and, we were told, is a good place to run, was already hopping. Getting to the zoo was a challenge, since it required crossing the famously crowded and constantly flowing streets. Once we got there, the zoo was teeming with walkers, “badminton” players (who use either feet or racquets), Chinese businessmen on their cell phones and young boyfriends/girlfriends escaping from the confines of family supervision. While it was heartening to see so many out exercising, particularly compared to Uzbekistan, where we felt like zoo animals on display while running, it made for a stressful run. We were barely able to do a full lap around the zoo without having to dodge people or those creepy badminton shuttlecock things. Moreover, we were oi-ed by a policeman when we unwittingly tried to go down a path that was off-limits to pedestrians. The art of “oi-ing” requires a separate e-mail in and of itself, but basically, it’s a way to get one’s attention that can range from extremely polite to exceedingly rude, depending on the context, tone of voice and form of address used. We hope to have learned the subtleties and intricacies of oi-ing after our two years here.

In any case, by the time we were oi-ed and made it back to the apartment, we had only been running for 15 minutes. At this point, we were also coughing black goo, and upon returning to our apartment complex, were mistaken by other residents for Dick Van Dyke, the besotted chimney sweep in Mary Poppins. The pollution is definitely a factor here when exercising, even at that early hour. Sadly, after only 15 minutes of running, we succumbed to the indoor treadmill. The pool and BBC will be my views while running for the next two years. No worries, though, I plan to swim as well, and apparently, there is a Tae Bo instructor here. Amazingly, the apartment complex was able to get Billy Blanks to teach here. Who knew that doing those videos in college would have helped me out here? We’ll see how the kickboxing routine compares to my sister’s experience with her boxing trainer, Nee-kolai, Champion Boxer from Bulgaaaria (insert stereotypical eastern European accent here).

As for regular interaction with the traffic as a pedestrian, it’s more than a bit unnerving. I had been warned about this before coming, so I tried to mentally prepare myself. I also didn’t want to seem too much like a tourist (since I blend in so well here), so I have been trying to cross the street like the locals. See, traffic lights and signs are not so much directives as suggestions, thus one must have a plan when crossing the street. Mine is to not look and just go, yielding only to cars and large trucks. How much can getting hit by a motorbike hurt anyway, right? I was told that if you look the motorbike drivers in the eye, they won’t yield to you, and effectively they “win”. We-he-hell, I yield to no one, mister, so you’d better believe I’ll be damned if I look these drivers in the eye and yield to them. I’ve also been told that it’s good to follow the locals’ lead or find a woman older than God to hide behind. Way too boring. So, instead, I’m afraid I’m taking too zen of an approach to crossing the street. After having to do it several times by myself, I feel like that guy, Tim Buck, from the Toyota commercial, who suffers from “adrenalitis” and is shown in several situations that depict his lack of enthusiasm for life, including being almost mauled by a dog while tying his shoe. He shows no reaction and feels nothing about being almost killed. The audience is led to think, my, what that Tim Buck needs is a Toyota Takoma—that’ll learn his case of adrenalitis. In my own bout with adrenalitis, I can be seen crossing the street and almost being hit many times by trucks, cyclos and mopeds with almost no reaction. I fear this could get even worse…my dad always said (in his mumbling, inaudible-to-even-dentists voice) “familiarity breeds carelessness”. One day, I think this may come true, and I may find myself flattened under the wheels of a large 18-wheeler on I-95, having not been able to readjust my pedestrian know-how to the US. Perhaps I, too, should get a Toyota Takoma.

And speaking of the US, I will end on this note. Duke had a few days of consultations in San Francisco, so I was able to walk about the city while he was in meetings. I was struck by the fact that almost every traffic light had countdowns for pedestrians to cross and there were mirrors and flashing lights for nearly every garage that led out into the street, lest a person on the sidewalk be hit by someone flying out of a garage with his or her SUV. Weeeeeell, that is so not the case here and I find it laughable, nay, hysterical, that I catch myself automatically looking for such gadgets. I must say, though, that it is not as uproarious as me trying to speak Vietnamese. That will be your treat for the next newsletter.