Vietnam, the perfect place to ride out the recession
We've also enjoyed buying stamps at the French Colonial-style main post office, which was built in 1881. Its architectural grandeur, especially the iron-framed glass canopy, is worth a short stop.
Lonely Planet also suggests visiting the War Remnants Museum in District 3 for a view of the "American War" from the Vietnamese viewpoint. But I hear the photographs are a bit gruesome and not for kids.
Whenever I can, I join the weekly coffee meeting of the International Ladies of Vietnam. The wives in this club have husbands who have been sent here by corporations, and the companies pay for their $5,000-a-month houses in gated compounds with swimming pools, international schools for the kids, drivers, daily maid service and cooks. The good life. And then there is little me showing up at the meeting at the fancy Rex Hotel with my motorcycle helmet in hand and bugs in my teeth, telling them I live in the crowded, poorer District 4. They look concerned and confused.
It's kind of the wrong group for me, but I've had wonderful chats and through them I learned about several opportunities for volunteering. We went to an orphanage, which I now try to visit twice a week.
It houses 300 children. We headed first to the tiny-baby room with 30 cribs and three caretakers. Our group leader (there were six of us) said, "Grab any baby, get a bottle and start feeding them. It was feed, burp, change diapers and return to crib . . . feed, burp, change, return to crib. After feeding, I'd hold the crying ones and sing silly songs to the others. I wished I had more arms.
On getting around
Robin had been expecting to teach English to young adults. As it turns out, he's working with kids ages 5 to 12 after school and on weekends. The kids are well-behaved and respect teachers, unlike many of their American counterparts. A Vietnamese teaching assistant helps him address the children in their native language.
Meanwhile, Kai and I hire motorbike drivers for about 75 cents per ride to take us to outdoor markets, a city park or the backpacker area (in District 1), where small hotels and hostels house some of the best restaurants, with Western and Vietnamese specialties for pennies a plate.
The motorbike driver seats Kai in front, then the driver, then me. Motorbike traffic here is knee-to-knee: Taxis, bike riders, motorbikes and buses rumble around you on all sides. Near-misses occur every two seconds. Sometimes I just close my eyes.
You get to an intersection, and people don't stop. It's just masses of cycles crisscrossing in nonstop motion. It makes no sense that everyone isn't crashing. I had one motorbike driver go head-on at a bus (no one stays on his side of the street) and in the last second pull right to avoid instant death.
I adore weekends. The kids are home, and the alley has a party atmosphere. We sit on our stairs and order sweet iced coffee from our neighbor who sells beverages, and the party begins. Vendors in traditional conical hats push their carts with vegetables, fruit and pastries. The pastry lady knows my sweet tooth well and always stops when I'm outside. Each little roll or croissant costs 6 cents, so I usually pick out 10. So many choices on her tray, and if I hesitate, a flock of people points, wanting me to take this one or that one. And then another. . . . It's just so, so, so, incredible here. I love, love, love it.
We told people we'd be here just a year, but maybe not. Our new friendships and the lifestyle are too wonderful, and I don't want it to end. Now I tell people we'll stay at least three more years. Our neighbors tell me they would be happy if we stayed forever.
The language
It's impossible.
That's it!
OK, it essentially consists of eight words. And these eight words have about 35,000 variations. If you raise your voice, lower your voice, wiggle your voice box or sound like you choked on a frog, the meaning of the word changes. If you have a cold or just swallowed too-hot coffee, you might be in danger of telling your neighbor that his mother looks like a pork chop.
After five months of daily, rigorous study, I hit a wall. My teacher Tin was standing at the white board with a marker in his hand, making a check under the accent mark of a word, testing to see whether I could hear the word go up or down or sideways. I made one too many mistakes and burst into tears.
"I can't do it! I can't hear it. I simply can't hear it, I can't memorize it, I can't say it! I'm sorry, but I must not be smart enough to handle this language."
He said, "I must not be a very good teacher. I will quit at the end of month."
That made me wail all the more. "No, then I won't see you so often."
 Should we take offense, order a drink, or what? That depends, of course, on where you think these words turned up. |
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